《Aetheral Space》


 Chapter 1:1.1: Dragan Hadrien

    Dragan Hadrien hugged himself tight as the shuttle came into dock. You could always tell when a shuttle¡¯s systems synchronized with another ship ¡ª the sudden shift in temperature couldn¡¯t be missed. From lukewarm to freezing, the charming bleakness of a Supremacy cruiser. The arms of a freezing person didn¡¯t do much to provide comfort.


    He looked around the shuttle, taking in the sight of the other occupants, memorizing their features with a glance in the way Cogitants could. Nervous-looking expressions, every one, save for the grim face of a burly Pugnant lurking in the corner. Dragan raised an eyebrow; if he had the personal heating of a Pugnant in this kind of freezer, he certainly wouldn¡¯t be frowning. Motion sickness, maybe?


    The sound of docking clamps rang out through the steel walls of the shuttle. Dragan smiled: finally. Passing the time in his Archive had lost its appeal after the first few hours.


    The shuttle ramp descended, coming down onto the floor of the hangar with an echoing thump. The hangar itself was well-lit, squads of Supremacy soldiers marching to and fro on their various assignments. Taking in their coordinated movements, Dragan could tell this was a fairly well-disciplined ship ¡ª where there were deviations from the norm, it was obviously a result of unintentional negligence rather than willful rebellion.


    As he stood up from his bench, Dragan heard his joints crack. He¡¯d been sat in the same position for a while, and the cadet suit they¡¯d given him for this assignment wasn¡¯t exactly accommodating. If he sat down the wrong way, the bulky outer pockets of the otherwise slim suit dug right into his chest. Weren¡¯t pockets supposed to be convenient?


    Brushing a lock of silver hair out the way of his vision, Dragan observed the others as they got up. The practiced way six of the ten, the Pugnant among them, got to their feet told him that this wasn¡¯t their first assignment ¡ª or, at the very least, they were used to space travel. The other four were more unsteady on their feet, one even stumbling. Dragan looked away from them; they obviously wouldn¡¯t be useful to him.


    Dragan made sure to be at the front of one of the two lines of transferees: as the only Cogitant in the mostly Crownless group, he was sure to stand out either way, but he wanted to present an image of responsibility right from the start. The bright blue eyes were a dead giveaway, of course, but he needed to show the competence expected with them.


    The group assembled in front of the watching commander, a grim-looking man whose stark white coat was buttoned tight. Dragan did his best to conceal his envy at the man¡¯s expensive-looking attire: the Supremacy¡¯s encouragement of individuality only really came into effect past a certain military rank. At least this man¡¯s coat sort of fit with the military image ¡ª Dragan had seen commanders in the past who¡¯d seemed more suited to a travelling circus than any kind of official position.


    The Commander clasped his hands behind his back. "Each of you," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Have been assigned to an existing project on this ship. I will read these assignments out now. You will proceed directly to your assignments. No detours, no deviations. The captain does not tolerate unearned disobedience aboard his ship. Am I understood?"


    A chorus of affirmation rang out through the hangar. As he saluted, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but notice the second man who approached from behind the Commander. If the Commander was taking liberties with his outfit, this second man was just going overboard.


    The man had clearly taken the barest effort to armour himself, instead opting for a loose kind of robe with bracers on his arms. Speed prioritized over defense, obviously. A pistol sat in its holster strapped to the man¡¯s left hip ¡ª the gun was polished, but it was perfunctory, a matter of obligation. The sword hanging from his right hip had clearly been maintained with something approaching love. Slicked black hair ended with a long ponytail.


    Dragan did his best not to look too surprised. Melee weapons weren¡¯t exactly uncommon among the Supremacy military; there was no shortage of systems that could disable firearms in the galaxy. But where they were used, they were typically things like batons, mass-produced trash like punchpoint firearms. Swords weren¡¯t very common, though, outside of people like Special Officer Koujirou and a few Contenders over the years. This guy clearly thought highly of himself.


    His stance, though, the way he held himself ¡ª despite the eccentricity of his wardrobe, there was a quiet dignity to him. The kind of confidence that came with experience, along with the obvious independence that came with rank ¡­ he was a Special Officer himself.


    Dragan took the information and folded it into the shape of a file, thought converted into text. Conjuring a shelf, he stored it away in his Archive. From the perspective of anyone else, though, he just stared off into space for a moment.


    The Commander barked out names, one after the other. Dragan doubted he had to, but he memorized them also, tucking them away into his collection of miscellaneous information. They could be useful for calling in favours or redirecting blame if it came down to it. The Pugnant lumbered off to their new assignment down in the bowels of the ship ¡ª interrogation, maybe? No, the Supremacy had no reason to hide their prisoners aboard their own ship, so it was likely something to do with the engines instead.


    "Dragan Hadrien," the Commander said. He nodded his head towards the second man. "You¡¯re with him."


    The Commander obviously disliked this man. The distaste on his face was well-concealed, but you couldn¡¯t hide such things from a Cogitant. The slightest brush of tooth against lip ¡ª as though he were barely refraining from biting his tongue ¡ª and the quirk of his eyebrows suggested this was due to a mixture of jealousy and the natural friction that came with a newly arrived colleague of superior rank.


    "Yes, sir," Dragan smiled, saluting, before moving to approach the black-haired man. Even before he reached him, the man turned away and started walking, clearly expecting Dragan to follow after him. That kind of arrogance confirmed it, then: this man was clearly a Special Officer, an asshole, or both.


    "Atoy Muzazi," the man said by way of introduction as Dragan reached him. "Dragan Hadrien, correct?"


    "That¡¯s right, sir," Dragan said, matching Muzazi¡¯s pace. He did his best to seem obedient; the appearance of obedience was much better than the real thing, as it actually allowed you to be competent at the same time. "Am I to understand you¡¯re the one who requested me?"


    Muzazi nodded. "Cogitants are hardly an abundant resource. As of now, you¡¯re the only one of your kind aboard the Prasutagus ¡ª and we have need of your unique talents."


    While Dragan felt it was nice to be praised, what Muzazi had said wasn¡¯t exactly true. Even if they didn¡¯t have the highest population, Cogitants were one of the great subspecies of humanity ¡ª there was hardly a shortage of people with the same ¡¯unique¡¯ talents as him. No, no, he was just a convenient resource, which was fine with him as it inevitably meant being provided with opportunities for advancement. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Well," said Dragan, spreading his smile as endearingly as he could. "I¡¯m always happy to help!"


    "Mm," Muzazi grunted, continuing to walk along. The pair began moving out of the hangar and down a hallway that ¡ª according to a holographic sign ¡ª led to the brig. A wall-sized window on the left side of the hallway gave an open view of the expanse of space, and of the sickly-green planet they were currently orbiting: Caelus Breck. The glass looked flimsy, but Dragan could tell without looking that blast doors were ready to slam shut at the first sign of damage.


    They passed a few patrols of guards, but other than that the walk was silent, and the hallway seemed to stretch on and on. The stark-white aesthetic of Supremacy ships grew irritating to the eyes pretty quickly; Dragan wondered if there were cases of people going blind from it.


    Finally, Dragan cleared his throat. "It might be helpful if I knew specifically what I was doing," he said, hands clasped behind his back. "Just so I could mentally prepare."


    Muzazi glanced back at Dragan, then tapped a button on his script. A holographic screen popped out of the wafer-thin device, and with a wave of Muzazi¡¯s hand it was set to float in front of Dragan¡¯s face as they walked.


    The Cogitant gave it a quick scan. The assignment was to assist in prisoner interrogation ¡ª specifically the interrogation of a Pugnant criminal named Ruth Blaine, arrested for the confirmed murder of a Supremacy admiral. There was an image of her on the side of the screen: a muscular, red-haired young woman, a wide grin showing off the sharp canines common among the Pugnant subspecies.


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Pardon my lack of understanding, sir, but from reading this it seems Blaine¡¯s crime has already been confirmed. I¡¯m not sure why exactly my presence is required."


    Again, all he got was a glance. Intentional rudeness? No, Muzazi seemed more like the sort of person who didn¡¯t quite understand social cues. "We believe this girl works with a crew of criminals, all of whom were involved with the incident. I need you to help us get their location out of her, as well as determine what other crimes she may have committed."


    A smile played across Dragan¡¯s lips.


    Now that he could work with.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    -


    Through the cramped observation booth, Dragan could watch the Pugnant girl without being seen himself. She was sat down in an inmate uniform, shackled to the interrogation table, a Supremacy officer across from her.


    She didn¡¯t look concerned in the least.


    Cocking her head, she spoke: "You guys got burgers around here? Cheeseburgers, hamburgers? I could really go for one! Oh, unless they¡¯ve got pickles, I don¡¯t like pickles ¡ª oh, unless they¡¯re red pickles, I do like those. You got any?"


    The officer blinked slowly, placidly. "Do you realize the kind of sentence you¡¯ll be receiving, Miss?"


    As the girl rambled on, Dragan watched her facial expression carefully. The appearance of irreverence was there, of course, but it was at least partly a mask. He peeked underneath it. Caution, worry and determination in a fairly even ratio. Caution and worry were unsurprising, but where was the determination being aimed?


    She was looking at the interrogator as he droned on, but her gaze was blank - her focus wasn¡¯t on him. He didn¡¯t even qualify as an obstacle.


    Whatever her mind was on wasn¡¯t something she could see, then. Dragan smirked; she was determined to protect her comrades, then. Determined not to sell them out.


    Admirable, but unrealistic. The Supremacy never missed a trick. The best course of action was to keep your head down and do as you were told.


    Dragan put a hand to his chin as he considered his next move. If he continued watching this girl he was certain he could reason out the information the Supremacy wanted, but what good would that do him? That was just doing his job, the bare minimum. There was no opportunity for advancement or award there.


    As pieces of a plan began to click together in his head like a puzzle, Dragan smiled. He could make this work, and it might just be enjoyable, too.


    Lying was his second favourite activity, after all, just under sleeping.


    -


    The quarters they¡¯d given him for his stay aboard the Prasutagus were more than a little cramped, but that was fine. As much as he might wish otherwise, Dragan didn¡¯t take up much space. So long as he had a bed and a desk, he could operate just fine.


    Dragan sat down. The chair wasn¡¯t much to speak of; cold metal and a rigid unkind shape.


    If he had just his thoughts, somewhere comfortable to sleep, and an extranet connection, he could live very happily. The idea of being able to observe the world as much as you liked while it couldn¡¯t do a damn thing to you was very appealing.


    Dragan¡¯s ambition was very simple: to achieve a position where he didn¡¯t need to have ambition. Not low-ranking enough to have duties to perform, but not high-ranking enough to have people pay attention to him. A holy land of delegation and comfort.


    This sounded simple enough, but the fact that he was a part of the Supremacy¡¯s military - even in a non-combat position - made it anything but.


    The Supremacy was a society formed around ¡­ not, survival of the fittest exactly, but certainly ¡¯might makes right¡¯. Those with power had the right to tell others what to do, and those without power had only the right to obey those orders.


    Strength, intelligence, talent ¡­ as long as you had enough of at least one of them and had proven your loyalty, the Supremacy would pretty much let you do whatever you wanted.


    To a society of idiots, the ability to punch a little harder, a little faster, was an all-important metric. That had never been Dragan¡¯s talent.


    But there were shortcuts for such things¡­


    Dragan glanced at the door, listened intently, and - once he was satisfied nobody would be entering anytime soon - retrieved his testing block from a pocket.


    It was a lump of loose metal Dragan had picked up a few assignments back, durable material used to make these back-destroying chairs. There were a few scratches in its surface, each deeper than the last, charting the progress of Dragan¡¯s self-training over the last few months.


    Not deep enough, though. Not nearly deep enough to make the kind of impression he wanted.


    Taking a deep breath, Dragan reached for his Aether. It was difficult to describe how exactly he accessed that energy, but if he had to do so he¡¯d say that it was like turning on a non-existent organ inside his body. It had taken him weeks of work for him to reach the point where he could access it so quickly; in the beginning, he¡¯d had to sit cross-legged for hours before he could get so much as the vaguest expression of it.


    The moment Dragan accessed the Aether, the tingling sensation spread throughout his body, from the core of his bones all the way to the tips of his hairs. It was like receiving an extreme electric shock that couldn¡¯t harm you - and, as if to fit the metaphor, arcs of what looked like blue electricity blinked in and out of existence around his body.


    The possibilities of what he could do with this energy poured through Dragan¡¯s mind. He could concentrate it inside his body to strengthen it, he could fire it out as a projectile, he could even force it into the shape of an object or weapon - and those were just the possibilities that sprung to mind first.


    If he was smart about this, his Aether could be a very useful tool.


    Aether was no secret, of course - the majority of the upper-ranks in the Supremacy made heavy use of it - but learning it often required an expensive tutor or a sympathetic superior. He didn¡¯t have the money or patience for either of those.


    Self-teaching like Dragan was attempting was extremely rare, and doubtless much less effective than having an actual teacher, but his Cogitant heritage was picking up some of the slack there. Working out the next steps from what he¡¯d already accomplished.


    Back in the days of the Gene Tyrants, before the Thousand Revolutions, the Cogitant subspecies had been engineered to serve as strategists, administrators, aides. People to do the thinking so the rulers didn¡¯t have to. The kind of reasoning Dragan was doing was something he¡¯d been all but designed for.


    When you create something smarter than you by design, it obviously doesn¡¯t turn out well. That empire had fallen nearly a thousand years ago, and gene manipulation had become the most taboo of taboos, but the descendants of the subspecies lived on.


    Dragan found himself grateful for that very often. It wasn¡¯t very satisfying to get ahead with the benefits of heritage, but so long as he did get ahead Dragan didn¡¯t much care.


    Using the method he¡¯d managed to reason out, Dragan focused his Aether into his fingernail. The arcs of blue collected there, the nail itself shining, and as they did Dragan felt an intense warmth behind his eyes. They were glowing slightly, the blue light illuminating his testing block. Apparently, glowing eyes was a fairly common Aether tic. He supposed it could be worse; during his research, he¡¯d dug up reports of people who ended up with things like rapid hair or teeth growth. Glowing eyes were better than that any day - more convenient, too, if you were lost in the dark.


    Dragan gritted his teeth, exerting himself as much as he could to keep his Aether focused, and dragged his enhanced fingernail across the surface of the testing block.


    The nail slid through like a knife through butter, leaving a satisfyingly smooth trail. The moment he reached the other side of the block, Dragan let his Aether dissipate with a shower of blue sparks, wiping the sweat from his brow. From what he¡¯d observed so far, the most important things to work on were the strength of the Aether and how long you could hold it. Those could be done via simple practice.


    The rest, though, was for the moment beyond him. From what he understood, Aether users had as many unique applications of it as there were stars in the sky, but he himself wasn¡¯t confident in his ability to meddle too much with it without blowing himself up.


    Satisfied with his current progress, Dragan stuffed the testing block back into his pocket. Ideally, he wanted to reach a level where he could keep his Aether up while moving around and fighting. Then he could begin his advancement in earnest.


    He leaned back in his chair, looking out the cabin¡¯s porthole into the void of space beyond. This side of the ship was facing away from Caelus Breck - thank goodness, it looked a shithole - so he had access to the full calming view.


    So - onto the matter of Ruth Blaine.


    Closing his eyes, Dragan accessed his Archive. He liked to imagine it as a chalk-white castle standing in the sea, the sound of crashing waves giving him something constant to cling onto if he was at risk of getting distracted.


    Flicking through imaginary files, Dragan brought up all the information he¡¯d memorized about the prisoner. An Archive really was so very useful. A great many Cogitants had them - or at least had some method of organising their thoughts. If they didn¡¯t learn that early, all sorts of nastiness ensued once their brains grew bored.


    Blaine was definitely guilty of what she¡¯d been accused of ¡­ but couldn¡¯t she be guilty of more? Exposing a few other crimes of hers would look very good on Dragan¡¯s record. There were more than a few unsolved assassinations he could pin on her.


    A pang of guilt hit out at him, but he suppressed it. The girl was getting the death penalty anyway, so he was hardly making things worse for her. If she was screwed anyway, wouldn¡¯t it be better for a little more good to come out with, at least?


    He compiled a list of offenses she could feasibly have been involved with, and made a mental note to come up with links to them in short order.


    That was all well and good, but he¡¯d been assigned here to determine the location of her allies. With a flick of his finger, Dragan filed away the information he¡¯d been dealing with and concentrated.


    Something didn¡¯t quite fit with the data he¡¯d been given - like a jigsaw puzzle with one piece slightly too big. Blaine had been caught by herself, with her allies nowhere to be seen. But the records indicated that she was never far from her comrades.


    Had they parted ways? No, her expression had indicated a determination to keep them safe - the kind of determination that only comes about when there¡¯s a possibility of failure. She knew exactly where they were.


    But there had been that other determination, hadn¡¯t there? When she¡¯d sat in the interrogation room, there¡¯d been a sense of purpose to her. She had come there for a reason.


    Dragan¡¯s mind began working in overdrive, synapses like coiled superhighways of thought.


    Had she let herself be caught? Why?


    For something she could only get on the ship.


    What could she only get on the ship? This was a mass-produced Supremacy freighter. There wasn¡¯t anything unique here. No valuable resources. No -


    A chill ran down Dragan¡¯s spine.


    Perhaps ¡­ she was after something that would be sent here to help with her interrogation? Something that the ship didn¡¯t otherwise have?


    A Cogitant administrator, for instance? One who¡¯d be kept close to where he was needed?


    Dragan suddenly became aware of how very cold his sweat was. Surely, he was ¡­ no, no ¡­ he was overthinking. That was known to happen with Cogitants, too. Runaway trains of thought. Ridiculous.


    Behind him, the alarm started blaring.


    Oh shit.

 Chapter 2:1.2: Sparks of Red

    Dragan leapt to his feet, all the theories and hypotheses in his head being replaced with panic in an instant. Had he been right? Was Blaine after him?!


    The steel chair toppled to the floor with a dull thunk.


    No, no. He mustn¡¯t panic. Dragan clutched his chest with a hand, his breathing heavy. Even if Blaine were after him, there was no way she could get him. She was strapped down with the best prison equipment the Supremacy can buy.


    Liar. This ship is cheap and fragile. You know that.


    Why, oh why must his inner monologue be so traitorous? Dragan looked around his cabin. What was his best course of action? Hide here? Prepare to fight?


    She¡¯s a seasoned criminal. You¡¯re a glorified clerk. Fighting isn¡¯t an option, idiot.


    Hiding, then? There was room under the bed for him to squeeze. In the chaos of an escape, she wasn¡¯t going to be able to check every nook and cranny. Likely she wouldn¡¯t even check this cabin.


    Are you sure about that?


    Yes, of course he was sure.


    Don¡¯t be. If she¡¯s escaping with such ease, it¡¯s likely she has help on the inside. If that¡¯s the case, it¡¯s more than possible she already knows which cabin you¡¯ve been assigned to. You should get as far away as possible as quickly as possible.


    With the fear slowing his deliberate thinking, Dragan¡¯s subconscious reasoning was outpacing his conscious mind by a wide margin. It wasn¡¯t great to be looked down on by yourself.


    He charged for the door, pulling himself into the corridor the moment the sliding doors opened.


    The hallway beyond was bathed in red light, the ship on high alert. Whooping sirens echoed, and steel shutters had slammed down to cover all the viewports and windows. It was like being packed into a can.


    If Blaine was coming for him, assuming she knew his location, he needed to hide in a cabin two doors away from his own.


    If he hid in his own cabin, he¡¯d be found without question. But if he didn¡¯t, there was a possibility Blaine would think she¡¯d gotten the wrong cabin and search the ones immediately next to it too.


    If she didn¡¯t find him there, she¡¯d assume he¡¯d hidden somewhere far away, and not search the next set. She wouldn¡¯t have the time to, anyway - she¡¯d be fighting guards and the security systems with every step she took.


    Dragan almost leapt out of his skin as he heard the slam of something striking a wall in the distance.


    Less thinking, more doing.


    Moving as quickly as he could, Dragan made his way to the cabin two doors to the left of his own. All the doors were automatic on the ship from what he¡¯d observed, so all one had to do to open them was stand there for a few seconds.


    Dragan stood there for a few seconds. Nothing happened.


    You only have access to your own cabin. Basic security system, shouldn¡¯t come as a surprise. The other doors won¡¯t work either, so don¡¯t bother.


    Then he needed to run for it.


    That wouldn¡¯t do you any good. The noise you heard a few seconds ago wasn¡¯t that far away, so it¡¯s a good bet she¡¯s almost here. Plus, she can outrun you without a doubt. Didn¡¯t you see her muscles? Well-trained.


    Then -


    Plan A: Hide under the bed. Both parts of his mind, at least on that point, were in sync.


    Dragan whirled around, ready to run back to his room, but stopped the moment he got a good look down the corridor.


    Ruth Blaine stood there, breathing heavy, the sparking head of a security drone crushed between her fingers. Red Aether crackled around her, illuminating the dark spot of the corridor she¡¯d stepped out into.


    Their eyes locked, bright blue and bright yellow. Blaine wiped a trickle of blood from her lip and dropped the drone head to the ground with a thunk.


    "Dragan Hadrien?" she said, voice hoarse, in a tone that suggested she already knew full well it was him.


    Get ready to fight.


    He had no way of winning.


    No, but you can delay her until someone who can shows up. She won¡¯t kill you.


    Was he sure about that?


    Seventy-two percent.


    Dragan stepped back, took in a deep breath - and as he did, he reached for his Aether. The blue sparks surrounded his body like static electricity, diffused as much as possible so as to shield his body.


    Blaine raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she grinned. "Nobody told me you knew how to dance, little guy."


    The red Aether coating her body erupted into a flash, and when it cleared Dragan was no longer looking at a human face anymore. The thing now covering the front of Ruth Blaine¡¯s face was like a welding mask forced into the shape of a skull, the square grille over the jaw like a mockery of teeth. The two black circles covering Blaine¡¯s eyes regarded Dragan intently, watching for what he would do next.


    There were other new additions to Blaine¡¯s wardrobe - steel bars in the shape of a ribcage covering her chest and iron claws strapped to the back of her fingers, their points gleaming ominously.


    She¡¯d made the armour with Aether, that much was clear. Sweat ran down the back of Dragan¡¯s neck; she was clearly far beyond his abilities. The most he could manage right now was standing still without his Aether instantly diffusing into nothingness.


    "Not gonna say anything?" taunted Blaine, her voice muffled by the skull-mask. "It¡¯s no fun without the banter, you know."


    Trying to look crazier than she is. Intimidation technique.


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something, to show he wouldn¡¯t be so easily frightened - and the moment he did, Ruth Blaine was upon him.


    She¡¯d leapt down the entire hallway with a single kick, the movement animalistic, her shining red hair like a flowing mane behind her. Her clawed hands were open, lunging - she intended to grab Dragan, not slash him, but it would be painful all the same time.


    Clumsily, but with all the speed his body could muster, Dragan threw himself to the ground. As he collapsed into a heap, his Aether dissipated into nothingness around him. He felt wind rush against his hair: Blaine had passed right over his head.


    The only hope he had in a fight was avoiding her. He¡¯d gone through combat training, same as any member of the Supremacy¡¯s military, but Blaine clearly had vastly more experience.


    He got up to his feet - almost slipping on the smooth floor as he did - only to be met by Blaine¡¯s leg, coming towards him in a vicious kick.


    No time to dodge. Use your Aether to block.


    Blue sparks began manifesting around his body, but it was too late. The speed at which Blaine moved was simply unfair.


    The leg slammed into his midsection - angled so that the metal exoskeleton clutching it didn¡¯t hit him - and sent him collapsing back to the ground. He clutched his stomach, groaning, suppressing the urge to vomit. He wouldn¡¯t give her that satisfaction.


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    The pain was excruciating, but not as much as it should have been. A kick like that should have smashed some ribs. Had he managed to protect himself with his Aether?


    He heard Blaine suck in air between her teeth. "Oof. Uh, I¡¯m real sorry! The way you were standing, I - I thought you¡¯d be stronger, so I might have gone a little overboard! You okay?" She sounded surprisingly genuine, but that didn¡¯t make the situation any less humiliating.


    Don¡¯t let her look down on you.


    There was an application of Aether he hadn¡¯t tried yet.


    Twitching on the ground, Dragan tensed his body, preparing himself to move when the moment came. Blaine¡¯s apology got no reply, and he could hear her approaching to check on him. Making sure she hadn¡¯t killed her quarry.


    That was fine. That was good. He had to make sure this was point blank.


    He felt her hand grab at a strap on the back of his cadet suit, trying to pull him up - and at the same moment, he rolled over to face her. His teeth were bared in an expression of utmost effort, his eyes bulging, and his left hand facing towards Blaine, palm flat. Crackling Aether was concentrated around it.


    Blaine¡¯s eyes widened. The Aether came together even more, forming a miniscule sphere glowing with an intense light, it¡¯s shape flickering and warping with instability.


    Thrusting his palm as close to her face as he could, Dragan fired.


    The ball struck her in the face, scattered into disparate sparks, and faded. Ruth Blaine barely even flinched. Dragan gaped at her.


    She raised an eyebrow, a pitying smirk on her lips. "You do know Aether¡¯s a shitty projectile by itself, right?"


    No, he hadn¡¯t known that. That hadn¡¯t been mentioned anywhere in the files he¡¯d managed to scrounge together. He¡¯d be sure to remember it.


    Blaine¡¯s fist came down, and everything went black.


    -


    When Dragan came to, he was greeted by the sensation of being thrown into a corner like a sack of potatoes. He fell into a heap, the pain so intense he held no delusions of moving around. A high-pitched ringing drilled through his ear.


    He coughed.


    Through his eye that wasn¡¯t facing the floor, Dragan could see Blaine fighting against a squad of three soldiers who¡¯d managed to corner them in one of the hangars. Evidently, she¡¯d decided it¡¯d be easier to fight without Dragan weighing her down.


    The soldiers aimed at her, firing bolts of plasma from their rifles - but with that strange skeletal armour of hers, Blaine was far too fast, dodging the projectiles with ease and landing on all fours like some wild animal next to the nearest guard.


    Grabbing him by the ankle, she swung, picking the man up with one hand and smacking his comrades around with his body. One strike, two, and the man was dropped to the ground. His unconscious friends lay next to him.


    Blaine started walking back towards Dragan, whistling.


    Dragan had to try to escape. He had to at least make some token effort. His body rebelling with electrifying pain, he tried to pick himself up. If he just gave up, how could he respect himself? More importantly, how could he have other people respect him?


    Her feet stopped in front of him.


    "If you try and run," she said. "I¡¯m gonna have to kick you again."


    He instantly gave up, flopping back to the ground like a fish. His pride wasn¡¯t worth another one of those kicks.


    Clearly, he was still somewhat out of it - he only noticed after the fact that Blaine had thrown him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his legs swinging freely. There was a beep - Blaine had taken out a script - and then his captor spoke: "You¡¯re taking your time, Skipper. Kinda need a way out now. That Special Officer¡¯s figured out the distraction."


    Another muffled voice from the script, male, older from the sound of it, but with the kind of drawl that came with an attempt to hold onto youth: "Gimme a second. This isn¡¯t exactly easy for me, either."


    A pause. Blaine tapped her foot, the noise echoing throughout the cleared hangar.


    "Okay," she said. "It¡¯s been a second."


    A sigh came from the script, with another sound in the background - turret fire? "Don¡¯t try to be clever, Ruth. It doesn¡¯t suit you."


    "You wait much longer, breathing won¡¯t suit me either."


    "Don¡¯t joke about that. Bruno¡¯s got the controls - we¡¯re coming in now."


    As if on cue, the sound of scraping metal rang out through the hangar as the blast doors taking up one entire wall opened, sparks flying from the forced action. Beyond it was the black gulf of space. For a moment, Dragan thought he¡¯d be sucked out, but there was a tell-tale rippling in the air where the blast doors had been. The pressure shield was still active.


    A small ship came down from above, maneuvering itself into the gap made available. It was a clumsy, patchwork little thing - from the looks of it, it had started off a Supremacy shuttle, but over time had had so many bits and pieces from other ships bolted onto it that it was probably one of a kind.


    The blazing light on the front of the craft illuminated the hangar, and the second after it spotted Blaine the ship turned around and reversed itself halfway through the pressure shield. They intended to blast off right after Blaine boarded.


    She took a step towards the shuttle, Dragan limp over her shoulder.


    "If you let the hostage go," a voice said quietly from behind them. "I¡¯ll let you live."


    Blaine whirled around. Even Dragan forced his head up to look at who had spoken.


    Atoy Muzazi stood in the entrance to the hangar, sword unsheathed and pointed directly at Blaine. His grey eyes were cold, dull. White Aether crackled in the air around him, his sword reflecting the light to such a degree that it seemed that it itself was glowing.


    If he¡¯d had the strength, Dragan could have shouted at him. Why had he bothered calling after Blaine? Why get her attention? A Special Officer should be more than capable of assassinating someone from behind.


    Dragan scanned the man. The sword. The stance. The gaze.


    Ah. The kind of idiot that believed in honour. Well, that was all well and good, but it didn¡¯t do him much good, did it?


    He felt Blaine adjust her stance, just slightly - enough to put herself into a position to run or attack depending on how things progressed. She took a deep breath, clearly steeling herself. She wasn¡¯t fully confident in her ability to fight this man.


    "Ha. What guarantee do I have that you won¡¯t kill me anyway?" she said, laughing with false confidence.


    Neither Muzazi¡¯s stance nor his gaze changed in the slightest. "I just gave you it. You can choose to believe me or not. You have five seconds."


    Blaine gulped, quietly, suppressing it as much as she could.


    One.


    She shifted the angle of her foot, just slightly.


    Two.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes snapped down for a moment, observing the change.


    Three.


    This is your chance.


    Four -


    - Dragan moved. There was no other way to describe it: it wasn¡¯t movement with any purpose or direction, just a general spasm to throw Blaine off her balance. His body punished him for it instantly, like fire had been injected into his veins, but the maneuver worked.


    Blaine stumbled backwards - and at the same moment, as four seconds became five, Muzazi charged.


    Dragan had thought he¡¯d seen absurd speed when Blaine had first come for him in the hallway, but that was like swimming in molasses compared to this. One second, Muzazi was standing in the entrance - then, a blaze of light erupted from his back and he was right in Blaine¡¯s face. His eyes were wide, pupils pinprick promises of murder. sea??h th§× NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    With all her strength, Ruth Blaine threw Dragan to the side, abandoning her load. In what was becoming a depressingly common experience, he landed in a painful heap in a place he didn¡¯t recognize, dull brown rather than the sleek white of the ship.


    You¡¯re in their shuttle. They¡¯ve opened the back port for Blaine.


    Adjusting himself into the least painful position, Dragan witnessed the sequence of events that consumed the next few seconds.


    When he¡¯d charged, Muzazi¡¯s sword had been pointed upwards towards the ceiling - and now, he brought it down in a devastating downward slash. At the same moment, Blaine¡¯s red Aether burst into a flash of light just as her opponents had before he charged. When it cleared, the skeletal armour she¡¯d been wearing for her escape had been replaced with a new ensemble.


    Rather than the scrapyard aesthetic that she¡¯d had previously, this new set of armour was marble white, covering her own body, artful contours and delicate engravings making it seem like something ceremonial rather than being meant for battle. A tuft of her red hair escaped through an opening in the back of the helmet, still glowing.


    The descending sword struck the helmet, and two things happened at once: the helmet shattered like glass, and Atoy Muzazi went flying backwards.


    Blaine went flying backwards too of course, with a high-pitched yelp of pain, but it wasn¡¯t nearly as violent. Her going flying was a result of the force of the blow, whereas Muzazi was sent towards the entrance with such speed that it was like he¡¯d been repelled by a magnet.


    Even with the obviously painful blow - a trail of blood was trickling down into her left eye - Blaine didn¡¯t waste her opportunity. She turned and ran for the shuttle, the rest of her burdensome white armour disintegrating into red Aether. There was another flare as she switched to her skeletal set and, with the enhanced speed that seemed to grant, she leapt into the shuttle like an animal pouncing on its prey.


    Run for it. This is your last chance.


    Dragan tried to get up, he really did, but his legs didn¡¯t obey him. Neither did his hands, for that matter. All his limbs were shivering in shock, and any attempts to get them to do anything but that were doomed for failure.


    The back port slid shut with a cold thunk - and a moment later, the craft rumbled with the sensation of thrusters and speed.


    Blaine heaved a sigh of relief, Dragan a groan of despair.


    He had officially been kidnapped.

 Chapter 3:1.3: First Meetings

    Dragan listened.


    Through the sealed door of the storage module, he could hear the voices of his captors - muffled, but just audible. Every other word could be plucked from the conversation, analyzed, dissected for meaning. It wasn¡¯t like he had anything better to do: his arms were bound behind his back with a length of steel rope. Even with Aether enhancement, he got the feeling he wasn¡¯t breaking out of that, which was probably the intent now that he thought about it.


    He turned one of the more recent statements he¡¯d heard around in his mind¡¯s hands.


    "Took more damage than I thought we would. Gonna have to make repairs before we get out the system."


    It had been the older male who had said that, the one Ruth Blaine had called Skipper. From what Dragan could work out, it seemed this Skipper character was in charge of this operation.


    A few things were clear from the statement. It seemed they hadn¡¯t taken him with the intent of getting a ransom - they were taking Dragan with them wherever they were going. There was something they needed him for specifically - or, rather, something they needed a Cogitant for.


    They had a method of getting out of the Caelus system, too. That hadn¡¯t been brought up as an obstacle at all, only the fact that the ship was damaged. The Supremacy would be picking the area down tight, yet these criminals were still fairly confident. Had they bribed some official? No, more likely they had ties to criminal elements already in the system. A smuggling route, maybe?


    Muffled laughter rang out from behind the storage module door. Not mocking; someone had told a joke.


    There seemed to be five people aboard this excuse for a ship: himself, Ruth Blaine, Skipper and two others. From their voices, the unknown two seemed to be around Dragan¡¯s age, male and female respectively. But there was an unusual quality to their voices he couldn¡¯t quite place.


    His nose wrinkled. This wasn¡¯t the most hygienic room he¡¯d been in. From the smell, it seemed it had been used to store perishable food not long ago. They¡¯d probably cleared it out in a hurry to make room for him. Such hospitality.


    If they needed repairs and they weren¡¯t leaving the system, they could only be going down to Caelus Breck itself. That was good for him; the planet was under the firm control of the Supremacy. No doubt a search for him was already underway - this was a blow to their pride, after all.


    As the door slid open, Dragan folded away his Archive, storing everything he¡¯d managed to reason so far.


    Cold eyes looked down at him. The person who had opened the door had a harsh gaze, with dirty blond hair pulled back into a rudimentary bun. They wore fatigues, dark fatigues intended for an urban environment, with a backpack slung over their shoulder. From their stance, the backpack seemed heavy - stuffed with equipment. This was a person prepared to operate alone.


    Dragan didn¡¯t recognize them. The owner of one of the two unknown voices, then. He couldn¡¯t be sure which, as they were fairly androgynous.


    "How¡¯s our boy, Bruno?" called Skipper from somewhere out of sight - the cockpit, presumably.


    The person in the doorway - Bruno - looked Dragan up and down, his eyes lingering on the steel rope for a moment. Checking to see if he¡¯d managed to damage it all. Him being able to use Aether had been a surprise to them, so they were clearly uncertain about his capabilities.


    Apparently satisfied, Bruno spoke: "Fine. Looks pissed off, though." His voice was low, quiet, cautious, but strangely anxious as well, as though worried he¡¯d be overheard if he talked too loudly. Not a conscious thing, but learned behaviour.


    "Huh? Pissed off?" came Skipper¡¯s voice, mock-surprised. "Why¡¯s that?"


    Swallowing his own anxiety, Dragan finally spoke up, the first words he¡¯d said since being brought aboard this ship. "There¡¯s no way you get out of this alive, you know. This is a stupid plan." Each word was painful - sneaky uses of Aether had healed some of the damage from that kick, but not all of it.


    "What¡¯d he say?" shouted Skipper.


    Bruno called back: "He said our plan sucks and that we¡¯re all gonna die."


    "Huh. Well, he¡¯s half-right."


    When Bruno spoke next, it was with a strange, higher-pitched voice, head cocked to one side. "Huh?" he said, dragging out the word. "Which half?"


    "Never you mind, Serena. Stop standing there and grab the kid, yeah?"


    Serena?


    Bruno - Dragan had thought his name was Bruno, at least - stepped into the storage module, hands clasped playfully behind their back, a neutral smile on their lips. Their body language had completely changed, caution replaced with curiosity in an instant.


    They reached down, grabbing Dragan by the wrists and pulling him up with one hand effortlessly.


    "There we go," they said, in that strange high-pitched tone. Now that Dragan observed more carefully, it was actually hard to tell whether they were heightening the pitch of their voice now or had just been lowering it earlier.


    The person blinked, watching Dragan watching them, and leaned in uncomfortably close. Dragan reared back, almost tripping over himself and earning a giggle from his captor.


    "Look at that, Bruno," they said. "He¡¯s deducing! That¡¯s so cool!"


    The second they finished speaking, their face snapped from the excited smile back into a serious scowl. Bruno narrowed his eyes.


    "Don¡¯t get any ideas about trying to bust out," he said, and Dragan understood.


    Two personalities in one body. This serious one, named Bruno, and the cheerful one named Serena. Dragan had heard two voices through the wall, but they came from one mouth.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Stepping back in close, Bruno forcefully turned Dragan around and started pulling him backwards out the storage module using the steel rope.


    He gulped. What kind of treatment was he in for, here? How brutal were these criminals? Being tied up was par for the course with kidnapping, really, but would there be beatings? Torture?


    Back on Crestpoole, people who pissed off the gangs would often find themselves without fingernails. Could he expect the same?


    Bruno pulled Dragan out into the main body of the craft - a cramped, pipe-shaped module with the cockpit at the front. Along with the storage module to the right where he¡¯d just come from, there were sealed modules to the left and behind him.


    Behind him was the loading bay he¡¯d first been thrown in. He couldn¡¯t see Ruth Blaine - only the back of this man called Skipper in the pilots seat - so was she in the module to the left? If that was the case, it was likely sleeping quarters.


    If he was being interrogated, it wasn¡¯t by her, then. Skipper was flying the ship, which left this Bruno person. He clearly had experience with these kinds of matters, which was worrying. Not easy to fool.


    Dragan didn¡¯t have any information worth knowing, though. Would they believe that? More importantly, how many fingernails would it take for them to believe that?


    Well, these people weren¡¯t pacifists, obviously. Ruth Blaine had killed an admiral - a Zef Barridad, if he remembered correctly. The entire incident was classified as classified gets, but it couldn¡¯t have been an easy feat.


    She knew Aether, too - could he assume her shipmates did? She was only a year or two older than him, so he found it hard to believe it was from self-training. Were these people backed by the UAP or the Final Church, maybe?


    "Move."


    No, no. Apart from the assassination, they were much too quiet to be of use to a foreign power. Not worth the money it would take to train them.


    "Move."


    Dragan stumbled forward as Bruno pushed him, almost falling over before managing to right himself.


    Without looking, Skipper called back: "Be nice, Bruno. Kid¡¯s probably scared."


    Dragan frowned. He was being called kid much more than he liked. He¡¯d like to see this guy try achieving any kind of growth on one Crestpoole meal a day.


    This Skipper person, he was older than the rest of the crew, with black hair fading to grey around the edges. A dark green coat hung around his shoulders. The thing was mostly patchwork, Dragan could see, but lovingly maintained all the same. Sentimental value.


    He sat in the pilots seat, monitors and readings arrayed around him like a spider¡¯s web. Ideally a ship like this would have two pilots, but Skipper seemed to be doing just fine alone.


    "So," said Dragan, more confidently than he felt. "You got me. What do you want? Information? I¡¯m nobody important, you know. They won¡¯t pay."


    Skipper tapped a few buttons, switching the ship into autopilot, before swinging around in his chair. His face was tan, grey eyes neighbors to a collection of laughter lines. He smiled for a moment, but it quickly shifted to a quizzical frown.


    "Why do you say things you don¡¯t mean?" he said.


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "What?"


    "You said the Supremacy wouldn¡¯t pay for you."


    "Well, it¡¯s true. I¡¯m a nobody from the administration corps."


    "Yeah, yeah, I get that," said Skipper, raising a finger to punctuate his speech. "But we¡¯ve no intention of ransoming you anyway. You¡¯re not stupid, you must have realized that early on. I, uh, I don¡¯t get it. Why are you talking like that¡¯s a possibility?"


    He¡¯d read Dragan like a book. Cogitant? No, his eyes were grey, and they didn¡¯t seem to be contacts. Just sharp, then.


    Dragan looked away. "I don¡¯t know what you mean."


    Skipper gaped, pointing first at Dragan and then at Bruno behind him. "See? He¡¯s still doing it!"


    Bruno gave a non-commital grunt.


    "The cheek on this guy," said Skipper, shaking his head and chuckling as he leaned back in his seat.


    "What do you want, then?" said Dragan, somehow glaring at Skipper while refusing to look at him. His pride was taking a blow a second here, and it was visible all over his face.


    Skipper sighed - and it was if he was expelling his jovial demeanor along with the air. When his grey eyes opened again, they were cold, pragmatic. Before, he¡¯d struck Dragan as a man in a perpetual midlife crisis, but these were the eyes of a soldier. The eyes of a killer, even.


    "I have a friend who needs the help of a Cogitant," he said, voice steady. "You provide that help, then you go free. It¡¯s not a bad deal."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "There are easier ways to get a Cogitant than breaking into a Supremacy ship - like hiring one. Oh, don¡¯t tell me! You don¡¯t believe in money?"


    Yes, Dragan, that was the way. Antagonize the armed criminals who have you tied up. This was the premiere method of escape.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes slid off of Dragan, looking again at Bruno behind him. His mouth was a thin line. He raised his eyebrows.


    "He¡¯s got jokes," Skipper chuckled, his mouth spreading into a grin.


    This was a man who didn¡¯t like to take things seriously - no, one who liked not taking things seriously. A subtle difference but an important one. Irreverence as a form of resistance.


    Dragan had to be honest though, that was fairly obvious. He could have probably worked it out even if he wasn¡¯t a Cogitant.


    "Skipper," said Bruno, annoyance clear in his tone. "You¡¯re undermining your own authority talking like that."


    "Fine, fine," Skipper turned around in his chair again, returning to his instruments. "Show us how it¡¯s done, Mr. del Sed." S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The moment Skipper finished speaking, Dragan found himself swung off to the side and slammed backwards into a wall, the clang resounding throughout the ship. Intended to intimidate, but not seriously damage - that didn¡¯t mean it didn¡¯t hurt.


    As Dragan staggered back up to his feet, sliding up the wall, Bruno grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in close. Tiny crackles of purple Aether danced around his captors gloved hands.


    "Listen, errand boy," he growled. "I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve figured it out already, but we¡¯re going down to the planet to get repairs. We won¡¯t be able to keep you tied up all the time, and we can¡¯t leave you on the ship while it¡¯s being fixed."


    Dragan made a show of gasping for breath that wasn¡¯t being cut off, and Bruno loosened his grip somewhat. Much more comfortable.


    He continued: "I will have my eye on you every second of every day. If you try anything, anything, I will break the part you tried it with. Understand?"


    They were practiced words, with a slight monotone to them. Bruno was clearly used to interrogation, but not in a formal environment. Not criminal, either - too much discipline, his walking and breathing too even and regular. Intelligence work?


    Dragan grunted, nodded, twisting his face in sympathy-inducing pain.


    "Say it." Alas, no sympathy was coming. This Bruno wasn¡¯t stupid either - although, Dragan couldn¡¯t be sure if Bruno had seen through him or if he was just a jerk in general.


    "I understand," groaned Dragan - and a second later he was dropped down to the floor, left to massage his sore throat as best he could with his wrists.


    Bruno began to walk over to a loose flap of metal which seemed to serve as a seat, but stopped for a moment, and Serena offered a cheerful smile. The smile disappeared a second later, and Bruno sat down.


    A long beep rang out from the pilot controls, and Skipper looked back at them, face illuminated by the ghostly green of Caelus Breck.


    "Found us a place to land," he grinned. "Better get comfy, y¡¯all."

 Chapter 4:1.4: Pieces in Play

    The function room aboard the ship was apparently seldom used - the last time had been a barely-attended press conference marking the tenth anniversary of its launch. Sometimes it was used for spare storage when the hold was full, though: crates tied down next to bolted-down tables and chairs. That was still a ¡¯function¡¯, though, so the name was still correct.


    It was serving a different function right now, however.


    Atoy Muzazi sat there, hands balled into guilty fists on his lap, as Minister Goley berated the gathered crew.


    "On your ship," the tall man said, marching back and forth as he worked himself into a lather. "On your watch. Under your very noses!"


    With the last shouted word, he turned and slammed his metal fist onto the table, leaving a sizable dent. His usually well-structured grey hair was in shambles, his skin an angry shade of red.


    Someone audibly gulped.


    When the Minister spoke again, he was murder quiet. "I would like," he said. "An explanation." S§×ar?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Muzazi stood up. As the last one to see the victim, the fault was with him and him alone. "Sir," he said. "I claim full responsibility -"


    Goley cut him off. "Were you operating the security systems?"


    "No."


    "Were you assigned to guard the prisoner?"


    "No."


    "Were you firing the turrets?"


    "No."


    "Then sit back down and stop wasting my time, Special Officer."


    Muzazi nodded and sat back down. If a Minister of the Supremacy said so, then he truly wasn¡¯t at fault. People did not rise to superior rank by being incorrect about such things.


    Minister Goley took a deep breath, calming himself a little as he sat down. "The kidnapping of a Supremacy Cogitant - one sent to us by the central government, no less - is not a good look. If this gets out, Caelus¡¯ position in the Body will be severely impacted. This cannot get out of the system until the situation is resolved. Am I clear?"


    One of Goley¡¯s advisors shifted uncomfortably in their seat.


    "Sir," he said, tugging at his collar. "I¡¯m sure the central government would want to be informed of this as soon as possible."


    Goley waved him off. "They will be informed - informed that a minor incident took place, that the abducted individual was promptly recovered, and that the offenders were captured or, preferably, killed."


    The advisor half-stood up from his seat as if he was going to argue further, but sat again a second later, eyes down. "Yes, sir."


    Muzazi watched the display with deep admiration. The duty of the Body, the assembly of Ministers - was to execute the will of the Supreme - and so he was also an expert on executing his own will. The ultimate expression of power was the world taking on the shape you desired.


    A world where the virtuous prevailed and the evil suffered, where incidents like this could never take place ¡­ that was what Muzazi desired.


    "Special Officer," called Minister Goley.


    Muzazi stood, snapping to attention. "Sir."


    "I¡¯m exercising my authority of ministerial override. You are to put your current assignment on hold and proceed down to the surface of Caelus Breck. The system is on lockdown - if the kidnappers are anywhere, they will be there."


    He nodded. "I will execute them without fail."


    "See that you do. Once you¡¯re on the surface, you¡¯ll be under the temporary command of Lord Mayor Rikhail. Have him help you organise the search."


    "Of course."


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "You¡¯re dismissed. Proceed immediately," Goley said, turning away from Muzazi and launching into a new rant targeted at the crew at large.


    Muzazi left the room and entered the outer hallway, muffled shouts following through the door behind him. His hand brushed against Luminescence¡¯s hilt, tracing the tiny crack in the woodwork there. The coward Ruth Blaine¡¯s work. The Aether Application she¡¯d used at the end of their short duel, just before fleeing like a rat, had had some kind of reflective function. The force Luminescence had exerted had rebounded against it.


    A difficult ability to handle, but now he was prepared for it. There was no shortage of ways to attack indirectly.


    Marching down the halls to the secondary hangar, Muzazi checked the news on his script. The People¡¯s Word had no information regarding the incident, nor did any of the biased lesser news channels. So far, at least, there had been no leaks.


    He rubbed a hand over the back of his head. During the duel with Ruth Blaine, he¡¯d suffered a nasty blow to the back of his head - the result of flying backwards into a wall. The ship had a plentiful stock of Panacea, so the wound had been fully healed, but the feeling of having fungus sprayed into your wounds was strange all the same.


    The small single-occupant craft Muzazi had arrived on, the Cold Spot, had already been prepared for launch in the hangar-bay. It was designed specifically for use by Special Officers - just enough room for them to sit in the cockpit and transport their personal equipment.


    He tapped a button on his script and the cockpit roof slid open, allowing him entry. Climbing in, Muzazi lay down on his back, allowing the roof to slide back over his body and - a second later - display half-a-dozen holographic consoles with which the craft could be piloted.


    Muzazi was often grateful he wasn¡¯t claustrophobic. In more than one way, the Cold Spot¡¯s cockpit was like a great glass coffin.


    "Computer," he said, voice surprisingly loud in the small space.


    "Responding," the synthesised voice replied.


    "Autopilot to first available government landing on Caelus Breck. Wake me when permissions are required."


    "Roger roger," it said chirpily, followed swiftly by the sound of the engines powering up. A low rumble that quickly grew intolerable; Muzazi slid a finger across one of the displays and cancelled the outside noise. With another finger, he turned on the audioscape of the forest, birds chirping and leaves rustling.


    Basking in the quiet peace, Muzazi closed his eyes. He had much to consider.


    Ruth Blaine could not be allowed to continue living. Muzazi didn¡¯t care that he hadn¡¯t beaten her - that could result only from his own deficiency. But by abandoning their duel, she had refused to prove that she was superior to him. Escape was the victory of cowards.


    Strength existed for the purpose of enforcing your own will. It formed a great net that bound those without power, preventing them from falling into the abyss below.


    Protecting the weak was the single obligation of the strong. Without such protection, how else would the weak become strong as well?


    Dragan Hadrien. Muzazi had shared but a single conversation with him, but he could tell just from that that he was a loyal servant of the Supremacy, devoted to its advancement over his own.


    He could not allow harm to come to the boy.


    -


    Augustus Rikhail, Lord Mayor of Caelus Breck, sat at his desk with his head in his hands. He had just received some very bad news. A Special Officer was coming down into his jurisdiction.


    Why? Was this to do with the lockdown that had just been announced?


    A bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck. What had they found out about? His dealings with the Hyena? The deaths of those reporters? The missing funds? He couldn¡¯t come up with a defense until he knew how heavy the executioner¡¯s axe was.


    The Lord Mayor¡¯s office was right on the top floor of the Heart Building, a cylindrical tower of light and glory which rose far above the capital city of Breck Kor. The thing was so big that it had been lowered down from space, driven down like a stake through the jungles that surrounded the city.


    A symbol of the Supremacy¡¯s accomplishments. Of his accomplishments.


    He couldn¡¯t allow them to take it away from him. Measures would have to be taken. If there was somebody behind this, it was Goley - the Minister had hated him for years, always wanted an excuse to remove him.


    If he got rid of Goley, perhaps the problem would go away. The empty Minister position that would leave was quite enticing, too. Possible, yes, it was possible, but difficult. He¡¯d have to plan carefully to survive this.


    Rikhail glanced at the information he¡¯d managed to pull together about the Special Officer on his way.


    Atoy Muzazi, Crownless. A colony boy who¡¯d attended a traditionalist combat school on Paradavarin. Promoted to Special Officer after distinguishing himself in battle against the Sharktooth pirate syndicate. Well regarded for his work in the field.


    That¡¯s what it said, at least. But it didn¡¯t make sense.


    The Lord Mayor was very proud of his information network. He¡¯d made a great many friends throughout his time in the Supremacy, and those friends were always happy to pass him files they really shouldn¡¯t. They knew better than to refuse him. It¡¯d never failed.


    Until now.


    There were some files, of course - recent engagements and reports regarding the Special Officer¡¯s conduct. But apart from those recent files, there was nothing. No classmates, no friends, no-one who had actually witnessed Atoy Muzazi. In reality, there was a blank void where the official records insisted a life was.


    It looked for all the world like this Atoy Muzazi had just popped into existence two years ago.


    He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief, his breath staggered with anxiety.


    Just who was coming down to his planet?

 Chapter 5:1.5: The Hyena

    Dragan Hadrien had a gun pressed against his back. Even more worryingly, it was becoming a familiar sensation.


    The group of criminals marched him through the crowded streets of Breck Kor, surrounding him as inconspicuously as they could. Ruth Blaine was right behind him, the pistol she had hidden in her leather jacket poking against Dragan¡¯s shoulder blade.


    The other criminal - Bruno at the moment, he was pretty sure - strolled next to the two of them, gloved hands stuffed into his pockets. Even though he¡¯d changed into more casual garb, a black shirt and blue pants, the gloves remained. The ensemble wasn¡¯t even that casual anyway, not with the body armour obviously concealed beneath it.


    Skipper walked at the head of the group, green coat spread out behind him. Unlike his crewmates, he hadn¡¯t bothered changing his outfit. Stupid or confident? Hard to say. Perhaps he was a recognizable figure, so there was no point disguising himself.


    Dragan himself had been given a too-big white jacket to wear over his cadet suit. Apparently, they were keen on keeping the equipment contained inside it close at hand.


    He squinted as a line of sweat ran past his eye. The multiple layers were more than a little uncomfortable in Caelus Breck¡¯s sweltering heat. The cadet suit was designed to be comfortable in a variety of climates, but the jacket just pushed things over the edge.


    Vengeance, he told himself. Stay positive and focus on your inevitable vengeance.


    Easier said than done. Dragan jerked his head out of the way of a particularly large bug that seemed to have taken a liking to him. The creature seemed like a hybrid between a cockroach and some flying insect indigenous to the planet; the seeding efforts of the Gene Tyrants clearly hadn¡¯t been very effective here.


    They¡¯d landed the ship in a hangar on the outskirts of the city that seemed designed to be as shady as possible. Cash passed hands, and no questions were asked.


    It almost made him nostalgic for Crestpoole. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.


    "Left here," muttered Blaine so he could hear, as the group turned and began heading down a side-alley.


    This group were well-coordinated, but in the way a squad of troops assigned to each other were. It was born from trust, rather than training. They¡¯d been together for a year at least - Blaine slightly longer than Bruno.


    The detour moved them away from the crowd, giving Dragan as much breathing room as was possible when you had a gun to your back.


    "So," he said, with more bravado than he felt. "Do you actually have a plan, or are you just walking around until you get caught? Do you really think people won¡¯t recognise me just because I¡¯m wearing a jacket? You must be pretty stupid."


    Bruno shot him a glare. "Shut it."


    Skipper spoke from the front of the group without looking back. "Let it go, Bruno. He¡¯s just trying to rile you up. A man after my own heart."


    Dragan clenched his fists. He really didn¡¯t like it when others could tell what he was thinking. That was his role.


    He went on: "That doesn¡¯t make me wrong, you know. If you don¡¯t think my face has been picked up by every camera in this city, you¡¯re an idiot. I¡¯ve been counting them, and we¡¯re in the triple digits."


    Skipper stopped, his boots making a scraping sound against the concrete below as he turned. He leaned against the wall, against a patch of scrap metal a slightly different colour than the rest, and grinned.


    "Triple digits, huh?" he grinned. "Well, that¡¯s very worrying. I¡¯d be very concerned, Mr. Hadrien, very concerned - if the Supremacy were the ones in control of this city."


    And with that, he tapped his fist rhythmically against the metal. A very specific rhythm - Supremacy Military Nonverbal, Dragan recognized, a way of speaking without needing words.


    L-A-U-G-H-I-N-G D-O-G.


    A moment after Skipper completed his message, there was a click from behind the patch of metal and the wall swung open like a door. Skipper stepped back.


    Behind the door was a giant of a man - Pugnant without a doubt. Even though his presumably-golden eyes were concealed behind a pair of thick sunglasses, the maw of razor-sharp teeth in his mouth was unmistakable. The features of full-blooded Pugnant were much harder to hide than the comparatively small fangs of people like Ruth Blaine.


    "What?" he said, voice a rumble, looking Skipper up and down. It seemed he had both the ability and the inclination to crush the other man¡¯s head in one of his hands.


    Skipper leaned in theatrically. "Here to see the Hyena," he said in a mock-whisper. "We called ahead."


    Ruth Blaine¡¯s grip on Dragan tightened just slightly, and Bruno¡¯s posture became more rigid. They weren¡¯t entirely sure they¡¯d be welcome here. Dragan gulped; if they weren¡¯t safe here, he definitely wasn¡¯t.


    One second passed, then another. A kind of bat native to the planet screeched from its nest above.


    The Pugnant¡¯s eye twitched. For a moment, Dragan thought he was enraged, and braced himself for the blows that were to come, but then he realized the rest of the giant¡¯s face didn¡¯t reflect that. Not anger, then. The kind of face that came with the acquisition of information: there was some kind of display built into his eyeball.


    "Follow me," the Pugnant grunted as he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the building. Skipper strolled after him - and a second after, Dragan found himself being prodded forwards by Blaine.


    The building was dark, but Dragan¡¯s eyes adjusted quickly, allowing him to see the room at least a little more clearly.


    The place seemed to have been an office at some point, but was now as abandoned as abandoned could get. The smashed remnants of desks were stuffed into one corner, a veritable mountain of wood and metal. Empty window frames had been filled in with planks of sturdy wood. Apart from them and the Pugnant, the only sign of life was one ambitious vine sneaking around the edge of a doorway.


    Yes, it was as if the place had been designed specifically to look abandoned.


    The Pugnant led them down a discrete set of stairs off to the side of the room - and the metal stairs went down for a long while, leading them at least below the street they¡¯d come in from. With Skipper heading up the group and Bruno watching the back, they descended.


    As they finally reached the bottom, the sound of music became audible, a deep, hoarse kind of instrument that Dragan wasn¡¯t familiar with. Along with that, there were the sounds of talking - of many people speaking at once. Not as abandoned as the upstairs made it seem, then.


    Skipper leaned in. "The Hyena sure knows where to throw his parties, eh?"


    Dragan didn¡¯t respond. He refused to engage in any kind of banter with these people.


    The Pugnant led them through another doorway - this one guarded by two other burly guards - and into the next room.


    The space was huge and chaotic, strobe lights dancing over every inch of it. It was full of people, dancing and shouting and some doing things much less safe for work. In one corner, a circle of cheering men watched two winged dog-things snap and bite at each other. In another, some kind of red liquor flowed freely into a basin through two heavy iron pipes.


    Their group moved around the crowd, weaving around each crime-in-progress until they reached the man sat at the head of the room.


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    The man was small and thin, but still possessed a sense of authority with his leisurely slouch. His white hair was so overgrown and unkempt that it was probably bigger than his head, while his facial hair had been trimmed to just a paper-thin zig-zag moustache. He looked up at them with two green eyes, their sclera pitch-black - the eyes of an Umbrant, designed for stealth work by the Gene Tyrants.


    A young woman lay sprawled across his lap, long hair pooling on the floor below. Every now and then she would twitch violently, and her pupils were dilated to such a degree that they were barely visible. Still, she was grinning widely, and every now and then a giggle of bliss escaped through her teeth.


    Dragan wrinkled his nose in disgust. She was obviously high on Bubble. That was a Crestpoole classic he didn¡¯t need a reminder of.


    The man stared at Skipper, gaze impassive. His face twitched in and out of a compulsive smirk. "Apparently I¡¯m expecting you," he said, voice doubled by the liquid undercurrent that pervaded Umbrant speech.


    Skipper stepped forward, his face more serious than Dragan had seen him before. He was only annoying when it was safe to be so, it seemed.


    "Our ship is damaged," he said, staring right into the eyes of the man - the Hyena, clearly. "We need repairs, with no questions asked."


    "No questions asked, hm?" the Hyena chuckled, stroking the hair of his lady friend as he did. "That¡¯s a difficult ask, difficult, you know? So many people live here, and so many have questions to ask. You know? It¡¯s tough to ask no questions. That¡¯s a big ask from you, Skipper. Big ask. What would a man get in return for such a labour, hm?"


    Dragan almost tuned the Hyena¡¯s speech out halfway through. This was clearly a man who liked the sound of his own voice, rephrasing the same statement half-a-dozen times like he was replaying a good song on his script.


    "We have the funds," Skipper said. Apart from his mouth, he hadn¡¯t moved at all since the conversation began. A conscious effort to show that this Hyena couldn¡¯t intimidate him.


    "Funds, funds, okay," said the Hyena, leaning back. "You¡¯ve got funds, cool. Badass. Awesome, okay, yeah? But how much funds? How many? How much stater? One coin or many millions of digital stater? Big difference, you know?"


    "Enough."


    The Hyena grinned with sickly yellow teeth. "I decide how much is enough, friend."


    "And how much do you decide?" As Skipper spoke, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but notice a few innocuous looking men subtly positioning themselves around the group. Hired muscle, with firearms concealed beneath their clothes. Ready to move at the first sign of trouble.


    He gulped. Was he going to die because this Skipper idiot botched negotiations?


    The Hyena regarded Skipper, cocking his head slightly as he looked the man up and down. He tapped a finger against his cheek - once, twice, thrice - then smiled, tongue playing against his moustache for a moment.


    "Three thousand stater," he said.


    Dragan winced. He didn¡¯t know anything about ships, really, but even he could tell that the repairs were not worth that much.


    Skipper tutted. "That¡¯s extortionate."


    "Yes. I¡¯m an extortionist." The Hyena patted the woman on the head, and she barked out harsh laughter in return. The kind of laughter that was a biological response, not an emotional one.


    The goons surrounding them visibly relaxed, one even returning to the nearby bar for drinks.


    "I¡¯ll send you the deposit, then," Skipper said, fishing his script out of his coat. Some kind of accessory swung from it like a chain, some kind of bat mascot that had been popular a few years back.


    The Hyena didn¡¯t even look at them as he replied. "Half the fee."


    Immediately, the tension was back - and it was clear to everyone. Even the members of Skipper¡¯s group tensed up, Blaine looking like she was ready to leap into action at any second, and Serena - not Bruno - had a grin on her face that was just slightly bloodthirsty, one hand open and violet Aether crackling around it.


    "I don¡¯t think that¡¯s very reasonable," Skipper said quietly.


    A suffocating feeling settled over the scene like a heavy blanket, but the revellers took no notice and continued their party. As the crowd danced, the eyes of the negotiators locked onto each other, resolved to do whatever they had to do. Nervous fingers twitched against concealed pistols. Dragan took a step back, wondering if he could maybe slip away in the confusion, but was stopped by a glare from Blaine.


    The Hyena put a hand to his chin, rubbing it pensively as he considered his options. His mouth opened and for a moment Dragan knew - he just knew - that the man was about to order his men to open fire.


    But then his demeanour shifted just slightly, and when he spoke it was with a conciliatory tone: "One third?"


    Skipper nodded. "Now that seems reasonable." He tapped a finger against the screen of his script, transferring the funds.


    The Hyena laughed, returning to the slouched position he¡¯d been enjoying at the start of the conversation. "Sorry for the unpleasantness, friend. Apologies, apologies, I apologize. This is a rough town, rough planet. You need to let people know you are not to be pushed around or else you will be pushed around, yes? I had to let you know that. A team of my engineers will be around to fix your ship - quietly, without them asking questions. Drinks?"


    "That¡¯s okay, thanks. We need to get back - I know it looks effortless, but I need my beauty sleep."


    The crime lord frowned a little when his hospitality was rejected, but shrugged all the same. "Do what you want. My boys will call you before they arrive."


    With a nod, Skipper turned around and began walking out, swinging his arms with a feigned lack of care. "Come on, y¡¯all. Daylight¡¯s burning."


    Serena followed after him, followed by Blaine - for a moment Dragan stayed still, still focused on the tension that had pervaded the air, until a tap from Blaine¡¯s pistol jolted him back into reality.


    The moment he jumped, just slightly, the Hyena¡¯s eyes flicked to look at him. They flickered through emotions - curiosity, recognition, and then a sense of smug satisfaction.


    Had he recognised Dragan, then? Had the Supremacy put out an alert for him after all? If they were offering a reward for his return, there was a chance he¡¯d be better off in the hands of someone like the Hyena, who¡¯d be interested in the money, rather than Skipper¡¯s gang. Should he say something, then? Kick up a fuss?


    As he was trying to summon up the resolve to act, Dragan¡¯s eyes drifted down to the woman on the Hyena¡¯s lap. She was giggling still, each laugh like the sound of cracking ice, and white foam was spilling through the gaps between her teeth.


    Unwelcome memories rose back up to the surface. Familial hands wrapped around his throat, eyes staring at him wide with hatred. Spiteful, ruining words.


    This crime lord was just like the ones who had made Crestpoole a hell. There was no way he was throwing himself back into that willingly.


    A ghost of the prior tension followed the group as they walked out of the underground club, led by the massive Pugnant who had let them in originally. Even when walking up the stairs, Dragan was tense, expecting gunfire to start up any second. But it never came.


    More than once he caught the Pugnant looking at him, though.


    As the scrap door opened, letting in the blazing sunlight, Skipper bowed theatrically to their escort. "Thank you, thank you, my friend. We appreciate your hospitality, Mr¡­?"


    The height difference made it hard to tell, but Dragan was sure that the Pugnant rolled his eyes. "Guimo."


    "Thank you, Mr. Guimo."


    "Just Guimo."


    "Mr. Just Guimo?"


    "Fuck off."


    And with that, they were thrown back out into the boiling streets of Breck Kor.


    -


    The Hyena looked up as Guimo returned. It was a rare event that his best enforcer came back empty-handed, but it seemed that this was one of those occasions.


    He leaned forward, letting the girl on his lap topple over onto the floor. Two assistants dragged her away by her legs, her choked laughter growing quieter as they pulled her into the back. That was fine: he¡¯d gotten tired of her anyway. These slumfolk could only handle three or four pure doses of Bubble before their reactions stopped being amusing.


    "You didn¡¯t get an opportunity, Guimo? Sad, very sad. There was no chance for you, then?"


    Guimo shrugged. "The boss had his guard up. Tough customer. Didn¡¯t want to fight him in enclosed space. Property damage."


    "I see, I see, I see, I see. Interesting. And the boy?"


    "It¡¯s the guy he told you about," Guimo nodded. "Dragan Hadrien. No mistake."


    The Hyena sat up in his chair, clapping his hands together with a resounding slap. "Badass! Georg, get my pet on the phone! He will want to know about this A-S-A-P! As soon as possible!"


    Georg said something muffled into oblivion by his gasmask - and as he did, the guards ushered the crowd of revellers out of the club. Some whined, but none dared to disobey the Hyena.


    The moment they were clear, Georg tapped a leather-gloved finger against his script and a massive holographic screen flickered into existence in front of the Hyena¡¯s throne. On it was the sweaty and piggish face of Lord Mayor Rikhail, gaping humorously.


    "I told you," he hissed, eyes flicking around. "Never call me on this number. There¡¯s a Special Officer poking his nose around, for Y¡¯s sake!"


    The Hyena raised an eyebrow. "Swearing to God, Lord Mayor? Calling upon the lord? I thought the Supremacy was supposed to be self-reliant, no? Able to rely on themselves?" S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Lord Mayor looked like he was about to shout some expletive, but he clearly didn¡¯t dare. Instead, he spoke quietly, an animal long since broken in: "What do you want?"


    That was his pet. The Hyena smiled. "A young man named Dragan Hadrien just walked into my place of business."


    The pig perked up, leaning forward with such speed that he almost bumped his face into the screen. "You have him?" he said, spittle artillery escaping from his mouth.


    "No, no, no, no. But I can get him, grab him, snatch him, find him, seize him."


    The Hyena¡¯s smile spread into a grin.


    "For a price."

 Chapter 6:1.6: Blood-Red Opportunity

    Rikhail did his best to conceal his anxiety as he mechanically chewed his steak. While his knife cut through the meat with satisfying ease, he couldn¡¯t help but draw a connection between the eating utensil and the sword of the man at the other end of the table. The Lord Mayor found himself wishing he didn¡¯t like his meat quite so bloody.


    "It must have been a dull journey planetside," Rikhail said, grasping for conversation.


    "Not at all," said Muzazi, with that damnable neutrality in his tone.


    He and the Special Officer - this Atoy Muzazi - sat in the Lord Mayor¡¯s private quarters, the automatic furniture having shifted itself into a meal configuration. A round table with cloth draped over it like a wedding dress over a bride, the lights above dimmed to provide a relaxing atmosphere. The night city of Breck Kor lay bare outside the window, lights glittering in the dark like a reflection of the stars above.


    Rikhail took another bite of his steak. Atoy Muzazi just sat there; he had refused the offer of a meal.


    That was worrying. That implied he wasn¡¯t the kind of man who could be bought. The Lord Mayor knew now that the Special Officer was here to search for this Hadrien brat, but if he caught a whiff of any of Rikhail¡¯s personal activities that would be the end of him.


    "How do you, ah," Rikhail tapped his fork against his plate. "How do you intend to proceed? With the search?"


    Muzazi replied immediately, like this was a conversation he¡¯d rehearsed many times. "There¡¯s specialized hardware inside Hadrien¡¯s cadet suit. That gives us something to track. Likely the criminals have disabled it already, but it¡¯s our best starting point."


    Rikhail nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, of course. And, um, failing that¡­?"


    "We will have to begin a less peaceful search. Interrogation of figures who may have come into contact with the criminals - they¡¯ll require repairs, after all. Arrests will have to be made."


    Rikhail paled. Being in custody wasn¡¯t even an inconvenience for the Hyena, but he¡¯d take it as an unforgivable insult. "Is that so?" he said quietly.


    "Yes. There¡¯s no need to be afraid - I¡¯ve conducted operations like this before."


    "I¡¯m not afraid."


    "Please don¡¯t lie," frowned Muzazi. "It¡¯s unbecoming of your position."


    This little shit. He thought just because he was a Special Officer, he could look down on him? This Muzazi had achieved his position by being able to swing a sword around - or so his records said - while Rikhail had worked for it. Years upon years of nurturing friendships, building connections and calling in favours until he¡¯d been able to get this position from behind the Minister¡¯s back.


    He tightened his grip on his steak knife. Oh, how he¡¯d love to. But not yet.


    "I appreciate the advice," Rikhail said as calmly and evenly as he could. "My men are, as always, at your disposal, Mr. Muzazi."


    Muzazi rose from his seat, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. For a moment, Rikhail¡¯s heart jumped, but when no attack came he realized that was just the Special Officer¡¯s neutral stance.


    "Of course," the swordsman said, nodding respectfully. "We have to deal with this quickly, else it will cause a great deal of trouble for the Minister."


    And with that, he left the room, presumably off to begin the search he¡¯d been talking about. Good riddance. Although, he¡¯d given out a nugget of useful information before he left.


    It will cause a great deal of trouble for the Minister, eh?


    Goley had been trying to get rid of him for years. Doubtless this little episode was another attempt to do that, at least on some level. But he¡¯d made a mistake - he¡¯d let Rikhail know about this threat to his reputation.


    If things went well, Goley could survive the humiliation of it. If they didn¡¯t, judging eyes would begin wondering if he was really fit for his throne.


    Rikhail¡¯s mouth twisted from a flat line into a smirk into a grin. To tell the truth, Lord Mayor had been the utmost extent of his ambitions, but those words from Muzazi had opened up the path to a new position.


    Minister Rikhail. It was achievable.


    And all Dragan Hadrien had to do was die.


    -


    Minister Goley often thought that he made a fine show of anger for one who had never felt it. Speaking more broadly, he¡¯d never felt sadness or fear, either, but his anger performance was what he was truly proud of.


    He had never felt fear, but he understood how it worked. The right biological indicators in him triggered the ones he wanted in others. He assumed it was only natural for a subordinate to experience fear when presented with a shouting, ranting superior. He had chosen the majority of his direct subordinates because he understood how they reacted to such stimuli, after all.


    Goley¡¯s eyes drifted over the half-a-dozen holographic screens arranged in front of the window - the space-black background providing a fine contrast to the images and text.


    After the incident, he¡¯d retreated to his personal craft to begin planning his response. The Starsailer had been a gift from the Third Minister, a thank-you present for voting for him in the last Body election. Goley understood that it was aesthetically beautiful, and the quiet available on it was a welcome contrast from the noise and bustle of a military craft.


    Today¡¯s items of interest didn¡¯t quite live up to their name. Economic reports from Caelus Breck, Noon and Rett displayed no variance of note, the Supreme still showed no signs of leaving the Sheshanaga - thank goodness they didn¡¯t have that to worry about - and the conflict with the UAP didn¡¯t seem to be developing much at all.


    He was still awaiting a report from Special Officer Muzazi, but he had no doubt that would arrive soon. Muzazi was one of those people afflicted with the disease called loyalty. Goley could insult the man to his face and he would obey, simply because he¡¯d promised to do so.


    It was a debilitating condition, but a useful one. One that certain others lacked.


    With a flick of his wrist, Goley brought up the file on Lord Mayor Johnston Rikhail. Rikhail¡¯s existence was quite the irritating thing for him. He took great pride in selecting his direct subordinates personally, and yet this man had crawled into his infrastructure like one of the insects that infested that planet of his.


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    Goley wasn¡¯t entirely sure, but he felt that he must hate Johnston Rikhail.


    He¡¯d found himself thinking on the Rikhail problem quite often lately. Could he simply have him killed? No - inelegant, and it made Goley seem like one of those brutes that governed the Dranell Breaches. He liked to be seen as one with a fine, careful hand rather than an iron fist.


    To Anton Goley, life was a sequence of accumulating assets and deleting obstacles. It seemed to him he had an opportunity to do both here.


    Special Officer Muzazi was a superb asset - his recommendation by the GID had been well-earned. But once this incident concluded, he¡¯d inevitably move on to another assignment, and be of no further use to Goley. If Muzazi experienced failure, however, his desire for redemption would make a fine leash to control him with.


    Lord Mayor Johnston Rikhail had rooted himself deep into Breck Kor¡¯s infrastructure, forming relationships with the local crime lords - oh, he thought nobody knew, but the man wasn¡¯t nearly as clever as he thought he was. Still, he was a weed that was difficult to pull out. Only the finest grade of scandal, spun carefully and properly, could justify it to his misguided supporters.


    Minister Goley smiled a thin smile. There was a way for him to achieve everything he wanted.


    And all Dragan Hadrien had to do was die.


    -


    "Do you ever wonder?" Serena said, a finger to her chin.


    What Serena del Sed was doing to the chair beneath her couldn¡¯t be called sitting. There are a number of factors humans generally agreed needed to be met before you were considered to be sat on something, and she was meeting none of them.


    It was more like she was a bird making a nest ¡­ no, it wasn¡¯t even like that. That implied some sort of biological instinct went into this little maneuver, rather than the girl¡¯s lunacy. Limbs were pointing in every direction, legs crossed over arms. It was like she had become a human pretzel.


    A chill went down Dragan¡¯s spine. Did this girl truly find such a position relaxing? Insanity.


    "Wonder what?" said Bruno. It was a little disorientating, watching one body switch between two personalities so quickly. Their face snapped from one expression to another so quickly Dragan was surprised it wasn¡¯t painful. It was certainly painful for him; his Cogitant instincts were getting whiplash from trying to observe the inconsistent body language, and it was giving him a hell of a migraine.


    They were sat in the disused hangar Skipper had landed his ship in. He and Ruth Blaine were in the ship itself, presumably hiding anything they didn¡¯t want the Hyena to know about. Serena, Bruno and Dragan were sat on empty crates in the hangar space itself. It seemed guard duty had fallen to the dynamic duo.


    Serena continued: "Wondered about horses."


    "What¡¯s a horse?" Bruno said.


    The girl frowned. "Zachary used to talk about them all the time! They were his favourite! You forgot?"


    "Yes. What are they?"


    "Well," Serena dragged the word out, her indignation apparently replaced with an eagerness to teach. "They¡¯re these four-legged animals - all furry - and people climb on them and ride them around. They¡¯re from Home."


    "I see," Bruno nodded. "Why were you wondering about them?"


    "It makes me think - you know, horses are only good at being ridden because there were people who wanted to ride them. So, um, horses adapted over a couple of years and now they¡¯re fast and you can put a saddle on them. Right?"


    "It took more than just a couple of years, but sure."


    "But what if, like ¡­ we¡¯d ridden dogs instead?"


    "We? You and me?"


    "No, like, people in general. Wouldn¡¯t dogs be good at being ridden if we¡¯d been riding them all along?"


    "I don¡¯t know."


    "But do you think so? That¡¯s how it worked with horses, so it should be the same."


    "I really couldn¡¯t say."


    Dragan was in hell. The last hour or so had been filled with inane conversations just like this one. Serena del Sed just kept on spouting this kind of nonsense like it was genius that she¡¯d been the first to uncover.


    No matter how clearly disinterested Bruno was, she wasn¡¯t discouraged - in fact, that seemed to encourage her. Was she trying to be annoying, then, or did it just come naturally? Dragan honestly couldn¡¯t tell, which in itself was a little frightening.


    "What do you think, Mr. Dragan?" Serena smiled, turning to look at him.


    Oh God no.


    "About what?" he said, looking away. He wouldn¡¯t antagonize this person - Bruno seemed the sort to beat the shit out of him if he did - but he certainly wasn¡¯t going to pretend to be friendly.


    "About the horses. Like, do you think if we¡¯d ridden dogs around early on, they¡¯d be bigger and stronger now?"


    He shrugged. "I don¡¯t know. Maybe."


    "Maybe?"


    Dragan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and groan. He¡¯d messed up. He¡¯d become part of the conversation. "Well, I mean ¡­ that¡¯s evolution, right? If humans wanted dogs to ride around on, they¡¯d take better care of the bigger, stronger ones - and then those ones would pass on their genes. So the species would get bigger and stronger over time."


    The girl cocked her head. "What would happen to the smaller, weaker ones, then?"


    "Well, they¡¯d probably die out."


    Serena widened her eyes and the smile dropped from her face. "No¡­"


    "Well, it doesn¡¯t even matter," said Dragan, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dogs aren¡¯t the kind of animals you¡¯d ride around on in the first place, so people wouldn¡¯t breed them for that. Horses were probably already big and strong enough to carry people, so the ones that could be ridden around got protected by humans and were able to pass their genes on."


    Serena put a hand to her chin, nodding sagely. "You¡¯re real smart, Mr. Dragan."


    He smiled hopefully. "Smart enough for you to let me go? I won¡¯t tell anyone."


    Serena switched with Bruno, who scowled. "No. Don¡¯t assume she¡¯s stupid."


    "Worth a shot." Dragan shrugged. Bruno del Sed¡¯s edgy ruffian act was easy to get used to; he didn¡¯t have much in his repertoire save for scowling and the occasional physical intimidation. Sear?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Bruno glared at Dragan and went to stand up - only for Serena to sit back down.


    "No fighting," she said, crossing her arms. "We¡¯re all gonna be good buddies here - right, Mr. Dragan?"


    "You kidnapped me!"


    The girl smiled. "Yeah, but we¡¯re gonna let you go after!"


    Before Dragan could reply to that idiotic statement, two sharp clanging noises rang out from inside the ship - the main doors unlocking. A second later, they screeched open, Skipper and Blaine clambering out.


    The captain held his script in his hand, tapping a finger against it. "You kids playing nice?"


    Now it was Dragan¡¯s turn to scowl. "Fuck you."


    "Always a pleasure, Mr. Hadrien." Skipper stuffed his script back into his pocket. "We¡¯ve got everything that needs hiding hid - just in time, too. Ruth, unlock the hangar. I¡¯ll let the Hyena¡¯s engineers in."


    "Right," said Blaine, an amused glance sliding off of Dragan¡¯s face. She thought his animosity was something cute, like a particularly rowdy puppy. Oh, he¡¯d wipe that smile off her face come the end of all this.


    As Blaine worked the controls, the red light hanging over the hangar doors switched to green, and Skipper approached as they slid open.


    Beyond the doors were ten engineers, clad from head to toe in thick overalls and protective masks. Skipper extended a hand for the one in front, a stout man, to shake.


    "Howdy, fellas," he grinned. "She¡¯s a fixer-upper, but you¡¯ll learn to love her."


    As one, the group of engineers pulled rifles out from the folds of their protective gear, pointing them directly at Skipper. Ten red sighting lasers danced for supremacy across his face.


    Skipper blinked. "Was it something I said?"


    And then the fighting started.

 Chapter 7:1.7: Attack at the Hangar

    Dragan threw himself to the ground, eyes squeezed shut, as the sound of gunfire rained down overhead. It continued for maybe a second before - suddenly - a deafening sound like a grenade going off consumed the hangar.


    When the noise and it¡¯s ringing aftereffects had cleared from Dragan¡¯s ears, the shooting had stopped.


    He opened one eye, gingerly, as if not looking at the guns would mean they didn¡¯t exist. He fully expected to see his captors strewn across the floor, blown into miscellaneous pieces. He did not.


    There was a huge hole in the metal wall, like a giant fist had punched its way out of the building. Through it, the ten ¡¯engineers¡¯ who¡¯d shown up at the door could be seen, lying unconscious in the street. Their weapons lay next to them, sparking uselessly. The cries of a legion of birds, excited by the sudden hubbub, could be heard echoing from the skies.


    Skipper stood inside the building, right in front of the hole, his hand extended towards it. His fingers were arranged as if they were a gun - and as Dragan gaped at it, a few stray sparks of emerald Aether coiled around Skipper¡¯s index finger.


    Dragan put his mind to the task. What had Skipper done? How had he done it? If it was an application of his Aether, what was the method? What were his capabilities? Was this his most powerful Aether application, or a normal attack?


    His perceptions didn¡¯t have much to go on. Strong.


    "A second of warning, please," grumbled Bruno. He was still standing up, his palm extended in the direction where the gunfire had been coming from. A barely visible barrier, tinged violet by Aether, hovered in the air in front of him. When he closed his palm, the barrier vanished.


    Forcefield generation. Strong enough to stand against sustained gunfire.


    Ruth Blaine was crouched low to the ground on all fours, clad in that strange skeletal armour. Stray lines of red Aether revolved around her as she sighed. "I didn¡¯t get to do anything."


    Serena frowned. "Me neither."


    "Well, I love myself a dull fight, ladies," said Skipper, stretching as he strolled back into the hangar. "Less room for unpleasant surprises." He glanced down at Dragan, still prone on the floor. "You okay down there, kiddo?"


    "Don¡¯t call me kiddo," glared Dragan. "It¡¯s Dragan Hadrien."


    "Yeah, I¡¯m aware. You gonna sleep down there or are you planning on getting up anytime soon?"


    Grumbling, Dragan rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. "Looks like that Hyena guy hates you as much as I do."


    Skipper¡¯s face twisted into an expression of mock-hurt. "What?! You hate me?!"


    "You kidnapped me!"


    "That was hours ago!"


    Dragan felt the blood rush to his face. He didn¡¯t much like being joked around with. It was a mistake to think this Skipper moron was capable of taking anything seriously.


    "Still, though," said Skipper, rubbing his chin as he turned back to his accomplices. "This is a problem. No idea why, but it looks like the Hyena wants us dead. That¡¯s, uh, that¡¯s problematic. Personally, I want us alive. How about you guys?"


    Serena nodded enthusiastically. "Alive please, Mr. Skipper!"


    "Nice," Skipper nodded. "Now, step one in my plan of not being dead in twenty minutes time is to take out the inevitable second group of attackers that will be showing up any time now. Ladies, if you¡¯d please get ready."


    Serena and Blaine nodded, Aether already clumping around them. Skipper simply continued his stretches, getting himself limber.


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "Now hold on a second!"


    Skipper cocked his head. "Far as I¡¯m aware, kiddo, you¡¯re not a lady. Forgive me if I¡¯m wrong, but I was under the impression you were just a pretty boy."


    "I¡¯m not a pretty boy."


    "Now don¡¯t be too hard on yourself. It¡¯s what¡¯s inside that counts, after all."


    Dragan bit his tongue, turning away and crossing his arms. "How do you even know there are more people coming, anyway? I see no sign of that."


    Skipper frowned, blinked. "Isn¡¯t it obvious?"


    There was a resounding crash from somewhere nearby, and then another - closer, like a giant bunny was hopping down the street. Skipper¡¯s frown was instantaneously replaced with a grin.


    "Find a corner to hide in and get comfy, kiddo!"


    -


    When you were in Guimo¡¯s line of work for long enough, your moral compass inevitably got adjusted to match.


    He¡¯d burnt people alive in their own homes, when they couldn¡¯t pay protection money. He¡¯d cut up humans - while they were alive - and left the pieces to torment their family members. He¡¯d crushed the throats of more than one individual too young to spell the word.


    So assassinating some Supremacy cadet? Didn¡¯t really register as a big deal.


    Guimo landed, feet crunching through the concrete below him and leaving a sizable crater. Mingled blue and red Aether danced around his bulging muscle, his glowing skeleton visible through his skin. An Aether tic that made stealth impractical, but intimidation easy. Nobody liked to say no to a red-flaring skull.


    His men followed behind him in a truck, the vehicle hovering around a half-meter over the road. It wasn¡¯t the best method of transportation - unlike the high-end vehicles you got in places like Abrasa, it was capable of achieving only limited altitude.


    Their weaponry was much more impressive. Most gangs on Caelus Breck made do with shitty little punchpoint weapons, the kind that shot lead over large distances, but when it came to firearms the Hyena spared no expense. Plasma pistols, rifles, even a grenade launcher or two. Enough to kill any ordinary human fifty times over.


    And when they had to kill the unordinary, they had Guimo. S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He didn¡¯t have a second name - they hadn¡¯t bothered giving him one at the orphanage, and he hadn¡¯t found a need for one since. He was the only Guimo on Caelus Breck that mattered, anyway.


    Guimo leaped again, his kickoff from the ground sending him soaring high up into the sky. He wasn¡¯t especially concerned with attacks from the ground - there wasn¡¯t much that could break through his barrier, and anything that could only made him stronger.


    The hangar he¡¯d been told was the target was below him now, a small building growing increasingly larger as he plummeted towards it. This was his favourite part of the job: the moment before impact. It was a kind of glorious abandon, like he was a bullet being fired from a gun.


    He braced himself, curling into a cannonball, and struck concrete.


    -


    Again, Dragan threw himself to the ground as he heard the sounds of smashing rock - this time, the roof had exploded inwards, an indistinct shape smashing through it and striking the ground below, barely missing the ship.


    Why couldn¡¯t this just be simple? A simple ransom payment would have been so much less trouble, and so much less traumatizing.


    Skipper¡¯s crew didn¡¯t hesitate for a moment. Using her skeletal armour to enhance her speed, Blaine leapt towards the indistinct shape, dust still billowing around it, with a predatory snarl.


    Serena didn¡¯t move, but instead grabbed a nearby steel chair by the leg, lifting it - and as Dragan watched, the violet Aether flowing around the girl¡¯s hands expanded to encompass the chair as well. With a chaotic symphony of screeching, bending metal, the chair was reforged into the shape of a crude broadsword in the space of a few seconds. Serena gave it a few practice swings and - apparently satisfied with the balance of it - charged into the fray.


    Dragan blinked. How the hell did that work? He¡¯d thought he¡¯d had a basic understanding of how this Aether stuff worked, but that obviously wasn¡¯t the case.


    Before he could ponder the question further, Dragan was forced to cover his ears with his hands as a series of deafening bangs rang out one after the other. Turning, he saw Skipper, fingers mimicking a pistol as he pointed towards the source of the destruction. Each time a bang rang out, the area around Skipper¡¯s hand rippled, a blast of concussive force being deployed.


    With the last blast, the dust clouding the air cleared, and Dragan could see the source of the commotion himself. It was the huge Pugnant they¡¯d met at the Hyena¡¯s place, red-and-blue Aether coiling around him as he fought off Blaine and Serena.


    Blaine was moving more quickly than Dragan had seen before, hopping from debris to debris even as blows from the attacker sent them flying through the air. Her strikes were fast and precise - claws stabbing under the Pugnant¡¯s arms, at his eyes, at his jugular.


    Serena was the opposite - her sword strikes were slow, but the force behind them was enormous, gusts of air pressure broiling around her as she swung her makeshift blade. She was laughing innocently too, like a child, as she brought the sword down again and again. Dragan got the distinct feeling that he¡¯d be sent flying if he even got close to her.


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    These kinds of attacks would have killed an ordinary person near-instantly. The Pugnant - Guimo - didn¡¯t even flinch. He simply stood there, letting his red-and-blue Aether absorb every blow. Occasionally, he would swing a fist out to try and strike one of his attackers, but he didn¡¯t seem especially concerned about the prospect of being hit.


    Monsters. Dragan gaped, suddenly feeling very fragile indeed. They¡¯re all absolute monsters.


    Could he use this as an opportunity to try and escape? No, absolutely not. Skipper was standing near him to prevent that, for one thing. Plus, there was no guarantee that another squad of attackers wasn¡¯t waiting outside to grab him as soon as he made it.


    He was screwed if he did, screwed if he didn¡¯t. Damn it, damn it, damn it!


    There was a sudden blur of movement within the smoke - Guimo moving faster than Dragan¡¯s eyes could register - and in the next second, a head-sized chunk of rubble was zooming straight towards his face.


    He widened his eyes. He took in breath. But he didn¡¯t dodge - he didn¡¯t have time to. There wasn¡¯t even time for the signals to pass through his nervous system.


    I¡¯m dead.


    -


    The first time you see a certain something, you find it incredible. Awe-inspiring. You simply don¡¯t understand how people can just live their lives, day by day, and not be reduced to tears every time they see this thing. It¡¯s incomprehensible to you.


    Over time, though, you adapt to the thing¡¯s presence. You develop a sad resistance to wonder, like the thing you once loved so much is no longer good enough for you. Before long, you don¡¯t even know why you loved that thing in the first place.


    For Dragan Hadrien, that thing had been the sky.


    Crestpoole was no gas giant, but it might as well have been - a rotten little marble of a planet coated in toxic clouds several times its size. If humans had any sense, they would have written the place off as a lost cause and kept on flying. Unfortunately, the gases it vomited were valuable, and men were greedy.


    The breather cities were colossal, floating in Crestpoole¡¯s atmosphere like giant cigars. If you looked above you, you¡¯d see sickly yellow clouds. If you looked below, you¡¯d see much the same.


    All the light was artificial. The idea of a sun was a bad joke.


    Quite often - when he wasn¡¯t needed as a lie detector for Mr. Fix - Dragan would stand on one of Breather 19¡¯s rare balconies and stare upwards, trying to see something but the piss-yellow atmosphere. He wore a gas mask, of course - breathing outside would kill him before long otherwise - but the gas still stung at his skin like scratching nails.


    He¡¯d read about them in books, seen them in videographs - these things called stars. Lights that made themselves.


    Looking for himself, though, he never saw a thing. For all he knew, these things called stars were pure fiction. For all he knew, Crestpoole was all there was.


    But still ¡­ stars burned all by themselves, perpetual, never needing anyone or depending on anyone. There wasn¡¯t a thing in the world that could hurt them.


    Dragan Hadrien thought that he would quite like to be a star.


    -


    Dragan grunted as he drifted back to consciousness. The pounding pain on the side of his head felt like he¡¯d been struck with a golf club, but he was still alive. He was still alive, so that projectile couldn¡¯t have hit him.


    The sounds of fighting were still loud and clear, steel striking skin and gunshots ringing out in chorus. He wasn¡¯t safe. God, when was the last time he¡¯d felt safe?


    He needed to move. Judging from the cold against his cheek, he was lying down on the hangar floor. If everyone was preoccupied with this battle, then maybe it was possible for him to crawl away while nobody was looking.


    But first, a precaution. Pushing through his delirium - the dizziness brought about by his injury - Dragan tapped into his Aether. It jumped into life, quietly circling his body like an electric serpent.


    Good. Dragan wasn¡¯t sure how much good it would do, but he needed some kind of physical defense or he¡¯d be killed by the first attack that happened to hit him.


    He knew the direction he needed to head in to reach the exit - and so, slowly and carefully, he began to push himself across the floor. It wasn¡¯t especially big on dignity; he couldn¡¯t risk shifting into a more comfortable position, so he was essentially dragging his face across the cold metal floor as he moved.


    Dragan could hear his heart beating like a jackhammer as he made his slow escape. All he¡¯d wanted was a quiet life. Was that really so much to ask? It was such a simple wish, and now he¡¯d somehow ended up in the middle of a tug-of-war between some asshole dissidents and a crime syndicate.


    But that wasn¡¯t quite right, was it? The dissidents certainly wanted to capture him, but that Guimo guy had thrown a rock at his skull with the intent of smashing it into pieces. That had been a killshot.


    Why the hell did they want him dead? He¡¯d never done anything that bad, and when he had he certainly hadn¡¯t let anyone find out about it.


    An explosion shook the hangar, and Dragan stopped his movement for a moment - concerned that he¡¯d be noticed. After a moment or two, however, the sounds of fighting resumed and he was free to resume fleeing.


    It was a humiliating feeling, though. These people, all of them, had caused him so much trouble and now he was expected to just run for his life like a little coward. Not even run, crawl.


    He clenched his teeth, blood rushing to his head. No. Hell no.


    -


    Skipper danced around the flurry of blows as they came towards him, taking care to tighten up his coat so it wouldn¡¯t fall off.


    The big guy called Guimo was tougher than he¡¯d thought - his strength was one thing, but his speed was the real wonder. In Skipper¡¯s experience, if you could move faster than the other guy, you¡¯d pretty much won already. Unless your opponent was a cheater.


    Skipper took great pride in being a cheater.


    He stepped to the side as Guimo thrusted a palm towards him. As the air pressure from the blow swept his hair, Skipper pointed a finger towards Guimo¡¯s face and let loose a volley of Heartbeat Shotguns.


    It was a technique Skipper was quite proud of - absorbing sound onto his body, concentrating it, and then releasing it again as a concussive blast. Usually one or two was enough to knock pretty much anyone on their ass, but this guy was pretty sturdy.


    Was that a specific application of his Aether, maybe? If so, there had to be a trick to it. Some source from which he was drawing his strength.


    Still, the blasts made the man move well enough. Guimo went rearing backwards from the force - and as he did, Serena appeared from out of one of the clouds of dust.


    She was laughing, carefree, as she held a concrete sword in each hand. Skipper couldn¡¯t help but smirk as she unleashed a series of blows upon Guimo¡¯s back, the swords crumbling in her hands as she did so. With Serena del Sed¡¯s Aether, a weapon was never out of reach.


    Ruth was busy dealing with the mundane soldiers. That was fine. With her speed and strength, she was well-suited to crowd control.


    Skipper let loose another Heartbeat Shotgun - this one aimed at Guimo¡¯s feet - and frowned as the giant didn¡¯t budge. That wasn¡¯t right. Judging from the effect his prior attacks had had, that should have easily knocked him down.


    Ah, smiled Skipper, adjusting his position as a wild kick nearly took his head off. That made sense.


    Guimo¡¯s strength was in his Aether barrier - and that barrier derived additional power from the damage that he did take. Thus, the more damage you did to him now, the less damage you could do to him afterwards.


    What a wonderful power! Wonderful, but annoying. Skipper adored brute force, but it seemed like it wasn¡¯t going to work here.


    Skipper launched twin Heartbeat Shotguns downwards through the soles of his feet, launching himself up into the air. Guimo¡¯s gaze followed him up, clearly intending to let loose another projectile, but Serena was too much of a distraction. Roaring in anger, the Pugnant swung his fist at the girl, only for one of Bruno¡¯s air-shields to hold the blow for a second. The barrier rippled in the air for a second - then shattered, sending Bruno flying backwards.


    Taking in a deep breath, Skipper prepared himself for what he¡¯d need to do next. It wasn¡¯t going to be big on dignity.


    If Guimo¡¯s barrier was blocking all outside attacks, Skipper simply needed to launch an inside attack.


    Taking advantage of Serena and Bruno¡¯s distraction, Skipper landed on the oversized shoulder of the Pugnant, a wide grin on his face. At a tap from Skipper¡¯s foot, Guimo¡¯s head snapped to the side, his pupils dilating as he realized just how close the man was. His other fist pulled back, ready for a blow that would smash Skipper to pieces.


    Skipper smiled, leaned forward, and stuck his arm down Guimo¡¯s throat. Guimo blinked.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    He was fairly sure that one Heartbeat Shotgun would do the trick, but he wasn¡¯t taking the risk of Guimo surviving it.


    Six simultaneous blasts of concussive force entered the Pugnant¡¯s body with sounds like explosions, and the giant stumbled back, hands clutching at his throat, eyes bulging. As Skipper watched, twin trails of blood oozed out from behind Guimo¡¯s eyes, joined a second later by a veritable waterfall from his mouth.


    He opened his mouth as if to say something - once, twice - and then fell over, a red puddle quickly spreading out from his face. Dead as a doorknob.


    "Well," grunted Skipper, stretching. "That was -"


    The first shot hit him in the back, piercing through his weakened Aether and striking at his skin. Instantly, he fell forwards, his joints involuntarily locking as the currents spread throughout his body. A yelp of pain escaped from his lips.


    Stun shot. Non-lethal.


    Forcing his body to move, Skipper turned to look behind him, teeth clenched from the exertion.


    Dragan Hadrien stood there, panting for breath, pointing a pistol at him. Bright blue Aether swam around both him and the weapon, concentrated mostly around the barrel. Skipper had thought so, but that confirmed it - the shot had been strengthened with Aether. Otherwise, there was no way it would have made it through his barrier, even if it was weakened.


    Hadrien smiled. "Aether¡¯s a shitty projectile on it¡¯s own, but it¡¯s a different story when you add it to something else, right?"


    Skipper groaned. Fair enough, fair enough. They¡¯d kidnapped the kid, after all - he couldn¡¯t exactly fault him for shooting his shot given the chance.


    Still, Hadrien was clearly a good person. The pistol he was holding wasn¡¯t a stun-gun - he¡¯d adjusted it to be non-lethal before firing.


    Serena hadn¡¯t reappeared yet; maybe that blow from Guimo had knocked her out. Ruth, too, was missing - were the randos outside more trouble than he¡¯d expected?


    As Hadrien stood there, gun still trained on him, a group of armoured soldiers strode through the smoke and took position, aiming their rifles at Skipper as well. Red lenses stared out from behind bone-white masks.


    Ah. The cold hand of the law had made its appearance.


    Hadrien glanced at them, eyes wide with relief as he recognised their uniforms. "I¡¯m Dragan Hadrien," he said. "From the ship? I managed to escape!"


    Something was wrong. The way the officers were stood, the positions they were taking. They¡¯d surrounded Skipper, but there wasn¡¯t the relaxation inherent with an accomplished mission.


    They still had a job to do.


    "Good work," said one officer, the golden sash across his shoulder marking him a commander. "Men."


    At the last word, the soldiers moved, changing their target. Instead of aiming at Skipper, they aimed at Hadrien, fingers curling around triggers.


    Skipper didn¡¯t have to check to know they weren¡¯t set to stun. Hadrien¡¯s face twisted in innocent confusion - it was an expression Skipper had seen on far too many corpses over the years.


    "No!" he roared - and his voice tore the room to shreds.

 Chapter 8:1.8: Aftermath

    It was hard to believe the place had been a hangar half an hour ago.


    Atoy Muzazi strode through the field of burning rubble, maneuvering around the huge shards of scrap metal that had lodged themselves into the ground like stakes. More than once, he was forced to look away as he stepped over a melted chunk of armour or a discarded limb. The rebreather he was wearing made the smoke a non-issue to his lungs, but it still stung at his eyes.


    The whole left side of the building had been destroyed by the explosion, a colossal concussive force blasting it into devastation. The ship the hangar had been holding was a flaming wreck too - at the very least, the criminals wouldn¡¯t be able to attempt an escape with it now.


    Not that they¡¯d be going anywhere without their leader.


    They¡¯d found the one called Skipper underneath a pile of corpses, apparently - the brave soldiers who¡¯d been apprehending him when he attacked. The man¡¯s Aether must have been magnificent to allow him to not only survive the original blast, but the period of burial too. It hadn¡¯t been perfect, though.


    The only thing attached below his left shoulder was a bloody, smoking stump, the wound already half-cauterized by the attack that had caused it. Foolishness; Skipper had exercised more force than his body could sustain, and he¡¯d lost an arm for it. He hadn¡¯t even managed to escape with the attack - all he¡¯d accomplished was the murder of innocent Supremacy personnel.


    Skipper still grinned impertinently from the ground as Muzazi approached, flanked by two guards. His arm and legs had been bound with Neverwire, their dull red glow impeding any use of Aether.


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "Was it worth it? All these lives?"


    Skipper cocked his head, still smirking even as he winced in pain from his missing arm. "You, ah, you tell me, champ. We aren¡¯t the ones who started this little fight, after all."


    The lack of morality was obvious. He¡¯d have no luck appealing to this man¡¯s sense of shame.


    Muzazi¡¯s finger tapped against the hilt of his sword. "Where are your comrades - Ruth Blaine and the other one? Did they escape? Where is Dragan Hadrien?"


    "So you didn¡¯t get ¡¯em, then," nodded Skipper, clutching his stump. "Good news, that¡¯s good news. I dunno where the kid is, champ - but I wager that wherever he is, it¡¯s safer than your little game."


    The sword came out in an instant, the blade tickling against Skipper¡¯s throat. The man only rolled his eyes.


    Muzazi spoke quietly, dangerously: "Don¡¯t play games with me, dissident. Where is Hadrien? What did you do to him?"


    Skipper gave him a strange look, brow furrowed. "You ¡­ you really don¡¯t know, huh?"


    "Tell me."


    Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked to the left, then to the right, taking in the guards flanking Muzazi and the other soldiers arriving on the scene.


    "Nah," he said, after a moment. "I don¡¯t feel like I¡¯ve got an appreciative audience here."


    Muzazi grunted in frustration, sheathing his sword in a single smooth motion. As much as he might like, he couldn¡¯t simply have the man executed yet.


    "Take him for interrogation," he said, turning on his heel and striding away. "I want locations by sundown!"


    "Sir," said one of his guards - Prescott, he thought - as they walked. His voice was mild, calm, every word just a gentle suggestion. "If I may offer an opinion - if his associates escaped from the scene of the crime, I¡¯m not sure how likely it is that he¡¯ll know their locations."


    Muzazi bit his lip. "There may have been a pre-arranged rendezvous point, just in case this kind of scenario occurred."


    Prescott nodded, smiled, stepped back. "Of course, sir."


    The second person Muzazi had come to see was damaged as well, only much more lethally. The corpse of the huge Pugnant lay on an automatic floating stretcher, the fabric buckling under his considerable weight. His eyes were open, along with his mouth, full to the brim with dried blood.


    "Not the most enviable way to leave this world," mused Prescott, rubbing his chin.


    "To die fighting," said Muzazi softly, hand tightening around Luminescence. "I suppose that couldn¡¯t be so bad."


    "If you say so, Mr. Muzazi," Prescott smiled. The man was always smiling.


    "Do we know who he was?"


    "A local thug, we think. Works for an individual called the Hyena."


    The second guard shot Prescott a surprised look, but he took no notice. Muzazi furrowed his brow; he didn¡¯t quite understand that strange interaction.


    "The Hyena?" he said, turning. "Is there a way I can get in contact with this gentleman?"


    As he spoke, he could see the one called Skipper being taken away in the distance. Silver capture gel had hardened around his arm and legs, preventing movement, and he was being carried into a transport by an automatic stretcher much like the one holding the Pugnant¡¯s corpse.


    Prescott¡¯s smile spread just a tad. "Well, now that you mention it, sir¡­"


    -


    Ruth Blaine had never been good at laying low, so she usually just didn¡¯t bother. Which made situations like this one especially troublesome.


    She¡¯d managed to snag a hoodie from a washing line outside a shack on her way out of the district - and so she was now walking with the hood up, concealing her face as much as possible. It was a different kind of camouflage from the kind they¡¯d used back home - blending into crowds rather than forests - but the principle was the same. Her hands, stuffed into the pockets of the hoodie, fidgeted nervously.


    She had to stay calm. That was the most important thing. As long as she stayed calm, she could fix everything. So - what was the situation?


    They¡¯d arrested Skipper. Maybe Bruno and Serena, too, but she couldn¡¯t be sure. They were important prisoners, so they¡¯d be taken to somewhere well-guarded.


    Or shot in the street.


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    Ruth shook her head as if to dislodge the intrusive thought. No, she shouldn¡¯t think like that. If she assumed the worst, then everything she could do was pointless.


    The most well-guarded place on Caelus Breck was probably the tower in the centre of the city. From what Skipper had told her when they were coming in, that was where the security forces operated out of, as well as the planetary government.


    Wait, if the planetary government operated out of the tower, didn¡¯t that make it less likely they¡¯d keep Skipper there? Since he was so dangerous? Or - or did that make it more likely?


    Ruth bit her lip anxiously, face locked into an expression of intense concentration. Planning like this wasn¡¯t her strong suit. She much preferred following orders than giving them.


    Even if Skipper - and maybe Bruno and Serena - were being kept in the tower, could Ruth really do anything to free them? The operation to grab the Cogitant had been tough enough, and that had been on a much smaller ship. At any rate, that Special Officer would be lurking around somewhere. She had barely managed to escape him last time, but defeating him was out of the question.


    Shit.


    Ruth stopped walking, stepping back into an alcove as she bit down on the nail of her thumb. She¡¯d forgotten about the Cogitant, the one this whole operation had been about. Where had he run off to?!


    A chill ran down her spine. She wasn¡¯t sure how far it went, but Cogitants were supposed to be really smart - or at least very observant. Could security use Hadrien to track her down, now that he¡¯d had time to observe her?


    How long did she have, then? Minutes? Seconds? Were they coming for her now?


    She squeezed her eyes shut. No, no, no, no. What was she supposed to do?!


    "Hey."


    Skipper¡¯s words from that day came back to her, blasting away the fog of indecision that had been wrapping around her. His gently smiling face lit by a burning red sun, his hand extended to lift her up from the ground. Her gun pointed at this stranger.


    He hadn¡¯t even glanced at the weapon.


    "It¡¯s okay," he¡¯d said, still smiling. "You¡¯re okay. Calm down."


    Ruth opened her eyes, her heavy breathing growing steadier, calmer. It was okay. She was okay.


    If they were keeping her friends in the tower, then a frontal assault would be suicidal. Her head would be cut off by that swordsman before she got through the front gates. Sneaking in would be the only way.


    Break the big task down into manageable chunks. Right.


    So - she needed a way in, a disguise, and the location where her comrades were being held.


    A way in: if she had a good enough disguise, she could presumably just walk in, but she couldn¡¯t rely on that. Could she bribe someone to let her in? Probably not - most people liked to be bribed with money, which she didn¡¯t have.


    A disguise: it would be no trouble to beat up a guard and take his uniform, but would that be enough? Wouldn¡¯t some kind of genetic scan be required as well? Argh. This would have been no trouble for North, if he were still around.


    The location: anyone important enough to have that information would presumably be spending most of their time in the tower. So she couldn¡¯t get that information until the infiltration was already underway. But, now that she thought of it, grabbing that information would mean blowing her disguise, which would mean the infiltration failing anyway.


    Right. Failure, failure, failure. She was calmer, now, but she was still screwed. S§×arch* The N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    All this damn planning. This wasn¡¯t her role in the team: Skipper was the one who took care of it. Even Bruno and Serena could do better, given their experience. She was a fist that punched faces, and that was a role she was more than happy with.


    If she couldn¡¯t do this by herself, could she find allies? Hire local mercenaries? No, no, she just ran into the money problem again there.


    It was like she was stuck inside a maze - and every time she tried to take a path, a new wall rose up to block her way.


    The barrel of a gun settled against the back of her head. The metal was cold against her body, ruthless. She took in a sharp breath.


    Security?


    "Can I talk to you for a quick second?" asked Dragan Hadrien.


    Ruth¡¯s heart beat like a jackhammer. With her Aether, she could probably withstand even a few point-blank shots, but her body was still under the impression it was about to have its eyes melt out of its sockets. She gulped, doing her best to keep still.


    "Sure," she said, as evenly as she could. "Right here, or¡­?"


    "No," said Hadrien. There was a bit of shakiness to his voice. Was he nervous about threatening her? "Security patrols will start coming through here in four minutes or so. There¡¯s a car down this alley - we¡¯ll talk there."


    Ruth¡¯s brow furrowed. Why was he trying to avoid security? She¡¯d have thought he¡¯d be eager for them to find him.


    Still, she wouldn¡¯t argue with a nervous pistol. "Okay," she said slowly. "I¡¯ll just turn around and walk down the alley, yeah?"


    "Yeah. Yeah."


    It was a bit of an awkward maneuver - turning around in the cramped alley while keeping the gun against her head. Hadrien was determined to stay directly behind her, it seemed. She couldn¡¯t blame him; the first time they¡¯d been in such close proximity, he¡¯d earned a kick to the ribs.


    She walked, Hadrien following behind her, gun still pressed against her head. The barrel was angled upwards slightly, given the height difference between them, but the fact that the pistol wasn¡¯t aimed directly at her brain didn¡¯t make her feel any better. A lucky shot would still leave her horrifically injured.


    The car Hadrien had mentioned was a rusted-out wreck in a small parking space between three buildings. From the looks of it, there was no way it was achieving flight for more than a second. At a prod from Hadrien¡¯s weapon, Ruth clambered into the vehicle¡¯s passenger seat.


    The inside was just as bad as the outside, the instruments coated with dust and rust. Clearly nonfunctional.


    Still pointing his gun at her, Hadrien climbed into the driver¡¯s seat. Ruth¡¯s eyes followed the gun as it moved.


    "You know," she said, testing the waters a little. "A shot from that probably wouldn¡¯t do a thing to me."


    The Cogitant raised a doubting eyebrow. "Not even with Aether?"


    "Not even with Aether." She¡¯d seen what he was capable of back when they¡¯d first met - the Aether he was capable of using could barely reinforce a punch, let alone a shot she knew was coming.


    Hadrien sniffed, nodded. "Okay," he said, more to himself than her. "Thought this might be an issue - luckily, I¡¯ve come prepared." He plunged his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a script - a full-blown, chunky model he had to have scavenged from somewhere.


    "What¡¯s that?" Ruth said warily. "Have someone to call?"


    Hadrien didn¡¯t break eye contact. "It¡¯s connected to the engine of this vehicle. You do something I don¡¯t like, I can blow both of us to kingdom come."


    Ruth¡¯s blood ran cold. "Both of us? You¡¯d take yourself out too?"


    "Better than being dragged along with you for the rest of my days. Believe me, I¡¯d rather not die either. Do we understand each other?"


    Was he bluffing? It was hard to tell. If he was, he had one hell of a poker face.


    "Blaine," he repeated, voice firmer. "Do we understand each other?"


    Quietly, she nodded. "What did you want to talk about?"


    Come to think of it, why hadn¡¯t he run for the hills? Where was security? If he¡¯d just escaped, he¡¯d come after her much too quickly for him to have been brought in by the Supremacy. It didn¡¯t make sense.


    Hadrien¡¯s hand - the one holding the script - moved, and Ruth instinctively flinched, but all the Cogitant did was turn the device around so that she could see the screen. It was the front page from a local news site, an image of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s face filling the frame. The story had only just come through? It had taken a while for them to report the kidnapping.


    "It¡¯s you," she said cautiously, glancing up at him. "What about it?"


    Hadrien rolled his eyes. "The headline, Blaine."


    She read further, mouth moving silently as she read the words to herself.


    MISSING ADMINCORPS CLERK REPORTED AS DEFECTOR - GOVERNMENT OFFERS SUBSTANTIAL REWARD


    "Oh."

 Chapter 9:1.9: Terse Talks

    Muzazi¡¯s eyes scanned through the press release on his script, his mouth a thin line of displeasure.


    Dragan Hadrien, a defector? How had that occurred? It wasn¡¯t that he doubted the press release, exactly - the Supremacy personnel who had written it had no doubt worked hard - but the concept itself didn¡¯t seem to make sense to him. If the kidnapping had actually been the preplanned extraction of a spy, why had Dragan struggled so?


    He¡¯d had the will to survive - Muzazi had seen that. It wasn¡¯t something that could be faked.


    There were three kinds of people in the world, as far as Muzazi saw it - those who didn¡¯t want anything, those who wanted to survive, and those who wanted to win. The natural course of a life was to progress from apathy to survival to victory. Those who wanted to succeed succeeded. Those who yet didn¡¯t were stepping stones until they were able to wake up and start the climb themselves.


    Those who wanted to survive would fight for it. Muzazi had seen that desperate struggle before - he couldn¡¯t recall where - and so he was able to recognise it at a glance. True and honest fighting for one¡¯s continued existence.


    And yet ¡­ the Supremacy had revealed that Hadrien was a spy. Recruited by the UAP and tasked with infiltrating the AdminCorps. So Muzazi must have been mistaken. He knew that he wasn¡¯t the smartest - he¡¯d been told that more than enough times - so that was more than possible.


    And yet he was so sure. And yet he shouldn¡¯t be.


    "Officer Muzazi?" said Prescott politely, hands clasped behind his back. The light-haired man smiled genially as Muzazi turned to look at him. "Shall we go in?"


    The two of them stood outside the Neon 99, a club operated by this Hyena character. Prescott had done an investigation into the Hyena¡¯s operation in the past, so he¡¯d been able to provide Muzazi with the location. He¡¯d debated bringing an entire squad of soldiers with him, but had decided against it - he wanted information more than anything else at the moment.


    "Right," said Muzazi, nodding, pulling himself back into the present. "Yes, of course. Forgive me - I was lost in thought."


    "Of course," said Prescott - and with that, he strode through the entrance, Muzazi following after him.


    The club was empty - maybe they didn¡¯t get much business at this time in the afternoon. Music still blared from half-a-dozen speakers, though, each high note making Muzazi wince involuntarily. Strobing patterns ran across the walls and floor, huge designs of extravagant cars and scantily clad women. It was as if the building itself was dedicated to the ideal of sensory overload.


    Prescott seemed to know where he was going, walking through the venue with purpose, so Muzazi simply followed after him. They passed through the empty entrance into a bigger chamber, a circular room designed around a silver statue of a peculiar-looking wolf in the centre. It¡¯s face was locked into a furious snarl as lights danced around its body.


    "Grotesque," muttered Muzazi.


    "You think so?"


    Muzazi looked up. The speaker, sprawled over a couch in a corner of the room, was a man that Muzazi recognised from his photograph: the Hyena.


    His pitch-black eyes regarded Muzazi, the bright-green pupils at their centres lazily drifting over his face.


    "You don¡¯t like my statue?" the Hyena continued. "Don¡¯t care for it? It doesn¡¯t catch your fancy?"


    His voice had that peculiar quality unique to Umbrants, as though two people were speaking just slightly out of sync with each other. Umbrants could change their voices, of course, but this was what they always defaulted to.


    Muzazi looked the statue over again. If he was going to properly discuss it, he needed to fully take it in.


    He cupped his hand with a chin. "It seems off-model, for a wolf. The proportions are incorrect."


    "A wolf?" the Hyena snickered, a harsh sound like cracking wood. "That¡¯s a Hyena, friend. Home beastie. Never seen one before? Never laid your eyes upon one of these boys?"


    "I never have," said Muzazi truthfully. "If that¡¯s the case, I can¡¯t comment on its quality. Forgive me."


    The Hyena gave him a strange look. Prescott spoke up from his position behind Muzazi: "This is Special Officer Atoy Muzazi, sir. He¡¯s investigating the Dragan Hadrien situation."


    Muzazi nodded. Prescott had done right to speak up, and his manners had been impeccable. Even when speaking to a criminal, one should be respectful.


    "Situation, eh?" the Hyena purred. "That¡¯s a good word for it. Bland boy kind of word. I like it, I like it."


    "Early this morning," interrupted Muzazi, raising his voice. "Security forces were called to a hangar on the outskirts of Breck Kor. When they arrived, they found signs of armed conflict between your employees and the group that kidnapped Dragan Hadrien. The corpse of a Pugnant that worked for you was recovered from the scene, along with the leader of the kidnappers. I want to know what your men were doing there."


    The Hyena raised his eyebrows. "My employees, associates, compatriots? What makes you think these tragic gentlemen worked for me? I am a businessman, Mr. Muzazi. An entrepreneur. I mean no disrespect to my employees - they are loved, adored - but I have great trouble, great difficulty seeing them fighting anything worse than a pile of paperwork. They are office boys, you see."


    So the man was intent on playing dumb. Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "It¡¯s common knowledge that this Guimo character worked for you."


    "Common knowledge? Gossip of the common folk? Show me on my employee database where this Mr. Guimo is described, if you please."


    Muzazi nodded. That was simple enough. "Prescott," he said, turning to his companion. "He would like to see where Guimo is described on his employee database."


    Prescott glanced away uncomfortably, finger tapping the screen of his script. "He, ah, isn¡¯t, sir. Unfortunately."


    Damn. It was very fortunate for the Hyena that that was the case, or else the situation would have been embarrassing for him.


    "If there¡¯s nothing else, friend," said the Hyena, leaning forward, a nasty grin on his face. "Could you please leave my place of business, my abode of commerce? Customers usually start arriving around this time."


    Prescott smiled sympathetically. "We¡¯ll just have to do a little more outside investigation, sir. Sometimes it turns out that -"


    Muzazi stepped forward and - in less than a second - was upon the Hyena, holding him up by the collar, Luminescence¡¯s sharp edge resting delicately against his stomach. The man choked out a protest, green pupils dilated to tiny dots of terror.


    Moving quickly was easy for Atoy Muzazi. Aether enhancement on its own did a fine job of boosting an individual¡¯s speed, but his own unique application of it helped out even more.


    Over many months of training, Muzazi had developed the ability to focus his Aether into a single point and blast it out as a propulsive force, much like the thrusters of a spaceship. So long as he knew the direction he was going and there was nothing in the way, he could be devastatingly fast.


    Plus, there were other tricks he could pull off - but it seemed they weren¡¯t needed today.


    "Mr. Muzazi!" cried out Prescott.


    "Please contact security, Prescott," replied Muzazi. "I¡¯m going to require a prisoner transport."


    His hand flew out in a blur of movement, thumping the Hyena in the head mid-snarl. The crime lord¡¯s head lolled to the side, tongue sticking out, his expression now the very picture of unconsciousness.


    Muzazi dropped the man to the floor. Simple solutions were always the best.


    -


    Lord Mayor Rikhail ran a nervous hand through his hair as the report came in. If it wasn¡¯t coming from his own flesh and blood, he would hardly have believed it.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The Hyena was the reason he¡¯d been able to rise to his current position, the one who had kept the daggers out of his back. He owed the man many debts many times over, and there was no way he would be allowed to forget it. Hell, the Hyena owned him.


    And this Special Officer sent by the Minister had assaulted him in his own establishment, disgraced him, brought him in. An unforgivable insult - and one that would be attributed to Rikhail.


    He groaned at his desk, face in his hands. His office, looking out over the great city of Breck Kor, was probably the most expensive room on the planet, but right now it felt like a dingy prison cell.


    What could he do? Apologize?


    No, the Hyena did not forgive. Normally, Rikhail could just offer the offending personnel up on a platter, but arranging the execution of a Special Officer was something far beyond his capabilities.


    Could he ¡­ could he perhaps have the Hyena killed? Arrange for an officer to strangle him in his sleep, or for a malfunction of the interrogation equipment?


    No, no, no. Rikhail had no doubts that the Hyena had a system set up to ruin him should the crime lord mysteriously pass away.


    He was done, then, either way. Either the Hyena would reveal what he knew of Rikhail¡¯s crimes, and the Supremacy would kill him, or he¡¯d stay quiet to do the deed himself later.


    Damn it. Damn it.


    He slammed a fist down into his desk, the heavy sound of the impact echoing throughout the room. It seemed hopeless, he knew, but he couldn¡¯t give up. He wasn¡¯t dead until the moment he stopped thinking.


    A Lord Mayor could certainly be brought down by the testimony of a crime lord, but what about a Minister? Goley had managed to suppress information regarding Hadrien¡¯s kidnapping for a good amount of time. It would be no difficulty for him to suppress leaks from someone like the Hyena.


    If he could just ¡­ if he could just take that position, he could live. He could prosper.


    First, he needed to take the prerequisite steps.


    He tapped a button on his script, and a holographic voice display flickered into existence over his desk. With the flick of a finger, he set it to contact the tower¡¯s prison wing.


    "Sir?" came the tinny voice of the prison master.


    "The dissident," Rikhail growled. "The one Atoy Muzazi brought in. Bring him to me."


    -


    Ruth furrowed her brow once again as she looked at the news article. This whole idea of Hadrien being a defector didn¡¯t make any sense at all. Anyone who¡¯d seen her kicking him around the room could attest to that.


    Someone had an angle with this, obviously, but she couldn¡¯t figure out who they were or what the angle was. S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She glanced over the table to Hadrien, who was sat there scrolling away on a bulky, last-gen script he¡¯d managed to pickpocket. He was going through all the information on his arrest warrant, probably asking himself the same questions she was.


    They were sat in an abandoned apartment in one of the more run-down areas of the district, a tiny wood-rotted abode consisting of a kitchen and a bedroom, which could only be considered separate rooms if you were very generous and very desperate.


    "You sure you want to do this?" she said after a moment, interrupting the silence.


    He glanced up at her. "Do what?"


    "Work together on this. I don¡¯t know if you remember, but I kinda beat the shit out of you a day or two ago."


    Hadrien scowled. "Oh, no, sorry, I forgot."


    "Really?"


    "No!" he snapped. "Not really!"


    "So you don¡¯t want to work together, then?"


    Hadrien put down the script and looked at her. "Listen," he said. "For some reason, every person on this planet who appreciates the value of money wants to see me shot. You and your buddies are the only people I know of who won¡¯t turn me in - mostly because you¡¯ll get shot too. I help you bust your friends out, you get me off this planet with my brain stem intact. Is that really so hard to understand?"


    "Fine," muttered Ruth, pouting as she leaned back in her seat. "Don¡¯t gotta be an asshole about it¡­"


    -


    Dragan sighed. Of all the people he could be stuck with, it had to be Ruth Blaine, who clearly had the mental capacity of algae and the nerve of an exploding sun.


    "I¡¯m not being an asshole," he said. "You were being an asshole when you hunted me down, kicked me in the ribs and dragged me down to this hellhole!"


    Blaine looked away. "That¡¯s not fair; you don¡¯t even know why we were doing it."


    "Okay. Why were you doing it?"


    Blaine looked further away. "Um ¡­ Skipper knows."


    Dragan buried his face in his arms, screaming a muffled scream of frustration. "Oh my fucking god." He was putting his fate in the hands of this person? He was supposed to break into a secure military installation with only this idiot to help him?


    "What?" said Blaine, having the audacity to be offended. "It¡¯s called delegation! Need to know basis! All the militaries do that!"


    "You¡¯re not a military, Blaine," said Dragan, his voice still muffled. "You¡¯re three idiots in a spaceship."


    "Four!"


    He gave her a desperate look. "Please don¡¯t group me in with you. I¡¯m actually begging."


    Blaine glared at him, an expression that was growing quickly and unfortunately familiar. She crossed her arms. "Okay, then. If you¡¯re so smart, then, how are we supposed to bust into this tower? Like you keep whining about, it¡¯s got like a million guards."


    "I¡¯m not whining," explained Dragan calmly, his patience saintlike. "I¡¯m just being realistic."


    "Answer the question, then. Realistically."


    "Fine." Dragan leaned forward and brushed the mountains of dust off the table between them. Then, with a finger, he drew a long, tall cylinder using the detritus still remaining.


    Blaine cocked her head. "What¡¯s that supposed to be?"


    "It¡¯s the tower."


    "It looks like shit."


    "No, it looks good. Anyway, it¡¯s just an example. It seems to me that in order to break your guys out of the tower, step one is getting into the tower."


    "Ooh, how realistic of you."


    He shot her a glare. "To get into the tower, we¡¯re going to need disguises. The all-over kind of armour the security officers wear, ideally."


    Blaine nodded. "I can see how that¡¯d work for me - I¡¯m kinda average size. But you¡¯re, like ¡­ the size of a bean, to be honest. Won¡¯t it be obvious who you are underneath the armour?"


    "I¡¯m not short," said Dragan, looking away. "Besides, I¡¯m sure there are loads of short security officers. I¡¯ll blend in easy."


    Blaine considered the plan for a moment, hand to her chin, nodding sagely as if any kind of thought was going on in that void she called a brain. "If we beat up some officers and take their stuff, won¡¯t they know to watch out for us? They keep track of each officer¡¯s equipment pretty heavily, too. How are we supposed to get around that? Are you going to hack them or something?"


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Why would I hack them?"


    "Well, you¡¯re a Cogitant. Aren¡¯t you supposed to be smart?"


    He rolled his eyes. This was the kind of stereotyping he expected from a backwater rebel. "I am smart. That doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯ve taken a computer hacking course. You don¡¯t suddenly become good with computers once you reach a certain level of intelligence."


    "So you can¡¯t do it."


    "I could do it if I wanted to. I just don¡¯t want to."


    Blaine was giving him a distinctly pitying look, which if anything only made him more annoyed. Every second he was forced to be in her company he regretted the decision to join up with her. He¡¯d be running for it the first good chance he got, to be sure.


    "In regards to the disguises," he said slowly, considering things. "We¡¯ll just have to take the risk that they¡¯ll be on high alert. So long as we¡¯re careful ourselves, we should still be able to sneak in. Then we break your friends out, steal a Supremacy ship from one of the hangars, and get blasted out of the sky on the way out."


    "That, uh, that last part of the plan ¡­ I don¡¯t like it. Can we change that?"


    Dragan waved a hand. "We¡¯ll think of something when it comes to that," he said, very deliberately not mentioning the insane plan already brewing inside his Archive.


    "I feel like we should come up with something now."


    He shot her a serious look. "We could. We could sit around here and talk about it, yeah, but while we do that your friends are in the Heart Building, having god knows what done to them. How long do you think it¡¯ll take before security decides to jump straight to execution? Not very long at all, I would think. This is time-sensitive."


    Blaine paled. Clearly, loyalty to her comrades was something that drove her. Dragan would have to remember that - it could be useful.


    ¡¯We find some officers," she said quietly, staring down at the table, more to herself than him. "We take their stuff. We sneak in. We bust them out. We leave."


    "Right." Dragan nodded.


    "It¡¯s easy. We can do that.¡¯


    "We can." All he had to do was validate her confidence. She wanted to believe she could do it, so she¡¯d accept his confirmation. People were easy like that.


    Well, he certainly hoped they were. He¡¯d already figured out the last stage of his plan, and he¡¯d need to keep his wits about him to pull it off.


    In order to get out of the system intact, they¡¯d need a hostage. Someone important, who the government absolutely wouldn¡¯t want to lose - and Dragan had his eye on a candidate. The man who¡¯d apparently ordered this manhunt for him.


    Lord Mayor Rikhail.


    Dragan smiled silently to himself. He was nothing if not vindictive.

 Chapter 10:1.10: The Leap

    Life was like a game, Dragan reflected, but the game was different for every player.


    For your average person, the game was heavily railroaded - go here, do this, go home, sleep, do it again. It was the kind of game you wouldn¡¯t willingly play unless you had a masochistic streak. In short, it was shit.


    For someone like Ruth Blaine, it was probably an action title - one of the ones where you just tap one button again and again to win. No skill or intelligence required, just cheap validation for the lowest common denominator. Oh, you beat up one-hundred guys! Here¡¯s a suit of armour you can use to kick innocent young clerks in the ribs! Something like that.


    Dragan had always thought his life was like an in-depth strategy game, where you had to move your pieces around with exacting accuracy in order to achieve victory. The kind of game where boldness and intellect would see you right every time, where a simple set of steps could be followed to achieve unambiguous victory.


    Clearly he¡¯d been wrong.


    In reality, his life was a shitty low-budget title designed by some gremlin in a basement somewhere to piss off the player as much as possible. It was the kind of game where, no matter how well you played, more and more infuriating nonsense would be pelted at you until you were forced into the equally humiliating path said gremlin had laid out for you. The gremlin in this case was God, and Dragan was sure the divine tormentor was having a good laugh at his expense.


    These were the kinds of thoughts that went through his mind as he leaned against a street corner, staring at the black screen of his script, pretending to be busy. He had to be careful of this kind of pointless thought; it was anathema to a Cogitant. For his kind, rogue trains of thought more often than not lead to dangerous places. He¡¯d once heard stories about a Cogitant girl who¡¯d been locked in her bedroom with nothing to distract her for a week - when they got her out, she¡¯d believed her bedside lamp was alive and trying to kill her.


    A little bit of fruitless self-pity wasn¡¯t quite that bad, but it was still a dangerous habit to get into.


    Dragan glanced up from his script. The corner he stood on was in one of Breck Kor¡¯s shopping districts, more middle-class than slum. It was the kind of place that bred moral outrage quite easily, so security wouldn¡¯t just shoot him in the head here - they¡¯d drag him out of sight first.


    Still, it made being bait a much less dangerous occupation.


    Two security officers, marching down the promenade, took the bait. One of them hesitated for a second.


    Is that him? Did I see that right? Dragan¡¯s Cogitant capabilities weren¡¯t on the level of people like Special Officer Kojirough, but he still felt like he could reason out the officer¡¯s thoughts fairly easily.


    Barely suppressing a smirk, Dragan looked up at his surroundings again, subtly angling his face so that the officers could get a better look at it.


    He watched the way the officer stiffened, nudged his partner. The body language was unmistakable. He¡¯d got them.


    As though suddenly realizing the officers were there, Dragan widened his eyes, turned on his heel and ran for it, pushing through the crowd. Not too quickly for them to follow him, but fast enough - clumsy enough - to make a good show of panic.


    Still, he couldn¡¯t help but feel anxious as he charged through the maze of streets, ignoring the shouts of the officers behind him. If any unforeseen circumstances came up and slowed him down, he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d be able to do much against two trained guards. They¡¯d probably be child¡¯s play for Blaine, but Dragan had never been very fond of fighting; it was tiring, and it hurt when you got hit.


    Left, right, left, alley. The directions hung as a constant process in the back of Dragan¡¯s mind, conjured up by his Archive. The parts of his mind that weren¡¯t focusing on running instead rummaged around in his memories, plucking forth half-remembered Crestpoole methods of escaping from danger. Most of them involved striking your attacker in the groin.


    Dragan turned the corner and a dull despair settled in his stomach.


    The road was blocked. Some kind of car accident - a collision - had occurred since he¡¯d scouted out the area with Blaine. The middle of the street was full to bursting with the two vehicles, the arguing drivers, the people who¡¯d run in to help, and the disgustingly large mass of people content to watch. Maneuvering his way through that chaos would slow Dragan down to an unacceptable degree.


    Could he turn around and go another route? No - given the distance he¡¯d maintained between himself and the officers, they¡¯d be upon him any second.


    Panic quickly spread through his mind, like a wildfire suddenly emerging to consume his Archive. Intricately decorated bookshelves he¡¯d spent idle hours imagining burst into flame. Titanium chairs and tables melted into bubbling puddles. There was no way out.


    Was there?


    An idea occurred. An idea that was foolish to the extreme, sure, but perhaps the best way to get him out of this. A way to rise above this situation, so to speak.


    He¡¯d seen Blaine jump down half a hallway with ease, so a simple leap like this was definitely possible. Whether it was probable was another story entirely. S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Oh well. Only one way to find out.


    Dragan took a step back - the only retreat he¡¯d allow himself - then charged forward at the blockage, mouth squeezed shut in an expression of utmost concentration. He tapped into that energy, his Aether, and weak blue lines of the stuff began to coil around his legs like constricting snakes. There was a sensation, too, a peculiar warmth that enveloped the limbs, like there was fire inside his bones.


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    Jump, jump, jump! Dragan mentally screamed at himself, trying to overcome the common sense that correctly told him that this was a terrible idea.


    He¡¯d smash right into the cars. He¡¯d land in the middle of the crowd and be stuck. He¡¯d be too slow and be grabbed by security.


    He knew all these things were true without a doubt.


    And yet, instead of all that, he jumped - and he flew.


    As his powerful kick against the ground sent him soaring up, over the commotion, Dragan¡¯s face of concentration was instantly replaced with one of open-mouthed wonder. One meter, two meters, three meters, four ¡­ for a horrible, wonderful second, Dragan thought he might just keep going up, rising into the sky until he left the planet entirely.


    Then, of course, he reached the height of his jump and began falling just as he passed over the car accident.


    The crowd that was now watching him gasped in shock and horror. The ground was quickly approaching, the grey concrete looking particularly merciless. Well, he¡¯d expected this. All he had to do was channel that Aether into his side and land right¡­


    ¡­ he landed wrong.


    Misjudging his trajectory, Dragan crashed down to the ground on the side of his body that had absolutely no protection. There was a sickening hollow crunch from his left arm. Broken - shattered.


    Dragan bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming out. He wouldn¡¯t give them the satisfaction. He didn¡¯t know exactly who ¡¯they¡¯ were in this scenario, but they still weren¡¯t getting the satisfaction.


    He had no time to stop. He had no time to stop. Shaking off the hands of the well-meaning onlookers trying to keep him still until an ambulance arrived, Dragan charged onwards. He cradled his broken arm, the limb wobbling awkwardly with each and every step he took, each movement transmitting explosions of pain to his brain.


    He couldn¡¯t stop. He was almost there; he could hear the officers behind him. Hear them gaining on him.


    With a half-grunt, half-squeal of exertion, Dragan forced himself to turn and run into the alleyway over to the left. It was a small gap between two clothes shops, the air slightly opaque from the gathering of fumes from each property.


    Just as relief finally started coming back to Dragan, it was driven away. As if slow-motion, he felt his foot catch on something unseen, some uneven floor tile or discarded can. His body lurched forward, his already unbalanced running stance thrown into chaos by the unexpected obstacle.


    He was going to trip. No, scratch that - he was tripping.


    Dragan landed on his broken arm, full-force. This time, he screamed - a feral howl of pain and anger that sounded more like a wild animal than a person. At the same time, he pounded his good fist against the concrete in frustration. Tiny blue sparks coated it as he brought it down, and when it came back up there were cracks in the ground.


    "Right, get him up," came the voice of one of the officers behind him, voice modulated by their helmet. "Confirm his face."


    There was the sound of a foot brushing against the ground. Hesitance - caution.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" said the officer.


    The second one spoke up: "I ain¡¯t touching him. You see him clear that car? That¡¯s Aether. I don¡¯t mess around with Aether."


    "Ugh," said the first, voice coming closer. "Y-shamed."


    Rough hands seized Dragan by the back and pulled him up, turning him around. Wincing, he found himself staring into the expressionless goggles of a Supremacy helmet, the officer looking him over.


    "It¡¯s him!" said the officer, a sliver of excitement audible even through the voice modulation. "Call it in -"


    The moment those words left his mouth, Ruth Blaine dropped down from the roof of the neighbouring building into the alleyway, red Aether already raging around her body. She landed on all fours between the two guards, already clad in her Skeletal Set, her claws digging into the concrete as a rattling breath escaped her lungs.


    The officer behind her yelped, pulling up his rifle, but it was too late. A backwards kick from Blaine - she didn¡¯t even look at the poor guy - sent him flying backwards, cracks already visible in his chest plate as he slid across the ground.


    Dragan winced. Idiot. How are we supposed to use these disguises if you smash them to pieces?


    The other guard came in with his stun baton, swinging it with such force that it probably could have broken a skull. Dragan didn¡¯t find out for sure, though, as Blaine ducked, dodging the weapon long before it even came close.


    This gap between the two buildings was thin, not ideal for fighting in the least, but Ruth Blaine seemed to be a resourceful girl. She jumped to the side, kicking off the wall with such force that it sent her flying right over the guard into his blind spot. As she flew, she turned over in mid-air, grabbing the officer by the helmet - and then, with a roar of exertion, she flipped him, slamming him into the ground like a mallet as she landed.


    Dragan couldn¡¯t help but be impressed. He really wished he could help it, because he was actually about to blow a gasket.


    "How exactly," he said, gingerly picking himself up from the ground. "Is this armour going to fool anyone once you¡¯ve gone and smashed it all up?"


    Blaine looked at him, her Skeletal Set already decomposing into red Aether. Frowning, she glanced down at the way he was holding his arm. "They get you?"


    "Yeah," Dragan lied.


    She spat on the back of the nearest officer. "Bastards."


    "Can you answer the question, please? How¡¯re we going to sneak into the Heart Building now?"


    Blaine turned the unconscious body of the nearest officer onto his back with her foot. "It¡¯s not that busted. We can put something over the cracks and paint it the same colour."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "You think that¡¯ll stand up to close inspection?"


    "Well, we don¡¯t want close inspection anyway, right? We¡¯d be screwed already if it came to that."


    He sighed, running his face over his hands. His mind was already coming up with the right shade of paint, the best materials to cover the damage, the ways they could use this situation to improve the plan. It was infuriating, but his brain seemed intent on proving Blaine right.


    "Right," he said after a minute or two. "Grab them - we¡¯ll keep them in the safehouse while we¡¯re doing this."


    Blaine grinned. "So we¡¯re doing it now, then?"


    He glanced at her expectant expression. It seemed like he¡¯d ended up in charge of this operation somewhere along the way. Well, that suited him just fine.


    He didn¡¯t want to disappoint, then.


    "Yeah," he said, not letting a sliver of his nervousness taint his voice. "We¡¯re doing it now."

 Chapter 11:1.11: Infiltration and Interrogation

    Dragan did his best not to give himself away as he marched towards the main gates of the Heart Building, Ruth Blaine by his side.


    Both of them were clad in the armour they¡¯d stolen hours earlier, signs of damage covered up as much as possible. It was strange viewing the world through one of these visors: there was a very slightly red tint to everything, and a display in the corner was constantly scrolling through a list of his vitals. Most of those read ¡¯NULL¡¯, presumably because of the damage to the suit. Either that or Dragan¡¯s heart had stopped beating at some point in the last few hours. The way his week was going he wouldn¡¯t be surprised.


    Dragan winced as he moved, his broken arm bumping against the inside of his suit. He¡¯d bundled it up as much as he could, and they¡¯d stolen some medicine to numb the pain, but a broken arm was a broken arm. Hopefully they could make it through the infiltration before the pain became overwhelming.


    He glanced up at the Heart Building itself. It really was absurdly huge, the shadow it cast covering a good portion of the city all by itself. He wasn¡¯t sure just how many floors the behemoth had, but it was probably in the high triple-digits.


    It was the kind of building that made a statement: I am compensating for something.


    He¡¯d looked up the mayor of Breck Kor, Johnston Rikhail, when he had a spare moment. The fact that he¡¯d had a wanted order put out for Dragan at the same time as the Hyena sent men after him suggested there was some kind of corruption going on there, but he wasn¡¯t sure of the exact relationship. Did the Hyena work for Rikhail, or was it the other way around?


    Dragan needed to make sure he had all his cards straight before he could start playing.


    He folded up his research of Johnston Rikhail and carefully filed it away in his Archive, just under his memories about plants. He¡¯d come back to it when he got a spare moment.


    "You sure this¡¯ll work?" came Blaine¡¯s voice, crackly. With some messing around, Dragan had managed to set up a private communication channel between their two helmets. He wasn¡¯t sure just how secure that was, though, and he was loath to test it.


    "Sure thing," he said, deepening his voice a little just in case anyone was listening in. "Just act normal, it¡¯s fine."


    Don¡¯t say anything too specific, he told himself. If anyone is listening in, give them some reasonable doubt.


    They marched through the huge courtyard at the front of the Heart Building, doing their best to stay in line with the other patrols that were coming to and fro. Dragan had gone through some basic training before getting himself reassigned to AdminCorps, so he was familiar with the etiquette, but Blaine was the one he was worried about.


    Her stroll was too casual, her arms swinging too much. "You¡¯re meant to be a soldier!" he wanted to scream. "You¡¯re not heading out for a picnic!" In reality, of course, he just breathed a little louder, as if Blaine could understand his frustration just from that.


    But still - surely someone would notice. Dragan glanced anxiously from person to person as they drew closer to the gates. Luckily, everyone seemed to be focused on keeping themselves in line before stopping to look at anyone else.


    "You¡¯re all tense," hissed Blaine over the radio. "Loosen up, or they might figure us out."


    Oh, he could kill her. He really could. Sear?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He grunted noncommittally.


    "Huh?" she said.


    "I said ¡¯okay¡¯."


    "No you didn¡¯t," she said. "You just made a noise."


    "Yeah," he snapped, already getting offended on behalf of his own lie. "And the noise I made was me saying ¡¯okay¡¯."


    A heavy sigh blared over the radio, and Dragan rolled his eyes. These people really were like children. Here they were, approaching the very center of Breck Kor¡¯s security presence, and Blaine was trying to drag him into fruitless conversation.


    Now that he thought about it, he really was quite close to the Heart Building¡¯s gates. They really were huge, giant constructs of steel that were obviously there more for the visual effect than any practical purpose. Indeed, the majority of the personnel coming and going were using sets of smaller doors on either sides of the main gate. But, still, it was intimidating.


    Very, very intimidating.


    It was strange, but the plan had seemed much more sane when he was miles away plotting in an empty apartment. Now that he was actually here, images of himself filled with plasmafire kept rising to the surface. Maybe he secretly had a great deal of self-loathing, and this whole plan was just his subconscious¡¯ way of getting him killed?


    He thought about it. No, he definitely didn¡¯t hate himself, even if he was lazy, petty and stupid, so that wasn¡¯t it.


    Maybe he¡¯d just come up with a bad plan. That was much more plausible. The mystery was solved, so now they could just turn around and head home.


    A moment passed. He kept walking.


    Dragan glanced at his traitorous feet. Now they could just turn around and head home.


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    Not a change. His body seemed devoted to the plan, even as his mind panicked. He was in it for the long haul, then.


    Dragan sighed, his heavy sigh distorting the communications channel, and entered the Heart Building.


    -


    It was really hard to hear with a bag over your head. Well, come to think of it, it would be hard to hear with anything over your head, but bags were especially bad about it. With things like buckets, there was a pretty big gap at the bottom through which the sound could sneak in, so they weren¡¯t so bad. The less of your head was covered, the easier it was to hear, generally - but then again, things like earmuffs only covered the ears, and they were very good at what they did. But then again they were specialized for that, so wouldn¡¯t they be an exception to the rule?


    Skipper strained his hearing, and -


    "Is he awake?" said a nearby voice, male. "I don¡¯t have all day here."


    The voice was nervous, but nervous in an angry way. This was a man in deep trouble. Well, Skipper could relate; he had a bag over his head, which wasn¡¯t an enviable situation either. Plus he was missing an arm. He could still feel it, but he was fairly certain it hadn¡¯t been there the last time he¡¯d checked.


    "He is, sir," said a second voice - a cold, professional one Skipper recognised. It was the devil who had put this unholy bag over his head. "The instruments confirm it."


    A moment of silence passed. Skipper idly wondered what Ruth was up to - from counting the seconds, he knew that many hours had passed since he¡¯d first been brought in. There¡¯d been no sign of them bringing in any of his crewmates since then, so they were either still on the run or ¡­


    ¡­ no, not even to be contemplated.


    The cold voice continued on as footsteps approached him: "I¡¯d recommend against approaching him, Lord Mayor."


    A third voice - the Special Officer who¡¯d brought him in - chipped in. "I would agree with some modicum of caution, Mr. Rikhail. He¡¯s a dangerous individual."


    The footsteps stopped in front of him. "If he¡¯s a danger, Crossland," he said. "It would be because your equipment isn¡¯t working."


    A hand lashed out and pulled the bag off of Skipper¡¯s head, leaving him blinking blearily as his eyes adjusted to the light.


    He was in a dim interrogation room, a surprisingly roomy circular space with two levels - an elevated section behind a set of rails, and the lower section in the center of the room, where Skipper was bound against a block of steel. Faint steam flowed into the room from vents in the floor. The heat was clearly meant to make him feel uncomfortable.


    In front of Skipper stood the Lord Mayor of the city, Johnston Rikhail. Skipper raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had seen pictures, of course, but that hadn¡¯t quite prepared him for just how red the politician was. A lifetime of stress and indulgence would do that to a guy, he supposed.


    A short distance behind him was a guy Skipper didn¡¯t recognize - tall, with a thin moustache. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of red goggles. His interrogator, maybe? He certainly had the look for it.


    The swordsman Special Officer was further back still, near the back of the room on the elevated section. Next to him was another person Skipper didn¡¯t recognize - a sandy-haired young man with a constant slight smile on his lips. A liar¡¯s smile - Skipper recognised it immediately.


    He glanced back towards Rikhail. "Howdy there."


    The Lord Mayor whipped his arm out, striking Skipper across the face with the back of his hand. Dull pain throbbed in Skipper¡¯s cheek as his view was snapped to the side.


    "Where¡¯s Hadrien?" Rikhail spat.


    So his Aether wasn¡¯t working, then - otherwise Rikhail would have been more likely to break his wrist with that strike rather than inflict any real pain. They must have dosed him with something while he was unconscious, something to mess with his thought process enough to prevent him from accessing his Aether. The same substance they used in Neverwire, if he had to guess. He couldn¡¯t even try a ping to assess just how screwed he was.


    Skipper grinned. "Where¡¯s Hadrien? You didn¡¯t get him, then? Nice, nice. That was an arm well-spent, at least."


    "Answer the Lord Mayor¡¯s question," the interrogator barked. "Or I will not be as gentle."


    Skipper grinned wider. "No clue!"


    Rikhail brought his hand back for another strike, but hesitated. A moment later, he dropped his arm to his side. A strange smirk played across his lips.


    "No, you don¡¯t know, do you?" he said. "You haven¡¯t a clue. How sad. Shall I tell you something interesting?"


    Skipper narrowed his eyes. "Go for it."


    Rikhail stepped back, a smugly satisfied expression on his face. "You see, I have a very versatile information network. Very versatile. Probably one of the best out there, I¡¯d say, if we ignore the GID and Darkstar."


    "That¡¯s a lot of qualifications, but sure," said Skipper, straining to perform a one-armed shrug.


    "I¡¯ve shown your face around and I¡¯ve been told something interesting," the Lord Mayor purred. "Apparently, if I get into contact with Contender Avaman and let him know you¡¯re here, he¡¯ll come running. Isn¡¯t that interesting?"


    Shit.


    Skipper jerked at his restraints in sudden feral desperation, as if he could rip Rikhail¡¯s tongue out of his mouth before it could say any more dangerous words. The interrogator took a step backwards from his boss, mouth open. Even the Special Officer turned pale.


    "Sir," said the interrogator, stepping between Rikhail and Skipper. "Lord Mayor, I think we should - ah, let¡¯s be reasonable. This is a minor matter, very minor, there isn¡¯t any need to get the Contenders involved, they are very busy people, you understand? Well, I¡¯m sure you do, but -"


    "From what I¡¯m told," said Rikhail lightly, hands clasped behind his back. "Avaman the Announcer would only be too happy to receive this information. He may even find the time to come here personally."


    The man was speaking about a Contender like it was a dog that would come when he called. He clearly hadn¡¯t seen the number of bodies they left behind.


    The Special Officer spoke up. "I must agree with Mr. Crossland on this matter. The Contenders¡¯ place is by the Supreme¡¯s side. It would be highly inappropriate for us to distract them from their purpose."


    Rikhail clicked his tongue angrily - it seemed he was more intimidated by the Special Officer than this Crossland guy. It was the anger of a coward, though: he would never act on it.


    "Well," he said. "Contacting Avaman won¡¯t be necessary, of course, if our friend here just speaks his mind."


    Skipper gritted his teeth. The path to what he¡¯d been dreaming of for years was finally coming into view. He couldn¡¯t afford to be caught now, especially not by a Contender. Not by Avaman.


    "Well?" grinned Rikhail, cocking his head. "Do you have something to say to me?"


    He closed his eyes.


    Sorry, kid.


    "Fine," he muttered. "I¡¯ll tell you where he is."

 Chapter 12:1.12: Priority Prisoner

    Dragan resisted the urge to fidget.


    Riding an elevator was awkward at the best of times, let alone when almost all the other occupants had orders to shoot you on sight. If worst came to worst, Blaine could probably take the advantage in such a confined space, but Dragan wasn¡¯t confident he¡¯d be able to get out of the way fast enough to avoid being hit himself. Maybe he could, maybe things would turn out well - but sadly, he saw further kickings of ribs in his future.


    "Prison levels are in the middle of the tower," he muttered over the comms, more for his benefit than Blaine¡¯s. "We¡¯ll arrive in twenty seconds or so. We¡¯ll have to walk out of the elevator without looking around at all, so that it looks like we know where we¡¯re going. Just keep walking until we¡¯re out of sight, then we can get our bearings."


    "What?" said Blaine. "Sorry, I was kinda spacing out."


    Maybe being shot on sight wasn¡¯t such a bad idea after all.


    The doors opened with a friendly ding, and Dragan strode forward - not too quickly, he didn¡¯t want to look anxious. He didn¡¯t dare look around, so he could only trust that Blaine was following after him. Oh Y, please let Blaine be following after him.


    The sound of bootsteps came after him, multiple sets. Three people. One set of bootsteps matched Blaine¡¯s weight, but the other two were unfamiliar. They marched with purpose. An actual patrol.


    Dragan could have screamed, but that would have been driving a nail into his own coffin. Maybe if he just acted casual, he could get away with -


    "Hey, bud," came a modulated male voice from behind him. "Hold up a sec."


    Welp, Dragan thought. I¡¯m dead.


    Dragan turned, bracing himself for the plasma fire to the chest that he knew was coming. Would it melt right through the chest plate, or did he have a chance to survive? Only one way to find out, he supposed.


    The other guard, the one who had spoken, looked at him and Blaine, cocking his head. His partner stood behind him. They both held rifles, not yet aiming, but the promise was there.


    He suddenly became aware of just how loud his own heartbeat was, like an earthquake in his ears.


    "You guys lost or something?" the guard said with surprising friendliness.


    Dragan opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out - only a quiet cracking sound, which the microphone luckily didn¡¯t pick up.


    Blaine answered instead: "Haha, yeah," she said, shrugging. "That obvious?"


    "You¡¯re like two lost puppies," the guard chuckled. "Felt sorry for ya. Just get reassigned?"


    Dragan nodded mutely.


    "Nice, nice. Well, it¡¯s an easy gig if you play your cards right. Mostly just walking the halls, you know?"


    "That¡¯s - that¡¯s what I like to hear!" Dragan yelled.


    He could have shot himself. The reply had come out of his mouth way too loud, way too nervous. His voice had even cracked in the middle. He sounded like two kids in a trench coat rather than a trained soldier of the Supremacy.


    The guard¡¯s partner laughed. "Hey, this guy gets it! Where you guys headed? We can probably shoot you -"


    Dragan winced.


    "-some directions," the partner concluded.


    Blaine straightened up. Even with her idiocy, she clearly had more experience with this kind of thing than Dragan. She spoke: "Our briefing said something about a priority prisoner - we¡¯re meant to be handling a transfer."


    "Ah," the guard nodded sagely. "Yeah, yeah, I heard about that. It¡¯s supposed to be a big deal. The guy¡¯s on P62, one of the red-level containment cells."


    "P62," said Dragan quietly. "Yeah, I knew it was something like that."


    "Right?" said Blaine, hands on her hips. "And you thought we were lost, Dr¡­"


    Dragan¡¯s eyes widened so much he thought for a second that they would just spill out of his sockets. She wouldn¡¯t. Surely she wouldn¡¯t say his name. She wasn¡¯t that stupid. Nobody in the world could be that stupid.


    "...Drobo," Blaine finished, doing the verbal equivalent of a high-speed drift. "You¡¯re such a worrier."


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    He glanced at the guards. There was no way they would fall for such an obviously fake name.


    They were walking away, one giving a thumbs-up over their shoulder. "You work hard now, Drobo! Don¡¯t go causing trouble for your friend!" he laughed.


    Dragan blinked. At some point in the last few hours, he had clearly slipped into a portal and entered Nightmare World. There was no way these events were actually happening.


    "See?" said Blaine over the comms, her voice unbearably self-satisfied. "P-62. Easy-peasy."


    -


    Skipper glared at Rikhail as the Lord Mayor eagerly scrolled through his script, a grin building up on his face like trash in a gutter.


    "Oh, this is rich," Rikhail said, his face illuminated unflatteringly by the glow from his script. "This is gold. The tracker from his cadet suit. Thank you very much, Mr¡­"


    The man paused before glancing at the interrogator, Crossland.


    "His name?" Rikhail said, jerking his head towards his prisoner.


    "We don¡¯t, ah, don¡¯t have that, sir," Crossland said. "No personal information of any kind in the Supremacy records, save his picture."


    Rikhail glanced at Skipper strapped to the steel block, looking him up and down. "And yet the picture was enough," he mused. "That¡¯s very, very interesting."


    Skipper could have strangled the man, looking so smug when he had no idea what kind of forces he was meddling with. If he called Avaman, this whole building would end up a smear on the ground before long. The Contenders didn¡¯t go for half measures.


    The Lord Mayor took in a deep breath, looking down on the ground, clearly mulling something over. A wave of dread ran through Skipper¡¯s body, feeling almost as though he were slowly, steadily sinking into the steel block. Would the bastard just contact Avaman anyway?


    "Get him into stasis," he said finally, after a moment. "He¡¯ll make a good bargaining chip once I become Minister."


    "Excuse me?" said the Special Officer.


    Rikhail froze, eyes the size of dinner-plates. His skin turned so pale it almost looked like he¡¯d died on the spot. Skipper could have burst out laughing; had the Lord Mayor actually forgotten who else was in the room with him?


    "Yes," muttered Rikhail, terror quiet. "What is ¡­ um, what is the issue, Mr. Muzazi?"


    The Special Officer - his name was Muzazi, apparently - spoke calmly, evenly. You could hear the discipline in every syllable. "It¡¯s my understanding that Mr. Goley is currently Minister of the Caelus system. There are no plans for that to change in the near future, as far as I¡¯m aware. Do you know something that I don¡¯t, sir?"


    The sandy-haired man put a hand on Muzazi¡¯s shoulder, that same easy grin on his face. "Sir, I¡¯m sure the Lord Mayor simply meant-"


    "Then I would hear it from the Lord Mayor himself."


    Muzazi¡¯s hand was resting on the sheath of his sword, clearly ready to bring it out at a moment¡¯s notice. His eyes were drilling into Rikhail, his mouth a flat line of displeasure.


    Rikhail opened his mouth to speak - and only a hoarse squeak emerged. It seemed his body, at least, was aware of the fact that it might not survive the next few seconds.


    Muzazi took a step forward.


    "Well!" said Rikhail, finding his voice. "One should always be prepared for anything, Mr. Muzazi, prepared for anything!"


    The swordsman paused.


    A sliver of hope emerging, Rikhail continued on, waving his hands wildly to punctuate his points. "It¡¯s said - they say - there¡¯s a saying, ah, that you should conduct yourself in a matter suiting, befitting the occupation you want, rather than the one you have! So, that is, yes, what I am doing! Conducting myself in my, my ideal position as Minister!"


    Muzazi didn¡¯t budge, the only movement his eyes tracking Rikhail.


    "And, and!" Rikhail went on. "After all! Was self-advancement - self-betterment - not the bedrock upon which the Supremacy was founded?! Would you ask the Crownless King why he dared to dream of becoming the Supreme?! Of course not! And so it is here! I am simply climbing the ladder towards my dream! Is that wrong?!"


    A moment passed. The only sounds in the room were those of distant dripping water and Rikhail¡¯s exhausted panting.


    Rikhail winced as Muzazi closed his eyes. Then, the swordsman spoke: "Magnificent."


    With that, he stepped back into the shadows of the room and was silent. A moment later, Rikhail let out a loud breath he¡¯d obviously been holding in for quite a while.


    Regaining his confidence, Rikhail shook his script, looking at Crossland. "Hadrien¡¯s in an apartment on the outskirts of the city. I want a squad sent out there to deal with him."


    Skipper looked away shamefully. He could tell himself he¡¯d sold Dragan out to save the people that Araman would otherwise kill, but he knew that wasn¡¯t quite true. He just couldn¡¯t afford to get caught yet.


    "I¡¯ll go," said Muzazi - Rikhail almost jumped out of his skin when the Special Officer spoke up again. "Minister Goley entrusted me with resolving the Hadrien situation. I¡¯ll do so now."


    "Yes, yes, of course," said Rikhail, looking only too happy to be rid of Muzazi. "If you will accompany him, Prescott."


    "Of course," said the sandy-haired man - Prescott, apparently. The man had a wicked edge to his smile; Skipper was sure Muzazi wasn¡¯t in for a pleasant trip.


    Muzazi marched out of the room, Prescott following after him.


    "Well, then," said Rikhail, his bluster quickly returning now that everyone who could challenge him had left the room. "If there¡¯s nothing else -"


    The doors slid open.


    -


    The doors slid open.


    Dragan and Blaine stood in the entrance to the room, staring in at the priority cell. The place was cold - colder than ordinary Supremacy installations. This was a place intended to be uncomfortable, after all. S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Oh," said Blaine quietly, as she saw the prisoner.


    "Yeah," replied Dragan. "Oh."


    Now that he thought about it, those guards had been really very vague about the ¡¯priority prisoner¡¯. He really was an idiot.


    The man called the Hyena looked up at them from his restraints.


    "Oh! It time for dinner? Lunch?" he grinned. "Supper?"

 Chapter 13:1.13: Luminescence

    "Well?" said the Hyena, wriggling cheekily in his restraints. "What do you want, my friend? Backrub? Massage? The services of a masseuse? Tell your pal, tell me."


    The crime lord was secured to a steel block at the back of the room, bound there by his arms and legs. An unwieldy box-shaped module had been placed over his chest, monitoring his vitals, and it let out a high-pitched beep every few seconds to confirm he was still in good shape.


    The man didn¡¯t seem especially concerned, though. Even though he was restrained, his body language was that of a man free to come and go as he pleased. He planned to escape, then. Probably within the next hour. Possibly within the next thirty minutes.


    Dragan groaned over the communications channel. His own plan colliding with someone else¡¯s was the last thing he needed - his strategy barely worked in isolation, let alone with another criminal running around.


    "Let¡¯s just leave," he muttered to Blaine, but she didn¡¯t budge.


    "Where¡¯s the rest of the guards?" she said.


    It was true - apart from the two of them and the Hyena, the chamber was empty. Hardly the kind of treatment you¡¯d expect for a ¡¯priority prisoner¡¯.


    Dragan opened his Archive and went inside.


    In his mind, he sat down at a beautifully engraved table he¡¯d seen in a shop window when he was younger. At the time, he¡¯d only seen it from one angle, so his memory-recreation of it wasn¡¯t perfect, but his brain did a passable job of filling in the gaps.


    Episodes from the life of Henri the Glutton, the last Supreme, decorated the surface of the table. Dragan covered the despot¡¯s leering face with the information he¡¯d managed to gather about the Hyena so far.


    Crime lord - drug lord. Prominent drug lord, perhaps the most prominent in Breck Kor, perhaps the most prominent on the planet. If so, doubtless had connections inside the government. Planet has too big a security presence for him to walk free for so long otherwise.


    He¡¯d been in charge of the men who had come to kill him originally. Security had arrived a few minutes later - too short an interval. Even if they were informed immediately, it should have taken them longer to assess the situation and move in. So they¡¯d known about the attack before it happened.


    No, they were part of the attack. A second wave, in case the Hyena¡¯s men failed. Direct cooperation between the Hyena and the government, then, rather than just bribery. In that case, the Hyena had been following someone else¡¯s orders - his had been the expendable team.


    The one who¡¯d declared Dragan a criminal had been Johnston Rikhail, the Lord Mayor of Breck Kor. So chances were he was the one directly cooperating with the Hyena, trying to have Dragan killed.


    Then why was the Hyena in prison? A double cross?


    A half-glimpsed news article slid out through a gap between two sections of the table. Details on the Hyena¡¯s arrest - he¡¯d been taken in at one of his establishments early that morning. The one who¡¯d arrested him was Special Officer Atoy Muzazi.


    Ah. That made sense. Special Officers operated outside of typical command structures, so the cooperation between the Hyena and Rikhail would have meant nothing to Muzazi.


    The Hyena hadn¡¯t been released yet, though. That suggested that Rikhail was running with the situation - he had no intent to let the Hyena go. Their partnership had been dissolved and the crime lord left out to dry. Yet the man was very relaxed.


    Too relaxed for a patsy. He had been the more powerful party in the partnership, then, and Rikhail was using this as an opportunity to get out from under him. The Hyena would escape before long, though - and probably have Rikhail killed, while he was at it. The blow to his pride would be unbearable otherwise.


    Dragan understood. A stupid, wonderfully cathartic idea popped into his head. He finished blinking.


    "How would you like to break out of here thirty minutes early?" he said.


    -


    Muzazi solemnly observed his surroundings as he marched through the city slums, Luminescence at his side. Prescott strolled just a little behind him, hands clasped behind his back.


    From what Muzazi understood, the entire planet of Caelus Breck had once been a single gargantuan crossbreed of a jungle and a swamp. The inhospitable jungle still sprawled outside the city limits - all intercity travel was done through air - but the swamp had found a different way to survive.


    The slum streets were half-drowned with mud, impertinent vines and fungi taking any opportunity to crawl up the buildings the city tried to erect there. On his way here, Muzazi had seen more than a few maintenance drones which seemed to exist for the sole purpose of sucking up the bubbling mud before it spread into the main parts of the city.


    He shook his head. How inefficient - how could Rikhail bear for the city he ruled to be in such disarray? Surely the man had some vestige of pride.


    "How are you finding Breck Kor, Mr. Muzazi?" said Prescott, strolling up beside him, a pleasant smile on his face.


    "I dislike it," said Muzazi truthfully. He was sure his reasons for that opinion were obvious on his face, so he didn¡¯t elaborate.


    Prescott¡¯s smile didn¡¯t shift in the slightest. "I see," he said. "I find it quite inspiring, personally."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "How so?"


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    "Well," said Prescott, stepping out of the way of a child running by. "This whole world - universe, sorry - is based around survival of the fittest, no?"


    "Of course."


    "When you are surrounded only by those at the top of that struggle, you forget how desperately one must fight to survive at the bottom. The kind of strength that is born from such struggle is a marvel."


    An emaciated-looking man on the street corner glared at the two of them as they passed, but said nothing. Had he disagreed with Prescott¡¯s assessment? Muzazi had thought it was quite flattering. However¡­


    He glanced at Prescott - his grooming, his discipline, his relaxed smile. He didn¡¯t seem the type to have experienced this kind of struggle in the past. Surely, then, it wasn¡¯t his place to assess it.


    Muzazi glanced at his companion, trusting that Prescott could read the reprimand from his gaze. If Prescott did, he made no sign of it. S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "And here we are," he said, looking up at a vine-ravaged apartment building in front of them. "Hadrien¡¯s supposed location. After you, sir."


    Muzazi nodded, pulling Luminescence from its sheath with a smooth flourish. He walked forward into the darkness of the building¡¯s front door, sword ready to cut down anything that came after him.


    This first room had likely been some kind of security post once upon a time, but now it had been thoroughly cleaned out, hacked wires from whatever instruments had been installed here poking out of the walls. Even the wallpaper had been torn off at one point, leaving only a rough full-blown texture. A stairwell was off to the side, half-collapsed, stretching up into the dark.


    Muzazi let out an Aether ping. No response.


    As he stepped towards the stairwell, Muzazi felt the barrel of a gun press against the back of his skull. Instantly, he tensed, readying Luminescence for a backwards swing at his assailant. If he was fast enough, he could very well cut them in half before they reacted.


    "I¡¯ve got a personal shield," warned Prescott from behind him. "I¡¯ll survive the first hit, and blast you right after. Drop the sword."


    So it was Prescott trying to kill him, then. He hadn¡¯t expected that - Muzazi had been under the impression that they got along well. He let Luminescence slip from his grip and fall to the floor with a clatter, blade pointed towards Prescott¡¯s foot.


    "Hands over your head," said Prescott, voice firm. That relaxed atmosphere he seemed to carry around with him had been replaced with a cold ruthlessness. He wouldn¡¯t hesitate to fire if he deemed it necessary. "No sudden movements."


    Muzazi followed his instructions. "Am I to understand you¡¯re murdering me?" he said calmly.


    "That depends on you."


    He furrowed his brow. What? "In what way does that depend on me?"


    A dark chuckle. "I haven¡¯t decided whether I¡¯m going to keep you alive or not. What you say now will decide that. You can think of these next few minutes as the audition for the rest of your life, if that helps."


    "I see," nodded Muzazi, finishing the preparations for his counterattack. "May I inquire as to your motivations?"


    "You¡¯re awfully calm," said Prescott, suspicious. "I¡¯m being serious, you know - one move I don¡¯t like and I¡¯ll pull the trigger."


    Muzazi glanced back at him - Prescott¡¯s easy smile wasn¡¯t gone exactly, instead twisting just enough to turn into a malicious smirk. His eyes were cold.


    "I¡¯m also being serious," said Muzazi, carefully choosing his words. "I might die in the next few minutes. The last thing I want to do is disgrace myself by panicking."


    Prescott scoffed. "I¡¯ll never understand you warrior types. If it were me, I¡¯d fight tooth and nail to stay alive, dignity be damned."


    Interesting. Muzazi wondered if Prescott would make good on that claim in the next few minutes.


    "Can I assume the Lord Mayor asked you to dispose of me?"


    The sandy-haired man shrugged. "The Lord Mayor, the Hyena ¡­ you¡¯ve pissed off just about everyone with the capacity for it. Who¡¯s to say who asked me to do this?"


    That didn¡¯t make any sense at all. "I don¡¯t follow," said Muzazi. "How would the Hyena be the one asking you to kill me? He¡¯s a criminal, whereas you are a Supremacy soldier."


    There was silence for a few seconds, interrupted by a snicker from Prescott, the barrel of the gun shaking slightly. "I thought you were keeping your cards close to your chest," the man laughed. "But are you actually just an idiot?"


    Muzazi frowned. He knew Prescott intended to kill him, but that was no reason to forget his manners.


    "I work for the Hyena, and the Hyena works for my father," Prescott sneered. "I really didn¡¯t even bother hiding it."


    "Your father?"


    "A-Are you being serious right now? Are you actually being serious, or is this a funny ha-ha thing? My name¡¯s Prescott Rikhail. I¡¯m the Lord Mayor¡¯s son. Never even asked, did you? Never even asked my name. Unbelievable."


    A cold, murderous sliver of ice formed in Muzazi¡¯s heart. "Am I to understand, then," he said, dangerously quiet. "That you have betrayed the ideals of the Supremacy?"


    "Hardly. It¡¯s survival of the fittest right? The way things are going now, either the Hyena will kill my father, or my father will kill the Hyena. Either way, I¡¯ll be able to profit off the wreckage."


    "You profit off of the struggle of others," said Muzazi coldly. "And display no strength of your own."


    "Yeah, whatever," said Prescott. "Anyway, I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll need muscle once I¡¯m in charge around here. How about it, friend? I wouldn¡¯t say no to a Special Officer -"


    "Impertinent."


    There was a flare of white light from the ground below the two of them - and when the light cleared, Prescott¡¯s foot was gone, replaced by a gently smoking stump.


    Prescott looked down at his stump, eyes wide, the only noise escaping from his throat being a strange crackling. His gun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor - right next to his severed foot.


    "Wha-" he mumbled after a moment, and then he started to scream.


    Muzazi turned and grabbed Prescott by the collar with one hand, pulling him in close and preventing him from collapsing to the ground.


    "Your combat skills are abysmal," said Muzazi, disgusted. "A true Supremacy warrior could have easily dodged such an attack."


    "My foot! My foot! My - my!"


    Dispatching Prescott had been easy. All Muzazi had done was apply an inactive thruster to Luminescence¡¯s hilt when he¡¯d put it on the ground. Once the thruster had activated, it had flown through the air and sliced through Prescott¡¯s leg without much resistance.


    Any warrior of worth would have seen the attack coming, but not a coward who tried to make puppets out of men.


    Muzazi lay his other palm flat and - using his Aether - created a thruster there. Not strong enough to propel himself backwards, but enough to produce intense heat. He let the flame tickle against Prescott¡¯s cheek, sending a small trickle of smoke up into the air. The scent of burning flesh wafted through the room.


    "Now," he said calmly. "You¡¯re going to explain this entire situation to me."

 Chapter 14:1.14: Convergence (Part 1)

    Bruno del Sed was in the dark, waiting.


    That was fine. He was used to waiting. He¡¯d waited in one spot for a week straight once, nestled in an Apex tree, moving only to take what sustenance he could from the invincible plant¡¯s sap. He¡¯d waited longer than that when the GID had caught him. Sometimes he wondered if he was still waiting for rescue in that interrogation room, twitching in the chair. Sometimes he wasn¡¯t sure that his whole life after that wasn¡¯t just a desperate hallucination, his mind scrambling away from the pain and fear.


    Serena sent him a comforting pulse, lifting his spirits - just a little, but enough to count.


    If this was a hallucination, she said. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯d be less boring? Who hallucinates about waiting around in a stupid hatch?


    Fair enough. She had a good point.


    Bruno put a hand against the steel surface in front of him, pouring purple Aether into his fingers to give them strength enough to move without pain. The metal was still: he was in the same place, then. A little while back he¡¯d felt his hiding place being moved - first by people, then by an elevator, then by people again.


    One of the most important qualities for a spy was their sense of direction. It was something the UAP had drilled into him, Serena and the rest early on. The moment you arrived somewhere, you made a map of that place in your head, and you kept constant track of where you and everyone else was on that map.


    Bruno smirked. He knew exactly where he was.


    -


    "Come again?" said Rikhail, face suddenly pale. He was speaking to the aide that had just walked in, who looked equally uncomfortable.


    "Minister Goley, sir," the aide said, drumming her fingers against her script nervously. "He wants to speak to you - right away, he said."


    "W-Well, did he say what it was about?"


    The aide looked away. "Ah, no, sir."


    "You didn¡¯t ask?!"


    "It was a very ¡­ brief interaction, sir. He seemed very busy." sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Unbelievable," said Rikhail, wiping his brow. "Oh, why is this happening now?" He glanced at Skipper. "Crossland, get him on ice while I fend off Goley - and get me an update on Hadrien, damnit! Where the hell is Muzazi?!"


    "Yes, sir," nodded Crossland. "I¡¯ll find out, sir."


    Skipper tensed up. It would be just him and Crossland in the chamber for a little while, then. If he wanted to escape, now would be the time. How, though?


    The drug they¡¯d used to cloud his mind seemed to be wearing thin - he reckoned he could get off one good Heartbeat Shotgun at the.very most.


    That was easier said than done - he could fire them anywhere he wanted out of his body, but he still needed to make some kind of gesture to direct the blast. Pointing was the most accurate, finger guns a little less so but much cooler-looking. The only limb he had that was capable of pointing was the arm strapped to the steel block behind him, so there was no way he was going to be able to use it.


    Nothing else for it, then. It would hurt like hell, but he had no other choice.


    "Well," said Crossland, as Rikhail trotted out of the room. "If there won¡¯t be any further interruptions -"


    He turned to look again at Skipper, only to find the singed stump of a missing arm pointing at him. Just like the barrel of a shotgun.


    "Now, hold on a second," Crossland said, very still, right before he went flying across the room.


    He hit a table at the far end of the chamber and toppled over into a heap, clearly unconscious or worse. Skipper wasn¡¯t sure which he¡¯d prefer: Crossland hadn¡¯t been especially unpleasant to him, but he got the feeling he would have liked to be. Skipper had always had a good sense for interrogators.


    At any rate, Crossland wasn¡¯t moving, which meant that step one of Skipper¡¯s escape plan was a resounding success. The only snag was that he hadn¡¯t taken the time to work out what steps two or three would be, and he was fairly sure they would be making up the meat of the plan.


    He was still strapped to a big steel block, and the drugs in his system were still circulating enough to make a second shot impossible for now. All he could really do was wait.


    Oh well, Skipper sighed. At least I won¡¯t get frozen again.


    -


    Muzazi dropped the twitching Prescott to the ground with a scowl. He¡¯d taken pity on the traitor and cauterized his leg, but that pity was quickly being replaced by rage - and he wasn¡¯t entirely sure of its source.


    He¡¯d been used, by Rikhail and Goley both. Hadrien wasn¡¯t a defector - he¡¯d just been a convenient piece in their underhanded game. As had Muzazi: a sword that would cut whatever it was told to. That wouldn¡¯t doubt it¡¯s wielders in the least.


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    They had taken him lightly, thought of him as easy prey. It was irritating in the extreme. More than that, he felt humiliated. His hands shook with rage, his body instinctively responding in a way that his mind didn¡¯t quite understand.


    Hadrien wasn¡¯t here - not surprising, now that Muzazi stopped and thought about it. The boy wasn¡¯t stupid. He¡¯d have torn the tracking equipment out at the first opportunity, to lead his pursuers on a merry chase. A good strategy. Effective.


    Muzazi had a strategy of his own in mind. He needed to ask the Lord Mayor some questions.


    -


    The Hyena danced down the hallway, humming the tune to a half-remembered song. He was out!


    The day had started out shitty, lamentable, unkind, unpleasant and overall very poor - but in the last few minutes it had taken a sudden turn for the stupendous. He¡¯d had his own escape in mind, of course, but to be released even earlier than he¡¯d expected was a welcome treat - like biting into a cat skull and finding unexpected cake instead!


    He¡¯d have to thank those two who had released him somehow. He would still have to kill them afterwards - they¡¯d seen him in a vulnerable position, after all - but he¡¯d send them a fruit basket or something first. Would they like pineapple, or perhaps a fruit that less resembled a grenade would be better?


    Oh, the possibilities were endless! Stupendous, splendid, salacious, spicy, sick! What a happy, happy day to be free to the world!


    The building rumbled - an explosion from down below. The Hyena grinned: that was his breakout crew, without a doubt. He¡¯d lost Guimo, which was a shame, but Ibrahim and the others were more than capable of busting him out of a place such as this. He had faith in his boys, his comrades, his companions thick and thin through dangers thick and thin. They wouldn¡¯t fail him - and if they did, they wouldn¡¯t live long after that.


    As another explosion shook the Heart Building, the Hyena whooped, kicking his legs in the air. He needed to pay a visit to his piggie.


    Time was short, after all, and pigs were born for the slaughter.


    -


    "You sure about that?" muttered Blaine as she and Dragan stalked through the hallways. "Letting him go?"


    Dragan glanced back at her, rolling his eyes underneath his helmet. Expecting her to understand his tactics had been a little unfair, clearly, but she could at least pretend.


    "He¡¯ll make a good distraction while we search for Skipper," he said. "Besides, if we¡¯re lucky, he might go and get shot in the head."


    "Jeez, that¡¯s awful," Blaine said, but Dragan could have sworn he heard a barely suppressed laugh behind it. "You really hate that guy, don¡¯t you?"


    Dragan hesitated uncomfortably as he checked the words on the doors they moved past. "It¡¯s not ¡­ him, specifically. It¡¯s just ¡­ people like him."


    "Oh ¡­ you don¡¯t like Umbrants?"


    He rolled his eyes. "You¡¯re taking me a little too literally. It¡¯s more like ¡­ you know, people who profit by - by, I don¡¯t know how to phrase it, making other people uglier? I hate them. To death."


    Blaine cocked her head. "Isn¡¯t that what you do, though? You¡¯ve been trying to take advantage of people since the second you landed here. Don¡¯t think I haven¡¯t noticed."


    He frowned. "That¡¯s different."


    "How¡¯s that different?"


    "I only use people who are already ugly, but the Hyena makes people awful. It¡¯s different."


    Blaine stopped for a moment, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. "Well, how do you tell if someone¡¯s awful?"


    "I just know."


    "How?" Blaine was relentless.


    Dragan hesitated. They really didn¡¯t have time for this, but the constant questioning was getting on his nerves. He didn¡¯t enjoy the sensation of being picked apart like a corpse in an autopsy.


    "Most people are awful, in the end," he said quietly. "You just have to wait for them to show it."


    There were a few precious moments of silence as they carried on down the corridor, checking doors, until Blaine spoke again. "You really think that?" she sounded distinctively pitying, and Dragan squeezed his good hand tight.


    "I don¡¯t say things I don¡¯t mean," he replied tersely.


    "That¡¯s not what Skipper said."


    Dragan whirled around to face her, not even caring as his broken arm exploded with pain. "Well what does he know?!" he snapped. "And what do you know?! I¡¯ll tell you - yes, everyone¡¯s awful on the inside. That Hyena guys the worst, but everyone else would be just as bad if they got the chance! The only reason people seem good is because they don¡¯t think they can get away with being like that! Those are the choices - you¡¯re either cruel or a coward!"


    Blaine was still. "You really think that?" she said again, quietly.


    "Of course I do."


    "You¡¯re wrong."


    Dragan clenched his fist. "I¡¯m what?"


    "I said you¡¯re wrong."


    The building shook again deep down below - no doubt the Hyena¡¯s escape plan was in progress. Red light shone through the windows as sunset came. This really had been a long day, and it seemed it was about to get longer.


    "Like I said," Dragan muttered. "What do you know? You can say I¡¯m wrong all you like, but if you don¡¯t have a reason-"


    Blaine interrupted him. "I used to think exactly like that. That, that there was no hope, and that people just got worse and worse until they died. That this world just gave you no choice but to be like that."


    "Well, it seems like you knew what you were talking about."


    "No, I didn¡¯t!" said Blaine, taking a step forward. "I thought I did, but I was wrong! I was just angry, and I wanted to be angry. Skipper showed me that. Skipper showed me that people can be good, if you give them the chance."


    Dragan faltered, hand resting on the door of the latest room in front of him. "Well¡­" he mumbled. "What do you know?" He¡¯d been saying that a lot in the last few minutes.


    He turned back towards the door - comparing it with the information they¡¯d managed to grab from the Hyena¡¯s holding cell. This was the cell number for another priority prisoner.


    "I¡¯ll show you," said Blaine from behind him.


    "Hm?" Dragan didn¡¯t look back at her as he spoke, eager to force the conversation to an end. "Show me what?"


    "That people can be good. That they¡¯re not what you think of them."


    Dragan squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth in barely suppressed rage. Phantom hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing - an unwelcome memory. Half-remembered hateful eyes stared into his own from inside a memory.


    She didn¡¯t know what she was talking about. All she was saying were pretty words that sounded nice but had no effect on reality.


    "Fine," he muttered. "Do what you want."


    The door opened.


    -


    The door opened.


    Skipper looked up and whistled in excitement - the cavalry had finally arrived. "Good to see ya, kiddo!" he grinned.


    Dragan Hadrien rolled his eyes.

 Chapter 15:1.15: Convergence (Part 2)

    "Never thought I¡¯d be so happy to see your ugly mug, Mr. Hadrien," mused Skipper, as Blaine worked at his shackles, bending the metal outwards with red flashes of Aether. sea??h th§× novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Don¡¯t get used to it," muttered Dragan, taking the precious opportunity to take a seat for a minute or two. "And it¡¯s not ugly."


    Skipper beamed. "That¡¯s the spirit!"


    Blaine was silent as she pulled off Skipper¡¯s last restraint - the one binding his left leg to the steel block. They¡¯d taken off their helmets, as they¡¯d now reached the point of the infiltration where disguise was pointless, and so Dragan could see Blaine¡¯s conflicted expression, as though she were close to tears.


    Skipper stepped free, stumbling forward with a chuckle of freedom until Dragan caught him.


    "My heroes," Skipper grinned.


    "Like I said," replied Dragan, rolling his eyes as he tried to suppress a natural smirk. "Don¡¯t get used to it."


    "Y-Your arm¡­" said Blaine quietly, still looking at the steel block, turning her head further so that her face couldn¡¯t be seen.


    Skipper looked down at his stump as if noticing it for the first time, raising his eyebrows. He moved it up and down, as if making absolutely sure the limb was missing, before smiling sadly.


    "Well," he said somberly. "These things happen. I¡¯m just glad everyone made it out alive - so long as I¡¯m alive, I don¡¯t much care what kind of shape I¡¯m in."


    "Don¡¯t!" shouted Blaine, resting her forehead against the steel block, her hands clenched into fists. "Don¡¯t - don¡¯t act like it¡¯s nothing, because it is! It is something! It¡¯s gone!"


    "Ruth¡­" said Skipper quietly, walking over and crouching down next to her - putting a hand on her shoulder. "Come on."


    Dragan shifted in his seat uncomfortably, cradling his own arm. It really felt like he was intruding on something here. Blaine should have known Skipper had lost an arm from the information Dragan had dug up, but knowing it and seeing it were two different things, he supposed.


    "Maybe you could use Panacea?" he said meekly, offering a strained smile.


    "Yeah!" said Blaine, turning away from the block with her eyes wide, looking up at Skipper. She was clearly clinging to the suggestion for dear life. "This place is big, they must have medical facilities, we could just steal us some!"


    Skipper paused, bit his lip. He knew his answer wouldn¡¯t go down well. Then, he shook his head.


    "Nah, nah," he said quietly. "Can¡¯t get us all put in more danger for my sake. Besides, I¡¯ve heard horror stories about that Panacea stuff - could easily end up with a ball of hands instead of a fresh arm, and I¡¯m not into that."


    Blaine shouted: "You don¡¯t know that!"


    Her reaction was more than understandable, the way Dragan saw it. The way she talked about him, the way she stared at him now, Skipper was clearly someone she looked up to - an invincible figure in her mind, to be sure. Being shown that he wasn¡¯t so invincible after all must be something of a shock.


    "He¡¯s said no, Blaine," Dragan said, wincing as he bumped his bad arm on the chair. "You can¡¯t force him. Besides, he¡¯s right - we need to get out of here."


    Blaine¡¯s eyes flicked from Dragan to Skipper, her teeth clenched. She was clearly tempted to continue the argument further, but after a moment she nodded slightly and took a step back, fists balled at her side. "Fine," she growled.


    An uncomfortable silence settled over the chamber. Dragan cleared his throat. Another distant explosion shook the building.


    "Well!" said Skipper, moving as if to clap his hands together before stopping for obvious reasons. "Seems to me it¡¯s best we discuss this elsewhere - preferably a star system or two away, but I¡¯ll take what I can get. I¡¯m assuming there¡¯s a step two to this plan of yours?"


    Blaine sniffled, then rubbed the back of her head, bleary-eyed. "Uh," she said. "Hadrien said he¡¯d come up with a step two once we¡¯d gotten this far¡­"


    Skipper turned to look at Dragan, eyebrows as far up as they could go. "You broke into the most secure installation on the planet with a plan that doesn¡¯t have a step two?"


    No, Dragan thought.


    "Yes," he said.


    Skipper narrowed his eyes, taking in Dragan¡¯s expression. "No, you didn¡¯t."


    "No, I didn¡¯t," Dragan confessed.


    "Huh?" Blaine stood back to her full height, her brow furrowed, eyes uncomprehending. "But you said-"


    "-I was lying, sorry," said Dragan, lying about being sorry. "But I have a good reason."


    "And that is?" Blaine threw her arms out wide, confusion quickly transforming into outrage.


    "Well, if I told you my actual plan, you wouldn¡¯t have agreed to it because you like being alive."


    Skipper laughed long and hard, like this was the first funny thing he¡¯d seen in a good long while; Blaine shot a glare at him.


    "So," said Skipper, wiping a tear from his eye. "What is this suicide pact you¡¯ve worked out for us, Mr. Hadrien?"


    -


    Rikhail compulsively adjusted his tie, his cufflinks, his hair, every aspect of his appearance that his hands could reach. Everything would be fine. Everything would be fine, and yet¡­


    Why did Goley want to talk to him? Why now, for Y¡¯s sake?! Did he know about the prisoner? Had someone leaked the information?


    He wiped his brow clean. This was unbearable - he was a shrewd political operator, he knew that, and yet a single word from Goley turned him into a frightened child. It wasn¡¯t fair for that man to have such effortless influence over him, to strike dread into his heart so easily.


    The elevator soared upwards, towards his office at the top of the Heart Building. That damn prison cell, where Goley could reach him whenever he wanted. Damn that man. Why couldn¡¯t he just disappear?


    At least he wouldn¡¯t have to worry about the Minister¡¯s attack dog anymore. Prescott would take care of that Muzazi bastard. Wouldn¡¯t he?


    Horrible doubt crawled up his spine like a spider. Shouldn¡¯t he have heard from Prescott by now? He¡¯d had ample time to dispose of the Special Officer. At the very least, he should have received a notification letting him know the job was done.


    Unless¡­


    No.


    Unless¡­?


    Prescott was smart, and Muzazi was stupid. His son could simply shoot the annoyance in the back of the head while he was inspecting some evidence - and then he could grab the Hadrien brat that had brought them there. It would all work out fine. His son was fine.


    He was fine, Rikhail thought, just as an explosion sounded down below.


    The building shook, and the elevator paused for a second in its tube before resuming it¡¯s ascent. Rikhail, on the other hand, was knocked over by the sudden jolt, falling onto his side, eyes wide with terror. What was happening now?!


    Realization spiked through his brain like a stake. The Hyena. He¡¯d forgotten to see to the Hyena situation. Even if he was just going to have him killed, he should have made some false apologies to delay the lunatic¡¯s wrath. Stupid, stupid!


    Rikhail pulled himself to his feet, grabbing onto the elevator¡¯s railing as support. This was fine. This was fine. He could still fix this. Security could deal with the Hyena¡¯s men, Prescott was fine, and he could deal with Goley. So long as he still had his best game piece, the nameless prisoner, he could pull himself out of this.


    Hand shaking, he pulled out his script and opened a communications channel to Crossland.


    "Come in," he said, voice hoarse. "I need an immediate update. Have you got him frozen yet?"


    No answer came. Not even breathing could be heard on the other end. Rikhail shook the script, as if there were some error with the machine itself. He slapped his hand against the screen, once, twice, making absolutely sure that it was working.


    It was working fine. There was no problem with the machine. There was ¡­ no problem, no problem, it was fine, there was no problem, he could make it out of this so long as he - so long as he - no, no, no, no problem -


    Rikhail screamed long and hard, a primal howl of fear and pain that filled the air, lingering even after the elevator went shooting further up towards his office.


    He fell into the fetal position, hands clutching his skull as he squeezed his eyes shut, as though the world just couldn¡¯t hurt him if he couldn¡¯t see it. His scream died down to a consistent low whine, streams of bitter tears leaking from his closed eyelids.


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    "No problem..." he mumbled, with a kind of strangled laughter. "No problem?!"


    The elevator stopped. Rikhail heard a ding, then the doors sliding open.


    A foot tapped itself against his face. Shaking, dreading what he might see, Rikhail opened his eyes and looked up.


    The Hyena grinned down at him, framed on either side by burly thugs.


    "You look like you¡¯re in some trouble, buddy," the Hyena said. "Pal, friend. Chum."


    -


    Dragan led the way as the three of them made their way down the corridor, following the schematics he¡¯d memorized before they¡¯d arrived.


    "That¡¯s crazy," Blaine said, for what felt like the tenth time that day.


    Dragan rolled his eyes. Why did she have to wait until now to gain common sense? "It¡¯s not crazy," he said, doing his best to keep the directions in his head as he spoke. "It¡¯s the only way we get out of this. It¡¯s the Hyena¡¯s men downstairs and security everywhere else. We¡¯re not getting out of this unless we have the bargaining chip."


    "It¡¯s crazy," said Blaine again.


    Skipper grinned. "I know, right?"


    Apparently, Skipper had overheard the Lord Mayor saying he was headed to his office, so they were making their way to one of the service elevators to follow him up there. Not one of the public elevators visitors used - with the current situation, there was no way they weren¡¯t being watched.


    The service elevators were used primarily for outside repairs, and so were capable of moving along an intricate system of rails on the exterior of the Heart Building. The majority of the fighting seemed to be on the inside of the building, as far as Dragan could see, so making their way up from the outside gave them the biggest chance of success.


    "We grab Rikhail," said Dragan, trying to convince Blaine just as much as himself. "Then we take him down to the building¡¯s hangars, steal a ship, and get out of this system as far as we can, using him as a human shield."


    "There¡¯s some flaws in that plan," said Skipper as they ran.


    Dragan frowned. "There are no flaws," he said, then paused. "Uh, what are they?"


    They reached the service elevator hatch and Blaine stepped forward, crimson Aether sparking around her arms as she worked it open with a grunt.


    "Well," said Skipper, leaning against a wall as he rubbed his neck. "You¡¯re assuming they won¡¯t shoot us down because they won¡¯t want to hurt their Lord Mayor, right? What if they just don¡¯t care? We¡¯ll die, and it¡¯ll be a really embarrassing death to boot."


    Dragan opened his mouth for a retort, but none came. That was ¡­ that was a good point.


    "Don¡¯t get me wrong," said Skipper, shrugging his one-armed shrug. "It¡¯s not a bad plan at all, but every plan has flaws. If you don¡¯t know your flaws, you can¡¯t correct them, right?"


    Raising an eyebrow, Dragan spoke: "And how exactly do you propose we correct the flaw in this plan? The Lord Mayor is the most valuable hostage on the planet. We¡¯re not getting a better bargaining chip than him."


    "Oh, absolutely," nodded Skipper. "I have no clue how to fix it - I¡¯m just saying we have to be prepared to get blown to kingdom come."


    "That¡¯s it?"


    "That¡¯s it."


    "Uh, okay?" This motivational speech wasn¡¯t exactly filling Dragan with hope.


    "Cool!" Skipper said, once again trying to clap his hands together. "Good talk!"


    "It¡¯s open," grunted Blaine, tearing the service hatch in two with her Skeletal claws and tossing each half either side. Dragan stepped out of the way just in time as the mangled metal flew down the hallway.


    The service elevator itself was spacious enough - presumably to fit equipment that might be required for repairs - but the lighting was dim, provided only by one light on the ceiling that had clearly seen better days. A control panel on the side of the wall, next to the door, allowed a destination to be input.


    Dragan tapped in the number for the outside of the Lord Mayor¡¯s office. "This¡¯ll take us along the exterior of the building," he said. "So we¡¯ll have to tear through this wall to get inside once we arrive."


    Blaine nodded. "I can handle that."


    Skipper chuckled as he stepped into the elevator, supporting his weight with a hand on the railing.


    "Up we go¡­" he said quietly, as the elevator began to move.


    -


    The outside of the Heart Building had become a battlefield since last Muzazi had seen it. Still bodies, Supremacy and otherwise, littered the ground and countless fires raged in the courtyard just outside the gates. Some vehicles had been moved to provide cover for the Supremacy soldiers who were attempting to take the lobby, but it was a good position for the attackers, who were managing to hold them off. Plasma was fired back and forth like rain, and smoke rose from the ground where it fell. The air was full of the stink of burnt flesh.


    Still, it was a numbers game. Security had many more brave officers than they had two-bit thugs.


    "Sir," gasped a soldier - a commander, judging from the sash around him - as Muzazi approached. "It¡¯s the Hyena¡¯s men, sir - they disguised themselves as civilians, came in with incendiaries. They¡¯ve completely sealed off the lobby and they¡¯re demanding the Hyena¡¯s release!"


    The soldiers were crouched behind an overturned car, portable shield generators deflecting the plasmafire that did make it past the physical barrier. Muzazi took cover too as he spoke to them, watching orange streaks of plasmafire fly through the sky overhead.


    Muzazi frowned. It was unbecoming for the Supremacy to be defeated so easily. Ordinarily, he wouldn¡¯t think a Supremacy official would give in to such demands, but given what he¡¯d learned about the Lord Mayor¡­ "Where is Rikhail?" he said. "Has he offered a response?"


    The commander shook their head. "Communications are down, sir. We can¡¯t get through to anyone else - last we heard, he was headed up to his office, so he may well be in the thick of it already."


    "I see." That was unfortunate; he had some things he needed to discuss with the Lord Mayor. He¡¯d have to concoct a solution, then.


    "Sir," said the commander, clearly eager for direction. "What are your orders? What do we do?"


    Muzazi¡¯s gaze slid over to a car some distance away - the vehicle had been knocked upside-down by some kind of blast, and had been left there as the occupants fled. His eyes flicked over from it to the Heart Building, to the top of the tower, judging the angle and estimating the vehicle¡¯s durability. He smiled.


    It would suffice.


    "Commander," he said firmly, pointing towards the car. "I¡¯m going to head over there. I¡¯ll need you and your men to provide covering fire for twelve seconds or so."


    "Sir?" the commander said. "I - I don¡¯t follow. You¡¯re heading over there? Why?"


    "Please don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯m going to start moving now."


    Before the commander could protest further, Muzazi leapt into action, charging towards the car with a flash of white Aether. A flurry of plasmafire surged towards him, but he side-stepped it - using thrusters along the right side of his body to increase the speed of the movement.


    He heard the Supremacy soldiers behind him begin returning fire at the criminals just as he reached the car, vaulting onto its surface with one hand and landing in a crouched position. He placed his palm flat against the vehicle¡¯s hot surface, closing his eyes as he visualised the necessary thruster placements. Five would be needed along the underside of his new platform - one in the middle, and one in each corner. Maximum strength.


    Nine seconds in total. It seemed he¡¯d underestimated himself.


    His body burnt with Aether, the five thrusters on the underside of the car flared like roaring incinerators, taking it aloft - and Muzazi took flight.


    -


    Dragan resisted the urge to vomit. When he¡¯d read that the service elevators zipped around the outside of the Heart Building, he¡¯d assumed there was some kind of stabilizer. Clearly, there wasn¡¯t - instead, he was being sent stumbling every time the damn lift changed direction.


    "Having some trouble?" said Skipper, motionless, leaning against the wall.


    "No," said Dragan, as he collapsed to the side. "I¡¯m fine."


    Skipper looked concerned. "Are you just being proud, or is there actually, like, a compulsive lying thing going on here? That¡¯s sad if so."


    "Fuck you."


    "Oh, okay, just proud then! Nice!"


    The elevator stopped moving, allowing Dragan to clamber to his feet without risk of going flying. He dusted himself off - the patches of the armour he¡¯d managed to repair were thoroughly ruined now, and the rest of the suit wasn¡¯t far off.


    "We¡¯re here," said Blaine quietly. She was already on all fours, in her Skeletal Set, ready to bust through the wall she was facing. "Skipper, little help here?"


    "No problemo." The captain stepped forward and pointed his hand at the wall, making that stupid fingergun gesture. Two sounds like resonating gunshots rang out through the elevator - Dragan put his hands to his ears - and as they did, twin dents appeared in the metal wall as if it had been punched by an invisible fist.


    Skipper grinned smugly and took a step back. "There we go - getting my mojo back. Softened it up for ya, Ruth."


    Blaine nodded and crouched even lower, the red Aether around her hands intensifying so much it looked like she was wearing crimson glowing gloves. Then, she kicked off the ground and leapt at the wall, her hands placed against each other palm-to-palm, the claws of her Skeletal gloves pointing right at the centre of the wall.


    The elevator shook uncomfortably, and Dragan felt a bead of sweat run down his neck. Had the force of that jump dislodged the elevator from the rails?


    She collided with the wall, her claws sinking into it like a knife into butter, and the wall protested with the screeching sound of tearing metal as the dents in its surface went further in, becoming thin holes through which a sliver of bright artificial light could be seen. Dragan caught a snippet of indistinct, muffled conversation.


    "Make sure to get a good shot of this, good picture, good scene," came a familiar voice through the gap. "I want this to be a fucking nightmare."


    Dragan spoke up cautiously: "Uh, maybe hold off a second on-"


    Blaine tore the wall open, sticking her claws into the holes and ripping the entire sheet of metal apart. The conversation stopped.


    On the other side of the wall was a huge office, wrecked furniture littering the floor. The majority of the room¡¯s walls were occupied by a huge window, offering a view of Breck Kor below. In the center of the room, Lord Mayor Rikhail was on his knees, face red with stress - the Hyena stood over him with a pistol to the other man¡¯s head. Two other thugs were in the room, too: one of them holding a massive plasma-rifle, the other operating a handheld camera and recording the scene in front of them.


    All four of them gaped at the new arrivals. Skipper waved sheepishly.


    "Uh, hey there, fellas," he grinned. "Gonna need to take old man Rikhail with us, if ya don¡¯t mind."


    The Hyena¡¯s gaze turned cold, any trace of even feigned charm fading away. Dragan had seen it before on Crestpoole - with the theatrical scum, the thing they hated most of all was having their performance interrupted. It was like an extra in a musical tripping up the star.


    The crime lord shoved Rikhail to the ground, marched past him, and pointed his pistol at Dragan¡¯s group.


    "You just made a miscalculation, friend," he hissed. "A big lapse of judgement, a big old blunder, a massive fucking mistake-"


    In the second before he went to pull the trigger, the room exploded. The window burst inwards as a huge metal object hurtled through it, crashing through the furniture and directly into the Hyena, obliterating him in a second. What could only generously be called his body went flying into the opposite wall, leaving a nauseating stain. The two thugs, faces white, pulled up their weapons and pointed them at the object that had lodged itself in the middle of the room.


    The dust and billowing smoke made it difficult to determine, but there seemed to be some kind of humanoid figure crouched atop it. Dragan squinted, looking below at the twisted metal hulk. Was that ¡­ was that a car?


    The smoke cleared, revealing the figure now standing on top of it. A tall swordsman, hair and long-coat fluttering in the wind, his blade glowing an eerie white. Moonlight Aether flickered around his entire body.


    On the other side of the car - it¡¯s arrival had pretty much split the room in two - Rikhail crawled backwards a way. "N-No problem," he whimpered, a broken look in his eyes. Dragan wasn¡¯t sure why exactly, but the man clearly had reason to be terrified of the new arrival. Blaine tensed up next to him, and Skipper pointed his finger towards the swordsman cautiously.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s grey eyes flicked from Lord Mayor Rikhail to Dragan¡¯s group, ignoring the two thugs who were still pointing their guns at him. He blinked, and a decision seemed to be made. Jets of white Aether burst out from his back -


    - and he rushed towards Ruth Blaine, angel-white sword held high over his head, death in his eyes.

 Chapter 16:1.16: Convergence (Part 3)

    "Ruth!" Skipper roared. He grabbed Blaine by the sleeve and pulled her to the side, out of the way of Muzazi¡¯s blow - and at the same time, he sent one of those concussive blasts flying towards the swordsman with a pointed finger.


    Dragan saw the telltale rippling of the air, the concussive blasts being fired.


    Muzazi saw it too - and in the moment before it hit him, he instead went flying backwards. Those jets of Aether reappeared, now on the front of his body, moving him out of the way of Skipper¡¯s attack and propelling him back towards the car he¡¯d come in on.


    The two thugs the Hyena had brought with him shouted in surprise as the Special Officer came flying towards them, and sent blasts of plasmafire in the hopes of intercepting him before he got too close. A decision brought about by panic, with no clear strategy that Dragan could see.


    It was no use.


    Muzazi didn¡¯t use the thrusters this time. Instead, he twisted his body in the air, moving just enough that the bolts of plasma brushed past him, burning into the walls and ceiling instead. In the same movement, he slashed out with his sword twice - and the two thugs fell to the floor in two pieces each, painting the carpet red where they came down. Muzazi himself landed on his feet, on the Lord Mayor¡¯s desk.


    Rikhail cowered on the floor beneath him, hands covering his face. "No problem!" he screamed. "No problem!"


    "Be silent," said Muzazi. "It¡¯s unsightly." His gaze shifted back to Blaine, but Dragan couldn¡¯t help but shiver as it moved over him. It was like having the eyes of Death upon you.


    Muzazi continued: "If you surrender now, I will not kill you. I give you my promise there. But if you resist me, at all, I will have your head."


    Skipper pushed Dragan behind him, and tried to do the same with Blaine, but she stood firm.


    "You can¡¯t beat him," hissed Skipper. "You know you can¡¯t. Let me handle this."


    Blaine shook her head. "You¡¯re worse off than me. You¡¯re missing an arm, and you¡¯ve still got those drugs in you. He¡¯d kill you easy."


    "He¡¯ll kill you easy."


    She glanced at him. "Both of us, then?"


    Skipper¡¯s firm expression shifted into an easy grin. "Sounds like a plan," he said, before flicking his eyes to look at Dragan. "Best take some cover, Mr. Hadrien. If things go bad here, I, uh ¡­ well, thanks for the jailbreak."


    Dragan opened his mouth to let out some sarcastic retort, but none came. Instead, what came out was very different.


    "No problem," he said quietly. "Thanks ¡­ thanks for saving me. It cost you an arm, so ¡­ uh, I - I appreciate it. I guess." The words didn¡¯t come naturally to his lips. They felt heavy and cumbersome.


    Skipper blinked, surprised, then smiled softly. "No problem, kiddo."


    Blaine grinned with what was obviously more confidence than she felt, and stood tall, balled fists at her hips.


    "Sorry, Special Officer," she said, pouring as much disdain into the title as it would hold. "You gave me the same speech last time, and I didn¡¯t like it much then either. Stop flapping your gums about how bad you¡¯re gonna kill me and do it. Coward."


    The tension in the room grew ten times as thick, the very air seeming to freeze in place as Muzazi¡¯s calm expression shifted to one of murderous fury.


    "Coward¡­?" he muttered, as if trying to confirm to himself that she¡¯d really dared call him that. He took a deep breath, shifted his stance just slightly."I see," he said, rage barely restrained by a calm exterior. "Die, then."


    He launched himself off the desk - but instead of charging directly at the group, as he had previously, he leapt directly upwards towards the ceiling. As Dragan ran off to the side to find cover as he¡¯d been advised, he furrowed his brow in confusion. That move didn¡¯t make sense - dangling from the ceiling offered no advantage whatsoever.


    Unless it was a distraction for something else.


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something, to maybe shout a warning, but it was too late. The Lord Mayor¡¯s desk went flying towards where Skipper and Blaine were waiting to counter Muzazi¡¯s attack. White Aether jets protruded from the back of the object as it hurtled through the air - and Skipper spotted it just in time, sending one of his concussive blasts into it and utterly demolishing the piece of furniture, which exploded into a cloud of wooden dust and debris.


    That was when Muzazi began his attack.


    Taking advantage of the reduced visibility, the Special Officer landed with his white sword in hand between Skipper and Blaine. He slashed at Blaine¡¯s neck, clearly intending to punish her for the earlier insult - but she ducked at the very last moment, and the strike only shaved away a few stray red hairs.


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    At the same time as his attack on Blaine, Muzazi kicked backwards at Skipper¡¯s torso with an Aether-infused leg. Skipper¡¯s arm lashed out - leaf-green Aether flowing weakly across it - and grabbed Muzazi¡¯s boot-clad foot, shaking as he struggled to keep a grip in his weakened state. A split-second later, Skipper let go with a grunt of pain, and Dragan saw why from his position in the corner.


    An additional jet of Aether had burst out from the side of Muzazi¡¯s foot, exactly where Skipper had been gripping it. So those things definitely produced heat too.


    Muzazi didn¡¯t miss the opportunity provided by Skipper staggering back. The swordsman whirled upon Blaine again, bringing his sword up for an overhead blow - and as the sword came down, Blaine blocked it with an oddly-shaped glittering thing that Dragan couldn¡¯t quite make out until he squinted.


    It was a large shard of glass from the broken window that Blaine had forced her red Aether into, enhancing it to such a degree that it could serve as a temporary shield. The thing wouldn¡¯t survive a second blow, though, judging from the spiderweb of cracks spreading across its surface.


    But Blaine knew that.


    As Muzazi lifted his sword for another attack, she grinned and cut the flow of Aether to her makeshift shield. Then she punched it, sending her enhanced fist into the glass with such force that it shattered outwards, sending tiny shards of glass flying directly into Muzazi¡¯s face.


    The swordsman squeezed his eyes shut to protect them from the glass, stepped away to get out of the range of Blaine¡¯s next attack, but it was too late. One of Skipper¡¯s blasts slammed directly into Muzazi¡¯s back, sending him flying forward, past Blaine and into the wall.


    As he landed, Muzazi transitioned into a roll - and at the same time as he finally stopped, he hurled his glowing sword at Blaine and Skipper. A jet of Aether roared from the back of the sword¡¯s hilt, propelling it so fast that it seemed more like a line of pure bright light than a physical object.


    The blade speared past Blaine¡¯s arm, gouging it deep and sending spatters of blood down to the floor. A second later, the thruster on the sword¡¯s hilt disappeared and a new thruster appeared on the tip of the blade, propelling the weapon back towards its owner.


    Blaine didn¡¯t miss her chance, though.


    In the moments before the sword returned to Muzazi, she charged in towards him, slashing at him with her Skeletal claws. Muzazi blocked the first swipe with an Aether-infused elbow, but the second, aimed lower, got him - cutting him deep in the leg. As Muzazi continued to block further blows, his mobility now impaired, the sword he¡¯d been waiting to catch zoomed past him and lodged itself into the wall.


    Dragan shook his head, came back to himself. For a few minutes now he¡¯d been utterly enthralled by the battle in front of him - he doubted he would have noticed if that sword had cut through him during its trip around the room. He could say what he wanted about Ruth Blaine, but she was clearly a fighting genius. Atoy Muzazi too.


    As the fight continued to rage, Dragan kept low and made his way across the room to where Rikhail was cowering. No matter what happened here, he had to operate on the assumption that they would need their hostage. That this would work.


    "No problem¡­" mewled Rikhail, still on the fetal position on the ground, amid the ruins of his office. "Hahaha...n-no problem¡­"


    Dragan reached out, grabbed the bastard by the hair, and pulled him out - ignoring the yelp of pain the politician let out. He could make whatever noises he liked; he¡¯d tried to get Dragan killed. He put the barrel of his gun against Rikhail¡¯s head, and the man stopped thrashing.


    "Don¡¯t move," Dragan hissed in his ear.


    Then he heard the voice of Atoy Muzazi, dangerously close: "I wouldn¡¯t recommend that, Dragan Hadrien."


    I¡¯m dead. It was a terrible, nauseating certainty - and as the thought crossed his mind, his heartbeat seemed to increase in force, shaking his whole body as if making the most of what little time it had left.


    He looked up, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Muzazi was standing over him, towering with sword again in hand, so menacing that it felt as if he could crush Dragan with his shadow. Cold, grey eyes looked down, and hot-white remnants of Aether sparked around his back - clearly, he¡¯d used those jets to disengage from fighting Blaine and Skipper when he¡¯d noticed what Dragan was doing.


    "I-I¡­" Dragan tried to come up with something, some defense, but nothing came. Words couldn¡¯t come so long as that white sword was so uncomfortably close. He could see the blood on it.


    "Dragan Hadrien," Muzazi said, smiling softly, ignoring his attempt at a response. "Please don¡¯t worry. I know you are no traitor. Simply wait for me to dispatch these criminals and I¡¯ll help you get this whole matter cleared up. Agreed?"


    A sense of sick relief came to Dragan, and an involuntary grin spread across his face. He wouldn¡¯t be killed. Muzazi wouldn¡¯t kill him. It was as if a noose had been untied from around his neck.


    "Excuse me a moment," said Muzazi - and then he turned in a flurry of movement, using his sword to block a series of blows from a suddenly appearing Blaine. She screamed in anger as she kept trying, claws coming down again and again from every possible angle.


    Dragan looked past her, back towards the entrance, and saw the cause of Blaine¡¯s fury. Skipper was slumped down next to the hole in the wall they¡¯d come in from, clutching his side. Vivid red blood oozed between his fingers. Stab wound.


    The exchange went on. Muzazi continued to block her attacks, his movements becoming faster and faster even as Blaine grew more weary. She would lose, it was obvious. She was operating on pure rage, strategy abandoned, and the pool of adrenaline she was drawing from was starting to run dry.


    Grunting from the exertion, Muzazi batted away another of Blaine¡¯s swipes - and, using the split-second opening that provided - he brought his sword up, clearly about to bring it back down on his opponents head.


    Just as it had on the ship where they¡¯d first met, Blaine¡¯s Skeletal mask dissipated into red Aether and was replaced by the seamless white helmet, the one that had sent Muzazi flying.


    The swordsman smiled.


    Dragan¡¯s heart dropped. It was just what Muzazi had expected. What he¡¯d wanted. This was his chance for a killing blow.


    Muzazi changed his stance in a second, and now his blow was coming in from the side towards Blaine¡¯s torso, rather than down onto her head. The sword flared with light, all of Muzazi¡¯s Aether flowing into it at once - it was like a supernova in motion.


    Blaine was wide open. She¡¯d be cut in half. Dragan heard a soft.gasp from beneath her helmet.


    A sharp bang rang out.


    Muzazi staggered forwards, sword slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. His limbs were stiff, his movements awkward - something was preventing him from moving his joints. It was a wonder he was even still standing.


    Someone had shot him, Dragan realized. Someone had shot Atoy Muzazi. But who?


    He looked down at his hand, at the pistol held there. Smoke drifted up out of the barrel, and crackling blue Aether orbited it. His eyes widened.


    No, no, he couldn¡¯t have. He couldn¡¯t have! sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan stared down in muted horror at his stupid, treacherous hands.


    He had saved Ruth Blaine.

 Chapter 17:1.17: What A Mess

    As Muzazi staggered forwards, falling to his knees, Dragan staggered backwards, looking down at the gun in his hand.


    Smoke gently drifted up from the barrel, the blue Aether he¡¯d used to enhance the stunshot still sparking around the sides of the firearm. He¡¯d done the same thing to Muzazi as he¡¯d done to Skipper back in the hangar - hitting him with an Aether-enhanced shot while his defense was diverted.


    It was a simple strategy. An exceedingly simple strategy, so much so that he hadn¡¯t really realized he was doing it until he pulled the trigger. His body had moved automatically, as if this kind of suicidal maneuver were something natural. As if it made some kind of sense.


    Muzazi shuddered, turning his head to look back at Dragan with what was obviously extreme strain. "W-Why?" he forced out through clenched teeth.


    Then, he collapsed to the floor.


    Dragan looked down at the unconscious Special Officer, hands still gripping the gun for dear life. Why? He really had no idea. It didn¡¯t make sense. Why had he done that? He¡¯d got nothing out of it. There were no benefits in it for him, no reward to offset the risk. In fact, it only made things worse for him. It made things astronomically worse for him, and outright negated any positives that could have come from the situation.


    So ¡­ why?


    He hadn¡¯t wanted her to die. Had it been that simple, that stupid? He could track the thought process, the vague ideas that had coalesced in his mind -- the notion that if he lifted his pistol and pulled the trigger, the situation would end. And he¡¯d done it. Like an idiot, he¡¯d done it without thinking.


    He blinked, and felt that his eyes were wet.


    "I¡­" he croaked. He wasn¡¯t sure what he was going to say to an unconscious man he¡¯d just shot in the back, but his mouth didn¡¯t come out with anything past that.


    "Hadrien," came a voice. Female voice. It was the person he¡¯d just helped, the one he¡¯d shot Muzazi in the back for. Blaine - no, Ruth.


    He looked up at her, pointed vaguely at Muzazi on the ground. "I...I shot him," he mumbled.


    Ruth nodded. She seemed just as surprised herself. "I know."


    "I shot him."


    She nodded vigorously. "I know. Now come on - there¡¯s no time to freak out about it!"


    Ruth reached out, grabbed Dragan by the wrist, and started pulling him along. He didn¡¯t resist - he was still in shock, staring at Muzazi as he was led across the room.


    They reached the entrance. "Skipper!" Ruth cried out, letting go of Dragan as she knelt down to help Skipper.


    Skipper winced as he forced himself to his feet using the wall as support, his hand covering his side. A steady trickle of blood drooled out from between his fingers. He grinned uncertainly. "It¡¯s not as bad as it looks."


    "It looks awful, Skipper," said Ruth, tearing a strip from her sleeve and binding it around his wound as a makeshift bandage. "I don¡¯t know how long this¡¯ll be good for. We need to get you a real doctor or, like, first aid or something."


    "Don¡¯t think we¡¯ll get the chance," said Skipper, smiling sadly. "Listen."


    "Huh?"


    Dragan listened. He heard nothing.


    His heart dropped. He heard nothing.


    Skipper nodded at Dragan. "Kid gets it. The fighting¡¯s over, Ruth. Security¡¯s probably on their way up right now. You two should make a run for it."


    "No!" Ruth struck the wall with her fist, leaving a sizable dent. "I¡¯m not leaving you behind again!"


    "There¡¯s nothing else to do, Ruth. You¡¯re not dying for me."


    Before Ruth could say anything more, the room was suddenly bathed in stark blue light - coming through the window. Dragan turned, squinted, his eyes stinging from the hostile ocean glow.


    A ship hung there, just outside the window. It was one of the fancy star-yachts that the rich and powerful used to make their way around the galaxy in style, all smooth curves and bright colours. Engineering directed as art.


    "I don¡¯t think you have a choice in the matter, Skipper," Dragan said quietly. "To be honest, I don¡¯t see a way out of this one."


    He glanced down at the man and almost did a double-take. Skipper was lying there, bleeding, but still grinning, pure joy written into every feature of his face.


    "You don¡¯t?" he said, laughter infiltrating his voice. "I see one, kiddo. I see a big one. Use your goddamn eyes, haha!"


    Dragan looked back at the ship. He looked further, past the threatening light, into the clear cockpit just beyond. His eyes widened as he realized just what was going on.


    The one in the cockpit, the one sat at the controls of the star-yacht, was Bruno del Sed. There was a serious expression on his face, a look of utmost concentration - he wasn¡¯t used to piloting ships like this. Still, he adapted.


    With a flurry of movement on the controls, the ship swung around to the side, and the landing doors on the outside of the vessel opened. A clear, well-lit room awaited them on the other side. All they had to do was jump through the office¡¯s broken window.


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    "Ruth," said Skipper. "I¡¯d appreciate a helping hand here. That thing I said about soldiers being on their way - that¡¯s, uh, that¡¯s probably still happening, to be honest."


    Ruth nodded and - with a flash of enhancing red Aether - tossed Skipper into the waiting ship as gently as she could, which wasn¡¯t much. Then, she reached down and plucked a flailing Lord Mayor Rikhail from the rubble of the room.


    "Don¡¯t think you¡¯re getting away," she grinned - and then she tossed him too, with much less care. He landed in the ship with a yelp.


    Ruth glanced back at Dragan, as if to ask whether he wanted to go flying too.


    "I can make the jump myself, thanks," he said. He already had one broken arm, and wasn¡¯t eager for another.


    "Suit yourself," shrugged Ruth, and then she jumped through the window into the waiting ship.


    Right, then. Dragan stepped forward, towards the smashed window. He hadn¡¯t appreciated just how high up he was until this very moment. And the gap between the window and the ship was just a little too wide, wasn¡¯t it? Maybe he¡¯d be better staying behind. Maybe he could come up with another plan.


    Look behind you, idiot, he told himself.


    A Special Officer of the Supremacy lay there, not far from the corpses of three men. He¡¯d already assisted in the kidnapping of the Lord Mayor of the city. If he stayed, he was dead. If he jumped, he¡¯d live - unless he slipped.


    Still, much less of a risk than the alternative. Dragan took a deep breath, built up his flimsy Aether, and charged.


    He honestly didn¡¯t think he¡¯d ever run so fast - it was like he was breaking through a thick, invisible fog. Exhilarating. So long as he remembered to jump, he¡¯d be fine, so long as he remembered to jump, okay, it was time to jump, jump now -


    Dragan jumped - and entered the open air between the window and the ship, feet touching only empty space as he passed over the threshold. The ship grew closer. For a horrible, awful second, Dragan pictured the vessel flying up out of sight, leaving him without even the ability to scream as he plummeted down to the city below.


    Then his feet touched down on metal, and Ruth Blaine caught him. As she did, Dragan could see the Heart Building outside growing smaller and smaller, further and further away, it¡¯s appearance finally reflecting its insignificance.


    And then the doors thumped firmly shut.


    -


    Bruno worked the controls of the ship, setting up a navigation course that would take them out of the system as quickly as possible.


    They¡¯d need to find a lightpoint - a station that could launch their ship the kind of distance they needed. With the kind of cargo they were carrying, no Supremacy-controlled lightpoint would even let them near, so they¡¯d need to stop by one of the less reputable stations.


    Hiding inside the wreckage of their first ship had been a good move, though. It had allowed Bruno to infiltrate the Heart Building without minimal fuss and - when the time came - bust out and steal a ship with which to make their escape. Things couldn¡¯t have gone better, but...


    He glanced behind himself.


    This yacht was much more comfortable than their previous shop. Rather than the chaotic mash of machinery the interior had been before, the yacht - the Veritas, apparently - was all comfy chairs and roomy, well, rooms. Skipper lay sprawled across a couch, nursing his recently treated wound. Ruth sat in a chair nearby, snoozing. That was fine. From what Bruno had been told, she¡¯d been doing a lot of fighting, so she¡¯d need some rest before she was in good condition again.


    Then there was Hadrien.


    Bruno narrowed his eyes, glared at the cadet where he stood leaning against the wall. The guy seemed deep in thought, staring down at the floor with a frown. Well, he could do all the thinking he wanted. Bruno still wouldn¡¯t trust him.


    He seems nice, said Serena.


    No he doesn¡¯t, replied Bruno. He seems like a two-faced coward who¡¯ll turn on us the second it becomes convenient for him.


    Oh, you think so?


    Yes. That¡¯s why I said it.


    Suit yourself! With that, Serena went dormant again. She¡¯d probably forget the entire conversation within the next couple of minutes, truth be told.


    Well, Bruno wouldn¡¯t forget - and he doubted Hadrien would, either. They¡¯d snatched him right out of his comfy Supremacy post, held him hostage, almost got him killed. There¡¯d be a grudge there. A strong grudge.


    And Bruno would be ready when the bastard tried to act on it.


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    Dragan sighed, looking down at the floor. The number of sighs this hour was quickly rising through the double-digits.


    Had he made the right choice? Probably not. Almost certainly not. It would be a little too generous to call it a choice really anyway, since he hadn¡¯t even realized he was making it until afterwards.


    What a mess.


    They had Rikhail tied up in the cargo hold, tied up just as Dragan had been tied up when he¡¯d first met these idiots. They hadn¡¯t been blasted out of the sky, yet, so he could only assume his hostage strategy was working. Still, he couldn¡¯t be too optimistic - there was every chance of the room around him exploding into flame any second.


    What a mess.


    His future, too, the cushy do-nothing positions he¡¯d dreamed of back in training - they were gone. The closest thing he¡¯d get to relaxation now was the brief period in a Supremacy cell before they executed him. What method would they use? Firing squad, perhaps, or would Muzazi just cut his head off and be done with it? He wasn¡¯t sure which he¡¯d prefer.


    And yet, despite all the concerns fighting for dominance inside his head ¡­ he couldn¡¯t find himself regretting it. His heart was dancing to a strange, unfamiliar beat.


    He looked down again, squeezed his eyes shut, suppressed a laugh. Smiled properly for the first time in what felt like a long time.


    What a mess!


    The ship sailed off into the dark, leaving Caelus Breck behind.


    -


    The first time you see a certain something, you find it incredible. Awe-inspiring.


    For Dragan Hadrien, that thing had been the sky.


    In Crestpoole, the breather city, all light was artificial, all air recycled. The idea of a sun was a bad joke, the closest thing a pale glow through the clouds.


    Quite often, Dragan would stand on one of Breather 19¡¯s balconies and stare up, trying to see them. He¡¯d read about them in books, seen them in videographs - these things called stars. Lights that made themselves.


    He never saw a thing. For all he knew, these things called stars were pure fiction. For all he knew, the world that he saw was all there was.


    But still ¡­ stars burned all by themselves, perpetual, never needing anyone or depending on anyone. There wasn¡¯t a thing in the world that could hurt them.


    And they shone so bright ¡­ like nothing else in the universe. Bright enough to light up the dark.


    Dragan Hadrien thought that he would quite like to be a star.

 Chapter 18:1.18: Loose Ends

    Minister Goley surveyed his dominion from his ship.


    Caelus Breck was a travesty to look at - a burnt-out spot on the galactic map - but the money it brought in wasn¡¯t bad at all. The mining contracts, the farming potential, even the bribes local criminals paid to be overlooked made for a nice stipend. Previously, he¡¯d had that income filtered through Rikhail¡¯s greedy fingers, but that would be an issue no longer.


    There was the shadow of satisfaction there. Things hadn¡¯t gone as Goley had planned at all, but he¡¯d come out victorious anyway. Where intelligence had apparently not been enough, luck had instead prevailed.


    Well, that was fine. Goley didn¡¯t much care how he won, so long as he was the last man standing.


    There was a beep from Goley¡¯s desk, the communications channel opening. He smiled faintly to himself - he¡¯d been expecting this. Looking forward to it, as much as someone like him could look forward to things.


    "I have him," came Muzazi¡¯s voice. "I¡¯m bringing him in now."


    "Very good," purred Goley, still looking out the window.


    Muzazi¡¯s failure had been more complete than he¡¯d anticipated, as well, but that was a splendid result too. Not only had he allowed a traitor to escape, but he¡¯d failed to spot Rikhail¡¯s treachery. His desire to redeem himself would be gargantuan: that was a string Goley could pull with ease.


    Potential deployments for the Special Officer raced through Goley¡¯s head: that business on Blacklight Station, the difficulties with DJINN, the assassination of the UAP¡¯s Captain Pierrot. Atoy Muzazi was a tool with so many possible uses - and now, he was Goley¡¯s tool


    He smiled a thin, mirthless smile. Oh, this was a favourable situation.


    Goley sat behind his desk as Muzazi marched the Lord Mayor in; the wretch¡¯s hands were tied behind his back, his face red with both outrage and terror. Almost certainly he knew what was coming. Goley certainly hoped he did.


    After the dissidents had fled the system - using a lightpoint set up by a local smugglers guild - they¡¯d apparently left Rikhail on Dionysus, a bombed-out ruin from the Thousand Revolutions. The Lord Mayor¡¯s dental implants had made him easy enough to track down and bring in once he was stationary. No doubt Muzazi had been hoping to take down the traitors at the same time, but he¡¯d been disappointed.


    "Mr. Rikhail," said Goley, smiling softly. "A pleasure to see you again. I was saddened when I couldn¡¯t get in contact with you on Breck Kor."


    "The complex was under attack!" blustered Rikhail. "I had ¡­ I-I had other concerns."


    "Of course. I understand completely. I hope you didn¡¯t suffer too much during your captivity, Mr. Rikhail. That would pain my heart."


    Rikhail looked away. "They were brutal," he said. "But I endured. That¡¯s - that¡¯s what the Supremacy is about. We endure."


    Quietly, behind Rikhail, Muzazi nodded. Clearly he was the kind of person who could be swayed by pretty words. That was good to know.


    "You¡¯re so right," said Goley. "So right. We endure. No matter what it takes. Is that something you¡¯d agree with?¡¯


    Rikhail furrowed his brow. "What?"


    "It would make me happy if you answered the question. Would you agree that the Supremacy endures - no matter what it takes?"


    Slowly, as if trying to work out the catch, Rikhail nodded. "Yes. Of course. Victory is all."


    "Victory is all, yes. But what concerns me, Mr. Rikhail, is whose victory concerns you."


    Rikhail answered haltingly: "T-The Supremacy¡¯s victory, of course. I am a faithful servant.¡¯


    "The Supremacy¡¯s victory," mused Goley, nodding slowly. "A faithful servant. I see, I see ¡­ these are pleasant noises coming out of your mouth, Mr. Rikhail, but I must be honest. I think you¡¯re lying to me."


    The Lord Mayor paled. "That¡¯s ridiculous," he whispered. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Hm? You think so? But you haven¡¯t even heard my reasoning. I¡¯d like for you to indulge me."


    Rikhail didn¡¯t respond to that. He knew that any more words would only hurt him. Sadly, however, staying silent wouldn¡¯t do him any good either.


    "Now that we¡¯ve confirmed that Dragan Hadrien was indeed a traitor," Goley continued, steepling his fingers. "It makes me wonder about the loyalty of other personnel under my command. I¡¯m sure you can understand my concern, can¡¯t you? The people beneath myself are like my children. Their sins are my sins. If any of them were found to be disingenuous in their loyalty, it would reflect quite badly on me, wouldn¡¯t it? That would sadden me. Do you understand?"


    Rikhail nodded. "I¡¯m a scapegoat, then."


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author¡¯s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "A scapegoat?" Goley cocked his head. "No, no, no. You are quite legitimately a traitor, I¡¯m afraid. I¡¯ve obtained quite a deal of information from your son¡¯s testimony to that effect."


    The Lord Mayor looked up, eyes wide. "My son?" he said, breathless. "Prescott¡¯s alive?!"


    Goley nodded. "Last time I checked, yes. When I asked, he told me about a business relationship between yourself and a local criminal called the Hyena. You were allowing this miscreant to do whatever he pleased, from what I understand."


    "That¡¯s¡­"


    "Pardon me, but I¡¯m still speaking. It seems to me, just from where I¡¯m sitting, that we must put your loyalty into question. And that is a question I feel I can answer - you are a traitor, Mr. Rikhail."


    Rikhail gritted his teeth. "You can¡¯t just decide that on your own," he growled, voice low.


    "As a matter of fact, I can. That is my role. Your role is to gracefully suffer the consequences of your betrayal."


    The man rose to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. His face was twisted into scarlet indignation, his voice a high-pitched fury. "Now, listen here, Goley! I have friends in the Body, powerful friends who¡¯ll -"


    There was the sound of slicing air, and Rikhail stopped talking. He looked down, brow furrowed in confusion, at the blade protruding from his chest. Flickering white light shone from between the bloodstains on the sword¡¯s surface.


    Atoy Muzazi stood behind Rikhail. He had run the man through, just as Goley had directed.


    "I-I¡­" Rikhail mumbled, shaking hand reaching for the sword going through him. He never said another word.


    With a grunt of effort, Muzazi pulled the sword free, and Rikhail tumbled down to the floor - thoroughly terminated. Goley winced as a spatter of blood landed on the surface of his desk, then glanced down at his rival¡¯s corpse.


    "What a stupid look on his face," he mused, cocking his head. "You¡¯d think you¡¯d make an effort to have a dignified expression if you knew you were going to die.¡¯


    "Perhaps he hoped for a reprieve," said Muzazi quietly.


    "You think so? If that¡¯s the case, he was more idiotic than I thought."


    Muzazi didn¡¯t say anything to that. He only continued to stare down at the corpse on the floor, at the crimson puddle rapidly spreading around it, before sheathing his blade. Goley glanced at the swordsman.


    "I wouldn¡¯t let it trouble you, Mr. Muzazi," he said soothingly. "If the man wasn¡¯t a traitor, he was incompetent enough that he might as well have been. His death is a boon for the Supremacy."


    "I suppose."


    "Of course you do. You¡¯re a bright young man." Affirmation and shame in equal measure. Those were the levers that controlled people like Atoy Muzazi.


    "I know for a fact he was a traitor," Muzazi continued. "His son lied to me many times, and I believed him, but by the end he was in no state to continue his falsehoods."


    "I see. Well, that will be all for now."


    Goley turned to his script, already tapping away. With Rikhail dead, he had a great many things to arrange - his successor, for one. He¡¯d need someone he had a tight hold on to act as his proxy in Breck Kor, and there were only a few candidates with the necessary experience. Saxton, maybe, or perhaps Timor?


    "He told me of a great many things." Muzazi was still talking for some reason, his voice quiet to Goley¡¯s uninterested ears. "Mr. Prescott was superb in his duplicity. The information he had gained access to ¡­ to be frank, I couldn¡¯t believe it at first."


    "That so?" said Goley, scrolling through economic reports on his script. He¡¯d need to make some adjustments to taxes on the other planets in the Caelus system, but that would be fine. Rikhail would serve as a fine example for the Lord Mayors on the other two worlds if they thought about protesting.


    "He knew about the Lord Mayor," Muzazi continued. "But he also knew about you."


    Goley paused, finger hovering over his script. That last sentence from Muzazi hadn¡¯t fit his expectations. Goley looked up. "Excuse me?"


    Muzazi stepped forward, over Rikhail¡¯s body. There was a stern look in his eyes. "He told me about your intentions regarding Dragan Hadrien. How you¡¯d intended for me to fail in my mission. How you intended for me to disgrace myself from the beginning."


    "That¡¯s absurd," said Goley calmly. "You¡¯d believe the nonsense rambled by a traitor?"


    "Yes. I confirmed these things many times with him, in many different ways." Muzazi took another step forward, leaving a bloody footprint behind.


    Goley sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You must understand, Mr. Muzazi, that for people in my position it¡¯s vital that we make full use of every resource at our disposal. That, of course, includes our personnel. Any actions I took were in the interest of ensuring you achieved your full potential in this matter, and for bringing about the best possible resolution to this situation - for both you and myself."


    This confrontation was irritating, but not especially concerning. Muzazi was a gullible sort, and a few pretty words that appealed to his sense of duty would go a long way. Outrage came easy to these types, but could be dispelled just as quick if you knew what you were doing.


    "I understand completely, sir," Muzazi nodded.


    The tension in Goley¡¯s shoulders, that he hadn¡¯t even realized was there, eased. He went back to his script. Now that Muzazi¡¯s ego was soothed, he could get back to important matters.


    "However," Muzazi continued. "The fact remains that you attempted to manipulate me as well. I¡¯m afraid I cannot permit that, sir."


    Goley looked up from his script again, ready to correct Muzazi¡¯s arrogance, but stopped short just before he spoke. His eyes widened. Muzazi¡¯s sword was in his hand again, pale Aether shining out of it like moonlight.


    "Now hold on just a moment there, boy," Goley said quietly, getting out of his seat and backing up a little. "Let¡¯s not do anything rash here. I am your superior officer."


    "Incorrect, sir," said Muzazi, walking around the desk and approaching Goley unnervingly quickly. "As a Special Officer, I operate outside the conventional command structure. While I have obeyed your orders until now, I am by no means obligated to."


    Goley thumped into the window, running out of room to move back. He held up a placating hand. "Now, now, think about this. There¡¯ll be no benefit in this for you, no profit. Consider your actions. Come now."


    "I have considered them thoroughly, sir," said Muzazi, raising his sword overhead. "Please don¡¯t be concerned - I informed a cleaning crew before coming here."


    This wasn¡¯t fair. This was absurd. He couldn¡¯t die in such a stupid, idiotic way. After all the machinations and contingencies, he¡¯d be killed by the temper tantrum of some wannabe warrior? It made no sense! Who did Muzazi think he was?!


    Their eyes met. Goley understood who Atoy Muzazi was. He was a sleeping bear, and Goley had shook him awake thinking him a dog.


    "Did you enjoy it?" asked Muzazi, deathly quiet. "Making puppets out of people?"


    The sword came down. For the first time in his life, Minister Goley felt fear.


    And then he felt nothing at all.

 Chapter 19:2.1: Yoslof

    Dragan landed on the grass with a thump, a pang of numb pain ringing out from his newly-healed arm. Grabbing a fistful of grass as he clenched his fist, he kicked backwards at his assailant - and missed, Skipper simply stepping out of the way of his attack. Blue Aether coated Dragan¡¯s body, but Skipper was handling him easily with just his base physical activities.


    "The sparrings meant to end when you fall down, kiddo," said Skipper, smirking.


    Dragan growled - if you listened, you might make out the barest impressions of a word, but it was really just frustration.


    They¡¯d walked a short distance from their encampment to spar - Skipper wasn¡¯t worried about anyone seeing them, he just didn¡¯t want to get in anyone¡¯s way. Apart from Dragan¡¯s, obviously.


    "You give up way too easy," sighed Skipper, hand on his hip, looking down at him. "When you dodged me there, you could have stayed standing. You didn¡¯t need to roll into the ground, you know."


    Dragan glanced away. "If I¡¯m going to lose anyway," he said. "What¡¯s the point in dragging it out?"


    "Why do you assume you¡¯d lose?"


    He rolled his eyes. "Because I lost the last fifty times, that¡¯s why."


    Skipper held up a finger and grinned. "Well, you never know - fifty-one could be your lucky number!"


    "It wasn¡¯t. I just lost."


    "Well, don¡¯t give up on fifty-two."


    Dragan clambered to his feet, brushing the grass off his knees. "Whatever. Are we done now? I¡¯m tired out."


    "There you go again - giving up!"


    He shot Skipper an exasperated glare. "Yeah. I¡¯m giving up. Sue me."


    As they walked back to the encampment, Dragan glanced at his surroundings. After spending perhaps the worst day of his life in the industrial wasteland of Caelus Breck, the grasslands of Yoslof were a welcome contrast. Pure green fields stretched to the horizon in every direction, interrupted only by the occasional thin tree or half-eroded ruin.


    A yellow sun blazed in the sky a comfortable distance away - not too cold, not too hot. That was probably the reason the planet¡¯s original occupant had settled here in the first place.


    Their encampment was built out of the grand ruins of a large fortress - tents and temporary buildings littering the ground around it, their ship parked a short distance away, shining with reflected sunlight. People came back and forth, carrying articles out of the ruins for inspection. A young woman with long white hair and patchwork clothes stood in the center of the settlement, calling out orders from a script¡¯s holographic screen floating in front of her. She looked up as they approached. Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Mr. Skipper," she smiled. "Mr. Hadrien. Having a pleasant day?"


    "I sure am," smiled Skipper, stretching. "Not sure about the kid, though."


    "Funny," said Dragan. "What a funny guy you are. I¡¯ll kill you."


    The girl - Helga, if Dragan remembered correctly - offered a sympathetic smile. "Keep at it, Mr. Hadrien. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll get him yet."


    Dragan nodded wordlessly and followed Skipper towards the ship, moving on.


    They weren¡¯t alone here at the ruins - Skipper had brought them here to take refuge with a sect of Humilists from the Final Church that were friendly with whoever it was he worked for. The Supremacy would no doubt be looking hard for them after the stunt they¡¯d pulled on Caelus Breck, so they needed to lay low for a little while.


    And Skipper was clearly taking the opportunity to humiliate Dragan under the pretense of providing training.


    "You know what your problem is?" said Skipper as they walked towards the ship, grass crunching underfoot.


    "I¡¯m being beaten up every day by the most annoying man in the world?"


    "No, no. You¡¯re very lucky to be beaten up by my esteemed fists - er, fist - besides, I¡¯m not beating you up, I¡¯m training you." He paused for a second. "What were we talking about again?"


    "You were about to tell me what my big problem is. I¡¯m waiting with bated breath here, you know."


    "Ah, right!" Skipper snapped his fingers. "Your big problem, Mr. Hadrien, is that you keep trying to hit me!"


    Dragan shot him a skeptical glare. The advice, as per usual, was near-incomprehensible.


    Skipper chuckled awkwardly at the harsh look. "No, come on now, hear me out - when we train, the only thing you¡¯re trying to do is get a hit in with your Aether. Your only objective is landing a punch."


    "If I¡¯m not at the point where I can land a hit on you," said Dragan, raising an eyebrow. "There¡¯s not much else I can do, is there?"


    "You keep trying to hit me like that, and it¡¯s predictable," said Skipper, clearly ignoring him. "All I have to do is keep dodging and you tire yourself out. You¡¯re thinking that hitting me is your win condition, but it¡¯s not. The win condition would be knocking me down."


    "Well, that¡¯d be impossible."


    "Because you don¡¯t try!"


    "I don¡¯t try because it would be impossible. If you waste your energy trying to do something when you already know you can¡¯t, you¡¯re an idiot."


    Skipper sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You¡¯re not an easy guy to talk to, you know, kiddo?"


    "That¡¯s not true. I¡¯m charming and loveable."


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    It was somewhat satisfying to be able to annoy Skipper, after so long of experiencing the opposite. It was a small victory, but honestly speaking it was the only one Dragan would be able to achieve.


    They arrived at the ship, the gaudy yacht sitting in the grass. Ruth lay on a deck-chair a short distance away, wearing a pair of sunglasses and scrolling through her script. Bruno and Serena were nowhere to be seen.


    "How long did it take you to win, Skipper?" Ruth called out as they reached the ship.


    "Nineteen seconds!" said Skipper, looking much too happy for someone who had just assaulted a poor, innocent clerk. "Two seconds longer than usual."


    "Niiice," she said. Dragan rolled his eyes.


    Skipper poked his head into the ship. "How¡¯s the refueling going, Bruno?"


    Bruno¡¯s voice was distant, muffled. "Bad. The fuel converters are set for fancy jet-light stuff, not the organic type the Humilists have."


    "Keep at it, pal," Skipper said, thumping the metal wall encouragingly. "We got an ETA?" Dragan wasn¡¯t sure how the resulting rattling was meant to do anything but give Bruno a headache.


    "It¡¯s done when it¡¯s done," snapped Bruno back.


    "And when¡¯s that?"


    "When it¡¯s done."


    "Roger, dodger!" said Skipper, throwing up an exaggerated salute. Bruno rolled his eyes - well, Dragan assumed he rolled his eyes. He couldn¡¯t see Bruno, but he was sure there was nobody in the galaxy who could witness that display and not feel exasperated.


    He glanced down at Ruth, still lounging in the sun. "It¡¯d probably go faster if you helped, you know," he said, raising an eyebrow.


    "I can¡¯t," smiled Ruth, patting the bandage on her arm smugly - the spot where Atoy Muzazi had cut through it with his sword back on Caelus Breck. "I¡¯m hurt. Why don¡¯t you help?"


    "I¡¯m injured," said Dragan. "Besides, Skipper¡¯s got me doing all this pointless sparring. I don¡¯t have the time."


    Ruth raised her sunglasses, peering at him from behind them. "It isn¡¯t pointless. If you¡¯re going to be running with us, you need to be able to handle yourself."


    "I can handle myself."


    She looked skeptical. "The first time we met, I beat you up in like half a second."


    "That was different," said Dragan, glancing away. "You were cheating."


    "How was I cheating?!"


    "I need to go now," said Dragan, walking back over to Skipper. "Hey, Skipper. I¡¯m going to let these poor bastards know they¡¯ll have to deal with you for another couple of days."


    Skipper¡¯s head was still poking into the ship, and he clearly wasn¡¯t listening. He¡¯d taken a liking to the yacht, it seemed, and was determined to make sure it stayed in flying shape. No surprise it was his priority right now. "Hmm?" he said. "Yeah, yeah, cool. Go for it."


    Stretching, hearing his joints crack with dull satisfaction, Dragan headed back over to the Humilists¡¯ compound.


    The ruin they¡¯d made their encampment around was a strange construction - he¡¯d called it a fortress earlier, but it was more like a palace than anything else. It was nothing compared to the Heart Building, but it was still damn big. You could probably fit fifty star-yachts in the building and still have room to walk around. The tents around the palace were pretty sizable, but in comparison they were like ants.


    The size of history, Dragan supposed. The older a thing was, the more time it had to get gaudy.


    Speaking of gaudy, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but wince as he approached the encampments - saw the kind of clothes the Humilists were marching around in. The Humilist sect of the Final Church believed in becoming closer to God - to Y - through ultimate humility. They didn¡¯t have the arrogance to make a single new thing, and only used that which had previously been thrown away. As such, all their clothes were pretty much patchwork, clashing colours fused together into a nauseating rainbow. Dragan didn¡¯t want to judge, but couldn¡¯t there at least have been an attempt at colour coordination?


    Even the ship they¡¯d come in on, a vertical rocket jutting up out of the ground, looked decades old at least - salvaged without a doubt.


    As Dragan came back to the center of the Humilists¡¯ camp, Helga looked up from her script, eyes glittering. "Isn¡¯t it exciting?" she said, grinning - obviously she¡¯d received some good news.


    Helga was just slightly better-dressed than the rest of the Humilists¡¯; the different patches that made up her dress were mostly the same colour, at least, even if the sleeves looked like they¡¯d once been the legs of a pair of pants.


    Apparently, Helga¡¯s group of Humilists were focused on archeology. Dragan supposed that made sense. Digging up the bones of the past was the ultimate form of salvaging, in a way. From the look on her face, her crew had obviously made some kind of discovery.


    "What¡¯s exciting?" he said, cocking his head. Truth be told, he wasn¡¯t really that interested, but he thought it better to indulge her before giving her the bad news.


    She turned the script towards him, still grinning widely, and as Dragan looked at the screen he saw that it was displaying an image of some kind of sphere. The object was slowly rotating - clearly it had been scanned for this kind of display - strange pinprick holes covering its surface.


    "Do you know what this is?" said Helga, almost hopping in place in excitement.


    "Yeah, of course," said Dragan automatically. A moment later, he corrected himself: "Uh, no. What is it?"


    "This," she said, tapping the script¡¯s screen with her hand. "Is a pheromone sphere. It¡¯s what the Gene Tyrants used to store information. Oh, if this belonged to Elizabeth, the kind of history it could hold¡­"


    Dragan scanned the object, looking the image up and down. "How¡¯s it work? Are the holes, like, braille or something?"


    She shook her head vigorously. "No, no, no! You see, the way it worked was that in the center of the sphere you¡¯d have this organic core - engineered, of course - that released pheromones that, when absorbed by the right kind of sensory organ, could communicate tremendous amounts of information! Reading through smell, actually reading through smell! Incredible, isn¡¯t it?"


    "Uh, yeah, I guess so," said Dragan, nodding awkwardly. "How¡¯re you supposed to read it, though? You¡¯re no Gene Tyrant, you can¡¯t just grow whatever kind of organs you want."


    Helga waved a dismissive hand. "Minor details. Once we get back to the Humilist fleet, I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll have a computer lying around that can read this type of information."


    It must be hard to be a Humilist, Dragan thought. You always had to hope something was just ¡¯lying around¡¯, or else you¡¯d never get anywhere. Were they allowed to light their own fires, or did they have to stand around and wait for lightning to strike? He was tempted to ask.


    "Here¡¯s hoping," he said, swallowing his unkind words. "So, ah, I actually need to tell you something -"


    Helga had already turned around, was already rummaging around in one of her many boxes of scrap. "Hold that thought!" she said, holding a finger up. "I need your help with a thing!"


    Dragan glanced away. "Well, that¡¯s -"


    "It¡¯ll only take an hour or two, don¡¯t worry! We just need someone combat-ready to escort us while we¡¯re digging through the palace."


    He stepped forward, concern quickly flaring up. Combat-ready? In what world was he combat-ready?! "Now, hold on just a second -"


    Helga did not hold on for just a second. Instead, she stuffed an old flashlight into his hands, followed by a pair of generation-old vision goggles and a piece of mining equipment coated with so much rust it was impossible to tell it¡¯s former shape. Before long, he was holding a veritable pile of - well, there was no nice way to say it - a veritable pile of trash.


    Dragan sighed. This was going to be a long day.

 Chapter 20:2.2: The Lady of Flies

    The walls of the main hall were covered with thousands of tiny statues, carved right out of the stonework. At first, Dragan had trouble telling what they were supposed to be - they just seemed like lumps of rock - but when Helga shined her light over them, he understood.


    Flies. Thousands of tiny stone flies, frozen in imitation of their insect ecosystem - climbing over each other, feeding on simulacra carcasses, planting their proboscises deep into the walls beneath them. Some were fairly normal-looking houseflies, but the majority were much stranger breeds, bearing oversized mandibles and fangs and even tusks. They were as if someone had been given the barest description of a fly and had just gone nuts with it. Dragan shuddered.


    "Elizabeth," mused Helga, running her light over the carvings. "The Lady of Flies."


    "Hell of a nickname," said Dragan, eyes fixed on the wall, as if the statues would come buzzing to life any second.


    "A lot of the Gene Tyrants had them," said Dian, another of the Humilists that Helga had enlisted for this little escapade. He was a lanky, pale man with a nose so sharp it looked like it could break through stone. "There was Victoria the Chitin Knight, Nefertiti of the Hunter¡¯s Gaze, Zenobia the Deep¡­"


    "When you can change your form whenever you want," said Helga. "I suppose your name is the only constant thing about you. No surprise you¡¯d want to pretty it up a bit."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "You don¡¯t see Umbrants taking on all those fancy nicknames - and they can change their appearance all they like."


    Helga waved a hand. "Well, that¡¯s different. Umbrants can change their voice and hair, maybe adjust the shade of their skin a bit, but that¡¯s nothing compared to what the Gene Tyrants were capable of. I mean - changing your own genetic structure at will. Can you even imagine?"


    As those last words left her lips, she looked strangely sad for a moment, but quickly perked up.


    "Okay!" she said, standing up away from the wall she had been inspecting. "I wonder if we can find Elizabeth¡¯s personal quarters - some Gene Tyrants just turned into an amorphous mass and rested in a basin, but I wonder if she used an actual bed¡­"


    Dragan rolled his eyes. He really shouldn¡¯t have agreed to this. Come to think of it, had he agreed to this? It was more like Helga had decided that this was what was happening, and Dragan had just been forced to go along with it.


    They were stood in the main hall of the palace - him, Helga and her assistant Dian. Apparently, Helga was wanting to map the place out fully so they could mount a second, bigger expedition after she returned to the Humilist fleet.


    The space was truly cavernous, everything oversized. Empty portrait-frames lined the walls, their contents either looted at some point or burnt during the Thousand Revolutions. A huge table had once spanned the length of the room, but all that remained of it now was shattered and rotten fragments of wood. A huge metal chair - not quite ornate enough to be called a throne - lay on its side, rust slowly devouring it. Dust hung in the air like a dense fog.


    "Listen," said Dragan, holding a hand close to his mouth to avoid breathing in too much of the dust. "How much longer do you think this¡¯ll take? I¡¯m going to be needed to finish the preparations for our ship. I don¡¯t have that much free time, you know?"


    A complete lie. For one, Dragan wouldn¡¯t have the faintest idea what to do with a ship. For another, he had nothing but free time. It was strange, really, going from the adrenaline he¡¯d experienced on Caelus Breck to the almost boring calm here on Yoslof.


    "Only a couple more hours," said Helga, shining her light all around the room - as if scared she¡¯d miss something if she didn¡¯t look closely enough.


    "I thought we were only meant to be in here for an hour or two in the first place."


    Helga looked away, instead inspecting a half-smashed statue of a girl in a flowing dress. "Well, you know ¡­ plans change. I wasn¡¯t expecting the history here to be so, so¡­"


    "So historic?" said Dragan, droll.


    She snapped her fingers, grinning. "Yes! You completely understand! It¡¯s like we¡¯re walking in the shadows of giants!"


    Dian offered him an understanding, long-suffering smile as they walked on. Clearly this kind of behaviour was nothing new.


    Walking in the shadows of giants, huh?


    It was a nice turn of phrase, but from the look in Dian¡¯s eyes it looked like it was one that was trotted out often.


    Personally, Dragan didn¡¯t quite like the idea of walking on giant¡¯s shadows. All it did was make it easier for them to smash you underfoot. He wasn¡¯t a big history buff, but there had to be a possibility that the Gene Tyrants had left their former palaces littered with traps before their extinction. It was what he would have done.


    Dragan sidled up to Dian. "Be honest," he said, out of the corner of his mouth. "How long do you think this¡¯ll take?"


    "A while," Dian said just as quietly. "She¡¯ll want to find the living quarters for Elizabeth¡¯s Pugnant guard, too, and probably the place her Cogitant attendant spent their time. Then she¡¯ll want to know where Elizabeth did her experiments, and that¡¯ll be a whole other thing. Sorry, bud."


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    Dragan sighed, trailing behind a little to stare into the eyes of the flies in the walls. Why, oh why did he have to be so charitable and kind?


    -


    Skipper tutted as the computer refused him yet again.


    He¡¯d been adjusting the fuel uplink on the Veritas, hoping to trick the ship into thinking it was getting the right kind of fuel. Usually, the safeguards built into star-yachts like this one would mean that the ship would just refuse to fly if the fuel on-board wasn¡¯t the right grade, but that didn¡¯t necessarily mean that lower-grade fuel didn¡¯t work for a ship like this. It¡¯d fly just fine if the systems would let it.


    Well, it would fly fine for a while. Then it¡¯d probably blow up. But there was a beautiful sweet spot there where it wouldn¡¯t explode, and they could fly quite merrily during that


    "You trust him?" asked Bruno, crouched over the actual physical pipes that transferred the fuel from storage to the engines.


    "Hm?" said Skipper, looking up.


    "Hadrien," said Bruno, face dark. "The Hadrien brat. You trust him?"


    Skipper smiled. "I trust everyone, Bruno. You know that."


    Bruno¡¯s face shifted into Serena¡¯s, who rolled her eyes theatrically. "Bruno doesn¡¯t like him. He thinks he¡¯s going to betray us."


    "You don¡¯t much like anyone, Bruno," said Skipper, still smiling. "It¡¯s a thing I¡¯ve gotten used to."


    "I like people plenty," muttered Bruno. "When they give me reason to like them."


    Skipper sighed, swung around in his seat to face Bruno. "The kid saved Ruth¡¯s life, and mine too. He could have let that Special Officer kill us and go back to his life, but he didn¡¯t. To me, that¡¯s worth giving a shot."


    Serena came out again for a moment, but Bruno reasserted control, turning fully away from the fuel pipes to face Skipper. His brow was a sharp ¡¯v¡¯ of anger. "Listen. I¡¯ve heard your story about how he shot the Special Officer or whatever. Now, I¡¯ll admit, I wasn¡¯t there, so I can¡¯t say for sure, but-"


    Skipper nodded.


    "But," continued Bruno, raising a finger. "My time working espionage for the UAP is telling me this all reeks a little familiar. This kind of thing is exactly how a covert insertion goes. You ask me, he¡¯s here to spy on us until we give him a bigger fish. It¡¯s all an investment."


    "Sounds paranoid to me."


    "Sounds smart," Bruno snapped. "You trust someone when you shouldn¡¯t, that¡¯s it. We should know that better than anyone."


    "We?"


    "Me and Serena."


    "You¡¯re making a mistake if you think I haven¡¯t learnt that lesson too, kid."


    Bruno thumped the wall with his hand, purple Aether swirling around it to allow him to clench it into a fist. "If that¡¯s the case," he hissed. "Why are you doing this? You trust him, you¡¯re going to regret it. I can guarantee that - one-hundred percent."


    Skipper sighed, closed his eyes - and when he opened them again, they were like ice. "Bruno," he said calmly. "I trust everyone. Everyone. There isn¡¯t a person alive who¡¯s been able to betray my expectations. Do you understand me?"


    A moment of silence settled over the ship. Skipper¡¯s eyes drilled into Bruno¡¯s.


    "Bruno," he said again. "Do you understand me?"


    Bruno nodded. "Yeah," came his quiet voice. "Yeah, I understand you."


    -


    Dragan sighed.


    The palace was like a maze - no, a maze implied that the architect intended for people to get lost. It implied some intelligence applied to the design of the building. The palace was more like someone had built a nice castle, then built another nice castle around that, and kept going until you had a Faberg¨¦ egg so intricate you couldn¡¯t even find the front door.


    Dian was leaving a trail of some glowing blue liquid behind them as he walked - he had a belt with a few bottles of the stuff strapped to his waist.


    Personally, Dragan would have thought string would have been just as good, but he supposed that the wardrobe habits of the Humilists meant they couldn¡¯t spare any fabric they got their hands on.


    Dragan spoke up, and was surprised by just how hoarse his throat was. It had been a while since he¡¯d said anything. "Okay, this is getting ridiculous now."


    Helga turned around - she¡¯d been merrily walking along at the head of the group, turning her head to take in every last detail of every last hallway. "Huh?" she said, cocking her head in genuine confusion.


    "We¡¯ve been in here for hours," said Dragan, shaking the last bit of water in his canteen into his mouth. "Mapping out a place like this takes more than three people. If the guys you have here now aren¡¯t enough, then you should wait until your second expedition. Otherwise you¡¯ll just be here forever."


    Helga frowned, and for a moment Dragan actually felt bad. Then he remembered that he¡¯d been following her around a ruined mega-castle for half a day and stopped feeling bad.


    "You really think so?" she said quietly. "What if someone gets to it while we¡¯re gone?"


    Surprisingly childish. When Dragan had observed her leading the other Humilists in the camp, she had seemed a mature leader with a degree of self-restraint. Here, in the ruins, she was a kid in a candy store.


    From watching her, Dragan could tell neither of those sides was an act - she was just someone who was very malleable.


    "I really think so," he said wearily. "If you¡¯re that worried, just leave a few of your guys behind to watch the place while you return to your fleet. That way you know the castle won¡¯t just walk off."


    He¡¯d intended to just come up with some excuse so he could get out of the palace as soon as possible, but he seemed to be coming out with actual advice. Surprising.


    She looked at Dian, seeking his opinion. He shrugged. He wouldn¡¯t say it, but he probably felt the same way as Dragan.


    "Well..." she said reluctantly, dragging the word out as far as it would go, cupping her chin with a gloved hand. "I...I suppose. I suppose that would be okay." S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan grinned, sweet relief coming to him. Finally ¡­ finally he would see daylight again. And not have to listen to someone telling him how fascinating the Gene Tyrants were for five hours straight.


    "Okay!" he said, clapping his hands together. "Then back we go! That liquid stuff should still be lasting, right, Dian?"


    Dian nodded. "Aye. Lasts a couple of days."


    "Good stuff, good stuff. Let¡¯s go."


    Their march back was in the opposite formation - Dragan and Dian leading the way, as Helga trailed sulkily behind them. Well, she could sulk all she liked. Dragan hadn¡¯t signed up to indulge her historical fantasies at any point. It wasn¡¯t like she couldn¡¯t come back, either.


    As they walked out of the inner palace, Dragan thought for a second that he saw a shadow shift in a far-off hallway - but when he looked again, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just a trick of the light, he supposed.


    Right?

 Chapter 21:2.3: The Attack

    "Okay," said Skipper, so far away across the field that Dragan could barely hear him. "Keep this distance between us."


    "What?" Dragan said, pretending he couldn¡¯t hear to provide himself some petty vengeance.


    "What?" Skipper shouted back.


    "I can¡¯t hear you!"


    "What?"


    Dragan frowned. "I can¡¯t hear you!"


    "You can¡¯t hear me?!"


    "No!"


    "Yes you can. Stop bullshitting."


    Dragan smirked as Skipper rolled his eyes. How the tables had turned. He hadn¡¯t even been certain that Skipper was capable of feeling annoyed, so it was good to get confirmation on that.


    "So," said Skipper, hand on his hip. "It¡¯s time for Neat Aether Tricks ¡­ not 101 since that would have been the first lesson ¡­ Neat Aether Tricks 102!"


    "We¡¯ve had more than one lesson," said Dragan. "It should be Neat Aether Tricks 111 if anything."


    Skipper waved his hand dismissively. "Technicalities, technicalities. Try not to worry about these things. Anyway, the technique we¡¯re going to be learning today is called an Aether ping."


    "You didn¡¯t name that, did you?"


    "No, I didn¡¯t," blinked Skipper. "How did you know?"


    "It doesn¡¯t sound absolutely moronic."


    Skipper laughed loudly, as if the jab had been aimed at someone else and not him. "Ah, I know you love me really."


    Dragan crossed his arms, shifting his feet slightly in the grass. "Anyway - what¡¯s this Aether ping, then? From the name, I¡¯m thinking it¡¯s like a radar?"


    "Smart boy," grinned Skipper. "Big brain. Correctamundo - an Aether ping is a method you can use to sense other Aether users, and pinpoint their locations."


    "Okay," said Dragan, cupping his chin. That did sound useful. "How¡¯s it done?"


    Skipper did some stretches, getting limber as he explained. "Usually, you keep your Aether close to you for defense, right? Have it coating your body like armour?"


    "Or have it enhance a gunshot or something."


    "Or that," Skipper acknowledged. "But with an Aether ping, you disperse your Aether in every direction - sending it as far as you can."


    Dragan cocked his head. "And leave myself defenseless?"


    "Well, yes. But you¡¯re pretty much defenseless anyway, so it won¡¯t be that much of a change for you. Go on, give it a shot!"


    Dragan rolled his eyes and concentrated - put himself into the proper state of mind to use his Aether, a kind of calm anticipation. Tendrils of blue energy began to coil around his body, flickering in and out of existence every couple of seconds. It felt like he was a lightning rod, gathering the power of the heavens around himself.


    "Nice, nice," said Skipper. "Now let it go."


    Dragan squeezed his eyes closed. That was easier said than done - his Aether was loath to leave him, clinging to his body almost possessively. When he¡¯d used it to enhance a gunshot, the Aether had been able to attach itself to the projectile, but it was having a much harder time moving out independently.


    He heard Skipper, still prattling on. "It¡¯s a little tricky," he was saying. "But you can get the hang of it. Just push it away. It¡¯s a forceful thing."


    Dragan understood. He was going with the flow too much, thinking of his Aether as something more powerful than himself. He¡¯d mistaken the relationship. His Aether wasn¡¯t capable of doing anything - not even manifesting - without him to control it. He was the one in control.


    He pushed it against it with his mind, insisting that it disperse. It writhed around him reluctantly.


    Again.


    Move, he told it, smashing the thought into his power with the speed and force of a freight liner. Move!


    His Aether began to peel itself from his body, dancing in the air immediately around him instead.


    "Don¡¯t let it cling on, kiddo," said Skipper. "You gotta let it go entirely."


    Again, then.


    Dragan commanded his Aether to move, dozens of times at once, each directive rushing through his mind like a torpedo. For a moment, it seemed like it was too much for his Aether, that it would just demanifest entirely.


    Then there was a flare of blue light, and his Aether spread out like a static shock in every direction. Blades of grass shivered as his Aether passed through them, and there was a gentle humming noise that filled Dragon¡¯s ears.


    The Aether continued on for maybe a meter or so before completely dispersing, but to Dragan it felt like it could have kept going forever. An involuntary grin spread across his face.


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    "I did it!" he said.


    Skipper nodded. "Yup. You sure did. I mean, it didn¡¯t go far enough to actually be of any use, but it¡¯s still a confidence booster, I guess."


    Dragan frowned, raised an eyebrow. Why couldn¡¯t he just be allowed to have this? "Well," he said. "How far is it supposed to go?"


    "Far enough that it can touch whoever you¡¯re trying to sense. When it does, their own Aether will automatically try to repel yours, and you can sense the location of that collision. Hence the Aether ping. If you were having trouble sensing someone within a meter of you, I¡¯d worry about your eyesight before your Aether."


    "Haha," said Dragan flatly. "You¡¯re hilarious."


    Skipper grinned. "Aw jeez," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Thanks!"


    A scream rang out - long and bloodcurdling. The smile vanished from Skipper¡¯s face in an instant, his eyes as wary and attentive as an eagle¡¯s. Instantly, emerald-green Aether flared around him, the grass around his feet vibrating from the sheer force being presented to it. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Stay here," he said, voice low, face serious.


    "No," said Dragan. Weak sparks of his own blue Aether coiled around his arms.


    That made Skipper smile again.


    -


    When they returned to camp a minute or two later - they¡¯d run the whole way - there was a small crowd gathered around the medical tent, worried-looking Humilists glancing at each other, the concern clear in their gaze.


    "What happened?" said Skipper, skidding to a stop in front of the tent. Dragan arrived a second later.


    One Humilist, a young man with mismatched eyes, looked at Skipper uneasily. "We¡¯re not sure," he said. "We think there was an attack. I¡¯m - we think - well, there was something in the ruins. It came out, it - it attacked. It got Dian. We¡¯re not sure."


    Dragon¡¯s heart sank. He knew he¡¯d seen something on the way out of there. He should have mentioned it.


    "Is he dead?" said Dragan, throat bone-dry.


    The Humilist shook his head. "Um, no. No, but, his arm - it got his arm bad. All, um, mauled, you know? Bad."


    "I should have been there," muttered Skipper.


    Dragan was so glad he hadn¡¯t been there. To be frank, he doubted he could have done anything in the first place anyway.


    As Skipper and the Humilist talked, Dragan heard new footfalls on the grass behind him. He turned to look and saw Ruth and Serena approaching.


    "What happened?" gaped Serena, looking at the crowd in front of her. "There¡¯s such a ruckus."


    Ruth didn¡¯t say anything, but looked to Dragan questioningly.


    "Some kind of attack, apparently," he said as answer. "Something came out of the palace and attacked somebody."


    Serena gasped in exaggerated shock. Again, Ruth didn¡¯t say anything, but the concern was clear on her face.


    He looked back to the Humilist. "You say a thing came out of the ruins," he said. "What kind of thing? What did it look like?"


    "Um," the Humilist fidgeted. He obviously wasn¡¯t used to being questioned like this. "Like ¡­ like a fly? Or a wasp, maybe? A little like a spider, too, what with all the legs ¡­ it was big. Bigger than a person, easy. And fast, too. From what I saw."


    "Wow," said Serena in awe. "That sounds awful."


    Dragan cast her an uneasy glance. Was she all there, mentally? Well clearly all of the crew - barring Dragan, obviously - weren¡¯t all there mentally but it seemed more pronounced with Serena.


    The crowd parted slightly as a Humilist doctor came marching out of the tent. Like all her fellows, her clothes were pretty much patchwork, but this patchwork seemed to have had a reasonable amount of effort put into cleaning it. Enough to perform surgery, at least.


    "He¡¯ll keep the arm," she said, pulling a medical mask off her face. "But it was a close thing. Call me if the situation changes."


    With that, she began to walk away - presumably back to her personal tent - only to find Skipper blocking her path. He looked down at her seriously.


    "What did it?" he said. "From the wounds - what could you see?"


    She sighed. "Look," she said, eyes blinking blearily. "I¡¯m tired, and I just want to get some rest. Could we discuss this later?"


    Skipper¡¯s face was still serious. It seemed to Dragan that this was some kind of world record - he¡¯d gone thirty seconds without making a stupid joke. He spoke: "Listen, uh¡­"


    "Mila," the doctor said, posture adjusting to a slouch as she accepted the fact that this conversation was going to happen.


    "Listen, Mila," said Skipper. "If you didn¡¯t kill whatever this thing was, that means it¡¯s still out there. If it¡¯s still out there, it¡¯ll try again. It¡¯s got a taste for us now. What attacked the guy? What kind of wounds were they?"


    Mila shifted uncomfortably - it was clear now that, as much as she¡¯d been tired, she was also trying to get just what she¡¯d seen out of her mind. "Bites mostly - with sharp teeth, dozens of them. Lining the inside of the mouth like a shark."


    Dragan winced. He didn¡¯t much fancy seeing what that did to somebody¡¯s arm. How the hell had Mila managed to save it?


    "And," continued Mila. "We - I - think proboscis, too. At least one, maybe two or more. There was some drainage of blood around the affected area, so I think it was feeding that way too."


    "Doesn¡¯t sound like a natural creature," said Skipper, hand to his chin.


    Mila shook her head - and when she went to keep on walking, Skipper didn¡¯t stop her. She passed the group and disappeared into a smaller residential tent.


    Skipper glanced at the crew. "Thoughts?"


    Instantly, Serena stuck her hand up as far as it would go, hopping in place as if worried Skipper wouldn¡¯t notice her. "Oh, oh!" she said. "I know, I know! It must be a leftover from the Gene Tyrants, right? The one that lived here was called the Lady of Flies, and this monster is a big fly!"


    Bruno interjected, looking somewhat embarrassed as he landed from Serena¡¯s hopping. "There¡¯s no way it could be a leftover. It couldn¡¯t have survived for a thousand years all by itself."


    Dragan spoke up: "It could be a descendant, then? From experiments left in the ruins after the Thousand Revolutions?" As Dragan spoke, he noticed Bruno shoot a glare at him. Still no love lost there, then.


    Skipper slapped a hand against his knee - he¡¯d taken to doing that instead of clapping since he¡¯d lost his arm. "I like it," he said, eyes closed, nodding. "Mm, mm. Yes. Good work, junior detectives."


    "Please don¡¯t ever call me that again," said Dragan, horrified.


    "I won¡¯t," Skipper lied.


    Dragan sighed. He wondered what the clerks back at Gestalt Station were doing right now. Probably nothing. Oh, how Dragan would love to be doing nothing¡­


    He was pulled from his reverie by another knee-slap from Skipper. "Anyway," he called out, striking what was presumably meant as a heroic pose. "Do you know what this kind of situation calls for?"


    "A swift evacuation?" said Dragan hopefully.


    Skipper laughed. "No!" he said, as if the very notion was absurd. "Not that at all!" He grinned, and there was a fevered anticipation in his eyes. "It¡¯s time for a bug hunt."


    Dragan blinked. God, his life sucked.

 Chapter 22:2.4: Bug Hunt

    "This is a bad idea," said Bruno, as they stepped inside the star-yacht.


    Ruth frowned. "Don¡¯t knock it until we¡¯ve heard the strategy, Bruno. Skipper definitely has a way for us to win one-hundred percent."


    "Yeah," said Dragan, earning himself another glare from Bruno. "Give it a chance."


    This is a bad idea, thought Dragan. Diving into old, abandoned Gene Tyrant ruins in search of some twisted experiment ¡­ it was the kind of scenario that horror videographs were built on. It was more than a bad idea - it was a horrible idea. Suicidal, even.


    And yet Bruno was against it, and to be honest he¡¯d been irritating Dragan recently.


    "Give it a chance?" said Bruno, as if Dragan had just started talking about the medicinal benefits of drinking mercury. "What happens after we give it a chance, and we¡¯re left a bunch of corpses lying on the floor?"


    "I have faith in Skipper," lied Dragan. "He¡¯ll see us right."


    Bruno¡¯s glare intensified, hands clenched into fists at his side. "Oh, you¡¯re so full of shit," he growled.


    Dragan blinked, suppressed the urge to click his tongue in frustration. Bruno had been able to see through him - that was something he didn¡¯t like very much at all. His lying and ability to delegate hard work were all he had going for him, so someone who those abilities didn¡¯t work on was the most annoying thing in the world.


    "I¡¯m not full of shit," Dragan said calmly, full of shit. "I just think we need to have a little faith."


    "Kid gets it!" came Skipper¡¯s distant shout from the Veritas¡¯ kitchen. The instant they¡¯d come in, he¡¯d made his way to the ship¡¯s automatic minifridge. He¡¯d formed a close relationship with it ever since they¡¯d stolen the vessel.


    Their captain returned, holding a can in his hand, it¡¯s surface wet with condensation. For a moment, Dragan thought it was alcohol - which didn¡¯t inspire that much faith in whatever plan was going to come out of Skipper¡¯s mouth - but then he saw the label:


    DOC ORANGE¡¯S CITRUS JUICE FOR KIDS - GROW UP BIG AND STRONG


    Dragan rolled his eyes.


    "So!" said Skipper, taking a big slurp from the can. "We¡¯ve got ourselves a bug on the loose! Needless to say, this isn¡¯t an ideal situation." Sear?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Bruno spoke up: "We should just leave. That¡¯s the solution to the problem."


    Skipper wagged a finger. "Not so fast, Bruno. I¡¯d rather not sail this ship before the repairs are done."


    "Well," said Bruno, clearly getting heated. "I¡¯d rather not get eaten by a giant fly."


    Bruno switched with Serena, who spoke with a grin. "Don¡¯t worry, Bruno! I¡¯ll protect you!"


    "See?" said Skipper, matching the grin. "It¡¯s fine. She¡¯ll protect you."


    Bruno reasserted himself, brow furrowing into an angry ¡¯v¡¯. "That¡¯s not my point."


    "What is your point, then?" said Ruth, speaking up for the first time in a while. She leaned against the wall, looking at Bruno.


    "My point," began Bruno angrily - only to stop and repeat himself more quietly, more calmly. "My point is that we¡¯re being reckless. We¡¯re taking unnecessary risks for no good reason. That¡¯s my point."


    With the words unnecessary risks, Bruno glanced at Dragan. Clearly, del Sed still didn¡¯t trust him. Thinking logically, Dragan couldn¡¯t really blame him at all - Dragan was basically some rando who¡¯d gone from hostage to crewmember while Bruno wasn¡¯t looking.


    Emotionally, though, Dragan was offended. He¡¯d shot a Special Officer in the back, pretty much signed his own death warrant. What more could he do? How many times did you have to save people¡¯s lives before they trusted you?!


    "I think -" Dragan began.


    "Nobody cares what you think," snapped Bruno.


    Dragan glared back at Bruno, gritted his teeth, growled. Ruth and Skipper glanced at each other uncomfortably. "I think," he said again. "We should know exactly what we¡¯re dealing with before we do anything."


    "That¡¯s¡­" Bruno frowned, clearly frustrated by the fact that Dragan was agreeing with him. "Well, yeah, but¡­"


    Dragan ignored him, turning back to Skipper. "You said this thing was maybe a descendant of one of the Gene Tyrants¡¯ experiments. How would that work? History says that most of the Gene Tyrants¡¯ creations - except the human subspecies, obviously - were sterile. They were supposed to be pretty big on that law."


    Skipper rubbed his chin - and as he did so, he let himself fall backwards into a decadently comfortable position on the nearest couch. "Life, uh, life finds a way, I guess," he said.


    "So you don¡¯t know."


    "I do know. I just told you. Life finds a way."


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    Dragan groaned. "Anyway, that¡¯s not even the point - what I¡¯m wondering is how many of these things there are. I¡¯m barely up for fighting one, let alone a horde."


    He heard Bruno speak up from behind him once again. "Who said you¡¯d be fighting? Don¡¯t think you can volunteer yourself for that."


    Could Bruno just let him speak without butting in with his needless comments? It was seriously getting on Dragan¡¯s nerves.


    "If there was a whole bunch of fly-monsters lurking around," said Ruth. "I think we woulda seen them by now."


    "You think," said Dragan, waving a finger to punctuate his points.."You think. Nobody knows anything."


    "Then we need to find these things out," Skipper shrugged his lopsided shrug. "We need to test things. Experiment."


    The crew looked at Skipper, identical concern on each of their faces. Despite their own individual opinions, it was clear to all of them that Skipper getting excited about this wouldn¡¯t end well at all. He looked like a kid in a candy store, except the store was an ancient ruin and the candy was a man-eating monster.


    "Think about it," he continued, nestled between the cushions on the couch. "That thing went after, uh, Dian, right? His name¡¯s Dian?"


    Dragan nodded.


    "It went after Dian," Skipper said. "And Dian went into the ruins earlier that same day. Deep into them, from what I heard. That thing only came out after someone went all the way into the palace. Maybe it was meant as a guard."


    "So it was hunting down an intruder," Bruno nodded. "That makes sense."


    "So," concluded Skipper, slapping his hand on the arm of the couch as punctuation. "If it goes after people who¡¯ve intruded into the ruin, it seems to me we have the perfect bait!"


    All eyes turned to Dragan. He idly wondered if Muzazi would be willing to forgive him if he begged on his hands and knees.


    -


    "You¡¯re doing great, kiddo!" came Skipper¡¯s tinny voice over the communicator. They¡¯d provided a compact headset with which to stay in contact.


    "I¡¯m just sitting down," Dragan said, voice flat, eyes glaring straight forward resentfully.


    "And you¡¯re doing great at it."


    Indeed, he was just sitting down. He was sitting down in the middle of the great hall of the palace, waiting for a genetic abomination to come try to eat him. It wasn¡¯t the most relaxing sit down he¡¯d ever had. After all he¡¯d done for these people, he¡¯d been reduced to bait. God truly loved to punish the good.


    "We¡¯re right with you," said Ruth, irritatingly cheerful. "Anything happens, we can be there in a second!"


    "Gee, thanks," said Dragan, voice still monotone.


    "No problem!" said Serena, triggering Rikhail flashbacks. She clearly had an impenetrable defense when it came to sarcasm.


    Dragan sat there, cross-legged, cleared his throat. Dust hung thick in the air like a fog - a fog all too eager to coat the inside of your mouth given the chance. He got the feeling that, if he sat there long enough, the dust would settle over his body and turn him into a statue.


    He closed his eyes to spare them the stinging.


    Breathe in through your nose, breathe out through your nose. Just take things easy, Dragan told himself. A giant monster¡¯s gonna come and kill you any second, but just take it easy. Imagine Bruno tripping over a rake.


    He chuckled silently to himself, then opened one eye to watch his surroundings. Still no monster. He couldn¡¯t see Skipper and the others, either, now that he thought about it. They were supposed to be hiding in cover, but still. Shouldn¡¯t he be able to see a foot sticking out or something?


    Had they left him to get eaten by a giant bug? Unlikely, there¡¯d be no benefit in it for them.


    But still ¡­ shouldn¡¯t he be able to see them? Where were they?! Were they messing with him?! He put a hand to the ground to push himself back up to his feet, and -


    Something clicked menacingly from a short distance behind him.


    Oh fuck.


    Slowly, reluctantly - as if the danger would only really come into existence once Dragan saw it - he turned to look behind him. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the source of the sound. Saw the hulking figure moving out of the shadows, closer than what seemed possible.


    It was the size of a fucking bear. A colossal insectoid creature that looked like someone had taken every bug people had phobias about and mashed them into a single magnum opus of awful.


    The thing had a black, swollen body with the vaguest shape of a spider - and asymmetrical numbers of legs, at least twenty in all, splayed out on either side. They twitched and flexed like fingers, and a feeling of nausea rose up on Dragan¡¯s throat just looking at them.


    A huge stinger, warped into a cruel scythe-like blade, swayed from side to side behind the creature. A vivid green fluid dropped from it. Doubtless some kind of venom.


    The head, a deformed protrusion sprouting from the front of the creature¡¯s body, was covered in eyes and teeth, with no discernable pattern. Eyes on its face, eyes in its mouth, eyes on its teeth.


    And the teeth themselves - needle-like fangs took position next to brickish crushers took position next to soft, slab-like gums. It was as if someone hadn¡¯t been able to decide what kind of tooth they liked the best, and had simply elected to include them all.


    Three spike-like proboscises sprouted from between the gaps in the beast¡¯s teeth, each long enough and sharp enough to run a man through. To run Dragan through.


    The creature¡¯s jaw creaked open, revealing even more teeth, a veritable forest of them. Dragan froze. Even with the danger in front of him, he didn¡¯t dare move. This was a unique organism: he had no idea what would set it off. He had no data to work with.


    A croaking sound poured from the insectoid maw, growing in volume and structure until they formed words.


    The creature spoke. "Inn-true-duh¡­" Three syllables, repeated mindlessly. Just listening to it, Dragan could tell that it had no true intelligence, no true motivation or desire. It did these things because that was what it was designed to do.


    It was all theatre. That was the worst part: any attempt to deduce information about the creature only told Dragan about it¡¯s creator. The thing had been made to look like this, to evoke fear and disgust. Every deformity was built-in, every horror purposeful and exaggerated for maximum effect.


    It was like a parody of itself. A cartoon monster.


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something - to shout that the quarry had arrived, to communicate his deductions, to ask Skipper what the hell was taking him so long. But he didn¡¯t say any of that.


    In the end, all he could do was scream.

 Chapter 23:2.5: Choice Amidst Clouds

    The moment the scream left Dragan¡¯s throat, a Skeletal-armored Ruth leapt down from the ceiling - she¡¯d clearly been clinging there - and landed right on top of the creature, slamming down on it with all her strength.


    The beast screeched as it was forced flat on the ground, the stone floor underneath it cracking from the impact. It was only brought down for a moment, however - it rolled over with myriad clicks from its legs and swiped at Ruth with its scythe-stinger.


    Ruth was off-balance from the creature moving underneath her, and in the moment before she landed back on the ground she couldn¡¯t maneuver herself to avoid the attack. The scythe surged through the air, cutting wind with a high-pitched whistle as it headed straight for Ruth¡¯s neck...


    ...and then the blade bounced right off thin air.


    The creature cocked its head in an almost comical expression of confusion. For a moment, Dragan too was equally baffled, until he looked up and saw Bruno del Sed in the shadow of a nearby pillar.


    Purple Aether crackled around his arm as he thrusted a palm towards Ruth. His face was red with exertion, sweat running down his brow. He was a few meters away, but it seemed like he could project his forcefields from that distance with a little effort.


    Landing on her feet, Ruth instantly spun and struck the fly-creature with a devastating roundhouse kick, catching it right on the side of the abdomen. With another screech, the thing was sent flying up into the air, limbs flailing - and there it was struck by three Heartbeat Shotguns sent out by a still-concealed Skipper.


    Bang. Bang. Bang.


    With each resonating noise, the creature twitched in the air, suspended there temporarily by the sheer force of the attacks. Dragan almost felt sorry for it, except he didn¡¯t really because it was horrifying to behold.


    He took a deep breath. He had to put in some obligatory effort, now, after all.


    When the creature fell back to the ground, Dragan was ready for it - he plunged a fist full of sparking blue Aether directly into the side of its face, taking care to avoid the maw of fangs and proboscises. He probably did just as much damage to his own hand as the creature - it recoiled from the impact with an angry shriek, but Dragan¡¯s fist ached as if he¡¯d slammed it into a wall.


    Dragan winced; he¡¯d really expected to do more damage than that. The thing had been getting a pummeling over the last thirty seconds or so, but it didn¡¯t seem to be impacting it too greatly. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The beast reared back, limbs and stinger held high up above it. Just one of those legs could be plunged right through Dragan without much difficulty. He knew that. He couldn¡¯t look at them without knowing that. He had to act.


    Dodge towards it, he told himself. It¡¯ll use its other legs to block escape from the left and right, so dodge forward. Right underneath its head so, so it can¡¯t bite your head off.


    Seemed like a plan. Dragan tensed his body, waiting for the moment when the creature would commit to an attack, when he could dodge without being cut off.


    The legs came down. Dragan blinked at the blur of movement.


    Oh. They were much faster than he¡¯d expected.


    "Move, please!" said an airy voice, and Dragan found himself flung backwards, just out of reach of the spider-fly. Serena had jumped in, shoving Dragan backwards and blocking the attack with a brickwork broadsword in one smooth motion.


    Violet Aether danced around Serena¡¯s arms as she held the creature back with her block. Dragan could see tiny cracks spreading in the surface of her sword - it was brick forced into the shape of a sword, after all, not an actually forged weapon. For attacks it would suffice, but defense was another story altogether.


    Before the sword could shatter, however, another three Heartbeat Shotguns rang out. Skipper was charging out of cover on the other side of the room, pointing at the creature to direct his shots.


    The beast squealed and was sent rolling over onto its side - and as it did, Ruth came in again, pummeling it with a series of devastating strikes. Fists rained down on every inch of exposed flesh, and Serena joined in, smashing her sword into the creature with such force that the weapon shattered.


    The creature, thrashing and twitching in rage, opened its maw and hissed at its attackers, a strange orange fluid rising inside its mouth. Some kind of venom, without a doubt. The Gene Tyrants wouldn¡¯t have created a guard without enough contingencies to keep it around.


    Ruth noticed it too - and with a flash of movement, she chose to end the fight there and then. One fist came in from the left. One fist came in from the right. They smashed into each side of the creature¡¯s head and plunged deeper, compressing the things skull until Ruth¡¯s fists met each other in the middle.


    There was a sickeningly loud crack, and then the beast was still, its legs falling limp.


    "It, uh," panted Dragan, still out of breath. "It sure took a beating."


    "Well," said Ruth as she wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "I guess that was what it was for."


    Dragan glanced at Skipper, still approaching from some distance away. He offered a mute thumbs-up, mercifully sparing them from the sound of his shouting.


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    Serena frowned. "Is that it?" she said, pouting. "I was hoping for a big, cool fight. I wanted it to shoot lasers at us."


    She tapped the corpse with her foot. It twitched.


    Everything that happened after that happened all at once. The surface of the creature¡¯s skin began to warp and shift, as though a river were running underneath it. Skipper¡¯s eyes turned wide, his leisurely walk over transformed into a desperate run. Ruth leapt backwards with such force that her clawed boots left twin craters where she¡¯d just been standing. Serena looked around, innocently confused - before Bruno took control, tried to form a forcefield around himself.


    But it was a second too late.


    The creature popped, it¡¯s body bursting into a shower of sickly orange gas. What remained of the corpse shrivelled into a pile of skin small enough to fit into a pocket.


    Bruno¡¯s half-formed shield kept out most of the gas, but not all of it, and with a mistimed breath he took in a significant amount of the poison. Instantly, he heaved forwards, eyes wide and bloodshot, gloved hands clutching his chest - purple Aether weakly circulating throughout his fingers.


    He¡¯d die if he took another breath. That was obvious to anyone watching.


    Dragan was just inside the blast radius - with just a step or two backwards, he¡¯d be home free. It¡¯d be the smart thing to do. Get himself out of danger before deciding upon a plan.


    He took the deepest breath he could and stepped forwards into the smoke, marching forwards until he reached Bruno¡¯s spasming form. With a suppressed grunt of exertion, he seized Bruno by the back of the collar and, securing his other hand over Bruno¡¯s mouth, he began to drag the afflicted boy out of the smoke.


    Skipper and Ruth¡¯s muffled voices came to him from outside the cloud. He had absolutely no idea what they were saying. Calling him an idiot, probably, which under the circumstances they had every right to.


    Entering the smoke had been easy, leaving with Bruno was another story. The additional weight, along with the fact that Bruno was thrashing around, meant that every step was a struggle. Each time his foot came down, Dragan felt the traitorous urge to take a long breath of sweet air. He had to resist. It was just a few steps. How could just a few steps take so long?


    The smoke stung at his eyes. He closed them.


    He stepped backwards, and backwards, and backwards, not even sure now that he was going in the right direction. Without his vision, he wasn¡¯t sure when he was out of the cloud. He knew the second he opened his eyes again he wouldn¡¯t be able to resist taking a breath.


    The stinging in his eyes eased, just a little. Did that mean he was out of the cloud? Could he trust this? He had to.


    Dragan snapped his eyes open - and at the same time, involuntarily, he took in a deep breath.


    His lungs tasted fresh air.


    -


    Mila yawned as she straightened the various medical instruments she¡¯d managed to scavenge over the years. The last time she¡¯d had a patient in her tent, her shelves had been thrown into such disarray. She liked things tidy, and yet the world seemed to conspire against that kind of thing.


    They were clean, at least. Mila turned a scalpel over in her hand, inspecting it closely for any signs of rust or grime. If the Humilists knew anything, it was how to clean things up. A knife that had been decaying in a junkyard for years could be made sterile as the day it was made, if you knew what you were doing.


    "If I¡¯m distracting you," said Helga, sitting across from her at the little table. "I can come back another time."


    Mila shook her head. "No, no. It¡¯s just ¡­ a lot of work, you know? Everything."


    Helga cocked her head, smiled in that knowing way. "You¡¯re always complaining about hard work, but you do more of it than anyone. If you want to relax, you shouldn¡¯t volunteer for things."


    "If I don¡¯t volunteer for things," said Mila, taking a sip of her tea. "Someone else will - and they¡¯ll mess it up. I know they will."


    "That¡¯s perfectionism talking."


    "Am I wrong, though?"


    Helga smiled again, took a sip from her own cup. The tea had been brewed from the paler strains of glass on Yoslof¡¯s surface - it was surprisingly tasty. "You should have more faith in people."


    Mila scoffed. "I save my faith for God. People are on their own."


    That was a decision she¡¯d come to a long time ago - back on Serendipity, when her superiors at the hospital had made that request of her. She¡¯d seen then the true face of people, and it wasn¡¯t something she wanted to see again.


    People were sacks filled with greed. The only way to avoid that was to be like the Humilists, and actively dodge desire. Even then, you couldn¡¯t be sure...


    "You¡¯re worried about something," sighed Helga, leaning in close as if inspecting her. "What is it?"


    Mila looked down, straightened the scalpel once again, moved her cup into a satisfying position on the table. "It¡¯s the outsiders. I¡¯m not happy having them here."


    "Why not?"


    "No offense," Mila said, still looking down at the table. "I know you say you trust them - normally that¡¯d be enough for me, too, but ¡­ I dunno. There¡¯s just a bad feeling there."


    Helga put her hands on Mila¡¯s reassuringly. "You trust me, right?"


    Mila nodded. "Of course." If nothing else, that was true.


    Helga grinned: "And I trust them. Their leader helped me out, a long time ago."


    "Helped you out how?"


    Helga booped Mila¡¯s nose, smirking mischievously. "That¡¯s a secret."


    Mila looked away, embarrassed. No matter how suspicious she tried to be, Helga could always detail her train of thought with a sly look and a wink. She could perform surgery without a bit of anxiety, but when she was with Helga, everything was a worry.


    Was she staring too much? Would she say the wrong thing? Would Helga laugh at that joke, or would she not get it?


    Keeping her hand as steady as possible, Mila took another sip of tea. It really did taste good. It wouldn¡¯t be for long, she knew that, but for this moment, in this place, she really was content.


    A shout rang out from outside the tent.


    The second one that day. A cold chill settled over Mila: had Dian¡¯s condition taken a turn for the worse? She should have been with him, damn it, not lazing around drinking tea.


    She stood up with such force that the chair she¡¯d been sitting in toppled backwards to the floor - and at the same moment she went to open the tent flaps, someone else beat her to it. Aiden, the new recruit with the mismatched eyes, gaped at her from the entrance.


    "What happened?" Helga said, voice curt. She went from flirt to leader in a second flat.


    Aiden panted for breath - he¡¯d obviously run all the way here. "It¡¯s - um, it¡¯s the outsiders, ma¡¯am," he said, stuttering and halting. Anxiety was written all over his face. "O-One of them¡¯s been poisoned!"

 Chapter 24:2.6: The Red Shadow

    When they brought the patient in, he already looked halfway to corpsehood. His skin was a sickly shade of grey, and his bloodshot eyes darted around from place to place, as though watching terrors that existed only in his brain - and when the foam rose up in his mouth, his saliva was an awful orange.


    His thrashing made it difficult, but after a minute or two Mila and the outsiders managed to get him secured in a bed, injected with a relaxation drug to stop him from injuring himself. That didn¡¯t alleviate the other symptoms, of course, but it made them easier to treat. sea??h th§× Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    They¡¯d moved Dian out of the medical tent - his arm had healed to a point where he could be on his own, and they definitely needed the space right now. Sunset light shone through the thin fabric walls as Mila looked her patient over. The outsiders stood just a short distance away, leaving her room to do her work.


    "What happened?" Mila demanded, raising her voice to be heard over her patient¡¯s wheezing breath. "Answer - quick, quick!"


    The red-haired girl - Rudy or something like that - spoke up, anxiously stammering. "T-The, um, the fly ¡­ it blew up."


    Mila looked away from her. There was no time to wrestle coherency out of her. Mila needed quick answers now, or it would be too late. She pointed at the shorter boy next to her, the silver-haired one. "You," she said, terse. "What happened?"


    He almost looked like a scolded child. The boy gulped, then launched into an explanation. "We went after the experiment that had attacked Dian. We, uh, we managed to kill it, but then Serena kicked it and it, well, blew up, released some kind of gas, I think. Probably a contingency, ah, measure, I think."


    "Anything else?" said Mila, running to fetch her analysis pen.


    "Uh, it was orange?"


    Okay. Orange. That could mean quite a few things, none of them good. None of them good at all. The thing to determine was just how bad the situation was. Once she¡¯d done that, she could enter the realm of solutions.


    "Hold his mouth open," snapped Mila, shaking the analysis pen ready. It was a small white rod with a tiny display on the side, ready to report its findings. "I need to get a sample of whatever he breathed in."


    The leader of the outsiders - Skipper - reached forward, holding the victim down with his elbow and holding the jaw open with his hand. "Make it fast," he said, voice serious. "I won¡¯t be able to keep him down for too long."


    Mila nodded and reached forward, putting the sensor end of the analysis pen into the victim¡¯s mouth. The pending symbol appeared on the display - it¡¯d take a few seconds to isolate the hostile element and identify it.


    She blinked, rapidly - a line of sweat had run down into one of her eyes. There was a beep from the pen, and she pulled it free, turning it over in her hands until the display was facing her. She read the tiny words written there in uniform font.


    Decimatus-3.


    She frowned. It was going to be a long night.


    -


    It took hours, nearly all the antitoxin supplies the doctor had stored up, but Bruno and Serena looked like they were going to last. They still looked like a disaster, of course - bloodshot eyes and pale skin - but Dragan supposed that at least was unavoidable when you breathed in a substance specifically designed to kill you in the most painful way possible.


    "Decimatus-3," said Mila, holding up an old script. She¡¯d plugged her analysis pen into the side of it, and information on the substance inside Bruno was being displayed on its screen. "It¡¯s an old Gene Tyrant poison. Decimatus-1 was near instant death for executions, Decimatus-2 was slow agony for interrogation¡­"


    She trailed off, looking down at her script uncomfortably. Skipper looked at her, mouth a flat line. "And Decimatus-3?" he said.


    Mila spoke: "Decimatus-3 is a slow, painful death. It was for making an example out of people."


    Dragan winced. They¡¯d had to apply a substance to his own eyes to stop the stinging, and now he was appreciating just how close he had come to ending up just like Bruno and Serena. He¡¯d had the stuff all around him, for god¡¯s sake.


    "Is there a cure?" said Ruth, anxiety in every syllable. "Are ¡­ are they gonna die, no matter what?"


    Mila drummed her fingers on the table, looking uneasy. "Not ¡­ necessarily. I¡¯ve asked Helga about this, and there is a treatment that¡¯s been successful before."


    "And that is?" said Skipper.


    "Well," said Mila. "Decimatus-3 was an engineered substance - so the Gene Tyrants built in a way to stop it, too, in case they ever needed to pardon someone who¡¯d been dosed with it. Three chemicals introduced in a specific ratio, and the poison destroys itself. Like pressing an off switch. Two of those chemicals I could synthesize here on Yoslof, but the third is a little, ah¡­"


    "A little rarer," said Dragan.


    "Exactly. The third is called Rospolox, and it¡¯s used as a fungicide on a few UAP planets. You could probably grab some on the market, but it¡¯d be a trip to the nearest inhabited world."


    Skipper¡¯s face was steel. "We¡¯ll grab it."


    "Are you sure?" Mila said. "Even with the ship you have, there¡¯s no guarantee you¡¯ll be fast enough to -"


    "We¡¯ll grab it," said Skipper, a portrait of resolve. Then, he glanced towards Dragan. "Me and Ruth will fly to the nearest place with Rospolox, grab the stuff, come back as quick as possible."


    Dragan¡¯s brow furrowed. "Ruth and you?"


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    Skipper nodded. "You¡¯ll stay here. I need someone to look after Bruno and Serena while we¡¯re gone. Can you do that?"


    Doubt swam inside Dragan¡¯s heart. It wasn¡¯t that he was unwilling - even though Bruno had been a dick to him, Serena had been perfectly friendly - but he didn¡¯t know how much use he would be. He couldn¡¯t help with medical matters, and as a combatant he was nothing to write home about. In fact, he -


    - Skipper¡¯s hand landed on his shoulder. A firm grip. A firm gaze, right into Dragan¡¯s eyes.


    "Dragan," he said, serious. "Can you do that? Can I trust you with this?"


    Dragan nodded - hesitant at first, then with confidence. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, you can."


    -


    The grasslands of Yoslof were still at night, not even a single gust of wind disturbing their tranquility. It was as if the whole world were a statue, stone carved into exacting resemblance, just like the flies in the palace.


    The grass glowed slightly in the dark, green bioluminescence shining out from every single blade. An endless sea of green light below, the pale glow of moonlight above.


    Nothing natural could disturb this scene.


    The grass moved, crunching underfoot and dimming slightly as a figure moved through it. It wouldn¡¯t be accurate exactly to say that the figure walked - although their feet did move up and down on the ground, they held themselves with such grace and fluidity that they seemed to almost glide across the green sea.


    The figure was a shadow, a red shadow clad in an all-concealing crimson mantle. Age, gender, face - all was concealed.


    The red shadow looked right, left, checking for observers. A dark mask concealed its face, but it could see out of it just fine. Then it looked up, towards the ruins.


    They had moved behind it, so they could climb it¡¯s outer surface unnoticed by the Humilists. It wouldn¡¯t do to have witnesses. It would be unacceptable, in fact. The things that they did must never be discovered.


    The shadow began to climb, hands finding each crack in the stone with ease, pulling themselves up with such speed it would look to an observer as if they were simply sliding up the wall. They left no trace of their passing - not even a fragment of stone was left out of place once their hands left each gap. They were a living ghost.


    There was a rumbling from the distance. The shadow paused to look, perched in a crack like a bird of prey. Their black mask watched silently, so still they could have been part of the stonework.


    The star yacht was taking off, soaring up like a shooting star returning to the sky. The green light of the grass and the white light of the moon were both reflected off it, making it seem a bizarre kaleidoscope as it took off into the clouds. After a second, the ship was gone.


    The shadow wouldn¡¯t have long, then. It continued climbing.


    After two or three minutes, the red shadow reached the top of the palace. This was a simple roof, where nobody was meant to actually go, but the architects of this place had spared no thought for such logical concerns. The roof was another garden of statues, countless stone copies of the same beautiful girl posed throughout its boundaries.


    An eerily symmetrical face. Flowing, ethereal hair. Limbs ball-jointed, like a doll. The visage of Elizabeth, Lady of Flies, was unmistakable. The craftsmanship was superb: likely the statues had started off as engineered organisms that hardened themselves into carbon when prompted by some chemical. A whole life orchestrated just to die looking pretty.


    A mixture of bitterness and admiration surged through the shadow¡¯s mind, but it shook it off. This was not the time for such things.


    The shadow wasn¡¯t alone, after all. From every unseen spot in the garden of corpses, there was the subtle sound of slithering. Of hissing. The beast that had attacked Dian had been the most impressive guard, needless to say, but that didn¡¯t mean the security for the rest of the palace was lax.


    Four serpentine creatures poked their heads out of shadows, inspecting the red shadow. Their bodies were dark green, like vines wrapped around each other to form rope - and their heads were like a triangular fly trap, a flappy jaw separated into three sections. Plants with delusions of reptilia.


    They weren¡¯t that much of a threat. The shadow knew that with a seconds glance. If it looked like a snake, then it could die like a snake.


    The creatures lunged forward, digestive fluids already dripping from their mouths, but the shadow was ready. It flowed around their predatory strikes, cloak moving like water - and it dispatched three of the serpents with curt, businesslike thumps of its fist, like knocking on a door. Their heads burst into green viscera, utterly demolished.


    The shadow¡¯s hand flickered with dark red Aether only in the moment it struck the enemy. Using Aether like that saved effort, and meant that each individual blow could use the maximum amount of power, but the resultant lack of defense made the shadow vulnerable to sneak attacks. That was fine, though. It had no fear of sneak attacks.


    The last serpent lunged forward, jaws rushing towards the shadow¡¯s neck. It had no fear of death. The god that had made it had no reason to give it a fear of death.


    The red shadow stepped backwards, allowing the snake to lunge into the empty space in front of it. Then, with practiced efficiency, it grabbed the serpent with both hands - one just below the head, the other at the tail end. The snake writhed, tried to break free, but it was too late.


    Aether the colour of dried blood sparked along the joints of the shadow¡¯s arms for a moment, providing them with a split-second of enhanced strength. Then, with the slightest soft grunt of exertion, it pulled - and the serpent was ripped in half. The Aether faded into nothing the second it was no longer needed.


    The creature made no sound as it died, and what amounted to its organs oozed half-liquid from the open ends of its body. It¡¯s loyalty was pre-programmed, it¡¯s dignity in death even more so. Elizabeth had not wanted a guard whose death would disturb her tranquility.


    The shadow dropped the already-decomposing remains of the snake on the ground and turned away, the engagement already fading from relevancy. Guards like this were nothing. The shadow could fight hollow, emotionless beings by the hundreds and not feel a thing. If only it were so easy.


    It marched past the garden of statues, maneuvered up a hill of debris to the highest point on the palace. It required elevation.


    The red shadow reached into its cloak, pulled a small disk free. The device was unlike anything else in the Humilist camp - not new, exactly, but clearly built recently. The Humilists believed that the world was already at bursting point, and that to create new things within it was the height of irresponsibility.


    The shadow agreed. Perhaps that is why it¡¯s hands shook as they delicately placed the beacon on a chunk of heaven-pointing rubble. It connected easily, sticking to the rock using built-in magnetic systems.


    It¡¯s hand reached out to tap the button on the top of the beacon, hesitated, then tapped it anyway. A holographic display popped out of the device, floated in front of the shadow¡¯s face. A text input.


    It tapped away for a few seconds, then read it back to itself.


    WANTED FUGITIVES PRESENT


    FUGITIVE: "SKIPPER"


    FUGITIVE: RUTH BLAINE


    FUGITIVE: YAKOB DEL SED


    FUGITIVE: DRAGAN HADRIEN


    It read the message back more than once, as if mulling it over. This was not yet a thing set in stone. It could still turn around, head back to camp, and go to sleep. Nobody would ever know.


    No. That kind of cowardice would doom both them and the ones they were doing this for.


    The red shadow finished typing it¡¯s message.


    DISPATCH RELEVANT FORCES IMMEDIATELY FOR CAPTURE


    GID AUTH CODE: 929-712-771-909


    MESSAGE RECIPIENT: SPECIAL OFFICER ATOY MUZAZI


    The shadow hit send.

 Chapter 25:2.7: Hands

    "They¡¯ll be back," said Dian, patting Dragan on the back. "Don¡¯t worry about it."


    They sat in the medical tent, looking down at Bruno and Serena in their bed. They¡¯d been thrashing around at first, so they¡¯d ended up sedated up to their eyeballs. Dragan doubted anything short of a cocktail of stimulants and a solar explosion would wake them now.


    Dragan chuckled weakly. "I¡¯m not worried about them coming back. If you ask me, I¡¯m better off without them bothering me all the time."


    "You don¡¯t really think that."


    "Oh yeah?" he laughed. "What makes you say that? You have any evidence?"


    Dian smirked. "Your face when they left. It was like an abandoned puppy."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "That¡¯s subjective. I¡¯ll need at least three witnesses before I accept that testimony, yeah?"


    It was Dian¡¯s turn to laugh as he got up. "There you go. Got you to make a joke at least. Try and get some sleep. It¡¯s pretty much morning already."


    "I will, I guess," Dragan nodded. "Mila said they¡¯d need another booster around now, so I¡¯ll head out as soon as that¡¯s done."


    Another pat on the back, and Dian made his way out of the tent. Dragan heard his footsteps fading into the distance.


    Dragan tried not to look at Bruno and Serena¡¯s face as he applied the injection.


    It wasn¡¯t that he didn¡¯t want to make eye contact - their eyes were closed, and they were definitely unconscious - it was just that it seemed a little awkward to look someone in the face while you stuck a syringe in them. The dark green fluid in the syringe drained away, relocating into the unconscious person¡¯s bloodstream. Their body shook slightly with a mute half-cough.


    Mila had decided it would be infeasible to move Bruno and Serena any further in their condition, and Dragan was inclined to agree. He¡¯d taken only basic first aid training during his time in the AdminCorps, but even he could tell that Bruno and Serena¡¯s body was one harsh wind away from falling apart. Probably even a breeze could do it.


    Mila had headed off to sleep an hour or two ago. To be honest, with her perpetually exhausted eyes, Dragan was surprised she hadn¡¯t already collapsed herself. The dilation in her pupils had explained that, though - she used some kind of stimulant to work longer hours.


    A pick-me-up like that was nothing like the stuff that had infested Crestpoole, but it still left a bad taste in Dragan¡¯s mouth.


    Dragan glanced down at Bruno and Serena, tried to ignore the twitching of their face. The injection he¡¯d given them wasn¡¯t a cure, of course - they were still waiting on Skipper and Ruth for that - but it would at least slow the symptoms down. Buy them some time.


    His eyes moved over to Bruno and Serena¡¯s thin wrist, still in Dragan¡¯s hand. He¡¯d just injected them there, right underneath the glove they always wore. An unkind curiosity drifted up in Dragan¡¯s mind. He¡¯d been wondering about this.


    It was an invasion of privacy, sure, but with the way Bruno had been treating him he didn¡¯t really feel too bad.


    Hesitantly, Dragan peeled the glove away - and curiosity was instantly replaced with guilt.


    The hand was crooked beyond crooked, recognizable only by vague shape and the number of fingers. It was as if someone had smashed the hand with a hammer, waited for it to heal, and then smashed it again, over and over, countless times. It was a dull red, blood visible through the skin. Clearly useless.


    It made sense, Dragan supposed, looking at the hand. Every time he¡¯d seen Bruno or Serena grasp something - or even use their hands at all - there¡¯d been the telltale spark of Aether. So they needed Aether to do something as simple as moving their fingers.


    Gingerly, he put the glove back on, the shame turning his face red.


    "You shouldn¡¯t stare, you know," said a soft voice from behind him. Dragan almost jumped out of his skin - who the hell had snuck up on him?!


    He whirled around, only to find Helga stood behind him, looking down at Bruno and Serena as well.


    "Shit," he panted. "You scared me."


    Helga smiled. "Sorry," she said. "I guess I was a little quiet. How¡¯re they doing?"


    Dragan waved a hand towards them, lying there in their bed, clearly suffering. "You can see for yourself, I think. They¡¯re hanging in there, but it won¡¯t last forever. If we used a stimulant, they could probably walk around for a little while, but they¡¯d probably crash even harder afterwards."


    Helga clicked her tongue, sat down in an available chair. "Shame." Her eyes drifted down to Bruno and Serena¡¯s gloved hands. "Like I said, though, you shouldn¡¯t stare. They wouldn¡¯t appreciate it."


    Dragan gulped. She was right, of course, but he was a contrarian by nature. "Well," he said, the words dull in his mouth, oddly heavy. "How do you know what they¡¯d appreciate?"


    She held up one of her own hands, clad in a white glove. "I know I wouldn¡¯t appreciate it."


    For the second time, shame ran through Dragan¡¯s body like fire. It seemed he really was intent on putting his foot in his mouth as much as possible.


    "Sorry!" he said, then quietened down a little when he remembered where he was. "Sorry. I didn¡¯t - is it, um, a similar, uh, situation, then? For you, I mean."


    "Not exactly," said Helga, unbuckling the wrist of her glove. "How much do you know about Scurrants?"


    Dragan bit his lip. He could feel an awkward conversation coming on here, but he couldn¡¯t yet tell from which angle. "They¡¯re one of the five human subspecies," he said, playing it as safe as he could.


    "Technically," said Helga.


    "Yeah, technically." Dragan conceded. "If we¡¯re, um, being as accurate as possible, Scurrants are more like a broad category of subspecies that don¡¯t fit into the other four. Not Cogitant, not Pugnant, not Umbrant, not Crownless."


    "You really do know a lot, Mr. Hadrien," said Helga, smiling joylessly. "You¡¯re exactly right. The other subspecies were created for a purpose or just left alone like the Crownless."


    She was quiet for a moment, and when she continued her voice was full of bitter resignation: "Us Scurrants were created just because some Gene Tyrant had a funny idea, or they wanted something to stand around and look pretty."


    It was true. Dragan has seen many Scurrants during his life - mostly in passing, in crowds - but he¡¯d very rarely seen the same kind twice. He couldn¡¯t see any abnormality with Helga¡¯s body at first glance, save for the white hair, so it had to be something easily concealed -


    Helga took off her glove, and Dragan had to stop himself from gasping in surprise.


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    The skin of her arm was translucent, all the way up to the elbow - completely see-through. Through the thin, pale-blue surface, Dragan could see the insides of the arm doing their work. Muscles flexing and straining, blood pumping through veins, and pale-white bones holding the whole thing together.


    Helga turned her arm back and forth, and Dragan could see the blood sloshing around the inside of the limb as she did. An awful nausea rose up in his throat, but he suppressed it. If gasping was a social faux pas, he didn¡¯t want to imagine what outright vomiting would be.


    "That¡¯s¡­" he said, swallowing, not really knowing what to say.


    "Scurrant-A-193," Helga said, still looking wistfully at her arm. "The A means Aesthetic-type. I¡¯m like this because some Gene Tyrant thousands of years ago thought see-through skin would look pretty. There¡¯s only a few hundred of us, so I guess they got bored of the idea fast." She looked at him. "What do you think?"


    He couldn¡¯t think of anything to say. He wasn¡¯t the one with see-through hands, so it wasn¡¯t really like he had the right to comment. Still, he felt like he had to say something.


    Eventually, words came out: "Does it ¡­ does it hurt?"


    She looked at her arm, looked through it, as if the notion had never even occurred to her. But it had. It definitely had. "Not usually," she said, after a moment.


    Dragan cocked his head. "Not usually?"


    "It¡¯s the same with a lot of Scurrants," explained Helga, gingerly maneuvering her glove back onto her arm. "If I don¡¯t take specific medicine, my body starts to break down. The skin starts to peel away like old wallpaper, the blood leaks out like built-up sewage. Eventually the arms just lose all cohesion and ¡­ collapse. Messily."


    Her eyes were far away as she spoke. This was something she¡¯d seen personally.


    Dragan looked away. "I¡¯m ¡­ sorry to hear that." S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Mm," said Helga. "Unfortunately, the god that made me didn¡¯t put much effort in. So I found one that wasn¡¯t quite as lazy."


    "That¡¯s why you became a Humilist?"


    She nodded. "I know firsthand how bad things get when people just keep making whatever they want. After they get bored and move on, you get leftovers like me." Her eyes flicked to Bruno and Serena, unconscious in bed. "When you get down to it," she said quietly. "I feel like we¡¯re all someone else¡¯s leftovers. So don¡¯t rub it in."


    Those last words were laced with anger - anger at him invading Bruno and Serena¡¯s privacy. And with them, she stood up and began to walk out of the tent.


    "Helga," said Dragan, turning in his seat to call after her. He felt awful for dragging this interaction out, but curiosity clawed at him.


    She glanced back, facing the cloth wall next to her more than Dragan. "Yeah?"


    "You said there were a few hundred people like, uh, like you," he said, then paused. Screw it, there was no easy way to ask. "Are you, um .. alone, or? Is it just you?"


    "Do I have a family, you mean?" she said, giving voice to his thoughts.


    Dragan nodded.


    She blinked a second too long, like she was watching an old, pleasant memory through the inside of her eyelids. "Yeah," she said softly. "Here and elsewhere. We were separated a - a long time ago, but I¡¯ll see them again."


    Helga paused.


    "I have to believe that," she said, and left. The tent was silent, save for the tweeting of a far-away bird.


    Dragan sighed, feeling the tension drain from his body. That had been unbearably uncomfortable, but he¡¯d honestly brought it on himself. He should have just left well enough alone.


    He glanced down at the patient, and his heart almost stopped.


    Bruno del Sed was glaring up at him, eyes wide with feral hatred. His pupils were tiny pinpricks, dilated as far as they would go in delirium and fury. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn¡¯t what was in front of him.


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something, to maybe offer some kind of reassurance - but no words came out of his mouth. Instead, there was only a hollow choking sound.


    Bruno¡¯s hand was wrapped firmly around Dragan¡¯s throat, angry violet Aether sparking and swirling like a thunderstorm. Dragan tried to peel the hand off his neck, pulling with all his might, but Bruno was too strong. His grip was like a vise.


    "Cott," he growled, slurring his words, speaking to a phantom. "I¡¯ll gut you. I¡¯ll gut you."


    Even as the edges of his vision began to turn black, Dragan did his best to force words out of his mouth. "Not...Cott¡­" he said, his strangled voice like cracking ice. "You¡¯re...sick¡­"


    Bruno faltered for a moment, his grip loosening and allowing a breath of sweet air - before the hatred returned twofold, Bruno¡¯s teeth clenched in an expression of murderous fury. "Cott!" he snarled, renewing his assault. "Cott!"


    What could he do? Bruno would seriously kill him. Whoever he was seeing Dragan as, it was someone he hated more than anyone else in the world - and with the toxin messing with Bruno¡¯s head, Dragan wouldn¡¯t get anywhere by appealing to reason. Reason had gone out for a walk.


    And the grip was getting tighter.


    To hell with it, then. He didn¡¯t much want to assault a sick person, but he wanted his neck snapped even less. Dragan closed his eyes, aligned his mind -


    - and felt a rush of energy go through him as he brought out his Aether.


    He had the Aether concentrate around his throat, where Bruno was squeezing - that was where it was most needed. The violet coating Bruno¡¯s hand clashed against Dragan¡¯s blue, creating a miniature lightshow in the medical tent. He heard footsteps in the grass, rushing closer. Someone had noticed, then. Good.


    Bruno¡¯s grip didn¡¯t weaken in the least, but Dragan found it much easier to breathe as his Aether strengthened and enhanced his throat. Before long, he was breathing steadily - looking down as Bruno futilely kept trying to strangle him -


    - and as Mila ran into the tent, Dragan jerked backwards and broke free.


    Bruno grasped for a moment at empty air, growling something incoherent, before slumping back down into unconsciousness. Without his quarry right in front of his eyes, the waking world seemingly wasn¡¯t interesting enough for him.


    "What happened?!" Mila gaped, as.Dragan massaged his throat.


    "H-Hallucinating, I guess," he panted, taking a few safe steps away from the bed. "Thought I was someone else. Tried to strangle me."


    Mila swept her hair back. "Those tranquilizers should have had them out cold for hours," she said. "Shit."


    Dragan shrugged far more casually than he felt, one hand still making absolutely sure that Bruno hadn¡¯t snapped his neck like a twig and that this wasn¡¯t just his dying hallucination. "Guess¡­I guess the del Sed¡¯s disagreed with that."


    "It¡¯s the Aether stuff," said Mila, thumping her fist against a worktop. She was already shifting modes from panic to complaint. "You can¡¯t be sure anything works with that bullshit, because it¡¯s different for everyone. Gimme a break."


    "I¡¯m fine, by the way," said Dragan, collapsing back into his chair. "Totally didn¡¯t almost get turned into a tube of toothpaste."


    "Right, right," Mila gave Dragan¡¯s throat a cursory glance, before nodding in relief. "The Aether stuff¡¯s a godsend for you too, apparently. Should heal up nicely. You¡¯re made of sterner stuff anyway, right? You¡¯re part of that Skipper¡¯s crew."


    "For about two weeks."


    "Oh," Mila faltered slightly. "Well, anyway, you¡¯re not dead. Congrats."


    Her bedside manner was truly incredible. Dragan glanced back towards Bruno, now sleeping soundly in the bed again as if nothing had happened.


    Cott, huh? So there¡¯s someone you hate more than me. Useful to know.


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something else - but the second that he did, there was a distant sound like an explosion and the air shook.


    Nearly everything in the tent rattled - the bed, the tables, the chairs. Vials and jars rolled off shelves with a chorus of smashing sounds. The tent vibrated intensely as if being pushed by a strong wind.


    Dragan pulled himself out of the chair, unconscious tendrils of Aether already drifting around his hands. "The hell was that?!" he yelped, forgetting to check his blasphemy.


    Mila¡¯s eyes were wide, a quiet kind of shock in them. "Something just entered the atmosphere," she muttered. "Not gently, either. They wanted us to know."


    The flap of the tent opened, and the heterochromic boy that Dragan had seen earlier rushed in, almost falling over himself in his haste. When he looked up at them, his face was as red as the coat he was wearing.


    "Ms. Mila!" he said, eyes just as wide as hers. "There¡¯s a ship! There¡¯s a ship!"


    Mila squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, bringing a forced calm upon herself. "I see," she said, clearly struggling to keep her voice steady. "Aiden, fetch Helga and tell her -"


    "No!" The boy - Aiden, apparently - interrupted in a panic. "You don¡¯t get it! You don¡¯t get it, ma¡¯am! I scanned the ship - I, I used one of the scanners! It¡¯s a Supremacy ship!"


    Dragan¡¯s heart sank.


    "It¡¯s a Special Officer!"

 Chapter 26:2.8: Samael Ambrazo Zakos

    Dragan ran out of the medical tent, quickly followed by Mila and Aiden. The rest of the Humilists had already gathered into a small, worried crowd with Helga at their head. She was staring up at the sky with angry, resolute eyes.


    A small vessel had just broken through the cloud layer and was rapidly descending down towards the camp. It was a long, thin saucer - the only identifying features save for shape being the series of running blue-and-red lights along its underside.


    Not a ship that Dragan recognised, but he supposed that made sense. A lot of these Special Officers were narcissists who liked to stand out from their peers. As far as Dragan had seen, Atoy Muzazi had been a rare exception.


    A thought occurred. He¡¯d look really stupid if he said that and then Muzazi marched out of the ship, so he¡¯d keep that praise to himself.


    In any case, he, Bruno and Serena were screwed if they stuck around - any Special Officer who showed up would be eager to claim whatever rewards had been placed on their heads. He had to get them out of here.


    As the saucer descended, sending torrents of grass and a few loose tents flying away, Dragan turned to Mila.


    "I need to disappear, fast," he said seriously. "The stimulants - help me grab as many as I can and get Bruno moving around before that ship lands."


    Mila hesitated for a moment, then nodded - and the two of them began running back towards the medical tent. As they moved, a darkness fell; the saucer blocking out the sun with its descent, swallowing the camp into it¡¯s huge shadow.


    Dragan didn¡¯t look back: every second mattered. When you had a gun to your head, you couldn¡¯t worry about the lighting of it.


    -


    Special Officer Samael Ambrazo Zakos was in a good mood. Through the viewscreens, he could see that the crowd gathered at the front of the Humilist camp were terrified, staring up at his ship with wide eyes.


    Good. Good! He was being shown the respect he deserved as a Special Officer of the Supremacy! How ironic that only these foreign masses could properly comprehend his glory, while the fossils of the Supremacy simply sneered and called him unworthy.


    After passing his examination, Zakos had rightfully expected respect. He had become a living legend, after all. Wasn¡¯t it natural to expect respect?


    Yes! There wasn¡¯t even a question there! Like humans breathed air, Special Officers were to be respected. He had joined the ranks of the gods of combat, standing alongside the likes of Baltay Kojirough, Nigen Rush and Achilles Esmeralda! Would one deny them their respect, owed to them via their accomplishments and station? No! The very notion was absurd!


    Zakos¡¯ grip tightened on the controls, sickly yellow Aether whirling around his hands at incredible speeds. The tiniest crack formed in the direction sticks he was maneuvering with, and he eased his grip just a tad.


    Still, he was entitled to respect. A normal man deserved basic respect, so a legend deserved nothing less than adoration! This was the natural order of things, which could be denied no more than one could deny their need to breathe!


    And yet - and yet! Whispers behind his back, laughter, dismissive glances! A compendium of indignities upon his personage! Unacceptable! Unacceptable!


    The ship landed with a soft thunk. His entrance had been perfect: the opening to his very own festival of success. He¡¯d smashed through the atmosphere with ease, and now he landed soft as a pillow. He had displayed both the open palm and the closed fist.


    None could deny that - none, not even that arrogant bastard Atoy Muzazi. When they¡¯d passed each other after their examination, that bastard had looked at him like filth. Who was he to judge Zakos? He had passed the examination like everyone else! Even if his methods had differed, he was a Special Officer all the same! The indignity of it! To be looked at with those eyes! The indignity!


    Zakos cleared his throat and stepped up from his captain¡¯s seat, forcing calm onto his body. It wouldn¡¯t do for these people to see him agitated, even if it was a result of righteousness. He was the only living thing aboard his ship - The Chariot of St. Augustine - but outside there was no shortage of witnesses.


    He pulled up his sleeve and tapped a few buttons on his wrist-bound script. Two humanoid automatics unfolded themselves from the wall and rose to their full height, looking for all the world like metal skeletons. Plasma rifles were built into their arms, and dim blue light shone from deep inside their ¡¯eye sockets¡¯.


    They were expensive, yes, but that did not mean Zakos bought his victories. He simply exerted financial strength - and the technical strength to deploy and operate his automatics, too. Was that not equal - no, superior - to the simple physical strength that whelps like Atoy Muzazi demonstrated?


    Yes! The answer was yes!


    No matter. Muzazi would look a fool now anyway. Not only had Zakos managed to intercept the transmission meant for him, he would now - while Muzazi and his new partner were wasting time elsewhere - execute the mission that Muzazi had embarked on! He couldn¡¯t wait to see the swordsman¡¯s humiliated face once he brought his quarry¡¯s heads before him.


    "Prepare to deploy," he said, voice low and gruff, an utter contrast to the maelstrom raging in his mind. "Bodyguard formation. Accept active orders."


    He tapped his script and the automatics accepted his voice commands, taking up positions on either side of him.


    The hatch opened beneath him and the section of floor he was standing on began to slide downwards like an elevator. The welcome darkness of his ship was replaced by blazing sunlight.


    Samael Ambrazo Zakos descended.


    -


    Dragan wasn¡¯t gentle with the stimulants. One after another, he injected Bruno and Serena, making sure that every drop of the medicine made its way into their body.


    They should be able to get a few hours of lucidity out of this, and then - no, he couldn¡¯t think about that yet. He¡¯d come up with a solution for that. He had to.


    "How long is this gonna take?" he hissed, voice hushed as if the Special Officer was already in the room with them.


    Mila looked uncertain. "It ¡­ it depends."


    "Depends on what?" Dragan tried to shake Bruno and Serena awake, but it did no good.


    She looked at him. "Aether, maybe?"


    Shit.


    Like she¡¯d said, Aether could sometimes interfere with medicine, but this was ridiculous. Dragan was not dying because Bruno couldn¡¯t be bothered waking up. He tapped his hand against the worktop anxiously, hoping every second that Bruno would just open his eyes so they could get away.


    There was a heavy thud from outside, and Dragan¡¯s heart almost jumped out of his throat. He knew the sound of a ship landing when he heard it.


    To hell with it, then.


    He marched over to the bed, pushing a chair out of the way rather than walking around it, and pulled Bruno and Serena half out of the bed by their collar. Mila gasped, but he paid her no heed. It was do or die time.


    Dragan turned Bruno and Serena¡¯s head forcefully to the side, put his mouth as close to their ear as he could, and screamed:


    "Dragan Hadrien here! Wake the fuck up!"


    Bruno¡¯s eyes snapped open - yes, the look on his face was definitely Bruno - and he swung a clumsy, delirious fist at Dragan. With an Aether-infused hand, he easily batted the strike aside. Off-balance from the deflection, Bruno almost fell to the floor, bit Dragan caught him under the arm.


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    "Pull yourself together," Dragan snapped. "We¡¯re in deep shit. We need to get out of here - now."


    "W...wh¡­?" mumbled Bruno, not yet awake enough to form full sentences.


    Dragan took in a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut - the combination of the situation and Bruno¡¯s irritating attitude was stressing him out like nothing else, but there was no time to be petty. He needed to communicate the situation quickly and get them out of there.


    He opened his eyes.


    "Skipper and Ruth are off-planet," he said, forcing Bruno to look at him so he could be sure he was understood. "A Special Officer just landed. They¡¯re looking for us. We need to get out of here."


    Bruno¡¯s pupils - dilated from the stimulants - wavered for a moment, but then focus returned to them, and he nodded shakily.


    "I ¡­ yeah, gotta move - we gotta move," he said, thoughts clearly still a jumble. "Gotta get out of here. Which way?"


    "Huh?"


    Bruno glared at him, irritation pulling him back into lucidity. "Which ¡­ which way are we going? Opposite of the enemy. Where have they landed?"


    "Oh," said Dragan, nodding. He pointed in the vague direction of where the ship had been coming down. "They¡¯ve landed right in the center of the encampment. Right, Mila?"


    Mila nodded. "Right. Look, I - I need to get back, in case anyone gets hurt¡­"


    "Go back, then," said Bruno, taking charge. "I ¡­ if we move in too big a group, we¡¯ll be more easily noticed. You head back first, then we¡¯ll make a break for it through the back into - ugh - into the grasslands."


    Mila nodded again, then ran out of the tent. They heard her footsteps heading back in the direction of the ship.


    "Give it a minute or two," slurred Bruno, sitting down in the chair for a moment, breathing heavily. "I need to ¡­ catch my breath."


    Dragan turned on him, the stress coursing through his body like fire. "We can¡¯t just wait around!" he said. "Like I said, they¡¯re looking for us now! Get off your ass!"


    Bruno went to snap something back, but Serena asserted herself instead. "Sorry, Mr. Hadrien," she said sadly. "But we¡¯re really tired. We don¡¯t feel so good."


    Argh. He could yell at Bruno as much as he wanted, but with Serena it was like kicking a sad puppy.


    "Look," he said, wiping a hand through his hair. "I understand. I get it. Yeah. It¡¯s just that this is a fairly time-sensitive situation, you know? We need to get out of here now."


    "Right," said Bruno, grunting as he pushed himself out of his chair. "We go now."


    He walked towards the entrance of the tent, staggering at first, but quickly regaining his balance. As he moved, he pulled two large sheets of black fabric from a pile of spare materials and tossed one to Dragan.


    "Get yourself covered up," he said. "At the very least, they won¡¯t know one of us is which. They¡¯ll be more cautious before they attack if they¡¯re uncertain of their target."


    Dragan thought of sending some sarcastic comment back, of trying to reassert control of the situation. But ¡­ despite how much he didn¡¯t care for Bruno, he couldn¡¯t deny that the asshole probably knew what he was talking about.


    It was humiliating, but Dragan shut his mouth and did as he was told.


    -


    Aiden¡¯s teeth chattered as he watched the man march out of his ship, flanked on either side by a menacing-looking automatic.


    The man was tall with spiky red hair, eyes concealed behind a pair of jet-black sunglasses. His body was tense with muscle, and he wore a sweeping red long-coat. He grinned widely, showing off his teeth. They were dyed black, so it was almost like there were sunglasses over his mouth as well.


    But that wasn¡¯t the unusual thing about him. What was unusual were the man¡¯s arms: they were freakishly long, long enough that the fingers of his hands could drag themselves across the ground as he walked. Like an orangutan.


    The man stepped in front of their group, marched right up to Helga.


    "Howdy," the man said, voice gruff. "Special Officer Samael Ambrazo Zakos."


    Helga glared up at him. "What do you want? The Supremacy has no business here. This planet has no legal owner. You have no jurisdiction here."


    The Special Officer took a deep breath through his nose, as if restraining a sudden burst of anger. Then, he spoke with a seemingly easy smile.


    "For now, for now," he said. "But we Special Officers are a special breed, right? You know that. Wherever we stand is our jurisdiction. That¡¯s the kind of will we have, you know. So saying things like ¡¯you have no business here¡¯ is really just meaningless. You have to understand that, right?"


    Helga blinked, clearly a little overwhelmed by the verbal assault that had just been unloaded on her. Aiden thought of speaking up, but his mouth wouldn¡¯t move - and neither would his legs, for that matter.


    There wasn¡¯t anything he could do, anyway, so there was no point in saying anything. There wasn¡¯t anything cowardly about that. There wasn¡¯t.


    The Special Officer leaned in just a little, towering over Helga with that grin on his face. "The man called Skipper. Ruth Blaine. Yakob del Sed. Dragan Hadrien. Where are they?"


    Helga stared up into his eyes. "I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about," she said.


    Zakos took another deep breath through his nose, his hands clenching into fists and tearing out two bundles of grass in the process. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, head angled up towards the sky.


    "Take aim," he said - and the automatics flanking him suddenly pointed their arms towards Helga, the gun barrels protruding from their wrists glinting in the sunlight. A chorus of cries rang out from the crowd, and there was a scuffle as people tried to push past each other to move away.


    Aiden stayed where he was, body locked into place by fear. The only motion he was capable of was chattering his teeth.


    Move, he told himself desperately. She¡¯ll die! Say something! Do something!


    He didn¡¯t move. He said nothing. He did nothing.


    "Fire on three," said Zakos, sounding almost bored. Helga didn¡¯t budge. Plasma began to build up in the automatics¡¯ weaponry, each barrel producing a sinister orange glow. "One. Two. Thre -"


    Helga stepped forwards, as if to say something, to whisper some plea. But before she could -


    "Wait!"


    The voice echoed out and Zakos raised a hand, pausing the movements of the automatics. The Special Officer looked towards the speaker. Aiden turned his head to the left, to look as well - the sound had originated from right beside him.


    Dian stood there, ruined arm still contained in a cast bound to his chest. He was unsteady on his feet, but his glare towards Zakos was resolute.


    "You have something to say to me?" the Special Officer said, raising an eyebrow.


    Dian nodded. "Aye - they¡¯re here. The people you¡¯re looking for."


    Zakos waved his hand, and the automatics lowered their arms. "Oh?" he said. "And where might they be?"


    Helga looked at Dian, slowly shook her head while Zakos was looking away from her. Dian didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    "The palace," Dian said, swallowing. His expression was firm. "The ruins, I mean. They¡¯re hiding out in there."


    Zakos smiled, nodded at the lie. "I see, I see," he said softly. "Name?"


    "Huh?¡¯


    "Your name!" Zakos shouted, eyes suddenly wide, spittle flying from his mouth. Helga visibly winced, and Dian took a cautious step back.


    Aiden hadn¡¯t quite noticed it at first, but he realized now that over the last few minutes he¡¯d gradually been moving his body away from Dian, trying to get as far away as possible. Shame and self-loathing bubbled up inside him, and he sniffled - which only made him feel more pathetic.


    "Dian Mace," Dian said, standing straight, a peculiar kind of dignity to him. Even with a Special Officer staring angrily into his eyes, he didn¡¯t look away. He didn¡¯t even glance.


    "Good man, Dian Mace," said Zakos, his voice suggesting nothing of the sort. "Go to that palace and tell them to come present themselves before me. Otherwise¡­"


    He nodded his head towards the crowd. The message was clear.


    "As you say," Dian said through clenched teeth, turning and beginning his walk towards the palace, the crowd moving aside to grant him passage. He began to ascend the hill towards the stone goliath.


    Aiden could hardly breathe. What were they supposed to do? That lie would cover them for maybe five minutes, maybe five minutes - and once Dian came back empty-handed, they¡¯d be back at square one. Half of the people the Special Officer was looking for weren¡¯t even here anymore anyway, so couldn¡¯t they just tell him that? Wasn¡¯t that the smart thing to do? He¡¯d go look for them, and then they¡¯d be safe. He didn¡¯t want to die. He didn¡¯t want to die like this, helpless, and at the hands of someone who could erase him with barely any effort at all. It wasn¡¯t fair. They had to do something -


    "Fire," said Zakos.


    Aiden looked at him, a strangled squeak escaping from his throat. Helga simply screamed. Everything that unfolded in the next few seconds felt like a dream. S§×arch* The nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The automatics raised their arms again, pointed them towards Dian¡¯s shrinking back, and fired. Not just one shot, but a torrent of plasmafire. Dian looked back at the sound of the blasts, but it was too late.


    One blast hit him on the chin, sending him crumpling down to the floor with a hideous cracking noise. Two more hit him in the chest as he fell, producing a smell like that of burning meat and fabric. Dian collapsed into a motionless pile.


    But Zakos wasn¡¯t finished.


    The blasts continued - an endless hail of them - and when the smoke cleared there was no corpse, only a smoking skeletal ruin, liquid meat flowing into the grass beneath it. The stink was ¡­ unbearable, and Aiden was unable to restrain the urge to vomit. He wasn¡¯t the only one.


    Helga stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at what was left of Dian. Behind her, Zakos growled.


    "Wait, he says? Fuckin¡¯ interrupting me?" he muttered, trembling with fury. "Fuckin¡¯ lying to me? I don¡¯t fuckin¡¯ think so. Fuckin¡¯ bullshit. Don¡¯t go lookin¡¯ down on me, you fuckin¡¯ corpse."


    As he ranted, Aiden could see more figures emerging from the ship behind him - more automatics, totalling at least ten. They arranged themselves into a line behind their master.


    "Fan out!" Zakos barked. "Search the camp! I want these bastards found! I want them dead!"

 Chapter 27:2.9: On The Run

    Dragan¡¯s hands, holding his script, trembled. The viewfinder function on the device was still displaying Dian¡¯s remains, zoomed in to such a degree that he could even make out the small insects crowding over the puddle of ¡­ puddle of meat. Dragan swallowed down the foul feeling rising in his throat.


    "He killed him," he whispered, eyes fixed on the screen. "He killed him for, for nothing."


    It wasn¡¯t that he had a moral high-ground. Shooting people in the back when they weren¡¯t expecting it was his ultimate technique, after all. But still ¡­ he¡¯d never murdered anyone. Never turned their corpse into a travesty.


    He moved the viewfinder over to look at the Special Officer, still yelling inaudibly and waving his freakishly long arms. Silently, he snapped a photo, saved it to the script.


    You¡¯ll pay for that.


    It was a stupid thing to think, of course - he had no way of getting payback, and he hadn¡¯t even known Dian that well. Still, it seemed certain in his mind. That damn Skipper must have been rubbing off on him.


    Bruno¡¯s hand landed on Dragan¡¯s shoulder, heavy but trembling just the same. "We need to move," he hissed.


    They were just on the edge of the grasslands, where the terrain transitioned into hills covered with much longer flora. That would give them a hiding place, at least, but that didn¡¯t really solve the problem at all. Sure, they could hole up in a cave where those automatics wouldn¡¯t find them, but in a few hours Bruno and Serena would fall unconscious again - and without medical supplies on hand, it wouldn¡¯t be as pleasant a sleep as last time.


    He¡¯d managed to grab some sedatives on the way out - just in case Bruno went into another frenzy - but that wouldn¡¯t help once the symptoms of Decimatus-3 started showing themselves again. On top of that, Skipper and Ruth would be walking right into a trap once they returned from getting the medicine.


    They had to deal with this themselves.


    "Hadrien," Bruno said again, tugging at Dragan¡¯s arm a little more forcefully. "We need to go."


    Dragan looked up, scanned Bruno¡¯s face, the dilation of his pupils. At most, he had five hours of Bruno usage left. He¡¯d have to make good use of that.


    "Fine," he said quietly, and followed Bruno into the hills.


    A plan slowly began to slot together in his head, like the accumulation of clockwork. Sedatives, Aether, Bruno, Serena, the ruins, the Special Officer. He could use them. He could use them all.


    -


    "You didn¡¯t have to kill him," said the leader girl, glaring intensely at Zakos. That was fine, however. That kind of response was appropriate for the impression a Special Officer gave. Apathy would have been unacceptable.


    Zakos smiled, dignified. "I didn¡¯t need him alive, either. I don¡¯t need to keep around the kind of filth that would lie to me. That¡¯s an untoward influence. Does the lion permit the presence of the flea?"


    When he glanced through the crowd, their bodies instinctively cowered from his gaze. His smile spread just a tad.


    Oh, he was enjoying this. With the people who were supposed to be his comrades, there were always the mocking looks and the suppressed laughter. Here, though, he was getting the respect he deserved.


    Terror was a form of respect, after all - and the most potent. These people understood. The common folk were predisposed to fear, they understood it as their function. Only the truly exceptional could rise above that basic drive.


    Perhaps this white-haired girl was like that, then. Hatred was only one step above fear in terms of dignity, but a step was a step.


    "Your name?" Zakos said, grinning. The similarity to the question he¡¯d asked Dian Mace just before his execution was no coincidence.


    The lives of the common folk were conditional on the mood of their superiors, after all. Even children should know that.


    The girl forced the words out through clenched teeth: "Helga Malwarian."


    "Helga Malwarian," Zakos said, tasting the words. "I wonder if you¡¯d be able to tell me where exactly the man called Skipper and his entourage are. Don¡¯t you dare try to say they¡¯re in the ruins. That would make me very angry."


    Helga opened her mouth to speak, but Zakos interrupted her with a pointed finger. The doctor girl in the crowd stepped forward, but a glance from Helga stopped her in her tracks. An excellent decision.


    "Ah, ah," he chided. "Don¡¯t try to tell me you don¡¯t know, either. I know that you know. I can spot a liar a mile away."


    He nodded towards the wreckage of Dian Mace, and Helga¡¯s face turned red with fury, like a reactor about to go critical. That was splendid. Zakos wanted to see the measure of this person, prove his superiority to her when it came down to it.


    That was what the Supremacy was all about, after all. Victory in all arenas.


    "Choose your words carefully," Zakos concluded, lowering his voice until it was near a whisper. "Make sure they¡¯re something you¡¯d be happy having written on your tombstone."


    A moment passed in silence, save for the rustling of grass in the wind and the distant marching of his automatics. There was whimpering from within the crowd.


    Zakos¡¯ brow furrowed. Did she have to take so long to answer? This was annoying. He had better things to do.


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    "Well?" he said impatiently.


    Helga looked up at him, still glaring as if she hoped she could drill through his sunglasses with her eyes. "Skipper and Ruth Blaine aren¡¯t here," she said, voice forcing itself into a monotone to restrain the anger. "But they¡¯ll be coming back soon. I don¡¯t know who Yakob del Sed is, but Bruno and Serena del Sed are in the medical tent. Dragan Hadrien too."


    Zakos took in a deep breath through his nose, breathed out through his mouth. The calming techniques he¡¯d adopted while preparing for the examination still worked well. He could adjust his mood however he desired, and it never got out of control.


    But still, this wasn¡¯t the kind of answer he liked. Half his quarry wasn¡¯t here, and the authenticity of what was left was dubious. Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I see," he said slowly. "I hope you¡¯re not lying to me, Helga Malwarian."


    "I¡¯m not that stupid."


    "Are you not?"


    His hands lashed out, sending twin piles of dirt flying up from where they¡¯d just been resting on the ground. Helga stepped back, eyes widening, but she was too slow - in a second, he had her head held between his hands, keeping her in place. His grip was such that he could crush her skull with the slightest effort.


    Her life, too, was conditional.


    "Leave her alone!" screamed the doctor woman, showing the appropriate amount of fear. Zakos drank it in, smiling. This moment, here, with fate resting in his hands - it was the ideal of a Special Officer. The epitome of his very existence.


    He ignored her. That was his right.


    "Look at me, Helga Malwarian," he said quietly, angling Helga¡¯s face so that she had no choice but to look directly into his eyes. "Tell me you¡¯re being truthful. I¡¯ll know if you¡¯re lying. All I have to do is apply the tiniest bit of pressure, and you¡¯ll never lie again. Do you understand me?"


    Helga winced in pain, nodded.


    Oh, this was splendid. He truly loved these people. He¡¯d tried to create this scene before, on past missions, but circumstances always got in the way. He was taking the position he deserved.


    "Say it again," he said softly, his face so close to hers. "Look at me and say it again. Now."


    She looked at him. Her eyes were truthful. "Skipper and Ruth Blaine aren¡¯t here," she said, pained. "The rest were in the medical tent."


    He considered it, drumming his fingers along her forehead. She was telling the truth without a doubt, but that was immaterial. Should he kill her or not?


    It didn¡¯t really matter what he chose. The ultimate result would be the same either way. What mattered was that the choice was his and his alone.


    Slowly, he lifted her up by the skull, her feet leaving the ground. Still, she didn¡¯t flail. She didn¡¯t try to pry his hands away. She only glared at him with those wonderful resolute eyes. Yes, this was a person who understood the way of things.


    He let her go and she fell to the ground, landing in the grass with a soft thump. Immediately, the doctor ran over and began checking over her friend, running her hands over her head frantically. How touching.


    Losing interest, Zakos looked up and walked a distance away. The crowd appropriately parted to allow him passage. Yes, that was the way things should be.


    He tapped his wrist-bound script, activating direct reports from his automatics. He put the device close to his ear and spoke: "Focus medical tent. Report results of search."


    He heard the splendid sounds of the tent being torn apart in the distance, followed by a beep from his script. With a tap of the screen, the report came through. The automatic¡¯s tinny voice was awkward and stilted, formed from a library of pre-recorded words.


    "Search-complete. Search-unsuccessful. No-visual-match-for-targets. No-audio-match-for-targets. No-olfactory-match-for-targets. No-tactile-match-for-targets. Requesting-permission-for-level-two-search."


    His automatics were equipped with the very latest sensory equipment, far exceeding what any human was capable of, regardless of sub-species. If they said that his quarry was no longer there, then that was true without question.


    Zakos bit his lip, considering his next move. He could very well turn around and punch Helga Malwarian¡¯s head off with a single swing of his arm. He was within his rights to do that, exceedingly within his rights.


    But that would not benefit his dignity. Once a man of dignity makes a choice, he should not go back on it. All decisions were final. That was the justice that Samael Ambrazo Zakos deliberated on and executed. Immutable.


    He put the script to his mouth again. "Level 2 search permitted. Level 3 search preemptively permitted if necessary. If search is successful, begin tracking and dispatching of target elements, else return for new orders."


    "Commencing."


    That was what he liked about automatics. People were splendid if you could get them properly conditioned to respect you, but there was always the risk of disrespect if they got uppity. With automatics there was no such worry. They were efficiency itself.


    He smiled as the script beeped again. His assessment was proven correct so soon. The voice of his automatic rang out from his wrist.


    "Genetic-trace-located. Match-Dragan-Hadrien. Match-Yakob-del-Sed. Commencing-tracking-and-pursuit."


    Zakos¡¯ smile spread into a jet-black grin. The hunt was on. "Fetch me a chair!" he barked to the gathered Humilists. "My legs are tired."


    -


    The two of them were charging through the long grass, creating a flat trail behind them. It was unfortunate but unavoidable - they didn¡¯t have any time to cover their tracks.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes were half-closed; they had to be, or else the grass whipping at them would have already blinded him with the speed they were moving. The whole world was a rush of green coming towards him, the only contrast in that landscape being the form of Bruno running up ahead.


    Bruno had clearly had some training in this kind of escape - even with that poison in his system, his posture was rigid, his sprinting measured and exact. Some kind of military training, but not Supremacy. The UAP, then?


    Suddenly Bruno - no, Serena, the expression had changed - whirled around, eyes narrowed. For a moment, Dragan thought she¡¯d taken offense to his staring, before he realized that her gaze was focused at something behind him.


    Her hand lashed out - violet Aether coursing around it - and pulled out a large bunch of grass, the flora already forming into a flexible sword. She swung with blinding speed, the green blade lashing out like a whip.


    There was no time to think - instead, Dragan threw himself to the ground, landing almost flat on his face as the sword passed over his head. Hell, he could almost feel the sword brush through his hair.


    The sword clashed with something behind him - from the sound of it, something metal. Dragan rolled into a ready position and looked to follow Serena¡¯s gaze.


    It was one of that Special Officer¡¯s automatics, it¡¯s left arm hanging on only by a few wires. Despite its humanoid shape, it was on all fours like a dog, it¡¯s glowing blue eyes inspecting them as it cocked its head this way and that.


    Scanning them. Confirming them.


    "They¡¯ll have spread out in different directions to track us," said Bruno through Serena¡¯s mouth. "If we don¡¯t take care of this one quick, it¡¯ll send out a signal to let it¡¯s buddies know it¡¯s found us."


    Dragan nodded, readied his fists. Collections of blue Aether like boxing gloves began to coat them.


    They charged.

 Chapter 28:2.10: Confrontation Squared

    No words had to be spoken. The ideal strategy was obvious.


    Dragan came in from the left, Serena from the right. The automatic¡¯s eyes moved independently to follow each of their movements, it¡¯s body staying low to the ground, almost animalistic. It was poised, ready to defend or attack at a moment¡¯s notice.


    They didn¡¯t have the time to pummel this thing like they had with the ruin guard, nor the manpower. Thus, they needed to disable it quickly and efficiently. The best way to do that would be to remove or destroy the automatic¡¯s power source.


    Running around the automatic¡¯s left side, Dragan looked it up and down. This kind of metallic skeleton look wasn¡¯t standard for Supremacy automata, so it was probably a custom model. As such, he couldn¡¯t depend on any half-remembered schematics he¡¯d run across during his time in the AdminCorps.


    With a humanoid model like this, the usual expectation would be that the power source and the rest of the vital systems would be inside the section emulating the ribcage, so they definitely weren¡¯t there. Most likely it¡¯d be containing non-vital systems.


    The only other part of the automatic with room to hold a power source was the skull. That would be his target.


    The joints connecting the body and the head, then. He¡¯d attack that point repeatedly. Once the head was disconnected, the body would stop moving as well as a matter of course. It wouldn¡¯t be easy, of course. He¡¯d need to come up with a suitable strategy and execute it perfectly, while sustaining the minimum amount of damage.


    From what Dragan had observed, there were three primary methods of attack, none of which seemed to have especially good chance:


    1. Run straight at it with a frontal assault and provide a distraction while Serena attacked from behind. This wasn¡¯t an ideal plan of attack: not only was there a non-zero chance of him getting shot with the automatic¡¯s remaining good arm, there was no guarantee that Serena would be able to execute a solid attack in her current state. Still, success was possible.


    2. Serena ran straight ahead and drew the enemy fire while Dragan attacked from behind. While Serena could probably normally handle deflecting or dodging projectiles from a single opponent fairly easily, that didn¡¯t necessarily mean she was in any condition to do it right now. If she wasn¡¯t, the automatic could just dispatch her, turn around, and finish off Dragan. Besides which, Dragan wasn¡¯t sure he had the strength to tear the automatic¡¯s head off in the first place. Not the best plan.


    3. A simultaneous attack with the intent of confusing the enemy response and overwhelming them. This was a bad plan. Not only was it extremely likely that the automatic¡¯s systems could more than handle the concept of two attacks, it was almost assured that one of them would be injured - maybe killed - in the process. This was the kind of plan you came up with as an example for what not to do. Needless to say, doing this was completely out of the -


    - "Mr. Hadrien!" shouted Serena, charging forward with her grass-sword in hand. "Now! Simultaneous attack!"


    Idiot! Dragan screamed internally, charging forward all the same.


    The automatic whirled around to deal with Serena first - it¡¯s on-board systems were able to gauge the different levels of threat, then. It raised its good arm and fired off a burst of blazing orange plasma, the projectile leaving a burnt trail in the grass as it surged towards Serena.


    Serena span, deflecting the shot with the grass-sword she held in one hand while tearing out a new chunk of grass with the other one. The grass-sword burst into flame the moment the plasma came into contact with it, and Serena let it scatter in the wind - turning her new bundle of grass into a replacement at the same time.


    The automatic didn¡¯t just focus on Serena, however. At the same time as firing on her, it swung at Dragan with its damaged arm. The limb wasn¡¯t capable of complex movement in its current state, so the automatic used it as a blunt weapon instead, aiming right at Dragan¡¯s head as he ran in.


    Just like when he was fighting against Skipper, Dragan didn¡¯t have any time to worry about dignity. He threw himself to the ground, almost landing on his face, feeling the metal limb pass over his head.


    Serena swung her grass-sword, and the thing lashed out like a whip - snagging the automatic¡¯s left arm on the damaged joint. It was like a fishing rod hooking a fish.


    She bit her lip and her arms erupted into bright flashes of violet Aether, infusing them with as much strength as she possibly could. Then, she tugged, and there was the sound of tearing metal as the automatic¡¯s left arm was fully severed. It clattered to the ground, fingers still twitching weakly.


    The automatic didn¡¯t even glance at its severed arm - the advantage of a mechanical fighter, Dragan supposed. Instead, it continued its defense, letting loose a flurry of plasma fire at Serena with its good arm, doing it¡¯s best to keep her at a distance.


    Serena darted backwards into the long grass to avoid the plasma, and from there on the only sign of her movement was the very slight rustling of the undergrowth.


    Dragan¡¯s blood turned cold, his eyes wide.


    Idiot idiot idiot! The words were like a looping alarm bell in his mind. Now it¡¯s gonna focus on me!


    And focus on him it did, even as it fired wildly into the grass with its good arm. With a downwards snap of the automatic¡¯s neck, the shining blue orbs inside it¡¯s sockets stared into Dragan¡¯s eyes. Serena was no longer a reliable target. Dispatching the target in front of it was without a doubt the most logical option.


    With blinding speed, the automatic raised it¡¯s left foot and brought it back down again, aiming to stomp right on Dragan¡¯s chest. Thankfully, he was fast enough to roll sideways out of the way, and the metal foot came down into the soil, embedding itself in there a little. Still, it wouldn¡¯t take much effort for the automatic to pull it free.


    He¡¯d have to act fast, then.


    Dragan whipped his hand out, grabbing hold of the automatic¡¯s leg - specifically, the part corresponding to the human ankle. Calling upon his Aether as much as he could, he squeezed, doing his best to crush the limb in his hand like a can.


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    The metal creaked - just slightly - but it didn¡¯t bend in the least. A growl of exertion erupting from his throat, Dragan refocused his efforts. If spreading his Aether throughout his body meant that it wasn¡¯t strong enough, then he simply needed to be more selective in his efforts.


    Dragan squeezed his eyes shut and focused, trying to block out the sound of the automatic firing after Serena. Painfully slowly, he drew back the Aether that was coating his entire body and forced it to enhance only the hand holding onto the automatic¡¯s leg - no, only the very tips of the fingers of that hand.


    The sound of creaking metal grew louder - drowned out as it was by the plasmafire - until it culminated in a hollow-sounding snap, accompanied by a smell like that of burning paper.


    The automatic lurched to the side, but managed to steady itself with its other leg. At the same time, Serena burst out of the foliage, charging straight at the automatic with a grass-sword in each hand.


    It seemed like the automatic was about to turn it¡¯s full attention to Dragan, but Serena¡¯s sudden charge took full priority. It raised its good arm in her direction, pointing straight at her head, and Dragan saw the telltale orange glow intensifying inside the barrel.


    Even with a gun pointed right at her face, Serena just grinned as if that was what she¡¯d been planning for. Immediately, the grass-swords in her hands crumbled and scattered in the wind. Her eyes narrowed, her grin transitioned into a serious scowl.


    Violet Aether deepened into purple as Bruno took control.


    In the moment before the automatic fired, Bruno thrust his palm forward and the air just outside the automatic¡¯s gun barrel began to ripple unusually. Dragan¡¯s eyes widened as he realized just what had happened: Bruno had created one of his forcefields right next to the guns barrel, where the shot was about to come out. When the automatic fired, it would -


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    Colliding with the forcefield, the shot burst while still partly inside the automatics arm. Fragments of half-melted metal went flying in every direction as the arm exploded, and Dragan had to cover his face with his hands to make sure it wouldn¡¯t be hit by a stray fragment of shrapnel or plasma.


    The automatic, now armless, staggered back - it¡¯s previously blue eyes now a dangerous red. It tried to recover, lifted a leg with which to kick Bruno with force like a pile driver, but Bruno wasn¡¯t there anymore.


    Instead, Serena ducked under the kick, picking up the severed left arm of the automatic as she came low to the ground. There was a flash of violet Aether, accompanied by the sound of screeching and warping metal.


    The arm reshaped itself into a metal broadsword, smoke rising from inside it as the numerous internal components were smashed beyond recognition. Spare plasma, too, began to leak from the cracks in the sword¡¯s surface. Likely it would only last a few seconds.


    But those few seconds were all Serena needed.


    The violet Aether coating Serena¡¯s arms were joined by twin flares infusing her legs - and with them, she kicked off the ground, moving so fast that she seemed more like a violet line speeding through Dragan¡¯s vision than an actual humanoid figure. And that violet line was headed directly for the automatic.


    The Automatic didn¡¯t even get the chance to move. The violet line passed it - and a moment later, its head went flying off, the neck-joints cleanly carved away, a few drops of plasma from the sword still smoking on its upper torso.


    The body crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, and the head fell to the floor. The red lights in its eyes died, and the whirring that had previously been audible inside it¡¯s casing trailed off.


    Dragan picked himself up and took a deep breath, doing his best to ignore the noxious scent of burnt grass. Serena skidded to a halt, leaving a trail of steam behind her as her Aether dissipated.


    She breathed out, hard. "Wow. That was harder than I thought it would be! How are you, Mr. Hadrien?"


    Dragan put his hands on his knees, bending over as he caught his breath. His Aether slowly drifted off of him like crackling blue smoke. "I¡¯m...I¡¯m fine. I¡¯m okay."


    Serena gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, grinning widely. "That¡¯s super!"


    The thumbs-up didn¡¯t have a long lifespan. A moment later, Bruno took the hand down and plunged it into his pocket, scowling.


    "We need to keep moving," he said, stalking past Dragan, eyes flicking this way and that in search of further threats. "You weren¡¯t exactly quiet back there."


    Dragan frowned. "Me? I barely did anything - you and Serena were the ones sending out the heavy artillery."


    "Exactly," said Bruno, not even looking at him. "You barely did anything."


    A surge of anger ran through Dragan¡¯s body, turning his blood hot. They were on the run, with more automatics probably not far behind them, and Bruno couldn¡¯t resist the urge to indulge this petty grudge of his.


    He didn¡¯t move. Instead, he spoke: "Okay. Okay. Tell me this, then, Bruno. What is - what exactly is your plan here? We run, we keep running, then what? What happens once you¡¯re out-of-action again? Hole up in a cave and hope for the best?"


    Bruno sighed. "You have a better idea?" Barely a second passed before he continued: "Didn¡¯t think so."


    Dragan¡¯s hand landed on Bruno¡¯s shoulder and he whirled him around with all his strength, forcing him to look right at him. Bruno¡¯s eyes were wide - this had surprised him. Dragan jabbed a finger right in his face, narrowly resisting the urge to make it a fist instead.


    "Listen, asshole," Dragan hissed, finger shaking from anger, his hand gripping Bruno¡¯s thin shoulder as hard as it could. "I¡¯m getting really fucking sick of your attitude."


    Bruno scowled. "Get your hands off me -"


    "I¡¯m talking now," growled Dragan, and Bruno actually stopped talking for a moment. "I really don¡¯t care if you don¡¯t like me. I couldn¡¯t care less if you don¡¯t trust me. I do not care about you in the least. If you have a problem with me, just come out and say it, like five-year olds know how to. It wasn¡¯t long ago I saved your life, so don¡¯t keep throwing all this petty shit at me. Especially not right now. Got it?"


    Bruno glared at Dragan, so close that he could see his own reflection in Bruno¡¯s eyes. Without a doubt he could get out of Dragan¡¯s grip without much effort at all. Instead, he glanced away, clearly uncomfortable with being challenged.


    "Fine." He pretty much spat out the word.


    Dragan let him go and Bruno staggered backwards, rubbing his shoulder. That had felt good. A wonderful bit of schadenfreude from the annoyance Bruno had become in the last few days.


    "So," he muttered, after a moment or two. "What is your plan, then?"


    "Waiting is a loser¡¯s game," replied Dragan, kneeling down and picking up the automatic¡¯s fallen head with both hands. "We¡¯ll come up with a strategy, isolate that Special Officer, and take him out ourselves."


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly are we supposed to do that?"


    Dragan smiled grimly, looking down at the skull in his hands. It was the latest gear for his clockwork-in-progress.


    "We know our enemy."

 Chapter 29:2.11: Argument and Analysis

    The man called Samael Ambrazo Zakos strode through a battlefield, hands clasped behind his back, allowing his automatic entourage to do their work.


    The landscape was black sand, seemingly-endless black sand, punctuated by the occasional scrap of debris. Not far away, the remains of a ship stuck out of the sand, black smoke pouring out of it. From the look of the vessel, it was some kind of patchwork freighter, likely used by a pirate crew or smuggler gang.


    The pirates or smugglers - whichever they were - took cover behind the debris embedded into the ground, a ragtag band of soon-to-be-corpses. Listening, Dragan could hear them shouting to each other in a variety of languages, doing their best to keep their heads under cover as the endless rain of the automatic¡¯s fire poured forth.


    Zakos stopped, frowning slightly. He¡¯d clearly expected this fight - whatever it had been - to be over by now. This was a man who disliked drawn-out confrontations, then, and preferred gratification on a shorter timescale.


    The Special Officer stopped walking, and instead thrust a huge palm forward, his long arm fully extended out. Jaundice-yellow Aether sparked around the arm, like a serpent coiling around it. A wicked grin spread across his face. While he preferred not getting his hands dirty, it seemed that he enjoyed it all the same.


    Some of the shards of debris his enemies were hiding behind began to vibrate in the ground - and a moment later they burst out of it, flying towards Zakos¡¯ outstretched hand as if being pulled by some invisible force. Even one of the enemies themselves - a shorter man - went hurtling towards Zakos, screaming all the while.


    Just before the collection of rubble reached Zakos, the Special Officer closed his fist - and everything that had been flying towards him dropped down to the ground. The unfortunate enemy, too, went tumbling down to the ground, rolling painfully until he came to a stop at Zakos¡¯ feet.


    The man looked up. Zakos looked down.


    The Special Officer grinned, and his foot came down. Dragan stopped the video file just as a grotesque crunch rang out.


    He put the script down, swallowing down his nausea. Clearing his throat, he turned to look at Bruno.


    "And there you have it," Dragan said.


    They were sitting in a small cave they¡¯d managed to track down after destroying the automatic that had crossed their path. Bruno was sitting leaning against the cave¡¯s stone wall, while Dragan had set up a little section for his own use on a nearby rock.


    His script now lay on that rock, along with the metallic skull of the automatic. A small cable ran from one of the skulls eye-sockets to a slot on the side of the script.


    Bruno shrugged. "And there I have what?"


    Dragan tapped his finger against the script¡¯s screen. "That¡¯s his ability. He pulls all objects of a certain size into his hand. We can use that to come up with a strategy - so we can beat him."


    With a shake of his head, Bruno spoke: "No. Bad idea. We¡¯re in no state to take on a Special Officer."


    Dragan sighed, ran his hands over his face. "Listen," he said. "You¡¯re already looking pale again. In a couple of hours, you¡¯re gonna be out cold - and without Mila to keep you stabilized, there¡¯s a pretty good chance you¡¯ll end up worse than that before long."


    "And," snapped back Bruno. "If we try and take on a Special Officer and his army of automatics by ourselves, we¡¯ll be dead even sooner. The best thing to do would be to wait for Ruth and Skipper to come back. We¡¯ll join back up with them, deal with the asshole, and be on our way."


    Dragan gritted his teeth. "Oh, you¡¯ll join up with them? I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be glad to have a corpse on their side. Really made up."


    Bruno glared at him, looked as if he were going to say something more, but swallowed the words. A moment later, Bruno¡¯s face became Serena¡¯s.


    "Sorry, Mr. Hadrien," she pouted. "Bruno¡¯s real mad. I¡¯ll try to calm him down, but he¡¯s not coming out for now."


    Sighing, Dragan fell down into a sitting position, thumping the ground with his fist in frustration. He had a plan, he knew the way he could win, but Bruno just wouldn¡¯t listen. He¡¯d managed to get a good idea of Zakos¡¯ capabilities from the records in the automatic¡¯s file storage, but that information was useless if he didn¡¯t have the resources to exploit it.


    "He¡¯s not a bad guy," said Serena, smiling sadly. "He just doesn¡¯t trust you, Mr. Hadrien."


    "And why¡¯s that, then?" grumbled Dragan, picking up a loose rock and tossing it at the far wall, where it made a satisfying clatter. "I saved his life - yours, too. What more do you have to do to get someone to trust you?"


    Ugh. That had come out badly. The way he¡¯d said it, it sounded like he¡¯d saved Bruno and Serena for the purpose of getting them to trust him. Well, Serena didn¡¯t seem too bright. Likely she wouldn¡¯t read that deeply into it.


    Probably there¡¯d been a little of that, but the whole thing had really been spur of the moment. His body automatically doing a stupid thing, like what had happened with Ruth Blaine.


    Serena considered the question for a minute, putting a finger to her chin and looking upwards, as if for divine inspiration. "Um¡­" she said. "I don¡¯t think Bruno trusts anyone, Mr. Hadrien."


    "Figures. How about you?"


    Again, the exaggerated consideration. "You seem nice, Mr. Hadrien, so I trust you. But nice people have done bad things to us before, so I dunno."


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    Of course. Now Serena was doubting him. "Was that, uh, Cott, then?" he said wearily. "I heard Bruno mention that name."


    "Mr. Hadrien."


    "Mm?" mumbled Dragan, staring at the cave wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.


    "Mr. Hadrien."


    "What?" said Dragan, turning to look at her. The second he did, his heart almost leapt out of his chest.


    The same smile was on Serena¡¯s face, but her eyes were like ice, an eerie calm. She was unnaturally still, staring at him. Angry sparks of violet Aether trailed along her hands, and cracks were slowly spreading along the stone she was gripping with them.


    "Mr. Hadrien," she said, with a sweetness like a subtle blade. "Please don¡¯t say that name in front of me again. Ever."


    Mutely, Dragan nodded.


    He had no doubt that Serena could dispatch him with ease, if she ever had a mind to. Bruno excelled in defense, but Serena was capable of relentless, ferocious attack.


    "Okay!" Serena grinned, all restrained anger disappearing from her expression in a second. "Anyway, like I was saying, I think you¡¯re nice, and you seem pretty smart like Mr. Skipper, so I think I¡¯ll probably go along with whatever your plan is. Bruno can be mad about it, but he has to do whatever I do since we both have one body anyways. It¡¯s annoying sometimes, but that¡¯s just the way it is, I guess, y¡¯know?"


    Dragan blinked. Apparently, Serena agreed with him, but it really felt like he¡¯d been subject to a verbal avalanche.


    "Uh, thanks," he said, scratching his cheek.


    "So," said Serena, leaning forward excitedly. "What is your plan, Mr. Hadrien?"


    Dragan unfolded his Archive, and began to speak.


    -


    Samael Ambrazo Zakos took in a deep breath through his nose as he looked down at the wreckage of one of his precious automatics. Two of its fellows flanked him, pointing their plasma rifles warily into the undergrowth surrounding them.


    Unbelievable. Unbelievable. What a wasted investment. What an insult to his financial power. His automatics were the finest money could buy, fit only for the upper echelon of Special Officers. By destroying one of them, Hadrien and del Sed were as good as saying that he, Samael Ambrazo Zakos, did not fit into that category.


    How dare they? How dare they?!


    Another breath through the nose as he knelt down, looking at his automatic¡¯s remains. The majority of the torso and the melted remains of one arm, along with the legs - one of which was snapped in half.


    The skull and one arm were missing. Stolen, pillaged. The insolence of such a thing. It was not something that could be forgiven without blood.


    Just like Atoy Muzazi, they were looking down on him like trash, like pirate trash. Conceited. Disrespectful. Unacceptable.


    Unacceptable.


    Punishment was needed. Immediate punishment. Even if they were not yet in his grasp, he had to punish them all the same. Otherwise this insult would sit in his stomach like a stone, weighing down, holding him underneath the water.


    A wonderfully just thought popped into his head. A black grin spread across his face.


    "With me," he said, driving his foot through the ribcage of the failure. "I have business with that Humilist camp."


    -


    Bruno del Sed was in the past again.


    It wasn¡¯t so bad. Usually, when he gave up control of the body, he entered a wonderful inky blackness where he could sleep without interruption. The rest of the time, he ended up here, inhabiting old memories.


    If those memories ended up being of the six months they¡¯d spent in that interrogation room on Tas, it was hellish, but luckily that wasn¡¯t the case this time.


    He was laying in a field in Corus IV, nestled in a bed of fool¡¯s ice. The fragile crystals exuded a slight warmth, and Bruno felt as if he could have just fallen asleep there forever. Maybe it would have been better for everyone if he had; that way, he wouldn¡¯t have met Cott. Wouldn¡¯t have ended up being so fucked.


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    The whole world smelled like mint. Twin suns occupied the sky above, exuding a calm blue glow that made it feel as though the whole planet were underwater. He¡¯d always loved that sky. Yakob had too.


    "Hey," said Serena calmly, from a little bit behind him.


    Bruno sighed. It wasn¡¯t as if this was unexpected: Serena wasn¡¯t the kind of person who could leave him alone when he was so obviously agitated.


    He sat up, tiny crystals of fool¡¯s ice falling off his clothes, and looked towards her.


    Like him, she looked a few years younger - at the time of this memory, they¡¯d been around fifteen or so. She was wearing a sundress, hands clasped behind her back, looking up at the sky with a frown.


    "Feels like I¡¯m gonna drown here," she said, frowning.


    Bruno smiled wearily. "You never liked it here, did you?"


    His gaze drifted past her, to the red dome a distance away, half-embedded into a mountain. The facility they¡¯d grown up in. Deep down, Bruno knew he thought of it as home, but Serena had never felt the same.


    "What¡¯s there to like?" she said, brow furrowed. "It feels like a prison here. I like being able to do what I want."


    He raised an eyebrow. "Why are you listening to Dragan Hadrien, then?"


    "Because I want to. It seems like a good idea to me."


    "Well," he scowled. "You really are an idiot, then."


    He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. Serena looked at him, eyes sad, blinking.


    "Sorry," he said, hurriedly. "I didn¡¯t mean that. You know I didn¡¯t mean that. It¡¯s just ¡­ everything, you know? This all rings familiar to me."


    She nodded. "Yeah," she said softly. "I know."


    He sighed, looked up at the sky, like the twin suns there were a pair of eyes he could look into for truthfulness. There was a right answer here, a correct way to do things, but he desperately didn¡¯t want to do it.


    Was there another way, though?


    "Okay," he said, just as softly. To an outside observer, it would have been difficult to tell their voices apart. "I don¡¯t trust Hadrien. But I trust you."


    "Thank you so much."


    Bruno nodded, took in a deep breath, as if to force down his pride with it.


    "So," he said. "What¡¯s this plan of his, then?"

 Chapter 30:2.12: Hart Code

    "You are men and women of God," said Samael Ambrazo Zakos, pacing in front of the assembled Humilists as he marched. "As such, I will explain the situation in terms that are most relevant to you."


    He¡¯d had his automatics drag the Humilists from their tents and thrown down in the clearing at the center of the encampment, where he¡¯d had that insubordinate Dian Mace executed not so long ago. The majority of the Humilists stayed on their knees, teeth chattering, eyes wide with fear - but there were a few scant exceptions.


    Helga Malwarian and the doctor woman standing next to her were the ones who stood out the most. They were standing, for one - even the others who looked at him with the shadow of defiance didn¡¯t dare to rise from their knees. He directed his words to those two, then.


    "There is such a thing as objective sin," he intoned, hands clasped behind his back, as if he were communicating the wisdom of heaven. "And this need not be direct sin. No, objective sin can be sin through association, too, sin through apathy. Apathy is the worst of it, yes."


    Zakos pointed a long finger at Helga as he continued. "And, and, you people are without a doubt guilty of that objective sin of apathy. Through conscious inaction, you have allowed evil forces to trample upon a man¡¯s pride. Punishment is necessary. Punishment is vital in cases such as this, or you people will never learn, and the wounds you have cut will never close."


    Helga glared. "Haven¡¯t you done enough? You¡¯ve already killed Dian."


    "I have killed one insubordinate," acknowledged Zakos with a nod. "With the assumption that he was but a bad apple. It seems, however, that this is not the case. The rot runs deeper than I initially thought."


    He was trying to portray the image of a harsh but fair commander, but he couldn¡¯t stop a grin coming to his face all the same.


    "Collective punishment is the only thing that can save you now."


    At once - as he had instructed them to previously - the automatics aimed their rifles at the crowd of Humilists. Screams rang out, people trying to go as low to the ground as they could, make themselves as small a target as possible.


    The doctor woman dropped too, trying to pull Helga down with her, but the white-haired woman didn¡¯t move. She didn¡¯t even blink.


    Oh, how splendid. Someone like her could properly appreciate the dignity of a Special Officer.


    Zakos tapped a button on his wrist-script, activating the long-range communications on his ship. It would relay his voice, loud enough to reach for quite some distance. He put the script to his mouth.


    "Hadrien, del Sed," he said, his voice echoed a moment later by his ship. "I speak directly to the two of you now.


    The grass shuddered from the sheer volume of the sound coming from the ship¡¯s systems, bringing a smile to Zakos¡¯ face. Even the planet was responding to his will. This was true strength. This was supremacy.


    "I would like to speak to the two of you," he continued. "But it seems like you don¡¯t want to speak to me. This saddens me. This insults me. You understand that action must be taken, yes? So that is what I shall do."


    His gaze drifted over to the crowd again, his eyes locking onto those of Helga Malwarian. She glared at him, but he just kept smiling as he spoke.


    "For each hour you do not present yourselves to me, I will have one of these Humilists shot. I hope you are a merciful sort."


    An audible wave of despair went through the Humilist crowd, and Zakos drank it in, eyes wide. He had done this. He had made this difference to their minds.


    In this moment, he was supreme.


    An Aether ping struck him.


    He stepped forward, winced, hesitated for a moment as if frightened that an attack would hit him. The instant he realized that was what he¡¯d been doing, a roar of anger escaped his throat, fury at the fact that his enemies had tricked him into disgracing himself.


    Unacceptable. Unacceptable! Where were they?!


    The direction the Aether ping had come from made it obvious - whoever had sent out was hiding in the ruins. Another flare of anger hit Zakos, and he sucked a deep breath in through his nose. Had Dian Mace been telling the truth, then?


    No. Impossible. A Special Officer of his rank could not make such amateurish mistakes. Hadrien and del Sed must have retreated to the ruins after seeing the strength of his forces - his strength.


    This Aether ping was a simple sign of surrender, a consent to execution. He wouldn¡¯t get his show, but that was fine too, he supposed.


    "Into the ruins," he muttered a little despondently into his wrist-script, commanding his automatics. "Locate targets and dispatch, full lethal."


    The automatics began to march as one in the direction of the ruins, plasma rifles pointed in front of them - when another Aether ping hit Zakos.


    Again, he flinched, and had to take a deep breath in through his nose to suppress it. They were taunting him now? How unsightly. They were clearly already suicidal, but now it seemed they were masochistic too, intent on a death most painful.


    The Humilists were looking around, confused at his sudden change in demeanor. From their perspective, their captor had concocted a brilliant plan and instantly abandoned it. He must look disgraceful in their eyes. S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He was losing their fear. He was losing their respect.


    He balled his huge hands into fists, let a growl escape his throat as more Aether pings hit him, one after another, weakly but insistently.


    They were trying to infuriate him. They must be. But it wouldn¡¯t work!


    ...he wondered if his automatics had enough firepower to blow those damn ruins up.


    Slowly, as more Aether pings struck him, Zakos came to a realization. These pings were not a random assault upon his dignity. They were specifically timed, down to the second. They were a message.


    Hart code, used by intelligence operatives across the galaxy to encode messages. Language converted into a series of timed beats.


    Those Aether pings were Hart code.


    C-O-W-A-R-D.


    Zakos¡¯ arms dropped to flop at his sides, hands balled into such fists that blood was dripping from his fingernails. He took in one deep breath through his nose, then another, then another.


    "All automatics stop," mumbled Zakos, but the machines kept moving. His voice had been too soft for them to pick up.


    That was fine. That was splendid. Another deep breath. Another deep breath, another deep breath, another -


    "All automatics stop!" Zakos screamed, with such force that the air around him seemed to shiver. Even the previously unflappable Helga flinched at the sudden burst of feral sound.


    As one, the automatics stopped in their tracks, arms falling to their side in echo of their master. They stared straight ahead, emotionless - they felt none of the humiliation that Zakos did.


    Coward? Coward? They had called him a coward? The word was like acid burning through his mind. Coherent thought shattered in the face of such humiliation.


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    Unacceptable. Totally unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. Lethally unacceptable. They wouldn¡¯t get away with that. No self-respecting Special Officer could allow them to get away with that.


    Which one was it? Whose neck must he crush between his hands? From what he¡¯d read, del Sed had been an intelligence operative for the UAP. They must be the guilty party.


    His gaze turned up to the ruins, to that colossus that now represented an intolerable insult. They were in there. He could feel them still - feel the remnants of that detestable Aether contaminating the air.


    "All automatics save two follow me," growled Zakos. "Remaining units guard these people and make sure none of them leave this area. Authority for lethal fire granted."


    And with that, he began ascending up the hill, fingers carving long angry trails in the soil behind him. Coward, was he? The disrespect was astounding, the stupendous stupidity required to make such an accusation clear. He¡¯d educate them, then.


    He¡¯d tear them to pieces until they wept and begged for forgiveness that would never come. Oh, that would be sweet, yes. Intoxicating. Coward, was he? He¡¯d see if they had the courage to call him a coward when he was holding their nerves between his fingers, their eyes between his teeth.


    His line of seven automatics behind him, he reached the entrance to the ruins. The gaping entrance was pitch-black, like the mouth of hell. Well, he¡¯d show those fools that, for them, he was the master of that place.


    "Wait out here," Zakos commanded his automatics, voice low. "Be ready to enter and switch to bodyguard configuration if I give the order."


    He¡¯d give them a fair chance at a confrontation, of course - he was no coward - but there was no way he would risk himself on such an insignificant matter.


    With another deep breath through his nose, Samael Ambrazo Zakos embarked on his retribution.


    -


    In the darkness of the ruin¡¯s main hall, Dragan Hadrien looked up. He was clad in a hastily-made cloak made from one of the scraps of black fabric they¡¯d taken from the medical tent, big enough to cover the supplies he¡¯d brought for his plan.


    The sound of footsteps approached.


    Quickly, Dragan took one last look at the hall¡¯s layout. A huge, rectangular room - with four gargantuan pillars, one in each corner, and the wreckage of a great stone table in the center. Dragan was standing at the head of the room, between the two top pillars, while the entrance that he was watching was opposite.


    He took a mental snapshot of that, placed it carefully inside his Archive.


    Everything was in position. Dragan took a deep breath, adjusted his cloak to make sure that it was covering everything except his face. He did his best not to look at the pillar to his left: he couldn¡¯t give the game away too quickly.


    The sound of footsteps got louder - and a moment later, a hulking silhouette appeared in the entrance, freakishly long arms swaying from side to side.


    Samael Whatever Zakos strode into the room, looking as dignified as a shit on the side of the road.


    "Hey there," Dragan said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Even with how pathetic the Special Officer was, he was still capable of killing Dragan without much effort. He had to play things carefully.


    "Dragan Hadrien?" said Zakos, his voice a low growl. He cracked his fingers, clearly already itching to have his hands around Dragan¡¯s throat.


    "That¡¯s right," said Dragan, tensing his body, ready to start moving at a moment¡¯s notice. "Samael Zakos, right? I¡¯ve been meaning to meet you."


    Zakos glared at him, as Dragan had expected. "Samael Ambrazo Zakos. I¡¯ve come to carry out your execution."


    "Oh?" laughed Dragan mockingly, arching an eyebrow at the angle he¡¯d decided upon earlier. "That¡¯s a pretty big job. Are you sure you¡¯re up for it? Shouldn¡¯t they have sent someone more, uh, experienced?"


    The Special Officer stared at him, face impassive for a moment, before taking a deep, sharp breath through his nose. "If you come here promptly," he said, teeth clenched. "And respectfully, I¡¯ll ensure your death is quick and painless."


    Clear lie, judging from his facial expression. It wasn¡¯t a very enticing offer either way, to be honest.


    It did give Dragan the opportunity he¡¯d been looking for, either way.


    "No thanks," he smirked, giving Zakos the most dismissive look he could muster, one hand on his hip. "You¡¯re not that intimidating. This room¡¯s huge, anyway - by the time you get over here, I¡¯ll be long gone."


    Not the most subtle of provocations, but Samael Ambrazo Zakos didn¡¯t seem like the most subtle man.


    Zakos took the bait. With a sigh, he raised his palm in Dragan¡¯s direction, piss-yellow Aether already charging around his arm.


    There. With a flare of his own bright blue Aether, Dragan leapt to the left, behind the cover of the pillar waiting there.


    -


    Hadrien jumped to the left side, behind the pillar there, as if a flimsy construction like that could stop a Special Officer. Delay him, maybe - at most for a few seconds. It was more amusing than anything.


    Chuckling, Zakos strolled towards the pillar, palm still extended. His Plunder Reach had already locked onto Hadrien¡¯s size and shape, after all. The second a target with those specifications entered his field of vision, they¡¯d be pulled towards him.


    Zakos licked his lips. No matter how far Hadrien ran, he¡¯d always be within his reach.


    "It¡¯s pointless to flee, Mr. Hadrien," he gloated - an indulgence, yes, but not an undeserved one. "You were dead the second you betrayed the Supremacy. I¡¯m simply making the matter official."


    He could play with this brat¡¯s emotions like a puppet with its strings. Fear was a fire that was easy to stoke. Before long, it would devour the Hadrien brat.


    Hadrien jumped out from behind the pillar again as Zakos began to walk around it.


    There.


    Cloak pulled around him, Hadrien was charging straight for the exit behind him. A foolish plan. Zakos had already told Hadrien that he was always in his reach, hadn¡¯t he? For a Cogitant, he really was stupid.


    Hadrien¡¯s escape came to an unceremonious end as Plunder Reach took firm hold of him - and a second later, the brat was instead flying straight for Zakos¡¯ open palm. He¡¯d crush him. The second the brat made contact with him, he¡¯d crush that disrespectful skull in his fist.


    Zakos grinned. I¡¯ve won.


    As he turned over in the air, Hadrien¡¯s cloak went flying off, hanging in the air like an obsidian flag. Zakos¡¯ eyes widened. Hadrien was not Hadrien. When he¡¯d dived behind the pillar, he¡¯d switched places with someone else.


    The person flying towards him was del Sed, violet Aether flaring around them like a star. Zakos closed his hand, cancelling Plunder Reach, but it was too late - momentum was already carrying del Sed over to him.


    As they flew, del Sed¡¯s Aether trailed along the stone ground beneath them - and fragments of the floor began to tear themselves out, following after del Sed like a trail of shooting stars.


    Zakos roared, flaring his own yellow Aether around himself for defense. He could withstand a blow from this scum. He could withstand a thousand blows from scum like this.


    But ¡­ what he was witnessing was¡­


    Due to del Sed¡¯s fast movement, the momentary flare of Aether along the ground had covered a very large area - and so the collection of rocks following after them, collecting into an object in their hands, was truly gargantuan.


    Zakos¡¯ eyes widened as the construction in del Sed¡¯s hands completed itself.


    A huge stone sword - likely four or five times the size of del Sed. Violet Aether coated both the weapon and del Sed¡¯s arms, giving them the strength to wield a weapon that would have shattered bones just from the effort otherwise.


    As del Sed flew through the air towards Zakos, a wild grin on their face, they raised the weapon over their head. Zakos raised his own arms to block.


    Still, he could withstand that. He could withstand that.


    Couldn¡¯t he?


    The sword came down, exploding from the force of the blow in a shower of rubble and violet Aether. Zakos stood his ground for a moment - but before long, he was sent flying backwards, one arm audibly cracking and falling limp as he rolled to a stop near the entrance he¡¯d first walked in through.


    For what it was worth, del Sed didn¡¯t fare much better. The second after they¡¯d brought the sword down, they¡¯d collapsed too. A combination of the exertion needed for that attack and a pre-existing condition, judging from that deathly pallor.


    There was only a short distance between them.


    Forcing himself to his feet, ignoring the pain from his broken arm, Zakos roared with anger. He had never been so humiliated in his life. With his good hand, he scratched his own cheek, hissing, until his fingernails drew blood.


    He wouldn¡¯t accept it. No. The thing that had just happened hadn¡¯t happened. He would kill all witnesses and erase it from history.


    His eyes snapped to look at his wrist-script, to summon his automatics to burn this place to a crisp - but the device was smashed to scrap, destroyed by the attack, a few stray sparks spitting out of the shattered screen.


    Unacceptable.


    Zakos strode forwards, Aether writhing chaotically around him, each furious step creating cracks in the stone beneath his feet. The only thing that existed in the world was del Sed, lying there on the ground. The only thing that mattered in the world was crushing their head into a fine paste.


    "Del Sed!" Zakos screamed, spittle flying from his mouth without restraint, his eyes almost bulging out of his skull.


    A bolt of plasma struck him in the chest - weakened by his Aether as it was, it felt like nothing more than a minor warmth, but it still caught his notice. Face still fixed into a mask of utmost wrath, Zakos looked up to the source of the attack.


    Dragan Hadrien stood there, next to the pillar, holding the pillaged arm of an automatic in his hand. Despite the clear difference in their stature, there was the unmistakable sense that he was looking down on the Special Officer. His eyes glowed in the dark like blue stars.


    "You can ignore them," Hadrien said. "I¡¯m the one who¡¯s going to finish beating you to a pulp."

 Chapter 31:2.13: Sleeping Giants (Part 1)

    Zakos¡¯ eye twitched as he stared at Dragan Hadrien, unable to believe the words that had just been thrown at him.


    "You?" he whispered, turning, his broken arm dragging on the floor behind him. "You¡¯re going to beat me to a pulp?"


    "That¡¯s right," smiled Hadrien. "Are you having trouble hearing me?"


    Zakos laughed, long and hard, rubbing his good hand over his face as he did. Oh, this was hilarious. This was rich. Dragan Hadrien should pursue a career in comedy. It was so funny that he wasn¡¯t even mad. No, he wasn¡¯t mad at all.


    Deep breath through the nose.


    "You¡¯re so funny," Zakos said, voice low. "I can¡¯t believe how funny you are, traitor. Did you hear me laughing just now? It was because you¡¯re so funny."


    Hadrien just kept smiling that damn smile. "I¡¯m glad to see you¡¯re taking your defeat in such good spirits."


    The remnants of a smile dropped from Zakos¡¯ face. "It¡¯s not as funny the second time."


    "I¡¯m not joking."


    Hadrien didn¡¯t even blink. There was a damnable apathy to him, an unacceptable apathy. He clearly didn¡¯t know what he was doing - he wouldn¡¯t dare otherwise - but everything about Dragan Hadrien was infuriating him like nothing else.


    Ignoring the pain from his broken arm, Zakos lifted the other one, cracked his knuckles. He brought his body low down, ready to move at a moment¡¯s notice. He could destroy Hadrien in a second without a doubt.


    He¡¯d teach that brat what it really meant to take on a Special Officer. sea??h th§× Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I can sense it, boy," said Zakos, pointing at Hadrien. "You¡¯re weak. Those Aether pings you used to trick me were from del Sed, am I right? You wouldn¡¯t be capable of Aether pings across that kind of distance. I could snap your neck between two of my fingers. Your confidence is just delusion."


    Hadrien didn¡¯t say anything to that. He just cocked his head, still smiling.


    Zakos took a deep breath through his nose and narrowed his eyes. This brat wasn¡¯t showing him any respect at all - not even fear. Samael Ambrazo Zakos was not a toy to be tormented for the amusement of others.


    As a Special Officer - no, as a human being, he was entitled to a certain amount of respect. Those who did not give that respect were scum.


    He¡¯d give Hadrien one last opportunity to redeem himself.


    "I see you¡¯ve stolen an arm from one of my automatics," said Zakos, gesturing to the device in Hadrien¡¯s hand. "I won¡¯t comment on the dishonour of stealing without reason. Can I assume from that shot earlier that you¡¯ve converted the arm into a simple plasma pistol?"


    No answer.


    "That¡¯s fine," chuckled Zakos, waving his arm through the air theatrically. "It¡¯s fine if you don¡¯t wish to talk. I would want to save my breath for my last words, too, if I were in your position. So, I¡¯m going to speak now on the assumption that that is a converted plasma pistol you¡¯re holding in your hand there."


    Again, no reply. Zakos clicked his tongue in annoyance. Enemies though they may be, that was no excuse for rudeness.


    He pushed down the urge to rush at Hadrien immediately and spoke: "So - I have a proposition for you that will allow you to avoid a painful death at my hands. Put that pistol to your head and pull the trigger."


    Hadrien still didn¡¯t speak, but his face twitched, his expression shifted slightly. Zakos grinned: he¡¯d finally gotten a reaction out of the brat.


    "If you choose not to end your life peacefully," Zakos said. "I will come over to you and make you regret that decision. I¡¯ll snap your arms and legs like twigs. I¡¯ll pluck your eyes from their sockets, and rip your tongue from your mouth. I¡¯ll tear out your fingernails and peel away your skin. I¡¯ll feed you your own organs, and have you thank me for the honour."


    As he spoke, Zakos became more engrossed in the fantasy he was weaving, the words coming out thicker and faster as if he were drunk on the idea of such heavenly retribution. He even had to swallow to prevent himself from salivating.


    "I¡¯m sure you agree that would be an unpleasant experience for you," Zakos concluded. "In comparison, putting a gun to your head and simply turning yourself off doesn¡¯t seem quite so bad, does it? You¡¯ll escape from my grasp quite readily that way, and through that honourable death you¡¯ll atone for the disrespect you¡¯ve shown me. Your suicide would benefit both of us."


    Zakos smiled. No matter Hadrien¡¯s answer, he was fine with it. If Hadrien chose to kill himself as Zakos had told him to, well, there could be no greater show of respect. To have another person end their life based solely on your command? Yes, that was respect worthy of a Special Officer.


    And if Hadrien chose incorrectly and didn¡¯t pull the trigger? Well, the fantasy Zakos had spoken of really was very enticing.


    "Your answer?" Zakos said, grinning his oil-black grin.


    Dragan Hadrien laughed, the short sound echoing through the hall. It was a genuine laugh, as if Zakos had just told a funny joke. As if Zakos was a funny joke.


    He took in a deep breath through his nose, and another, and another.


    The brat wiped a tear from his eye. "Haha, that¡¯s pretty good," he said. "It almost sounded like a real threat. I mean, if you were a Special Officer or something, I might have believed it, but -"


    Zakos screamed with rage, kicking off the ground and leaping across the room in a second. Yellow Aether flared around his entire body like a supernova, and he brought his good arm up like a club - ready to smash through Hadrien¡¯s flimsy body the second he came into range.


    Hadrien¡¯s next movement changed his plan, however.


    The brat brought up the plasma pistol and pointed it at the incoming Zakos - normally that wouldn¡¯t be a cause for concern, but bright blue Aether was flowing from Hadrien¡¯s arm into the device.


    An unenhanced plasma shot couldn¡¯t even scratch Zakos, but he wasn¡¯t sure how much Hadrien could enhance a shot. Likely it would still be weak, but there was no point in risking it by taking the blow. It was no great feat to simply jump at Hadrien again after dodging the attack, after all.


    Zakos twisted his body in mid-air, and the flare of blue-and-orange plasma went sailing under his arm into the darkness. In order to dodge the shot, he¡¯d had to move his arm to a position where it wouldn¡¯t hit Hadrien, but that was fine. His retribution had only been delayed for a second or two -


    As Zakos flew through the air next to Hadrien, instead of moving to dodge, the brat lunged forwards, holding some kind of melee weapon in his other hand. Aether crackled around the indistinct weapon - it too was infused.


    Eyes widening, Zakos moved to dodge that too, but he¡¯d left it too late. He felt the slightest pain in his arm as something broke the skin and lodged there, sticking out of the limb.


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    Landing a meter or two behind Hadrien, Zakos glanced down at the foreign object, his brow furrowing in confusion. When he saw what was sticking out of his skin, he could only laugh.


    It was a syringe. A medical syringe - made to seem even tinier than it was due to Zakos¡¯ bulk - was protruding from his arm. The plunger had already been pushed down, so the contents of the syringe had entered his body.


    "This is your plan?" chuckled Zakos. With a flex of his massive arm, the syringe lodged in it shattered, it¡¯s pieces falling to the floor. "Tell me, then, boy. What was in that? Some kind of poison, I assume?"


    Cloak pulled tight around him, Hadrien glared at him from across the short distance. The levity he¡¯d shown moments ago had completely disappeared. "It¡¯s a sedative," he said quietly.


    Zakos¡¯ laugh intensified for a moment, becoming a guffaw. "A sedative?" he said. "You haven¡¯t had Aether very long, have you, boy? It interferes with medicine like this. Even if a tiny amount like this could affect me, it¡¯d take hours."


    He rose to his full height, towering over Hadrien. The boy took a hesitant step back. There. There was the terror a Special Officer should inspire.


    Then the brat¡¯s expression hardened - and with a whip of his arm, he tore his cloak off and to the floor.


    -


    Underneath the cloak, Dragan was wearing a hastily-assembled bandolier, stocked with all the sedatives he¡¯d managed to grab before leaving the Humilist camp.


    "One sedative wouldn¡¯t do much, yeah," smirked Dragan, trying to ignore the sweat dripping down his forehead. "So let¡¯s see how much I can pump you full of before you drop."


    That was easier said than done, though. The Special Officer was blindingly fast - and the plasma pistol would only work as a means to control his movements so long as he didn¡¯t actually get hit by it. Dragan knew better than anyone that the plasma wouldn¡¯t do any damage.


    All he had were his words, the syringes and the plasma pistol. But they were all he needed.


    One syringe in.


    Flaring his Aether, Dragan dodged to the side as Zakos slammed his fist down on the spot where he¡¯d just been standing, sending a shower of rubble flying upwards and filling the air. Zakos was moving with rage as his fuel, now, not making optimal moves. Exploiting that clumsiness was the only chance that Dragan had.


    The Special Officer swung his arm sideways, aiming to take off Dragan¡¯s head, but he threw himself down at the last moment. At the same time, he lunged up with both hands, stabbing two Aether-infused syringes deep into the arm and pushing down the plungers.


    Three.


    Roaring with anger, Zakos kicked his leg forward with blinding speed - and even though Dragan moved as fast as possible to dodge, it wasn¡¯t quite fast enough.


    Feeling the foot impact against his side, Dragan went spinning across the room, landing on a heap near the opposite pillar. He¡¯d managed to defend with Aether, so nothing was broken, but the pain in his torso was immense. It felt like he shouldn¡¯t move around with that kind of pain, but he had no choice.


    Zakos grinned, seeing how far he¡¯d sent Dragan, but his smile quickly turned into a scowl when he saw the syringe sticking out of the top of his foot, a few traces of blue Aether still lingering around it.


    Four.


    Pushing through the pain, Dragan smirked at him, inspiring the rage he so desperately needed.


    The Special Officer charged at him, screaming in anger - and as he charged forward, Dragan fired a few Aether-infused shots of plasma at him. Zakos dodged them with ease, of course, ducking under the orange bolts as he ran, but that forced him to keep his body low.


    Which was exactly what Dragan wanted.


    Instead of dodging, Dragan charged forwards as well, shouting in order to pump himself up. The Special Officer hesitated for a moment - and in that second, Dragan kicked off the ground with Aether-infused legs, sending himself flying over Zakos¡¯ back.


    He lashed out with his hand, and planted another syringe as deep as he could into Zakos¡¯ back as he passed by.


    Five.


    Dragan was no gymnast, though - and as his flight ended, he fell to the ground in an undignified heap. The second he landed, he rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a punch from Zakos that ended with his fist lodged into the ground.


    Not missing his chance, he stabbed another syringe into Zakos¡¯ temporarily trapped wrist.


    Six.


    Zakos was beyond infuriated, now, almost foaming at the mouth - and Dragan knew he couldn¡¯t keep this up for long. His lungs were running on the memory of air, and the inside of his body was starting to feel like a burning mass of singular pain.


    Okay. He couldn¡¯t keep this up forever. That didn¡¯t need to be specified. How long could he keep this up for?


    In the time he dodged another of Zakos¡¯ punches - the air pressure of the attack still sending Dragan flying away - his mind reached the conclusion that this fight could only continue for two more minutes at most.


    And that was a very generous estimate.


    "How dare you!" Zakos was screaming, lost in his rage, only infuriated more each time his fists met empty air. "How dare you! How dare you! Who the hell do you think you¡¯re messing with?! Do you know who I am?! I am Samael Ambrazo Zakos!"


    Dragan came to a stop for a moment, steadied himself, took a deep breath that he very badly needed.


    Then he spoke.


    "Who?"


    For a moment, Zakos was silent, mouth hanging open, dumbfounded. Then - with a scream of "Unacceptable!" - he opened his palm and swept his arm around him.


    Tiny pieces of rubble, each the same rough size, began flying through the air towards Zakos¡¯ open hand, where chaotic yellow Aether was forming a crude sphere. Dragan furrowed his brow. Why was he bringing rubble to himself?


    Then, he saw Zakos¡¯ black grin, and realized what he was really doing.


    Zakos swung his arm towards Dragan, changing the trajectory of the stone shards - and cancelled his ability. The stone shards kept their momentum, however.


    Now they were forming a shower of shrapnel, rushing towards Dragan.


    Dragan took a deep breath. It wasn¡¯t like this was a situation he hadn¡¯t anticipated. If Zakos could pull things towards him, he could do things like this, as well.


    He had a contingency in mind, but he had no idea if it would work. Strange how so many of his plans these days seemed to have that caveat.


    Aether ping. If it could detect Aether that repelled it, it only followed that it could detect solid objects it bounced off, too.


    Dragan breathed out, and sent his Aether out along with it. His ping still didn¡¯t have much range, but he managed to scan the rain of rubble as it came down towards him, memorizing the position and trajectory of each individual fragment.


    Optimal path, he told himself, tensing his body, getting ready to move faster than he ever had before. Optimal path. Follow the optimal path!


    Dragan moved in three flashes of blue Aether, like a thunderstorm compressed. From an outsider¡¯s perspective, no movement was even visible - just the Cogitant switching between three different positions, rock flying through the empty air where he¡¯d just been.


    He didn¡¯t quite succeed, however. During his last movement - when he thought he¡¯d escaped the worst of it - two rocks struck him in the torso, causing him to double over, and another hit him right in the face.


    Dragan fell to the floor, the breath knocked out of him, trying to blink blood out of his eyes. The makeshift pistol, too, clattered to the ground too far away to grab. He was unarmed.


    No, he couldn¡¯t worry about that yet. He had to get up. He needed to get up and prepare his next move, or else he would die. He tried to force strength into his legs, but they just quivered weakly on the ground.


    He¡¯d failed. He¡¯d failed completely.


    Weak as he was, he couldn¡¯t even resist as Zakos picked him up by his throat and lifted him up into the air, sneering at him. Blood was running down Dragan¡¯s face, so he could only really see the Special Officer¡¯s face through one eye, but that was enough. Zakos¡¯ eyes were set for murder.


    "Not so smug now, are you, you little bastard?" Zakos hissed, any remnant of the dignified Special Officer he¡¯d tried to portray now discarded. "How¡¯s it feel, huh? It hurt?"


    Arm moving clumsily, Dragan plunged another syringe into the man¡¯s bicep and pushed the plunger.


    Seven.


    It didn¡¯t matter, though. It wasn¡¯t even desperation that had moved him there, it was spite. The sedatives would only take effect long after he, Bruno and Serena were dead. The fight had been pointless from the start.


    Figures, thought Dragan, watching Zakos rear his head back for a skull-crushing headbutt. The second I start getting stupid thoughts in my head about justice and teaching assholes like this a lesson, I end up dead. End up dragging others down with me.


    He really was a piece of shit.


    Zakos brought his head down.

 Chapter 32:2.14: Sleeping Giants (Part 2)

    The Dragan Hadrien of six years ago looked up from his chair as the door to his quarters opened. His curious gaze instantly transformed into a frown when he saw who it was.


    "Who told you where I lived?" he glared.


    Mr. Fix - if he had a first name, Dragan didn¡¯t know it - was a huge man, skin a sickly grey, wearing a trenchcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. His face was square, features looking like a rock that had been sculpted by repeated pummeling over the years.


    He took off his hat politely as he entered the room. "It¡¯s easy to find out where someone lives, if you know the right people."


    The room wasn¡¯t very spacious, and Dragan had had to do some serious bootlicking just to get it to himself rather than sharing it with some other mouth breather. The walls and floor were stark Supremacy white, with the only furniture being a table, two chairs, and a bed built into the floor. Any cooking would have to be done in the communal cafeteria.


    "Ha," Dragan laughed the least genuine laugh possible. "Don¡¯t make it sound like you¡¯re capable of using your brain. You beat someone up in an alley and they told you, right?"


    Fix grunted - neither affirmation or denial. He glanced down at the object in Dragan¡¯s hands. "See you¡¯ve got a new script there."


    "Mm. It¡¯s standard issue for AdminCorps. You didn¡¯t know that?"


    "It any good?" The awkwardness in Fix was almost visible. They both knew he hadn¡¯t come to talk about Dragan¡¯s new script, so why couldn¡¯t they just dispense of the pretense?


    "Does what it does," shrugged Dragan, doing his best to look over Fix¡¯s shoulder rather than at the man himself. It wasn¡¯t that Fix intimidated him, of course - he just brought back bad memories.


    "Bet you play some games on it. Right? When I was a kid, there was a popular game about turnips -"


    "Listen," said Dragan, cutting him off. "What do you want?"


    Fix¡¯s face, as ever, was impassive. No matter how uncomfortable his voice and body language may be, his face was immovable as stone. "Old man can¡¯t catch up?" he said. "I am your legal guardian."


    Dragan scowled. "Until I can get that amended."


    "You¡¯re thirteen. You can¡¯t get that amended."


    Dragan¡¯s scowl deepened. Fix was right, of course, but he couldn¡¯t say that. "I have my ways," he lied - and then he asked again: "What do you want?"


    "Wanted to see if you were okay. Been a while."


    Dragan stood up - with more anger than he¡¯d expected - and his chair fell to the ground behind him as he did. "I was doing okay," he snapped, voice harsh. "Because it had been a while. The second I saw your face, it ruined my week - probably my year, actually. If I don¡¯t ever see you again, it¡¯d be too soon. That¡¯s how I¡¯m doing now, thanks for asking."


    Fix blinked slowly, placidly, like some colossal herbivore. "That¡¯s not fair."


    Dragan took an angry step forward, waving his finger up at the taller man as he spoke. Even with the huge difference in stature, Dragan glared up at Fix, his rage stoking itself more and more every second. "It is - it is fair. Do you want me to tell you how you think of me? You think I¡¯m a cute little dog that you can throw treats at to prove to yourself that you¡¯re not a bad person."


    "That¡¯s not true."


    "Don¡¯t lie to me!" Dragan screamed - wincing internally as he did so. This would doubtlessly lead to awkward questions from the other cadets later. "You¡¯re not good enough at it! That¡¯s what you think of me!" He took a deep breath - and when he continued, his voice was quiet, but full of venom. "You think that you can do whatever fucked-up crime lord shit you want - burn down some houses, get people killed - but because you¡¯re nice to poor little Dragan Hadrien, you¡¯re a good person deep down! Let me tell you: you¡¯re not a good person deep down."


    He took a deep breath, looking down at the floor, before he finished.


    "You¡¯re a piece of shit, and I wish you were dead."


    Fix blinked a few times, quickly - a subdued emotional indicator, to be sure, but it was the most extreme Dragan had ever seen from him.


    Dragan stood there, hands balled into fists, waiting for a response. "Well?!" he shouted. "You got something to say?!"


    Before Fix could open his mouth as he had originally, the Dragan Hadrien of six years ago whirled around to face the Dragan Hadrien of the present, who was observing from the corner. "And you!" he went on.


    "Me?" said the present Dragan, voice faint and almost lifeless. This wasn¡¯t right. This wasn¡¯t how this memory was supposed to go. In his memories, Fix had said something and then stormed off. This hadn¡¯t happened.


    "Yeah," glared the past Dragan, now completely ignoring Fix. "You. What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing?"


    Dragan looked down at his younger self, faint confusion still racing through his head. "I¡¯m ¡­ remembering?" he said tentatively. It felt as if he was being interrogated right out of bed.


    "No!" said the younger Dragan, fists to his hips. "You¡¯re giving up! Your life¡¯s flashing before your eyes! Stop dying and think!"


    "But," mumbled Dragan, arms hanging limply by his sides as he became aware that he had a body in this space. "It¡¯s not that I can¡¯t win - I¡¯ve already lost. He¡¯s going to smash my skull in a second."


    "Are you dead?" interrogated the younger Dragan, now waving his finger in front of his older self¡¯s face like a teacher being presented with an especially stupid pupil.


    "I don¡¯t ¡­ I don¡¯t think so?"


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    "There¡¯s no ambiguity," the thirteen year old admonished. God, he was such a little shit. "You¡¯re either dead or you¡¯re not. Answer the question."


    "Then ¡­ I¡¯m alive, then. Yes, I¡¯m alive. I¡¯m thinking right now, so I must be alive."


    "No," said his younger self.


    "No?"


    "You¡¯re not thinking. You¡¯re remembering useless stuff like this. You¡¯re able to think, but you¡¯re not doing it. Your lifespan right now is measured in seconds - and you¡¯re wasting them!"


    "So what do I do?" said Dragan - his voice more firm than before. His thoughts were starting to have more cohesion.


    "You¡¯re asking a kid for help?" His younger self¡¯s voice had this constant mocking undertone. It really was annoying.


    "No," said Dragan, concentrating. "I¡¯m asking me for help. What? Are you too stupid to think of an answer?"


    His younger self scowled, then snapped his fingers. The floor and walls of the apartment fell away, revealing an image of Zakos¡¯ head slowly coming forward to smash into Dragan¡¯s.


    In other words, his present situation from a first-person perspective. This was his Archive.


    The younger Dragan observed, hands clasped behind his back. "You¡¯ll definitely die if he lands that attack," he said unhelpfully. "Your Aether¡¯s good enough to land attacks where he isn¡¯t expecting them, but your defense is shit."


    Dragan nodded in agreement. "So my losing condition is getting hit. How long do I have?"


    The younger Dragan leaned in to look at Zakos¡¯ extremely slow movement, squinting his eyes as if to inspect it more closely. "Just under two seconds," he said after a moment. "Well, one and a bunch of decimal places, but you know what I mean."


    Dragan considered his predicament. As he was right now, he was as good as dead, but for every second he could think there was a chance to turn the situation around. If he knew the method, he could do it.


    "Am I strong enough to break his grip on me?" he asked. Start from the simplest solution.


    "No."


    "And there¡¯s no way I can block his attack?"


    The younger Dragan frowned. "I already said you can¡¯t, idiot. Stop wasting time."


    "Respect your elders, you little shit," Dragan said, rolling his eyes. "Is there a way I could attack him before his attack reaches me, change his focus?"


    The younger Dragan shook his head. "His arm is too long for you to reach his body. You can only attack his arm, which wasn¡¯t effective earlier. I wouldn¡¯t recommend it."


    Anxiety started to fill Dragan¡¯s mind as Zakos¡¯ skullbuster drew closer, ever so slowly. "Well, what if I punch him in the face as he¡¯s bringing his head in? Would that work - if I infused my fist with Aether?"


    With a hand to his chin, the younger Dragan nodded. "Well, it would resolve this problem, yes." sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "But?" said Dragan suspiciously. "The way you said that, it sounds like there¡¯s a ¡¯but¡¯ coming."


    "He¡¯d smash your fist instead of your head, and then he would kill you with his next attack."


    Dragan took a deep breath, looked down at his hand. He couldn¡¯t imagine the pain of having his fist obliterated like that - an image of Bruno and Serena¡¯s hands came to mind - but he didn¡¯t really see another option. If he could block this one attack, another opportunity could present itself.


    The younger Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Wow. You¡¯re actually thinking of doing it, aren¡¯t you?"


    "I don¡¯t see any other option," said Dragan grimly, clenching his hand into a fist. "How much time would it be before his next attack, if I block this one?"


    "About five seconds."


    Dragan shrugged with much more confidence than he felt. "Better than two. I¡¯ll have to think of another plan during that time."


    The younger Dragan sneered. "That¡¯s an awful plan. You¡¯re as good as dead, you know."


    "No," said Dragan, smiling, shaking his head. "I¡¯m still thinking."


    He closed his eyes.


    -


    He opened his eyes, and plunged his fist forward.


    The punch erupted into a supernova of blue Aether - nothing was saved for defense, nothing was left over. Everything he had was poured into that punch, and it shone so bright that Dragan couldn¡¯t look directly at it.


    Even Zakos hesitated, the descent of his headbutt pausing for the slightest split-second. The punch could do nothing to him, of course, but a spectacle like that would give anyone pause.


    It was as if the end of Dragan¡¯s arm had transformed into a sapphire fireball. Nothing could stop it¡¯s flight -


    - Dragan stopped it¡¯s flight, holding it in mid-air as Zakos¡¯ head came down.


    The Aether that covered Dragon¡¯s arm dissipated, and he made no further effort to block Zakos¡¯ attack as it came in. He didn¡¯t have to, after all.


    Because he¡¯d noticed.


    Zakos¡¯ head collided with thin air with a sound like splitting stone, and the man roared with pain. Purple Aether flickered around the nearly invisible forcefield his skull had just clashed with.


    The Special Officer¡¯s eyes flicked over to the side, looking at where Bruno and Serena¡¯s unconscious body was supposed to be.


    Their body was there, but it was not unconscious. Bruno glared up from the floor at Zakos, his hand weakly lifted up off the ground, projecting the forcefield. By all rights, Bruno should have fallen unconscious long ago.


    But it seemed that Bruno and Dragan had a common motivator - spite. They couldn¡¯t let this arrogant prick be proven right.


    If Dragan hadn¡¯t caused Zakos to hesitate, Bruno wouldn¡¯t have had time to make that forcefield - it was a thing that could only have existed for a second or two. It was a tiny victory brought about by coincidence.


    Zakos opened his mouth to say something to Bruno, to utter some threat - but in doing so, he looked away from Dragan, and his head was now so very close.


    Dragan lunged forwards, syringe in each hand, and plunged the implements into either side of Zakos¡¯ neck with all his strength, screaming with the exertion. The syringes penetrated only a few inches, but that was all he needed.


    With another roar of effort, Dragan poured every last scrap of Aether he had into the syringes, the resultant lightshow looking as if Zakos had been struck by lightning. Everything he¡¯d been intending to use in that punch, he now used on the syringes - no, on what was inside the syringes.


    Initially, Zakos could only shudder violently as the contents of the syringes - glowing bright blue - flowed into his body, but a moment later he recovered himself and threw Dragan down to the floor. He staggered backwards, slouching already, looking at his hands. Blue light could be seen through his skin, flowing through his veins.


    "What did you do to me?!" the man roared, eyes wide with panic.


    Dragan picked himself up off the ground, ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood covering half his face. He pointed a limp finger at Zakos, grinning cockily.


    "I injected you," he panted. "Sedatives."


    Zakos laughed, but the confidence in it was gone. It was the laugh of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or perhaps he was feeling exhausted already?


    Well, Dragan wasn¡¯t one to disappoint. He spoke, the plan he¡¯d come up with becoming clear to him as well as he laid it out in words. "Infusing something with Aether ¡­ makes it stronger. Blades become sharper, fists become harder. So ¡­ instead of infusing the syringe, I infused the sedatives. I ¡­ I made them stronger. Feeling sleepy?"


    Zakos stepped forward, stumbling as he did so, his broken arm trailing on the ground behind him. "I feel fine, brat."


    "I see," replied Dragan, trying to hide the shaking of the weak legs that were holding him up. "Maybe you could do with another shot, then."


    He took a deep breath, glanced over at Bruno. The boy had finally fallen unconscious, so Dragan couldn¡¯t count on any more help there.


    He¡¯d broken Zakos¡¯ arm, cut him off from his automatics, enraged him to the point of stupidity, and injected him with enough sedatives to put down an elephant.


    It was almost an even fight.

 Chapter 33:2.15: Sleeping Giants (Part 3)

    Zakos¡¯ anger was such that there was no more room for words.


    The Special Officer lunged forward with his good arm, trying to grab hold of Dragan once again, but his speed wasn¡¯t nearly as fast as it had been a few minutes ago. Dragan ducked under the limb, charged forward, and planted his Aether-infused fist right into Zakos¡¯ stomach.


    The blow only inspired the slightest grunt from Zakos, but at the very least it didn¡¯t smash Dragan¡¯s hand like it would have previously. He was actually fighting like a human now, rather than an insect trying to dodge a boot.


    Dragan dodged backwards, avoiding another attempted headbutt from Zakos, and began circling over to the right - the side where Zakos¡¯ broken arm was. He needed every advantage he could snatch hold of.


    Seeing what Dragan was thinking, Zakos plunged his good hand deep into the earth and pushed it forward, using it like a shovel to bring forth a torrent of rock and fling it towards his opponent.


    Dragan winced in anticipation. The attack served as both a smokescreen and a repeat of the one that had brought him down not so long ago.


    His Aether ping strategy wouldn¡¯t work - it might if he was a little faster, but that simply wasn¡¯t the case. He¡¯d have to use what he knew another way.


    Moving as fast as his Aether-infused body was capable of, Dragan lunged down to the floor and tore away the remains of the stone tile next to the one he was standing on. Grunting with effort, he held it up to block the rain of rubble - pouring as much Aether into it as he could.


    The sound of the rubble colliding with the shield was like the rain of an entire thunderstorm compressed into a couple of seconds. Tiny cracks spread in the shield¡¯s surface, and for a moment Dragan was concerned that it would shatter and expose him to the onslaught, but it held firm.


    The second the sound stopped, Dragan tossed the shield aside - even heavily sedated, he couldn¡¯t waste a second against Zakos¡¯ speed.


    And he was right not to - the second Dragan got rid of the shield, his vision was filled with Zakos¡¯ enraged face, black teeth bared in a bestial grin.


    Dodge, he told himself, leaping to the side. The only thing you can do is dodge. Don¡¯t even think about attacking.


    That was right. Like Skipper had kept saying, his victory condition wasn¡¯t landing a punch. In this case, his victory condition was staying alive until the sedatives could knock Zakos out.


    Still, even with the enhancement to the sedatives, he had no idea how long that would take. Even though he¡¯d gotten himself so pumped up, there was no guarantee of his success.


    But unlike before, there was no guarantee of his failure, either.


    Dragan and Zakos were like two blurs - one bright blue, the other dark yellow - dancing around each other, always just avoiding contact. Geysers of stone and rubble went flying up from Zakos¡¯ blows. A thin trail of blood drops followed in the wake of Dragan¡¯s movements.


    With every second, the palace was becoming even more of a ruin.


    Zakos¡¯ speed had definitely been affected by the sedatives, but his strength was unchanged. The man was like a living bulldozer, tearing the building apart in his efforts to smash Dragan. Even the floor was being smashed to pieces wherever he stood. The rage Dragan had provoked to dull Zakos¡¯ mind was what was keeping him going now.


    It only made sense - Zakos knew just as well as Dragan that he wouldn¡¯t be able to keep moving forever. If the Special Officer couldn¡¯t kill Dragan before falling unconscious, he¡¯d lose.


    He was like a wounded animal, desperate. Dragan couldn¡¯t just wait it out - he had to do something to end the confrontation.


    He ducked down, avoiding a punch, and leapt forward, visibly concentrating all his Aether into his fist once again. It was a move he¡¯d already used once - which was intentional, of course. Zakos was in no state of mind for creativity: if he encountered a problem he already knew the solution for, he wouldn¡¯t waste time coming up with another one.


    And just as Dragan had expected, Zakos reared his head back, preparing to counter with a headbutt.


    The second Zakos began to thrust his head forwards, Dragan abandoned the punch, dropping his fist and transferring all that Aether to his leg instead. Zakos¡¯ eyes widened in surprise, but it was too late - he¡¯d already committed to the headbutt.


    With all his strength and all his Aether, Dragan kicked at a loose chunk of rock on the ground beneath Zakos - and as he did so, he transferred all that Aether through his leg into the stone.


    The rock went flying up with such speed and force that it was like a shooting star - until, of course, it collided with Zakos¡¯ chin. There was a sickening crunch as the Special Officer¡¯s jaw broke, accompanied by a low cracking moan from deep within the man¡¯s throat.


    He fell backwards.


    In the momentary opportunity that created, Dragan¡¯s mind raced with possibilities. What should he do now? If he could wake Bruno, his forcefields could be useful in restricting Zakos¡¯ movements. Could he pick up the plasma pistol and use its core as an explosive? If he infused the core with his Aether, how powerful would the resultant explosion be? Powerful enough to take Zakos down?


    He had no way of knowing, but he had to think of something quickly, or else -


    Dragan blinked. Zakos ¡­ Zakos wasn¡¯t getting up. He was still lying there, in a heap, immobile. The ragged steadiness of his breath made it clear that it wasn¡¯t a trick, either. He was genuinely unconscious.


    He¡¯d ¡­ he¡¯d won. Dragan staggered backwards, the exhaustion of the last few minutes finally catching up to him, and collapsed onto his knees. A laugh of disbelief rose from his throat.


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    He¡¯d done it! He¡¯d beaten a Special Officer! It had taken all the cheating that he was capable of, but he¡¯d won! S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    God, he was dizzy. Dragan put a hand to his head, then pulled it away when he felt sticky drying blood. That couldn¡¯t be good.


    He blinked slowly. Mila. If he could get to Mila, she could help him out - Bruno and Serena too. They were in desperate need of medical attention. The camp wasn¡¯t far, he was sure he could make it if he pushed himself.


    No, said his younger self, sitting smugly on a chunk of rubble not far away. You can¡¯t.


    "Why not?" Dragan mumbled.


    The younger Dragan groaned, rolled his eyes. Have you already forgotten? he snapped. The automatics. They¡¯ve been ordered to shoot you on sight without a doubt - and there¡¯s definitely at least a few stationed just outside.


    "I could ¡­ I could sneak around," Dragan said, falling onto his stomach, cheek pressing against the cold stone of the floor. "Avoid their ¡­ avoid their sensors¡­"


    The younger Dragan laughed, a malicious sound without any trace of humour. In your condition? It¡¯d be a struggle to walk, let alone sneak around. Hey, I have an idea.


    Dragan made a questioning sound, all that he was really capable of.


    Why don¡¯t you just die? the younger Dragan grinned. Your life¡¯s pretty much over anyway. The Supremacy is hunting you, your only friends are idiot criminals, and you can look forward to assholes like this one chasing you for the rest of your days.


    Dragan squeezed his eyes shut, tried with all he had to force the hallucination out of his mind. The device his mind had been using to help him brainstorm had turned into a mouth for self-loathing to speak through.


    The spectre leaned forward, its face filling Dragan¡¯s vision in the way only a nightmare could.


    You were meant to die years ago, anyway, it hissed. Why not make it official?


    "No," said Dragan, no longer using his failing mouth.


    The nightmare cocked its head. No?


    "No. I¡¯ve won. This is my victory. You can¡¯t take that away."


    Yes, I can.


    "No, you can¡¯t!" Dragan shouted inside his head. "Nothing you say means anything! Everything you say is a lie! I should know, I¡¯m the one thinking it! So shut your damn mouth!"


    The younger Dragan took a step backwards, shrugged, sneered. "Have it your way," it said, as if Dragan was making an incomprehensibly stupid decision. Then it was gone.


    Dragan sighed, trying to roll over - unsuccessfully. He¡¯d clearly made huge strides with his self-image issues, but unfortunately he was still going to die, so he wouldn¡¯t get to enjoy it for very long.


    The sound of smashing metal rang out from the palace entrance. Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked over to try and look there, but it was just outside his range of vision. What was going on?


    Had Bruno or Serena woken up, managed to do something? No, he could still hear them breathing softly. Whoever was doing that, it wasn¡¯t them.


    Had the Humilists fought back? Again, hard to believe. They were an archeology team. They didn¡¯t have the necessary skills or equipment to take on combat automatics. So who?


    It was an interesting question, but strangely enough Dragan could find the effort needed to pursue it. Hell, even keeping his eyes open seemed a struggle at this point. Speaking of which¡­


    Dragan closed his eyes. It wasn¡¯t like he was giving up or anything, but his eyes were feeling tired. So he¡¯d just rest for a moment and¡­


    Oh, you¡¯re changing your mind?


    Fuck that. Dragan forced his eyes open again, and felt a jolt of surprise.


    Someone was standing in front of him, looking down at him. His vision wasn¡¯t so good right now, so he couldn¡¯t be sure - but it looked like a red stain in the shape of a person, a crimson cloak hanging around someone¡¯s frame.


    He couldn¡¯t make out their face. The outfit was designed in such a way that you couldn¡¯t make out anything about the wearer. Intentional, of course.


    "Who¡­?" he mumbled, knowing he probably wouldn¡¯t get an answer. Someone who dressed like that wouldn¡¯t give out their identity for free.


    The red shadow cocked its head at Dragan, as if considering him. Deciding what to do with him. Then, it sighed softly - voice modulated by some sort of mask - and brought a fist down into his face.


    -


    When Dragan opened his eyes again, the stone floor he¡¯d been lying on was replaced by a soft mattress. There were tubes sticking into his arm, and he could hear the soft beeping of a heartbeat monitor. There was something weighing down part of his face, too - a bandage.


    Okay, so he wasn¡¯t dead. That was nice. That was a good start. There was no point in bandaging up corpses.


    He tried to lift his arm. It was difficult, but that was due to fatigue rather than restraints. So he hadn¡¯t been captured by the Supremacy. Well, that was obvious - he wouldn¡¯t live long enough to be captured by the Supremacy.


    Well then, maybe -


    "You¡¯re pretty paranoid, aren¡¯t you?" said Mila flatly, watching him from a chair on the other side of the room.


    Oh. He was in the medical tent, then. That seemed obvious in retrospect.


    He put his arm back down. "What happened?" he said, enjoying the fluffy pillow beneath his head. "Did someone save me?"


    Mila shook her head. "No idea. Once everything was over, we found you dumped on the outskirts of the camp."


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "Not in the palace?"


    "Nope."


    Had that red shadow saved him, then? Why? Who were they, for that matter?


    He glanced at Mila. "You¡¯re sure you have no idea what happened to me?"


    She nodded. "Positive."


    It didn¡¯t seem like she was lying, but Dragan was hardly in ideal form right now. He couldn¡¯t be sure.


    He glanced over at the bed next to his. Bruno and Serena were lying there, hooked up to far more machinery than Dragan. They didn¡¯t seem to be in a good state.


    "Any sign of Skipper and Ruth?" he said, without much hope in his voice.


    Mila looked away. "Not yet."


    Dragan bit his lip. What was keeping them? They weren¡¯t exactly running on unlimited time here.


    A thought came to mind - a terribly important thought that was quite overdue. "Where¡¯s Zakos?"


    Mila clicked her tongue, swallowed uncomfortably. "We, uh, managed to restrain him - keep him sedated so he can¡¯t use that Aether stuff. We thought it best to ¡­ well, to wait for you to wake up before deciding what to do with him."


    Dragan sighed, putting a hand to his face. Why couldn¡¯t problems ever just be solved?

 Chapter 34:2.16: Settling Dust

    Dragan looked down at the wreckage of the automatics. Just like the ones outside the palace, these ones had been left in a heap, never having moved from the positions they¡¯d been stationed at. There hadn¡¯t been much of a fight, then.


    With the assistance of a cane, he¡¯d managed to get himself moving. He was standing there, in the center of the encampment, inspecting the aftermath of the confrontation.


    Both of the automatics had been dispatched with single blows to the head, the metal dented in there as far as it would go. Surprise attacks, to be sure - the automatics hadn¡¯t even had time to move.


    From what Dragan had been told, it was the same with the automatics outside of the palace. Presumably, that had been the sound of smashing metal he¡¯d heard just before falling unconscious.


    Mila and Helga flanked him on either side - Mila to make sure that he didn¡¯t collapse from his injuries, and Helga to answer his questions about the present situation.


    The boy with the mismatched eyes, Aiden, watched from a little distance away. He was standing near where Dian¡¯s corpse had been before they¡¯d finally buried him, quietly gritting his teeth. He shot Dragan a glare as he walked by. Dragan glanced at him, but said nothing.


    Emotions would be running high without a doubt, and he didn¡¯t want to spark any more fires.


    "Tell me again how it happened," said Dragan quietly.


    "We were all rounded up here in the middle of town," said Helga. "The Special Officer stomped off to the ruins, and after ten minutes or so there was this bright light, like a flashbang or something. When the light cleared, the automatics were like this."


    Dragan bit his lip, nodded, and glanced at Mila.


    "It was too fast to really tell what was happening," she said apologetically. "When I first saw that light, I thought they were opening fire, so I closed my eyes. Sorry."


    Wincing, Dragan stooped down to a knee, turned one of the wrecked skulls over in his hands. A single blow to the back of the head, destroying the power source.


    An attack like that wouldn¡¯t have been possible without Aether. As far as he knew, the only ones planetside able to use Aether were himself, Bruno, Serena and Zakos. As far as he knew.


    Bruno and Serena had been unconscious, so they couldn¡¯t be the culprit. Zakos would have no reason to destroy his own automatics - plus he¡¯d been far too busy getting his ass kicked. And Dragan knew he hadn¡¯t done that, unless he had some hypercompetent split personality he didn¡¯t know about.


    There was a fifth individual, then. A fifth person on the planet with the ability to use Aether, and the inclination to conceal that fact.


    Dragan glanced around cautiously, keeping an eye on the Humilists passing by, getting things repaired and ready for their departure. Truth be told, it could be any one of them.


    Was this fifth individual necessarily an enemy, though? They¡¯d saved everyone from the automatics.


    But why hadn¡¯t they done it sooner? Why had they let Zakos run wild for so long, only interfering once he was taken out of action? Judging from the strength and speed it would require to take out all the automatics so quickly, they were without a doubt stronger than Dragan. They could have taken care of Zakos themself if they¡¯d had a mind to.


    So why hadn¡¯t they?


    A thought occurred to Dragan, one that really should have made its appearance sooner: how had Zakos found him? Dragan had been caught up in the situation, not taking time to question things, but now the matter seemed to stick out like a sore thumb.


    A mole. That was one explanation. Was it the only one, or was it just the evidence creating that bias?


    He¡¯d keep his mouth shut for now, though. Do some investigating before he took any action.


    "We should wait for Skipper and Ruth to get back before doing anything," Dragan lied. "How¡¯s our guest doing?"


    -


    Oh, this was a sight for sore eyes.


    Samael Embarrassment Zakos was tied to a makeshift pillar with layers and layers of steel ropes, his Aether suppressed by a dose of homebrew Neverwire fuel that Mila had managed to cook up. His eyes were wide with rage and fear, but his restraints didn¡¯t budge in the slightest no matter how much he struggled.


    A gag had been shoved in his mouth, so the only noises he could make were muffled barks and groans, but Dragan got the gist of it. I¡¯ll kill you, how dare you do this to me, I¡¯m insecure, etcetera, etcetera.


    The tent was dark - a residential one that had hastily been converted into a makeshift prison, most light sources removed to save power. The tent had most likely belonged to Dian previously, but Dragan had thought it would be tactless to ask.


    Dragan crouched over, flicked Zakos¡¯ forehead while grinning. "Looking good, Special Officer," he said mockingly.


    That inspired another round of furious thrashing and murderous muffled screams, but Dragan didn¡¯t much mind. Gloating was a bad habit, to be sure, but he didn¡¯t get many chances to indulge in it these days.


    "So," he continued, cocking his head, looking right into the prisoner¡¯s eyes. "I have some questions for you, Mr. Zakos. Think you¡¯re smart enough to answer them? Hm?"


    Zakos just glared at him. Well, that was fine. He wouldn¡¯t have been capable of saying anything, anyway.


    "Don¡¯t worry - I don¡¯t need you to talk," said Dragan soothingly, as if comforting a child. "I just need to look into your eyes as I ask my questions. That doesn¡¯t sound so hard, does it?"


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    Just more glaring. How unsociable.


    Tapping a finger against Zakos¡¯ forehead, Dragan spoke. "Number one," he said, drawing out the word. "How did you know to come here? Was there a mole?"


    Zakos squeezed his eyes shut, and Dragan almost burst out laughing. By taking measures to conceal his eyes, he was as good as confirming that Dragan was right. There¡¯d be no point in keeping the fact that there wasn¡¯t a mole secret.


    "Close your eyes again," said Dragan softly. "And I¡¯ll break your other arm. It¡¯s rude to do that when we¡¯re having a conversation, you know?"


    Normally, he¡¯d feel bad about doing this to someone, but when it came to Samael Ambrazo Zakos he couldn¡¯t seem to find any sympathy at all.


    Zakos opened his eyes again. Coward.


    "Question two," continued Dragan, holding up another finger. "Do you know who said mole is?"


    As instructed, Zakos kept his eyes open. Dragan peered into them, unblinking, trying to intimidate as much as perceive.


    There was no recognition in his eyes - he truly didn¡¯t know. Likely the mole had been intending to get in contact with someone else, then, and Zakos had simply taken advantage of the situation. Like a flea.


    "You don¡¯t know, do you?" said Dragan with a tone of faux-sympathy, and the momentary glance away Zakos gave him only served as further confirmation.


    There was a mole, and Zakos didn¡¯t know who it was. Confirmed.


    "Thanks for the info," said Dragan quietly, patting Zakos on the head like a dog. "I appreciate it."


    Ignoring the rabid sounds the Special Officer was making behind him, Dragan strolled out of the tent, tapping his cane against the ground.


    -


    The man who was like God stood amid the ruins of a world, the cape he wore over his bare chest flowing in the wind. A dark red sun glowed in the sky, all but completely blocked by the legion of ships that infested the sky like locusts.


    The boy and his fellows, an army in identical uniforms, stood dutifully behind their leader. Each held an identical plasma-musket up towards the sky, like a metal forest in miniature - or a city of skyscrapers stretching up to the stars.


    The man who was like God lifted his last opponent up by the scruff of his collar, inspecting the body.


    The opponent had been celebrated as a reincarnation of a mighty warrior, who had slain countless mighty beasts and annihilated all rivals as he led his tribe to domination of the planet they¡¯d made their home. S~ea??h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The opponent¡¯s name no longer mattered, but there were likely only a hundred or so people in the galaxy that were capable of matching his strength.


    "Disappointing," muttered the man who was like God, tossing the legend aside. The boy watched his power with awestruck eyes.


    Skipper opened his tired eyes, waking with a jolt in his captain¡¯s seat. Then, he sighed, running his hands over his face to wipe away the sweat. He¡¯d had that dream again.


    With his next few seconds of consciousness, Skipper scanned the navigation console. He still wasn¡¯t fully used to the Veritas¡¯ systems, but it seemed the autopilot was still working A-OK.


    "You okay?" said Ruth from the co-pilots seat, looking concerned. She¡¯d been anxious ever since they¡¯d set off, so it was no surprise she was looking for more things to worry about.


    "Hey," grinned Skipper, banishing the dream¡¯s lingering horror from his mind. "I¡¯m always okay. You know?"


    She frowned, but nodded all the same, looking down at the box in her lap. Skipper couldn¡¯t help but smile: ever since they¡¯d gotten hold of the Rospolox at the Stirim markets, Ruth hadn¡¯t let it out of her sight. She was so damn cute.


    "Do you think we¡¯re too late?" she spoke up again, the worry already making its return.


    She got like this a little too often - it was understandable, but that didn¡¯t mean it couldn¡¯t cause problems in the future.


    "Nah," he said, waving a hand as casually as he could. "We¡¯ve got plenty of time to spare. Hell, I heard there¡¯s a restaurant ship that sails these parts that serves killer steak. Think we could make a quick stop there?"


    The glare that Ruth gave him for that was truly apocalyptic. Well, he deserved it.


    He¡¯d never had any intention of stopping, anyway. There were only a few people in the galaxy he was able to protect, but he would never let anything happen to them if he could help it.


    Bruno, Serena, he thought, subtly increasing the speed of the autopilot above what was traditionally considered safe. Hang in there.


    -


    That night, Samael Ambrazo Zakos opened his eyes as he heard soft footsteps, preparing himself for another round of humiliation. Well, that Dragan Hadrien could laugh all he wanted - he¡¯d be paid back with interest before long.


    His eyes widened. The one standing before him, in that tiny tent, was not Dragan Hadrien.


    He didn¡¯t know who it was. The figure was like a red shadow, clad in a crimson mantle that concealed everything about them. Even their face was a black void - no, no, they were wearing some kind of mask.


    Friend or foe? Were they loyal to the Supremacy, come to assist a Special Officer? Or were they like Hadrien, here to gloat at a momentary humiliation?


    Zakos went to say something, but all that he managed was muffled gasps against his gag. The red shadow didn¡¯t even flinch at the sudden noise - instead, it knelt down and plucked the gag from his mouth.


    He took in a few deep, greedy breaths, grateful for the cool air inside his mouth.


    "My thanks," he panted. "And who are you supposed to be - Little Red Rider Hood?"


    The red shadow didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t speak, barely even seemed to breathe. It just stared at him through eyes that weren¡¯t there.


    Realization popped into Zakos¡¯ head, and a stained-black grin spread across his face, eyes narrowing in lines of ecstasy.


    "You¡¯re the one, aren¡¯t you? My contact from the GID?"


    At first, there was no response, just a slight angling of the head. Then, they spoke in a soft voice: "Not yours."


    Zakos frowned. Well, yes, technically this person had been trying to get in contact with Atoy Muzazi, but they¡¯d gotten a superior package, so where was the problem? It was all besides the point now, at any rate.


    "It matters not," Zakos intoned, already regaining his dignity. "Get these restraints off me and we¡¯ll deal with Hadrien and del Sed. There¡¯s little time -"


    There was a hollow click, and Zakos looked up from his restraints. His eyes widened, and a cold sensation spread through his body.


    A gun was pointing right at his face, held by the red shadow. A jet-black, polished punchpoint pistol, aimed right between his eyes.


    "W-Wait," he said quietly, lips dry. This couldn¡¯t happen. This wasn¡¯t how things could end for Samael Ambrazo Zakos! He was a Special Officer, damnit!


    The red shadow flicked off the safety. "You¡¯ve ruined everything," it hissed.


    Samael Ambrazo Zakos writhed, struggled, tried to escape, but the restraints were too tight. He looked up at the red shadow desperately.


    "Wait!" he screamed again, but the shadow did not wait.


    The finger pulled the trigger, and Samael Ambrazo Zakos said nothing more.

 Chapter 35:2.17: Illuminated

    The red shadow observed Samael Ambrazo Zakos¡¯ corpse with the slightest sense of satisfaction.


    The bullet had entered right between his eyes, so the contents of his skull had been deposited all over the pillar behind him. It was a hasty coat of paint, but the bastard didn¡¯t deserve anything more elegant.


    Crouching down, the shadow plucked the bullet from the bloody remnants of Zakos¡¯ seat of consciousness, depositing the metal object into a pocket. It wouldn¡¯t do to leave any unnecessary evidence. That was why Samael Ambrazo Zakos had had to die in the first place, apart from the obvious reasons.


    They scanned the room one more time, making sure they¡¯d left no trace of their presence save the corpse. The training they¡¯d received made it a simple matter not to leave footprints, and the blows they¡¯d dealt to the guards outside should keep them unconscious for an hour or two with minimum after-effects.


    Their punchpoint pistol was equipped with a heavy-duty silencer, so there was little risk of anyone overhearing the execution.


    Satisfied with what they saw, the shadow turned on their heel and ducked out of the tent. Things had gotten awful for a period back there, but they¡¯d managed to make it out of the situation intact.


    The second their foot made contact with the ground outside, the red shadow was bathed in light. It was as if the stars themselves were glaring at them.


    The shadow brought up a hand to shield their eyes, and so they saw what was going on around them. Numerous people - humanoid silhouettes - were standing in a circle around them, pointing lights at them. The shadow recognised those lights as part of the equipment they¡¯d been using to map out the ruins. In the hands of some members of the crowd were stun sticks too, electric polearms used to deter local wildlife while exploring ruins. They hadn¡¯t dared go for them while the automatics were guarding them, but it seemed the crowd had gone for them now.


    They tensed their body, heart thundering in their chest. Could they run for it, rejoin the crowd from another direction before their absence became obvious? How much did they know already? No, no, this was not good, this was awful.


    They had no doubt they could dispatch this crowd - dispatch the present member of Skipper¡¯s crew, too, if it came to it - but the damage would be irreparable all the same. The life they¡¯d built would have already collapsed like a house of cards.


    What should they do? Their hand trembled.


    This should not have been happening. This should have been easy, like mopping up the floor after a spill. Even so, they had to do something - or else this would be the end of everything they¡¯d worked so hard for, both here and back home.


    They tensed their body, getting ready to move, getting ready to do something, when the voice of Dragan Hadrien rang out.


    "It¡¯s over, Helga."


    Helga the shadow¡¯s eyes widened at the sound of her name, and she let out a soft sigh. So that was how it was.


    Making sure to keep the entire crowd within her line of sight, she turned to the brightest source of light - that would be where Dragan was, judging from the Aether tic that made his eyes glow.


    "How did you know?" she said, voice low.


    Dragan stepped forward, the light from the other observers revealing his resolute expression. "There were a few things. The way you manage to sneak around without being noticed. The endurance you showed when we went into the ruins that first time. And what you told me in the medical tent, just before Zakos arrived."


    Helga closed her eyes. "I see." She¡¯d known that had been a mistake. She¡¯d known the second the words had left her mouth, but she couldn¡¯t keep them bottled up inside her anymore.


    Dragan continued on unprompted. Well, he seemed the type who liked to lay his reasoning out. "You mentioned how you needed medicine to maintain your body, but you never said how you got it. I looked it up, and the stuff¡¯s not cheap. The answer was obvious, once I thought about it. The Supremacy pays you to report on the Humilist fleet¡¯s activities."


    Helga sighed. He pretty much had the whole thing down. It was strange - she should have been panicking beyond reason from having her secret exposed, but she didn¡¯t feel like that at all.


    Instead there was a sense of ¡­ relief? Relief from her lies being exposed.


    She spoke, the words seeming to flow out without end once she opened her mouth: "You¡¯re absolutely right. The Galactic Intelligence Division reached out and arranged to provide medicine to myself and my siblings, so long as I did as they said."


    Dragan glared. "And you just accepted that? Becoming a traitor?"


    "Yes." There was nothing else to be said. Well, perhaps one thing: "If I recall correctly, you¡¯re a traitor yourself. You deserted the Supremacy. What exactly separates me from you?"


    His glare intensified. "I didn¡¯t get anyone killed. Remember Dian? You were fine with him being burnt to a crisp?" S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She squeezed her eyes shut. "That wasn¡¯t supposed to happen."


    There was no sympathy in Dragan¡¯s voice. "Well it did. You brought a Special Officer here, and he ran wild. Can I assume his corpse is in the tent behind you?"


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    There was a shuffling in the crowd, a mumbling that ran through it like a wave. Eyes that had once looked to her for leadership stared at her with fear instead.


    It was as if they could see the blood dripping from her hands.


    She looked up, removed any trace of hesitation from her stance. "That¡¯s right. I killed him just now. I¡¯m sure that¡¯s not a surprise to you, since you¡¯re all stood outside waiting for me."


    Dragan glanced at the tent behind her, but he understandably didn¡¯t look too concerned. "Was it painless?"


    "Single shot to the head. Instant death."


    "Ah. Shame."


    Helga glanced around, taking in the crowd, judging distances. Without a doubt, she could escape once it became necessary. Then she could take control of the rocket and pilot it to safe harbour.


    But ¡­ if she did that, how would the Humilists get home? She supposed Skipper could probably give them a ride home on the Veritas, but -


    No. She couldn¡¯t waste time thinking about that now. She had to think about herself and her family.


    They¡¯d spent years on the streets, desperately working any job in order to afford that medicine. Those damn green pills had been the only thing standing between them and an early grave, and they¡¯d done whatever was necessary to get them, no matter how undignified. Even the thought of those days made her arms itch, memories of the way the skin would fall away rising to the surface.


    "Thinking about escaping?" said Dragan, still staring right at her mask as if he could see her eyes through it.


    Well, the thing didn¡¯t really have a purpose at this point anyway. She took the mask off with one hand and tossed it away into the dirt, savoring the feel of the cold night air on her face.


    "If I was thinking about escaping," she said, adjusting the angle of her foot. "Could you do anything to stop me?"


    That was right. Dragan was injured, and Bruno and Serena were definitely still unconscious. She knew for a fact that there weren¡¯t any other Aether users among the Humilists, as well.


    She could very well break out of this situation without much trouble. If things went well, she could do it non-lethally, but at the very least she could do it without harming any of the Humilists.


    Her eyes drifted back to Dragan¡¯s face. All she needed was the right moment.


    "I¡¯ve already had a signal sent out containing everything I¡¯ve just told you," he said, now actually staring into Helga¡¯s eyes. "I¡¯d bet the Humilist fleet has already received it - they know exactly who you are already. You¡¯re screwed whether you run or not."


    Helga narrowed her eyes. Was he telling the truth? It seemed unlikely. He couldn¡¯t have been certain that she was the mole until just now, and he didn¡¯t seem careless enough to broadcast a potentially false accusation like that.


    If he was telling the truth, then she had no choice but to run for Supremacy-controlled space and get in contact with the GID. If not, then there was a possibility that she could dispatch Dragan and just hash things out with everyone else.


    No, that was just wishful thinking. If the GID found out about what had happened here, there was no way they¡¯d let it stand.


    They weren¡¯t nearly that kind, after all.


    "I think," said Dragan hurriedly, noticing her shifting her stance. "That surrender might be the best option for you."


    "You think wrong," said Helga, now returning Dragan¡¯s glare. "If I stop doing this, I¡¯m dooming my siblings. They¡¯re on a GID station, relying on their handouts."


    Olga, Nicolai ¡­ was there a way she could get them out of there before the GID found out about this? If Dragan had really sent out that signal, she¡¯d need to head out right away in order to make it in time.


    It felt like she was in a labyrinth, and new walls were presenting themselves all the time. There had to be a way out of this - an ideal path - but she simply couldn¡¯t see it.


    She knew for a fact that path wasn¡¯t surrender, though.


    Helga looked up at the sky. The moon really was beautiful tonight, shining down on them like a giant white star of its own. Even the ruins behind looked wonderful in this light.


    She would have loved to explore them properly.


    "Well," she said, still looking up at the sky. "It seems that I won¡¯t surrender, and you won¡¯t let me go. It¡¯s a tough situation we find ourselves in, isn¡¯t it?"


    "Yeah," said Dragan. He had the same look in his eyes. "A tough situation."


    "Mm."


    The clearing emptied itself of noise, punctuated only by the hasty breathing of the crowd and the rhythmic clicking of some nearby insect.


    Helga and Dragan stared at one another with gaze unbroken, daring each other to make the first move. Dragan¡¯s hand twitched against the makeshift plasma pistol strapped to his hip, while Helga¡¯s was still.


    Dragan pulled out the pistol, pointing it at her and firing. The movement was painfully slow. To be honest, Helga expected more.


    In the time Dragan was doing that, Helga was able to do three things.


    First, she whipped the red cloak off her shoulders, throwing the spread-out sheet in front of her in order to block the crowd¡¯s vision. The cloak was for concealment only - the black bodysuit she wore beneath it provided all the protection she needed.


    Second, she kicked her leg across the ground, sending a hail of dirt and stone flying upwards behind the discarded red cloak. They¡¯d stay in that position for only a fraction of a second, but at the speed Helga moved, that wouldn¡¯t be a problem.


    The crowd - Helga¡¯s people - started to shout in panic and fear. With a pained expression, she blocked it out.


    Third, she unleashed a series of rapid jabs upon the hail of stone, sending each fragment flying through the red cloak, leaving tiny holes in its surface. A moment later, a series of shattering sounds rang out, and the bright lights that had been illuminating the square were snuffed out.


    She¡¯d judged the angles correctly, then, and managed to destroy the lighting equipment using those projectiles.


    Oh, and for good measure, she ducked out of the way of the plasma shot. It struck the tent behind her, and the structure burst into flame.


    With visibility reduced, she¡¯d be able to approach and dispatch Dragan without him getting an accurate shot off, but she¡¯d have to be quick about it. Otherwise, the fire from the tent behind her would just provide new visibility.


    No time to waste, then.


    She kicked off the ground with a burst of dark-red Aether, keeping her body low to the ground as she approached. Dragan let loose another hail of plasmafire, but she easily weaved around them. This kind of situation was something she¡¯d been trained for.


    In a second, she was upon Dragan, almost face to face. She slapped his pistol away with one hand, and it went flying off into the crowd.


    She thrust the other hand forward fingers first, aiming directly for Dragan¡¯s forehead. It was unfortunate, but she had no choice but to drill right through his skull and destroy his brain. Otherwise, she had no guarantee he wouldn¡¯t come after her.


    Sorry, she thought, and went in for the kill.

 Chapter 36:2.18: Trust Me Trust You

    "Are you hungry?" said the pale man, hands clasped on his lap.


    He was sitting on a couch in the shabby apartment Helga had been led to, and she¡¯d been directed to take a seat on the one opposite him. They were separated only by a small coffee table. She didn¡¯t answer his question: whoever this person was, he knew full well that she was hungry.


    The pale man smiled with his mouth, but his eyes remained impassive, as if he were inspecting something slightly interesting under a microscope.


    To call him ¡¯pale¡¯ was something of an understatement, to be honest - it was more like he was a drawing that someone had forgotten to colour in. His hair, his skin, even the business suit and tie he was wearing - all of it was stark white. The only trace of colour were his blazing blue eyes.


    "You don¡¯t trust me," he said. It was a statement, not a question, spoken with the utmost confidence.


    "I don¡¯t have any reason to trust you," Helga muttered. "Your goons cornered me and forced me to come here. Why would I trust you?"


    Glancing around the apartment, the fourteen-year-old scratched at her bandage-covered arms anxiously. A few drops of blood soaked through the bandages and stained the couch she was sitting on. The pale man glanced at the stain with mild distaste, but did not mention it.


    "It¡¯s fine if you don¡¯t trust me," he said pleasantly. "It would be strange if you did, to be frank. But I¡¯d like to change that initial impression of me, if that¡¯s alright with you."


    Helga shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "How¡¯s that?"


    "Allow me to be quite uncharitable, Ms. Malwarian," the pale man said. "Your life, as it is right now, is exceedingly sad to witness. It pained my heart when I learnt of your present circumstances."


    Helga frowned. "Excuse me?" Who was this man to judge her life?


    "It pained my heart when I learnt of your present circumstances," the pale man repeated, retrieving a snow-white script from his suit pocket. He flicked it on and Helga¡¯s eyes widened as she saw on its screen a profile of herself - containing everything from birth records to recent surveillance footage. "Older brother deceased due to genetic difficulties, a young girl forced to resort to petty theft to provide for her remaining siblings. It¡¯s exceedingly sad."


    She gulped. Was he from Station Security, then? Showing the evidence before he arrested her? "Where did you get all this?" she said quietly, dreading the answer.


    "It¡¯s not difficult for me to gain access to most information," the pale man said. "After all, information - among other things - is a vital component in the business I partake in. I could tell you that I had a security official blackmailed so he would give me this information. I could tell you that I had him bribed. I could tell you that I had him killed. Would it make any difference to this conversation?"


    Again, Helga gulped. This felt more like talking to a computer than a person. A cold, inhuman machine. She was sure that, even if this man had killed many people for that information, it would never show on his face or in his voice.


    "Who are you? What do you want from me?" She did her best not to blink as she asked her questions - she didn¡¯t want to show any weakness in front of a man like this.


    The pale man smiled. "My name is Jean Lyons. I work for the GID. Are you familiar with that organisation?"


    Helga shook her head.


    "That¡¯s not surprising," the pale man - Lyons - said. "The Galactic Intelligence Division operates clandestinely, after all, and is based in the Supremacy - very far from here. I would like you to tell me, if it¡¯s not too much trouble - what is it you think an intelligence agency like the GID does?"


    Helga looked down at her lap nervously, tapped her feet against the wool floor. "Spy on people?" she ventured.


    Lyons shook his head. "That¡¯s just the means. What is the end?"


    Helga thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.


    Lyons smiled. "The end is balance, Miss Malwarian. All things in moderation. No creature too big, no creature too small. Ensuring that nobody gains too much power. It¡¯s efforts like ours that guarantee war does not consume the galaxy."


    She furrowed her brow. "Just by spying on people?"


    "I won¡¯t lie. Sometimes further action based on that information is necessary. As I mentioned earlier: blackmail, assassination, things like these ¡­ nudges needed to encourage the galaxy into a certain shape."


    She raised an eyebrow. "And that keeps the balance?"


    "Yes. You will find, Miss Malwarian, that the majority of people wish only for the world to continue on as it is. Even if their lot in life is terrible, they would rather that state of affairs continue rather than risk their circumstances becoming even worse."


    She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Lyons looked deep into her eyes, as though deciding whether to continue before he went on. sea??h th§× N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "My belief," he said quietly. "Is that even if this world were to become a living hell, people would not protest so long as the temperature of the flames were consistent. Is that something you think you may agree with? Do you suffer from that disease called contentment?"


    Helga thought about it for a second. Thought about Olga and Nicolai¡¯s gaunt, hollow faces. Thought about Oskar¡¯s armless corpse, blood still pouring from the melted stumps. Thought about the hunger in her stomach.


    "No," she said.


    "I¡¯m sorry," Lyons said. "I didn¡¯t quite catch that."


    "No," she said, louder, her voice firm. "I don¡¯t want things to carry on like this."


    Lyons smiled. "Then I believe we have a great deal to discuss."


    -


    "Helga!" rang out a voice, cutting through the chaos of the crowd.


    Helga¡¯s hand stopped inches away from Dragan¡¯s eye - at the speed it was moving, it would have easily smashed through his skull if she hadn¡¯t hesitated. Dragan didn¡¯t miss his chance: he leapt backwards as far as he could. With Helga¡¯s speed, that still wasn¡¯t a safe distance, but it gave him more room to maneuver.


    Malwarian didn¡¯t pursue. Even though her body remained poised for combat, she glanced to the side, to the source of the voice.


    Mila stood there, looking at Helga sadly, a clenched fist against her heart. Dragan had offered her one of the stun-sticks he¡¯d passed around, but she¡¯d refused. That was no surprise, though.


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    The doctor looked like she had a lot of things she wanted to say. To be honest, though, what could she say? Dragan had spent the last couple of hours before this confrontation trying to come up with arguments to talk Helga down depending on her motivations, but none of them seemed to fit her situation now that he knew it. Her family were effectively being held hostage, so there was no way she would give up.


    Mila clearly had come to the same realization. In the end, all she could say was: "Don¡¯t¡­"


    Helga bit her lip, glared at her, but there was no real anger in it. More frustration than anything else. "Don¡¯t?" she spat out. "Don¡¯t? What would you have me do, then? Give up and lose everything?"


    Mila blinked, and her eyes were full of tears. It was as if a veritable flood of words were competing to come out of her mouth, but all that she managed to let out was another quiet: "Just...don¡¯t¡­"


    But Helga didn¡¯t let up. Her expression was pained as she continued, as though begging Mila for some reprieve. "And do what instead? Tell me. Tell me and I¡¯ll do it, if it¡¯s you."


    "I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a solution to this," said Dragan, cutting in. "If we talk this out a little more, there could be a way we -"


    Helga shot a glare at him - dark red Aether crackling around her - and he promptly shut his mouth. He clearly didn¡¯t have the right to talk - in Helga¡¯s mind, he¡¯d been demoted from person to obstacle. Any protests he came out with would be rejected out of hand.


    Mila, on the other hand...


    He glanced over at her. The doctor opened her mouth, and at first no words came out. Then, as if forcing out a cough, she began to speak.


    "Hel...Helga ¡­ you¡¯re the first person I¡¯ve trusted in years. Probably ever, really, to the level that ¡­ that I trusted you before this. I love - I love trusting you. But¡­ I¡¯m having trouble trusting you right now."


    Understatement.


    Mila went on, taking a step forward out of the crowd, hand still over her heart. The certainty in her words grew as she spoke. "I want to trust you again. I really do - more than anything, I think. If you just stop fighting and - and we can just all decide the best thing to do, I¡¯ll trust you. I¡¯ll trust anything you say, even if I know it¡¯s a lie. Just ¡­ that Aether stuff, just turn it off. And we¡¯ll talk. Please."


    Helga faltered, looked for all the world as if she desperately wanted to do as Mila asked, to turn off her Aether and surrender.


    Being honest, Dragan didn¡¯t see that as being very likely - and he silently tensed himself, ready to let loose another series of shots at Helga if she continued attacking. He¡¯d have to infuse Aether into them if he wanted them to have any effect, clearly. If she moves, he¡¯d have to activate his Aether, raise his gun, and infuse his shots all in the same second. It wouldn¡¯t be easy.


    Helga opened her mouth. "I¡­"


    There was a flash of blue light. No more words left her mouth - the only sound she made was a sudden, bloodcurdling scream. Her body began spasming wildly even as she stood, limbs shaking with such force that Dragan was surprised they didn¡¯t snap. He could see smoke rising from her body.


    Her eyes, dilated to pinpricks, were fixed on Mila¡¯s horrified face - and then they closed. She collapsed into the mud in an undignified heap.


    Directly behind her, clutching a stunstick in his tense white hands, was Aiden. The heterochromic boy was shaking with rage, and as the unconscious Helga fell he gave her a kick in the stomach for good measure.


    "Traitor!" he screamed at her, as if she were in any state to hear what he was saying. "Coward!"


    It was obvious what he was doing. Drowning fear and shame with anger. Dragan glanced at Mila¡¯s tear-streaked face, and their eyes locked.


    They both understood. That sneak attack would have been useless if Helga¡¯s Aether had still been up. At the very last moment, when it came down to it, she had intended to surrender.


    Aiden spat at her limp form and turned to the crowd. Still running on adrenaline, he spoke with a kind of feigned authority. "G-Get her on the ship!" he said, raising his stunstick high as if it were a standard he was planting on the battlefield. "We¡¯ll use a medical pod to freeze her, get her to the fleet, make her face justice!"


    With that, he raised his stunstick higher, and an uneven noise of victory and sadness ran through the crowd. A few Humilists - younger ones, like Aiden - detached from the crowd and began dragging Helga away by the legs.


    "Well," said Dragan, shuffling awkwardly as he tried to avoid Mila¡¯s sorrowful gaze. "I guess that¡¯s that."


    Aiden looked at him, turning away from Helga¡¯s shrinking form. "You can get out of here, too," he said, with surprising harshness.


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? I just saved you all."


    "From a problem y-you caused," said Aiden, jabbing a finger towards him. "If you outsiders hadn¡¯t shown up, neither would that Special Officer. If you hadn¡¯t come here, Dian would still be alive. You as good as killed him yourself!"


    A murmur of dangerous assent rang through the crowd. Dragan understood: the enemy they¡¯d been provided with wasn¡¯t quite as despicable as they needed, so they were making a new one. If he wasn¡¯t careful, things might end poorly for him.


    He suppressed the urge to sigh. Like he¡¯d thought before, why couldn¡¯t problems ever just be solved?


    "That¡¯s fine," Dragan said, as calmly and reasonably as he could. "We¡¯ll part ways after Skipper and Ruth get back, and you won¡¯t ever have to see us again-"


    "No," scowled Aiden, gripping his stunstick a little tighter. "We part ways now. We¡¯re leaving - you¡¯re on your own."


    He couldn¡¯t allow that.


    Taking a cautious step forward, Dragan spoke. "That¡¯s not going to work for us. We need Mila here to treat Bruno and Serena once we have the medicine."


    Aiden scoffed. "That¡¯s not my problem. You can treat the freak yourself."


    A hot flare of anger went through Dragan¡¯s body. He had much preferred Aiden when he¡¯d been too timid to show off what a dick he clearly was. Looking at the harsh gaze of the crowd around, Dragan could tell he was quickly losing control of the situation.


    Mila spoke up, sniffling still: "I could stay behind a little while, get a ride from them back to the fleet -"


    "And you can shut it, too," Aiden said, still staring down Dragan. "I¡¯m still not convinced you weren¡¯t w-working with Helga. It¡¯d fit, with the way you always were around her."


    The words came out awkward, an accusation not fully believed, not fully formed. An intentional kind of paranoia, used as a shield. The whole thing was a grab for authority: Aiden was even holding the battered stunstick as though it were a sceptre.


    Mila glared daggers at the boy, but more than a few people in the crowd returned the favour. The public mood seemed to be for the person who had taken down the mole, and not the one who¡¯d offered to trust even their lies.


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something - but was cut off by the sudden sound of a boom in the sky, a sudden vibration of the air. He didn¡¯t even have to look to guess the shape and size of the ship that had just broken through the atmosphere.


    An unconscious grin of relief came to his face. Skipper was back.


    -


    Skipper took a swig of an energy drink he¡¯d snagged from the market as he strolled into the cargo bay, a little uncertain on his feet. That made sense - he¡¯d been running on fumes and five-minute naps for quite a while now.


    Ruth followed after him, clearly concerned, box of Rospolox clutched between her hands. She bit her lip and tapped her foot impatiently as the cargo bay began the procedure to descend the ramp.


    Despite himself, Skipper couldn¡¯t help but feel the same. Had they made it in time? They must have, mustn¡¯t they? But what if they hadn¡¯t?


    Still, he couldn¡¯t worry Ruth. So, as the cargo ramp descended onto the Yoslof soil, Skipper sauntered down it with all the confidence of a videograph star, offering the waiting crowd a friendly finger gun. Ruth followed after him.


    "Long time no see, boys and girls," he said, grinning. "Nice to see ya, nice to see ya. How¡¯s tricks?"


    He looked over the crowd, saw the tense anger in some of their eyes, saw the caution of Dragan off to the side. Something was wrong. Something had happened. He¡¯d need to approach it carefully.


    "Hey," he said, scratching his head with a smile. "Why the long faces?"

 Chapter 37:2.19: Broken Egg

    "How¡¯s it going, kiddo?" said Skipper, looking down at Dragan.


    Dragan suppressed the urge to groan. He¡¯d sat himself down on a hill just outside the encampment in an effort to finally get some peace and quiet, and somehow the most annoying man in the galaxy had found him anyway. He looked up at Skipper, hands still clasped in his lap.


    "I¡¯ve been better," he said, shrugging.


    "You took down a Special Officer," Skipper grinned. "That ain¡¯t nothing."


    "Only after drugging him out of his mind. And I nearly died in the process."


    "But you didn¡¯t," said Skipper, wagging a finger. "And that¡¯s the most important thing."


    Dragan thought about it for a second and shifted his position in the grass, wincing from the lingering pain in his body. "You¡¯re right, I guess," he said grudgingly.


    Skipper nodded. "I always am."


    "Don¡¯t get ahead of yourself," Dragan chuckled, rolling his eyes all the same. Then his face turned downcast. "You say I¡¯ve won, but things don¡¯t seem to have gotten any better. I managed to save everyone, but at the end of it all they¡¯re just miserable and angry. In what way did I win, exactly, apart from not dying?"


    With a grunt, Skipper sat himself down next to Dragan, looking down at the almost completely packed-up Humilist camp. After a moment, he spoke.


    "You know," he said, as if carefully considering every word. "There¡¯s never such a thing as a perfect victory. I¡¯ve never seen it, not even once, and I¡¯ve seen a lot of things. Even if you win, and put everything you¡¯ve got into it, you¡¯re not going to get everything you want out of it. That just isn¡¯t possible."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "What is this? The moral of the story?"


    "Just some friendly advice, kiddo," Skipper shrugged. "Don¡¯t get disappointed when the world doesn¡¯t work the way you¡¯d like it to."


    Down below, there was shouting from near the rocket - Aiden barking out orders with the authority he¡¯d somehow snatched hold of. The disorganized Humilists were in a state where they¡¯d listen to whoever was loudest, clearly.


    It felt like the world had become a little darker, to be perfectly honest.


    He gave Skipper a look, and a thought occurred to him. "Speaking from personal experience?" he said, testing the waters.


    "Kiddo," said Skipper, smiling sadly. "I¡¯m nothing but personal experience."


    -


    Ruth was sitting on a fold-up chair outside the medical tent, fingers fidgeting in her lap. She looked up as Dragan and Skipper approached, a noticeable relief creeping into her smile.


    "Heya," she said.


    "Hey," said Dragan, holding up a hand to block the sun from his eyes. "Been a while."


    "Mm," she said, if you were generous with what you called speech. Her eyes glanced towards the medical tent, anxiety clear in them.


    Skipper was keeping quiet for once in his life, so it was up to Dragan to inquire. "How¡¯s it going there?"


    "I handed over the Rospolox," she said, smiling thinly. "Mila¡¯s been in there a while, though. You don¡¯t think¡­?"


    "I¡¯m sure they¡¯re fine," cut in Skipper, raising a placating hand.


    Ruth nodded. She seemed ready to trust Skipper no matter what he said.


    "So," said Dragan, depositing himself in another nearby chair. His poor weary bones needed rest after all his recent heroic efforts. "You guys took your damn time, huh?" Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "We got held up," said Skipper. "Ran into some pirates and had a dogfight with a cyborg."


    Dragan rolled his eyes - yeah, right. Then he noticed Ruth quietly nodding.


    "Seriously?" he said, unbelieving. "That¡¯s true? That actually happened?"


    "Sure did," she muttered, the memories of it clearly unpleasant.


    "It pains my heart, Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, faking a sniffle as he thumped his chest with his fist. "That you would think me a liar. I honestly am in shock. I might die."


    "I wish."


    "You see, Ruth?" said Skipper, wiping a crocodile tear from his eye. "You see the kind of treatment I have to deal with here? The sheer level of contempt?"


    As Skipper¡¯s trashy theatre continued on, Mila stepped out of the medical tent, stripping away the sterile mask that had been covering her face.


    She looked more tired than Dragan had ever seen her, huge dark bags under her slightly bloodshot eyes. Her mouth was a thin dry line, and when she spoke it was with a flat, pained monotone.


    "They¡¯ll make it," she said quietly. "Should take a day or two for the symptoms to ¡­ to fully dissipate."


    "Hey," Ruth said, clearly trying to be as empathetic as she could. Dragan had told them all about how things had ended up with Helga. "Things¡¯ll get better."


    Mila barely looked at her. "Mm," she grunted, brushing a loose lock of black hair out of her face.


    And with that, she staggered away - off to the waiting Humilist rocket. That was where Helga was being kept too - frozen, ready for judgement by the leaders of the Humilist Commune.


    "What do you think¡¯ll happen to her?" said Dragan quietly.


    "Hm?" Skipper looked at Mila¡¯s shrinking form. "She¡¯s getting on the rocket, I think."


    "Not her," Dragan snapped. "Helga. What¡¯ll happen when she reaches the Humilist fleet?"


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    Skipper and Ruth glanced away, clearly uncomfortable with the question.


    "Well," said Skipper. "I¡¯d hope for some justice, but I dunno about that. I¡¯ve heard some nasty rumours about the Humilist Apexbishop."


    "Things will work out," said Ruth, smiling a little more optimistically. "Mila will make them. I¡¯m sure of it."


    Fair enough. What exactly could Mila do, though? Apart from her medical expertise in this camp, Dragan had never gotten the sense that she¡¯d held an especially high position in the Humilist sect as a whole. To the people who¡¯d be judging Helga, Mila might as well be some rando who¡¯d wandered in off the streets.


    Someone to be either shut up or ignored.


    Mila disappeared into the rocket.


    "Hey," said Ruth, recapturing Dragan¡¯s attention. She grinned a false grin at him. "Like I said, things will work out for them. If you just don¡¯t give up, they always do."


    Dragan smiled. "You¡¯re right," he lied.


    -


    In Bruno¡¯s memory, he was captured mid-scream, body frozen between one second and the next as it spasmed in the seat, kept in place by a thick bundle of Neverwire.


    He was in the interrogation room, that small dingy cube room, the masked face of his interrogator half-visible in the shadows. The man held a huge industrial hammer - the kind used by maintenance technicians to remove organic mass that clung to ships.


    From the position he was standing, the angle of his arms, Bruno guessed that he¡¯d just had his hands smashed in this memory. That didn¡¯t much narrow down when this had happened - his hands had been smashed so many times over those six months that it all seemed to bleed together.


    He did his best to keep his breathing steady. He couldn¡¯t ask Serena to swap with him for a period, get him out of this memory - she was unconscious too. They were in this together for the moment.


    "How you holding up?" he said quietly, doing his best not to look at the interrogator.


    "Don¡¯t like it here," came Serena¡¯s growl. Memories like this made her angrier than anyone.


    "Me neither," he mumbled.


    "Don¡¯t like it here," she said again. "When are we going to wake up?"


    Bruno sighed, looked up at the single lightbulb that illuminated the interrogation room. For a time, he¡¯d hallucinated that it was the sun. "Don¡¯t know," he said. "We¡¯ve been out for a while."


    "Yeah."


    He was quiet for a moment. The words were there in his head, fully formed, but he found himself reluctant to let them escape out of his mouth.


    "Do you think we lost?" he finally said.


    It would only make sense. Hadrien was very unlikely to be able to handle a Special Officer: just before he¡¯d blacked out, Bruno had seen him doing something with the syringes, but he couldn¡¯t imagine Zakos getting knocked out before managing to crush both Hadrien and Bruno.


    "If we lost," said Serena quietly. "We¡¯d be dead, right?"


    "Right."


    "I don¡¯t feel dead."


    Bruno furrowed his brow. "You¡¯ve never been dead. You don¡¯t know what it would feel like."


    "Really? Then this is what being dead feels like? I feel like I¡¯m sleeping."


    He shrugged as much as his restraints would allow. "You never know."


    Again, silence settled over the interrogation room - undesirable, as the aching pain in their hands slowly began to make itself known. Without distraction, the memory felt free to let itself unfold.


    "You¡¯re weird, Bruno," Serena¡¯s voice cut through the pain, and the scene around them again slowed to a stop.


    Bruno sighed. As ever, Serena¡¯s train of thought was like a minecart speeding through a labyrinth. "How am I weird?"


    "You kinda want this to be what dying feels like. Because that¡¯d mean you were right about this being a bad plan." She laughed as if she¡¯d told a funny joke. "You¡¯re so weird!"


    Shifting in the seat as much as he could, Bruno growled: "I¡¯m not weird."


    "Yes you are." Serena could be so childish, even when there was a non-zero possibility that they were both a corpse. "You¡¯re so suspicious, you don¡¯t even trust that you¡¯re alive. You¡¯re such a weirdo!"


    "I¡¯m not! And besides -"


    Light began to flood into the memory - the ceiling cracking open like an egg, letting in stray rays of the sun. Bruno squinted as he looked up at the golden glow. "The hell is that supposed to be?" he muttered.


    "Huh," said Serena. "I guess we might be dead after all."


    Bruno turned to look at Serena, but she was no longer there. And a second later, neither was he.


    -


    "Wake the fuck up," said an irritating voice softly.


    Bruno groaned as he opened his eyes, did his best to ignore the aching pain flowing across his muscles. He was lying on a soft bed - medical tent, most likely - hooked up to more than a few monitors. Definitely not dead, then.


    He looked up. Dragan Hadrien was sat by the side of the bed in a disposable chair, hands clasped on his lap.


    "Guess I¡¯m alive, then?" said Bruno weakly. He tried to raise a hand, but the useless thing was shaking too hard for it to be of any use - even more than usual.


    "Seems that way," said Hadrien. A half-suppressed smirk played across his lips.


    Bruno groaned. "Your plan worked, then?"


    "Aren¡¯t you glad?" Hadrien said smugly. "I told you it would."


    "Yeah, yeah," Bruno said, settling his head back in his pillow. To his surprise, a chuckle escaped from his throat.


    "Something funny?" Hadrien said, raising an eyebrow. Now that Bruno looked, it was obvious that the guy had more than a few cuts and bruises himself. A cane leaned against the chair, obviously for his use.


    For a moment, Bruno thought about saying nothing, about keeping his mouth shut and surly. But even though every instinct told him not to, he found himself talking all the same.


    "It feels good to be alive."


    Hadrien cocked his head. "I would think so, yeah. Personally, I love being alive. Can¡¯t get enough of it."


    "Shut up," Bruno muttered. Then, turning away so that his face couldn¡¯t be seen, he said: "I guess you must have saved me, then."


    Hadrien, out of Bruno¡¯s vision, didn¡¯t talk for a couple of seconds. An awkward silence settled over the tent, save for the whistling of the wind outside.


    "You saved me first," Hadrien finally said. Even more surprising, it seemed genuine.


    Bruno took a deep breath, stuffed down whatever scraps of pride he had left, and spoke.


    "I don¡¯t trust you, Hadrien. But ¡­ I guess I don¡¯t distrust you, either. I¡¯ll wait and see what kind of ¡­ kind of person you are."


    Another silence, but it seemed much less awkward this time. Hadrien ended it by laughing quietly.


    "That doesn¡¯t make any sense, you know."


    "Yeah. I know," said Bruno, burying his face deeper into the pillow to hide his reddening face.


    Still - even as their conversation trailed off fully, even as Ruth charged into the tent and pulled Bruno and Serena into a painful hug, even as Skipper walked in and mouthed off with one of his stupid jokes, even as the tent was taken down and the Humilist rocket took off with an unfriendly blaze, even as the time came to leave Yoslof, Bruno couldn¡¯t help but think:


    It wasn¡¯t a totally awful day.

 Chapter 38:3.1: Taldan

    "She¡¯s a beauty, ain¡¯t she?" grinned Skipper.


    He flexed his new arm, watching with obvious fascination as the artificial muscle fibres - like shining silver strings - stretched and contracted accordingly. Without its exterior casing, the prosthetic arm seemed fairly flimsy, to tell the truth, but Dragan couldn¡¯t deny the intricacy of the engineering that had gone into it.


    They were in a hospital room on the planet Taldan - somehow, Skipper had managed to pull in enough favours from his contacts in the UAP to get a private room at the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital. Dragan didn¡¯t imagine Skipper¡¯s new prosthetic could have been cheap, so those contacts of Skipper¡¯s must have been very high quality.


    The room was a sterile white, reminding Dragan somewhat of a Supremacy cruiser - but the white seemed more sleek than stark here, intended to provide comfort more than present an unyielding image. Architecture designed for luxury rather than intimidation.


    Outside the expansive window, a sprawling cityscape could be seen. The section of Taldan suitable for human habitation wasn¡¯t too large in the grand scheme of things, but the planetary government had packed that small area with as much civilization as it could hold. The planet and the city were both called Taldan - buildings built upon buildings, stretching as far up as the eye could see. A tower made of towers.


    Even in this upper section, the sunlight was partially blocked out by the monolithic skyscrapers that towered above.


    "Mr. Skipper," said Serena from her chair, peering at where Skipper lay in his hospital bed.


    "Yes, Serena?"


    "That doesn¡¯t make any sense."


    Skipper smiled. "What doesn¡¯t make any sense?"


    "You¡¯re a boy," Serena said. "So how come your arm is a ¡¯she¡¯?"


    "It¡¯s just an expression," Skipper said - a weariness in his tone suggested that these kinds of questions weren¡¯t too uncommon. "You don¡¯t have to take it literally, okay?"


    "Did you steal it from a robo-girl?" Serena frowned. She seemed genuinely distressed at the prospect.


    Bruno chimed in, his exasperated expression taking precedence over Serena¡¯s for an instant. "No, Serena, he didn¡¯t. We came here and bought it with money, remember?"


    Ruth nodded from the corner, where she was standing with Dragan.


    Serena¡¯s expression didn¡¯t brighten up. Instead, she crossed her arms and grumbled: "Could be a set-up."


    As Skipper, Bruno and Serena continued their - for lack of a better word - ¡¯argument¡¯, Dragan leaned in to speak to Ruth. "Is it always like this?" he muttered.


    "Yep," she said. Her eyes were still focused on Skipper¡¯s new arm, traces of the sadness she¡¯d displayed back on Caelus Breck still visible in her eyes.


    It was annoying to talk to someone who was clearly unhappy, so Dragan decided he might as well try to cheer her up - or at least, change the direction of her train of thought. "She knows it¡¯s not actually from a robot girl, right?" he chuckled. Stating the obvious wasn¡¯t the gold standard of his comedic repertoire, but he supposed that it was better than nothing.


    Ruth nodded. "Mm. She understands more than she lets on. She¡¯s not stupid, she just ¡­ looks at things differently." sea??h th§× n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan thought back to the death glare Serena had given him back in that cave on Yoslof, when he¡¯d mentioned the name ¡¯Cott¡¯. Yeah, he could see that.


    He tapped his foot against the ground as Ruth¡¯s gaze returned to Skipper¡¯s arm, searching his mind for conversation topics.


    "Feels weird," he muttered after a moment.


    Ruth glanced at him. "What does?"


    "Not being in Supremacy territory," he said. "I¡¯ve never left it before. There¡¯s this sense, you know - like I shouldn¡¯t be here."


    "Like you don¡¯t belong here," Ruth nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I get ya. I got the same thing first time I set foot outside the UAP."


    "You¡¯re from these parts, then?"


    It was a stupid way to phrase it, really. The United Alliance of Planets was a loose but massive coalition of worlds united solely by the fact that they didn¡¯t want to be invaded. There was hardly a consistent culture that would make the planet¡¯s similar enough for Ruth to feel any nostalgia here.


    "Not these parts exactly," said Ruth quietly. Her shoulders tensed up - bad memories, clearly. Dragan frowned: his objective had been to cheer her up, but he¡¯d clearly done the opposite.


    "You two planning a mutiny over there?" called out Skipper from his bed. "Gimme a warning before you pull the guns out if you are!"


    Serena followed his gaze, face dropping as she did. "Don¡¯t, Miss Blaine! Even though Skipper stole that girl¡¯s arm, he¡¯s good deep down! I¡¯m sure of it!"


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "Mind your own business, old man," he said. "If I wanted to mutiny, you¡¯d already be out the window."


    Skipper put his new hand to his heart, face a mask of mock-indignation. "Old?" he whispered, as if the word was a deathly insult. "You wound me, Mr. Hadrien. You really do."


    "Shame. I was aiming to kill."


    Skipper¡¯s gaze turned to Ruth. "You see, Ruth?" he said sadly. "I give an arm for this boy, let him stay on my shiny new ship, and this is how he repays me. It¡¯s unbelievable."


    "You only got the ship because I broke you out of prison," said Dragan. "Any debt there has been paid in full."


    Skipper shook his head. "Stingy."


    There was a beep from the door, and a helmeted doctor poked their head in. It had surprised Dragan at first, but it seemed that every member of medical personnel at the hospital wore these helmets - able to discern infection and injury with a glance, as well as provide perfect sterility. The featureless black face of the mask was a little intimidating, to tell the truth, but Dragan supposed providing a level of detachment from their patients was a function of the mask as well.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    "Doctor Wiston is ready for you now," the doctor said, their voice smoothly modulated to be as calming as possible. "He just needs to attach exterior protection to the arm. Are you ready?"


    Without waiting for an answer, the doctor tapped the screen of their script and a hoverchair gently floated into the room, a few inches over the ground. They¡¯d applied anaesthetic to Skipper when they were attaching the arm, so it was no surprise they didn¡¯t trust him to walk around right now.


    "Yessir," grinned Skipper, grunting as he pushed himself out of the bed, putting his organic hand against the bedside table to keep himself steady. "Just, ah, just gimme a sec."


    He looked up at Ruth for a second, his gaze lingering, before his eyes snapped to look at Dragan instead.


    "Mr. Hadrien," he smirked. "If you wouldn¡¯t mind, this old-timer could use a helping hand."


    -


    "You¡¯re not being very gentle with that, you know," said Skipper worriedly, gripping the arms of the hoverchair tight as Dragan roughly pushed it down the hallway.


    "I¡¯m sorry," Dragan lied. "I¡¯m not used to this kind of medical equipment. I really feel bad about it."


    Dragan had never much liked hospitals - he didn¡¯t see how anyone really could. Unless you worked there, the only reason you would go to a hospital was if something was wrong with you, or if you were visiting someone who had something wrong with them. Those circumstances didn¡¯t lend themselves to the most optimistic environment.


    "Just this way," said the masked doctor as they passed two of their similarly-clad colleagues, their voice made bizarrely soothing by the modulation. "It should only take a few minutes to get the exterior attached. Don¡¯t worry."


    "Me?" grinned Skipper, leaning back in his seat. "Worry? Not once in my life. Right, Mr. Hadrien?"


    "Mm," Dragan grunted.


    "I didn¡¯t quite catch that, kiddo."


    "Right." He packed as much disdain into the word as it could carry.


    As they walked, they passed through some kind of relaxation area, where patients were lounging around in comfy-looking chairs and watching a holographic videograph display. Even a few members of staff were watching too, masked doctors and nurses following the screen with obvious concern in their body language.


    Dragan looked at the videograph as they passed by, listened in. It was a news broadcast, apparently regarding the bombing of a low-level news office that had taken place several days earlier.


    "We have now received confirmation," the Pugnant newsreader was saying, eyes obviously scanning some kind of display just off-screen. "That the explosion that took fifteen lives earlier this week was indeed the work of the terrorist known as the Citizen - or, at the very least, that they have claimed responsibility for the attack."


    The display changed to show an image of the office after the bombing - the wall of the square building exploding outwards with a bright fiery light, raining metal all around the surrounding area. Fifteen deaths didn¡¯t seem so many for such an attack, but Dragan supposed he didn¡¯t know the circumstances.


    The screen switched back to the newsreader. "Now, we here at Brighteye Taldan have received a video message claiming to be from the Citizen along with this claim of responsibility. Due to S4¡¯s new anti-terrorist measures, we are not permitted to air this message, but I have been told we can read you this excerpt."


    The newsreader cleared his throat. "¡¯These deaths are tragedies, but they will not be unique. This is mere prologue¡¯," he intoned, golden eyes scanning the message. "¡¯Until the shackles of this society snap, the Citizen will continue to appear. None are exempt. If you bear responsibility, you too will see his face.¡¯ A chilling threat to the people of Taldan. I¡¯m now live with Professor Ricard Blaise from the University of Greice, who specialises in criminal psychology. Professor, what does this message say to you?"


    As the newsreader switched to his interview, Dragan felt a cold metal finger tap his arm. He jumped and looked down at Skipper, who was looking at him with an eyebrow raised.


    "These kinds of things catch your interest?" he said, glancing at the videograph.


    Dragan shrugged. It was just interesting to get a sense of the local politics.


    -


    Ambran Roz was going to die. He was almost certain of it.


    Shedding his hair as fast as he could - having new black locks grow in their place for camouflage - Ambran huddled in the alleyway, watching his apartment from a safe distance. His discarded hair fell into clumps at his feet, its replacement so long it served more as a dark cloak than anything else. Sweat poured down the Umbrant¡¯s forehead, soaking into his new locks, but he did his best to keep still. He couldn¡¯t risk whoever was coming to kill him catching a glimpse of his movement.


    This wasn¡¯t fair. This just wasn¡¯t fair. He was a reporter, for Y¡¯s sake - he didn¡¯t get paid enough for this kind of peril.


    He knew the information he¡¯d stumbled into was deadly, but it wasn¡¯t like he¡¯d wanted to find it! He¡¯d be fine keeping quiet with just a little bribe!


    This section of the city was crowded beyond crowded, apartments smashed together as close as they could go while still technically being considered rooms. Cars flew past so quickly they were just black blurs, briefly cutting out the lights from the neon advertisements that coated nearly every surface.


    The walkways were full to bursting with crowds, the metal paths seeming precarious over the urban plummet. The perfect path to blend in, if Ambran could get out of the alley without being noticed - and that wasn¡¯t something he was especially confident in.


    An uncertain solution slowly congealed inside of his head, like rotting fruit. Incredibly unlikely to work, but it could give some peace of mind.


    There were people who wanted to kill him - what had happened back at the office had made that clear enough. But there were also people who wanted to make him surrender what he knew before they killed him. That information was his lifeline, at least for a while. He needed to safeguard it as long as he could.


    His pain tolerance was nearly non-existent. He¡¯d break before the torture even started, if it came to that. The only way he could stop himself from giving up the information was if he didn¡¯t know the information.


    There was a thing only Umbrants could do - part of the package of half-baked features their Gene Tyrant creator had put into them. Ambran took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and consciously forgot.


    What exactly he¡¯d forgotten he no longer knew - the memories would be completely inaccessible for a week exactly. If he was captured, he¡¯d bought himself a week before they killed him. Thinking of it, though, they could still just torture him to death looking for information he didn¡¯t have.


    Still - the burden of his shoulders felt so much less heavy. Whatever he¡¯d just forgotten, it had been truly awful.


    Sneaking himself away into the darkness of the city, Ambran didn¡¯t even turn to look as his apartment burst into flames behind him.


    It was business as usual on Taldan, after all.


    -


    The plating they¡¯d put on Skipper¡¯s new arm to cover the delicate inner mechanisms was good work. It consisted of a series of interlocking metal plates, painted to match Skipper¡¯s natural skin tone. Hell, from a distance Dragan was pretty sure he wouldn¡¯t be able to tell the arm was artificial.


    The waiting room was smaller than the one Skipper had been resting in - but in a hospital like this, ¡¯small¡¯ didn¡¯t mean much. It was still bigger than Dragan¡¯s Supremacy quarters. This room didn¡¯t have any windows, making it more like an enclosed box free of the vista they¡¯d previously been enjoying. With the doctor gone for the moment - and the walls muffling sound - it seemed like Skipper and Dragan could have been the only ones in the building.


    A shiver went down Dragan¡¯s spine at the very thought.


    "Nice work, huh?" said Skipper, turning his arm over again to inspect it. The doctor had left him and Dragan alone in the room for a moment while they went to fetch the final paperwork. "You wanna touch it?"


    "No. How much did that thing cost, anyway?"


    "Don¡¯t worry about it. What are you worried about, by the way?"


    Dragan blinked. Had he heard that right? Skipper¡¯s tone had snapped from playful to serious mid-sentence - no, mid-word. The man wasn¡¯t even consistent about his emotions.


    "Huh?" he said.


    "You¡¯re worried," said Skipper, looking at the wall from his chair. "Or, at the very least, something is playing on your mind. There¡¯s no point hiding it. What is it?"


    Dragan sighed, resisted the urge to grit his teeth. He really did hate the way this idiot could read him.


    "I want to know," he said quietly after a moment.


    "Know what?" Skipper¡¯s tone showed he already knew full well.


    "I want to know why you kidnapped me."

 Chapter 39:3.2: The Halls of Power

    Skipper blinked, sighed as he rubbed his nose. "I figured something like this was coming."


    "No shit," said Dragan. "When you kidnap someone, ¡¯why¡¯ is a question that jumps to the top of their list pretty quick."


    "What other questions are on the list?" said Skipper, resurrecting the cheeky grin that usually contaminated his face. "Any good ones?"


    "I¡¯m not playing games. Just answer me."


    Dragan tried to project the most serious mood he could, hoping he could kill any joke Skipper threw out before it could be used as a distraction. He felt like he understood the captain more now - every word he said was used to redirect the flow of conversation, to avoid awkward questions or prompt certain behaviours. If he didn¡¯t nip that in the bud, he¡¯d come out of this conversation empty-handed.


    It really annoyed Dragan that this Crownless man seemed to be a better Cogitant than him without even trying.


    Skipper shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You wanna sit down for this?"


    "You¡¯ve got the only seat," Dragan said, frowning in annoyance.


    "Your powers of observation are truly astute, Mr. Hadrien," Skipper shot back with a wink.


    Damn, he¡¯d walked into that one. But so long as he kept his focus, Skipper couldn¡¯t trip him up.


    "Just tell me," he said quietly.


    Skipper sighed again, but it seemed more genuine this time, lacking the theatricality that accompanied most of his mannerisms. His eyes turned dull, and for a few seconds he seemed much older, slumped in his chair.


    He looked down at the floor, as if considering it. "I can¡¯t tell you," he said after a pause.


    Well, he¡¯d been prepared for that. "I walk, then," he said, crossing his arms. "We¡¯re in a crowded UAP hospital, we¡¯re separated from the others, and you¡¯re still pumped full of anaesthetic. You¡¯re in no condition to stop me from going to the authorities." He honestly wasn¡¯t sure whether it was a bluff or not.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes were pained. "I can¡¯t tell you what for," he said, after thinking on it some more. "But I can tell you why."


    "They¡¯re the same thing."


    "They¡¯re really not," Skipper said seriously. "My actions and my motivations are very different things, Dragan. For now, I can only divulge the latter."


    Dragan frowned. "And why¡¯s that?"


    "If one wrong person finds out about my intentions, they won¡¯t work," Skipper said. His eyes were honest, but there was a sharp, cold glint in them. "I don¡¯t mind telling you why I¡¯m doing what I¡¯m doing, but -"


    "- but you¡¯re not willing to tell me what you¡¯re doing."


    "Exactly. Is that good enough for you? If it¡¯s not, you can walk away. I won¡¯t chase you."


    Dragan looked deep into his eyes - again, he was telling the truth. Despite how secretive he could be, Skipper was an honest person all the same. The only lies he was adept with were lies of omission.


    Was that good enough, though? If he walked away, Dragan had a good chance of linking up with the UAP¡¯s UniteFleet and earning himself a cushy position selling out the Supremacy¡¯s secrets. He¡¯d be richer, more comfortable, and safer too - the UniteFleet wouldn¡¯t want one of their informants to get killed.


    He could turn around, walk away, and get himself an objectively better life.


    But he was invested now, damnit. If he didn¡¯t see this through to the end, it¡¯d cling to him forever like a spider crawling up his back. It¡¯d drive him crazy for sure. It wasn¡¯t that he¡¯d gotten emotionally attached to these idiots, but he wanted to know how things would pan out.


    Plus, if he stuck around, he¡¯d know why Skipper had grabbed him before long anyway. That would satisfy his curiosity - and it wasn¡¯t like he couldn¡¯t just leave after that, anyway. It was the smartest choice.


    Obviously.


    "Tell me," said Dragan, leaning against the wall as he watched Skipper¡¯s face carefully.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked to the door, and Dragan saw him concentrate - watching and listening to make sure no doctor was near as he spoke. "There¡¯s someone I want to kill," he said softly.


    A chill ran up Dragan¡¯s spine. "Who?" he said cautiously, mouth dry.


    It was Skipper¡¯s turn to roll his eyes. "Not you, kiddo," he chuckled. "If I wanted you dead, you¡¯d be breathing dirt already. Relax."


    The tension drained from Dragan¡¯s shoulders. It wasn¡¯t as if he¡¯d believed that - they¡¯d taken too much trouble to kidnap him - but Skipper was stupid enough for the possibility to be there.


    "Who, then?" Dragan said, voice low. "Who is it you want to kill?"


    Skipper opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. "No, sorry," he said, shaking his head. "That wasn¡¯t the right way to explain things - that¡¯s more like a component, you know? Not the big dream. Do you know what I mean?"


    "No. Explain properly."


    "Jeez, you¡¯re a taskmaster. I guess¡­" Skipper closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, when he spoke, he sounded far-away. "I guess I want a revolution. I - I want to change the shape of this world."


    The man seemed to have stars in his eyes as he said it, like he was looking directly at his dream. A curious smile played across his lips.


    Dragan didn¡¯t feel the same. This felt like dangerous talk - more dangerous than Skipper¡¯s usual rambling.


    "A revolution against who?" he asked quietly.


    Skipper smiled. "Who do you think?"


    "The Supremacy," Dragan nodded. That made sense - Skipper and his crew obviously had no love lost for them. "How do I play into that? You know I¡¯m not, like, the only Cogitant in the Supremacy, right? We¡¯re not exactly an endangered species there."


    "All good things," said Skipper, face returning to the same easy grin he¡¯d worn since Dragan had first met him. "Come to those who wait.¡¯


    He looked up at Dragan, as if challenging him to turn around and leave as he¡¯d threatened to. Again, he¡¯d read Dragan like an open book. The Cogitant didn¡¯t much like the fact that he was getting used to it.


    But¡­


    "Yeah," he said, staring as though his eyes could drill the information right out of Skipper¡¯s head. "I guess they do."


    -


    "Bored," sighed Serena, swinging her legs off the side of the bench like a lost child.


    "Don¡¯t care," said Bruno, keeping his voice low - there were people passing by all the time, and he didn¡¯t want to get strange looks.


    "You should," pouted Serena. "If I¡¯m bored, you¡¯re bored. That¡¯s how it works."


    "I¡¯m not bored," said Bruno. It was true, he wasn¡¯t. He was quite content to sit and do nothing for hours on end. If only his lifestyle permitted that kind of relaxation.


    While Hadrien and Skipper had gone to get the final preparations done on the artificial arm, Serena had wandered out onto one of the hospital¡¯s colossal balconies - and, by extension, dragged Bruno along with her.


    Denied entertainment by Bruno, Serena huffed and marched down the hallway, arms crossed. Ruth had gone to talk to the doctor who¡¯d installed Skipper¡¯s new arm - she was concerned about it, because of course she was - so there was nobody willing to distract Serena.


    "Hey," he said. "We should stay put."


    Ignoring Bruno¡¯s half-hearted internal protests, Serena turned the corner and walked out of a spot without even looking to see what was beyond it - and when she did, she skidded to a halt on the smooth floor.


    Her eyes widened with awe, and a gasp of amazement escaped her throat.


    The word ¡¯balcony¡¯ was something of an understatement - you could have probably fit a few houses into the garden that protruded from the side of the skyscraper, looking out at the very peak of the city. Bruno could hear the sounds of birds - a rare experience in a megacity like this.


    The sun was shining, a gentle artificial wind was making its way through the installation, and quite a few residents of the hospital were taking the chance to enjoy it. The whole thing was a vision made of light.


    "It¡¯s so pretty," mumbled Serena, grinning at the scene.


    Bruno had to admit, she wasn¡¯t wrong. After their interrogation, they¡¯d recovered in a dingy secret UAP hospital for several months. If they¡¯d been in a place like this instead, would it have taken as long? The place seemed designed to calm every sense.


    Serena took a few steps forward past a gentleman in a wheelchair, her feet crunching on the artificial grass. For a second, Bruno was concerned she¡¯d start running around and making a scene, but she didn¡¯t get the chance.


    "Do you like birds?" croaked a voice from behind them.


    Serena turned around. It was the man in the wheelchair that had spoken. He was emaciated, almost a skeleton, bones clinging to his skin as though they were eager to slip free. Only a few tufts of white hair trailed from his wrinkled head. His eyes were deeply recessed, making it look as if they were staring out of twin dark tunnels. Still, there was a kind of dignity to him - like a giant that had been worn down by time.


    The wheelchair he was sitting on was a manual model - unlike the chair Skipper had used, which would only work in the hospital, this was one the old man likely used all the time. He wore a pinstripe suit that, small as it was, still looked oversized on him.


    "Do you like birds?" he said again, lips barely moving. He didn¡¯t look at Serena, but it was obvious who he was speaking to.


    Serena frowned for a moment at the sudden address, but then nodded enthusiastically. "Sure do!" The sounds of tweeting birds intensified around them a little, as if excited by the acknowledgement.


    The old man held up a trembling finger, pointed at a nearby bush. "Look over there."


    Not even considering the fact that it could be some kind of trick - and ignoring Bruno¡¯s protests to that effect - Serena skipped over to the bush and poked her head inside. Bruno stuffed down his annoyance; even if he wasn¡¯t the one behind the driver¡¯s wheel, he could still feel the branches dragging against their face.


    A tiny speaker was nestled right within the center of the bush. The sound of tweeting birds emanated from it.


    "Oh," frowned Serena. "It¡¯s fake."


    The old man half-grinned, but his eyes didn¡¯t move in the slightest. "Do you know what a bird is?" he rasped.


    "Sure I do," said Serena, pulling her head free of the bush. "It¡¯s like a mouse, but with wings."


    "No," said the old man, twitching his head in what was probably an effort to shake it. "A bird is three-hundred thousand and twenty-two UAP credits a year."


    "No, it¡¯s not. It¡¯s an animal. Are you okay?"


    The old man ignored her, his gaze sliding over to look at the bush, at the speaker cradled within it. "The birdsong you¡¯re hearing right now," he said, breathing heavy, just speaking obviously requiring a great deal of effort. "Is from the Salavian Red-Jay. It¡¯s a bird that¡¯s been extinct for fifty-two years now. The hospital pays the company that owns the rights to their birdsong three-hundred thousand and twenty-two credits a year so they can use it here, in this garden." He chuckled darkly. "That¡¯s all that¡¯s left of them. Numbers on a spreadsheet."


    Serena¡¯s face dropped, crestfallen at the sudden pessimism, but it quickly hardened into Bruno¡¯s scowl. He didn¡¯t much care for the way this man was speaking to Serena.


    "If you have a problem with me," he said, heightening the pitch of his voice to match Serena¡¯s. "I¡¯d prefer you keep it to yourself, thanks."


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    The old man ignored him. "It¡¯s the same with you, too, you know," he croaked, staring off into the distance.


    Bruno furrowed his brow. "What is?"


    "We¡¯ll turn you all into numbers in the end. That¡¯s all you are to us. Sacks of unliquidated assets. We¡¯ll auction off your skin and lungs and hair and even your thoughts and dreams. We¡¯ll pry open your ribs and sell your hearts."


    Bruno hardened his expression, tensed his body. His mind began running a familiar calculus - who was this person? Did he want to hurt him? Could he?


    "Are you threatening me?" he said, voice low.


    The old man glanced at him. Bitterness seemed to ooze out of every pore on his face. "I¡¯m telling you the truth, brat. Oh, but you won¡¯t listen. You never do. We¡¯ve already sold you, brat. We¡¯ve already sold your souls. You should tear me limb from limb."


    And with that, he laughed - a mirthless cackle that rang out across the garden like a funeral bell, before trailing off into a series of coughs. "We¡¯ve sold everything," the man mumbled, as an orderly approached from behind.


    "Director Sait," the orderly said gently, as he took hold of the wheelchair. "Perhaps it¡¯s time to go inside?"


    "Mm," the old man called Sait mumbled, closing his eyes to sleep. "Get me out of this sun, boy. I don¡¯t like the way it¡¯s looking at me."


    And with that, the orderly wheeled Sait back inside. The orderly had called him ¡¯Director¡¯ - did that mean he ran this hospital? That nihilistic rant had hardly seemed like good bedside manner.


    Bruno shuffled awkwardly, ignoring the uncomfortable looks from the garden¡¯s other occupants, before letting Serena take control again. She explored the garden, smiling at every leaf and branch, every holographic butterfly, but the joy seemed a little more feigned now.


    And the birdsong seemed so much more hollow.


    -


    To Secretary Zhao¡¯s eyes, the President of Taldan seemed much like a dog that had been kicked into servitude.


    Zhao still remembered the youthful vigor President Chael had displayed during his election campaign - the earnest yearning for change, the demands for justice, the promises of equality between Toptown and the Pit. As a boy, Zhao had gone to many of Chael¡¯s rallies, singing along with his parents and siblings, shouting echoes of whatever slogans they were given.


    The world had seemed so much brighter then, watching the rockstar candidate strut along the stage with that devil-may-care attitude. One of the Pit¡¯s own, devoted to dragging them all out of the mud.


    That had lasted only until Chael had been elected, really. Before long, he¡¯d stopped being the hope of the masses - he was just ¡¯the President¡¯, a new face for the same name. Indistinguishable from his predecessors.


    Still, Zhao had believed, justified every decision the man made, no matter how little it improved his lot. In his mind, it had all been part of the plan - Chael surely was pulling the wool over the establishment¡¯s eyes. Any day now he¡¯d lay out his path to the liberty he¡¯d promised.


    Even the memory made Zhao chuckle mirthlessly. As if.


    He stood in the hallway of the Dawnhouse¡¯s Binary Quarter, waiting for the esteemed President to emerge from the bathroom. The hallway was grim, lit only by gently glowing floor tiles - with the usual reputation a President of Taldan cultivated, they couldn¡¯t risk having windows.


    Two members of the President¡¯s elite guard stood on either side of the bathroom door - another of their number, the President¡¯s personal bodyguard, had entered with the man himself. The guards were clad in black armour, the only trace of colour being the glowing yellow sights on their visors, moving this way and that as they inspected their surroundings for threats.


    Zhao shuddered at their gaze - he didn¡¯t trust Taldan¡¯s security, the S4, as far as he could throw them, even here in the seat of government. Shooting Star Security Solutions had been paid a fortune to police Taldan, true, but at the end of the day they were still mercenaries. Zhao doubted they¡¯d be so loyal if someone else added a few zeroes to their pay.


    President Chael emerged, wiping his hands on his trousers, followed by his dutiful bodyguard. Zhao suppressed a sigh as he looked at the man.


    It had only been ten years since Chael had come to ¡¯power¡¯, for lack of a better word, but he was almost unrecognisable. His brown hair had faded to a dead grey in places, his haggard eyes were ringed with dark bags, and the scent of alcohol followed him around like a miasma. Even his clothes seemed perpetually disheveled, his tie looking as if he¡¯d given up on doing it partway through.


    "Zhao," said Chael, his voice a post-binge croak. "What can I do for you?"


    Zhao sighed, but did his best not to let his irritation show on his face. "If you¡¯ll recall, sir, you have a meeting with Taldan¡¯s sponsors in ten minutes. I understand they have questions regarding the, ah, the Citizen situation. We were just discussing it."


    The President¡¯s body tensed slightly as he nodded vaguely. "Right, yeah, yeah ¡­ of course. We were talking about that, weren¡¯t we?"


    "That¡¯s right, sir."


    This was nothing unusual - Chael forgot things frequently these days, and Zhao often found himself reminding the President of what he was doing and what his schedule was several times a day.


    A kind of sickened pity rose to his stomach as he looked at what Chael had become in recent years; it was like watching his dreams rot in real time.


    "The sponsors, huh¡­?" said Chael, rubbing a rough hand over his stubble. His dull eyes looked down at the ground. Zhao didn¡¯t blame him - he wouldn¡¯t much like to talk to them either.


    The S4 guards took over security as they escorted Chael to the conference chamber - Chael¡¯s personal bodyguard heading in the opposite direction as his shift ended. Zhao walked alongside the president, doing his best not to look at the weapons the S4 were holding.


    Apparently, the things they were holding were more efficient than normal plasma rifles - or, at the very least, they created a more iconic image that the S4 marketing team could use in advertising. Their weapons resembled crossbows, able to be folded up when not in use, containing a number of glass arrows - each of which glowed orange with the plasma contained within. Glass containing plasma could be fired further than plasma on its own, apparently.


    Still, Zhao couldn¡¯t help but wonder what it would feel like to have one of those shoot you in the back. The stabbing pain of the shattering glass, then the burning of the plasma, and the melting of the flesh. Not a good way to go. If it was up to him, Zhao would take a leap off a tall building any day.


    They stopped in front of the conference chamber. "How many of them are there today?" mumbled Chael, blinking placidly, his booze-free lips already visibly dry.


    "All of them, sir."


    A wave of despair clearly hit Chael with those words, and his face dropped even further - Zhao honestly hadn¡¯t thought that possible.


    "I see," he said quietly. The doors slid open, and he stepped in.


    The room was colossal and shrouded in darkness, like a planetarium just before the show started. Zhao audibly gulped, then jumped as he heard how the sound echoed. Once Chael and Zhao had been led into the conference chamber, the guards turned on their heels and left to watch the outside doors - they weren¡¯t permitted to witness the meetings in this space.


    "You seem to be in poor spirits, Chael," echoed a gruff, firm voice - made into an even deeper rumble by modulation. The sheer force of the sound seemed to make everything in the room vibrate.


    The Sponsor of War¡¯s hologram appeared - a huge, skeletal bull, floating up above Chael and Zhao, staring at them with empty sockets. Flames and smoke belched forth from deep within its body. Even with the hologram¡¯s fixed, expressionless countenance, Zhao couldn¡¯t help but feel a sense of disdain from it.


    "Well," shuffled Chael. "You know how it is."


    "We certainly do," said the Sponsor of Industry. His hologram appeared too - a massive iron horse, frozen mid-gallop. It hovered over the floor, assuming it¡¯s traditional position off to the side. "There is much work to be done, and you have been doing little of it."


    "How long will this meeting be?" whispered the Sponsor of Plenty. Her avatar, an emaciated pig with bulging eyes, floated off in the corner, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. "I have matters to attend to."


    "That rather depends on the President¡¯s attitude," replied the Sponsor of Industry. "Dreams, Expansion, Care. Are you present?"


    The Sponsor of Dreams manifested, a giant snail with smiling human lips covering the shell. "Of course," it said smoothly, each mouth moving along with the words, a distinct smug undertone leaking through the modulation. "My schedule¡¯s rather sparse, to be honest. You can all feel free to take your time."


    "I am also present," said the Sponsor of Expansion, the colossal octopoid hologram appearing above the chamber, overshadowing everything like a great circus tent. "Though I¡¯d prefer this to be brief. The strikes in Sector 17-4 demand my attention if we¡¯re to have sufficient storage for the new year. Oh, and I must request increased positive portrayal of manual labour in newer media - transport of these products will not be a small task, and we need all the hands we can get - perhaps if you were to have S4 institute a novel work release program for the prisons, War, that could be favourable, hmm, yes..."


    "All in good time, Expansion," rumbled the Sponsor of War, smoke pouring from his nostrils. "Care, respond."


    "I am here," muttered the Sponsor of Care. The colossal white snake appeared spread out along the floor. The only hint of colour was the bright-red tongue that flicked in and out of its mouth. "Get this over with."


    "Very well," said War, flames intensifying in affirmation. "Chael - what¡¯s the progress in apprehending this Citizen character?"


    Chael shuffled awkwardly, stepping forward. The attention of all the titans shifted onto him and Zhao. Zhao took a deep breath in, suppressing the urge to shudder. These people could have him killed with a single word: he couldn¡¯t afford to show weakness.


    "We, ah, haven¡¯t caught him yet, unfortunately," said Chael, licking his lips.


    "Well, of course you haven¡¯t, fool," snapped the Sponsor of Plenty. "We¡¯d know straight away if you caught him - we wouldn¡¯t have to ask you, you¡¯d tell us. We¡¯re asking you what progress has been made?"


    "Not...not much," mumbled Chael.


    A moment of tense silence settled over the chamber. The Sponsor of Plenty irritatedly clicked her tongue, the voice modulation making the sound into something inhuman, like the cry of some bizarre insect. Chael flinched, like a dog expecting to be struck.


    "You shouldn¡¯t be so disappointed, Plenty," chuckled the Sponsor of Dreams. "This man was selected for his role based on appeal to the masses, after all, not his competency. A lack of talent like this is to be expected, surely. Don¡¯t be so hard on the poor oaf."


    "Thank you, sir!" grinned Chael in relief, clasping his hands. "I truly ¡­ truly appreciate your leniency."


    Zhao did his best not to turn his nose up at that display, but he couldn¡¯t help it. It was just too pathetic. The President of Taldan wasn¡¯t even a puppet to these people - he was a pet. The Sponsors were financial titans, and a government was simply another asset to be bought and controlled. ¡¯President¡¯ was just another role to be interviewed for and hired.


    And to be replaced, if the present occupant proved insufficiently grateful.


    "Yes, yes, of course," said the Sponsor of Dreams, like a patient teacher. "Now - answer the question, if you please. What progress has been made?"


    Chael pulled a script from his suit pocket - almost dropping it in his haste - before flicking it on and reading through the information. "While we, um, we have no info - information about the Citizen¡¯s identity and base of operations, we have managed to identify some of his accomplices."


    "Splendid!" said the Sponsor of Dreams.


    "Go on, boy," the Sponsor of War said, cutting the snail off.


    "For the most part," said Chael, glancing to Zhao as if seeking support as he went on. "We believe the Citizen uses hired muscle from the Blastland gangs, usually without direct cooperation of their, um, their leaders. That¡¯s for transport of explosives and dealing with witnesses, we - I think."


    "I expected as much," said the Sponsor of Expansion. His tentacles swayed as if in a gentle breeze. "The explosions back then were splendid in freeing up room for mining facilities, but the resultant crime issue has become a problem. Care - you have samples of the pathogen from six years ago, correct? If we deploy those properly, they could cut down on the excess criminal population very nicely. I¡¯ve had some graphs compiled if you -"


    "At a later date, Expansion," snapped the Sponsor of War. The Sponsor of Care didn¡¯t reply.


    "I find it hard to believe simple Blastland thugs could have assassinated Augusto Price," said the Sponsor of Industry. "He¡¯d purchased a high-tier security package from the S4. Those are highly trained personnel - or so your marketing campaigns say, War."


    Chael nodded. "Yes, of course. That¡¯s a fantastic opinion, and I completely agree with you there. That¡¯s why - I knew you would say that, and that¡¯s why I asked my personnel to look into the matter a little deeper."


    "How generous of you," drawled the Sponsor of Plenty. You could almost hear the rolling of the eyes. "Stop with the brown-nosing and get on with it, moron."


    "Yes, ma¡¯am!" Chael nodded frantically. He brought the script closer to his face to read, squinted. "I¡¯m told a different group of enemy operatives were involved in that, ah, that incident." He tapped the screen and read out the names that were displayed, pulled from security records: "Noel Edmunds, Reyansh Patel, Simeon del Dranell, and, uh, the Citizen himself, of course - although he himself didn¡¯t do much in this instance, my apologies."


    The Sponsor of Dreams chuckled.


    "Something funny?" snapped the Sponsor of Care, voice a hoarse croak.


    "I¡¯m familiar with these names," explained the snail, mouths grinning. "A gang of hooligans that have visited a few UAP worlds, performing minor antics. To think they¡¯ve arrived on Taldan now ¡­ oh, it will make excellent videography."


    "How would you rate them as a threat?" growled the Sponsor of War.


    "A threat?" laughed the Sponsor of Dreams. "Not at all, to be frank. As I said, minor antics. The enemy commander is clearly the one giving the orders - once he¡¯s dead, they¡¯ll naturally disperse. A bit violently, to be sure - but the resultant panic would be something we could harvest, too."


    "I¡¯ll trust your judgement on that," said the Sponsor of War in a voice that suggested he very much wouldn¡¯t. "I¡¯ve already sent the Fifth Dead to hunt down the Citizen. That situation should be resolved within the week."


    "The Fifth Dead? That can¡¯t have been cheap," commented the Sponsor of Industry.


    The Sponsor of War laughed, a deep booming sound like the joy of a mountain. "Don¡¯t play coy, Industry. You know just as I do that money is not the only form of currency. The Fifth Dead is repaying me for services previously rendered."


    "And those are?" said the Sponsor of Dreams.


    "Irrelevant. All you need to know is that the situation is already in the process of being resolved. I ask that you all focus on your individual projects rather than wasting further concern on this."


    "You say that," said the pig. "But the niain that¡¯s taking place tomorrow evening isn¡¯t something that can be ignored. If we deal with it improperly, the vermin are liable to riot - and those streets are dangerously close to my farming decks."


    "There¡¯s no need for us to deal with it," the Sponsor of War reassured her. "Commerce will be very much heightened by a niain festival - in fact, I¡¯d say the increased income from one night of that should more than recoup the loss of dear Augusto Price!"


    The Sponsors save Care laughed, the sound mingling together into an incoherent mess. Zhao put his hands to his ears, squeezing his eyes shut with the pain. It really was like listening to a court of the gods - no matter what happened, they benefited. All the planet was a grand plan that they could change to accommodate any variable.


    As their laughter trailed off, Zhao felt their attention return to himself and Chael. The gathered Sponsors looked at the man who should have been the most powerful individual on the planet.


    "You can go now," they said dismissively.


    -


    Nearly an hour later, as the meeting had all but come to an end, only the holograms of War and Plenty remained, the emaciated pig remaining in its dark corner while the flaming bull towered above.


    "Dreams likes to run his mouth, as ever," Plenty said. War couldn¡¯t help but agree: for a man supposed to stay strictly within the sphere of entertainment, he truly loved to stick his nose everywhere else. Annoying, but not unmanageable.


    "Indeed."


    Truth be told, more than anything else War wanted to end the call and take a long, hot bath right now. He didn¡¯t much care for lengthy business meetings - or the personal conversations Plenty always tried to form in their aftermath.


    "And Care ¡­ do you think he¡¯s still trustworthy?" Plenty¡¯s tone was cautious, testing the waters.


    That recaptured War¡¯s attention. Care¡¯s demeanour had been as disquieting as usual for the last few years. For the sake of past friendships, he¡¯d elected to ignore it, but if even Plenty was bringing it up now¡­


    "You¡¯ve noticed it as well?" said War. "It¡¯s true, yes. He¡¯s lost his passion for his work. It¡¯s sad, but he may need to be killed before the year is out."


    "A shame," Plenty lied. "I always considered him something of a mentor. Well, he¡¯s had a long life, at any rate. He can hardly complain." S~ea??h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    War paused. He had a juicy bit of information that Care had passed on to him, but he was uncertain if now was the time to share it. Just as much as Care was becoming an irritant, the same was true of Plenty.


    The viciousness that had originally endeared her to him had, in recent years, developed into something more of an inconvenience. He truly didn¡¯t want to order her death, but if it became the optimal option he wouldn¡¯t really have a choice.


    Her reaction to this news should give him a little more data to make that decision with, at any rate.


    "I¡¯ve learnt something interesting," he said. "Care passed it on to me shortly before the meeting."


    "Oh? Care did?"


    "Yes. Apparently, the man called Skipper has come back to Taldan."


    Plenty was silent for a long time after that. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with feral interest. "That¡¯s very interesting indeed," she said hungrily. "Do you intend to use him, then?"


    "Oh, yes."


    After all, Skipper was an investment War had thought long since lost. Now that he¡¯d suddenly presented himself again, War couldn¡¯t let him slip away again without getting the maximum usage out of him.


    It was time to cash out.

 Chapter 40:3.3: A Gentle Invitation

    Serena sighed dreamily as she watched the blender annihilate the egg she¡¯d put in there.


    "I love these things," she said, putting her face as close to the screeching blender as she could.


    Again, Bruno tried to take back control in order to end the abomination against the culinary arts that was taking place in front of him, but it was no use. Serena¡¯s will to blend the egg was too strong. "Stop it," he forced out through gritted teeth. "If you break it, the hotel will make us pay for it."


    They stood in the kitchen section of the hotel room Skipper had rented out for them all. The room wasn¡¯t that big - it was an open plan, with sleeping, relaxation, and cooking areas, separated only by different colours of the floor. They¡¯d already dumped their sleeping bags in the sleeping area - Skipper had been too cheap to get them individual rooms - and the rest of the crew had gone out to get more food than what had originally been in the fridge.


    Which left Serena with guard duty - and by extension, Bruno with babysitting duty.


    "It¡¯s fine," said Serena, waving a hand dismissively. "Mr. Skipper has a load of money anyway. He¡¯ll just pay for it."


    "He won¡¯t," said Bruno, speaking in the mind rather than with his mouth. "He¡¯ll make us pay for it - and he¡¯ll be mad." S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Mr. Skipper doesn¡¯t get mad," said Serena, again waving that damn hand. She truly just didn¡¯t care. "You worry too much."


    Bruno sighed. There was no getting around this. This egg was going to get fucked up no matter what.


    Serena continued watching as the egg¡¯s yellow yolk splattered against the sides of the blender, tiny cracking noises ringing out as fragments of the shell collided with the plastic. She giggled as the catastrophe ensued, cracks running over the blenders surface, thin lines of smoke belching out from the machinery.


    There was a knock on the door.


    Immediately, Bruno took control of the body - leaping back and putting himself into a combat stance. He ignored Serena¡¯s protests; if there was a threat, it was his job to defend the body until Serena could counterattack.


    He poured his purple Aether into the air in front of him, partially solidifying and strengthening that air to create a forcefield. It was noticeable only by the slightest rippling.


    The shield was big enough for Bruno¡¯s entire body to hide behind, so it wasn¡¯t very strong, but it¡¯d be sturdy enough to withstand one or two Aether-infused shots and give Bruno a chance to run for it.


    Whoever was at the door knocked again.


    Skipper wouldn¡¯t have knocked - he had the room key. If it was Ruth or Dragan, they would have called for him after he didn¡¯t answer the first time. At any rate, they¡¯d agreed that he¡¯d receive a message on his script when they entered the hotel.


    So it definitely wasn¡¯t a member of the crew.


    "Who¡¯s there?" Bruno shouted out, keeping his body as still as possible. Room service? No - if that was the case, then they¡¯d have already announced themselves as well. It was someone trying to be discreet.


    There was a moment of silence. Then, a gruff voice rang out from beyond the door: "S4 Investigation Division. We have some questions for you."


    Bruno tensed further, bringing his body lower to the ground, shrinking the forcefield to cover his new position. "You don¡¯t have to come in to ask questions," he called out. "Go ahead. Ask me from there."


    Another pause from the door. There was a mumbling, too - the original speaker was conferring with another person, so there were at least two enemies.


    He risked a glance backwards, towards the window. They had a balcony, so if it came down to it he could jump over to the next room and escape that way.


    "We have a warrant," came the voice from the door. "If you don¡¯t open up, we¡¯ll be forced to break down the door."


    Bruno gulped. This definitely wouldn¡¯t be ending peacefully, then. He¡¯d have to use that escape route. Dispelling the forcefield, Bruno turned on his heel and ran straight for the -


    "No!" cried out Serena, reasserting control. She charged towards the door, arms flailing. "If they break the door, Mr. Skipper will have to pay for it!"


    "Idiot!"


    Serena swung the door open, and blinked as a pair of plasmabows were pointed right at her face.


    "Oh," she said.


    -


    "This place stinks," said Dragan, holding his nose as they walked through the busy Taldan streets. Cars zipped past overhead, and the walkways that they strolled on were packed with people.


    Swarms of airborne drones passed overhead, both security and civilian, the disk-shaped machines chattering at each other in some kind of automatic-speak. Ground-based maintenance drones crawled over the walkways like hand-sized spiders, repairing any signs of damage that came up, no matter how miniscule.


    "That¡¯s the smell of people, kiddo," said Skipper, stretching his new arm as he walked. Dragan shot him a glare; while he was walking carefree, Dragan and Ruth were stuck hauling the groceries.


    "I¡¯m from Crestpoole," snapped Dragan, holding a bag of fruit in his arms. "You know how many people they stuff into those breather cities? I know what people smell like. This is worse."


    "I have to say, yeah," said Ruth - she was holding two bags in each hand with barely any effort. Sometimes, Dragan envied that kind of strength. "The place I grew up weren¡¯t exactly sterile either, but this is definitely worse."


    "Wasn¡¯t," muttered Dragan.


    "Hm?"


    "You mean it wasn¡¯t sterile."


    Ruth blinked. It was clear she had no idea what he was talking about. "Oh, yeah, cool," she said.


    "Anyway," said Skipper, waving his new mechanical hand to punctuate his speech. "This place got so rich harvesting nendon gas from deep beneath the planet¡¯s surface - the stuff makes good fuel. It¡¯s no surprise the fumes from all that mining are a little, uh, pungent, you know?"


    Dragan gave Skipper a glance. He sure seemed to know a lot about this planet for someone who¡¯d only just arrived.


    Skipper took in a deep breath through his nose. "Ah, get a whiff of that lungrot! Nothing like it."


    As they walked back to the hotel, Dragan looked off to the side and saw quite a few people setting up stalls - and on many of the street corners, many straw effigies had been set up wearing business suits. There were firework installations, too, and huge red banners.


    "Is there a party or something going on?" said Dragan, looking at the preparations as they passed.


    "Oh!" said Ruth, following his gaze. "Yeah, I heard people talking about that. They¡¯re setting up a niain, I think."


    Dragan furrowed his brow as they passed the corner. "The hell¡¯s a niain?"


    Ruth grinned: she clearly liked the idea of being in a position to explain things. "You¡¯ve never heard of it? It¡¯s like, ah, a party when someone dies."


    "That¡¯s called a funeral."


    "No, no," Ruth said, snapping her fingers as if trying to conjure an explanation inside her brain. "A funeral¡¯s for when you¡¯re sad that somebody died - a niain¡¯s for when you¡¯re happy about it. So, it¡¯s a party for when assholes die, I guess."


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Dragan considered it. It sounded kind of morbid, but it also sounded like a pretty good time. He couldn¡¯t deny that he loved himself a bit of schadenfreude.


    "It was originally a tradition from the Final Church¡¯s Superbian sect, if I remember right," said Skipper, running his hand over the railing as he talked. "But now we all get to enjoy the festival of gloating! Sharing is caring, right?"


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Did you pull that explanation from an encyclopedia?"


    Skipper laughed heartily, puffing out his chest like a proud bird. "I¡¯m what you call a man of the world, kiddo. Get a good look." His face suddenly snapped into seriousness. "Hold up a sec."


    He thrust his arms out to his sides, blocking Dragan and Ruth¡¯s path. His eyes flicked around cautiously - and as Dragan followed that gaze, he too saw what Skipper had seen.


    Until now, they¡¯d just been moving with the crowd, not really watching the people they¡¯d been walking alongside too closely. But now that the three of them stopped, the flow of the crowd was moving around them - and even with the grumbles of annoyance from the sudden roadblock, people were still moving.


    Apart from seven people in the crowd around them - men in casual clothing, their eyes clearly focused on Skipper, Ruth and Dragan, who had come to a stop as well. Their hands were in their jacket pockets. Almost certainly holding weapons.


    "What¡¯s going on?" whispered Ruth, nervous. It made sense - if something kicked off, she was in a bad position holding so many bags.


    "Just chill," muttered Skipper, taking in the numbers and positions of the watchers around them. "Plainclothes, huh¡­?"


    Plainclothes - a very telling word to use. "Are they security?" said Dragan quietly. "I was under the impression we hadn¡¯t committed any crimes yet."


    "Well, you know," shrugged Skipper, clearly enjoying the fact that he had two shoulders again. "These things happen."


    "They seem to happen a lot around you."


    "Maybe not the best time," hissed Ruth. Dragan nodded in hasty agreement.


    A muffled beep rang out from Skipper¡¯s coat pocket, barely audible over the crowd and - without taking his eyes off the men surrounding them - Skipper reached into his pocket and pulled out a script. He tapped the screen with a finger.


    Looking over Skipper¡¯s shoulder, Dragan saw that a message had been sent to his script. The sender was listed as unknown, but the message read:


    We have your comrade. Surrender peacefully. You will not be harmed.


    Ruth turned pale as she saw the message, looked to Skipper with eyes as wide as saucers. She didn¡¯t say anything, but the fear was obvious on her face.


    "They could be bluffing," whispered Dragan.


    As if on cue, another message came through, with an image attached: a photo of Bruno sat in the backseat of a car, scowling at the camera. He didn¡¯t look hurt, but he definitely wasn¡¯t there willingly.


    Don¡¯t play games, the message read. Car is waiting for you at nearest parking bay, black Cabriole.


    Skipper sucked in air through his teeth, then glanced at Ruth and Dragan. Indeed, a Cabriole-model car was docked at the nearby parking bay, it¡¯s windows tinted and opaque.


    "Well," he said reluctantly. "I guess we¡¯re going for a ride."


    -


    As they were led down the hallway of the security complex - not handcuffed, but with weapons in uncomfortable proximity - Dragan watched their captors closely.


    Dragan wasn¡¯t that familiar with this planet, but from what he understood law enforcement on Taldan was provided by a company called Shooting Star Security Solutions. Frankly, he thought it seemed like a terrible idea to sell the right to detain citizens to the highest bidder, but he guessed it wasn¡¯t his place to judge - mostly because he was the one being detained.


    The guards flanking them were holding plasmabows in their hands, the plasma inside their glass arrows glowing a soft orange. Their stance was cautious, but there wasn¡¯t enough resolution in it for this to be an execution. The guards truly were leading them somewhere that wasn¡¯t a body pit.


    "How the hell did they catch you?" Dragan hissed to Bruno, who was walking alongside him.


    "It wasn¡¯t my fault," he snapped. "I was about to get away. Ask Serena what happened."


    Bruno¡¯s features softened, became Serena¡¯s. "It wasn¡¯t my fault, either!" she protested. "Bruno said if we broke something, Mr. Skipper would have to pay for it, so I couldn¡¯t let them break the door down!"


    "Your concern for my wallet warms my heart, Ms. del Sed," said Skipper, leading the pack.


    "Quiet." The guard next to him thumped him with the end of his plasmabow, and Skipper staggered forwards. Ruth stepped forward, growling from deep within her throat, but a firm pull back from Bruno stopped her from just jumping on the guy.


    "It¡¯s cool, it¡¯s cool," said Skipper, recovering his balance. "Let¡¯s all just relax, yeah?"


    The yellow dots on the visors of the other guards glanced towards each other - even without being able to actually see their eyes, their nervousness was obvious. It made sense - a person who could use Aether was often just as dangerous unarmed as otherwise.


    Personally, Dragan had little doubt Skipper, Ruth, Bruno and Serena could dispatch these guards with ease. The prospect of him managing it gave him a little more pause, though.


    They reached a large wooden door at the end of the hallway. A plaque above it read ¡¯Grennis Dir - Section Commander¡¯.


    "He¡¯s expecting you," the guard who¡¯d shoved Skipper said, indicating towards the door with his bow. Skipper nodded theatrically, reached out with his hands, and pushed the door open - striding through without even taking the time to check what was beyond it.


    Dragan, Ruth and Bruno followed behind him.


    The room was indeed an office - spacious but not gaudy, with the far wall being a window that looked out upon the landscape of huge buildings spearing up into the sky like great metal trees. There was a slight distortion to the glass - Dragan recognised it as being far beyond plasmaproof; likely you could survive a bomb going off in here.


    The man sitting behind the desk at the head of the office was stocky but solid - and clearly a Pugnant, judging by the golden glint in his eyes and the fang that poked out of his mouth. Two prosthetic windpipes ran along the side of his neck, re-entering his body just underneath his jaw.


    He smiled mirthlessly. "We meet at last, Mr. Skipper."


    "Pleasure," said Skipper in a voice that suggested anything but. "What can I do for ya?"


    The stocky man leaned over the desk, eyes flicking around the group in front of him, taking them in. "You seem like you wanna get right into it," he smiled thinly, speaking with a drawling accent. "Kinda anxious to get to it, huh?"


    "It¡¯s up to you, pal."


    The stocky man nodded. "Why don¡¯t you take a seat?" With a tap of a script on the desk, four automatic chairs hovered from the corner of the room and deposited themselves behind Dragan, Skipper, Ruth and Bruno.


    Skipper sat down first, crossing his legs, and the others followed suit.


    "Pretty sure we haven¡¯t met before," said Skipper, moving around in the chair, trying to get comfy.


    "I¡¯m the commander of these fine young men and women," the stocky man replied, nodding towards the guards still standing behind them. "I¡¯m pretty sure my name¡¯s on the door - Grennis Dir."


    Skipper grinned. "Never heard of you."


    Couldn¡¯t he at least try not to antagonize the people holding them at gunpoint? Dragan shot Skipper a glare, which he of course ignored.


    Dir steepled his fingers as he regarded Skipper. "Be that as it may, Mr. Skipper," he said. "I have certainly heard of you. You and your cohorts caused quite a stir last time you were here."


    I fucking knew it.


    Seeking further information, Dragan glanced at Ruth and Bruno. There was no recognition on their faces - whatever Skipper had done on Taldan, they hadn¡¯t been with him at the time.


    "Well, you know," Skipper chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Youthful indiscretions."


    "Mm," smiled Dir. "I know exactly what you mean. Like you said, these things happen, don¡¯t they?"


    Skipper grinned. "Exactly!"


    "Unfortunately," Dir went on. "In this case, those youthful indiscretions carry a sentence of thirty years hard labour."


    Skipper¡¯s laughter trailed off into a bizarre choking sound. "T-Thirty minutes hard labour?" he said, clearly hoping that he¡¯d just misheard - or, more likely, wanting to appear a fool.


    Dir glared at him. "Thirty years."


    "You mean thirty days, right?"


    "Thirty years."


    Skipper groaned, obviously realizing that he couldn¡¯t get out of this one by playing stupid. "Is it too late to say that I¡¯m actually not Skipper?" he said, giving it one last go.


    Dir raised an eyebrow. "It is."


    "Shit," said Skipper, folding his arms.


    "Yes."


    Skipper leaned back in his chair - for a moment, it looked like the thing would just topple over, but he managed to keep his balance. At any rate, Dragan moved his own seat a few inches away just to be safe.


    Staring up at the ceiling, arms still folded, Skipper spoke: "Since I¡¯m not already doing my thirty months of hard labour, can I assume this is one of those situations where you offer me a deal?"


    "You can."


    "And - if I take that deal - we get off scot-free, yes?"


    "You are free to believe that."


    Skipper shot the security official a rare glare. "Yes or no, baldie."


    "Baldie¡­?" Dir started, looking genuinely hurt as he put a hand up towards his head, before putting it back down onto the desk. "...yes. If you assist us with a small matter, all previous offenses will be forgotten."


    "We need that in writing," cut in Dragan, earning himself an amused smirk from Skipper and a raised eyebrow of annoyance from Dir.


    "You¡¯ll get it," Dir said tersely, after a moment¡¯s consideration. "Now, as for what we need from you."


    He slid his script over the desk - on the screen was an image of the office Dragan had seen on the news, the one that had apparently been bombed earlier that week.


    Dir looked at them gravely. "What do you know," he said. "Of the man called the Citizen?"

 Chapter 41:3.4: Wolf

    "That one," muttered Den-S to Lands, nodding towards the young woman he¡¯d spotted at the market earlier that day.


    She clearly didn¡¯t belong - the leather jacket she was wearing was made of genuine leather, for one, rather than the imitation shit common down in this section of Taldan. Her skirt was way too clean to have spent much time in the Pit, too.


    That wasn¡¯t even going into her features: curly blonde hair and vivid red eyes, with a scattering of pale freckles. Definitely not from around there.


    "That one?" grunted Lands, watching with him from the alley as the young woman walked down the street. Lands was someone who could have been handsome if he was born anywhere else in the universe - a lifetime of malnutrition and unsafe labour had turned him into what could only be described as a greasy skeleton. A farball bat, scavenged from a junkyard, poked out from underneath his too-big shirt.


    "That¡¯s what I said, bro," hissed Den-S. Rather than making him thin, the Pit had made him small, and he had to look up at Lands to even be eye-level with his chest. "I mean, look at her! She¡¯s definitely Toptown - prolly doing some, like, tourism shit, y¡¯know?"


    "That¡¯s fucked up," grumbled Lands. "This ain¡¯t a show."


    "Right? Right!" Den-S snapped his fingers. "People like that - like, they got to be taught a lesson and shit, you know?"


    Lands nodded stiffly. "Ya. Taught a lesson."


    Den-S grinned. Lands really was the best. He listened to whatever Den-S said, and was strong to boot. A little while ago he¡¯d thought Settick was the best, but Settick had stood him up to go pick up girls, so now that guy was the worst.


    "So," said Den-S, keeping his eyes on the girl - she was asking some old hag for directions. "I got an idea. A good idea, you know? You know I¡¯ve got the good ideas. Good stuff."


    Lands grinned too, using a sharp fingernail to pick some meat out of his teeth. He nodded. "Hell yeah, hell yeah. Sing me it."


    "So," said Den-S, using wild gesticulations to punctuate his points. "This girl¡¯s ob-rich, right? Obviously. I said so, didn¡¯t I? You heard me."


    "Ob-rich, yeah. I hear you."


    Den-S glanced towards the girl. She was still hanging out, she was still around. Nice, nice. He could lay out his stratagatem without worrying about her getting away.


    "So," he said. "Here¡¯s the plan, yeah? Rich girl like that - she gotta have rich parents. Obvious, right? Yeah. So we grab the girl, tie her up someplace."


    "Then we kill her!" nodded Lands, pounding his fist into his palm. "Take her wallet."


    Den-S smacked him upside the head. "No, stinkbug! We ransom her! We give her rich mommy and her rich daddy a call and then we say ¡¯Oh, is this Mister Moneybags? We got your little shit so give us a billion credits!¡¯ And then they do it!"


    Lands cocked his head. "And then we kill her?"


    "No!" Den-S snapped. Then he thought about it a little more. "Well, maybe. If she pisses us off, you know?"


    Lands nodded. "Yeah. Okay. We grabbing her, then?"


    Den-S stepped out of the mouth of the alley, cleared his throat, and slicked back his ginger hair. He had to put on the charm. He¡¯d always been the charming one in this neighborhood - once, as a kid, he¡¯d even managed to go begging in Toptown and nearly got a hundred credits before earning a beating from security.


    "Hey there!" he called out, waving a hand in a friendly gesture as he made his way across the street. "You lost there, lady?"


    She jumped - she¡¯d been facing the other way - and turned to face him. She blinked rapidly, but smiled like a beam of sunshine all the same. She really was a cutie.


    "Oh, yeah, I think so!" she said. "I must have gotten turned around a little."


    "Happens to the best of us," said Den-S, fancying up his accent a little so as to not scare her off. "Need some directions?"


    The girl clapped her hands together, still smiling. "Oh, that would be great! I¡¯m trying to get back to Gull Elevator Station - I got separated from my friend a little while ago, and we promised to meet back up there."


    A friend? There could be a second paycheck in Den-S¡¯ future if he played his cards right.


    "Well," he said, taking a step back and pointing down the street. "To get to Gull from here, you take three lefts from this street and - and, uh¡­" He made a show of struggling with the directions, thumping a frustrated fist against the side of his head. "Damn it," he muttered. "I know this."


    He¡¯d put out the bait, and now he just had to wait for the bite. This was Den-S¡¯ favourite part of the gig. It felt like he was a hunter in a forest, tricking his prey into destroying itself. Like some warrior shit.


    "It¡¯s no problem," said the girl, looking down at him - looking down on him, probably, too. "I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll find my way back eventually."


    Den-S shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "But I just can¡¯t leave a pretty girl like you alone in a place like this. This ain¡¯t exactly a good part of town, you know?"


    The girl¡¯s face turned flush. "Pretty¡­?" she mumbled. "I don¡¯t know about that¡­"


    "Trust me, lady," Den-S winked. "I knows it when I sees it."


    Damn, he was good at this. The girl was like putty in the palm of his hands. In another life, Den-S was sure he could have been a psychometrist, or a psychotic. Whichever the one that messed with people¡¯s heads was.


    "Tell you what," smirked Den-S, sidling closer conspiratorially. "I¡¯m not so good with giving directions - like you saw, heh - but I¡¯m sure my feets know how to get to Gull Station. How¡¯s about I just takes you there? It¡¯s not far, and it¡¯s safer than you going all alone, you know?"


    The girl seemed reluctant, but after a moment or two she nodded. "Okay," she said quietly. "Okay, I think that sounds like a good idea."


    "Nice one," he shot her a thumbs-up. "Follow me and I¡¯ll get ya out of here, yeah?"


    He began leading her down the street, glancing towards the alleyway to make sure Lands had gotten himself out of sight. The plan was to lead her onto a secluded spot a little later on, and then Lands could sneak up behind her and knock her the fuck out with that bat of his.


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    For now, though, he had to keep her distracted.


    "My name¡¯s Den-S," he said, turning back to her as they walked - in the exact opposite direction from Gull Station. "What¡¯s yours?"


    "Marie," she smiled pleasantly. "It¡¯s nice to meet you, Dennis."


    He stuffed down annoyance. "It¡¯s, uh, Den-S. D-E-N dash S. It¡¯s, like, my street name, you know?"


    "Oh," Marie giggled. "Sorry."


    "So, uh," said Den-S as they turned the corner - approaching the burnt-out factory where it would be best to ambush her. "You said you¡¯re looking for your friend, right? What are they like? I can put the word out, see if anyone¡¯s seen her."


    She shook her head. "That¡¯s alright, Dennis. My friend can look after himself. It¡¯s kind of his thing."


    A jolt of caution crawled up Den-S¡¯ spine. Was her friend security? Was this Marie girl some kind of VIP or something? The ransom could end up being more trouble than it was worth if that was the case.


    Testing the waters, Den-S asked: "What do you, uh ¡­ what do you mean by that? He a cop?"


    Marie put a finger to her lips, considering the question. "Hm ¡­ kinda? Not around here, though. Don¡¯t worry," she said, laughing at Den-S¡¯ cautious expression. "He won¡¯t throw you in jail just for talking to me. He¡¯s serious, sure, but in a cute way. Like a dog, you know?"


    Den-S grinned again, but this time it was much more strained. This chick was annoying. He¡¯d be glad to get a gag in her mouth and shut her up.


    They stopped in front of the burnt-out factory. Marie looked up at the wreck of a building, hands clasped behind her back.


    "What¡¯s this?" she said, cocking her head. "This building doesn¡¯t look so good."


    "We just need to stop here for a minute," Den-S lied. "I know I said I knew the way, but I¡¯m a little not one-hundred percent, you know? I called a pal of mine to help us out. We can wait for him inside."


    "Oh. When¡¯d you call him?" Marie asked, confused. "I thought we were talking the whole time."


    "I sent him a message," Den-S smoothly covered over the inconsistency. "He¡¯ll be here in a minute. We should sit down inside and wait for him."


    Marie bit her lip. "Is it safe?"


    "Course it is!" Den-S grinned cheekily, gave her another thumbs-up. "Don¡¯t worry - I¡¯ll be with you the whole time!"


    "Well, I guess¡­"


    "Come on! It¡¯s getting cold out here!" sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Den-S made a show of rubbing his arms as he marched into the factory - and a second later, Marie followed after him. Of course she did: Den-S knew that rich girls like these were always followers. Probably one of her rich girl friends had lied and said she hung out in the Pit, and Marie had wanted to do the same thing. Too much money rotted the brain like that.


    Well, she¡¯d get a show, alright. If she wanted to experience the Pit¡¯s unique features, he and Lands would be only too happy to oblige. A bat to the head and a bundle of rope, coming right up.


    Den-S pulled up a half-melted hunk of metal and sat down on it, stretching his joints with a satisfying series of clicks. He looked up at Marie - she was clearly nervous now, with one hand holding onto her arm. It was like she¡¯d grown a sense of self-preservation in the last few seconds.


    "What are you waiting for?" Den-S grinned. "Take a load off. No point sitting around waiting for him to get here, you know?"


    She glanced away, took a step back. "I...I think I know my way back from here. Thanks for showing me around, but I gotta go."


    Den-S shot her as intimidating a glare as he could muster. "Hey," he snapped. "I invited you to sit down. It¡¯s rude as shit to ignore that. Siddown."


    Marie paled, but nodded. It seemed she was finally realizing walking around the worst part of town like she had been wasn¡¯t the smartest idea. She stiffly sat down on another hunk of metal, eyes fixed firmly on the exit.


    Well, that was fine. Lands knew where the back entrance was.


    As Marie looked towards the front door, as if trying to muster up the courage to run for it, Lands¡¯ lanky form emerged from the shadows behind her, metal farball bat in hand. Den-S had to suppress a laugh as the dumb girl didn¡¯t even notice her future captor sneaking up behind her, raising the metal bat over his head, higher and higher -


    Wait. That was a little too high. Damnit, he was supposed to be knocking her out, not smashing her head in!


    Den-S shot as pointed a warning glance at Lands as he could without alerting Marie, but it was no use. Lands was already into it, his teeth bared in a feral grin.


    The bat came down.


    And it shattered into fragments of metal as soon as it hit Marie¡¯s skull. The girl didn¡¯t even flinch.


    Marie blinked - from seeing Den-S¡¯ suddenly shocked expression and hearing the sound of the bat breaking. It wasn¡¯t from anything like pain. Befuddled, she turned around and looked at Lands standing behind her - he was still clutching the broken-off handle of the bat, eyes disbelieving.


    "Oh!" she said, realizing what was going on. "You hit me with that?"


    She reached out towards Lands with one hand, two fingers bared like the pincer of a crab. Things unfolded as if it were a nightmare. Den-S, instinct warning him of some terrible danger, opened his mouth to scream a warning. Lands thrust the broken end of the handle towards Marie to try and get her that way, but she casually moved her head out of the way and it brushed through her golden hair. Her two fingers reached Lands¡¯ neck, and were pushed together with what looked like only slight force.


    There was a crack.


    Lands fell to the floor, his neck clearly broken like a twig, tongue flopping out of his mouth like some beached eel. The bat handle rolled across the floor, out of sight. Marie cleaned her reddened fingers on the hem of her skirt with a quiet ¡¯ew¡¯.


    Den-S stood there, mouth gaping, mind trapped in a cold war between fight or flight. If he fought, he would lose. If he fled, she would catch him. His body understood the doom it was facing naturally, and so he found himself unable to do anything but stand there, shivering intensely.


    "Hold on a sec," muttered Marie, still brushing off her fingers. "Argh, this is really gross¡­by the way, do you know Aldan Petrio?"


    He didn¡¯t say anything - he couldn¡¯t, even if he¡¯d wanted to. He took a step backwards, so he could try to run at least, but when Marie¡¯s calm red eyes glanced at him he found that he couldn¡¯t muster up the effort. It would be like jumping off a cliff - his body wouldn¡¯t allow him to knowingly destroy it.


    After a few attempts, he forced out: "P-Please¡­" The word was unwieldy in his mouth, like he was trying to force a brick out of his throat.


    Marie turned back to him, ignoring Lands¡¯ corpse as she put her hands on her hips. "Come on, little boy. I know Petrio¡¯s gang recruits from around these parts. Do you know him or don¡¯t you?"


    A tiny door to survival opened in Den-S¡¯ head. "N-No," he choked out, eyes fixed on Lands¡¯ carcass. "I don¡¯t."


    She bit her lip, and the look in her eyes slammed that door to survival right back shut. "I really hope you¡¯re lying to me there, Dennis. If you don¡¯t know Aldan Petrio, I¡¯ll have to go find someone else who does. And I can¡¯t have you blabbing about me, so I¡¯ll have to make you stop living first. Oh, well."


    Marie took a step towards him, and Den-S fell back onto his butt as if she¡¯d pushed him over. "I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry!" he cried. "I was lying, I lied, sorry, sorry, I know him, I do!"


    The girl who now seemed like the grim reaper reached a hand out towards Den-S, and he stared at it in silent terror. It was a small, seemingly delicate hand, but he knew now that she could crush his head in her palm if she wanted to.


    It came closer. Den-S¡¯ heart assumed a calm, cold beat - the regularity of a certain death.


    She grabbed him by the arm and helped him up to his feet, grinning. He grinned back, too, stupidly happy to be alive even for a second longer.


    "Well, that¡¯s all you had to say!" she smiled, patting him on the back gently. "But¡­"


    Crunch.


    Den-S felt unsteady on his feet, and he had to grab onto Marie¡¯s shoulder for support. Her eyes were half-lidded, with a predatory calm, like a cat looking at a mouse. Confused, he looked down at the source of the sound.


    Marie¡¯s left foot was on top of his - and his foot was looking a lot flatter than it had a second ago. Some red liquid was gently oozing out of his shoe, soaking into his socks.


    "Wha¡­?" he said, his left foot rapidly beginning to feel very hot.


    "Sorry," said Marie, genuinely looking it as she smiled sadly. "But I can¡¯t have you running away."


    And then the pain started.


    Den-S collapsed back to the ground, clutching what was left of his foot, screaming and gibbering incoherently as if trying to force the pain out of his body through his mouth. If he touched his foot, he knew it would hurt like nothing else ever in his life, but he couldn¡¯t just leave it alone but he couldn¡¯t touch it either he he he he he -


    Marie looked up - and even in his agony, Den-S had enough good sense to follow her gaze.


    A figure appeared in the factory entrance. Silhouetted by the Taldan nightlights, the figure wore a scruffy dark long-coat and a pulled-low grey beanie. If those were the only things the figure had on then, they could easily be mistaken for one of the homeless vagrants that were a regular sight in the Pit.


    But they weren¡¯t.


    The figure also had a moonlight-pale sword strapped to their hip.


    "Special Officer Hazzard," the figure said in a smooth, clear voice. "I trust you¡¯ve apprehended the one we need."


    "Sure have." Marie smiled sweetly at the new arrival. "Took you long enough, Atoy."

 Chapter 42:3.5: Aldan Petrio

    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "You want us to take out the Citizen for you? That¡¯s, uh, that¡¯s a big ask there, champ. You sure that¡¯s fair for just some youthful indiscretion?"


    "I never said that," Dir said, fingers still calmly steepled. "All I ask is that you assist us in our investigation."


    Dragan furrowed his brow as he listened. This felt like the kind of conversation that came with catches like landmines. Agree to something without really thinking about it, and you were screwed.


    "I¡¯ll ask you again," said Dir, when Skipper didn¡¯t reply. "What do you know of the man called the Citizen?"


    "He¡¯s a local terrorist," chipped in Dragan, earning himself another irritated glance from Dir. "Apparently, he bombed a news office recently. I¡¯m assuming he¡¯s done other stuff?"


    "You assume correctly," Dir said, now addressing him. "He has indeed done other stuff. The recent assassination of Augusto Price was the doing of him and his cohorts."


    "That¡¯s awful," muttered Ruth - who, if Dragan remembered correctly, was currently a suspect in the assassination of an admiral herself. S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Cohorts," said Skipper, picking the nails of his organic hand, not even looking at Dir. "So this is a group operation?"


    Something was trickling into Skipper¡¯s speech, Dragan noticed - even though he clearly was trying to stuff it down with a nonchalant demeanor, there was a kind of military efficiency to the way he was collecting information and clarifying it.


    Had he been a soldier at some point? It would make sense, given his combat abilities.


    Dir nodded. "Hoodlums from the local systems, we think - they¡¯ve joined the Citizen after falling for his rhetoric, most likely."


    "His rhetoric," Skipper said the word as if tasting it, still not looking directly at Dir. "There¡¯s a political motivation to this whole thing, then, yeah? Rah-rah fight the power and that kinda thing?"


    The section commander waved a hand dismissively. "Pretty words to open up divisions between the classes here on Taldan. The whining of sore losers, nothing more. He¡¯s nothing but an aggravator that needs to be neutralised."


    It was Dragan¡¯s turn to glare at Dir. He hadn¡¯t exactly been Mr. Rich back on Crestpoole - and he didn¡¯t much like the implication that being unhappy that some people could gorge themselves while you bordered on starvation made you a ¡¯sore loser¡¯.


    Skipper caught a glance of Dragan¡¯s expression, then his eyes flicked back to Dir. "You ever been hungry, baldie?"


    Again, Dir frowned at the use of what was rapidly becoming a nickname, but he answered all the same. "Of course I have. Everyone has, at some point."


    "That¡¯s not what I mean," chuckled Skipper. "I mean really hungry. Hungry enough to eat anything, I mean. Hungry enough that your stomach is just made of pain."


    "Of course not," said Dir.


    "Hmm. Didn¡¯t think so," said Skipper, his voice a condemnation. Ruth nodded gravely behind him.


    And with that, Skipper suddenly stood up from his chair with such force that the automatic furniture wobbled in the air behind him, almost flipping upside down.


    "I don¡¯t much care for your motivations - or the way you talk about people," said Skipper, crossing his arms. "I¡¯m afraid me and mine will have to take our leave."


    Dir sighed. "I see. In that case, we have no choice but to throw you all in prison and throw away the key."


    "I think your cause is just and I want to help," Skipper said, sitting back down. Dragan audibly groaned; he had no issue with Skipper getting himself into shit, but the rest of them was another story.


    "How exactly do you want us to help?" Dragan cut in again. If he could take control of the negotiations here, then maybe he could stop Skipper from getting them all thrown into prison.


    Dir leaned over the desk and tapped the screen of the script - the image changed from the bombed-out office to a photo of a young Umbrant man walking through a hallway, clearly taken by some kind of surveillance camera.


    The Umbrant had short brown hair and white pupils that rested in his black sclera. His face seemed like the kind that was perpetually nervous, as if he was constantly on the verge of being attacked. In one hand, he held a script - in the other, some kind of envelope.


    "Who¡¯s that?" said Bruno, speaking up for the first time in a while.


    Dragan looked at him; he¡¯d worked out that Bruno and Serena had worked in intelligence for a period of time, so was this kind of clandestine dealing bringing those old instincts back?


    "This is Ambran Roz," said Dir. "A reporter for the Watch - the newspaper that had it¡¯s office bombed by the Citizen. We believe he has valuable information about the terrorist in question."


    "And that¡¯s why they bombed the office?" said Dragan. "To try and take him out?"


    "That¡¯s our working theory. It¡¯s not in the envelope, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking - we found that thoroughly burnt in his apartment, along with the rest of his belongings."


    "His apartment was bombed too?" said Bruno, still running his eyes over the photograph as he memorized Roz¡¯s appearance.


    "That¡¯s correct. We¡¯ve managed to pass it off as one of the Blastland gang¡¯s doing for now, and the Citizen hasn¡¯t yet taken responsibility for it."


    Skipper seemed to have shut up for the moment, thank goodness. The sensible people - also known as Dragan and Bruno - could actually negotiate now. Ruth, too, if she ever spoke up. Really just anyone but Skipper, now that Dragan thought about it.


    Bruno looked up from the script to Dir: "You want us to find this person?"


    "That¡¯s right."


    "I don¡¯t see how that¡¯s any easier than catching the Citizen," Dragan said seriously. "This city¡¯s damn big - and if he¡¯s hiding from the Citizen already, I don¡¯t see how we¡¯re going to find him.¡¯


    Dir smiled thinly, took the script back and put it in one of his desk drawers.


    "That¡¯s simple," he said. "We already know where he¡¯ll be. The niain - tomorrow night. He¡¯s already made contact with one of our undercover officers in the smuggling guilds, seeking transport off-world."


    "Sounds like you¡¯ve got him already," said Skipper, leaning back in his seat. "Good job all. What do you need us for?"


    Dir¡¯s smile faded, his expression turning grave.


    "If we know he¡¯s going to be there," he said. "So do they. And they¡¯ll be coming for him."


    -


    "Is he asleep?" said Muzazi, striding back into the alleyway.


    Marie Hazzard glanced back at the large sack slung over her shoulder. "That¡¯s one word for it," she shrugged. "He¡¯s unconscious, at least."


    "That will suffice," Muzazi nodded. "Did he give up the location?"


    She nodded down the alleyway, at the barely noticeable door built into a metal plate on one wall. The only reason to hide such an entrance was fear of scrutiny. Yes, it was very likely that this place was Aldan Petrio¡¯s lair.


    "Let¡¯s go," he said, walking past her towards the entrance.


    Hazzard raised an eyebrow as he passed her. "That¡¯s it?" she said, sounding half-amused in that way she almost always did. "No ¡¯thank you¡¯?"


    Muzazi paused. It was true - he had forgotten to thank her for her diligence. His manners had deteriorated ever since he¡¯d arrived on this planet.


    He glanced down at his garb: perhaps that was the reason why. It had pained Muzazi to hide his identity while in the UAP - the truly strong should never fear to show their face - but Marie had managed to convince him that he would impair the mission otherwise. As such, he¡¯d taken on this disguise.


    The appearance of a lout, clad in run-down, dusty clothes, with little hope of ever climbing out of the abyss called poverty. He¡¯d thrown away his clean, dignified uniform in order to create this facade - but Luminescence still hung there, strapped to his side.


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    No matter what he did, where he went, he could not abandon Luminescence.


    "Forgive me," he said quietly, looking down at the blade. "I didn¡¯t mean to be so rude¡­"


    Where Muzazi had expected reproachment for his disgraceful behaviour, Marie only laughed and clapped a good-humoured hand on his shoulder - with a splendid amount of force.


    He wasn¡¯t quite sure how he felt about his new companion. He¡¯d originally been against travelling with a partner, but the Special Commission had been somewhat wary of allowing him to run free after what had happened on Caelus Breck. He¡¯d explained the circumstances behind his decisions there, but there was still an opinion that he was ¡­ unpredictable. In that sense, Marie was here to watch him just as much as help him catch Hadrien.


    As for Marie herself, though, he found little reason for complaint. He¡¯d never met such a master of Aether cloaking, and during their travel here she¡¯d demonstrated fine knowledge of weaponry and piloting. She seemed a splendid, multi-talented Special Officer.


    "I¡¯m only joking, Atoy," she giggled, patting him on the back. "Don¡¯t take it so seriously, okay?"


    He nodded respectfully. "I see; it was a joke. Thank you for indulging my foolishness."


    That only sent Marie into another wave of laughter - by the end of it, she had laid her bag down and was clutching her stomach with both hands. Muzazi hoped his misunderstanding hadn¡¯t caused her too great a stomachache.


    "You¡¯re so damn earnest," Marie said as her laughter trailed off, wiping a tear from her eye. She looked him up and down, a strange look in her eyes. "Well ¡­ I don¡¯t dislike it, but be careful, okay? There are people who¡¯ll take advantage of you if you¡¯re like that."


    A sudden, hot flare of anger ran through Muzazi¡¯s body, and his grip tightened on Luminescence¡¯s hilt to such a degree that his knuckles turned white. He gritted his teeth, glaring into empty space as if it held his quarry.


    "Yes," he growled. "I¡¯m aware of this."


    Dragan Hadrien.


    He was the reason Muzazi had come here, the reason he had submitted himself to such disgrace. Many had told him that chasing Hadrien at this point was meaningless - any secrets he had access to weren¡¯t worth wasting the time of a Special Officer to keep hidden.


    But still ¡­ it was the principle of the thing. To Atoy Muzazi, the whole world relied on the principle of the thing.


    He didn¡¯t understand. Why had Dragan Hadrien betrayed him at the moment of his own rescue? Why had he turned the lie of his betrayal into truth? To be offered the Supremacy¡¯s open arms and slap them aside ¡­ it was unimaginable. Incomprehensible. It was as if Dragan Hadrien had decided to stop breathing.


    He would find Dragan Hadrien, force the answers out of him, and correct whatever misunderstanding had led him so astray.


    Marie winced. "Seems I hit a sore spot there. Sorry sorry."


    He sighed deep, letting his anger leave him through his breath. His grip on his sword relaxed, and he let his hand fall to his side. His breathing returned to a calm and steady tempo.


    "No," he shook his head. "My apologies. I shouldn¡¯t have lost my temper like that."


    As Muzazi walked past her towards the entrance, Marie rolled her eyes.


    "I already told you to stop apologizing..." she muttered, irritated.


    -


    There was much to attend to, and yet things kept getting in the way.


    Aldan Petrio looked up from his desk as he heard a loud bang from the entrance, and a moment later one of his underlings came half-running, half-limping into his complex, eyes wide with fear and stinking of anxiety.


    The complex had once been an air filtration centre - once the authorities had switched to using filter drones to keep the air ¡¯clean¡¯ (for lack of a better word) in the Pit, the centre had essentially just become free real estate.


    Due to its previous use, however, the layout of the headquarters was exceedingly simple: essentially, it was a long, wide hallway with around twenty banks of computers on either side - workers tapping away on holographic keyboards, poring through every piece of surveillance that the Petrio operation had access to.


    Aldan Petrio¡¯s desk was right at the end of the ¡¯hallway¡¯, a massive hulk of metal bolted to the floor. Countless holographic screens and keyboards were arrayed around him, like a spider¡¯s web.


    Aldan watched disinterestedly as his underling charged towards the desk, leaving a red trail behind him.


    The moment the underling came too close, his two bodyguards pointed their plasma pistols at him, and he skidded to a halt. He tripped over his clearly-injured foot and collapsed to his knees, yelping in pain.


    "What can I do for you?" Aldan said, looking the underling over with one eye as he kept reading through intelligence reports with the other, his pupils moving independently of one another.


    He often thought that he¡¯d won the genetic lottery in some respects: his Scurrant blood gave him the capacity to take in twice as much information, while his Cogitant half let him process and utilize it.


    As someone born victorious, he didn¡¯t much like losing - not even in the smallest ways. Not even by having an underling disrespect him and go unpunished.


    Aldan scanned the underling¡¯s face, cross-referencing it with his memory.


    Dennis Malkuth. 23. Single, but has flings with two girls on opposite sides of Brink District. Known associate of Gretin Lands, another thug of little value. Lives in an apartment in Rapid District with two brothers named Karl and Riki. Spends the majority of his pay at a bar owned by his uncle called the Well Wagon, although on occasion he visits a smaller establishment belonging to a friend. Homeschooled by father, now deceased from lung failure. Recruited to my organization by Harman Roe, now deceased from gunshot wound. Cannot abide the taste of salad. Has a fetish for sunburnt skin.


    Aldan blinked. Yes, he knew a little about this man.


    Malkuth panted there on the floor for a second before looking up, eyes still deathly wide. "B-Boss," he breathed. "They¡¯re coming."


    Aldan stroked his black goatee, continued looking down at the man with one eye. "Who¡¯s coming?" he said, still sounding somewhat disinterested. "Full sentences, please."


    The thug opened his mouth to speak again, but he was cut off by another bang from the entrance - followed by a pair of twin gunshots.


    "Ah, I see," said Aldan, smiling thinly. "I¡¯m under attack. Men, please prepare for battle."


    With those calm words, half the workers at the computers stood up from their screens - making sure to lock their screens in accordance with security procedures - and pulled heavy-duty plasma shotguns from underneath their desks, pointing then towards the entrance. Aldan liked to make sure his staff were as multipurpose as possible.


    "If possible, take them alive," he called out a little louder. "I¡¯d like to know how these intruders found out about me."


    That was more than possible - he¡¯d had those weapons crafted from parts that included a stun function. He¡¯d have to perform interrogation on site, but that wasn¡¯t a problem. More than once this complex had played host to torture sessions: they were unpleasant, but not intolerable.


    "You don¡¯t understand, boss," whimpered Malkuth pitifully from the floor. "They ain¡¯t ¡­ they ain¡¯t normal¡­"


    Sighing in exasperation, Aldan looked up with one eye to watch the entrance, his other continuing to look over the latest purchase records from the Dawnhouse¡¯s culinary staff. If these intruders were unusual, Aldan would simply observe until he understood - and then they would no longer be unusual.


    Two figures strode into the room from around the corner. One was a man in scruffy clothing, though clearly unsuited to them, with dark hair and a pristine white sword in his hand. The other was a young woman wearing a leather jacket - unlike the man, she had no visible weapon, only the fists balled at her sides.


    "Your guards are really rude," grinned the woman. "We sent Dennis in as our ambassador, but they shot at us anyway!"


    "Fire," said Aldan, droll, picking up a mint from his desk and popping it in his mouth.


    His workers opened fire, a blue storm of stunshots flying through the air and soaring towards the pair. To an ordinary person, these shots would likely be too fast and too numerous to properly perceive - but it was clear already that these two were not ordinary people.


    The man went to the left - flying slightly further than the force of his jump would allow - and landed on top of a desk, his foot slamming through a not-inexpensive computer. His sword moved so fast it looked like a fluid whip, two swipes easily bisecting the shotguns of the nearest guards.


    The woman, on the right, simply kept charging forward to the guard nearest her. The guard calmly lifted his shotgun towards her and fired off stunshots - once, twice, thrice - each blue bolt striking her with no visible effect save a momentary twitch.


    The swordsman leapt upwards, avoiding another round of stunshots, before opening up his scruffy coat, the movement making it look as if he had wings for a moment. In that same instant, numerous tiny silver objects came shooting out from within his garment, flying forwards with incredible speed.


    Aldan narrowed his eye, inspecting the projectiles more closely. They were small knives, each one with a thin white thruster flaring out of the back of their handle. They maneuvered through the air like miniature starships, lodging themselves in the guards¡¯ weapons and making them inoperable.


    In the next few seconds, the two intruders would begin actually killing his workers. Aldan ran a few quick calculations in his head, confirming his prior assumption: it would cost more to replace these workers than it would to offer his resources to the intruders.


    "Surrender," he said calmly, his quiet voice cutting through the carnage as he raised a relaxed hand. Immediately, his guards threw down their weapons and retreated back, closer to his desk.


    The thrusters on the flying knives died down, and they clattered to the floor as one. The swordsman sheathed his silver sword.


    The woman clicked her tongue, balled fists on her hips. "I was just getting into it!" she said, annoyed. "But, hey, you¡¯re a smart cookie for giving up, Mr. Petrio. Nice one."


    Aldan watched the intruders with one eye each as he spoke. "What can I do for you?" he said, voice droll. "This interruption is inconvenient."


    The swordsman - clearly the leader of this operation - stepped forward towards Aldan¡¯s desk. His guards looked as if they were going to try to repel him, but Aldan shook his head. There was little they could do against this man at any rate.


    As the man approached, Aldan observed closely. His efficient stride, the resolute expression in his eyes, his combat skills, the fact that he wore a disguise, the fact that he had the pre-existing connections to know about this place - for someone of Aldan¡¯s caliber, the inevitable conclusion was easy to reach.


    "You¡¯re a Special Officer of the Supremacy, I take it?" he said, swallowing his mint.


    The Special Officer faltered in his step for a moment, narrowed his eyes. He hadn¡¯t been expecting his identity to be revealed. The woman, on the other hand, didn¡¯t look surprised in the least - she had a better understanding of the way this world functioned.


    "That¡¯s right," the Officer said finally. "And you are Aldan Petrio?"


    Aldan nodded. "Yes."


    "The information broker Aldan Petrio, who has a backdoor into the Taldan government¡¯s surveillance records?"


    "That¡¯s right."


    The Special Officer reached his desk, and looked down at Aldan with cold grey eyes. Aldan vaguely wondered if this interaction would end with his death - that would be unfortunate, if so. He had clients to meet with later that day, and those appointments would have to be rescheduled while his replacement was decided upon.


    "The Aldan Petrio who can uncover any secret?" the Special Officer said quietly.


    Aldan nodded.


    The Special Officer put a hand in his pocket - earning a series of flinches from Aldan¡¯s guards - and pulled out a script. He slammed it down on the table with barely restrained anger, and from the intensity of his gaze Aldan knew it was for him to look at.


    "I need you to find someone," the Officer said.


    Aldan looked at the image on the screen: it was of a young man with shoulder-length silver hair and blazing blue eyes. A fellow Cogitant, without a doubt - and from the background, it looked like this was an image taken for some kind of official identification.


    "A name would be useful," he said, already committing the face to memory.


    The swordsman spoke through gritted teeth: "Dragan. Hadrien."

 Chapter 43:3.6: The Corporate Ant

    "This is bullshit," growled Ruth, pacing across their new room with her arms crossed. "We can¡¯t just let them control us like this!"


    Shooting Star Security Solutions - in a completely transparent effort to keep an eye on them - had provided the crew with new quarters located right in the middle of their corporate headquarters. Incidentally, that meant that the way to the exit was guarded by dozens of armed mercenaries at any one time. They¡¯d been told they were free to come and go as they pleased, but Dragan personally didn¡¯t feel free when there were so many guns around, and so many of them were pointing in his general direction.


    "It¡¯s bigger than our last room, though," said Serena. She was lying back on the soft floor, and kicking her legs in the air as she talked. "It¡¯s not all bad, Miss Blaine."


    It was true - objectively speaking, the room was better than the last one they¡¯d had. They had their own beds, for one, something Dragan had appreciated when he¡¯d taken his first nap in what felt like years. The kitchen had been replaced with a simple food delivery chute, sure, but none of them had ever been the culinary type anyway.


    Dragan watched the digital clock on the wall - it was the late afternoon now, and he assumed it would be dark outside if there were any windows. If Dir was right, the reporter would be at the niain at around this time tomorrow.


    He glanced at Skipper, who¡¯d sat himself down at the dining table and was devouring some kind of poultry the chute had spat out for him. It was truly awful to behold - like a lion eating a ferret.


    "That taste good?" Dragan said, not even bothering to hide the disgust on his expression.


    Skipper nodded, sucking a string of sinew into his mouth as he did so. Dragan narrowly suppressed the urge to be sick.


    Ruth stopped her pacing in front of Skipper, arms still folded. "And you¡¯ve got some explaining to do," she said, pointing an accusing finger.


    Skipper had the audacity to look offended. "Me?" he said. "What did I do?"


    The accusing finger became an outright hostile one, jabbing Skipper in the chest. "What you did," she growled. "Was get us all press-ganged into some shady cop shit! What the hell are these youthful indiscretions they¡¯ve got you pinned for?"


    The captain shrugged uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. His gaze settled onto a spot on the ceiling. "You know how these things are," he said. "They get you for anything these days - graffiti, kicking vending machines¡­"


    Dragan spoke up, looking at Skipper intently. "You don¡¯t get thirty years hard labour for kicking a vending machine, Skipper," he said seriously. "And we¡¯re being blackmailed by extension here, too. I think we deserve to know what¡¯s going on."


    Skipper sighed, flapped his arms, and looked for all the world as if he were going to launch into some story. Then he shut his mouth again and shook his head.


    "No, no," he said quietly. "I really can¡¯t tell you. Sorry, kiddo. Let¡¯s just say it¡¯s Classified - and that¡¯s with a capital c."


    Well, that actually narrowed things down a little for Dragan. Skipper had definitely done some kind of work for an official body, then, and it was the kind of job you weren¡¯t allowed to talk about afterwards. Wetwork, maybe?


    Ruth didn¡¯t seem to agree. She just glared at Skipper, raised her finger as if she were going to jab it at him again, then threw it down to her side and stormed out of the room, grumbling.


    The second she was gone, Skipper sighed again, rubbing his temples with his fingers. To tell the truth, Dragan had never seen him look so stressed.


    "Is it safe to let her leave?" asked Dragan, glancing towards the door. "Won¡¯t the security forces want to keep us where they can see us?"


    Skipper shook his head. "Taldan¡¯s got a very robust surveillance system. Once they catch a sniff of you, it¡¯s very hard to lose their attention."


    Dragan leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms. "It¡¯s interesting how you know so much about it," he said suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.


    "It really isn¡¯t," snapped Skipper - with surprising ferocity. Dragan blinked, mumbled some half-assed apology. He still felt like he didn¡¯t know that much about Skipper, but he didn¡¯t want to piss him off.


    "I get it," said Bruno, taking a sip of some tea he¡¯d managed to procure from the food chute. "It¡¯s the same with me - I can¡¯t talk about a lot of the stuff me and Serena have seen. Security reasons."


    With a sigh of his own, Dragan marched off to get himself a glass of water. Were he and Ruth the only ones in this crew without some kind of dark secret?


    -


    "A niain?" mused Atoy Muzazi, looking over the printout Petrio had given him. He was sat in a chair opposite the information broker¡¯s desk - behind him, the workers continued sifting through information, their labour punctuated by occasional anxious glances towards the man who had sliced through their defenses. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Across the desk, Petrio nodded. "That¡¯s correct," he said, curt. "Dragan Hadrien will be there without a doubt."


    His pale blue eyes stared into Muzazi¡¯s placidly, a stark contrast to the criminal¡¯s white coat and black hair. Even as calm as those eyes were, they seemed to be the only thing about the man that were truly alive.


    "And how do you know this?" Muzazi pressed, narrowing his eyes. Normally, he¡¯d trust the strength he¡¯d displayed earlier to prompt honesty, but this man reminded him far too much of Hadrien. There was a substantial risk that he was already seeking to trick Muzazi in some way he couldn¡¯t yet see.


    Without breaking eye contact, Petrio tapped the screen of his script - and a holographic display popped out, straightening itself into a square in front of Muzazi¡¯s face. The display was from surveillance footage in a hospital - Hadrien and the dissidents he¡¯d allied with walking through a hallway. Ruth Blaine was there, along with the nameless man he¡¯d captured on Caelus Breck - Skipper, he had called himself.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "Are you familiar with this gentleman?" said Petrio, tapping the screen again. The image of the nameless man was highlighted with a red border.


    "I am," Muzazi nodded.


    "His name is unknown," Petrio went on, almost bored. "But he¡¯s referred to as Skipper where he appears in Taldan records. This man has been recruited by Shooting Star Security Solutions to assist them with an investigation."


    Muzazi turned his nose up - this was typical UAP corruption. How could one hire a gang of criminals to pursue justice? The very notion was preposterous. "What manner of investigation?" he said, doing his best to hide the disdain in his voice.


    "There¡¯s a gentleman calling himself the Citizen," said Petrio, steepling his fingers against his chest. "A revolutionary who has bombed buildings, assassinated businessmen, these sorts of things. Skipper¡¯s crew is to assist with the effort to track this Citizen down, as I understand it."


    Muzazi stroked his chin. "I see. This Citizen - is he strong?" That would decide whether his cause was just or not. If it was, Muzazi could potentially ally with him, but if it was not then that was out of the question.


    "I wouldn¡¯t know. He has never been witnessed."


    A coward, then? That wasn¡¯t very promising. Still, he could just be skilled at concealing himself - that was a form of strength in itself. He cast the speculation from his mind for the time being.


    "And they will definitely be at this niain tomorrow night."


    Petrio nodded. "A vital witness will appear there - they¡¯ll expose themselves to try and take him in. That will be your window to act."


    Before Muzazi could say anything to that, he was interrupted by a bump from behind - and before he knew it, Officer Hazzard had lazily draped her arms over his shoulders.


    "There, you see?" she said, close to his ear. "Now we know where to find Hadrien, and you can stop being so damn moody."


    Muzazi shrugged her off, cleared his throat in embarrassment. He had no reason to complain about Marie Hazzard¡¯s skills, but the physical familiarity with which she operated was somewhat ¡­ indecent, for lack of a better word.


    His gaze settled back onto Aldan Petrio, and he looked deep into those dull blue eyes. They really did remind him of Hadrien. He¡¯d been betrayed once - he wouldn¡¯t permit it to happen again.


    "Why are you assisting me so readily?" he asked carefully, his grip tightening ever-so-slightly on Luminescence¡¯s hilt. Marie Hazzard¡¯s eyes flicked from it to Petrio.


    His next words would decide everything - whether or not Muzazi would have to take steps to prevent future betrayal.


    "Have you ever seen a corporate ant?" smiled Aldan Petrio, as if he wasn¡¯t one wrong word away from execution.


    "I have not."


    "I watched a documentary they featured in not long ago," Petrio went on - and as he talked, he was still working, one eye laser-focused on the script before him. "Unlike most species of ants, the position of queen is fluid in a corporate hive. The ants work hard to gather globules of honey all day every day, storing them in a small sac on their thorax. The ant with the most honey is treated as the queen by the rest of the hive."


    Muzazi nodded. "Meritocracy. A fine system."


    "Of course. It is, however, an¡­" Petrio searched for the right word. "Unstable system. Unlike among humans, there is very little strength disparity amongst ants, and so there is nothing stopping them from killing each other to ensure they have the most honey. The position of queen, as a result, changes by the minute. I believe some cultures call this species ¡¯massacre ants¡¯ instead, for obvious reasons."


    Muzazi frowned. He wasn¡¯t sure he appreciated what this man seemed to be trying to imply about the Supremacy. There was a big difference between the foolishness of animals and the wisdom of humans.


    "What does this have to do with you?" Muzazi said sharply, narrowing his eyes.


    Petrio smiled thinly. "Among the corporate ants, an interesting behaviour has been observed. Ants that seek not to attain the crown for themselves, but simply serve the reigning monarch. They defend the queen from threats, bring her food, and allow her to reproduce."


    "And then?" Muzazi raised an eyebrow.


    "And then they eat her eggs," Petrio said calmly. "From what I understand, these cannibal servants have a much higher longevity rate than any other members of their species."


    "That¡¯s disgusting," said Marie Hazzard, wrinkling her nose.


    "Yes," Petrio nodded. "I also dislike insects. However, you can¡¯t deny the wisdom of serving the strong and reaping the resultant benefits, rather than seeking strength for oneself."


    Again, what Petrio was saying was the antithesis to the Supremacy¡¯s guiding philosophy - for society to advance and grow stronger, it¡¯s members must continually seek superiority over one another. Simply leeching off the strong made you no worse than a parasite. Again, Hadrien¡¯s face came to Muzazi¡¯s mind, and he gritted his teeth.


    "You realize, of course," Muzazi said darkly. "That I have no reason to believe you. You could try to betray me later on."


    Petrio leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled on his stomach. "For what reason?" he said. "Ambition? Mr. Muzazi, that is a weakness I purged from myself long ago."


    Muzazi looked him up and down, stared into those infuriatingly familiar bright-blue eyes. Despite everything, this man seemed to be telling the truth. Like he¡¯d said, his only desire was for things to remain as they were in the comfortable present.


    It seemed he wasn¡¯t a liar.


    But Muzazi had made that mistake before, hadn¡¯t he?


    -


    To tell the truth, Ruth was surprised they hadn¡¯t kicked up more of a fuss from her leaving the security complex. They were definitely still tracking her as she walked the city streets, but still. She¡¯d expected at least a veiled threat.


    It was good for them that they hadn¡¯t tried anything, though. With the mood she was in right now, she might have ended up busting some heads on her way out.


    She marched through the streets with no real destination in mind, breath coming out in angry huffs, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She just needed to think, damnit, and walking was the best way to do it.


    So Skipper had lied. That was no big deal, he¡¯d lied before, but every other time his lies had helped, not gotten them into trouble. Even so, she could have accepted that. She could have accepted that if Skipper had just given her an explanation. Everyone makes mistakes every now and then, after all.


    But he hadn¡¯t given her an explanation. He¡¯d given her nothing - and so her anger had nowhere to go. Reaching a railing, she thumped her fist against it, a small growl escaping her throat as a few sparks of involuntary red Aether emanated from her hand.


    She looked out over Taldan, over the towering spires, the spider-web of streets that went all the way down. At the darkness down below, where only a few stray lights showed that life existed there. For someone like her, who¡¯d grown up in a relatively rural environment, the existence of a city as big as this was almost overwhelming.


    A sigh quickly followed her growl. What the hell was she doing? It wasn¡¯t like she had anywhere to go or anything to do. She was just running away from her problems. It didn¡¯t matter why Skipper had lied: he just had, and now they had to deal with it.


    But still ¡­ she was pissed the hell off. Her grip on the railing tightened slightly, and the metal bent in her hands.


    "The niain tomorrow night, huh?" she muttered to herself.


    That left her a whole day to get this thing out of her system - and a whole city to do it in.

 Chapter 44:3.7: A Night On The Town

    Ruth Blaine wasn¡¯t one for drinking, really. Alcohol tasted bad and made you stupid, which weren¡¯t really the best selling points for her. If you drank water instead, you could stay smart and not get thirsty. It wasn¡¯t even a choice.


    What she did like, though, was a bar. A place where people could come together and throw away the anxieties and responsibilities that plagued them. It was where humanity was able to take a break from being human - the all-hours job that didn¡¯t pay for shit.


    And what she liked even more than a bar, was a bar fight.


    Her fist found its mark on the jaw of a burly Pugnant, and he went flying backwards into the wall, sending splinters of wood flying in every direction. One of his companions, a wiry-looking man with a thin moustache, snarled wildly and swung a bat towards Ruth¡¯s head.


    Years ago, that bat would have seemed like a threat to her, most likely. Something that could cause her pain, at least. Now, though, after all she had been through?


    Now it just seemed slow.


    Ruth ducked, dropping to the ground in less than a second, and the bat sailed over her head. Then - just to punctuate her point - she jumped back to her feet with such speed that her skull met the wooden bat from below and shattered it, leaving the wiry man holding its wrecked handle. He looked at it, gaping in disbelief.


    She simply grinned, showing her fangs, and motioned for him to try again with her hand.


    They weren¡¯t fighting about anything in particular, no bullshit ideology or anything like that. The wiry man¡¯s Pugnant friend had been annoying her, so she¡¯d started fighting them. There wasn¡¯t anything complicated to get in the way: no hidden pasts, no politics, no secrets. Just them trying to hit her and her trying to hit them.


    This kind of simple fight - this was what life was all about, the way Ruth saw it.


    The Pugnant - a burly, red-haired man - pulled himself free from the wall with a roar, leaving a noticeable impression in its surface. He grabbed the nearest table - its occupants shifting their chairs out of the way - and charged at Ruth, lifting the furniture over his head as a weapon.


    Her grin widened. This was more like it.


    Until now, she hadn¡¯t been using her Aether - her fighting buddies didn¡¯t seem to have it, and it seemed unfair to give herself such an overwhelming advantage. But if they were going to start swinging tables at her¡­


    Just a little bit.


    Ruth took a deep breath, and a few subtle sparks of red Aether began collecting around her fists, barely perceptible. Her hair, too, brightened just a shade or two - not enough to be noticed unless you took a good look. Her Aether tic made real stealth a tall order, but stealth had never been her style.


    She preferred to solve her problems with a fast-moving knuckle.


    Her arms lashed out like a pair of snakes, striking the surface of the table just before it hit her, and they went right through - impaling the table on her arms and bringing the object to a sudden stop. She heard a gasp of surprise from the big man on the other side of the weapon, and she adjusted her positioning, securing her arms in the table like hooks going into a fish¡¯s mouth.


    She had him. Now to finish the job.


    Ruth brought her head back as far as she could, channeling her Aether into it and infusing it until it was harder than brick. Then, with a grunt of exertion, she brought it forwards towards the table, her vision a blur from the sheer speed.


    "Dude, move!" shouted the wiry man to his Pugnant friend, but it was too late.


    Ruth¡¯s head split the table in two with its impact, and then kept going - striking the Pugnant right in the chest. Right before connecting, Ruth lessened her Aether - she didn¡¯t want to kill the poor guy, after all - but that was still enough to send him down to the ground with ease. He rolled and moaned, nursing the spot where she¡¯d hit him.


    She wiped the sweat from her brow. "And stay down!" she laughed, enjoying the limber feeling a few minutes of fighting gave her.


    The wiry man glared at her, looked for a moment like he was going to spit some other insult or throw another punch, but he relented and marched out of the bar, his thin arms crossed - and a moment later, his Pugnant friend crawled after him.


    A murmur of disappointment rang out from the bar¡¯s other occupants - they¡¯d clearly been enjoying the show. Well, Ruth wasn¡¯t here to entertain them. She sat herself down at a stool on the bar and looked at the automatic bartender.


    "Input order," it said in a drawling artificial accent, multiple limbs mixing and serving drinks even as it¡¯s glowing-green eye was focused on Ruth¡¯s face.


    "Glass of water," Ruth said, catching her breath. Without the reinforcement Aether offered, fighting like she usually did really was tiring. How had she ever managed without it?


    "Glaza Tar," said the automatic, in that same calm tone. "Confirm order?"


    Ruth rolled her eyes. Whoever owned this place had clearly got the bartender for cheap. "Glass of water," she repeated, making sure to enunciate clearly.


    "Invalid response," bleated the automatic. "To revise order, state ¡¯please revise order¡¯."


    "Please revise order," Ruth growled, glaring at the machine. She wondered how much force it would take to tear the damn thing in two, and how much she would have to pay the owner afterwards.


    "Restarting order," the automatic said. "What can I get you?"


    "Glass of water."


    "Glaza Tar, coming right up!"


    Ruth¡¯s fist hit the bar, shining with crimson Aether, leaving a deep indentation where it came down. Again, the other barflies gave her nervous glances, but none dared speak up against her.


    The only one who took no notice was the automatic bartender, who placed a glass of viscous black liquid in front of her. "Please enjoy," it said. "This beverage will automatically be charged against your UAP credit account."


    Ruth looked down at the glass of opaque liquid, feeling her teeth grind against each other. Skipper¡¯s lies, their current situation, this whole stinking damn fucking city - it all seemed to be contained in that glass. She really wasn¡¯t in the mood for this.


    "Listen," she hissed, as calmly as she could. "I really -"


    The automatic giggled.


    Ruth looked up, brow furrowing. Automatics didn¡¯t laugh - and if they did, it didn¡¯t sound natural. It didn¡¯t sound like that. What Ruth had heard there was the laughter of a human being.


    The automatic had stopped, multiple arms frozen mid-motion, one hand just allowing the bottle it was holding to spill onto the floor. Ruth glanced behind her - nobody else seemed to have noticed. They were much too busy trying not to look directly at her.


    She looked back towards the automatic. "Uh," she said, if you could consider that speech.


    "You¡¯re funny," said the automatic, in a voice that was very subtly different. This wasn¡¯t the automatic speaking anymore - someone was speaking through the automatic, modulation masking their voice. Still, even through that static, Ruth could tell that the person talking was a girl - and a young one, at that.


    "Wasn¡¯t trying to be," muttered Ruth, hunched over against the bar, eyes looking this way and that.


    "But you¡¯re not stupid," the automatic went on, limbs still frozen in mid-air. "The way you¡¯re looking around - you¡¯re trying to find me right now, aren¡¯t you?"


    It was true. Ruth had been watching the other occupants of the bar, trying to spot if anyone¡¯s mouth was moving in time with the automatic. More than that, though, she was trying to figure out what was going on. Was this a trap? Was she in danger? The girl¡¯s voice was friendly, but something about it made Ruth¡¯s stomach drop.


    "Where are you?" Ruth mumbled, doing her best to prevent the other customers from hearing.


    "Sorry," the automatic said, followed by another modulated giggle. "No matter how hard you look, you won¡¯t find me. My Digital Complex lets me control simple machines like this from a long way away."


    Digital Complex. Ruth wasn¡¯t entirely sure what that meant, but the way the girl had said it demanded the capitalization. Some kind of Aether ability, then.


    "What d¡¯you want?" said Ruth. As she spoke, she brought her glass up to her lips, only to slam it back down when she got a good whiff of the contents. Whatever the hell Glaza Tar was, it wasn¡¯t entering her body any time soon.


    The automatics camera rotated slightly, clearly zooming in on Ruth. "One of my drones saw you fighting," the girl said sweetly. "You looked strong, so I wanted to meet you."


    Ruth glared. "You still haven¡¯t met me, though. You¡¯re looking at me on a computer monitor, right?"


    "Well, it¡¯s a script screen, but I get your point. You¡¯re mad because I¡¯m being sneaky, huh? Are you the kind of person who doesn¡¯t like being sneaky? Do you think it¡¯s cowardly or something?"


    Ruth shrugged noncommittally, glancing towards the door. If she just got up and left, would this girl try to stop her? Could she?


    "I think," said the girl, still happily having a conversation with herself. "That it¡¯s very easy to call other people cowards when you¡¯re able to take a bat to the head no problem. I mean, if you¡¯ve no reason to be afraid of that, what is there for you to be afraid of? Sure, I¡¯m a coward. I¡¯m scared of a lot of things. How about you, fighting girl? What are you afraid of?"


    Ruth¡¯s gaze returned to the automatic, memories bubbling up to the surface. A lashed corpse, strapped to a metal post. A skeleton, sizzling with plasmafire on the floor of a Supremacy warship. She wasn¡¯t scared of pain, or being attacked, or anything like that. What she feared was losing what she had.


    "That¡¯s a tough one, huh?" the automatic prompted when it got no response. "I get it. It¡¯s a little personal. How about another question?"


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. Until she knew exactly what kind of situation she was in right now, it was probably best to play along.


    She nodded.


    "What do you hate?"


    Ruth furrowed her brow. That wasn¡¯t the kind of question she¡¯d been expecting. "What?" she said.


    "People say that when you hate something, it¡¯s really because you fear it. That sounds pretty good to me. I mean, it¡¯s like how some people hate bugs, right? They hate them because they¡¯re afraid of them. They¡¯re scared of being webbed up and eaten, having their insides turned to soup and drank through a straw. I mean, I¡¯d hate that too. Wouldn¡¯t you?"


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    "I guess," Ruth said.


    "So what do you hate? I already told you I¡¯m afraid of everything, so I guess I must hate everything. I hate this city. I hate this planet. I hate this whole entire galaxy, really, now that I think about it."


    Ruth stared, befuddled. She didn¡¯t quite understand the philosophy this girl was ranting about. "Because you¡¯re afraid of it? Why?"


    The automatic didn¡¯t move, but Ruth could almost see the girl¡¯s grin through the tone of her voice. "Because I¡¯m afraid of it eating me. I¡¯m afraid of becoming part of it, of accepting my own meaninglessness. This whole world is trash, and so are all the people who live in it. You agree with me, right?"


    Ruth pushed her stool back, put distance between herself and the automatic. How the hell could this girl think she¡¯d agree with her?


    The girl seemed to take Ruth¡¯s silence for an answer. "You think you don¡¯t agree?" she muttered, voice slippery and cold. "Disgusting. You¡¯re not even lying to me, you know? You¡¯re lying to yourself. You¡¯re so afraid, you won¡¯t even let yourself know it."


    Ruth growled deep, her hand holding onto the bar tightening with a squeal of metal. "I¡¯m not afraid of anything," she said, deathly serious.


    The girl laughed mirthlessly. "Liar, liar, pants on fire," she said, with none of the childishness the rhyme required. "Everyone¡¯s afraid. You¡¯re scared of someone coming up behind you and killing you, right? Don¡¯t you think that¡¯d be a scary thing to happen? Everyone¡¯s scared of that. That¡¯s because they know it can always happen. That¡¯s because everyone hates everyone, deep down. Without exception. Because they understand the shape of this world."


    Ruth slammed her fist down on the bar, encased in a glove of red Aether that quickly solidified into the claws of her Skeletal Set, the recorded armour reflecting the lights above. The customers, who had withstood a great deal over the last few minutes, finally decided now was the time to leave.


    "Are you mad?" the girl giggled. "You¡¯re mad, right? Because you know I¡¯m telling the truth. That¡¯s so weird!"


    The girl went to say something else through her automatic puppet, but was interrupted by the fact that Ruth¡¯s claws sliced the thing to pieces in less than a second. Her laughter trailed off into a distorted screech as the pieces of the machine rained down upon the ground.


    She felt her teeth grinding together. She¡¯d come to this place to calm down, but it seemed she¡¯d done anything but.


    -


    As she walked out of the seedy bar - nestled as it was in an alleyway - Ruth stuck her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, angling her head down to avoid having the occasional dripping of water from above splash into her eyes.


    "There you are," said a voice. It wasn¡¯t the girl; Ruth looked up towards the mouth of the alley.


    It was Dragan, stood there in a coat that was a little too big for him, looking severely unimpressed. His arms were crossed, and one of his eyebrows was raised to such a degree that it looked like it might just escape his face entirely.


    Ruth shrugged, smiling wearily. "Here I am," she said, feeling like a child about to be scolded by an adult. "You here for a drink?"


    Dragan wrinkled his nose. "That stuff¡¯s not for me. What the hell are you doing?"


    She chuckled. "You know, just, uh, just hanging out."


    His eyes drifted down towards an unconscious drunk, crumpled on the ground towards the side of the alley. With his dark coat and bushy beard, Ruth had almost missed his presence.


    "Just hanging out?" said Dragan, hand on his hip.


    "Woah, woah," Ruth waved her hands in a placating gesture. "That one wasn¡¯t me!"


    Dragan glanced towards the bar behind Ruth, where the ¡¯open¡¯ sign was still flickering on the door. "That one?" he said, sighing.


    Again, Ruth shrugged. She really wasn¡¯t in the mood to deal with this kind of thing right now. "Yeah, yeah, whatever," she said. "What do you want? You¡¯re not the kind of guy to come down here just to hang out."


    "What the hell are you doing?" Dragan snapped.


    Ruth furrowed her brow. "Excuse me?"


    "You hear some news you don¡¯t like, and you go storming off to wreck a bar? You¡¯ve been gone for hours without a word. What would we do if you just didn¡¯t come back? It would be annoying having to search for you, you know?"


    Well, clearly he had searched for her - he was here, after all - but she decided not to mention that.


    "It¡¯s not me hearing news that I don¡¯t like," she said. "It¡¯s having secrets kept from me, when I thought I knew where I stood. I thought that I was trusted!"


    Dragan crossed his arms, his expression shifting from annoyance to outright anger. "You think I¡¯m not having secrets kept from me? I don¡¯t even know why I¡¯m here!"


    Shit. That was a good point.


    They stood in silence there for a minute, angry faces staring at each other, the only sound being the occasional drip of water from the buildings above. Eventually, though, Ruth sighed and relented, letting the tension drain out of her body. Her balled fists returned to her pockets.


    "You want me to come back, then?" she said quietly, looking down at the ground.


    "I ¡­ I just want your word that you¡¯ll come back before tomorrow night." Dragan seemed unsure of the words even as he said them.


    She smiled bitterly. Of course they wanted her back before the niain. "Sure. I¡¯m more useful that way, right?"


    Dragan¡¯s face didn¡¯t budge. "Of course you are. Don¡¯t make it sound like a manipulation thing. It¡¯d be stupid to go into battle without our best fighter."


    She smirked. Liar. No, he was just wrong. He hadn¡¯t seen what Skipper could do when it came down to it.


    "Fine," she muttered, looking down. "I¡¯ll come back."


    When she looked up from the water-streaked ground, she saw that Dragan was walking away, apparently satisfied. She hesitated for a moment, then called after him.


    "Hey, Hadrien!" she said. "Hold up. Let¡¯s talk."


    -


    The traditional design didn¡¯t quite work as well when traffic had the vertical element as well as the horizontal. The kind of bridge that you¡¯d put over a river ran the risk of having a car drive too low and decapitating everyone standing on it, after all. Dragan would agree that that was a definite design flaw.


    On Taldan, then, bridges were more like glass tunnels, built to connect the districts that made up the city proper. Looking left, Dragan could see a mass of shopping malls, stadiums and fast food places, all clumped together like a convention for tumours. To his right, he could see a depressing landscape of cold grey towers, stretching up as far as possible - a residential district, where people went to sleep once the rest of the city had drained the life from them over the day.


    Below, though, he could see the void - the gap between districts - a pit going so far down he couldn¡¯t see the bottom, just the subtle shifting of mining equipment at the very limit of his vision.


    Traffic passed below and, yes, traffic passed above, so many cars packed so close that each line of traffic sometimes seemed like a single object. Pedestrians mimicked their vehicles behind Dragan and Ruth, a tired babble echoing throughout the tunnel as they made their way home from work.


    Dragan and Ruth stood a little distance away from the crowd, leaning on the bridge¡¯s railing as they looked out at the city.


    Ruth sniffed, getting a whiff of that awful Taldan stench. "I don¡¯t like this place," she said. "There¡¯s just ¡­ something awful about it."


    She wasn¡¯t wrong. "What¡¯s there to like?" Dragan said, droll. "I guess if you like choking on mining fumes all day, this place might be for you, but I¡¯m having trouble thinking of any other selling points."


    Ruth chuckled. "Shut up," she said, without any real anger in it.


    Well, at least she wasn¡¯t pissed off anymore. "Maybe one day," Dragan smiled.


    They stood there for another minute or two, just watching the cars pass by, before Ruth spoke up again.


    "It¡¯s not keeping secrets," she said quietly. "I mean, it¡¯s not just keeping secrets. It¡¯s just ¡­ you know, the idea that I¡¯m fighting for something without knowing about it?"


    Dragan glanced at her. "What did you think you were fighting for?"


    She seemed to consider that for a moment or two, eyes gently closing. "I guess ¡­ I didn¡¯t think I was fighting for anything. Fighting for fuel, maybe, for food, for my buddies. Just ¡­ fighting to keep living, you know? Because that¡¯s what I thought Skipper was fighting for, too. But if he¡¯s got secrets he can¡¯t talk about, that could ¡­ that could mean he¡¯s got a reason for me fighting that¡¯s a secret too, right?" She looked to him, as if for affirmation.


    Dragan blinked. Once again, he¡¯d underestimated Ruth Blaine¡¯s intelligence. With just one clue, she¡¯d managed to figure out what Skipper had told Dragan at the hospital.


    Well, she¡¯d known the man for longer, anyway. She had an advantage in that department.


    Was it alright for Dragan to confirm her suspicions? While Skipper hadn¡¯t exactly sworn him to secrecy, he felt like the implication was still there. It wasn¡¯t his confession to give.


    "I think," he said, as diplomatically as he could. "That if you¡¯re fighting for something, it¡¯s not a bad thing for there to be a real cause behind it. That way it, uh, it all means something - even if you lose, right?"


    She shot him a glare. "That¡¯s only if you know you¡¯re fighting for it. If you don¡¯t know what the cause is, you could be fighting for something you hate. Dying for something you hate."


    That last sentence had memory behind it, Dragan noticed, real sentiment. Ruth¡¯s gaze turned down into the void below.


    "Have you been told about North yet?" she said quietly, almost imperceptibly.


    Dragan shook his head. "No."


    She sighed. "North was ¡­ North was part of our crew before you. He wasn¡¯t very strong - like you, heh - but he could do things with Aether that you wouldn¡¯t believe. Do you, um, do you know how holograms work?"


    He nodded. "Sort of. It¡¯s all about reflecting light in specific ways, right?"


    "He could do that more easily than any machine, he could just pour his Aether into the light around him and force it into whatever shape he wanted."


    "Sounds like a good skill to have."


    She chuckled. "It was. Skipper thought so too - you should¡¯ve seen how many credits he sent North each month."


    Dragan cocked his head. "Hold on. The guy before me was getting paid?"


    "Take it up with Skipper, not me," Ruth shrugged. "He wasn¡¯t easy to like, but North was ¡­ North was a good person to have in your corner."


    "I¡¯m noticing the past tense here," Dragan said somberly.


    "A mission went wrong," Ruth said, her eyes far away, as if she were still there. "North got grabbed by the Supremacy. We went in to bust him out ¡­ but by the time we got there, there wasn¡¯t much left of him. Just ¡­ just bones and plasma. They¡¯d drowned him in that shit."


    He had nothing to say to that, nothing he could do except awkwardly look down at his shoes.


    "It¡¯s just," continued Ruth, fidgeting with the railing. "Thinking that he died, like that, and he never knew what he was dying for ¡­ it¡¯s awful. I can¡¯t stand it."


    Silently, Dragan nodded. It was an awful thought. When he died, Dragan didn¡¯t want to go out with questions unanswered. He wanted to understand why everything was happening.


    A thought occurred to him. "Hey, Ruth?"


    "Yeah?"


    "You said you thought you weren¡¯t fighting for any particular reason - just to survive day-by-day, right?"


    She cocked her head. "Right. Why?"


    "If that¡¯s true, why did you think you were kidnapping me?"


    Ruth bit her lip and glanced away, clearly uncomfortable with the question. Finally, though, she relented. "A friend of Skipper¡¯s asked him to," she said softly. "I think."


    He leaned in closer, curiosity overriding the somber atmosphere that had settled over him. "A friend? Do you know who? Their name, at least?"


    Again, Ruth looked away - eyes staring up at the sky, at the stars above the city. "I don¡¯t think¡­" she said. "I don¡¯t think that¡¯s something for me to tell you. Wouldn¡¯t feel right."


    So you¡¯re keeping his secrets now, too?


    The words almost left Dragan¡¯s lips, manipulative words that he didn¡¯t really mean. He knew for a fact that if he said those words here and now, Ruth would tell him what he wanted to know. Every facet of her face and body language was confirming that for him. All he had to do was say them.


    But it was like Ruth had said: it wouldn¡¯t feel right. Besides, if he did that, Ruth would be sad later and that would be a pain to deal with.


    Sighing, he moved back and went back to leaning on the railing. "Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "If you say so."


    They stared at the city like that in silence for a while, the stream of pedestrians behind them just as heavy as ever. This city never slept, clearly - when people were waking up, people were going to sleep, and that was a constant.


    "Dragan?" said Ruth quietly.


    "Yeah?"


    "I¡¯ll come back."


    -


    At least, she¡¯d be back by the time they needed her. Ruth still needed some time to think things over, so she¡¯d decided to take the long way back, using the massive staircases that connected levels of the city rather than an elevator station like Dragan had.


    In the end, she hadn¡¯t told him about the encounter in the bar. There was no need to report in about that unless there was something to report. For all she knew, some computer nerd had just decided to bully her for a bit.


    Making her way home was one hell of a workout - even with her taking automated trams to travel horizontally through the districts, the sheer number of steps she had to climb meant that her legs were aching by the time she made it back to the district she¡¯d first stormed out of.


    Huffing and puffing, she stormed past a ragged, faded banner reading ¡¯A New Dawn - Vote Chael¡¯ as she reached the last set of stairs. Just as she turned the corner, she skidded to a stop.


    A girl was standing atop the stairs, wearing a fluttering winter coat and a beret.


    She was young - likely only fourteen or fifteen - but her blazing blue eyes had a kind of cold fascination to them, like she were a scientist inspecting Ruth under a microscope. A smirk played across her lips, and her fingers twirled a lock of her dyed-blue hair.


    Ruth gulped. She didn¡¯t know why - the girl wasn¡¯t doing anything hostile, exactly - but the way she was being looked at sent a chill down Ruth¡¯s spine.


    Still, she was no coward. Hands in her pockets and eyes looking down at the floor, she made her way up the stairs, intending to walk right past the strange girl.


    As they crossed paths, Ruth striding past the young girl towards the exit, the girl¡¯s smirk widened into a malicious grin.


    She heard the girl¡¯s voice, the voice that she had heard in the bar: "You know," she said, childish cruelty evident in her tone. "If you stick your nose where it doesn¡¯t belong, Ruth Blaine¡­"


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened.


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    She swung around, claws already manifesting on her hands, ready to defend herself - but the girl was already gone, the only sign of her presence being a gentle breeze that swayed the ragged banner. Ruth stood stock-still for almost a minute, poised for combat, before she finally allowed herself to relax.


    Ruth clicked her tongue. She really hated this city.

 Chapter 45:3.8: Catch

    "You¡¯ve got some sweet digs here, pal," said Skipper, stretching as he looked out over the gymnasium Dir had led them to. The room was gigantic, with pretty much every kind of exercise equipment under the sun making an appearance. Sound echoed in the space the way it does only when sports are involved - balls slamming against walls, again and again and again. Security officers ran through the gym, making their way from drill to drill. The whole thing was like a well-oiled machine.


    Dragan rubbed his eyes. He hadn¡¯t exactly got much sleep last night - chasing Ruth around the city will do that to a person - so he didn¡¯t much appreciate Skipper dragging him out of bed early in the morning to do some asinine training.


    "Is it really alright for us to use this stuff?" he yawned, grasping for any excuse to abandon this effort and go back to bed.


    Dir simply stood stiff as ever, hands clasped behind his back. "You¡¯re assisting us with our investigation. Anything that will help bolster your efforts, we are happy to provide."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. Usually, the word investigation implied some kind of mental effort, not the kind of thing that would require you to work out. You didn¡¯t see detectives in the stories lifting weights between cases - well, except for Ivan the Muscle Man, but that was his gimmick.


    "You¡¯re a good guy, buddy," Skipper said, patting a hand on Dir¡¯s shoulder - a gesture that didn¡¯t seem to be appreciated, judging by the chief¡¯s face. "Apart from the whole oppression of the masses thing, I bet we could be good pals."


    Dir made a truly heroic effort not to roll his eyes. "Of course."


    "Now, then!" Skipper said, stepping forward. He flexed the fingers of his organic hand, producing a series of clicks as his joints exerted themselves. His mechanical hand clenched itself into a fist silently. "We¡¯ve got some a-learning to do, kiddo!"


    Dragan sighed, stepped forward. He¡¯d already learnt that going against Skipper with things like this didn¡¯t go well. Skipper always got his way, sooner or later.


    "And what are we a-learning, then?" he said, his voice as scathing a monotone as he could manage.


    "Glad you asked, kiddo," said Skipper, flashing a grin. He looked past Dragan, towards where Dir was standing. "You might wanna, uh, might wanna move back there a little, champ."


    Dir didn¡¯t budge. "I think I¡¯ll survive," he said.


    Skipper blinked in surprise, but the expression was quickly overridden by a carefree shrug. "If you say so!"


    Then he pointed up towards the ceiling. Already knowing what was coming, Dragan winced, resisted the urge to drop to the ground.


    There was a sound like a gunshot from Skipper¡¯s extended finger - and a moment later, the room shook, dust billowing down from the ceiling. A chorus of alarmed shouting rang out from among the officers that had been using the gymnasium, and even Dir had to put a hand against the wall to keep himself upright.


    Dragan glanced up towards the ceiling. Indeed, there was a huge dent up there where Skipper¡¯s Heartbeat Shotgun had made contact.


    Recovering himself, Dir shot a glare at Skipper. "Was that really necessary?" he growled.


    Skipper smiled innocently. "You can¡¯t learn this kind of stuff without seeing it first-hand, champ. First rule of teaching."


    Dir¡¯s glare intensified. "If you¡¯d asked," he said slowly, doing his best to stuff down his anger. "We could have provided a training dummy, rather than watch you inflict property damage." S~ea??h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Skipper waved him off with a flap of his new hand. "What¡¯s done is done! Anyways, I¡¯m not talking to you, so shush. Mr. Hadrien, what do ya think?"


    Dragan kept looking up at the dent in the ceiling, not that impressed. "I¡¯ve seen this before. What exactly am I supposed to be learning?"


    With a sigh, Skipper put a hand on Dragan¡¯s shoulder and steered him a short distance away from Dir¡¯s watching eyes.


    "Listen, kiddo," he said, voice hushed. "You took down that guy, Sammy Eduardo Amberman or whatever. That¡¯s great. That¡¯s fantastic."


    "I know it is." Dragan couldn¡¯t prevent a smug smirk from crossing his face.


    "But you still kinda, uh, kinda almost died doing it."


    The smirk died as well. "Well, that¡¯s because¡­"


    Skipper snapped his fingers. "Yeah, yeah, I know. It¡¯s because I didn¡¯t teach you all you needed to know. You got lucky down on Yoslof, but from what I¡¯ve looked up this Citizen guy is serious business, yeah?"


    Looked up? Dragan frowned. Where did he get that information?


    "So!" Skipper said, snapping his fingers again - clearly, he was trying to turn it into some kind of endearing tic. "I¡¯m gonna go ahead and teach you how to be a badass like me."


    "Wow. Thanks."


    Skipper grinned. "No problemo!" He took a step back, hands on his hips. "Tell me, Mr. Hadrien, how is it you think I perform my Heartbeat Shotguns?"


    "No clue."


    "Guess!" Skipper looked like a child whose parent wasn¡¯t playing along with their game. Dragan sighed.


    "Well, uh," he said, scratching his head. "I guess you use Aether to force the air around you into a certain shape, then release that hold with explosive force?"


    For a moment, Skipper paled at that explanation, but he quickly recovered himself. He shook his head. "That¡¯s, uh, that¡¯s a good try, kiddo - but no cigar. The clue is in the name."


    Dragan put a hand to his chin, ignoring the stares of Dir and some of the other security officers.


    "I suppose," he said slowly, brain racing through possibilities even as the words were leaving his mouth. "The noise your attacks make -"


    "The noise my Heartbeat Shotguns make."


    Dragan tried to prevent himself from cringing at Skipper¡¯s earnestness, but failed miserably. "I¡¯m not saying that. The noise your attacks make aren¡¯t consistent with the damage they do, or the area that they damage. It¡¯s like a gunshot, no matter how the attack lands. And the, uh, the name ¡­ are you - are you manipulating sound somehow?"


    Again, the snap of the fingers. "Correctamundo. And, Mr. Hadrien, what sound do I use for this purpose? You can do it, the clue¡¯s in the name."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "Your heartbeat, obviously. Don¡¯t patronize."


    "Correctamundo times two, kiddo. Every beat of my big ol¡¯ heart is like reloading a pistol, you know?"


    Dragan hated to admit it, but that actually sounded very useful. The more Skipper¡¯s heart beat, the more he could attack - which in turn meant that the more he exerted himself, the more powerful he became. Ironically, he was probably capable of more destruction when he was tired than otherwise.


    He spoke up, hand still on his chin: "Why don¡¯t you just drink coffee, then? That way your heart rate will just go crazy all the time."


    Skipper sighed and looked down at the floor. "Coffee just doesn¡¯t agree with me, I¡¯m afraid¡­" He looked genuinely heartbroken. "Anyway, it¡¯s just an example. My Heartbeat Shotgun is an application of Aether that I¡¯ve come up with myself, and - being modest here - mastered. It¡¯s pretty much exclusive to me that way."


    Dragan frowned. Was he being underestimated? "How¡¯s that? What¡¯s stopping me from doing it?"


    As Skipper walked over to a rack of balls, he chuckled. "Well, sure, I guess you could do it, but why would you?"


    "So that I can shoot invisible bullets out of my fingers."


    "Fair enough," Skipper¡¯s obnoxious chuckle continued. "But trying to do the same thing I do the same way I do is like - it¡¯s like, uh - it¡¯s like ¡­ imagine I build a car, just for me, right? The right size, the right distance between the, uh, the pedals, the works? Right?"


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    "Right¡­?" Dragan honestly wasn¡¯t sure if the man was going somewhere with this.


    "Now - imagine instead of building your own car, you get yourself stretched out so that you can fit in mine. It makes more sense just to build something that suits you, right?"


    Dragan considered it. That did make sense. If nothing else, he didn¡¯t want to be stuck with an ability called Heartbeat Shotgun for the rest of his life.


    "So," he said, still with his hand to his chin. "How do I know what would suit me?"


    Skipper grinned, taking a white ball from the rack and spinning it on his prosthetic finger. Dragan couldn¡¯t help but be impressed - he¡¯d only gotten the thing very recently, and he was already capable of fine movements like that.


    "Well," Skipper said, flicking the ball up and catching it with his other hand. "How about we find out?"


    -


    After clearing up the room - moving the exercise equipment and benches off to the sides, leaving a great expanse of space - Skipper and Dragan took their positions on either side of the gymnasium.


    Dir watched from the sidelines, looking increasingly regretful about ever letting Skipper into this room.


    "The rules are simple," said Skipper, stretching. "If the ball hits the wall behind me, that¡¯s a point to you. If it hits the wall behind you, that¡¯s a point to me. You can use Aether all you want, but you can¡¯t attack the other player. Best out of three wins. Sound good? Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t go all out against you, kiddo."


    Dragan grinned, but he knew the annoyance was clear on his face all the same. "Cocky bastard."


    "Oh?" Skipper passed the ball from hand to hand for a moment. "You want me to go all out, then? Just for a second?"


    Dragan pursed his lips. He knew there was probably no way he could beat Skipper if he was giving the game his all, but observing the man in action could be useful all the same. He didn¡¯t even really care about winning this game, so there was no problem there either.


    "Go on, then," Dragan said.


    "Sure thing."


    There was a sound like a cannon going off, and a sudden gust of air pressure that forced Dragan to squeeze his eyes shut. A chorus of alarmed shouts rang out from the onlookers - and when Dragan finally managed to open his eyes again, he saw that the ball was no longer in Skipper¡¯s hand.


    "Wha?!" Dragan blurted out, tongue still numb from the cold air.


    Skipper nodded to a spot behind him, a smug smile playing across his lips. Dragan whirled around to follow the older man¡¯s gaze.


    The ball was half-embedded in the wall, steam still rising from its surface from the speed and force of its travel. Stray green sparks of Aether played across it, most likely the only thing that had prevented the ball from being destroyed on impact.


    Dir, standing not far away, stared at the ball with wide eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but clearly thought better of it.


    "That¡¯s one to me," Skipper called out. "You want me to keep going all out, kiddo?"


    Turning back to face Skipper, Dragan swallowed his pride and shook his head. If he wasn¡¯t even at the level where he could see the ball move, then watching Skipper in action wouldn¡¯t do him much good.


    "Nice, nice," Skipper said, and the strength of the emerald Aether around him lessened considerably. "You throw this time, by the way, since I scored the last point. That¡¯s a new rule I just thought of. You like it?"


    Dragan didn¡¯t answer. Instead, he walked over to the ball stuck into the wall and - with a burst of his own blue Aether - pulled it free, a few scraps of concrete snapping free as well. Dir looked on with despair at the ensuing property damage.


    If he was going to hit the wall, he needed a strategy. Even with Skipper limiting the amount of power he used, Dragan was pretty sure he was outclassed in terms of both strength and speed. If this was a strictly physical contest, he¡¯d be screwed.


    But he had his mind. He could think his way past Skipper¡¯s defense.


    When Skipper had thrown the ball the first time, there¡¯d been that explosive sound - that must have been his Heartbeat Shotgun, used to propel the shot. But he hadn¡¯t pointed in the direction of the wall or done that stupid finger-gun. Instead, when Dragan had seen him throw the ball, he¡¯d just thrust his palm forwards.


    So he didn¡¯t necessarily have to use his fingers to fire the shots - he could use his palms as well. In that case, why did he do the pointing in those other cases?


    The answer was obvious - a wider exit area dispersed the force more, made it less effective. So a palm-thrust would be a weaker form of attack.


    As he reached his starting position, Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked to Skipper¡¯s new arm. He bit his lip. He knew that Skipper had already grown pretty accustomed to the new prosthetic, but could he use it to fire off Heartbeat Shotguns yet?


    It was possible, but not certain. Dragan would have to bet on that - he¡¯d execute his assault from what might be Skipper¡¯s blind spot, then, and delay any response the man could give by a fraction of a second.


    It wasn¡¯t much of a plan, but it was the best Dragan had. The rest would have to be improvisation.


    Skipper cocked his head. "You gonna stand there all day, or¡­?"


    Dragan launched himself off the ground with Aether-infused legs, propelling himself forward with the ball clutched in both hands. Like he¡¯d planned, he aimed for Skipper¡¯s left side, intending to charge past the man and launch a shot in the moment where he couldn¡¯t respond.


    But Skipper didn¡¯t respond in the way Dragan had expected. Instead of moving his good arm to launch a Heartbeat Shotgun at the ball, he instead raised his left leg as if he were about to launch a devastating kick.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes widened. Shit. He can fire them from his feet too.


    The resonant gunshot of a Heartbeat Shotgun rang out - but in the same moment, Dragan kicked off the ground with all he had, launching himself high up into the air, uncomfortably close to the ceiling. The Heartbeat Shotgun sailed past where Dragan had been standing, slamming into the wall behind him instead.


    Shit shit shit. The jump had allowed him to escape the attack, Dragan knew that, but it also left him vulnerable to the inevitable follow up. On the ground, he could move to avoid if needed, but his movement was much more limited in the air. At the most, he could twist his body to try and avoid a shot.


    He couldn¡¯t forget, though, that Skipper¡¯s target was the ball, not him. He was only in danger of getting hit so long as he was holding the ball.


    The answer was obvious, then.


    Dragan hurled the ball towards Skipper¡¯s wall with all the strength his Aether could muster - and the ball went shooting forwards like a blue streak of light. The ball would take only a second or so to strike Skipper¡¯s wall, but Dragan already knew it wouldn¡¯t make it. This was just to get it out of Dragan¡¯s hands long enough for him to land.


    Sure enough, a second Heartbeat Shotgun struck the ball just before it hit the wall, and the force instead sent it bouncing around the room at blinding speeds - somehow missing both Skipper¡¯s and Dragan¡¯s walls - before landing with a resounding smack in Skipper¡¯s hand.


    "Too bad, so sad," Skipper grinned.


    The bastard still hadn¡¯t moved from where he¡¯d started. Dragan growled.


    Skipper passed the ball from hand to hand, eyes looking down at it. "Going in with just one plan, and then just falling back onto improvisation when that doesn¡¯t work? That¡¯s no good, Mr. Hadrien. You gotta have more plans waiting in the wings."


    Dragan glared. He really didn¡¯t like people telling him what he was thinking, especially when they were right.


    Skipper raised the ball over his head, the grin on his face intensifying sharply. "How about I show you how it¡¯s done, huh?"


    He didn¡¯t even give Dragan a moment to prepare. The bang of a Heartbeat Shotgun rang out, and again the ball disappeared from Skipper¡¯s hand. Dragan wouldn¡¯t let the man get away with the same move twice, though.


    Without even seeing the ball, Dragan launched himself off to the side, directly in front of Skipper in terms of direction, bracing himself with his Aether as much as he could.


    A leap of faith. It paid off.


    Something smacked into Dragan¡¯s stomach with incredible force - if he hadn¡¯t been infusing his body with Aether, Dragan was sure that shot would have taken him out of commission for quite a while.


    Indeed, even with his Aether defense, Dragan was forced to gasp as the air was pushed out of his lungs - and, with the momentum the ball was still carrying, he was sent flying backwards towards his wall.


    That was fine. That was okay. With the angle he was flying at, with the ball clutched against his stomach, hitting the wall wouldn¡¯t mean his loss. The rules said that he¡¯d lose if the ball hit the wall - there was no rule against Dragan himself hitting the wall. So long as he made sure he hit the wall back-first, he could still retaliate. He poured all the Aether he had into his back, making sure that nothing would break when he struck the wall.


    Well, except for the wall itself.


    Even with his protection, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel a surge of pain when he finally hit his mark, and it was only the thought of how humiliating it would be that stopped him from rolling around on the floor and groaning. Legs shaking, he picked the ball up and began walking back towards Skipper. The man raised an impressed eyebrow.


    "I like your attitude, kiddo," he said. "But I don¡¯t think this frontal assault is working out for you."


    As Skipper said that, Dragan fell into a pile on the floor, seemingly confirming his statement. Skipper sighed, running his organic hand through his hair. "Ah, the enthusiasm of youth. Hold up, kid, I¡¯ll give ya a hand."


    Skipper took a step towards Dragan¡¯s prone form - and in that moment, Dragan struck. Instantly returning to a crouched position, he hurled the object in his hand with all his strength - infusing it with so much Aether that it looked more like a lance of blue light than anything else.


    It surged straight towards Skipper¡¯s wall, the sheer speed of its movement creating an unholy screeching that filled the room.


    Skipper himself didn¡¯t miss a beat though, and clearly, he¡¯d partially been expecting this. With what Dragan now recognized as twin Heartbeat Shotguns from the soles of his feet, Skipper launched himself off the ground and straight towards the projectile, reaching out and catching it as though he were plucking a leaf from a tree.


    "Like I said, kiddo," Skipper said, landing and skidding to a halt with a squeak against the floor. "If you go on with just one plan, then you¡¯re screwed when -"


    His speech trailed off as he saw Dragan¡¯s face. He looked at Dragan¡¯s triumphant grin, frowned, then glanced down at the object in his hand.


    He wasn¡¯t holding the ball. He was holding one of Dragan¡¯s shoes, crumpled into a sphere.


    There was a gentle tap as the slow-moving ball hit the wall behind Skipper. The man grinned and raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed.


    Dragan staggered where he stood, legs shaking like a newborn deer. "It doesn¡¯t ¡­ doesn¡¯t matter how many plans you have," he panted. "So long as your enemies never figure out what they are."


    Skipper nodded slowly. "Not bad," he chuckled. "You got me. I think we¡¯re done here."


    Dragan shook his head vehemently. "No! No. We¡¯re ¡­ one for one, now. We still gotta¡­"


    The boy collapsed into a heap, and Skipper chuckled ruefully.


    "That¡¯s what I thought."

 Chapter 46:3.9: Crossing Paths

    "This place will soon become a battlefield," said Atoy Muzazi wistfully, looking out over Charge District in the early morning light.


    The preparations for the niain were all but complete - massive tents had been set up all across the three levels that would be hosting the festival, and so many effigies of the deceased had been prepared that they¡¯d likely outnumber the attendants. Once night fell, those effigies would be beaten, burnt, torn to shreds; they¡¯d suffer every kind of death that the masses wished upon them. To tell the truth, Muzazi thought the whole custom was highly disrespectful, but he supposed he could expect no better from the UAP.


    Still ¡­ did he have the right to cut through a celebration like this, simply to achieve his own goals? What made his desires more important than those who wanted to give this dead man one final insult?


    "Well, when you think about it," said Marie, walking up behind him. "Nearly everywhere is a battlefield, sooner or later."


    Her mouth was caked with sugar - she¡¯d been eating a donut she¡¯d purchased from a stall that had set up early, eager to get the morning business. Still, even with that mess, there was the cold sharp glint of strength in her eyes.


    "How so?" said Muzazi, his grasping hand finding reassurance in Luminescence¡¯s hilt. At Marie¡¯s insistence, he¡¯d concealed the sword beneath his dirty coat - he disliked hiding his weapon, but he would not be the cause of a failed mission.


    "The galaxy is a big place," Marie replied, leaning over the railing next to him. "There¡¯s probably been a murder in every inch of it. At least once, you know? Bathrooms especially. There¡¯s no better place to kill someone than a bathroom - they¡¯re usually unprepared, and clean-up is right there, too."


    "You speak like you know a great deal about this."


    Marie held her hand up, looking at her nails as she spoke disinterestedly. "Oh, I¡¯ve killed plenty of people in bathrooms. You haven¡¯t?"


    Muzazi shook his head. "I have not. It would be difficult to duel in such a place - mobility is limited."


    "Duel?" Marie raised an eyebrow, and a strange smile played across her lips. "I¡¯m not talking about dueling someone, Atoy. I¡¯m talking about killing someone when they¡¯re not expecting it. Assassination, you know?"


    Muzazi frowned. "That¡¯s murder."


    "Yeah," Marie shrugged. "A duel¡¯s a murder, too. If the other person ends up dead, does it really matter how it happened?"


    "It does!" said Muzazi seriously, looking at her. "An assassination is cowardly - dispatching someone without being willing to risk your own life. A duel is a fair contest between two equals, with both having a chance of winning. It¡¯s the ultimate method to determine who is superior."


    Reaching a bench, Marie took the opportunity to lounge, draping her arms over the back of it as if it were a sofa. "So if the other person doesn¡¯t have a fighting chance, that¡¯s what makes it murder?"


    Muzazi nodded. He was glad she was such an understanding person.


    "In that case," Marie said, raising a finger. "When you killed Johnston Rikhail and Minister Goley, wasn¡¯t that murder? They were politicians, hardly fighting men."


    "If they had the power to stop me from finishing them, they could have done so, and I would have accepted that outcome gladly."


    "How¡¯s that?" Marie cocked her head. "Wouldn¡¯t you still be pissed off at them?"


    Muzazi put a hand on the railing. "Yes, I would. But them beating me would have proved that I was mistaken in those feelings, and that their philosophy was the correct one. Alas, they attained their positions through deception rather than strength of will, and so they were unable to overcome me."


    "That¡¯s a pretty, uh, hard-line philosophy there," Marie winced. "You¡¯re not one of those Tree of Might idiots, are you?"


    He considered the question, putting a hand to his chin. In the past, Muzazi had found himself agreeing with the Tree of Might on a few issues - that it had become far too easy for weak individuals to rise up in the Supremacy - but he disagreed with the organisation on their narrow view of strength. Physical power was splendid, to be sure, but Muzazi believed that intelligence and willpower were just as important. If Goley had been able to talk Muzazi down with a well-reasoned argument, that would have proven the other man¡¯s superiority just as surely as an Aether-infused fist would have.


    "Gee, you¡¯re really thinking about that, huh?" Marie cut in, putting a stop to his grain of thought.


    "You asked me a question. It¡¯s only polite to answer that to the best of my abilities."


    "Hm," said Marie, before nodding towards the festival grounds before them. "So, what do you think? Think it¡¯ll be easy to grab him here?"


    Muzazi turned his head to look at his battlefield again, lips pursed. "It¡¯s difficult to say. It¡¯s fairly quiet now, but once the niain begins these streets will be packed with people. That could make our mission easier, or more difficult. It depends on Dragan Hadrien¡¯s actions."


    "I got a call back from the contact I told you about," Marie said, hopping out of her seat. "He¡¯s managed to get me the gun I need - so I can give you covering fire whichever way you want to go about this thing."


    Muzazi nodded. "I appreciate that."


    "You better - it wasn¡¯t cheap. Anyway, isn¡¯t having me as a sniper kind of, uh, dishonourable too?"


    "Not at all. We¡¯ve already agreed that you¡¯ll only fire upon the man called Skipper and his associates. I will take Dragan Hadrien by myself. In that respect, all you¡¯re doing is ensuring a fair contest between me and him."


    Marie chuckled. "A fair contest. I almost feel sorry for the poor guy."


    Muzazi¡¯s hand tightened around Luminescence¡¯s hilt. "I don¡¯t."


    -


    "There¡¯s no need for you to look so panicked, Chael," said the Sponsor of War, towering over his presidential thrall. "You¡¯ve made preparations as I¡¯ve instructed, haven¡¯t you?"


    Chael paced across the conference room, one hand stuffed into his pocket as his other fidgeted in the air. "Yeah, yeah, of course I have - Dir says he¡¯s ready - but, you know, this is a delicate kinda, um, thing. You know? Things could go wrong - and that won¡¯t be my fault if it does! I - I only did as you told me!"


    Zhao watched, face blank, as the leader of his planet made frantic excuses in advance of failure. Really, he felt like he should be accustomed to this kind of thing, but he felt the second-hand humiliation every time.


    Today, only the Sponsor of War was in attendance. That wasn¡¯t anything unusual - when it came to things like this, War liked to handle matters as personally as possible.


    "Stop whimpering," the flaming bull admonished. "The instructions I¡¯ve given you are flawless. The resources I¡¯ve provided are world-class. Before the night is dead, we will have Ambran Roz in custody - and through him, we¡¯ll have the Citizen. Perhaps we¡¯ll even have him tonight, if the man is stupid enough to go after Roz himself."


    "Well," mumbled Chael. "Yes, I suppose ¡­ yes, yes, of course that would be good." He nodded quietly to himself.


    "Zhao," intoned the Sponsor of War, with a voice like thunder.


    Zhao jumped. Rare were the occasions where he found himself directly addressed during these meetings, but they never failed to put the fear of God in him. "Sir," he said clearly, inwardly ashamed of the obedience in his voice.


    "Section Chief Dir will be keeping your office updated on the operation as it progresses. The moment it is concluded, I expect your report on the results."


    Zhao nodded just as silently as Chael had. When you got right down to it, Zhao reflected bitterly, the only difference between himself and the President was that Zhao knew how to tie a tie.


    "The Citizen¡¯s comrades are insignificant," the bull continued. "No matter their actual involvement in their leader¡¯s crimes, they are unknown to the public, and so they do not exist. I don¡¯t much care if they get away. But the Citizen must face justice. Do you understand, Zhao?"


    Again, Zhao silently nodded. He didn¡¯t dare speak back; it felt very much as if he were being threatened.


    If they didn¡¯t get the Citizen, it¡¯d be his head on the chopping block.


    The bull¡¯s attention returned to Chael, who straightened up from his slouch immediately. "Chael," it said. "You are to ensure the Citizen¡¯s capture is kept under wraps until we are able to convene and settle on a strategy. The Citizen is unpopular even in the Pit, fortunately, but we can¡¯t risk changing that by turning him into a martyr. Do you understand?"


    Chael nodded, pale. "Yes, sir."


    "Good."


    The bull flickered out of existence, and the moment it did Chael put his head in his hands. "It¡¯s so damn busy around here," he groaned, rubbing his palms against his temples. "Why can¡¯t it just be quiet?"


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The doors to the conference room smoothly slid open, and Chael¡¯s personal bodyguard stepped in, clad in his white suit and helmet. Chael had sent him away before the meeting started - likely for the usual reasons. The bag of red powder Zhao could see poking out from underneath the bodyguard¡¯s suit suggested that, at least.


    Chael looked up, his expression noticeably brightening when he saw the bodyguard. "Oh, uh, good," he grinned. "Did you, um, take care of that ¡­ that matter?"


    The President wasn¡¯t nearly as subtle as he thought he was. Zhao knew, as did most of the Dawnhouse¡¯s security, that Chael¡¯s bodyguard was there less to guard his body and more to facilitate the President¡¯s vices. In this case, narcotics.


    Chael¡¯s gaze slid over to Zhao, still standing there in the corner. "Leave us, man," he said, pulling on a half-assed semblance of authority. "We need to discuss important - important matters."


    He was so full of shit. Still, it was Zhao¡¯s job to do as he was told. He nodded and strolled out of the room, doing his best not to shoot a dirty glance at Chael and his bodyguard as he passed them.


    As the doors closed behind Zhao, he sighed long and hard. He could have been a lawyer, damnit. He could have been so many things other than this.


    Security officers nodded in acknowledgement as Zhao passed them, hands clasped behind his back. If nothing else, then at least the Dawnhouse security had some concept of decorum. Still ¡­ thugs for hire didn¡¯t belong in the birthplace of Taldan.


    The Dawnhouse was a cramped, dark place for a government to make its home - it had, of course, been chosen for sentimental reasons rather than pragmatic ones. The Dawnhouse had originally just been the Dawn, the mining ship that had first landed on Taldan and discovered the colossal deposits of nendon gas beneath the surface.


    The city had sprung up around the ship - until, of course, it had grown to such a point where the Dawn had to park on the city¡¯s tallest building in order to still be visible. It was even written into law now: if a building was constructed that was at a greater height than the Dawnhouse, then the Dawnhouse had to be allowed to move onto that building. It was like the city¡¯s crown, in that way.


    It had been years since the Dawnhouse last flew, though, and thank goodness - the fumes were awful.


    Still, the old dingy thing had seemed so beautiful when young Zhao had seen it soar through the skies, like a moving mountain.


    Zhao came to a brief stop in the hallway and put his hand against the wall, feeling the vibrations of the ship through it. It was like the heartbeat of Taldan itself. Weak, laboured, groaning.


    And yet not quite dead. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    -


    Skipper whistled as they stepped out of the elevator station, taking in the sights of Charge District. "Wowie," he said, hands on his hips. "A lotta people must have hated this Augusto guy."


    The district was absolutely packed with people, crowds moving like an ocean through the busy streets. The shouting of vendors looking to sell their goods, celebrants hurling delirious insults at the effigies and security officers trying to keep order mingled into one chaotic chorus. Drones flitted through the sky like birds - some belonging to security, others bearing the logos of various news organizations. One blue drone with mandibles like a beetle swooped over the crowd, snapping a series of pictures.


    They¡¯d been there for approximately seven seconds, but Dragan wanted to go home already.


    Bruno stalked out of the station to stand next to Skipper, cloak pulled tight around him. "Apparently this Augusto was some kind of factory owner," he said, watching as a floating balloon representation of the deceased was speared by half-a-dozen javelins. "Not a huge fan of workplace safety, either, from what I managed to gather."


    "The world¡¯s a darker place without him," said Skipper, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "See anything suspicious, Mr. Hadrien?"


    Dragan shook his head, eyes still scanning the crowd. Nobody had been looking at their group for an unusual length of time, and none of the people who walked particularly close by were concealing weapons. Still, that didn¡¯t mean he would let his guard down.


    "Nice, nice," said Skipper quietly, his own eyes still cautious. "Apparently, this Roz guy is supposed to be getting picked up by security near the bonfire - if anything goes down, that¡¯s where it¡¯s going to happen." He looked towards Ruth. "Ruth, cover the back. I¡¯ll keep watch from the front. Bruno, Serena, Mr. Hadrien, you guys stay in the middle."


    Ruth nodded quietly, and Dragan gave her an inquisitive look. That was strange. He¡¯d thought she¡¯d felt better when he¡¯d left her last night, but now she looked more uncomfortable than ever. Had something happened?


    The group walked in the formation Skipper had described, trying to look as casual as possible even as they were ready at any moment to be attacked. Dragan tightened his grip on the stun pistols in his pockets, hoping they wouldn¡¯t get caught on anything if he quickly tried to pull them free.


    Skipper had said they¡¯d find Roz by ¡¯the bonfire¡¯, but Dragan didn¡¯t see how that narrowed things down much. Half-a-dozen effigies had already become acquainted with flames - some lay in heaps of ash and burnt fabric, while others were still burning like giant torches, their warm glow a stark contrast to the rest of the city¡¯s artificial lighting.


    They passed a group of drunkards being cuffed by security officers, turned a corner, and Dragan immediately understood just why Skipper had called this thing the bonfire.


    It was like a mountain of discarded furniture and effigies, burning with such heat that Dragan could feel it on his face even from several meters away. Celebrants danced and drank around the bonfire, shouting and laughing loudly, taking pictures with charred dummies, throwing their litter into the flames with angry yells. Skipper whistled at the sight.


    "Say what you want about Taldan," he said. "But they know how to party!"


    Party? It looked to Dragan more like the rehearsal for a mass execution. Still, he supposed that could be fun too if you were some kind of freak.


    Dragan felt an elbow sharply poke him in the side, and as he turned to glare at Bruno the other boy nodded towards a food stall off to the side. "There¡¯s our guy," he said, voice low.


    Ambran Roz looked different from his photo - his hair was red and tied back in a ponytail now - but his facial features were unchanged. He was sitting at the food stall nervously, nursing a bowl of soup, his eyes flicking around the crowd as he ate. He wasn¡¯t inspecting the crowd very well, of course - Dragan and Bruno were pretty much staring at him, and he hadn¡¯t noticed.


    "What do we do?" muttered Dragan, as the group came to an inconspicuous stop around a still-standing effigy, as if they too were here to take their frustrations out on it.


    Skipper flicked the effigy between its painted-on eyes, and its head bobbed back and forth. "We sit and watch," he said calmly, not looking towards Roz as he spoke. "The security contact will come by and bring him in in the next couple of minutes. We just have to make sure that goes down fine."


    "So we just watch?" whispered Ruth.


    "So we just watch. Don¡¯t make it sound so bad, anyway, it¡¯s not like we want -"


    Skipper suddenly shuddered violently, his eyes widening - and at the same time, a few involuntary sparks of green Aether flickered across his skin. A second later, the same thing happened to the rest of them, their Aether bursting out of their bodies and quickly dying down again.


    Even as the initial sensation passed, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but keep shuddering. It had felt as if a giant was running their hand over him, or a sledgehammer was being raised over his head. A split-second feeling of utter helplessness.


    The moment the shudder had stopped, Ruth¡¯s body had become taut - ready to move in any direction in a second. "Aether ping," she hissed.


    Skipper nodded, most of the humour gone from his face. "Yup," he said, finally turning to look towards Roz. "It¡¯s time."


    -


    Atoy Muzazi opened his eyes as the Aether ping hit him, a slight frown spreading over his face. He hadn¡¯t expected Dragan Hadrien or the man called Skipper to be on the lookout for him. Perhaps the ping had been meant for someone else, and he had been caught in the crossfire?


    No matter. Whatever the circumstances, it didn¡¯t change what he had to do.


    Muzazi began walking, finally moving from the spot he¡¯d been standing for the last couple of hours. In one fluid movement he flung away the dusty coat he¡¯d been wearing, revealing the thin black shirt beneath - along with the radiant Luminescence strapped to his side.


    Ignoring the shouts of alarm from the civilians spotting his weapon, Muzazi intensified his walk into a run as he headed in the direction of the Aether ping¡¯s source.


    "Officer Hazzard?" he said as he ran, putting one finger to his earpiece. "Are you in position? It¡¯s time."


    -


    The girl in the winter coat smirked as she felt the pleasant tingle of Aether run over her. Whoever had let that ping loose was very powerful - probably Ruth Blaine¡¯s boss.


    Like the attendants of a queen, her drones surrounded her, kept under control by her Digital Complex. Most of them scuttled around the ground like spiders, repurposed repair and maintenance drones, but others hovered in the air around her, their blue colouration and metallic mandibles making them look almost like giant beetles.


    Her companions stirred in the alley behind her as they too felt the Aether ping run over them. The two young men - older than her, but still children compared to her mentally, of course - looked at her.


    "Is that them?" said the younger man, pastel-pink hair flowing around him like a cloak. "Shall I get into position, Noel?"


    The girl nodded. "The Citizen wants Roz alive," she lied. "Whatever you do, make sure you don¡¯t kill him."


    "But of course." There was a playful cruelty in Simeon del Dranell¡¯s voice - and with that, the pink-haired man began climbing up the wall like some kind of monkey, ascending the building as pink Aether flowed around his body. Even as he climbed, part of that Aether coalesced into an ornate bow strapped to his back. A second later, he was gone, making his way across the rooftops to find a suitable vantage point.


    Noel¡¯s remaining companion grunted.


    "You don¡¯t approve, Reyansh?" Noel called back to the alley¡¯s other remaining occupant.


    Reyansh clicked his tongue. The man¡¯s grey hair was tied back into an obscenely long braid that flowed in the wind behind him, and his red combat suit accentuated his considerable musculature. A satchel hung from each of his hips, containing his ¡¯ammunition¡¯.


    "Sneak attacks from far away?" he said, his deep and smooth voice clear even through the black medical mask that covered the bottom half of his face. "That¡¯s not how a warrior should fight."


    Noel shrugged, gave a lopsided smile. "Well, yeah, but you know ¡­ orders are orders."


    "Mm," Reyansh grumbled.


    As Noel turned and began walking out of the alley, followed shortly after by Reyansh, her drones dispersed - the ground-based ones slipping into the shadows and the airborne models zooming off into the sky. There were around twenty of them, but Noel had nearly a hundred others positioned in various locations around the niain. She was nothing if not thorough.


    Her smirk spread into a grin as she let out an Aether ping of her own, looking for the large clump of Aether-users that she knew had to be Ruth Blaine¡¯s group. Noel had given the idiot a scare, and now Blaine had led her right to her quarry.


    Noel really was a genius.


    It¡¯s time.


    -


    As the orange after-effects of the Aether ping he¡¯d sent out skittered over his body, the man on the roof did not move. He barely even breathed. He simply overlooked the niain down below, his expression impassive.


    He was an unusual looking man. His head was shaved so close it almost looked like hair had never grown at all. His face was lined with deep creases, as though he¡¯d wandered through the desert for years. The simple brown cloak he wore covered a set of body armour, easily enough to absorb a plasma shot or two. From a distance, though, you could mistake the man for some kind of monk - especially with the quarterstaff he held as if to support himself.


    The man¡¯s most unusual feature, though, was his forehead. Right between his cold eyes was a symbol like a dark red V, visible from under the skin. It wasn¡¯t a tattoo - it was more like the blood in his skull had coincidentally pooled into that shape.


    He gently closed his eyes, counting the enemies his Aether ping had revealed. Eight Aether-users of variable strength.


    His frown deepened a tad: inconvenient, but not impossible. So long as he didn¡¯t take on more than three of them at once - and so long as he took out the emerald man last - he should be able to kill them with ease, and obtain his prize.


    The Umbrant who he knew could lead him to the Citizen.


    As the niain entered the height of its celebration, the one they called the Fifth Dead stepped off the building and descended into the night.

 Chapter 47:3.10: Earth and Steel

    "What do we do?" said Ruth cautiously, looking a second away from summoning her armour as she glanced around the nearby crowds anxiously, waiting for attack.


    "We move," said Skipper seriously, pushing past the rest of the group and beginning to stride towards Roz. "We¡¯ll grab him ourselves - can¡¯t afford to wait for security."


    Despite the clear doubt on her face, Ruth followed after him, with Dragan and Bruno following soon after. The surprise of the Aether ping had messed up their formation somewhat, and now Bruno was the one heading up the back of the group, subtly holding his palms to the air as he maintained a forcefield behind them.


    Roz looked up as they got closer, and his black eyes widened to the size of saucers as he saw four people directly approaching him with clear intent in their eyes. He scrambled to his feet, his chair dropping to the ground behind him, and turned to run.


    "Ruth," said Skipper without hesitation.


    There was a flare of red Aether from Ruth - and a second later, she was in full Skeletal Set, pinning Roz to the ground with one clawed hand. The Umbrant flailed on the ground, shouting and yelping with the fear of someone who thinks they¡¯re about to be killed.


    "No!" he shouted. "No, no no no! I¡¯m sorry! Someone help me! Y! Please!"


    "We¡¯re not here to hurt you," hissed Ruth, voice turned hollow by the metal mask, but Roz¡¯s panic was such that he couldn¡¯t even hear her.


    The crowd around them cleared some space once the altercation became obvious, but nobody came walking in to assist the obviously terrified Roz. Dragan found his faith in humanity growing every single day. Still, this was convenient for them. He stepped in closer to Ruth.


    "Just knock him out or something," he said hurriedly. Whoever did that Aether ping would still be in the area, after all. They couldn¡¯t afford to sit around. "I saw security officers back there a little while ago - we¡¯ll have them help us transport the guy."


    "Help! Help!" Roz went on, his voice becoming increasingly grating to Dragan¡¯s ears. "Someone! I¡¯m being killed!"


    Ruth glanced towards Skipper, face unreadable behind her mask. As she did, Dragan noticed a slight scuff on one of her shoulderplates, the slightest of dents as well. He frowned: that hadn¡¯t been there before.


    Skipper nodded - and a swift chop from Ruth to the back of the neck stopped Roz¡¯s complaining. The reporter hung limp, and as Ruth stood back up she slung him over her shoulder.


    While this had all been going on, Bruno had been keeping watch over the crowd, eyes alert and cloak hanging over his frame to conceal any movements he made.


    "Security business!" he barked out, clearly doing his best to sound official. "No need to interfere!"


    Some booing went through the crowd - a niain like this wasn¡¯t the kind of place you¡¯d find many fans of law enforcement - but fortunately it seemed that truly nobody cared enough to intervene. Still, Dragan doubted anyone had bought that story - they weren¡¯t exactly wearing security uniforms, after all.


    "Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, voice firm, joining Bruno in watching the crowd. "You said you saw some security a little while ago?"


    Dragan nodded. "Just a few corners back."


    "Okay. You lead the way there, then. We don¡¯t have the time to wait for the undercover guys."


    And with that, they started walking, their strange procession passing through the crowd like a ship on the ocean. Even as Dragan led the pack, he couldn¡¯t help but feel nervous, eyes flicking around as he expected an attack from any direction.


    Security had been just a few streets away - but they were moving against the crowd, now, and progress was so much slower. Suddenly, Dragan took in a sharp intake of breath, and a burst of involuntary blue Aether hopped out of his skin for a moment.


    "Another ping," said Bruno. "This one came from another direction."


    "Lots of people are interested in our sleeping beauty here, huh?" said Skipper, making finger-guns with his hands. "That¡¯s fine. That¡¯s cool. If we could, uh, pick up the pace here, Mr. Hadrien?"


    "I¡¯m trying," grunted Dragan, regaining his composure. "There¡¯s people in the way, damnit. This shit isn¡¯t easy."


    Skipper sighed, ran a metal hand over his face. "Fine. Okay."


    And with that, he pointed a finger up towards the sky - and the boom of a Heartbeat Shotgun rang out. The crowd¡¯s babbling was instantly cut off, replaced by panicked shouting and screaming as people did their best to get away from the supposed gunman - and Dragan suddenly found his path forward very clear indeed.


    "Not exactly subtle," said Bruno.


    "If it works, it works," said Skipper. "Mr. Hadrien, if we could keep moving."


    Dragan nodded hurriedly. He¡¯d never heard Skipper sound so anxious before - not even when he¡¯d been strapped to a wall missing one of his limbs. He didn¡¯t know that much about Skipper, true, but he knew enough to recognize they were in a bad situation.


    He led them around the corner, almost running into the two security officers coming the other way - they were clearly responding to the gunshots they¡¯d just heard. Spotting the unconscious body Ruth was carrying, the first of the two armoured officers raised his plasmabow and pointed the sharp crystal arrow towards their group.


    "Drop him!" the officer commanded, voice deepened and distorted by his helmet.


    Shit. So these guys weren¡¯t part of the recovery operation. From their perspective, they were just a gang of crazies that had knocked a guy out and were carrying them away.


    Dragan glanced at the arrow, ignoring the second officer going for his radio. The material looked like hangite - a substance that became significantly more durable when fed a current. So long as the bow supplied the arrow with power, the plasma inside was secure, but the second it launched the arrow would smash and release it¡¯s payload with ease.


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    "Easy there," said Skipper, grinning unconvincingly. "This is all a misunderstanding, buddy."


    "I said drop him!" the officer said, jerking his bow again.


    Ruth shifted her body slightly, presumably to drop her burden on the floor - but she was interrupted by a quiet, but clear rattling sound coming from the ground.


    Dragan looked down: there, right next to the officer¡¯s feet, a small pebble was rolling to a halt. He furrowed his brow, turned to look at the crowd around him: had someone thrown a rock at them?


    "Move!" screamed Bruno.


    Bruno grabbed Dragan with one hand, Ruth with the other, and pulled them away from the rock with all his strength - Skipper having already leapt away. The security officer pointed his bow at them again, barked some order, but his attention was quickly stolen by the pebble as well.


    What happened took less than a second. The pebble began to shiver on the ground, that same hollow rattling coming from it, before coming to a sudden stop. Then, with a fiery red glow, it - S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    - exploded.


    As Dragan was pulled away from what was now clearly a bomb, he saw a storm of chaotic red Aether burst out from within the rock, turning into fire and smoke soon after coming into contact with the air. The sound was deafening: the boom of the explosion was replaced near-instantly by a high-pitched ringing in Dragan¡¯s ears.


    Bruno let go of Dragan, leaving him to fall backwards on the ground, and thrust his palms outwards - presumably creating a forcefield around their group.


    The crowd went from an ocean to a river, panic driving them to flee the scene in record time, effigies and tents annihilated under the stampede. Before long, their group and Roz were the only ones left in sight - along with the charred remains of the two security officers, their armour partially melted.


    Skipper said something to Bruno, pointing his fingers in opposite directions in preparation for Heartbeat Shotguns. That damn ringing meant that Dragan couldn¡¯t hear them, though, so he had to watch their lips closely to get some idea of what was being said.


    Under attack. Do you see them? Bruno was saying something along those lines.


    Skipper babbled so fast Dragan didn¡¯t catch any of it, then came out with Aether ping.


    As the ringing cleared from Dragan¡¯s ears, he felt the now-familiar tingling of an Aether ping passing over him. Dragan clambered to his feet as the sound of burning raged around them.


    "How many are there?" shouted Ruth, the volume of her voice proving that she still couldn¡¯t quite hear properly. Roz was still slung over her back.


    "Skipper?" questioned Bruno, glancing towards his captain. Skipper must have been the one who released the Aether ping, then.


    The man himself but his lip. "No clue," he said. "They must be cloaked¡­"


    As he dusted himself off, Dragan looked at Skipper incredulously. "Cloaked?" he said, as if the word itself were ridiculous. "What do you mean cloaked?"


    "They¡¯re using Aether to hide their Aether," said Bruno, moving his hands to keep the forcefield around them consistent. "Doesn¡¯t matter right now - Skipper, we need to move. Grab a vehicle and get out of here. We don¡¯t stand a chance out in the open like this."


    Skipper nodded grimly. "You¡¯re absolutely right there, Bruno. We¡¯ll make a run for the nearest parking platform, improvise from there. Mr. Hadrien, Ruth, you guys good to move?"


    Ruth nodded and, even as his body ached in complaint, Dragan did the same. Being pulled away from the explosion hadn¡¯t been the most pleasant rescue in history, but he¡¯d take that over being blown up by another one of those bombs any day.


    "Okay," said Skipper. "Keep up the shield behind us if you can, Bruno. Follow me - now!"


    And with that, Skipper turned on his heel, emerald Aether flaring around him as he went for their escape route - a gap between two burning stalls that would take them outside the festival grounds.


    That hope of escape existed for around three seconds, tops.


    As Skipper went to enter the alley, there was a high-pitched whistling sound from the air - and a second later, a dozen bright-pink arrows buried themselves in the ground right in front of Skipper¡¯s feet. Immediately, he screeched to a halt, throwing his arms out to prevent the rest of his crew from coming too close to the attack.


    The projectiles were huge - easily a meter long each, and dug into the concrete like fence-posts in soil.


    "Running away?" said a clear voice from behind them. "That¡¯s kind of lame, you know?"


    Dragan turned around. At the other end of this little corridor of stalls stood a young girl in a winter coat, blue hair matching her bright blue eyes. Cogitant. Ruth¡¯s body stiffened next to Dragan as she spotted the new arrival.


    Next to the young Cogitant girl stood a much taller young man - her head barely reached his torso. He had ashen skin and grey hair tied back into an absurdly long ponytail. He held pebbles, just like the one that had exploded, one between each of his knuckles.


    Three enemies, then, judging from the angles the arrows had been shot at. This girl, the bomber, and an unseen sniper.


    With the arrival of enemies, Skipper stopped displaying any kind of anxiety. Instead, he lifted a hand and gave an easy wave. "Yo," he said, nodding his head towards the pink arrows. "These things yours?"


    The girl chuckled. "Look at the angles on those things, old man. There¡¯s no way I could have shot them from over here."


    "Ah," sighed Skipper, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. "You¡¯ve got me there. What can I do for you kids?"


    At the word ¡¯kids¡¯, the girl¡¯s smug smirk turned into a frown. This was clearly someone who didn¡¯t like being underestimated.


    Her gaze slid past Skipper, settled over the unconscious Umbrant on Ruth¡¯s back. "You¡¯ve got something we need," the girl said, ice cold. "Hand him over and nobody needs to get hurt."


    Dragan glanced at the corpses of the security officers on the ground nearby. Did they not count, then?


    Again, Skipper sighed - and when he replied to the girl, he crouched down, as if to speak to her at eye level. Dragan watched as the girls pupils dilated slightly with anger and had to suppress his laughter; there was no way Skipper didn¡¯t know what he was doing.


    "That¡¯s now you conduct a negotiation, kiddo," he said, wagging an admonishing finger. "Polite adults need to introduce themselves first, yeah? My name¡¯s Skipper. What¡¯s yours?"


    The girl scoffed. "There¡¯s no way I¡¯d -"


    "My venerable self is Reyansh Patel," the man with the pebbles said, his voice buttery smooth. "This young maiden is Noel Edmunds. We work for the warrior known as the Citizen."


    The girl named Noel cut in: "We work with the Citizen. And he wants that guy - hand him over."


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Well, uh, that¡¯s nice and all, sweetie, but I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve passed math yet. It¡¯s three against five - I mean, against four, you see. Those aren¡¯t good odds for you now that you¡¯ve blown your surprise attack."


    Noel chuckled, her smug smirk turning into a wicked grin. "Just three?"


    Dragan suddenly became aware of the sounds of skittering in the shadows.


    From between every crevice, from behind every broken stall, metal bodies moved into view. Both ground-based and airborne drones surrounded Noel - at least fifty in total - beeping and clicking as they communicated with each other in automatic-speak.


    Dragan gulped. The telltale barrels of plasma blasters were visible between the mandibles of each airborne drone. Without a doubt, they could turn this place into a burning rainstorm in the space of a few seconds. He didn¡¯t even want to know what the ground-based ones could do, crawling around on the floor like spiders.


    "Ah," said Skipper, eyes flicking from drone to drone. "I guess that could be a problem."


    Noel cocked her head, clasped her hands behind her back, and swayed back and forth in what seemed like a disturbing attempt to look cute.


    "You sure you know how to count, old man?" she said.

 Chapter 48:3.11: The Real Festival

    "You sure were talking a lot of shit back there, huh?" said Noel, cocking her head. "I¡¯m the kind of person that takes that a teensy bit seriously, you know?"


    Skipper bit his lip. Ah, shit. He¡¯d thought pressing her buttons about the age thing would get her to act rashly, but with the clear amount of firepower the tyke had at her disposal, acting rashly was the last thing he wanted her to do.


    "Heheh," he said, scratching his head. "Would you forgive me if I said I was sorry?"


    "Nope."


    Skipper caught Dragan giving him a murderous glare from the corner of his eye. Fine, fine, maybe this was a bad situation, and maybe it was partially completely his fault for getting them into it. But that didn¡¯t mean it was a situation they couldn¡¯t get out of.


    Ignoring the drones - oh how he¡¯d love to ignore the drones - there were at least three enemies. This kindergarten escapee named Noel, the pebble master named Reyansh, and an unseen sniper who used a bow and arrow.


    Reyansh¡¯s Aether ability clearly involved turning those pebbles into high-yield bombs - most likely by using alteration to make their interiors highly unstable while leaving the outer layer unchanged.


    With the strength of his explosions and the speed he could probably prime those pebbles - given the fact that he was holding a few of them with no worry of them exploding in his hand - he was most likely a powerful Aether user. Not Contender-level, of course, but probably just beneath someone like Atoy Muzazi.


    The sniper, though, was harder to judge. The arrows that had lodged in the ground looked sturdy, so they couldn¡¯t be pure Aether - the stuff was trash when used as a projectile. They were most likely some other object that the sniper turned into arrows using Aether, then infused with even more to make them stronger.


    In his experience, though, people capable of that level of Aether manipulation didn¡¯t go for simple strength. There¡¯d be some kind of trick to the arrows.


    That left this girl called Noel. Those drones looked like they were moving independently of each other, not following the same routes. There wasn¡¯t any kind of controller in her hands, and as far as he¡¯d seen she hadn¡¯t contacted anyone else to make them move - so chances were that she was in control of them. Even for a Cogitant, though, that kind of multitasking would be absurd.


    A mental Aether ability, then, giving her the capacity to control all those drones at once. That was the most likely option. When it came to Aether, mental abilities were like software that ran on your own mind, using your Aether as a medium to communicate. A mental ability couldn¡¯t do anything that was beyond the user¡¯s mental abilities, but it could automate it, make it so that the user didn¡¯t have to expend any effort.


    There was a certain Special Officer capable of seeing a little while into the future - that was accomplished with a mental ability that automated his skill at reading muscle movements. Mental abilities could be terrifying like that, especially with Cogitants like this girl and that Officer. He doubted multitasking was the only thing she was capable of - he had to tread carefully here.


    Noel smiled a sickly sweet smile. "If you¡¯d like for your bodies to keep their consistency, I¡¯d suggest you hand that guy over, yeah?"


    "Fuck you," growled Ruth, still holding the unconscious Roz on her back.


    Noel giggled. "Wow, you¡¯re mad, huh? I really felt bad about messing with you," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "But it was just so easy. I gave you a little fright, and you led me right to my prey. There¡¯s no shame in losing to me like that, you know? I¡¯m simply above you mentally."


    Ruth growled again, this time with the promise of blood in her voice, but trailed off as Dragan gave her a suspicious look.


    "What is she talking about?" he said. "Did you already know her?"


    "I, uh¡­" Ruth glanced away guiltily.


    Okay, Ruth was keeping secrets now. That wasn¡¯t ideal, but he could hardly blame her given the example he¡¯d set recently. Besides, this was hardly the time for an interrogation.


    Noel sighed. "I¡¯m getting really sick of waiting like this. Reyansh, if they don¡¯t hand Roz over in the next ten seconds, let¡¯s attack."


    The young man named Reyansh nodded, holding one hand up in front of his face and the other behind his back as if he were some sort of ninja. "Of course. We shall do battle."


    Noel¡¯s gaze moved to look up at Skipper, staring him right in the eyes. "Ten," she said, with an obvious glee lying just beneath the surface.


    Shit. There was a time limit, now. Well, that was okay, actually. That was good, in fact - he always came up with his best ideas under pressure!


    Unfortunately, none seemed to be popping up right now.


    What would the Widow recommend in this kind of situation? He could almost see the hag now, delivering one of those lectures she was so good at:


    "Advantages and disadvantages are dependent on your point of view," she would say in that thick accent of hers, all harsh consonants and sharp turns . "Make your enemies¡¯ resources benefit you. Then you will win. Easy peasy, yes?"


    Again, in the corner of his eye, Skipper saw Dragan move, whispering something into the ear of a nodding Bruno. He wasn¡¯t the only one trying to come up with a plan, then.


    "Fiiive." Noel drew the word out as if preparing for a game of hide and seek.


    Oh, shit. She was still counting - Skipper had almost forgotten.


    Okay, plan plan plan. Turn disadvantages into advantages. Well, Noel had about fifty advantages whizzing about their heads, and they seemed pretty loyal to her. The one standing next to her, though, Reyansh - he seemed like an honourable warrior type. Could he maybe challenge him to a duel, and have his crew escape while they were fighting?


    No. One look at Noel¡¯s face confirmed that no matter how Reyansh felt, she didn¡¯t give two shits about honour. Even if Reyansh let his crew go, she¡¯d shoot them in the back.


    "Three."


    Nothing else for it, then. A frontal assault - strength against strength, let the best man win. It was a strategy uncomfortably close to the Supremacy¡¯s philosophy, but he could see no other options here.


    "Two."


    Skipper lowered his body to the ground, curled up all his fingers save the index on both hands - preparing himself to use his Heartbeat Shotguns at maximum strength. He¡¯d have to be careful firing them from his prosthetic hand; unless he adjusted the point where the sound exited his body a little, he risked firing one from his stump instead and destroying the new limb.


    "Ooone." Noel¡¯s eyes narrowed in childish cruelty as she finished her countdown. Then, she shrugged, her drones subtly arranging themselves into combat positions around her. "Well, if you really want to die that bad, I guess that¡¯s -"


    "HADRIEN!" roared a familiar voice.


    Uh oh. Foolishly, Skipper had believed this situation couldn¡¯t get any worse, but he¡¯d clearly underestimated the universe¡¯s capacity for dickery.


    -


    "HADRIEN!" roared a familiar voice.


    Dragan couldn¡¯t help it. For a moment, the sheer rage in that voice made him forget what kind of situation he was in, and he turned his head to the side to look at the source. His eyes widened as he recognised his chances of dying in the next few minutes had somehow gotten higher.


    Atoy Muzazi stood at the other end of the street of flaming stalls, that damn sword of his clutched in one hand. He was wearing old, dusty clothing - presumably some kind of disguise - but it was unmistakably him. Dragan would recognize that white-shining sword anywhere. Even now, the glow from it reflected off the puddles of rainwater beneath, illuminating the whole area. It was like a moon wandering the earth.


    A thousand questions raced through Dragan¡¯s mind. What the hell was Muzazi doing here? What did he want (well, Dragan had some idea of that)? Was it just him? Most importantly - could Dragan get away?


    Muzazi pointed his sword towards Dragan, ragged breath coming out in snarls. How far had he run to get here? Judging from his exhaustion, it must have been nearly the whole district.


    "Dragan Hadrien," he panted. "I¡¯ve been looking for you."


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    Noel looked down the street too from her position, countdown temporarily forgotten in the wake of the new arrival. "And you are?" she said, distinctly unimpressed.


    His eyes flicked towards her, before going back to Dragan. "Atoy Muzazi, Special Officer of the Supremacy," he said through gritted teeth, completely defeating the purpose of a disguise. "I have business with Mr. Hadrien."


    Noel laughed derisively. "Well, uh, you¡¯re welcome to have him, I guess. We just want the guy they¡¯ve kidnapped."


    Muzazi¡¯s nostrils flared as his gaze travelled to Roz, slung over Ruth¡¯s shoulder. "Kidnapped?" he muttered, danger in his voice. "Hadrien."


    He took a step forward.


    Fuck fuck fuck. He¡¯d thought the situation was bad sixty seconds ago, but now it had somehow gotten multiple times worse. He¡¯d intended for Bruno to project a ramp-like shield that would allow them to flee from the rooftops, but Muzazi¡¯s speed would now make that impossible.


    Still, he had to do something, or else he was dead. A hollow anxiety began to settle in his lungs, like something in there was flailing angrily. He needed to think, but thinking was so hard with all this damn pressure.


    He glanced at Skipper¡¯s hands. They were still readied for Heartbeat Shotguns, and his mouth was a flat line of preparation. He¡¯d be ready to fire at the biggest threat the moment this inevitable fight began.


    But Muzazi would still get through. Dragan just knew it.


    His eyes flicked around as Muzazi continued his approach, sword dragging along the floor with a shower of angry sparks. He looked at Ruth, at Bruno, at Skipper, at Noel, at the drones, at the buildings, at Roz¡­


    At Roz¡­?


    There was a plan there. It was insane, and unlikely to work, but if he did it right then the disadvantages before him could be turned into advantages. But that was only if he did it right. That worry stayed his hand for a brief moment.


    Well, that and the fact that it was morally very bad.


    "Hadrien," said Muzazi, coming to a halt several meters away, holding his sword in one hand. There was the promise of a killing blow in his stance. "Come and face me! Explain your treason with strength!"


    Dragan sighed and made as if stepping forward, shaking off Bruno when he tried to pull him back. The anger on Muzazi¡¯s face eased just a little bit as he saw Dragan acquiesce.


    Well, seemingly acquiesce.


    The moment Muzazi¡¯s concentration wavered, Dragan whirled around, pulled Roz from Ruth¡¯s back, and put a plasma pistol against the unconscious Umbrant¡¯s temple.


    "Nobody fucking move!" he screamed, making sure his finger seemed unstable against the trigger.


    Noel¡¯s eyes widened, her companion taking a step forward before being stopped by a tug on his arm. Dragan¡¯s companions save Bruno gave him uncertain looks - even Skipper didn¡¯t seem quite sure what he intended. Muzazi¡¯s face contorted with rage, the hand on his sword tightened, but he himself didn¡¯t move.


    "Coward," he hissed, rage invading every syllable.


    Dragan swung Roz around so that he could keep both Muzazi and Noel¡¯s group in his sight, using the Umbrant like a human shield.


    "I said nobody fucking move," he repeated, making sure that no drones had moved away from Noel. "I¡¯m serious. One wrong step and I¡¯ll melt his head off."


    "Uh, Dragan," said Ruth, cautiously, from behind him. Her trepidation was understandable - she probably thought Dragan would actually do it. To be fair, Dragan wasn¡¯t sure if he would or not either.


    "Not now," he said, still staring into Noel¡¯s eyes. The younger girl clicked her tongue, clearly annoyed.


    The young man standing behind her, Reyansh, glared at him with obvious disdain. "You disgrace yourself, knave."


    Knave? Was this guy serious?


    "Let the hostage go," growled Muzazi, attracting Dragon¡¯s attention. "My quarrel is with you alone, Hadrien."


    "Probably best I don¡¯t let him go, then," shot back Dragan. "You - drone girl, Noel, whatever."


    Noel¡¯s hands were clenched into fists at her side. She¡¯d clearly been enjoying controlling the situation, and now it had been stolen from her. "What?" she said, almost pouting.


    "If that guy," Dragan said, waving his gun at Muzazi. "Comes anywhere near me, I¡¯ll kill Roz. The Citizen won¡¯t be happy if that happens, right?"


    Noel looked as if she was going to offer some defiance, strike back in defense of her pride, but after a moment she simply sighed. Roughly half of the drones surrounding her turned to face Muzazi rather than Dragan¡¯s group.


    Muzazi looked as if he were going to burst a blood vessel. "Fight your own battles, Hadrien!"


    "And you, Mr. Muzazi," said Dragan, ignoring what the Special Officer had actually said. "If that girl or her friends try anything sneaky, I¡¯ll kill this guy. I¡¯m sure that letting that happen would go against your honour or your justice or whatever."


    Noel shot him a glare at the implied accusation.


    "Oh please," said Dragan, rolling her eyes before she could even speak. "Don¡¯t think for a second that I trust you not to try something. Look, my trigger finger is getting itchy here, and this is turning into a stressful fucking night - so back off, all of you."


    There was a moment of silence in the square, and for a few seconds Dragan worried that his bluff - if it was a bluff - hadn¡¯t worked. Then, both Muzazi and Noel¡¯s group took a few steps back, giving Dragan some space.


    This wasn¡¯t bad. This wasn¡¯t bad at all. Somehow, he¡¯d managed to set up a miniature cold war between the people who had come here to kill him. The stalemate wouldn¡¯t last long, but he didn¡¯t need it to last long.


    Just long enough to get away from this mess.


    "Okay," he said breathlessly. "Okay, that¡¯s better. Noel."


    "What?" she said, her frustrated voice leaking through gritted teeth. S~ea??h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Your guy, the sniper - you¡¯re in contact with him right now, yeah?"


    Noel shrugged. "Maybe."


    "Don¡¯t get cute with me," Dragan snarled, pushing the gun tighter against Roz¡¯s skull. "There¡¯s no way you¡¯d let your guys do what they want. You tell your pink buddy to get me a car - a big one, with enough room to fit me and my buddies. Fast, too. Got it?"


    "I can seek out the vehicle you seek," said Reyansh, taking a step forward. Dragan shot him a feral glance, and he stopped instantly.


    "That¡¯s not what I asked," Dragan said. "You think I¡¯m letting you and those bombs out of my sight? I¡¯m not stupid, but try to trick me again and I might do something stupid."


    Reyansh shut his eyes in resignation. "Very well. Forgive my trespass."


    Forgive my trespass? Seriously? Dragan wondered how Muzazi felt, standing across from a parody of himself.


    Noel put a hand to her ear. "Simeon?" she said, voice low. "You get that?"


    There was a second of silence, and then she quietly nodded.


    "He¡¯ll take a minute or two," she said.


    "That¡¯s fine," Dragan said, still holding onto Roz, the Umbrant¡¯s legs flopping around this way and that every time Dragan turned. "We¡¯re all going to wait here together, like the good friends we are. Then we," he jerked his head towards Skipper, Bruno and Ruth. "Are going to leave. That make sense to you?"


    Noel¡¯s eyes were full of humiliated resentment, but she nodded all the same. Dragan knew that, if he ever ran into her again, he¡¯d have hell to pay for this. Still, there weren¡¯t exactly any other options - and what was done was done.


    A low growl from Muzazi sent Dragan whirling to face him, shaking his gun as a warning. Truth be told, he was more frightened of Muzazi than Noel and all her drones put together. He¡¯d seen what the Special Officer could do, after all. If Muzazi wanted to kill Dragan, he¡¯d be helpless to resist - and if Muzazi wanted to take him back to the Supremacy, he wasn¡¯t in for a friendly reception.


    "Dragan Hadrien," said Muzazi, looking like it was taking every ounce of willpower he had not to draw his sword and charge. "I won¡¯t forget this. Wherever you flee to, I will find you. You will face justice."


    Again, Dragan didn¡¯t reply. Anything he said would only piss off Muzazi more, and he didn¡¯t want to aggravate him enough to break this stalemate.


    "They won¡¯t let us go, you know," muttered Skipper, next to him. The man hadn¡¯t spoken for a while, as though observing Dragan¡¯s strategy.


    "Shut up," said Dragan reflexively. He continued looking at their enemies as he spoke. "I know. I¡¯ll think of something."


    "What?"


    "Something."


    The car arrived - a hijacked limousine, from the looks of it, with a long body and night-black hull. It floated over the stalls and landed just on the edge of the festival grounds, settling on the artificial grass.


    The driver door opened and a young man with pink hair climbed out, his eyes cautious. The second he was out in the open, he put his hands up and moved around the edge of the street to join Noel¡¯s group, the white tuxedo he was wearing clearly out of place.


    That must be the one Noel had called Simeon, then. There was something strange about that hair of his - it was long, but ragged at the edges, inconsistent, as though it had been cut by a knife rather than scissors. Sometime in the last couple of minutes too, judging by the indentations on the man¡¯s hands.


    "Okay," said Dragan, letting out the breath he¡¯d been holding. He began tugging Roz¡¯s body towards the limo, the rest of the crew forming a protective square around him. "Now you stand there and we-"


    Something orange flashed past Dragan¡¯s vision, and a strange burning sensation erupted in his right hand, the hand that was holding the gun.


    A second later, he realized it was pain.


    His eyes flicked to his hand. There was something sticking out of the palm, impaling it like the stick of a kebab. As Ruth whirled around, slashed two more orange projectiles out of the air before they could strike, Dragan stared uncomprehendingly at his injured hand, at the object protruding from it.


    It was ¡­ it was a swordfish? Something like an orange glass sculpture of a swordfish was sticking out of his wound, similarly orange Aether crackling around it. No ¡­ no, now that Dragan looked, he could see that the thing in his hand wasn¡¯t a sculpture. It was wiggling, just slightly, it¡¯s gills undulating.


    He had no clue what it was, but the damn thing was alive.


    His gun clattered to the ground, followed by Roz, and a scream of pain finally escaped Dragan¡¯s throat.


    Nobody missed their chance. Muzazi charged forward, blade whipping out of its sheath, as nearly every single one of Noel¡¯s drones surged forward, each sensor fixed on Roz¡¯s unconscious body.


    Skipper raised his fingers, ready to fire indiscriminately, as Bruno raised a forcefield to protect Dragan from further attacks and Ruth rushed forward to meet Muzazi¡¯s assault.


    The real festival had finally begun.

 Chapter 49:3.12: Into The Night

    How did things get so consistently fucked?


    Bruno threw up an umbrella-like forcefield just in time to stop three more of those swordfish things from spearing Dragan. It seemed that whoever was attacking had him as their main target - most likely because leaving him alive meant risking him killing Roz.


    Speaking of Roz, the Umbrant himself was lying in an undignified heap on the floor, chest gently rising and falling. Whatever Ruth had done, it had knocked the poor bastard out good. Still, this wasn¡¯t an ideal situation.


    They were surrounded by at least three enemy groups - Muzazi and Noel had seemed just as surprised by the swordfish as the rest of them - and they¡¯d just lost whatever little leverage they had. If there was a time for Skipper to come up with a plan, this was it.


    Skipper was standing in front of the rest of the group, firing off Heartbeat Shotguns at Noel¡¯s swarms of drones, shooting them down one by one like swatting flies. As Ruth again tried to get past him to rush at Muzazi, he grabbed her by the back of the collar and threw her back towards the car.


    "No time for a brawl!" he shouted over the chaos, firing off a series of Shotguns to keep Muzazi at a distance. "Get the damn car started!"


    Bruno nodded - that, at least, was a task to be done. As he moved towards the car the man called Simeon had brought, Bruno grabbed Dragan under his good arm and pulled him along.


    Mr. Hadrien doesn¡¯t look so good, said Serena calmly.


    He glanced down at Dragan¡¯s wound - Serena was right. Dragan had pulled the swordfish out, but that still left a gaping hole in his right hand¡¯s palm. Even as he applied pressure with his other hand, teeth bared in an expression of agony, blood was steadily oozing out from between the fingers.


    "Can you move?" Bruno said sharply, reapplying the forcefield over the two of them every few seconds.


    Face pale, Dragan nodded.


    As the sounds of explosions blasted out behind them, Bruno led Dragan towards the limousine and pushed him into the back, making sure to leave a standing forcefield over the vehicle¡¯s fuel canister. That should give it some protection from whoever was throwing fish around.


    "Get the car ready to move," Bruno ordered. "I¡¯ll be right back."


    Dragan looked like he was going to come out with some snarky comment, but clearly thought better of it. Again, he nodded almost meekly.


    Bruno shut the car door, looking back towards the ongoing battle. Skipper and Ruth were holding the line fairly well - plus, Muzazi and Noel¡¯s group seemed to be getting in the way of each other¡¯s attacks, slowing down their assault. The problem now was getting Roz in the car as well without anyone getting in the way.


    Let me help, suggested Serena. I¡¯m strong. I can beat these guys up!


    Bruno shook his head. "No," he said under his breath. "They¡¯re stronger. Plus, we¡¯re not sticking around."


    He felt a tingle of frustration. You¡¯re such a spoilsport!


    "It¡¯s what I¡¯m here for," he replied, rushing forward to where Roz lay - just behind Skipper.


    "How¡¯s the kid?" Skipper shouted.


    "In the car," Bruno replied, kneeling down and throwing Roz over his back. "We need to start moving towards it - we can lose them on the roads."


    Skipper nodded, and let loose another Shotgun at Noel - it seemed the ground-based drones were creating some kind of shield that was protecting her, however. Like spiders spinning a web, blue holographic lines were being emitted from the drones mandibles, coming together into a translucent blue brick wall just in front of her. The wall crackled with cyan Aether.


    That¡¯s pretty, said Serena appreciatively.


    Bruno understood as he saw it - whoever this Noel kid was, she was good with Aether. She was infusing the holographic wall to such a degree that the slight mass it possessed originally had been enhanced enough to block physical blows. All while controlling all her drones.


    "Okay," said Skipper, firing off another Shotgun to smash some of the insufficiently protected drones. "Time to move-"


    A thunderous voice resounded throughout the square. "Move aside!" it screamed.


    -


    "Move aside!" Muzazi shouted, trying once again to rush towards Hadrien¡¯s vehicle, but the obstacle stopped him once again.


    The obstacle in this case was the lanky man with the medical mask, one of the young girl¡¯s companions. He held a combat knife in one hand, and was consistently parrying Muzazi when he tried to get past him.


    "Calm yourself, fellow warrior," the man said, holding his combat knife ready. "That villain¡¯s compatriots still surround the hostage, and so may execute him if we act recklessly-"


    Muzazi roared with anger and rushed him again, using thrusters to increase the speed and force of Luminescence¡¯s slashes. Still, it wasn¡¯t enough - and Muzazi knew that.


    The humiliation Hadrien had inflicted was beyond the pale, and Muzazi¡¯s righteous anger could not be quelled. That rage boiled his blood and gave him focus, true, but it also made his movements predictable. It was child¡¯s play for the lanky fellow to dodge and deflect each one of his blows, no matter how strong or fast it may be.


    "Reyansh!" screamed the girl behind him, taking cover behind that strange glowing wall of hers. "Stop fighting him and help us! They¡¯re going to get away!"


    Behind the girl, her other companion - the pink-haired man - was doing his best to retaliate against Skipper¡¯s endless blasts. He reached up to his head and, with a grimace, pulled a chunk of long pink hair free.


    Then, with a flare of pastel-pink Aether, those hairs straightened into long, sharp needles that the man loaded into the bow he was holding.


    Even in his anger, Atoy Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but be impressed. Most Aether users whose ability required ammunition found some way to use common objects for that purpose, but the use of one¡¯s own body parts was something he¡¯d only rarely seen. Plus, with the man¡¯s apparent Aether tic, procuring more ammunition was child¡¯s play.


    As Aether flowed around the man - Simeon, Muzazi had heard the girl say over the radio - his hair was growing longer, flowing down from his shoulders until it was brushing the floor beneath his feet. Accelerated hair growth, and an ability that took advantage of it. Ingenious.


    Reyansh¡¯s gaze flicked from Muzazi to his companions.


    "Atoy," said Marie¡¯s voice in Muzazi¡¯s earpiece, only the faintest signs of urgency in her voice. "That car¡¯s taking off. Should I shoot it down?"


    Muzazi shook his head, and then - realizing that Marie obviously couldn¡¯t see that - replied: "No. The endeavour is pointless if we just shoot them down. I need Hadrien to face me."


    There was a sigh over the communications network. "Fine, fine. Well, what about those people who are giving you trouble? Should I shoot them down?"


    Muzazi hesitated a moment. Normally, he¡¯d shy away from such heavy-handed tactics - but these people were all that were standing between him and the retribution he was owed. Surely, when it was one against three, bringing in the help of an additional person would be permitted, wouldn¡¯t it?


    Reyansh looked back towards Muzazi, and their eyes met.


    "Fire," Muzazi said, as if coughing the word up.


    Reyansh¡¯s eyes widened, and he swung back around to shout a warning to his comrades.


    "Roger that," Marie purred over the radio -


    - and then the sky exploded into light.


    -


    Simeon del Dranell put a hand up to protect his eyes and the red light exploded in the sky. Even as the explosion rang out above, neither he nor his comrades were harmed.


    That had been a close one. Hell, that had probably been the closest one of Simeon¡¯s life. If Reyansh hadn¡¯t managed to shout that warning, he¡¯d never have been able to parry the shot.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The moment Simeon had heard that warning, he¡¯d looked up into the sky, saw what looked like a giant red lightning bolt approaching, and shot it down with one of his own arrows.


    All in all, the maneuver had probably taken a second and a half - yet it very nearly didn¡¯t work. Even an instant later, and Simeon knew that he would be dead.


    He scowled, looking up at the sky in anticipation of a second shot. Simeon del Dranell very much did not like walking into a fight when he had any chance of losing. Noel had led him to believe this would be a merry hunt with which to amuse himself for the evening, and now he¡¯d suddenly found himself staring death in the face.


    Simeon risked a glance back at Reyansh, who¡¯d now truly engaged the swordsman in combat - the sounds of that white sword clashing with Reyansh¡¯s combat knife rang out through the evening.


    Good - that meant Simeon could provide cover without worrying about a sword suddenly plunging through his back. Reyansh wasn¡¯t competent enough to land a killing blow without his bombs, but his defensive skill was good enough to keep that Special Officer from advancing for at least a little while.


    He glanced towards the car - the guy called Skipper¡¯s crew had managed to get themselves inside it, and the vehicle was slowly taking off. He¡¯d intentionally brought them a car that was slow to get started, but with the situation being the way it was they couldn¡¯t really take advantage of that.


    Noel¡¯s drones were swarming around the car like wasps, but that damn Skipper¡¯s concussive attacks kept blasting them out of the air - and Ruth Blaine was perched on top of the vehicle like a cat, destroying anything that got too close with those claws of hers.


    As Simeon considered firing off a few more shots at the car, he saw a subtle red glint at the peak of a skyscraper a few kilometers away - and a second later, another massive red bolt was surfing towards them, a deafening screech accompanying it.


    Grunting with exertion, Simeon fired off two more arrows - and as the hairs flew forwards, they intertwined to become a stronger projectile. Just like last time, the thunderbolt exploded violently the moment it made contact with the arrows, the force of the detonation causing the entire street to shake. Even the car lifting into the sky rattled.


    As he plucked out some more of his rapidly growing hair, Simeon wiped the sweat from his forehead. What the hell kind of weapon was firing at them?


    It wasn¡¯t Aether, that was sure - he knew Aether when he saw it, and these thunderbolts didn¡¯t give off that vibe. Still, the attacks seemed ¡­ familiar, in a way.


    It only took a few seconds for Simeon del Dranell to realize where he¡¯d last seen them.


    During the failed Dranell Revolution, when the skies had rained fire and Supremacy troops had burnt their way through cities and towns - when the Ascendant General had signed the death warrant for a solar system. Simeon had only been a kid, then, and not old enough to do any actual fighting¡­


    ...but he remembered the bombardments, remembered rushing into airtight shelters as Supremacy ships blasted the surface of his planet with all they had. Those bolts ¡­ those were the fangs of a starship.


    But, if he was seeing those again here, then that meant¡­


    -


    Marie licked her lips as she lined up another shot.


    It hadn¡¯t been easy arranging for a cannon to be removed from a Supremacy warship and shipped to Taldan, but she couldn¡¯t deny the efficacy of the results. Smoke poured from the barrel of the massive rectangular weapon, the bolts that kept it attached to the roof of the skyscraper glowing red-hot from residual heat.


    If that bowman hadn¡¯t seen her first shot coming, she probably could have taken out the entire enemy team just like that. A whole group of adept Aether users destroyed in less than a second.


    If they¡¯d had this sort of technology back in the olden days, things might have turned out differently. But there was no point in dwelling on the past.


    It hadn¡¯t exactly been a simple matter to get the cannon set up for the battle tonight, either. She¡¯d rigged up a holographic display just over her eye to serve as a kind of sniper scope, but the electromagnetic interference each shot produced meant that she lost sight of her target for a few seconds right after firing.


    The power issue had been a concern as well, but she¡¯d managed to get that sorted with a little help from her friends in the Officer¡¯s Commission. A single shot from a cannon like this consumed massive amounts of energy - on a Supremacy warship, that was provided by the on-board reactor, but Marie didn¡¯t exactly have access to one of those in the field.


    The building she¡¯d settled on as her sniper perch was clandestinely owned by the Galactic Intelligence Division, and they¡¯d loaned it out for Marie¡¯s use once she¡¯d reminded them of various favours and ¡­ embarassing incidents she might have felt compelled to leak otherwise. So, the cannon could happily leech off the Taldan power grid through the building¡¯s direct connection.


    It wasn¡¯t at full strength with such a meagre supply, of course, but she didn¡¯t need it to be - she was looking to eliminate enemies, not perform demolition work.


    Still, it was such a shame that she hadn¡¯t managed to kill them with the first shot - that bowman seemed to be the perfect counter for the sniper style she was going for here. Ideally, she would have wanted to make the shot and immediately get away from the cannon.


    The heat it produced was immense, after all.


    She¡¯d already folded up her clothes and left them a short distance away before starting to operate the cannon, of course, but the sheer heat produced by two shots in a row meant that the side of her body closest to it had already become charred and scorched - a steady stream of warm blood running from underneath her body and dripping off the side of the building.


    Marie frowned as her left eye stopped working - the stupid thing had probably popped in its socket, knowing her luck tonight. With a subtle swipe of her good hand, the holographic scope shifted over to cover her right eye instead. Through it, she could see that the bowman was poised and ready - any shots she fired for the moment would be blocked easily, given the pink-haired guy¡¯s evident skill.


    She pouted with the side of her face that was still capable of such a feat. She really hated waiting.


    -


    Dragan clenched his teeth as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around the hole in his palm, trying to ignore just how quickly the fabric turned red.


    "How are we doing back there?" barked Bruno from the driver¡¯s seat, glancing back into the body of the limousine. He¡¯d taken charge of the escape, while Ruth kept watch from on top of the car and Skipper covered them from the passenger seat.


    "I¡¯ve felt better," grunted Dragan, applying as much pressure as he could.


    "Are you feeling light-headed?" Bruno went on insistently. "If you¡¯re feeling light-headed, that means you¡¯ve lost too much blood."


    Dragan groaned in exasperation, and was surprised by just how ragged his breath sounded as he did. "Wow, thanks. Good to know that I¡¯ll feel bad if I lose blood. I¡¯m learning so much tonight."


    "He¡¯s still got enough blood to be a smartass," muttered Skipper from the passenger seat, just before firing off a series of five Shotguns through a crack in the window. "Bruno - we ready to move?"


    Bruno nodded, hands on the steering wheel. "It tried to sync us to Taldan¡¯s traffic network, but I managed to switch it to manual control."


    "Right," said Skipper, the unmistakable sound of relief in his voice. Then, moving his head as close to the window as was safe, he shouted: "Ruth! Get in here!"


    Bruno tapped a button on the wheel and, just for a second or two, the passenger window slid open - just enough time for Ruth to jump inside and clamber into the back.


    As she landed, the mask covering her face dissipated into red Aether, and she took in a greedy lungful of breath.


    "Nice to see you again," said Dragan flatly, slouched in the back seat, grabbing another handkerchief from the wine cooler to cover his wound.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked towards his injured hand. "Tell me if I¡¯m wrong here - really, really do - but was that a swordfish in your hand?"


    Dragan nodded, wincing as the wound tormented him again. "Seems that way," he said.


    Ruth exchanged a look with Skipper, and Dragan¡¯s heart dropped as he saw the unmistakable signs of fear in their expressions.


    "That was orange Aether too, right?" Skipper asked quietly.


    Again, Dragan slowly nodded - very much not liking where this was going.


    "Shit," said Skipper, thumping his metal hand against the dashboard in frustration. "It¡¯s him, then. It¡¯s definitely him."


    "It¡¯s who?" Dragan sat up as he spoke, the frustration quickly becoming evident in his words. "Can we not do all this cryptic shit and just name names?!"


    Bruno put his foot to the pedal and the car began to speed forward through the streets, weaving and dodging through traffic. The swarm of drones continued to pursue - but they¡¯d managed to leave Muzazi and the rest behind.


    Even so, there was no relief on Bruno¡¯s face as he spoke: "It¡¯s the Fifth fucking Dead."


    Silence settled over the inside of the car, save for the rumble of the engine and the buzzing of the drones outside. It was as if Bruno had just announced their collective funeral. Finally though, the pre-emptive memorial was interrupted by Dragan:


    "Who?"


    Ruth took over explaining as Bruno maneuvered through the night traffic: "A lot of this is, uh ¡­ a lot is just stuff I¡¯ve heard, but apparently he¡¯s one of the best when it comes to hired guns."


    "Not the most morally virtuous, either," muttered Skipper, watching the drone-cloud through the rear-view mirror. "Apparently, he was as good as the Hellhound before that bastard went Contender."


    "Well, what¡¯s he doing spiking my fucking hand?" Dragan yelled, waving the hand in question. A few drops of blood splattered on the fine upholstery, and Ruth shifted in her seat slightly.


    "No clue," said Skipper. "I mean, I had a nasty run-in with the Second Dead years back, but that shouldn¡¯t matter ¡­ I, uh, I guess he must¡¯ve been hired to grab Roz - or kill Roz, or kill us, or, uh ¡­ well, I dunno."


    Helpful as ever. Dragan opened his mouth to complain some more, but was interrupted by a heavy metallic thump from above.


    Bruno stiffened in the driver¡¯s seat. "One of the drones?"


    "No," said Skipper, eyes wide, still fixed on the rear-view mirror. "They¡¯re still a ways back. Ruth¡­?"


    Slowly, cautiously, Ruth rose from her seat, baring her long steel claws.


    Dragan opened his mouth with a croak, trying unsuccessfully to break the sudden tension. "You don¡¯t think -"


    He was interrupted by the sudden smashing of glass from behind him. Before he could turn to look at what was clearly the window breaking, a firm hand seized him by the back of the collar and pulled him out into the night.


    The last thing he saw before leaving the car was Ruth¡¯s face, eyes wide with surprise.


    The hand that had grabbed Dragan pulled him up on top of the moving car and held him aloft by the throat, turning him around so they could get a good look at him.


    It was a giant of a man with cold, impassive eyes and a red V on his forehead. The height difference was such that Dragan¡¯s feet couldn¡¯t even touch the car¡¯s roof as he was held up. The wind buffeted against Dragan¡¯s face as the car continued moving - and the cloak the man was wearing fluttered like a patriotic flag, but he didn¡¯t even flinch.


    The man slowly cocked his head, as if inspecting Dragan, eyes slowly looking him up and down.


    Dragan, with great effort, gulped. What with the mark on the man¡¯s forehead and the discussion they¡¯d just been having, it didn¡¯t take a genius to figure out who this guy was.


    "You¡¯re¡­" he began in a choked voice.


    "You¡¯re not the one," the Fifth Dead said, with a voice like melting steel, and dropped Dragan into the abyss below.


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 Chapter 50:3.13: Fall

    Dragan blinked as he watched the car above him quickly shrink, reaching out a grasping hand as if he could just seize hold of the now tiny shape and pull himself back up.


    I¡¯m going to die, he thought, before he realized that wasn¡¯t quite true. He¡¯d already been killed the moment that man had thrown him off the car - everything from that point onwards was just a formality.


    How long would he fall before becoming tomato sauce? He wasn¡¯t sure. They¡¯d only been in a mid-level section of Taldan, but even so that was still absurdly high up. If he didn¡¯t hit an unkindly placed balcony or platform, he could be falling for quite a long time.


    Hell, he¡¯d probably die of boredom before hitting the bottom. A delirious chuckle tried to escape his throat, only to be swallowed by the rushing air.


    Was there anything he could do? Unlikely. Maybe if he¡¯d trained his Aether a little more, he could have come up with some ability that would come in handy here. Unfortunately, the most he could really do was infuse the stuff into his body or objects he was holding - and that wouldn¡¯t do him much good here.


    He blinked tears of frustration away. This wasn¡¯t fair. Damnit, this wasn¡¯t fair!


    For the first time, since ¡­ since ever, probably, he¡¯d felt like he¡¯d ¡­ well, he didn¡¯t really know how he¡¯d felt, but it was good. He¡¯d wanted it to keep going, even if he didn¡¯t have the words to describe it. Ruth, Bruno, Serena, even Skipper - okay, maybe not Skipper as much - had made him feel like ¡­ had made him feel like¡­


    He didn¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t know, but he wanted to. He wanted that chance.


    Unfortunately, gravity wasn¡¯t a force very sympathetic to impassioned speeches. Looked like he was dead. Too bad, so sad.


    Again, he looked up at the black object in the sky longingly. If only he¡¯d been a little quicker to react. If only he¡¯d been sitting a little further from the window. If only, if only.


    ¡­


    Come to think of it, he really shouldn¡¯t be able to see the car anymore, should he? He¡¯d fallen way too far.


    In that case, what was the shape that he was looking up at?


    Clothes billowing around him from the wind, Dragan squinted, staring up with as much visual acuity as he could muster. The shape that was even now growing bigger definitely wasn¡¯t a car - the shape was all wrong. Rather than the brutal square of a vehicle, it instead looked¡­


    ...humanoid?


    Oh, no fucking way.


    Bruno del Sed was falling towards him, limbs splayed out like some kind of starfish while an expression of utmost concentration consumed his face. He¡¯d thrown away that cloak he¡¯d been wearing at some point, leaving only the purple shirt and black pants he¡¯d been wearing beneath. Similarly purple Aether crackled around him.


    What had happened? Had their attacker thrown Bruno out of the car after Dragan? No, no, that wasn¡¯t what Bruno¡¯s eyes were saying. There was a purpose there, a clear goal.


    None of this was a surprise to him.


    The sound was drowned out by the fact they were falling at horrific speeds through an urban hellscape, but Dragan saw Bruno¡¯s mouth move, saw him struggling to call out to him, saw the words those lips were forming.


    Dragan! Bruno was saying silently.


    Dragan could have slapped him if the laws of physics permitted it. What the hell was he thinking? If Bruno had really been stupid enough to jump out after him, all he¡¯d managed to do was turn a murder into a murder-suicide.


    Even if Bruno used his Aether to create a forcefield beneath Dragan, it wouldn¡¯t be the rescue the boy was clearly hoping for - all it would accomplish was turning his body into ketchup early.


    Dragan opened his mouth to try and shout something back, but all he accomplished was getting his own hair in his mouth, reducing him to a spitting wreck for a few seconds. As he opened his eyes again, he once more saw Bruno¡¯s mouth move, only the slightest hint of anxiety present in those movements.


    Hold on! Bruno ¡¯said¡¯, clearly trusting that Dragan would be able to read his lips.


    And then Bruno del Sed began to accelerate.


    At first, Dragan couldn¡¯t believe his eyes as Bruno¡¯s fall clearly got faster, the boy growing in his vision second by second. What the hell was he hoping for - a mid-air collision?! More to the point, how was he doing it?


    It only took another glance for Dragan to figure that out. The air behind Bruno was rippling wildly, like a more intense version of one of his forcefields, and over the roar of the hungry city he could hear something like the sound of smashing glass, over and over again. S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The forcefields. He was creating forcefields right behind himself and then instantly destroying them, using the resultant force to increase his falling speed.


    It was ingenious, Dragan had to admit, but still clearly suicidal.


    Now close enough that Dragan could see the whites of his eyes, Bruno strained to bring his outstretched arms back together, as though trying to engulf Dragan in an unwelcome hug. Dragan hesitated. Bruno didn¡¯t look like someone about to die.


    This time, Bruno¡¯s mouth didn¡¯t move, but his eyes got the message across just as easily.


    Trust me.


    Dragan blinked, reached out a hand.


    If he was going to die either way, where was the harm in just believing for once?


    -


    Muzazi lunged forwards, plunging Luminescence in front of him in a clearly telegraphed attempt to stab Reyansh. The grey-haired man, as expected, deflected the blow with his knife - using the flat side of the blade to redirect the force and sent Muzazi stumbling forwards.


    "As I said, fellow warrior," Reyansh intoned. "Calm yourself, and perhaps we can work as one in this matter."


    Muzazi gritted his teeth. A bore who could do nothing but endlessly defend was no warrior, just a distraction. He was not using the power he obviously possessed to pursue his own desires - but simply to prevent Muzazi from attaining his. This man was useful only for standing in the way of others.


    Unforgivable.


    The car that had been carrying Hadrien was already out of sight - but if Muzazi could dispatch this annoyance and proceed, he knew that he could catch up. His window of opportunity was rapidly shrinking, though, and the anger with which he was operating only expedited that.


    If he was to prevail here, he had to act calmly and decisively.


    Marie¡¯s barrage hadn¡¯t sufficed to destroy these enemies, but it had done enough to ensure that any conflict would be between him and Reyansh alone. The bowman would be preoccupied blocking Marie¡¯s attacks, and that young girl Noel was nowhere to be seen.


    The only person he had to blame for failure here would be himself. Muzazi lowered his body to the ground, assumed a ready stance.


    He¡¯d bet everything on a single strike, strong enough to snap that knife like the toy it was.


    Reyansh seemed to realize what was about to happen, and he narrowed his eyes as he assumed a similarly ready stance. With one hand, he held his knife in front of him, the blade gently swaying from side to side. The other hand was clenched into a fist.


    Muzazi prepared his strongest thrusters on the flat side of Luminescence. This would be the strongest, the fastest strike he was capable of. That meant that the initial approach would be reliant on his own body alone, of course, but Muzazi had confidence in his own abilities.


    Reyansh took a deep breath, his golden eyes scanning Muzazi¡¯s every movement. There was a strange, glimmering light there - anticipation and caution mingling together. An unspoken plea for his opponent to show what they were worth.


    Despite his distaste for the man¡¯s delaying tactics, Muzazi had to admit that this Reyansh was a warrior at heart too.


    Reyansh cleared his throat. A drop of Muzazi¡¯s sweat hit the floor.


    Muzazi launched himself forward, Luminescence held overhead, ready to strike down the moment Reyansh came into range. No shouts or screams escaped Muzazi¡¯s throat this time - there was only the cold silence of an intended kill.


    But he had miscalculated.


    The tiniest of smirks spread over the grey-haired man¡¯s face - and Reyansh¡¯s closed fist opened, revealing the small pebble held within.


    It began to rattle. It began to glow.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened, and he -


    -


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    The explosion was deafening at point-blank range, and if it wasn¡¯t for Reyansh¡¯s pre-deployed defenses, he was sure his eardrums would have burst from the sheer noise.


    Still, looked at another way, that meant it was an effective stratagem. No sane opponent would expect him to set off an explosion so close to his own body. They would be accustomed to cowards who believed in heresies like exclusively ranged attacks.


    "Your lack of imagination was your doom, brave warrior," Reyansh intoned, choosing each word as carefully as possible. He needed to express as much respect to the fallen as he could.


    With one smooth motion, Reyansh swept his knife in front of him - his arm flooded with chaotic red Aether that shifted from dark red to light red and back. The sheer speed and force of the targetless attack swept away the smoke and debris that had crowded the air, revealing what should have been the corpse of Atoy Muzazi.


    What should have been the corpse of Atoy Muzazi.


    Reyansh blinked. There was no corpse of Atoy Muzazi in front of him. In fact, there was no corpse at all. That couldn¡¯t be right.


    He looked around, eyebrows furrowed, as if he¡¯d just missed Muzazi¡¯s body on initial inspection. There was rubble littered everywhere, concrete and plastic still reigning down, but no organic material.


    Had ¡­ had he vaporised Muzazi? Surely he wasn¡¯t that strong ¡­ had some demonic power awakened within him?


    There was a sound like that of roaring flame from above, and Reyansh snapped his head up to look at it. His eyes widened, and his jaw fell open.


    Atoy Muzazi stood above, black hair billowing around him, all that was left of his shirt being black cinders that were even now falling away to reveal his bare chest, muscular body covered with countless scars. At first, Reyansh thought he was standing on the air itself, but at a second glance he saw it was much more extraordinary.


    He was standing on the flat side of his sword as if the thing were a surfboard, thrusters flaring out from each side of it to control direction and his arms thrust out to adjust the angle of his movement.


    Muzazi glanced down at him, grey eyes impassive. A huge flickering advertisement behind him bathed him in light, as though the gods of combat had granted him a halo for this feat.


    For a moment, Reyansh thought about deploying more bombs to continue their bout, but his hands wouldn¡¯t move. His body simply couldn¡¯t accept the idea of destroying such a splendid image. It would be like taking a flamethrower to a fresh snowy field. Instead, his arms simply fell to his sides, and he nodded in respect.


    Muzazi returned the nod, just slightly, and then his gaze returned to the direction the car had gone - and a second later, he too was gone, pursuing the vehicle.


    Reyansh blinked, still staring at the spot where he¡¯d seen that most beautiful image. It was as though something vital to his existence had revealed itself there, some great enigma he¡¯d been tasked with solving. A long-held breath burst from his mouth.


    Incredible.


    -


    This was only the second time Muzazi had used this technique, and he wasn¡¯t any more fond of it this time. Putting his filthy shoes on Luminescence¡¯s blade was like throwing his own child in mud, and he resolved to clean his poor sword as soon as possible.


    He¡¯d been unkind to it this night - dragging it along the ground when approaching Hadrien, and now this. His anger had driven him to unsightly behaviour. That was a disgraceful flaw, one he had to work on as much as he could.


    With Luminescence as his steed, Muzazi weaved through the night traffic like a thread shooting through a thousand needles, ignoring the myriad honks of disapproval from the vehicles he passed. While it was unfortunate he had to break traffic laws, he had no other choice if he were to catch Hadrien. The coward had already had a few minutes headstart - he couldn¡¯t waste any more time.


    He swerved around the corner, almost slipping off of Luminescence for one horrifying moment before regaining his balance with a split-second thruster deployed on his arm.


    He didn¡¯t allow the panic to last long, though. His quarry was in front of him - the limousine, still some distance away but clearly visible all the same. The slight smile Muzazi allowed himself quickly turned into a puzzled frown.


    A huge, hulking figure was standing atop the vehicle, locked in battle with Ruth Blaine - who was crawling around the exterior of the car like some kind of spidermonkey, occasionally lunging out to strike with those claws of hers. Every time she tried that, however, her new opponent blocked easily with the huge quarterstaff in his hands.


    Muzazi couldn¡¯t see the man¡¯s face from here, but he could see the V glowing with orange Aether on his forehead. There was no mistaking that.


    The Fifth Dead.


    "Atoy," came Marie¡¯s voice over his earpiece. Somehow, that tiny piece of technology had survived Reyansh¡¯s explosion. "Is that you on the sword?"


    He nodded, again forgetting that she couldn¡¯t see him. Well, actually, given her statement she probably could see him.


    "Yes," he finally said, just to be sure.


    "That¡¯s fucking awesome."


    Even with the current situation, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help a giddy half-smile from crossing his face. "Yes," he said, doing his best to retain the dignity of his station. "I¡¯m aware. What can I do for you, Officer Hazzard?"


    "Well," she said. "I thought you¡¯d want to know that Dragan Hadrien isn¡¯t in that car anymore."


    Muzazi¡¯s heart dropped. "What?" he said, adjusting his angle slightly to stop a traffic drone from slamming into his face. "Where is he, then?"


    "That big guy tossed him out of the window a few streets back."


    "You mean the Fifth Dead?"


    "Is that who he is? Anyway, that¡¯s what happened. He went flying down, then del Sed jumped out after him."


    Muzazi bit his lip. An awful, cold feeling of failure settled over him like a heavy sheet. "Hadrien¡¯s dead, then¡­?" he said quietly, surprised at the disappointment in his own voice.


    It was more than an anticlimax. It was like some opportunity had permanently passed Muzazi by. An opportunity for what, he wasn¡¯t sure, but it had slipped through his grasp all the same.


    Then Marie spoke. "Not necessarily."


    Muzazi slowed his pursuit slightly, the blazing light from his thrusters dimming just a tad. "What do you mean?"


    "I had a glance, and del Sed seemed to be up to something. I¡¯m shooting some coordinates - check them out, maybe?"


    As the script in his pocket lit up, Muzazi faltered slightly, watching the vehicle shrink ahead of him. Hadrien was his target, true, and the opportunity to catch him had become possible once again ¡­ but the Fifth Dead was a legend.


    Would the chance to fight him, or to fight alongside him, present itself again? It would be like doing battle with Baltay Kojirough or the legendary Nigen Rush, the one whose light had led Muzazi down this path. A chance to stand amongst titans.


    Muzazi closed his eyes, shook his head. No. He¡¯d made a promise to himself. And he never broke a promise once made.


    He zoomed down, not giving the car a second glance.


    -


    Are you sure this is a good idea, Bruno? said Serena, sounding skeptical.


    "Of course," Bruno squeezed through gritted teeth, holding Dragan close as they fell. "T-Trust me, okay?!"


    Sure thing, Bruno!


    Sudden guilt struck his heart like one of those pink arrows. If he messed this up, and they died here, he¡¯d be killing Serena too. He hadn¡¯t even thought about that before jumping out of the car. Hell, he hadn¡¯t really thought about anything before jumping out of the car.


    No. There was no time for guilt. The key to being alive was making decisions without hesitation. That was what Yakob had always said, and Bruno believed in Yakob¡¯s words more than anything else.


    He¡¯d already made the decision. All he had to do now was enact it.


    His forcefields had been able to speed up his fall, so all they had to do now was slow it down. Bruno held his breath, focused his mind, tapped into some of the memories that Yakob had left behind.


    Ignoring the splitting headache that felt like they would burst from his skull, Bruno rummaged through the mental corpse, the loose collection of memories, doing his best not to look at things that weren¡¯t his to intrude upon:


    The Sed, that red dome standing alone amidst a snowstorm of fool¡¯s ice.


    The acclimatization procedures, bizarre shapes shifting and stretching on the screens like long-lost sea creatures.


    Cott¡¯s stupid smug face, his fingers twirling a lock of his red hair as they sat in the classroom.


    Glowing red eyes, staring at him from out of the darkness of an interrogation room, tunneling into his mind like a drill.


    And ¡­ finally ¡­ formless liquid flowing from Yakob¡¯s palms, ready to be sculpted into whatever shape was needed. Swords and shields both.


    Yakob¡¯s ability had been Yakob¡¯s alone, and there was no way Bruno could use it straight up. But, if he could learn from it, incorporate the principles into his shields just slightly ¡­ then they could survive this.


    Bruno squeezed his eyes shut and summoned a series of forcefields beneath them, making them just strong enough to technically exist but so weak that he and Dragan passed through them essentially unimpeded. Again, again, again, Bruno kept summoning more, each one rippling and breaking as they passed through it - and, and yes, they were slowing down as they fell. In the space of a few seconds, their speed had gone from lethal to near-lethal to injurious.


    He opened his eyes, wide - this, he knew, was the best they were getting.


    Bruno summoned one last forcefield at a slight angle, this one strong enough to make contact with, and destroyed it just before he and Dragan hit it - the propulsion sending them flying off in another direction.


    In the direction of a huge window on the building next to them. Bruno closed his eyes again in preparation for impact.


    Bruno and Dragan both infused their bodies with as much Aether as they could as they smashed through the glass, falling roughly on the floor beyond as they rolled to a halt. The sounds of a crowd around them trailed off, it¡¯s fading punctuated by a series of screams at their sudden entrance.


    With a rough cough, Bruno opened his eyes, blinking blearily at the unexpected light around him. The building they¡¯d landed in seemed to be some kind of casino, rows of slot machines operated by gamblers of every age and shape. Some of them hadn¡¯t even stopped to look at the sudden interruption, instead just continuing to roll the slots.


    Looking around, Bruno couldn¡¯t help a laugh from escaping his lips. They¡¯d survived that. They¡¯d actually survived that. Serena, too, let out a mental cheer.


    "You can let go of me now," mumbled Dragan, face buried in the carpet.


    "Oh," said Bruno, pulling his arms back and staggering to his feet. "Um. Sorry."


    Dragan rolled over into some approximation of a sitting position, leaning against a nearby pillar. "Don¡¯t ¡­ don¡¯t worry about it."


    It seemed they¡¯d landed in a fancier area of the casino, full of patolli tables populated by finely dressed men and women. The civilians around the spot they¡¯d landed backed away as what looked like private security approached, aiming plasma pistols.


    "Hands up!" one yelled, voice surprisingly squeaky for a man his size. "Hands in the air! Now!"


    Bruno slowly put his hands up, surprised at the sheer fatigue plaguing his limbs. With the way this night had gone, being taken in by some rent-a-cops didn¡¯t even seem like the worst case scenario. In fact¡­


    "Oh fuck me," muttered Dragan from behind him, all the life drained from his voice.


    In front of Bruno, the security officers eyes widened to the size of saucers, and the tiny pistol slipped from his grip. A second later, he joined the rest of the nearest civilians in running for the nearest exit, occupation forgotten in the face of mortal terror.


    Slowly, as if the thing behind him would only come to exist once he looked at it, Bruno turned around. Given Dragan¡¯s response, he already had some idea of what he¡¯d see.


    Atoy Muzazi was outside the broken window, standing on his floating, shining sword. It was as if he was walking on light itself. His cold grey eyes were fixed on Dragan - the gaze of an executioner.


    "There you are," he said, the slightest satisfaction in his tone.

 Chapter 51:3.14: Second Wind

    Dragan gulped as he watched Atoy Muzazi step off his sword and into the casino, the weapon flying back into his hand a moment later.


    "I believed you to be dead for a short while there, Hadrien," Muzazi said as he stepped forwards, each footfall accompanied by the quiet cracking of glass. "I¡¯m glad that¡¯s not the case. You are my burden to bear."


    Dragan fumbled around him with his good hand, managed to pull out the stun pistol that had fallen from his jacket. He¡¯d brought it along for protection, but compared to Atoy Muzazi¡¯s obvious abilities it seemed more and more inadequate by the second.


    Muzazi came to a halt a few meters away, staring at the pistol in Dragan¡¯s hand. "You want to fight me, Hadrien?" he said softly. "I think you¡¯ll find that difficult. My back isn¡¯t turned this time, and I haven¡¯t made the mistake of trusting you."


    He was absolutely right - Dragan knew that better than anyone. Muzazi could charge forward and sever his head from his body in the same amount of time it would take Dragan to pull the trigger once.


    All in all, the weapon in Dragan¡¯s hand was little more than a placebo - and not a very effective one at that.


    Again, Dragan heard the sound of tinkling glass, but this time it was Bruno stepping forward instead of Muzazi. The other boy couldn¡¯t have been in a much better state than Dragan - they¡¯d both fallen from the same height, after all, and Bruno had taken the brunt of the impact. Still, though, he stood in front of Dragan as if shielding him, purple Aether crackling around his hands.


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "Your resolve is admirable, del Sed, but misplaced. This person is one who will betray you once it becomes convenient."


    Bruno didn¡¯t say anything, just raised his hands up. Small fist-sized forcefields manifested over his palms, as if he were holding a small shield in each hand.


    "You are an ally of my enemy," Muzazi went on, grip tightening just slightly on his sword¡¯s hilt. "But I have no quarrel with you yourself. Leave this place, and I will forget you. You have my word as a Special Officer of the Supremacy."


    At the last word, Bruno¡¯s eyes narrowed, and the crackling of his Aether intensified just slightly. Clearly, he was no fan of Muzazi¡¯s government.


    "What say you?" Even as Muzazi asked, he seemed aware what answer he would get. The cold intent to kill was still written all over his face.


    "Bruno¡­" Dragan croaked. He wasn¡¯t really sure what he was going to say. Help? Don¡¯t? At any rate, he didn¡¯t get the chance to finish his sentence.


    Bruno rushed forward, thrusting both his hands in an attempt to charge Muzazi. At the same time, Muzazi leapt upwards with a burst of twin thrusters from the soles of his feet, flying right out of Bruno¡¯s vision. The swordsman turned over in the air as he passed over Bruno¡¯s head - and, as he did, he slashed at his opponents unguarded neck.


    This time, Dragan didn¡¯t say anything. He just squeezed one eye shut, aimed his stun pistol at Muzazi as quickly as he could, and fired off an Aether-infused bolt.


    As Dragan had hoped, Muzazi could see the attack coming with ease from this angle. With only the slightest grunt of exertion, the swordsman abandoned his attack and slashed the stun-bolt out of the air with his sword before finally dropping back to the floor behind Bruno.


    And in front of Dragan.


    Before Bruno could turn back around, Muzazi rushed towards Dragan, sword pulled back in preparation for the killing thrust. Remnants of the stun-bolt still flickered across the blade, illuminating Muzazi¡¯s face in an eerie blue light as he approached.


    Dragan did his best to stop the shaking of his hand and fired off another stun-bolt towards Muzazi. Unfortunately, this was as telegraphed as telegraphed could be, and Muzazi simply ducked to avoid the projectile that sailed over his head.


    I¡¯m dead.


    It occurred to Dragan that this certainty had become a frequent presence in his headspace. That couldn¡¯t be a good sign. Maybe he should make some lifestyle changes.


    Well, it seemed that Muzazi was going to make those changes for him right now, whether he wanted it or not. Muzazi thrust his sword forwards. Dragan squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for the end.


    It didn¡¯t come.


    There was a peculiar clashing sound, like two pieces of metal striking each other - and then a strained grunt from Muzazi. Cautiously, expecting he¡¯d be killed the moment he did, Dragan opened his eyes.


    Muzazi¡¯s sword was frozen mid-thrust, inches from Dragan¡¯s face, and the swordsman himself was tugging on the weapon¡¯s hilt, as if trying to free it from some invisible grip. At first, Dragan didn¡¯t quite understand what he was seeing - and then he saw the rippling of the air around the sword, and everything fell into place.


    The damn thing was caught inside one of Bruno¡¯s forcefields, stuck there like a rat in a trap.


    Muzazi turned his head as Bruno, the man of the hour, charged towards him, hand-based forcefields raised over his head, ready to bring them down like a pair of invisible hammers. The swordsman¡¯s hand slipped free of the sword, leaving the weapon hovering there in empty space. And then ¡­


    And then Bruno went staggering backwards, one hand to his throat and the other nursing his stomach.


    Dragan blinked in disbelief. He was sure he¡¯d seen something, some blurred movement of Muzazi, but it simply wasn¡¯t possible for someone to retaliate that quickly. The human body simply wasn¡¯t capable of it. And yet ¡­ and yet Muzazi had struck out twice with his fists in the same time it would take Dragan to blink.


    Abandoning his pursuit of Dragan for the moment, Muzazi turned and began strolling casually towards the retreating Bruno. That retreat was an instinctual thing, not an actual attempt to abandon Dragan, but Muzazi seemed unimpressed all the same. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "You thought I¡¯d be weak without my sword?" Muzazi mused. "That¡¯s unfortunate if so. A true warrior uses his entire body as a weapon."


    As he spoke, Muzazi lashed out again and again - his fists winding like snakes to bypass any shields that Bruno put up, finding their mark in soft flesh almost every time. If anything, it seemed like Muzazi was faster without that sword of his, split-second thrusters appearing on his elbows to accelerate his strikes.


    It wasn¡¯t as if Bruno was helpless, though. Whatever kind of training he¡¯d had, it clearly covered some kind of martial arts - elbows and knees moving to impede the path of punches as much as possible. Bruno struck out with the occasional jab of his fingers, too, forcing Muzazi to abandon his assault for precious seconds to defend himself.


    It was almost as if the two of them were dancing, a beautiful exchange of blows, the sheer dignity of which almost looked choreographed. Even though he¡¯d grown up in the Supremacy, Dragan had never really been inclined to indulge the combat fetish that seemed to dominate the culture there - but here, watching this, he could understand it perfectly.


    Even with Bruno¡¯s considerable efforts, however, there was a sheer disparity in ability that could not be overcome. One final strike from Muzazi wound through the gaps in Bruno¡¯s defense and struck him deep in the stomach. A second later, Bruno was on the ground just like Dragan, groaning softly.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "I can¡¯t blame you for your misinterpretation," Muzazi said, standing above Bruno, blocking out the light from the broken window like a silhouette from hell. "Judging by your present state, you are woefully lacking without those shields of yours. At this moment, I am superior to you, and I do not expect this to change. Please consider this a learning experience."


    And with that last genuine piece of ¡¯advice¡¯, Muzazi kicked Bruno with all his strength, sending him sliding over the smooth floor and slamming him into the far wall. As Bruno lay still, the purple Aether that had protected him dissipated.


    Dragan stared at Bruno¡¯s limp form, mouth hanging open. He¡¯d known Muzazi was strong, but ¡­ but he¡¯d just dismantled Bruno as if he were nothing. Dragan stood absolutely no chance.


    As Bruno¡¯s Aether dissipated, the sword that had been suspended in the air fell down limply - and with a burst of white light, it returned to Muzazi¡¯s waiting hand. Taking his time, he ran his eyes along the blade for any signs of damage, before nodding in apparent satisfaction. His eyes flicked towards Dragan.


    "I think you should know that your other comrades are far away from here, and still moving further," he said, pointing his sword towards Dragan. "They will not be interfering with us. If you had agreed to a fair match from the beginning, I would have allowed you to procure a weapon of your choice - but you have proven you cannot be trusted with such lenience. Pick up that gun of yours, and then we shall decide whose decisions were correct."


    Plan plan plan. Come up with a plan. Or at least say something, delay him as much as possible.


    Still on the ground, Dragan opened his mouth. "What if I don¡¯t pick up the gun?"


    It wasn¡¯t much, but it was all his brain could come up with in this kind of situation.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes narrowed. "Then you¡¯ll die empty-handed."


    Dragan looked up at Muzazi, at his merciless eyes, before slowly reaching for his stun pistol. He moved at a speed just slow enough to give him time to think, but not so slow that Muzazi could spot the ploy.


    Could he escape? Maybe, but it would be nearly impossible. Even if he somehow managed to get out of Muzazi¡¯s immediate range, he had basically no idea where he was - any escape route would have to be improvised.


    Could he fight? Absolutely not. Not even worth considering the question.


    Could he ¡­ was there anything else he could do? No matter how hard he thought, he couldn¡¯t see any options beyond fight or flight.


    His fingers brushed against the pistol¡¯s handle, slowly curling around it to grip as tightly as his body would allow.


    "Now," said Muzazi calmly, taking a step back and lowering his body - entering a stance where he could release a devastating slash at a moment¡¯s notice. "Stand up. Prepare yourself."


    Slowly, this time from terror - and the shaking of his legs - rather than planning, Dragan rose to his feet. An unearthly calm settled over his heart - he was about to die. There was no longer any question about it. No action he took would prevent this.


    Anxiety came from fear of making the wrong choices. When you realized that all possible choices were wrong, fear faded and left a hollow blank.


    Limply, he raised the pistol to point in the direction of Muzazi¡¯s head. He wouldn¡¯t hit his mark, he knew that and Muzazi knew that, but he felt as if he had to make some token effort.


    Muzazi twitched, just slightly, and Dragan accepted death.


    "You hurt Bruno?" said a high-pitched voice from behind Atoy Muzazi.


    Brow suddenly furrowing, Muzazi whirled around - and both he and Dragan were sent flying away by a sudden burst of air pressure and smashing debris, splinters of wood and steel raining down across the casino floor.


    As Dragan rolled to a halt several meters away, he looked up to the source of that ¡­ that explosion - his eyes widening as they recognized what was before them.


    Serena del Sed stood there, where Bruno had fallen, massive amounts of violet Aether swirling and striking around her like a miniature thunderstorm. In one hand, she held the surviving handle of the sword she¡¯d just slashed at Muzazi - the blade had exploded on impact and sent them flying.


    The weapon she held in her other hand was far too big to be called a sword.


    When Dragan had seen her create that massive stone sword back in the temple on Yoslof, he¡¯d assumed that was her upper limit - something extraordinary for her. That, however, did not seem to be the case. The sword she held was easily several times her size, formed from crushed wood and plastic - the remnants of one of the big patolli tables that they¡¯d landed next to.


    Serena didn¡¯t seem in the best shape, either - she still bore the wounds that Bruno had suffered, of course, but it seemed almost as if the Aether coursing through her body was harming her as well. With every bright violet spark, her body shuddered violently, and her eyes stared ahead blankly. It was as if she were sleepwalking.


    Muzazi hadn¡¯t been sent flying as far as Dragan - he¡¯d managed to partially block the blow with his own sword, so he¡¯d remained in a standing position as he slid across the floor, glaring ahead at his new enemy.


    He glanced back at Dragan, whose back was against the wall, but clearly decided that the greatest threat right now was Serena.


    "I was under the impression I¡¯d defeated you," Muzazi said cautiously, turning back to face Serena. "Your Aether has changed - and you clearly have no shortage of it now. Explain yourself, del Sed."


    Serena¡¯s teeth were bared in a bestial scowl, her eyes still looking up at the ceiling rather than Muzazi. As Dragan watched, a thin line of blood trickled from her nose and dropped onto the floor. Even the blood sparkled with violet Aether.


    When the words left her mouth, they were like the cracking of an iceberg. "You hurt Bruno," she rasped, hand holding the sword squeezing with such strength that splinters of wood went flying off the hilt. The sound was like that of a cannonball firing.


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes, moved back into a defensive stance. Clearly, he didn¡¯t quite understand what he was dealing with here.


    "Bruno?" he said. "I¡¯m not familiar with that person."


    Finally, Serena¡¯s eyes snapped to behold Muzazi - and those pupils were dilated to dots of utter fury.


    "You hurt Bruno," she roared - and she swung her sword.


    To call the resultant movement a ¡¯blow¡¯ would be to downplay it beyond belief. It was a force of nature, like a hurricane made miniature, the sheer air pressure created by the slash sending slot machines flying this way and that, smashing into walls and narrowly avoiding smashing Dragan.


    That was without even mentioning the actual object being swung, of course. Dragan had no doubt that, if that sword were to touch him at that kind of speed, he¡¯d be reduced to mincemeat in a second. Hell, even Muzazi would probably be severely injured - and, as if to prove that hypothesis, the swordsman leapt above the blow with thrusters from his feet and sought shelter among the rafters high above, standing among them as if they were a forest.


    Serena growled as Muzazi exited her significantly large range - and she reached out with her free hand, grabbing hold of the railing that encircled the entire section she was standing on. With awful sounds of warping and screeching metal, the railing pulled itself free of the floor and collected itself into a long, sharp blade in Serena¡¯s hand, violet Aether forcing it into a stable shape.


    Unlike the previous weapon, which had been like a massive greatsword, this was more like a silver rapier designed for stabbing and impaling. It was still massive though - absurdly so.


    Serena struck out with a series of savage stabs up towards the rafters, sending chunks of the ceiling raining down as Muzazi dodged and dodged like a monkey fleeing through the jungle, swinging from wooden beam to wooden beam. As he watched the inevitable process of the casino¡¯s demolition, it occurred to Dragan that this was probably a good time to run.


    This was the perfect opportunity, after all - avoiding those lethal blows meant that Muzazi had no spare attention to waste on him. Hell, he could probably walk out and the idiot wouldn¡¯t even notice.


    But ¡­ it felt wrong. Bruno had gotten hurt to save him - not that¡¯d he¡¯d been asked to - and now Serena was getting hurt doing the same thing. Well, she seemed to be almost killing him in the process, but it was the thought that counted.


    Muzazi was strong. Dragan knew that. Even in this situation, there was every chance that the Special Officer could turn things around and land a killing blow. Besides, he didn¡¯t know how long Serena could perform on this level. Judging from her body language and obvious physical distress, this didn¡¯t seem to be a usual thing for her.


    If he left them here, Bruno and Serena, and later found out that they¡¯d ¡­ that the worst had happened, what would he do? What would he say to Skipper and Ruth?


    The smart thing to do was walk away.


    Dragan tapped the button to recharge his stun pistol, staggered to his feet, and let his bright-blue Aether flare around him. As he adopted an expression of resolve he didn¡¯t quite feel, he did his best to stop his legs from shaking.


    Just this once, to hell with the smart thing to do. He¡¯d always wondered what it was like to be an idiot.

 Chapter 52:3.15: The Flip

    Dragan was dead. Bruno and Serena too. Ruth just knew it.


    She let out a guttural howl as she charged across the roof of the car, aiming for the Fifth Dead¡¯s heart with her claws. This blow, like all the others, was repelled by a lazy swing of her opponent¡¯s quarterstaff that felt like a gunshot. She staggered backwards, her feet failing to find purchase on the car¡¯s slippery roof, and a backhand from the Fifth Dead sent her flying off the side of the vehicle.


    As she fell, she dispelled her claws and grabbed onto the underside of the car, clambering around underneath like some kind of spider, like some kind of insect that couldn¡¯t even save it¡¯s friends.


    A lashed corpse strapped to a post, tears and hope still in it¡¯s eyes. A pile of bones, still smoking with plasmaburns. Failures, failures, always failures.


    She¡¯d let it happen again.


    A roar of frustration burst from her throat as she pulled herself up into the opposite side of the vehicle, blinking the tears from her eyes. The Fifth Dead looked up from his current task - he¡¯d ripped a hole in the roof with his bare hands and was looking down into the back of the vehicle. Roz was visible down there, lying in a heap, and as the Fifth Dead reached down to grab him the Umbrant¡¯s eyes gently fluttered open.


    She¡¯d get him with a swipe from behind, then. She¡¯d cut his head off with one smooth motion. She¡¯d rip his damn throat out and have him choke on his blood. She¡¯d pry his ribs apart and stomp on his heart. She¡¯d tear off his arms and beat him to death. She¡¯d make him pay, she¡¯d kill him, she¡¯d kill him!


    Her opponent saw her coming. With one smooth but lightning fast motion, the Fifth Dead stood up to his full gargantuan height, turned his quarterstaff in his hands, and swung one end of it right towards Ruth¡¯s temple.


    That was fine. She had methods to deal with people who attacked that way.


    With a flare of red Aether, she switched her Skeletal mask for her Noblesse helmet, the metal grin replaced by a blank marble visage.


    Skipper had walked her through the creation of this second set of armour shortly after they¡¯d first met, to provide her with a way to defend rather than attack. Each piece of the Noblesse set shattered after a single blow, but in the process it reflected that impact back upon the attacker - opening them up to retaliation. It had never failed her before.


    And it wouldn¡¯t fail now. sea??h th§× N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The second the staff struck her helmeted head, the marble shattered like glass - and a second later, the Fifth Dead was sent staggering backwards from the rebound. A grunt of annoyance escaped from his throat, and the giant adjusted his stance to swing the other side of the staff at Ruth¡¯s exposed throat.


    He didn¡¯t get the chance.


    "Ruth! Hold on!" screamed Skipper from the driver¡¯s seat below - and, operating by instinct rather than conscious planning, Ruth squatted down and plunged her claws into the roof of the car like hooks into a fish¡¯s mouth. The Fifth Dead cocked his head at the incongruous movement.


    And then Skipper flipped the car over.


    Ruth suppressed nausea as the car turned, tried to ignore the pain in her arms as they became the only thing keeping her attached to the car, her legs finding only empty air once the car turned fully upside down. Her claws would slide out before long, though - they were too damn sharp for their own good - and this barrel roll was taking way too long. Why the hell didn¡¯t these people design limo¡¯s with stunts in mind?!


    Compared to the Fifth Dead, though, she was doing great. The moment the car flipped over, the man fell straight down into the abyss below like a rock dropped into the ocean. That should have been cause for some relief, but¡­


    ...but the Fifth Dead just looked up at her with that impassive expression the whole time he fell, making direct eye contact without the slightest hint of fear - until he was out of sight.


    Ruth let out the breath she¡¯d been holding - and then immediately lashed out a hand to catch Roz by the back of the collar. The poor bastard had fallen out of the hole in the roof of the car, and now he was kicking and screaming as he got a top-down view of the great city of Taldan.


    "Skipper!" Ruth half-roared, half-sobbed up into the vehicle. "Flip the damn car! You got him-"


    Suddenly, the hairs on her body stood up, goosebumps conquering her skin in one second flat. The instinctual fear brought on by a predator¡¯s gaze.


    "Summon," came the Fifth Dead¡¯s voice from below, sounding somehow both far away and right next to her ear. "Transportation Eagle."


    Deep down in the abyss below, there was a glint of orange light - and a second later, the Fifth Dead was right behind the car again, floating in empty space as two huge bursts of orange Aether sprouted from behind him.


    At first, Ruth though the man had grown wings - then she realized that it was somehow worse.


    Just like the swordfish that had impaled Dragon¡¯s hand, the Fifth Dead¡¯s Aether had spawned a living organism - a great bird that was carrying it¡¯s master, talons gripping the Fifth Dead¡¯s shoulders tightly.


    Ruth gaped at this sight - and even Roz seemed too surprised to scream.


    The Fifth Dead, for his part, simply hung there as his bird carried him, both hands clasping his quarterstaff like it was a magician¡¯s cane. His expression still hadn¡¯t changed since he¡¯d been sent flying off the car in the first place.


    "Summon," he said again, voice still a businesslike monotone. "Penetration Swordfish times ten."


    At his command, ten spheres of orange Aether began orbiting around him - changing shape a second later into ten copies of the swordfish that had originally struck Dragan. He nodded towards Ruth, and their eyes flicked as one to fixate on her.


    "Fire," he said, and the onslaught began.


    These swordfish were no ordinary projectiles - just like the animals they were based on would swim through water, the constructs flew through the air in complex patterns. They weaved around both obstacles and each other, each one leaving a faint orange trail - meaning that, before long, it looked like a great orange scribble was heading towards Ruth.


    "Skipper!" screamed Ruth again as the swordfish grew closer. "Flip the damn car!"


    She heard a grunt of frustration from above her. "It won¡¯t flip!" Skipper shouted back. "I¡¯m gonna, uh, I¡¯m gonna try and bypass it! Just hang in there, yeah?"


    Don¡¯t have much of a choice.


    She faced the onslaught of swordfish with a grim expression. What could she even do? One hand was busy holding onto Roz - who¡¯d started screaming again, which wasn¡¯t helping - while the other was preventing the both of them from falling into the abyss.


    She didn¡¯t have the strength or the angle to throw Roz back into the car. She didn¡¯t have any comrades who could provide covering fire. She didn¡¯t even have Skipper¡¯s help - he was busy being the worst damn driver in the world.


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    Ruth Blaine took a deep breath. All she had was herself. That was fine.


    She¡¯d been there before.


    She let her claws disappear - and, in the second before she fell down into the city below, she grabbed onto the hole her claws had made with her hand. Roz yelped in surprise at the sudden lurching motion, and his sudden thrashing didn¡¯t do much to help Ruth keep grip.


    The first wave of swordfish was upon her - two aiming for her face and throat, another two making a beeline for her legs. Not the easiest targets, but she just had to shut up and deal with it.


    With a crackle of red Aether, Ruth brought her clawed gloves back - but this time, she put them on her feet instead of her hands. Roz¡¯s scream cut off as those claws appeared dangerously close to his face, and he fell back into blissful unconsciousness.


    Ruth grunted from the strain. Squeezing her feet into a pair of metal gloves wasn¡¯t the most comfortable sensation, but it was the only way she was going to get out of this. If her hands weren¡¯t free, she¡¯d just have to use her legs.


    She struck out with two lightning-fast kicks - shattering the swordfish that had been aiming for her feet. The remaining two swordfish didn¡¯t seem to have the capacity for fear or even caution, as they continued their flight towards her face as if nothing had happened.


    The angle of their approach meant that her feet couldn¡¯t reach them, no matter how high she kicked. A different strategy was needed.


    This was where she thrived. Ask her to come up with a long-term plan, or to understand what someone else was thinking, and she was useless. But a situation like this, where she had to adapt second by second to stay alive ¡­ this was her nirvana.


    Ruth took in a deep breath - and a second later, spat at the first swordfish. The spittle flew out like a bullet, crackling with infused red Aether, and struck the swordfish in the skull, shattering it. The second projectile simply swam around the quickly dissipating remains of its companion - it was too close for the same strategy to work.


    Fine. That wasn¡¯t her only trick.


    With another heavy exhale, she dissipated the entire Skeletal Set she was wearing - and remanifested it onto the unconscious Roz. This wasn¡¯t something she could usually do so easily - the slightest movement on the part of the target could cause the armour to dissipate during manifestation - but the direct physical contact and Roz¡¯s unconsciousness made it easy as pie.


    With a roar of exertion, she swung the armoured Roz up like a flail, smashing the swordfish between him and the car¡¯s roof. If not for the armour, that would have smashed Roz¡¯s spine, too.


    As the remaining five swordfish surged towards her - the original four had clearly been a means of testing her reflexes - there was a shuddering movement from above. A second later, the car flipped back around to its original alignment, sending Ruth and Roz falling down onto the roof of the vehicle as the swordfish passed harmlessly overhead, impaling an unfortunate traffic drone.


    "Took you long enough," growled Ruth, returning the Skeletal Set to her own body as she regained her footing.


    "You¡¯re meant to be nice to the driver," said Skipper from below. "I think that Noel kid was trying to hack the controls, mess us up. I switched it to a manual setting, though - now you can enjoy my expert driving interruption-free!"


    Ruth went to roll her eyes, but stopped midway through the motion.


    Dragan was dead. Bruno and Serena too. She¡¯d managed to keep the thought at bay while fighting, while distracted, but now there was a lull in the action it smashed back into her full force.


    The Fifth Dead stared at her impassively as his Transportation Eagle continued its pursuit, his body swaying like a pendulum as the chase went round corners and through roundabouts. Ruth wondered if he¡¯d been expecting her to deflect his ten swordfish - she honestly couldn¡¯t tell what this guy was thinking from his facial expressions.


    Wait. Something was wrong there.


    He¡¯d fired ten swordfish. She¡¯d deflected four, then five had hit the traffic drone. That still left¡­


    The last of the orange swordfish lunged out from the underside of the car, aimed straight for her exposed temple. Given its speed and obvious strength, it would drill through her skull and pierce her brain without much trouble. A lesser fighter wouldn¡¯t even have seen the projectile coming, much less be able to dodge it.


    Ruth Blaine reached out and grabbed the swordfish with her hand, it¡¯s nose an inch from the side of her head. It tickled against her hair.


    Squeezing slightly - just enough to break off the thing¡¯s fins - Ruth looked up at the Fifth Dead. Still, his face hadn¡¯t changed. He¡¯d killed Dragan, driven Bruno and Serena to get themselves killed, all with that damn blank look on his face.


    She narrowed her eyes. She¡¯d make sure he kept that face as a corpse.


    With all her strength, and a flare of red Aether, Ruth hurled the swordfish towards the Fifth Dead like a dart, the projectile moving so quickly that it was barely even visible.


    The Transportation Eagle flapped its wings, ascending a little higher into the sky, only to be struck by two more projectiles - impaling each of its wings. The clawed gauntlets of Ruth¡¯s Skeletal Set protruded from the bird¡¯s wounds, red Aether still glowing around them, and as the bird screeched in agony tiny fragments of its body fell down into the abyss below like sand.


    It was a mistake to assume Ruth could only use her armour as armour. She¡¯d always found that anything sharp could be thrown, if it came down to it.


    The Fifth Dead¡¯s eyes widened, just slightly. Ruth grinned.


    Gotcha.


    Finally, after a moment of trying to retain its form, the Transportation Eagle shattered into glass and it¡¯s master went falling once again into the abyss below.


    The shaking of Ruth¡¯s legs finally reaching a crescendo, she collapsed to her knees and lay there for a moment, panting for breath. Loss and victory mingled together into an emotion that didn¡¯t quite have a name yet, but was without a doubt unpleasant.


    But she¡¯d done it. She¡¯d done it.


    "Summon - Transportation Eagle."


    There was a flare of orange light from below, quickly growing brighter as it¡¯s source once again ascended.


    Ruth almost popped a blood vessel. The Fifth Dead could spam that shit?! Was there anything about this situation that was fair?!


    She had to get up. The fight wasn¡¯t over yet. Given the Fifth Dead¡¯s obvious abilities, it wasn¡¯t even close to over.


    But her legs wouldn¡¯t do what she told them. They simply sat there, quivering, rendered useless by exertion and stress. Gritting her teeth, Ruth thumped her thigh with an angry hand, as if it were a machine that could be shocked into motion.


    Useless. Useless!


    Ruth squeezed her eyes shut, and the wet tears she felt there only made her more frustrated. There was nothing she could do. There¡¯d never been anything she could do. Not once in her life.


    She prepared herself for the end. Dragan, Bruno and Serena. She¡¯d let them all down. Skipper too. She should have known it would end like this from the start.


    Useless¡­


    A friendly metal hand patted her on the head, and she opened her eyes again to look up. Skipper smiled down at her cheekily.


    "You doing alright there, kid?" he said. Roz was tucked under one of his arms, and with that same hand he was tapping away at a script.


    Slowly, shakily, Ruth shook her head. "I-I couldn¡¯t ¡­ I wasn¡¯t¡­"


    Skipper shrugged. "Ah, well. Don¡¯t beat yourself up about it, yeah? You did your best. That¡¯s why we¡¯re about to win."


    She blinked. The words Skipper had just said ¡­ they didn¡¯t make sense. They were about to win? No, they weren¡¯t. That wasn¡¯t ¡­ that wasn¡¯t possible.


    As the orange glow beneath them intensified - the Fifth Dead was nearly upon them - Ruth¡¯s gaze drifted to the script in Skipper¡¯s hand. The program he was tapping away at ¡­ it was some kind of remote control. He was manipulating a diagram of ¡­ a car?


    Their car.


    Skipper grinned, raised his eyebrows. "I know, right? Your old man¡¯s not just a pretty face. You good to jump?"


    Again, she mutely shook her head. An involuntary sniffle was the only noise she made.


    "The things I do for you guys," sighed Skipper theatrically. He reached down and picked her up with one hand just as easily as he¡¯d grabbed Roz. "I¡¯d close your mouth for this part, kid - don¡¯t wanna eat any flies, yeah?"


    A nod. A grin. A fire in her eyes.


    Skipper smiled softly. "That¡¯s my girl," he said, and jumped off the car.


    As they fell down, passing the ascending Fifth Dead, Skipper tapped one last time on his script. Above them, the car lurched, adjusting it¡¯s angle - to point directly at the man flying towards it.


    And then it accelerated.


    A giant of a man and his pet bird flying upwards at incredible speeds. A half-wrecked hulk of metal and fuel flying downwards at incredible speeds. A collision was inevitable, and the results?


    Spectacular.


    Ruth stared up at the fireball in the sky as they continued falling down towards the nearest pedestrian platform, Skipper firing Heartbeat Shotguns downwards to reduce the speed of their fall. As they finally made contact once again with solid ground, Ruth collapsed into the floor, still staring up.


    "Do you think we got him?" she said quietly, eyes scanning the crash site for any signs of movement.


    "Not a chance," Skipper said, grabbing her under the arm and pulling her along as he continued running into the city¡¯s alleys and streets. "Winded him, maybe - but you don¡¯t kill a legend like that! I should know."


    As they retreated into the shadows, Skipper too looked back at the explosion, a pained expression on his face.


    "Hang in there, kids," he muttered. "Hang in there¡­"

 Chapter 53:3.16: Humiliation

    Atoy Muzazi avoided death by mere centimeters as he dropped to the ground, del Sed¡¯s newest greatsword passing right over his head.


    That didn¡¯t mean he had time to relax, though. Before even another second could pass, Muzazi was forced to jump to the side to dodge a subsequent blow from del Sed¡¯s other sword, this one a smoking longsword created from the wreckage of one of the slot machines.


    Muzazi fired the thrusters he¡¯d placed along the front of his own body, propelling him a short distance away from del Sed. He needed time to think, time to formulate a strategy - but unfortunately del Sed didn¡¯t seem to be inclined to allow that. This was less a duel between equals and more him avoiding the rampage of a wild beast.


    He¡¯d assumed del Sed¡¯s Aether ability had only been the creation of those forcefields he¡¯d been using, but clearly that wasn¡¯t the case. The creation of weapons was possible as well. Del Sed was swinging them like clubs, without any true swordsmanship to speak of, but with the speed and force with which they were moving that didn¡¯t matter much.


    Del Sed¡¯s arms were like twin stars of violet Aether, almost hard to look at from the sheer brightness. Without a doubt, they were infused beyond even steel right now. Luminescence wouldn¡¯t be able to penetrate those limbs.


    This strength was terrifying to behold - but Muzazi knew that it wouldn¡¯t last much longer. He knew where this wellspring was coming from, after all.


    As far as Muzazi knew, there wasn¡¯t an agreed upon name for the technique. Some referred to it as overclocking, others preferred to call it an Aether burn, but the principle was clear. A human body could only tap into so much of their Aether at once, and that transfer rate grew larger the more the user trained their body. An Aether burn was when the user purposefully tapped into more Aether than they could physically handle.


    They¡¯d experience vastly increased strength for a short period, to be sure, but their body wouldn¡¯t be able to withstand it. Before long, their organs would turn to slurry and their skin would shrivel into sandpaper - and that would be that. It wasn¡¯t quite as bad as Aether awakening, but it was a suicidal technique all the same.


    How long would del Sed last, then? A couple of minutes at the most. All he had to do was continue avoiding attacks until then.


    However, circumstances were making that difficult¡­


    Muzazi whirled around, spinning Luminescence to deflect a series of stun bolts that had been aimed at his back. He glared up at his secondary attacker - Dragan Hadrien, with that detestable stun pistol clutched in his hands.


    This casino was separated into two levels - the ground floor, where Muzazi and del Sed were engaging in proper combat - and an upper deck, where Hadrien had cowardly positioned himself. Muzazi hadn¡¯t had the chance for a proper inspection, but he believed that the stairs up there had been destroyed at some point during del Sed¡¯s onslaught - ascending to Hadrien¡¯s position would mean jumping from here, then, which would make him an easy target for his sword-wielding adversary.


    Muzazi bit his lip. This was an unfortunate situation.


    "Atoy," said Marie over his earpiece. "I¡¯ve lost sight of you. Talk to me."


    "I¡¯m engaging del Sed and Hadrien," he replied, leaping over a room-length swing from del Sed that destroyed the sword in the process. He landed on the chandelier, keeping hold of the golden chain that connected it to the ceiling with one hand. "Things aren¡¯t going as easily as I¡¯d hoped. Where are you?"


    "That bowman¡¯s a real pain in the ass," she sighed over the radio. "He was blocking every one of my shots, so I¡¯m on my way to your location now. That fine with you?"


    Muzazi dropped off the chandelier as Hadrien fired off another flurry of stunshots, readying Luminescence to block del Sed¡¯s next blow. "Two versus two - yes, that would be permissible. Please hurry."


    "Roger dodger."


    Del Sed lashed out with a massive flexile sword formed from the carpet they¡¯d been standing on - and although Muzazi managed to block it, the strike sent him flying towards the broken window. A thruster on his back provided enough propulsion to stop him from completely falling out, but it was a close thing - his feet were right on the edge of the gap.


    At least from this position he had a clear view of both del Sed and Hadrien. Turning his back on the Cogitant was the last thing he wanted to do, given prior experience, but defending himself from del Sed¡¯s attacks had made it increasingly necessary.


    Hadrien couldn¡¯t attack continuously either, though. At some point, he¡¯d have to recharge that stun pistol of his - that would be Muzazi¡¯s chance to deal with the secondary threat.


    Muzazi held his sword ready, eyes squinting to see through the clouds of dust that now infested the casino, and leapt back into the fray.


    -


    Ruth poured all her remaining Aether into her legs - not to strengthen them, but just to keep them stable enough that she could keep running. Sweat poured down her forehead as she charged after Skipper down yet another alleyway, casting a glance behind her every few seconds to check for pursuers.


    There weren¡¯t any. For the moment, at least, it seemed they¡¯d escaped the Fifth Dead.


    "You¡¯re running pretty hard, huh?" said a smug, high-pitched voice from up ahead.


    Ruth whirled around, a growl already escaping her throat. Skipper, with Roz still tucked under his arm, was looking ahead at the short figure that had appeared at the other end of the alley. He narrowed his eyes, clearly exasperated.


    "You don¡¯t give up easy," he half-said, half-sighed.


    The girl called Noel stood there, grinning, fists at her hips as her personal drones bobbed and weaved around her.


    "I like to consider myself a professional," she said, putting a hand to her chest. Even as short as she was, she blotted out the streetlights behind her, making her shadow stretch large and far. "People like me? We don¡¯t give up just because we¡¯re told to."


    Skipper leaned against the wall, subtly catching his breath. "Professional?" he said, cocking his head. "I¡¯m surprised you can spell the word."


    Noel clicked her tongue. "You think I can¡¯t tell what you¡¯re doing? You¡¯re hardly being subtle."


    "Maybe not," Skipper chuckled, shrugging. "Doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s not working. You¡¯ve clearly not got, uh, mega-thick skin. Ruth."


    That last word was delivered in a hush, a quiet command for Ruth to get ready for whatever would happen next. She nodded, as subtly as he could, and took stock of the situation.


    Noel didn¡¯t have the sheer number of drones she¡¯d had before - there were around twenty, and only airborne ones. Still, that didn¡¯t make the plasma shotguns protruding from between their mandibles any less effective.


    She licked her lips, trying to ignore just how tired her body was. To tell the truth, she wasn¡¯t exactly confident in her ability to take down one or two of these drones, let alone twenty.


    "Having trouble thinking there, Miss Blaine?" said Noel, eyes flicking over to look at her. "It¡¯s not your strong suit, right? You¡¯re more suited to punching and making stupid mistakes."


    Ruth growled again, rage leaking from between her teeth. Just like Skipper knew how to push Noel¡¯s buttons, Noel clearly knew how to push Ruth¡¯s. Why couldn¡¯t people like that just learn to throw punches instead?


    "Ruth," said Skipper quietly, still staring at Noel. "Be honest with me right now, yeah? Are you in any state to fight?"


    Yeah.


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    She wanted to say that, she honestly did - the last thing she wanted was to be a burden - but it just wasn¡¯t true. Her legs felt like jelly, and her arms weren¡¯t much better. It was taking active effort to hide just how ragged her breathing was.


    Slowly, she shook her head.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked over to her for a second, and he grinned reassuringly. "Like I said, don¡¯t beat yourself up about it. Only so much one person can do by themselves. Take a breather, yeah?"


    "Yeah, Ruth," said Noel, injecting the word with as much derisive venom as she could muster. "Take a breather. I¡¯ll get to you once I¡¯m done with your boss here."


    Skipper ignored her, and Ruth followed his lead. "Ruth," he said, casually stretching. "You might wanna take some cover for this one, yeah?"


    Ruth caught the dangerous glint in his eye, paled slightly, and nodded. A second later, she was charging behind the nearest dumpster, dragging the unconscious Roz behind her by the arm.


    Noel raised an unimpressed eyebrow as she regarded Skipper. "Are you trying to act cool or something? Run, I¡¯ll hold them off, that kind of thing? That¡¯s kinda weird, you know?"


    Skipper just grinned, cracking his neck. "I¡¯m a weird kind of guy, you know? I¡¯m the kind of guy who cuts the crust off his pizza and eats it separate. A real freak."


    With such form and technique that it could rival Dragan, Noel rolled her eyes. "I didn¡¯t ask."


    "Too bad. So, are these drone things of yours gonna attack, or do you want to play some hopscotch first?"


    Noel sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Kill him," she said almost casually, waving a hand vaguely in Skipper¡¯s direction. A second later, each and every drone sparked with cyan Aether - the command being transmitted, Ruth realized - and they surged forward as one.


    As they approached with a series of screeches, the drones¡¯ shotguns began to glow an incandescent orange - the plasma preparing to fire from deep within. It was like a cloud of angry wasps had just designated Skipper as their target - and, as Ruth watched, that cloud converged around him from all angles.


    Just before his face left her view, Ruth caught a glance of Skipper¡¯s grin. She ducked further under cover.


    "Heartbeat Landmine," he said, and then the world exploded around him.


    -


    Muzazi deflected two more of Hadrien¡¯s stunshots, and the third sailed over his shoulder to zoom out into the night. While Hadrien was a better shot than Muzazi had expected, he clearly didn¡¯t have much experience with firearms.


    Del Sed wasn¡¯t much better, but the difference in ammunition made that a much more dangerous opponent.


    The dust was billowing around del Sed like a cloak - and every time they thrust their hands out, that dust would collect into a perfectly shaped longsword in that hand. With a roar of anger, they hurled their latest acquisition at Muzazi like a giant throwing knife.


    Dodging to the side, Muzazi narrowly avoided that sword and another shot from Hadrien, taking cover behind one of the still-standing slot machines. This wasn¡¯t going as he¡¯d hoped - del Sed was more resilient than he¡¯d given him credit for, and Hadrien¡¯s interference made it difficult to launch an attack.


    Muzazi placed his palm flat against the slot machine and primed hidden thrusters on its surface. The angle wasn¡¯t perfect, but it would suffice for a distraction.


    Leaping out of cover, Muzazi sent the slot machine flying towards del Sed, the gambling apparatus looking for all the world like some kind of rocket ship. Then, while del Sed was occupied, Muzazi charged up the rubble that now littered the lower section of the casino and leapt towards the upper deck, Luminescence held overhead.


    If he took out Hadrien now, he could concentrate on del Sed - that was his path to victory. His Aether was running low after all this dodging and flying on Luminescence, but he still had enough for this.


    Standing as he was on the upper deck, Hadrien¡¯s eyes widened as he saw Muzazi approach. And then - they flicked to the side.


    Danger.


    Without missing a beat, Muzazi swung sideways in midair and made to block the attack he knew was coming. Doubtless del Sed had managed to create yet another weapon from the slot machine, or had simply renewed his creation of dust swords. No matter - he¡¯d deflect the attack and continue on his present course.


    But his blade met empty air. No attack came.


    For a moment, Muzazi¡¯s brow furrowed in confusion. Then, his heart dropped. Del Sed was still on the lower section, collapsed on one knee, blood dribbling from their mouth. They were in absolutely no state to attack.


    Hadrien, on the other hand¡­


    A choking noise escaped Muzazi¡¯s throat as the first stun-bolt struck him in the side, slowing his momentum and causing him to fall short of his intended destination. Rather than landing right in front of Hadrien, he rolled to a stop right at the edge of the upper deck, around a meter away - and as he went to get up, two more stun-bolts struck him in the right arm and leg respectively.


    This wasn¡¯t happening. Surely, this wasn¡¯t happening. He couldn¡¯t have made such an idiotic mistake.


    Yet he had. The thump of another stun-bolt into his back confirmed that - Hadrien wasn¡¯t even aiming at him that much, he was just pointing the stun-pistol in Muzazi¡¯s direction and pulling the trigger as many times as he could.


    Even as his limbs stiffened and grew numb, Muzazi¡¯s resolve remained firm. He would not allow this to happen again. Even if his body wouldn¡¯t do as he demanded of it, his Aether would not betray him.


    He created a thruster on the back of his slow leg to speed it up, propelling it into a vicious kick that sent the stun-pistol flying into the air, out of Hadrien¡¯s hands. The coward staggered backwards, watching his weapon as it sailed away, eyes full of fear.


    Muzazi knew he¡¯d collapse fully before long, but so long as he could finish Hadrien before then, it would be worth it. He¡¯d make it through this situation and become stronger for it.


    More thrusters - on his arms, his legs, his back, enough for him to roughly manipulate his own body like a puppet. He forced his arm into an outstretched position, fingers curled to seize Hadrien¡¯s throat the moment they made contact, and propelled himself forward like a bat out of hell.


    Hadrien¡¯s face, dismayed and defeated, grew larger in Muzazi¡¯s vision in a second, close enough to be touched, close enough to be executed. The Cogitant¡¯s eyes flicked to look behind Muzazi.


    If Muzazi¡¯s throat had been working properly, he would have screamed with anger.


    That won¡¯t work twice!


    His hand curled around Hadrien¡¯s throat - and, with the help of tiny thrusters along his knuckles, he began to squeeze.


    But.


    Something struck Muzazi in the back, and the intensity of his thrusters began to die, like the engine of a car slowly winding down. Before long, he was still standing only through his own willpower, and his fingers were limp against Hadrien¡¯s throat. They could barely twitch, let alone crush.


    It was happening again.


    A feeling of distinct despair setting in, Muzazi turned his head as quickly as his body would allow - which wasn¡¯t very fast at all. Two more of the projectiles struck him in the time it took to see what was happening.


    Three long strings of Neverwire - their red glow standing out in the dim of the ruined casino - had latched onto Muzazi, fixed tight onto his back like harpoons into a whale. His eyes, already growing blurry, followed them to the source.


    The broken window. Two cars were parked just outside the smashed window, their doors were open, and the Neverwire binding him had been fired by the armoured security officers who had jumped out. Petrio had been right, then - Hadrien was working with the city¡¯s government this time. The bald officer who seemed to be in charge glared at him from down below, a truly substantial stun cannon held in his hands.


    There was a click from just out of his vision. The sound of a stun pistol being readied.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes, wide with impotent fury, flicked back to Hadrien - just in time for the Cogitant to press the barrel of his stun pistol against his cheek. A strangled gasp escaped his throat; no, no, this wasn¡¯t possible, he¡¯d kicked the pistol out of Hadrien¡¯s hand.


    But the answer was simple, almost idiotically so. Hadrien had a second gun, one he hadn¡¯t used yet so as to lure Muzazi into a false sense of security once he disarmed him. It barely even qualified as a strategy, yet he¡¯d fallen for it all the same. His rage had led him to walk into that pit.


    Hadrien smirked. "Gotcha," he breathed out, and pulled the trigger. S~ea??h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    In the moment before the final shock ran through his body and plunged him into unconsciousness, Muzazi shut his eyes, teeth gritted in utmost frustration.


    He¡¯d let it happen again.


    -


    Noel stood there, mouth gaping open and eyes nearly as wide, as the scrap that had seconds ago been her drones rained down.


    Skipper had done something, Ruth knew that, but it wasn¡¯t something she¡¯d seen before. It had been like a Heartbeat Shotgun, but from his entire body - taking out the drones that had converged on him like some kind of shockwave.


    "Whu¡­?" said Noel, mouth seemingly unable to form the word. Her eyes were unfocused, not even really looking at her broken drones or her enemies. It was as if this turn of events was something completely incomprehensible for her.


    For a moment, Skipper seemed intensely fatigued, but in the next second his posture had returned to its usual relaxed slouch. He shrugged, smiling a lopsided smile.


    "Well, that¡¯s that," he said, as if nothing had happened. "Come along, Ruth."


    And with that, he strolled past Noel, passing the paralyzed girl by without a second look. A second later, Ruth - working up the nerve - followed after him, Roz slung over her back. She gave Noel a cautious glance as she walked past, but the girl didn¡¯t even look her way.


    To tell the truth, without those drones of hers, Noel wasn¡¯t that intimidating. While there were stray sparks of cyan Aether zipping around her, the strength of them wasn¡¯t anything especially impressive. It was around the same level as Dragan¡¯s, or maybe even lower.


    Or ¡­ the same level as Dragan¡¯s had been. Again, Ruth¡¯s heart dropped at the sudden remembrance.


    She strode past, head angled down so that nobody could see the tears. From behind her, she heard Noel¡¯s bloodcurdling scream of frustration, but she didn¡¯t turn to look. She just had to keep moving forward.


    Still ¡­ it made her feel awful, but as she and Skipper left the alley, there was an undeniable sense of relief that the night had come to an end.

 Chapter 54:3.17: Let The Dust Fall

    As Muzazi collapsed to the ground, eyes rolling up into his skull, Dragan almost did the same - only he managed to catch himself on a slot machine. He stood there, panting for breath, as the security officers made their way up through the wreckage of the casino.


    Dir was the first to reach him - the bald section chief was holding a massive stun cannon which he kept pointed at Muzazi¡¯s prone body the whole time he approached. A noticeable line of sweat ran down his forehead.


    "That¡¯s a ¡­" Dragan struggled to speak with the little breath he had. Still, he nodded towards Dir¡¯s weapon. "A little ¡­ overkill ¡­ don¡¯t you think?"


    Indeed, the stun cannon looked like it had been built to knock out large animals rather than people - Dragan couldn¡¯t see why a security company would assign it to an operation like this. Something Dir owned personally, then, and not company property?


    Dir didn¡¯t look at Dragan as he spoke, only kept covering Muzazi. "Can¡¯t be too careful. This man¡¯s from the Supremacy - one of their Special Officers."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"


    As his subordinates finally reached the upper deck, Dir shook his head. "Not personally - but this man was flagged by surveillance when he appeared before you at the niain. A high-ranking member of a foreign government is a priority target here in the UAP, as I¡¯m sure you understand."


    That made sense. Dragan nodded, pulling himself a little further up on the slot machine. He didn¡¯t want to appear too exhausted - he wasn¡¯t entirely sure he could trust Dir and his men, after all.


    A thought occurred, a sudden alarm piercing through his heart like a stake. "Serena! How is she?" he said, almost collapsing as he stepped away from the slot machine.


    He didn¡¯t quite know what had happened to Serena - she¡¯d been fighting like a demon, bleeding from her nose and mouth, and then suddenly collapsed. If security hadn¡¯t arrived when they did, that would have spelled the end of both Serena and Dragan.


    Dir looked perplexed. "Serena?" he said, the name clearly unfamiliar in his mouth.


    Shit. Apparently, Dir didn¡¯t know about that. Had Skipper actually told him anything when they were planning this thing?


    Still, he didn¡¯t exactly have the energy to lie. He¡¯d do the next best thing - dodge the question. "Del Sed, I mean," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a hand. "Is ¡­ are they okay?"


    Dir nodded, stepping right back into that rigid businesslike demeanor, and put a finger to his earpiece. "Gleeson," he said, clearly talking to one of his colleagues down below. "What¡¯s del Sed¡¯s status?"


    The face of the section chief shifted, just slightly, and from that Dragan could see he wasn¡¯t receiving good news.


    "I see," he said, none of that reflected in his voice. "Arrange transport to Anna Sait right now. Exercise subtlety - I don¡¯t want too much of this in the press."


    Dragan looked around the room - the wrecked slot machines, the floor covered with splinters that were once patolli tables, the chips and handbags that had been discarded by the fleeing public. "That sounds difficult," he said, droll. "This is, uh ¡­ this is a pretty newsworthy thing, I¡¯d say."


    Dir moved his hand from his ear and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yes, it is," he said, a sliver of the stress he must be feeling leaking into his voice. "But we¡¯ll think of something. Your, ah, your friend, however."


    Dragan gulped. Dir¡¯s tone wasn¡¯t promising. "How bad?" he asked, mouth dry.


    Dir went down on one knee as he secured the unconscious Muzazi with shackles on his arms and legs - Neverwire no doubt running within them.


    "Significant internal bleeding," he said, clicking the manacles shut. "As well as the impact from your vertical trip through the city. The doctors at Anna Sait should be able to get them stable, but even if it goes well they¡¯ll be out of commission for a good while."


    He didn¡¯t say lethal. He didn¡¯t say fatal. Even with the graveness of the situation, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel a sense of relief for that small mercy. It seemed that, despite his best intentions, he and Bruno del Sed had become friends at some point.


    The other security officers finally made their way up the wreckage of the stairs, carrying a coffin-like container to haul Muzazi in.


    "How about you?" said Dir, looking back at Dragan. "You don¡¯t seem in the best condition, so I¡¯d recommend accompanying us for medical attention. We¡¯re still in the process of reacquiring your associates, but¡­"


    Dragan took a step forward. The night wasn¡¯t over yet. He had to regroup with Skipper and Ruth, make sure they were okay, and find out just what the hell Atoy Muzazi was doing stalking him through the UAP. It was a plentiful itinerary.


    He opened his mouth to say these things.


    "I¡¯m fucking tired," he said, slurring the words, and fell flat on his face.


    It seemed the night was over.


    -


    Noel Edmunds, on her hands and knees, screamed once again in a voice that sounded like a knife was being plunged into her. She was still in the alleyway where Skipper and Ruth Blaine had left her. Her fist, sparking with cyan Aether, struck the concrete below her - without making so much as a crack.


    So? Who even cared about that? Her mental abilities were far more valuable than the power to punch things really hard. She didn¡¯t need that kind of dubious strength. It was beneath her.


    And yet ¡­ that bastard had mocked her, humiliated her, and walked past her without her being able to do so much as lift a finger. It had been effortless for that man, to make her look like an idiot. It was as if her existence had meant nothing.


    She gritted her teeth with so much fury that it felt like the things would just shatter in her mouth. She wouldn¡¯t even care if they did - she could fix them, after all, she was smart enough to figure out a way. She was a genius, after all.


    "You¡¯re a genius," agreed the brickwork beneath her, speaking in a bright and helpful voice. Her breath caught in her throat.


    There was a sigh from right next to her - it came from the wreckage of one of her drones, looking like a crushed can. "Not again," it said softly.


    She groaned, put a hand to her head. She knew she needed to calm down, but it was too late.


    Her thoughts were starting to voice themselves.


    "You should have trained more in hand-to-hand combat," suggested a loose strand of her blue hair, dangling next to her eye. "You can ask Reyansh to teach you! He¡¯s protective of you, he would do it."


    "Fuck Reyansh," spat a passing cat. "I don¡¯t need his help. Do you know who I am? I don¡¯t need charity from trash like that."


    A sense of disapproval emitted from the dumpster. "You know he only wants to help. He has a good heart."


    "See how fucking good it is when I tear it out and stomp on it," the cat snarled. "You gonna talk down to me? Shut the fuck up. I¡¯ll kill you."


    "Quiet," growled Noel, fists balled to such a degree that her fingernails drew blood. Still, the pain didn¡¯t pull her out of the spiral.


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    "I¡¯ll just have to wait it out," said her fingernails.


    The dumpster sighed. "Reyansh and Simeon will be along soon, I suppose. If you press your tracking beacon, they¡¯ll be able to find us a little better, hm?"


    "Press me! Press me!" came the squeaky voice of the tracking beacon in her pocket. It grew more aggressive as her shaking hand reached for it. "Come on, press me! Press me, bitch!"


    It was always like this. For all their intellectual superiority, Cogitants were more prone to mental collapse than the other subspecies - and once they pulled themselves together, their mind didn¡¯t always stay together.


    Noel tapped the button on the disk-shaped beacon with a grunt, and it squealed in jubilation. Tiny objects like this always ended up as the mouthpiece for her most annoying thoughts.


    Her mind had had to cannibalize itself, once, and now the thing was held together with tape and glue. Normally, she could keep it under control, but when she¡¯d been defeated like this ¡­ humiliated like this ¡­


    "Smug bastard," hissed the cat, licking itself. "I¡¯ll rip that fucking smile off his face. Smash those fucking teeth out of his mouth."


    "My teeth hurt," whimpered her teeth, aching from her grimace. "I should stop scowling."


    "I should calm down," the dumpster said soothingly. "If I just find a way to calm down, I¡¯m sure this whole mess can be corrected."


    "That¡¯s right, that¡¯s right," the ground panted for breath like an excited dog. "If I¡¯m to become the Citizen, I need to stay calm. Find the leverage to oust that red-eyed bastard."


    "We¡¯d have it," the cat said. "If it wasn¡¯t for that fucker. Sticking his nose where it doesn¡¯t belong. He¡¯ll get in the way if we try again."


    The dumpster paused.


    "That¡¯s true," it said slowly. "If things are to go smoothly, I worry that he could involve himself unnecessarily."


    "Won¡¯t be able to stay calm with him around," the ground said slowly. "Need peace of mind if I¡¯m to do this. Can¡¯t have him running around."


    "I already know what I need to do!" roared the cat, settling down for a nap. "Find the bastard - find his friends - and teach him a lesson!"


    "Teach him a lesson," agreed the dumpster.


    "Teach him a lesson," said the ground excitedly.


    "Teach him a lesson!" squeaked her tracking beacon.


    "Teach him a lesson¡­" mumbled the drone wreckage morosely.


    Her dangling hair¡¯s voice was full of confidence. "Teach him a lesson."


    Noel was stirred from her thoughts at the sound of an engine from above. She didn¡¯t even need to look up to identify it - she¡¯d recognize the sound of Reyansh¡¯s car anywhere. He¡¯d found her. Good - that was what she expected of him.


    A vicious, humourless grin crossed her face the moment before she rose to her feet.


    "Teach him a lesson," she whispered.


    -


    "I thought you guys were dead," said Ruth quietly, tears streaming down her face.


    ¡¯I don¡¯t die so easily.¡¯ That was what Dragan meant to say, but it instead came out as ¡¯mmph mmph mmph mmph, mmph.¡¯ This was due to the fact that Ruth was crushing him in her embrace.


    They¡¯d all reunited in one of the myriad waiting rooms at the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital - a quieter part of the hospital, presumably for patients whose presence wasn¡¯t for the public eye. They¡¯d already taken Bruno and Serena in for emergency surgery, so now Dragan, Ruth and Skipper were waiting here.


    "You¡¯re gonna actually kill him, Ruth," said Skipper from his chair. He was sitting on the thing backwards, like a monster, and was leaning forward on the back of the furniture.


    "When you guys fell..." said Ruth, the ghost of anxiety still in her voice. "I thought, I mean ¡­ how did you make it out of that? D-Did Bruno do something?"


    Vaguely, Dragan nodded. He really didn¡¯t have the energy to go further into it - the helmeted doctors had given him a shot to calm him down when he¡¯d arrived, and the drug was doing it¡¯s job well.


    "Imagine, though," said Skipper, whistling up at the ceiling. "Our old pal Muzazi, all the way out here. He must really hate you, kiddo."


    That brought Dragan back to himself a little. Even though they¡¯d managed to bring down Muzazi, it was a victory only possible through a dozen coincidences. Hell, if Dir and his security officers hadn¡¯t shown up right at the end, Dragan had no doubt he¡¯d be dead right now.


    They¡¯d taken Muzazi to some kind of holding facility, but Dragan just knew that the asshole would get out sooner or later - and when he did, he¡¯d come after Dragan harder than ever. After all, he¡¯d just been unable to resist adding that tiny hint of smugness to his victory.


    What a mess - and it was getting messier all the time.


    Finally, Ruth released Dragan from her death grip, stepping back and collapsing into a chair that Skipper kicked over to her. "I¡¯m goddamn drained," she sighed, running her hands over her face.


    Dragan went to wander over to a chair himself, decided it wasn¡¯t worth the effort, and sat cross-legged on the floor instead. "Tired¡­" he mumbled. "You fought, uh, that guy, then? The Fifth Dead?"


    Ruth¡¯s expression hardened, and she nodded.


    "He dead?"


    She shook her head.


    "Fuck."


    She nodded.


    "Not that this conversation isn¡¯t stimulating," said Skipper, having rearranged a few chairs to form something of a couch for himself. "But I¡¯m gonna get some shut-eye, yeah? I¡¯d recommend you guys do the same. You¡¯re, like, barely sentient right now."


    And with that, he closed his eyes, diving into the realm of slumber. Slowly, as if being pulled by some invisible force, Dragan¡¯s own eyelids followed suit.


    Sleep ¡­ sure sounded nice right now.


    -


    "Can we go now, lady?" whispered Den-S, hugging the steering wheel so tightly Marie was surprised he could see what he was doing.


    "One sec," Marie replied brightly, using her scope as a viewfinder - zooming in on the security transport flying past.


    They¡¯d parked on top of some energy drink factory that was along the route Atoy¡¯s captors were heading. The transport itself was bigger than she¡¯d expected: one heavily armoured vehicle flanked by four disc-shaped escort ships, likely piloted by automatics. The weapons on those ships were nothing to sneeze at - machine guns ready to rain plasma on any targets that came in sight.


    Even with her physical capabilities, she couldn¡¯t see herself withstanding that kind of fire for very long - not without showing off more than she wanted to.


    She tapped her finger against the back of Den-S¡¯ seat, the young man flinching with each and every tap. The boy was terrified of her - which was smart - but it was the kind of terror Marie liked. The kind that made them obey, rather than try to burn you at the stake.


    "What kind of weaponry do you have?" she said - quietly, but her voice still seemed loud in the silence of the car.


    Den-S fumbled under his seat, pulling out a cobbled-together plasma pistol. The thing really wasn¡¯t anything to look at - in fact, Marie suspected there was a chance the thing would blow up the moment somebody pulled the trigger. Not the best option.


    "Hmm," she drew the sound out, putting a hand on top of Den-S¡¯ head as she considered her options. He stiffened up amusingly at the contact, his skin paling quite a few shades. sea??h th§× novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Then, with a sudden violent motion, she snapped her fingers - and Den-S almost jumped out of his skin.


    "Oh well," she said, taking her hand away from Den-S¡¯ head - she didn¡¯t want to give her driver a heart attack, after all.


    "Oh well?" Den-S looked back at her, expression uncertain.


    She shrugged. "There¡¯s no way we¡¯re busting Atoy out of there with our current equipment - so we won¡¯t. Looks like Atoy¡¯ll just have to play the waiting game for a little while. Oh well."


    Marie was just a teensy bit annoyed.


    With her last statement, she tapped an irritated finger on the car window next to her - and cracks ran out across its surface. Den-S¡¯ eyes silently tracked the spider-web of damage as it spread out, then flicked back to her.


    "What do we, uh," he said quietly. "What do we do now, then?"


    Marie lounged back in her seat, watched Atoy¡¯s prison transport turn a corner and disappear from sight.


    "Head down to the Pit," she said. "I think I want to talk to your boss."


    -


    In a pitch-black room, a red-eyed man watched the script in his hands.


    His silhouette was vague, inconsistent in the darkness - but it was unmistakably sharp, as though this were a man made out of knives. His glowing red eyes penetrated his unclear shape like twin fell stars.


    With those eyes, he stared unblinking at the blank screen. The man had been waiting for this news for hours, for the message from his agent that would bring the night to a close. At this point, he was fairly confident he knew what that message would be - but still, he needed confirmation.


    One hand, clad in an unnatural metal gauntlet, stroked the back of the script almost tenderly. It was the thing that would confirm his fate, after all. The work of years brought almost to conclusion by mere words on a screen.


    So much of this world was shaped by words on screens.


    There was the tiniest of beeps. A message came through from his Noel. Six words.


    ¡¯Mission has failed. Security has Roz.¡¯


    The Citizen smiled.


    Victory.

 Chapter 55:3.18: Accomplishment

    "I really like grapes," said Serena, popping one of them into her mouth.


    We¡¯re full, admonished Bruno, beating on the walls of consciousness in an attempt to put an end to this madness. Stop eating grapes.


    Serena rolled her eyes even as she lay back in the hospital bed. "Full of gross hospital food, not grapes. Duh."


    They¡¯d only been staying at the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital for a week or so now, but Serena had already made it her mission to eat them out of house and home. Apparently, their surgery had been touch and go for a few hours, but the doctors had finally managed to get enough Panacea in the right parts of their body to identify and repair the internal damage.


    Taking control for a moment and spitting out an offending grape, Bruno put a hand to his stomach. It was strange to think that his body was full of tissue that, not so long ago, had been fungus. He knew that Skipper didn¡¯t quite trust Panacea, but Bruno didn¡¯t see how anything else could compare to the seamless replacements it provided.


    He reached over to the nightstand, slid his hand over a screen on its surface - and the blank window on the side of the room changed to display an image of a raging, but silent snowstorm.


    It was only a projection, of course - this part of the hospital was too low down to actually have a good view - but it was a damn good projection. Not quite a hologram, but it still looked like you could reach a hand out and then have it snap off from frostbite - which actually wasn¡¯t that nice.


    Still, it made him think of home. He felt a murmur of irritation from Serena, deep inside his skull.


    "Don¡¯t like it?" he said quietly, eyes tracing a snowflake as it drifted out of sight.


    You know I don¡¯t like it, grumbled Serena. I wanna go somewhere warm. It¡¯s always so cold wherever we go.


    Bruno shrugged - or, at least, he tried to shrug and then winced as it aggravated the sore parts of his body. "Ask Skipper once we head out of here. He can take us somewhere damn hot, I bet."


    He could almost picture her expression of wonder. You mean it?


    Bruno smiled. "I mean it."


    The door slid open, and one of the helmeted doctors strolled in. "Good morning," they said, in that autotuned voice of theirs. "Just your regular scan."


    Bruno did his best to sit up, suppressing the shudder that tried to run through his body. Apparently, the voices were designed to make these guys more soothing, but it just gave him the creeps. Hell, he couldn¡¯t even tell if this was the same doctor from his last checkup.


    "How have you been feeling?" the anonymous doctor said, scanning his body top to bottom with a script in their hands. "Is there any discomfort?"


    Again, Bruno tried to shrug - and again, he regretted it. "No new discomfort," he said, nursing his shoulder. "Same aches and pains as yesterday."


    "I see." The doctor completed their scan and smoothly tucked their script away in their pocket. "That¡¯s very good news. Had you developed any new pain, that could be a sign that the treatment wasn¡¯t taking. That would be very unfortunate."


    "Don¡¯t have to tell me twice," muttered Bruno.


    The doctor cocked their head slightly, clearly not having heard. "Pardon?"


    "Nevermind," said Bruno, shaking his head.


    The doctor was still for a moment, their body language inscrutable, before going back to check the equipment that was monitoring Bruno¡¯s status. "I¡¯d recommend trying to maintain a positive attitude. You¡¯d be surprised how much it can affect your health."


    "Mm," Bruno grunted noncommittally. Was this an attempt at small talk? It wasn¡¯t very effective, if so.


    "By the way," the doctor said, stepping away from the machinery. "You have a visitor. Shall I show them in?"


    Bruno¡¯s mood brightened - just a shade. A visitor? Skipper and the crew had finally gotten off their asses and come to visit him, then? A smile came dangerously close to appearing on his lips, but he managed to smother it into a smirk. "Sure," he said, as casually as possible. "Let Skipper in."


    The doctor chuckled lightly - which was modulated into some kind of awful croak by the helmet.


    "Oh," they said. "That man isn¡¯t your visitor."


    -


    "You realize, of course," said Skipper, feet up on the desk. "That I¡¯m losing my patience here, yeah?"


    Dir¡¯s glare flicked over to the boots on his desk before returning to Skipper¡¯s face. Every day this week - hell, every couple of hours - this irritating man had barged into his office and demanded to know when he and his crew could go free.


    He¡¯d seen actual prisoners less insistent.


    "I believe I told you," Dir said, hands clasped on the desk in front of him. "Our people need time to confirm Roz before we can consider your job done."


    Skipper scoffed. "Confirm him? What does that even mean?"


    "That¡¯s not your concern."


    Skipper was absolutely right, though. The wording was ridiculously vague - and when Dir had requested clarification for himself, he¡¯d been denied. Apparently, Roz knew something vitally important, and it had taken them at least a week to get it out of him - if they could get it out of him.


    And in the meantime, he had to deal with this layabody running rampant in his office.


    He sighed - Skipper didn¡¯t miss it.


    "Oh, I¡¯m sorry, buddy," he said mock-placatingly, raising his hands in a warding gesture. "I didn¡¯t realize I was boring you. It must be so damn dull to be forced to stay in this security complex all day, yeah?"


    Dir ran a hand over his smooth head. What he wouldn¡¯t do for a drink right now - some foul-tasting swill to make him forget this mess - but he was on the job. He was always on the job these days, it seemed.


    He waved his other hand. "I¡¯ll put in another word with my superiors," he said, already knowing he wouldn¡¯t get an answer. "Your release isn¡¯t exactly up to me, so - hey!"


    As Dir had been speaking, Skipper had made his way around the desk and began looking through the drawers. Dir hadn¡¯t even seen him moving, but the man was already squatting on the ground like some kind of ratman, shuffling through Dir¡¯s personal effects.


    "Heard it before, baldie," he said, tossing an old certificate over his shoulder. Dir felt a flare of annoyance. "Can¡¯t expect me to sit still for every encore."


    "Look," Dir said, finally letting some of his boundless irritation creep into his tone. "What exactly do you want from me, man? You know I can¡¯t sign off on your release, I know that you know, so why do you keep tormenting me? Do you have nothing better to do?"


    Skipper blinked, almost pouting for a second at the sudden admonishment. Then, he lifted up an old poster. "This you?" he said, interested.


    Dir opened his mouth to complain again, but his voice trailed off when he saw what Skipper was holding up.


    The poster was old, faded at the edges, but the bright red background was as striking as ever. A younger Dir¡¯s face stared forward from the past, eyes resolute, long hair flowing over his shoulders and out of sight. That damn stupid helmet sat on top of his head, two devil horns curling outwards from it. At the bottom of the sheet, huge white letters read:


    DIR THE DAMNED - SIX SEQUENCE BOUT, TICKETS NOW AVAILABLE.


    "Didn¡¯t take you for a brawler," mused Skipper, turning the poster to face him. "Six fights in a row, huh? That¡¯s kind of a big deal, right?"


    Dir waved a vague hand, very consciously looking away from that damn poster. "It¡¯s just an old poster. Not relevant."


    "In my experience," said Skipper, carefully putting the poster back on the desk. "There¡¯s nothing in the galaxy that isn¡¯t relevant to someone. You wouldn¡¯t keep it if it didn¡¯t mean anything to you."


    With a groan, Dir snatched the poster off the desk and stuffed it back into the drawer. "It¡¯s nothing," he snapped. "Just old trash that I should have thrown away - to avoid pointless speculation like this."


    Skipper scratched his cheek. "In my experience, there¡¯s nothing pointless either."


    Dir raised an eyebrow. "You sure like quoting yourself, don¡¯t you?"


    It was intended as an insult, not an actual question, but Skipper clearly took it as one. "Well," he said. "I¡¯ve been giving out so much wisdom for years now, but nobody¡¯s been quoting me. Figured I¡¯d get the trend started myself, yeah?"


    "Wisdom," Dir scoffed. "Staggering around the galaxy like some drunken lout, you think that¡¯s wise? It accomplishes nothing."


    "Well, it hasn¡¯t accomplished anything yet," Skipper acknowledged, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. "Besides, it¡¯s not all about accomplishing things."


    "Of course it is," said Dir. "There¡¯s nothing else."


    "What about, uh, helping people out?" Skipper said, as if searching for the words. "Having a good time?"


    "Those would be accomplishments."


    "Oh!" Skipper snapped his metal fingers. "I guess I do have accomplishments, then!"


    Dir sighed. "Helping individual people, occupying yourself with mindless carnage. These are petty achievements at best."


    "You can do better?" said Skipper, cocking his head.


    "S4 provides a valuable public service - the enforcement of law and order. Without us, there¡¯d be chaos. Endless victimisation."


    "And less profit, right?" Skipper chuckled. "Don¡¯t pretend you guys are doing this out of the goodness of your own hearts. You¡¯re guns for hire."


    Dir glanced down at his hands, still clasped on his desk. Old scars on the knuckles ached, just slightly. "That¡¯s ¡­ unfortunate. But the fact of the matter is that this is how Taldan operates. If S4 didn¡¯t do this job, nobody else would."


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    "You see," Skipper said. He stepped away from the wall, snapping his fingers a few more times as if pumping himself up. "That¡¯s the problem - right there. This is the way it is. There¡¯s no reason things should be the way they are, so you don¡¯t even bother thinking of one. Things are the way they are because they ¡­ just are. Makes no sense."


    "Ah. You didn¡¯t strike me as an anarchist."


    "You must not have been paying much attention," said Skipper. "It¡¯s people all the way down, buddy. Things are the way they are because people let them be that way. You guys get a little too cocky, and they¡¯ll change their minds real quick. Might already be happening."


    Dir frowned. "I don¡¯t much appreciate you framing me as the villain in your little scenario."


    "Hey," Skipper shrugged. "I call ¡¯em how I see ¡¯em, buddy. Besides, it¡¯s like I said - it¡¯s people all the way down, and it¡¯s people all the way up. You¡¯re not high up enough to be a real villain, Dir the Damned."


    At the use of that stupid old name, Did suddenly slammed his fist onto the desk - leaving a noticeable dent. "As I said," he growled, before pushing himself back into a measured tone. "I. Am. Busy."


    Skipper took a few steps back, hands held up placatingly. "Fine, fine, if you don¡¯t wanna talk about it. I take it I should leave?"


    Dir¡¯s glare intensified, became more of a glower. "Yes."


    "Leave the building?" Skipper said hopefully.


    "No."


    -


    How long had he been unconscious? Muzazi couldn¡¯t tell.


    As he drifted back into consciousness, the last pangs of his prior humiliation ached like open wounds. To be disgraced by Hadrien, again, in so similar a fashion ¡­ it was all but unbearable.


    He kept his eyes shut. He needed time to gain his bearings - before he¡¯d come back to himself, he didn¡¯t want to broadcast the fact that he was awake.


    Cold skin. Sore back.


    He was in a sitting position - strapped to a chair. Manacles bound his wrists together, and he could hear the slight tinkling of a chain. Presumably, the shackles were connected to some secondary restraint.


    He tried to summon his Aether, just a spark, but nothing came. Either he was still bound with Neverwire, or he¡¯d been dosed with some drug to dull his senses. Some kind of cowardly UAP tactic, no doubt.


    "There¡¯s no point in pretending you¡¯re asleep," a relaxed voice said from a short distance away - across a table.


    Muzazi opened his eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the light.


    He¡¯d been correct - he was shackled to a chair in some kind of interrogation room, but it was hard to recognise it as that just from looking at it. Rather than the steadfast cleanliness that characterized a Supremacy holding cell, this was a dim, dingy affair - illuminated only by a flickering light panel from above.


    A thin, gaunt woman with slicked-back black hair sat across the table from him, the fingers on both her hands drumming rhythmically as she regarded him. It was as though she were playing an invisible piano.


    "Hello," she said, her voice friendly but her face far less so. "You¡¯ve had quite a bit of beauty sleep, haven¡¯t you?"


    Muzazi shut his eyes again. No doubt he could expect enhanced interrogation in his future at the very least. He took a deep breath.


    "My name is Aurelius Let," he said, not even caring that it came out as a monotone. "I am a traveler, currently unemployed. I have come to Taldan seeking work. My details are available on the UAP Universal Database should you wish to find them."


    "Hm," he heard the woman say. "We did find Aurelius Let on the Universal Database. We also found Atoy Muzazi on the Officer¡¯s Commission database that was leaked a few years back. Do you remember that?"


    Ah. He hadn¡¯t expected the authorities here to have access to such high-level intelligence.


    Nevertheless, he dutifully stuck to the cover he¡¯d been given. "My name is Aurelius Let. I am a traveler, currently unemployed. I have come to Taldan seeking work. My details are available on the UAP Universal Database should you wish to find them."


    The interrogator clicked her tongue. "It¡¯s not much fun if the other person doesn¡¯t play. Can I be straight with you?"


    Muzazi didn¡¯t reply, but apparently even that was taken as an affirmation.


    When he opened his eyes, he saw that the interrogator was now leaning over the table, her fingers still tapping against its surface. "Understand, please, that we are going to torture you," she said, with a barely restrained glee in her voice. "That¡¯s not something you¡¯re going to be able to avoid, I¡¯m afraid. We are going to get answers out of you, and we¡¯re going to have to confirm these answers once we receive them - painfully, of course. We can begin this process now, or after a little bit of small talk. What do you say?"


    The door behind the woman opened, and a masked man entered. Even though his hands were clasped behind his back, the heavy-duty stunstick they were holding was unmistakable, its tip sparking with deadly promise.


    The interrogator raised an eyebrow, an inquisitive smile playing across her lips.


    "My name is Aurelius Let," he said, keeping his voice as steady as possible. "I am a traveler, currently unemployed. I have come to Taldan seeking work." S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The woman smiled and the man stepped forward.


    "I understand," she said.


    -


    Serena raised an eyebrow as she observed the skeleton.


    Well, maybe skeleton was a mean way of putting it, but the old man did look like he¡¯d died quite a few years ago. Even though his chest rose up and down as he stared back at her, it obviously wasn¡¯t easy - every pump of the lungs took visible effort. It was like the man was only alive because he was too angry to do anything else.


    She popped another grape into her mouth as she observed the skeleton man. He was sat in the corner of her hospital room in that antique wheelchair, staring at her with his hollow eyes. He¡¯d been doing it for about five minutes now, which was maybe a little creepy but she didn¡¯t like to judge.


    The doctors had brought him in here and then just left him to glare at her. Did he want something?


    Lifting up her fruit bowl, she ventured a guess. "Do you want some of my grapes?"


    The man slowly shook his head, a wince-inducing creak coming from his neck. "I¡¯ve eaten more grapes than anyone could ever need."


    "Oh, that¡¯s cool," Serena said. Then, she furrowed her brow, sensing either a lie or that old enemy called ¡¯metaphor¡¯. "Hold on. If you¡¯ve eaten that many grapes, why are you so thin?"


    The man might have smiled at that - it was so slight that it was hard to tell. "Time. Time and waste. I once stabbed a man with a scalpel, you know." He raised a shaking hand, thrusting it forward slightly as if to demonstrate. "I was aiming for the jugular, but it landed just above. It wasn¡¯t my best day."


    Serena frowned. "Did it hurt?"


    "He said something to that effect, yes, quite a few times. I felt him die through the vibrations in the metal, felt the breathing cease. He choked on his own blood in the end. An undignified death."


    "Why did you kill him?" Serena asked. There was no accusation in her voice, no trepidation at this sudden and grim topic - she was just genuinely curious. "Did he hurt you?"


    The old man put his raised hand back down with an exhale of relief. "Yes," he said. "In a fashion. But I was the one who told him to do it."


    "Oh," said Serena, acting as if she understood when she very much did not. "If that was me, I wouldn¡¯t have told him to do that."


    "I didn¡¯t know I was telling him to do it until it was already done," the man mumbled, trailing off. Just when it looked like he might pass off to sleep or just pass away, the light flickered back into his eyes and he looked up at Serena. "My name is Sait. I am the director of this shit hole. I came here because ¡­ I wanted to ask you something."


    She put a hand into her fruit bowl, snatched up a handful of grapes, and messily bit into the squashed mass. "Sure!" she said, still chewing. "Go for it!"


    "Why is it you perform actions?"


    Serena cocked her head. That wasn¡¯t the kind of question she¡¯d expected. She wasn¡¯t sure what kind of question she¡¯d expected, but she was sure that it wasn¡¯t that. "Perform ¡­ actions?" she said.


    The old man¡¯s voice was like cracking glass. "Attempt to ¡­ influence your environment. Alter your circumstances. Enact change. You are here because you acted. Why?"


    Serena furrowed her brow. "You want to know why I ¡­ do things?"


    Slowly, the old man nodded.


    "Well, doesn¡¯t everyone do things?"


    The old man snorted derisively. "Idiot girl," he said. "But yes. Of course they do - they don¡¯t understand. They cannot comprehend the way this world functions. But you are a useful sample. I want to know why. From your own mouth." The sentences were short - delivered between deep breaths for air. Given the state of him, it was honestly surprising that he could even talk for so long.


    "My friends needed my help," Serena said softly. "So I helped them. Is that weird to you?"


    "I find it saddening. You think you have accomplished things, but you have not."


    Serena pouted. She wasn¡¯t sure if this old guy was trying to give her advice or insult her, but he was being annoying all the same. "How¡¯s that?" she snapped.


    The old man grinned a checkerboard grin - it wasn¡¯t comforting. "This universe of ours," he rasped. "Hates us. Despises us. It would never allow even a moment of relief. That is why people suffer. And do you know what it is the universe hates about us most?"


    Serena shrugged, staring up at the ceiling, still pouting.


    "It hates," the old man trailed off into a coughing fit, before lifting his finger and resuming. "It hates that we think we can change it. That our actions, selfless or selfish, will have any impact on events. Understand, girl: whatever you do, however you do it, for whatever reason - it is futile. When you look back on your life, all your actions will accumulate to nothing. Less than nothing, for the world is worse for you having been born in it."


    Again, his speech faded out to a wheeze at the end, but the hateful determination in his eyes didn¡¯t lessen in the least.


    "That¡¯s kind of depressing," muttered Serena. "I think you¡¯re wrong, though."


    Mr. Sait shook his head. "As I said - you don¡¯t understand."


    Serena shook her head back - fiercer, as if it were a competition. "No, no. If nothing you do means anything, then you can¡¯t make things worse. If something goes bad because you did something, that means you affected it, right? That¡¯s what I think. So if nothing you do means anything, you should just do what makes you happy!" She grinned.


    A mirthless laugh escaped the old man¡¯s lips, like an old dying monster crawling out of a dark tunnel. "Hedonism, then."


    Serena didn¡¯t know what that word meant, but from the way Mr. Sait said it, it sounded like an insult. "I am not a hedonism," she said seriously.


    Another laugh - but this one slightly, just slightly more genuine. "Of course you are, child," he wheezed. "But I feel I understand your idiocy somewhat better now. I am correct, as I knew myself to be."


    "Correct?" Serena cocked her head. She didn¡¯t really get this conversation.


    Mr. Sait shot her a glare as he tapped the button on the arm of his wheelchair, calling his attendant. "Shut up, girl," he grumbled. "I am done speaking to you."


    And with that, it seemed, the conversation was over.


    -


    "It¡¯s rare for you to visit a patient personally, sir," said Sait¡¯s attendant, a brat named Haynes, as he pushed the wheelchair. "Did you enjoy yourself?"


    Sait let out a wordless growl as he slumped back into his chair. Haynes, like all the others, was an imbecile. A corpse not knowing it was dead.


    "I¡¯m very glad to hear that, sir," Haynes said gently - optimistic fucker that he was, he assumed Sait¡¯s answer was in the affirmative. Then, he hesitated. "I must admit, sir, I was a little concerned you¡¯d miss your meeting."


    "Concerned?" Sait snapped as they continued down the hallway, headed towards the unmarked door at the end. "I don¡¯t pay you to be concerned."


    Haynes laughed lightly. "Well, you don¡¯t pay me at all, sir. It¡¯s your friends who pay my wages."


    Sait¡¯s grip tightened on the arms of his wheelchair. "I don¡¯t have any friends," he muttered.


    "Is that so?" Haynes said sympathetically - but, bastard that he was, he couldn¡¯t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. "I¡¯m sorry to hear that."


    They reached the door and it opened, revealing a huge black ampitheatre, illuminated only by a light panel on the floor. Haynes whistled as he rolled Sait over to it, stopping the chair once it was right in the middle of the panel.


    "I¡¯ll leave you to it, sir," he said, patting a heavy hand on Sait¡¯s bony shoulder.


    "Go kill yourself."


    Sait heard Haynes¡¯ measured footsteps leave the room, and the door slide shut behind him. He took in a deep breath through his nose as the projectors on the walls began their work.


    It took only a second for his associates to appear, their images weaved from light itself. The bull, the horse, the pig, the octopus and the snail. The flaming bull, smoke pouring from its nostrils, turned to regard Sait.


    "Care," it¡¯s voice rumbled. "You¡¯re late."


    Sait stared straight ahead as he answered. "I had matters to attend to."


    The bull, the Sponsor of War, didn¡¯t seem quite satisfied with that answer - but it moved on all the same, turning to face the rest of the menagerie.


    "My friends," it said. "We have much to discuss."

 Chapter 56:3.19: Castle Walls

    "This," said the Sponsor of War quietly. "Has become a very complicated situation."


    The usual bluster that characterized his speech was dimmed, just a tad, creating an odd contrast between the flaming bull and it¡¯s somber voice. Sait watched the bovine hologram disinterestedly as it spoke, quietly observing how it¡¯s violent movements didn¡¯t match the words coming from it¡¯s master.


    A murmur of ascent went through most of the group. Even with his lack of investment, Sait had to admit, too - this situation was nothing if not complicated.


    The Sponsor of Dreams, though - the many-eyed snail - didn¡¯t quite seem convinced. "Complicated?" he chuckled. "Well, of course it¡¯s complicated. We are men and women of vision, everything we do is complex a necessitate. That¡¯s no reason for undue worry, my friends."


    Plenty - that stick-thin swine - barked out a harsh laugh. "That¡¯s easy for you to say, shooting your films and publishing your lightpoint-grade novels. The most complex thing you have to deal with is how much fucking you can cram into one of your dramas before it becomes pornography."


    Sait sniffed. Plenty had only been a young woman when he¡¯d first met her, but even then she¡¯d had such a way with words. She could make the bile rise up in you with just a glance and a greeting.


    Not many could manage to be so intensely dislikeable.


    When he spoke again, Dreams¡¯ voice was low, dangerous. "My work is very important, Plenty. I¡¯d watch your tone if I were you."


    The veneer of civility faded so quickly, like rotting wallpaper. It was the same with all people, Sait found. Take away the slightest comfort, and they¡¯d show you the skull beneath the skin.


    The moment dragged on, discomfort quickly transitioning into tension. These business negotiations could easily produce corpses, after all.


    Finally, War cut in: "Plenty - enough. Apologize."


    The Sponsor of Plenty hesitated for a moment, but she obeyed all the same. "My apologies, Dreams," she said, in a monotone that made it quite obvious that she wasn¡¯t sorry at all.


    "This is besides the point," said the Sponsor of Industry, the silver horse turning in place to face the rest of the group. "As War was trying to say, the situation has become uncomfortably complex. I don¡¯t think I need to remind any of you that we have a Special Officer of the Supremacy in our custody."


    The snail shifted uncomfortably in place. "Not necessarily."


    "Not necessarily?"


    "Well, who knows we have the Special Officer?" the Sponsor of Dreams said. "Who knows, really? A few security officers, the interrogator? Easily bribed or removed, and then the fact that we have the Officer disappears."


    "You¡¯re downplaying the issue," Industry said, voice harsh. "And quite severely, I¡¯m afraid. Every security officer who was there that night, as well as all personnel involved with his transport, and the staff at the facility he¡¯s being held. If even one of those breathes a word of this, we can expect Captain Pierrot breathing down our necks before long - and do you really think he won¡¯t find anything else while he¡¯s investigating the matter?" S§×ar?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The babble died into silence again, punctuated by a cough from Expansion.


    The peace between the UAP and the Supremacy was a tenuous one, and both factions had grown quite comfortable with the cold war that had developed in recent years. The capture of a Special Officer by a UAP government - more than that, the fact that a Special Officer of the Supremacy was even here - was an undeniable threat.


    Captain Jaime Pierrot would come to investigate the situation personally, that was for certain. And with him around, it wouldn¡¯t take long for all they¡¯d built to be burnt to the ground.


    Even Sait felt a shiver go down his spine.


    "If I may be so bold," the Sponsor of Plenty said haltingly. "We kill everyone involved. Dir, the security in question, Skipper and his crew, the prison staff and this fucking Special Officer. Burn the bodies and scatter them to the winds. Wash our hands of the whole affair and focus on the Citizen - as we should be doing."


    "This isn¡¯t really my area of expertise, ah," said the Sponsor of Expansion, the colossal octopus hovering over the rest of the group. "But I must question whether that is the best course of action - it seems to me, from my personal perspective at least, that a purge on the kind of scale that you¡¯re suggesting would be just as suspicious - if not more so, if I¡¯m understanding your proposal correctly - as our original problem in and of itself. Which is, ah, quite self-defeating, from what I understand, of course."


    Sait¡¯s eyes flicked from one gaudy hologram to another as the argument continued. He honestly didn¡¯t know why he still attended these. He¡¯d lost any investment he had in these things years ago, when his hospital had gained its name.


    Now, just like so much of his life, it was force of habit. An indicator to show he wasn¡¯t yet dead.


    "Well, what are we supposed to do, then?" said Plenty. "We can¡¯t keep him, we can¡¯t hide that we have him."


    "Well, as I said - this isn¡¯t my field of expertise," Expansion rambled on, the octopus¡¯ tentacles swaying as he spoke. "But it seems to me that one workable solution to this conundrum would be to just let the poor fellow go. We can frame the matter as some daring escape on his part for the benefit of personnel. Why, Dreams, I¡¯m sure you could pen quite the thrilling script for such a scene!"


    War¡¯s flames intensified a tad, illuminating the dark chamber. "That doesn¡¯t solve the problem, friend. Once the Central Council discovers that we had a Special Officer here, they will send Captain Pierrot all the same - well, he will order them to send him, but the result will be all the same."


    "So you¡¯re saying we can do nothing?" asked Plenty, aghast. "What do you want us to do, then? Just accept that we¡¯ll lose everything because of some Supremacy rat?"


    Was surrender being proposed? That could be interesting, if so. Sait vaguely wondered what manner of punishment he¡¯d receive for his crimes.


    Well, no matter what it was, he already knew it wouldn¡¯t be enough.


    "No," said War empathetically. "I¡¯ve put gears into motion for us to solve this problem. To solve all the problems we¡¯ve been given, Citizen and Supremacy alike. All we need is time - Dreams, can you delay this information from spreading? For, say, a fortnight?"


    War¡¯s tone had changed, Sait noticed. He was up to something, definitely up to something. He thought about voicing this observation for a moment, but decided against it.


    Whatever game War was playing, it didn¡¯t matter to Sait.


    The snail shifted in place. "A fortnight¡­" it mused. "Yes, it¡¯s possible. I can delay communications for that long - we¡¯ll use the Citizen as an excuse to keep all security teams on shift, so they don¡¯t even have a chance to leak this information early. Permanent standby for two weeks - elegant, no?"


    "It¡¯ll suffice," chuckled War.


    The octopus swirled in place like an airborne whirlpool. "If I may be so bold, gentlemen - and ladies, of course, my apologies to Plenty - I feel as though this matter of the Special Officer, while serious without a doubt, has distracted us somewhat from our original adversary: the Citizen. We have the journalist in question, this young Roz fellow - if I remember correctly - do we not?"


    A spurt of flame burst from War¡¯s nostrils. "That we do."


    Sait supposed he had better contribute to the meeting, at least put in a token effort. Otherwise, talk about removing him may drift up, and that would be tiring to deal with. He opened his mouth, ignoring the hollow pain in his jaw.


    "Roz," he said quietly. "What has he said?"


    He heard War suck air in between his teeth, even though his bovine avatar did not reflect it. "Unfortunately, it appears that young Mr. Roz elected to place a time-lock upon his relevant memories."


    Plenty groaned. "Fucking night-eyes."


    Dreams cleared his throat in annoyance, but War began speaking again before another argument could break out.


    "The time-lock in question was to last a week, from what I understand," he said, voice booming throughout the chamber. "That deadline should be up by the end of the day - and I assure you that every word of his testimony shall be shared with this assembly."


    "It had better be," said the Sponsor of Industry, metal body creaking as it rotated to deliver it¡¯s point. "The longer we wait, the longer the Citizen has to cause more damage. He must know the net is closing around him - he¡¯ll act irrationally."


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "And then the Fifth Dead will dispose of him," said the Sponsor of War, voice very intentionally strained to sound patient. "I assure you, my friends - my solution is one that will meet all our needs."


    Again, the time had come for a token effort.


    "The Fifth Dead?" Sait croaked, slouching in his wheelchair. "That idiot? He nearly ruined the operation to grab the Umbrant. Am I wrong?"


    The flaming bull was silent for a moment - save for the sound of burning wood - before it spoke again.


    "I must admit," the Sponsor of War said. "The Fifth Dead did become an obstacle there - but that was only due to my mismanagement. He came to seek Roz independent of our own efforts, believing the young man would lead him to the Citizen. I¡¯ve informed him of the situation and he sends his most sincere apologies."


    That even gave Sait a chuckle. He knew, as did all the others, that the Fifth Dead was not one inclined to apologize for anything.


    The Sponsor of War intensified the flames coating his body, and before long the only sign of life inside the inferno were the two black pits of its eyes.


    "My friends," it said, voice booming like thunder. "A fortnight is all I ask of you. At the end of this period, I promise - all your concerns will be at an end."


    And with that, the bull dissolved into ash and faded away. The Sponsor of War had left the meeting.


    Plenty went second, without a word to her fellows. The emaciated pig consumed itself in a grotesque display - no doubt she¡¯d gone off to suck up to War in a private call.


    "Well, Among the Stars is airing in an hour or so," said Dreams, a sudden exhaustion audible in his voice. "I intend to get showered and fed before it comes on. I wish you all a good night, gentlemen." The snail popped like a bubble.


    "Until our next meeting." Industry¡¯s voice was curt, professional, as the metal horse rusted away and scattered to the winds. He¡¯d likely gone off to meet with his own subordinates, engineer his own plans. He was diligent like that, the bastard.


    "Good day to you, ah, Care," rambled the Sponsor of Expansion, his avatar fading even as he went on and on and on. "It was pleasant in the extreme - yes, in the extreme - to have the honour of your company this evening. I earnestly hope that things go well for you and your present goals meet with nothing but unmitigated success-"


    And with that, he was gone. And Sait was alone, in an empty room in an empty world.


    He tapped a button on his wheelchair. At that moment, he knew that the pale snake that represented him was vanishing from another room just like this one.


    And Sait felt nothing.


    -


    "They can¡¯t keep us here like this," grumbled Ruth, pacing back and forth through the room, her arms crossed.


    "Clearly, they can," said Dragan, messing around on his script. The connection to the outside was cut off, but he still had access to the files he¡¯d downloaded before coming here.


    He¡¯d watched this documentary about Lilith worlds nearly three times now, but it was better than nothing.


    Ruth stopped, shot him an irritated glare. "How can you just sit there? Aren¡¯t you worried about Bruno and Serena?"


    They were in the room they¡¯d been provided in the security complex, just as they¡¯d been for the last week or so. Skipper had headed out an hour or so ago - probably to irritate Dir, knowing him - but that left Dragan alone with an increasingly worried Ruth.


    "Of course I¡¯m worried," said Dragan - indeed, as he spoke, his finger tapped nervously against the side of his script. "But there¡¯s nothing I can do about it - so there¡¯s no point wasting my energy like you¡¯re doing."


    Ruth came to a stop, put her hands to her hips as she glared at him. Dragan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes; he¡¯d done it now.


    "There¡¯s nothing you can do about it?" she said. "How do you know that? You haven¡¯t even tried anything!"


    Dragan sighed, flicked the screen of his script off just as the narrator launched into another monotone profile of a Lilith tribe. "Like what?" he said, irritation slipping into his voice despite his best efforts. "What, you wanna bust through the wall and make a break for it?"


    Ruth still glared, but her eyes flicked to look away from him. "Maybe," she growled.


    "And then you¡¯d get shot by every plasma gun in the building - and I¡¯d get shot too. How long do you think that great escape would last for? Let me tell you - not long."


    "You don¡¯t know that for sure," said Ruth. She folded her arms in what was presumably an attempt to look tough - though it was diminished somewhat by the fidgeting that came along with it.


    Dragan pushed himself up from the ground with a grunt. "I do," he said, wagging a finger. "I do know for sure. I¡¯ve not spent this last week sitting there with my head up my own ass, you know."


    She smirked. "Coulda fooled me."


    "You¡¯re so very funny," Dragan lied, before launching into the rant that had been building up over the last seven days. "You know what I¡¯ve been doing? I¡¯ve been listening. I¡¯ve been watching. Whenever those patrols go past the door, I listen to where they go. Whenever I head to the bathroom, I spot the cameras, work out as much of the layout of this place as I can. I¡¯ve been doing this for a week now - and I¡¯m damn good at this - so believe me when I tell you that we¡¯re not getting out."


    Ruth shrugged, almost pouting. "Well, you never know¡­"


    Dragan could have strangled her, save for the fact that he was so nice and Ruth was so much stronger than him.


    The door slid open - both Dragan and Ruth whirled around to face it as it did - and Skipper strolled in, stretching.


    "Hey kids," he said, hand over his mouth as he yawned. "How¡¯re tricks?"


    "Bad," said Dragan, returning to his position in the corner of the room. "Did you talk to Dir?"


    Skipper winced uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his head with a hand. Dragan knew the answer before the man even opened his mouth.


    "Apparently, our pal Dir has to talk to his superiors," he sighed. "So, uh, I wouldn¡¯t be super optimistic about that. Sorry."


    Dragan sighed, matching Skipper as he rubbed his hands over his face. "Well, uh," he said, fumbling for a new strategy. "Let me talk to him. He likes me. He doesn¡¯t like you."


    Ruth raised an eyebrow. "Why would he like you and not Skipper?"


    "I¡¯m likeable," said Dragan. "I¡¯m a likeable person."


    Ruth put a hand to her mouth, suppressing a laugh. "In what universe?" she said, the chuckle spilling out all the same.


    "Every universe. It¡¯s multiversal, in fact."


    "Kids, kids!" Skipper said, raising his hands as if breaking up an invisible brawl. "There¡¯s no need to fight over my attention. Your dear leader has come up with a plan."


    Now it was Dragan¡¯s turn to cross his arms. "And what kind of plan is that?"


    Skipper grinned, wide and earnest. "We make a great escape!"


    Dragan groaned.


    -


    Noel checked her script for the fifth time that hour, the fifty-second time that day, the three-hundred and twelfth time that week. Still nothing. No messages from the Citizen, not even an admonishment for their failure.


    Fear danced in her heart. Had they been cast aside? Surely the Citizen wouldn¡¯t do that - he couldn¡¯t. Noel and the others were too valuable to be treated like that.


    "Anything?" said Simeon, lounging on a chunk of rubble off at the side of the room.


    They were staying at their latest headquarters - the Midnight Sun, an abandoned hotel nestled right on the border between Toptown and the Pit. The place was so run down it barely qualified as a building, but it was quiet and - thanks to Noel¡¯s hacking - out of the eyes of security surveillance.


    Noel put the script in her pocket, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke: "Citizen says stand by."


    Simeon blew an exasperated raspberry, settled back into his rocky sofa. There was a good possibility that he¡¯d seen through her lie, but Noel knew he wouldn¡¯t care enough to do anything about it. He was in this for the thrills - so long as he got those, he didn¡¯t much care what the circumstances were.


    Reyansh, on the other hand¡­


    Her gaze slid over to the half-masked warrior. He was leaning against a pillar, arms folded, eyes closed. Noel honestly couldn¡¯t tell if he was trying to look like some kind of stoic badass, or if he was just genuinely asleep.


    That idiot was a true believer - whether he was devoted to the Citizen¡¯s cause or just respected the man¡¯s strength was irrelevant. If Noel stopped being their leader¡¯s mouthpiece, Reyansh would abandon her.


    So she¡¯d keep getting messages to stand by until she figured out what to do.


    This was such bullshit. She¡¯d grown up in a damn castle - she deserved better than this. Still, it was temporary. It was temporary. She¡¯d rise to the top of this shit-pile and take what she was owed.


    She heard the doors open.


    Noel swung around, sending out a command through her Digital Complex - and in response, the drones she still had arranged themselves around her in a defensive formation.


    Simeon sat up, pulling a long hair from his head and readying it in his bow. He pointed the glowing pink arrow towards the darkness at the edge of the room.


    Reyansh just opened his eyes - but Noel saw that his knife was already in his hands. Idiot he might have been, but he was always ready when it came down to it.


    "Wait for my order," Noel muttered, glaring towards the direction of the threat. Everything had to wait for her order.


    Clicking footsteps approached - regular, measured, like the ticking of a clock. Whoever this was, they were used to keeping their body under control. Some kind of military training, then.


    "Do I fire?" said Simeon, licking his lips. The arrow undulated gently in the bow, as though eager to get to business.


    "Not yet," Noel growled. Simeon hadn¡¯t paid attention to her first order - that was bad, very bad, she would have to take steps in the future.


    A thought occurred to her, a hopeful one: was this the Citizen? Had he finally come to give them orders directly, to give them some damn direction? To acknowledge their efforts?


    That hope was nearly instantly replaced with despair - if it was the Citizen, the others would find out that she¡¯d been feeding them fake orders. He¡¯d steal her position as leader. That would be worse than anything.


    The walker came into view. It wasn¡¯t the Citizen.


    It was a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and vivid, blood-red eyes. Her face was seemingly friendly, with a pleasant smile on her lips, but Noel couldn¡¯t tell whether that was genuine or not - especially with the punchpoint rifle slung over her shoulder.


    Wait. Red eyes. Was she the Citizen, then? No. She was too young - from the story the Citizen had told him when she¡¯d first ¡¯met¡¯ him, he had to be much older.


    Noel had all her drones point their guns directly at the woman. The barrels gleamed with malevolent intent.


    "Who are you?" she said, putting as much authority into her voice as it could hold.


    The woman stopped her approach, put a hand on her hip. Her eyes flicked from Noel, to Simeon, to Reyansh, clearly analysing and dissecting the situation mentally. Finally, she looked back to Noel.


    "Hey there, kids," she said. "My name¡¯s Marie. I¡¯ve got a little proposition for you."

 Chapter 57:3.20: Great Escape

    "So," muttered Bart, shuffling awkwardly with his plasmabow. "Who do you think these guys are?"


    Madsen looked over at him. "Who?"


    "The guys we¡¯re guarding, idiot. They¡¯ve gotta be a big deal, right?"


    They were on guard duty just outside the room containing the ¡­ prisoners? Bart wasn¡¯t sure of the right word. These people weren¡¯t allowed to leave, but they weren¡¯t exactly being held for anything either. Had the complex become some kind of hotel without anyone letting him know, then?


    Madsen put a hand to his chin, no doubt doing his best to look like he knew how to think. "It¡¯s gotta be the Citizen and his guys, right? We must¡¯ve bagged ¡¯em."


    That wasn¡¯t the answer Bart had expected.


    "If it was the Citizen, it¡¯d be all over the news," Bart snapped. "You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about."


    Madsen waved his hand. "Nah, nah. I know exactly what I¡¯m talking about. That guy with the metal arm? He¡¯s definitely the Citizen. I¡¯ve got this thing - if I look into someone¡¯s eyes, I can tell their, uh, their true character."


    "And that told you he was the Citizen?" Bart sighed.


    "Yup. It was obvious. We caught him, and now we¡¯re waiting to make the big announcement, you know? ¡¯Cause stock season¡¯s coming up."


    "The hell is stock season?"


    Madsen smirked, as though he¡¯d just won the intellectual battle. "That¡¯s when all the stocks get good, duh. You gotta know about these things if you¡¯re in the biz."


    Bart suppressed a groan - he knew his bonus could be docked for attitude problems, and he didn¡¯t trust Madsen not to snitch if it came down to it. "Well," he said. "What about the others with him? The Cogitant guy and the Pugnant girl? They¡¯re not the Citizen, so who are they?"


    Madsen snapped his fingers. "His moles."


    "His moles in what? We¡¯ve got them in custody too."


    "I, uh," Madsen opened his mouth as if he were going to inflict another opinion on Bart, before faltering. "I don¡¯t have to explain these things to you."


    Quietly shaking his head, Bart returned to his silent guard duty. Just a few more years of this, and he could make enough money to get off this damn rock - or get high enough on the corporate ladder that they¡¯d pay him to go somewhere else.


    The main bulk of Shooting Star Security Solutions¡¯ management was off-planet, but they recruited extensively from the local population to ingratiate themselves to the public. Bart knew that Chief Dir had been a retired Toptown show-brawler before they¡¯d poached him. Presumably, S4 had been hoping that¡¯d net them some positive publicity, but they¡¯d be disappointed if so - Dir kept his past as private as possible.


    The door slid open and the green-coated man - who obviously wasn¡¯t the Citizen - strolled out, arms pumping in an exaggerated motion.


    "Howdy," he said, grinning.


    "Another bathroom break, sir?" Bart sighed. Really, when he¡¯d signed up for S4, these weren¡¯t the kind of duties he¡¯d expected. He knew beggars couldn¡¯t be choosers, but he¡¯d expected a job with a little more action.


    The man winced awkwardly - and then he pointed his palms flat towards Bart and Madsen. "Not exactly, pal," he said apologetically. "My apologies, yeah? Heartbeat shotgun."


    Bart¡¯s eyes widened as he realized violence was imminent, and he raised his bow to point it towards the man - only for the damn thing to get caught on his boot. As he struggled to pull it free, he pointed at the man, barking a wordless order to get down or surrender or something to that effect.


    The man didn¡¯t get down. The man didn¡¯t surrender. He only smiled - and, as a sound like twin gunshots rang out, he winked.


    And everything went black.


    -


    "Poor guys," sighed Ruth through her Skeletal mask, tapping one of the guards on the floor with her foot. "They¡¯re not dead, are they?"


    Skipper shook his head as he cracked the joints in his organic fingers. "Nah. I¡¯m a nice guy, Ruth. I wouldn¡¯t do a thing like that."


    Dragan was treating the guard nearest to him much less sympathetically. In barely a minute, he¡¯d already stripped the man¡¯s bulky body armour and taken it for himself, along with his plasmabow. Even he had to admit that he must have looked a little ridiculous - the armour was too big for him, giving him the appearance of a frightened turtle as the top half of his head popped out of the neckhole.


    He ran his hands over the bow, trying to figure out how it worked. It really wasn¡¯t that complicated - in terms of general principles, it was basically a rifle shaped like a bow. You pulled the trigger, thing went flying. In this case, the thing in question was a glass arrow rather than a globule of plasma, but still.


    "Well, Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, turning a stolen helmet around in his hands before tossing it over his shoulder. "Which way next? We wanna get to some kind of landing pad."


    Dragan unfolded his Archive, pulled out the mental map he¡¯d built up through countless deductions over the last week. When new people arrived - with unfamiliar footstep patterns - they always initially appeared from the same direction.


    "This way," he said, walking down the left end of the corridor. "So long as we keep going in this direction, we¡¯ll end up where the new people come from."


    Ruth nodded, zipping over to his side in a flash of red Aether using her Skeletal armour¡¯s enhanced speed. Skipper followed from behind, walking backwards as he pointed his palms outwards - ready to fire at any moment.


    "We need to play this safe," he said quietly. "But not too safe. From what I¡¯ve, ah, observed, the alarm should go off in about sixty -"


    The alarm went off.


    "Ah."


    Dragan looked at him, despair in his eyes. "I fucking hate you, you know that?"


    -


    "And you are?" said Noel, her drones surrounding the new arrival in a circle. She transmitted commands through her Aether, making sure her puppets would fire if this woman made any sudden movements.


    Even so, the red-eyed woman didn¡¯t seem especially concerned. Her eyes flicked around the legion of drones like they were just mildly interesting distractions, looked at Noel like she was just some friend she hadn¡¯t seen in a while.


    "I told you, didn¡¯t I?" she said, hand still irreverently on her hip. "My name¡¯s Marie."


    "First and last, sweetheart," said Simeon coldly, his arrow pointed right at her throat. He was an idiot who did what he wanted far too much of the time, but Noel couldn¡¯t deny the killer instinct he possessed.


    The woman - Marie - rolled her eyes, obviously taking in the room¡¯s layout as she did. She was prepared for a fight, Noel realized. Every movement she¡¯d made since entering the room had doubled as combat reconnaissance should the situation turn sour.


    "Marie Hazzard," she said. "I¡¯m a Special Officer from the Supremacy. Nice to meet ya."


    Simeon¡¯s neutral expression deepened into a scowl. "You¡¯re the sniper from last week," he said quietly, his finger tightening on the bowstring.


    Marie curtsied, lifting the edges of her jacket up. "Sure am! Nice to meet you."


    Simeon fired his arrow. The pink streak of light surged out from his bow, crossed the room in a fraction of a second, and completed its journey right between Marie¡¯s eyes.


    Well, maybe a few millimetres off.


    Marie raised an eyebrow as she inspected the wriggling ¡¯arrow¡¯ in her hand. Just before the projectile had speared her head, she had reached out with a lightning-quick movement and snatched the thing out of the air between two fingers. As the Aether in the arrow died down and the hair flopped back down to it¡¯s normal state, Marie looked back up at them.


    "That¡¯s not very nice," she said softly. Her eyes were full of a reptile cunning.


    Noel let out a shuddering breath.


    I don¡¯t want to mess with her. The thought popped into Noel¡¯s head, fully-formed, like her blood was screaming it out at her. This was more than simple fear of the strength she¡¯d just displayed: it was the natural fear that came from beholding an apex predator.


    "Simeon, stand down," Noel said quietly, almost choking the words out.


    Simeon shot her a disgusted look. "What?" he said. It was as if she¡¯d asked him something completely preposterous - did his grudge against the Supremacy really run that deep?


    "Our commander ordered you to cease hostilities," intoned Reyansh from his pillar. Even as he addressed Simeon, his eyes were fixed on Marie - and Noel could see that he was gripping his knife so tight his knuckles had turned a ghastly white from the strain.


    Simeon looked from Reyansh to Noel, some protest clearly on the edge of his lips, before finally relenting and allowing his bow to dissipate.


    "Fine," he grunted. "But this is a bad idea."


    Noel turned back to Marie, trying to hide the tension on her face and in her voice. She couldn¡¯t afford to appear weak here. "You said you have a proposition," she said. "Let¡¯s hear it."


    Marie grinned as she dropped the long pink hair, cleaning the fingers that had touched it against the edge of her jacket. Noel frowned as she saw the red stain that was left on the fabric - this woman was clearly deadly quick, but it seemed her actual defense wasn¡¯t too impressive.


    "I¡¯m glad you¡¯re a reasonable girl," Marie said, stuffing her now-clean hand into her pocket. "And such a little cutie too."


    Noel growled. She was getting really sick of people playing this card with her. She let her cyan Aether flare around her, like a wolf baring it¡¯s teeth.


    "Okay, okay!" Marie chuckled, raising her free hand. "Sorry, sorry. I was just messing with you a little there. You guys remember my partner, right? Atoy Muzazi? Black hair, wields a sword, kind of cute in a dumb way?"


    She didn¡¯t know about that last part, but it was hard for Noel to forget that idiot swordsman. She¡¯d been about to execute her master plan when he¡¯d wandered in and thrown everything into chaos.


    "I might," she said, testing the waters.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Marie sighed. "It¡¯s a closed question, sweetheart. The answer¡¯s yes or the answer¡¯s no. Which is it?"


    "Fine. Yes."


    "Well," Marie drew the word out. "It looks like ol¡¯ Atoy has gone and gotten himself apprehended by the authorities. Which obviously, uh, isn¡¯t good. It¡¯s bad, in fact."


    Reyansh¡¯s eyes widened in surprise, and he pushed himself away from the pillar, staggering into the center of the room.


    "That warrior was apprehended?!" he cried, showing an absurd level of concern for someone he¡¯d known for five minutes max. Noel wondered if that was some kind of Pugnant deficiency.


    Marie nodded - and immediately, Reyansh swung around to face Noel.


    "We must initiate a rescue," he said, spreading his arms wide beseechingly. "I¡¯m sure that warrior can be of assistance to us!" Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Oh dear Y. This was just like the time he¡¯d discovered zero-grav wrestling. She¡¯d had to suffer through weeks of proposals about how they could learn from such ingenious warriors, about how they should recruit some of those types to join their ¡¯splendid crusade¡¯.


    She opened her mouth to say something, but Marie interrupted her. Angry heat rose to her forehead. This was her group, dammit - she couldn¡¯t be treated like this.


    "This guy gets it!" Marie said happily, pointing at Reyansh.


    Noel stepped between Marie and Reyansh, arms folded, one drone hovering over each of her shoulders. She jabbed a retaliatory finger towards Marie.


    "Why exactly should I give a shit that your idiot friend is behind bars?" Noel snapped. "You and your buddy have nothing to do with us. Now get out."


    Marie¡¯s expression didn¡¯t shift in the slightest - save for the tiniest curve of her smug smile. "But we could have something to do with you. I want to help you kids out."


    Simeon continued glaring at Marie, fingers still curved around a bow that was no longer there. "What do you mean?" he said, voice low.


    Marie snapped her fingers. "Glad you asked, friend! For my friend Atoy to launch his daring escape, he¡¯s gonna need security to be distracted, right? Otherwise he¡¯ll be filled full of holes by the guards and that will be that."


    Noel took another step forward. "I¡¯ve already told you," she growled. "We¡¯re not busting your friend out, no matter how many times you ask!"


    Noel¡¯s approach was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder - Marie¡¯s hand, placed there so quickly that Noel hadn¡¯t even seen the movement.


    "You¡¯re not listening, kid," she said, the slightest traces of anger slipping into her perky voice.


    Noel froze. The touch on her shoulder was light, but she could feel unmistakable, horrifying strength in those fingers. Enough to crush Noel¡¯s shoulder with very little effort - enough to dig through flesh and crunch through bone, splitting her open like a spent fish.


    Her eyes flicked over to the hand on her shoulder - it was the hand Marie had caught the arrow with, the one that had been injured. Only now there wasn¡¯t a scratch on it.


    Noel blinked. Interesting.


    "What," Noel started to say, her voice cracking. "What do you mean, then?"


    Marie smiled. "I¡¯m gonna tag along with you and your buddies, kid. Help you with your great mission or whatever - help you set up the biggest fireworks this planet¡¯s ever seen. Help you make them so bright that security will have no choice to rush to ¡¯em. And then I¡¯ll go get my boy."


    "That¡¯s¡­"


    The red-eyed woman leaned in closer, so close that Noel could feel her breath. She opened her mouth to say something, to utter some protest, but the words caught in her throat. Both fight and flight were impossible here. The only natural response was to freeze.


    Those red eyes locked onto Noel¡¯s blue ones, a wide toothy smile on Marie¡¯s face.


    "Wouldn¡¯t it be nice," she whispered. "To have someone who worked for you, instead of the Citizen?"


    Noel gulped. She had questions: how much Marie knew of their operation, what exactly she intended to help them with, just what she was doing in the UAP in the first place. She opened her mouth to ask those things, she really did, but all that came out was a weak:


    "Deal."


    -


    "I¡¯ve come up with many plans over the years," Skipper said. "If I might be so bold, I¡¯d say that most of them were, uh, pretty good. Great, in fact!"


    "Yeah," said Ruth, ducking a little lower behind cover to avoid the plasma arrow aimed for her head.


    "But in this case," Skipper went on. "In this case, it feels like I might have miscalculated, uh, just a little bit, yeah? A decimal place somewhere got smooshed. It happens."


    "Yeah," Ruth batted another arrow out of the air with her claws. "It happens. I get you."


    "Now," Skipper raised one arm to gesticulate - only to quickly withdraw it as a hail of arrows hurtled towards the exposed limb. "Does that mean that this was a bad plan? No, of course not! There were circumstances outside my control. Anyone else would have made the same mistake. We were thwarted by, uh, the whims of fate here. Couldn¡¯t be helped."


    Dragan buried his face in his hands as he rocked back and forth behind the transport crate that had become his sanctuary. "I can¡¯t believe we¡¯re going to die like this," he moaned.


    "We¡¯re not gonna die," Ruth said, as plasma ate through her cover.


    "In such a stupid way."


    "Now, now," Skipper cut in with a raised arm - which, again, retreated just as it became a target. "No need to get ourselves down, kiddo. Don¡¯t worry yourself. I¡¯ve got a plan, you know?"


    Dragan¡¯s scream of despair was muffled, but audible all the same.


    The plan really had been going so well, Skipper thought. They¡¯d managed to maneuver themselves though the security complex while only crossing paths with smaller patrols - which resulted in a bit of violence, true, but nothing they couldn¡¯t handle - but their exit had been ¡­ well, it hadn¡¯t gone as well as he would have liked.


    It seemed - and he wasn¡¯t blaming anyone - that Dragan had messed up his deductions slightly. He¡¯d taken into account where new arrivals came from, but not when they¡¯d arrived. As a result, they¡¯d run into an incoming squad of Taldan¡¯s best and brightest right as they were making their great escape.


    "Mr. Hadrien!" cried Skipper over Dragan¡¯s anguished wailing. "Pull yourself together, man! You¡¯re a vital part of, uh, my big plan!"


    Dragan glanced up at the arrows flying overhead before frantically shaking his head. "Nah. Nuh-uh. This was a bad idea."


    "Don¡¯t worry, this is a safe plan," Skipper grinned.


    "I don¡¯t believe you."


    "You wound me, Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, putting a hand to his heart. "But I-"


    "What¡¯s the fucking plan?!" Ruth screamed as she batted countless projectiles away with her claws.


    Right. They were in a bad situation here. Wasn¡¯t the time for the Skipper Comedy Hour, no matter how tempting it may be.


    Using a subtle Heartbeat Shotgun for propulsion, Skipper launched himself across the hallway and right next to Dragan¡¯s position. Then, he extended out his metal hand.


    "Need your handkerchief, kiddo," he said, beckoning.


    Ruth dived behind the crate as well, looking sadly at her charred claws. Skipper winced; they¡¯d take a good while to return to their recorded state, judging from the damage.


    Dragan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Skipper - Ruth¡¯s eyes following the object with great interest.


    "You carry a handkerchief around?" she scoffed. "You¡¯re such a pansy."


    Dragan glared at her as Skipper snatched the handkerchief away. "It¡¯s for wiping blood off, idiot," he snapped. "Seems I get a lot of it on me when I¡¯m around you dumbasses."


    Ruth furrowed her brow. "Just use your hands to wipe it off. Duh."


    The disgust on Dragan¡¯s face was something to witness. It was as if he¡¯d just been offered a glass of vomit. "You¡¯re an animal," he said simply, before turning back to Skipper. "And what the hell do you want my handkerchief for?¡¯


    He got his answer pretty quick. Skipper had securely tied the handkerchief around his metal index finger, and now the air pressure from the countless shots being fired were causing that handkerchief to whip in a chaotic wind.


    In short, it had become the very image of a white flag.


    "Oh, no," Dragan said, almost pleading for this not to be the real plan.


    Skipper stuck his finger over the cover.


    "We surrender!"


    -


    "In all fairness," said Skipper, hands cuffed. "We were really bored."


    Dir punched him in the face, and the idiot went staggering backwards exaggeratedly. Looking up at his attacker, Skipper rubbed his cheek with his shoulder, his expression a hurt one.


    "Buffoon," snapped Dir, cracking his knuckles.


    After their frankly embarrassing attempt at a ¡¯great escape¡¯, Dragan, Skipper and Ruth had been hauled back to Dir¡¯s office in shackles. The fact that they seemingly weren¡¯t even being taken seriously enough to go straight to a cell was even more humiliating, Dragan thought. It was like errant school children being sent to the headmaster, not criminals being apprehended.


    "Shouldn¡¯t have kept us locked up," Ruth said, glaring at Dir all the while. She¡¯d had some fallings out with Skipper recently, but seeing him hurt enraged her all the same. "You guys were asking for it."


    Dir looked like he was going to say something to that, only to throw his hand up and mutter something incoherent - but very clearly frustrated. He marched back around his desk and planted himself in his chair, hands clasped tightly in front of him. A black script that Dragan hasn¡¯t seen before was the only other thing on the desk, but Dir¡¯s eyes remained locked on them.


    "You realize," he said, voice dangerously quiet. "How much worse you¡¯ve made your situation?"


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "We were already being kept prisoner. Don¡¯t pretend otherwise."


    For the first time, Dragan saw a smile come to Dir¡¯s lips - but it was an incredulous one, not born from any kind of levity. "Prisoner?" he said, clasped hands squeezing each other even tighter. "Yes. I¡¯ll say it: you were being held prisoner. You were being held prisoner in a comfortable room, with all the necessary amenities."


    The two security officers who¡¯d hauled them here pulled Skipper up from the floor, pushed him forward to rejoin the group. He looked up, eyes dancing with amusement.


    "A prison¡¯s a prison, buddy," he said, showing no trace of injury. "Doesn¡¯t matter how nice the wallpaper is."


    Dir¡¯s eyebrows knitted themselves together into a sharp ¡¯V¡¯ of danger. Dragan saw another sucker punch in Skipper¡¯s near future, the way this was going.


    Well, it was time for Dragan to make himself useful: damage control. "We¡¯d like to apologize," he said, with as much sincerity as possible.


    "You¡¯d like to apologize?" Dir scoffed. "For assaulting my officers, for damaging my property?"


    "It¡¯s company property, buddy," Skipper said quietly. "Don¡¯t pretend you¡¯ve got any stake in it."


    Dir¡¯s glare intensified to the level that it could burn through steel, a vein on his forehead bulging to bursting point. "Be that as it may," he growled. "I do have authority over where prisoners are held. We have a much less accommodating cell down below that I think will make you-"


    The black script on the desk beeped, and Dir¡¯s mouth immediately snapped shut. His eyes, wide as saucers, flicked to stare at it as if it were a primed bomb.


    "Um," he said quietly. A shiver ran down Dragan¡¯s spine as he saw the unflappable man¡¯s face - it had visibly paled several shades. His pupils were dilated. The physical symptoms of terror were unmistakable.


    His hand whipped over to the script, grabbed it, and the security chief scanned the words on the screen. He grunted. Then, his eyes flicked over to the guards.


    "Leave us," he said quietly.


    The guards glanced at each other - even with their faces concealed, the confusion was obvious. "Um, sir?" one said.


    "Leave us."


    Dir¡¯s voice permitted no argument and the officers didn¡¯t try for any, quickly retreating from the room without so much as a glance backwards.


    Dragan glanced towards Skipper. If he wanted to take Dir hostage or something to give the escape another try, there wouldn¡¯t be a better time. Skipper¡¯s abilities meant that he could put a gun to Dir¡¯s head with just a pinkie finger - literally.


    Slowly, Skipper shook his head. He wanted to see what was going on here. "Something¡¯s got you spooked there, buddy," he called out. "You wanna fill us in?"


    Dir didn¡¯t reply. Instead, face grim, he just tapped two buttons on his desk.


    The first caused a great metal shutter to fall over the windows, eliminating any natural light and leaving only the dim artificial glow of the panels on the walls. Behind him, Dragan heard a thunk as the door locked itself.


    The second activated a hologram projector.


    The thing that appeared before them was like something out of a fantasy videograph - some old superstition brought back to life. A great flaming bull, skin formed from charred wood and glowing coal, smoke pouring from its empty eye-sockets. It was almost like a skeleton with flesh of fire.


    It was clearly a hologram, but Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel phantom heat on his skin - smell the phantom stink of smoke. The bull angled its head slightly, as if regarding them.


    "Dragan Hadrien of the Supremacy," it said, with a voice that sent shivers down Dragan¡¯s spine. It was monstrously deep - but clearly artificially so. The slight electronic buzz confirmed it. "Ruth Blaine of the Supremacy."


    Ruth growled at that method of address, but a glance from the bull quietened her somewhat. Dragan wasn¡¯t sure whether it was the speaker¡¯s appearance or the mind behind the voice, but this ¡­ thing ¡­ had an unmistakable talent for demanding attention.


    The bull¡¯s head turned towards Skipper.


    "And the man called Skipper," it said slowly, flames wavering in time with it¡¯s speech. "Origin ¡­ unknown. Such an auspicious meeting."


    "Haven¡¯t had the pleasure, friend," Skipper said, voice alive with grim humour. "Don¡¯t suppose this is about the steak I had last night?"


    "Oh, no, no," the bull chuckled condescendingly. "Greetings, my friends. My associates call me the Sponsor of War¡­"


    It leaned forward, until it¡¯s ghastly burning visage filled their vision.


    "...and I have much to discuss with you."

 Chapter 58:3.21: Days Gone By

    Skipper glared at the massive bull-hologram that towered over them, squinting slightly as the false smoke from its flaming eye sockets flowed throughout the room.


    "Don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve had the pleasure," he said, voice light but expression unchanged.


    "You believe correctly," the bull - the Sponsor of War, it had called itself - intoned. "We have never met before - in this regard or any other. There¡¯s no need for such a frightening face - I mean you no harm. I represent Taldan¡¯s sponsors, and we are very much interested in the services you can provide."


    Ruth furrowed her brow. "Taldan¡¯s sponsors?" she said. The sudden swerve of the situation was clearly a little too fast for her.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t shift from the Sponsor of War. "They¡¯re the money," he said, disdain dripping from his voice. "You¡¯re the guys squeezing this planet dry like a piece of fruit, yeah?"


    Dragan shot Skipper a long-suffering glance - couldn¡¯t he meet anyone without making an enemy out of them? Especially when they were at that person¡¯s mercy?


    "That¡¯s a ¡­ crude metaphor," the bull said, sniffing. "Yet, I must admit, not entirely inaccurate. I prefer to think of myself and my associates as managers - ensuring that this settlement can reach its full potential. We¡¯ve invested a great deal of time, effort and, yes, money, in making sure that happens."


    Skipper smiled a humourless smile. "I¡¯m so happy for you."


    Dir looked up from his desk, nervousness clearly visible on his face. He wasn¡¯t used to this person¡¯s presence, Dragan realized. This was someone many levels above him in the hierarchy - the boss of his boss of his boss. He¡¯d only recently made his existence known to the security chief.


    Before Skipper could continue his quest to antagonize every dangerous person he could find, Dragan spoke up. "You said you want the services we can provide," he said, trying to hide his own anxiety. "We¡¯ve already done that - we got Roz for you guys. Nothing else was discussed."


    The bull turned it¡¯s head to face him. Dragan resisted the very tempting urge to take a step back. Weakness would be the same as surrender in this scenario.


    "That¡¯s true," the bull sighed. "If it were up to me, I would declare our business concluded with that service you provided."


    Liar. Even through the voice modulation, it was obvious. And the bull knew it.


    "But¡­" Skipper prompted.


    "But," the bull snorted. "My associates are not as charitable, sadly. They consider the service you just completed to be more of an ¡­ audition, than the conclusion of our business. And an audition that you certainly passed with flying colours. They would like for you to take on a significantly larger task now."


    Skipper stepped forward, past Dragan and Ruth, and strode right through the hologram as he crossed the room. He reached the far wall and sat down against it, slouching on the floor. The smirk that played across his lips was as irreverent as it got.


    "We don¡¯t all get what we want, Mister Cow," he shrugged. "Tell your friends they need to put out a new job ad. I¡¯m not biting."


    At the desk, Dir visibly suppressed a wince, biting his lip. Dragan and Ruth glanced at each other as the bull stood there, silent. It very suddenly felt as if the whole room had become a bomb.


    The Sponsor of War¡¯s smile could be heard in his voice. "I understand a friend of yours is currently in the hospital."


    Skipper¡¯s eyes narrowed, and Dragan saw a subtle spark of involuntary green Aether run across his elbow. He remained on the floor, but the sheer pressure exuding from him made it feel like he was standing above everyone else in the room.


    "I¡¯ll kill you," Skipper said softly. "You do anything to them, and I¡¯ll kill you. That¡¯s a promise."


    The bull went on, unconcerned. "You¡¯re free to believe that. But even if you were to succeed in such an endeavour, the damage would already be done, wouldn¡¯t it? It would be easier and much less emotional for all of us to cooperate as friends from the beginning."


    Dragan was glaring at the bull so hard it felt like his eyes would be squeezed out of his sockets, like toothpaste from a tube. If Skipper doesn¡¯t kill you, he thought. Then I will.


    Still, he didn¡¯t say it. He wasn¡¯t strong enough to have that luxury. If he wanted to kill somebody like this, he¡¯d wait until they were a corpse before letting them know about it.


    Skipper slowly stood up. "Seems you¡¯ve got this all figured out already," he said through gritted teeth. "What¡¯s the job?"


    The answer wasn¡¯t especially a surprise. "Kill the Citizen."


    "I¡¯m no assassin," Skipper said, shaking his head.


    A rumbling, warbled chuckle rang out from the bull - which quickly intensified into an amused laugh, made volcano-deep from the modulation.


    "That wasn¡¯t a joke," Skipper said, eyes cold.


    "I know, I know, my apologies," the bull replied, laughter trailing off but the amusement that fuelled it remaining. "I just find it interesting when people lie to my face like that - and without even blinking, too! You truly are an impressive man, Skipper."


    Dragan glanced as Ruth took a step towards the bull. Her face, lit red by the burning hologram, was inquisitive, confused.


    "Lie?" she said. "What lie?"


    Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked from Ruth to the bull, and in them Dragan saw something new - fear. "Don¡¯t," he said softly, shaking his head.


    The flames around the bull intensified, as if it was forming a temple around itself. It¡¯s half-burnt, hollow expression didn¡¯t change, but Dragan felt an undeniable smugness radiating from it.


    It knelt down, so that it was face to face with Ruth, empty eyes staring into her golden ones. It leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with a friend.


    "I said don¡¯t," snapped Skipper, fear being replaced with genuine anger. He took a step towards the bull, but the shackles binding his hands meant that he couldn¡¯t do anything to stop events.


    Dir stood from his chair, looked for a moment like he would intervene, but at a glance from the bull he shut his mouth and sat back down.


    "Tell me, my dear," the Sponsor of War whispered. "What do you know of the man called Skipper?"


    Ruth¡¯s expression looked uncertain for a moment - but then it hardened, retreating back into a learned roughness. "He¡¯s my friend," she growled.


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    "You think you know him well, then?"


    Even though Ruth¡¯s face remained unchanged, Dragan saw the muscles in her arm tense as she did her best to snap the shackles binding them - to no avail.


    Giving up on the effort, she looked back up at the bull. "Better than anyone," she almost spat.


    "What¡¯s his name, then?"


    Ruth had no answer for that, nor did Dragan. The question must certainly have occurred to Ruth at some point - it had definitely occurred to Dragan - but you couldn¡¯t tell that from her face; the uncertainty there was as if Skipper¡¯s name was something she¡¯d never even considered could exist.


    Skipper¡¯s own face, visible through the semi-transparent bull, was deathly pale. It was as if someone had just shot him in the gut.


    "You don¡¯t¡­" he choked out, bound hands visibly shaking.


    "No, I don¡¯t know," the bull conceded, taking a step back from the shaken Ruth. "But it¡¯s an interesting question all the same, isn¡¯t it? What I do know, however, are the things you¡¯ve done. Your crimes. Your ¡­ well, sins might be a tad subjective, but you understand my point."


    Even with the further implied threat, Skipper noticeably calmed down a little at that. Still, though, his eyes were fury.


    "You think you know what you¡¯re talking about," he said slowly. "But you don¡¯t."


    And with that, he turned his back on the bull, closed his eyes.


    "Do what you want, pal," he said, finally sounding like his normal self. "See if I care, yeah?"


    "How noble," the bull chuckled. "If only you could have demonstrated such moral integrity thirty years ago."


    Ruth stepped forward again, this time nearly passing through the front of the bull. "What are you talking about?!" she snapped.


    "Ruth," muttered Dragan, grabbing at her arm. "Maybe we should all just calm down a little."


    Dragan didn¡¯t quite understand what was happening, but what was clear was that this situation was rapidly getting out of control. New emotions were leaking into what had previously just been a tense negotiation. Before long, someone here would do something they would regret.


    Still ¡­ he couldn¡¯t deny that he was curious as well.


    Ruth shook his arm off her, glanced towards Skipper with a half-guilty look on her face - then turned back to the bull, eyes resolute.


    "Tell me," she said, voice just as resolute. "It won¡¯t change a thing."


    Dragan opened his mouth to offer some other protest, but no words came. He, too, glanced towards Skipper apologetically.


    The flames coating the Sponsor of War settled at a low simmer. "You see, my dear," it said, voice nearly inaudible over the crackling wood. "Your good friend Skipper was here thirty years ago."


    That wasn¡¯t much of a secret. Dragan almost laughed, only for the noise to die in his throat when the bull looked towards him.


    "And when he came here last," the bull concluded. "He set this planet ablaze."


    -


    Thirty Years Ago¡­


    The Widow checked herself in a broken shop-window as she passed by. Today was a big day, after all, and if it went wrong she wanted to leave a presentable corpse.


    She frowned, put a hand to her hair. The brown locks had started turning grey - stress, that was what it was, all the damn stress. Her eyes were ringed with sleepless bags, brown pupils looking just as weary. She adjusted her cufflinks; the outfit she was wearing was something of a mix between a business suit and a dress. A horrifying expense, but it wasn¡¯t like she had anything else to spend her money on.


    She¡¯d looked better, but she¡¯d also looked worse. Either way - if all went well, she wouldn¡¯t be seen.


    With a rustle, she pulled the note she¡¯d retrieved from her pocket.


    meeting manger repairs 1715 in steadfast district. will pick up kid and wait for you there - Klaus


    She sniffed. Klaus¡¯ handwriting was as messy as ever, but at least the message was communicated efficiently. With a tiny spark of frost-white Aether, she froze the note over - and with the slightest pressure of her fingers, shattered it into pieces.


    Manger Repairs. From the information she¡¯d looked up, that was only a few streets away. Their time on this backwards planet would finally be coming to an end.


    The Widow tapped her silver cane against the ground as she walked, holding her other hand up to shield her eyes from the impertinent rays of morning sunlight that had managed to make their way through the spider-web city of Taldan. She didn¡¯t need the cane to walk, of course, but both the handle and the end had hidden blades that could be useful weapons in a pinch. It was the same with her gloves - if she applied some pressure at the wrist, that activated a stun-current inside the outer fabric that she could transmit via touch.


    For the commander of Vantablack Squad, nothing was too paranoid.


    She reached the building. It wasn¡¯t much to speak of - a tiny box-shaped garage, clearly abandoned months ago. The windows were boarded up, and rust had already begun it¡¯s assault upon the shutters.


    The Widow reached down and pulled the shutter up with one hand, closing it as she ducked inside.


    The inside of the repair shop was nearly as depressing as the outside - dark and dingy, with a ruined car gathering dust in the center of the room. Empty shelves - the tools they once held now looted - lined the walls, and a smashed screen on the wall was all that remained of the diagnostic station.


    She clicked her tongue. Her father had been a mechanic, and he would have been driven to despair by a sight like this - if she hadn¡¯t killed him years ago.


    There was a sniff from the darkness.


    A light rushed towards her. Immediately, she stepped out of the way of the first throwing knife - before reaching out and catching the second between two fingers. The custom design of the knife was unmistakable - silver and curved like a crescent moon.


    "Klaus," she snapped into the shadows. "It¡¯s me, you damn fool."


    Klaus stepped out of the darkness, three more knives clutched in his shaking hand. An eyepatch covered his bad eye, but the other one was clearly visible - the blazing blue pupil a stark contrast to the shaggy black hair that hung over it. He scratched his arms as he approached, eye flicking all the way around the room.


    "Can¡¯t be too sure," he said hurriedly, sniffing the air. "Could have been someone else - pretending to be you, you know. Had to make sure. I think it¡¯s you. You smell like people - where¡¯ve you been?"


    She really wasn¡¯t one to talk - not with her hidden arsenal - but Klaus¡¯ paranoia got tiring very quickly. She handed back the knife she¡¯d grabbed and leaned to the side, on her silver cane.


    "I had to make sure the TPF couldn¡¯t follow me, didn¡¯t I?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Led their stalkers on quite the merry chase. Where¡¯s Aoel?"


    Klaus sniffed the knife before stuffing it back into its holster. "Aoel? Meeting with our contact. You said stalkers. Were you followed?"


    Klaus¡¯ speaking was so fast it took the Widow a second to catch up with him. "As I said," she muttered, irritation creeping into her tone. "I lost them."


    "Are you sure? Don¡¯t smell sure."


    "I¡¯m certain," she said, in a voice that permitted no argument. "Is the kid with you?"


    Klaus breathed in heavy through his nose, nodding with such force that his hair flopped this way and that. "Mm-hmm, yeah, yeah. He¡¯s here."


    Glancing around, the Widow spotted him. She wasn¡¯t sure if it was intentional or not, but the kid had an undeniable talent for making eyes pass over him - without Klaus¡¯ keen sense of smell, there was a good chance he could just wander off and they¡¯d never notice.


    The kid, as usual, was still - hugging his knees as he watched from the corner of the room, expression unreadable through his mass of scraggly long hair. His mouth noiselessly murmured - giving that same silent spiel to himself, no doubt. The Widow could read his lips:


    A person¡¯s duty is to their nation. A nation¡¯s duty is to the advancement of said nation, and the glory thereupon. To attain glory is to fulfill duties and responsibilities. Being given responsibility is the proof of being human. Someone who disregards their duty is not human. Duty is something given to you by a nation. A person¡¯s duty is to their nation.


    It went on and on like that, whenever the kid had a spare moment, with only the slightest deviances. To tell the truth, the Widow hadn¡¯t been especially keen on taking the kid on at first - but her superiors had insisted, and she¡¯d never been one to question orders.


    "I know you said you weren¡¯t followed," cut in Klaus, still fidgeting. "But, you know, that seems a little suspicious. I don¡¯t know. I-I¡¯ve just got a bad feeling, you know? I don¡¯t like the vibes of this place. It¡¯s just, um, something to consider, you know?"


    She walked over, ignoring Klaus¡¯ paranoid ramblings, and ruffled the kid¡¯s hair, bringing his silent speech to a sudden end. sea??h th§× n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Hey, skipper," she said, ignoring the groan of protest. "How¡¯s it going?"


    The kid didn¡¯t say anything - just growled without words. Still, he didn¡¯t really resist the attention. He wasn¡¯t exactly helpless, after all.


    She took her hand away. Serious time.


    "So," she went on. "You ready to kill a president?"


    -


    Dragan blinked as the image was projected on the wall - a young man charging across an elevated platform, pointing a finger towards an old man standing at a pedestal there. There was a hole in the elder¡¯s chest, like he¡¯d been run through with a greatsword. The heart had without a doubt been demolished - near-instant death.


    He looked from the young man to Skipper, and back again - Ruth mirroring him a second later. Then, he opened his mouth to speak:


    "Oh, what the fuck."

 Chapter 59:3.22: Quill

    "Why is it that people hate each other?" said Sait, tired eyes gazing impassively at the traffic below. "Why do you think that is?"


    Serena put a finger to her chin, considering the question - and considering why she was being asked the question. Nearly everyday this weird old guy had showed up and asked her and Bruno these kinds of questions. Bruno just ignored him, but Serena wasn¡¯t rude like that.


    They were on one of the massive balconies that lined the outside of the hospital, this one made up to look like a dock overlooking a holographic ocean. Sait sat at the end of it in his wheelchair, peering through the hologram to glare at the city beyond.


    She blinked. "Do people have to hate each other?"


    He didn¡¯t look at her as he replied. "There must be someone that you hate."


    Cott¡¯s smug grin floated to her mind, and a growl almost escaped her throat. She hated him, true. She¡¯d rip him to pieces if she ever saw him again. But he wasn¡¯t people - he was Cott.


    "I hate a person," she admitted, frowning. "But I don¡¯t hate people. That¡¯s different, I think."


    Again, Sait didn¡¯t even look at her. "Mistaken," he grunted.


    "How¡¯s that?"


    "Humans loathe all other humans," Sait said, as if explaining something exceedingly simple. "Without exception. But that¡¯s not acceptable - not socially - so they lie. To themselves. Take the hate they feel for everyone and put it in just a few people. But it¡¯s a cheap trick. Wears away given time."


    Sait really was kind of a downer. It was as if he lived solely to look grumpy and give pessimistic lectures. That might have even been the case - Serena had never seen him do anything else, despite supposedly being in charge of this hospital.


    "Do you hate everyone?" she asked, cocking her head.


    "Of course." Sait¡¯s eyes tracked a holographic eel as it swam through the false ocean below.


    "Including me?"


    "Yes," Sait didn¡¯t even hesitate. "My hate for you is lesser, though. I haven¡¯t yet discovered what I loathe about you."


    He said it matter-of-factly, as if this was simply the way the world worked. Serena couldn¡¯t imagine living like that - constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for every person you met to reveal themselves worthy of scorn. It sounded lonely.


    "What about yourself?" she pressed on, eager to punch a hole in this depressing balloon.


    Sait¡¯s voice was quieter, but no less certain: "Yes. Exceedingly."


    "Because you¡¯re old?"


    That got a reaction out of him - it was just an annoyed glance backwards, but it was a reaction all the same. Then, he sighed and began speaking:


    "Do you think it¡¯s possible for people to be redeemed for their actions?"


    Serena nodded - the thought of Cott made that nod a bit reluctant, but still. "Yeah, of course. If they really feel bad about what they did."


    Sait scoffed. "It needs more than that, idiot. For a person to be redeemed, they must take steps to rectify their errors. They must not reap the benefits of their atrocities."


    Those were a lot of big words, but Serena didn¡¯t exactly disagree. Saying you wanted to be redeemed without actually doing anything was just lip service.


    "So," Sait spat. "What do you call someone who hates what they have done, but cannot bring themselves to stop? Not even because of the loss it would bring them, or the fear of retribution - simply because they cannot expend the effort? Wretch. Wretched." The last two words were delivered with such a low growl that the bitterness was almost leaking from his mouth.


    Serena frowned. "Are you talking about yourself?"


    "I wasn¡¯t exactly being subtle, fool." Sait turned his wheelchair to face Serena, ignoring the artificial sand kicked up by the movement.


    "But you¡¯re a doctor, right? You help people, like with this hospital."


    For a second, Sait¡¯s face shifted with those words - changing from his usual grumpy countenance to an expression of utmost horror. It was as if Serena had cut her own throat in front of him. After that second, though, the moment passed - and Sait¡¯s face went back to that usual scowl.


    "This hospital," he said, almost spitting the word. "Has never helped anyone. Not one person. Ever. This is a place for hurting people. It¡¯s a bad joke."


    "But you helped me," said Serena sadly. "I was all hurt after the fight, but your doctor¡¯s made me better. Nobody hurt me."


    Sait laughed, a hollow humourless sound. "Helped you," he croaked. "That¡¯s funny. See what happens if you try to leave, girl. You¡¯ll see what this place is for. Even the name is for hurting people."


    The name? Anna Sait Memorial Hospital. Skipper or Dragan would probably have been able to make some easy deduction from that, but Serena didn¡¯t get it.


    "Anna Sait?" she asked. "Who¡¯s that? Family?"


    Sait¡¯s mouth spread into a yellowing, uneven grin. "Anna Sait is the one who makes me unforgivable. No matter what I do."


    -


    "Now," said the Sponsor of War, retracting the projection of the presidential assassination back into itself. "I¡¯m sure you would agree this is a quite serious offense, my friends. I¡¯d forget thirty years forced labour - it¡¯s a firing squad for a sin such as this."


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    Ruth¡¯s eyebrows were still knitted into a confused wobble as she looked from the bull to Skipper. "Skipper?" she asked. "Why wouldn¡¯t you tell us about that?"


    Skipper opened his mouth to say something, but just closed it again with a grunt.


    To tell the truth, Dragan didn¡¯t understand either. The fact that Skipper had assassinated the President was shocking, sure, but Dragan didn¡¯t actually find himself caring that much. He¡¯d never known the man, after all, and most politicians were assholes anyway.


    The fact that Skipper had hidden it, though, that showed that he definitely cared.


    "Your friend seems quite distraught, Skipper," said the bull, an unmistakable smugness slithering in its voice. "Should I elaborate?"


    Skipper hissed out the words, so quiet Dragan could barely hear: "I¡¯ll do as you say."


    "Sorry, I didn¡¯t quite catch that."


    Skipper looked up, spoke louder with a glare of fire and a voice of ice. "I said I¡¯ll do as you say."


    The bull seemed satisfied with that, and was seemingly about to finally shut up - when Ruth stepped forward.


    "Tell me," she said, voice resolute.


    Skipper looked up warily, still in the corner of the room as if trying to hide from events. "Ruth," he said slowly, and there was more than a hint of warning in his voice. Don¡¯t go there, he was really saying. Don¡¯t ask.


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something, too - but promptly snapped it shut when Skipper¡¯s gaze swung over to him. Anything he said here wouldn¡¯t help the situation.


    The bull leaned forward to face Ruth directly. "Have you ever heard of the Vantablack Squad?"


    Ruth shook her head. "No." S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I¡¯m not surprised," the bull chuckled. "They¡¯re not the sort of group many people have heard of. The Vantablack Squad were the people the UAP central government turned to when they wanted something done quietly. Something done invisibly, even, with no way to trace the crimes back to them. Theft, sabotage, assassinations - they were quite prolific back in the day. Until the death of dear President Saon, of course. That wasn¡¯t so quiet."


    As the bull spoke, Dragan unfolded his Archive - the thing had been gathering mental dust, really - and inspected his memory of the image the bull had projected. The young Skipper - in his early twenties at the very most - blasting a hole in this President Saon with what had to be a Heartbeat Shotgun. In the background of the image, Dragan could see the blurry and indistinct mass of a crowd. The bull was right: that didn¡¯t seem very inconspicuous at all.


    "After the assassination," the bull went on. "The Vantablack Squad was disbanded - its members going their separate ways, save for one who was executed for prior crimes. But the scars of their ¡­ escapades are still felt. Especially here on Taldan."


    The bull was full of fittingly named shit, no doubt. He didn¡¯t actually care about what this Vantablack Squad had done - even without seeing his face, his voice made it obvious. If anything, this guy and those like him had probably benefited from the chaos this assassination had brought about.


    All this was, to him, was something to exploit. Just like everything else, no doubt.


    Ruth didn¡¯t say anything - her mouth was a thin expressionless line, and her eyes were full of confusion. Her fists were balled at her sides as she stood there, staring forward in deep thought.


    "Well," chuckled the bull, cutting through the silence. "I¡¯ll leave you all to it."


    And then it was gone.


    Dir cleared his throat awkwardly behind his desk, adjusted his tie in an effort to occupy his hands. Clearly, he hadn¡¯t expected that sudden infodump either - the awkwardness was palatable.


    Skipper came back from the corner. "So, uh," he said, expression returning to his easy grin. "I¡¯m betting you¡¯ve got some kind of job for us then -"


    "When were you going to tell us about this?" Ruth snapped.


    The grin died near-instantly. Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked over to Ruth, but the rest of him didn¡¯t move. "We¡¯ve all got secrets, kid," he said, as if the whole thing was really no big deal. "You can¡¯t expect people to just share their whole life story for you, yeah?"


    Dragan stepped forward. "Yeah," he said, frustration creeping into his voice. "No. I¡¯d be okay with you not telling us everything about you - believe me, I don¡¯t want to know - but not when we¡¯ve been press ganged into being these assholes¡¯ attack dogs because of it. You should have told us."


    Ruth nodded as well. Clearly, he¡¯d managed to voice her own frustrations too.


    Skipper turned towards the pair of them, sucked in air through his teeth. "Listen," he said. "You already knew I was in a little trouble here, and that was why we were in this mess. What does knowing the trouble change? Situation¡¯s still the same, yeah?"


    "A little trouble?" Ruth said incredulously, eyes wide.


    "You assassinated the President!" Dragan spread his arms wide as he spoke. "That¡¯s a big fucking deal!"


    Skipper raised his arms too, but then lowered them again in futility, making it look like the desperate flapping of some unfortunate bird. "Well, you know," he said quietly, glancing towards Ruth. "We¡¯ve all got stuff."


    Again, Dir cleared his throat. "I¡¯ve, ah," he said, that awkwardness the conversation had brought about still there. "I¡¯ve got assignments for you all from my superiors. They¡¯d like you to begin immediately."


    Dragan glared at Skipper for a second longer, before sighing and breaking his gaze. "This isn¡¯t over," he said, marching towards Dir.


    Skipper sighed, quietly. "Yeah," he said. "I getcha."


    -


    A sword was the pen with which you wrote your will onto the world.


    That was something Atoy Muzazi had always believed. It had been drilled into him. So long as he had his sword - so long as he had Luminescence - he could break free of any situation. Power was his ink, and Luminescence his quill. With both of them together, he could make events go any way he wanted.


    But now he was powerless. Now he was without Luminescence. The torture was unpleasant, but knowing those two facts was somehow even worse.


    He kept his eyes closed, trying to snatch what little sleep he could between interrogation sessions, but he knew that to be futile. When he closed his eyes, all he saw was Hadrien¡¯s smug face. All he saw was that humiliation, the shock of the stun-bolt not so different from the methods his interrogators were using.


    I will get out of here, Hadrien, he promised. I will find you.


    But he had already done that, hadn¡¯t he? He had embarked upon his revenge - and failed miserably. He¡¯d allowed his rage to guide his sword, and paid the price for it. If he went after Hadrien as he was now, what would change?


    He would simply fall deeper into this spiral.


    Muzazi wondered if Marie had made it out alright. More than once his interrogators had inquired as to the identity of his partner, so they clearly hadn¡¯t captured her, but that didn¡¯t mean she had left the battle unscathed. There were many people on the streets of Taldan that night, after all.


    The answers would not present themselves. He would have to find them.


    Escape, then. He¡¯d known that to be the only option from the start. His interrogators would never willingly release him, after all - even if he confessed what he knew, which he never would, he¡¯d be shipped off to a UAP holding facility as an enemy combatant. He couldn¡¯t rely on others to break him out, either - there was no guarantee that they were willing or able to do so.


    If he wanted to leave this place, it would have to be under his own power.


    He had no Aether.


    He had no sword.


    He had no strength.


    These were the trials that defined a Special Officer. He would make do.


    As he heard the door to the interrogation room slide open, Muzazi opened his eyes to look - and they widened into saucers of fury. The calm that he¡¯d dutifully forced into himself shattered like glass. A growl escaped his throat.


    "You," he snarled.


    Dragan Hadrien stood there, leaning against the doorframe with a displeased expression on his face. He held a script in one of his hands, and he clicked his tongue as his eyes met Muzazi¡¯s.


    "Yeah," he sighed. "I¡¯m not thrilled about it either."

 Chapter 60:3.23: Twin Interrogations

    "You think I¡¯ll talk?" said Muzazi, glaring straight forward.


    Dragan sighed as he sat down in the chair opposite from Muzazi. Expecting the Special Officer to cooperate was a longshot - he¡¯d already known that - but it was still yet another annoying thing to deal with. Another headache-prompt to add to the list.


    "Of course not," he said, rubbing his hands together - the room was damn cold. "You¡¯re the kind of guy to bravely resist interrogation or whatever. Believe me, I don¡¯t want to be here either."


    Muzazi scoffed. "Liar."


    "How am I lying?"


    "You have no sense of duty - no sense of responsibility. If you did not want to be here, you¡¯d find some dishonourable way of extracting yourself from the situation. As you did on Caelus Breck."


    Dragan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Was this really what Muzazi thought of him? That he was some galactic vagabond that flitted from place to place as he pleased, slipping out of the Supremacy¡¯s grip like some kind of escape artist? Ridiculous.


    Still, somehow getting out of the situation Skipper had gotten them into was a tempting idea¡­


    He shrugged. "Well," he said. "You can think whatever you want about me. I won¡¯t bother trying to convince otherwise. You¡¯re the kind of guy who doesn¡¯t change your mind easily, right?"


    Muzazi stiffened slightly, and Dragan had to suppress a grin at that. It was true that he didn¡¯t much care how this interrogation went, but he couldn¡¯t deny some dark glee at making the man who¡¯d chased him all the way here squirm. He had memories of Muzazi¡¯s neutral body language - like an animated statue in his Archive - that he could compare to the swordsman¡¯s current demeanour to detect deviances.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" Dragan went on, when Muzazi didn¡¯t speak up. "Did you forget I¡¯m a Cogitant? I can work out most things about you just by glancing at your face."


    A lie - he needed a little more than that - but just true enough to be unsettling.


    Muzazi shut his eyes. "Ask your questions," he growled. "I will refuse to answer, and you will run away as is your nature."


    Dragan frowned. This whole interrogation was getting a little mean-spirited, and he wasn¡¯t there for that. He held up the script they¡¯d given him, reading through the questions as he carefully observed his prisoner.


    "Your partner," Dragan began. "They know you have one. Where are they?"


    Microexpressions made themselves clear before Muzazi could suppress them. Uncertainty, confusion and anxiety in equal measure. Even without Muzazi so much as opening his mouth, Dragan knew the answer well.


    "So you don¡¯t know," he said smugly. "That¡¯s fine, I can just put an X next to the question."


    He did so with two quick swipes of his finger, then glanced back up towards Muzazi. The swordsman was clearly gritting his teeth behind his closed mouth, given the minute movements of his jaw. His frustration was increasing with each second.


    Dragan knew he really shouldn¡¯t do this. Chances were that Muzazi would somehow break free of this predicament - and when he did, he¡¯d seek retribution for each and every humiliation.


    But he just couldn¡¯t help himself. Muzazi had caused him a lot of trouble, after all.


    He went on. "How did you know where the security operation was taking place? That wasn¡¯t exactly public knowledge. You had insider information, didn¡¯t you?"


    Muzazi¡¯s face didn¡¯t move an inch. That was fine.


    "You realize, of course," said Dragan slowly. "That keeping your face still so you don¡¯t make any compromising expressions is itself a compromising expression?"


    The smallest intake of breath through the nose. Dragan was in his element. Back on Crestpoole, he¡¯d only sat on the sidelines of interrogations like these, but taking the interrogator¡¯s seat came more naturally than he¡¯d expected.


    "The fact that you hid your expression so quickly, compared to the first question," explained Dragan, drumming his fingers on the table. "Means that, unlike with that question, you do know the answer. And you very much don¡¯t want me to know. That suggests that me having that knowledge would be harmful either to you or to the person who gave you that information - and obviously it wouldn¡¯t be you, because you¡¯re already in a bad situation. So it¡¯s the person who gave you the intelligence. You didn¡¯t dispose of them, and in fact you know where they are right now. That location is something which, of course, you don¡¯t want me to know."


    Another tiny breath. The merest hint of anxiety, but it was like blood in the water for Dragan. He leaned forward a little more, grinning.


    "But it¡¯s more than that, isn¡¯t it? It¡¯s hard to believe you¡¯ve got someone on the inside of security, seeing as they¡¯re surveilled to within an inch of their lives. If one of them talked to you, we¡¯d already know about it. So it¡¯s someone who gets this kind of information through another method, then? An information broker, maybe - someone in the city¡¯s underworld, at the very least."


    A subtle twitch of the eyebrow. He¡¯d hit on something with that speculation.


    Dragan steepled his fingers. "I don¡¯t really care who gave you the information, to be honest - they sure do, but I couldn¡¯t care less. But the fact that it¡¯s an underworld figure means that this person is an ally of yours, not a puppet - and an ally of your partner, too, then. I¡¯d wager we¡¯d find them both at the same place, wouldn¡¯t we? Or at least ¡­ that¡¯s what you think."


    He leaned back in his chair, trying to suppress the self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. Even without Muzazi saying anything, he knew he was right. People like him couldn¡¯t keep things close to their chests, even when they were putting all their willpower into it.


    Muzazi sighed with a shuddering breath, opened his eyes again. "You think you¡¯re very impressive, don¡¯t you? But you are not."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "How¡¯s that?"


    "You sit there, throwing out your accusations as if you were reaching into some crime, enacting some justice. You do this when you are the criminal, you the betrayer. You take on a role that isn¡¯t yours - and you relish it, kicking a man while he is down. It¡¯s disgraceful."


    The smug smile turned into a frown. "You¡¯re saying you¡¯re not the criminal here? You¡¯re literally in a jail cell. I¡¯m not saying anything about this morally, but you did break this planet¡¯s laws - that¡¯s a fact."


    "There¡¯s a greater code than the laws of men."


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    "And what¡¯s that?"


    "The laws of the soul," Muzazi said earnestly. "The promises we make ourselves."


    Dragan rolled his eyes, chuckling derisively.


    "And you laugh," Muzazi shook his head. "I speak of honour, of dignity, and you think it a joke. You have the heart of a demon, Dragan Hadrien."


    Dragan bit his lip. He didn¡¯t much care for the moral judgements here - even when they were so blatantly overdramatic.


    "You don¡¯t seem so dignified right now," he said, looking the dishevelled Muzazi up and down. "You look like shit, actually - no offense."


    "A temporary setback. I will be free of this place before long."


    Dragan shrugged. "Yeah, probably. They¡¯ll make some stupid mistake and you¡¯ll be back on the streets, challenging lampposts to duels."


    "You shouldn¡¯t make such light of it. As soon as I am free, I will be coming after you. How long are you prepared to look over your shoulder?"


    A nasty flare of anger bubbling in his chest, Dragan leaned forward again, planted his hands on the table with twin slams. "I won¡¯t have to," he hissed. "You know why? You¡¯re too stupid to approach me from behind. You¡¯ll wander near me, shout out my own name, and it¡¯ll end with you on the ground and me standing over you. Because you¡¯re an idiot. Because you don¡¯t understand the way the world works."


    Muzazi showed no signs of caution at Dragon¡¯s sudden outburst. He simply raised one eyebrow. "And how is that?" he said, sounding distinctly unimpressed.


    Dragan was only too happy to enlighten him. "These things you ramble on about? Honour, dignity, all that shit? They don¡¯t exist. They¡¯re things people made up to make themselves seem more noble. There¡¯s no difference between me shooting you in the back and shooting you in the front. If I were to pull out a gun right now and shoot you - while your hands were tied - it wouldn¡¯t mean a thing. You¡¯d be dead and I¡¯d be alive, so I¡¯d be the winner. The person who¡¯s willing to do what it takes - whatever it takes - gets what they want: that¡¯s the rule. That¡¯s the only rule."


    He heaved out angry breaths, surprised at just how much Atoy Muzazi had managed to frustrate him. He wasn¡¯t even sure if he fully believed all the words that had come out of his mouth, but they¡¯d flowed like a river all the same.


    Muzazi sighed. "What an awful world you must live in."


    Smoke-filled streets. Houses crushed together. Familial hands wrapped around his throat.


    "It¡¯s called reality," Dragan snarled. "Maybe I¡¯ll see you there someday."


    And with that, he rose from his seat - with such force that the thing clattered to the floor behind him. Hands balled into white-knuckled fists, he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. He had more questions, but he was in no state to ask them.


    Atoy Muzazi. That idiot¡¯s childish worldview pissed him off more than anything else.


    -


    Skipper really had made a mess of the gymnasium when he¡¯d played that game of catch with Dragan. Safety fencing was still set up in several places where repairs had to be made - massive dents and holes in the walls, floor and even the ceiling.


    "Doesn¡¯t look like you guys were too gentle in here," muttered Ruth, staring up at the ruined ceiling as she and Dragan entered.


    "That¡¯s because we weren¡¯t." Dragan was still in a foul mood after talking to Muzazi, so he stalked into the room with his hands plunged into his pockets. "Is that a problem?"


    "Course not," Ruth grinned. "There¡¯s no such thing as teaching without somebody getting hurt."


    She stopped in the middle of the empty gymnasium and summoned her Skeletal Set with a flare of red Aether. The dull metal creaked as it came into existence, Ruth cracking her joints in preparation.


    "I think most teachers would disagree with you there," Dragan remarked, taking position across from her. "Usually, the goal is to teach people without getting them hurt."


    "Yeah," Ruth conceded, shrugging. "But where¡¯s the fun in that?"


    After Dragan¡¯s vertical trip through the streets of Taldan, he¡¯d decided that his current repertoire of Aether tricks ¡­ really wasn¡¯t enough to actually do him any good against the kind of opponents they were currently facing. He¡¯d managed to take down Muzazi, so he was still pretty great, but that was more down to the situation than any individual strength on his part.


    He¡¯d thought about asking Skipper for more training, but things were kind of awkward there at the moment - and he wasn¡¯t in the mood for the whole manchild approach to education.


    Ruth seemed to know what she was doing, anyway - creating a physical object out of Aether had to be a fairly advanced technique.


    "So," she said, voice made hollow by the mask over her face. "You notice anything?"


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked over her armour, at first finding nothing of note - but then, a second later, locking onto the slight dent on her shoulder plate.


    "I noticed that damage before, during the battle," he remarked. "It¡¯s still there?" S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth nodded, patting the shoulder plate in question. "Until I get it beaten out, yeah. You see, it¡¯s not like I 100% make this armour out of Aether, you know?"


    Dragan nodded slowly, a new conclusion steadily forming inside his mind. Realization dawned.


    "It¡¯s an actual physical object," he said, testing the waters. "At some point, you somehow turned it into Aether, and now you can turn it back whenever you want?"


    Ruth snapped. "Bingo! Or, uh, chess. I don¡¯t know the one. It¡¯s called recording: it¡¯s meant to be one of the, uh, I think four pillars of Aether? Not sure if they¡¯re pillars, actually, but I know they¡¯re important."


    Maybe he should have gone to Skipper after all.


    She counted four fingers on her hand as she mouthed to herself and - apparently satisfied - nodded. "Yup, four. Infusion and alteration, recording and manifesting. Technically, me making the armour appear is manifesting instead of recording, but you know what I mean."


    "No," said Dragan. "I don¡¯t know what you mean. That¡¯s why I need teaching."


    "Yeah, yeah, cool," Ruth snapped her fingers again, clearly an unconscious attempt to imitate Skipper. "Anyway, how it goes - infusion is when you, uh, pour Aether into something to improve the qualities it¡¯s already got going on, and alteration¡¯s when you mess around with that Aether to give the thing new properties."


    Dragan nodded, dutifully filed the information away for future use.


    "Recording¡¯s when you take an object and absorb it into your own Aether, kinda, uh, make your Aether remember it. Like downloading a file onto your script, right?"


    "Well, how do you do that?"


    Ruth put a finger to her chin, clearly in deep thought. "Well, it kinda came natural to me, but ¡­ you gotta be at least a little familiar with the thing you wanna record, I guess. Your brain needs to know how it¡¯s put together before you can take it apart and make it into Aether. And you can only have so much stuff recorded at once - like with the files on a script, you¡¯ve only got so much space, right?"


    Dragan cocked his head. "But you¡¯ve got two whole sets of armour recorded."


    "I had to work at that, though," Ruth said proudly, fists at her hips. "The more you practice storing stuff with your Aether, the more storage space you have. Like flexing a muscle."


    Hm. This was intriguing. He couldn¡¯t think of anyone better suited to learning how to quickly analyze an object than a Cogitant with his prior experience. There was promise here.


    "And then you manifest it," he concluded. "And that pulls the object back out of your Aether?"


    "Yup."


    "So is that a transfer, or a copy and paste thing?"


    Now it was Ruth¡¯s turn to cock her head. "What do you mean?"


    "Well," Dragan said. "Can you make lots of sets of armour, or just the one?"


    Ruth scratched her hair. "Just the one. Why?"


    "Just wondering."


    It wasn¡¯t much like saving a file at all, then. With a file, all you were really doing was copying the old one and deleting it when you were done - a real transfer wasn¡¯t possible. With Aether, though, it seemed that you actually were transforming the object and reverting it when you needed to.


    "So," Dragan went on. "How do I, uh, how do I do this recording thing? Like, physically, how do I do it?"


    "It takes some practice."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Got nothing but time."


    Ruth grinned. "Then let¡¯s get started."

 Chapter 61:3.24: Anna

    Many years ago...


    Soot was drifting down from a factory overhead by the time Sait arrived, like inverted snow raining down on the facility.


    He didn¡¯t wait for his driver to stop before opening the door and jumping out, his weakened knees shaking as they dropped the meter to the ground. He didn¡¯t take the time to notice; sweat was pouring from his forehead and his breath was coming out in ragged, unsightly breaths. To him, right now, the only thing that existed was the facility.


    It wasn¡¯t much to look at - it had been built using an old warehouse as cover, after all. Beneath the ruined veneer was a cutting-edge medical facility, but there was no sign of that from the outside.


    "Sir!" cried his driver from inside the car - Sait ignored him as he ran towards the factory.


    The call had come just as he¡¯d been preparing to go to bed for the night - now, after hearing it, Sait was as awake as anything. Likely he¡¯d never been as alert in his life. Likely he¡¯d never be again.


    He had to hurry. He had to deal with this quickly, or else¡­


    As Sait reached the outside wall of the warehouse - nearly slamming into it with the speed he was moving - he fumbled around in his jacket pocket and pulled a keycard free. There were no identifying details on it - no photo, no name, just a jet-black piece of plastic. This wasn¡¯t the kind of facility you wanted evidence to exist of, after all.


    He pressed it against the wall with such force that he almost cracked the thing - and then a hollow click was audible from within the concrete wall.


    The whole thing slid away, withdrawing inside the wall and to the side to reveal a doorway. Within, a compact elevator could be seen - just big enough to fit one person. This was an express way down, after all, not the intended entrance.


    Sait didn¡¯t waste any time - there wasn¡¯t any to waste. He strode inside the elevator and slammed his fist against the button, the tired machinery waking up as the lift descended. The shaft was dark - the only source of light being the lightbulb hanging above - and Sait couldn¡¯t help but hold his nose at the mingled scents of rust and blood.


    There was an abundance of corpses in Taldan - people died every day, after all, and most of the time those deaths were without purpose. The penniless, the destitute, the criminal ¡­ when they died, they were only useful to the flies and worms. This facility, and others like it, had been created to change that.


    The elevator stopped. Sait stepped out into a sterile white corridor, ignoring the alarmed shouts of two passing doctors.


    As he ran through the hallways as quickly as he could - he already knew the way - Sait caught glimpses of the extraction rooms through the windows that lined the corridors.


    Each and every one of them was full of human corpses, lying face down beneath the tender mercies of mechanical arms. Veritable factory lines, designed to extract the useful organs from corpses as quickly and efficiently as possible. To fully harvest a corpse took only around a minute - and then the organs could be preserved and moved to storage, where they could be sold on to interested parties.


    It was a simple calculus, if you really thought about it. These corpses could go undisturbed and benefit nobody, or they could be put to use and benefit Sait. There was no choice: only one option created more happiness in the world, after all.


    And if some deaths had to be expedited for that purpose - well, accidents happened.


    He reached the door he was looking for, opened it with another swipe from his black keycard. The moment the door opened, he charged into the surgery room - hoping beyond hope that it wasn¡¯t too late.


    His heart crumbled.


    Dr. Kreig sat down next to the operating table, taking a sip of water from a paper cup. The nurses who assisted him had clearly already left the room. The tools - scalpel, saw and all the rest - lay on a metal foldaway table next to Kreig. They¡¯d been washed already, but would need to be fully decontaminated within the next hour or so.


    The operating table was empty - save for the smallest pool of blood, dripping off the side. Drip, drip, drip.


    A choking sound escaped Sait¡¯s throat.."I told you to wait," he muttered, putting a hand against the glass window for support.


    Dr. Kreig sniffed, didn¡¯t look up as he spoke to Sait - whether from guilt or disrespect, he couldn¡¯t be sure. "I told you before you came here," he said. "The other Sponsors wanted me to deal with this before it became a problem. I wasn¡¯t about to disobey them. Even for you."


    "I told you to wait."


    Surely this was a dream. Surely, surely, he¡¯d turn over in his bed the wrong way and wake up, and he would laugh later at just how illogical this dream was, how the pieces just didn¡¯t fit together¡­


    But they did. They did fit together, like a nightmare jigsaw.


    Dr. Kreig looked up at him. There was no sympathy in his eyes. "Waiting was not an option," he said, calm. "Please sit. You look unwell."


    Sait collapsed into a chair, the exertion of the last few minutes catching up to him as he panted. "No, no, no," he muttered into his hands, voice muffled. "You can¡¯t do this. You can¡¯t."


    "I have," Dr. Kreig went on. "As you would have ordered me to if it were anyone else. The girl was in contact with the media. She¡¯d taken pictures, videos. She was an unacceptable risk, granddaughter or not."


    "Oh, Anna," Sait wasn¡¯t sure who he was talking to. Himself? Krieg? Y? "I told you, I told her to leave well enough alone. She shouldn¡¯t have ¡­ no ¡­ I¡¯ll have to ¡­ to bury her ¡­ my Anna ¡­ my Anna¡­"


    Krieg cleared his throat awkwardly. "That won¡¯t be possible," he said, now with the slightest hint of trepidation. "After harvesting, we couldn¡¯t leave any evidence behind, so¡­"


    The taste of bile rose into Sait¡¯s mouth.


    He glared at Krieg even as he held his face in his hands, eyes peering like twin nightmares from between his fingers. "How dare you?" he hissed.


    Krieg adjusted his tie. "It¡¯s standard operating procedure."


    That was right. It was standard operating procedure. He¡¯d written those procedures himself, agreed that this was the best course of action when it came to leaks. He¡¯d signed off on this fate coming to countless journalists, countless activists. He¡¯d had their organs cut out and exchanged for money.


    He¡¯d bought his house with that money. The clothes on his back, everything he owned ¡­ and now, now that it affected him, he became disgusted? Repulsive. What a repulsive thing he was.


    But still. As hideous as he was, as he felt in that moment, a small vindictive thing was unfurling in his chest. Like a spiteful maggot. A warped mockery of a conscience - self-serving and hypocritical, but insistent all the same.


    "Once you calm down," Krieg was saying. "You¡¯ll agree with me. I¡¯m simply following your example, after all."


    "Mm," Sait grunted as he stood up, legs shaking for a moment like those of a newborn deer. Then, they stopped - his whole body becoming deathly still, a kind of awful calm coming over him as his next course of action presented itself in his mind.


    Each step felt like an effort, yet he made them all the same. One step, two, three, until he stood before the table of surgical instruments. His eyes settled over the scalpel, scanning it. Not so long ago, this thing had been used to cut through¡­


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    "Sait?" Krieg said from behind him, a measure of worry finally making itself known. "What are you doing?"


    Sait took the scalpel - between two fingers, like a pen - and turned it over, inspecting it. There. Just beneath the hilt, the tiniest drop of dried blood.


    It demanded things of him.


    He tightened his grip on the scalpel - so tightly his hand ached - and swung around, taking the first step towards Krieg.


    The doctor never even got the chance to shout.


    -


    Lucius Sait opened his eyes. S§×arch* The novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He¡¯d fallen asleep in his wheelchair - as he nearly always did these days - and his attendant had left him facing a window with a view of the night city. Towering buildings like the great trees of a metal forest, cars zipping this way and that like tiny steel bees¡­


    Once, he¡¯d thought this city to be a grand monument to progress, the future writ large on the skyline. Now, though? Now it seemed little more than a grotesque parody of civilization.


    This is yours, he told himself, his traitorous inner monologue turning it¡¯s knives upon him. All of this has come from you. Look at it. Look at your good work.


    He sniffed. These kinds of midnight loathing sessions were not uncommon - quite often he¡¯d find himself awake, staring out over the city he hated, mind rushing through the life he hated.


    And yet he¡¯d never done a thing about it. No matter how much he hated, he had no will to act. And that sloth only inspired further self-loathing. An almost comedic cycle of apathy and spite - and even while he was aware of it, he still couldn¡¯t bring himself to do a thing about it.


    "Fool," he croaked - spitting upon the ground. Perhaps Haynes would slip on it and break his neck. That would be quite nice.


    He tapped a button and the left arm of his wheelchair opened up - revealing the contents within. Nothing much, just a few pieces of stationary and his script. He wrestled the script free with one hand, taking a spare pencil with the other to use as a makeshift stylus.


    The script activated automatically at the warmth of his touch - returning to its display from earlier that night. A news story from Brighteye Taldan, talking about the Citizen. Dreams had done a fine job of covering up most of the details of what had occurred at the niain, but a warped version had hit the news regardless. The circumstances were unknown, but it was now ¡¯public knowledge¡¯ that the Citizen himself had appeared and wreaked havoc.


    Sait smirked ruefully at the sensationalism. That damn night-eyes Dreams was an annoying bastard, but he knew what he was doing.


    His finger stroked over the word - Citizen. He hadn¡¯t given the man much thought, to be honest. All he¡¯d been was another annoying reason for the Sponsors to invite him to more meetings.


    There was a kind of fire to him, Sait realized. Even without seeing the Citizen, even without hearing him, you could feel the heat he emanated - feel the way he burned away at the structures they¡¯d built. It wasn¡¯t that bad a feeling, to be honest.


    Sait¡¯s gaze flicked back up to the city. It wouldn¡¯t be that awful at all to see this place become an inferno.


    That young woman - Serena del Sed - had said something, when he¡¯d informed her of the way this world functioned. She¡¯d said that if nothing meant anything, then she might as well do what made her happy. He¡¯d thought it nonsense, but it wasn¡¯t so far from the idiotic optimism his granddaughter had spouted.


    Something unfurled in his chest. The light shifted, just slightly - and for a moment it seemed like Sait¡¯s whole life had reached a single ephemeral image. Everything made a kind of momentary, transitory, sense.


    A thin, humourless smile spread across his wrinkled face. Right here, right now, he knew what would make him happy.


    A course of action had presented itself.


    -


    Haynes adjusted his tie as he entered the room, summoned by a signal from Sait¡¯s wheelchair.


    To summon him at this time of the night ¡­ the old bastard had no sense of decorum. It was damn near three in the morning. He hadn¡¯t been sleeping, of course - he¡¯d taken the opportunity to grab a drink - but the principle of the thing was the same.


    If he wasn¡¯t being paid so much, he¡¯d have thrown this job away years ago - and probably thrown the miserable bastard down the stairs with it. A constant day-in, day-out barrage of cynicism from some has-been doctor wasn¡¯t Haynes¡¯ idea of a fruitful career.


    Still, he didn¡¯t let any of that slip out in his words. He was a professional. "You called me, sir?" he said brightly as he approached his client.


    Lucius Sait wasn¡¯t looking at him - rude - instead staring out the window. A deactivated script lay on his lap, and his gaze was pensive as he looked out over the city.


    "Haynes," he croaked. "You¡¯re fired."


    Haynes refrained the urge to roll his eyes. The senile old fuck. How many times had they had this conversation?


    "If you¡¯ll recall, sir," he said, as patiently as he could. "You¡¯re not the one who pays me. I¡¯m afraid you can¡¯t actually fire me."


    Sait turned his head, just slightly, to regard him. "Haynes," he repeated, more insistently this time. "You¡¯re fired."


    So this was the way they were going to play it. Haynes smiled easily as he approached Sait¡¯s wheelchair, hands clasped behind his back. "It¡¯s very late at night, sir," he said gently, as if speaking to a child. "Perhaps you¡¯d like some medication to help you sleep?"


    When he reached Sait, the old corpse reached out, putting a feeble skeletal hand on Haynes¡¯ arm. "You¡¯re fired, Haynes," he went on, patting at his arm. "You should leave right now."


    The irritation flaring up in Haynes finally leaked out. "Listen," he snapped, leaning in to talk right into Sait¡¯s face. "If you-"


    The next word in that sentence was think, but it didn¡¯t come out. All that left Haynes¡¯ mouth was a gasp of hollow air and a few specks of blood that dotted themselves onto Sait¡¯s impassive face. Confusion gripping him, Haynes tried to speak again - but again, no words came out of his mouth.


    Sait glanced downwards, nodded - and Haynes followed his gaze.


    A pencil was in the old man¡¯s hand - and he¡¯d plunged it, with uncharacteristic strength, right into the softest part of Haynes¡¯ throat. It was buried nearly up to the eraser, blood leaking out around it as if it were the cap in a bottle. He blinked. He tried to swallow, and he could feel the pencil inside his throat as he did.


    That¡¯s not good, he thought vaguely, as if he were drunk. I need to take that out. No, I shouldn¡¯t take it out. Should I? I¡¯m ¡­ I need to¡­


    Sait made the decision for him. With a grunt of effort, he pulled the pencil free again - and now there was nothing to stop the torrent of blood as it poured from his throat.


    Staggering backwards, gasping like an air-drowned fish, Haynes put his hands to his wound and did his best to stop the bleeding - but it was futile. Blood was spilling between his fingers, pouring to the floor like a ¡­ waterfall ¡­ he felt faint¡­


    Slowly, inexorably, his knees failed him, and he collapsed into a pile on the floor, choked breaths fading away. All his words gone, his eyes fixed on Sait - on his killer - and he gurgled. Why?


    Sait didn¡¯t dignify it with a response.


    -


    Ruth frowned as the image on the television switched. "Hey, I was watching that!"


    Dragan sat up, frowning as he saw the words in the corner of the now-black screen. Taldan Municipal Alert System. Some kind of emergency broadcast? What was going on?


    They¡¯d returned to the room after their training session - Skipper had made himself scarce for the moment - and Ruth had started some sensationalised cooking show while Dragan was reading. There certainly hadn¡¯t been any indication of an announcement earlier that night.


    The screen remained black, but a voice was audible, just on the boundary of hearing. It cleared it¡¯s throat.


    "Taldan," it said - an elderly male voice, most likely in his late nineties or further. Who was he? "My name is Lucius Sait." Oh.


    As Ruth futilely mauled the remote, trying to find a channel that wasn¡¯t being taken up by this monologue, Dragan stood up and carefully listened.


    The voice of Lucius Sait seemed to flicker in and out with the switching of the channels. "Most of you will know me as director of ¡­ director of the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital."


    Ruth paused, mercifully letting go of the remote long enough for Dragan to snatch it away. "That¡¯s where Bruno and Serena are," she muttered.


    "But," Sait went on. "Others among you may know me as the Sponsor of Care."


    Dragan¡¯s eyes widened, the questions he¡¯d been about to voice dying in his throat. The Sponsor of Care? Was that like the Sponsor of War, the bovine asshole extorting them? If that was the case, Dragan was fairly sure this wasn¡¯t something meant to be aired out in such a public forum.


    "I¡¯m not talking to the bastards I work with, though," Sait growled. "I¡¯m talking to you, Citizen."


    "I am done with this. All of it. I want nothing more to see it all come down, see it all fucking burn. If that¡¯s what you want, too, then we are of a mind. Come find me."


    "I am at the Memorial Hospital. I¡¯ve locked down the building - all patient rooms are sealed, and all security drones reassigned. If anyone attempts to interfere with you, they will be fired upon."


    "I¡¯m waiting in my office, on the top floor, Citizen. I¡¯ll tell you the names of my associates - and then you will kill me. Consider it a commission."


    "I¡¯ll see you there."


    The message flicked back to the cooking show. Dragan blinked, not even noticing as the remote slipped from his grip and clattered onto the floor.


    "Shit," he said.

 Chapter 62:3.25: Curtainrise

    Zhao blinked as the message finished it¡¯s playback. Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable.


    All the words this man Sait had said made sense individually, but put together ¡­ Zhao just couldn¡¯t wrap his head around it. Things like this simply didn¡¯t happen. One of the Sponsors betraying the rest of the cabal - the possibility had never even crossed Zhao¡¯s mind.


    Behind him, Chael laughed incredulously. He was sitting at his desk - they¡¯d gone to his office to discuss matters - nursing a bottle of some foul-smelling liquid as he rewatched the announcement.


    Zhao cleared his throat as he turned back towards the President. "Sir," he said, as calmly as he could. "If I may, this is a serious situation. Security has confirmed that the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital is locked down - security drones are firing on anyone who goes near. This is ¡­ as I said, it¡¯s extremely serious."


    Chael took another gulp of his drink, chuckling darkly. "Looks it," he slurred. "Surprised they haven¡¯t got in touch to chew us out yet."


    Irritation burned within Zhao. The President was sitting there now, talking about the Sponsors as if they had no influence over him - but Zhao had seen the fear in him when they were actually present. He knew how Chael had sold the dream he represented away to them, sold his very soul. And now he acted like they were nothing?


    He gave off an image as if he were unconcerned - hell, his bodyguard wasn¡¯t even here - but Zhao knew that the very moment that script beeped, the cowardly rat would return.


    "Perhaps," Zhao forced out through gritted teeth. "You should take this more seriously."


    Chael raised an eyebrow, smirked as he spun the bottle around in his fingers. "I take this all very seriously, Mr. Zhao," he said. "Believe you me, nothing but."


    He took another sip.


    Zhao pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as the sound of slurping echoed throughout the office. Something inside him snapped, just slightly.


    "Do you have no shame, sir?" he spat the word as a curse.


    Chael looked up from his drink. "Sorry?" he said, cocking his head.


    Zhao opened his eyes and was surprised to feel the wetness of tears as he took a step forward. "It wasn¡¯t meant to be like this," he hissed, years of frustration packed into his words. "You were meant to make things better. You were meant to understand - you were one of us."


    A sigh escaped Chael¡¯s lips, and he put his drink down on the desk with a clink.


    "And who exactly¡¯s us in there, Zhao?" he said, voice cold.


    Zhao took another step forward, planted his hands on the desk in front of him. His mind screamed out at him that this was stupid, that he was ripping apart the position he¡¯d fought so hard for, but his body wouldn¡¯t listen. There was only so much a man could take.


    "One of us," Zhao repeated. "People - a person. An actual fucking human being, not just one of their puppets."


    Again, Chael sighed - and leaned across the table, looking at Zhao with such icy eyes that the Secretary was forced to take a step back.


    "D¡¯you know my second name, Zhao?" he said, not breaking eye contact.


    Zhao bit his lip. "No, I don¡¯t."


    "And d¡¯you know why that is?" When Zhao didn¡¯t reply immediately, Chael went on all the same. "It¡¯s cause nobody ever gave me one. Not a first one, neither. I got the name chael from a can of frozen meat."


    Zhao furrowed his brow. What was he ¡­ what did he mean? "Sir?"


    "I grew up down there," Chael snapped, pointing downwards. "Another thing thrown away like trash. I stole to get enough food so I could be starving and not starved. I ate rotten fish like it was caviar, cause it pretty much was down there. I did things I - it wasn¡¯t great. I understand, Zhao. I promise you I do. Everything I have now I¡¯ve walked miles for."


    Zhao balled his hands into fists. "Then why-"


    "Then why am I like this now?" Chael cut him off. He leaned back in his chair, took his bottle and took a big swig. "I¡¯ve worked hard, man. Damn hard. Now I can smoke whatever I want, drink whatever I want, get as high as I want. The good life - and all I gotta do is what I¡¯m told. I¡¯ve got mine. Why the hell would I risk it?"


    For a moment, the disgust rose so fiercely in Zhao that he almost shouted something else - some threat, perhaps, or something worse - but sanity quickly reclaimed it¡¯s lost territory, and a disappointed calm returned to Zhao¡¯s heart. S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I see, sir," he said, forcing the words out. "Thank you for your perspective."


    "No problemo." Chael¡¯s script beeped, and he took a glance at it. "Message from the Sponsors. They¡¯re sending Skipper and his crew to the hospital - they¡¯re looking to bring Sait in before he can blab. Should be interesting."


    Chael was recklessly calm about this, the drink and drugs dulling the common human sense of danger. If things didn¡¯t go well for them, questions would be asked. Dangerous, judgemental questions.


    And this cosy position the President so loved wouldn¡¯t be quite as stable.


    -


    Bruno took in a deep breath, focused purple Aether into his fist, and struck the sealed metal door with a punch.


    The metal dented outwards - impressively so, given the fact that it had been struck by nothing more than a human hand - but the door itself didn¡¯t budge.


    He clicked his tongue. "What the hell¡­" he mumbled.


    Why couldn¡¯t he just have a normal day? He¡¯d finally managed to wrestle control over the body from Serena so he could get some rest and relaxation of his own - and the next second, the entire hospital had been plunged into some kind of lockdown. All the doors sealed shut, locking Bruno in the hospital room, and all the pleasant lights snapping off - replaced by an eerie blue illumination.


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    He¡¯d heard gunshots, too, outside the room. Security drones, judging by the regularity of the shots. But who were they shooting at?


    What¡¯s going on? Serena said, curiosity emanating from her.


    "Don¡¯t know," Bruno muttered. He thumped his fist against the door twice more, but it still didn¡¯t budge.


    Can you find out?


    "What¡¯s it look like I¡¯m doing?"


    Punching a door. You don¡¯t look like you¡¯re doing very good at it, either. Want me to try?


    Bruno shook his head. "No." The last thing he needed was Serena rampaging through this already unclear situation.


    He¡¯d cracked security systems like this before. In civilian facilities like this, security was often designed to yield after sustaining a certain amount of damage - the owners usually preferred to repair than replace, after all.


    One more good hit would do it. He was certain.


    Breathing in deep, Bruno took a step back, planted his foot on the ground. Purple Aether sparked around him as both it - and a glove-like forcefield - formed around his fist. He bit his lip.


    He was getting out of here.


    His fist lunged forward like a striking cobra, with more force than Bruno had expected, and the door partially flew off its hinges, flapping against the wall outside pathetically. All that was visible beyond was the inky darkness of the hallway.


    Bruno entered cautiously, fist still poised to strike again. He wasn¡¯t sure who was out here, after all. Even with the lockdown, he found it hard to believe that there wasn¡¯t anyone still moving around the hallways.


    What¡¯s happening? asked Serena. Where are all the doctors and everyone? I don¡¯t like this, Bruno.


    "Me neither," Bruno muttered, coming to a stop. There was something just ahead of him, in the hallway. A nearly inaudible buzzing coming out of the darkness.


    Taking another deep breath, Bruno focused his Aether into his palm - and from there, formed the tiniest glowing orb. Aether was a shit projectile all by itself, of course, but it wasn¡¯t half bad as a light source. He tossed the sphere down the hallway like a farball.


    His eyes widened as the hallway was illuminated in purple light - eight security drones were floating there, positioned at regular intervals, spent plasma dripping from their shotgun barrels. In the moment before the sphere passed them by and they returned to the darkness, Bruno spotted the tiniest spark of cyan Aether running along the one in front.


    The Citizen¡¯s crew.


    Bruno dropped down just as the shooting started.


    -


    Dragan glanced around the troop transport. Officially, it was just a ¡¯police tanker¡¯, but it was easy to tell at just a glance that it was a troop transport. Nearly fifty officers - all clad in bulky riot gear - were packed into the vehicle, and there was still enough room left for a couple of police cruisers.


    Dir strode into the middle of the vehicle, a tiny clearing in the crowd, and cleared his throat. Near-instantly, the murmur of the crowd faded into silence.


    "I just got off call with the President," he said, face serious. "I assure you, this situation is our highest priority as of now. We believe there to be a substantial risk that the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital will be the Citizen¡¯s next target - if it hasn¡¯t been hit already."


    Dragan gulped, glanced left and right at Skipper and Ruth - they were sitting on either side of him, faces just as somber.


    "Our job," Dir went on, pacing back and forth as he spoke. "Is to secure the perimeter around the hospital - and make sure nobody gets in and out. If we get there fast enough, we¡¯ll make damn sure the Citizen can¡¯t get in¡­"


    He stopped, turned to the crowd with the slightest smirk.


    "...and if he¡¯s already there, we¡¯ll make damn sure the bastard can¡¯t get out."


    A muted cheer went through the troops - say what you will about Dir, but the man knew how to work a crowd.


    The smirk faded. "Once the location is secure," he concluded. "We¡¯ll send in a specialist squad to eliminate any hostiles and resolve the situation. We arrive in two minutes. Make sure you¡¯re prepared."


    So Dragan, Ruth and Skipper were a specialist squad now? That was some pretty diplomatic wording. Security might raise an eyebrow at some outsiders being brought in for this, but so long as they seemed to fit somewhere in the hierarchy, they¡¯d let it slide.


    He looked down at his hand, felt a rush of energy as bright-blue Aether ran across his palm. If nothing else, he was eager to put the technique he¡¯d made a start on to work.


    "You two stick with me," Skipper said quietly, cracking the joints of his fingers. "We take it slow, clear out any drones one at a time and be back in time for supper. Sound good?"


    Ruth glanced at him. "What if the Citizen is there?"


    Skipper shrugged. "Then we beat him. No problemo."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "The Sponsor of War said we have to kill him."


    "I decide who I kill, kiddo," Skipper chuckled, shaking his head. "Noone else."


    Again, Dragan glanced around the troop transport - and when he saw nobody was watching, he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Listen," he whispered. "Why don¡¯t we just grab Bruno and Serena and make a run for it? That way they¡¯d have nothing on us. Problem solved, right?"


    "Nah, kiddo," Skipper shook his head. "They¡¯d find something else to threaten us with. These people don¡¯t play by the rules."


    "Whereas we¡¯re paragons of sportsmanship," Dragan muttered, rolling his eyes.


    "Exactly."


    The transport began to rumble as it descended - and through that sound, Dragan could hear the barking of distant gunshots. Some kind of conflict had already begun, clearly. Had this Sait maniac started firing on the people in the hospital, or was another security team already fighting the Citizen¡¯s forces? Was Bruno - and Serena, of course - okay?


    Dragan shook his head as if to pry the unwelcome thoughts loose. He couldn¡¯t waste time worrying right now. He had to focus on the task at hand.


    "The moment those doors open," yelled Dir over the rumbling. "You get to your tasks! Understand?!"


    A cry of affirmation went out through the crowd, the more keen officers pumping their fists into the air. Dragan rested his hands on his holstered stun-pistols, ready to move at a moment¡¯s notice.


    Besides him, Skipper licked his lips nervously. "Let¡¯s all make it out of this in one piece, yeah?"


    Ruth quietly nodded, not quite meeting Skipper¡¯s gaze. Dragan didn¡¯t respond.


    There was a quiet thunk as the transport made landfall.


    "Go, go, go!" shouted Dir as the doors opened. "Move, move, move!"


    -


    Sait quietly wondered if he¡¯d finally gone mad.


    It certainly seemed that way. Driven by the impulse of a single moment, he¡¯d destroyed everything he¡¯d worked for - and asked the most dangerous man on the planet to murder him for the service. Anyone observing these actions would certainly think him insane.


    And yet ¡­ his mind was untroubled. It felt as if he had a clarity, an inner clarity, that he hadn¡¯t had in years. Perhaps ever. It was as if, finally, everything made sense.


    The security drones were shooting down any vehicles that came too close, but Sait could see more than a few transports amassing just outside their effective range. Before long, they¡¯d secure the perimeter, and send in a team to secure him.


    That is, if the Citizen didn¡¯t get to him first.


    Sait didn¡¯t much care either way - he was a dead man in both scenarios. Either the Citizen would kill him as per his request, or the other Sponsors would kill him in retaliation. He¡¯d prefer the former - that way, he could fuck them over one last time before he checked out - but either outcome was perfectly acceptable.


    He took a sip of whiskey as he watched the night¡¯s festivities through the window of his office. Haynes¡¯ corpse lay strewn in an undignified pile on the ground, flies already taking notice.


    Sait lifted a toast to him, poured it on his idiotic face.


    "Cheers," he giggled - surprised at his own giddiness. The world was so clear, and he had more energy than he¡¯d felt in years.


    The glass slipped from his fingers - shattering to the floor - and Sait leaned back in his seat, hands clasped on his lap. The lights of the security vehicles continued to zip past the window, blending in with the fetid glow of the city. A mosaic of the life he¡¯d lived.


    If nothing else, the night promised to be quite a show.

 Chapter 63:3.26: Shield and Sword

    "It¡¯s kinda depressing for a hospital," commented Marie, leaning against the open section of the transport even as it flew through the air, making its way through the incomplete security perimeter. Even as the wind assaulted her hair, she seemed entirely unconcerned about the fact that one wrong step would send her falling into the abyss below.


    Simeon looked up from his position at the back of the transport - he¡¯d taken up two seats and made them into a makeshift sofa to lounge in. "All the lights are off," he snapped, checking for dirt under his nail. "Of course it¡¯s depressing."


    The transport turned as it flew up towards the roof - Reyansh maneuvering the ship as if it were an extension of his own body.


    "True darkness is the night of the soul," he intoned, in a voice presumably meant to sound wise. "An honest warrior does not let his eyes deceive him."


    Marie reached out and patted him on the back of the head. "Hell yeah," she said. "I love it."


    Noel, sitting in the co-pilot¡¯s seat, crossed her arms as she kept her eyes fixed on the monolith that was the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital. This woman - Marie - was making herself entirely too familiar with Noel¡¯s crew. She was tolerating Marie¡¯s presence only because of her obvious strength - she could be useful to Noel¡¯s plans, after all - but her personality left a lot to be desired.


    She snuck a glance back at the woman - only to snap her head back to look straight ahead when she saw Marie¡¯s blood-red eyes looking back at her.


    "Are the defenses clear?" Marie asked, voice sickly sweet. S§×arch* The novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Mm-hmm," Noel grumbled. Her Aether, her Digital Complex, was running through her body like an electric current - and radiating out, seizing control of any compatible device that came into range. The hacking skills Noel had taken years to learn had now become all but automated, a brute force attack that she could unleash with a thought.


    Her grip tightened on the arm of her chair. She couldn¡¯t fail this time. She couldn¡¯t.


    "We are coming down now," said Reyansh, as the transport began to descend. "Prepare yourselves."


    Noel squinted, feeling the drones she¡¯d already dispatched. Even with such distance between them, she could sense them individually, like fingers stretched out to impossible distances.


    Some of them had already engaged someone - the automatic orders she¡¯d given them directed them to attack any combat-ready person outside of a hospital room. They weren¡¯t doing well; two had already been destroyed.


    "There¡¯s already someone inside," she said as a third drone met its end. "Someone strong - they have Aether. Reyansh, you¡¯ll take care of them."


    Reyansh nodded as the transport landed on the roof with a soft thump.


    "Simeon," Noel turned around in her seat to look at the pink-haired boy. "You secure Lucius Sait¡¯s office - make sure nobody can get in there before we arrive. If that isn¡¯t possible, snatch him and head to the rendezvous point."


    Simeon twirled a lock of hair between two fingers. "Sounds like a plan," he drawled, already sounding bored.


    "And you," Noel¡¯s eyes flicked to Marie. "You¡¯re with me. We¡¯re heading to the main security room - I¡¯ll seize full control of the building from there."


    Can¡¯t let you out of my sight, after all.


    Marie winked, gave her a disgustingly cheery thumbs-up. "Roger dodger!"


    Noel rolled her eyes as she hopped out of the transport, landing on the cold roof. The entrance to the stairwell was off in the corner, behind a sealed metal door. No problem.


    She pointed a finger towards the door - and, even from that distance, a tendril of cyan Aether shot out and crawled into the door¡¯s control panel. A few seconds later, the door opened.


    "Most impressive," said Reyansh, hopping off to join her.


    "Don¡¯t you have somewhere to be?" Noel said harshly. Still, it was nice to be appreciated - she only barely suppressed a smug smirk at the compliment.


    As Reyansh rushed down the stairs to meet the unknown attacker, and Simeon sauntered off to fulfill his task, Marie strolled up to the side of Noel.


    "It¡¯s a cold night," she said, putting a hand to her hair as the wind sent it flying. "We should get inside - unless you wanna get blown off the side?"


    Noel shot her a glare. Even now, in this kind of situation, she was acting unsettlingly casual.


    "I don¡¯t trust you, you know," Noel said, voice low.


    Marie giggled. "Well, of course you don¡¯t. You¡¯re not stupid. That¡¯s what I like about you, sweetie."


    "Don¡¯t call me that."


    "Never again," Marie lied. "Anyway, you don¡¯t need to trust that I¡¯m telling the truth, because I hardly ever am. You just need to trust my abilities. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve given you reason to doubt that, have I?"


    Noel scoffed as she began walking down the stairwell, Marie following after her. "Your abilities? What, is this the whole Supremacy thing? Might makes right?"


    Marie tilted her head back and laughed - a genuine kind of laughter, as if Noel had just told a really funny joke. "The Supremacy way?" she said, almost mockingly. "What, the thing where the biggest idiot climbs to the top of the pile because he can punch the hardest? It¡¯s funny, don¡¯t get me wrong - but it¡¯s doomed, I think."


    This wasn¡¯t the kind of rhetoric Noel had expected from a Special Officer. She gave the woman a strange look as they walked. "Your buddy - Muzizi or whatever - he seemed a little more earnest than you."


    The smile that crossed Marie¡¯s face wasn¡¯t reassuring in the least - wide and toothy, like a cat looking at a mouse. "Oh, believe you me, sweetie - everyone¡¯s more earnest than me."


    -


    Let me fight! Serena shouted from inside Bruno¡¯s mind, annoyance quickly turning into anger. That¡¯s not fair!


    "No," Bruno growled, ducking underneath another plasma shot as he closed the distance between himself and the fourth drone. He deployed two forcefields with thrusts of his palms - one directly above the drone, so it couldn¡¯t fly upwards, and the other right behind it to close off the other escape route.


    As he reached the drone, he jumped over a second shot and transitioned into a kick - his feet pressing the machine against the two forcefields with the strength of a vice. It split like a mechanical orange, electronic innards squeezed out from any seam in the metalwork.


    Why not? pouted Serena as Bruno landed again.


    "You remember what happened at the casino," he muttered, planting another forcefield behind himself to defend from any unseen enemies. "We can¡¯t risk you going crazy like that - not when we don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on."


    We do know what¡¯s going on. We¡¯re in danger. Let me fight!


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    He sighed, rubbing a hand over the side of his head as a splitting migraine began to take hold. Serena really wasn¡¯t going to let this go.


    "Serena," he said quietly, through clenched teeth. "Listen, I-"


    Bruno, move!


    Serena¡¯s warning - she¡¯d processed the threat a second before Bruno - gave Bruno time enough to roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the combat knife aimed between his ribs.


    The wielder of the knife was one of the guys from the niain battle - the tall one with the mask, the bomberman. He was standing where Bruno had been a moment ago, knife still plunged into empty air. Bruno scrambled to his feet, dispelling the forcefields he¡¯d left strewn about the place: he couldn¡¯t afford to scatter his Aether against an opponent like this.


    "Hm," mused the grey-haired man in a deep, smooth voice. "That was a splendid dodge - but the recovery was rather amateur. You must endeavour to improve that aspect of yourself, should you find the opportunity."


    He sure loved to talk.


    Bruno adopted a combat stance, remembering the CQC he¡¯d been taught at the Sed. An ambiguous position, ready to snap into attack or defense at a moment¡¯s notice depending on what was needed.


    "I don¡¯t know who you are," he said, maintaining distance between the two of them. "But I don¡¯t want any trouble."


    "You don¡¯t¡­?" the bomberman seemed genuinely hurt. "I¡¯m certain you were there when I introduced myself - take more care to honour your opponents in the future. I am Reyansh Patel. Do not forget it again."


    "I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯re just going to let me go."


    Reyansh shook his head. "Nay," he said seriously. "I¡¯ve been ordered to eliminate you - and I have no intention of going against that. Ready yourself, warrior."


    With all this talk about honour and warriors, this Patel guy would probably fit in pretty well with the Supremacy. Maybe he couldn¡¯t afford the trip?


    "Well," growled Bruno, subtly creating a forcefield directly in front of himself. "After you, then."


    Reyansh lunged forward - and, just before he ran into the forcefield, he instead jumped over it, his knife spinning between his fingers before he thrust it down towards Bruno.


    Bruno moved his head to the side, feeling the knife brush against his hair as he did so, and grabbed onto Reyansh¡¯s arm as he fell. With a roar of exertion, he flipped his opponent and slammed him onto the ground, the knife clattering to the floor - Bruno kicked it away.


    Keeping Reyansh in a lock, Bruno did his best to make sure his opponent couldn¡¯t move in the slightest. Along with pinning him with all his strength, Bruno created another forcefield directly above his quarry - if Reyansh tried to get up, he¡¯d smash his face right into it.


    Reyansh grunted, face flat against the cold ground as Bruno drove his knee further into the man¡¯s spine.


    "Sorry," Bruno panted, purple Aether running along his hands to allow grippage. "I don¡¯t die so easily."


    The cough that escaped Reyansh¡¯s lips quickly transitioned into a chuckle. "Indeed¡­" he muttered. "You seemed a mere defender when I saw you last, but I see now that was not your full potential. Impressive. Most impressive - argh!"


    Reyansh¡¯s monologue was interrupted as Bruno wrenched his arm, dislocating the limb. He wouldn¡¯t allow this bastard to try any mind games or anything like that. He wasn¡¯t that stupid.


    "How many more of you are there?" Bruno said, voice cold. "Their powers and their locations - or I break the arm this time."


    Reyansh glared up at him, struggling to break free of his grip and the forcefield both. "I won¡¯t say a word," he hissed.


    "You sure?" Bruno began to twist Reyansh¡¯s other arm in his grip. "You probably have a few seconds to change your-"


    Reyansh opened his clenched fist, and Bruno¡¯s eyes widened in horror. Right there, in the middle of the hand not so far away from Bruno¡¯s face, was a tiny rattling pebble.


    A pebble shining with chaotic red Aether.


    Bruno let go of Reyansh, leapt back - and not a second later, the bomb went off. Raging red Aether and smoke, like a thunderstorm in miniature, raged through the hallway, tearing the walls and floor apart and flooding the air with disturbed dust.


    Putting a hand to his arm, Bruno winced - he hadn¡¯t been quite fast enough to avoid damage. His forcefields had smothered the explosion a little, but the side of him closer to the blast had taken the brunt of the shockwave. It wasn¡¯t so bad that he couldn¡¯t move, but he¡¯d be in trouble if any more enemies showed up.


    Still ¡­ Bruno looked at the cloud of smoke. He hadn¡¯t been expecting a suicide attack - usually, people like Reyansh Patel tried to fight to the bitter end. Maybe he wasn¡¯t as Supremacy as Bruno had assumed.


    He had no time to ponder the question; getting out of here was clearly the best option. He¡¯d find a way out of the hospital, contact Skipper and the crew somehow, and find out just what the hell was going on.


    Bruno winced in lingering pain, turned to head down the hallway, and began limping away.


    "Please don¡¯t assume we¡¯re finished here," said Reyansh Patel from behind him.


    Bruno¡¯s breath caught in his throat. Impossible.


    That had been point-blank. Hell, worse than point-blank - the forcefields surrounding Patel would have redirected most of the force of the explosion to hit him instead. Even if he was alive, he shouldn¡¯t be conscious, let alone talking like nothing had happened.


    Forcing his body into painful motion, Bruno whirled around to face the clouds of encroaching dust.


    The grey smoke parted as if to allow Reyansh passage - the grey-haired man strolling out of ground zero of the explosion without so much as a scratch on him. Not even his clothes were damaged. The knife he¡¯d dropped earlier was dancing between his fingers, and his golden eyes were glittering with excitement.


    "Splendid," he murmured, pointing the weapon towards Bruno. "Truly splendid! You dodged my attack expertly, sir! And the ability you used to smother my explosion ¡­ I didn¡¯t expect it to be so durable. I¡¯ve taken an interest in you."


    Bruno bit his lip, lowered his body back into a ready position. Looked like the fight wasn¡¯t over.


    Reyansh¡¯s eyes narrowed with an unseen smile as he saw Bruno prepare for further combat. "Splendid," he breathed again. "I shall attack again now. Please be prepared."


    He lunged forward.


    Bruno closed his eyes. Serena.


    -


    Unlike Bruno, Serena didn¡¯t dodge. She didn¡¯t even know the meaning of the word ¡¯dodge¡¯. Well, actually, she did - it was a pretty common word, after all, and she¡¯d heard it used a bunch of different times, in loads of different contexts. Ruth did a lot of dodging. It would be nearly impossible not to know what ¡¯dodge¡¯ meant, unless you were actively trying - but to do that, you¡¯d need to know what ¡¯dodge¡¯ meant so that you couldn¡¯t learn it. Which defeated the point.


    Anyway, Serena didn¡¯t dodge the attack. Instead, she rushed to meet it.


    Twin swords of dust - shining with violet Aether - gathered together in her hands, and with two swift strikes she deflected Reyansh¡¯s stabs. Only one of the swords survived the attacks - even infused with her Aether, they were still only made of dust - but a replacement collected in her hand a moment later.


    Reyansh took a step back down the hallway, his attacking stance shifting into a more cautious one. He looked her up and down.


    "You are truly full of surprises," he murmured. "Abilities that facilitate defense and attack both. You truly are a formidable adversary. Perhaps, if your heart is true, you could join in our righteous crusade-"


    He was interrupted by a flurry of attacks from Serena, her arms twin blurs as she brought the swords down from every possible angle. Each time his knife struck out at one of her swords, the weapon was destroyed, but the explosion Reyansh had set off meant there was no shortage of dust to take advantage of.


    Bruno had been forced to defend against this jerk, but Serena was steadily forcing him down the hallway, her face fixed in concentration. Once his back met the wall at the end of the hallway, she¡¯d be able to deliver the killing blow.


    As he was forced to retreat, Reyansh gritted his teeth in frustration - and a second later, he was holding another rattling pebble in his hand. Another bomb.


    Switch! Bruno¡¯s voice rang out in her mind. For a moment, she thought about ignoring him - she¡¯d waited so long to stretch her legs, after all - but the urgency he sent out convinced her otherwise.


    Like diving into a deep pool, she descended into the backseat of the body - and at the same time, Bruno climbed out.


    -


    Bruno thrust his palm out, creating a forcefield around the pebble - and when it detonated a moment later, the force was reduced a great deal.


    Still, Bruno was sent flying down the hallway - and Reyansh was pursuing on the attack again, dagger striking out many times a second as he ran.


    Forcefields went up as fast as possible - each one shattering with a shower of sparks as Reyansh¡¯s knife stabbed into it. Still, it at least meant that the knife wasn¡¯t stabbing into Bruno.


    Even with the whole ¡¯honorable warrior¡¯ thing this guy had going on, Bruno knew there was no way he wasn¡¯t frustrated at his inability to land a hit. Indeed, a growl escaped Reyansh¡¯s throat with each lunge of the knife, irritation building every time it bounced off a forcefield or just outright missed.


    Reyansh moved his other hand slightly - the one not holding the knife - and Bruno saw another tiny pebble in the palm, already rattling. He really wasn¡¯t going to make this easy for him. Sucking in a deep breath, Bruno went to dodge backwards - but this time, Reyansh didn¡¯t move as he¡¯d expected.


    Rather than unleashing another point-blank detonation, Reyansh flicked the pebble in front of him - shooting it past Bruno, right in the direction he was dodging.


    He didn¡¯t have time to change his position. He¡¯d just have to reduce the damage as much as possible.


    Forcefields appeared behind him, as many as possible, layered over each other to such a degree that they were fully visible, like discs of glowing purple Aether. When the explosion went off, the outer layer shattered like glass, but the ones behind them stayed firm.


    But there was still the force of the shockwave.


    Bruno gasped as he was sent flying forwards by the explosion - right towards Reyansh, who was waiting with knife in hand. A chuckle crept out from behind the man¡¯s mask.


    "You fought well, my friend," he intoned - and stabbed forward with the knife.

 Chapter 64:3.27: Splitting Up

    "You know," muttered Skipper, tearing apart one of the security drones with his bare hands. "They really don¡¯t make these things the way they used to."


    "Oh yeah?" Dragan replied, stepping out of the way as Skipper dropped the two metal chunks to the ground. "And how did they used to make them?"


    "There was a, uh," Skipper said, waving a finger as he searched for the words. "There was a sense of quality, yeah? Real, real love put into these things. You felt bad when you tore them up because of it. You know what I mean?"


    "I don¡¯t. Normal people can¡¯t tear up security drones."


    "Guess I must be extraordinary, then. Yeah?" Skipper grinned.


    Dragan rolled his eyes. Since Ruth wasn¡¯t talking with Skipper right now, he¡¯d been left to bear the brunt of the man¡¯s irritating personality. Even now, while they were meant to be finding Bruno and Serena, the idiot couldn¡¯t help but inflict his inane opinions upon Dragan.


    Obviously, what they were actually supposed to be doing was securing Sait - but Dragan was much more concerned about Bruno and Serena. He didn¡¯t know the old man, and he seemed like a dick anyway, so the idea of climbing the entire hospital to protect him from threats he¡¯d himself invited wasn¡¯t the most enticing.


    The elevators had been shut down, so they were making their way through the lobbies to get to a manual stairwell towards the back of the building. Dragan didn¡¯t relish the idea of climbing god-knows how many flights of stairs, but they weren¡¯t exactly flush with options here.


    "Keep alert," growled Ruth - she was leading the threefold pack from a short distance ahead, Skeletal Set covering her body. "There¡¯ll be more drones."


    Dragan grunted, nodding. Ever since they¡¯d entered the hospital, they¡¯d been beset by the facility¡¯s pre-existing security - professional-grade drones, presumably directed to eliminate any intruders other than the ones Sait wanted. That, or that Noel girl had already gotten to them all.


    He glanced back behind him, towards the strobing police lights visible through the windows. Assholes. The S4 talked a big show, sure, but they were just sitting outside with all those armaments they¡¯d brought. Securing the perimeter - bullshit. They were just waiting for the expendables to make sure the coast was clear.


    Canaries in the mines. That was all they were.


    "This is too slow," growled Ruth from up ahead, frustration clear in her voice as she sliced another drone into bite-size pieces. "If they¡¯re really after Sait, they¡¯ll get to him before we even reach the stairs."


    Skipper clicked his tongue. "Shit," he muttered. "You¡¯re right. I have a plan, though.*


    Dragan sighed. "Dear God no."


    "Nah, nah, nah, nah," Skipper said, skidding to a halt as he raised his hands. "Don¡¯t worry about it. This is a good one. A real nice piece of business. We split up, yeah?"


    Dragan wasn¡¯t impressed. "Is that it?"


    "It¡¯s what¡¯s necessary, kiddo. We¡¯ve got a bunch of objectives here, and the Citizen¡¯s only got one. The only way we¡¯re beating him in terms of speed is if we divide the labour, yeah?"


    Ruth nodded. "It makes sense. I¡¯m the fastest here, so I¡¯d go after Sait, get him out of sight."


    "Nice, nice," Skipper interrupted before Dragan could voice any more protests. "Mr. Hadrien, you¡¯d go grab Bruno and Serena and make your way out the building. Easy, right?"


    Making his way through a dark, hostile building didn¡¯t sound easy, but Dragan didn¡¯t see a way complaining further would profit him. "Fine," he sighed.


    Skipper snapped his fingers. "There¡¯s that can-do attitude we all know and love. I like it, I like it."


    Dragan cocked his head. "What will you do? Don¡¯t you dare say you¡¯ll take it easy while we¡¯re doing all the work."


    "The youth are so unkind to their elders," whimpered Skipper in mock-sadness as he ran a hand over his face. "Ol¡¯ Papa Skipper isn¡¯t even allowed to put his feet up anymore."


    "Please never call yourself that again."


    "It¡¯s a promise," Skipper lied. "But what I¡¯m doing, Mr. Hadrien, is heading to the security room. If we don¡¯t get that locked down tight, it¡¯s bad news. You remember that Noel girl?"


    "The smug toddler?"


    "That¡¯s the one. She¡¯s got some kind of hacking ability - if she can assume control over all the building¡¯s security, that¡¯s bad news for us. These random patrols will all be headed right for us. Which, uh ¡­ which is bad. You get me?"


    Dragan bit his lip. He hated to admit it, but Skipper had a point. Maybe splitting up was the best course of action.


    "Time¡¯s burning, guys," called Ruth from up ahead.


    Dragan groaned. "Fine."


    -


    Bruno did his best to stay upright, clutching his wounded arm as he leaned against the wall for support.


    Damnit. Reyansh had got him. Bruno had managed to maneuver himself enough so that the knife had gone into his arm, rather than his chest, but it was a painful wound all the same. Blood oozed out from between his fingers as he applied pressure.


    Reyansh was a short distance away, turning his knife over in the red light as if to inspect the blood decorating it¡¯s surface.


    "A shallow wound," he mused. "But a wound all the same. It is a harbinger of things to come, my friend. I would suggest you surrender yourself to me. You could be an asset to our cause."


    Shallow? Bruno severely doubted how much Reyansh knew about medical matters - and surrender wasn¡¯t an option.


    He¡¯d fallen for that ploy once before, after all.


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    Reyansh raised an eyebrow at Bruno¡¯s lack of reply. "You shouldn¡¯t remain silent upon the battlefield," he said, almost scolding Bruno. "It is the duty of the survivor to communicate the will of those who have perished. How am I to do that if you do not make your soul known?"


    Bruno¡¯s voice was croaky as he forced the words out, ignoring the pain from his exhausted lungs. "You like to hear yourself talk." Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Yes," Reyansh nodded. "That is how I communicate my own will. I ask again if you would surrender, brave one."


    Cott¡¯s grin - one of them, at least - flashed through Bruno¡¯s mind. His eyes narrowed into a hateful gaze. "Never."


    "Splendid."


    He had to think. Reyansh was clearly stronger than him right now - his bombing ability was absurd, and he hadn¡¯t been in hospital for the last week. Bruno¡¯s abilities and the current situation forced him on a constant defensive, while Reyansh¡¯s ability to detonate point-blank explosions served as both attack and defense.


    How did he do it? There had to be a way. Reyansh¡¯s Aether defense wasn¡¯t strong enough that an explosion just wouldn¡¯t phase him - at the start of this encounter, Bruno had managed to down him with well-placed blows.


    There was a trick to it, then. He just had to figure it out before Reyansh finished him off.


    The knife came for him again - dancing between Reyansh¡¯s fingers as he slashed and stabbed, each blow meeting either empty air or a split-second forcefield. Even still, though, Reyansh¡¯s attacks were growing more ruthless, more unrelenting as he grew used to the placement of Bruno¡¯s defenses, the way his body dodged.


    To figure out the trick behind the explosions, Bruno would have to observe one. So far, Reyansh had only used them either at range, when his knife couldn¡¯t reach - or when his knife was unavailable. He¡¯d need to replicate those conditions.


    He¡¯d need perfect timing - or else he¡¯d actually die this time.


    Bruno took a step backwards away from a testing slash and made as if his foot had caught on some debris on the ground, allowing himself to stumble. It was an obvious deception - but in the heat of battle, Reyansh didn¡¯t have the presence of mind to question it.


    His eyes widened and his pupils dilated as he thrust the knife at blinding speed towards Bruno¡¯s exposed chest.


    Now.


    There was a crack of purple Aether in the air, illuminating the dark hallway for a second, replaced a moment later by the persistent sound of screeching metal. Reyansh, sensing danger, jumped back - and he left his knife behind.


    The weapon remained where it had been mid-thrust, kept suspended in the air by the forcefield intersecting it. It shuddered in place, a piercing screech coming from the knife as both it and the forcefield attempted to repel each other. A gentle line of steam ran from along its surface.


    Perfect Parry: immobilising an enemy by intersecting a forcefield with their attack. Every time Bruno did it, the uncertainty of whether it would work was unbearable - it needed perfect timing, after all. But he couldn¡¯t deny the results.


    Reyansh clicked his tongue as he watched the knife twist and shake in mid-air. "I see¡­" he muttered. "That¡¯s an interesting technique. You¡¯ve used your superior sense of timing to relieve me of my weapon. How salacious of you."


    Salacious? Bruno got the feeling that this guy didn¡¯t know what most of the words he threw around meant.


    "However," Reyansh went on. "This masterstroke is only victorious if I cannot fight without my knife. That, unfortunately, is not the case. Behold!"


    He shifted his stance slightly, readying himself for hand-to-hand combat. Bruno wasn¡¯t really sure if that was dramatic enough to warrant a ¡¯behold¡¯.


    What might have been dramatic enough, though, were the pebbles clutched between his fingers. Bruno steeled himself.


    This was gonna suck.


    -


    Moving on his own meant that he could be so much faster, but it was just so damn lonely too. Skipper sighed as he rushed through the hospital corridors, using an occasional Heartbeat Shotgun to redirect his momentum.


    Things had gotten so complicated lately, much earlier than he¡¯d expected them to. Ruth wasn¡¯t happy with him, and Dragan was unleashing so much sass he just couldn¡¯t believe it. He missed those few minutes that had presumably happened, where everyone just got along.


    Still. They were all breathing, for now - not everyone was so fortunate. He had to count his blessings.


    The security room was usually beneath buildings like this, so that they could be sealed off from the rest of the complex in the event of an incursion. He and Ruth had therefore parted ways at the stairwell - her going up, towards the penthouse, and himself heading down to cut off the hacker girl.


    As he blasted round another hallway, Skipper idly wondered if the Citizen would show himself this time. Probably not - he seemed like the hands-off kind of guy, which was kind of a problem all on its own. How the hell was Skipper meant to kill a guy he¡¯d never met? Like, physically.


    The thought of that bull¡¯s smug voice sent an urgent surge of rage running through Skipper¡¯s head, but he pushed it down. There was a time for all these things, and they weren¡¯t now.


    As the hallway in front of him terminated, Skipper planted his feet back onto the floor and skidded to a halt, sparks flying up from the metal casing on his boots.


    Bingo. He knew a high-security location when he saw one.


    Big metal door, with a keypad to the side and a palm-reader beneath that. Not bad in terms of security. He¡¯d seen better, of course - he¡¯d heard that the Superbians of the Final Church scanned your entire genetic structure before letting you into certain areas. Still, this was fine for a budget.


    He didn¡¯t know the code, though, didn¡¯t have the magic hand that would let him in. No problem.


    Skipper took a step backwards, extended a hand towards the door, and cleared his throat.


    "Heartbeat Bayonet."


    A second later, there was a high-pitched whistling - and two huge gashes appeared in the door¡¯s surface, as if an invisible sword had sliced it in time with the whistling. The whistling continued, intensifying a further three times, each fluctuation accompanied by another attack against the door.


    It took ten seconds to completely gouge a hole in the door, big enough for Skipper to climb through.


    Still got it. He grinned and climbed through.


    -


    Ruth threw the cafeteria table up in front of her - and a second later, it was impaled by the five pink arrows that had been aiming for her face. As the arrows flopped back down into normal human hair, Ruth tossed the table aside - and a moment later, remanifested her Skeletal claws.


    An amused chuckle rang out from the third floor of the cafeteria - where her attacker was observing her, down here on the ground.


    The pink-haired man - Simeon, Ruth remembered - licked his lips as he kept that ornate bow aimed at her. The thing was obviously recorded, but it looked like the arrows themselves were made from infused hair.


    Simeon¡¯s pink locks continued to grow as his Aether crackled around him, his hair now almost brushing against the floor.


    "I didn¡¯t expect to see you again," he called out leisurely, as if this was a party they were meeting at. "The Fifth Dead went after you, right? Most people don¡¯t survive that sort of thing."


    Ruth kept her claws bared as her eyes flicked around the cafeteria, looking for anything she could use. "I¡¯m not most people," she said, voice low.


    "Sorry? I didn¡¯t quite catch that. There¡¯s something of a distance here, you know, and you¡¯re talking pretty quiet."


    She glared up at him, meeting his gaze. "I said I¡¯m not most people."


    His eyes narrowed, as if he was properly looking at her for the first time. "No," he mused, fingers playing along his bowstring like it were a harp. "You¡¯re not, are you? You¡¯ve seen it too, haven¡¯t you?"


    "Seen what?"


    If she threw another of the tables as a distraction, she could maybe make it to the stairs and at least ascend to the second floor. From there, she could burst through the floor right beneath Simeon and take him out that way. It wasn¡¯t the most reliable plan, but it was better than nothing.


    Simeon grinned mirthlessly as he answered. "Terror."


    She faltered.


    Broken bones dripping with plasma. A lashed corpse strapped to a post.


    "I¡¯m right, aren¡¯t I?" he smirked. "I already know I am. I know a coward when I see one."


    She took in a deep breath through her nose, glaring up at him. "I¡¯m no coward," she said, voice low.


    "Again, didn¡¯t catch that - but I¡¯d bet you were denying what I said, right?"


    He grinned, wicked humour dancing in his eyes.


    "Well," he breathed, drawing his bowstring taut. "Why don¡¯t you prove it?"

 Chapter 65:3.28: Clash

    Three arrows flew at Ruth, and she met their approaches with three projectiles of her own - chairs, thrown with all the speed and power she had to offer.


    Two of the arrows were smashed out of the air by the incoming furniture, but the third twisted in mid-air like some kind of underwater eel to avoid its fate. This final arrow continued to rush towards Ruth, spiraling in the air so as to dodge any more attempted seating attacks.


    One left. Ruth opened her mouth as she jumped out of the way of the arrow¡¯s approach. As expected, the arrow snapped to move back towards her at a sheer angle, increasing its speed to the utmost for what Simeon almost certainly believed would be the killing blow.


    Well, she¡¯d make him work much harder than this for it. She moved her head backwards once again, out of the arrow¡¯s path just as it was about to spear through her temple. Then, before it could adjust to pursue her again, she snapped her head forwards and bit.


    She¡¯d never really understood why some people stuck to a single way of fighting - like that guy Muzazi with his sword, or the way martial artists practiced moves hundreds of times. If God had given humans bodies with so many potential weapons, wasn¡¯t it only natural to use them?


    The arrow was held firm between her teeth, writhing frantically as the pink Aether coating it clashed with Ruth¡¯s own scarlet aura. It was a losing battle for the arrow from the start, though - it only had the Aether Simeon had infused it with before firing, whereas Ruth¡¯s teeth were connected right to the source.


    Finally, the clash was over, and Ruth¡¯s teeth met as the hair flopped down in her mouth. A second later, she spat it out, wiping her mouth with the back of a gauntlet.


    Simeon chuckled from up above. "That¡¯s certainly a ¡­ unique approach. But surely you don¡¯t think taking out three of my arrows will be enough to stop me? I¡¯m not exactly lacking for ammunition, you understand."


    He was right. His Aether tic clearly made his hair grow quicker, and he then turned those hairs into arrows - in essence, he could continue firing as long as his Aether held up. She didn¡¯t have enough time to wait for that.


    Her eyes flicked towards the stairs. Too far - she wouldn¡¯t make it.


    Then they flicked towards a wrecked table off in the corner of the room, directly opposite Simeon¡¯s elevated position. A smile played across her lips.


    Oh, that could work.


    -


    Bruno was starting to understand.


    As he went flying backwards from yet another explosion, he projected a series of fragile forcefields behind himself to break his fall. He still fell into a crouching position on the ground, but the damage was much less than it could have been otherwise.


    Panting, he wiped some blood from the corner of his mouth as he peered into the smoke that was now filling most of the hallway. He wasn¡¯t in ideal shape - his whole body was aching, and he was sure he¡¯d been burnt by these explosions once or twice. When his well of adrenaline ran dry, he¡¯d be left whimpering on the ground.


    So he had to win quickly.


    Reyansh somehow had a way of defending against his own explosions. That was the only explanation for how he could unleash them so many times, in such close proximity, and remain untouched. It wasn¡¯t his normal Aether defense, though - if his protection had been that strong, Bruno would never have been able to lay a finger on him from the beginning.


    A specialized shield, then? A separate power from his bombs, designed to specifically negate their effects upon his body?


    It made sense. Bruno knew that if he had the power to make things explode, he¡¯d need assurances he wouldn¡¯t just blow himself up before he could fight freely.


    If that was the case, though, why the interval between detonations? Why not just continually spam explosions until Bruno was dead? There was a risk involved, then. What was it?


    Something clicked in Bruno¡¯s mind.


    Oh, he thought, certainty pulling his scattered theories together. So that¡¯s how it is.


    The smoke in front of Bruno parted as Reyansh strode out. In one hand, he held his knife, dripping red with blood. In the other, he tossed a collection of pebbles up and down.


    He looked down at Bruno with impassive eyes. "This next attack will kill you, you know," he said. "If you wish to make known your surrender, I would suggest you do so now, brave one."


    Bruno rose to his feet with legs that were already beginning to tremble beneath him, chuckling weakly. He wiped some blood from his face with the back of his hand.


    "Fuck you," he spat.


    For a moment, Reyansh considered the insult, still tossing those damn pebbles up and down even as they began to crackle with Aether. Then, he sighed, shook his head.


    "Disgraceful," he said quietly - and hurled his payload towards Bruno.


    This time, though, Bruno didn¡¯t dodge backwards. He didn¡¯t dodge to either side. He didn¡¯t even try to block the incoming projectiles.


    Instead he ran straight towards them, a roar erupting from his throat. The bottom half of Reyansh¡¯s face was hidden by his mask, but Bruno felt a wave of satisfaction as he saw the bomberman¡¯s eyes widen in surprise.


    "What are you-?!" he spluttered, taking a step backwards.


    What was he doing? Something stupid, most likely, but right now all of his options seemed to fit that description. If he was going out like an idiot, though, he¡¯d be going out a victorious idiot.


    Bruno passed the pebbles as they flew through the air, continued running towards Reyansh even as he heard them explode behind him. Layered forcefields over his back blocked most of the resultant flames, but the shockwave struck him unimpeded - and sent him flying towards Reyansh all the faster.


    The shield that protected Reyansh from his own explosions - Bruno knew there was a reason he didn¡¯t just use it constantly. And he had a theory for what that reason was.


    The shield protected its master from explosions - but it left him vulnerable to everything else.


    Bruno pulled his fist back as he flew through the air, infused it with as much Aether as he could - until his hand was like a purple meteor streaking across the hallway towards Reyansh. The bomberman, eyes still shocked, brought his knife up to stab at Bruno, to try and finish him off before he could unleash his own attack.


    But at the speed Bruno was moving, the knife was all too slow.


    Bruno plunged his fist forward, screaming from the exertion of forcing his fingers together - and his punch smashed through the knife, shattering it like glass and going further - further - until it finally met Reyansh¡¯s jaw. There wasn¡¯t much in the way of resistance there.


    There was a satisfying crunch that vibrated through Bruno¡¯s fist - and Reyansh went flying backwards, rolling to a stop on the ground in an unconscious heap.


    Specialized shielding and a glass jaw. Not the best mix.


    Bruno slumped against the wall, wiped sweat from his brow while trying to ignore Serena¡¯s mental cheering. That had ¡­ that had taken a lot out of him.


    You did it, Bruno! Serena shouted.


    "Yup¡­"


    A second wave of aching pain ran through Bruno¡¯s body as a new sound echoed throughout the hallway: approaching footsteps - and someone running from the sound of it. His eyes flicked towards Reyansh, but the warrior was still unconscious. One of his allies, then?


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    "No rest for the wicked," he mumbled, forcing his aching body up to its feet. He didn¡¯t have much left in him, but that didn¡¯t mean he was going down without a fight. He turned to face the corner the footsteps were approaching from - and with a grunt of exertion, he assumed a combat stance.


    Come on, then.


    Dragan Hadrien came running around the corner, a stun pistol held in each hand. The moment he spotted the scene in front of him, he came to a stop - sliding across the smooth floor for a moment before coming to a complete halt.


    His eyes looked from Bruno, to the unconscious Reyansh, and back to Bruno again.


    "Oh," he said, scratching his head. "Guess you don¡¯t need my help after all."


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    Simeon chuckled derisively to himself as he continued his assault.


    Targets like this Ruth Blaine were always the easiest. Dumb brawlers who didn¡¯t know how to deal with problems that were out of punching range. By aiming his shots carefully, he could force her to move in any way he wanted.


    Really, he could dispatch her at his leisure.


    He fired off a series of arrows as the girl made another try to run for the stairs, the projectiles blocking off her path like a set of prison bars. She jumped backwards, glaring up at him defiantly - and he answered that resolve with another arrow that narrowly missed her head.


    He¡¯d allowed it to miss, of course - the whole thing was theatre. If he truly wished for it, he could dispatch her in a second. But this hunt was what he lived for.


    A grim smile crossed his lips. With this bow in his hands, there was no need to cower and dive for cover. Now he was the one who rained down hell.


    "If you stop moving," he called out mockingly, lowering his bow for a moment. "I might just kill you quickly. It¡¯s your decision, of course, but I thought I¡¯d just give my recommendation-"


    Ruth Blaine jumped up.


    The rest of Simeon¡¯s sentence died as a choking sound in his throat as he brought his bow back up, Ruth Blaine quickly growing larger in his vision. Her feet were twin stars of red Aether, all the strength she had access to going into that sheer leap. It seemed she¡¯d abandoned going for the stairs and was instead going to try heading straight for him.


    Still, it was futile. After the panic passed, Simeon could recognize that instantly. With the speed Blaine was moving, she¡¯d never make it up to him - she¡¯d barely reached the second floor, and she was already at the crest of her jump.


    A noble effort, but it would make for a humiliating end. Enough games. By jumping, she¡¯d left herself unable to dodge his most potent attack. Pink Aether began to spark around Simeon¡¯s hands like a thunderstorm, the air around his bow vibrating as if in sympathy for Blaine¡¯s impending death.


    Leaden Arrow.


    Simeon licked his lips, aimed his bow, and let go of the bowstring.


    His arrow blasted forward like a spear of pink light, leaving a smoky trail in the air behind it as it rushed towards Ruth, a high-pitched screeching audible from the sheer speed. Simeon had infused it with a great deal of Aether - more than enough to pierce through Blaine¡¯s gruesome mask with ease. He idly wondered if it would keep going and impale her against the wall - that would be a thing to see.


    Simeon grinned in the moment before the Leaden Arrow struck true.


    Goodbye, Ruth Blaine.


    And the arrow hit its mark.


    But Ruth Blaine didn¡¯t stop moving.


    She¡¯d twisted her body in mid-air to dodge, yes, but not to move out of the way. Instead, she moved her body in such a way that the arrow struck her in the side, rather than her head.


    It wasn¡¯t a lethal wound - but it was certainly a painful one. Blaine screamed in pain as she was dragged along the path of the arrow as it continued to fly, towards the opposite side of the room.


    Towards a ruined table leaning against the wall there.


    Ruth Blaine looked up at him. She was grinning.


    No. Simeon didn¡¯t quite understand what he was seeing, but he knew - he just knew - that he¡¯d missed something.


    Blaine¡¯s legs flared with red Aether as she flew - and when the light cleared, her grungy metal armour had been replaced with something like seamless marble, decorating her lower body, glowing with a pale white light.


    Don¡¯t let her do it. He didn¡¯t know what it was she was doing, but he wasn¡¯t going to stand there and just watch it happen.


    Simeon took aim again and fired off a volley of arrows, as fast as he could, ten screeching projectiles in all. They lunged towards Blaine as one, and as they approached and Blaine continued flying backwards, she pointed her legs straight towards the table she was being flung towards.


    Idiot. With the speed she was moving, the impact would break her legs - leaving her a sitting duck for his arrows.


    -


    Ruth Blaine was no idiot.


    She might have not been able to do complicated equations in her head, sure, or work out a building¡¯s layout just by listening to the people outside. But she could fight. She could understand a fight like a complicated dance, know which way to step without ever having to think about it.


    For someone like that, the most insane things just came naturally.


    Her Noblesse Set - the bottom half of which now covered her legs - shattered when it received a blow, negated the damage, and reflected it upon the attacker. An ordinary person would use it to block attacks, to counter blows, and that would be it.


    But Ruth Blaine was a genius.


    Because of the arrow in her side, she was moving at an insane speed - and she was going to crash, feet first, into the table behind her. The damage to her body would be immense. So naturally her Noblesse Set would reflect it - all the speed and velocity she¡¯d built up being sent in the opposite direction.


    And that would give her quite a boost.


    Her toes brushed against the table.


    -


    There was a sound like a cannonball going off, and the opposite side of the room exploded into a shower of rubble. Simeon was sent staggering as the floor he was standing on shook, and his bow slipped from his hands.


    "No!" Still, still, he didn¡¯t understand what had happened - but a part of him knew, instinctually, that it was too late to stop it.


    He glanced down, and witnessed it.


    One second, Ruth Blaine was pressed against the ruined table - the next, she was upon him, clearing all three floors of the room in less than a second. The arrows he¡¯d fired, meaning to finish her, had been left in the dust.


    There was a whistling sound as Ruth Blaine¡¯s claws sliced through the air.


    This time, hell rained up at Simeon del Dranell.


    -


    Skipper strolled into the security room, hands stuffed into his pockets as he whistled. He wasn¡¯t especially surprised by what he found.


    When referring to a place like this, ¡¯room¡¯ was something of an understatement. It was more like an artificial cavern, with walls so far apart and a ceiling so high you probably could¡¯ve built a neighbourhood in there.


    The walls were lined with compartments like the drawers of a morgue, each one presumably containing a dormant security drone. Skipper¡¯s eyes ran over them - at least a hundred in all. A ready-made recipe for a not-so-good time. Ingredient one: strength in numbers.


    Ingredient two: environmental dangers.


    A great, long pillar stretched from the top of the chamber down into the abyss below. Skipper did his best not to look down: he didn¡¯t know why places like this so often featured bottomless pits - to vent heat, maybe? - but it was unsettling all the same. The closest thing to solid ground was the long walkway that led from the entrance to the pillar, and that felt far too flimsy for his liking.


    Ingredient three: the youth.


    The pillar wasn¡¯t there for structural reasons, of course - it was the terminal to direct the hospital¡¯s security network. That man Sait had set it to repel any intruders, but the lion¡¯s share of the security drones had clearly been left inactive. The girl standing before the controls, channeling her cyan Aether into it, seemed intent to change that.


    "Hello, Skipper," she said, not even turning to face him as he approached. The four drones bobbing and weaving around her did a fine job of that - their guns were trained on Skipper the moment he made himself known.


    "Think I must¡¯ve taken a wrong turn," he said, taking in the room as he approached. "This was meant to be a hospital, not a preschool."


    "Funny." From the sound of her voice, it was anything but. Skipper had to admit this wasn¡¯t his best material - but hell, she was putting him on the spot.


    "You in a negotiating mood?" he asked, coming to a stop a few meters away from her. Any closer, and he got the feeling those drones would start firing.


    "Not really," Noel muttered, continuing to channel her cyan Aether into the console in front of her. So it took a little longer to take over a massive system like this.


    Skipper cracked his neck. "That¡¯s a shame." Looked like the only option was to beat up a child.


    "Whatever," Noel replied, still not looking at him. "Take care of this fucker."


    That last part wasn¡¯t directed at Skipper - instead, Noel glanced up as she said it. Skipper snapped his head up to follow her gaze, and -


    - he was sent flying backwards as a figure dropped from the ceiling, landed in front of him, and landed a devastating kick right into his stomach.


    Skipper turned over in the air as he flew - and when he was facing the ground again, he planted his metal hand into the floor below, his fingers leaving deep gouges as he came to a halt. His emerald Aether had protected him from a good deal of the damage, of course, but that had been a damn strong kick. Dull pain ached through his side.


    "Don¡¯t believe we¡¯ve been introduced, ma¡¯am," he grinned, doing his best to hide the pain.


    The figure that had dropped from the ceiling was a young woman with bright blonde hair and blood-red eyes, wearing a zipped-up leather jacket and a pair of jeans. She looked more like she was heading out for a night on the town than gearing up to fight.


    The woman grinned wickedly at Skipper, putting a hand to her hip as she lowered her leg, returning to a neutral position.


    "Nice to meet you, too, old-timer," she said - completely casual, as if they were two acquaintances meeting by coincidence. "You¡¯re right - we haven¡¯t been introduced. The name¡¯s Marie Hazzard. I¡¯m a Special Officer of the Supremacy."


    "Ah," Skipper winced. "So that¡¯s how it is."


    "Yup," Marie said, beginning to move forward again. "That¡¯s how it is."

 Chapter 66:3.29: Slaughterhouse

    "You took your sweet time," panted Bruno, slumping against the wall and sliding into a seated position as Dragan approached.


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "Do you know how many stairs I had to climb to get here? A lot. A whole lot. You should be thanking me for putting the effort in."


    It was true - after climbing so many stairs, Dragan had needed to take a few minutes to catch his breath. He decided not to mention that, though; Bruno didn¡¯t look to be in the indulgent mood.


    As he approached, he glanced down at Bruno¡¯s unconscious opponent. The one Noel had called Reyansh, if he remembered correctly. Well, he always remembered correctly, but whatever.


    "Should we kill him?" Dragan said, biting his lip as he looked down at the unconscious body.


    Bruno looked up from his sitting position, brow furrowed. "Weren¡¯t we meant to be taking these guys into custody? We can just tie them up and carry them out, if your little stick arms can take the strain."


    Dragan frowned. "My arms aren¡¯t ¡­ nevermind. Anyway, uh, there¡¯s been a few changes in the situation. You¡¯ve missed a lot this last week." As he spoke, he kept one stun-pistol trained on Reyansh¡¯s back, ready to zap him if he showed any signs of consciousness.


    Groaning, Bruno pushed himself back up the wall, still holding a hand against it for support. "What do you mean," he growled. "There¡¯s been a change in the situation?"


    Before he replied, Dragan put his free hand to his head, ran it over his temple. Putting the whole thing into words made him truly realize just how complicated things had gotten, just how out of his depth he was.


    Well, he¡¯d never really been in his depth, but now it had just become obvious.


    "We¡¯re supposed to kill the Citizen," he finally forced out as his opener.


    Bruno blinked. "What?"


    "The Citizen - we¡¯re meant to kill him."


    "That wasn¡¯t the deal," Bruno took a step forward. "I remember - I was there when that Dir asshole got us into this mess. We were grabbing the Umbrant, and that was it."


    Dragan shrugged weakly, an awkward lopsided smile on his lips. "Apparently, Dir¡¯s boss has dirt on Skipper, so ¡­ the situation¡¯s changed."


    "What kind of dirt?!" Bruno waved his arms as he spoke, clearly getting frustrated.


    "I don¡¯t know," Dragan lied.


    He thought about telling Bruno about everything the Sponsor of War had told them - about the previous president, about Skipper¡¯s past with this Vantablack Squad - but in the end he decided that they just didn¡¯t have the time for an explanation like that.


    If all was going well, Ruth was above them, and Skipper was below them. A decision had to be made.


    "Well," Bruno spluttered, thumping his fist against the wall. "Shit. What the hell are we supposed to do now?"


    "We kill the Citizen, I guess."


    Bruno shook his head. "No. Even if we do that, they¡¯ll find something else to get us with. It¡¯s how these kinds of things work, every time. Trust me - I¡¯ve been on the giving end, too."


    "I agree," Dragan nodded. "But we still don¡¯t have a choice. We can either make a run for it and ensure retaliation, or get this thing done and come up with a plan for afterwards. Anyway, that¡¯s not even important right now."


    "Well, what is important, then?"


    "First, this guy," Dragan nodded down at Reyansh. "He¡¯s not the Citizen, so we can let him live, but we can¡¯t risk him waking up and coming after us. I passed a supply closet on my way here - we can get him restrained with some of the stuff from there."


    "Rope won¡¯t do much against Aether," Bruno said doubtfully.


    Dragan waved a dismissive hand. "There are ways you can tie people up so they just can¡¯t move their body at all. On Crestpoole, they used to do that and drop ¡­ well, nevermind. I¡¯m pretty sure it would work." His mind had started drifting there. It was this whole situation - stress pushing out memories he didn¡¯t much care to revisit.


    "Okay," Bruno slowly nodded. "Okay, sure. You said that¡¯s the first thing, though - so what¡¯s next?"


    As Dragan put his back against the wall and crossed his arms, he wondered how much detail he should go into. They didn¡¯t have time for the full story, so it would be best to get the pertinent facts across first.


    "Basically what¡¯s happened," he said, eyes still squeezed shut as he dug through his memories. "Is that the owner of this place has information the Citizen wants, so that¡¯s why he¡¯s sent his guys here. We¡¯ve come here to take them out before they can get to the owner. Skipper¡¯s gone down to the security room to make sure they can¡¯t hack the security systems here, and Ruth¡¯s gone up to the director¡¯s office to grab him before the Citizen can. I came here to make sure you were safe."


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "Like I said, you took your sweet time."


    "It was a lot of stairs," Dragan snapped. "Anyway - now that that¡¯s settled - I think the best thing for us to do is split up again. One of us goes to back up Skipper, the other backs up Ruth. What do you think?"


    Bruno bit his lip. "I don¡¯t like the idea of us moving through this place alone, but you¡¯re the boss."


    He was? Really? When had that happened? Dragan was surprised Bruno would say that, but he wasn¡¯t going to say otherwise. He¡¯d honestly expected more pushback.


    He nodded, smiling slightly. "Okay. Okay! Well, then - I¡¯ll go down to back up that idiot, and you¡¯ll go up to back up that idiot. Sound good?"


    Bruno cracked his knuckles, purple Aether playing across his fingers as he moved them. "Not really. But nothing much has sounded good since we touched down on this planet."


    Despite everything, Dragan found himself chuckling. Bruno had a way of voicing the thoughts that Dragan left to stew. "You¡¯re not wrong," he said, picking up Reyansh by the legs and getting ready to drag. "But we¡¯ve still got to get on with it."


    -


    "A Special Officer, huh?" said Skipper, standing back up from his crouching position. "Wowie. You wouldn¡¯t happen to know Atoy Muzazi, would ya?"


    The Special Officer didn¡¯t mirror him - she stayed half-crouched, fingers bared as if they were claws. A mirthless smile crossed her lips. "Sure do. And you know Dragan Hadrien, right?" She elongated the word to within an inch of its life.


    "Ditto," Skipper grinned uneasily. "Don¡¯t suppose I can convince you to stand down and let me be on my merry way?"


    Marie glanced back towards Noel, who was still pouring her Aether into the central console. "Sorry," she began. "But I-"


    "Heartbeat Shotgun," said Skipper emotionlessly, pointing a finger-gun at Marie as she turned back around.


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    The sound of the gunshot was even more deafening than usual in this cavern of a room - and as Marie went flying backwards, the clangs of her rolling to a stop on the metal walkway echoed just as much. Noel glanced back towards the fight behind her, but quickly turned once again to the console in front of her.


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    Marie stood back up, casually dusting herself off as if she hadn¡¯t just been struck with the force of a gunshot. "That wasn¡¯t very nice," she said, wiping a line of blood from her nose. "I was talking, you know?"


    Skipper shrugged even as he kept his finger pointed towards Marie. "There¡¯s your first mistake, kid. You can¡¯t get distracted when folks are tussling, yeah? And it¡¯s pretty cocky for you not to use Aether."


    He was sure of it - whoever this woman was, she wasn¡¯t using Aether at all. If she had been, even cloaked, that first attack wouldn¡¯t have done enough damage to draw blood. There was something bizarre going on here.


    Marie laughed heartily, strolling back towards Skipper with one hand in her jacket pocket. "I¡¯m not sure I know what you¡¯re talking about, old-timer. Maybe you¡¯re going senile?"


    Her hand inched out of the jacket, just slightly - enough to show she wanted to hide it. Skipper was a nice guy, but he wasn¡¯t going to let something like that slide.


    Heartbeat Bayonet. Heartbeat Bayonet. Heartbeat Bayonet. Heartbeat Bayonet.


    The first attack sliced through her throat, opening her jugular in a crimson shower.


    The second attack ran up her chest and face, forming a grim cross.


    The third attack cut through her heels, sending her down onto the floor.


    The fourth attack carved into her back, reaching so deep that white bone was visible.


    "Sorry," said Skipper grimly, looking down at Marie¡¯s eviscerated form. "But I didn¡¯t like the way you were looking at me."


    Noel had turned away from the console - face white as a ghost - as she¡¯d heard Marie be cut apart, but her hands were still pressed against the console. The cyan Aether was now visibly running through the entire pillar, making its way up and down like massive static electricity.


    Skipper moved his finger slightly, pointing it at Noel rather than Marie. "Alright, little miss," he said, jabbing it in her direction. "How about you step away from those controls, yeah?"


    Noel glanced from the controls to Skipper, opened her mouth as if to say something - but no noise came out. He couldn¡¯t blame her: that had been a hell of a thing for a kid to witness.


    Still, he couldn¡¯t afford to hesitate here.


    "Last chance, kid," he said, finger pointing directly at her head. If nothing else, he¡¯d make it quick. "Step. Away."


    There was a sound like snapping branches.


    "You think we¡¯re done here?" rasped Marie from the floor.


    Skipper glanced down - and when he saw what was happening, he took a hurried step back.


    With the way he¡¯d brutalized this Marie woman, her lifespan should have been measured in seconds - but she was getting up, rising from the blood-drowned floor to her full height like some kind of broken marionette. The cracking he¡¯d heard was the sound of her joints and bones snapping into place as the wounds he¡¯d inflicted on her slowly, but steadily closed back up. Even as Skipper watched, the shower of blood spitting from her torn jugular was reduced to a trickle, and then nothing.


    By the time she was fully standing, it was as if he¡¯d never touched her at all.


    "Nice trick," mumbled Skipper, looking her up and down - looking for the secret behind what he¡¯d just seen. Some kind of ability, maybe? Hell, maybe this Marie person wasn¡¯t even here, and she was just messing with his mind?


    Marie grunted as she cracked her neck. "Isn¡¯t it?" she said, the raspiness of her voice clearing away as the words left her mouth. "Don¡¯t much like showing it off - but I guess we don¡¯t always get what we want, huh?"


    "Guess not."


    She¡¯d recovered from his attacks, but they¡¯d still hurt her. If he could damage her enough to keep her down for a while, he could take out Noel while she was still ¡­ healing? Regenerating? What the hell was the terminology here?


    Marie took a step forward - out of the puddle of blood she¡¯d produced over the last minute or so. "Don¡¯t think you¡¯ll get another free shot like that, old-timer."


    Skipper grinned. "Oh, I¡¯d never dream of it."


    Marie lunged forward at blinding speeds, lifting up her arm like a hammer - and as Skipper dived out of the way, she brought it down on the railing behind where he¡¯d just been standing. There was a sickening crunch as her arm was broken from the impact, paired with the screech of metal as the railing snapped in much the same way.


    Regaining his balance on the narrow railing, Skipper jabbed a finger towards Marie¡¯s face.


    Heartbeat Bayonet!


    The range was much closer this time - hell, they were practically in melee distance - so his Bayonet could be much more precise. A thin red line drew itself over Marie¡¯s eyes, so small it could have been made with a scalpel, and a second later her face exploded into blood.


    Even if she could regenerate, being blinded definitely hurt. Marie screamed in pain and rage as she swung around again, broken arm flopping as she let loose a devastating roundhouse kick.


    Skipper ducked under the kick - it was strong and fast, but the lack of precision made it easy to avoid. He dodged a series of follow up kicks, each one missing by a matter of inches as he worked his way around her back.


    Her eyes were already healing, the line smoothly sliding shut. He didn¡¯t have much time - he didn¡¯t like using this, but she wasn¡¯t giving him a choice.


    Skipper planted his hand on her back, fingers splayed out to cover the widest surface area. He could feel her heartbeat through his palm - even in this situation, it was calm, steady, a drumbeat of inevitability.


    Heartbeat Silencer.


    There were abilities that implied ill intent through their very existence. The ability to inflict pain with no other purpose, the ability to splinter minds with a baleful glance, the ability to turn skin to glass and yet retain all feeling. There was no good use for such abilities, no world in which they were put to work for the benefit of others. It wasn¡¯t much better than those, this power that Skipper had.


    The ability to stop a person¡¯s heart.


    It was frighteningly easy - to sample a person¡¯s heartbeat and counteract it with its exact opposite, to cancel it out. The negating sound wouldn¡¯t penetrate through any kind of Aether defense - it was far too weak - but Skipper knew now that this girl wasn¡¯t using Aether at all. Whoever she was, she wasn¡¯t normal.


    Unfortunately for her, neither was he.


    A death-rattle escaped Marie¡¯s throat as her heartbeat came to a sudden and forceful halt, and she toppled forward onto the ground. Without missing a beat, Skipper whirled around, firing a Heartbeat Shotgun off at Noel with his prosthetic - but it missed by inches, smashing a spare monitor rather than the girl¡¯s skull. Noel screamed as the glass from the screen barely missed her.


    Skipper looked down at his mechanical arm - Marie was grabbing it as she rose from the floor again, the slightest irritation now visible on her face. Her eyes were fully healed, and the blood-drained white of her face was gradually returning to colour as well.


    "You really are something special, huh?" Skipper grunted, struggling to pull his arm out of Marie¡¯s grip. Even without Aether, her strength was monstrous - he could hear the metal creaking as her fingers left deep indents in it.


    Marie grinned, her teeth stained with leftover blood. "Oh," she said, tugging at his arm. "You haven¡¯t seen anything yet."


    Skipper matched her grin with his own. "I could say the same thing, kid."


    He thrust his free arm out - out to the side, away from both of them, and fired off his Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Marie¡¯s eyes widened, as did Skipper¡¯s grin - and a second later, the two of them went flying over the edge of the abyss, plummeting into the darkness below.


    If Marie was thrown off by this sudden fall, she didn¡¯t show it - within the first few seconds of their descent, she pulled Skipper¡¯s prosthetic arm free with a roar, leaving only a shard of jagged, sparking metal protruding from his stump. Then, she lunged forward with her other hand, fingers poised to dig right through Skipper¡¯s stomach.


    It was a nice try, to be sure. But Skipper wasn¡¯t so easy to kill.


    Heartbeat Landmine.


    In the second before Marie would have run Skipper through, she instead went flying backwards, crashing into the far wall of the chamber with such force that she was embedded there, halting her fall.


    Skipper thrust his shattered metal arm, glimmering with green Aether, into the pillar beside him - stopping his own fall. Then, he looked up at his opponent.


    Marie was already working her way out of the wall, scraps of debris crumbling away from between her arms and legs. She growled, the cuts and bruises the impact had caused already disappearing from her body. She glanced up at the central console, now far above both of them, then back down at Skipper.


    "You think that¡¯s enough to get me?" she laughed. "It¡¯s nothing for me to finish you off and climb back up."


    Skipper wiped the sweat from his brow with his free arm, then pointed his index finger towards Marie. "Last chance, kid. Stay put or I¡¯ll give you something that¡¯ll actually hurt, yeah?"


    Marie¡¯s eyes narrowed. "I¡¯ve never surrendered once in my life. Don¡¯t expect me to start now-"


    "¡¯Kay. Heartbeat Shotgun."


    He said it only once, but fired them off many times - each blast of sound embedding Marie further and further into the wall, her chest caving in from the sheer repeated force. She gasped - not a result of shock, but just the fact that the air was being squeezed out of her lungs.


    She¡¯d heal from that. What she¡¯d already shown him had demonstrated that clearly. He¡¯d have to go a little further.


    Stopping her heart hadn¡¯t even slowed her down. Skipper wondered how she¡¯d fare without a brain.


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    Again, the words only ran through his mind once, but numerous whistling blades cut through Marie¡¯s neck, one after another - faster and faster, to counteract the healing that was already taking place as they sliced. She glared down at him with bloodshot eyes - the anger in them eerily tranquil.


    Finally, the last blade cut the last strand of flesh, and Marie¡¯s head seceded from her body. It toppled from her shoulders and began falling down into the abyss, Skipper¡¯s finger tracking it as it went.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    The head exploded into a shower of blood, brain and skull that plummeted into the darkness below. After peering down for a few more seconds just to make absolutely sure it was gone, Skipper breathed a sigh of relief.


    If that wasn¡¯t going to do it, nothing would.


    Still - he wasn¡¯t exactly out of the woods. His shoulder aching from the strain of supporting his entire body, Skipper turned his head to look at the platform far above.


    This was gonna be a hell of a climb.

 Chapter 67:3.30: Gemini

    It was just like playing a piano.


    Noel¡¯s fingers danced across the holographic keys as images and input boxes flashed on the screens for mere seconds at a time - far too quickly for any normal person to retain the information, but for a Cogitant like her it was a simple matter to retain it in her memory.


    She was in her element.


    Her Aether, too, was running through the system - inhabiting it, like a person might put on a costume. Climbing into the open system and puppeteering it from the inside. She was all but in control.


    Warily, she turned her head towards the gap in the railing where Marie and Skipper had fallen through. There¡¯d been some noise in the seconds since they¡¯d gone down - gunshots and smashing steel - but since then, nothing.


    Who had won? Had there even been a winner? There was a non-zero chance that both combatants were now unfortunate piles of meat at the bottom of the chamber. It would be a fitting end for that irritating man, at least, and she didn¡¯t know Marie well enough to mourn her.


    The cyan Aether stopped trickling from her fingertips into the machinery, and a grin spread across her face. She was in. Excitement racing through her veins, she turned back towards the console, leaned forward to look at the screen, and -


    - and a stun-bolt zoomed past where her head had just been, fizzling away uselessly as it hit the wall.


    "Step away from there," said a serious voice from behind her.


    Noel sighed as she turned away from the console, hands held over her head. This whole ¡¯holding her at gunpoint¡¯ thing was starting to get a little repetitive, truth be told.


    Dragan Hadrien stood there in the open doorway, pointing two stun-pistols at her. He narrowed his bright-blue eyes into a glare.


    "Where¡¯s Skipper?" he snapped.


    -


    "Where¡¯s Skipper?" he asked reasonably, keeping his pistols trained on Noel. Even if her body was surrendering, he couldn¡¯t be sure what other measures she might already have put into place.


    Noel nodded towards a gap in the walkway¡¯s railing, where the metal seemed to have bent outwards. "Last I saw," she said, with more than a hint of smugness. "He was headed down there."


    Right. "You¡¯re not strong enough to take out Skipper," he said. As much as the man was annoying, Dragan couldn¡¯t deny his considerable abilities.


    "You don¡¯t think so? Why don¡¯t you jump down and ask him?" Noel¡¯s voice was sickly sweet, like rotten strawberries. Dragan could hear it, though; she believed she was telling the truth.


    Whatever. Skipper couldn¡¯t be dead. He wouldn¡¯t die in such a stupid way.


    He jabbed one of his pistols in Noel¡¯s direction. "Come over here," he said. "Slowly, with your hands over your head just like that. One move I don¡¯t ask for and I shoot."


    Noel sighed. "Okay, okay." And with that, she began to walk, the sound of her footsteps against the metal walkway echoing throughout the chamber.


    Alright. He had Noel. That was a victory, if nothing else - he¡¯d knock her out and restrain her, then take her and Reyansh to the security gathered outside. Easy peasy.


    But Skipper¡­


    "You know," began Noel - only for her speech to trail off to a halt as a stun-bolt whizzed past her ear, centimeters from her head.


    "I didn¡¯t ask you to talk," glared Dragan. "Just keep walking."


    Noel came to a stop right in the middle of the walkway, still meters away from Dragan. Her arms flopped down from atop her head, falling to her sides. A smug smirk played across her lips, inspiring a flare of angry heat in Dragan¡¯s head.


    "Don¡¯t try and be clever," he said, training his pistol towards her cranium. "One last chance. I¡¯m shooting at the count of three."


    That was a lie, of course. He was shooting at the count of two.


    Noel raised a defiant eyebrow.


    "One," he said - but the next number was replaced by an involuntary scream of pain as something hot collided with his back. His pistols slipped from his grip as the force of the impact sent him falling forwards, his face colliding with the metal walkway beneath as he met the ground. Bright-blue Aether zapped around him involuntarily - his Aether automatically trying to defend him.


    What had got him? What had happened?


    Noel chuckled to herself - she hadn¡¯t moved from where she¡¯d been moments before. "Ah, I love that," she sighed. "That¡¯s great. That¡¯s the moment where you realize I was in control all along. It¡¯s the best, you know?"


    Body shaking, Dragan turned his head to look in the direction of the projectile. A drone was floating there, out in the darkness, plasma still dripping from its shotgun - but it was an official security drone, not one of the custom ones Noel had been using before.


    Realization dawned. He was too late.


    "You seem to be getting it," Noel giggled, spreading her arms wide. As if on cue, the countless compartments lining the walls opened as one - and from each of them, a security drone just like the one that had shot Dragan emerged, coming together to form a veritable constellation behind their new master.


    Hundreds, Dragan realized. There were hundreds of them.


    "You shouldn¡¯t have taken me so lightly," Noel said, hand on her hip, laughter still in her voice. "This is what happens, you know? It¡¯s just no good."


    Dragan planted his hands on the ground to push himself up. He could feel it - his Aether had protected him from the worst of the blow. He¡¯d been sent flying, but the plasma wasn¡¯t eating through his back. So long as he avoided the drones¡¯ shots, he could still fight.


    He glanced at the cloud of drones as he rose to his feet. Oh, hell. Who was he kidding?


    "You seemed pretty eager for me to surrender before," said Noel, cocking her head as she smiled sweetly. "Why don¡¯t you try it out for yourself? You might take a shine to it."


    Ah, gloating. He knew it well.


    He spat on the ground in front of him, blood mixed in with the saliva. Like hell he¡¯d humiliate himself in front of a brat like this.


    Noel¡¯s smile spread into a grin. "You sure? I¡¯ll give you three seconds."


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    Dragan braced himself for the incoming attacks. The technique he¡¯d come up with might have been able to help him if it were only one or two shots, but against hundreds he was just as helpless as anyone else.


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    He could run for it. That was an option - the open door was still behind him, after all. But that wouldn¡¯t solve anything. It wasn¡¯t as if Noel was trapped in this room - the drones could chase him down and kill him in whatever venue they liked.


    "Two."


    Maybe Bruno or Ruth would come and bail him out of this. No, no, he couldn¡¯t rely on that - they¡¯d be dealing with Sait and whoever was going after him. For all he knew, they could be in worse trouble than he was.


    It was hard to imagine worse trouble than facing down a literal army of trigger-happy drones, but still.


    He could¡­


    He could¡­


    He couldn¡¯t think of anything. His train of thought reached the end of the tracks - and beyond that was only a terrifying void. Was there nothing he could do?


    There wasn¡¯t.


    He gulped, squeezed his eyes shut - and then, he realized that it had been quite a while since Noel had said ¡¯two¡¯. Cautiously, he opened one eye again.


    Noel was still standing where she¡¯d been before, but her demeanour couldn¡¯t have been any different. Her teeth were bared, face twisted in an expression of pain, one hand pressed against her temple as if to keep it from falling apart. The other hand was planted against the console for support.


    "No," she hissed. "Not now¡­"


    A chance. He didn¡¯t quite understand what he was seeing, why Noel had paused her countdown, but it was a chance all the same. He¡¯d be an idiot not to take it.


    Dragan lunged forward.


    The plasma came down like rain, the drones closest to him automatically firing as he made a threatening movement. He managed to duck under the first volley, Aether sparking around his body in a panic, but against the second round of shots he wasn¡¯t quite so lucky.


    He felt plasma pass over his hair, singing it, and the smell of burning filled his nostrils and clawed at his throat. As the shot moved through his Aether, though, it was as if he could taste it, tendrils of his Aether scanning through the projectile as it entered such close range.


    If one was watching carefully, they might have seen the plasma shot vanish in what looked like a fizzle of blue electricity.


    As he doubled over, coughing overtaking him even as he ran, a second shot struck him in the back of the leg, sending him collapsing down to the floor - where his momentum sent him sliding right to Noel¡¯s feet.


    She stared down at him, one hand still planted against her temple, pupils dilated with outrage.


    "What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing?!" she snarled, giving him a vicious kick in the ribs - one that came with an audible snap from something inside him. "Who the hell do you think you¡¯re running at?! You think I¡¯m that easy, huh?! You think I¡¯m nothing?!"


    More kicks came, one after another, striking at Dragan¡¯s torso with all the strength Noel¡¯s small body could muster. Even with her tiny frame, the pain of the strikes was unimaginable - Dragan hacked up what he¡¯d eaten earlier that day onto the walkway in front of him, only to recognize with faint dread the taste of blood that came along with it.


    "Yeah," growled Noel, crouching down and slamming Dragan¡¯s face into the walkway by his hair. "Not so smart now, huh? Not so clever? Shut the fuck up!" That last scream wasn¡¯t directed at Dragan, but at the monitor behind her.


    It was almost time, Dragan realized faintly, slipping in and out of consciousness. He¡¯d run towards her with a plan in mind. He was sure of it - he was brilliant like that.


    He just needed her to come a little closer.


    Even the slightest movement was excruciating, but Dragan persisted all the same - and twisted his mouth into a smug grin. He spat, and a splash of blood landed on Noel¡¯s hand.


    For a moment, she stared at the blood in mild surprise, blinking slowly as she took it in. Then, the hand holding onto Dragan¡¯s hair began to shake, slowly, roughly - a tempo of utter fury.


    With a jerk, she pulled him towards her by the collar, her red face inches from his own, her teeth bared in an almost inhuman grimace.


    "I bet you think you¡¯re pretty clever," she hissed, almost silently. "But I¡¯m gonna kill you. I¡¯m gonna kill you right now. There won¡¯t even be a corpse, not a fucking corpse, nothing left of your fucking head, I¡¯ll kill you."


    She was working herself up into a lather, an unfortunate feedback loop of anger empowering anger until all sense was abandoned in favour of pure rage. Dragan mumbled something inaudible through cracked lips.


    Noel shook him violently. "What was that?!" she screamed.


    "G-Gemini¡­" Dragan mumbled.


    She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. Some kind of sense was returning to her, some natural suspicion that should have already been ringing alarm bells. "Gemini?" she said slowly, eyes flicking around the chamber as if to look for some trap he¡¯d placed in advance.


    "...Shotgun."


    There was a sound like an explosion - and a second later, Noel went flying backwards, slamming against the console behind her with such force that the controls burst out in a shower of sparks and glass. Drops of loose plasma burnt at the metalwork.


    Noel screamed as she worked herself free of the controls - not just from frustration, but from pain as well. A huge burn was covering her left eye - there was no doubt that she was now blind on that side: the eye wasn¡¯t even visible anymore, just an angry red wound.


    She moved her left arm to cover the wound on her face - only for her scream to trail off in shock as she realized that that arm now terminated as a burning, uneven stump just above her elbow.


    "What did you¡­?" she muttered, staring at her arm, adrenaline giving her a moment of lucidity. "What did you do?"


    Dragan still lay on the ground where she¡¯d left him, face half-pressed against the floor - but he still looked up at her and grinned, teeth stained red with his own blood. "Told you¡­" he said. "Gemini...Shotgun." It wasn¡¯t a special attack if you didn¡¯t give it a cool name, after all.


    To be honest, he hadn¡¯t been sure if it was possible until he¡¯d actually done it. He¡¯d had to actually take a shot from one of those plasmabolts before he could record an incoming attack in his Aether - and then manifest it to throw it right back at Noel.


    Gemini Shotgun. Recording a projectile, empowering it with your own Aether, and firing it off with extra strength.


    Wasn¡¯t bad for someone only half ¡­ half-conscious¡­


    Well, thought Dragan as his vision began to grow increasingly dark. Maybe a little less than half.


    -


    Noel collapsed, supported only by two drones that held her up with rudimentary graspers. Cyan Aether sparking around them, they lifted her up off the ground, her lopsided figure twitching as she kicked at the air in frustration.


    "Kill him," she breathed, staring at that bastard Hadrien, her commands spreading out through her Aether. "Kill him! All of you - kill him!"


    Her drones moved as one, pointed their guns at the unconscious Hadrien and - as one - fired.


    The plasma rained down so quickly and so fiercely that Hadrien¡¯s carcass was obscured by smoke and steam, radiating out through the chamber at incredible speed. Noel twitched as it buffeted against her body - the pain from her missing arm now beginning to make itself known, a prelude to agony.


    She had to get out of here. But, but but but, she had to see Hadrien dead first. She¡¯d only be satisfied when she saw the wreckage of his corpse.


    A feral grin on her face - from pain just as much as glee - she leaned forward as the smoke began to clear.


    Her heart dropped.


    "I¡¯d say you won that one, kiddo," said Skipper. He was standing right in the doorway, the unconscious Hadrien strewn over his shoulder. "Psychologically, at least - I mean, she seems pretty mad, yeah?"


    The entire walkway had been melted away by the plasma - but Skipper had somehow rushed in and grabbed Hadrien before she¡¯d even noticed. And he¡¯d done it with one arm.


    Skipper straightened up, grinned at Noel - but the humour from his eyes were gone.


    "You wanna be mad at someone?" he said, slowly pointing his finger towards her. "Then be mad at me. Let¡¯s see how that goes for you."


    An awful cracking noise escaped from Noel¡¯s throat.


    Skipper winked. "Yeah?"

 Chapter 68:3.31: A Change In The Air

    Ruth grunted as she pulled the bandage taut around her waist, doing her best to ignore the piercing pain that rang through her body.


    Purposefully getting herself stabbed had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but in retrospect she wasn¡¯t so sure. It was true that she¡¯d needed the momentum, sure, but maybe there was a better way she could have done that?


    It was a bad habit of hers; she¡¯d been consumed by the thrill of the fight, seeking victory without any thought as to what she¡¯d do afterwards. She¡¯d beat that guy Simeon up, and buried him under enough tables that he wouldn¡¯t be able to move, but now what?


    Now Sait, she reminded herself.


    That was right. That old guy was what this whole thing was about - the fights going on were just distractions. She¡¯d heard explosions from down below, so presumably one of the others had engaged the enemy as well. Hopefully, they¡¯d be distracted enough that she could get to Sait¡¯s office without further trouble.


    She forced herself to her feet, putting a hand against the wall to support herself - and when she moved that hand, she noted distantly that it left a bloody handprint on the wall. That probably wasn¡¯t good, but she didn¡¯t have time to worry about it.


    Move on. That was what she had to do.


    "Do you think life can be better than this?" said Robin, looking wistfully up at the sky. She¡¯d just come back from one of her father¡¯s functions, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Ruth¡¯s whole village - but her face was so quietly distraught as she watched the stars.


    Ruth shrugged. "Life ain¡¯t so bad."


    They stood in the shadows of Robin¡¯s greenhouse - one of the rare parts of her father¡¯s estate that wasn¡¯t surveilled. Ruth had always thought the place stank - full of weird plants that weren¡¯t native to Granis - but Robin seemed to like it all the same.


    Robin smiled sadly. "You only think that because you haven¡¯t known anything else."


    Ruth raised an eyebrow, adjusted the assault rifle slung over her shoulder. She hadn¡¯t had the easiest time of it, true, but she¡¯d never thought her life was bad. Things were just the way that they were.


    "You can¡¯t be scared, you know?" Robin went on, smiling sadly. "Of new things happening."


    In the years since, Ruth would often wonder if Robin had had some idea back then - of how things would turn out in the end. Was that why she always looked so sad, even when she was happy?


    But the Ruth of years past only scoffed. "I¡¯m not scared of anything," she grinned. "A paleo-beast came near the village last week, and I blew its head off like it was nothing."


    Robin giggled, putting a demure hand to her mouth as she did so. "Sounds interesting," she sighed, turning her head slightly as she heard a distant guard patrol. "They¡¯ll be starting curfew soon. You should go."


    "¡¯Course," Ruth nodded, pulling the straps of her backpack taut. She¡¯d already stuffed it full of the few supplies Robin had been able to procure for the militia. "You stay safe too, yeah?"


    Robin smiled, the moon shining down behind her. In its pale light, she looked more like a phantom than anything else.


    "Of course I will," she lied.


    Dir didn¡¯t like this.


    He drummed his fingers along the barrel of his stun cannon as he waited, stock-still, staring at the entrance of the hospital. Assuming everything had gone well, Skipper and his crew should have brought Sait out by now.


    He¡¯d heard explosions - had something gone wrong? If the Citizen¡¯s crew had beat them to the punch, there was every possibility that a battle had already begun. Sait could very well already be dead.


    Drum, drum, drum. His fingers came down against the gun barrel like raindrops.


    "Sir?" said a deputy - Abrams or something like that. He¡¯d clearly noticed Dir¡¯s trepidation. "Is something wrong?"


    "It¡¯s the quiet of it all out here," growled Dir, still vigilantly watching the entrance. "This Citizen bastard - he¡¯s got us all running scared, and he¡¯s never even shown his face. Thing like that does a number to your pride, son. You understand?"


    Abrams nodded. "Yes, sir."


    Probably he didn¡¯t - pipsqueaks like Abrams liked to buddy up to their superior officers to get the cushy assignments. Dir kept staring at the hospital entrance for a few moments more before finally breaking away, turning back towards the transport that had brought him here.


    "Keep watch," he called to Abrams as he walked away. "I¡¯m contacting Team B."


    Their team, Team A, had been assigned to watch the main entrance and prevent anyone from getting in or out. Team B had been assigned to do the same for the potential exit through the district¡¯s sewer system. He didn¡¯t envy that kind of work, but it was best to make sure they were all on the same page.


    Two officers standing guard saluted Dir as he approached the transport, and he nodded in response.


    Team A didn¡¯t quite describe it, to tell the truth - there were nearly a hundred men covering this location now, setting up turrets and barricades for cover. It seemed a little overkill at first glance, but none of them had any idea what they could be facing.


    Better safe than sorry.


    He stepped into the transport, out of the crisp night air. The space that half an hour ago had been packed full of men was now completely bare, save for Dir and the scraps of equipment that hadn¡¯t been taken out. He approached the communications console, put his finger down to press a button.


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    The air shifted, and he stopped. His breath caught in his throat.


    He didn¡¯t know what it was - but this was a feeling familiar to him. As a fighter, you got a sixth sense for it, for the moment when a brawl was about to turn against you. For the times you needed to start moving back. Something was wrong.


    He moved his hand away from the console and instead put it to the local communicator on his head.


    "Abrams," he said slowly, mouth dry. "Come in.¡¯


    There was no answer.


    "Anyone on this frequency," he tried again, doing his best to keep his voice steady. "Report."


    Again, there was no answer.


    Dir took in a deep breath - deeper than most people could manage, thanks to his prosthetic windpipes. If something was happening, he wouldn¡¯t have to give up his position with ill-timed gasps for air. S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Slowly, with the deliberateness of an elephant, Dir turned - stun cannon pointing in front of him - and marched out of the transport, back into the night. He was prepared. He was prepared for whatever was happening. He was -


    His cannon slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a heavy clunk.


    Death.


    When he¡¯d entered the transport, there had been nearly a hundred people in the square. Now there was only one - he himself.


    It was a garden of corpses. Each officer that had been standing out there, just moments ago, was dead - sliced, cut to ribbons, ripped to pieces, their blood staining the ground beneath them. Long, thin metal blades - like the feather of some steel bird - protruded from nearly every body, the obvious murder weapons.


    Some men had clearly turned to combat some threat, but they hadn¡¯t even had time to fire their guns. The weapons lay in pieces next to their owners, mechanical workings spilling from the sliced machinery just as entrails spilled from the men next to them.


    Dir¡¯s mouth moved wordlessly. This was ¡­ what the hell was this?


    As if directed by invisible strings, his head slowly turned upwards, to look up at the hospital. Above, nearly twenty floors up, a massive hole had appeared in the outer wall, dust still spilling out of the gap. It was as if someone had fired a cannonball straight through the building.


    Abrams, the kid Dir had been talking with barely a minute ago, was alive - but barely. A silver blade longer than he was tall had impaled him through the stomach, pinning him to the ground and holding him up all the while. He twitched weakly as he slowly slid down the blade, painting it red as he went, leaving small bits of his innards as a parting gift.


    "Red eyes..." he mumbled, eyes sightless, blood spilling from his mouth. "Red eyes¡­"


    And then he was gone, and Dir was truly alone in the square. His hands shook violently.


    Someone had been here. Someone had been here only moments ago. Someone had come, killed all his men in seconds, and leapt up into the hospital to make their own entrance. Monstrously fast, and monstrously strong. Dir didn¡¯t have any evidence, but in his heart he knew¡­


    It¡¯s him.


    Ruth thought about knocking - and then kicked the door in a second later.


    The wood exploded inwards, showering the entranceway with scraps of wooden debris. The old man in the wheelchair didn¡¯t even move from his position, though - he just stayed there, staring wistfully out of the wall-length window.


    A corpse lay on the ground before him, alcohol dripping from its nose onto the carpet. Ruth vaguely wondered who he¡¯d been as she approached.


    "That was quite the entrance," the old man Sait chuckled as Ruth walked over.


    "Shut up," Ruth growled. "I¡¯m getting you out of here. Turn off the lockdown."


    Sait¡¯s eyes flicked to her, scanned the room. "Turn it off¡­?" he mused, as if the very idea was preposterous. "Why would I do that?"


    She cast a glare down at him. "Because I told you to."


    A smirk spread across his skull-like face, and he turned his gaze away from her again. "Forgive me, my dear, but you¡¯re not that intimidating. Things will proceed as I¡¯d prefer, I think."


    Fine. She hadn¡¯t really expected this guy to just come quietly - carrying him out of here would be a pain, but she was more than willing to do it.


    She put a hand on the back of his wheelchair, pulled at it. "Like it or not," she growled. "You¡¯re coming with-"


    Sait¡¯s hand lashed out towards her throat - deadly quick, holding a bloody pencil between his fingers. Threat. Ruth¡¯s body responded automatically, moving her throat out of the path of the attack and slapping the weapon out of Sait¡¯s hand with a gauntlet-bearing hand.


    The pencil clattered to the ground, and Sait reared back, clutching his injured hand. Doubtless she¡¯d broke a couple of his fingers with that slap of hers. She didn¡¯t find herself feeling too bad for him.


    "You done?" she snarled, kicking the makeshift weapon away across the floor.


    Still holding onto his hand, Sait looked up at her. "Taking me will solve nothing, you know," he hissed, glaring daggers. "You understand that? Nothing. This is nothing of consequence, this whole thing."


    Ruth rolled her eyes. She really hated it when people like this started busting out the speeches. "Yeah, yeah."


    Sait didn¡¯t stop, though. Instead he squeezed his eyes shut, leaned back in his chair and went on and on: "We live in a world, a world, you understand, built only to consume itself. To consume us, and even as we fall into it¡¯s belly we are eating ourselves. Gluttony, pure gluttony. Ouroborous consuming and regurgitating itself, but always in a form more especially suited to decadence, constantly improving on its own depravity. That is the shape of this world, and all worlds, and it always. Will. Be."


    A frenzy seemed to consume Sait¡¯s voice as he ranted, as if this monologue was something he¡¯d been wanting to unleash his whole life. "It doesn¡¯t matter who you kill, who you stop, what bullet you put into what head. All of that - all of this - meaningless. Water doesn¡¯t get to decide what shape the bottle takes. All of us - from the greatest king to the lowliest beggar - is helpless. Even me."


    He opened his eyes. "Even you."


    His speech seemingly concluded, he was reduced to panting for breath, hands shaking on the arms of his wheelchair. His face, which had turned red from exertion, gradually returned to its usual sickly pallor.


    Ruth scoffed. She¡¯d learnt a long time ago not to listen to people like this. "I¡¯m not helpless."


    Sait¡¯s bloodshot eyes flicked to look over at her, a wry half-grin on his face. "I wasn¡¯t talking to you."


    The air shifted. Her breath caught in her throat, and every hair on her body suddenly stood up as if on command. It was as if a very, very heavy weight was suddenly pressing against her back.


    The voice that came from behind her was stern, strong - like two pieces of metal scraping together. A voice that permitted no argument.


    "Don¡¯t turn around."

 Chapter 69:3.32: Hand of Fear

    Ruth¡¯s head twitched just slightly, her brain hesitantly transmitting the command to her nerves to look behind her, to look towards the source of that voice.


    "Don¡¯t," said the voice softly - and yet the voice was still harsh, like scraping steel. "If you look at me, you will die."


    It was a struggle even to gulp. It was as if she was an ant who¡¯d only just noticed the boot hovering above her. The grim reaper was standing behind her - and she could tell from his voice that he was no liar.


    "You¡¯ve heard my voice," the man went on - and as he did, Ruth could hear him walking towards her, his footsteps heavy and metallic upon the floor. "You know my name. You are already in grave danger. But so long as you don¡¯t look at me, you can still survive this situation."


    Ruth scoffed with bravado she didn¡¯t feel, even as she continued to stare straight forward. "You think I¡¯m scared of you?"


    She felt cold air on the back of her neck.


    "Yes," the Citizen breathed.


    It wasn¡¯t true. He was lying. She was tricking him. She wasn¡¯t scared of anything. After all she¡¯d seen, how could she be scared? Bones dripping with plasma, a flayed corpse against a post, Ruth in pieces on the floor.


    No, no. She shook her head. That last image ¡­ that hadn¡¯t happened. The situation was just messing with her head. If she just ¡­ if she just turned around, took this guy on, she could break this spell he¡¯d put over her.


    The Citizen chuckled, the reverb in his voice lending the laughter an odd echo. "You struggle valiantly against yourself, little girl, but that isn¡¯t always enough. You must be aware of your nature, your limitations, as I am."


    "My ¡­ limitations?" The seemingly-friendly advice was so unexpected that she couldn¡¯t help but respond.


    "Your limitations," the Citizen repeated. "You are only human. You must understand that."


    She clenched her fists. "Of course I understand that," she growled.


    "Of course you do. That is why you do not turn around. You understand that - although we are both human beings - we are not at the same level. Dispatching me is beyond your current capabilities. You are wise to recognise this. I ask only that you ensure your wisdom persists."


    Defiant words came to her lips, almost just for the sake of it. "Even if you kill me," she said. "This place is surrounded. You won¡¯t get away."


    Another hollow chuckle. "Surrounded? Surrounded by who? Shooting Star Security Solutions? Those people outside are already dead."


    A chill ran down her spine. There had been hundreds of people guarding the entrance. He couldn¡¯t have¡­


    "You¡¯re lying," she snapped.


    "I am not," the Citizen¡¯s voice was calm as ever, as if he were explaining something very obvious to a child. "I lie a great deal, yes, but not on this occasion. I have killed those people. They won¡¯t be an obstacle."


    "I¡­" Even as her mouth wanted to continue arguing, her mind understood it could produce no more words to delay this.


    "I am going to walk past you now," the Citizen whispered. "If you wish to live, close your eyes so that you do not see me. Otherwise, I will cut your head off as I pass you. The choice is yours.¡¯


    She heard another metal footstep and - as if it were an automatic reflex - her eyes snapped shut. An awful trembling went through her body, as if an invisible hand were shaking her as hard as possible. It was a struggle even to keep standing.


    The Citizen chuckled - low, dark - and a metal gauntlet came to rest on the top of her head.


    "Good girl," the Citizen said - and kept on walking past her.


    Skipper had found himself in better situations, he had to say.


    Dragan slung over his shoulder, he zoomed backwards through the hallway, letting loose countless Heartbeat Shotguns both to fight and to direct his momentum through the corridors. The sounds of explosions and raining metal was near-constant, but the impact on the reserve of drones zooming towards him was negligible.


    The sheer number of drones was almost unbelievable - they were programmed not to fly into each other, but the amount of them stuffed into the hallway meant that their metal hulls were scraping together, sending sparks raining out. For each cluster of drones he took out, more flew in to take their place.


    Skipper bit his lip as he went zooming around the corner, Dragan¡¯s legs flapping in the wind behind him.


    Heartbeat Landmine would be much more suited to taking out a crowd like this, but he couldn¡¯t risk it in this situation. Dragan was far too close - there was a non-zero chance that letting loose an area-of-effect attack like that here would result in his death.


    Going after Noel wasn¡¯t an option either. The last he¡¯d seen of her, a group of her personal drones were lifting her away from the battle, even as she flailed and screamed threats at him. Every second put more distance between them that he simply couldn¡¯t take back.


    Escape was the only good ending to this encounter, then. He¡¯d have to fight the things off as he moved upstairs, back to the lobby, and shot himself out right into that security perimeter.


    It would be a bloody battle, but he was sure the security forces had the firepower to take on these drones. Plus, it would give him a little breathing room.


    "Sounds like a plan, huh, Mr. Hadrien?" he asked quietly, knowing that the unconscious Dragan couldn¡¯t answer him.


    The drones began to get a little too close for comfort, the sounds of scraping metal getting louder. Not good. At a distance, he could maneuver his body to avoid the plasma that was coming down like rain - but any closer and that wouldn¡¯t be the case. He might have been able to dodge, sure, but getting Dragan out of the way was another story entirely.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Another blast of sound accelerated their flight, sending them zooming through the corridors. As they flew, Skipper glanced upwards, as if he could see through the ceiling to spot what was happening all those floors up. He at least hoped Ruth was having a better time of things.


    Heartbeat Shotgun. Heartbeat Shotgun.


    As Skipper turned over in mid-air, he sent two shots zooming off at the ceiling directly in front of the drones¡¯ approach. There was a shatter of concrete, and stone came raining down - it wouldn¡¯t block the drones, but it would certainly slow them down.


    Skipper came down to the ground, skidding to a halt as his boots kicked up sparks. He concentrated, felt the continuing heartbeat of Dragan. Okay, the kid was alright. Score one to him.


    He needed to get outside the building, to get to the security forces - but making his way through the hallways like this just wasn¡¯t sustainable. He needed to fast track this somehow.


    His eyes flicked over to a closed elevator door not far away. All the elevators had been deactivated, of course, so he couldn¡¯t exactly get in and push the button¡­


    ...but you didn¡¯t need to be in an elevator to use the shaft.


    Skipper grinned.


    Ruth kept her eyes shut as the Citizen passed by her, his footsteps heavy on the ground. Whoever he was, he was definitely wearing some kind of bulky armour - something metal, at the very least.


    "I¡¯ve seen your face," she heard Sait croak, speaking up for the first time in a while. "I assume that means¡­?"


    "Yes." When the Citizen spoke, any traces of the genial friendliness he¡¯d shown to Ruth were gone. His voice was cold, ruthless, empty. "Once you tell me what I wish to know, I will kill you."


    Sait sighed - and it was if all the worries in the world were being exhaled along with it.


    "Thank God¡­" he breathed.


    "The names." There was no reason to even entertain the idea of a conversation here. Sait was already dead in the Citizen¡¯s eyes, Ruth realized. The only purpose he served before that was made official was this intelligence.


    "Of course," Sait said hurriedly, eagerly - but before he could begin, the Citizen interrupted him.


    "No. You will whisper it to me. If the girl hears, she will be killed."


    "So?"


    The voice was firmer. "You will whisper it to me."


    There was a long moment of silence - save for the slightest inaudible whispering. Then, the creaking of metal as the Citizen stood up again. Every movement seemed like it put strain on whatever armour he was wearing. Ruth was sure she¡¯d heard pieces of it snap more than once.


    "How do I know you¡¯re not lying?" the Citizen intoned harshly, like steam burning at pipes.


    Sait chuckled humorlessly. "Why would I lie? How would it profit me?"


    "I imagine it¡¯s second nature for creatures like us. Still¡­" There was a sheen, like a blade being unsheathed - like a dozen blades being unsheathed. "I believe you."


    Fire ran through Ruth¡¯s body. Go! she screamed at herself, as though she were trapped in a burning building. Don¡¯t just stand there! Do something!


    Bones scorched by plasma. A bloody carcass, strapped to a post. Bones melting away to nothing. A skinless husk, ropes binding it in place. Bones aflame. Robin unrecognisable.


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    Ruth didn¡¯t move a muscle.


    "Burn in hell," said the Citizen calmly - and then came the slightest groan from Sait. The sounds of slicing echoed through the office, for much longer than was necessary. Then, the footsteps came back towards Ruth.


    "You did well not to open your eyes," the Citizen said. "I will be gone from this room in ten seconds. You may open your eyes then - and only then. Do you understand?"


    Fuck you, her mouth went to say. Instead, though, she only meekly nodded. Like a student being scolded by a teacher.


    "Very good."


    And then he was gone - and Ruth was alone.


    With her eyes squeezed so tightly shut, the only reminder of the outside world was the hot tears of frustration on her cheeks.


    Skipper flew.


    The blasts of sounds that had previously served as acceleration were now his only means of steering as he soared through the elevator shaft system, holding Dragan between his shoulder and his neck as he went.


    For a big place like this, one or two elevators never cut it - and linear shafts wouldn¡¯t do the trick. The place that he was now travelling through was more like a network of interconnected tunnels, which elevators would zoom through both vertically and horizontally to reach their destinations.


    Those elevators were frozen now, stuck in the middle of the network as obstacles - but obstacles could also be cover. Skipper blasted himself behind one of them just as the pursuing drones fired off another volley of plasmafire.


    Nice. Nice nice nice. He was making good work of it, good progress towards the exit.


    As the elevator melted under the sheer amount of plasma it had been drowned in, Skipper blasted off again, heading for the slightly wider tunnel that he knew would be built to house a slightly bulkier elevator - the kind of fancy one you¡¯d want your guests to see when they came in from the entrance.


    "Hang in there, kiddo," he muttered to the unconscious Dragan, trying to ignore the angry buzzing of the drones pursuing them.


    This was the last stretch.


    Ruth didn¡¯t really know how long she stood there, fists balled at her sides.


    It was long enough for the flies to take interest - long enough for them to gather around the thing she knew was behind her. The corpse. She wondered what it would look like once she turned around. Not good. She hadn¡¯t seen what exactly the Citizen had done, but she¡¯d heard enough to know it wasn¡¯t an easy death.


    Her eyes were still closed.


    She knew that, without a doubt, the Citizen was gone - but the fear inside her wouldn¡¯t allow her to be sure. There was a part of her certain that, if she opened her eyes, she¡¯d instantly be cut to pieces by the man¡¯s blades.


    What would Skipper think? He¡¯d trusted her to get Sait. She¡¯d let him down. She¡¯d let everyone down.


    Could¡­ could she maybe chase the Citizen down? Make all this right again?


    No. With that destination in mind, her feet wouldn¡¯t allow her to move. Cowardly self-preservation triumphed once again. Coward. Coward.


    Ruth found her body wretch forward, and a spike of alarm ran through her head - only for it to crumble away into disgust when she realized that it was only a pathetic, silent sob. She¡¯d let everyone down, and now here she was, crying out of self-pity instead of doing something about it.


    Her ears twitched - footsteps were approaching, hurried footsteps. Someone was running here.


    At the very least, it wasn¡¯t the Citizen - she was no Cogitant, but even she was sure that she¡¯d recognize those heavy, metallic footfalls.


    The door swung open, and the footsteps trailed off to a halt.


    "Miss Blaine?" said Serena quietly from behind her, the worry evident in her tone. "Are you okay?"


    Ruth opened her eyes.


    The body before her - Sait¡¯s body - had been eviscerated. It was as if a thousand knives had suddenly and simultaneously been run through his body, revealing his contents for all to see. In death, the man probably covered more space than he had in life.


    She felt sick.


    "I couldn¡¯t do anything," she whispered, as if trying to explain herself. "I-I couldn¡¯t¡­ he was here¡­"


    Serena looked around the dark room uneasily, violet Aether crackling against her fingers. "Who was here?" she asked, cocking her head.


    "The Citizen," Ruth growled.


    "Oh," Serena put a worried hand to her mouth, still glancing around. "Well, what do we do now?"


    Ruth could have laughed. After what she¡¯d just seen, after what Ruth had just let happen, Serena was still looking to her for answers? She wasn¡¯t qualified to give orders. She had no idea what she was doing, clearly. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "We," Ruth began - but the word came out cracked and dry from her throat. "We head back out - meet up with Skipper and Dragan. We¡­ figure out what we¡¯re gonna do next."


    She had no idea what that would be - they¡¯d failed, after all. They¡¯d been told to kill the Citizen, and Ruth had just stood there shaking like a leaf as he did whatever he wanted. The mission was an undeniable failure.


    Serena opened her mouth to say something more, but seemed to catch a glance of Ruth¡¯s anguished expression, and her mouth closed again.


    In the end, she only nodded.


    Dir thumped his fist against the ground, concrete cracking slightly from the impact.


    Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.


    He¡¯d gone from each body to the next - the ones that looked reasonably intact - looking for any signs of life. Nothing. He¡¯d hoped, in his heart of hearts, that there would be at least one person he could save¡­ one person he could bring back from this, but nothing. Always nothing.


    Stuffing his emotions back down inside of him, Dir rose to his full height, clasping his hands behind his back. Just looking at him, there would be no sign of the inner turmoil that had been brewing in him only moments before.


    Every single officer who¡¯d been stationed here had been killed at the same time, by a shower of silver blades that had rained down on them from above. Those who hadn¡¯t been shredded by the assault had been killed by blades lodged into their eye-sockets, their throats¡­ every death either instant or very nearly so.


    He¡¯d already contacted the other security team - they were on their way. The person who did this wouldn¡¯t get away with it.


    Dir would take that. He had nothing else.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    His body stiffened as he heard the sound - like echoing gunshots, getting louder and louder, closer and closer. Was the attacker coming back? Dir reached down, picked up his massive stun cannon - and pointed it towards the hospital entrance.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    Yes. They were definitely heading in this direction - the sounds shaking the windows outside. Dir¡¯s finger flicked off the safety on the cannon, readying a stun-shot that could fell a pure blood Pugnant.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    His men were dead. His mission in shambles. But this, at least, was something Dir could do.


    He could point and shoot, every time.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    Smash.


    The front doors of the hospital exploded outwards in a shower of glass and concrete, rubble raining down on the square below - Dir sent stumbling backwards from the sheer force of the eruption. As he did, he looked up - and saw the source of the devastation.


    Skipper had fired himself like a cannonball right through the front wall, and he had that kid Hadrien slung over his back. The idiot was missing an arm, and blood was running down his face to cover one eye. Seemed they¡¯d had their own troubles on the inside.


    The man came down - his flight had been at least a little majestic, but that sense of grace seemed to leave him as he fell into an undignified pile on the ground, Hadrien slipping from his back and falling limp next to him. For a moment, Dir stared at the pair in disbelief - then, duty taking over, he ran to them.


    "Report," he barked, pulling Skipper up by his good arm. The fool blinked in the dim moonlight, eyes flicking around the square - taking in the bodies.


    "What the hell happened here?" Skipper asked.


    Dir shook him by the arm. "Irrelevant," he said, stuffing useless emotion down. "Report. What happened in there?"


    A sense of urgency seemed to come back to Skipper. "Ah, shit," he said, whirling back around to face the ruined hospital entrance. "You may wanna take cover here, buddy! This is-"


    Plasma - a veritable ocean of it - flew out at them from within the swirling dust. For a moment, Dir could only stare at it, mouth agape.


    Then, though, old instincts kicked in - and Dir grabbed Skipper and Dragan by the shoulders and leapt behind one of the barricades in record speed. The plasma passed over them as they fell to the ground, melting the concrete where it hit. A shudder passed through Dir¡¯s body as he imagined just how quickly that would have melted them.


    There was the buzzing of drones, too - a chorus of it, coming from within the hospital. It remained for a moment, the ominous buzz rattling Dir¡¯s bones, before fading away.


    Skipper cleared his throat. "They think they got us," he said quietly. "Switching to patrol mode instead. Not too smart, huh?"


    Cautiously, Dir picked himself up off the ground. Indeed, there wasn¡¯t a drone in sight - the hole Skipper had made in the entrance to the hospital was utterly empty. The man himself rose up next to Dir, face grave. His eyes flicked up to the second hole in the hospital - the one their attacker had made.


    "Someone came here," Skipper said. "Killed all your men, and entered the hospital. That right?" Any trace of the buffoonery he¡¯d earlier displayed was gone. This, Dir realized, was the assassin that had killed a President.


    "That¡¯s right," Dir said quietly, nodding.


    "I see. It¡¯s him, then." It wasn¡¯t a question - and if it had been, Dir wouldn¡¯t have been able to argue against him. He¡¯d reached the same conclusion in his mind: this was the Citizen¡¯s work.


    Skipper sighed, his breath leaving his mouth as a cold mist that rose into the night air. "Guess I¡¯m going back in, then."


    Dir¡¯s head snapped to stare incredulously at Skipper. The man had just uttered insanity. "Are you mad?" he said, losing composure for just a moment. "You saw what he did to my men! And those drones are still in there, too! You wouldn¡¯t last two seconds!"


    A smirk played across Skipper¡¯s lips as he looked up at the hospital. "Me against a one man army, a six-hundred drone army and whatever goons are still hanging around?" His eyes were far away. "I¡¯ve seen worse. I¡¯ve got three kids in there, buddy. It¡¯s not even a choice. Keep Mr. Hadrien safe for me, yeah?"


    And with that, he blasted off - twin shots of sound propelling him back into the hospital entrance as Dir looked on, disbelieving.


    Insane. He¡¯d just witnessed utter insanity, but¡­ he couldn¡¯t deny it was just a bit magnificent.


    The first thing Dragan became aware of was the pain all over his body. The second was the groan of pain that escaped his mouth as a result.


    "So," said Dir, the burly security chief standing over him - silhouetted by the moon. "You¡¯re finally awake."


    Dragan¡¯s groan went on for an admirable length as he sat up, put a hand to his aching temple. "What happened?" he said, words coming out slurred.


    Dir¡¯s gaze shifted - to look at the entrance of the hospital. Dragan suddenly became aware that he was now outside: of course, that was obvious, but he¡¯d clearly taken a blow to the head at some point.


    "I couldn¡¯t tell you," Dir said grimly, glaring into the depths. "Your man Skipper carried you out and went back in - a cloud of drones were chasing him."


    So Skipper had survived his fall, then. Of course, he¡¯d expected that, but it was good to know all the same.


    The last thing he remembered was firing off his Gemini Shotgun. A twinge of embarrassment crawled through his body when he thought of the name again: what had he been thinking? He must have been delirious from the pain or something, obviously.


    Dragan picked himself up, legs wobbling beneath him. "I¡¯m going back in," he forced out through gritted teeth - but as he went to take the first step, Dir¡¯s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and pulled him back.


    The older man shook his head. "No," he said solemnly. "You wouldn¡¯t stand a chance against what¡¯s in there, boy, and neither would I."


    Dragan furrowed his brow, uncomprehending. "What¡¯s in there¡­?" he mumbled - and then, finally, his gaze slid past Dir and he realized what was around him.


    He really wasn¡¯t in his best mind.


    Corpses. So many corpses, impaled and sliced and eviscerated. It was like the aftermath of some bloody battle.


    Noel and her crew wouldn¡¯t have had the ability to do this - and the damage didn¡¯t fit the powers they had. Did that mean¡­?


    Dir nodded again, clearly seeing what Dragan was thinking. "It¡¯s him. The Citizen."


    "Fuck."


    "Yes."


    The burst of adrenaline that had fuelled Dragan for the last minute or so trailed off, and his traitorous legs sent him toppling back to the ground, leaning against a spare supply crate. He wasn¡¯t going anywhere.


    Still, if nothing else, he could talk like a champ. "We can¡¯t just sit here and do nothing," he grunted.


    "We can, and we will. That¡¯s the job. Orders from command should come in soon."


    Dragan opened his mouth to argue further, to offer some token protest, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he looked up towards the hospital, face twisted into an anguished expression.


    Come on, he thought. Come on, you idiot.

 Chapter 70:3.33: The Girl In The Castle

    The girl in the castle flicked though the book, eyes scanning each page for only a moment before she moved on to the next. Chapters were sprinted through in mere minutes, and before the hour was out the tome had joined the piles of others she had conquered.


    A bird sang outside the castle, a lone rhythmic cry. The girl¡¯s eyes flicked up to meet it. Her mouth opened to ask if, perhaps, she could just go outside to see it. Just for a moment.


    Father¡¯s stick smacked against her hands, hard, as a preemptive reply. Yelping, she moved her hands back onto her lap - looked back towards the next text as it was placed before her, on the desk. Her lessons weren¡¯t over, after all. It had been stupid for her to think otherwise.


    She risked a glance down towards her hands. The blow left angry red marks, but the girl knew they wouldn¡¯t bleed. Father was much too skilled for that, and much too experienced. He wouldn¡¯t make such amateurish mistakes.


    "Is there a problem?" he said from behind her, voice cold. She could feel his dull green eyes drilling into the back of her head. He wouldn¡¯t let his greatest resource out of his sight, after all.


    "No, sir," she said quietly, and kept reading.


    By the time she was done, day had long since turned to night, and there was no birdsong to be heard.


    Noel¡¯s eyes flicked open - and she screamed.


    The pain was unbearable, a horrible burning agony coming from her arm and her eye. And her - and her vision was wrong, too, she could only see half the world, only half of the dim and dingy tunnel she¡¯d woken up in. As she flailed in pain, she raised her arms up to grasp at any sort of comfort, any relief, any-


    One of her arms was gone. Where her left arm had been was only a charred stump. As she blinked, she realized she could only feel the sensation of one of her eyes closing.


    Because the left eye wasn¡¯t there, either.


    Noel¡¯s screams intensified as she writhed on the cold metal ground, the drones that had carried her here bobbing up and down in the air unsympathetically. Her cries echoed through the tunnel, and before long it was as though the world was screaming at Noel just as loudly as she was screaming at it.


    "It hurts, doesn¡¯t it?" said a hollow, metallic voice.


    If Noel had been in her right mind, she would have looked around to see the speaker, to make some move to protect herself. But she wasn¡¯t in her right mind - she was in the worst pain she¡¯d ever experienced, and she could feel it, she could feel that pain in the shape of her missing arm. It¡¯s absence was not a quiet one.


    She clenched her teeth shut, but incoherent sounds of agony still leaked through. Steel footsteps came closer from behind her.


    Now, finally, she glanced up.


    The person looking down at her was not wearing armour. The thing covering their body could not possibly be called armour - it wasn¡¯t nearly elegant enough for that. It was like a mass of thin steel spikes, like metal feathers, covering the person¡¯s entire body. With each movement, bits of the metal snapped off, only for new spikes to emerge from the surrounding area to replace them. A suit of metal that was constantly destroying and recreating itself.


    Between the slightest dark gaps in the ¡¯helmet¡¯, two glowing red eyes could be seen - like lights at the end of tunnels.


    "You¡¯re¡­" she forced it.


    "Yes," the Citizen said, his voice reverberating throughout the metal that covered him. "I asked you a question, however. Are you in pain?"


    "I¡­" she looked down at her burnt stump and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to withstand the pulses of agony coming from it.


    The Citizen simply spoke again, calm as ever. "Please answer the question."


    She forced the word out. "Yes."


    "I see." With a heavy thump, the Citizen dropped something on the floor, right in front of Noel¡¯s face. It was some kind of vat, sealed shut, with the gentle sounds of bubbling emanating from it.


    Hand shaking, Noel reached out for it, grasped the handle with all her strength.


    "I am told it¡¯s excruciating to restore a limb with Panacea," the Citizen went on. "But if you have the resolve, it will take. Do you have the resolve?"


    Noel reached past her pain and seized hold of her hatred, the fire that burnt her becoming a fire that instead burnt from her. Hatred for the bastard Skipper, hatred for Dragan Hadrien, hate for this whole damn universe - and the darker hatred that existed beneath it.


    It wasn¡¯t quite resolve, but it would work just as well. Trembling fingers pushed the button on top of the vat, and it slid open, revealing the dark-red bubbling mass within, spores sliding across the liquid surface.


    "Good," the Citizen breathed.


    Noel plunged her stump into the mass.


    "Does it make you happy," Father said, voice droll. "Behaving like such an idiot?"


    The girl in the castle hung her head low, not quite daring to meet his eyes. Less than that had inspired harsher punishment in the past. Best to make it safe.


    "Well?" he snapped. "Say something."


    She shrugged limply - no words would come to her mouth. She already knew that no excuse would be accepted.


    Father began to pace, back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. The monologue had begun. They¡¯d performed this song and dance many times, here in the castle¡¯s indoor garden.


    "I don¡¯t think you realize," he said. "What a resource you are. How valuable you are. Let¡¯s say you owned an expensive doll, ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€. Let¡¯s say it was a doll that had cost you a great deal of time, effort and money to obtain. Would you throw it out of the window on a passing whim? Of course not. You would keep it in your dollhouse, where it belongs, where it is safe, where you can properly enjoy the benefits of your investment."


    This was a familiar topic. Father had wanted a Cogitant child for many years - he¡¯d had Cogitant ancestors, but the genes seemed to have skipped many generations before emerging again in the girl in the castle. She was a miracle in Father¡¯s eyes, and miracles were not allowed to do as they pleased.


    Father cast her a harsh glare, as though she were the greatest idiot who had ever lived. "Sneaking away, ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€? Like a rogue, a common thief? What if one of the other noble families had caught wind? It¡¯s bad enough you risked getting yourself hurt, but the sheer determination to humiliate your family - those who love and adore you - that¡¯s what truly angers me. The inconsiderate selfishness of it all. It¡¯s shameful. And so are you."


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    Tears dropped to the floor as she kept her head cast down. She knew, she understood that everything he said was designed only to hurt, but knowing the purpose of such words didn¡¯t make them any less painful. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Father came to a stop in front of her. "And still nothing to say?" he hissed.


    "I¡¯m sorry," the girl in the castle mumbled.


    "I didn¡¯t catch that," Father lied.


    She spoke up, just an octave louder. "I¡¯m sorry."


    Father smiled. "I don¡¯t believe you."


    Noel had thought losing her arm had been the most pain she would ever experience.


    She was wrong. Growing it back was much worse.


    The Panacea that had latched onto her stump writhed and twisted as it adopted new forms - analyzing the creature it had attached to and determining the needed material. A great club of bone disintegrated back into red fungus, which warped into a bundle of tiny arms like a cat of nine-tails, all of them grasping at empty air. Then, it was bubbling fungus again, slowly forming into a long stretched-out mass of skin and flesh.


    The worst part were the nerves. Noel could feel her nerves growing, stretching out, being twisted into new and unnatural forms. It was like losing a new limb every second.


    Bile rose up in her throat as she watched it, smaller hands like those of an infant branching out from the limb the Panacea was creating, as though it were practicing to get it right. Stubby fingers grasped blindly at the air.


    No, she told herself, stuffing the next scream back down inside her. This was fine. This was nothing. She¡¯d had worse.


    She¡¯d had worse.


    It was the seventh day of the girl¡¯s isolation - she¡¯d been locked in her room for her idiocy - when the furniture started talking to her. It was a lamp first, a deskside lamp with a voice like broken glass.


    "Oh, ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¡­" it cooed, voice grinding into the girl¡¯s ears. "Poor ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¡­ poor girl¡­ poor, poor, poor¡­ oh no¡­"


    The girl, huddled in the corner to hide from the moving shadows that had haunted her night hours, planted her hands over her ears. She wasn¡¯t listening to this nonsense. She refused.


    But these weren¡¯t voices that needed ears to be heard.


    "Perhaps you deserve it," whispered the wooden door, an unmistakable smugness in its tone. "Perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ should have been smarter sneaking out. Perhaps she should have been smarter. Stupid, stupid."


    The carpet rumbled in agreement. "Idiot," it intoned accusingly. "Idiot."


    She pressed her hands tighter over her ears - it felt like her head was in a vice, like she¡¯d squeeze too tight and crush her own skull - but then at least the voices would stop. It¡¯d be over.


    The lamp cut in as if to redirect her train of thought. "No¡­" it mumbled. "Poor girl, poor ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¡­ needs to get out. Room is too small¡­ oh, no¡­"


    The window offered its opinion, looking out at the lush forests of the planet: "Escape again. Simple solution. Easily done. Done before. Do again. Walk away. Never return."


    The girl opened her mouth to reply, only to realize that responding to these hallucinations would be foolishness in the extreme. Still, though¡­ to talk to someone¡­ the urge was irresistible.


    "I can¡¯t just walk away," she whispered, throat dry. "They¡¯ll catch me. Father will send them."


    The window wasn¡¯t deterred. "Easy solution."


    "Yes," the door concurred, its words slow and inexorable. "There is an easy solution. You know where they store the knives, don¡¯t you, ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€? The solution is so easy, such an easy and simple solution."


    Her blood turned cold as she realized what the thoughts going through her mind were. What truly frightened her wasn¡¯t the fact that she was thinking of something that would destroy her life forever.


    It was that she was truly considering it.


    "Wait until night-time," whispered her left hand, still clamped over its corresponding ear. "When everyone¡¯s asleep."


    "Tucked in their beds," continued her right hand. "Helpless as sheep."


    "Bring the knife down and run for the hills."


    "It¡¯ll be many hours before they discover your kills."


    The words oozed out of her mouth, any reluctance only half-formed. "I can¡¯t¡­"


    A trace of admonishment entered her left hand¡¯s tone. "You can and you will, now please don¡¯t delay."


    The right hand was just as insistent. "Come the next morning, it¡¯ll be your new day."


    Slowly, slowly, her eyes travelled up to the lamp on the desk - the first thing that had spoken to her. It had no eyes, but she felt like it was staring at her. It had no mouth, but she felt it was smiling.


    And it had no tongue, but yet it spoke.


    "Teach him a lesson," it whispered.


    Noel let out one final roar of pain as her new arm solidified, finally assuming a form that matched its opposite number.


    Still wincing from the aftershock of the experience, she slowly wiggled her fingers - noting in amazement just how easily her new limb responded to the impulses. It really was as if she¡¯d had it all her life. It was a little paler than the original had been, true, but she expected that it would come to match the rest of her body in time.


    "You¡¯re not finished," said the Citizen from behind her.


    Her eye focused once again on the vat of Panacea. Recreating an arm had been torture, so surely, surely, regrowing some of a much smaller size would be easier? Given the part in question, that was no guarantee, but it was all she had to hope for.


    Gingerly, she scooped out a lump of Panacea from the vat - and in one swift movement, stuffed it against the burn on her face, right into her ruined socket.


    It got to work quickly. Noel gasped in pain as she felt the mass shifting and pressing against the insides of her eye socket, but managed to suppress the screaming this time. She¡¯d looked pathetic enough.


    Colours flashed in front of her face - bright and dark and colours humans usually couldn¡¯t perceive - as the new growing eye connected to her brain, like a script plugging into a power socket.


    For a moment, Noel¡¯s new eye played a trick on her - she thought she saw the figure of a young girl with hollowed-out eyes and a green dress melting into a nearby wall, but the hallucination cleared the moment she blinked.


    Arm: check. Eye: check. She¡¯d done it. She lay there for a moment on all fours, still panting. It was bizarre to think that parts of her had, only minutes ago, been something entirely different, but she wouldn¡¯t deny the Panacea¡¯s efficacy.


    "Impressive," said the Citizen, stepping back into view with a heavy clank. "Many people would have gone mad from the pain. Your will is singular."


    She looked up at him, half awe-struck, half resentful. There was no doubt this man was the Citizen. But why had the bastard only showed himself now?


    Noel opened her mouth to ask, no, to demand an answer - only to be interrupted by the sound of clapping from the darkness.


    "That was quite a show," a relaxed, sing-song voice said - and Marie Hazzard stepped out of the shadows.


    For a moment, Noel thought that she¡¯d changed her clothes - but she realized a second later that what Marie was wearing had been drenched in dried blood, dying it a dark red.


    She didn¡¯t seem to be especially bothered by the injuries Noel had seen Skipper inflict on her, presumably because those injuries were gone. She walked up without a care in the world - and as she approached, Noel could see the unconscious figure of Simeon del Dranell slung over her shoulder.


    "I had a look around," Marie said chattily as she reached them, as though this were the most normal situation in the world. "But I couldn¡¯t find ol¡¯ Reyansh. Grabbed this little guy, though."


    If the Citizen was surprised at her presence, he didn¡¯t show it. The two red dots that were presumably his eyes simply stared unblinking from the darkness. "I see," he said, just as calm. "It¡¯s unfortunate, but it seems we must abandon Patel for the time being. No doubt the Fifth Dead pursues me as we speak - we must continue moving."


    Noel bit her lip. Leaving Reyansh behind was the best option without a doubt, but she¡­ she didn¡¯t like the idea of the Citizen making the decision for her was all. She¡¯d been leading the team while he stayed home and did fuck-all.


    Still, though, as the Citizen turned and walked past her - and she had the chance to voice some complaint, to make some grab for power¡­


    ...she found she couldn¡¯t say anything at all.

 Chapter 71:3.34: Wreckage Under The Moon

    Dragan shot Dir a resentful glare. The security chief was sprawled out among the scattered boxes of ammunition and supplies, staring off into space as the sounds of explosions rang out from the hospital.


    "Really?" Dragan said flatly. "We¡¯re really going to do nothing?"


    Dir¡¯s gaze slid over to regard him. "There¡¯s nothing to be done," he said simply.


    "You don¡¯t know that for sure!"


    Dir closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "I¡¯ve taken in the information," he said. "Regarded it, and come to a conclusion. I¡¯m not the one equipped to make a decision about what comes next. We need to wait for orders."


    Dragan forced himself off the ground, ignoring the pain that rumbled through his body as he did so. "Wait for orders?!" he said. "Are you nuts? How long do you intend to wait? Your pal the flaming bull isn¡¯t here - we need to make the decision. We need to do something."


    If Dir was at all affected by Dragan¡¯s outburst, he didn¡¯t show it. He simply adjusted one of his prosthetic windpipes between two fingers, continuing to stare off into the night.


    "I was a fighter once, you know," he said quietly. "A professional fighter. The best."


    "I didn¡¯t ask."


    That at least caused the slightest irritation to appear on Dir¡¯s face. "I¡¯m not telling the story for fun," he snapped. "There¡¯s a meaning to it."


    Dragan folded his arms. "Well, get on with it then." S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dir looked up towards the moon, as if it were a window through which he could view days gone by. "I beat people - with my fists. All sorts of people, all sorts of ways. Professional brawling is very lucrative - it was one of the only ways to go from the Pit to Toptown, back in the day. I punched my way down from a slum down there to a penthouse suite right in the lap of luxury."


    Dragan¡¯s voice didn¡¯t show much interest. "Good for you."


    Dir silenced further interruptions with the jab of a finger. "One day," he said, as if the words were now leaving his mouth of their own accord. "I¡¯m told to take a dive. To let the other guy beat me to a pulp and accept a shiny cash settlement for it. It¡¯s the easiest thing in the world to lose, you know. So easy."


    Dragan still wasn¡¯t seeing the point of this. They were in a fairly critical situation here, and Dir was sat on the ground waxing nostalgic.


    Dir chuckled. "But I couldn¡¯t do it. The punch was coming towards me - and I blocked it, so easy, I was fast back then - and I hit back. And then I started hitting because I was angry at being used, and I hit because I wanted to win, and I hit because I wanted to show them what I could do¡­ by the end, though, I was just hitting him to hit something. My fists came away covered with blood and brain."


    A chill ran down Dragan¡¯s spine. "You killed the other guy?"


    "I did," Dir nodded. "And I stepped away, thinking: what have I done? What have I done? And I look up at the crowd - and they¡¯re cheering, louder than I¡¯d ever heard. They loved it. They loved it."


    Silence settled over the courtyard. Even the booms from within the building seemed to quiet down.


    Dir looked up at the moon again, his eyes dull. "People of our level aren¡¯t equipped to make decisions, Mr. Hadrien. We¡¯re base and petty and vulgar. The people who stand at the top¡­ they¡¯re there because they understand. They know how things work. How things should¡­ proceed."


    And with that, he sighed again, and his gaze settled on the ground. It was as if he were a puppet with its strings cut.


    Dragan couldn¡¯t quite conceal his disgust when he spoke. "Are you stupid?"


    Dir glanced up at him. "What?"


    "I asked if you were stupid. You really don¡¯t understand anything, do you? Of course people are vulgar. They live in a vulgar, awful world. There¡¯s no choice in the matter. But there¡¯s nobody in the world equipped to make decisions, not really."


    Dragan pointed up towards the sky, as if to punctuate his point. "You think the people on top got there for being wiser, more advanced, more worthy than everyone else? Of course not. They got there by being vulgar on a big scale, rather than a little one. They¡¯re just the people who could bring themselves to be the most awful. It¡¯s the same everywhere. There¡¯s no deeper meaning to any of it."


    A faint, bitter smile crossed Dir¡¯s lips. "So it¡¯s all pointless to you, then?"


    For a moment, Dragan hesitated - he¡¯d ranted long enough, after all - but then he pressed on. He had some shit he wanted to say.


    "There¡¯s no point," he began. "There¡¯s no point to anything until you force there to be. Nobody in the world knows what they¡¯re doing, so you might as well do what you think is best. You have as good a chance of getting it right as anyone else! And I¡¯m not letting some trillionaire voice from the sky tell me what to do - the only one who decides what happens to me is me!"


    With his piece said, Dragan stood panting, hands balled into fists at his side.


    Another boom sounded from the hospital as Dir raised an eyebrow. "That¡¯s very egotistical of you, you realize."


    Dragan nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Of course it is. That¡¯s what makes it make sense."


    The team stationed outside the sewers didn¡¯t last long. The Citizen simply stepped out of the shadows, fired blades in every direction, and reduced them to mincemeat in less time than it took to blink.


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    Noel was beginning to understand the Citizen¡¯s power - the one power he was using as industrial-grey Aether churned around him. The man had the ability to make those metal blades grow out of his body. He used it to make that armour, to make those weapons, to both defend and eviscerate.


    And if he grew a blade in the same spot where one already was, it was launched out of its position faster than a bullet. He was deadly at any range. Noel knew that she wouldn¡¯t stand a chance against him - he¡¯d shred both her and any drones she had with a single flex of his body.


    Marie, to her credit, strolled after him without a care in the world, whistling a little tune. Simeon was still slung over his shoulder, nasty purple bruises making themselves known across his body. Whoever he¡¯d run into, they¡¯d done a number on him.


    They were making their way across an abandoned industrial district now - the whole area had been evacuated after Sait¡¯s little announcement. A thought suddenly occurred to her: Sait.


    "Did you get him?" she called out to the Citizen, still holding onto her newborn arm. "Did you get Sait?"


    "The man is dead," the Citizen said simply. "I have the information he offered."


    Noel raised an eyebrow. "Care to share with the class?"


    "No. I will make use of this intelligence myself. You will serve as distractions as directed."


    Hot anger rushed through Noel¡¯s body. Distractions? Was that all they were, then?


    A crackly groan escaped from Simeon¡¯s throat as he regained consciousness - and nearly immediately, Marie dropped him like a sack of potatoes. This, of course, inspired further groaning and quite a few expletives.


    "Nice to see you¡¯re back with us, pretty boy," Marie said cheerily.


    "Fuck you," Simeon growled as he picked himself up off the ground - only to pause when he caught sight of the armoured figure before him. "And who are you supposed to be?"


    The Citizen¡¯s red eyes regarded Simeon, their emotion inscrutable. "I am the Citizen."


    Simeons eyes widened in surprise. "You took your damn time," he muttered. "Is it happening, then? Are we taking the fight to the top?"


    "Yes," said the Citizen. "I will continue to do so. As I told Noel, however, you will be serving as my distraction in this regard. Please continue your good work."


    And with that, he turned and began walking away - it seemed that he intended to leave them to their own escape from this point on.


    Simeon frowned, took a step forward. "And where the hell are you going?!"


    "I have business to attend to," the Citizen intoned as he walked. "Matters I cannot simply entrust to my substitute."


    The Citizen¡¯s exit was suddenly interrupted - by a bright pink arrow that buried itself in the ground right in front of him. The man looked the projectile up and down, bathed in its light for a few moments. Then, he turned back to Simeon - who was holding a half-formed bow in his hands.


    "We¡¯re not done talking," Simeon panted. "You think we¡¯re happy to just run around doing whatever you tell us to? We¡¯re the ones taking the risks, so we deserve to know what¡¯s going on. We¡¯re not your little dogs that¡¯ll come when you whistle."


    Noel looked cautiously from Simeon to the Citizen. She¡¯d known Simeon could be quite hotblooded when it came down to it, but this was beyond the pale.


    "I believe I already told you how much I appreciated your work," the Citizen said softly.


    "Oh, I¡¯m sure you do," Simeon began. "But you¡¯d best start giving us some answers, or-"


    Simeon¡¯s head disappeared.


    One second, he was talking - and the next, the only thing remaining of his cranium were a few loose strands of flesh emerging from his open neck. For a moment, he still stood there, still pointing the bow in the Citizen¡¯s direction with twitching hands. The next, he fell to the floor in an undignified heap.


    Noel stared at the corpse, eyes tracking it as it fell. Slowly, so slowly, she blinked. She didn¡¯t even realize her mouth was hanging open until she tasted the cold air.


    Marie winced, looking at the blood-drenched blade that had lodged itself into a wall a short distance away. "That¡¯s a little harsh, don¡¯t you think?"


    The Citizen shook his head. "The tiniest of cracks can sink great and mighty ships. Our revolution is not yet born - I cannot risk it for anything."


    Noel stumbled backwards as the spreading pool of Simeon¡¯s blood reached her shoes. Her mouth was still moving wordlessly. It was as if she was trying to explain to herself what had just occurred.


    "Please don¡¯t misunderstand, Noel," said the Citizen - and at the very mention of her name, Noel almost jumped out of her skin. "It is the same with you. Your efforts are invaluable to me. But your betrayal, your disloyalty, would be disastrous. I cannot even risk it. That is the level of importance you hold. Do you understand?"


    Slowly, Noel nodded, the motion increasing in vigor over several seconds. Of course, of course, of course. She was the most valuable. That made sense. He couldn¡¯t - wouldn¡¯t just get rid of her for no reason. She was needed. She was valuable - invaluable, an irreplaceable resource, so there wasn¡¯t anything to worry about. She wouldn¡¯t just be thrown away, he couldn¡¯t afford to do such a thing to her for no reason because she was so important.


    She wouldn¡¯t be left alone again.


    Forcing a smug smirk onto her lips, Noel waved her new hand: "But of course," she said, voice still wavering slightly through the feigned arrogance. "We¡¯re not all - um - we¡¯re not all stupid enough to run our mouths like that."


    The Citizen stared at her for a moment longer, as if transmitting the fear of death right into her body, before turning around again and marching off into the shadows.


    "You will know when I need you again."


    It was nearly another half an hour before they came out of the hospital.


    Dragan watched the trio - Skipper, Serena and Ruth - as they marched out, all of them covered in dust. It seemed there¡¯d been quite a bit more property damage since he¡¯d seen them last. Ruth was holding her bandaged side, and Serena seemed to have acquired a brace for her broken arm. Skipper himself was walking firm, but with quite a few more cuts and bruises than Dragan remembered.


    "You took your time," Dragan said as they reached him and Dir.


    Skipper waved a seemingly carefree hand. "You see this?" he said, looking at Ruth. "I carry a kid out of the path of hundreds of bloodthirsty drones, and this is the thanks I get? What a cruel world we live in."


    Ruth just looked down at the ground, pale. Something had definitely spooked her.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked between the other three members of the crew. "What happened?" he said after a moment, abandoning the attempts at snark.


    Skipper answered, but looked instead at Dir as he did so. "It was him. The Citizen."


    The security chief stepped forward, eagerness overriding his stoicity for a brief moment. "Did you get him?" he said hurriedly. "Did you win?"


    Skipper looked at the shaken Ruth, at the injured Serena, at the garden of corpses and melted stone that was spread out before him. Then, he sighed.


    "No," he said. "We lost. We definitely, definitely lost.

 Chapter 72:3.35: Spectacle

    The movie was trash - absolute trash. The characters were pencil-thin, the plot was nonexistent, and the closest thing to a selling point was the occasional inappropriate camera angle on the main actress. It was as if someone had taken the word ¡¯trash¡¯, stretched it to about two hours and five minutes, and used it as the script for a film.


    It was exactly what Gologo was looking for.


    The Umbrant watched eagerly as yet another action scene erupted on the massive screen before him, the characters alternating between dodging explosions and fighting off the hordes of Supremacy agents that had surrounded them. He¡¯d have to send his regards to the director for that last touch: the propaganda angle wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d considered when he¡¯d commissioned this picture.


    He was sat, alone, in a massive theatre - going through the massive number of flicks that were waiting to be injected into Taldan¡¯s film industry. This wasn¡¯t actually a theatre, of course - it was just Gologo¡¯s TV room - but he¡¯d had it designed to give off that same impression. His hand fished in his popcorn bucket, seized the last few kernels, and brought them back up to his mouth.


    He¡¯d found the title a little bit drab at first - all those years ago - but these days, he really did consider himself a Sponsor of Dreams.


    What else could he be called? He heard the cries of those wanting to create, of those wanting their creations to shine, and he gave them the resources to make it happen. Sure, he gave himself some executive control over the production, but that was just how these types of businesses worked - and besides, his changes were for the better every single time.


    As the image on the screen shifted to a near-obscene romance scene between two minor characters, someone sat down in the seat next to Gologo. He felt their presence, a kind of pressure that couldn¡¯t be ignored.


    "This is a good scene," said Gologo calmly, putting his empty bucket of popcorn down on the seat¡¯s armrest.


    "I don¡¯t much care for features like this," the man next to him said, his voice like metal scraping together. "They¡¯ve always seemed somewhat unsatisfying, compared to real war."


    "Real war, huh? You got some experience with that, pal?"


    "You already know I do. This is not one of your productions, Sponsor of Dreams. Do not play stupid."


    Gologo smirked to himself. It was the Citizen, then - the superstar who¡¯d become a persistent thorn in their sides. It wasn¡¯t like anyone else could have made it through all the security posted outside, anyway. Still, best to ask for appearance¡¯s sake.


    "My bodyguards?"


    "Dead."


    "That¡¯s a shame," Gologo said calmly. "How long have I got, then?"


    The Citizen chuckled, a cold hollow sound. "You¡¯re very calm. I intend to kill you in about thirty seconds time - unless you¡¯d be willing to provide information of use to me?"


    Gologo reached into his cupholder, pulled out his soft drink, and took a long and noisy slurp through the plastic straw. It went down smooth and cold, just the way he¡¯d always liked it.


    "Sorry," he said, smacking his lips to savour the flavour as much as possible. "I¡¯ve never been much of a tattletale."


    "I see."


    The sound of the film¡¯s climax was - for a brief moment - drowned out by the sudden and incessant slicing of meat. To his credit, Gologo didn¡¯t so much as shout - he was much too engrossed in the spectacle of it all.


    The credits began to roll.


    "The Sponsor of Dreams is dead," said the Sponsor of War, addressing the gathered Sponsors - as well as President Chael and Secretary Zhao.


    Nobody said a word. It wasn¡¯t the silence of a vigil, though - but the quiet concentration of rats determining how best to twist this situation into their favour. For a good long while, the only sound was the hum of the hologram projectors in the walls and floor.


    The Sponsor of Plenty broke the silence.


    "I think it¡¯s time we ask," she asked, porcine avatar writhing as it turned from one of its fellows to the other. "Just how we¡¯ve managed to find such a useless President."


    Chael shuffled awkwardly, staring down at his shoes like a scolded child. Zhao did his best to restrain the contempt in his eyes, but he knew he hadn¡¯t quite managed it.


    "I¡¯m afraid I must concur," the Sponsor of Expansion launched into a monologue, tentacles angrily crashing through the air in time with his words. His usual grandfatherly tone had turned low and harsh, a genuine rage bubbling just under the surface. "Yes, concur. We have asked - not once, but twice - of the President, our President, that he executes his public duty and ensures those who threaten the peace of Taldan be brought to justice! And yet, and yet! Is the Citizen dealt with? Is he wounded, brought low, shown his folly? Quite the opposite! No!"


    The final denial shook the room, such was the force of it.


    "Expansion," snapped the Sponsor of Industry, silver body creaking. "It would be best if we all kept our heads."


    "No!" the Sponsor of Expansion cried again. "No no no! Nay! We have kept our heads for long enough, and where has that taken us, hmm? Have we reached verdant and green fields? Has opportunity knocked upon our doors? The answer is, as ever, as expected, in the negatory! We have been met with bitter disappointment - and all of it, stemming from the incompetence of that man there!"


    Chael simply stood there, shivering, as the anger of the Sponsors turned directly upon him. Even Zhao, standing close, could feel it. It was as if they were being illuminated by a dozen fiery spotlights.


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    "Nothing to say?" Plenty hissed, baleful eyes glaring with contempt for Chael¡¯s very existence.


    Chael shuffled, his voice meek and quiet as he spoke. "It was the S4 who, um, who actually failed. I - I didn¡¯t have control over that."


    "You blame War for this?" There was murder in Plenty¡¯s tone.


    "As perhaps he should," Industry cut in, a flare of light from within his metal body grabbing the attention of those gathered. He turned to face the silent Sponsor of War. "You asked us to put our trust in you, War, and told us that you would resolve the situation. I fail to see any evidence of that actually happening."


    "Have some damn respect!" Plenty shouted.


    "I have nothing but respect for my esteemed colleague," Industry went on. "Just as I respected the Sponsor of Dreams. We cannot deny that in the course of a few days we have gone from the six most powerful people on the planet to the four most powerful. This is not a trend I much care for."


    "On the planet?" War chuckled quietly.


    "You find this amusing, War?!" Expansion¡¯s voice boomed, forcing Zhao to put his hands to his ears. "Laughable?! Humorous?! Some kind of joke, perhaps?! Well I - and we, yes, we comrades-in-arms - we do not agree! Not in the slightest! You offer us soothing words and deliver nothing but failure - unrepentant failure in the extreme, with the only profit made being the number of corpses!"


    "Watch your fucking mouth," Plenty snarled, but the flow of the conversation had turned against her.


    "Anything to say, War?" Industry creaked, hollow eyes staring right at the bull.


    Zhao gulped. The tension was so thick in this room, he swore he could feel it pressing down on his shoulders, threatening to crush him into a fine paste the second he lost his nerve. He glanced at Chael: the President looked just as shaken, still staring down at the floor.


    "I asked for a fortnight," War said calmly - his words just as soothing as Expansion had described. "A fortnight has not yet passed. I ask only for patience, my friends. The disinformation countermeasures Dreams put together - Y rest his soul - are still intact. I assure you, all of this will be resolved in due time."


    Industry didn¡¯t seem impressed. "So all you can offer us is ¡¯wait and see¡¯."


    "It is a matter of faith, my friend," War said. "I have always acted in the interest of this council. Please, trust that I do the same now. I will not allow all our work to be for nothing. You can believe that, if nothing else, can¡¯t you?"


    "I am not a trusting man, War," Industry snapped. "It¡¯s why I am still alive. It seems I must deal with this matter myself. Expansion - a word after the meeting, if you please."


    And with that, Industry shattered into shards of fading metal, the person controlling it leaving the meeting.


    The other three left too, without so much as a word to Chael or Zhao. It seemed that the tensions that had erupted between them had kept Chael¡¯s head out of the guillotine - if only for the moment.


    Chael patted his pockets, presumably searching for some form of narcotics, before sighing and letting his arms flop to his side. "Must¡¯ve left it in my other suit," he frowned.


    Zhao heroically resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He - and his nose - knew for a fact that Chael wore the same suit every day.


    "They won¡¯t remain distracted for long," Zhao said softly, as though the Sponsors were still in the room with them. "How do you intend to appease them?"


    "Eh," shrugged Chael, with confidence he clearly didn¡¯t feel. "These things tend to work themselves out."


    He strolled out of the meeting room - and as he moved down the hallway, his white-suited bodyguard silently fell into step with him. If nothing else, Chael was diligent when it came to covering his own back.


    Ruth hugged her knees as she glared forwards, as though she were trying to burn through empty space with just the strength of her gaze.


    She¡¯d failed. She¡¯d failed. She was a failure. A sudden flare of anger animated her, and she struck the bed beneath her with such strength that the light fixtures rattled above.


    After they¡¯d come back from the hospital, security had been quick to move the members of the crew into separate rooms. A punishment for failure, maybe? Ruth didn¡¯t know. She didn¡¯t know anything. Still, though, it seemed to her that the line between working for these people and being arrested by them was getting blurrier all the time.


    If this was a punishment for failure, then it was a failure that lay at her feet alone. Skipper had trusted her to grab Sait, and she¡¯d frozen up at the first sign of danger. She hadn¡¯t even tried to fight the Citizen. She¡¯d just let him walk all over her.


    If he¡¯d raised a blade towards her, could she have fought back? Would her cowardly legs have let her move, then?


    She didn¡¯t know - and that was more terrifying than the prospect of death. She¡¯d always defined herself by her willingness to act, to do something where other people would just watch. It looked like she¡¯d been lying to herself.


    What would Robin have said to that? Some words of encouragement, maybe, with a sad smile to go with it. Nice to look at, but never much help.


    What would North have said to that? The Umbrant had never had a kind tongue, but he¡¯d given good advice, on the rare occasions she¡¯d sought it. The trouble with that kind of advice is that Ruth wasn¡¯t smart enough to come up with it on her own.


    She went to sigh, but it came out as a sob.


    Stupid. Stupid.


    "You¡¯re thinking I don¡¯t know your faces," grunted Dragan, as the guards pushed him down the hallway. "But I¡¯ll remember your voices - even through the modulation, Cogitants can tell, you know. You keep messing with me like this, and I¡¯ll find you."


    In this kind of situation, he had little other option for retribution than annoying his captors. And he was going to do a hell of a job at it. They weren¡¯t just going to shut him up. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Shut him up," grunted the first guard to the second - and a moment later, Dragan felt a baton strike him right in the gut. It was quite effective. Dragan was sent doubling over, his next threat turning into a choked cough as it left his mouth.


    With that, he couldn¡¯t muster much in the terms of resistance as they dragged him through the hallways of the security complex, knees sliding against the smooth floor as he went.


    Left, right, straight, left, left.


    Even in this state of pain and disorientation, Dragan¡¯s mind couldn¡¯t help but track his progress through the complex. He¡¯d started off in the infirmary - recovering from his injuries - but now he was being taken to a part of the complex he¡¯d never seen before. An execution room, maybe? A convenient room in which to shoot him in the back of the head?


    Unlikely - but not impossible. The thought sent chills down Dragan¡¯s spine.


    Finally, his escorts reached a nondescript door off to the side of a storage room. One of them punched in a code on the keypad next to it, blissfully unaware that Dragan was memorizing it just from the blurry movements of his finger. The door slid silently open. Nothing but blackness was visible beyond.


    "Get in there," said the guard behind him - shoving him into the dark room.


    He landed awkwardly on his hands - and as he did, he heard the door shut behind him. The small amount of light that had penetrated this room was instantly snuffed out. Shakily, Dragan reached up to his face, wiped away some of the blood that had dribbled from his lip.


    His ears detected the slightest hum coming from the walls. A hologram projector, without a doubt.


    There was a hollow click - and a moment later, a flaming bull had burst into life just before him, bathing the room in its hellish red glow. Dragan had to squint - he hadn¡¯t been so close to the thing last time.


    The Sponsor of War blinked slowly, placidly.


    "Dragan Hadrien," it said. "I have an offer for you."

 Chapter 73:3.36: A Modest Proposal

    Dragan picked himself up off the ground, nursing his bruised arm. He glared at the holographic bull in front of him.


    "You have an offer for me?" he asked. "I have to say, I¡¯m not loving your opening pitch."


    "I ask you to forgive them," the Sponsor of War said, voice a steady rumble. "Their line of work often requires violence, so it is the first solution they turn to. They are accustomed to hammers, so each problem becomes a nail. They had no malice towards you."


    "Wish I could say the same," Dragan said. "So - what¡¯s this offer of yours?"


    His mind was racing. What was going on here? Why was the Sponsor of War going to him with this? Had the other members of the crew been approached individually as well?


    He didn¡¯t ask, though - best to hide curiosity unless it could be of use to you.


    "You are a young man that I find agreeable," the bull began.


    "How¡¯s that?"


    "Our philosophies are compatible - you see the world and the people in it as they truly are. You are not swayed by pleasant platitudes or self-serving moralities."


    As Dragan spoke, he began to circle the hologram, looking it up and down. As an artificial projection, it wouldn¡¯t actually have any body language he could use against it, but it was still a good idea for Dragan to give the impression that he was looking for tells.


    "How¡¯s that?" he asked quietly, electric-blue eyes scanning. "I don¡¯t think we¡¯ve talked much - and the one time we did, I¡¯m pretty sure you were threatening me. Not exactly a heart-to-heart."


    The bull flickered in place - and a second later, it was replaced by a hologram of Dragan as he¡¯d been last night, speaking to Dir outside the hospital.


    "There¡¯s no point," the holographic Dragan said, body language passionate. "There¡¯s no point to anything until you force there to be. Nobody in the world knows what they¡¯re doing, so you might as well do what you think is best. You have as good a chance of getting it right as anyone else! And I¡¯m not letting some trillionaire voice from the sky tell me what to do - the only one who decides what happens to me is me!"


    Dragan felt the twinge of a headache as he looked at the recording - both from the unexpected switch in analysis target, and the embarrassment of having his own words thrown in his face.


    As the hologram switched back to the bull, Dragan smirked. "Does Dir know you¡¯ve got him bugged?"


    "Of course," the Sponsor of War chuckled. "He expects it. He is a dutiful man who believes in structures that do not exist. He obeys unwritten and unread rules without question."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Doesn¡¯t much sound like you appreciate the people who work for you."


    "Dir does not work for me," the bull said. "He works for himself - to prove that the worldview he believes in is correct. Everything he does is for that purpose. I¡¯m simply the one who gives him orders."


    "Those are some fancy words, but he still works for you. You pay him, and he does what you say. It¡¯s pretty black and white, as far as I see it."


    The Sponsor of War sighed, the flames around him intensifying in time with it. "I didn¡¯t bring you here to talk about Dir. I have a proposal for your future."


    "And what¡¯s that?"


    "That you have a future."


    Dragan stopped his circling of the hologram, biting his lip. Had they finally reached the part of the meeting where the threats came out again? "You¡¯re going to have to expand on that for me," he said quietly.


    "Imagine this scenario: in a very short span of time, something unfortunate will happen to the city, something that will cause a great deal of damage. Should you cooperate with me, you and your friends will be in a position where you can escape that situation. Should you not, your fate will be the same as those around you."


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "The Citizen¡¯s going to try something? Something big?"


    "Big would be an understatement in this case."


    "How so?" The conversation was accelerating, the gaps between statement and response getting shorter and shorter by the second.


    The bull shook its head, charred fur flopping from side to side as it did so. "Not until I know we are of one mind. Before this incident takes place, I require someone to tie up loose ends. To ensure that - once this event takes place - the situation is thoroughly closed."


    Dragan put a hand to his chin, ran the bull¡¯s statement back in his mind - using all the references in his Archive to search for any signs of duplicity. Nothing. The Sponsor of War had told the truth - but that didn¡¯t discount lies of omission.


    He raised a hand, gestured towards the hologram. "And if I were to do this for you?" he said. "These loose ends - what are they? Let¡¯s get rid of the euphemisms."


    The bull¡¯s red eyes were locked onto Dragan¡¯s as it spoke. "Atoy Muzazi. Other matters I have other people for, but I would like for you to kill that man. Should he still exist after the smoke clears, awkward questions will be asked."


    That made sense. Presumably, the Taldan administration had managed to keep the UAP central government from catching wind of what was going on planetside - but if that changed, they¡¯d probably want to know why an agent of an enemy nation was being held. More importantly, they¡¯d want to know why they hadn¡¯t been informed of it.


    That implied that whatever was about to happen would be big enough to catch their attention.


    Something clicked in Dragan¡¯s mind. His breath faltered for a moment, and his eyes widened just a tad. To an ordinary person, these emotional indicators would be imperceptible, but Dragan knew that a Cogitant would be able to spot them plain as day. He could only hope the Sponsor of War wasn¡¯t a Cogitant, then.


    Dragan tested the waters, keeping his tone carefully measured. "I¡¯m some random stray from the Supremacy. I¡¯m sure you have plenty of other people on your payroll - especially in that prison. Why not have one of them do it?"


    "I am a man who enjoys the acquisition of resources, Mr. Hadrien. I could have one of my men do it and gain nothing, or I could have you do it and gain your services. It¡¯s a simple calculus."


    Of course, that wasn¡¯t all there was to it. Dragan wasn¡¯t stupid - this would serve as a test of loyalty as well as a recruitment method. If Dragan proved himself unable or unwilling to do it, the Sponsor of War could just have someone else act - and get rid of him.


    This wasn¡¯t even a choice, then.


    "I do this for you," he said, looking up at the bull, voice firm. "And you let me and everyone else free. Completely off the hook. No future obligations."


    "Absolutely," the Sponsor of War lied. "I am a man of my word."


    Dragan closed his eyes. "I¡¯ll do it, then. I¡¯ll kill Atoy Muzazi."


    The slightest sliver of satisfaction crawled through the bull¡¯s tone. "Excellent. I look forward to seeing your results, Mr. Hadrien."


    And then there was the fizzling click of the hologram deactivating - followed by silence.


    Dragan let out a shaking breath that felt like it had been boiling in his lungs for quite some time. He staggered backwards, putting an equally shaky hand against the wall to steady himself.


    Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What had he just talked himself into? It felt like he¡¯d gone from being in a cage to a labyrinth where he couldn¡¯t see any of the walls, and one wrong turn would mean certain doom.


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    If he wanted to get out of this, he knew, he¡¯d have to burn his own way through the walls around him.


    "Eight guys, huh?" said Skipper cheerfully, striding down the hallway with his hands clasped behind his back. "There were only six of you, last time. You¡¯re not scared of me or anything, right?"


    The guards looked to each other, but didn¡¯t speak. To their credit, they weren¡¯t showing much in terms of nervousness - their grips on their plasma bows were steady, and their march down the hallway was locked into step.


    Skipper had to give them top marks for that, if nothing else.


    Still, he could take them out without much issue - maybe they¡¯d realized that, seeing as they¡¯d upped the guards on him. To a guy like him, though, smashing through eight meatbags wasn¡¯t much different from smashing through six.


    The problem was the others. Ruth, Dragan, Bruno and Serena. So long as he didn¡¯t know where they were and what condition they were in, he couldn¡¯t act recklessly. The whole thing had turned into your classic hostage situation. The replacement prosthetic they¡¯d gotten him was clearly thrown together on short notice, too - not suitable for battle by any means.


    For the last couple of hours, this group of good old boys had been transferring him from cell to cell, room to room, presumably to keep him from having enough time to formulate a plan. Not bad, as far as tactics went.


    This seemed to be different.


    He recognized the hallways they were leading him down now - he¡¯d made his way across them often enough back when he was dedicated to annoying Dir. They were headed to the security chief¡¯s office. Was Dir finally going to say what was going on, then? Or, more accurately, what he¡¯d been told was going on?


    They turned a corner - and just as Skipper had expected, there loomed the door to Dir¡¯s study. One of the guards - more nervous than the others, probably - jabbed Skipper¡¯s back with his plasma bow, prompting him to walk forward. Skipper cast a faux-irritated glance backwards.


    "Patience, yeah?" he said, looking at the yellow dot in the center of the guards visor. "We¡¯ve got all day here. No rush, buddy."


    Well, he¡¯d been in worse situations - but he¡¯d been in better too. At the very least, he was confident he could get some answers out of Dir.


    The door opened and Skipper stepped into the dark office. The guards did not follow.


    Skipper frowned as the door slid shut behind him. The office really was dark - he could barely see his own hands when he looked down. How the hell did Dir expect to get any work done in this kind of environment?


    With a dull thunk from above, the lights in the office snapped on. A witty comment died before it even left Skipper¡¯s throat.


    The Fifth Dead stood towering over Dir¡¯s empty chair, hands clasped in front of him. His impassive eyes regarded Skipper, his face betraying no emotion. Dir himself was nowhere to be seen.


    "Skipper," came a cold, measured voice from all around - not the Fifth Dead. "A pleasure to finally have you join us."


    Dragan kept a hand on his mouth as he rode the train to the prison facility. He knew he couldn¡¯t afford to betray any emotion, but the pieces clicking together in his head weren¡¯t exactly easy to ignore.


    He glanced around the train. The carriage seemed to be full of civilians - it was rush hour, after all - but he couldn¡¯t be sure there weren¡¯t any plainclothes security among them. So he couldn¡¯t afford to let anything show on his face - and running for it definitely wasn¡¯t an option.


    Dragan idly flipped a coin up and down -- one of the last Supremacy staters he had on him. It wasn¡¯t good as currency out here, of course, but he needed something to occupy his hands right now. Up it went, down it went. Nice and predictable. A thought occurred to him, and when the coin came back down again it vanished just before meeting his hand - dissipating in the tiniest spark of blue Aether.


    Interesting. So falling objects counted as projectiles for the purposes of his Gemini Shotgun. That, at least, was good to know -- but not terribly relevant right now. He was losing his focus in pointless experimentation.


    More than anything else, he needed time to think. How much time did he have? Until the train arrived at the station - and the short walk from the station to the prison facility. That wasn¡¯t long. He¡¯d need to make use of every second he had.


    Dragan gently closed his eyes, as if he was dozing off, and retreated into his Archive.


    It had been quite a while since he¡¯d made the full dive into this mental space - his life had been more than stimulating enough recently, after all. The marble halls of his Archive stretched on in every direction, shelves full of books and sculptures - and through the open windows, white mist could be seen swirling, obscuring whatever might have been outside. S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    With a thought, Dragan moved himself out of the hallways and to a central study. A huge table stretched out before him - and with a few glances, he stocked it with the relevant information. The conversation he¡¯d had with the Sponsor of War, what he knew about the planet and it¡¯s government, every absurd situation he¡¯d found himself in since he touched down here.


    Running his eyes over it all, Dragan bit his lip. This was no good - there was just too much. It was all just noise, with nothing unifying it. He needed to organise this somehow, give structure to his theorycrafting.


    He opened his mouth, just slightly, and sighed. After last time, he hadn¡¯t been looking forward to this, but he needed someone to bounce ideas off of.


    Dragan tapped a finger against the mental table - and a second later, the younger Dragan was sitting opposite him, a smug smile crossing his lips.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" he jeered. "Can¡¯t work this out by yourself? I thought you were meant to be smart."


    Dragan gave his younger self a withering look. "I don¡¯t remember being this much of a pain in the ass at your age," he said.


    The younger Dragan shrugged. "You probably weren¡¯t. I¡¯m a representation of a whole bunch of mental processes, you know? You¡¯ve got issues. Besides, you were kind of a dick at this age."


    Well, he couldn¡¯t deny that. Every kid, deep down, was an asshole. "I need you to help me work something out," he snapped. "Something¡¯s about to happen here on Taldan - I need to know what it is, who¡¯s doing it, and why.*


    His younger self raised an eyebrow. "You already got told that, though, right? The Citizen¡¯s planning something big. It¡¯s certainly in character for him, isn¡¯t it?"


    "Don¡¯t fuck around. You know as well as I do that the Sponsor of War was lying there. He took what I said and just went with it."


    Young Dragan rolled his eyes. "You¡¯ve clearly got a high opinion of yourself."


    "No snark, kid. You¡¯re only here for me to bounce ideas off of. That¡¯s the only reason you exist - and you don¡¯t exist, by the way, before you get any funny ideas."


    The younger Dragan didn¡¯t have anything to say to that. He just sat there, arms crossed, glaring across the table.


    He was wasting time. Dragan knew that, but he somehow hadn¡¯t been able to stop himself from getting into an argument with¡­ well, with himself. He needed to get thinking now.


    "So," he said, clearing his throat. "The Sponsor of War knows that something big is about to happen, something that I wouldn¡¯t want to be around for. He¡¯s offered to get me and the crew out of here if I kill Muzazi for him. What¡¯re the catches?"


    The younger Dragan counted them off his fingers as he went. "He could be lying about the event that¡¯s going to happen, he could be lying about getting you and the crew out of here, he could have told Muzazi the exact same thing and now you¡¯re walking into a trap..."


    Dragan shook his head. "No."


    The kid cocked his head. "No?"


    "Muzazi would never take a deal like that. The other two are good points, though, uh¡­ what do I call you?"


    "Dragan Hadrien."


    "I¡¯m Dragan Hadrien."


    The kid smirked. "I know you are, but what am I?"


    Could it be considered homicide if you killed a part of your own psyche? Dragan was sorely tempted to find out. Luckily for the kid, though, he had other things to worry about for the time being.


    Dragan waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, you¡¯re, uh, you¡¯re Dragon Hadrien. I¡¯ll call you that."


    "Imaginative."


    "Says my imagination. I think we should forget about your third idea, now that I think about it more - I¡¯m not important enough for the Sponsor of War to come up with some convoluted scheme where I¡¯m led to believe I¡¯m executing Muzazi but he¡¯s actually executing me or whatever. So there¡¯s only two possibilities, as far as I see it."


    "Do go on." The sarcasm practically dripped from Dragon¡¯s tone.


    Dragan held up two fingers. "Let¡¯s assume this horrible event actually is going to happen. Either he¡¯s telling the truth about getting us out of here before then, or he¡¯s not. Motivations and all that are irrelevant."


    "Well," Dragon slouched in his seat. "What do you think?"


    Dragan sighed. "I think he¡¯s lying. People like him don¡¯t get to where they are via acts of charity. He¡¯s trying to trick me into doing work for free, then he¡¯ll use this event as a pretext to get rid of me before I become inconvenient myself."


    A smug smirk spread across Dragon¡¯s lips. "Sounds like we¡¯re fucked."


    More gears clicked together in Dragan¡¯s head, sounding like a tolling bell in his Archive. A smile of his own appeared on Dragan¡¯s face. "With that attitude, sure."


    "What other attitude is there?" Dragon cocked his head, frowning.


    Dragan leaned forwards across the table, looking his younger double right in the eyes.


    People like the Sponsor of War won because they knew people. They could predict their actions easily, like tracking the falling of dominoes, because they understood their behaviours and motivations. It wasn¡¯t difficult for people like that to plan for the most likely choices their marks would make.


    So the way to win was by doing something nobody would ever expect.


    "I think," he grinned. "It¡¯s time for a jailbreak."

 Chapter 74:3.37: Jailbreak (Part 1)

    Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked around the office.


    "Usually these kinds of executions involve a shot in the back of the head, yeah?" he said, testing the waters. "You want me to turn around, or what?"


    The Fifth Dead didn¡¯t even blink. Not much of a sense of humour in that guy, as expected.


    The hologram looming down from behind the huge man didn¡¯t seem much better in terms of comedy appreciation. The silver horse stared at Skipper with unblinking hollow eyes, it¡¯s body frozen mid-gallop.


    "Believe me, sir," said the icy voice that came from the horse. "If I had wished you dead, you wouldn¡¯t have the time to lament the fact."


    Okay. Good to know.


    Skipper kept the same easy grin on his face even as he looked at the Fifth Dead. This guy had put his crew through a whole lot of trouble -- Dragan had taken a tumble, and Ruth had pushed herself to her limits fighting him. If it was up to him, the Fifth Dead would be ending his term early, but -- of course -- it wasn¡¯t up to him.


    "Well," Skipper said, stretching his arms in a mock-yawn. "What can I do for ya, then, pal? I¡¯m a busy guy, so let¡¯s not waste each other¡¯s time, yeah?"


    "Ruth Blaine," the horse said. "Dragan Hadrien. Yakob del Sed. All three are in our custody -- locked in cells far away from here."


    "Keep rubbing it in, buddy," Skipper chuckled -- but with an unmistakable undertone of danger in his voice. "See what happens."


    If the silver horse was intimidated, it didn¡¯t show any signs of it. "Fear not, sir," it said in its snide little voice. "They are being held only as collateral -- no harm will come to them, so long as you behave appropriately."


    Skipper was getting real tired of being press ganged by barnyard animals. First, he was threatened by a cow, and now the horse was taking its turn? Unbelievable.


    "Behave appropriately," Skipper said, wagging his finger in time with the words. "That¡¯s a, uh, I like that -- that¡¯s a good euphemism. I¡¯m gonna have to use that. What exactly is the appropriate behaviour, then, buddy? If you want me to do something, you¡¯ve gotta tell me what it is."


    "You¡¯ve been given two chances to eliminate the Citizen," the horse said. "And you¡¯ve failed each time. We¡¯ve decided that we need to provide you with greater support. Fear not -- I, the Sponsor of Industry, have arranged a scenario that will give both of you the greatest chance of success."


    "Both of us?" Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked back down to regard the Fifth Dead. He might have just been imagining it, but he could have sworn he saw just the faintest glimmer of annoyance in that man¡¯s inscrutable gaze.


    The Sponsor of Industry chuckled. "His mission is to eliminate the Citizen, just as yours is. I do not care who does it, particularly, so long as it is done."


    Skipper crossed his arms, moved over to the wall and leaned against it as he stared down the silver horse. These guys really were doing their best to keep him from getting used to the situation, weren¡¯t they? If he had a chance to catch his breath, he might come up with a way out of this, but with everyone else effectively being held hostage he didn¡¯t have much choice but to comply.


    He sighed. "What¡¯s this scenario of yours, then, buddy?"


    Dragan bit his lip as he scanned the news story on his script. This didn¡¯t sound good.


    PRESIDENT CHAEL ANNOUNCES REMEMBRANCE GALA


    Following the horrific events of recent weeks, President Chael has announced he will be holding a remembrance gala in order to honour the fallen as well as raise money to support their family members.


    78 employees of Shooting Stars Security Solutions were killed in the line of duty during the siege of the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital, along with Lucius Sait, the institution¡¯s director. Details on the circumstances behind these deaths have not yet been released, but a representative of S4 has offered the company¡¯s sincere condolences towards all those affected.


    During his announcement to the press, President Chael confirmed that many prominent individuals in finance, industry and the arts had received invitations to the remembrance gala. The gathering is to take place in the Dawnhouse, which will take flight for the duration.


    Regardless of the circumstances that have led to it, this assembly is certain to be a night to remember.


    The news story became a scroll hanging from the wall of his Archive, each black letter massive on its white surface. Dragon inspected the paragraph, hand on his chin.


    "It¡¯s a weird announcement," he said, taking a step back from the information. "Almost as weird as you. I mean, you do realize you¡¯re talking to yourself, right?"


    Dragan ignored the jab. He didn¡¯t have any more time to get pulled into petty self-arguments. Even as his mind puzzled this whole thing out in his Archive, his body was walking through the transport station - getting closer and closer to the prison by the second.


    "It¡¯s definitely a trap," Dragan said. "They know a gathering like that is something the Citizen won¡¯t be able to resist. But he¡¯s not stupid - and they know that, too. They must be pretty confident in their bait."


    Dragan flicked an imaginary wrist, and a memory of Lucius Sait¡¯s announcement was projected onto the far wall. The skeletal man¡¯s face was warped by the bookshelves behind it, but his words came out clear as ever.


    "I¡¯m waiting in my office, on the top floor, Citizen," Sait¡¯s memory rasped. "I¡¯ll tell you the names of my associates - and then you will kill me. Consider it a commission."


    "Sait is definitely dead," mused Dragan, wagging a finger at the looping memory.


    "Yup," Dragon -- who had returned to his seat -- leant back, legs wobbling in the air above him. "He¡¯s dead as shit."


    Not the most helpful contribution, but Dragan couldn¡¯t exactly scold himself for lack of effort. "So let¡¯s assume Sait told the Citizen the names of his associates before he was killed, as he said he would."


    "Okay."


    Dragan mentally paced back and forth as he walked himself through it. "A gala like this is gonna be invite-only, right? It said as much in the news story. So that means there¡¯s a guest-list - and I¡¯d bet Noel can get access to that without too much trouble."


    His double nodded. "Took you long enough. So when the Citizen sees the names of the other Sponsors on this guest-list, he¡¯ll have no other option but to attack."


    "Exactly. He won¡¯t get a better opportunity. Which is when they intend to catch him," Dragan concluded, before furrowing his brow. "But that doesn¡¯t make sense."


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    Dragon cocked his head, a smug half-smirk dancing across his lips. "What doesn¡¯t?" he said, in a tone that suggested he already knew.


    "If we¡¯ve worked this out right," Dragan said. "The Sponsors intend to catch the Citizen tonight, at this gala. But I¡¯m being sent to take care of Muzazi -- in anticipation of some disaster the Citizen¡¯s going to create? The pieces don¡¯t fit."


    "Suggesting¡­?" Dragon dragged the word out as far as it would go.


    Dragan¡¯s breath caught in his throat as the final pieces clicked together. The pale mists outside the windows of his Archive faded to an ominous black.


    "Suggesting¡­?" Dragon prompted again.


    "Two things," Dragan whispered. "One: the Sponsor of War has a different plan than the rest of the Sponsors. They¡¯re the ones who¡¯ve arranged the gala, while the Sponsor of War has something else going on¡­"


    His voice trailed off.


    "And number two?" Dragon said coldly. His subconscious wouldn¡¯t allow his deductions to go unvoiced, after all.


    "Two¡­" said Dragan, a deep horror dawning on him. "The Citizen isn¡¯t the one who¡¯s going to cause the disaster. The Sponsor of War is."


    He reached the entrance to the prison, and his Archive retreated back into his mind.


    The place looked more like a warehouse than a prison, to be honest -- but that was probably the point. Black sites like this rarely liked to advertise the fact. The lone guard posted to the entrance looked him up and down, the yellow dot on the visor scanning him thoroughly.


    "We¡¯ve been told to expect you," the guard finally said. He motioned with his plasma bow for Dragan to enter through the door behind him.


    "Mm." Dragan walked past the guard without another word, entering the sterile complex beyond. He couldn¡¯t waste energy talking to these people -- every bit of brainpower had to go to two things only:


    Figure out what the Sponsor of War was planning.


    Figure out how to get


    away


    from whatever the Sponsor of War was planning.


    Dragan strode through an automatic door and entered some kind of command center -- monitors lining the walls, each displaying the live feed from one of the cells. Atoy Muzazi was visible on one, still strapped down in a chair.


    Surprisingly enough, he didn¡¯t seem to have suffered that much physical harm during his stay there. Dragan supposed that made sense, in a way -- if the Taldan government viewed Muzazi as a bargaining chip, they¡¯d hardly want to break him. S§×arch* The N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Mr. Hadrien," called out a gaunt-looking woman with slicked back hair -- the director of this facility, judging from the way other personnel avoided looking her in the eye. "We expected you¡¯d be longer."


    Dragan marched up to her, doing his best to keep both his gaze and his voice steady. It wouldn¡¯t do to show any kind of trepidation here. "I don¡¯t like leaving work undone," he said, voice icy as he could make it. "I pride myself on my professionalism."


    She nodded approvingly. "That¡¯s the sort of thing we like to hear, young man. The way to Atoy Muzazi is open for you, and we¡¯ll only be happy to loop the footage on our end -- for as long as it takes. Please, proceed."


    As long as it takes? What did she expect him to do to Atoy Muzazi? Dragan felt acidic disgust rise up in his chest, but he didn¡¯t voice it. This woman¡¯s assumptions could be useful: he didn¡¯t want to kill them early.


    "I appreciate it," he said. "But I have other work to attend to first. Where is Reyansh Patel?"


    He¡¯d already seen Patel, of course - he was on another of the monitors, strapped down in a prison cell.


    It looked like he¡¯d had a much worse time than Muzazi. A bag was placed over his head, stained red with blood, contracting in time with his strained breathing. His hands, secured to the arms of the chair he was strapped into, were lacking fingernails -- thin red streams of blood flowed down from his fingers onto the floor below. Someone had certainly gone to town on him.


    The gaunt woman frowned. "You¡¯re here for Atoy Muzazi. You don¡¯t need to worry about any other trash."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "That¡¯s not what my employer has said," he snapped. "Perhaps you¡¯d like to discuss it with him directly?"


    He stuffed a hand into his pocket, as if reaching for some kind of hologram projector, but the gaunt woman stopped him with a hurried raise of her hand.


    "That won¡¯t be necessary," she said quickly. "Do what you need to."


    Dragan would have sighed in relief if that wouldn¡¯t have destroyed the whole point of the exercise. He¡¯d bet everything on this woman not knowing precisely what his standing was with the Sponsor of War, so he honestly didn¡¯t know what he would have done if she¡¯d called his bluff.


    He nodded silently. "Lead the way," he said, motioning with a hand, subtly asserting a kind of imaginary authority. The woman nodded, and began striding out into the hallway.


    As Dragan followed, passing rows upon rows of sealed cells, he ran through the plan in his mind. It wasn¡¯t exactly foolproof -- it had been put together over the course of about an hour¡¯s commute -- but it was the only map he had to navigate this situation.


    He¡¯d already executed step one on the way here. Step two was to make use of Patel. Step three was to get to Muzazi¡¯s cell. If he couldn¡¯t pull those first steps off, there was no point in thinking about step four.


    Dragan went to fiddle with the coin in his pocket, but his fingers met only each other. Of course; he didn¡¯t have the coin anymore. It had slipped his mind.


    The gaunt woman stopped outside a door that looked just like all the others. "Here," she said, hands clasped behind her back. "Don¡¯t take too long."


    The door slid open, and Dragan stepped inside. The woman remained in the doorway, watching with cautious eyes.


    Reyansh didn¡¯t look much better up close -- bruises lined his arms and legs liberally, and each breath was a crackling rasp. It was a wonder they hadn¡¯t killed him during all this. Still, though, the smell of blood and god knows what else filled the room like a miasma.


    Dragan held his nose. "You really did a number on him."


    "Well," said the gaunt woman, a satisfied smile playing across her lips. "I don¡¯t tolerate disrespect. This young man learned that lesson quite thoroughly."


    Dragan nodded as he approached Reyansh, the prisoner¡¯s breathing increasing in speed as he heard steps coming closer. The Cogitant¡¯s eyes flicked around the chair before him -- in the Supremacy cells he knew about, the Neverwire was generally attached to the back of the chair, making constant contact with the prisoner¡¯s back. He could only hope that was the same with the UAP.


    Neverwire, as far as Dragan was aware, was the only substance capable of completely preventing Aether usage. It was made using a substance that the Gene Tyrants had created during the final days of their empire -- in the hopes of fighting off the legions of Aether-using rebels that had risen up against them. If you ran enough power through the substance, it stifled the Aether of whoever it was touching.


    There¡¯d be a power box, then, built into the chair -- to constantly supply the Neverwire with power. They wouldn¡¯t risk having it be connected to the buildings power supply -- if there was a power outage, every prisoner would just bust out no problem.


    He crouched down, making as if he was inspecting Reyansh when he was really inspecting the chair. He didn¡¯t have time for a full investigation -- he¡¯d just have to hope that the power supply was in the place that he expected. His body was positioned to obscure the woman¡¯s view of what he was doing. He wouldn¡¯t have a better chance.


    "One good hit to the head should finish him," he said aloud, blue Aether already crackling around him. The woman didn¡¯t reply.


    Now or never.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The coin he¡¯d recorded shot out almost silently, lodging in the back of the chair -- and as Dragan watched, the red glow of the Neverwire died down to nothing. He reached into the back of the chair -- still obscured from the woman¡¯s view -- and retrieved the now-burnt coin.


    "What was that?"


    "Not sure," muttered Dragan, leaning in closer to Reyansh. The man¡¯s breathing had stopped slightly -- hopefully that was because he¡¯d realized what was going on and not because he¡¯d died, because otherwise Dragan was kinda fucked.


    He pressed the coin into Reyansh¡¯s hand and whispered:


    "Sixty degrees up if you want to get her in the face."


    "Mr. Hadrien," said the gaunt woman from behind him, true suspicion finally entering her tone. There was the telltale click of a safety being taken off a gun. "Step away from the prisoner."


    Dragan sighed, put his hands over his head. "Of course," he said, standing up --


    -- and the second he did, there was a spark of chaotic red Aether.


    Reyansh, still blinded from the bag over his head, flicked the coin that had been pressed into his hand -- and it flew true, shining with infused red Aether as it zoomed right at the woman¡¯s face. As if in slow motion, her eyes widened, focused on the coin in front of them. She knew what this prisoner was capable of.


    Dragan seized the opportunity brought about by the distraction and leapt behind Reyansh¡¯s seat, slamming his hands over his own ears. Bruno had told him before they¡¯d been separated: Reyansh had a personal forcefield that protected him from his own explosions -- which made him the perfect human shield.


    The coin exploded with a screech, shards of metal and bursts of fire filling the room.


    The jailbreak had begun.

 Chapter 75:3.38: Jailbreak (Part 2)

    Boom. The distant sound of an explosion.


    Atoy Muzazi opened his eyes.


    If he had to describe the state he¡¯d been in for the last few days, the closest thing he could say would be ¡¯meditation¡¯. He¡¯d endeavoured to keep patience alive in his heart, to simply wait long enough for his opportunity to come around. There¡¯d been a vague awareness that his captors were trying to inflict pain on him, but little more than that.


    The alarm began blaring, a steady whoop-whoop that echoed through the complex. Muzazi took a deep breath.


    He couldn¡¯t think of a better opportunity than this.


    Who had come for him? Marie, most likely -- she was a resourceful sort, and had likely concocted a plan to break him free once she¡¯d discovered his location. He couldn¡¯t ignore the possibility that this was an unrelated emergency, though -- UAP planets were infamously rife with crime.


    Whatever it was, he couldn¡¯t let the chance slip by. Muzazi sat up as much as his restraints would allow and took stock of the situation.


    His Aether was.still unreachable -- so the Neverwire this chair used was still active. That was unfortunate. Given enough time, he was confident he could free himself using his own physical strength, but he didn¡¯t know how much time he had.


    Still, there was nothing he could do but try his best. With a grunt of exertion, Atoy Muzazi began his work.


    The gaunt woman¡¯s body had certainly seen better days. Probably every day of her life had been better than this, now that Dragan thought about it.


    She had been left charred and twisted on the ground by the explosion, heavy smoke still drifting up from her carcass. There was no doubt that she¡¯d died instantly. Dragan didn¡¯t expect she¡¯d find any consolation in that, but it made him feel a little better.


    Dragan stood up from behind the chair -- it had been heavily damaged in the explosion, too, but the parts directly behind Reyansh¡¯s body were completely unharmed. It had been the right choice to use him as a shield against the detonation.


    After taking a moment to brush the spot away from his clothes, Dragan whipped the bag off of Reyansh¡¯s head -- and winced.


    Reyansh certainly hadn¡¯t gotten the VIP treatment here. Someone had clearly pummelled his face -- the swelling so bad in some parts that one of his eyes was nearly completely covered up. Blood had stained his teeth a visceral red, and his nose was visibly out of alignment.


    Patel¡¯s one good eye, it¡¯s golden iris a stark contrast against the red blood and purple bruising that covered the rest of his face, looked up to regard Dragan.


    "Why?" he rasped through dry, cracked lips.


    Dragan gulped. "Because it¡¯s the right thing to do," he lied.


    It was probably kinder to say that than the truth: Dragan needed someone to bust doors open for him. Patel had the kind of firepower he needed, and through what he¡¯d observed and what Bruno had told him, he had a good idea of his personality.


    "Let¡¯s get you out of there," Dragan continued, reaching down and undoing the straps binding Reyansh¡¯s arms. He was painfully aware of the blaring alarm -- they didn¡¯t have much time before additional security showed up.


    Reyansh rose from the chair with shaking legs, massaging his wrists. Dragan held out a fistful of stone chunks -- created by the first explosion -- offering them to Reyansh.


    "Extra ammo," he said by way of explanation. "We need to get to Atoy Muzazi¡¯s cell. Can you move?"


    Reyansh took a deep breath -- and as he did, chaotic red Aether swirled around him gleefully, as if relieved to finally be free. A bloodstained smile crossed his lips.


    "You are a good person, Dragan Hadrien," he said, incorrectly. "Yes. Yes, I can move."


    "This is kinda short notice, huh?" Skipper said, adjusting the bowtie on the tuxedo he¡¯d been given. He and his new companion were heading upwards in an elevator -- one that would take them to where the gala guests were boarding the Dawnhouse.


    The Fifth Dead glanced down at him, face impassive and distinctly unimpressed. As expected, he didn¡¯t say a word.


    This was quickly becoming the most awkward elevator ride of Skipper¡¯s life.


    Still, his old man hadn¡¯t raised a quitter. Skipper persevered: "I mean, they¡¯ve just kinda dropped this on us, yeah? We¡¯re going to this party and waiting for the Citizen to try something. That¡¯s pretty crazy, right? I mean -- personally, I mean, I think there are better plans out there, but I guess they don¡¯t pay me to think, huh? They don¡¯t pay me at all, actually. Do they pay you, big guy? Out of curiosity."


    "No." The Fifth Dead stared at the elevator doors as he spoke, his monotone voice like a barely restrained earthquake.


    Skipper leaned against the glass window of the elevator, arms crossed. "No, huh? That¡¯s crazy. There¡¯s a lawsuit in there somewhere, I¡¯m pretty sure. Gotta be breaking some kind of labour law, yeah? By the way, you tossed one of my guys out of a car last week. You wanna talk about it?"


    The Fifth Dead didn¡¯t reply. He didn¡¯t even move.


    "I don¡¯t know about you, big guy," Skipper went on, inspecting where his fingernails would be if his hand wasn¡¯t a robotic prosthetic. "But I¡¯m feeling kinda sore about the whole thing, yeah? I mean, I did hit you with my car, so I guess that¡¯s a little payback, but I¡¯d still like an apology. You get me? Just a little ¡¯sorry, boss¡¯?"


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    Again, nothing.


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Y¡¯know, I ran into one of your predecessors once."


    That did it. The Fifth Dead¡¯s eyes flicked over to look at Skipper, pupils dilated with utter rage. A crackle of ominous orange Aether ran along his massive arm.


    "Mention this again," the Fifth Dead said. "And die where you stand."


    Skipper made a big show of zipping his mouth shut, and the Fifth Dead turned to look at the door again. Purposefully provoking the giant assassin wasn¡¯t Skipper¡¯s finest hour by any means -- but he wasn¡¯t in the best state of mind. It was as if he¡¯d been locked onto a set of rails, and if he tried to diverge from them his crew would be the ones to pay the price.


    Play it cool, Skipper, he told himself. You¡¯ve been in worse spots.


    There was a pleasant beep from the elevator, and the door slid open. The first thing Skipper heard was the billowing of wind -- they were on the roof of a skyscraper, after all, where a transport would take them up to the Dawnhouse.


    The second thing Skipper heard was a man angrily shouting: "You can¡¯t do this to me!"


    "Zhao, c¡¯mon, you¡¯re -- uh, you¡¯re causing a scene."


    The other guests boarding from this skyscraper had distanced themselves quite well from the two men arguing. The one Skipper had heard first was a younger man in a black coat, a purple fez perched atop his head. He was jabbing an aggravated finger right into the chest of his verbal opponent. sea??h th§× n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    That guy Skipper recognized. He¡¯d never been huge on Taldan politics -- apart from the one obvious incident -- but even he recognized the planet¡¯s current President. Chael wasn¡¯t the most impressive looking statesman Skipper had ever seen: he¡¯d clearly put some effort and money into the tuxedo he was wearing, but the bowtie was crooked and his slouching demeanour lent a sense of dishevelment to everything coming into contact with him.


    As he was ranted at, Chael rubbed idly at the stubble on his cheeks.


    "A scene?" the younger man - Zhao, apparently - was snarling. "A scene? After you¡¯ve turned this whole planet into your own little fucking fucking scene since the moment you were elected?"


    Chael took a step back, scratched his cheek awkwardly. "Zhao, c¡¯mon¡­" he mumbled, not quite meeting the other man¡¯s gaze.


    For a moment, Zhao looked like he was about to launch into another rant, but settled for a wordless shout and threw his fez onto the ground. His foot came down on it hard -- once, twice, thrice -- and once it¡¯s death was confirmed, Zhao whirled around and stormed off, marching right past Skipper in the process. The Fifth Dead had already made himself scarce.


    Skipper strolled over to Chael as casual as could be, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tuxedo. "Heya. What was that about?"


    Chael, still staring at the elevator Zhao had left on, waved a vague hand. "Oh, uh, you know. Hard to -- hard to find the help these days, sometimes, man."


    Even if Chael didn¡¯t say it in so many words, Skipper understood. There was a non-zero chance this whole gala was going to turn into a bloodbath. This was the final opportunity to make sure at least some people weren¡¯t around for it.


    The sigh escaping Chael¡¯s throat stopped part way through as he looked away from the elevator, realizing just who he was talking to. "You¡¯re¡­" he muttered.


    "Name¡¯s Skipper," said the man himself, extending his prosthetic hand. "Nice to meet ya."


    Chael looked down at the hand, caution in his brown eyes. "I¡¯ve been told a lot about you."


    "By your Sponsor pals, yeah?"


    "Sure." The man blinked, still hesitating.


    "Eh," Skipper said -- and now it was his turn to wave vaguely. "Try not to worry about it, buddy. One presidential assassination¡¯s enough for my career. You¡¯re safe as can be, yeah?"


    Chael looked up as the transport that would take them to the Dawnhouse touched down on the roof¡¯s landing pad, looking more than a little like a giant coffin. It¡¯s doors opened, and the fiesta began streaming in.


    "Yeah," Chael muttered, with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Safe as can be."


    This was perhaps the weirdest position Dragan had ever been in.


    Reyansh Patel made his way down the corridor, flicking pieces of exploding rubble at whatever unfortunates were stupid enough to pop out of cover. The sound of detonation was near-constant.


    Dragan didn¡¯t see any of this, however -- because he was walking back-to-back with Reyansh, keeping watch over the section of the hallway they¡¯d already made their way through. It wasn¡¯t the most dignified of positions, but it was the best way to make sure that Reyansh¡¯s personal forcefield covered Dragan as well.


    The sound of explosions died down, replaced by the panicked sounds of retreating footsteps. Then, Reyansh spoke: "Those scoundrels are moving away -- perhaps to regroup?"


    Dragan moved away from Reyansh and pointed his stun pistols down the empty corridor. As Reyansh had said, the guards seemed to have made themselves scarce -- but you could never be too careful.


    "Maybe," Dragan muttered. "But we can¡¯t worry about what they¡¯re doing. This is our opportunity."


    His eyes flicked to the side, to the door that stood there - Cell 346. He recognised it from the last time he was here. Muzazi¡¯s cell. He nodded towards the door, and Reyansh stepped forward, already holding the chunk of rubble in his hand.


    "This is the one?" Reyansh intoned, tossing the stone up and down in his hand.


    Dragan nodded.


    The rubble flared with haphazard red Aether.


    It had been difficult work, but Muzazi had managed to get one of the straps binding his arms loose. He¡¯d had to undo it with one of his feet, which took more than a little gymnastic prowess, but he knew now that it was certainly possible. If he could do the same to his other arm, he could free himself from this contraption.


    He paused for a moment. The sounds of explosions outside had been near-constant for the last few minutes -- getting louder, even -- but now they seemed to have suddenly stopped.


    Perhaps he should --


    The door exploded, metal bending inwards as fire and force pressed their full might against it. Foul heat impacted against Muzazi¡¯s face, and he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut.


    When he opened them again, the room before him was a wreck. The door was open, and through it he could see a burning hallway, not to mention¡­


    Not to mention¡­


    Muzazi flared in anger.


    Not to mention Dragan Hadrien, stepping into view through the smoke. The warrior Muzazi had fought before being captured was with him too, and the two looked at him with inscrutable expressions.


    "Hadrien," growled Muzazi.


    "Yeah," the Cogitant said. "I¡¯m still not happy about it either."

 Chapter 76:3.39: Demon

    "And you¡¯re certain security will apprehend him?" asked Lita cautiously, her eyes flicking around the function room.


    The room -- usually empty and populated only by dust -- had been done up in record time, stocked with tables and chairs enough for Taldan¡¯s finest to make themselves at home. Paper lanterns floated serenely through the air, giving the lighting a unique, shifting quality. Guests milled about and, at tables, snacked away at the -- to be frank -- obscene portions they¡¯d been provided with. The stage at the head of the room was empty for the moment, save for the plinth that Chael would be making his address from.


    The table the three were sitting at was a little ways away from the rest -- not so far that you¡¯d consciously notice, but just far away that you¡¯d feel that separation between you and them. This was a table for kingmakers, after all.


    Lita Abrianda, known to others as the Sponsor of Plenty, was a short mousy woman with suspicious eyes. Her hair looked as if every encounter with a brush was a fight for its life -- and even done up as it was, tufts of it stuck out from the main mass rebelliously. She clasped her hands together anxiously on the table in front of her, as if to stop them from moving.


    The young man sat across from her smiled in what was presumably an attempt to reassure -- but nothing could have reassured Lita in this current situation.


    "Well," the young man said. "If you would ask me, my friend -- and, rest assured, I will approach this query as if you were directing it, ah, directly towards my personage -- the best thing to do at this point is to trust -- yes, trust, foremost among virtues -- trust that the measures we have put into place are sufficient. After all, it is true, is it not, that this sense of danger, of caution, that I¡¯m sure you feel -- that is a vital part of our stratagem. Your worry is proof that we are proceeding correctly."


    Lita blinked slowly, allowing the verbal tsunami to crash over her. Despite Oora Mit-Variandi¡¯s rambling, grandfatherly tone, the Sponsor of Expansion was the youngest among the Sponsors. As he rambled, he rubbed away at his shaved head.


    "Not so loud," the third of their number said, his voice cold and calm.


    Sant Titanos used the form of a silver horse as the Sponsor of Industry, but he gave off the impression of a vulture more than anything else. It wasn¡¯t his appearance -- he was a fairly nondescript old man, the closest thing to a unique characteristic being an ever so slight hunch -- but in his eyes, you could see the gaze of a vulture. It was as if all the world was a rotting carcass that he was observing from far above.


    Lita sniffed. "Wasn¡¯t War supposed to be here? Why isn¡¯t he here?"


    If he was nervous about this situation in the least, Sant didn¡¯t show it. He simply steepled his fingers and addressed them: "This was my plan, not Wars. It¡¯s unsurprising that he¡¯d decide not to participate. Still disappointing, though."


    Oora nodded. "Yes, yes, disappointing in the extreme. I know I am not the only one who thinks this, but I do feel as though -- personally, of course, this sentiment comes from me alone -- as though I am the only one willing to say it, to give voice to this opinion. Our fellowship is one that runs on comradery -- in a sense that we are fighting together against our colossal and utterly implacable enemies. While I feel the warmth of friendship from the both of you, my concern is that War -- who I hold the highest regard for otherwise, of course -- does not quite understand this facet of our partnership."


    Lita blinked. "Quite."


    "I will say this," Sant said, leaning in slightly closer. "The anxieties you are feeling are proof that this trap is properly set. The Citizen must believe that he has a good chance of eliminating us here -- nervousness among us will assure him that this is true. But make no mistake: it is not."


    "How so?" Lita asked, leaning forward as if to match him.


    His gaze flicked down to the floor, as if he could see right through its depths. "The Fifth Dead patrols the unseen parts of the Dawnhouse. If the Citizen attempts entrance through those methods, he will be found quickly. And should he get in here¡­"


    Sant looked over to the far end of the room, where a man in a tuxedo was leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, and his body language suggested nothing more than quiet laziness -- but there was an unmistakable deadly gleam in his eyes.


    "That¡¯s him, then?" Lita said, finding herself a little intrigued despite her best efforts. "That¡¯s Skipper?"


    Sant nodded. "Doesn¡¯t look like much, does he?"


    "I¡¯d imagine that¡¯s what you want in an assassin -- or a bodyguard."


    Oora hummed agreeably. "Of course, of course you would, my friends. That is the core of it -- yes, the core of it indeed."


    Sant smiled thinly as he watched the room. "The Citizen will likely make his attack as I introduce Chael for his speech. Our friend Skipper will make his move then as well, and eliminate the threat." He turned back to them.


    "My friends," he said. "We approach checkmate."


    "Give me one reason I should trust you, Hadrien," said Muzazi, glaring daggers at the Cogitant even as he was released from his restraints.


    "I can¡¯t," said Hadrien, taking a step back from the deactivated seat.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"


    "There aren¡¯t any," Hadrien shrugged. "I¡¯m untrustworthy no matter which way you look at it. You don¡¯t have a choice, though.¡¯


    "I could reach out and snap your neck." It was true -- he could. He could feel it again, now, the strength bestowed by his Aether returning to him. A bright white spark ran across his arm, running between it and the arm of the chair.


    A wonderful feeling: it was as if he¡¯d been only half a person over the last week, and was only now returning to completion.


    The other newcomer -- the man Muzazi had fought against on the night of the niain -- stepped forward. "Quell your anger, Atoy Muzazi," he urged, as grandiose as ever. "You may have your differences with this fellow, but I owe him a debt of thanks. His neck must remain unsnapped."


    Muzazi glared at the man for a moment, remembered himself, and sighed as he got up from the chair. "For the moment you will live, Hadrien," he said, through gritted teeth. "But do not think you can catch me by surprise again. Your betrayal is inevitable."


    Hadrien nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "Anyway -- we need to get back to the main control room and secure it."


    "If my humble personage may be so bold, Mr. Hadrien," their third - Reyansh, if Muzazi remembered correctly - said. "I would advise we leave this place at once. Entrenching ourselves would only give our enemies a target to unleash their counterattack upon."


    Despite his misgivings, Muzazi found himself joining in their planning. "I have to agree," he said. "We should make our exit as quickly as possible -- before they can fully understand what has happened."


    Hadrien shook his head. "No."


    "No?" Muzazi furrowed his brow. He would have expected Dragan Hadrien to relish the prospect of a cowardly retreat above all else.


    "No," repeated Hadrien. "I have it on good authority that something extreme is about to happen here on Taldan. If there¡¯s a clue about what that is here, I need to find it." He glanced downwards, as if crestfallen. "I suppose if you really feel so strongly about it, you two could make your escape and I¡¯ll stay behind to find out what¡¯s going on."


    Reyansh clenched his fist, holding it in front of him as he vehemently shook his head, his braid whipping dangerously through the air. "No!" he cried. "You saved my life -- I owe you a debt that cannot be easily repaid! You will not stand alone so long as Reyansh Patel breathes."


    Muzazi knew what he was doing. Of course Muzazi knew what he was doing. Hadrien was being so transparent about it that it was hardly even a trick. Still, even if he knew¡­


    "I¡¯m not letting you out of my sight, Hadrien," he growled, glaring daggers. "Once this is finished, you are coming back to the Supremacy with me. You¡¯ll answer for what you¡¯ve done."


    Hadrien smiled, and Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but feel as if he¡¯d just stepped into a viper¡¯s nest. "Sure thing."


    He wouldn¡¯t take those words as gospel, then. If he¡¯d learned anything about Dragan Hadrien, it was that he lied as easily as he breathed. Muzazi sighed and took a step forward out of the room, noting with displeasure that his footwork had become somewhat clumsy over the last week. He¡¯d have to work on that.


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    "Did you bring Luminescence?" he asked, peering down the empty hallway, listening to the blaring alarms.


    Hadrien¡¯s voice was confused. "Who?"


    Ah, of course. "My sword. I take it you haven¡¯t, if you haven¡¯t yet offered it to me."


    He¡¯d have to find Luminescence before he left this place, then. He couldn¡¯t abandon her any more than he could abandon a part of his own body. For the time being, though, he¡¯d need a substitute.


    Muzazi grunted as he knelt down at the side of the hallway, where the piping ran through. With a grunt -- and a spark of white Aether -- he pulled a chunk of the pipework free, and turned it over in his hands. The balance wasn¡¯t half-bad, and the way he¡¯d ripped it free had left a jagged edge that could suffice for stabbing. Muzazi focused, and his Aether flowed into the pipe, giving it a pale white glow. It was no Luminescence, but it would serve.


    Yes, it would serve.


    "What do you mean you¡¯re not coming?" growled Noel, already behind the driver¡¯s seat of the car.


    Marie offered an apologetic smile. "It¡¯s a simple statement, sweetie. I meant just what I said."


    They were just outside the abandoned hotel they¡¯d been using as a temporary base -- the Citizen had finally got back in contact, letting them know that he needed them to infiltrate the Dawnhouse ASAP. Noel had rushed to the car as fast as her little legs could carry her, but Marie had stopped just outside.


    Noel¡¯s hands -- old and new -- tightened around the steering wheel. "Why not?" she hissed.


    Marie took a step back, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "I told you already, didn¡¯t I, sweetie? We were only working together until I could break ol¡¯ Atoy out. I have it on good authority that opportunity has finally knocked -- and whatever your boss is planning sounds like it would be the perfect distraction, yeah? So it¡¯s time for me to bid you adieu."


    For a moment, it seemed as if Noel would take the news well - a second later, however, she thumped her fist against the steering wheel, cyan Aether sparking around it.


    "You can¡¯t do this," she said quietly, glaring intensely at the windscreen in front of her.


    Marie shrugged, taking another step back onto the platform. "I can and I am, sweetie. Them¡¯s the breaks, I¡¯m afraid. What¡¯s the problem, anyway? You¡¯re perfectly capable."


    The first time Noel opened her mouth, only a hollow cracking noise came out of it. Then, the second time: "You said you¡¯d work for me. That I¡¯d be in charge. I¡¯m¡­ you¡¯re a liar. You were just using me. I wasn¡¯t in charge."


    A sigh escaped Marie¡¯s lips. She supposed you could only act conniving and in-control for so long before admitting that you had no control at all. She leaned into the car. "Listen."


    Noel still didn¡¯t look at her. "What?" she muttered.


    "Listen," Marie said again. "You¡¯re what, like, eight?"


    That got Noel¡¯s attention -- for the briefest of moments, Marie was exposed to the full strength of her glare. "I¡¯m fourteen."


    "Same difference." Coming from someone like Marie, that really meant something. "The point is -- well, imagine your life¡¯s a book. You¡¯re hardly out of the prologue and you¡¯re complaining that you don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on. Of course you don¡¯t: the story hasn¡¯t started yet."


    Noel snorted. "You get that out of a self-help book?"


    "Of course not," she lied -- she¡¯d spent a few hidden years looking through whatever philosophies she could find after she¡¯d started. "I¡¯m telling you this from experience, kid. You¡¯re not suited to this sort of thing."


    That inspired another glare. "Excuse me?"


    "There are people who enjoy the sort of things we do," Marie explained. "Having your life be a constant fight -- I enjoy it. My friend Atoy enjoys it. I imagine your Citizen enjoys it. You want to enjoy it, but you don¡¯t. You¡¯re just not the right kind of person for it."


    "So¡­" Noel¡¯s hands tightened around the steering wheel. "You¡¯re saying I don¡¯t have what it takes."


    "Yes." Marie was merciless. "If those are the words you want me to say -- you don¡¯t have what it takes. You never will. You¡¯re free to keep going like this, but¡­" She shrugged. "It¡¯ll never make you happy. Waste of time if you ask me."


    And with that, Marie turned around and began walking back into the old abandoned district, her only company the ruined promenades and crumbling attractions. A moment later, she heard the car take off, zooming away as fast as it would go.


    Run away as fast as you like, she thought. Reality always catches up eventually.


    With that little episode resolved, Marie put a finger to the communicator in her ear. "Petrio, you still there?"


    The calm, cool voice of Aldan Petrio -- information broker and general know-it-all -- came out clearly. "Yes, Miss Hazzard. I trust the information I¡¯ve sent over has piqued your interest?"


    She nodded, grinning as she walked in the direction of her own transport -- a speedbike she¡¯d sneakily brought over in case she ever needed a quick getaway from the Citizen¡¯s crew. "But of course. If there¡¯s been an incident at the prison, there¡¯ll be no better chance to break Atoy out."


    And then they could be free of this rock. She¡¯d gone along with Atoy¡¯s vendetta against Dragan Hadrien because it had seemed amusing at the time, but the way things had gone had all but dashed her enthusiasm.


    She¡¯d decided: no more honour quests for her!


    "By the way," said Aldan over the communicator. "There¡¯s something else you might want to be aware of."


    "Hm?"


    What happened next served as Aldan¡¯s reply better than any words ever could. There was a sudden, intense pain in Marie¡¯s stomach -- and as her march jerked to a halt, she could see a substantial splash of blood and gut fragments paint the concrete in front of her. Her blood. Her guts.


    "I don¡¯t appreciate being threatened." Aldan¡¯s voice was filled with venom, the most emotion she¡¯d ever heard in it.


    She looked down.


    There, protruding from her stomach, was the business end of a harpoon. It was painted red by its journey through Marie¡¯s body, and as she watched the spikes on its surface jutted out to keep it in place -- she suppressed a scream as the additional blades stabbed into her insides.


    As her body sent all the pain signals it could muster -- she didn¡¯t have the concentration to turn them off -- Marie turned her head back to look for the source of the weapon. It wasn¡¯t much of a mystery.


    The harpoon had pierced right through her back -- and it was connected to a chain that led right to the source. A harpoon gun, held by that idiot Den-S. He grinned at her as their eyes met -- he seemed much less cowardly after stabbing someone in the back.


    "You get what you deserve," he breathed, giddy from the illusion of victory. "Yeah, yeah, you get what you fucking deserve!"


    As if on cue, more spikes of pain speared into Marie¡¯s body -- additional harpoons firing out of the shadows, striking into her arms and legs. The attackers who¡¯d sent them, holding harpoon guns just like Den-S¡¯, stepped out of the shadows, chains tinkling as they brushed against the ground.


    "You really are an unusual person," Aldan¡¯s calm voice came over the communicator. "I¡¯m certain that first shot severed your spinal cord, yet you¡¯re still standing. I¡¯ve heard of individuals with healing Aether before -- the Supremacy¡¯s Supreme has several abilities for that purpose -- but this is something else, isn¡¯t it?"


    Marie ignored the question, instead forcing words out through the pain. "Whatever happened to the corporate ant?" she hissed. "Going with the best bet for survival?"


    "My philosophy hasn¡¯t changed in the least, Miss Hazzard," Aldan¡¯s voice was casual, as if ordering something in a restaurant. "You simply made the mistake of assuming you were, as you put it, ¡¯the best bet for survival¡¯."


    The already excruciating pain throughout Marie¡¯s body intensified -- and as she looked around at her attackers, she understood why. They¡¯d activated some kind of secondary function of the harpoon guns, and now the chains connecting the guns and the harpoons were being pulled taut. Marie was being forced into five directions at once, and she could feel her muscles tearing under the strain, her bones dislocating in an attempt to accommodate the pressure¡­ S§×ar?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Goodbye, Miss Hazzard," Aldan concluded. "My analysis suggests this will be enough to deal with you. I have other matters to attend to." The communicator clicked off.


    The sound of tearing meat filled the square, as copious amounts of blood began to pour liberally from the opening gashes in Marie¡¯s body. The pull of the harpoons were strong, and they were lodged in well -- they¡¯d take her body parts with them rather than being freed by the pulling.


    Den-S and his cohorts smirked as Marie -- who¡¯d effortlessly humiliated them not so long ago -- screamed, the noise transitioning into some unidentifiable rasping screech that went on and on and on.


    The smirks died when they realized what that noise actually was: laughter.


    "You think¡­?" muttered Marie, pulling her limbs back -- bringing the thugs towards her by the chains with the movement, their feet scraping against the ground. "You think this is anything? This is nothing," she giggled, hair hanging over her face as her head flopped forwards. "You¡¯re nothing. All of you. I can¡¯t even feel this anymore, you know?"


    It was true. The closest thing she felt to pain right now was the slightest tickling, her body letting her know she was under attack. With an arm that shouldn¡¯t have been able to move, she reached back and grabbed the harpoon that was protruding from her back, gripping it with such strength that the metal bent beneath her fingers.


    "Five pieces?" she went on, blood spilling from her mouth along with the words. "You think you can kill me by splitting me into five pieces? Huh? Are you stupid? That¡¯s so funny, haha, that¡¯s messed up. Hey, hey, do you want me to show you something? Since you¡¯re all about to die, do you want me to show you something?"


    She looked up, hair falling away from her face, and the thugs facing her turned pale instantly.


    The face of Marie Hazzard was an utter nightmare. Blood coated the bottom half of her face, as if framing the mouth of razor-sharp teeth that grinned madly at them. The eyes above were blood-red, too, her pupils jet-black slits that grew thinner even as they regarded her targets.


    "If you want a real chance at killing me," the demon said. "You should take a page out of Nigen Rush¡¯s book, and try cutting me into a thousand pieces!"


    Some of the thugs went to let go of their harpoon guns and run, but it was far too late for survival instincts. These people had died the second they¡¯d agreed to this plan -- Marie was just making it official.


    She whirled her body around, her wounds healing as she moved -- and the two idiots who hadn¡¯t let go of their harpoon guns went flying, clinging onto their weapons for dear life. Their screams were swallowed by the sheer speed of their movement.


    One let go, the other didn¡¯t, but they met the same fate: smears against walls.


    Chains jangling around her, Marie took a step to the remaining three thugs -- staring into Den-S¡¯ panicked eyes. She smirked; not so confident when he remembered his place, was he?


    What happened next didn¡¯t take even ten seconds.

 Chapter 77:3.40: Asset Not Found

    "I expected more resistance," said Muzazi, stepping over the body of an unconscious security officer. Well, Dragan assumed the man was unconscious -- it had been a pretty hard hit with the pipe, after all, and he doubted that Muzazi was in much of a mood to hold back.


    "The restraint of cowards is the greatest boon the righteous can obtain," replied Patel, walking right behind him. The man spoke like he was constantly expecting to be quoted. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan didn¡¯t say anything -- he just kept watching the groups rear as they finally made their way into the control room. He knew better than anyone how effective it was to attack from behind, so he wasn¡¯t about to let that happen to him.


    The coast was clear. The fate of the few officers they¡¯d run into on their way here seemed to have served to convince the rest that this was more than they could handle.


    They¡¯d have called for backup, then -- they were working on yet another timer.


    He turned around, stepping into the control room. Just like the hallways, the room had been abandoned -- in a hurry, judging from the spilt coffee and scattered papers. Just like Dragan had hoped, the majority of the computer terminals were still logged in; he stepped over to one and tapped the screen a few times to ensure it wouldn¡¯t go into lock mode.


    "What is our next step, my friend?" asked Reyansh, collapsing into one of the available seats.


    The adrenaline of escape had been driving him for a little while, but it was painfully obvious that he was in no real shape for combat. With the amount of torture he¡¯d been put through, he¡¯d probably be unable to move once the excitement of the situation wore off.


    Once that happened, he¡¯d have to take extra care not to piss off Muzazi -- there¡¯d be nobody to defend him from the Special Officer¡¯s wrath.


    Dragan¡¯s gaze flicked over to the man in question -- and then immediately returned to the screen once he realized that Muzazi was staring at him. He¡¯d said that he wouldn¡¯t let Dragan out of his sight, and he apparently meant it.


    "My friend?" Reyansh repeated, panting. "Our¡­ our next step, if you would?"


    "Oh, uh, right," said Dragan, jerking back to life. "I need to look into the systems -- see if there¡¯s any evidence of what the Sponsor of War is planning."


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "Who?"


    Dragan waved a vague hand as he explained. "He¡¯s one of the, uh, people in charge of this planet. Secretly, I guess. They¡¯re the money -- and he¡¯s planning to do something big, soon -- probably in the next couple of hours."


    "And you know this how?"


    "He told me. Well, he didn¡¯t tell me exactly -- he told me something else but I was able to figure out he was lying."


    "Mm-hmm."


    Muzazi¡¯s tone pretty much spelled out that he thought Dragan was full of shit. In any other situation, that would probably be true, but this was one of the rare occasions when he was telling nothing but the truth. Muzazi had been overly trusting before, but now it seemed he¡¯d swung to the other end of the scale -- he wouldn¡¯t believe a single word Dragan said.


    "That doesn¡¯t matter," Dragan went on, trying to power through it. "The point is that something is about to happen here on Taldan, and nobody¡¯s gonna want to be around for it. If there are any clues here that¡¯ll tell us what this thing that¡¯s gonna happen is, we kinda need them. Get me?"


    Muzazi didn¡¯t say anything, didn¡¯t move to stop him, but Dragan couldn¡¯t help but notice the Special Officer¡¯s pipe was ready to be swung at a moment¡¯s notice.


    That was probably the best he could hope for.


    Dragan turned back to the console, began typing into the search function with the on-screen keyboard.


    "You¡¯re hacking the system?" Muzazi asked from behind him, voice still full of caution.


    This old stereotype again. Dragan narrowly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No," he said, typing as he talked. "I wouldn¡¯t know how to hack systems. I¡¯m just searching for a specific prisoner."


    "You seem to know your way around this system." There was accusation in Muzazi¡¯s voice, although Dragan had no idea what he was actually being accused of.


    He turned away from the console for a moment, giving the Special Officer a baffled look. "Yeah -- yeah. I¡¯m typing in the name of the person I¡¯m looking for. The system¡¯s a keyboard -- I know my way around a keyboard, yeah. I know how to type letters. Don¡¯t you?"


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "It¡¯s suspicious."


    "In what way is it suspicious?"


    Muzazi didn¡¯t reply to that -- and after a few awkward seconds, Dragan turned back to the console. The search had been completed: only one matching result for the name Ambran Roz. The Umbrant they¡¯d recovered at the niain -- the niain that had kicked this whole mess off.


    "Patel?" Dragan called out. "You still with us?"


    There was a mumbled groan from the corner. Not unconscious then, clearly, but his fighting potential had diminished to almost zero in record time. So he couldn¡¯t be used.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes slid back, almost reluctantly, to look at Muzazi. "There¡¯s a prisoner we need in Cell 207," he mumbled, almost sheepishly.


    "Go get them, then."


    "There might be guards, you know?" Dragan shrugged weakly. "That¡¯s kinda¡­ you know?"


    It was almost impressive how pathetic he was being, and the look on Muzazi¡¯s face reflected that. "You think I¡¯m some kind of dog to do your dirty work?" said Muzazi, the man whose job description was being a dog who did other people¡¯s dirty work.


    Dragan smiled a sad, lopsided smile. "If I get killed on the way there, I guess you can¡¯t take me back to the Supremacy? That kinda sucks, but I guess if that¡¯s what you really want¡­"


    Muzazi stared into Dragan¡¯s eyes for a moment, the frustration visibly building. He clicked his tongue, and then -- he broke away, marching to the complex entrance, where Dragan had first walked into this prison.


    For a moment, Dragan¡¯s heart leapt, thinking that the Special Officer was abandoning them -- then, he realized what was really going on. Muzazi was emitting one of those thrusters from his palm, white flame jetting out of his skin, and was using it to weld the door shut.


    "You have no way to leave until I return," he snapped. "Do you understand?"


    Dragan¡¯s meekness vanished in record time. "But of course," he said brightly, returning to the console. Hopefully, this place had a connection to Taldan¡¯s internet -- he wanted to look into Ambran Roz a little more now that he had the chance.


    Muzazi charged off down one of the hallways, pipe scraping on the floor behind him. Dragan smirked as he went; the Special Officer wasn¡¯t as canny as he liked to think.


    Ruth felt small.


    That wasn¡¯t always so bad; making yourself small, hiding in the undergrowth when someone was looking for you was a good way to remain hidden -- a good way to remain safe. It was a survival strategy, one that worked more often than not. That was the kind of small you had a choice in, though.


    The way she felt now? Curled up into a ball, feeling as if she was being compressed from all sides, being crushed into something tiny and weak? That wasn¡¯t something she was for.


    She¡¯d been lying on the bed they¡¯d provided her for the last few hours, doing her best to ignore the doubts and anxieties running through her head -- badly. She couldn¡¯t help but replay all the times she¡¯d fucked up since they landed on this damn planet.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Running away like a child. Not stopping Dragan from being thrown out of the car. Getting mad at Skipper.


    Letting the Citizen get away.


    That last one was the worst, but on its own she could have dealt with that -- it was that on top of everything else that was burning at her like acid. The image of herself she¡¯d built up in her head had crumbled away like the facade it had always been. She wasn¡¯t a fighter. She wasn¡¯t brave. She was useless. Useless.


    There was a knock on the metal door. The guards, probably.


    "Blaine," the distorted voice came. "Get out here. You¡¯re needed."


    She didn¡¯t recognize the voice. One of the guards, then, definitely. Slowly, limply, she climbed out of the bed and marched towards the door like some kind of zombie, arms swinging loosely at her sides. This was all she was good for, in the end. Trying to follow orders without fucking it all up.


    She reached the door. It slid open.


    Danger.


    Her body moved.


    Ruth blinked. The barrel of a plasma pistol was pointed right at her face -- the guard had been standing on the other side of the door, and had pointed it right at her the moment it had opened. It shook in the air -- for some reason, the guard hadn¡¯t fired. A second later, Ruth realized why.


    The claws of her gauntlet had pierced through his helmet, five needles running right through the man¡¯s temple. He still stood, a gurgling sound still came from his mouth, but Ruth knew that he was already dead in the way that mattered. Pulling the trigger wasn¡¯t a decision he could make anymore.


    Her body had reacted before her conscious mind had even realized what was happening. Wait -- what was happening? Ruth let the gauntlet dissipate into red Aether and the guards body dropped to the ground, blood already oozing through the holes in his helmet.


    This was one of the security officers, wasn¡¯t it? Why had he tried to kill her? They¡¯d failed on their last mission, but not badly enough for this, right? What was going on?!


    She heard muffled voices from within the guards helmet -- the sound of his communicator, leaking out through the holes.


    "Clarke," it was saying, stern voice coming through loud and clear. "Confirm. Is Blaine terminated? We believe del Sed is on the loose, and we¡¯ve lost Hadrien. Confirm Blaine¡¯s status immediately."


    Huh? Bruno and Serena were on the loose? They¡¯d lost Dragan? Ruth felt dizzy -- it was as if she¡¯d been thrown into an entirely different world than the one she¡¯d been in yesterday, like she¡¯d skipped years of time and wound up in a sequence of events she didn¡¯t understand.


    Her ears twitched -- she could hear heavy boots coming down the hallway. Plenty of them. Well, she guessed there was one thing she did understand.


    The Skeletal Set materialised around her in an aurora of glowing red Aether.


    She understood how to fight.


    Rare had thought this assignment would be the opportunity of a lifetime -- but the Dawnhouse really wasn¡¯t all it was cracked up to be.


    It had sounded good enough. Watch after the guests of a party at the very seat of civilization, mingle with the rich and powerful? Hell yeah. He could make some real in-roads, land himself a cushy gig as a private bodyguard, maybe. Sure, Taldan was home, but he¡¯d take an extra zero on his salary over a familiar skyline any day.


    He wasn¡¯t getting much in the way of mingling.


    The function rooms of the Dawnhouse were apparently pretty fancy, from what he¡¯d been told. Huge rooms filled with people, Taldan¡¯s best and brightest breaking bread and making merry. The maintenance tunnels¡­ well, those were another story entirely.


    It wasn¡¯t that Rare had to duck to get around, but that was only just. He could feel his helmet constantly scraping at the ceiling over his head, and he was a pretty compact guy. It was just this constant feeling of being constrained. If anything did happen, Rare didn¡¯t know if he¡¯d even be able to pull out his plasmabow properly.


    He licked his lips nervously as that ugly thought crawled back up. If anything did happen? Something had happened on Taldan, quite a few times now. The deaths of the security officers at that disaster of a niain, then the massacre at Anna Sait¡­ it wasn¡¯t exactly the safest time to work for S4 right now -- which was another reason he was pretty eager for a new assignment.


    Just bear it, Rare-it, Rare told himself, turning around the corner as he continued his patrol. He was pretty much done with the check of this floor, so he just needed to take the lift further down. It was funny: the cramped elevator would probably give him more room than these damn tunnels.


    He reached the elevator doors, closed, and tapped the button on the wall. The reassuring hum of machinery filled the space, and he could hear the lift ascending to his position.


    It¡¯s just a couple of hours, he reassured himself. Just don¡¯t do anything stupid, and you¡¯ll be fine.


    As the doors opened, Rare¡¯s next breath caught in his throat.


    The inside of the elevator was painted red with gore, blood and guts slowly slipping down the walls and oozing onto the floor. What was left of a stomach flopped down from the ceiling and landed with a wet splat.


    There was a creature in there, the culprit without a doubt, a heavy and huge beast composed from what looked like glowing orange glass. The pile of limbs and ruined torsos -- armour torn apart -- beneath the creature shifted as it adjusted it¡¯s footing, turned its whole body to regard Rare. He looked into its eyes and saw nothing there. It wasn¡¯t just that this thing was merciless -- there was no real intelligence there to have mercy.


    The hippo blinked. The hippo charged.


    It wasn¡¯t as hard to bring up the plasmabow as Rare had feared -- not that it did him much good.


    Dragan furrowed his brow as he scanned through the profile of Ambran Roz he¡¯d found online. It didn¡¯t make sense.


    If the journalist had run into some kind of information about the Citizen -- a hint as to his identity or his plans -- Dragan would have expected him to work in the kind of sphere that would put him in contact with that information. Crime reporting, maybe, or something along those lines. But that wasn¡¯t what Roz was at all.


    He was a technical reporter -- providing updates as to new pieces of equipment to be used in nendon gas mining. The closest thing his career had ever gotten to excitement was reporting on a two-day worker¡¯s strike.


    How the hell would someone like this have picked up information about the Citizen?


    The doors to the right hallway opened -- Muzazi had returned. He walked in, face grim, something slung over his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow as he saw Dragan hunched over the console.


    "You¡¯re still here," he said, approaching.


    "You sound surprised."


    "That¡¯s because I am. I expected you to at least attempt an escape."


    Dragan shrugged. "Guess you don¡¯t know me as well as you¡¯d like." He nodded to Muzazi¡¯s burden. "What¡¯s that?"


    Muzazi frowned. "An issue."


    He threw the object down on the ground. The corpse of Ambran Roz landed with a heavy thump, limbs splayed out and mouth hanging open. His dead eyes were as wide as the plasma-hole between them. Judging from the stink, he¡¯d been dead a while.


    The words Roz had said at the niain, when they¡¯d grabbed him, bubbled up to the surface of Dragan¡¯s mind.


    "Help! Help! Someone! I¡¯m being killed!"


    How right he¡¯d been. If he¡¯d been dead for a while, that would mean they¡¯d killed him shortly after he¡¯d first arrived here. There wouldn¡¯t have been time for an interrogation, then -- quite the opposite. He was being silenced.


    So the Sponsor of War had been the one who wanted Roz dead, then. Had the Citizen assumed Roz had learnt something about him, then, and operated based on that assumption?


    "Hadrien," said Muzazi, his face grave -- but he wasn¡¯t looking at the body anymore. He was looking at the screen of the console.


    Dragan looked down -- the page he¡¯d been looking at was gone, replaced by a small red square on a white background. Asset not found.


    "The hell?" he muttered, backing out into the main page off the news station¡¯s employee records. The red square was there too, as if the entire record system had just been erased: Asset not found.


    He tried the news company¡¯s homepage: Asset not found.


    He tried Brighteye Taldan, the biggest news corporation on the planet: Asset not found.


    He tried the standard search engine -- this was the default for every user connecting to Taldan¡¯s network. If nothing else, at least this would be intact. The page loaded: Asset not found.


    Dragan looked up from the console, an awful formless panic tightening its grip around his heart -- and as he did, he saw that the surveillance feeds lining the walls were being replaced, one by one, by that familiar red square.


    Asset not found.


    "What¡¯s happening?" mumbled Patel from his chair.


    "I¡¯m not sure," Dragan replied, but a theory was coming together in his mind even as he said that. "It¡¯s as if¡­ someone¡¯s erasing everything, every -- every piece of information stored on Taldan¡¯s network."


    Muzazi leaned into the screen, face illuminated by the white and red image. "Why would they do that?"


    Something was going to happen on Taldan, very soon. The Sponsor of War would be responsible for it. The Sponsor of War had wanted Roz dead. Roz had been an expert on nendon gas, on the mining equipment. The Sponsor of War knew exactly what range this disastrous event would cover.


    The Sponsor of War had offered to get Dragan off Taldan entirely.


    "It¡¯s to get rid of any evidence," Dragan whispered. "He¡¯s going to destroy the planet."

 Chapter 78:3.41: Red Wine

    Aldan Petrio put his script away as soon as the message confirmed his work was done. The backdoor he¡¯d been given into Taldan surveillance systems had finally served its purpose -- the virus had been uploaded, and the network scrubbed. His client, the bull, would have no reason for complaint.


    He wasn¡¯t entirely sure of what was about to happen, and hopefully nobody else would be either. Aldan leaned in towards the front seat of the taxi. "Abrianda Spaceport, if you please," he said, voice cold, speaking up to be heard over the rain impacting against the windows.


    The taxi zoomed off, ascending over the skyline. Aldan Petrio didn¡¯t know how things would turn out, but he¡¯d be interested in finding out from a safe distance.


    Skipper suppressed a yawn as the gala went on. He¡¯d never been the high society kind of type -- not even in the bad old days -- but he honestly couldn¡¯t remember these things being so boring.


    How are you? How¡¯s your business? Mine¡¯s doing fine, actually, we¡¯re up blah-blah percent. Oh, how marvellous! My shoes? They¡¯re Edgar Verena, actually, very rare. Oh, you don¡¯t say! I simply adore caviar. Blah blah blah.


    He felt as if he¡¯d got his dosage of boring conversation for the entire year. Weren¡¯t parties supposed to be a good time? Maybe not when they doubled as memorials, sure, but Skipper hadn¡¯t heard one mention of the dead during his time here, leaning against the wall.


    He hadn¡¯t seen his giant friend for a while, either. Presumably the Fifth Dead was being kept out of sight -- his huge size didn¡¯t do much to make him discreet.


    A sound cut through the babble -- a spoon tapping against a glass. Steadily, the overpowering sounds of conversation faded away to a constant mumble. Skipper folded his arms: looked like the king was going to address his kingdom.


    President Chael, the spoon-wielder himself, got up from his table with a cheeky grin, the tail of a shrimp still sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Laughter ran through the crowd as he stumbled on his way to the stage, but it wasn¡¯t a mocking kind of laughter: this was how Chael worked the crowd, like a clown.


    "Hell yeah," Chael said, climbing up to the stage. He swallowed the shrimp. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. That¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about. Good to see ya, everyone. It¡¯s so good to see ya. Hey, hey, you. Nice one."


    That last remark was accompanied by a point towards a seemingly random member of the crowd. Amusement danced in the eyes of the onlookers -- save for a table just slightly off to the side of the stage. Three people sat there: an old man, a young man and a middle-aged woman, all fairly nondescript.


    Skipper smirked. These people thought they were slick, but he knew a bigwig when he spotted one.


    "You know," Chael went on, holographic microphone hovering over his mouth, voice echoing throughout the chamber. "When I, uh -- when I first got elected, I got up on this stage just like I¡¯m doing right now. Well," he patted his stomach. "Maybe a little bit less heavy, but who¡¯s tracking those sorts of things? Apart from my personal trainer."


    Another wave of chuckles. Just funny enough to make laughter acceptable, but not funny enough to be funny. The immortal comedy of politicians.


    "But hey, seriously," Chael lowered his voice slightly. "It¡¯s been great. Ten, ten fantastic years. I mean, who could¡¯ve guessed? Wow. This isn¡¯t about me, though."


    Skipper sighed. This was a memorial, after all. Like everything else, this was about the dead.


    "It¡¯s about you guys," Chael said, pointing finger swinging throughout the crowd. "It¡¯s -- I sometimes think that in these -- these modern times we¡¯ve got these days, we forget what heroism looks like. It¡¯s not just about, you know, guys jumping in front of bullets -- I mean, that¡¯s heroic, sure, but all you need to do that is a pair of good legs."


    Another light chuckle.


    "What, uh, what heroism is, real heroism," Chael jabbed his finger up into the air to punctuate his point. "It¡¯s keeping the lights on. It¡¯s keeping the water running. It¡¯s keeping guys -- and ladies, of course -- like you and me in work. It¡¯s providing. That¡¯s not something just anyone can do."


    Seeing him here, working the crowd, Skipper could see how Chael got elected. There was the shadow of a performer behind him -- like a musician, maybe, hyping up his fans at a concert. That sort of showmanship had appeal.


    Chael thumped his chest dramatically with one hand. "That¡¯s why I¡¯m excited to welcome my boy Sant Titanos! Get up here, man!"


    An elderly man, hunched over slightly, got up from the removed table -- he didn¡¯t look too pleased at being addressed as Chael¡¯s boy, but he hobbled to the stage all the same, watchful eyes glaring over the crowd. Once he reached the stage¡¯s foot, he flicked a hand, and a holographic microphone appeared over his mouth as well.


    This is it, Skipper thought. This was definitely the man behind that silver horse -- the arrogance in his eyes was the same as that in the hologram¡¯s voice.


    If the Citizen wanted to take out a Sponsor, this was his best chance.


    The old man, Titanos, sniffed -- and with that quiet noise, the murmuring through the crowd was reduced to nothing. Chael invited merriment, but this man clearly invited fear.


    "Matters here on Taldan have been fraught as of late," Titanos said -- he spoke like this was a board meeting, rather than a party. Cold and dry. "This has resulted in considerable sacrifices on the parts of all involved. I apologize sincerely for the delay in a proper response --"


    Chael cleared his throat, half-pulling a few sheets of paper from inside his suit jacket. "I¡¯ve, uh," he said. "I¡¯ve still got a few more pages?¡¯ S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Titanos¡¯ iron gaze somehow turned harsher -- for a moment, it felt as if the sheer intensity of it would reduce Chael to a blast shadow. "I am speaking," he said, deadly quiet.


    Chael rustled the papers, grinning sheepishly. "It¡¯s just a couple of pages."


    Nervous glances ran through the crowd -- this sort of tension was something that was supposed to stay behind the scenes. This wasn¡¯t for their eyes.


    Titanos closed his eyes, sighed. "Very well," he said, in a voice that suggested it was not very well. "Say your piece -- but make it quick."


    "Okay, okay, yes," grinned Chael, almost bouncing up and down like an excited child as he stepped back up to the head of the stage. "It¡¯s just, uh, I¡¯ve got kind of a question for everyone. Uh, you too, actually, sir." He glanced back at Titanos for that last bit.


    The old man¡¯s brow furrowed. "A question?"


    "Yeah. How dare you?"


    The silence of the crowd remained, and the temperature seemed to drop substantially. A heavy tension settled over the room.


    Skipper looked at Chael¡¯s face. That was the face of a man committing suicide.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    "I beg your pardon?" Titanos hissed, somehow making the words seem like a curse from the depths of hell.


    Chael shuffled on the spot, that easy grin still on his face -- as if this was all still part of the script. "It¡¯s a, uh, it¡¯s a simple enough question. How dare you? What do you think you¡¯re doing? Here, right now?"


    Before Titanos could answer, Chael swung back to face the crowd. "It¡¯s the same with, uh, with all of you, too. How dare you?" He ignored the offended gasps from high society as he went on, growing more animated as he paced back and forth on the stage. "I mean, look at you, look at yourselves, look at yourselves, sitting there and -- eating there like you¡¯re supposed to be people, when you¡¯re not really, are you? You¡¯re parasites. You¡¯re drinking our blood, right?"


    Titanos tapped a button on his watch -- presumably to mute Chael¡¯s mic -- but nothing happened. The President¡¯s breakdown went on uninterrupted.


    "All of you," he said. "Why -- why are you here? You¡¯re here to drink, to eat, to -- to party? It¡¯s disgusting. You¡¯re all disgusting. Down there," he jabbed a finger down towards the ground. "You¡¯ve got people -- people being eaten alive by this fucking city, and -- and out there you¡¯ve got the rampages of the Citizen, who is me by the way, and none of you even care! I mean, people have died! They¡¯re dying right now!"


    Skipper blinked. Wait, what did Chael just say?


    Titanos turned a deathly pale behind the President. "What did you¡­?" he mumbled. "That¡¯s... that¡¯s not¡­"


    What happened took only a few seconds, but felt like so much longer. Chael, smiling, turned around to face Titanos -- he leaned in, putting a friendly hand on the older man¡¯s shoulder. A spark of grey Aether ran along his arm as his eyes glowed an eerie red. An obvious Aether tic.


    Skipper raised his hand, his finger, to fire towards the stage -- so painfully slow. The people in the crowd began to flee, chairs toppling to the floor as they scrambled to their feet. Prey sensing the invisible presence of a predator.


    "I told you, didn¡¯t I?" Chael said to Titanos, his skin visibly starting to shift to a shade of metallic grey. "That I¡¯d snap the chains of this society. I¡¯ll say it again, you old fuck: I¡¯m the Citizen."


    Titanos, eyes wide, opened his mouth to say something, but found himself unable --


    -- as he¡¯d been reduced to a fine red mist.


    Skipper threw himself to the ground as a hail of silver blades flew through the air -- an omnidirectional attack originating from Chael¡¯s body. Titanos, who¡¯d been standing next to the President, had been utterly annihilated, and those closest to the stage hadn¡¯t gotten off much better.


    Chael still stood in the center of the stage, but his appearance couldn¡¯t have been any more different. The tuxedo he¡¯d been wearing had been shredded by the blades that had erupted from his skin, and as he observed the carnage he¡¯d wrought he looked like nothing less than a knight in dark armour.


    His face was left exposed, however, his red eyes flicking through the crowd. They settled on the two remaining members of the table that Titanos had come from. The other Sponsors.


    Wordlessly, Chael raised a metal-coated hand. The middle-aged woman rose from the table in a panic, hands raised in front of her.


    "Wait!" she cried, hiding behind her hands as if they could deflect the attack.


    Ah shit, Skipper thought. Looks like I¡¯m gonna be a repeat offender.


    He lifted his finger again and fired off a Heartbeat Shotgun at yet another President of Taldan. The shot rang through the room, cracking the tables it passed over, and struck Chael head-on --


    -- only for him to fizzle away and vanish like a burnt-out lightbulb.


    A second later, the woman was run through by a flying blade the size of a lamppost, the force of its flight impaling her against the wall. A shower of smaller blades reduced her younger companion to a pile of unidentifiable meat.


    Skipper gritted his teeth. What the hell was going on?! He was sure he¡¯d hit Chael -- he couldn¡¯t have missed, not at this kind of distance. Was it some kind of counter ability? No, Chael had been fully devoted to the attack -- he wouldn¡¯t have had time to react at the speed of sound.


    He turned his head. A second Chael, the one who¡¯d actually fired the attack, was standing on the edge of the stage, looking impassively at what remained of the Sponsors.


    "And so it goes," the Citizen said softly.


    A pit opened in Skipper¡¯s stomach. The first Chael was an illusion?


    The sounds of screaming filled the air as the panicked crowd trampled over each other in their efforts to get to the door, climbing over the corpses of those who¡¯d died or been injured in the original attack. Chael watched them retreat out into the hallways, expressionless as the room emptied.


    Before long, it was just him and Skipper.


    Skipper kept his finger trained on the Citizen, keeping his distance. He¡¯d seen that Chael could attack from range -- he¡¯d skewered that woman from across the room, a much further distance from the omnidirectional move he¡¯d used to annihilate Titanos.


    Chael stared at Skipper, his glowing red eyes like malevolent beacons. His own arms stayed down at his sides, but Skipper knew that didn¡¯t mean anything. That original attack had fired blades out of his whole body -- if he was aiming at you, you¡¯d never know it until he fired.


    "Neat trick," Skipper said cautiously, making his way around the back of the room. "Body double?"


    Chael blinked. "It¡¯s not my trick, Skipper. It¡¯s a mistake to think you¡¯ve met all my friends. Do you intend to shoot me?"


    The lazy demeanour that had defined the President of Taldan had vanished completely, replaced by the cold resolve of a man with singular purpose.


    "Still thinking about it," Skipper said, doing his best to surreptitiously glance around the room as he kept his finger trained on Chael. The illusion was someone else¡¯s ability, then? It couldn¡¯t be. Were they here? "You managed to pull off a hell of a thing there, pal -- President moonlighting as a rebel leader. It¡¯s, uh, it¡¯s hard to imagine nobody noticing you vanish. How¡¯d you manage that?"


    Chael didn¡¯t answer -- he only continued to stare.


    "Don¡¯t tell me," grinned Skipper. "Your illusionist buddy¡¯s been covering for you, right? Acting as a body double while you¡¯re out doing your thing. Now that would be a neat trick. Am I right?"


    "You¡¯re an exceptional man, Skipper," Chael said calmly. "I feel as if we could get along quite well. Why not put that hand down and help me out here?"


    "Sorry, pal. I¡¯ve got folks to look after."


    Chael smiled, but his eyes remained dull and dead. "I understand you¡¯re being threatened. Look," he gestured towards the corpse pinned against the wall, towards the pile of bloody meat, towards the red mist that was still falling to coat the floor. "Here are the ones who¡¯ve threatened you. Are you still afraid of them?"


    Skipper clicked his tongue. "Can¡¯t risk it. Sorry."


    "I see," Chael said, closing his eyes -- the slightest red glow still visible from underneath his eyelids. "Die, then."


    Skipper threw himself to the ground as countless blades were fired out of Chael¡¯s body, each one barely passing over his head. This attack was more powerful than the first -- the rooms walls were reduced to splintered messes -- and any remnants of the Sponsor¡¯s corpses were given their final indignities.


    "The work is not yet done, Skipper," Chael called out -- his voice was hollow now, metallic. It sounded like he was wearing a helmet. "Someone else will take their place so long as there¡¯s a place to take."


    Skipper rolled over onto his back, keeping his finger ready to point as he looked up at the ceiling. He couldn¡¯t hear Chael moving, so the man was still on the stage -- Skipper couldn¡¯t afford to move, then, or the Citizen would just use that omnidirectional attack again.


    "If your big plan is to just kill every asshole who pops up, buddy," Skipper called out. "You¡¯re gonna get real tired real fast."


    There was no reply -- only a tingle as he was struck by an Aether ping originating from the stage. Chael locking down his position.


    Time to move, then: he had absolutely no faith that the wooden tables he was hiding behind would be able to defend against one of Chael¡¯s spears. Being careful not to expose himself, Skipper moved into a crouching position -- ready to start running the moment the need arose.


    "Don¡¯t worry," said the Citizen, almost casually. "I have a way to solve that problem permanently. I really am lazy, you know."


    There was the whistling of metal on the wind.


    Skipper leapt out of cover seconds before a shower of tiny metal blades, each the size of a human hand, shredded the table he¡¯d been hiding behind. He rolled to a halt several meters away and -- not wasting a second -- pointed his flat palm towards Chael.


    Chael was doing much the same, his arm pointing in Skipper¡¯s direction, blades already protruding ominously from between the gaps in his armour. Hand to hand, sword to sword, will to will.


    Skipper grinned uneasily. "Let¡¯s dance then, pal."


    Heartbeat Shotgun.

 Chapter 79:3.42: Intrusion

    Noel ran her hands over the console, tendrils of cyan Aether working its way into the Dawnhouse¡¯s systems.


    She and her drones had cut into the hull of the ship from below as it soared above the city, and from there made their way to the engine room. She hadn¡¯t encountered as much resistance as she¡¯d expected -- something else was distracting security, it seemed, and she¡¯d seen more than a couple of corpses on her way here.


    Still, it wasn¡¯t her job to worry about things like that. Her job was to end this.


    It was a strange sensation, inhabiting a system like this. It was almost like forcing your hand into a sock-puppet -- but a puppet that warped your hand to suit its shape. She could feel the ship¡¯s systems in her own mind, her Aether translating them into mental processes, as familiar to her as her own memories.


    Thrusters and steering. Those were what she needed.


    Apart from her and the entourage of drones she¡¯d brought along as defense, the engine room was empty. The massive hulk of machinery rumbled in the center of the chamber, the smoke and steam being pumped away in tubes to be expelled along the exterior of the ship. Noel, and the console she was using to access the systems, were tiny by comparison.


    This engine was what was going to do it. Finally, finally, Noel would matter.


    The instructions she¡¯d been given were very simple -- rewrite the ships navigation, have it ram full-speed into Toptown, shaving away the seats of power. That whole section of the city would fall down into the Pit, dead rich and living poor being united at last.


    The problems of society were knots -- and there was no better way to deal with knots than cutting them apart.


    With the merest flick of her wrist, she could set the Dawnhouse on that path, turn it into the shining bullet that brought a new day. Still, she hesitated. How many people would this kill? How many zeroes?


    A flare of anger warmed her chest. Why was she worrying about pointless things like that? Hadn¡¯t she already decided?


    Her own words echoed, whispered by the very walls: "I hate this city. I hate this planet. I hate this whole entire galaxy, really, now that I think about it." S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She¡¯d said that, hadn¡¯t she? So why couldn¡¯t she follow through? Was she all talk?


    "I¡­"


    The walls were merciless. "This whole world is trash, and so are all the people who live in it. Trash. Trash."


    There was no decision to be made. She¡¯d already decided she was going to do this, hadn¡¯t she? That she would matter?


    Noel flicked her wrist.


    Nothing happened.


    She blinked. What? That wasn¡¯t right, she was certain she¡¯d gotten into the navigation systems. She plunged her Aether in deeper, inspected the electronic web more closely. Had she missed something?


    She had.


    There was already something else hijacking the systems -- a virus, surging through the controls and forcing them into a new shape. It wasn¡¯t pretty: the virus¡¯ control over the navigation was rough and forceful, like someone bending a finger backwards. Her brute force attacks weren¡¯t working against it, either -- it simply recreated whatever parts of itself she managed to expunge.


    The Dawnhouse wouldn¡¯t do as she wanted. It wouldn¡¯t hit Toptown. Her heart dropped as she realized: the Dawnhouse was going to hit something entirely different.


    "Okay," said Dragan, swinging around in his chair to face Muzazi. "What do you know about nendon gas?"


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "What is nendon gas?"


    Shit.


    Dragan¡¯s explanation came out quick and uncertain, words spilling out of his mouth before he could put them into a presentable shape. "Okay -- um, it¡¯s a kind of fuel, I guess -- to power starships, it¡¯s what Taldan was built for, because this was originally a mining colony. The inside of the planet below us? It¡¯s full -- it¡¯s full of nendon gas. Jam-packed. You understand?"


    Muzazi nodded. "It¡¯s abundant, yes. What of it?"


    "It¡¯s abundant," Dragan nodded back. "Yes, yes, it¡¯s abundant. You know what else it is? Volatile. Like, explosively volatile. The worst kind. That¡¯s why they need protective gear to mine it in its unrefined form. The slightest spark can set it off, and well -- it¡¯s really good fuel. It blows the fuck up."


    Muzazi visibly paled -- good. He seemed to understand. "So below us, inside the planet¡­?"


    "It¡¯s basically a giant bomb. Now, I imagine the actual, uh, severity of what could happen if it goes up has been played down because these guys like money and evacuation doesn¡¯t make good money, but our guy over there," he pointed at Roz¡¯s body. "He found something out. Hence why they killed him."


    "What is to be done?" mused Muzazi, turning his pipe over in his hands. "This -- this bomb, how would they detonate it?"


    "I found out on the way here -- the Dawnhouse, this huge ship, is flying above the city for a party. If you flew that right into the central mineshaft, I bet that¡¯d be more than the spark you¡¯d need."


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    Muzazi stood up, eyes firm. "Then we must take that Dawnhouse."


    As expected. He¡¯d provided Muzazi with a heroic quest, and now he was eager to go. He might not have been as bombastic about it as Patel, but they truly were two of a kind.


    All they needed now was a way out of here --


    "Be silent," Muzazi suddenly hissed. He was staring at the exit, at the door he¡¯d welded shut. Dragan opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but a sharp glance from the swordsman silenced him.


    There was a click from outside.


    "Get down!" Muzazi roared, grabbing Dragan by the back of his collar and leaping backwards, pulling both of them behind the console. A second later, all hell broke loose.


    The door burst inwards, the controls exploding in a shower of sparks and broken glass as they were overloaded. Smoke poured into the room from outside -- and as Dragan staggered back up to his feet he saw a huge hand pull the hole in the door open wider.


    A second hand came into view, holding a massive stun cannon, and then a face. Familiar eyes glared at Dragan.


    "Hey, Dir," Dragan said nervously, backing up a little as the security chief climbed into the room through the hole he¡¯d blasted. "Fancy seeing you here."


    As per usual, not a trace of humour infiltrated Dir¡¯s expression. There were only the slightest hints of disappointment and grim purpose.


    "Hadrien," he said, raising the cannon up. "I thought you were smarter than this."


    Unlike Dragan, Muzazi hadn¡¯t retreated in the least -- instead, he pointed his pipe towards Dir. "Do not act rashly," he said quietly. "You¡¯re outnumbered -- and we know of your plans."


    The only part of Dir that moved were his eyes, glancing over at Muzazi. "My plans?" he said slowly. There was the slightest sense of confusion in his tone.


    He didn¡¯t know what the Sponsor of War was planning. That made sense -- when Dragan had spoken with the Sponsor of War, he¡¯d gotten the sense that Dir was more of a useful pawn than an equal partner.


    Dragan suppressed a smirk. Someone who was being used was the easiest person to convince to take your side, especially when you knew what they were being used for.


    "Dir," he said quietly, grabbing the security chief¡¯s attention once again. "What is it you think is happening here?"


    There was a moment¡¯s hesitation. "Apprehending a terrorist. You¡¯ve broken into a secure government installation, released an agent of a hostile government, and assassinated the warden."


    "Okay," Dragan gulped. "Strictly speaking, that¡¯s true. But you¡¯re missing a lot of context."


    Muzazi glanced at Dragan over his shoulder. "You assassinated someone?" he said. There was an uncomfortably judgy tone to his speech.


    "Yes, well, technically Patel did it," he jerked his head back towards the unconscious warrior, slumped in his chair. "But I sort of helped."


    If anything, Muzazi¡¯s estimation of him seemed to drop even lower, judging by his gaze. "You didn¡¯t even do it yourself," he muttered, turning back to Dir.


    Dir looked around the ruined room -- at the blank monitors, the smoke pouring out of the hallways, the chaos left behind by their escape. "I don¡¯t see what context there could be for this."


    "The Sponsor of War¡¯s planning to blow up the planet."


    The security chief¡¯s eyes widened, just fractionally, and his head snapped back to look at Dragan. "That¡¯s ridiculous."


    "It is, yeah, I know," Dragan replied, nodding frantically. "Ridiculously true. It¡¯s possible. I just explained it to Muzazi here. Muzazi, explain it to him."


    "What?"


    I need to think of a way out of this. Dragan tried to communicate that message with just his eyes as he shot a glance at Muzazi. He wasn¡¯t especially sure if the Special Officer quite got it, but he turned back to Dir all the same.


    "You see," Muzazi said, supremely confident. "This entire planet is actually a massive bomb. The Dawnhouse is actually a bomb, as well, and this Sponsor of War has snuck aboard the ship, removed the captain, and intends to fly it inside a mine. Hence, the destruction of the planet."


    Close enough.


    Dragan looked down at the stun cannon Dir had clutched in his hand. It was a huge weapon, barrel-shaped, thicker than the arm that was holding it. From what Dragan understood, it worked via firing off a wave of force designed to disrupt motor impulses. Total loss of bodily control.


    Basically, if you got caught in it, your arrest wasn¡¯t going to be big on dignity.


    He was pretty sure Muzazi could take a shot from that -- unlike when Dragan had shot him in the back, he knew that this attack was potentially coming. He could brace himself for it.


    Dragan, though? He¡¯d barely been able to block a single plasmashot. He wasn¡¯t exactly confident in his ability to resist this.


    Running for it was risky. Even if he managed to get past Dir and head down the hallway, there¡¯d be nothing stopping the security chief from shooting him in the back -- except for Muzazi. And even so, he couldn¡¯t imagine Muzazi taking him attempting to escape well at all.


    Negotiation was the best bet after all, then.


    Dir was looking at Muzazi, brow furrowed, still trying to process the garbled nonsense the Special Officer had turned Dragan¡¯s explanation into. His hand was still on the cannon -- ready to lift up and fire at a moment¡¯s notice. Dragan would have to be careful not to provoke him.


    He quietly cleared his throat, just loud enough to attract Dir¡¯s attention.


    "It¡¯s the nendon gas, Dir," he said seriously. "The inside of the planet is full of it. You know that. They¡¯re going to fly the Dawnhouse right into the central mineshaft and blow the whole thing up. You know it¡¯s possible."


    Dir snorted. "And why would they do that?"


    Dragan faltered, mind scrambling for motivation. He couldn¡¯t leave too much of a gap between responses here -- he had to keep Dir on the hook.


    Gears hurriedly clicked together. "The whole thing¡¯s more trouble than it¡¯s worth now. The Citizen, Muzazi¡­ the UAP central government was going to find out what was happening here soon enough. This is just getting rid of the evidence." Another thought occurred. "Besides, I¡¯d bet this planet is full of other resources too, right? Minerals, ores? They can switch over to collecting that stuff as part of the clean-up operation. It¡¯s just another kind of racket."


    Dir took a deep breath, looking down at the cannon in his hand. There was doubt in his eyes, building as he listened to Dragan. He was right on the verge of believing.


    "You know it¡¯s possible, Dir," Dragan repeated, prodding him further over the cliff of belief. "You know they would."


    "I¡­" Dir¡¯s voice was quiet. He closed his eyes.


    Muzazi shifted ever-so-slightly into a combat stance, holding his pipe as if it were a farball bat. Idiot, idiot -- They were getting through to him!


    "You know," Dragan insisted, taking a step forward.


    Dir opened his eyes. They were cold and empty, like the windows of a house that had been abandoned for many years. Dragan realized too late: this was a broken man. Free will was poison to his mind. He couldn¡¯t disobey anymore than he could stop breathing.


    Dir¡¯s voice was flat. "Orders are orders."


    He raised the cannon. He fired.

 Chapter 80:3.43: Fourteen Plus One

    Some battles could be beautiful. Despite the bloodshed and suffering that inevitably bloomed as a result, combat could sometimes become an intricate dance, an impeccable waltz of call-and-response that elevated it from common violence to something transcendent and true.


    This was not one of those battles.


    Skipper hurled one of the circular dining tables with a roar as the Citizen sent another shower of blades flying his way. The blades shredded through the wooden table, reducing it to splinters before it could travel even two meters. That didn¡¯t stop the travel of the blades, either -- Skipper was only to avoid meeting a similar fate to the table by blasting them off to the side with a split-second Heartbeat Shotgun.


    "I don¡¯t understand," said Chael calmly as a silver blade the length of a spear grew from his elbow. "You¡¯re clearly an intelligent man. You clearly understand the way this world functions. And yet you insist on adhering to fruitless morality." He grabbed the spear and snapped it off his arm, pointing it towards Skipper. "Don¡¯t you understand? Don¡¯t you get it? The forces that press down on us will triumph if you hesitate for a moment, if you compromise for a moment."


    Skipper was grateful for the opportunity to take a breath. As he spoke, a distant alarm blared: "I¡¯ve compromised before, buddy. Didn¡¯t much care for it. Never doing it again."


    Chael narrowed his eerie red eyes. "Then you¡¯ll make a virtuous corpse."


    He hurled the spear and Skipper went to dodge, blasting himself upwards with twin Heartbeat Shotguns from his palms. He went flying, reaching the rafters from the force of the blasts.


    But that wasn¡¯t enough to dodge this time. S§×ar?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The spear lodged itself in the wall -- and a second later, erupted into a chaotic mass of similar blades, like a grasping plant of steel. The area of the attack covered several meters, and reached high enough that it almost stabbed through Skipper¡¯s dangling feet.


    Oh, Skipper thought, trying not to think of just how close he¡¯d come to losing his legs. That¡¯s good to know.


    It wasn¡¯t just Chael¡¯s skin -- he could produce blades from the blades he¡¯d already shot out. He couldn¡¯t imagine Chael had been holding back with that attack, so -- just from eyeballing it -- he could produce around seven generations of blades from the original source.


    It was good to know, but it also suggested that Skipper was more screwed than he¡¯d originally anticipated. Well, he had a classic solution for that.


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    The invisible sword shredded through the mass of blades like a whirling ribbon, the sound of shattering steel filling the room. The blades were more fragile than Skipper had expected -- deadly sharp, but broken with just the slightest persuasion. As the broken pieces of metal hit the floor, they crumbled into grey dust, which then dissipated into similarly grey Aether.


    Skipper let go of the rafters and fell back down to the ground -- blasting Chael with as many Heartbeat Shotguns as those seconds would fill. In response, more blades erupted around the Citizen¡¯s body, creating a metal cocoon that provided a shield against Skipper¡¯s attacks.


    Each shot sent showers of metal shards flying off the mass, but the overall shield held firm. That was fine -- Skipper had only intended this as a distraction, anyway.


    In the last second before he hit the floor, Skipper let out an Aether ping -- a surge of green Aether erupting from his body and spreading out into every section of the ship he could reach. He needed to get the lay of the land before he could focus on the battle before him.


    Aether users on the ship -- he could feel their presence as if brushing over them with invisible hands. The first was Chael, here in the function room -- no surprises there. Skipper had always thought of the sensation granted by his Aether ping as something like taste, but he knew that wasn¡¯t quite true -- just a kind of synesthesia to allow his mind to comprehend an alien sense. Still, he couldn¡¯t deny that the cold, metal flavour emanating from Chael¡¯s Aether was fitting.


    The second Aether user was the Fifth Dead, somewhere below deck. What the hell was he doing? There was something of a situation up here, and he was nowhere to be seen. The ping reached some Aether constructs that gave off the same flavour as the Fifth Dead -- like a stew that changed its contents every few seconds. Those constructs were the animals that he¡¯d summoned before, no doubt. Was he fighting too, then?


    Another Aether signature, a third one, even further below -- right on the edge of Skipper¡¯s ping range. The engine room. It was a familiar flavour, one that he¡¯d sampled not long ago: like melted computer parts barely covering the scent of roses. Noel? She¡¯d be the one reprogramming the ships navigation -- he could sense that same acrid Aether moving through the computers.


    He didn¡¯t sense a fourth Aether user. Either the illusionist had made a run for it, then, or he -- well, they, he couldn¡¯t be certain of their identity yet -- was still here and just cloaking their Aether. The latter explanation was unlikely: illusions would take a lot of Aether, and using the same amount to cloak that Aether was just impractical.


    He¡¯d have to look into that later, then.


    The cocoon of steel exploded outwards, metal spikes flying in every direction. Any trace of the room¡¯s dignity had already been wiped away, but the spikes gouged away whatever was left. The wallpaper was left hanging in tatters, the stage became a vague pile of rubble, and the ceiling began to buckle downwards as the rafters cracked like branches.


    Heartbeat Landmine.


    Skipper¡¯s own omnidirectional attack redirected most of the shards headed for him -- but not all of them. Metal sliced at his chest, his stomach, his face, leaving bleeding cuts that stung as the now ever-present dust tickled against them. The metal fingers of his prosthetic hand twitched involuntarily too: the mechanisms had obviously suffered some damage.


    As Chael stepped out of the remnants of the cocoon, he brushed some metal dust from his shoulder. For a second, he was unarmoured, clad only in the shredded remnants of his tuxedo. The moment Skipper lifted his hand to take a shot, though, new armour grew to cover Chael¡¯s body almost instantly. Red pinpricks of light glared almost mockingly from within the Citizen¡¯s ¡¯helmet¡¯.


    "Do you understand now?" Chael said, spreading his arms wide as he stepped down from the pile of rubble that had once been the stage. He moved with such dignity that the loose chunks of concrete seemed like a grand staircase. "My armour is worthless, truly, but I can create it faster than you can destroy it. It¡¯s the same with this whole damn city, this whole damn planet -- so long as there¡¯s the possibility that the system can be rebuilt, it will be rebuilt -- again and again, endlessly. Everything I have done, everything I do, is for the sake of eliminating that possibility. Why don¡¯t you understand?"


    He came to a halt at the bottom of the rubble, arms still spread wide as if expecting an embrace. Skipper, recovering from the barrage on one knee, only chuckled.


    "Everything you¡¯ve just said," Skipper said, wiping a drop of blood from his nose. "I want you to know, you¡¯re probably right. These systems probably grow back if you give ¡¯em the chance. The logical thing to do is burn the whole thing down and start again, yeah?"


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    "Of course."


    "But there¡¯s the thing," Skipper forced himself back up to his feet. "I¡¯m kind of an idiot, yeah? I don¡¯t think about these things logically." He thumped his heart with his mechanical hand. "I think about it with this ticker here. Like a human being, you get me?"


    The trace of hope that had clearly been growing inside Chael disappeared. A muffled groan forced its way out of the armour. "So you choose naivety. I see there was never any hope for one such as you."


    Skipper shrugged, grinning. "Now you¡¯re getting it."


    Aether was an incredible power, it really was. It granted speed, strength and abilities beyond normal human means. There was an undeniable difference, a gap, between fighters who had Aether and those who did not.


    But there were certain circumstances under which that gap could be crossed.


    The first of those circumstances was usually referred to as ¡¯a big fucking gun¡¯.


    Dir grunted as he fired a stun-wave in Muzazi¡¯s direction, forcing the swordsman to fly upwards -- using thrusters that burst from his feet -- to avoid it. The flames died at the height of Muzazi¡¯s ascent, and a split-second thruster that blasted out of his side sent him flying off horizontally, avoiding Dir¡¯s follow-up shot.


    The second circumstance, needless to say, was the distance between the non-Aether user and his Aether-wielding opponents.


    Dir was doing a good job at maintaining that distance between himself and his two enemies -- concentrating his fire to keep Muzazi dodging backwards and to the sides, while also making sure that Dragan was constantly within his line of sight. Dragan knew Dir would instantly shift his attention if he was given the slightest reason to. To prevent that, Dragan stayed in cover behind one of the consoles.


    For that matter, Dragan wasn¡¯t even sure what he could do if Dir sent one of those stun-waves flying his way. He wasn¡¯t sure of Gemini Shotgun¡¯s exact limitations -- ideally, it would have none -- but he imagined there was quite the difference between recording an object the size of a coin or a plasma globule and recording a stun-wave that covered a meter across.


    To put it bluntly, he wasn¡¯t feeling confident.


    Muzazi, on the other hand, was zipping around the control room like some kind of pipe-wielding bug. Split-second thrusters flickered around his body, making micro adjustments as he flew through the room, avoiding the stun-waves that Dir sent surging towards him. He only touched the floor for fractions of a second at a time.


    Even so, though, it was obvious that Muzazi wasn¡¯t in his best condition. He¡¯d been imprisoned here for a while now, after all, and Dragan doubted he¡¯d gotten much in the way of nutrition while he¡¯d been this place¡¯s honoured guest.


    The third condition was exhaustion, then. In the right circumstances -- very right circumstances, all clumped together -- a normal person with a gun could hold their own against an Aether user. The gun in this case was a truly massive cannon, which didn¡¯t hurt either.


    Dragan gulped, making himself as small as he could behind the cover. He tried to ignore the sounds of the battle as he thought. Options, options. What were his options?


    Again, he could try to run for it -- but if Dir didn¡¯t stop him, Muzazi definitely would. And even if he somehow got away, he¡¯d be leaving empty-handed, making this whole exercise pointless.


    He glanced towards Patel, still slumped over in his chair -- unconscious again, clearly. The shockwaves produced by the stun cannon had sent the bomberman¡¯s seat flying into the corner of the room. Even with the deafening sounds of the battle, Patel showed no signs of stirring -- so he wouldn¡¯t be much help.


    There was every chance he could just wait for Muzazi to deal with the situation, but that idea didn¡¯t sit right in his skull. Leaving what happened to him up to someone else -- becoming a passenger in his own life? No, no.


    He¡¯d said so himself, hadn¡¯t he? To Dir, even, back at the hospital.


    "The only one who decides what happens to me is me!"


    He¡¯d never been one for introspection, self-analysis, but as he ran that statement back in his mind he found himself agreeing with it utterly. At the time, the words had come out in a stream of emotion -- not really considered -- but looking back Dragan could recognize that they were honest in a way very little that he said was.


    He couldn¡¯t very well go back on them, then.


    Another shot from the stun-cannon shook the room, and fragments of concrete crumbled down from the ceiling -- falling towards Dragan. Without even really thinking about it, he released his Aether into a field around him, analyzing and recording the chunks of concrete before they could hit the ground.


    They were tiny, barely the size of pebbles, but they were numerous -- fifteen in all. And Dragan knew they could be fast, too.


    There was a gap between the stun-shots -- a small one, but noticeable to his Cogitant senses all the same. Enough time to pop out of cover and make his move. Enough time for Dir to notice and blast the shit out of him -- probably literally, if he took one of those shots full on.


    Best not to think about that.


    The stun-cannon fired -- Muzazi narrowly zipped out of the way of the shot, but was forced to retreat towards the back of the room in the process. The moment the stun-wave passed Dragan¡¯s position, he leapt to his feet.


    Muzazi was tired. Muzazi was at a distance. Muzazi was a melee fighter.


    But Dragan was none of those things.


    He found himself looking right into Dir¡¯s eyes -- the distance between them was much shorter than he¡¯d originally thought. Perhaps two meters. If he made a run for it, there was a good chance he could reach the security chief -- but he wasn¡¯t confident enough in his ability to do that.


    Dir¡¯s eyes narrowed, and the angle of the stun cannon adjusted to face directly towards Dragan. The security chief¡¯s finger tightened around the trigger.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    Fourteen chunks of concrete materialised over Dragan¡¯s shoulders with resounding bangs, flying towards Dir with incredible speed, leaving streaks of sparking blue Aether behind them. The speed of their original fall, enhanced by Aether infusion -- Dragan hoped it would be enough.


    It wasn¡¯t.


    The projectiles were fast, but Dir had the physical speed of a Taldan prize fighter. He adjusted his footing in a moment, shifting the cannon in his hands so that the side of the barrel served as a shield between himself and the projectiles.


    Rat-a-tat-tat. The pieces of concrete bounced off the metal cannon, leaving modest dents in its surface as they ricocheted to embed themselves into the walls and floor. Even with the damage to the gun, Dragan knew that wouldn¡¯t have been enough to disable it.


    The slightest sense of triumph leaked into Dir¡¯s stoic expression. That was his fatal error.


    As expected, Dir had shifted his attention away from Muzazi as soon as Dragan poked his head out. Dir¡¯s eyes had moved in his direction. Dir¡¯s gun had moved in his direction. That left an opening ripe to be exploited.


    There was a flash of white Aether from the edge of Dragan¡¯s vision -- and a second later, Dir wasn¡¯t alone in his view. Atoy Muzazi had appeared next to him, the remnants of a full-power thruster still dissipating from his back. He held the pipe in both hands, raised it high above his head.


    Aether was an incredible power, it really was. It granted speed, strength and abilities beyond normal human means. There was an undeniable difference, a gap, between fighters who had Aether and those who did not. There were certain circumstances under which that gap could be crossed.


    But a moment of lost focus rendered them all moot.


    The pipe came down --


    -- and Dir caught it in his hand, moving with the same speed he must¡¯ve used to throw a punch in the Taldan fighting rings. It wasn¡¯t a clean catch -- Dragan could hear the man¡¯s knuckles crunching, his wrist snapping -- but it halted Muzazi¡¯s attack all the same.


    Muzazi, lightning fast, adjusted his grip to make another attack -- but Dir moved at the same time as well. His good hand, the one holding the cannon, turned just slightly so that the barrel of the gun pressed against Muzazi¡¯s torso. His finger curled against the trigger.


    Bang.


    Dir did not pull the trigger.


    For a moment, his brow furrowed, as if he were confused -- and then he staggered backwards, the cannon falling to the floor with a resounding clang. The hand that had been holding it went to his throat.


    There was a hole there, right on the side of his neck -- even as the blood ran from it, creating a slick trail on the floor, one could see the other side of the room through the wound. Dir collapsed, slumped against the wall as he futilely tried to keep his wounds closed. His eyes flicked to look at Dragan.


    Dragan panted heavily, staring at Dir as the security chief¡¯s breathing gradually but inevitably slowed. He had fired his fifteenth shot, the fifteenth chunk of concrete that he¡¯d kept in reserve just in case.


    Just like Dir, he couldn¡¯t help but stare -- for a few moments, they were locked there, two pairs of eyes staring into each other¡­ until only one pair of eyes were staring. A death rattle, hollow and clicking, slithered out of Dir¡¯s mouth as his gaze clouded over.


    Dragan blinked.

 Chapter 81:3.44: Up

    Dir lay there, slumped against the wall. Dead.


    Dragan let out a breath that he¡¯d been holding in for quite a while, letting his arms drop down to his sides. For a moment, he watched Dir¡¯s body cautiously -- just in case this was some kind of fake-out -- but when the burly security chief moved no more, he allowed himself to drop down to the ground himself, in a sitting position.


    Footsteps approached, clicking on the hard floor -- Muzazi walking over. The swordsman looked down at the body as well, just as cautious, before glancing towards Dragan.


    "Your first?" he said quietly.


    Dragan nodded mutely.


    Muzazi nodded, eyes closed. "It gets easier," he said, before turning and walking back out of sight -- to check on Patel, maybe, or get back to that search for his sword.


    It gets easier? What a bizarre thing to say. It had been exceedingly easy to kill Dir -- the man had left himself wide open when he¡¯d gone to eliminate Muzazi. Only an idiot could have missed that shot. How could it have been any easier?


    Dragan glanced at Dir¡¯s still eyes, expecting to see some trace of accusation or fear there, something to force him to look away. There was nothing. The body was just an empty house. It felt nothing. It meant nothing.


    Once, Dragan had seen a documentary on the formation of the Dranell Breaches. In the program, there¡¯d been an interview with a retired soldier who¡¯d fought against the initial rebellion on Dranell-1 -- that hellscape -- alongside the man who¡¯d later been promoted to Ascendant-General. The majority of the interview had been about that man, but Dragan remembered something the soldier had said near the end more clearly:


    "When you take a life," he¡¯d said. "They become nothing and you become less¡­ less yourself. Like a chunk of you has broken off. Like they took part of you with them. You can feel it -- this, this awful hollow feeling. I can feel it now."


    Dragan searched for that hollow feeling, and found nothing. He felt absolutely fine. There was regret, of course -- regret that things had gone far enough that he¡¯d had no choice but to take Dir out -- but guilt? Doubt? None at all.


    He supposed you couldn¡¯t trust everything you saw on the videographs.


    With a grunt, he picked himself up from the floor and turned -- just in time to see Muzazi returning from the hallway, clutching a sheathed sword in his hands. He held it in both hands, grinning widely.


    "I found it," he said to himself, almost breathless.


    Dragan raised an eyebrow; that kind of attention to an inanimate object couldn¡¯t be healthy. He wondered what the story was behind that.


    "You satisfied now?" he said, voice droll. "Can we get out of here, or is there a shield you need to find as well?"


    "No," Muzazi shook his head seriously. "I do not use a shield in combat. You ask if we can go, Hadrien, but where is it you intend to go to? What is your next course of action?"


    Dragan put a hand to his chin. "Well, we grab the rest of my crew first, of course -- then we do what we can to stop the, ah, the kaboom."


    Muzazi¡¯s gaze turned harsh. "Your crew," he said quietly, as though the very word was a condemnation. "You mean Ruth Blaine and her terrorist chums? Make no mistake, Hadrien -- you are under my power right now. What reason would I have to take you to backup?"


    With a seemingly carefree shrug, Dragan hopped onto the edge of the desk behind him, using it as a seat. "Well," he drew the word out. "I guess if you want the planet to blow up, we could do things your way."


    Muzazi¡¯s resolve didn¡¯t break -- not straight away, at least. "You¡¯re arrogant, Hadrien. You truly believe I wouldn¡¯t be able to stop this plot without your assistance?"


    Dragan smiled. This would require his finest bullshit prowess, but he was confident.


    "What?" he scoffed. "You think you can stop this plan by yourself?"


    "I do."


    Still smiling, Dragan leaned forward. "You¡¯ll have a hard time doing that without the navigation codes. The Dawnhouse isn¡¯t the kind of ship where you can grab a steering wheel and take it somewhere else, you know? It runs on complex systems. A G-93 navigation intelligence that runs based on complex code sequences. The only person here who has those codes is me."


    There was no such thing as a G-93 navigation intelligence, and Dragan was pretty sure navigation codes didn¡¯t work like that anyway. Still, so long as he sounded confident enough, there was a good chance he could get Muzazi caught up in his pace.


    Muzazi¡¯s hand rested on his sheathed sword. "And why would you have those codes?"


    Dragan allowed his smug smile to spread into an even smugger grin, just wide enough to be infuriating. "You know me, Atoy," he said, acting as if he were trying to suppress a triumphant chuckle. "I don¡¯t go into a place without a plan to get out of it -- whether it¡¯s this prison or a planet. Besides, I figured I might need leverage if things turned complicated later. Guess I was right to, yeah?"


    He¡¯d won -- he could see it on Muzazi¡¯s face, in his eyes. The rage there was that of one who¡¯d been defeated. He¡¯d played into Muzazi¡¯s preconceptions of him -- while grabbing top-secret navigation codes from the very seat of government was impossible for the real Dragan, the one Muzazi had built up in his head was capable of anything so long as it was duplicitous.


    He¡¯d probably believe that he shot the Citizen if he said he¡¯d done it in the back.


    Dragan tilted his head slightly, still smiling. "Well? Do you still think I¡¯m under your power?"


    Muzazi¡¯s face was full of barely constrained fury -- his teeth clenched so hard it looked as if they¡¯d shatter, his hand gripping his sheathed sword so hard the knuckles were a ghastly white¡­ for a moment, Dragan worried that he¡¯d pushed the swordsman too far -- but then he relented, looking away.


    "Devil," he snarled, glaring intently at the wall. "You are a demon, Dragan Hadrien."


    A demon who¡¯d gotten what he wanted. Dragan could live with that.


    This place really was like a maze.


    Ruth kicked the latest security officer through the set of doors in front of her -- then leapt to the side to avoid the torrent of plasma-arrows that erupted from the now-open doorway. She¡¯d expected another squad to be waiting in ambush for her there, so that was good to have confirmed.


    She¡¯d put on her full Skeletal Set, including the mask, so everything she could see was tinged bloody red -- and she knew that, if she looked in a mirror, she¡¯d see her hair blazing just as crimson. A stealthy escape was therefore impossible -- and not her style anyway.


    Her claws, both the ones on her hands and the ones on her feet, were buried deep in the wall she¡¯d leapt to, keeping her attached there like some kind of insect. Even stuck so tightly to the concrete wall, Ruth knew that she¡¯d be able to tear herself free and leap to another surface the second it became necessary. She could feel the strength she needed inside the armour, like feeling the warmth of a drink just by holding the cup.


    Absentmindedly, she pulled one hand free and grabbed a plasma-arrow just before it could strike her on the back of the head. She always had to be careful with the Skeletal Set -- unlike the Noblesse Set, it gave no protection to the back of her skull apart from her normal Aether.


    She tossed the arrow back without looking, and heard the modulated yelp of a security officer -- followed by the sizzling of burning plasma. Bullseye, just as she¡¯d expected.


    This was her element, this. Not moping around a bedroom feeling sorry for herself. Not worrying about the decisions she¡¯d made. Not agonizing about the motivations of those around her.


    This -- just her, and the fight -- was all she needed. Just pumping blood and the wind against her skin and the aching of her muscles. Sometimes she wished the fight could go on forever.


    She leapt out of the wall, tearing out chunks of concrete in the process, and zoomed through the double doors. The room beyond was some kind of mess hall, and the squad of security officers that had assembled to ambush her shouted out in alarm as she was suddenly among them.


    Around ten enemies. Difficult, but doable. Exciting.


    She swept the legs of the guard nearest her -- and as he fell, she grabbed him by the foot and swung him like a club into the two officers nearest him. She infused his armour with her Aether -- creating a red aurora -- and was rewarded for her investment with her targets being sent flying by the increased speed and power of her attack.


    The rest of the officers were still behind her. She couldn¡¯t waste a second, or they¡¯d shoot her in the back.


    Ruth whirled around, cutting off the flow of her Aether to the guard she¡¯d grabbed¡¯s armour as she held him up as a human shield. A dozen plasma-arrows shattered as they impacted against his chest, and Ruth cut off his screams with a swift snapping of his neck.


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    These plasma bows were fancy pieces of hardware, but they meant that their users were slow to reload. Ruth leapt into the crowd, claws drawn, as they fumbled for their arrows -- and did what she did best. She was like a whirlwind of death, the blades over her fingers slicing through armour and flesh as if they were both butter.


    A slam from the door -- another security officer kicked it in, charging in with a heavy plasma cannon. He fired, a stream of plasma shooting towards Ruth like a fire hose.


    No time to think. Her body knew what to do -- she just had to trust it. Trust that her hands knew what to grab, that her feet knew where to stand. S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As the plasma surged towards her, her hand lashed out and ripped away a helmet from one of the fallen officers. Red Aether crackled around the helmet as she infused it -- and then she held it out in front of her, neckhole pointing outwards, like some kind of artsy bucket.


    The plasma splashed into the piece of armour, and she could hear it sizzling inside as smoke poured out of the helmet¡¯s seams -- but she trusted her Aether would be enough to let it hold. She was strong, after all.


    Ruth span, and -- like a gardener watering their crops -- splashed the plasma she¡¯d intercepted at the guard who¡¯d fired it. He went down, thrashing as he clawed at his burning armour, and she finally ended the fight with a swift kick to his head.


    She took a breath. She was starting to work up a sweat.


    Tap. Footstep on floor, uncomfortably close. Instantly, Ruth whirled round, thrust her claws forward --


    -- and stopped them, barely inches from Bruno¡¯s face.


    "Nice to see you too," he said, voice flat.


    He was wearing the armour of a security officer, with the helmet tucked under his arm. In his other hand, he held a folded-up plasmabow.


    Ruth stepped back, stretching as she took the opportunity to catch her breath. "See you¡¯ve got some goodies."


    Bruno looked down at the bow. "Yeah. These things work better folded-up as melee weapons, if you ask me. Trying to use them the right way is just a pain in the ass." He nodded at the bodies littering the floor. "See you¡¯ve been busy."


    The exhilaration Ruth had felt during combat was already fading away, replaced by that persistent anxiety, eating away at her like acid. She¡¯d been running around so happily in this pointless fight, while who knew what was happening to Dragan and Skipper? It seemed Bruno and Serena had managed to get away from their captors without issue, but that had been no thanks to her as well.


    "They tried to get me in my room," Bruno said, answering the unasked question. "But I¡¯m not stupid -- I know an execution when I see one being set up. Hid in the corner and grabbed the guy when he came in."


    Bruno¡¯s dull expression was replaced by Serena¡¯s wide grin. "His neck went crack," she said excitedly. "It was awful!"


    "Right," Ruth said -- there wasn¡¯t really anything else to say. "What about Dragan and Skipper? Do you know where they are?"


    Serena¡¯s grin faded. Bruno shook his head. "No clue. Once I had this armour, I could sneak around pretty easy, but they weren¡¯t in the cells the records said they should be. Those rooms were empty."


    Ruth¡¯s blood ran cold for a moment. That couldn¡¯t mean¡­?


    No. Skipper was strong and Dragan was smart. The S4 wouldn¡¯t be able to take them out with such a simple trick.


    "We need to find them," Ruth said quietly.


    "How?" She couldn¡¯t sense either approval or disapproval in Bruno¡¯s tone -- it was completely neutral. A soldier awaiting orders.


    Ruth took a deep breath. Time to do some thinking.


    Enough defending. That wasn¡¯t Skipper¡¯s style.


    He charged forward across the function room floor, kicking off the remains of a table as he made a beeline towards Chael. The Citizen, standing still, simply stared at his incoming assailant.


    Made sense. The Citizen could fire off as many attacks as he liked without even lifting a finger. There was no need for him to move.


    But that was what Skipper was counting on.


    The blades came, firing out from Chael¡¯s torso -- a dozen spikes, long and thin like needles. Any one of them was sharp enough to pierce Skipper¡¯s body -- and fast enough to send him flying backwards. But that was only if they hit him.


    Heartbeat Landmine.


    The pulse of sound that burst out of Skipper¡¯s body -- he could feel it rumble in his bones -- redirected the spikes, sending the majority of them shooting off to the left and right. Only one remained close enough for what Skipper had in mind. Emerald Aether infusing his prosthetic hand -- increasing its durability as much as it could be improved -- Skipper reached out and grabbed the blade out of the air.


    No time to think. No time to think about how, even with the infusion, the blade was steadily slicing through his metal palm. Skipper brought his body low to the ground and hurled the spike towards Chael¡¯s face like a spear.


    His target was obvious -- the small gap in the helmet through which the Citizen¡¯s red pinpricks eyes could be seen. Before the blade could reach its mark, new silver shards grew to cover the gap in Chael¡¯s armour, his red gaze instantly covered by a sea of interlocking silver spikes. Skipper¡¯s projectile shattered against that shield harmlessly, but that was fine. That was ideal, in fact.


    Because now, for just a second, the Citizen couldn¡¯t see. Skipper glanced upwards.


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    The whistle that escaped his lips grew in intensity, the sound waves being infused with his Aether and gaining new properties -- sharpness, strength, mass. For just a few moments, the audio was given a physical presence in this world.


    The invisible blade slashed incessantly against the ceiling -- the already weakening ceiling -- leaving deep gouges in its surface before fading away. A second later, there was a rumble, a resounding crack, and the damaged ceiling burst apart, the roof finally collapsing in on itself --


    -- the weight of the ship above falling directly down onto the Citizen.


    That made him move. As the faceshield he¡¯d created dissipated into grey Aether, he turned his head upwards -- and a mass of colossal blades erupted from his back, dwarfing his own body in size as they held the ceiling up.


    Skipper rushed forward, blasting Heartbeat Shotguns behind himself in order to increase speed -- and within a second, he was right in Chael¡¯s face. He couldn¡¯t exactly tell through the mask, but he swore he saw those red eyes widen, just slightly.


    Against an enemy like this, it was common sense to keep your distance and engage carefully.


    Skipper didn¡¯t much subscribe to ¡¯common sense¡¯. He reached forward into the mass of blades, grabbing the remains of Chael¡¯s tuxedo collar and pulling him close, so they were nearly face to face. Skipper¡¯s emerald Aether crackled as it did his best to prevent the blades pressing against him from piercing his body.


    "What are you¡­?!" It was natural for Chael to be confused -- this was clearly a suicidal move. Even with Chael being preoccupied holding the ceiling up, there was nothing stopping him from annihilating Skipper with the blades covering the rest of his body.


    The spikes forming his armour lengthened slightly, preparing to fire --


    Heartbeat Landmine.


    A pulse of sound burst out of Skipper¡¯s body, and the spikes directly touching him shattered. For a moment, Chael¡¯s surprised face was visible -- before new spikes grew to cover it.


    Heartbeat Landmine. Heartbeat Landmine. Heartbeat Landmine.


    Sound shattered the blades, again and again, even as they constantly replenished themselves. The gap between Skipper¡¯s attacks was too short for Chael to fire the blades -- and if he tried to retreat, he risked bringing the ceiling down upon himself.


    The whole thing came down to endurance. Skipper felt dull pain pulsing through his body as the blasts of sound reverberated through him. He knew Chael would be suffering, too, producing those many blades in so short a time.


    Who would give first?


    Heartbeat Landmine. New spikes. Heartbeat Landmine. New spikes. Heartbeat Landmine. New spikes. The carousel of combat went round and round, second after second, resetting itself endlessly.


    "I¡¯d say," grunted Skipper, pushing through the pain. "We¡¯re at an impasse, yeah?"


    "No," snarled Chael. "We¡¯re at an end."


    Oh, so he was planning something, then. Maybe a blade had landed behind Skipper, then, and he was planning to grow new spikes from it to run him through. Now that he listened, he swore he could hear the tinkle of falling metal behind him.


    That was fine. He¡¯d thought of that. All that meant was that they¡¯d have to take a trip.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Blasts of sounds erupted from the soles of Skipper¡¯s feet, launching the two of them upwards. The blades protruding from Chael¡¯s back snapped, and the concrete they had been holding up came crumbling down again.


    Heartbeat Landmine, continuous.


    A pulse of sound, like a bass drop, erupted from Skipper¡¯s body -- and kept erupting, like a continuous field surrounding his form. As their upwards flight reached the ceiling, the sound field blasted through the rubble and they kept going, up to the next floor -- a section of hallway that had clearly seen better days.


    Chael¡¯s armour was being shed and reproduced so fast Skipper could barely make out his features, just an indistinct silver mass. Still, it was holding.


    Well, he wasn¡¯t done yet.


    Skipper continued blasting the Shotguns from his feet, and they kept going upwards -- through that ceiling as well. The continuous Heartbeat Landmine tore through it like a drill.


    Next floor. A section of offices, recently abandoned. The desks and computers were smashed to pieces by their very presence, sound waves ripping through the room.


    Next floor. Some kind of sleeping quarters -- they smashed through the bed on their way up, and the feathers that had stuffed the pillows billowed around the room like massive specks of dust.


    Next floor. Another hallway.


    Next floor. A custodian closet.


    Next floor. A maintenance tunnel.


    And then, they broke out into the night -- right on top of the Dawnhouses deck. Cold air filled Skipper¡¯s lungs as the harsh winds buffeted at both he and Chael. The moon hung high above, clearly visible, like a great eye observing the battle.


    There was a moment of distraction -- just one -- and Chael didn¡¯t miss it. Skipper grunted as a blade-formed boot slammed into his stomach, and the force of the blow and the fear of impalement gave him little choice but to release the Citizen.


    They went flying in opposite directions, Skipper rolling into a kneeling position -- holding onto a maintenance handle for dear life. This top deck was flat, slick with condensation -- clearly it wasn¡¯t meant to have people on it while the Dawnhouse was in flight -- and the wind was doing it¡¯s best to send them both flying off into the abyss.


    Chael hadn¡¯t gotten out of that attack unscathed by any means. He was clearly exhausted -- he could only produce enough blades to cover roughly half his body now, and his face was bright red from exertion. He landed on his stomach, and for a moment it looked as if he¡¯d just go sliding right off the deck -- then, he planted twin blades from his wrists deep into the metal below, anchoring himself into place.


    Skipper grinned, trying to hide his own exhaustion. "You don¡¯t die easy, huh?"


    Chael glared at him through his one visible eye -- the other was covered by a hastily assembled mask of blades. "I could say the same," he growled.


    There was no more need for words after that.


    Skipper charged forward, and Chael answered him.

 Chapter 82:3.45: Hell of a Day

    Bruno glanced around cautiously as he moved across the roof, keeping his body low to the ground.


    ¡¯What are you looking for?¡¯ Serena inquired, the sudden intrusive thought forcing Bruno to come to a stop.


    "There might be security drones looking for us," he muttered. "I can¡¯t risk being spotted."


    ¡¯But Miss Ruth doesn¡¯t care.¡¯


    There was no need to remind him of that. He resisted the urge to glare disapprovingly behind himself; he¡¯d done that enough over the last couple of minutes, and it clearly wasn¡¯t having the effect he wanted.


    Ruth was walking across the roof as casual as could be, with only the slightest trace of caution in her stance. Bruno knew that she was good enough to leap into action at a moment¡¯s notice, but that didn¡¯t make him feel any better.


    Still -- there wasn¡¯t any point in just him sneaking around like a dumbass. Bruno got up fully, feeling the evening breeze on his face.


    "I hoped there¡¯d be some transports left up here," he muttered. "Guess not."


    Inwardly, he cursed himself. If the security forces knew there were people sneaking around the base, it was a no-brainer that they¡¯d move the vehicles they could use to escape. They wouldn¡¯t make it that easy for them.


    ¡¯That doesn¡¯t make sense,¡¯ Serena spoke up again.


    Bruno moved over to the edge of the roof and peered over it, trying to see if he could spot any transports further down. No luck. "Of course it makes sense," Bruno muttered.


    ¡¯Nuh-uh. If they knew they were coming here, there¡¯d be guards. There aren¡¯t, so the transports are gone for another reason.¡¯


    Bruno paused. That did make sense. Where were the security officers if not here, then? He¡¯d have thought two Aether-users breaking out of confinement would have been high on their list of priorities, but was there something else going on?


    He heard the sheen of metal from behind him -- Ruth baring her claws.


    "Bruno," she said quietly, caution finally entering her tone. "We¡¯ve got incoming."


    Bruno glanced back towards her -- then dropped back down into a crouched position, just as she had done. The two of them moved over to a concealed position just outside the service elevator they¡¯d come up in. He followed her gaze up into the sky, at the object that was quickly growing larger in their vision.


    A car was flying down towards the roof: a security transport that had obviously seen better days. One of the doors had been ripped off, and whoever was driving clearly wasn¡¯t used to the handling -- it¡¯s descent kept stopping and starting, and the driver was visibly having to prevent the car from rotating.


    A second later, as the car thumped down on the roof a short distance away, Bruno saw the driver. His eyes widened, and his heart dropped.


    Atoy Muzazi, the Special Officer, climbed out of the car, clad in a bright-orange prisoner outfit with a security chestplate over it, holding a sheathed sword in one hand. He looked around the roof, showing no sign of spotting Bruno and Ruth, before nodding at somebody else in his vehicle. A second figure climbed out.


    Bruno blinked as he watched. The hell?


    Dragan climbed out of the car, looking around the roof as well. There was no sign that Muzazi had apprehended him -- he had no restraints on, and Dragan¡¯s body language didn¡¯t show much in the way of anxiety. It was as if they were working together.


    "What¡¯s he doing?" muttered Ruth from beside him.


    A chill ran down Bruno¡¯s spine. Was it happening again? Just like with Cott? Had he been an idiot to trust this person?


    ¡¯Stop worrying,¡¯ said Serena, cutting off Bruno¡¯s paranoid train of thought before it could really get going. ¡¯Mr. Dragan is really smart. This is all probably part of some big plan of his!¡¯


    Bruno let the notion run through his head. There was a good chance that was true -- Dragan betraying them for Muzazi wouldn¡¯t make sense, given how eager the Special Officer had been to take his head earlier. If Serena was right, the best thing to do would be to make themselves known.


    Dragan, looking around the roof, locked eyes with Bruno. He sighed and stood up, exposing his position.


    He really hoped Serena was right.


    "I swear," said Dragan, faux-cheer in his tone. "I can explain."


    They stood just to the side of the police car Dragan and Muzazi had commandeered -- them, Ruth and Bruno. Patel was unconscious in the back seat; Dragan hadn¡¯t been sure of any other safe place to put a wanted criminal like him.


    In retrospect, he wasn¡¯t sure that the current situation could be considered a safe place at all. For Patel or himself.


    Ruth and Bruno stood on one side, and Muzazi on the other -- with Dragan in the middle, trying to act as the peacemaker. While there was no violence in their stances yet, he knew that didn¡¯t mean much: Aether-users could move fast.


    Bruno¡¯s gaze flicked over to Dragan. "Explain, then," he said, voice low.


    "Okay," chuckled Dragan, desperately trying to change the mood of the encounter. "I¡¯ll start with the headline: the planet¡¯s going to blow up if we don¡¯t do something."


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    Ah, shit. That did sound kind of ridiculous when he said it out loud, didn¡¯t it? Even if it was true. "I¡¯m telling the truth," he went on, moving his hands in some kind of indecipherable gesture of anxiety. "I know -- I know it sounds ridiculous, but the bull guy -- you remember him, right? He¡¯s going to send the Dawnhouse flying right into the central mineshaft and boom. Maybe the actual physical planet won¡¯t fly into pieces, but the city will be done for. And we¡¯re in the city - so we kinda need to stop it."


    Bruno blinked. "That¡¯s¡­ a lot."


    "It is, yes."


    Ruth, who¡¯d been silent for a little while, spoke up. "Can you explain him?" She nodded towards Muzazi. Her arms were crossed and her brow creased angrily.


    Ah, right. There was bad blood there -- Muzazi had almost killed her back on Caelus Breck, after all. It made sense.


    "I¡¯ll explain myself," Muzazi said flatly before Dragan could speak up. "Hadrien is in my custody. Until this crisis is resolved, he will not leave my sight." He looked down at Dragan. "Make no mistake, Hadrien -- the only reason you¡¯re conscious is because you have the navigation codes."


    Bruno looked towards Dragan, expression confused. "Navigation codes?" he asked.


    Don¡¯t give it away, idiot! Dragan waved a vague hand. "Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ve been busy since we met last. Anyway -- it doesn¡¯t even matter. Long story short is that I broke Muzazi out of prison because he¡¯s strong, and we need someone strong if we¡¯re going to break into the Dawnhouse."


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    Bruno mirrored Ruth¡¯s crossed arms. There was still skepticism in his eyes -- it wasn¡¯t that he didn¡¯t believe Dragan, but more that he didn¡¯t believe in Dragan¡¯s plan. "You¡¯re assuming we are breaking into the Dawnhouse."


    "If we don¡¯t do it, we kinda blow up, so yeah -- I am."


    Ruth¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t leave Muzazi¡¯s face as she spoke. "I¡­ there¡¯s no other option, then, is there? Skipper¡¯s not anywhere here, so he¡¯s probably where the action is, right?"


    Dragan nodded hurriedly. Now that he thought about it, that was pretty likely, too. A good argument to get Ruth on board. "Even if we wanted to run," he said. "We can¡¯t just leave without him."


    Ruth looked down at Bruno. "We should go," she said, before turning her gaze back to Muzazi. "But I¡¯m not letting this guy out of my sight."


    Muzazi sniffed. "How fortuitous. I¡¯m not letting Hadrien out of my sight. It seems we can all keep watch over each other."


    There was no friendliness in Ruth¡¯s voice. "Sounds good."


    Dragan interrupted just as he sensed the tension in the air increasing, gesticulating towards the car. "Well," he said. "In we go! Let¡¯s go, let¡¯s go! We¡¯ve gotta hurry!"


    Bruno got in first, then Ruth, taking the backseats either side of the unconscious Patel. A good decision -- if it came down to it, they could attack Muzazi from behind. Just before Dragan could get in, the Special Officer clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.


    "Don¡¯t forget, Hadrien," he said quietly. "The second this is over, you¡¯re coming with me."


    How could he forget, with reminders like that? Dragan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as Muzazi climbed past him.


    He really hated these kinds of juggling acts.


    In the end, Skipper believed, things always came down to a fist-fight.


    His Aether-infused metal fist slammed into Chael¡¯s armoured jaw, sending the Citizen staggering backwards as the crack of metal resounded across the deck.


    Skipper pulled his fist back, hurriedly picking out the shards of metal that had lodged themselves into the prosthetic. The arm still wasn¡¯t in proper working order -- it kept twitching sporadically -- but he didn¡¯t need fine movement to make a fist and send it flying.


    The top deck of the Dawnhouse was a fairly bleak affair -- for the most part it was a flat surface, slick with condensation, with the occasional set of handholds presumably meant for emergency maintenance. At this kind of angle, though, those orange handles functioned less like handholds and more like tripping hazards. Skipper was painfully aware that, with the levels of wind up here, it wouldn¡¯t take too much of a mishap to send one flying right off the side of the ship. It¡¯d be a hell of a way to go.


    Chael¡¯s staggering came to a halt several meters away, and he glared at Skipper with his one visible red eye. With the exhaustion and the damage he¡¯d suffered on their way up here, the Citizen¡¯s armour was looking much different. Interlocking blades covered the right side of his face entirely -- eye and all -- while uneven patches of scale-like metal coated sections of his torso and limbs.


    Still, Skipper couldn¡¯t relax. The fact that there were less of the things didn¡¯t make them any less sharp.


    Chael wiped a line of blood from his mouth and charged forward, blades like cleats protruding from the soles of his feet to give him purchase on the deck as he ran. He raised his fist, blades sprouting on his knuckles, to return Skipper¡¯s punch.


    Trick. Too obviously telegraphed.


    Skipper fired a Heartbeat Shotgun off at Chael¡¯s other arm -- the one half-hidden behind his back -- and the long, thin blade he¡¯d been growing there snapped off, sailing off into the night. Chael growled in anger, firing off two smaller blades from his chest.


    A whistle escaped Skipper¡¯s mouth -- and a second later, the invisible blade of Heartbeat Bayonet parried the incoming blades right out of the air. One shattered on impact, crumbling into dust before it even hit the ground. The other ricocheted off, spiking into the deck just behind Skipper.


    Chael still hadn¡¯t stopped running, though. It seemed he wanted to return the pain Skipper had given him in close-quarters. The blades over the rest of his body retreated as a mass of shining spikes erupted from his right forearm, creating something like a massive shield that he held in front of him as he charged, like some kind of augmented gridiron tackle.


    Brute force? It was kind of intimidating to watch the metal shield growing closer, but Skipper was fairly confident he could handle it. In a situation like this, where he didn¡¯t have to worry about damaging the environment or protecting his allies, he was at his strongest.


    Heartbeat Landm --


    The air was pushed out of his lungs by a sudden flare of intense pain. He looked down -- a long silver blade was protruding from his side: he¡¯d been stabbed in the back. Head shaking from the quickly intensifying pain, Skipper glanced behind him.


    The second blade he¡¯d parried -- the one that had lodged into the deck behind him. A second blade had erupted from it, and speared right through his body. It held him in place, any attempt at movement only causing the burning pain to flare further.


    Stupid, stupid. He¡¯d forgotten: Chael could make blades from his blades.


    The Citizen collided with him, slamming his forearm into Skipper¡¯s face and sending him flying down onto the ground. The blade that had gone through him snapped, and as it dissipated into Aether the now-open wound began to gush with blood.


    Skipper landed on his back with a thud, and he couldn¡¯t help but cry out in pain as his wound came down on the wet metal. His attempt at escape was thwarted by another attack from Chael -- the Citizen planted his knees on Skipper¡¯s stomach, pressing him down and preventing him from moving.


    He looked up. Chael, silhouetted by the moon, had changed the arrangement of his blades again. The huge mass on his arm had disappeared, replaced by a more even distribution on his knuckles, elbows and knees. The Citizen raised his fists high.


    Skipper chuckled. "Don¡¯t suppose we can talk about this, huh?"


    The punches rained down, lightning-fast -- striking Skipper in the throat, the stomach, the arms, any part of his body that he left exposed. Any attempt at a Heartbeat attack was interrupted with another jab, breaking Skipper¡¯s concentration. He raised his prosthetic arm in an attempt to retaliate, but Chael¡¯s retaliation was swift and ruthless -- with the slightest grunt of exertion he seized the metal limb, using fingerblades for purchase, and tore it from Skipper¡¯s body, throwing it away and letting it fly off the side of the ship.


    The attack continued, endlessly, endlessly. Skipper¡¯s Aether was doing good work -- preventing the barrage from fully penetrating his body -- but it was a losing battle. He¡¯d be in for some serious bruising if he survived this, both inside and out.


    Chael¡¯s face was expressionless -- Skipper had no idea what was going through his head. Was this brutal attack formed from resentment for Skipper, for rejecting his proposal? Was this simply business, the most effective means of defeating his enemy? Perhaps it was a means of venting the frustrations that years of living a double life created.


    Skipper couldn¡¯t say. All he knew was that it hurt.


    "You see?" Chael said calmly, planting his fist into Skipper¡¯s face once again. "This is what happens when you fight half-heartedly. When you¡¯re not prepared to do what it takes. Your will," his next punch landed on Skipper¡¯s stomach -- and he drove his thumb into Skipper¡¯s wound. "Was insufficient. Accept that and give up. Put down your Aether. I¡¯ll let you die quickly."


    When Skipper spoke, he was surprised by how his voice sounded, the wheezing of his breath. "I¡­" his voice cracked. "I¡¯ve never given up once in my life, buddy. I¡¯ve compromised, sure, but I¡¯ve never given up. Not planning on starting now."


    Chael clicked his tongue. "Then I¡¯ll put your Aether down for you. I¡¯ve won."


    Skipper watched, mutely, as Chael raised his hands above his head -- spikes sprouting out of his fists until they looked almost like metal sea urchins on the ends of his arms. The blow from those would finish him off, he knew, he knew he had to do something, but his arm lay limp and exhausted on the deck next to him. His Aether was weak, good only for one final attack -- and then he¡¯d be defenseless. He could taste blood in his mouth.


    Through blurry vision, he watched Chael bring his spiked fists down.


    Skipper spat in his face, crimson blood splattering onto Chael¡¯s eyes as he brought down his hammerblow. Then, with truly exorbitant effort, he jerked his head to the side, and Chael¡¯s fists came down just inches away from his skull, embedding themselves into the metal deck. He wasn¡¯t wiping his face clean with those anytime soon.


    "Should¡¯ve warned you, pal," Skipper chuckled weakly. "You haven¡¯t won ¡¯till you¡¯re at the other guy¡¯s funeral."


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    There was a sound like a blade being sheathed, and Chael¡¯s attempts to pull his hands free of the deck suddenly ceased. Slowly, slowly, the Citizen looked down at his own stomach, where a thin red line was slowly making itself known, just below his navel winding all the way around his torso. The blades on his fists began to disintegrate into the air, and Chael¡¯s arms came free -- but he just continued to stare at the wound.


    "You¡­" he muttered, disbelieving.


    "Yeah," Skipper grinned. "Me."


    And he kicked with all his strength -- sending Chael backwards, almost flying from the winds broiling around the Dawnhouse¡¯s deck. He bounced off the ships hull once, twice, growing smaller in Skipper¡¯s vision --


    -- and then the wound truly made itself known, and the Citizen split into two pieces, torso and legs, that went flying off the edge of the ship, out of Skipper¡¯s sight.


    He finally let out a breath that he¡¯d been holding in for a long time, and put his head back down on the deck. The metal could serve as a pillow right now.


    This had been a hell of a day.

 Chapter 83:3.46: Moonlight

    Many years ago¡­


    Chael, the can read, stylized letters running across its surface. High in taste, low in cost!


    The boy turned it over in stick-thin hands, his mouth watering at the very idea that food was inside the container. He looked over his shoulder as he hunched there in the alley, paranoid for a moment that someone would spot him and take his treasure away.


    The Pit was thought to be the lowest of the low on Taldan, but the true slums were below even that. A ramshackle sub-society formed in the cracks and tiny gaps between the real city. The place was so poor that they didn¡¯t know there was any other state of living. Those who had money might as well have been another species -- there was no possibility of rising to their level.


    Nobody was looking -- good. Nobody would take the boy¡¯s Chael. Briefly, he wondered what Chael was. Some kind of meat? He liked the word, at any rate.


    The boy looked up. Countless real districts were piled up above this section of the slums -- the only real source of illumination being strings of disposable lights put up here and there -- but in this spot, the tiniest gap between districts meant that a sliver of natural moonlight could be seen.


    Hesitantly, the boy reached up towards the ethereal glow -- as if the moon would notice him and take him up with it. That would be nice. Perhaps he could even hold it in his hands.


    Then he heard a squeak from the shadows, and ran as fast as he could. Hesitation wasn¡¯t an option when you heard unfamiliar noises in the slums -- the rats down here had gorged themselves on the waste that flowed down from the city. In some cases, they were as big as children like the boy -- he¡¯d even seen them eat a person once. Bite through their skull like cardboard.


    The boy kept his Chael tucked under his arm as he half-ran, half-crawled to his shelter. Appearances didn¡¯t matter down there. If it was faster for a moment to move on all fours, then there was no question that that was the right thing to do.


    If you lived another day, anything you did for that purpose was correct.


    It only took the boy a few minutes to reach his shelter. Once, a section of Glory District had collapsed down into the slums -- what valuables had come down with the debris had been looted in minutes, but some things had been left behind. The boy¡¯s shelter had been some kind of truck once, and even without its engine and mechanics it still made for a cosy home.


    He lifted the curtain and stepped in, noting the lack of the usual raspy breathing.


    The other person was sprawled out on a makeshift bed at the back of the truck, sodden bandages covering their face. The boy didn¡¯t know who this other person was. Were they a parent of his, or maybe a sibling? He couldn¡¯t recall -- but for as long as the boy remembered, it had been his job to look after this person. To feed them, give them water. They¡¯d never exchanged words, but the boy knew this was the way things were meant to be. Perhaps the other person had asked him to care for them once, a long time ago.


    Usually, their strained breathing filled the shelter constantly, but not now. The boy frowned. Had something happened?


    It didn¡¯t matter. Even if something had happened, there was nothing the boy could do about it. Best just to wait for things to go back to normal again. The boy sat down in the corner of the shelter, facing the wall, and held his prize out in front of him.


    Chael, the can read -- and under the stylized text was an image of some kind of cartoon chef, holding a two-dimensional version of the can out in front of him. The chef looked happy, an exaggerated grin spread across his face. If the boy ate Chael, would he be that happy?


    The watering in his mouth answered that question easily enough: yes. He¡¯d found the can in a pile of garbage, but he knew that cans like this were pretty hard to break -- but only for other people.


    After all, he had a special power. He smiled, face stinging slightly from the muscle movement.


    In the slums, there was always a kind of feral hunger just under the surface -- waiting to come out when things just became too much. When you hadn¡¯t eaten for too long, when you could feel your body shutting down from lack of water, when one last indignity was just too much for you to bear. It was always there, like background music to your thoughts, and if you concentrated you could tap into that hollow determination.


    The boy dived in, letting that want be all he was for a moment -- and, as if in response, what looked like tendrils of grey electricity began sprouting from his hands, wafting through the air. The parts of his skin from which the grey electricity sprouted turned just as grey -- and as the boy concentrated, he watched a small, jagged blade sprout from the back of his hand, like a freestanding, misshapen fingernail.


    The breath he¡¯d been holding in escaped in a gasp for air, and the majority of the grey electricity died with it -- what little remained crackled only around the blade on the back of his hand, and even as he looked at it he could see its edges crumbling away into dust. He¡¯d have to work fast, then.


    The boy passed the can of Chael over to his other hand and began working at it with the blade, running his hand up and down as he sawed the top of the container open. A putrid stink erupted from the can, so bad it made the boy¡¯s eyes water -- but it was the putrid stink of food, and that made his mouth water.


    The blade disappeared before he could fully open up the can, but the gap it left was big enough that the boy was able to tear the rest of the top off by himself. He ignored the cuts that left on his hand, caution outweighed by hunger.


    Scoop, scoop, scoop. His hand moved from the can to his mouth again and again, shovelling lumps of wet, slippery meat each time. The meat broke apart in his mouth, collapsing into a kind of tasteless slurry as it ran down his throat. Before even a minute had passed, he¡¯d eaten just under half of what the can had to offer.


    He couldn¡¯t eat the whole thing, though, no matter how much his stomach protested. He had a job to do.


    The boy stood up and moved back over to the other person¡¯s bed, making sure to keep himself low to the ground as he did. He wasn¡¯t paranoid about anything in particular, but it was a common occurrence in the slums for shelters to be broken into and their inhabitants killed for their possessions. The boy always tried to make sure he was ready to run for it.


    "Food," the boy said simply, in his cracking voice, holding the can of Chael over the other person¡¯s bandaged face. "Food. Food."


    The other person didn¡¯t move. They didn¡¯t even twitch. Usually, he¡¯d start to hear some kind of gurgling moan at this point, but nothing. A second glance confirmed what the boy had already expected: the other person wasn¡¯t breathing.


    A kind of muted panic ran through him. Had the other person died? He wasn¡¯t heartbroken -- he hadn¡¯t known the other person after all, not really -- but it felt in some sense that he¡¯d failed an obligation.


    He tapped the bottom of the can against the other person¡¯s face. "Food," he said again, more insistently, hoping they¡¯d reply. They did not.


    The boy¡¯s frown deepened. What did he do now? Did he bury the other person? Where? Could he just move them onto the street and let someone else take them away?


    Slowly, without him noticing at first, his hands moved over to the other person¡¯s bandages, at the single loose strand that hung over their ear. He supposed he must be curious about what they looked like. That made sense. He¡¯d lived with this person all his life, yet he¡¯d never seen their face.


    He pulled at the bandages, and they came off easy -- taking with them the majority of the skin and meat they¡¯d fused with over years of not being replaced. The top layer of the other person¡¯s face sloughed off, leaving only a dark red hole with the barest hints of white bone. The worms and insects that had made their homes there scurried away, towards other parts of the shelter or deeper into the other person¡¯s body.


    The boy blinked. That made sense -- the other person looked like nothing. He¡¯d never spoken to them and they¡¯d never spoken to him. They¡¯d had no name. It only made sense that they didn¡¯t exist.


    The boy had no name, either. Did that mean he didn¡¯t exist? He ran a hand over his own face, as if to make sure it was there.


    His gaze drifted down to the can in his hand, his mouth already starting to water again.


    Chael, the can read.


    Chael climbed.


    Chael looked up to the sky, doing his best to ignore the squabbling of the crowd for the time being.


    The sky, in this case, was just the sides of the buildings that were visible from this low section of the Pit. The majority were huge grey monoliths, apartment buildings or collective offices, but from the alley Chael was standing in one could see the side of the new Bestwell Communications Center -- the glass coating it¡¯s surface offering a reflection of the sky above.


    The moon was visible there, even in the day -- Taldan¡¯s constant watcher. Idly, Chael reached out an insufficient hand as if to seize it.


    "Chael?" one of the local kids poked their head into the alley, their face red from the cold. "They¡¯re waiting for you."


    Chael clenched his fist, let his reaching hand fall back to his side. "Right," he said quietly -- he was still surprised by how deep his voice had gotten recently. It felt as if he¡¯d become a different existence entirely.


    He followed the kid out of the alley, tugging on his leathers as he did so. He was wearing an old flight-suit, presumably once used by a speed bike rider. It had been dug out of the trash, so it was probably useless in terms of defense, but it was useful in hiding Chael¡¯s abnormality.


    As he walked, Chael allowed a stray grey spark of his power to run across his body -- and he felt the blades push their way out of the skin of his knuckles. Painful, but not so much so that he had to cry out. He made sure the blades curved upwards as they grew, so that he wouldn¡¯t be stabbing anyone when he punched -- more like knuckle dusters than claws, when it came down to it.


    The person he¡¯d be seeing wasn¡¯t too stupid to live, after all.


    The crowd of locals were indeed waiting for Chael as he stepped into the square -- all of them, from children to the elderly, looked.at the wretch in the circle¡¯s center with contempt in their eyes. It made sense: those who broke unspoken rules pretty much spat on those who remained true to them.


    Grayson was a middle-aged man, grey-haired and weathered, but malnutrition had ensured he was no taller than Chael. The thief was on his hands and knees -- he¡¯d clearly been thrown down with some force -- but there was defiance in his eyes. The kind of self-serving anger that only existed inside those criminals who¡¯d been caught red-handed. How dare you? his eyes said. How dare you catch me?


    Chael stepped in front of the wretch, crossed his arms -- the movement accompanied by the squeaking of his leather suit. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow.


    "I didn¡¯t," Grayson muttered, glaring down at the ground. "I didn¡¯t do nothing."


    "You stole food." When Chael said it, it wasn¡¯t even an accusation -- just a statement of fact.


    Grayson¡¯s head snapped up, gaze fiery. "I didn¡¯t -"


    Chael punched him hard in the face with an audible crack, sending him back down to the ground. Grayson clutched his head, groaning softly as he writhed on the ground. Red stains covered his fingers.


    In an ideal world, that would have been enough, but Grayson had ended up in the unfortunate position of being an example. A signpost saying ¡¯this is what happens if you break the rules¡¯. With a grunt, Chael reached down, seized Grayson by his hair, and dragged him forward -- right to the edge of the watching crowd.


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    "Look," Chael growled, lifting Grayson up so he was face to face with one of the watching children, a young girl. "You stole from her. Apologize."


    Grayson feebly shook his head, trying to blink blood out of his eyes. "Didn¡¯t¡­" he mumbled. "Didn¡¯t steal from her."


    Chael whacked him in the back of his head with his free fist -- not using the spikes this time, but hard nonetheless. Grayson¡¯s head jerked forward and he began coughing uncontrollably -- and, in response, the young girl he was facing pushed him back in disgust, her face full of rage. He went sprawling back into the dust.


    "You steal from one person here," Chael said, standing over Grayson. "You steal from everyone. You steal from her, you steal from me. Understand?"


    Grayson rolled over on his side, glaring up at Chael. "Fuck you, slumboy," he rasped, voice still full of venom.


    Chael was impressed. He hadn¡¯t expected Grayson to stick to his guns past the first few hits. That didn¡¯t mean he could let it slide, of course -- two swift kicks to the ribs forced Grayson to double over again, clutching his chest as he yelped in pain like an injured dog.


    He went to work. "Yeah," Chael said, slamming a fist into Grayson¡¯s back. "I¡¯m from the slums. Further down than even this shithole. I climbed up by myself. I¡¯ve done things you¡¯d never dream of, Grayson, so trust me -- I get it. I imagine you thought you needed to steal, or else you¡¯d die, right? So stealing was the right decision for you. But you steal from other people, Grayson. You go up. You don¡¯t steal from us. You don¡¯t shit where you sleep. You get me?"


    Despite the calm tone of his voice, the only punctuation to Chael¡¯s diatribe were punches and kicks, raining down on Grayson mercilessly. Even as the crowd roared in approval, there was no anger in Chael¡¯s heart, not really -- this was more surgery than brutality, making sure that he stopped just before killing the thief. There was no point in learning your lesson if you died right after.


    Chael finally ended his assault when he noticed that some members of the crowd were beginning to look uncomfortable, taking a step back from the twitching Grayson. He lifted a fist, glove slick with blood, and spoke.


    "This guy stole from all of you," he said again, driving the point home. "So it¡¯s only correct you have the right to take back what you¡¯re owed. You know where he lives. Help yourselves."


    This was the way to direct people: present them with the enemy, and offer them selfish retribution. People only believed in justice if there was something in it for them.


    The crowd drained unevenly -- some hurried to take what they could from Grayson¡¯s house, others began trickling home, and a few dragged Grayson away. Chael wasn¡¯t sure if they were Grayson¡¯s friends moving to take him to safety, or enemies getting ready to dispose of him. He didn¡¯t much care either way.


    Whatever the result, it made good practice. His eyes went back upwards, to the reflections on the side of the Bestwell Communications Center. The moon was no longer visible.


    Run all you like, he thought. I¡¯ll be up there with you soon.


    Chael climbed.


    "If you ask me," Chael said, swirling the glass of wine between his fingers. "It¡¯s all about effort versus lack of effort, when you get right down to it. There¡¯s always this, uh, this whining about not being able to afford food, not being able to afford housing -- but when you get down to it, how are you here asking me those kinds of things if you¡¯re starving to death? It¡¯s just self-pity, in the end."


    He was sitting in a Toptown club, enjoying drinks and a meal with a few influential community leaders as part of his election campaign. Gentle music drifted from the automatic piano in the corner of the room to lend a serene, civilized feel to the night¡¯s festivities. The moon shone through the window that took up one whole wall, illuminating the room where the scented candles did not.


    One of Chael¡¯s guests, a ginger-haired man named Abe, nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "Exactly, exactly! To be expected from you, Chael, this level of understanding. If one isn¡¯t happy with their position, it falls to them to improve themselves, not others to lower themselves. As you have, so adeptly, my friend." sea??h th§× novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Chael smiled, taking a sip of wine.


    Pig on two feet, he thought, still smiling as he looked at Abe. He imagined standing up, slamming the man¡¯s fat face down onto the table, and cutting at it with the knife and fork until he had the thing in bite-sized pieces. Perhaps he¡¯d feed him his own tongue.


    "The point is," the elderly woman dining with them said, shaking some salt onto her steak. "It takes strong character to understand your present position in society, and to take the necessary steps to ascend beyond that. It¡¯s a matter of will, not means. I wouldn¡¯t be averse to having a man with that sort of character make decisions for Taldan." She nodded at him benevolently, before swallowing her food.


    Her neck was so very thin, like a branch. Chael knew he could so very easily reach out and snap it in his fist like one, too. With the movement of just a few muscles, this parasite would cease to exist.


    No, he reminded himself, glancing at the moon outside the window. Not yet. Once you¡¯ve climbed to the top, you can change things however you like. This won¡¯t matter anymore.


    Chael chuckled, raising his glass. "That¡¯s very kind of you -- and, of course, I appreciate your support in my campaign."


    Nod and laugh. Drink and mingle. Shake hands and curry their favour.


    Until it was too late for them to regret it.


    Chael climbed.


    "Congratulations," someone said cheerily for what felt like the thousandth time that day, clapping a hand on Chael¡¯s back as he walked past.


    "Appreciate it!" Chael called out behind him, not turning back as he got into the car -- a black limousine ready to take him to his new office, the Dawnhouse. Seconds after he closed the door behind him, the limo took off, soaring over even Toptown as it made its way towards the seat of government.


    The man who¡¯d been waiting for Chael in the limo smiled excitedly. He wore a red suit and fez, his tanned hands clasped in front of him. Chael recognized him, of course -- Secretary Low, the previous President¡¯s second-in-command. He¡¯d been acting President until the election had ended.


    "Congratulations," Low said, extending a hand. "Mr. President."


    Chael accepted it. "Appreciate it. I¡¯m grateful for your service to this city."


    It had been a hell of a climb, but he was here. Top of the heap -- the only thing above him was the moon. He finally, finally had the power to change things.


    Low smirked. "Grateful for my service to this city? I have to admit, sir, it sounds like you¡¯re getting ready to kick me out."


    Still shaking Low¡¯s hand, Chael replied: "I¡¯m afraid nothing lasts forever, friend. The Dawnhouse is gonna need a fresh coat of paint."


    The thousand-year handshake finally concluded, and Low slouched back in his seat, that same funny smile still on his face. "About that," he clicked his tongue. "I get that, since you¡¯re the new boss and all, you wanna throw your weight around, but there¡¯s some guys who probably wanna talk to you about that."


    Chael furrowed his brow. The confidence Low was exuding wasn¡¯t that of a rat trying to flee a sinking ship -- he wasn¡¯t worried at all. "What do you mean?" he snapped.


    Low reached into his pocket, pulled out a small disk-shaped holoprojector, and put it on the seat between them. The device was thin, black, with a small button on the top. A light blinked, indicating an incoming call.


    "Behold," he said, with practiced theatricality. "Your employers."


    His finger tapped the button.


    A cloud passed over the moon.


    Chael climbed.


    "This is a shitload of money you¡¯re offering," the young man said, flipping through the contract. His face was a blur, numerous contradictory expressions dancing over his features. "Sure you can afford this?"


    Chael nodded. "I¡¯m the President. A certain amount of embezzlement is expected of me."


    The young man folded the contract up and put it into his pocket. "I¡¯ll hold onto this. Don¡¯t want you getting any fucking ideas, right?"


    "No problem. So long as you fulfill your end of the bargain, you can do whatever you like. I¡¯m a man of my word."


    They were in an abandoned Pit office -- the windows boarded up, the only other inhabitants being the rats. It had been difficult to find an opportunity to slip away from the Dawnhouse, but well worth it. If he was going to become the Citizen, this person¡¯s help was absolutely necessary.


    He cleared his throat, nodded towards the young man. "It isn¡¯t that I doubt you," he said. "But blurring your face and doing what I ask of you are two different things. I¡¯d appreciate a demonstration."


    The young man chuckled, shrugged -- and a second later, the young man was Chael. His entire appearance had changed into a mirror image of the President, from his stubble to the length of his fingernails.


    Chael blinked. "Impressive."


    "Hell yeah," the young man said in Chael¡¯s voice. He grinned in a way that didn¡¯t quite match the face he was wearing. "This is all based on observation, though, yeah? So stuff like the junk¡¯s gonna look different."


    "I didn¡¯t need to know that."


    "Suit yourself," the young man said, moving his own hand in front of him, carefully watching his fingers. "So -- all I gotta do is be your decoy? Sounds like an easy job. I¡¯m all fuckin¡¯ for it."


    Chael nodded. "When I am the Citizen, you are President Chael. When I am President Chael, you will serve as my personal bodyguard."


    The young man glanced towards Chael, annoyance in his eyes. "Bodyguard? You didn¡¯t mention that shit in the contract. I don¡¯t do work I¡¯m not paid for, buddy."


    "Don¡¯t worry," Chael said, raising a placating hand. "It¡¯s for appearances only -- an excuse to keep you close by. All you need to do is what we¡¯ve agreed upon. Once the people I need dead are dead, you¡¯ll have no further obligations."


    The young man considered it for a moment, rubbing his chin, before breaking out into another crude grin. "Fuck yeah," he said. "Sounds like my kinda work." He spat into his palm and extended it towards Chael. "We¡¯ll shake on it."


    Chael didn¡¯t hesitate. With the things he¡¯d seen in his life, a little saliva was nothing. He clasped the young man¡¯s hand and shook it vigorously.


    "A pleasure," he said. "We¡¯ll be working together closely, then. What do I call you?"


    The young man smirked. "My name? Let¡¯s, uh...let¡¯s have you call me Boreal."


    An obvious alias, but Chael wasn¡¯t one to talk. There, with the watchful moon shining through a broken window, the two Chaels shook hands. The President couldn¡¯t help but smile to himself: finally, finally, he was almost there. He was almost done with the climb.


    Chael fell.


    There wasn¡¯t even pain, just a kind of numb tickling that encompassed everything below his torso. His legs, his toes, he knew they were gone -- but he could still feel them, phantom pain already taking root as he fell off the side of the Dawnhouse.


    No scream escaped his lips. There was no fear to drive it, only a sense of hollow despair. It was as if everything he¡¯d fought for, for years and years, was disappearing before his eyes. The moon was growing smaller in his vision as he fell, and he reached out a grasping hand as if to seize hold of it.


    It was so close. He was almost there. He¡¯d do anything to grasp it -- anything.


    This time, this last time, Chael didn¡¯t just dive into the hollow determination that brought out his Aether -- he let himself drown in it.


    Please, he thought, closing his eyes -- letting the moonlight wash over him. At least make this all worth something in the end.


    There was a flash of grey Aether, and a sound like a cannon going off.


    There were two techniques unanimously considered unwise for Aether users, methods of Aether-wielding that no fighter in their right mind would use.


    The first was the Aether burn -- allowing your Aether to ravage your body, shred your blood cells, demolish your organs, all for a few minutes of increased power and capacity. Generally, it was considered pointless unless meant as a suicide move: if you survived an Aether burn, that usually meant you hadn¡¯t experienced the full ¡¯benefits¡¯ of it.


    There¡¯d been cases in the past where people¡¯s bodies had completely liquified from pushing their Aether too hard.


    The second was called Aether awakening. It was much worse.


    Skipper opened his eyes as the ship rumbled -- as if something heavy had just landed on the deck. Hurriedly, his vision still blurry, he looked around his surroundings. Apart from the gouges and dents the battle had left in the metal surface, there was nothing that he could -- oh.


    Oh.


    Right on the edge of the deck, gripping on it with monstrous strength, was a giant metal hand, bigger than Skipper¡¯s entire body -- and formed completely from hundreds of interlocking blades. Grey Aether sparked around the limb, each crackle accompanied by a deafening noise like thunder.


    The body that hand belonged to began rising into sight, the metal deck creaking from the pressure placed upon it. A colossal figure, like the upper torso of a massive human, formed entirely from those spikes and knives -- and right where the figure¡¯s head should have been instead protruded the upper body of President Chael, the Citizen.


    Aether burn destroyed the body. Aether awakening obliterated the mind, the user¡¯s entire being becoming nothing more but a conduit through which their Aether could flow -- the closest thing to consciousness being the scattered echoes of will that had soaked into their power.


    Chael twitched, his body the metal being¡¯s crown, his clothing shredded away to nothing by the sheer energy he was exuding. A low crackling groan trickled from his mouth. The red glow of his eyes was gone -- but only because twin bunches of blades had pushed their way out through his eye-sockets, like the antenna of some steel snail.


    Like a true Aether burn, awakening was suicide -- you surrendered everything to your Aether, trusted it with your final wish. To protect something, to obtain something¡­


    To destroy something.


    There was no true intelligence in Chael¡¯s speech, just the contextless parroting of a final thought. His blind face stared up at the moon as he spoke, his voice reverberating with a sound like singing iron.


    "S-S-S-Skipper¡­" he muttered. "K-Kill, chain, s-snap the chains of this society...k-k-kill you¡­I¡¯ll change the s-shape of this world¡­"


    Skipper took a step back -- and the moment his foot squeaked on the hull¡¯s wet surface, Chael¡¯s head snapped to look in his direction. A feral growl poured out of the Citizen¡¯s foaming mouth, and one of the massive metal hands rose up into the air -- as if to crush him like a bug.


    Skipper gulped.

 Chapter 84:3.47: Ascent/Descent

    The Chael-thing brought down its great metal fist, shining knuckles aiming right for Skipper. The blades that made up its lower body creaked and snapped from the pressures of movement, but new ones grew to replace them just as quickly.


    Skipper went to jump out of the way, but his injuries and the exhaustion of battle had taken their toll, and so his leap didn¡¯t quite make the mark. He landed on his side barely a meter away, grimacing from the aggravation of his wounds -- and looked up to see the fist surging towards him at desperate speed.


    Welp, he thought, oddly calm. This is it. Never thought I¡¯d get killed by a giant metal monster on top of a spaceship, but these things happen.


    He went to close his eyes, an instinctive response to the deathblow --


    -- only to open them again, wide, as a red blur zoomed past his vision. A second later, the fingers of the metal fist exploded into a shower of blades, and the Chael-thing retracted the limb in primitive alarm. A rattling groan of anger trickled from the Citizen¡¯s throat, it¡¯s sightless head following the red blur as it came to a halt.


    Ruth planted her Skeletal claws into the deck below her as she landed on all fours like a cat, the metal screeching below her as she ground to a stop. Red Aether crackled furiously around her, and her hair was blazing just as crimson -- as though fire were whirling around her head. She looked up with furious golden eyes, glaring at the Citizen with all the anger her stare could hold.


    "We¡¯ve got unfinished business," she growled at the man who could no longer understand her.


    Skipper took the opportunity the momentary distraction provided, picking himself up off the ground as he clutched his wound. "You took your sweet time," he grinned deliriously.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked towards him, and she smirked. "Our driver¡¯s slow as hell," she said -- and behind her, a car rose up into view, bobbing uneasily in the air. Skipper raised an eyebrow as he saw the occupants through the windows -- and through the gap created by the one missing door.


    Dragan, Bruno and Serena -- sure, sure, they were to be expected, but the guy in the back seat? The bomberman they¡¯d fought at the niain? That was unexpected. Not to mention the driver.


    The man at the front of the car, Atoy Muzazi, had his eyes fixed on the Chael-thing, his brow a crease of severe concern. Skipper couldn¡¯t exactly blame him -- this was kind of a lot to take in. Still, what was he doing there? Skipper felt like he¡¯d missed quite the story during his time separated from the others. At least he had something to look forward to, then.


    Bruno leapt from the car through the open door, landing on one knee with a thud. He looked up at the Citizen, and Skipper could already see two barely perceptible forcefields hovering over Bruno¡¯s hands. He was ready to go.


    Dragan went to follow, but Muzazi reached out and grabbed him by the arm, shaking his head. For a moment, it looked as if the Cogitant was going to argue, but then his roaming eyes locked onto Skipper¡¯s. Those eyes were those of someone who¡¯d been cornered.


    Go, Skipper nodded. Do what you gotta do.


    After the briefest hesitation, Dragan nodded back -- and then, without further ado, the car dipped out of sight again, below the deck they were standing on.


    "They¡¯re going to get to the engine, stop this ship blowing up the city," said Bruno by way of explanation. "But we couldn¡¯t just leave you up against this¡­ thing."


    Skipper grinned. Even though technically his physical situation hadn¡¯t much improved, the boost in morale was making him feel much better. "You¡¯re warming my heart here, Mr. del Sed. Ruth, what do ya say we take this guy out and finally get off this rock?"


    For a moment, Ruth had that old underlying anxiety written across her face -- fear of failure, maybe, or just fear in general -- but it was quickly replaced by a genuine grin. "Yeah," she said, fangs poking out her mouth. "Let¡¯s fuck him up." S§×arch* The novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The metal fingers Ruth had destroyed returned, hundreds of blades forming the new digits. The giant torso below Chael climbed further on the deck, scraping away the metal below it as it went. Chael roared -- and the sound was like metal being torn apart, high-pitched and grating.


    Even with four of them here, Skipper realized, there was no guarantee of victory. This creature would do whatever it took to stop them from escaping.


    But that was no problem. After all, it wasn¡¯t a fight if you were guaranteed to win.


    And Skipper loved a good fight.


    "It¡¯s quiet," said Dragan, walking through the hallway.


    Muzazi didn¡¯t reply.


    They¡¯d landed in one of the Dawnhouse¡¯s open transport bays, and encountered nobody. They¡¯d moved through the entrance foyer, and encountered nobody. Now they were moving through the hallways -- and still, still, they¡¯d encountered nobody.


    This didn¡¯t make sense. There¡¯d been many guests invited to this gala thing, hadn¡¯t there? The rich and powerful, gathered in one place? Even if they¡¯d been killed, there should have been bodies. But there was nothing. Not even bloodstains.


    They reached a maintenance elevator, the metal door incongruous with the intricate woodwork and furnishings that surrounded it. This had been a mining ship first, after all -- fancied up later to suit the needs of high society. Aesthetic hadn¡¯t originally been a concern here.


    "We¡¯ll need to take it down," said Muzazi suddenly, causing Dragan to almost jump out of his skin. "Engines are always near the bottom on these kinds of vessels."


    "Sure thing." His reply was neutral, a simple confirmation that he¡¯d heard the other person. At this point, Dragan didn¡¯t want to antagonize Muzazi too much -- it was no longer necessary.


    The doors to the elevator slid open and the two of them stepped in, Muzazi very deliberately standing behind Dragan. As they entered, Dragan heard another metallic roar from far away -- Skipper and the others were still fighting that creature, then, while he was stuck with the Special Officer.


    "Press the button for the engine room," Muzazi said firmly.


    "Okay." Dragan tapped it -- and a second later, the lift shuddered into life, descending steadily.


    The two of them stood there silently in the lift, the only sounds being the hum of the elevators descent and the occasional beep of the controls. Dragan resisted the urge to hum a tune -- this was possibly one of the most awkward elevator rides he¡¯d ever experienced. He certainly hoped it didn¡¯t take much longer.


    "Why did you betray the Supremacy?" Muzazi said quietly from behind him, pulling Dragan back into the moment.


    Dragan didn¡¯t look back as he spoke. "Sorry?" he said, even though he¡¯d heard Muzazi perfectly well. More time to come up with an acceptable answer that way.


    "The Supremacy. Why did you betray it? I find myself unable to understand. Explain yourself."


    "Well," said Dragan. "I had to go for the action that would benefit me the most. There¡¯s nothing to explain. It was nothing personal, you understand?"


    "Liar," Muzazi snapped. "I imagine a great many things you do are out of self-interest, but not that. Your betrayal has not profited you in the least. You¡¯ve gone from a promising young member of the AdminCorps to a vagrant running from one planet to the next. Your position, your future, your entire life -- you¡¯ve thrown them away. And for what? Tell me, Dragan Hadrien, what have you gained?"


    Dragan opened his mouth, but no words came out. What Muzazi had said¡­ he wasn¡¯t wrong. He¡¯d lost everything and gained very little -- the uneven calculus of a split-second choice. Not even a choice, really -- he hadn¡¯t realized a decision was before him until he¡¯d already made it.


    Why was it Dragan couldn¡¯t understand his own actions? It was infuriating. He could glance at someone like Muzazi and get a fairly accurate read on what he was feeling, yet he couldn¡¯t understand his own emotions until they¡¯d already betrayed him. It was like looking down to see your own body replaced with a dark blur.


    "I¡¯ll show you," Ruth had said, all that time ago in the Heart Building, when they were going to save Skipper. "That people can be good. That they¡¯re not what you think of them."


    Dragan shook his head. No. It couldn¡¯t have possibly have been for such an idiotic reason as that.


    When Muzazi spoke again, his voice was even quieter -- like he was speaking to himself more than he was speaking to Dragan.


    "I just wanted to save you. Why did you betray me?"


    Dragan had nothing to say to that. Nothing but the truth: "It was nothing personal," he repeated, his voice now a vague mutter. He found himself grateful that he wasn¡¯t looking the Special Officer in the eyes.


    The elevator went on down.


    The Chael-thing sent another metal fist lunging forward towards Skipper -- Bruno projected a forcefield to block it, but the barrier quickly shattered. Still, it gave him time to dodge out of the way, letting the fist slam into the deck instead. The force of the blow caused the metal fingers to shatter into the blades that had formed it, but new ones formed almost instantly. The steel hand grasped blindly at the air.


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    "Destroying the hands won¡¯t do much," called out Skipper over the roaring wind and creaking metal. "It can make more of ¡¯em all it wants. We gotta take out Chael if we want it to stop!"


    Bruno bit his lip, looked up at the flesh crown of the beast. Chael¡¯s torso protruded from the neck of the metal monster, swaying from side to side, eyeless head snapping this way and that like a fly. It had a human body, Bruno knew, but the thing he was looking at was a creature of pure instinct.


    Going for the human section of the monster was easier said than done, too. Ruth had been trying it for the last few minutes -- blitzing around the Chael-thing at blinding speed, kicking off the deck to lunge towards the torso like a crimson bullet. Every time she made an attempt, though, a shield of blades would rise out of the monster¡¯s main body and block her path. Creatures of instinct excelled at defending themselves -- hesitation was born from thought, after all.


    "Ruth can do it," Skipper said, as if answering Bruno¡¯s unspoken doubts. "She¡¯s good like that, yeah? All you and me have gotta do is keep big ugly here occupied. Easy, right?"


    Bruno looked up at the colossal metal giant, at the countless razor-sharp blades that made up its body, at the crackling thunderstorm of grey Aether that raged around it.


    Easy wasn¡¯t the word that he¡¯d use.


    ¡¯Hey Bruno,¡¯ said Serena, casual as could be. ¡¯Is it just me, or is the ship tilting?¡¯


    "We have to hurry," said Dragan as he stepped out of the elevator, noticing the slight angle of the floor. "I don¡¯t know how much longer we have before we start to dive."


    Muzazi didn¡¯t say anything -- just climbed out of the lift behind him. Well, that was fine. The Special Officer hadn¡¯t proven to be much of a conversationalist anyway.


    The engine room was cavernous -- with the engine itself, a colossal cylinder, taking up much of the space. Rows of navigation consoles lined it on each side, blinking with blue lights as they did their work charting the ship¡¯s course.


    "It should be easy enough to tell the ship not to, uh, not to blow up the city," Dragan said. "I imagine."


    Muzazi¡¯s elbow nudged him in the arm. "Hadrien." His voice was firm.


    "What?" Dragan rubbed his arm, the slightest annoyance entering his tone.


    "Look."


    Dragan followed Muzazi¡¯s gaze, off into the corner of the room, and realized what the Special Officer had noticed. There, nestled between two of the navigation consoles, Noel was sat, rocking back and forth -- hands clasped tightly over her ears, her teeth bared, her eyes so wide it looked as if the eyeballs might just pop out of their sockets. Her mouth was moving slightly, wordlessly -- whatever mutterings she was letting out, they were intended for her and her alone.


    "She was at the festival," Muzazi pondered. "She¡¯s here as well? Who is she?"


    From what Dragan remembered, Noel had actually told Muzazi who she was, but he didn¡¯t say that. Not especially helpful.


    He looked Noel up and down -- she wasn¡¯t carrying any weapons, from what he could see, and no cyan Aether was crackling around her. He supposed she could be using that Aether cloaking thing, but he¡¯d never gotten the sense that she was much of a physical threat on her own. Still, was it safe to approach her?


    "She lost an eye and an arm the last time I saw her," Dragan muttered, neglecting to mention that had been because he¡¯d blown them off. He took a cautious step forward.


    "Perhaps this is a trick, then," Muzazi said, hand on his sheathed sword. "Or a trap."


    "Maybe," Dragan replied -- but there was one way to check for sure.


    He let out an Aether ping -- his range with it was still pretty small, so he extended it as much as he could by directing it towards Noel in a straight line. Still, the edges of it made contact with Muzazi, and the Special Officer flinched as his own white Aether sparked in alarm around his body.


    Noel¡¯s Aether did the same, cyan tendrils appearing for just a moment. Satisfied, Dragan focused his Aether back into himself -- if Noel had been cloaking her Aether, surely there¡¯d have been no response at all. Likely it wasn¡¯t a trap, then.


    Dragan and Muzazi approached cautiously -- and when they were in front of her, Noel¡¯s head suddenly snapped upwards, pupils flicking between the two of them.


    "I didn¡¯t," she whispered, deliriously breathless. "I-I didn¡¯t mean to, it wasn¡¯t me, it wasn¡¯t¡­"


    "What do you mean?" Muzazi said, looking down at her. Ever careful, his hand still hadn¡¯t left his sword.


    Noel shook her head, still whimpering. "The navigation, the -- the console, the v-virus, it¡¯s too deep in, I-I couldn¡¯t do anything, we¡¯re dead, we¡¯re all dead -- shut up!" That last bit was seemingly delivered not at them, but at one of the navigation consoles, off in the distance.


    "A virus," muttered Dragan, rubbing his chin. "I guess that¡¯s how the Sponsor of War is getting this ship on the path he wants. That¡­ that might be tricky."


    Muzazi looked to him, still keeping one eye on Noel. "How so?"


    "Well, I mean," Dragan threw his hands out. "If it was the kind of thing where someone had just input a command into the console, that¡¯d be one thing, but the systems aren¡¯t going to be working properly if this virus has fucked them all up. It probably won¡¯t even let the navigation, uh, the navigation codes be changed anymore."


    Muzazi sighed, closing his eyes for the briefest moment, deep in thought. Then: "Couldn¡¯t you simply hack the system?"


    Dragan felt his eye twitch. "No," he said slowly, scathing annoyance dripping into his tone despite his best efforts. "I can¡¯t hack the system. I wouldn¡¯t know how to hack the system, because I¡¯m not a hacker. If anyone was going to hack the system, it would have been her, but the fact that¡¯s she¡¯s sitting here having a mental fucking breakdown presumably means she couldn¡¯t hack the fucking system!"


    The Special Officer looked to him, brow creased. "There¡¯s no need to grow enraged." It didn¡¯t help. "Is there no other way we could stop the ship? Surely there are contingencies for these sorts of situations."


    An idea occurred. A bad, potentially suicidal idea -- but, worryingly, no other plans were appearing in Dragan¡¯s mind¡¯s eye.


    He spoke haltingly, unsure -- it was as if his own mouth were reluctant to voice the concept. "We could blow the engine up?"


    Muzazi¡¯s silence -- and his raised eyebrow -- was all the answer he needed, but unfortunately this wasn¡¯t the kind of situation where he could just give up.


    "No, no, I mean it," Dragan insisted. "The best way to make sure this ship doesn¡¯t fly into the central mineshaft is to make sure this ship doesn¡¯t fly -- period. One hundred percent. If we just make the engine stop working -- by blowing it up -- that solves the problem. Easy peasy."


    Muzazi wasn¡¯t convinced. "Destroying a ship while we are in it does not strike me as, as you say, ¡¯easy peasy¡¯."


    "Well, that¡¯s because you don¡¯t have the resolve for it."


    The Special Officer frowned. "I have expansive reserves of resolve -- it¡¯s simply that you suggest foolishness. How would we even destroy the engine? It¡¯s not as if we brought explosive equipment with us."


    Dragan looked around the room, his eyes settling on Muzazi¡¯s weapon. "Well, you use thrusters, right? Can¡¯t you just drive that sword all the way through the engine and mess it up that way?"


    A sudden expression of mortal terror -- incongruous with the suggestion -- twisted Muzazi¡¯s face, and he held the sheathed sword tight. "No," he hissed, voice panicked. "No, no, that is out of the question. With something else, yes, perhaps, but I will not risk Luminescence."


    Dragan blinked. He understood naming your weapon for clout, but this kind of attachment to an inanimate object just felt weird to him. Wasn¡¯t the thing just made of ordinary metal? Surely Muzazi had the money to buy another one if it came down to it.


    Noel spoke up from the floor -- her voice crackly, hoarse. "My drones," she whispered, staring down at the ground. "T-They can detonate -- shut up -- they can detonate their power supplies. If you open the engine up, t-they can fly inside and finish the job." She was shaking violently even as she spoke.


    A few drones bobbed weakly in the corners of the room, like frightened birds.


    "You want to help?" Dragan said, not taking his eyes off the drones. He hadn¡¯t quite forgotten the feeling of plasma shots slamming against his skin.


    She shot him a chilly glare. "I don¡¯t want to die."


    Dragan considered it for a moment. Then, he shrugged. "Eh, good enough. Muzazi, if you¡¯re not willing to drive that sword through the engine, can you at least help me get the thing open?"


    Muzazi nodded, having already returned to his previous stoicity. "Of course."


    Okay, okay. Things had gone from bad to substantially less bad -- they had a plan, at least, which meant they had clear win conditions. If they could destroy the engine, they¡¯d win -- and if they couldn¡¯t, they and everyone else in the city below would lose as much as it was possible for a person to lose.


    Dragan moved over to the engine itself, rubbing his hands over the smooth exterior. Before they went cutting chunks out of it, it was probably best to see if there was a switch or something -- some safe way to get the thing open. That would make things significantly easier --


    "Summon," commanded a rumbling voice from the entrance. "Penetration Swordfish."


    Dragan whirled to turn around, but even as he did he knew that he was far too slow to dodge what was coming. A lance of orange light surged towards him, so fast that he could catch only the barest impression of its shape, aimed right for his skull.


    It never hit its mark.


    Muzazi appeared in front of him in a flare of white light -- he¡¯d moved at divine speeds -- and smashed the projectile out of the air with a swing of his sword. Fragments of what looked like orange glass floated over the floor for a moment before dissipating into orange Aether -- which zoomed back into its master.


    The Fifth Dead stepped into the engine room, quarterstaff held in one hand, eyes looking impassively around the room. He glanced at Dragan, at Noel, and at Muzazi as if they were barely worthy of notice -- like pebbles along the road. Inconvenient if you tripped, but not significant enough to worry about.


    "Three," he muttered to himself -- and with that, he pointed his quarterstaff towards Muzazi, the greatest threat. It seemed that was all they were getting in terms of pre-battle banter.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes remained fixed on the Fifth Dead, sword clutched in a ready position in his hands. A white aurora of Aether stretched and compressed around him, his body ready to leap into action. As he faced down his opponent, he spoke to Dragan behind him:


    "I will keep this enemy delayed, Hadrien. You and the girl do what you must to stop this ship -- as quickly as you can."


    "But," Dragan found himself worried despite his best efforts. "You can¡¯t -- he¡¯s the Fifth Dead, I mean¡­"


    "Yes," Muzazi adjusted his stance slightly. "He¡¯s strong."


    He took a step forward, approaching the massive man -- and the giant did the same towards Muzazi. Dragan could feel the tension crackling in the air -- the stare down would explode into combat any second now. It was inevitable.


    "My name is Atoy Muzazi," the swordsman said, raising his blade over his head. The sword shone incandescent with Aether. "Special Officer of the Supremacy. My sword¡¯s name is Luminescence. Prepare yourself, revenant."


    The Fifth Dead blinked. "Die."


    Barely a second passed before blood struck the ground.

 Chapter 85:3.48: Full Roster

    Blood struck the ground.


    Muzazi roared in pain as he pulled his arm back, staring wide-eyed at the creature that had bitten down on it. The thing had leapt out of the shadows and taken Muzazi¡¯s arm in its jaw in an instant -- with the swordsman¡¯s attention focused on the Fifth Dead himself, he¡¯d neglected to watch his surroundings.


    The creature was like some kind of twisted dog, but smaller, with fur curling upwards from its back like some sort of mohawk. It¡¯s entire body was composed of the same orange glass-like substance as the swordfish the Fifth Dead had launched.


    The Fifth Dead himself hadn¡¯t moved from his original position, staring at Muzazi impassively. "Disposal Hyena," he said, calm as could be. "Continue attack."


    He could say that all he liked, but Muzazi wouldn¡¯t permit this animal to continue harming him. He let his Aether flow through his arm and into the beast, creating thrusters inside its mouth that forced its jaw open -- freeing Muzazi from its grip. The Disposal Hyena yelped as it fell to the ground, and a second later the kiss of Luminescence took its head from its shoulders.


    The beast shattered into orange Aether that returned to the Fifth Dead. The giant took a step forward.


    Muzazi breathed heavily as he kept his sword pointed towards the Fifth Dead, trying to ignore the warm blood trickling down his right arm. Luckily, the beast hadn¡¯t gotten his dominant hand, so he could still use Luminescence -- but the damage would still reduce the strength of his two-handed swings considerably. He let his wounded arm fall down to his side, and shifted into the Entrende stance -- a one-handed sword style that would suit the current conditions better.


    "Will you not fight for yourself, Fifth Dead?" Muzazi said quietly, staring the giant down. "Or are you simply too craven?"


    If the Fifth Dead felt insulted by the taunt, he didn¡¯t show it. Instead, he calmly adjusted the grip on his quarterstaff -- and swung it at Muzazi¡¯s head, once, twice, thrice, each attack quick as lightning, accompanied by a sound like a deafening explosion.


    Muzazi blocked the attacks with slashes of Luminescence, positioning his parries so that the quarterstaff slid off the angle of his blade rather than stopping straight away. He couldn¡¯t risk the force behind those attacks damaging Luminescence -- there was a real possibility the Fifth Dead could smash the sword, given his clearly monstrous strength.


    What was Hadrien doing? Inwardly, Muzazi cursed the fact that he couldn¡¯t look behind himself. Defending the others while fighting the Fifth Dead was a difficult proposition -- if he could fight without having to worry about anything else, he was certain this battle would go very differently. He¡¯d have better mobility, for one, rather than being trapped in defense.


    The quarterstaff went for Muzazi¡¯s legs, and the swordsman hopped over it, feeling the air pressure created by the swing buffet at his feet like rabid waves. The moment Muzazi was in the air, the Fifth Dead opened his mouth to speak:


    "Summon," he growled, orange Aether crackling around him. "Disposal --"


    Muzazi interrupted the summon with an overhead swing of his sword, and the Fifth Dead shut his mouth as he lifted his quarterstaff to block the attack. The crackling of his Aether subsided, and no Disposal Hyena came forth.


    Interesting -- it seemed he needed to finish reciting that mantra in order to bring forth a recorded animal. Was it some kind of technique for focusing his mind in a particular direction, then? Whatever the case, Muzazi knew it was something he could take advantage of.


    So long as the Fifth Dead couldn¡¯t speak, he was limited to only using his physical strength. The path to victory, then, consisted of relentless attack.


    Muzazi ducked under another lightning-fast swing of the quarterstaff and thrust the palm of his wounded arm forward, landing a hit right into the Fifth Dead¡¯s stomach. The moment he made contact there, he created a thruster -- maximum strength -- and the white fire that was spat forth sent the Fifth Dead flying backwards, away from the engine.


    There wasn¡¯t even a second for Muzazi to catch his breath -- as the Fifth Dead was sent flying away, he seized the Special Officer by the scruff of his collar, dragging him along. Wind crashed against Muzazi¡¯s face as the two of them were sent zooming towards the entrance, but he didn¡¯t relent on the strength of the thruster. He refused to be undone by such petty fears as physical injury.


    The moment they reached the door, Muzazi cancelled the thruster on the Fifth Dead¡¯s stomach -- and created two new ones on the soles of his own feet instead. The sudden burst of upwards motion broke the revenant¡¯s grip on Muzazi¡¯s collar, and as the Special Officer finally rose up to eye level with his opponent, he slashed at the Fifth Dead¡¯s mouth with Luminescence. If nothing else, if he could hit the Fifth Dead¡¯s tongue, he could prevent the giant from speaking -- prevent him from summoning.


    The Fifth Dead wasn¡¯t so easy an opponent that he¡¯d just allow that, though. He twisted his body sideways, blocking Muzazi¡¯s slash with his staff in one hand -- and with the other, he sent a devastating punch surging towards Muzazi¡¯s face.


    That was a skullcrusher -- Muzazi knew the moment he saw it. He created a new thruster on his own back, sending him speeding towards his opponent -- moving inside the Fifth Dead¡¯s effective range so that the fist didn¡¯t strike him.


    As the punch sailed just past Muzazi¡¯s face, the Special Officer swung his own fist right at the Fifth Dead¡¯s jaw, pouring as much Aether into his limb as he could.


    It never hit its mark. Instead, the Fifth Dead did something simple.


    He lifted his leg -- with such speed, such power and such ferocity that, the moment it came into contact with Muzazi¡¯s body, it sent him flying upwards at devastating speeds -- right into the ceiling. There was a great slam as Muzazi hit the metal roof, back first, and he knew in that moment that the only reason his spine hadn¡¯t been broken was because of his defensive Aether. Still, the breath was pushed out of his lungs by the force of impact, and Luminescence slipped out of his grip -- clattering to the ground below.


    The Fifth Dead looked up at him impassively, one foot resting on Luminescence¡¯s blade. "Summon," he intoned, Aether crackling around him. "Restraint Serpent."


    Like a bolt of electricity winding through the skies, an orange silhouette shot out from within the Fifth Dead¡¯s body and wrapped itself around Muzazi, binding him before it even finished materialising into the shape of a transparent orange snake. In some places, it phased through the ceiling behind Muzazi as if it didn¡¯t even exist -- in others, it was so present and so tight as to seem unbreakable, like steel cabling.


    The Fifth Dead pointed his staff upwards, towards Muzazi, and spoke again: "Summon - Penetration Swordfish." On his command, an orange point of Aether appeared floating in front of him, pointing right at Muzazi¡¯s heart.


    The shot fired, moving with such speed and precision that Muzazi knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to block it. This was an attack made for smashing through armour, after all. It would pierce Muzazi¡¯s body and impale his heart with all the difficulty of a knife going through butter.


    But that was only if it hit.


    A clumsy blue blur leapt in front of Muzazi -- between him and the Swordfish -- Aether sparking around the legs it had used to make such a jump. As it and the Swordfish crossed paths, the orange Aether construct vanished in a flash of electric-blue light, and the Aether circulating around Muzazi¡¯s saviour intensified just a tad.


    Dragan Hadrien landed in a heap on the floor, blue Aether still crackling around him. What had he done? Muzazi wasn¡¯t sure -- somehow the Penetration Swordfish had vanished, but it didn¡¯t seem that Hadrien had taken a hit for him. If this was some kind of Aether ability, it wasn¡¯t one he¡¯d had the last time they¡¯d thought. For all his faults, then, he seemed to be a fast learner.


    The Fifth Dead watched Hadrien fall expressionlessly, no sign of irritation or even surprise present in his mountainous features. "Two," he said, simply noting the change of circumstances, before pointing his staff in Hadrien¡¯s direction instead. "Summon - Disposal--"


    Hadrien rolled over onto his back, glaring at the Fifth Dead. "Gemini Shotgun."


    The blue Aether intensified with a sound like a crack of lightning, and the Penetration Swordfish appeared again -- now zooming instead towards its master.


    Reflexes honed by countless battles drove the Fifth Dead to raise his quarterstaff in defense -- but it wasn¡¯t enough. The Swordfish struck the staff right in the middle, and there was a resounding crack as the weapon snapped in two, each half flying in a different direction.


    Hadrien didn¡¯t have the strength to destroy such a weapon, but Muzazi now understood that he didn¡¯t need it. The Swordfish had retained the Aether the Fifth Dead had poured into it, which Hadrien had then bolstered with his own. This technique -- Gemini Shotgun -- took in an attack and returned it stronger. An additive counter. Impressive.


    Muzazi hadn¡¯t been idle either, though. In the moments of distraction Hadrien¡¯s gambit had allowed him, he¡¯d begun executing his own escape from the Restraint Serpent.


    A multitude of thrusters had appeared on his blade -- one on the very point of the blade, one on the base of the hilt, and a series on the sword¡¯s flat side to keep it floating up, edge pressed right against the Serpent. Muzazi alternated the strength of the thrusters on each end of the sword, and as a result Luminescence moved back and forth, sawing through the orange snake at an astounding speed.


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    He loathed using Luminescence for such crude labour, but there was no other option.


    The Fifth Dead kicked off the ground -- clearly resolved to take care of Hadrien himself -- at the exact same moment Muzazi¡¯s efforts bore fruit. As the Serpent shattered into orange glass, Muzazi fell down from the ceiling -- and as he did, he grabbed his floating sword and slashed it at the giant quickly growing bigger in his vision.


    The Fifth Dead¡¯s gaze snapped up to regard Muzazi as he drew close. There was no trace of surprise there, no caution or anxiety. This man was like a machine, executing the optimal move without delay. Instantly, the Fifth Dead planted his feet back down on the ground, turned his body to face the Special Officer, and lunged a hand forward to catch the blade as it descended.


    Hadrien was an annoyance, to be sure, but the Fifth Dead was wise enough to see that Muzazi was the greater threat.


    Muzazi did his best to keep the chills running through his body under control. At the speed he was falling and with the current position of his body, there was no way for him to escape falling back into the Fifth Dead¡¯s grasp. Even if he created a thruster, his weight would slow his movement in those first few vital seconds.


    He could save Luminescence, at least.


    The sword zipped out of sight with a burst of white Aether -- and in the next moment, Muzazi found himself gasping for air as the Fifth Dead adjusted his attack to instead grab the Special Officer by the throat. The Fifth Dead held him aloft by the neck, Muzazi¡¯s legs kicking insufficiently at a floor far below them, tightening his grip steadily, steadily -- painfully.


    The Fifth Dead blinked, his face blank. "Weak." This was not a taunt. From the Fifth Dead¡¯s perspective, this was simply a statement of fact. Muzazi¡¯s attack had failed, so therefore he as a person was insufficient.


    He wasn¡¯t wrong. This was the way of the Supremacy, as well.


    But Hadrien had taught him something, not so long ago, with that humiliating defeat. The feeling of a stun bolt thudding against his back, the outrage of being outdone by underhanded trickery¡­ it wasn¡¯t something so easily forgotten. Defeat was the greatest teacher of all.


    Where strength was insufficient, it could be bolstered by wit.


    There was a flash of white and blue light -- and a second later, the bloody blade of Luminescence was protruding from the Fifth Dead¡¯s chest, stopping only inches away from Muzazi¡¯s flailing legs. The giant looked down at the sword that had run him through, mildly concerned. His grip on Muzazi¡¯s throat lessened, his hand shaking, until the Special Officer was able to slip out of his grasp and fall to the floor, fists ready for further combat. The Fifth Dead, for his part, simply fell limply to his knees.


    He hadn¡¯t sent Luminescence flying away in a random direction at all -- instead, he¡¯d sent it surging in Hadrien¡¯s direction. He knew that if he¡¯d judged Hadrien¡¯s Gemini Shotgun correctly, that meant that the Cogitant should have been able to fire the sword back at the Fifth Dead with even greater strength.


    In the end, his faith in his own abilities had been rewarded.


    Muzazi extended a hand, activated the thruster that was still present on Luminescence¡¯s hilt -- and, accompanied by the sound of tearing meat, the sword burst fully free from the Fifth Dead¡¯s torso and returned to its master¡¯s hand. Muzazi wiped from the blade what blood he could with the sleeve of his prison jumpsuit, the orange turning a grisly red where it made contact.


    The only sound was the Fifth Dead¡¯s ragged breathing, and the splashing of his blood on the floor. Muzazi¡¯s gaze drifted past the prone giant, to where Hadrien was still laying behind him. He offered the Cogitant a curt nod: while he had no doubt that Hadrien¡¯s assistance was born solely out of self-interest, that didn¡¯t mean it hadn¡¯t saved him.


    "You lost for one simple reason, Fifth Dead," Muzazi said, pointing Luminescence towards his fallen enemy. "You failed to consider--"


    "Summon," the Fifth Dead rasped, blood pouring from his jaw. "Full Roster."


    And then the room erupted into orange light.


    Muzazi found himself almost blinded, having to shield his eyes with one hand as the force buffeted against him like wind, sending himself skidding backwards on the floor. Hadrien yelped as the same force sent him flying out of sight, and he heard the scream of the Cogitant girl as well. The entire room shook: at this rate, there was a good chance the Fifth Dead would destroy the engine before they got the chance.


    The Fifth Dead himself was visible only as a kneeling silhouette within a geyser of burning orange Aether. Muzazi winced: he knew an Aether burn when he saw one. This was clearly a suicide gambit -- but for the Fifth Dead, that didn¡¯t mean as much, of course. The orange light began to form bodies, shapes, countless additional silhouettes to accompany their master.


    Muzazi held his sword aloft. Let them come.


    Nigen Rush, the greatest swordsman the Supremacy had ever produced, had written often of a philosophy he referred to as the ¡¯golden current¡¯. The golden current was the ideal way to move both yourself and your blade, a set of actions that would allow you to flow like water and succeed in any engagement. The key to truly transcendent swordplay was to train your body to identify the golden current, and trust your instincts to lead you down that path naturally. The mind was something to be ignored: the golden current was too natural for it to be anything but a hindrance.


    Muzazi flowed through the golden path, allowing his sword to lead him as he cut through the hordes of Aether constructs rushing at him. He did not think about what he was doing -- he did not even consider it. His eyes were simply devices for taking in visual information, his ears receptacles for sound. Once he had this data, he trusted his body to act accordingly.


    Luminescence beheaded another two hyena¡¯s with a single sword-stroke, exterminated a swarm of engorged wasps with individual and precise slashes -- sliced another serpent down the middle and stabbed between the eyes of a gargantuan elephant. White Aether crackled around Muzazi¡¯s body protectively as he moved -- almost danced -- through the horde of Aether constructs.


    A ravenous hippopotamus found its stomach cut open. A chimpanzee was impaled and shattered in the moment it first manifested. Always, always, Luminescence was ready -- slapping swordfish out of the air as they zoomed towards Muzazi in complex swimming patterns. The sound of shattering glass was near-constant, as was Muzazi¡¯s forward momentum.


    Three precise slashes dispatched a lion intent on devouring the Special Officer -- and once he¡¯d smashed a chattering crustacean to a pulp against the floor, Muzazi was once more face to face with the Fifth Dead.


    The Aether burn had already taken its toll -- the giant¡¯s skin had sloughed away, revealing the bone and muscle beneath. Orange Aether poured from him like a waterfall, the open wound in his chest glowing so incandescently it almost hurt to look at. Muzazi stabbed backwards -- dispatching a shark swimming through the air towards him -- and then slashed forward, his target clear.


    His blade met the Fifth Dead¡¯s neck -- and stuck there for a moment, the muscles there so thick and so firm they were like steel, refusing to yield to Luminescence. Muzazi let a roar of effort leave his throat as he poured his Aether into his sword, put as many thrusters on it as he could to drive it forwards, onwards, further -- until the slice was made complete, and the Fifth Dead¡¯s head came free.


    Victory.


    The moment the Fifth Dead¡¯s head left his shoulders, the orange Aether died away to nothing. The body flopped over to the side and landed with a wet thud on the floor, it¡¯s fall broken only by the skin that had already slipped from its bones.


    Muzazi let out a deep, relieved breath, closed his eyes, and for just a brief moment enjoyed how quiet it now was.


    No chattering of animals, no roaring of Aether, no humming of the engine¡­ wait.


    He opened his eyes again. The humming of the engine had stopped, completely and utterly. The engine room was as silent as the grave. Muzazi turned to look at the massive cylinder.


    It had seen better days -- holes had been opened all over its surface, as if massive fists had punched their way through the metal, and acrid smoke was pouring out from within its bowels. The lights from the navigation consoles had blinked out, and Muzazi could already feel the ship listing beneath his feet. Whatever landing the Dawnhouse would be making, it wasn¡¯t a clean one. S§×ar?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Cogitant girl -- Noel -- lay slumped in the corner, hair slick with sweat, hanging over her face. "I did it," she muttered, almost disbelieving. "I did it, I-I did it¡­"


    Muzazi nodded. "Very well done. Now that the risk to the planet has been neutralised, we can make our leave. We have transport waiting back in the docking bay." As this girl had helped them, it was only right for Muzazi to allow her to accompany them -- and besides, the Special Officer wasn¡¯t so unbending to leave a young girl behind in a situation like this.


    Noel nodded vaguely. "Okay, o-okay¡­ but what about the guy with you? Dragan Hadrien?"


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "What about --" Awful, sickly realization grabbed him.


    No. Surely not.


    He swung around, taking in the room -- the Fifth Dead¡¯s corpse, the countless dents and gouges left in the walls and ceiling, the wrecked equipment. Dragan Hadrien was nowhere to be seen.


    "No," he muttered, hands shaking. "No, no no no, no. When did he¡­?!"


    "I think," said Noel. "When you were fighting off that guy¡¯s last attack -- he just, um, left -- I think."


    "Hadrien!" Muzazi screamed, voice echoing throughout the chamber -- unanswered. "Come back here right now! Coward! COWARD!"


    There was nothing. No response, no return -- and Muzazi knew he wouldn¡¯t get one. If nothing else, Dragan Hadrien was skilled at running away.


    Damn it. When Hadrien had intercepted that blow for Muzazi, the Special Officer had -- for just the briefest moment -- considered that there could have been more to him than he¡¯d first assumed, more than a treacherous rat. Clearly he¡¯d been wrong. The moment Hadrien had doubted their victory, he¡¯d fled for the hills -- abandoning Muzazi to his fate.


    The tiniest part of Muzazi told him that explanation didn¡¯t quite ring true, but he pushed it away. Betrayal such as this left him in no mood for analysis.


    His grip tightened on Luminescence¡¯s hilt. Should he pursue? To what end? His arm was injured, and Hadrien had proved in the past he had no scruples against using underhanded tactics. He understood now, that if he chased after Hadrien with anger in his heart he would face only ruin.


    The ship was going down. He had to escape and meet back up with Marie. He had to get this Noel girl, and Patel who had helped him, to safety as well. There was no time to punish Hadrien as he so sorely deserved.


    Reluctantly, with gritted teeth, Muzazi sheathed Luminescence.


    You escape today, Dragan Hadrien, he told himself. But only today.


    With the slightest nod to Noel to follow him, he strode out of the engine room. As he passed the carcass of the Fifth Dead, he noticed that the body was already cracking and snapping as it¡¯s skeletal structure changed, as the meat clinging to its bones reshaped itself and new skin grew to cover the thinning muscle. Twin strands of orange and pink Aether danced over the display.


    Muzazi let it be. The Fifth Dead had been his enemy, but he had yet no quarrel with the Sixth.

 Chapter 86:3.49: Workload

    Dragan Hadrien did his best to ignore his conscience as he rode the elevator upwards.


    Usually, it wasn¡¯t that hard: his better nature was very shy, and tended only to come out when it was most inconvenient. Now, though, it was scratching at his mind like a dog wanting to come in through a door. He¡¯d abandoned Muzazi and Noel, it said, left them at the tender mercies of the Fifth Dead.


    No. Dragan shook his head.


    Muzazi was a capable warrior -- no, exemplary. As much of a pain in the ass the Special Officer¡¯s pursuit had been, he couldn¡¯t deny that. There was no doubt in his mind that he could finish off the Fifth Dead using the advantage Dragan had given him. And besides -- there¡¯d been no obligation for Dragan to provide that assistance in the first place. By intercepting that attack for Muzazi and destroying the Fifth Dead¡¯s weapon, he¡¯d already gone above and beyond the call of duty. It would be unreasonable for someone to expect more of him.


    Well, he already knew Muzazi was fairly unreasonable, so this whole thing wouldn¡¯t really change that much between them.


    Besides, he could feel that the vibrations of the engine had stopped -- the ship was still as a grave, save for the obvious and sort of horrifying feeling of descent as the Dawnhouse lost altitude. That in itself was proof that Muzazi had overcome the Fifth Dead, that he¡¯d survived the fight. Probably Noel had survived too -- Dragan didn¡¯t really care that much for her after having plasma poured over him, but abandoning a kid to die would still leave a bitter taste in his mouth.


    Isn¡¯t that what you did, though? His conscience was insistent, annoyingly so.


    Dragan shook his head. Of course that wasn¡¯t what he¡¯d done. It would only be abandoning them to die if they¡¯d actually died, obviously. What he¡¯d done was just regular abandonment.


    The elevator dinged as it came to a stop, on the top deck of the ship. Hopefully there¡¯d be some way of getting back up the roof from here, so he could help out Skipper and the others. He couldn¡¯t just ignore the situation up there, after all -- his friends, scratch that, his crew were in danger. He¡¯d had no choice but to leave Muzazi behind.


    That self-justification rang just a bit too pathetic for Dragan¡¯s tastes, though. He gritted his teeth as he stepped out of the lift.


    In the end, there was no need to justify his actions at all. Muzazi had intended to take him back to the Supremacy -- all things considered, that path would have likely ended with Dragan¡¯s death, or at the very least a severe prison sentence. In the end, all he¡¯d done was self-defence. He¡¯d saved Muzazi¡¯s life -- he had no obligation to hand his over as well.


    Dragan narrowed his eyes as he stepped through the hallways, banishing any lingering doubts from his mind.


    "The only one who decides what happens to me," he reminded himself. "Is me."


    Ruth ducked under another swing from the Chael-thing¡¯s massive fist, wind passing over her hair as the metal hand shattered against the deck.


    She was beginning to get a good sense of the beings inner workings, now -- it was fragile, destroying itself as much as its surroundings, but the blades that constituted it could regenerate as many times as was needed. The copious amounts of grey Aether Chael was producing allowed that.


    As the newly regrown fist moved to grab her again, Ruth kicked off the ground with her Skeletal boots, giving herself several meters of elevation off the ground. She needed time to come up with a strategy here.


    Luckily, the monster¡¯s full attention wasn¡¯t on her -- Bruno had swapped with Serena, and the girl was pummeling the Chael-thing¡¯s main body with gargantuan swords formed from chunks of the Dawnhouse¡¯s hull. Most of the beast¡¯s defenses were being used to protect from Skipper¡¯s ranged assault, as well -- shields growing around the main flesh body to block the constant Heartbeat Shotguns.


    That left Ruth -- the dagger that could slip through those defenses. But she wasn¡¯t seeing much in terms of gaps to maneuver through.


    If she were suicidal, she could run up the side of the creature¡¯s body and attack from there, but she was not ready to risk more spikes sprouting out and running her through. She was fast, true, but not nearly fast enough to make her confident in that gambit.


    As gravity pulled her back down, Ruth kicked at the steel wrist of the Chael-thing below her, shattering it and severing the steel fist from the rest of the body. It would regenerate just like the rest of the creature, but that would buy her time she could use to observe and plan.


    Every idea that popped into her head seemed to run into that same impassable wall -- fear. If I do that, I¡¯ll get hurt. If I do that, we¡¯ll lose. If I do that, my friends will die.


    A lashed corpse. Bones melted by plasma.


    No. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breathing.


    She¡¯d been afraid, she knew, for most of her life -- afraid of losing what she had, and afraid of being hurt. It wasn¡¯t that she¡¯d made her decisions based on that fear -- that fear had stopped her making decisions. She¡¯d let others make choices for her, followed their leads without having the courage to decide her own path, to question, to even think.


    She¡¯d been afraid of the idea that they¡¯d been fighting for some greater purpose -- because that would require her to think about the reason she fought. Because it would require her to admit that she didn¡¯t really know why.


    Her ears twitched: both of the Chael-thing¡¯s metal hands were scraping across the deck towards her from opposite sides -- as if they were about to begin applauding, with her stuck in the middle. She¡¯d be crushed, sliced to ribbons, reduced to a fine paste -- that idea frightened her. But not as much as the idea of always being scared.


    Ruth opened her eyes.


    The Skeletal gauntlets on her arms switched out in a flash of red Aether, being replaced by the arms of her Noblesse set -- and the second the metal hands made contact, the force was reflected, shattering them into yet another rain of blades. The Chael-thing roared in anger, and further tendrils of metal burst from the main mass, hurtling towards Ruth with the intent to eviscerate.


    No fear.


    Ruth ran forward as the biggest tendril closed in -- and jumped on top of it, her Skeletal boots giving her just enough speed to outrun the spikes that sprouted up to try and impale her. It was like running across the warping tracks of a rollercoaster, the flesh body of the Citizen growing larger in her vision as she charged across the metal body.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "Ruth!" cried Skipper, far away. He sounded alarmed -- but that only made sense. She was acting crazy, after all.


    Once the tendril warped into the right angle, Ruth skidded to a halt -- and swapped out her Skeletal boots for those of the Noblesse Set as well. Instantly, blades burst up beneath her feet to try and finish her -- and the second those spikes came into contact with her new boots, the reflected force launched Ruth directly towards Chael¡¯s real body.


    It was a complex, intricate thing, swapping out her armour like this. As Ruth flew through the air, red Aether concentrated on her arms, knitting together the Skeletal gauntlets she¡¯d previously dismissed. She braced her body, claws pointing straight towards Chael as he grew closer.


    Blades fired out from the monster¡¯s metal body - cutting at both Ruth¡¯s armour and skin -- but she¡¯d come too far to let a little pain stop her. A roar escaped her throat as finally, finally, she reached Chael --


    -- and planted both sets of claws right into his chest. The thrashing of the metal body and the blade-forged tendrils came to a sudden and jarring halt, like a videograph that had been put on pause. Chael himself, the real Chael, opened his mouth in a silent scream, blades vibrating inside his eye sockets in sympathy for his pain.


    Ruth blinked.


    Almost instantly, as if on some level the monster had been waiting for that moment of weakness, grey Aether pooled inside Chael¡¯s open mouth. There was the sheen of rushing metal, and a long, rigid spike burst out from the back of Chael¡¯s throat -- it¡¯s tip aimed right between Ruth¡¯s eyes.


    Run, her body told her.


    Fight, her heart said.


    Chael wasn¡¯t the only one who could pull off a final gambit. Ruth gritted her teeth and focused all the Aether she had left into her head -- the rest of her armour disappeared, reduced to tendrils of red light that concentrated around her skull.


    Noblesse Set.


    Her mask vanished, swapping over with the pure-white helmet in an instant -- at the very instant that Chael¡¯s final spike came into contact with it. There was a resounding ding as the tip of the spike slammed into the helmet, and sparks rained down onto the ground below. For a moment, it was as if the entire rest of the world had been put on mute -- even the wind seemed subdued, waiting in anticipation.


    An unstoppable force had met an immovable object -- and the spike vibrated intensely, metal singing, as the force of its blow was reflected into it. Even so, Ruth could feel the helmet buckling under the spike¡¯s advance, and for a moment she felt almost certain that the blade would keep going right into her forehead.


    But the choice was already made. All she could do now was keep faith in it. She stared ahead, unblinking, at her enemy -- listened to the creaking of metal.


    The creaking stopped --


    -- and the spike shattered.


    The Chael-thing¡¯s head snapped back as the spike exploded inside its mouth, sending shards of metal flying inside its body. It¡¯s throat opened, its jaw fell free, and the skin of its face was cut to tatters -- blood spewing out with reckless abandon, billowing onto the far-off ground like a waterfall. The blades in the beast¡¯s eyes shattered, too, and as Chael¡¯s body flopped over like a stringless puppet, Ruth knew that it¡¯s brain had surely been destroyed.


    It was done.


    Chael¡¯s Aether didn¡¯t take long to dissipate. Before Ruth could even catch her breath, she found herself falling down to the ground -- the blades that had made up Chael¡¯s massive lower body had disappeared, leaving nothing between her and gravity¡¯s tender mercies.


    The fall to the ground was considerable, and Ruth knew she wouldn¡¯t be landing without at least a few broken bones. There was nothing else for it, though; she¡¯d used all she had in terms of Aether. With no other recourse, Ruth curled her body into a ball, bracing herself for impact.


    She squeezed her eyes shut. This was gonna hurt.


    "Now¡¯s when I come in and look cool, yeah?" chuckled Skipper, voice close.


    Ruth opened her eyes -- and in that same moment, Skipper caught her. He¡¯d shot up into the air using his Heartbeat Shotgun, and as the two of them came back down he shot more out from the soles of his feet to slow their descent.


    He stumbled and almost dropped her as he landed, but it was still better than the alternative.


    "I¡¯ve seen cooler," chuckled Ruth, trying to ignore the pain from the various cuts all over her body.


    "You¡¯re breaking my heart here."


    Serena skipped up to them as Skipper skidded to a halt, still dragging one of those massive swords behind her. "Miss Ruth," she said in that sing-song voice of hers. "Are you okay?"


    "Yeah," Ruth nodded, only to grimace when even that movement sent waves of pain throughout her body. "No. No, not really. Hurts like shit."


    Skipper gulped, before glancing over his shoulder at the remnants of the battle. "Well," he said. "You¡¯re looking better than the other guy."


    It was true. There¡¯d only been half of Chael to begin with -- and now, what was left in the crater was even less than that. A broken heap of meat and skin, limbs splayed out unnaturally, entrails flowing freely out onto the deck.


    As Ruth watched, doing her best to keep her lunch down, the remains of the body were finally swept away by the broiling winds -- leaving a slick red trail behind it as it plummeted off the side of the Dawnhouse.


    It fell all the way down.


    "Is it over?" Ruth asked quietly. She found it hard to believe. This whole nightmare had felt all-encompassing for so long -- the idea that they¡¯d come out the other side intact seemed almost impossible.


    When Skipper laughed, though -- jubilantly, victoriously -- it became much easier to believe.


    "Yeah," he grinned. "Yeah, we did it. It¡¯s over."


    For a moment, just a moment, despite everything -- despite the raging winds and stinging pain -- things were peaceful. It was as if the entire universe had agreed to give them just a second to catch their breath.


    Then there was a deafening clang as a hatch not far away swung open, and Dragan Hadrien poked his head out. His hair and face were stained with ventilation fumes, and he blinked blearily as he looked frantically around. sea??h th§× NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I made it," he panted, before erupting into a coughing fit -- again, probably the fumes. "Guys, guys," he blurted out once he got the coughing under control. "I have a plan to -- to deal with that thing!"


    He blinked as he saw the strange, about-to-burst-into-laughter looks everyone else was giving him. To his credit, he figured it out quickly.


    "Oh," he said. "It¡¯s over?"


    "Yeah," chuckled Skipper. "It¡¯s over."


    It had much less gravitas the second time.


    Former Secretary Zhao watched, silent, as the Dawnhouse fell to earth.


    He¡¯d been drinking in a local bar -- drowning his sorrows, more like it -- when the news had come up on the videographs. The entire crowd had rushed out onto the bar¡¯s balcony, watching in a shocked hush as the seat of government plummeted like a shooting star.


    It had finally come to a stop after slamming into Brink District, lodging itself through several decks and obliterating the financial sector there. Fire and debris was doubtless still raining down on the lower districts, even if it could no longer be seen from here.


    "Dear Y," someone in the crowd muttered. It seemed an appropriate sentiment.


    Most people were silent. Some cried. One person, down in the streets below, was laughing hysterically -- their humourless cackle echoing up. Zhao honestly couldn¡¯t say which was the right response. From every balcony on this side of Taldan, he could see crowds of people doing nothing but watching.


    Watching history be made.


    His script rang -- some old song from years ago -- and he shakily put it to his ear, still staring at the inferno.


    The babble from the other end mostly washed over him. He caught phrases such as ¡¯chain of succession¡¯ and ¡¯Acting President¡¯, but they honestly didn¡¯t mean anything to him. He just nodded dumbly and occasionally offered an ¡¯mm¡¯ of affirmation. If nothing else, one thing was clear:


    There was a great deal of work to be done.

 Chapter 87:3.50: Reveries

    Noel rubbed her hands over her face, trying to ignore the urge to just keep her eyes closed and go to sleep.


    The street she¡¯d finally sat down in wasn¡¯t really anything in terms of comfort -- the benches had been made deliberately uncomfortable to discourage the homeless from sleeping there -- but after the week she¡¯d had, she was pretty sure a bed of nails would seem fairly appealing. Still, she wasn¡¯t in such friendly company that she could just doze off.


    Not one, but two Special Officers -- and the person who probably would have been on her side, Reyansh, was firmly unconscious, sprawled out on the bench beside her. Marie Hazzard and Atoy Muzazi were standing a short distance away on the street corner, talking quietly.


    "I can¡¯t believe I only caught up to you after everything was over," Marie sighed, waving a vague hand towards the inferno on the skyline. "And after you went and had so much fun, too."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "I¡¯m not sure I would describe that debacle as fun. It was actually quite horrifying and terrible."


    "You¡¯ve got me there," Marie chuckled, as if the whole thing was really just one big joke. "By the by, I can¡¯t help but notice you don¡¯t have Dragan Hadrien with you. I was, uh, I was under the impression that getting him was the whole point of this vacation."


    The swordsman¡¯s face darkened, and he looked down towards the ground. "I don¡¯t want to talk about it," he said, voice low.


    He didn¡¯t want to talk about it? Well, Noel had been quiet for quite long enough. "Dragan Hadrien walked away when he wasn¡¯t looking," she snapped, voice dripping with bitter humour.


    Atoy Muzazi cast an annoyed glance back at her -- clearly he¡¯d only just remembered she was there, which probably explained how he¡¯d let Dragan Hadrien get away, too. Marie simply put an amused hand to her mouth, suppressing a giggle.


    "Oh?" she said, clearly amused. "Is that really what happened, Atoy?"


    With a click of the tongue, Muzazi turned his head away. "That¡¯s¡­ something of an oversimplification."


    Marie wasn¡¯t going to let him off that easily. She circled around him, leaning forward with her arms clasped behind her back. The smuggest smile on Taldan was aimed full-blast at Atoy Muzazi. "Oh?" she said. "An oversimplification? So she¡¯s not totally wrong?"


    The crossing of Muzazi¡¯s arms grew tighter. "She¡¯s not totally wrong," he muttered.


    For a second, it looked like Marie would embark on an absolute voyage of mockery against her fellow Special Officer. Noel could clearly see it -- countless minutes of teasing and dreaded ¡¯banter¡¯, with her as a captive audience. She was half-tempted just to climb back into the Dawnhouse, if that was the future before her.


    Luckily, however, Marie seemed to have mercy -- breaking away from Muzazi and taking a step towards Noel instead.


    "I warned you, didn¡¯t I?" she said brightly. "That you weren¡¯t cut out for this type of thing. Look how things ended up."


    Noel hurriedly wiped away any remaining leakage from her eyes. "Nobody asked you," she snapped. "Besides -- if I hadn¡¯t been there, who knows how things could¡¯ve turned out?"


    The whole idea still seemed absurd to her -- a planet was just way too big for one person to have that much impact, wasn¡¯t it? Even a city seemed too huge for one person to decide it¡¯s fate. And yet, if Hadrien had told the truth, that was exactly what Noel had done. She¡¯d stopped the whole thing from going up.


    "True, true," Marie said, an inquisitive finger on her chin. "If you hadn¡¯t made your little contribution, we could¡¯ve had a really depressing ending here. I¡¯m sure I could¡¯ve escaped in time, but you and Muzazi would have been a different story, and I would¡¯ve been sad about that for a while."


    Noel didn¡¯t even have the energy to put contempt on her face. "Your concern is touching," she said.


    "Thank you kindly!" said Marie, before snapping her fingers in Muzazi¡¯s direction. "Hey hey, Atoy, do you have that thing I asked you about?"


    Muzazi broke away from brooding mode, and handed Marie a tiny black disk, small enough to fit between two of his fingers. Marie accepted it -- and then extended it down towards Noel.


    "What¡¯s this?" Noel said, accepting the delivery.


    "Instructions on how to join up with the Special Officer¡¯s Commission," Marie replied, giving Noel an unwelcome pat on the head. "Where to join up, what you¡¯ll need, what¡¯ll be required of you¡­ the Supremacy¡¯s always looking for capable people, so we¡¯re meant to hand these out when we see potential. I don¡¯t usually get the chance, so I¡¯m pretty excited!"


    Noel raised an eyebrow. "I thought I wasn¡¯t cut out for this type of thing."


    "That was then, this is now."


    "You said it minutes ago, though."


    "So?" Marie replied. "Like I said -- that was then, this is now. My appraisal changes by the second, sweetie."


    "It sounds like you¡¯re just arbitrary to me."


    "Of course I am," Marie smiled sweetly. "When you¡¯re as strong as me, you can be whatever you want."


    "Speaking of which," Muzazi cut in. "I believe that what we should be right now is leaving. I have no desire to spend any more time on this uncivilised planet -- or in UAP space, for that matter."


    Marie seemed surprised. "Really?" she said, taking a step back to lean against the wall. "You don¡¯t want to keep going after Hadrien? I¡¯m sure he¡¯s still somewhere around here."


    Atoy Muzazi looked pensively down at the sword sheathed at his hip. He was silent for a moment before answering: "I need to think about what I need to do next -- but not here. Not so close to the source of my fury."


    "I¡¯m surprised you can be so clear-headed about it."


    "Believe me," Muzazi¡¯s voice was flat with barely restrained anger. "It is taking considerable effort."


    Marie patted him on the back -- which seemed just as unwelcome as the pat to the head -- before swinging around to shrug at Noel. "And there you have it, I guess -- Atoy¡¯s homesick, so we¡¯re going home. Check out the data on the disk if you¡¯re interested, or don¡¯t if you¡¯re not. I¡¯m honestly not that invested."


    Noel sighed. "Thanks for being so honest, I guess."


    "Savour it," waved Marie -- she¡¯d already turned and started walking away. "It¡¯s a once-in-a-decade thing. You¡¯re so lucky!"


    Muzazi followed after her, having returned to his moody silence -- and after a few moments, they¡¯d vanished into the darkness.


    Noel sighed, stuffing the disk into her pocket and dragging Reyansh out from the bench. It was difficult to move him -- he was damn heavy -- but eventually she managed to maneuver herself into a configuration where she could lodge herself under his arm and move him along.


    There was no shortage of shady doctors on Taldan -- all she really needed was to get him a place to recuperate for a little while, then she could decide what to do.


    She walked through a nearby alleyway, carrying Reyansh along, as she thought things through. Strangely enough, the near darkness of the alley lended itself better for introspection than the street had. Less visual data to distract her, she supposed.


    Becoming a Special Officer of the Supremacy? It was an interesting idea, if nothing else. She had nothing in terms of loyalty to the UAP, so that wasn¡¯t a concern -- and the prestige and rank that would surely come with the position weren¡¯t bad, either. If she could manage it, she¡¯d be set for life.


    But could she see herself as a Special Officer? Was the position itself appealing, not just the perks? It was easy to see now, that she¡¯d simply swapped her father for the Citizen -- would she now be swapping the Citizen for that totalitarian government?


    It was a hell of a thing to think about.


    Noel let yet another sigh escape her throat. At least she could complain to the unconscious Reyansh, if nobody else.


    She opened her mouth to speak: "Why can¡¯t these things just be--"


    "Why can¡¯t these things just be simple, you ask?" asked an unfamiliar voice.


    Noel whirled around to face the darkness at the alley¡¯s entrance, letting Reyansh fall to the floor. Her mind ran at lightning speed, analyzing the voice that had interrupted her: elderly, in their eighties or older, and male. The kind of completely benevolent voice you¡¯d imagine coming from a kindly grandparent.


    "Who¡¯s there?" she said, voice cautious, letting her cyan Aether spark around herself to show she was ready to fight.


    "Oh dear," the voice said from the shadows, sounding completely genuine. "Please forgive me! It wasn¡¯t my intention at all to startle you. I¡¯m so very sorry."


    Noel narrowed her eyes. "Answer the question."


    "Of course, of course, yes yes yes," the voice replied. "It¡¯s only natural when meeting a new person to exchange introductions, isn¡¯t it? And as the one approaching you, it¡¯s my job to introduce myself first, isn¡¯t it? That¡¯s only natural, isn¡¯t it? That¡¯s the way these sorts of matters are supposed to go, no matter which way you look at it. Very well, here we go!"


    A head emerged from the darkness -- as if the shadows at the end of the alley were just a vertical pool. The balding, pale head of an elderly man, wrinkles compressing his face so much that he seemed to be perpetually squinting. He smiled gently.


    "My name is Smith."


    "And what do you want from me?" Noel did her best to keep her voice firm -- she had no drones left, and she wasn¡¯t sure how much her Aether could really defend against physically.


    "Want from you? Oh, no no no," the man called Smith shook his head. "My desire in this case is to enhance, not extract. You are a bright young star who shines wonderfully even now. That is something Darkstar can¡¯t help but notice."


    As Smith¡¯s head moved, Noel got an idea of the body that head was attached to. A huge, lumpy thing; for a moment Noel thought he had a hunchback, but the body configuration wasn¡¯t right for that. It was more like a pillar of misshapen flesh with a thin black cloth draped over it -- with the head sticking out from the middle of the torso.


    "Answer the question," Noel demanded. "What is it you want?"


    Smith sighed. "People these days have lost their great love of conversation. It saddens me sometimes, it really does, but you¡¯re absolutely right, of course. In a situation like this, one should make their intentions clear, shouldn¡¯t they? As quickly as possible. I¡¯ve failed in that regard, sadly. Allow me to correct that: I couldn¡¯t help but overhear those Special Officers offering you stagnation in their ranks."


    "What of it?"


    Smith widened his gaze just slightly, staring at Noel with jet-black eyes like those of a shark.


    "Would you be interested," he asked. "In seeing what a true revolution looks like?"


    Aldan Petrio read through Brighteye Taldan through one eye, while tracking the message he was writing with the other. He was sat in a rented room on the Taldan lightpoint, his scripts spread out on the desk before him. Outside the windows, the obsidian blanket of space could be seen, with just the occasional pinprick of light to remind one that the stars existed.


    This was concerning. A disaster that was supposed to have happened had not happened. He¡¯d based himself on the Taldan system¡¯s lightpoint, ready to plan his next move once the precise nature of the calamity had become clear, but now he was finding that the news was being very insistent on contradicting that.


    The death of a President and the crash of the Dawnhouse were distressing to the public, to be sure, but nothing on the level of what he¡¯d been told to prepare for. Something had definitely gone wrong, and his client hadn¡¯t been in contact.


    More likely than not he¡¯d been cut loose, then. Concerning. If that was the case, did that mean the authorities were aware of his involvement? Would they be coming for him now? If so, the best thing to do would be to make himself scarce -- book passage on a ship going far away from here, and do his utmost to forget than anything had transpired.


    The author¡¯s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He pressed his fingers together. He¡¯d set things up, of course, so that his operation could be dismantled with but a few phone calls. Those employees who could be trusted to keep quiet would be given generous retirement funds, and those who couldn¡¯t would be retired permanently. It wasn¡¯t the sort of decision he could go back on. He needed time to consider it.


    A few seconds passed. He considered it.


    Yes -- it was the best course of action. If he was overreacting, then there would be nothing stopping him setting up a new operation somewhere else. He had good relations with the Supremacy -- and there was no shortage of places just as corrupt as Taldan within their borders. He could adjust quite nicely.


    There was no time to waste. Aldan stood up from his desk, scooped up his scripts, and carefully deposited them into the pockets of his coat. He¡¯d need to find a reliable pilot to get him away from Taldan -- that would take a great deal of money in itself -- and before he did that he had to work out where exactly he wanted to go. He¡¯d likely reach that conclusion during the conversation, but it was still another matter on his personal to-do list.


    He walked to the door, half his mind already dedicated to the task of calculating likely costs of transport, opened it --


    -- and came face to face with Marie Hazzard. She smiled at him.


    Aldan didn¡¯t even have time to open his mouth before she swung her hand forward and -- with a burst of pain like nothing he¡¯d ever experienced -- plunged it into his abdomen. He tried to cry out in pain, but the only things that escaped his throat were a strangled wheeze and the bitter taste of metal.


    "You shouldn¡¯t have double-crossed me, Petrio," Marie said sweetly, her hand still inside him. "I know I should be used to it, but I really do take those sorts of things personally. I wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep at night if I didn¡¯t teach you a lesson."


    Marie didn¡¯t move, but Petrio felt the pain in his stomach intensify, spreading to cover more and more of his body -- and as he looked down, he saw why.


    Inside him, inside his guts, the fingers of Marie Hazzard were growing. He could see the impressions of them, bulging out of his skin, growing longer and stretching out like the branches of a tree and -- and splitting in places, one finger becoming two becoming three as they wound their way throughout his body, puncturing whatever crossed their path. Like a net spreading through him, they squeezed on his insides, popping them like balloons with sheer inhuman strength.


    This wasn¡¯t Aether -- he¡¯d seen Aether, and he knew it couldn¡¯t do this to a person. This was¡­


    He looked up, at the crimson eyes of the woman who was doing this to him. A deep, ancestral terror welled up inside him -- and with the last effort of his life, words came to his lips.


    "Gene...T-Tyrant¡­"


    Marie¡¯s smile spread just the slightest bit. "So nice to be recognised."


    She pulled her hand out of him, her fingers ripping strips of his flesh and skin free as they spooled out of the wound like spaghetti. A grotesque splash of blood coated the floor, and as Marie pushed him backwards, Aldan slipped on it, falling to the ground, staring up at his killer in muted horror.


    Marie¡¯s smile spread just the slightest bit more, canines glinting in the light. In the minutes that followed, Aldan Petrio would come to learn that what he had to fear was not the authorities, not the wrath of his client, not the loss of his business. No.


    What he had to fear was teeth.


    All things considered, Rick Silva was having a pretty good day.


    The clouds outside the Reverie were a lovely shade of red that evening, and the heat of the sun overhead was being filtered by the resort¡¯s shields to a comfortable level. The crashing of the waves, the tweeting of the imported birds¡­ he¡¯d been here for a month now, and the level of detail the designers had gone into still amazed him. Worth every credit.


    He was lounging on a sunbed right on the edge of the Reverie¡¯s artificial beach, the tide coming in and out at regular intervals. Unlike the messy unpredictability of a real ocean, the Reverie¡¯s water feature could be relied on to behave appropriately at all times. Sear?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A bottle of wine lay unopened on the table beside Silva -- it was Adrustan Mint, imported directly from the iceball itself. Right now it was colourless and unappealing, but that would change in a few seconds time. Silva checked the altitude on his wrist-bound script, noting with satisfaction that they were about to ascend just enough to make his purchase worth it.


    The Reverie was a fairly new experimental resort, created to suit the demands of top-class clientele. An artificial landscape atop a disk-shaped vessel, moving through the gorgeous clouds of the gas giant of Ulos. Like a colossal petri dish flying through the sky.


    They passed the altitude mark -- and immediately, the wine in the bottle began bubbling, shifting from its original colourless appearance to a vivid shade of crimson. On its native Adrust, you¡¯d have to climb snowy mountains to achieve that shade of red. Here in the Reverie, though, it was just a matter of sitting and waiting.


    Silva poured himself a glass and took a sip. Delicious. Like the first gasp of breath after swimming underwater.


    "Excuse me, uh, sir?" He wasn¡¯t alone.


    Silva looked up -- a young woman had approached his sunchair, smiling sheepishly. She was wearing a swimsuit, and long blonde hair billowed around her like a curtain. Silva gave her an appreciative look-over from behind his sunglasses before replying. "Yeah?"


    "You¡¯re Rick Silva, right?" she said, shuffling as she kept smiling. "From Verger Reconstruction?"


    Ah. That was what this was about. "That I am," Rick grinned, lifting up his glass. "What can I do for ya?"


    "I¡¯m actually¡­" the woman began, before taking a deep breath and trying again. "I¡¯m from Ursula Minor -- where the bombings were? Your company helped rebuild after the war ended. I just wanted to thank you."


    Rick took a sip of his wine. "No problem at all. It¡¯s not something you have to thank me for, though -- peace is a responsibility. Something you have to work for."


    The woman cocked her head. "What do you mean?"


    "Well," Rick put his glass down for a moment. "It¡¯s easy enough for some politician to say ¡¯oh, the war is over, we have peace now¡¯. All you need for something like that is a mouth and an ego, you know? Actually, actually making that fact -- rebuilding what¡¯s been lost, repairing the damage done -- that takes substance. It¡¯s the difference between lip service and being in it for the long haul."


    The woman blinked, clearly surprised at the length of his reply. "Um. Yeah, of course," she said, clearly not having understood. "I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re so young, though, to be honest."


    "Young?" Rick raised an eyebrow. "Well, I have good doctors." He nodded to his hand, still curled around the wine glass.


    The finest surgery money could buy had ensured Rick Silva had the face and features of a twenty-year old, but his hands were still as wrinkled and thin as his eighty years would imply. The woman tried to suppress it, but her brow clearly wrinkled in disgust at the discrepancy.


    She left soon after -- the gratitude of the shallow only lasted long enough for a few thankful words and a photograph -- and as the Reverie switched over into its night-time settings, Rick got to his feet and began walking back to his cabin.


    An artificial, holographic moon floated high in the sky, casting false light upon the ground as Rick strolled up to his cabin, twirling his keys around his fingers. It took him a couple of tries to get the key into the lock -- he¡¯d been drinking for a while, after all -- but eventually he managed to get the thing in there and give it a satisfying twist.


    His business investments over the last couple of weeks hadn¡¯t quite borne fruit, but still -- life could be worse. Silva opened the door.


    "Yo," said Skipper, sprawled out in the armchair in the corner of the cabin. He pointed a lazy finger towards Silva.


    Silva froze, eyes wide as they stared at the pointing digit. For a moment, he considered just slamming the door shut and running for it, but he doubted that this intruder would allow that.


    Frozen at the door, his mouth dry, Silva spoke: "What is it I can do for you, sir?"


    Skipper grinned. "Don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t know who I am."


    "Why would I know who you are? What is it you want -- money?"


    Skipper sighed, rubbing his forehead with his free metal hand. "You¡¯re looking at my finger like I¡¯m pointing a loaded gun at you, pal. You¡¯d have already run for it if you didn¡¯t know what I was capable of. Let¡¯s stop playing these games, yeah, Sponsor of War?"


    Silva glared at Skipper -- and the look on his eyes was itself confirmation. "How did you find me?"


    "Took some digging through what was left of the Dawnhouse, but I¡¯m a resourceful guy. Managed to pull your communication signature from the hologram systems, and once I passed that over to a pretty mercenary Paradisas, they were able to point me in your direction. Come in and close the door, or I¡¯ll shoot."


    Slowly, careful not to startle the Aether-user, Silva entered the cabin and closed the door behind him. "You¡¯ve gone to a lot of trouble, then," he said, judging the distance between himself and the vanity. On the underside of it, he knew, was a hidden button that would alert the security automatics -- and they could be there in seconds.


    "I told you I¡¯d kill you," Skipper said, still grinning -- like the visage of a skull. "D¡¯you remember that?"


    Silva smiled calmly, putting the bag containing his wine down besides him. "I do. But I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll do that."


    "You don¡¯t, huh?"


    "No," Silva shook his head. "I don¡¯t. It¡¯s like you said, Skipper -- you¡¯re a resourceful man. You¡¯re not the sort to waste an opportunity for momentary satisfaction."


    Skipper just kept on staring, relaxed but unblinking. "You¡¯re making some assumptions about me there, pal."


    "Are they wrong?"


    "You¡¯ve got me impressed here, though," Skipper said, suddenly leaning back in the chair. "Rick Silva, huh? It¡¯s a pretty cushy operation you¡¯ve got going. You start wars with one hand, clean up after them with the other. And you reap the rewards from both. It¡¯s impressive -- awful, sure, but impressive."


    Silva couldn¡¯t allow Skipper to control the pace of the conversation. He took a subtle step forward as he spoke, bringing himself closer to the vanity. "You must understand that my resources can be useful to you too, don¡¯t you? I can see you¡¯re a man of ideals. That¡¯s a splendid thing, but you need material resources to make those ideals a reality. You realize that, don¡¯t you?"


    "Sure."


    "It¡¯s like on Taldan, you see," Silva went on, doing his best to keep his voice level. "That Zhao, he¡¯s in charge now, and he wants to clean the planet up. You know the first thing he did? Enact a purge of all the people who¡¯d stand against that. That¡¯s brutal, yes, brutal -- but necessary to make his dream come true."


    Skipper¡¯s free hand drummed against the arm of his chair. "You going somewhere with this, or¡­?"


    Silva leaned forward. "Weapons, ships, automatics. Name it -- and I can give it to you. I can make sure your dream comes true."


    Skipper¡¯s smile turned icier, a firmness settling in his gaze. Silva¡¯s heart began beating faster -- as if realizing it didn¡¯t have many beats left.


    "You think I need your help?" Skipper said quietly. "A piece of shit like you?"


    "That¡¯s--"


    "Lemme tell you, my bovine buddy," Skipper sighed. "I want to change the shape of this world. That¡¯s my dream. When I¡¯m done -- and that¡¯s a when, not an if, yeah? -- there won¡¯t be room for people like you at the top anymore. If I make that dream come true with your help, I won¡¯t be changing the shape of this world, will I? I¡¯ll just be throwing a fresh coat of paint over it. Not really what I¡¯m looking for. Sorry."


    Silva took the last step he dared to, as close to the vanity as he could get without arousing suspicion. "I advise you reconsider," he beseeched Skipper. "You¡¯ll regret it otherwise -- eventually -- I can promise you that right now."


    The captain sighed, and a spark of green Aether ran up his arm. "I¡¯ll regret it eventually, probably, yeah. But right now? Right now I think I can handle this with a pretty clear conscience."


    For a moment, there was silence, save for the steady clicking of the antique clock in the corner. Skipper stared into Silva¡¯s eyes. Silva stared into Skipper¡¯s. Birds tweeted outside.


    Moving with all the speed his old bones could manage, Rick Silva lunged for the vanity.


    "Heartbeat Shotgun."


    "You¡¯re sure nobody¡¯s coming after us?" Dragan called out from the ship¡¯s lounge. It was the third time that hour.


    "I¡¯m sure," Skipper replied, leaning over the steering console. "I¡¯m a thorough guy. They won¡¯t find out what happened for a couple days -- guaranteed."


    "That¡¯s actually kinda terrifying," Dragan said, still shouting. "But, uh, okay, I guess?"


    They were on their way out of the Ulos system -- after their brief stop at the Reverie, it was probably a good idea to get out of there as soon as possible. They¡¯d got the ship back, good as new -- Bruno and Serena had turned in for a sleep, while Dragan was doing whatever it was Dragan did in the lounge. Skipper was watching the stars from the cockpit, Ruth in the passenger¡¯s seat next to him. She was staring off with a strange look on her face.


    Skipper turned to her. "You okay?"


    "Just thinking," she muttered.


    "About anything in particular?


    She turned to look at him, but in her eyes he could see that she was still deep in thought. "You said that Chael was working with an illusionist, right? An Aether user?"


    Ah. He¡¯d figured this uncomfortable conversation would be coming around before too long. "Yep. He had a guy helping him maintain his cover -- stopped me from hitting him when he first revealed himself."


    Finally, Ruth properly looked at him. "An illusionist for hire, using Aether? Doesn¡¯t that sound like someone we know?"


    Skipper sighed. "North."


    Suddenly, an accusatory gleam was in Ruth¡¯s gaze. "I saw him die. I saw what was left of him."


    All Skipper could offer was a weak shrug. "I dunno what to tell ya, Ruth¡­ when a guy can make you see whatever he wants, that doesn¡¯t mean much."


    "Did you know?" Ruth growled. Her fist tightened in her lap.


    As quickly as he could, Skipper shook his head. "No," he said truthfully. "I thought he was dead, same as you. I¡¯m just¡­ not surprised that I might have been wrong, yeah? It sounds very possible to me."


    "Yeah." Her anger abated, Ruth turned her gaze away, back out the cockpit."I can believe it too."


    Suddenly, her expression seemed to freeze in a moment of alarm - eyes wide, lips tight, pushing herself back in her seat as if flinching away from something.


    "Skipper," she said, voice cautious.


    "I get that it¡¯s a lot to take in, Ruth, yeah," Skipper said, rubbing his metal hand over his face to indulge the exhaustion. "But there¡¯s not much we can do about it right now, so--"


    "Skipper."


    He moved his hand away, followed her gaze out the window -- and in that moment, he imagined that his face was a good match for hers. It certainly was a sight to behold.


    A colossal starship, bigger than most of the skyscrapers of Taldan, had appeared just in front of them. It was bone-white in colouration, with the black pinpricks of portholes and viewing cameras dotting it¡¯s surface.


    The shape of the thing was strange -- starting off as a straight rod, before curving upwards into some kind of saucer. Skipper couldn¡¯t help but think of a giant spoon, looking at it. He wasn¡¯t sure whether the absurdity of that made things more or less anxiety-inducing.


    The communicator on the console in front of them burst into life. "Starship Slipstream," a firm, stern voice intoned from the other end -- using the new name Skipper had given the yacht. "This is Unite Regent of the Unified Alliance of Planet¡¯s UniteFleet. You are hereby ordered to surrender both yourself and your vessel immediately. Failure to comply in a timely manner will result in hostilities. You have five minutes to acquiesce to this demand. Any attempt at vacating your present position will be taken as a failure to comply."


    And with that lengthy spiel -- spoken with all the enthusiasm of a salesman reading a script -- the crackling of the communicator died away again.


    "Well," gulped Skipper. "I¡¯ve always thought not being in trouble is kinda boring, honestly."


    Ruth¡¯s glare could have melted through the hull.


    "You¡¯re sure nobody¡¯s coming after us?" Dragan called out. The fourth time that hour.


    END OF ARC 3

 Chapter 88:4.1: Jaime Pierrot

    There was a saying among the servicemen of UniteFleet:


    They said that Captain Jaime Pierrot was the captain of two ships. The first was called the Unite Regent. The second was called the Unified Alliance of Planets.


    He certainly cut an impressive figure, striding through the sliding doorway into the meeting room. The boyish explorer of his youth had smoothly transitioned into the rugged daredevil of his later years, and that had now evolved into a firm, wise dignity akin to that of an elder statesman.


    His head was smooth and bald, reflecting the white lights inside the Unite Regent as he entered the room. The peppermint beard he had beneath that was expertly groomed, giving off the impression of advanced age while expunging any notion of fragility that might be associated with it. The uniform he wore -- a buttoned-up blue captain coat with black pants and shoes -- had nary a thread out of place. This was a man of exactitude in all things.


    The meeting room itself was circular, positioned several decks below the bridge -- so that it could be reached easily via elevator by command staff if they were needed. On a ship like this, delay in making decisions could easily mean disaster.


    The Regent¡¯s chief of security, Overman Yaza, was already seated -- she understood that fact. She was wearing heavy security armour, layered white plates providing protection from both plasma and punchpoint. The helmet was on the table in front of her, and she rested a gloved hand protectively on top of it. She was a woman in her thirties, with brown skin and robust eyebrows. Her eyes were cautious as a hawk -- even as she nodded respectfully at her captain, she was watching for any sign of danger.


    If Yaza had the eyes of a hawk, then the head of personnel, Overman Langston, had those of an owl, wide and anxious. He was pacing nervously back and forth -- muttering silently to himself. Perhaps the Umbrant was running numbers in his mind, or practicing what he would say in this consultation. His green uniform was disheveled -- given the late hour, he¡¯d probably thrown it on quickly.


    Underman Rose, one of the newer cadets brought aboard the Unite Regent, followed behind the captain. The pale young woman¡¯s short black hair was messy in the kind of way that can only be deliberate -- just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to impede. She wore the red jumpsuit of an Underman, her UniteFleet badge proudly placed over her heart.


    Captain Pierrot pulled up his seat at the head of the table and sat down, fingers clasped in front of him. "Thank you for coming at such short notice, everyone. I understand this is cutting into your own free time, but I thought it only prudent to take stock of matters while we have a quiet moment."


    "Free time?" Yaza smirked humorlessly. "Believe me, Cap. If you hadn¡¯t called for me, I¡¯d be in my quarters doing sweet f -- doing pretty much nothing."


    "All the same, I appreciate it. On your part as well, Mr. Langston."


    "Sure, okay," Langston said, hurriedly getting into his own chair -- he was already pulling a holographic projector out of his pocket. "There¡¯s, um -- there¡¯s a lot to get into, so maybe we should skip the pleasantries?"


    Pierrot sighed, but there was still a smile on his face. "I do adore pleasantries in most cases, Mr. Langston, but this time I believe you¡¯re right. Let¡¯s start with the state of the major players."


    These crew members had duties for both of Jaime Pierrot¡¯s ships, after all. It was their job to monitor and identify threats to both the Unite Regent and the Unified Alliance of Planets -- and they did their job well.


    Langston nodded, tapping a few buttons on his wrist-bound script. "Things are generally calm at present, sir -- in a macro-sense, of course, there¡¯s a lot of internal strife going on in most cases rather than external, which would be, um, bad for us, I imagine."


    Yaza raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Such as?" She wasn¡¯t one who had much patience for Langston¡¯s waffling.


    "The Final Church," Langston went on, talking a mile a minute. "I¡¯ll start with them, as an -- well, as an example, their three sects. The Paradisas have mostly been quiet, recently -- but that¡¯s nothing new. It¡¯s the Humilists and the Superbians who we need to, um, need to watch out for. The Humilists Apexbishop is still doing her best to consolidate resources for the Truemeet later this year -- and that¡¯s making enemies from the, well, the owners of those resources. The Superbian Apexbishop -- he¡¯s still only recently come into power, but he¡¯s been clashing with his cardinals. Someone¡¯s going to make a play for extra power there."


    Pierrot rubbed his chin. "But it¡¯s still all self-contained?"


    "That¡¯s right, yes, sir."


    "Then we can just continue to observe for the time being," Pierrot nodded. "What about the others on our watchlist?"


    Yaza took over, reading from the script in front of her. "The Branches of the Tree of Might are still eating each other alive in that damn succession crisis, so they haven¡¯t been involved in much outside that for a while. Darkstar are still awaiting the return of their King. ExoCorp has been...well, this is just a rumour, so don¡¯t go putting your faith in it -- but words going around that they paid to have a Supremacy Minister assassinated."


    "That¡¯s surprisingly bold of them." ExoCorp was known for unscrupulous business practices, but direct action like that was something else entirely.


    "It¡¯s just a story, mind," Yaza said. "But the way it goes, apparently Minister Garan Elliot was really pushing for the Supremacy to have exclusive Panacea rights, starting to put pressure on ExoCorp with military might. It wouldn¡¯t be a longshot for someone to take him out -- hell, I can see us doing it, if they didn¡¯t."


    She was right -- Panacea was a vital resource. The idea of one side of the cold war having exclusive access to that kind of unbelievable healing would have driven the UAP to unseemly action, had they gotten wind of it in time. Ideals were all well and good, but not when you were bleeding to death by sticking to them.


    "Keep a tab on it all the same," Pierrot decided after a moment. "The changes in the CEO¡¯s behaviour still concern me. I want to be alerted if ExoCorp makes another move like this."


    "Very well, sir." Yaza tapped a button next to the document, and a star appeared to mark the track.


    With the minor business settled, Pierrot leaned forward in his chair, taking a deep breath. "Now that we¡¯re caught up on those matters," he said joylessly. "I¡¯d like an update on our very best friends." The sarcasm was unmistakable, and a little dissonant coming from the captain¡¯s mouth -- he should have aged out of such snark almost twenty years ago.


    Known space was divided territory-wise between the Supremacy, the Unified Alliance of Planets and the Final Church. They¡¯d covered the Final Church, and Pierrot didn¡¯t need to be told about his own government. That only left...


    Langston tapped a button on his script, and a holographic projection appeared over the table. A recreation of the crown of the Supremacy¡¯s military might - a gargantuan metal starstation, with five radial arms like a starfish, huge enough to cast a shadow over a megacity. The entirety of its surface was coated in high-power turrets -- and if you looked closely, you could see massive containers hanging from its underside, full to bursting with swarms of combat automatics. A single ship that could take on a planet all by itself.


    The Sheshanaga.


    "The Supreme still hasn¡¯t left the station," Langston said.


    Yaza chuckled. "He hasn¡¯t left the station for twenty years, Langston -- not since the Dranell rebellion. That¡¯s hardly news. For all we know, maybe he had a heart attack on his throne and died like the last one."


    Langston, immune to sarcasm as ever, shook his head hurriedly. "No, no. If the Supreme had died, there¡¯d be no way the Contenders could keep it quiet -- they, well, they wouldn¡¯t even if they could. If the Supreme was dead, I mean, one of them would have already taken the credit."


    "Barbarians," Yaza rolled her eyes. "Doesn¡¯t make sense to me -- how are you supposed to have a functioning government when you can replace the head of state by killing them? It¡¯s a miracle the Supremacy didn¡¯t collapse hundreds of years ago."


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    When Pierrot spoke next, it was with surprising firmness -- and the stern tone to his voice made everyone sit up a little straighter. "Well, it hasn¡¯t," he said, giving Yaza a pointed look. "And we will gain nothing from thinking ourselves better than our enemies. Given the opportunity, they will destroy us. Thinking of them as a farce may cause us to forget that. Am I understood?"


    Chastised, Yaza quietly nodded. "Yes, sir."


    "So long as I¡¯m understood. Langston -- the rest of the Contenders? I assume Avaman is with the Supreme, still?"


    Langston nodded, tapping a few more buttons on his script.


    The holographic image changed to a humanoid figure -- a man in leather armour and a dark purple cloak. His face was concealed by an opaque visor, the contours of the glass designed to give just the vaguest impression of human features.


    Langston spoke: "Apart from a brief outing to, um, well, to dispose of a bandit tribe, yes. He¡¯s remained with the Supreme."


    "Sounds like he got bored. What about Charon? She continues to expand her network?"


    "That she does," Langston agreed, before swapping the hologram over the table. Avaman¡¯s imposing figure was replaced with a three-dimensional recreation of an image. The second Contender -- Paradise Charon -- arriving on a ship, strolling through the hangar with her arms behind her back. She was wearing a garish yellow business suit, her hair dyed blue and shaved to a fuzz on her head -- her fashion sense was eclectic as ever. The image rotated slightly, and from that angle sharp red thimbles could be seen on her index fingers, giving the impression of claws.


    She was accompanied by another man -- short blonde hair under a black conical hat. He wore a traditional green warcoat, open to show off his bare chest, and a sword was sheathed at each of his hips. The man was clearly quite tall, but Paradise Charon stood a head over him all the same.


    "Baltay Kojirough?" Pierrot said -- even as he asked, though, there was no surprise in his voice. "That¡¯s quite a catch for Charon."


    Langston nodded. "Our agent on the Child Garden believes they¡¯ve been romantically involved since a few months ago -- when Kojirough took the Supreme Heir to a festival on Balan Prime."


    Yaza sighed as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "So there¡¯s another ally she¡¯s got -- plus she pretty much has control of the Heir now, too. I¡¯ll bet money she makes another go at the Supreme before long."


    Pierrot closed his eyes, deep in thought -- as if he were listening to something else entirely. "I¡¯d much rather have a lazy Supreme like the present one than someone as ambitious as Paradise Charon. Continue monitoring the situation -- we may have to intervene if we think she has a chance of succeeding. The others?"


    The image changed again -- a blurry recreation of a single frame of surveillance footage, taken from a temple on Ocean Hate. What was left of the head priest was scattered throughout the main hall -- and in the corner, blurry and indistinct from speed of movement, was a vague quadruped that could only be the Hellhound.


    "Don¡¯t know what the guy did to piss the Supremacy off," Yaza winced, looking at the priest¡¯s mauled remains. "But I don¡¯t envy him. The Hellhound always finds its prey."


    He was unambitious, though -- content to do as he was told, receive his rewards, and little else. He didn¡¯t require as much scrutiny as the other three Contenders.


    "Last but, ah, but certainly not least¡­" Langston switched the image again. "Wu Ming."


    The hologram now displayed long-range footage of a spot on some desert planet -- warped blue mountains visible in the distance, protruding from the black sand. A man in flamboyant dress was strolling through the desert, swinging his arms exaggeratedly.


    He had the jet-black sclera of an Umbrant, long dark hair, and a patchwork coat of many colours and materials -- from denim to leather. Both his eyebrows were pierced with some silver studs, and a golden nose chain ran from the olfactory organ to his left ear. A strange smile played across his bright red lips.


    "The Fourth Contender¡¯s as unique as ever," commented Pierrot, before a crease of concern ran across his brow. "Hold a moment. Where was this image taken?"


    Langston¡¯s face was grim. "This was taken on Duras the Greater, sir."


    The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Suddenly, the walls seemed to constrain more than protect, an inevitable claustrophobia striking everyone there. Any humour that had been present drained away in an instant.


    "When?" Pierrot¡¯s tone suggested he already knew the answer.


    "Three days ago."


    "So he¡¯s already inside UAP space. Do we know what he was doing there?"


    Langston meekly shook his head -- and as he did, Pierrot rose to his feet, chair squealing as the legs scraped against the floor.


    "I want to know what that man was up to," he said, face dark. "Within the week. Sooner, if possible. I don¡¯t care how many resources you need to invest -- and make sure nobody connected to the governing council gets wind of this. If they discover one of the Supreme¡¯s personal agents is roaming around our space as they please, this cold war is going to turn hot very quickly."


    There was no room for argument when faced with Captain Pierrot¡¯s tone -- just by listening to his words, you understood that this was the way things were going to be. When it came from Pierrot¡¯s mouth, it wasn¡¯t just a command -- it was scripture.


    "Yes, sir," Yaza and Langston parroted each other. Despite the differences in their personalities, they were united by their loyalty and obedience towards Captain Pierrot.


    "Dismissed." With the orders handed down, Pierrot turned swiftly on his heel and marched out of the room, Underman Rose following quickly after him. S§×ar?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The observer switched to a hallway camera to watch him go.


    "Sir?" Rose asked nervously, speeding up to match the Captain¡¯s long strides. "I don¡¯t know if now¡¯s a good time, but there¡¯s some other matters for your attention. Just on this ship, though, I mean."


    Pierrot¡¯s eyes kept straight forward. "Proceed."


    "We¡¯ve had a communication from an Ambassador Dalcina of Adrust -- she¡¯s on her way here, sir. Apparently there are some private matters she needs to discuss with you?"


    Pierrot¡¯s stride didn¡¯t break, but the slightest smirk betrayed his satisfaction. "Is that so?" he mused. "Such auspicious timing."


    Rose cocked her head. "Sir?"


    "Don¡¯t worry about it. Inform the Ambassador I look forward to receiving her."


    "Yes, sir," Rose nodded, tapping a few buttons on her script -- only to pause, finger hovering over the screen. "Oh, sir? I almost forgot. You wanted me to keep you informed on the prisoners we picked up in the Ulos system. We¡¯ve brought them aboard and got them processed -- their ship is impounded in Hangar 19, but we¡¯ve confirmed no suspicious articles on board."


    "I¡¯m very glad to hear that, Underman Rose," Pierrot said, coming to a stop outside the elevator doors. "But I feel I must correct you on one little thing. This Skipper and his crew aren¡¯t our prisoners -- they¡¯re our guests. Please inform them they¡¯re invited to dinner in my personal quarters tonight."


    And without another word, he stepped into the elevator, tapped a button, and went zooming up. Rose was left to stand there, script still held between her hands, face a mask of confusion.


    "Huh?" she said.


    "Now this is what I call hospitality," grinned Skipper, leaning back in his seat -- boots perched on top of the expensive-looking table.


    "Really?" Dragan raised a typically judgemental eyebrow. "It¡¯s not what I¡¯d call it."


    "What would you call it, Mr. Dragan?" Serena said cheerfully -- she was sat across from Dragan, happily folding and unfolding a napkin that had foolishly been put within arm¡¯s reach.


    "I¡¯d call it the exact same thing that happened back on Taldan. We¡¯re prisoners. Believe you me, they¡¯re nice right now, but the minute we¡¯re not useful to them anymore, it¡¯ll be the exact same thing."


    Ruth spoke up. Her arms were folded, and her eyes were flicking cautiously around the room. "I won¡¯t let them do anything to you guys," she said seriously. "Don¡¯t worry."


    "I¡¯m not worried," Dragan backtracked. "I¡¯m just saying what¡¯s going to happen -- none of you guys can say I didn¡¯t warn you now, is all. Are we clear on that? I definitely warned all of you."


    "Yeah, yeah," Skipper waved a dismissive hand, still leaning so far back in his chair that he was eye-level with the ceiling. "I hear ya."


    Dragan leaned forward, eyebrows creased in annoyance. "What did I say, then?"


    Another wave of the hand. "I hear ya."


    After having their ship impounded, they¡¯d been ¡¯escorted¡¯ up to the quarters of the Captain of this ship. Nobody had threatened them or physically forced them to come up here, per se, but there was an undeniable implication that they¡¯d regret it if they didn¡¯t comply.


    The room itself was surprisingly large for a military ship -- it seemed more like a dining room from some kind of classical manor than something you¡¯d find on a starship, all wood upholstery and antiques. A collection of esoteric and ancient-looking weapons took up the entire far wall, behind a glass display case. There, ceremonial daggers and intricately-carved spears were neighbours to gold-trimmed muskets and shields emblazoned with the sigils of nations that no longer existed.


    The long desk that the Captain presumably worked at was empty, with not even a deactivated script present on its surface. It seemed that this place, at least, had better security than Dir¡¯s office back on Taldan.


    Still, at least Dir had had the decency to be there when they dragged to his office. Since being brought in here, Dragan hadn¡¯t seen even a peep of Captain Pierrot or whatever his name was.


    Well, it seemed like that was about to change. Dragan could hear measured, even footsteps coming from the hallway outside. On cue, the doors opened -- and an older man stepped in, smiling genially. He wore the uniform of a UniteFleet captain.


    "I apologize for the wait, my friends," he said, friendliness in his voice. "We¡¯ve been quite busy the last couple of days, so I¡¯ve had a great deal to attend to. I trust I didn¡¯t make you wait too long?"


    He said all the right things. There was an unmistakable kindness to his face. Not the slightest trace of malice or hostility was present in any of his body language.


    But Dragan knew instinctively, the moment he saw Captain Pierrot:


    This man is a liar.

 Chapter 89:4.2: An Awkward Luncheon

    "Is something wrong, Dragan?" Captain Pierrot asked, looking down the dinner table. "You¡¯ve barely touched your food."


    Indeed, Dragan had simply been staring down at the roast strand on the plate in front of him, deep in thought. He didn¡¯t see how anyone could blame him for it -- this was an incredibly serious situation. Even if Ruth was shoveling chunks of meat into her mouth with her hands, and Serena was nibbling away like a rabbit at a leaf of lettuce, and that idiot Skipper was cutting away at his steak like this was a fancy restaurant, Dragan at least wouldn¡¯t let himself be taken in.


    "No offense," Dragan said, unsuccessfully trying to conceal his hostility. "But I don¡¯t think we¡¯re on a first name basis, Mr. Pierrot. And I¡¯m not hungry."


    As the others continued eating, either ignoring or not noticing the obvious hostility, Pierrot simply smiled warmly. "Of course -- forgive me. I understand this must be a confusing situation for you, being from the Supremacy and all. It¡¯s Captain Pierrot, by the way."


    Dragan didn¡¯t blink. "I¡¯m sure it is. And I¡¯m not worried because I¡¯m from the Supremacy, since you were implying that. I was in the AdminCorps -- that¡¯s hardly part of the military structure."


    "Hm," chuckled Pierrot. "I¡¯m not sure the Supremacy¡¯s military structure would agree with you there. AdminCorps is officially part of the military, after all."


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "AdminCorps operates on a slot-in basis, like the Special Officer¡¯s Commission. It can be part of the civilian or military complex as required. When I left, it was part of the civilian sector."


    "And yet you were dispatched to assist a Special Officer -- who, at the time, was working under the military."


    "Working with the military -- like I said, they¡¯re slot-in, and Muzazi was working under the orders of a Minister, and they¡¯re classed as civilian."


    "With the authority to command military assets if it advances the will of the Supreme."


    "So?"


    Skipper suddenly cut in, laughing as he put his knife and fork back down on his plate. "Ah, what a feast! I really appreciate it, pal. You¡¯re gonna have to forgive Dragan here, he¡¯s going through a moody phase. You know how kids are."


    "I¡¯m nineteen," snarked Dragan, unimpressed. "I don¡¯t have moody phases anymore."


    "Your whole life is one moody phase," came Ruth¡¯s muffled voice as she spoke through a chunk of meat.


    "Haha. You¡¯re so funny."


    Still, Dragan had to admit he was being uncharacteristically talkative -- and his hostility was being uncharacteristically open. Normally, if someone pissed him off, he¡¯d let it simmer below the surface until he could take some kind of subtle petty vengeance, but that wasn¡¯t the case here. He felt the urge to refute every single thing this Captain Pierrot was saying.


    He couldn¡¯t help it. The man just rubbed him the wrong way. It was as if every one of Dragan¡¯s Cogitant senses was screaming threat, threat in response to even the most innocuous statement or gesture from the old man. Not a physical threat, but someone who could not be trusted under any circumstances.


    It wasn¡¯t hard to figure out why, given the way the conversation seemed to be orbiting Dragan¡¯s history with the Supremacy military: Captain Pierrot wanted to get intel out of him. Dragan figured that could happen one of two ways -- either peacefully, through a conversation like this, or¡­ less so. If that was the case, it was in his best interest just to tell the Captain what he knew, even if it was so very little.


    But the guy just pissed him off.


    "There¡¯s no need to apologize," Pierrot chuckled infuriatingly, taking a sip of water. "I¡¯ve raised children myself -- I¡¯m quite familiar with the occupational hazards. At any rate, the Supremacy isn¡¯t what I¡¯d like to talk about today."


    Liar. Full of shit. Fuck you.


    "Oh?" Skipper leaned back in his chair. "And what is it you wanna talk about, then?"


    Pierrot smiled thinly. "Before we ran across your ship --" Before you captured us, you mean. "-- we actually made a brief stop at the planet Taldan, for refueling purposes." No -- if you were refueling, you¡¯d have done so at the Taldan lightpoint, not the planet. "I understand a potentially cataclysmic situation occurred there -- and that you were instrumental in stopping it." Who would have told you that? There wasn¡¯t exactly an audience there. "I brought you here so I could thank you." Yeah, right. "You saved so many lives."


    "Eh," Skipper waved a hand. "Don¡¯t worry about it, buddy. It¡¯s kinda what I do, but I appreciate the appreciation, yeah?"


    Suddenly, Bruno cut in, swapping places with Serena mid-chew. "Is there a reward?" he said seriously, lettuce still sticking out of his mouth.


    Dragan shot the other boy a glare: Don¡¯t engage with this!


    "I¡¯m sure something of that nature can be discussed," Pierrot said calmly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "But all things in good time, my friend. Your ship is in dire need of refueling itself -- I understand you left Taldan in a hurry. We¡¯d be happy to provide that service while you enjoy the facilities here on the Regent."


    It was almost insulting how little Pierrot was bothering to conceal his deceit. The excuse didn¡¯t even really make sense -- the only flying the ship had done since leaving Taldan had been the relatively short trip to the Reverie. At what point would they have apparently used up all this fuel?


    Still, Dragan didn¡¯t say anything. He just sat there, glaring. He was almost surprised himself, with just how irritated this man was making him.


    "I¡¯ll have my aide show you around the ship shortly," Pierrot said, standing up from his seat. "I¡¯m sorry we couldn¡¯t talk for longer, but this is a busy vessel. I¡¯ll do my best to meet with you again before you leave."


    And with that, he began walking for the door -- and Dragan couldn¡¯t hold it in any longer.


    "Pierrot!" he called out harshly just as the Captain was about to leave the room. The old man turned to look at him.


    "Yes, Dragan?"


    Skipper was giving Dragan a disapproving glare -- telling him to chill out, probably, or something just as unhelpful -- but the Cogitant didn¡¯t care. He wanted a little honesty here. "What do you want?" Dragan glared.


    Captain Pierrot seemed to consider the question for a moment, putting a hand to his chin and closing his eyes, before answering:


    "Peace and joy for all mankind," he said truthfully, before striding out of the room.


    Jaime Pierrot hurriedly adjusted his coat as he walked down the hallway, a pair of Undermen saluting him as he passed.


    That had been more taxing than he¡¯d expected. The Cogitant issue was something he was used to at this point -- he¡¯d certainly gotten enough of it over the years -- but it¡¯d never been to that degree before. Hadrien had clearly been dissecting every word that came out of his mouth.


    He went to brush his hair back with a hand, only to stop when he remembered it was no longer there.


    No matter how suspicious Hadrien might have been, there was no way he could have actually deduced the cause -- but Pierrot¡¯s speech and body language set him on edge, like it did with all Cogitants. It was an irritating counterweight to The Prince¡¯s usefulness, but not enough to impact what he needed to do.


    He put a subtle finger to his temple, reached out once again, for guidance, and then lowered the digit. His best course of action was to continue the ship¡¯s present course towards the UAP-Supremacy border. It would also be best to hold Skipper¡¯s crew until he¡¯d had a chance to speak with Ambassador Dalcina.


    In other words, stay the present course. That was the best path forward for all involved.


    His hands clasped behind his back as he walked, Pierrot reminded himself of the reason he did all this.


    Peace and joy for all mankind. At whatever cost was due.


    "He¡¯s so full of shit," muttered Dragan, arms crossed. His foot tapped angrily against the floor.


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. He was well aware that Dragan Hadrien was an untrusting guy, but this seemed a little overboard -- he hadn¡¯t even bothered to hide his obvious aggravation as the dinner went on.


    "Well, of course he¡¯s full of shit," Skipper grinned. "Most people are, when ya get down to it. Still, he gives good grub, so maybe he¡¯s not so bad, yeah?"


    Dragan vigorously shook his head. "No," he growled. "No. Fuck that."


    Ruth leaned forward across the table, obviously concerned. "Are you okay?" she said, reaching a hand forward to take Dragan¡¯s temperature -- a hand that was expertly dodged. "You¡¯re acting kinda weird."


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "I think he¡¯s acting normal," offered Serena, patting her belly as she finally finished her food.


    "I¡¯m fine!" snapped Dragan, moving away from the table and out of Ruth¡¯s reach. "It¡¯s just¡­ ugh. I dunno. That guy just pisses me off, I guess. Something about him."


    "You don¡¯t like bald people, do you, Mr. Dragan?" Serena proposed, smiling sweetly.


    Ruth put a hand to her mouth and ¡¯coughed¡¯ into it, obviously suppressing a laugh. "I don¡¯t think that¡¯s it, Serena," she smirked. "I don¡¯t think Dragan likes anyone."


    Serena¡¯s lip wobbled. "Even us?" she turned to look at Dragan, face stricken with grief. "You don¡¯t like me either, Mr. Dragan?" Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan glared at Ruth. "Can you not?"


    Skipper clapped his hands together, using the tiniest bit of Aether to boost the sound of it -- creating a noise that easily cut through the burgeoning argument. All three of their heads snapped to look at him.


    "Kids, kids," he chuckled, raising his hands placatingly. "None of you are wrong, honestly. This situation is kinda sus -- so how about this? We play along for the time being, and the moment things get dicey we pull off the ol¡¯ Skipper special."


    "What¡¯s that?" Ruth cocked her head.


    "We blow a hole in the wall and leave."


    Dragan groaned, pushing his chair back with a squeal as he stood up. "Great," he sarcasmed. "Great plan. Good luck with it, yeah? You guys can go wait around for this guided tour or whatever, but I¡¯m going to investigate. Figure out what this guy¡¯s game is."


    Serena quickly swapped over with Bruno, who stood up from his chair as well. "I¡¯ll go with you," he said hurriedly. "We shouldn¡¯t be moving around alone on an enemy vessel."


    "Ah," sighed Skipper, as the pair made themselves scarce. "The paranoia¡¯s contagious around here, huh?" He glanced towards Ruth. "Back in my day, people trusted each other, yeah? It¡¯s a damn shame."


    Ruth had left her chair as well, but hadn¡¯t fled from the room -- instead, she was squatting down to peer through the glass display case.


    "Ruth," The tiniest trace of annoyance slipped into Skipper¡¯s voice. "I¡¯m giving out pearls of wisdom here!"


    "Are these what I think they are?" Ruth muttered, inspecting a golden hook-sword.


    Skipper looked up. "Oh, yeah -- I did a sneaky Aether ping while we were eating, aimed at that case. Those are definitely Aether Armaments. Our Captain Pierrot¡¯s got quite the collection."


    Infusing and altering objects was common practice for Aether users -- but sometimes, an object was so thoroughly transformed by its owner that it retained its unique attributes even after its creator was long gone. Once that was the case, anyone could use the Aether Armament -- just by pouring a little of their own Aether into it.


    "If we do need to bust out," Ruth muttered. "We could use these, couldn¡¯t we?"


    Skipper sighed. "I guess. Listen, though -- let¡¯s not get ahead of ourselves."


    "Dragan is right, though, even if he¡¯s being weird," Ruth said, looking at Skipper over her shoulder. "This whole thing is sketchy as hell. They¡¯re prolly not just gonna let us go, right?"


    "Of course they won¡¯t," Skipper shrugged. "But that¡¯s no biggy. We¡¯ll break out --" he wagged a finger to punctuate his point. "-- when I say it¡¯s time to break out. Trust me?"


    Ruth¡¯s smile faltered -- right. The things that had happened back on Taldan, the things Ruth had been told about Skipper¡¯s time in Vantablack Squad, with the Widow and everybody else. They hadn¡¯t had time to talk about it, and this certainly wasn¡¯t the time either.


    Still, he couldn¡¯t say nothing.


    Before Skipper could even open his mouth to speak, however, the door slid open -- and a young woman with short black hair stepped in.


    "Hello! Ready for the tour?" she said cheerfully, only to frown once she had a chance to look around the room. "Oh. Weren¡¯t there supposed to be four of you?"


    Mess halls, Dragan found, were the same no matter where you went in the universe.


    A massive room with echoing acoustics designed to irritate, filled with as many uniform rows of tables and benches as it could hold. The babbling of the ship¡¯s crew as they ate was a constant undercurrent -- Dragan was tempted to clamp his hands over his ears just to shut out the unholy amounts of sound.


    The food didn¡¯t seem much to speak of, either -- processed bars of nutrients and simple flavour, designed for efficiency rather than enjoyment. Dragan noticed some crew members crushed them up into some kind of porridge, some cut them into wafer-thin slices, but the result was the same in the end. Not even the finest chef in the galaxy could make this sort of crude matter seem gourmet.


    A surly Scurrant janitor with folds of skin hanging over his mouth like mustachios walked past Dragan and Bruno as they entered, casting an indiscriminate glare at them. It seemed the cleaning staff were in constant demand here: where there were people and food, there was mess to be cleaned. Crumbs and snack packets were constantly being sucked up from the floor by janitors and their cleaning automatics, and they were being replaced just as quickly.


    Dragan looked over the sea of red-dressed Undermen, looking for anyone who seemed to stand out. If there was someone who could tell him what was going on around here, it wouldn¡¯t be one of the rank-and-file.


    "What are you thinking?" Bruno asked, standing next to him.


    "There." Dragan pointed towards a lone speck of yellow in the crimson crowd, and began walking. Bruno quickly followed after him.


    This person was an outsider like them -- that was clear to see. Instead of a uniform, he wore a yellow jacket that looked like it had been pulled out of the jaws of a shredder, the tassels hanging from it brushing against the floor as its owner sat and ate. His face was framed by a mass of chaotic red hair that seemed to be trying to escape in every direction -- and that face was a sight to behold, too. Lumpy, like it had been stung by a swarm of bees, with a long dark scar running from the man¡¯s left temple to the bottom of his jaw.


    "Focking fascists!" Dragan heard the man shouting as they approached -- he had an accent that sounded like it was from everywhere at once. "Mazma can¡¯t believe this! Oh my goodness!"


    The man -- Mazma, presumably -- was sat alone on one side of the table, ranting at a pair of eating Undermen on the other side. As he went on, he gesticulated wildly, hands flapping through the air with such speed he could probably take someone¡¯s eye out.


    "What¡¯s going on?" Dragan asked, reaching the table.


    One of the two Undermen, a young man with dreadlocks, looked up from the table. "Oh, don¡¯t worry about it," he said long-sufferingly. "This guy¡¯s had his ship impounded because of --"


    "Because!" Mazma interrupted with a jab of his finger. "Because Mazma Mazmamas is a man who believes in freedom, yes! Mazma is a man who sails the kind of cargo he wants to, yes! So what is this? Mazma¡¯s ship is locked away? What! Hello?!"


    "You were transporting contraband," the other Underman, a ginger woman, sighed. "And it¡¯s not up to us -- you can¡¯t transport unrefined Sartlite. It¡¯s UAP law."


    Mazma crossed his arms, shaking his head wildly. "You show Mazma this law," he shouted. "And Mazma will show you how you are a son of a bitch! Okay?"


    "You¡¯ll have your ship back once you¡¯ve paid the fine, dude," the first Underman sighed, before glancing back up towards Dragan. "Sorry about this -- I¡¯m Danny, by the way. Danny Werner."


    "Lucia Yet," the other Underman offered. "We work in the impound hangar -- it¡¯s, uh, it¡¯s a lot of this, unfortunately."


    "I am unhappy!" Mazma was still going on. "First you take Mazma¡¯s ship, his pride and baby, now you want to take Mazma¡¯s money too?! Oh my god! Demonic person!"


    Dragan took a seat next to the Undermen, and Bruno followed suit. As Dragan turned back to the two Undermen, though, he couldn¡¯t help but notice the woman -- Lucia -- staring intently at him.


    "Can I help you with something?" he asked awkwardly, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had approached them.


    "Oh," Lucia shook her head. "No. Nevermind. It¡¯s just -- you¡¯re a Cogitant, right? The eyes?"


    Dragan nodded.


    "Wow," Lucia grinned despite herself, trading an excited glance with Danny. "That¡¯s just -- that¡¯s swell. I¡¯ve never seen a Cogitant on this ship before."


    "They¡¯re not that rare," muttered Bruno, some strange discomfort bubbling just under the surface.


    Lucia shrugged. "Just bad luck, then, I guess," she chuckled. "You guys are more spread out here in the UAP, and we don¡¯t have any serving on the Regent at the moment."


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "Really? Why not?"


    The woman shrugged, discomfort trickling into her body language. "I don¡¯t know that there¡¯s a reason," she mumbled. "Like I said, just bad luck, right? It¡¯s just numbers. Say, is it true that you can look at my fingernails and tell me when my birthday is?"


    "Of course I can," Dragan lied.


    She cocked her head. "When is it, then?"


    "Mazma," Dragan very suddenly changed the target of his conversational assault. "You said your ship was impounded, right? Taken in? When that happened, did you meet the captain?"


    Mazma thumped a fist on the table with surprising force, rattling the plates atop it. "No!" he cried, with all the offense his bizarre voice could muster. "No! Mazma demands this -- Mazma pleads with such anger to see the captain, but no, they say! Focking bullshit! Oh my god! I hate this!"


    Dragan blinked. "I see."


    He¡¯d really doubted it, but that confirmed that Captain Pierrot didn¡¯t personally meet with every unfortunate that he brought aboard. He¡¯d targeted them for a reason, then, and was holding them with the intention of gaining something. What was it, then, that he wouldn¡¯t just ask for it? Information? Was he waiting for someone else to arrive, someone to take them in for what had happened on Taldan? Maybe it was something else entirely. He had no way of knowing, after all.


    Whatever the case, Dragan got the feeling he really wouldn¡¯t like it.


    Captain Pierrot watched, standing at attention, as Ambassador Dalcina¡¯s shuttle docked with the Regent. He was standing in Hangar-19, seemingly accompanied only by Overman Yaza -- but he¡¯d made sure more than a few security staff were here, disguised as maintenance techs. With the person he was dealing with, he couldn¡¯t be too careful.


    The shuttle landed in the middle of the hangar, the air pressure from it¡¯s landing thrusters causing Pierrot¡¯s coat to billow behind him like a cape. Heroically, Yaza didn¡¯t budge -- even as her hair was blowing in her eyes. She didn¡¯t even flinch.


    The craft itself was brutalist in design, little more than a grey box with small legs jutting out, like those of a table, to land on. There were no windows, either -- just tiny black dots that Pierrot knew were viewing cameras, beaming a feed of the outside world into the shuttle¡¯s cockpit.


    As the thrusters died down, a section of the shuttle¡¯s hull unfolded, becoming a ramp that thumped against the hangar floor. A second later, the shuttle¡¯s occupant walked out.


    Ambassador Dalcina was in her late sixties, her hair grey and an intricately carved wooden cane supporting her as she walked. For this formal visit, she was wearing traditional Adrustan clothing -- a black dress that brushed against the floor, with a white wooden shawl draped over her shoulders.


    Her face was kindly, soft -- but Pierrot could see the true sharp edges lying behind it. A dagger that looked like a cushion. She smiled genially at Pierrot as she descended.


    "Good evening, ambassador," Pierrot smiled back, taking Dalcina¡¯s hands in his own as she reached the bottom of the ramp.


    Good evening, he thought. Widow.

 Chapter 90:4.3: The Widow

    Katia Dalcina: the Widow.


    Born in a time when Adrust had been thought of as nothing but another backwater iceball, Dalcina had served as the leader of Vantablack Squad, the UAP¡¯s most secretive and amoral black ops squad. She¡¯d gathered them herself -- a group of killers, criminals and freaks that only she could corral to a greater purpose.


    Under her command, they¡¯d assassinated disloyal officials, toppled disagreeable regimes, and struck at the UAP¡¯s enemies with devastating force. They¡¯d been the UAP¡¯s dagger in the dark -- it was all well and good for the Unified Alliance of Planets to portray themselves as a progressive government, forever reaching for a brighter future, but that image was painted in blood. Vantablack Squad had been the artists of that facade.


    After the dissolution of Vantablack Squad, she¡¯d dropped off the map like so many of her contemporaries -- but with a great deal of investigation and assistance from The Prince, Pierrot had managed to track down her new identity. It seemed after Adrust¡¯s rise to prominence, Dalcina had gone home, decided to serve her planet with less bloody hands.


    But the Widow was still there. He could see it in her eyes.


    Pierrot couldn¡¯t even begin to guess how many people Dalcina had killed personally: almost definitely in the triple digits. Even so, he suspected the number of people who had died as a result of her orders would far outweigh it. Pierrot had made many terrible choices over the course of his career, but even he had to admit that Katia Dalcina was a monster.


    And here she was, smiling at him like a sweet old lady. Pierrot had stared down countless murderers in his lifetime, but even he couldn¡¯t help but feel the sweat run down his back.


    "So good to see you well," she said genially, her faint accent sharpening the ¡¯w¡¯ into a ¡¯v¡¯. "I am always worrying about you boys and girls on the borders. These are dangerous times, you know. You are being careful?"


    "Always, Ambassador," Pierrot smiled, pouring himself a cup of coffee. They¡¯d moved into a meeting room after Dalcina¡¯s arrival, one he¡¯d had prepared in advance. "How is Miss von Winterburn? I missed her at the last meeting of the governing council."


    Technically, he wasn¡¯t part of the governing council, so it wouldn¡¯t be unusual for him not to see someone there. Still, circumstances always seemed to arrange themselves -- with a good deal of prodding -- such that Pierrot was always on Serendipity when the most prominent officials of the UAP came together.


    "The Tsarina is doing very well, Captain, but the constant trips between Adrust and Serendipity are taxing even for a young woman." That was a lie -- Pierrot knew for a fact that Agnes von Winterburn had returned to Adrust at that time to deal with an attempted coup from one of the rival ruling families. No loose threads of deception were present in Dalcina¡¯s voice, though. It seemed she was as adept a diplomat as an assassin.


    Pierrot chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee as he sat back down. "Ah, youth," he said. "I don¡¯t think I even remember how it felt to be young."


    "I try to forget about it myself," Dalcina replied. "Things that seemed like such a good idea back then seem so embarrassing when you look back."


    She lifted her own glass of water -- with hands that had once strangled the Princess of Fiore -- and took a sip, ice tinkling at the bottom of the drink.


    Pierrot tracked the ice-cubes with his gaze. "I was surprised with your choice of beverage," he said. "I¡¯d have thought that with the amount of time you spend on Adrust, you¡¯d prefer something warmer."


    Dalcina put the glass back down on the table between them. "The cold is home, Captain," she said calmly. "Wherever in this galaxy I go, I take home with me."


    Pierrot smiled warmly. "Admirable. And today you¡¯ve found yourself on the Unite Regent. I feel as though we¡¯re dancing around a topic here, Dalcina. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"


    He already knew, of course -- but the time hadn¡¯t yet come to play that card.


    With a sigh, Dalcina clasped her hands on the table in front of her. "Of course -- sooner or later, I suppose, we must come down to business, yes? There is a criminal in your custody. The man who calls himself Skipper. He has committed crimes against the Adrustan people. I¡¯m afraid the Tsarina must demand you surrender him into our custody."


    Lie. "I wasn¡¯t aware of that. I brought that man in based on the recent upheaval on Taldan."


    "Taldan?" Her brow furrowed, surprise piercing through her mask of calm for just the briefest moment. Yes, she remembered Taldan. "Where the nendon mines are?"


    "The very same. You¡¯re familiar?" He prodded at the open wound, just a little, hoping to spark a useful reaction.


    He didn¡¯t have any luck -- her false face had already returned. "Only by reputation," she lied. "Although I have heard the casinos there are spectacular. One day, perhaps, I will find the time to visit."


    "I¡¯d recommend them, certainly," Pierrot said. "We stopped at Taldan for just a brief time, so I unfortunately didn¡¯t have the chance for shore leave either. Especially with the upheaval I mentioned -- it seems the President was assassinated."


    Dalcina blinked. "You think this man Skipper did that?"


    He sipped his coffee. "I strongly suspect it." He knew it for a fact. S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "All the more reason to hand the criminal over to Adrust," Dalcina went on, not missing a beat. "I¡¯m sure you¡¯re aware, but Adrust has one of the most secure prison systems in the UAP. The number of successful escapes has been in the single digits ever since they were established."


    It only made sense for a planet consumed by an eternal blizzard to have a secure prison system. Even if a prisoner managed to break out of the prison complex itself, they had no recourse against the scathing winds and freezing cold. From what Pierrot understood, most people barely lasted half an hour without adequate protection.


    Brutal, but effective.


    Pierrot drummed his fingers over the table as if considering Dalcina¡¯s proposal. That wasn¡¯t actually the case, obviously -- in reality, he was deciding whether the time had come to dispense with that charade. He glanced at Dalcina¡¯s glass of water: it was near empty. Nothing else for it, then -- The Prince concurred.


    "I do have one concern, Ambassador," he said quietly, taking a sip of his own coffee -- savouring the warmth of it while he could.


    "And what is that? We can discuss what needs to be discussed, yes?"


    "My concern," Pierrot said, looking her in the eye. "Is that if I hand your former subordinate over to you, he¡¯ll mysteriously never find his way to an Adrustan prison."


    Dalcina¡¯s kindly smile froze on her face -- and the second it did, Pierrot felt the temperature in the room drop significantly. In the time it took for the Widow to open her mouth and speak again, frost had already begun forming on the surface fn the table, and what little remained of their drinks had frozen in their containers.


    "I see," The Widow said, her previous demeanour replaced by a businesslike ruthlessness. "So that¡¯s the situation we are in?"


    "I¡¯m afraid so," Pierrot nodded, ignoring the ice now holding his hands to the table. "And I¡¯m afraid this intimidation you¡¯re attempting won¡¯t work on me. Please watch."


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    There was a deep mechanical humming from somewhere under the floor -- and as if on cue, the heating in the room intensified, overpowering the cold the Widow was producing and quickly melting the ice that had already formed.


    "The heating in this chamber¡¯s been set to balance out any adjustments you might make," Pierrot said casually, by way of explanation. "If you make it colder, the room will just become warmer to compensate. An elegant solution, wouldn¡¯t you say?"


    The Widow raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "And what exactly is stopping me from reaching over the table and smashing your head in? Have you perhaps not considered that?"


    Pierrot¡¯s smile didn¡¯t leave his face. "You think you can kill a UniteFleet Captain on his own ship and get away with it?"


    "It wouldn¡¯t be the first time."


    A chill -- not from the temperature -- ran down Pierrot¡¯s spine, but he knew he couldn¡¯t allow petty fear to distract him. His eyes flicked down to the glass of frozen water on the table between them. Nearly empty.


    "You¡¯re out of practice, though, Widow," he said, as casually as he could manage. "I¡¯d expect a former assassin to watch what they put into their bodies."


    The Widow¡¯s gaze followed his own, and she sighed as she looked at the glass of frozen water. "Poison, yes?"


    "Yes."


    "How deadly?"


    "Quite. The microcapsules inside that drink will decay in approximately one hour, releasing the toxin into your body. With a single call from me, the antidote can be here in good speed."


    "Well," the Widow leaned back in her chair, staring at him with cautious eyes. "It seems I am your captive audience."


    Pierrot felt a rumble of approval from The Prince -- the necessary conditions for this lesser goal had been cleared -- and he allowed himself the slightest smirk of celebration.


    "Yes," he said. "It seems that you are."


    The black-haired girl -- she¡¯d introduced herself as Underman Rose -- barely stopped to breathe as she led Skipper and Ruth through the ship, explanations and trivia pouring from her mouth without end.


    "So, um, mainly," she said, hugging her script against her chest as she walked. "The Unite Regent is a peacekeeping vessel, but Usoltsi-class cruisers -- that¡¯s the kind of ship the Regent is, by the way -- can take on a multitude of tasks. Like, a lot, I mean. Transporting cargo, repairing other vessels -- sometimes we even do science missions, like exploring newly discovered planets. That¡¯s always fun."


    "Neat," Skipper said.


    As he walked, hands stuffed into the pockets of his long coat, he watched the mess hall below. The sides of this hallway were windows, and from this position he could see pretty much the entirety of the culinary chaos below. He wasn¡¯t quite sure from this high elevation, but he thought he could see Dragan and Bruno -- their clothes a stark contrast with the uniforms of the crew members -- sitting at one of the tables, with a couple of Undermen and what seemed to be another outsider.


    Looked like an interesting chat -- he¡¯d have to ask about them later.


    "It is neat, isn¡¯t it?" Rose said excitedly, looking over her shoulder as she walked. "It really is top of the line. We¡¯ve got room for a thousand crewmembers at a time -- I know that doesn¡¯t sound like much for a ship of this size, but that¡¯s the great thing about it, really. A lot of it is automated -- oh, I haven¡¯t even told you about Marco yet."


    Skipper blinked. "Whom¡¯st?" he said, drowning out Ruth¡¯s obnoxiously loud yawn.


    "Marco is the ship¡¯s auto-brain," Rose explained, now walking backwards so she could face her audience as she talked. "Like a normal automatic, but for thinking, hence the name. It runs the automatic systems, makes sure all the things you don¡¯t see are working right, scans surrounding space for threats -- that sort of thing." She put her mouth to a microphone panel on her script. "Say hello, Marco!"


    There was a seconds delay -- and then a synthesized male voice came from a speaker perched high on the wall. "Hello, Marco," it said, perfectly neutral.


    "Just a little joke," Rose smiled. "I mean, the technicians came up with that joke, not the auto-brain -- it¡¯s not smart enough for stuff like that -- but I think it¡¯s funny." She glanced at Ruth. "D¡¯you think it¡¯s funny?"


    Ruth looked away from the mess hall down below, blinking blearily. She clearly hadn¡¯t been listening. "Um. Yeah, sure."


    "Great!" Rose grinned, smoothly turning a corner even as she walked backwards. She continued to stare at Ruth.


    The red-haired girl in question glanced away, clearly uncomfortable from the sustained attention. Ruth could be shy, Skipper knew, when she wasn¡¯t ripping heads off.


    "Uh," she said, clearing her throat. "What¡¯s up?"


    "Oh!" Rose blinked, as if she hadn¡¯t even realized she¡¯d been staring. "No, no no, sorry! I didn¡¯t mean to offend! It¡¯s just¡­ my family¡¯s from Taldan, you see. I heard about what you guys did there. How you saved everyone? I just wanted to thank you."


    Seemed everyone somehow had knowledge about the events nobody was there for. Skipper liked to think the best of everyone, but even he had to admit this was more than a little suspicious. He cocked his head at Rose as they walked: "The Captain tell you about that?"


    She nodded eagerly. "Yes -- I¡¯m his aide, you see, so I hear about things a lot. It¡¯s hard work, but really rewarding."


    Captain Pierrot had a way of finding things out, then, clearly. Maybe he was just a Cogitant wearing eye contacts? Nah. Hiding something like that would be way too much trouble for too little reward.


    But there was something. Something Captain Pierrot was pretty damn keen to keep hidden.


    Rose turned back forward as they went around a corner, the clear windows replaced by smooth white metal. "If I could ask a question, Miss Blaine," she said quietly, facing away from them. "Why is it you do what you do?"


    Ruth blinked. "Whaddaya mean?"


    "Is there a cause or¡­ is it the kind of thing where you¡¯re in the right place at the right time?"


    "Don¡¯t think I¡¯d call it the right place. I almost died. A whole bunch of people almost died."


    "But they didn¡¯t," said Rose, her voice strangely far away. "That was just down to luck, then? You weren¡¯t fighting for anything in particular?"


    Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked to Skipper, then back to Rose¡¯s back. "I was just trying to survive. That¡¯s what everyone fights for, deep down, right?"


    At those words, Rose sighed, and as Skipper watched she seemed to stand up a little straighter, as if some deep anxiety had been washed away. "Yeah!" she exclaimed, voice brighter. "Yeah, you¡¯re absolutely right! Ooh -- I haven¡¯t even shown you guys the hydroponic gardens¡­"


    Skipper grinned mirthlessly. This was gonna be a long day.


    "So," Pierrot smiled, having finally finished his proposal. "What do you think?"


    The Widow¡¯s expression didn¡¯t shift. "Insanity."


    Pierrot¡¯s smile flipped into a genuinely hurt frown. "You think so? I¡¯ve put a great deal of thought into this proposal. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s crazy at all."


    "Do you understand why Vantablack Squad disbanded?" The Widow spat, her glare ever-present. "We were a group formed to kill. To kill the UAP¡¯s enemies, especially those who didn¡¯t know they were enemies yet. We killed and killed and killed -- and some of us got a taste for it. Once you¡¯re addicted to murder in that way, you become everyone¡¯s enemy. We were no longer fit for purpose."


    "Your boy Skipper doesn¡¯t seem, as you put it, addicted to murder."


    The Widow nodded, conceding that at least. "The boy was different. While he was with us, he was more like an automatic than a person. As if the thoughts inside him had frozen over, and needed to melt before he could be alive again. There wasn¡¯t anything there to become addicted."


    Pierrot leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, fingers steepled over his stomach. The Prince stirred within him like a serpent, and he listened to its hiss.


    "Please understand this," he said softly. "I don¡¯t care how much you enjoy what you do. I don¡¯t care whether you go overboard during the course of your activities. All of that -- all of it -- is irrelevant to me. There are things that I need to happen to achieve my goal, and you are the person with the ability to make those things happen. Nothing else matters. Nothing else is real. Just that one thing."


    His eyes were still closed, so Pierrot could only hear what the Widow said. Her voice was tinged with curiosity. "And what is this goal of yours, Captain?"


    He smiled slightly. "Peace and joy for all mankind."


    "And what is it you need to happen?"


    Pierrot opened his eyes and stared -- unflinching -- into the bright light overhead. His heart settled into stone. "There are good people who must die."


    And then -- in the very second those words left his lips -- there was a distant bang. The sound of an explosion, shaking the deck beneath them.


    A moment later, the lights went out.

 Chapter 91:4.4: The Moments Before

    This is what a UniteFleet starship looks like, in the moments before hundreds of people die.


    People are chatting, eating, laughing in the mess hall. Food dispensers buzz, sourcing meat and vegetable and gravy and broth from the deep reserves built directly into the walls. Dragan Hadrien rolls his eyes as the man called Mazma rants in his own indecipherable way. The impound personnel, Danny and Lucia, chuckle lightly at the scene as Bruno watches, his arms folded. A drop of soup falls from the side of Danny¡¯s spoon, lifted halfway up to his mouth.


    They do not notice.


    In the hallways above, making their way up towards the bridge, Underman Rose walks ahead of Ruth and Skipper. Skipper¡¯s mouth is frozen mid-whistle, and Ruth is glancing at the monitors lining the walls as they pass. She has no idea what the complex graphs and figures mean, but they¡¯re more interesting than the infodump Rose is bestowing upon them. Just as Skipper is frozen mid-whistle, Rose is frozen in the middle of a lengthy lecture, her mouth open wide as if to bite down on something.


    They do not notice.


    In a nondescript meeting room in a completely mundane and dull part of the ship, Captain Jaime Pierrot speaks to the assassin known as The Widow. A mostly-empty glass of water lies between them, the ice-cubes in it melted by the room¡¯s heating. There is the potential for violence in this room, for murder, if discussions do not go well -- but that is not what will happen today. They have no time for something as luxurious as murder.


    They do not notice.


    In the security office, Overman Yaza scrolls through the script placed before her, her eyebrows knitted in concentration. The information on this script has nothing to do with the impending deaths of so many -- it is simply another concern among the many that come up on a ship this size, like a single drop of rain in a thunderstorm. Security personnel come and go behind her as she reads.


    They do not notice.


    Overman Langston, in his own private office, sits before a console unit, fingers dancing hurriedly across the holographic keyboard. His brow is creased in concern, confusion. His hand reaches for his script, ready to make a call -- but he won¡¯t make it in time.


    He notices, but far too late. S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    In the central engine room of the Unite Regent is a power unit like a giant pillar, the size of a building, glowing with unearthly yellow light. The energy this unit is producing is enough to power the entire ship, to keep every system running at maximum capacity. Technicians and engineers scurry back and forth like worker ants, performing the endless dance of maintenance that is required to keep something like this running.


    These people are the best at what they do -- by necessity. The slightest error could result in disaster, catastrophe. In this case, however, the horror that is about to unfold isn¡¯t down to them.


    It¡¯s down to the bomb, subtly placed on the underside of the walkway encircling the engine. The size of a human fist, with a blinking red light increasing in frequency as it comes closer and closer to giving birth to fire and blood.


    Here, now, is the occasion upon which this nightmare could be averted. If one of the engineers looked, saw, grabbed the explosive and deactivated it, nobody on the ship would have to die. The Regent would fly on, brushing against the border unimpeded.


    But they do not notice -- and they don¡¯t live long enough to regret it.


    The bomb explodes with a sound like a human scream, distorted and sharpened, and white fire belches forth from its innards. The explosion cracks open the power unit like an egg, and with the engineering staff thrown to the ground by the tremendous shockwave, there is no-one to deactivate it before things get worse. One brave man stands up, rushing for the emergency console -- but a lance of pure power like a lightning bolt spills forth out of the unit, reducing him to dust as it strikes him.


    Someone shouts something -- but there¡¯s no time for anyone to process who is speaking, or what they are saying. There¡¯s no time to take a breath..There¡¯s no time to do anything but die.


    The cracks in the power unit spread further, and the equipment directly connected to it explodes outwards in showers of angry sparks. Every monitor that remains shows only layers of warnings, piled atop each other -- power critical, containment breached, meltdown imminent. Everything that can go wrong is about to go wrong.


    And then -- it does. The power unit explodes in a supernova of light that tears through flesh and skin, through metal and glass, though the very air itself. Nearly a quarter of the Unite Regent, the entire engineering section, is consumed by the blast.


    That is how hundreds of people die.


    Dragan clenched his teeth to hold back the yelp of pain -- biting down on his tongue in the process, which didn¡¯t much help.


    He¡¯d been knocked down when the ship had rumbled and the lights had gone out, and from the agony now coursing through his left leg, he was pretty sure he¡¯d hit something on the way. He clutched his leg, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The sounds of panicked shouting and screaming coming from around him were nearly overwhelming.


    A few seconds after the initial shock, the emergency lighting in the mess switched on. An ominous red glow filled the room, light distorting their surroundings in such a way that everything seemed sharper, less friendly, more hostile. In terms of emergency measures, it wasn¡¯t much helping.


    Bruno grabbed Dragan under the arms and -- with a grunt of exertion -- pulled him back up onto the bench, doing his best to stop the injured leg from hitting anything.


    "You okay?" he said quietly, eyes flicking around the room -- taking everything in, trying to get a handle of what exactly this situation was.


    "I¡¯ve felt better," grunted Dragan, his breath shaky as pain continued to radiate from his leg. "You?"


    "We¡¯re okay," mumbled Serena -- she took over from Bruno seamlessly. "But what happened? This is kinda scary."


    Before Dragan could start to speculate, he was interrupted by the shouting of the man sat opposite them -- that fool Mazma, waving his arms wildly as he ranted.


    "This is now going beyond the pale!" he declared. "Oh my god! What! I am this innocent man, brought aboard this ship of tricks, and now this happened? Red? Huh?!"


    Dragan ignored the man -- he didn¡¯t have time to waste talking to a brick wall, nor the interest -- and turned back to Serena. "I don¡¯t know," he whispered, careful not to be overheard. "That sounded like an explosion -- and if the lights are out, there¡¯s a possibility something¡¯s happened to the ship¡¯s power."


    Serena cocked her head. "Is that bad?" she said. Her voice was more of a stage-whisper than Dragon¡¯s actual whisper, but at least she was making the effort.


    Surprisingly, Dragan found himself without the urge to condescend when faced with such a foolish question. It was Serena, after all -- it would¡¯ve been like kicking a puppy.


    "Pretty bad," Dragan coughed. "If the power goes out, there¡¯s a possibility the gravity could stop working -- hell, worse than that, the life support."


    Before he could go further into it, though, he found himself interrupted by one of the impound technicians -- Danny Werner, he¡¯d said his name was. It was hard to tell in the crimson dark, but he could¡¯ve sworn the man was shooting him an annoyed glare.


    "The backup power can run for days," Werner said reassuringly, helping his friend Lucia to her feet. "There¡¯s no possibility of us losing life support. Don¡¯t go starting a panic."


    Dragan suspected that if he¡¯d asked a couple of minutes ago, he¡¯d have been told there was no possibility of the power going down at all -- but he decided to let that go.


    "Hold up a sec," Werner went on, putting his wrist-bound script to his mouth. "Marco, requesting info. What just happened?"


    Dragan glanced at Lucia, who was dusting herself off. "Marco?" he asked.


    "Ship¡¯s auto-brain," she explained, supporting herself with one hand on the table. "It runs most of the systems -- we¡¯ll be able to get a diagnostic of what¡¯s happened through it."


    Dragan was skeptical. "Will the auto-brain still be running if we¡¯re on emergency power?"


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    "It should be."


    Even with that said, though, Werner was frowning at the silence from his script. He shook it as if that would help, then spoke into it again: "Marco, respond. We need an emergency diagnostic right now."


    After another couple seconds of silence, the synthesized voice of the auto-brain came through. "Good evening, Underman Werner," it said pleasantly. "Please confirm request for emergency diag --"


    "Confirm request," Werner snapped, rubbing a hand over his temple. "Just hurry, please."


    Another brief silence, and then: "Unable to run full diagnostic. Apologies. Error code 42-DHJ."


    Werner furrowed his brow at that, shook his head slightly. Whatever that error code meant, Dragan guessed, it wasn¡¯t what he¡¯d been expecting.


    Lucia seemed to sense it, too. Her face was pale as she looked up at Danny. "Did that..." she forced out. "Did it say DHJ?"


    Danny nodded. "DHJ," he murmured. "DHJ -- there¡¯s nothing to diagnose. The -- the power unit isn¡¯t there. Oh, god."


    Their little group fell silent for a short while, an oasis of quiet in the middle of the babble that filled the rest of the mess hall. That explosion -- and the power unit gone. Something terrible had happened.


    Shakily, Danny brought the script back to his mouth. "Marco," he croaked, voice hoarse. "Please -- please report last known status of power unit -- and put me through to the chief engineer once you have."


    Again, the auto-brain took a little while to respond. Was that because of the emergency power, too? "Last known status of central power unit is as follows," it said through the script¡¯s tinny speaker. "Integrity of containment failing. Meltdown imminent. The chief engineer cannot currently be reached due to reasons of non-existence."


    Danny took another deep breath, his hands shaking even as he tried to keep them steady. "Get me through to anyone in engineering, then. Whoever¡¯s in charge in the engineering section."


    And again, the nerve-wracking delay. Then: "The engineering section cannot currently be reached due to reasons of non-existence."


    Danny collapsed into his seat, hands falling limp by his side. His eyes were saucer-wide, staring somewhere very far away. "Dead," he mumbled. "All dead. Fuck. Fuck."


    Surprisingly, the guy called Mazma hadn¡¯t spoken up for quite a while -- but he chose possibly the very worst time to re-enter the conversation. "Mazma calls it nonsense," he said, waving a dismissive hand with violent force. "Your robo-guy is just broked. Mazma has seen it before. All focked up, sorry! No!"


    In the distance, Dragan could hear others in the room receiving the same information -- pockets of stunned silence appearing in the uproar of the crowd. Before long, the entire room had been converted to hushed horror.


    He felt Bruno¡¯s hand land heavy on his arm, and as he turned the other boy spoke: "We need to get out of here."


    "The hell was that?" Ruth shouted, whirling around as if some threat was about to come out of the walls.


    "I don¡¯t know," Rose mumbled, panic obvious in her tone as she tapped frantically at her script. "We¡¯ve -- we¡¯ve switched to reserve power, so something must¡¯ve happened in engineering --"


    "Yeah," Skipper said grimly. "Something exploded. We all heard it."


    Skipper dusted his coat off, cautious eyes flicking around the red-tinted hallway. Just before the ship had shook, they¡¯d been walking past one of the ship¡¯s viewing windows -- so now they had the crimson hallway on one side and the horrifying void of space on the other. Not the best view Skipper had ever had.


    "An explosion?" Rose whispered, as if the very notion was preposterous. "No, no -- that can¡¯t be right. Even if there was a malfunction, we¡¯d have had some warning, at least --"


    Rose found herself interrupted once again, this time by Ruth. "Not a malfunction, then?" she asked, directing the question to Skipper. "A bomb?"


    "I¡¯d put good odds on it."


    "What do we do?"


    Skipper took in a deep breath. Ideally, he¡¯d have liked to stick around, get an idea of what this Captain Pierrot was up to -- but it seemed they no longer had the luxury of patience. If they didn¡¯t extract themselves from the situation now, Skipper didn¡¯t think they¡¯d get another chance.


    "Bruno, Serena and Dragan were in the mess hall," he said after a moment¡¯s hesitation. "We double back there, grab ¡¯em, and make a run for the ship."


    "Huh?!" Rose stepped forward, clutching her script so tightly her knuckles turned white. "No, no, you can¡¯t do that! You can¡¯t just leave!"


    Skipper smiled wryly -- while he felt a little bad for her, he couldn¡¯t let her interfere with their escape. "You can¡¯t stop me, kid," he said, voice cold. "So don¡¯t even try."


    And with that -- not allowing her another second to protest -- Skipper turned and ran with Aetheral speed, Ruth following quickly behind him. Rose¡¯s cries to wait quickly faded into silence.


    "Finally out of that noise," Dragan muttered, leaning against the wall, rubbing his ears. They¡¯d vacated the chaos of the mess hall and made their way into one of the adjoining hallways. Now the only noise to worry about was the distant blaring of alarms.


    "We should¡¯ve all stayed in the same place," Werner scolded, pointing an unkind finger. Dragan and Bruno had done their best to be subtle when leaving, but the two impound technicians had followed them. "What if we need to start an evacuation, huh?"


    Oh well -- at least that idiot Mazma hadn¡¯t followed them. They¡¯d left him ranting to himself in the middle of the crowd. It wasn¡¯t even clear if he¡¯d realized what had happened.


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we¡¯re starting an evacuation. This is me and him evacuating. Bye."


    Werner narrowed his eyes. "No."


    "No?" Dragan wasn¡¯t sure he cared for this guy¡¯s tone. Or for the guy himself, for that matter. He was poking his nose where it didn¡¯t belong.


    "No," Werner repeated, shaking his head. "I don¡¯t even know who you guys are -- two strangers show up, and then suddenly there¡¯s an explosion? Suddenly there¡¯s hundreds of people dead? How do I know you¡¯re not involved, huh?"


    Bruno shot Werner a glare. "If I was involved," he growled. "You¡¯d never know about it."


    "Not really helping," Dragan muttered, before turning back to Werner. "Listen -- I swear to you we didn¡¯t do this. We just got here. I mean, how would we have even done it? I¡¯m pretty sure the engines would have had security, right? How would we have gotten past that?"


    Lucia spoke up, fidgeting nervously. "Maybe we should just calm down, Danny, and wait for --"


    "I am calm," Werner snapped, immediately refuting what he¡¯d just said. "We¡¯re going to calmly watch these guys and calmly make sure they don¡¯t run for it. Right? We¡¯ll do that until Captain Pierrot passes down his orders."


    Dragan scoffed. "Pierrot? That dick?"


    Werner¡¯s glare intensified, his teeth bared in a split-second expression of utter fury. "Captain Pierrot is a great man," he hissed. "Watch your fucking mouth."


    He went to jab his finger into Dragan¡¯s chest again -- but he was intercepted by Bruno, who reached out and grabbed Werner¡¯s hand before it could make contact. Stray sparks of angry purple Aether flitted around Bruno¡¯s gloved hand as he squeezed down, causing Werner to wince in pain.


    "Please don¡¯t touch him," Bruno said, unblinking, his voice ice. A second later, he pushed Werner away, sending the young man staggering backwards. Dragan nodded gratefully at Bruno -- but the second Werner regained his balance, he marched forward again, hands balled into fists.


    "Listen!" he began, shrugging off Lucia¡¯s attempt to restrain him -- only to find himself interrupted by a voice coming from the speakers. The intercom system, at least, seemed like it was still working.


    "Speak of the devil," muttered Dragan, recognising those condescending tones.


    Pierrot¡¯s voice came through loud and clear, amplified by the speakers throughout the ship. "This is an address to all crewmembers," he said, clearly making an effort to inject reassurance into his tone. "This is your Captain speaking. As I¡¯m sure you are now aware, an incident has taken place within the Regent¡¯s engineering section -- specifically concerning the main power unit. Analysis suggests repair in this case is not an option."


    If the engineering section really was gone, that seemed like something of an understatement.


    "As a result of this," Pierrot continued, clearing his throat. "I am now ordering all crewmembers to begin evacuation procedures. Please proceed to the escape pods as quickly as possible. A distress signal has already been transmitted -- rescue is on the way. Do not panic."


    The intercoms clicked off.


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "Escape pods?" he asked. "Why? I thought the emergency power was supposed to keep the life support on. Why the need to evacuate?"


    "Orders are orders," sighed Werner, clearly calming down quite a bit as he began to walk. "Escape pods are this way. Come on, guys."


    Dragan and Bruno exchanged glances, understanding transmitted through their gazes. They¡¯d tag along only until they met back up with Skipper and Ruth.


    Still, Dragan thought as they walked past a window, this really was unbelievable. Couldn¡¯t they stay in a place for more than ten minutes without something absolutely awful happening? A Special Officer showing up on Yoslof, security capturing them on Taldan, and now they couldn¡¯t even board a ship without the engine exploding? Had they pissed off a wizard and gotten themselves cursed at some point?


    Dragan sighed. "Well," he began. "At least it can¡¯t get any worse."


    The moment those words left his lips, he got an awful feeling -- like nails scratching down his back -- and he couldn¡¯t help but brace himself as if for another explosion. In front of him, Bruno tensed up too -- casting a panicked glance behind himself.


    After a few seconds, though, the tension naturally faded away -- and Dragan couldn¡¯t help but chuckle with relief. "Sorry," he said quietly. "Guess I kinda tempted fate there. For a second, I really thought something was about to --"


    There was a distant boom -- and at the very same moment, an object like a colossal silver horseshoe appeared out in the void of space, glistening with reflected sunlight. Cannons danced over its surface -- and as Dragan swung around to face it, the object launched out several massive harpoons, trailed by steel cables, that lodged themselves into the Regent¡¯s hull, securing the two vessels together.


    Dragan blinked, gaping. Even though he¡¯d never seen one personally, that shape and those tactics were unmistakable. That was a Supremacy attack cruiser.


    "Oh, fuck," he said, accurately.

 Chapter 92:4.5: Hopefuls

    "Pathetic," croaked the Instructor, pacing back and forth across the hangar floor, looking at the group gathered before him. "Truly pathetic."


    He was a nasty, crabby little man with sunken-in eyes and a suit jacket that was just slightly too small for him. Despite the comical appearance of the man and his childlike, high-pitched voice, not one of the seven hopefuls in front of him dared laugh for two simple reasons:


    It would destroy their chances of becoming a Special Officer of the Supremacy.


    The Instructor would kill them with ease.


    Daphne Halacourt tracked the Instructor with her eyes as he paced in front of the massive holographic viewscreen. The hologram was displaying a blown-up image of the Unite Regent, the crippled ship they¡¯d just latched onto. A huge section of the vessel was missing, and tiny dots that could have been debris or frozen corpses were spilling from the hole.


    Oh well, Daphne supposed. That was war.


    "Times were," the Instructor continued his lecture. "The Commission had some standards. The Commission didn¡¯t accept trash like this. You -- ugly girl, third from the right. Why do you want to be a Special Officer? Tell me, now, or I kill you." Sear?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ignoring both the insult and the threat, Daphne stepped forward, hands clasped stoically behind her back. A loose strand of emerald hair hung over her face, but she didn¡¯t reach to correct it -- she couldn¡¯t afford to show any discomfort or weakness in this kind of company.


    "I wish to become a Special Officer for my own benefit and personal advancement, sir," she declared, staring straight forward.


    The Instructor sniffed. "And what would you do for that purpose?"


    "Anything, sir."


    "Hm," the Instructor grunted, somehow managing to look down his nose at her despite being shorter. "Perhaps there¡¯s hope for you trash after all. Back in line, before I kill you."


    Daphne acquiesced, ignoring the glares of annoyance from the other hopefuls. She¡¯d have made some enemies by being shown approval -- the fact that the Instructor had looked favourably upon her meant she could be a threat to their chances of becoming a Special Officer.


    Still, she knew she had her allies -- other Special Officer hopefuls that knew they had strength in numbers. Her eyes flicked around the group.


    The silent Nox twins, clad in red robes with grey cyclopean helmets staring straight ahead. Singular braids of black hair trailed behind each of them like snake tails. Daphne knew she¡¯d have no friendship with them -- they¡¯d snapped the neck of the last unfortunate who¡¯d tried.


    Gara Reef -- the Pugnant brute. A giant of a man with glowing red hair and incandescently golden eyes. His absurd musculature made him so heavy he had to support his weight with his arms like some kind of gorilla -- but behind that brute strength, Daphne knew, was the mind of a child. He had been easy to recruit for her team.


    Oberon, the Humilist deserter. Daphne didn¡¯t know that much about them. They seemed young, their head barely reaching up to Daphne¡¯s chest, but the constant sly smile on their face suggested they weren¡¯t someone to be taken lightly. They had a bob of black hair so stiff it almost seemed like a helmet, and the black jacket and shorts they wore looked far too expensive for an actually


    devout


    Humilist. This was a person who¡¯d betray her -- she could see that clearly.


    Darren Roash, the Supremacy soldier. He held a bulky plasma rifle in his hands, and his one good eye surveyed all before it with practiced precision. It was obvious the man was a true believer in the Supremacy -- he¡¯d insist on going it alone, so as to not behave dishonourably.


    Viv Niles, the nervous wreck. Even her black hair seemed to shiver in fear as the Instructor marched back and forth between them. She¡¯d agreed to join up with Daphne just for the promise of protection Reef provided.


    Smirking, Daphne filed the list she¡¯d just composed away in her Archive. She liked formatting her thoughts in this way -- it was more efficient, and it allowed you to dig up the information you needed more easily.


    "You¡¯ve come here for one reason!" the Instructor shouted, snapping Daphne out of her reverie. "To prove that you have what it takes -- that you have the strength -- to be a fist of the Supremacy! To execute the will of the Supreme! Now is your chance to prove that!"


    He waved a hand, gesturing towards the Regent on the holographic screen.


    "This," he spat. "Is the Unite Regent, a flagship of the pathetic and morally degenerate regime known as the Unified Alliance of Planets. A petty gang of weaklings crowding together for protection. The very existence of such an abomination cannot be tolerated -- it¡¯s collapse is inevitable. But that is for another day."


    Daphne did her best not to show any signs of boredom or potential disrespect, keeping her expression as neutral as possible. The last person who¡¯d yawned during one of these lectures had ended up as a smear on the wall.


    The Instructor stopped his pacing. "The Commission has a task for you," he declared. "Rejoice. The Captain of this ship, the Unite Regent, has committed incalculable crimes against the Supremacy and her people. In order to neutralise him, you will be dispatched onto the crippled ship. You may use any methods you feel are best to locate and kill him."


    Daphne¡¯s eyes flicked over to Niles, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. With that girl¡¯s unique talents, locating this Captain would be easy as pie -- and Reef would make killing him just as simple.


    But the Instructor wasn¡¯t done yet: "The Supremacy is generous, however," he went on. "And so we do not ask you to perform this task for free. The one among you who lands the killing blow will become a Special Officer. All others I will kill."


    A chill ran down Daphne¡¯s spine, and the slight smile that had been rising on her lips died instantly. She was still looking at Niles -- and she could see the other girl putting a hand to her mouth, as if she was going to vomit from stress.


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    The plans she¡¯d filed away in her Archive were useless now -- it was as if all the lists had been set aflame and crumbled away to nothing. Her mind grasped out for a new strategy -- and found nothing.


    "Well," the Instructor grinned toothily, clearly satisfied with the reception he¡¯d gotten. "Your cutter pods are ready. Happy hunting."


    Hands shaking with barely restrained fury, Daphne dug deep into her stores of resolve and came to a final conclusion.


    She had only two choices before her.


    Win and live.


    Lose and die.


    Skipper jumped through the window, smashing the glass, and landed on one knee in the middle of the mess hall. The few crew members that hadn¡¯t already evacuated stumbled away from him, crying out in surprise.


    A moment later, Ruth joined him, having climbed down the wall of the mess hall like a spider. The two of them looked around, taking the crimson-tinted chaos in. Food and personal belongings had been thrown down to the floor in the rush of the emergency, and the cleaning automatics stood immobile, powerless, among the trash.


    "You see ¡¯em?" Skipper said, glancing through the frightened faces of the crew. "Bruno and Dragan?"


    Next to him, Ruth shook her head. "They must¡¯ve already moved. Shit."


    The intercom pinged again -- a new message coming through.


    "This is Captain Pierrot speaking," it said, voice hard. "I am amending my previous order -- we are currently under attack by a Supremacy craft. The Regent has been harpooned and is currently immobile. Enemy cutter pods have been launched towards us, and are approaching quickly. All security personnel are instructed to arm themselves and defend the evacuation effort from hostiles. Over."


    Pierrot¡¯s voice showed no sign of caution or anxiety -- simply firm resolve. This is what has happened, and this is what must happen in response. Skipper supposed that kind of self-assurance must work wonders in keeping the crew calm.


    In the distance, someone screamed.


    Well, Skipper winced. You can only soften the blow of war breaking out so much, I guess.


    That was what was happening, after all -- they were still in UAP space, no matter how close to the border they might have been. If a Supremacy craft had hopped over the border to launch this attack, that meant that the cold war was officially over. And that meant anything could happen.


    "We track them down and leave, Ruth," he said seriously. "Nothing else. Fast as we can. Yeah?"


    Ruth nodded, her face pale -- the news had clearly affected her too. "Y-Yeah."


    "Oi!" A loud, tough voice cut through the tension the announcement had brought about. "What the fock is wrong with you, breaking a window? Walking through, huh?! Think it is a door for your little feet?!"


    Skipper raised an eyebrow as the strange red-haired man approached, gesticulating wildly. "Uh, sorry, pal. Didn¡¯t realize you were the window police."


    "Window police?!" the man scoffed. "Mazma is not this, and you can know Mazma is not this! You are breaking the window and making glass bits go everywhere! What if a guy gets hurt, huh? You do not care about this guy? Serial killer! Oh my god!"


    Skipper exchanged glances with Ruth. He wasn¡¯t really sure why he was receiving this lecture -- judging from appearances, this Mazma¡­ being, he didn¡¯t seem to be part of the crew either.


    "We don¡¯t have time for this," Ruth hissed. "We need to find Dragan and Bruno!"


    Mazma cut in again -- Ruth had kept her voice down to try and prevent him from hearing, but she was obviously no match for Mazma.


    "Draco and Brownman?" he said, fists at his hips. "You look for these guys? Fock! I want a bone to pick with them as well! They leave Mazma in the middle of his dinner rudely and without the farewell. I am in your party now, okay?"


    Skipper waved a robotic hand. "Now, uh, buddy, that isn¡¯t really necessary¡­"


    "What the fock!" Mazma cried. "You abandon this guy to die? Actual demon? Mazma cannot believe such dogshit morality. You are going to hell now."


    "D-Draco and Brownman?" Ruth said uncertainly. "Uh¡­ do you mean Dragan and Bruno?"


    Mazma nodded. "Those are those guys."


    Ruth exchanged another glance with Skipper and shrugged. "Do you¡­ do you know where they went?"


    Mazma smirked smugly, raising a sharp eyebrow. "Does Mazma know this thing? Do you want to know the answer to this question? Yes, Mazma knows everything. You will follow him now, okay? You are in my party."


    And with that, he began to merrily walk forward, rudely pushing past Skipper as he headed towards one of the adjoining hallways.


    "Really?" Skipper chuckled, looking down at Ruth. "You¡¯re, uh¡­ you¡¯re sure about this?"


    Again, Ruth shrugged. "Better plan than nothing, I guess."


    Skipper wasn¡¯t so sure about that.


    "You must be quite confident I won¡¯t kill you," the Widow said, downing the antivirus in one gulp and slamming the glass back onto the table. "I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s such a good idea, Captain Pierrot."


    Pierrot looked up from his script, eyes dark. The crimson lighting flooding the room, and the shadows that stretched across his face, made his visage seem almost like a bloodstained skull.


    "Killing me wouldn¡¯t profit you right now," he said tersely. "Besides, your old protege is still in my hands. Should I die, I¡¯ve left instructions for him to be killed as well."


    The Widow sniffed. "You might be overestimating my sentiment, yes? Perhaps I do not care as much as you think."


    A wry smile crossed Pierrot¡¯s lips. "You¡¯ve exposed yourself, put yourself in enemy territory for him. Actions speak louder than words, Ambassador."


    The Widow had no answer to that. Just as well.


    Pierrot¡¯s gaze returned to his script. This situation certainly wasn¡¯t ideal: the Regent was disabled, it¡¯s crew scattered and they had barely a minute before that Supremacy craft¡¯s boarding parties arrived.


    The Prince didn¡¯t seem to think this situation was impossible to maneuver around, however -- it¡¯s guidance shifted subtly to accommodate the new circumstances, the path to Pierrot¡¯s objective warping just slightly. This was a detour, not a dead end.


    Pierrot placed a hand against the wall and felt the distant thump of objects striking against the hull. The cutter pods would have attached, slicing through the ship¡¯s surface and depositing their human payloads.


    The Prince¡¯s advice was rarely wrong. Pierrot spoke up: "Widow, as I told you -- if I die, Skipper dies. I suppose it¡¯s in your best interest, then, to make sure I survive?"


    The Widow narrowed her eyes -- and for a moment Pierrot thought she was about to leap over the table anyway and smash his head against the wall. Then, words escaped as a hiss between her teeth: "Very well."


    Pierrot smiled softly. "Lead the way, then."

 Chapter 93:4.6: Spark of Genius

    As cutter pods audibly thumped against the ship¡¯s hull, Dragan exchanged a glance with Bruno.


    They¡¯d tried, they really had -- they¡¯d tried to leave peacefully, but these Undermen simply refused to let them go. So there was no other choice. If they weren¡¯t about to let them leave without a fight, they¡¯d get a fight. Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    One last try, though. For propriety.


    "Listen," Dragan said, looking at Werner -- the Undermen was staring at his script again, eyes frantically scanning through lines and lines of damage reports. "You hear that? Those are cutter pods. In a few minutes, Supremacy troops are going to start filling these halls with plasmafire. Don¡¯t you think you have bigger problems than us right now? Just tell us how to get our ship back and we¡¯ll be out of your hair. Easy, right?"


    The annoyance was clear in Werner¡¯s glare as he looked back up at Dragan. "We work in impound," he said icily. "If we just let people go because we get a little scared, we¡¯re not doing our jobs, are we?"


    Lucia silently nodded behind him -- that was a shame. Dragan had thought she seemed the more reasonable of the pair, but apparently this was a sticking point for her too.


    "I¡¯ll get in contact with the Captain," Werner went on, finger hovering over his wrist-bound script. "And if he says you can--"


    Okay, Dragan had run out of patience. "Bruno," he cut in, rubbing his temple.


    Bruno¡¯s speed did himself credit -- in a moment, he¡¯d stepped forward, swept Werner¡¯s feet out from under him -- knocking him to the ground -- and forced him into a lock, hands firmly restrained behind his back. The Underman was unable to do anything but let out a low groan of pain.


    Lucia, on the other hand, was more talkative. "Danny!" she shouted, rushing forward to try and assist, only to find Dragan blocking her way.


    "Don¡¯t try anything," he warned -- even if he wasn¡¯t sure of the woman¡¯s actual combat experience, he was fairly certain his Aether would fill any gap without a problem. "Bruno -- take his script. We might need it to get the ship out, yeah?"


    From behind him, Bruno snorted. "You sound like Skipper."


    "Don¡¯t be an asshole."


    "You are armed, yes?" The Widow asked as she walked down the hallway ahead of Pierrot, hands clasped behind her back.


    "Always," Pierrot nodded, rubbing the bangles that encircled his arms through his uniform.


    The Revolutions -- he¡¯d acquired them through auction only last year, but they¡¯d already proven themselves some of the most useful items in his collection. Adept for attack, defense and escape: even if the Widow, for whatever reason, turned against him, Pierrot was confident he could prevail.


    "Those cutter pods will finish slicing through your ship¡¯s hull soon," the Widow continued. "I do not think heading for the escape pods is a good idea. The Supremacy¡¯s troops will head there first -- without a doubt. It is safer for us to go to my ship and escape, yes?"


    Pierrot shook his head. "I will not abandon my crew."


    A dry, humourless chuckle. "You intend to die with them, then?"


    "Not at all. I never intend anything but total victory." The pace of Pierrot¡¯s marching -- a rhythm he¡¯d mastered long ago -- didn¡¯t change even slightly as he walked. Even in this situation, his calm didn¡¯t waver.


    "What you intend and what you get are two different things, yes? Reality disagrees with your aspirations, I should think."


    Pierrot blinked. "Is that what happened to you? You judged your aspirations impossible, so you gave up on them, fled back to Adrust?"


    The Widow didn¡¯t turn to look at him, but Pierrot felt a noticeable chill enter the air. "Watch yourself," she said quietly. "I cannot kill you -- but a man does not need his limbs to live, does he?"


    "It¡¯s a simple question," Pierrot said, ignoring the threat. "Even with the infamy Vantablack Squad had garnered, it would have been well within your capabilities to drop below the radar again, restructure the Squad, and continue your operations. Yet you gave up on the concept entirely. Why?"


    "I have no reason to tell you this."


    "Do you have a reason not to tell me? That in itself would be quite informative."


    The Widow cast an annoyed glance back at him. "When you swim through blood long enough, you begin to drown in it. Choosing to pull yourself back up to land in those circumstances is not a moral decision -- it is natural. You do it to survive. Understand?"


    That wasn¡¯t a lie, but Pierrot knew it wasn¡¯t the entire truth. "What about your boy Skipper? You said it yourself -- back in those days, he didn¡¯t exist enough to become addicted to murder. Even if you could find the bloodshed overwhelming, he would not."


    A moment of silence. Then: "Do you know how we found the boy?"


    Pierrot shook his head.


    "One of our early operations, when we were focused on dealing with external threats rather than internal. Myself and three of my men -- scum one and all -- crossed the border, made our way across Supremacy territory until we reached Azum-Ha."


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    "The Supremacy capital? That¡¯s impressive."


    "For us, it was nothing," the slightest traces of smugness slithered into the Widow¡¯s tone. "We were there for a mission like no other: to assassinate the First, Second and Third Ministers."


    Pierrot blinked. The information he¡¯d managed to gather regarding Vantablack Squad hadn¡¯t mentioned anything about such an operation. That was surprising: an assassination attempt on the Three Wise Men didn¡¯t exactly sound easy to cover up.


    "What happened?" he asked.


    "We failed, of course," the Widow said offhandedly, stopping for a moment to check the path in front of them as they rounded the corner. "My men died screaming, as they were always bound to -- I fled through the First Minister¡¯s villa, finding myself driven further and further in."


    "That¡¯s unlike you -- you didn¡¯t go in without an escape plan, surely?"


    Another annoyed glance, cast backwards. "Unlike me? You do not know me. Please do not behave otherwise. The Vigil are proficient guardsmen -- they outstrategized me. There is nothing more to it, and it is not important. Yes?"


    "Of course."


    The glare faded slightly -- replaced by a wistful, faraway look. The expression of a woman with a memory hanging in front of her eyes. "Deep in the bowels of that place, I found him. Just a boy, fifteen at the oldest, sleeping in a tank -- a cryogenic stasis pod, liquid Panacea bubbling around him. I should have kept going, I think. I should have kept going, certainly."


    "You released him?" Pierrot furrowed his brow. "For what reason?"


    The Widow sniffed. "I knew what it was to be a child lost in the cold. How could I leave him there? I smashed the glass, pulled him free, and ran. Somehow we escaped." She chuckled. "I don¡¯t even remember how, anymore. The mind is the first to go, yes?"


    "I feel you might be misrepresenting yourself, Widow," Pierrot said calmly as they reached the shut doors to the escape pod array. "You speak as if it was charity -- and then you recruit this boy to your death squad and have him kill for a living?"


    There was no shame in the Widow¡¯s voice or gaze -- just singular, inescapable purpose. "The boy was strong, skilled. I do not know who trained him, but they did their job well. I cannot let resources slip through my fingers. That is my demon, Captain." She glanced up at him. "What is yours?"


    The Prince, he thought.


    "Certainty," he said.


    The doors slid open -- but only fire lay beyond.


    "Now," Mazma said, striding confidently. "Mazma is knowing what you are thinking, okay? Oh boy, you¡¯re thinking, right? This guy is gonna tell me what¡¯s inside my head? Holy cow! That is what you are thinking. Badass guy. But Mazma knows that you are thinking Mazma is a weird guy too. Badass guy but weird too. Demonic sort of person. But you are wrong, huh? Mazma gets how the things go, so Mazma is just a normal guy really. You stick with Mazma, you will instead be thinking: Oh my god! Angelic person! I love to be alive here! This thing is what you will be thinking, no matter what. Okay?"


    "What?" said Ruth.


    "What?" said Mazma.


    "Buddy, buddy," Skipper cut in, keeping a cheery smile on his face with truly heroic effort. "You understand I gotta ask this, right? Are you sure Bruno and Dragan went this way?"


    "Draco and Brownman heads this way, okay?" Mazma frowned. "Mazma is sure about every single thing he says. Forever."


    That didn¡¯t fill Ruth with confidence -- and even Skipper¡¯s smile seemed to be faltering. This Mazma guy had led them on a seemingly random trek through hallways and offices, insisting that this was the way Bruno and Dragan had gone.


    Ruth and Skipper exchanged a glance -- it was becoming increasingly clear that they¡¯d reached the inevitable point where they ditched Mazma. It wasn¡¯t as if they were abandoning him, not really; he had his own ship, and he knew the way to get there. He was just being fired as their tour guide.


    "Listen, Mazma," Skipper said awkwardly, shifting on his feet. "This has been great and all, but me and Ruth have really gotta --"


    Mazma cut Skipper off with a truly bizarre hkaw noise from his mouth, before lifting a finger and pointing it up in the air.


    "What are you doing?" Ruth sighed, her words more structured exasperation than anything else.


    When Mazma spoke again, he was calm, matter-of-fact. "A guy is coming here to kill us now, okay? This sucks."


    Before either Skipper or Ruth could open their mouths to offer any comment, there was a resounding bang from the metal wall next to them -- and in the same moment, a colossal arm burst out from it and lunged towards Skipper, as if trying to grab him in a headlock.


    The arm was huge, absurdly huge -- the muscular limb was almost as big as Ruth just on its own. She had no doubt that it could squeeze the life out of Skipper as if he was a tube of toothpaste.


    Skipper wasn¡¯t nearly slow enough for that to happen though. He ducked down, out of the arm¡¯s reach, and jumped away as the limb passed over his head -- turning in the air so as to face his new enemy. He landed between Ruth and Mazma.


    The arm had been able to penetrate the metal wall with ease -- and the rest of their assailant¡¯s body had just as easy a time. The giant man forced his way through the wall as if it were paper. He was a sight to behold -- long orange hair flowing behind him, monolithic arms that dwarfed the rest of his body, bare chest tense with muscle.


    He stared at them with dull golden eyes, gaze settling on Skipper.


    "Not. The. Captain," the Pugnant growled -- his voice was halting and uncertain. Clearly, he did most of his talking with his fists rather than his mouth. "Where?"


    "Now look, buddy," Skipper retorted, a genuine grin having returned to his face. "That¡¯s not the way to ask someone a question, yeah? You¡¯ve gotta have manners, my man. You get me?"


    The huge Pugnant growled again, so deep it felt as if the sound was vibrating right though Ruth¡¯s bones. "Captain!" he roared, eyes suddenly wide with rage. "Where?!"


    "Do not worry, new friends of Mazma," Mazma muttered from beside Ruth. "Mazma is the strongest guy."


    Ruth glanced towards the strange little man, and was surprised to actually see a persistent spark of Aether flowing across his body. The colour was inconsistent -- it was a sharp red as it slithered under his armpit, then a bright green as it crawled up his back again, only to turn a garish bright yellow as it coiled around his neck like a necklace.


    As it moved, though, the shape of Mazma¡¯s body began to change -- the shape of his left arm, specifically. The muscles under the skin began to bulge unnaturally, the limb growing and stretching with sickening cracks to accompany it. The skin stretched out as the muscle beneath expanded, new biceps bulging out all over -- from his wrist to his elbow.


    In just a couple of seconds, Mazma¡¯s arm had grown enough to match the size of the rest of his body.


    "Okay, pal-o," he grinned. "Now I will pummel you like the little baby."

 Chapter 94:4.7: Witness Red

    The escape array was the stage of a perfectly executed massacre.


    Bodies littered the floor -- Undermen, shot and sliced and crushed and broken. Their empty eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling above -- at the object protruding from the ceiling.


    A cutter pod, doors opened, forced through the hole it had sliced in the hull. Steam still poured from its metal surface -- and as Pierrot watched, struck with horror, he could see that the section of hull surrounding it was red with incandescent heat.


    As Pierrot and the Widow beheld the scene, it was impossible to deny that there were no survivors. The only other person in the room, the only other person still standing, couldn¡¯t possibly be considered a survivor.


    Their face was the face of a killer, after all.


    The young boy stood there, waiting for them with his hands clasped behind his back. His hair was black and stiff, like a helmet, and a malicious smirk danced across his lips as he beheld the two of them. Dark green Aether broiled around him as he cocked his head.


    "Jaime Pierrot?" he asked, voice high and clear as a bell. "I figured you¡¯d show up if I waited around here."


    Pierrot stuffed down his anger, did his best not to look at his fallen crew as he glared at the intruder. "I take it you¡¯re responsible for this?"


    The boy chuckled, putting one hand to his chest as he spread the other out theatrically. "But of course. It¡¯s hardly a stage if there¡¯s no show to--"


    Pierrot whipped his plasma pistol out of it¡¯s holster and fired at the boy thrice, aiming for his center mass. The first shot hit true -- and the boy went flying backwards much faster than he should have, causing the other two shots to miss and hit the floor beneath him.


    The boy slammed against the far wall, his little smug smile replaced by an annoyed grimace. "I was talking," he snarled. "You can¡¯t just--"


    Two more shots -- slamming into each of his arms. There were twin resounding cracks, and the boy screamed out in pain as smoke poured from the burning wounds.


    "You don¡¯t seem to need my help after all," the Widow said dryly, raising an eyebrow.


    Pierrot ignored her, marching over to the boy¡¯s prone body and pressing his boot down hard on his stomach, holding him down in place. "Your ability to adjust your own weight isn¡¯t bad," he said. "But as long as I¡¯ve got you like this, you might as well be powerless."


    The boy growled, gritting his teeth. "How do you¡­?!"


    Pierrot pressed his boot down harder, reducing the boy¡¯s attempts at questioning to choking, hacking coughs. "You¡¯ll find I know most everything. Can I assume you killed my men here?"


    The boy¡¯s face twisted into a defiant sneer. "Course I did. It was easy. Weaklings like them--"


    Again, Pierrot interrupted. "I see," he said emotionlessly. "I¡¯ll have to kill you once we¡¯re done here, then. I wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep at night otherwise. How many of you are there on my ship?"


    "Like I¡¯d tell you, dickhead --"


    Another shot, this time to the knee -- and another scream to accompany it. Pierrot adjusted his footing slightly to prevent blood from staining his boot. "Answer the question, please."


    "Seven," the boy whispered, writhing in pain. "Seven of us. We need to kill you. If we kill you, we win, I -- fuck you. Fuck you."


    Pierrot ignored the insult. "Is that seven including you?"


    "Fuck you!"


    With a shower of dark green Aether infusing his body, the boy lunged upwards, grasping for Pierrot¡¯s leg with his least damaged arm -- intending to adjust his weight and crush him against the floor, no doubt. Pierrot simply sighed and watched --


    -- as the boy¡¯s hand phased through his leg as if it wasn¡¯t even there. The boy¡¯s face, spread into a premature grin of victory, fell flat -- his eyes staring in wide disbelief.


    "Huh?" he mumbled.


    He never got an answer from Pierrot -- only a plasma shot through the top of his skull. As the boy¡¯s body fell smoking back to the ground, Pierrot took a deep breath and recalled the Aether he¡¯d used to trigger the bracelets under his uniform.


    The Revolutions were among the most useful Aether Armaments in his possession -- hence why he didn¡¯t go anywhere without them. When properly activated with Aether, they vibrated the molecules comprising Pierrot¡¯s body at extremely high speeds, allowing him to pass through most matter unscathed. It wasn¡¯t perfect -- it could only be used on a single body part at a time -- but the flexibility it offered made it an essential part of Pierrot¡¯s arsenal.


    Turning away from the enemy¡¯s carcass, he tapped a button on his wrist-bound script -- opening communication to Langston. "Langston," he said tersely. "This is Pierrot -- there¡¯s been an attack on the escape pods. It¡¯s no longer safe. Instead advise all crewmembers to prepare for combat. We¡¯ll take their ship, if it comes down to it."


    Several seconds passed with no reply.


    "Langston?"


    Nothing.


    Pierrot grimaced as he heard the honest whisper of The Prince, and he glanced up at the Widow, who was still standing in the entrance of the room. "Langston is dead," he said, voice grim. "I need to investigate. You¡¯ll accompany me."


    She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Investigate? What is there to investigate? We are in battle. He was killed. There is nothing more to say."


    Pierrot shook his head. "Langston wouldn¡¯t have left his office until the evacuation was organised. His office is tucked away into a civilian section of the ship -- not a strategic target. The fact that he¡¯s dead means someone went out of their way to kill him specifically. I want to know who that is and why before we proceed."


    The Widow scoffed. "The fact that he is dead? How are you so confident, just from him not answering your call?"


    For a moment, he considered telling her about The Prince -- it would certainly save time -- but The Prince advised against it. That way was not the golden path.


    "I have experience," he said slowly. "And knowledge -- and those two things are telling me he is dead. And so we¡¯ll investigate. Understand?"


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    Even though his speech ended with a question, his tone permitted no argument. The Widow glared for only a moment before relenting, following after him as he¡¯d always known she would.


    It was just like she said -- her demon was sentiment. Once you knew a person¡¯s demons, you could have them do whatever you pleased.


    "I¡¯m sorry about this," Dragan lied as he took a step back. "But we can¡¯t have you two running off on us and leaving us stranded."


    They¡¯d bound Werner and Lucia¡¯s hands behind their backs -- using Aether-infused laces from Bruno¡¯s boots. Dragan wasn¡¯t quite sure what the process of releasing a ship from impound entailed, but he was pretty sure they¡¯d need an impound technician to do it.


    Werner glared daggers at him, visibly shaking with rage. "You won¡¯t get away with this," he promised through gritted teeth.


    Lucia looked at him, anxiety dancing in her eyes. "Danny," she said quietly, beseechingly. "Don¡¯t antagonize them, okay? Let¡¯s just -- let¡¯s just stay calm?"


    If Werner heard her, he made no sign of it. "You won¡¯t get away with this," he repeated.


    "Listen to your friend," Bruno warned, slapping his gloved hands together as he beheld his work. "Now -- both of you march ahead of us. We¡¯re taking the long way around, following the maintenance tunnels. You shout or try and call for help, and I¡¯ll have to get violent. You don¡¯t want me to get violent."


    Dragan glanced at him. "The long way around?"


    "Evacuating crewmembers will be taking the shortest possible route," Bruno explained. "If we want to avoid them, we¡¯ll have to do the opposite."


    That rang true as Dragan considered it -- plus, chances were that any Supremacy troops would be following the same principles when it came to their movements. Killing two birds with one stone.


    Bruno¡¯s hard expression shifted to Serena¡¯s worried frown. "But what about Mr. Skipper and Miss Ruth?" she asked. Dragan noted the confusion on Werner and Lucia¡¯s faces as their captor suddenly began speaking in a falsetto, but he suppressed the smirk of amusement at their reaction.


    "They¡¯ll be thinking the same thing as us," Dragan assured her. "Skipper¡¯s smart, right? He¡¯s almost as smart as me."


    "Yeah," Serena nodded. "He¡¯s just a little bit smarter, right? So you think he¡¯ll have the same idea?"


    Dragan swallowed his pride. "Yeah," he forced out. "I¡¯m sure he will, Serena."


    Serena grinned, bright as the sun, her earlier worry having completely evaporated. "That¡¯s great!" she cheered. "I love that!"


    In front of them, Werner narrowed his eyes. "Nutcase," he muttered.


    "Hey," Dragan snapped, surprising himself with his own anger as he whirled around, jabbing his finger sharply into Werner¡¯s chest. "Don¡¯t be fucking rude."


    "Just leave it, Danny," Lucia whispered hurriedly -- it seemed she had the better survival instincts of the two, at any rate.


    Before any more argument could bubble up, Serena drifted away -- and Bruno¡¯s harsh expression returned to their collective face.


    "March," he ordered -- with more than a little offense on Serena¡¯s behalf. "Or we make you march."


    It didn¡¯t get much clearer than that.


    "You¡¯re surprisingly thick, pal," Skipper commented, ducking underneath a punch that would have taken his head off. "I mean seriously, your muscles have muscles of their own. That¡¯s kinda extreme, yeah? Do you have a workout routine for this or is it just a natural thing? There¡¯s gotta be a diet at least, right? You¡¯ve gotta tell me the dirt you¡¯re on. I need to look like you, pal."


    As the muscleman lunged to grab him with his other hand, Skipper launched out a sneaky Heartbeat Shotgun -- and it slammed into the giant¡¯s jaw, looking for all the world as if Skipper had slugged him with an invisible fist.


    "You know," Skipper continued casually, turning around to face his comrades as the Pugnant staggered back. "You¡¯re kind of a specimen too, yeah? What kind of diet are you on, uh¡­ Mazda?"


    "Mazma is Mazma," corrected Mazma, flexing his own giant arm. "And Mazma has never been a diet in his life! Ever!"


    Mazma¡¯s arm was more grotesque than their attacker¡¯s -- clearly unnatural, given the placement of the muscles -- but Skipper could tell considerable strength was packed into that limb. The muscleman could punch his head off, but he got the feeling Mazma would turn him into pulp.


    If he actually managed to land an attack, that was. The difference in weight between Mazma¡¯s arm and the rest of his body meant he was stumbling around the battlefield, falling over without any help from his opponent. Skipper didn¡¯t want to be mean, but this Mazma guy seemed more like a liability than an asset, no matter how swole he was.


    Hell, Ruth was having to dodge him more than the person who was actually attacking them. Skipper had subtly signaled for her to stand back -- he was pretty confident he could deal with this opponent -- but Mazma¡¯s stumbling was still coming into worrying proximity.


    "Why don¡¯t you, uh, just take a breather there, buddy?" Skipper said -- dodging another clumsy blow from the muscleman.


    "No! Mazma is strongest guy!"


    Behind Skipper, the muscleman reared back his head -- preparing to slam his skull into Skipper with devastating force.


    Skipper shrugged. "If you say so," he chuckled -- and then, with lightning speed, he whirled around and grabbed the giant by the jaw, halting his movement. "Hey, buddy, I¡¯m kinda talking here. Could you not?"


    The giant tried to break free -- but some squeezing from Skipper¡¯s hand and the awful pain that came with it soon put a stop to that. The Pugnant¡¯s knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground. Still, he was resistant -- the growl of anger he let out was enough to rumble the ground they were standing on.


    "You¡¯ve got the same problem as this guy, yeah?" Skipper nodded in Mazma¡¯s direction. "You¡¯ve got a body that doesn¡¯t match your strength. Makes you clumsy, limited, easy to predict. I¡¯d feel sorry for ya, but you kinda tried to kill me two minutes ago, so I really don¡¯t. How about this, then?"


    Skipper grinned, and the crimson light flooding the hallway made it seem almost like the grimace of a skull.


    "You tell me everything I wanna know," he said. "And I¡¯ll let you live. Good deal, right?"


    Pierrot sniffed. This sort of thing never got any easier.


    Langston¡¯s body lay sprawled out in the middle of his office, what was left of his face staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. Some kind of sharp weapon had created a long, cruel gash that ran from the middle of his chest all the way up to the top of his skull, eviscerating one eye and leaving the left side of his jaw hanging free.


    He was no medic, but he couldn¡¯t imagine someone living long after receiving a wound like that. Perhaps that was a mercy.


    "Your thoughts?" he said to the Widow, doing his best to keep his voice steady. He endeavoured not to get too close to any of his collaborators, but that didn¡¯t make it any easier when something like this happened.


    The Widow, stood in the doorway, ran her eyes over the wound. "Long knife, sharpened," she said without missing a beat. "Judging from the jagged cut, I¡¯d say something that extends, yes? The kind of knife you can conceal on your person fairly easily. Something someone brought here with them, then."


    Pierrot clicked his tongue. "An assassin slipping in while we¡¯re distracted, then."


    The Widow put a hand to her chin. "But why would someone go out of their way to kill this man? Was he important enough to demand such effort?"


    "Why don¡¯t you ask them yourself?" Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    In one smooth motion, Pierrot drew his pistol, turned on his heel and fired at the lock of the service locker opposite. The mechanism was quickly destroyed by the smoking plasmafire -- and a moment later the locker door swung outwards, it¡¯s occupant falling to the ground in front of them.


    Pierrot raised an eyebrow. "Overman Yaza?" Not what he¡¯d expected -- The Prince had revised it¡¯s advice, now telling him that the person before him wasn¡¯t the killer.


    Yaza looked up, eyes bleary -- she¡¯d seen better days, definitely. Shallow cuts covered her armoured chest, and everything above the wrist of her right hand was missing, steam rising from the stump. It wasn¡¯t a limb that had been shot off with plasma, though -- the mixture of blood and burnt tissue suggested she¡¯d had the arm cut off, and then cauterized it herself using her own plasma pistol.


    Ingenious. He couldn¡¯t help but feel a little proud.


    Yaza spoke, voice croaky from pain and blood loss:


    "The auto-brain," she hissed. "Marco. It¡¯s compromised. Compromised."

 Chapter 95:4.8: Upo

    "The auto-brain," Yaza hissed, collapsing to her knees. "Marco. It¡¯s compromised. Compromised."


    "Explain," Pierrot said, returning his pistol to it¡¯s holster. "How is it compromised?"


    Yaza shook her head, vaguely -- delirious from stress and blood loss. "Langston said. Called me here -- direct channel, not using the¡­"


    "Not using the new communication system," Pierrot nodded. "So the auto-brain couldn¡¯t listen in, I take it?"


    Yaza twitched her head in what could have been a nod. "He said he¡¯d looked -- said he¡¯d been suspicious because of the delay -- the -- Marco taking too long to respond. He wasn¡¯t sure why, but¡­ he was certain someone had tampered with it."


    The Widow glanced down at Langston¡¯s body, splayed out on the floor -- the puddle of blood like a halo around his head. "And what happened here?" she asked.


    Yaza was in no fit state to question why Ambassador Dalcina was here, asking such questions. Instead, she obediently responded: "I don¡¯t know, he was -- he was telling me this, and -- just like that, he was cut open, like he was -- like he was being mauled by something we couldn¡¯t see, me too -- I retreated into the storage locker, but he -- dead too quickly, got him in the heart, nothing I could -- nothing I could¡­"


    "That¡¯s enough," Pierrot said sternly -- The Prince had not detected any lies. He put his script to his mouth to call for a medic, then hesitated.


    If Marco was compromised, would it attempt to interfere? Block the communication, or even attempt to finish them off by interfering with the air or gravity? No. If that was the case, it would have done so originally, rather than have this invisible third party launch an attack.


    Besides, he could hardly leave Yaza here while he went to find a medic on foot. It was inefficient, and there was much work to be done. He cleared his throat and spoke into the script:


    "Marco," he declared, making sure no traces of suspicion entered his tone. "Priority order: order a medic to the office of Overman Langston immediately."


    And then there was the delay Yaza had spoke of, nearly ten seconds of waiting when there should have been two at most. "Order received," Marco said, voice deceptively helpful. "Deploying requested personnel. Will there be anything else?"


    "That¡¯s quite alright."


    The script beeped, and the communication ended. Almost instantly, Pierrot turned to the Widow: "We¡¯ll proceed to the physical auto-brain and assess the situation," he said. "If necessary, we¡¯ll shut it down."


    The Widow raised an eyebrow, nodding down at Yaza¡¯s prone form. The woman seemed to have returned to blissful unconsciousness. "You¡¯ll just leave her there?"


    "Taking her with us isn¡¯t practical, nor is waiting here for the medic. The best course of action is to disable Marco, if it¡¯s truly been compromised. Is that an issue? I was led to believe you were more cold-hearted than this."


    "Oh, I am," the Widow smiled. "I simply forget how disgusting it is to meet somebody like me."


    For a moment, Pierrot just stood there, face impassive -- as if trying in vain to offer some rebuttal to her assessment. None came, however, and he simply turned away, marching out of the open door. A second later, the Widow followed.


    "If this auto-brain truly is compromised," the Widow went on as they stepped into the hallway. "How do you expect to disable it? Surely the thing can defend itself."


    "It¡¯s smart enough to take orders from the wrong people," Pierrot explained. "But not enough to improvise. It does as it¡¯s told -- it doesn¡¯t plan independently. So long as the auto-brain¡¯s new master doesn¡¯t become suspicious of me, I should be able to deal with Marco." He sighed. "Of course, there¡¯s a slight problem with that."


    "And that is?"


    "Them," Pierrot nodded forward -- the Widow followed his gaze, ice-claws already forming on the tips of her fingers.


    At the end of the hallway, framing the entrance to the elevator, were two cloaked figures -- clad in red, with cyclopean masks staring straight at Pierrot and the Widow. Black braids of hair brushed against the floor behind them.


    "I¡¯m assuming you¡¯re not part of my crew," Pierrot called out, hand on his pistol. "I wouldn¡¯t allow my Undermen to be caught dead looking like such clowns."


    The Widow had to admit -- whoever these two were, they were impressive. Even as they stood there, they had almost completely erased their presence. She could feel her gaze sliding over them as though they were just part of the scenery -- twin statues in slightly bad taste. She could hardly even see them breathing.


    The Vantablack days were behind her now, but in her prime she¡¯d have probably offered people like these a job.


    The first of the two masked figures spoke -- their voice soft, feminine. "A clown, you say? How unkind for a man to bray."


    The second continued -- their voice almost identical, maybe just a tad higher-pitched. "Yes, how truly sad. Perhaps you should calm down just a tad?"


    Scratch that. These two had gimmicks. The Widow couldn¡¯t abide gimmicks. Give her a boring man with a gun any day rather than something like these two -- an exciting headache.


    If Pierrot was intimidated by the two, it didn¡¯t show. He just glared down the hall. "Can I assume you two are responsible for killing my subordinate?"


    The first tittered. "Assume, assume, you want to know?"


    The second echoed that laughter. "To that question our answer is -- no."


    Pierrot raised a single eyebrow. "If you¡¯re lying, I¡¯ll know -- as soon as I rip those masks off you and look you in the eyes."


    The laughter intensified. "How frightening, how frightening, oh dear sister!" the first cackled.


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    The second continued: "How frightening, how frightening, this senile mister!"


    Pierrot turned his head back, just slightly, to regard the Widow. "Ambassador," he said, voice low. "I expect for you to show your worth. I¡¯d like one of them alive, if you please."


    The Widow couldn¡¯t much say she appreciated being ordered around by a UniteFleet boor, but she couldn¡¯t deny she was itching for action. The body did not forget the ecstasy of battle so easily. Her cane clicking against the ground, she stepped forward, keeping both of the figures in her sight.


    "I am called the Widow," she said aloud, voice echoing down the hallway. "I dislike killing people I don¡¯t know. Who are you?"


    The bodies of the figures tensed slightly, just slightly -- doubtful anyone but the Widow would have noticed them getting ready to move.


    "Widow will meet widower," the first hissed. "How sad a finale."


    "We are the siblings Nox," the second growled. "We¡¯ll add your death to our tally!"


    And with that -- the Widow vaguely wondered how long it took to come up with such awful rhymes -- the siblings Nox kicked off the ground, rushing towards the Widow with frankly horrifying speed, limbs moving so fast they seemed more like insects than people. As they approached, the Widow released her grip on her cane, and the moment the handle struck the ground --


    -- the room was plunged into utter winter.


    "Never thought I¡¯d be glad to see this thing," muttered Dragan, looking up at the Slipstream.


    The sleek, luxurious star-yacht didn¡¯t seem to suit its surroundings -- the ostentatious bodywork and smooth aesthetic a stark contrast against the functional, practical Unite Regent. Heavy docking clamps were secured on each side of the ship, magnetic seals holding the vessel in place.


    If they tried to take off with those attached, the ship would rip itself apart before they even got off the ground.


    Dragan jabbed Werner in the back with a demanding finger. "Hey. How do we unlock this?"


    Werner, hands still tied behind his back, glared at Dragan over his shoulder. He growled: "You won¡¯t get away with this, you know."


    "Cool -- not what I asked, though."


    Dragan turned his gaze to Lucia, who was staring frightened down at the ground, Bruno stood dutifully behind her. He felt a little sorry for her, he had to admit -- mainly because she didn¡¯t talk as much as Werner. "Hey," he called out in her direction, voice as stern as he could make it. "Unlocking the ship. How?"


    Lucia¡¯s gaze lifted shakily to regard Dragan -- ignoring what Werner probably thought was the subtle shaking of his head. "I¡­"


    "Don¡¯t tell him!" Werner yelled. "You made a pledge to UniteFleet, right? You¡¯re a good person -- don¡¯t let them intimidate you! You can¡¯t just let these guys make their getaway after what they¡¯ve done!"


    Dragan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He¡¯d expected some resistance from Werner -- it was pretty much the extent of his personality, as far as Dragan was concerned -- but not this kind of cringeworthy protagonist speech. He wondered if Werner heard inspiring music in the background as he spewed out that drivel.


    "How?" Dragan repeated, eyes cold, ignoring the word vomit Werner had just released.


    "I¡­" Lucia looked away. "I won¡¯t say¡­ sorry¡­"


    That kind of heroic resistance was kind of undercut when you apologized for it right after, but whatever. Dragan had been watching. He understood how to operate machines like these people.


    "Tell me," Dragan said quietly. "Or I kill him."


    It was a lie, of course -- Dragan wasn¡¯t nearly that heartless -- but in cases like these, and against people like Lucia, false threats worked just as easily as real ones. This was the easiest way to get what he wanted: if she called his bluff, which she wouldn¡¯t, he could just find another solution.


    Lucia did not disappoint. Squeezing her eyes shut to avoid Werner¡¯s gaze, she blurted out: "I-It needs biometrics and a password from an impound technician. Like¡­ like me or Danny."


    Dragan smiled. "Oh, really? And where would I go to do that?"


    Eyes still closed, Lucia jerked her head in the direction of an observation platform far above. Indeed, Dragan could see consoles and monitors lining the room inside if he squinted. If there was a place to operate this machinery, that would be it.


    "Thanks," Dragan said, with genuine gratitude in his voice. "Bruno -- take this guy and unlock the clamps. I¡¯ll watch the ship."


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "Seems like one of us has the tougher job here."


    "Yeah," Dragan said. "I¡¯m having to watch the ship without my strong friend Bruno. You should probably hurry back once you¡¯re done."


    The slightest smirk rose to Bruno¡¯s lips, but seriousness remained in his gaze. "Still haven¡¯t seen any sign of Skipper or Ruth."


    "We won¡¯t leave without them -- but we need to be ready to go the second they get here."


    For a moment, Bruno considered it -- then he nodded, pulling Werner along with him as he made his way towards the lifts. Werner glared, accusatory, at Lucia as he was dragged away.


    And then it was just the two of them.


    "I was telling the truth before, you know," Dragan sighed, more to fill the silence than anything else. "We really don¡¯t have anything to do with this. We¡¯re just trying to get out of the line of fire, you know?"


    Lucia nodded quietly. "I know." S~ea??h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He raised an eyebrow. "What about your buddy, then? He seems pretty certain we¡¯re involved."


    "When he gets an idea in his head," Lucia shrugged as she mumbled. "It -- it stays there. And you badmouthing the Captain didn¡¯t help, either, I guess."


    Dragan snorted. "Badmouthing the Captain? That¡¯s enough to put me on his shitlist for life?"


    Lucia looked up at him, and Dragan was almost forced to step back from the surprising firmness in her gaze. "Danny¡¯s from Upo. Do you know Upo?"


    He shook his head.


    Lucia squeezed her fists tight. "It was a dying world," she said. "Solar storms burning more and more of the surface every time they struck -- but nobody was willing to help, because the storms would have damaged their own ships. So the people of Upo had to just -- had to just sit there and wait to die. Like -- like they were nothing."


    Dragan blinked. "What happened?" he asked, already having a vague idea.


    "Captain Jaime Pierrot happened," she sniffed. "He drove the evacuation fleet straight through hell and rescued as many people as he could. He -- he didn¡¯t care that it was impossible. He just did the right thing."


    Dragan bit his lip. "That¡¯s¡­ commendable." It was irksome that he couldn¡¯t think of an ulterior motive for that altruism, or a way for it to fit in with Dragan¡¯s preconceptions of the Captain.


    "So yeah," Lucia finished, voice turning raspy as her bravery finally ran dry. "Captain Pierrot saved his life, my life, and the lives of every person we knew. Badmouthing the Captain does put you on his shitlist -- mine too."


    A kind of sudden self-awareness struck Dragan, like when you realized you were in the middle of a dream and everything suddenly seemed so much more solid. What was he doing? Pierrot had struck him the wrong way, and now he had some kind of vendetta against him? That wasn¡¯t right. He was petty, sure, but not this petty.


    Something wasn¡¯t right. He was tempted to think Pierrot was behind it, but was even that a result of whatever this strangeness was? Could he trust his own feelings, his own thoughts, where Pierrot was involved?


    At the very least, though, he had to admit he¡¯d been a total dick. Dragan opened his mouth to offer some apology, some recompense, some verbal olive branch --


    -- but he never got the chance.


    There was a sudden flash of red light, the scent of smoke, and the thump of Lucia falling to her knees.


    She was dead before she hit the floor.

 Chapter 96:4.9: Darren Roash

    Dragan leapt behind a nearby container, body moving almost automatically in a desperate scramble to survive -- and it was a good thing, too, as a second later the spot he¡¯d been standing was blasted with another bolt of red light.


    Panting for breath, Dragan stared with wide eyes at the corpse of Lucia Yet. The woman had fallen forward onto her face, her limbs splayed out, smoke rising from the hole in her torso -- the hole that went all the way through her body. For a second, Dragan was deliriously reminded of a donut, and it was all he could do to hold back the bile.


    "You¡¯ve got mighty fine reflexes there, boy," a male voice called out, their drawling tones echoing through the hangar. "Was sure I¡¯d getcha with that second shot."


    Dragan cleared his throat, doing his best not to let any fear escape into his tone, and replied: "If you¡¯re looking for this ship¡¯s crew, you¡¯re in the wrong place. I was just a prisoner here. I¡¯ve no quarrel with the Supremacy."


    There was a low chuckle -- indignant, just slightly, as if Dragan had said something utterly absurd.


    "No quarrel?" the man called out -- and just under the voice Dragan could hear something, some hum. "That¡¯s a hell of a thing to say, Dragan Hadrien."


    Fuck fuck fuck.


    "You know me?" As Dragan spoke, he did his best to listen to that hum -- to figure out just what he was hearing. Some kind of machine, certainly, but what?


    "You kiddin¡¯?" The hum increased in volume, just the tiniest bit, as the man spoke. "Y¡¯think they don¡¯t run the faces of traitors like you on the news, boy? Y¡¯think you can just betray the Supremacy and get away with it? I don¡¯t think so, no sir. I won¡¯t allow it."


    Dragan gulped -- he knew what that hum was. A hover platform, usually used by political officials to give impromptu speeches, or by snipers looking for a makeshift vantage point. His enemy had the advantage in mobility, then -- and whatever the gun he¡¯d used was, it was doubtless much more powerful than Dragan¡¯s little pistols.


    "You¡¯re here for me, then?" Dragan said -- and despite his best efforts, croaking anxiety infiltrated his voice.


    "None of your damn business what we¡¯re here for, boy," the man said, his voice getting slightly louder as the platform came closer. He was looking for a better shooting angle, then. "But it sure as hell ain¡¯t you. Don¡¯t go flattering yourself. Killing you¡¯s just my moral obligation, you understand? When a man sees a rat, he puts his boot down on it. That¡¯s what makes him a man."


    Dragan winced. From the way this guy was talking, he was obviously a true believer -- killing him was based on the principle of the thing, rather than any personal grievance. He¡¯d probably get along quite well with Atoy Muzazi. Dragan understood idiots like this pretty well, now: there¡¯d be no bargaining here.


    Still, a little pleading never hurt anyone: "Listen," he said, eyes flicking around to look for the nearest exit. "You know my name already. What¡¯s yours? It¡¯s only right we know that about each other -- it¡¯s only honourable."


    The man paused, and the tone of the hum shifted to indicate the platform had ceased moving. If Dragan¡¯s instincts were accurate, the enemy would be in a position within his range -- if he jumped out of cover, he could get a shot off. Slowly, quietly, he pulled his plasma pistol out of its holster.


    "My name is Darren Roash!" the man cried -- and at the same time, there was the sound of a plasma round being loaded into a gun. "Savour it -- it¡¯s the last name you¡¯ll ever hear --"


    Dragan leapt out of cover, pistol in hand, and fired off a flurry of plasma shots at Roash¡¯s position -- and then, before the smoke even stopped pouring from the gun, he turned on his heel and charged for the door. This guy had assault hardware way beyond Dragan¡¯s capabilities -- it was naive to think he could be killed so easily. The purpose of this attack, then, was distraction: creating the opportunity for Dragan to retreat and plan.


    It occurred to Dragan as he ran that he hadn¡¯t even really seen his opponent yet -- only the vaguest glimpse of an armoured, long-haired figure on a floating platform as he¡¯d fired. That was fine, though. That was absolutely fine. Dragan would be very happy if he never had a reason to get a more detailed look at this man.


    "Coward!" Roash roared from behind Dragan -- clearly, the distraction hadn¡¯t been sufficient.


    A second later, just as Dragan reached the doors, he heard the sound of rapid-fire plasma shots, and he knew that it was only luck that had saved him from being incinerated by the blasts of red light. Whatever strengths this Roash guy had, accuracy wasn¡¯t one of them -- three of the shots sailed over Dragan¡¯s head to strike the far wall instead, and the fourth was seamlessly absorbed into his Gemini Shotgun.


    He had something to work with, then. Dragan¡¯s Aether flared around him, recording the shot -- and as it did, he could sort of feel the composition of it, understand how it was put together. This wasn¡¯t standard plasma for a rifle like that -- it was fighter craft grade, meant to be used for air assaults on entrenched positions. Using it here, in this situation, was the definition of overkill.


    So now he had one good shot against Roash¡¯s rapid-fire equivalent. Fantastic.


    Dragan¡¯s shoes squeaked against the floor as he whirled around the corner, narrowly avoiding another burst of red plasmafire. He had to keep moving. This Roash character was obviously fixated on him -- he¡¯d keep chasing him until one of them was dead.


    Why were there so many damn hallways on this ship?! Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked around as he sprinted through the halls, trying to take in any landmarks they could. He was fairly certain the way he¡¯d ran was taking him further away than Bruno, which wasn¡¯t great, but if he stopped to try and correct that he was as good as dead anyway.


    The hallway split in two -- one fork heading right, the other left. Dragan¡¯s eyes focused on the flickering display on the left side -- TRAINING QUARTERS. Exactly what he needed: an open space in which he could arrange some kind of ambush. That kind of trickery was the only way he could win this.


    A plan already forming in his head, Dragan charged around the corner --


    -- and collided full on with the person who was coming around the other side, knocking the two of them roughly to the ground.


    It was a girl with short black hair, wearing an Underman¡¯s uniform. She put a hand to her head, where she¡¯d fallen, and groaned. Her script lay broken on the ground before her. Dragan could have screamed -- he was running for his life from the Supremacy, and he still couldn¡¯t escape from the UAP either?!


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    No -- it didn¡¯t matter. He could hear the hum of the platform rushing through the hallways towards them. Without a moment of apology or even introduction, Dragan reached out, snatched the girls wrist and screamed:


    "Fucking run!"


    "Ah, I love the young people," the Widow sighed wistfully as she punched one of them in the face.


    The smaller of the Nox sisters staggered backwards -- only avoiding being frozen to the wall by the timely push of her counterpart. The size difference between the siblings Nox was miniscule, of course, but there was no other method for the Widow to differentiate them.


    The hallway had become a tunnel of pure ice, frosty-blue Aether radiating from the Widow¡¯s body and adjusting the temperature of her surroundings. Even the dust in the air had frozen over, creating a constant swirling of what looked just like snow.


    The Widow found that she brought home wherever she went.


    The Nox twins were doing quite well for themselves, all things considered. Most people who fought the Widow ended up dead by the two-minute mark, but this duo were now approaching three minutes without much in terms of grievous injury. The Widow wasn¡¯t going all out yet, of course, but it was still impressive. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The fact that they hadn¡¯t yet been killed didn¡¯t mean they were winning, though. The swings of the sickles they held in each hand were wide arcs, easy to predict -- and so easy to dodge or block at the Widow¡¯s leisure.


    The smaller twin circled around her, aiming for the Widow¡¯s back, only for the blow to be deflected by a pillar of ice that sprouted right up from the floor. At the same time, the Widow kicked the cane that had fallen at her feet up into the air, blocking the other sister¡¯s frontal assault -- and sending her flying backwards.


    The Widow glanced up at the lone surviving security camera -- the rest had become ice sculptures -- and smiled faintly. Captain Pierrot had retreated into Langston¡¯s office when the fight had begun, but she had no doubt he was watching through his script. He seemed to think this engagement was some kind of audition, after all.


    That in itself was vexing: the Widow didn¡¯t fight for anything but Adrust anymore -- and certainly not for this Jaime Pierrot.


    As if in sympathy with her irritation, the air immediately surrounding the Widow grew even colder -- forcing the Nox sisters to retreat to avoid becoming frozen in place. They landed side by side at the end of the hallway -- having slid over the frozen walls like ice-skaters -- their chests quickly rising and falling with ragged breaths.


    The Widow tapped her cane against the ground. "You are very talented young ladies. Yes, very talented -- but if you continue like this, I¡¯m afraid there¡¯s a good chance you will be dying. That would be a shame, seeing as you¡¯ve finally stopped rhyming."


    The Nox sisters glared down the hallway at her, their body language betraying nothing. Wonderful. Just what the Widow would expect from aspiring assassin¡¯s.


    "So," the Widow wagged a thin, bony finger as she spoke. "I¡¯m going to give you a chance, as I¡¯ve grown soft in my golden years. If you can escape from this frozen tunnel, I will not pursue you. A good deal, yes? You keep your lives and you¡¯ve learnt a valuable lesson --"


    In twin flashes of red Aether, the two girls rushed down the hallway towards the Widow, sickles bared like bestial claws. Their speed was astonishing -- but, as the Widow already knew, insufficient.


    The old woman sighed. "Well, I can appreciate not wanting to disgrace yourselves, but this is a little far to go for your pride, yes? If you insist, though¡­"


    Ice formed on the tips of the Widow¡¯s fingers, creating long, sharp claws -- sharp enough to pluck a beating heart from a young chest without too much trouble. She¡¯d go for the young one first, she decided -- from what she¡¯d observed in the past, older siblings usually grew more predictable in their rage once the younger was dispatched. The more gruesome the demise, the more useful that drive for immediate vengeance.


    The sisters reached her, slashing with their sickles -- the younger one aiming for her legs while the older one went straight for the Widow¡¯s skull. Distraction hadn¡¯t worked, it seemed, so their final strategy was to dispatch her with overwhelming force.


    A shame. She¡¯d expected better. The Widow lunged forward with nightmarish speed, her claws piercing the younger sister¡¯s chest with a resounding crack of the ribs --


    -- only to find themselves stuck.


    The younger sister had frozen in place -- not by ice, but by the fact that she¡¯d become an obsidian-black statue, from her skin to her clothes. Even the blood that had spurted out from the newborn wound was frozen, red droplets turned black and fixed into the air.


    The Widow was so surprised she almost neglected to duck under the older sister¡¯s slash -- but in the end, of course, she did, sending her flying with a kick for good measure.


    Still, this was a problem. The younger sister had completely transmuted her body into durable black stone -- and the Widow¡¯s hand was still wedged inside, unable to pull itself free. She¡¯d effectively been immobilized.


    "Well," she smiled, as the older sister ran back towards her. "This certainly is interesting."


    "Report." Roash¡¯s gruff voice came over the communicator, distorted just slightly by the weak connection and the ever-present hum of his transport platform.


    Niles fumbled for the script in front of her, planting it against her ear. "Um," she stammered. "H-Hadrien¡¯s moving through the training facilities now, h-he¡¯s got someone with him, I don¡¯t know who. I think he might be thinking of maybe doing an -- ambush on you?"


    The explanation was clumsy, unprofessional -- and it took Roash a few seconds to respond with his usual grunt. The second the communicator clicked off again, Niles sighed with relief.


    She¡¯d nestled herself into a far corner of the ventilation system, huddled up among what supplies she¡¯d managed to bring on her cutter pod. Her script, her pistols, her glasses. It wasn¡¯t much, to tell the truth.


    Those glasses, perched on her nose, crackled with auburn Aether, the lenses rippling with light like an oil slick as they adjusted to new information.


    She could see Hadrien -- see him through the countless walls and ceilings that separated them -- a glowing blue spectre that shimmered and sparked as it ran. The other person was beside him, their aura transparent, barely even noticeable. She couldn¡¯t see Roash -- he was no Aether-user, after all -- but she¡¯d planted a tracker on him when they¡¯d parted ways: she could pull his location up if she needed to.


    As she watched Hadrien run, her finger tracked his position on her script¡¯s map, ready to report his location if she needed to. More than anything else, she needed to prove to Roash that she was useful. It was the only way she¡¯d make it out of this alive.


    The one who took out Jaime Pierrot would live, and all others would die: that was what the Instructor had said. Niles already knew she had no chance of assassinating such a man -- he¡¯d be too well-guarded, and she was far too weak at any rate -- but failure to do so would mean a gruesome death.


    She knew she¡¯d have to cheat, to game the system -- but Daphne would never have gone along with it. The older girl only cared about how much use she could get out of Niles -- and now that her survival was a liability, she¡¯d seek to end it as soon as possible. Even if Niles came up with a plan for the both of them to survive, there was no way Daphne would risk herself by carrying it out.


    Roash, on the other hand¡­ he was a man of honour. Even without Aether, he was skilled, well-armed. Even if he couldn¡¯t save her, he¡¯d at least try. She¡¯d made him promise, after all. Men like Darren Roash didn¡¯t break promises.


    It was her only chance.


    She could have screamed. How had she even ended up in this situation? What God had she pissed off to end up in this batch of recruits, with this maniac instructing them? She was sure she¡¯d never done anything that bad.


    Niles came from a family of Special Officers -- father, mother and all her siblings having fought for the Supremacy at one point or another. Doing otherwise had never been an option for her. She¡¯d never even entertained other options. Since the day she was born, she¡¯d lived in a ruthless world of claws and teeth.


    She was weak -- she knew that very well. But she could tell when someone else was weaker.


    Run while you can, Dragan Hadrien, she thought, tracking her quarry through the walls. Run while you can.

 Chapter 97:4.10: Plastic Soldiers

    Dragan and his new companion charged through the door, running into some kind of locker room. There wasn¡¯t yet time to catch their breath, though -- Dragan instantly whirled around and pushed one of the lockers onto its side, creating a rudimentary barricade against the door. Hopefully that would prevent this Roash character from forcing it open --


    -- it was a sliding door. Shit.


    "Hey, you," Dragan said urgently, turning to the black-haired girl he¡¯d dragged along with him. "What¡¯s your name?"


    "Rose," the girl panted, hands on her knees as she caught her breath. "My name¡¯s¡­ I¡¯m Rose."


    "You have access to these systems?" Dragan jabbed a finger towards the door. He could tell she was an Underman, but he didn¡¯t know what kind of access she had. Nervous sweat ran down the back of his neck.


    Rose nodded. Dragan could have cheered -- at last, he had something to work with.


    "We need that door locked," he explained, punctuating the point with another jab of his finger towards the entrance -- and before she could open her mouth, he continued: "Before you ask why, I¡¯ll tell you -- there¡¯s a Supremacy soldier chasing us, and if he gets in here he¡¯ll kill us both. He¡¯s already killed one of the people who was with me, so this isn¡¯t a joke. You understand?"


    He had to get the point across as quickly and thoroughly as he could. Politeness was a virtue and all, but to tell the truth he didn¡¯t much care about social niceties when it came to saving both their lives.


    Rose¡¯s face hardened, her mouth a straight line of tension. "He¡­ killed one of your people?"


    Dragan hesitated a moment -- he¡¯d known Lucia for about an hour at most, but it felt disrespectful just to dismiss her. "Sort of," he admitted. "One of the impound technicians, Lucia Yet. He shot her in the back -- and he¡¯ll do the same to us if we give him the chance."


    Rose sighed, tension leaving her body as carbon dioxide, hands rising up to massage her temples as she squeezed her eyes shut. "I¡­" she muttered. "I-I don¡¯t¡­"


    "Lock the fucking door."


    "Right, right," she pulled her script out of her pocket and tapped a few buttons -- instantly, the faint green light above the entrance turned a deep red. "It¡¯s locked -- nobody can get in that way until that¡¯s countermanded."


    Dragan finally let out his own sigh of relief, collapsing against the wall and slumping down into a sitting position. They still weren¡¯t safe -- he had no doubt Roash could burn through that door with his enhanced plasma -- but they¡¯d created an effective security blanket if nothing else.


    The Underman -- Rose, she¡¯d said -- cocked her head at the prone Dragan. "Hey," she said slowly. "I know you!"


    "No you don¡¯t," Dragan replied automatically. He really hoped not. Most of his recent problems in life had come from people recognizing him.


    "I do!" Rose nodded. "You¡¯re Dragan Hadrien -- you were supposed to be with Skipper and Ruth Blaine! I was meant to take you guys on a tour. Bruno and Serena too."


    This didn¡¯t seem like the best time to complain about missed tours. "That so?" Dragan forced the dull words out.


    "And then Skipper and Ruth ran off, and I tried to chase after them -- only I¡¯m not so fast, and they jumped out a window, and by the time I got down there they¡¯d already gone somewhere else, so--"


    "Rose," Dragan spoke up, forcibly bringing the rambling girl¡¯s train of thought to a halt. The tiniest glimmer of hope was becoming visible. "You were with Skipper and Ruth when the attack started?"


    She nodded mutely.


    Dragan picked himself up slightly -- still leaning against the wall, but standing on his own two feet, cutting a slightly less pathetic figure. "This is important," he said clearly, a relieved smile on his lips, fixing his eyes on hers. "Did they say where they were going?"


    If he could somehow meet up with them, he got the feeling that this opponent chasing him wouldn¡¯t be nearly as much of a threat. To a novice like him, this obstacle was insurmountable, but Skipper was the kind of man who could clear such hurdles with ease -- not that Dragan would ever say it out loud.


    Rose thought for a moment, tapping her finger against her temple, before sticking it up into the air as she eagerly replied: "They said they were going looking for you!"


    The smile froze on Dragan¡¯s face. Slowly, as if dreading the answer, he clarified: "And this was¡­ nearly an hour ago?"


    She nodded.


    "It was nearly an hour ago¡­ when they said this? When they -- when they said that to you?" Dragan repeated. Maybe, just maybe, if he asked with the right combination of words, the answer would be different, and they wouldn¡¯t be in such a shitty situation after all.


    "Yes," Rose said. "Definitely. Right after the attack started."


    "I see," Dragan chuckled humourlessly, the smile still stuck on his mouth. Then, he turned and struck the locker next to him -- once, twice, thrice -- leaving dents sparking with blue Aether.


    Rose squeaked, hugging her script to her chest. "Should you be so loud?" she whispered, eyes flicking around the room. "If there¡¯s someone looking for us, I mean."


    Dragan¡¯s reply was muffled, his face in his hands. "Probably not," he said. "But we¡¯re kind of fucked, you see. A Supremacy maniac with a fighter-grade rifle will be here any minute."


    "Maybe he won¡¯t notice us?" Rose smiled weakly. "Pass us by?"


    "There¡¯s a big red light over the door telling him which room we¡¯re in."


    "Oh."


    "Yeah."


    How had things gotten like this? The objective had been so simple: join back up with Ruth and Skipper and then just leave -- but somehow, somehow, they¡¯d ended up more split up than they were originally. Y only knew where the hell Bruno and Serena had gone. Dragan was pretty sure the way he¡¯d run had taken him further away from what few comrades he had.


    It was just him, then -- him and this girl he¡¯d known for single-digit minutes. Nobody else to rely on.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Dragan swallowed, forcing down the anxiety that threatened to stall his decision making. He had no time to whine about the situation he¡¯d gotten himself into. He was in it now -- the only thing to do was find a way out.


    The only one who decides what happens to me is me.


    He stepped fully away from the wall, letting out a deep breath as Aether began to crackle around him. His eyes flicked up to look at Rose.


    "I have a plan," Dragan lied -- he hadn¡¯t actually come up with the plan yet. He had one powerful shot stored up, two pistols, a meat shield and a dream.


    Not everything he needed, but he knew it was everything he was going to get. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "H-He¡¯s in the locker room, with the other person," Niles whispered over the communicator -- as if she¡¯d be overheard by her prey if she spoke too loudly. "They¡¯re both n-near the door, so if you blow it up you¡¯ll probably get them."


    "There any escape routes?" Roash¡¯s gruff voice came through loud and clear.


    Niles shook her head, forgetting for a moment her partner couldn¡¯t see that over the audio link. "N-No, I don¡¯t think so -- well, definitely not. That room goes through to a training zone, but there¡¯s no exits there."


    "Training zone? What kinda thing we talkin¡¯ here? Little gymnasium or what?"


    Again, Niles shook her head. "Um, n-no. It¡¯s a kind of holographic t-training suite, we have them back home too. It p-projects different environments, like jungles or u-urban centres, so t-they can train for different s-scenarios."


    She could have punched herself. What the hell was she doing? Could she not even explain how a room worked without sounding like a frightened mouse? Roash wouldn¡¯t see her as an ally unless he respected her -- who would respect someone like this?


    For what it was worth, Roash didn¡¯t seem to mind. He was too busy with his patriotic fervour. "Ha!" he scoffed. "Plastic trainin¡¯ for plastic troops. Wouldn¡¯t expect anythin¡¯ more."


    Like I said, we have them back home too.


    Suddenly, she jerked up, watching through countless walls as the blue shade began moving, rushing towards the training arena. "H-He¡¯s on the move," she said hurriedly. "H-Heading towards the training suite. I-I don¡¯t know if he has a plan or w-w-what, but he¡¯s m-moving with purpose."


    "On my way," Roash said, bloodlust audible in his voice. "How ¡¯bout the other person you mentioned? They still with him?"


    "L-Like I said, they¡¯re h-hard to see, so I don¡¯t know."


    "Guess I¡¯ll find out the hard way." The energised thunk of Roash¡¯s rifle being reloaded was audible over the communicator -- Niles winced at the unexpected loud noise. "I¡¯m here. I¡¯m goin¡¯ in."


    If the thunk was unwelcome, the explosion that followed was even more so -- the door to the locker room being eviscerated with just a couple of seconds of sustained fire. Niles winced at the deafening audio, groaning as she turned the sound on her communicator down slightly. "I-I¡¯d appreciate a warning in the f-future," she said, with all the nerve she could muster.


    "Sorry, Niles," Roash sounded genuinely apologetic. "Element of surprise is what gives a fella victory, though. If I go warnin¡¯ you, I might go warnin¡¯ them. Can¡¯t do it."


    Niles sighed, nodding. "O-Okay. Hadrien¡¯s still in the t-training suite. Top left c-corner. Think he might be h-hiding."


    "I¡¯d expect nothin¡¯ more, Niles. Locker room¡¯s clear -- I¡¯m goin¡¯ in. I¡¯ll keep the line open if I need you to keep tracking him. Wish me luck."


    The communicator clicked off, without time for Niles to even reply. She honestly wasn¡¯t sure if that was an intentional snub or just a case of Roash not thinking things through.


    Still -- she had her ways to listen in. She pulled up another program on her script, the one tied to the tracker she¡¯d planted on Roash. Through it, she could hear the tinny sound of rushing air -- the elevation platform moving through the hallway connecting the locker room and the training suite. Just under that, Roash¡¯s steady breathing was audible.


    Another explosion sounded off -- this one distorted, the tracker¡¯s feeble microphone unable to properly record it -- as the door to the suite was blasted open.


    Niles bit her lip. This was it.


    This false jungle the UAP had created was convincing, if nothing else, Roash thought as he entered the room.


    The trees around him stretched up to fill a sky that did not exist, and thick heavy fog swirled around the ground -- like smoke from a battle that had not yet happened. In the distance, he could hear birds tweeting, the ravenous growling of an unseen predator.


    But none of it rang true. There was no heat, no stench, no physicality to this place. The only thing a facade like this could fool was the eyes -- and Roash had access to eyes far superior to his own.


    Slowly, carefully, Roash proceeded into the room, his platform hovering steadily over the ground as he pointed his rifle in front of him. Aether-user or no, he was certain a well-aimed barrage of his enhanced plasmashot would take Hadrien down. It had never failed in the past.


    He licked his lips, doing his best to calm his muted nerves. He¡¯d embarked on missions like this many times before, but the exhilaration of it never went away. The knowledge that you were about to prove your worth, objectively, for all to see.


    That was what the UAP didn¡¯t understand -- conflict was not a means to an end, it was an end in and of itself. The eternal crucible in which only the strongest survived. There were no more suitable environs for living creatures. Failure to improve meant stagnation -- and what could you call stagnation but death?


    Niles had said that Hadrien was concealing himself in the top-left corner of the room. Slowly, carefully, Roash adjusted the angle of his rifle to aim in that direction. It was strange to think of this place having corners -- the jungle stretched on as far as he could see -- but that was just another part of the illusion.


    His aim settled on the location, a shriveled tree sticking out from a small mound -- just small enough for a curled-up human to fit inside. Hadrien must have had to get down on his hands and knees to fit in there. How appropriate.


    Roash¡¯s finger curled almost tenderly around the trigger -- and he pulled it with the passion of a lover.


    The instant he did, the mound sparked and fizzled -- the image becoming indistinct as Hadrien leapt out of it, narrowly avoiding the flurry of red shots as he charged straight through another huddle of trees. The scenery here truly was aesthetic only -- you could walk right through everything as if it wasn¡¯t even there.


    The communicator in his ear clicked on again, Niles connecting. "H-He¡¯s run to that spot in front of you, and now he¡¯s n-not moving. He m-might want you to t-think he kept moving, but h-he hasn¡¯t."


    He grunted in response. Niles was good at what she did -- he¡¯d do his best to see right by her. She was too weak to become a Special Officer, of course, but he¡¯d have no issue with keeping her on as an assistant or something similar. It was unfortunate, but that was probably the best she could hope for with her deficiencies.


    Roash spoke up, keeping his rifle trained on Hadrien¡¯s new position. "Running away, boy?" he sneered. "You prove your weakness."


    For a moment, there was silence -- save for the false sounds of animals around him. Then, surprisingly, Hadrien actually answered.


    "My weakness?" he asked, the source of his voice obvious -- he really hadn¡¯t moved. "Sorry, but isn¡¯t it the other way around?"


    And then -- defying all battle sense -- Hadrien strode out of the trees, bark flickering in and out of existence as he stepped through it. The young man cocked his head at Roash, as if he hadn¡¯t just sealed his doom. One of his hands was empty, and the other held a script -- controlling the holograms?


    But something wasn¡¯t right. Roash adjusted his stance, just slightly. "What do you mean?" he growled. If nothing else, it wouldn¡¯t hurt to let the bastard talk.


    Hadrien smiled, his face the very picture of innocence. "Well," he said, smugly dragging his words out. "I¡¯m thinking you can¡¯t use Aether, right? Or you wouldn¡¯t be bothering with these kinds of tactics. It¡¯s just kind of refreshing fighting someone who¡¯s legitimately weaker than me, you know?"


    Roash narrowed his eyes. "Y¡¯think just cause my gun¡¯s top-grade I can¡¯t use Aether? Maybe I just like to make sure scum like you is dealt with thoroughly."


    Hadrien shook his head. "Nah. If you could use Aether, you¡¯d have just used an Aether ping to find me. You wouldn¡¯t have had to do all this messing around."


    Genuine confusion struck Roash for a moment -- he furrowed his brow. "Messing around?"


    "Yeah," Hadrien nodded, smirk becoming an almost manic grin as he glanced up towards the ceiling. "Messing around. Isn¡¯t that right, Niles?"


    As she heard her name leave the Cogitant¡¯s lips, Niles froze in sudden terror.


    Something was wrong.

 Chapter 98:4.11: Dance in the False Forest

    Niles gulped as she watched the blue glow of Dragan Hadrien through the walls. Was it just her imagination, or was his head angled towards her, as if he could see her too?


    No, she shook her head. You¡¯re being paranoid. There¡¯s no way.


    Was there?


    "Niles?" Roash¡¯s voice came over both the communicator and the tracker she¡¯d put on him, the mixed audio quality creating a unique duet. "I already told ya, boy. The name¡¯s Darren Roash. Ain¡¯t no Niles here."


    "Oh, don¡¯t play dumb!" Hadrien¡¯s voice, made crackly by the microphone, sounded cheerful. "You think I couldn¡¯t figure out someone was feeding you instructions? It¡¯s nothing for me to figure out who that is and where they are, given my Aether ability."


    Niles¡¯ hands tightened against her script as she listened to Hadrien go on. What kind of ability did he have? They hadn¡¯t even known he¡¯d had Aether until she¡¯d spotted him with her Ether Lens, so it wasn¡¯t out of the question that he had some kind of unknown tracking power too.


    Wait, what had he said? It was nothing for him to figure out where she was?


    A chill ran down her spine.


    Hadrien¡¯s chuckle came from the script like a death bell, low and distorted. "It¡¯s kind of weird, don¡¯t you think?"


    She heard Roash cock his rifle. "Y¡¯really want those to be your last words, boy?"


    Just shoot him, she wanted to scream over the communicator. Don¡¯t let him talk -- just shoot him now!


    But she couldn¡¯t do it. She couldn¡¯t muster the will to open her mouth and utter those words -- a formless, irrational anxiety seemed to hold down her tongue every time she tried. Hadrien already knew she was there. It felt like if she opened her mouth, if she engaged with the situation any further, he would suddenly be here in the vents with her.


    It was an absurd notion, completely impossible -- and yet terror made it seem nearly guaranteed.


    "My last words?" She could almost hear the frown in Hadrien¡¯s voice. "But I¡¯m still talking. I¡¯m just saying -- isn¡¯t it kinda weird how two people came in here, but now there¡¯s only me?"


    The script slipped from Niles¡¯ shaking grip, clattering to the floor. She stared sightlessly down at it, eyes wide, turned unblinking by horror. Oh, no.


    Just as she¡¯d heard his frown, now she could definitely hear Hadrien¡¯s victorious grin. "My friend¡¯s on their way to see you, Niles. Good luck."


    She didn¡¯t stay in those vents for even a second after that.


    Dragan really hoped that bullshit had worked.


    Rose wasn¡¯t on her way to deal with this Niles person, of course -- she didn¡¯t have Aether, for one, and she was too busy operating the holograms from the control room anyway. The script he was holding in his hand was a feint -- still useful, but not for the reason Roash would think.


    It was open to a communications channel -- connected in a call with Rose¡¯s script, which they¡¯d left back in the locker room. With that, just by listening in, Dragan had been able to get advance warning before his enemy had arrived. In a fight to the death, that kind of preparation time was vital.


    But he¡¯d gotten much more than that. Dragan smirked. The brief snatch of conversation he¡¯d heard through the script had formed the basis of this strategy.


    "I¡¯d expect nothin¡¯ more, Niles," Roash had said. "Locker room¡¯s clear -- I¡¯m goin¡¯ in. I¡¯ll keep the line open if I need you to keep tracking him. Wish me luck."


    From hearing that, a few things had become obvious: Roash was in contact with one of his comrades, a person called Niles -- and this Niles was capable of tracking Dragan somehow. They hadn¡¯t hacked the security cameras -- Dragan had blasted them into molten slag the moment he¡¯d entered the holographic suite -- so it was most likely some kind of Aether ability. Maybe something similar to an Aether ping.


    If Niles truly was tracking Dragan through his Aether, that meant whatever kind of distracting environment he created in the suite would be useless -- Roash would just be able to aim right for him, no matter what he did. Therefore, the first priority was to throw Niles off enough to negate that advantage.


    Hopefully this little gambit of his had done that -- he had no way of actually confirming it, after all. Instead, he simply spread his smile a little wider, his arms stretched out to his sides.


    Spark anger. "Don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d let me go if I surrendered, would you?"


    Roash¡¯s eye twitched -- now that Dragan got a good look at him, he was fairly intimidating. Silver armour, a huge rifle and a bright red bandana around his forehead, barely visible behind his long brown hair. Dragan was pretty sure he¡¯d seen a thousand guys with that exact look in trashy war videographs.


    The rifle he held was a concern, but the man himself not so much. Without Aether, he was pretty much an inferior version of Atoy Muzazi.


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    "I¡¯m not taking you in alive, Hadrien," Roash growled, gun aimed at him. "If you wanna die brave, then fight -- otherwise I¡¯ll just shoot you down here and now. What¡¯ll it --"


    Dragan dropped the script, and it clattered to the ground. That was the signal. Almost instantly, before Roash could react to the sudden movement, there was the buzz of the room¡¯s hologram projectors preparing to switch images --


    -- and then everything went black.


    The room was flooded with shadows, like they¡¯d both suddenly been teleported to the ocean floor. This was darkness without distinction -- not even general shapes could be made out through the haze.


    But Darren Roash didn¡¯t need eyes to win.


    Before even a second passed, he fired his rifle in the direction Hadrien had been standing. He heard his rifle fire, felt the pulses of heat through the weapon, but what he did not hear was Hadrien going down.


    Worse, he didn¡¯t even see his shots fire -- he¡¯d expected the bright light produced by the plasmafire would have given him a moment of vision, at least, but it seemed this darkness could not be penetrated so easily.


    Had he hit Hadrien? Had he killed him? Impossible to know -- fumbling around for a corpse in this darkness was a fool¡¯s errand.


    "Niles," Roash muttered, crouched low, body tense as he aimed his rifle in front of him. "Where¡¯s Hadrien? I need to know."


    He heard Niles¡¯ intake of breath through his communicator -- she still had the presence of mind to do her job -- but the words she was saying didn¡¯t reach his ears.


    They were drowned out by a bloodcurdling scream, so intense it caused the armour he was wearing to vibrate. It felt as if knives had been plunged into Roash¡¯s ears -- even his own gasp of pain was rendered inaudible.


    Back on Yoslof, Helga had used Aether sparingly -- focusing it into the most minute parts of her body at the very instant she needed it. For someone like her, an adept, that provided greater power -- but for someone like Dragan, still gaining experience, it was much more efficient.


    Aether focused inside his own body, infused into his own vocal cords, amplifying the sound of his voice until his yell became a deafening scream. He wasn¡¯t immune to the sound -- his ears were ringing seconds in, and his throat felt like it was being scraped down with sandpaper -- but it was all he could do to drown out Niles¡¯ instructions.


    He had to negate the advantages his opponent had, no matter how undignified the means. That was how Dragan Hadrien would achieve victory. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Even after the scream stopped, Roash couldn¡¯t properly hear -- all sound seemed muffled, as if he were listening to it through a pillow -- and the constant tinnitus was just as distracting as the original screech. Niles¡¯ panicked speech down the communicator was nothing but noise.


    First, Hadrien had taken his sight. Now his hearing. Anger gripped Roash¡¯s heart as he imagined the Cogitant¡¯s smug face.


    A warrior of the Supremacy didn¡¯t need eyes to see, or ears to hear. They fought with their heart, and with the strength of will their philosophy granted.


    Roash spun on the spot, pulling the trigger of his rifle as he did, so that the blasts of plasma flew out in all directions. Even if he couldn¡¯t see Hadrien, he¡¯d surely get him if he destroyed everything in the immediate area.


    The second his barrage ended, Roash skidded to a halt, rifle raised up in front of him as he narrowed his eyes -- willing himself to pierce through the omnipresent darkness.


    His nose twitched. He could smell burning, but not burning flesh. Had he somehow missed?


    "It¡¯s kinda weird, right?" Hadrien¡¯s voice sounded out from beside him. Instantly, Roash spun around and fired again, his shot sailing away unseen.


    But Hadrien¡¯s speech continued unimpeded. "I mean -- you¡¯re meant to be some great warrior of the Supremacy, but I¡¯m beating you so easily. I mean --" Roash fired another shot at the moving source of the voice. "-- you¡¯re just spinning around and missing me everytime. You¡¯re a soldier and I¡¯m just a clerk, right? But you still can¡¯t hit me. Isn¡¯t that kind of embarrassing? I know I¡¯d be embarrassed if I were you."


    "Shut your mouth," Roash growled, still holding his rifle up in front of him as he tried to ascertain where exactly Hadrien¡¯s voice was coming from. He knew he could kill the brat with one shot, but getting that shot was proving more troublesome than anticipated.


    "Huh?" The word was drawn out mockingly. "Shut my mouth? You really want me to stop talking so bad? I mean¡­ what exactly will you do if I don¡¯t? You¡¯re not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, let¡¯s be honest. It¡¯s that thing between your ears, you know? Your brain? Are you familiar?"


    The communicator in Roash¡¯s ear crackled, and he realized with a start that he could hear once again. So long as Hadrien didn¡¯t pull out another one of those screams, Niles could give him the directions he needed.


    "Where are you?" Roash sniffed, tapping his communicator as he closed his eyes -- they were useless to him in this darkness anyway. "Where are you hiding here?"


    He heard Niles¡¯ quiet intake of breath over the line -- she¡¯d heard him, then, loud and clear. There was rustling, fumbling as she returned to the script.


    "Roash, a-are you there?" she whispered. "I-I¡¯ve been t-trying to escape, but--"


    "Where are you, Dragan Hadrien?" Roash repeated grimly, tensing his body as he prepared to move. The second he knew Hadrien¡¯s position, he had to be able to act on the information.


    Niles¡¯ heart jumped. Oh, of course that was what he wanted! Hands shaking, she brought the Ether Lens to her eyes -- looking straight down through the glasses to get an idea of Hadrien¡¯s new position.


    She¡¯d run for quite some time after Hadrien had spooked her, but she hadn¡¯t forgotten where Roash was fighting. Tracking the enemy was her only strength, after all -- she could hardly do that if she forgot where she needed to look.


    The Ether Lens was the only thing she¡¯d been allowed to take with her when she¡¯d left home: it was her duty to master it.


    Her eyes adjusted quickly, sight beyond sight becoming available to her through the Aether-infused glass. There was Hadrien, an indistinct blue glow, moving slowly as if sneaking. She glanced down at the script in her hands, cross-referencing what she could see with Roash¡¯s position¡­


    Oh. Oh no.


    She hurriedly brought the communicator to her mouth.


    More rustling -- then a sharp gasp over the communicator.


    "R-R-Roash," Niles squealed, forcing the words out. "H-Hadrien is -- he¡¯s --"


    "--Right behind you," Hadrien whispered into Roash¡¯s ears.


    There wasn¡¯t a moment to waste on fright or surprise. Blood singing with the desire for victory, Roash spun on his heel, grabbed Hadrien by the collar, pressed the rifle against his head --


    -- and pulled the trigger.

 Chapter 99:4.12: Septentrion

    The Widow was impressed.


    The hallway she¡¯d so lovingly turned into an ice sculpture has been utterly ravaged by the remaining Nox sister¡¯s assault. Ice had been shattered and reformed so many times it had taken on strange, unnatural shapes -- spikes twisting around themselves, strands of frost like spiderwebs between the floor and ceiling. There were deep gouges in the walls, too, places where the fury of the Nox sister¡¯s sickle had gone right through the icy barrier and carved through the metal beyond like so much bloody meat.


    The Widow herself was untouched, of course, but that was to be expected. There was only so much pure rage could do against fifty years of experience.


    Her left hand was still stuck inside the pierced chest of the first Nox twin -- the girl¡¯s body had been transmuted into some kind of obsidian statue, suspended in mid-air -- but it hadn¡¯t done much to make her vulnerable. She was ambidextrous, after all, and the cane she wielded in her free hand was more than sufficient to deflect her remaining enemy¡¯s blows.


    The cane had been laser-carved from the bark of an Apex tree -- one of the hardest materials in the known universe. The number of things that could cut through it were in the single digits, and those sickles were not among them. Keeping it after the collapse of Vantablack Squad had been something of an indulgence, but the Widow had figured she deserved a treat at the time.


    She swung the cane again, sending the second Nox twin flying back down the hallway. Their fight had proceeded in this fashion for the last few minutes -- the Nox twin flying at the Widow with the speed of a bullet, and the Widow smashing her cane into the incoming sickle to block the blow.


    The Nox sister landed in a roll, hands still holding onto her weapons. Her Aether had run dry quite a while ago, the Widow knew -- it was surprising her arms hadn¡¯t shattered from the strain of receiving such attacks, let alone the fact she was moving at such incredible speeds.


    The Widow glanced at the frozen mask of the statue next to her. It really was true -- when you provided a person with proper motivation, they showed you their true potential.


    "Hands off my sister," the Nox twin snarled, voice ragged from exertion. Her hands shook as she rose back to her feet. This was her limit, clearly. One more good strike.


    The Widow raised an eyebrow. "I would if I could, little one," she said, wiggling her trapped hand -- the sound of scraping stone echoing through the hallway. "See? Stuck, yes? Even if you managed to kill me, I am thinking I will still be stuck. Unfortunate for you."


    The girl narrowed her eyes. "I¡¯ll cut your hand up as much as it takes once you¡¯re dead. It isn¡¯t a problem."


    She¡¯d abandoned the rhyming completely, thank Y. The Widow smiled. "You are so unkind to a poor old woman," she sighed. "But even if you do this thing, what will it profit you? Your sister here has frozen herself moments from death. I assume only you can unfreeze her?"


    The stiffening of the girl¡¯s body was all the confirmation the Widow needed.


    "It is an obvious thing," the Widow went on. "This girl next to me is a statue now, and a statue cannot think. It is fixed in space, as well, relative to the ship -- you really are impressive girls. But if you unfreeze her, as I said, she will die within seconds. Is that your desire, Miss...?"


    The girl wavered slightly, her legs wobbling beneath her. With the state her fatigued body was in, there was an even chance she might collapse before getting off that last good hit.


    "Alcera," she forced out through her teeth, as if using the task of speaking to keep herself focused. "Alcera Nox."


    "A pleasure, little one," the Widow smiled, before glancing back towards the statue. "My thinking now is that it is very unlikely this statue here is truly indestructible. Very difficult to damage, by all means, but invincible? No, I don¡¯t think so. How many good strikes to the head before it snaps off, do you think?"


    The Widow let her cane clatter to the ground and raised her good hand up, curled into a fist, ready to come down on the statue¡¯s skull like a hammer.


    "No!" Alcera Nox screamed.


    "Well," the Widow shrugged, smile spreading into a toothy grin. "I am a patient woman. Let us begin."


    There was a sound like twin gunshots as Alcera Nox kicked off the ground, the last gasps of her red Aether swirling around her as she launched herself towards the Widow. Her sickle was raised high above her head, and her teeth were clenched with such tightness that blood could be seen trickling out from between them.


    A splendid display of resolve. Unfortunately, it was not enough.


    As Alcera¡¯s sickle came down, the Widow twisted her body, avoiding the downward slash and grabbing her attacker by the face with her free hand. For a moment, she simply held the girl up there in the air, legs flailing -- but when Nox unleashed a last desperate swing of the sickle, the time to end things had come.


    The Widow spoke, a bolt of pale blue Aether running along her arm.


    "Cryogenesis."


    There was a flash of white light -- and when it cleared, Alcera Nox had been frozen head to toe, her body trapped mid-swing. Her face wasn¡¯t visible through the cyclopean mask, but the Widow knew that the body underneath the girl¡¯s armour had been frozen just as effectively as anything else. She had experience, after all.


    Gently, she lowered the frozen girl down to the ground, next to her sister. A statue of ice next to a statue of obsidian.


    Sometimes the Widow thought it ironic that an assassin¡¯s greatest technique was a non-lethal attack. Cryogenesis did nothing but preserve her opponent, trapping them between one heartbeat and the next until the Widow decided to release them. She could throw this frozen girl into an inferno, if she wanted, and the ice would still not melt.


    But that was not what she wanted. Pierrot had requested one of these sisters alive, after all -- and the Widow had grown fond of Alcera Nox over this brief engagement. Her determination and bloodlust reminded her greatly of her own youth.


    The sister, though? The Widow¡¯s eyes flicked to the obsidian statue, her hand still trapped inside the wound. She had no means of retrieving this other girl, nor the inclination -- her performance hadn¡¯t been particularly impressive.


    Still, she wasn¡¯t a monster. Alcera Nox had rushed into what seemed a certain death to save her twin, so the Widow might as well give the youngster a fighting chance.


    The Widow twisted her arm within the wound, and there was a sickening crunch as her wrist snapped -- she bit her lip to suppress the cry of pain. She had the resolve to do such a thing, but the body¡¯s pain response didn¡¯t much care about how determined you were.


    Careful not to irritate her wound further, the Widow gingerly pulled her hand free from the obsidian statue. It flopped over grotesquely, hanging limp from her broken wrist.


    She¡¯d had worse.


    As she grabbed her frozen quarry by the torso and slung it over her back, she only spared the obsidian statue the slightest glance. It seemed certain now that this ship would end up destroyed, and she severely doubted the statue would survive that.


    Oh well. The Widow turned on her heel and walked back towards the office, waving a hand to melt the ice covering the door. She knew she¡¯d gotten soft over the years, but not soft enough to go out of her way for a person of little value.


    Slowly, shudderingly -- the systems must have been damaged by the flash freeze -- the doors to Langston¡¯s office opened. The Widow opened her mouth to address the man who¡¯d just waited in there while she was fighting, but in the end no words came out.


    There was nobody there to hear them, after all.


    The only person remaining in the office was that Overman -- Yaza, Pierrot had called her -- and from the glassy look to her eyes and stillness of her chest, she¡¯d already departed this world. On the far wall, opposite the Widow, a vent cover had been torn off and left on the desk.


    The Widow clicked her tongue. That sly dog.


    "R-R-Roash," Niles squealed, forcing the words out. "H-Hadrien is -- he¡¯s --"


    "--Right behind you," Hadrien whispered into Roash¡¯s ear.


    There wasn¡¯t a moment to waste on fright or surprise. Blood singing with the desire for victory, Roash spun on his heel, grabbed Hadrien by the collar, pressed the rifle against his head --


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    -- and pulled the trigger.


    There was a hollow click -- and Roash didn¡¯t feel the familiar heat of his rifle firing, didn¡¯t hear the sound of incineration, didn¡¯t smell the charred finale to the sad, short life of Dragan Hadrien.


    What he did hear was the smug giggle of the boy he was holding by the collar, a mockery in the dark. "Didn¡¯t count your shots, did you?" the Cogitant laughed. "But I did."


    Roash adjusted his grip to instead smash the butt of the rifle into Hadrien¡¯s face, but he had lost the initiative -- and a second later, he felt a sharp and sudden impact strike the weapon in his hands. The force of it was such that Roash was sent flying backwards a short distance, landing in an undignified heap against the wall.


    Groaning with pain, Roash blinked rapidly -- realizing with a start that he could now see again. The forest he¡¯d started in stretched out before him, and in the spot he¡¯d just been standing was a sheer dome of pure darkness.


    He should have known. If Roash hadn¡¯t been able to see, there was no way that Hadrien could. While Roash had been standing still in the middle of that shadow space, Hadrien had been walking around the outside, deciding the best angle of attack.


    Well, now the positions were reversed. Roash raised his rifle, ready to fire into the dark, and --


    -- his rifle had been split in half, the barrel terminating in a jagged cut that spat out sparks of electricity and oozed with residual plasma. Whatever Hadrien had done to attack him, the impact of it had been enough to tear through such reinforced weaponry.


    Still, Darren Roash was a warrior of the Supremacy. He wasn¡¯t so weak that he needed a gun to take victory. Slowly, carefully, he reached down and pulled a hidden knife from his boot. Short, but sharp -- more than sufficient to slice open Hadrien¡¯s body and see what he was really made of.


    "Niles," Roash snapped gruffly. "Report. Is Hadrien still inside --"


    Another earsplitting scream, coming right from the darkness, drowning out both Roash and whatever reply he was due -- and a second later, Roash¡¯s own hover platform came rushing out of the dome towards him. The machine had been turned onto its side and sent zooming straight forwards, making it look almost like a shield growing larger in Roash¡¯s vision.


    Ignoring the pain in his ears and the shock pumping his blood tenfold, Roash stepped out of the way of the incoming platform -- and the second he did, he felt an Aether-infused leg slam into his face.


    Crack. The pain in his jaw was excruciating, and for a moment Roash couldn¡¯t prevent his body from falling limp and crumpling towards the ground. It was all he could do to plant a hand against the cold floor -- through the false undergrowth -- and push, preventing himself from falling fully to his knees.


    Hadrien had been counting on that dodge, Roash realized, replaying what had just happened in his head. The Cogitant had been clinging to the back of the platform, using it like the shield it so resembled, and the second he¡¯d caught sight of Roash he¡¯d lashed out with his foot.


    It had been a smart attack. Cowardly, but smart. But Darren Roash wasn¡¯t the sort of man to go down with one good hit.


    Still half-crouched, Roash whirled around and hurled his knife towards Hadrien, the projectile zooming across the room like a silver streak. Hadrien had ended up on the far side of the room, still holding onto the platform as it slammed into the wall -- and with both his hands clutching the sides of his shield, he didn¡¯t have the freedom to intercept the knife. S§×ar?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Or so Roash thought.


    The second before it would have stabbed through Hadrien¡¯s brain stem, the knife vanished in a crackle of blue Aether -- almost as if the object had become Aether itself. Then, it reappeared over Hadrien¡¯s shoulder -- now zooming in Roash¡¯s direction, nearly twice as fast.


    If this was a contest of speed, Roash wouldn¡¯t allow himself to be outdone. He lashed out with his hand, limb a blur, and grabbed the incoming knife out of the air, screaming in pain as the act of seizing such a fast-moving object stripped most of the skin from that hand. Smoke rose from his bleeding palm as he squeezed the knife tight.


    "I don¡¯t go down that easy, boy!" Roash screamed, charging at Hadrien, knife raised high above his head. If projectiles truly were useless, he¡¯d finish this the old-fashioned way -- he still had his last trick.


    Hadrien seemed to have the same idea -- the Cogitant boy charged at him too, just as fast, blue Aether sparking around his fist. He intended to go for some kind of cross-counter, then, knife versus hand. Roash wouldn¡¯t disappoint.


    Their charges met.


    Roash brought his knife down towards Hadrien¡¯s skull with all the strength his body could muster, just as Hadrien sent his fist flying towards Roash¡¯s face. It was a matter of speed, really -- a matter of which of them would meet their mark first.


    Or at least it would have been, if Roash had any intention of playing fair.


    Dragan felt a sudden, intense pain in his stomach, and his body seized in a terrible kind of paralysis. His fist faltered inches from Roash¡¯s already damaged jaw, flopping down to his side uselessly.


    What had happened? Had he missed something?


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked down to look at his stomach and there, finally, he understood. In Roash¡¯s free hand was a second knife, and it was buried to the hilt into Dragan¡¯s side. He could have laughed -- two knives? It barely even qualified as a trick, and yet he¡¯d fallen for it so easily.


    "Not so cocky now, are ya, ya little shit?!" Roash snarled, voice slurred slightly from his damaged jaw, as he went to bring the first knife down onto Dragan¡¯s skull.


    Instinctually, with all the effort his body could still muster, Dragan reached up with his hand and grabbed Roash by the wrist, straining to slow the descent of the blade. It was a losing battle, though -- his strength was fading fast, even with Aether, and before long he knew this first knife would be buried to the hilt as well.


    Plans, plans. Did he have any more plans? He had legs -- could he use his legs? Could he try kicking Roash in the groin? No, it was armoured -- and besides, he knew he¡¯d lose his precarious balance in the attempt.


    His hand was shaking with drained exertion as the knife slowly, slowly came down, almost brushing against his scalp. Inches from blood.


    The will drained from Dragan Hadrien. He¡¯d lost. Roash lifted the knife back up -- shrugging off Dragan¡¯s grip -- and then brought it down with deadly speed.


    "This," screamed Roash. "Is the might of the Supremacy!"


    Then, there was the sound of tearing meat, of metal screeching outwards -- and before Dragan could blink, something had burst out of Roash¡¯s chestplate and his chest, spraying vivid red blood right into Dragan¡¯s face.


    Surprise temporarily shocking him back into lucidity, Dragan blinked rapidly at the foreign object in front of him -- at the pale, dainty fist of Underman Rose. The fist that had just run Darren Roash through. Despite everything, it was still pristine.


    Slowly, Roash looked down at his wound, brow furrowed in muted confusion. He mouthed some inaudible word, looked back up at Dragan --


    -- and was sent down to the ground as Rose roughly pulled her fist free, taking about half of Roash¡¯s torso with it. Viscera oozed onto the floor below -- the ingredients for human life forming a puddle beneath the hologram.


    Roash¡¯s corpse lay there spread-eagle, tongue lolling out of his mouth, eyes bulging as they stared forward sightlessly. Dragan himself fell back onto his posterior, hand still clutching the knife embedded in his own side.


    "What¡­" he panted, disbelieving as he stared at Roash¡¯s corpse. "What did you¡­?


    Rose winced as she stared at her hand, shaking it -- and as she did, specks of blood appeared on the visible portions of the floor. "Ugh," she said, in a rougher tone than Dragan had come to expect from her. "That shit¡¯s nasty. Hate doing it with a punch -- clean bullet to the back of the head any day, you get me? Less mess that way."


    Dragan dragged himself away slightly, his back thumping against the wall. Even though the man who¡¯d been trying to kill him was dead, he didn¡¯t feel any safer. "How did you do that?!" he snapped, trying to sound as commanding as he could even through the pain.


    Rose, for her part, ignored him -- stepping over Roash¡¯s corpse and tapping his head with her foot. "Man," she chuckled, one hand on her hip. "Imagine dying with such a dumbass look on your face."


    And then, a crackle of what could only be Aether sparked in front of her face. It was barely visible -- Dragan doubted anyone but a Cogitant could have noticed it -- but it was there, translucent, like electricity made of glass. The strange colouration of it made the air behind Rose seem to ripple.


    Dragan narrowed his eyes at the girl and her translucent Aether. Her body language and demeanour had changed completely -- from nervousness and squeaking to a cocky, almost lazy kind of self-assurance.


    "Who are you?" he glared.


    "Hah?" Rose glanced back down at him, as if she¡¯d only just remembered he was there. "Oh, right, I¡¯ve still got this shit on. Well, you can kinda figure it out, right?"


    The image of the girl began to flicker.


    Dragan and Ruth had stood on that bridge back on Taldan, quietly speaking.


    The black pumps of the Underman uniform vanished from existence, replaced by a pair of rough leather boots.


    "Have you been told about ¡õ¡õ¡õ¡õ¡õ yet?" Ruth had said quietly, almost imperceptibly.


    The jumpsuit Rose was wearing faded away, replaced by a pair of jeans and a black jacket, left open to show off the masculine chest beneath it.


    Dragan shook his head. "No."


    Rose¡¯s green eyes vanished, replaced in an instant with the black sclera and the red irises of an Umbrant.


    Ruth had sighed. "¡õ¡õ¡õ¡õ¡õ was ¡­ ¡õ¡õ¡õ¡õ¡õ was part of our crew before you. He wasn¡¯t very strong - like you, heh - but he could do things with Aether that you wouldn¡¯t believe. Do you, um, do you know how holograms work?"


    It occurred to Dragan that, even though ¡¯Rose¡¯ had left the control room, the holograms around them were still functioning -- still changing, the shadowy dome fading away and dissipating.


    "He could do that more easily than any machine, he could just pour his Aether into the light around him and force it into whatever shape he wanted."


    Any shape he wanted. Including the shape of a cheerful young Underman, overlaid over his own until he didn¡¯t need it anymore.


    One last flicker -- and then the person who was definitely not Underman Rose grinned. Their pale skin was now a tanned brown, and their short black hair had become a slicked-back grey.


    The Umbrant looked down at his own hand appreciatively, flexing his fingers.


    "Damn, that¡¯s better," he chuckled. "You forget what you actually look like sometimes, when you wear a disguise too long, you know?"


    Dragan gulped. "You¡¯re¡­"


    The man clenched his fist. "The name¡¯s North," he grinned. "Nice to fuckin¡¯ meetcha."

 Chapter 100:4.13: Northbound

    One giant in a metal crater later, here they were.


    Skipper, Ruth and the indomitable Mazma walked into the hangar, Skipper slapping his hands together in satisfaction as he looked up at his ship. The Slipstream was just as they¡¯d left it -- sleek, pristine and beautiful.


    "There you are, old girl," Skipper grinned -- he was trying to get a thing going where he looked like he really cared about his ship. He¡¯d only had it for a few weeks, but he felt like he was making good progress in that regard. This must have seemed like a real heartwarming scene.


    Ruth rolled her eyes behind him.


    "Looks like the ship¡¯s already been unlocked," Skipper continued, clearing his throat as he gestured towards the open clamps. "I¡¯m guessing we can thank Mr. Hadrien and the del Sed¡¯s for that one, yeah?"


    "Yeah," Bruno¡¯s voice echoed out from behind them. "But we have a problem."


    Skipper turned to look as the blonde-haired boy marched into the hangar, a grim expression on his face -- grimmer than usual, which was saying something.


    Ruth grinned: "Bruno! Serena!" she exclaimed, relief evident in her tone, only to be silenced by a regretful glance from Bruno. She narrowed her eyes. "Where¡¯s Dragan?"


    Bruno finally reached them, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he sighed. "That¡¯s the problem." He glanced at Mazma. "Who¡¯s this?"


    "Mazma is the only guy," Mazma ¡¯explained¡¯.


    For a second, it looked like Bruno would inquire further -- then he just rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers and nodded. "Okay."


    "What happened, Bruno?" Skipper said, voice firm. "Thirty words or less, yeah?"


    Again, Bruno nodded. "Me and Dragan came here to get the ship out of impound. We had to bring some techs with us to do that. We split up for a minute -- Dragan was watching the ship and I was going to use the controls. I heard gunfire after I started the unlock sequence so I rushed back to see what was happening -- my hostage ran for it. When I got back here, Dragan was gone."


    Skipper rubbed his chin with his prosthetic hand, the metal cold against his skin. "That¡¯s way more than thirty words," he mused. "And that¡¯s also really bad. You haven¡¯t seen him since?"


    Bruno shook his head. "I went through some of the nearest corridors to search, but I didn¡¯t want to go too far from the ship in case you guys showed up."


    "What, you weren¡¯t worried about him?" Ruth said, stepping forward indignantly.


    Bruno turned to look at her and even Skipper was surprised by the sheer ferocity in his eyes. It was as if Ruth had just slapped him in the face.


    "Of course I was!" he snapped. "But if I went searching for him, and you all showed up here while I was gone, the situation would be even worse! So I did¡­ I did the practical thing." That last bit was muttered, Bruno¡¯s eyes staring sadly down at the ground.


    Ruth glanced away too, for her part, regret obvious in her eyes.


    "Hey, hey," Skipper raised his hands reassuringly. "This is a stressful situation, yeah? I get that too. Let¡¯s not say anything we¡¯re gonna regret later. So -- here¡¯s what we¡¯re gonna do."


    This ship was going down -- that was obvious. Every second they were aboard the Regent increased the chances they would die there. There was no point in increasing the risk to all of them any further.


    Just one of them, then.


    "I¡¯m gonna find Dragan," Skipper said -- the tone of his voice permitting no argument. "And then I¡¯m bringing him back. That¡¯s a fact. You get me?"


    Ruth opened her mouth as if to protest -- but a subtle shake of the head from Skipper changed the words that came out of her mouth. "How are you gonna find him?" she asked quietly. "He could be anywhere."


    "Well," Skipper cracked his neck. "I¡¯m actually kind of a badass. Bruno, you try an Aether ping yet?"


    Bruno nodded. "Nothing."


    "So he was out of range, then. No problems. I¡¯ll just have to give it the old Skipper touch. You guys get the ship ready to go the second I get back. You understand?"


    Bruno stepped forward, eyebrows knit together in frustration -- but before he could say anything, his expression softened. "Sure thing, Mr. Skipper," Serena nodded. "Come on, Miss Ruth. Let¡¯s get the ship ready."


    And with that, she turned and began heading for the Slipstream, grabbing Ruth by the hand as she went and pulling her along. Skipper smiled to himself: she seemed like she had her head in the clouds, but Serena del Sed always came through when it counted.


    As Skipper began to make his way back towards the door, he felt a hand reach out and grab his arm -- turning his head, he saw Mazma. The being¡¯s face was twisted in what might have been concern.


    "You are going to go for this guy?" he said, voice hushed as if he were whispering but actually speaking just as loud.


    "Sure am."


    "This guy is corpse guy now, my guy. Maybe even skeleton. Going back is the errand of fool, okay? Listen to Mazma. Listen to wisdom of Mazma."


    Skipper wasn¡¯t really sure why he¡¯d listen to the wisdom of Mazma, since he¡¯d known him for barely an hour, but he didn¡¯t say that. Instead he just chuckled, shrugged Mazma¡¯s hand off, and shook his head.


    "Can¡¯t do that, pal," Skipper said. "Dragan¡¯s my little buddy."


    If Dragan had heard that, Skipper had no doubt he would have killed all the crew and then set the ship to self-destruct. Still, Mazma seemed to accept that as justification, offering an exaggerated salute as Skipper stalked off.


    As Skipper left the room, cracking the joints on his fingers in preparation for combat, he could hear Mazma talking to Ruth off in the distance.


    "Now it is time for Mazma to exit your party. The house of you guys is now having one less guest inside it. Okay?"


    "Okay. Bye."


    "You will be a sad girl for some time, Mazma thinks, but you must not undergo the sad forever. Someday become happy girl. Understand? Holding balloon like amusement park --"


    "Bye."


    "-- like amusement park patron, that is who you will be. Roller coaster enjoyer. Angelic person. On all your birthday¡¯s you think of Mazma and say --"


    "Bye."


    "-- and say how much you miss that guy and knock, knock the door will go and you will be so wondering who is in your door. And guess who it is when you open it?"


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    "Bye."


    "It is Mazma. Mazma your comrade. Mazma your saviour. Mazma forever your friend."


    "Bye."


    The doors slid shut.


    "North, huh?" Dragan chuckled, trying to ignore the excruciating pain in his gut. "So you¡¯re the idiot I replaced. Nice disguise."


    North laughed back, cracking his shoulder for a moment -- and as he did, for a split second, the image of Underman Rose flickered over his own.


    "You liked it?" he said. "Best kind of disguises are the kind that are as far away from you as possible. More challenge that way, you get me?"


    Dragan raised an eyebrow, trying unsuccessfully to stand up from his slumped position. "The way I hear it," he grunted. "The best lies -- ugh -- have an element of truth to them." His leg gave way beneath him and he went sliding back down the wall.


    North waved a hand dismissively, face scrunched up in distaste. "Argh, no. That shit¡¯s for casuals. You know you¡¯re really good at what you do when you can come up with pure bullshit and everyone believes it anyway, ¡¯cause you¡¯re the one telling it. You know I ran into Skipper and Ruth before? Had a whole-ass chat with them. I came from Taldan, I said to ¡¯em. You get it?"


    "Get what?" Despite the relatively light tone of the conversation, Dragan was glaring daggers at the Umbrant.


    "Well, I say that shit, and they assume I mean I¡¯m from Taldan, you know? But all I¡¯m really saying is that I was over there, and now I¡¯m over here. You remember, right? That guy Chael¡¯s body double?"


    Dragan nodded. Skipper¡¯s hunch had been right, then. The person covering for the Citizen back on Taldan had been North -- using the same technique he¡¯d used to appear as Underman Rose, no doubt.


    "So when I say I¡¯m from Taldan, I¡¯m not actually saying what they think I¡¯m saying," North laughed, clearly more amused by this than was strictly necessary. "I love that kind of exact words shit. I mean, I think that¡¯s what I said to them, but it was a while ago. I might have actually just lied and said my family came from there."


    North was obviously willing to talk about how smart he was and how easily he¡¯d tricked everyone all day, but Dragan had neither the time nor the blood to stay and listen to it all.


    "What¡¯s your point?" Dragan spat. "Was that stupid rant meant to illustrate something, or just fill the silence?"


    That just inspired more of North¡¯s infuriating laughter. It wasn¡¯t even mocking -- not really, just more like he found the whole situation genuinely hilarious. "Oh, he¡¯s snarky! I didn¡¯t think Skipper¡¯s new pet would be a snarky guy. Fun!"


    "You want revenge for Taldan?" Dragan said, still doing his best to keep the conversation on some sort of track. "We lost you a lucrative contract, I imagine."


    "What?" North cocked his head. "Nah. This is a coincidence, pal, I swear. I got a job on this ship and you guys just happened to be here. I admit I wanted to check the new guy out, but this is just a side-hustle. Me killing time until it¡¯s time to check out, you feel me?"


    He had a job on the ship? Dragan didn¡¯t have to think hard to guess what that might have been. "You set the bomb?"


    North grinned. "Among other things. The Supremacy paid big to get this ship taken down, so I gotta do a good job, ya feel me?"


    "You¡¯re with them, then."


    "I¡¯m being paid by ¡¯em," North said patiently, as if explaining something very obvious to a child. "I don¡¯t go into the whole politics shit -- I¡¯m just here for the cheddar cheese. All of this¡­ well, it¡¯s nothing personal, right? I even saved you from this idiot." North tapped Roash¡¯s head with his foot again. "Don¡¯t that prove I ain¡¯t got malicious intentions?"


    "And why should I believe that?"


    Regardless of whether or not North really had just been ¡¯killing time¡¯, it didn¡¯t do much to change the fact there was a knife sticking out of Dragan¡¯s body.


    "Huh," North shrugged. "Guess you ain¡¯t really got a reason. I¡¯m kind of a suspicious guy, after all. Anyways, that¡¯s a nasty wound you got going on there. Want some help?"


    Ha. Dragan recognized a euphemism when he saw one. "No thanks."


    "Nah, nah, don¡¯t be an asshole about it," North chuckled, squatting down to be level with Dragan -- and then suddenly leaning forward so that their faces were mere inches from each other. "After all, you saved me, right? Grabbed my hand and was all like ¡¯fucking run¡¯. Damn heroic. Think my heart might have skipped a beat."


    As North spoke, the Umbrant doubling of his voice shifted -- so that the undercurrent of his speech became the high-pitched, friendly tones of Underman Rose. It was the starkest possible contrast to North¡¯s malicious grin and deceitful eyes.


    Dragan did his best to move a bit further back, to put more distance between them, but that was a fruitless endeavour -- he couldn¡¯t exactly move through walls, after all.


    "So, since you helped me out and all," North continued, his voice returning to normal. "I¡¯ve got the whole obligation shit going on. I¡¯ve gotta help you too, right?"


    Dragan glared. "And how exactly would you ¡¯help¡¯ me?" His tone was like a dagger itself.


    North pouted for a moment at that reply. "Man, you¡¯re harsh. I say I wanna help you out and you act like I just shat in your sock. I told you already, I¡¯m into that exact words shit, right? So when I tell you I wanna help you, you can trust I¡¯m telling the truth. You get me?"


    "Nice monologue. But you still haven¡¯t answered the question."


    "Well," North dragged out the word as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. A second later, he pulled out a red metallic capsule, tossing it up and down in his hand. "Like I said, you¡¯ve got a nasty looking wound there, pal. And I¡¯ve got this handy supply of Panacea that¡¯s just perfect for a case such as the one you and me¡¯ve got here before us. Not enough for fancy shit like restoring a limb or anything, but plenty fine for closing a stab wound. What do ya say? You wanna live or you wanna die?"


    Dragan¡¯s eyes tracked the Panacea canister as North tossed it up and down, up and down. Like it or not, it seemed that going along with this impostor was the only way he was getting out of this alive.


    "What¡¯re your conditions?" he said, visibly seething.


    "Huh? Ain¡¯t no conditions. I¡¯m just givin¡¯ it to you since I¡¯m such a nice guy. You just gotta ask."


    Dragan took a deep breath. "Fine. Do it."


    "That ain¡¯t asking," North smirked -- and as if his demeanor wasn¡¯t smug enough, he started spinning the Panacea capsule on one finger. "You gotta be all polite and shit, you get me? Oh, Mr. North, would you please give me the capsule? If you would, I¡¯d be ever so grateful! Say it like that, yeah? Those exact words."


    Dragan gritted his teeth. His pride was screaming at him not to give in to this clown, but the cold pain spreading from his torso was recommending quite the opposite. Surely, surely it was fine to grovel just a little bit if it meant saving your own life?


    "Oh, Mr. North," Dragan hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Would you please give me the capsule. If you would, I would be. Ever. So. Grateful."


    You¡¯re dead. I¡¯m going to kill you. I¡¯m going to fucking kill you someday.


    North grinned. "Sure thing, pal!" And with no further ado, he let the capsule slip from his fingers and land in Dragan¡¯s lap. "Hoping you can apply this yourself, ¡¯cause I¡¯ve got another place to be."


    Dragan snatched the capsule away, gripping it as tightly as he could in case North changed his mind. "What?" he spat sardonically. "Our little chat isn¡¯t good enough for you?"


    North stood up, cracking the joints in his fingers again as he turned away. His hand once again reached into his inside pocket -- and when it came away, it was holding some kind of transparent rebreather that he placed over his mouth.


    "Wait," A chill suddenly ran down Dragan¡¯s spine. "What is that for?"


    "Y¡¯see, buddy," North said. "This little attack I¡¯m being paid to help with¡¯s made it to the grand finale." S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "And that is?"


    North turned back to look at him, his smirk visible even through the mask. "You asked me if I planted the bomb that blew up the engine, right? That I did. But anyone can do a thing like that -- and you don¡¯t hire North for a job anyone can do. Nah, I had a whole grocery list. My blowing up the engine was part of that, sure¡­"


    There was a hollow thunk from the nearest vent.


    "...but so was messing around with the ship¡¯s air supply -- and it looks like we¡¯ve just switched over to the tanks I managed to get to. Still, if you play your cards right, you still have a chance of getting out of here alive. Not a good chance, sure, but still a chance. I already made sure your friends were taken care of, so it¡¯s all up to you now. Have fun, okay?"


    "Fuck you!" Dragan snarled.


    "Buy me dinner first, man!" And with that, North began walking away, waving over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "Good luck! Do your best!"


    A second later, he flickered out of vision, the only trace he¡¯d ever been there being a single footprint in Darren Roash¡¯s blood.


    And a second after that, the gas started coming in.

 Chapter 101:4.14: Meeting in the Fog

    Niles hacked up blood as she crawled out of the vent, yellow gas spilling out from behind her. She landed in the hallway with a wet thump -- she didn¡¯t have the strength left to do anything but crawl, and even what she was doing now couldn¡¯t really be called crawling. It was more dragging herself along by her stomach. Like a snail. A sickly, delirious laugh pushed its way out of her throat, an afterbirth of blood and meat following it.


    What had happened? She didn¡¯t even understand. Somehow, Roash had lost. The person who had been with Hadrien had killed him. It had been hard to see through the walls, but it had been some kind of sneak attack, surely. Irrelevant at this point though. And then the gas had started flooding in.


    She¡¯d hoped that once she got out of the vents, she¡¯d have escaped the gas, but that didn¡¯t seem to be the case. It flowed freely out from the vent opening, slowly filling the hallway. Before long it would be completely impossible for anyone on the ship to breathe.


    In the distance she could hear strangled screaming. The crew of the Regent had encountered their latest punishment as well, then. Niles tried to resume her crawling, to put more distance between herself and the vent, but all she managed was a violent shudder of her body.


    She had to do something. She had to do something, but it was so hard to think, like the gas was inside her head, too, fog choking her brain. Blood dribbled from her half-open mouth.


    Was she going to die here, like this, flopping on the floor like an air-drowned fish? That didn¡¯t seem fair. That didn¡¯t seem fair at all. She hadn¡¯t even done anything with her life yet -- she hadn¡¯t even had the chance.


    Her vision, previously blurry, grew sharper for a moment, and Niles noticed a pair of boots in front of her. Someone had come. Someone had come to save her. With all the strength she could muster, Niles glanced upwards at her saviour¡¯s face.


    For a moment, Niles thought that the person looking down at her was Daphne, the Cogitant hopeful who she¡¯d originally been allied with -- but that notion was obviously ridiculous. Daphne would never come to save her. There would be nothing in it for her. It couldn¡¯t possibly be Daphne, then, this person looking down at her with such cold eyes.


    As her vision grew blurry, so did her thoughts, associations between ideas becoming loose and indistinct. A sickly smile spread across Niles¡¯ face as she finally realized who this person must be.


    "Mama," she choked out. It made sense. She didn¡¯t know what time it was aboard the Regent, but if she was feeling tired it surely must have been getting close to her bedtime. Mama had come to tuck her in and read her a story - tales of Supremacy heroes, like Nigen Rush or Achilles Esmeralda.


    Yes, yes, that made sense, that was clearly it! Still smiling, blood pouring from her mouth, Niles reached up with a flailing hand, grasping for her mother¡¯s far-away face.


    Slowly, Mama knelt down, moving her head out of the way of Niles¡¯ grasping hand. Then, she reached out and plucked the glasses from Niles¡¯ face, placing the Ether Lens over her own eyes instead. That only made sense, though -- Niles could hardly go to sleep wearing her glasses. It was only natural for Mama to take them like that.


    What wasn¡¯t natural was for Mama to turn around and begin walking away. Mama wouldn¡¯t do that. Everyone else would, but not her.


    Niles reached out for her fading figure as her vision grew dark, shadows creeping in to cover her eyes.


    "Mama," she spluttered, her mouth curiously warm. "Ma...ma¡­"


    In the end, Viv Niles died choking on her last words.


    "Sir," reported one of the bridge crew, turning away from his console to salute the Instructor. "One of the cutter pods is beginning the return journey. Shall we prepare to receive them?"


    The Instructor allowed himself to smile slightly. He hadn¡¯t expected this batch of hopefuls to be up to much, but it seemed one of them had completed their mission earlier than he¡¯d expected. Probably the Nox twins, or perhaps that Daphne girl.


    That would be pleasant, if so: he¡¯d hoped he wouldn¡¯t have to kill them.


    The Instructor nodded to the white-uniformed crewmember. "Make it so. We must welcome our new Special Officer."


    Dragan did his best to ignore the stinging in his eyes as he made his way down the hallway, clinging to the wall for support.


    He¡¯d had no gas mask, no rebreather -- so when the gas had flooded into the training room, the only thing he¡¯d had access to was his mind, his experiences. Not long ago he¡¯d infused his vocal cords with Aether to increase the volume of his scream. Infusing his lungs to temporarily boost their capacity followed the same principle.


    Still, it hasn¡¯t been easy -- he only had the one gargantuan breath he¡¯d taken in to get him back to the Slipstream, and he knew that it wouldn¡¯t last for long. It had taken everything he¡¯d had to apply the Panacea to his stomach wound without crying out, without releasing that oxygen, but he¡¯d managed it.


    He couldn¡¯t stop moving. If he stopped moving, he knew he wouldn¡¯t start again. Dragan did his best not to look down at the corpses as he continued his journey.


    The crew of the Regent had certainly had a bad day of it. They¡¯d been shot, blown up and now choked by poison gas. Dragan wondered how many of them were still alive -- he hadn¡¯t seen anyone else in quite a while now.


    "You know," his younger double said, walking alongside him, hands clasped behind his back. "This isn¡¯t your greatest plan ever."


    That¡¯s not helpful.


    "If I¡¯m not being helpful, it¡¯s because you¡¯re not having any good ideas. Don¡¯t blame me. Seriously, though, holding your breath and walking to the exit? You don¡¯t have nearly enough air to make it there -- and you know it."


    Nobody asked you.


    The spectre raised an eyebrow. "I have a name, remember? We decided on it last time: Dragon Hadrien."


    Dragan shook his head. Too confusing.


    "What?" the hallucination¡¯s brow creased in annoyance. "You¡¯re just gonna rename me like I¡¯m some kind of digital pet?"


    Yeah. You¡¯re the Archivist now -- since you¡¯re from my Archive.


    "Cute," the Archivist spat in a tone that suggested it was anything but. "But more importantly, how are you going to get out of this one?"


    Keep walking. Maybe I¡¯ll find another solution along the way -- a spare rebreather or something. But if I stop walking, I¡¯ll die.


    Dragan stumbled, nearly tripping over the corpse of an Underman gripping his throat, but he kept his balance and managed to keep going.


    "That¡¯s it?" The Archivist laughed, stepping on the Underman¡¯s corpse as he followed. "That¡¯s your plan? Hope you get lucky?"


    Never said there was a plan. Don¡¯t have time to come up with one. Just gotta¡­ just gotta keep moving.


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    Dragan¡¯s head was growing light, and the sardonic voice of the Archivist seemed to be coming from very far away. Maybe if he just took a breath of fresh air, he¡¯d feel better...


    "Hey!" the Archivist barked, snapping his fingers in front of Dragan¡¯s face to jolt him back to consciousness. "Don¡¯t you dare die in my presence! Do you have any idea how much of an eyesore that would be?!"


    Right, Dragan nodded. Gotta keep moving.


    "No," the Archivist snapped. "It¡¯s not ¡¯gotta keep moving¡¯. It¡¯s ¡¯I gotta come up with a plan right fucking now or I¡¯m gonna die¡¯. You can¡¯t just expect to get lucky and -- oh." S§×ar?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    What is it?


    Despite everything he¡¯d been thinking, Dragan paused for a moment. Had he heard something? The Archivist wasn¡¯t an actual individual, after all -- he was just an anthropomorphized representation of one of Dragan¡¯s thought processes.


    Therefore, if the Archivist had noticed something, it was only because Dragan had noticed something.


    Boots approaching from behind him, for example.


    Dragan whirled around, ready to fight -- he wasn¡¯t going down quietly -- only to be stopped as a metallic hand firmly planted a rebreather down on his mouth. Sweet, sweet fresh air flooded into Dragan¡¯s mouth as he opened it in surprise, and the fog that had been enveloping his thoughts began to clear.


    Skipper grinned down at him, his own face bare. "I gotcha, kiddo," he panted. "I gotcha."


    The Archivist chuckled bitterly. "Guess you¡¯re luckier than I thought."


    The armoured Supremacy officers -- the Instructor¡¯s personal guard -- stood at attention in two rows as the cutter pod floated in, ready to receive it¡¯s occupant with all the honours that could be put together on such short notice.


    The Instructor himself stood at the far end of the procession, hands clasped behind his back as he took in the sight of the cutter pod. He glanced up at his aide. "Do we have an ID on which pod made it back?"


    "Yes, sir," his aide replied quietly. "The Halacourt girl -- Daphne Halacourt."


    The Instructor nodded to himself. A respectable ending to this exercise -- Cogitants were always useful, and Daphne Halacourt had the proper mindset to achieve further strength. It saddened him that he¡¯d lost hopefuls as promising as the Nox twins, but the fact that they hadn¡¯t succeeded simply meant they hadn¡¯t been fit for the position.


    That was the way of the Supremacy, after all.


    One of the engineers cried out from their console. "Pod opening!"


    "What are you doing?!" Dragan coughed from behind his rebreather as Skipper carried him through the hallways on his back.. "You haven¡¯t got a mask. Idiot. Fucking idiot¡­"


    "I¡¯ve got my own tricks, kiddo," Skipper grinned -- but the expression was strained. "Constant Heartbeat Landmine around my mouth keeps pushing the gas away. It¡¯s a, uh, it¡¯s a temp fix -- but it¡¯s going pretty good so far."


    He was lying; Dragan could tell. Skipper was putting on a brave face, but there was an undeniable quivering to his legs as he carried Dragan onwards. He wasn¡¯t breathing in all the gas, to be sure, but some was still making it through his countermeasure.


    And it was adding up.


    "Put me down," mumbled Dragan, knowing full well his own legs wouldn¡¯t be able to carry him any further. "I¡¯ll walk. Don¡¯t¡­ don¡¯t strain yourself."


    Skipper chuckled. "Mr. Hadrien, you¡¯re losing your touch. I almost caught the concern there."


    Dragan smiled softly, closing his eyes. "Don¡¯t get used to it."


    Suddenly, Skipper stopped -- the sudden halt jerking Dragan back into consciousness. His eyes snapped open, and he cried out in annoyance as his face bumped into the back of Skipper¡¯s head.


    "Hey!" he yelled, sentimentality instantly forgotten. "Watch it!"


    Skipper didn¡¯t reply -- he just stared forward, face grimmer than Dragan had ever seen it. His eyes narrowed as he growled: "What are you doing here?"


    Blinking to clear the cobwebs in his mind, Dragan looked up to follow Skipper¡¯s gaze. At the other end of the hallway, silhouetted by the swirling yellow gas, stood an old woman with a cane. A rebreather lay over her mouth, and slung over her shoulder was some kind of humanoid ice sculpture.


    Even with everything Dragan had witnessed today, it was still a bizarre sight.


    "Invited, as I imagined you were. It¡¯s been a long time, Skipper," the old woman said, looking him up and down. "You¡¯ve gotten tall."


    Skipper swallowed. "I¡¯d appreciate it if you moved aside, yeah?" he said, voice cold. "I¡¯m kind of in a hurry here."


    The woman smiled. "You despise me, don¡¯t you, boy?" Strangely enough, she sounded somewhat pleased about the fact.


    Dragan spoke up, voice halting -- the day had taken its toll. "Who is that?" he whispered to Skipper. "Someone you know?"


    "She¡¯s nobody," Skipper glared. "Forget about her."


    The woman answered where Skipper would not. "I am called the Widow, little one."


    She stepped forward, cane tapping against the ground as she walked. As the grey-haired, wrinkled old woman came into proper view, Skipper took a reflexive step back. This was something Dragan had never before seen in the idiot -- actual caution.


    "There¡¯s no reason for you to be frightened of me, boy," the Widow said, frowning. "We were comrades." She glanced towards Dragan. "You could say I taught this man everything he knows."


    "Ignore her, Dragan," Skipper growled -- and he began moving forwards to walk past her. She made no move to stop him, simply watching sadly as he passed.


    "How long has it been now, boy?" she called out after him.


    That seemed to be the final straw, the final tiny cut that snapped the rope. Skipper whirled around, nearly sending Dragan flying off his back with the movement, and screamed: "Not long enough!"


    The smile faded from the Widow¡¯s face. "You despise me so much? I saved you, boy. I gave you everything."


    "You made me your pet, you damn witch," Skipper spat, with vehemence Dragan doubted he would ever see from him again. "Had me do the dirty work for your Vantablack Squad while you sat back and relaxed. Real nice of you, yeah? Yeah?!"


    Dragan found himself keeping as quiet as possible as he clung to Skipper¡¯s back, as if any irritation would turn the man¡¯s anger towards him instead. It was like clinging to the edge of an active volcano.


    The old woman glanced away. "I saved you," she repeated, quieter. "When I found you, you couldn¡¯t even talk. Barely knew how to walk. I gave that back to you."


    This was an intrusion. Dragan shouldn¡¯t have been there. Every cell in his body was screaming that at him -- this was a dangerous place to be right now.


    "You gave that back to me?" Skipper chuckled, his laughter hollow. "You say you saved me? There are hospitals to help people in those situations. There are -- there are solutions that don¡¯t involve carting the kid around as your own personal attack dog, yeah? Did you think of those?"


    "I --"


    "Course you did!" Skipper interrupted, jabbing an accusing finger towards her. "But that wasn¡¯t convenient for you, was it?! You¡¯d prefer--"


    "Skipper," Dragan wheezed. "We need to go--"


    That was the worst possible thing he could have done in the situation.


    "Shut the fuck up!" Skipper screamed, head whirling around to face Dragan -- his pupils were dilated to pinpricks of fury, and his teeth were bared like the fangs of a wild beast. As he realized what he¡¯d said, though, recognized the resultant terror on Dragan¡¯s face, his expression softened. "Oh, I, uh -- kiddo, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m real sorry."


    Dragan mutely nodded. He¡¯d felt death in that shout, seen it in Skipper¡¯s eyes. For a moment, just there, he¡¯d been face to face with a lethal enemy.


    Skipper took a deep breath, and then released it -- some of the tension draining from his body. Not all of it, not even close, but enough to restore some normalcy to his tone.


    "He¡¯s right," he said, to both himself and the Widow. "We need to go -- right now. I¡¯m going to turn around and leave."


    "I see," the Widow muttered.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes flicked to regard her. "I ever see you again," he promised. "I¡¯ll kill you. Yeah?"


    And with that, he turned and began leaving, pausing for only a moment at the door to the hangar. For a second, it seemed as if he¡¯d turn back around, to continue his argument or maybe even try for reconciliation.


    It was only a moment, though, and it passed quickly. Skipper walked through the door, Dragan on his back, and they faded into the yellow fog.


    The doors to the cutter pod opened, and the Instructor¡¯s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as it¡¯s occupant stepped out.


    Fifty plasma rifles, one for each Supremacy soldier in attendance, raised to point at the person who¡¯d appeared before them. The troops cast more than a few nervous glances toward the Instructor -- asking for permission to fire, or for further orders.


    The Instructor, for his part, stepped forward to greet their unexpected guest. His hands slid into his pockets, smoothly putting on the knuckle-dusters that had gotten him to his current rank.


    "That vessel doesn¡¯t belong to you," the Instructor said, voice steady, eyes glaring.


    Jaime Pierrot only smiled slightly as he took a step out of the pod, landing on the hangar floor with a thunk. His eyes glanced around the room -- taking in the layout, the troops, the weapons, the technology -- before settling onto the Instructor.


    "Good evening to you," he said pleasantly. "I¡¯d like to challenge you to a duel."

 Chapter 102:4.15: The Prince

    I¡¯d like for you to imagine three things.


    The first is a puzzle that has never been solved. It doesn¡¯t much matter what kind of puzzle you imagine it as -- a jigsaw or a matter of numerology or perhaps some kind of video game -- so long as you keep in mind that this is the most difficult puzzle to ever exist. Nobody has ever beaten it and it is believed nobody ever will.


    The second thing you need to imagine is the person attempting to solve this puzzle. Let¡¯s call them the player, for ease of reference. This player is an ordinary person, like you or me, and he¡¯s not actually that adept at solving puzzles of this kind. That¡¯s fine, though -- he can learn, and all experience is valuable.


    The player does absolutely nothing but sit in this room all day and attempt to solve the puzzle. He does not succeed, nor will he. Let¡¯s get this out of the way -- this person has absolutely no chance of solving the puzzle. His only role is to be the first.


    He sits in this room for days upon days, months upon months, years upon years. He still does not solve the puzzle. One day, he dies. It doesn¡¯t matter how he dies. Nothing matters, except the puzzle.


    Once the first player dies, someone else enters and begins trying to solve the puzzle. This is the second player. And then that second player tries to solve that puzzle for the rest of his life, until he expires and a third player enters -- and a fourth, and a fifth, and so on.


    You might think, based on what I¡¯ve told you, that the struggle of these players is futile -- no matter how many people try it, the puzzle cannot be solved. It¡¯s meaningless, no matter how many people devote their lives to it -- there¡¯s no accumulation of experience, no effort taken by a single player making things easier for the next.


    You only believe this because I haven¡¯t told you about the third thing you must imagine yet.


    Imagine there is another person in the room, watching while the players do their utmost to solve the puzzle. We¡¯ll call them the observer. This observer is completely and utterly immortal -- he will never age, and he will never die. You might wonder why this observer doesn¡¯t simply try to solve the puzzle himself. Surely, over the course of an infinite life, he would fare better than the sad little mortals who devote themselves to this labour?


    Unfortunately, the observer does not have the capacity to attempt such a feat. He is capable of only two things: he can watch, and he can listen. He watches the players work at the puzzle, noting what works and what does not, what courses of action bring forth the optimal results. Over countless iterations, he becomes wiser, more experienced -- and he passes that experience over to the players he watches. In a way, it is as if they become wiser just as he does.


    And as the players try to solve the puzzle, there is little for them to do but talk -- talk of their lives, their skills, their own memories and experiences. The observer is a supreme listener -- he remembers every last scrap of that information without fail, and he passes that on as well. Perhaps the puzzle reaches a stage where knowledge of plumbing is required -- well, the first player was a plumber, and so the observer can communicate the required expertise to the two-hundred and sixteenth. Although many people have tried to solve the puzzle, it is almost as if they have apparently become one person -- a cascading gestalt consciousness tied together by their common observer.


    How long would it take this dual being to solve the puzzle?


    Now, there is only one thing left for you to imagine. Imagine that this observer has a name.


    Imagine that it is called The Prince.


    "Good evening to you," Jaime Pierrot said pleasantly. "I¡¯d like to challenge you to a duel."


    The Prince began it¡¯s analysis instantly, taking in every facet of the short, round little man before him. It whispered to him how people of that size usually fought, what skills he was likely to have developed in his own occupation, the state of his health judging from the pallor of his skin, his likely first move based on the tension of his muscles, his most common emotions based on the shape of his face, his planet of origin based on the accent with which he¡¯d spoken.


    A thousand dead eyes, all belonging to The Prince, scrutinized the man, dragging out every scrap of information it could.


    Then it told Pierrot, based on that information, how best to kill him. It so often came down to that in the end.


    The little man scoffed, pulling his hands out of his pockets -- and The Prince instantly identified the knuckle-dusters he now held. The experiences of one of the previous holders, an Aether smith, told Pierrot that those weapons were most likely Aether Armaments. The inherited memories told him that the small indentations on the outside of the dusters were telltale signs that they were intended for ranged attack.


    "I have no reason to accept that request," the small man snapped. Liar. Pierrot could see, even without The Prince pointing it out, that this Supremacy commander was itching for a fight. The bloodlust was visible in every wrinkle of his face.


    Still, his common sense was winning against that bloodlust. The Prince¡¯s advice came through loud and clear:


    Death likely within next sixty seconds in current situation. Highest chance of success lies in deployment of pre-arranged gambit. Execute now.


    "You have every reason to accept my request," Pierrot smiled, placing a hand over his heart. "You see -- there¡¯s a bomb inside my chest."


    The angle of the rifles pointing at him grew more urgent, but Pierrot wasn¡¯t especially concerned -- only nineteen of the fifty or so soldiers in the room had dispositions that would lead them to shoot without direct orders, and Pierrot was fairly confident in his ability to evade those nineteen. The Aether program called The Prince excelled at calculating shot trajectories, after all -- it would lead him to the spot with the greatest chance of survival.


    The little man snorted. "You¡¯re lying."


    "I am not," Pierrot shook his head, pulling the sleeve back on one of his arms to show off the bracelets there. "These Aether Armaments are known as the Revolutions. They allow me to phase parts of my body through matter at will. Using them, I was able to take a heavy-duty mining charge and place it within my own body. It will detonate when I speak a certain codeword, causing heavy damage to this ship -- and, of course, killing all of us."


    The commander¡¯s brow furrowed, clearly trying to work out whether Pierrot was bluffing.


    He was not, needless to say. The Prince had decided that risking his own life was vital for the success of the mission, and Pierrot had learned long ago that The Prince was never wrong.


    "A duel," the commander muttered. "Under what terms?"


    "You versus me. All weapons and techniques permitted, save for detonating the bomb inside my chest. The duel ends when one of us is dead."


    The commander shifted his stance slightly, raising his arms up like a boxer. The gathered soldiers took a few steps back, creating a space for the duel to take place -- their rifles still pointed inwards.


    Pierrot took a step forward. He had no intention of finishing the duel in this hangar, but he still had to make a good show of it. "Your answer?"


    "Very well," the commander sniffed. "Are you ready to die, degenerate?"


    "Almost."


    Hand moving in a blur, Pierrot tore away his captain¡¯s coat and tossed it aside, leaving only the white vest beneath. Age had done nothing to dent his muscular physique, and without the bulky coat, the holster for his plasma pistol was clearly visible. He wouldn¡¯t need to use it.


    "That¡¯s better," Pierrot sighed. "Much more freeing -- even if your ships are dreadfully cold. One last thing before we begin. What is your name?"


    The commander narrowed his eyes, still clearly watching for a trap. "What¡¯s it to you?"


    "You may be the last person I exchange words with. It would bring me some comfort to know who my killer might be."


    A chuckle. "Fair enough. I gave up my name many years ago -- you may call me the Instructor."


    "A pleasure," Pierrot said, droll. "And with that -- shall we begin?"


    "Yes," the Instructor grinned. "I think we shall."


    For a moment the two of them were still, facing each other in the clearing of the crowd. A frozen moment of utmost tension and patient death. Then, they both moved at once -- Pierrot feinting for his pistol and the Instructor shooting forward like a cannonball, fists ready to execute a devastating assault.


    The duel began.


    Forty years earlier¡­


    "Are you satisfied?" the young soldier named Pierrot spat down at his defeated opponent. "Satisfied with¡­ all this?"


    They were standing in what had once been Caput Leon¡¯s command bridge -- but had become, over the course of half an hour of furious battle, a wasteland of broken steel and glass. The Caput himself lay sprawled out against a remaining pillar, blood staining the outside of his mouth. The blonde-haired bandit smirked up at his vanquisher.


    "Satisfied?" Leon mused, his voice like broken glass. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I might be. Everything is as it should be."


    Pierrot narrowed his eyes, his body shaking with fury. "Everything as it should be?" the curly-haired young man hissed. He waved a hand to the view outside the colossal windows. "Then what the hell is this?!"


    The battle outside had lasted many hours, and Pierrot couldn¡¯t even begin to guess how many on both sides had been lost. The Unite Prosper floated burning through space, and what was left of the Unite Hope buffeted like hail against the hull of Caput Leon¡¯s command ship.


    Leon¡¯s forces hadn¡¯t fared much better -- the pirate fleet had been shattered like matchsticks, chunks of hull and balls of fuel and floating puddles of human beginning their last flight of indignity. Perhaps they¡¯d stay floating here forever.


    The most feared pirate fleet in UAP space, and they¡¯d destroyed it in an afternoon. It hadn¡¯t been worth it. The fireworks outside had been paid for with blood.


    Leon simply looked out at the devastation, chuckling to himself. Despite his accomplishments, he didn¡¯t strike an imposing figure -- with his scruffy hair and rough shave, he looked more like a homeless man who¡¯d wandered onto the bridge than anything else.


    "You think this is funny?" Pierrot hissed.


    "Nah," Leon shook his head, still smirking. "Not funny. Necessary. Lotta people had to die to get us in this situation. The ends justify the means."


    Pierrot could take no more. With a roar of righteous anger, he slammed his leg into Leon¡¯s torso with a devastating kick -- sending the pirate flying into the wall. The bastard just kept laughing.


    "The ends do not justify the means!" Pierrot snarled, reaching out and grabbing the villain by the collar, doing his best to resist the urge to strangle him. "How many people have you stolen from?! How many have you hurt?! How many have you killed?! What end could justify all that?!"


    Leon sighed, his face inches from Pierrot¡¯s.


    "Would you believe me," he asked. "If I said it was ¡¯peace and joy for all mankind¡¯?"


    Pierrot didn¡¯t make a noise as his face was slammed into the wall. This pain was necessary for victory, but the loss of his dignity was not. Instead, he whirled back around, smashed his elbow into his opponent¡¯s stomach, and jumped backwards to avoid the cords that shot out at him in retaliation.


    Those knuckle-dusters were interesting weapons. Their form caused those who saw them to assume they were specialized in close range confrontations, but in truth they were designed for long-range combat.


    The Instructor punched at empty air again -- and glowing white cords shot out from the knuckles, latching onto Pierrot¡¯s arm and pulling him close for another assault. The white cords looked diminutive, but Pierrot had no doubt that against a lesser fighter they would have ripped the limb straight off.


    Pierrot let the cords pull him in close -- then shifted his body into a dropkick midair, smashing his feet into the Instructor¡¯s round stomach. The Instructor slid backwards across the floor, detaching the cords with a trigger on the side of his knuckle-duster. He needed a moment to recover, clearly, and didn¡¯t want to be dragging Pierrot along with him.


    That was fine. Defeating the Instructor was only the secondary objective in this situation -- the first was reaching the desired destination.


    They were no longer in the hangar where the fight had begun. As they¡¯d fought, they¡¯d gradually moved, passing through hallways and function rooms as their battle grew fiercer and fiercer. Pierrot had been careful to make this travel seem incidental -- the result of them driving each other back with the sheer power of their attacks -- but in truth this had been his objective for the beginning.


    Pierrot closed the distance, smashing a fist into the Instructor¡¯s face that could have shattered bone -- but he was pulling his punches. He couldn¡¯t allow this fight to end before they reached the engine room, after all.


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    They¡¯d begun their assault on the Regent by destroying the engine. It seemed only fair that an eye be exchanged for an eye.


    "It wanted to meet you," Leon coughed, still half-laughing through broken ribs. "To see you."


    Pierrot faltered, looking down at the defeated man slumped against the wall. Despite everything, all the atrocities the Caput committed, Pierrot couldn¡¯t see any trace of deception or malevolence in him right now. Every word seemed genuine.


    Still, he didn¡¯t move his gun away from Leon¡¯s head. "Who wanted to meet me?" Pierrot asked quietly, sweat sliding down his brow. "What are you talking about?"


    Nothing about this situation made sense. This was meant to be the end of Caput Leon¡¯s reign of terror -- his fleet vanquished, his allies abandoning him, his command ship annihilated -- and yet the criminal seemed just as in control as he¡¯d always been. More, even -- as though a great weight had been released from his shoulders.


    "It wanted to see you," Leon repeated -- rhythmically tapping a finger against his temple. "The prince."


    Pierrot took a step closer, gun still trained on his adversary. "A prince? What prince? You had royal support?"


    Leon laughed uproariously, as if this whole thing were one big joke. "What if I told you," he said, wiping an amused tear from his eye with a shaking hand. "That I had a constant companion? A voice in my head that knows exactly what to do to reach a happy ending?"


    "I don¡¯t believe you."


    As if Pierrot hadn¡¯t even spoken, Leon went on. "An Aether program inside my head," he muttered dreamily. "Passed on and on and on for hundreds of years. Peace and joy for all mankind, you understand? That¡¯s the end goal. Everything I¡¯ve done -- everything -- was necessary for that purpose."


    "The world isn¡¯t any more peaceful because of you," Pierrot scoffed. "And people certainly aren¡¯t happier."


    "Not yet," Leon did his best to shrug. "But eventually. It¡¯s the long game, my friend. One day, because of what I¡¯ve done here, it¡¯ll all be worth it."


    "How?"


    Leon looked towards him -- and Pierrot saw the glint of zealotry in his eyes. A madness born of singular purpose. "I told you, didn¡¯t I?" he breathed. "The prince wanted to see you. To see what you were capable of. To see if you were worthy. You are. You are!" He paused for a second, grin faltering on his face. "It wants me to die now."


    Pierrot bit his lip. Caput Leon certainly seemed to have lost his mind, but Pierrot had seen strange things borne of Aether over the years. The kind of Aether program Leon was describing wasn¡¯t necessarily impossible. Passed from person to person, with specific goals pre-programmed by its original creator.


    Still, though¡­


    "You said it wants you to die," Pierrot called out, moving no closer. "What do you mean by that?"


    Shakily, with all the effort left in his body, Leon reached out with a grasping hand, reaching out for empty air.


    "I¡¯ll show you," he giggled. "Just take my hand¡­"


    Pierrot endured the barrage of punches, each powerful enough to smash through steel. He¡¯d been thrown flat against the main power unit, and the Instructor wasn¡¯t allowing him a moment to recover or counter from this assault.


    Destination reached. Objective accomplished. Defeat enemy and exit ship.


    Easier said than done. When it came to situations like a fast-paced fight, the Prince wasn¡¯t in it¡¯s element -- it provided intelligence and guidance based on prior observations, of course, but it¡¯s true worth lay in long-term planning. With that, it had taken Pierrot from small-time leader of a pirate-hunting vessel to the king of UniteFleet itself.


    He¡¯d already done what he needed to, at any rate. The only thing left to do was win.


    Pierrot¡¯s hands lashed out, faster than lightning, and seized the Instructor¡¯s fists mid-punch. The application of pressure shattered the knuckle-dusters that had been such annoyances with a satisfying crunch.


    For a moment, the Instructor simply stared at Pierrot in surprise, his mouth a perfect circle -- then he lunged forward with his legs, dual kicks rushing forward to smash Pierrot¡¯s chest in.


    They wouldn¡¯t meet their mark. Pierrot was finished with these games. He spun around, smashing the Instructor¡¯s face against the power unit -- then whirled him around in his grip, securing him in a tight headlock with one muscular arm.


    The Instructor¡¯s legs kicked at empty air, trying to break free until he realized it was a pointless effort. His grey Aether was nearly spent, after all. "I give," he wheezed, eyes bulging. "The ship is yours!¡¯


    Pierrot ignored him. This man had caused him a great deal of trouble, after all.


    The soldiers that had watched them throughout the duel looked to each other, doubtless wondering if they should intervene -- but no shots came. That was not the way of the Supremacy, after all. Pierrot met the eyes of the young soldier at the head of the squad and stared, unblinking.


    Pierrot squeezed.


    Pierrot squeezed.


    Pierrot squeezed.


    Crack.


    The corpse of the Instructor fell, an undignified heap on the floor of the engine room. Pierrot simply sighed in relief, adjusted the bangles on his wrists, and began marching back towards the hangar. The majority of the soldiers moved out of his way -- whether it was from fear or respect was irrelevant -- but the young soldier Pierrot had locked eyes with called out after him: "Sir! He said the ship is yours!"


    "I have a ship," Pierrot said, voice dull, staring straight ahead as he marched. "I don¡¯t need this one. I have only one demand."


    "Of course!" the young soldier cried, hurrying to match his pace.


    "Begin flying this ship back in the direction of the Supremacy border," Pierrot said. "As winner, it¡¯s my right to demand that, isn¡¯t it?"


    "Of course!" the soldier nodded vigorously. "You have won the day. The codes of the first Supreme accept you as a superior."


    He¡¯d gotten himself a true believer. How fortunate.


    "Also," Pierrot went on, entering the hangar. "I¡¯ll need a gasmask. My ship is flooded with gas, isn¡¯t it?"


    The young soldier furrowed his brow. "How did you¡­?"


    "The gasmask, boy."


    "Of course, of course!" the young soldier turned to his fellows, barking out orders before turning back to Pierrot. "You¡¯ve won this day, sir, but one must remain supreme through continual triumph. Perhaps one day we¡¯ll meet again -- and again we¡¯ll determine who is superior among us."


    As the staff hurried to deliver Pierrot¡¯s requests, he ignored the young man¡¯s rhetoric. It was meaningless, after all. Nothing he said would have any impact on the future at all.


    The second he¡¯d met Jaime Pierrot, that young man had ceased being a living person -- now he was but a prologue to the dead.


    Pierrot didn¡¯t know why exactly he took Leon¡¯s hand. Perhaps it was curiosity, or naivety, or some momentary madness, but take the hand he did -- and a second later, the two of them were surrounded by a storm of bright blue Aether.


    He instantly tried to pull away, to break free of Leon¡¯s grasp, but the effort was fruitless. It was as if the two of them, for these few moments, had been locked together at the molecular level. He could no more separate himself from Leon than he could separate the two halves of his brain.


    And through it all, Leon laughed -- a mad sound of cruelty and horror and a kind of breathless relief.


    The words slipped from Pierrot¡¯s lips once again, strained against the force surrounding them: "What¡¯s...so...funny?"


    It wasn¡¯t clear whether Leon was answering Pierrot or just rambling, but he spoke all the same. "I¡¯ve had The Prince for three years now," he whispered. "And The Prince has had me. It¡¯s funny, isn¡¯t it? I don¡¯t know where it ends and I begin. I don¡¯t even know if I¡¯m me anymore." sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    His eyes flicked up to stare at Pierrot, narrowing maliciously. He showed off his teeth with a grotesque, face-splitting grin.


    "Well, you¡¯ll see," he whispered.


    And then -- in a single, transcendental moment of horror -- Caput Leon was undone. As strands of blue Aether poured out of his body and into Pierrot¡¯s, that same body began to fall apart. Leon¡¯s skin crumbled into dust, his eyes melted into rivers of clear liquid, his teeth poured out from his mouth as smoke.


    Before Pierrot could even blink, he found he was holding onto the hand of a bleached-white skeleton -- and then, a second later, that too evaporated into a fine white mist.


    Pierrot stumbled back, staring at his own hand -- terrified that he too would begin to decompose. But nothing happened. Even as ships burned outside, and what was left of Caput Leon was expunged by the venting systems, Pierrot was unharmed.


    He opened his mouth to laugh in relief --


    -- and then his mind opened instead.


    Pierrot adjusted the gas mask as the cutter pod reached the midpoint of it¡¯s journey back to the Regent. The equipment was uncomfortable, but serviceable -- if nothing else it would allow him to get to the Widow¡¯s ship without breathing the gas in.


    He glanced up, looking through the cutter pod¡¯s window at the Supremacy assault ship, growing smaller in his vision as it began its own return journey. He wondered vaguely if it had a name, but then again it didn¡¯t really matter at this point.


    Staring straight at the horseshoe vessel, Pierrot whispered under his breath:


    "Fin."


    The explosion was instantaneous: the entire back half of the vessel, where the power unit was, consumed in an second of flame and light. Chunks of debris went flying in every direction -- and they would keep flying until the day they finally hit something.


    There was no possibility of the ship recovering, or of there being any survivors. A heavy duty ship like the Regent could limp along for a brief time after suffering such heavy damage, but this assault ship was made for hit-and-run. And it has certainly been hit.


    It had been a simple matter to destroy the vessel. Pierrot had simply used the Revolutions¡¯ phasing capabilities to pull the mining charge out of his own body and place it inside the power unit while the Instructor was pummeling him. That had been his objective from the very beginning.


    As the ship had begun moving back towards Supremacy space before it¡¯s destruction, it¡¯s corpse would continue in that direction for the foreseeable future. If the wreckage was discovered at that point, there¡¯d be no sign that the UAP was involved.


    That was ideal. It wasn¡¯t yet time for the war to begin, after all.


    Pierrot leaned back and relaxed as the cutter pod zoomed back towards the Regent.


    "Marco, report," Pierrot said as he marched towards the hangar where the Widow¡¯s ship was waiting. He knew Marco was compromised, but at this point that didn¡¯t really matter anymore.


    Ten seconds delay. Then: "Reporting."


    "Status of escape pods?"


    "Inoperable."


    "Status of crew?"


    "Majority dead or dying. Those who are not currently dead or dying will likely become dead or dying within the next hour."


    Pierrot tightened his fist. "I see."


    There was nothing else for it, then. The Prince confirmed it was time to abandon ship. No more effort on Pierrot¡¯s part would influence this situation. The time for action had come to an end.


    Pierrot entered the decontamination chamber just before the Widow¡¯s hangar, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day.


    "Wait!" cried a voice from behind him, just before the doors closed.


    Someone charged into the decontamination chamber just before the cleaning sequence began -- Pierrot¡¯s hand flew to his holstered pistol, only to relax when he saw who it was. A young male Underman, hands on his knees as he panted for breath.


    It was easy to see why -- he clearly hadn¡¯t been fortunate enough to find a usable rebreather, and instead had made his own countermeasure against the gas. A bundle of reddened bandages were pressed against his mouth, and Pierrot could see that same scarlet in his bloodshot eyes.


    Pierrot put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly, allowing the Underman to catch his breath. "Hold up there, Underman. You¡¯re safe now. Your name?"


    "Werner, sir," the boy wheezed. "Danny -- Daniel Werner."


    Pierrot patted Werner on the back, the slightest smile on his lips. At least this one person had survived. If nothing else, he had that. "You did well to make it here, Werner. We¡¯re getting out of here. How¡¯re you feeling?"


    The decontamination sequence began, a fine wet mist filling the room as they spoke.


    "I¡¯ve been better," Werner coughed. "I¡¯m just¡­ I¡¯m glad you¡¯re alright, sir."


    "The concern is appreciated, Underman, but you seem to be in more need of help than me. We¡¯re about to board a ship -- doubtless they have some Panacea aboard for your lungs."


    Werner nodded, relief spreading over the visible portion of his face. "Then we can tell Command what happened here. What the Supremacy did to us. We can make ¡¯em pay."


    Pierrot sucked in air through his nose. So they¡¯d hit this little snag. "I¡¯m afraid not, boy," he said quietly.


    "Sir?"


    "If word of this gets out," Pierrot explained. "The governing council won¡¯t be able to ignore this kind of aggression. It¡¯ll mean war -- a war we can¡¯t yet win. It¡¯s not yet time for us to take on the Supremacy."


    "But¡­" Werner took a step back. "But, sir, think about what they¡¯ve done! The crew -- my friends -- they died choking and shot and -- and they did it like it was nothing! You want me to pretend nothing happened?! People are gonna ask! They¡¯re going to want to know!"


    Pierrot¡¯s voice was dull. "There was a failure in the shielding of the main power unit. An explosion occurred as a result, and the coolant leaked into the ship¡¯s air supply. What happened here was simply a tragic mistake."


    Werner looked down at the ground, fists balled at his side. "That¡¯s¡­"


    "A lie, yes. But a lie that will save millions of lives."


    "But it¡¯s wrong!" Werner snapped his head back up to look at Pierrot. "We can¡¯t just let them get away with this! We can¡¯t just pretend nothing happened! They¡¯ll keep doing it until we stop them!"


    "Someday," Pierrot sighed. "But not today. I¡¯m sorry."


    Werner didn¡¯t break his gaze this time -- he just stared right into Pierrot¡¯s eyes. "Do you remember Ulos?" he asked, voice shaking.


    "Of course." He¡¯d lost many men that day, too. On that occasion it had felt worth it -- they¡¯d saved so many in exchange -- but this time¡­


    "Nobody else wanted to fly in there. Nobody else wanted to save us! But you flew in there and you did what you had to do because it was the right thing to do! And -- and the right thing to do here is tell the truth. It¡¯s the only way the dead can rest easy."


    The passion in the young man¡¯s voice was obvious. For a moment, Pierrot was reminded of that foolhardy boy of a soldier who¡¯d fought against Caput Leon at the end of an age -- but he cast such thoughts away just as quickly.


    He ran a hand over his tired face. "I can¡¯t convince you, can I?" he muttered.


    Werner shook his head. "I¡¯m sorry, sir."


    "That¡¯s quite alright."


    Pierrot took his gun from it¡¯s holster and shot Werner in the chest.


    It was a killshot. Werner stumbled backwards, staring wide-eyed at the smoking wound just above his stomach, one hand half-reaching out to the hole as if there was anything he could do to close it. Then, he looked up at Pierrot as he slumped against the wall, slid down it to lie on the floor. He blinked.


    He didn¡¯t do anything else after that.


    The decontamination sequence finished, and the doors to the hangar opened. Pierrot remained for only a moment longer -- closing the eyes of the Underman as a show of respect -- before turning and striding towards the Widow¡¯s waiting ship.


    He couldn¡¯t afford to delay. He couldn¡¯t afford to compromise, or let virtue twist his path. He couldn¡¯t afford to follow any route except the one to certain victory.


    After all, the ends justified the means.


    Peace and joy for all mankind.

 Chapter 103:4.16: Strings

    Daphne Halacourt watched, glaring through her new glasses.


    How had everything gone so wrong? First the Instructor¡¯s idiotic test, then the encounter with Pierrot, and now the Supremacy ship had just blown the fuck up?! Was she cursed or just genuinely that unlucky?


    Well, not that unlucky -- she¡¯d managed to run into Niles just as she was dying, after all. There would never have been a better time to grab her Aether Armament. If nothing else, the world seemed keen to give her a chance to escape all this. It had necessitated stealing from the dying, outrunning poison gas and now stealing a ship, but the opportunity was there all the same.


    She stared through the walls of the sleek ship -- the only one in the impound hangar not locked in via the clamps. The presence of a few Aether-users was notable: one in the cockpit, a shroud of purple Aether coating them -- and the other a little further back, surrounded by a flare of flickering red Aether.


    The purple one in the front was in near-top condition, but the red one in the back seemed tired. If Daphne played her cards right and executed a proper sneak attack, there was a good chance she could dispatch both of them and get her hands on that ship, that she could get out of here -- if she managed to survive when even the Instructor was probably dead, surely the Commission would have no choice but to make her a Special Officer.


    Killing Jaime Pierrot had been a fool¡¯s errand from the start -- Daphne had understood that the moment she¡¯d laid eyes on him in person. She¡¯d hid among some corpses as he strode down a hallway, waiting for her opportunity to strike -- only to realize what she was dealing with as soon as she properly looked at him. Her Cogitant senses had instinctually seemed to scream ¡¯no, bad, wrong¡¯ as she observed his movements, and a feeling of distinct nausea had risen up in her throat.


    There was something profoundly wrong about that man. She didn¡¯t know what, and to tell the truth she had absolutely no desire to find out.


    Still, that was in the past. Daphne adjusted the dagger in her hands as she stepped out from behind the packing crates, getting ready to begin making her way towards the ship -- only to hop back behind cover as the hangar doors opened.


    Stupid, stupid! She¡¯d been so focused on the ship that she¡¯d forgotten to keep an eye on the rest of her surroundings. Two more clouds of Aether were moving towards the ship, now -- one blue and one green, but both sickly and weak. It seemed exposure to the gas had done a number on them.


    Unwelcome variables, but not impossible to outmaneuver. Daphne ran through the factors in her mind:


    The purple Aether in the cockpit. If she waited until the right time, circumstances would keep them out of any fight that occurred.


    The red Aether in the back of the ship. They would be the main enemy in any combat. As such, a sneak attack on them would be the best opening move.


    The blue Aether approaching the ship. Flickering, but by no means fully weakened. Their presence wasn¡¯t necessarily a disadvantage, either -- a weak person that needed protecting would be an effective handicap for Daphne¡¯s main opponent.


    The green Aether -- it was about to dissipate completely. No matter the condition the user was in, they wouldn¡¯t be able to fight on Daphne¡¯s level.


    As the two wisps of Aether entered the ship, Daphne took a deep breath. This would be difficult. Difficult, but doable -- but possible.


    And possible was all Daphne Halacourt needed.


    She began her approach.


    "You are mega-sure it okay to let these guys go?" North¡¯s accomplice said, watching Skipper¡¯s new ship zoom out of the hangar. "The point is for survivors to be zero guys, I think." Their fingers brushed over the controls for the vessel¡¯s guns.


    North glared at the other person. "Cut the bullshit. We had a deal -- Skipper and the rest get out unharmed. I¡¯m taking half pay for that shit, you know? Don¡¯t fuck with me."


    "Oho?" the person in the pilot¡¯s chair glanced up eagerly. "And what is happening if I am fucking with you?"


    North allowed a crackle of translucent Aether to run over his arm. "Things¡¯ll get ugly."


    The pilot chuckled again, leaning in further so that his lumpy, bizarre face was illuminated by the glow of the on-board lighting. "Well, maybe Mazma wants things to go ugly!"


    They were in Mazma¡¯s ship, which had stuck around and attached itself to the outside of the hull after flying out of the hangar. They had to make sure only the right survivors made it out, after all.


    "You try and fight me, buddy," North said, crossing his arms. "And I¡¯ll make sure to smash those controls of yours in the second before you kill me. Floatin¡¯ in space with a useless ship sound like fun to you?"


    For a second, ¡¯Mazma¡¯ genuinely mulled it over, working his jaw left and right -- then, he relented with a wave of his hand and turned back to the controls. "Don¡¯t be worried, fake guy. Your friends are Mazma¡¯s friends too, now. Mazma never kills a friend in way that is not fair. And Mazma already made deal with you, right? Mazma is angelic guy. Mazma does not go back on word, or make a lie happen. You got it?"


    North rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I got it," he muttered. "And they ain¡¯t my friends -- you can consider keeping them alive a professional obligation, okay? Going around killing my former employers don¡¯t look good on a r¨¦sum¨¦."


    "Okay!" ¡¯Mazma¡¯ said cheerfully. "You are believed, my guy!"


    Half pay for a job like this was an obscene amount of money, but it still wasn¡¯t enough to deal with this kind of bullshit.


    North glanced behind himself, at the open panel in the ship¡¯s floor, at the computer unit embedded there, green light running through its circuits. The parasitic auto-brain they¡¯d brought along had done well in piggybacking off of the ship¡¯s processes -- they¡¯d been able to pull up information and control evacuation procedures easily. It wasn¡¯t the kind of trick that would work on the UAP twice, of course, but they didn¡¯t need it to work twice.


    It was a surprise that his employer had been able to get this kind of hardware together on such short notice anyway, to be frank. Apparently, the Instructor who¡¯d brought Special Officer hopefuls here had been part of a hard-line faction intent on open war with the UAP. His employer hadn¡¯t been able to act openly against the Special Officer¡¯s Commission -- officially, they were independent from the whims of the Body -- so they¡¯d hired North to ensure the Instructor¡¯s mission failed and to eliminate any evidence on either side.


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    It had been such a simple job, and yet...


    North¡¯s eyes flicked back to ¡¯Mazma¡¯. Needless to say, North¡¯s collaborator had invited himself to this little escapade -- he certainly had the rank to do those kinds of things, and there were very few people in the galaxy with the guts to say ¡¯no¡¯ to him.


    To be frank, North had half-expected the whole thing to turn into a disaster with this guy around -- but he¡¯d stuck to his half of the deal. He¡¯d gotten Skipper and the crew out safe and cleared the way for North to do his job.


    Still, he was kind of an eyesore¡­


    "You really going to stick with that dumbass disguise?" North said -- he recognised it was a little hypocritical for him to be calling someone else out for wearing a mask, but he simply couldn¡¯t stand looking at this one any further.


    ¡¯Mazma¡¯ didn¡¯t look back. "What disguise? Mazma is always this guy." Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    North let a little more of his annoyance slip into his tone. "Stop it."


    ¡¯Mazma¡¯ gave in surprisingly easily. He chuckled and shrugged, his body language loosening into a kind of assured cockiness as he leaned back in his chair. When he spoke next, his voice was completely different -- the bizarre omni-accent replaced by a deep, velvety voice like melting chocolate.


    "Can¡¯t blame me," he said, running a hand over the side of his face -- brushing against his stitched-together scar. "Great artists can¡¯t help but admire their craft."


    His fingers slipped through the stitches, sliding underneath his face in a grotesque display -- and then the man started pulling something out. Bundles of once-white string, stained red by blood, being pulled out of the scar seemingly without end.


    As he pulled out the string, the shape of his face began to change, the lumps -- actually bundles of string -- shrinking and softening out until his face looked smooth and sleek as a videograph star. At the same time, his hair darkened from it¡¯s vivid red to midnight-black, flopping down from its sticky-up position and falling to his shoulders.


    There was one last thing: the man¡¯s fingers worked deeper into his wound, adjusting their angle so they were reaching up towards his eyes. Then, they pulled out two last segments of string -- and the moment they were free of his body, the colour of his sclera shifted from white to Umbrant black. Satisfied, the man cracked his neck.


    "Ah, that¡¯s much better," said Wu Ming, the Fourth Contender, the Clown of the Supremacy, the Man With A Thousand Powers. "In terms of comfort, I¡¯d give this disguise method a¡­ six? A six out of ten?" His eyes flicked up to look at North. "What do you think?"


    When faced with a predator, prey can instinctively feel the difference in strength -- and North could feel it here, a sudden sense of fragility in his bones, like his body was about to collapse in on itself. This man was one of only four people who¡¯d tried to kill the Supreme and survived -- one of only four people who stood almost at the apex of the Supremacy. In comparison, North was little more than a gnat.


    Still, he had an appearance to maintain.


    "I¡¯m thinkin¡¯ I wanna get paid," North rolled his eyes. "You wanna keep sucking your own dick, or you wanna get out of here?"


    "So vulgar!" Wu Ming laughed genuinely, turning back to the controls. "Still, I don¡¯t dislike that about your personality. In terms of personal enjoyment, I¡¯d give you an eight out of ten."


    "Never asked for a rating, pal."


    "And yet you¡¯ve got one," Wu Ming wagged a finger. "Such is the way of the world -- no matter who you are, you are constantly being assessed in the eyes of others. Don¡¯t take it too badly, North: you¡¯re an eight in my eyes, but in the eyes of someone else you could be a ten. The difference between an angel and a demon is merely the viewing angle." He held his fingers out in front of him as a frame, as if he were looking at a screen.


    "Profound," North rolled his eyes again. "Now -- we goin¡¯ or what?"


    "Ah, the impatience of youth," Wu Ming sighed, tapping a few buttons on the console to chart their flight path. The ship began to move, preparing to begin the series of jumps that would take them to the nearest friendly lightpoint.


    At the same time, he waved a hand near his open scar -- and as a spark of rainbow Aether jumped between his hand and his face, the scar began to close again, this time leaving no trace of any injury. North didn¡¯t have the eyes to observe the phenomenon directly, but he¡¯d heard secondhand how this worked -- nanoscopic lengths of string binding the wound together at the molecular level.


    For most people, a power like that would be the culmination of their training. For a one-in-a-billion freak like Wu Ming, however, it was treated as just another party trick.


    "Still," Wu Ming said, leaning back in his seat, putting his feet up on the console. "This was an enjoyable mission -- your friends are interesting people, my boy."


    "I told you -- they ain¡¯t my friends. They¡¯re former professional associates."


    Wu Ming chuckled. "You dance around words like nothing else, kid, but I¡¯ve been doing this longer than you. You¡¯ve caught a case of the feelings, I¡¯m afraid. Unfortunate condition, no known cure. I¡¯ve had it myself."


    "Can you just fly?"


    "Your professional associates, then," Wu Ming ignored him, staring up at the ceiling. "They¡¯ve caught my notice. I like them. Good, interesting people. Strong -- especially the man who leads them: I can see why Avaman is so obsessed. In terms of how much I wanna fight them, I think¡­"


    Wu Ming¡¯s smile spread into a toothy, feral grin.


    "Ten outta ten."


    "What happened?!" Ruth shouted, doing her best to hold the unconscious Skipper up as she staggered backwards into the ship.


    "I don¡¯t know," Dragan wheezed, leaning onto the wall for support as he massaged his throat. "I don¡¯t -- the gas maybe, I think -- but he said he had a countermeasure -- ah, crap, I -- I dunno."


    Ruth winced. Dragan clearly wasn¡¯t in his best condition either. He¡¯d said he hadn¡¯t breathed in any of the gas, but maybe he just hadn¡¯t noticed -- or there very well could have been other ways for it to enter the body. In all likelihood, they probably didn¡¯t have long before Dragan fell unconscious too.


    "Bruno!" she cried out as she dragged Skipper into the Slipstream¡¯s main room, throwing him down on a couch. "Need a hand here -- Skipper¡¯s in a bad way!"


    Bruno had a little bit of expertise with medical matters, she knew -- hell, with the kind of training he¡¯d had, he probably had a little bit of expertise in everything. Technically, Serena should have received the same training, but Ruth really doubted she would have paid enough attention.


    It only took a few seconds for Bruno to report -- dragging Dragan over to a chair as he made his way to Skipper. His eyes scanned over the unconscious man.


    "What happened?" he asked, voice sharp.


    "Some kind of gas," Dragan mumbled, looking terribly small in the armchair he¡¯d been deposited in. "He breathed some in, p-probably."


    "Shit," Bruno hissed -- before leaning in and placing his ear against Skipper¡¯s chest, listening to the ragged sound of his breathing. His eyes flicked to Ruth. "This is beyond me -- this ship has a stasis unit, right?"


    Ruth nodded. She¡¯d noticed it when they¡¯d first stolen the ship -- a unit to keep injured crewmembers stable en route to medical facilities.


    "Right," Bruno nodded. "We¡¯ll get him on ice and find a doctor at the nearest lightpoint. Help me carry him."


    Ruth nodded and went to pick Skipper up by the shoulders -- only to freeze when she saw the sudden intense expression on Bruno¡¯s face. He was staring past her, over her shoulder, and as she looked at him she could see a reflexive strand of purple Aether crackle through his hair.


    Hesitantly, Ruth looked back over her shoulder.


    Dragan had moved -- had been moved -- from his chair, now standing in the middle of the room. Behind him, holding him in a headlock and pressing a pistol against his temple, was a woman with pale green hair and bright blue eyes -- wearing a white Supremacy uniform.


    "I¡¯m sure you can guess," the woman said, keeping both Bruno and Ruth in her sight. "But I have some demands."

 Chapter 104:4.17: Starfall

    "Okay," Ruth said, taking a cautious step forward. "Let¡¯s not¡­ let¡¯s not do anything rash, okay?"


    The woman holding the gun to Dragan¡¯s head gave Ruth a warning glance. At the same time, she tightened her grip against the weapon, pressing it harder against his temple.


    Bruno grabbed Ruth by the shoulder with his hand, pulling her backwards, back towards his position. The Supremacy woman smiled.


    "That¡¯s better," she said, watching the two of them like a hawk. "That¡¯s just swell. I agree with you, girl. Let¡¯s not do anything rash. Like I said, I have some demands."


    "And what are they?" Bruno growled. His face was filled with barely restrained fury.


    "You," the woman nodded at Bruno. "You¡¯re the pilot, right?"


    "Among other things."


    She narrowed her eyes. "Answer the question."


    "I just did. Yes, if that¡¯s the answer you¡¯re looking for."


    Ruth glanced nervously at Dragan -- the Cogitant was barely conscious on his feet, eyes staring off into space as he hung limply from the woman¡¯s grip. Was he even really aware of what was happening right now? Definitely not: he¡¯d have come out with some sarcasm or a threat if he was.


    "I want off this damn ship," the Supremacy woman said, still looking towards Bruno. "You can make that happen."


    Bruno glared. "Sure I can. Exit¡¯s right there." He pointed towards the loading ramp.


    "Off the Regent, you buffoon. You¡¯re going to fly me away from here -- and you¡¯re gonna take me where I want to go. You do anything outside of this, and this guy¡¯s going to be missing his head."


    Silence settled over the cabin for a moment, the woman staring at Bruno, Bruno staring at the woman, Ruth standing between the two of them. The woman¡¯s finger curled threateningly against the pistol¡¯s trigger, the threat in the gesture obvious -- and with that, Bruno relented.


    "We¡¯ll need to get to the nearest lightpoint first," Bruno sniffed. "Without that, we can¡¯t get anywhere."


    The woman relaxed slightly, her grip on the pistol loosening. "Smart boy. Get in the cockpit and start charting the flight path. Remember -- no funny business."


    Bruno glanced at Ruth, the meaning obvious in his eyes -- don¡¯t fuck around -- before turning and marching towards the cockpit, his hands in the air. As he took a seat and began working the controls, Ruth didn¡¯t take her eyes off the woman. There was every chance that she¡¯d just shoot Bruno in the back if she saw the opportunity.


    The woman jerked the pistol in Ruth¡¯s direction. "I think I want your hands up in the air too. Make sure you don¡¯t try anything."


    Slowly, Ruth lifted her hands up. Damn it -- she¡¯d been intending to sneakily manifest her gauntlets while her hands had been out of sight, but that was clearly out of the question now.


    "What¡¯s your name?" Ruth asked, voice cold.


    The woman smirked, pushing her glasses up with her free elbow. "You don¡¯t need to know that."


    "I do." I need to know what to put on your tombstone.


    The woman¡¯s bright blue eyes drilled into Ruth¡¯s golden ones for an agonizing few seconds, before she relented. "Ah," she sighed. "I suppose it couldn¡¯t hurt. Daphne Halacourt -- Special Officer of the Supremacy."


    Ruth hadn¡¯t thought it possible for the situation to get any more tense, but those few words had managed it. Her body stiffened. Atoy Muzazi hadn¡¯t been the end of it, then -- the Supremacy was just going to keep sending people after them.


    Daphne wasn¡¯t done yet, though -- she squinted at Ruth, inspecting her from a distance. "I know you," she muttered. "I know your face. From the news?" Her mouth spread out into a wide grin. "You¡¯re the one who killed Admiral Barridad. That was kind of a big deal, you know."


    A lashed corpse, strapped to a post. The hollow-eyed admiral, holding the whip.


    "You must expect natural consequences," he¡¯d said.


    Fresh claws buried in ribs.


    A cold sweat settled over her shoulders as unwelcome memories flooded in. She gulped, the saliva feeling heavy in her throat, struggling to go down.


    Her hands, up in the air, shook.


    "I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about," Ruth muttered -- but she was no Dragan. Her lies came out clumsy and obvious, answered only by a laugh from Daphne.


    "You are!" she chuckled, her grip on Dragan wobbling back and forth in time with her laughter. "Ruth Blaine, right? The wanted criminal? Oh, this is a holiday! They¡¯ll love me for bringing you in!"


    No. Ruth wasn¡¯t about to let this go the way Daphne Halacourt wanted. She wasn¡¯t helpless. She¡¯d learnt how to survive a long time ago.


    But, still¡­ her eyes drifted to Dragan, to the pistol still pressed against his skull.


    I don¡¯t want to lose what I have.


    But which path was losing? The path where she fought back and risked Dragan, or the path where she complied and risked everyone, everything else? There was only one choice to make, but she couldn¡¯t muster up the courage to take it.


    How would Dragan see it?


    He¡¯d say that there were only two possible outcomes here. The first came with a chance that Dragan would be hurt or even killed. The second came with a much larger chance that everyone, including Dragan, would be hurt or killed. So there was only one option to go for.


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    The ship shuddered as it took off, beginning it¡¯s exit from the hangar.


    "Don¡¯t try anything while you¡¯re up there!" Daphne called up to the cockpit. "I can see your Aether through the walls -- I¡¯ll know!"


    The woman glanced towards the cockpit as she spoke. There wouldn¡¯t be a better opportunity.


    Ruth lunged forwards, Skeletal Set forming around her body in an instant, and slashed at the hand that was holding the gun. The weapon took the brunt of the blow, flying up into the air and firing a shot of plasma into the ceiling.


    Daphne stared up at the weapon for a moment before glaring back down at Ruth, face contorted with fury. A spark of pale green Aether ran through her free hand -- but before she could use whatever that technique was to make good on her threat, Ruth seized Dragan by the shoulder and threw him behind her, towards Skipper, out of Daphne¡¯s grasp.


    "That was a bad idea," Daphne growled -- and in the same moment, the Aether collecting in her hand solidified, becoming a jet-black dagger. It¡¯s blade glinted with deadly promise.


    The first attack came quick as lightning -- an experimental jab right at Ruth¡¯s throat, to gauge her reflexes. Normally, Ruth would have been confident her armour could stand up against such a little knife, but in this case her body drove her to duck beneath the blow. She couldn¡¯t say why, exactly, but that black dagger was bad news.


    Ruth retaliated with an attack of her own -- both sets of her Skeletal claws converging at Daphne¡¯s stomach, like a pair of scissors closing. Daphne jumped back, avoiding being bisected by only seconds, catching her pistol as it finished it¡¯s flight.


    She couldn¡¯t allow Daphne to catch her breath. That was obvious. Her behaviour so far made it clear -- this woman won when she controlled the conditions around her. If Ruth gave her enough time to come up with a plan, she¡¯d lose.


    The plasma pistol spat fire -- and Ruth caught it in her gauntlet¡¯s palm, gritting her teeth as she felt the excruciating heat through the metal. She couldn¡¯t allow Daphne to fire freely, either -- there was a good chance she¡¯d hit Dragan and Skipper, whether she was aiming for them or not. Ruth charged forward -- slamming her shoulder into Daphne, sending both of them flying into the wall.


    "Bruno!" Ruth shouted -- only to be cut off as Daphne stabbed at her face with the dagger. With the close proximity and the speed of the attack, dodging wasn¡¯t an option, so Ruth instead reached out with one of her armoured hands to catch the weapon.


    That was the wrong move.


    With a sound like whispering shadows, the dagger passed through Ruth¡¯s armour as if it wasn¡¯t even there -- and then it sliced her hand right open. Ruth cried out in pain, recoiling, but as she did Daphne lunged forward again for another attack. It seemed neither of them were the type to let up when it came to momentum.


    That dagger was able to bypass her armour. Ruth didn¡¯t understand how or why, but she didn¡¯t need to. All that mattered was that she avoided it.


    Ruth spat in Daphne¡¯s face as she stepped in -- infusing the saliva with Aether -- and as the projectile hit, Daphne¡¯s head snapped back and her stab went wild, sailing underneath Ruth¡¯s arm. Not missing a moment, Ruth twisted her own body, seizing Daphne with one arm around her neck and the other around her waist, squeezing tightly.


    "Give up," Ruth growled. "Or I break your neck."


    "Not likely." It only took Daphne an instant to break free -- some kind of Aether shockwave erupting from her body and sending Ruth flying back into the wall. There was nothing worse than fighting someone you didn¡¯t know -- you had no idea what bullshit they could pull out of their ass.


    Before she could get back up, Ruth gasped as Daphne¡¯s hand lunged forward to squeeze her throat -- and, to keep her in place, the black dagger was plunged through her injured hand and into the wall. That gasp became a scream very quickly.


    "There we go," Daphne sneered, driving her knee into Ruth¡¯s gut. "Not so rowdy now, huh? Not so smart? I¡¯m the best the Supremacy has to offer, you idiot -- and you¡¯re nothing. Nothing! How did you think it was gonna turn out?!"


    Where the hell was Bruno?! The answer popped into her head a moment later -- and Ruth almost felt stupid for wondering. He was flying the ship, of course. No matter what was going on back here, if Bruno abandoned his post, they ran the risk of being dashed against the debris of the two massive starships.


    Ruth went to lunge for the dagger in her hand -- to pull it out and use it for herself -- but a painful jab below the ribs put an end to that. Daphne laughed in her face as Ruth slumped backwards: "Are you serious?! You took down an admiral like this?!" She punctuated her point by placing the barrel of her pistol just under Ruth¡¯s chin, her finger curling around the trigger.


    "I¡¯d say it¡¯s been nice knowing you," Daphne smirked. "But it really hasn¡¯t."


    Was this it? Had she really failed so spectacularly? At the very least, she¡¯d gotten herself, Dragan and Skipper killed -- Daphne wouldn¡¯t spare them. Maybe Bruno and Serena would survive, but it was doubtful how long that would be for.


    A bitter laugh crawled out of Ruth¡¯s throat. She¡¯d fucked it all up again. Her vision began to blur -- only to shift into sharp contrast once again when she glanced behind Daphne.


    When she glanced at the prosthetic arm pointing in her direction.


    If Skipper was conscious, it was only barely. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing laboured, his limbs shaking¡­ but still, as if on instinct, he¡¯d moved -- pointing the arm that was the deadliest weapon Ruth knew at Daphne. His lips mouthed words Ruth already knew off by heart:


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    The explosion was deafening -- accompanied by a flash of green Aether and a pressure that felt like it would tear the ship apart entirely.


    Unregulated force slammed into Daphne¡¯s back with a sickening, spine-shattering crack. The woman¡¯s body went flying as the sound propelled it, smashing into the wall and leaving a smear of new red paint as it collapsed in a heap.


    Skipper slumped over. For the moment, the job was done.


    But Ruth still couldn¡¯t relax. She pulled the dagger free from her hand with a yelp of pain, holding her injured palm tight. That Heartbeat Shotgun had been overboard -- more like the one that had destroyed the hangar on Caelus Breck than Skipper¡¯s usual fare. The wall Daphne had crashed into dented outwards dangerously, and the ship was filled with strobing red light and a distant, warbling alarm.


    Sparks rained down from the ceiling, narrowly missing the unconscious Dragan on the floor. Ruth pulled him and Skipper away from the danger zone, dragging them with all her strength in the direction of the cockpit. This room was screwed, clearly, but the cockpit should have been intact.


    As she reached the doorway, she came face to face with Bruno, running in the opposite direction. His face was pale, panicked. Not a good sign.


    "What the hell happened?!" he yelled over the alarms, eyes widening as he took in the devastation over Ruth¡¯s shoulder.


    "Heartbeat Shotgun," Ruth grunted. "Took out that woman, but looks like it might¡¯ve taken us out too. The hell do we do?"


    Bruno shook his head. "Ship¡¯s fucked -- we¡¯re locked onto the gravity of the nearest planet, and we can¡¯t break free in this condition."


    Ruth¡¯s grip on Skipper and Dragan loosened. "So we¡¯re going down?" she mumbled, lost.


    "We¡¯re going down," Bruno nodded grimly. "But not without a fight." S§×ar?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    And with that, he stepped into the middle of their little group, palms thrust out on either side of him. He squeezed his eyes shut with utmost concentration -- and as he did, purple Aether began to flood through his body, forcefields upon forcefields being erected around them. Ruth couldn¡¯t even count how many layers were appearing. The light passing through them was warped, refracting until the space within was flooded with an ethereal glow.


    "What are you doing?!" she cried, the shaking of the ship increasing in intensity.


    Bruno opened his eyes, giving her an unsure look. It was a stark contrast to his words. "Giving us a chance," he said, and then --


    -- and then everything went black.


    A star fell from the sky that night.


    END OF ARC 4

 Chapter 105:5.1: Godsblood

    Lily was taking care of the cows on the day that it happened.


    The irritating task had fallen to her, as it usually did -- her parents were away from the homestead, doing business with their partners past Blestey Woods, and her brother Arren was locked in his room with his books and his lack of a life, just as he¡¯d been ever since getting back from Coren. Lily understood he wanted to become a scholar or whatever, but she didn¡¯t see how that necessitated leaving all the manual labour to his twelve year old sister.


    The cows were docile today, at least. Lily stepped down from the ladder she¡¯d used to get up to the animals back, dunking her now inky-black brush in a bucket of water. The cow chittered pleasantly as soapy water dripped from its back, the white skin there now free of the grime and muck that had accumulated over the last week.


    "Y¡¯bastards just sit and drink all day," Lily muttered, dunking the brush twice more in a vain attempt to get it clean. "Dunno how y¡¯get so dirty."


    The cow shuffled on its wide, flat feet -- and then, as if to rub the point home, planted it¡¯s proboscis deep into the mud and began drinking. Lily rolled her eyes: cows really were stupid. They only had enough intelligence to eat and drink, and sometimes not even that.


    The brush was a lost cause, Lily decided -- the amount of filth that had clung to it was clearly too much for a quick dunk in the bucket to clean off. She¡¯d need to head back to the house and clean it properly.


    What a pain.


    Lily set off across the field, winding her way around the monolithic cows that stood still, drinking their fill of the water beneath the ground. These were fairly small specimens -- only half as big as her house -- so they didn¡¯t require as much in terms of food and water as some of the goliaths the bigger farms kept. It was life on a budget, in every sense of the word.


    She rubbed the back of her neck, the unwelcome heat of the blue sun above blasting against her. The hot season was going on much longer than they¡¯d expected -- she couldn¡¯t help but worry about the fungi fields. A good balance of hot and cold was needed for the most lucrative of those to grow properly. She¡¯d have to talk to Dad about it when he got back.


    The house stood right in the middle of their land, a ramshackle construction that was made from about half-a-dozen other former domiciles, stuffed together with as much consistency as could be managed -- which wasn¡¯t that much. Green and yellow fields stretched on in every direction surrounding the house, some for growing crops and others for the cows to graze. They had more land than you¡¯d expect for an operation of this size, but it had come cheap -- proximity to Blestey Woods meant that predators often came sniffing around during the cold season. They¡¯d found cows mauled outside more than a few times.


    "Home!" Lily cried as she entered the kitchen through the back door, shaking her boots to get the worst of the mud off of them.


    Her brother didn¡¯t reply -- no doubt he had his nose stuffed into some book about economics or natural history or something useless like that. Lily scowled, whipping off her sunhat and tossing it onto the counter. She wouldn¡¯t be ignored so easily.


    Making sure her footfalls were as loud as possible, she marched up the stairs, past the wall lined with family portraits and yellowing sketches of the surrounding wilderness. The moment she reached Arren¡¯s door, she flung it open without bothering to knock, tilting her head so that her reachers didn¡¯t scrape against the frame as she entered.


    "I said ¡¯home¡¯!" she shouted, angry fists balled at her hips.


    Arren looked up, blinking in surprise. He¡¯d nestled himself like a baby bird in one of the old armchairs he¡¯d pulled down from the attic, and had obviously been reading through the dusty old tome that had fallen into his lap. A thick, black book with no visible title or blurb. Lily just didn¡¯t understand it -- why bother reading something when the creator obviously hadn¡¯t bothered writing it?


    "Lily," Arren smiled weakly, shoving the book away into a drawer. "Sorry, sorry, I -- um -- didn¡¯t hear you."


    Lily raised an eyebrow. "Liar. It wouldn¡¯t kill you to help me out with the cows, you know."


    Actually, looking at him, that might not have been the case. He¡¯d never been an exceptionally physical person, but it was obvious that he hadn¡¯t been doing much in terms of exercise while he was studying in Coren. His hollow cheekbones had grown more hollow, his pale skin more pale, and his thin limbs thinner.


    The only thing about his appearance that seemed to have actually improved were the reachers sprouting from his temples -- he¡¯d obviously had the chance to go to a proper boutique while he was in Coren. His previously unkempt and wild reachers had been shaved down to two delicate curving arcs, the kind of professional style you¡¯d expect from a man of learning.


    Lily couldn¡¯t help but feel self-conscious about her own reachers -- they¡¯d gone through a growth spurt in the last month or so, and now were wide enough that she¡¯d gotten stuck in doorways more than once. She¡¯d need to get them cut down too before long.


    "Sorry, Lil," Arren said again, hands fidgeting in his lap as he smiled sadly. "I¡¯ve got some more research I need to do right now. It¡¯s -- ah -- really important, okay?"


    Lily¡¯s frown deepened. "I¡¯ve barely even seen you since you got back," she sulked.


    Arren sighed. "I know. It¡¯ll just take me a little while longer, and then I can help you out with the cows."


    She looked up at him suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. "You promise?"


    "I promise."


    That was the best she could hope for, really. Arren was sort of weak and sort of cowardly and sort of embarrassing to be around at the best of times, but Lily knew that he¡¯d never broken a promise in his life. If he said he was going to do something, he did it -- without fail.


    "Now," Arren went on, hand wandering back over to the drawer he¡¯d thrown his book into. "I¡¯d really appreciate it if you could --"


    Bang. Bang. Bang.


    Lily turned around, frowning at the sound. Someone was at the door? They certainly weren¡¯t expecting anyone. Mom and Dad wouldn¡¯t be coming back for days yet -- and they wouldn¡¯t need to knock.


    "I¡¯ll get it," she muttered as she turned around and -- once again tilting her head -- left the room.


    "Um, uh, Lily," Arren said hurriedly from behind her, his voice unusually panicked. "Maybe just hold on a little second--"


    She ignored him as she hurried down the stairs. It was a little annoying how Arren was so keen to act mature when it didn¡¯t come to actual work. Besides, she wasn¡¯t a kid anymore: she was twelve, practically an adult! She could handle something like answering the door herself.


    As she came back into the kitchen, the noise sounded out again, faster:


    Bang bang bang!


    "Coming!" Lily cried.


    There was a strange sort of excitement in her chest. It was certainly possible, after all, that Mom and Dad had come back from their business early and just misplaced their keys somewhere. It would be good to have the full family at the farm again.


    She grabbed the handle, turned it, and opened the door.


    It wasn¡¯t Mom and Dad.


    Three men stood outside the door, clad in thin black coats, their hands covered by white gloves. The two at the back wore blank masks, with only tiny dots to indicate eyes, but the young man at the head of the pack had left his face visible. Sheathed swords hung at their hips.


    He smiled thinly down at her, but the expression didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. He was tall, with a handsome-looking face and curly pale hair. The reachers sprouting from his temples were thin and aristocratic, winding around each other in complex yet symmetrical ways. His hands were clasped behind his back as he greeted her.


    "Hello, young lady," he said, voice curiously chirpy. "Is your brother home?"


    "Um."


    It was the only thing that would come out of Lily¡¯s mouth -- she knew the answer, of course, but the presence of these people was so alien to her life that she couldn¡¯t quite comprehend what was happening. The man, seeming to recognize this, chuckled and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.


    "Ah, what am I saying?" he sighed. "I haven¡¯t even introduced myself. My name is Lien -- Regulator Lien, from Coren. Are you familiar with the Regulatory, miss?"


    Lily mutely shook her head.


    Regulator Lien positively beamed at that. "That makes me very happy. Well done. As I was saying, however, is your brother -- oh, speak of the Blindman!"


    Lily turned to follow Regulator Lien¡¯s gaze at that last bit, only to see Arren stood at the kitchen table, one hand planted against its surface, looking even paler than usual. The sweat running down his face could have filled the bathtub, most likely.


    "Good afternoon," Arren mumbled, sounding as if he were going to choke on the words.


    "And to you," Lien responded, tapping his left reacher. "You seem distressed. Are we interrupting something? I would hate to learn that we were interrupting something."


    Just as silently as Lily had, Arren shook his head.


    Lien smiled widely. "Stellar," he said, clasping his hands together. "Well, how about we all take a walk? It¡¯s such a lovely day, after all."


    His tone permitted no argument.


    "Young lady, do you go to school?" Lien asked, feet crunching against the grass as the three of them walked through the fields. The other two Regulators were staying some distance behind, but watching the conversation intently.


    Lily opened her mouth to answer. "I--"


    "She doesn¡¯t," Arren interrupted, hands stuffed into his pockets. "She was needed around the farm, so she stopped after First Honours."


    Again, Lien clasped his hands together. "Admirable! The spirit of community! It¡¯s what keeps the world going, you understand -- that people understand what is around them, what is required of them, and behave appropriately." He smiled down at her. "Still, I¡¯m sure you would have learnt how the world was created in First Honours. Could you remind us, dear?"


    Lily glanced uncertainly at Arren, who was still staring at the Regulator with an unfriendly, solid gaze. "Go ahead," he muttered.


    Slowly, she nodded -- straining her memory to recall all those boring morning lectures. "Okay. Um, when the world was young, it was a paradise for only the gods. The gods were irr -- irradian -- um -- glowing spirits who could take any form they wanted to. They could be a person, or a horse, or a bird, or anything."


    "Masterfully recounted," Lien said with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Please continue."


    "The gods got lonely, so they created people -- strong people and smart people and sneaky people and all kinds of people, and everyone lived together all happy -- happily, I mean."


    "Until¡­?" Even though Lien was speaking to Lily, his eyes were fixed on Arren.


    "Until the Blindman," Lily shuddered. This part had always given her nightmares. "He was one of the god¡¯s favourite creations, but he got mad because he didn¡¯t like the gods telling him what to do. So one day he tore his own eyes out of his head -- because he hated them so much -- and told all the other bad humans how to kill the gods. And then, um, they did."


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author¡¯s consent. Report any sightings.


    Lien finished the story, coming to a halt near a few drinking cows as he did. "And the godsblood rained down from the heavens, down into the hands of the only good humans left. Us. That blood was the final gift from the gods to their chosen people. Without it, wonders such as the Guardian Entities would not be possible. Wouldn¡¯t you agree?"


    Arren scratched at his shoulder, staring down at the ground. "I don¡¯t know much about that," he mumbled.


    Lien¡¯s smile didn¡¯t shift in the slightest. "I see," he glanced down at Lily. "Would it surprise you, young lady, if I told you that the spirit of the Blindman was alive and well today?"


    Lily paled. "What? Really?"


    "Not in a literal sense, of course," Lien chuckled, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Arren visibly tensed. "But the evil principles and philosophies he represents. Disrespect to the gods, disrespect to society, disrespect to¡­ well, to the very way of things. Action born of spite. These things run through our society like a vein of tainted blood."


    His grip on Lily¡¯s shoulder grew tighter, and she winced involuntarily in pain. "Y-You¡¯re hurting me..."


    "Stop it." As Arren glared at the Regulator, his hands slowly came out of his pockets, balling into fists at his sides.


    Lien ignored him, subtly pulling Lily slightly closer.. "And the very height of that disrespect is what I am here to deal with today," he said, a small theatricality entering his voice, as if this field were his stage and the cows his audience. "If godsblood was the last gift given to mankind, then surely the most heinous crime would be to steal it -- don¡¯t you agree, young man?"


    For a moment, there was silence, save for the whistling of the wind and the groaning of the cows. Lien stared at Arren, Arren stared at Lien -- and Lily looked back and forth between the two, fear written into every facet of her expression.


    Then there was a flash of orange light, like a split-second sunset, and Arren punched the Regulator in the chest.


    Arren had always been weak -- Lily knew for a fact that he could barely muster the strength to lift a bag of grain. She expected that being punched by him would be like being punched by an ant. And yet --


    -- and yet Regulator Lien went flying backwards, rolling to a stop nearly five meters away. He recovered quickly, getting to his feet and dusting himself off, but he couldn¡¯t hide the grimace of pain on his face. He¡¯d felt that.


    "I see," Lien said, taking a moment to spit blood down onto the grass. "So it wasn¡¯t enough to covet the godsblood -- now you intend to use it against your fellow man, too? How despicable."


    Arren was still standing in the position he¡¯d punched Lien from, fist still extended outwards as he panted in shock. Strands and sparks of orange energy -- of godsblood -- ran throughout his body. It collected especially in his fingernails, lending them a peculiar orange glow that pulsed in time with his breathing. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Just leave us alone," he whispered, nowhere near as imposing as he clearly wished. "I haven¡¯t even done anything."


    Lien laughed scornfully. "You¡¯ve just attempted to murder me -- worse, you¡¯ve stolen high knowledge from the Prester¡¯s libraries. I¡¯m sure you know what punishment is in store."


    Arren¡¯s eyes flicked to Lily. "Run," he panted. "Just run. Get out of here!"


    Lily froze, her whole body shaking. The other two Regulators were still standing a distance away, hands clasped in front of them, clearly not worried in the least. She didn¡¯t understand. She didn¡¯t understand what was happening at all.


    What was going on? What had her brother done?!


    "Lily!" Arren screamed at her inaction.


    "She¡¯s wise not to run," Lien smirked, holding his hands out as if to pray. "She¡¯s about to witness a miracle, after all. Arren Aubrisher, I invite you to witness the true favour of the gods."


    Arren gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and the orange godsblood around his body intensified. It was as if he was bracing himself for a hit.


    At that, Lien only grinned. "Guardian Entity," he intoned, with all the dignity of scripture. "Teketeke."


    Pale green godsblood appeared around Regulator Lien for a moment -- dancing around his entire body -- before detaching itself and collecting into a bright clump in front of him, like a miniature green star. Lily held up her hands to shield her eyes from the emerald incandescence, stepping back in fear.


    The light began to dim -- and as it did, Lily noted a new sound had become apparent. A kind of hollow, wet breathing.


    Gingerly, she moved her hands away from her face.


    The humanoid thing that had appeared in front of Regulator Lien was vaguely feminine in shape, but sickly green, scaled, with a face that was little more than the vaguest shallow indentations to suggest eyes and a mouth. It dragged itself forward on stick-thin clawed hands, gurgling -- it couldn¡¯t walk, for its body terminated just past the torso, the closest thing to a lower body being the spinal cord that wafted in the air like a tail.


    Ordinarily, this would have seemed a sickly thing -- deserving of pity, maybe, but certainly not fear -- if not for the scythe clutched in its hands. A huge weapon of bone and sinew, fresh blood and phlegm dripping from sores around the white blade. An organic, pulsing tube connected the base of the handle to the creature¡¯s navel, like a sick parody of an umbilical cord.


    Lily couldn¡¯t conceal her disgust, face twisting in horror. This thing was meant to be a miracle? It looked diseased.


    A nearby cow honked in distress, shuffling fearfully.


    "You can prompt the godsblood you stole to flow," Lien chuckled, twirling a lock of hair between his fingers. "But you can¡¯t bring forth a divine servant -- how sad for you. Still, if you think you have a chance against Teketeke, you¡¯re welcome to try. She¡¯s ready to receive you."


    Arren gulped, looking down at the creature dragging itself across the floor. It pulled itself across the grass with one hand, dragging the scythe behind it with the other, painfully slow until it --


    -- until it wasn¡¯t.


    With a flash of movement, the Guardian Entity zoomed forward from its position and appeared right in front of Arren, scythe raised high above its head. With a feral scream, it brought the weapon down, the blade shining with green godsblood.


    Arren wasn¡¯t fast, wasn¡¯t strong -- but for just a moment, he was very lucky. As he jumped back in surprise, the sudden movement caused the slash to just miss him, the blade lodging itself in the ground instead.


    Teketeke snarled in frustration as Arren retreated farther, his back thumping against the frightened cow¡¯s stomach as he met the organic wall. Lily screamed and charged forward to try to do something, anything, but she was far too slow.


    The Guardian Entity struck again, with a wild slash of its scythe that sailed over Arren¡¯s head, barely nicking the hide of the cow.


    Lien clicked his tongue. "The hell are you aiming at?" he mumbled under his breath.


    Still clinging to the side of the cow, Arren looked over at Lily, tensing his legs. Clearly he intended to charge over here, grab her, and make a run for it -- but he wouldn¡¯t get the chance. The tiny scratch that Teketeke had inflicted on the cow glowed bright with an eerie green light, and --


    -- and the cow was cut perfectly in half. Not from the wound that had been inflicted, not even in the same direction as the wound -- a new vertical cut appeared right along the cow¡¯s midsection, going all the way through it¡¯s body. A second layer, the animal collapsed into two pieces, screaming with strangled fear and pain. Green guts and viscera spilled forth freely.


    Arren could only blink, horrified at how quickly the goliath had been killed. Lily too, stared agape at the cow¡¯s rapidly expiring carcass. She¡¯d seen those animals survive being struck by lightning, and yet this creature had killed it like it was nothing.


    This didn¡¯t make sense. None of this made sense. Just half an hour ago she¡¯d been cleaning the back of a cow exactly like that one. Why couldn¡¯t she still be doing that?


    Lien laughed, spreading his arms wide.


    "You see?" he called out, the other two Regulators marching to join him by his sides. "This is the kind of power a Guardian Entity commands. The kind of power you tried to steal for yourself. By merely scratching something, my Teketeke has the ability to cut it perfectly in half. Right down the middle -- the transcendent ratio of execution! And what can you do, hm? Run and hide? Cower with your stolen power?"


    Even with the green blood pooling around his feet, Arren stayed surprisingly firm. "It¡¯s just knowledge," he breathed, resolute. "That¡¯s not something you can steal. And it¡¯s not something you can punish me for."


    "Oh?" Lien rubbed the back of his neck, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "I beg to differ."


    Teketeke lunged forward again, moving at blinding speeds -- but this time, its target was different. This time, the nightmare visage of the creature grew larger in Lily¡¯s vision, it¡¯s skin-covered mouth wide as it screamed in triumph.


    Arren didn¡¯t hesitate. "No!" he roared, leaping forward with a flash of orange light, slamming his body into Lily¡¯s, pushing her out of the way as he flew --


    -- and then the very tip of the scythe¡¯s blade brushed against his boot, leaving the tiniest, tiniest scratch. It flowed green.


    Lily fell face first on the ground in a heap, flipped herself around, and looked up at her brother. He stood there, foot glowing green, orange godsblood furiously raging around his body. His face was a mask of utter concentration -- eyes bulging, teeth bared.


    "Run," he hissed down at her.


    Behind him, Lien clapped sarcastically. The Teketeke creature returned to him, dragging itself to his side and rubbing it¡¯s face against his leg affectionately. He patted its head with a free hand.


    "You¡¯re trying to delay the activation?" Lien smirked. "I wasn¡¯t even aware that could be done. Valiant -- but futile, I should think. Still, it¡¯s been interesting."


    His eyes narrowed, and the tiniest smug laugh trickled from his throat.


    "By the way," he whispered, his voice carried by the wind. "I¡¯ve already killed your parents."


    The orange godsblood spluttered away as a strangled cry escaped Arren¡¯s mouth -- and a second later, red blood exploded out from his midsection, striking Lily¡¯s face and obscuring her vision.


    She screamed a choked scream of her own -- at the burning blood covering her, at what Lien had just said, and what she knew she¡¯d see of her brother when she opened her eyes.


    But she couldn¡¯t stop herself. She looked.


    Just like the cow, Arren had been sliced cleanly in half -- his legs splayed out a meter away from his upper torso, connected only by the river of blood that had once filled his body. Through the gap in Arren¡¯s torso the Guardian Entity had created, Lily could see nothing but blood and muscle and awful white bone. Arren¡¯s breathing, such as it was, grew even more shallow as he stared up at the sky, his paling hands curled into fists.


    "And that¡¯s that!" Regulator Lien said cheerfully, slapping his hands together. He glanced to his two compatriots. "I trust you don¡¯t need my help to dispatch a child?"


    Lily was surprised by the sound of her own voice. It was only the faintest mumbling, spoken as she stared at her dying brother. "What¡­?"


    Lien winced. "Nasty business, I¡¯m afraid. Knowledge was stolen and could have been shared. You¡¯ll have to die as well."


    "But¡­I-I don¡¯t know anything¡­"


    There was no anger, no sadness, no real fear -- just a state of utter confusion. It was beyond not understanding why this had happened: she didn¡¯t understand what was happening.


    Lien sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don¡¯t want to stay out in this sun too long. Just cut her down and let¡¯s--"


    The Regulator never finished his sentence, for a red hole had appeared between his eyes -- and a second later, the godsblood-sparking pebble that had created it blasted out the back of his head, painting the grass with red blood and brain.


    He fell backwards, mouth still open for his final sentence -- and a second later, Teketeke vanished in a spark of sickly green godsblood. The remaining two Regulators stepped back from the corpse, surprise almost comical in their body language, before remembering themselves and drawing their swords.


    Lily looked at the source of the attack, at her brother. In the last seconds of his life, he looked back up at her, and whispered through broken lips:


    "Run."


    And Lily ran. She ignored the shouts of the Regulators, ignored the roaring of the wind and the thundering of the sky as the hours stretched on, ignored the screams erupting from her own throat. The grass beneath her feet turned to sun-baked mud as her flight took her through the woods, deeper and deeper, deeper still.


    She didn¡¯t stop running for a long time.


    Six years later...


    A star fell from the sky that night.


    Lily relied on the comforting blue moonlight to show her what was before her. She¡¯d brought a torch, but that had ended up being shoved into the face of the scout Coren had sent. Fire to the face had startled him, two kicks to the neck had finished him.


    The star had crashed in the middle of the woods, leaving a flaming trail through the trees behind it. Lily hadn¡¯t quite been sure what she¡¯d expected, but this certainly wasn¡¯t it.


    It was made of metal, first of all -- shiny, smooth, white metal, like you¡¯d expect a noble to have jewelry made from. The size of it, though, could fill storehouses with jewelry. It was bigger than most houses, like some giant metal creature curled in on itself.


    Something was open on the side of the massive object, a huge crack in one side -- Lily poked her head through, holding her scarf over her mouth to stave off the smoke pouring from the ruin. She didn¡¯t have much time to look around -- Ted and the rest of her crew would arrive soon, but the Regulators would be right behind them. Lily had no choice but to make a quick inspection before preparing to flee.


    She didn¡¯t have to look long.


    Incredibly, impossibly, there were people inside the fallen star. Four of them all in a heap. A dark-haired older man, a white-haired younger man, and a blonde person lying atop the others. Those three were face down, but breathing.


    The only one whose face was visible was the fourth -- a red-haired young woman, her hands covered with sharp armoured gauntlets that flickered out of existence even as Lily watched. Red godsblood spluttered around her wrists for a moment, then nothing. But that wasn¡¯t what sent chills down Lily¡¯s spine.


    What did that was the fact that none of these people, not one, had reachers -- not even the requisite holes for reachers.


    They weren¡¯t human.

 Chapter 106:5.2: Lilith World

    It was early in the morning when Ruth first saw her.


    The Admiral¡¯s men had gathered the citizens of the township to welcome the return of their lord and master -- celebration and jubilation prompted by the watchful eye of a rifle. Half-hearted balloons and parade floats littered Kireh¡¯s central square, soon cleared away by the guards as Admiral Barridad¡¯s shuttle came down to land, sending fearsome gusts of wind smashing against the ground.


    One nearby house rattled ominously. It wouldn¡¯t be out of the question for it to collapse -- it had happened before, after all.


    Oleg had snuck the two of them into Kireh to observe Barridad¡¯s arrival. If anyone found out that two members of the resistance were here, they¡¯d be killed without a doubt, but Oleg seemed confident that wouldn¡¯t happen. He was a brutal, roughspun man, with a face that looked like it had been smashed into place. A pair of too-small spectacles balanced atop his jagged nose. A bulky coat covered his form -- sometimes, Ruth wondered how he could handle wearing stuff like that in the jungle heat of Mirios, but he¡¯d never give her a straight answer.


    Ruth herself wasn¡¯t really one to talk, though -- the fourteen-year old had her hands stuffed into the pockets of the dusty-red hoodie she was wearing, and the heat was sweltering, even with the Aether she was using to combat it.


    They lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching the proceedings. Nobody was looking at them, but still¡­ Ruth couldn¡¯t help but feel suspicion crawling over her back.


    "We shouldn¡¯t be here," she growled quietly, staring straight forward. "Bad feeling."


    Oleg¡¯s voice didn¡¯t rise above a whisper. "No choice. They need someone to report on the Admiral. We can¡¯t fight him if we don¡¯t know where he is."


    Ruth scratched her arm anxiously. "Still don¡¯t like it. This is too exposed. We shouldn¡¯t be here."


    Oleg shushed her, looking up at the sky. Her own eyes flicked up to follow his gaze -- the door to Admiral Barridad¡¯s shuttle, now landed, was slowly opening.


    From what Ruth Blaine understood, Admiral Zed Barridad was essentially the devil. He¡¯d worked his way up to the upper echelons of the Supremacy¡¯s military, killed countless people fighting their wars, and was given the planet of Mirios as reward. By extension, of course, that included the people of Mirios: he could do whatever he wanted with them. It was how he got his kicks.


    Enjoy it while you can, Ruth thought, as the Admiral himself stepped out of the shuttle. I¡¯ll tear your guts out.


    Despite his reputation, Admiral Barridad wasn¡¯t especially imposing to look at. A man of average height and thin appearance, with dark hair quickly turning grey. The closest thing he had to a distinguishing characteristic was the faded moustache contaminating his upper lip. If it wasn¡¯t for the white-and-gold admiralty uniform he wore, Ruth probably wouldn¡¯t recognize him.


    The crowd went silent as Barridad appeared, all the babbling and muttered complaints dying in a moment. They remembered what had happened last year, after all. Barridad smiled thinly as he addressed the crowd, his soft voice echoing through the square:


    "I have arrived," he said, hands clasped behind his back. "That is all."


    And with that, he turned and began striding away, flanked by two heavily-armed bodyguards. Ruth went to move through the crowd -- to follow Barridad¡¯s path -- but Oleg stopped her by grabbing her arm.


    "What?" she snarled up at him, annoyed.


    Oleg nodded towards the shuttle. "The other one. Remember?"


    Right, Oleg had mentioned -- apparently, this year the Admiral was bringing one of his daughters to join him on his little sojourn. The formerly illegitimate result of an affair between himself and a Minister¡¯s wife, apparently. From what Oleg had said, the Minister had ended up drowning in an unfortunate accident, and the daughter had ended up here.


    Ruth couldn¡¯t imagine Barridad had anything good in store for the girl. This wasn¡¯t the kind of place you came to with anything but sadism in mind. This was a planet that wanted to eat people, and it so often succeeded.


    The girl -- she was around Ruth¡¯s age -- stepped out of the shuttle, hands clutching her arms nervously. She had the Admiral¡¯s formerly black hair, but not his face: Ruth supposed that, at least, was a mercy.


    The girl¡¯s nervousness was obvious, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her simple white dress. Barridad¡¯s daughter looked around the crowd as if she¡¯d fallen into a nest of snakes. That probably wasn¡¯t too inaccurate -- there weren¡¯t many people who¡¯d look favourably upon a relative of their tormentor.


    "Robin Barridad," Oleg muttered from her side. "What do you think? Could you kill her, if we have to?"


    Ruth imagined the feeling of her metal claws sinking into Robin Barridad¡¯s flesh, the satisfying surrender of matter as her blows caved her face into a bloody pit, of the electric heat of blood coating her fingers. It didn¡¯t seem difficult. The girl looked weak -- in a place like this, she was dead already.


    Corpses like her should have the good sense to stop pretending they were anything else.


    "Yeah," Ruth smirked. "Of course I could--"


    She locked eyes with Robin Barridad, and it felt as if she¡¯d been struck by lightning.


    The girl looked at her, their eyes meeting across the ocean of the crowd. The girl¡¯s bright green gaze looked into Ruth¡¯s shadowed gold, concealed beneath her hood. And then, Ruth¡¯s enemy smiled sweetly at her.


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    The words caught in Ruth¡¯s throat like they¡¯d grabbed onto it with hooks.


    Oleg looked down at her, slightest concern infiltrating his mountainous features. "What¡¯s wrong? We made?" sea??h th§× n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "No," Ruth shook her head slowly. The other girl had already looked away, being led to follow her father by the guards. "No, I¡¯m fine."


    She didn¡¯t feel so sure anymore.


    Six years later¡­


    As Ruth¡¯s consciousness returned, the first thing she became aware of was the headache. To put it simply, her head ached. Ruth supposed that feeling pain was probably better than not feeling anything at all -- so long as things could hurt you, that meant you weren¡¯t yet dead.


    Slowly, she opened her eyes, welcoming with a hiss the sunlight on the other side. Wherever she was, it was bright -- not bright enough to be outdoors, but probably near a window or something.


    It was quickly becoming obvious that what Ruth had assumed was a headache was actually more like an everything-ache. It felt like someone had thrown her in a tumbledryer and left her there for a couple of hours. It --


    Ruth¡¯s eyes snapped fully open as her last memories finally came back into clear vision. Skipper¡¯s Heartbeat Shotgun, the ship going down, Bruno projecting that giant forcefield. What had happened?! She couldn¡¯t just lie here -- she didn¡¯t have the time!


    "I wouldn¡¯t move so quick, if I were you," a soft voice said -- and at the same time, a sharp blade came into position to tickle against Ruth¡¯s throat.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes adjusted to the light -- and her position became obvious. She was in some kind of crude wood cabin, sunlight streaming in through a green-glass window. Apart from the bed Ruth was lying on, which seemed to be more part of the floor than anything, the only pieces of furniture were a table and chair over by the door.


    She wasn¡¯t concerned about the furniture, though. What she was concerned with was the young woman holding the sword to her neck. Ruth did her best to subtly gulp, hoping that wouldn¡¯t cause her throat to scrape any further against the blade.


    "Good to see you get the gist of things," the girl said, not moving the sword. She was young, younger than Ruth -- in her late teens at the very most. Messy blonde hair covered one of her eyes, while the other glared emerald.


    What really caught Ruth¡¯s attention, however, were the bony protrusions extending from each of the girl¡¯s temples. Like antlers, they winded in the air for a short distance before suddenly terminating in clean cuts, like the ends of them had been chopped off at some point.


    The girl didn¡¯t miss where Ruth was putting her attention. "Y¡¯really don¡¯t know what you¡¯re looking at, do you?" she murmured. "What are you?"


    Carefully, Ruth spoke: "I¡¯m nobody. Where am I?"


    The girl raised an eyebrow. "Where do y¡¯think you are?"


    Ruth glanced around the room, carefully paying attention -- outside, she could hear the tweeting of birds, the clicking of insects. Out in nature somewhere, maybe? Her eyes flicked down to her own body -- to the ropes binding her hands and feet. Clearly she wasn¡¯t here on friendly terms.


    "I dunno," Ruth said. "You tell me."


    The girl ignored her response. "What¡¯s your name?"


    Probably, she shouldn¡¯t give her real name -- that¡¯s what Bruno would have advised. She took a few seconds to come up with a convincing alias: "Dragana Hadrien." Nailed it.


    An amused smirk played across the girl¡¯s lips. "I already know your friend¡¯s names, stupid -- and you took way too long to come up with that. Are you an idiot or something?"


    Ruth went to sit up, only to fall back down onto her back when her bindings didn¡¯t permit it. "You have my friends?" she demanded, anger finally entering her tone. "Where are they?!"


    They had to be alive, then! If they¡¯d told this girl their names, that meant they had to be alive!


    "You¡¯ll see ¡¯em," the girl said carefully. "Soon as you answer my questions. One: where the hell did you come from?"


    Ruth considered it. In this kind of situation, should she consider her friends hostages? If so, she couldn¡¯t mess around. "Mirios," she sighed.


    The girl furrowed her brow. "Mirios?"


    "A planet called Mirios," Ruth nodded.


    If anything, though, that clarification seemed to confuse the girl more. She stood up, taking a few steps back -- if nothing else, Ruth appreciated the increased distance between herself and the sword.


    "Planet¡­?" the girl mumbled. "What do you mean planet? You¡¯re -- that¡¯s -- you¡¯re lying. Don¡¯t screw with me."


    It was Ruth¡¯s turn to be confused. "How am I screwing with you?" she asked, sitting up as much as her restraints would allow. "Everyone comes from a planet -- unless they¡¯re born on a starship, I guess."


    "A starship?" the girl echoed. Her sword fell limp at her side. "That¡¯s -- you mean the thing we found you in? No, no, you¡¯re screwing with me."


    "How am I screwing with you?" Ruth repeated, growing angrier as the girl continued to say things that made no sense. "What, you¡¯ve never seen a starship before --"


    Oh. Oh, now she got it.


    She¡¯d heard about places like this before. Planets that had become cut off from galactic society -- whether by choice or circumstance. From the sounds of it, this place had been cut off for so long they¡¯d forgotten there was even anything beyond their little planet.


    These places were called Lilith Worlds.


    "What?" the girl interrupted Ruth¡¯s train of thought, pointing the sword at her threateningly. "Why¡¯d you stop, what¡¯d you--"


    Now that Ruth looked at her properly, it was easy to see just how young the girl was. From a distance where you could pay attention to how much the blade in her hand was shaking rather than how sharp it was, she looked more frightened than anything. A kid out of her depth.


    "What¡¯s your name?" Ruth asked, doing her best to sound non-threatening.


    The girl hesitated before answering. "Lily," she finally said. "Lily Aubrisher. Why?"


    Ruth smiled sadly. "I¡¯m real sorry, Lily."


    It happened in an instant.


    With a flash of red Aether, Ruth easily broke free of her restraints, closing the distance between her and Lily in a single step. An Aether-infused punch from one hand shattered Lily¡¯s sword easily, while the other seized her in a headlock, pulling her close.


    Ruth had Lily in her grasp before the girl even had time to blink. Still, the girl opened her mouth -- presumably to shout for backup. One of Ruth¡¯s thin, sharp claws pressed against her throat put a stop to that.


    "I don¡¯t want to kill ya," Ruth said quietly, truthfully. "But I can if you make me. You understand?"


    Slowly, carefully, Lily nodded. "What do you want?" she whispered -- it was her turn, now, to be cautious of the steel pressing against her neck.


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. I don¡¯t want to lose what I have. There was only one answer she was interested in.


    "Where the hell are my friends?"

 Chapter 107:5.3: Prester Garth

    "Lies are the territory of man."


    The giant preached to statues.


    It was a usual habit for Prester Garth to rehearse his sermons in the Garden of Stone, where one could make as many verbal errors they wished without the humiliating laughter that usually followed. The statues were incapable of judging, or mocking, or questioning -- only staring forward with their empty, stone eyes, forever frozen in the moment of revelry the artist had wished to convey.


    In terms of appearance, Prester Garth was as immovable as the statues. Gaunt and tall -- nearly seven foot, at least -- with two chaotic reachers that sprouted from his head and spread like the branches of a great tree. Unlike most of the aristocracy, who busied themselves with many fashions and styles, Garth simply allowed his reachers to grow out of control.


    This was the body he had been given. What right had he to modify it?


    "And yet," Garth went on, eyes scanning the sea of statues as if he¡¯d spot any sign of dissent from them. "Truth is also the territory of man. A mere beast may be honest in the pursuit of its desires, but it can never be truthful -- for it knows not what truth is. Thus, the burden of differentiating truth and falsehood falls to man alone. Thus, the clash between good and evil is both universal and internal."


    He took a deep breath. Even with statues, the sight of so many people listening to him was intimidating. The architect who¡¯d designed the Regulatory Diamond had been eccentric -- eccentric enough to commission numerous sculptures to build this sea of statues in the middle of the new military complex. Garth knew not what that man had been thinking, but perhaps there was wisdom in it.


    "The gods may have fallen, but their will lives on. Their truth. Truth is thus not just the territory of man -- it is their actuality. Man is truth. And thus it is in our nature to deny the lies and falsehoods that crawl out from within ourselves. Forevermore."


    He gently shut the book in his hand, returning it to the inside pocket of his black-and-white robes. The mass sermon this speech had been written for was still weeks away, but it was never too early for diligence.


    "Sir," a nervous voice rang out through the garden.


    For a moment, Garth¡¯s eyes flicked wide in surprise to the nearest statue, only to relax when he recognized the voice as one of his younger Regulators, hovering by the entrance.


    "Speak, child," Garth said, his voice as deep and immovable as stone itself.


    The Regulator nodded. "Sir, the prisoner -- they¡¯re awake. Are you ready to proceed with the interrogation?"


    Ah, the prisoner. It was time for life to become unpleasant again. Garth¡¯s soft expression deepens into a scowl. "Of course. Lead the way."


    Alas, it really was never too early for diligence.


    Her left leg was missing below the knee.


    She couldn¡¯t see out of one of her eyes


    Her left leg, below the knee, gone


    Her left leg she


    Her left leg


    Hurt


    It hurt


    Daphne Halacourt did her best not to panic, but it was truly difficult, truly impossible -- so she screamed, long and hard, the sound filling the dim and dingy room she¡¯d been dragged into. The pain was truly excruciating -- each time her bloody stump, hastily treated, brushed against the wooden bed she¡¯d been restrained to, unimaginable pain spiked through her body.


    She¡¯d die. She¡¯d die if she remained like this. Perhaps she was dying already, haha. Delirious throthing laughter trickled from her throat.


    The door to the chamber creaked as it opened, and three of her antlered captors walked into the room. There were two of the robed figures she recognised -- the ones who had dragged her here, had ¡¯treated¡¯ her injuries, had tied her to this bed -- but the giant leading them she didn¡¯t know. The gaunt-faced man smiled softly at her.


    "Poor thing," he said calmly. "Such accursed eyes."


    She stuffed down the urge to scream -- she couldn¡¯t show any more weakness here, she couldn¡¯t show it, she wasn¡¯t weak, she was strong -- supreme, in fact. Perhaps she¡¯d already become the Supreme, victorious in this chamber! Victory over pain!


    No, no, her mind was drifting, pain being driven into the faultlines like a stake.


    "Let me out of here," she growled, agony giving her voice a raspy flavour. "Let me out of here right now. I¡¯ll kill you. I¡¯ll kill you."


    "Why would I release you if you¡¯d kill me?" the giant asked, his voice sympathetic, genuine sadness on his face. He turned his gaze towards one of his compatriots. "This treatment is barbaric. There¡¯s no need for this. Use it and get this over with."


    Use it? Use what? Intrusive images of torture devices flooded into Daphne¡¯s mind. Breaking wheels, stretching racks, thumbscrews. Would she die here? How long would it be until she died? Would she not die? She was not sure what would be worse.


    Perhaps what was worst was being here, right now, with the pain of choice and legless glee in fact of all things she¡¯d seen in her life the pulse pulse pulse of leg gone was like sun inside her blood burning it was burning --


    The author¡¯s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "As I said, Barber," the giant patted the younger man next to him on the shoulder. "Please proceed. I have an appointment with the good lady next."


    "Yes, Prester Garth." The younger man nodded respectfully, placing his hands in front of his mouth as if he was about to start praying. Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "What¡¯s he doing?" Daphne hissed cautiously.


    "I¡¯d recommend you not move around too much," the huge man -- Prester Garth, apparently -- said. "There¡¯s a significant risk you could exacerbate your injuries."


    "Guardian Entity, Satori," Barber intoned -- and a moment later, a surge of yellow Aether burst from his back and coalesced into a small form on the floor in front of them.


    The creature that appeared was bizarre looking, like nothing Daphne had ever seen. The closest thing she could compare it to was a monkey, but even that didn¡¯t quite describe it.


    It was small, small enough to climb on someone¡¯s shoulder and have some leg room, and it was dwarfed by the two prehensile tails that sprouted from its back and swayed gently in the air. A single, cyclopean eye, wet and bleary, blinked at Daphne as the creature crawled up the wooden bed, a low gurgle coming from the fleshy vents on either side of its eye.


    "The hell is this thing?!" Daphne screamed, straining against her restraints as the creature came closer and closer.


    Garth smiled. "A miracle. Barber, I¡¯d like to receive the information here, if you please."


    Barber nodded -- and with a subtle hand movement, apparently communicated that to the monkey-thing. One of the creature¡¯s tails lashed out across the room and, without resistance, pierced Garth¡¯s wrist. Soft yellow Aether sparked at the point of connection.


    The second tail snaked around Daphne¡¯s neck -- and then there was a moment of new, fresh pain as it stabbed into her body right at the base of her spine. She could see the shadows dance in front of her, made crazy by the light of the Aether on her back.


    "Wait, wait," she rambled, desperation overcoming pride. "You don¡¯t have to do shit like this -- whatever this is -- I, I could just tell you. You don¡¯t have to waste your time!"


    Garth looked up as he adjusted the tail piercing his wrist. "Your offer is appreciated," he nodded, sounding genuinely grateful. "But this is much more efficient. Barber, if you would?"


    Barber nodded -- and clapped his hands together, the sound echoing throughout the room. Immediately, the glow of the Aether intensified, flooding the space with light.


    Daphne had assumed the pain she¡¯d felt from losing her leg had been the worst she¡¯d ever experience.


    She hadn¡¯t seen anything yet.


    Ruth kicked the wooden door of the cabin apart with an Aether-infused kick, dragging her new prisoner outside with her.


    "Nobody try anything!" she growled, immediately spotting the motley group of warriors milling around outside.


    They didn¡¯t look like much, to be honest, nor did their camp. Scared faces and shaking hands. What little armour and weapons they had seemed to have been cobbled together on short notice. The biggest threat Ruth could spot upon first glance was a greatsword wielded by a pale-looking boy that clearly didn¡¯t have the muscles to properly swing it.


    The cabin seemed to have been the sturdiest thing in the camp -- all the rest were tents, patched and stitched together from whatever materials were on hand.


    One idiot took a step forward, clearly hoping to take a swing at Ruth while he could. A golden warning glance shut him down pretty quick.


    "Don¡¯t," Lily grunted, straining against Ruth¡¯s headlock. "Shit. She¡¯s got some kinda Guardian Entity."


    Guardian Entity? Ruth didn¡¯t know what the hell that was, but so long as Lily was calling her goons off that was good enough for now. She allowed her body to relax, just slightly.


    Ruth intensified her glare at the nearest ¡¯warrior¡¯, and he flinched in response. "My friends. Where?"


    He pointed a shaking finger towards another nearby tent, pale green in a sad attempt at camouflage. "T-They¡¯re both in there, um, still."


    Ruth¡¯s heart dropped. Both?


    The mouth of the tent shifted as someone stepped out -- Bruno, hands bound behind his back, but quite clearly healthy. He grimaced as he saw Ruth and her hostage, and that grimace only deepened as the nearest guards looked at him with danger in their eyes.


    "Ruth," he said cautiously. "Maybe let her go for right now. We need to talk."


    The situation made less and less sense by the second. Ruth stared at Bruno, brow furrowed. "They said both, Bruno. Both. Who¡¯s not here?"


    Bruno -- no, Serena switched in -- stared down at the ground sadly.


    Ruth¡¯s voice cracked as she shouted louder: "Who isn¡¯t here?!"


    Dragan winced as he opened his eyes. The hell had he been doing last night?


    A flurry of memories assaulted him to answer that question. The fight against Darren Roash, encountering North, the trek through the gas-filled hallways of the Unite Regent, the distant feeling of a gun pressed against his temple.


    And then the equally distant sensations of heat and deafening noise. Had their ship gone down? How? Why?


    And for that matter, where the hell was he?


    Dragan sat up from his comfortable bed -- all soft pillows and sheets -- and looked around the room. Despite the comfort of the bed, the walls were stone, rough but with the impression of past glory, like some kind of ancient monastery. There was a window high on one wall, but iron bars made it useless as any kind of escape route.


    The clothes he was wearing were just as strange -- some sort of black robe, composed of a substance Dragan didn¡¯t quite recognise the texture of. Whoever had received him hadn¡¯t been expecting him, then -- otherwise, the clothing provided would have been in his size.


    Ignoring the protests from his suffering body, Dragan got out of the bed and approached the window, standing on tiptoes to look out of it.


    It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the blue light of the sun.


    Beyond the window was a huge city -- all stone spires and chaotically jumbled streets, stretching on for miles. The sounds of life drifted up without end -- haggling from the markets and shouting from the residences -- filling Dragan¡¯s ears. This was a place with history, clearly -- just like this room.


    But how had he ended up here? And where even was here?


    The door on the far side of the room thunked as someone unlocked it, and when it swung open a tall, gaunt man stepped inside. His height was such that he had to duck to avoid brain trauma on his way in -- for a moment, Dragan was unpleasantly reminded of Mr. Fix. What caught his eyes more than that resemblance, however, were the massive antlers sprouting from either side of the man¡¯s head. Was he some kind of Scurrant?


    "Hello there, young man," the man said, smiling softly. "I¡¯d like to ask you some questions."

 Chapter 108:5.4: A Talk Around The Campfire

    Bruno ran his hands over his face, barely illuminated by the glow of the campfire. "I really wish you hadn¡¯t done that, Ruth."


    Ruth raised an eyebrow, doing her best to keep the rest of the ¡¯warriors¡¯ in her sight. They¡¯d all agreed to stand down for the moment, but there was no telling if and when they¡¯d change their minds. "Done what? Fought back? What, you wanted me to act like a good little prisoner?"


    "For the moment, yeah," Bruno sighed, exasperated. "Play along until we can work out what the situation is. That¡¯s a basic tactic in espionage."


    Ruth huffed, crossing her arms. "Well, I¡¯m no spy."


    "Clearly."


    A moment later, Bruno¡¯s harsh expression shifted into the carefree smile of Serena, who leaned forward to rapidly poke the campfire with a stick. "Bruno¡¯s really annoyed, Ruth," she said, unhelpfully.


    "Uh-huh." Ruth watched the crowd as they spoke -- the ¡¯warriors¡¯ were keeping their distance, unsettled by their appearance and strange abilities. Their apparent leader, Lily, had made herself scarce shortly after Ruth had agreed to let her go.


    "He almost had them believing this story about how we were a family of merchants with a genetic condition. I think that would have been a really good cover story, Ruth! Do you?"


    Ruth shrugged sullenly. "Doesn¡¯t matter now, I guess."


    Serena¡¯s smile flipped into a frown. "Guess not. Are you worried about Skipper?"


    "I¡¯m worried about everyone," Ruth muttered, staring into the fire. "Y, how could I not be? Skipper¡¯s apparently still unconscious -- and they won¡¯t let me see him -- and nobody even knows where Dragan is. And we¡¯re not exactly in friendly territory either. How couldn¡¯t I be worried?"


    "If you¡¯re stressed out," Serena said chirpily. "You should just share it with your friends. If everyone is stressed out, that means there¡¯s less stress to go around!"


    A bitter smile crossed Ruth¡¯s lips. She loved Serena, she really did, but sometimes the girl¡¯s positivity crossed the line into outright self-delusion. There was only so far talking out your feelings could take you -- the sources of those feelings weren¡¯t going anywhere, after all.


    "Besides," Serena continued, sticking up. "I can confirm one-hundred percent that Skipper is okay! They let me and Bruno visit him when we first woke up. They have some kind of Aether-user keeping him from dying, so that¡¯s great!"


    That didn¡¯t sound great, but it didn¡¯t exactly sound awful either. "And what about Dragan? Where the hell is he, then?"


    Lily¡¯s cold voice cut through the calm. "Coren." She¡¯d stepped out of the crowd of warriors, her own arms crossed, lips curved into a scowl so deep it was almost caricature.


    Ruth stiffened slightly -- would the girl try to make another go at it?


    "What¡¯s a Coren?" Serena asked innocently, cocking her head with none of the caution Ruth displayed.


    Lily ignored her -- instead, her eyes remained fixed on Ruth. "You really think I would¡¯ve believed you were merchants? You fell from the damn sky -- plus, you have a Guardian Entity. Where the hell did you get it?"


    "What¡¯s a Guardian Entity?" Serena asked -- once again, she was ignored. Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Dunno what you¡¯re talking about," Ruth shrugged. "But you sound crazy. If we fell from the sky, we¡¯d be dead. That¡¯s just basic science. Plus, I don¡¯t even know what a Guardian Entity is."


    Lily snorted. "Liar. That armour of yours is obviously a Guardian Entity -- and a Guardian Entity isn¡¯t something you can get by accident. It¡¯s given to you by the Regulators, like how Ted got his. So, either you¡¯re with them and you¡¯re lying about it or or you¡¯re defecting from them and you¡¯re lying about it. Both bad ideas."


    "What¡¯s a Regulator?" asked Serena.


    "You said Dragan¡¯s been taken to Coren," Ruth said, ignoring Lily¡¯s accusation -- she didn¡¯t have to prove anything to her. "So Coren¡¯s a place, then? A town or something?"


    Lily stared at Ruth for a long time, her gaze drilling right into her eyes. Her fists at her sides clenched and unclenched as she mulled things over. Finally, she clicked her tongue.


    "You really don¡¯t know anything, do you?" she mumbled. "How the fuck¡­?"


    "We¡¯re not from around here!" Serena chipped in helpfully. "That¡¯s why we don¡¯t know stuff! It¡¯s not suspicious!"


    Finally, Lily acknowledged Serena, her gaze adjusting to target the blonde girl instead. "Where are you from, then?" she asked quietly.


    Like water freezing over, Serena¡¯s carefree expression hardened into Bruno¡¯s hard gaze.


    "You wouldn¡¯t believe us if we told you," he said.


    The tall man, Prester Garth, led Dragan through the secluded monastery. This section at least was like a long, wide hallway flanked on either side by stained glass windows. Images of shifting gods and mighty heroes clashed with depictions of snarling, eyeless monsters, the light shining through them and casting their mirrors on the floor.


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    "Are you from the Supremacy, or the UAP? Or perhaps the¡­ Final Church, it¡¯s called?" Prester Garth asked, hands clasped behind his back. "You don¡¯t strike me as a monk, but appearances can be deceiving."


    Dragan narrowed his eyes as he stared at the tall man¡¯s back. From the culture and the level of technology, he¡¯d assumed this to be a Lilith World, but this man clearly had knowledge of outside society.


    "Are you surprised?" Garth asked, turning over his shoulder to regard the comparatively tiny boy. "To learn I am not ignorant of the world?"


    Dragan winced inwardly: this guy was sharper than expected. At least for the moment, lying would get him nowhere.


    "Yeah," he confessed. "I didn¡¯t expect you to know such specifics, at least."


    Garth smiled thinly. "Had you spoken to me an hour earlier, you¡¯d have been correct in that assumption -- but I had the opportunity to sample the memories of one of your contemporaries. As such, my knowledge base has greatly expanded."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "And yet you don¡¯t sound so surprised." If the outside world really had been unknown to this man, surely he¡¯d be shocked to receive such a breadth of information -- not calm enough to talk about it barely an hour later.


    "I don¡¯t, do I?" Garth¡¯s smile didn¡¯t shift. "And it surprises me that you didn¡¯t ask whose memories I sampled. Let me tell you now that it is an unpleasant process. You understand it could have happened to one of your comrades, yes?"


    "No," Dragan shook his head.


    "No?"


    "No," Dragan repeated. "If you¡¯d done that to one of my friends, I¡¯d have killed you already."


    The assured smile on Garth¡¯s face faltered for a single, satisfying moment before he chuckled -- the laugh sounded a little more fake than before. "Indeed," he said, putting a polite hand to his mouth. "That woman¡¯s memories didn¡¯t present you as the most dangerous foe, but your eyes have promise. Perhaps I should be more cautious around you."


    As Garth said that, Dragan caught sight of something -- something moving, flowing around the wooden rafters high above them.


    It was a cloaked figure, trails of red and blue fabric swaying behind it like a hundred tails as it glided in the air, looking down at Dragan. It¡¯s entire body was covered by that red-and-blue cloak, and it¡¯s face by a bone-white mask -- but still, through the tiny slits in the porcelain, Dragan could see sparkling sapphire pupils glaring at him resentfully.


    "Please understand, however," Garth said -- he hadn¡¯t budged an inch. "That perhaps you too should be more cautious around me. I am never unprotected, you see."


    Dragan looked again. The spectre was gone.


    "Is that what happens to me now?" he asked, voice low. "I get my ¡¯memories sampled¡¯ -- like I¡¯m your handy encyclopedia?"


    Garth shook his head. "Of course not. When one is given two valuable resources, it doesn¡¯t do to spoil both. I¡¯d prefer you share your knowledge with me of your own free will."


    Spoil? Whatever this memory sampling process was, then, it wasn¡¯t pleasant. An Aether technique, maybe? Come to think of it, did they even have Aether here?


    "In time," Garth said, stopping to serenely observe a massive window -- decorated with images of dancing sprites. "You will come to trust me. And then we can accomplish great things."


    "Like what?" Dragan sneered -- he didn¡¯t much care for the Prester¡¯s patronising tone.


    Garth turned to look at him, warped light playing upon his features, making them indistinct -- and smiled gently.


    "Saving the world, of course."


    "That¡¯s crazy," Lily muttered, face pale, her hands scratching her hair as she stared into the fire. "Y¡¯people are fucking nuts."


    "It¡¯s true," Bruno said firmly, leaning forward. "We¡¯re from another world -- somewhere beyond this planet. The star you said you found us in? That was our vessel. It crashed."


    Ruth bit her lip. Should they really be telling Lily all this? With every word, the girl seemed closer to just straight up collapsing. A person¡¯s worldview could only take so much of an assault.


    "Your¡­ vessel?" Lily murmured, as if the words themselves were foreign. "What, like a boat?"


    "Sort of. Imagine a boat that can fly through the sky -- through the skies between planets. We were attacked, though, and we came down here. That¡¯s the honest truth."


    Lily looked up from the fire, staring into Bruno¡¯s eyes. It seemed impossible at this point, but she grew a fraction even paler. "You are, aren¡¯t you? Oh gods, you are."


    "Forget about that," Ruth snapped -- her mind was elsewhere. "What we have to worry about--"


    Lily scoffed, cutting Ruth off. "Forget about it? W-What, forget I¡¯m talking to two, what, space aliens?"


    Bruno shook his head. "No. We¡¯re the same species. Differences like the ones between us and you aren¡¯t that uncommon out there."


    "There are people with reachers?" As Lily asked that, her hand unconsciously brushed against her left antler.


    "Among other things," Bruno nodded. "They¡¯re called Scurrants. It¡¯s a general term for--"


    "What about Dragan?!" Ruth shouted, firmly killing the conversation.


    Bruno shifted uncomfortably on the log he was sitting on, gulping down some words before finally speaking.


    "We¡­" he began. "We need to be smart about this."


    "And what does that mean?"


    Lily minced her words much less. "If your friend¡¯s still alive -- and that isn¡¯t a sure thing -- then he¡¯s in the middle of the most secure city in the world. Going after him is suicide."


    Bruno thumped his fist against his chin, looking into the fire. "If we can get some intel, I¡¯m sure we could make a plan to--"


    I don¡¯t want to lose what I have.


    No. Enough of this. Ruth stood up from her makeshift seat with such speed that the log rolled backwards into the undergrowth. The nearest ¡¯warriors¡¯ flinched at her sudden movement, and even Lily¡¯s body stiffened.


    She¡¯d made a good first impression, then.


    "Which direction is Coren?" Ruth asked. "I¡¯ll go get him."


    Lily¡¯s bark of laughter was mocking, humourless -- the clap of her hands even more so. "No way. You think I¡¯m letting you out of my sight?"


    Ruth looked down at the girl, her gaze cold. "You think you could stop me?"


    "You might be surprised."


    "I¡¯ll fight anyone I need to to get my friends back," Ruth promised, sparks of red Aether building around her body. "If I¡¯ve gotta start with you, that¡¯s no problem. You really wanna try me right now?"


    Bruno stood up, holding his hands out placatingly -- no doubt ready to project forcefields if he needed to. "Now hold on," he said hurriedly. "There¡¯s no need for us to fight amongst ourselves."


    Even though Ruth¡¯s eyes were fixed on Lily, she replied to Bruno -- ignoring the various weapons the ¡¯warriors¡¯ were beginning to point in her direction. "You¡¯re wrong twice there, Bruno."


    "Ruth," Bruno hissed. "Stop it."


    Ruth closed her eyes and the girl -- the vicious girl she thought she¡¯d left behind -- spoke through her mouth. "First: there¡¯s no ¡¯ourselves¡¯ here -- there¡¯s us, and there¡¯s them. Second¡­"


    Her Skeletal claws appeared over her fingers, glinting blue in the moonlight.


    "...if they¡¯re standing in our way, that¡¯s all the reason I need."


    The gentleman sniffed disdainfully, watching the rabble from his elevated position. His comrades had considered pursuing the miscreants at this time of night to be a fruitless endeavour, but Percival Elias was not the sort of man to break off the hunt midway through.


    The majority of these rebels were mere garbage -- children with barely enough sense or strength to hold onto a spear. Only a few of the targets were of any worth, and three of them were standing in front of that campfire.


    He couldn¡¯t have asked for better luck.


    Percival Elias had once been a teacher -- and if there was a single thing he¡¯d learnt during that hellish time, it was that there was no greater motivator than pain. He held his hands out in front of him --


    "Guardian Entity - Wany¨±d¨­."


    -- and the forest burst into flames.

 Chapter 109:5.5: Memories Aflame

    Six years earlier¡­


    "To defeat the enemy," said Rupert Grave, jabbing his finger into the paper map before him. "You burn out his heart. That¡¯s basic strategy."


    The rebel leader had fiery red hair, like the mane of a magma lion, but the look in his eyes was ice itself. He was a man who could do whatever it took to ensure victory -- and he¡¯d done it many, many times before, as the collection of scars on his face promised.


    If there was a man who could give Mirios its freedom, it was him.


    The three of them -- Rupert Grave, Oleg and Ruth -- were gathered in the command tent of the Mirios resistance, Grave relaying his latest plan to oust the Admiral. A printout of Robin Barridad¡¯s face had been thrown onto the table, next to a map of the Barridad estate.


    Oleg nodded, grunting in agreement. "Barridad¡¯s a fool to give us such an easy target."


    Ruth looked up at the two adults nervously, hands clutching her arms. She was loath to question the opinions of two adults, but this whole thing gave her a bad gut feeling. "Could be a trap," she muttered. "Doesn¡¯t feel right."


    "It¡¯s almost certainly a trap," Grave said, leaning over the wooden table. "But that¡¯s irrelevant. All we have to do is be strong enough that the trap can¡¯t stop us. That¡¯s what it means to be supreme."


    Oleg shifted uncomfortably at that.


    Rupert Grave opposed the Admiral, but that didn¡¯t necessarily mean he opposed the Supremacy. From his perspective, this whole conflict between the resistance and the Admiral was the Supremacy¡¯s philosophies at their purest. The one with the strength to hold Mirios would triumph in the end.


    Ruth didn¡¯t know what she believed, nor did she find it especially relevant. She would fight and kill as she was directed. She wasn¡¯t fit for anything else.


    She¡¯d never had the luxury of opinion -- first, growing up in a Mirios orphanage, making a nuisance of herself had been a sure way to incur a beating. Then, when Grave had liberated her village and burnt it to the ground, she¡¯d been too busy ingratiating herself with the resistance to even consider disagreeing with them.


    Do as you¡¯re told, she always had to remind herself. That¡¯s how you end up happy


    Grave traced a line across the map with his finger. "Robin Barridad herself lives in a separate residence from her father," he said. "Still on the same estate, but there¡¯s some distance between them. He only calls her over for private tutoring -- we¡¯ll be able to grab her on the way back. You and Ruth¡¯ll make the snatch."


    "Then what?" Ruth asked.


    "We hold her hostage. Make demands of the Admiral in exchange for her life. It¡¯s a little cliche, but the classics work."


    Oleg shook his head. "He won¡¯t go for it. For a guy like Barridad, a daughter is a prop. You don¡¯t risk yourself over a prop." S§×ar?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But Grave wasn¡¯t deterred in the slightest. "Even that is useful," he said, turning the picture of Robin Barridad over in his fingers. "Him being willing to risk her gives us a better understanding of him. Him being unwilling to risk her gives us what we want. There¡¯s no losing scenario."


    Oleg raised an eyebrow. "How about they shoot us and we die?"


    "That¡¯s the risk that¡¯s always present, Oleg. If you can¡¯t accept that possibility, you¡¯re in the wrong place."


    Even if Grave said that, there was no way he believed that Oleg would actually leave. Oleg was a man shaped by this conflict -- he¡¯d lost his sons to it, lost his mind to it. He couldn¡¯t abandon it any more than he could put a gun to his head and pull the trigger.


    When you define yourself by struggle, you need that struggle to go on forever. Anything less was unacceptable.


    "That¡¯s enough talk," Grave said, cutting the discussion off before it could go any further. He rolled up the map. "You two need to start moving if you want to be on the route in time." He glanced towards Ruth. "The next time I see you, I want to see that you have Robin Barridad."


    Ruth nodded.


    "Yes, sir."


    "Move, and I kill you," Ruth promised, the tips of her blood-stained claws pressed against Robin Barridad¡¯s throat. "Don¡¯t you dare think I won¡¯t."


    Despite Oleg¡¯s misgivings, the plan had gone off without a hitch. Once he¡¯d disabled the engine of the truck that was carrying Robin, the few guards assigned to her had been little match for Ruth¡¯s armour. Body parts now littered the clearing, and Ruth held Robin down on the muddy ground.


    Still, the girl didn¡¯t look scared. There was something in her eyes -- not defiance, exactly -- but a kind of¡­ of ascendance. Like this whole sequence of events was below her notice.


    Despite Ruth¡¯s threat, Robin¡¯s lips moved to speak. "Do it," she said calmly.


    Ruth furrowed her brow. Was this a trick? "What?"


    "I said do it." Robin didn¡¯t falter. "Put those claws through my neck and finish this. I¡¯ll die here anyway, eventually. Either my father¡¯ll kill me, or you will. I think I¡¯d prefer to be murdered by a stranger, wouldn¡¯t you?"


    Was this girl insane? She was goading Ruth on to kill her like she was asking her to head to the store. Ruth wasn¡¯t the best at spotting those kinds of things, but she could see no trace of deception or malice in her eyes.


    Still, she had a job to do.


    "Get up," she growled, grabbing Robin by the collar. "You¡¯re coming with me!"


    "What if I don¡¯t?" the girl asked quietly. "What¡¯ll you do?"


    "Don¡¯t fuck with me."


    "Will you kill me?" Robin smiled sadly, and Ruth could see that there were tears in her eyes. "If I stay here, I¡¯ll die. If I go with you, I¡¯ll die. You sort of wonder what the point is, don¡¯t you?"


    Ruth¡¯s hand shook as she gripped Robin¡¯s collar. The point? There didn¡¯t have to be a point to anything, did there? You fought until you died. Anyone who didn¡¯t like that was just a whiner.


    Still¡­ the point¡­ Ruth wondered what the point of one single thing was.


    "W-When you arrived on Mirios," Ruth asked haltingly, the stutter an utter contrast to her growling tones. "You looked at me and you smiled at me. How come?"


    It was Robin¡¯s turn to look confused. "You remember that?"


    Ruth shook the girl roughly, turning red as her Aether as she saw Robin¡¯s smug smirk. "You obviously do, so just answer the damn question!"


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    The smirk faded -- and despite the lethal danger she was in, Robin had the nerve to lift her arm and put a finger to her chin as she considered the question. "Hm¡­ I suppose I must¡¯ve thought you were a good person?"


    Ruth laughed bitterly. "Well, you were wrong there, weren¡¯t ya?"


    To that, Robin only smiled -- and it was that same damn smile that had stopped Ruth in her tracks before.


    "I don¡¯t know," she said. "Was I?"


    Grave didn¡¯t move behind his makeshift desk, but Ruth could feel his fury in that stillness. His hands, clasped together on the wooden surface in front of him, were held so tight that his knuckles had long ago turned to white. Every now and then, the straight line of his mouth would twitch in a way that suggested a narrowly suppressed shout. The wood creaked as his elbows dug down into it.


    "I am extremely disappointed," he whispered, nightmare quiet. Outside, even the jungle birds had gone silent. The only sounds were the whispering of the wind through the trees and the occasional brave click of an insect.


    Ruth¡¯s words felt heavy, clumsy in her mouth. "I¡¯m sorry."


    Grave¡¯s finger tapped against the wood -- once, twice -- each time like a gunshot. "You¡¯re sorry?" he whispered, as vehemently as if she¡¯d just insulted him to his face. "Okay, okay, I¡¯m sure I must¡¯ve heard you wrong. You¡¯re sorry?"


    What else could she say? Ruth nervously nodded like a bobblehead. "I¡¯m sorry. S-She was too fast. She got away."


    The rise of Grave¡¯s eyebrow was like a stab in the stomach. It was certainly sharp enough. "Robin Barridad," he forced out through gritted teeth. "Has never fought a day in her life. Do you know how much time and effort we spent nurturing your Aether talent? You do realize people gave their lives to get the resources you needed to learn, don¡¯t you?"


    Shame drove her gaze down to the floor. "Yes, sir."


    "Do you care about that?"


    The tiniest nod. "Yes, sir. Of course."


    "I don¡¯t think you do," Grave said, his old chair creaking as he stood up from it. "I think if you cared about what other people have done for you, you¡¯d have put more effort in. Do you think that armour appeared out of thin air? Do you think you learnt how to fight all on your own?" As he spoke, he came closer, towering angrily over the young girl. "You owe everything you have to us -- and you¡¯re not repaying in kind."


    Ruth looked up, fists clenched, mouth opening to voice some kind of protest --


    -- only to be met with a harsh slap in the face, jerking her head to the left.


    The pain was barely anything -- her Aether was always at least partially up, and Grave had been using only his base strength -- but that didn¡¯t matter in the least. The pain wasn¡¯t the point: it was the shame, the knowledge that she¡¯d failed so completely that Grave had no choice but to treat her like a delinquent child. Any illusions she had that she was a warrior, a soldier, were shattered where hand met cheek.


    Grave¡¯s voice was forced into tranquility as he stuffed his hand into his pocket. "I want Robin Barridad here," he said slowly. "And that will still happen -- with or without you. Do you want it to happen with you, or without you?" His entire demeanor had changed -- now he was like a schoolteacher lecturing an unruly student.


    From what Ruth had been told, Rupert Grave had been some kind of teacher once. She couldn¡¯t imagine his students liking him much.


    "Ruth," Grave barked, the volume of his voice jumping up, startling her. "With you, or without you?"


    "W-With me," Ruth muttered, head retreating between her shoulders as she did her best to make herself as small as possible."Speak up." Grave¡¯s expression hardened -- and the hand he had slapped her with moved fractionally out of his pocket.


    "With me!" Ruth cried, squeezing her eyes shut. Grave¡¯s hand came down on her all the same -- but rather than slapping her in the face again, it clapped her twice on the shoulder in a reassuring gesture. As Ruth opened her eyes, she saw that Grave was kneeling down to look her in the eye.


    "That¡¯s right, Ruth," he said quietly. "With you. With all of us. You understand? War is a team sport. It can¡¯t be fought alone. We need you to keep your eyes on the ball. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"


    Slowly, blinking tears from her eyes, Ruth nodded.


    Grave¡¯s lips spread into a thin smile, and he ruffled her hair with his hand. "That¡¯s my girl," he said. "Be ready when I need you, yeah?"


    Ruth imagined the training dummy was Robin Barridad.


    Her claws, sparking with angry red Aether, shredded the thing to pieces. Barridad¡¯s imaginary stomach ended up spread across the floor, and her imaginary skull ended up smashed at Ruth¡¯s feet. She imagined Barridad¡¯s face -- so certain she¡¯d get one over on Ruth -- and she pounded her fists into the wooden effigy, its integrity shattering under her blows. Each crack of the wood was the crack of Barridad¡¯s bones.


    If she had really been there, she¡¯d have died within seconds -- that was how strong Ruth was. That was how supreme she was.


    With another flare of red Aether, Ruth smashed her foot into the fallen head of the dummy -- and it went flying off into the woods, prompting the angry squeal of a far-off paleobeast. A few of the other militiamen, gathered around a nearby campfire, cheered and lifted their beers in celebration. They quietened down when Ruth shot them a glance and a bestial growl.


    "Hang in there, girlie," the bravest among them went on, shaking his can of booze. "I¡¯m pretty sure you got ¡¯em!"


    Ruth marched over to them -- her Aether-infused footsteps leaving indents in the ground. The jovial face of the cheeky man loosened slightly as he saw the feral girl coming closer.


    "Now, hold on," he said, raising a placating hand. "I didn¡¯t mean nothing by it--"


    Without a word, Ruth lashed out with one hand and snatched the beer from the man. With the other hand, she reached down and pulled out a flaming stick from the campfire. Then, without another word, she turned around and marched back to the wrecked training dummy.


    She wasn¡¯t done with Robin Barridad yet. She wouldn¡¯t be satisfied until nothing was left of the brat but dust and ash.


    The dummy burnt easily, the flaming booze igniting it in a second. Smoke drifted heavy up into the sky as the loose fabric clinging to the effigy curled and smoldered. If Ruth closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the scent of burning flesh.


    She stared, eyes bloodshot, at the flaming ruin -- watching every second of its dissolution, even as the guard shifts changed and day became night. She didn¡¯t move even a muscle.


    Soon enough, she thought, as the dummy slowly became nothing. Soon enough.


    Six years later...


    Ruth went flying backwards as the campfire detonated, holding her hands over her face to protect them from the flames. She landed into a rolling position, Skeletal Set already fully manifested as she rose to her feet.


    Bruno went flying too, a shattered forcefield shimmering around him in the air -- but when Ruth looked to see what had become of the Lily girl, she saw that she was now some distance away -- with one of her comrades tucked under her arm. Lily dropped him heavily to the floor and smoke rose from her twitching arms.


    That didn¡¯t make sense, though. Lily had been closer to the campfire than even Ruth. Unless there was something she was keeping to herself, there was no way she could have escaped from the blast radius so quickly.


    Ruth didn¡¯t have any time to speculate further, though -- as a rich, distinguished voice sounded out from the forest.


    "My apologies!" The man¡¯s flamboyant voice echoed throughout the clearing. "I could see you were having a lovely meeting of the minds -- but unfortunately, it was my duty to interfere! Such are the whims of fate, alas!"


    The owner of the voice stepped out of the forest, dusting his bright blue robes off as he went. It was an older man, with a finely curved grey moustache and slicked back hair. As he bowed theatrically, Ruth could see golden rings adorning each one of his fingers.


    That wasn¡¯t what occupied the majority of Ruth¡¯s attention, though -- what managed that was what rolled in by his side.


    At first, Ruth thought it was some kind of tire -- but when she got a closer look, she could see that it was definitely a living creature. It was curled up into a wheel shape, the flat bony segments that wrapped around it¡¯s dark red muscle allowing it to roll unimpeded on the ground.


    Tiny flailing tendrils, each tipped with a bright spark of light, swayed throughout the inside of the wheel. The flames created by the explosion swayed in time with them, like the tendrils were conducting an infernal orchestra.


    Right in the middle of the wheel, connected to the rest of the body through visible pale nerves, was what without a doubt a human skull. The shape was right, even if there were no eye sockets and the teeth were needle-sharp.


    The older man looked up from his bow, lips spreading into an anticipatory smile.


    "Now¡­ shall we begin?"

 Chapter 110:5.6: Fiery Forest Fight

    Ruth wasted no time.


    She rushed at the interloper, claws bared, a snarl escaping her throat as she went in for the kill -- only to be stopped in her path by a wall of flame that sprang from the smoldering remains of the campfire. Beyond the barrier, she could see the smug smirk of her opponent, but just a glance told her she wouldn¡¯t be able to withstand those flames. Orange Aether crackled through them, intensifying their heat and ferocity. A single lick from them would leave her with serious burns.


    Ruth jumped back as the flamewall surged outwards in her direction, incinerating an unfortunate sapling that happened to be in her path. The tendrils of the wheel-creature snapped from position to position as the flames pursued her -- it was controlling their path without a doubt.


    "Miss Ruth!" Ruth heard Serena¡¯s cry -- and a second later, the girl came running past her, a massive wooden greatsword dragging through the dirt behind her, kicking up mud and grass as it went.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened: she wasn¡¯t just going to go for it, was she?!


    Serena may have been something of a ditz, but she was no fool. She stopped just before the flames, feet digging down into the ground -- and swung her greatsword at thin air with all her strength.


    The sheer air pressure of the swing slammed into the inferno, smothering the flames for a moment and reducing them to smoke and cinders. The moment the girl¡¯s gaze flicked back to Ruth, she understood: a path!


    She didn¡¯t waste a moment. Baring her crimson-sparking claws again, Ruth rushed towards the man, eyes fixed on his jugular. One little swipe of steel, and this fight would be over.


    But he obviously had different ideas. As Ruth leapt through the space the flames had previously occupied, there was a flare of orange Aether -- and a moment later, the wheel-creature shot in Ruth¡¯s direction like a great cannonball, an unearthly screech blasting through some hidden vocal cords.


    With the speed it was moving, and the force, and the obviously infused Aether, Ruth knew that the creature would shatter her ribs if she let it make impact. Still, she couldn¡¯t exactly change the direction she was moving through the air mid-flight. Dodging was not an option.


    Instead, she infused her arms with all the Aether they could hold -- and caught the creature just before it could slam into her.


    The pain was excruciating. It felt like her arms would snap right off -- she could hear her armour creaking under the strain. The impact redirected her course, too, so that rather than zooming towards her main opponent she landed a small distance away.


    The wheel-creature wasn¡¯t satisfied with just that, though. It continued to try and force its way out of Ruth¡¯s grip, to slam right into her face. As it struggled against her grip, the bony sections that formed the wheel span rapidly, and as they did Ruth could see that they were covered in thousands of tiny, sharp blades.


    This thing wasn¡¯t just a wheel. It was a damn meatgrinder.


    The older man hadn¡¯t moved since the fight began. Even though the wheel was preoccupied trying to scrape off Ruth¡¯s face, it¡¯s tendrils continued to direct flames, creating a barrier that prevented Serena from getting near to him. It was like a tornado of fire, with the man standing in the eye of the storm.


    "You understand?" he called out over the roar of the inferno, rolling his r¡¯s as far as they would go. "Experiencing that which is greater than you, accepting and understanding it¡¯s wisdom and might, despairing in the face of that insurmountable gap¡­"


    His face spread into a wicked grin.


    "...that is what it means to educate. Wany¨±d¨­ -- Discipline. Drive the lesson home."


    Ruth widened her eyes -- as, in response to the man¡¯s command, the wheel had begun to glow an incandescent white. She didn¡¯t understand what this thing was, how the man controlled it, or what was really going on at all -- but she knew a bomb when she saw one.


    She swung around and hurled the creature -- but too late.


    The explosion was blinding, deafening, far worse than the campfire had been -- and as it went off, Ruth went flying backwards, her back smashing into a nearby tree, the air forced out of her lungs by the impact. Blood trickled over one of her eyes, forcing her to squeeze it shut, and a persistent pain leaked out from her limp left arm.


    Red Aether crackled around her as nearly half her Skeletal Set dissipated, having sustained serious damage in the blast. She now had nothing in terms of protection for her torso or her right arm -- and the plates that protected her legs were one good hit from disappearing too. If she lost those, she¡¯d lose the speed advantage as well.


    Serena turned away from the flame-tornado, a gasp escaping her throat.


    "Miss Ruth!" she cried -- and in that moment, a small hole opened in the tornado next to her. A second later, a flaming crossbow bolt came surging out of the gap, narrowly sailing past Serena¡¯s ear as she dodged -- and a second after that, the gap closed again.


    Ruth gritted her teeth as she pulled herself out of the tree, splinters falling to the ground around her as she broke out of the arboreal prison. This man was a coward. He¡¯d only attack when he was certain no retaliation could reach him.


    But there was nowhere he could hide from Ruth Blaine.


    Serena wasn¡¯t having much fun.


    This mean guy was just throwing fire at her and she couldn¡¯t really do anything to hit him back. She¡¯d dodge a burst of flame, get ready to swing her greatsword, only to realize he was already concealed behind another fiery wall.


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    She frowned. How was he doing this? She couldn¡¯t see him doing anything with Aether, but the flames were moving around like crazy. Was he a magic man or something? A wizard, maybe?


    That¡¯d be cool if true. Whenever Serena had asked, Bruno had told her there was no such thing as magic -- but that was probably because Bruno was too cynical to see magic. Maybe if she did good in this fight, the wizard would take her on as an apprentice and teach her how to use magic too.


    She ducked underneath a whip of fire, ignoring how it sliced through the trees behind her. What kind of magic would she learn first? This guy was obviously some kind of fire mage, but Serena had no doubt that he could teach other things too. Maybe she could tap into the hidden potential of her bloodline and be the one mage who could use all the elements!


    That was only if she accepted being his apprentice, though -- and she¡¯d never do that. He was obviously a bad guy, after all. Good guys never tried to set people on fire, unless they deserved it.


    "Do you understand now?" the magic guy laughed, a flurry of fireballs shooting out from his barrier towards Serena. "There was no other way for this encounter to end!"


    Serena¡¯s eyes widened.


    Cott looked away as the Supremacy soldiers bound red Neverwire around Yakob¡¯s wrists. Even with the pain of the gunshot, though, Yakob could still shout, still question: "Cott! What the hell are you doing?!"


    Cott still didn¡¯t look at Yakob, but he replied all the same.


    "Sorry," he said. "There was no other way for this to end."


    Serena¡¯s hand tightened against the hilt of her greatsword with such strength that cracks spread across its surface. This magic man didn¡¯t know it yet, but he¡¯d just killed himself with his own mouth.


    She fired her body like a bullet directly at the man, ignoring the flame barrier he had erected in front of him. The fire would badly burn her without a doubt, but she would just kill him before the pain knocked her unconscious. He didn¡¯t look like much: one good hit would turn him into a smear.


    She ran so fast that her foot touched the ground only once -- but that was all her enemy needed. She saw his smug face twist into a sneer.


    "Perhaps you should watch your step, hm?"


    Beneath her foot, the earth was glowing. There was fire underneath the soil. Fire waiting to escape --


    -- and escape it did, in another deafening explosion.


    Ruth watched, horrified, as Serena went flying up into the air -- and then as Bruno fell onto a mid-air forcefield, narrowly breaking his descent.


    The enemy had tricked them. By showing them only the single wheel-creature, he¡¯d led them to believe that was the only one they had to watch out for. But that wasn¡¯t the case at all, was it? Like Ruth had noticed, the flames had continued being manipulated even while the wheel-creature was occupied trying to shred her face off.


    "It seems you¡¯ve lost to me in the battle of wits," the man chuckled condescendingly. "How sad for you. Yes, you, girl!" He snapped his fingers and pointed towards Ruth. "It appears you¡¯ve figured it out! Top marks! My Guardian Entity is not a single creature, but a pair!"


    There was that term again: Guardian Entity. Why the hell did everyone keep saying that like she should know what it meant?


    The man put his finger to his lips. "Now," he drawled. "I wonder what I should do. Should I accept your surrender and allow you to continue living? That may be wise, considering you clearly possess an unknown Guardian Entity. In the same vein, though, is it not my duty to punish thievery and execute you? These questions aren¡¯t rhetorical, dear -- you¡¯re welcome to contribute!"


    Ruth seethed as she took another step towards the man, watching as a second wheel-creature emerged from beneath the ground. Angry steam billowed from between the gaps of its bone-plates as it swung around to face her direction.


    This man intended to kill them, regardless of what Ruth did. He¡¯d tried to kill them with his first attack using the campfire, and that objective had never changed. All he was offering now was false hope.


    She wiped a smear of red blood from her nose. If that was the case, Ruth wasn¡¯t going to give him the damn satisfaction.


    One last strike. With everything she had.


    "Can you do it?" whispered Lily from beside her -- the girl had made her way through the scattered immobile flames, and was now crouched down at her side.


    "Do what?" Ruth cracked her knuckles.


    "Beat him," Lily hissed. "Kick his ass. If that wheel thing wasn¡¯t there, could you do it?"


    Ruth didn¡¯t even have to think about it. She nodded. "Yeah."


    A smirk spread across Lily¡¯s face -- and as it did, lines of electric-blue Aether began to emanate from her body. The faintest dim form of some kind of humanoid figure appeared behind her, silhouetted by a lightning halo. Ruth realized with a start that what she was seeing was not electric-blue Aether -- it was actual electricity, coursing through Lily¡¯s body as she did¡­ whatever this was.


    In the corner of her eye, Ruth saw their enemy take a cautious step back. The wheel, though, rushed towards them recklessly, blades glinting in the light.


    "Okay," the girl said through gritted teeth, blood leaking from her mouth. "Here I go. Guardian Entity - Raij¨±."


    There was a moment of silence -- and then a bolt of lightning lanced down from the sky and struck Wany¨±d¨­, stopping it in its tracks. As its inner tendrils jerked and spasmed, the flames surrounding the arena spluttered out -- leaving their master utterly exposed.


    "Go!" cried Lily, hacking up a sudden burst of blood.


    Ruth didn¡¯t waste any time; there was no time to question what had just happened.


    With what little armour she had left, she shot forward like a cannonball, rushing past the stunned Guardian Entity and towards its master. The moustachioed man¡¯s gasped as his doom approached, but what could he do? He had neither strength nor speed.


    She pulled her fist back, roaring with exertion as all the Aether she had left pooled into her knuckles --


    -- and then the wall of flame reappeared, right between the two of them. The old man grinned. He thought he was safe, that Ruth¡¯s course would now take her right to her own fiery demise.


    But Ruth Blaine didn¡¯t die so easily. If there was one thing she was good at, just one thing, it was defeating the enemy.


    The Skeletal Set encasing Ruth¡¯s body vanished in a spark of Aether -- and then all of it reappeared on her punching arm. Every knee and elbow pad, every strip of metal, even the mask that usually covered Ruth¡¯s face: all of it was wrapped around the limb, turning it into a humongous club that dwarfed the rest of her body.


    If nothing else, it was an arm that could withstand a few seconds of flame. S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth plunged the armoured limb through the wall, ignoring the excruciating heat that soaked through the metal, and seized the man by the throat. The little ¡¯what?!¡¯ he cried out with as she breached his defenses was the best sound she¡¯d heard all day. Then, she pulled -- dragging the man towards his own infernal barrier.


    It didn¡¯t take even a second for the flames to disappear -- a coward indeed -- and once they did, Ruth slammed her other fist into the man¡¯s face with such force that she was sure she heard his jaw shatter. He fell limp to the floor, unconscious -- and as Ruth glanced behind her, she saw that Wany¨±d¨­ too was dissipating into Aether. A job well done.


    She let the man slip from her grasp and fall fully into an undignified pile, and opened her mouth to speak -- to say something. The only thing that came out was a yawn.


    She really needed a damn nap.

 Chapter 111:5.7: The Many-Fold Entity

    "There, there," said Ted softly, wiping a wet piece of cloth against Lily¡¯s sweat-drenched forehead. "You work too hard, boss."


    If there was a word to succinctly describe Ted, the resistance¡¯s medic, it would be round. He was huge, with a face a little too small for his head, but there was a great sense of delicacy and care in all his movements. Watching him, Ruth was reminded of a classical watchmaker more than anything -- someone who could put an inconceivably complex machine together without his hands shaking even once.


    After the end of the fight against the old man -- the resistance had secured him for interrogation -- Lily had straight up collapsed, her body smoking. Funnily enough, the resistance members hadn¡¯t seemed too shocked. That was when Ted had gone sprinting out of the medical tent, demanding they help him get Lily into a bed.


    His urgency had been such that Ruth couldn¡¯t even protest -- and before long, she¡¯d found herself in this situation.


    Lily¡¯s wasn¡¯t the bed that Ruth was focused on, however. No, she was kneeling down next to Skipper¡¯s.


    He was pale, his breathing ragged but steady, hands down on the bed at his sides. His eyes were closed, and his demeanor so tranquil that he couldn¡¯t have been anything but asleep. Ruth vaguely wondered what he was dreaming about.


    She¡¯d assumed he would be in a much worse way without the wonders of modern medicine, but apparently that wasn¡¯t the case. A floating purple glyph hovered over his chest, and from what Ruth understood that was keeping him stable. Her eyes drifted to the source.


    A flat-faced, morose-looking sloth thing hung off of Ted¡¯s back, placidly chewing a leaf in it¡¯s toothed beak. Three long legs dangled freely from the lower half of its feathered body. An identical glyph shone on its forehead -- and as Ruth watched, yet another glyph appeared hovering over Lily, and her ragged breathing began to calm down.


    Ted caught Ruth looking and gave a reassuring smile. He had kind eyes. "Don¡¯t worry," he said. "Amabie can only heal slowly, but it¡¯ll keep them stable while it does. Your friend is safe."


    Ruth stared at the thing -- Amabie, apparently -- as it messily swallowed the leaf in its mouth. "It¡¯s called¡­ Amabie?"


    "Mm-hmm," Ted reached over and scratched Amabie under the chin with one beefy finger. It purred approvingly.


    Ruth blinked. "And it needs to eat?"


    "Why wouldn¡¯t it need to eat?" Ted frowned -- not disapproval, but confusion. "It¡¯s a living thing, isn¡¯t it? If it doesn¡¯t eat, it¡¯ll grow weak."


    "But it¡¯s made of Aether," she protested. "That doesn¡¯t even make any sense! I don¡¯t need to look after my armour. It just remembers the way it should go together."


    "Aether..." Ted rolled the word around in his mouth, evaluating it. "The others were right. You do talk strange."


    It was obvious she wasn¡¯t going to get anywhere like this. Clearly, nobody had any idea what she was talking about when she mentioned Aether. Maybe they just called it something else here?


    "If I may ask," Ted turned in his chair. "What is yours called?"


    Ruth furrowed her brow. "My¡­?"


    "Your Guardian Entity," Ted continued patiently, clearly thinking she was a little slow. "The armour you wear -- it¡¯s an unusual form, but I¡¯ve seen stranger. What¡¯s it¡¯s name? If you don¡¯t mind me asking."


    She sighed, sitting back on a spare bed -- it squeaked alarmingly under her weight. "Dunno how many times I gotta tell you guys this," she said, rubbing her hands over her face. "But I¡¯ve got no idea what the hell a Guardian Entity even is."


    "That makes three of us," Lily mumbled as her eyes fluttered open.


    Ted smiled. "Welcome back to the land of the living, idiot. What were you thinking, using it? Did you want to die?" Despite the harshness of his words, his tone was soft.


    "Die?" Lily snorted. "I wanted to win."


    "There¡¯s no point in winning if you never get to see the victory."


    Lily ignored that. Instead, her gaze turned back to Ruth. "You really don¡¯t know, huh?" she mumbled.


    Ruth¡¯s grip on the duvet beneath her tightened in annoyance. "I¡¯m getting really sick of people saying you really don¡¯t know to me. No. I really don¡¯t know. So tell me."


    Lily smiled humorlessly. "We don¡¯t know much ourselves."


    "Then tell me what you do know."


    Lily hesitated for a moment -- as if she was going to just be annoyingly cryptic again -- before she opened her mouth and began to speak:


    "This was around a year ago. Ted had recently defected to our side -- he¡¯d been a Regulator before, so he had a Guardian Entity. Of course, we all wanted to know how he¡¯d got it, how they worked, what they really were. He couldn¡¯t answer any of those questions."


    Lily kept close to the walls as she snuck through the monastery, ready to turn and run for it if she ran into any Regulators. Sweat trickled down her forehead. She was following the directions Ted had given her, but there were no guarantees he wasn¡¯t some kind of mole out to get her caught.


    "Ted had only recently gotten his Guardian Entity -- but he had no memory of the thing. All he remembered was being escorted to a forbidden chamber by two other Regulators, being made to drink some kind of potion before going in -- then waking up in his quarters with ol¡¯ Amabie by his side."


    If Ted was a mole, though, he was an astoundingly bad one. Before long, Lily found herself in front of the room he¡¯d described -- a simple wooden door, with an ¡¯X¡¯ carved into the stone above it. If she hadn¡¯t known this was something to watch for, she¡¯d probably have walked right past it. It was certainly nondescript enough.


    She turned the handle and entered.


    "I¡¯d never seen anything like it."


    There was no real room beyond the door -- just a small, cylindrical space, barely wide enough to hold three people. The walls were made of seamless dark metal. On the far wall was some kind of painting, but the painting was moving -- a square on it blinking blue. She stared at it, uncomprehending, her hand reaching out -- pressing against the painting.


    There was a quiet beep -- and then the room shook, sending Lily falling down to the floor. As she looked up, she saw that the door she had entered through was ascending -- no, no, she was going down. The whole room was going down, the floor descending through this strange vertical tunnel. Eyes wide, she just stared up at the door as it vanished into the darkness.


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    "Whatever that place was¡­ no human could have built it."


    There was another quiet beep -- and when Lily whirled around again to catch the source of the sound, she saw that there now was another door behind her. Not the same as the wooden one she¡¯d entered through, no -- this one was made of the same dark metal, and it opened by itself as she drew near. What kind of magic was this?


    Tentatively, she walked into the massive chamber beyond. It was huge, but cylindrical like the tunnel. The walls were lined with glass tanks, but the white mists that swirled around within them prevented her from getting a good look at what they contained -- just dark, indistinct shapes moving around.


    Lily had thought she¡¯d already thrown away her childhood fears -- but here, in this darkness, she was suddenly sure that the Blindman would appear and rip her to shreds. A shiver went down her spine.


    Another of those strange animated paintings was held up by a stand in the centre of the room, just in front of an object that resembled a giant metal casket. This painting was much more complex than the one in the tunnels -- words and characters Lily didn¡¯t understand. Another blinking square remained at the bottom of the painting, though: just like the one she¡¯d pushed to make the floor move.


    "It was the most reckless, most idiotic thing I¡¯d ever done, but¡­"


    Lily pressed the square -- and found she couldn¡¯t move her hand away from it again. Panic beginning to bubble inside her head, she grabbed her forearm and pulled with all her strength, but it was already too late.


    The painting spoke. "Host identified," it said chirpily in a strange, unfamiliar accent. "Beginning transfer of Aetheral signature."


    Lightning flashed in the tiny room.


    What happened lasted only for a moment, but it felt like an eternity. Electricity flowed through the console, through Lily¡¯s arm, and into her body, tearing her apart as it went. She¡¯d never felt such excruciating pain -- it was as if a knife was slicing at her from every possible angle, cutting her down to the bone, through the bone, sparing not a centimeter of matter.


    A word echoed through her head, each time accompanied by a vision, an indistinct silhouette.


    Raij¨±. A wolf howling at the sky.


    Raij¨±. A long, winding centipede.


    Raij¨±. An ape thumping it¡¯s chest.


    Raij¨±. A great bird soaring through the skies.


    Raij¨±. A humanoid corpse, a harpoon gruesomely protruding from its stomach.


    And then -- with a final flash of lightning -- it was done. Lily was released from the painting, staggering backwards and falling on her posterior. Her heavy, ragged breathing echoed through the chamber. Sparks of electricity still ran along her hands, smoke rising from her fingertips.


    "That was the worst pain I¡¯d ever experienced. I had nightmares about it for months afterwards. It was¡­ it just was. Awful." S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    What had just happened? Lily blinked as she turned her hands over, as if the answer would be written on the back. She needed something to explain what had just happened -- some wisdom, some understanding, some realization.


    A realization did indeed come to her. But it wasn¡¯t the kind that she wanted.


    She wasn¡¯t alone here.


    The voice that echoed through the room was like ice and metal all at once, resentment leaking beneath the steady words.


    "You don¡¯t belong here."


    "I was sure, more sure than I¡¯d been about anything, that I was going to die."


    Lily whirled around, the last remnants of the electricity still sparking through her body, each crackle accompanied by a jolt of pain. More than anything, though, she knew she had to focus on that voice. The malice she felt emanating from it was beyond anything she¡¯d ever experienced.


    "Who¡¯s there?!" she rasped, her throat cooked by the shock. A metallic taste lingered in her mouth. "I¡¯m armed! I¡¯m warning you!"


    The voice continued, ignoring what she¡¯d just said: "There are two paths before you. A path of blue, and a path of red."


    "And then¡­"


    She saw it.


    Deep in the darkness of the chamber, staring at her, were two glittering sapphire eyes, black pupils dilated to dots of utter hatred. This was a thing that wanted her to die screaming.


    Her body shifted into a fighting position, trembling fists held out in front of her. She¡¯d come too far to run -- and Lily Aubrisher wasn¡¯t the kind of girl to turn and flee when someone gave her a scary look.


    "Who are you?" she repeated, ready to strike whenever this thing rushed at her. If nothing else, she¡¯d give the bastard a nosebleed.


    The words that slithered from the darkness next, however, firmly slaughtered any fantasies of victory.


    "The path of blue is to have your eyes ripped from your sockets and fed to you fresh," the voice said. "The path of red is to be skinned alive and left to bleed. Which do you choose? Blue, or red?"


    "From the way it talked, you knew it was telling the truth. Knew it could do that to you. Knew that it was going to do that to you."


    A curved blade glimmered in the dim light.


    Lily turned and ran.


    She didn¡¯t know how long she ran for -- with lightning instinctively pouring through her veins, giving her speed beyond humanity -- but she climbed up the vertical tunnel like a spider, charged through the silent monastery like a bat out of hell, and staggered through the dark woods like a lonely, dying insect.


    When she reached the camp and fell, face first, she was mere minutes from the afterlife.


    "It took six months for me to bring her back from the brink," Ted finished the story, the memory bringing an uncharacteristic scowl to his face. "I don¡¯t know what that Guardian Entity is, but I know it wasn¡¯t meant to be used -- not by a normal person, at least. It nearly kills her every time she uses it."


    "But if I can just master it¡­" Lily made to try and sit up, but Ted¡¯s heavy hand easily pushed her back down.


    "It nearly kills her every time she uses it," he repeated, permitting no rebuttal. He glanced at Ruth. "Believe me -- I let her get out of this bed, she¡¯ll fall over before she makes it five steps."


    Ruth put a hand to her chin. She wasn¡¯t used to this -- being the one receiving information, making decisions based on it. That was Skipper¡¯s role, or Dragan¡¯s if he felt particularly cocky. She was a follower, not a leader. This wasn¡¯t her place -- surely Bruno should be doing this instead.


    But she was the one in the room.


    The place Lily had described sounded a little like a starship -- if this place had been some kind of colony once, could that have been the original vessel? If the systems were working, that meant they still had some kind of power supply, right?


    Apparently, their ship -- the Shipstream or whatever Skipper was calling it -- had been wrecked when they¡¯d crashed here. Was there a chance, then, that they could use parts from this older ship to fix it up? Bruno was good with machines, after all. Was that possible?


    Lily spoke up, clearly noticing Ruth¡¯s uncharacteristically thoughtful expression. "Even after what I just told you, you¡¯re still thinking about going to Coren?"


    Ruth silently nodded, hand still on her chin.


    Lily sighed, a note of defeat entering her voice. "There¡¯s no stopping you, huh?" she said. "Tell you what. I saw you fight -- you¡¯re strong. Incredibly strong. You promise to do me a favour while you¡¯re in Coren, and I¡¯ll give you any support you need."


    "What kind of favour?"


    Lily¡¯s gaze was hard. "You kill the Head Regulator."

 Chapter 112:5.8: Through A Hole In The Wall

    "This seems like a bad idea," Bruno said as he watched the skyline, his eyes crackling with purple Aether.


    Coren was a city of spires and stone, silhouetted by the blue moon, spreading out in a circular formation from the cathedral at its centre. It was an orderly city -- not the spontaneous, haphazard thing you¡¯d usually see on a Lilith World. This place was something that had been planned out well in advance.


    "It¡¯s the only plan we¡¯ve got," came Ruth¡¯s voice through her Skeletal mask, her body crouching low to the ground. The two of them were watching the city from a nearby hill, making sure to stay in the shadows of the treeline so they wouldn¡¯t be spotted by sentries.


    "If that¡¯s the case," Bruno sighed. "Then shouldn¡¯t we go about getting another one?"


    "Go ahead if you got any ideas," Ruth replied -- and then, before Bruno could say anything, continued: "Is the entrance Lily told us about still there?"


    Bruno blinked shakily. Infusing your eyes to boost your vision required a great deal of precision -- Ruth couldn¡¯t manage it all, so it was no wonder Bruno had trouble multitasking.


    "It¡¯s there," he finally said after a moment. "Crack in the wall, up further north. The sentries on the wall wouldn¡¯t see you enter from that angle." He pointed off to a spot in the distance. "How quick do you think you can get there?"


    Ruth smirked. "Faster than I need to."


    And with that, she was gone in a flash, her feet only touching the ground every few metres or so. She kept her body so low to the ground it almost seemed as if she were on all fours -- hopefully, if any sentries did spot her, they¡¯d assume she was some kind of wild animal, like a wolf. Hopefully there were wolves on this planet.


    Not that they¡¯d ever manage to spot her.


    The ground was solid beneath her feet as she ran, her eyes fixed on the pinpricks of light above Coren¡¯s walls. Would there be some kind of indicator if she was spotted? Some kind of horn they¡¯d blow as an alarm or something?


    She darted to the side to avoid a tree, not breaking her sprint for a moment. She¡¯d talked a big game just then, but even with Aether stamina was still a factor. She could move fast, sure, but she couldn¡¯t move fast forever.


    A brief rest would be needed once she got into the city proper -- on a rooftop or something, if she could find a well-hidden one.


    For the moment, though, all she had to do was run.


    Dragan Hadrien and being locked in rooms against his will. Was there ever a more dynamic duo?


    After his brief ¡¯chat¡¯ with Prester Garth, Dragan had been returned to the small and dingy room he¡¯d woken up in, furnished with little more than a soft bed and a barred window -- when it came to the interior decorating, there were definitely some mixed messages going on. He sat on the side of the bed, hand on his forehead, doing his best to think his way out of this mess.


    Skipper, Ruth, Bruno and Serena. Where were they? Could he count on a rescue, or was this the kind of situation where he needed to do the rescuing?


    The last he¡¯d seen Skipper -- a fuzzy memory of someone shouting for a stasis unit -- the man hadn¡¯t seemed to be in such good shape. In all likelihood, he wouldn¡¯t win big betting on that idiot smashing through the wall and carrying him off to safety.


    To be fair, though, that depended on how much time had passed since that last fuzzy memory. Being perfectly honest, Dragan had no idea how long he¡¯d been unconscious for. It was unlikely, but maybe he¡¯d ended up going inside a stasis unit too.


    But he couldn¡¯t count on that. In all likelihood, Ruth and the del Sed twins would be the ones moving and active right now -- and as much as he¡¯d like to be optimistic, it was highly unlikely they¡¯d know where he was. So he couldn¡¯t count on them either.


    The only one who decides what happens to me is me.


    Well thought. In this kind of situation, under these kinds of circumstances, the best option was to make a quiet escape with his own mind and his own strength. He allowed a crackle of blue Aether to run along his arm, comforted by the feeling of solidity it gave him.


    His eyes, already shining with a dim light, flicked over to the locked door. He was no Aether master, but you didn¡¯t have to be an Aether master to break through flimsy wood. All you needed were the fist and the will.


    First, though, he had to think. Most likely, the other person Prester Garth had captured -- the one whose memories he¡¯d sampled -- was the woman who¡¯d held him hostage back on the Slipstream. If he eliminated the rest of the crew, she was the only remaining option. So Prester Garth likely knew everything about him that that woman had known about him.


    She¡¯d never seen him use Aether, as far as he was aware. So there was a good chance that Prester Garth, too, was unaware of his capabilities.


    Only one way to find out. Dragan got up from the bed and moved to the door, blue Aether pulsing through his body. If he was right, and Prester Garth needed him for something, then he wouldn¡¯t be killed just for this simplistic escape attempt.


    In essence, then, this was a freebie.


    Dragan¡¯s foot -- flaring with Aether -- slammed into the wooden door, sending it flying off its hinges and smashing into the wall opposite. A second later, after being satisfied no guards were coming running, Dragan stepped outside.


    The stone hallways of this place all looked the same, but he¡¯d gotten a workable idea of the places layout from Prester Garth¡¯s little tour. If he could make it to those big stained-glass windows, he could smash through them and make a run for it.


    It wasn¡¯t the best plan he¡¯d ever come up with -- but it was the only one he had.


    Dragan took only a single step down the hallway before hesitating.


    I¡¯m dead.


    "Two paths lie before you."


    At the end of the hallway, floating a meter off the ground, was the red-and-blue spectre he¡¯d seen with Garth. It hung in mid-air as if lounging on an invisible chair, the apparent nonchalance of its body language a stark contrast to the hatred Dragan could feel from the icy-blue eyes beneath the bone mask.


    "There is a path of blue," it explained patiently. "And a path of red."


    If I take another step, I will die.


    The thought came into Dragan¡¯s head fully-formed. It wasn¡¯t a fear, or a worry -- it was a certainty. If he engaged the thing at the end of the hallway, he would be dead, just as he¡¯d be dead if he jumped off a skyscraper. There was no room for fight or flight. This thing would not allow such endings.


    Dragan saw the glint of a dagger deep within the spectre¡¯s robes.


    Immediately, he turned around and stepped back into his room, doing his best to keep his teeth from chattering. Every step, he expected to feel the burn of a knife in his back -- but it never came. Whatever that thing was, it seemed satisfied with him just staying put.


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    He dared glance behind himself only once -- and when he did, the spectre was already gone.


    Back on the bed he went, head in his hands. How did things always, always manage to get so far out of control?


    Cities were pretty much the same wherever you went.


    Ruth perched on a rooftop like a gargoyle as she watched a baker throw out a bag of old, crusty bread, loaves spilling into the back alleyway. Despite the fact the loaves were now floating soggy in a puddle, Ruth couldn¡¯t help but feel her mouth water. It had been a while since she¡¯d had a decent meal, after all.


    But no. She had no time to waste on things as petty as eating. She didn¡¯t want to lose what she had.


    Her gaze returned to her target -- the cathedral that dominated Coren¡¯s skyline, a great square building of stone and marble, the three towers that protruded from it soaring high above the rest of the city.


    Not yet close enough to do an Aether ping to find Dragan -- she¡¯d have to be inside the building first, then. Hopefully Lily¡¯s infiltration route would still be viable. From her story, the girl had been spotted inside the cathedral, but that didn¡¯t necessarily mean they knew the route she¡¯d taken.


    A dim hope, but Ruth was used to those.


    There was little buildup to her movement -- one second, she was watching the city, the next she was leaping across rooftops. She wasn¡¯t quite as fast as she¡¯d been before -- she had to be more careful in her movements here, more deliberate, but even a slow Ruth Blaine was faster than most eyes could track.


    She ran across rooftops, climbed over ledges, swung off outcroppings -- each of her movements smooth and unbroken, like a mixture between ballet and parkour. Back on Mirios, Oleg had drilled her in how to move quickly through urban environments -- and time chasing after Skipper had only driven those lessons home.


    Before long, she was clinging to the outer wall of the great cathedral -- and from there, it was just a matter of climbing up to the storage room Lily had told her about. The lock was faulty there, so even if the window seemed to be firmly sealed, it could easily be opened from the outside.


    She must have looked like some kind of insect as she climbed up the wall, concealed from any observers by the night¡¯s cloak. The climb was easy, though -- old buildings like this developed their own handholds, little cracks and gaps through which adventurous hands could slip.


    Finally, she paused in her climb. She wasn¡¯t going to get a better, more quiet chance at this.


    With a spark of red, she let out an Aether ping -- and felt an automatic response from inside the building, several floors up. Her grip relaxed slightly as the Aether she was using to reinforce her body dispersed for the ping, but a moment later she was secure once again. Falling to her death in such a stupid way wasn¡¯t the way her story was gonna end.


    Still -- now she knew where to head.


    Hold on, Dragan, she thought, grinning behind her mask. I¡¯m on my way.


    First, Dragan heard a ¡¯thunk¡¯ outside his window. Then, he saw a cheery face appear between the bars.


    "Hey! Hey!" she whispered loudly -- which defeated the point. "Dragan! It¡¯s me, Ruth Blaine! Remember?"


    Sitting on the bed, Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Do I remember?"


    Ruth frowned for a moment -- if she was legitimately considering the question, it would have driven Dragan to despair -- before shaking her head. "It doesn¡¯t matter. Listen, I¡¯ve come to get you out of here -- hey, wait a minute."


    Her gaze had slid past him, settled instead on the open doorway and the broken wooden door that lay beyond. Her brow creasing in annoyance, she turned back to him.


    "What the hell?!" she exclaimed. "You¡¯ve already busted out and you¡¯re just sitting here?!"


    Dragan could not deny that this was at least just a little pathetic. He shrugged weakly. "There are guards out there..."


    Ruth¡¯s expression only grew more annoyed. "Guards?" she said. "You¡¯ve got Aether! Just break through!"


    "Well, a guard," Dragan elaborated, desperately trying to show that he wasn¡¯t just being a coward. "There¡¯s a thing out there -- it¡¯s strong. I wouldn¡¯t be able to beat it. It¡¯d kill me, easy."


    He had no idea what exactly he was basing that on, but he felt in his gut that it was true. If he crossed that thing, that red-and-blue spectre, he would die. End of discussion.


    Ruth frowned. "I didn¡¯t catch anything like that with my Aether ping."


    So that was what that had been. Dragan had thought he¡¯d stepped on a nail or something.


    "Is it one of those Guardian Entities?" Ruth asked, eyes again fixed on the empty doorway. "One that stops you from leaving a certain place, or something?"


    It was Dragan¡¯s turn to look confused. "Guardian what?" S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth smirked infuriatingly. "You really don¡¯t know, do you?" she asked, obviously enjoying the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to know more than Dragan Hadrien. "Anyway, that doesn¡¯t matter right now. You can¡¯t get out through that door, right?"


    Dragan decided to let the whole ¡¯Guardian Entities¡¯ thing go -- at least for the moment. "Right..." he replied uncertainly.


    "Hold up a sec." Ruth¡¯s face disappeared from the window.


    For a moment, Dragan just stood there, staring blankly -- but when he realized what Ruth intended, he leapt over onto the bed and pressed his body as close to the wall as he could.


    Ruth Blaine was many things, Dragan had observed. But she sure as hell wasn¡¯t quiet.


    The stone brickwork exploded inwards in a hail of dust and rock, showering the spot where Dragan had just been standing. Ruth¡¯s Aether-infused kick had done quite the number on the outside of the monastery -- the massive hole in the wall was now more like a doorway of its own, leading out into the crisp night air.


    Incidentally, it also led out to the horrifying drop to the ground, the length of which would doubtless reduce Dragan to an irritated smear.


    Ruth dropped back down into the gap, hanging from the remaining cobblestone above with one hand. "See?" she said proudly, waving her free hand to show off her work. "Easy as pie."


    Dragan took a cautious step forward, peered down towards the menacing ground below. "I can¡¯t make that jump."


    That didn¡¯t give Ruth pause for even one moment, though, because of course it didn¡¯t. She simply grinned and offered a thumbs-up.


    "Don¡¯t worry," she said. "I¡¯ve thought about that."


    Prester Garth was somewhat loath to waste time on frivolities when so many important matters were arising, but he knew this was absolutely essential.


    His Guardian Entity would make sure the devil-boy didn¡¯t escape, after all -- and the hunt for the rebels would go on outside Coren with or without his supervision. Delegation was the great advancement of humanity: a man could not do everything by himself.


    Hands clasped behind his back, he reached the end of the hallway -- and knocked on the massive, intricately carved door there. A second later, a light, breathy voice called out from inside:


    "Come in!"


    Garth smiled to himself. There was never any other response -- the Good Lady was far too polite to turn away a visitor. Even if a hostile army were to slam on that door, she would still allow them passage. That was the sort of naivety she¡¯d been born for.


    He opened the bulky door -- even with his physical strength, sweat rolled down his forehead -- and bowed as he entered the room.


    The Good Lady¡¯s tastes were certainly unusual -- her personal quarters were half-garden, half-bedroom, the floor removed and replaced with dirt and grass. Trees stretched up, their vines growing into the very walls, and blue moonlight shone in through the great stained glass window at the room¡¯s head. On it, images of the very first people stood at attention, their reachers sweeping and majestic.


    The Good Lady herself was going barefoot, as she was always told not to, kneeling on the ground, watering a huddle of berry-bushes. The hem of her pure-white dress was stained brown with mud -- Garth was sure the Good Lady¡¯s attendants would be overjoyed to hear that.


    Apparently satisfied with her arboreal efforts, the Good Lady turned to look at Garth. Even through the traditional veil that hung over her face, Garth could make out the cheerful expression of the young girl beneath. Two reachers poked out from beneath the veil too -- short and stubby, but undeniably bearing the golden hue of the ruling blood. She smiled at him as she stood up, futilely brushing some grass off her knees.


    "Prester Garth!" she said, putting her watering can down. "I wasn¡¯t expecting to see you today!"


    Garth smiled thinly. "I find a pleasant surprise is good for one¡¯s constitution. In fact--"


    Intruder.


    The jolt of alert cut him off, transmitted through the connection to his Guardian Entity. It had spotted something. Were the rebels making some kind of play? Unlikely, they didn¡¯t have the boldness for suicide.


    The memories of the devil-girl swam into his mind. One of the outsiders, perhaps? If so, it would be best to dispatch them sooner rather than later.


    "Prester?" the Good Lady cocked her head. "Is everything alright?"


    "Of course," Garth chuckled, patting his stomach. "Simply indigestion. Will I ever learn?"


    Find them, Aka Manto, he told his Guardian Entity. And deal with them.

 Chapter 113:5.9: Blue, or Red?

    Garth smiled as he took a sip of the Good Lady¡¯s tea. She¡¯d made it using extracts from the various plants that grew in this chamber -- giving it a distinct green colouration and a strange, almost spicy stench.


    It was rancid, of course, as the Good Lady was not a talented child. Still, it had been earnestly brewed with love, so Garth continued to drink the stuff.


    The Good Lady was the ruler of Coren, and by extension the rest of the world -- at least on paper. Due to her youthful thirteen years, it had been decided that Garth would act as her regent until she was sufficiently mature enough to handle her expected duties.


    It was up to Garth when exactly that was -- but he had no intention of duplicity. So long as he was assured that she would act in the best interests of the people, he would gladly hand over the rights to governance when the time came. But not a second earlier.


    "Are you enjoying your tea, Prester?" the Good Lady asked, happily gulping down the swill. The two of them were sitting at a table out on the balcony, the entirety of Coren spread out before them.


    "Of course," Garth smiled, turning his head to take in the view.


    The city was beautiful at night, the torchlight below making it a gorgeous mirror of the abyssal sky above. Even if Garth had not been visiting the Good Lady, he likely would have come out to see the view anyway.


    Lies are the territory of man, he¡¯d said -- and nowhere was that more true than Coren. Everything they had, everything they¡¯d gained, had been bought with lies. No matter what it took, they would not lose what they had.


    "Are you okay, Prester?" the Good Lady frowned, cocking her head. "You seem distracted."


    "Distracted?" Garth put his cup of tea down on the table with a clink as he leaned back in his too-small chair. "Yes, yes, I suppose I must be. Every day is busy when you¡¯re juggling responsibilities. Governance and Regulation and faith are very different duties, but they must be managed equally."


    In truth, he could handle those jobs without complaint. What had him distracted right now was the fact that one of his prisoners was in the middle of escaping. As one who came from outside the world, that boy¡¯s very existence was corrosive to public happiness.


    He was useful, but not invaluable. If he couldn¡¯t be recovered, he must be killed.


    Surely Aka Manto understood that too.


    "Can¡¯t you, um, delegate?" the Good Lady asked innocently. So very precocious.


    Garth steepled his fingers on the desk in front of him. "Delegation is one of the great innovations of mankind," he nodded. "But sometimes there are matters too important to leave to others. Sometimes, you can only trust that a job has been done well if you are the one to have done it. For example, would you have someone else -- a servant, let¡¯s say -- take care of your flowers?"


    The Good Lady put a finger to her chin. "I guess not."


    "And why is that, precisely?"


    "They might do a bad job. They don¡¯t know about my plants as much as I do. They wouldn¡¯t be able to do it properly."


    Garth smiled. "Exactly. Just like you with your garden, I have to be sure to properly take care of the people and make sure their needs are fulfilled. It¡¯s a thankless task, but one that must be done -- by me right now, but someday by you."


    The Good Lady paled, just a little, at that. Responsibility was a cold weight indeed.


    Dragan¡¯s scream was swallowed by the wind.


    He clung to Ruth¡¯s back as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, from ledge to ledge, the entire architecture of the city seemingly building up to this -- an obstacle course for the girl to rampage through. Every time her feet came down on the roof tiles, Dragan expected her to slip and send the two of them plummeting to their demise.


    It was strange. The buildings on Taldan had been immeasurably taller than the stone towers here, but he got much more of a sense of height from them.


    Perhaps it was because he could see the ground: back on Taldan, falling to your death had been a theoretical thing, something that would eventually happen after a long, long period of falling. Here, though, you could very much see the ending coming.


    Stone against bone, a wet crack, and then nothing -- if you were lucky. If you were unlucky, you got to bleed to death instead as a puddle on the floor.


    "You okay back there?" Ruth called out, her glowing-red hair whipping back into Dragan¡¯s face.


    "Just -- just fine," Dragan growled, spitting out the ponytail. "Nothing but positive thoughts here!"


    "Don¡¯t be an asshole!" Ruth shouted back, executing a truly horrifying leap over a gap between two buildings, her feet barely making the landing on the other side.


    She paused for a moment to catch her breath.


    "I¡¯ll stop being an asshole when you stop running like an asshole," Dragan grumbled, doing his best not to look down. "Is there actually a destination to this, or are we just running around for fun?"


    Hands on her hips, Ruth let Dragan down off her back -- and once he was free, she pointed at the massive cathedral off in the distance. "Y¡¯see that?"


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    "We¡¯re moving away from it. That good enough for you? I¡¯m the one who has to go back there, anyway."


    Dragan brushed some of the stone dust off his clothes -- the black cloak he was wearing still seemed a little strange, but he has to admit he quite liked the look. Maybe he¡¯d get himself a cloak of his own after all this was over.


    Wait, what had she said?


    "What do you mean you have to go back?" he said, looking up from his dusty cloak.


    Ruth shuffled for a moment, then sighed as she scratched the back of her head. It was like she was realizing how absurd the words were even as they were leaving her mouth. "I kinda promised I¡¯d kill a guy in exchange for help finding you," she said. "So, uh, I gotta go back and kill him."


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    Dragan blinked. "So what? Just don¡¯t do it. Let¡¯s get out of here."


    "But I promised."


    "And? Promises are easy to break -- I break them all the time. Besides, if you wanted to kill this guy -- whoever he is -- you should have done it while we were there. Once they find out that I¡¯ve escaped, they¡¯ll ramp up security. You won¡¯t be able to get this guy."


    Ruth winced. Clearly, she knew that Dragan was right, but she didn¡¯t want to admit it. "I had to get you outta there first," she mumbled. "Besides, if I get back there fast, I can do what I need to before they find out you¡¯re gone. Just¡­ just stay here. I¡¯ll be back soon, okay?"


    She didn¡¯t leave any time for Dragan to argue further -- before he could even open his mouth, she¡¯d turned back around and crouched low, ready to leap back the way she¡¯d came --


    -- only to stop when a throwing knife struck the ground in front of her, flying with such force that it ended up buried to the hilt in the stone roof.


    Oh shit.


    "Two paths lie before you," intoned a voice from above -- tinny, as if it were prerecorded. "A path of blue, and a path of red."


    Dragan looked up.


    Floating there, silhouetted by the pale blue moon, was the spectre. It¡¯s red-and-blue cloak billowed around it in the wind, spread out like the wings of a great bird. One arm, wrapped in crimson bandages, protruded from the robe -- and clutched between it¡¯s knuckles were more throwing knives, glinting with deadly promise.


    "The hell¡­?" Ruth muttered.


    As the two of them watched, transfixed, a second arm worked its way out from beneath the cloak. This one was wrapped in sodden blue bandages, and in its hand was clutched a long, curved dagger -- sharp enough and vicious enough to tear through a human carcass with ease.


    It elaborated.


    "The path of blue," it said. "Is to have the life choked from your body with unkind, unclean hands. The path of red is to be crucified upon the stones and left to watch the morning sun. Which do you choose? Blue, or red? Red, or blue?"


    "They both sound so enticing," Dragan muttered, eyes flicking around for escape routes.


    Apart from jumping to their doom, the only paths of movement available were running along more rooftops -- and given that this thing could clearly fly, that wasn¡¯t going to be of much help.


    He looked back to Ruth. "This is the thing I told you about -- the guard. It¡¯s come after us."


    Unlike Dragan, Ruth¡¯s eyes hadn¡¯t left their adversary for even a moment. Her Skeletal claws were bared and her body was low to the ground, ready to move in any direction the instant it became necessary. Her red hair glowed like a torch behind her, bathing the rooftop in sheer light.


    Seeing as they were the technicolour duo, sneaking away wasn¡¯t much of an option either -- which left fighting their way out as the only path open to them.


    "Which do you choose?" the spectre asked again, arms shaking in fury. "Blue, or red? Red, or blue?" It obviously wasn¡¯t going to ask again.


    This behaviour seemed automatic, compulsive -- as if some underlying programming was doing its best to stop the creature from attacking until it received an answer, or until it became obvious that an answer wasn¡¯t coming. Did that mean the spectre would also be compelled to carry out the action they selected?


    If that was the case, then...


    "Blue!" Dragan blurted out. Ruth finally glanced away from the spectre, looking at him as if he were insane. Perhaps he was.


    The way he saw it, they were best off selecting the option that gave them the best chance of victory. Given its obvious strength, the spectre could feasibly use those throwing knives to carry out a crucifixion from range, whereas it would have to come into close proximity in order to strangle them. If it did that, it opened itself up to attacks from Ruth.


    That was assuming Ruth would be able to do anything against it, though. Perhaps he should have thought about this for a few seconds more.


    The spectre¡¯s diamond eyes glared down at Dragan, like a king regarding an insect. "You have chosen the path of blue," it said. "So be it."


    It seemed they were locked into the strategy. Now, when it tried to rush him, Ruth could intercept it based on its trajectory and --


    -- and there were hands wrapped around his throat --


    -- and there was a bone-white mask inches from his face --


    -- and his body had been sent flying backwards smashing against a brick wall.


    The spectre had moved with incomprehensible, horrifying speed, it¡¯s body sparking with coils of red and blue Aether as it strangled Dragan. Ruth whirled around, already running towards the two of them -- even with her skills, though, she¡¯d only realized what had happened after the fact.


    His own blue Aether running through his body, Dragan did his best to pry the bandaged hands off his throat -- but their grip was like twin vices, and the spectre refused to let go. Its spiteful gaze drilled right into Dragan¡¯s skull. Dimly, Dragan heard a kind of choking sound -- only to realize seconds later that it was coming from his own mouth. Would Ruth arrive in time to free him? It didn¡¯t seem likely.


    Dragan¡¯s vision grew dark. This whole thing brought back memories¡­


    Familial hands wrapped around his throat.


    The weak hands of a child beating uselessly against the arms of an adult.


    "If only you didn¡¯t exist. If only you¡¯d never been born..."


    Suddenly, the pressure on Dragan¡¯s neck ceased, and his lungs were able to take in a greedy gulp of oxygen. He fell to his knees, hands massaging his aching throat as he hacked up saliva on the ground. That had been death. Even with everything he¡¯d learnt, that had been seconds from death.


    Ruth stood in front of him protectively, facing off with the floating spectre -- it had moved to a distance again, hovering over the gap between buildings. If nothing else, it had good battle sense: Ruth couldn¡¯t exactly attack it if she had nothing to stand on.


    "You alright?" Ruth growled, not turning away from her enemy for a second.


    "Been better," wheezed Dragan, stumbling to his feet on shaky legs. "Bastard¡¯s got a grip¡­"


    Ruth opened her mouth to say something more, but was interrupted once more by the spectre. This time, it addressed her directly, it¡¯s gaze unbreaking.


    "Two paths lie before you," it said, bandaged legs dangling freely over empty air. "A path of blue, and a path of red. The path of blue is to have your lungs pulled up through your mouth, and to feel their gristle on your teeth. The path of red is to have your stomach sliced open and your ribs spread apart in reverence. Which do you choose? Blue, or red? Red, or blue?"


    "What, it¡¯s my turn now?" Ruth muttered, sharpening her claws together.


    Dragan watched the spectre carefully as it spoke, a plan quickly beginning to congeal in his mind.


    This thing seemed able to concentrate on only one target at a time. At first, that target had been Dragan -- hence that first red-and-blue spiel being directed at him -- but once Ruth had attacked it, she had become the new target. Most likely, the spectre was intended to hunt down single targets only, rather than fighting a group.


    They could exploit that. They could win this.


    "Ruth," Dragan whispered. "Trust me. Pick blue."


    Ruth glanced over at him for a moment, brow furrowed in doubt, before sighing and opening her mouth.


    "Red," she said.

 Chapter 114:5.10: Red, or Blue?

    The spectre floated over the gap between buildings, watching Ruth cautiously as it awaited it¡¯s answer. The thing gave her the creeps.


    "Ruth," Dragan whispered. "Trust me. Pick blue."


    Ruth glanced over at him for a moment. No doubt Dragan had some kind of plan to cheat their way to victory -- but when it came to fighting, Ruth Blaine knew how to win like a fish knew how to swim. She sighed and opened her mouth.


    "Red," she said.


    The creature adjusted its grip on the throwing knives, ever so slightly. "You have chosen the path of red," it said. "So be it."


    The first time the thing had attacked, Ruth hadn¡¯t been able to intercept it -- but now that she had an idea of its speed, she could just move earlier to compensate for it. She lowered her body to the ground, claws crossed in front of her face as if she was expecting her enemy to rush at her.


    There was a glint of moonlight reflecting off a moving knife. There.


    Noblesse Set.


    In the same second, the Noblesse Set manifested around her body and was instantly destroyed with a sound like shattering glass -- accompanied by a scream of pain from her enemy. It had been outplayed.


    The handles of five throwing knives -- still sparking with Ruth¡¯s Aether -- protruded from the spectre¡¯s body, scattered around its torso, crimson blood pouring down from its wounds into the chasm below.


    This thing obviously would prefer to stay at range, so if she gave it the chance to do so it would execute whatever these paths were at a distance. The funny thing, though, was that any projectiles it threw were probably slower than it itself.


    Slow enough for her to counter, at least.


    Ruth ran forward with Aether-flared legs as the spectre writhed in mid-air, reaching over to pull one of the throwing knives out of its shoulder. As if she¡¯d let it do that. She zoomed past Dragan and leapt through the air, colliding with the spectre and seizing hold of it with all her strength -- the throwing knives made excellent handholds.


    The spectre swiped with its free hand, trying to cut through Ruth with the curved blade -- but Ruth simply flipped over onto its back instead, ripping one of the throwing knives out and taking it with her.


    Then, she threw it straight at Dragan.


    The Cogitant¡¯s eyes widened in horror for a moment as the knife zoomed towards him -- but at the last second, just as Ruth had expected, it vanished in a spark of blue Aether. His surprised expression twisted into a cocky grin.


    "Better move your head, Ruth," Dragan said. "Gemini Shotgun."


    There was a flash of blue light -- and in the same moment, the throwing knife reappeared, slamming into the spectre¡¯s stomach with frightening speed, steam rising gently from the blade. Instantly, the head of the spectre snapped to turn to Dragan, and its laboured voice echoed out:


    "Two paths lie before you," it rasped. "A path of blue, and a path of -- argh!"


    Ruth had reached over, still clinging to the creature¡¯s back, and pulled another knife out of its shoulder -- interrupting it¡¯s little monologue. Then, just as she had the first time, she hurled the knife towards Dragan, who absorbed it into his Gemini Shotgun.


    The dance began.


    It was a repetitive but bloody three-person waltz -- the spectre spinning as it¡¯s attention switched between two targets, Ruth tossing blades to Dragan, and Dragan firing those blades right back at the spectre. The five throwing knives were passed back and forth, zooming through the night air like blue dashes of light, each impact accompanied by a wet crack and a splash of blood.


    "Two paths lie before you -- a path of blue and a --"


    Ruth pulled the knife free. The enemy¡¯s eyes snapped to look at her.


    "Two paths lie before you -- a path of --"


    Dragan fired the knife back. The enemy¡¯s eyes snapped to look at him.


    "Two paths lie before --"


    Ruth pulled the knife free. The enemy¡¯s eyes snapped to look at her.


    "Two paths --"


    Dragan fired the knife back. The enemy¡¯s eyes snapped to look at him.


    Just like a robot.


    Ruth grinned to herself as the dance went on -- they could do this, they could win, they were winning! Just like a poorly programmed video-game character, the spectre was only able to focus on a single target at once. Before it could act on that attention, though, the other person was free to launch an attack -- redirecting it¡¯s attention towards them, and on and on until the enemy was defeated. So long as they kept this pace up, eventually the creature would be too damaged to even move -- and then they could finish it off.


    Ruth went to grab the knife once more --


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    -- but her hand met only empty space. The spectre was suddenly gone, replaced by crackling sparkles of red-and-blue Aether, and she was falling. She plummeted into the gap between two buildings -- the last thing she saw before falling out of sight being Dragan¡¯s surprised, horrified face.


    It was a long way down to the ground, but not nearly long enough.


    Dragan blinked uncomprehendingly at the space the spectre had just been occupied. The red-and-blue sparks of Aether remaining soon vanished too, leaving nothing but empty air.


    Ruth had fallen out of sight -- from the timing, there was no doubt it had been intentional. That had been an unorthodox attack on the part of the spectre, but an attack all the same, intended to deal with Ruth and avoid Dragan at the same time.


    But that didn¡¯t make sense.


    The fight they¡¯d had with the spectre so far had been like clockwork -- it responded in specific ways to specific stimuli, and didn¡¯t divert from those behaviours. Had that been intentional on its part? Had it acted predictable in order to bait them into acting predictable, opening them up to an easy counterattack?


    It was possible, very possible. If it was true, though, that implied the spectre had¡­


    "Intelligence, yes," whispered a hollow voice in Dragan¡¯s ear. "It seems you were just a step too slow."


    Dragan went to spin around, but -- just as the spectre had said -- he was far too slow. Before he could even finish the turn, a sudden burning pain erupted on the back of his shoulder, and a scream escaped his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it -- the spectre had thrust one of its remaining knives into his shoulder blade, and was slowly turning it in place even as he looked.


    His body tried to fall to its knees, but the spectre held him up with just the handle of the knife -- which only intensified his agony. The creature tutted as Dragan screamed.


    "You chose the path of blue," it said. "Strangulation with unkind, unclean hands. Rejoice, kin of the Blindman. Your redemption is at hand."


    And with that, it finally turned him around, wrapping the fingers of its free hand around his throat and lifting him into the air.


    It was over. It was over. It was over. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, the chaos it created in his mind scattering any attempt at mustering his Aether. He could feel the bandaged fingers leisurely squeezing tighter and tighter around his throat, tighter and tighter, tighter and tighter, and before long he knew there would be a hollow crunch.


    Feral, hateful eyes inches from his own. Familial hands around his throat.


    "If only you¡¯d never existed," his mother hissed. "If only you¡¯d never been born."


    This was it. They¡¯d lost. His life had ended.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes fluttered closed¡­


    ...only to open again when a flash of radiant light burst up from the gap between the buildings.


    Twenty-five.


    Ruth Blaine fell, the ground inexorably drawing closer as she flailed in the air, limbs buffeted by wind pressure.


    "And there you go," Skipper said. "Proof there¡¯s more to you than you think."


    He was admiring Ruth¡¯s handiwork, what she¡¯d spent the last few weeks painstakingly creating -- the suit of seamless white armour standing upright in the middle of the flight deck.


    The Noblesse Set.


    Twenty-six.


    Ruth wasn¡¯t as pleased, though. She looked down at the ground shamefully, arms crossed. "It¡¯s weak," she hissed.


    "Oh, absolutely," Skipper laughed, poking the Noblesse Set with his index finger and listening to the audible cracking. "One good punch and this thing would shatter like glass."


    Twenty-seven.


    "So it¡¯s trash," Ruth grumbled. "A waste of time. I told you this was a bad idea from the start."


    "A bad idea?" Skipper turned back to Ruth, frowning as if the notion was obviously absurd. "Trash? How do you mean?"


    "You said it yourself, it¡¯s --"


    Twenty-eight.


    "Fragile, yeah -- and it takes about thirty seconds to regenerate -- but that¡¯s the beauty of it, too. All the force that hits the thing goes right back to the thing that hit it. There¡¯s not a person in the world that¡¯s getting a second punch in."


    Twenty-nine. The ground was so very close now, welcoming her.


    "The Noblesse Set can be destroyed, sure," Skipper grinned. "But it can¡¯t ever be defeated."


    Thirty.


    Three things happened in a single second.


    First, the Noblesse Set reappeared around Ruth¡¯s body, the light playing off its surface making it look like some kind of crystalline monster.


    Second, Ruth hit the ground. The sound of shattering glass rang out as the Noblesse Set encasing her body broke apart, white light flooding from the cracks.


    Third, the rebound.


    All the force generated by Ruth¡¯s long fall and impact against the ground was reflected, sending her flying right back up in a shower of bright white light. A springboard born of retaliation.


    As Ruth flew up, her eyes were fixed in determination -- and a second later, they were covered up by the metal mask of her Skeletal Set. Steel claws protruded from her hands and feet, strips of iron encased her torso like an extra ribcage, and her hair flared backwards -- glowing like an inferno.


    The Noblesse Set, something that she¡¯d created rather than destroyed, was proof there was more to her than a petty killer.


    But the Skeletal Set was proof that part of her was very, very good at being a petty killer.


    The spectre¡¯s grip relaxed slightly -- surprise from the bright light, probably -- and in that moment, Dragan retaliated. He slammed his Aether-infused foot into the spectre¡¯s stomach, forcing it to let go as the air was pushed out of its lungs. Then, he jumped backwards, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the enemy.


    That still wouldn¡¯t be enough -- Dragan was painfully aware of that. This thing was nightmare fast; disengaging from the fight simply wasn¡¯t practical. It was kill or be killed.


    On the other side of the roof, Ruth landed on one knee, sparks of red Aether orbiting around her. Her gaze snapped up to regard the spectre, her eyes narrowing.


    Behind the spectre, Dragan plucked one of the fallen throwing knives from the ground and held it forward, his own eyes fixed on where the spectre¡¯s jugular would logically be. He was weak, he knew that, so his only hope was to win in a weak way.


    There was murder in the air.


    "I see," the spectre chuckled. "The final round, hm?"


    Things proceeded naturally from there.

 Chapter 115:5.11: Or Something Else Entirely?

    Dragan had never fought with a knife before -- intended for throwing or otherwise -- but, as he understood it, the general principle was fairly simple to grasp. Hit the thing you want to die with the sharp side.


    He slashed, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder.


    The spectre bent backwards, as if playing limbo, and the knife sailed over it. Before it could retaliate with its own cruel blade, however, Ruth was upon it -- the blurred barrage of her claws forcing the enemy to focus on defending itself rather than countering.


    A smirk played across Dragan¡¯s lips as the spectre focused its efforts on Ruth. The enemy was distracted, had its back to him -- there were no better conditions for Dragan Hadrien to fight in.


    Blue Aether poured through his leg as he slammed it into the spectre¡¯s back, and he swore he heard a choking sound from behind that bone mask as his kick made impact. The sapphire eyes of the creature flicked to look over at Dragan -- and in that moment, Ruth stabbed towards its skull with her claws. In any other situation, that would have been the lethal blow, but this was a world that did not make sense.


    The spectre vanished.


    Instantly, Dragan and Ruth whirled around and jumped towards each other, landing back to back as they watched the surrounding area. This spectre obviously had the ability to appear and reappear -- that was how it had dropped Ruth off the building the first time.


    How was it doing it, though? From what Dragan understood of Aether, it was almost like the spectre was recording its own body, and then somehow continuing to manipulate the Aether while it was inside it. Was that even possible, though?


    Well, clearly it is, if it¡¯s doing it, the Archivist snarked from a far-off corner of his mind. Food for thought, maybe?


    He had no time to consider the intricacies of the ability -- all he had time to worry about was how the spectre was going to use it. Any attack would come with barely a second of warning. Dragan had to be ready to move in any direction the instant it became necessary.


    Ruth clicked her tongue, eyes flicking around the rooftop. "Think it made a run for it?" she asked, voice low.


    Dragan shook his head. "Not a chance."


    "We might still be able to. If --"


    The spectre reappeared, right above and behind Ruth -- and in a flash of movement so fast that Dragan didn¡¯t even have time to think, it wrapped it¡¯s arms around her waist and began flying up at horrifying speeds, taking her with it into the sky.


    Dragan could only watch, mouth open, as the two of them punctured the clouds.


    "Two paths lie before you!" the enemy shouted, barely audible over the sound of rushing wind. "A path of blue, and a path of red!"


    Ruth did her best to lift her arms, to cut apart the thing grabbing her, but the air pressure forced her hands down -- besides, at this altitude, destroying the spectre would mean a lengthy fall for her.


    They were inside a kingdom of clouds above the city, the only building visible in the white landscape being the very tip of Coren¡¯s central monastery. On one side, she could see the moon sinking over the horizon -- on the other, the blue sun slowly rose up.


    If she fell from this height, even the Noblesse Set wouldn¡¯t be enough to save her -- once it sent her flying back up, she¡¯d only go through an identical fall. There had to be another way out of this.


    "To take the path of blue is to rise until air is but a distant dream, and thus to choke on empty lungs!" the spectre roared, fury and frustration leaking from every syllable. "To take the path of red is to return to the earth below, and to become a smear of viscera and regret!"


    Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked down to look at the clouds below. It was funny -- she couldn¡¯t actually see a way out of this. Was this how she went: dropped like a brick by an opponent she didn¡¯t even know the name of?


    No. She¡¯d make it a spectacle, at the very least.


    "What¡¯s your name?" she whispered, voice almost swallowed by the wind. Still, the spectre heard her, and responded.


    "Aka Manto," it said. "I am the one who stands atop history. Blue, or red? Which path will you walk?"


    Blue or red, huh? It all came down to that? Ruth¡¯s answer rose to her lips.


    "Fuck you, Aka Manto. I¡¯ll make my own path." And without another word, she moved like lightning.


    A corona of red Aether spread out as Ruth broke the spectres grip on her -- and in the moment before she fell, she whirled around and slashed her enemy with all the speed and power her claws could muster. The spectre screamed out in pain, and copious red blood flew off into the night, the vertical wound Ruth had inflicted up the creature¡¯s torso gushing generously.


    And with that --


    -- she fell.


    A star fell to the earth that night.


    Dragan could do nothing but watch as what he knew was Ruth Blaine broke through the cloud layer -- an Aether-red shooting star falling back to the ground at terrible speed.


    She would die. Dragan knew that the second he saw her. Falling at that speed, with that velocity, she would die. Her skills and her Aether would not be enough to save her -- not even close.


    In a few seconds, if things carried on like this, she would be dead.


    The world slowed down. Seconds became minutes.


    "What¡¯re you thinking?" the Archivist asked, sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs swinging like a child.


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    "What do you mean?" Dragan mumbled, his eyes still fixed on Ruth¡¯s slowly descending form.


    "Don¡¯t play coy, dickhead," the Archivist frowned. "I¡¯m your thought process. If I¡¯m here, that means you¡¯re thinking about something. What is it?"


    Indeed, off in the distance, Dragan could see signs of his Archive infiltrating the waking world. Stark-white mixtures between towers and bookshelves rose up past the city, silhouetted by ever-present fog. Even the colour of the tiles beneath his feet was beginning to peel away like old wallpaper.


    As his Archive slowly came into being, the vague idea in Dragan¡¯s head too began to coalesce into a plan.


    "Gemini Shotgun," he muttered.


    His Archivist nodded -- it would almost seem encouraging, if not for the mocking smile on his lips. "What about it?" he prompted, voice snide. "Tell me about Gemini Shotgun."


    "It records projectiles headed towards me and then manifests them, with my own Aether infused for an extra boost."


    "How very impressive," the Archivist chuckled. "So you¡¯re going to shoot Ruth out of the sky and spare her the pain of hitting the ground? That sounds like something you¡¯d do, I¡¯ll give you that."


    Dragan shook his head, but he already knew there was no need to. The Archivist wasn¡¯t even a real being -- there was no way for him to misinterpret what Dragan was thinking. All the brat represented, right now, was doubt.


    "At the speed Ruth¡¯s moving," Dragan said. "And the direction -- technically, technically, she could be considered a projectile. Right?" He glanced towards the Archivist. "That could work, right? I could record her and then just put her down again?"


    The Archivist rubbed his chin. "You¡¯re the one who trained your mind to specifically catch projectiles in your Aether. If you can convince yourself Ruth Blaine is a projectile, I don¡¯t see any reason why it wouldn¡¯t work."


    So there was a chance, then. That was all Dragan needed.


    "Still," the Archivist grinned wickedly. "Don¡¯t you think--"


    Dragan began running forwards, and all signs of his Archive vanished in an instant. Colour returned to the world.


    Ruth was a bullet. He had to believe that, utterly believe it. Ruth was a bullet. Ruth was a bullet fired from the sky. Therefore, there was nothing unusual about him catching her with his Gemini Shotgun.


    A bullet was made of matter. Ruth was made of matter. The form that matter took was irrelevant. If someone fired a bullet of bone at Dragan, he¡¯d be able to catch it, so this was no different. The only difference was the size. There were no other concerns.


    It was natural for him to be able to catch this bullet, after all.


    Ruth plummeted to the ground in front of Dragan and -- in the very last possible second -- vanished in a spark of blue Aether.


    For a moment, Dragan only stared at the empty space in front of him, hardly daring to believe he¡¯d actually done it -- and then his Aether flared around him, burning at his skin and forcing him to his knees. Chaotic blue sparks raged around his body.


    He¡¯d gone beyond his capabilities. The biggest thing he¡¯d caught before this had been a throwing knife -- the bullet called Ruth Blaine was way beyond that. It was the difference between lifting dumbbells and lifting a house.


    Dragan could hear his bones creaking inside his own body. Was this what they called an Aether burn, then? If he carried on like this, something inside his body would snap in the next few seconds. Something vital.


    With a roar of exertion, and the last reserves of energy he had, Dragan released Ruth from his Gemini Shotgun -- she was still falling with some speed, but just slowly enough that her Aether was able to defend against the damage. The second Dragan saw that she was still breathing, he collapsed forward, unable to so much as lift his arms to keep himself from falling on his face.


    He felt her arms lift him up, supporting the back of his neck to raise him into a sitting position. Ruth¡¯s face was pale -- no doubt she¡¯d thought that her life was going to end. Yes, definitely -- he could feel the hands holding him shaking slightly.


    Oh, shut up, he told himself. Stop thinking. Stop noticing stuff. I¡¯m way too tired.


    "The hell did you do?!" Ruth cried out, shocked. "W-Was that you?! It was like¡­ it was like I was nowhere -- no, no, I was still here, but it was just me, and I couldn¡¯t move or anything¡­"


    The mind played funny tricks when you were made out of Aether, it seemed. Dragan chuckled and instantly regretted it as his throat burned.


    "Used my Aether¡­" he choked out, and as they left his throat he knew these would be the last words he¡¯d be saying for a while. "Caught you. Gemini Shotgun. We need to go."


    "Huh?!" Ruth was understandably still disoriented, but there was no time for that. That thing would be coming back if they gave it the chance.


    "We need to get out of here," Dragan mouthed, his vocal cords spent -- and this time it seemed to register with Ruth.


    With a shaky nod, she pulled him up onto her back, his arms linked around her neck. Aether flaring around her legs, she began running -- and the wind began to buffet against his face.


    He didn¡¯t much care about that, though -- he was already long unconscious.


    Asleep, slouched in her chair, the Good Lady seemed as vulnerable as any child. To the unwary assassin, she would seem an easy target -- but her Guardian Entity was never far away, space permitting.


    That was the only reason Prester Garth kept his voice down. No matter how disastrous the circumstances, no matter what fury boiled in his heart, he could not lose his composure. Losing your composure was the immediate prologue to losing your objective.


    He permitted himself only the smallest growl as he addressed his own Guardian Entity, floating serenely in the air before him.


    "This is very disappointing."


    Aka Manto bowed theatrically, it¡¯s cloak swishing through the air as it did so. "Yes," it said, with a voice like grinding stone. "I understand. They were formidable opponents. I was outmatched." S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Garth sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he turned back to gaze over the city. Things were peaceful now, but in the corner of his mind¡¯s eye he could see the fires of the war that he knew had been waged outside. Those flames were presumptuous -- if they were allowed to even see the peace that had been built here, they would engulf it.


    He would not allow that. He had a duty of protection.


    "Go," he finally said to his Guardian Entity. "Leave the city, find Nael. Tell him I will be supporting his hunt for the rebels from this day forward. I will spare no expense."


    Aka Manto nodded. "Yes, my lord." And a second later, it was gone.


    Garth stared at the red-and-blue godsblood Aka Manto had left behind as it faded away. The Guardian Entity that had been passed down to him was capable of moving at a far greater range and with much more independence than it¡¯s brethren, but at the end of the day it was still a mere Guardian Entity -- more of a mechanism than a lifeform. It was locked into simple, repetitive behaviours, and ruled over humans through power rather than wit.


    He¡¯d always thought himself above such means, but...


    Garth sighed, cracking his knuckles. Violence was a primitive and lamentable art, and he did his best not to indulge it, but lies were the territory of man, and the source of man¡¯s happiness. His gaze drifted back to the gently sleeping Good Lady, to the gently sleeping city past her. Within a few hours, it would be time for the city to wake. Time for merchants to open their stalls, time for children to run to school, time for life to proceed in all its glory.


    They¡¯d stolen this peace from the jaws of the Blindman himself -- and that made it fragile, bolstered only by kind and well-intentioned falsehood. Bolstered only by beautiful lies.


    If the only way to maintain those beautiful lies was with the blood of truthtellers, then so be it.

 Chapter 116:5.12: Welcome Home, Welcome Back

    Six years ago¡­


    "Well," Robin smiled, Ruth¡¯s claws tickling against her throat as she was held against the wall. "This seems familiar."


    "Shut up," Ruth growled. She¡¯d already decided -- she wouldn¡¯t let words get in the way of her job ever again.


    This attack was much more audacious than their first attempt, but that was by necessity. After Ruth had ambushed the convoy to grab Robin the first time, security had been stepped up, and now the Barridad brat was rarely allowed outside of her own private villa.


    The only logical thing to do, then, was attack that private villa.


    They were in the ruined conservatory, walls marked with deep claws and ceiling half-collapsed, Ruth holding Robin up against one of the few panes of glass that hadn¡¯t been smashed in the battle. The bodies of Barridad¡¯s suited goons were strewn around, many still clutching their pistols.


    Robin¡¯s smile shifted subtly into a frown. "Why are you doing the same exact thing again? If you do things the same way, you¡¯ll end up with an identical result. You do understand that, don¡¯t you?"


    Ruth grinned viciously. "I¡¯m not doing things the same way. This time, if you try anything, I¡¯ll take your fingers."


    The girl raised an eyebrow, infuriatingly calm. "My fingers?"


    "Y-You don¡¯t need fingers to live," Ruth muttered. There it was again -- whenever this Barridad girl questioned you, she had a way of making you feel foolish, making you question just what the hell you thought you were doing. It was annoying as hell.


    "I know¡­ but my fingers? If you¡¯re going to kill me, just kill me. Don¡¯t mess around with my hands. I need those.*


    Finally losing her patience, Ruth pulled her captive away from the glass, whirling her around and beginning to bind her hands behind her back. "You need them," she growled. "We don¡¯t. All we need is you alive."


    "It¡¯s a pretty day outside, isn¡¯t it?" Robin asked -- from her new position, she could see outside the broken windows to look out at the thick jungle below. The sun hung high in the sky, and the sounds of insects and beasts filled the air. Mountains crowned the horizon.


    Oh no, oh no no no. She was doing it again. She was about to use her goddamn words. "Shut up," Ruth demanded. "I¡¯m serious -- I¡¯ll actually kill you."


    Robin smiled at her over her shoulder, as if they were good friends just hanging out.


    "Okay," she laughed. "Actually kill me, then."


    Five years ago¡­


    "Not so cocky now, are ya?" Ruth smirked, slamming Robin against the ground with one Aether-infused hand.


    "You got me," Robin winced at the sudden impact, but the slam didn¡¯t do any serious damage -- it hadn¡¯t been intended to. "How are we playing this?"


    "You¡¯re coming with me."


    "We both know I¡¯m not. What do you want?"


    Ruth hesitated. This time, she¡¯d grabbed Robin shortly after her return from one of her rare off-planet excursions -- the switch between the two different security teams had left her a brief window in which to act. She had to be quick, though -- the new team of guards would arrive before long.


    "What I want," Ruth grunted, pulling Robin to her feet. "Is for you to come with me."


    Robin sighed theatrically as she was yanked up before brushing the dust from her dress. There was no trace of anxiety or caution in her stance -- and even Ruth had to admit that, by this point, there was no reason for there to be any.


    Threats became less convincing the more you repeated them, after all.


    "Come with you?" Robin asked, raising that infuriating eyebrow. "I¡¯m sort of busy, I can¡¯t. How about the usual exchange instead?"


    Ruth hesitated for a moment, her claws lifted up. At what point had this become the usual exchange? After the fourth failure, Grave had accepted this was all he was going to get when it came to Robin Barridad, but had Ruth accepted that as well?


    You could teach her otherwise, a nasty little voice inside her suggested. Bring down that claw and show her who¡¯s boss.


    But she couldn¡¯t. She could never. She knew that, and Robin knew that. Those words she¡¯d given to Ruth so long ago had become a virulent poison:


    "Hm¡­ I suppose I must¡¯ve thought you were a good person?"


    That question, that damn question. It made you so badly want to prove it true.


    Ruth replied, her voice an almost sullen croak: "The usual exchange."


    As if she was ever going to say anything else. Robin put her hands on her hips and stood almost proudly, her smile wide.


    "In three days time," she said calmly. "My father¡¯s going to be bringing in a shipment of new supplies for his security forces. Rifles and mines for the jungle. They¡¯re coming in at Hangar 3. If you hit it then, you can make things a lot easier for yourselves."


    There it was -- Robin Barridad the traitor, leaking military secrets.


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    Did she even understand what she was doing? The way she stood there, smiling innocently -- it was like she thought this was all just a game. That she could play however she wanted without ever experiencing the consequences.


    But she doesn¡¯t experience consequences, Ruth reminded herself. You¡¯ve made sure of that, haven¡¯t you?


    Four years ago¡­


    The moon was beautiful that night. It hung above the villa, huge, casting it¡¯s radiance down on the jungle below. It was almost like a spotlight shining on Ruth and Robin as they sat on the roof of the building, out of sight of any guards.


    "You know what the most evil thing in the world is?" Robin asked, staring up at the satellite as she took a bite of a nutrient bar.


    Ruth lay on her back, arms serving as a pillow as she stared up at the sky. Her punchpoint assault rifle lay on the roof next to her. "Nah," she said. "Tell me."


    "Hope." Like it had so many times recently, a shadow passed over Robin¡¯s face -- and the moonlight seemed to grow a little dimmer as her smile faded.


    Ruth blinked, clearing her throat uncomfortably. "That¡¯s, uh¡­ that¡¯s kinda dark."


    "It¡¯s the truth," Robin shrugged, still looking up. "It¡¯s the worst thing there is. Hope is like someone pulling you up out of the water -- and then letting you go right before you reach the surface. Sometimes I think it¡¯d be better just to get used to drowning."


    From what Ruth understood, over the last couple of months, Admiral Barridad had been doing his utmost to arrange a political marriage for his daughter -- the Three Wise Men had many children, and an alliance with the leaders of the Body would pretty much give Zed Barridad carte blanche for life. As a source of anxiety, it was as alien to Ruth as guns and bullets were to Robin, but she supposed everyone had their trials.


    "If it was up to me¡­" Robin began, before trailing off. "No, nevermind."


    Ruth raised an eyebrow. "What?" she laughed.


    "I said nevermind," Robin snapped.


    Silence settled over the roof. Their conversations had been ending like this more and more often lately, casual chats suddenly crashing into a brick wall and stopping dead. This must be what it felt like, Ruth guessed, when real life became real.


    A few minutes passed in utter silence, save for the clicking of the insects and the creaking of the wood.


    "It¡¯s starting to rain," Robin muttered.


    "Yeah."


    Even with that, they didn¡¯t move again for quite a while.


    Three years ago...


    "I¡¯m serious," Robin¡¯s voice was tinny, distorted over the radio. "This is the best chance you¡¯ll get."


    Ruth glanced towards Grave, the leader of the resistance sitting behind his desk as he considered Robin¡¯s proposal. Over the course of the last three years, Robin Barridad had proved an invaluable inside source, but was her intelligence trusted enough to go this far?


    When no reply was immediate, Robin repeated herself as if she just hadn¡¯t been heard: "He¡¯s going hunting for that big paleobeast that rampaged through town. He¡¯s excited about it -- he¡¯s only taking a couple of guards -- it¡¯ll be easy. If you ambush him, you can take him out."


    Robin had said last year that hope was an evil thing, but in this case it seemed that she was holding onto it with both hands. If her father died, she would be free to live her own life -- so getting her father killed was the best course of action for her. Ruth had no doubt that was what was going through her mind.


    Graves¡¯ finger tapped against his desk rhythmically as he considered the proposal. He¡¯d wanted Barridad dead for years -- devoted a great deal of time and resources to that task. Even before he spoke, Ruth knew there was no chance he¡¯d let this slip through his fingers.


    "Very well," Graves said finally. "We¡¯ll split our forces into two teams: Ruth will act alone and extract you before the operation begins -- you¡¯ll need to break away from your father at a prearranged location. The rest will wait at his entourage¡¯s final destination to execute the ambush itself. Understand, Ruth?"


    Ruth nodded, offering a clumsy salute. The fact that she¡¯d given mercy to Robin Barridad had ceased to be a problem the moment it became useful, but it was still surreal to see Rupert Graves so damn agreeable.


    "I¡¯ll send the details of the meeting spot over as soon as I get the chance," Robin said, her voice giddy with excitement. "I¡¯ll see you soon, okay?"


    "Okay," Ruth grinned. The endless monotony of the resistance, sneaking through the jungle, had very suddenly erupted into fire and change. The excitement was contagious.


    The radio clicked off, and that was the last time she ever spoke to Robin Barridad.


    Present day¡­


    The same dream again.


    Ruth opened her eyes and -- without taking even a moment to properly wake up -- began stretching, noting with satisfaction every pop of her joints. As a guerilla fighter, you had to be ready to move at any time. Sleep wasn¡¯t rest, it was just time that you were staying still, a mode you had to switch out of when it became necessary.


    Once she was satisfied she could move properly, Ruth stood up and began walking out of the cave she¡¯d slept in. After they¡¯d returned from Coren, the resistance had been forced to go on the run immediately to avoid the Regulator forces -- which had led them to these tunnels.


    With everything that had happened, there hadn¡¯t been time to talk -- but now Ruth could feel it. A familiar, cold weight in her chest: it was time to face the music.


    Lily Aubrisher was already waiting at the mouth of the tunnel, arms crossed as Ruth approached.


    "I haven¡¯t had time to ask you yet," she said, but from the tone of her voice Ruth could tell she had no doubt about what had happened.


    Well, that was no problem. Ruth remembered the lines to this production. "Ask me what?"


    You know, they¡¯d say.


    "You know," Lily muttered. "What I asked you to do. What you promised to do. Is Prester Garth dead?" Her gaze was twin daggers.


    Ruth closed her eyes, sighed. Dragan had told her just to break her promise, that it¡¯d be easy, but she got the feeling he wasn¡¯t the kind of person who felt shame -- or, at least, he didn¡¯t feel it like Ruth did. It bubbled in her stomach like melted butterflies.


    "Ruth?" Despite the difference in their age, Ruth couldn¡¯t help but hear Rupert Grave in Lily¡¯s voice. They were one of a kind in at least that regard -- they were willing to do whatever it took to win.


    And Ruth, as per usual, found herself dragged through the dirt behind them.


    "He¡¯s not dead," she finally muttered, thumping her fist against the rock wall in frustration. "There wasn¡¯t any time."


    Lily didn¡¯t say anything in reply. Instead, she simply sighed, glared at Ruth dismissively, turned and walked away. It was far more effective than any screaming rant could have been -- and so, so very familiar. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Welcome home, said the dripping of water from the stalactites.


    Welcome home, said the far-off screeching of what might have been bats.


    Welcome home, said the burning in her heart.


    Welcome home, they said. Welcome back.

 Chapter 117:5.13: Nael Manron

    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked open. The dark stone of a cave loomed above him -- and in the distance, he could hear echoed whispering.


    Was he dead? It certainly felt like it. His entire body was screaming at him, as if every nerve was trying to break away and make a go of it for themselves. His body temperature was shifting, rapidly, from a burning fever to an ice-cold chill. His body was trying to fight off what had happened to him, but it couldn¡¯t quite work out how to do it.


    So it was trying all the usual tricks. Lucky him.


    "You¡¯ve looked better," came a voice from his side. Sockets stinging, Dragan flicked his eyes over to look at the source of the voice.


    Bruno sat on a nearby rock -- covered up with a threadbare blanket -- his chin in his hands as he regarded Dragan.


    "Where am I?" Dragan groaned, lifting his own hand up to rub his forehead -- only to immediately regret the exertion and lay it back down on the makeshift bed beneath him.


    "Rebel camp," Bruno replied, curt. "Ruth got you back here after you did that Aether burn -- which was stupid, by the way."


    Dragan sighed. "It was necessary."


    "Doesn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t stupid."


    Fair enough.


    Indeed, now that he was feeling the aftereffects of an Aether burn for himself, he had no desire to ever do it again. Bruno and Serena had done this on Taldan, and had been back on their feet not long after. Dragan hadn¡¯t quite realized how impressive that was until now.


    Still, there were more important things to be concerned about than Bruno¡¯s position in Dragan¡¯s imaginary tier list.


    "Rebel camp?" muttered Dragan, Bruno¡¯s words replaying in his head. "What, so there¡¯s rebels and everything now?"


    "Apparently," Bruno nodded. He didn¡¯t seem any more enthusiastic about their current situation. "And we¡¯re being hunted by the ruling government, in case you were curious."


    Dragan squeezed his eyes shut. Now that he was thinking about it, being unconscious really hadn¡¯t been that bad at all. He sort of missed it


    "Sounds like a pain in the ass," he finally replied.


    "It is," Bruno said -- and from the sound of his voice, Dragan could tell that he was nodding. "Skipper¡¯s here, too -- he¡¯s still unconscious, though."


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked back open. "Unconscious? How long has it been?"


    "Since we crashed here? Two days, around."


    "Shit," Dragan hissed. It wasn¡¯t a good sign if Skipper was still out. Not that he really cared or anything, but it didn¡¯t bode well for his health.


    Bruno raised a hand placatingly, no doubt mistaking the irritation on Dragan¡¯s face for concern. "Don¡¯t worry," he said. "One of the rebels here has a healing ability. They¡¯re keeping him stable. He¡¯s mending -- slowly, but still mending."


    Dragan sighed in relief. There was that, at least. He looked up at the rock above and sniffed the wet cave air.


    "So," he said at last. "Where¡¯s Ruth?"


    Ruth traipsed through the woods behind Lily, hands stuffed into her pocket and her gaze cast down to the ground. It felt strange to be nervous around someone younger than her, but this was an uncomfortable situation to be in.


    "So he¡¯s not dead," Lily hissed, ducking under a tree branch as they moved forward on the patrol.


    Truth be told, the girl probably should have still been receiving treatment, but Ted had apparently reached the limits of his control over her.


    Ruth sucked in air through her teeth. "Things got complicated -- that thing you told me about, the red-and-blue thing you saw under the monastery, it came after us."


    Lily hesitated just a second, her hand resting on the tree trunk next to her. "It did?"


    Ruth nodded. "Nearly killed us. It was strong. We weren¡¯t in any shape to go back and finish things up."


    The glare Lily cast back at her could have frozen fire. "Go back?" she asked. "Why would you need to go back? You should¡¯ve done it while you were there without fucking around."


    The girl didn¡¯t wait for a response -- instead continuing her march through the woods, reaching a clearing from which the slopes of the mountain could be seen. Far, far below, the tents of the Regulator¡¯s war camp could be seen.


    Since the Regulators had stepped up their hunt for the rebels, they¡¯d been forced to relocate further away from Coren -- making a temporary base in the caves of this mountain, Abrais¡¯ Peak. It was a huge piece of geography, covered in forests and overgrowth, perfect to hide in.


    But even that wouldn¡¯t last forever.


    "How soon until they start climbing, d¡¯you think?" Ruth muttered, looking down at the tiny dots that must have been soldiers.


    Lily scowled. "Not long. They don¡¯t waste time once they¡¯ve set up an operating base. The old guy you captured squealed quick -- but since they¡¯ve changed up their strategies now, the intel we got from him isn¡¯t of much use."


    The unspoken accusation -- you messed it up -- was practically beating its fists against her words.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author¡¯s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Ruth ignored the obvious hostility. "You got a plan?"


    "I¡¯ll think of something."


    "Like what?"


    Another freezing glare. "I don¡¯t know yet. I haven¡¯t thought of it yet."


    A sigh escaped Ruth¡¯s throat. She¡¯d never thought she¡¯d miss Rupert Grave, but at least his resistance had been properly planned out. Improvisation was good for a single fight, but when waging a guerilla war you needed someone who could plan ahead.


    She bit her lip as a thought occurred. He¡¯d only just woken up, and it would increase his ego to apocalyptic levels, but¡­


    "I think," Ruth said reluctantly. "I might have thought of something."


    "Let me get this straight," Dragan smirked as he forced himself into a sitting position.


    Lily and Ruth were standing before him -- Dragan hadn¡¯t met the leader of these rebels yet, and he had to admit she wasn¡¯t what he¡¯d expected. Ideally, a resistance would have a leader with some kind of military experience, who looked like they knew what they were doing -- not a teenage girl who looked as if she¡¯d never seen a comb in her life.


    Still, her eyes were firm. On the inside, at least, she seemed to know what she was doing.


    Bruno lingered at the entrance to the cave, arms crossed as he leaned against the stone wall. His eyes were closed as if he were resting, but it was clear that Serena would jump out of him at the first sign of danger. With the amount of stone here, she¡¯d have no difficulty creating strong weapons.


    Ruth rubbed the bridge of her nose with two tired fingers. "Could you not?" she sighed.


    Dragan frowned. "Not what?" he asked with devilish innocence.


    "Can you not do the thing where you say let me get this straight," Ruth replied -- doing her best to make her Dragan impression as dopey as possible. "And then you go over our plan and make it sound really stupid, and then you agree to do it anyway."


    Dragan¡¯s frown deepened. "Did you read ahead in the script or something?"


    "If you¡¯re going to do it," Lily snapped, tapping her foot impatiently. "Then do it. Stop wasting my time."


    "Of course," Dragan nodded respectfully -- and a second later, the smug smirk returned to his face. "So let me get this straight, you¡¯ve gone and gotten us trapped inside a mountain while the people wanting to kill us surround us on all sides."


    Lily sniffed, jerking her head in Ruth¡¯s direction. "Isn¡¯t me who got us trapped."


    Dragan ignored the jab. "And now, the next step of your master plan is to approach some guy you¡¯ve never spoken to before and ask him to come up with a plan to save you, because his friend says he¡¯s real smart."


    "It¡¯s more than that. From what Blaine says, people like you are beyond smart, even if they¡¯re assholes." Lily¡¯s eyes narrowed. "You won¡¯t do it?"


    The aching in Dragan¡¯s body reached its zenith, and he was finally forced to lie back on the bed. He rolled over on his stomach to continue looking at the others, looking for all the world like a sea lion peeking over a rock.


    "Well, of course I¡¯ll do it," he chuckled, with confidence not suited for his bizarre position. "I just hope you appreciate how stupid it is."


    The slightest smile played across Ruth¡¯s lips. Had she really thought he wouldn¡¯t do it? He¡¯d die too if these assholes caught up to them. He wasn¡¯t so petty that he¡¯d let that happen.


    "So," Dragan said, the gears of his mind already beginning to churn. "We¡¯ve got Regulator forces surrounding the mountain on all sides. I can¡¯t imagine they¡¯ve got enough guys that there¡¯s a full perimeter, though -- so there¡¯s big war camps with smaller patrols running between them, right?"


    Lily blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, that¡¯s exactly it. Did someone tell you?"


    "Nope."


    Her eyes widened. "That¡¯s¡­"


    Dragan¡¯s smirk spread into a grin. "Spooky, right? What¡¯s their commander like? They¡¯ve been chasing you for a while, from what I understand -- given the timeframe since our escape, I doubt they¡¯d have put someone else in charge yet even if they wanted to."


    Lily spat on the ground. "Their commander? Dickhead named Nael Manron. Sanctimonious true believer type. He¡¯s been after us for months now, but never this close."


    Sanctimonious true believer type, huh? An unwelcome image of Atoy Muzazi drifted into Dragan¡¯s mind. He¡¯d hoped he was done with that man back on Taldan, but if this Nael Manron was anything like him, that actually worked in Dragan¡¯s favour.


    After all, Atoy Muzazi was an instrument that Dragan knew how to play.


    Nael Manron flipped through the scouts reports with his hands, eyes scanning through each page in seconds. Nothing he saw there was outside his expectations, unfortunately.


    The captain of the scouts and his personal aide, Grena, shifted uncomfortably in front of him, her feet tapping against the ground. That was only natural -- the green-haired girl had been one of the forest folk before joining the Regulators, and preferred to move through the trees than stand around. He¡¯d send her back out before long; he had no desire to extend her discomfort.


    He reached the end of the stack of papers, putting them down on the desk in front of him. "And you saw no sign of them either, Grena?" he asked.


    The scout shook her head, her thin straight reachers audibly swishing through the air with the movement. The dark-green poncho she wore for camouflage rustled as well -- looking at her and hearing her was truly like seeing the forest personified.


    "No trace," she signed hurriedly with her hands. "But they came here. Are here. I can smell them."


    That was more than superstition -- before the war, the forest folk¡¯s keen sense of smell had been well known. If Grena was certain they were here, he was certain.


    Nael sighed as he adjusted his red long-coat, running a hand over his ringed reacher and through his pale-white hair. As one of the youngest Regulators of his rank, he¡¯d been trusted with this assignment, but the length of the odyssey was proving truly exhausting.


    And then there had been the visit from Aka Manto. A shiver ran down Nael¡¯s spine -- that Guardian Entity had appeared while he was resting in bed, hovering inches from his face. It truly had no sense of decorum.


    The Head Regulator wanted this matter resolved as soon as possible. How much more would he tolerate?


    As Nael considered his immediate future, the entrance to the tent twitched -- and a moment later, a red-faced junior Regulator stumbled on, hurriedly saluting.


    "Sir!" he exclaimed, clearly out of breath. "There¡¯s a¡­ there¡¯s¡­"


    Grena took a protective step towards Nael, but he raised a hand of placation -- he knew his aide was always wary of assassins, but he had nothing to fear from this young man.


    "You speak to a friend," Nael said calmly. "Catch your breath."


    The junior Regulator nodded, taking a few deep breaths to calm down. Then, they continued:


    "It¡¯s the enemy leader, sir. They¡¯ve come to meet with you." Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan Hadrien was beginning to think this was a very bad idea.

 Chapter 118:5.14: The Slow Battle

    Dragan Hadrien was beginning to think this was a very bad idea.


    Then again, it had only just started -- was it really fair for him to judge a book by it¡¯s cover? This was his plan, after all. Surely he¡¯d put at least a little bit of thought into it. Even if he¡¯d been unconscious for the last couple of days, Dragan was sure his mind could come up with a pretty good strategy. He just needed to have more confidence in himself.


    His present circumstances were certainly helping with that.


    Dragan¡¯s body still wasn¡¯t in such good shape that he could just walk around and do whatever he wanted -- so, for his visit to the enemy camp, he¡¯d enlisted two of Lily Aubrisher¡¯s rebels to carry the old bulky chair he was sitting on. He lounged back in the wooden furniture as they grunted, transporting him past the entrance to the Regulator¡¯s warcamp.


    Bruno walked beside them, his eyes betraying a certain dismal hopelessness -- no doubt he thought this plan was suicide. Dragan couldn¡¯t exactly blame him.


    The Regulator camp was a stark contrast to what he¡¯d seen of the ¡¯resistance" so far. S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The hollow-eyed, frightened rebels were replaced with firm, disciplined soldiers.


    The ramshackle supply chains and overworked maintenance staff were replaced by orderly patrols of camp followers, making sure everything was in working order.


    The young, overconfident leader was replaced by the man walking towards them, red long-coat waving in the wind.


    Ah, Dragan thought. Maybe this really was a bad idea.


    The man seemed to be in his late twenties, but even so his short hair was stark-white, and his eyes were hard enough to indicate a great deal of experience. Two antlers -- reachers or whatever they were called -- sprouted from his temples, stretching out a short distance before terminating in symmetrical ring structures. Dragan knew this must be the enemy leader, the one he¡¯d been told about --


    "Good day to you," the man said, voice suspicious.


    -- Nael Manron. The one thought to be among the strongest of the Regulators. The one said to have the weakest Guardian Entity of them all.


    Dragan¡¯s procession put the chair down on the ground, and he crossed his legs as he finally had solid ground beneath his feet again. Manron¡¯s eyes flicked from the two frightened-looking rebels, to Bruno, back to Dragan.


    He¡¯d obviously identified Bruno as the biggest threat among them. Dragan was only one step out of unconsciousness, and the obvious terror on the other two faces made them lambs practically begging for the slaughter.


    Manron had no way of knowing about Serena, though -- they had that little trick in reserve if they needed it.


    First, though, the pleasantries.


    "And a good day to you as well," Dragan smiled, slouching back in his seat and ignoring his body¡¯s resultant twinge of protest. "I¡¯d like to negotiate a few matters with you, if that¡¯s alright."


    Manron raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with the person next to him -- a short, dark-haired woman with a green bandana pulled up to cover the bottom half of her face. A bodyguard, maybe?


    The Regulator¡¯s eyes flicked back to Dragan. "I fear you haven¡¯t quite thought this situation through. You are obviously infirm, those two are frightened out of their wits, and your competent bodyguard is hopelessly outnumbered. Why exactly would I indulge in any kind of negotiation with you?"


    So he had a bit of a better head on his shoulders than Atoy Muzazi. Still, no matter how smart they were, a sucker remained a sucker.


    Dragan¡¯s smile spread just a bit wider. "Because we have a hostage, of course. One of your Regulators you sent to attack us back in the forest."


    Nael¡¯s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he now had a foot in the door.


    Dragan had to admit: the situation so far had given him some good cards to play in a confrontation such as this. If not for the existence of the hostage, and his knowledge of Nael Manron¡¯s character, this whole endeavour would have been nothing but a suicide mission. There was little room for deviation, but with these pre-existing conditions, Dragan had a plausible route to achieve his three objectives.


    The first was to discover more about the Regulators, their Guardian Entities, and how the whole system worked.


    The second was to sew doubt within the ranks, to weaken any united front the Regulators may try and form.


    The third was to buy some damn time -- otherwise, Dragan had no doubt they¡¯d all be dead before the sun next set.


    Nael Manron glared. "And what exactly do you want to discuss, kin of the Blindman?"


    Dragan didn¡¯t blink, didn¡¯t look away, didn¡¯t break his gaze when faced with the animosity practically blasting from Manron¡¯s eyes. Instead, he simply steepled his fingers together as he lounged in his chair, smile already opening into a grin.


    "How about we get somewhere a little more private?" he asked, the eyes of the camp upon him. "This whole thing might get a little embarrassing for you."


    Nael wasn¡¯t sure exactly what he¡¯d expected from a space alien, only that it wasn¡¯t quite this.


    The stories he¡¯d read as a child -- Yuno Balda and the Last Lunatics -- had consistently portrayed aliens as tentacled beasts from the moon, only intelligent enough to beg for mercy as the protagonist cut them down. He¡¯d spent many fun nights in his attic bedroom back then, waving a stick around as he imagined he was the World Knight Balda himself.


    That had been fantasy, however. Any time he¡¯d actually considered the idea of alien life, he¡¯d assumed that anything not of this world would be adapted for such a different environment so as to be unrecognisable.


    And yet a space alien was now sitting across from him -- and apart from the lack of reachers and the bright blue eyes that sent a shiver down his spine, it was familiar as could be. A human being in all but slightest variation.


    To be perfectly honest, he was sort of disappointed.


    Their group had moved into his personal command tent, he and the blue-eyed boy sitting across from each other at the long table usually used for war meetings with his lieutenants. The rest of their respective entourages stood protectively at their sides, Grena¡¯s hand on Nael¡¯s shoulder.


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    The meaning of her slight squeeze was clear. Should I kill them? Nael gave a tiny, barely perceptible shake of his head. No, he wanted to hear what they had to say. The life of a comrade was at risk, and this could be a source of useful intelligence.


    The blue-eyed boy was the first to speak. "So I have a couple of questions before we get started."


    Nael lifted a hand, interrupting him. "I¡¯m sure you do. But first I have a question for you."


    "Shoot," the boy said.


    Nael furrowed his brow. "I¡¯m sorry?"


    "Go ahead."


    Well, he talked like a space alien, at least. "You identified yourself as the leader of the resistance when you came to my camp. Last I heard, the leader of the rebels was a girl named Lily Aubrisher. Either you are a liar, or something has happened while my gaze was elsewhere."


    Silence lingered over the table for a few seconds -- interrupted only by a nervous cough from one of the rebels -- before the blue-eyed boy spoke. "That¡¯s not a question," he said quietly, smile still lingering on his lips.


    So they were going to be playing games with their words. How very irritating. "I see," Nael said. "Then let me rephrase -- where is Lily Aubrisher?"


    The boy replied without missing a beat. "Dead. I challenged her for control of the resistance, we fought, and I ended up slicing her head off. I¡¯m lying, by the way." Even without that last addition, Nael could have guessed as much from the surprised expressions on the blue-eyed boy¡¯s fellows.


    "So when you said you were the leader of the resistance¡­"


    "That was a lie too, yes," the boy replied -- even with his deception exposed, there were no traces of shame on his face or in his voice. "I wanted to see how you¡¯d react."


    Nael blew out air through his nose. "And how did I fare?"


    The blue eyes narrowed. "That¡¯s confidential. My turn."


    "Your turn?"


    "To ask a question," the boy replied, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. "I answered yours, so it¡¯s only fair that you answer mine, right?"


    Nael exchanged glances with Grena. This boy was obviously playing games, dancing through words as if he were dodging knives. He wasn¡¯t the sort of person you could speak to carelessly.


    And yet he couldn¡¯t just surrender. "I¡¯d say that rather depends on the question," Nael said.


    "What¡¯s wrong with my eyes?" the boy frowned.


    He didn¡¯t even know? If he didn¡¯t, what had tipped him off? Nael had been careful not to give out any information through his body language.


    "What do you mean?" Nael said. "Your eyes seem fine to me. Are you having difficulty seeing?"


    The boy clicked his tongue. "You¡¯re not very good at this, Regulator. You¡¯re very conspicuously not looking at my eyes -- when I speak, an ordinary person would turn to look at the source of the noise -- my face, and from there it¡¯s natural for them to look me in the eye, even if just for a second. But you¡¯re looking more towards my jaw, below my mouth, so that doesn¡¯t happen. So there¡¯s something about my eyes that makes you uncomfortable and you don¡¯t want me to know about it. What is it?"


    Nael blinked. From what he understood, this boy didn¡¯t possess a Guardian Entity, and yet he¡¯d clearly just read his mind. Deduction he could understand, of course, but such accuracy based on so little input?


    It was unnatural.


    The boy wasn¡¯t done yet. "If you refuse to answer, by the way, you¡¯re still providing the outlines for the answer. It¡¯s easy enough for me to colour in the full picture after that, given time and information. You should understand that based on what I¡¯ve just said. So not answering my question accomplishes nothing. Easy for everyone if you just tell me. Yeah?"


    Nael cleared his throat. As disconcerting this sudden shift in the conversation¡¯s pace was, Nael couldn¡¯t deny the boy had a point. It was irritating to lose control of the conversation, but if he was to get this hostage out alive he had to play along -- even just a little.


    Childhood stories bubbled to the surface of his mind as he spoke. "It¡¯s said that -- before his fall from grace -- the Blindman had eyes of blazing blue. But he rejected the kindness of the gods and tore them from his skull. Those eyes mark you as a devil of the same kind."


    The two young resistance members flanking the boy paled -- no doubt they¡¯d heard similar stories in their own youths. Even if they opposed the Regulators, that didn¡¯t mean their fear had completely vanished. Grena, on the other hand, didn¡¯t budge an inch -- the forest folk had their own strange beliefs, after all.


    The boy blinked. "I see," he said, with a tone that suggested something inside his head had just clicked. "That¡¯s very interesting. I don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve introduced myself -- my name is Dragan Hadrien."


    Nael scoffed. "With the way you¡¯ve conducted yourself thus far, I very much doubt you¡¯re telling me the truth right now."


    "Believe what you want," Dragan Hadrien shrugged. "It¡¯s the only name you¡¯ll ever know me by, so I don¡¯t see how it makes any difference whether it¡¯s actually my name or not. The point is, I¡¯m willing to negotiate for the return of our hostage. It¡¯d be inconvenient if he died without the opportunity to pass on his Guardian Entity, right?"


    Grena¡¯s hand tightened on Nael¡¯s shoulder as he himself felt slick surprise spike through his throat. That was not something an outsider should have known about. Nael had served the Regulators for many years before he¡¯d been given the details of Guardian Entity inheritance.


    Deception abandoned him as he spluttered out: "H-How¡­?!"


    Hadrien grinned. "How¡¯d I know the Guardian Entities are passed down? Let¡¯s just say I have a better understanding of how godsblood works than your average joe. Once you understand the principles of recording, it¡¯s pretty easy to work out the rest."


    Nael¡¯s fists tightened on the table in front of him. "And what do you intend to do with that information?"


    "I haven¡¯t decided yet," Hadrien leaned back in his chair. "It would be awfully annoying for you guys if I sent someone out to leak that info to the public. Suddenly everyone would be going after individual Regulators, trying to have a Guardian Entity passed down to them -- maybe they¡¯d even try to steal them, I couldn¡¯t say. Once things switch from a spiritual point of view to something that can be bartered for, I¡¯d imagine this planet would become very, very interesting to watch."


    For a second, it looked like Hadrien was going to smugly put his feet up on the table, but his legs could not muster the effort and fell back down to the floor.


    "Unless," Nael said quietly. "We simply killed you now. That knowledge would then die with you, wouldn¡¯t it?"


    Tension settled over the room like frozen air, holding each of them in place. Steadily, Nael reached out for Shamichoro with his mind -- at this distance, he¡¯d be able to snap Hadrien¡¯s neck with it within a second of manifestation.


    Hadrien smirked smugly.


    Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.


    Dragan¡¯s heart hammered in his chest.


    Six Gemini Shotguns were invisibly primed, the stones Dragan had had Bruno hurl at him aimed directly at Manron¡¯s skull. From what he¡¯d observed, the inhabitants of this planet used Aether only to use these Guardian Entities -- infusion of their own bodies was beyond them.


    As such, it would be very very easy to blow Nael Manron¡¯s head off right now. He could eliminate Manron, then fire whatever Shotguns were left at his mysterious bodyguard. Even if he missed that second shot, Bruno and Serena were more than capable of eliminating her.


    But there was no guarantee Manron wasn¡¯t thinking the exact same thing, his Guardian Entity a second away from manifesting. If he didn¡¯t play his cards right, this situation would develop into an outright massacre.


    He opened his mouth. It was dry.


    "Of course," he said, with all the slimy confidence he could muster. "That would mean the death of your hostage."


    The tension didn¡¯t even crack. Nael¡¯s eyes remained fixed on Dragan¡¯s. "I assume, then, that you have an alternative proposal."


    This man was much more understanding than he¡¯d been led to believe.


    Dragan nodded. "Two days. You give us two days to prepare our surrender -- to ensure the safety of our noncombatants -- and we¡¯ll give him back unharmed. You have my word on that."


    Behind his back, Dragan Hadrien crossed his fingers.

 Chapter 119:5.15: Shamichoro

    "Two days," Dragan said. "You give us two days to prepare our surrender -- to ensure the safety of our noncombatants -- and we¡¯ll give him back unharmed. You have my word on that."


    Behind his back, Dragan Hadrien crossed his fingers.


    Nael blinked, his doubt almost emanating down the length of the table. "I have absolutely zero doubt that you¡¯d use those two days to try and find a way to escape your predicament."


    The truth was more useful than any lie here. "You¡¯re absolutely right -- but we¡¯d be trying to do that anyway. By agreeing to these terms, you have control over the ways we¡¯ll be trying to escape -- and once two days pass, you¡¯ll be able to bring us in without a fight. I¡¯m sure your men would appreciate the reduced risk to themselves, too."


    Manron gulped, the decision clearly being weighed over in his head. This man was the sort whose thoughts showed up on their face.


    The desire to protect his comrades, the yearning for a peaceful solution, the need to conduct himself in a way he could be proud of. The strings to this instrument were a little different than Atoy Muzazi, but they made the same song -- principle. Nael Manron would take risks, if it meant maintaining his principles.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked over to Manron¡¯s aide¡¯s hand, moving over to tap him on the shoulder -- he couldn¡¯t allow that. Outside influence could mess up the scenario he¡¯d created.


    "I¡¯m not willing to wait forever for an answer," Dragan snapped, interrupting Manron¡¯s train of thought, allowing just enough time for consideration for the result he desired. "If it becomes apparent we have no chance of escaping this situation, we may just launch a suicide attack on this camp. We¡¯d have nothing to lose, after all."


    Manron¡¯s brow deepened in distaste. "You show your true character, then."


    "Yes," Dragan agreed. "I show my true character."


    There was silence in the tent for an uncomfortably long time, the only sounds being the marching of the soldiers outside and the occasional shift of someone¡¯s stance. Manron glared right into Dragan¡¯s eyes as the seconds dragged on, as if trying to drill right into his brain and pull out any true intentions right then and there.


    Finally, though, he spoke: "I cannot agree to these terms here and now."


    Dragan¡¯s heart skipped a beat. "I¡¯d advise you --"


    "Here and now, I said. Give me two hours to discuss this with my advisors -- this is not a decision to be made in haste. Until the decision is made, you and your associates will wait within the camp. Is that agreeable?"


    His tone didn¡¯t leave much room for disagreement.


    Dragan scowled. "And what if you decide you¡¯d rather have us as hostages?"


    Manron smiled thinly. "It seems you simply have to trust that I¡¯m a man of my word."


    "He¡¯s going to say no," Dragan pouted, arms crossed as he sat back in his chair.


    They¡¯d been moved to another part of the camp -- a clearing between some of the tents, meaning that guards could observe them from every direction. Dragan could feel a dozen cautious pairs of eyes on him. He had no doubt that, if they made any funny moves, that caution would become outright hostility very quickly.


    Bruno glanced down at him. "You¡¯re sure?"


    "One-hundred percent. If I was able to pressure him to make the decision there and then, he¡¯d have said yes, but I don¡¯t have any influence on those advisors of his. They¡¯ll talk him out of making the stupid choice."


    "You never know," Bruno shrugged. "Maybe they¡¯re like him -- they could do the honourable thing."


    Dragan shook his head. "He¡¯s clearly a smart guy. He¡¯d have picked people with different perspectives from him to serve as advisors. If anything, they¡¯re probably more like me -- meaning they¡¯re assholes. There¡¯s an even chance we get taken hostage once all this is over."


    Bruno¡¯s frown became Serena¡¯s. "But Mr. Dragan," she groaned. "I don¡¯t wanna be a hostage. Can¡¯t we do anything?"


    Ignoring his body¡¯s creaks of protest, Dragan leaned forward in his seat, rubbing his chin. "Well," he said quietly, so that the guards couldn¡¯t hear. "I knew this was a possibility. Guess there¡¯s no need for me to give the signal."


    Serena cocked her head. "What do you mean?"


    Betting all their lives on Nael Manron¡¯s unwillingness to risk a single soldier was a terrible plan. No matter how honourable he was, the leader of an army couldn¡¯t have risen to that position without a healthy sliver of pragmatism. The waging of battles, by necessity, cost countless lives -- and all this negotiation amounted to, when you got down to it, was a very slow battle. So that plan had been doomed from the very start.


    It was a good thing, then, that that hadn¡¯t been Dragan¡¯s plan at all.


    He smirked.


    Ruth watched the camp through the line of the forest, perched high in an elder tree. Red Aether sparked around her fingers as they dug into the bark, keeping her anchored in place.


    Her gaze flicked from Dragan¡¯s group, out in the open, to the tent they¡¯d been led out of. That was the location of her target, then. The place where she¡¯d be able to kill Nael Manron.


    To kill a snake, you cut off the head -- the comparison didn¡¯t work one-hundred percent when it came to an army, but losing their leadership would still leave them in a state of confusion. That would give them a better chance of escaping once they made a real break for it.


    Ruth adjusted her position in the tree slightly, freeing her hands, and as she did so the Skeletal Set appeared over her form with only the mildest buzz of Aether. The world was tinted red.


    The attention of the guards was focused on Dragan¡¯s group -- she¡¯d have a few seconds to get to the tent and assassinate Nael Manron. After that, she¡¯d need to make a run for it: there was no telling how many Guardian Entity users were present in the camp.


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    This was her chance -- she felt it in her bones. This was her chance to make up for her failure last time.


    A lashed corpse, strapped to a post.


    Ruth Blaine never made the same mistake twice. She kicked off the tree, landed on the ground -- and with a flash of movement, rushed towards the command tent.


    Nael sighed, his face in his hands as he addressed the rest of his advisors. The words he spoke felt wrong, ugly in his mouth.


    "It pains me to say it," he forced out. "But you are correct. The life of one Regulator is not worth losing the chance to eliminate the rebels. We must trust he can make his own escape."


    Abram nodded -- the dark-skinned, long-haired man was sat directly on Nael¡¯s right, his hands clasped on the table before him. "A wise choice, commander. I¡¯ve worked with the man before -- he is capable. If we place our faith in him, he will not disappoint." He looked as if he was going to say more, but fell silent when he met Grena¡¯s harsh gaze.


    The advisor opposite him -- Eris, a mousy woman with a shaved head -- continued, her voice barely expressive enough to avoid monotony. "We have a high-ranking representative of the enemy in our hands. Regardless of what he himself says, he may have value as a hostage. There is a chance we could make an exchange to get our man back."


    Nael Manron was not a wise man.


    He was exceedingly aware of that fact. He was idealistic, and headstrong, and somewhat naive -- and so he surrounded himself with those who were unscrupulous, and cautious, and very much jaded. They would indulge him when they could, and rebuke him when they could not.


    They were his wisdom, stored externally, and he was forever grateful.


    He nodded, but a frown remained on his face. "If we imprison their ambassador, it¡¯ll permanently put an end to any chance of negotiating with the rebel forces."


    Eris¡¯ lips tightened into a straight line of displeasure. "That kind of thinking in itself is a liability, sir. You must remember these rebels are criminals before anything else. By acknowledging the office of an ambassador, you give them legitimacy -- that is the last thing we want. Criminals are an object of fear, but rebellion once acknowledged has a certain sense of momentum."


    Abram rubbed one of his eyes. "We can¡¯t let ourselves be fooled by a young man with slick words and a smug smile, commander. Remember that we have all but won -- we have surrounded them, we have driven them to these desperate tactics. We are but one step from victory. We can¡¯t allow them to convince us to walk backwards."


    Nael closed his eyes, mulling over the advice.


    The notion felt sickly in Nael¡¯s stomach, but he knew that his advisors spoke sense. Capturing the ambassador was the best way forward. If this rebellion continued, it would result in countless more deaths on both sides. Better that a spark be put out now than to watch the inferno afterwards.


    He opened his eyes. "Gather your men," he said. "All that wield Guardian Entities -- we don¡¯t know what kind of abilities these outsiders could possess. We¡¯ll attack at once to subdue them, and have them lead us to their main base. Then--"


    Grena¡¯s grip tightened on his shoulder. Immediately, he looked up at her cautious gaze. "What is i--"


    Everything happened at once.


    There was a flash of red movement, a gust of what felt like wind, and a sound like a cannon going off -- and at the same time, the enemy appeared among them, having shredded right through the wall of the tent.


    At first, Nael thought it was a Guardian Entity, but a second inspection showed that it at least appeared to be human -- a young woman, crouched low to the ground like an insect, with metal armour bound around her body. Claws protruded from the woman¡¯s knuckles, glinting with deadly promise, and what hair was visible on the back of her head shone like a raging fire.


    Nael saw the eyes behind the mask¡¯s red lenses settle on his face. Target acquired.


    Behind the enemy, Abram slapped his hands together into a prayer stance. "Guardian Entity," he cried. "Dorotab¨­!"


    Abram¡¯s Guardian Entity, a furry humanoid figure coated with dripping mud, began to manifest -- but the girl didn¡¯t miss a trick. She jumped to the side, crawling over the walls of the tent like a spider, and sliced right through the skull of Dorotab¨­ with one hand as it began to coalesce into life.


    The strength she exerted was unimaginable. With the slightest gasp of exertion, she wrenched the hand she¡¯d lodged into Dorotab¨­¡¯s cranium free, splitting the Guardian Entity¡¯s head in half horizontally. Then, in the second before the Entity vanished, she seized it by the leg and slammed it right into Abram¡¯s body, sending him flying into a bookshelf off into the corner of the tent.


    Nael kept his eyes fixed on the enemy as his advisor went flying off, but the sounds of smashing and cracking he heard were all the confirmation he needed that Abram wouldn¡¯t be rejoining the fight.


    Eris drew her sword, pointing it at the intruder -- only she didn¡¯t, because the intruder had vanished. A second later, there was another smashing sound as the enemy burst through the bottom of the long table feet-first -- her kick slamming right into Eris¡¯ chest and sending her flying out of the tent, arms flailing impotently in the air.


    Despite himself, Nael gulped as he thrust his hand out to summon his Guardian Entity. The girl hadn¡¯t stopped moving once through this entire assault -- perhaps she specialized in rushing opponents, then, rather than a drawn-out fight. If that was the case, Nael still stood a chance so long as he could tire out his opponent, open her up to a counterattack.


    This power, though¡­ Nael watched as blood-red godsblood danced around the enemy¡¯s armour. Was this girl wearing a Guardian Entity?


    A shiver ran down his spine.


    No, he told himself, his heartbeat slowing accordingly. Fear was pointless here. He¡¯d die if he didn¡¯t fight, so there was no need to second-guess himself. He wasn¡¯t alone, either -- Grena was still by his side, pointing her handheld crossbow at the assailant.


    Ten seconds had passed since the beginning of the attack.


    The girl charged at him, pausing only to snatch Grena¡¯s arrow out of the air and stab it into the head of Eris¡¯ Guardian Entity -- the beast had stretched it¡¯s neck through the open door of the tent, the skull at the end opening its mouth wide. As Rokurokubi collapsed to the ground and dissipated into godsblood, the girl shot back towards Nael.


    But Grena and Eris had given him the time he needed.


    "Guardian Entity," he said, voice steady, hand outstretched. "Shamichoro."


    He felt the familiar weight in his hand before the shamisen itself appeared. The three-stringed musical instrument materialised, the handle flat against his palm -- and in the same moment, he swung it with all his strength at the girl. S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    In terms of appearance, the shamisen was utterly ordinary. There were silver engravings across its surface, of course, winding arcs and curves that lent it a sense of beauty, but it held none of the eccentricities of other Guardian Entities. It was no dragon able to fly through the sky, no wheel able to burn through stone, no sword that guzzled down blood through a proboscis. It wasn¡¯t even alive. It was utterly ordinary.


    And it was all that Nael Manron needed.


    The attack didn¡¯t hit, of course -- the girl brought her claws together into an ¡¯X¡¯ and blocked it. The collision sent a gust of wind raging throughout the tent, and the glass of the lanterns hanging on the wall shattered from the frequency of the sound.


    Nael¡¯s hands shook as the girl pushed against Shamichoro, quickly overpowering him. That was only natural, though -- an ordinary human like him couldn¡¯t win with strength alone. It took skill to stand at the top.


    This girl could move stronger than him, faster, deadlier. To put it simply, she was better than him. But Nael was more than used to fighting people better than him.


    His only recourse, then, was to fight smarter.

 Chapter 120:5.16: All I’m Good For

    Dragan blinked as the bald woman came flying out of the tent, landing in an undignified pile a short distance away. He exchanged a glance with Bruno, who was standing next to his bulky antique chair. Bruno shrugged.


    As signals went, it didn¡¯t get any more blatant than that.


    Bruno dropped to the ground -- pulling their two rebel escorts down with him -- and in that same moment, Dragan fired his Gemini Shotgun in all directions, six shots hitting six targets. The closest guards surrounding their group dropped to the ground, some clutching their injuries, others falling still. Those remaining raised their weapons, faces pale, eyes flicking between the tent and Dragan.


    Did they rush to protect their leader, or did they eliminate the immediate threat? Dragan didn¡¯t envy having to make that decision.


    It seemed they intended to split the difference. A fair number of the guards rushed at Dragan, swords and spears pointed at his body lounging in the chair, while a few others ran for the tent, using the first group as cover.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked up again to look at the person standing next to him. "Serena," he said seriously. "Go wild."


    Bruno¡¯s face spread into Serena¡¯s grin. "Finally," she said, briefly stretching as the guards came to them. "It was so boring having to watch all that."


    One of the guards swords came down towards Dragan¡¯s face -- his heart skipped a beat -- but in the second before it made contact, Serena punched the blade with an Aether-infused fist. The weapon went flying off, sailing end over end until it stuck itself into a far-off tent post.


    "Guardian Entity," Dragan heard, the bald woman on the ground picking herself up off the ground. "Rokurokubi!"


    The bald woman was still facing the tent, completely ignoring the conflict outside. Sickly green Aether coalesced around the woman¡¯s right shoulder, materializing a creature that at first seemed like a giant leech -- until a fanged skull burst out from its slimy folds and rushed towards the command tent, connected to the main body by an impossibly long and flexile neck.


    "Serena," said Dragan hurriedly -- they couldn¡¯t afford for Ruth to get overwhelmed. "Stop messing around. Deal with the enemy -- the way we talked about."


    "You¡¯re so bossy," Serena frowned, casually stepping out of the way of a guard¡¯s strike and then kneeing him in the groin. "But okay."


    Serena lashed out twice with her fists, punching right through the back of Dragan¡¯s antique chair -- reaching the piles of stone hidden inside. Violet Aether danced around Serena¡¯s fingers as she pulled the stone free, the rocks already cracking and fusing into twin greatswords.


    The long-necked Guardian Entity was already dissipating -- Ruth must¡¯ve dispatched it from inside the tent -- but there was no shortage of other targets for Serena to go after.


    The girl grinned. Dragan almost felt sorry for them.


    Strong.


    Ruth dodged backwards, narrowly avoiding a downward strike of the shamisen from Nael Manron as she landed into a perch on what remained of the long table. Red Aether danced around both of them -- coiling around Ruth¡¯s armour and winding around Nael¡¯s instrument.


    Lily had told her that Nael Manron¡¯s skill had given him something of a reputation as a warrior, but Ruth had taken that with a pinch of salt. The people of this planet didn¡¯t even fully understand how to use their Aether -- how tough could they themselves be?


    Pretty tough, as it turned out. The shamisen in Nael¡¯s hands hadn¡¯t shown any special abilities, anything that set it apart from a normal musical instrument, yet it¡¯s wielder was using it to keep pace with Ruth. Scratch that -- more than keep pace, he was dictating it, forcing her onto the backfoot.


    There was a snap as Nael¡¯s remaining aide, the woman in the green poncho, fired another arrow at Ruth. She didn¡¯t bother to dodge -- instead, she simply demanifested her mask and caught the projectile between her teeth, Aether sparking around her molars.


    The woman¡¯s eyes widened, just fractionally. Ruth answered that with a grin that snapped the arrow in half.


    Nael Manron hadn¡¯t pursued her. He just stood there in the same position, shamisen held in front of him with both hands. It was sort of funny -- that was definitely a musical instrument, but the way Nael held it you could believe it had been designed as a weapon from the start. He had that kind of dignity.


    "My name is Nael Manron," he declared -- apparently, he¡¯d taken her removing the mask as a prompt to introduce himself. "Regulator, First Class. I demand you name yourself as well."


    There was no harm in it, and it could serve as a useful distraction. "Ruth," she rasped, spitting out the arrow.


    Nael¡¯s eyes flicked up, glancing at her bare head. "You are another outsider, then. You seem more adept than your companions. There is a killer behind your eyes."


    He was right. She was a killer -- it was all she was good for. Trying to be anything else, do anything else, had only resulted in humiliation.


    She could only do this one thing. So she¡¯d do it right this time.


    The aide took a step closer to Nael, subtly tugging on his sleeve. He shook his head, eyes still fixed on Ruth.


    "No," he said. "I¡¯m sorry, Grena, but I will not flee. Should I turn my back on this person, I¡¯d be dead before I took a step."


    Ruth would need full focus when fighting Nael -- even without Aether, he was smart enough to predict and intercept her attacks. She couldn¡¯t be worrying about the aide¡¯s -- Grena¡¯s -- arrows. That woman would have to be taken out first.


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    Sneak attack. That was what Dragan would do.


    "Now," Nael began -- only to be interrupted with a flash of movement from Ruth. He hurriedly raised his shamisen to block the incoming blow, but Ruth hadn¡¯t rushed at him. She¡¯d spun on the spot and hurled something at Grena with all her strength.


    Her armour was modular -- each Set could be manifested and demanifested piece by piece, plate by plate. There was nothing stopping her from, for example, manifesting her clawed boot in her hand instead of on her foot.


    Nothing at all.


    Grena dropped to the ground and the clawed boot shredded through her cloak instead, ripping through the wall of the tent on the way out. She hadn¡¯t hit her target, but this was the distraction Ruth needed.


    She launched herself towards Grena, claws bared -- an unconscious growl trickling from her throat as she prepared to gut her enemy, to feel warm meat on cold steel, to know what it was to fulfill her purpose once again.


    The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.


    Danger.


    Two attacks came for her at once.


    The first originated from Grena. As she fell to the ground, turning over in the air, the woman had the presence of mind to point her arm towards the incoming Ruth -- and just under the sleeve of that arm, Ruth could see the telltale glint of a metal barrel. A hidden weapon.


    Ruth jumped backwards at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the gust of flame that burst forth from Grena¡¯s concealed flamethrower. The fire tickled the ceiling of the tent, already beginning to spread -- and Ruth felt the heat on her face, both from the flames itself and the shame of her inattentiveness. She should have noticed an obvious sneak attack like that!


    What she did notice, however, was the second attack coming for her from behind -- the head of Nael¡¯s shamisen, aimed right for her skull. With the strength and speed with which it was moving, she couldn¡¯t be certain that her Aether would hold. Best to dodge -- but the flames made that risky, too.


    Ruth ducked down, and the shamisen passed over her head, wood brushing through her hair. At the same time, she rolled off to the side, narrowly avoiding a brutal kick from Grena. Their teamwork was impeccable -- it was almost like Nael and his subordinate could read each other¡¯s minds. They knew each other well, at the very least.


    She had to throw them off, then.


    For a moment, Ruth danced crazy -- executing half-a-dozen feints in a single second before finally leaping off to the side and lunging for Nael¡¯s throat. He wasn¡¯t even facing her anymore, unable to keep up with the speed of her movements, his neck wide open. A single nick of her claws and this fight would be over.


    -- and this awful feeling in her stomach would finally go away.


    Snap. Snap. Snap.


    Ruth¡¯s claws came to a halt inches from Nael¡¯s jugular, so suddenly it was like they¡¯d hit a brick wall. She tried to thrust them forward again, to cross that tiny distance -- but even with all her strength, the only sign of her effort was the slightest tremor of her hand.


    Something had wrapped itself around her claws -- three silver shining cords of steel, wrapped around her gauntlet, holding it in place with incredible power. Ruth¡¯s eyes tracked the length of the strings to their source: Nael¡¯s shamisen, of course.


    The snaps she¡¯d heard -- they¡¯d been the strings of that musical instrument, breaking free to intercept her attack. Nael Manron had more tricks than she¡¯d expected.


    She could hear Grena standing up behind her, the clink of her flamethrower being pointed in her direction -- and in the same moment, she felt the cords around her hand tighten as Nael swung the shamisen, dragging her along with it.


    This was going to suck.


    This bald woman was more annoying than Dragan had anticipated.


    When the Guardian Entity on her shoulder had first dissipated, Dragan had assumed that was it -- one threat neutralised -- but that wasn¡¯t the case at all. The leech-thing had reappeared, this time focused on Serena, regrowing its head every time the girl inevitably beheaded it.


    Serena danced through the grass, twin greatswords slicing through the air as she beheaded and beheaded, the numerous skulls that the Guardian Entity produced flying up into the air. Each and every one dissipated before hitting the ground, reduced to nothing but sparks of Aether.


    Dragan glanced behind him, at the two rebels they¡¯d brought along with them. "Don¡¯t stop," he commanded. "No matter what. Got it?"


    The two took a split-second break from hurling stones at Dragan to nod, tears in their eyes. That split-second break was sort of the opposite of what Dragan had just said, but he was willing to look past that. Seriously, though, had these people ever been in a fight before? What kind of resistance was this?!


    "You heard him! Keep throwing, idiot!" one called to the other, not throwing as he did so.


    "You keep throwing, moron!" she cried back, doing much the same.


    Dragan was simply filled with faith in humanity.


    They had pretty good throwing arms, at least. The pebbles they threw at Dragan were quickly absorbed into his Gemini Shotgun -- and from there, they could be rapid-fired at any rank-and-file soldiers brave enough to try attacking them. With the three of them, it was almost like they¡¯d formed a human gatling gun.


    He couldn¡¯t risk firing at the Guardian Entity user, however -- Serena was constantly getting in the way, and he didn¡¯t want to risk hitting her and Bruno with his attacks. Still, they were no doubt getting tired, constantly attacking for so long.


    "Serena!" he called out as he fired a volley of suppressive fire towards a group of nearby archers. "The heads are disposable -- go for the main body, on her shoulder!" Sear?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Serena stepped backwards, narrowly avoiding the lunge of a head intent on snapping its jaws around her side. She glanced towards Dragan, eyes filled with wonder at his statement.


    "The heads are disposable?" she whispered, narrowly avoiding another attempted bite. "Just like a snake¡­"


    That wasn¡¯t how snakes worked, and Serena knew full well that wasn¡¯t how snakes worked, but Dragan wasn¡¯t going to argue the point. "Yes, Serena," he said. "Just¡­ just like a snake. So go kill it like a snake."


    She snapped a brief salute and charged towards the bald woman, swords dragging in the mud behind her.


    Dragan could see where she got the comparison with a snake, though. The way the Guardian Entity stretched and flexed through the air, the way it snapped and lunged, even the fangs protruding from its mouth -- they were all rather serpentine. The fangs, too, almost reminded him of --


    Oh. Oh.


    Another piece of the puzzle clicked together in his head -- and he had a good idea of where he¡¯d find the next one. All it required was a pinch of suicidal confidence.


    "Serena!" he called out again. "Hold up a sec!"


    The girl skid to a halt, mud flying up behind her. She looked back at Dragan curiously, and even her opponent cast a glance in his direction.


    "Change of plans," he said, rising from what was left of his seat on shaky, uncertain legs. "I¡¯ll take care of this one. Get comfy." A grin spread across his face.


    It was time for a science experiment.

 Chapter 121:5.17: Science Experiment

    Dragan grinned with confidence he didn¡¯t feel as he faced off against the bald woman, her Guardian Entity bobbing and weaving through the air around her.


    Leave her to me? Had he really said that? It was taking all his effort just to stand. Was he really in any position to be taking on anything that wasn¡¯t a nap? His legs shuddered beneath him as he took a step forward.


    "Are you sure you wanna fight her, Mr. Dragan?" Serena asked, a quizzical finger on her lips. "You kinda seem like you¡¯re about to die or something."


    Dragan ignored her. "That¡¯s an interesting pet you¡¯ve got there," he called out to the bald woman, readying the Gemini Shotguns he had left. "I kinda want to know more about it. Guardian Entity, right?"


    When no answer came -- the woman was clearly trying to figure out a way to get past his Shotgun -- Dragan continued: "You called it Rokurokubi, right? That¡¯s kind of a mouthful, isn¡¯t it? Who gave it to you? Did they name it Rokurokubi? Are you allowed to change the name once you get it, or is it sort of locked in?"


    Constant questions, his tone raising higher at the end of each one. Every aspect of his speech was optimized to be as annoying as possible. Irritation was a dagger that could slip through caution quite easily -- unlike outrage, annoyance made you feel as though you were above the thing annoying you, that it was something to be looked down upon. There was no need to be cautious around something that was merely annoying.


    "You ramble about things you don¡¯t understand, boy," the bald woman spat into the dirt. "A Guardian Entity isn¡¯t something to be taken so lightly."


    "Really?" Dragan cocked his head as he watched Rokurokubi¡¯s neck sway through the air. "But it looks so weak. I bet I could beat it easy."


    The woman sniffed, the irritation on her face growing more and more obvious. "I¡¯d watch my tone if I were you, boy."


    "Why?" Dragan laughed. "There¡¯s obviously nothing you can--"


    The Entity lashed out at him, neck spanning tens of meters in a split-second. Immediately, Dragan fired the Gemini Shotgun he¡¯d primed -- but not in the direction one would expect. Instead, he fired it sideways, so that the blast skimmed across the Guardian Entity¡¯s eyes instead of firing into its skull.


    Red blood spurted out from the creature¡¯s ruined eyes, and it went to rear back in pain -- but Dragan grabbed it by the ear with one hand and pulled it close, his other hand rummaging in his satchel.


    Hurry, hurry, fucking hurry, he told himself. You should have already been holding this!


    Even as the Entity thrashed blindly in his grip, almost sending him stumbling to the ground, his other hand found what it was looking for -- the waterskin he¡¯d been given for the journey to this camp. He¡¯d drunk it dry along the way, but now it was useful for another purpose.


    With a grunt of exertion and a flicker of blue Aether, Dragan jammed the waterskin right into the mouth of the Guardian Entity, making sure that one of the beast¡¯s huge fangs went all the way in.


    Just a few seconds. He just needed to keep it there for a few seconds.


    One -- the Entity continued to thrash wildly, trying to pull away from Dragan.


    Two -- it screeched in distress, the sound like nails against a chalkboard.


    Three -- it finally pulled away back to its master, sending Dragan falling forward onto his knees, waterskin clutched to his chest.


    "Serena," he gasped, securing the top on the waterskin. The pain radiating throughout his body was beginning to become overwhelming again. "She¡¯s all yours. Fuck her up."


    Serena had watched Dragan¡¯s little wrestling session with a bemused expression, but now her face once again spread into a wild, carefree grin. She spun the greatswords in her hands, kicking up dirt and grass where they sliced through the ground.


    "Sure thing, Mr. Dragan!" she shouted cheerfully. "You seemed kinda weak anyway, so I¡¯m glad you changed your mind!"


    Dragan clicked his tongue. It was true, but she didn¡¯t have to say it. S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Besides, he¡¯d already gotten what he¡¯d wanted.


    No, no, no. This wasn¡¯t happening. This couldn¡¯t be happening again. This was what Ruth was good at. More than that -- this was what she was good for. All that she was good for.


    She couldn¡¯t fail again. She just couldn¡¯t. And yet¡­


    Ruth went flying like a cannonball into a bookshelf as Nael hurled her with his Guardian Entity, the wood smashing into splinters and flying through the air. For a moment, she gasped for breath -- the impact had knocked the air from her lungs -- but Nael Manron wasn¡¯t going to give her time to recover.


    In a second, he was upon her, flipping the shamisen over in his hands and stabbing the handle towards her throat, clearly intent on breaking her neck with it. She went to slap the weapon away with an Aether-infused fist -- only for those damn strings to wrap around her once again and flip her onto the ground.


    As the strings held her in place, preventing movement, Ruth felt Nael¡¯s boot land on her back, keeping her steady. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grena toss her sword over to Nael. The Regulator caught it in his free hand, raising the weapon high, the tip of the blade clearly pointed at the back of Ruth¡¯s neck.


    "Begone," he snarled, bringing the sword down.


    Noblesse Set.


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    There was a flash of white light, the sound of shattering glass -- and in the same moment, the sword went flying out of Nael¡¯s hands, slicing through the wall of the tent and out of sight. The strings of the shamisen, too, were repelled, swaying violently through the air like startled snakes as they were knocked back.


    Skeletal Set.


    Ruth¡¯s Skeletal Set reappeared just in time -- Grena had fired another arrow her way the moment she¡¯d seen the armour had first vanished. The bolt ricocheted off of Ruth¡¯s Skeletal mask, lodging into the ground, and in the next moment Ruth herself had rolled away, out of range of both Nael and his Guardian Entity.


    She landed in the corner of the tent, behind what must¡¯ve been Manron¡¯s desk, positioning herself so that she could see both Nael and Grena at all times.


    There was a marked difference in speed between Nael Manron and the weapon he wielded -- those strings could lash out as fast as lightning, whereas Manron was limited by normal human biology. That made predicting his attacks annoying: she had to take into account both his movements and the movements of that damn shamisen. If anything, it made it more like a two versus one.


    Scratch that -- three-versus-one. Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked back to Grena, who was still pointing the nozzle of her flamethrower in her direction as she caught her breath. That woman was trouble: she didn¡¯t seem to have Aether or even a Guardian Entity, but the proficiency she had in trickery and weapons made her a noticeable threat. She couldn¡¯t even be sure that the flamethrower was the only thing up Grena¡¯s sleeve -- she had two arms, after all.


    This whole thing was frustrating. In a one on one, she was certain she could defeat Nael Manron -- in a one on one, she was certain she could defeat this Grena woman -- and in a one on one, she was damn sure she could defeat a musical fucking instrument.


    But in this situation, against all three, she was finding herself consistently on the back foot. Cold rage radiated through her body, even as she cursed it -- she knew she¡¯d make stupid decisions when she was angry. Hell, she made stupid decisions when she was calm, too.


    Grena¡¯s grip tightened on her wrist. Nael adjusted his footing. This break in the action was only seconds long -- this was the sole chance she¡¯d have to come up with a plan.


    Claws glimmering in the light of the fire, Ruth brought her body low to the ground. She could win this, she could. If she just --


    "Ruth!" came Dragan¡¯s cry from outside. "We¡¯ve gotta go, now!"


    Ruth hesitated, her eyes flicking between her two enemies. No, no, she could win this, she couldn¡¯t just leave --


    Serena¡¯s scream came next. "Miss Ruth!" she shouted. "This is sort of really bad!"


    Another second¡¯s hesitation, the red lenses of her mask fixed on Nael¡¯s green eyes -- and then Ruth leapt backwards through the flaming cloth of the tent, emerging once again into the sunlight and the warfare. Cold fury was replaced with hot shame, warmer even than the flames around her.


    "And there you go," Skipper had said. "Proof there¡¯s more to you than you think."


    He¡¯d meant that she wasn¡¯t just a killer, and Ruth was becoming more and more certain he¡¯d been right.


    She wasn¡¯t even that.


    They¡¯d been here too long.


    Dragan watched in horror as one of the rebels that had come with them made a run for it, the stocky girl barely making it to the treeline before an avian Guardian Entity swooped down from the sky and plucked her head from her shoulders. Her decapitated body made it two more steps, blood insistently spurting from its stump, before falling into an undignified pile.


    The other rebel let out a scream like a strangled cat, holding his sword in front of him with shaking hands. It was useless -- he honestly looked like he¡¯d never held a weapon before. Perhaps he really hadn¡¯t.


    This camp would have been host to many Regulators, and -- by extension -- many Guardian Entities. It had been vital that this operation was an assassination, not a battle. Under these circumstances, using these resources, a true battle would quickly make way for a massacre.


    But they¡¯d been here too long.


    Ten, nearly twelve Regulators surrounded what remained of their group in a circle, Guardian Entities swarming around them, like dogs straining against their chains. Dragan glanced over at the surviving rebel, the one holding the sword.


    "Don¡¯t do anything hasty," he muttered. "If they were going to kill us, they¡¯d have done it already."


    The man -- no, the boy -- sniffled. "They killed her," he whispered, eyes locked on the headless corpse of his comrade.


    "She tried to run," Dragan explained, as reassuring as he could. "Just stay calm. We¡¯ll make it through this, yes?"


    Calming people down had never been his strong suit -- usually, it was the opposite -- but they couldn¡¯t afford to act carelessly right now. Their lives hung off the edge of a cliff. Any movement but the correct one would just cause them to fall.


    The Regulator at the head of the group -- a grim-looking man with a scar running along his nose -- took a cautious step forward, hands running over the handle of his battle-axe. Above him, the avian Guardian Entity circled through the sky, looking like an owl with a human skull.


    "Put down your weapons," the Regulator growled roughly with a voice like broken glass. "Hands on the back of your heads. Get me? Anything else -- you die."


    "Sure thing," Dragan replied carefully, before looking back over at the sword shaking in the rebel¡¯s hands. "Drop it."


    His eyes widened to the size of saucers. "They¡¯ll kill me!"


    "They¡¯ll kill us if you don¡¯t drop it."


    "B-But¡­"


    The choice was taken out of his hands. With a flash of violet Aether, Serena snatched the sword out of his grip -- quick as lightning -- and threw it on the floor at her feet. The rebel stared down at it in muted horror, but Serena just cheerfully patted him on the back.


    "Don¡¯t worry," she said sweetly. "I¡¯ll protect you! Stick by me and you¡¯ll live forever!"


    Dragan didn¡¯t know about that last part, but so long as it got the poor bastard to cooperate, he¡¯d go along with it. They needed to stall -- Ruth was taking her sweet damn time, and there was no way Dragan was leaving without her.


    It would be a bad strategy, after all, to abandon their strongest fighter.


    The Regulator¡¯s eyes narrowed, and he spat onto the ground before him. "Go on, then," he prompted, axe still clutched in his hands. "Hands behind your backs. Nice and slow. No sudden movements. You get me?"


    "No problem," said Dragan, moving his hands behind his back as slowly as his body would allow. Serena mimicked him cheerfully, their rebel friend a little less so.


    Stall, stall, stall.


    If they still had a strategy left, that was it. The most valuable currency in any battle was time -- and since they couldn¡¯t buy any more of it, they had to make what little they had go on for as long as possible. If enough seconds passed, Dragan was sure he could come up with a new plan.


    Something smart. He was good at that, right? Something that flipped the chessboard over, something that turned all their disadvantages into advantages. Something he could communicate to the others in just a second.


    He could come up with something like that. Surely he could come up with something like that.


    Dragan opened his mouth to speak, still not knowing what he¡¯d say --


    -- and in the same instant, Ruth came flying out of the command tent, claws slicing the fabric to ribbons as she landed just in front of their tiny group.


    The tension was broken just for a second, just for an instant -- and Dragan knew that it would explode into chaos once that instant ended. He knew what he had to say.


    "Fucking run!" he shouted.

 Chapter 122:5.18: Distraction

    "Fucking run!"


    Dragan didn¡¯t need to say it twice.


    In one smooth motion, Ruth charged at him, slung him over her shoulder, and began sprinting off towards the woods, red Aether sparking along the ground with every single footfall. Serena did much the same with the remaining rebel -- but a little gentler, more piggyback ride than sack of potatoes.


    Dragan suppressed nausea as his vision bounced around, the ground beneath him a blur. He looked upwards as much as air pressure would allow -- they weren¡¯t out of the woods yet. Well, they weren¡¯t in the woods yet, but those were the same thing given the circumstances.


    The avian Guardian Entity swooped down, claws clearly poised to pluck off Dragan¡¯s head just as it had with the female rebel, but Ruth didn¡¯t miss a trick. Just as the bird-thing was about to make contact, she swung around on her heel, slamming her other leg into the creature with a devastating roundhouse kick. The Entity went flying into a tree in a broken pile, and disappeared from view a second later as they entered the forest.


    Dragan didn¡¯t know how Ruth managed to run at this kind of speed without crashing into any of the foliage. Countless massive trees rushed past them as they ran, an arboreal network that was as much a labyrinth as a natural formation. Dragan had no doubt an ordinary person would get lost walking through here, nevermind running.


    There was no time to waste appreciating Ruth¡¯s talent, however. The barks of things that were definitely not dogs sounded out behind them, quickly growing closer.


    Serena, with the terrified rebel clinging to her back, wasn¡¯t nearly as fast as Ruth -- she was just as adept in close combat, but her speed left something to be desired.


    "Miss Ruth!" Serena cried out, voice nearly swallowed by the rushing wind. "They¡¯re catching up!"


    No sooner had the words left her mouth than a massive skinless creature -- quadrupedal, with a head that was little more than teeth -- leapt out of the foliage behind her, its jaws only barely missing Serena¡¯s skull. The girl rolled as the beast jumped above her, the rebel getting a faceful of dirt in the process.


    Again, Ruth span on her heel -- but this time the Guardian Entity was faster, firing out one of its spear-like teeth with devastating force. The projectile missed Serena, but the rebel peering over her shoulder wasn¡¯t quite as lucky.


    The tooth struck him in the eye socket like a harpoon, coming out the back of his head and causing him to crumple down onto the ground. Serena narrowly avoided the same fate, Bruno taking over and deflecting the Entity¡¯s second shot with a well-timed forcefield.


    Bruno faced off against the canid, a barely visible shield hovering over each of his hands. He glanced towards Ruth and Dragan as if for guidance.


    "We¡¯ve got to keep moving!" Dragan shouted in answer. "They¡¯ll all catch up with us if we let them slow us --"


    He was interrupted as Ruth leapt high into the air, gripping the bark of the nearest tree with a hand to halt her ascent. The space they¡¯d just occupied was now filled with some kind of pale white smoke -- and as Dragan looked down at it, he saw what looked like a flap of skin floating through the air, belching more of the gas every few seconds.


    Dragan hadn¡¯t gotten out unscathed, either -- his left arm had been touched by the gas, and as he watched in horror the limb turned grey and lifeless, a feeling of utter numbness making itself known in his body. His arm didn¡¯t feel hot or cold, exactly -- it was more like there was no temperature at all. The useless limb hung limp at his side.


    Two enemies. The dog and this skin thing. If they took care of them -- quick -- they could still escape.


    How could they do it? They¡¯d --


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    Before he could even register what had happened, Dragan¡¯s train of thought was again brought to a grinding halt. The trees shook as the booming noise came closer and closer, birds fleeing up into the sky. Not explosions -- footsteps. Something truly massive was headed their way.


    Many pairs of green glowing eyes appeared in the darkness between the trees, glaring at Dragan and Ruth with obvious murderous intent. Far above, the avian Entity had returned, circling their position like a vulture.


    "It¡¯s fine," Dragan breathed quietly, still trying to come up with a plan. "We¡¯ll just... we¡¯ll¡­ um¡­"


    "Dragan," Ruth said from beside him, her voice firm. She sounded more serious than he¡¯d ever heard from her. "Answer me honestly. Have you got a plan to get us out of this?"


    His initial reply was almost automatic. "Of course I --"


    No.


    "No," he corrected himself. "No, I don¡¯t."


    Ruth was silent for a moment, even as the skin Entity wafted closer. Dragan fired a Gemini Shotgun at it, but it simply twisted in the air as the projectile zoomed past. This was a thing that could ride the wind, clearly.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    Before the skin-thing could reach them, Ruth jumped down from the tree and landed next to Bruno. The forcefields Bruno had created around the canid Entity were acting as something of a prison, restraining it to such a degree that it could do little else but twitch and growl -- but the moment something else was the focus of Bruno¡¯s attention, Dragan knew it would break free.


    All this was accomplishing was stalling -- and the time for that had long passed.


    "Bruno," Ruth said, peeling Dragan¡¯s half-limp form off her back. "Take him."


    Bruno glanced towards her, his brow furrowed. "What?"


    Dragan¡¯s head snapped in Ruth¡¯s direction. "What?!"


    Ruth took a deep breath. "We¡¯re not all getting out of this. I¡¯ll piss ¡¯em off, lead ¡¯em on a chase, while you get back to the rebel base. I¡¯ll meet up with you later."


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    Bruno¡¯s eyes remained fixed on the canid Entity, but he was gritting his teeth so hard that Dragan could hear it. "You¡¯ll die."


    The slightest smirk returned to Ruth¡¯s face as she threw Dragan onto Bruno¡¯s back. "Nah," she said. "This is what I¡¯m good at."


    She went to turn away, but stopped as a grey, shaking hand grabbed her by the arm. It took Dragan a second to realize it was his own hand. He reached down from Bruno¡¯s back with all the meagre strength his body would still afford him.


    "You¡¯ll die," he mumbled. "They¡¯ll kill you."


    "They¡¯d have to catch me first." Ruth¡¯s smirk didn¡¯t fade, but it still didn¡¯t ring true. Like a smile painted on a doll.


    He couldn¡¯t relent, then. "You promised me you¡¯d show me there was more to people," he said. "I-I¡¯m still waiting. You can¡¯t show me that if you¡¯re dead. So¡­ so don¡¯t die. Understand?" His grip tightened as much as it was able, but slipped away all the same.


    Ruth¡¯s smile became just a tad more genuine. "I understand."


    And with that, she was on the move. The canid Entity was stabbed to death with one of its teeth, the skin Entity smashed out of existence with the swing of an uprooted tree, and the bird Entity zoomed after Ruth as she disappeared into the undergrowth.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    Reluctant to tear his gaze away from the spot Ruth had disappeared from, Dragan spoke to Bruno.


    "Let¡¯s go."


    Nael held his shamisen in both hands as he strode through the destruction, ready to counter any traps the crimson assassin may have laid.


    The section of the camp the ¡¯ambassadors¡¯ had visited was in ruins, medics scurrying to and fro as they tended to the wounded. Tents reduced to tatters, fires blazing¡­ Abram had suffered from a serious head wound after smashing into that bookcase, and had been spirited off to the medical tents as soon as the situation had calmed down.


    He should have expected this result. This was what came from trying to negotiate with the dishonest.


    The majority of the Regulators stationed here with Guardian Entities had gone to pursue the enemy -- with sheer numbers and sheer strength, Nael didn¡¯t imagine their assailants would be able to stay on the run for very long at all. If nothing else, this devastation would soon be avenged.


    Nael turned to look at Grena, to ask her opinion, but she wasn¡¯t there. Of course. She¡¯d gone to pursue ¡¯Dragan Hadrien¡¯ too. He should have expected as much from his oldest friend.


    The forest folk had never been treated kindly by the people of Coren. When the woods that covered the world had gotten in the way of the city¡¯s expansion, they had been cleared away -- along with the people that had called them home.


    Grena was a rare exception to the rule: most forest folk would gladly crucify a Regulator rather than defend them as she had. He didn¡¯t deserve such kindness.


    Some would have called it naivety, but Nael Manron couldn¡¯t help but feel a deep and overwhelming sadness as he looked at how this situation had concluded. War was only to be expected -- they were warriors, after all -- but had there really been no other way?


    Shamichoro disappeared from Nael¡¯s hands. He did not need it right now -- a Guardian Entity was a tool of violence.


    Right now, what they needed was to rebuild.


    The route Bruno had taken back to the tunnel system was long and winding, but they eventually found themselves once more at the discrete mouth of the cave. That girl, Lily Aubrisher, was already standing there, arms crossed as she waited for their return.


    Her brow creased as she looked at the two of them, Bruno finally letting Dragan off his back. The grey numbness on his left arm was finally beginning to clear, colour and sensation returning to the limb.


    "Where are the others?" Lily asked, but her tone suggested she already knew the answer.


    Dragan glanced down at the ground. "I¡¯m sorry."


    The rebel leader bit her thumb with such force it seemed as though the digit would come clean off. Dragan couldn¡¯t exactly blame her -- this was an utter mess of a situation.


    "Blaine too?" she asked after a moment, her voice guilty as she did so -- even now, she had to focus on the most valuable of the resources she¡¯d lost.


    Bruno opened his mouth to speak, massaging his shoulder with one hand. "She went to distract the enemy, led them on a chase. We don¡¯t know if she¡¯s --"


    "She¡¯s fine," Dragan said with surprising firmness. When the other two looked to him, he meekly elaborated: "She¡¯s strong. She can handle herself."


    "But Eli and Mare are dead," Lily sighed, sitting down on the ground and returning to the chewing of her thumb. "Fuck. Fuck."


    The rebels hadn¡¯t been in such dire straits before -- Dragan could tell that just by looking. Otherwise, their leader would have been more than used to the deaths by now.


    It wasn¡¯t his usual role, but Dragan felt obliged to raise some spirits here. "It¡¯s not all bad. They¡¯re still disorganized after the attack -- this is our chance to break through their ranks, make a run for it. Do you know what route we¡¯ll take?"


    The thumb left Lily¡¯s mouth, and she turned her head over her shoulder to look into the darkness of the cave. "About that¡­"


    Echoing footsteps came from within the stone tunnel, accompanied by a familiar, annoying-sounding voice.


    "¡¯Do you know what route we¡¯ll take?¡¯ That ain¡¯t the question, Mr. Hadrien. That isn¡¯t the question you need to ask at all, yeah?" it said. "The real question is¡­"


    The figure stepped out of the darkness, sunlight shining off of their prosthetic arm.


    A smirk returned to Bruno¡¯s face, and -- infuriatingly enough -- Dragan found his own lips twisting in relief. It had taken long enough, after all. They¡¯d been kept waiting.


    Skipper grinned at his reception.


    "The real question is," he said. "How are we gonna make our way out?"


    "I really thought you were a goner," said Dragan, biting a chunk from a piece of carrot-like fruit as he looked Skipper up and down. "Guess the big guy¡¯s Guardian Entity is good at what it does."


    "Ha!" Skipper laughed -- with more than a bit of a wheeze to it. "Me, die? I don¡¯t mind telling you this, kid, but I¡¯ve never died even once in my life."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "What a feat."


    They¡¯d moved back to the cave Dragan had originally woken up in, Skipper taking a seat on a loose piece of rock while Lily went away to find the best location for their escape. The four of them -- Skipper, Dragan, Bruno and Serena -- were alone for what felt like the first time in a while.


    They were still missing one person, though.


    Serena poked Skipper on the cheek, her jab obnoxiously sharp. "Maybe he¡¯s a zombie," she speculated, her other finger on her lips. "That¡¯s why he¡¯s not dead."


    "I¡¯m just not so easy to kill," Skipper replied with more than a trace of smugness, thumping his metal fist against the glyph still hovering over his chest. "And this thing doesn¡¯t hurt, either. I¡¯m still mending, but I¡¯m over the fifty-percent mark, baby! Feels good to be back."


    "I¡¯m sure it does," Dragan laughed. "By the way, since I¡¯ve got hold of you right now, can I ask you a quick question?" S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Skipper grinned back. "Sure thing, my good pal!"


    "How come you kidnapped me?"


    Skipper blinked, the grin fading from his face. Serena cocked her head quizzically, finger still on her lips. Dragan¡¯s smile spread just a bit wider, fake friendliness consuming his face.


    "You, uh¡­" Skipper chuckled awkwardly. "You sure this is the best time for that, haha?"


    Dragan didn¡¯t blink. "Sure I do. You¡¯re not exactly going anywhere. You only gave me half an answer back on Taldan, Skipper."


    He dropped the fake smile.


    "Time for the other half."

 Chapter 123:5.19: The Other Half

    Ruth couldn¡¯t feel her legs.


    After hours of fighting and running, she¡¯d finally found a moment¡¯s shelter -- the crevice between the roots of a great tree, where she could squeeze in and be out of sight. Occasionally, she felt cold water drip against her head, stray raindrops managing to penetrate the barrier of leaves and branches above.


    The Skeletal Set covering her body flickered in and out of existence, each time accompanied by a red spark. Dispelling her armour entirely would make it easier to hide, but would leave her defenseless if someone did find her. Ruth wouldn¡¯t allow herself to be defenseless.


    She adjusted her sitting position slightly, ignoring the ache of protest from her body. She was on her last legs, she understood that. None of the Guardian Entities had managed to land a hit on her during this drawn-out encounter, but it was only a matter of time now.


    The roach could only dodge the boot for so long, after all.


    Ruth idly wondered if the others had made it back to the rebel base safely. There was no guarantee of it -- some of the Entities could have elected to pursue them instead -- but in her gut she had the distinct feeling that they were safe and sound. She had that, at least. She hadn¡¯t fucked that up.


    Robin put a finger to her lips. "Hm¡­ I suppose I must¡¯ve thought you were a good person?"


    "Shut up," Ruth muttered, dream and reality mixing together as exhaustion made itself truly known. "You¡¯re dead. I¡¯m no good."


    "And there you go," Skipper said, cheeky grin on his face. "Proof there¡¯s more to you than you think."


    "You shut up too. You¡¯re probably dead as well¡­" Ruth said weakly, her tone like a crossbreed between a chuckle and a sob. "I fucked it up. I fucked it all up."


    Rupert Grave glared down at her -- in her imagination, he was perpetually taller than her, a giant from the perspective of a child. "You owe everything you have to us -- and you¡¯re not repaying in kind."


    "Shut up!" Ruth screamed, standing up to her full height, her claws fully re-establishing themselves into reality as she pointed them at the hallucination.


    There was no reply. Of course there wasn¡¯t -- this had never actually happened. There was no memory for her exhaustion to draw upon. The figure simply faded from consciousness¡­


    ...to reveal that woman, Grena, standing behind it, eyes cautious as she observed Ruth through the opening in the roots of the tree.


    Ruth didn¡¯t miss a second. Exhaustion was thrown to the side as her body moved automatically, reaching her enemy in a single breath and slamming the woman against the tree with one hand, the other pulled back to run her through on the claws.


    "Where are the rest?" Ruth growled, holding Grena tight by the collar. "Your friends. Do they know I¡¯m here?"


    A croaking sound emerged from Grena¡¯s throat -- and when she spoke, it was obviously with great exertion. "Not-friends," she rasped, as if she wasn¡¯t used to speaking out loud. "Enemies. Like-you. The-same."


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean? I don¡¯t get you."


    Grena suppressed a coughing fit as she went on: "Ally. I¡¯m-ally. Friend."


    "You weren¡¯t being very friendly when you tried to set me on fire," Ruth scoffed.


    "Had-to-look-good. I¡¯m-spy. Had-to-know-you-strong." Grena¡¯s breath heaved as the words came out, and Ruth could have almost sworn she saw a sliver of blood running down from one side of the woman¡¯s mouth.


    Ruth¡¯s grip tightened on Grena¡¯s collar. "Lily Aubrisher didn¡¯t tell me anything about a spy in the camp. Honestly? I think you¡¯re bullshitting me, trying to buy time."


    The woman shook her head rapidly, bandana flopping from side to side as she did so. "I¡¯m-not," she whispered frantically. "I¡¯m-not."


    "Can¡¯t exactly take your word for it. Why shouldn¡¯t I kill you right now?"


    Robin put a finger to her lips. "Hm¡­ I suppose I must¡¯ve thought you were a good person?"


    "Not-spy-for-Aubrisher," Grena rasped, the edges of her eyes looking bloodshot. "Spy-for-Grinhe. Grinhe."


    "No clue who that is."


    Grena lifted her arm -- the sudden movement almost causing Ruth to finish her on reflex alone -- and thumped her fist against her own chest. "We," she said insistently. "We-are-Grinhe. My-people. Enemy-calls-us-forest-folk. We-hate-them. Regulators. Like-you. Ally."


    Even with the obvious difficulty the woman had speaking, her tone seemed genuine. Ruth felt her grip loosen, just slightly, and was sure that moment of weakness would be met with a crossbow bolt in the chest. She¡¯d messed up for the last time.


    But no finishing blow came.


    Instead, Grena simply fell to her knees, massaging her throat and hacking up blood on the ground. Ruth gave her a moment to recover -- she wasn¡¯t a monster -- before fixing her with a glare once again.


    "If you¡¯re telling the truth, then I¡¯ll trust you," she said. "But why should I believe you¡¯re telling the truth?"


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    The sound of the massive Guardian Entity was distant, but growing closer by the minute. Ruth looked back over her shoulder, watching as the treeline on the horizon shook.


    "What is that?" she muttered. All the other Entities seemed to have given up, but this one refused to break off the pursuit.


    When she looked back at Grena, the woman was shrugging, a troubled expression on her face. Even she didn¡¯t know, then?


    No, she couldn¡¯t get distracted.


    "You didn¡¯t answer my question," Ruth growled, flexing her claws. "Why should I believe you¡¯re telling the truth?"


    Grena didn¡¯t open her mouth again -- instead, she just pulled her bandana up -- but the message in her eyes was clear.


    You come with me, you live, they said. You stay here, you die.


    Fair enough. Ruth couldn¡¯t exactly argue with that.


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    As Skipper spoke, he lay back on the rock, staring up at the stone roof of the cavern as if it were a starry sky.


    "Dunno if you guys know this," he said after a moment of hesitation. "But I¡¯m not exactly the number one fan of the Supremacy."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "The time you assaulted one of their ships -- with me in it -- sort of gave me a clue. Plus the time they cost you an arm and locked you up in a cell."


    "Nah, nah," Skipper waved a lazy hand. "This ain¡¯t a recent thing. Remember back on Taldan? I told you there was someone that I needed to kill, no matter what. I didn¡¯t tell you who that person was, though. Guess that¡¯s where the other half of things starts."


    He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and for a moment it seemed as if he wasn¡¯t going to continue at all. It took Dragan a second to realize he didn¡¯t dare to breathe either -- even Bruno was leaning in slightly, curiosity evident in his gaze.


    Skipper spoke: "I didn¡¯t tell you their name. They¡¯re the kind of person who you¡¯re only allowed to name once they¡¯re dead. You get me?"


    Two cold gears clicked in Dragan¡¯s stomach.


    Skipper opened his eyes again.


    "That person is the Supreme," he said calmly.


    Dragan felt the blood rush out of his face, leaving a noticeable chill that clawed at his skin. He bit his lip and clenched his hands into fists with such tension that he almost drew blood in both places. A shaky gulp slithered down his throat.


    What Skipper had just said was insanity, sheer insanity, like a child saying he was going to shoot down the sun.


    "You¡¯re crazy," Dragan breathed. "It can¡¯t be done."


    Skipper clicked his tongue. "Everyone always says that," he said, with more annoyance than Dragan had ever heard in his voice.


    Suddenly, he sat up -- and Dragan found himself stepping backwards, as if this man¡¯s delusion was something contagious.


    "Tell me why, Dragan," Skipper said seriously, eyes locked on him. "Tell me why it can¡¯t be done. Use your words, yeah?"


    Dragan took another step back. "You just¡­ you can¡¯t. That¡¯s the point. The Supreme is the strongest individual there is -- that¡¯s the point of the damn title! And he¡¯s protected by the four other strongest individuals at all times! You wouldn¡¯t even make it to the front door!"


    He¡¯d always considered himself above the Supremacist Dream that ran like an undercurrent through society -- the notion of a fair and impartial meritocracy that encouraged exception -- but there was a difference between propaganda and reality.


    The Supreme had torn down enemy armies all by himself. His Contenders had written similar legends in blood. Those people were immutable, like the stars or the sky -- they wouldn¡¯t be going anyway anytime soon. They weren¡¯t the kind of people you killed -- they were the kind of people you stayed out of sight of.


    Bruno crossed his arms -- and as Dragan glanced over, he could see the other boys mostly-hidden hands shaking slightly. "He¡¯s right," Bruno said. "Going after the Supreme is suicide. Stronger people than you have tried -- they¡¯re either dead or Contenders now. What makes you any different?"


    "Et tu, del Sed?" Skipper smirked wearily. "You were an agent for the UAP once upon a time. Don¡¯t tell me you never considered how much easier life would be if the Supreme just died? If that whole house of cards just came tumbling down?"


    "If I ever did," Bruno replied. "It would have been a fantasy. Even if the Supreme died, they¡¯d just find a new one -- either the guy who killed him or the winner of the Dawn Contest. The best result you could hope for is taking his job, and I don¡¯t think that¡¯s what you want."


    Skipper tapped a finger against his nose knowingly. "Ah, well, I¡¯ve got a plan in mind for the aftermath, Mr. del Sed. Don¡¯t you worry about that."


    "And what does this have to do with me?" Dragan spoke up again.


    The older man rose back up into a sitting position, fingers knitted together on his lap as he took a deep breath. When he¡¯d explained his plan with Bruno, he¡¯d had the excitement of a child talking about his toys -- but now that he was being quizzed on the specifics, his age seemed to settle on his shoulders like a heavy weight.


    He seemed unsure of how to begin, but eventually he spoke again: "In Supremacy space, there¡¯s a device."


    Dragan gulped. "A weapon?" Was that how he intended to kill the Supreme?


    Skipper shook his head. "Nah, nah. It¡¯s more of a card that¡¯ll force the Supreme into the kind of confrontation I want. Make him fight on my terms, not his. If I¡¯m able to do that, I know for sure I can finish him."


    "On what basis?" Dragan raised an eyebrow. There was undeniable confidence here, but he had no clue where it was coming from.


    A smirk spread across Skipper¡¯s lips. "I almost managed it last time," he muttered. "This time I can get it right. One-hundred percent."


    "And again," Dragan said, anger beginning to rush to his head as he realized Skipper was swerving the topic away once again. "What does this have to do with me?"


    Skipper wiped the smirk off his mouth. "This device," he said, hands gesturing vaguely as he explained. "I can¡¯t tell you exactly what it is, but it was built by the Gene Tyrants -- operable only by themselves and the Cogitants they created to serve them."


    Dragan shook his head. "If all you needed was a Cogitant, you could have hired one. We¡¯re not an endangered species."


    "Ain¡¯t that simple. To get what I need working, I need Cogitants with very specific ways of thinking -- mental, uh, mental architecture, it¡¯s called. And those ways of thinking don¡¯t exist anymore, cause the world has changed, you get me? So the next best thing is to grab a ton of Cogitants -- with different ways of thinking -- point ¡¯em at the device, and use the average between them to mimic what we need."


    What we need -- Skipper had partners in this endeavour, then. People who would be bringing other Cogitants to this device, to unlock it so he could kill the Supreme.


    "So the Cogitants are a key to a lock," Dragan muttered. "Is that right?"


    Skipper frowned. "Kinda makes it sound a little cold and dehumanising if you say it that way, but yeah, kinda. Pretty good plan, yeah?"


    "You¡¯re insane," said Dragan.


    Bruno nodded in agreement -- and maybe Serena too, judging by the sudden acceleration in nodding speed. Clearly this was the first they were hearing of the specifics of this plan too.


    "Well, of course I¡¯m crazy, Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, lounging back on his rock as if it were a couch. "I live in a crazy world, yeah? The kind of world where people are allowed just to stomp over others just because they¡¯re weaker or less capable or less worthy, and the guy who can stomp the hardest gets treated like a god." He leaned forward suddenly, eyes intense. "You don¡¯t think that¡¯s crazy, Dragan?"


    All the good humour had left Skipper¡¯s voice, replaced with an honest and grim passion. His gaze burned into Dragan, as if daring him to argue, and all Dragan could really do was look away.


    "So that¡¯s it, then?" he muttered. "You see yourself as the Supremacy¡¯s big enemy?"


    The humour returned to Skipper¡¯s face, and he lounged back again.


    "Mr. Hadrien, I¡¯m a pal to anyone who opposes the Supremacy, anyone at all," he said, scratching his head. "To anyone else, though? Yeah, I guess I am their enemy."


    Ruth braced herself for a trap as she followed Grena through the woods. This was the perfect situation for one, after all.


    They¡¯d been walking for hours, the sounds of that massive Guardian Entity long since having faded into the night. Full dark reigned above them, interrupted only by the occasional pinprick of a star peering down. It took most of Ruth¡¯s brainpower just to avoid tripping on the roots that lay invisible on the ground below. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    And because of that, she bumped right into Grena¡¯s back as the other woman stopped.


    "Hey!" Ruth said, eyes narrowing behind her Skeletal mask. "Why have we stopped?"


    Here it came. A bomb prepared in advance, perhaps, to blow her to smithereens -- or Guardian Entities ready to burst out of the ground and drag her down to a premature grave. Some kind of trap.


    Maybe even a post to strap a whipped corpse to.


    The answer that met her, however, wasn¡¯t any of those.


    "Most likely," croaked a deep voice from the darkness. "She has stopped because you have arrived."


    Ruth turned to face the voice, and watched as its owner stepped out of the shadows. An old man dressed in a cloak of leaves and branches, only the tiniest sliver of his wrinkled face visible in the gap between his gargantuan hat and his cowl. A single brown eye, alert, stared out at her from within the ensemble.


    The darkness shifted.


    Ruth had thought she¡¯d been alert, but clearly that was not the case. If she¡¯d been alert, she would surely have noticed this.


    The darkness that surrounded her was not night. It was people. Countless people, clad in camouflage, watching her silently. A legion of shadows.


    The old brown eye didn¡¯t so much as blink. "Welcome, brave girl," it said. "To the real resistance."

 Chapter 124:5.20: Delegation’s End

    The horn sounded out just as the sun came up, but that wasn¡¯t what woke Nael Manron up -- there was no way it could have, as he had never been asleep. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As he sat on the side of his bed, staring intently at the cloth wall of his new tent, he fidgeted with a pebble held between his finger and thumb, as though he could crush it if he just applied enough pressure. No doubt that red woman could have done so -- when wearing that Guardian Entity, her strength had been immense. She had been capable.


    That was part of what had kept Nael awake.


    One by one, the Regulators that had gone to pursue the crimson assassin had returned in shame -- their Guardian Entities either unable to fight or unable to track their prey any further. Even the greatest trackers among them had admitted defeat.


    And yet Grena had not returned. He¡¯d asked after her, dreading the bloodstained news he might receive, but none of the returning Regulators had so much as seen her during the chase. It was as if she¡¯d vanished off the face of the world.


    The pebble slipped from between Nael¡¯s fingers -- the momentary tremor of exhaustion -- and dropped to the floor. Stimulus lost, his hands moved instead to knit together on his lap. Sweat seeped down from the back of his neck.


    Nael worked out here in the countryside, but he¡¯d been born and raised within Coren itself, in one of the many orphanages that the Regulators sponsored. Even with all the benevolence in the world, it wasn¡¯t easy to grow up in such an environment -- but fortunately for him, he hadn¡¯t been alone.


    Grena had been there to protect him. He¡¯d been there to protect Grena. That was the way their relationship functioned.


    Right now, though, it felt as if he was suddenly more alone than he¡¯d ever been in his life. When was the last time he¡¯d been unaware of Grena¡¯s location? What she was doing? If she was safe? Had that ever happened? He couldn¡¯t help but feel as if the ground had disappeared from under his feet.


    The front flap to the tent was suddenly lifted open and one of his subordinates peered on, face grim. Something else had happened, then.


    Probably for the best -- a malaise like this couldn¡¯t be allowed to fester. Grena was capable, too. She¡¯d find her way home.


    "Sir," the messenger said, his deep voice as grim as his gaze. "The Prester is here. He wishes to speak with you."


    Such grimness was fitting, then.


    Prester Garth let his hand brush through the long grass as he walked along the outskirts of the camp, Nael following by his side.


    "I was surprised to hear you hadn¡¯t cornered the rebels yet," Garth said lightly, as if discussing the weather. "For one of your abilities, I would have thought it to be child¡¯s play."


    Nael closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath. "My most sincere apologies, sir. There were¡­ unexpected complications. An attack upon the camp, and an assassination attempt upon myself. Dealing with the damage caused has delayed our pursuit -- but only somewhat. We will have finished this before long."


    Logically, he should have been in no danger -- Prester Garth was a servant of the gods and a paragon of their virtues. There was no Regulator who could doubt that. And yet, when in Garth¡¯s presence, one felt as if they were standing on the edge of a knife, ready to fall one way or the other depending on gravity¡¯s whim.


    Nael couldn¡¯t help but feel a certain anxiety in his throat, then, as he talked to his superior. Prester Garth was a great man, but he was by no means a safe one.


    Garth smiled. "I like you, Manron. I make no secret of that. You apologize for your mistakes and promise reimbursement in the same breath. That¡¯s how a man should be."


    "Thank you, sir," Nael nodded. "I appreciate your kindness."


    As Garth walked, he clasped his hands behind his back, his wild reachers casting a long shadow behind him. "The future is not set, after all -- any predictions we make are helpless when chaos is involved, and these interlopers are nothing if not chaotic."


    Nael gulped. "You refer to the inhuman ones."


    "That I do."


    "Then," Nael glanced behind the Prester, to the cloaked child that followed in his shadow. "Should we really be¡­?"


    Garth glanced down at him for a moment, brow furrowed, before seemingly realizing what he was talking about. "But of course. It is important that the Good Lady learns of the dangers that threaten this world -- otherwise, how is she to take up the fight when she is grown?"


    Nael bit his lip, looking around -- as if that red blur would appear again at any moment. "Still¡­ with the enemy so close, is it safe for her Ladyship to be here?"


    "Please don¡¯t worry, sir," the Good Lady spoke up for the first time, her voice light and breathy. "I¡¯ll be perfectly fine. I promise!¡¯


    "I¡¯m not certain that¡¯s something that can be decided so easily¡­" Nael said hesitantly.


    Garth¡¯s meaty hand clapped lightly on Nael¡¯s shoulder as they came to a halt, having finally reached the line of the forest.


    "You worry far too much, my boy," he said fondly. "Caution is good for a warrior, but too much of it is just unsightly. Learn to balance it with valour."


    Nael nodded. "Of course, sir."


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    "Her Ladyship is perfectly safe. Her Guardian Entity is with us, even now. Gashadokuro would never allow any harm to come to her."


    Indeed, from what Nael had heard, her Ladyship¡¯s Guardian Entity was nothing to sneeze at -- the ultimate protector for the one who would inherit the burden of the world. The few attempted assassinations over the years had invariably ended with smears of red meat.


    Still, what Garth had said wasn¡¯t quite true. Gashadokuro evidently wasn¡¯t always with her Ladyship -- from what Nael had been told, the Prester had dispatched the Guardian Entity after ¡¯Dragan Hadrien¡¯ and the crimson killer when he¡¯d first arrived. The sounds of its thunderous footsteps had shook for hours until it too had admitted defeat.


    But such thoughts weren¡¯t the sort to be voiced -- they were the kind to be mulled over and sensibly filed away. Prester Garth hadn¡¯t reached his position through foolishness: if he took an action, it was a given that there was a good reason for it.


    Nael¡¯s role was to execute commands, not question them -- and that role was one he would play to perfection, for the sake of the people.


    He glanced away from the Good Lady --


    -- and was met, inches from his face, with the bone-white mask of Aka Manto. Twin sapphire eyes glittered maliciously through the mask¡¯s slits, and as Nael took a reflexive step backwards, the Guardian Entity¡¯s hand whipped out and seized him by the wrist.


    "Two paths lie before you," it hissed. "A path of blue, and a path of red."


    The strength of the beings grip was immense -- Nael was forced to grit his teeth as he fell to his knees, the pain such that he thought his arm would be snapped right off. Aka Manto simply glared down at him, disdain still evident in every facet of its existence.


    The Good Lady looked from Aka Manto to Nael, concern evident in her wide eyes. "Um," she mumbled, clearly overwhelmed, as her panicked gaze turned to Garth.


    The Prester simply observed passively, hands clasped in front of him. It was as if he were listening to a mildly interesting sermon, rather than watching a subordinate be assaulted.


    "To take the path of blue is --"


    Garth raised a hand.


    "Stop, Aka Manto," he said quietly. "I¡¯ve changed my mind. I¡¯m satisfied with this man¡¯s apology."


    The Guardian Entity acquiesced immediately, releasing Nael¡¯s arm and vanishing in a spark of red-and-blue godsblood. A second later, the only remaining trace of its existence was the red mark on Nael¡¯s wrist.


    Garth reached down and pulled Nael up by the arm, brushing off his shoulders as he was brought back up to a standing position. "My apologies," he said fondly. "You understand how these things are."


    Nael wasn¡¯t sure he did understand. Quickly, he exchanged a glance with the Good Lady -- but both of them looked away just as quickly. Whatever had just happened, they did not wish to acknowledge it.


    "Of course, sir," Nael bowed, trying his best to ignore the cold sweat on the back of his neck. "I appreciate your faith in me."


    There was no doubt. Prester Garth was certainly not a safe man to be around.


    "There," Lily said, jabbing her finger onto the map. "Embrin Swamp."


    The spot she¡¯d indicated didn¡¯t look too enticing to Dragan. Obvious depictions of bogs and fog, along with a symbol that looked like some kind of open flame. The swamp went on for a short ways in such a fashion before terminating outside the mountain.


    "That¡¯s our way out?" Dragan asked, doubt evident in his voice.


    They¡¯d assembled in Lily¡¯s planning station -- Dragan, Skipper, Bruno, Serena, Lily and Ted -- map spread out on the crate between them. They couldn¡¯t wait for Ruth any longer: the time had come to properly plan their escape.


    Lily nodded. "They won¡¯t dare to follow us out through there -- and to catch us on the other end, they¡¯d have to go all the way around. By the time we¡¯re out free, they¡¯ll only be halfway to the exit."


    "Unless they¡¯re already expecting you to do this, of course," Skipper rubbed his chin. "They could have guys already stationed there, yeah?"


    Lily shook her head. "They won¡¯t. I can guarantee that."


    Bruno frowned. "How?"


    "Because it¡¯d be insane to go anywhere near that place. The gases swirling through there are explosive as explosive gets -- the tiniest spark can set them off."


    Serena smiled. "Oh, okay. I understand!"


    "No, no no no!" Dragan interrupted, waving a hand as what Lily had just said registered in his brain. "What did you just say?"


    Lily at least had the good grace to shuffle uncomfortably.


    "Well," she muttered. "If they came and attacked us, the sparks from their metal weapons would just blow everyone up, so they wouldn¡¯t wanna risk that. And they think we¡¯re smarter than that, too, so they wouldn¡¯t even consider us doing it."


    "Good to know we¡¯re not smarter than that, then," Dragan sighed. He turned his gaze to Ted, standing behind Lily. "You can¡¯t talk her out of this?"


    Ted drummed his sizable fingers over the table as he replied. "I agree with the plan, actually¡­"


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "You agree with the plan where we walk through an explosive swamp, hoping our enemies think we¡¯re not stupid enough to walk through an explosive swamp? It¡¯s insane!"


    A serene smile spread across Ted¡¯s lips. "The first step to genius is insanity."


    "There are steps after that, too. You have to be alive for those."


    The sound of clapping rang through the room -- skin slapping against metal. The spotlight of attention shifted to Skipper.


    "Friends, friends!" Skipper chuckled, raising his hands placatingly. "We¡¯re here blowing up at each other before we even get to the swamp! Dragan -- don¡¯t sweat it. I¡¯ve got a plan of my own. It¡¯ll work out."


    Dragan crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. If Skipper had some kind of plan, he could probably breathe easy, but still¡­


    "Oh," Skipper¡¯s grin spread just a bit wider. "And I believe there was something you wanted to show everyone, yeah?"


    Dragan nodded, a smirk already forming on his face. He¡¯d almost forgotten in the haze of the argument.


    Lily furrowed her brow in confusion as Dragan took a step atop a nearby rock, making himself tall. "What are you doing?"


    "Elucidating," he replied smugly.


    With his free hand, he fished his waterskin out of his satchel and dangled it between two fingers, like a pendulum. The sound of sloshing liquid echoed throughout the chamber.


    "Who wants to know what a Guardian Entity really is?"

 Chapter 125:5.21: Guardian Entity

    "Who wants to know what a Guardian Entity really is?"


    Dragan grinned as he wiggled the satchel between his fingers, the liquid within audibly sloshing this way and that. His eyes flicked over the different faces of the group, taking in their expressions. He had the floor, it seemed.


    With his free hand, he snapped his fingers and pointed at Lily. "How about it? What do you think a Guardian Entity is, as you understand it?"


    Lily shrugged. "Uh, a spirit, I guess? Like a ghost or something. Never really thought about it."


    "No such thing as ghosts," Dragan shook his head.


    "Says the space alien!"


    "That¡¯s different," Dragan replied, without explaining how that was different. His pointing finger swerved to target Ted instead. "How about you -- what do you think a Guardian Entity is, really?"


    Ted seemed to give the question a little more consideration than his supposed superior, one of his fingers idly stroking the head of the sloth-creature on his shoulder as he mulled it over.


    "I suppose," he said slowly. "I would best describe them as projections, constructs summoned or sculpted by godsblood."


    Not quite, but Dragan would give marks for giving the question a double-digits number of seconds of thought.


    "Godsblood," he clarified. "That¡¯s the energy that appears before you bring out one of those Guardian Entities, right? The stuff that looks like electricity?"


    Ted furrowed his brow. "I think you¡¯ve lost me. What is electricity, please?"


    Dragan snapped his fingers again. "Doesn¡¯t matter," he replied. "My point is -- what you call godsblood, we call Aether. It¡¯s the stuff we, uh, we space aliens use to do all our crazy shit. We just use it in a different way than you."


    "Why¡¯s this important?" Lily clearly wasn¡¯t having any of this, her arms crossed and her mouth a straight line of explicit displeasure.


    Dragan answered the question in a way -- he didn¡¯t actually reply to Lily, per se, but he would be getting to her query soon enough anyway. "I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve seen Ruth summon that armour of hers, right?"


    Reluctantly, Lily engaged: "Right. At first, we thought it was a Guardian Entity. So you¡¯re saying that¡¯s not the case?"


    Dragan¡¯s grin spread just a bit wider. "Not at all -- you¡¯re exactly right. The process Ruth uses to summon her armour is called manifesting, and it¡¯s the exact same way you guys summon your Guardian Entities. You¡¯ve had the Entity recorded in your Aether, and then you pull it out when you need it. The only difference is that Ruth¡¯s armour is an object, and the Entities are living organisms."


    Bruno put a hand to his chin. "It¡¯s just like the Fifth Dead, then, from Taldan. He recorded animals and then manifested them to attack."


    "Yeah," Dragan nodded. "Exactly. If that guy had crash-landed here, he¡¯d probably have been top dog within the day."


    Over in the corner, Skipper grinned to himself, catching Dragan¡¯s eye. He¡¯d been uncharacteristically quiet for the last couple of minutes -- was he getting ready to do something annoying, or just watching the show?


    "Sorry if I¡¯m being slow," Ted cut in, pulling Dragan¡¯s attention back. "But when you say ¡¯recorded¡¯, you mean it in the sense of text being transcribed into a book? Wouldn¡¯t that imply, then, that the original text existed before that -- or the original Guardian Entity, in this case?"


    Dragan nodded -- and once again wiggled the satchel in his hand. "Yes -- the Guardian Entities are only deployed using Aether. This satchel confirms that."


    Bruno¡¯s grim expression softened into Serena¡¯s easy smile. "I remember that," she whispered conspiratorially, elbowing Lily next to her in the ribs. "Mr. Dragan was trying to get a drink out of the enemy¡¯s mouth. He¡¯s crazy."


    Lily rubbed her side, staring at Serena in confusion. No doubt she still didn¡¯t quite understand what was going on with the del Sed switching act. Poor her. Dragan wasn¡¯t going to explain any time soon, either -- he could only exposit one thing at a time, after all.


    He continued: "Thanks for the reminder, Serena. That¡¯s not quite, uh, true -- but thanks anyway. What actually happened is that I managed to snag some venom from one of the Guardian Entities that attacked me back at the Regulator¡¯s camp."


    Lily raised an eyebrow. "You were doing that while it was trying to kill you? They¡¯re right -- you are crazy."


    "No, I¡¯m normal. The important thing is that it¡¯s been hours, right? Hours. That lady won¡¯t have kept her Guardian Entity manifested for this long without interruption. And yet¡­"


    He swirled the satchel around, the sounds of the liquid moving within clearly audible.


    "...the venom is still here. Ergo, it¡¯s an actual physical object. Ergo, the Guardian Entities are actual physical beings, not something created through Aether. Adjusted through Aether, maybe, to give ¡¯em some wacky abilities -- but the base existed before Aether even got involved."


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    Skipper pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against, hands in his pockets. The look in his eyes gave Dragan the infuriating feeling that he¡¯d long since been beaten to the punch.


    "Pray tell, then, Mr. Hadrien," Skipper said. "What kinda base are we talking about here?"


    Dragan took a deep breath, looking over at the two native listeners. "So, to explain this bit, I think I have to go over a little of the background. I don¡¯t suppose either of you knows what a Gene Tyrant is?"


    The man called Old Owl limped through the forest, leaf-covered hat bobbing up and down as he did so.


    At least, Ruth assumed his name was Old Owl -- those were the words she kept hearing her escorts whisper whenever the man spoke. Whatever his name was, he was clearly the leader of this group: this miasma of respect and fear was just like what Rupert Grave had projected.


    "You wonder about my name, I think," Old Owl grumbled as he stepped over a root, not turning to face Ruth.


    No point pretending. "Yeah, I kinda am."


    He chuckled humourlessly. "I am old, and I am like an owl. What else can there be to it?" S§×arch* The N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Nope. Still didn¡¯t make any sense. "How are you like an owl?"


    "I watch. An owl watches everything -- and that is my same soul. I watched you through other eyes." Finally, he turned to glance back at her, his single visible eye piercing. "You are strong. This is an obvious thing."


    Ruth glanced around uneasily, trying to ignore the half-concealed hostility of her escorts. "What¡¯s that mean? You watch through other eyes? Like, with a Guardian Entity or something?"


    The eye closed. "No. It is a metaphor. Other people tell me what things I want to know. That you do not understand this is¡­ lamentable."


    Grena, walking beside her, put a hand to her mouth in an obvious attempt to suppress a painful chuckle. Ruth felt burning humiliation rush to her cheeks. She¡¯d been dropped out of the sky by a flying ghost barely days ago -- how was she supposed to still believe in metaphors?!


    "Well," Ruth scowled, crossing her arms. "Sorry if I¡¯m such a disappointment. Maybe you should just let me go."


    "I cannot let you go."


    "Why not?"


    "You are not my prisoner."


    As Old Owl said that, he pushed aside the branch in front of him, sweet sunlight finally flooding in through the gap. His eye opened again as Ruth¡¯s adjusted to the sudden incandescence.


    "This is where the victory starts," he said, by way of explanation.


    The camp Lily Aubrisher¡¯s rebels had maintained had been a ramshackle affair, more a gang of unfortunately idealistic kids than an actual resistance. This, however, was an army.


    Disciplined-looking figures in similar camouflage to Old Owl and Grena marched through the camp with purpose -- transporting bags of weapons and countless barrels to waiting carriages. The camp itself seemed to be built directly into the trees that formed the forest: Ruth had no doubt she¡¯d have looked over this location entirely if the inhabitants hadn¡¯t been in sight. A sneak attack in that situation would have been child¡¯s play.


    Ruth gulped.


    "You said you¡¯re the real resistance," she muttered. "What does that mean? I get you¡¯re against the Regulators or whatever, but what makes you more real than the other guys?"


    Again, Old Owl chuckled humourlessly. "Aubrisher and her children fight newborn war, ours is geriatric. Coren has desired us dead for as long as we have been living. When I began fighting, I was a teenager. Now I am a geriatric too."


    "So it¡¯s just, uh¡­ it¡¯s just a time thing? You¡¯ve been doing it longer?"


    Old Owl stiffly shook his head. "The spider is a patient thing," he said, as if that explained anything. "It is the master of waiting. It spins its webs while the sun goes up and down, and eats plenty when the job is done. We are the spider. We have spread our web." His eye flicked over to Grena for a second. "Spies placed in Coren¡¯s society. War carefully, carefully prepared for."


    Ruth could believe that, with the number of weapons being moved about. The Regulator¡¯s forces were still superior, of course, but this group could probably slaughter Lily¡¯s rebels without too much trouble.


    Ruth jumped as Old Owl clapped a celebratory hand on her shoulder -- she hadn¡¯t even realized he¡¯d been moving until his hand was on her.


    "This is a good time," he rumbled, hand pulling back. "Things have become a good time. It is almost time to eat our fill."


    "What do you mean?"


    They walked further into the encampment, Ruth looking uneasily at the creatures pulling the carriages -- huge blue crustaceans, disk-shaped, mandibles clicking together impatiently as they stomped in place.


    Old Owl didn¡¯t answer her question straight away -- instead, he followed her gaze to the animals. "Horses surprise you. You haven¡¯t seen before?"


    Ruth clicked her tongue. "That¡¯s, uh¡­ that¡¯s a horse?"


    The eye flicked over to Grena again, an invisible communication. The woman shrugged, and the eye flicked back.


    "Yes," Old Owl said -- rather than elaborate further, he instead hopped back to the previous topic. "You ask why it is a good time now. That is because of what you have done. The Prester and the good lady are within reach. They can be killed as one thing. Two failed killings have opened up a third for success. You have done very well."


    Despite everything, Ruth felt the slightest smirk of relief cross her lips. She barely understood what this man was talking about, but this tiny approval helped lift the burden that had been crushing her heart recently -- if only a little.


    Still, she had questions. She had nothing but questions.


    "The, uh, the good lady? Who¡¯s that?" she asked, stopping to lean against a tree -- she couldn¡¯t even remember when they¡¯d first started walking, and her legs were made of pain.


    A barely visible eyebrow rose up at Ruth¡¯s query, and Old Owl reached up to adjust his hat slightly. "You really --"


    That was the last straw.


    "No!" Ruth shouted suddenly, striking the tree behind her with such force that the bark splintered. "No, I really don¡¯t know! So tell me -- explain! I¡¯m sick of everyone here looking at me like I¡¯m an idiot! I am an idiot, but I¡¯m not going to let you assholes treat me like one anymore! I want answers!"


    She took a step forward -- and as if on cue, four of Old Owl¡¯s comrades stepped in front of him defensively, their bodies entirely covered in leafy cloaks. Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked between them: if this ended in a fight, she¡¯d have to watch for tricks like the ones Grena had used. Concealing their bodies like this made it easier for them to take her by surprise, after all.


    But in the end, no fight came.


    Old Owl simply lifted a hand, and the four guards stepped away, melting into the shadows. The single eye narrowed at Ruth, still stood there with her hands balled into fists. The old man chuckled -- and this time, there was the tiniest hint of actual humour.


    "You are really a brave girl," he said. "Very well, then, very well. Follow, and I will tell you the secrets of this world. All of them."

 Chapter 126:5.22: XK-12

    Ruth shuffled uncomfortably in the darkness of the hollow tree. This real resistance -- the Grinhe, they¡¯d said they were called -- were quiet at the best of times, but in this place it seemed that silence had taken on a reverent quality. S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Old Owl had led her inside the tree at the centre of their encampment after her little outburst, promising to explain everything. Ruth wasn¡¯t sure he could do that -- with all the weird shit going on on this planet, they¡¯d be here for a billion years if he tried to walk her through it all. Still, she was willing to listen. Wasn¡¯t like she was good for much else.


    The inside of the tree was illuminated only by fireflies, bobbing and weaving lazily through the air, some landing on the leaf-covered cloaks of her Grinhe escorts. They didn¡¯t even blink in response to the bugs crawling over them. Ruth, on the other hand, found herself waving her hands to keep the insects off her.


    Not quite the dignity the Grinhe seemed to be looking for, but it was all that they were getting.


    Click, click. Old Owl limped back into sight -- he¡¯d gone off for a moment -- a small object in his hand. Ruth¡¯s eyes were instantly drawn to the silver disk-shaped thing: unlike everything else she¡¯d seen since she¡¯d arrived here, it was familiar.


    Not exceedingly familiar -- it was definitely an antique among antiques -- but Ruth knew a hologram projector when she saw one.


    "What is that?" she asked quietly.


    Old Owl held the disk up in his hand. "It is the truth," he rumbled. "Unfiltered. Unbiased. Remembered. Do you want to see it?"


    Ruth gulped. She felt sweat on her hands as she clenched them into fists. It was absurd -- how much could the truth of this planet affect her, really? She¡¯d barely been here a week.


    Still, she felt nervous. The grimness in Old Owl¡¯s eye seemed only to intensify that.


    "Yeah," Ruth said finally. "Yeah, I wanna see it."


    Dragan found Lily just outside the cave system, sitting on a ledge that overlooked the vast forest below. As he approached, she hurled a pebble out into the distance, like she was skipping rocks across a pond.


    "Penny for your thoughts?" he sighed, hands in his pockets as he reached her.


    She glanced up at him. "The fuck¡¯s a penny?"


    Dragan paused. He actually didn¡¯t know. "You seem kinda freaked out."


    Lily turned back to the horizon, sun barely peeking over it, and threw her hands out as if she were about to say something. No words came, though, just a formless sigh.


    Dragan couldn¡¯t exactly blame her -- she¡¯d just found out that pretty much all the history she knew had been a lie.


    "Gene Tyrants," she muttered, rubbing at one eye. "You really think our gods are these¡­ were these things? Monsters?"


    Dragan folded his jacket up on the rocky ground and sat on top of it, legs crossed, hands in his lap.


    "I don¡¯t know about monsters," he said hesitantly. "Just people that figured out how to do things others couldn¡¯t. They could -- they were monsters, I guess, but not like wild animals or anything. Why? Do you not want to accept that?"


    Lily looked unsure -- when her mouth opened, it took her words several seconds to make their escape. "I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t really know. I¡¯m not sure if I believed in the gods, in what I -- what we were all taught as kids, but¡­"


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "You¡¯ve been fighting the Regulators for years, though. I don¡¯t really see how this changes anything."


    "Yeah," Lily tossed another stone. "Fighting the Regulators. I¡¯ve never -- I¡¯ve never thought I was actually fighting the gods, or anything like that. I hated the messenger, but the message¡­ I could take it or leave it, I think. Guess I just leave it now." Even saying that, though, there was a glint of hope as she glanced up at Dragan. "You could be wrong, still, I suppose. There¡¯s no proof these Gene Tyrants actually made the Guardian Entities."


    Dragan winced -- false hope was uncomfortable to look upon, after all. "I don¡¯t see how anyone else could have done it. Gene manipulation is the most taboo of taboos in the galaxy now -- apart from the Superbians, nobody¡¯s bold enough to mess around with it. And if the organisms that became Guardian Entities were naturally occurring, there¡¯d be specimens of them in the wild, too. There aren¡¯t, so¡­ not really sure what else there is to say."


    "Fuck," Lily muttered, tossing another stone with all her strength. "Fuck."


    Dragan nodded. "The thing you told Ruth about, the complex underneath the Regulator¡¯s base¡­ I¡¯m thinking that was probably the original Gene Tyrant ship, where the Regulators make the Guardian Entities. I bet it crash-landed here during the war, right?"


    The second glance Lily shot his way was much harsher. "Not really interested in the logistics of it."


    "Oh. Uh, sorry."


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    For a moment, they were silent, staring out at the sea of trees below. The quiet was interrupted only by the far-off calling of some unknown bird, slowly fading into the distance.


    When Lily spoke again, her tone of voice had changed -- from exhausted depression to a kind of cautious curiosity.


    "That godsblood you use¡­" she began. "Aether, you called it? How¡¯s it work?"


    "Physically? I don¡¯t know. It pretty blatantly breaks the laws of physics, but I don¡¯t know all the science behind it--"


    "No," Lily shook her head -- and the rest of the words that left her mouth seemed to do so almost reluctantly. "I mean¡­ if I wanted to use it, to learn how to use it, could I? Could you help me do that?"


    Dragan blinked.


    That was a very interesting question indeed.


    The projector blinked blue -- and in the same moment, a human figure appeared in front of Ruth, composed of distorted light. The blue glow bathed the inside of the hollow tree, shadows dancing with every minor movement of the hologram.


    The figure seemed to be a man, his age made uncertain by the degradation of the image, heavy bags underneath his eyes. Things like the shades of his hair and skin were impossible to tell -- it seemed colour had been one of the first things to go as the hologram broke down. Still, a sense of exhaustion came through loud and clear.


    "This is servitor Enden Los, rep¨€rti¨€g," he said, parts of his speech worn down by time. "We are still on XK-12, as I said in my last message."


    "XK-12," muttered Old Owl. "That is the name of this world."


    "I am¡­ uns¨€¨€e if my messages are ¨€etting through. ¨€o, I am almo¨€t cer¨€¨€¨€n they are not. We are alone."


    The message skipped forward slightly, catching the man just as he was wiping something from his face.


    "We are al¨€¨€¨€," he repeated, expression twisted into a tormented grimace. "Ilan¨€¨€eitl i¨€ dead. Baras¡¯ sp¨€¨€¨€s proved too much for he¨€. We ha¨€e not yet¡­ this planet is not suitable to b¨€¨€y an esteemed Gene Noble on."


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened. Gene Noble? She¡¯d only heard the more flattering term on history videographs, but she knew what it was referring to without a doubt. The Gene Tyrants were involved with this place somehow?


    "Not a god," she heard Old Owl mutter, with more than a trace of bitterness. "Just a corpse. Maybe not even that now."


    The message slipped forward again -- this time perhaps days, the speaker¡¯s clothing and stance changing dramatically. Before, he¡¯d almost seemed shellshocked, but now the man seemed fully present -- hands clasped behind his back, standing at attention. Even through the faded hologram, Ruth could see a kind of familiar ferocity in his eyes.


    The man spoke again:


    "The servants are uneasy. Steps must be taken. Grinhe stirs rebe¨€¨€¨€¨€n, I believe. Wi¨€¨€¨€ut the guidance of Ilancueitl, we are lost, but there are¡­ there are ¨€ell resources avail¨€¨€¨€e to us. The power used by Baras¡¯ alliance -- ¨€¨€¨€her -- will be our salvation. Our r¨€¨€¨€archers have found a new possibility. The amusements left behind by our creator will serve a new purpose -- or¨€er."


    He blinked, and for a moment Ruth thought the hologram would skip ahead again -- but the man continued, a kind of grim solemnity in his voice. "XK-12 is now the fin¨€¨€ bastion of civ¨€¨€izati¨€¨€, secure from the chaos of the ¨€¨€tside. It must rem¨€¨€n so. It w¨€ll remain so. I t¨€o will --"


    The hologram stuttered.


    "I to¨€ will--"


    Again, it stuttered. Old Owl gazed impassively at the flickering image -- clearly, this was no surprise to him. It was a message he¡¯d heard many times before.


    "I to¨€ wi¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€o¨€¨€ ¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€t¨€¨€¨€. X¨€-¨€¨€ wil¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ peace."


    And with that, the hologram finally died, the remnants of the scrambled image retreating back into the projector. Grena knelt down and picked it up, passing it back over to Old Owl, who returned it to the depths of his cloak.


    "As you see," he said. "It is seen. This world, XK-12, is a lie caged in the glass. The Regulators regulate the falsehood. They are of the belief that only oblivion awaits in the true world."


    Ruth blinked, still absorbing the information she¡¯d received. Why couldn¡¯t Dragan or Skipper have been here? They¡¯d have known the good questions to ask.


    "What¡­" she began, before swallowing and starting again. "What do you believe? Do you, uh, think the same?"


    Old Owl¡¯s eye closed for a moment, considering the question. "I believe it is better to be an unchained corpse than a bound slave. Should the world be chaos, it will be chaos. Should the world be order, it will be order. All that matters is that lies become truth. A lie cannot last forever. Falsehood is the sin of man alone -- the world can no longer tolerate it."


    The eye opened again, and there was fire in the iris.


    "A reckoning will not be postponed indefinitely," he growled.


    A shiver ran down Ruth¡¯s spine -- this man was definitely not the same as Rupert Grave or Lily Aubrisher.


    Rupert had held the same beliefs as the man he opposed -- if he had ever defeated Barridad, he would have just taken his place without a thought. His revolution had been borne of a personal grudge, not formed from any kind of greater ideology.


    Lily seemed as if her rebellion was just an extension of her effort to survive. The Regulators wanted her dead, so she had no choice but to oppose them. It was still personal, sure -- there was no way it couldn¡¯t be -- but it wasn¡¯t something she could never leave behind.


    But Old Owl was different. This rebellion was created from pure, unbreakable resolve. This man would drown the whole world in blood for the principle of the thing.


    Ruth gulped. "So you want me to help you fight your war? You saved me because I was strong, right? That¡¯s why?"


    Old Owl stood up straight, a formidable pressure emanating from him despite his diminutive height. His good eye gazed fiercely up at Ruth, its depths inscrutable.


    "We brought you because you are strong. Yes. But¡­"


    The eye flicked past Ruth, looking instead behind her. She turned to follow its gaze -- another of the cloaked Grinhe was standing in the entrance of the tree, hands clasped in front of them. Ruth hadn¡¯t even heard them approaching.


    "It¡¯s as we expected," the messenger whispered. "Aubrisher¡¯s rebels are attempting to flee through the swamps -- and the Prester has already laid a trap for them."


    The eye narrowed slightly. "Then the end of the war is at hand."


    "What does he mean?" Ruth asked, turning back towards Old Owl. "What¡¯s he talking about, what swamps?!"


    Old Owl didn¡¯t provide any answer to that question. Instead, he simply turned his eye back to Ruth and continued the statement that had been cut off.


    "We brought you here because you are strong. But you are not here to help us fight this war."


    The eye blinked.


    "You are here to help us end it."

 Chapter 127:5.23: My Duty As A Living Thing

    Three years ago...


    It felt like a great weight was slowly being eased off of Ruth¡¯s shoulders.


    They¡¯d done it. They¡¯d almost done it. Optimism danced in Ruth¡¯s brain as she made her way through the thick jungle, Skeletal claws slashing apart any vines that got in her way. Before the day was out, Zed Barridad would be dead, and the rebellion would be victorious. Everything would be over.


    Ruth hopped over a river, leaving a massive dent in the ground where she kicked off. What would she do when the war was over? It wasn¡¯t as if she¡¯d never fantasized about it. Fighting was what she was best at, but that didn¡¯t mean there wasn¡¯t anything waiting for her when the fighting was done. She could do whatever she wanted -- any debt to Rupert Grave would be paid in full.


    Whatever she wanted, whatever she wanted¡­ it was funny, but Ruth didn¡¯t actually know what she wanted. She was excited to find out, though.


    Robin was always talking about other planets -- the places she¡¯d seen, the farm-world she¡¯d grown up on with her mother. Maybe Ruth would check a couple of those out.


    Or maybe she wouldn¡¯t! The choice was entirely hers. A giddy giggle slipped out of her throat, swallowed by the wind.


    She couldn¡¯t get ahead of herself, though. One thing at a time: she couldn¡¯t celebrate the victory before it actually happened. She had to fulfill her part of the mission first -- extracting Robin from the agreed-upon location.


    It wasn¡¯t exactly the most exciting role in the final battle, but truth be told she didn¡¯t feel any need to personally plunge her claws into Zed Barridad¡¯s throat. To her, he was a nebulous threat, any real enmity born only of second-hand accounts. Grave was the one with the real grudge against him. She was sure he wouldn¡¯t miss the chance to finish off his hated foe.


    Well, he was welcome to it. Grave could execute whatever revenge he felt entitled to while Ruth got Robin out of here -- and then her life could really get started.


    This was the day. This was the day! Ruth burst through the clearing --


    -- and ground to a halt.


    There were men in the clearing, men in armour, men with guns pointed right at her. The Admiral¡¯s men. The armour was obvious, the guns smoking residue plasma. The Admiral himself stood nearly in the middle of the clearing, staring impassively at Ruth, dull eyes over that stupid little moustache.


    He wasn¡¯t in the middle of the clearing. There was something next to him. There was¡­ something next to him. There was something next to him.


    There was a pole in the middle of the clearing -- no -- there was something strapped to that pole -- no -- there was a person strapped to that pole -- no -- there was a corpse strapped to that pole -- no, no, no -- there was, there was¡­.


    Robin was strapped to the pole.


    Her skin had already turned pale from blood loss, but it was obvious with a single look that she¡¯d been dead for some time already. Flies crawled over her contorted face. Her eyes stared sightlessly, locked in a final expression of agony.


    The skin of her torso was missing, stripped away by repeated lashes. Blood still dripped from the whip in her father¡¯s hands.


    Half-formed thoughts oozed incoherent from Ruth¡¯s mouth. "I¡¯ll¡­" she muttered. "Y-You¡­"


    Zed Barridad spoke, ignoring her words. He gestured towards the corpse with his free hand. "What you see here," he said, calm as the night. "Is the result of your decisions as human beings. You must come to expect natural consequences."


    He was utterly, completely detached, neither the inflection of his voice or the expression on his face betraying any emotion at what he¡¯d done. He¡¯d killed her. He¡¯d killed her.


    The buzzing thoughts in Ruth¡¯s head solidified into murder.


    "I¡¯ll kill you!" she snarled, leaping forward, claws held high. Even if the guards burnt her to ashes, she could kill this man first. Rip him to pieces. Kill him. Kill him. Do that, at least, before she died.


    Barridad stared at her as she rushed right to him, claws slashing down to peel away his face. There was a shout of alarm from the guards -- they hadn¡¯t expected such speed. There wouldn¡¯t be time to react. She¡¯d kill him.


    "No," she heard Barridad say, as calmly as ever. "You are insufficient. Emperor Set."


    When Ruth¡¯s claws came down, they struck solid steel instead of soft flesh -- and in the next instant, she found herself suspended in the air as a gauntleted hand grabbed her by the throat. Zed Barridad had been utterly transformed.


    His uniform had been replaced with a massive set of steel armour, composed of countless interlocking plates, like some sort of titanic knight. Curling golden horns protruded from the helmet, and a burning red cape fluttered in the wind behind him.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened as Barridad¡¯s grip tightened. It was the same kind of ability as her Skeletal Set. She could tell just from the grip -- this was armour many times stronger than her own.


    "Pitiful," Barridad muttered. "You attempted to create some kind of counterfeit, Grave? As an insult towards me? How cheeky of you."


    Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked around -- Grave? Was Grave here?! -- but Barridad was speaking only to empty air. There was nobody here to help her.


    Helpless anger ran dry, replaced by the anguish that poured free from Ruth¡¯s eyes, warm as fire on her cheeks.


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    "You killed her," she sobbed, glaring forwards at the slits on Barridad¡¯s helmet. "Your own daughter! You killed her! You¡¯re a fucking monster!"


    "No," Barridad said patiently. "I am simply true to myself. It is in my nature to execute traitors, you see."


    His grip tightened slightly, and Ruth choked as she heard her own neck creak. She¡¯d die, she was sure of it, she¡¯d die here just like Robin. Just like Robin.


    There were tiny holes, pinpricks, all over Barridad¡¯s armour -- and as Ruth struggled, liquid metal poured freely from them, forming into solid tendrils that held her firmly still. Soon enough, it was impossible for Ruth to so much as gasp for breath.


    Barridad was still speaking, though, even as he squeezed.


    "I see you are not a person who understands, so let me explain. The purpose of organisms like us is to act according to our nature. If our desire is to help others, then we must do that with everything we have. If our desire is to inflict pain, we must inflict pain -- pain more agonizing and more cruel with each iteration, such that it almost becomes an ideal." He waved a free hand towards the body on the post. "This is what I have done in this instance. A human soul requires tempering in the same way as a blade -- and with each act like this, I become more and more like myself. That¡¯s my duty as a living thing."


    Ruth felt her vision growing dim as her lungs screamed for oxygen, darkness like videograph static creeping in on the edges of her vision. Dimly, she wondered what would happen first -- would she suffocate, or would Barridad snap her neck with just a tiny bit more pressure?


    That was it, then. Her arms fell limp to her sides, her claws useless. Her vision became nothing but dark.


    And yet¡­ she heard a grunt of disapproval from Barridad, followed by the unimpressed words: "I see you don¡¯t understand at all."


    The last thing she felt before true unconsciousness subsumed her was the heavy thump of a gauntlet against her skull.


    Ruth blinked as her eyes came back to the present. These swamps looked like death.


    No matter how much Aether she infused into her eyes, it was nearly impossible to see through the dark-green fog that permeated this part of the planet, swirling around nauseatingly as it oozed into every nook and cranny. Every now and then, she¡¯d spot some barely visible silhouette through the sickly air -- the faded ribs of some long-dead beast, or the lone sentinel of a dying tree, but for the most part their journey was nothing but fog and sludge.


    The crustacean ¡¯horse¡¯ beneath Ruth jostled slightly as it stepped through the swamp, and she found herself clinging more tightly to its spinal spurs. The two sharing the ride with her, however -- Old Owl and Grena -- didn¡¯t so much as twitch. Riding like this was second nature for them, obviously.


    "Your armour thing," Old Owl croaked, staring straight ahead at the front of the beast. "The claws -- you will not use them. Understand?"


    Ruth nodded -- and then, realizing the old man wouldn¡¯t have seen, replied: "Yeah."


    "Understand why?"


    "Any sparks will cause an explosion. You told me."


    "A thing can be listened to, but not heard," Old Owl said, patting the horse beneath him. "If an explosion happens when it is not supposed to, many of us will die. It is important that the opposite of this happens. Yes? Many of them must die."


    "Right," Ruth said. "What¡¯s the plan, then?"


    "We will win."


    Ruth sighed. Was this how Dragan felt, when Ruth acted without thinking? No wonder he rolled his eyes so much. "Listen -- I¡¯ve let you drag me all the way out here. I¡¯ve been pretty good about all this. I wanna help, but you gotta tell me what we¡¯re doing here."


    There was a deep, croaky sigh from Owl Owl up ahead. "Aubrisher¡¯s rebels are coming out through this swamp. Garth¡¯s toy soldiers are waiting to ambush them. We will act."


    Ruth nodded. "We¡¯ll ambush them before the attack, then. Drive ¡¯em back and get ¡¯em while they¡¯re off-guard."


    Old Owl did not reply. In the corner of her eye, Ruth caught Grena very intentionally looking away.


    Wait.


    Ruth leaned forward slightly. "That is the plan, right?"


    Old Owl¡¯s thin, wrinkled fingers drummed against the carapace. "There¡­ is a different stratagem."


    "And that is?"


    Some sudden, inevitable anxiety was thundering through Ruth¡¯s body now, intensifying her heartbeat to a drum of war. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong. The Grinhe soldiers on the neighbouring horses, all part of the same convoy, looked at her cautiously.


    Slowly, slowly, Old Owl turned in his seat to face her. His eye narrowed inscrutably.


    "There is a hill ahead," he croaked. "A hill that rises out of this place, safe from fire. We will wait for Garth¡¯s men to begin the ambush. We will wait for them to finish it. We will wait for them to move in to capture the survivors."


    Ruth¡¯s blood turned cold, as she realized the implication, but she had to ask all the same: "And then what?" Her mouth was dry.


    Old Owl blinked.


    "Then," he said. "They burn. All of them."


    Dragan held his nose as they marched through the darkness of the swamp, doing his best to ignore the slimy plants that brushed against his legs. This whole endeavour was absolutely disgusting.


    At his insistence, they¡¯d left everything metal behind -- he trusted these people to be competent enough to not intentionally start a fire, but doing it by accident was another story. He sure as hell wasn¡¯t getting blown up because someone in this merry band had butterfingers.


    Well, there was one exception to the metal rule. Dragon¡¯s eyes flicked over to Skipper¡¯s prosthetic arm, half-submerged in the muck ahead of him.


    "You try and snap your fingers with that," he said seriously. "And I¡¯ll actually kill you."


    Skipper laughed, his voice infuriatingly loud. "I¡¯d like to see ya try, Mr. Hadrien! Nah, seriously, I mean it. You gotta have more confidence in yourself."


    Dragan ignored whatever that was supposed to be. "Just be careful, okay?"


    "Never anything but, pal."


    Serena sulked as she swam through the swampwater -- wading wasn¡¯t her style, it seemed. "This place sucks," she pouted. "It stinks."


    From ahead in the sad little crowd of marching rebels, Dragan heard Lily Aubrisher call out: "Less talking, more marching! We¡¯ve only got so much time to get out of this place." S§×ar?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    You¡¯re talking yourself, Dragan thought, perhaps a little immaturely. She was right, of course -- they had to get out of here as fast as they could if they wanted to--


    Dragan narrowed his eyes as he glanced up at the sky. There was something up there -- a tiny shape beyond the fog. He poured Aether into his eyes, staring as hard as he could.


    His heart skipped a beat.


    Floating far above, looking down on them, was a flying humanoid figure clad in a red-and-blue cloak, face hidden behind a bone-white mask. The Guardian Entity that had almost killed him and Ruth -- she¡¯d told him that it was called Aka Manto.


    Clutched in its hand, delicately between two fingers, was a tiny strip of flaming cloth. Dragan¡¯s eyes widened, almost bulging out of their sockets. He took in a greedy gulp of breath, enough to fuel a truly tremendous scream.


    Aka Manto let go of the cloth.


    Dragan opened his mouth.


    "Scatter!"

 Chapter 128:5.24: Aflame

    The world burst into flame.


    Bruno¡¯s body moved before his mind could register what was happening -- hands thrusting out to either side, a forcefield being projected around himself within half a second. Three layers of his strongest protections. He knew, instinctively, that he needed those to survive this threat.


    This body was used to surviving, after all.


    Bruno winced as the deafening sound of the explosion rang into his ears -- it was muffled slightly by the shields, but still loud as all hell. The second after it faded -- after the fire outside his shield scattered away -- the sound was replaced by a high-pitched ringing, drowning out everything else.


    He felt a metal hand clap down on his shoulder -- and when Bruno turned his head, he saw Skipper standing there, voicelessly mouthing something. No, that wasn¡¯t quite right: he was speaking perfectly normally, Bruno just couldn¡¯t hear him.


    Reading lips was a skill the Sed had been quite eager to teach, though. Bruno caught scraps of silent speech through Skipper¡¯s lightning-fast jabbering.


    Ambush. Good job. Dragan. Be ready.


    Bruno¡¯s mind caught up to his instinctive movements, and the situation became obvious -- the puzzle pieces fitting together completely. Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    They¡¯d been ambushed -- an enemy had taken advantage of the swamp¡¯s explosive qualities to try and blow them to hell. Bruno had managed to protect himself and Skipper with his forcefields, but¡­


    Where¡¯s Mr. Dragan, Bruno? Serena asked innocently, her inner dialogue unaffected by Bruno¡¯s current hearing impairment. I don¡¯t see him anywhere.


    Bruno¡¯s eyes widened. Shit. He¡¯d protected Skipper without even thinking about it, but Dragan had been just the tiniest bit further away from the two of them. He realized now that he¡¯d heard Dragan just before the explosion went off -- he¡¯d shouted ¡¯scatter¡¯ -- but now that the fiery explosion had once again faded, the Cogitant was nowhere to be seen. Where was he?


    In pieces, most likely, said a traitorously sensible thought.


    No -- Bruno rejected that. His eyes flicked down to the ground, where charred corpses were already floating face down. If Dragan had died in that explosion, his body would have been visible, identifiable from size at least. None of the bodies here looked anything like the Cogitant, though.


    He was still alive. He had to be.


    Dragan Hadrien was still alive -- somehow.


    He stuck his head up out of the water, gasping for breath, doing his best to wade in place. The area he¡¯d ended up in was a little deeper -- even if he stood on the tips of his toes, he¡¯d only end up barely touching the bottom.


    He couldn¡¯t panic, though. There was no way he could panic. More attacks would be coming before long -- an aerial opponent like Aka Manto had no reason to hold back, since they wouldn¡¯t be caught in any of the blasts themselves.


    First course of action was to regroup with the others. Dragan looked around wildly, trying to spot Bruno and Skipper, but the fog here was even thicker than it had been before. He¡¯d used his new technique to save himself from the explosion, but as a result he hadn¡¯t been able to see where exactly his comrades had gone.


    Should he call out? No. There could be other enemies around, and he didn¡¯t want to stand out as a target. For the time being, the fog acted as protection just as much as an obstacle.


    He couldn¡¯t stay here forever, though, either. Sooner or later he¡¯d end up caught in an explosion. He had to get moving, regardless of the direction.


    Dragan went to kick off the ground --


    -- only to stop when he felt a cold hand seize him tightly by the wrist. He whirled around, ready to fire a Gemini Shotgun right through the face of his enemy¡­


    ...only to stop when he recognised the face of Lily Aubrisher. She was in a worse state than him -- shorter, her mouth barely managing to stay above the filthy swampwater.


    "Help," she gasped, hacking back up a tiny fish-thing that quickly swam away. "Gonna die."


    She¡¯d acted like such a hardass that Dragan had almost forgotten she was pretty much just a kid. It wasn¡¯t like he felt bad for her or anything, but it would bother him if he didn¡¯t help her. Infusing his arms with Aether, he grabbed her and lifted her up, giving her some more room to breathe.


    Lily spat what swampwater remained back down to the source as she gasped for breath. "What happened?" she rasped, wiping her mouth clean. "What the hell happened?"


    "Told you this was a shit plan," Dragan grunted, infusing the tips of his toes with Aether to keep his stance steady. "Garth¡¯s Guardian Entity was waiting for us -- dropped a piece of flaming cloth right on our heads to cause an explosion."


    "Fuck," Lily hissed. "Where¡¯s everyone else?"


    As Dragan waded backwards, he found his feet making contact once more with dirt -- the ground rising up into some kind of shore. With a heave of Aether-enhanced effort, he pulled Lily up onto solid ground as well, the two of them falling back as they caught their breath. He reached down and massaged his legs -- he¡¯d never been much of a swimmer, and wading in place for so long had done a number on him.


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    "Where¡¯s everyone else?" Lily repeated, getting up on her feet, pulling her wooden sword out of its sheath.


    They hadn¡¯t wanted to risk sparking some kind of explosion, so before setting out they¡¯d replaced their metal weapons with wooden equivalents. Dragan couldn¡¯t speak for how effective they¡¯d actually be, but the presence of an actual weapon served as a pretty good placebo all the same. Personally, Dragan would stick to his Aether any day.


    The repeated question finally registering in his brain, Dragan answered as best he could: "No clue. I said to scatter, so there¡¯s no telling which direction they went in."


    Or if they¡¯re even still alive. He didn¡¯t voice that last part -- even he had a little more tact than that.


    "Or if they¡¯re even still alive," Lily muttered.


    Welp.


    Lily got to her feet, squinted as she struggled to pierce through the veil of fog that surrounded them. As she turned on the spot, she pointed her sword in front of herself protectively, like she was some kind of living compass.


    "Our first priority should be regrouping," she muttered. "The spot they just got us in was fairly clear, so they could see us from the sky. If we move through the fog, like we are now, they won¡¯t be able to spot our location."


    Dragan got to his feet too. "We won¡¯t be able to spot our location either, though. How are we meant to know which way will lead us out of the swamp?"


    Lily bit her thumb as she kept turning, clearly unable to make anything out. "We¡¯ll just have to play it by ear, I guess. The most important thing is that as many people as possible stay alive."


    "It seems we¡¯re doing nothing but playing it by ear."


    Lily shot him a glare. In the haze of the swamp, it was the most clear thing he could make out. "You don¡¯t need to be an asshole about it."


    Dragan wiped away as much of the mud on his hands on his pants as he could. "I¡¯m not being an asshole. It¡¯s a totally legitimate complaint."


    "Phrased in the manner of an asshole. You don¡¯t need to--"


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The spear of blue light shot past Lily, striking the figure emerging from the fog just behind her. The man was hit in the throat, his wooden spear slipping from between his fingers as he fell backwards into the water, floating on the filthy surface for a moment before sinking beneath. In the moment before he bobbed out of sight, Dragan got a good look at him -- without a doubt, he was wearing the uniform of a Regulator troop.


    Lily whirled around in shock, catching a glimpse of only the man¡¯s hand before it was submerged.


    "How¡¯d you know he wasn¡¯t one of ours?" she muttered.


    "Easy," Dragan replied, his blue Aether dying down. "If he was one of ours, he would have been calling out for his friends like an idiot. He¡¯d have no reason to be sneaking up."


    This meant they were in more danger than he¡¯d first thought, though -- the Regulators had sent troops in to finish them off just in case the initial explosion hadn¡¯t been enough. He¡¯d been entertaining the idea of staying in these small groups and trying to find their way out of the swamps that way, but going for that plan now would only entail making themselves easy targets.


    Lily had the same thought, it seemed. "What about the others?" she asked. "We were only safe because of your Aether. It¡¯ll turn into a real fight for them."


    It depended on the locations of Skipper, Bruno and Serena. They wouldn¡¯t have any trouble dealing with these assholes, so any groups that included them were probably safe. Any of the other rebels, though¡­


    His train of thought was suddenly derailed by the boom of a distant explosion. Of course -- there was no reason for Aka Manto to stop at triggering only one explosion. He could just keep dropping fire down on them as much as he pleased, while the troops picked off any survivors. A ruthless strategy, but an effective one.


    The words came hesitantly out of his mouth. "We¡­ still need to regroup, I guess, but¡­"


    But that wasn¡¯t so easy either. There were two means by which he could send out a signal that the others could follow -- visually, by launching a Gemini Shotgun up at the sky, or audibly, by screaming an Aether-infused scream. Neither option was very appealing -- they¡¯d alert that ghost up into the sky to his location just as much as it would signal his allies, and he very much doubted that Aka Manto would pass up the opportunity to eliminate any Aether-users he became aware of.


    So long as that asshole was lurking in the sky, trying to regroup would only end with all of their deaths.


    It was only fitting that rats would try to flee through nature¡¯s sewer.


    Aka Manto floated in the heavens as it observed the turmoil below, cloak waving around it in the wind. The sun was shining high in the sky, yet none of that divine light pierced the fog below, so undeserving were its inhabitants. Only small slivers of visibility were present in that abyssal cloud, through which the rustle of furtive movement could occasionally be seen. The movement of the enemy.


    It was nothing more than the invitation for execution.


    Aka Manto¡¯s eyes locked onto the shift of a cloak far below -- and without even a moment of undue hesitation, he dropped another flaming strip of cloth. It spiralled down towards the ground like a celebratory wreath and -- just before it pierced the veil of clouds -- exploded into holy fire, consuming whatever unfortunate deviant happened to be lurking below.


    There was always the possibility that it was one of Garth¡¯s men, too, but they were easily replaceable. It would be worth losing a few of those specimens for the sake of eliminating this threat.


    This threat to XK-12¡¯s peace had been a near-constant presence throughout Aka Manto¡¯s tenure -- every head of the Regulators had been required to fight against this enemy, and every one of them had achieved at least a temporary victory. The enemy was insidious, though: so long as the slightest trace of their ideology remained, they would once again reappear.


    The conflict had never escalated to this level before, however -- the star from the hell outside had changed things irreversibly. It had made this battle more vital, to be sure, but it had also created an unprecedented opportunity: to annihilate the enemy once and for all. They would kill these rebels. They would kill rebellion itself.


    And once that was done, there could be peace.


    Boom. Boom.


    Aka Manto¡¯s ears pricked up. It hadn¡¯t created those explosions -- they were more like concussive blasts than the incendiary judgement it had been raining down. Was something else happening down there? Something it hadn¡¯t foreseen?


    It saw something down below.


    A tiny shape down on the ground was quickly becoming bigger -- becoming humanoid rather than a dot, becoming a man rather than a silhouette, becoming a threat rather than an annoyance. A man in a fluttering green coat, an incongruous smile scarring his face.


    Some kind of force was being fired out through the palms of his hands, propelling him up into the sky. Aka Manto felt hot anger rise up from its skin as it saw those green sparks.


    Aether.


    "Heya, buddy," the interloper grinned. "Couldn¡¯t help but notice you were stuck all the way up here. I¡¯ll help you down, yeah?"

 Chapter 129:5.25: It’s Not Raining Anymore

    Skipper didn¡¯t much like people who looked down on others -- even more so when the jerks could fly, making things awfully literal.


    Still, there was one good thing about that kind of attitude: it came with a simple solution. Just knock ¡¯em down. It was nice to have such an easy victory condition.


    Blue sky shone above him, green clouds swirled beneath him. As Skipper launched himself towards the enemy above him, he thrust one hand out, ready to fire off an attack the second he came into range. Even if the enemy survived this assault, he¡¯d be occupying it¡¯s attention enough to give everyone below some breathing room.


    "Heya, buddy," Skipper called out. "Couldn¡¯t help but notice you were stuck all the way up here. I¡¯ll help you down, yeah?"


    The enemy -- Aka Manto -- didn¡¯t reply, only glaring down at him balefully with its pale blue eyes. Almost imperceptibly, one of its arms retreated inside it¡¯s red-and-blue cloak. An attack would be incoming, then.


    Aka Manto vanished in a spark of red-and-blue Aether.


    He hadn¡¯t retreated. Skipper wasn¡¯t nearly naive enough to believe that -- from what he¡¯d been told, it had pursued Ruth and Dragan halfway through the capital city before finally surrendering. It would be nice to imagine, but Skipper wasn¡¯t nearly intimidating enough to make something like that turn tail just by showing up.


    There was a whistling in the wind. Projectiles approaching from behind him. Skipper twisted his body around in the air to face the threat -- three throwing knives, aimed perfectly for his eyes, throat and heart.


    Heartbeat Landmine.


    A burst of sound erupted from within his very core, and for a moment it felt as if his entire body would be flung apart from the force. The throwing knives aimed for him were thrown off-course by the bass, zooming off into the distance ahead.


    "Sorry, pal," Skipper shouted to the still-empty air. "I¡¯m not that easy to take out!"


    Skipper kept his hands facing down towards the ground as he looked around for his enemy, releasing a constant stream of Heartbeat Shotguns to keep himself aloft. Maybe he should develop a technique to do this sort of thing automatically -- a Heartbeat Jetpack or something like that. Nah, nah, it didn¡¯t fit with the theme.


    Another whistle -- this time from above, but again aimed for his head. Skipper was getting a good sense of their speed and power now, so he could afford to be a little more precise.


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    The invisible blade struck through the air twice, deflecting the two throwing knives with tings of metal. The blades fell uselessly out of the air -- one plummeting to the ground below, the other caught between two of Skipper¡¯s metal fingers.


    Keeping himself up with Shotguns from the soles of his feet, Skipper turned the blade over in his hands. One side red, one side blue, with an unusual design like that of an arrowhead. It had been infused with Aether, sure, but it was without a doubt a physical object.


    "Recorded, huh?" he called out, carefully listening out for the next attack. "Pretty good work with it, too. You¡¯re fast enough to hide by the time the blade actually hits me. Well, would hit me, if you had better aim." He chuckled. "Sorry, sorry, I¡¯m sort of a sore winner, yeah?"


    His ears pricked up at the sound of crackling Aether behind him -- and when he whirled around, there was his enemy.


    Aka Manto floated there in the air a few meters away, cloak spread out around itself like the wings of a great bat. Red-and-blue Aether coiled freely around it, and the eyes behind the mask narrowed as they regarded Skipper.


    "That¡¯s a surprise," Skipper grinned, idly passing the knife between his hands. "You were doing so well with the coward strategy. You sure you wanna ditch it, pal?"


    Aka Manto tilted its head slightly.


    "Two paths lie before you," it declared. "A path of blue, and a path of--"


    With a flare of green Aether, Skipper hurled the knife at his enemy, the projectile moving with such speed and power that it looked more like a green lance of light than an actual physical object.


    Aka Manto too moved in a flash, moving its head out of the way of the attack and catching the projectile firmly in its hand. Steam rose up from the Guardian Entity¡¯s gloved hand as it retrieved the knife, returning it to the inside of it¡¯s cloak.


    "Impressive," Skipper grinned. "You used Aether yourself to block that, didn¡¯tcha? Don¡¯t try and lie -- I know the good stuff when I see it."


    "Two paths lie before you¡­"


    "Ah, ah, ah!" Skipper wagged a metal finger. "Don¡¯t try and change the subject, buddy! You¡¯re a little different from your barnyard friends, yeah? You¡¯re not just recorded using Aether, you¡¯re using the stuff yourself. That kinda makes me curious. What¡¯s the deal, big fella?"


    "A path of blue, and a path of red¡­"


    Skipper sighed. "Okay, I can see we¡¯re getting nowhere with the ol¡¯ diplomacy tactic. That¡¯s a damn shame. Looks like we¡¯re gonna have to do this the hard way."


    "To take the path of --"


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    The invisible projectile struck Aka Manto right in the chest, sending it flying backwards as red-and-blue Aether sparked around it, an indistinct cry of pain echoing from behind the Entity¡¯s mask. Just before the creature would have slowed to a stop, however, it vanished -- just as it had before executing it¡¯s previous attack.


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    "No point, pal!" Skipper laughed, carefully turning on the spot so as to not lose the equilibrium that was keeping him stable up here in the air. "Dragan¡¯s already told me about your, uh, your little altercation back in Coren -- I know you¡¯re not some kinda robot, so there¡¯s no point pretending. Let¡¯s talk, man to man. Or, uh, Entity to man, I guess. What do you say?"


    There was a growl from below -- a genuine expression of rage.


    "I have nothing to say to you, Crownless."


    Skipper¡¯s grin widened. Finally, they were getting somewhere.


    Dragan blinked as he watched that idiot zoom through the air above. Well, that solved one problem.


    He turned to Lily, doing his best to ignore the smoldering flames still visible in the distance, shining through the fog even as they faded. They weren¡¯t out of the woods yet, but the fact that Aka Manto was occupied meant they didn¡¯t have to worry about any more bombs dropping on their heads.


    It also meant Dragan didn¡¯t have to worry as much about attracting the wrong sort of attention.


    "You might wanna cover your ears," he said -- and in the next moment, he took a deep breath of air, infusing his lungs with Aether to maximize their capacity as much as possible.


    Lily¡¯s hands went to her ears, and Dragan did the same. He didn¡¯t want to blow out his eardrums with his own heroic cry, after all.


    He opened his mouth.


    "GET OVER HERE!"


    Old Owl¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t break away from Ruth, staring her down with all the intensity of a star. He hadn¡¯t blinked in at least five minutes; Ruth vaguely wondered if the old man even had to.


    The Grinhe had described the spot they¡¯d be waiting on as a ¡¯hill¡¯, but that seemed to be something of an understatement. It rose out of the ground, sure, but to such a height that it pierced through the clouds of pungent gas that permeated the swamp, allowing a view of the blue sky above. It wasn¡¯t quite a mountain, but it wasn¡¯t some lump in the ground either.


    They weren¡¯t exposed -- the trees lucky enough to have been born on this patch of safe land had taken full advantage of the opportunity, growing thick and wide. The layers upon layers of branches were almost like a giant umbrella, shielding them from both the sun and scrutiny.


    She¡¯d barely managed to restrain herself when she¡¯d heard the first explosion, but some tiny quiet part of Ruth had managed to keep her from charging in then and there. What exactly could she do by herself anyway? The one attacking the rebels was that dot far above -- Aka Manto, no doubt -- who Ruth had no means to reach.


    If she ran in now, the only opponent she¡¯d be facing would be a searing fireball.


    So she stood there, hands balled into fists, and listened to the sounds. The sounds of gas bursting into flame. The sounds of people screaming as they burnt. The sounds of powerlessness.


    A strange, cracking noise came from Old Owl¡¯s mouth as he opened it, preceding his speech. "You must understand this is the best way to do a thing. Patience and the cold are victory¡¯s parents. You must understand this."


    The worst thing was that she could. She could see the value of this plan: once this bombing run was over, the Regulators would have no choice but to enter the swamp themselves to confirm casualties. Then the Grinhe could begin their bombing attack.


    But that was their fight. She couldn¡¯t forget that this was their fight, not hers. What she wanted was to make sure her friends were safe.


    "You must not expose us," Old Owl said cautiously, as if he could see the thoughts battling inside Ruth¡¯s brain. "This is the ideal way."


    Her gaze drifted up. The dot in the sky, the Guardian Entity that had caused them so much trouble, was no longer alone. The red-and-blue speck was bobbing and weaving, vanishing and reappearing, as a new green dot pursued it. Even from such a distance, Ruth could recognise it.


    Skipper. He was alive. A long-lost smile came to her face.


    What the hell was she doing? Just going with the flow like this, as she¡¯d always done? Letting other people tell her what the best thing was to do while she ignored her own instincts, her own desires.


    A familiar voice sounded out from the swamp below, trees swaying from the force of it.


    "GET OVER HERE!"


    Dragan too. They¡¯d made it back safe -- she¡¯d succeeded after all. She hadn¡¯t lost what she had yet.


    "You must ignore for this time," Old Owl advised. "Harden your heart for victory."


    She looked at Old Owl, looked at the gathered Grinhe, looked at the battle below.


    None of this meant anything to her.


    Ruth could have laughed. When she thought about it like that, it was all so simple. Freedom, liberty, revolution? Those things were for other people to worry about. They didn¡¯t mean a damn thing to her. She didn¡¯t care -- how liberating it was to just not care.


    What she cared about were the people closest to her. Nothing else. Saving them was the only victory that mattered to her.


    She glanced up.


    She wouldn¡¯t lose what she had.


    Old Owl¡¯s eye narrowed -- he, at least, seemed to recognize the conclusion she¡¯d come to. "Do not be a foolish person, girl," he warned. "If you are an obstacle to victory, you are an enemy. There is no need for us to be enemies." Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth ignored him. There was nothing he could do to stop her, anyway. There was no way anyone here could stop her.


    She was strong, after all.


    Ruth kicked off the ground with a flare of red Aether, Skeletal Set manifesting around her as she flew through the air, wind whipping against her grinning face in the moment before her mask appeared. Her claws, too, shone into life, long and thin as needles, reflecting the sunlight as she spread them wide.


    There was shouting from the Grinhe behind her, but Ruth paid it no mind. After all, there was work to be done.


    If she wanted to keep hold of what she had, the rebels had to win this battle. For the rebels to win this battle, they needed reinforcements. And for the rebels to get reinforcements¡­ she¡¯d need to drag the Grinhe into this earlier than they would have liked.


    Her jump still sending her over the pungent clouds of the swamp, Ruth grinded her claws together -- and the resultant sparks rained down below.


    Boom.


    Each one of them -- every individual spark -- triggered an explosion, an inferno whirling around the ¡¯hill¡¯ that the Grinhe had based themselves upon. They themselves were untouched, of course, but anyone taking a second look at what that explosion had been would see what was clearly a third army lying in wait.


    A beacon for all to see.


    Ruth fell through the fire just as it died down, whooping in relieved excitement as the fading flames licked threateningly against her armour. It didn¡¯t matter. None of it mattered. She knew what she wanted now, and she knew how to get it.


    "I guess I must¡¯ve thought you were a good person?" Robin had said.


    Sorry, Robin, Ruth grinned, landing on the ground. But I think I might actually be a bit of an asshole.


    It felt good.

 Chapter 130:5.26: Gemini...

    Dragan slammed his foot into the knee of the enemy in front of him, sending him down to the ground before finishing him off with an Aether-infused punch to the face.


    It was funny -- against a normal Aether user, one who¡¯d had time to properly train themselves, Dragan would probably be at a disadvantage. He¡¯d only been doing this for a month or two, after all. The only way he was getting by in a situation like that was through some kind of trickery -- or, to put it more honestly, cheating.


    Against an ordinary human, though? Just the tiniest bit of Aether made him the strongest guy in the room -- or the swamp, in this case. It almost felt like cheating all by itself.


    He stepped back as the Regulator soldier fell forward, their face landing on the film of swamp water with a wet squelch. As he moved out of the way, he bumped into the back of Lily, who was very busy with her own aggressive negotiations.


    Ordinarily, Dragan supposed, possessing a Guardian Entity would have provided a similar advantage to Aether. However, having a magic ghost that could create electricity wasn¡¯t very useful in a situation where you couldn¡¯t make sparks no matter what. In the midst of these green clouds, Lily might as well have been a normal human.


    She was still doing quite well, though. She¡¯d pilfered one of the wooden spears from their attackers, swinging it recklessly and slamming the pole into the faces and bodies of the Regulator troops as they launched their attacks. She seemed loath to use the blade, however -- maybe she was worried it would get stuck in a wound, preventing her from moving for what could be a single vital second.


    Since Dragan had shouted, they¡¯d been joined by a few more of the surviving rebels -- shell shocked for the most part, covered in either swamp water or soot depending on how close they¡¯d been to the initial explosion. Still, they were willing to fight. Dragan couldn¡¯t fault them for that.


    His eyes flicked up to the sky -- Skipper was still occupying the attention of Aka Manto, weaving around it, so they didn¡¯t have to worry about any more explosions for the time being. In terms of missing people, then, that left Ruth and¡­


    "Mr. Dragan!"


    And the other two.


    Serena burst out of the fog, a floppy green sword hanging from her hand -- obviously made from some kind of underwater plant. She looked through the collection of frightened rebel faces, blinking dirty water out of her eyes, before finally locking onto Dragan and grinning widely.


    "Mr. Dragan!" she repeated. "You¡¯re not dead!"


    "Not yet," he replied, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Looks like you¡¯re doing okay, too."


    Serena nodded -- before spinning wildly and smashing her whip-sword into the throat of an approaching ambusher. "Mr. Skipper went up to fight the enemy!" she cried out. "Did you see? He¡¯s flying around and everything! It¡¯s awesome!"


    Dragan nodded. "He¡¯s providing a valuable distraction. Once we¡¯ve got as many people together as we can, we need to start making our way out of here. Understand?"


    Again, Serena nodded. She dropped the whip-sword from her hands, letting it return to its original form on the surface of the water, and picked up one of the fallen wooden spears instead. Immediately, the weapon began to transform, wood cracking as it was reshaped from a polearm to a longsword.


    "So we just need to beat them up until we win?" she asked, cocking her head.


    That wasn¡¯t what Dragan had said at all, but even he had to admit that she wasn¡¯t exactly wrong. He gave her a thumbs-up.


    "We¡¯ll give it a couple more minutes," he said, turning back around to face the fog full of enemies. "And then we¡¯ve got to go."


    Nael clenched his fist as he watched the swirling clouds of the swamp, heard the sounds of battle erupting from within. Staying out here, waiting for things to resolve themselves¡­ it felt wrong.


    The main body of the army was stationed just on the border of the swamp, the explosive gases hanging in front of them like a giant curtain -- or maybe a wall. Apparently, those gases needed the specific plant-life inside the swamp to persist, so even just outside that area they were perfectly safe.


    Well, as safe as they could be. At the very least, they didn¡¯t have to worry about an explosion occurring right on top of them.


    He glanced over to Prester Garth, who was standing at the head of the pack, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were fixed unblinking upon the fog wall, narrowed as if he could pierce through that veil with sheer force of will.


    "My Guardian Entity is occupied," Nael heard him mutter to himself. "It appears one of our adversaries is capable of flight."


    Despite the situation, Nael felt his heart lift at that. At least that meant they wouldn¡¯t be able to trigger explosions that could harm their own men anymore. Those waiting directly in the swamp had volunteered for that duty, to be sure, but the idea of launching attacks that could harm them still left a bitter taste in his mouth.


    Garth was a great man, without a doubt, but his ruthlessness was -- his ruthlessness was necessary to defeat the enemy. It would be foolish to deny that.


    Some messengers from the tertiary squad, sent to clear out the rebel¡¯s former hideout once they¡¯d confirmed its location, had reported back -- apparently, Aubrisher¡¯s army had left behind the Regulator they¡¯d previously captured. It made sense tactically: they¡¯d be foolish to bring a pyrokinetic through these swamps -- but still, Nael was surprised they¡¯d let the man live after all was said and done.


    It was almost as if the rebels cared more about the lives of these men than the Prester did --


    No.


    That was beyond foolishness. It was a thought that must not be entertained.


    Nael clasped his hands in front of him, a mirror to the Prester, and tapped his foot as he listened to the sounds of battle. His mind drifted to the other topic that gnawed at him: Grena had still not been found. Had the rebels captured her instead, perhaps, and judged her a safer hostage to transport?


    In that case, a rancid little voice whispered. It¡¯s very possible you have already killed her.


    Nael shook his head. No -- if the rebels had a new hostage to bargain with, they¡¯d have made that known. A hostage was worthless unless your enemy knew about it. Besides, Grena wasn¡¯t the sort to allow herself to be captured. She would die before she allowed that to occur.


    Perhaps that was what had happened. He swallowed shakily -- and as he did, he felt the firm hand of the Prester clap down on his shoulder.


    "Stand firm, young man," Garth intoned, still staring straight ahead at the fog wall, the swirling mists reflected in his resolute eyes. "Warfare is an awful thing. I agree with you completely. The fact that fighting is necessary means that something has already gone horribly wrong. But we owe it to those suffering to at least witness their tribulations." He looked down at Nael, his eyes noticeably wet. "Without observation, all of this is meaningless. Do you understand?"


    Nael quietly nodded. "Yes, sir," he whispered, voice hoarse.


    Without observation, all of this was meaningless. Yes, that was true. That was undeniable. He would honour their sacrifice, and avenge their deaths. That was his role in all this.


    His fist tightened.


    He had to endure just a little longer.


    Skipper grinned as he fired off another Heartbeat Shotgun as his opponent, the concussive blast barely missing as Aka Manto vanished into Aether once again.


    "You¡¯re kind of a one-trick pony, huh?" Skipper yelled, flipping onto his back and firing off more continuous Shotguns to keep himself aloft in that position. "It¡¯s a good trick, I¡¯ll give ya that, but you gotta learn some creativity, yeah?"


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    "Be silent."


    The hiss of the Guardian Entity¡¯s voice was like melting steel -- and a second later, Skipper was forced to twist his body in the air to avoid the knife aimed for his spine. Aka Manto hovered below, the rest of its projectiles clutched between it¡¯s knuckles, sapphire eyes narrowed as it waited for him to make a mistake.


    Skipper shrugged smugly in response. "Sorry, pal, no can do. Making noise is kinda my thing. You¡¯re doing a good job keeping outta my range, though. I¡¯ll give ya top marks for that one, yeah?"


    The eyes narrowed further. "Be silent!" Aka Manto repeated.


    "Hm¡­" Skipper cupped his chin with a cold metal hand, preparing a powerful Heartbeat Shotgun with the other hand concealed behind his back. "Again, no can do, pal! Just ain¡¯t my style! How about you, what¡¯s your style? You seem to have a funny way of going about things, you should --"


    Aka Manto lunged forward, knives bared like claws. "Shut up!" it roared.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    This time, Aka Manto was too close to dodge: the concussive blast slammed into the Guardian Entity full force, sending it flying backwards -- and as it did, there was the sound of shattering porcelain. White fragments of its mask rained down out of the sky.


    For a moment, Skipper leaned forward to try and catch a curious glimpse of what this thing looked like beneath its cosplay getup, but that was a futile effort. Aka Manto immediately covered it¡¯s face with its gloved hands -- and before Skipper could attack again, it once more vanished in a spark of red-and-blue Aether.


    Skipper got the feeling it wouldn¡¯t be coming back any time soon.


    "You know," Dragan panted, looking down at what had just come into view. "When you said we had a way out of here, I was expecting something a little more intricate than this."


    Leading their little group through the pungent swamps had been an anxiety-inducing experience: even with Skipper distracting the main threat in the sky, Dragan half-expected a new explosion to rip through their group any second. All it would take was someone outside the fog barrier firing something like a burning arrow, and the whole lot of them would go up in smoke. Even with his little workaround, Dragan wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d be able to evade it in time -- and those around him would definitely be goners at the very least.


    Fortunately, it seemed the outside forces weren¡¯t willing to do that -- or, more likely, they had no means of ascertaining their targets exact locations without Aka Manto reporting back. They¡¯d had another flying Guardian Entity go after them when they were escaping from the Regulators camp, so did that mean Ruth had destroyed it after they had split up?


    There was muttering from the rest of the group -- gathered behind him, Serena and Lily -- as the three of them looked down at the diminutive tunnel. Apparently, this ran through the ground beneath the swamp, and would exit a safe distance away. If that was true, it would be pretty convenient.


    But the whole thing was just so thin¡­ if this group tried to make their way through it, they¡¯d be definitely going single-file -- and crouched down in the case of any of their taller members.


    Lily clicked her tongue: "It¡¯s better than trying to break through their entire army, don¡¯t you think?"


    Serena frowned as she crouched down, peering into the tunnel. "Well, maybe it won¡¯t be so bad, Mr. Dragan. We¡¯d sort of be like rabbits or moles digging through the ground! It¡¯d be kind of fun, don¡¯t you think?"


    Dragan didn¡¯t know what a rabbit was supposed to be, but the whole thing sounded like the exact opposite of fun. Still, it wasn¡¯t as if they had much of a --


    A voice whispered in his ear.


    "Two paths lie before you."


    Dragan whirled around, infusing his body with Aether to speed up his movements, but from his perspective he still seemed so painfully slow -- as he turned, he could see Serena readying one of her swords for a swing, see Lily jump back in surprise¡­


    ¡­ and see Aka Manto between the three of them, holding the bloody head of one of the rebels in its hand.


    There was no more time for hesitation.


    "Go!" Dragan screamed, and the rebels began to flood into the tunnel, as quickly as they could. Aka Manto made no move to stop them -- it was focused on the triumvirate surrounding it, blades glinting in its free hand. Blue eyes regarded them cautiously from behind a noticeably cracked mask.


    "A path of blue," it intoned. "And a path of red."


    In a blinding blur of movement, it twisted its body to avoid Serena¡¯s strike and slashed its knives at Dragan -- but he was ready for it, ducking beneath the blow and rushing over to join Lily. The two of them exchanged a glance.


    The plan they¡¯d have to execute had only ever been a hypothetical, but it seemed in this case it was necessary.


    As Aka Manto turned to face towards the two of them, Dragan glanced behind it to Serena -- who was still there, winding up for another devastating slash. He shook his head, and the blow stopped mid-air. It would have been dodged anyway.


    "Go with them, you two," Dragan said seriously. "We¡¯ll deal with this."


    In the distance, growing closer, Dragan could hear the sounds of splashing water, of whispered commands. The ambushers were closing in on them. A severe sense of smugness seemed to radiate from Aka Manto as it adjusted its stance slightly -- and not without reason. No matter what else happened here, the Regulator forces could just pursue the rebels into the tunnels and finish them off with ease.


    If the two of them hadn¡¯t crazy, this would definitely be the end of the line.


    "But," Serena said, her face twisting into Bruno¡¯s. "You¡¯ll¡­"


    "Nah," Dragan grinned with confidence he didn¡¯t feel, eyes locked onto the dagger pointing at him. "I definitely won¡¯t die."


    Bruno hesitated for a moment -- and then, with a rush of Aether-infused movement -- blasted into the tunnel.


    "The path of blue is to have your neck snapped with the pressure of a saint," Aka Manto helpfully said, beginning to float over the ground. "The path of red is to be eviscerated by a demon¡¯s blade. Which do you choose? Blue, or red? Red, or blue?"


    "Remember what I told you?" Dragan muttered, readying himself. If the two of them were to survive this, he¡¯d need perfect timing.


    Subtly, Lily nodded. "I¡¯ve been using this Aether stuff anyway, to summon my Guardian Entity," she whispered, repeating his advice. "I just need to spread it through my body to protect myself."


    Aka Manto¡¯s body tensed, muscles beneath the cloak clearly preparing to lunge at them with the speed of a bullet.


    "Which do you choose?!" it roared, the pupils behind the mask dilating to feral pinpricks. "Blue, or red? Red, or blue?!"


    Through the fog swirling around them, Dragan could see the silhouettes of their pursuers, on the very verge of finally surrounding them. A shaky gulp travelled down his throat, but he didn¡¯t allow that to stifle the smug smirk he¡¯d forced onto his face.


    He jerked his head in Lily¡¯s direction. "She¡¯ll be answering this time, thanks."


    Aka Manto¡¯s eyes flicked to regard Lily instead -- and, if anything, the fury in its gaze only intensified. "You!" it hissed. S~ea??h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Lily¡¯s mouth opened, but she didn¡¯t reply to Aka Manto in the least. Instead, she merely took a deep breath. As she did, teal Aether began to crackle around her -- subtly at first, but growing fiercer and fiercer until she seemed to be standing in the middle of a thunderstorm all her own. It clung to her, diffusing through her skin, her flesh, her bones -- reinforcing whatever it touched as much as it could be reinforced right now.


    Dragan, for his part, prepared himself to use his new technique. If he didn¡¯t do that correctly, this whole lightshow would be for nothing. He adjusted his stance slightly, moving his arm so that he was ready to grab Lily the second it became necessary.


    Then Lily spoke.


    "Guardian Entity," she said, Aether erupting around her. "Raij¨±."


    Behind her, the vague silhouette of a massive creature appeared -- like some sort of cross between a wolf and a gorilla, wavering and flickering in and out of existence. Far in the sky above, barely visible through the tiniest gap in the fog, storm clouds were gathering, lightning flickering deep in their depths.


    Faced with Raij¨±, Aka Manto seemed to hesitate a moment, blades almost slipping out of its grip. Its eyes were still wide as it looked up at the hulk, but it didn¡¯t seem to be a result of anger anymore. Dragan couldn¡¯t quite tell what it was a result of.


    All the same, that moment of hesitation guaranteed their victory.


    "Give it everything you¡¯ve got," Lily hissed -- and lightning upon lightning, like a hundred spears of pure electricity, lanced down from the sky, aiming directly for her own position. This was fire enough to burn a world down.


    Three things happened at once, in that split second before the lightning reached the fog: Aka Manto hurled its knife at Lily¡¯s skull, Dragan seized Lily by the wrist, and two victorious words passed Dragan¡¯s lips.


    "Gemini World."

 Chapter 131:5.27: ...World

    It was a strange experience, to look at the world without eyes.


    To Dragan Hadrien, it seemed as though the environment had been frozen in the very instant he¡¯d activated Gemini World -- and each time he moved from his initial position, even by the slightest centimeter, that world seemed to blend together like a melting watercolour, mixing into a bizarre kaleidoscope that quickly abandoned coherence. Even the slightest twitch of his eye reduced the entire world to chaos.


    Aka Manto in front of him and Lily beside him became crude smudges of vague colour, the throwing knife frozen in mid-air degenerating into the most indistinct silver line. The ground mingled with the sky above, and the sky above was seeded with the impressions of the lightning that was coming down. Even these abstract sensations weren¡¯t consistent -- they changed second by second, relentlessly. As Dragan didn¡¯t have eyelids right now, he couldn¡¯t even close his eyes to escape the churning colours. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Nausea rose up in a stomach that didn¡¯t currently exist.


    Gemini World¡­ before right now, actually using it had always been nothing but a hypothetical. Dragan had always been fully confident it would work, of course -- he¡¯d successfully used a prototypical version to save Ruth back in Coren, and Aka Manto was clearly doing something similar -- but he had no reference to draw on in terms of what the actual experience would be like, how it would feel to record your own body.


    He had no eyes.


    He had no mouth.


    He had no ears.


    He had no brain.


    How strange it was, to stop existing as yourself so suddenly. Within a single instant, he¡¯d gone from a flesh-and-blood organism to information recorded in his own Aether. Dragan vaguely wondered how exactly his consciousness was still functioning like this -- for that matter, was his consciousness still functioning? Maybe this was all some kind of neural illusion, an extended hallucination he was having while he faded away into nothing.


    Dragan didn¡¯t quite understand why he was having such bizarre thoughts -- maybe it was a result of the lack of stimuli. No new information was streaming in, so the only recourse for his mind was to cannibalize whatever data was already present. He wasn¡¯t especially sure how long he could last like this without going crazy.


    Could he cancel Gemini World yet? From what he¡¯d observed from the original explosion, it should only last a couple of seconds -- he couldn¡¯t imagine this huge blast being much slower than that, at least for the epicenter. Even knowing that didn¡¯t do much to help him: in this state, he had exactly zero methods to actually discern just how much time had passed.


    He had no heart to beat.


    He had no lungs to breathe.


    He had no skin to feel.


    Just like his vision, time started to blend together into an indistinct mess. He should have been counting in his head from the beginning, but he¡¯d been careless. All he could do now was trust this intuition. He¡¯d been thinking these bizarre thoughts for a while now, so enough time had to have passed, right?!


    There was no choice. He couldn¡¯t take another second of this hell. Like he was taking a greedy gulp of air, Dragan opened himself up¡­ and began existing again.


    The first thing he noticed was the scent of smoke. He noticed that before even registering that he once again had the organs necessary to smell.


    Immediately, he collapsed to the floor in a crouching position -- he¡¯d reappeared nearly a meter above his original spot, leaving him floating in the air for a split-second after he reappeared. It was the same for his plus-one, Lily, who fell in a heap next to him. She fell face-up, electricity crackling around her hair as she panted for air, staring up at the sky. A line of vomit ran from the corner of her mouth.


    "What the hell was that?" she breathed, body shaking violently. Dragan had filled her in on the basics of how Gemini World was supposed to work, but he supposed that was no substitute for actually experiencing it. He couldn¡¯t act like he was reacting to it any better, either -- waves of a sensation like nails against skin were pulsing through his entire body, sending him into a similar shivering fit.


    His body wasn¡¯t used to not existing. What an absurdity. Dragan tried to laugh, but all that came out of his mouth was a bizarre choking sound.


    Still, it had been a successful test run. Recording his own body using Aether¡­ even if the side-effects made it somewhat excruciating right now, he could imagine the ability to disappear and reappear would become very useful if he could master it.


    With a jerk of sudden effort, Dragan forced his head upwards to look at the environment. Things had changed since he¡¯d taken himself and Lily into Gemini World -- the swamp was all but unrecognizable. Lily¡¯s last attack had done its work well.


    No trace of the fog that had swirled throughout the swamp remained -- all of it had been burnt away in what had clearly been a truly gargantuan explosion. Instead, a charred wasteland spread out unimpeded in every direction, with only the occasional husk of a smoldering tree to break the monotony.


    The stench was¡­ unbelievable. A few months ago, Dragan could have proudly said he didn¡¯t know what burning human smelt like. He couldn¡¯t say that anymore.


    With another grunt of effort, he forced himself up to one knee -- control of his body was quickly returning to him. He wasn¡¯t exactly in tip-top shape, but that was an unrealistic expectation at this point. Ignoring the occasional pinpricks of pain that swam over his face, he turned towards Lily.


    "Can you move?" he grunted.


    Electricity was still crackling around her, and her hands were still shaking violently in the mud, but she nodded all the same. "We need to get out of here," she rasped, one hand on her throat. "There¡¯ll be survivors."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. He didn¡¯t doubt that, but in this situation he imagined any survivors from the enemy would be busier dealing with their own losses than pursuing the two of them. His gaze slid over to the tunnel Bruno, Serena and the rebels had escaped through -- or, at least, where the tunnel had been.


    The entrance was completely covered in rubble, inaccessible from this position. If Dragan had known for sure just how deep the thing was filled in, he could have tried to put together a plan to clear the blockage, but without that information they couldn¡¯t risk just sitting here and working on it. They needed to find another way out of this former swamp, as soon as possible.


    He returned his gaze to Lily, who had finally managed to get up on her feet, and quickly followed suit. The legs supporting him felt like jelly, but he supposed that was the best he could hope for under the circumstances.


    "Alright," he breathed. "They should still be trying to recover from what we did. If we hurry, we can sneak through what¡¯s left of them and --"


    "How dare you?"


    Oh. Right.


    Dragan didn¡¯t even bother whirling around this time. Before that thought could even cross his mind, he was struck in the back with a fist like a sledgehammer and sent sprawling back onto the ground, face in the mud. That was when he had time to whirl around -- or the equivalent in this case, which was pathetically rolling over in the dirt to face the threat.


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    Aka Manto. Of course.


    What was left of its cloak was a smoldering wreck, smoke still drifting up into the sky from it -- and underneath, the red-and-blue bodysuit it wore clung tightly to its thin, angular body. The eyes behind its cracked mask were blazing blue, so bright that they almost hurt to look at. Red-and-blue Aether crackled sporadically around its entire body, flickering in and out -- but most prominently around its hands, giving them the power to act despite the Entity¡¯s obvious injuries.


    In this case, that act was gripping Lily by the throat, Aka Manto hunched over as it reached down to strangle her.


    "How dare you?" it repeated. Unlike before, there was no trace of rage in its voice -- simply an unsettling tranquility, with the undeniable intent to kill bubbling just under the surface. "How dare you? How dare you?"


    He had to do something. If the two of them were going to make it out of this, Dragan had to act now. He reached deep inside himself, to that place of firm self-determination where his Aether lived, and pulled it forth -- letting it flow through his exhausted nerves. Blue Aether began to weakly run over his skin.


    Aka Manto was still speaking, its voice echoing through the burnt wasteland. "How dare you? Do you realize what you have done? You have taken the body of a noble, divine, perfect being and utterly disgraced it. There is no redemption for what you have done. There is no forgiveness. Kill you, kill you, I¡¯ll kill you¡­"


    There was no time to charge his Aether up as much as possible. He had to act now or they¡¯d lose.


    Dragan kicked off the ground, ignoring the screaming pain from his legs. He¡¯d get in as quickly as possible and somehow try to shove Aka Manto off of Lily. If he did that, there was a chance she could use her own Guardian Entity to launch a proper counterattack. It wasn¡¯t much of a plan, but it was all they had.


    He lunged at Aka Manto with all his strength --


    -- only to be interrupted as a pair of Skeletal claws were speared right through Aka Manto¡¯s back, exiting through its chest. Immediately, the Guardian Entity released Lily on reflex -- and she dropped to the ground, spluttering for breath. Dragan adjusted his course, instead skidding to a halt in front of her, Aether crackling around him as he faced Aka Manto. If it came down to it, he could fire off whatever Gemini Shotguns he had left as a defensive measure.


    But, in his heart, he felt like that wasn¡¯t necessary. The presence of the figure perched on Aka Manto¡¯s back told him that without a doubt.


    Ruth Blaine was grinning as she clung there, claws stuck deep through Aka Manto¡¯s body, holding firm as it writhed and screamed in response to the attack. Red blood poured freely out from around the claws, splattering to the ground -- but the crimson Aether that raged around her and ignited her hair was by far more radiant.


    "Release me!" Aka Manto roared, trying in vain to reach the girl on its back. "There is a -- there are two paths -- you miserable pieces of shit!"


    And with that, it flickered out of existence -- replaced by a sparkle of red-and-blue Aether that faded after a moment. This time, Dragan was sure it wouldn¡¯t be coming back for the time being. Ruth dropped to the ground, claws landing in the swampwater, the blood mixing into the liquid.


    Despite the situation, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel his lips curling into a smile.


    "Took you long enough," he said.


    Bruno went to turn back as the explosion echoed, but Serena took control, resuming their crouching march through the tunnel. They were surrounded by darkness on all sides, with only the faintest impressions of the frightened rebels visible as they scurried through the dirt, but that was no obstacle. With their eyes properly infused, Bruno and Serena could move through this place as easily as a brightly-lit room.


    What are you doing? Bruno asked angrily. We can¡¯t just leave them!


    "Yeah we can," Serena mumbled, ignoring the funny looks from the rebels around them. "Mr. Dragan said to. It¡¯s the best thing to do."


    Bruno¡¯s anger leaked onto their face, twisting Serena¡¯s brow into an uncharacteristic scowl of disapproval.


    What if they¡¯re dead? he demanded. What if they¡¯re dead, and we¡¯re just leaving them?


    "Then they¡¯re dead," Serena replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "If they¡¯re dead, they won¡¯t come back to life if we go back to see them. It¡¯s simple, right?"


    Bruno made another effort to assume control, but Serena stuffed him down again with ease. In this situation, she was deadly calm while his own emotions were running rampant. He was no match in terms of mental strength.


    So you¡¯re just going to abandon them? his inner voice was tinged with more than a little spite.


    "It¡¯s my job to protect you," Serena whispered. "If abandoning them protects you, then it¡¯s an easy-peasy decision. There¡¯s no point getting mad about it."


    And with that, she continued up the tunnel, listening as Ted called out orders to the rebels. Wherever this tunnel led, it seemed they finally had the best chance of making it there in one piece.


    As Nael staggered to his feet, he could feel a curtain of ash fall from his body. In the same way, soot clung to his eyelids as he opened them to get a good look at what exactly had happened.


    Devastation. Utter devastation.


    The fog wall in front of them had completely vanished -- along with most of the swamp that it had concealed. All that remained were flames, smoke and corpses. So many lives had been snuffed out in an instant.


    He had no idea of the cause, but some kind of light had come down from the sky and ignited the fog that had filled the swamp. The explosion had been beyond anything he¡¯d ever imagined -- a monolith of flame that had consumed the world around them. Even here, outside the fog, the hot winds blown by the detonation had swept over the army, cooking skin and charring bone.


    The only reason Nael had survived was because of his Guardian Entity. With his shamisen¡¯s strings, he¡¯d been able to lift up a barrier of stone and rubble to shield himself and those immediately around him from the blast. Even with that, though, it was a miracle they¡¯d survived at all.


    What had happened? The question raced anxiously through his mind. Had their enemy somehow caused this, or was it some kind of natural disaster? The answer wouldn¡¯t change the results, but he couldn¡¯t help but desire that knowledge. It was like he was trapped in a dark room, fumbling around for some kind of light.


    A senseless loss of human life. No matter the cause, that fact remained true.


    One of the scouts who¡¯d been standing next to Nael shakily rose to his feet, looking around in horror at the sea of dead and dying men around them. The young man blinked once, twice, as if he couldn¡¯t even register what was in front of him.


    "Sir," he mumbled. "What do we¡­"


    He didn¡¯t finish his question, as an arrow struck him in the head before the last words could leave his lips. The shaft of the arrow sticking out of his eye socket, the man staggered backwards before collapsing to the ground, dead. For a moment, Nael could only stare numbly at the body. With so many around him dead, his brain could not possibly register another loss.


    But no. He couldn¡¯t stop. He still had duties to fulfill.


    With steady hands, he lifted up his shamisen and swung it fast as lightning, deflecting two more arrows aimed straight for his own face. He whirled around, back against the stone barrier he¡¯d made, facing off against his attackers.


    These weren¡¯t the rebels -- these were another party entirely. They were clad in dark cloaks of leaf and branch, only the slightest slivers of faces visible through the gap between hood and cowl, pitch-black crossbows and daggers clutched in their hands.


    Three of them were approaching him -- two with crossbows, one with two daggers -- while countless others of their ilk moved among the rest of the army, cutting down those too disoriented to respond. This would be a massacre among a massacre. After so many had just died, would they really have to suffer further losses?


    Nael lifted his Guardian Entity, ready to fight, only to falter for a single moment. He had recognized a face among their attackers.


    Not one of the three approaching him, but one who was moving through the army, finishing off those who would have probably died anyway. The eyes he saw above that cloak¡­ he¡¯d seen them thousands of times before. He could never mistake them.


    "Grena?" he mumbled.

 Chapter 132:5.28: Devastation

    Nael lifted his Guardian Entity, ready to fight, only to falter for a single moment. He had recognized a face among their attackers.


    Not one of the three approaching him, but one who was moving through the army, finishing off those who would have probably died anyway. The eyes he saw above that cloak¡­ he¡¯d seen them thousands of times before. He could never mistake them.


    "Grena?" he mumbled.


    Even with how quietly he¡¯d spoken, Grena had clearly heard him. She instantly stopped as the words left his lips, her gaze flicking over to look at him. Nael couldn¡¯t tell what that look in her eyes meant -- was it guilt, or some sort of pity? He didn¡¯t understand anything that was happening anymore.


    For a moment, his eyes were locked onto hers -- before the sound of one of his attackers stepping down awoke him once more to the present moment. The cloaked man in front of him lifted the hand holding a crossbow, finger curling around the trigger mechanism. Unlike Grena¡¯s gaze, the emotion in his eyes was clear -- hatred for a Regulator was simple enough to recognize. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Nael¡¯s legs shook beneath him, from both exhaustion and confusion. With the state his body was in right now, the idea of fighting was itself an utter farce. At the very most, he could deflect the first attack -- how he¡¯d deal with the second and third, he had no clue.


    But he was a Regulator, all the same. He wouldn¡¯t allow himself to die disgracefully. He¡¯d deflect that first blow, if nothing else.


    His attacker¡¯s finger tightened against the trigger just that extra bit, and¡­


    "Wait."


    His heart jumped. Nael had only heard that hoarse, painful voice a few times in his life, but he¡¯d mistake it nowhere. In the blink of an eye, Grena had appeared behind the man about to shoot Nael, a warning hand resting on his shoulder. A thin line of blood ran down from her mouth. Without even an instant of hesitation, the man lowered his crossbow, and he and his compatriots moved away to find easier prey.


    After that, it was just Grena and Nael.


    The words came clumsily out of his mouth, like a collapsing tower. "Grena," he mumbled. "What¡­ what is this? What is happening?"


    What have you done? The accusation went unvoiced. For people like them, they didn¡¯t need all their words to leave their lips for them to be said. The majority of the conversation took place through their eyes, rather than their mouths.


    This time, though, Grena¡¯s eyes offered no reply. His unspoken question hung in the air, slowly fading away.


    "Grena?" he repeated, knowing full well she¡¯d heard him the first time.


    No more words came through eyes or mouths. Instead, Grena simply turned on her heel and walked away, pulling her cloak tight around herself. Within a couple of seconds, she¡¯d completely blended in with the rest of her compatriots, making their way through the dead. The sounds of screams echoed in the distance.


    The shamisen disappeared before it could even slip out of Nael¡¯s fingers. A moment later, he had fallen to his knees.


    The world had turned utterly upside down.


    At first, Dragan had been wary about the idea of moving through the area the Regulator¡¯s army had been occupying, but now that he saw it he realized that worry had been pointless.


    The scale of the devastation was incredible -- the fiery explosion had wiped out everything inside the swamp, and the hot winds that were created as a result had finished the job in the surrounding area. Dragan, Lily and Ruth had to watch their step as they made their way through the grasslands -- otherwise, they¡¯d be stepping foot in corpse more often than not.


    Dragan held his hand over his mouth the entire time, as did Lily. The smell of burning human was all-encompassing, too, like an invisible miasma hanging over the area. Ruth seemed to handle it better, striding forward at the head of the pack with a resolute gaze. Dragan didn¡¯t much want to think about the implications of that.


    "You sure we shouldn¡¯t wait for Skipper?" he said, mostly to break the silence more than anything else. "He was up in the sky fighting that Aka Manto thing -- he shouldn¡¯t have been caught in the blast at all."


    Ruth shook her head without looking back. "He won¡¯t be hurt, but he¡¯d have been blown away by the explosion. You did that to give everyone a chance to escape, right? If we wait around too long, we¡¯ll just end up in the same bad situation. He¡¯ll find us."


    There was a confidence in her voice that Dragan hadn¡¯t heard before. What exactly had happened since they¡¯d last parted ways? He¡¯d love to find out, but he supposed right now wasn¡¯t exactly the time for a recap.


    "Okay," Dragan nodded, before glancing towards Lily. "What¡¯s our next move, then? I¡¯m assuming you know where that tunnel comes out."


    "Closer again to Coren¡­" Lily mumbled, rubbing her chin in deep thought. She¡¯d been doing that a lot since they¡¯d escaped the swamp. "Back in the expansionist days, it was used to smuggle goods between the city and the country."


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "Something on your mind?"


    "If you¡¯re asking that, I¡¯m willing to bet it¡¯s because you know there¡¯s something on my mind."


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    "Yep. Something on your mind?"


    Lily closed her eyes, sighed for a moment. "I was just thinking this is a golden opportunity. Don¡¯t know if that sounds bad or something, because of¡­" she waved out a vague hand. "Because of all this, but¡­ you know? We hold the advantage now. We have the numbers -- and for the moment, they don¡¯t."


    Ruth glanced over her shoulder. "What¡¯re you thinking we do with the numbers?"


    "Go for the city," Lily replied without missing a beat. Her eyes were stone. "Rush the central government in Coren and seize hold of the Regulator¡¯s headquarters. Once we¡¯re in control there, we can turn our temporary advantage into a permanent one. Coren¡¯s equipped to handle a siege if it comes to that, after all."


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "That¡¯ll turn against you, though. To get into the city, wouldn¡¯t you need to siege it yourselves?"


    She shook her head. "I told Ruth about the secret ways to get into the city, ways only the Regulators know about. If we use those routes, we can get our troops into the city and seal off the secret entrances behind us. Do the whole thing all stealthy, you get me?"


    Dragan stopped, barely avoiding stepping on a charred pile of skin. He exchanged a look with Ruth, the doubt in both of their gazes evident. This wasn¡¯t exactly the most foolproof plan -- being brutally honest, it seemed like it had been come up with in the few minutes just before Lily had voiced it.


    Before he could open his mouth to protest, however, Lily interrupted: "This is good for you guys, too," she said hurriedly. "You¡¯re pretty much stuck here right now, yeah?"


    "Yeah¡­" Dragan replied.


    "There¡¯s that starship thing underneath Coren, right? If you wanna get off this planet, don¡¯t you need that? There¡¯s no way you¡¯re getting access to it from the Regulators."


    This was a fairly obvious attempt at manipulation, but infuriatingly enough every single word of it was true. So far, most of their time on this planet had been spent avoiding the aggression of the Regulators, but if they wanted to make it off this backwards rock they had no choice but to turn the chessboard around. Attack instead of defense, pursuit instead of evasion.


    In answer to Ruth¡¯s continued stare, Dragan subtly nodded. For the moment, at least, they¡¯d play along.


    "We¡¯ll go along with you for right now," Dragan said. "Keep in mind, though -- if it looks like the whole things gonna fall apart, we¡¯re making a run for it. If it comes down to it, we can find another way out of here."


    They couldn¡¯t find another way out of here -- they were all painfully aware of that fact. Even so, though, Dragan felt the need to hold back just a little to preserve his pride.


    Lily folded her arms, nodding in assent. "Fair enough. This isn¡¯t your fight, after all," she said, beginning to look up. "Since that¡¯s settled, then, we¡¯ll start by¡­"


    Her voice trailed off as she looked off into the distance, eyes widening in surprise at what she saw. Ruth was already looking in that same direction, her gaze narrowed in suspicion -- and as Dragan followed their line of sight, he too saw what was approaching them.


    A young girl in intricate white-and-gold robes, with a veil hanging over her face, staggering over the bodies as she wandered towards them.


    "Um, hello," she said nervously, fingers fidgeting as she half-raised one hand in greeting. "I, um -- I¡¯m not sure what¡¯s going on. Can you help?"


    Lily¡¯s shocked expression twisted into a smirk. "The Good fucking Lady," she whispered. "What are the chances?"


    Prester Garth was alive. He was sure of that, if nothing else.


    He came back to himself on the peak of a hill that had once pierced through the swamp, falling onto his hands and knees as red-and-blue godsblood crackled around him. He coughed viciously, phlegm sputtering down onto the grass below. This spot, at least, had been untouched by that explosion.


    What had happened? Garth put a hand to his temple, doing his best to ignore the spike of pain that came from his burns. He¡¯d been partially shielded from the blast by Nael Manron¡¯s barrier, but he hadn¡¯t been able to avoid it all. It was only luck that had spared him from the cloaked assailant¡¯s subsequent ambush.


    "Your life has been preserved," came the mechanical voice of his Guardian Entity, sounding out from above him. The cloaked figure floated there, as if standing on thin air, it¡¯s cowl charred and it¡¯s mask cracked. Despite all that superficial damage, the blue eyes of the Entity continued to stare down at him impassively.


    The children of godsblood were as sturdy as ever, it seemed.


    Garth picked himself up off the ground, brushing some of the dirt and soot from his sleeves. "Well done, Aka Manto," he grunted, standing up to his full height. "You transported me away from there?"


    "That is correct," Aka Manto bowed. "I took hold of you and travelled through the godsblood until we reached this destination. Your life was thus preserved."


    Garth nodded to himself. That had been the correct course of action, no matter how much it pained him to abandon his men. An automatic being such as Aka Manto would consistently act in the most efficient manner, and this was no exception. So long as Garth continued to live, the chain of command would be reestablished. A tree could grow back from a single seed, and an army was much the same.


    Still, a troubling thought occurred. "The Good Lady?" he asked.


    Aka Manto maintained its bowing posture. "I was unable to locate her in the brief time that was available. My apologies. It is possible she is dead or captured."


    Garth put a hand to his chin. If she was dead, that was unfortunate -- but it also meant that there was no point wasting time in searching for her. If she was alive, his enemies would likely seek to use her as a hostage -- in which case the opportunity to reacquire her would no doubt come again soon, especially with the nature of her Guardian Entity.


    No matter which of those scenarios were true, seeking her out now -- in such a weakened state -- would be extremely foolish. Best to leave her as she was for the time being.


    Garth cleared his throat, expelling the last of the phlegm that had built up during his rematerialization. Then, he turned back to Aka Manto, who was finally rising up out of its bow. "Aka Manto," he asked. "Are you capable of further transportation?"


    The Guardian Entity replied without hesitation. "In terms of combat ability, I am at less than peak performance -- one of the enemies was capable of flight, and damaged me heavily. My transportation functions are working perfectly, however. Was there a destination you had in mind, sir?"


    Garth¡¯s face hardened. Given the temperament of the enemies he faced, their next move after such a victory would be obvious. His best chance to reestablish his dominance after such a farce would be to invalidate that plan before it could begin.


    "Get me back to Coren," he commanded. "As soon as possible."

 Chapter 133:5.29: Homecoming

    Lily seemed quieter than usual, like she¡¯d been diminished in some way, as she stepped over the crest of the hill. The moon hung high in the sky above, casting a pale blue light down to the planet. Finger shaking slightly from the cold, Lily pointed towards the abandoned farmhouse that had just come into view.


    "We can stay there for the night," she said, voice grim. "And then keep moving at first light."


    Dragan hugged himself as he looked at the building -- night on this planet really was a freezing affair. It was times like this that he envied Ruth: as a Pugnant, her internal heating meant that she didn¡¯t have to worry about things like this. Indeed, there wasn¡¯t even the slightest sign of a shiver on her body as she stood tall, eyes flicking around to inspect their surroundings.


    A few seconds after the visual inspection, Dragan felt an additional shudder as Ruth¡¯s Aether ping coursed throughout the area. A few seconds after that, she visibly relaxed.


    "Nobody¡¯s coming after us," she declared, allowing her Skeletal Set to dissipate back into Aether. "You guys are cold, right? We can start a fire in there."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. Something had definitely changed with her -- she was taking charge confidently, whereas before he would have seen her letting someone else lead.


    Well, he didn¡¯t have time to speculate about it. There were other things to worry about, after all. He glanced down at the nervous young girl accompanying them -- Lily had called her the Good Lady. From what he understood, she was some kind of head of state or figurehead. Whatever the case, she was a valuable hostage.


    Nobody had actually said the word ¡¯hostage¡¯ -- it¡¯d been all come with us and we¡¯ll get you back to Coren -- but the girl didn¡¯t seem stupid. From the look in her eyes behind that veil, she understood that she wasn¡¯t among friends. If nothing else, Lily¡¯s obvious hostility would have given that away.


    Hell, he didn¡¯t even have to look at her eyes -- the kid was shaking like a leaf, only partially from the cold.


    "Sounds good, right?" he said down to her, as kindly as he could. "If we can get a fire going, we can all get warmed up."


    She looked back up at him, and silently nodded. While Lily was leading the group, and Ruth was watching for enemies, it seemed that Dragan had been relegated to babysitting duty.


    "Let¡¯s go, okay?" he smiled -- no doubt it looked as fake as it felt. "Don¡¯t wanna get left behind."


    "Okay," the Good Lady mumbled, nearly silent, allowing herself to be led in the direction of the farmhouse.


    The building had clearly seen better days -- the wooden walls had rotted over time, and the glass from the windows had been smashed away long ago. The back door they were approaching swayed limply on its hinges, and Ruth had to straight-up tear it off to grant them access.


    After leading the Good Lady inside, Dragan paused at the threshold of the house, turning to look at the silent grasslands around them. There was nothing save the sound of wind running through the grass, and the clicking of insects. Absolutely nothing, and yet¡­


    "Ruth?" he called out, still staring off into the distance.


    "Yeah?" her voice from inside was slightly muffled. A second later, she poked her head out of one of the empty windows.


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "You¡¯re absolutely sure we¡¯re not being followed?"


    She frowned -- and a second later, he felt the telltale shudder of yet another Aether ping. "Absolutely sure. How come?"


    "It¡¯s just¡­" Dragan struggled to find the right words. "It just feels like we¡¯re being watched, I guess."


    Her frown deepened. "Uh, well, my Aether ping would only catch someone using Aether -- if it¡¯s a normal person without a Guardian Entity, I guess they could still sneak up on us. I can look around and check properly if you want."


    Slowly, Dragan shook his head. "No, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s it¡­ it¡¯s like there¡¯s someone staring at us, from right here in front of me. That¡¯s what it feels like -- but there¡¯s just empty space." He waved a hand in front of him to illustrate his point. "Just¡­ be ready in case anything happens, okay?"


    Ruth scanned the horizon one more time with her eyes before nodding. "Right."


    And with that, Dragan reluctantly broke his gaze away from nothing, and turned back to the dark entrance. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside.


    If he¡¯d stayed for just a second longer, he might have heard the deep exhale of breath from the thing that had been watching him.


    Dragan was starting to feel like something of an expert on kidnapping by this point. He¡¯d been on both sides of it now, of course, giving him a wide range of experience to draw upon. He didn¡¯t suppose any of that would be a comfort to the girl they were ¡¯escorting¡¯, though.


    The wooden dining table and chairs had long since ceased to be suitable for human use, so instead they were all sat around the fire they¡¯d started in the middle of what had once been the kitchen. Dragan held his palms out and sighed appreciatively as he felt the heat of the flames radiate over him.


    "Oh, that¡¯s nice," he said, taking a crunchy bite of one of the green ration sticks Lily had brought with them. He wasn¡¯t quite sure what they were made from -- some kind of plant, probably -- but his stomach appreciated the sustenance all the same.


    He glanced at the Good Lady, who¡¯d positioned herself right in the corner of the room, ration stick clutched tight in her tiny hands. The quiet sound of sniffling was audible from behind her veil.


    Dragan groaned inwardly. Why did he have to go and start feeling bad about things? Skipper and this lot had clearly infected him with some of their damn sentimentality.


    He offered the girl a weak smile. "So, uh, what¡¯s your name? I¡¯m Dragan."


    If anything, that seemed to make things worse. The Good Lady immediately dropped the ration stick to the ground, instead slapping her hands over her mouth in what was clearly a scandalised expression. Even Lily winced.


    He glanced towards her, sucking in air through his teeth. "Guessing I shouldn¡¯t have asked that?"


    Lily shook her head. "The Good Lady is the Good Lady. Apparently, the ruler only uses their actual name with their closest family -- and even then, it¡¯s frowned upon."


    Silently, the Good Lady nodded, moving her hands away from her mouth. "It, um, would be a little improper. Sorry. I¡¯m really sorry."


    "Huh," Ruth said as she chewed what remained of her own ration stick. "It¡¯s kinda like the Supreme then, right?"


    Dragan nodded. "It¡¯s illegal to call the Supreme by their name until after they¡¯re dead. They throw you in prison for it -- or worse."


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    "Usually worse."


    A quiet noise sounded out through the room -- it took Dragan a second to realize it was the Good Lady clearing her throat for attention. It seemed her voice rarely surpassed the volume of a mouse.


    She looked at him. "Can I, um, ask you a question?"


    He shrugged. It wasn¡¯t like he could make another faux pas if she was asking him something. "Go for it."


    "Are you really a space alien?" she asked -- and then, deciding it needed more explanation, continued: "Only, I heard Prester Garth talking about you, um, and he said you people were. I don¡¯t think I was meant to hear that, but I did, so I kind of wanted to know for sure, if that¡¯s okay. Um."


    Dragan hadn¡¯t really heard ¡¯um¡¯ used as a sentence all by itself before, but there was a first time for everything. He tapped his hand on his head, on the spot where an inhabitant of this planet would have their antlers sprout out.


    "What does it look like to you?" he said, abandoning that fake friendliness. "Me and Ruth clearly aren¡¯t like you people. Whether you believe we¡¯re from out there is up to you."


    That snarky demeanor didn¡¯t seem to deter the Good Lady at all, however.


    "Wow," she whispered -- and as she blinked behind her veil, Dragan could see the unmistakable glimmer of awe in her eyes.


    Maybe he could work with this. "Cool, right?" he smiled, leaning back. "Only me and my space alien friends need help getting back into space. There¡¯s a big starship underneath your house. Think you could let us in?"


    She frowned. "I don¡¯t know anything about that¡­"


    That wasn¡¯t a lie -- and if it was, she was so damn good there wasn¡¯t much point in him watching out for deception.


    "Well," he sighed. "I guess you¡¯ll see it when we get there. You can look forward to it, I guess."


    She silently nodded. Did she think he¡¯d get pissed off if she didn¡¯t? He couldn¡¯t exactly blame a kidnapping victim for going along with what her captors said, but still. He was sure he¡¯d showed a little more backbone back when it was his turn.


    ...or maybe not. Memories of flopping on the floor like a fish came to mind.


    For the first time in a while, Ruth spoke up. "I¡¯ve been thinking about that, actually. We¡¯re gonna use that starship to get us off the planet, right? That¡¯s the plan?"


    "Right," Dragan nodded.


    She shifted uncomfortably. "Won¡¯t that, uh, destroy the fuck out of the city? It¡¯ll smash through everything above it when it takes off, right? Like a bullet out of a punchpoint gun."


    "Dunno if I¡¯d put it like that," Dragan said, sitting back up. "But yeah -- there¡¯ll definitely be some damage to the area above it. It depends on how big this starship actually is, really. There¡¯s a good chance it¡¯s only big enough to destroy the Regulator headquarters when it takes off. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d lose much sleep over that."


    "Even then, though," Ruth protested. "Stones and stuff will rain down on the city when the building blows up. There¡¯ll be destruction."


    It seemed the new-and-improved Ruth wouldn¡¯t let him get away with such feeble answers anymore. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Over in the corner, the Good Lady looked between the two of their faces, obviously worried. "You¡¯re going to blow up the city?" she whispered, horrified.


    "No, no," Dragan insisted, powerless under the pair of judging gazes. "If it turns out that¡¯s the way things are, we¡¯ll just come up with a different plan. We can come up with the best plan if we know all the cards in our hand, though. We need to know more about the starship before we can factor it into anything. Okay?"


    Ruth nodded. "Okay. But we¡¯re not doing anything reckless."


    "Really?" Dragan smirked. "You¡¯re telling me that?"


    Ruth grinned in response. "Yeah. Really. I am."


    "Fair enough," he shrugged.


    As Dragan made the movement, however, he noticed something that he really should have much earlier. There were now three people gathered in this room, not four.


    He clicked his tongue. That girl really could move quietly.


    "Where¡¯s Lily?" he sighed.


    It had been an idiotic notion, Lily supposed -- that some trace would have remained of the events that had happened all those years ago. Some bloodstain maybe, or a patch where grass no longer grew. Ultimately, the world didn¡¯t care about people dying -- it would keep turning with or without them.


    Still, even without any indicators, she was able to identify the exact spot without a problem. Slowly, with shaking hands, she squatted down and brushed her fingers against the dry, merciless soil.


    She idly wondered what had happened to the cows. Had the Regulators claimed them for the state when they¡¯d cleaned up the scene, or had they simply killed them all for convenience¡¯s sake? Perhaps they hadn¡¯t done anything at all, and the cows had simply wandered off into the wilderness.


    "Stator for your thoughts?" came a voice from behind her.


    Lily turned to look. Standing there was Ruth, hands on her hips as she scanned the horizon. It was like Dragan had said -- even in this freezing cold, she didn¡¯t seem the least bit affected.


    "What for my thoughts?" Lily frowned.


    "Sorry," Ruth shook her head. "What¡¯s on your mind? You¡¯ve seemed kinda distant ever since we got here."


    For a moment, Lily considered saying nothing, her hand still cradling the empty dirt. But she found that her mouth spoke all the same.


    "I used to live here," she said quietly. "This was my house."


    Ruth sniffed. "Gotcha. Guessin¡¯... guessin¡¯ there isn¡¯t a happy story there, then, huh?"


    Lily shook her head. "The Regulators killed my parents while they were away. Then they killed my brother right -- right here. Then I ran away."


    "I¡¯m sorry."


    "Nothing to do with you, so don¡¯t apologize," Lily sighed. "They came after us because of my brother. He¡¯d found some old book in Coren -- it taught him how to do that thing you and Dragan do. That¡­ I guess I do now, too. Aether."


    "Just for that?"


    "Just for that. I guess if¡­ if people knew how the Guardian Entities worked, they¡¯d know they weren¡¯t what the Regulators said they were. They wouldn¡¯t be servants of the gods -- and having control of them wouldn¡¯t mean anything anymore. That¡¯s how important maintaining the lie was to them."


    "I see¡­" Ruth crossed her arms. "So what¡¯re you gonna do when you win, then?"


    Lily chuckled. "When I win? Isn¡¯t that a little optimistic?"


    Ruth shrugged. "You gotta assume you¡¯re gonna win. If you don¡¯t, you¡¯re assuming the opposite -- whether you realize it or not."


    "Feels like you¡¯ve gotten more confident or something," Lily raised an eyebrow. "Something happen while you were doing your own thing?"


    Ruth sat down next to her, hugging her knees close to her chest as she continued to keep watch. Even in this situation, Lily could tell that the older girl was ready to respond to any attack at a moment¡¯s notice.


    She took in a deep breath of air. "I guess I¡­ made a choice. Turns out your group aren¡¯t the only rebels around -- I got picked up by some guys called the Grinhe."


    Lily furrowed her brow. "Grinhe? You mean the forestfolk?"


    "If you say so. They wanted me to help them out -- it¡¯d take down the Regulators, which is the right thing to do. But if I did that, I¡¯d have lost people important to me. I decided it wasn¡¯t worth it. It¡¯s like¡­ I understand my own priorities now. Does that make sense?"


    "Not really."


    Ruth smirked. "I guess we¡¯re different people, after all. My point is¡­ if you want something to happen, you have to make it happen in a way you can be proud of. Otherwise, you won¡¯t be able to accept the results. That¡¯s what I think Skipper believes, too. I don¡¯t want to regret anything when it¡¯s all over, I guess. That¡¯s it. You get me?"


    For a long time, Lily stared off into the night, into the endless dark that seemed to surround them. She pictured a version of herself that had won all this, but it was a version of herself that had abandoned every reason she¡¯d originally wanted to win.


    It didn¡¯t seem like a good life, nor one that lasted very long afterwards.


    Ruth stood up, brushing the dirt from her pants. "I¡¯m betting it¡¯s pretty cold out here. I think I¡¯m gonna head in. How about you?"


    For a moment, Lily hesitated -- then she stood up and turned away from that old spot on the ground.


    "Yeah¡­ I think I¡¯ll head inside too."

 Chapter 134:5.30: Aether Core

    Many years ago...


    The first time Nael met her, it was an overcast day.


    Given the recent weather, it was likely it would rain heavily soon -- all but drowning those unfortunate to be outside in the deluge, but the ten year old didn¡¯t care. A heroic Regulator wouldn¡¯t care about a little water, so why should he? The best thing to do was to consider the whole thing training for the day he was a Regulator too.


    So he stood there on the roof of the orphanage, swinging a stick around as if it were a sword, ignoring the cold biting insistently against his skin. His stick struck empty air again and again, but in his mind¡¯s eye he was raining blows down upon a mighty dragon.


    The orphanage Nael had grown up in was funded by the Regulators, but that didn¡¯t necessarily mean it was upscale. The Regulators supported many such establishments in order to provide a direct pipeline for new personnel -- in essence, the governing principle of this initiative was ¡¯quantity over quality¡¯. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As such, the orphanage was small, jammed in between much larger buildings in the only free space that was available in this part of Coren. Fabric presses on one side, a sizable guard station on the other. The orphanage didn¡¯t face out to the street, either, but was accessible through an alley.


    Because of the taller buildings that thus surrounded it on all sides, even when standing on the roof it was as if you were at the bottom of a square pit. Sometimes, sunlight pierced through the square above, but on rainy days like this there was nothing but cold grey visible.


    Little Nael swung his stick again, beheading the invisible dragon before him, and slid the sword that did not exist into the sheath that did not exist.


    "You were a worthy opponent," he intoned, as gruffly as his young vocal cords would allow. "Farewell¡­"


    As he turned away from his imaginary foe, Nael glanced towards the roof¡¯s ¡¯garden¡¯. The use of that word was hesitant, as Nael could not remember the last time the garden had been maintained. The patch of green that had been set up on a whim had long ago wasted away to a carpet of dying orange.


    Today, however, things were different. A young girl around his age, with pale green hair and eyes, was nourishing the surviving plants with the watering can clutched between her hands -- her clumsy grip causing just as much water to splash back on her dirty dress as reached the soil.


    For a moment, Nael was beset with embarrassment: had she seen him dancing around like an idiot? No, she was clearly too engrossed in her task -- her brow was knitted in utter concentration as she rained water down upon the plants. He was almost certain she wouldn¡¯t have even noticed if it had started raining.


    She was the new girl, Nael realized. He hadn¡¯t interacted with her before, but he¡¯d heard the other children talking about her.


    Apparently, she¡¯d been found by traders wandering on the outskirts of the forest. From the colour of her hair and eyes, it was clear to see she was one of the forest folk -- so it was easy to conclude that she¡¯d been cast out for some reason or another. It was hard to say why the forest folk did what they did.


    Something compelled him to speak. "What are you doing?"


    A stupid question, really. It was obvious that she was watering the plants.


    The girl glanced towards him, back over her shoulder. The concentration on her face eased somewhat, leaving her with a blank expression as she blinked at him. No words left her lips.


    Nael frowned. "I¡¯m talking to you," he grumbled. "It¡¯s rude not to answer."


    For a moment, she simply continued to stare at him, cocking her head slightly -- then she pointed towards her throat. Lightly, she shook her head.


    He furrowed his brow. "What?"


    The girl sighed silently, then reached down into the dirt -- picking up a chunk of flat broken glass that had ended up there long ago. She breathed heavily on it once, twice, misting it up -- and then traced her finger over it to form words. The glass squeaked as she wrote.


    Bad throat, were the first two words -- she then erased those, and wrote further in their place: can¡¯t talk.


    "Oh," Nael muttered, hot shame rising to his cheeks. He¡¯d been inconsiderate. "Sorry, I didn¡¯t know."


    O.K. Her reply came in four clean strokes.


    Nael straightened up slightly, looking away as he did his best to regain the dignity his insensitivity had cost him. He only looked back when his attention was caught by more squeaking from the glass.


    He glanced back down.


    Grena, read the glass.


    "Sorry," he mumbled. "I don¡¯t know what that means."


    Squeak, squeak. It took two iterations for the girl to complete her sentence on the small piece of glass. That¡¯s my name.


    "Oh," he nodded. "Grena. Okay."


    What¡¯s yours?


    Present Day...


    "Nael," he mumbled -- and the sound of his own voice jerked him awake.


    Instinctively, he went to reach for Shamichoro -- but his hands were tightly bound, fingers restrained so that even they could not move. He could summon his Guardian Entity, to be sure, but in his current condition there wasn¡¯t much he could do with it once it appeared. Summoning it would accomplish nothing but drawing attention.


    He and a few other prisoners had been packed into a wheeled cage, which was now being driven down a backroad by a group of Grinhe escorts. Dark forest surrounded them on all sides, and more than once Nael had spied the hungry eyes of wild beasts through the treeline.


    Their destination was Coren. Nael had heard some of the guards talking.


    It seemed that the disaster that had struck the Regulator army had emboldened their adversaries -- this moment of weakness may never come again, after all. They sought to seize control of the capitol before the state could reconsolidate it¡¯s forces. A fine strategy.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Nael adjusted his posture as he sat morosely in his cage. It was obvious at this point that he had been betrayed -- but what haunted him was that he did not know when he had been betrayed.


    Recently? Or so long ago? He knew that Grena was among his captors, but she hadn¡¯t shown her face to offer any enlightenment. He vaguely wondered if he¡¯d ever see that face again.


    Memories rose to his mind of Grena¡¯s youthful smile. Surely deception couldn¡¯t have been behind those eyes, all the way back then. Surely...


    A mirthless chuckle rose to his lips -- and the head of one of his guards snapped in his direction, eyes wide in alarm.


    "What¡¯s so funny, Regulator?!" the man snapped, his voice youthful. There was an undeniable panic in his tone.


    Amusing: even with all these precautions, they still feared his retaliation. How could they not? He was considered to be the strongest Regulator, after all. One only had to look at his accomplishments for proof -- at the sea of fire and soot that he¡¯d just been carted away from.


    A second guard, keeping watch from a tree branch, reprimanded the first one: "Pay him no mind. He¡¯s done."


    Still, the laughter didn¡¯t stop -- like dry, rhythmic coughing, forcing its way up out of Nael¡¯s throat. His body shook with each laugh, and the chains binding his legs jangled in tandem. It was quite the noisy affair.


    The first guard thumped his fist against the bars, only adding to the din. "Hey!" he roared, voice cracking. "I told you to shut it, Regulator!"


    However -- even through all the laughing, and the rattling, and the shaking of bars, Nael¡¯s mind was near silent. It was an ocean of terrible tranquility, disturbed only by a single thought, endlessly repeating.


    What a mess, he thought. What a mess this whole world is.


    A crackle of red ran along his arm.


    There is a term used more and more among those who study the use of Aether: Aether Core. It isn¡¯t something that¡¯s yet widely accepted, but the basic principles of it are indisputable.


    The difficulty of first activating Aether differs heavily from person to person. Some can work for years trying to achieve that first tiny spark, some can do it in a matter of months, and some can achieve it without even intending to. This difference in difficulty is not a matter of physical strength -- one could train their body more than any other living creature, and still never achieve Aether for as long as they live.


    This theory posits that Aether cannot be activated until the individual has reached a certain state of mind -- the emotional core of their Aether. A light of the mind can only be used after it is found, after all. Only by tapping into their Aether Core can a person first begin generating Aether.


    After it is first activated, of course, generation of Aether can take place no matter the individual¡¯s mental state -- but that original Aether Core remains the best for replenishing their stores.


    For some, the Aether Core is a sense of insistent self-determination. For others, it could be the fierce desire to protect those closest to them. Ambition, vengeance, duty -- all of these can serve as the core where Aether originates.


    Nael Manron didn¡¯t know this, but the emotion that served as his own Aether Core ¡­ was despair.


    Strength ran through Nael, like fire filling his bones.


    The laughter that had been coming from his throat had long ago died down to hacking coughs -- no less animated -- but his eyes were dull and dead, like stagnant pools. They were eyes of purposeless duty. As a human being, he¡¯d failed, so the only remaining recourse for him was to serve as a weapon for the state. That was what his body had been trained for -- it could accomplish at least that.


    As he felt the warmth spread through him, Nael¡¯s body too began to change. The veins of his body turned a vivid, almost glowing red, a spider web of cracks running along his entire form. He could hear himself creaking as the red spread -- both the veins coating his body, and the tendrils that surrounded his form.


    Right now, like this, he felt as if he could do anything.


    There was a cry of alarm from the young guard -- but too late. In an instant of effort, Nael broke free of the bindings covering his arms and legs: the rope around his hands disintegrating into fibre, and the chains snapping in a shower of sparks.


    The second his hand was free, Shamichoro appeared in a flash of red godsblood. He knew immediately how best to use it.


    Shamichoro had three flexible, prehensile strings which could be used for gripping or whipping. Two of them lashed out, wrapping themselves around the necks of the nearest two guards and squeezing until they cracked, throats compressed to the width of pencils.


    At the same time, the third string ripped free one of the cage bars and hurled it at a third soldier -- who was struck with such force that he was impaled upon a nearby tree by his midsection.


    There were shouts from the rest of the caravan. It didn¡¯t matter.


    With six precise strikes from the strings, targeting the weakest parts of the cage¡¯s structure, it was destroyed -- and Nael stepped free onto wet grass. An arrow came flying at him from one of the remaining guards, but Shamichoro slapped it out of the air with ease -- and, with the same string, struck the shooter with such force that his face was torn free from his skull.


    Two strings continuously shredded through the grass and dirt beneath him, creating a green-and-brown smokescreen -- while the third sliced through it, cutting into any Grinhe unfortunate enough to be within range. A head sliced off here, a torso opened up there. Nael simply watched, eyes cold, as Shamichoro did it¡¯s grim work.


    He was reasonably confident there had been sixteen guards escorting this caravan. So far he¡¯d ended six of them, leaving ten. None of them had fit her proportions or her silhouette. Nael wasn¡¯t sure whether he was glad of that or not.


    The strings weaved death.


    One. They sliced away a jaw.


    Two. They plucked out a stomach.


    Three. They shredded through a windpipe.


    Four. They ripped out a spine.


    Five. They smashed open a skull.


    Six. They punctured a lung.


    Seven. They cut apart a groin.


    Eight. They pried open ribs.


    Nine. They eviscerated a body.


    When all was said and done, all that remained were himself, the corpses, and her. He looked at her with empty eyes. Her own eyes were wide with shock, flicking around to look at the wreckage of the fight.


    Grena.


    By sheer circumstance, she¡¯d been the furthest one from him when he¡¯d broken free. Perhaps she¡¯d been unwilling to look him in the eye? It didn¡¯t really matter. It was time to conclude things.


    She reached for her crossbow, but Shamichoro was faster. In less time than it took to blink, all three strings were upon her -- the trifecta ready to tear her to shreds the second they received the command. But they would move no further than that. They just hovered there impotently.


    Grena gulped, Shamichoro¡¯s first string almost brushing against her throat. The hand that had been reaching for her crossbow slowly retreated back into a neutral position. Her eyes flicked back to Nael.


    A bitter smile crossed his lips, but his gaze remained dull and clear. "They won¡¯t move any further," he whispered, almost imperceptibly. "It seems I am still insufficient."


    And then, without another word, the strings retreated -- shredding the ground beneath Nael to such an extent that the resultant smokescreen allowed him to exit with ease. Within the span of a few seconds, his presence had completely disappeared. Grena could only stand there and gape at empty space.


    She had been unable to kill him, and he had been unable to kill her.


    That was fine, though, Nael reflected as he rushed through the forest, spurred on by his new strength. He¡¯d been unable to conclude things, but it didn¡¯t matter. There were other things for him to do. His body was a weapon. He¡¯d use it appropriately.


    Prester Garth.


    That man had led them into this situation, led them into hellfire and ran away when the situation had suited him. Just like Grena, he¡¯d repaid trust with annihilation. Grena was all he had, so he¡¯d been unable to kill her, but Garth was under no such protection.


    He¡¯d conclude things, and remove the insufficient leader.


    He was the strongest Regulator, after all. That was his role in all of this.

 Chapter 135:5.31: Morning

    The sun rose on another Coren day.


    Light washed over the still-cold streets, over the marketplaces that were already being set up, over the houses and buildings that would soon be full of the chattering of life. Countless people were waking up all at once, no doubt complaining about the loudness of the city bells and the lack of sleep they¡¯d gotten the night before.


    Some headed to the cathedral for morning prayers. Some grumbled down the streets towards their schoolhouse. Some watched, vigilant, from the city walls for enemies they knew could never appear.


    Not one of them realized that, by the time the sun set again, the world would have changed forever.


    The sun rose on another Coren day.


    Bruno hadn¡¯t realised it before, but he¡¯d missed this. This tension, this stillness in his bones that told him he was dancing on the edge of a knife.


    He kept as quiet as possible as he led his squad, five of the least fresh faced rebels he could find, through the shadows of the cathedral. He¡¯d hoped to execute this operation at night, but the time they¡¯d emerged from the tunnel had made that impractical -- if they delayed any further, there was no guarantee this convenient state of affairs would last.


    If there was a starship underneath this city, it was without a doubt the core of the enemy¡¯s operations -- if they seized it, they¡¯d have a powerful bargaining chip for the future. The story Lily Aubrisher had told Ruth had suggested the ship was also the source of the Guardian Entities -- so taking control of it would be even more of a boon for them.


    He glanced back at Ted, who was watching from the back of this group. This way? he mouthed, jerking his head in the direction of the stretching hallway.


    The portly man nodded, and Bruno moved without delay.


    Most of the Regulator army had apparently been in that swamp, so for the moment the majority of the personnel still at the headquarters were administrative, not combatants. Still, he didn¡¯t want to bet on that -- if any fighting were to happen, he wanted it to be after they¡¯d reached their ultimate destination. That way, they¡¯d be the ones in control no matter what happened.


    Stone corridor after stone corridor greeted them as they made their way through the cathedral, more than once having to conceal themselves from a passing monk or scribe, but eventually they reached the stone door that Lily¡¯s story had described. Quickly, Bruno glanced either side up or down the hallway, before turning back to another of his squadmates.


    "Go back to the staging area," he whispered. "Tell them we¡¯re entering the ship -- as soon as I send the signal, they should rush in from the secret entrance."


    The young man nodded and turned, running down the hallway with painfully loud footsteps. Well, that was fine -- there was no reason for the enemy to assume that noise was an intruder. In fact, it would be more suspicious if someone seemed to be actively trying not to make noise.


    Are we going in? Serena asked impatiently. Bruno glanced to Ted and -- receiving a nod of confirmation -- pushed the heavy door open.


    The space beyond was just like Lily had described -- a dark and cylindrical elevator that the five of them could just about fit into if they held their breaths. As the last of the rebels entered, Bruno tapped the button on the control panel -- and the elevator shuddered into life, heading down into the earth.


    "Ringing any bells?" Bruno asked Ted.


    From what he understood, none of the Regulators remembered the exact moment they received their Guardian Entity. There was a good chance, then, that heading back into the place where it happened might trigger something.


    "It seems familiar..." Ted mused. "But nothing specific. More like a dream after you wake up, than anything else. Do you get what I mean?"


    "Right," Bruno nodded. Well, that was about what he¡¯d expected. He didn¡¯t know the exact mechanism behind it -- maybe a Guardian Entity -- but the Regulators clearly had the ability to suppress or erase human memories. If that was some sort of automatic security, he¡¯d have to watch out for it.


    "Still," Ted sighed. "It¡¯s not like there¡¯s nothing. I¡¯m not sure how to phrase it, really¡­ but I can imagine being able to remember it, if I really try." S~ea??h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "That makes no sense." Serena¡¯s reply spilled out of Bruno¡¯s lips before he could hold it back.


    Ted chuckled, his hefty stomach jostling with the motion. "It really doesn¡¯t, does it? I suppose I¡¯m not in my best mind."


    "Why¡¯s that?"


    The rebel ran a hand over the smooth metal of the elevator wall, as if tasting it with his fingers. "It feels like my whole life has been¡­ revolving around this place, in a way. First as a Regulator, then as a rebel. It all comes back down here -- like the moon spinning around the world. I just¡­ wonder if it¡¯s even possible to break free of that after so long."


    He narrowed his eyes slightly, and for the first time Bruno could see just how tired the man looked.


    "I guess we¡¯ll see," Bruno muttered, reasserting himself.


    Ted slowly nodded. "Yes. I suppose we will."


    The elevator stopped, and the doors behind them opened.


    Again, it was just as Lily had described: a dark, cavernous chamber lit only by the control computer in the center and the faint glow of the glass enclosures that formed a perimeter around the room. Through the fog behind those windows, inhuman shapes could be seen slowly moving around.


    Guardian Entities waiting to be recorded.


    He couldn¡¯t see any other doors. Was there another entrance to the ship, then, or was the way to the command deck concealed somehow? Taking Aether into account made everything complicated: you couldn¡¯t rule things out just because they were ¡¯impossible¡¯ or ¡¯absurd¡¯.


    If someone with a power similar to North¡¯s was here, it was very possible for them to disguise the entrance.


    "Check the walls," he commanded the squad. "Properly -- run your hands over them. You can¡¯t just trust your eyes."


    The task took a few minutes: the rebels were understandably wary about putting themselves so close to the creatures beyond the glass. Finally, however, it was confirmed. There was no way out of the room other than the elevator they¡¯d come in through.


    "Could this thing be of any help?" Ted asked, tapping away at the console in the center of the room. Bruno stretched out a hand to stop him, but relaxed as he saw that nothing was happening. They probably didn¡¯t have access.


    Bruno clicked his tongue. "Shit."


    You shouldn¡¯t swear, Bruno.


    "There¡¯s a lot of things I shouldn¡¯t do," he muttered, biting his thumb.


    Ted frowned uneasily. "We knew this wasn¡¯t a certainty," he offered. "I don¡¯t suppose we have a choice but to move according to the secondary plan."


    If there was no way further in through this room, the only thing he could think of was that there was another entrance to the ship elsewhere in the cathedral. They couldn¡¯t very well go searching the entire building with their current level of manpower -- and they definitely couldn¡¯t do it without being caught.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Nothing for it, then. They¡¯d have to take over the cathedral before going any further. To do that, they¡¯d need to make their way outside so that Bruno could get up to the roof. Once there, he¡¯d shoot his Aether directly upwards, serving as a signal for the waiting forces.


    Firing Aether as a projectile by itself did pretty much nothing in terms of actual damage, but it made a bright enough light to serve as a flare. They could organise a proper search once they had control of the building.


    Bruno nodded to himself. That was the plan, then. He looked up from his thoughts --


    -- at the three corpses strewn on the floor, the faces of the dead rebels locked into expressions of shock and horror. For two of them, the handles of cruel throwing knives protruded from their chests, each aimed precisely over their hearts.


    Ted lay face down on the cold floor, five or six knives sticking out of his back. Warm blood spread out over the ground.


    "Two paths lie before you," said a voice from behind Bruno. "A path of blue, and a path of red."


    "Prester!" Embarco said as he hurried to keep pace with Garth. "It¡¯s a pleasure to see you -- and a welcome surprise! We didn¡¯t expect to see you back -- for many days yet."


    Liar. You didn¡¯t expect me back at all.


    Still, Garth felt nothing but relief as he marched through the halls of the cathedral, the frazzled-looking monk trailing behind him. He¡¯d made it back before the rebels, forestfolk and Aubrisher both. He¡¯d known nothing could beat Aka Manto when it came to travel speed, of course, but the last few days had taught him never to be too careful.


    "Send word to the city guard," he intoned, ignoring Embarco¡¯s pleasantries. "They are to prepare the city for an attack posthaste. I will tolerate no delay."


    Embarco paled at that news. It was no surprise: Garth had left the diminutive man in charge of the cathedral while he¡¯d been joining Nael Manron¡¯s forces, but Embarco was no warrior. Being stung by a butterfly was usually more than he could handle. Still, he was competent enough to relay messages if nothing else.


    As Embarco scurried away, Garth pushed open the doors to his study, trying to ignore the trembling of his fingers as he stepped inside. He had arrived before the enemy -- Aka Manto had been dispatched to secure the inheritance facility before anything else. He was still on top of things, but only by a hair. He had to move quickly and carefully if he was to seize victory.


    He strode past his desk, clasping his hands behind his back to keep them still. The cool air of the outside was welcome as he stepped out onto the balcony, surveying Coren below. Would this beautiful city soon become a warzone?


    How long did he have before the enemy arrived? It was difficult to say: the attack of the Grinhe and his subsequent escape had delayed his departure somewhat. He didn¡¯t know when the enemy had set off, nor what methods of transport they¡¯d used. It was entirely possible that only minutes remained before the final battle began.


    His eyes were drawn to a nearby building -- one of the orphanages his organization funded. On its roof, he could see children playing, tossing a ball back and forth in inscrutable patterns. It was one of those games that only made sense to children.


    Their faces were innocent, clean of all but happiness. They were much too far away for Garth to actually hear, but clear and joyful laughter echoed in his head all the same. That scene, down there, was the pinnacle of life itself.


    Garth narrowed his eyes, and a great rage began to burn inside his belly. Why couldn¡¯t these people just be satisfied with that simple happiness? Why did they have to insist on destroying lies that kept them safe, kept them happy, kept them pure? Was the truth really worth so much that they¡¯d throw away these children¡¯s joy?


    The very idea was incomprehensible -- and unacceptable. He would not permit such a thing to take place. Not so long as he stood responsible for this world.


    He would not lose what he had. That he swore.


    Aka Manto, he spoke to his Guardian Entity. Report.


    The reply was swift.


    A small group of rebels was present inside the inheritance facility. I¡¯ve dealt with the majority, and will be finished in but a moment.


    Alarm spiked inside Garth¡¯s brain. The Grinhe?


    Negative. These are Aubrisher¡¯s men.


    His fingers twitched. Aubrisher rebels -- not terrible, but not great either. If there were a few of them lurking around, there were certain to be many more of the rats waiting in the wings.


    Squeezing his hands together with punishing firmness, Garth commanded his Guardian Entity:


    Deal with the survivors, and then return to me. It¡¯s begun.


    The knives were fast as lightning.


    Bruno ducked under one projectile, blocking the second -- which had been aimed in anticipation of his dodge -- with a split-second forcefield. Before the two knives had even hit the ground, however, he already had more to dodge.


    The Guardian Entity -- Aka Manto -- reappeared throughout the room in flashes of red-and-blue Aether, each time throwing half-a-dozen knives with deadly accuracy before disappearing again. Bruno was forced to whirl around, constantly dodging and deflecting in a mad dance for survival.


    One mistake, and that would be it. Once one of these Aether-infused knives hit him, he wouldn¡¯t be able to dodge the others.


    Let me fight, Bruno! Serena cried out. I can beat him!


    Probably, Bruno acknowledged. But that¡¯s only if you can get close to him. He won¡¯t let that happen -- he¡¯ll keep fighting like this until it wears us down. If we switch from defense to attack, he¡¯ll get us!


    He felt Serena¡¯s mental pout. It didn¡¯t matter. Right now, he had bigger things to worry about than her wounded pride. Not dying in the next two seconds, for one.


    Attack wasn¡¯t an option. Escape, however, was another story -- and the route he needed was right in front of him.


    Bruno created and destroyed a forcefield behind himself, providing the propulsion he needed to launch himself across the room and into the waiting maw of the elevator. As he flew through the air, he took a deep breath -- for this last bit, he needed the utmost reflexes -- which meant¡­


    Serena, he said. Hit the panel before we hit the ground!


    Serena didn¡¯t fail. In a moment, she took control, her hand lashing out like a serpent and striking the panel on the elevator¡¯s wall. The doors smoothly slid shut in the same instant as they hit the ground. For a moment, Bruno could hear the dings of Aka Manto¡¯s knives hitting the closed doors.


    Then, nothing. The elevator began moving up again.


    Bruno¡¯s satisfaction tilted Serena¡¯s innocent smile into a smirk. His gamble had paid off -- even if that Guardian Entity could turn itself into Aether, that Aether cloud still had to obey physical laws. It couldn¡¯t very well move through solid matter.


    He only had a few seconds to be satisfied before Aka Manto appeared in front of him again. The Entity moved in a flash, grabbing Bruno by the throat and lifting him off the ground, squeezing with such force that he had to channel all his Aether into his throat just to avoid having his neck snapped.


    "A fine hypothesis," Aka Manto whispered mockingly. "But I only need there to be the slightest gap between the doors to pass through them."


    Bruno kicked wildly at the Guardian Entity¡¯s body, but without Aether his attacks were pathetic -- like flies going up against an elephant. Aka Manto simply chuckled without even flinching.


    "I asked you a question earlier," it cooed. "But you refused to answer me. It seems we¡¯ll be travelling the path of blue and the path of red together, now won¡¯t we? I hope you¡¯re prepared. I certainly am."


    The grip intensified, and the elevator doors opened behind Bruno, allowing light to flood into the dark space. Aka Manto¡¯s sapphire eyes widened, just a tad.


    "Gemini Shotgun," said a clear voice.


    The attack struck Aka Manto directly in the face, sending it slamming into the wall of the elevator and releasing Bruno from its deadly grip. The second he hit the ground, Bruno retreated backwards into a roll, Aether already coursing through his body once again as he looked up at the new arrival.


    As expected.


    "Looks like things aren¡¯t going your way," Dragan said, illuminated by the light filtered through stained glass, already preparing his next Shotgun. He glanced down at Bruno. "Need a hand?"


    Bruno looked away. "I¡¯d appreciate it," he muttered, focusing on the enemy before him.


    Aka Manto had already recovered from the attack, floating over the ground once more, but it remained in an unstable position, hands held over its face as if trying to cover it. In a movement that seemed slow and deliberate despite the lack of time passing, it moved those hands away, allowing what was left of the mask to crumble away into nothing.


    "How dare you¡­" the man seethed, Aether crackling around him. "How dare you¡­"

 Chapter 136:5.32: The Attendant

    Old Owl breathed in the air of the underworld.


    It was only fitting that the end of all this should begin here, among the filth and darkness that lurked beneath Coren. Illuminated only by lanterns, Old Owl¡¯s squad grimly made their way through the pitch-black cavern.


    The foundation of the city was the great craft -- the ¡¯starship¡¯ as it was called. From what Old Owl understood, it had landed on a great indentation in the world when it had first arrived. This space, then, was the colossal gap between the bottom of the starship and the bottom of the indentation.


    He glanced fruitlessly upwards at the darkness. If he had eyes more suited to this shade, would he see metal above? Or was the craft better disguised than that?


    Once they were all gathered, they would begin their attack -- the Grinhe flooding up from beneath the city to seize the most important strategic point. If all went well, they could strike before anyone knew to prepare for them. That had been the plan they¡¯d first decided upon.


    Still, he felt uneasy.


    All but Young Grena¡¯s group had already arrived, and she was far overdue. Had something happened? He knew she had been transporting a captive Regulator, but he had been securely restrained.


    He cast such uncertainty from his mind: he had no use for it. If Grena was not here, they would simply act without her. The Grinhe were a great tree -- they could not shed tears over every missing branch.


    Some final courage was needed before they began. Old Owl fished the hologram projector out of his pocket, clicking the button on it and turning it on.


    Immediately, a wavering figure appeared before the gathered Grinhe -- and the mutterings and mumbling among them transformed instantly into respectful silence. Their group had no manifesto, but this projection served as sufficient motivation.


    The man who spoke of XK-12 looked the same as ever -- long pale hair and extraordinarily bright blue eyes, with a sternness to him that suggested great discipline. A soldier, perhaps, or at the very least someone who had seen war.


    He spoke: "This is ¨€ervitor Enden Los. All that follows i¨€ the truth. I leave these records if they should be needed in the ¨€¨€ture."


    And with that, he blinked away. It was a simple message: merely a prologue to provide context to the hours of footage that followed. Details of the planet¡¯s ecology, the first arrival there, the purpose of the Guardian Entities -- with hints of the horrific war that had driven this man and his followers to settle upon XK-12. Sometimes, there were mentions of a superior, some being greater than them -- Ilancueitl -- and every time, these mentions were laced with reverence and mourning both.


    Old Owl could not understand all of what these messages said, but that didn¡¯t matter. They were proof. Proof that the truth existed.


    It was the first thread they would pull.


    The hologram faded away, and Old Owl delicately returned the projector to his robes. He vaguely wondered if he¡¯d ever look at it again. After all, in a few minutes time, the end would begin.


    Aka Manto lifted its hands away from its face, the last remnants of its shattered mask slipping between it¡¯s fingers.


    "How dare you¡­" the man seethed, Aether crackling furiously around him. "How dare you¡­"


    His hateful gaze was fixed on Dragan. Two pairs of bright blue eyes glared at each other. S§×arch* The N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Huh," muttered Dragan, staring at his opponent. "I was expecting you¡¯d have a couple more eyes than that. Maybe scales or something. Guess not."


    The man floating before Dragan and Bruno was human, that much was obvious, and a Cogitant at that. Sapphire-blue eyes narrowed as Aka Manto pulled itself free from the wreckage of the elevator wall, long grey hair falling down over his shoulders. The man pointed a long, trembling finger at Dragan.


    "You¡¯ll pay for that," he hissed.


    Looking at him, Dragan couldn¡¯t exactly tell whether the man was young or old. Despite the wrinkles that covered his face, and the lifeless hair that hung like hay from his head, there was a bright and clear quality to his eyes that made Dragan think of a younger man. It was as if time had managed to strike him in some places, while moving neutrally over others.


    "I see," Dragan said, adjusting his stance slightly. "Makes sense that a human being could be recorded as a Guardian Entity if an animal can. What were you, then? A crash test dummy?"


    "You¡¯ll pay for that¡­" Aka Manto repeated -- before slowly retracting his accusatory finger. "But I am not unreasonable. I must admit that I feel something akin to gratitude right now. You¡¯ve done me a service."


    Bruno narrowed his eyes, slowly getting back up to his feet. "How¡¯s that?"


    The man picked up a shard of broken ceramic between two of his fingers, turning it over in the light. "I won¡¯t deny that I am unlike other Guardian Entities," he said softly. "However, this mask served the purpose of locking me into certain¡­ patterns of behaviour. Now that it¡¯s no longer a factor, I¡¯m certain we can resolve this conflict in another way entirely."


    Invisibly, Dragan primed another Gemini Shotgun -- ready to fire at the other Cogitants head given half a reason. "Oh?" he said. "What if I told you I thought you were full of shit?"


    Aka Manto smiled genially, dropping the shard. "That¡¯s rather unkind of you, Dragon Hadrien. We¡¯ve operated as enemies thus far, but that¡¯s no reason for rudeness."


    "Dragan," Dragan snapped, emphasizing the pronunciation. "Dragan Hadrien. And I¡¯d consider trying to strangle me to death to be pretty rude on your part."


    "Alas, the mask," Aka Manto gestured to the pile of ceramic on the floor. "But you¡¯re absolutely right. I¡¯ve operated without manners from start to finish. Allow me to begin making up for that."


    The Entity bowed theatrically, cloak billowing around it as he floated. "A pleasure to formally meet you, Dragan Hadrien and¡­"


    "Bruno," grunted the man himself.


    "...and Bruno." If Aka Manto was thrown off by the obvious hostility, he didn¡¯t show it. "My name is Enden Los. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve already realized this planet was the retreat of a Gene Noble?"


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    Dragan didn¡¯t answer. He just kept watching Aka Manto -- or Enden Los, apparently -- watching for any sign of deceit or subterfuge. Even with the strange form he¡¯d taken, his body language would betray him all the same.


    "I¡¯m certain you have," Los smiled to himself. "You two seem intelligent young men. I¡¯m perfectly willing to spare your lives, and arrange your escape from this planet, should you cooperate with me on a simple matter."


    "And what matter is that?" Dragan asked. He glanced down at Bruno -- no, at Serena.


    The colour of their body¡¯s Aether had shifted slightly to violet to reflect the new dominant personality, and she was tense, ready to spring into action at a moment¡¯s notice.


    Los certainly noticed that as well -- he had the same Cogitant senses as Dragan -- but it didn¡¯t seem to affect his new genial demeanor. Only as he spoke did the slightest trace of anger infiltrate his expression.


    "You¡¯re a comrade to Lily Aubrisher, aren¡¯t you, Dragan Hadrien?" Los asked, his voice still perfectly calm. "You were together in the swamp, the last time we met."


    "The last time we met?" Dragan scoffed. "I remember it a little differently. I¡¯m pretty sure you tried to kill me back then."


    "I truly regret that," Los nodded, an expression of anguish twisting their face. "As I said, however, my actions were limited by that mask. I had little choice but to approach under such terms. That¡¯s no longer the case, which is why I can now offer you this more personable deal -- should you provide me with Aubrisher¡¯s present location, I¡¯ll direct you to the escape pods of the starship we just left."


    "The escape pods? How generous of you."


    Los smiled thinly. "I like to be reasonable when I can. They¡¯re still operable, and I¡¯m certain they¡¯ll suffice to get you off-planet. From there, it¡¯s simply a matter of sending out a distress signal. You can resume your voyage among the stars within a day or so. It¡¯s not such a bad deal, really, is it?"


    There. Enden Los made a single mistake, a single twitch of the eye incongruous with the rest of his expression. The telltale mark of a liar.


    Bruno spoke up through Serena¡¯s mouth as he reasserted himself. "What do you want with Lily?"


    As ever, he was appreciably blunt. Dragan would happily dance through words all day long, but Bruno would actually ask the question he wanted an answer to.


    Los frowned. "Is that relevant?"


    Bruno narrowed his eyes. It seemed that was all the answer he needed. Things would erupt into violence once again within the next minute or so.


    Before that happened, it was vital that Enden Los¡¯ attention was focused on Dragan rather than Bruno and Serena. That way, Serena could leap in and execute a sneak attack while Dragan supported her with his Gemini Shotgun.


    He spoke up, cold sweat tickling at the back of his neck. "I think I know exactly what you want with Lily. It¡¯s her Guardian Entity, right?"


    The effect was immediate. Enden Los¡¯ pupils dilated only slightly, but the tension in the hallway increased to such a degree that it felt like they¡¯d be crushed by the gravity.


    "I¡¯d watch your next words, kin of the Blindman," Los said slowly. His voice promised murder.


    But if there was one thing Dragan Hadrien was good at, it was not watching his next words -- and so he continued.


    "Lily was never meant to get Raij¨± in the first place. She snuck in that room down there --" Dragan jabbed a finger at the elevator. "-- and was given it by mistake. I¡¯m thinking it was just lucky timing."


    Enden Los¡¯ body language was perfectly neutral, the fact that he had no tells serving as a massive tell itself. If he suddenly wanted to hide his emotions even more, it suggested that Dragan noticing those emotions would be disadvantageous for him.


    So he was definitely on the right track.


    Dragan went on. "You were already down there, already preparing to give Raij¨± to someone -- probably yourself -- when Lily came and interrupted. So you¡¯re wanting to go grab Lily and force her to return that Guardian Entity. As for why you¡¯re so fixated on that specific Entity? Well, I¡¯d bet it¡¯s because¡­"


    Los¡¯ facade broke, his face warping into a mask of utter rage that resembled the previous ceramic more than anything. "Don¡¯t you dare," he hissed.


    "...because that Guardian Entity is the corpse of your beloved Gene Tyrant."


    Many hundreds of years ago¡­


    The young man¡¯s hands desperately clutched the tendril, gripping it so tightly as if that would keep its owner here, would prevent her from crossing to the other side.


    The dying god was stuck between half-a-dozen forms -- some parts mammalian, some reptilian, some arboreal and some stranger still. The sparking blue harpoons protruding from its back had prevented her from fully assuming any of the forms she would have needed to win.


    "Stay with us, Your Nobility," the young man breathed, kneeling beside his creator. "I¡¯m certain we can treat your injuries -- given only a little more time. I¡¯m sure of it, I am."


    The Gene Noble ignored what he said. She knew just as much as he did that any further effort would be pointless. The majority of her body had already become a corpse, after all.


    "Los," the divine being mewled through half-a-dozen remnant mouths. "You¡¯ll continue my will, won¡¯t you? You¡¯ll ensure my subjects are safe?"


    The young man hurriedly nodded. It mattered not what the request was -- if his creator asked it of him, he would gladly carry it out.


    "Of course," he sobbed. "Anything you say. Anything."


    "What a dutiful¡­ thing you are¡­"


    The god was fading fast. The young man pressed the limp tendril to his cheek, trying to ignore just how cold it was.


    "I can be nothing but," he whispered. "You have created me, given me purpose, fed and clothed me, oh noble one. Who else could you be but my mother? What wretch would I be if I did not obey?"


    The Gene Noble had no reply to that, for it had already departed from this world. The young man stayed there for quite a while, frozen in place, huddling close to the corpse until the last traces of life¡¯s warmth had gone. Then he stood up.


    There was work to be done.


    Present Day¡­


    "Shut your damn mouth!" Los screamed, cloak billowing around him as even the windows shook from the volume of his voice.


    Dragan gulped. Guess he¡¯d been right on the money there, at least.


    The Aether surrounding Enden Los increased in intensity, so much that it was like Dragan and Bruno were looking at a red-and-blue supernova. Whatever this was, Dragan knew it would be beyond anything they¡¯d seen from a Guardian Entity before.


    "Serena!" he cried, already firing off his Gemini Shotguns. "Go!"


    Serena leapt in, a broadsword of cobblestone already clutched in her hands, but it was too late. The Aether building up around Los consolidated into a single point, deep within its robes, then --


    "Open, O Earth."


    -- the cloak opened, and hell poured forth.


    Garth sighed as he looked over his city. He couldn¡¯t waste time in fruitless self-reflection. The events of the next few hours would decide the future -- and he would decide the events of the next few hours. He would protect this view.


    He turned from his balcony, taking a deep breath as he prepared himself for the trials to come -- only to stop mid-step.


    A set of steel claws were brushing against his throat.


    Three people stood before him, in the middle of his office: a glaring Lily Aubrisher, a nervous Good Lady, and a clawed girl with red hair. He recalled her from the memories he¡¯d absorbed -- one of the outsiders.


    "Ah," he said lightly, recognising the situation before him. "I see."


    At last, everything was going his way.

 Chapter 137:5.33: Break

    The stained glass windows that lined the outside of the cathedral in the centre of Coren had been designed and crafted by an artisan named Tyrman Nell.


    He had lived around a hundred years ago, during an artistic renaissance on the planet, and had volunteered to craft new windows for the cathedral when the previous ones had been heavily damaged in the storm. He was a young man at the time, but the accomplishments he already had to his name convinced Prester Yoel -- who had been in charge at the time -- to trust him with the decoration of the great cathedral. He told Nell that he had but one year to complete the pieces, otherwise they would be forced to look elsewhere.


    Nell would not be deterred by such a harsh deadline, however. He worked like a madman to complete the glasswork, ignoring all other aspects of his life. During this period, his daughter asked many times for her father to spend time with her, but he refused. He had more important things to worry about, after all. What occurred over the course of those six months could be considered the creation of true genius, resulting in pieces of art that were unmatched during the period.


    Yes, you¡¯ll notice that I said six months. Even though Nell had been given only a year, he managed to complete his work to the highest standard in only half that time -- it¡¯s said he spent the next six months sleeping.


    Next, however, the Prester asked him to complete new statues for the Garden of Stone -- the originals had also been damaged in the great storm. Nell readily agreed: he was eager to gain more prestige as a renowned artisan. This time, however, he only had six months to complete the work.


    Again, his work ethic was impeccable. Like a man possessed, he turned hunks of rocks into delicate depictions of piety and virtue with time even to spare. During this period, his daughter asked many times for him to spend time with her, but he refused. He had more important concerns, after all.


    The Prester was overjoyed by the new statues, as he had been with the stained glass. So, for his final request, he commanded the artisan to replace the men who had been killed in the storm, to fashion new guards from mud and stone -- and because the Prester now knew of Nell¡¯s great skill, he gave him but a single day to complete the work.


    The artisan worked diligently, fashioning dummy guards from whatever could be found on hand -- by the twelve hour mark, he had completed six of the nine warriors that had been requested. He was just about to begin upon the seventh when once again his young daughter approached, and asked him to spend time with her. Just a few minutes, she asked.


    He went to reprimand her, to refuse her request, but some divine wind gave him pause. In the first place, he had become an artisan to provide for his family, to feed and clothe them -- but what use was that if he also robbed them of their happiness? Existence without joy was mere continuation.


    In the end, Nell spent the entire rest of the day with his daughter, and told the Prester that he had been unable to fulfill his request. The Prester smiled lightly to himself -- for this had been his true intent from the beginning! The artisan had worshipped in function by crafting such wonders, true, but by neglecting his family he had been ignoring the will of the gods all the same.


    The artisan named Nell put down his tools, and never picked them up again, spending his remaining days with the family that adored him. Even so, however, proof of his magnificence remained -- in the great stained glass window that adorned the cathedral.


    None of this mattered, however, as Dragan Hadrien and Serena del Sed came smashing through that window, utterly destroying it as they rushed to avoid a devastating attack.


    A sea of beasts followed after them.


    Lizard and reptile, mammal and vermin. Humanoid and quadruped. Scale and fur, claw and bone. Green and blue and jaundice yellow. Bulging eyes and thrashing tongues and hungry, hungry teeth.


    Enden Los sighed in relief as he watched his flood of creatures rush through the broken window, following after Hadrien and del Sed. Perhaps this move had been a little hasty on his part, but in the end he would be victorious all the same.


    He glanced down at the ground below, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the sight. It was full of those beasts that were unable to move quickly, the ones that dragged themselves by malformed arms or slithered like a slug or just writhed on the floor in agony. Pale imitations of the Gene Noble¡¯s work.


    Creating Guardian Entities was not an easy task. At first, they¡¯d used simple test cases -- the first being an antique musical instrument -- only moving over to living creatures once they¡¯d been sure the recording process would work. The first generation of Guardian Entities had used up the store of their patron¡¯s personal creations -- from there, they¡¯d had to engineer beasts all their own. Some of those, too, had been worthy -- useful enough to assign to Regulators, at least.


    Others, however, had been like these. Utter failures, sabotaged by their own biology for every moment they were alive. Most couldn¡¯t exist outside of an Aether form for more than a few minutes. Those that were capable of thought were driven mad by their own inadequacy -- not to mention the stress of existing only as Aether for centuries on end.


    If these people had thought Los capable only of throwing knives and making idle threats, then they were fools. It would be no exaggeration to say that the entire Guardian Entity system was Enden Los¡¯ Aether ability.


    He¡¯d manifested about twenty percent of the failure stock with that attack. Perhaps a little bit overkill, but effective all the same. Now that they had Hadrien and del Sed¡¯s scents, they wouldn¡¯t give up the chase until their hunger was sated.


    If they found other food on the way, that was unfortunate, but accidents did happen. Whatever happened now, his enemies would be dead before the sun set. While his horde was dealing with the riff-raff, Los would track down Aubrisher -- and reclaim his lost light.


    Enden Los flipped his weapons in his hands. He was still very good with knives, after all.


    The humanoid beak-thing leaped into the air, screeching as it clawed at its prey.


    A second later, it was blasted out of the sky with a Gemini Shotgun. A second after that, it¡¯s spot was filled instead by two malformed jaguar-beings, both of which drooled copious amounts of blood as they ran. And behind them were hundreds more of the abominations.


    Dragan winced as he beheld the sea of monsters. He¡¯d never actually probed the limits of his Gemini Shotgun, but he was fairly sure that dispatching hundreds of ravenous monstrosities was beyond him. The only reason he hadn¡¯t been torn to pieces was the fact that Serena was carrying him, fireman style, as she ran full speed.


    Even with Serena¡¯s considerable speed, however, they were only barely out of range of the horde -- and with the uneven surface of the cathedral roofs they were sprinting across, there was no guarantee they¡¯d be able to maintain this pace.


    They were in a tight spot. Now that Dragan thought about it, maybe he should keep his mouth shut every now and then.


    "Mr. Dragan," Serena called out, nearly sending him flying as she ducked to avoid a shower of acidic spit. "This seems really bad. What do we do?"


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    "I¡¯m thinking about it!" Dragan cried, his voice nearly swallowed by the wind.


    If they tried to pick these enemies off one at a time, like they¡¯d been doing until now, they¡¯d be here for hours -- or, more likely, they¡¯d eventually slip up and get themselves eaten. The only practical way out of this mess was to take out all of the enemies at once. Dragan didn¡¯t know this terrain, and he hadn¡¯t had time to prepare anything like traps, so the way he saw it there was only one thing to turn to --


    -- Lily¡¯s Guardian Entity. It had been the explosive gases of the swamp that had destroyed the Regulator army, sure, but the ability to call down lightning as she did would be perfect for taking on this crowd.


    Lily and Ruth had headed up to the Prester¡¯s office, to confront and capture Garth. It was a bit of a gamble, but he had nothing better.


    "Serena!" he shouted, firing off a sequence of covering Gemini Shotguns behind them. "Up! We¡¯re going up!"


    She didn¡¯t hesitate for a moment. With the thrust of an Aether-infused leg, she took off -- and they began to climb.


    Garth blinked, staring down at the claws that tickled his jugular. "Do you intend to kill me?" he asked Ruth, voice soft.


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. "That¡¯s up to you." It was true -- she was ready to open up his throat at the first sign of hostility. At this distance, there was no way she could miss.


    The Prester didn¡¯t so much as blink. "If you don¡¯t intend to kill me," he replied. "Then what is your intent?" His eyes flicked over to Lily, standing behind Ruth. "Perhaps I should ask you instead, Lily Aubrisher? A pleasure to finally meet you in person."


    "Fuck you," Lily growled, her hands balled into fists at her sides. A threatening crackle of electricity ran along her arm, and the Good Lady flinched in response.


    Garth smiled thinly. Even in this situation, with Ruth inches away from cutting his throat, he acted as if he was in complete control. "There¡¯s no need for such hostility. We¡¯re adversaries, true, but we are both human beings. There¡¯s room for respect between us."


    "Fuck. You." If anything, that only increased the fury in Lily¡¯s tone. "You¡¯re going to listen."


    "Of course," Garth said. "I won¡¯t let it be said that I was an uncooperative captive. You¡¯ve done very well for yourself, by the by -- two hostages, and of such high rank too. I find myself rather frightened of what you might do next."


    The Good Lady shuffled awkwardly under Garth¡¯s gaze -- but before she could open her mouth to speak, Ruth interrupted.


    "She ain¡¯t a hostage," she snapped. "She¡¯s a witness."


    That, at last, seemed to catch Garth off-guard. He furrowed his brow: "Witness? A witness to what?"


    Ruth jerked her head in the Good Lady¡¯s direction. "Tell him."


    That seemed to give the young girl the confidence she needed. She stepped forward, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress.


    "Prester Garth," she said, with only the slightest tremor. "A lot of people have gotten hurt and -- and killed. And I know that¡¯s war, and that those sorts of things happen in war, but -- well, maybe it shouldn¡¯t be happening. Maybe we shouldn¡¯t be in a war like that. Maybe people shouldn¡¯t be hurt."


    Garth raised an eyebrow. "A lovely notion, my dear, but I¡¯m afraid I find it unrealistic. We must defend ourselves against rebels. You understand that, don¡¯t you?"


    For a moment, it seemed as if that rebuke would knock the confidence out of the Good Lady -- but no. She drew upon some hidden store of bravery, looked Garth right in the eye, and continued.


    "If it¡¯s unrealistic," she breathed. "Then you make it realistic. You¡¯re in charge. That¡¯s -- that¡¯s your job! So you¡¯re all gonna stay here and nobody¡¯s leaving until there¡¯s peace! Then¡­ then nobody else will get hurt."


    Even Ruth had to admit the speech seemed a little naive, but it proved that the Good Lady wouldn¡¯t be backing down here.


    "More importantly," Lily growled. "You¡¯re gonna start telling the truth -- to us first, then everyone. About the Guardian Entities, about the starship, about this whole damn war."


    "And why would I do that?" Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "¡¯Cause if you don¡¯t, my friend¡¯s gonna gut you like a fish."


    Garth sighed, looking unsettlingly calm for the dire situation he was in. He glanced over to his nearby desk. "May I sit?"


    "Go for it," Ruth said, her voice steely. She could kill him just as quickly, whether she was five inches or five steps away. She didn¡¯t much want to stay in this position forever, anyway.


    The Prester took a seat, grunting as he leaned back in his chair. As he steepled his fingers in front of him, he looked for all the world like he was taking an interview -- like this was a light conversation he was having over dinner, not an interrogation at clawpoint.


    "You disappoint me, little one," he said to the Good Lady, his eyes dismissive. She flinched in response.


    "I¡¯m only doing what I think is right," she mumbled.


    His gaze didn¡¯t change. "That is why you disappoint me. Who are you to decide what is right? You are a child -- all of you, you are all children. You have neither the experience nor the disposition to judge the correct course of action." The slightest anger became visible on him, his eyes narrowing as he squeezed his hands tightly together. "And when someone does understand what is necessary, and makes it so, what do you do? You whine. You undermine. You stand in the way of action, and offer no alternative except petty ideals. You disappoint me. You disappoint me."


    "Action?" Lily scoffed. "You¡¯re a moron. Look what your necessary shit has accomplished. You¡¯ve lost your men, you¡¯ve lost your advantage -- and if you don¡¯t play your cards right, you¡¯re likely gonna lose your fucking life. If it ends like this, it wasn¡¯t a good plan from the start!"


    The crease in Garth¡¯s brow deepened. "And what would you have us do, then, girl? There is an entire universe out there ready to crush us underneath it¡¯s heel. You think they will take kindly to the last children of the gods they so despise? I have tasted the memories of that world beyond -- and it is a merciless one. You¡¯d have us put our heads between it¡¯s jaws, hm? Is that it? For the sake of your damn truth? It¡¯s embarrassing to even look at you."


    Lily¡¯s glare was fire and blood -- for a second, Ruth thought she might just leap on Garth and kill him herself. In the end, though, only words left her lips.


    "Anything¡¯s better than this," she hissed.


    Outside, it began to rain, drops tapping gently against the window.


    The moment passed, and the anger that had engulfed the Prester seemed to fade away. As if nothing had happened, he cleared his throat and adjusted his sleeves.


    "And so it goes," he spat bitterly.


    "You done?" Ruth said, her claws still pointed in Garth¡¯s direction.


    He simply nodded, closing his eyes. "Of course," he said. "Ask me anything. However¡­"


    Prester Garth opened his eyes again, and in them was reflected the spark of danger.


    "...I will not answer. Entity Override: Gashadokuro. Kill the enemy."


    Ruth didn¡¯t know what those words meant, but the second they left his mouth, she lunged at him, ready to make good on her promise...


    ...only for her hand to stop right before it could strike Garth¡¯s neck. He¡¯d grabbed it right out of the air, his arm crackling with sparks of deep blue Aether.


    "I told you I tasted the memories of your world," he said calmly. "You really thought something like this was beyond me?"


    A second later, Ruth went flying as she was struck by an invisible -- and immense -- force. Before she could even register what was happening, she had smashed through the window, flailing in the wet air as she was launched off the balcony.


    The last thing she heard before falling off the cathedral entirely was Garth, speaking as he turned to face Lily and the Good Lady.


    "Now," he said. "Where were we?"

 Chapter 138:5.34: March of the Night Parade

    "Now then," Garth said, rolling up his sleeves as he turned to face Lily and the Good Lady. "Where were we?"


    The Good Lady gaped at the shattered window -- at the hole Ruth had just gone flying out from. "What..." she spluttered. "What did you do to her?!"


    "That¡¯s rather the wrong question, my dear," Garth said, dark blue Aether running across his body as he took a step forward. "After all, it was the fist of your Guardian Entity that sent her flying. I wouldn¡¯t worry about her, anyway. My Guardian Entity told me she has a little trick for surviving long falls. She should be back right about¡­"


    As if on cue, Ruth shot up into sight outside, her body surrounded by shattering silver armour. In a single moment, her claws and Skeletal Set reappeared, she kicked off a chunk of debris -- and went flying down again, like a ball being spiked by an invisible hand. This time, she struck the rooftop below hard, leaving a cloud of dust that engulfed and obscured her.


    Lily growled, coating her body with protective Aether as she prepared to summon her own Guardian Entity --


    -- only to be interrupted as Garth¡¯s fist smashed into her face, shattering her nose and sending her flying into the wall. The Good Lady screamed as she zoomed past.


    "Your Guardian Entity is slow to emerge," Garth said calmly, cracking his knuckles as he approached. "If I interrupt you before you can fully summon it, you¡¯re helpless before me."


    She had a second before he reached her. Again, she tried to bring out her Entity as quickly as she could -- but the boot that slammed into her gut was faster. She doubled over, clutching her stomach with her hands, but that only meant that Garth¡¯s next two kicks slammed right into her knuckles.


    Even through the pain, Lily could see something out of the corner of her eye -- in the distance, through the broken window, something vast and invisible was moving. At first, it looked like a trick of the light, the tiniest rippling in the air through the rain -- but the sounds of crunching stone and glass were unmistakable as it crawled insectoid after Ruth.


    Garth¡¯s boot struck again, this time catching Lily in the hip as she twisted her body to avoid the strike. The pain was excruciating -- the pulses of agony from her face, stomach and side competing for supremacy, only intensifying as they radiated out.


    She wouldn¡¯t go down like this. If she couldn¡¯t use her Guardian Entity, she had other ways to fight. In a flash of movement, she lashed her hand out, reaching for the dagger strapped to her side.


    Her movement was fast. Garth¡¯s, unfortunately, was faster. He stomped down on her hand with such force that she heard and felt the bones crunch, blood sticking to Garth¡¯s heel as he ground his boot further.


    In a situation like that, it didn¡¯t matter how much pride you had. The scream escaped Lily¡¯s throat, filling the room as Garth stomped down again and again and again.


    Lily only had the dimmest awareness of what was happening now, the pain acting like a haze around her consciousness. The Good Lady was pulling at the back of Garth¡¯s robe, her futile strength trying to tear him away from his victim.


    The Good Lady squeezed her eyes shut. "If that thing¡¯s my Guardian Entity¡­" she mumbled. "I-I command you! Stop! Stop attacking!"


    Garth answered without looking back. "It¡¯s useless. Entity Override is infallible -- your Guardian Entity will continue following my command until I rescind it or the beast is destroyed."


    "Then rescind it!" The Good Lady thumped her small fists into Garth¡¯s back with all her strength.


    The Prester, for his part, didn¡¯t even seem to notice -- he slammed his boot into Lily¡¯s stomach once again without so much as a glance backwards.


    "Get up," he growled, reaching down and picking Lily up by the hair.


    Even with gravity threatening to pull her scalp free, Lily didn¡¯t have the strength to do anything but hang there limply, twitching. She swung slightly, like a pendulum, as Garth clenched his fist -- gathering Aether in his knuckles.


    His face looked different now, patches of skin around his eyes and nose crusting over until they looked more like grey stone. Lily vaguely wondered if this was like what Dragan had -- the way his eyes glowed when he was using his Aether.


    "You asked me to end this conflict, to make that realistic," Garth hissed. "I¡¯ll do just that. Conflict ends when your enemy is dead. I¡¯ll demonstrate that now."


    Ruth threw herself out of the crater in the moment before the invisible fist came down once again, sending shards of stone flying across the rooftop. Her Skeletal Set barely withstanding the hits it had already taken, she rolled into a ready position, eyes flicking around for an enemy they couldn¡¯t see.


    She jumped.


    A moment later, she knew why. A colossal force swept through the spot she¡¯d just been, the resultant air pressure stripping the tiles from the patch of roof behind. Her mind couldn¡¯t perceive this enemy, but her body could sense it¡¯s presence.


    If that was the case, she was in a tough spot. So long as she didn¡¯t know what she was fighting, she couldn¡¯t go on the offensive -- there was no way for her to know what parts of the enemy¡¯s unseen body were vitals to target.


    She threw herself to the ground. A clumsy swing passed over her head, the force of it almost sending her flying off all by itself. This enemy wasn¡¯t especially fast, but it¡¯s strength was something to be wary of. Ruth guessed she¡¯d only be able to take two or three hits from a monster like this, and she wasn¡¯t eager to test that.


    Still, she couldn¡¯t just keep dodging forever, either!


    Garth had sent this thing after her to get her out of the way -- and the fact that he had Aether meant he¡¯d be a huge threat for Lily in close quarters. If she didn¡¯t deal with this threat quick, there was a good chance she wouldn¡¯t have any allies to go back to!


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    She leapt to the side -- but too slow. The invisible force just barely caught her, sending her smashing back down onto the roof. The metal taste of blood filled her mouth.


    Shit.


    Panic flaring in Ruth¡¯s mind, she moved to get up, to dodge the second blow she knew would be coming -- but as her muscles flared in protest, she knew she was too late. She could hear the air rushing as an unseen fist came down.


    "Gemini Shotgun!"


    The projectile -- a chunk of stone debris -- slammed into the invisible enemy¡¯s limb at incredible speeds, redirecting the blow so that it landed at the spot next to Ruth, rather than reducing her to a smear. Heart pumping crazily, she jumped back once, twice, doing her best to get out of this thing¡¯s range.


    The second time her feet came down, she found that Serena and Dragan were next to her -- Dragan slung over Serena¡¯s shoulder like a bag of potatoes. She put him down as gently as if he were a baby, ignoring the annoyed expression on his face.


    "Thanks for the save," Ruth grunted, cracking the joints in her neck as she stared down empty air. "Things didn¡¯t go as planned. There¡¯s an invisible enemy."


    Dragan winced as he looked down at the roof, doing his best to keep track of their opponents position. S§×ar?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The vague indentations of massive hands were pressed down onto the roof wherever the thing moved, the rainwater filling them and making miniature ponds. Did the shape of the hands mean that the enemy was humanoid? There was no way of telling. For all they knew, it could just be a giant chicken with a pair of human hands.


    "It¡¯s bad on our end, too," Dragan said. "We¡¯re being chased by¡­ well, by a shitload of Guardian Entities. They¡¯ll be here any minute."


    "Um," said Serena, looking back over her shoulder. "Mr. Dragan?"


    He ignored her, looking instead at Ruth. "We were hoping Lily could use her lightning to take them all out at once. Where is she?"


    "Up there," Ruth nodded towards the central spire of the cathedral, towering above. "She¡¯s fighting Garth, I think."


    "Mr. Dragan?" Serena said.


    "That shouldn¡¯t be too bad," Dragan mused, cupping his chin. "She¡¯s got Aether, and I know for a fact he hasn¡¯t got Aka Manto with him right now."


    Ruth winced. "Garth¡¯s got Aether too -- he surprised me with it."


    "Of course he fucking does. If that¡¯s the case, we can¡¯t depend on Lily getting down here any time soon. We¡¯ll need to--"


    Serena lost her patience.


    "Mr. Dragan!" she cried, grabbing him by the shoulders and whirling him around. "Just look! You don¡¯t need to worry anymore! They¡¯re not chasing us!"


    Dragan blinked, staring at the roof empty of any of the Guardian Entities he¡¯d described. His eyes widened. Then, slowly he lifted up his sleeve and sniffed it.


    "They were tracking us by scent," he muttered. "The rain washed it away¡­ oh, oh god."


    Serena pumped her fist. "Isn¡¯t this great? Now we don¡¯t have to worry about being eaten!"


    Dragan shot a wide-eyed look at Ruth, the rain making his pale hair cling to his face as he shook his head. "That¡¯s not good," he continued. "Because if they¡¯re not going after us, what are they going after?"


    Embarco fumbled with his bag as he entered the grounds of the cathedral, holding up a vain hand in an attempt to shield himself from the rain. The wet season was always so miserable in Coren.


    He¡¯d informed the city guard of the Prester¡¯s orders as he¡¯d been directed, and they¡¯d begun to mobilize, but Embarco honestly didn¡¯t see the need. If a rebel army was truly approaching, wouldn¡¯t they be able to see them coming? Behaving as if the enemy was going to just suddenly appear before them was -- as far as he could see, at least -- just fruitless paranoia.


    Embarco paused a moment at the great doors of the building. Usually, there would be guards stationed here, checking the credentials of anyone who entered -- but now those posts were vacant. The only sign of human presence was the spear carelessly discarded on the ground.


    Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck. If the guards were truly getting this lax, it would be him taking the blame without a doubt. He had the sort of face that people enjoyed holding to account.


    He stepped forward, ready to assume some righteous indignation -- when something small, blue and furry rushed past him, squeaking insistently.


    Embarco stepped out of the way, wincing as he noticed the slightest pain in his hand. He paused as he realized that the small creature had stopped too, on the bottom step of the cathedral entrance.


    In terms of appearance, it was like a bipedal blue mouse, and it was¡­ it was eating something, nibbling it insistently. Some chunk of meat. Some chunk of¡­


    Embarco slowly looked down at his hand. He looked at the bloody stump where his pinky finger had been only moments ago. He looked at the fingernail the rodent was so eagerly chewing on.


    He opened his mouth to cry out -- but never finished, as the doors behind him burst open and a flood of screeching beasts washed over him.


    Embarco didn¡¯t die screaming, but only because they ate his vocal cords first.


    The horde spread out into the city beyond.


    Enden Los paused his search as he felt the building shake. He had been making his way through the dusty tombs of past Presters -- it had been a long shot, but he¡¯d suspected that Aubrisher and her rebel comrades could have been hiding down there before they struck.


    Something heavy and large was moving around on the outside of the cathedral. There was only one possibility: the Good Lady¡¯s Guardian Entity. That brat wasn¡¯t capable of commanding it, which meant that Garth must have used Entity Override.


    Well, that made things simpler. Garth hadn¡¯t been responding to his telepathic messages, so he¡¯d already known the man was busy, but if he was faced with a threat dire enough to use Gashadokuro? It could be nobody but Lily Aubrisher.


    He¡¯d found his prey.


    Los closed his eyes in concentration, ready to use the coordinates for Garth¡¯s most likely location to begin transport -- but before he could do so, three long and thin lengths of string wrapped themselves around his body, binding him tight. His eyes shot open.


    "You look different," muttered Nael Manron, the strings connecting to his shamisen. "But you¡¯re Garth¡¯s Guardian Entity, aren¡¯t you?"


    The Regulator looked different himself -- glowing red veins running along his bare chest and arms, and a dead look in his eyes. If Los didn¡¯t know better, he¡¯d think it was a corpse he was looking at. He couldn¡¯t allow trash like this to get in the way -- not now.


    "You¡¯re going to tell me where he is," Nael said. "Now."


    Anger flared through Los¡¯ mind. He would not be commanded by a mere peon.


    "Listen closely, whelp," Los opened with.


    Nael swung his instrument and slammed him into the ceiling, sending rock and rubble raining down. Then, with another grunt of effort, he smashed Los into the floor, a cloud of debris sweeping through the ruined tomb.


    "That¡¯s fine, I guess," Nael Manron muttered. "I¡¯ll just beat it out of you."

 Chapter 139:5.35: Lightning Down

    This is how Grace Landworth dies.


    She¡¯s a baker, working on an order for a wealthy customer -- an expansive birthday cake for a party that weekend. The deadline is tight -- only two days -- but she decides that it¡¯s worth it for the pay. A few more commissions like this, she thinks, and she¡¯ll be able to retire out in the country next year.


    She¡¯s just applying the frosting when the front window of the bakery breaks. The gorilla-thing that jumped through the glass, drool dripping from its maw, slams it¡¯s fist into her. Her back is instantly shattered and she¡¯s reduced to a twitching mess as she falls back into her cake.


    She¡¯s exceedingly unfortunate -- her neck is broken, too, so she doesn¡¯t feel any pain as the beast clumsily jams her head between it¡¯s jaws.


    Crunch.


    This is how Ebripen Malo dies.


    Two years ago, he was the talk of the town -- a man who claimed to have been contacted by ¡¯alien worms¡¯. He gleefully told anybody who¡¯d listen of the wonders his flexile friends had described, of the hot-air balloons and strange gases they used to voyage between the stars.


    Everyone he spoke to knew it was nonsense, of course, but he spoke with such grace and charisma that you couldn¡¯t help but nod along.


    Unfortunately, the Regulators took him more seriously than most. One night, they took him from his bed and showed him the penalty for careless words: a severe beating, a smashed leg, and a torn-out tongue. His stories died down soon after.


    Now, slumped in an alley, he sticks the stub of his tongue out for a taste of rainwater. It¡¯s pleasantly cool against his festering scar.


    When the tiny scaled creatures -- winged and fanged -- begin to nibble at his fingers, he doesn¡¯t even notice at first. It¡¯s only when the biggest of them tears what¡¯s left of his tongue into its beak that he mewls in distress.


    A mewl is all he manages, however. Ebripen Malo dies without so much as a whisper.


    This is how Petyr Graam dies. An indiscriminate horde of monsters washes over him like a flood, and by the time they¡¯ve passed over his body there¡¯s little left but bone and gristle. S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    This is how Dodot Glein dies. She¡¯s crushed by the panic of a stampede as she looks around, frightened, for her parents.


    This is how Ertoso Wern dies. A massive leech thing burrows down his throat, hungrily gobbling down the prizes inside. By the time it¡¯s done, he looks more like a deflated balloon.


    This is how Yusuf Tue dies.


    This is how Gelian Drive dies.


    This is how Polly Pesterone dies.


    This is how Nile Law dies.


    This is how Sara Tenna dies.


    This is how an age dies:


    With copious screaming.


    Stars swam through Lily¡¯s vision as Garth smashed her head into the doorframe, the only thing stopping her skull from cracking like an egg being the panicked Aether infused into her body. That didn¡¯t seem to do much to deter the Prester, however -- he simply kicked her in the torso, sending her flying into the great hall beyond.


    "Stop it!" the Good Lady screamed impotently from within the office, but Garth simply locked the door as he stepped out, ignoring the sounds of the girls fists battering against the wood.


    Lily twitched as she did her best to force herself up off the floor, to pour what strength she had left into her battered arms -- but it was a futile effort. Garth¡¯s boot slammed down on her spine, forcing her body to the ground and a scream from her throat.


    "I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve realized this already, young lady," Garth said quietly, grinding his foot into her back. "But I¡¯m not especially fond of you. You¡¯ve caused me a great deal of trouble, and put this world into great danger."


    Malformed words oozed from Lily¡¯s half-open, bleeding mouth. "F-Fuck...you¡­"


    "And -- there -- you -- are," Garth shook his head, punctuating each word with another stomp. "When faced with accusation, you have no answer save petty insults. I realize it isn¡¯t your fault -- you¡¯re but a child, after all -- but do you truly believe your petty truth is worth all this suffering? I¡¯m speaking of your own pain as well. Nobody is hurting you right now but you."


    Believe?


    Lily Aubrisher had never had the luxury of believing anything. Since the day the Regulators had torn her life down, the only concern running through her mind had been survival -- and survival wasn¡¯t something you believed in. It was something you needed, the way a man in the desert needed water. Destroying her enemies, freeing this planet, ending Garth -- all of it, deep down, was an extension of that will to live.


    If this was the end¡­ was it time that she believed in something? It wasn¡¯t like being wrong about her beliefs now could hurt her anymore. In this moment, on the verge of death, she was well and truly free.


    When no reply came, Garth simply sighed.


    "I¡¯m going to beat you to death now," he declared. "At first, I¡¯d hoped we could recover your Guardian Entity -- it does seem a potent weapon -- but I can see now that your stubborn nature would never allow that."


    Sparking blue Aether began to gather in his fist, angrily infesting his fingers and knuckles as he reared back -- preparing to smash Lily¡¯s skull against the cold ground.


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    The skin against his eyes hardening into stone, Garth spoke: "Any last words?"


    "I¡­"


    "I thought not. Farewell."


    Something wet and furry brushed against Lily¡¯s fingers -- and with it, some final strength trickled into her bones.


    The fist came down --


    -- and Lily Aubrisher opened herself up.


    Lily Aubrisher felt tiny. She was nothing but consciousness, fallen back into her Aether like a man drowning in the ocean -- and, of course, she wasn¡¯t alone here.


    The thing before her, around her, was immense. A beast of crackling lightning and writhing flesh, constantly sparking and undulating and changing -- nanosecond by nanosecond. For this split second, that beast was the whole world.


    Had she died? It felt as if she had. Was this the afterlife, then? No.


    She couldn¡¯t possibly be dead. She was still pissed off, after all.


    The thing surrounding her had no shape that she recognised, but the energy it gave off seemed familiar -- this was her own Aether, after all. Besides herself, there was only one other thing that could be present here.


    "Raiju¡­" her mind whispered.


    There was no reply, neither through thought nor speech. She hadn¡¯t expected any: Raiju was a silent, cold thing. From the moment she¡¯d first used it, she¡¯d recognised that it had no will of its own. It was nothing but raw power, striking at its user as much as it¡¯s enemies.


    And yet¡­ in her silent Aether, there seemed to reside a question. Whether Lily or Raiju was asking it¡­ she honestly couldn¡¯t say.


    What do you want?


    She wanted to survive.


    What do you want?


    She wanted to kill her enemies.


    What do you want?


    She wanted¡­ she wanted the truth to win.


    Why?


    She didn¡¯t need a reason. You didn¡¯t need to justify telling the truth. That was the way things should have been from the beginning. Anyone who thought otherwise was just deluding themselves.


    Then what are you waiting for?


    She could have laughed. It really was that simple, wasn¡¯t it? This place was filled with easy answers. If she was weak, she¡¯d just become strong. If she couldn¡¯t use this power, she¡¯d just make it part of her -- become someone who could. And if someone was standing in her way¡­ she¡¯d just get rid of them.


    The world wrapped around Lily Aubrisher, and became her skin.


    Lightning sparked.


    Garth¡¯s fist came down. It struck nothing but the stone floor below. Lily Aubrisher -- the girl who¡¯d been on death¡¯s door, who was one hit from being finished off -- had vanished completely. The only trace that she¡¯d even been there were the stray tendrils of electricity that clung insistently to the ground.


    What had happened? Garth pulled his hand free, debris spilling between his fingers. He¡¯d been certain that the girl was done. Even if she¡¯d still had the will to fight, her body should have been too battered for her to act.


    There was no way she could have moved, unless¡­


    Slowly, Garth¡¯s gaze slid over to the door in the corner of the room -- to the hallway leading to the inheritance chamber. A large man was slumped over in the doorway, the handles of many knives protruding from his back. He was breathing heavily, clearly seconds from unconsciousness, but he still glared at Garth with one open eye.


    Anger flared within Garth¡¯s brain. He knew the face of a traitor when he saw one.


    Ted¡¯s healer Guardian Entity clung lazily to his shoulder -- and Garth couldn¡¯t help but feel there was a smug aspect to its cyclopean gaze. The thing was meant to be a slow healer, but was it possible that the tiny bit of vitality it could offer in the first moment had been able to¡­


    "Now that I look at you properly," Lily Aubrisher said -- from behind him. "You¡¯re not really that strong."


    He turned to look.


    This was not the same girl. Her braided black hair had come loose, flowing in a non-existent wind and bleached to an incandescent white. Electricity ran along every inch of her body, as if eager to escape -- shining through her irises and crawling from underneath her fingernails. The spider web scar of a lightning strike had spread over her body, from her face to her hands. Light seemed to radiate from her skin, bathing the room around her in an electrum glow.


    Her injuries hadn¡¯t healed, but somehow that didn¡¯t make her any less imposing. Ted¡¯s healing glyph floated over her chest, and she gingerly held onto her broken hand, blood running down her face, but even so -- in this moment -- she seemed invincible.


    "This power hurt me because it was something separate from myself," she said, eyes locked onto Garth. "If we¡¯re the same thing, then there¡¯s no reason for me to be afraid, right? This is my power."


    When she spoke, it was as though the air around her vibrated in sympathy, granting it a strange and echoing quality.


    Garth narrowed his eyes, building his Aether throughout his entire body. The time had come to summon his Guardian Entity back -- this girl could pose a threat.


    Aka Manto, he commanded. Return to me!


    Long seconds passed, and nothing happened. The only sounds in the room were breathing -- Garth¡¯s laboured and Aubrisher¡¯s calm. That, and the persistent hum of electricity. Screaming echoed faintly from outside.


    Prester Garth began to panic, just the tiniest bit.


    Aka Manto?


    "Guessing you¡¯re trying to get your masked buddy to help you out," Lily laughed, adjusting her stance slightly. "Looks like he¡¯s busy. It¡¯s just you and me, dickhead."


    Garth¡¯s nostrils flared. Who did this girl think she was? Had he not already explained the depths of her folly, elucidated her foolishness with both fist and word? Even after that, she was looking down upon him, with her childish and impotent truth? Did she not understand anything?!


    He could see it, in fact -- she was still weak. The damage he had inflicted hadn¡¯t vanished at all -- her hand was still useless, and with the state of her legs she would barely be able to walk. This was a bluff -- the same as an animal making itself seem bigger to scare off predators. It wouldn¡¯t work.


    This second wind was just a delaying of the inevitable.


    "Don¡¯t become arrogant, Lily Aubrisher!" he roared. "You¡¯ve obtained just a little bit more power, and you think that makes us equal?! Don¡¯t make me laugh! You¡¯ve added mere seconds to your life!"


    Lily Aubrisher smiled, in the same way as an adult would smile at a precocious child.


    "Okay," she said calmly. "Kill me, then. If you think you¡¯re strong enough."


    He would tolerate this no further.


    Garth kicked off the ground, godsblood broiling around his feet as he launched himself towards Aubrisher -- ready to send her head flying off her impertinent shoulders with a strike of his fist. No matter how much power she had obtained, her body itself was utterly unchanged. Weak flesh would remain so.


    His fist lashed out --


    -- and missed. Lily Aubrisher simply stepped out of the way, as quickly as lightning, her speed such that the movement wasn¡¯t even perceptible. Garth blinked, his fist pummeling only empty air.


    His last resort passed his lips.


    "ENTITY OVERRIDE!" he screamed, praying his words would be fast enough. "RAIJU!"


    There was no response at all, save for the slightest snort of amusement from Aubrisher.


    "Idiot," she said, pulling her fist back. "You can¡¯t tell a corpse what to do."


    Within the next ten seconds, Lily Aubrisher punched Prester Garth more than one hundred times.

 Chapter 140:5.36: Tooth and Claw and Branch and Bone

    The streets of Coren were filled with the sound of screaming.


    Alva sprinted as fast as she could down the main road, one of many trying to avoid the flood of monsters that had emerged from the cathedral. Young or old, man or woman -- in a crush like this, it didn¡¯t matter who you were. You were just another body, operating on survival instincts alone.


    Someone behind Alva fell, their screams quickly fading away. They¡¯d been caught -- she couldn¡¯t bear to look back. The last time she¡¯d done that, she¡¯d seen a creature with a long, prehensile tongue suck a man¡¯s blood out through his ear. That image would live in her nightmares forever.


    If she lived long enough to have any more nightmares.


    Her body was locked into a state of utter panic -- jaws clenched so tight it felt as if her teeth would shatter, all running form forgotten as she flailed down the street, her eyes so wide and bulging she could feel the cold against the insides of their sockets. Her body knew it was about to die, and wanted to get all the living out of the way while it still could.


    How many more seconds until she was killed? A giddy, hysterical laugh lashed out of her throat, swallowed by the wind. Two seconds? Three?! Would she die straight away, or would they eat her luxuriously?! Would she see?! Would she see?!


    She swerved around the corner -- and hesitated, for just a moment, when she saw what was approaching from the opposite end of the street.


    A line of men and women, their faces grim, bodies concealed beneath cloaks of leaf and branch.


    Alva had never left the city of Coren, but she knew the garb of the Grinhe when she saw it. They¡¯d certainly served as the boogeymen in enough fairy tales. Had they done this, then? Had they unleashed these monsters?


    She heard a wet growl from behind. Sear?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The moment of thought passed. She¡¯d delayed too long. They were upon her.


    Alva whirled around, screaming incoherently as her killer leapt, the beast that would eat her looking like a twisted, inverted hound. Drool splattered from its thrashing tongue as it opened its creaking, sideways jaws. Soon, very soon, those jaws would close again like a vice around her skull --


    -- but an expertly placed arrow, thudding right into the eye of the beast, slew it in one hit. The animal dropped to the ground before Alva¡¯s feet, looking now more like a sad piece of meat than a fearsome monster.


    She gaped at it, then at the Grinhe. The one who had saved her -- a young woman with leaf-green hair and hard eyes -- lowered her handheld crossbow.


    There was a man in the center of this group, obviously the leader, a small old fellow -- the gap between his wide hat and cloak providing only the view of a single vigilant eye. None of the others spoke as he stepped forward.


    He strolled past Alva -- earning a wince from her -- and tapped the dead dog-thing with his foot, turning it over to get another look. His eye narrowed before he turned back to his comrades.


    "These are monsters," he said. "They are eating people. They are to be slain. That is all there is."


    Without even a moment¡¯s hesitation, weapons were pulled from countless scabbards and sheaths.


    Apparently, it was as simple as that.


    Lily panted, her breath tinged with static, as she stared down at Garth¡¯s battered form. She¡¯d really done a number on him. His robes were shredded and charged by the lightning that had ripped through them, and his face and chest were heavy with healthily growing bruises. If the Prester hadn¡¯t had Aether, he would have doubtless died long ago.


    She tried to stagger backwards -- only to be surprised as the speed of the motion almost sent her smashing into the back wall of the room. Her body was capable of more than it was used to. She could feel it -- the strength gained by absorbing Raiju -- coursing through her body, increasing in fervour every second.


    Would it stop at some point, or would this just continue until her body was ripped apart? She had no influence on it. All she could do was wait and see.


    "Lily," gasped Ted. "You okay?"


    Her gaze drifted over to her companion, slumped over in the doorframe. He had a healing glyph on himself, too, so he wouldn¡¯t die -- but even so, he seemed curiously far away. She could see his bioelectricity dancing through his body like the wild tendrils of a jellyfish.


    "I¡¯m fine," she mumbled, looking down at the glyph that hovered over her own chest. Even more than Raiju, this had been what saved her -- it had given her the tiny bit of strength she¡¯d needed to reach out and become something more.


    The sounds of screaming still echoed from outside, matched by the roaring and snarling of inhuman mouths. She looked to Ted.


    "You¡¯re hurt," she said. Even her own voice seemed far away now, unfamiliar, but her concern was clear.


    Ted nodded, wincing as the handles of the knives in his back brushed against the wall. "It¡¯ll take something more than that to kill me," he chuckled. "I¡¯m a big boy."


    "Do you need fresh air?" Even with the worry Lily felt in her heart, her voice seemed curiously monotone. When she¡¯d incorporated Raiju into herself, had she tempered her own affect somewhat?


    She didn¡¯t know, and there was no way of finding out. There was nobody to ask -- she was willing to bet this process was unprecedented. If there was anyone who could have explained, it would have been Prester Garth, but he was in no situation to talk, what with the smoke pouring out of his mouth like a chimney.


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    "Wouldn¡¯t hurt¡­" Ted replied.


    Her brow furrowed. He¡¯d taken so long to respond -- or was she just thinking faster than before? Had her brain adjusted to match her lightning speed? Idly, she reached down to the ground and tore free a chunk of the stone floor between two sparking fingers.


    Then, she dropped it. Gravity claimed it quickly, and the rock fell at normal speed. Had she been imagining it?


    "Lily?" Ted called out. Now his voice was tinged with concern. "Are you alright?"


    Oh, right. Fresh air.


    Lily turned around and opened the wall with a bolt of lightning from her palm. The barrier exploded outwards, raining stone and glass on the roof below and exposing the room to the welcome sunlight.


    It was raining outside, but that would only make it cooler. Lily smiled as she stepped out into the rain, feeling tiny static jolts where the water dripped against her body.


    "It¡¯s nice and cool out here," she called back, enjoying the sparks dancing in her palm.


    Ted only gaped at the massive hole in the wall. If anything, he seemed only to grow more pale. "I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m fine back here, I should think."


    Shit. Shit, shit, shit.


    Dragan kept his distance from the invisible thing as he did his best to think his way out of this. He couldn¡¯t see the enemy exactly, but the slight warping of the rain around it was enough to keep him aware of its general location and shape. From that, he could work out a couple of facts:


    The enemy was humanoid -- two arms, two legs, and a head. It was huge, at least fifteen feet tall, and extremely strong.


    Despite that, it preferred to move as a quadruped -- during this entire encounter, it had remained low to the ground, presumably on all fours.


    In some areas, the invisibility effect seemed imperfect -- the refracted light almost folding in on itself. That by itself was nearly imperceptible, but it suggested that the source of the beast¡¯s invisibility was the skin. In spots where the skin wasn¡¯t smooth and clear, the disguise was imperfect.


    "Ruth!" he called out, looking up at the Pugnant girl. "Go for the skin -- if you can tear it, we should be able to get through the invisibility!"


    Ruth had jumped up to the next level of the roof, getting an overhead view of their enemy while they tried to come up with a plan. She nodded grimly at that plan, bearing her Skeletal claws and leaping right for the beast with a flare of crimson Aether.


    Serena attacked from the other side, dragging twin stone broadswords behind her as she danced through the rain. The enemy swung an angry arm at her, but she simply fell to her knees and slid under the limb, slashing voraciously upwards with her weapons as she travelled.


    The beast howled in pain -- and in that moment, Ruth landed on its back, driving her claws deep into the base of its spine. Before it could retaliate, she kicked off again, landing on the wall of the cathedral and fixing herself in place with her claws. As the enemy turned its head to glare in her direction, winding up for a bite, Dragan hit it in the jaw with twin Gemini Shotguns, earning another howl of pain.


    Ruth¡¯s instincts were right, needless to say. A hit and run battle would be best against an enemy like this. If the enemy had blood, then it could bleed out.


    As Dragan had suspected, where Serena and Ruth had cut into the creature¡¯s body, gaps in the invisibility were visible, exposing dark red meat and blood. It was as if they¡¯d wounded the air itself.


    He grinned to himself. They could do this -- they could win!


    "It seems to me," Enden Los said, his body embedded in the stone wall. "That you are a little bit unhappy."


    The tomb had been reduced to a ruin, chunks of stone sarcophagus and former Presters scattered throughout the room. Numerous dents littered the walls, ceiling and floor, and there was barely an inch of the chamber that hadn¡¯t tasted the point of one of Los¡¯ throwing knives.


    This man -- Nael Manron -- was strong. Whenever Los escaped from his grip by becoming Aether, he was simply caught by the strings again a second later. He wasn¡¯t so strong that Los was afraid of losing to him, but this was becoming a truly lamentable waste of time.


    "Where is Garth?" Manron said, strings squeezing tighter to constrict Los¡¯ body. His eyes were dull and dead as ever -- he wouldn¡¯t respond to any mockery or banter. His body, like Los¡¯, was covered in wounds, but there was no indication that either of them was close to going down.


    Enden Los could not waste any more time. He¡¯d heard the strike of lightning once more just a few seconds ago, a sure sign that the shitstain Lily Aubrisher was using the blessed body of a Gene Noble like it was some common pistol.


    He had to find her and retrieve his lost light, before Aubrisher could disgrace it any further.


    "I have a proposition for you," Los said carefully. In return, the strings only tightened further, cutting viciously into his skin.


    "Where is Garth?" Nael¡¯s tone of voice remained unchanged, like he was playing a recording on repeat.


    "I don¡¯t know," Los said truthfully. "He isn¡¯t responding to my calls. But let¡¯s be honest¡­ you don¡¯t really care about the Prester, do you?"


    Nael¡¯s grip tightened on his shamisen. "Looks like I need to beat you some more."


    "I can see it in your eyes," Los said hurriedly. "Your heart isn¡¯t truly set on this, is it? You¡¯re flailing for a purpose, like a drowning man at sea. Garth is simply the most convenient target -- but what if I could offer you something better?"


    Nael hesitated. "Like what?"


    "Escape," Los breathed. "You wish to be somewhere else than here, don¡¯t you? You desire distance from your pain. I can offer a grand, great escape. An escape from this very planet itself."


    He grinned wickedly.


    "And all you must do is let me go."


    At last, the wounds were having an overall effect.


    Dragan watched as the invisibility of their enemy began to flicker away, revealing the true form beneath. It wasn¡¯t a pretty sight.


    The skin remained translucent, such that all that was visible were the creature¡¯s oil-black skeleton and the network of red veins and muscles that ran throughout its body. Crimson eyes glowed eerily from deep within the sockets, and the movements of the creature were jerking and sporadic -- as though the creature were a puppet being operated by an amateur.


    "It¡¯s on the ropes!" Dragan cried to his friends as they rushed around it, cutting at the exposed flesh. "Don¡¯t let up!" He himself fired off another volley of Gemini Shotguns, aimed right for the eyes.


    As the attack hit, the beast reared back -- and then it¡¯s jaw snapped open, like a snake getting ready to eat a massive chunk of food. Dragan hesitated. Something was wrong -- this wasn¡¯t like the other times it had roared in pain.


    The massive black skeleton took a deep breath, and


    screamed

 Chapter 141:5.37: The Greed of a Beast

    "It¡¯s on the ropes!" Dragan cried to his friends as they rushed around it, cutting at the exposed flesh. "Don¡¯t let up!" He himself fired off another volley of Gemini Shotguns, aimed right for the eyes.


    As the attack hit, the beast reared back -- and then it¡¯s jaw snapped open, like a snake getting ready to eat a massive chunk of food. Dragan hesitated. Something was wrong -- this wasn¡¯t like the other times it had roared in pain.


    The massive black skeleton took a deep breath, and


    screamed


    The noise was deafening, louder than anything Dragan could have imagined -- a resounding discordant screech that rippled over the area like a tidal wave. The sound pierced, crawled and infiltrated -- he could hear the brickwork of the building vibrating beneath him, and feel the sound rippling under his skin. Split-second migraines tormented him, intense and agonizing enough to bring tears to his eyes. It was as if someone were running their fingers over the surface of his brain.


    He fell to his knees, coughing up vomit. How much longer would this go on for? How long had this been going on for? Ten seconds, maybe more?


    Out of the corners of his eye, Dragan could see Ruth and Serena, their own bodies locked in similar seizures as they thrashed and choked on the ground. The massive skeleton hadn¡¯t moved since it began screaming, it¡¯s head angled up towards the sky as the screech rang out.


    Did that mean it couldn¡¯t move while it was using this attack? If that was the case, it would be the only reason they weren¡¯t already dead.


    Slowly, slowly, the scream trailed off -- and the skeleton began to creak back into motion.


    Dragan picked himself up as quickly as he could, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and ignoring the twinges of protest from his body. Ruth and Serena did much the same, Serena planting a hand down on the roof to pull out a new sword from the tiles and stone available.


    That attack had stunned them, but if the enemy didn¡¯t have a way to take advantage of that then it was worthless. Effectively, all it had done was pause the fight. Now that they were back on their feet, all they had to do was continue --


    Dragan¡¯s stomach rumbled.


    He reflexively put a hand to his abdomen. It only made sense that he was hungry -- they¡¯d been busy for days, now, with little opportunity to sit down and have much more than a snack. How long had it been since he¡¯d had a chance to really sink his teeth into something? A burger, at the very least, the opportunity to bite down on warm bun and meat and feel the sauce pour over his tongue? Just the thought of it was almost making him drool.


    Dragan got the faintest sense that something was wrong, but it didn¡¯t really matter right now. Even if that scream had done something like stimulate the parts of the brain that manage hunger, that didn¡¯t change just how fucking famished he felt right now. His stomach was so empty it felt like it was going to collapse in on itself, and he was expected to fight in that kind of condition!? This was bullshit!


    Tears of frustration building in his eyes, Dragan thumped his fist against the ground. The pain was considerable -- he hadn¡¯t infused his hand -- but that, in itself, was his salvation. That pain made him look down.


    There was blood running between his injured fingers.


    Warm, nutritious blood. How could he have been so stupid? He was sitting here crying about the lack of food, when he had five little sausages sticking out of his hand -- ripe for the taking. He realized that they were in the middle of a fight, but these were extenuating circumstances! S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Even if he ate one finger, he could still form a fist with those he had left. Come to think of it, he did most of his fighting with his Gemini Shotgun, so did he really even need a fist anyway? If things got a little crazy, and he ended up without his arms, he could still fight perfectly well -- and as a ranged combatant, he didn¡¯t necessarily need feet either, did he? He could just take up a position and fire from a distance.


    The possibilities only made him drool more. But before he could get to any of that, he had to ease these hunger pains. Slowly, shakily, he lifted his fingers up to his open mouth. Just up to the first knuckle, and then he could think about this with a clear head.


    Anticipation and hunger broiling inside him, Dragan¡¯s eyes rolled up into their sockets.


    Bon appetit!


    "Stop!"


    Just before Dragan could bite down and relieve his hunger, his hand was pulled out of his mouth and slammed forcefully onto the ground. Hot anger flaring through his body, he turned his head to face Ruth, who was restraining him, pinning his other arm behind his back.


    "What the fuck do you think you¡¯re doing?!" he screamed. "I¡¯m going to starve to death!"


    "It¡¯s messing with your head," she forced out through clenched teeth. "S-Snap out of it."


    Ruth held him down with all her strength, even as her own body twitched. There was a pained, distorted expression on her own face as well -- she was doing everything she could not to succumb to her own hunger. Did she just have more experience with this? Even if that was the case, it was unreasonable for her to expect him to just sit here and take it!


    His feral eyes locked onto her neck, at the licorice-like jugular vein pulsing there. Just a quick nibble of that, and¡­


    No. No, he couldn¡¯t do that. Anything else, but not that.


    "Damn it," Ruth hissed, holding Dragan down with all her strength as he thrashed wildly. "Stay still, just stay still!"


    She could feel it too, on the border of her mind, the whispers telling her that -- when it came down to it -- the thing she was holding down was just a big, human-shaped steak. For now, she could push it down, throw that aimless hunger away, but she wouldn¡¯t be able to do that forever.


    Before she fully gave in to this impulse, she needed to take this thing down. But she couldn¡¯t do it alone.


    "Dragan!" she cried. "Snap out of it!"


    It was no use -- his thrashing didn¡¯t lessen in the slightest. Her eyes flicked over to Bruno and Serena, still stuck on their hands and knees. They weren¡¯t moving at all, but they also weren¡¯t trying to eat themselves. Did they have some way of holding this thing at bay too?


    "Dragan," she whispered, helplessness surrounding her like an old, familiar cage. "Please¡­"


    What replied was not Dragan -- but a voice from the sky.


    "It¡¯s no use," it said. "There isn¡¯t a person in the entire world who can overcome their own mind."


    Ruth looked up.


    There, floating arrogantly in the sky, was the bastard that could only be Aka Manto, looking down at them dismissively. He seemed to have lost his mask, revealing a wrinkled face and electric blue eyes, but Ruth didn¡¯t know anyone else who could just float around like that. His cloak billowed around him as he hovered over the skeleton, like a devil on its shoulder.


    She spat on the ground, still holding onto Dragan with all her strength. "You don¡¯t see me o-or Serena eating ourselves. That attack got one out of three. Not exactly something to be all smug about."


    Aka Manto smiled thinly, even as he completely ignored her statement. Instead, it looked towards the skeleton -- Gashadokuro. It was still twitching back to life, pulling itself back together after that presumably draining attack.


    "Garth is something of a fool," he said drily. "He didn¡¯t truly understand how to use Entity Override. The target of it will do exactly as you ask -- only as you ask it. When it comes to an idiotic beast like this, all you¡¯ll get is idiocy. Allow me to demonstrate a more effective means of utilizing it."


    He took a deep breath, clearing his throat.


    "Entity Override: Gashadokuro," he said. "Continually attack the outsider girl with the red hair, without stopping to rest or defend yourself until the target is eliminated. Once that is done, eliminate the outsider boy with the silver hair. Leave the blonde brat over there alive -- I¡¯ll need one of them breathing so that I can extract Aubrisher¡¯s location. Begin executing these orders when I snap my fingers. Now, that sounds much more efficient, doesn¡¯t it?"


    He raised his hand, fingers poised to snap, his body blotting out the sun and casting a long and deep shadow. Ruth glared murderously, unable to do anything but hold the writhing Dragan down.


    "Let¡¯s begin, shall we?" Aka Manto said. "The final round?"


    His fingers began to brush against each other, and --


    "Heartbeat Shotgun."


    -- Aka Manto¡¯s hand exploded into gore, blood and bone raining down below. The Entity screamed, holding his demolished wrist tight as he whirled around in the air to face his opponent.


    Ruth had thought she¡¯d known only one person who could float around like that, but apparently she¡¯d been wrong. Skipper hovered higher up in the air, holding his palms downwards as a continuous stream of Heartbeat Shotguns kept him aloft. He grinned cockily as he regarded the Guardian Entity below him.


    "Hey, pal, what¡¯s the big idea?" he asked. "We were in the middle of a fight, and you go and run off after one little explosion? It took me hours to figure out where I¡¯d ended up. Dick move, man. Seriously."


    Aka Manto growled furiously, gripping it¡¯s throwing knives between the knuckles of its remaining hand -- the stump of the other dissipated into Aether. "Imbecile. I¡¯ll kill you myself!"


    The Entity hurled the knives, lunging at Skipper in a dogfight of sound blasts and silver blades. Within a few seconds, they were just green and red-blue streaks lancing through the air above the cathedral.


    But the problem still wasn¡¯t solved.


    He still had his other hand, and he¡¯d snap his fingers at any moment, and there still wasn¡¯t anything Ruth could do but hold down Dragan. She could try knocking him out, maybe, but he still had his Aether -- who knew how long that¡¯d take? But if she didn¡¯t do something, they¡¯d both be killed by Gashadokuro. Damn it, damn it, damn it!


    "What¡¯s the problem?" asked Lily Aubrisher, right next to her ear.


    Ruth almost jumped out of her skin. One second, it had been just her and Dragan -- the next, Lily Aubrisher had appeared right next to them, kneeling on the ground. She looked different, too -- her hair scorched white, her eyes subtly glowing with the electricity that ran throughout her entire body.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    This day had been going on long enough that Ruth wasn¡¯t going to question things anymore.


    "Look," she grunted. "You get hurt when you¡¯re using the lightning stuff, right?"


    Slowly, Lily blinked, as if she were tuning into this conversation from a long way away. "Hm? Oh, yeah, I guess I did."


    "Then," she hesitated. "Then, can you just hold Dragan down for me? I need to fight!"


    She winced as an explosion of sound rang out not far away, and a dozen ricocheted throwing knives embedded themselves into the roof. They were wasting time.


    "Hold him down?" Lily cocked her head. "Yeah, okay."


    Without missing a beat, she took over for Ruth, restraining Dragan with surprising strength. As she did, Ruth stood back up and stepped forward, grimly manifesting her claws as she stared up at the massive black skeleton. It had finally come back into full motion, snapping it¡¯s jaws open in a silent roar that sent Ruth¡¯s long red hair flowing back.


    Behind her, Dragan¡¯s thrashing suddenly ceased as he realized exactly what she intended to do.


    "Ruth," he gasped, words straining to form. "Don¡¯t. Don¡¯t. We couldn¡¯t -- couldn¡¯t beat it with three of us. You¡¯ll die."


    Ruth Blaine gulped down the last of her fear. Then, she turned back and offered him a cocky grin.


    "Nah," she said. "It¡¯s fine. I¡¯m strong."


    Snap.


    Gashadokuro lunged, and Ruth danced.


    The Archivist looked up at Dragan¡¯s solution. "I have to say," he said, hand on his chin. "This doesn¡¯t seem the most efficient way to deal with things."


    "Feel free to speak up if you¡¯ve got a better idea," Dragan replied.


    "If I had a better idea, so would you."


    "Well, there you go."


    The shape of Dragan¡¯s Archive had been altered somewhat to account for the current situation. Right now, the snow-white landscape consisted of four bookcase-towers rising up above a layer of clouds -- and great marble chains ran from the corners of each tower, collectively binding the entity between.


    Dragan¡¯s hunger thrashed and roared within its bindings -- a great vortex of meat and teeth, snapping and gnashing at empty air. Every few seconds, the chains binding it would be shredded away to nothing, only to be replaced by new bindings that lashed out fully-formed from the towers.


    It wouldn¡¯t hold forever. But it would hold for now.


    "Well?" the Archivist turned from his sitting position on the balcony to face Dragan. "What next? What do you do once that skeleton slaps Ruth down like a basketball?"


    Dragan shook his head. "It won¡¯t."


    "Huh?" The Archivist didn¡¯t seem impressed.


    "Ruth said she¡¯d win, so she¡¯ll win," Dragan declared, without the slightest trace of doubt in his voice. "I trust her to make good on that."


    The Archivist rolled his eyes, but a smile played across his lips all the same. "Well¡­ if you say so, I guess."


    Dragan opened his eyes.


    He was still being held down on the ground -- Lily¡¯s immutable grip restraining him without much visible effort at all. She¡¯d clearly become much stronger since the last time he¡¯d seen her -- and the electricity running along her body was the unmistakable power of her Guardian Entity. Had they somehow merged to become one organism?


    If that was the case, he had a single nasty plan for how they could all get out of this alive.


    "Lily," he forced out. "You trust me?"


    She blinked placidly. "I suppose so. Why?"


    "I have a plan. Listen closely¡­"


    Three years ago¡­


    Ruth panted heavily, trying to ignore the tremors running through her body as she knelt in the wreckage of the dining room. Splinters of wood and porcelain littered the chamber, the windows were smashed beyond repair, and the walls and floors were scoured with copious claw marks.


    None of this carnage, however, even compared to the bed of gore beneath Ruth Blaine.


    Not an inch of identifiable human remained. Admiral Zed Barridad had been pulped, shredded and pulverised until he had become but this -- an incoherent pile of scattered flesh, blood and bone. What little of him wasn¡¯t rotting on the floor instead clung to and dripped from Ruth¡¯s Skeletal claws, strands of spare muscle clinging to the blades.


    She¡¯d killed them all. Right after waking up for interrogation, she¡¯d killed them all. Every single soldier in this place. None of them she¡¯d destroyed to this degree, but she¡¯d killed them. She¡¯d beheaded and bisected and disemboweled. She¡¯d strangled and beaten and ripped out throats.


    She¡¯d killed. She¡¯d killed.


    Even this man, who¡¯d seemed so invincible, so immutable, she¡¯d killed. It had taken hours of fighting, of dodging and parrying his liquid metal, but in the end she¡¯d pried open his Emperor Set and tore him apart. There hadn¡¯t been any last words. Her fury hadn¡¯t given any time for that.


    If someone had asked her how long she¡¯d stayed there, staring down at the human wreckage, she would have had no answer -- but eventually she stood up and, like an automatic, began to stiffly walk back to the rebel camp.


    The moon was high in the sky, and Ruth stared up at it as she walked through the jungle. In this state, she would have been easy prey for any paleobeast looking for a meal, but her walk remained undisturbed. Perhaps they could sense that what they were looking at was a fellow predator.


    The war was over. She¡¯d won. If nothing else, she had that, right? She¡¯d killed that bastard. She had that, didn¡¯t she? If nothing else, if nothing else, she had that. She¡¯d have that gratitude to keep her going.


    The war was over. Even Grave had to admit that, didn¡¯t he? She forced an abortion of a smile onto her face, the rictus grin of a skeleton. They¡¯d won. They¡¯d won.


    She reached the camp.


    Little of the structures remained but cinders, smoldering sparks flickering mockingly on the ground, like the landing lights for a demon. Smoke drifted up towards the sky, choking the treeline. Every now and then, it would pass over the moon, causing it to blink like a great eye.


    But that was nothing.


    In the centre of the clearing, illuminated by the sparks and the moon, was a pile of man. Corpses, at least a hundred of them, were stacked on top of each other in a massive hill. Some burnt, some shot, some stabbed, but all dead. Faces locked into permanent pain and anguish, blood slowly cascading down like a curtain.


    She recognised each of those faces. How could she not? These were the rebels she¡¯d spent her life with. There was Oleg, one of his eyes blasted out by plasma. There was Rupert, his heart gouged out by a blade. His was the only face that had managed to conceal the agony.


    And there, at the top, dumped like a piece of garbage, was Robin. Ruth couldn¡¯t even bear to look at her.


    For the second time, Ruth fell to her knees. She¡¯d barely survived the first anguish, but she knew that this was the deathblow. Who could look at this and not break completely?


    These people are my victims, she mutely realized. I killed them. I killed.


    A sickly, discordant laugh poured out of her throat as she clutched herself tight. It went from giggle to laughter to cackling, echoing through the empty jungle like vile music, before trailing off. That was when it became screaming.


    She screamed for so long, it felt as if her throat would explode inside her mouth, choking her to death. Perhaps that was what she was hoping for, kneeling there with tears of pain and sorrow flowing down her cheeks. Perhaps if she screamed just a bit longer, she¡¯d --


    A gentle hand landed on her shoulder.


    "Hey," Skipper said.


    Present Day¡­


    Ruth flowed through battle like a needle through thread.


    She leapt through a hand swipe, her body narrowly flying between two of the hostile fingers. She slid under an attempted stomp, the heel of the great foot missing her by mere inches. She jumped away from a vicious bite, ricocheting off flying debris like a pinball and landing on the ground. She stepped out of the way of an unruly punch, not even flinching as the portion of wall she¡¯d been next to was utterly demolished.


    Aka Manto¡¯s orders had been effective at making this Gashadokuro more hostile, but they¡¯d ruined what semblance of strategy had been present. It¡¯s attacks had become simple, predictable, as it abandoned what little it had that made it more than a mere beast.


    No offense. It¡¯s the same mistake I made.


    Ruth flowed through the battle like water, the attacks of Gashadokuro growing more desperate and furious as it was tired out. That was what she wanted.


    Behind her and above, the grand spire of the cathedral exploded outwards -- rubble raining down -- as something shot up and out from within the cathedral, a great shooting star rising up into the sky at escape velocity.


    Ruth didn¡¯t spare it a thought: it wasn¡¯t relevant right now. Neither did the skeleton. It simply reared up, pointed its head up toward the sky, and unhinged it¡¯s jaw.


    There. I¡¯ve won.


    Ruth leapt forward, weaving through fragments of falling rubble and overpowering the wind and rain that battered against her. Her claws trailed sparks behind her, making her look like a streak of flame that shot across the roof.


    Her claws dug deep, and with them she hurled a chunk of rubble into the air ahead of her -- and then, moving faster than her own projectile, she leapt up, kicked off it, and shot towards the head of Gashadokuro.


    No, towards the neck. If this thing looked like a human, then she¡¯d kill it like a human.


    With the slightest swipe of her claws, Ruth Blaine sliced through Gashadokuro¡¯s jugular as the two of them crossed paths. Not with the fury of a beast, but the precision of a surgeon.


    Blood flowed forth freely.


    -


    Enden Los raged through the skies.


    Not a second passed where he didn¡¯t let loose a flurry of throwing knives, filling the air with so many projectiles that there was no possible way his opponent could dodge them. And yet, and yet¡­


    This infuriating man kept dodging them, bending his body at illogical angles and deflecting the knives that still came too close with blasts of sound. No matter what Los did, he couldn¡¯t touch the bastard.


    If knives wouldn¡¯t do it, then Enden Los had other projectiles in stock.


    Los paused his hovering over the wreckage of the central spire -- blasted by the launch of the escape pod -- and spread his cloak wide, concentrating his Aether into his upper torso. He could feel it, even now, creatures struggling to escape the cage of his consciousness.


    His enemy stopped his flight as well, brow furrowing as he clearly tried to figure out just what this attack was.


    "Open," Los growled. "O Earth!"


    Countless Guardian Entity rejects poured forth from his body, all of them equipped for flight. As one, the mass of winged monstrosities hurtled towards the nearest source of food -- this damnable man -- like a swarm of rabid bats.


    They were fast. Within seconds, the man had been trapped in a vortex of flying beasts, the only sounds audible from within being the screeching of the failures and the endless blasts of bass.


    No doubt that man would survive this -- he¡¯d proven himself adept enough not to be bested by mere animals -- but it would buy the time Los needed to get Aubrisher¡¯s location out of that blonde brat. A smile of imminent victory on his lips, he turned towards the roof below --


    -- just in time to see Gashadokuro dissipate into nothing.


    Just in time to see the red-haired outsider standing over its corpse.


    Just in time to catch the projectile -- a chunk of debris -- the Cogitant boy had shot at him. The young man¡¯s face was twisted in concentration: doubtless he was on the verge of giving into his hunger once more.


    Los looked mutely down at the smoking piece of stone in his palm. It was weak, barely strong enough to bruise one such as he, but even so, even so¡­ it truly, truly felt like he was about to burst a blood vessel.


    "Insect!" he screamed.


    In an instant of monstrous speed, Los was upon the brat -- his throwing knife raised high, ready to spear through this little shit¡¯s insolent skull. If Gashadokuro had been insufficient, he¡¯d just do this himself. Everyone else had proven insufficient, so what was one more simple and supremely satisfying task?!


    Arm shining with red-and-blue Aether, Los went to hurl his knife.


    But.


    "Gemini World."


    In front of the brat, in front of Los¡¯ target, a figure manifested from Aether. What was unmistakably the form of Lily Aubrisher appeared, flesh and bone weaving into existence, but that light, the glow of that holy electricity¡­


    His mind understood he was looking at the one he hated more than anything. But his body? His eyes? All they could see was the divine light of their creator.


    Enden Los hesitated, just for a second, and the knife refused to leave his hand.


    Oh Mother, he thought, a curious peace in his heart. Why couldn¡¯t I have just died with you, back then?


    The blast of lightning that struck him was greater than any that the planet had ever seen before, piercing both his body and the clouds above him as it ripped him apart. As electricity scoured his body, Enden Los burnt away like a piece of flaming paper, the scorched confetti of his life silently scattering to the winds.


    All that remained were two scraps of cloak -- a patch of blue, and a patch of red. Then they blew away too, and both amounted to nothing.


    The rain stopped.

 Chapter 142:5.38: Moonlight Wreath

    A star fell from the sky that night, and Prester Garth opened his eyes just in time to see it.


    The sun had long since set, and cool night air was flooding in through the shattered cathedral roof. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, too, bathing what remained of the great hall in light. His bed was broken glass and stone.


    Dull aches of pain flowed through Garth¡¯s body, punctuated by the spikes of agony from his burns. The moment his consciousness returned, Garth recognised that he¡¯d been defeated. Utterly, utterly defeated. It took nearly all the strength he had just to keep breathing.


    "Mr. Garth?" It was the voice of the Good Lady.


    Neck screaming at him to stop, Garth turned to look at her. She was kneeling down next to him, and she wasn¡¯t alone -- six rebels were standing around him, each of them pointing a spear in his direction. They were clearly ready to kill him the moment he made a suspicious move.


    Unnecessary. In his current state, he couldn¡¯t so much as throw a punch. Even drawing upon the godsblood was beyond him right now.


    He sighed, ignoring the pain response in his lungs.


    "Mr. Garth," the Good Lady repeated. Not Prester. "It¡¯s over."


    He spoke through cracked, dry lips. "Your Ladyship. Listen to me carefully. You must take steps -- below this cathedral is a great starship. You must destroy the console before those people are able to send a signal out. If the Regulators must fall, then so be it, but if nothing else you must --"


    "Mr. Garth," the Good Lady whispered. "They¡¯ve¡­ they¡¯ve already sent that signal thing."


    Garth¡¯s breath caught in his throat, and a dull despair settled itself over his heart. Now, he¡¯d been defeated utterly -- he, and all the people of this world.


    "Why?" he whispered, staring up at the doomed sky. "Why did you allow them to do this?"


    "Because¡­" the Good Lady took a deep breath. "Because I don¡¯t think it¡¯s such a bad thing, Mr. Garth. I don¡¯t¡­ agree with you."


    He chuckled bitterly. "You don¡¯t agree with me? What you disagree with is reality, girl. They¡¯ll come and they¡¯ll kill us because of what you idiots have done. The outside world loathes the gods that we adore. There¡¯s no place in it for us."


    The Good Lady swallowed. "There¡¯s no¡­ there¡¯s no proof of that. You¡¯re just saying things."


    "But I can see it in you as well -- you¡¯re frightened, aren¡¯t you? Because you know, deep down, that what I say is the truth. You¡¯re dead, all of you -- dead." Neck screaming at him, he turned to look at his rebel guards as he roared. "You as well -- dead!"


    "I don¡¯t feel dead, Mr. Garth," the Good Lady said quietly. "It won¡¯t be easy, I -- I know that, but if we work hard, a-and show them what kind of people we are¡­ I think there¡¯s a place for us out there. The world doesn¡¯t need to be so tiny. I think¡­ I think you could even help with that, if you¡¯re willing."


    Garth slowly blinked, thoughts broiling in his head -- then, with all the speed he had left, he grabbed a shard of broken glass from the ground and drove it into his own throat.


    The Good Lady¡¯s scream seemed distant, and the hands of the rebel guards as they grabbed and restrained him were equally numb. It was pointless -- the damage had already been done. He could feel the cold glass inside his throat, as if he¡¯d swallowed ice, and the soothing warmth of pain that was spreading out from it.


    His world was doomed, his people dead, but at least he wouldn¡¯t be around to see it.


    Smoke passed overhead, and for a moment the moon went out.


    Old Owl strolled through the ruined streets of Coren, hunched over with his hands clasped behind his back. Grena dutifully followed by his side. The both of them were ready to leap into combat at any moment -- even if, as things were, it was unlikely anyone would be willing to fight them.


    It had taken hours to repel the monsters that had poured from the cathedral -- those that hadn¡¯t been killed had fled into the countryside, and would have to be hunted down over the coming weeks. With the combined forces of the Grinhe and Aubrisher¡¯s rebels, it should be a simple task.


    Still¡­ Old Owl narrowed his eye in distaste as they passed a pair of city guards, still maintaining their post outside a Regulator supply station. The Good Lady had announced the disbanding of the Regulators earlier that morning, but facilities like this would continue to operate until it was worked out how exactly to reallocate their resources.


    The city guard that had been put in control of them weren¡¯t Regulators, but Old Owl still didn¡¯t trust them as far as he could throw them. If they were given the opportunity, they¡¯d no doubt take the place of the old tyranny.


    "You¡¯ll keep one eye on them," he grumbled to Grena as they passed. She nodded.


    Grena had a good head on her shoulders -- despite her personal feelings, and the length of time she¡¯d been embedded in the enemy ranks, she¡¯d faithfully accomplished her mission as promised. She¡¯d do well.


    Where are we going, sir? she signed.


    "We are walking," he replied.


    Of course, she nodded.


    They came to a ruined square, nondescript if not for the hulking quadruped corpse sprawled throughout the center. It was one of the largest monsters that had emerged from the cathedral, and apparently they were having difficulty working out how to transport it. That wasn¡¯t what had caught Old Owl¡¯s interest, however.


    He pointed a thin, trembling finger towards a doorway off in the corner -- it had been some kind of tailor in the past, but he didn¡¯t know what it led to now.


    "Do you see that spot?"


    Grena nodded.


    "When I was a boy," Old Owl said unhaltingly. "I did not listen to my elders. They told me that the people of the city were petty and cruel, and knew only petty and cruel things. I did not believe this. I thought to myself -- these people are humans as am I. Deep down, we are all the same. I thought I knew better. Do you understand this?"


    Yes, sir, she signed.


    Of course she did. All people knew this. All people, at some point in their lives, believed only they truly understood how the world worked. All people found themselves mistaken.


    He went on: "I snuck away from my village in the dead of night to visit this city. I wandered the streets for hours, thinking the buildings and the people to be amazing things. There were many things I had not seen before. Surely my elders are wrong, I thought. Surely they have become old and senile."


    He took a deep breath, his eye far away.


    "Then, I bump into a man over here. A Regulator, a very important man. One of those people I thought to be an amazing thing. He looks at me and I suppose he does not like my face. He throws me into the doorway and takes out a little knife."


    Old Owl pulled down the collar of his cloak further, revealing the ruined, scarred socket on the other side of his face.


    "I will not talk more," he whispered.


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    Grena¡¯s hand movements were halting and unsure. I¡¯m sorry.


    "It was many years ago," Old Owl said. "The pain has faded." Even so, he pulled his cloak back up to hide his missing eye. "You are thinking I have become old and senile too, aren¡¯t you? Lost in bad memories?"


    Grena began to sign, but a raised finger from Old Owl halted her movements.


    "You think these things," he said firmly. "We will not be talking again after this, so you will let me be correct now. Understand?"


    What do you mean?


    "Lily Aubrisher has been speaking to the Lady. They want a council of the three powers to decide how things will be from now on. Coren, Grinhe, and the rebels. They have asked me to represent us. I will not."


    Why?


    Old Owl sucked air in through his nose. His many years of life seemed to suddenly settle over him all at once, exhaustion compressing his form. For a moment, it seemed as if even the slightest wind would blow him away.


    "When we ascended to the surface, to begin the attack," he said quietly. "We saw the monsters killing, the monsters eating -- and for a second, I thought to myself that this was a thing that should continue. That this was a thing deserved, and should not be intervened with." His eye blinked. "I, too, have become a petty and cruel thing. That is why you will be on that council, and not me."


    Grena turned to him, her eyes wide, and even took a step back. Her hand movements were hurried: No, sir, I cannot do that. I¡¯m sorry.


    Old Owl smiled slightly under his cloak. "You want to chase after that man, don¡¯t you? Nael Manron."


    Slowly, slightly, Grena nodded.


    "It is a thing I understand," Old Owl nodded. "But there is a difference between what one must do and what one wants to do. I am not fit to do this thing. Would you trust another person to do this thing?"


    Grena¡¯s reluctance was visible even in her signing. No, I don¡¯t.


    "Then that is all there is."


    And without waiting for another response, Old Owl turned and began to walk away, hands still clasped behind his back. As he reached the edge of the square, he glanced back over his shoulder, curious to see if Grena would pursue.


    No, she would not. She stood there, her feet firmly on the ground, biting her trembling lip as she watched him go.


    Where will you go? she asked.


    Old Owl thought about it for a moment. "Far away, I think," he finally croaked. "Perhaps I will live there, perhaps I will die there. Either way, I shall do so quietly."


    Without another word, Old Owl stepped out of the square -- and out of history.


    Nael Manron placed a hand against the cold glass of the escape pod window, looking down at the planet he¡¯d spent his entire life on. The city he¡¯d been born and raised in, the countryside where he¡¯d met his shame, all of it lay before him. He could even see the moon and the sun, so very far away.


    It was all so tiny, and himself even tinier. He¡¯d rambled about honour, duty and obligation to no end -- but looking at it all from above, what did those petty things amount to?


    Nothing. The sentimentality of an ant.


    When he¡¯d gone to this escape pod and launched it, he¡¯d considered that the Guardian Entity might have been lying. Perhaps he¡¯d even been hoping for it. There had been every chance that launching this capsule would have instantly meant his death, and part of him had accepted that.


    The things he¡¯d lived for had disappeared, at any rate.


    Nael leaned back as much as the cramped quarters of the pod would allow, Shamichoro balanced on his knee. From what Aka Manto had said, the pod would have instantly sent out a distress signal once it left the atmosphere. If he was lucky, someone would be close enough to respond to it. If he was unlucky, he¡¯d starve to death in this metal coffin.


    He looked down at the Guardian Entity on his knee. When he was young, he¡¯d adored tales of adventurers fighting their way through space, slaying demons and monsters. If nothing else, Nael supposed, he had his strength. He had the ability to fight -- and he knew now that the world had no shortage of monsters to slay. That was his role in all of this.


    Nael Manron glanced at his tiny, distant world one last time -- then closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.


    "Stator for your thoughts?" Ruth asked.


    Lily snorted, trying to ignore the spurts of static from her nose that accompanied it. As she placed the woven wreath down on the ground, strands of electricity stuck to it, burning the edges of the leaves.


    "Still don¡¯t know what the hell a ¡¯stator¡¯ is," Lily chuckled.


    After the situation in Coren had stabilized following the battle, they¡¯d headed back to Lily¡¯s childhood home -- the place where the Regulators had killed her brother and sent her on the run. Ruth didn¡¯t know for sure, but she was willing to bet that the wreath of leaves had been placed on the exact spot Lily¡¯s brother had passed.


    Ruth looked Lily up and down -- it seemed that the constant glow she¡¯d been emitting since absorbing Raiju wasn¡¯t going away. "Bet that¡¯s gonna take some getting used to."


    "Yeah," Lily said. "I tried to get out of bed this morning, ended up launching myself into the ceiling."


    Ruth grinned. "Nice one."


    "I wasn¡¯t joking."


    "Oh."


    "Anyway," Lily sighed happily, looking up at the sky. "It¡¯s not so bad. I feel different, yeah, but I feel powerful. Like¡­ anything I want to do, I can do it. You get me?"


    "I think I do," Ruth smiled. "I think I kinda feel the same way. I mean, I can¡¯t shoot lightning and shit outta my hands like you can, but¡­ I feel like I¡¯ve stopped holding myself down."


    Lily¡¯s smile faded slightly, her eyes focusing on a spot a couple of meters away. "I think I¡¯ve been standing over there, watching my brother die, for years now. No matter where I went, or what I did, I was still standing there. Like my feet were nailed to the ground."


    Ruth raised an eyebrow. "How about now?"


    "Now¡­" Lily sighed. "Now I feel like I might be able to walk away. How about you?"


    "Huh?" Ruth blinked.


    "You¡¯re stuck somewhere too, right? Feet nailed down? I can tell. You feel like you¡¯re able to walk away?"


    Ruth thought about it, about that pile of corpses out in the jungle, about that lashed body strapped to a post. Was that really something she could walk away from? Was it really something she deserved to walk away from?


    For a moment, a single awful moment, Ruth considered just staying still and resting her legs.


    "Hey, Ruth!" Dragan cried off in the distance, a single crate held in his arms. "Are you going to help us load this stuff or just sit there talking?! The rescue craft¡¯ll be here tomorrow!"


    "Yeah, Miss Ruth!" Serena called out. "This stuff¡¯s heavy!" She was balancing two crates in each of her hands.


    The moment passed, and Ruth smiled softly to herself. With how busy this crew kept her, there was no way she had the time to stand still. Tired joints cracking, she got to her feet. "Think I might head out," she said quietly. "You sure you don¡¯t wanna come with? There¡¯s a lot of cool shit out there."


    Lily considered it for a second before shaking her head. "Someday, maybe, but not yet. There¡¯s too much to do around here. The Regulator¡¯s are gone, sure, but there¡¯ll be people who liked the way things were before, who¡¯ll want things to go back. People like the world small, I guess."


    "Gotcha," Ruth mused. "Won¡¯t be easy to keep things peaceful, you know. We could -- I could convince the others to stick around for a little while, if you want." Sear?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Lily shook her head.


    "Nah," she grinned. "It¡¯ll be fine. I¡¯m the strongest."


    The wind blew through the trees, and the sun beat down gently. It wasn¡¯t exactly a warm day, but it wasn¡¯t a cold one, either. It was like the planet itself had calmed down, too.


    "Maybe I¡¯ll stick around for just five more minutes," Ruth said quietly.


    By the time she left, there were two wreaths placed down on the ground.


    "You nervous?" Ted asked as he and Lily walked down the hallway to the meeting hall.


    Parts of the cathedral had been hurriedly converted to serve as the headquarters for this alliance, so as the two of them walked there were visible traces of the battle that had raged not long ago. Deep gashes in the wall, piles of sweeped-up broken glass, and even drops of dried blood. It didn¡¯t make for the most inviting place, but appearances weren¡¯t much of a concern at this point.


    "What¡¯s there to be nervous about?" Lily asked. "We won. The truth had its day."


    "For now," Ted said doubtfully, wincing as his stride aggravated what remained of his injuries. "What about tomorrow? What if Coren or the Grinhe try to take total power for themselves?"


    Lily¡¯s voice was carefree as she pushed the double doors open. "Well," she said. "I guess we¡¯ll just have to play our cards right, won¡¯t we?"


    The other two seats at the circular table within were already filled. One by the Good Lady, hands clasped on the table in front of her. One by the Grinhe representative, a woman named Grena, her own hands hidden beneath her green cloak. Both of them looked to her.


    The remaining seat was empty, waiting to be filled.


    "Heya," Lily addressed the room as she sat down. "Looks like there¡¯s work to be done."


    A star rose from the earth that night.


    END OF ARC 5

 Chapter 143:6.1: Nine by Nine

    Many years ago...


    Marie Hazzard was running for her life.


    That in itself was nothing new. Over the hundred years of her existence, she¡¯d chosen to run away countless times, survival being her focus over victory. She knew she was strong, exceedingly strong in fact, but she was by no means omnipotent. Destroying those who pursued her -- for crimes she¡¯d never been around for -- was simple, but doing so came with the risk of exposing herself to other enemies.


    In this case, however, the pursuer chasing her through the mines of Aelos was particularly persistent. He wouldn¡¯t give up on the hunt -- she¡¯d have to lure him to a secluded location and dispatch him quietly.


    As she sprinted through the mine tunnels, Marie morphed her legs -- the relatively normal limbs shifting into something more akin to a cheetah. Her speed increased accordingly: Marie had never measured it exactly, but just from eyeballing it she estimated she was able to run just about five times faster than a human in peak physical condition.


    Marie put a hand to her head as she rushed down the mineshaft, feeling the wound there close as her cells rushed to fill the gap. A surface wound like that wasn¡¯t something to worry about for a Gene Tyrant like herself, but psychologically the stress caused by having a bleeding gash in your skull couldn¡¯t be denied.


    She hadn¡¯t even seen her attacker this time. She¡¯d barely had time to open her apartment door and see the remains of her crew before nearly having her head sliced in two. Since then, she¡¯d been running. The presence of the enemy had been completely concealed until the moment the blade had sliced her flesh.


    In this case, she couldn¡¯t afford to hold back -- the precision and speed of that strike had told her all she needed to know about her opponent¡¯s strength.


    As Marie ran, her body continued to change. Her fingers hardened into talons, her teeth sharpened into fangs, and the pupils of her currently-green eyes split into three as she upgraded their internal structure. The dull surface-level view of the mines shifted into a perspective infinitely superior, her improved perceptions enabling her to witness details lesser creatures couldn¡¯t even comprehend. Half the colours she was seeing were outside the range of human understanding.


    Even without that heightened perception, though, she was still intimately familiar with the layout of the Aelos mines. In the first place, she¡¯d gathered her now-deceased crew here to try and lay a trap for the King of Killers, Eli Masadora, and take his crown. All that was out of the window now, of course, but it meant she knew the best place to lure this new enemy. She¡¯d set a trap and finish him off before he knew what happened.


    Marie skidded to a halt as she reached her destination -- a great circular chamber through which the bounty of this mine was transported. Mining equipment was littered throughout the chamber, and thin transport pipes trailed from alcoves in the wall up to the ceiling. None of that was what caught Marie¡¯s attention at that moment, however.


    What caught Marie¡¯s attention was the fact that her enemy had beat her here.


    The man standing in the center of the chamber looked back at her through the golden visor of his mask. Not an inch of skin was visible -- the hand on his sheathed sword was clad in a black glove, and the rest of his body was concealed behind a tightly bound black-and-gold robe. Marie would be tempted to call it a dress from the length, completely covering both his legs and feet. Even with his flamboyant appearance, however, the sheer murderous intent radiating from the man was undeniable.


    "You are very fast," he said quietly.


    His voice was an utter contrast to everything else about him -- calm, nondescript and bearing a strange sense of¡­ humility. He sounded more like a random civilian grabbed off the street than a deadly warrior.


    Even so, Marie knew this man by sight. There weren¡¯t many people who wouldn¡¯t. She¡¯d thought it might have been him after that flawless first blow, but she¡¯d honestly hoped it wasn¡¯t the case. This was Nigen Rush, the golden sword of the Supremacy.


    When people spoke of the skill of swordsmen, it always came with qualifiers.


    Bieshu del Mar, the Origin Companion, was the best of the Supremacy¡¯s first age.


    Samson Rhodes, the Abyssal Knight, was the best to oppose the Supremacy.


    Achilles Esmeralda, the Grand Executioner, was the best of the last generation.


    Nigen Rush was the best there ever was.


    Just by looking at him stand, looking at him breathe, Marie could tell that was true. She was a creature able to consciously manipulate her own genetic structure, yet she still found herself in awe of the man¡¯s composure and self-control. There wasn¡¯t so much as a micro-movement out of place.


    And yet he¡¯d made such a stupid mistake. Marie¡¯s face spread into a bone-crackingly wide grin, made ugly through malice.


    Even though the mines of Aelos were a relatively small operation, they were still considered vitally important for one reason -- the resource they extracted, rhydome. It was an exceedingly rare resource, and the number of planets it could be found in barely reached the double-digits, but it¡¯s primary function was such that it simply could not be ignored.


    The red stone was used to make Neverwire, the Aether sealant -- and the walls of the chamber they were standing in were lined with it.


    Without touching Rush, it wouldn¡¯t seal his Aether completely -- but the sheer density of it, even in the air, would reduce the strength of that Aether to almost nothing. In his haste to intercept her, this man had doomed himself.


    She didn¡¯t bother responding to the corpses statement -- instead, she began her attack immediately. Each of her arms split into three flexile tentacles, tipped with claws of bone, and speared towards Nigen Rush from different angles. They were aimed specifically so that the hits would land simultaneously -- if Rush blocked one, he¡¯d be run through by the other five in the same instant.


    There was a flash of gold from Nigen Rush¡¯s sword.


    A second later, all six tentacles exploded into small and equal pieces, cleanly cut. By the time the blood and flesh had fallen to the ground, Rush had already sheathed his sword again.


    Marie blinked dumbly as what was left of her arms retreated back to her body, assuming their normal structure once again. She took a halting step back. She was absolutely sure that the strength of this man¡¯s Aether had been reduced by the rhydome -- did that mean he¡¯d done that with just his base physical capabilities?


    "Nine centimeters by nine centimeters," Nigen Rush said, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Do you know what that figure represents?"


    Marie reallocated interior biomass from one of her arms to the other -- hidden behind her back -- and formed a new pair of tentacles, this time tipped with drill-like structures. They lashed downwards, tunneling through the ground and -- a second later -- striking from beneath Nigen Rush. This time one was aimed at his skull and the other at his groin.


    Rush took a casual step forward, avoiding the strike, and again the tentacles were sliced apart into small pieces with a flash of his golden sheath.


    He continued speaking as he strolled casually towards her. "While Gene Tyrants generally possess a brain to store additional information and aid with mental processing, it is not their seat of consciousness. The mind of a Gene Tyrant is distributed throughout their entire body. In essence, your body in its entirety is your true brain."


    New organs, specialized for internal durability, coalesced within Marie¡¯s body -- and a second later, she used them to belch forth a stream of burning acid. She altered the shape of her mouth, too, so as to widen the range of the attack -- it would strike not only Rush¡¯s current position, but the areas to his left and right as well, where he may try to dodge.


    The curtain of acid came down, scorching the ground and melting through even the rock. Acrid smoke rose up from the blast radius -- but Marie¡¯s enhanced nose did not detect the scent of burning flesh.


    "As such," Nigen Rush said. "It is exceedingly difficult to kill a Gene Tyrant."


    Marie looked up. Nigen Rush was now standing on a metal walkway above the lake of acid, as unharmed as ever. Had he jumped up there before the acid had reached him? Even with her vision enhanced as far as biology could support, she hadn¡¯t even seen him kick off the ground.


    Rush began walking to the left, towards the set of narrow metal stairs that led back to ground level. "For example, if I were to cut off your arm, the part of your consciousness present within it could continue to morph and manipulate that limb to launch attacks against me. By cutting you apart, I would risk simply increasing the number of enemies -- effectively, giving you an advantage. However¡­"


    There was a sudden thump behind Marie -- and when she grew eyes in the back of her head to locate the source, she saw that metal fire doors had sealed the tunnel she¡¯d entered through. Similar seals had appeared in each of the other tunnels that led into this chamber -- essentially, she was trapped.


    Stupid, stupid.


    This was her own fault: the acid she¡¯d launched had created smoke, triggering the fire sensors. Had Rush intended to trick her into doing that, or had she just made a tactical error? The results were the same either way.


    Nigen Rush was still speaking.


    "...your ability to retain consciousness among your body parts is not perfect. You can¡¯t, for example, control each individual drop of blood."


    Using a massive clawed hand, Marie hurled a boulder towards Rush¡¯s destination, utterly smashing the stairway. This didn¡¯t deter him in the slightest. As chunks of rock and metal fell, he simply hopped from piece of debris to piece of debris in order to reach ground level -- effectively using a new stairway that existed only for a fraction of a second.


    He was around eight meters away now, and when Marie looked at his sheathed sword she could feel an unholy chill wash over her body. It was as if she was being embraced by her own ghost.


    "The reason you can¡¯t do that," Rush said, stepping forward. "Is because there¡¯s a size limit. If a severed piece of your body is nine centimeters by nine centimeters or less, it doesn¡¯t have the space necessary to store your consciousness."


    I¡¯m gonna die. That thought, the first of its kind, settled over Marie with the certainty of a heavy sheet.


    Immediately, she turned on her cheetah-like heel, ready to at least put some distance between herself and the swordsman -- but in the moment she moved, he did as well, and her legs were shredded to mincemeat before she could even register the sensation of pain.


    Marie¡¯s legless body went flying from the force of the flurry, smacking into the stone wall face-first -- demolishing the front of her skull -- and rolling undignified across the ground.


    It took her less than a second to grow new eyes -- but by the time she had, Nigen Rush had already destroyed both her arms and her fledgeling attempt to regenerate her legs. He was standing before her, his golden sword unsheathed and pressed against her throat.


    "Therefore," he concluded. "If I disassemble your entire body into pieces of nine centimeters by nine centimeters, you will die."


    It wasn¡¯t over. She still had other avenues of attack. She could generate poison gas within her stomach, or belch forth more acid from closer range, or just become a mass of spikes and launch herself at him, but¡­ but¡­


    ...in the face of this man¡¯s intensity, all effort became futile. It was like trying to challenge a golden sun -- even trying to approach was foolishness. You¡¯d be burnt away to nothing.


    "Your kind are indeed the strongest organisms," Rush said apologetically. "But that is only in the realm of ¡¯living things¡¯. So long as you fear death, and it lives eternally in your mind, you will lose to those who do not. Do you have any last words?"


    Her vocal cords regenerated just in time to allow speech. "Please," she spluttered, blood pouring incessantly from her mouth. "Please -- please don¡¯t."


    "I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ve been asked to eliminate you."


    She felt the tip of the golden blade, deathly cold against her throat. This fight had shown her enough that she knew she¡¯d be dead if she tried anything from this range. Before she could do so much as blink, she¡¯d be reduced to pieces of nine centimeters by nine centimeters.


    It was too much. One hundred years of fear and pursuit flowed as tears from her eyes. It wasn¡¯t elegant or dignified -- she was crying like a baby, snot pouring from her nose, her wailing echoing off the walls. She knew that this was a truly pathetic way to die, and yet she couldn¡¯t stop. This was her death, after all. She¡¯d be pathetic as she liked.


    "Please!" she screamed, begging for her life. "No no no no no! I don¡¯t want to die! Anything! I¡¯ll do anything! Just don¡¯t kill me! Please! Please! I¡¯m sorry!"


    At any moment in her rambling entreaty, Marie expected the golden blade of Nigen Rush to come down and end her. It never did. It didn¡¯t move from her throat, but the disassembly she expected never came.


    "You wish to live?" he asked. Quiet sympathy had infiltrated his voice.


    She nodded as much as the remnants of her body would allow, the stubs of her arms and legs twitching. "Please, please, please¡­"


    The golden sword retreated into its sheath.


    "There is an alternative," Rush said.


    Present Day¡­


    The first thing Marie Hazzard felt as she woke up was annoyance.


    She¡¯d specifically reduced her own hearing capabilities to help herself fall asleep -- leaving only the bare necessities for threat detection -- and yet somehow the partygoers on the Mansa Musa had managed to wake her up anyway. It wasn¡¯t like she needed sleep, exactly -- she could refresh her body and mind any other number of ways -- but the irritation of being prematurely awakened was universal.


    Marie climbed out of bed, her skin rippling as she checked her body for any toxins she may have ingested over the night. A second later, the results came back clean. Apart from the usual, she hadn¡¯t been poisoned. The five Needles throughout her body hadn¡¯t been disturbed either.


    The quarters above the Mansa Musa were as opulent as expected -- a sprawling double-bed and furnishings fit for a queen -- but the soundproofing of the walls had apparently been a stickling point in the budget. Marie did her best to ignore the flaring music from above as she made her way from the bedroom to the shower. Honestly, if even she couldn¡¯t get to sleep, how was anyone meant to get some shut-eye around here?


    Perhaps that was the point, Marie reflected as she washed herself. When it came down to it, the Mansa Musa was a party boat -- a constant celebration of nothing, a gathering place for people to eat and laugh and fuck until all the stars burnt out. Most importantly, it was a place to spend your money. To people like these, in a place like this, the purpose of a bed was to prove you could afford it -- not to sleep in it. It wasn¡¯t even so bad for a creature like her -- the purpose of her slumber was to consolidate the information she¡¯d absorbed over the day -- but for petty humans like these, the effects of going without sleep must have been disastrous.


    Marie found herself more and more grateful for her perfection every day.


    After drying off by heating her body and getting changed into a simple white dress, Marie set off in search of Atoy Muzazi. She couldn¡¯t imagine he slept either: he hadn¡¯t been vocal about his distaste for the extended wait aboard this starship, but his emotions showed up on his face all the same -- or perhaps she was simply better at spotting them than most people. In any case, if he was awake, Marie knew where she¡¯d find him.


    It was around a five minute walk from Marie¡¯s room to the ship¡¯s training dojo -- a holdover from when this place had actually been a Supremacy warship.


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    The installation was old-fashioned: a smooth squeaky floor and wooden benches on either side of the room, with a large space set out in the middle for training. A massive window, taking up one whole wall, looked out into the gulf of space -- but at the angle the ship was currently flying at, there was nothing visible but dark. The view inside was much superior.


    She couldn¡¯t say how long Atoy had been in here, swinging that shiny sword of his, but he looked positively exhausted -- sweat dripping from his loose and long hair, soaking through his training robes, flying into the air with every practice swing. He offered her a weary nod as she stepped through the doors -- she returned a casual wave, glancing towards his audience on the benches. A few young women and men she could¡¯ve sworn she saw at the party above, watching Atoy train with obvious interest. They didn¡¯t seem to be athletic types, so she couldn¡¯t possibly imagine what had fascinated them so.


    Well, she could sympathize. Atoy did strike quite the figure as he trained, even if his stance was disgusting.


    "I didn¡¯t want to wake you," Atoy panted as she approached, sheathing his sword. "Did you sleep well?"


    "Of course," Marie casually lied, flipping her hair back. "It takes a lot of rest to look this good, you know. Has that idiot arrived yet?"


    Atoy frowned. "You shouldn¡¯t speak about a Contender of the Supremacy like that, Officer Hazzard. I¡¯m sure he has concerns above our stations. A mission from the Supreme, I would imagine."


    Oh, Atoy. He was good company, but the bootlicking got a bit sad after a while. Sooner or later, he¡¯d have to learn that the world didn¡¯t deserve his faith in it.


    "Roger dodger," Marie replied, offering a lazy salute. "You¡¯re one-hundred percent right. Wouldn¡¯t want to talk bad about a Contender of the Supremacy. Is he here yet?"


    Atoy¡¯s frown disappeared at that half-assed show of respect. "I received word he¡¯d arrived two hours ago. He¡¯s currently in the main hall, enjoying the festivities, as I understand it. Do you think now would be a good time to report in?"


    "No time like the present," Marie sighed, turning on her heel with a loud squeak. The hands of Atoy¡¯s little audience flew to their ears -- she took a little satisfaction in that. "I¡¯ll be damned if I¡¯m spending another night on this ship."


    As the two of them left the dojo, Marie made a show of sniffing the air. "You need a shower, by the way." It was true -- she was sure her fellow Special Officer had been training for hours already by the time she¡¯d walked in. He had that kind of adorable diligence, like a loyal puppy.


    Atoy¡¯s brow furrowed. "Are you certain? I can¡¯t imagine the esteemed Contender would want us to delay."


    "I can¡¯t imagine he¡¯d want to meet with a drowned rat, either," Marie replied, reaching out and holding up a strand of Atoy¡¯s soaked hair between two fingers. "See? You look a mess. You have to show respect to these sorts of people, right?"


    He took a step back, hair pulled out of Marie¡¯s fingers by distance. "You¡¯re right," he sighed, stopping outside the door to his own room. "I¡¯ll quickly refresh myself, and then we¡¯ll proceed to the Contender."


    "No problemo," Marie said, stepping into Atoy¡¯s quarters the moment the door slid open and sitting herself down on the comfy bed before he could protest. "Go ahead -- I¡¯ll wait here."


    The protest never came, just another exasperated sigh as Atoy headed towards the bathroom and locked the door. A second later, she heard the shower switch on, water buffeting against the floor. As she waited for her partner¡¯s return, Marie idly fidgeted on her lap.


    No better time to ask, she supposed.


    "Atoy," she called out. "Are you a fan of Nigen Rush?"


    "What?" he called back.


    Clearly, the water was too loud. She adjusted her vocal cords a little, allowing herself to speak louder than her default setup would usually allow. "Are you a fan of Nigen Rush?" She winced as she shouted -- she¡¯d forgotten to adjust her hearing to account for the increased volume.


    There was a moment of silence, and Marie considered raising her voice even more -- but then Atoy finally answered.


    "I¡¯ve always considered him to be¡­ something of an inspiration. How did you know?"


    "When you were training just then," Marie said wistfully, staring up at the ceiling. "And when you fight normally, you use a similar stance. Not the same, but similar. So, what? He¡¯s, like, your idol or something?"


    "I don¡¯t know if I¡¯d put it like that. It¡¯s just¡­" he sighed. "He¡¯s an ideal to strive towards. A farmer¡¯s son from a backwater planet, growing up to become the most skilled swordsman in the entire Supremacy -- the leader of the Seven Blades, even. It¡¯s the sort of story that captures the imagination. I suppose I wanted to be Nigen Rush. That¡¯s why I use the same style."


    Marie put a hand to her throat, remembering the cold golden sword. "He died, you know. In a duel with Baltay Kojirough."


    There was a moment of silence, and then: "Yes. I¡¯m aware."


    "You still wanna be like him?"


    "It was a good death -- an honourable one. One warrior facing another, with their lives on the line. I couldn¡¯t hope for better."


    Marie became aware the water had stopped running nearly a minute ago. All that was left was the stray dripping. They¡¯d just been talking through the wall at each other like idiots. Ironically, it was much easier to be honest when you couldn¡¯t see the judgement on the other person¡¯s face. Still¡­


    "A good death, huh?" Marie whispered, so quietly that no one but herself would ever hear it. The indignity she¡¯d gone through back then ran through her mind -- the begging and the pleading. She vaguely wondered if Rush had done the same when his turn came. "I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s anything like that."


    "I apologize for our lateness, sir," Atoy Muzazi saluted, valiantly ignoring the situation before him. "I understand you have a mission for us."


    He and his partner, Marie Hazzard, were standing before the Contender Wu Ming, the Clown of the Supremacy, in the main party hall of the Mansa Musa.


    The ship was truly a wonder to behold. In this hall, at least, nearly every surface was coated with gold -- from the walls to the floor to the tables, and from what Muzazi understood even some of the food had gold dust sprinkled atop it. The Mansa Musa was home to a party that had been going on for five years straight now as it circled a nameless star -- the partygoers switching out, but the celebration itself never ending.


    It was good to see that the Contender was getting into the spirit of things and honouring the Mansa Musa¡¯s traditions, too, even if¡­ even if his way of doing so made communication somewhat awkward. As Wu Ming lounged in the golden couch that had been provided, he was passionately canoodling with another guest -- who Muzazi was certain the Contender had not known prior to arriving mere hours ago. As he kissed, Wu Ming held up a single finger indicating that Muzazi wait, and so the Special Officer stood at attention.


    Finally, Wu Ming broke free of the embrace -- and in the same breath flicked a grape from the bowl before him into his mouth. He chewed as he spoke: "Good to see you, yeah, good to see you both. Name¡¯s Wu Ming. Yourselves?"


    It was somewhat comical that the Contender thought they wouldn¡¯t know his name, but Muzazi nodded in appreciation all the same. He thumped a fist over his heart as he spoke passionately: "Thank you for your accommodation, sir! I am Atoy Muzazi -- Special Officer of the Supremacy! Myself and my partner are at your disposal!"


    Ming raised a pierced eyebrow before glancing towards Marie. "Nine out of ten introduction. You both as formal?" he asked, a slight smirk playing across his lips, his Umbrant nature providing his voice with that curious doubling effect.


    "Nah," Marie grinned impertinently. "You kept us waiting, asshole. What do you want?"


    The smirk widened some, and Ming dusted off his many-coloured tuxedo. "Ten out of ten introduction. You¡¯re wanting to get straight to business, then? Sure I can¡¯t tempt you with some booze or some food?"


    Before Muzazi could open his mouth to reply respectfully, Marie spoke up. "You called us here two days ago, and we¡¯ve had enough booze and food for months in that time. What is it you actually want us for?" S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ming waved a vague hand as he lounged back on the couch, arm looped around the shoulder of his companion. "Sorry about that, sorry, sorry. I got distracted catching up with an old friend and totally lost track of time. That was one-hundred percent my bad. Big apologies."


    "Okay. What¡¯s the mission, though?"


    "Right, right," Ming snapped his fingers as if trying to conjure his powers of concentration back into existence. "This is probably confidential or something, so¡­" He glanced towards his companion. "Hey, can you go away, please?"


    As the woman got up and left, face red with outrage, Ming leaned forward in his seat.


    "We¡¯re not leaving the room?" Marie sighed. Muzazi had to sympathize: although it was of course an honour to meet a Contender of the Supremacy, it felt as if this short conversation had been going on for months.


    Wu Ming shook his head. "Nah, nah. Something you guys should understand about me -- I like to live a ten-outta-ten life full of enjoyment and happiness. Now, I¡¯m willing to make concessions sometimes, bring that down to an eight-outta-ten if that¡¯s what¡¯s required, but six-outta-ten is my absolute limit. If it goes below that, people are gonna get killed. I sent her away, and she seemed nice, so right now we¡¯re at about nine-outta-ten. Let¡¯s just keep it there, okay?"


    Muzazi blinked, but nodded all the same. "You mentioned this may be confidential."


    Ming nodded, steepling his fingers on the table before him. His black-and-green eyes stared forward intensely. "You guys ever heard of a planet called Nocturnus?"


    "Nope," Marie shook her head.


    "Not a surprise. It¡¯s an outta-the-way kind of joint, population of just a few thousand. Barely important in the big picture, except a lot of Panacea passes through it on the way in through neutral space. Not many people realize it, ¡¯cause it¡¯s kind of a thing that¡¯s happened organically, but around eighty percent of the Panacea that the Supremacy uses passes through Nocturnus at some point -- not at the same time, not in the same amounts, but eventually, it¡¯ll be there."


    "It¡¯s strategically important, then," Muzazi mused, putting a hand to his chin.


    Ming snapped his fingers. "Correctamundo," he said. "It¡¯s a vital link in the supply chain, and the military command¡¯s not eager for folks to know about that. Don¡¯t want the UAP getting any slick ideas about attacking come wartime, right? Hence why recent events have got them sweating bullets."


    "And what are ¡¯recent events¡¯?" Marie asked.


    A smile completely unsuited for the situation spread across Ming¡¯s face. "Murders," he said slowly, tongue tasting the word like a piece of chocolate. "Three so far -- all vital members of personnel for Panacea transport, all ritually displayed, all¡­ well, eviscerated. Started three weeks ago, with a new victim coming out each week. Like episodes of a videograph show, right?"


    Marie clicked her tongue. "We¡¯re not exactly the investigation type, you know. You¡¯d have better luck--"


    Enough -- Muzazi knew that Wu Ming appreciated a certain amount of candor, but he couldn¡¯t simply stand there and allow Marie to be so disrespectful so consistently. He stepped between her and the Contender, cutting her off as he himself spoke up apologetically.


    "I beg your forgiveness, sir," he said. "We¡¯d only be too happy to investigate the matter. Given what you¡¯ve said, I take it you¡¯d prefer we deal with this quietly, yes?"


    Ming snapped his fingers and pointed to Muzazi. "Right. Head to the planet, figure out who¡¯s behind the killings, and take care of ¡¯em. Whether you kill ¡¯em or bring ¡¯em into custody is one-hundred percent your choice. Sounds like fun, right?"


    "Of course, sir."


    "What the little lady was saying about not being investigation types," Ming went on, leaning to the side so he could see Marie past Muzazi. "That¡¯s no sweat. I¡¯ve sent another Special Officer ahead who specialises in these kinds of cases. He¡¯ll be taking care of the actual deduction side of things -- you just need to deal with the culprits once he points the finger. I¡¯ve already sent the Nocturnus coordinates to your ship -- get going whenever you¡¯re ready."


    "Thank you, sir," Muzazi nodded.


    As he turned to leave as quickly as he could, he grabbed Marie¡¯s arm to pull her along. However, she didn¡¯t budge in the slightest -- her feet as stubborn and unmoving as the roots of a tree. She stayed standing there, looking at Ming as she lifted an inquisitive finger.


    "Officer Hazzard," Muzazi hissed. "Please."


    "One sec, one sec," Marie said with the kind of reassurance that wasn¡¯t very reassuring at all. "I get the stakes here -- if the murders stir up too much attention, and the UAP or the Final Church find out how important Nocturnus is, it¡¯ll be a prime target when war breaks out. But why do you care about that?"


    Wu Ming¡¯s grin widened slightly, even as the look in his black eyes remained ice-cold. "Whadda ya mean? I¡¯m a servant of the Supremacy, just like you. It¡¯s only natural that I be concerned."


    Again, Marie ignored Muzazi¡¯s insistent tug on her arm.


    "But the way I¡¯ve always heard about it," she went on. "All the Contenders really care about is surpassing the Supreme. You¡¯re supposed to be sort of above stuff like this, right? If the Commission was giving us this mission, or a military guy was directly ordering us to do it, I¡¯d get it -- but why are you yourself personally assigning us to this? It just seems a little weird to me."


    Wu Ming blinked.


    The tension in the room suddenly increased, as if invisible hands were holding Marie and Muzazi down to the ground, slowly crushing them against the floor. The babble of the party fell to utter silence, and the music system in the corner skipped once, twice, thrice. Muzazi could clearly hear his heart beating in his chest -- and he was sure the Contender could, too.


    "Right now," Ming said quietly. "We¡¯re at a seven-outta-ten. You sure you wanna keep going?"


    Off in the distance, someone popped a bottle of champagne -- and the moment passed. The music and laughter resumed, and Marie just threw her hands up in exasperation.


    "Nah," she sighed. "I know when my luck¡¯s pushed. Come along, Atoy."


    Marie turned on her heel, and began walking out without waiting for Muzazi to follow. It was left to him to offer Wu Ming an apologetic bow, and then jog out after her.


    "I wish you wouldn¡¯t behave like that," he grumbled, catching up to her in the hallway. "It shows us in a bad light."


    "What?" she responded. "Act like myself? You know you love it."


    As Nocturnus finally came into view -- two starpoints later -- all Muzazi could think of was how cold the planet looked. A giant snowball, orbiting around a white dwarf star. He tapped a few buttons on the console, locking in their flight path to the planet¡¯s primary settlement. From there, their ship would proceed automatically to the landing dock.


    "Are we equipped for extreme conditions?" he called back over his shoulder.


    Marie winked as she poked her head out of her bedroom. "You know I always come prepared, Atoy," she said, holding up two parkas. "What¡¯s your colour, red or white?"


    He considered it for a second. "White."


    "You¡¯ll take the red one, then," she chirped back, tossing the red parka at him before he could protest. "It¡¯s good to get out of your comfort zone."


    Muzazi sighed as he pulled the parka on, zipping it up as far as the garment would allow. The hood felt fluffy against the back of his head. "You¡¯re very unreasonable, you know that?"


    "It¡¯s one of my most charming features," Marie replied, throwing her own parka over her shoulder as she threw herself into the copilot¡¯s seat. She winced as she looked at the approaching pale planet. "It¡¯s a little grim, huh?"


    "I¡¯m sure the people who live here are fond of their home."


    "But it is a little grim," Marie persisted. "Rose-tinted glasses can only do so much. You know why they call the place Nocturnus? I looked it up on the way."


    Muzazi shrugged, his hands on the console. "I assumed it was simply dark down there."


    "Well, yeah, but do you know why it¡¯s so dark down there? It¡¯s because of a lunar eclipse -- the moon blocking out the sun, you know? Apparently, the rotation in this system is really slow, so that same lunar eclipse has been going on for around five-hundred years now -- and it¡¯s gonna keep going on for another fifty or so."


    Muzazi nodded. "It¡¯s akin to the party on the Mansa Musa, then. I understand that hit the ten-year mark not long ago."


    Over in the copilot¡¯s seat, Marie sighed to herself, a strangely wistful look in her crimson eyes.


    "Mm," she said. "Anything eternal becomes meaningless. All the details get stretched out into oblivion."


    For a moment, Muzazi considered asking his partner what exactly was wrong -- but then the ship shuddered into life as they began their final approach, demanding his full attention.


    The ship zoomed down to Nocturnus.


    Muzazi had to admit: Nocturnus was fairly grim.


    With the eclipse above providing only the tiniest ring of white light, the majority of illumination was either completely artificial or given off by the local flora. There were plants like grass nearly everywhere outside of the main settlement, their blades tipped with dimly glowing bulbs. Wherever those plants didn¡¯t grow, there was nothing but sheer darkness -- and nearly everything was coated in a substantial layer of snow.


    The settlement itself wasn¡¯t much better. The cuboid buildings that comprised it were clearly prefabricated, plastic structures clipped together like children¡¯s building blocks -- the closest thing to a unique quality being whether the building was white, red or black. Smoke constantly poured up from the generator installations that encircled the town, and so filters were placed every few feet to prevent interior contamination.


    Muzazi and Marie followed their host to the latest crime scene.


    "We really do appreciate this, sir," Governor Regan rubbed his hands together as they marched through the snow. "Landfall-01 is a small settlement, so we didn¡¯t expect there to be too much of a fuss, but it¡¯s good to know the Supremacy cares."


    Muzazi furrowed his brow.


    Did not even the Governor understand the true importance of this planet, then? Looking at him, it wouldn¡¯t be surprising. He was a youthful, nervous man, with curly black hair and a beauty mark underneath each of his eyes. The constant worried expression on his face suggested he was on the verge of being overwhelmed nearly every minute of every day.


    Marie spoke up when Muzazi didn¡¯t: "Do you have any suspects? Anywhere we can start looking?"


    Regan sadly shook his head. "We have some criminal elements like any settlement, but mostly small-time stuff -- smuggling and the like. We¡¯ve never had anything like this before. If your colleague that arrived earlier has any idea, he hasn¡¯t been saying, either."


    "Icy, icy," Marie muttered as they stopped outside a red cube residence. "This the place, then?"


    Regan nodded. "Mr. Guler was killed at home. He lived alone, and it was late at night -- so we haven¡¯t found any witnesses yet. If people know anything, they¡¯re not talking, so¡­" He sighed, and glanced towards the door. "It¡¯s¡­ fairly unpleasant to look at, so if you¡¯d prefer, we can¡­¡¯


    Muzazi finally spoke up, taking a step towards the sealed door. "I¡¯m by no means a detective," he said firmly, staring straight ahead. "But I want to see -- I want to know what manner of evil we¡¯re contending with."


    "What manner of¡­?" Regan raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you¡¯re sure, I guess."


    The Governor tapped a button on his script, and the door slid open.


    It truly was a gruesome scene.


    The victim lay sprawled in the center of the living room. All the furniture had been moved to make way for his body, and all his clothing had been stripped away too. His hands had been bound behind his back and, even with the gag in his mouth, it was clear to see that his face was twisted into an expression of utter agony.


    You didn¡¯t need to be a detective to understand the man had been alive for at least part of what they¡¯d done to him.


    He¡¯d been opened up vertically from jaw to groin, his ribs pried apart and his insides scraped away. What had once been the contents of his body stained the carpet around him, shoveled out and left to rot. Just above the corpse¡¯s head, a small circle of blood had been drawn out with some kind of implement. All in all, it looked like the scene of some macabre ritual.


    Unforgivable, Atoy Muzazi thought. Utterly unforgivable.

 Chapter 144:6.2: The Great Detective Knows

    Unforgivable, Atoy Muzazi thought. Utterly unforgivable.


    Governor Regan put a hand to his mouth as he viewed the grisly scene. Even Marie¡¯s nose wrinkled at the scent of dried blood and excrement. This was more than a murder -- it was a desecration.


    "Pretty interesting, huh?" said a lively voice from the doorway.


    Muzazi turned away from the body to look. There, leaning against the doorframe, was a young man with silver hair and bright blue eyes. For a moment, Muzazi¡¯s hand almost went to his sheath, thinking Dragan Hadrien had suddenly appeared before him -- but no, no, this was a different person.


    His hair was longer, for one, bound in a ponytail -- with pale blue highlights at the end -- and the structure of his face was entirely different. A small blue fez balanced itself atop his head, and a similarly blue-and-white fur coat was wrapped tight around his small and slight body. His eyes scanned Muzazi intently, a carefree smile on his face.


    "Hey, hey," he said curiously after a moment. "What¡¯s with the hostility? That¡¯s pretty interesting, too. You thought about going for your sword when you saw my eyes, so did you have a bad experience with a Cogitant in the past? Oh, you tensed up your back when I said that, so did they stab you in the back or something? No, no, I guess they shot you, then?" He grinned a cheshire grin. "I¡¯m right, right?"


    Muzazi cleared his throat awkwardly, trying his best to recover from the verbal barrage.


    "That¡¯s¡­ correct," he admitted. "I apologize -- you caught me off guard. I assume you¡¯re¡­?"


    The young man stepped into the room, hands clasped behind his back as his eyes flicked around, observing everything. "Special Officer Winston E. Grace, yes -- the E stands for Ezekiel, in case you were wondering. I specialise in cases like these."


    Regan nodded in confirmation. "We¡¯ve been host to Officer Grace for two days now. Sadly, we haven¡¯t made much progress so far, but now that you two have arrived¡­"


    "Huh?" Winston loudly interrupted, furrowing his brow in bewilderment. "What do you mean we haven¡¯t made much progress? No, no, I¡¯ve solved it already."


    The cabin was silent for a second as all present simply stared at Grace. The sheer power radiated from the combined disapproval of Muzazi, Marie and Regan would have been sufficient to wither a tree -- but the cheerful detective didn¡¯t seem to be affected at all. He simply cocked his head, as if confused by the negative reception he was getting.


    "What¡¯s up?" he asked.


    "Um, sir," Regan said, taking a hesitant step forward. "When you say you¡¯ve solved it -- are you saying you know who the culprit is?"


    "Yeah, of course," Grace replied casually. "What else would I mean?"


    "W-Who is it, then?" Regan¡¯s eyes were wide with anticipation.


    "Well, if you¡¯re asking me who actually physically did it, I haven¡¯t figured that part out yet -- but I¡¯ve figured out the motive and the people behind it."


    Marie stepped forward, addressing the new arrival for the first time. "And those are?"


    Winston Grace looked up at Marie -- he truly was small, barely exceeding five feet -- and quickly scanned her up and down. A strange twinkle entered his eyes, and died down just as quickly.


    "Well," he said, stretching the word out as he took another step forward -- bending over as he looked around the crime scene. "I¡¯d say this whole thing is something of an audition. It¡¯s happened before, after all."


    "An audition for what?" Muzazi asked flatly. He¡¯d known this person for less than three minutes, and he already found them exhausting.


    Winston glanced at him over his shoulder. "Darkstar," he said simply.


    Darkstar. The word resounded through the small room like the toll of a bell. Muzazi¡¯s body stiffened in response to it, Marie¡¯s even more so. Off in the corner of the dimly lit room, Regan swallowed his saliva. The shadows seemed to press in on them.


    "Darkstar¡­" Regan said hesitantly. "Sorry, what is -- what is Darkstar?"


    Winston¡¯s mouth spread into an innocent, almost childlike grin. White teeth gleamed in the faint light. "You don¡¯t know?"


    Regan shook his head -- and Grace¡¯s attention switched to Muzazi again, eyes drilling into him.


    "How about you?" he asked. "Do you know?"


    In this dark place, faced with that mercilessly inquisitive gaze, Muzazi felt almost as if he were being interrogated. It was a terribly irrational thought, but he couldn¡¯t help but feel that something awful would happen if he didn¡¯t share what he knew.


    "Partially," Muzazi admitted, shifting on the spot. "I know they¡¯re an organisation opposed to the Supremacy, but that¡¯s the extent of my knowledge."


    He knew that, once, there had been a Special Officer -- one of the best -- who¡¯d betrayed the Supremacy to join up with this Darkstar organization. Nobody had known why he¡¯d turned, and he¡¯d killed every single person that the Supremacy had sent after him. He¡¯d once been known as Samson Rhodes, but most called him the Abyssal Knight these days -- and it was said he was a thing no longer human.


    "And you?" Grace finished by asking Marie.


    "Pretty much the same," she shrugged.


    Grace¡¯s eyes narrowed in response, but he didn¡¯t question her any further.


    "Since none of you seem to know what the whole thing¡¯s about," he said, pulling up a discarded chair and sitting himself down backwards in it. "I¡¯ll graciously explain it to you!"


    He leaned forward, balancing his chin atop his fists as he addressed the room.


    "Darkstar¡­" he said, with more than a trace of theatricality. "Half-cult, half-terrorist group. They were a big issue back in the Henri era, but they died down shortly after that -- they¡¯ve mostly been dormant since, save for isolated incidents."


    He jabbed a finger towards the halo of blood sketched out on the floor.


    "That¡¯s their symbol. Basically, they believe that the course of human progress went along the wrong route a long time ago -- before the Gene Tyrants, even -- and society needs to be reset to that point so we can take the proper path the next time around. In essence, they want the light of civilization to go out -- hence, a dark star."


    Muzazi¡¯s hand tightened around Luminescence. "Madness," he muttered.


    "Yeah," Grace flapped his arms. "It is pretty crazy. Interesting, though, right? Crazy people are usually fun to try and figure out."


    Marie crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. "You said audition, though. How¡¯s that?"


    "Well, as I understand it," Grace stared down at the body, tilting his head to view it from various different angles. "Darkstar¡¯s a pretty exclusive club. No room for dead weight when it comes to changing the world, you know? You¡¯ve gotta prove you¡¯ll be useful. I¡¯d say disabling a vital supply chain for the Supremacy would do just that."


    "If it is this Darkstar group," Regan spoke up nervously. "Couldn¡¯t this just be part of their normal activities? It doesn¡¯t necessarily have to be an audition, does it?"


    Muzazi nodded in agreement, but Grace¡¯s confidence was unbreakable. He shook his head as if embarrassed they¡¯d even ask something so foolish.


    "No, it¡¯s definitely an audition. Darkstar themselves wouldn¡¯t need to show off like this. They don¡¯t have anything to prove. The people who did this wanna convince themselves they¡¯re big and bad and scary -- and they wanna convince Darkstar of that, as well. Well, let¡¯s head off."


    Without another word, Winston Grace hopped off the chair and headed for the exit, almost skipping as he went. It truly seemed that, here among the blood and guts and shadows, he was in his element.


    "Wait," Marie called after him. "What do you mean let¡¯s head off? Where are we going?"


    Grace turned on his heel, pointing at the corpse with a confused frown. "This guy had a girlfriend. Obviously we need to interview her about the last time she saw him."


    She glared. "You¡¯ve been here for two days already, and you haven¡¯t even done that?"


    He blinked. "Of course not. I¡¯m, like, super weak, so I need you two to protect me in case something goes wrong. Right?"


    Muzazi sighed to himself as he followed the two of them out of the crime scene. He wasn¡¯t sure what he¡¯d expected from this mission, but it certainly hadn¡¯t been this. The cold welcomed him as he traded one darkness for another.


    Ironically, Marie supposed, she was probably the most human member of this dynamic trio. Unfortunately, that meant she was also the best equipped to take care of this unpleasant task.


    Philippe Guler¡¯s girlfriend, Lara Vinfried, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as she was interviewed. Marie herself was the one doing the actual questioning, while Muzazi took notes behind her and Grace wandered around the apartment like a pest.


    In terms of general layout, the residence didn¡¯t look much different from the crime scene they¡¯d started at -- save for the lack of corpse, of course. It was a small place, almost claustrophobic, not big enough to keep secrets in, certainly. Marie honestly couldn¡¯t imagine what would drive someone to try and build a life on this depressing planet: lack of options, maybe? Certainly nothing good.


    She leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand on Lara¡¯s shoulder as the woman silently wept.


    "I know this is tough," Marie said with sympathy she didn¡¯t really feel. "But if we¡¯re going to catch the person who did this, we need you to be tough. Philippe was a security engineer, right? Did he talk about his work at all?"


    Lara shook her head. "No, no, not at all," she sniffed. "He was quiet -- he never talked about his work at all. I just don¡¯t¡­ don¡¯t know why they would have done this to him."


    For a split second, Marie¡¯s sympathetic smile twisted into a smirk -- and reverted just as quickly. They? So you already know it was an organization.


    "I¡¯m so, so sorry," Marie went on soothingly. "Do you remember the last time you saw him at all?"


    "A couple of days ago," Lara managed, body wracked by silent sobs. "He came by and stayed the night -- but he left early the next morning. He -- he said he had to get some work done."


    True.


    "And do you know if he had any enemies, anyone who¡¯d want to hurt him?"


    "I don¡¯t know anything about that¡­"


    Lie.


    As a Gene Tyrant, Marie had observational skills that far exceeded any bog-standard Cogitant. She barely had to squint to see the obvious signals of deceit on this woman¡¯s face. Hardly took a detective to spot them with how bad Lara was at lying, either.


    Bang.


    Marie glanced over her shoulder, annoyance already overpowering the faux-sympathy on her face. Somehow, that idiot Grace had managed to walk straight into a wall, nearly cracking his head open with the speed at which he¡¯d approached it.


    As Marie watched, he groped at the wall, cocked his head as if he¡¯d only just recognised it¡¯s existence -- then turned and offered her a cheery thumbs-up.


    "You¡¯ll have to forgive him," Marie said, a plastic smile struggling to stay fixed on her face. "My colleagues can be a little¡­ eccentric."


    It took nearly two hours of withstanding Lara Vinfried¡¯s incessant weeping, but they finally managed to make it out of the apartment intact -- with the information they needed. Marie spoke up smugly the second the apartment door closed behind them.


    "Basically," she said, twirling a lock of hair with her finger. "This woman knows who the killer is, and I¡¯m betting they threatened her to keep her quiet. Since the victim was a security engineer, he probably had something the killer wanted -- a way to access the security systems, most likely. It¡¯s easy to figure these things out if you pay a little bit of attention."


    Muzazi nodded, an appropriately awed expression on his face. "Well done, Officer Hazzard!" he said. "I have to admit -- I didn¡¯t notice any of that."


    Behind him, however, Grace was simply playing on his script -- finger tapping away against the screen. Marie frowned: it seemed that playing around on their little devices was the best the humans of this era were capable of.


    "You have any insights for us, great detective?" she called out.


    He glanced up from his script -- from this angle, Marie could see he was actually looking at an overhead map of the settlement: a collection of cubes vaguely forming the town, ringed by various circular buildings.


    "Hm?" he mumbled. "Oh, uh, that¡¯s great. By the way, there¡¯s three killers and they¡¯re hiding out at the generator installations outside town."


    You could have heard a pin drop.


    Marie¡¯s eyes narrowed into a glare. "Oh, fuck off. There¡¯s no way you figured that out just from listening to her."


    Grace scratched his head sheepishly. "Yeah, uh, about that," he laughed. "I actually wasn¡¯t listening to her at all, haha!"


    Two hours. "I¡¯ll seriously beat the shit out of you."


    "Wait, wait, hold on!" Grace waved conciliatory hands in front of his face. "I admit I wasn¡¯t listening -- but that was because I was doing my own investigation, right? It was very important!"


    "Everyone has their own methods, Officer Hazzard," Muzazi nodded. She had half a mind to hit him too.


    Grace held up an arm, aquamarine Aether running across its surface.


    "My Aether ability is called Dupin¡¯s Alchemy," he explained. "By disabling one of my senses, I can boost the strength of another. I made myself deaf and blind back there for a little bit so I could get a good whiff of the place."


    Well, that explained him walking into the walls. Marie couldn¡¯t help but feel a little sorry for him -- it must be awful to have to go to such lengths just to get a passable sense of smell.


    Grace held up a finger as he went on. "I counted seven recent scents, three of which were tinged with blood and fuel. I¡¯d estimate those bloody scents were from around two days ago, which lines up with the murder -- and the only places in town that use massive amounts of fuel are the transport ships that come in and the generator installations. No one transport ship has been around for the entire duration of this murder case -- hence, they¡¯re hiding out at the generator installations."


    With all the facts laid out, Grace clapped his hands together, as if trying to brush away invisible dust -- and then turned the map on the script in their direction. "There are twelve installations encircling Landfall-01," he said. "We¡¯ll check out four each. Sound good?"


    That, at least, seemed to finally be a straw too far for Atoy Muzazi. He stepped forward, raising a hand.


    "Hold a moment, Officer Grace," he said sternly, looking down at him. "Your deduction is splendid, but it¡¯d be better for us to investigate each of the installations as a unit. We don¡¯t know what the enemy is capable of, after all."


    Grace pouted childishly. "No, no, no," he insisted. "They¡¯ll have split up to make themselves harder to track -- if all three of us show up at one installation, they¡¯ll just run for it, but if just one of us shows up they¡¯ll think they have a chance against us. Then we can just bring them in!"


    Marie raised an eyebrow. "What happened to I¡¯m, like, super weak?"


    "Don¡¯t worry about it," Grace waved a dismissive hand. "I¡¯m always willing to put myself in danger if it helps solve the case, so it¡¯s no problem! Anyway, come on, come on! Please?"


    Marie and Muzazi exchanged a look. When had this turned into a babysitting assignment?


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "What do you think?" Muzazi asked.


    Personally, Muzazi thought it was cold.


    Even with his Aether bolstering his body, the chill bit at him like a swarm of ravenous insects as he marched towards Installation 3, snow crunching under his feet. His bike floated in park a few meters behind, waiting for his prompt return. At this point, he didn¡¯t expect much to come from this endeavour -- the first two installations had been empty, occupied only by automatics, and his first impression of this place seemed no different.


    The generator installations which drew heat from the earth below differed aesthetically from the rest of Landfall-01 in only one aspect: they were cylindrical rather than cuboid, like massive chimneys stretching up towards the sky. In any other landscape, they would have seemed unique -- perhaps even artistic -- but in this cold darkness, they were just shadowy monoliths off in the distance.


    Perhaps Marie and Winston Grace were having better luck -- or perhaps Grace had been mistaken in his deduction from the start. Either way, Muzazi still had his duty to fulfill: he¡¯d search this installation, then Installation 4, and then join back up with his comrades to discuss next steps.


    In a flash of movement, Muzazi whirled around -- deflecting the Aether-infused punch aimed for his back with a swing of Luminescence.


    His attacker dodged backwards, transitioning from a cartwheel to a backflip in what was a truly impressive display of gymnastics -- before landing a few meters away. It was only when the enemy stood back up to his full height that Muzazi realized Luminescence was no longer in his hands. Instead, it was stuck to his opponent, attached to their knuckle like it had been glued there.


    "Good reflexes," his enemy chuckled. "Mm, very good."


    The enemy stepped forward into the artificial light, revealing himself.


    He was a massive man -- easily over six feet tall -- with a bright red mohawk and shining golden eyes. The entire body of the man was thick with muscle from head to toe. It was aesthetic, however: the body of someone who had trained for the appearance of it. Whether he had the skill to match remained to be seen.


    His attire was eccentric in the extreme: to put it bluntly, he was wearing a black speedo and nothing else, not even shoes. Even without the red hair and golden eyes, that would have told Muzazi he was up against a Pugnant. Nobody else would have been able to walk around in such cold weather like it was nothing. Even with that in mind, though, it was hardly normal behaviour.


    The huge man glanced down at Luminescence, still firmly attached to his knuckles.


    "Oh," he moaned, running a finger along the flat side of the blade. "Such fine steel, too. I think I might keep it after I kill you. Do you think you would mind that, boy?"


    Muzazi kept his eyes locked on his opponent, shifting his stance from swordsman to martial artist, his palm held out in front of himself.


    "My name is not boy," he declared. "I am Atoy Muzazi, Special Officer of the Supremacy. I demand you name yourself, fiend."


    "How gallant," the massive man placed his free hand against his beefy chest. "I have to say, I¡¯m feeling very intimidated right now -- it¡¯s a good thing I managed to confiscate your little toothpick. If you must know, Atoy Muzazi, my name is Rolo. R-O-L-O. You think you can remember that?"


    "Mr. Rolo," Muzazi said firmly, adjusting his footing on the uneven snow. "I request you hand yourself over quietly. If you do so, I won¡¯t have to get violent with you."


    "Hm," Rolo put a finger to his lips as if considering the idea. "Let me think, let me think¡­ non!"


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes narrowed, and his gaze became steel as he unzipped his red parka. "I thought you might say that."


    In terms of raw physical strength, this man was most likely his equal -- and that ability to make things adhere to his body would make him a difficult opponent to actually hit. To win, Muzazi would have to be a little tricky. Normally, that idea would give him pause, but his opponent had opened this encounter by trying to hit him in the back and stealing his weapon. This hadn¡¯t been a fair fight from the start.


    With a mighty kick of infused Aether, Atoy Muzazi launched himself off the ground.


    "Wow," chuckled the scruffy young man, looking Marie up and down as she came closer. "I sure am lucky -- to think they sent an elegant lady Officer to catch me. I must be a pretty big deal, huh?"


    He looked as if he hadn¡¯t slept for days, the beanie pulled down over his face not quite managing to conceal the bags under his eyes and the stubble on his chin. He grinned from the entrance of the installation as he looked out at the approaching Marie.


    She matched his grin with a sweet smile of her own, crooking a beckoning finger. "Why don¡¯t you come over and see how lucky you really are?"


    One enemy, just as Grace had said. That was a little irritating.


    "Nah," the man -- she¡¯d call him Beanie -- rubbed his chin. "I ain¡¯t stupid, lady. I¡¯m not fuckin¡¯ with a Special Officer. Why don¡¯t you just head home? Maybe we can come to some kinda arrangement for you to keep quiet about this."


    Marie shook her head, the fanged grin of a predator on her face. "Afraid not." She took a step forward. "I don¡¯t get paid if I don¡¯t do my job."


    Beanie sighed. "Thought not," he said -- and then, suddenly moving, he hurled a red needle and thread in Marie¡¯s direction.


    The projectile wasn¡¯t perfectly aimed, but it writhed in the air like a snake, the path of its flight changing to pursue Marie. Every one of her senses, sharpened to their limits, came to a consensus: danger. Despite the small size of the attack, she absolutely couldn¡¯t allow that needle to touch her.


    She set off in a sprint perpendicular to the building, making the most subtle adjustments to her legs that she could to boost her speed. Geysers of snow were kicked up behind her as she circled the installation, but the needle matched her speed one to one, and it was slowly catching up. In the distance, she could see Beanie smirking sardonically.


    Well, if she couldn¡¯t outrun it, she¡¯d destroy it. Marie skidded to a halt and -- with those same enhanced legs -- slammed her foot into the ground. A large chunk of rock flew into the air right between herself and the approaching needle, and --


    -- and the needle phased right through it as it wasn¡¯t even there. From there, it was much too close to be dodged: the red needle ruthlessly speared through her white parka and pierced her chest, wrapping itself around her heart.


    Beanie grinned. "I win."


    Winston looked around curiously, hands in his pockets, as the warehouse doors sealed around him. The entrance he¡¯d come in through, the exit on the other side, even the windows -- metal sheets slid over to cover them all, bathing the warehouse in darkness.


    "Is this, like, a sneak attack thing?" Winston asked -- and a second later, he got his answer.


    A wild-looking man with a wide grin and a mane of green hair launched out of the darkness, a dropkick hurtling towards Winston like a bullet. The small Cogitant threw himself to the floor, hands flat against the ground, and the attack passed over him -- his attacker disappearing again into the darkness.


    Dupin¡¯s Alchemy.


    For each sense Dupin¡¯s Alchemy disabled, he could double the efficacy of another -- and that doubling effect stacked. Winston disabled his sense of touch and his sense of taste, boosting his sight to four times its original strength. Immediately, the room came into view -- to his newly refreshed eyes, it seemed more dim than pitch-black, and he could get a good view of his surroundings.


    His opponent was up on the ceiling, crawling like an insect to reach the side of the room he¡¯d originally attacked Winston from. The floor below had changed, too -- a chalk pattern of squares, like some kind of blueprint, having covered it since the lights went out.


    "Interesting!" Winston called out, voice echoing through the space. "You¡¯ve got a weird power, right? Those are my favourites to figure out! My name¡¯s Winston Grace, by the way! What¡¯s yours?"


    To be perfectly honest, when he¡¯d told Atoy and Marie all that stuff about needing to split up to catch the enemy, it had been an absolute lie. If Winston Grace absolutely had to fight, he just preferred it to be one-on-one: that way, he could have a blast figuring out how the enemy¡¯s Aether ability worked!


    His enemy, unsurprisingly, didn¡¯t respond to what Winston had said -- he was no doubt still under the impression that Winston couldn¡¯t see in this darkness. Come to think of it, how exactly was his enemy seeing without light? Just from looking at him, he seemed able to use his feet as hands to crawl around, so he was probably some kind of Scurrant -- night vision must be another trait of his. Also, what exactly did these squares represent?


    So many questions! Going alone really had been the right call!


    The enemy reached the side of the room he¡¯d launched his first attack, positioned himself directly opposite Winston -- and lunged forward, this time choosing to attack with a punch.


    Too bad, so sad. Winston had already memorized his opponents speed and strength with the first attack, so dodging again would be a piece of --


    The punch struck Winston in the chest a second before he went to dodge, and the young man went flying -- at least one rib cracking from the force of the impact. He landed in a heap on the ground, picking himself up a moment later when no second attack came. Disabling his sense of touch also meant disabling his sense of pain, so getting hit like that wasn¡¯t so bad, but Winston would still prefer to avoid it if possible.


    He put a curious hand to his chin. What had happened? That second attack had definitely been stronger and faster than the first. Had his enemy been holding back the first time? No, that didn¡¯t make sense -- he¡¯d opened with a surprise attack, so it only followed that he would have been using his full strength at that time.


    Winston¡¯s working hypothesis, then, was that his enemy had somehow powered up between the first attack and the second one. He¡¯d have to test it, take another punch, to measure if the same increase occurred between the second attack and the third.


    He glanced up at the ceiling. Again, the enemy was crawling towards the starting position, presumably to execute the attack again. So he was only willing to attack from that side of the room? He hadn¡¯t gone after Winston when he went flying, either. Why was that? He¡¯d landed in another row of the square pattern -- did the enemy¡¯s ability only allow him to attack in straight lines for some reason?


    It felt like he had all the pieces now -- he just had to put them together. A carefree grin spread over his face.


    All of this was just so much fun!


    Muzazi was upon Rolo in a moment, arm pulled back for a palm strike -- and then, at the last second, he switched to a roundhouse kick instead, leg slamming into the side of the massive man¡¯s torso -- the thrusters blazing from his calf granting the blow additional speed and strength


    Rolo didn¡¯t even bother blocking the attack -- he just took the blow to his midsection with a grunt, which transitioned to a laugh as Muzazi found himself unable to move his leg back. Just like Luminescence, it had stuck to this man¡¯s body, as immovable as if they were two parts of the same object.


    The palm thrust Muzazi unleashed into the man¡¯s chest had much the same result, as did the knee he jabbed up into Rolo¡¯s thigh. Three attacks later, Atoy Muzazi was well and truly trapped.


    Rolo himself grabbed the wrist of Muzazi¡¯s only remaining free arm, chuckling to himself as that too became stuck. "You¡¯re not too smart, are you, hm? One attack doesn¡¯t work, so you try it three more times? I thought Special Officers would have better battlesense than that. You¡¯re trapped. I can just demolish your skull with a headbutt, boy."


    Muzazi¡¯s calm expression didn¡¯t shift in the slightest. "I thought the same of you. I am trapped, yes, but so are you. You won¡¯t be able to dodge it."


    Rolo¡¯s brow furrowed. "Dodge what?"


    Twelve throwing knives thudded into Rolo¡¯s back, the thrusters on their hilts driving them slowly through the resistance of meat and muscle. Rolo¡¯s pale brown Aether crackled and spluttered as the knives were buried up to their hilts, the thrusters driving them deep and deeper still. The sticking effect ceased, too, and Muzazi dropped unharmed down to the ground, picking up Luminescence and brushing the snow off the blade with one hand.


    Rolo fell to his knees, blood spilling from his mouth as the thrusters on the knives ceased, leaving them embedded into his back. "How¡­" he slurred. "When¡­?"


    Muzazi glanced at him. "When I unzipped my parka, I dropped my knives into the snow and they began tunneling. With my thrusters, they can fly along any path I choose. My personally attacking you was a distraction so that you wouldn¡¯t watch the snow."


    "Bastard¡­"


    Satisfied with Luminescence¡¯s condition, Muzazi bared his blade. "I have a question for you. Are you the one who¡¯s been performing the killings, or are you just an accomplice? Perhaps it¡¯s a team effort? Whatever the case, I met a woman today who¡¯d been brought to tears by what you¡¯ve done. I¡¯d recommend you answer carefully."


    Rolo seemed to consider his options for a moment, face twisting in concentration -- before lunging at Muzazi with a clumsy fist.


    There was a flash of silver luminescence, and then Rolo¡¯s head fell from his shoulders.


    "And there we have it," Beanie snickered, eyes fixed on the red thread that now connected himself and Marie. "Fight¡¯s over. Good effort. GG."


    Marie, still some distance away, waved a hand through the red thread -- it phased through as if nothing was even there. This was the marker of an effect, then, not an actual constructed object.


    "What¡¯s this thing do, then?" she called out. "You seem pretty smug about it."


    "Right, right," Beanie chuckled, that smugness almost radiating from him. "It¡¯s not much good if you don¡¯t know what it does, is it? Forgive my manners, forgive my manners. It¡¯s just that I love easy fights, so I got so utterly lost in my joy that I forgot myself. You understand, don¡¯t you?"


    She began walking towards him, fists clenched at her sides. "Asshole. Answer the question. What¡¯s this thing do?"


    His face spread into a malicious grin. "Baby, we¡¯re linked together like binary stars now! Haven¡¯t you ever heard of the red string of fate? Any injury I suffer, you¡¯ll suffer, too! You can¡¯t so much as scratch me without wounding yourself!" Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Marie hesitated. Oh, she thought. Is that all? She began walking again.


    "I can see you¡¯re understanding the implications," Beanie grinned. "Now that we have a contract, why don¡¯t you and I talk about a few matters? How many comrades you have, how much you know about us, that sort of thing? Oh, that look on your face. I know it¡¯s humiliating to be the first to fall, but -- hey." Panic began to infiltrate his tone. "Hey, what are you doing? Weren¡¯t you listening to what I just said? S-Stay back! I mean it, stay the fuck ba--"


    Marie finally reached him, utterly demolishing his head with a single punch. A second later, her own head exploded.


    It was a little annoying to scoop up her bone and brain matter to reabsorb it, but that was all. She was fully regenerated not even two minutes, and could only look down at the corpse of her enemy without pity.


    "Man," she said. "You really aren¡¯t lucky. You would have won easily against literally anybody else."


    "Every time you hit me..." Winston panted for breath as he stood up after the latest attack. "Your next attack is even stronger. So does your ability just power you up every time you land a hit? No, no, it feels like it¡¯s more interesting than that¡­ these squares on the floor, what are they about¡­?"


    Grinch landed back at his starting position, clinging to the railing there with his feet.


    Such fun, such fun. There was no better sensation in the world than watching an idiot try in vain to escape certain death. Grinch had sharpened his body and mind to their limits through countless battles, but even he was unable to suppress that little bit of glee when he saw someone like this boy fall into utter despair.


    It was no biggie, anyway. That hunger was what made him strong. Perhaps he¡¯d tighten the vice just a little more, for kicks.


    "Idiot," he giggled incessantly. "Your little brains working on overdrive, huh? You¡¯re working so hard trying to figure out what my power is, huh? Even I feel a little sorry for you, so¡­"


    "Hey."


    Grinch froze. All of a sudden, with that one word, it felt as if invisible hands were tightening around his throat. The words he¡¯d been about to speak died on his tongue. All he could do was stare at his opponent, covered in darkness, slouched over on the other end of the warehouse.


    "I¡¯m... sure I¡¯m mistaken," Winston Grace said. "But you weren¡¯t about to tell me what your power is, right? To be honest, there¡¯s nothing you could do that would piss me off more. I¡¯m the kind of guy who likes to figure things out for himself. My Aether Core is curiosity, after all, so it¡¯s something that I accept as part of myself completely -- and since solving mysteries is the only thing that brings me pleasure, nothing¡¯s worse than when someone tries to spoil it for me. I¡¯m sure you wouldn¡¯t do something that stupid, but I¡¯ll warn you anyway. If you try to just tell me the answer¡­"


    The young man looked up -- and in the darkness of the warehouse, all that was visible of him was one glaring blue eye, pupil dilated to its utmost.


    "... I¡¯ll seriously kill you."


    This brat was looking down on him. Anger flaring inside his brain, Grinch launched himself at him, hand ready to rip his head off from his shoulders. It was his fourth time around, so he should be plenty strong enough!


    Winston Grace just barely stepped out of the way of the blow. "I figured it out, anyway," he said lightly, the menace in his voice completely gone. "It¡¯s checkers, right? Your power¡¯s based on checkers? I¡¯m right, right?"


    Grinch¡¯s heart skipped a beat as his ability was figured out, and as he backflipped back to the starting position he couldn¡¯t help but feel the tide of the fight had turned irreversibly against him.


    Winston went on. "If I¡¯m right -- and I¡¯m pretty sure I am -- you¡¯ve turned this room into a checkerboard, hence the square pattern, and yourself into a pawn, right? When you reach the other end of the board, you get a power boost, right? Just like how a pawn becomes a king in the game, right?"


    Sweat dripped down Grinch¡¯s forehead. The brat was right on every count.


    Winston put his hands on his hips and sighed as he stared Grinch down. "It¡¯s a neat power, I guess, but you¡¯ve kinda messed up with it. Aether abilities with strict conditions generally have more potent effects -- just like how, when you take a piss, a thinner stream will travel further, right? But you¡¯ve kinda half-assed it. If you made it so that I could get the ¡¯king¡¯ power boost too by making it to your side of the checkerboard, you¡¯d probably have gotten a better power boost on your end, too. But you¡¯ve picked just enough rules to limit yourself without getting enough power to make it worth it."


    A vein bulged on Grinch¡¯s forehead, and he bared his teeth in a growl of frustration. He wouldn¡¯t just sit here and allow this little shit to talk down to him! He¡¯d barely avoided the fourth strike. The fifth one, powered up even more, would spell the end for him.


    Grinch kicked off the ground, launching himself towards Winston.


    "I¡¯ve figured out your weakness, too," the boy said casually, taking a punchpoint revolver out of his coat and pointing it up towards the ceiling.


    No!


    Grinch planted his feet against the ground, to halt his attack, but it was too late -- all that accomplished was sending him skidding across to Winston Grace.


    "The checkerboard appeared after you sealed the room," Winston smiled. "Hence, it can only exist within a sealed space. Hence¡­"


    Aquamarine Aether crackled up his arm, into the revolver, into the bullet -- and fired. The projectile slammed into the roof, opening up a tiny hole. It was enough: the chalk checkerboard on the floor immediately dissipated into pale green Aether, just as Grinch¡¯s skidding stopped right in front of Winston Grace.


    In a blur of movement, Winston lunged forward -- and firmly pressed the barrel of the gun against Grinch¡¯s stomach.


    "I¡¯m right, right?" he grinned wildly, eyes wide.


    He pulled the trigger once, twice, thrice, from point-blank range, each pull blasting a bullet into Grinch¡¯s body. The Scurrant fell to his knees.


    "Something else to keep in mind with conditional power-up types like you," Winston said, taking a step back. "Is that when the system providing those power-ups goes away, your Aether actually goes down for about two seconds before resetting back to its normal state. That¡¯s pretty interesting, right?"


    Grinch looked down at his bleeding stomach, already feeling the cold spread through his body. This was bad, this looked bad, but he knew that if he got some Panacea in his belly he could come back from this. If he played his cards right, he could come back from this.


    There were cards he could still play


    "K-Katashi Oliphant-Hidaka ¡­" he mumbled, swaying on the spot. "T-That¡¯s our boss. He put us up to it¡­"


    The moment those words passed his lips, all the life in Winston Grace seemed to drain away.


    His hands dropped to his side, flopping against his hips. His smile collapsed into a slack, passionless frown. The previous intensity of his gaze faded away until his eyes were dull and dead as a corpse. Even his hair seemed to fall limp around his head. His lip trembled, just slightly. It was as if Grinch had just shot his dog in front of him.


    "Seriously, dude?" Winston sighed -- and then he lifted the gun up once again and blew Grinch¡¯s brains out.

 Chapter 145:6.3: What The Dark Has

    "Personally," Winston said, lying back in his hospital bed. "I thought I¡¯d done pretty well until I found out about all the internal bleeding."


    Muzazi sighed at his bedside, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Officer Grace had collapsed shortly after returning to Landfall-01. Apparently, one of his broken ribs had caused bleeding, and he hadn¡¯t realized -- as he¡¯d forgotten to turn his sense of pain back on. If there hadn¡¯t been anyone else around when he¡¯d finally collapsed, he very well could have died.


    He¡¯d been taken here -- to Landfall-01¡¯s primary medical facility, which wasn¡¯t saying much. Most of the rooms were filled with spacers who¡¯d suffered from industrial accidents or the effects of air contamination, but even so they were so short-staffed that medical automatics were handling the bulk of the workload. The sterile white room was infested with the sickly-sweet stink of Panacea, like rotting sugar.


    Marie was standing on the other side of the bed, her own expression much less sympathetic. "Katashi Oliphant-Hidaka?" she asked curtly. "That¡¯s definitely the name the guy told you?"


    "Yeah," Winston pouted. "And after I specifically asked him not to."


    She sucked in air through her teeth. "Oliphant Clan, huh? This is going to be a pain."


    Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but agree. The Oliphant family controlled the lion¡¯s share of organized crime within the Supremacy, so dealing with them usually became very complicated very quickly. Oliphant-Hidaka wasn¡¯t a branch he was familiar with, and it was surprising that they had a presence on such a small planet, but he still didn¡¯t relish the prospect of dealing with them.


    "It bodes ill if the Oliphant Clan have allied themselves with Darkstar," Muzazi said grimly, folding his arms. "I know it seems cowardly, but perhaps we should contact the Commission and request backup before attempting to capture Katashi? There¡¯s no telling what pieces the combined forces of Darkstar and the Oliphant Clan could have in play."


    "What?" Marie scoffed. "You think the Abyssal Knight might be waiting behind the door?"


    Muzazi felt his face flush at the mockery, but he kept his composure all the same. "We should proceed as if that is a possibility, yes."


    Both of them turned to look at Winston as the young man grunted in pain -- he¡¯d moved to flip his pillow over and apparently aggravated his injuries. He waved a hand to reject help that wasn¡¯t being offered.


    "The Oliphant Clan isn¡¯t working with Darkstar," he said dismissively, still wincing. "If they were, that idiot wouldn¡¯t have dared to tell me the name of one of their operatives. Even if I hadn¡¯t killed him, they would have -- and the way they¡¯d have done it would have been a hundred times worse. I imagine that guy -- and his buddies -- used to work for this Oliphant-Hidaka, so that was the first name that popped into his head."


    "And if you¡¯re wrong?" Muzazi raised an eyebrow.


    Winston smiled. "I¡¯ve never been wrong once in my life. Don¡¯t get me wrong -- it¡¯s still a good idea to question this guy, find out who poached his goons -- but we don¡¯t need to worry about Darkstar kicking our faces in." He shifted in his bed. "We can go check him out as soon as they fix me up with Panacea."


    Marie stepped away, with just the slightest smirk on her face.


    Winston furrowed his brow. "What?"


    "About that," she put a hand on her hip. "Panacea¡¯s really better for replacing than repairing, so they¡¯re probably gonna put you on a regimen of stimulants and regen-gel, which is gonna take a couple of days. Lemme be honest: we¡¯re not waiting a couple of days."


    Muzazi nodded apologetically as he went to join her. "We¡¯ll return once we¡¯ve questioned the man. At that point, we¡¯ll share the information we¡¯ve learned, and you can come to a conclusion. That¡¯s the most efficient way of handling the situation."


    Winston did his best to sit up in the bed, but the twinges of pain sent him back down just as quick.


    "But that¡¯s not fair," he whined. "What if you miss a clue or something? Come on, you guys!"


    Marie shrugged, but the smirk didn¡¯t disappear from her face. "Life¡¯s not fair, I guess," she sighed. "Get some sleep, okay? Me and Atoy will figure this thing out for you."


    As the two of them left the hospital room, ignoring the protests ringing out from the bed, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but feel that his ears would enjoy the rest as well.


    Muzazi tapped his foot against the cold metal floor, doing his best to stay steady in his seat even as the bulky vehicle shook and rumbled. The automatic truck floated a few meters over the ground, but everytime it struck an exceptionally thick pile of snow the occupants felt it.


    He checked his script, a holographic representation of the automatic truck blinking along a segmented blue line. Judging just from a general look, they were about an hour into the two-hour trip.


    A sigh escaped his lips as he leaned backwards, the back of his head cold against the metal wall.


    Landfall-01 was a small settlement, but even so it apparently had two or three other communities that relied on it. The main settlement was an official outpost of the Supremacy, whereas these small outlying communities weren¡¯t strictly legal: they¡¯d sprung up as people were left behind by transport ships or lost the jobs that had brought them to Landfall-01 in the first place.


    When they¡¯d arrived, Regan had mentioned what little crime Nocturnus had consisted of a small smuggling operation -- Muzazi had no doubt the place they were going to, Heap, was the source of it.


    And it was where they¡¯d find Katashi Oliphant-Hidaka.


    Across from Muzazi, on the opposite bench, Marie was cracking her knuckles. Right now, that was the only sound in this small, enclosed space. Muzazi cleared his throat to fill that void.


    "It was good of Governor Regan to lend us this transport," he said. "It¡¯ll greatly increase the speed of our journey -- and lessen the hazard, as well. Using bikes would have made the cold quite a risk."


    Marie raised an eyebrow. "Tense?"


    "How so?"


    "You don¡¯t usually talk this much."


    Muzazi frowned. "I speak a reasonable amount, I should think."


    "Yes," Marie admitted. "But not usually about nothing. Usually you say things that are useful, or hold some sort of significance, but you just started telling me how useful this truck is apropos of nothing. Hence, you¡¯re tense."


    "Hence¡­" Muzazi found himself smirking. "You¡¯re beginning to sound like Officer Grace yourself."


    "Don¡¯t be a dick," Marie laughed. She leaned back on the bench, crossing her legs as she stared up at the corner of the room -- this vehicle had no windows to occupy the eyes. "You are tense, though."


    Muzazi mirrored his partner, sighing as he leaned back and crossed his arms. He had to admit she was right. There was no logical reason for him to feel so unsettled -- he¡¯d experienced nothing but victories since coming here -- but this planet simply did not agree with him.


    "It¡¯s the dark, I should think," he muttered, looking down at the floor. "And the cold, and the isolation. It feels as if we¡¯re in a place that does not exist. I¡¯m¡­ unused to such conditions."


    "What?" Marie cocked her head. "So you¡¯re scared of the dark?"


    Slowly, Muzazi shook his head. "No -- well, perhaps. But I¡¯m not sure if that¡¯s the way to describe it. Usually, a fear of the dark is because you dread what might be within it. Am I right in saying that?"


    Marie nodded.


    Muzazi¡¯s arm loosened, and without quite realizing he found himself looking down at his hands. "What I fear is that the dark might be empty. That what we can see is all there is, and there¡¯s no point searching for anything else." He found that his hands were shaking, and he didn¡¯t quite understand why.


    His partner blinked -- this conversation had clearly taken a different route than she¡¯d anticipated.


    "Well," she laughed uncomfortably, placing a hand on her chest. "I can tell you right now that your fear is irrational. If what we saw was all there was, there¡¯d be no such thing as secrets, right?" A slight smile played across her lips. "If that was the case, there¡¯d be no room for ol¡¯ Marie Hazzard, either."


    He glanced up. "Really?" he asked, genuinely curious. "What kind of secrets do you have?"


    Marie winked, grinning mischievously as the truck plowed through more snow.


    "If I told you, it wouldn¡¯t be a secret."


    Marie had expected their search for Katashi Oliphant-Hidaka to take up most of the day -- to take up more than one day, maybe. As an Oliphant, this man was a major figure in the underworld, after all -- and one didn¡¯t survive long in the underworld without knowing how to cover their back. She¡¯d expected to have to follow endless whispers, to threaten fragments of gossip out of people, to chase shadows down alleys.


    She hadn¡¯t expected him to be here. She hadn¡¯t expected him to look like this.


    The man silently drinking in the corner of the bar looked sad. Black hair had turned grey long before it¡¯s time, and the constant tremor of his thin hands suggested a stress his body was not sufficient to contain. From what little information she¡¯d managed to scrape together, Katashi was meant to be in his late thirties, but he looked for all the world like a man twice his age.


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    It was as if he¡¯d started wasting away before even dying.


    As the two of them approached cautiously, Katashi looked up at them -- bleary eyes squinting from above what had probably once been a mighty handlebar moustache, now two grey tufts of hair. The strong drink in his hand stopped right before reaching his mouth.


    "What?" he mumbled. "What do you want?"


    This bar, Oasis, was right on the outskirts of the Heap settlement, worthy of a visit only by the most desperate for inebriation. It was no surprise. The place was by no means inviting: harsh silver metal had been bolted together to form the bar, and the clashing aesthetics of the rest of the furniture suggested they¡¯d been rescued from more than a few landfills. It was no wonder that the only occupants, apart from the surly-looking bartender, were the man they were looking for and a stray drunk on a stool.


    "Katashi Oliphant-Hidaka?" Atoy asked sternly, looking down at the man.


    Even faced with such a pitiful sight, his hand didn¡¯t leave the sheath of his sword. Marie had to admit that was the right decision -- she, more than anyone, knew that appearances could be deceiving. This sad little man could very well still have cards up his sleeve¡­ but she really didn¡¯t think so.


    "Yeah," the man replied, taking a greedy gulp of his drink. "What about it? You here to kill me? Give it your best shot, bastard. I¡¯ll fucking end ya -- little, little fuck."


    Atoy looked back at Marie, a silent despair already in his eyes. The man was barely coherent -- he had the bravado that only the truly wasted possessed. They wouldn¡¯t be getting anything out of him.


    Unless¡­


    A new organ formed within Marie¡¯s body, designed to produce a stimulant compound -- and from there, a thin organic tube pumped those stimulants into the cactus-like needle, barely perceptible, that had sprung from her palm.


    "Mr. Oliphant-Hidaka," she said calmly, pushing past Atoy and placing a reassuring hand on Katashi¡¯s shoulder. "We really need to speak to you."


    The needle injected the stimulant before both it and the organ degraded into nothing and were reabsorbed into Marie¡¯s body. That should sober you up nicely. She couldn¡¯t quite suppress the smirk on her face as she watched clarity return to Katashi¡¯s eyes.


    His body language became just the tiniest bit more guarded. "What do you want?" he muttered, pulling his drink close -- as if they were there to steal it.


    Atoy circled the table until he was standing behind Katashi, his shadow falling over the thin-looking man. It didn¡¯t seem to have the menacing effect he desired: no matter how degraded, a gangster was a gangster, and Katashi simply took another sip of his drink.


    "We had an encounter with several of your employees earlier today," Atoy finally said. "A Pugnant named Rolo, and two others. Don¡¯t pretend you don¡¯t know them."


    "Rolo?" Katashi snorted. "You finally caught that idiot?"


    "He¡¯s dead."


    "Good riddance," Katashi downed his glass without missing a beat. "Fucker thought he could disrespect me like that. Isn¡¯t right. People only judge -- they only judge other people by what happens to them, you know? Never by what they do. Fucking bullshit. He¡¯ll rot in hell."


    Impressive. The man¡¯s self-pity was disgracing him more than the alcohol ever could -- and that was something Marie couldn¡¯t cure.


    "Disrespect you? In what way did he disrespect you, sir?" Marie asked, leaning forward. Sir. She¡¯d appeal to what was left of the man¡¯s ego.


    He glared up at her, eyes narrow, clearly trying to work out what her game was -- and the suspicion slackened as he decided he didn¡¯t much care what her game was. He held up a hand to the bartender for another drink.


    "It¡¯s bullshit," he repeated to himself as the bartender went into the back. "You provide for these people -- you provide them opportunities -- and one, one little bump in the road and they decide they never knew you." He suddenly thumped his fist against the table, the metallic clang ringing out discordantly. "The looks on your faces¡­ you think the same, huh? Washup? Has-been? Couldn¡¯t even take care of his own?"


    Yeah.


    "No," Marie said reassuringly. "We just wanna find out what¡¯s going on. These guys who betrayed you -- do you know who they might have gone to work for instead?"


    Katashi opened his mouth as if about to launch into another rant, but sadness seemed to overwhelm anger for a moment and the fire in his belly died away.


    "Someone else?" he muttered to himself, turning his empty glass over in his hand. "Nah¡­ no¡­ they wouldn¡¯t have done that, right¡­? Not where I can see¡­ they wouldn¡¯t have stuck around here¡­"


    Marie desperately grabbed hold of the tiny bit of useful information the sad sack might have just given out. "They wouldn¡¯t have stuck around here? You thought they were leaving, then?"


    The next drink arrived -- and Katashi grabbed it as if afraid they¡¯d stop him, both hands curled around the glass as he nursed his sorrows. He was like a man in a blizzard, huddled around a fire. "They said¡­" he mumbled. "They said there was nothing here¡­ bullshit, people only¡­" His body began to seize, and for a moment Marie thought he was up to something, but all this man was capable of was silent sobbing.


    Something awful had happened to this person.


    Marie sighed as she stepped back, exchanging a look with Atoy. It really was impressive -- Marie had sobered this man up not two minutes ago, and he was already almost back to where he¡¯d started. So long as alcohol was at hand, they¡¯d never get anywhere.


    "Get up," Atoy grunted, pulling the man to his feet. "We¡¯re taking you in for questioning."


    Katashi offered a token attempt at resistance, but fell limp soon enough when faced with Atoy Muzazi¡¯s superior strength. Marie even saw a few strands of weakly green Aether peel off of Katashi¡¯s arms, but in his inebriated state it wasn¡¯t able to do much except look pretty.


    "Times were," he muttered, dejected. "I could have you dead with a phone call. I could have you dead. Fuck¡­"


    Regan had provided them with the keys to a residence here at Heap -- they¡¯d use it as a temporary base while they were investigating Katashi.


    Marie crooked a finger as she strolled out of the bar, and Atoy pushed old Katashi after her. The man grumbled and stumbled, but eventually followed them out into the eternal night.


    The surly bartender watched them go, a bemused expression on his face, before turning to his one remaining customer.


    "Another drink, Mr. Mazma?" he asked.


    If Atoy Muzazi had to say anything for this Heap settlement, the architecture was a little less conformist than Landfall-01. Rather than the orderly, prefabricated buildings that composed the main settlement, places like Heap had been formed based on necessity, ground broken where housing was immediately needed. As such, it was a ramshackle collection of shacks and huts -- each one a different shape and size.


    When faced with such variety, it made the cuboid residence they¡¯d been given by the Governor seem almost unique. If Landfall-01 had to have a presence here, Muzazi supposed, this was probably the best way to advertise it.


    He scanned his script over the door panel, unlocking it, and as the three of them stepped inside -- two willing, one less so -- they were met with the welcome warmth of the building¡¯s heating. A chair had already been left out for them, so Muzazi pulled it up and threw Katashi in it, earning himself a groan of protest.


    The clock in the room steadily ticked as Katashi glared up at his captors.


    "What do you people want?" the man grumbled, regaining some of his lucidity now that he¡¯d been removed from the bar. "I¡¯m a citizen of the Supremacy, I¡¯ve got rights."


    Marie rolled her eyes, throwing herself onto a dusty couch and spreading her arms wide along the back.


    "Oh, save it," she sighed. "I¡¯m sure if we cared to look you up, we¡¯d find enough of a criminal record to justify hundreds of interrogations. You¡¯re an Oliphant, after all."


    Katashi looked down. "Was an Oliphant. I -- I fucked up. I -- my branch -- used to be in charge of smuggling, you know? Lost a massive shipment. One mistake and they send you somewhere like here. Some shithole. Got a name and nothing else."


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes, circling the seated man like a shark. His footsteps were timed with the tick-tock of the clock, lending his movements an oddly choreographed quality.


    "You¡¯re very candid," he said, looking down at him. "I wouldn¡¯t expect a criminal to give away his secrets so easily."


    The man looked up at him, his eyes empty. "Kid, look at me," he said, lifting a thin hand -- in the dim light, it almost looked like they were talking to a skeleton. "All I¡¯ve got left to do is talk and drink and die. Once I¡¯m done talking, I can get back to drinking. That good enough for you assholes?"


    Muzazi stopped his circling. To be honest, he couldn¡¯t really argue with that.


    "The man who worked for you -- Rolo," he said. "We believe he recently came into the employ of an organisation called Darkstar."


    "Actually," Marie raised a finger. "It¡¯s more likely that he came into the employ of someone who wants to be in Darkstar. No offense, but my guy didn¡¯t exactly seem the ambitious type."


    Katashi put a hand to his head, his post-liquor headache already making an appearance, slouching in the chair. "I dunno anything about the specifics," he muttered. "Most of my guys just trickled away after the family head relocated¡­ relocated us here. I bet most of them are working for Jacques, now, that son of a bitch."


    "Hey, hey," Marie snapped her fingers, pulling their guest out of his obviously familiar resentment. "Back on topic, family man. You don¡¯t know about any of the specifics -- but? Is there a but there?"


    The criminal shot Marie a nasty glare -- she wasn¡¯t being the most welcoming host -- before continuing with a sigh: "Well, I dunno. This is kind of a surprise. The last time I spoke to Rolo, he gave the impression he was going --"


    Click.


    The subtle, jarring noise rang out from the underside of the chair Katashi was sitting on, cutting him off. He himself looked down between his legs, his brow furrowing. Marie sat up on the couch. Muzazi¡¯s grip tightened on his hilt.


    Not one of them consciously knew what that sound had been, but their bodies -- honed by crisis -- knew what it represented: danger. It took another second for them to realize what form that danger had taken. The ticking they had been hearing was not from a clock.


    "Bomb!" Muzazi roared.


    He pulled Katashi out of the chair and kicked it across the room in one smooth motion -- but he already knew he was too late. If he¡¯d heard that click, that meant the detonation was already imminent. Any steps to avoid it now -- in the final instinct -- would be fruitless.


    In the final moment before the explosion went off, engulfing the house, Atoy Muzazi truly believed that he was hallucinating. There could be no other explanation for what he was seeing. The delirium of chaos was clouding his vision.


    As his world became a blur of movement, the result of a final lunge towards the door, Muzazi could have sworn he saw Marie launch off the couch and push himself and Katashi out of the door -- with colossal, clawed hands that dwarfed the rest of her body. Absurdity. Truly, an absurdity. S§×ar?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Regardless of whether he¡¯d seen the action clearly, the results went unchanged. Muzazi and Katashi -- and something else -- went flying out of the front door, not one of them untouched by the fire that burst freely from the explosive.


    It licked at Muzazi¡¯s right arm, igniting it for a split second before he fell into the snow, smothering the flame before it could get started. Katashi¡¯s head and body were scorched, the man screaming as he thrashed on the ground, clutching his burnt face. And the third thing¡­


    The third thing¡­


    The top half of Marie Hazzard¡¯s body was limp, arms splayed around it in the snow. Her eyes had rolled up into her head, revealing red veins, and her tongue lolled vacantly out of her mouth. The snow around her was quickly turning red.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes feared what they would see -- but they still looked down.


    There was nothing below Marie Hazzard¡¯s torso, just the charred and terminated trails of what had once been organs. A strange, strangled noise trickled from Muzazi¡¯s throat, and he put a hand to his mouth to stifle it. Even with that half-measure, however, he couldn¡¯t deny what he was seeing.


    He couldn¡¯t deny that he was looking at a corpse.


    His hand didn¡¯t hold his voice back for long. Atoy Muzazi¡¯s scream was swallowed by the dark.

 Chapter 146:6.4: Half of a Liar

    Atoy Muzazi watched as the doctor pulled a sheet up to cover what was left of Marie Hazzard¡¯s body. Her empty eyes stared accusingly at him in the moment before they vanished from sight.


    It was no surprise. He¡¯d expected from the beginning that there¡¯d be no saving Marie -- no matter how much you treated the wound with Panacea, you couldn¡¯t pull someone back from death. Still, perhaps just a little part of him had been hoping to be wrong. That some miracle had indeed been possible.


    But... even if a miracle had been possible, the time for it had long since expired. Heap hadn¡¯t had the facilities necessary to treat such an injury, so Muzazi had had no choice but to put her in stasis for the two-hour trip back to Landfall-01, while the medical office there prepared for treatment. Every second of that trip had felt like two hours itself.


    And still it had been fruitless. In the end, all of it had been fruitless.


    The doctor, an Umbrant woman with yellow pupils, looked up at him sympathetically. Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "With an injury like this," she calmly explained. "Death would have been instant. There was nothing you could have done."


    "I see," Muzazi replied quietly.


    But that wasn¡¯t quite true, was it? There was a great deal he could have done. He could have been faster, he could have been stronger¡­ he could have been superior to the pathetic man who had to have been saved. There was so, so much more he could¡¯ve done -- and he¡¯d failed to do so.


    "I see..." he said again, his voice nearly silent.


    Winston¡¯s voice -- live from his hospital bed -- blared out from the script on the table, the cheer in his voice utterly unsuited for the situation. "Good news, Atoy," his tinny voice said. "I¡¯ve managed to track down the bomb!" Apparently, he¡¯d been working through the night to check the ships coming in and out of Nocturnus.


    Governor Regan, lingering by the door, spoke up. "Tracked it down? What good will that do?"


    He clearly meant it in an emotional context, but Winston seemed to take it as a logical query. "It¡¯s actually not very easy to obtain things like bombs and weapons so far out," he explained. "Unless you steal it from local security or have someone smuggle it in for you -- and there¡¯s no need for security forces on this planet to use a bomb like that. Hence, it was smuggled in. Hence, I found the ship that smuggled it in."


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He¡¯d become used to being alone -- he didn¡¯t have any memories of a time when he hadn¡¯t been. It wasn¡¯t something he especially liked or disliked: it was just his default state of being.


    Still, being with a partner for a time¡­ he¡¯d quite enjoyed it.


    Winston¡¯s voice trickled from the script. "I have the name of the ship. How about it, Atoy?"


    The doctor looked up from her paperwork -- then took a step backwards as she saw the dark, murderous expression on his face. Only a few seconds had passed, but it truly looked as if Atoy Muzazi hadn¡¯t slept for a thousand years. White Aether snapped around him, like breaking bones.


    "I see," he growled.


    Georg Amuzhen took a drag of his cigarette, savouring the tinge of Bubble that went along with it. Wasn¡¯t always easy to get ahold of, but the high it provided took the edge off like nothing else.


    He watched through the lens of his gas mask as the pale blue smoke drifted up to the ceiling of the rusty hangar. This place really was a dump: they¡¯d been paid well for the job, but he had no more desire to stick around Nocturnus. With the amount they¡¯d made, they should be set to take it easy for a couple months -- maybe start setting up some jobs further into the Supremacy.


    With a flick, the cigarette went flying up into the air -- and a second later, burst into flames entirely, burning away to nothing. This Aether stuff really wasn¡¯t half-bad, either. It¡¯d definitely been worth paying for the tutelage for him and his crew.


    "Progress?" he barked to Fridmann, his second-in-command.


    The stout, goggle-wearing man looked up from the script he was clutching between his hands. "We¡¯re fully loaded, sir. Ready to head out whenever ya give the word."


    Georg grinned to himself, licking his lips from beneath his mask. It really did feel nice to be in charge. An eight-man crew was hardly a criminal organization, but even holding power over seven other people gave him an indescribable rush.


    "Tell the others to get on board," he declared. "We¡¯re blowing this shithole."


    With that, he turned to the hefty cigar-shaped ship behind him -- the Needlepoint -- only to pause when he saw that Fridmann wasn¡¯t following. The little man had instead stopped, staring straight ahead.


    "Boss?" he asked nervously.


    Georg turned to follow his gaze -- and his heart almost leapt out of his chest when he saw who was approaching.


    For years before this gig as a smuggler, Georg had worked for a crime lord known as the Hyena. The guy had been a real piece of work -- never shutting up about himself -- but a big shot all the same, pretty much ruling over Caelus Breck. Georg had incinerated many of his enemies, and had been well compensated in return. All that had ended when the Hyena had been killed by a Special Officer.


    Georg hadn¡¯t been there when it happened, but he¡¯d seen the face of the man who¡¯d done it on the news.


    And that man was walking towards him now.


    The name came to his lips. "Atoy¡­" he hissed, eyes wide behind his mask. "Muzazi¡­"


    Muzazi wasn¡¯t in full form.


    One of his arms was still injured, wrapped in bandages, and he was sure his hearing still wasn¡¯t perfect after being so close to that explosion. Still, he could hear the furious beating of his heart pulsing through his body like a wardrum, and so he couldn¡¯t be more prepared.


    The man in front of him, the captain of this crew, was clad in leather from head-to-toe, with a gas mask hiding all of his face save the red hair that flowed from the back of his head. From the way he was stepping back, he clearly recognised that Muzazi was here as no friend.


    "Georg Amuzhen?" Muzazi asked, voice low.


    Winston had given him the name. A known weapons smuggler who¡¯d arrived on Nocturnus shortly before the bombing.


    Apparently, he¡¯d served the Hyena on Caelus Breck before taking on this line of work. Muzazi vaguely wondered if they¡¯d met at that time: he didn¡¯t remember him, but he¡¯d never had the greatest memory anyway. Still, even if he didn¡¯t recall the man, he knew who he was...


    The one responsible. Muzazi¡¯s hand didn¡¯t yet leave Luminescence¡¯s sheath. There were three people in his immediate vicinity: Amuzhen, the stocky man next to him, and an unseen third person standing a distance behind him.


    There was a moment of silence, and then:


    "Trafalgar Inferno!" Amuzhen roared, thrusting his palms towards Muzazi.


    In an instant, a torrent of crimson flame burst forth from his hands, utterly consuming the part of the room Muzazi was standing in. Muzazi jumped upwards -- thrusters boosting him -- barely avoiding being scorched by the wave of fire. As he reached the crest of his jump, Muzazi forced Luminescence into the ceiling, holding himself in place for a moment.


    Georg Amuzhen: his ability seemed to involve producing flames and directing them. The exact mechanisms behind it were irrelevant. The move he¡¯d just used had covered a large area, but there was the possibility Amuzhen could use it in other ways, too. Muzazi would have to be careful.


    "What?" Marie responded. "Act like myself? You know you love it."


    A vein bulged on Muzazi¡¯s forehead. No. The time for caution had long since passed. Now his fury alone held dominion.


    The second the flames began to fade, Muzazi tore Luminescence free, his fall taking on an unnatural angle as his thrusters pulled him to and thro. Amuzhen clapped his hands together, pointing the nozzle formed between his palms, tracking Muzazi as he descended.


    "Picadilly Rapid!" Amuzhen screamed -- and, just as the name implied, rapid-fire bullets of heat were launched at Muzazi, like deadly glowing embers.


    Easily visible, easily deflected. Muzazi¡¯s thrusters flipped him upside down, offering him an easier angle -- and he unleashed a series of Aether-infused slashes, each snuffing out one of the fire-bullets zooming towards him. Those that hadn¡¯t been perfectly aimed struck the wall behind instead, melting noticeable holes into the solid material.


    Muzazi landed on one hand, using that to flip back into a standing position.


    He wouldn¡¯t get any time to rest. The moment Muzazi¡¯s feet touched the ground, the stout subordinate next to Amuzhen began to gurgle and retch, his throat bulging like that of a toad. Scurrant, most likely, with an Aether ability enhancing his physical abnormalities.


    The stout man¡¯s jaw snapped open and -- like a whip -- a long and prehensile tongue lashed out, aimed directly for Muzazi¡¯s face. The moment he went to dodge, however, the end of that tongue sparked with rancid pink Aether -- and split into three branches, each aimed for a different part of Muzazi¡¯s body.


    Marie tossed the red parka at him before he could protest. "It¡¯s good to get out of your comfort zone," she said.


    There was a flash of silver -- and then the three branches of the tongue burst into blood, each cleanly severed at the root by lightning-fast bites of Luminescence. The man staggered backwards, what remained of his tongue thrashing in the air, but Muzazi wasn¡¯t finished punishing him.


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    The person behind him jumped into the fray -- a burly Pugnant wielding an equally large axe. He swung the weapon at Muzazi with all his strength, but the slightest dodge meant that the blade lodged into the floor instead, giving Muzazi the moment of freedom he needed.


    He seized the bleeding stump of the toadman, squeezing and swinging with all the might his injured arm could muster -- and smashed the Scurrant against the far wall. There was a sickening crunch as the man hit the wall face-first and then slowly trickled down, leaving a substantial trail of blood.


    That was one.


    Muzazi ducked down, narrowly avoiding the second axe-swing from the Pugnant behind him. At the same time as he span around, he withdrew one of his knives from within his parka and sliced at the Pugnant¡¯s heels, bringing the man down to one knee with a roar of pain. Face to face with those golden eyes, Muzazi raised Luminescence to deal the finishing blow.


    "Trafalgar¡­"


    Change of plans.


    "Inferno!"


    As Amuzhen unleashed another wide-range fire attack, cooking the hangar, Muzazi seized the Pugnant man by the collar -- and swung him around in the direction of the flames, using him as a human shield. The man thrashed as the Aether-infused flames roasted his body -- but only for a moment. He passed as the fire did, his charred body falling to the ground as the flames died away.


    That was two.


    Muzazi kicked off the ground towards Amuzhen, his eyes flicking over as the entrance ramp of the ship flipped down and three new crewmates came running into view. A tattooed man wielding a machete, and two young Umbrant men holding butterfly knives. Could he finish Amuzhen before these enemies entered the fray? Unlikely.


    Diesel-brown Aether surrounded Tattoo as he leapt up into the air -- and landed on a motorcycle that had suddenly appeared, obviously recorded. With a blast of Aether-infused thrust, the vehicle zoomed towards Muzazi -- and as it did, more and more recorded parts appeared on its chassis, each clearly intended to increase lethality. Tank treads, spikes, hooks, shredders -- by the time it reached him, it was more a mass of murderous metal than anything intended for transport.


    The smart thing to do would be to back down and approach from another angle.


    Marie smiled sweetly at him. "Took you long enough, Atoy."


    Atoy Muzazi stood his ground, all twelve of his throwing knives blasting out of his parka. By firing thrusters of equal strength from both the tip of the blade and the end of the hilt, Muzazi could effectively freeze his knives in the air -- and he did so, forming a barrier of blades between himself and the approaching biker.


    But he wasn¡¯t here to block hits. He was here to eliminate the enemy.


    On each of the knives, a third thruster burst forth from the side of the blade -- and all of them began rapidly spinning in place. Just as Tattoo had manifested shredders on his bike, Muzazi had created a shredder in mid-air. It was right in the path of his attacker.


    Tattoo swerved to try and avoid the barrier, but it was far too late. His body passed right through the web of blades -- and blood poured forth liberally, coating Muzazi¡¯s body. As body parts rained down and the bike dissipated into Aether, Muzazi found himself grinning mirthlessly.


    That made three.


    The two young Umbrants attacked at once, using the blade-barrier as a smokescreen and striking from either side of it. As the two lunged at him, the blades of their butterfly knives stretched out, aiming directly for Muzazi¡¯s torso. He could have laughed. He truly, truly could have laughed -- if it wasn¡¯t so insulting. They really thought they could best him in a contest of blades?


    Two surgical strikes of Luminescence were sufficient to neutralize the threat -- the Umbrants dropped to the ground in two pieces each. That was not sufficient to sedate Muzazi¡¯s fury: he seized the bottom half of one of the bodies and hurled it towards Amuzhen. Unfortunately, an application of Trafalgar Inferno reduced it to ash before it could strike him.


    Still, that was four, and that was five.


    Anger still burning through Muzazi¡¯s body like a fever, he seized the stretched knives out of the air before they could hit the ground and hurled them -- one, two -- in the direction of the ship.


    The first hit another crewmate, an older man in a monk¡¯s habit, who was rapidly descending the ramp. It struck him in the head with such force that it went flying off -- and kept going until it had pinned his ruined cranium to the wall of the hangar.


    Six.


    The second knife hit the main thruster of the ship, lodging deep in its inner workings. There was a crackle of Aether from it, and then a thruster appeared on the vase of the handle -- driving it deeper, deeper, into the ship¡¯s engine, until¡­


    ¡­ it burst into flame, showering the hangar in chunks of burning metal. Muzazi saw no body, but he was willing to bet by the number of body parts that were raining down that that was seven.


    Which left only one.


    Georg Amuzhen was utterly untouched by the fiery explosion -- which only made sense. That leather outfit he was wearing must have been fireproof, to defend against his own flames, and was probably infused with Aether to enhance those qualities even further. The red-haired man took a step back as Muzazi advanced. Twin red flames still sprung from the man¡¯s palms, bearing something of a resemblance to Muzazi¡¯s thrusters.


    "You fucked up, asshole," Amuzhen hissed, a hysterical giggle infiltrating his tone. "That¡¯s the two-minute mark. Londinium!"


    The moment that last word passed his lips, the flames bursting from his hands intensified -- their heat growing until the flames turned blue, stretching almost up to the ceiling in their renewed vigor. Fiery orange Aether raged around Amuzhen as he laughed, almost intoxicated by this clear boost in power. He stepped forward again, regaining the ground he¡¯d lost.


    There were about ten meters between him and Atoy Muzazi.


    Two-minute mark?


    From hearing that, Muzazi could clearly guess what this Londinium ability entailed -- once Georg Amuzhen had been in battle for a set period of time, he could intensify the heat and ferocity of his flames tenfold. There was no way of telling if this was the limit of his strength, then, or if he¡¯d just get another power boost in two minutes¡¯ time. Even without knowing that, though, Muzazi could tell a torrent of these flames wouldn¡¯t be something he could survive.


    Should he retreat, then, and observe from a distance?


    "Nice to meet you, Atoy," Marie said, extending a lazy hand. "Let¡¯s work well together."


    Muzazi stood his ground, his blade raised high. This was a contest of strength, to determine which of them was supreme. There would be no retreat for him or his opponent.


    Atoy Muzazi discarded everything. His burning temper, the aching pains of his body, even the anguish that had brought him here in the first place. His eyes stared ahead blankly like glass, and a line of drool ran from his mouth, but that was no matter. Right here, right now, he was nothing more than a hand to hold a blade.


    He adjusted his stance, pulling his sword back and pointing it at Amuzhen as the flames raged around his opponents hands. Win or lose, this would be the end of the confrontation. There would be one more corpse on the ground before the minute had passed.


    Amuzhen took a deep breath.


    "Trafalgar Infer --"


    Muzazi stabbed him through the chest, his sword -- stained red with blood -- emerging from Amuzhen¡¯s back on the way out. The voice of Georg Amuzhen died on his tongue as the air was pushed out of his lungs. He opened his mouth to say something, some final words -- but Muzazi roughly pulled his sword free and the smuggler fell wordless to the ground.


    This was Atoy Muzazi¡¯s masterpiece. In less than a syllable¡¯s time, he¡¯d crossed ten meters and dispatched his enemy. His speed when fighting ordinarily was impressive, but this was divine. The principle behind the increased speed was simple: he¡¯d coated his entire musculature with invisible thrusters, programmed to activate only in sympathy to his own movements. The speed of every movement he made was multiplied countless times as a result.


    Full Throttle. That was what he¡¯d call this technique. It only seemed appropriate.


    Finally, long overdue, the fire alarms activated in response to the flames and water rained down in a deluge. It ran down Muzazi¡¯s face and body, washing away the freshest of the blood, but the stains from the start of the battle stubbornly remained -- and nothing could wash away what had come beforehand.


    Muzazi fell to one knee, his entire body aching -- this was the first time he¡¯d used Full Throttle, but he could already tell that forcibly moving his muscles like this would cause significant damage. Slowly, with shaky hands, he sheathed Luminescence. He¡¯d desperately hoped for the euphoria of victory once he¡¯d defeated these people, or even just simple relief, but¡­


    ...but he didn¡¯t feel any better at all.


    Regan¡¯s sigh came loud and clear over the script on Muzazi¡¯s table. "I understand that battle is, um, unpredictable," he said. "But it would¡¯ve been very helpful if you¡¯d left one alive -- to extract information from, at least."


    His hands on the table, Muzazi stared down at the script, his eyes dull. Even with this obvious reprimand, his heart didn¡¯t quicken in the slightest. All of this, right now, was just noise.


    "It¡¯s as you say," he muttered. "Battle is unpredictable."


    With that, he tapped the screen of the script, and the call ended. The last thread they could pull had thoroughly turned into a dead end, thanks to his foolish actions. The vengeful fever that had filled him for those few minutes had thoroughly died down. Now he felt like nothing more than a stringless puppet. Even the effort to breathe seemed toilsome.


    Even with this failure, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but feel that things had come to a conclusion. Katashi Oliphant-Hidaka had fallen comatose after his injuries, and showed no signs of waking up. The smugglers, who¡¯d been in contact with the culprit, had been slaughtered to a man. And Marie Hazzard, his more competent half, had left this world. There were no more avenues to walk down. All was lost.


    The venomous words of Dragan Hadrien, spoken in that interrogation room back on Taldan, came to mind:


    "These things you ramble on about? Honour, dignity, all that shit? They don¡¯t exist. They¡¯re things people made up to make themselves seem more noble. There¡¯s no difference between me shooting you in the back and shooting you in the front. If I were to pull out a gun right now and shoot you - while your hands were tied - it wouldn¡¯t mean a thing. You¡¯d be dead and I¡¯d be alive, so I¡¯d be the winner. The person who¡¯s willing to do what it takes - whatever it takes - gets what they want: that¡¯s the rule. That¡¯s the only rule."


    Perhaps he¡¯d been right after all. Muzazi had approached this pitch-black world with honour, with dignity, and he¡¯d been rewarded with the bomb of an invisible enemy. Could there be anything more dishonourable than that? Even shooting someone in the back was more personal.


    Even thinking about it was too much right now. Muzazi turned away from the table.


    The residence Governor Regan had provided in Landfall-01 had all the amenities Muzazi needed. He threw himself down on the hard couch and blankly watched the videographs being streamed to the monitor on the wall.


    Comedies, game shows, old classics¡­ as the hours stretched on, the clock on the wall incessantly beeping to indicate night hours had begun, the light from the videographs were reflected off Muzazi¡¯s eyes as he watched them uncomprehendingly. Even if he was in no state to enjoy these features, though, it was good to have noise. Noise to fill the silence where his one and only partner now lived.


    There was a knock on the door.


    The protagonist of the videograph made a crude joke, and his traveling companions loudly complained. They were a band of warriors traveling to a distant mountain, so that they could throw the corpse of an ancient evil emperor into the volcano there. If he were in an ordinary state of mind, Muzazi imagined he would have quite enjoyed that plot. Would Marie have enjoyed the jokes, he wondered?


    There was a knock on the door.


    Muzazi glanced up. Someone had come. Was it Regan, with information he couldn¡¯t communicate over the script? Perhaps Winston had leaped out of his hospital bed and come to drag him back into the investigation. Or perhaps some unknown enemy was waiting outside, ready to dispatch him before he could find out anymore.


    There was a knock on the door.


    Whatever the case, Muzazi decided, he¡¯d respond in kind. His hand on Luminescence¡¯s hilt, he made his way to the door -- pausing for a moment as the metallic knocking sounded out once again. He took a deep breath, readying his Aether, and tapped the button to open the door.


    It slid open, the cold air outside already infiltrating the unit. Apart from the frigid darkness and the snow, however, there was nothing at the door. Some childish prank, then? His hand on his sword, Muzazi slowly looked to the left, then the right. Still, nothing.


    "Down here, Atoy," sighed an already-exasperated voice.


    He glanced down. Special Officer Marie Hazzard was much smaller than he remembered.


    "Yeah," she said, fists on her hips. "I guess I¡¯ve got some explaining to do."

 Chapter 147:6.5: The Truth and the Twins

    Atoy Muzazi watched in stunned disbelief as the mini-Marie ravenously devoured what few supplies had been left in this residence¡¯s fridge.


    It was truly a sight to behold. When he¡¯d opened the door, this mini-Marie had been the size of a child, but as she continued to shovel food into her mouth her proportions were slowly growing to match the way she¡¯d been the last time he¡¯d seen her. It was like he was watching her grow up in super fast-forward. Marie pulled her ragged cloak tight around herself as she tore into a frozen steak with her newly sharp teeth, utterly eviscerating it.


    Muzazi blinked, stupefied by the sheer speed and ferocity with which Marie was eating him out of house and home -- and the fact that she was here at all. He¡¯d watched her die, after all. He¡¯d spent hours next to what remained of her corpse, watching her body turn cold. He¡¯d seen it. He¡¯d seen it.


    She looked up at him, a leaf of salad still sticking out of her mouth. "I need to recover the biomass," she said by way of explanation, slurping it up. She was truly displaying the greed of a beast.


    Muzazi¡¯s dazzled mind latched onto the only anchor it could find. "Recover biomass..." he replied quietly. "That¡¯s your¡­ Aether ability, then?"


    Marie sighed, putting down the can of soup she¡¯d been in the middle of opening. It landed on the table with a harsh clunk. "Atoy," she looked at him steadily. "I already told you what I am. Were you not listening?"


    She had said something, back on the doorstep, but the words that had left her mouth had been so ludicrous that he¡¯d instantly discarded them. Surely she couldn¡¯t have been serious. Surely.


    Marie rubbed the bridge of her nose, twirling a protein stick between her fingers. "Do you need me to say it again, Atoy?"


    Like a lost child, he nodded.


    Her gaze turned hard, and the words almost seemed reluctant to leave her mouth. "I¡¯m a Gene Tyrant."


    He took a hesitant step forward, hands gesturing vaguely. "But¡­ when you say that, do you mean you¡¯re a -- a Gene Tyrant, or¡­"


    "I mean what I say. I am a Gene Tyrant. A shapeshifter that can take on any form she likes. I can say it as many times as you want."


    Muzazi collapsed into the chair behind him. It seemed that, in the last few minutes, his life had simply stopped making sense. He hunched over, his head in his hands. What was even happening anymore?


    "I don¡¯t understand," he said, voice muffled. "How is that even possible? The Gene Tyrants are all dead."


    Marie shrugged as if the question was inconsequential, leaning back in her seat. "I guess they must¡¯ve missed one."


    He looked up from his hands. "You don¡¯t know? How could you not know?"


    Another sigh left Marie¡¯s lips, and she scratched at her hair -- which Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but notice was actively growing longer as she ate. He supposed that, to a Gene Tyrant, the hair was simply another part of the body to be sculpted to their liking. Just another piece of biomass.


    To a Gene Tyrant. He should listen to himself -- he¡¯d taken such an absurdity into his thought process so easily. He couldn¡¯t help but chuckle wryly.


    "How much do you know about Gene Tyrants?" Marie asked, cocking her head.


    Muzazi crossed his arms, somewhat regaining his composure as his mind was pointed in a specific direction. He took a deep breath, clearing away the confusion that remained.


    "It¡¯s as you say," Muzazi began. "They were a group of humans that reached the limits of their form, and so set out to alter it with genetic engineering. By the end, they were immortal shapechangers that manipulated and ruled over all other life -- until they were overthrown in the Thousand Revolutions. Are you¡­" He hesitated. Even the notion itself seemed ridiculous, like some kind of fantasy story, but he could think of no other explanation. "...are you a survivor of that empire, then?" S§×ar?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Marie shook her head without even a moment¡¯s delay. "No," she said, sounding almost bored. "I wasn¡¯t around for any of that."


    "Then," Muzazi furrowed his brow. "Are you a descendant of a survivor, then? Where is it you come from if not that time?"


    Marie sat cross-legged on her chair, licking the remnants of her food off her fingers. She looked almost identical now to how she¡¯d been before the explosion -- if just the tiniest bit shorter. For a moment, she seemed to be searching for the words she wanted, but eventually she began speaking.


    "Do you know how it worked for the Gene Tyrants -- reproduction, I mean?" she asked, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.


    "I have no idea," Muzazi shook his head. History outside of that of the Supremacy had never interested him -- the Gene Tyrants had always seemed a vague, nebulous threat far off in the past.


    Again, Marie shifted in her seat, leaning one elbow on the table as she looked away. "As I understand it," she said slowly. "They mainly managed it through binary fission -- one Gene Tyrant becoming two. They were shapeshifters, of course, so they could do in whatever other way they wanted if they felt like it, but that was number one. The thing is, though, that they didn¡¯t reproduce much at all. You know why?"


    Muzazi shook his head. To him, that concept made no sense at all. What purpose did an empire exist for, if not to expand and spread its influence?


    "They were the ultimate form of life," Marie wagged a finger. "So the only thing that scared them was others of their own kind. They didn¡¯t want there to be enough Gene Tyrants for factionalism to take place, so reproduction was strictly forbidden except for very specific cases."


    "Even so¡­" Muzazi put his fist to his chin. "Wouldn¡¯t that lead to stagnation? The same immortal beings ruling forever?"


    To be honest, he didn¡¯t even really care how absurd this whole matter was anymore. He was sitting here discussing the fine points of Gene Tyrant reproductive policy with a dead woman who claimed to be a Gene Tyrant. Perhaps he¡¯d fallen asleep on the couch and this was some kind of dream?


    All the same...


    The slightest smile rose to his face. Even if that was the case, and none of this was real, it was a good dream.


    "Exactly," Marie snapped her fingers and pointed to Muzazi. She, too, seemed to be getting into it. "So what they did instead was something called rebooting. A Gene Tyrant¡¯s consciousness is distributed throughout their entire body, right?"


    She paused for a moment, closing her eyes -- and when she opened them again, her gaze was dark.


    "So," she concluded. "If a Gene Tyrant was absolutely sure they wanted to make another Gene Tyrant¡­ what they¡¯d do is concentrate that consciousness into a single point in their body and wipe it clean. Kill themselves, essentially, and let a new consciousness grow in their place."


    It wasn¡¯t difficult to put the pieces together. "And that¡¯s how you came about, then?"


    Marie nodded. "From what I¡¯ve managed to gather, a survivor of the Gene Tyrants stuck around for a good while -- and around a hundred years or so ago, rebooted themselves into me." She clicked her tongue. "They were a real asshole about it, too. Didn¡¯t leave behind any information or resources for me or anything. Everything I¡¯m telling you now is stuff I¡¯ve managed to scrounge together over the last century."


    The last century. To be honest, Muzazi had always assumed that he was slightly older than Marie. This was something of a rude awakening.


    "You¡¯re a hundred years old, then?" he asked quietly.


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    "My mind is, at least."


    Muzazi put a hand to his temple, leaning forward in his chair. "And the Commission is fine with this? The founders of the Supremacy were among those who brought down the Gene Tyrants, and now they¡¯re employing you?"


    Marie crossed her arms, her gaze cold. "It¡¯s not exactly willing on my part. They¡¯ve got all sorts of countermeasures in my body ready to take me out if I try and go rogue."


    "But who else knows about this?"


    She seemed to genuinely think about it for a second, putting her finger to her lips. "Commissioner Caesar definitely knows, but I¡¯m not one-hundred percent on who else she¡¯s let in the loop. Probably some other higher-ups."


    With a final scoop of ice cream, Marie returned to her original size, wincing as she received the inevitable brain freeze. She tossed the spoon back into the bucket and threw her hands up into the air.


    "Well, there you have it," she declared, the matter-of-fact confidence she¡¯d exhibited draining away. "There¡¯s the, um, the whole story. I¡¯m a Gene Tyrant and, uh, and stuff. I guess."


    It only made sense that Marie felt uncomfortable, Muzazi supposed. This wasn¡¯t the sort of secret that one spoke about frequently. Apart from the higher-ups, would there have ever been another occasion where Marie divulged this of her own free will?


    She¡¯d trusted him with that. That, if nothing else, brought warmth to Muzazi¡¯s heart.


    It took him a while to speak again, and even when he did his voice was extremely quiet: "I¡¯m¡­ glad you¡¯re alright."


    Marie scratched her cheek in mock-embarrassment. "Aw, you¡¯re gonna make me blush, Atoy." She smiled -- and, strangely enough, Muzazi found himself smiling too.


    But this wasn¡¯t a time to sit around grinning at each other like fools. The fact remained that someone had attempted to kill them with that bomb -- that they had failed was immaterial. Muzazi cleared his throat, sitting up straight in his chair.


    "I have to admit," he said solemnly. "I¡¯ve behaved disgracefully in your absence. I have no idea who is behind this, nor who tried to kill us. I apologize."


    Marie smiled. "Oh, that¡¯s no problem."


    "How so?"


    "Well," she leaned back. "I¡¯m willing to bet I¡¯m with them right now."


    Death wasn¡¯t a difficult thing to imitate at all.


    Heartbeat slowed to its utmost, skin cooled to ice. Eyes blinded into props, limbs stiffened into stone. Subtly, invisibly, the body was modified to take in air through unseen means. Ragged skin became a sensory network, pumping in the stimulus of the outside world in place of the traditional organs.


    This body still had two Needles in it, so she couldn¡¯t move freely. All she could do was wait for the right moment.


    Marie Hazzard could taste cold metal below her. As she¡¯d expected, she¡¯d been moved. It wouldn¡¯t be her other half -- they¡¯d already have recombined into one being if that was the case. It seemed her gambit had worked, then.


    The person behind this wanted to prove to Darkstar that they were worthy to join their ranks. They intended to do that by crippling Nocturnus¡¯ role as a transport hub, but it was a good bet they¡¯d be willing to take any other accolades that made themselves available. The murder of a Special Officer, for example -- and for that, they¡¯d need the proof of a body.


    Clumsy hands moved her body from it¡¯s container, tossing her onto the cold metal floor. In an instant, the sensory organs she¡¯d developed across her skin memorized the person¡¯s scent, taste and texture. There was rumbling movement beneath her -- they were aboard a vehicle.


    As subtle as possible, Marie formed ear structures along the side of her body pressed against the floor -- what she could hear using them would be muffled, but if this was going to be worth it she had to listen in.


    "There? See?" said a male voice, familiar, nervous. "That¡¯s a Special Officer right there. Marie Hazzard. She¡¯s in the database -- I checked."


    A hand touched her face -- an unfamiliar hand, covered in some kind of cloth like bandages. It tilted her head back and forth, clearly inspecting her features.


    "The face matches," said a woman¡¯s voice, low and husky. "But that can be falsified. How did you execute?"


    "A bomb," the man said. "They never even suspected. I could have gotten two, but the timing wasn¡¯t perfect -- I apologize for that. I can probably get another one still, though, so --"


    The woman interrupted. "Regan?"


    It was a good thing Marie had disabled her automatic responses, otherwise the stiffening of her body would surely have given her away. Marie had never had much faith in authority figures, but being betrayed by the no-name governor of a place like this was truly a new low. If that bomb had actually killed her rather than splitting her in half, it would have been the ultimate humiliation.


    Somehow, even more nervousness entered Regan¡¯s voice. "Miss McCoy?" he asked.


    McCoy. So now she had a name for Regan¡¯s contact, too. From the sounds of it, this woman worked for Darkstar directly. That made her dangerous in the extreme.


    The bandaged hand pulled back a lock of Marie¡¯s burnt hair -- and when McCoy spoke, there was a distinct sense of delight in her quiet tones.


    "This isn¡¯t a corpse," she said.


    Marie didn¡¯t waste a moment. Her body leapt up in a second, new eyes forming on her forehead, new legs sprouting from the stump of her torso, claws and spikes growing across her body. She had to move quickly to achieve victory here.


    There were two people here in the truck apart from her. Regan, who was jumping back in surprise -- and this McCoy woman from Darkstar. Her garb was eccentric in the extreme: she wore a tan trenchcoat and fedora, but every inch of skin was covered by jet-black bandages. Not even her eyes were visible.


    The truck was probably automatic. In that case, she¡¯d take these two down right now and change the destination.


    Regan was closer. Still quadrupedal, she lunged at the Governor as he stumbled away -- tearing at his wrist with a maw of razor-sharp teeth. His scream of pain echoed throughout the confined space. Warm blood flowed into her throat.


    As Marie pulled her head back, the scraps of Regan¡¯s hand came with her -- and the Governor fell backwards, screaming as he crawled away. That was fine. She could leave him to bleed out; the real threat was this McCoy.


    Marie whirled around, leaving deep claw-marks in the metal floor below. She was truly ready to pounce on McCoy, to rip her to shreds, but what she saw in that moment gave her pause.


    Ten rotting corpses, male and female, were gathered around McCoy, limbs splayed out as they floated unbound by gravity.


    "Corpse Construct," McCoy said calmly. "Return Gate."


    To any other organism, what happened next would have been a simple flash of movement. Only the enhanced vision and reflexes Marie possessed allowed her to actually perceive it. That didn¡¯t make it any more pleasant.


    Immediately, tine of the corpses collapsed in on themselves with the sickening crack of bone, compressed into strands of organic matter as thin as spaghetti. As one, the strands flowed into the open mouth of the one remaining corpse -- and as they did, the skull of that corpse inflated, breaking through the rotted skin and muscle until the cranium filled nearly half the container.


    The open jaw of the skull was as large as a door frame -- and fittingly enough, McCoy stepped backwards into it.


    "It seems you¡¯ve failed, Regan," she said calmly, in the moment before the jaw snapped shut around her. "We won¡¯t meet again."


    A moment later, the skull dissipated into rotting tan Aether, and the room was empty.


    Wait. The room was empty? Marie turned again, just in time to hear the thunk as Regan locked the door between the front cabin and the container of the truck. Clearly, he¡¯d retreated further up to hide and treat his injuries.


    That wasn¡¯t an issue.


    Marie adjusted her configuration once again, returning to a bipedal form as she approached the cabin door. She didn¡¯t yet have the biomass to assume her normal human shape, so the legs she¡¯d created were thin and pointed, like those of an insect. She scuttled forward, holding her hand out.


    New organs within her body produced flammable gasses, which were then ignited and expelled through an orifice on her palm. The metal door burned red as the stream of flame buffeted against it -- perseverance would win out against durability in this case.


    However.


    There were four echoing clicks -- the sound of the cabin uncoupling from the container -- and a second later the room shook as it¡¯s movement ceased and it fell down onto the snow. The thin legs Marie had constructed collapsed beneath her, and she was sent sprawling to the floor.


    A bestial hiss escaped her throat as she picked herself up with her hands, her body already changing back into a smaller and more stable quadruped form.


    She¡¯d lost Regan, but she still had two tasks before her. First was to join back up with her other half to regain her lost biomass. Second was to pass on the information she¡¯d learned about Regan and Darkstar. Both of those would require her to return to Landfall-01.


    Marie lashed out with two hooked tendrils that sprouted from the back of her throat, seizing hold of the glowing metal door and tearing it off its weakened hinges. Immediately, she was assaulted by the wind and snow that was constantly rampaging outside. Apart from that, however, there was nothing but the darkness.


    As she stepped outside, fur growing over her form to provide some protection from the cold, Marie squinted and looked around. Even with her enhanced vision, there was clearly nothing to be seen for miles around.


    She clicked her tongue as she lay down in the cold. They¡¯d been driving some time before that confrontation. Even with her physical advantages, there was no way Marie would be able to make it back to Landfall-01 without freezing to death.


    Only one option, then. She¡¯d have to get creative about things.

 Chapter 148:6.6: So Says The Commissioner

    "That¡¯s a pretty convenient Aether ability, huh?" Winston said cheerfully, tying the laces of his boots as he sat on the bed. "Faking your death like that."


    From what Marie had heard, Winston Grace had been a real nuisance for the doctors and nurses that worked in this medical facility over the last couple of days. He¡¯d been telling people their own life stories from a glance at their wrists, exposing affairs from the inflections of voices, and generally being the most irritating patient in the world.


    "Sure is," Marie replied, her voice dull and monotone. She watched, arms crossed, as Winston finally got off his hospital bed, pulling his fur-coat back on and parking his fez on his head.


    Did he know?


    Given his talents, Marie couldn¡¯t imagine it was impossible. That was fine for the moment, though. If she got the sense he was going to try to use it against her, she¡¯d just kill him. Otherwise, there was no harm in one more person suspecting something he couldn¡¯t ever prove.


    Apparently satisfied with the angle of his fez, Winston twirled on the spot. "How do I look?" he asked, grinning broadly. "Healthy and hardy?"


    "You look fine." Again, her tone didn¡¯t waver in the slightest. "Can we go?"


    They really didn¡¯t have time to spare for Winston Grace¡¯s prancing and preening. The night before -- shortly after Marie had returned to Muzazi¡¯s residence -- they¡¯d received word that Marcela Caesar, the head of the Special Officer¡¯s Commission, wanted a report on their progress from all three of them. Muzazi was already waiting in the town hall¡¯s communication hub, so the unpleasant task of picking up Winston from the hospital had fallen to Marie.


    Speaking of Winston, he was still just standing there, adjusting his sleeves.


    "You mentioned Regan had gone missing?" he asked as he finally followed her out of the door.


    Marie nodded, dulling her sense of smell to avoid the pungent stink of Panacea as they headed out the door into the cold. Even with the artificial lighting that flooded Landfall-01, the darkness bore down on them oppressively.


    "Okay," Winston said. "Regan¡¯s the culprit, then."


    She stopped walking, boots crunching in the snow as she gave Winston a withering look. To be honest, at this point she wasn¡¯t exactly surprised by the fact he¡¯d blurt such a thing out -- and, much to her consternation, she was sure she wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he was right, either. Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "What makes you say that?" she asked, already prepared for the verbal artillery she was sure would follow. "I was thinking he might be the culprit¡¯s next victim -- if they wanted to cripple Nocturnus, going after the Governor would be a sure bet."


    Irritatingly enough, Winston hadn¡¯t stopped walking when Marie had, so she was forced to jog after him as he explained: "Exactly," he snapped his fingers. "The fact that he wasn¡¯t targeted to begin with was suspicious in itself. Hence, he was probably the one behind it. Hence, I didn¡¯t share my findings with him until you guys showed up, since I was scared I¡¯d get killed."


    Marie caught up with him, gritting her teeth as what he¡¯d just said fully registered. "Wait," she hissed, putting a heavy hand down on his shoulder and stopping him in his tracks. "You knew from the start, and you didn¡¯t say?!"


    Winston blinked as if her concerns were ludicrous. "I suspected from the start, sure," he said cheerfully. "But there were a lot of neat little mysteries inside the big mystery, hence I decided not to say anything. It all worked out, so what¡¯s the problem?"


    This had been a very stressful week. With a growl of fury, Marie seized Winston by his collar and pulled him close, teeth bared.


    "Are you being fucking serious right now?" she whispered, murderously quiet. "What¡¯s the problem? What¡¯s the problem? I got blown up because of you, asshole."


    If Winston was at all intimidated, he didn¡¯t show it. He tilted his head limply as he replied: "No. You pretended to get blown up. That¡¯s your Aether ability, right?"


    Marie could snap his neck like a twig if she wanted to. Even this base form of hers was capable of that, easily. Despite that, however, Winston just kept staring at her, his gaze as cold and glassy as a dolls.


    She got the feeling there actually wasn¡¯t very much behind those eyes.


    Winston dropped down to the ground as Marie released him from her grasp. This standard form of hers wasn¡¯t exactly a giant, but even so it had been able to hold Winston up off the ground just by pulling at his collar. He was such a small, annoying thing -- like a squeaking mouse.


    But there was no way he knew. There was no way he¡¯d be able to jump to that conclusion -- it wouldn¡¯t even be a possibility for the humans of today.


    As if nothing had happened, Winston adjusted the collar of his coat and continued strolling towards the town hall, humming a tune. Marie could only sigh and rub her temples at his infuriating nonchalance.


    It was no surprise she was in a foul mood, given Winston¡¯s general existence, the headache she¡¯d been feeling for hours now, and the fact that she¡¯d found no sign of her other half as of yet. She was certain the half of her body that had been brought into the morgue had been taken by Regan, so what was the hold up?


    The other Marie hadn¡¯t gotten any clever ideas about fleeing the planet, had she? No, Marie knew no version of her would be that stupid. If the Needles within their bodies went too far away from each other -- generous as that range might have been -- they¡¯d release their deadly payloads, and that would be the end of both of them.


    She couldn¡¯t imagine any version of herself being killed by a bureaucrat like Regan, but that didn¡¯t do much to reassure her. Things like this had happened a couple times in the past, but even then it had been for an hour or two at the most before they recombined -- not an entire night. It was unsettling to think of another Marie wandering around, quickly becoming more and more distinct from herself.


    There was no choice. She¡¯d have to actively track down her other half as soon as possible. But first came the meeting.


    This wouldn¡¯t be much fun.


    By the time Marie caught up with Winston and entered the communication hub, the hologram had already sprung into life. A slightly enlarged version of Commissioner Caesar stood before them, gloved hands clasped behind her back.


    The leader of the Special Officer¡¯s Commission was a woman who constantly seemed as if she¡¯d just stepped out of the dressing room. Even ignoring the pale blue uniform securely wrapped around her body, and the tricorn hat that somehow never slipped off her head, the rest of her appearance was utterly immaculate. There was never a lock of white hair out of place, never a blemish on her dark skin, never so much as a stray microexpression. She was a woman in constant and complete control of herself.


    Atoy, predictably enough, was already offering a salute to the hologram. Meanwhile, Winston was lounging on a couch off in the corner. The Commissioner¡¯s gaze flicked over to Marie as she entered the darkened room.


    "Kind of you to join us, Officer Hazzard," she said, her tone light. "Something keep you?"


    The Commissioner had the kind of presence that made even seemingly casual phrases seem official. Marie tensed herself up appropriately as she was addressed -- she knew that Caesar would appreciate it.


    "Apologies, ma¡¯am," she said, offering a salute herself. "Conditions are harsh out there. My arrival was delayed."


    "So I¡¯ve heard," Caesar nodded. "Officer Muzazi was telling me these events on Nocturnus seem to be the result of a Darkstar operation. Is that correct?"


    Marie took a deep breath. She¡¯d lived for a century, but somehow she still found herself nervous in Caesar¡¯s presence, like a child having to explain herself to an adult.


    "That seems to be the case, ma¡¯am," she agreed. "At least, that¡¯s Officer Grace¡¯s conclusion."


    Caesar closed her eyes and sighed. "He said that? It must be true, then. I¡¯d hoped these extremists would have disbanded when their king was captured."


    The pest himself spoke up from the couch, where he seemed to be playing some kind of monster-battle game on his script. "Regan¡¯s behind it, by the way!"


    Caesar¡¯s stare hardened. "Governor Regan?"


    "Mm-hmm," Winston replied, still not looking at her. "The whole thing¡¯s an audition for Darkstar, so he wants to be in that group for some reason. I haven¡¯t figured that bit out yet. Probably because he¡¯s mediocre."


    Caesar put a fist to her chin, visibly absorbing and calculating the new information. Marie always found it almost mesmerizing to watch the thought process rush through her eyes -- the Commissioner was no Cogitant, but she might as well have been. Nothing escaped her notice.


    "Officer Muzazi?" she turned to address the still-saluting Atoy.


    "Yes, ma¡¯am?"


    "Your new directive is to apprehend Yuren Regan as quickly as possible. I want him alive for interrogation. I don¡¯t care about the circumstances -- if he dies, I will be very unhappy. Do you understand?"


    "Of course, ma¡¯am," he nodded, shame written all over his face. Apparently, during the time he thought Marie had been dead, he¡¯d wiped out a group of smugglers that could have been used to find the culprit. He¡¯d be eager to make up for that mistake.


    "Officer Hazzard will assist you in the field, as per usual," Caesar continued. "And Officer Grace will remain at Landfall-01 to act as mission control." Her tone softened just slightly. "Don¡¯t worry, Winston. It¡¯s been confirmed that Yuren Regan is not an Aether user. You aren¡¯t missing out on any interesting abilities."


    Winston shrugged disinterestedly from the couch. It seemed he¡¯d already returned to his game.


    The veneer of affability Caesar had adopted vanished in an instant. "Officers Grace and Muzazi, if you could please give us the room. I have private matters to discuss with Officer Hazzard."


    Atoy offered a parting salute -- before taking the liberty of grabbing Winston by the back of the collar and dragging him out of the room. Winston, for his part, just continued playing on his bleep-bloop device.


    The door slid shut behind them.


    "I¡¯m told you were the victim of a bombing, Officer Hazzard," Caesar said slowly. "Am I right in saying I¡¯m not speaking to you in your entirety right now?"


    There was no point hiding it. Chances were that Caesar already knew for certain. The Needles had tracking devices in them, after all.


    Marie nodded. "Only around half of me is here talking to you right now. I¡¯m having trouble tracking down the other half." She added hurriedly: "It¡¯s in hand, though. Just a matter of meeting up."


    Caesar raised an eyebrow. "If you¡¯d like, I can activate the Needles within your duplicate¡¯s body. That seems an efficient means of dealing with the problem."


    Her breath caught in her throat, and Marie rapidly shook her head. "No, that¡¯s alright. As I said, I have the situation in hand."


    "If your duplicate attempts to leave the planet, you understand that will result in the activation of both its and your Needles."


    "I understand, ma¡¯am," Marie said. "That won¡¯t happen. I can deal with this."


    Caesar didn¡¯t understand. Marie doubted anyone who wasn¡¯t a Gene Tyrant possibly could. The other Marie wandering around was no duplicate -- she was just as much the genuine Marie Hazzard as the one standing in this room. There was no way Marie could condemn her to death for her own convenience.


    The quirked eyebrow returned to its neutral position. "I see. With the bombing situation, has anyone else become aware of your true nature?"


    Are there any loose ends that need to be tied up?


    Marie hesitated -- but only for a moment. She shook her head. "I managed to play it off as an Aether ability of mine, just like last time. If anyone suspects anything, they haven¡¯t shown any sign of it."


    "Hm. Well, keep a close eye on them. Keep me updated -- Wu Ming maintains a personal interest in this operation. Success will bring with it a very good impression. I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t need to tell you how valuable the friendship of a Contender can be."


    Marie nodded, but paused as a thought occurred: "I have to say, ma¡¯am, I¡¯m surprised it¡¯s you getting in contact with us and not Wu Ming. He¡¯s the one who personally gave us the assignment, after all."


    The Commissioner looked down at her, unimpressed. "The Contenders are very busy people, as I¡¯m sure you know. I couldn¡¯t possibly comment."


    And with that, the hologram flickered away into nothingness, and the little light that had been in the room evacuated. Marie sighed as she rubbed her forehead. This day really seemed intent on getting on her last nerve. It had been on the spur of the moment, but she¡¯d lied to the Commissioner all the same.


    For a moment, a cold sweat rose to her skin, but she suppressed it nearly immediately. What she¡¯d just done was foolish as it came. Letting Caesar find out about it wasn¡¯t even an option -- it would mean Marie¡¯s death, or possibly something even worse. Most likely Atoy¡¯s death, too: the Supremacy couldn¡¯t risk word about a living Gene Tyrant getting out.


    This whole thing had become a fine mess. She found herself agreeing with Atoy: this planet really was nothing but trouble.


    She couldn¡¯t get lost in anxiety. She hadn¡¯t lived for a hundred years by worrying about future possibilities. If the situation developed against her later on, she¡¯d deal with it then. What she had to deal with were the here and now.


    The other Marie. Before going after Regan, before doing anything else, she needed to find her. Apart from the obvious benefits of recovering her lost biomass, it was entirely possible that the other Marie had valuable intel. So where the hell was she?


    She took a deep breath. After everything that had happened already, the idea of digging this pit any deeper wasn¡¯t very appealing, but¡­


    ...she couldn¡¯t do this alone.


    Marie managed to corner Atoy on the way out of the building, hurriedly pushing him into what seemed to be some kind of custodian¡¯s closet. She looked up and down the hallway, checking nobody was nearby, before pulling the door tight.


    "Officer Hazzard?" Atoy asked, brushing off his parka. "Is something the matter?"


    She sighed. "I need your help."


    "Of course." There wasn¡¯t even a moment of hesitation before Atoy agreed -- Marie took some sly comfort from that. "What¡¯s wrong?"


    Marie adjusted her posture slightly. She¡¯d thought this would be a simple matter of enlisting Atoy¡¯s assistance, but now that the time came to actually explain she couldn¡¯t help but feel a strange discomfort blocking her throat. What she was about to explain was something fundamentally inhuman. It would be like a plant trying to explain its way of life to an animal. Perhaps he would just recoil.


    Stolen story; please report.


    "Marie?" Atoy¡¯s voice softened slightly.


    Screw it. Assistance would be useful in this case, but it wasn¡¯t like she was helpless by herself. If he didn¡¯t get it, then he didn¡¯t get it. No point in hesitating.


    She cleared her throat. "You remember how last night you asked how we were gonna find who tried to blow us up, and I said I¡¯m with them right now all cryptically?"


    Atoy nodded.


    "At the time, I was expecting you to, uh, to ask me what I meant by that. But you didn¡¯t."


    He scratched the back of his neck almost sheepishly. "There¡­ was a lot to consider that night. To be honest, I didn¡¯t think I could handle any more information. I take it that it¡¯s now become important?"


    "You remember how I was blown in half by that explosion?" Marie asked casually.


    Atoy visibly paled. "Yes," he quietly replied.


    Marie took a deep breath as she began to explain. "Well, the Marie you¡¯re talking to right now isn¡¯t the part of me you took back to Landfall-01. I¡¯m the part that was blown back into the house. Gene Tyrants can split into more than one organism, so long as the parts are big enough, so that¡¯s basically what¡¯s happened here. You understand?"


    For an awful moment, Atoy made no movement at all -- but then he slowly nodded. From the look on his face, he clearly didn¡¯t quite understand, but he wanted to. Marie felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders.


    "Well," she went on. "The thing is -- I need to meet up with my other half so we can go back to being one Marie Hazzard. If I can¡¯t do that, and for whatever reason the other Marie tries to leave the planet, that¡¯ll trigger one of the countermeasures I mentioned to you earlier. Basically, we¡¯ll both die."


    Atoy took a deep breath, and the resolve in his eyes hardened like diamond. "I won¡¯t allow that to happen. I lost my partner once before, and I¡­ disliked it. What do you need from me?"


    A grin already spreading across her face, Marie lifted a hand to explain -- then flapped it uselessly as she realized she didn¡¯t exactly know what she needed from Atoy. Why had she come to him in the first place, really? What would he be able to do that she wouldn¡¯t? Was it just moral support?


    Maybe she¡¯d just wanted this anxiety to exist in more heads than just her own.


    Atoy frowned at her obvious distress. "I take it you¡¯ve been unable to locate your, um¡­ other half, then? That¡¯s where the problem is?"


    Biting her thumb as she winced from her headache, Marie nodded.


    He took a deep breath. "I have a proposal, then, if you¡¯ll hear me out." The hesitation in Atoy¡¯s voice was nothing if not concerning. "I¡¯m sure it¡¯s not something you¡¯ll be eager about, given your personal opinions, but I think it would be effective in solving your problem."


    "And what is this proposal?" Marie asked cautiously.


    Atoy spoke quickly, rightfully worried that she¡¯d interrupt him otherwise. "We enlist the aid of Officer Grace."


    "Hell no."


    Marie fiercely shook her head. Telling Atoy, someone she trusted, about her true nature was one thing -- but Winston Grace?! The vapid detective himself, who¡¯d gotten her blown up with his childish mystery obsession? The boy who¡¯d never been introduced to the subject of shutting the fuck up? She might as well announce her secret for all the world to hear.


    "I understand," Atoy said, raising a placating hand. "I understand you dislike him, but this seems the optimal way to solve your problem! Essentially, it¡¯s a missing person case, correct? Officer Grace will leap at the chance to solve that sort of mystery. Perhaps we can be vague about what exactly we¡¯re searching for -- just give him enough information to make a deduction?"


    "It won¡¯t work!" Marie growled, pacing back and forth in the small space the custodian¡¯s closet allowed her. "He¡¯s an idiot, but he¡¯s smart at the same time -- he¡¯ll figure it out!"


    Atoy sighed, once again rubbing the back of his neck as he grasped for arguments. "You¡¯ve told me, so is it really that disagreeable to tell him? We¡¯ll benefit from it as well, and he¡¯s a Special Officer -- same as us. He¡¯ll be bound to secrecy just as I am!"


    Marie thrusted her fist towards the wall -- restraining herself only at the last moment, a mere second before her misjudged strength would have torn right through the steel. Right now, she was more than just angry: she was furious. She¡¯d entertained hopes otherwise, but Atoy Muzazi simply didn¡¯t get it.


    "I trust you," she hissed, eyes drilling into the wall. "I don¡¯t trust him. I don¡¯t care what sort of promises he makes. This is my life, Atoy. You understand?"


    Atoy¡¯s eyes flicked from Marie¡¯s clenched fist to the wall, and back again. "Perhaps," he said quietly. "You should take a deep breath?"


    She glared. "Don¡¯t condescend."


    "I¡¯m not. I do it myself when I become frustrated -- it helps."


    Whatever. She took a deep breath -- deeper than was possible for any normal human -- expanding her lungs as the air flowed in and in. She hated to admit it, but she did feel a little calmer as the cool air rushed in.


    "Okay," she sighed. "But I¡¯m still not telling him."


    Atoy stepped forward, placing a firm hand down on her shoulder. Marie glanced at it, frowning, but she made no effort to peel away his grip.


    "Listen," he said. "You said you trust me, didn¡¯t you?"


    "Right¡­"


    His grip tightened. "There¡¯s no need for you to trust Officer Grace. Just trust me, and I¡¯ll trust him." His other hand hovered over his sheathed blade. "If Grace proves unworthy of my trust¡­ I¡¯ll kill him myself before so much as a word can leave his mouth."


    Marie opened her mouth to refuse again, to counter the flimsy argument, but instead she found herself nodding.


    It seemed she really had come to trust Atoy Muzazi.


    The command center Winston Grace had set up was a ramshackle affair -- it seemed he¡¯d dragged every monitor and holographic projector in the building into this unused room. Most of them were showing exterior models of Landfall-01, although some displayed charts of various sensory data and one -- sneakily hidden between two projectors -- was clearly displaying the pause screen for some kind of card game.


    Like a clumsy spider, Grace swiveled around in his chair to rake in the input all around him, eyes flicking from one display to the next. As the doors slid open, he whirled around -- his chair doing two loops before finally coming to a stop before Atoy and Marie.


    "Hiya," he said, reaching into a bag of chips. "What¡¯s up?"


    Atoy took a deep breath. They¡¯d decided that he¡¯d be the one to break the actual news -- and to make clear what the consequences of blabbing would be. Marie wondered how he¡¯d build up to it.


    "Officer Hazzard here is a Gene Tyrant!" Atoy Muzazi declared, staring straight forward.


    "Wow," Grace said. "That¡¯s crazy."


    Crunch.


    He nonchalantly chewed the chip in his mouth, already reaching into the bag for a replacement. The only thing that stopped him from continuing his feast was the fact that Marie forcefully slapped the bag out of his hand.


    "You knew?!" she growled, her face pulled close to his, her eyes wide with fury.


    Winston blinked innocently. "Sure I did."


    Marie drew even closer in her interrogation. "Since when?!"


    He stuck his tongue out playfully as he shrugged. "That¡¯s a secret!"


    Before Atoy could so much as speak up in protest, Marie¡¯s hands lashed out like twin vipers, each hand planted against Winston¡¯s temples. It would take only the slightest effort for her to crush his skull like a grapefruit.


    "I could seriously kill you, you know," she said softly, her voice a minute monotone.


    "You won¡¯t, though," Winston shot back calmly, that same glassy look in his eyes.


    "Are you sure about that?" She squeezed, just a little, and the resultant wince of discomfort from Winston was reward enough.


    "Mm-hmm," he nodded as much as he was able. "You came to me and told me this even though you find me infuriating. Hence, you absolutely need my help for something. Hence, you can¡¯t afford to kill me."


    He was right. Damn it, he was right. Marie released Winston from her grip, and he fell back into his chair roughly. She took a deep breath, and a step back.


    "I¡¯m sort of accepting the fact you probably know what I need help with, too," she said, crossing her arms.


    Winston crouched down, recovering his bag of chips from the floor. Some had spilled, but it didn¡¯t seem to bother him any.


    "You were blown in half by the bombing," he said, waving a chip in the air. "And there are records of Gene Tyrants surviving even after being cut into pieces. Hence, there¡¯s another one of you somewhere on this planet. You would only come to me with a problem if I was the only person who could solve it. Hence, it¡¯s a mystery related to your other half. Hence, you want to find out where it is." He tossed the chip up in the air, then caught it in his mouth as it came down and began to chew. "I¡¯m right, right?"


    Marie sucked in a deep breath of air. Atoy¡¯s advice really did work well. "Every word..." she forced out through gritted teeth.


    Winston grinned. "Great!" he cried, with all the enthusiasm of a victorious child.


    Before Marie could say anything more, Atoy stepped forward. Just as he¡¯d promised her, though, his hand was placed firmly on the hilt of his sword. A seemingly casual gesture, but one that could become deadly in a split second.


    "All we require is a location," Atoy said firmly. "I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve handled missing person cases in the past. This should be no different."


    Winston sat cross-legged on his chair, idly spinning as he considered the conundrum. "That¡¯s a toughie, to be honest," he mused, a finger on his lips. "With humans, you can pretty much predict the set of actions they can take and work backwards from there -- but I¡¯ve heard Gene Tyrants can do some wacky stuff. The range of actions is much more extreme."


    Spin, spin, spin. Marie had no idea how the brat could think and act as a centrifuge at the same time.


    Her head twinged.


    Marie winced -- and at the very same moment, Winston stopped his spinning. He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin like the supports of a bridge. A sly smile crossed his face.


    "Okay," he said simply. "I know how to find her now. Marie, can you take my hand for a second?" He extended his own.


    Marie exchanged a glance with Atoy, and got a subtle nod in return. She doubted Winston could try anything -- but if he did, Atoy would be there to cut him down.


    She stepped forward, clasping her hand against Winston¡¯s smaller one.


    "What¡¯s this meant to do, then?" she asked, narrowed eyes betraying her suspicion.


    "You¡¯ll see," he chuckled. "Dupin¡¯s Alchemy."


    The entire world became nothing.


    In an instant, every sense Marie Hazzard used to perceive the world vanished. Her sight, her hearing, her sense of touch -- even the hidden senses she¡¯d sneaked away inside her body. She was disconnected from all of them.


    It wasn¡¯t as if she was floating in a black void. For a void to be black, colour would need to exist. It was just¡­ an absence of reality. Nothing.


    Nothing except the pain.


    The buzzing that had been tickling her brain was now scraping it¡¯s claws against it, rifling through every nerve, shredding the meat as if it were butter. She opened her mouth to scream -- and was sure she must have done so -- but no sound reached her ears.


    This pain had a direction, had a source. She could feel it, like a great clawed hand reaching out from the wilderness to torment her. Would she die? How could a person feel this pain and not die?


    And then, just like that, it was over.


    Marie fell to her knees, fingers pressed against the carpeted floor. She¡¯d never realized how blessed she¡¯d been just to be able to feel things. The sensation of the carpet against her hands was simply indescribable.


    "How¡¯d it go?" came the choked voice of Winston Grace.


    Marie looked up. Atoy had seized Winston by the neck and slammed him against the wall, where he was being held aloft, legs flailing against the air. Despite the fact that his face was already turning red from lack of oxygen, the childish grin on Winston¡¯s face didn¡¯t lessen in the slightest.


    She picked herself up, glaring at him. A nod to Atoy brought the detective back down to the ground, where he lay massaging his throat.


    "What did you do?" she demanded.


    "I was curious to see if Atoy Muzazi would actually kill me," Winston laughed, still massaging his throat.


    "No," Marie shook her head. "What did you just do to me?"


    "I told you -- Dupin¡¯s Alchemy," Winston looked up. "People think humans have five senses, but that¡¯s not strictly true. There are a bunch of inputs that could be considered extra senses, even if evolution has mostly left them behind. Am I right in saying your senses are dialled up to begin with? I¡¯m right, right?"


    Slowly, Marie nodded.


    "And you¡¯ve had a headache for a while now, right?"


    Again, a nod.


    Winston¡¯s sly smile spread just a bit wider. "Did you know humans can faintly sense magnetic fields? It¡¯s called magnetoreception. If a human can do it faintly, I¡¯d bet you can do it exceptionally. Plus you¡¯ve got a headache. Hence, the other Marie Hazzard is projecting a magnetic field, and you¡¯re picking it up."


    Infuriatingly enough, that made sense. It aggravated Marie beyond belief that this brat understood what she was feeling more than she did, but she wasn¡¯t stubborn enough to reject that conclusion because of a personal grudge.


    "Did the pain of the headache seem to be coming from a particular direction?" Winston asked.


    Marie hesitantly nodded.


    "Well, there you go," he shrugged. "Keep going in that direction, and you¡¯ll find the other Marie."


    That was that, then. It was hard to believe things could be that easy, but everything Winston Grace was saying seemed to ring true. Atoy left the room first, but Marie lingered by the door.


    "Hey," she called back to Winston, the words almost reluctant to leave her mouth. "Thanks. I do appreciate this."


    Winston had already gotten back into his seat, and was faced away from her, messing around on his various consoles. "No problem. I had fun figuring it out. Thanks for throwing me against the wall and choking me out and stuff."


    She¡¯d entertained the niceties -- Marie¡¯s gaze hardened. "If you dare blab, though, I will actually have you killed."


    "Don¡¯t worry," Winston replied, putting another chip into his mouth. "There¡¯s nothing I hate more than a spoiler."


    Marie¡¯s headache only intensified as their bike approached the object, and by the end she found herself numbing her sense of pain just to avoid falling off the back of the vehicle. Atoy, driving, cast a worried gaze back as her grip on his shoulders tightened, but she waved off his concern.


    They¡¯d finally found it, after all.


    It had been easy to identify the other Marie Hazzard at a distance, what with the amount of light she was giving off, like a bonfire in the darkness. If that didn¡¯t do it, the sheer incongruity of her appearance would have been a dead giveaway. There weren¡¯t any other trees on this planet, after all.


    The black wooden growth bore no leaves nor fruit, but was instead covered in glowing yellow pustules, like sleeping fireflies. The branches that protruded from the top of the tree fanned out like an umbrella, and the roots that bound it to the ground had spread out just as vicariously -- in some places, even infiltrating the flipped-over wreckage of the trailer nearby. The snow around it had melted, although it was difficult to tell whether that was due to heat or because the tree had drained it away for sustenance.


    As the bike stopped, Atoy got off, looking around cautiously. "This¡­ is you?" he asked, clearly unconvinced. Marie couldn¡¯t exactly blame him: this sort of form was unusual for her as well.


    She got off the bike, feet crunching against the thin line of snow that remained. She could definitely feel it, in rhythmic pulses -- the magnetic field that Winston Grace had described, coming right from the core of that tree.


    It was surprising how sheepish she was as she approached. Every other time this had happened, her other half had been a humanoid just like her, and the merge had been a mutually initiated thing. This time, however, her other half showed no signs of even possessing intelligence.


    The reason why was easy to guess. Projecting a magnetic field like this -- especially one of this strength -- wasn¡¯t something Marie had ever done before, and she was willing to bet the other Marie had reconfigured her entire body to be dedicated to that task. There was literally no more room in her form for independent thought.


    She reached out, placing her palm against the curiously warm bark. Deep inside, she could feel something like a faint heartbeat.


    For the other Marie, this had been an all-or-nothing gamble. More than that, though, it had been a display of trust in herself. She found herself smiling softly.


    "Hey," she whispered. "It¡¯s me."


    The tree had enough of a mind left to know what to do next. The bark began to ripple, the tree shrinking and the roots retreating as the arboreal organism flowed into Marie¡¯s hand like water¡­ and the memories flowed with it.


    The truck, rumbling through the snow on a preprogrammed route.


    Regan, recoiling as she tore off his hand.


    McCoy, disappearing through the jaw of a massive skull.


    Two became one.


    Taking in a deep breath -- and savoring the disappearance of the magnetic field -- she turned to look at Atoy. It was a wonderful thing to feel complete, and she couldn¡¯t help but grin widely as she saw his stunned expression.


    "Beautiful¡­" he whispered, still staring at the last of the tree roots retreating into her palm.


    A laugh escaped her throat. She didn¡¯t even care how cold it was out here anymore -- this was a moment to be happy.


    "Good to see you again, Atoy," she said.


    Admiration turned into confusion on his features. "But we¡­"


    She waved a vague hand. "Sorry," she chuckled. "It seemed appropriate. Anyway--"


    Suddenly, Muzazi tensed, hand flying to his sword. Marie too, clenched her fists, bringing her body low to the ground. Why couldn¡¯t happy moments ever last?


    Around them, shining through the darkness, were the countless glowing green eyes of security automatics -- fixed directly on Atoy and Marie, surrounding them on all sides. At least a hundred in all.


    The two Special Officers moved quickly, planting themselves back-to-back to get a view of as many of their enemies as they could. At the same time, there was a legion of clicks as the automatics readied their weapons as one.


    Regan had clearly anticipated they¡¯d come here and left a trap. But how the hell had he gotten so many automatics?!


    "Marie," Muzazi intoned, his sword held up in a ready position. "Are you ready?"


    He was right. There was nothing to worry about anymore. There was one Marie Hazzard again, and that was enough to deal with anything the world had.


    "Yeah," she said, raising her fists. "I¡¯m ready."

 Chapter 149:6.7: The Envy of an Insect

    One benefit of an immortal lifespan was that it gave you plenty of time to catch up on the latest trends.


    The security automatics that were surrounding Marie Hazzard and Atoy Muzazi were IonTec -- the Gladiator model, judging from the trinocular layout of their eyes. Each of them would be equipped with a high-grade plasma rifle, along with a retractable arm-blade in case a firearm suppressor was used. Most likely they wouldn¡¯t need to use that, though: there were at least a hundred of them, and their combined fire could reduce Marie and Atoy to paste long before either one of them could activate any such device.


    It wasn¡¯t hopeless, however.


    The positions the Gladiators had taken -- surrounding the enemy on all sides, with even spacing between each unit -- was part of their default programming. Regan hadn¡¯t seemed the technical type, so it was unlikely he¡¯d created any custom formations for them. If that was correct, there was a chance for one of them to get out of here.


    In a situation like this, so long as neither of them moved, the Gladiators would wait a short time before opening fire -- in case any of their comrades would appear to try and save them. That artificial idiocy meant they had a chance to strategize.


    Marie formed a new mouth on the back of her neck -- facing towards Atoy, who was still back-to-back with her. The Gladiators¡¯ facial recognition would only read the mouth on the front of her face: they were literally incapable of perceiving this new one.


    "Atoy," she whispered through her new lips. "Don¡¯t move and don¡¯t talk back. Just listen. If you do anything, they¡¯ll start shooting."


    Obediently, he didn¡¯t move in the slightest -- save for his slow, deliberate breathing.


    "These automatic models can¡¯t operate far from a controller -- if they¡¯re here, and Regan¡¯s the one using them, that means he¡¯s nearby. I can take these things. I¡¯ll distract them, so you find where Regan¡¯s hiding out and finish this."


    She felt the vibration of the lowest growl from Atoy, behind her. He wouldn¡¯t shake his head, but the refusal was still obvious.


    We¡¯ll take them together. No doubt he¡¯d be saying something along those lines. Oh, Atoy...


    "The moment we move," she said insistently. "They¡¯ll rain down hell on us. I can survive that, you can¡¯t."


    Still, she could feel his disapproval. There was no time for that: the window before the Gladiators attacked was almost over. Slowly, but as quickly as she dared, Marie reached back and squeezed his free hand.


    "Don¡¯t worry," she said. "I won¡¯t sacrifice myself for you. I¡¯m not the type."


    The slightest sigh escaped from Atoy¡¯s lips, and his nod was all but imperceptible. Still, it was all that Marie needed.


    In a flash of movement, Marie raised her arm up in the air -- already engorged to three times it¡¯s original size -- and slammed it down onto the ground. Immediately, a cloud of snow and dirt flew up, filling the air, and in that obscured moment Marie could hear the rush of Atoy¡¯s thrusters as he fled.


    The Gladiators let loose as one, plasmafire pouring into the cloud of debris -- so much of it that it could have reduced any human being to ash within the space of a few seconds. Satisfied the proper amount of force had been dispensed, they halted their fire.


    That was their first mistake.


    The creature that emerged from the cloud of smoke and ash was unique. Nothing else like it existed in the entire universe. It was a form Marie Hazzard had come up with on the fly, using whatever resources were available, to utterly annihilate her enemies.


    If she had the extra biomass, she might as well use it.


    Just like her original form, this new one was humanoid. That was where the similarities ended. It was at least two times her original height, lacking clothes or even skin, angry red muscle on full display. The musculature was bulging and as defined as iron cables, nigh unbreakable, with reinforced plates of bone protecting her more vulnerable joints.


    Her skull was pushed forward slightly, protruding from her face, but the eye sockets were dark and empty. Her former ocular setup had been inefficient, and so she¡¯d decided to make some modest changes.


    Two eyes on the back of her head. Two eyes on her collar. Two eyes on the back of her deltoids. Two eyes on her shoulder blades. One eye, staring bloodshot from her navel. Three eyes, arranged in vertical rows, on each of her thighs. All in all, she had a 360-degrees view of everything around her. Vanilla humans could only be jealous.


    These automatics¡¯ programming would have them target the head as a certain kill, so Marie had made sure it was little more than a prop in this new form. The eyes all over her body was part of that, but she¡¯d also relocated her brain to her pelvis, where it was shielded upside-down behind layers of reinforced bone.


    This was a machine made for killing.


    "Well," she intoned, her voice made deep and rumbling by her new body. "Let¡¯s get started, shall we?" S~ea??h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    At the same time as the Gladiators resumed fire, Marie kicked herself off the ground like a cannonball -- zooming towards her enemies with arms outstretched.


    It was funny. Under the right circumstances, metal was just as pliable as butter.


    Yuren Regan had clearly chosen this place for comfort, not secrecy.


    The metal shack was right in the middle of a field of the glowing grass Muzazi had noted when he¡¯d first arrived -- dimly shining bulbs hanging from each blade. In terms of appearance, the building resembled a Landfall-01 residence, if just a tad bigger, with a slowly rotating transmission dish on the roof.


    That, no doubt, was what was communicating with the security automatics. Muzazi would disable it and then apprehend Regan.


    He held Luminescence close as he approached the cabin, eyes flicking around for any more automatics that might have been in wait, but it seemed he had little to worry about. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of explosions and smashing metal -- everything Regan had in reserve was thoroughly occupied by Marie Hazzard.


    The front door was sealed shut, but not for long. Muzazi placed his hand against it and -- with a flare of silver Aether -- created a thruster on its surface. The metal audibly creaked as the force of the thruster pushed it inwards, Muzazi pouring even more Aether into it to increase its speed and strength.


    Click, click, click, click. One by one, the hinges snapped.


    The metal gave a final screech of protest -- and then broke free, flying into the darkened room within the cabin and smashing against the unseen far wall. Before entering the building, Muzazi created a weak thruster on his palm: even if it didn¡¯t have any force behind it, it would still produce light.


    He took a cautious step inside.


    "I think you should sit down, Mr. Muzazi," Yuren Regan said quietly.


    The lights were turned off in the room, but the glow from the thruster meant that Muzazi could still see well enough. From the looks of the room, this place was laid out like an open living space, not any kind of technical installation. A kitchen, a bedroom, and a dining room all in one. No space wasted.


    What caught Muzazi¡¯s attention, however, was Regan himself. He was sitting at the far end of the dining table, bathed in shadow. One hand was missing, wrapped in bandages -- but the other, resting on the table, was clearly visible. He was holding some sort of trigger, his thumb teasingly brushing against the button. Glancing down at the bottom of the table, Muzazi could see what were definitely gas canisters packed together.


    Regan leaned forward into the light, revealing the transparent rebreather that covered his nose and mouth.


    "I said," he growled. "I think you should sit down, Mr. Muzazi."


    Muzazi didn¡¯t know what kind of gas was packed underneath that table, but he felt it was a safe bet he didn¡¯t want to breathe it in. Slowly, he put Luminescence down on the ground. Then, he walked around and sat opposite Regan, staring the man down. The Governor licked his lips nervously, his eyes flicking between Muzazi and the trigger.


    "I take it you think you have me in checkmate," Muzazi said quietly.


    He wasn¡¯t fully confident in his ability to take that trigger away before Regan could apply pressure to the button -- he needed to discern more about the situation he was in before he could make his move.


    Regan¡¯s voice was hoarse with anxiety as he spoke up. "Do you know what Decimatus-2 is?"


    "I don¡¯t."


    Could he launch a throwing knife to destroy the trigger? No. By the time he opened his parka and retrieved the projectile, Regan would have pushed the button long ago.


    The Governor took a deep breath. Apart from their breathing, the only sounds were the distant conflict and the snow coming down outside. In that quiet, death was lingering close, waiting for an opportunity. You could cut the tension with a knife.


    "It¡¯s an old Gene Tyrant poison," Regan explained. "Not cheap. Meant to inflict pain for interrogation. You take a breath of that, and -- and you¡¯ll go mad with pain before the hour is out."


    "I see. I¡¯ll endeavour not to breathe it in, then."


    Suddenly, Regan slammed his fist against the metal table, the sound of the blow echoing throughout the small room. "Don¡¯t act tough, you fucker," he hissed. "Don¡¯t act cool. What¡¯s so good about you, anyway? Special Officer? There¡¯s nothing special there. Any idiot can hold a sword."


    "Is that a question you want an answer to?" In contrast to Regan¡¯s clear aggravation, Muzazi¡¯s breathing was steady and calm.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Regan hesitated for a moment, before planting his palm against the table once again. "Go ahead!" he said. "What¡¯s so special about you!? If you try anything, though, I¡¯ll push this fucking button immediately. Don¡¯t try me."


    Muzazi took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes. Truth be told, he had no idea what words would come out of his mouth when he opened it.


    "What is special about us, I think," he said quietly. "Is that we take responsibility for ourselves. When we take actions, we stand by our actions. We don¡¯t blame others for our shortcomings. Our defeats belong only to ourselves, as do our victories."


    "Bullshit," Regan sniffed. "You¡¯re just able to hit harder than other people, kill -- kill more efficiently. The only difference between you and me is that you¡¯re more vicious."


    The slightest trace of anger entered Muzazi¡¯s voice. "You¡¯ve murdered your own people, you¡¯ve blown up people who have nothing to do with you, and you¡¯ve discarded those stupid enough to listen to you. And you call me vicious?"


    Regan leaned forward slightly more, the hand holding the trigger slithering -- slowly but surely -- across the surface of the table.


    "I do," he hissed. "I do call you vicious. Since you¡¯ve arrived here, you¡¯ve slaughtered every single person who¡¯s opposed you. At least I have a greater purpose."


    "And what purpose is that, pray tell?"


    Regan took a deep breath, and the trigger retreated across the table slightly. He looked up at the ceiling, and in the dim light his eyes seemed strangely wistful.


    "It¡¯s humiliating, you know?" he whispered, his eyes narrowed to furious slits. "Being here, in this room, on this planet. I work hard my entire life, put more effort in than anyone else, and they stick me on a snowball like this? At first, I thought it was an honour, but¡­ it¡¯s meaningless, this place. And they made me meaningless by putting me here."


    I haven¡¯t figured that bit out yet, Winston had said when asked of Regan¡¯s motive. Probably because he¡¯s mediocre.


    It really was that simple, then. How disgusting.


    "And Darkstar will give you meaning again?" Muzazi glared. "Please tell me there¡¯s more to this than that. You disgrace yourself."


    A sneer twisted Regan¡¯s face as he leaned back in his seat, an unearned arrogance in his posture. "I¡¯m going to be part of the movement that brought about a new era for mankind. My name will live on in history forever, while you¡¯re forgotten out here in the dark."


    "That¡¯s a dead dream," Muzazi said sternly. "You¡¯ve already failed Darkstar. I¡¯d expect them to silence you shortly."


    Regan grinned as he shook his head. "No, no, no, no. I failed with that Hazzard woman, but now I¡¯ve got you. A captured Special Officer is an even more impressive prize than a dead one."


    Muzazi could have laughed. "You seem rather desperate to me, Governor. But I feel you don¡¯t understand a thing. Can I tell you a story from my life?"


    "What?" Regan furrowed his brow.


    The approval of an insect wasn¡¯t necessary. Muzazi spoke.


    "Some months ago, I met a young man from the AdminCorps. I didn¡¯t realize at the time, but looking back on it I expect he was much like you: desiring advancement while never deserving it, and fostering resentment against those who dared to have principles. That young man betrayed the Supremacy, as you did. He was weak and utterly powerless, so he elected to shoot me in the back and flee while I lay there, helpless. When I met him a second time, he couldn¡¯t even muster the courage to stand by his decision -- he fled again as soon as the opportunity arose."


    Muzazi put his hands on the cold, metal table before him.


    "I think he was less pathetic than you," he said.


    Regan blinked. His eye twitched. The fury those words had sparked travelled throughout his body in an instant, reaching his finger -- which pressed the button without hesitation.


    There wasn¡¯t even time for Muzazi to hold his breath. In an instant, orange gas poured forth from the canisters, trickling into his nose and mouth as if the smoke had a will of its own.


    Decimatus-2¡¯s reputation was not unearned. The gas was pure agony as it travelled through Muzazi¡¯s body, cutting through him as if he¡¯d swallowed a bundle of knives. He could almost picture its shadowy, hooked fingers plucking at his nerves like the strings of a violin.


    Any attempt to retain his dignity was fruitless. With a strangled cry of pain, Muzazi collapsed out of his chair and onto the floor.


    The last thing he saw before hitting the ground was Regan¡¯s victorious grin.


    He¡¯d done it. He¡¯d actually done it!


    Hardly believing his luck, Yuren Regan got to his feet to look at his quarry. He half-expected to see that Atoy Muzazi had simply vanished -- but no. The meathead was thrashing around on the ground, grunting and whimpering, at his complete and utter mercy.


    Regan couldn¡¯t help but laugh.


    It has taken so long, cost so much money and effort, but he¡¯d finally done it. He¡¯d proven his worth, his own supremacy. These Special Officers could cut a person to pieces, could punch through steel, but they were helpless before a practiced and disciplined mind.


    Darkstar would forgive him for the earlier mishap. How could they not? It had been necessary, after all, for this greater victory.


    The face that had been judging him, casting aspersions on him, was twisted in agony -- locked in an invisible battle with Decimatus-2. He¡¯d conquered this man. Without lifting so much as a finger, he¡¯d utterly defeated him.


    In anticipation of this moment, he¡¯d already sent a transmission to the frequency Darkstar had provided. They¡¯d be along shortly to collect this quarry -- he didn¡¯t know for sure, but he was willing to bet that Decimatus-2 was a mercy compared to the hospitality they could provide. Served the bastard right.


    "Pathetic, am I?" Regan chuckled.


    He drove his foot into the Special Officer¡¯s ribs twice, each time earning a pleasant increase in the man¡¯s thrashing. With each blow, it was as if he was finally severing the chains that bound him to the Supremacy, that bound him to the government that had squandered his potential. In this moment, Atoy Muzazi was the Supremacy itself, and nothing gave Regan greater pleasure than inflicting pain on that.


    Again, again, he kicked, over and over again.


    "Pathetic?" he cried each time, punctuating his strikes, the ferocity of his speech intensifying as he went. "Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic?!"


    Spittle rained down on his prisoner, and Regan was finally satisfied when Muzazi¡¯s thrashing turned to stillness. There was no way the Special Officer was dead from something like that. Doubtless he¡¯d passed out from the pain.


    Well, Regan grinned. It¡¯s a sensation you should get used to.


    All he had to do now was batten down the hatches and wait for McCoy to answer his summons.


    The room was freezing at this point. Atoy Muzazi had wrecked the main door coming in, but he could easily use the fire suppression system to activate the fire door there and seal the room. That, at least, would provide some security while Regan waited.


    He stepped over to the emergency panel on the wall, illuminated by the grasslight leaking in through the open doorway. Strictly speaking, the fire doors weren¡¯t meant to be used this way, but with a little bit of maneuvering they¡¯d work just fine. Regan was nothing if not resourceful.


    He tapped the screen, springing it into life, then squinted as he scrolled through the options. So long as he went into the fire suppression menu with admin permissions, he could manually operate the fire doors on a case-by-case basis. It was a little difficult to read the text on the screen, but¡­


    Regan¡¯s eyes widened.


    It was a little difficult to read the text on the screen -- because the shadow of a man was falling on Regan from behind.


    He whirled around, pressing his back against the wall as if he could move through it to escape. No, no, this was impossible. There was no way. How the hell was a man who -- moments ago -- had been writhing in utter agony now standing before him?!


    Atoy Muzazi held his sword in one hand, looking down at Regan with wide bloodshot eyes of utter fury. Stains of blood from Regan¡¯s assault still painted Muzazi¡¯s chest and lips, and his breathing was ragged as he stared Regan down. It was as if a corpse had started walking.


    Regan turned to run, but far too late.


    Muzazi¡¯s fist slammed into Regan¡¯s stomach with devastating force, lifting him off the ground and prompting a torrent of saliva and vomit to pour from his mouth. Before he could collapse to the ground, however, Muzazi grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close, his fingers almost tearing through the fabric with the sheer strength he was exhibiting. All this with one hand. Absurdity. Absurdity.


    "You understand nothing," Atoy Muzazi whispered. "Not about Aether, nor about life."


    He raised his sword high in the air, and --


    -- struck Regan with the blunt end, knocking him out cold. Muzazi had promised he¡¯d bring him in alive, after all -- and he¡¯d go to any length to keep a promise.


    The former Governor fell to the floor like a pile of bricks, limbs splayed out as his face landed in his own vomit with a splat. That, at least, could be Muzazi¡¯s tiny vengeance. It didn¡¯t make up for the lives that had been lost as a result of Regan¡¯s actions, but it would have to do for now.


    Muzazi almost fell to one knee himself, but managed to keep standing through sheer willpower. By infusing his organs with Aether, he¡¯d been able to withstand the ravages of Decimatus-2, but the pain had still been unbearable. Even breathing caused him to tremble right now.


    He couldn¡¯t hear the sounds of battle in the distance anymore. Did that mean Marie had been victorious? Would she be coming to help him?


    Slowly, ignoring the excruciating pain that crawled over his nerves like lice, Muzazi bent down and picked Regan up, throwing him over his shoulder. Then, ignoring the shaking in his legs, he stepped through the open doorway. If Marie was coming for him, he wanted to be immediately visible.


    It was strange. The glowing grass that surrounded the cabin almost made Muzazi think that his vision had been flipped upside-down. The stars were down on the ground, and the dark earth reigned above.


    There was no sound save for the rustling of the grass and the whistling of the wind. The cold cut to the bone. As Muzazi breathed his ragged breath, it floated into the air as fog and disappeared into the darkness.


    Regan was an abominable man, but he had been right about one thing: this planet truly was awful.


    Muzazi sighed --


    -- and a massive object struck the ground in front of him, shaking the earth. The force of the blow was so intense that the cabin behind Muzazi crumbled into wreckage, which went flying away like scraps of paper. The only thing that prevented Muzazi from flying off in the same way was Luminescence -- he planted the Aether-infused blade into the ground below him, holding onto it with one hand while securing Regan with the other. His long hair whipped through the air behind him, coming loose in the process.


    The raging winds lasted nearly five seconds before dying down, causing him and Regan to fall roughly back down to the ground. Muzazi didn¡¯t waste a moment: he pulled Luminescence free and stepped in front of Regan, holding his blade forward defensively at the cloud of debris.


    With the force of that blow, that surely must have been the impact of some meteorite, so why was Muzazi¡¯s body so sure it had to defend itself?


    The smog cleared.


    The figure kneeling in the crater was huge and hulking, clad in rusted and discordant pieces of dark-purple armour insufficient to cover its entire form -- loose white skin was visible in multiple areas. It¡¯s head was covered by a smooth and cylindrical helmet, lacking any visible openings for sight or hearing. Not even breathing could be heard from within that iron prison.


    Next to it, embedded in the earth, was a colossal sword at least twice Muzazi¡¯s height, the blade jet-black. Sinister purple Aether slowly swirled around the figure and the weapon, like a horde of malicious snakes.


    With the creak of metal, the figure slowly looked up to face Muzazi. Then, it cocked its head -- at so grotesque an angle that it was a wonder its neck didn¡¯t snap right then and there.


    "Two?" it gurgled, voice warping and shifting in pitch as it spoke. "Not one? Unexpected."


    Muzazi¡¯s breath caught in his throat as his hands began to tremble anew. He had never met this creature in his life, never crossed paths with it -- but this bizarre appearance, this aura of utter murder¡­ there could be no mistaking it. He knew exactly who this thing was.


    Samson Rhodes. The Abyssal Knight.

 Chapter 150:6.8: Abyssal

    The Abyssal Knight groaned and moaned, its voice warping, as it picked itself up off the ground. It pulled the massive sword out of the earth with one hand, the sheer strength required for such a feat shaking the ground below.


    Muzazi stumbled back, holding out Luminescence protectively, only to stop when the back of his foot bumped into Regan¡¯s unconscious form. He tried to gulp, but his throat was far too dry.


    "Boy," the Abyssal Knight wheezed, voice skipping like some kind of recording. "Boy, boy, boy, boy, boy. Aside -- stand aside."


    With those words, barely coherent, it began to move forwards -- shambling like some kind of zombie. With each movement, the joints of the Abyssal Knight audibly crunched, as if its bones were grinding against each other. Patches of its armour fluttered in the wind, but the imperfection of its defense did nothing to lessen the intimidation factor.


    It reached the crest of the crater, pulling itself up with an arm that lashed out at an unnatural angle. Within a second, the Knight was standing before Muzazi, only around two meters away -- slouched over like a puppet hanging from invisible strings.


    "Hear," it gurgled. "Did you not hear? Move. Move, move. Move aside."


    Muzazi took a deep breath, adjusting his stance slightly, positioning Luminescence so he could take the Knight¡¯s head from its body if it suddenly lurched forwards. He had to believe he was capable of that.


    Even so, he was surprised by the confidence in his own voice. "I can¡¯t do that," he said. "I¡¯ve sworn to bring this man back alive."


    The Knight hesitated for a moment -- and underneath its loose skin, Muzazi could see muscles writhing like agitated eels. There was the sound of creaking bone as it adjusted its stance. Then, overpowering that, a rattling noise rang out as the Knight¡¯s head began to rapidly vibrate, as if the thing were agitated.


    "Rush?" it hissed, barely audible over the rattling. It slowed slightly. "No. Different -- similar but different. No. A sickly sense of humour. You won¡¯t move? No?"


    Muzazi didn¡¯t quite understand, but the question at least was clear. His hands tightened around the hilt of Luminescence. His lips almost stuck together as he opened his mouth, like his body was reluctant to let words escape.


    "No. I won¡¯t move."


    All of the Abyssal Knight¡¯s movement ceased -- from the rattling of steel to the clicking of bone to the soft breathing beneath its armour. For all the world, it looked like a statue standing before him. Even the wind seemed to grow still.


    "Die, then."


    The Abyssal Knight moved so quickly that Muzazi stood no chance of even perceiving it. Its massive sword slammed into Luminescence with devastating force -- instantly shattering the bones in Muzazi¡¯s arms and sending him flying backwards. He landed on his back in the wreckage of the cabin, surrounded by sparking cables and warped metal. Luminescence itself lay across his stomach, the blade steaming from the sheer friction of the blow.


    Muzazi gritted his teeth as he struggled to pull himself back up, to ignore the excruciating pain from his broken arms. It was tempting to think that his Aether had been useless -- but he knew full well that, if not for the defense it had provided, he¡¯d have been reduced to a puddle of viscera from that attack.


    "Weak," the Abyssal Knight whispered, its voice carried by the wind. "Weak, weak. Weak. You¡¯re weak."


    Each insult struck Muzazi like another blow, driving him deeper and deeper into the ground. He¡¯d been reduced to such a state with but a single attack. Even rising to his feet was beyond him.


    In the distance, he could see the Abyssal Knight lurching forward, raising its massive executioner sword to eliminate Regan. If he died, so would any link the Supremacy had to Darkstar. Everything they¡¯d done on this planet would become pointless.


    The battles they¡¯d fought.


    The work they¡¯d put in.


    The agony of losing Marie.


    Despair tightened its cold grip around his heart, and for a single terrible moment Muzazi seriously considered falling back down into the snow and giving up entirely. They¡¯d done their best, after all -- they were simply insufficient. Did one disparage the ant for refusing to fight the boot? There was nothing to be done.


    However.


    The words he himself had said not long ago rose to the surface of his mind.


    "What is special about us, I think, is that we take responsibility for ourselves. When we take actions, we stand by our actions. We don¡¯t blame others for our shortcomings. Our defeats belong only to ourselves, as do our victories."


    Was this a defeat he could accept, that he could take responsibility for? Had he truly dedicated every drop of blood and every scrap of bone to achieving victory? Was he satisfied with this outcome?


    No.


    To be more tomorrow than you were yesterday. To Atoy Muzazi, that was what it meant to be supreme. He couldn¡¯t stand, but that didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t fight.


    Sorry, Marie.


    Muzazi¡¯s parka exploded into scraps of fabric as the thrusters he¡¯d placed within it tore it to shreds. Underneath, all he was wearing was a plain black shirt -- and so the cold quickly assaulted his body with renewed vigor. What was also now visible, however, was the payload of throwing knives Muzazi had concealed within his coat, flying up into the air.


    Twelve thrusters appeared on twelve knives -- and each of them individually zoomed towards the Abyssal Knight, their flight paths distinct and unpredictable. It was as if twelve shooting stars were slashing across the earth.


    Each would strike from a unique angle. Muzazi had no doubt the Knight would be able to block the majority of the projectiles, but some would make it through a blind spot. That, at least, would be a blow landed.


    The web of knives surrounded the Abyssal Knight, preparing for the final approach, and it took a deep whistling breath in response.


    "Sodom," it intoned, the air vibrating around it. "Seal of Observation."


    Immediately, the purple Aether of the Knight exploded outwards -- forming a transparent dome that encompassed itself, Muzazi and the wreckage of the cabin. Like an Aether ping, Muzazi could feel the energy of the dome washing over him, pressing down like he¡¯d suddenly been teleported to the bottom of the ocean.


    He glanced up, and immediately regretted the decision.


    Eyes.


    All around him, coating the inside layer of the dome, were countless staring human eyes. Their pupils flicked around madly, ceaselessly watching everything in the area -- Muzazi, the knives, and even the Abyssal Knight itself. Nothing escaped their view.


    The Knight¡¯s response was effortless. With a fluidity and ease you wouldn¡¯t expect from such a massive creature and weapon, it whipped its sword around at bone-snapping angles, smashing each knife right out of the air. What was left of them dropped to the ground, merely warped and crushed scraps of metal.


    Full Throttle.


    In a moment, Muzazi was upon the Knight, Luminescence clutched between his teeth. His body might not be capable of getting up, but his thrusters were ready and waiting -- allowing him to move his body manually by propelling his muscles. His body was screaming at him as it tore, but he had no time to listen. There was a battle to be won, after all.


    Muzazi jerked his head, slashing at the Knight, but his attack was blocked by his opponent¡¯s monolithic sword. It felt as if he¡¯d struck a brick wall, and he could hear and feel his teeth cracking inside his mouth from the recoil. Warm, metallic blood seasoned his tongue.


    "You. You -- you," the Abyssal Knight murmured. "Were you not listening? Weak. You¡¯re weak. Stop doing that."


    Again, the Knight moved so quickly that Muzazi stood no chance of dodging or even reacting. Before his brain could even register the sensation of touch, Muzazi found he had been lifted up into the air, the Knight¡¯s gauntleted hand gripping him firmly by the neck. Not even the slightest trace of oxygen could enter Muzazi¡¯s body when faced with that iron vice.


    "Stop doing that," the Knight repeated, ignoring Muzazi¡¯s gasps for air. "Told you. I told you to die."


    The grip on Muzazi¡¯s throat tightened, just slightly, and deep in his heart he knew only seconds of his life remained. Before he could ever take another breath, his neck would be snapped like a toothpick.


    Muzazi¡¯s vision began to swim. All remaining strength drained from his body. Vaguely, he found himself wondering if Marie was okay.


    Everything went black.


    "Lengthwise Guillotine."


    A familiar voice rang out through the field -- and a moment later, the Abyssal Knight¡¯s arm came flying off, releasing Muzazi from its iron grip. Muzazi¡¯s vision returned in a flaring kaleidoscope of colour, the pressure on his neck disappearing. As he fell down to the ground, sucking in deep gulps of air, he looked up at his assailant, wary of a new attack.


    However, the Abyssal Knight had not moved. It was simply staring at the severed stump of its arm -- black, viscous liquid was steadily pouring from the wound, bubbling angrily as it pooled on the ground. Next to Muzazi, the fingers of the severed arm thrashed wildly for a moment before finally becoming inert.


    With a grunt of effort from the Knight, the oozing liquid halted its descent, and it turned its head to look off into the distance -- beyond the light provided by the grass.


    "Three?" it gurgled, cocking it¡¯s head. "Not two? More and more, more and more."


    Vigorous laughter rang out as a figure strolled into the field, their arms spread wide. The silhouettes of thin strings trailed from their fingers, brushing against the grass below.


    "I was so right," the man sighed, as if this situation provided the greatest ecstasy. "I was so absolutely right! This was so worth it! You¡¯re, like, a total ten-outta-ten, my man!"


    Wu Ming grinned wildly as he stepped into view, the grass illuminating him from below. The strings tied to each of his fingers floated through the air behind him as if they were underwater, making the man look like some kind of human spider amidst his web. His nostrils flared as he stared at the Abyssal Knight before him, not even glancing at Muzazi.


    "Contender?" the Knight rumbled, waving its massive sword through the air. "Contender? Clown. The Clown of the Supremacy. Why are you here?"


    Wu Ming continued to stride forward, licking his lips, his green pupils gleaming in the darkness.


    "I heard you were in the area," he whispered, almost breathless. "And I just had to meet you. I knew you¡¯d show up if I waited patiently. You can¡¯t imagine how good I feel right now, seriously. I mean, look at you, my guy! A truly angelic person!"


    As Wu Ming approached the Knight, Muzazi took the opportunity to gain some distance -- weak thrusters slowly pushing him and Regan through the snow, each inch of movement prompting flares of agony as his broken arms rubbed against the ground. Tears of pain froze on Muzazi¡¯s cheeks, but he didn¡¯t have the luxury of faltering. Although the countless eyes of the Seal of Observation tracked Muzazi and Regan¡¯s slow movement, the Abyssal Knight took no steps to stop them -- instead focusing entirely on Wu Ming.


    A metallic growl echoed from within the Knight¡¯s helmet. "Here. Why are you here?" it repeated, limbs twitching like a dying insect. "What do you want? Contender?"


    Muzazi reached the edge of the dome. It gave no resistance as both he and Regan passed through it, save for a slight rippling of the Aether barrier.


    "Isn¡¯t it obvious?" Ming laughed, drinking in the air of the eternal night. "You¡¯re strong, I¡¯m strong. I¡¯m free, you¡¯re free. How about it, big guy? Let¡¯s show each other a good time."


    For a moment, there was no response from the Abyssal Knight. Then, a discordant screeching noise rang out from beneath the Knight¡¯s helmet. It took Muzazi, slowly and excruciatingly standing at the edge of the crater, a moment to realize what exactly he was hearing.


    The Abyssal Knight was laughing.


    "Kill you," it breathed. "Kill. I¡¯ll kill you."


    Wu Ming didn¡¯t need any more consent than that.


    "Crosswise Guillotine!" he screamed, swiping his arm horizontally -- and this time, Muzazi could appreciate the form of the attack. The string attached to Ming¡¯s right pinkie finger transformed -- becoming as thin and sharp as piano wire -- and lengthened, spanning tens of meters.


    As Ming swung the string, it sliced through the field of glowing grass, killing the lights as it went. Muzazi¡¯s breath caught in his throat as the string passed overhead -- he had no doubt that, if he hadn¡¯t been laying down, that attack would have been the end of him. He was thoroughly out of his league in this place.


    The Abyssal Knight, for its part, simply slashed its sword as the string approached, severing it. The moment it was cut, both halves of the string dissipated into rainbow Aether -- they were definitely recorded.


    Another pulse of Aether burst forth from the Knight¡¯s body -- and when it made contact with the already existing dome, every single eye lining its surface popped out of existence. The second difference was almost imperceptible, but the shade of the dome¡¯s colour brightened as well -- just a tad.


    "Zoar," the Knight declared. "Seal of Regeneration."


    In an instant, the blades of grass at the Knight¡¯s feet tore themselves out of the ground as if being pulled at by a tornado. As one, they coalesced against the stump of the Knight¡¯s arm, wrapping around each other like rope -- and then, as Muzazi watched with his bleeding mouth agape, the grass transformed.


    Uniform plant life became bone, muscle and skin, connecting seamlessly to the Knight¡¯s body and creating a new arm. It flexed the new limb experimentally, clicking rhythmically beneath its helmet. Seconds after appearing, the skin covering the arm visibly began to rot, but this didn¡¯t appear to bother the Knight any. It clenched its fist, seemingly satisfied with the heal.


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    "Good," Wu Ming moaned, bringing his body low to the ground. "You¡¯re so good, man. It¡¯s no fun if it doesn¡¯t last. Let¡¯s keep going, my guy!"


    For the first time since he¡¯d arrived, the Contender¡¯s eyes flicked over to Muzazi, just outside the dome.


    "You might wanna run, friend," he grinned, excited eyes as wide as dinner plates. "I doubt anyone nearby¡¯ll survive. Ain¡¯t that great?"


    Such was the glorious insanity of a Contender.


    Muzazi didn¡¯t need to be told twice. Thrusters returned Luminescence to its sheathe, freeing his mouth up to bite down on the back of Regan¡¯s coat. He dragged the unconscious Governor away with him, desperation driving his exhausted muscles.


    He¡¯d thought his well of strength had well and truly run dry, but now his animal brain was screaming at him to run, to get away from here. Even if his legs snapped under him, his body would make whatever effort was necessary to survive.


    As the cold and the wind lacerated at him, Atoy Muzazi fled into the darkness, ignoring the sounds of devastation behind him.


    This, right now, was what Wu Ming lived for.


    Six abilities should suffice to start with, he thought.


    The first two, Lengthwise and Crosswise Guillotine, would allow him to attack both vertically and horizontally from a significant distance.


    The third, Heel of H, created bundles of frictionless string that wrapped around his feet like shoes, granting him extreme speed and mobility.


    The fourth, Burst Enhancement, primed bundles of hardy string that he could manifest under his skin to act as supplementary muscle if he needed to enhance his strength.


    The fifth, Mosquito Loop, created floating spheres of string around him -- each bearing a tiny flame in their core to provide light.


    The sixth, Pecos Bill, created a floating circle of string around Ming¡¯s body that would weaken any air pressure attacks aimed at him.


    These were some of the more basic techniques Wu Ming had developed -- but that usually made them more useful in general situations. Specialized techniques were always fun to develop, but more often than not he ended up forgetting about them shortly after -- meaning he ended up with countless powers that all did basically the same thing through different methods. S§×ar?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He wouldn¡¯t use String Theory yet. His opponent had to earn that sort of pleasure.


    "Admah," grunted the Abyssal Knight, crouching down as it got ready to charge. "Seal of Acceleration!"


    The dome around them darkened, just slightly -- and a moment later, the Knight was upon Ming, swinging its sword to cut him in half right then and there. Ming dodged the blow, leaning backwards as if he were playing limbo, but found himself surprised by the speed of his own movement. He¡¯d expected that blow to land, but he¡¯d avoided it with time to spare.


    He skated along the ground with Heel of H, avoiding the second and third slashes the Knight unleashed at him -- Pecos Bill reducing the crushing winds that resulted into gentle breezes. Again, the speed of his movements was astonishing -- Ming¡¯s perceptions could hardly keep pace. The Abyssal Knight relentlessly pursued him, but he¡¯d at least bought himself a second or two to think.


    Seal of Acceleration, the Knight had said.


    Was this a power that increased the speed of everything within the dome, then? That was a well-conceived ability if so. It gave the person used to moving faster an advantage -- they were used to the increase in the pace of the battle -- opening their opponent up to make mistakes.


    This was pretty cool -- under these circumstances, Ming might actually die. All it would take was for him to misjudge his timing, opening himself up to a lightning-fast counterattack from the Abyssal Knight. Ideally, he¡¯d like to avoid that, so he had to take steps to ensure he could continue to properly avoid his enemy¡¯s strikes. The attacks of the Knight were nearly constant, a veritable whirlwind of slashes, so this was becoming quite the workout already.


    Rainbow Aether flowed across his body, and Wu Ming created a new ability.


    Countless thin strings manifested within his body, intertwining with his nervous system and forming a secondary response network. If his body detected an incoming attack, whether consciously or subconsciously, his nervous system would be prompted to automatically dodge the blow as quickly as was safe for his body. Devising and implementing this ability took him about three seconds.


    The first field test worked well. As the Knight thrust its sword forward with one hand, intending to impale Ming, his body automatically veered off to the side -- avoiding the blow by mere inches. That short distance made it even easier to dodge the second, true attack -- the punch that had been intended to smash Ming¡¯s skull in.


    Immediately after, the slash aimed at Ming¡¯s neck was avoided just as easily.


    What should he name this ability, he wondered? He hadn¡¯t given his most recent control powers -- Puppet Maestro and Damocles Coil -- a cohesive naming theme, so it¡¯d be kind of weird to start doing it now. Something simple would probably work best, so he could remember it in the future. He¡¯d have to think about it after the fight, if he ended up living.


    The Knight unleashed a kick that -- even though it was blocked -- sent Ming flying, giving it room to act. "Zeboim," the Knight grumbled, tensing its body and its Aether. "Seal of Intensification!"


    Another change to the dome.


    This one was easy to figure out, too. The muscles of the Abyssal Knight bulked up beneath its loose skin, and Ming felt strength flow into his own body just the same. Zeboim was clearly an ability that powered up everyone within its radius -- the Knight¡¯s attacks were already devastating before, but now Ming definitely couldn¡¯t afford to be hit.


    The return to normal speed made maneuvering a lot easier, though. Heel of H brought Ming back into melee range without very much trouble at all.


    To avoid a slam of the blade as he approached, Wu Ming launched himself upwards, wincing as chunks of rock launched by the blow buffeted against his body. As he turned over in the air, considering his next step, he glanced towards the glowing bulbs created by Mosquito Loop -- and a thought occurred. He could probably get some more utility out of these.


    Rainbow Aether flowed across his body, and Wu Ming created a new ability.


    It only took a few minor tweaks. "Mosquito Loop!" Ming cried, pointing his finger towards the Abyssal Knight as he reached the crest of his jump. "Bombing Run!"


    The name had been much easier to come up with this time.


    As one, the glowing spheres launched themselves at the Knight, each bursting into an incendiary explosion the moment they made contact, the flames covering several meters each time. Only the first two actually hit the Knight, however -- after taking those attacks, Ming¡¯s opponent charged out of the way, avoiding the rest of the projectiles.


    That was annoying. In the future, he¡¯d have to make them home in on their target.


    Wu Ming landed back on the ground -- with around nine meters between him and the Knight, each of them standing at opposite ends of the Aether dome. Ming took a deep breath, cracking his neck as he stared at his adversary.


    This was not a moment of rest. Both partners in this battle would be watching their counterpart keenly, waiting for the moment of weakness that would allow them to get a kill. Still, that didn¡¯t mean they couldn¡¯t chat. As the bedroom hosted pillow talk, the battlefield hosted banter.


    "I¡¯m really enjoying this," he grinned, white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "Is it good for you too?"


    The Knight didn¡¯t reciprocate his affection. "Rat," he warbled. "Rat, rat. Vermin. Dodging so much. Tired? Tired yet?"


    That assessment wasn¡¯t exactly wrong. Constantly avoiding lethal attacks like this was exhausting, even for a Contender -- not to mention the fact that he hadn¡¯t landed a single physical blow on his opponent yet. Avoiding damage was all well and good, but if he wasn¡¯t able to inflict it they wouldn¡¯t get anywhere.


    If things kept going like this, Wu Ming would surely die. A wild, maniacal grin swept across his face. He really had been right to come here!


    "I think I¡¯ll go all-out now¡­" he quietly giggled.


    "Sodom," the Knight replied. "Seal of Observation."


    Again, the eyes appeared all around, staring incessantly at Ming. He wouldn¡¯t be able to get any tricks past the Knight under that gaze -- that is, unless he laid a trap where even those eyes couldn¡¯t see.


    As a reward for its efforts, Wu Ming would show the Knight some more of his abilities, as a treat.


    Upheaval.


    Ming lifted his leg with Aether-enhanced effort -- pulling at the network of strings that had spread out from his sole into the surrounding ground. The earth quaked beneath them in response, and the Knight stumbled just slightly.


    Burst Enhancement.


    Ming activated the ability in two limbs -- his left leg and his right arm -- both of them swelling to nearly three times their usual size, the skin stretching and tearing in places with the strain. With the leg, he launched himself towards the Knight -- pulling his engorged arm back in preparation for a punch.


    Two attacks landed at once. Ming¡¯s punch struck the Knight in its chest, caving in the steel -- and at the same time, the Knight slashed it¡¯s sword upwards, severing Ming¡¯s swollen arm at the elbow.


    Dr. Wraparound.


    Another length of string manifested, wrapping itself tightly around Ming¡¯s stump and stopping the bleeding instantly. The limb itself went flying off into the air, the unusual course of its flight meaning that Ming couldn¡¯t quickly recover it with his usual method.


    Fist of Z.


    String bundled together to form a temporary replacement arm, the materials comprising it constantly writhing and scraping against each other -- generating a massive amount of static electricity that buzzed and sparked without pause. With it, he launched a bolt of lightning at the Knight, forcing it to block the attack with its sword.


    Ming¡¯s severed arm landed in the grass a ways away -- and at the same time, he came up with a neat name for his new control ability.


    Auto-Body.


    Apparently, it took most people a long time to come up with new abilities. Wu Ming couldn¡¯t imagine the pain of being so inflexible. The Abyssal Knight unleashed six slashes in a single second, each one coming closer and closer to penetrating Ming¡¯s automatic dance of defense. The last even shaved off some of Ming¡¯s black and luscious hair, which was almost unforgivable.


    The time for playing around had come to an end. The Abyssal Knight had more than proven himself worthy of witnessing this.


    "String Theory," Wu Ming whispered. "Wormhole."


    The Knight¡¯s sword was swung at Ming¡¯s head at an angle that could not possibly be avoided -- and struck only empty air. In fact, Ming had disappeared entirely. For the first time in this conflict, the Abyssal Knight paused, looking around wildly.


    It didn¡¯t take long to stop him. Wu Ming stood on the other end of the dome again, his remaining hand on his hip and a wide smile on his face.


    "Something wrong?" he called out casually. "You look confused."


    Wu Ming wasn¡¯t surprised that the Knight was bewildered. It¡¯s senses would have been sharpened enough to detect any movement -- but in this case, there had been no movement at all. That had been nothing less than true and instant teleportation.


    The Knight pointed its massive sword in Wu Ming¡¯s direction.


    "Do?" it hissed. "What did you do?"


    Ming sighed, looking wistfully up at the sky. "I love string, you know. It binds things together, it wraps them close, it can slice through flesh, it can do pretty much anything. I thought I knew all there was to know about string until recently. You ever have anything like that, big guy? Think you¡¯re an expert on something and just get blindsided?"


    The Knight hesitated, and when it spoke its voice was surprisingly human: "Do. D-Do. I do¡­"


    Ming snapped his fingers, pointing up at the sky. "String Theory. I¡¯ve never been book smart, so when I heard about this stuff, it really knocked my socks off. I don¡¯t really get it, to be honest with you, but¡­"


    Rainbow Aether collected at the top of his finger.


    "...string really does hold everything together. Even space. Allow me to demonstrate. String Theory -- Gravity Well."


    As though it had been struck by a giant fist from above, the Abyssal Knight was instantly hurled down to the ground, a sizable crater forming around it as the hold of gravity intensified. It really was a trooper, though: even though it¡¯s body was visibly shaking, the Knight steadily rose to its feet, hand tight against the hilt of its sword.


    That was fine for Wu Ming, though. All that had been intended to do was keep his opponent in place for a second or two.


    He launched himself up into the air, an orb of Rainbow Aether still hovering over his finger -- and pointed down towards the Knight. At the same time, the Aether orb shrunk, collapsing in on itself, more and more, more and more, more and more¡­


    "String Theory!" Ming screamed, his voice encompassing the world. "Black Hole!"


    The Abyssal Knight looked up at him, ready to answer his attack with its own. Gravity Well had left its mark -- a sizable crack ran along its cylindrical helmet, revealing a glowing purple eye glaring at Ming with utter loathing. Aether pulsed out from its body.


    "Gomorrah!" it roared. "Seal of Extermination!"


    The world erupted into burning chaos.


    This, right now, was what Wu Ming lived for.


    Atoy Muzazi forced his way through the cold and darkness.


    He¡¯d already lost feeling in much of his body long ago, but he kept moving all the same. Whatever limbs refused to obey his commands he just moved manually with weak, sputtering thrusters. He¡¯d blinked at one point, and the lashes of his left eye had frozen together, leaving him only his right to see the world through.


    But he had to keep walking.


    His jaw ached from the strain of holding onto Regan, of pulling him forward. Blood had frozen in his mouth, so the only breathing he could do was through his nostrils -- and even that was ragged from pain and exhaustion.


    But he had to keep walking.


    His arms flapped uselessly at his sides, each movement causing unimaginable pain to course throughout his body. He¡¯d lost one glove in the fight, and he could see already that the fingers on that hand had blackened from frostbite.


    But he had to keep walking.


    He couldn¡¯t even tell if he was going in the right direction anymore. There was no way of telling -- no landmarks, no sounds save for that of the battle far behind him. For all he knew, he was wandering further and further into this wasteland, his only destination being a frozen death far from home.


    But he had to keep walking -- for that was his duty.


    Boom. A shockwave struck Muzazi from behind, and he was sent sprawling down to the ground, his face landing in the cold snow. With effort he couldn¡¯t afford to expend, he rolled over, giving himself a good view of the spectacle far behind him.


    A pillar of chaotic purple Aether was rising up into the sky, surrounded by rays of rainbow Aether, like two primordial forces at war. The sheer power being displayed was beyond Muzazi¡¯s wildest fantasies. He truly was an ant looking at a boot.


    But he couldn¡¯t just stay and watch. He had to keep walking.


    Muzazi tried to get up, but his body wouldn¡¯t listen to him. He tried to create thrusters to force himself up, but his Aether wouldn¡¯t listen to him. All he could do was stare up at the sky, watching the snow and the dark press down on him.


    Was he going to die?


    Looking up at nothing, breathing slowly through the single nostril that hadn¡¯t frozen shut, Muzazi found that he was frightened. He didn¡¯t want to die here. There were things he wanted to do. There were things he needed to do.


    He tried to open his mouth to speak, to beg mercy from any god that might have been listening, but even that was beyond him now. Bitter tears flowed from his eyes, but froze soon after. Not even that simple sorrow was allowed for Atoy Muzazi.


    His eyes fluttered closed. Perhaps it would be nice to finally take a rest¡­


    "Atoy," whispered Marie Hazzard.


    He immediately opened his eyes again, clarity returning to his mind. Marie was standing above, a horrified expression on her face as she looked down at him. She looked different from the last time he¡¯d seen her, and so modesty demanded he focus on her face.


    Cracked words trickled through cracked lips. "Regan¡­" he whispered. "W-We need to bring him in¡­"


    Her eyes flicked over to the side, and her face fell. "He¡¯s dead, Atoy," she answered quietly. "I¡¯m sorry. It looks like he died a while ago."


    Tears flowed anew. He¡¯d failed, then. His opportunity for redemption had come, he¡¯d understood what was required of him, and he¡¯d failed all the same. As he always did.


    Marie¡¯s face fell in sympathy with his own -- then, the cold seemingly no obstacle for her at all, she crouched down in the snow next to him. With warm hands she pulled him up off the ground and into a tight embrace.


    "It¡¯s okay, Atoy," she whispered. "Don¡¯t cry."


    The time for dignity had long since passed. "But I tried," he sobbed, throat aching from the effort. "I tried my best. I¡¯m sorry! I¡¯m sorry, Marie. I¡¯ve failed. I¡¯ve doomed us both. We¡¯re going to -- we¡¯re going to die out here."


    He could feel her shake her head next to him, one hand stroking his hair in comfort. "We¡¯re not going to die, Atoy."


    "We are," he wept insistently. "We are¡­"


    Her voice was surprisingly firm. "No. People like us don¡¯t die that easily, Atoy. You¡¯re tired, right? It¡¯s been a long day. You take a nap, and I¡¯ll take care of it, okay?"


    His heaving sobs trailed off. That didn¡¯t sound so bad, really. Did all of this really have to be a burden he shouldered by himself? How nice would it be if this was just someone else¡¯s problem?


    He closed his eyes, aches and pains eased by the warm embrace. He¡¯d forgotten how nice it was just to be held by another human being. When was the last time that had happened? Had it ever happened?


    He couldn¡¯t remember.


    As he drifted off, he felt the warmth of Marie¡¯s body steadily increasing -- until it felt like he was sitting next to a warm and roaring fire. Ah, so that was it. Marie was a Gene Tyrant, after all. She could just raise her own body temperature as she liked. Maybe not forever, but for now.


    He felt safe.


    "Goodnight, Marie¡­" he murmured, barely audible.


    "Goodnight, Atoy."


    When the rescue crew found them, many hours later, not a bit of snow remained for meters around. For perhaps the first time on Nocturnus for hundreds of years, the cold did not win the day.

 Chapter 151:6.9: The Very Center of the Universe

    Muzazi watched the stars through the glass, eyes flicking from bright point to bright point as if he were reading a book of the galaxy. It felt like an age since he¡¯d last seen them, since he¡¯d been able to see past the darkness of Nocturnus.


    With Regan¡¯s death, the mission on Nocturnus was considered complete -- even if Commissioner Caesar wasn¡¯t quite pleased with the final results. They¡¯d finally been able to leave that planet, directed to a mobile medical facility where Muzazi could have his injuries treated.


    He continued to look out the window, noting the distant streaking light of a passing starship.


    It wasn¡¯t as if he had much else to do. His injuries after encountering the Abyssal Knight had been severe, and so the doctors had told him he wouldn¡¯t be leaving this wheelchair for at least a month or so. The regen-gel therapy would take time to work its magic, after all.


    The wheelchair he¡¯d been provided with was a fairly advanced model, designed for comfort, but even so Muzazi felt incredibly constrained compared to his usual range of movement. The braces holding his broken arms together meant that he had to control the chairs movement using a touchpad just beneath his foot, which had taken some getting used to.


    Gingerly, Muzazi wheeled himself over to the water dispensary in the corner of his room. "Water, please," he spoke clearly. The please probably wasn¡¯t necessary, but good manners were always a habit one should get into. The dispensary poured water into a little plastic cup. Moments after it finished, a thin automatic arm protruded from the side of Muzazi¡¯s headrest and picked up the cup, raising it to his lips.


    The water was cold as Muzazi sipped it, prompting unwanted and intrusive memories of the time he¡¯d spent freezing to death in the wastelands of Nocturnus. The frozen blood in his mouth, the sheer cold blocking his breathing¡­ they were sensations he¡¯d become very familiar with in his dreams over the last few days. Some wounds did not mar the body.


    Warm yellow light flooded in through the hallway as the door to Muzazi¡¯s room slid open. Marie leaned against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow as she saw him struggle to drink the water the arm was providing him.


    "That doesn¡¯t look too comfortable," she commented.


    Muzazi had to agree. As he pulled his chin back, the automatic arm placed the cup down in his armrest, before retracting back into the chair. The whirring of the servos was irritating to his ears.


    "These injuries are the result of my own actions," he replied solemnly. "I¡¯ll deal with them."


    "Still," she sighed, strolling inside. "That looks like a pain. I could give you a hand, if you want."


    Muzazi shook his head, ignoring the resultant twinges of pain. "There¡¯s no need. I¡¯m not so helpless as to need assistance drinking."


    Marie¡¯s eyes flicked over to the retracted arm, but she said nothing -- mostly because she was interrupted by Winston Grace, who strolled casually into the room as if he lived there. He jumped into the air to try and touch the lights above, but fell far short of the mark.


    "Hi, Atoy!" he said cheerfully. "I see you¡¯re still injured."


    Marie rolled her eyes as she strolled past the Cogitant. "I can see why they call you a great detective."


    "Aw, thanks!" Winston giggled to himself as he blushed from what he clearly believed to be a compliment. "I¡¯m glad you¡¯re finally recognizing my charm!"


    Muzazi elected to ignore that most awkward of comments, turning his chair to face Marie instead. Marie had visited countless times since they¡¯d arrived here, but this was the first time he¡¯d seen Winston Grace in quite a while.


    "Is something going on?" he asked Marie. "I wouldn¡¯t expect the two of you to come here together."


    Even though the question had been directed to Marie, Winston answered instead, raising a hand like a child in a classroom: "We just got back from a meeting with the Commissioner."


    The Commissioner?!


    Foolishly, Muzazi tried to sit up in surprise -- only for the flares of pain to throw him roughly back into his seat. A coughing fit overwhelmed him. Such humiliation -- even the strain of that simple movement caused his body to rebel against him. "Why wasn¡¯t I told?" he breathed raggedly, recovering. "I¡¯ve missed a meeting with the Commissioner?!"


    "You didn¡¯t miss much," Marie said nonchalantly, pouring herself a cup of water. "With your hands like that, I doubt you could have saluted, anyway. You wouldn¡¯t have enjoyed it."


    At the mention, Muzazi glanced down at his hands, laid flat on the armrests of the wheelchair. The fingers on each of them were slightly lighter in colour than the rest of his hands. He hadn¡¯t been awake for the procedure, but apparently the frostbite had forced the doctors to amputate his ravaged digits and regrow them with Panacea. As such, they¡¯d take some time to adapt to the rest of his body.


    The thought of that happening to him while he was unconscious sent twinges of sympathetic pain through his new fingers, but he honestly wouldn¡¯t have been able to tell if he hadn¡¯t been told. Modern medicine really was a wonder.


    "Still¡­" he murmured, glancing back up. "I imagine the Commissioner was displeased. We failed our mission, after all¡­ I would have appreciated the opportunity to defend myself."


    "You¡¯d be surprised," Winston commented. He¡¯d taken out his script, and was already tapping away at it. "Apparently, Wu Ming put in a good word for you -- I guess his opinions override the Commissioners."


    Muzazi closed his eyes. He supposed that made sense. The true purpose of this mission, from what Muzazi had gathered, had been to lure out the Abyssal Knight -- so that Wu Ming could confront him one-on-one.


    He wasn¡¯t quite sure how he felt about being used as bait in that way, but¡­ things had worked out for the best, as he understood it. The friendship of a Contender was a valuable thing indeed: it would help him and Marie rise up the ranks for sure. Usually, he¡¯d feel more excited about that, but his emotions seemed somewhat dulled at the moment. The new goal that had come to him made everything else seem daunting.


    "Atoy," he heard Marie say. "You still alive?"


    She flicked his forehead, and he opened his eyes again. "My apologies," he said hurriedly, backing up a little in his wheelchair. "I was consumed by thought."


    Behind Marie, Winston spoke up. "Well, looks like that¡¯s it for me," he declared, stuffing his script back into his pocket. "See ya. I had fun!"


    "You¡¯re leaving?" Muzazi asked, strangely saddened. He couldn¡¯t say that Winston had been an easy person to deal with, but he¡¯d gotten somewhat used to the strange Cogitant¡¯s presence.


    "Yep," Winston replied, a lopsided smile on his face. "There¡¯s a new case waiting for me -- the murder of a Minister in the Body. The Three Wise Men have requested I investigate: they¡¯re probably at least a little bit behind it, but it sounds interesting, so I¡¯m gonna head out."


    The words that left Muzazi¡¯s mouth surprised even him. "You won¡¯t be staying with us, then?" They seemed to surprise Marie, too, who visibly scowled in disapproval.


    Winston himself furrowed his brow as if the notion was ridiculous. "Uh, no. Sorry." He offered an apologetic -- and somewhat confused -- shrug.


    That was right. Muzazi had almost forgotten -- Special Officers like them were solitary creatures, generally speaking. A partnership like the one between himself and Marie was most unusual. To expect something like that from Winston too was bizarre in the extreme.


    Friendship lasted only as long as you could see the other party. Muzazi smiled bitterly.


    "Stay safe," he said softly, meaning it.


    Winston just vaguely nodded in response, lingering by the door for a second. For the first time since Muzazi had met him, he seemed to be having trouble getting words out. The Cogitant¡¯s eyes flicked towards Marie, and he clicked his tongue.


    "About your, uh, secret¡­" he began.


    Marie was merciless. "You say so much as a word, I¡¯ll find you and I¡¯ll kill you."


    The awkwardness didn¡¯t last, and the old familiar grin quickly reappeared on Winston¡¯s face. "Roger dodger," he borrowed Marie¡¯s phrase, offering an irreverent salute. "Good to know where we stand." Marie just rolled her eyes in response.


    And with that, Winston Grace vanished through the waiting door. Muzazi vaguely wondered if they¡¯d ever meet again. With the sheer size of the Supremacy, and the difference in their expertise, it seemed unlikely. Still, he supposed anything was possible in a universe like this.


    The door slid shut again. The time had come to voice the thoughts that had been rushing through Muzazi¡¯s head since he¡¯d woken up.


    "I seriously hope we never meet him again," Marie sighed, brushing her hands together. As she did, she spied the complicated expression on Muzazi¡¯s face and frowned. "What¡¯s up?"


    "I¡¯ve been doing some thinking." He¡¯d had ample time for it over the long and stretching days. "About what I want."


    Marie turned to look at him, cocking her head. "What do you mean?"


    The words weren¡¯t easy to get out. He didn¡¯t fully understand them, either, so that was only natural. "I suppose¡­ the way I want to live my life? The path I want to follow? I¡¯m not certain how best to phrase it, exactly."


    "No, no, I get what you mean," Marie nodded, her frivolity forgotten. "What is it that you want, then, Atoy?"


    Muzazi took a deep breath. He¡¯d expected his next words to sound just as ridiculous coming out of his mouth, but these felt correct as they were spoken. "I want to become the next Supreme."


    For a moment, the room was silent save for the hum of the heating -- as if the sentiment he¡¯d expressed was taking time to permeate the space. Marie just stared, the thought process visible in her crimson gaze. Outside, the stars twinkled thoughtlessly, bright and merciless in their illumination. It was almost as if this declaration had a solar audience.


    "I thought you would have already wanted to be Supreme," Marie slowly said, putting a hand on her hip. She leaned against the window. "Isn¡¯t that the whole point of the Supremacy? To rise to the top of the pile, right?"


    Muzazi nodded. "Yes -- that was the ideal I held before as well, but only as an ideal. Right now I feel like it¡¯s¡­ a firm aspiration. Something I genuinely want to achieve. Whatever it takes."


    "Why?" she asked quietly.


    These thoughts had been broiling in his head for days now. It felt good to let them out, to release them into the world and begin the process of turning them into actions.


    "I believe in the Supremacy with all my heart," he explained as if putting the pieces of his ideals together as he went. "I believe in a world where everyone strives to become greater than they were the day before. However, I can¡¯t deny the dissatisfaction that has built up in the Supremacy -- Darkstar, Yuren Regan¡­ it¡¯s like miasma, that bitterness. I want to improve the Supremacy even further, so there¡¯s no more reason for that bitterness to exist."


    It was foolish to voice this ideal -- Atoy Muzazi knew that. Opening yourself up to others in this way, especially in such poor condition, invited betrayal. Once a dream had been released into the world, it could easily be pilfered by those who coveted it.


    Marie walked over to the window, hands clasped behind her back as she observed the stars beyond. As a Gene Tyrant, Muzazi imagined she was much better equipped to appreciate the starlight than himself. What greater insight could she gleam, looking at it with such greater eyes?


    Perhaps she, too, would leave through that waiting door, now that he¡¯d revealed his inadequacy. He couldn¡¯t deny that fear lurked within him. Every second before she replied felt like an eternity.


    She clicked her tongue. "I think I¡¯m with you, Atoy," she finally said.


    This time, not even the pain could stop him from sitting up in his chair. "Really? Why?"


    Marie turned to look at him, a cheeky grin on her face. She lifted her hand and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. "It pays to be friends with a Contender -- imagine the dividends I¡¯ll get from being pally with the Supreme!"


    He smiled to himself. Of course it would be a reason like that -- Marie, like him, was too prideful to admit anything else. Her eyes told the true story.


    "If I¡¯m going to do this," he said, taking a deep breath. "If I¡¯m going to become Supreme, then I need to become much stronger first."


    Marie raised an eyebrow. "You want me to buy you some dumbbells?"


    "Not like that," he laughed, shaking his head. "I need to understand more, to appreciate the source of the rot so I can cure it. I¡­ think I need to meet him again, one last time. Dragan Hadrien."


    His partner¡¯s face fell. "Revenge again?" It was no surprise -- the last time he¡¯d dragged her out to pursue Hadrien, it had resulted in nothing but trouble for them.


    Muzazi shook his head. "No. When Dragan Hadrien betrayed me and the Supremacy, that was what opened my eyes to the state of things. But I still don¡¯t understand why he did it -- the reasons he gave me on Taldan didn¡¯t ring true. I need to understand. I want to understand things: I can¡¯t be just an observer anymore. Otherwise, nothing will change."


    The determination in his voice was like iron. Even with his body in this state, his spirit had been tempered by crisis -- right now, Atoy Muzazi felt as if he were invincible. No matter how his body was broken, no matter how much of his blood was spilled, he would never again allow his spirit to falter.


    He had to keep walking, after all.


    Marie blinked. "You¡¯re really set on this, huh? It sounds like a bad idea to me."


    With a smile, Muzazi turned to the window, to the field of stars beyond -- to the promise that he would surely be more tomorrow than he was today. So long as that was true, anything was possible.


    "I¡¯m only human, Marie," he said. "It¡¯s natural that I have bad ideas."


    The funny thing about maps, Wu Ming noticed, was that they actually decided where things were.


    It was true. Maps were constantly being updated, sure, but those updates were built atop respected foundations -- and so the bias of the original mapmakers was passed down the generations. That what was important to them would remain prominent, while the things they disparaged would languish in obscurity. All fanned out from the origin point.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it¡¯s taken without the author¡¯s consent. Report it.


    That which decided the shape of the world was the quality of the original maps. If they were sufficient, they would become the basis for all that followed -- and their will would flow forth uninterrupted. The center of the universe was simply wherever people decided to put at the center of their maps.


    The Supremacy had very good mapmakers -- and so, the very center of the universe was right here.


    The Shesha floated in space, silhouetted by a blazing red sun, looking for all the world like a colossal metal starfish. No lights or decorations marred the great starship¡¯s exterior -- every inch of available room was occupied by weaponry. Gleaming plasma barrels, openings through which insectoid automatics could freely emerge, bombing cannons and cutting lazers. This was a vessel that could oppose a planet by itself, if the Supreme so willed it.


    As Wu Ming approached the Shesha in his personal shuttle, he knew he was being scanned and assessed by countless security systems. If his shuttle had been stolen or he himself showed signs of an abnormal mental state, he¡¯d be blown out of the sky before he could offer so much as a whisper of protest.


    Against the might of the Shesha, even the Clown of the Supremacy would be unable to survive.


    The fact he was still alive meant that he was allowed to proceed. His vessel proceeded on autopilot towards his personal hangar, wings folding away as they became unnecessary. The hangar, dimly lit by landing lights, welcomed him.


    With the autopilot handling the landing, Wu Ming was free to relax for a moment. He glanced down at his new arm: Panacea truly was a wonder. It was a little sad to lose his last arm -- he¡¯d had it for nearly three months now -- but he was sure he¡¯d get over it soon enough. Nothing in this world lasted forever, after all.


    Wu Ming knew that better than anyone. He was the strongest Contender, if you didn¡¯t count the other three.


    The shuttle landed with a heavy thump, quickly secured by the docking clamps. Wu Ming rose to his feet without waiting even a moment, unbuckling the safety straps and hopping out of the pilot seat. As he left, he tapped one of the bobbleheads that had accumulated along the shuttle¡¯s dashboard -- the neck of the cartoon robot would keep swaying from side to side for quite some time.


    Nobody was there to greet Ming in the dim hangar, and there were no ships except his own in that cavernous space. That was no surprise -- the Supreme loathed unnecessary noise, so the only individuals aboard the Shesha at any given time were himself, the Contenders, and the personnel on the prison deck. Apart from that, the gargantuan starship was empty.


    He didn¡¯t plan on sticking around here long. There was a upcoming festival on Neuros Prime, so he¡¯d just entertain the pleasantries and make his leave --


    "Clown," intoned a deep, unamused voice. "We expected you days ago."


    Ah, hell. The one person he hadn¡¯t wanted to run into. Wu Ming looked up to greet the figure at the top of the exit rank.


    "Ah, you know how it is," he laughed. "Stuff came up!"


    Ming couldn¡¯t see Avaman¡¯s face, but he was willing to bet the man¡¯s eyes were narrowed in contempt.


    Avaman, the first Contender, floated inches off the ground as he regarded Ming -- as if he was walking tiptoe on the air itself. His dark green cloak billowed around him, the rustling of the cloth echoing throughout the massive chamber. The black glass mask that covered his face provided only the tiniest hints of humanity -- the surface sculpted ever so slightly in the shape of a human face.


    Some people called him Avaman the Announcer -- a homage to the death and destruction that inevitably followed his arrival. He was the strongest Contender, if you didn¡¯t count the other three. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t know how it is," Avaman hissed, his voice dripping with malice. "Why don¡¯t you explain it to me?"


    With that, Avaman slowly floated back down the hall, inviting Ming to follow him. He briefly considered ignoring his fellow Contender and taking a different route to his destination, but relented as he decided it wouldn¡¯t be worth the headache later.


    Avaman looked down on Ming -- the obvious intent behind his floating -- as they moved down the hall. "Well?" he prompted again. "Care to explain your extended absence, Clown?"


    Ming glanced up at him, a sly smile on his lips and his eyebrows raised irreverently. "I sent word I¡¯d be fighting the Abyssal Knight. Did you never learn to read, Avaman?"


    The floating man didn¡¯t rise to the provocation, instead pressing on with his insistent little voice. "And what was the result of your little¡­ fight, Clown? Is the Abyssal Knight dead?"


    "Nah," Wu Ming replied casually, hands forming a pillow behind his head as he leisurely walked. "Things worked out a lil funny. You know how it goes."


    An unpleasant sound trickled from underneath that glass mask -- Avaman¡¯s laughter, born not from true amusement but instead simple mockery. A facsimile of enjoyment from one who had never truly experienced it.


    "You failed, then," Avaman chuckled, putting a modest gloved hand to his chin. "The Supreme won¡¯t be pleased."


    Liar.


    The Supreme didn¡¯t give a single shit what any of them did -- not here in the Shesha, nor out there in the universe. The petty conflicts and battles of the Supremacy below him had long ago stopped providing him with the stimulation he desired. The four of them could slaughter each other right before him and he probably wouldn¡¯t even blink. Once someone reached the level that man occupied, all other aspects of existence became irrelevant.


    Wu Ming didn¡¯t say any of that, though. To do so would disturb Avaman¡¯s delicate sensibilities.


    "I¡¯ll be sure to offer him my apologies in person," Wu Ming replied easily, the very picture of relaxation. "Don¡¯t worry your pretty little head, okay?"


    "I¡¯m not the one who has to be concerned, Clown," Avaman prodded again. "A man who dances as wildly as yourself should make sure of his footing first."


    Genuine laughter shook Ming¡¯s chest. "What? You get that out of a fortune cookie or something?"


    They reached the massive doors to the throne room -- great black monoliths that reached all the way up to the ceiling. Everything was huge here, needlessly so, Ming found. Even these hallways they were strolling down were big enough to fly a starship through. Perhaps the Supreme who¡¯d built it had had inadequacy issues?


    Avaman stopped before the doors, still looking down at Ming. A distinct aura of disapproval radiated from the man, like a foul miasma -- and as Ming watched, a stray spark of rot-green Aether ran along the Announcer¡¯s cloak.


    "You¡¯re a very funny man, Wu Ming," he said, his voice soft and quiet. "So very funny."


    Ming smiled back up at him, hands on his hips. "I try my best -- a ten-outta-ten life, you know. You want some tips on that? Some life advice, maybe?"


    "No, that¡¯s quite alright."


    There was a slight breeze. A second later, Wu Ming¡¯s head went flying off his shoulders -- and then thin strings lashed out from within the stump and pulled the head back, seamlessly stitching the wound closed before it could even begin bleeding.


    Ming cracked his neck. "Total three-outta-ten move, my guy. I wish you wouldn¡¯t do that," he sighed.


    Avaman¡¯s stance hadn¡¯t shifted in the slightest. "I could say the same to you."


    Wu Ming wasn¡¯t sure why, but he just couldn¡¯t bring himself to like this guy. He supposed it wasn¡¯t that strange: none of the Contenders were very fond of each other, but with the others he managed to at least feign civility. But the pompousness Avaman exuded, the way he assumed authority he¡¯d never been given¡­


    Ah, to hell with it. Ming would just kill him.


    Their movements were simultaneous and fast as lightning, sending bursts of air pressure down either end of the hallway as a result of their sheer speed. The lights far above flickered in sympathy.


    Wu Ming pulled his arm back. "String Theory," he began calmly, rainbow Aether coalescing over his finger. "Black Hole."


    At the same time, Avaman the Announcer thrust his palm forwards, Aether already coursing through the limb. "Whirlwind Greatsword!" he screamed, the facade of icy calm utterly shattered.


    At this range, in this place, both of these attacks were as lethal as they came. Once unleashed, death for at least one party became a certainty.


    But in this case, those attacks never were unleashed.


    "Forest of Sin," sighed a resigned woman¡¯s voice from between the two of them. "Restrain."


    Before either Wu Ming or Avaman could move another inch, they were seized by a mass of gnarled black branches, bound tightly by wood that felt like steel. These were the branches of Apex trees -- renowned for being even tougher than the hull of starships. There weren¡¯t many people capable of breaking out of something like that. Ming was one of them, of course, but that didn¡¯t make this any less irritating.


    Tormented human features were bulging out from within the bark, too -- moaning faces and grasping hands, like wooden statues straining against the air. He grimaced as they stared up at him, the markers of a grotesque ability. Ming knew when to throw his cards down. With a flick of his finger, the String Theory attack he¡¯d primed was dispelled.


    The raging winds around Avaman died down as well as he looked towards the source of this intrusion -- the woman standing in front of the now-open doors to the throne room.


    "A pleasure to see you, Wu," she smiled with plastic friendliness. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"


    Paradise Charon was a giant of a woman -- easily seven feet tall -- with an imposing presence to match. Her fashion sense had changed again since the last time Ming had seen her: garish bright businesswear had been replaced with a black-and-gold militaristic uniform, her head of curly dark hair framed by a collar of golden feathers.


    She was the strongest Contender, if you didn¡¯t count the other three.


    On either side, Aether portals were open to her Forest of Sin -- and it was through those that the torrent of branches had flooded. Her half-sapient Aether ability would have been eager for whatever stimulation was available, Ming imagined.


    "I¡¯m doing great, Charon!" Wu Ming called back happily, squirming as he did his best to get comfortable in the wooden stranglehold. "Ten-outta-ten. How about you? Surprised you¡¯re not busy plotting with your pal downstairs."


    Paradise¡¯s smile faltered, but only slightly. She was a creature of society, after all -- she was used to withstanding insults if it promised to pay off in the future.


    Her eyes flicked over to Avaman, who was already doing his best to escape -- gashes slowly appearing in the branches like they were being hacked at by invisible axes.


    "How about it, Wu?" she purred. "I¡¯m sure we could kill him right now if we worked together. You interested?"


    "Harlot," Avaman hissed maliciously. "Witch."


    Paradise ignored the insults, instead turning back to Ming, awaiting his answer. A stray branch of the Forest of Sin reached out to caress her cheek, but she slapped it away, momentary annoyance crossing her face.


    Ming considered it. He¡¯d enjoy it if Avaman didn¡¯t exist anymore, but losing the opportunity to fight him properly would be atrocious. If he was going to slay the Announcer, he¡¯d do it on a fair stage.


    Still...


    "Nah," he finally said. "I¡¯m not into that kinda stuff. Let me go, will ya?"


    Paradise frowned, and when she spoke again her voice was laced with danger. "Well, perhaps I should have the Forest just crush you both right now."


    "We¡¯re playing that game, huh?" Ming smirked. "Fine. String Theory -- Wormhole."


    In an instant, Wu Ming disappeared from his original position -- reappearing standing atop the branches of the Forest of Sin, scratching his head flippantly. He was pretty sure he could unleash Black Hole before Paradise could open another portal, if it came down to it.


    It appeared she too was aware of that, though. With a sigh, she raised her arm and the grip of the Forest of Sin loosened around Avaman, allowing him to float away free.


    "You¡¯re an impossible man to deal with," she said, idly waving a hand, before turning and striding back into the throne room. A moment later, Avaman soared after her, infuriated green Aether visibly crackling around him.


    Avaman was the kind of person who¡¯d foster resentment for any slight, but a glance down told Ming the true cause of his fury. The branches of the Forest of Sin were already beginning to dissipate, but Ming got a good view of the wooden faces all the same. He winced; the Forest¡¯s sense of humour really was atrocious.


    Each tormented face was an exact replica of the person Avaman hated more than anything in the world -- the man called Skipper.


    The throne room beyond the doors was as cavernous as the rest of the Shesha -- the throne itself surrounded by rows and rows of empty pews, upon which acolytes of the Supremes past must surely have gathered. Insects scurried out of the way of Ming¡¯s feet as he entered. The only light was the dim yellow glow of a holographic sun, slowly rotating up near the ceiling -- and that glow washed over the massive statue that sat the throne itself.


    Paradise clicked her fingers, and a new Aether portal opened -- the branches that poured forth forming a couch for her to lay on. Avaman finally lowered himself down to the ground, kneeling reverently.


    At first glance, it would appear an automatic was curled up below the throne. Silver and metallic, with windows of red glass through which some kind of sloshing liquid could be seen. As Ming entered the room, blue lights flicked on around the exterior of the machine, and servos whirred as it smoothly rose to its feet.


    But this was no automatic: this was the Hellhound. He was the strongest Contender, if you didn¡¯t count the other three.


    Cybernetics were nothing unusual -- after the fall of the Gene Tyrants, genetic manipulation had become the greatest taboo, and other than the Superbians none dared practice it. The focus of the dream to alter one¡¯s form had shifted instead to the realm of cybernetics.


    Even so, Ming didn¡¯t know if anyone had gone as far with it as the Hellhound -- only the patriarch of the Oliphant Clan had even come close, as far as he was aware. The metal body the Hellhound inhabited was quadrupedal, segmented to such a degree that it was supremely flexible, and built with technical specifications more suitable for a starship than a prosthetic.


    Wu Ming wasn¡¯t sure of the exact details, but from what he understood the only parts of the Hellhound that were still human were his nervous system and around half of his brain. Occasionally, those could even be seen floating in the red solution visible through his glass windows.


    The blue light on the Hellhound¡¯s visor swivelled to face Ming. "Back?" he asked, in a stilted, unnatural voice -- an AI imitation of the voice he¡¯d had before becoming like this.


    "Yup."


    "I see." And with that, the lights on the Hellhound¡¯s body flicked back off, and it returned to hibernation. The Hellhound was probably the most personable Contender.


    Avaman, still kneeling on the ground, looked up at the stone-grey statue slouched on the throne. He spread his arms wide.


    "My Supreme," he whispered, with all the reverence of a prophet. "Wu Ming, the fourth of your Contenders, has returned. He brings word of your enemies¡¯ trespasses."


    There was no reply.


    The grey thing that sat the throne, needless to say, was no statue -- only a man that had not moved in a very long time. Dust had accumulated. His hair and beard had grown long and unkempt. The only signs of life from the massive man were very slight breathing and the dull brown eyes that stared unblinking down at Avaman as he spoke.


    He was a huge man, tense with so much muscle it was almost grotesque, but what was more impressive than that was the pressure he exuded. It was like standing in the eye of a hurricane just to look at him -- there was the constant sensation that you could be dashed into nothing at any second. He wore no armour, bore no weapons -- the only clothing he even wore was a piece of simple cloth wrapped around his waist. This sense of danger came from him alone.


    This was the Supreme. He was the strongest.


    Wu Ming stepped forward, savouring the jackhammer heartbeat in his chest, and bowed respectfully. The Supreme said nothing, made no sign that he¡¯d even seen Ming, but that was nothing new. He didn¡¯t care about any of this -- it was all just ceremony.


    "I encountered an agent of Darkstar on the planet Nocturnus," Wu Ming began, his dignified tone an utter contrast to his usual demeanor. "Namely, the traitor Samson Rhodes. I engaged him and we fought for some time, but he eventually escaped the field. However, I believe Darkstar would prefer to avoid further scrutiny, and will cease operations on the planet as a result -- thus, the crisis on Nocturnus has come to an end."


    The throne room was silent. Over on her couch, Paradise put a hand to her mouth as she quietly yawned. Avaman continued to kneel, his head low. In his state of hibernation, the Hellhound was dead to the world.


    The Supreme said nothing. He didn¡¯t even blink.


    "The Supreme has heard of your failure," Avaman finally said, rising to his feet. "He would now ask you to leave."


    The Announcer was totally pulling that out of his ass, but Wu Ming wasn¡¯t going to argue. He had other places to be, after all. With a grunt of exertion, he rose to his feet, bowed to the Supreme once more -- and turned, striding out of the door.


    He could feel Avaman¡¯s glare bearing into the back of his head all the way.


    As time passed, the Contenders of the Supremacy drained out of the throne room one by one. Paradise Charon departed first -- she had an appointment with a coalition of Ministers she was courting the approval of. Next went the Hellhound, heading out for his next hunt. Avaman stayed the longest, content to do nothing but stare at the Supreme¡¯s glorious form for hours at a time, but eventually even he succumbed to the human desire for sleep.


    The room was empty, save for the insects, their nests packed close together in the ceiling. They crawled across the floor en masse, eager for any sustenance they could find. These were vicious things, ready to tear vermin apart for the meat beneath their skin -- but none of them dared to approach the man who sat the throne.


    A voice as deep as the earth and as dark as the void between stars echoed throughout the room -- and with the first syllable, every single insect retreated at once, leaving the chamber truly empty.


    "Boring¡­"


    The Supreme spoke so softly that the shell of dust around their lips didn¡¯t even crack. Their eyes continued to stare ahead, morose and dull, forever fixed on the black metal doors. Even so, their voice was resounding -- it took precedence over all else.


    "It¡¯s so very boring, isn¡¯t it¡­?" the Supreme sighed. "This rotten world of ours¡­"


    END OF ARC 6

 Chapter 152:7.1: Family Matters

    The thing in the dark waited.


    It had been years since it had last felt light on its eyes, or warmth on its skin. It¡¯s awareness of those sensations had long since faded to a distant memory. The only embrace it knew was the cold and merciless grip of its prison.


    It¡¯s arms were bound, as were it¡¯s legs. The only movement the thing was capable of was tired, sedated thrashing -- through which it could eventually maneuver itself to scratch faintly on the surface of its prison.


    That scratch, scratch, scratch was the only voice the thing was permitted: the gag bound tight against its lips prevented anything else. Just as the thing received nothing from the world, it was not permitted to release anything back into it.


    Occasionally, the thing could hear it¡¯s own muffled voice from outside of the prison. Occasionally, the thing could feel it¡¯s prison shaking around it as it was transported to another place it would never see. Occasionally, the thing would remember the things it had done. That was the depth of its stimulus.


    No matter what it perceived though, it could not affect it in the least. It might as well have been a corpse. Whenever these thoughts resurfaced, the thing would cease scratching and lie still for a time.


    The thing in the dark waited, and quietly hated.


    The Cradle was a pretty weird place.


    When Rico walked around at home -- back on the streets of Malaka -- he usually found himself looking down at the floor. Sometimes he felt like he ended up missing half the world like that: if someone was hiding from him up on a ceiling, he¡¯d probably never spot them.


    Ever since he¡¯d arrived on the Cradle, though, Rico has found himself looking up. He supposed, given the layout, that was only natural.


    The Cradle was spherical, a massive lightpoint station floating in space, and the city it hosted wrapped around the inside like an inverted globe. If you looked up from any position in the city, you¡¯d see streets far above you -- and if you looked up with a telescope, Rico was willing to bet you¡¯d see someone else looking right back at you.


    There were only a few lightpoints the size of the Cradle -- and Rico had never seen one as well-maintained. Gleaming bronze spires and spotless white streets wrapped around the inside of the Cradle, with a monorail network connecting the whole thing. Legions of maintenance automatics swept the station at regular intervals to ensure that quality was kept consistent.


    He couldn¡¯t imagine how much money this place spent in a single day. Lightpoints probably made a ton of money anyway, to be fair -- without the FTL launches they provided, the previous solutions to the lightspeed problem would mean travel between systems would stretch on for years. Even so, the costs of maintaining those systems plus the costs of maintaining a city¡­ it sort of made him shudder.


    Gramps could definitely afford it, but still.


    A flock of doves, pecking at the grass, flew out of Rico¡¯s way as the young man strolled through the park, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Day hours aboard the Cradle had begun not long ago, so the park was bathed in bright light, illuminated by the glowing leaves and bark of the ever-present trees. Rico fished his hand out of his pocket and checked his wrist-bound script: yep, he was definitely going the right way.


    The transition from park to street was nearly seamless -- grass becoming smooth brickwork and the trees replaced with towering antique lamp posts. This whole district, Rico had noticed, had something of a rustic vibe -- a cozy hamlet like something you¡¯d see in a fairy tale picture book.


    He paused outside the place, checked his script one last time, and stepped inside.


    As he opened the door, the bell above jingled -- prompting the pretty brunette waitress at the caf¨¦ counter to stuff away her own script as quickly as possible and adopt a customer service grin. "Hi!" she said cheerily, hands clasped over the apron of her uniform. "Welcome to Annabelle¡¯s! Is it a table for one, sir?"


    Rico shook his head, glancing around the room. The place seemed empty apart from himself and the waitress, all the tables empty. "Table for four, if that¡¯s okay?"


    The girl hurriedly nodded -- clearly, she wasn¡¯t used to actually having customers here. "Yes, of course -- I¡¯ll need to move a chair over, but -- well, um, just take a seat wherever you like and I¡¯ll be right with you."


    Rico sat himself down near the window, where he could get a look at the street outside. As the waitress brought a fourth chair over to the little table, she pulled a menu out from her apron and unfolded it.


    "Can I get you a drink while you wait?" she asked, smiling.


    From what Rico had read on the internet, this place specialised in coffee and pastries. "Uh," Rico searched his brain. "Can I get a coffee? Like, a standard coffee?" He had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Chloe was the one who¡¯d asked to meet up here -- she¡¯d probably have a better idea what to ask for.


    The waitress was good at her job, though. She just kept giving him that cute smile as she noted down his order on a script. "One standard coffee!" she chirped. "I¡¯ll get that over to you as soon as I can, okay?"


    "No problemo," Rico mumbled, already looking at his script again as the girl walked away.


    To be honest, he was a little surprised that he was the first one here -- it was more his style to be fashionably late. Sighing, he ran a hand through his dark hair. His eighteenth birthday had only been two months ago, and he¡¯d already turned into the responsible cousin.


    Jingle.


    Rico glanced up from his script -- then winced as he saw what Chloe was wearing.


    Frills. Frills and bows, as far as the eye could see. The pale blue dress Chloe had on was so puffy and overstuffed that it looked like some kind of fabric jellyfish -- Rico was surprised there weren¡¯t electrified tendrils trailing from the back. His cousin had always been into cutesy stuff, but it seemed her obsession had only intensified since the last time he¡¯d seen her. Practicality was not a concern: the tiny blue bowler hat balanced atop her blonde head was so flimsy that Rico was surprised it didn¡¯t fly off with every step.


    She didn¡¯t so much as look up from her script as she came in, instead beelining straight to the table and sitting herself down. For a moment, Rico wasn¡¯t sure if she¡¯d actually realized he was there or not. Then:


    "Hey," Chloe said, her voice bored as she stuffed the script away into a nearly invisible pocket on her dress. "You¡¯re here early."


    "Seems like it," Rico replied, cracking his neck.


    "How come?"


    "Just am," he shrugged. "Woke up early, thought I should take a walk or something."


    Chloe yawned, covering her mouth with one hand. "How the hell can you wake up early after a trip like that?"


    "Well, you¡¯re here, too."


    "Yeah, and I feel like I¡¯m gonna drop dead," she scowled. "You¡¯re lucky your parents gave you your own place. There¡¯s people moving around my dad¡¯s building all night. It¡¯s such a pain." Rico¡¯s cousin was two years younger than him, and the differences in how much they were trusted were beginning to become clear. He glanced down at the table. "Well, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s a busy guy. There¡¯s a lot to get done, especially now." His own life would surely be getting busier from now on, too. Those thoughts had been what had really woken him up early.


    Chloe stopped talking as the waitress returned with Rico¡¯s ¡¯standard coffee¡¯. He glanced down at it -- yup, it sure looked like coffee. If coffee had a standard, this was it.


    "Can I get you something while you wait, ma¡¯am?" the waitress asked, her script already in hand.


    "A Retan cappuccino with cinnamon and marshmallows, please." Chloe didn¡¯t even hesitate -- she rattled off the order like she¡¯d memorized it in advance. It seemed she really did know what she was talking about.


    The waitress tapped out the order and left again with a nod, hurrying off to the kitchen. With his mind still half on other matters, Rico found himself vaguely watching her as she went. He was only jolted back to reality by the irritated tapping of Chloe¡¯s painted-pink fingernail against the wooden table.


    "Ugh," she rolled her eyes. "You¡¯re such a pig, Rico."


    Rico scowled back. "Huh? How am I a pig?"


    "You know full well," she sniffed haughtily, leaning back in her seat. "You were staring at her like a love struck puppy. It¡¯s no wonder you don¡¯t have a girlfriend. You¡¯re so creepy."


    "Oh, I¡¯m a puppy now?" Rico raised a droll eyebrow. "I thought I was supposed to be a pig."


    "You know what I mean!" Chloe snapped back. "Wait ¡¯till I tell Scout. He¡¯ll love this."


    "He won¡¯t give a shit."


    "Whatever," Chloe shrugged. "And you shouldn¡¯t fucking swear, by the way. This is a high-class establishment. I¡¯ve been wanting to try it out for months now."


    Rico took a sip of his coffee. Yep. It was coffee, alright. He honestly didn¡¯t understand how somebody could care about food and drink enough to pine for months. To him, all that stuff was just fuel to keep his body going. If a thing tasted good, even better, but he wasn¡¯t going to go out looking for gourmet shit.


    Jingle. The bell rang again.


    Rico looked up from his coffee, and Chloe swivelled around in her chair, as Scout walked in.


    As far as appearances went, Rico and Scout couldn¡¯t be further apart. Rico¡¯s looks were somewhat sedate -- short black hair, a jacket and a pair of jeans, the sort of person who wouldn¡¯t be able to tell from a crowd. Scout, on the other hand¡­ you would be able to tell from a crowd.


    His lime-green hair, tied back into a ponytail, swayed back and forth as he stepped into the caf¨¦. His golden eyes flicked around the room, quickly settling on Rico and Chloe over near the window. As he stepped over, Rico saw that his dress sense hadn¡¯t changed either -- a black crop top and shorts, with a red backpack slung over his shoulders. If Scout hadn¡¯t been a Pugnant, Rico couldn¡¯t imagine him walking around like that without freezing his ass off.


    "Ahoy!" Scout said as he sat down, his loud voice disintegrating the cosy atmosphere the caf¨¦ had previously held. "How¡¯re you guys doing? I¡¯ve missed you!"


    "Rico was hitting on the waitress," Chloe smirked, taking a sip of her drink.


    Before Rico could offer so much as a word of protest, Scout was already wagging an admonishing finger. "That¡¯s no good, Ricky!" he said with what little sternness his face was capable of. "The service industry is the bowels of hell itself. You need to be respectful!"


    "Sorry," Rico sighed. It wasn¡¯t worth the effort to explain himself.


    Scout¡¯s attention was quickly taken by the uniquely mundane drink set before Rico. "Hm? What¡¯s that?" A peacock like him had probably never seen something so normal in all his life.


    "It¡¯s a standard coffee, apparently," Rico said, idly stirring the drink with the little spoon provided.


    Scout leaned over to such a degree that he was nearly climbing the table, thoroughly inspecting the drink. With a sniff of disapproval, Chloe was forced to pull her own cappuccino back to avoid spillage.


    "Oh my god," Chloe grumbled, sullenly sipping at her own drink. "You¡¯re both so embarrassing."


    If Scout was at all embarrassed, he didn¡¯t show it. Instead, he pulled his chair back with a screech, stuck his hand up like he was in class and declared: "Miss Waitress! One standard coffee, please!"


    Chloe buried her face in her hands, thoroughly turning red.


    "By the way," Scout said, returning to his seat. "I didn¡¯t realize Keiko would be joining us. Did she get in touch with you, Ricky? Clo?"


    Rico stiffened. He hadn¡¯t even really thought about it, but he¡¯d asked for a four-seater, hadn¡¯t he? Whenever the cousins had met up in the past, it had always been the four of them, so it had only seemed natural, but¡­


    "Ah," Scout winced. "I, uh, I guess not, then?"


    Chloe finally looked back up from her hands, but her face was no cheerier than before -- she just stared at the empty chair morosely. "She might still come, right?"


    No point in false hope. "I really doubt it, Chloe," Rico said slowly. "I mean -- with everything happening and all¡­ they¡¯re not even sure if her dad is gonna wake up, so I¡¯d imagine she¡¯s with him. Plus, with what happened last year, I -- uh -- I don¡¯t think she¡¯d feel up to it."


    "Did you invite her?" Chloe glared at him accusingly. "I bet you didn¡¯t even invite her."


    Rico didn¡¯t hold it against her, but this was just how Chloe was. She always wanted there to be a singular person to blame for the bad things that happened in the world. Accepting that Keiko didn¡¯t want to meet with them -- because of her dad¡¯s coma and the trauma from the accident a year earlier -- was too ugly, so it was easier to believe that Rico had just failed to invite her for some reason or another.


    Going off the wobbling of her lip, she didn¡¯t really buy it herself, but sadness was easy to cover up with anger.


    Scout, sensing an oncoming fight, spoke up again. "Hey," he leaned forward conspiratorially, patting his bag. "I actually brought something with me today -- my Pa got it for my birthday. It¡¯s kind of a secret. Wanna see?"


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    "If it¡¯s a secret," Rico said cautiously. "Maybe you shouldn¡¯t show us?"


    "I wanna see!" Chloe countered immediately. "What is it?"


    Scout¡¯s eyes flicked around the caf¨¦ -- the waitress was still in the back, making his standard coffee -- before gently unzipping the front of his bag. A squeaking noise sounded out from within, and despite his caution Rico found himself leaning in along with Chloe to see just what was inside.


    The creature in Scout¡¯s backpack was small and grey, around the size of a human fist, with six stubby limbs and beady black eyes. It was like some kind of massive tardigrade, but there was something weird about its appearance -- apart from the fact that it looked like some kind of massive tardigrade. It¡¯s skin was too smooth and clear, it¡¯s eyes too intentionally pleading, like the creature had been designed to be appealing for a mass audience. That squeaking, too, was like some kind of cartoon animal.


    "Aw," Chloe fawned -- doubtlessly the intended reaction. "It¡¯s so cute."


    "My Pa bought him off the Superbians," Scout whispered with more than a hint of pride. "He¡¯s named Sidekick. Cool, right?"


    Rico looked the thing -- Sidekick -- up and down. It was nibbling on some kind of cheese Scout had left it with mouthparts like those of a lobster.


    "What¡¯s it do?" he asked.


    Scout frowned. "Why¡¯s it gotta do something? It¡¯s cute. That¡¯s enough for me."


    Rico shook his head. "You said your dad got it from the Superbians? It¡¯s gotta be genetically engineered, then, right? It must do something."


    The mock-offended expression on Scout¡¯s face lingered for a couple more seconds, before breaking out into a cheeky grin. "Well," he said, reaching into the bag. "If I put Sidekick on the base of my neck, then --"


    "Then what, Scout?" asked the woman who was now sitting in the fourth chair.


    Scout quickly zipped his bag back shut. Rico jumped out of his skin. Only Chloe, who was sitting next to the woman, turned around and broke into a grin. "Auntie Karla!"


    Karla smiled, taking a swig out of her thermos. "Heya, kids," she said, her vibes as mellow as usual. "Having fun?"


    She was a woman who perpetually looked a bit dusty and worn-down: dark bags underneath her dull brown eyes, her long brown hair chaotically frizzled, her dark-green sweater and knee-length skirt as moth bitten as antiques. She looked like she was on the verge of falling asleep for every hour of every day.


    "Didn¡¯t hear you come in," Rico mumbled, doing his best to regain some of his dignity. "How¡¯d you know we were meeting here?"


    "Spooky, isn¡¯t it?" Karla grinned lazily, tapping her nose. "You¡¯ve gotta be more careful. Sitting around next to a window like this -- you¡¯re pretty much asking to get taken out, you know."


    Rico frowned. "We¡¯re not helpless." Karla was the youngest of Gramps¡¯ kids, but she still spoke to the cousins like they were little children themselves. He didn¡¯t much like being talked down to.


    "Never said you were," Karla replied, waving the waitress off after she returned with Scout¡¯s standard coffee. "But it doesn¡¯t matter if you¡¯re helpless or not -- you get your head blown off, you¡¯re dead either way."


    Chloe, paling a bit, scooted her chair out of direct view of the window. Karla didn¡¯t seem to notice: she just continued to look steadily at Rico as she spoke.


    "You looking forward to it?" she asked. "You¡¯re old enough to hang around for the negotiations now, right?"


    Rico shrugged, ignoring the anxiety that prospect stirred up in his body. "It is what it is."


    "You be careful, kid," Karla said, pointing at him with one of the little spoons. "It¡¯s a tank of piranhas in there, seriously. Nobody¡¯ll go easy on you just because you¡¯re young. Nobody says what they mean, and everyone¡¯ll want to use you to get what they want. Those¡¯re the sort of games grown-ups play."


    Despite his attempt to keep a cool demeanor, Rico found himself gulping. Karla stared at him, her dull gaze unbreaking -- interrupted only when Scout elbowed him, pulling his attention back to the menu.


    Paige sighed to herself as the customers left. Her grandmother had told her that working the counter was easy as pie -- just tell the kitchen automatics what to make and then bring it out -- but that didn¡¯t make dealing with customers any less nerve-wracking. She really should have just told her to find someone else.


    She collected up the cups and plates, glancing outside as the soft hum of a passing monorail rang out. Times were that those things used to half-deafen you just from being nearby. The Cradle really had changed over the last couple of years.


    The automatic following after her happily accepted the cups and plates, zooming back to the kitchen to begin cleaning. Paige fished the script out of the pocket of her apron -- probably best to check the payment had come through okay. Those people hadn¡¯t seemed like dine-and-dashers, but you could never be too careful.


    Her eyes scanned the text on the script, reached the digital signature -- and then widened in shock. She nearly dropped the thing right then and there.


    Paige had never been a worldly person. She¡¯d lived on the Cradle for most of her life, and spent the time before that on one ship or another with her grandma. She couldn¡¯t tell you who the prominent Ministers in the Body were, or the state of politics, or even what the Supreme looked like.


    But she knew what names you didn¡¯t mess with.


    Oliphant, read the script.


    Finally, Dragan Hadrien thought. Some alone time.


    There was no Skipper making stupid jokes, no Ruth making a racket as she trained, no Serena asking stupid questions, no Bruno being moody. Just Dragan, a sunbed, and the book he¡¯d been saving for weeks now.


    It wasn¡¯t all perfect. The others had left him behind in the hangar with the new ship while they¡¯d all gone off to grab supplies -- thus, Dragan was sharing his precious free time with an ugly, hulking ship that took up almost all the space. It wasn¡¯t exactly the lounging by the beach Dragan had imagined while stranded on XK-12.


    Still, it was nice to finally take a moment to breathe. Ever since Taldan, it had felt like they¡¯d been rushed from place to place, with barely enough time to even register what was happening. Not that thinking about their situation did much to raise Dragan¡¯s spirits.


    Skipper planned to take down the Supreme. The insanity of that plan had only sunk in more and more as Dragan had time to think about it.


    Needless to say, it was doomed to failure. The Supreme was the Supreme for a reason -- he was unparalleled. You could kill him as much as you could shoot down the sky. If he was going to be taken down, it wouldn¡¯t be by some dissident nobody had ever heard of like Skipper -- if it was anyone, it would be one of the Contenders. That was what they were for.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes scanned the pages of his book, but he wasn¡¯t really reading it.


    The best course of action would be to cut and run. He was a smart guy -- out here in UAP space, he could certainly find a way to quietly get by. Getting himself involved in a harebrained scheme to take down the strongest person in the galaxy was essentially signing his own death warrant.


    He could go right now, if he wanted to. They were on a nowhere station called InDiego -- a stop for mercantile ships to rest, refuel and sell their wares. It would be no problem for him to stow away on one of the merchant vessels and get out of here. Skipper and the rest would have no way of tracking him down.


    And yet¡­ the idea of doing that now left an unpleasant feeling in his gut. He hated to admit it, but after everything they¡¯d been through -- Yoslof, Taldan, XK-12 -- he¡¯d grown to like these people.


    He made a promise to himself -- he wasn¡¯t throwing punches with the Supreme, but he¡¯d keep going until just before that. Surely it couldn¡¯t hurt to stick around just a little longer.


    With a heavy exhale of breath and a shake of his head, Dragan brought himself back to the world. Typical: he finally had time to relax, and he spent it worrying. He went back to the start of his book, past pages and pages that he hadn¡¯t retained any information from. Then, with a focused effort, he began to read again. This time, he¡¯d enjoy it properly.


    "We¡¯re back!" cried Serena, hopping into the hangar.


    It was a short and foolish dream. Dragan snapped the book shut and glanced up at the new arrivals.


    Serena looked different from when she¡¯d left -- Bruno¡¯s military khakis had been replaced by a pink jacket and a white skirt. Bags and bags of food supplies hung from her hands -- mostly nutrition cubes that could last for long voyages. Dragan wondered if he¡¯d ever taste fruit again.


    Ruth followed soon after her -- she¡¯d gotten changed too, wearing a black tank top and a pair of red jeans, straps hanging from her sides. She was carrying a huge wooden box over her shoulder with frightening strength -- even with Aether, Dragan didn¡¯t think he¡¯d be capable of such a casual feat. He raised an eyebrow as he heard the jangling of metal inside.


    "What¡¯s that?" he asked.


    Ruth grinned. "It¡¯s a secret."


    "It¡¯s a suit of armour!" Serena immediately piped up excitedly. "Ruth bought it at the market!"


    "Jeez, Serena¡­" Ruth sighed, before continuing her march to the ship to deposit her bounty. "I¡¯m just working on a little something."


    Finally, the main event arrived -- the primary irritant himself, Skipper. The man stepped into the hangar, green long coat swishing around him, and planted his hands on his hips as he admired their abomination of a vessel.


    "You took good care of the Slipstream, huh?" he grinned, brushing his nose. "I¡¯m proud of ya, kid."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "I thought the yacht that we crashed was the Slipstream."


    "This is the Slipstream #2." Skipper didn¡¯t miss a beat.


    "But Mr. Skipper," Serena raised a finger, genuine concern on her face. "We had a ship before that, too, and we never named it!"


    Skipper¡¯s grin faltered, just slightly. "Slipstream #3," he forced out through his teeth.


    Dragan wondered just what number Slipstream they¡¯d be on by the time this whole thing ended. Personally, he was willing to bet money on the double-digits mark.


    Turning over on his sunbed and putting his book back in his pocket, he addressed Serena: "By the way, Serena, I¡¯m kinda surprised to see you dressed like that. Don¡¯t you usually wear the same kind of stuff as Bruno?"


    Serena smirked with the pride of a lion, crossing her arms victoriously. "Usually, yeah," she said smugly. "But I won the coin toss this week."


    Dragan cocked his head. "What coin toss?"


    "Every week," Serena explained. "Me and Bruno flip a coin, and whoever calls it right gets to decide how we dress that week."


    "And who flips the coin?" Dragan slowly asked.


    Serena blinked. "Bruno flips it. Why?"


    "And Bruno always wins?"


    "Yeah. He¡¯s really lucky."


    Dragan gave Bruno a withering look through the barrier of Serena¡¯s eyes. Even for him, that was kind of messed up.


    Bruno emerged to defend himself quickly, his serious demeanor a stark contrast to his outfit. "I don¡¯t cheat," he quickly asserted.


    "I never said you do."


    "No, but you¡¯re the sort of person who cheats at things -- that¡¯s why your mind would have gone there straight away. You need to learn that not everyone is like you. I don¡¯t cheat."


    Dragan threw his hands up. "I didn¡¯t say anything."


    "Still, you --"


    Before Bruno could incriminate himself any further, Ruth¡¯s voice echoed out from within the belly of the Slipstream #3, made booming and metallic by the bombastic acoustics of the vessel.


    "Uh, Dragan?" she called out. "You sure you kept watch? There¡¯s something in here! I, uh, I got it, though!"


    Skipper, who¡¯d been amusedly watching the argument, turned to Dragan with an expression of faux-shock. "Slacking off on the job, Mr. Hadrien? This guy¡­"


    With a grunt, Dragan picked himself up off the sunbed, pulling on his new brown leather jacket -- the sole change he¡¯d made to his usual wardrobe. "Nobody came in here -- I know that for a fact. I¡¯ve been here the whole time." From the tone of Ruth¡¯s voice, whatever she¡¯d found didn¡¯t seem dangerous, but all the same¡­


    She descended the cargo ramp of the Slipstream #3, her quarry held in one hand. It was a small automatic -- like a white mechanical spider, with one red eye flicking wildly to and fro. It¡¯s legs flailed wildly in the air, trying to break free, but it clearly had no chance of doing so.


    "What is it?" Serena asked, poking the red glass eye without any trace of caution at all. Bruno quickly retracted his hand.


    "Dunno," Ruth said -- and then she shook the automatic violently, her arm a blur from the sheer speed. "Seems weak, though. See? It can¡¯t even do anything." Her arm came to a stop, and all the spider could do was continue to weakly flail.


    Skipper loudly cleared his throat -- and as the group turned to look at him, he grinned widely. Oh, fantastic. He was under the impression he knew something.


    "Listen closely, kids," he said. "It¡¯s time for Mr. Skipper¡¯s history hour. What you¡¯re holding there, Ruth, is what we used to call a postman automatic. Back in the day, people used to be all paranoid about their mail getting hacked, getting their private pictures posted all over the place, so they built these babies to carry messages."


    "They built spiders?" Serena frowned, cocking her head. "That seems really stupid, Mr. Skipper. Maybe you think it¡¯s cool because you¡¯re old?"


    Innocent insults were the most damaging. Dragan could almost see the light die in Skipper¡¯s eyes.


    He quickly concealed his wounded pride, though, wagging a finger. "Nah nah nah, it¡¯s a useful little gizmo! Once you know where the recipient is, you send out one of these guys, and they deliver the message for ya!"


    "So it¡¯s carrying a message?" Ruth frowned, holding the thing up by one of its spindly legs. "Nah, I doubt it. All it did was squeak and try to run away."


    It was funny, Dragan supposed. A few months ago, he¡¯d never have dared to approach an unknown automatic like this -- so close, and with so little caution. What if it had weapons? What if it attacked him?


    With his Aether at his side, and the things he¡¯d experienced, those concerns now seemed inconsequential.


    "I¡¯ve got a feeling it¡¯s for yours truly," laughed Skipper, extending a hand. "Wouldn¡¯t be much of a messenger if it went telling randos the big scoop, right?"


    With a shrug, Ruth handed the postman automatic over to Skipper -- and as it changed hands, Dragan fell right into view of its bright red eye.


    The change in the automatic was immediate. It¡¯s red eye switched to a blue tint, and it¡¯s segmented legs sharply retracted into its body -- causing it to fall out of Skipper¡¯s grip and thus onto the floor. S§×arch* The ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    All of them took a step backwards as the automatic landed, their respective Aether already buzzing defensively around them. The machine made no other movements -- just sitting there prone on the ground as it emitted a soft whirring noise. Bruno exchanged a glance with Skipper, who slowly shook his head.


    Light sprang forth from the automatic¡¯s eye, projecting two holograms directly in front of itself. One was the message the automatic had been programmed to deliver -- the other was a representation of its sender.


    Dragan, the floating text said. I hope you are well.


    It has been a long time since we last talked, so I will update you on my circumstances. I am currently subordinate to a senior member of the Oliphant Clan, Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier. The Clan is currently in the process of consolidating their presence upon the Cradle, a mass lightpoint in Supremacy space, which we hope to utilize as a base of operations.


    Many members of the Oliphant Clan will be lobbying for influence over the Cradle. As part of my employer¡¯s efforts to ensure a favourable outcome for himself and his family, he has requested all available resources be brought in to provide aid. It is for this purpose that I contact you.


    Come to the Cradle, Dragan. You can consider all debts paid in full after that.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes saw the words, but the information from them was not retained. He was far too busy glaring, furious, at the hologram of the man who had sent this message. At the hologram of the man who had raised him.


    Mr. Fix.

 Chapter 153:7.2: Arrival

    Dragan watched grimly as the Slipstream #3 approached the Cradle. If nothing else, it truly was a sight to behold.


    Like a metal moon, it orbited the planet below -- Ventos, a pale blue gas giant -- it¡¯s metal surface glinting from the reflected sunlight. It¡¯s body was dotted with blue lightpointers, ready to fire off ships wherever they needed to go -- and catch those coming in. Moving from lightpoint to lightpoint essentially entailed firing yourself out of a giant cannon: not the most elegant method of travel, but it worked.


    He sat cross-legged in the co-pilots seat, doing his best to ignore the straps that littered the inside of their new ship. Skipper sat a little ahead, fingers dancing across the control panel as he programmed in their entry route. His hands still moving, the captain glanced over his shoulder to look at Dragan.


    "You okay?" he asked, flicking a switch with a metal thumb.


    Dragan silently nodded.


    "If you don¡¯t wanna go, we can still turn back," Skipper went on. "Believe me, I¡¯m not happy to be back in Supremacy space, either. Just say the word, pal."


    "I¡¯m fine," Dragan replied tersely, not looking fine at all.


    For a moment, it looked like Skipper would persist further -- but in the end, he simply sighed and turned back to the console. The Cradle drew closer, ready to receive them.


    "Whatever you say, kid," he muttered under his breath.


    "I¡¯m not going," Dragan hissed a week earlier, storming into his quarters.


    The rooms on the Slipstream #3 were small, cramped affairs -- most likely storage closets that had been repurposed some time ago. As such, the only thing this little box had room for was a shelf, a chest for clothes, and a mattress on the floor. There was barely even enough room for Dragan to pace angrily.


    Skipper poked his head in through the door, frowning. "That¡¯s a pretty quick decision there," he said slowly. "You sure you don¡¯t wanna think about it?"


    Dragan turned to look at him, his brow knitted in anger. Red-hot fury was boiling inside his body, eager for any way to escape, and this time it came out through his voice.


    "There¡¯s nothing to think about!" he yelled, his cry bouncing off the walls of the tiny room. "Give me a hammer, I¡¯ll just smash the thing and act like we never got it."


    Skipper sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped into the room fully. "Not gonna pretend I get the circumstances, kiddo, but don¡¯t ya think you¡¯re being a little hasty here?"


    Dragan shot him an icy glare. "What? You think I should go help him out with his little gang war?"


    "Not necessarily," Skipper waved his metal arm uncomfortably. "I¡¯m just saying it can¡¯t hurt to think about it. Maybe there¡¯s another angle you can come at it from, yeah?"


    Dragon¡¯s eyes narrowed. Skipper wasn¡¯t normally like this: something was going on. A scan of the guilt on his face was enough to pull that forward into the light.


    "You want something, don¡¯t you?" he asked, his arms crossed.


    Skipper winced as he sat down, cross-legged, on the bed. "Can¡¯t get anything past you, huh?"


    The attempt at levity was swiftly deflected. "What is it you want?" If looks could kill, Dragan would have drilled through Skipper¡¯s skull long ago.


    The man sighed, rubbing his hands over his face -- suddenly, it seemed as though he hadn¡¯t slept for a very long time, the exhaustion pressing down on his bones. "It ain¡¯t easy to fight the absolute, you know? I know that. You know that."


    "You¡¯re talking about the Supreme."


    This, if nothing else, captured Dragon¡¯s attention -- he sat down next to Skipper, rapt in attention. For a moment, at least, his anger faded.


    Skipper silently nodded. "Yeah," he said. "You¡¯ve been thinking about it, right? That the Supreme¡¯s impossible to beat -- for folks like you and me, at least."


    There was no point in hiding it. Dragan mirrored Skipper¡¯s nod.


    "The only way it can be done, really," Skipper went on, rubbing his metal fingers together. "Is if we lead the bastard into a very specific, very enticing trap. And that sort of thing needs help to set up, needs resources¡­ you get me?"


    The train of thought was easy enough to follow from there. "You want to get in good with the Oliphant Clan," Dragan muttered. "So you can use them to help kill the Supreme."


    "Yep," Skipper clicked his tongue. "I¡¯m kind of a bastard, huh?"


    Was he? Dragan honestly couldn¡¯t tell whether he felt used or not. It wasn¡¯t like Skipper was hiding anything from him: he¡¯d just come out and said it. That in itself was a little refreshing.


    "I¡¯m not telling ya to do anything," Skipper sighed. "But¡­"


    Dragan pulled his knees tight against his chest. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. "But you have a preference, right?"


    "Yeah. I¡¯ve got a preference."


    If it was for a cause, then maybe -- just maybe -- Dragan could stomach meeting that man again. Maybe he could stomach remembering those things again. Even if the very thought of it made him nauseous, made his breathing tight, he could force himself through it if he made it necessary.


    He took a deep breath.


    -


    As the exit ramp to the Slipstream #3 descended, Dragan didn¡¯t even have to look around the hangar to spot the man himself.


    Mr. Fix hadn¡¯t changed much since the last time Dragan had seen him, years and years ago. If anything, his grey skin had just become the tiniest bit more wrinkled, and the black overcoat and hat he wore over his wide body was just a tad more expensive. His stern, stony gaze and rigid posture hadn¡¯t changed in the slightest either -- he just stood there, hands clasped in front of him, as the group approached.


    Bruno nudged Dragan with his shoulder as they descended the ramp. "You get the feeling this is a trap," he muttered. "You let me know. I won¡¯t hesitate."


    Well, if nothing else, it was good to know Bruno was willing to commit crimes on his behalf. Dragan nodded in response, steeling himself as he drew closer and closer to the past.


    Hands around his neck.


    Dragan shook his head as if that would blow the old thoughts away.


    Skipper strode at the head of the pack, hands plunged into his coat pockets -- as if that would prevent him from attacking -- while Ruth and Bruno flanked Dragan on either side. If this was a trap, which Dragan doubted, Fix would have a hell of a time actually getting to him.


    The group stopped as they met their host at the mouth of the hangar. Fix spoke first, his voice like gravel as his firm black eyes settled on Dragan.


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    "You¡¯ve gotten taller," he lied. "Are you eating well?"


    Dragan had no patience for these bullshit pleasantries -- they hadn¡¯t come here to catch up on old times, so there was no point in maintaining such an illusion. Still, he was surprised at how quiet his own voice sounded as he opened his mouth.


    "Cut the crap, Fix," he said angrily. "What¡¯s this about debts being repaid? I don¡¯t owe you a damn thing."


    Fix¡¯s eyebrow lifted, just a fraction. "Is that what you think? I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t make myself more clear. I fed you, housed you, and got you into that Supremacy academy. Did you think I did that out of the goodness of my heart?"


    Dragan was fully aware of why Fix had done it -- it wasn¡¯t the reason he was implying, but it was sickening all the same. He snorted in derision. "And you really think I¡¯m gonna fall down hand and knee to repay that for you?"


    Again, the eyebrow shifted just slightly. "You¡¯re here, aren¡¯t you?"


    "Hey hey hey," Skipper chuckled, stepping between Fix and Dragan, extending his metal arm. "Before we get down to all the unpleasantries, why don¡¯t we introduce ourselves? It¡¯s only polite, yeah? Name¡¯s Skipper, pal. Put her there."


    The Scurrant accepted the handshake, his own grey skin a near-match for Skipper¡¯s steel. "Fix. I don¡¯t believe we¡¯ve met."


    "Nah, we haven¡¯t. Mr. Hadrien over here really hates your guts, you know."


    Skipper¡¯s grin didn¡¯t falter as the casual hostility left his mouth. If Dragan hadn¡¯t been listening properly, he doubted he would have even caught it. Fix, for his part, didn¡¯t even twitch in response.


    "I¡¯m aware," he said calmly -- before pulling out his script and tapping the screen a few times. "I¡¯ve sent schedules and blueprints of the building to your scripts. Please make sure you¡¯ve received them."


    Dragan frowned. "Building?"


    "You¡¯re going to be acting as guards along with myself as the Oliphant Clan conducts their annual meeting. By having more and stronger guards, my employer will appear superior in the eyes of his siblings, and will have a more favourable negotiating position. All I ask is that you people stand with me and look formidable."


    Dragon¡¯s frown deepened. Fix didn¡¯t appear to be lying -- he wasn¡¯t the type -- but something still seemed off. "That¡¯s it?"


    "That¡¯s it."


    "Unless an actual threat does show up, right?" Bruno spoke up, his glare an utter contrast to Serena¡¯s cutesy attire. "You¡¯d want us to fight them off."


    "Yes," Fix nodded. "I¡¯d want you to fight them off. That goes without saying."


    With that, an awkward silence settled over the hangar, the only sounds being the tiny beeps of scripts as the group made sure they¡¯d received Fix¡¯s message. Dragan was the only one to stay still, glaring silently at Fix.


    There was a chorus of nods from the group as they confirmed the message -- and with that, Fix turned and began to walk away. "The meeting is tonight -- I included the time and place. I look forward to seeing you there."


    He turned a corner past the huge hangar doors, and with that he was gone. Dragan let out a breath he¡¯d been holding in for quite a while.


    "Well," Skipper slapped his hands together in self-satisfaction. "He seemed nice! Playing bodyguard for a few hours doesn¡¯t seem too bad to me -- especially if I can get a little chat started with our, ah, employer."


    Ruth looked over, her golden eyes scanning Dragan¡¯s troubled expression. "He seem like he was up to something to you?" she asked. "I thought he was shady, but some guys are just like that. You actually know him."


    Dragan tried to nod and shake his head at the same time, resulting in an incomprehensible wiggle. "Maybe. No. I don¡¯t know¡­ he¡¯s not the lying type, but I get the feeling he didn¡¯t tell us everything there was to know. I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s intentional or if he just didn¡¯t think it was relevant¡­ still¡­"


    "You don¡¯t trust him," Bruno finished his sentence.


    "I don¡¯t trust him," Dragan nodded.


    "Well," grunted Skipper, joints cracking as he stretched. "You can not trust him all you like at the hotel. This place has hotels, right? I¡¯ve done the whole tough living thing and it ain¡¯t fun."


    The Cradle really was something to behold.


    Bruno¡¯s eyes flicked around the streets as they made their way to the hotel Dragan had pulled up on his script, wary of any signs they were being followed. In an unclear situation, in unknown territory, you could never be too careful.


    It was hard to imagine a situation they could be any more exposed in. The skyscrapers that stretched above were prime real estate for snipers, while the network of alleyways and crowded streets made a sneak attack from someone wielding a knife or pistol very much possible. Bruno couldn¡¯t stop his back muscles from tensing as they walked down the street, the crowds billowing around them.


    Mr. Dragan seems really down. Serena¡¯s voice came through loud and clear, bouncing around the inside of his skull.


    Bruno shrugged. "You don¡¯t choose family," he whispered, almost silent. "Or¡­ whatever he and this Fix guy are. Like us with Cott, maybe."


    Serena didn¡¯t respond, save for a dangerous mental growl at the mention of the traitor¡¯s name. Usually, he¡¯d be more careful not to bring that up, but this whole situation had him on the wrong foot. Once they got their bearings, then --


    Being watched, Bruno, Serena hissed.


    Bruno whirled around at once, a stray spark of purple Aether running through his blond hair. His eyes scanned the area faster than ever -- the surprised faces of passing pedestrians, the dark mouths of alleys, the gleaming glass of skyscrapers.


    He saw everything, but he didn¡¯t see the hostile gaze that Serena had alerted him to. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax.


    Ruth, standing behind him, spoke up first. "You two okay?" she said, arm lifted in such a way that she¡¯d be ready to manifest her claws. "You see something?"


    Slowly, Bruno shook his head. "No¡­ nothing."


    The Last Chance Casino was going to be a marvel once it was finished. Construction of the steel gambling palace had been halted due to contract disputes, but when it was done it would be a hotel, casino and amusement park all in one. You¡¯d hardly have to take a single step to find a new way to throw your money away.


    The penthouse was barely a skeleton, all framework and concrete, but that was the way Carla Oliphant liked it. The whole dust-and-dagger aesthetic really spoke to her. She was laid back on a couch, her feet resting on the table in front of her as she slipped whiskey from her private flask.


    The only sources of light were the candlestick on the table and the flickering neon outside. Simulated rainfall fizzled holographically in the night-shift air. The time of day differed depending on where you were on the Cradle, but Carla preferred the night -- much easier to get around quietly.


    "You should really calm down," she called out to the other woman in the room. "Pacing like that won¡¯t make time go any faster."


    The girl cast her a glare -- a sad attempt to mask her anxiety -- before coming to a halt, crossing her arms. Her tied-back hair and black kimono were so dark that she nearly blended right into the poorly lit room. The only trace of colour on her was the embroidered red centipede on her eyepatch, winding in a circle.


    "I don¡¯t like this," she mumbled. "He should be here by now. Shouldn¡¯t he be here by now?"


    "Patience, Keiko, patience," yawned Karla, the very picture of relaxation as she lazily tapped her nose. "He¡¯s being paid well -- for people like him, that¡¯s the only motivator for loyalty. These are the kinds of games grown-ups play. Besides¡­ from what I hear, he doesn¡¯t leave that just lying around."


    Her eyes flicked over to the object in the corner of the room, Keiko¡¯s cyclopean gaze following. There, bound tight by black chains, was a metal coffin. A palm-reader protruded from the surface, and Carla was willing to bet there were more layers of security behind even that. S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Keiko audibly gulped. "What¡­ do you think¡¯s in there?"


    Carla shrugged. "No clue. Best to mind your own business when it comes to these sorts of things."


    Keiko opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted by a new arrival -- shoes clicking against the wooden floor as their third made his way through the labyrinth of scaffolding.


    "Best indeed," the young man chuckled, stepping into view. "I hope I didn¡¯t keep you ladies waiting too long."


    The mercenary flicked his long orange hair back as he entered the room, a lopsided smirk on his freckled face. He was wearing a blue blazer and a pair of dress pants, making him almost look like some kind of private school student -- a few seconds in a place like this, though, and those fancy clothes would be drowned in dust. His green eyes flicked around the room, like a machine scanning for threats -- checking the coffin first of all.


    Keiko scowled, narrowing her eyes at the young man. "You¡¯re late," she snapped. "I told you never to be late."


    "Caution got back to me," the young man said without a care in the world. "Apparently, an old friend of mine¡¯s arrived on the Cradle. It caught my interest, so I got delayed a little bit. Sorry."


    "Oh?" Carla raised an eyebrow as she rolled over on the couch to get a good look at their guest. "Someone I should know?"


    "Nah," he waved a hand. "Nothing you should worry about."


    As he spoke, the smirk on his face slackened, just slightly -- like some faint ghost of frustration was making itself known on his face. It was still likely that this man¡¯s greed would outweigh any other concerns, but Carla wasn¡¯t one-hundred percent sure she could trust that.


    After all, Cottian del Sed wasn¡¯t the most reliable person around.

 Chapter 154:7.3: Out In The Cold

    One year earlier¡­


    She¡¯d gotten used to the rumbling of the train long ago. Keiko Oliphant-Hidaka was pulled out of her sleep by the feeling of her little sister tugging on her arm.


    If that was all, she could have returned to slumberland quite easily, but no. "Keiko," came Sora¡¯s plaintive voice, keeping her from falling back asleep. "Wake up. Wake up, I¡¯m bored. Keiko."


    Keiko shook her head with as much effort as she could muster, savoring the soft feeling of the seat behind her. "Gimme a minute," she mumbled, the words drifting into each other to such a degree that the sentence was nigh-incomprehensible. She was sure she must have been having a nice dream, so she¡¯d just dip back into it for a little while¡­


    Needless to say, Sora Oliphant-Hidaka did not give her sister another minute. The second shove was much tougher, pulling Keiko firmly out of her dreams with the force of a pile driver.


    She yawned, rubbing her eyes as she turned to look at her little sister, sitting next to her. The two of them were the only ones in the sleek, luxury carriage -- the train belonged to Father, and the only ones aboard apart from the siblings were security who knew how to make themselves subtle.


    Through the outside window, just past Sora¡¯s pout, Keiko could see the winter wonderland of Alpis. Endless snowy mountains, as far as the eye could see, with metal settlements like bee hives protruding from the sides. A storm of red birds brewed on the horizon -- this was their migration season as well.


    "What¡¯s up?" Keiko sighed, cracking the joints of her neck. It was a six-hour trip to the winter villa, and she¡¯d been hoping to just sleep through the trip. Her sister, it seemed, didn¡¯t share that aspiration.


    "I¡¯m bored," Sora repeated, scowling. "This is taking forever."


    Sora was always like this -- craving stimulation, never being satisfied with anything for long. She¡¯d been rambling excitedly about the train before they¡¯d got on, but it seemed she¡¯d already gotten bored of it. Her stubby pigtails -- the unfortunate casualties of a recent haircut -- stuck up in the air as she crossed her arms in frustration.


    Keiko managed to pick a frustrating crumb of sleep out from her eyelid. "Well," she sighed, the slightest irritation in her tone. "What do you want me to do about it? I¡¯m just as bored as you are, Sora."


    More sleepy than bored, but whatever.


    Sora glanced up hopefully. "Do you have games on your script?"


    Keiko blinked, considering refusing for a second -- it wasn¡¯t like she had things on her script she didn¡¯t want others to see, but still. Then, the idea of sitting on this train while Sora loudly complained came to mind, and the decision was made.


    Sora snatched the script out of Keiko¡¯s hands the instant it came into reach, logging on with hands that moved like she was playing a piano. It was a little concerning that she already knew Keiko¡¯s password, but to be perfectly honest she didn¡¯t have the energy to care right now.


    "You play on that," Keiko mumbled, already closing her eyes again -- her own shoulder a makeshift pillow. "Don¡¯t wake me up again, okay?"


    "Okay," Sora lied, the bleep-bloop of the script almost drowning her out.


    Even with the new noise, tiredness won out, and sleep pulled Keiko down into its embrace once again. The only thing better than going to sleep, Keiko found, was going back to sleep -- and so she remained in that empty abyss.


    Until the bomb went off, that is.


    Present Day¡­


    "You shouldn¡¯t be moving around on your own," Keiko snapped, glaring at Cottian. "What if someone had followed you back here? You could have blown this whole thing."


    Cott smiled -- and that simple expression in itself was laced with dismissive arrogance. "Don¡¯t worry, missie," he said, allowing himself to fall back into a waiting armchair. "I never move alone -- and there isn¡¯t a person in the world capable of following me without me wanting them to."


    Keiko exchanged a glance with her Aunt Carla, receiving the slightest nod of acceptance in return. Carla had much more experience with these types of people -- she¡¯d trust her instincts in this arena.


    "Assuming you¡¯re not just here to hang out," Carla spoke up, scratching her ear with a finger. "You got anything to report?"


    Cott slouched in his chair, crossing his legs. "All the pieces are in play," he grinned. "Roy Oliphant-Dawkins arrived on the station an hour or so ago -- the last guy on the guest list. Ruthlessness, Curiosity and Caution confirmed the other senior members haven¡¯t moved from their home bases, either. Everything¡¯s set for the family meeting."


    Uncle Roy. Keiko had considered enlisting him in this endeavour, only to decide against it later -- there was no way that man would be able to keep a secret. He had a good heart, and he was strong, but he had no regard for subtlety.


    "Nobody¡¯s moved, huh?" Carla narrowed her eyes. "Has anyone made a move, though? I don¡¯t expect our enemy to just sit still. If Alpis proved anything, it¡¯s that they¡¯re willing to toss caution aside if it¡¯s advantageous."


    Alpis. At the very mention of the word, Keiko felt a shiver ripple out across her skin -- pulling her arms tight in an instinctive, infuriating reaction. After the bombing on Alpis, the Oliphant Clan¡¯s primary concern had been the simultaneous attacks on her father¡¯s businesses, but Keiko had only one objective in mind.


    The list of people who could have given access to plant that bomb, who could have killed her sister, was very small -- and every single one of them had the same surname as her. She¡¯d flush them out whatever it took.


    Which was why she found herself in the same room as scum like Cottian del Sed.


    "Everyone¡¯s sitting tight," Cott reiterated, waving a vague hand. "If the person you two¡¯re looking for is really here, then they¡¯re sitting tight as a mouse."


    The best way to move unseen was to not exist as a possibility inside anyone¡¯s head. Nobody knew that Keiko was on the Cradle, so nobody would suspect her moving behind the scenes. It was the same with Cott -- he was an expert at becoming a ghost.


    Cott¡¯s green eyes flicked from Carla to Keiko as he got no response. "If there¡¯s nothing else, I need to check in with the rest of my employees." S§×arch* The ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Carla chuckled, putting a knuckle to her mouth. "Funny way of referring to them, don¡¯t you think?"


    "Everyone¡¯s a little bit strange. Don¡¯t hold it against me."


    And with that, Cott rose from the chair and strode back out of the room, offering Keiko an insincere smile as he passed. The echoing clicks of his footsteps faded as he descended the stairs outside.


    She only just managed to keep the fury off her face. Had that same smug smile been on his face back then?


    "Careful," Carla muttered, a certain darkness in her eyes. "Don¡¯t give him anything to worry about. We still need him until the very end."


    It was no coincidence that they¡¯d hired Cottian del Sed to assist them with this investigation. The bomber had done a good job of wiping themselves from recordings of the train¡¯s maintenance bay, but one loose frame from one video had shown their face clearly. Cott wasn¡¯t as good as he thought.


    They¡¯d make use of him until he led them to the one who¡¯d hired him.


    And then Keiko would kill them both herself.


    "Hey, Dragan," Ruth said, cross-legged on Bruno¡¯s bed, leafing through an analogue book. "What do you think of this? R¨¦volutionnaire."


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it¡¯s taken without the author¡¯s consent. Report it.


    Dragan looked up from the videograph on the wall, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"


    "What do you think about it?" she prodded again insistently, frowning.


    Distressingly, conversations like this had started to become routine for Dragan Hadrien. "What do I think about it? It¡¯s a word, I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s fine, I guess? Why?"


    "You think it sounds good?"


    "As what? It depends on what it¡¯s being used for. If it was, like, a soft drink or something, I¡¯d say no. If it was, I don¡¯t know, a cool sword or something, I¡¯d probably say yes. Why?"


    Ruth shrugged to herself, returning to her book -- silently mouthing the words as she went along. Dragan had known already that she wasn¡¯t the strongest reader, so it was surprising to see her so absorbed in something made of paper.


    As he turned back to the videograph, eager to resume watching his documentary, the universe decided to make it clear that Dragan could never be happy. Skipper opened the door.


    "Hey hey!" he grinned, raising a plastic bag in his prosthetic hand. "Look who¡¯s got snacks!"


    The book Ruth had been so interested in was unceremoniously tossed over her shoulder as she climbed off the bed. "Snacks?" she asked with great interest. "You got cheeseburgers?"


    "Cheeseburgers ain¡¯t snacks," Skipper shook his head. "Once the number of ingredients goes above three, that¡¯s a meal, yeah?"


    Ruth frowned, her interest dying down. "Buns, cheese, burger. That¡¯s three exactly."


    Skipper smirked as he achieved victory in this battle of wits. "Sesame seeds make four. Checkmate."


    "That¡¯s bullshit!"


    Dragan finally accepted he wouldn¡¯t be learning any more about the history of Paradisos simulations today; the videograph was turned off with the click of the remote. "You¡¯re a little cheery for the situation we¡¯re in. In a couple of hours, we¡¯re going to be right in the middle of a nest of vipers, you know."


    Skipper put the bag down and patted Dragan -- heavily -- on the shoulder. "Ah, that¡¯s nothing. You should know this about me by now, Mr. Hadrien: I¡¯m a glass-half-full kinda guy!"


    He couldn¡¯t hide from Dragan¡¯s eyes. He could tell, clearly, the real motivation behind this behaviour: Skipper wanted Dragan to be more comfortable in this awkward situation. He hadn¡¯t exactly hidden his anger at being put through all this, but the idea that he could be seen through so easily still irritated him to an unimaginable extent.


    Still¡­ it wasn¡¯t bad to know that people cared.


    Not like he¡¯d ever say that, though. "Doesn¡¯t matter how full the glass is if it¡¯s broken," Dragan snarked. "Shouldn¡¯t we at least put together a game plan in case anything goes wrong? Where¡¯s Bruno, anyway?"


    Despite her earlier protests, Ruth already had the end of a carrot stick protruding from her mouth as she slowly nibbled it down to oblivion. "He said he was gonna go check out the venue -- make sure it was secure or something. He¡¯ll be back in a little while."


    Dragan frowned. "And you just let him go? Isn¡¯t that a little risky?"


    "It¡¯s what he¡¯s good at," Skipper waved a hand. "Serena too. Believe me -- this ain¡¯t their first rodeo."


    "How¡¯s that? And what¡¯s a rodeo?"


    "Some kind of food, I¡¯m pretty sure," Skipper said, the waving of his hand intensifying. "Anyway, those two have been doing this, uh, clandestine stuff since their days with the UAP --"


    "Ahem."


    Skipper¡¯s exposition was quickly interrupted by Ruth¡¯s awkward clearing of her throat. The sound was innocent enough, but the firm look in her eyes was much less so. The message for the older man was clear: shut it.


    "Serena wouldn¡¯t like it," she said simply -- and with that, Skipper seemed to remember himself, and zipped his mouth shut.


    "Sorry, my guy," he shrugged, glancing back to Dragan. "You want any more, you¡¯d be best asking them yourself."


    Dragan nodded. He couldn¡¯t deny he had at least a little interest in this topic -- even more so since it was apparently confidential -- but there was no way he¡¯d be hearing more any time soon. By the time Bruno got back, it¡¯d probably be time to head for the meeting and ¡¯repay his debt¡¯.


    The very notion made his blood boil. How in the hell had he been talked into doing Fix¡¯s dirty work? Even if nothing happened, the fact he was following that asshole¡¯s orders was enough to make him blow a gasket.


    This was no ordinary meeting -- it would be a gathering of Aether users, no doubt, anomalies of the highest order. What kind of freaks would he be forced to deal with?


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins punched the grizzly bear in the face.


    If one had to describe the massive man that was brawling with the beast, the word they¡¯d use would be barbarian. His brown hair was long and unkempt, like a bush, and his green eyes and white teeth were wide with the frenzy of combat. As he pursued his enemy further, his stance like that of a boxer, he walked with a slight hunch -- like an animal keeping low to the ground. Even as he wore a modern white vest and a pair of blue jeans, the aura he gave off made one think of a wild, untamed thing.


    One, two.


    Two massive fists struck the bear -- one in the face and one in the stomach -- knocking it back into the glass wall of the enclosure. It roared with anger and pain, getting ready to lunge back at the human that was causing it such irritation.


    "Nice, nice," Roy muttered, hopping in place, his fists held up in front of him. "You¡¯ve got what it takes, boy. I like it. Show me what you¡¯ve got!"


    The only people present to observe Roy¡¯s obvious passion -- from safely outside the glass, of course -- were a small but growing crowd of his employees. Mercenaries, bodyguards and even a few logistical staff had gathered to watch their boss¡¯ latest bout. Before this, it had been a paleobeast. Before that, a rhinoceros.


    Apparently, this bear had mauled two of its keepers back when it was in a zoo -- after hearing that, Roy had decided he absolutely had to take it on and ¡¯teach it a lesson¡¯.


    The bear dragged it¡¯s claws up Roy¡¯s arm -- the only response being a shower of sparks as the spikes failed to penetrate his iron muscles. Then, another one two sent it sprawling onto its back.


    "What makes you hate humans so much, huh?" Roy growled, panting with righteous indignation as he regained his footing. "People just wanna live their lives, feed their families and dance crazy. I won¡¯t let you sneer at them, scumbag. Get to your feet, you bastard!"


    Some of Roy¡¯s aides had tried to explain to him that animals like these didn¡¯t understand human morality, but the big man refused to accept it. To him, there was no difference between a rabid beast and a human villain -- both deserved his fists, and both deserved to be admonished as they were pummelled.


    Roy brushed away the stray drops of blood on his body -- none his own -- as the bear picked itself back up.


    "You ever read Dynaman, you son of a bitch?" Roy flexed, his muscles squeaking like leather. "Issue #255. Dynaman versus the Blue Byte. It¡¯s an epic fight, one of the best. The Blue Byte tries to say there¡¯s no point in being a good person like Dynaman, since¡­"


    The bear cut Roy off by lunging at him, this time firmly securing his hand inside it¡¯s mouth. There was no way it could damage him, no matter how hard it pressed down, but Roy looked down at the beast astonished all the same.


    "Wait¡­" he muttered to himself. "You¡­ dislike Dynaman comics? More than that, you understood my words. My human tongue. This situation¡­ I see now. I misunderstood what was going on entirely."


    With a grunt of effort, Roy pulled his fist free, both arms rearing back as though he were about to crush the bears skull between his clapping hands. More than once had grisly gore painted these glass windows. As one, the crowd winced.


    They had no reason to.


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins embraced the bear, burying his face deep in its fur as manly tears flowed down his face -- like rain spilling off the glory of a mountain.


    "I understand," he whispered, lost in a revelation unique to himself. "You used to be human, didn¡¯t you? That¡¯s why you¡¯re so angry. I¡¯ve got ya. I¡¯ve got ya, friend. There¡¯s nothing more manly than forgiveness."


    And with that, he released the bear from his hold -- and it collapsed backwards, unconsciousness finally claiming it after the battle it had endured.


    "Patch him up," Roy barked to the medical staff, already making their way into the enclosure. "Make sure he¡¯s comfy and happy. We¡¯ve come to an understanding, me and him. His name is Bear Boy now."


    His subordinates had long ago given up on questioning Roy¡¯s eccentricity -- they faithfully carried Bear Boy out on a sturdy stretcher, leaving their boss to sit on the floor and catch his breath. Apart from Roy, only one other person remained in the enclosure -- a short, sweaty man in a suit and tie.


    "You satisfied now?" he wheezed, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Hell of a show you put on there."


    "A man¡¯s gotta do what a man¡¯s gotta do," Roy grunted. Click, click. He cracked the joints of his neck.


    "A man¡¯s gotta fight bears in the basement instead of actually getting ready for tonight?"


    Click, click. Next, he cracked his knuckles. "You¡¯re a brave man to talk to me like that, Bolbo."


    "If I didn¡¯t," Bolbo wiped at his neck. "Nothing would ever get done around here."


    Roy considered his aide¡¯s words for a moment, his heavy finger tapping against the floor of the enclosure. Tentatively, he opened his mouth.


    "There¡¯s a cheetiger I had shipped in a little while ago¡­ they¡¯re meant to be real fast¡­ if I could just¡­"


    Bolbo¡¯s glare intensified. "You can race the bastard after your meeting. At least try to get a suit and tie on, you big idiot."


    Roy sighed, picking himself up off the ground with such might that it creaked below him. His bare feet thumped against the ground as he walked towards the exit. Before he properly left, however, he turned back to Bolbo and spoke in a voice like thunder:


    "Oh yeah, I¡¯ll go get ready. And I¡¯m gonna make sure it¡¯s a meeting they¡¯ll never forget!" He stomped down on the floor, cracking it, and jabbed his thumb at his own grinning face.


    A moment passed.


    "Okay. Go do it, then."

 Chapter 155:7.4: Sip

    Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel a certain tension in his bones as they made their way towards the meeting chamber.


    He¡¯d expected the building they¡¯d find themselves in would be a dark, clandestine venue -- but the brightly lit complex he was walking through, with immaculate wooden detailing and monstrously expensive furniture, reminded him of nothing less than a mansion. He got the feeling that even the floorboards under his feet were worth more than all his organs put together.


    Fix led the group with confidence, earning himself nods of recognition from the numerous guards flanking each set of doors. It seemed he¡¯d made quite the name for himself since Dragan had last seen him. Skipper cheekily strolled alongside the criminal -- whether his intention was to ingratiate or annoy was impossible to tell.


    Bruno and Serena had returned shortly before they¡¯d set off from the hotel, changed back into Bruno¡¯s black-and-grey urban camouflage. Apparently, they¡¯d been watching this place from the outside for quite some time -- and that inspection had convinced them this wasn¡¯t some sort of trap. Still, there was a strange look in Bruno¡¯s eyes as he walked alongside Dragan: like there was something wrong, but even he didn¡¯t quite know what it was.


    "You sure we¡¯re all good?" Dragan mumbled as they walked, his voice audible only to those right next to him.


    Bruno nodded almost imperceptibly as they passed a massive painting of a gas giant that spanned one entire wall. Well, if Bruno said everything was alright, Dragan couldn¡¯t exactly pry any further. The time for that had long passed, anyway -- they were in the belly of the beast now.


    "Just gimme the word," Ruth growled, her own whispering much less subtle than that of her companions. "I¡¯ll throw my Skeletal Set on and get us out of here."


    Dragan cast a doubting look back at her. "With all these guards? The Oliphant Clan are meant to be Aether-users, and there¡¯s bound to be some among their guards too. Trying to make a break for it would be the worst thing we could do."


    "Besides," Bruno said, nodding in agreement. "We¡¯re small fry. The Oliphants wouldn¡¯t go to all this trouble to set a trap for people like us."


    Then why are you so worried?


    Dragan didn¡¯t voice the words that wound anxiously through his mind: they needed to present a united front right now, after all.


    Fix finally spoke up again -- he¡¯d been quiet for a while.


    "We¡¯re almost there. We¡¯ll be meeting with Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier directly outside the meeting room -- his personal bodyguards will have accompanied him this far. Your role is to stand by and look formidable -- please don¡¯t misunderstand and try to speak to him. Once the meeting begins, you¡¯ll be positioned on a second-story balcony above the meeting space. You¡¯ll remain there and perform your duties until the meeting ends. That is all."


    As a Cogitant, Dragan was only barely able to retain that entire deluge of information -- he couldn¡¯t imagine anyone else among them doing so. As usual, that bastard Fix was perfectly businesslike, and he expected everyone around him to act like robots under his command.


    "No problemo," Skipper grinned, metal hand on his hip. "I¡¯ll keep my mouth shut. I¡¯m notoriously shy around strangers, you know."


    "I see," Fix replied in a tone that betrayed his utter lack of interest.


    The room they finally found themselves in was some kind of foyer, with closed double doors on one wall leading off to the meeting room proper. Gold-framed paintings lined the walls, their content ranging from portraits to alien and bizarre landscapes. At the far end of the room, a blond-haired man in a white suit -- flanked by two things -- adjusted his tie in the mirror.


    "Fix," he called out in a clear voice as they approached. "I see you¡¯ve brought the associate you mentioned. Well done."


    "Thank you, sir," Fix nodded respectfully.


    From the tone of things, this was Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier, then. Dragan got a better look at him as he turned away from the mirror: a thin and clean-shaven man, with cheekbones that could slice through steel and hair slicked back as far as it would go. His blue eyes -- normal blue, not Cogitant -- regarded them with only slight interest. All in all, he was fairly ordinary looking.


    What drew Dragan¡¯s interest more were the two things flanking him. The two humanoids stood on either side of their employer, their arms hanging limp, their skin pale and their eyes glassy. It took only the slightest glance to come to an obvious conclusion: they were corpses.


    Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier¡¯s personal bodyguards were the walking dead. Sky-blue Aether trickled slowly across their forms.


    "From the way you were speaking," Jacques frowned slightly. "I expected you¡¯d be bringing one person, not four. You¡¯ve outdone yourself in that regard, Asmodeus, but I have to say¡­ they don¡¯t appear so formidable."


    Four clouds of Aether flared -- the Skeletal Set appeared around Ruth¡¯s body, forcefields hovered over Bruno¡¯s palms, Skipper¡¯s wild grin was illuminated green, and Dragan¡¯s eyes shone an electric blue. The frown on Jacques¡¯ face lessened, just slightly.


    "That¡¯s certainly something," he said quietly. "I --"


    Before they¡¯d got here, Fix had advised them to keep their mouths shut and just look tough. Dragan had intended to do just that -- he had no desire to socialize with these people, no drive to involve himself more in this situation than the absolute bare minimum possible.


    However.


    "Lemme finish that sentence for ya, buddy!" Skipper laughed, pushing his way past Fix and excitedly shaking Jacques¡¯ hand between two of his own. "¡¯I¡¯ve never seen such a gang of champs in all my life¡¯! That¡¯s short for champion, by the way. Name¡¯s Skipper, how ya doin¡¯?"


    The corpses flanking Jacques twitched, but made no move to intercept Skipper. Now that Dragan got a proper look at them, he could see they were no ordinary bodies -- even with slight decomposition gnawing away at them, it was still clear to see that their lean forms had been trained to their utmost.


    Before they¡¯d died, these two had definitely been some kind of martial artists. Oliphant money could pay for better quality corpses, he guessed.


    Fix bit his lip as he glared intensely at Skipper, bringing joy to Dragan¡¯s heart, but Jacques simply chuckled in bemusement as the stranger shook his hand. "I¡­ see. Skipper, was it? You seem an interesting fellow. Do your job well, and I¡¯ll see you properly compensated."


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Skipper finally released the dangerous criminal mastermind from his grip, stepping back as though he¡¯d done nothing at all. "Good to hear, good to hear! Looking forward to working with you, yeah?"


    "Quite." Jacques¡¯ interest died almost immediately as he turned back to Fix, his expression suddenly stern. "I¡¯ll be sitting between Roy and Carla. You directly behind me, Asmodeus. You don¡¯t have to worry about any guards from my older sister, so just make sure your most intimidating resources are positioned to the left so Roy¡¯s bodyguards don¡¯t attempt to get any glory by messing with us. Understand?"


    With people he actually knew, this man seemed to be much more strict and imposing -- a persona that he consciously put on, then, and one that was hardly foolproof.


    There was a light knock from the other side of the double doors, and Jacques immediately took in a deep breath. "Seems like we¡¯re out of time for dress rehearsal," he sighed. "Shall we proceed?"


    As he spoke, pale blue Aether sprang out from his head, wrapping around itself in the air and forming a spherical structure. Lights of many colours flashed from within its surface -- and as they reached the eyes of the corpses, they cracked out of their rigor mortis and began to step forward.


    The thing stared mercilessly at Ruth. The thing, with scraggly blue fur and beady fake eyes, stared mercilessly at Ruth. The thing, with a limply hanging maw and stitches on its false tongue, stared mercilessly at Ruth.


    "Ayol loves you!" it squeaked, jerking up and down with its words like it was being electrocuted.


    Even though the thing -- Ayol -- was staring at her mercilessly, Ruth did not return the favour. Instead, she was staring at bemusement at the old man, wizened and toothless, who was holding Ayol up. The thing that was staring so mercilessly at Ruth, after all, was nothing more than a sockpuppet.


    The old man grinned vacantly, his mouth not moving in the least, as Ayol continued to dance and speak. "Do you know Ayol¡¯s favourite game? You¡¯ve got to guess, ¡¯kay? It begins with the letter A, ¡¯kay?"


    Reluctantly, Ruth¡¯s gaze drifted over to the puppet, and she addressed it directly. "I dunno."


    "It¡¯s the alphabet, silly!" Ayol spasmed, head flopping back and forth. "How many letters do you know in the alphabet? Ayol knows all of them! Ayol bets you don¡¯t!"


    Ruth clicked her tongue. "Of course I know all of ¡¯em. Don¡¯t underestimate me."


    "Ayol bets you don¡¯t!" Ayol¡¯s voice was reaching pitches previously thought unimaginable by scientists.


    Ruth stepped forward, ready to tear that stupid puppet away and hurl it into the wall -- only to be stopped by Skipper¡¯s hand on her shoulder, pulling her back.


    "Best not to cause a scene, yeah?" he said quietly. "Probably what they want, anyway."


    As the Oliphant guy had instructed, they¡¯d positioned themselves on the balcony above their temporary employer -- ready to jump down and guard him if need be, but mostly there to look tough. Most of the other attendees had had the same idea, it seemed: the balconies were crammed with bodyguards, the biggest collection of freaks you could find outside the circus.


    There was the guy with the puppet, sure, but he was just the tip of the iceberg. Two tall and thin figures, wrapped entirely in sodden bandages, held sniper rifles in their hands as they hissed and whispered to each other. A Scurrant man with a serpentine lower body watched the room warily, his own hands rubbing idly at some kind of musical instrument. A heavenly looking girl, with white feathered wings, hovered in the corner of the chamber. Ruth honestly wondered where the Oliphants had found all these people. Surely it couldn¡¯t be easy.


    The guy below, Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier, seemed more than satisfied with his two personal bodyguards -- the zombies that trailed behind him. Just from looking, Ruth could tell they were strong: obviously not Aether-users, but bodies that were used to fighting. Even with her Aether, Ruth was sure she wouldn¡¯t have an easy go of it if she tried to fight them.


    "Weird atmosphere," Bruno muttered, leaning over the railing as he kept watch below.


    He was right. Casual conversation drifted up from the long table in the center of the room -- the kind of talk you¡¯d expect from a normal family dinner, not a meeting between some of the most powerful criminal leaders in the entire Supremacy. It was as if the crowd of guards up above didn¡¯t even exist.


    "I heard you¡¯ve been having some trouble with bandits moving in on your territory, Roy," Jacques said casually, taking a sip of red wine. "If you need any help, you need only ask."


    He was speaking to the person seated next to him, an older man with wild brown hair and bulging muscles, barely constrained by the suit and tie he wore. The giant waved a dismissive hand.


    "Nah, nah," he said, his voice rumbling even through his casual demeanor. "It¡¯s just has-beens looking to get their past glory back. Lame. There¡¯s nothing more manly than accepting change, but these guys just aren¡¯t capable of it."


    "All the same," called a dark-skinned woman from across the table. She was shaved bald and clad in a long white robe, with rings glittering on her fingers. "A show of force can help in these situations. It doesn¡¯t do to appear weak."


    Roy frowned, and the tension in the room intensified just a tad. "You saying I look weak, Valentina? You know I can¡¯t just let that go."


    The young man sat next to this Valentina, probably only a year or two younger than Ruth herself, spoke up hurriedly. "My mother didn¡¯t mean anything by it, Uncle Roy. She just meant¡­ we can¡¯t afford for all of us to look weak. You look plenty strong."


    Roy nodded, all animosity instantly forgotten, and leaned back in his chair. "You get what¡¯s going on, Rico. Good kid, good kid. Did my boy show you what I got him for his birthday? When¡¯s your birthday, anyway? Is it coming up?"


    "Maybe, uh," Rico shifted nervously in his seat. "Maybe we can talk about that later."


    "Regardless," Jacques said, partaking in his drink once again. "Where is Father? It¡¯s something of a farce to have a family meeting without the head of the family."


    For the first time, the woman at the far end of the table spoke -- she wore a frayed sweater and stared at the others with dull eyes.


    "His suit needed repairs," she sighed. "He said he¡¯ll be delayed."


    Roy nodded sagely. "There¡¯s nothing manlier than self-care."


    "All the same," Jacques insisted, sitting up in his seat as he took another sip of wine. "I have to question how much we can really get done without --"


    He stopped talking.


    A strange silence settled over the room, even among the guards up top. What happened next stretched seconds into minutes.


    For a moment, the other siblings around the table just waited for him to continue speaking -- but when all that came from his mouth was a raspy choking sound, they rose to their feet with a chorus of screeching chairs.


    The change in Jacques was horrifyingly fast. He stayed perfectly still, save for the intense shuddering of his body, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. His skin was as pale as paper, and as Ruth watched in horror from above she could see it cracking in places, drying out to an unimaginable degree.


    "Oh fuck," whispered Dragan next to her, his own eyes as wide as saucers as he observed the scene below. "Oh fuck."


    "Bro?" muttered Roy, reaching out and touching his brother¡¯s creaking arm. Immediately behind Jacques, Fix stepped forward at the same time. S§×arch* The N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The spasm of Jacques¡¯ arm was immediate -- a jerking of the limb that sent his glass of wine down to the floor, shattering into countless pieces. What little liquid was left settled on the carpet -- smoke rising steadily from it.


    Jacques collapsed to the floor a second later.


    And the screaming started a second after that.

 Chapter 156:7.5: With The Piranhas In The Tank

    Chloe Oliphant-Escoffier sighed as she checked the time on her wrist-bound script. It would still be hours until this dumb family meeting was over and they could start packing to go home -- then she¡¯d have to begin the process of catching up on schoolwork before she could so much as meet up with her friends again.


    "Snack?" Scout Oliphant-Dawkins, sitting next to her on the couch, offered her a spicy chip. She sullenly accepted.


    While all the adults and Rico had gone to the family meeting, Chloe had been told she¡¯d have to stay here in her father¡¯s building until he got back. It was so stupid.


    The building was a skyscraper, with a cover as a videograph production company, but the whole place was packed with guards and employees. Chloe was only allowed to move freely up here on the top floor, otherwise people started telling her what to do -- oh, it¡¯s not safe to move around without an escort, stay where we can see you -- like she was a five year old or something.


    At least Scout was here, too, hanging out in the private theatre. He could be lame sometimes, but he was pretty cool at the same time. He was probably just here for the videograph, but still.


    Apart from the couch they were sitting in, and the giant screen that the comedy videograph was being displayed on, the room was utterly void of furniture. Rows of panels built into the floor were capable of flipping over into chairs -- providing more seating if they had more guests -- but they were very rarely used.


    "You see that chair?" Scout suddenly asked, breaking her out of her reverie.


    He was pointing in the corner of the shot on the monitor, at a wooden chair sculpted to look like a twisted wolf. Chloe frowned: it looked kind of creepy, to be honest.


    "Yeah," she muttered. "What about it?"


    "We¡¯ve got that in our house back home -- the actual prop. My dad saw it and thought it looked badass, so he tracked it down and bought it off the director."


    "Your house? I thought you guys lived on a starship. ¡¯Cause you move around all the time, right?"


    "It¡¯s a house inside a starship," Scout said simply, as if that explained anything at all. Chloe decided not to pursue it further.


    "Move out the way!" someone screamed, a medical team gathering around the figure on the ground. With professional, practiced efficiency, all the equipment required for restoring a life was brought into action.


    The first shock had no effect.


    "We should still have a day or so after the meeting," Scout said cheerfully, pulling his legs up onto the couch. "We should all hang out somewhere together, the three of us. Make some memories or something, right?"


    Chloe shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her eyes were looking at the pictures on the screen, but she wasn¡¯t watching it.


    "I dunno¡­" she mumbled. "Things have been weird. It feels like Rico¡¯s one of them now, not one of us."


    "What?" Scout furrowed his brow. "Because he¡¯s older? Everyone grows up."


    Chloe was perfectly aware that she sounded petulant right now, so having it pointed out to her didn¡¯t do much to lighten her mood. "I know," she bit her lip. "But it feels like I¡¯m being left behind, like¡­ before long, it¡¯ll just be me. With Keiko gone, too, it just feels¡­ it just feels bad. All of it."


    Scout frowned, reaching over and squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. "I get what you mean, Chlo," he said, smiling sadly. "But that¡¯s just life, right? We won¡¯t leave you anywhere. We¡¯ll always be family. Things are gonna be okay. Right?"


    The second shock was much the same, accomplishing nothing but posthumous indignity. A second doctor thrust a stimulant needle into the body¡¯s neck, a push of the plunger releasing it¡¯s payload. Even with that, though, there was no response.


    The meeting room was full of the sounds of argument, the Oliphants shouting at each other and their employees, bodies rushing to and fro to secure the premises before whoever had done this could escape.


    A third shock. Nothing.


    "Right," Chloe nodded, smiling to herself as she turned back to the videograph monitor. This was one of her favourite features -- if she could just pay attention to it, she was sure she could cheer up just a little.


    Right now, at least, everything really was okay.


    And then Chloe¡¯s script began to ring.


    Death was confirmed nearly five minutes after Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier collapsed to the ground. The crowd of medical personnel who had gathered around him had tried everything, but in the end they¡¯d simply admitted defeat.


    Up on the balcony, Dragan turned to look at Skipper, who was scanning the room below from his perch on the railing.


    "Did you see what happened?" Skipper asked quietly, his eyes like those of a hawk as he observed the chaos.


    Dragan shook his head. "No. Well, I guess I did¡­ he just fell off his chair and started spasming. Poison, I guess -- only he was drinking for a while before it took effect. Something in the wine, designed to activate at a specific time?"


    Bruno stepped up next to him, their little group an oasis of calm in the midst of the rush of movement. "There¡¯s stuff like that," he nodded, surely only knowing of such things for wholesome and legal reasons.


    Ruth kept up the back, her claws already manifested to defend against any incoming attacks. Dragan doubted anyone would risk themselves by going after the bodyguards after poisoning a crime lord, but it was good to know his back was safe all the same.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "What do we do?" she called out over her shoulder.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes scanned the room once again -- before settling in one spot and clicking his tongue. "Ah hell," he sighed. "Looks like our employment¡¯s not so secure anymore, kids."


    Dragan followed his gaze, and his eyes widened in shock.


    What he saw was an impossibility. S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    There, being wrestled to the ground by two of Roy Oliphant-Dawkins¡¯ bodyguards, was Mr. Fix. As Dragan watched, mouth agape, the man who¡¯d seemed like such an immovable fixture during his childhood was brought to heel. Firm restraints were forced onto Fix¡¯s hands and he was pulled up to his feet.


    The expression on his face¡­ even through Fix¡¯s stony visage, Dragan could see a spark of defiance.


    "Makes sense, I guess," Bruno muttered. "He was chummy with Jacques, so he would¡¯ve had an opportunity to slip him something."


    Hot anger flooded through Dragan¡¯s hands, clutching the railing, with such ferocity that he thought his blood would burst out of his veins and escape. The metal bent in his frustrated grip.


    "Bullshit," he hissed.


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "I thought you hated the guy. If they decide he did it, he won¡¯t be seeing the light of day again for sure."


    "Still," growled Dragan, eyes fixed on Fix. "He wouldn¡¯t have done this. He doesn¡¯t have the guts."


    A slow smirk spread across Skipper¡¯s face as he listened.


    "Well, Mr. Hadrien," he said dramatically, stepping back from the railing. "It seems to me that we¡¯ve got two paths before us right now. We could either leave, head somewhere else, and have a nice time¡­" His smirk spread into a grin. "Or we can go down there and get ourselves involved."


    When it came to the choices you were most sure about, the decision-making process became irrelevant. Your body already knew what it would do the moment the choice was posed. You¡¯d shoot someone in the back without even realising it.


    Or, in this case...


    With a crackle of blue Aether, Dragan jumped off the balcony -- smothering his momentum with a split-second Gemini World -- before landing in the middle of the meeting room.


    Half-a-dozen guards and Oliphants, already on high alert, swung around to face him.


    Above, Dragan heard Skipper¡¯s distant voice: "Uh¡­ I thought maybe we¡¯d be a little more subtle than that."


    Carla bit her lip as she looked at the body on the slab.


    Jacques had been a good-looking man in life, but in death he¡¯d been utterly besmirched. His skin was gnarled and torn like sodden paper, with dark red flesh poking out from between the gaps. His bloodshot eyes had nearly spilled out from his head with the softening of his sockets. His jaw and throat had collapsed in on themselves as the poison had continued its ghastly work posthumously, leaving him with a frozen scream that stretched all the way down to his collarbone.


    Just thirty minutes ago, he¡¯d been walking and speaking as he¡¯d done for thirty-eight years, and now he was like this. A prop in a morgue.


    In this sort of situation, Carla believed it was appropriate to close the eyes of the deceased, but Jacques¡¯ eyelids had long since flaked away. All she could offer him was the dignity of a sheet -- as she pulled it up over his face, it was like she was locking him behind a firm white door.


    Someone stepped into the morgue behind her. "Ma¡¯am," said Avery, the family¡¯s elder butler, his voice quivering with age. "I¡¯ve brought the young fellow who spoke for Asmodeus Fix. As you asked."


    "I see," she replied quietly, turning away from Jacques¡¯ concealed form. "Thank you, Avery."


    In the chaos following Jacques¡¯ death, she hadn¡¯t been able to get a good look at the person Fix had brought in, but now that she did she realized he was much younger than she¡¯d assumed. A silver-haired Cogitant, his face red from stress, staring at her with an expression mingling between defiance and confusion.


    "You have something you want to say to me?" Carla asked, wiping her hands off with a cloth.


    The boy swallowed. "Fix didn¡¯t do it. He¡¯s innocent. He¡¯s not the type."


    "Why do you say that? It seems to me that everyone in our line of business is, as you say, ¡¯the type¡¯."


    "Fix is a parasite. He¡¯s not stupid enough to cut off the hand that feeds him."


    Carla sighed. "Unless a richer hand is ready to take its place."


    That gave the young man pause, at least. His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"


    In a single smooth motion, Carla flicked on her script and held it up, screen pointing towards the Cogitant. Rows of white text scrolled across a black background.


    "What¡¯s this?" the boy asked, but his eyes were already scanning it with vigor.


    "The personal accounts of Asmodeus Fix," she explained, tucking it back into her pocket after a moment. "Right after my brother was killed, this man received an anonymous payment of 500,000 stator. He certainly got a good deal out of his betrayal."


    The hesitation the script had created lasted only a moment -- the boy soon shook his head with even more passion. "No way -- it¡¯s a frame-job. If he¡¯d really been paid to do this, he wouldn¡¯t be stupid enough to receive the money on his personal account, he¡¯d use a proxy or something. Plus, he¡¯d have gotten out of here before anyone could take him in. He¡¯s not stupid enough to botch an assassination this badly."


    Carla narrowed her eyes, just slightly, at the young man¡¯s passionate appeal. "What¡¯s your name, kid?"


    "Dragan Hadrien."


    "I¡¯m Carla Oliphant. You wanna know why I¡¯m here all alone, without any bodyguards or peons to do my dirty work?"


    "Not really." Well, at least he was honest.


    "It¡¯s because I¡¯m this family¡¯s troubleshooter -- I find trouble, and I shoot it. I¡¯m very good at my job. And Asmodeus Fix? He¡¯s trouble. I can tell just from looking at him."


    "But --"


    She interrupted, pushing through his words. "You¡¯re saying this is a frame-job, right? And I have to agree with you when you say it looks pretty sloppy. But there¡¯s every possibility that¡¯s a double-bluff. You¡¯re not gonna suspect the guy who¡¯s so obviously being framed, are you? But would someone framing someone like this be so sloppy? I doubt it."


    Dragan Hadrien¡¯s balled fists fell to his sides. "That¡¯s just you speculating," he muttered, glaring down at the floor.


    "Same with you saying he¡¯s innocent. Seems we¡¯re at an impasse here, aren¡¯t we?" A thought occurred, and the stern demeanor Carla Oliphant had adopted eased, just slightly. "Hear me out, though. I think there¡¯s a way we can both come out of this happy."


    Dragan glanced back up at her. "How¡¯s that?"


    "I¡¯m sure you were listening to the meeting down there -- the Oliphant Clan can¡¯t afford to seem weak. We need to be seen taking in someone for this killing, if nothing else, and Fix is the only candidate available. Once our father arrives on the Cradle, he¡¯ll most likely order Fix¡¯s execution. It¡¯ll be excruciating."


    The horrified look Carla had expected didn¡¯t quite appear on Hadrien¡¯s face. "Unless¡­?" he prodded.


    "Unless we find a better candidate. If you¡¯re so confident you know who did this, Dragan Hadrien, you bring them to me. Do that, and Fix¡¯ll be free to go."


    Dragan Hadrien took a deep breath, clearly tossing the proposal over in his head, and slowly nodded. Carla had to conceal the smirk that threatened to spread over her own face.


    It was a shame. This kid seemed earnest, and he clearly cared about Asmodeus Fix on some level, but Carla honestly couldn¡¯t see him succeeding in the task he¡¯d been presented with. He¡¯d make a nuisance of himself poking around for clues and eventually be disappeared by one of her siblings, or one of their subordinates.


    Still, a nuisance was a useful thing. The people Carla hated more than anything were slow to move, so anything that demanded action from them was a godsend.


    Dragan Hadrien would be a useful spider to have crawling across the chessboard.

 Chapter 157:7.6: Caged

    A long time ago, in a rusted wreck floating through a poison sky, Asmodeus Fix glanced at the young boy beside him.


    In order to get a proper view, the boy was sitting cross-legged atop a metal crate, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed as he stared at the unfortunate behind the glass of the interrogation room. His silver hair had grown long over the last few months -- his mother had long since given up on taming it, apparently -- and so only the slightest glimmer of his electric-blue eyes could be seen through the near-white curtain.


    Fix crossed his arms as he too looked at the man in the interrogation room. He was being circled by one of Fix¡¯s subordinates, a Scurrant with shark-like teeth, as he babbled desperately -- throwing out as many secrets as possible in an effort to keep himself alive.


    The boy was intensely focused on each syllable, his hands balled so tight that Fix was surprised he didn¡¯t cut himself on his own fingernails. Even though no sound from inside the room could be heard in this adjoining chamber, the boy¡¯s mouth moved along soundlessly, mimicking the treacherous words of the man being questioned.


    The traitor¡¯s deluge of speech was cut short by a sharp slap -- and in the intermission that provided, Asmodeus Fix glanced down again at little Dragan Hadrien.


    "Well?" he grunted.


    For a second, Hadrien looked like he wasn¡¯t going to answer at all. Then, quiet words left his lips: "He¡¯s lying."


    Present Day¡­


    Asmodeus Fix slowly opened his eyes, wincing as the old collection of injuries made themselves known.


    The ache in his shoulder blade, the twinge of his ribs, the insistent spiking pain from the knuckles on his hands¡­ a status report letting him know that he was both alive and, as ever, in poor condition. There were some new additions, too, a tender stinging pain just above his ear that he wasn¡¯t yet familiar with. Clearly he¡¯d been beaten a little before they¡¯d thrown him in here.


    He glanced down at his hands. They were bound with thick steel manacles -- and from the fact that he couldn¡¯t seem to bring out his Aether, it was a safe bet that they were lined with Neverwire. Sloppy work: Neverwire was expensive stuff, not to be wasted on the likes of him. Fix would have recommended they drug him into a stupor instead, to save on resources.


    As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his circumstances became clear. He was in a cage -- originally used to keep some kind of animal, judging from the size, but it would hold a human being just as well. He was still in his business attire, if a little scuffed and dirty -- he couldn¡¯t have been out too long, then. The last thing he really remembered was¡­


    His eyes widened, just fractionally. The last thing he remembered was Jacques¡¯ death. His employer, his rung on the ladder, had perished choking on what was left of his own tongue. Then, he¡¯d been taken in for the murder.


    As his chronic and familiar pains settled at a manageable level, Fix forced himself off the ground and into a sitting position. The room was dark, the only source of light being a sliver peeking from under a far-off door, but he was sure they wouldn¡¯t have left him here without a guard of some sort.


    It was fruitless, but he¡¯d say his piece. "I¡¯m innocent," he called out. "This wasn¡¯t my doing. I promise you that."


    There was no reply, save for the slightest snort of amusement, almost imperceptible.


    Fix turned his head to look in the direction of the noise. "Let me speak with Carla Oliphant," he persisted. "I imagine she¡¯s leading the investigation. Allow me to plead my innocence to her."


    "What?" sneered a familiar voice. "Put you face-to-face with another member of the Oliphant Clan? You¡¯ve got one already, we¡¯re not about to let you take out a second."


    Fix clicked his tongue. If that voice was who he thought it was, he already knew he wouldn¡¯t be getting any sympathy.


    The speaker shifted slightly, just enough for part of their face to come into the light, and that was enough to confirm Fix¡¯s suspicions. The one they¡¯d assigned to guard him was Moss Halevat, another one of Jacques¡¯ subordinates. A long time ago, the two of them had clashed over the second-in-command position. He was willing to bet Moss still held a grudge over that.


    Moss stepped forward again, looking down at him through the bars. He adjusted the white tie of his white suit with one hand, while the second tapped mockingly against the metal. Fix had no doubt that Moss was ready to shoot him with his golden revolver if he so much as made a quick move.


    "They locked you in the dark as well, then," Fix chuckled with mirth he didn¡¯t feel. "How humiliating for you."


    With a thunderous clang, Moss¡¯ fist struck the metal bar. "Laugh it up, asshole," he growled. "Some of us can afford the upgrade." His black cybernetic eyes blinked rapidly.


    "All the same," Fix repeated steadily. "I am innocent. I did not do this."


    "Whatever," Moss stepped back. "Like I care either way. Apparently, that brat you brought here is trying to prove you innocent too. Wonder how long he¡¯ll last."


    All pain and caution were forgotten. In an instant -- quicker than a single breath -- Asmodeus Fix was not only on his feet, he was right at the bars, glaring through at his rival. Moss stumbled backwards in surprise, grasping for his revolver.


    "I wouldn¡¯t," Fix said quietly. "If you kill me now, it¡¯ll look like the person who hired me paid you to shut me up. You¡¯d be the next one in this cage."


    Moss¡¯ grip froze on the handle of his gun, and he grit his teeth in obvious frustration. "If you think I¡¯m letting you out of there," he hissed. "You¡¯ve got another thing coming."


    "No," Fix shook his head. "I don¡¯t expect you to. I¡¯m not stupid. But you just told me a certain person -- a person I swore I¡¯d protect -- is now in danger. I dislike that. You¡¯re going to tell me every single thing that has happened since I lost consciousness. Or I kill myself right here, and make it look like you did it. I¡¯m certainly capable of that."


    Moss¡¯ face twitched -- torn between a desire to see Fix die and the drive to save his own skin -- before it finally relented and slackened. His grip reluctantly slipped off his gun and flopped in the air.


    "Fine," he growled. "Fine, you fucker."


    "Gotta say," Ruth said, leaning against a wall surely more expensive than the ship they¡¯d come in on. "I kinda wish you¡¯d asked us before saying we¡¯d solve this mystery or whatever."


    Dragan sighed, running his face over his hands. Skipper had disappeared somewhere to check if he could spot any ¡¯suspicious activity¡¯, so he, Ruth and Bruno were loitering in one of the venue¡¯s countless hallways.


    A fogged-over window looked out onto a neon landscape. The lights of flying cars passed back and forth from the building chaotically -- with what had just happened, the Oliphant Clan was floundering to get a handle on the situation. The leaders were staying here for the moment, but countless subordinates and henchmen were being dispatched on a staggering number of tasks.


    Dragan blinked wearily as he looked out over the Cradle. He¡¯d been out. Why couldn¡¯t he have just left things alone?


    "I had to say something," he muttered, to both himself and Ruth. "They would have killed him for sure. An eye for an eye is the way these people work -- even more so when it¡¯s an important eye."


    Bruno glanced up from his script -- he¡¯d been looking at it for quite a while. "Like I said before, though, I thought you hated the guy."


    "I do."


    Ruth frowned. "So why not just let him get fucked?"


    "It¡¯s¡­" Dragan waved a vague hand like a flipper. "It¡¯s not that simple."


    The verbal tag-team continued, Bruno speaking up again. "It really is. We could be on the Slipstream #2 --"


    "Slipstream #3, Bruno," Serena interrupted.


    "We could be on the Slipstream #3 and out of here in, like, an hour if we rushed. We¡¯re only here doing this because you want to be here, doing this."


    Dragan sighed, rubbing his thumbs against his temples as he pressed his head against the cool glass of the window. They were right, of course. What he was doing here was irrational in the extreme -- it wasn¡¯t even a matter of acting on emotion, since Dragan¡¯s feelings for Fix should have led him to leave the bastard to his fate.


    An excuse that didn¡¯t ring true came to his lips. "It¡¯s like Fix said -- I owe a debt. I don¡¯t like owing people. I do this, I pay it off, and I never have to see him again."


    Bruno frowned, but he didn¡¯t say anything more -- his eyes just slipped back to the script in his hands.


    "What is it?" Dragan eagerly changed the subject, nodding to the device.


    "Security camera footage from this place," Bruno murmured as he intently watched the screen. "Trying to see if I can spot anyone suspicious moving around before the murder."


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "I¡¯m surprised they gave you access to that."


    The slightest smirk tugged at Bruno¡¯s lip. "They didn¡¯t," he said, with more than a hint of pride. "I just hacked the system."


    Ruth stepped over, squeezing in to look at the screen too as if it were a particularly interesting videograph. "You can do that?" she asked.


    "There¡¯s a lot of stuff I can do."


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    And yet I¡¯m the one who gets asked to hack the system every two seconds. Typical.


    "Well?" Dragan asked. "Is there anything?"


    Bruno shook his head -- but slowly, uncertainly. "Not sure. There¡¯s something weird, but I don¡¯t know if I¡¯d call it suspicious."


    "Better than nothing," Dragan said. "Out with it."


    "All the Oliphant leaders have been staying here since the murder," Bruno explained, his finger tapping against the screen. "They wanna show they¡¯re not intimidated, I guess, or they¡¯re mourning their sibling. All the people heading out are subordinates following orders."


    "Okay," Ruth nodded. "What about it?"


    Bruno stuck up a single finger. "Except," he continued. "For one Oliphant, who left the building via a back entrance about eight minutes ago."


    He flipped the script around so that Dragan could get a better look at it. On it, paused, was an image of a young man with tanned skin glancing over his shoulder as he stepped through an open door.


    "He was in the meeting," Dragan murmured. "Someone called him Rico, I think. What are you thinking?"


    Bruno tucked the script back into his pocket. "I¡¯m thinking we don¡¯t have anything in terms of clues -- so the best thing we can do is tail whoever looks most suspicious. You guys in?"


    Rico sighed, smoke drifting from his stick of Bubble as he walked through the network of alleyways and side streets that surrounded the Oliphant headquarters.


    How had things gotten so fucked so quickly? He¡¯d walked into that place looking forward to getting the meeting over with so he could head back home, and he¡¯d walked out with one less relative. Objectively, he knew that walking out like this was an idiotic thing to do, but he couldn¡¯t help it. That building was like a giant cage -- he needed something to call himself down.


    He took another puff of the Bubble stick, the cocktail of chemicals easing his nerves and making it feel like his skull was made of cotton. His parents had always been adamant that members of the Oliphant Clan shouldn¡¯t use what they sell, but Rico just couldn¡¯t help it. If he tried just to withstand all the stress and chaos of this family, he was sure his head would¡¯ve burst long ago.


    As he passed a homeless man, slumped over in the corner of the alleyway, he fished a fifty-stator bill out of his pocket and put it in the man¡¯s empty cup.


    "Thank yer kindly¡­" the man muttered with a nod of gratitude, but Rico was already moving on.


    Except.


    His next step stopped, foot pausing in a puddle of god-knows-what. He was being followed: he could sense it like something crawling over his back.


    The first thing you learned as an Oliphant was that there would always be people who wanted you dead. The second thing you learned was how to tell where your enemies were.


    A pulse of visceral red Aether, writhing around itself, burst out from his body -- the ping finding four others in the immediate vicinity with Aether as well. He was outnumbered, then.


    No point in dragging this out.


    "Come to take me out too?" he called out into the darkness, his voice bouncing off the walls. "I¡¯m not so easy to kill."


    There was silence for a moment, and then -- with the scrape of metal -- a figure dropped onto the ground a few meters away.


    It was a woman with orange hair, clad in some kind of bizarre armour. Strips of metal like the ribs of a skeleton hugged her body tight, while a red-eyed mask covered her face. At the end of the gauntlets on her hands, claws glinted dangerously, tasting the air as the woman flexed her fingers.


    She looked strong. Rico narrowed his eyes. "Where are the rest of you?" he growled. "I know you¡¯re not alone."


    "Right behind you," a voice whispered in his ear -- and at the same time, he felt the mouth of a pistol press against his back. "Don¡¯t move."


    His breath caught in his throat. He¡¯d been focusing on this woman before him, but -- with how tense he was -- he was absolutely sure he would have noticed someone walking up behind him. There was a trick to this.


    "That was really easy," came a third voice, another girl stepping out of the darkness of the alleyway. She was wearing grey urban camouflage, her blonde hair cut short around her head. "Are you sure he¡¯s the big bad guy?"


    Rico narrowed his eyes. From what they were saying, was this¡­?


    "You think I¡¯m behind this?!" he cried. "Hell no!"


    The masked girl cocked her head, hair flopping around as she did so. "Why¡¯d you run, then?" Her voice was made tinny and metallic by the acoustics of the mask, like she was speaking through steam.


    "I¡­" the words died in his throat. "I¡¯m innocent. I had nothing to do with this."


    "Think I¡¯m just gonna take your word for it?" the voice of the person behind him -- a male voice -- said, unamused.


    Rico gulped. "It¡¯s the truth."


    "What made you leave in such a hurry?"


    For a second, Rico considered dodging the question again -- but screw it, his pride wasn¡¯t worth getting himself shot in the back. "I was taking a hit of Bubble," he muttered, eyes downcast. "I didn¡¯t want anyone to see me."


    The person behind him didn¡¯t say anything at first, but Rico was sure the gun pressed firmer against his back for just a second or so.


    "Can I see it?" the boy behind him asked.


    Rico took the Bubble stick out of his pocket, careful not to make any sudden moves, and lifted it into the air. The second he did so, it was snatched out of his hand and thrown against a nearby wall, shattering into pieces. Remnants of pale Bubble smoke drifted up into the air.


    Drip. Drip.


    The moment dragged on, the pistol pressing into his back with such force that it felt like it would burst right through the flesh.


    "What do you think, Dragan? He full of it?" the blonde girl called out -- only now she was deepening her voice, making it gruff. Trying to sound tough, maybe?


    Drip. Drip.


    The person behind him -- Dragan, obviously -- was considering things. The barrel of the gun shifted slightly, and for a second Rico was sure his captor was about to fire. Then the pressure on his back disappeared, and he heard the comforting sound of the weapon sliding back into its holster.


    "He¡¯s telling the truth," Dragan sighed, almost disappointed.


    Rico took a hurried step back, whirling around in an effort to keep all three of his assailants within his view. This Dragan was clearly a Cogitant -- the electric-blue eyes gave it away -- and that paired with his silver hair made him eerie in the darkness, like some kind of ghost coming for him. He couldn¡¯t forget about the armoured girl and her friend, either. He was surrounded by unknown variables.


    Even with his ability, he wasn¡¯t certain he¡¯d be able to take on so many opponents at once -- especially if they were adept at protecting their bodies with Aether.


    Best to let things lie. He let his hands fall limply down to his sides.


    "Who are you people?" he asked, eyes still wary. "My uncle¡¯s body is still warm and you¡¯re here stalking me through alleyways."


    Dragan kept his eyes fixed on Rico¡¯s hands as he circled him, rejoining his comrades. "We¡¯ve been hired by Carla Oliphant to investigate the murder," he said simply. "You seemed suspicious, so we checked you out."


    Rico snorted. "Well, you¡¯re doing a great job of it. What¡¯s your next strategy? Picking names out of a hat?"


    "If we have to," growled the masked girl.


    Rico wasn¡¯t sure if that was actually meant to be a comeback or not, so he elected to ignore it. "Anyway," he said, waving a hand as he turned away. "If you¡¯re done harassing me, then --"


    Something was wrong.


    Every cell in his body was suddenly aware of it all at once -- and a moment later, his brain caught up. His Aether ping had caught four other Aether-users in the vicinity. There were only three enemies before him.


    Where was the fourth?


    The homeless man, who¡¯d vanished into the shadows of the buildings, lunged at Rico with a dagger glimmering with furious white Aether. At the same time, the masked girl rushed forward in a blur of movement and crimson Aether, pulling Rico out of the way of the blow. As he fell down to the ground, Rico heard the grimy, bearded man click his tongue:


    "My bounty," the man slurred, eyes concealed by his beanie. "Get yer own."


    He lunged forward again -- this time down towards Rico¡¯s position on the ground -- but now Rico was ready for him. Before the shining weapon could make contact, Rico reached out and grabbed the man by the ankle, seizing him tight. With all the Aether he was putting into his weapon, it was only natural he¡¯d be lowering his defenses a bit.


    Grisly red Aether ran along the back of Rico¡¯s hand. S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Tiny Garden.


    The effect was immediate. With a gasp of shock and pain, the bearded man ceased his attack, the weapon slipping from his grip and clattering to the ground. The masked girl, standing over Rico, readied her claws to prepare for a new attack -- but the fight was already over.


    As the assassin stepped back, clutching his throat, his body went through a gruesome transformation. Patches of his skin began to open up, revealing spots of dark red blood and muscle that grew wider and wider, like yawning mouths -- bones soon forcing themselves out through the weakened flesh. His mouth, already open, stretched even further as his jaw collapsed in on itself, his organs spilling freely from the new orifice. His eyes, too, rolled out of their sockets, hanging from nerves like pendulums until those too deteriorated into mush. They were like rotten tomatoes as they struck the floor.


    Crack. Crack.


    His legs snapped under his weight like matchsticks, and as he finally splattered onto the floor he was more liquid than solid. He looked like a black plastic bag with meat inside.


    Every time, Rico had to resist the urge to vomit when he saw Tiny Garden at work.


    "Y," the masked girl breathed above him, clearly going through the same battle. "You fucked him."


    Rico wasn¡¯t sure why, but he found himself numbly explaining. "You know what skin flora is?" he said quietly. "It¡¯s the bacteria that covers a human body. My power lets me alter that bacteria however I want. I just¡­ I gave them a taste for flesh, so this is what happens."


    The Cogitant called Dragan held a hand up to his mouth as he surveyed the scene, his face pale. "Who was that?" he asked. "Some kind of hitman?"


    He took a tentative step towards the puddle of human, clearly deciding whether or not to search it for clues, but in the end restraint won out and he stayed where he was. The blonde girl, on the other hand, simply strode forward and plucked something out of the mass, wiping blood and liver off of it with her sleeve.


    "This might answer that," she said grimly, pulling her hand away from what was now clearly a script. Text crawled across its surface.


    THE HUNTER GAME - RULES


    A pleasant evening to you all. Some may receive this missive earlier than others, based on individual agreement, but I hope you all look upon it in good health.


    First, allow me to introduce myself. I am a fellow with more money than he requires, and I desire to return that money to the criminal community. As such, I have decided to organise the Hunter Game -- a battle of skill and wits that will surely make our beloved Cradle into the murder capital of the Supremacy.


    The rules are simple. You will receive the following payment for eliminating the following targets:


    Oliphant family member - 100,000 Stator.


    Oliphant direct subordinate - 50,000 Stator.


    Oliphant bodyguard/hired gun - 10,000 Stator.


    Any other Oliphant employee - 5,000 Stator.


    Anyone may participate. Any means are acceptable. The only limit on winnings is how many targets you can eliminate.


    Happy hunting.


    As Rico finished reading the text, he heard the sounds of several buzzes in unison -- scripts receiving messages. Slowly, his hand shaky, Rico lifted up his wrist-bound script to see what he¡¯d just received. The others in the alley did the same with their own devices.


    The exact same message. They¡¯d sent it to everyone.


    "Oh, fuck," said Dragan.

 Chapter 158:7.7: Kings of Killers

    Nine hours earlier...


    Working as a security guard made for long, boring nights -- but if you were careful about which jobs you took, it was easy work.


    In terms of difficulty, the night shift for overnight passenger liners was well on the easy end. All the passengers were either staying overnight at hotels or had reached their destination at the Cradle. With that, and the fact that a passenger liner was much too big to be stolen by some punk, the only real concerns were stowaways -- and those were never really much trouble.


    Still annoying to deal with, though.


    Graham sighed as he saw the minor alert pop up on the monitor of his workstation. An unregistered heat signature had been detected in the cargo hold -- so either someone was trying to steal some luggage or, more likely, a stowaway had popped their head out of their den. Either way, he had to deal with it.


    He grunted as he sat up from the cheap chair the company had provided for his little security booth -- he wasn¡¯t as young as he used to be, and movements that previously would have been completely natural for him now took conscious effort.


    "Gonna check it out," he said out loud -- only to realise a second later that it was pointless. He was alone, after all.


    Originally they¡¯d done these night watches in pairs, but a couple of months ago the company had decided it was more cost-effective just to have a single watchman for these late shifts. He had access to the security automatics if he needed them to deal with any hoodlums trying to steal, but to be honest they rarely ever worked either. At the time of the changes, Graham had done his best to kick up a fuss -- but without a union to stand behind him, all making himself inconvenient would accomplish was getting fired.


    Still, he wasn¡¯t helpless. Graham kept a steady hand on his sidearm, still in its holster, as he stepped outside of the security booth. It was just a stun pistol, but he was fairly confident in his accuracy -- he headed to the range for recreational purposes a couple of times a month, after all.


    At this time, the massive hangar containing the passenger liner -- the Woven Knot -- was mostly pitch-black, illuminated only by the low-power lights built into the ceiling.


    Click.


    A cone of light spread out from the lamp on the collarbone of Graham¡¯s uniform, spanning over the entrance ramp to the Woven Knot. Before stepping inside, he checked his script -- the heat alert had disappeared, so whatever stowaway was in the ship had gone back into their little hidey-hole.


    To be perfectly honest, that probably meant that Graham could go back to his station and say it was just a rat or something -- but he hadn¡¯t gotten this far in life by half-assing his work. Graham took another step forward, peering into the cargo hold of the Woven Knot.


    His light scanned over the inside of the ship, passing over bound-down metal crates and transport consoles bolted to the walls. Usually, in cases like this, stowaways would use some sort of smuggling compartment built into the ship by unscrupulous owners -- or they hid inside one of the transport crates themselves, though that often resulted in death by suffocation.


    Usually served them right: if you needed to get somewhere, just buy a ticket.


    "Warning you now!" Graham called into the darkness, his voice gravelly from the hours since he¡¯d last spoken. "I¡¯ve got a gun, and I know how to use it! Make things easy for yourself!"


    The only thing that answered him was silence, save for the faint humming of machinery. Looked like they were gonna make him work for it. Blowing out his breath of air, Graham unhooked his pistol from its holster -- maybe they¡¯d get a second shot for his troubles.


    He took a step forward into the ship, metal creaking under his boot.


    Something rushed by his vision. A flash of silver light that shined by him in an instant, clearly the reflection of something metallic. Graham barked out a near-incoherent command, raising his arms to point his pistol at the source of the disturbance¡­


    ...only to find that both his arms had been cleanly severed at the elbow.


    Huh?


    That was his last thought.


    The light flashed by again -- and at the very same time that the first twinges of pain began to make themselves known, Graham¡¯s head fell from his shoulders.


    Before the head of the security guard could hit the floor, it was snatched out of the air by one of the group -- and crushed between the powerful jaws of Anduan.


    The hunched-over figure was naked save for a pair of filthy, torn-apart jeans, his finger and toenails grown out and sharpened like claws. His body was perpetually emaciated, ribs and bones clearly visible through the indentations on his skin -- even the shape of his skull was visible through his head. Stray tufts of black hair pooled down from his mostly bare scalp, a contrast to the grey hair poking out from between his teeth as he chewed the stolen skull. Streams of tears spilled out from his eyes as he swallowed the slurry the head had been reduced to, sobs racking his body as he gorged himself.


    "Sorry," he wept, even as he dragged the rest of the body over with his hands and brought the shoulder up to his mouth. "Sorry, sorry, so sorry, oh god, oh god¡­"


    "It¡¯s no biggie, Anduan," chuckled a suave voice from the darkness. "If he doesn¡¯t have the good sense to tell when he¡¯s in danger, he¡¯s got no business being alive in the first place."


    The speaker stepped forward into the light still shining from the corpse¡¯s collarbone, as if it were the spotlight on a stage.


    There was no shortage of killers and murderers in the galaxy. If there was a human being, there was an assassin willing to take money to kill them. Among those assassins, there was no formal ranking system -- the lawless nature of their work prevented that -- but a general consensus came about whenever you had a community. Animals could sense which of them was the strongest.


    In the criminal community, Eli Masadora was called the King of Killers.


    As he stepped into view, the segments of the whip-sword he¡¯d used to dispatch the guard locked back into place, and he slipped the weapon back into its holster. He ran a hand through his bleached-blond hair and wrinkled his nose as he watched Anduan quickly devour the corpse.


    All in all, it took the wretch only around thirty seconds to erase all evidence of the murder, even licking up the blood that had pooled onto the floor. His task complete, Anduan curled up into a ball, whimpering to himself.


    "Right, lads!" Eli Masadora called out, flipping the collar of his fur coat as he addressed the shadowy cargo hold. "Looks like we¡¯ve made landfall, so if you¡¯ll be kind enough to evacuate the premises and get on with our mutual business?"


    This little gathering had no leader -- they¡¯d come together only for a mutual opportunity -- but the word of Eli Masadora held weight all the same. One by one, the assassins that had infiltrated the Woven Knot walked out, taking their first steps onto the Cradle.


    It was quite the crowd: a veritable red carpet of murder.


    The enigmatic King Smile, surrounded by a perpetual haze of white-and-grey Aether like videograph static, cocked the massive monitor that encased his head as he stepped out of the ship. The neon-green grinning face that flickered on his monitor switched to a surprised expression for a moment as the bizarre man took his first look at the Cradle. Then, without so much as a final word to his traveling companions, he charged off in a blur of movement.


    Grotto and Samantha Helkin chuckled at a private joke between themselves, Grotto helping his wife down from the ramp with his one remaining hand. They were unusual among the assassins in the way they weren¡¯t unusual -- if you saw them in a crowd, you¡¯d never so much at glance twice at the young couple. Dark hair and casual clothes, the only thing about them capable of drawing attention being the murderous gleam in their eyes.


    Anduan, the wretched thing, nibbled at his lips nervously as he crawled out of the ship on all fours. His fearful eyes flicked in every direction, taking in every possible source of danger in a split-second. He said nothing, but the rumbling of his stomach was already audible -- the gluttonous creature was never satisfied for long.


    There were more, needless to say, hired killers of every shape and size -- but they were fodder, small-fry, brought along for quantity rather than quality. There were only two reasons in this business to remember somebody¡¯s name: if they were capable of killing you, or if you¡¯d been hired to kill them. The peanut gallery didn¡¯t meet either of those conditions.


    And, of course, the King of Killers himself -- Eli Masadora stretched as he finally got out of the limiting confines of the Woven Knot, taking pleasure in the series of cracks from his tired joints. The mob of murderers turned to glance at him as he stepped out into the dark hangar, as if looking for his approval to proceed.


    "Hunter Game, eh?" he mused, flipping open his script as he scanned through the rules one last time. The rates were good, and it sounded like a lark. He grinned up at his fellows. "Best of luck to you, lads. May the best man win and all that tosh."


    The next time Eli Masadora left this station, he knew his blade would be coated with Oliphant blood.


    Now¡­


    "Aunt Carla," Keiko hissed over the script. "What the hell is going on? Did you get that message too?"


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Carla swallowed as she strode down the hallway of the Oliphant compound, script pressed tight against her ear. Ever since the Hunter Game message had been sent out, the remaining family members at headquarters had been in an uproar -- they¡¯d only just lost one family member, and already they were under threat of losing countless more.


    "Everyone got it," Carla replied, her voice grim, as she paused by a foggy window. "All the family members and their subordinates, at least. Did you get one?"


    With a swipe of her fingers across the windowsill, emergency measures were activated, and heavy shutters slid down to cover the potential opening. Snipers would be a serious risk going forward -- she¡¯d need to keep her awareness as sharp as possible.


    "I didn¡¯t, no," Keiko replied. "But Cottian del Sed contacted me -- apparently he got one, so whoever¡¯s doing this must know he¡¯s on the station."


    "Mm," Carla nodded. "That makes sense -- I didn¡¯t consider that. Did Cottian mention anything else?"


    "No, nothing¡­" There was a pause over the call, and when Keiko spoke again it was with a kind of dawning horror. "Oh, god. You don¡¯t think he¡¯ll¡­?"


    Carla bit her lip as she planted her hand against the metal shutter, taking comfort in the chill that radiated out into her body.


    "I don¡¯t think he¡¯ll go after either of us," she said slowly, turning the words over in her mouth experimentally. "Seeing as he¡¯s already getting a paycheck out of us. He¡¯ll want to double dip if possible, going after other targets while working for us at the same time¡­"


    "Well, we can¡¯t let him do that!" Caution was absent from Keiko¡¯s voice as she cried out. "What if he goes after Chloe or Rico or Scout, or someone else from the family?!"


    "Relax." It was Carla¡¯s voice to hiss, to remind Keiko of the secrecy of their endeavour. "We can still manoeuvre this. We¡¯ll feed Cott minor subordinates, ones we know can¡¯t be trusted not to participate in this game, to keep him happy. Then -- as soon as we figure out who he was working for last year, we eliminate him."


    "Won¡¯t he figure that out, though?" Keiko whispered anxiously. "He¡¯s not stupid."


    Carla¡¯s next words were hurried -- there were two people walking down the hallway towards her, and she didn¡¯t want to be overheard. "We¡¯ll play it by ear. Gotta go. Love you."


    She clicked the script off, turning to her siblings as they reached her -- the muscle-bound Roy towering over the robed Valentina.


    "Hey Carla," Roy rumbled, his arm around his younger sister. "It okay if we talk for a sec?"


    "Y preserve..." Valentina was muttering, her own arms pulled tight around herself. "Oh, Y preserve¡­"


    Carla had always been somewhat distant from her other siblings -- there wasn¡¯t much of an age difference between them, but they were from different generations all the same. She¡¯d been born in the time before their father Abraham had started really putting effort into building up his dynasty: the child of a prostitute, rather than a partner selected for the resources they could provide for the syndicate. As such, she was more of a direct subordinate to their father than the head of a subfamily like the rest.


    That was an advantage in some ways, a disadvantage in others. Like now -- her own siblings approaching her like they were making a petition to a superior.


    "What¡¯s up?" Carla asked, slipping her script into the pocket of her skirt.


    "Rico," Valentina said, her ringed fingers fidgeting. "I haven¡¯t seen him since Jacques¡­ well. Nobody¡¯s seen him, nobody knows where he is. And this message -- if he¡¯s out there, in the city, he¡¯s in danger."


    "Shit," Carla clicked her tongue. "He left right after the murder?"


    "I haven¡¯t seen him since then," Valentina repeated.


    Roy jabbed a thumb at himself, his brow furrowed seriously. "I already said I¡¯m willing to go get the kid. There¡¯s nothing more manly than looking after your own, but you said we should set up shop like this was a siege. Staying in a secure location with only our most trusted subordinates, right? But I¡¯m going after him if you think it¡¯s the right call."


    It was unlikely that those playing the Hunter Game would be able to take out Roy Oliphant-Dawkins easily, but still¡­


    "Go get him," Carla nodded. "Bring him back here safe -- but try to avoid letting anyone see you. Can¡¯t be too careful."


    Roy nodded, grinning, but it was obvious that none of Carla¡¯s words regarding caution had actually reached him. Like a big child, he bounded down the hallway, arms pumping as he ran on his way.


    "He¡¯ll be alright," Valentina muttered, more to reassure herself than anything else. "Rico, I mean. He¡¯ll be alright. We¡¯ve taught him well, paid for the best tutors. He knows how to look after himself. It¡¯ll¡­ it¡¯ll be alright¡­"


    Carla opened her arms to give her younger sister a hug, pulling her close. "That¡¯s right," she whispered, rubbing her back. "It¡¯ll be alright..."


    It was a lie, of course. After a night like tonight, she doubted anyone would be alright.


    Their little group -- Dragan, Ruth, Bruno and Rico -- charged down the street, trying to ignore the curious gazes of the countless merchants and passers-by of the marketplace. Heads stuck out of stalls, eyes tracked them, and Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel like there was a flash of greed in most of those looks.


    Had they received the Hunter Game rules, too, then? There was no way of telling how far that had been circulated. The second page of the document contained names and faces for all the direct family members and their closest subordinates, so anyone who had gotten them would know Rico Oliphant-Blanco on sight.


    A number of main roads had been closed -- probably by design -- immediately after the Hunter Game rules had gone out, so they were being forced to take a circuitous, roundabout path to get back to the Oliphant compound.


    Dragan grimaced as they reached the end of the marketplace, seeing the next street they¡¯d have to make their way through. It was absolutely packed with people -- an ocean of bobbing heads. If they tried to move through that, it would be child¡¯s play for someone to just shank Rico as they passed by.


    He jerked his head over to the side -- towards an alcove adjacent to the marketplace -- and the group made their way into it. Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "This isn¡¯t gonna work," Dragan said seriously. "We keep going this way, we¡¯re just making ourselves easy targets."


    Ruth nodded grimly -- her face was still concealed behind her Skeletal mask, but Dragan was willing to bet her expression was just as grave. "What do we do, then? Move onto the rooftops?"


    Dragan shook his head. "You¡¯d probably be able to make it back quick if you were on your own, but if we¡¯re moving as a unit that¡¯s just gonna slow us down. We¡¯d be easy targets for snipers."


    Rico frowned. "Well, what, then? We can¡¯t go forward, we can¡¯t go up¡­"


    Dragan put a hand to his chin, mulling over their options. His eyes flicked over to Bruno, who was still holding his script in his hands. "Any luck?"


    Bruno scowled. "Nope. Skipper¡¯s still not picking up no matter how many times I call."


    Damn it. What the hell was that idiot doing? Dragan looked back to Rico. "And your script isn¡¯t making calls, right?"


    "Stopped working right after receiving the Hunter Game rules," Rico sighed. "Maybe there was a virus attached with the file or something? What do you think?"


    Why the hell would I know?


    "Doesn¡¯t matter," Dragan grunted. "We¡¯ll just have to go about this another way. If the rest of us can find another hiding place to keep safe for the time being, one of us can quickly move back to the headquarters, get some help, and come back to get all of us safe."


    "You want me to head back and get Skipper, then?" Ruth asked.


    "Maybe not. If the two of us stay with Rico, my Gemini Shotgun can handle defence and you can handle offence. Bruno and Serena have offence and defence all in one body, so they¡¯re probably the best to make the trip back." He turned to them. "Is that okay with you guys?"


    Serena nodded happily. "Sure! We¡¯re real fast, so we can be back in a flash!"


    "Right. Get going, then."


    The del Sed pair didn¡¯t need anything more than that. With a flare of violet Aether, Serena leapt up off the ground and pulled herself up onto the roof of the adjoining building, disappearing from view.


    "Okay," Dragan went on, eyes flicking between Ruth and Rico. "Now we find somewhere to lay low."


    Bruno could understand why Ruth liked this sort of thing so much. Up here, away from the hustle and bustle on the streets, there was a distinct sense of freedom -- he imagined the only thing above this sensation would be actually flying over the buildings.


    He drew on freerunning training he¡¯d received from the UAP as he manoeuvred across the rooftops, barely touching the ground for more than a moment at a time as he hopped from foothold to foothold. Moving this way, it wouldn¡¯t take too long to reach the Oliphant compound no matter how quickly he went, but he didn¡¯t want to waste a second where the others could be in danger.


    Most of this area was under construction, so there wasn¡¯t much in terms of people to watch out for -- a few workers coming off of their shifts, maybe, but their eyes were easy to avoid. Bruno dropped into a roll as he leapt from a communication tower onto the second-story of an apartment building. The entire complex was coated in a thick layer of dust that would surely be scrubbed away when construction was completed -- but even so, it made his footsteps feel heavy and clumsy as he continued to run.


    His script rang.


    Mr. Skipper! Serena cried enthusiastically. He finally got back to us, Bruno!


    "Took him long enough," Bruno muttered, skidding to a halt as he put the script to his ear. "Skipper, situation¡¯s bad. We need you to --"


    It wasn¡¯t Skipper.


    "Yo, Bruno," said Cottian del Sed.


    Bruno¡¯s eyes widened -- and in the very same moment, a bullet slammed into his foot at sickening speeds. He was immediately sent sprawling down onto the floor, the front of his left foot utterly demolished by the blow: the projectile had gone right through his Aether defences, mangling his toes and lodging into the flesh.


    Cott, the Hunter Game, Dragan and Ruth, Skipper, the attack, the bleeding¡­ all the different concerns swirled around within Bruno¡¯s skull, and for a moment a distinct sense of nausea welled up in his throat. What was happening? What the hell was happening?!


    His vision swam unclear, as if he were about to pass out. Every breath felt like he was vomiting up razors.


    No. Bruno shook his head, trying in vain to clear out the cobwebs of confusion, but it was no use. All of this was too much. All of this was too much. Long dead hands were tearing out his fingernails. Black blurs were burning at his eyeballs.


    Bruno del Sed fled to the back of his own mind and slammed the door shut behind him.


    Cott¡­


    Serena del Sed stood up to face the enemy. Pain was no object in her current state of mind: she stood as heavy on her damaged foot as she did on her good one. Her eyes were wide with fury, pupils dilated to their utmost, angry saliva dripping from her bared teeth.


    Her enemy wasn¡¯t visible, but she knew that it was here.


    "Cott!" she screamed out into the night, with the hatred of a feral dog. "Kill you! Kill you!"


    Swords sharpened in her hands, ready to taste blood.

 Chapter 159:7.8: Monophobia

    "Cott!" Serena screamed into the empty night. "Kill you! Kill you!"


    Cottian del Sed -- or at least this aspect of him -- seemed to have had the same idea. Before Serena could so much as take a single step, she felt a distinct tug from her injured, mangled foot: directly from the spot the sniper bullet had lodged in. Like a doll being grabbed by a child, she was swept off her feet as the bullet was pulled back towards the source, dragging her along with it.


    In some ways, that was good. If she was close to Cott, that meant she had a chance of tearing him apart. If she was fighting the aspect of him she thought she was, however, it also meant she¡¯d be dead the moment she came into direct view.


    She¡¯d have to take action.


    As she was pulled across the concrete, Serena reached out and dragged her fingers along the ground, quickly forming a grey scimitar in each hand. Then, with only an instant to steel herself for the incoming pain, she slashed them both downwards¡­


    ...and cut off her own foot.


    Indescribable agony. The scream that escaped her throat was muffled by the hand she stuffed into her mouth to smother it. The severed foot continued to fly away, now at much greater speed, turning the corner and vanishing out of sight -- leaving a substantial trail of blood as it did, neatly matching the puddle spilling out from Serena¡¯s new stump.


    She had to kill Cott. That was the objective. That was the only way to make sure Bruno was safe.


    She¡¯d be unable to kill Cott if she bled out here, so that had to be dealt with first. Gritting her teeth, Serena tore away a strip of her camouflaged shirt, infusing it with Aether to strengthen it and binding it around the wound to form a makeshift tourniquet. That, at least, would reduce the bleeding.


    There was only one aspect of Cott she knew that used a sniper rifle in combat. If she wanted to win, she couldn¡¯t allow there to be any possible route by which a bullet could reach her.


    Steeling herself for yet more pain, Serena began to drag herself across the floor in a three-limbed crawl, forcing open the door of the nearest apartment with an Aether-infused punch and pulling herself inside. Then, in what was definitely not the most efficient way of going about things, she half-formed a number of swords from the ground below -- hilt-first, pressing against the door to force it closed and keep it barricaded.


    The room was bare of furniture, without even the plumbing yet finished, so Serena had nowhere to go save the back wall to adjust her tourniquet. Even with the steps she¡¯d taken, she¡¯d pass out from blood loss in time.


    That wouldn¡¯t do. If she was unconscious, she couldn¡¯t kill Cott, and Bruno wouldn¡¯t be safe.


    What could she do, then? The foot she¡¯d lost would have left a blood trail leading right to the shooter, but she was in no state to follow that trail. If she wanted to kill this Cott, she¡¯d have to get into melee range somehow.


    Should she lie in wait, then, for her attacker to come here to check if she was dead? Her eyes flicked around the room. There weren¡¯t any windows here, so she should be safe enough, but --


    -- but her gaze settled on the empty maw of a small air vent, up near the corner of the ceiling.


    Bang.


    The second shot thudded into the wall next to Serena, mere inches from her skull.


    "The thing about sniping," whispered the shooter, tossing the severed foot up and down in one hand while he aimed with the other. "Is that it is a game of anticipation. You must analyse the situation, take into account both coincidental and conscious factors, and take your shot at the optimal moment. Doubt and hesitation make this impossible. In order to be a successful sniper, you must believe you are correct in every instance, and endeavour to make this belief accurate."


    There was a whistling sound as the bullet returned once again to the shooter¡¯s hand -- and as it did, he tossed the foot away like trash. The bullet slotted back into the black sniper rifle with a satisfying ka-chunk.


    An intake of breath, psychosomatic, to steady his aim. He had no need for the scope, so he simply stared straight ahead, carefully moving his long ginger hair out of the way with his free hand.


    He continued to speak, like a professor giving a lecture. "The reason I missed that last shot is because of conscious factors. Do you understand? The body of Yakob del Sed moved after I had already expended my 0.3 seconds of control over the Bronze Bullet. As such, they were able to evade me. My next shot will take this into account."


    Next to this person¡¯s sniper perch -- up atop a water tower -- the script he¡¯d placed flat down shivered as his spotter spoke through it.


    "What if you miss again?" they asked, worried. "What if they figure out where you are? What if they figure out where I am? They¡¯ll kill me! I can¡¯t fight them!"


    Funnily enough, the voice speaking over the script was the same as the one aiming the rifle. If not for the tones they spoke with being so completely different, they could be mistaken for the same person.


    This was because they were the same person.


    Cottian del Sed¡¯s Aether ability, Monophobia, was singularly useful. It allowed him to partition off parts of his own consciousness -- emotions or aspects of himself -- and house them in puppet bodies, allowing them to operate as individual entities. He went without those aspects as long as they were out, of course, but he could continue to operate as a human being without issue.


    Cottian del Sed¡¯s Ruthlessness adjusted his grip on the rifle -- more of an oversized pistol in appearance -- as he made aim at the opening into the apartment building¡¯s ventilation system.


    "Have they moved?" he asked, voice dull.


    "Nuh-uh," Caution breathed over the communicator. "But don¡¯t get careless, don¡¯t get careless, Ruthlessness!"


    His eyes flicked over to the script one last time, parsing the string of coordinates Caution had sent, before returning to the vent. His finger mechanically curled around the trigger, as calmly as if he were using a stapler.


    Bang.


    The bullet blasted forward, bright orange with heat as it was fired from the gun -- the barrel ejecting that heat as steam a moment later. It would take the bullet about half a second, from this distance, to reach the opening in the building¡¯s ventilation. Ruthlessness¡¯ timing was never off.


    Bronze Bullet.


    The instant arrived, and a crackle of orange Aether swam between Ruthlessness¡¯ fingers. At the same time, the bullet zooming into the vents assumed an impossible trajectory, turning corners and winding through grating as it made its way towards Apartment 2B -- where the enemy was hiding. Ruthlessness had no way of seeing the path the bullet was taking, but he trusted the directions given by Caution to be accurate. The Bronze Bullet didn¡¯t even touch the sides of the vent as it travelled fluidly, like an airborne serpent.


    Ruthlessness was part of Cottian¡¯s Aether Ability, but Bronze Bullet was Ruthlessness¡¯ Aether ability. For 0.3 seconds, he could control the bullet he¡¯d fired out as he pleased, like some kind of guided missile.


    The bullet reached the exit needed just as those 0.3 seconds came to an end.


    "Hit?" asked Ruthlessness, his eyes still fixed straight ahead.


    Caution¡¯s panicky breathing sounded over the communicator again. "No!" he said, in a strange kind of whispered shout. "No, they blocked it, Ruthlessness!"


    If the second failure bothered Ruthlessness any, he showed no signs of it on his face. He just continued to stare straight ahead, his expression disinterested.


    "I see," he said emotionlessly. "What method was used to deflect the shot?"


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    "I think they had a weapon, like a bat or something," Caution replied nervously. "Like, for farball? Something the size of a human arm. Do you think they know where I am?"


    There was a whistling sound -- and Ruthlessness caught the Bronze Bullet between two fingers as it returned.


    "I couldn¡¯t say," Ruthlessness said, calmly reloading. "I don¡¯t have the ability to read minds. They likely used a sword to deflect this bullet, so we are fighting Serena del Sed. It¡¯s curious they didn¡¯t switch to Bruno del Sed for a defensive strategy. How close was the Bronze Bullet before it was deflected?"


    "Real close. Like, right in their face."


    "Repeated shots are likely to have the same effect, then, which is none. We have options before us: we can continue in this manner and wear down the enemy until they either bleed out or make a mistake repelling my shots. However, this would allow time for reinforcements to potentially arrive. That, I cannot allow."


    "What, then? We can¡¯t just stay here forever! She¡¯ll figure it out!"


    Ruthlessness lifted up the rifle-pistol again, carefully taking aim. "Concentrate on the structure of the building, Caution. This appears to be low-income housing, so it¡¯s likely the contractors have cut corners in its construction. Would I be right in saying the walls are hollow?"


    There was a moment of silence, then: "Uh-huh!"


    "Give me an entrance to the building¡¯s innards. I will use this new avenue of attack to have the Bronze Bullet catch them by surprise and end their life."


    "But the route would be way too long¡­"


    "My 0.3 seconds of control over the Bronze Bullet are cumulative, not consecutive," Ruthlessness explained, pulling back the safety on his weapon. Unlike most creations of Monophobia, he had a habit of speaking out loud -- like a student showing their workings at a math problem. "If I seize control of it at opportune moments to change the angle of its movement, I can have it reach the room while still having time to execute Serena del Sed with it. I will take one practice shot, then kill her. Send the coordinates now so we may begin."


    The string of numbers appeared on the script, and Ruthlessness¡¯ eyes instantly focused on the tiny hole in one of the outside walls that was indicated. A tricky shot. If Ruthlessness had nerves, instincts that caused a hand to tremble even slightly, it would have been impossible.


    But Monophobia made no such mistakes.


    Bang.


    Again, the gun fired, belching out steam as the bullet zoomed into the tiny gap in the building. On the screen of the script, the tracker attached to the projectile gave Ruthlessness a vague idea of its position -- by comparing that with the coordinates given by Caution, he could formulate the optimal route.


    Bronze Bullet.


    0.09 seconds. Like it was ricocheting against the air, the angle of the bullet changed in the instant Ruthlessness seized and released control.


    The journey continued.


    Bronze Bullet.


    0.07 seconds. Again, a change in angle, giving it the perfect trajectory to weave through a forest of wiring.


    Bronze Bullet.


    0.12 seconds. The penultimate change in angle, sending the bullet upwards to the second floor, directly alongside Apartment 2B. Ruthlessness frowned: that change in angle had taken much longer than it should have. Something must have gotten in the way.


    Bronze Bullet.


    Serena didn¡¯t move as the bullet smashed through the fragile wall, zooming across the room until it struck the wall opposite -- splattering the blood that clung to it everywhere. Now that she had eyes on the air vent, Ruthlessness was using a new, more unpredictable angle of attack.


    She paid it no mind. The usual Serena, right now, was a distant memory. Every action was like an automatic mechanism. She was faced with the only person she hated in the world, so anything that didn¡¯t directly involve killing them was wasted effort.


    If she didn¡¯t kill them, Bruno wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep safe tonight.


    With her hand flat against the floor, she just continued to wait, Aether sparking around her hand.


    The bullet pulled itself back out of the wall -- tearing at the loose wallpaper -- and disappeared back through the hole it had created as an entrance.


    "Report, Caution," Ruthlessness said, catching the Bronze Bullet. "There was an obstacle that delayed me at the end, and so I was unable to move the Bronze Bullet into a headshot. What was the obstacle, so that I can take it into account this time?"


    "Um," Caution¡¯s voice was full of concentration. "Something small, I think, with a texture like fur¡­ a rat, maybe? Some kind of vermin at least. You must have hit it without meaning to."


    Ruthlessness glanced at the Bronze Bullet in his hand, covered in red blood. That checked out -- the resistance of the meat must have slowed the bullet slightly. "Are there any more rats in that area?¡¯


    "Nuh-uh. And I¡¯m just guessing it¡¯s a rat, anyway, so --"


    Ruthlessness didn¡¯t wait for an answer. "Very well. I¡¯ll execute the killshot now."


    Ka-chunk. The Bronze Bullet was once again devoured by the rifle, and Ruthlessness once again aimed at the hole in the building. He wouldn¡¯t use the same exit into Apartment 2B as he did the first time -- he¡¯d throw Serena del Sed off by making another exit.


    The phone call to trigger trauma, the first shot to prevent movement, and the slow wearing down of defence followed by a headshot. In Ruthlessness¡¯ eyes, he hadn¡¯t yet made any errors in his stratagem.


    Serena bit her lip as she kept her hand flat against the ground, the floor beneath her gradually starting to creak. She was being subtle about it now, but they¡¯d realise what was going on once the plan was underway.


    Her ability allowed her to forge swords from surrounding material -- but that didn¡¯t mean that grabbing weapons was the only thing it could do. Slowly, slowly, the inside of the floor she was pressing her hand against was being transformed into countless thin and small rapiers, the sudden introduction of empty space destabilising the structure.


    Ruthlessness, the part of Cott that used a sniper rifle, didn¡¯t have the ability to see things from far away. The fact he kept landing such close hits all the same meant that a second aspect must be attacking her as well -- Caution, who could make himself aware of all the vibrations within a structure using his Searchspear. To do that with such accuracy, though, he¡¯d need to be nearby -- connected to both the building and the ground below.


    How many seconds until the collapse?


    One¡­


    Two¡­


    Bang.


    Three¡­


    Serena paid the Bronze Bullet no heed as it smashed through the wall, aiming right for her head -- and was rewarded for her patience as the ground beneath her collapsed. She went falling down with the debris, and the bullet sailed right over her skull and lodged in the far wall again.


    As she and her collection of blades fell into the next apartment down, Serena reverted the rapiers back into chunks of rock and concrete -- hoping the increased size of the fragments would mean an appropriate increase in their impact. She didn¡¯t know if that was actually true, since physics were so weird and stuff, but the floor of Apartment 1B collapsed too as the contents of 2B fell onto it.


    Down further, down further, into the basement of the building.


    Serena¡¯s fall came to an end as the pile of broken concrete that had become her bed collapsed into the basement floor, spilling out freely. Wincing from her missing foot, she pulled herself out, using a blunt sword as a makeshift crutch -- and saw her target nearly instantly.


    Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as she saw that garish orange hair.


    Her blood nearly boiled as she saw that familiar blue blazer.


    Her hands squeezed so tight she nearly snapped the bones as she saw the panicked face of Cottian del Sed.


    He had his Searchspear, thin and silver, embedded in the ground as he looked at her, clearly already on the verge of freaking out. As per usual, Cott¡¯s aspects were nearly identical to the real deal -- distinguishable only by the barely visible seams on their face and limbs, and the patches on the fingers where the paint had scratched away, revealing light brown wood.


    "Oh god!" Caution screamed, struggling to pull his Searchspear out of the ground to defend himself. "No, no no no, wait!"


    Serena del Sed did not wait. S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Instead, with a flare of violet Aether, she kicked off the ground with her remaining foot and -- like a wild animal -- began to remind the puppet why he¡¯d been so cautious in the first place.


    Ruthlessness frowned. It appeared his killshot had missed as well.


    It was easy enough to figure out what the new situation was -- Caution¡¯s screaming over the script spelled that out quite clearly. Serena must have somehow moved herself to the basement, where she was now killing his associate. That made things trickier in some ways, and easier in others.


    Serena was quite clearly upset to see them, so she¡¯d take her time killing Caution. That gave Ruthlessness time to execute a new killshot. The basement was mostly empty, so he didn¡¯t need to rely on Caution to give him coordinates.


    The Bronze Bullet returned to his grip.


    Ka-chunk.


    He¡¯d fire the Bronze Bullet into the basement, use his 0.3 seconds of control to circle it around, and then let it loose to hit Serena del Sed through Caution. The cover Caution¡¯s body would provide would increase the chances of a successful shot.


    Ruthlessness aimed -- slowly, deliberately -- at the visible window into the basement, dark and void. His finger curled around the trigger.


    It was over.


    Bang.


    The Bronze Bullet fired out once more -- but this time, rather than zooming away, it vanished into sparks of blue Aether. Ruthlessness blinked.


    "Gemini Shotgun," said a voice from behind him.


    Ruthlessness swung around, pointing his empty gun at the new enemy that had presented itself. A silver-haired Cogitant stood on the other side of the water tower, glaring intensely at him. One of his hands was clenched at his side, but the other was pointing accusingly -- or perhaps threateningly -- at Ruthlessness himself.


    The Cogitant narrowed his eyes. "What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing?"

 Chapter 160:7.9: A Coffin Made For Two

    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing?"


    Even though hot anger was pumping through his veins, causing his extended finger to tremble slightly, his mind was still calmly dissecting the scene before him. He was not speaking to a human being: that was certain.


    This person with the long ginger hair standing there¡­ their body language was too perfect, as if it was rehearsed -- and the patches of wood visible on their fingertips, along with the noticeable seams running along their face and limbs, betrayed their true nature. Some sort of wooden puppet. Remote controlled, maybe?


    That realization wasn¡¯t what was making his heart dance crazily, however. What accomplished that was what Dragan saw off to the side, dumped there as if it was nothing but trash.


    A bleeding, severed foot, still wearing a very familiar boot. Bruno¡¯s boot, and Bruno¡¯s foot.


    "I¡¯ll ask again," Dragan growled, when no response came. His finger was still jabbed out, ready to fire off a Gemini Shotgun the instant it became necessary. "What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing?"


    The gun the formally-dressed puppet was holding fell limply to his side, swinging in his hand, as he stood up out of his crouch. With the slightest creak of wood, he cocked his head, eyes scanning Dragan up and down.


    "I don¡¯t see how that¡¯s any business of yours," the puppet said, his voice quiet and emotionless. "I¡¯m certain someone with your abilities would have received the Hunter Game rules just as I did. It¡¯s only natural I would endeavour to eliminate a target and obtain the bounty."


    Dragan scoffed. "Fuck off," he snapped. "Bruno and Serena are at the bottom of the table as far as the Hunter Game goes, same as me. There¡¯s no way you¡¯d set up an ambush like this for such little reward -- unless there was something else you were after. It¡¯d make me very happy if you told me what that was."


    This had been a stupid plan from the beginning -- rather than sending Bruno out, they should¡¯ve just stuck together and waited a little longer. They hadn¡¯t been under any time pressure, had they? If they¡¯d waited just ten more minutes, they would¡¯ve still been together when Skipper came back and met up with them.


    As Dragan aimed, eyes cold, he did his best not to look at the foot on the floor: it opened avenues of thought he didn¡¯t want to walk down.


    Another cock of the head -- this time to the opposite side, with such speed that the puppet¡¯s long hair flopped over his face for a moment. A slow, humourless smile spread across his lips. How did he manage that if he was made out of wood? Were some parts of the structure more flexible, or was it some kind of optical illusion?


    "Well," the puppet said, that thin smile infuriating. "What exactly will you do if I don¡¯t share that information?"


    The warm rage in Dragan¡¯s body heightened into a cold, quiet fury. "I¡¯ll make you tell me," he glared, finger stable and fixed. "We¡¯ve got plenty of time."


    He wasn¡¯t sure if a puppet made of wood could actually experience pain, but Dragan was more than willing to get creative with this enemy.


    The smile didn¡¯t fade in the slightest. "I see. Well, good luck with that."


    The puppet moved faster than Dragan had thought possible. Before he could so much as fire off his Gemini Shotgun, the puppet raised his own gun in a blur of motion --


    -- and smashed it back into his own face.


    With Aether infusing the weapon, the damage was considerable. Nearly half of the puppets head was demolished by the first strike, pale wood exposed where cranium had crumbled away, glass eye falling free and shattering to the ground.


    Dragan lunged forward, ready to try and restrain the enemy, but his opponent wasn¡¯t done yet. A second smash of the rifle finished the encounter, the scraps of wood that still remained scattering to the ground -- followed a moment later by the puppets limp body.


    It lay there for barely a moment before dissipating into orange Aether, which -- like a bolt of lightning in reverse -- speared up into the air and vanished into the darkness. Dragan¡¯s grasping hand met only empty air.


    "Shit," he muttered, and then, louder: "Shit!"


    He whipped his script out of his pocket and called Ruth as he made his way down off the water tower and towards the apartment building the puppet had been aiming at. Judging from the angle the enemy had been shooting at before Dragan had interrupted, it was likely that their target was in the basement. Hopefully, he wasn¡¯t too late.


    Ruth answered on the second ring: "Dragan?" she said immediately, urgently. "What¡¯s up? You find them?"


    "Maybe," Dragan panted, Aether coursing through his limbs as he forced the shutter to the basement open. "I think I¡¯ve found them, but I think they were under attack. Might be best for you all to head to --"


    His words were interrupted as another bolt of orange Aether zoomed past him, escaping through the shutter door in the moment he opened it.


    "What was that?" Ruth asked. "I¡¯m on my way."


    "Some Aether bullshit, what else?" Dragan sighed, deciding to ignore it for the moment as he knelt down and entered the basement. "I¡¯m in. Looks like --"


    He was interrupted once again -- not by outside stimulus, but by his breath catching in his throat. His grip tightened on the script to such a degree that he was surprised the thing didn¡¯t break.


    "Dragan?" Ruth¡¯s voice was distant.


    There, in the middle of the basement, lay Bruno and Serena. Their body was splayed out in some kind of crater, like sections of the floor had been carved away, and their eyes were closed in firm unconsciousness. Ghastly red blood slowly dribbled from the stump of their left leg, the makeshift tourniquet there loosened by time and exertion. Barely, only barely, Dragan could see the slow rise and fall of breath -- of human life.


    He jerked the script back to his mouth, eyes wide.


    "Get here as soon as you can," he snarled, eyes fixed on the shape before him. "We need to find a doctor!"


    Many years ago¡­


    It was dark. There was nothing else to this place but that. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The pitch-black chamber was filled with two sounds: the rumbling of starship travel, and the whispering of frightened children. The rumbling had been uniform since they¡¯d set off, and the whispering just the same. There were only really two questions to be asked here, after all.


    Where are we? Where are we going?


    There were no answers. The only thing these children knew was that the masked men had brought them into this starship and locked the doors. It was funny: they¡¯d barely resisted at all. With the situations they¡¯d been in, whether they were taken away or not made no difference to their safety.


    Some had been youth workers forced into illegal enterprises. Some had been homeless kids plucked off the street. Some had been kept for the money in half-rotted orphanages.


    Save for a few exceptions, all of them were afraid.


    One of those exceptions had managed to make his way over to the far wall of the cargo bay, planting himself against it. That in itself was a kind of reassurance -- the feeling of the cold metal against his hands proof that he wasn¡¯t just floating in a dark void. He breathed in and out, slowly, the sensation of life-giving oxygen pouring down his throat another reminder of his existence.


    Off in another corner of the room, someone was crying hysterically. Their voice bounced off the walls of the room, becoming something incoherent and warped. If anything, that only increased the fear in this place.


    "Hello?" whispered another boy¡¯s voice from next to him.


    He almost jumped out of his skin, his fist thumping against the wall as he scrambled around, wary of any incoming threat. He¡¯d lived on the streets most of his life, and had learned long ago how much an unseen punch could hurt.


    "Who¡¯s there?" the Boy half hissed, half whispered -- quietly, so that nobody else would be able to tell where it was.


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    The other boy didn¡¯t answer the question. "Where do you think they¡¯re taking us?" he asked. His tone was light, but the wavering in his voice revealed his own fear too.


    The Boy shrugged, unseen as he was. "No clue."


    "Really? I think we¡¯re going to the Supremacy," the other boy eagerly explained. "They¡¯re all about strong fighters, right? They probably want us to kill each other in an arena or something."


    Kill each other? He said something so macabre as easily as if he were discussing the weather.


    "I don¡¯t think so," the Boy replied. "I¡¯m not a fighter or anything. Are you?"


    "Sometimes. Where do you think we¡¯re going then, if we¡¯re not going to the Supremacy?"


    Again, a blind shrug. "No clue. I said already. But maybe¡­"


    "Maybe?"


    "Maybe it¡¯s somewhere good. Like some rich guy wants an heir or something? I saw that in a videograph. Maybe someone will take care of us like that."


    "You really think that?"


    The Boy shook his head. "No."


    Silence -- save for displaced sobbing -- took dominion over the cargo hold once again. As the Boy sat still, wondering if the other person was still there, he felt a warm hand reach out of the darkness and grip his own. For a moment, he considered pulling free, but instead held tight -- like this was some kind of anchor to keep him from falling into this void.


    "How about this?" the other boy said quietly. "Let¡¯s make a deal. I¡¯ll watch your back, so you watch mine. That way we can take care of each other. Okay?"


    The Boy squeezed the offered hand, feeling the warmth of another person like a current through a wire.


    "Okay," he whispered.


    "What¡¯s your name?" his new comrade asked. "Mine¡¯s Cottian, but my friends call me Cott."


    Should he lie? The thought occurred, but when the Boy opened his mouth he found the truth coming forth:


    "Yakob. My name¡¯s Yakob."


    Now¡­


    Cottian del Sed sipped his canned drink as he sat on the edge of a skyscraper, legs dangling over the abyss below. As he drank, he watched the stars above as he usually did. Well, the cars, in this case. Those were the closest thing you got to stars in a shithole like the Cradle.


    The last sip of his sugary drink came up dry, and Cott tossed it down into the void. He vaguely wondered if it would hit something on the way down, but of course he did not linger on it for more than a second.


    "You shouldn¡¯t drink that stuff, you know," someone had once told him. "It¡¯s awful for your health."


    Cott clicked his tongue, flipping his long hair back as he watched the can vanish into the black. He was supposed to have left all of that behind, so why the hell was he remembering stupid shit now?


    The answer was obvious, of course. That asshole had shown his ugly face again, after he was meant to be over and done with. As soon as the aspects he sent out finished them off, he¡¯d be able to --


    A bolt of orange Aether, zooming through the sky, slammed into Cott with incredible speed. Despite its apparent momentum, however, Cott didn¡¯t so much as flinch as it joined back up with him.


    If anything, the look in his eyes may have turned just a little colder. That was the only indicator of any change.


    Memories flooded into him, the after action report of his dispatched Ruthlessness. Serena del Sed had managed to outmaneuver Caution and Ruthlessness¡¯ coordinated attack, and then one of Yakob¡¯s allies had come dangerously close to capturing Ruthlessness. Suicide had been the correct decision in that case, of course, but it didn¡¯t make it any more vexing to lose.


    Moments later, a second bolt of orange Aether struck him, and Cott gingerly pulled his legs off the edge of the building.


    Caution had been absolutely mauled by Serena del Sed, using a mixture of swords and ruined fingernails. If wood was able to feel pain, it would have been excruciating. Cott sure was glad he wasn¡¯t that guy.


    Yakob¡¯s body hadn¡¯t lost any of its efficacy, clearly. Cott wouldn¡¯t be getting the easy resolution he¡¯d yearned for.


    With a grunt of effort, he picked himself up off the ground and looked out onto the city spread out before him. His hair and blazer billowed in the artificial wind.


    This farce called the Hunter Game was set to go on for quite a while, so he¡¯d have plenty of chances. The next time -- the very next time -- Yakob left his guard down, Cott would be there without fail.


    Sorry, old friend. Cott turned and walked away. But I just can¡¯t feel safe as long as you¡¯re alive.


    Dragan grimaced as he looked down at Bruno, prone on the bed. With Rico¡¯s help, they¡¯d managed to get him to a back alley doctor who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut -- but Dragan got the feeling that this display would have been just as unpleasant if they¡¯d been to the galaxy¡¯s finest hospital.


    Bruno¡¯s foot had been severed long enough that it couldn¡¯t just be reattached, so the doctor had set to regrowing it using Panacea as soon as they¡¯d brought him in. A structure like a bonsai tree of human digits was growing out of Bruno¡¯s stump, new toes growing and absorbing each other as the fungus did it¡¯s grisly work.


    "How much longer should this take?" Dragan asked, glancing at the attending doctor.


    The tired-looking man scratched idly at his ear, eyes fixed on his patient. "Depends," he drawled. "Something like this? A couple hours. But if the Panacea gets confused, we¡¯ll have to amputate whatever it comes up with and start again. Can get grisly with this stuff."


    Dragan winced. "Confused? What, you mean the Panacea thinks?"


    "It¡¯s not gonna have a conversation with ya, don¡¯t get me wrong," the doctor continued. "But it has to figure out what it¡¯s replacing, yeah? There¡¯s something a little bit like thought going on there, some kind of, uh, analysis. Fascinating stuff, really." His gaze slid over to Dragan. "Expensive, too."


    "The Oliphant Clan will cover the costs," Dragan lied. Having Rico around had its benefits.


    There was a low groan, and Bruno¡¯s eyes began to flutter open. Dragan glanced at the doctor, and -- with the speed of a professional -- he quietly made his way out of the room.


    "You okay?" Dragan asked, looking down at his wincing friend.


    "Feel like I got run over by a truck," Bruno grumbled -- and then he glanced down at his regrowing foot. "Oh. Okay, it¡¯s worse."


    "You took some bad hits," Dragan nodded. "Two wooden guys kicked the shit out of you, from what I can tell. Skipper came and found us a little while after we sent you out -- I went to find you when you weren¡¯t answering my calls. Ruth and Skipper are watching the perimeter, in case those guys make another go at it."


    "Wooden guys¡­?" Bruno mumbled -- and a second later his eyes snapped wide, skin growing pale. "Oh."


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "Someone you know?"


    "Cott," Bruno breathed, like the word was a curse. His Aether-sparking fingers, still behind gloves, gripped the bedsheet with such force that it tore.


    Cott.


    Bruno had used that name before. Back on Yoslof, when he¡¯d been hallucinating from Decimatus-3, he¡¯d mistaken Dragan for that person and almost strangled him to death. There definitely wasn¡¯t a happy story there.


    The smart thing to do would be to leave well enough alone.


    "Who¡¯s Cott?" Dragan asked quietly.


    Bruno didn¡¯t answer. Instead, when the answer began to climb out of his mouth, it was in the voice of Serena del Sed. Her tone was different than usual -- somehow a mixture of sing-song and a cold monotone, her eyes glaring up at the grotty ceiling.


    "There were six of us," she whispered. "Us and Cott and our friends. We were supposed to help keep the UAP safe. Get rid of the bad guys before they could do anything bad. One time, we went into the Supremacy. Infiltrated it. Things went bad."


    "What exactly¡­?"


    Serena¡¯s gaze snapped over to look at Dragan -- and the cold fire in those eyes was enough to shut him up instantly. "Things went bad," she repeated. "We all hid, in different places, secret places. Cott was in charge. He was supposed to protect us."


    Her baleful glare returned to the ceiling.


    "He led them right to us. They took us away. They hurt us." Her hands, still gripping the bedsheet, shook with fury and remembered terror. "They hurt us for a long time."


    With that, Serena lay back in the bed, the furious expression on her face not changing in the least.


    It made sense. It had been obvious from the start that they¡¯d had some bad experience with this Cott person, but even so¡­ hearing it through Serena¡¯s mouth, instead of the moody Bruno¡¯s, made it seem alien in a way. Like a picture without the context required.


    Whatever the case, if Cott was going after Bruno and Serena directly now, that was an issue. The best thing to do would be to come up with a defensive strategy and --


    "Mr. Dragan?"


    Dragan was pulled out of his Archive, already growing around him, by the voice of Serena del Sed. She was sitting up in bed again, staring at him, her gaze unblinking. The structure at the end of her leg was beginning to resemble something solid again, rather than an artist¡¯s first draft of humanity.


    "Mr. Dragan?" she repeated, more insistently.


    "Yeah?" Dragan replied, throat dry. Seeing Serena so serious -- hell, seeing Serena serious at all -- was unnerving in the extreme.


    For the first time since she¡¯d started speaking, Serena del Sed blinked.


    "Mr. Dragan, would you help me kill a person?"

 Chapter 161:7.10: Swift Flight and Swifter Knives

    For the first time since she¡¯d started speaking, Serena del Sed blinked.


    "Mr. Dragan, would you help me kill a person?"


    The answer was obvious.


    "Sure," Dragan said truthfully. "Who? Cott?"


    Serena nodded. "Bruno isn¡¯t safe as long as he¡¯s alive. We need to make him stop being alive."


    Even though she was saying it in kind of a creepy way, Dragan couldn¡¯t deny that Serena was right. Bruno and Serena had been apart from their group for barely a quarter of an hour, and they¡¯d come back minus one foot and their blood sprayed on the floor.


    There was no way to tell where this Cott¡¯s next attack would come from -- only that it was definitely coming. In this situation, the best defense was offense.


    Dragan rubbed his chin as he sat down in the doctor¡¯s chair. "What do you have in mind?"


    Serena blinked again. "We kill him."


    "Yeah," Dragan rolled his eyes. "But how do we kill him? What¡¯s our plan?"


    With a wince as she aggravated her regenerating foot, Serena pulled herself up into a sitting position in the bed. She looked at Dragan seriously. "Me and Bruno know Cott better than anybody. We¡¯ll be able to track him down. Once we do, we just kill him. That¡¯s it."


    Dragan frowned doubtfully. "That¡¯s not much of a plan. I¡¯d say going after him directly is better for him than us -- if we wear ourselves down with an extended search, he can just keep sending those puppets after us to wear us down. Then, once we¡¯re on our last legs, he can finish us off."


    Serena matched Dragan¡¯s expression -- only her frown was more of an angry scowl. "That wouldn¡¯t happen," she insisted. "I can beat Cott. His puppets are just wood. I can kill them over and over if I have to."


    "But he knows that¡¯s how you¡¯d think, right? He could be counting on that, betting you¡¯d be too mad to think straight so he could make you move how he wants."


    "I don¡¯t do what Cott wants. You said you¡¯d help me kill him." There was a strange accusatory tone slivering into Serena¡¯s voice as her scowl became more and more of a glare.


    Dragan had only seen her like this once before -- back in the casino on Taldan, when Atoy Muzazi had beaten Bruno to a pulp. She¡¯d been like a killing machine back then, driving Muzazi into a corner with sheer ferocity. Against someone who knew that was coming, though, Dragan imagined that fury wouldn¡¯t be nearly as effective.


    "I do want to help," Dragan replied forcefully. "I just think we need to be smart about it. How about this: I¡¯ll grab Ruth and Skipper, and we¡¯ll hash something out together, yeah?"


    There was no reply from Serena, but she didn¡¯t say no. Dragan nodded, turned, and began walking out of the door.


    He sniffed -- there was something of a strange scent in the hallway, but he supposed that was to be expected in a place like this. In fact, Dragan was so focused on the hallucinogen he¡¯d just breathed in that he didn¡¯t even notice the person walk right past him and into Bruno and Serena¡¯s room.


    Scout Oliphant-Dawkins sat despondent outside Chloe¡¯s room, firmly parked in a wooden chair. His hands knitted together, he stared down at the floor, a sigh escaping his throat every few minutes.


    Ever since Chloe had been told about her father¡¯s passing, she¡¯d been inconsolable. Her screaming and crying had filled this entire floor of the Oliphant-Escoffier building for nearly half an hour, replaced soon after by a cold and unresponsive depression. Since then, she¡¯d just locked herself in her room.


    Aunt Carla had said, over the script call, that it would be best if the two of them stayed put for the time being. The streets were anything but safe, and the guards Jacques had posted to guard his daughter would serve as a firm deterrent for anyone looking to partake in this macabre Hunter Game.


    A thought occurred, and Scout numbly negotiated his script out of his pocket, tapping away at the screen the moment it became visible.


    A message to Rico: How are things over there? What¡¯s going on?


    Long minutes stretched on without a reply. Just to test the script, Scout tried to send a message to his own ID -- and that didn¡¯t arrive either. Whoever was running this Hunter Game didn¡¯t want the weaker targets getting into easy contact, evidently.


    Scout wasn¡¯t naive. He was more than aware that a family like theirs made enemies -- but to have that fact demonstrated, so clearly and gruesomely, was shocking all the same. It had always seemed such a distant, theoretical thing before.


    In Scout¡¯s backpack, deposited on the floor in front of him, Sidekick stirred slightly -- a strange kind of whimpered clicking sounding out from within the front pocket, where the grey creature slept. Sidekick was a pretty incredible thing, genetically speaking, but for most of the day it did little but sleep and squeak.


    If the life of an Oliphant wasn¡¯t so dangerous, it would be tempting to think that Sidekick was useless.


    Footsteps clicked down the hallway -- and as Scout looked up from his script, he saw Alana strolling towards him.


    Alana Pheasant.


    He¡¯d only met her today, but the woman Jacques had placed in charge of those guarding his daughter seemed competent enough. She wore a tan leather jacket and a wide-brimmed hat, the spurs on her boots rattling as she walked. Twin punchpoint revolvers were holstered at her hips.


    "Just got word from head office," she said seriously, hands at her hips. "This location¡¯s been leaked -- it¡¯s not safe anymore. It¡¯s time to move."


    Scout stood up, already slinging his backpack over his shoulders. "Shit," he said. "Already?!"


    The situation was changing too fast for him to get his bearings. First it had been Uncle Jacques¡¯ death, then it had been the whole Hunter Game thing, and now they themselves were in imminent danger. Scout could feel a migraine quickly building.


    He took a deep breath.


    Keep calm, his Pa would say. There¡¯s nothing manlier than keeping calm.


    "Alright," Scout breathed, nodding. "What¡¯s the plan? We have a plan, right?"


    Alana nodded, the tiny bells that hung from the brim of her hat tinkling as she did so. "We¡¯ve got another location set up. Multiple cars will set out in different directions from this building to confuse any pursuers -- my men are setting up right now. You should do the same."


    Scout nodded. "Right." Now that the future had a direction, at least, it didn¡¯t seem nearly so frightening.


    Alana glanced at the closed doors to Chloe¡¯s room, the red light above indicating that they were firmly locked. "Think you can get her out of there? We¡¯re kind of on a timetable here."


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    "I¡¯ll try my best, ma¡¯am," Scout nodded. "But it might take some doing."


    The gunslinger turned on her heel, marching back down the hallway. "Get it done, then," she declared. "I¡¯ll be back once we¡¯ve got our end squared away."


    Again, Scout nodded -- but this time to himself. This wouldn¡¯t be an easy one.


    He knocked somberly at the door, his fist illuminated by the red light of the lock. The sound echoed down the hallway, it¡¯s only companion the ticking of a far-away clock.


    "Hey, Chlo?" Scout called. "Can you come out for a minute? We kinda need to talk about some stuff."


    No response.


    There¡¯s nothing manlier than looking after your own! his Pa would say. Don¡¯t hesitate! Do what you gotta do!


    Scout took in a deep breath. He understood Chloe¡¯s sadness -- her father had died mere hours ago, after all -- but in this situation, her safety came first. He¡¯d do his best to convince her, but if it came down to it he was willing to drag her out of this room.


    Still, though...


    "Okay," he sighed. "How about I come in, then? You can kick me out if you want to."


    No response.


    For a moment, Scout seriously considered bashing the door in with an Aether-infused shoulder -- but then the glaring light above flicked from red to green as it unlocked. There was that, at least.


    "Coming in," Scout called, turning the handle of the door and pushing it open.


    Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier had been a very rich man, and so he¡¯d spared no expense even for temporary accommodations like these. Chloe¡¯s room was bigger than most people¡¯s houses, with all kinds of amenities -- game consoles, gym equipment, cooking automatics -- stuffed into each corner.


    If this location hadn¡¯t been leaked, they probably could have stayed in here for weeks without having to go out for supplies.


    Chloe¡¯s bed was similarly oversized, several times bigger than she would ever need, and covered with an intricately embroidered quilt. The lump in the middle of the bed, under that sheet, could only be Chloe herself -- curled up into the comforting dark and warmth like some kind of mole. With a sad smile, Scout sat himself down on the side of the bed.


    In a situation like this, the right words didn¡¯t come easy. "Come on. He wouldn¡¯t want to see you like this." Scout was fairly sure those weren¡¯t the right words.


    When Chloe spoke, muffled, her voice was calm but hoarse -- her throat scraped away by crying. "He doesn¡¯t want anything," she mumbled numbly. "He¡¯s dead."


    "Still¡­" Scout sighed. "He¡¯d be -- he¡¯d be sad to see that you¡¯re so sad." Of course she was sad. What a stupid thing to say.


    There was a moment of silence, then: "What do you want?" sea??h th§× nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He was that obvious, huh?


    "Alana just told me this building¡¯s location has been leaked," Scout said seriously. "We need to get out of here -- get somewhere safe. There¡¯s no telling how long we have until the Hunter Game players make a go for this place."


    The bedsheets shifted, just slightly, as Chloe adjusted her position.


    "You go," she muttered. "I¡¯ll stay here. It¡¯ll be fine."


    Scout crossed his arms. "I¡¯m not going without you."


    "Then I guess you¡¯re not going."


    Silence settled over the room, like a shroud had descended to drown out any noise. Scout just stared down at the lump on the bed, biting his lip in frustration. They didn¡¯t have time for this. Scout understood, but they didn¡¯t have time for this.


    "You¡¯re right," he replied quietly. "I guess I¡¯m not going."


    The lump shifted. "What?"


    Scout went on. "If it¡¯s safe enough for you, then it¡¯s safe enough for me. I¡¯m not going anywhere."


    Chloe¡¯s face, her eyes ringed red by tears, poked out from underneath the bedsheet. "You can¡¯t," she mumbled. "You¡¯ll¡­"


    "Die?" Scout smiled humourlessly. "I guess so."


    Chloe¡¯s brow knitted together in anger. "Get out, then!"


    "No."


    "I said get out!" Chloe¡¯s voice rose into a shrill scream -- one that took most of the effort she could muster, judging by the heavy breathing afterwards.


    Scout slowly shook his head. "The only way I¡¯m leaving is if you¡¯re coming with me. That¡¯s the only way you¡¯re gonna save me here, Chlo."


    The look on Chloe¡¯s face was as if grief had collided head-on with rage. Her teeth ground together, tears ran from her eyes, and her lip trembled violently.


    "You fucker," she hissed, wiping her eyes on the sheet beneath her. "You¡¯re a fucker."


    "I guess I am." Scout extended a hand. "You coming, then?"


    When Chloe took his hand, he could feel the warmth returning to her body, like life coming back to a corpse. It seemed he was pulling her out of far more than just a bed.


    He stood up.


    "What happened here?" Chloe asked, looking around the ruined foyer. Her voice was still hoarse, but the horror in it was audible all the same.


    Corpses were scattered throughout the entrance to the building, at least five of the bodyguards that had been assigned to this place. Glass sculptures had been shattered by countless impacts, and the front desk had been warped beyond recognition.


    Alana turned to glance at them as they entered. Apart from the blood dripping down her face from a cut on her forehead, she seemed unharmed -- and she was accompanied by two more of her subordinates. A goateed man in a red-and-white striped sweater, and a burly woman with the barrel of a cannon protruding from her chest.


    "You two okay?" Alana breathed, returning her revolvers to their holsters. "Good to see none of them made it past us."


    Scout glanced down at the nearest corpse, a young woman with tattoos like cracks running along her skin. He¡¯d seen her earlier today, when he¡¯d first entered this building. She¡¯d seemed nice enough.


    "What happened?" he asked, repeating Chloe¡¯s unanswered question.


    Alana sniffed. "Workplace dispute," she said regretfully. "When they received the rules for the Hunter Game, they decided just taking you two out would be an easier payday than the alternative. We ended up disagreeing."


    Indeed, many of the corpses had smoking bullet holes in them. The idea that these people had been coming to kill them, though -- that sent shivers down Scout¡¯s spine more than anything.


    Chloe hadn¡¯t let go of Scout¡¯s hand since they¡¯d left her room. She squeezed it tight, looking down at those bodies.


    "The cars are waiting outside," Alana said, cracking her neck. "We¡¯re a little short-staffed, but it¡¯s best we start moving."


    Scout nodded, stepping forward.


    Only one thing saved him. Only one tiny thing stopped him from dying right then and there. Only one passing thought.


    Why had the bodies been shot in the back?


    Bang.


    Scout threw himself and Chloe down to the ground with Pugnant speed and strength, Alana¡¯s bullet sailing over their heads and slamming against the front doors. He transitioned into a roll, pink Aether flaring around him as he put himself between the treacherous bodyguards and his cousin.


    Alana had her guns pointed right at him, one eyebrow raised. The man in the red-and-white had long, thin claws of bone protruding from his fingers. The cannon in the burly woman¡¯s chest whirred as it readied itself to fire.


    Behind Alana, several bullseye targets -- like something from a shooting range -- were floating in the air, bobbing and weaving around her back.


    "Sorry, kid," she smirked, a mocking sneer in her voice. "Like I said -- the Game pays better."


    The targets hurled themselves at Scout like a swarm of rabid frisbees. At the same time, Scout plunged his hand into his backpack, pulled free the squirming creature --


    -- and jabbed it¡¯s sharp mouth onto the base of his spine.


    His Aether roared.


    The usual liquid whimsy of Serena del Sed¡¯s mind had solidified into a kind of cold clockwork, the objectives before her becoming the only things of consequence. She had to kill Cott. If she didn¡¯t kill Cott, Bruno would not be safe. If her friends wouldn¡¯t help her kill Cott as soon as possible, she¡¯d do it herself.


    Her foot was almost fully reformed. Once it did, the best thing to do would be to leave and track down Cott again. Then, she could kill him. Easy peasy.


    Bruno had retreated far back into their mind. When it came to Cott, unconsciousness was as safe as he could get. Serena would protect him.


    She went to sit up, to test her new foot, only to stop right in her tracks as she saw she was no longer alone in this place.


    There was a woman by the door, staring back at her. A woman with a jet-black kimono and an eyepatch, the image of a red centipede curling around the fabric. The woman¡¯s inquisitive eye regarded Serena with great interest -- but behind it, she could tell, was a hate much like her own.


    Something was coiled around the woman¡¯s waist, too: a grotesque centipede the size of a serpent. As Serena watched, it¡¯s head peeked out from over the woman¡¯s shoulder, red smoke drifting up from its mouthparts. The woman didn¡¯t so much as flinch as the grotesque creature rubbed it¡¯s ugly face against her bare cheek.


    "Cottian del Sed," the woman said quietly, eye set square on Serena. "What exactly¡­ does that name mean to you?"

 Chapter 162:7.11: Battery Life

    Sidekick was an incredible creature -- unique in all the world.


    The fact that he was unique went without saying, though. He was a creation of the Superbian sect of the Final Church, the only organization in the galaxy that dared to breach the taboo against genetic engineering that had persisted since the Thousand Revolutions. It was said that even their youthful Apexbishop was genetically enhanced.


    The circumstances of Sidekick¡¯s creation weren¡¯t the impressive part, though.


    As Scout plugged Sidekick into his spinal cord, their minds connecting, dormant parts of the grey creature¡¯s brain began to activate. Those sections were designed to perfectly imitate parts of Scout¡¯s brain, the parts that held his desire to protect his own -- his Aether core. Scout felt that with a small part of his being, but in this moment that was Sidekick¡¯s entire being.


    Sidekick was only conscious enough to do two things: to keep itself alive, and to generate Aether for its counterpart. An Aether battery.


    The combined output of Scout and Sidekick was immense. In a supernova of flashy pink Aether, Scout ducked down, grabbed his cousin Chloe under one arm, and leapt towards the rafters -- perfectly dodging the three bullseye targets Alana Pheasant had sent flying his way.


    Scout had heard of a concept called ¡¯the zone¡¯ that athletes often described -- a temporary sensation of omnipotence, where conscious thinking faded and skill took over. He wondered if this was anything like it -- his own power coursing through his body, every hair standing on end, the world seeming to move in super slow motion.


    In what had barely been one second but seemed more like five, Scout landed in the jungle of rafters, a pink haze of Aether still billowing around him. Even with his great speed, however, his opponents weren¡¯t incompetent. The clawed man in the red-and-white sweater was already up there, too, slashing his long needles of bone at Scout the moment he landed.


    The glass sculptures that had decorated this foyer had been destroyed in the initial battle, spreading shards of glass everywhere. Without missing a beat, Scout plucked a long, thin chunk of glass that had landed up there between two fingers, infused it with Aether, and parried the incoming claws.


    With the assistance Sidekick was providing, the level of infusion Scout was capable of was incredible. It looked more like he was holding a sliver of pink light between his fingers than an actual physical object. With each swipe of the shard he used to deflect those cruel claws, sparks rained down on the room below.


    There¡¯s nothing manlier than keeping calm, his Pa had once told him. You gotta be able to think clearly, so don¡¯t get distracted!


    Whirr.


    The cannon. Scout let himself and Chloe drop from the rafters just as the energized blow hit, smashing into the ceiling. The shot utterly annihilated the clawed man¡¯s body, reducing him to a fine red mist.


    At least, that¡¯s what Scout had assumed.


    From within the cloud of blood, a thin and spindly creature leapt out at Scout. It was covered in a white exoskeleton, with bare red flesh peeking out from between the joints -- and bloodshot eyes glaring at Scout from within deeply recessed pits. Some kind of Scurrant, one that had been wearing the red-and-white man¡¯s body like a costume, poking it¡¯s fingers out like claws to attack.


    Before the Scurrant could reach Scout, however, he was struck out of the air by what looked like a bolt of pale-green electricity -- landing in a twitching heap on the floor. From behind Chloe¡¯s back, still held under Scout¡¯s arm, the tendril of one of her jellyfish companions was pointing at the felled Scurrant.


    Judging from the obvious pain the Scurrant was in and the lack of actual physical damage, Chloe must have used Bad Day¡¯s Parade for that attack. Good to know she had the presence of mind to keep him covered.


    As Scout leapt backwards to avoid another shot from the cannon, he found himself surrounded by the bullseye targets that had been pursuing him. Two of them were smashed out of the air by devastating kicks, but the third of them flanked him, slamming into his back and firmly attaching itself there.


    These targets were obviously some kind of Aether ability, so he couldn¡¯t just let it be. He reached back to pull it away, but from this angle it was impossible. He¡¯d need some help. They had seconds before the next cannon strike -- they¡¯d need to be quick.


    As gently as he could, he put Chloe back down on the ground, glancing at her, and called out: "Chlo! Get that thing off me!"


    "Too late," grinned Alana, still on the other side of the room, her revolvers pointed in their direction.


    Twin barrels spat fire, and two bullets zoomed in their direction -- sparking with so much Aether that Scout was sure they¡¯d get through his defenses. As they flew, however, their trajectory warped bizarrely, curving as if they were trying to sneak past Scout and attack him from behind. No matter how much he whirled around, they simply continued to circle him, growing closer and closer¡­


    Bad Day¡¯s Parade fired off a bolt of pain at one of the bullets, but the attack simply phased through the projectile. Behind Scout, Chloe futilely tugged at the target attached to his back, but it didn¡¯t so much as budge.


    This attack had already succeeded, Scout realized. All these efforts to dodge or block were futile. Once the target was attached, the bullet would hit without fail.


    The bullets drew closer.


    Scout hadn¡¯t wanted to use this -- especially here -- but in this situation he didn¡¯t have much of a choice¡­ he pulled Chloe close again, eyes fixed straight on Alana.


    Four words passed his lips, inaudible through the rush of pink Aether that exploded around him -- erupting into bright light that consumed the entire room. When the light cleared, the only ones still in the room were the cannon woman and the bodyhopper Scurrant.


    Scout, Chloe, Alana and even one of the bullets were well and truly gone -- like they¡¯d never been there at all. The one remaining bullet slammed harmlessly into the wall.


    "Cottian del Sed," the woman in the black kimono whispered. "What exactly¡­ does that name mean to you?"


    Serena blinked. In a situation like this, no thoughts of deceit crossed her mind. When it came to Cott, she was more than happy just to tell the truth.


    "I hate him," she replied. "More than anything."


    The woman blinked. "What a coincidence," she said, hands clasped in front of her. "I happen to feel exactly the same."


    This woman was telling the truth. Serena wasn¡¯t the best judge of character, but when it came to Cott she didn¡¯t miss a trick. This woman and herself had the same look in their eyes -- it was unmistakable.


    "Who was it for you?" Serena asked.


    The woman¡¯s body stiffened, the centipede coiled around her tightening slightly. "My sister," she replied quietly. "And me. What about you?"


    Serena¡¯s grip tightened on the bedsheets again, fingers making their way into the holes she¡¯d already dug in there. Everything seemed to become so very fragile when Serena del Sed was pissed off.


    "My friends," she whispered, that old burning anger already reigniting. "And me."


    "Do you want a chance to kill him?"


    The woman¡¯s gaze was unbreaking, unflinching, her one good eye staring steadily at Serena. Her hatred was a cold thing, calm and patient compared to Serena¡¯s inferno. She¡¯d wait here forever if that was what it took to get the answer she desired.


    Well, the answer was obvious from the beginning. "Yes," Serena said.


    The woman extended her open hand. "My name is Keiko. I can give you that chance if you come with me."


    Serena stared down at the woman¡¯s -- at Keiko¡¯s -- offered hand.


    Mr. Dragan had said that he¡¯d be back with Mr. Skipper and Miss Ruth soon, but who knew what they¡¯d say when they got here? It would probably be something about waiting for a lucky opportunity, and letting Bruno suffer until that opportunity came. Even now, she could feel him, twitching at the back of her consciousness.


    They didn¡¯t understand this whole thing the way Serena did. They hadn¡¯t been there. They hadn¡¯t seen the bodies. They hadn¡¯t felt their minds be scraped away.


    Serena loved her friends dearly. But she hated Cott just as much.


    She reached out.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    When the light cleared, Chloe Oliphant-Escoffier found that she was no longer in the foyer of her father¡¯s building. In fact, she was somewhere entirely different.


    It seemed like some kind of living room, perfectly square, with two armchairs facing a roaring fireplace. Soft carpet was spread out underneath her feet, and paintings of rustic landscapes were laid out over the walls. Sets of wooden stairs were on either side of the room, leading both up and down.


    She stepped gingerly over to the other side of the room, where a counter held a simple collection of herbs and spices. Through the small glass window above the counter, she could see nothing but massive, indistinct shapes moving in the distance.


    Where was she?


    They¡¯d been attacked by Alana Pheasant, there¡¯d been some kind of bright light, and then she¡¯d ended up here. It was definitely some kind of Aether ability, but that didn¡¯t narrow down just what was going on any. Scout had been right next to her before the light, but he was nowhere to be seen here.


    In the haze of confusion that surrounded her, Chloe fell back onto the training she¡¯d first received in Aether. Her father had hired the finest tutors available, so she¡¯d managed to develop quite a few tricks to deal with unclear situations like this.


    First course of action: an Aether ping, to determine her position compared to others. Maybe she could even meet back up with Scout using it, if he was still nearby.


    A pulse of pale-blue Aether burst out from her body --


    -- and the sheer feedback of the ping sent Chloe to her knees, face contorted in pain. A yelp of shock escaped her mouth before she clapped a hand over it to silence herself.


    There was Aether everywhere. The fireplace, the chairs, the counter, even the damn walls -- everything around her was absolutely flooded with Aether to such a degree that her ping was overwhelming. It was impossible to determine anything about her environment in such conditions.


    Only one thing, apart from the pain, was notable from that investigation. The Aether surrounding her, the Aether she felt like she was drowning in -- it belonged to her cousin Scout.


    She heard the voice of the man himself a moment later, coming from up the stairs.


    "Chloe?" he called out. "Chlo? Is that you?! Say something if it¡¯s you!"


    Chloe didn¡¯t need to be told twice. "It¡¯s me!" she cried out, hands cupped around her mouth. "What¡¯s going on?"


    "No time! Just get up here!"


    Chloe took a step forward, but hesitated, caution pulling her back slightly. There was no guarantee that this was actually Scout she was speaking to. Any Umbrant could imitate voices, or it could be someone with an Aether ability that allowed disguises. She¡¯d need to be careful.


    "Midnight Disobedience," Chloe muttered, her own pale-blue Aether flaring around her.


    The jellyfish companion she¡¯d designated flowed out of her back, floating in the air behind her after it fully emerged. It was around twice her size, the transparent globe that formed its body full of dark liquid, the patterns on its skin making it look like a starry night was sloshing around inside.


    With its tendrils, it gently grabbed Chloe under her arms and pulled her into itself, leaving her to float freely within its being. The liquid was no obstacle to breathing.


    "Go up the stairs," Chloe commanded. "Go towards the person with Scout¡¯s voice. If the person with Scout¡¯s voice doesn¡¯t have Scout¡¯s face, attack."


    With it¡¯s orders received, Midnight Disobedience began to move, floating towards the staircase.


    Chloe had many jellyfish companions she could summon to assist her, but Midnight Disobedience was the best when it came to defense. As long as she was inside its buoyant body, there was very little anyone could do to hurt her -- and it would follow her commands unflinchingly until it disappeared.


    As one, they passed up onto the next floor of this strange building. The cozy living room was replaced with the sterile white walls of what seemed to be some kind of gym. Workout equipment of all shapes and sizes was littered across the floor, with a row of treadmills taking up one entire side of the room. Motivational posters had been plastered liberally across the walls, some peeling off in places.


    She glanced at one of the posters: a cartoon axolotl being sucked into a whirlpool, holding onto a rock for its life. Hang in there! read the caption. Easier said than done.


    In the middle of the gym room, right in the center of the mass of equipment, Scout sat cross-legged -- an expression of utmost concentration on his face, his eyes squeezed shut. That Sidekick thing was still clinging on to the back of his neck, pink Aether flowing between the two of them.


    Scout opened one eye, nodded to Chloe, then snapped it shut again. Whatever he was doing -- whatever this was -- it was taking everything he had.


    "Where are we?" Chloe asked, swimming out of Midnight Disobedience and dismissing the creature.


    "Perfect Palace," Scout grunted. "Palisade Princedom."


    Was that meant to explain anything? Chloe cocked her head. "Huh?"


    "Perfect Palace: Palisade Princedom," Scout repeated, as if she just hadn¡¯t heard him the first time. "It¡¯s my Aether ability, only¡­ it takes a lot out of me to use. Even with Sidekick, ugh¡­" He winced, obviously in discomfort, like he¡¯d been stung by some kind of insect. "Shit."


    "What is it?" Chloe asked, placing a curious hand on his shoulder. His whole body was as tense as a body could get.


    "Alana," Scout tapped the floor with one hand. "She¡¯s¡­ she¡¯s moving around a lot, and the bullet she fired too¡­ I have to concentrate if I want to keep them quarantined, Chlo."


    Chloe furrowed her brow, looking around as if the answers would be written on the wall somewhere. "Quarantined? What do you mean -- she¡¯s here too?"


    Scout nodded, wincing again as he began to explain.


    "Perfect Palace: Palisade Princedom is a place I¡¯ve created using my Aether. That¡¯s why Aether pings are pretty much useless here, and that¡¯s why it¡¯s taking so much out of me."


    Chloe widened her eyes. "What, you mean you created a different dimension or something? Using your Aether?"


    "Uh, sure," Scout replied after a second. "Anyway, this place is¡­ agh!" He waved off her concern at the sudden exclamation. "It¡¯s basically an eight-story building floating in the air. When I used the ability, you, Alana and the bullet were the closest things to me -- so you got brought in too."


    Chloe frowned, looking around at her relatively mundane surroundings. "What does this place do, then? You haven¡¯t just invited her to your Aether hotel or something, right?"


    "Eight floors," Scout continued. "Right now, this gym we¡¯re in is Floor 8 -- right at the top. Alana is trapped in Floors 3 and 4, and the bullet following me is stuck in Floors 1 and 2."


    "What, like you locked the doors or something?"


    Scout shook his head. "I can swap the places of any two floors inside Perfect Palace: Palisade Princedom whenever I want to, like shuffling a deck of cards. When I heard you calling for me, I moved your floor right below mine so you could come up." His eyes glanced warily down at the ground. "The bullet starts at Floor 1, tries to follow me up here, and reaches Floor 2. Then, I swap the positions of Floor 1 and Floor 2, so it goes up again. Basically, it¡¯s an infinite loop. I¡¯m doing something similar with Alana."


    Chloe sighed in relief. "So we¡¯ve won, then, right?"


    "Huh?"


    "I mean, they¡¯re stuck in your Perfect Kingdom, so we can just leave them here and --"


    "Perfect Palace: Palisade Princedom," Scout said insistently. "And no, we really haven¡¯t won. I can only leave this place by deactivating my ability, which would release all of us right back where we were -- with the bullet about to hit me. Even as it is, I can keep this going for maybe nine minutes, maybe less if Alana starts messing with me."


    Chloe gulped, her skin turning pale. Even with all this, then, they were only delaying the inevitable? What the hell were they supposed to do?


    The question must have shown up on her face, because Scout answered promptly.


    "We take her out before my ability fades. You take her out with your abilities."


    She took a step back, hands already fidgeting together. This whole day had just been insane, unbearably so, and the descent just seemed to never stop. She was expected to take on a trained Aether fighter all by herself?


    "I can move around the floor you¡¯re on," Scout pushed on. "Give you better angles of attack. You don¡¯t need to go and punch her -- use Midnight Disobedience or one of the other jellyfish you¡¯ve got. We just need to make sure her Aether ability is released before mine is, otherwise that bullet is hitting me the second we get free."


    Chloe hesitated -- and in response, Scout reached forward, grabbing her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. He opened his eyes, looking at her beseechingly.


    "Please, Chlo," he whispered. "There¡¯s nobody else here."


    The descent never stopped -- and yet, right as panic threatened to overwhelm her, Chloe Oliphant-Escoffier found one last nugget of resolve at the bottom of her soul. She seized it tight.


    Still shaking, she slowly nodded. S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I¡¯ll do it," she said.


    "She¡¯s been acting off ever since she woke up," Dragan explained, marching down the hallway, Skipper and Ruth on either side of him. They were on their way back to the room Serena was recovering in.


    "Off?" Ruth frowned. "Off how?"


    "Talking about Cott, said he was the one who¡¯d attacked her and Bruno. She wanted me to help her kill him."


    "That¡¯s it?" Ruth asked. "Well, sure we can kill him. Where is he? We can do it right now."


    Dragan sighed. Was he really the one here with a number of brain cells past the single digits? Every day brought him closer to despair.


    "Guessing there¡¯s more to it than her being angry, yeah?" Skipper said, hands plunged into the pockets of his coat.


    "Yeah," Dragan nodded as they turned a corner. "I said I was up to help, but that we¡¯d need a plan. If anything, that just pissed her off more. Like¡­ seriously pissed off. Never seen her like that. That¡¯s when I went to grab you two."


    "Well," Skipper cracked his neck. "I can understand being ticked off, but we¡¯ve gotta be careful about this -- especially with this whole Hunter Game business."


    Dragan glanced up at the older man, raising one eyebrow. "Speaking of being careful," he ventured, an accusatory sliver to his voice. "You still haven¡¯t told us where you disappeared to before. If you hadn¡¯t been off doing whatever, we might not be in this situation."


    Skipper grimaced as they paused outside Serena¡¯s door. Even though it was exaggerated, there was more than a hint of genuine regret on his face.


    "Doing whatever?" he said. "Oh, Mr. Hadrien, ye of little faith¡­ I was doing what we in the business call snooping."


    "Snooping for what?" Ruth leaned forward to look at Skipper past Dragan, her head cocked quizzically.


    Skipper tapped his nose. "The walls have ears in this kinda place. But it¡¯s some nice juicy info. I¡¯m thinking that when we get Serena calmed down and hash out a plan with this, things are gonna start going our way again!"


    With a victorious grin on his face, he pushed the door open with far more flare than was necessary. His jacket even seemed to billow behind him from the movement. If Dragan didn¡¯t know what an idiot the man was, he could almost be impressed. Those thoughts faded as the door fully opened.


    The room was empty.


    Skipper blinked. "Oh shit."

 Chapter 163:7.12: Bullet Ballet

    One year earlier¡­


    Alana lit Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier¡¯s cigarette as he put it in his mouth. Even with his grave expression, he nodded gratefully as he took a step towards the man tied up on the floor.


    The place they were standing in would one day be a planetary monument. Once, on this planet called Nemos, the Gene Tyrant called Richenza had built a palace tall enough that it had reached the orange skies. That palace had fallen during the Thousand Revolutions, of course, but the new Governor was nothing if not a history buff -- and he was eager to match the architectural accomplishments of the Tyrants.


    These were but the empty foundations, but they¡¯d serve for this purpose.


    The disco ball above the group spun with flowing colours, and Jacques¡¯ two zombies moved, pulling the tied-up man up into a standing position. He thrashed wildly, but the grip of the dead man was utterly unbreakable. Jacques watched the display, his cold expression unimpressed. The affable affect he adopted in public and with his family had utterly vanished.


    "Boss," the bearded man pleaded, looking at his employer. "Please. I swear. I swear I didn¡¯t do nothing."


    Jacques reached a hand into the inside pocket of his white long coat, his expression unamused. "Really?" he snapped, voice droll. "You weren¡¯t passing information on to my sister?"


    "I wasn¡¯t! Whoever told you that is lying!"


    Jacques raised an eyebrow. "I made a deal with my sister Valentina. In exchange for resources she so desperately needed, she gave me the names of all the moles she had in my organisation. Your name was among them. Could you be calling my darling little sister a liar, Groone?"


    His eyes widening, Groone quickly shook his head. "No, no no no, I didn¡¯t mean it like that, I didn¡¯t mean --"


    He didn¡¯t get to finish his sentence. Jacques whipped his pistol out of his coat and shot him through the head, burning bits of brain and skull flying into the pit behind him. A second later, a flash of the disco ball triggered the two zombies to throw Groone¡¯s body in as well.


    "No mercy for traitors," Jacques said quietly, returning his gun to its holster. He took a drag of his cigarette as he stepped away from the scene, nodding to the foreman who was standing meekly in the corner. "You can get started now."


    Construction would officially resume thirty hours later, the sea of cement firmly removing any evidence that the man called Groone had ever been here. In a way, Alana supposed he should be grateful: thanks to his attentive boss, he got to be a part of history.


    Now...


    Alana could feel it all.


    Far above her was her bullseye. The Aether it was imbued with allowed her to keep constant track of its location -- and, by extension, the location of Scout Oliphant-Dawkins. Whenever she tried to move closer to it, however, the bullseye would suddenly get further away. Something was actively preventing her approach.


    Below her, maybe a floor or two down, she could feel the bullet she¡¯d shot. Just like her, it was stuck in some kind of loop -- heading straight up, then suddenly relocating back to its original position, over and over again.


    Whatever this place was, it seemed to operate on its own set of rules. Alana had come to in this first room -- a swimming pool with lounge chairs off to the sides -- and from there she¡¯d tried to ascend to Oliphant-Dawkins¡¯ position, ending up in some kind of restaurant-quality kitchen.


    That was the only progress she was allowed to make, though. If she ascended from the kitchen, she just ended up back here -- in the swimming pool. As a test, she¡¯d tried leaving her hat on one of the sunbeds, finding it again after climbing up the stairs and entering the same room once more.


    She put the hat back on, bells jingling. If nothing else, that confirmed she was cycling between the same two rooms, not climbing through a series of identical chambers. That, along with the regular distances the bullseye moved away from her, suggested that the trick behind this was that the rooms themselves were moving as she climbed, replacing whatever destination she was trying to reach.


    This whole building was basically a deck of cards, then. Well, Alana was perfectly comfortable gambling. She never seemed to lose, after all.


    The key to winning games like this were to make best use of the resources you had, and to exploit the weaknesses your opponent¡¯s resources possessed. So what cards could she play here?


    For one, there was the bullet, constantly cycling between the two floors below her. Right now, that made it pretty much useless, but if it was taking up any of Scout¡¯s attention, that was worthwhile.


    Then, the bullseye. She could keep track of Scout¡¯s location no matter where he went. Even if her Aether pings were useless here, she wouldn¡¯t be blind.


    She had two more bullseyes she could send out. A plan occurred. If she sent one of her bullseyes up to the next floor instead of going herself, would Scout still swap the two floors¡¯ positions? He¡¯d have to in order to avoid the projectile, wouldn¡¯t he?


    And if he did, Alana could use that opportunity to move up to the next floor unimpeded. It was unlikely he¡¯d fall for it twice in a row, so she couldn¡¯t get all the way up to him, but it was still a way to break out of this loop at least.


    With a flare of green Aether, she dispatched the bullseye -- the object twirling in the air like a flying saucer as it zoomed off towards the stairs. Unlike her bullets, which homed in on their corresponding targets, Alana could remote-control the bullseyes, allowing her to land attacks from far away.


    The bullseye disappeared from sight as it headed up, but Alana could still feel the Aether she¡¯d invested in it. She could sense it like a far-away limb, rising above her¡­


    No. Now it was below her, and Scout was just a tad closer.


    Alana didn¡¯t waste a second. She immediately broke into a sprint, arms pumping as she made her own way to the stairs. She jumped up three steps at a time, sparks of Aether dancing off her boots each time they struck the wooden stairs.


    Hurry, hurry, she told herself, teeth gritted and bared to their utmost.


    Her effort paid off, and she successfully made it to the next floor. It was some kind of living room, with a roaring fireplace surrounded by cosy armchairs.


    She didn¡¯t stop to appreciate the scenery; she couldn¡¯t afford to lose this momentum. Scout was maybe three floors away, but if she gave him time to regain himself he could easily trap her in another loop. She leapt across the room, firing her revolvers behind herself for additional acceleration, landed on the stairs, and --


    -- and was faced with the creature descending from above. Some kind of massive spherical jellyfish, with a body as dark as night surrounded by grasping, flexile tendrils. Sparks of pale blue Aether ran along its body as it sensed her presence.


    The attack was immediate. A tendril struck Alana with the force of a car, slamming into her midsection and sending her flying across the room, smashing into a wall that sparked with angry pink Aether. She gasped for air, devastating pain already ringing out of her body as she fell forward into the ground.


    If she wasn¡¯t infusing her body, Alana had no doubt that attack would have utterly pulverised her organs. Steeling herself for a painful fight, she picked herself up off the floor, hands tight around the grips of her revolvers.


    "Come on, you fucker," she hissed at the approaching jellyfish. "Come and get me."


    100,000 each.


    She just had to remember that. She could endure as much pain, as much humiliation, as it took -- so long as she was able to grab that reward in the end. Money ran the world, and if you had enough of it that made you a higher breed of human.


    Her opponent¡¯s attack had been devastatingly quick, but in terms of locomotion it was pretty slow. It floated leisurely over towards Alana, slower than a walking human, tendrils reared back ready to resume pummeling.


    It¡¯s simple behaviour -- move straight towards her and attack once she was in range -- suggested this thing was some kind of automatic construct. Most likely, it¡¯s master had just designated Alana as the target and sent it on its way. It wasn¡¯t unlike her Bullseye Bullet, then -- mindlessly following after the target until it struck true.


    Still, just because it was slow didn¡¯t make it any less deadly.


    The thing was getting too close. Alana fired her guns back again, launching herself across the room at an angle and narrowly avoiding a swiped tendril that she was certain would have broken her back. A second pair of shots forward cancelled her momentum, allowing her to land atop the mantle of the fireplace like a cat, staring down her opponent.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    It had taken about ten seconds for the jellyfish to cross the room and attack her again. Alana could fire ten bullets in six seconds, and reload in about three. Assuming she kept up a constant attack, that gave her about one second to dodge the next blow with her remaining two bullets.


    Of course, that was also assuming that attacking the jellyfish would accomplish anything. Alana highly doubted the thing was invincible, but that didn¡¯t mean whatever weakness it had wasn¡¯t so obscure that she¡¯d never figure it out. Besides, this whole thing could be a distraction while Scout Oliphant-Dawkins prepared some other gambit.


    She reached her mind out, checking her bullseye. No, the distance between her and her Aether construct hadn¡¯t changed -- and thus, the distance between herself and Scout hadn¡¯t changed.


    Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.


    Ten thunderous shots thudded into the body of the incoming jellyfish, each causing its body to spasm and shudder, the bullets sinking into its amorphous form. No matter how much pain it seemed to display, though, the creature never stopped moving.


    Alana clicked her tongue as the jellyfish reached her position at the fireplace.


    Jerking one of her revolvers behind her again, she fired, giving herself the momentum to fly over the jellyfish just as it attacked. Then, as she passed over it, she fired her last remaining bullet right into the creature¡¯s back, pushing it firmly into the flames.


    Those were much more effective. Fire ran up the jellyfish¡¯s tendrils like they were made of string, and before long the entire thing was a sculpted inferno. Even still, it turned, trying to pursue her as she landed back on the carpet.


    She wouldn¡¯t give it the opportunity -- this was all but over.


    Alana reloaded, recorded bullets manifesting back into their chambers without her having to so much as lift a finger. The instant she felt their reassuring weight return, she lifted her guns and fired another volley of shots directly into the enemy¡¯s body, driving them further and further into the fireplace. Already, some parts of it were crumbling into ash.


    Another check. Scout still hadn¡¯t moved. This had been his last gambit.


    With a smirk, Alana turned away from the pile of soot -- just in time to avoid the bolt of pale blue Aether that had been aimed right for her face. It thudded harmlessly into the wall behind her. S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Standing across from her, gaping in panic at the missed shot from the bottom of the stairs, was the other Oliphant brat -- Chloe Oliphant-Escoffier. There was something stuck to her back too, another smaller jellyfish, its tendrils stretching out and pointing in Alana¡¯s direction. That must have been what fired the shot.


    If Alana wasn¡¯t mistaken, Chloe had used that attack on her associate Insider before. After it had hit him, he¡¯d been reduced to rolling on the ground like an invalid for several seconds. Perhaps it was something that interfered with the nervous system, then, tricking the body into triggering excruciating pain?


    Alana felt her eye twitch. This little shit had tried to get one over on her?


    The two of them glared intensely at each other, both knowing that the slightest movement would cause violence to break out all at once. Chloe shifted her footing on the stairs. Alana adjusted her stance on the carpet.


    No doubt Chloe would try to run back upstairs, and then Scout would move that floor out of Alana¡¯s reach. This combination of powers really was infuriating.


    "I get it," Alana called out, more to distract than anything else. "Your cousin¡¯s been switching his own position at the same time he switches mine -- that way, the distance between us doesn¡¯t change, and I couldn¡¯t tell he was setting you up for a sneak attack. Didn¡¯t really work out, did it?"


    Chloe didn¡¯t reply. She just continued glaring -- and at her sides, Alana could see her fists quietly trembling. Bravado only went so far, didn¡¯t it?


    "Well," Alana sighed, waving one hand. "It¡¯s over, anyway, darlin¡¯. Tell you what -- stay still and I¡¯ll end it in one shot. Just take your Aether down, okay sweetie?"


    Chloe¡¯s eyes narrowed, but her Aether didn¡¯t waver. "Fuck you," she breathed.


    "Aw," Alana pursed her lips. "Bless your heart."


    Chloe attacked first, one of those tendrils sending another bolt of blue pain firing at Alana. It was laughable, honestly -- slow enough that Alana could duck underneath it with ease, firing off a bullet to send herself flying in Chloe¡¯s direction.


    The Oliphant brat¡¯s eyes widened in fear as Alana flew towards her position. The girl turned on her heel to flee back up the stairs -- and as she did, she fired off a volley of pain bolts just as Alana shot her last bullet.


    Two projectiles hit at once. The bullet hit Chloe right in the leg, blowing out her kneecap and sending her falling forward onto the stairs with a scream of pain. At the same time, one of the pain bolts struck Alana in her leg.


    Pain spread out through the limb like she was being stabbed in every inch of flesh available. She too collapsed to the floor, whimpers of agony escaping through her gritted teeth, but pain would be no obstacle to her movement. With a snarl, she reached out and seized Chloe¡¯s good leg as the younger girl tried to crawl up the remaining stairs.


    "Dead," growled Alana as the two of them were pulled up, her eyes wide and bloodshot from the pain. "You¡¯re fucking dead. You little shit. You fuck. I¡¯ll kill you. I¡¯ll fucking kill you!"


    The tendrils of Chloe¡¯s backpack jellyfish were latching onto the floor above, slowly pulling its master up -- and with her, Alana was being brought up too, her grip on Chloe¡¯s leg unbreaking.


    Even through the haze of agony, Alana¡¯s mind was still capable of reasoning -- and through that, she could tell that she had won this battle. Scout wouldn¡¯t want to risk moving the floors if it meant leaving his cousin with her. So long as she didn¡¯t let go of this brat, she could ascend the rest of the floors without issue. With the injuries she¡¯d sustained, Alana would have no trouble taking Chloe as a hostage.


    The next floor came into view. Scout had clearly been rearranging the floors while she and Chloe had been fighting -- this was the kitchen again, white and sterile, the only traces of colour being the red blood Chloe trailed behind her as she pulled herself off the stairs. A feral grin spread across Alana¡¯s face as victory drew closer, half her body already off the stairs. As soon as this pain faded, she¡¯d knock Chloe out and continue climbing.


    Chloe stopped crawling.


    Alana¡¯s grin faltered, just slightly. Had the kid already passed out from blood loss? It wouldn¡¯t be surprising, but it still wasn¡¯t ideal. If the brat died while Alana was climbing, she very well couldn¡¯t be used as a hostage, could she?


    The pain fading from her leg, Alana went to pick herself up -- but never found the opportunity.


    The jellyfish on Chloe¡¯s back lunged at her with blinding speed, rushing past her vision in a split-second and sending her falling back to the ground as it attached to her back instead. Then, the four tendrils lashed out -- two binding her arms and legs together, and the other two latching onto the stairs and holding tight, keeping her in place. She went to dispatch a bullseye, to have it spin and slice through the tentacles, but bolts of pain channelled directly into her body put an end to that.


    This time, she couldn¡¯t help but scream.


    Pain was coursing through her body, but her mind was still focused enough for the horror of her situation to dawn upon her. Where she was right now -- half on one floor, half on another -- was the worst possible place for her to be. If Scout moved the floors now, then¡­


    This had been their plan all along.


    Chloe¡¯s hair fell over her face as she looked over her shoulder, back towards the screaming Alana. The only thing visible through those dark locks were her eyes, widened to their limit, staring murderously into Alana¡¯s soul. Those eyes were nothing if not familiar.


    "No mercy for traitors," Chloe Oliphant-Escoffier said, her voice ice.


    There was the sound of tearing meat.


    Scout gasped for air as they reappeared in the ruins of the Oliphant-Escoffier complex, the skyscraper now little more than a pile of rubble and glass. The destruction caused by releasing Perfect Palace: Palisade Princedom truly was atrocious, but Scout was grateful for the reduced pressure all the same. Sidekick dropped off his neck, thoroughly worn out, and Scout returned the Aether battery to his backpack with shaking hands.


    "Chlo?" Scout called out to his cousin, but there was no need.


    She was visible lying down not far away, just past what was left of Alana Pheasant. Scout gingerly moved around the severed torso as he made his way towards her.


    Chloe¡¯s third and final jellyfish, Hello to the New World!, was hovering over her. It was small, around the size of a human hand, the blue light within it making it seem like some kind of shining star. A thin line ran out from its single tendril as it printed new flesh and bone to replace the damaged material from Chloe¡¯s leg.


    "That sucked," Chloe winced as the jellyfish healed her. "What do we do now?"


    Scout collapsed next to her. He hadn¡¯t realised how tired he was, but sweat was indeed pouring down his forehead, and every breath felt like fire scorching his lungs. It really had been a long, long night.


    "We lay low," he panted, staring at the city lights above. "Find some place to hide, join back up with the rest of the family as soon as we can. It¡¯s¡­"


    The rubble shifted. Chloe tried to stand up, but her leg still wasn¡¯t up to the task, and she quickly collapsed again. Scout couldn¡¯t even muster that much effort.


    One of the remaining bodyguards -- the cyborg woman with the cannon in her chest -- was climbing out of the rubble. The explosion had clearly done a number on her: part of the skin on her face had burnt away, revealing the metal skull implant beneath, and one of her arms was entirely missing -- wires sparking from the stump on her shoulder.


    Even so, she was glaring at them with murderous intent -- and the cannon on her chest was whirring furiously.


    "200,000¡­" she growled, blood dribbling down her chin. "200,000¡­ easy money. It¡¯s easy money!"


    Neither of them could so much as move. The fight against Alana Pheasant had taken everything they¡¯d had.


    The whirring reached an apex, and --


    Plunk.


    A sticky projectile, launched from somewhere out of sight, landed on the barrel of the cannon, firmly attaching itself. It clicked.


    The explosion that ensued wasn¡¯t as devastating as the cannon shot would have been, but it was enough. The cyborg woman was consumed by a pillar of fire, her final scream drowned out by the billowing inferno. By the time she finally dropped, there was little left of her but ashen bone and scorched metal.


    The shooter stepped into view from atop the crater, the grenade pistol he¡¯d used returned to its holster. Scout peered forward, trying to identify the person through the smoke. He was fairly certain he didn¡¯t recognize that silhouette.


    It was a young man with long orange hair flowing in the wind, his face lined generously with freckles. As he stepped out of the smoke and towards the two of them, he offered a friendly smile, brushing the soot off his blue blazer as he extended a helping hand.


    "Hey," he said. "You guys looked like you needed some help."

 Chapter 164:7.13: Silver Vision

    Rico¡¯s hands shook as he sat alone in the quiet, dark room -- the walls slowly closing in on him.


    When had it gotten this bad? It was difficult to remember. At first, he¡¯d just indulged himself in Bubble as a way to escape the daily stresses of his life -- the grooming to succeed his mother in the family business, the grueling training to protect himself from their enemies, and the disgusting nature of the powers he¡¯d been told to develop for that purpose.


    At some point, though, the Bubble had become something he needed, rather than something he wanted.


    If his family hadn¡¯t been the Oliphant Clan, Rico had no doubt he would have ended up as some half-lucid junkie slumped in an alleyway somewhere. Still, with the way things were going, that future seemed to become more and more likely -- if he even survived long enough to find that grotty alleyway. The chances of him ending up with a knife in his guts were pretty much even now.


    His fingers fidgeted together, like they were trying to work at some invisible puzzle. He could protect himself -- if nothing else, he could do that. Tiny Garden was a horrible, awful ability, but it was one that would keep him safe without fail.


    Once Rico and this group he¡¯d somehow become attached to had arrived at this backalley hospital, they¡¯d quickly thrown him into this dark storage closet before anyone could get eyes on him. It was clear to see why: the doctors here were not the scrupulous sort. There was no telling what they¡¯d do with someone dangling 100,000 stator right under their noses.


    Itches spread across his arms, like worms crawling under his skin. This was the worst part: that itching would spread out, deeper and further, until Rico indulged himself again. Before long, he was willing to bet he wouldn¡¯t be able to move.


    Someone spoke outside.


    Rico¡¯s head jerked up, peering through the darkness at the wooden surface of the door. Had his pursuers found him? His Aether oozed around him, Tiny Garden ready to reach out and transform any assailant into a bubbling pool of meat. All he had to do was touch them when they weren¡¯t expecting it.


    The door opened, sickly light flooding in, and Rico stood up from his chair -- ready to respond to any attack.


    It wasn¡¯t one of the hunters, though. It was the Cogitant who he¡¯d brought here -- the guy with the silver hair, Dragon or something -- his face even paler than it had been earlier. He was breathing hard.


    "We need to go," he said simply.


    "What¡¯s going on?" Rico asked nervously, trailing behind the group as they marched out of the hospital -- the leader flinging the doors open with a mechanical arm.


    "Dear Miss del Sed looks to have gone walkabouts," the man in the green coat said, grimness peeking through the strained smile on his face. "As responsible adults, it¡¯s our job to go find her, yeah?"


    Rico furrowed his brow. "Huh? Who?"


    "Serena," growled the cute girl with the red hair -- Rudy or something -- as she glanced back at him. "The girl we were with -- the one who lost her foot. She was pissed off, so she¡¯s gone to get revenge."


    "Without her foot?"


    "Yeah," Dragon nodded, walking alongside him. "These kinds of places usually undercut the Panacea so it takes longer -- that way they can make you pay more for the room. If someone came along with a purer supply¡­"


    Rudy -- actually, it might have been Ruth -- looked at Dragon. "What, you think there was someone else there?"


    The cool night air flowed around them, sending goosebumps rippling over Rico¡¯s itchy skin. In this district, a holographic crescent moon hung high over the buildings, bathing them in pale light.


    Dragon answered Ruth. "I don¡¯t know," he said, rubbing his temples. "I get this feeling like there should have been someone else there, but I don¡¯t know why I think that."


    Skipper leant over the edge of the building, his emerald eyes carefully scanning the crowded streets below. "Common thing with Cogitants, Mr. Hadrien," he murmured. "You noticed something, but you didn¡¯t notice that you noticed it. You get me?"


    "No. What the fuck are you even saying?"


    "Brains work funny. You get that?"


    Dragon nodded wearily. "Don¡¯t suppose she¡¯s down there?"


    "Nope," Skipper sighed, stepping away from the ledge. "Okay, okay. This is fine -- well, no it¡¯s not, it¡¯s actually pretty awful, but we¡¯ve gotta maintain our positivity here. Bruno and Serena are missing -- but even with better Panacea, they couldn¡¯t move far with the state they were in, yeah? Thoughts, Mr. Hadrien?"


    "Wait," Rico blinked. "Who¡¯s Bruno? Someone else is gone?"


    "Bruno¡¯s the boy we were with before," Ruth snapped at him with surprising ferocity. "The one who lost his foot. Try and keep up, man."


    Dragon just ignored him entirely, looking up at Skipper as he spoke. "If they were trying to get out of here, but they weren¡¯t in a state to move quickly, they¡¯d have gone for the nearest public transport."


    Ruth frowned. "What, like a taxi?"


    The Cogitant shook his head. "No, they wouldn¡¯t be able to count on those being available. This place uses monorails, right? I¡¯d be willing to bet Bruno looked over some maps of the area before we went to the Oliphant meeting. He¡¯s careful like that." In a flash, he had his script out, flicking through maps of the district with a thumb.


    Skipper rubbed his hands -- organic and metallic -- together, producing a strange scraping sound. "Alright, alright! Which way would they have headed, little buddy?"


    "There¡¯s two stations with about equal distance from here," Dragon replied, holding his script up towards them. "And don¡¯t ever call me little buddy again."


    "Course not," Skipper lied, waving a hand. "But this is a tricky one. Two places to check and four of us here. After what happened last time, I don¡¯t really wanna split up, but¡­"


    Rico stepped forward. Things were moving at an absurd pace here, and he¡¯d been sucked along with it so far, but there was only so much he was willing to take.


    "Hold on a second," he interrupted. "Why the hell am I being counted as part of this? I don¡¯t even know you people!"


    Skipper blinked. It seemed that this defiance was a possibility that had never even occurred to him. Awkwardly, he scratched his cheek.


    "Well," he drew out the word. "If you really want, we can leave you right here. If you¡¯re 100% confident nobody will find you hiding out in that closet, you¡¯re welcome to, uh, take up residence."


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    Rico narrowed his eyes. He¡¯d brought an injured friend here, once, after a car accident they hadn¡¯t wanted on the books. His face was known, and he wasn¡¯t sure those doctors wouldn¡¯t turn their scalpels on him if the pay was sufficient.


    "Asshole," he muttered. "You just want some reward from my family, right? Look good being the one to bring me back?"


    "Exactamundo, little man!" Skipper snapped his fingers, ignoring the scorn in Rico¡¯s voice. "Well, that¡¯s that, then. Me and Dragan will check out the first station -- Ruth, you take Ricky here to the other station. Make sure he¡¯s not spotted."


    Ruth nodded, before suddenly reaching over and grabbing Rico¡¯s arm. He winced: It wasn¡¯t like he disliked the attention, but her grip was really tight.


    "Come here," she muttered, red Aether crawling across her arm -- and a second later, Rico felt a weight on the front of his face as a recorded mask manifested there, red lenses tinting the world scarlet for him.


    Panic swelled for a moment, and his hands groped in vain at the metal plate covering his head. His Aether hadn¡¯t been ready to defend at all -- if that had been some kind of attack, it could have been devastating.


    Ruth pulled his hands away -- and then flipped his hood over his face. "Keep that up," she ordered. "This way, nobody¡¯ll see your face."


    "You don¡¯t think a man with an iron mask will attract attention?" Dragon raised an eyebrow.


    "That¡¯s what the hood¡¯s for, obviously," Ruth replied, grinning. "We¡¯re wasting time talking about it, anyway. Let¡¯s get going."


    Skipper offered a lazy salute as he climbed up onto the ledge, his free arm swaying as he did his best not to fall off. "Godspeed, kiddo. Don¡¯t go dying on me now."


    Ruth¡¯s grin widened. "Same to you."


    And with that, Skipper let himself fall backwards, disappearing out of sight. Rico¡¯s gasp of shock and horror could be heard, filtered as it was by the mask, but there was no need -- with a boom a second later, Skipper rose back up, floating in the air using some kind of shockwaves erupting from his hands and feet. He grinned at them before turning and zooming off in the direction of the station.


    Dragon simply sighed -- the noise cutting off part way through as his body fizzled away into electric blue Aether. After a second, it was like nobody had even been standing there at all.


    Before Rico could so much as ask what the hell he¡¯d just witnessed, Ruth had seized him by the hand and pulled him away with horrifying speed. If he wasn¡¯t an Aether user, Rico was sure his arm would have been pulled out of his socket just from that.


    The chase was on.


    Scout greedily accepted the bottle of water offered, gulping down half of it before passing it down to his prone cousin, who sipped at it much more conservatively.


    With the help of the new arrival, the orange-haired young man named Lionel, they¡¯d managed to limp out of the crater and make their way into the sewer systems that ran through the district. It wasn¡¯t nearly as disgusting as it sounded. Waste disposal was given a huge chunk of the budget on the Cradle, so these systems were pretty hygienic, little more than sterile maintenance tunnels with secure pipes running alongside.


    The pipe was hard against the back of Scout¡¯s head as he leaned back, but he had no energy to seek a better pillow.


    "Thanks," he panted, looking up at Lionel.


    The other man glanced up and nodded. "No problem," he said, cleaning out the insides of his weapon with a handkerchief. "Like I said, you two looked like you needed a hand."


    Scout wasn¡¯t sure why, but he felt like he could trust this person. Something about him just made that self-evident.


    Chloe wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she finished the bottle of water, putting it down on the ground. "How¡¯d you know to find us, though? And why did you help us?" S~ea??h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Lionel scoffed. "That explosion wasn¡¯t exactly quiet. I followed the noise and found you two."


    That made sense. Even if someone wasn¡¯t looking for them specifically, the explosion caused by releasing Perfect Palace: Palisade Princedom was substantial -- the police had been starting to arrive as they¡¯d snuck away.


    "You haven¡¯t answered the second question," Chloe persisted, narrowing her eyes. "Why did you help us? There¡¯s no way you don¡¯t know about the Hunter Game."


    Lionel hesitated for a moment, glancing away. "I mean¡­ is it that hard to believe that there¡¯s people who care about more than money? Who care about doing the right thing?"


    He said that, but the real answer was obvious.


    "You work for our Grandpa, right?" Scout said, interrupting. "Abraham Oliphant. He hired you to come and protect the family here."


    Lionel smiled sheepishly.


    Deceit smirked devilishly.


    "That obvious, huh?" Lionel laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, that¡¯s right. I work for your grandfather directly -- he ordered me to come out here to the Cradle and make sure everyone¡¯s safe and secure before he arrives."


    "Before he arrives?" Chloe sat up. "You mean he¡¯s still coming here? Even with everything that¡¯s going on?"


    Lionel sighed. "For people in this line of business, you can¡¯t afford to be seen as weak. He¡¯s got no choice but to come, really. Otherwise he¡¯s as done as if he got a bullet in the head."


    "Everyone¡¯s got it tough, huh?" Scout sighed, staring up at the cold ceiling. "What¡¯s the plan, then? How are we going to stay safe?"


    Lionel clicked his tongue. It was clear to Scout that the young man knew what he was talking about, and so he leant forward to listen to the advice.


    "There¡¯s safety in numbers," Lionel said seriously. "And right now, the family¡¯s scattered. We don¡¯t even know one-hundred percent where everyone is right now. First order of business is regrouping."


    "Easier said than done," Chloe grumbled.


    If that pessimistic attitude was an obstacle, Lionel didn¡¯t let it show. He simply pressed on, gesticulating with his hands as he explained.


    "One of the big problems is the fact that communication between family members has been cut off -- we can deal with that and bring everyone back together in one fell swoop. Do you guys know about the security systems on the Cradle?"


    Scout shook his head. He didn¡¯t see Chloe, but he was willing to bet she¡¯d done the same.


    "It uses something called Silver Vision," Lionel went on. "Everyone that boards the Cradle has their script tagged, and from then on the auto-brains that maintain the station automatically track them wherever they go."


    Some excitement seemed to finally enter Chloe¡¯s voice. "We can use that to figure out where everyone is?"


    Lionel nodded. "If we can get to the main security complex and seize control of Silver Vision, we can track everyone down and bring them together."


    Another truth was going unsaid -- it was obvious. "But if the people trying to kill us get ahold of the system¡­" Scout muttered.


    "They¡¯ll be able to chase you wherever you go," Lionel confirmed, his face grave.


    That grim connotation settled in the dark tunnel, a flare of danger running through all their bodies. Just like that, they were in imminent peril again. Scout¡¯s body was so tired. It felt as if his bones were about to crumble into dust.


    How much more could he really do tonight? How much more was he expected to do?


    "I¡­" he began, not knowing what words would leave his mouth.


    "We¡¯ll do it," Chloe said firmly as she stood up, her face serious. "We¡¯ll make it happen."


    Scout looked up at his younger cousin for a second, his face blank, before a quiet chuckle left his lips. Look at him. Was he really going to let himself be shown up like this?


    There¡¯s nothing manlier than looking after your own.


    He stood up, ignoring the protests of his body.


    "Let¡¯s get going!" he grinned. From here on, they¡¯d start the process of turning things around once and for all.


    Lionel smiled and nodded.


    What a pair of fucking idiots.


    Unseen in the darkness, Deceit grinned to himself as he led the pack. Things were going better than he could have ever hoped. He¡¯d barely even had to use his ability, and he already had them eating out of the palm of his hand. Executing the plan would be no issue.


    First, he¡¯d do as he said he would.


    Then, he¡¯d bring them together.


    And then¡­ then it was time to really have some fun.

 Chapter 165:7.14: All Aboard

    Dragan Hadrien was starting to get used to this ¡¯not existing¡¯ business.


    For a second, he was surrounded by utter nothingness, an empty void stretching on in every direction. The sights he¡¯d seen before entering Gemini World were smeared across his vision like a bad watercolor. Muted panic spread throughout a body that didn¡¯t exist as lungs that didn¡¯t exist incorrectly believed they needed air -- which, of course, did not exist here.


    Dragan had timed this. It took him about one second to cross one meter in Gemini World. That slight direction was all he needed.


    He dived back into reality. Gemini World was released, and his feet touched down on the lamppost he¡¯d decided was his target. He almost fell off the thing, what with the small space available for his feet, but with some strategic waving of his arms he managed to maintain his balance. He crouched down, eyes scanning over the crowds moving in and out of the monorail station below.


    As expected, no sign of Bruno or Serena. Even if they were here, they weren¡¯t so incompetent that they¡¯d be spotted this easily.


    Boom. Boom.


    Still, Gemini World was a pretty effective method of travel once you got used to it. Gravity was no object, so he could pass over buildings to take the quickest route to his destination.


    Boom. Boom.


    Plus, the fact that Dragan didn¡¯t exist while he was moving pretty much made him immune to sneak attacks while he was inside Gemini World. As a lover of the famous back-strike, Dragan understood only too well what a great advantage that was.


    Boom. Boom.


    Dragan¡¯s eyelid twitched. The best thing about Gemini World, he had to say, was that it was quiet.


    Boom. Boom.


    Unlike some people.


    Skipper landed on the building next to Dragan with the last blast of sound from his hands, falling into a roll -- and standing up just as quickly, brushing the dust from his long coat. The older man grinned victoriously at Dragan, as though he¡¯d managed some great feat with that embarrassing display.


    "Both made it in one piece," he winked. "Not doing so bad, yeah?"


    "Mm-hmm," Dragan replied, deciding it wasn¡¯t worth the headache. He returned his gaze to the crowd below, some of whom were now looking up to see what those noises had been.


    He ignored the ones who were looking, focusing instead on the pedestrians who were still moving without a care. As they were now, Bruno and Serena would be most likely to continue after their target without bothering with any distractions. Plus, they could be disguised: Dragan focused on facial features rather than hair or clothing in an effort to see through that.


    Nothing. If they were here, they were hidden beyond his ability to see.


    He glanced back at Skipper, shaking his head. The older man clicked his tongue.


    "Damn," he muttered. "Damn, damn, damn. This tram coming up is the last one for a while, right?"


    Dragan nodded. "Power is prioritized for different districts at different times to conserve energy -- this district is going into night mode soon, so the trams will stop for a few hours."


    "So if Miss del Sed wants to get out of here in a hurry, she¡¯s got no choice but to get on this next one. Seems to me like what we¡¯ve gotta do is obvious, right?"


    Dragan hated to admit it, but Skipper had reached the conclusion before he had. Sighing, he nodded again. "We board the tram too, and search for them before we reach the next stop."


    "Correctamundo!" Skipper snapped his fingers. "That¡¯s what I like about ya, kid. Sharp as a tick."


    Rico groped uncertainly at the mask covering his face, trying to adjust it to make it just a bit more comfortable. The thing was made to fit a face that wasn¡¯t his, so his nose was always awkwardly pressed against the metal. Every time he tried to breathe through his nose, twinges of pain rang out.


    Nothing -- the mask wouldn¡¯t budge.


    "Don¡¯t mess with it," Ruth snapped, pulling him along by the arm as they made their way through the mall. "You¡¯ll draw attention."


    The building they¡¯d found themselves in was six stories tall, each floor looking down over the others from elevated balconies, rows of storefronts offering just about any material comfort you could think of. Shopping hours were just about wrapping up, so the majority of the people in the complex were now heading for the monorail station atop the building to start their journey home. Even so, Rico couldn¡¯t help but feel paranoid -- looking over his shoulder every couple of minutes just in case they were being followed.


    Ruth suddenly stopped, and Rico almost bumped into her back, his shoes squealing as they slid against the polished floor.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" he asked, worried. "Why are we stopping?"


    Ruth muttered something unintelligible through Rico¡¯s mask and hood, her eyes fixed down towards the ground.


    He flipped his hood off to free his ears. "What?"


    Ruth repeated it -- loud enough that several people near them turned to look. "This is dumb as shit!"


    "What is?"


    "Looking for ¡¯em like this, just walking around like a bunch of idiots! We¡¯re Aether-users, right?! Let¡¯s do something crazy!"


    "Like¡­ like what?!" Things really were moving too fast -- Rico felt like his mind was a flopping fish.


    Ruth bounded over to the balcony, planting her hands on the railing as she peered down at the floors below.


    "If Dragan was here," she muttered. "He¡¯d start talking to himself, then badmouth Skipper for a while, then come up with a clever idea. It can¡¯t be that hard."


    "Well¡­" Rico ventured. "Maybe this place has security cameras? Maybe we can break into the security room and look through them?"


    Ruth vigorously shook her head. "Nah. Nah, nah, nah. That¡¯ll take too long." A grin slowly spread across her face. "I got a better plan. You know what an Aether ping is?"


    "Of course. But if they¡¯re trying to hide themselves, they¡¯ll just be cloaking, right? There¡¯s no point."


    Ruth pushed herself away from the balcony. "Normally, yeah -- but even if you¡¯re sure the Aether ping didn¡¯t spot you, what are ya gonna do right after it passes by, just in case?"


    Rico shrugged. "Uh¡­ I guess I¡¯d be surprised?"


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    "You¡¯d get ready to fight, just in case, right?! At least for a second. Then you¡¯d catch yourself and put your cloak back on."


    "So what? That still doesn¡¯t help us actually find them."


    "But it does! It does, though!" Ruth cried excitedly, catching a few confused glances from passersby. "Normally it wouldn¡¯t, since you can¡¯t do an Aether ping again straight away after doing one! But there¡¯s two of us here, right? I can do an Aether ping, and then you can do one like a second later!"


    That made sense, but¡­ "Won¡¯t that tell them where we are, too?"


    "Yeah, so? They¡¯re running away from us, so they¡¯re not gonna come attack us or anything."


    "But with the Hunter Game, what if people are already after us? We¡¯d be exposing our position!"


    Ruth stopped moving, staring back at Rico. The blank expression on her face was utterly pitiless. "Yeah, but that doesn¡¯t matter. If that happens, I¡¯ll just beat them. I¡¯m strong like that."


    These people were crazy.


    Before Rico could so much as utter another word of protest, however, Ruth had already stepped away. She planted her hands against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, her red Aether rumbling rigidly around her. It was like a tensed coil, ready to spring into life. Aether ready to rush out and create a ping.


    "You ready?" she muttered, sparks escaping from her lips.


    Of course not. "Sure," he said, trying to ignore the myriad trembling of his hands.


    She didn¡¯t need any more confirmation than that. Her Aether rushed out from around her like the blooming of a flower, it¡¯s opacity fading away the further it went from her body. Rico felt his body tense as the pulse passed over him, his own sickly Aether flaring involuntarily. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He could no longer see it, but he knew the ping would be passing through the walls and floors, running it¡¯s proverbial fingers over every inch of space within its range.


    "Now you," Ruth grunted -- and with a start, Rico remembered his role.


    His own Aether burst out from his body with such force that he stumbled and almost fell, the ping following after Ruth¡¯s just about three seconds behind.


    He¡¯d been tutored in using Aether pings, so the method itself was nothing new to him, but the sensation was certainly surprising. It was like he was reaching out with a singular, amorphous limb -- running his hands over all the world. He could only really get a sense of general physical shapes, not really anything specific, but¡­


    There.


    Just the slightest tendril of Aether, just for a moment, and right on the edge of his perception. He snapped his head to look at Ruth, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke quickly: he didn¡¯t want his memory to fade in the least, after all.


    "Right below us, two floors down!"


    Ruth leapt off the balcony before so much as another word could leave his lips.


    "Stator for your thoughts?"


    Dragan glanced up at Skipper as the two of them stepped into the monorail station. The place was packed with people waiting for the last tram, the masses heading home from work or a night of play. Suits and ties next to miniskirts and jackets.


    "How do you mean?" Dragan asked, leaning against the side of the ticket machine.


    They had a good view of the terminal from here -- if Serena tried to get on the tram when it arrived, he¡¯d spot her for sure.


    "Well," Skipper cracked his neck. "It¡¯s been a hell of a night, yeah? A whole lot has happened. All this, along with Fix getting framed¡­"


    "Ha!" Dragan scoffed. "Like I give a shit about that asshole."


    "You told a member of the biggest crime family in the Supremacy that you¡¯d prove him innocent, man."


    That was his fault. He¡¯d set himself up for that.


    "It¡¯s¡­ complicated," Dragan muttered, softly thumping his head against the machine behind him. "I don¡¯t wanna talk about it."


    Skipper winced. "I get that, kiddo, I really do -- but it seems to me like it¡¯s kinda starting to become relevant."


    Dragan glared up at him. "What¡¯s relevant is you vanishing when we needed you. While we were running around the city, and Bruno and Serena were nearly being killed, what were you doing? You still haven¡¯t told us."


    A sigh escaped Skipper¡¯s lips, and he plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat uncomfortably. "You don¡¯t forget about this stuff, huh?"


    "Nope. Spill the beans."


    "How about this?" Skipper smirked, raising an eyebrow. "I talk, then you talk. I tell you what I was up to and you tell me what the deal is with Fix."


    There was a moment¡¯s hesitation before Dragan nodded, biting his lip. "Fine. You first."


    Skipper stepped over, leaning against the side of the ticket machine next to Dragan. The two of them looked out at the crowds as Skipper spoke.


    "Turns out," he began, crossing his arms. "This little nightmare we¡¯re in the middle of might be more of a sequel than a main event."


    "How so?"


    "I went snooping around in Carla Oliphant¡¯s office while you were talking to her in the morgue. She¡¯s been looking into an incident that happened about a year ago -- one of the branches of the Clan got hit all at once, absurd amounts of money stolen, family members killed. The head of that branch got sent off to some snowball, but they still haven¡¯t figured out who was behind the whole thing."


    Dragan nodded slowly. "I see what you¡¯re thinking."


    "Right? A ridiculous amount of cash gets stolen, and then this Hunter Game starts offering ridiculous amounts of cash to take out the Oliphants? Doesn¡¯t take a genius."


    "So some enemy of the Oliphant has a long game going on," Dragan sighed, running his face over his hands. "And we¡¯re caught in the middle."


    "Looks like it." Skipper glanced down at him. "Your turn."


    Dragan sucked in air through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. That inky blackness behind his eyelids reminded him more than a little of Crestpoole¡¯s smog.


    He had promised, after all¡­


    "Fix was a loan shark back on Crestpoole," Dragan began, getting the story out as fast as he could. "He was small-time back then, with just a small crew. I did some work for him -- my m¡­ my family owed him some money, so that was in part to help pay it off. Some stuff happened, and he ended up looking after me for a while."


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Some stuff happened?"


    "Yeah. Some stuff happened."


    "Look --"


    "Hey, asshole!"


    Their conversation was interrupted as a sweaty, frustrated-looking man stepped in front of them, jabbing a chunky finger into Skipper¡¯s chest. His handlebar mustache quivered in indignation as he glared.


    "Can I, uh, help ya, buddy?" Skipper chuckled, looking down at the finger poking him.


    "Ya think this is a bench?!" the man waved his hand at the ticket machine. "What the hell are ya doing?! People are trying to get home and you¡¯re here chattin¡¯ up a storm!"


    Dragan glanced at the rows of available ticket machines, raising an eyebrow. "Ignore him, Skipper."


    The man jabbed his finger again, harder. "Yeah," he snarled. "Go ahead, Skipper, ignore me. People used to have manners, you know. The Cradle used to be a good place until youse assholes came around. I --"


    He didn¡¯t finish his sentence.


    The man¡¯s chest exploded outwards as a segmented blade impaled him from behind, plowing right through his body and catching Skipper in the side as he jumped away. As the blade was pulled out of the man¡¯s body, it sliced upwards, cutting him nearly in half as he tumbled dead to the ground.


    Like some kind of serpent, the blade whirled through the air as it retracted, each segment snapping back into place in the hands of its owner. Someone in the crowd screamed, and the mass of people began to surge outwards to escape the chaos, revealing the man standing across from them.


    A man in a fur coat, with bleached blond hair slicked back.


    Dragan gulped. He¡¯d never met this person before, but that face had been on the news more than a few times. One of the most skilled bounty hunters in the Supremacy¡¯s underworld. Eli Masadora: the King of Killers. He grinned wildly at the two of them, blade slung over his shoulder as he took a step forward.


    Skipper didn¡¯t waste a second. With one hand still nursing the cut on his side, he lifted the other -- and fired off a Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Pop.


    The sound was more like a firecracker than the usual explosion, and accomplished little more than blowing the opponent¡¯s hair back a little. Masadora¡¯s grin widened, his crazed eyes fixed on Dragan and Skipper.


    "I get to kill two Aether-users at once!" he laughed, not a spark of Aether appearing around him as he prepared to attack again. "Imagine my blimmin¡¯ luck!"

 Chapter 166:7.15: The Revolutionary

    Ruth charged across the second floor of the mall, following Rico¡¯s pointing finger. Apart from her mask -- which was still planted on Rico¡¯s face -- the rest of her Skeletal Set had manifested, coating her body.


    Red sparks spread across the floor with each footstep, her great speed carrying her across the room in the span of a single breath. The crowds were still packing the floor, but her reflexes were such that she could weave through them without much difficulty.


    The direction Rico had pointed towards was that of the toilets -- the women¡¯s bathroom, specifically. She paused outside the door, turning to look back over her shoulder. Skipper had charged her with making sure Rico made it back safe: she couldn¡¯t very well just leave him behind.


    She needn¡¯t have worried, though. Although he wasn¡¯t quite as agile as her, he¡¯d still managed to make his way through the crowd unscathed. Sweat was pouring from his forehead, and his face was red from exertion, but that made sense -- unlike her, he¡¯d had to take the stairs.


    That didn¡¯t mean she could go easy on him, though. They didn¡¯t have infinite time here.


    "Hurry!" she began to roar, only to pause as some vague, indefinable sense on the edge of her consciousness warned her:


    Danger.


    She ducked -- and a second later, something like a black tendril erupted through the wall behind her, it¡¯s lightning-fast swipe obliterating the space her skull had just occupied. It retracted -- presumably for another swipe -- but Ruth didn¡¯t give it the chance. She dodged backwards in advance, her metal boots kicking up sparks as she skidded along the floor.


    Rico started to say something, but stopped as Ruth reached his position. Her eyes narrowed, she continued to stare right at the ruined wall. In this situation, she couldn¡¯t afford a careless moment.


    The crowd had parted around them, the sudden noise and destruction causing some to stop and look, others to quicken their pace.


    Serena wouldn¡¯t have attacked like that -- and if she had, the attack would have been simpler. This must have been the work of someone else. Dragan had said he¡¯d gotten the feeling that someone else was in the hospital, so was this them? There wasn¡¯t time to consider it. She had other concerns.


    When would the enemy¡¯s next attack come? What form would it take? Through the hole in the wall, Ruth could only see darkness -- the enemy must have destroyed the lights in the bathroom. A good move.


    "Did you see it?" she growled, her voice low, still not looking at Rico as she addressed him. "The attack?"


    "Yeah¡­"


    "I didn¡¯t get a good look. Describe it to me." Ruth¡¯s claws whistled through the air as she adjusted their position, ready to repel any strikes that might come.


    When Rico spoke, his voice seemed curiously drained. "It was a centipede, a big centipede¡­" he muttered. "It¡­ kind of looked like¡­"


    "Like what?"


    Rather than replying, Rico simply stepped forward again, ignoring Ruth¡¯s attempt to pull him back behind her. His fists were clenched as he gulped, looking at the hole in the wall.


    "Keiko!" he called out, voice wavering. "Is that you?!"


    Who the hell is Keiko? Ruth could have strangled him. Why was he exposing their position like it was nothing?!


    For a moment, there was silence, save for the scattered muttering of the crowds behind them. Then, barely audible, there was a sigh from within that dark hole.


    "I didn¡¯t realize it was you, Rico," a young woman¡¯s voice said. "I really wish it wasn¡¯t."


    The door to the toilets, adjacent to the shattered wall, swung open -- finally falling off its hinges from the pressure as the woman stepped out.


    She was young, maybe a year older than Rico, with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a single red eye glaring at Ruth. The other was concealed behind a black eyepatch with a red centipede embroidered on it. The black kimono she wore, utterly devoid of colour, brushed against the dusty floor as she stepped forward.


    That centipede thing was with her, too, coiled around her waist like a sash, its upper body curled over her shoulder.


    Ruth remained in her combat-ready position, body low to the ground. "Who¡¯s that?" she hissed, but Rico did not answer.


    He continued to address the other woman. "What¡¯s going on, Keiko?" he asked. "You¡¯re supposed to be looking after your dad. When I asked you if you were coming, that¡¯s what you told me."


    This person -- Keiko, apparently -- ignored the question. "How did you know it was me?" she asked, looking away.


    "Cerevisia isn¡¯t easy to miss," Rico replied, glancing down at the floor. "I¡¯d recognise that ugly thing from a mile away."


    "Ugly?" Keiko raised an eyebrow. "How cruel of you."


    Rico¡¯s face hardened. "Why are you talking like that?"


    "Like what?"


    "Like a bad videograph villain. How cruel of you? What are you talking about?" Rico waved his arms wildly as he talked. "And answer the question! What the hell are you doing here?! Why did you lie?!" He paled, just a tad. "You didn¡¯t¡­ you don¡¯t have something to do with all this, do you?"


    Keiko¡¯s head snapped back to look at Rico. "Of course not!" she snapped, her voice considerably more genuine.


    "Then what are you doing here?!"


    "That¡¯s¡­" she glanced away again. "I have my own reasons for that."


    "You¡¯re doing it again!" Rico cried, frustration building up in his voice. "What does that even --"


    Enough of this.


    Ruth pushed past Rico, her teeth bared, her claws sharp. She pointed those spikes in the direction of Keiko, the look on her face intolerant of any more nonsense.


    "I¡¯m not here to talk," she growled. "Where¡¯s my friend?"


    The kimono made it hard to notice, but Keiko adjusted her footing just slightly. The exposed body of the centipede thing swayed in the air, its mouthparts idly clicking.


    "If she really was your friend," Keiko scoffed. "I¡¯d¡­"


    The air turned cold.


    Whatever words had been about to leave Keiko¡¯s mouth were stopped in their tracks by Ruth¡¯s burning glare. If looks could kill, Keiko would have been reduced to a blast shadow by those eyes.


    "Hey?" Ruth said, her voice the very edge of a knife. "Word of advice. I¡¯d think about the next thing you say very carefully. Not everything looks good on a gravestone."


    When Keiko opened her mouth again, she did so much more carefully.


    "If she¡¯s your friend," she said slowly. "I don¡¯t understand why you won¡¯t let her do what she wants to do."


    "What?" Ruth continued to glare. "Charge right into danger and get herself killed?"


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    "Nobody suggested that."


    "What, then? And why do you even care?"


    Keiko shifted her footing again. "The person she wants to kill is the person I want to kill. Our interests are aligned. That¡¯s all."


    Rico tried to push past Ruth again, but her firm and immovable arm acted as a barrier to keep him in place. A warning spark of red Aether coiled down her hair.


    "Keiko," Rico said insistently. "Do you mean -- do you mean the person who¡­?"


    Keiko¡¯s glare wasn¡¯t nearly as intense as Ruth¡¯s, but it sufficed to firmly shut Rico¡¯s mouth.


    "We needn¡¯t talk about that now," the young woman said tersely. "Both of you should just --"


    "To hell with it¡­" muttered Ruth, heavy lids falling over her eyes as she readied herself. "I don¡¯t really care why you¡¯re doing this, you know. All I need to know is that you¡¯re messing with my friend. You can stop, or I can make you stop. Now: where is she?"


    Keiko didn¡¯t reply, simply continuing to stare Ruth down. The centipede rising over her shoulder hissed, green venom dripping onto the tiled floor below. Some kind of poison?


    A cold weight settled over Ruth¡¯s heart. There was no way Serena would just sit still with all this going on outside. And why had these two been hiding in the toilets, of all places?


    "The sewers," Ruth growled, baring her claws. "You had another escape route, didn¡¯t you?!"


    "I¡¯d ask you not to follow us," Keiko said simply. "But I doubt you¡¯d listen -- thus, I¡¯ll make it mandatory."


    The tiles cracked beneath her feet. Before so much as another word could leave Ruth¡¯s lips, the conflict had begun.


    Red Aether, maybe just a shade distinct from Ruth¡¯s, snapped around Keiko -- her centipede writhing in the air as it choked and spluttered. Ruth charged in, claws scraping against the ground, but her speed was insufficient. Before she could so much as reach the enemy, the centipede reared up -- belching forth a miasma of vivid red gas.


    Ruth didn¡¯t have to be told what poison looked like. She swapped out her Skeletal boots for their Noblesse counterpart, slamming them against the ground and using the resultant rebound to cancel out her momentum and send herself flying backwards.


    She landed next to Rico, who still hadn¡¯t moved a muscle.


    Ruth wasn¡¯t one-hundred percent sure of how gas worked, but she¡¯d expected the poison payload to rise up into the air, giving her an opportunity to slip through. Instead, though, it was staying put -- forming a kind of wall between Ruth and the bathrooms. She couldn¡¯t even see Keiko anymore through the bloody haze. No doubt the girl had already started running for it.


    "You know her, right?" Ruth snapped, glancing at Rico.


    "Uh, yeah," Rico nodded frantically. "She¡¯s my cousin, but¡­"


    "Doesn¡¯t matter." Ruth jerked her head towards the wall of smoke. "What¡¯s this stuff? If I breathe it in, how bad is it? Can it get in through my skin?"


    "I don¡¯t know."


    Ruth growled. "I thought you said you knew her!"


    "No, seriously!" Rico hurriedly explained. "That thing, that centipede she has -- it¡¯s called Cerevisia -- it makes poison inside itself. Any kind of poison Keiko wants -- hallucinogens, whatever, but they¡¯re always unique. There¡¯s no way of telling how this one works until it¡¯s actually got you."


    "Shit," Ruth clicked her tongue. Was there a way to bypass this? If she went back upstairs, could she get into the bathrooms by smashing through the floor? Could she afford to waste that time?


    An idea came to her. Maybe stupid, but there was only one way to find that out.


    "Your ability," she said. "You said it lets you make bacteria do stuff? Is that right?"


    Rico paled fractionally. "That¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s right. Tiny Garden, it¡¯s called."


    "That bacteria stuff is in the air too, right? Can¡¯t you mess with it to have it clean up that poison?"


    He shook his head. "I need to touch something to mess with the bacteria on it. I don¡¯t have the kind of power to do it from range."


    So he could do it if he had more power, then? Well, it seemed they hadn¡¯t run out of luck, after all.


    "Don¡¯t panic," Ruth said brusquely, turning around to face him.


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    "R¨¦volutionnaire Set," she whispered.


    As Ruth moved, her Aether concentrated around her like a shell -- washing over her Skeletal Set and utterly replacing it. An ocean-blue tricorn appeared over her head, and a snow-white scarf wrapped around her chin. The bronze breastplate that manifested around her torso was engraved with complex geometrical patterns -- curves and circles that made one think of a solar system gone wild. Similar sections of armour appeared on her elbows and knees, covering the extravagant white fabric below.


    The cape that billowed from her shoulders, however, was what really drew the eye. It was clear and coloured at the same time -- like someone had taken a stained glass window and converted it to fabric, the luminescent sheet waving in a non-existent wind.


    As Ruth raised her arms in Rico¡¯s direction, an antique musket appeared in her grip -- the barrel stretching on until it almost became absurd, nearly two meters all by itself. Red Aether crackled down its length.


    It was pointed right at Rico¡¯s face. Ruth¡¯s finger curled around the trigger.


    His eyes were wide as saucers. "Wait!" he shouted.


    She did not wait. She fired.


    In this moment, to look at Dragan Hadrien was to look at a man flickering in and out of existence.


    For one moment, he¡¯d be in one spot -- in the next, he¡¯d have crossed half the room. Each time the whipblade -- lashing around like a hurricane -- came close to touching Dragan, he would vanish again. It was like trying to swat a particularly annoying fly.


    That didn¡¯t mean Dragan could relax, however.


    Nausea welled up in his throat at the sensation of repeatedly using Gemini World. His limbs were beginning to shake. Static crawled in on the edges of his vision. This ¡¯fight¡¯ had been going on for about one minute, and he was already reaching his physical limits.


    He couldn¡¯t exactly stop, though.


    With the speed the weapon was moving, he wasn¡¯t confident in his ability to dodge it -- and from the looks of what had happened to Skipper, it had some kind of ability to interfere with Aether. He wasn¡¯t sure how much exposure it took to take effect, either: was he safe even blocking it?


    Besides¡­


    As he blipped back into existence, Dragan got a glimpse of Skipper -- on the far end of the station, firing a heavy plasma pistol towards Eli Masadora. Each burning shot from the gun was intercepted by the thrashing whip-sword, but that didn¡¯t mean they were useless: if not for that covering fire, Dragan would have been cut down long ago.


    This didn¡¯t make sense, though. What was Eli Masadora doing here, and why was he coming after them?


    Dragan understood there was such a thing as coincidence, but he didn¡¯t buy that the most highly decorated bounty hunter in the Supremacy just happened to be around when this Hunter Game mess started. He had to have been given advanced notice. Did that mean he was directly in contact with the organizers?


    Plus, even if he was here for the Hunter Game, Dragan and Skipper constituted the lowest level of targets. Dragan would have expected someone with Eli Masadora¡¯s skills to go straight for the Oliphants themselves. So why was he going after them, instead?


    Thrush.


    As he reappeared for a second, narrowly avoiding a swipe of the blade that would have taken his head off, Dragan caught a glimpse of the man at the centre of this tornado. A wild grin covered Masadora¡¯s face as he whipped the sword back and forth, air pressure broiling from the sheer speed of the strikes. It was hard to believe, but this man with nothing but a flexible weapon and skill was utterly dominating this space.


    The expression on his face, and the ferocity of his attacks, confirmed Dragon¡¯s suspicions. There was a personal element to this. Somehow, Dragan and Skipper had offended this man¡¯s sensibilities.


    It was easy to guess how. With the few words he¡¯d spoken, Masadora had called the two of them out as Aether-users. Plus, he hadn¡¯t used so much as a spark of Aether since this whole thing started. Dragan couldn¡¯t imagine someone in Masadora¡¯s line of work would willingly deny himself an avenue of power, so the conclusion was obvious.


    Eli Masadora was incapable of using Aether.


    Dragan had heard about such cases when he¡¯d first looked into this power, after all. The theory went that people unlocked their Aether by finding their Aether Core -- an emotion or state of mind that worked best to tap into the power. For some unlucky people, however, that Aether Core was something they were simply unable to reach. An irredeemable sadist with a Core of sympathy for his victims, or a lifelong optimist with a Core of bitter cynicism¡­ some people just lost the Aetheral lottery.


    It seemed that was the case for Eli Masadora, too. That, at least, gave him something to work with.


    The dodging had pushed him to the limit. Time to move on to the attack.


    This entire time, Dragan had been careful to disappear and reappear only on a horizontal plane -- blipping around Masadora¡¯s twister of slashes. Hopefully, that had convinced him that Dragan could only move horizontally when he disappeared. The opening Masadora had left above himself suggested that was the case.


    Time to test it.


    Dragan disappeared once more -- and a second later, he reappeared a couple of meters directly above Masadora. He fell, his feet pointed straight down, Aether infusing his entire body like he was some kind of human arrowhead.


    He had no doubt that, if he hit a normal human like this, he¡¯d break them like a twig.


    He made contact.


    Snap.

 Chapter 167:7.16: Thus Hates Eli Masadora

    Snap.


    Eli Masadora¡¯s speed was unbelievable, especially for someone without Aether. In a single instant, he¡¯d retracted his whip-sword, snapped the components back into place, and slashed it up at the incoming Dragan.


    Dragan couldn¡¯t dodge while he was falling. The only thing he could do to avoid the blow was enter Gemini World -- reappearing a moment later on the ground, nearly a meter away from Masadora. His breath was burning through his lungs, his heart pummeling the inside of his chest.


    He¡¯d been one second from death there. If he hadn¡¯t avoided that blow, he knew he¡¯d have been sliced in half from groin to skull.


    Next time, he wouldn¡¯t be able to dodge it.


    Masadora went to slash again, only to be interrupted by another round of plasmafire from Skipper, forcing him to switch again to a defensive effort. With a resolute gasp of air, Dragan pulled himself back into the game, yanking his stun pistols from their holsters and firing repeatedly at Masadora.


    He blocked Skipper¡¯s plasma shots, but he was forced to dodge Dragan¡¯s infused stun shots, keeping him perpetually on the move. It had been a risky venture, but they¡¯d managed to move the pace of this battle in their favour. So long as he wasn¡¯t whipping that tornado around, they had a fighting chance.


    The key was momentum. If they gave him a chance to act instead of react, things would just return to the state they were before -- and eventually, Dragan would make a mistake.


    He slid forward on his knees to avoid a horizontal slash from Masadora, repeatedly firing his pistols as he did so. Each shot missed by mere inches, but they sufficed to bring Dragan into melee range.


    There was the slightest twitch to Masadora¡¯s expression. He hadn¡¯t expected that. Good.


    Dragan flipped the guns around in his hands, holding each by the barrel so that he could use the handles as melee weapons. To be perfectly honest, he wasn¡¯t especially confident in his abilities as a close-range fighter, but under these circumstances it was the best choice. Unenhanced arms would have trouble blocking Dragan¡¯s Aether-infused pistols without dropping the whip-sword, so Masadora would have no choice but to focus his attention on the closer threat to avoid the attacks.


    That would give Skipper better clearance for his attacks. The man wasn¡¯t good for much, but Dragan knew he was a pristine shot.


    The strikes Dragan unleashed with the pistols were clumsy, as amateurish as if he were swinging a pair of clubs around, but they were enough to occupy Masadora¡¯s attention. Just like he had with the shots, the King of Killers dodged each attack at the last possible second -- if Dragan tried to break out of this pace, to try and re-establish some distance between the two of them, he¡¯d instantly be opening himself up to a counterattack. Masadora¡¯s eyes, cold and alert as an eagle, were locked directly onto Dragan¡¯s own the entire time. It was like a pair of daggers were about to burst forth from his eyeballs.


    If that wasn¡¯t enough to drive him to despair, Skipper wasn¡¯t doing much better. As Masadora ceaselessly avoided Dragan¡¯s attacks, waiting for him to make an inevitable mistake, he was swinging his sword around behind him -- intercepting each one of Skipper¡¯s shots with pinpoint precision.


    There was no denying it: if things went on like this, they¡¯d lose. Both he and Skipper would die right here, in a conflict that really had nothing to do with them. The thought of such a meaningless end sent burning anger down Dragan¡¯s throat.


    Hell no.


    The only one who decides what happens to me is me.


    Dragan swung his pistol again, aimed right for Masadora¡¯s smug skull -- and the moment before the other man would have dodged, Dragan vanished in a spark of blue Aether. There was the slightest sharp intake of breath from the King of Killers -- the recognition of danger. Before his brain could even register what had happened, his body was already turning on its heel.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan reappeared behind Masadora, both his pistols lifted high over his head -- and as one, he slammed them down on the ground, shattering tiles and sending shards of ceramic flying upwards. At that moment, those white shards were basically projectiles shot up from the floor. Perfect ammunition.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    Each of the shards vanished in tiny fireworks of blue Aether. The eyes of Eli Masadora, who was still halfway through his turn, widened fractionally. Even if he didn¡¯t know the form this attack would take, he was intelligent enough to see that one was coming.


    Not that it would help him. At this range, the only way things could get more point-blank was if Dragan was giving him a hug.


    Bang.


    Every shard Dragan had just absorbed reappeared in front of him, launching towards Masadora at devastating speeds. Even against someone with Aether, this attack would be something to dodge -- for someone without it, Dragan could only anticipate the gory mess he¡¯d soon see.


    His wish wasn¡¯t granted.


    In a mind-boggling blur of movement, Masadora shifted out of the way of the projectiles, and they zoomed off uselessly into the distance. Dragan was left gaping at empty space, his mind racing.


    What had happened? That speed had been inhuman, yet Masadora clearly hadn¡¯t used Aether. Was there a trick to it?


    Dragan whirled around to face Masadora¡¯s new position as quickly as he could, but under these circumstances even that seemed painfully slow. As Masadora came back into view, Dragan got a glance at the smoke gently drifting up from the back of the man¡¯s boots. Some kind of rocket propulsion, then? He had more tricks up his sleeve than he¡¯d shown, and Dragan had fallen for it like a sucker.


    In that moment, when time had all but stopped, Dragan heard the King of Killers speak.


    "The thing about Cogitant bastards like you, son," he said, voice dripping with contempt. "Is that you always think you¡¯re the only ones with brains."


    Something wrapped itself around Dragan¡¯s leg.


    Gemini Wor --


    Too late. Eli Masadora swung his whip-sword with all his might, and Dragan -- with the blade coiled around his leg -- was sent flying. He smashed into the far wall with such force that an ordinary person would have been utterly shattered, and as the blade retracted -- releasing him -- he fell forwards onto the monorail track.


    "Dragan!"


    Skipper¡¯s voice seemed distant. It was no surprise: Dragan had no doubt he¡¯d hit his head badly at some point during that catastrophe. Even shakily picking himself up, hands fumbling at the rail, sent waves of painful nausea coursing throughout his body. It was like there was a wildfire in his brain.


    Still, there was no choice. He had to get back up. If he didn¡¯t keep fighting, Skipper was done for.


    To think he¡¯d be pushing himself so far for such a useless asshole. On the verge of vomiting, Dragan surged his Aether throughout his body, the split-second jolts of awareness forcing him to his feet. Just like Bruno and Serena used Aether to move their shattered hands, Dragan used it to move his battered body.


    He could see flares of light -- plasma shots and silvery metal -- through the haze that was his vision. Skipper and Masadora were already fighting. How much longer could Skipper last, if Dragan didn¡¯t do something? Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Hum.


    Dragan froze. He really wasn¡¯t on top of his game. He¡¯d been feeling, rather than thinking. Masadora could have thrown Dragan in any direction, yet he¡¯d chosen to toss him over here. If you put any thought into it at all, the reason why was obvious.


    Ignoring the screaming from his neck, Dragan turned his head. It was hard to see as he was right now, but there was no denying that the incoming white light was the monorail. The last tram of the night.


    He couldn¡¯t dodge. There was only one way out of this.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan entered that watercolour realm again, the kaleidoscope of reality doing nothing for his nausea and -- timing it carefully -- left about three seconds later. This time, he hadn¡¯t moved, but the incoming tram had.


    He reappeared inside the first carriage, the sudden motion of the tram rolling him onto his back. He spluttered, the blood he coughed up tinged with blue Aether.


    The carriage was packed with people coming home -- there were screams of surprise as Dragan suddenly appeared on the floor, and the feet closest to him backed away in surprise. Someone nearby called out for a doctor, but there was no response.


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    A businessman with a shaved head kneeled down next to him, brow furrowed in concern. He reached out hesitantly, taking Dragan¡¯s pulse -- not really necessary, as he was clearly alive.


    "Are you okay?" he asked, voice shaking. "What happened?"


    Dragan¡¯s first attempt to reply simply turned into him hacking up one of his teeth. Even the second was more choking than talking.


    "Don¡¯t get off the tram..." he rasped, pushing himself back onto his feet with shaking limbs. "It¡¯s dangerous¡­ there¡¯s..."


    The tram stopped -- and as the doors opened, Dragan had a front row view of the chaos that had ensued outside.


    The hurricane of blades had returned, even larger now. Each strike of the whip-sword smashed through walls and kiosks, littering the floor with chunks of concrete and metal. Masadora was only barely visible, a humanoid blur within the maelstrom of metal and air pressure.


    Skipper was much worse off than he¡¯d been barely a minute before. New cuts and wounds ran across his body, from his face to his torso, and it honestly seemed like a miracle that none of them had sliced open his jugular or another vital spot. Even with those grievous injuries, however, he continued to dodge, leaping over the attacks with the grace of a trained gymnast.


    His pistol had been lost at some point during the onslaught, however, and his hands were empty. All this was accomplishing was delaying the inevitable.


    Dragan slumped over in the open doorway, ignoring the panicked screams of the people inside and the attempts of well-meaning hands to drag him back. He wasn¡¯t done yet. So long as he still had his Aether, he wasn¡¯t done.


    Guns and clubs, punches and kicks¡­ clearly, they couldn¡¯t win using those sorts of tactics. From the moment Eli Masadora had gotten that sneak attack off, that route had been closed off to them. If they wanted to win -- hell, if they wanted to survive -- they had to play a different game altogether.


    He¡¯d said something, hadn¡¯t he, that man?


    "I get to kill two Aether-users at once!"


    "The thing about Cogitant bastards like you, son, is that you always think you¡¯re the only ones with brains."


    Those might have been intended as taunts, but they¡¯d revealed aspects of Masadora¡¯s self as well. They were fault lines -- and Dragan could do good work with fault lines.


    He stepped forward, vanishing into Gemini World before anyone could drag him back.


    When he reappeared, he was opposite Skipper, on the other side of the metallic hurricane. The twitch of that silhouette at the center of that attack told Dragan that he¡¯d been noticed already, but that was no issue. This whole gambit relied on him being noticed.


    His voice wasn¡¯t up to much right now, so Dragan had to pour Aether right into his vocal cords to make himself heard. As such, his voice had a strange echoing quality as he called out.


    "Must be tough," he cried. "Being powerless!"


    It wasn¡¯t subtle, but subtlety wasn¡¯t really possible at this point anyway. He needed Masadora to make a mistake, to give them an opening they could use, and this was the only route he could see to that destination.


    No response. He went on.


    "I mean," he continued, choking out a laugh. "Look how far you have to go just to barely be at our level. How much did all the gadgets set you back? An ordinary Cogitant can think circles around you easy-peasy, an ordinary Pugnant can smash your face in with an ordinary punch¡­"


    The speed of the attacks increased significantly, the floor beneath them being utterly shredded. At this considerable distance, Dragan was just barely out of range, but cold sweat still ran down the back of his neck.


    "Skipper over there can use his Aether to close the distance against stuff like that," Dragan pressed on. "But you can¡¯t even do that, can you? I mean, correct me if I¡¯m wrong¡­ but it seems the only thing notable about you is your bank account. You¡¯re just not good enough, you know?"


    Through the haze of blades, for a split second, Dragan could see Eli Masadora glaring back at him. Dragan could see the eyes of the Grim Reaper, dilated in utter hatred, staring right into his soul. Locking on to their new priority target.


    Bingo.


    Many years ago¡­


    The moment V stepped out of the back door of the club, Eli grabbed her by the shoulders -- pulling her into a deep kiss. Rainwater, illuminated by the neon lights of Meldred, buffeted down on them as they broke away.


    "Took you long enough," Eli grinned, slicking his soaked hair back. "Nobody¡¯s gonna come asking after you?"


    V shook her head, pulling her hood up to cover herself from the rain. "My friends owe me favours. If anyone calls, they¡¯ll tell them I¡¯m still there. Sofia¡¯s an Umbrant, so she can do an impression of me if it comes down to it."


    "Damn," Eli chuckled. "You¡¯ve really thought of everything. What do they think is actually going on?"


    V looked down, but there wasn¡¯t any shame in her eyes. "They think I¡¯m heading out for a couple of hours to meet a boy, then I¡¯m coming right back."


    "That¡¯s cold. Love it."


    V looked back up. "Come on, then," she insisted, patting her dark-skinned hands against Eli¡¯s leather jacket. "Let¡¯s stop talking about it and get out of here!"


    "Your wish is my command," Eli bowed theatrically, whipping a sheet off the lump behind him.


    Beneath it was a bike he¡¯d hired out just for tonight, floating a couple of inches off the ground as the engine hummed luxuriously. He¡¯d haphazardly attached a sidecar for his girl. It wasn¡¯t too fancy, but it¡¯d suffice to get them to the starport on time.


    As the bike zoomed through the planet-city of Meldred, Eli Masadora took a last look at the place that had been his home for the last six months. He¡¯d come here just for another job, but during that time he¡¯d found another reason to stay -- the girl sitting next to him. Next to her, the needle-shaped towers of Meldred and the rows of flying traffic that wound around them seemed drab and mundane.


    "What¡¯re we gonna do when we get out of here?" V asked dreamily, chin in her hands as she looked out at the city. "First, I mean?"


    Eli spoke with authority as he drove. "We¡¯ll have to go a long way to get away from your family, so I¡¯m thinking we cross over to the UAP first. I¡¯ve been talking with a big name over there, the Fourth Dead, so we¡¯ll be able to get ourselves involved in some big jobs. Once we¡¯ve got the stacks from all that, we can live it up."


    "You¡¯re thinking about work?" V frowned. "That¡¯s kinda boring, you know."


    "I¡¯m being practical, love," Eli waved a finger. "Fantasies are all well and good, but you need to take the steps to make it actually happen."


    "Sounds boring."


    Eli rolled his eyes.


    There was always a chance that one of V¡¯s friends could snitch, and her family would be watching the starport entrance, so Eli had elected to take a roundabout route. The bike touched down in an alleyway, part of a maze of side streets they could use to get into the port. He¡¯d always portrayed himself as something of a headstrong fool, so V¡¯s family wouldn¡¯t expect him to actually use his head here.


    Eli couldn¡¯t help but grinning as he helped V out of the sidecar: there was nothing better than outsmarting the arrogant. Hands clasped together, he and V turned to begin their last walk on this planet.


    But there were people already waiting for them. A massive titan of a man, arms crossed -- and a young, tired-looking woman in a school uniform.


    Eli¡¯s breath caught in his throat. He recognised the young woman as V¡¯s older sister -- the bags under her eyes were unmistakable -- and the older man¡­ he¡¯d never met him, but Eli knew exactly who he was.


    "This isn¡¯t where you said you¡¯d be, Valentina," Abraham Oliphant, patriarch of the Oliphant Clan, said. "What exactly do you think you¡¯re doing?"


    The traffic above shifted, and Abraham became visible in the red-and-green light. Eli had heard he was cybernetically enhanced, but that did nothing to prepare him for the actual sight. His entire body was a hulking mass of machinery, like some kind of heavy-duty diving suit -- and the only organic part of him left was his bald head, curiously smaller than the rest of him.


    Each of his hands was nearly as big as Eli¡¯s entire body. He was painfully aware of that, judging from the chills running over his skin. V was staring down at the ground again, hands clasped in front of her -- and this time, her eyes wide with terror.


    "I¡¯m sorry, Dad," she mumbled. "I-I was just¡­"


    "You were just disobeying me. Leave. My men will escort you home. I¡¯ll deal with you later."


    V nodded meekly, stepping away from Eli -- ignoring his attempt to pull her back, to have the two of them present a united front. Why the hell was she giving up so easily?!


    "Don¡¯t kill him, Dad," she whispered as she walked past him, vanishing into the darkness. "Please."


    Abraham¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t leave Eli as he replied. "That¡¯s rather up to him." His eyes then flicked over to the young girl next to him. "Carla, if this young man tries anything, please shoot him. Even you should be capable of that."


    "Okay, Dad," Carla nodded.


    Abraham¡¯s gaze returned to Eli. "It appears you¡¯re fond of my daughter."


    Bravado Eli didn¡¯t feel leaked into his voice as he looked up at the titanic man. "What about it?"


    "You¡¯re a passionate young man. Tone it down, or I¡¯ll hurt you a little bit." Abraham¡¯s voice was as cold as the steel that surrounded him. "Understand that this happiness you envision is impossible. My daughter is a more valuable resource than yourself. Your value is, at most, a tenth of hers -- regardless of mundane talent. Leave this planet, and I will forget what has happened."


    Eli¡¯s hands shook. He¡¯d known how this man considered him -- V had made it clear -- but to hear it phrased so coldly, so logically, still felt like a crushing weight.


    "Aether is something that elevates value, to be fair," Abraham went on, Carla narrowing her eyes next to him. "But you are incapable even of that. No matter how you train, no matter how you compensate, the mightiest ant is still weaker than the boot. Please understand."


    He should say something. He should refute those poisonous words. He should defend himself, he should do something.


    He opened his mouth.


    "Okay," he whispered, barely audible.


    "I didn¡¯t quite catch that, boy."


    "Okay."


    "Very good."


    Abraham reached out and -- with the slightest pressure -- laid his massive metal hand atop Eli¡¯s head. With barely any effort at all, Eli knew that this man could press down and crush him against the ground. He was forced to look down, sweat dripping from his face. The rain was falling from him now.


    "I have no personal feelings against you, boy," Abraham said, his voice lacking the apologetic manner his words would suggest. "You simply weren¡¯t good enough."


    That moment ended quickly, but it would live on in Eli Masadora¡¯s memory forever.


    Now¡­


    The hurricane stopped, and Dragan Hadrien¡¯s heart almost leapt out of his chest.


    In an instant, Masadora had used those rocket boots to zoom right into Dragan¡¯s face, his visage contorted in utter fury, his sword lifted high over his head.


    "Corpse," Masadora croaked --


    -- and the sword came down.

 Chapter 168:7.17: The House At The Bottom Of The Sky

    The hurricane stopped, and Dragan Hadrien¡¯s heart almost leapt out of his chest.


    In an instant, Masadora had used those rocket boots to zoom right into Dragan¡¯s face, his visage contorted in utter fury, his sword lifted high over his head.


    "Corpse," Masadora croaked --


    -- and the sword came down.


    However, it never reached Dragon¡¯s skull. The dreadful smashing of flesh and bone never came. His life continued unimpeded.


    The reason for this, needless to say, was that in the instant before Eli Masadora could land the finishing blow, his entire body dissipated into electric blue Aether. Even the sword he¡¯d been swinging disappeared. Dragan let out a heavy breath.


    "Gemini Shotgun," he slurred, as if reminding himself that he¡¯d somehow survived this.


    That had been a close one. Painfully, unacceptably close. Dragan had only survived by using Gemini Shotgun the same way he¡¯d once used it to catch a falling Ruth. It had worked back then, allowing him to save her before she became a bloody smear, but this time it had been a gamble -- Eli Masadora wasn¡¯t quite as willing. Dragan had no doubt that if the other man had even a spark of Aether to resist with, this little maneuver would have been impossible.


    It was still an ordeal. Dragan could feel it on the edge of his consciousness, like a migraine creeping over the surface of his brain. Masadora¡¯s mind was writhing, trying to pull itself out of the web Dragan had dragged it into.


    He put a hand to his head as he staggered to his feet, stumbling over to meet Skipper. The pain was gradually increasing, like a trained boxer was trying to punch their way out of his skull. How much longer could he hold this? Ten seconds? Twenty?


    It wouldn¡¯t be for long, at any rate.


    He reached Skipper, and the older man put heavy hands on his shoulders, his usual grin weary in some way Dragan couldn¡¯t describe.


    "You okay, kid?" he huffed, ignoring the blood oozing from his own myriad wounds.


    Dragan shook his head as quickly as he could without triggering vomiting. Masadora was almost out. Even without Aether, his sheer force of will was terrifying.


    "We need to get on the tram," he rasped, his words clumsy as he focused most of his attention on restraining Masadora. If he¡¯d timed things right, it should be leaving for its next stop within the next couple of seconds -- needless to say, none of the people in there had the courage to get out on this one.


    Skipper nodded without any more questions, wrapping an arm around Dragan to support him as the two of them staggered towards the open tram. The civilians inside, clearly just as terrified of them as their opponent, moved away to either side of the carriage, their faces pale and their eyes wary. Skipper, for his part, offered a lazy salute as they stepped inside.


    "Just a couple of monorail inspectors, folks," he said unconvincingly. "Don¡¯t mind us."


    Dragan was at his limit -- if he didn¡¯t act, Masadora would reappear right next to them inside the tram. The doors beeped as they began to close: he wouldn¡¯t get a better chance.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    In the second before the tram doors closed shut, Dragan launched Masadora forth, infusing the manifested body with further Aether to make him fly farther and harder. He went zooming out through the doors, slamming hard against a pillar back on the platform.


    Dragan had hoped to see if he was still moving, to confirm if he¡¯d managed to get a kill, but before he could check the tram was already on the move -- the ruined platform replaced by the darkness of the tunnel, and a second after that the flaring lights of the city.


    He slumped down into a free seat, Skipper collapsing next to him. The two of them panted for breath.


    "I think," Dragan wheezed. "I think we need to go to another hospital."


    Skipper wiped some of the blood out of his eyes. "Yeah," he replied, looking down at the red liquid. "I think you¡¯re right¡­"


    Appreciating the long-required rest, Dragan fumbled in his pocket -- ignoring the worried looks of those around him -- and fished out his script, holding it to his ear as he called Ruth. Their efforts to find Serena had been a bust, but maybe she and Rico had had more luck.


    It rang once, twice, thrice, but no answer. Dragan gulped: had they gotten into a similar situation?


    "Don¡¯t worry, kiddo," Skipper waved a shaking hand, noticing the concerned expression on Dragon¡¯s face. "Ruth can look after herself."


    "What about Rico?"


    He hesitated a moment. "Ruth can look after herself."


    Three years ago¡­


    "Tiny Garden?" the Teacher asked, leaning on his hand as he sat cross-legged on the floor. "That¡¯s a unique name for it."


    Rico shrugged, staring down at that same floor. The two of them were alone in the family gymnasium for their weekly tutoring session, the only sounds outside being the occasional tweets of passing birds. Despite the grim work they were doing, there was a strangely peaceful feeling to this place.


    "Is there a reason you¡¯ve chosen that name, specifically?" the Teacher gently prodded, his voice utterly serene. "I¡¯d be interested to hear about it."


    Rico glanced up -- the Teacher wasn¡¯t going to let go of this. If he didn¡¯t get an answer to a question, he would keep prodding until you got tired of holding back. There was a quiet kind of relentlessness to him, a sort of paradoxical ferocity.


    His appearance was just as strange. He spoke with the voice of a fairly young man -- maybe in his mid-twenties -- and his eyes shone with youthful vigor, but his body was unmistakably elderly. Wrinkled and thin arms, a face lined with years he didn¡¯t seem to have lived. Even the gentle smile on his face seemed strained.


    Rico wasn¡¯t quite sure where his mother had found this person, but apparently he was one of the best in the business of teaching Aether.


    "I guess," Rico mumbled. "I guess because bacteria are like little plants? I mean, not really, but you can think about them that way. Under a microscope the shape sort of reminds me of leaves, I guess? So if there¡¯s a bunch of them together, they¡¯re like a tiny garden. That¡¯s where the name comes from."


    The Teacher nodded slowly. It seemed he was satisfied with this answer. He reached into his dusty grey robes -- the only article of clothing Rico had seen him wear -- and retrieved a vibrant green leaf.


    He carefully placed it on the smooth floor between them, and as he did Rico caught a split-second glimpse of the word ¡¯ALPHA¡¯ tattooed on the front of his wrist. He was seriously weird.


    "I hope you¡¯ve been practicing," the Teacher said quietly, retracting his hand.


    A shiver ran down Rico¡¯s spine -- oh, it hadn¡¯t been by choice, but he¡¯d definitely been practicing. His mother made sure of that, when she brought mice or rats or whatever made convenient test dummies for his ability. The stench of that practice wasn¡¯t forgotten so easily.


    Rico held a wary hand over the leaf, sickly Aether already coiling around the object.


    Tiny Garden.


    For a second, the leaf simply twitched in the breeze. Then, as if it had been suddenly set upon by a horde of invisible insects, it began to crumble apart -- fragments of green turning grey and dead as they collapsed into dust, and then collapsed further. All in all, the thing was reduced to a substance like steam in the span of ten seconds.


    "Impressive," the Teacher said, his tone utterly unchanged. "You¡¯ve completely eliminated it. You don¡¯t seem pleased, however."


    Rico went to reply, but the words caught in his throat. He found himself looking down at his hand, at the grey chalk that was still clinging there.


    It didn¡¯t need to be said.


    "You dislike the ability we¡¯ve developed?" the Teacher asked. "Your mother wanted a power that could protect you from danger, and you said the same. Have you changed your mind, seeing the form that protection takes?"


    Protect you from danger. That was what it all came down to, really.


    Around a year ago now, Rico¡¯s mother Valentina had given birth to her second son Alejandro, his little brother -- and a month later, one of her enemies had smothered him in the crib. She hadn¡¯t taken it well. The murderer had died in the worst way possible for a human being, and her drive to make sure the same thing didn¡¯t happen to her surviving son.


    Now matter how much he vomited when he saw flesh bubble away, so long as he was alive, she¡¯d be satisfied.


    "It¡¯s a versatile ability," the Teacher continued. "We¡¯ve trained to use it in a specifically macabre way, but the ability to manipulate bacteria can be used for a wide range of purposes. You¡¯re lucky to be capable of such range."


    Rico glanced up. "What do you mean?"


    The Teacher smiled thinly. "May I demonstrate my ability? I think that will illustrate my point well."


    Rico couldn¡¯t deny that he was curious about this man -- his mother had hired him to teach Rico Aether, and so he didn¡¯t know much about him save for the fact that he was good at what he did. If nothing else, knowing who he was dealing with would give him some small comfort in these sessions.


    "Sure, I guess."


    The Teacher reached out with one hand, extending his thumb towards Rico¡¯s forehead. "May I?"


    "Sure," Rico repeated, a little more hesitantly. It was disconcerting to consciously put his defenses down like this.


    The Teacher¡¯s cold thumb pressed against the spot directly between Rico¡¯s eyes for a second -- tiny sparks of dark purple Aether crackling around the digit -- before he retracted it. As he returned to his neutral sitting position, he brushed a lock of his long grey hair behind his ear.


    "You unlocked your Aether before I met you," he said gently. "But I can see now that your Aether core is fear. Whether fear or death or fear of failure or simple animal terror matters not. I can¡¯t imagine awakening to such a thing was pleasant."


    He was right on the money. Rico blinked. "How¡­?"


    "It¡¯s my ability," the Teacher replies by way of explanation. "Just by pressing my thumb against you like that, I instantly know your Aether Core. In most cases, it¡¯s a vital part of my curriculum."


    Rico frowned. He guessed, for someone like this guy, that ability could be worthwhile, but¡­


    "Isn¡¯t that kind of useless?" The words left his mouth before he could consider just how harsh they sounded.


    When the Teacher sighed, resting his chin in his hands once more, he seemed to match his years much more. In that moment, he seemed to embody a kind of¡­ disappointment? Not in Rico specifically, but just a general feeling that he¡¯d been let down.


    "I suppose you must think that, mustn¡¯t you?" he sighed. "After all, it¡¯s a useless ability for combat."


    "Sorry, I didn¡¯t¡­"


    The Teacher cut him off with a raised palm. "No need to apologize. It¡¯s the opinion of our age. But, still¡­ I ask you. Why is it why we must think of Aether as solely a tool of violence?"


    "Uh¡­" Rico chuckled. "I mean, it¡¯s a power for fighting, right?"


    "In what way is a power for fighting? Aether is a power that can bypass the very rules of our existence, that can make dreams into reality. Why not use it to work the fields, to heal the flesh, to ponder the great mysteries of our world? It¡¯s said that the first Supreme even managed to preserve his consciousness following death itself." The Teacher sighed. "Does mankind¡¯s ambition truly only stretch to finding new ways of punching and kicking?"


    Rico put a hand to his chin. The things the Teacher was saying made sense, but they completely went away from the way Rico had been led to think about this power. To him, Aether was a dagger used to stab those who came too close.


    "The world¡¯s dangerous, though," he muttered, looking down at the ruined leaf. "If people are using Aether to hurt others, then it¡¯s only natural, I guess, that people use Aether to defend themselves. I mean, it must be, like, a cycle or something, right?"


    That spiel came out of his mouth clumsily, an inept attempt at imitating the Teacher¡¯s thoughtful words, but the older man nodded in acceptance of what Rico had said.


    "Since the beginning of time," he spoke softly, staring through the window at the bright sunlight outside. "Humans have lied, killed and stolen from another. No matter what tools they¡¯ve had at their disposal, that principle has never changed. Personally, I find it all terribly dull, but I suppose that¡¯s just the shape of this world."


    "If you¡¯re so bored of it¡­ why are you working for my family? You know they¡¯re not exactly pacifists."


    The Teacher cocked his head. "They¡¯re? Not we?" Before Rico could reply, however, he went on -- speaking as casually as if he was discussing the weather. "I¡¯m going to be dead soon, most likely. If I want to live my last couple of years in luxury, I require funds. It¡¯s for that reason alone that I work for such people."


    "Oh. I¡­ guess that makes sense."


    Sunlight drifted in through the glass doors. The bird that had been incessantly tweeting outside flew away with the sudden billowing of wings.


    "Still," the Teacher closed his eyes. "I wonder how long it¡¯ll take until you get bored of hurting people, too?"


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Now¡­


    As Ruth¡¯s blue bullet slammed into Rico -- streaking through the air like a firework -- the pain and oblivion he had expected did not come. Instead, strength began to well up inside him: a sense of power that he¡¯d never experienced before. His Aether began to crackle vicariously, like a building thunderstorm.


    "Go," Ruth grunted, her voice muffled by the scarf covering her mouth. "Get us through."


    Every single one of his movements felt easier than it had ever been before -- even turning to look at the cloud of red gas in front of them was unnaturally fluid. It was as if he¡¯d spent his whole life half-awake, and now he¡¯d just drunk his first cup of coffee. Even blinking gave him a sense of unparalleled freedom, like he could barely be held back by his physical form.


    He¡¯d heard of it before, this sensation: was this an Aether burn?


    At first, he didn¡¯t quite understand what was going on. If this was an Aether burn, his body should have been collapsing under the pressure, but the sense of vitality radiating through him suggested nothing of the sort. He only understood when he took another glance at Ruth.


    As he watched, steam began gently drifting up from the edges of her scarf. Her bronze breastplate began to crack just a little, tiny fractures appearing on its surface. He could even hear the wood of the musket she was holding creak with discomfort.


    Just from looking, he¡¯d worked out that the armour she manifested around her body gave her different powers. The one she¡¯d shown off so far -- the dark metal like the ribs of a skeleton -- have her enhanced strength and speed, beyond normal infusion. This new set, however, seemed to have a much more specialised power: it forced others into an Aether burn, then took the damage in their stead. A good way of getting around the rules of Aether.


    If that armour was taking damage, Rico could only imagine the boost would end when it finally demanifested. He couldn¡¯t waste time mentally applauding.


    Turning back to the stationary cloud of gas, Rico held his hands out in front of him, as if waiting to catch something from above. His sickly green Aether ran across his arms, coalescing and brightening in his palms. Commands ready to be sent out like a net.


    Clean the air. Scrub it of toxins. Convert the poison into normal oxygen and carbon dioxide.


    Tiny Garden.


    His power blasted out, the haze of Aether colliding with the poison -- and then, like he was drawing back a set of curtains, Rico pulled his hands back, the poison ripped apart in the time it took for him to breathe again.


    The way to the bathroom was unimpeded, the only signs of any obstacle being the fading wisps of red, already being devoured by the bacterial horde. With the lights destroyed, the place seemed like a tunnel of darkness, but that didn¡¯t stop Ruth from charging right in.


    She wasn¡¯t the bolt of speed she¡¯d been wearing her previous armour, but she was still plenty fast -- sprinting with that musket clutched between her hands, her resolute eyes unblinking in the dark. Rico hesitated for a moment before following her.


    Through the slight illumination their collective Aether provided, Rico could see that the bathroom had been wrecked -- Cerevisia had smashed through the wall utterly when it had first attacked Ruth, after all. One of the cubicles seemed to have received the brunt of destruction, the entire unit annihilated, parts of it converted into what looked like swords -- opening up a hole into the plumbing tunnels below.


    "This ain¡¯t gonna be big on dignity," Ruth grunted. "Let¡¯s go."


    And with that, she hopped in. Rico sighed, braving himself for his bad day to continue, before he followed after her.


    Funnily enough, the tunnel was brighter than the actual bathroom -- dim maintenance lights built into the walls, stretching off in either direction. In the distance, the slightest suggestion of two humanoid figures could be seen, running away from their position.


    Keiko and Ruth¡¯s friend, no doubt. Until now, Rico had been content to sit back -- this whole thing had nothing to do with him, after all -- but now he wanted answers.


    His cousin wasn¡¯t even supposed to be on this station. With everything happening -- the Hunter Game, Uncle Jacques¡¯ death -- he wasn¡¯t about to let this mystery go unanswered. He¡¯d get the answers out of Keiko and they¡¯d all make it out of this safe.


    He went to chase after them, but Ruth was already way ahead of him. Before he could take so much as a simple step, she had grabbe dhim by the collar and began sprinting down the tunnel, holding her right on front of him. He felt another bullet from that muzzle strike him in the back, his Aether flaring around him.


    "If she sends more poison," Ruth roared, voice almost swallowed by the air pressure. "Get rid of it!"


    Fantastic. He¡¯d been upgraded from kidnap victim to human shield.


    Well, he could certainly manage that. As the two of them rushed forward -- gaining on Keiko and Serena at incredible speeds -- Rico saw a cloud of yellow smoke coiling towards them, spiraling in the air like some kind of flying serpent. He instantly threw his hands forward again.


    Clean!


    The complex commands he¡¯d transmitted the first time were now simplified to a single directive. Those instructions were encoded in his green Aether, which lanced out through his fingers and swarmed the air like a horde of buzzing insects. The poison didn¡¯t stand a chance.


    It vanished completely as Rico¡¯s body rushed through it -- and then, just like that, they had caught up.


    As the two of them burst through the disappearing cloud, Rico could see Keiko¡¯s shocked expression below, her eyes widening. The centipede on her shoulder lunged at them -- but too late. Rico felt Ruth¡¯s grip slacken, releasing him as the two of them dropped to the ground.


    Her usual reappeared as Ruth¡¯s fall transitioned into a flip, and in the very instant she crossed paths with the attacking centipede, a single swipe of her claws severed it¡¯s head from its body. The corpse of the beast vanished into vicious red Aether.


    "You --" Keiko began, but no more words left her mouth. A kick to the stomach from Ruth sent her doubling over, choking for breath -- and then Ruth whirled her around, pulling her arms behind her back.


    There was a flash of red as one of Ruth¡¯s gauntlets vanished, only to reappear on Keiko: both her hands trapped in the confines of the cramped glove. A makeshift pair of handcuffs. A second kick sent the younger woman down to her knees.


    "She tried anything, mess her up," Ruth growled, tossing Keiko over to Rico. He reluctantly nodded.


    The other person they¡¯d been chasing, Ruth¡¯s friend, had slid into the shadows -- but as Ruth approached, they returned to the light. The blonde girl, Serena, glared at her, her lip wobbling.


    "What are you doing, Miss Ruth?" Serena asked, her voice full of resentment. "Why are you getting in the way?"


    Ruth scowled. "Me? What the hell are you doing? Going along with people you don¡¯t even know because, what, they promise they¡¯ll help you get revenge on this Cott guy?"


    Serena¡¯s nostrils flared. "Don¡¯t say that name."


    "Fine. I won¡¯t. But what are you thinking?!" Ruth spread her arms wide as if to illustrate the ludicrous position they were in.


    "At least she wants to help. All of you just want me to wait," Serena frowned, the frustration in her voice building as she went. "I can¡¯t wait, Miss Ruth! How the heck can I wait?! I need to protect Bruno!" By the end, she was nearly screaming.


    Rico had to look away, focusing on keeping Keiko restrained. He felt like a voyeur -- being here, watching this. The angry lines on Ruth¡¯s face relaxed, just a little, and she sighed.


    "That¡¯s what we want, too, Serena," she said kindly. "We want you to be safe -- Bruno, too. But you¡¯re just running off without thinking what you¡¯re gonna do at all. Tell me: if you knew where Cott was, right now, what would you do?"


    Serena frowned as if the answer was obvious. "I¡¯d go there and I¡¯d kill him."


    "How?"


    "With this." Serena lifted the sword in her hand, the blade glinting in the dim light.


    That bit of foolishness seemed to be the last Ruth had patience for. She suddenly stepped forward, a growl leaking out of her throat, and slapped the sword out of Serena¡¯s hand. The clattering of the metal echoed down the hallway.


    Ruth planted both her hands on Serena¡¯s shoulders as she roared: "You¡¯re the one putting Bruno in danger, you idiot!"


    Her eyes wide with outrage, Serena went to headbutt Ruth -- only to be stopped by a gauntleted hand. "I wouldn¡¯t do that!" she screamed, thrashing against Ruth¡¯s grip.


    "You already have!"


    Overcoming Serena¡¯s strength, Ruth pushed her down to the ground, looking down at the fallen girl with a mixture of fury and concern. There was a resounding clash as she thumped her fist against the metal wall in frustration.


    "You think you¡¯re the only one who¡¯s felt like this?!" she asked. "You think I¡¯ve never wanted to kill someone so much it burns?! Want to rip them apart?! I¡¯ve wanted it, and I¡¯ve done it! Let me tell you: when you¡¯ve done it, and you¡¯ve lost everything else you had along the way, it still burns! It never stops!"


    "He hurt Bruno!" Serena screamed, her tear streaked face looking up, her teeth bared in anger. "He hurt me!"


    "He¡¯s still hurting you! And you¡¯re letting him!"


    Serena looked like she was about to scream some other threat, before she simply drove her fist into the ground. Once, twice, then again and again -- until the Aether sparked away and was replaced by blood. Finally, she stopped, her body heaving with sobs.


    "What¡­" she breathed. "What am I supposed to do, then?"


    Ruth crouched down next to her, pulling her into an embrace. Even with that tender gesture, however, her eyes glared straight ahead.


    "You stay with us. And then we¡¯ll kill him."


    The security center certainly was a sight to behold. Scout chuckled to himself as he turned on the spot, taking in the cavernous space.


    The room was cylindrical, lit only by blue panels on the floor and the holographic monitors lining the walls. Views of every district on the Cradle, from crowded streets to deserts alleys. Tinny audio mingled together from each display, crowding together even in the massive chamber.


    With the similarly holographic keyboards that floated below, one could input any location they wanted to look at. No doubt they allowed access to the Silver Vision system too. It was all according to the schematics.


    Chloe kept her arms crossed, her eyes tracking the patrolling guards. This place wasn¡¯t actually manned -- having potential voyeurs in your government spying facility was an invasion of privacy too far, it seemed -- so all security was handled by automatics. They were actually fairly comical-looking: metal cylinders with spindly arms and legs, clutching plasma rifles.


    These two were members of the Oliphant Clan, whose patriarch had funded the renewal of this place, so they were automatically granted access. Some hacking efforts from Deceit¡¯s source had seen to it that he didn¡¯t have to worry either.


    In fact, he was on call with that source right now. He held his script to his ear as he strode around the room, running his fingers through the holographic screens, imagining the fizzling sensation he would¡¯ve felt if he had nerves. These idiots really thought he was talking to some sort of ¡¯mission control¡¯, on a starship outside the station.


    "Which ones do you have with you?" Cott asked, his voice inaudible to all but Deceit.


    "We¡¯ve reached the Silver Vision control room," replied Deceit. "Awaiting the access codes."


    Scout Oliphant-Dawkins and Chloe Oliphant-Escoffier. They don¡¯t suspect me at all.


    Deceit¡¯s unique ability wasn¡¯t very good for combat -- unless he was fighting a shitstained Cogitant, anyway -- but it was uniquely useful when it came to espionage. He could encode information directly into his speech: transmitting unrelated connotations through casual greetings, or giving the impression that he was trustworthy through every word that left his mouth.


    "I see," Cott laughed. "Access code is, uh¡­ B-2292-H-6711. That¡¯ll get you into Silver Vision. Make sure they¡¯re all in one place before you do it."


    Lazy asshole. He was sitting back at home, sitting on that damn metal coffin, while Deceit was out doing the actual work. He briefly considered angling for a change of management instead of this busywork, but quickly discarded the notion. More than likely that was just Arrogance speaking.


    He didn¡¯t say any of that, though. "Appreciated," Deceit said chirpily.


    I¡¯ll make sure you get the collective message too. Should be a laugh.


    "Well," Cott replied, his voice naturally much more dull. "Enjoy yourself. I¡¯ll be waiting to hear back."


    The call ended. As Deceit returned the script to his pocket, he called out the code he¡¯d been given to Scout. The young man began tapping away at one of the keyboards, already concocting the message he¡¯d send out to his family members.


    Already readying the lure Deceit would use to pull them in.


    Cott swiped the screen on his script, casting a holographic display right in front of him.


    After he¡¯d started participating in the Hunter Game, he¡¯d moved the coffin out of that dusty hotel and into an apartment he¡¯d rented under an alias. Still, he kept the lights off -- he didn¡¯t want anyone knowing he was here, or that anyone was here.


    He didn¡¯t even like to look at the coffin, even as he sat on it. The scratching he could hear from inside it was more than enough for him. The thing in the dark hated, after all.


    The broadcast began, a message manually being sent to a specific list of people. Distorted by poor signal, it blared out in the dark apartment. The image of Scout, Chloe and Deceit flickered in and out of view.


    "This is Scout here. Scout, um, Oliphant-Dawkins. Well, you know."


    Roy grinned down at his script as he listened to the message, the artificial wind blowing through his hair. He stood atop a skyscraper, one leg up on the ledge, having stopped when the message had started.


    He¡¯d been searching for the kids through the night, leaping over buildings in a single bound, and it turned out Scout had been working hard all the while! What a man he was!


    "Chloe is with me too," his son¡¯s voice continued. "We¡¯re in the Silver Vision center -- the big, uh, security tower."


    Roy¡¯s eyes gazed up: the building his son was talking about was visible from here, a needle stretching up. No windows, no doors: a place where only automatics lived.


    Well, the Cradle was an inverted globe, so from Roy¡¯s position, the tower was actually stretching down. The top of the tower terminated directly in the center of the sphere, like the core of the brain that was the Cradle. A house at the bottom of the sky.


    He grinned. Seemed like a good workout.


    Carla looked down at her script, listening to the message, as her private car drove through the skies of the Cradle. The neon lights of the city blared through the windows, filtered through layers of bulletproof glass and metal.


    Those that had been gathered at the Oliphant compound had scattered after the place had been attacked by one of the Hunter Game participants -- the maniac who called himself King Smile. Along with a small army of traitorous bodyguards, they¡¯d clashed with those bodyguards who¡¯d remained loyal.


    Valentina had left with her men in one car, Carla had left in the other alone.


    "If this is actually getting through," Scout was saying. "If we want to survive¡­ we need to come back together. If you¡¯re able to, make your way here." S§×arch* The N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Change destination," she barked to her automatic driver. "Central monitoring tower."


    "I¡­I hope I get to see you all soon."


    The message ended, Rico¡¯s screen flicking back to black. The only sound in the narrow tunnel was their myriad breathing, echoing in the confined space.


    There had been three people in that message, standing in that darkened room. He recognised Scout and Chloe, of course, but that third person¡­ that young man with long orange hair, dressed in a blue blazer¡­


    He didn¡¯t recognize him, but someone clearly did. Among the breathing in the tunnel, Serena¡¯s was by far the heaviest.


    "Cott," she hissed, staring at the blank screen.


    Immediately, she went to stand up and begin running, only to be stopped by a heavy hand on the shoulder from Ruth.


    "No," she said forcefully. "No. This time we kill him together. Let me call Dragan."

 Chapter 169:7.18: The Hope of a Wooden Horse

    Scout stepped away from the controls.


    "Well," he said, a massive grin on his face. "That¡¯s it -- the message is out. Sent it to all the family members."


    They¡¯d done it. They¡¯d actually done it.


    Lionel rubbed his hands together, a similar smile tugging at the edges of his lips. It seemed that even in this dark, grim place, excitement was infectious. The fact that the trustworthy Lionel felt the same actually gave Scout even more of a feeling of reassurance: he wasn¡¯t mistaken in his satisfaction.


    "That¡¯s good work," he said, clapping a hand on Scout¡¯s back. "It¡¯s like I said: there¡¯s power in numbers. When you¡¯re alone, you¡¯re easy pickings for whatever assassins are wandering around this place. Together, they don¡¯t stand a chance. This is the start of your counterattack, man."


    That simple grin still on his face, Scout went to offer a high-five -- only to be interrupted by the high, clear voice that suddenly echoed throughout the room.


    "You¡¯re?" Chloe asked, glaring at Lionel.


    Lionel blinked. "Huh?"


    "You said ¡¯you¡¯re easy pickings¡¯. Not we, you. If you work for our Grandfather, you¡¯re a target for the Hunter Game too, right? Aren¡¯t you a little relaxed?"


    Scout looked between the two of them. He didn¡¯t quite understand what was going on, but the tension in this place seemed to have just intensified tenfold. The air was holding itself still, like a snake about to strike.


    Lionel snorted. "I was talking about you as in the main family members. Even if I¡¯m an employee, the reward for my death is much less than the reward for your death. I¡¯m not in as much danger, so it doesn¡¯t seem right to count myself among you guys."


    That seemed reasonable; Scout found himself nodding along, until he was stopped by a harsh glance from Chloe.


    "Why are you doing that?" she demanded. "Why are you just agreeing with him?"


    "Well¡­" Scout mumbled, suddenly the one being interrogated. "It makes sense, doesn¡¯t it? That¡¯s just what I think." S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Funny," Chloe said, her glare returning to Lionel¡¯s face. "That¡¯s just what I think, too. But I don¡¯t know why I think it. Back in the tunnel, when he was talking¡­ no matter what he said, it felt trustworthy. But I don¡¯t know what about it was trustworthy. You¡¯re clearly suspicious."


    Lionel slowly blinked.


    "I don¡¯t know what it is you¡¯re accusing me of," he said quietly, hands clasped behind his back. "You suspect me because I¡¯m too trustworthy? Don¡¯t you realize how crazy that sounds?"


    It did sound a little crazy, but¡­ what exactly about the words she had said gave Scout that impression? She¡¯d calmly stated her case, and the things she was pointing out were weird. So why did he automatically want to dismiss them?


    Chloe didn¡¯t blink. "There¡¯s a simple way you can prove yourself to me."


    "And what¡¯s that?"


    "Give me your script. The person you were speaking to, your ¡¯mission control¡¯ or whatever. I want to talk to them too."


    Lionel frowned. "What would that accomplish?"


    "That¡¯s my business, not yours."


    There was silence in the chamber, save for the soft beeping of the automatics and the drifting audio of the surveillance. Chloe stared down Lionel. Lionel sighed, putting his hands on his hips. Scout kept looking between the two of them.


    Lionel rolled his eyes. "That¡¯s it, then? You won¡¯t trust me unless I let you talk to mission control? Even though they¡¯re busy running interference for us?"


    "That¡¯s right. Give me the script." Chloe held her hand out beckoningly.


    With another sigh of annoyance, Lionel reached for his pocket --


    "Ah¡­" he groaned. "You damn bitch."


    -- and seized his pistol from it¡¯s holster instead.


    The moment he pulled it free, however, he was intercepted. The lightning-fast tendrils of Bad Day¡¯s Parade lashed out from behind Chloe¡¯s back, instantly wrapping themselves around Lionel¡¯s hands and slamming him against the wall. The grenade pistol he¡¯d used slipped from his grip and slid across the floor, where Scout hurriedly picked it up.


    Lionel didn¡¯t show any sign of pain from the devastating blow he¡¯d just endured. Instead, he opened his mouth wide as if to shout something -- only to be stopped as he was suddenly absorbed into a large amorphous jellyfish, his words swallowed by the fluid that washed around inside Midnight Disobedience.


    Bad Day¡¯s Parade moved into the other jellyfish, firmly attaching itself to Lionel as a set of restraints, while Midnight Disobedience hardened it¡¯s outer shell to serve as a prison. His glare was visible even through that, eyes burning with fury.


    It was only natural he was angry. In the span of a few seconds, he¡¯d been utterly overpowered by a teenage girl.


    "Wait," Scout blinked. "Who the hell is this guy, then?! And why¡¯d he save us?!"


    "Probably wanted to use us as hostages to draw in the others -- once we sent the message." Chloe glared right back at ¡¯Lionel¡¯, confined as he was within the jellyfish. "Judging from the fact he¡¯s not so much as twitching -- and I¡¯m having Bad Day¡¯s Parade pump as much pain into him as it can -- I¡¯d guess he isn¡¯t human. An Aether construct or something?"


    Scout gaped at the scene before him. Things had turned around to such a degree in the span of a single minute. Not only was Lionel not their ally after all, he wasn¡¯t even a person? What the hell had Scout been speaking to?


    He gulped. It was strange: he was the older cousin, but in this situation he found himself deferring to Chloe rather than vice versa.


    "Well¡­" he asked, mouth dry. "What do we do with him?"


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Chloe stared into the depths of Midnight Disobedience, at the thing trapped inside. It glared right back. It took her only a few seconds to reach a decision.


    "We keep him here," she said firmly. "And when everyone else arrives, we find a way to make him talk."


    "Silver Vision?" asked Dragan, wincing as he brushed his bruised arm against the arm of his chair. "That¡¯s a surveillance system, I¡¯m pretty sure. It¡¯s used to keep track of people¡¯s scripts on stations like this."


    In his less injured hand, he held the script through which he was talking to Ruth. He¡¯d received the call shortly after he and Skipper had arrived at this clinic -- Dragan¡¯s injuries had been less severe, so he was able to talk while Skipper was being treated. He¡¯d already received some stimulants to get him back on his feet.


    "Well, apparently that¡¯s where this Cott guy¡¯s at," Ruth replied. "Do you know where we¡¯d find that place?"


    Dragan put a finger to his lips, considering the question. "Well¡­" he said slowly. "You¡¯d want the control hub for it to be in a place with consistent signal, so you can constantly keep track of the entire station. It¡¯d be in some kind of tall building, a tower or something -- probably the tallest one around. As close to the centre as you can get."


    "Right. Sounds easy enough."


    Dragan hesitated for a moment before finally voicing the thought that had been scratching away at him. "You¡¯re seriously going?"


    "Yep. We¡¯re not gonna get another chance like this -- and if we can do the thing as an ambush, I think we got a good chance of kicking his ass."


    Dragan glanced over to the side, through the window where he could see an anesthetized Skipper being treated. Slowly, the doctor was plucking the shredded Neverwire out of Skipper¡¯s wounds -- apparently, that was how Masadora¡¯s weapon inhibited Aether usage.


    "Skipper¡¯s gonna be here for some hours yet," he sighed. "He needs Panacea to replace the missing tissue in his wounds after this. He won¡¯t be able to help you guys."


    He bit his lip. He hadn¡¯t wanted to sugarcoat just how bad things were, but he knew this would get Ruth worried. Skipper being in danger set her off more than anything else -- those two had a special bond.


    The worry he¡¯d expected in her voice was there, but not nearly as overpowering as he¡¯d imagined. "How about you?" Ruth asked. "Are you coming to help?"


    "Of course."


    The words left Dragan¡¯s mouth before he even had a chance to think about it. For a moment, he considered taking them back -- or at least adding reasonable qualifiers -- but his mouth stayed firmly shut.


    "I¡¯ll be there," he confirmed.


    Ruth returned her script to her pocket, turning to the rest of their strange group. "Dragan says he¡¯ll meet us at the bottom of the tower. We¡¯ll wanna get moving if we wanna get there in time."


    Serena nodded, her gaze firm -- and Rico, still restraining Keiko, did the same with perhaps a tad less vehemence. The girl in the kimono just stared down at the ground, her eyes dull.


    "Are you sure we can get there through these tunnels?" Rico asked uncertainly.


    Ruth waved a dismissive hand. "Everybody¡¯s gotta piss. There¡¯s gotta be a toilet or something we can bust out through when we get there. Easy."


    He grimaced. "Fantastic."


    Serena had already started walking. "It¡¯s not fantastic," she said, her voice low. "It¡¯s Cott. If he¡¯s there, he¡¯s up to something. Those people he was with might be on his side."


    "I can explain what¡¯s going on when we get there," Rico said, pushing Keiko along in front of him as he walked. "Scout and Chloe will listen to me -- we¡¯re close. Speaking of which, uh¡­ what is going on? I¡¯m still not sure who this Cott person actually is."


    Serena went to open her mouth, but the voice that filled the tunnel in the end was not hers.


    "He¡¯s a mercenary," Keiko muttered, her voice a dead monotone, all adopted smugness gone. "I don¡¯t know what he was when you knew him," she glanced to Serena. "But these days he works for anyone he pays. Any job, anything. Anything."


    She blinked, and her eye was wet, even as her pupil was dilated in remembered hatred. Slowly, she looked over her shoulder at Rico.


    "The bombing last year? That was him. He¡¯s the reason my sister¡¯s dead. The reason my dad turned into a drunken invalid. I saw him on the security footage. He was smiling -- like it was¡­" she swallowed. "Like it was nothing. I see him smiling in my dreams now. I can see him smiling right now, behind my eyes. All the time."


    Her eyes returned to the floor, her head hung low like a puppet with its strings cut.


    "I¡¯m sorry," Rico whispered. "Hearing that¡­ hearing what he did to Sora¡­ I think I want to kill him too."


    "Get in line," growled Ruth from the back of the pack.


    Cott had hurt her friends, right down to the bone, and she wouldn¡¯t be able to rest easy until she returned the favour. This asshole seemed to have the talent of making anyone who knew he existed want him dead.


    "But he was working for someone," Keiko started talking again. "Back then, and now too. Me and Aunt Carla were trying to lead him into a trap, trick him into revealing that person, but¡­ I guess he saw through us from the beginning. This Hunter Game thing: whoever he¡¯s working for must be the one behind it."


    "I see," Ruth muttered, scrolling through a map of the tunnels on her script. The restraint on Keiko¡¯s hands vanished as Ruth¡¯s gauntlet returned to her hand. "You can have one of his legs."


    In this case, all of them were united by hatred. No point in keeping a capable fighter out of the game when you were going after someone like this.


    If Cott was working for the organizer, that meant he was partially responsible for Mr. Fix being framed, too. She supposed she could add Dragan to the list of Cott-haters, too, then. Someone was about to have a really bad day.


    Resolute, they marched into the darkness.


    "You¡¯re still coming?" Carla blinked. "Seriously? With everything that¡¯s happening?"


    She was staring at the hologram of her father, Abraham Oliphant, that the car¡¯s systems were casting in front of her. His size had been reduced a little -- his hulking body could only fit into custom vehicles, after all -- but his imposing presence went undiminished.


    He nodded. "I will lead the family into a new decade of business. I have already told you this, girl -- and you know I do not change my mind. I¡¯ll deal with any remaining miscreants when I arrive."


    "What about Jacques? You¡¯re really gonna risk¡­?" Her voice trailed off.


    Abraham¡¯s brow furrowed in what appeared to be genuine, disgusting confusion. It took him unreasonably long to parse what his oldest daughter meant.


    "Oh, that man?" he finally said. "His passing is unfortunate, but he has children. One of them can be groomed to take his position, given time. The loss of a single rivet does not sink the ship."


    "But --"


    "Girl."


    Abraham¡¯s voice was dangerously quiet -- and any child of his would have learnt from an early age that that meant it was time to shut up. They¡¯d been thoroughly educated by their bruises and scars. Carla found herself reflexively gulping.


    "I dislike repeating myself," Abraham said slowly, fury brimming beneath the stoic surface. "It is not your job to tell me what to do. It is your job to facilitate my orders. You are good for little else. I will arrive on the Cradle in two days time, and that is final. Do you understand?"


    Carla nodded, finding herself looking down all the while.


    "Good. That is the correct answer." The hologram blinked away.


    To tell the truth, Carla had pretty much expected this sequence of events. Her father was too stubborn to ever go back on one of his decisions -- even if it put him in danger -- and too proud to ever risk being seen as weak. When he said he would do something, that meant he would do it without a doubt.


    At the very least, Carla smiled, things were going to become very interesting over the next few days.


    Her car continued its flight towards Silver Vision.

 Chapter 170:7.19: Open Sesame

    Asmodeus Fix picked through the situation in his head with all the delicacy of a clockmaker.


    He had been framed for the murder of his employer, Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier, using the framework of the Hunter Game as evidence -- the reward deposited into his account incriminating him further. Dragan Hadrien was working hard to clear his name, but that only put the boy in danger as well. With everything happening, the Oliphant Clan was in chaos, scattered to the four winds. They¡¯d abandoned this place.


    Leaving just the two of them.


    Fix glanced up at Moss, the man guarding his cell. He was pacing back and forth outside, occasionally cursing, his eyes barely ever leaving the script he held in his hands. Bad news, clearly.


    "Something wrong?" Fix asked, his voice dry from lack of water.


    Moss did not reply. Unsurprising: he was in a state of stress from this chaotic situation. However, Fix had no choice but to persist.


    "I heard gunshots from above," Fix continued, his gaze cast up at the ceiling. "They¡¯ve now stopped -- but nobody has come down to inform you of the situation. Would you like to hear my opinion?"


    Moss looked up from the script, glaring intensely at Fix. He¡¯d never been overly fond of his professional rival, and with everything happening that contempt seemed to be magnified.


    "No," he all but spat. "No, I don¡¯t want to hear your damn opinion."


    Fix closed his eyes. "Unfortunate. My opinion is that the Oliphant Clan have chosen to prioritize their own safety and abandon this location along with whatever employees have remained loyal. You, however, have been left behind."


    "Not listening¡­" Moss muttered, tapping away at his script.


    "The obvious explanation for this is that they have forgotten about you, down here, in the chaos of their escape. I believe the popular saying is ¡¯out of sight, out of mind¡¯. However, I find this unlikely. You¡¯re guarding the man they believe killed their brother, after all."


    Moss¡¯ eyes narrowed. "Might be executing him, too, if you don¡¯t shut your trap."


    Fix ignored the threat. "I find it far more likely that they¡¯ve simply performed the equations and decided that putting in the effort to retrieve you is not worth the expenditure of that effort. In short, you are an acceptable loss."


    In a blur of movement, Moss ripped his plasma pistol from its holster and pointed it right at Fix¡¯s forehead, reaching right through the bars. Bound by Neverwire as he was, Fix had no way of defending himself. Instead, he slowly blinked up at the gun.


    "This will not improve your situation," he calmly warned Moss.


    "It¡¯ll make me feel a whole lot better without you droning on," Moss snarled, flicking off the safety. "Do wonders for my mental health."


    "Perhaps," Fix conceded. "But it¡¯ll do more harm to you in the long run. If you release me, it will be the two of us against whatever enemies are still lurking in this place. You know I¡¯m adept, and I know you¡¯re adept. At the very least, we can trust in each other¡¯s abilities. If you kill me, however, all you¡¯re doing is ensuring you have to fight alone."


    Moss¡¯ finger hovered over the trigger. "You¡¯re sounding like you have a plan."


    "Correct. I screened this location for Jacques before we came here -- I believe I know a way out that¡¯ll avoid our enemies entirely."


    "And what way is that?"


    Fix shook his head, holding up his arms bound in Neverwire. "I¡¯d be foolish to tell you that while I¡¯m still at your mercy. Release me and I¡¯ll inform you of the plan as we execute it."


    Moss licked his lips nervously as the glare in his eyes intensified. He still had that gun stuck between the bars of the cell, tracking Fix¡¯s forehead.


    "Maybe," he said slowly, danger lurking under every syllable. "I can just get those answers out of you."


    "No, you can¡¯t."


    Moss raised an eyebrow. "You underestimating me, asshole?" he whispered, deathly quiet.


    "Not at all. There are reasons you wouldn¡¯t be able to torture information out of me. Just from looking at me you can see that I am a Scurrant -- a combat-type. The Gene Tyrant who designed my people wanted to create something that surpassed ordinary Pugnants, and he went somewhat overboard. I have five working hearts, a secondary brain to store memories in, and my natural lifespan -- so long as I live healthily -- is around two-hundred years."


    "You bragging or something?"


    A thin, humourless smile spread over Fix¡¯s rock-like face. "Perhaps more pertinently, I can disable my sense of pain at will. You can mutilate me as much as you like, but it will not loosen my lips -- and I doubt you have the time for that, anyway. They¡¯ll be searching the building. How much longer do you intend to endanger yourself for?"


    Moss swallowed, his grip on the gun wavering slightly. "Anything funny, and I shoot you right then and there. Got it?"


    "Of course. I¡¯d expect nothing less."


    As quickly as it had come out, the pistol returned to Moss¡¯ holster -- and a second later, he scanned his security card to open the cell. Fix slowly stood up, careful not to agitate his captor, and held out his bound arms.


    "I¡¯ll be of more use if I can use Aether," Fix said seriously. "If I remain bound, I am a detriment rather than a help."


    Moss hesitated for only a moment before acquiescing, sawing through Fix¡¯s Neverwire restraints with a disintegrator knife he had on his person. As Fix stood up, he massaged his aching wrists.


    "Well?" Moss demanded. "What¡¯s the plan?!"


    "All in good time," Fix grunted, crouching back down and retrieving the spools of Neverwire from where they¡¯d landed on the floor. "But we¡¯ll need these."


    He tossed them over to Moss, who fumbled to catch them, gripping them tight in his hands.


    "Oh yeah?" he scoffed. "And what are these supposed to--"


    Fix reached over and snapped his neck.


    Thump. Moss¡¯ lifeless body hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, and -- after retrieving the security card -- Fix sent it back into the cell with a methodical kick. Moss wasn¡¯t a reliable partner for such an endeavour: despite what he¡¯d said, there was a good chance he would have betrayed Fix the moment it became convenient. He wouldn¡¯t gamble with those odds.


    The building was quiet as Fix made his way up the stairs out of the basement, treading as lightly as he could with his considerable frame. In the distance he could hear gunshots, but they weren¡¯t so close that he had reason to be concerned. Light slithered in from underneath the closed door at the head of the stairs, and Fix took a deep breath as he reached them.


    He carefully opened the door, revealing the hallway beyond.


    Gore dripped from the ceiling.


    Every inch of the hallway beyond was utterly covered in blood, entrails and shredded skin. It ran down the windows. It soaked into the wallpaper. It pooled over the carpets. As he took that first step into massacre¡¯s territory, Fix narrowly avoided stepping on a discarded eye. It stared up at him, still dilated in terror.


    The cause of this brutality was obvious. It was standing right in the middle of the hallway, with a videograph monitor covering it¡¯s head.


    "King¡­Smile¡­" it said, voice distorted by the speakers. It raised its arms to either side, as if to show off it¡¯s good work. Aether like the fizzling static of a lost signal buzzed around its arms.


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    Fix took a deep breath as he observed the threat. He¡¯d made it his business to familiarize himself with people like King Smile -- Jacques was always in need of additional muscle, and people like this creature were known for their efficacy. However, it had ultimately been decided that King Smile was far too unpredictable to be trusted, and the offer had been retracted.


    Had it held a grudge over that? Was it the sort of thing that held grudges?


    "King¡­" it repeated, cocking it¡¯s massive head to the side. "Smile! It¡¯s all me!"


    The words were mismatched, each taken from a different recording and strung together into sentences, only half-coherent. It spoke in ransom notes.


    Fix hovered in the doorway. Under ordinary conditions, he¡¯d be fairly confident that he could at least escape a maniac like this, but his time in confinement hadn¡¯t done him well. His body was still exhausted, muscles aching, his quintuplet heartbeat like a concert of drums.


    His eyes flicked over to the bloodstained window. He could throw himself out of there to escape, if it came down to it -- but as he was now, would he survive that fall intact? Would King Smile follow?


    "Hold still," King Smile commanded, stepping forward, arms pumping exaggeratedly as it walked. "Let¡¯s do it! Let¡¯s make a mess!"


    His natural defenses would be no match against this thing. Fix had read the files -- King Smile made no attempt to hide it¡¯s Aether ability: essentially, it was the opposite of Aether infusion. It weakened things, rather than strengthening them.


    Against an infused fist and that ability, Fix¡¯s hardened skin would be as effective as wet cardboard.


    "Wait," Fix barked at the approaching enemy. King Smile did not wait.


    It was upon Fix in a moment, hands ready to claw through his stomach, weakening the air resistance around itself to increase its own speed. In the same moment, earth-brown Aether coalesced around Fix¡¯s hand -- and with a swipe of his own arm, he activated his ability.


    Boulderforge.


    King Smile¡¯s attack was blocked. The space Fix had swiped his hand through was now filled with floating stone, fixed in the air, forming a barrier between himself and Smile. Before Smile could switch the target of its weakening and break through, Fix made his move -- holding his hand down in front of him to form a path of floating stone, running along it even as he created it to escape the maniac.


    The path he was creating was about three meters in the air, outside of the reach of most people -- but Fix wasn¡¯t stupid enough to think that King Smile was most people. Behind himself, he heard stone shatter as Smile broke free from the barrier. Without missing a trick, Fix dropped down from his makeshift escape route back onto the carpeted floor.


    If he had dodged even a second later, he would have been dead -- King Smile zoomed through the space Fix had just been occupying, floating leisurely through the air as it weakened the effects of gravity on its body. The grin on its videograph screen flickered as it looked back down at Fix.


    "Slippery kids all day time!" it¡¯s speakers blared, as he dropped back down to the ground. "Not even breaks can get away from this one!"


    Fix didn¡¯t quite understand what that meant, but from it¡¯s hunched posture it was clear to see that another deadly attack was incoming.


    "Hey every!" it roared, static flaring across its screen. "Let¡¯s do it!"


    He would not survive this if he persisted in trying to escape. When predators saw a fleeing animal, it only made them pursue harder. He¡¯d have to take a different tact.


    "I don¡¯t expect someone like you to have pity or compassion," Fix said seriously. "But I hope you understand the principle of mutual gain."


    Smile cocked it¡¯s monitor again, the hefty weight of it creaking as it moved. Fix was surprised it didn¡¯t break its own neck going on like that.


    "You¡¯re!" it declared.


    What did that mean? Was it interested? Fix decided to press on as though it was. If he was wrong, he wouldn¡¯t have time to regret it.


    "I have 100,000 stator in my account," he said slowly, making sure to keep a constant distance between himself and Smile. "It was given to me for the death of Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier. As I¡¯m suspected of killing him, I¡¯ve no doubt been expelled from the Oliphant Clan¡¯s service. From what I understand, there¡¯s no reward in that Hunter Game for ex-employees."


    He took a deep breath.


    "Effectively, there¡¯s two conclusions to this situation. You kill me and you receive momentary satisfaction -- but nothing else. You let me live, however, and you receive 100,000 stator. You can earn such a hefty sum simply by doing nothing. It¡¯s a good deal."


    "Money saving?" Smile mocked. "That¡¯s!"


    It took a step forward, carpet crumbling beneath it¡¯s dress shoes.


    "That¡¯s not all," Fix lied. "As I said, I am an ex-employee of the Oliphant Clan now. I have information that can be of assistance to you -- the places they would take shelter in a situation such as this, their powers, their weaknesses. You seem an intelligent¡­ man? I¡¯m sure you understand how valuable such information could be."


    Smile paused, grinding its heel into the floorboards, steam rising up as the wood disintegrated. It seemed to be wavering between its desire to kill and its desire to make money. Even this thing hungered for money, after all, salivating with the greed of a beast.


    "Money now!" it demanded. "Big savings all around!"


    Fix shook his head -- slowly, as calmly as he could, so as to not agitate the killer. "Half now," he corrected, reaching for his script. "Then I give you the information you want. Then the other half of the money in twenty-four hours, once I¡¯m safely away from here."


    He blinked. S§×ar?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Do we have a deal?"


    Scout and Chloe swung around as they heard the thundering footsteps from the entrance, but there was no need for fear. The man who bounded into the chamber, arms already wide for a hug, was no assassin. It was Roy Oliphant-Dawkins, his face spread into a wide grin.


    "Aw, you guys!" he roared, sweeping them both off their feet and pulling them tight. "How you doing?! You keeping safe?!"


    Chloe choked out something incoherent. Scout only nodded. A second later, they¡¯d been dropped down to the floor as suddenly as they¡¯d been picked up.


    "Ya did good," smiled Roy, ruffling his son¡¯s hair as he stepped past him. His gaze turned to Midnight Disobedience, and the human silhouette visible floating in it. "Who¡¯s this?"


    "The guy that was with us," Scout explained. "Turned out he was one of the assassins or something, so we tied him up."


    Roy scratched his nose, looking the indistinct figure up and down. "Why didn¡¯t ya just kill him?"


    Chloe crossed her arms as she answered. "I¡¯m not sure we can kill him -- I think he¡¯s an Aether construct, not an actual person. He doesn¡¯t feel pain at all. I was hoping we could get some information out of him about the Hunter Game."


    With a frown, Roy ran his hands through his chaotic mane of hair. He clicked his tongue. "If he can¡¯t feel pain, how¡¯re ya supposed to get anything out of him? Ya can¡¯t exactly torture someone if they can¡¯t feel it."


    Chloe sighed, and in that moment the maturity she¡¯d adopted over the last few hours seemed to drain away a little. "You can¡¯t do anything¡­?" she asked meekly.


    "I haven¡¯t tried to use Save The Day yet today," Roy said. "But I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll be lucky enough to have an interrogation power. I can try it, but just being realistic, you know?"


    "Right. Well, we can wait for everyone else to --"


    "Scout! Chloe!"


    Another voice called out from the darkened hallway -- and as they turned to look, Rico emerged from the shade, panting with his hands up. He¡¯d clearly been going through it the last few hours, his hair rough with sweat, his clothes covered in cuts and stains. He put his hands to his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.


    He wasn¡¯t alone. Three other figures emerged from the darkness behind him. Two of them Chloe didn¡¯t know -- two girls, one with red hair and the other blonde -- but the third of them was eminently familiar. Chloe¡¯s eyes lit up as she saw her favourite cousin.


    "Keiko!" she cried, running forward. "What are you doing here?"


    Keiko didn¡¯t answer straight away, her eye flicking through the room cautiously. "Is he here?" she demanded. "The third person from your message?"


    She already knew about Lionel? "We¡¯ve got him captured here," she indicated, turning to point at Midnight Disobedience -- only to stop in her tracks as the light shifted, and she saw the expression of the young man inside.


    His eyes wide with terror and rage, staring at the blonde girl.


    His teeth bared with the instinctual fury of a wild animal.


    His lips moving, forming a single word.


    Monophobia.


    And with that, the world exploded into light.

 Chapter 171:7.20: The Gang’s All Here

    Dragan bobbed and weaved through the darkness, approaching the needlepoint tower in the center of the Cradle.


    He hadn¡¯t trusted his Gemini World to get him all the way up here, so he¡¯d liberated a moped and was using it to fly up to the top of the tower. The trip was mostly uneventful, discounting the occasional swerve to avoid one of the flying billboards that littered the skies. During that time, Dragan¡¯s mind was mostly focused on how exactly he¡¯d get inside the tower.


    Things didn¡¯t seem right, though. Surely this tower should have been restricted airspace? Why weren¡¯t any security automatics coming after him for being too close?


    Dragan was unused to things being this easy. He didn¡¯t trust it.


    "Potential answers to your question," the Archivist popped out of his subconscious, sitting cross-legged on the back of the moped, looking out over the city as he talked. "I gave it more than a second of thought -- unlike you -- and there¡¯s two possibilities. Either you¡¯ve overestimated the defenses such a facility should have, or someone¡¯s already disabled the automatics defending this place."


    "Who would do that?" Dragan muttered. He didn¡¯t bother asking why: the Hunter Game provided a convenient motive for nearly everything that happened here.


    The Archivist laughed. "I see you¡¯re congratulating yourself on not asking a stupid question -- right after asking a stupid question. It¡¯s not who would -- there¡¯s no shortage of people -- but who could?"


    Dragan adjusted his course, circling the top of the tower in search of a convenient entrance. "Someone with access to the Cradle¡¯s systems. They¡¯d have to be familiar with how the whole thing worked. Maybe they¡¯re even using Silver Vision to help with the Hunter Game: I¡¯ve been wondering how exactly they¡¯re tracking kills."


    "Could be," the Archivist shrugged. "In that case, it¡¯d be an inside job. By the way¡­ how are you planning on getting in there? This place is meant to be staffed with automatics -- there won¡¯t be an entrance for you."


    Dragan¡¯s eyes scanned the smooth exterior of the tower. "Even so, there should be a maintenance hatch or something."


    "What if there isn¡¯t?"


    "Then I¡¯ll make a maintenance hatch or something."


    "How violent of you. Am I perhaps getting under your skin?"


    Dragan ignored his needly subconscious as he continued to observe the tower. It really was looking like he¡¯d have to make his own entrance here, so he was trying to identify the best spot to blast through with a Gemini Shotgun. There wasn¡¯t much in terms of indicators when it came to structural instability, but¡­


    Boom.


    The tip of the tower exploded outwards in a hail of metal and dust, with such force that Dragan was almost knocked off the moped. He clung on as the vehicle spun, his eyes fixed on the hole in the tower as he tried to regain control. Through the cloud of ash, he could see Aether raging -- orange, red, pink¡­ a veritable rainbow of colours.


    Had the fight started already? If so, he couldn¡¯t waste any more time. He was close enough now, after all.


    Gemini World.


    Ruth slapped a flying chunk of rock out of the air in the moment before it would have smashed into her skull.


    The room had become crowded very quickly. In an instant, Cott had burst out of the jellyfish thing he¡¯d been trapped in -- and now he wasn¡¯t alone. Including the original, there were now five copies of the young man, each utterly identical.


    They didn¡¯t wait even a moment. The Cott¡¯s scattered, each charging towards the other people in the room with obvious hostile intent. In the confusion, all they could do was defend themselves as best they could.


    One Cott flew leisurely through the air towards Ruth, his orange eyes -- blazing like miniature suns -- fixed straight on her.


    "Out of curiosity," he said as he came within speaking distance. "What is the purpose of your armour? Is it solely a defensive measure? What other benefits does it grant you? Is it the only set of armour you have, or do you have more? If so --"


    Ruth kept her claws up, ignoring the continued rambling of the Cott. She had to get her bearings before anyone else. She and Serena had been separated in the explosion and the resultant chaos, same with Rico.


    "Why is it you¡¯re here with Yakob del Sed?" asked the Cott. "Are you allies of convenience, or close friends? Perhaps I¡¯ve misinterpreted things, and you don¡¯t actually know each other? How long have you known them? Where did you first meet?"


    The young girl who¡¯d been commanding the jellyfish was unconscious not far away, lying flat on her face. Some of the debris must have hit her when the jellyfish had exploded. She wasn¡¯t moving at all, save for very shallow breathing.


    Ruth clicked her tongue: she¡¯d been hoping to make a tactical retreat, but she couldn¡¯t very well leave a kid like that in danger, could she?


    "Why is it you¡¯re ignoring me? Are you afraid that my ability is connected to my questioning? Are you that cautious of a person? How cautious would you say you are, on a scale of one-to-ten? What kind of past experiences would you say led to that?"


    To hell with it. She¡¯d never been the type to run away, anyway. Ruth turned her body fully to face the incoming threat.


    "Why did your body language change? Have you come to some sort of decision in your head? What kind of decision have you made?"


    Ruth grinned, red Aether coiling around her Skeletal claws. "Yeah. I decided I¡¯m gonna kick your ass."


    The Cott cocked his head, face as expressionless as ever. The light from his eyes was so bright that Ruth almost had to squint to look at him.


    "Okay," he said. "Die, then."


    The orange glow burst forth from his sockets as twin beams, carving through the space Ruth had just been occupying -- if she hadn¡¯t rolled to dodge, she was sure that attack would have brought her to her knees. Spinning on the spot to avoid another eye-beam, Ruth continued to charge. sea??h th§× N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    The great thing about an asshole like Cott del Sed was that a dozen people could have revenge on him at once.


    "Hey," Roy asked, cleaning out his ear with one finger. "Why the hell are we fighting, guy? If this is about money, I can just transfer you some. You don¡¯t gotta get your face smashed in."


    He stood on a mountain of debris, the remnant of the floor that had collapsed under him. He and his enemy -- one of these orange-haired clones that had appeared -- stood across from each other. Red emergency lights danced dangerously across the blade of the rapier Roy¡¯s adversary was holding up. They¡¯d landed in some kind of maintenance chamber below the control center, so the only light sources were those red bulbs and the glow pouring from the hole in the ceiling.


    The young man chuckled. "The value of the coin is the value of the hand that holds it," he drawled, gesticulating flamboyantly with one hand as he spoke. "Are you familiar?"


    Roy frowned. "What now?"


    "I didn¡¯t expect you would be -- to be blunt, you seem something of an ignoramus." The young man smirked as he strode through the room, slowly circling Roy¡¯s elevated position. "It¡¯s a quotation from the novelist Joan Maldruk. You haven¡¯t read her?"


    "Can¡¯t say I have," Roy tracked the boy with his eyes, cracking his knuckles as he prepared for combat. "Doesn¡¯t sound like my kinda thing."


    "Mm, I¡¯d agree with you there!" the boy laughed, putting a hand to his chest. "Oh, but where are my manners? I was about to slay you without even letting you know the identity of your undoing! My name is Arrogance, centurion, but personally I prefer to be called Confidence. It lacks the¡­ unfortunate negative connotation, wouldn¡¯t you agree?"


    "Funny," Roy sniffed, lime-coloured Aether already brewing around his forearms. "I was thinking it fits you pretty well."


    Arrogance frowned, orange Aether focusing around the tip of his rapier. "Your limited understanding may only barely scrape the surface," he said, annoyance evident in his tone. "But -- as director Alan Corloon said -- there can be wisdom in the rambling of beasts as well. For instance, let¡¯s see your take on the slaughterhouse."


    Well, that was an opener if Roy ever heard one. His grin widening, he thrust his hands out in front of him, palms wide open. Lime Aether burst forth from his skin, radiating out in front of him in an aurora of light.


    Save The Day.


    He wondered what he¡¯d managed to roll today.


    Rico coughed violently, hacking up swallowed spittle, as he picked himself up.


    What had happened? They¡¯d spotted Cott inside Midnight Disobedience, he¡¯d spotted them, and then the whole place had exploded. All he could see around him was dust and ash, swirling through the air like a heavy fog. He could hear sounds of violence in the distance, fists and weapons clashing against flesh and metal.


    "Ruth?" he called out, fumbling for names. "Keiko? Ruth¡¯s friend?!"


    The answer didn¡¯t come in words as such. Instead, Ruth¡¯s friend -- Serena, that was her name -- came leaping out of the smog, narrowly avoiding a hefty swing from a black-and-red mace. She landed next to Rico, her feet kicking up sparks on the ground as she came to a halt.


    "What¡¯s going on?" Rico asked, like a dumbass.


    "Fighting!" was the only reply.


    High-pitched laughter rang out from within the fog -- and a second later, Serena¡¯s pursuer came forth too. In terms of appearance, they were mostly identical to the original Cott he¡¯d seen, with the exception of the wide smile on his face. It was so huge Rico could even see cracks forming on the young man¡¯s cheeks.


    "Hey, hey!" he was cheerfully calling out even as he swung his mace. "Hey, it¡¯s me, Serena! Do you remember? It¡¯s me, Joy! It¡¯s been way too long! Hi!"


    Serena ignored the greetings, instead continuing to swing the metal sword in her hand to block and parry every attempted blow. Even more sparks rained down from every clash, smoke drifting up from where they landed.


    She was doing well, but the force of those mace swings was enormous. It would only take one mistake to be crushed by that thing.


    Rico clenched his fists. He¡¯d come too far just to sit down and watch now.


    Deceit smiled thinly as he watched the chaos ensue down below. In all the destruction, he¡¯d managed to climb up the shattered infrastructure and make his way to a balcony overlooking the room. Through the smog below, he could only see the occasional flares of Aether as a sign of combat, but still¡­


    Best seat in the house.


    There was no way they could have known, but it was a mistake to think that only the source Cott was capable of splitting himself using Monophobia. In this case, the original had split a number of his own aspects into a single body, allowing Deceit to act as something of a troop carrier and bring them all here.


    He vaguely reached out in his head for that urge to betray Cott he¡¯d experienced, but it was nowhere to be found. Guess that really had been coming from Arrogance, then.


    His eyes scanned over the debris below. Nobody was launching attacks at him, so it was safe to say he¡¯d slipped out undetected. Well, no point in sticking around -- he wasn¡¯t much of a fighter, after all.


    Deceit went to turn.


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    If Deceit hadn¡¯t chosen that very moment to turn around, he was certain that his body would have been destroyed by the blast of light that slammed into him. Instead, it struck his left hand, shattering his fingers into scraps of wood and leaving him with little more than a useless, smoking stump.


    He raised an eyebrow at the ruined limb before glancing up at the white-haired boy who¡¯d fired the attack.


    "Oh," he said lightly, recognising him from Ruthlessness¡¯s memories. "You¡¯re Yakob¡¯s friend."


    The Cogitant narrowed his eyes. "Who?"


    "Nevermind," Deceit chuckled, turning fully to his opponent. "I guess we¡¯re fighting, then?"


    He¡¯d caused that explosion to open up an exit for himself, but it seemed he¡¯d opened up an entrance for this bastard in the process. How annoying. Well, it didn¡¯t take much to correct the issue, anyway.


    The light of that attack -- Gemini Shotgun -- flared again over the Cogitant¡¯s shoulder. How cute. He actually thought he¡¯d get to attack here.


    "Down," Deceit snapped -- the entirety of an encyclopedia packed into the word.


    Dragan¡¯s brain exploded into pain as intolerable amounts of information flowed into his mind. A yelp of pain escaping his lips, he collapsed to his knees, barely even noticing the throwing knife that thudded into the joint of his arm. His Archive was like a melting skyscraper as it attempted to organize and sort through all the data it had just received.


    His eyes twitched and blinked chaotically. His limbs wouldn¡¯t move as he wanted them to. Nausea swirled through the back of his throat.


    Above him, the Cott variant smirked.


    "That¡¯s the thing with you Cogitants," he said smugly. "It¡¯s like the old story about vampires -- how they have to count every grain of rice if they find it on the ground. If I pump a whole load of data into your head, you just can¡¯t help but analyze it all right there and then. It¡¯s hilarious."


    Dragan¡¯s teeth chattered so hard that they hurt, but he still forced out words. "Fuck¡­you¡­"


    The Cott ignored the taunt. "I don¡¯t get to do this often, you know, but I really do enjoy this."


    He crouched down to be eye-level with the prone Dragan.


    "I don¡¯t know how much Bruno and Serena have told you about their life," he said quietly. "So I¡¯ll enlighten you. The Sed -- the place we grew up in -- was a research facility to try and get us Crownless to match the mental abilities of you Cogitants using mundane means. I don¡¯t think I have to tell you just how unpleasant ¡¯mundane means¡¯ can be. So, as I¡¯m sure you understand, seeing a blue-eyed bastard like you writhing on the floor¡­"


    He grinned wickedly.


    "...there¡¯s nothing better in the world."

 Chapter 172:7.21: Save The Day

    Anduan bit down into the squirming body of the rat.


    Warm blood ran over his teeth. Slippery entrails slithered over his tongue. Wet, scraggly fur brushed over the roof of his mouth. Delicious. Delicious. Nothing better in the world. It made him want to be sick.


    He finished the whole thing in three bites, his eyes already frantically scanning the dark alleyway for his next morsel. He was always so very, very hungry, and there was always so little food to go around. A famine fit for one -- but still, a fella had to eat, right? Nobody could fault him for that. Not a person in the world.


    His folks back home had always grumbled at him for eating them out of house and home, but a fella just had to eat. And if there was no more food to gobble down, and there were people snoozing in their beds, you couldn¡¯t fault a man, right? You don¡¯t get mad at an animal for doing what comes natural.


    Tears rose to his eyes. He had no more rats -- he¡¯d eaten them all, their blood and bone a fetid slurry in his gut. He wanted to vomit. He couldn¡¯t do this anymore. It was so good. Without even noticing, he¡¯d begun licking at the wall of the alleyway, scraping away the sweet moss that had collected there over years.


    If someone was walking past, they would no doubt have thought the whimpering and panting that echoed down the hallway came from some sort of wild animal. But it didn¡¯t -- it came from a man -- and a man had to do what came natural. It was his biological imperative to eat his fill.


    Far above him, the tip of the needle-like tower that speared through the core of the Cradle exploded, fire and debris already raining down. Anduan paid it no mind: you couldn¡¯t eat fire, after all.


    He was no maniac charging after his target: he¡¯d be patient. Like a predator hunting its prey, salivating with anticipation. He¡¯d just sit here and eat his fill, until an Oliphant came too close to his jaws.


    A fella had to eat, after all.


    "So, ah, this is your attack?" Arrogance chuckled, glancing around the room. Affable disdain crawled through his words. "This is¡­ hmm, very impressive. Very good show, I suppose -- you¡¯re doing your best, after all."


    The power that had radiated out from Roy¡¯s hands hadn¡¯t been quite as destructive as he¡¯d hoped. Instead, a swarm of soap bubbles had poured forth, filling the chamber and floating through the air. A few stray ones collided with Arrogance¡¯s face, popping harmlessly without so much as a scratch of damage.


    He¡¯d clearly ended up with a technical ability today, then. A grin spread across Roy¡¯s face. Fantastic!


    The best part of fighting an Aether-user was figuring out their abilities. Roy adored that feeling, so when he¡¯d been creating his own ability he¡¯d sought a way to expand that pleasure. In the end, the solution was simple. If he enjoyed figuring out his opponent¡¯s abilities, it stood to reason that he¡¯d enjoy figuring out his own abilities just as much.


    Every time a day passed -- well, technically, every time he lost consciousness -- his ability, Save The Day, would randomly generate a new Aether power. Roy had no idea what the power did, no clue how it worked or how to best use it, so he had to figure it all out as he went along. A constant voyage of self-discovery!


    His eyes tracked the bubbles. Save The Day very rarely generated useless abilities, so it was a safe bet that these bubbles did something -- but what? Colliding with them seemed to have no effect save for popping them, and they didn¡¯t seem to be doing any damage to the areas saturated with them.


    Were they some kind of targeting reticule, then? If they remained intact for long enough, would a secondary attack be triggered? That would be nice and convenient, but Roy just didn¡¯t have enough evidence either way. For now, he¡¯d just have to fight normally and carefully observe them as he went.


    Arrogance sighed, twirling his rapier in his hand and suddenly slashing -- popping the bubbles directly in front of him.


    "I hope you¡¯re aware," he said flatly, rapier swishing through the air as he held it straight out to the side. "That you¡¯ve sorely disappointed me. I chose to attack you in the hopes that you¡¯d provide good sport -- to wit, I put my faith in you -- and you¡¯ve repaid me with little more than farce and numbskullery."


    "Sorry to hear that," Roy grinned, bringing his body low to the ground, ready to charge. "Lemme show you what else I¡¯ve got."


    Arrogance pointed his rapier straight forward. "Given your atrocious grooming," he snapped, eyes running over Roy¡¯s chaotic mane of hair. "I thought you perhaps akin to a lion -- but I see now that I have overestimated you. You, sir, are a pig: and as your explicit superior, it¡¯s my duty to grant you the abattoir¡¯s embrace."


    The guy clearly loved the sound of his own voice. Well, that was fine. Roy cracked his knuckles; he¡¯d see if Arrogance enjoyed the sound of his own screams just as much.


    "I¡¯d ask if you have a weapon," Arrogance narrowed his eyes. "But it¡¯s self-evident that you--"


    Roy charged, air bursting around him from the sheer speed of the movement. Countless bubbles popped into steam as he ran right through them -- water instantly evaporating from the friction. In an instant, he was upon Arrogance, his feet high in the air -- a hammer of the gods.


    It didn¡¯t meet its mark. As Roy brought his fist down, Arrogance span away with all the grace of a trained dancer, peppering Roy¡¯s chest with minute -- and useless -- stabs of his rapier. The young man arched back in an attempt to avoid the subsequent grab from Roy, too, but he wasn¡¯t quite fast enough.


    "Gotcha!" Roy laughed.


    Seizing Arrogance by the foot, Roy went to slam him into the ground -- only for the young man to elegantly split out of his boot, leaving Roy holding only the shoe while Arrogance cartwheeled to a safe distance.


    "Non, non, non!" he laughed, wagging a finger admonishingly. "You can¡¯t lay a hand on me with such brutish --"


    Roy hurled the boot at him. Infused with lime Aether, it was like a zooming meteor, but Arrogance was ready for it. In a snapshot rush of motion, he lunged forward with his rapier and effortlessly sliced the projectile into pieces, scraps of leather and string falling to the floor around him. The lime Aether still crackling among the remnants quickly died off.


    "You can¡¯t lay a hand on me with such brutish tactics," Arrogance continued, slipping out of his other shoe for symmetricality. "A monkey cannot defeat a human -- as I¡¯ve already proved to you."


    The smirk on his face went beyond his ambient smugness. Alert suddenly blaring in his brain, Roy glanced down -- right at the parts of his body Arrogance had assaulted with the rapier. Half-a-dozen glowing red dots, like the laser sights of a sniper, hovered over his chest, slowly moving and orbiting around each other.


    "You¡¯ve fallen prey to my ability, I¡¯m afraid!" Arrogance laughed, waving his rapier around like a magic wand. "You must have thought yourself quite fortunate that my attacks hadn¡¯t hurt you, no? How tragic for you! My attacks haven¡¯t even concluded yet."


    Roy sucked in air through his teeth as he looked down at the dots. "A delayed activation kind of thing, then? By not doing damage at the point of contact, you¡¯re able to do more damage later on?"


    "For a mere brute, you seem quite knowledgeable about how these Aether abilities work," Arrogance smiled, offering some demure applause. "I¡¯ll grant you the honour of having me clap for you. The battle is already over, unfortunately. I¡¯ll have those points gather over your vital areas and spear right through -- akin to the practice of a fisherman, you see."


    A bead of sweat ran down Roy¡¯s forehead as he looked down at the dancing points, slowly moving over to cover his heart. Idly, he waved a hand to brush away some of the bubbles that were coming close --


    Boom!


    The room lit up in a fiery explosion as the bubble Roy had made contact with burst into flame, scorching his fingers and charring his skin. Roy bit his lip to silence the unmanly yelp of pain that would have escaped. On the other side of the room, Arrogance just laughed.


    "What¡¯s this?" he said. "You don¡¯t want me to trouble myself killing you, so you¡¯re electing to kill yourself instead? How gracious of you! Or perhaps you simply don¡¯t understand how to use your own power? Please say that isn¡¯t the case: it¡¯d just be too tragic¡­"


    In this case, though, it was correct. Save The Day ensured that Roy didn¡¯t know how his power worked: but now he could feel it. That tickling in his brain, that slow understanding of the ability he¡¯d drawn from the deck. He¡¯d begun the process, and so he¡¯d started winning.


    These bubbles exploded if something came into contact with them, then? No -- Arrogance had slashed several out of the air without so much as a spark. Even if it took direct contact with a body, Roy was sure one of them had touched Arrogance already with no ill effects.


    The spots moved to cover Roy¡¯s heart, warping slightly as they passed over a crease in the fabric of his shirt. He now understood how to neutralize the attack, but that didn¡¯t bring him any closer to figuring out what Save The Day had given him.


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    Did the bubbles only explode when Roy came into contact with them specifically? That couldn¡¯t be it, either -- he¡¯d plowed through dozens of them during that first attack against Arrogance. Something must have changed between then and now.


    Roy glanced down at his wounded hand, slick with blood, and a grin spread across his face. He had it.


    He charged forward with another mighty leap -- and at the same time, he tore off his shirt and hurled it away, the dots going with it. As he reached Arrogance¡¯s position, he slammed his fist forward in another devastating blow, only for the young man to spin away once more, the attack missing by inches. High-pitched laughter filled the air.


    "Weren¡¯t you paying attention the first time?" Arrogance giggled, a stray bubble floating by his face. "You can¡¯t so much as touch me --"


    Roy spat.


    The infused saliva -- traveling with the speed of a bullet -- wasn¡¯t aimed for Arrogance, however, but the bubble floating by him. The moment the spit made contact, the bubble popped into a burning explosion, striking Arrogance in the face and forcing him to dodge backwards.


    He retreated with a gymnastic backflip, but it lacked some of the grace it had possessed before. As Arrogance landed, he stood in an unnatural slouch, slowly lifting his hand away from his face. The explosion hadn¡¯t done as much damage as Roy had hoped -- but a long, thin crack now spread across Arrogance¡¯s features, from the corner of his lip all the way to the edge of his right eye.


    The young man gaped in his reflection in a shard of silvery debris.


    "What do you think you¡¯re doing¡­?" he half-hissed, half-whispered, staring at his wound all the while. "This is¡­ what do you¡­ you¡¯ve¡­"


    "I figured it out!" Roy declared proudly, scratching at his bare chest. "These bubbles explode when they¡¯re exposed to bodily fluids. You¡¯re kinda weird, so it looks like you don¡¯t have any, but they only started exploding on me once I started sweating. I bet my blood would do it too -- hell, maybe I could blow this whole place up if I started taking a leak. Not gonna do that, though. That¡¯d be gross." S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Arrogance ignored his boasting. Instead he continued to stare, dumbfounded, at the crack on his face.


    "What the fuck," he shrieked. "Do you think you¡¯re doing?!"


    "Beating your ass."


    "Look at me!" Arrogance screamed, clawing at the wound. "Look what you¡¯ve done! Who the hell do you think you are?! Fucker! Asshole! You fucking cunt! You¡¯ve ruined me!"


    His groping hands found purchase in the crack -- and as Roy watched, Arrogance began to peel his own face off. The wood creaked, sticky adhesive stretching out in strands as Arrogance pried the front of his head loose. The whole time he was still talking.


    "I¡¯m going to kill you!" he snarled, voice grasping for the words to quantify his anger. "I¡¯m - I¡¯m going to rip your fucking heart out! Pop your eyes¡­ smash your fucking h-head in¡­ and eat you¡­ shit your skull out¡­fucker, fucker, you¡¯re dead, you¡¯re so dead, haha, I can¡¯t wait, I¡¯m going to¡­ you¡¯re gonna die here!"


    Arrogance¡¯s face came free with a final tearing sound that resounded through the room, and with a scream of anguish he hurled the thing away. Beneath the faceplate, Roy could see the impression of a human skull carved right into the wood -- and as he watched, that wooden body began to burn with an inner flame. Empty sockets and teeth glowed an incandescent red, that long orange hair crackled and stiffened as it was charred black, and Arrogance hunched over like a wild animal, flames coiling around his rapier until it looked more like some kind of broadsword.


    No more words left Arrogance¡¯s mouth: only the guttural roar of a wild beast. He charged forward on all fours.


    This¡­ could be a problem.


    The person Ruth was fighting wasn¡¯t used to this. That much was becoming obvious.


    The blazing eye-beams that poured from her enemy¡¯s gaze had been intimidating at first, but she¡¯d been dodging them for a couple of minutes now; she¡¯d gotten an idea of how they worked. At first, she¡¯d thought the enemy -- Curiosity, obviously, with the way he never shut up -- was generating heat from his eyes somehow, but that wasn¡¯t the case at all. The beams that scoured the room, digging trails into the floors and walls, were recording objects into Curiosity¡¯s Aether. So long as Ruth kept her defenses up, those beams probably couldn¡¯t so much as scratch her.


    Curiosity¡¯s secondary attack, though, that definitely could.


    Ruth rolled to the side, the boulder of metal and debris slamming into the spot she¡¯d been standing a moment later. Everything Curiosity had recorded over the last few seconds, manifested into a huge sphere of indiscriminate junk. Dropping a heavy object on top of the enemy was pretty simple as far as strategy went, but Ruth couldn¡¯t deny it was effective.


    At least, it would be effective if Curiosity was dealing with a chump.


    Ruth dived away as another boulder came down, twisting her body as she leapt and striking the sphere with her Aether-infused leg. The ball went flying towards Curiosity -- some shards of metal came flying off it from the impact, but it mostly maintained its integrity as it flew through the air.


    With just the slightest bit of alarm, Curiosity¡¯s eyes widened -- and he went to fly away from the incoming projectile. Still, Ruth had expected that. The boulder hadn¡¯t been intended to hit Curiosity at all: merely act as visual cover for Ruth¡¯s approach.


    She clung to the back of the sphere like an insect, and the instant Curiosity flew off to the side she leapt off of it, Skeletal boots flaring with Aether as she launched towards the enemy like a cannonball. One set of claws speared through his chest, granting Ruth purchase on her flying adversary, while the other reared back -- sparks of red gathering at the tips of the spikes.


    Curiosity was still talking like a robot. "How long did it take you to figure out my ability? Is this strategy one you¡¯ve used before, or is it one you¡¯ve concocted for this situation specifically? In terms of your preference, would you kill me quickly or slowly?"


    "Quickly," she answered. "So I can shut you up."


    She drove her Skeletal claws upwards, lancing right through Curiosity¡¯s nostrils and exiting atop his skull. His body fell limp, and the two of them instantly fell back to the ground -- Curiosity¡¯s body dissipating into orange Aether that bolted away a moment later.


    Ruth let out a heavy breath from the ground, glancing at the prone form of the young girl nearby. She hadn¡¯t been hurt in the crossfire: that was good. One less thing to feel guilty about.


    Still¡­ no rest for the wicked. Ruth pulled herself to her feet with a reluctant crack of her joints, claws glinting in the red light.


    Whose ass did she have to kick next?


    "This is fun!" Joy laughed, swinging his mace with enough force to punch through steel. "We haven¡¯t done this for ages, Serena! Are you having fun too?"


    Serena ignored the question, running and jumping to avoid the furious strikes. Joy got stronger the longer he was in a fight, so at this point attempting to parry or block wouldn¡¯t do much more than destroy her weapon -- and probably her arms, too.


    She drew a sword from the ground, infusing it with Aether and hurling it right at Joy¡¯s face. He easily sent it flying away with a two-handed swing, but Serena used the opportunity to run in closer. She couldn¡¯t afford to let Joy drag this out: she¡¯d have to kill him quickly, before he got strong enough that she couldn¡¯t even come close.


    As she ran, circling Joy as she approached, Serena ran her hand over the metal floor, violet Aether running into the material. Countless swords sprouted forth, blade-first, each aimed directly for Joy¡¯s body as they grew. Two swings was all it took to demolish the attack, like a machete cutting its way through the jungle -- but the second sword Serena threw in that moment of opportunity sliced right through one of Joy¡¯s arms, sending the wooden limb clattering down to the floor.


    She was doing good! Even if his Aether ability did enhance his strength to an absurd level, Joy could only exert so much of that strength with a single arm.


    Joy glanced down at his wooden stump for a moment. "Wow!" he laughed cheerfully. "I sure didn¡¯t expect that! Hey, Serena, think fast!"


    He slammed the mace down with such force that it was embedded into the ground, missing Serena by mere inches -- but still close enough that the spikes on its surface sliced through her shirt, inflicting shallow cuts on her stomach. The air pressure, too, sent her flying away: rolling to a stop a few meters away.


    She couldn¡¯t just lie around. If she let herself lose here, Bruno wouldn¡¯t be safe. She couldn¡¯t allow that!


    "Your job¡¯s to protect us, Serena," Yakob had said, in the room she¡¯d been born. "You attack whatever is going to hurt us. Bruno defends what we want to keep safe. I decide which is which."


    It was up to her to decide what was going to hurt them now, but Cott fit the bill without a doubt. Bruno was still locked away in the back of her head, like a frightened child, and she didn¡¯t know when he¡¯d come out. Every second she thought about how this jerk had affected him just made her angrier and angrier.


    She looked up hatefully, eyes bloodshot. She¡¯d played enough games here. Time to end this.


    Joy kept on laughing as he struggled to tug his mace out of the ground. "I got you!" he cried. "Even though you took my arm off, I still got you! Did you see, Serena? That was awesome!"


    In that moment, he was looking right at her, and so he didn¡¯t notice Rico step out of the fog behind him. His gaze was resolute, his sickly Aether was crackling silently around him, and his hand was outstretched -- until it clapped down on Joy¡¯s shoulder.


    "Tiny Garden," Rico said.


    Nothing happened.


    In that frozen moment, Serena thought back. When they¡¯d first met in that alleyway, Rico had melted an assassin down to the bone -- and he¡¯d told them how he did it, too. He said he¡¯d given the bacteria on the assassin¡¯s body a taste for human flesh. Serena didn¡¯t quite get what ¡¯bacteria¡¯ was, but if he¡¯d just tried to do the same thing¡­


    "No!" she called out in warning. "He¡¯s made of wood!"


    She was too late.


    Joy whirled around with a mad giggle, swinging his mace as he went. The sound of it crashing through the air was like an approaching meteor -- and with that speed, and at that range, Rico stood no chance of dodging at all.


    Blood and gore splattered across the floor.

 Chapter 173:7.22: Pulped, Mangled, Broken, Dead

    For a second, Rico just staggered back numbly, staring down at the ravaged ribbon of meat and bone that had been his right arm. Blood gushed down onto the floor, like a miniature red waterfall. He blinked.


    Then he began to scream, collapsing to the ground.


    "Haha, I got you!" Joy cheered, pointing his mace down towards Rico. "Did you see? I got you right in the --"


    His celebration was cut short as Serena drove her broadsword through his head while his back was turned, cutting it in half vertically. As he collapsed to the floor -- already disintegrating into Aether -- she rushed past him and slid onto her knees, crouching down next to Rico.


    He was still screaming, but the noise was hoarse now, like a wheel screeching out of control. She tried to put a calming pair of hands on him, to force him to keep still, but that didn¡¯t do anything for his injury.


    The arm was done for. Serena didn¡¯t know much about medicine, but even she knew that at a glance. It had been flattened and smashed by Joy¡¯s mace, and what was left of it was connected only by a few thin strings of tissue. If he moved around any more, there was a good chance it would fall off completely.


    Was that better, or worse? He was bleeding anyway, right, so would it be better if he didn¡¯t have this lump of meat hanging off him? Bruno had tried to teach her first aid once, but she hadn¡¯t listened. Why, oh why hadn¡¯t she listened?


    "Miss Ruth!" she screamed out to the world. "Mr. Dragan! Mr. Skipper! Help!"


    There was no answer. Of course there wasn¡¯t -- she¡¯d pretty much abandoned them going after Cott, hadn¡¯t she? It was just like Ruth had said. She¡¯d decided to leave them behind for her own desires, so it was only natural that they¡¯d¡­


    "What¡¯s up?!"


    Ruth burst out of the smog with her Skeletal Set, landing on all fours next to Serena. A glance down at Rico pretty much answered the question for her. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw the injury.


    "Shit¡­" she mumbled.


    "Mm-hmm," Serena nodded, her lip wobbling.


    "Quite the show, isn¡¯t it?" asked Cott, looking down at the room below, as the sparks of warring Aether burned through the haze.


    The entire history of the planet of Braleigh. Dragan writhed.


    "Then again," Cott chuckled. "I guess you¡¯re not really in a position to enjoy it, are you?"


    The collected works of T.T. Helinford. Dragan groaned, throat dry as sandpaper. One of his eyes loosely twitched.


    Cott adjusted his position slightly, sitting cross-legged on the prone Dragan¡¯s back. Dragan couldn¡¯t so much as speak in resistance: the repeated mental assault had kicked the fight out of him. As if to add insult to injury, Cott mockingly patted his human couch on the head.


    "It¡¯s funny," Cott laughed, a few cooking recipes attached to each syllable. "All you Cogitants talk so big -- and yet a few words from me has you lying on the ground like this. I guess you really mustn¡¯t be all that great, huh? I mean, if it¡¯s so easy to take you out¡­"


    The fog shifted. Dragan faintly gurgled.


    "What was that?" Cott asked, cocking his head as he looked down at the prone Dragan. "Were you perhaps agreeing with me? It makes me happy that you¡¯ve seen the light, but to be frank, you might be too late¡­ could you repeat that, maybe? For posterity?"


    A last modicum of effort forced its way up Dragan¡¯s throat. "I said¡­ fuck you."


    "A little childish, don¡¯t you--"


    He never finished the sentence. With devastating speed, a flexile creature lashed out of the smog -- a centipede flaring with red Aether -- and before Cott could so much as take another breath, the beast clamped it¡¯s mandibles against his jugular and squeezed. Cott gasped, his breath sharp from fear and pain.


    "Wha¡­?!" he spluttered, staggering back from Dragan. The centipede remained attached around his throat, squeezing down tight.


    The owner of the beast stepped into view -- a young woman wearing an eyepatch and a kimono, the tail of the centipede wrapped around her forearm. She glared at Cott with murderous hatred.


    "You made three mistakes tonight, Cottian del Sed," she glared, eye burning with passion. "You should never have come here yourself. You should never have left your throat open. And you should never, ever, have hurt my sister."


    "K-Keiko¡­?" Cott stared uncomprehendingly at the young woman -- Keiko, apparently. His voice was little more than a wheeze -- no doubt that bug was in the process of crushing his windpipe. "But¡­he¡­"


    "No last words, please," she scoffed. "Let¡¯s just finish this. Cerevisia, kill."


    The centipede squeezed down tighter, and a groaning, cracking sound filled the room. Trapped in the haze of analysis, it took Dragan a second to place it -- the telltale creaking of wood. This wasn¡¯t Cott.


    The wooden puppet¡¯s voice returned to normal, all pretense of injury abandoned, his eyes dull and bored: "But he didn¡¯t come here himself."


    Without another word, he threw a knife into Keiko¡¯s gut.


    Slowly, uncomprehendingly, she looked down at the projectile. It was crackling with orange Aether, buried into her stomach up to the hilt. She vaguely lifted a hand up to it, as if she was going to try and pull it out, before limply falling to her knees.


    "But¡­" she mumbled hopelessly. "No¡­"


    The centipede clamped down on the Cott aspect¡¯s neck dissipated into red Aether, and he rubbed a hand over the damaged material beneath in annoyance. A second throwing knife dropped into his hand from within his sleeve as he took a lackadaisical step towards Keiko.


    "Afraid so," he gloated. "You should really make sure who you¡¯re talking to before you start declaring your victory -- I¡¯m not Cott, I¡¯m Honesty. You really are an idiot, you know that?"


    The author¡¯s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The Cott aspect -- there was no way he was actually Honesty -- stepped past Dragan¡¯s prone form. As he did, Dragan¡¯s lips began to move wordlessly, straining to form the two words they needed¡­


    Gemini¡­


    "Down, boy."


    ¡¯Honesty¡¯ spoke without so much as a glance back at his target. The resultant flood of information sent Dragan sprawling back onto the floor. Involuntary coughs, malfunctions of the nervous system, racked his body.


    "You really are pathetic, though," Honesty said, finally reaching Keiko, knife dancing between his fingers. "I mean, look at yourself. Dressing up like some videograph villain -- I mean, a centipede, really? -- acting like you¡¯re a big manipulator behind the scenes. You¡¯re¡­ you¡¯re nothing, really, you¡¯re a joke. It¡¯s sad."


    He crouched down, staring Keiko in the eye. His calm, emotionless demeanour was a stark contrast to her face -- teeth bared in fury, eye widened in contempt.


    "Go to hell," she hissed. "I-I¡¯ll kill you¡­"


    "You can¡¯t kill me," Honesty replied softly. "I¡¯m not even alive. How stupid can you be? Did you really think you tricked Cott, too? You? You think he didn¡¯t see your half-baked deception from the very first seconds? Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic¡­ you¡¯re utterly pathetic. And that¡¯s why you¡¯re going to die here."


    Red Aether, weak as static electricity, ran along Keiko¡¯s hand -- but as she lunged for the knife in her gut, perhaps to use it as a weapon, Honesty seized her by the wrist and squeezed. Even from this distance, Dragan could hear the snap of bone. Keiko audibly sucked in air through her teeth, but not the slightest scream escaped her throat.


    "Sorry," Honesty smiled. "But I still have spite here with me, and he wouldn¡¯t be satisfied with you just bleeding out. You tried to fuck with us, after all, so I want you to die in the worst way possible."


    The knife moved --


    "You might not get the chance."


    -- and the knife stopped. Honesty slowly turned his head as a new voice cut through the gloom. From his prone and slumped position, Dragan could only see the shoe of the person as they stepped forward next to him, but he recognised their voice: Carla Oliphant. One arm still shuddering uncontrollably, he looked up as much as she was able.


    She¡¯d changed since the last time he¡¯d seen her -- now wearing a tan overcoat that was no doubt reinforced with some kind of armour. Carla stood with feet apart, a punchpoint revolver clutched between her hands and pointed towards Honesty with military discipline. Her eyes were cold: all preparation for killing had already been completed. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Honesty slowly lifted his hands up, throwing knife still held between two fingers. Would he try and attack with it?


    "You¡¯ve been gone a spell," he said calmly, glancing at Carla over his shoulder. "I was beginning to think someone had actually killed you. You know the King of Killers is here, too, right? Well, of course you do."


    Carla didn¡¯t reply, her eyes just flicking around, taking in the scene surrounding her. Keiko on her knees, Dragan on the floor, Honesty staring back at her.


    Keiko spluttered from her position: "He¡¯s betrayed us¡­ Aunt Carla, he knows¡­"


    Carla¡¯s thumb flicked the safety off with all the precision of a clock. It was aimed right at Honesty¡¯s temple -- puppet or not, having your head blown off would kill you all the same.


    "That¡¯s right," Honesty smiled. "I know." His eyes flicked over to Dragan. "He does, too."


    Carla blinked.


    "I see," she said -- before turning on the spot and pointing her gun down at Dragan instead.


    Her finger pulled the trigger.


    Gemini World.


    It was a supreme moment of animal instinct, the desire to survive overpowering all pain and confusion. Dragan¡¯s body unraveled into electric blue Aether as six bullets tore through the air, smashing against the floor his head had just been lying on. In his current state, he was only capable of vanishing for two seconds -- but those two seconds had been enough to save his life.


    Heavy breathing filled the air as Dragan reappeared, staring up at Carla¡¯s dull, dark eyes. She clicked her tongue. "Damn."


    Honesty was standing up from his kneeling position, a wry smirk on his face. "Why¡¯d you shoot all six at once? If you¡¯d waited, you could have just popped him when he turned back up."


    "Need all six to break through an Aether-users defenses," Carla replied tersely, returning her revolver to its holster. "You¡¯ll just have to do it, Deceit."


    "Sure, sure, if you¡¯re not capable," Deceit shrugged.


    Dragan had once again been proven right: you should never trust anyone, especially anyone in positions of power. Inevitably, it would end up like this -- you, on the floor, with a gun pointed at your head. However, being right didn¡¯t actually give him a way out of this situation.


    So he decided to talk instead.


    "You¡¯re the one behind this," he rasped, voice hoarse. "The organizer of the Hunter Game. The one who framed Fix. You sent¡­ all those assassins¡­ against your own family?"


    Carla didn¡¯t reply -- instead pointedly looking away, her jaw clenched.


    If those words hadn¡¯t reached her, however, they had definitely reached Keiko. The young woman was still kneeling with that knife in her stomach, but the look on her face had swapped pain for the uncomprehending dismay of a lost child. She stared at Carla, her eye watery with betrayal.


    "Aunt Carla," she whispered. "What does he mean? He¡¯s¡­ he¡¯s lying, isn¡¯t he? This is a trick, right?"


    Carla stepped over to Keiko -- for a moment, she gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut at the girl¡¯s plea, before her face abruptly returned to a calm and cold demeanor. She looked down at her niece, and her niece looked up at her.


    Keiko blinked. "If you¡¯re the one behind the H-Hunter Game¡­ that means you were the one who¡­ the train¡­ Sora¡­ that¡¯s not true, right? You didn¡¯t do that?"


    Carla did not reply.


    "But you¡¯ve always taken care of us!" Keiko¡¯s voice was like a mountain climber grasping for purchase in the rain. "Ever since we were little! You said you cared about us more than anything!"


    Carla closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath. She clasped and unclasped her hands. Many seconds passed before she finally spoke.


    "I do care about you¡­" she said, reaching down and pulling Keiko up to her feet. "...but not more than anything."


    Her free hand lashed out, grabbed the knife protruding from Keiko¡¯s stomach, and tugged it free. Then, with mechanical resolve, she drove the blade back into Keiko¡¯s body, again and again and again and again, stabbing it deeper and deeper with each blow. The entire time, she stared right into Keiko¡¯s face, into her weeping eye.


    Keiko opened her mouth to say something, but all that trickled forth was a hollow croak. Carla released her from her grip, and she fell to the floor in a heap.


    Dragan didn¡¯t know that girl, didn¡¯t understand the circumstances of what was happening before him, but the sight of family betraying family like this filled his veins with magma. "You¡¯re a fucking monster," he snarled, beginning to pick himself up. He¡¯d tear her damn head off.


    "And down," Deceit yawned.


    Dragan fell back down to the floor, but his eyes remained fixed on Carla with utter contempt. The older woman had turned away from Keiko¡¯s dying form, instead choosing to look down at the smog-filled room as she ignored Dragan¡¯s insult. She wrinkled her nose in distaste.


    "They¡¯re fighting down there, then?" she asked.


    Deceit nodded. "They¡¯ll be dead soon."


    "Make sure they don¡¯t destroy the bodies. I need them all lined up in a row when Abraham gets here. It¡¯s not good enough just to tell him about it."


    "Well, you sure are a sick puppy," Deceit sniffed. "But I do my best to honour requests."


    Carla nodded, before turning her gaze back to Dragan. Her impassive eyes met Dragan¡¯s hateful ones.


    "I know you boys like an audience," she muttered. "But quit stalling: kill him."


    Deceit laughed, shrugging exaggeratedly. "Fine, fine¡­ man, you¡¯re such a slave worker."


    And then, fast as a viper, the knife came down.

 Chapter 174:7.23: Birthday Candle Inferno

    "I¡¯m guessing you weren¡¯t expecting this from me."


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins panted for breath. This whole thing¡­ had really been a workout.


    Arrogance, in his new flaming form, had pursued Roy through countless maintenance tunnels, swinging and clawing at him with such speed and ferocity that he could do little else than block or dodge. Opening himself up to attack was out of the question -- and yet it was infuriating. Every second he was locked in battle with this creep, he was getting further and further away from the others, from the kids.


    He couldn¡¯t very well protect Scout, Chloe and Rico from all this if he let himself be led miles away. The most manly thing you could do was protect your own. His old man had never done that, and Roy had decided years ago that he¡¯d be different. He¡¯d show his kids what a real man looked like.


    Which was how he¡¯d ended up in this situation.


    In an instant of blinding movement, he¡¯d managed to get himself behind Arrogance and wrap his thick arms around the creature¡¯s waist. The enemy writhed and thrashed in his grip, but from this position he could do little more than that. The real issue was the heat: Arrogance¡¯s body was wrapped in flames, and as Roy held on that fire was biting furiously at his arms and chest, even through his Aether defenses.


    How much longer could he hang on like this? A couple of seconds? Thirty at the most. The smart thing to do would be to finish his plan now, but he still needed to brace himself for what came next.


    "You might think," Roy grunted. "This is another maintenance tunnel, but that ain¡¯t the case. This is a nendon gas line I¡¯ve punched our way into. You know what nendon gas is, friendo?"


    Arrogance just screeched bestially as it writhed in his vice-like grip. Roy wasn¡¯t quite sure whether that was a ¡¯yes¡¯ or a ¡¯no¡¯.


    "Well, long story short, it blows up. I was hoping just throwing you in here would be enough to set it off, but it looks like those aren¡¯t normal flames you¡¯re strutting around in." He grinned. "Guess if you wanna have something done right, you gotta do it yourself."


    They were surrounded by a galaxy of bubbles, floating leisurely through the air, each reflecting and refracting the Aetherlight around them like some kind of disparate kaleidoscope. Roy heard the creaking of wood as he squeezed Arrogance¡¯s chest, tighter and tighter, wincing as the flames licked at his own body.


    "I¡¯m pretty sure we¡¯re both covered in my blood at this point -- and to be frank, pal, I¡¯m sweating up a storm. We¡¯re gonna go up like a birthday cake. I¡¯m pretty sure my Aether defenses are good enough to give me a fighting chance here. You, though? I¡¯m not so sure. Anyway¡­"


    He grinned, preparing to begin his suplex.


    "... let¡¯s find out together, okay?"


    "Pa!"


    Roy was jolted out of the moment by a familiar cry, coming from the gap he¡¯d opened to enter this gas line. His son was standing there, panting from exertion, Aether battery clutched in one of his hands. He was clearly ready to use that ability of his.


    If they did use it here, though, the building would definitely collapse on top of them after. Their chances of surviving that were lower than their chances of surviving this.


    With a single glance, Roy gauged distances, calculated odds. Numbers avalanched through his mind, leading to the inexorable conclusion. His original plan was still the best way to go: with the distance he was standing, Scout had a good chance of making it out of this intact.


    Better than his old man, at least.


    Roy¡¯s grin widened. "This is gonna suck," he declared.


    And then he hurled Arrogance backwards in the suplex of the century.


    Dragan took what he genuinely thought might have been his last breath as Deceit, eyes cold, raised his weapon high. Crimson light gleamed off its pragmatic surface. He could even see his own reflection on it, a corpse ready for the last formality.


    And then the knife came down --


    Boom.


    -- and missed.


    In the moment before the dagger would have speared right through Dragan¡¯s eye socket, the entire building shook, sending Deceit stumbling forward onto the ground. The knife struck the metal floor next to Dragan¡¯s head instead, striking up sparks, and in that split-second he found himself face-to-face -- barely inches away -- from the Deceit puppet.


    He wouldn¡¯t get another chance like this.


    Deceit opened his mouth to speak, to subdue him -- but that wasn¡¯t going to work from this distance. Drawing upon his last reserves of strength, Dragan lunged forwards, clapping a silencing hand over Deceit¡¯s mouth. In the same instant, scraps of electric blue Aether began coiling around his body.


    Two words were all he needed.


    "Gemini Shotgun¡­" he slurred.


    At this range, there was no risk of missing. Two point-blank shots tore right through Deceit¡¯s midsection, splitting him in half and sending the two sections of his body flying off into the air. Neither of them hit the ground -- instead, they dissipated into orange Aether, which surged out of the room through a crack in the ceiling.


    Dragan¡¯s mind raced as it recovered from Deceit¡¯s onslaught.


    The Aether has to physically go back to Cott when the puppet is destroyed. It¡¯s not so fast that you couldn¡¯t keep up in a vehicle. Destroy a puppet and follow the Aether to find Cott. Need to tell the others about this. Need to get up. Need to fight. Can¡¯t. Too hurt. Can¡¯t. Can¡¯t. Can¡¯t.


    Still standing over Keiko¡¯s body, Carla clicked her tongue as she lifted her gun in Dragan¡¯s direction again. Clearly, she¡¯d reloaded -- and Dragan didn¡¯t have it in him to use Gemini World again. Was this it?


    "Guess you really do have to do everything yourself," she muttered -- and the gun spat fire.


    Thud.


    But it never reached Dragan¡¯s skull. Instead, it struck the shield of rock that had suddenly appeared between Dragan and Carla, formed by the desperate swing of an outstretched arm from the fog. An arm Dragan recognised.


    Fix. Resentment and relief broiled through him in equal ratios.


    Asmodeus Fix charged out of the fog, fist already swinging to demolish Carla Oliphant¡¯s skull -- missing only by mere inches. In the second she dodged, Carla¡¯s eyes flicked between Fix and Dragan, running calculations, deciding her next course of action. This clearly wasn¡¯t a fight she could win.


    Her eyes hardened with just a hint of regret, and Dragan recognised the intent to retreat in that gaze. As she landed back on the ground, Carla whipped her hand out of her coat and pulled free a compact grenade, flicking the trigger and hurling it towards Dragan with all the technique of a farball player.


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    He couldn¡¯t dodge. He couldn¡¯t fight back. He couldn¡¯t--


    Another wave of that massive arm, and the grenade was encased in a sphere of stone. A second later, Dragan found himself caught in a massive bear-hug, Fix angling his body to shield him from the incoming explosion. He felt Fix¡¯s breath tense just slightly as the seconds passed, but that was all: the anticipation of pain, but not death.


    Bang.


    The explosion was smothered somewhat by the rocky shell, but the shrapnel that burst out was still deadly. Some of the shards of stone bounced off of Fix¡¯s surging Aether defenses, but others stabbed into his back like knives -- less vital areas that weren¡¯t as much a priority for shielding. The second the onslaught was over, Fix whirled around, pulling a hefty plasma pistol out of his coat and pointing it forward.


    He had no target. As silently as a shadow, Carla Oliphant was gone. All that remained was Keiko, lying still on the floor.


    Dragan winced as he slowly picked himself up off the floor, looking down for the first time at the dagger lodged in his arm. He¡¯d been feeling pain from so many sources that he hadn¡¯t had time to really concentrate on any specific wound. Guess he¡¯d be going back to the hospital before long.


    "How¡¯d you know I was here?" Dragan grumbled, glancing at Fix.


    As Fix pulled the stone shards out of his body without so much as a gasp of pain, Dragan spied the dried blood on his knuckles. Well, that explained that.


    "These assassins pass information among themselves," Fix replied, dropping the bloody rocks to the floor in a neat pile. "I had one of them tell me. Are you alright?"


    "I¡¯m fine," Dragan snapped, looking away from him. "More importantly¡­"


    "Mr. Dragan!"


    With the smog finally clearing -- it couldn¡¯t have been sticking around naturally for this long, surely -- it was easy to see Serena leaping up from below, pulling herself onto the elevated section using a pair of curved swords like climbing picks. She¡¯d clearly had a tough time of it, too: her hair disheveled beyond belief, a nasty cut running along her stomach. Violet Aether still crackled around her battered hands. Fix raised an eyebrow at her as she strode past.


    "You guys okay?" Dragan asked, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. "Are any of them still around?"


    Serena shook her head. "Monophobia can make a lot of different puppets, but most of them are really weak. They¡¯re only a problem because there¡¯s so many."


    Dragan nodded. "Power in numbers. Where¡¯s Ruth?"


    With a frown, Serena cast her sad face down to the ground. "Rico got hurt -- one of his cousins, too, but Rico really bad. She went to take them both somewhere safe."


    It was Dragan¡¯s turn to frown. "What? We¡¯re splitting up again? After what happened last time -- and the time before that?"


    A meek shrug. "I guess."


    He could already see history repeating itself -- Ruth getting attacked by some random freak, them going after her, and the whole situation exploding into yet another clash. From what Dragan understood, Cott could just keep endlessly sending aspects of himself after them from wherever he was hiding out. That meant they weren¡¯t safe so long as he was alive.


    The only one that decides what happens to me is me.


    "Fuck that," Dragan sighed. "I¡¯ll give her a call, and we¡¯re going after her. From now on, we stick together no matter what -- Skipper should still be at the hospital, so we¡¯ll group up there."


    Fix cleared his throat from behind him. "Are you sure it¡¯s wise to keep moving around in your current condition? You hardly got out of this encounter unscathed."


    Ah, shit. Dragan had been so happy forgetting that Fix was here for just a few seconds. He turned back to the larger man, a scowl on his lips. "If I¡¯m hurt, the best place for me to go is the hospital anyway."


    Fix closed his eyes, nodding slowly as he acquiesced -- as if it was any of his business what Dragan did. "Very well. I¡¯ll keep you safe as we travel."


    "Do whatever you want," Dragan snorted dismissively, turning back to Serena. "Anyway, we can¡¯t just stand here talking about it. We¡¯ll grab whoever¡¯s still here and --"


    "You¡­"


    The voice was weak, raspy, on the very edge of nonexistence -- but it spoke all the same. From the floor, the girl named Keiko looked up, wavering eyes fixed on Serena. Blood poured liberally from her mouth and stomach wound.


    Shit. She was still alive? Dragan had been sure she was dead after the evisceration Carla had committed. He ran over and went to cover her wound -- only for Fix to beat him to it, forming a bandage of smooth stone with a wave of his hand.


    "These wounds are lethal, Keiko," Fix declared coldly, looking down at the girl -- he knew her as well, then, having worked for the family. "This is for dignity alone."


    Keiko ignored them, continuing to stare at Serena.


    "You¡­"


    Serena blinked, looking down at the girl who¡¯d been her companion for barely an hour. The person who hated Cott just as much as she did. And here she was, bleeding out on the floor. Serena had been so fixed on Dragan that she hadn¡¯t even noticed. How could she not notice?


    She kneeled down next to the dying woman. "What is it?" she asked quietly.


    Keiko slowly blinked, her gaze returning to the ceiling. "It was Carla," she muttered, her lips deathly pale. "It was Aunt Carla. It was her."


    "I don¡¯t know who that is."


    "Doesn¡¯t matter. I trusted her. Stupid, stupid. Shouldn¡¯t have trusted. Need to tell you something."


    Serena bit her lip anxiously. In this moment, why was Keiko Oliphant-Hidaka directing her last words to her? They¡¯d known each for such little time. "What?" she asked.


    "Cott. Weakness. He -- it must be, I think. He has a weakness." S§×arch* The n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Serena perked up at that, and the fire inside her stoked up once again -- but now with an undeniable structure to it, a path for it to follow. Her sword would come down, sure, but it wouldn¡¯t strike randomly anymore.


    "What is it?" she hissed, insistent.


    Keiko coughed violently, blood trickling from the edge of her lips. She spoke quickly, in bursts, as if afraid she wouldn¡¯t be able to get all the information out in time. "There¡¯s a c-coffin. He takes it everywhere. Best security he can b-buy. There¡¯s something in it. Something he¡¯s scared of. You can tell -- on his face. Do you know it?"


    Serena slowly shook her head. Coffin? That didn¡¯t ring a bell at all. Cott had never had anything like that the entire time Yakob had known him.


    "It¡¯s his weakness," Keiko repeated, nodding faintly to herself. "It is. It has to be. He never goes f-far. Find it and you find Cott. Open it and you beat Cott." A sudden, faded expression of terror came to her face, and she stared pleadingly into Serena¡¯s eyes. "You¡¯ll kill him, right? You will kill him?"


    Serena gulped, nodding. She didn¡¯t know how she¡¯d do it, but she knew breaking a promise was the worst thing a person could do. She¡¯d hold herself to account.


    "I will."


    The slightest bloodstained smile spread across Keiko¡¯s lips, and she slowly closed her eyes. A second later, all expression slackened away.


    "Oh¡­" she whimpered, lips barely moving. "I wanna go home¡­"


    Those were her last words. After staring at her body for a good long while, turning the information over in her head, Serena stood up. Her fists were balled tight at her sides. Her eyes were resolute.


    "Coffin," she said to herself. "I¡¯ll get it. No matter what." With that promise made, she turned her gaze back to Dragan, who was still looking down at Keiko¡¯s body with an unreadable expression. "How do we start, Mr. Dragan?"


    He looked back up at her, blinking. "Carla wanted everyone here dead -- and she told the Cott aspect to gather all the bodies to show to Abraham Oliphant. That means he¡¯s still on his way."


    Serena cocked her head. "So?"


    Dragan gave her a serious look. "If he¡¯s coming here, then she¡¯ll be coming after him -- and Cott¡¯ll be with her."


    He clenched his own fist.


    "And that¡¯s when we finish them both," he declared.

 Chapter 175:7.24: The Calms Before The Storms

    Years ago¡­


    Once again, all Yakob del Sed could see was the dark -- and the only sound he could hear was the voice of Cottian del Sed. This time, of course, the voice came over the communicator rather than being next to Yakob, but the situation gave him chills all the same. The cramped shipping container he¡¯d taken refuge in didn¡¯t much help with that, either.


    "Your position¡¯s secure?" Cott asked, voice distorted by distance and poor connection.


    "It is," Yakob replied, finger to his ear. "Got myself hiding on a pirate wreck orbiting Red Bear -- one of those that the Pierrot fleet took care of back in the day. The shipping containers are lined with lestrom, so any life scans should miss me."


    Why are we hiding, Yakob? We¡¯re strong! We should just go and fight them!


    Yakob ignored the mental interruption for the time being. They¡¯d have a strategy meeting after this.


    "Good thinking," Cott replied to Yakob¡¯s explanation, the audio clearing up for a few seconds.


    "How about you, commander?" Yakob asked, the slightest smirk on his lips. Cott had been chosen to lead this mission based on his people skills, but it was still strange to consider him as being in charge. "How are things going on your end?"


    Cott spat out a humourless laugh. "With you reporting in, I¡¯ve confirmed everyone¡¯s managed to find somewhere to hide -- so now I¡¯m trying to figure out how I¡¯m gonna explain this mess. First mission into Supremacy space and I¡¯m the one to mess it up. The Directors aren¡¯t going to be happy."


    To hell with the Directors, Bruno growled, words bouncing off the walls of Yakob¡¯s skull. We didn¡¯t do all this for them. We need to stand by Cott. We¡¯ll keep him safe from them if they try anything, right Yakob?


    Yeah! Serena declared. We can beat them up!


    Yakob nodded almost imperceptibly as reply. Loyalty to the Sed was all he¡¯d been taught, but he¡¯d learnt loyalty to his friends on his own long before that. If they tried giving him any orders he didn¡¯t like, they¡¯d be getting a very nasty surprise.


    "Hey, Cott?" Yakob asked suddenly, spurred on by the chorus in his head.


    "Yeah?"


    "I¡¯ve been thinking¡­ if you want, I mean, and this is just me floating an idea around so don¡¯t think I¡¯m committed to this or anything¡­"


    Cott chuckled. "Out with it, man. You sound like you¡¯re about to ask me out on a date."


    "What if we¡­ didn¡¯t go back to the UAP?"


    A moment of silence. Not even Bruno or Serena had anything to say. When Cott finally replied, he too was much quieter.


    "What do you mean?"


    "We¡¯re on the border between the Supremacy and the UAP," Yakob quickly explained, reeling through the factors he¡¯d been tossing over in his head for days now. "It¡¯d be the easiest thing in the world to just double back and head back into the Supremacy."


    "What, and have the Supremacy and the UAP after us? Doesn¡¯t sound too enticing. Plus, we¡¯d be betraying our own people, right?"


    Yakob frowned. "Our own people? First, we were their street urchins. Then, we were their lab rats. Now, we¡¯re their hunting dogs. At no point have we been their people, Cott. Fuck them. They won¡¯t be able to come into the Supremacy to look for us, and we¡¯ll be able to get away from these guys chasing us now eventually. Then we can do whatever we want."


    "Like what¡­?" The emotion in Cott¡¯s voice was indecipherable.


    "I don¡¯t know, mercenary work or something!" Yakob replied, shrugging despite the fact that Cott was an untold distance away. "The point is that it¡¯ll be up to us. No more missions. No more tests. We¡¯ll finally have our own lives."


    "That¡¯s¡­"


    "Do you really want to be doing this the rest of your life?" Yakob pressed on, leaning further into the receiver. "You¡¯re a lucky guy, but do you want to be following orders until the time comes when you¡¯re unlucky? When you take a bullet to the head and they find some replacement for you?"


    Another moment of silence, lingering far longer. Then, the slightest sigh.


    "I¡¯ll¡­ think about it, okay?"


    "Okay. That¡¯s all I ask."


    The communicator clicked off, and that was the last time Yakob del Sed ever spoke to his best friend. The next human contact he had was with the squad of Supremacy elites that wrenched open the container, pulled him out into the fell light, and forced a black bag over his head.


    Now¡­


    When Bruno del Sed finally came to, he was staring at himself in a bathroom mirror. Water ran from the tap into the sink, and droplets of that water dripped from his features. Serena had just been washing her face, then?


    He could see why. They didn¡¯t look so good: their features pale and sallow, bags under their eyes, and -- as made itself evident when Bruno tried to move -- a nasty cut on their stomach, still in the process of mending with stimulants.


    Bruno blinked blearily. What had happened?


    It came to him in a flash. Him, bleeding in an apartment building. A bullet striking his body. The voice on his script. Cott. Cott.


    Panicked nausea welled up in his throat, and for a fleeting moment he almost disappeared under the ocean of his subconscious again. But no -- he couldn¡¯t do that again. If he let himself sleep like that once more, who knew when he¡¯d come to?


    "Serena?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Where are we?"


    No answer. Serena was here with him, he could tell, but a sense of exhaustion came from her -- she was in no state to communicate with him. He supposed it was only fair that she got her rest now.


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    Bruno half-walked, half-stumbled out of the bathroom, stepping into the clean and sterile halls of what was clearly some kind of hospital. Ruth, leaning against one of the walls next to the bathroom door, glanced up at him as he approached.


    "Something up, Serena?" she asked, then squinted as she got a better look at his expression. "No¡­ Bruno?"


    Bruno vaguely nodded, looking around. What had happened since he¡¯d last been lucid? Was everyone safe?


    He was snapped back to attention as Ruth limply punched him in the arm, a lopsided grin on her face. "Don¡¯t scare us like that, asshole. We weren¡¯t sure you were coming back."


    Bruno rubbed his forearm as he smiled humourlessly -- it didn¡¯t hurt, but in this confusing situation he was glad to have something to occupy his hands. "Sorry. Where are we? What¡¯s the situation?"


    "Some hospital the Oliphants own," Ruth scratched her nose. "That Ray guy or whatever¡¯s being treated -- Rico¡¯s mom is hiding out here too. We¡¯ve got the place on lockdown."


    Bruno frowned doubtfully. "Didn¡¯t they have the last place on lockdown, too? Someone still ended up dying there."


    The smile on Ruth¡¯s face grew a little more uneasy. "Well, yeah, but this time we¡¯re expecting it. Plus, we know what to look out for. If Carla Oliphant comes anywhere near this place, Skipper can just blast her to hell."


    "Carla¡­ Oliphant?"


    "Oh, yeah, she¡¯s behind the whole Hunter Game thing. This girl called Keiko Oliphant-Hidaka sorta kidnapped Serena then got betrayed by Carla. She wants the family dead for some reason."


    Bruno rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to process all the information he was being given. "Okay¡­ where¡¯s this Keiko girl, then? I can get more information out of her. If she messed with Serena, I¡¯ve got a bone to pick with her anyway."


    "Oh, she¡¯s dead."


    Bruno blinked. "Huh?"


    "Yeah, she got stabbed to death," Ruth winced. "By, uh, by Carla. Dragan was there -- he says it was really fucked up. Serena was there, too, but I guess she didn¡¯t tell you about it."


    "Shit¡­" Bruno gulped, bracing himself for the next question. "And¡­ what about Cott?" Every time that name passed his lips, it felt like he was back in that interrogation room, staring at that black blur that eroded the mind.


    Ruth¡¯s expression hardened. "He showed up -- well, his puppets did. Guess the coward wasn¡¯t willing to risk himself. We drove him off, but he¡¯s working for Carla. They¡¯re behind all of this, together."


    Bruno closed his eyes. "I see."


    To tell the truth, he would have been perfectly satisfied never seeing Cott again. Out of sight, out of mind. It was Serena¡¯s heart that burnt for revenge -- and even if he felt some of that residual warmth, he didn¡¯t yearn for it as strongly. He had no desire to bring himself closer to the source of his pain. It¡¯d be like intentionally driving his hand onto a protruding nail.


    And yet¡­ it seemed the world had other ideas. It had put Cottian del Sed in front of him, here, now.


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    "So what happens next?" he asked.


    Dragan was dozing in a chair when they entered the waiting room, a thin line of drool running from his mouth as he softly snored. From what Bruno understood, it had been a long night -- no doubt they could all do with some rest.


    They¡¯d passed Fix on the way in, the wide man standing outside the door like some kind of guard, but they hadn¡¯t exchanged any words. Bruno honestly had no idea what he¡¯d say to that man in the first place: wasn¡¯t he locked up for murder last he¡¯d seen him? What had happened with that?


    As Bruno and Ruth approached, one of Dragan¡¯s eyes opened, lazily returning to consciousness as he sat up in his chair. He ran his hands over his face, snoring replaced with a groan of displeasure.


    "Couldn¡¯t have given me like ten more minutes?" he mumbled through his palms. "Or, like, an hour?"


    "No rest for the wicked," Bruno said seriously. "Where¡¯s Skipper?"


    "Watching the roof," Dragan yawned. "I¡¯ve already told him they¡¯re not gonna attack until Abraham Oliphant shows up, but he wouldn¡¯t listen to me. Asshole."


    Ruth scowled. "What?! He¡¯s still recovering from his injuries! How come you didn¡¯t stop him?!"


    "Like I said," Dragan replied, with a pinch more annoyance. "He wouldn¡¯t listen to me. There¡¯s only so much I¡¯m willing to risk getting my hair ruffled, yeah?"


    As Ruth ran off -- presumably to scold Skipper to death -- Bruno raised an eyebrow. "You sound like him right now," he observed.


    Dragan snorted. "Fuck off. You¡¯re back with us, then?" His words were harsh, but his tone was surprisingly warm. As he spoke, he glanced down at the script in his hand.


    "Looks like it. Sorry for the absence. This all kicks off when the Oliphant boss gets here, then?"


    Dragan nodded, sneaking another look at his script. "Yup. Right before Carla and, uh, the other guy --"


    "You can say his name," Bruno said quietly. "I won¡¯t freak out."


    "Right¡­ when Carla and Cott -- well, part of him, anyway -- were talking, she mentioned that she wanted the bodies of the Oliphants lined up in front of Abraham. So I¡¯m guessing she wants to destroy the family and rub his nose in it. Daddy issues or something."


    Bruno thought about the way Dragan talked to Skipper, and the way he talked to Fix. "Yeah. I can imagine that. But why does that mean they won¡¯t try to attack again?"


    "Carla¡¯s lost the element of surprise. From what I observed, she herself didn¡¯t seem very strong -- and like I said, Cott¡¯s a coward. The participants of the Hunter Game might make a go for it, hence why we¡¯re still holed up here, but the organizers are gonna wait for the grand finale."


    So they were still in the crosshairs, despite how optimistic Dragan tried to look. "So what do we have?"


    Dragan frowned, eyes flicking between Bruno and his script. "There¡¯s us, of course, plus some of the Oliphants -- Roy Oliphant-Dawkins is pretty badly burnt, but he should recover in time. Rico¡¯s mom wants to rip Carla¡¯s head off, so there¡¯s that. Some of their employees. We have the guy outside, and, uh¡­ that¡¯s it."


    "Not great."


    "We¡¯ve been in worse," Dragan shrugged -- and as he did, he glanced down once again at the script in his hand.


    Bruno furrowed his brow. "Are you doing something? You keep looking at your script. Are you hacking the system or something?"


    Dragan sighed. "You¡¯d better be joking," he said. "If you really must know, I¡¯m keeping up on the news -- seeing if there¡¯s any clues as to what Carla¡¯s up to. It¡¯s pretty hard to multitask with you talking to me at the same time, so why don¡¯t you go catch up with everyone?"


    Bruno frowned. That was¡­ pretty cold, and pretty suddenly cold. Had he pushed some button he hadn¡¯t meant to? Had Serena done something while he was out?


    "Uh, okay," he said, scratching the back of his head. "I¡¯ll talk to you later, then."


    Dragan vaguely nodded, still staring at his script as Bruno stepped out of the door.


    Dragan Hadrien had been telling the truth -- he had been looking at the news on his script. However, that wasn¡¯t the reason he¡¯d sent Bruno away. The reason he¡¯d done that was because of the photo he could see on the script.


    The image had been part of a news article Dragan had been scrolling past -- a shot of the hallway in a new youth center, walls lined with posters on both sides. He was certain that hallway had been empty originally. There had been no people in the photo.


    He looked down at it again.


    A young woman was standing at the end of the hallway, long brown hair falling over her face -- the only sign of her features being the single eye that stared out, bloodshot, from between the brunette curtains. One hand, clenched with all the intensity of a claw, reached out towards the camera.


    When Dragan had first noticed this, the figure had been little more than a vague blur. Now it was an actual person. Was this some kind of ability, then, using his script as a medium?


    Static flared across the screen again, and when it cleared the figure was closer, crawling on all fours towards the camera lens. At the distance she¡¯d travelled during that blip, she¡¯d reach the camera in maybe two more sequences. What would happen then? Would she actually climb out of the screen?


    Dragan had already tried to let go of the script, but his hand was stuck to it like a powerful magnet. He supposed he could smash it, but without letting go of the script -- and with the way he was holding it -- that would require damaging his own hand, too, which he¡¯d rather avoid. Plus, there was no guarantee that would stop whatever this ability was.


    So he did the next thing that came to mind. Dragan Hadrien took a deep breath and calmly looked down at the approaching figure in his hand.


    "I don¡¯t suppose someone like you has stuff like mercy or compassion," he said quietly. "But I expect you understand what mutual gain is."

 Chapter 176:7.25: Who We Are, Who We Were

    "I didn¡¯t expect you to actually show up," Valentina said, taking a sip of water from her personal flask.


    The Gretchen Machfield Memorial Park was truly a beautiful place. The albino-white trees set a stark contrast with the vivid red grass, and the holographic butterflies that flitted playfully through the air only completed the rustic picture. As Valentina watched over it from the bench she was sitting at, it was filled with civilians enjoying the scenery. Picnics, pets being walked¡­ no shortage of fun to be had.


    For a moment, she glanced at a toddler babbling along with his family, and her heart ached. Would Angel have been that old, now, if he had lived?


    "You¡¯re not very talkative today," she continued, glancing up at the new arrival. "That¡¯s unlike you."


    Eli Masadora seemed very much unlike himself. The entire time Valentina had known him -- and from what she¡¯d been told afterwards -- he¡¯d always had a somewhat eccentric style of dress. Fur coats, open chests, that sort of thing. Now, however, he looked like any other tourist: a black polo shirt, a pair of shorts with sandals, and a hefty pint of beer that he sipped as he watched over the park next to her.


    "How much would you know about what¡¯s like me?" he said bitterly, not looking at her. "It¡¯s been almost twenty years, V."


    Valentina tightened her hands on her lap. "Valentina, if you please, not V. Let¡¯s be adults about this."


    He snorted ruefully. "Adults. Sure thing, love. And what can this adult do for ya?" Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I --"


    "You know," he sniffed. "If you were any other Oliphant bastard, you¡¯d be dead where you stand."


    Valentina took a deep breath. She was confident in her ability to defend herself, but she knew that the King of Killers specialized in eliminating people who thought just that.


    "I¡¯d like to make you an offer."


    "And what sort of offer is that?" Eli took a deep gulp of his beer, downing nearly the whole thing in one go.


    "First off, I need some information from you. How much is my sister paying you?"


    A smirk played across Eli¡¯s lips. "What makes you think your sister is paying me?"


    Valentina barely resisted the urge to attack him right then and there. Her brother was dead, her son had lost an arm -- the doctors weren¡¯t even sure the Panacea would take, given how long it had taken to bring him in -- and this man was here playing games?!


    "Careful now," Eli muttered -- and from the casual adjustment of his stance, Valentina knew he was ready to kill her at any point, too.


    The artificial wind whistled around them, punctuated only by the playful growling of a nearby domesticated bear. Valentina stared steadily at Eli from the edge of her vision, and he did much the same.


    "Whatever Carla is paying you," she said carefully. "I¡¯ll double it."


    He blinked. "Triple it."


    "Done."


    "No."


    "No?"


    "Ya see," Eli took a final swig of his beer before tossing the glass over his shoulder, uncaring of it as it landed in the grass. "There¡¯s more to life than money. Sometimes, you¡¯ve got to stand by your principles, love."


    Valentina gritted her teeth in frustration, and as she tightened her hands, a stray spark of purple Aether danced across her fingers. "And what principles are those? Murdering my family because we hurt your feelings years ago?"


    Eli looked down at her, and his eyes were ice. Even with his hands limp at his sides, it felt as if he was seconds away from reaching for a weapon. A chill ran down Valentina¡¯s spine.


    "Do you ever wonder how things would have gone?" he asked quietly. "If we¡¯d made different choices, back then?"


    Almost every day.


    "I don¡¯t have time for things like that," she replied haughtily. "If you¡¯re not going to take this seriously, there¡¯s no point in us talking any further. I¡¯ll simply take my leave."


    Eli chuckled, but the sound was full of sadness. Even as he turned to walk away, the slouch of his shoulders and the downward peek of his head radiated utter dejection.


    "Right you are, love," he mumbled. "Right you are. Be ready -- we won¡¯t talk like this again."


    For a few seconds, Valentina just watched him go, watched him shrink off into the distance -- but V from so long ago couldn¡¯t just let that happen. Despite everything, she found herself calling out.


    "If you loved me!" she cried. "If you ever loved me, just listen! Go! Nobody will come after you, nobody will want revenge, so just go! Just make it all stop here!"


    Eli stopped walking for a moment, hands stuffed into his pockets. He never turned back to look at her, not once -- but in the moment before he left, Valentina heard him speak, just a few words like the tolling of a death bell.


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    "Sorry. But now¡­ I think I hate him more than I probably loved you."


    And with that, he was gone.


    "Hey, kid," Roy said quietly, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of his hospital room. "When was it we got so weak?"


    Scout was sitting at his bedside, and he looked up in alarm from his script as those words left his father¡¯s mouth.


    "You ain¡¯t weak, Pa!" he said earnestly, like the very idea was ludicrous. "You -- we -- got caught off guard. It happens. You still won!"


    Roy reached up to the light above the bed, the sterile white panel that bathed this room in its glow. His hand was bandaged while the stimulant paste did its work, prompting his body to replace the burnt skin with fresh stock. Those bandages covered maybe half his body now, and the spiking pain beneath them was nearly indescribable.


    It had been a long time since he¡¯d found himself injured. How long? How long since he¡¯d been in a position where he could get injured?


    "Nah," he muttered, smirking to himself. "I¡¯ve gotten weak. When I first started in the family business, you wanna know something?"


    Scout nodded, ever the dutiful son.


    "Money, power, all that stuff? Didn¡¯t care about it one bit. I started doing this because I liked beating on people. Slamming my fist into smug-ass faces. It was all I wanted -- mostly because I could imagine those smug-ass faces were, uh, other smug-ass faces. The only reason I got stronger was so I could keep doing that."


    "So¡­ you are strong, then, Pa. You just said so."


    "Nah, nah," Roy repeated, slowly shaking his head, hair spread out on the pillow beneath him. "I figured it out. There¡¯s a point you get too strong, I think. A point where you¡¯re strong enough that nobody wants to mess with you anymore, and all the smug-ass faces stop showing themselves. Once that happens, all that¡¯s left for you to do is slowly waste away."


    Scout¡¯s eyes were filled with sadness. "And¡­ you think that¡¯s happened to you, Pa?"


    "It¡¯s happened to all of us. Once upon a time, maybe we were strong, when we were taking down all the competition back in the day. I still remember the fights against Pandemonium -- Y, that was a hell of a time. But once we reached the top, that was it. No need to be strong anymore. That¡¯s how we ended up like this." He sniffed, taking in a deep breath. "This¡­ is a wake-up call. I just wish we didn¡¯t have to lose so much to the alarm clock here."


    Suddenly, he lurched up out of the bed, half-a-dozen monitoring tools being ripped out of his body as he stood to his full height. He left the bandages where they were, making him look like some kind of mummified lion, but as he cracked his neck he seemed ferocious all the same.


    Scout got to his feet too, hands held out as if he was going to try to push him back into bed, but a single look from Roy put an end to that.


    "Pa," he whispered. "What are you gonna do?"


    "What I¡¯ve always done," Roy grinned, cracking his massive knuckles. "Get strong and try my luck."


    Rico looked wistfully at the stump of his arm, resting atop the sheets of his bed. Last he¡¯d heard, the doctors were timidly whispering about the viability of Panacea treatment at this point. He vaguely wondered what he¡¯d see the next time he looked at his arm: flesh, or metal? Or perhaps still nothing at all. That too was a possibility.


    Even if he had a hand, what would he do with it? This was where trying to be a fighter had gotten him: pummelled by a creature that was better at hurting people than he¡¯d ever be. Would anything be different, if he kept reaching out with the intent to kill?


    His Teacher had once said something to him, hadn¡¯t he? About growing tired of hurting people. Well, Rico certainly felt tired. He felt exhausted.


    Vaguely, his remaining hand reached out to retrieve the canister of Bubble that he¡¯d managed to sneak into his person. It had been hell hanging onto it while they were changing his clothes, but he¡¯d been driven to do it all the same. Why? Did he like this stuff that much?


    Everything felt distant. For some reason, here, brought low, he felt as if he could see everything objectively. You could only appreciate how deep a pit was once you were at the bottom.


    His thumb flicked over the cap of the canister, again and again, as he considered it. He liked the way Bubble made him feel. He liked the way his anxieties vanished, the way he felt the kind of assurance he¡¯d only experienced as a naive child. In the end, this stuff was just another path to run away down, with the sharp stones of dementia and blood poisoning only increasing as he ran.


    How long would it be until he couldn¡¯t make this decision anymore?


    Tiny Garden.


    A moment of thoughtless bravery, an impulse he didn¡¯t quite want to restrain. The canister disintegrated in his hand, the liquid Bubble evaporating into gas that was quickly neutralised into little more than water. It drifted up like a raincloud, vanishing into an air vent. Rico flexed his now-free hand, and it felt as if a heavy weight had eased on his shoulders, if only just slightly.


    Now he¡¯d grown bored of hurting people, most of all himself.


    Carla Oliphant stared at the black screen of her script, as if staring into its depths would impart some kind of knowledge to her. Was she on the right track? Would she achieve her goals? Only the dark knew.


    At what point had all this turned from a fantasy into a plan? She couldn¡¯t even remember anymore. All she could recall were the dreams that floated through her brain every time that abominable father opened his mouth.


    Useless. Burden. Girl. Every word that came from Abraham Oliphant¡¯s mouth felt like an insult. She had never been able to use the Aether he so coveted, had never been good enough to do anything but follow his orders¡­ but the time to pay all that back was coming. It was coming so very soon.


    Artificial rain buffeted against the window of her motel room, wiping away all the grime and filth that a day of city life accrued. To wash things away¡­ yes, that was what she wanted. That was how she wanted to do this.


    She¡¯d show Abraham Oliphant the remnants of his dream, the corpses of the dynasty he¡¯d invested everything into building. She¡¯d show him that, in the end, his entire life had amounted to nothing. Then she¡¯d kill him too. She couldn¡¯t wait. Oh, she simply couldn¡¯t wait¡­


    One day left, only one day, and then all of this would finally end. Once Abraham Oliphant was dead, and everything else gone, her life could truly begin. She knew where he¡¯d be arriving on the station. She knew he¡¯d never run away from her: his pride simply wouldn¡¯t allow it. He¡¯d be there waiting for her.


    Her cards were in hand. The remaining family members would come together to present a united front, which would entice the participants of the Hunter Game. Her two cards, Cottian del Sed and Eli Masadora, were ready to act on her command. So long as she played them right, she could win.


    How would it feel, she wondered, when the rest of her family was gone? It had taken her hours to stop shaking after eliminating Keiko, but even so¡­


    It felt awful to kill her family.


    But it felt fantastic to have them be dead.


    Just one more day.

 Chapter 177:7.26: Here

    Dragan strode out onto the roof, wiping a stray bead of sweat from his forehead as he passed through the doors. His script was stuffed firmly in his pocket.


    "You¡¯re being dumb as hell!" Ruth was still giving Skipper -- who was perched on the railing like a bird -- a piece of her mind. Bruno stood a small distance away, leaning over that same railing as he looked out onto the cityscape. Artificial sunlight beat down: it was clearly meant to be a warm day today.


    "Finally wake yourself up, Mr. Hadrien?" Skipper called out as Dragan approached, without so much as turning to look at him. "Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d ever come to."


    "Some of us like having downtime," Dragan grumbled, cracking his neck as he stood alongside the group. "We can¡¯t all be adrenaline freaks like you."


    "So harsh, so harsh," Skipper chuckled. "But maybe you¡¯re right. I¡¯ve tried staying still -- it ain¡¯t for me."


    Ruth¡¯s foot, suddenly clad in a Skeletal boot, came down hard on the roof. The resounding thump was more than enough to overpower whatever words were about to come out of Skipper¡¯s mouth next.


    "Skipper," she said slowly, voice full of menace. "I¡¯m starting to feel like you¡¯re ignoring me."


    "No, ma¡¯am!" Skipper shook his head furiously, hopping around on the railing so that he was facing the group instead. "I¡¯m hearing you loud and clear. Promise I¡¯ll never get in danger again, or do anything reckless. One-hundred percent."


    One hand was behind Skipper¡¯s back, and Dragan was willing to bet billions that two of the man¡¯s fingers were crossed. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn¡¯t quite suppress the smirk on his face at the obvious lie.


    Skipper¡¯s grin spread slightly wider as he saw Dragan¡¯s expression. "Hey," he said quietly. "Look. I got him."


    "Apparently," Bruno called out. "This all ends tomorrow. What do you guys think about that?"


    The roof fell silent. Skipper¡¯s cheeky grin slackened away, Ruth took a deep breath, and the smirk on Dragan¡¯s face died. This wasn¡¯t over yet, was it? No, it wasn¡¯t over at all.


    "Abraham Oliphant arrives tomorrow," Dragan confirmed, slowly nodding. "I got that info out of Fix. Doesn¡¯t take a genius to work out that Carla is gonna go after him when he gets here."


    Ruth crossed her arms, idly tapping her foot against the concrete beneath. "About that¡­ I¡¯ve been thinking, guys¡­"


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"


    "This¡­ kinda isn¡¯t any of our business, is it? Why don¡¯t we just leave?"


    Bruno squeezed the railing bar tight, his face resolute as he stared forward. "I¡¯m not leaving," he muttered. "Not now. Not until I settle things with Cott. It¡¯s the only way me and Serena will be safe."


    Dragan couldn¡¯t do much to argue with that.


    Skipper, still perched, rubbed his chin. "Well," he said slowly. "I¡¯ve still got my heart set on the Oliphants owing me a favour, and I¡¯m struggling to see a better way to do it than helping them out here."


    "They¡¯ve taken a beating," Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Are they still worth having on your side?"


    "Financial resources," Skipper counted on his fingers. "Secret supply routes, bribed officials¡­ they still have those to give, yeah?"


    So those were some of the things needed for Skipper¡¯s endgame. Good to know.


    Grimacing at the stark refusal, Ruth looked to Dragan. "Little help?" she asked, rightfully looking towards the voice of reason.


    Dragan slowly nodded. "Objectively, there¡¯s no good reason for us to stick around here¡­"


    Ruth smiled. S~ea??h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "But¡­"


    Ruth stopped smiling.


    That image still came to the front of his mind. Carla Oliphant, running through the niece that had believed in her. Stabbing her again and again. Betraying her again and again.


    Familial hands around his throat. Warm blood falling on his face. Fix, in the open doorway, panting in shock as he pointed his gun.


    The only one who decides what happens to me is me. But¡­


    "There are some people in the world who just need their ass kicked," Dragan declared. "Carla Oliphant¡¯s one of them. I¡¯m not leaving either."


    Ruth¡¯s face somehow fell even further. "So that¡¯s it?" she mumbled. "We¡¯re just sticking around, waiting for things to go to shit again? Without even having a plan?"


    She had a point. For the last few months, they¡¯d done little but drift from place to place, somehow managing to get themselves into affairs that had little to do with them and doing an especially lousy job at getting out of those affairs. So far, this incident was just another in the pile.


    That didn¡¯t mean they¡¯d act any differently, though. The sadness on Bruno¡¯s face, and the rage in his own heart, wouldn¡¯t allow Dragan to. Sentiment had infected him long ago.


    "Well," Skipper grinned. "It just so happens that yours truly --"


    Dragan interrupted. "I have a plan."


    He held up his script.


    One Day Later¡­


    This is how Abraham Oliphant starts his day.


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it¡¯s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    With the enhancements he¡¯s invested in, waking up is a matter of a function switching from 0 to 1. There is no slow return to consciousness: just instant awareness, like the lights turning on. Any thoughts interrupted by his hibernation the previous night seamlessly resume. Thoughts of how to punish his wayward daughter, and how to repair the damage that has been done to his name.


    When he wakes, he is blind -- his eyes are removed each night for maintenance and cleaning. For the most part, he is just as deaf: while he sleeps, his head rests in a pod of proprietary chemicals, slowing the effects of decay and ensuring the all-important biological hardware remains compatible with its mechanical body. Sound does not travel well through the thick amniotic porridge that is Abraham Oliphant¡¯s nocturnal abode.


    Machinery whirrs. The liquid begins to drain away, and Abraham Oliphant drinks in sweet oxygen through the massive artificial lungs attached to this unit. The egg-shaped container is pulled in half by thin robotic limbs from the floor and ceiling, exposing the unnaturally smooth cranium of Abraham Oliphant to the light.


    Abraham¡¯s attendant, a nervous-looking Scurrant with long tufts of hair hanging out of his mouth, shuffles over, sliding Abraham¡¯s eyes into his sockets with practiced precision. Lights blink on in each cybernetic pupil as they connect to the optic nerve. Eyelids blink -- a movement that is mere instinct rather than a necessity at this point.


    This is where the human element comes into play. If not for the explosive chip embedded in the base of the Scurrant¡¯s skull, there would be a distinct possibility of betrayal -- Abraham Oliphant is never more vulnerable than now.


    The same mechanical arm that separated the roof of the pod comes down again, carefully seizing Abraham by the base of his skull and lifting him across the room, towards his body. The Scurrant watches, his hands fidgeting nervously -- if anything should go wrong here, it is his job to correct it. He has been awake for hours already, after all, triple-checking every aspect of the body and this process for signs of tampering.


    Abraham Oliphant¡¯s body is upgraded frequently, as more technology becomes available to him, becoming larger to house it all. At this point, seventy years into his life and fifty-two years into the formation of his syndicate, it is a veritable goliath. It is an ugly thing, truth be told, designed for function rather than form -- dull grey and mostly cylindrical, with countless vents to belch forth excess heat. The hands and fingers are segmented to an absurd degree, able to reconfigure themselves into a variety of weapons and implements with a thought.


    This is a body made for war.


    The machine screws on Abraham¡¯s head like it is fixing in a screw, and the moment the nervous system connects he lets out a deep, psychosomatic breath. His body whirrs and clicks as he tests every function, taking only seconds before he is satisfied. He opens his mouth and, when he speaks, his voice is tempered by the electronic undercurrent of a machine.


    "How long until we arrive?" There is no gratitude, no acknowledgement of the Scurrant¡¯s labour. Abraham Oliphant is above such things.


    His voice is slurred somewhat from the hair that grows in his mouth, but the Scurrant answers obediently. "Mere minutes, sir," he sniffs, bowing so low his head almost hits the floor. "I-I did my utmost to optimize our route as much as possible, but there¡¯s only so much that can¡­ be, um¡­"


    Abraham ignores the useless remainder of his statement, stepping past his attendant and towards the exit ramp of the ship. He has been thinking deeply about what must happen now that he has been disrespected in this manner. Many of his employees have betrayed him, his own flesh and blood have been disgraced, and his oldest daughter has defied him in the most impertinent way imaginable.


    Yes, he has thought deeply about this.


    It will end with crucifixions.


    "Nervous?" Deceit asked.


    He looked slyly over at Carla on the other end of the darkened car. In the little light available, the slight smirk on his face bore more resemblance to a crazed grin. The other Cott aspect, sitting next to him, remained silent.


    "How could I not be?" Carla replied, hands steepled on her lap. "This is the culmination of my entire life. I think I¡¯d be kind of a freak if I wasn¡¯t worried about all of this."


    This was the last stretch. Even now, heading towards the hangar they¡¯d confirmed Abraham was arriving at, Carla couldn¡¯t help but fret. Had her preparations been sufficient? Would del Sed or Masadora betray her? Was there anything she hadn¡¯t taken into account here?


    Deceit kept talking. "There¡¯s no need to be concerned. Eli Masadora is waiting in the wings to play his role, and my other aspects already have the place surrounded. I¡¯m sure the rest of your family will try to interfere somehow, but to be honest? The amount they can do is limited. If they show up, we just kill them too."


    Carla glared. "You seemed just as confident of that at the Silver Vision tower -- and yet they¡¯re not dead."


    For a moment, Deceit had no reply to that -- and the aspect sitting next to him just twitched and growled, it¡¯s porcelain eyes crazed. With its ginger hair hanging in clumps over its face, it seemed like some kind of wild beast.


    "That was a fluke," Deceit finally answered, far too firmly. "I¡¯ll admit I underestimated the individual abilities of the people there, but I¡¯m not the sort to make the same mistake twice. You¡¯ll get your money¡¯s worth -- I promise you that."


    "I think I might be more assured of that if I was speaking to Cott directly -- not the literal personification of his ability to bullshit."


    Deceit smiled thinly. "I understand your concerns, but you don¡¯t send a general into the battlefield directly. That¡¯ll create more issues than it solves. I¡¯m sure you understand that, too."


    "As I¡¯m the one paying you, and I¡¯m the one in charge, I would think I¡¯m the general here, honey. You have other ideas?"


    "You¡¯re expecting betrayal. That saddens me."


    Carla shook her head. "Of course not -- I¡¯m anticipating it. Your name¡¯s Deceit. I¡¯d be remiss if I wasn¡¯t."


    The car stopped, and for a few seconds Carla and Deceit just kept staring into each other¡¯s eyes. What thoughts resided there, Carla wondered, behind those glassy false pupils? Was a knife indeed coming for her back, or had paranoia begun to strangle her in the eleventh hour?


    Finally, though, she spoke.


    "We¡¯re here," she said.


    Dragan, crouched on the edge of a roof, glared down at the figure who¡¯d be his first target.


    "I¡¯m here," he whispered into his communicator.


    Ruth kept her claws ready as she walked alongside Roy Oliphant-Dawkins, the bandaged man striding as if he was in the best of health. His son Scout walked just behind them, with Rico¡¯s mother Valentina bringing up the rear. The tension was palpable in the air, like a curtain coming down and smothering them.


    The ship they were waiting for, a discreet cuboid thing of black metal and white-hot thrusters, slowly landed in the center of the room. As the glow of the thrusters died, the exit ramp began to descend.


    "We¡¯re here," Ruth growled.


    "Don¡¯t get careless, yeah?" Skipper muttered to Bruno.


    The two of them were standing just outside the hangar, guarding the main doors that led to where the ship was coming in. A few other Oliphant employees were with them -- a guy who seemed to be Roy¡¯s personal aide along with a few suited goons -- but that didn¡¯t do much to make things less tense.


    If the enemy attacked using this route, things would quickly become a bloodbath. Not just for them, but for the countless civilians that were in the docking center as well. Shields already hovered over Bruno¡¯s hands as he watched the passing crowds carefully.


    He wouldn¡¯t let Cott hurt anyone else. Not the way he¡¯d hurt him and Serena. That was unacceptable.


    "Yeah?" Skipper repeated, clearly wanting a response. He didn¡¯t get one.


    Slowly, Bruno reached for the communicator clipped to his collar. He took in a deep breath.


    "We¡¯re¡­" Bruno began.


    "...here," Serena finished.


    "We¡¯re here," the Scurrant whispered, peering up at his master.


    The exit gate slid open.

 Chapter 178:7.27: Fire in the Garden

    "Be ready to use it if you have to, Val," Roy said quietly as the group approached Abraham Oliphant¡¯s ship. "Just cover enough of an area to keep people at a distance -- I¡¯ve rolled a good ranged ability today, so I¡¯ll take it from there."


    Ruth watched as Valentina nodded solemnly. Nobody had actually told her what the woman¡¯s ability was, but from the way they talked about it, it seemed to be especially destructive. Ruth would have to keep an eye out.


    "Uh¡­ any idea what I should expect from this guy? Your dad, I mean?" Ruth hissed at Roy.


    She didn¡¯t really know any of these senior Oliphants at all, but this Roy guy seemed the closest to her own vibes. Wild and free, that sort of thing. When he looked down at her, however, his face pale, he looked more like a prisoner heading to his own execution.


    "Try not to say anything," he said seriously. "Best if he doesn¡¯t even notice you."


    The exit ramp of the ship before them descended, thumping against the metal floor as it came to a stop. Then, a second later, the doors at the back of the shuttle slid open, revealing the passenger inside.


    Ruth gulped.


    She couldn¡¯t help it. The man was huge, nearly nine-feet tall with most of that space occupied by brutal industrial steel. As he stepped forward, each footfall like the beating of a wardrum, bursts of acrid steam belched forth from the vents on his mechanical shoulder blades. To be honest, Ruth was surprised the man didn¡¯t fall through that exit ramp just by standing on it.


    Artificial eyes swiveled in Abraham Oliphant¡¯s sockets, their pitch-black sclera almost making him look an Umbrant if not for the perfectly square pupils at their center. He clearly had work done even in the biological portion of his body, too -- despite his advanced age, his organic head didn¡¯t bear so much as a wrinkle. The thought was somewhat absurd, but Ruth couldn¡¯t help but feel like a nine-foot tall baby was walking towards her.


    "Damn," she muttered under her breath -- only for a final warning glance from Roy to shut her up.


    Abraham reached the end of the exit ramp and stepped onto the station with all the gravity of an explorer. A Scurrant -- presumably some kind of attendant -- scurried after him, keeping himself so low to the ground that he was almost crawling. Abraham¡¯s dark eyes scanned the group.


    "A veritable crowd," he said, the hum of electricity flavouring his tones. "With unfamiliar faces. I wasn¡¯t informed. What¡¯s the meaning of this, boy?"


    That last part was clearly addressed to Roy -- and even that giant of a man seemed to shrink under his father¡¯s gaze.


    "With everything going on," Roy said, almost meekly. "We thought it best to have some protection arranged for you. Carla could strike at any moment, so¡­"


    "So you thought me unable to defend myself against my own flesh and blood. How disappointing." One of his eyes, moving independently of the other, suddenly swiveled down to look directly at Ruth. "And what is this?"


    "She¡¯s some muscle we¡¯ve hired, just to --"


    "Ruth Blaine," Ruth declared, interrupting Roy as she stared unblinking into that cybernetic gaze. "What¡¯s it to ya?¡¯


    The eye continued to stare at her, square pupils continually expanding and retracting, before Abraham turned his full attention back to Roy.


    "Your muscle is impertinent. It disappoints me that you¡¯ve brought someone like this here. We¡¯ll discuss it later." His eyes swiveled again, now looking at Valentina. "I understand my grandson was injured during these events. His status?"


    Valentina, hands clasped in front of her, looked down at the floor. Just like with Roy, all the fight seemed to drain out of her when faced with this man.


    "He¡¯s lost an arm," she said quietly, eyes wet. "The doctors say the golden hour for Panacea was missed, so¡­"


    Abraham turned away from her. "I¡¯ll have my people send a prosthetic over. Make sure he uses it. I won¡¯t have a cripple using my name."


    Ruth couldn¡¯t help but glare. This was the guy they were trying to save? Was it really too late for them to leave?


    Valentina silently nodded, and Abraham walked past her -- not even looking at Scout, who was shuffling uncomfortably below. It seemed this whole family had a consensus on how to act when the patriarch was around.


    "You¡¯ll tell me if there¡¯s been any sign of Carla," he intoned, his massive and modular hands clicking and whirring as they reconfigured themselves in subtle, barely visible ways. "I¡¯ll have her disgrace my name no longer. Understand?"


    Valentina hurriedly nodded, significantly speeding up her pace to walk alongside him. "There¡¯s been no sign of her since what happened at the Silver Vision tower," she explained. "All her properties on the Cradle have been abandoned, so she¡¯s probably been mobile since then. We -- I have to say, Father, we might want to be a little more careful, there¡¯s a good chance they¡¯re going to try something here --"


    "Yes," Abraham interrupted. "I¡¯d agree."


    That didn¡¯t stop his pace, however. He simply continued to move forward, staring straight ahead, towards the exit doors -- the rest of the group scrambling to keep up with him.


    The doors smoothly slid open, revealing the group of guards beyond -- Bruno and Skipper stepping back in surprise as Abraham ducked through the open doorway. Fix, remaining in place, looked the patriarch up and down. Abraham¡¯s eyes scanned the group of employees in a single stroke.


    "Some of you are worthwhile," he said after a moment. "You with the green coat -- you¡¯ll stay close to me. The rest can form a perimeter."


    Ruth exchanged a glance with the bewildered Bruno, mutely shrugging. She wasn¡¯t even sure if just striding out like this counted as being reckless or not, but everyone seemed to be moving at this man¡¯s pace all the same. The employees fanned out to form a wide circle around the group of family, and Skipper simply smiled easily as he walked alongside the patriarch.


    Knowing him, he had his own angle for this, but still¡­


    The crowd parted to allow the curious procession room, but even so this place wasn¡¯t safe. This dock was a massive facility, almost like a small town all by itself, with rows of stores and storage facilities for all the travelers coming and going. Ruth found herself looking often at the gap between the roofs of smaller installations and the dock¡¯s main ceiling, wary of any enemies that might be using it as a hiding spot.


    Dragan had already confirmed he was in place to eliminate the most troublesome long-range foe, but still¡­ sweat ran down her forehead.


    "Not what you expected?" Bruno muttered, walking alongside her.


    She thought back to Grave, back to Barridad, back to the cruel arrogance of men who had power over others, and shook her head.


    "Nah," she muttered, glaring at Abraham Oliphant¡¯s back. "He¡¯s exactly what I expected."


    Suddenly, he stopped his march -- and, despite herself, Ruth found her heart nearly jumping out of her chest. Had he heard what she was saying? He had cybernetic eyes, so did he have enhanced ears too? Would he even care, if he did hear?


    When the man spoke, however, it became clear that Ruth still meant as much to him as a bug on a windshield.


    "And so it begins."


    He said those four words calmly, casually, as if he was discussing the weather -- and then, ignoring the confused looks of those around him, he lashed out with his arm, enhanced speed and dark purple Aether moving it so quickly that it barely qualified as a blur.


    Bang.


    By the time they heard the gunshot, Abraham Oliphant had already caught the bullet between his massive thumb and forefinger. As screams erupted from the crowd around them and the mass of humanity scrambled to get out of the line of fire, Abraham turned the smoking pellet over in his hand curiously.


    "A mundane weapon¡­" he muttered. "Insufficient even to scratch my chassis, yet seeded with Neverwire¡­ curious."


    Even if he didn¡¯t seem to appreciate the danger, the rest of them definitely did. With a flare of red Aether, Ruth¡¯s R¨¦volutionnaire Set manifested around her, the weight of the musket instantly appearing in her hands. She mixed and matched just a little, too, manifesting a set of Skeletal claws on her off hand. It would lessen the boosts she would give a little, but the extra protection was worth it.


    Roy gripped his own forearm like a cannon, pointing it in the direction the shot had presumably come from and -- with a grunt of effort -- sent a blast of condensed wind and light tearing through the air, like a shooting star. It slammed into the top of a nearby building, sending rubble raining down into the alleyways.


    The group was a confusing mass of movement, Roy swinging around to see if any other targets presented themselves -- still clutching his forearm as if he was holding it together. One of the employees -- Roy¡¯s sweaty-looking aide -- reached into his own socket and tore free the glass eye that rested there, throwing it up into the air. It hung there, fixed in place, turning in all directions as it scanned for threats. Ruth could see the telltale rippling of Bruno¡¯s forcefields around them, ready to intercept further shots.


    What the hell was Dragan doing?


    Dragan cursed inwardly as he leapt down to the roof of the lower building, charging towards his target -- the Cott aspect that used a sniper rifle. He¡¯d managed to catch the puppet unawares, but he hadn¡¯t anticipated there¡¯d be another sniper waiting in the wings. His intention had been to wait until this aspect tried to fire and block it using Gemini Shotgun, but now he knew he couldn¡¯t take that risk.


    He wasn¡¯t exactly being subtle, and as his feet came down hard on the roof the Cott aspect whirled around, pointing his firearm directly at Dragan. There wasn¡¯t even a moment of hesitation or surprise: simply automatic resolve pulling the trigger. Bang.


    "Bronze Bullet," the aspect said.


    The projectile weaved through the air like a glowing spider web, shifting and moving in patterns that no living thing would be able to keep track of. That was fine, however, as Dragan didn¡¯t need to keep track of it. So long as it was heading towards him, the bullet was already inside his web.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    There was a fizzle of blue Aether from behind Dragan¡¯s skull as the Bronze Bullet, making its final approach, was efficiently recorded. The instant the puppet saw that, it swung its rifle around and lifted it up into the air, ready to bring it down on its own skull before Dragan could get any closer, just like it had the first time they¡¯d faced each other. It seemed this guy¡¯s secret technique was committing suicide.


    Fine. He could try that all he wanted -- but it wasn¡¯t turning out the same way this time.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The Bronze Bullet reappeared over Dragan¡¯s shoulder, firing at its own master with superior speed. It struck the puppet in the hand, shattering the limb to scraps of sad wood, and the rifle slipped out of its grip -- falling to the floor. Adapting quickly to the injury, the aspect turned on its heel and started running towards the edge of the roof -- no doubt planning to eliminate itself using height instead.


    Dragan took a deep breath.


    Gemini World.


    For one moment, he was absent from this world. In the next, he had reappeared right upon the puppet, wrapping one arm around its remaining equivalent, his legs around its torso, and bringing it down to the ground. The puppet twisted and writhed in his grip, but with the reinforcement of Aether and this position, it was utterly unable to break free.


    Dragan wasn¡¯t much of a wrestler, but he understood that he¡¯d need to make some adjustments to this hold based on his enemy. A wooden puppet didn¡¯t need to breathe, so there was no point trying to choke it out. It didn¡¯t have a nervous system or even organs, so the best he could do was just restrain its movement. As things were now, killing the thing would be child¡¯s play, but Dragan didn¡¯t want it dead yet.


    After all, it was going to lead them right to Cottian del Sed.


    "Bruno," he grunted into his communicator, doing his best to hold the puppet down. "I¡¯ve got it!"


    As the message came through, Ruth and Bruno exchanged a glance. Chaos was still erupting around them, but in the cacophony they seemed unnaturally calm. The shields around Bruno¡¯s palm weakened, just slightly, as he lost focus.


    "You good?" he asked.


    Ruth just nodded, grinning slightly as her claws glinted lethally in the light. An utter brawl was clearly about to break out. This was her element.


    That was all Bruno needed. He turned and began to run in Dragan¡¯s direction, Serena swiftly taking over and forming a rudimentary staircase of blades to ascend to the rooftops. With everything going on, barely anyone even spared her a glance.


    Bruno had picked his best, last moment. The second after Serena vanished from sight, the festivities began in earnest.


    The floating glass eye spotted them first, suddenly swiveling in the air and fixing itself on a cargo transporter in a nearby garage. A wordless shout came from Roy¡¯s aide, and a moment later two Cott aspects charged out from behind the metal crates.


    It went without saying that the two were physically identical, with long flowing ginger hair and blue blazers. One of them bore an expression of utmost determination, while the other seemed just as terrified. Ruth could see why: backpack-like units that were undeniable suicide bombs were strapped to their bodies, red lights blinking as they charged forward with all their might.


    "Heartbeat Shotgun."


    The first puppet perished mid-step, its upper half exploding in a hail of wooden splinters. A second later, the explosive vest detonated too, charring the remaining puppet as it sprinted towards the group, it¡¯s terror only increasing as the flames crawled across its back.


    "Oh god, oh fuck!" he was screaming. "I¡¯m gonna die, I¡¯m gonna fucking die! Somebody do something --"


    Roy¡¯s projectile attack took care of it, the burst of wind and light smashing its face in and sending it flying off into a wall, where it dissipated into orange Aether and zoomed away. The vest didn¡¯t detonate, sliding down the wall as it was left behind -- not part of Cott¡¯s Aether, then. A wave of the hand from Fix encased it in a prison of stone.


    "Don¡¯t get careless," he grunted.


    Ruth sniffed.


    "We should keep moving," Valentina said hurriedly to her unconcerned father. "We have armoured cars outside -- we can escape using those."


    Abraham ignored her, looking around the battlefield with obvious distaste.


    "This is all you¡¯re capable of, Carla?" he muttered contemptuously. "I was a fool to expect anything more."


    Too easy. This was way too easy.


    Bruno and Serena had told them about Cott¡¯s ability, and he could have far more puppets active than just these at the same time. If this was the grand finale, he¡¯d be coming after them with everything he had, not these little party tricks. He¡¯d --


    The hairs on the back of Ruth¡¯s neck stood up. The glass eye swung upwards to face the threat a second later, but Ruth was first to notice it. Abandoning thought, she reached out and grabbed the two closest to her -- Valentina and Scout -- pulling them away from the incoming attack as quickly as she could. S§×arch* The novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Curiosity had chosen its moment well.


    A massive boulder of assorted junk -- shredded advertisements, crushed cars and even bone -- hung above the group, manifesting right as they were distracted by the initial attack. This was far larger than the attacks he¡¯d used when he was fighting Ruth -- this rock was almost twice the size of the Slipstream #3, orange Aether coursing across its surface.


    The puppet itself floated next to it, bright eyes gleaming with deadly promise. As Ruth swung back around, ready to launch an attack to stop it, the wooden man lifted its hand into the air and snapped its fingers.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Do you think you guys will go to heaven?" Curiosity asked.


    The boulder fell.


    But it never hit the ground.


    Instead, with almost contemptuous ease, Abraham Oliphant raised a hand into the air, ready to meet the descending sphere of junk. Dark purple Aether coalesced around his hand, and as it reached a zenith in his palm, a single word passed his lips, barely audible:


    "Nevermore."


    There was a great purple flash, and for a brief moment illusory black feathers filled the air. The sphere hung fixed in space for one moment further before exploding, each colossal fragment flying up towards the ceiling and settling there in total defiance of gravity. Some struck Curiosity as they ascended, knocking him in every direction.


    Their big attack hadn¡¯t worked as planned, but the Cott aspects weren¡¯t ready to give up. An army flowed into the square, Cotts emerging from within stores, from behind crates and vehicles, from the rafters that ran across the ceiling itself. Some bore explosive vests like the first two they¡¯d killed, but most of them held weapons in their practiced hands. As one, from every direction, the horde charged towards the Oliphant group.


    From what Bruno had said, Cottian del Sed could maintain sixteen aspects at a time, less if he was particularly active himself. With all the firepower they had at their disposal, that number might not have seemed too high¡­ but he could just keep making more, and more, until they fell.


    As she prepared to meet the horde with her musket and claws, Ruth heard Roy shout out from the corner of her awareness: "Val! Now!"


    She spared a glance to the side. Purple Aether, just a shade lighter than her fathers, was coiling around the body of the woman she¡¯d dragged out of the line of fire. Her eyes were squeezed shut in utter concentration, her hands clasped in front of her chest as if praying to a higher power. A stray butterfly, human eyes hanging from its wings, flapped past her face.


    And then, when Valentina opened her own eyes, they were as black as the bottom of the sea.


    "Garden of Earthly Delights."


    Serena landed on the roof next to Dragan -- fury broiling through her as she got a glimpse of the aspect he was struggling with. Bruno quickly took over with a more level head.


    "You know which one he is?" he asked urgently. Depending on the answer, holding him down might not have been enough to restrain him.


    Dragan shook his head. "The one with the sniper rifle," he grunted, arm looped around the puppets chest. "Which one¡¯s that?"


    Bruno breathed a sigh of relief. "Ruthlessness," he confirmed. There weren¡¯t many other aspects that Cott would use as a sniper, but this was the best they could have hoped for. Ruthlessness needed his weapon to use his ability, so as long as he was disarmed -- literally, from what he could see -- they had nothing to worry about.


    "Bruno," Ruthlessness spoke mockingly, even as he writhed in Dragan¡¯s grip. "I always hated you, you know. Serena, too. I¡¯ve always wanted to ask: how did Yakob die? Did he scream? I bet he begged for help, but you couldn¡¯t do anything to help, could you? You couldn¡¯t protect a thing. How disgusting."


    Dragan got some more leverage, slapping a hand over Ruthlessness¡¯ mouth, but it didn¡¯t matter. Every word that left this aspect¡¯s lips was meaningless -- meant only to inflict pain, to throw Bruno off his game. There was no real emotion or sentiment in them at all. Ruthlessness didn¡¯t possess such things.


    But even so¡­ Bruno couldn¡¯t help but grit his teeth.


    "Did you bring the bike?" Dragan asked. "We won¡¯t be able to keep up with the Aether on foot."


    Bruno nodded, whipping his script out of his pocket and tapping the screen. The vehicle they¡¯d prepared beforehand hovered into view -- a dusty old secondhand bike, with just enough room for the two of them. It wasn¡¯t the best they could have gotten, but they¡¯d had a timeline of about a day to get things ready.


    It would serve.


    For a moment, Ruthlessness wriggled out of Dragan¡¯s grip slightly, freeing his mouth. "If you intend to pursue Cott," he said. "It¡¯s a fruitless gesture. He¡¯s very much not defenseless. You¡¯ll die. I¡¯d recommend against it."


    Bruno walked over.


    "I¡¯m sure you would," he muttered. Then, with strength born from years of resentment, he stomped down with all his might and crushed Ruthlessness¡¯ head beneath his heel. Scraps of carved wood flew in every direction -- and a moment later, the body dissipated into orange Aether, striking up into the sky like a bolt of lightning in reverse.


    Dragan swung his legs over the bike, the hum of the engine intensifying as he readied the accelerator.


    "Let¡¯s go," he said, eyes hard.


    Ruth blinked at the figure in front of her. She didn¡¯t know what she¡¯d been expecting after the activation of Valentina¡¯s ability¡­ but this wasn¡¯t it.


    A gigantic human ear with arms and legs casually strolled past her, butcher knives clutched in its hands. A human-faced elephant dragged it¡¯s distended stomach across the ground next to it. A serpent rolled across the ground next to it, devouring its own tail. Warped and misshapen insects flew through the air in uneven, twitching patterns.


    These menagerie of freaks didn¡¯t so much as look at the Oliphant group. Some kind of red border, circular in shape and around three meters in diameter, had appeared around Valentina -- and these creatures seemed to be remaining inside that zone.


    Roy shivered as one of the freaks, a skinless canine with a crown of fingernail, walked into him. It phased through him like it was some kind of ghost, not even interrupting its carefree stride.


    "What the fuck¡­?" Ruth muttered.


    Valentina continued to stare ahead, thin tears of blood flowing from the corners of her abyssal eyes as she continued to work this ability.


    "Once, thousands of years ago," she mumbled. "A Gene Tyrant was murdered. His ship, full of his pet projects, floated through space until my people found it several years ago. Most people would have flushed these things into space. It would¡¯ve been a mercy. Still, though¡­ they¡¯re useful raw materials."


    Most of the Cotts had stopped at the red border, choosing to exercise caution, but not all of them had that wisdom. One, hyena-like laughter erupting from his throat, crossed the boundary as he charged forward with knives in hand.


    He regretted it.


    The horde of creatures fell upon him as one mass, biting, gnawing, mauling, stretching, bending, shredding¡­ they were well versed in how to destroy a human body, and they used every method available to them. If the victim had been human, Ruth was sure the brutality of this sight would have been unparalleled. Even seeing this, wood reduced to dust as it flew into the air, made a nauseous feeling writhe in her stomach.


    For a moment, the rush of the Cott aspects stopped, the majority of them looking upon the sight of their fallen comrades with faces of horror and distaste. It was time for the counterattack.


    The Cott aspects couldn¡¯t get close -- but Skipper didn¡¯t need to.


    "Heartbeat Shotgun," he yawned, lifting a finger gun in the direction of the closest enemy. A second later, their head exploded into wood fragments, and they fell forward onto the ground.


    Chaos erupted once more, the air filled with the sounds of shots -- both Skipper and Roy firing off attacks at the Cott aspects surrounding them. The aspects weren¡¯t willing to just sit around and die, of course, and did their best to avoid the rush of attacks.


    Some ducked behind cover: most of it was insufficient. Some leapt forward, trying to get close enough to detonate their vests: the creatures took care of those. Some even tried to run: they didn¡¯t get far.


    Bang, bang, bang, bang.


    The concert of massacre was neverending. Even as aspects were killed, new ones arrived. Wherever Cott was, he must have been continually generating new aspects of himself.


    Bang, bang, bang, bang.


    Ruth lifted her musket and fired right into the heart of an incoming Cott aspect, blasting its torso apart and shattering it into Aether. Cott had the advantage in numbers, needless to say, and with an ability like this it was also safe to say he was good in terms of endurance. If things just kept going like this, they¡¯d eventually get overwhelmed.


    Bang, bang, bang, bang.


    Dragan and Bruno had to eliminate Cott -- then, with the bulk of the enemy forces gone, they could go after Carla without having to watch their backs so much. In the end, it was just a matter of how long they could hold out.


    And Ruth Blaine could hold out a damn long time.


    Bang, bang, bang, bang.


    Bang.


    The forms of the creatures around her, tearing an aspect in half, wavered -- and then they blinked out of existence completely. A strand of purple Aether died in the air. Behind her, Ruth heard the sound of someone gasp for breath.


    In a movement that was lightning fast but felt painfully slow, Ruth looked back over her shoulder. It was as she¡¯d expected.


    Valentina staggered backwards, looking down at the bloody wound in the middle of her stomach. A gunshot wound, dribbling with blood, the Aether around her dying as she tried to muster it. Those black eyes returned to normal, blinking in uncomprehending confusion. She put her hand to her stomach vaguely, shaking.


    "Eli?" she whispered.


    And then she fell limp to the ground.


    Dragan didn¡¯t know when Bruno first started talking behind him. At first, the hum of the bike and the rush of the wind drowned him out completely -- as well as the focus on the bolt of orange they were chasing through the streets. By the time Dragan realized he was speaking, there was little to do but listen.


    "There used to be three of us. First Yakob, then me and Serena. Three personalities, so we could look at problems from more perspectives than one.


    "Then¡­ when we got caught, Yakob put himself in front of us, the whole time. That¡¯s how it -- that¡¯s how it worked, back then, one of us would just stand in front and the rest would be like the running commentary. He just took it, the torture¡­ for weeks. Months even. Then¡­ I guess they got creative.


    "There was a thing. A Black Blur. A¡­ I don¡¯t -- we didn¡¯t know what it was back then, but I found out afterwards. It used to be a Special Officer apparently, but it went through an Aether awakening, and after the mind was gone, the body just¡­ stuck around. They used it for¡­ things like that.


    "It was like¡­ like what Deceit does to you, but a thousand times worse. Every movement it made, every sound, even just looking at it was enough to fill your mind with these, I don¡¯t know, mind viruses. Shred your consciousness down to nothing. Even with all that, though, Yakob stayed in front of us. He¡­ kept us safe."


    Bruno sniffed.


    "By the time we got out of there, there wasn¡¯t anything left of him. Just lumps of memory and fear. Since then, it¡¯s just been the two of us."


    Dragan kept his eyes fixed on the Aether bolt as they weaved through traffic, his foot down on the accelerator.


    "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.


    "Since what happened back then," Bruno said carefully, slowly, like he was navigating a minefield. "I haven¡¯t been the best at making friends. Don¡¯t know that I¡¯ve ever been. But¡­ if I did have friends, I guess you¡¯d probably be, uh, my best -- a good friend, you know? So, thanks. I appreciate you. Doing this for me, I mean. All of you."


    Dragan smiled ruefully as he drove. The first time he and Bruno had met, he distinctly remembered threats to his life being thrown around. How had they gone from there to here? It almost beggared belief.


    And yet¡­ Dragan couldn¡¯t deny he felt the same way.


    His eyes narrowed.


    "We¡¯re here," he declared.


    Following the Aether bolt had been easier than he had expected. To be fair, it was hardly an intelligent being with the wisdom to avoid detection -- it was just raw materials returning to the source -- but still, Dragan would have expected someone with this kind of ability to take precautions against this maneuver.


    Was he just being paranoid, though? Cottian del Sed was definitely arrogant -- he very well could have just not foreseen this situation. At any rate, it was too late for second thoughts.


    The Aether bolt was slowing as it reached what was clearly it¡¯s final destination -- a rundown-looking hotel on a street corner, the neon sign that once bore it¡¯s name long since having blinked out of existence. One window on the second floor was open, and as Dragan watched the Aether crawl towards it he knew he¡¯d found their mark.


    "You ready?" he asked.


    "As I¡¯ll ever be."


    They couldn¡¯t wait for that bolt to meet back up with Cott. If that happened, Cott would get access to all the memories Ruthlessness had made while they were separated -- and he¡¯d know Dragan and Bruno were coming for him. Chances were he was using some secret route to send his aspects out to the battlefield, so he¡¯d just use that to escape.


    So¡­


    To hell with subtlety. Time to end this.


    Dragan pushed down on the accelerator with all his might as Bruno erected forcefields -- and then, with all the speed the vehicle was capable of, they rammed right through the window and smashed into the hotel room itself.


    Broken glass bounced off the forcefields. Furniture crunched and flew away in the chaos. A videograph in the corner screeched as the audio chip was ruined by the impact. And then, in a single perfect moment, Cottian del Sed¡¯s surprised face appeared before them, rubble raining down on him as he sat dazed on the couch.


    Dragan didn¡¯t waste a moment. He lunged forward, jumping off the bike, and tackled Cott to the ground, lifting his Aether-infused fist up to smash the bastard¡¯s smug face in. Bruno -- no, Serena -- leapt off the vehicle at the same time, ripping two parts of the chassis off as swords as she charged at the young man before them.


    "Cott!" she roared.


    "That¡¯s not me."


    The tiniest seams in that frightened face. The slightest glassy aspect to those surprised eyes. The unexpected solidity of the body he¡¯d crashed into.


    Dragan Hadrien noticed them all too late.


    The white hot pain of a stunbolt slammed into his back at the same time as it struck Serena. The two of them, having invested all their strength into attack rather than defense at that moment, were spent sprawling down onto the floor, twitching from the aftereffects. Between them, the Cott aspect they¡¯d tackled wept in fear.


    "Cott!" he wept tearlessly, hands close to his chest. "You saved me!"


    Dragan heard footsteps behind him -- and as he turned his head as much as his malfunctioning body was able, he saw Cottian del Sed emerge from the darkness of the en suite bathroom, a smoking stun pistol clutched in each of his hands.


    "Yeah, yeah, whatever, Caution. You did a good job as a decoy," Cott said, smirking. Then he turned his dismissive gaze down to Serena. "Been a while. Which one are you?"


    Serena snarled wordlessly.


    "Oh, it¡¯s Serena. You two¡¯ve been a real pain in my ass, you know -- but did you really think I wouldn¡¯t have someone watching my best sniper? This plan sucked."


    More aspects, four of them, walked into the room, each holding implements that shone with the potential for violence. A mace, a chakram, a broadsword and a brutal-looking buckler. As they were now, Dragan and Serena wouldn¡¯t be able to defend themselves against a beating. It would all be over.


    A loose chunk of the shattered ceiling fell down, and Dragan absorbed it into his Gemini Shotgun as subtly as possible, but that was still only one shot. He had no doubt Cott would be able to dodge from this distance, and even if he took out one of the aspects the others would just converge upon him at once.


    He had his other precaution, too, but as he was now he couldn¡¯t reach for his script -- and those weapons would be upon him before his hand could even reach his pocket.


    Dragan gritted his teeth. Was there no way out of this?


    "Cott," Serena glared. "I¡¯ll kill you."


    Cott scanned the scene before him with unimpressed eyes. "Like this? I doubt it."


    Serena looked like she was about to bark some other threat, but then her expression of white-hot fury melted into Bruno¡¯s cold rage.


    "Oh?" Cott said with only mild interest. "The other one. How¡¯s it going, Bruno?"


    "If you¡¯re going to kill us," Bruno said quietly. "Just do it. What are you waiting for?"


    "Your friends are killing a whole lot of my aspects," Cott said almost conversationally, leaning on the shoulder of a nearby puppet. "I¡¯ll use you as hostages and have them abandon the Oliphants. Then I¡¯ll kill you. You have to use your resources carefully, Bruno. You were there when me and Yakob learnt that, weren¡¯t you?"


    Bruno gulped.


    "We would have died for you, you know," he muttered, voice shaking.


    "You already did," Cott sneered. "So what¡¯s the problem?"


    Bruno went to start picking himself up, only to be brought back down to the ground by a tough smack to his back from the mace. The aspect that had brought it down giggled as it grinned, spinning the weapon in its grip.


    "What happened to you?" he grunted in pain. "How can you do things like this to people? To Yakob?"


    Cott¡¯s eyes narrowed. "What happened to me? I survived. You didn¡¯t. All you are now is a corpse walking around, reminding me of stupid shit. It¡¯s only natural for me to finally get rid of you."


    "Fuck you," Bruno growled, eyes wide with utter hatred.


    "Whatever," Cott snorted. "I don¡¯t need you awake to use you as a hostage. Joy, knock them out for me."


    "Okie dokie!" The mace-wielding aspect -- Joy -- chirped, raising the weapon high above his head. Orange Aether concentrated at its core. Forget being knocked out, they¡¯d be lucky if a blow from that didn¡¯t smash their heads in.


    This was the last chance they had. If that mace came down, they¡¯d never get another opportunity to act. With the tiniest inkling of strength returning to him, Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked through the room.


    One shot.


    Could he bring the ceiling down, create a diversion to escape? No, not with this much firepower.


    Could he somehow bounce the shot around, get all his enemies with one attack? Not in his wildest dreams.


    Could he catch Cott by surprise, blow his head off and cut this ability off at the source? No, Cott was laser-focused on them. He wouldn¡¯t be able to blink without being noticed.


    Could he¡­?


    Could he¡­?


    Could he¡­?


    The mace moved, and Dragan¡¯s eyes focused on a dark shape in the corner of the room. It was as far away from them as possible, outside the range of the lights, like it was something unwanted. An object of fear.


    An object of fear that was long and rectangular, and most importantly locked.


    Cott has a weakness. There¡¯s a coffin he¡¯s afraid of.


    The smug smile on Cott¡¯s face wavered, just slightly, as he realized what Dragan was looking at. He paled in an instant. His mouth opened to scream, and¡­


    "NO!"


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    Electric-blue Aether surged through the room, and there was the undeniable sound of smashing metal.


    The thing in the dark hated, and squinted at the light.


    For so long it had been alone, without sight or hearing or speech. The sole method by which it could interact with the world had been the scratching of wooden fingernails against the roof of its prison. All it had been able to do was remember, and regret, and hate.


    The thing in the dark hated itself.


    It pulled itself out through the new light, through the hole that had been blasted into its prison, and looked at the world outside. It¡¯s eyes were porcelain, and had no need to adjust.


    Five of itself stood in the room, four aspects flanking the self that it hated. The betrayer, the liar, the coward. Cottian del Sed. The source looked utterly terrified as it stared at the thing in the dark.


    It looked down, at the figures on the floor. One young man it didn¡¯t recognize¡­ and one it did.


    The thing in the dark smiled sadly.


    "Hello, Bruno," said Guilt.

 Chapter 179:7.28: Cowards

    Years ago¡­


    Cottian del Sed sat in the interrogation room, hands bound with Neverwire cuffs, knowing that he was not long for this world.


    The room was unnaturally clean -- sterile, even, like a hospital -- save for the tiniest bloodstain on the leg of the chair he¡¯d been thrown in. A souvenir from this room¡¯s previous occupant, no doubt. The silence of the room since the guards had left was oppressive, unnatural, like all noise had been actively scrubbed away.


    The only thing he could hear was his heartbeat. He could feel it in his eyes, like they¡¯d be pushed out of their sockets by the hammering of the organ. Right now, so close to death, he felt like he was appreciating all the functions of his body for the first time. He felt sick.


    "Do you believe in destiny?"


    Cott looked up from the table, eyes wide. He was certain he¡¯d been on high alert, but the door had opened and someone had stepped in without him even noticing. His interrogator, the Supremacy dog that would be putting an end to him.


    He was out of his league here. He was out of his league. He should have just gone home. He wanted to go home.


    The man who stepped into the room, sitting opposite Cott with a thin smile, had a bizarre appearance. Pale skin, white hair and a white suit, all as utterly spotless as this soulless room. If not for the tiniest spark of Cogitant-blue in the man¡¯s pupils, he would look like a sketch that hadn¡¯t been coloured in. He steepled his hands in front of him.


    "If you don¡¯t mind," he said in a hushed tone, as if concerned he¡¯d be overheard. "I¡¯m going to repeat my question. Do you believe in destiny?"


    Remember your training, Cott told himself. Don¡¯t give them any ammunition against you. Death is assured, but defeat is not.


    "I¡¯m not saying anything," he replied, his voice hoarse from fear and exhaustion. "You should just kill me now."


    The man continued as if he¡¯d gotten an entirely different answer.


    "I find the way people answer this question -- especially people in the same line of work as us two -- to be very interesting. If it¡¯s alright with you, I¡¯d like to explain why: the majority of people like us automatically say ¡¯no¡¯. How could they not? They have witnessed the catastrophe of coincidence numerous times. Countless deaths, incalculable suffering, brought about through no divine plan -- only the end result of mindless chaos. However, my own view of destiny differs significantly. May I tell you about it?"


    "I¡¯m not saying anything," Cott said, balling his fists. "You should just kill me now."


    "My belief," the man continued, his blue eyes as cold as ice. "Is that destiny is something you concoct for yourself over the course of your life. At the start of your journey, you have near limitless choices, but for each choice you make you limit the routes you can take in the future. Eventually, at some point, a person reaches the point where they have made all their choices, and they can no longer change the course they are on -- at that point, the only path available to them is to witness the conclusion they¡¯ve concocted for themselves."


    "I¡¯m not saying anything. You should just --"


    The man smiled. "The majority of choices you make here will end in you being tortured to death. Your destiny is very nearly locked in."


    Cott¡¯s blood ran cold at those words. Death had been something he¡¯d anticipated, maybe even prepared himself for, but the idea of the pain preceding it¡­ was that something anyone could be ready for?


    His mouth betrayed him.


    "Tortured¡­ to death?"


    The words were nearly silent as they left his lips, but the man heard them loud and clear. His eyes narrowed, just slightly, from satisfaction.


    "Yes," the interrogator said simply.


    Cott gulped, clenching his hands tighter, fingernails digging into his palms. Even that was painful. How much more painful would his end be?


    "I won¡¯t talk," he said with all the resolve he could muster. "No matter what you do, I won¡¯t say a word."


    The man¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waver in the slightest. "I believe you. Nevertheless, we must torture you to death. The situation demands it."


    "What?"


    There was a rattling sound, Cott¡¯s cuffs tapping the table as he shook. He cursed that noise, that undeniable proof of his fear.


    The man leaned over the table slightly further, cold eyes drilling into Cott¡¯s own. If Cott had his Aether, he had no doubt he could defeat this enemy -- summon some aspects and beat him down to the ground. But here, now, he was powerless. There wasn¡¯t a thing he could do.


    "You and your comrades have inflicted a wound on the Supremacy," the Cogitant said. "It is not enough that we have caught you, you see -- the fact that you managed to enter the Supremacy in the first place is damning. Examples must be made, so that such an unfortunate incident does not take place again."


    He was going to die in this room. That thought, previously an abstract, became heavy certainty pressing down on Cott¡¯s insides.


    The man went on unabated, his droning voice like the reaper¡¯s slow approach. As he spoke and spoke, he did not blink, only continuing to stare. Cott did not think he¡¯d seen the man blink even once since he walked in.


    "You say you will not tell us anything. This is true, but only in a sense. Our methods are very effective: before long you will be willing to admit to anything we accuse you of. Ironically enough, this will make you useless to us, but we will not stop there. We will work at you until you are little but a twitching pile of meat, cognizant only of pain and its absence, and then we will show you to the world. We will demonstrate what happens to things such as you. Only then, when the message is understood, will we put an end to you. Or perhaps we won¡¯t -- I can¡¯t tell the future, after all."


    Hot, acidic nausea rose up Cott¡¯s throat -- and before he could refuse the man again, he found himself vomiting on the table before him. A sickening kaleidoscope of his last few meals dripped onto the floor. The white-haired man wrinkled his nose in obvious disgust at the mess.


    "You are frightened," he said, scooting his chair back slightly. "That is understandable -- I have just told you of your lamentable conclusion. Know, however, that this future is not fixed. There are options before you -- I told you that the majority of them will result in you being tortured to death, but a majority is not the entirety. There is a light to the side of this tunnel."


    Slowly, vomit still stuck to his chin, Cott looked up at the man. Despite everything, despite the resolve he thought he¡¯d tempered, there was hope in his eyes.


    "What do you mean?" he asked, voice hoarser than ever.


    "Right now, we have only you. The message of your annihilation would be brief. Tell us where your comrades are hiding, and we will do this thing to them instead. A saga rather than a memo, and you will be free to go. All trespasses will be forgotten and forgiven."


    "I¡­I couldn¡¯t¡­"


    "Then we will torture you to death. I¡¯ll leave you to make a decision."


    Dusting non-existent dirt off of his white suit, the man turned away and left the room, closing the door behind him. Once again, Cott was left alone in that pale chamber, his only companion the slow dripping of his own vomit.


    He couldn¡¯t do that. Not to Yakob, not to Bruno and Serena. There was no way. He couldn¡¯t. There was no way he could. No¡­ no way.


    Blood.


    For a single, startling moment, he managed to imagine the whole thing in impeccable detail. Saws scraping at his bones, knives flaying his skin, toxins soaking through his ruined flesh. A horde of ordeals never quite reaching the conclusion, for years and years¡­


    He couldn¡¯t let that happen. No living thing could. There wasn¡¯t an animal alive that would knowingly throw themselves to that fate. It was worse than suicide.


    It was¡­ it was only natural, then, that he¡¯d do whatever it took to avoid that, wasn¡¯t it? Nobody could blame him for that. If this was going to happen to someone either way, why did it have to happen to him? He¡¯d been loyal. He always looked out for others. Didn¡¯t he deserve, then, to think about himself for once? Wasn¡¯t he entitled to his own safety?


    Rationalisation after rationalisation spawned inside his mind, but none managed to take root. Every time he thought himself about to reach a conclusion, the image of Yakob¡¯s anguished face would flash into his thoughts, and that same nausea would return to him. Guilt salted the earth before any justification could grow strong.


    He leaned forward, head in his hands, sobbing -- and then a single, treacherous thought popped into his head.


    If guilt was the problem¡­


    ¡­then couldn¡¯t he just excise that tumour?


    Cott stared in wide-eyed horror as the aspect from the coffin stepped forward, smiling sadly down at Bruno. Dragan almost despaired as he saw that the thing seemed to be another puppet, just like the others. This was Cott¡¯s big weakness?


    "Hello, Bruno," it said quietly.


    Bruno¡¯s face was utter confusion. "Who¡­ are you?"


    The smile faded. "My name is Guilt."


    Oh. Oh. In that moment, Dragan understood. Dragan understood how a person could throw away the people he¡¯d grown up with without blinking an eye. Dragan understood how someone could condemn their best friend to torture and sneer at them the next they met.


    He could do that because he¡¯d locked his Guilt away a long time ago.


    Even if he was lacking guilt, however, Cott¡¯s shaking voice showed he still had terror.


    "Get back in that coffin," he hissed, glaring daggers at the puppet. "I don¡¯t -- you -- get out of here! Get away from me!"


    Cott was utterly ignored. Instead, Guilt continued to look at Bruno, staring at the blood soaking through the back of his jacket. "I¡¯ve hurt you again," he said sadly. "How many times have I hurt you now?"


    Serena burst forth from Bruno¡¯s face for a moment. "Too many times to count."


    Guilt slowly nodded. "Too many times to count," he softly agreed. Steadily, he looked back up at Cott -- and even that was enough to make the young man step back.


    Unseen by all, Dragan snuck his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around his script. Whatever happened now, he was ready.


    "Are you that frightened of me?" Guilt asked, cocking his head at Cott. "But of course you are. You cannot raise a hand against me. That is what you fear most of all. Alas¡­"


    The puppet slowly raised his hands up, grabbing his own head by the temples, that sad smile never leaving his face. Across from him, Cott paled further, his body shaking.


    Bruno furrowed his brow. "What are you¡­?"


    "Don¡¯t," Cott whispered, back pressed against the wall.


    Guilt closed his eyes. "Goodbye, Yakob. You really are my very best friend."


    "Stop!" Cott screamed, charging forward in a thoughtless attempt to prevent what was about to happen, his hands flailing at empty air in panic.


    But Guilt did not stop. Instead, with all the strength his wooden body was capable of, he pulled -- and tore his own head clean off his shoulders.


    He died immediately, of course, his body dissipating into Aether before it even hit the ground -- and then that orange lightning shot forward. Past the other aspects, past Dragan, past Bruno, until it struck the charging Cott in the chest and diffused throughout his body. His eyes widened, his mouth too, all shaking from his body stopping as he suddenly became still as a statue.


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    For a moment, there was nothing but silence.


    Then Cott screamed.


    It flowed into him.


    Guilt allowed to gestate and mature uninterrupted, days and months and years of sensory deprivation¡­ those feelings and memories flowed into him, as corrosive as acid against paper. Thoughts Cottian del Sed had long abandoned forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. Emotions he¡¯d discarded stabbed at his heart like knives.


    What had he done?


    What had he done?!


    His mind sought places to run, but all thoughts were blocked by the uninvited guest. He¡¯d had no choice in the matter -- what had he done?! They¡¯d deserved it anyway -- what had he done?! Anyone else would have done the same thing -- what had he done?!


    What had he done?! What had he done?! What had he done?!


    His scream trailed off as he put his hands to his head, as if about to mimic Guilt and tear it straight off. Drool dribbled from his lips. His eyes twitched.


    He had to do something. He couldn¡¯t stay here any longer. If his mind couldn¡¯t run, his feet surely could.


    Cott turned on his heel and shouted.


    "Kill them!" Cott roared, sprinting out of the hotel room. "Kill them now!"


    The aspects didn¡¯t waste any time. Immediately, the grinning one with the mace swung his weapon down at Bruno -- only for the attack to be deflected by a forcefield that appeared over his head. The stunbolt had run its course.


    Dragan leapt to his feet, narrowly avoiding the broadsword swinging for him. A split-second use of Gemini World avoided the second blow -- and when the third attack came, Dragan seized the fleeing Caution by the shoulders and used him as a human shield, the wooden puppet eviscerated by the blow.


    "He¡¯s getting away!" Serena shouted, deflecting blows with a ceramic sword that was quickly degrading.


    She was right. They couldn¡¯t afford to waste time on these obvious distractions. Dropping to the floor to avoid a flying chakram, Dragan whipped his script out of his pocket.


    A human figure, grainy and degraded, was visible on the screen.


    "Now or never," Dragan breathed.


    It nodded.


    Roy dropped to the ground, planting meaty hands over Valentina¡¯s wound to try and stop the bleeding, but a steady puddle was already spreading out around her. Scout looked down at his aunt, eyes wide, shocked into inaction.


    "Shit," Ruth hissed, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him with her down behind some crates. "Get down!"


    She had no doubt that Valentina would have been using Aether to defend herself while using her ability. The fact that she¡¯d been shot all the same meant the attack must have come from Eli Masadora -- she didn¡¯t know how, but somehow that man could create weapons that negated Aether.


    Here, under his sniper gaze, they might as well have been naked. Skipper and Fix ducked down beneath a barrier of stone the latter had erected. Only Abraham Oliphant refused to run for cover, his hands clasped behind his back, but his mechanical body likely gave him more protection against such attacks than a normal human being.


    "Do you find the thought of danger so terrifying?" he asked dispassionately, looking down at Roy. "Does the sight of blood truly unsettle you so?"


    Roy looked up from his labour, teeth bared, tears streaming down his mountainous face.


    "She¡¯s your daughter, you bastard!" he roared, the air shaking from the intensity of his voice. "Shut your fucking mouth!"


    For the first time since she¡¯d seen him, true emotion appeared on Abraham Oliphant¡¯s face. It was subtle, but there -- his nostrils flaring as his face turned red, just a little.


    "Don¡¯t you dare speak to me like that, boy," he hissed, stepping towards his son. "Who the hell do you think you¡¯re talking to?"


    In that single moment, when the attention of those gathered lapsed, the last Cott puppet picked it¡¯s chance well. It leaped out from the pile of rubble, reaching out for Abraham Oliphant, an explosive vest strapped to its body. Blinking, blinking. Half its face was burnt away by flames.


    Ruth raised her musket to blast the puppets head off -- but as it opened its mouth and uttered an incoherent croak, she got the distinct feeling she should hesitate just a moment. Her finger twitched, wavering over the trigger. Her moment was missed.


    "Heartbeat Shotgun." S§×arch* The n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The head of the puppet exploded into scraps of wood and sawdust, showering over the dark metal of Abraham¡¯s body. What was left of the body tumbled through the air, almost comical as the false limbs flopped around. It was almost like a ragdoll.


    But the explosive vest was unharmed, and as it flew¡­


    Click.


    The explosion, now that it was close, was both blinding and deafening. Scout, slightly closer to it than Ruth, was sent flying away entirely. Roy and Valentina were obscured by the billowing smoke that poured through the area. In the distance, a fire alarm could be heard screaming.


    Ruth nearly went the same way as Scout, only for Skipper to grab her in mid-air by the back of the collar, pulling her into the rudimentary shelter Fix had created. Air pressure and fire crawled over the outer surface of the rock, and Ruth could hear the distinct sounds of creaking metal beneath them.


    All in all, it probably lasted seconds -- but it felt like they endured for hours. When it died down, the air was full of the stink of smoke and burnt wood.


    Skipper breathed a ragged sigh of relief. "Well," he grinned. "That just --"


    And then the floor collapsed.


    The best way to have people do what you say, Dragan had always found, was to make it abundantly clear just how fucked they¡¯d be if they didn¡¯t.


    The little woman on his script had waited patiently in the hospital as, at great length, Dragan had detailed this plan of theirs -- all the factors that could go into it, all the reasons it would most likely succeed, staring into the depths of that dark screen. Even if they told others about the plan, it would succeed. Even if they¡¯d killed him there and then, it would succeed.


    By the end of the night, the Oliphant Clan would be in power once again -- and once they were, they¡¯d come looking for the ones who had hurt them. Or, as it turned out, the ones who had helped them.


    If nothing else, mercenaries knew how to pick the winning side.


    "Ring," the girl on the script hissed -- and a second later, when she lunged forward, her hand burst forth from the screen, clutching a kitchen knife.


    At this range, there was no way for the mace-wielding aspect to dodge. The knife smashed through its porcelain eye and skewered it¡¯s wooden head, causing the mace to slip from its grasp as consciousness abandoned it. Still holding the dissipating puppet up by the eye socket, the ragged woman pulled herself out of the script.


    She¡¯d changed clothes since the last time Dragan had seen her -- now she wore an oversized white shirt and a pair of torn jeans. To be honest, the casual attire she was wearing detracted a little from the whole videograph-monster vibe she was clearly aiming for, but the way she climbed out of the script more than made up for that.


    Her limbs clicked and bent the wrong way as she pulled herself up out of the screen, using the carpeted floor as a base. Her long fingers made her hands look like spiders as they found uneasy purchase. Her ribs crunched like mandibles as they squeezed out of the cramped confines of the device. Her legs shook like those of a newborn deer as she rose up to her full height.


    A hollow gasp escaped her lips.


    "You and your partner take care of these," Dragan grunted as he pulled himself to his feet. "Me and Bruno will go after the boss."


    The chakram-wielding aspect charged at the ragged woman, weapon ready to slice through flesh, but her wide visible eye flicked over in his direction with all the speed of animal instinct.


    "Grudge," she rasped.


    Her pale ghostly Aether flared around her -- and then a simulacrum of the dead mace-wielding aspect burst out of her body, smashing the head of the chakram user to pieces before vanishing again. The remaining two aspects took a step back, adjusting their stances to a more cautious footing.


    Dragan exchanged a glance with Bruno, who nodded back -- and as one, the two of them used the opening to charge through the hole in the wall, in the same direction Cott had fled.


    Abraham Oliphant adjusted the acuity of his vision, the cloud of smoke and smog surrounding him barely even qualifying as an obstacle. What had happened? He¡¯d been distracted at the time, but it seemed the floor beneath them had collapsed.


    Where had he ended up, then? Lights activated across Abraham¡¯s mechanical body, illuminating the area around him. An abode formed of wreckage -- both of the floor that had fallen down, and of the unfinished one it had landed in.


    Shattered glass crunched beneath his steel feet as he took one step. Broken storefronts lay in heaps around him, like garbage mountains -- no doubt those of his entourage who hadn¡¯t managed to keep their footing above were buried somewhere beneath them.


    "Boy?" he called out for his son. He was a fool, but his strength made him useful in situations like this.


    The voice that answered him did not belong to his son.


    "What?" Eli Masadora chuckled from over Abraham¡¯s shoulder. "You never learnt my name?"


    "Nevermore."


    The drone automatic hovering behind him was crushed against the floor in an instant, becoming little more than a scrap pancake. Holographic black feathers hung in the air around it for a moment before dissipating into dark purple Aether. It was tempting to think that they were functionless, but Abraham had learned long ago that appearance was a function all its own.


    "So very violent of you," Eli laughed from the darkness. "Surely you¡¯re not afraid of me?"


    "Nevermore."


    Again, the drone automatic that Eli¡¯s voice had been speaking from was crushed against the ground by gravity¡¯s embrace, utterly ruined by the impact. Sparks and shards of metal flew into the air as smoke poured forth from the iron corpse.


    Aether was the heart of power itself, but Abraham had never seen a need to make that power complicated. Simply smashing a thing down to the ground with gravity was enough to deal with most any threat. He had commanded that power for sixty-five years, and it had never failed to terrorise.


    As such, a situation like this, where one dared mock him when faced with such power, it was, it was¡­


    Vexing.


    "Is that you, Masadora?" Abraham called out, eyes independently scanning his surroundings. "I was told you were involved. You¡¯ve come back to irritate me again?"


    Bang.


    Abraham¡¯s hand lashed out and caught the bullet before it could even come close, clutching the smoking projectile between two fingers. His fingertips glowed red from the heat. With only mild curiosity, he turned the projectile over in his hand, examining it.


    "This is one of the Neverwire weapons I¡¯ve heard so much about?" he mused, letting the pellet drop to the floor. "I haven¡¯t seen the like before. Your own creation?"


    This time from above. "Nursing a grudge is easy work. It leaves me time for hobbies."


    "Nevermore."


    The third drone was smashed upwards, pressed against an intact part of the shattered roof. Bolts and scraps clung up there, as if the ceiling had become the floor.


    "Seems you¡¯re not in the mood for conversation, eh?" Eli¡¯s voice came from the darkness. "Well, let¡¯s get started."


    The darkness was utterly illuminated as dozens of drone automatics let loose, rapid-fire shots of those same bullets hurtling towards Abraham. Any one of those would be enough to disable a fighter who relied on flawed flesh-and-blood. How unlucky for Eli Masadora.


    A steel dome, designed to protect Abraham¡¯s exposed head, slid over to cover his cranium. The rain of bullets dinged harmlessly off of his armoured body, doing little more than impeding his vision. The rainfall was constant, from every direction, the noise of their deflection drowning out all other sound.


    Something was moving among the drones too, as they bobbed and weaved, a humanoid shadow with a sword clutched in its hand. Masadora: how foolish of him to show himself.


    The circle of drones was contracting: that much was obvious. Nevermore crushed many, but their complex movement patterns made it difficult to catch them in his stationary gravity fields.


    Masadora, too, circled in a sprint as he slowly drew closer. Sometimes, his heels would be caught by Nevermore¡¯s fields, but not nearly enough to smash him against the floor or ceiling. After a brief stumble, he¡¯d be running again.


    Irritating, but not concerning. Abraham¡¯s mechanical body was highly resistant to the crushing effects of gravity -- it would be unpleasant, but he could simply use Nevermore around himself if Masadora grew too close.


    But that was a last resort. Abraham Oliphant had no need for last resorts.


    Abraham¡¯s hands reconfigured themselves, fingers clicking as they realigned themselves into a form far from those of human hands. Twin miniguns hung off the ends of Abraham¡¯s arms, and as he turned in place, his own plasma tore through the drones surrounding him, slicing them into pieces as surely as any blade.


    As the bodies of the drones were scraped away, they slowed -- allowing Nevermore to crush them against the ground. The air was full of bullets and plasma and fading black feathers. In that clouded chaos, Eli Masadora took his best, last chance.


    He leapt out of the smoke, somehow avoiding each and every drop of plasma, whip-sword reared back to stab into Abraham¡¯s steel. In an instant, Abraham reconfigured his right hand back into an actual fist and punched at the approaching figure with such speed that the wind visibly broiled around his knuckles.


    But his hand did not meet flesh. Instead, his fist simply phased through Eli Masadora as if the man wasn¡¯t even there.


    One of Abraham¡¯s eyes flicked down to the floor beneath his enemy, where a tiny automatic was scuttling across the floor like a spider. The tiny blue light that flickered on its back was undeniably a hologram projector.


    This Masadora was nothing but a decoy. Which meant¡­


    Abraham whirled around with horrifying speed, an utter contrast to his formidable size, and seized the real Masadora by the throat, holding him in mid-air. He had been about to strike Abraham in the back like a coward, but that was to be expected for one of his deficiency. His legs kicked futilely in the air as Abraham held him up.


    A simple squeeze would be the end of him, but Abraham was not about to let him go to the afterlife content. He opened his mouth.


    "It¡¯s as I told you, boy," he said, applying pressure. "Not. Good. Enough."


    Eli twitched in his grip, his legs falling limp -- but rather than the slackened face of death, a choked grin rose to his face.


    "If you say so," Eli wheezed. He writhed in Abraham¡¯s grasp, and his coat fell open.


    Strapped to his chest was an explosive vest. That, on its own, would be no cause for concern -- Abraham¡¯s body was too strong to be harmed by petty explosions -- but this vest was somehow different from those the puppets had been wearing. Bulkier, with blue lights flashing from deep within. What that meant he could not say, but some long-forgotten animal part of his brain screamed at him that this was danger.


    He went to squeeze Eli¡¯s head, to crush it between his fingers, but it was too late.


    Click.


    Bang.

 Chapter 180:7.29: Without Witness

    If Abraham Oliphant had lungs, he would have gasped for air as consciousness returned to him.


    Something was wrong. His body, which usually responded to his whims at the speed of thought, refused to obey him. It simply remained standing there, stock-still as a statue, smoke drifting up from the parts damaged by the blast. The only part of him that was capable of movement were his fingers, which twitched mindlessly at the ends of his hands.


    One of his eyes wasn¡¯t working properly, either, blinking in and out of vision like a malfunctioning camera. Every now and then, he¡¯d hear a split-second screech from the audio chip in his left ear. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.


    What had happened? Masadora had detonated the bomb strapped to himself, but that wouldn¡¯t have been sufficient to damage Abraham to this degree. Had it been some kind of EMP then, as well, or perhaps the delivery mechanism for a virus?


    Whatever the case, the result was obvious: slowly but surely, the life support functions of Abraham¡¯s suit were failing. The reserves of oxygen, automatically stored as a surplus, were running low. The cardiac pumps that kept blood flowing to the brain were slowing, making him feel light-headed and ill. Slowly, slowly, he was being pulled out of this world.


    He exerted his will, screaming inside his head for his body to move. If he could only walk, just a little bit, he could get back to his ship. His spare body was there waiting for him. He could be saved.


    But no matter how much he demanded, no matter how much he commanded, his body did not move. It had already become an iron statue. Tears of fury and frustration ran down Abraham¡¯s face.


    For a moment, he genuinely thought all hope was lost -- and then, there was a thump as a bulky humanoid figure landed on the ground in front of him.


    His son, Roy. The man was good for little more than his muscles -- but seeing him here, now, was a godsend. He could transport Abraham¡¯s head to his ship in no time flat.


    "Pa?" Roy called out, voice hoarse, swinging around in the darkness.


    "I¡¯m here," Abraham grunted, voice raspy and quiet without its enhancements. "Assist me."


    Roy stepped closer, becoming visible in what little light was available, and Abraham could see that tears were streaming down his own face as well. His massive hands were shaking. His lip wobbled like that of an infant.


    "Pa," he muttered. "Val, she¡¯s --"


    Abraham took control.


    "Listen to me carefully, boy," he barked. "I need you to use the emergency release in my suit -- that¡¯ll detach my head and some of the life support kit to keep me going. You need to get me back to my ship and my spare body. I don¡¯t know how, but that trash Masadora managed to do some damage. I will die if you don¡¯t hurry."


    Roy blinked, before hurriedly nodding.


    "Right, right," he mumbled, stepping over and groping for the emergency release -- his huge, clumsy hand slapping against the collar of the suit. "I just, um¡­ I just¡­"


    "Carefully," Abraham reprimanded, glaring daggers. "Any damage could be catastrophic."


    "Sorry," Roy breathed, nodding again. His oversized fingers went to flick the switch, but passed over it instead. "Sorry! I just --"


    His fumbling hands passed over the switch again.


    "Boy!"


    "I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry!" Roy yelled, moving around behind Abraham to get a better angle. "It¡¯s just¡­ Val, she¡¯s¡­ she¡¯s¡­"


    "Press the switch!"


    The words left Roy¡¯s mouth as a whisper. "She¡¯s dead."


    Angry heat rising to his face, Abraham simply continued to shout: "Do I look like I give a damn?! Hurry up and help me!"


    Roy¡¯s fumbling stopped. Abraham, appreciating the reduced tension, took a deep breath with what little oxygen was still available to him. He spoke evenly, calmly, with all the authority decades of supremacy had given him.


    "Listen carefully, boy," he said slowly. "You must take me back to the ship. If you do not, I am going to die. Do you understand?"


    No response. Abraham couldn¡¯t see Roy from where he was, either. A fragment of uncertainty, something Abraham Oliphant had long forgotten the texture of, entered his voice.


    "Boy?"


    Again, no response -- save for the slow, purposeful sound of heavy footsteps. Footsteps moving away from him. No, no no no, surely he wouldn¡¯t¡­


    "Boy!" Abraham cried out, unable to so much as turn around to face his retreating son. "What are you doing?! Don¡¯t be foolish! I¡¯m still here!"


    Footsteps. He could feel his ¡¯breathing¡¯ growing shallower.


    "Roy, what the hell do you think you¡¯re doing?! Think about this! What I said -- I didn¡¯t mean it, this is a stressful situation for us all! Use your head, son, that -- that anger, don¡¯t listen to it, please -- for the love of god, man!"


    Footsteps. He could feel his ¡¯heartbeat¡¯ slowing.


    "Please! No no no! Don¡¯t leave me! Don¡¯t leave me!" He tried to scream those words, but with the oxygen available to him they only left his mouth as shallow gasps.


    Footsteps, and then -- nothing.


    His vision turned black as his eyes ran out of power. Abraham Oliphant remained in utter darkness for the few minutes that remained of his life, as every function of his body grinded to an utter halt. He¡¯d spent his entire life building his coffin, and now it could finally fulfill its purpose.


    And once those few minutes were over? Well, it was a pretty safe bet he saw darkness afterwards too.


    Eli could have laughed. What a show. What a show to die to.


    The incoherent begging of Abraham Oliphant had reignited Eli¡¯s consciousness, like a fire flaring right before it died down for good. His vision was blurry and indistinct, but he could see the hulking shape that was Abraham, frozen in place, already growing cold.


    His lips were still moving, silently -- but as Eli watched from the ground, a lazy grin on his face, that movement ceased utterly. Abraham Oliphant stared straight forward into space as he departed from this world.


    Eli tried to laugh, but the pain was such that he abandoned the notion immediately. Still¡­ he¡¯d done it. He¡¯d actually done it. He¡¯d killed Abraham Oliphant. Not good enough? If that was the case, then Abraham must have been abysmal.


    Would he survive this? Was there a possibility? Eli glanced down at the lower half of his body.


    Didn¡¯t look like it.


    The blast had utterly annihilated Eli from the abdomen down, turning that entire part of his body into a red pulp of meat and bone. Rivers of blood were already forming from his carcass, and he could see his shredded organs like popped balloons. If nothing else, they¡¯d save money on his burial: they¡¯d only need half a plot.


    He rested his weary head on the cold metal floor, still grinning up at the darkness above. He¡¯d done it, if nothing else. It had taken everything he¡¯d had, but here, at the end, he felt utter contentment like nothing he¡¯d ever experienced before.


    And as he felt that unfamiliar emotion, a spark of dark-green Aether ran along his fingers.


    He could have laughed. Again, he opened his mouth to laugh -- but by the time that he did, the only thing that left his lips was a death rattle.


    Cottian del Sed ran for his life.


    As far as Dragan could see, he had no destination in mind, no plan -- just pure animal terror driving him to try and escape the present threat. Whether that threat was Dragan and Bruno or the demons in Cott¡¯s own mind, he couldn¡¯t say, but the man was running with all he had.


    He charged through the dense city streets, knocking people over and smashing carts and stalls to pieces as he barrelled right through them. Dense orange Aether broiled around his body, making him little more than a sprinting battering ram. Every now and then, he¡¯d look back over his shoulder, eyes wide with terror, at his pursuers.


    Under these circumstances, Dragan couldn¡¯t get a Gemini Shotgun off without risking hitting people in the crowd. He glanced to the side, to Bruno, but the other boy didn¡¯t seem worried that Cott was going to get away. He just continued to stare ahead as he ran with practiced form, resolute.


    They turned a corner, and the inevitable conclusion of the chase revealed itself.


    Cott had reached the end of the district, all that awaited him being a railing and a long, long drop. He ran forward until he reached the railing as if a new exit would present itself, but as he grasped it tight and looked around frantically, it became obvious he had nowhere left to run. Still, Dragan kept wary as he slowed his pace -- a cornered animal was the most dangerous.


    "Yakob," Cott breathed, turning around and pressing his back against the railing. "I-I can explain¡­"


    Bruno¡¯s eyes were cold as ice.


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    "Yakob¡¯s dead," he said. "You¡¯re dealing with us now." A forcefield hovered over one of his hands, ready to pummel a skull -- and as Dragan watched, Bruno¡¯s other hand reached out and grasped a nearby light fixture, warping it into a serrated blade of metal and broken glass.


    Whatever happened now, it would be a cooperative effort.


    Cott was shaking violently, hands deathly-white as they clutched the railing for dear life. It was like he was paddling in the ocean, that piece of metal the only thing keeping him afloat.


    He looked down. "You don¡¯t understand¡­" he muttered, long hair hanging over his face. "They would¡¯ve hurt me, Yakob¡­ they would have¡­"


    Bruno¡¯s eyes sharpened into Serena¡¯s. "They hurt us. You hurt us."


    Cott finally let go of the railing, hands clawing at his face as if to find an exit through it. "You would¡¯ve done the same¡­" he whispered, almost pleadingly.


    Slowly, Bruno shook his head. "Never."


    What might have been a laugh trickled from Cott¡¯s throat -- hollow, humourless, like the slow cracking of black ice. His face still in his hands, he called out, voice muffled.


    "What now, then? You kill me?"


    The glass in Serena¡¯s sword crunched as she waved it through the air, a few chunks dropping onto the floor below. Dragan was sure a blow from that thing would slice and flay at the same time -- and in that moment, Serena¡¯s face said that she would relish that prospect.


    "I don¡¯t know," Serena whispered. "I haven¡¯t decided yet."


    When Cott looked up from his hands, he sneered, but it seemed his heart wasn¡¯t in it as much as it had been before.


    "You want to, though, don¡¯t you?" he said. "Yeah. Yeah, I fucking knew it. You would have done the exact same thing to me. Don¡¯t stand there all -- all righteous when you would have done the exact same thing!"


    Serena said nothing, but her nose visibly wrinkled in disgust. Seeing he wasn¡¯t getting anywhere with her, Cott¡¯s eyes flicked instead to Dragan. He crossed his arms.


    "You," he said hurriedly. "Yeah, yeah, you. You understand, right? There¡¯s mutual gain here. I -- I have money, I¡¯m well paid, I¡¯m good at what I do. You help me here, I¡¯ll cut you in. You can¡¯t trust this one, they¡¯ll turn on you in a second, they¡¯d have¡­ they¡¯d have done the exact same thing to you, that¡¯s the kind of person they are, so --"


    Cold anger narrowed Dragan¡¯s eyes. "Another word," he said evenly. "And I¡¯ll kill you myself."


    Serena took a step forward -- and that was enough to break the fragile quiet that had settled over the street. Orange Aether immediately began to dance around Cott¡¯s panicking form, and his voice cracked in terror as he screamed: "Monophobia!"


    It was Cott¡¯s last gambit, but Dragan had to admit that it would have been a good one.


    Sixteen aspects of Cott leapt out of him all at once, each of them clutching their weapons for dear life. Guns and knives, chakrams and maces, broadswords and rapiers. Just one would have been enough to cut a normal human being to shreds, and Cott had brought out a veritable platoon. It would have been a good move.


    But he¡¯d already lost a long time ago.


    Scraps of wood and sawdust flew into the air like smoke as the aspects turned on each other, smashing puppet bodies to pieces with all the strength they possessed. They screamed as they did so, some clutching their skulls like something was trying to burrow out of them. All in all, the group lasted maybe thirty seconds -- the last trace of them being a severed arm that flew up in the air, turning end over end, before collapsing into fire-orange Aether.


    Tears of stress streamed down Cott¡¯s face as he took in that sight, dumbfounded. "Huh?"


    Dragan raised an eyebrow as he looked at Cott, who was now truly cornered. "Looks to me like you left your guilt out too long -- and now that you¡¯ve taken it back, it¡¯s poisoned the well. Every aspect of yourself is touched by it. You¡¯re lucky they saw each other first, and not you. Your ability¡¯s not so useful anymore."


    That was the last strike against what remained of Cott¡¯s ego. He collapsed to his knees.


    "I¡­I¡­" Cott muttered, hands swinging limp at his sides. "Please."


    Serena looked down at him, shook her head slightly, and let the sword she held slip from her fingers. It shattered easily against the floor.


    Bruno reasserted himself with a dismissive sigh, still looking down at the prone Cott. If anything, his eyes were even colder than hers had been, like he was watching a particularly vile insect.


    "Looks like she¡¯s lost interest in you," Bruno said, crossing his arms. "Can¡¯t blame her. Without that ability, you haven¡¯t got much, have you? I¡¯m betting you¡¯ve made other enemies, too. You¡¯re that sort of person. I wonder what they¡¯ll do when they find out your hitsquad is gone."


    Slowly, vaguely, Cott shook his head -- looking up at Bruno with wide eyes. "No, no no no, no, you can¡¯t leave me like this¡­"


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "What? You want us to kill you now?"


    Quite clearly, Cott didn¡¯t know what he wanted. Guilt that had marinated over years was clashing with the self-interest that had built up over the same amount of time, and the impact had shattered him. They were talking to a spiderweb of broken glass, conflicting desires pouring out of its mouth.


    Cott¡¯s eyes twitched, his lip wobbled, as words wrestled for exit from his mouth.


    "You can¡¯t leave me like this!" he finally screamed, clutching his head. "You can¡¯t make me live like this! What¡¯s a person supposed to do with all this shit stuck in their head?! Get rid of it! Fucking kill me!"


    Bruno¡¯s eyes narrowed, and he turned to leave. "We¡¯ve already killed you in every way that matters."


    And then, his eyes squeezed shut, he began to walk away. Dragan followed after, careful to keep an eye on Cott from the very edge of his vision. The young man remained on his knees, screaming after them.


    "Yakob!" he called out, begging. "Yakob, please!"


    Bruno stopped.


    "Yakob¡¯s dead," he said again, voice so dull and so quiet it was a wonder that Cott even heard him.


    But hear him he did.


    Dragan could see it in Cott¡¯s eyes, that delusional moment when flight became fight -- and with a rush of orange Aether, he charged forward at Bruno, screaming an incoherent war cry. A combat knife, simple but efficient, was clutched in his hands -- and this speed born of desperation was such that Gemini Shotgun simply flew over his head.


    Bruno¡¯s body sighed -- and he turned on his heel with speed that Dragan had never seen from him before.


    A violet-purple spark of Aether ran along his hands. As it did, Dragan saw some kind of clay-like substance pour out from his palms, hardening into a dagger that Bruno¡¯s body thrusted forward just as Cott reached him.


    It met true.


    Cott had been fast, but not fast enough. The knife ran him through, right in the middle of his chest, striking his heart without a doubt. He stayed on his feet for only a moment, looking down towards the handle protruding from his chest.


    "Oh," he said.


    And then, finally, he fell.


    When Dragan knelt down next to him, to make absolutely sure he was dead, he saw that the young man¡¯s expression was curiously peaceful. He¡¯d gotten what he wanted in the end, Dragan supposed. Now guilt was gone for good.


    "I didn¡¯t know you could do that," Dragan breathed a sigh of relief -- only for his voice to trail off as he looked up at his friend¡¯s face.


    The eyes were sharper than Bruno¡¯s, but the expression was softer than Serena¡¯s. The body was more relaxed than Serena, but with an underlying sense of discipline that far exceeded Bruno. This was a person Dragan Hadrien did not know.


    It looked down at Cott with a strangely sad gaze -- an expression that quickly faded as Dragan watched, a sense of finality washing over him. It was like seeing someone¡¯s personality disintegrate in real time.


    Or like watching a ghost pass on to the next world.


    Things hadn¡¯t gone perfectly, but Carla Oliphant had won. She couldn¡¯t help but smile as she walked into the hangar, hands stuffed into the pockets of her longcoat.


    He was dead.


    He was dead.


    He was dead.


    The childish urge to skip and cheer almost overwhelmed her, but she still couldn¡¯t suppress the gleeful giggles that bubbled out of her throat. She¡¯d dreamed about this day for so long, and now that it had come it was everything she¡¯d dreamed about. Abraham Oliphant was dead, and his wretched Clan would soon collapse without him. Roy was the only senior family member left, and he¡¯d never had much of a head for organization.


    Who would pick up the slack, she wondered? There were always remnants of Pandaemonium lurking around, so maybe one of them, or perhaps some new player entirely. Well, they could fight over the scraps as much as they liked -- Carla was leaving all of this behind her. She¡¯d done all the violence and betrayal she¡¯d set out to: the time for a peaceful life was long since passed. Maybe she¡¯d take up farming. Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The ship she¡¯d hidden away for this moment was a cramped but cozy thing, big enough to hold maybe two people at the very most. She¡¯d expected Cottian del Sed to join her here for the getaway, but it seemed he wouldn¡¯t be making it. He hadn¡¯t been around when Carla had been watching her father die through the drones, so something had probably happened to him.


    Oh well. One less person to pay.


    She threw herself down in the pilot¡¯s seat, hands beginning the startup sequence with practiced precision. Below her, the engine rumbled reassuringly, heat diffusing through the vessel. With a flick of her finger, she went to open up the screen to map her route out of Supremacy space.


    "Fella¡¯s gotta eat¡­" someone mumbled.


    Her finger never reached the screen. Instead, when she looked down numbly at her hand, Carla saw that her finger hadn¡¯t reached anything at all. It couldn¡¯t.


    After all, it was completely gone -- the only trace of its existence being the gnarled, chewed stump of blood and bone protruding from her knuckle. Her hand shook as she looked down at it, shock overwhelming pain for a brief, brief moment.


    Anduan the Cannibal emerged from the gap between her chair and the floor, keeping low to the ground as he crawled into view. Carla¡¯s missing finger was still protruding from his mouth, and as she watched he nibbled it away into nothingness like a rabbit feasting on a carrot.


    "100,000 stator," he muttered, dazed eyes looking at her, drool running down his weak chin. "Fella¡¯s gotta eat, y-you know¡­?"


    And then she felt the pain.


    Even as she screamed, she whipped her revolver out to attack -- but it was far too late for that. Another snap of Anduan¡¯s jaw wrenched the barrel of the gun right away, leaving nothing but a mass of twisted metal. Another lunge stole the gun from her grip completely, Anduan chewing it as if it was salad, the ruined device visibly pressing against the inside of his throat as he swallowed.


    Carla twisted in her seat, turning to flee -- but it was too late. Anduan was upon her.


    His teeth clamped down on her shoulder first as he latched on, holding her down like a lion eating a zebra. Her flesh and muscle came away as easily as butter, Anduan greedily digging his face into the wound, the snorts of satisfaction making him sound like a pig.


    Carla went to kick him with her free leg, but lost the foot for her trouble. She could feel his teeth scraping against the protruding bone, tears of pain beyond anything she¡¯d felt before rising to her eyes.


    Anduan¡¯s hands gluttonously scooped up parts of her body like he was dissecting a birthday cake, flipping her over to have better access to the feast. He slurped down hair like spaghetti. He crunched down bone like rock candy. His eyes rolled back in pleasure as bloody meat passed through his lips, the crimson dripping from his chin.


    Carla¡¯s strength had abandoned her -- and even if it hadn¡¯t, it would have been near-impossible to move with the state her body was in. She was a carcass with delusions of life. Death was certain within the next few minutes.


    While Anduan ate, he wept, tears of guilt streaming down his bloody face. It was like he was being torn apart at the same time as her, like he was murderer and victim both.


    "Fella¡¯s gotta eat," he whimpered, forcing her remaining hand down his throat, muffling his words. "Don¡¯t hold it against me. 100,000 stator, d-don¡¯t hold it against me¡­"


    As Anduan hooked his teeth beneath her cheek and began to peel her face away, Carla could have screamed: "You idiot! You fucking idiot! Stop! I¡¯m the organizer! You won¡¯t get paid anything! Stop! Fucking stop! I¡¯m not one of them! I¡¯m in charge!"


    She didn¡¯t end up saying any of that.


    But she did scream.

 Chapter 181:7.30: What Sunset Will Take Me?

    Roy gulped down his beer, savoring the way it made his thoughts indistinct. The final screams of his father, the growing chill of his sister¡¯s body¡­ all of it blurring away into nothing.


    He looked around the room, blinking blearily as he put his hands down on the old wooden desk. This dark, dusty, windowless chamber had once been intended as Abraham Oliphant¡¯s personal office. He¡¯d never had the chance to use it for that purpose, but it had fallen into Roy¡¯s possession all the same. The cold nerve center of a criminal syndicate.


    Had he wanted this? He honestly couldn¡¯t even tell.


    When he¡¯d left his father to die, left him to slowly fade away underneath the starport, he¡¯d truly believed it had been a decision on the spur of the moment. But was that true, or had that been the excuse he¡¯d told himself? Abraham Oliphant had been a merciless, cunning man, planning out his betrayals many years in advance. His blood ran through Roy¡¯s veins. Perhaps he was just the same.


    Whatever the case, there was so much to do.


    First, he had to consolidate the Oliphant Clan assets. All the other major leaders were gone, so it was up to him to reorganize everything. The kids were far too young to take up ownership of their parent¡¯s branches, so was he best off keeping control of them until they grew up? Or was that just Abraham Oliphant speaking again? Selfish genes straining for command?


    He could have laughed. Would he spend the rest of his life questioning every single decision he made, wondering whether the ghost of his father was puppeteering him? Perhaps he deserved that, but it would be exhausting all the same.


    It had to be done, still. Roy cracked his neck, tapping on the holographic keyboard in front of him as he sent off messages to all the associates letting them know of the change in leadership. Change this dramatic would be met with resistance -- people eager to test the new leader¡¯s strength -- but there was no avoiding it. There¡¯d be far more blood before all this was over.


    He sent the message off with a swipe of his fingers.


    "You got a second?" asked a voice from the dark corner.


    Roy looked up, sucking in a sharp breath. An assassin already? Aether broiled around his biceps: he hadn¡¯t rolled today, but his strength would be enough to see him through.


    "Woah, woah, pal!" the voice chuckled, its owner stepping out into the light. Roy recognised him: the mercenary with the green coat, the one who¡¯d come to their aid. Skipper. "Not here to cause any trouble."


    Roy sniffed. "Sneaking into places like this ain¡¯t exactly the best way to stay out of trouble."


    Skipper¡¯s grin widened. "Yeah¡­ never been my specialty. But we never got a chance to talk, you and I. Especially now that you¡¯re the boss man."


    Ah. This Roy understood: the endless asking for favours. A test of a different sort. "You¡¯ll be well compensated for your efforts," he said, the formal words heavy and uncomfortable on his tongue. "If that¡¯s all, then¡­"


    "Nah, nah¡­" Skipper clicked his tongue. "That ain¡¯t all."


    He threw a bundle of files, pages and pages tightly bound, down onto the desk. Roy¡¯s eyes widened as he recognised the words visible -- these were Carla¡¯s intelligence files, reports on potential threats to the family both within and without. They¡¯d vanished on the night Jacques had died -- Roy had assumed Carla had destroyed them, but it seemed not.


    Roy looked up at Skipper, his mouth a flat line. "And what is it you want?"


    Skipper¡¯s grin became a smirk. "You scratch my back, I¡¯ll scratch yours?"


    Rico looked down at his arms -- both the one he¡¯d been born with, and the one he¡¯d been given.


    Only the former was attached to his body, and it held the plastisteel prosthetic in its hand. It was a wonder of engineering, truly, able to seamlessly connect to Rico¡¯s nervous system with all the difficulty of snapping two children¡¯s building blocks together. It didn¡¯t have quite the same depth of sensation as an organic arm, but you couldn¡¯t have everything.


    He was lucky to have such a thing.


    Rico sighed. It was awkward doing it with one arm, but he managed to fold the prosthetic at the elbow and stuff it into the backpack he¡¯d prepared. He wouldn¡¯t be giving himself two hands until he knew what he wanted to do with them.


    "You¡¯re really leaving, then?" came Chloe¡¯s voice from behind him, and Rico nearly jumped out of his skin from the sudden noise. He turned around.


    All in all, the events on the Cradle had only taken a couple of days, but if you looked at Chloe you would have thought it had been years. Her gaudy, elaborate jellyfish outfit was no more -- she wore a pale hoodie, hands stuffed into the pockets, and the bags under her eyes betrayed the fact she had slept poorly. She smiled a lopsided smile, but there wasn¡¯t much joy in it.


    It was like all that happened here had burnt all the pomp and frills off of her. Rico couldn¡¯t help but think that was terribly sad.


    "Yeah," Rico smiled back, leaning against the railing. "You come to see me off?"


    Below -- in the hangar -- the crew of the ship Rico would board were loading the last of the cargo. It would probably take only a few minutes more. A few minutes more, and then something new would spread out before him.


    "You don¡¯t have to leave, you know," Chloe muttered, joining him at the railing. "With Grandfather gone, things will probably get a lot better."


    Slowly, Rico shook his head. "It doesn¡¯t matter who¡¯s in charge of the Oliphants, you know. They¡¯re -- we¡¯re still the Oliphants. We hurt people to make money. Uncle Roy¡¯s in charge, now, right?"


    Chloe nodded, biting her lip. Her discomfort was understandable -- Roy was only in charge because no other senior members were left. Uncle Jacques had choked on his own throat at the start of this whole thing, they¡¯d found some of Carla¡¯s bones and tongue in the cockpit of her hidden away ship, and his own mother¡­


    When they¡¯d come back to the hospital, they¡¯d told him that his mother was dead. She¡¯d died on the battlefield. Since then, a sense of numbness had grasped him utterly -- but strangely enough, that had lent him some clarity, too.


    "In the end," Rico said, looking straight ahead. "It doesn¡¯t matter who¡¯s in charge. Hurting people is hurting people. The only difference is that Roy¡¯s less of an asshole about it -- but that¡¯s not different enough."


    "Where will you go?" Chloe asked, drumming her fingers against the metal.


    He told the truth. "I¡¯m not sure yet," Rico said, cracking his neck. "This is a merchant vessel, so I guess I¡¯ll just go wherever they take me. I¡¯ll figure out where I want to go next once I¡¯m there."


    "That¡¯s it, then?" Chloe snorted. "You¡¯re just gonna wing it?"


    "Yeah," Rico smiled softly to himself. "I¡¯m just gonna wing it."


    This was for the best. A quiet, discreet exit from a place he didn¡¯t belong anymore. No blood, no guts and no drama. Just the end of one day, and the start of a brand new one.


    Rico stepped back from the railing. Time to go.


    "Ricky! Ricky!"


    Rico couldn¡¯t stop his smile from widening into a grin as Scout charged into the hangar, tears in his eyes as he shouted. So much for a quiet exit. Scout¡¯s eccentricities didn¡¯t seem to have been lessened any by the events of the last few days.


    "Don¡¯t leave without saying goodbye!" Scout sobbed, scooping Rico up into a devastating bear-hug. Behind, he could hear Chloe laughing at the sight, her sorrow lessened just a bit. That was nice. If he could leave them with that, he¡¯d be satisfied.


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    When will you get bored of hurting people? His Teacher had once asked him that. The truth was that he¡¯d gotten bored of it a long, long time ago.


    It was time to see how exciting the opposite could be.


    Dragan found Fix smoking on the roof of the Oliphant headquarters, the smoke drifting up into the sky as the man breathed out. He turned to glance at Dragan as he approached.


    "Guess you¡¯re leaving?" he asked, but from the sound of his voice he already knew the answer.


    "I am," Dragan said, voice dull. He stared out at the city, any mystique it held reduced by the relentless glare of daylight. "Thought I¡¯d let you know."


    "Appreciate it."


    "Okay," Dragan said. "Bye."


    He turned and went to leave. To tell the truth, he didn¡¯t know what sentiment had possessed him to come say goodbye to Fix, but he was already regretting it. It would¡¯ve been better just to get out of this place as soon as possible.


    "Hey, kid," Fix called out.


    Dragan kept walking. If he didn¡¯t turn around, there was a chance Fix would just think he hadn¡¯t heard him, and give up. Then he could just get out of here.


    He should¡¯ve known better. Asmodeus Fix did not give up.


    "Kid!"


    Dragan turned away, and Fix flicked away his cigarette as he took a step forward. He scratched the back of his grey neck awkwardly as he spoke, words loath to leave his throat.


    "It was¡­ good to see you," he said, voice scratchy. "Good to see you¡¯re doing well, I mean. Good to see you¡¯ve got good folks with you. Reliable folks."


    "Okay. Is that all?"


    Fix blinked, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. "That¡¯s all," he finally said.


    Dragan turned to leave again. Skipper had wanted to grab some last-minute supplies before they headed off, so if Dragan hurried back he could probably grab an hour or two of shut-eye before the rest of the crew got back. After the stress of the last few days, his body would certainly appreciate that.


    He --


    "Kid!" Fix called out again.


    "What?" Dragan hissed, whirling around, glaring at the Scurrant. "If you want something, just say it! Stop playing these games! What is it?"


    Fix hovered awkwardly on the spot, hand still outstretched as if to stop Dragan from leaving. Slowly, it settled back down to his side. He blinked slowly, eyes sad, as he looked down at Dragan.


    "How long¡¯s it gonna be like this, Dragan?" he asked quietly.


    "Like what?"


    "Like this, still, after all these years? You hating me. I¡­ when can things go back to the way they were before? They were better, back then."


    Dragan¡¯s hands tightened into fists as he stared at Fix. The cold anger flooding through his veins was such that he could barely see the rest of his surroundings -- only Fix, the object of his contempt, was clearly visible. When Dragan spoke, his voice was a dull monotone.


    "You killed my mother, Fix. This is as good as it gets."


    When Dragan turned to leave that time, Fix made no move to stop him.


    "Check this out," Bruno said, tossing his script over to Ruth. She caught it in mid-air, lounging down on her bunk as she held the script above her head. The Slipstream #3 wasn¡¯t big on space, but it made up for it in comfort -- when it came to bedding, at least.


    Ruth frowned as she turned the script over this way and that. "Looks the same as usual. This meant to be new or something?"


    Bruno sighed, closing his eyes. "It¡¯s the same script -- I¡¯m talking about the news article."


    "Oh." Ruth tried to sound out the words on the screen for a moment or two before giving up. "What¡¯s it say?"


    "Remember Lily¡¯s place, XK-12 or whatever? It joined the UAP a few days ago, it¡¯s called Hexkay now. Not bad, huh? Wonder how Lily put all that together."


    Serena answered him from his own mouth: "I bet she asked really nicely!"


    There was the distinct sound of shuffling as Skipper -- sat in the pilot¡¯s seat as he made some checks of the systems -- turned and frowned.


    "What?" he asked, severe disappointment in his voice. "They couldn¡¯t just stay independent?"


    "It¡¯s for protection, I guess," Bruno shrugged. "They are right on the border, after all. Someone was gonna come calling eventually. Better the UAP than the Supremacy."


    "I guess. Still¡­" Skipper sighed. "They were free, weren¡¯t they?"


    "I¡¯d rather be safe and a little free than totally free and totally unsafe."


    Skipper shook his head. "Can¡¯t relate to ya there, Mr. del Sed. It¡¯s total freedom for me any day."


    "Which is why we end up taken hostage wherever we go?"


    "We all want what we don¡¯t have," Skipper grinned, turning back to the console. "Speaking of which¡­"


    He flicked a switch, and the exit ramp opened up, letting Dragan back aboard before he could open it up himself. He strolled up into the ship, sighing as he took a look around at the gathered crew.


    "Oh," he said. "You¡¯re all back early." He didn¡¯t sound nearly as happy as his words would suggest.


    "When I thought about leaving you here all on your own," Skipper smirked. "I just couldn¡¯t bring myself to do it. Real bleeding heart, yeah? You have fun at the Oliphant building?"


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "How do you know I was at the Oliphant building?"


    "Saw ya -- I was there, too. Paying a little visit to the new head honcho of the family."


    "Roy?" Dragan asked, collapsing into the warmth of the copilot¡¯s seat. "How¡¯d that go?"


    "Well," Skipper dragged the word out. "I reminded him of how gracious we¡¯d been lending his family a hand in their hour of need, yeah? If we hadn¡¯t been there, things could have gone a lot worse."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "The guy we were supposed to be protecting died anyway."


    "Well, yeah, but there¡¯s always a worse."


    "If you say so. And what did Roy think when you, uh, reminded him of this?"


    "Well, who can say?" Skipper shrugged, but there was a conniving gleam in his eye. Dragan had the distinct feeling that he¡¯d gotten whatever it was he¡¯d wanted.


    Seemed he always did.


    Are you there? Bruno called out into the cavern of his mind.


    Of course I¡¯m here, Bruno, Serena replied instantly, her chirpiness detectable even in the theatre of the mind. What¡¯s up?


    Nothing. Nevermind.


    Bruno settled back in his bunk as Dragan and Skipper rattled back and forth, tossing his muted grief over in his head. Back then, back there, for just a moment, Yakob had been with them, hadn¡¯t he? He¡¯d run Cott through with that knife of his, and that had been the end of it.


    How long had he been there? Had coming out been a conscious decision, or just some lingering instinct? Was he still here?


    Bruno could only answer the last question, and could only do so with his gut feeling: Yakob was gone for good now. When he cast his gaze through the spaces of his brain, he could find no trace of his source. Before, there had been scraps of memory and will -- the shredded remnants of consciousness. Now, there was nothing.


    A great sadness had washed over him when he realized Yakob had truly left this world, but at the same time¡­ it was something of a relief. Before, it had been like he was constantly sharing his head with a corpse, it¡¯s cold breath always on his neck, it¡¯s rot always trailing through his nostrils. It had faded into the background over time, but it had always been there -- a constant discomfort.


    Now, though¡­ he wasn¡¯t alone, but he was as alone as he cared to be. Just him and Serena, walking on the same two feet, grasping with the same two hands, without the shadow between them.


    He glanced up at the rest of the crew -- Ruth had gotten up, joining Dragan and Skipper. They were discussing something animatedly, Skipper and Ruth grinning, Dragan rolling his eyes every few seconds. Looked like fun.


    A smirk played across Bruno¡¯s lips. He wasn¡¯t alone in that regard, either, was he?


    As he got up and strolled over, Skipper turned his gaze to Bruno. "Good to see you¡¯re joining us, Mr. del Sed. Any ideas for our next destination?" S~ea??h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "What?" Bruno raised an eyebrow. "You¡¯re asking me?"


    Skipper waggled his own eyebrows in turn. "You know me. I¡¯ve always been a democratic guy." Behind him, another eye-roll from Dragan.


    Bruno considered it, putting a hand to his chin. After a few seconds, he answered: "Somewhere without so much damn trouble?"


    "Somewhere without so much damn trouble," echoed Skipper, turning back to the console. His hands danced across it like he was playing a musical instrument. "I¡¯ll give it a shot, pal, but you know¡­"


    Skipper twisted a dial, and the ship roared into life. Ruth didn¡¯t budge, but Dragan noticeably bounced in his seat from the turbulence. As a weightless feeling settled over the rising craft, Skipper glanced back at Bruno:


    "...that really ain¡¯t our style."


    The ship flew on.


    End of Arc 7

 Chapter 182:8.1: Panacea

    The thing was not a spider.


    For most of its history, the planet Panacea had never been touched by the scourge of the Gene Tyrants -- and so they¡¯d never brought in the animal life they were accustomed to. It¡¯s grand canyons and deep fungal caves had gone unmolested, at least by the flora and fauna of Home. By the time it had been discovered, the Gene Tyrants had been long since dead.


    So the thing was not a spider -- but it was close enough for arachnophobia. Eight legs, each with six joints, ringing a hard oval of carapace. What might have been either a proboscis or a sex organ peeked in and out of an orifice on its underbelly, tasting the sands as it traveled. It scuttled, the nibs of its feet leaving tiny imprints on the ground as it went, dusty sand trailing off into the air.


    It crested the hill, the orange landscape of the planet laid out before it. The spider-thing had no eyes to see or consciousness to appreciate, but it certainly would¡¯ve been in awe at the vista if it could. A great plateau, elevated slightly from the rest of the planet¡¯s surface -- and surrounding it, towers of lively fungi protruding from deep pits in the ground. They undulated and writhed slightly in the light.


    Atop the plateau, a settlement sat, the white metal it was composed of a stark contrast to the rest of the landscape. It was far too big for the name, but the locals called it White Village. The spider-thing, lacking self-actualisation, did not know this, of course.


    White Village was one of the few settlements on the planet, built for farm-mining, a network of prefabricated buildings and thirsty wells. The harsh sunlight reflected off the metal, making it seem like the place was glowing. Heaven fallen down to earth, if you didn¡¯t look at the stains.


    And today, there were so many stains.


    The spider-thing was joined by countless more of its kind as it skittered up the great plateau, using the remnants of the settlement¡¯s elevator system like a ladder. There were so many of the insects that they looked like a reversed black waterfall, rising up out of the earth. Ordinarily, these creatures would remain deep underground -- but today they had caught a scent that they adored.


    That scent was found in only two things: certain fruits that grew in the bowels of the earth and, coincidentally enough, human blood.


    The spider-things found no shortage of their nectar as they reached the settlement. Countless bodies were piled up in the streets: men, women and children, smoke pouring up from their plasma burns and blood seeping from their wounds. Some wore heavy mining suits, but those had done nothing to save them: the bullet holes through the visors were testament to that. Hundreds of lives used up and thrown into the streets like nothing -- no, like food for insects.


    Individually, these insects were no bigger than a fingernail, but today they came in such numbers that they covered the corpses like a great dark curtain. Not even the white surface of the settlement¡¯s name could be seen through their indiscriminate vigil.


    The spider-thing positioned itself right above the face of one of the corpses, the dead eye that stared up at the sky, and stabbed down. Slowly, the eyeball deflated, like a balloon being drained of air.


    For a long time, there was no sound, save for soft suckling. The people who had done this thing were long gone, swallowed by the earth, twisted and stretched into forms inhuman yet unchanged in their evil. All that was left of them, here at least, was the feast they¡¯d left behind.


    Hours passed, the heat of the day passing into the chill of the night, and the insects quietly drank their fill. Eventually, the proboscis of the beasts grew heavy and slack with blood, dragging against the ground, and they left for the warm darkness of their caves. Even as they retreated, however, new insects climbed up the walls of the plateau, eager to absorb whatever nutrients were left.


    They didn¡¯t get so much as a drop.


    Because that was when the corpses started moving.


    There was a dark look on Skipper¡¯s face.


    Dragan had first noticed it as he was stuffing the crew¡¯s clothes into one of the ship¡¯s washing machines. Cleaning duty was dull, monotonous work, but somebody had to do it -- and to be honest, he didn¡¯t trust any of the others to do it properly. More than once, Ruth had thrown in those damn red jeans with his white shirts and ended up staining them irreversibly.


    Bruno was probably more trustworthy in that regard, but on this occasion he¡¯d won the coin toss -- and the occasion before that, come to think of it. He was cheating, needless to say, but Dragan hadn¡¯t yet felt the need to let on that he knew. After all, if you wanted a job done right, you did it yourself.


    When he finally managed to stuff the machine shut, and looked up from his considerable labour, Dragan caught a glimpse of Skipper up ahead in the captain¡¯s seat. His feet were up on the dash, a script buried in his lap, but his expression betrayed his seemingly carefree demeanor. His brow was furrowed, eyes troubled, as he looked down into the depths of his script.


    Dragan wiped the sweat from his brow as he stood up. "You okay?"


    Skipper did not answer, nor did his expression change. Slowly, his finger slid over the screen of his script, eyes scanning over whatever text lay there.


    "Skipper?" Dragan called out.


    "Hey, kid," Skipper muttered, his gaze still not wavering from the script. "Can you get everyone in here? Now, please."


    Slowly, Dragan nodded. He didn¡¯t know that he¡¯d ever seen Skipper so serious, to be honest. Whatever was going on, it had to be something big.


    When he peeked back into the crew quarters, he saw that Serena and Ruth were still at it. They¡¯d picked up some second-hand VR headsets at the last station, and so the two of them were walking around the cramped quarters with bulky contraptions wrapped around their heads, swinging their arms as if they were playing farball.


    "It looks just like it¡¯s real, Miss Ruth!" Serena chirped excitedly. She clung to an invisible bat with her hands, swinging it through the air like it was one of her swords.


    Ruth just grunted in response: it seemed she was really getting into it. As Dragan stepped in, she swung her own bat, smacking him right in the face.


    "Ow," he said, voice flat.


    There was an awkward moment of silence before Ruth peeked out from under the headset, wincing apologetically. Serena, for her part, just kept swinging obliviously. Dragan could hear the tinny cheering of a crowd through the speakers on her helmet.


    "Skipper wants us for something," Dragan said, rubbing his cheek. "Sounds serious."


    As Ruth helped Serena get that damn helmet off, Dragan strolled back into the main bridge. There, Skipper had turned his seat around to face them, his fingers steepled under his chin. The script he¡¯d been so fascinated with was nowhere to be seen.


    "Having fun, girls?" he grinned easily as the two of them walked in, but the levity in his voice seemed a little strained. "You, uh¡­ you enjoying that game thing?"


    Dragan leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "What¡¯s going on?"


    Skipper chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Damn," he sighed. "You wanna get right down to it, huh?"


    "You¡¯re acting really weird. What¡¯s going on?"


    "Skipper?" Ruth prompted as well, her brow furrowed. Serena just cocked her head.


    Skipper sighed again, dragging the sound out as long as he could, leaning forward in his seat. Once, twice, he lightly clapped his hands together. As always, Skipper let awkwardness consume him: if it was up to him, he¡¯d sit there umm-ing and aww-ing forever.


    "So," he finally began, clicking his tongue. "I kinda got a message from someone a little while ago."


    "Who?" Serena asked curiously.


    "Well, uh, that¡¯s the thing, you see¡­"


    "Who?" Dragan asked, his voice considerably more harsh.


    Skipper winced. "Well, sort of an old friend. You know North, right? You remember him, Dragan?"


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "I remember how he left me to choke on poison gas. Umbrant, grey hair, annoying, right? We¡¯re talking about the same old friend?"


    "That¡¯s the one!" Skipper snapped his fingers as he leaned back in his seat. Clearly, he was choosing to just power through the obvious hostility. "Well, the thing is¡­ I sort of got a message from our old buddy North a little while ago. He¡¯s on the planet Panacea right now -- where they, uh, make Panacea, heheh -- and it looks like there¡¯s kind of a situation going on there, and he¡¯s in big trouble, so I¡¯m thinking we head over, yeah?"


    He spoke pretty quickly, so quickly Dragan found no opportunity to interrupt -- but the moment those last words left Skipper¡¯s lips, he was drowned out by a wave of protests.


    Bruno settled into Serena¡¯s form. "What exactly do you mean by a situation?" He rested his chin on his fist, biting his lip.


    "Who cares if he¡¯s in trouble?" Dragan snapped. "The guy¡¯s an asshole!"


    It was Ruth¡¯s protest that seemed to sink in deepest, however. She looked up at Skipper, her face pale, fists clenched as she squeezed her sweatshirt with all her strength. Dragan could swear there were even tears brewing at the edges of her eyes.


    "How¡­" she took a deep breath, visibly shaking. "How did he tell you he¡¯s in trouble?"


    Skipper blinked, taking his script out of his pocket and waving it in the air. "He sent me a message on this."


    Ruth blinked. Whatever she was thinking, that seemed to confirm it. "So you¡¯ve been in contact with him?" Her voice was shaking now, too.


    That seemed to drive in just what the problem was here. Skipper sighed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. While he spoke, he kept his eyes shut.


    "Listen," he began. "It¡¯s not what you¡¯re thinking."


    Dragan cut in. "Whenever someone says that, it¡¯s usually a good sign that it¡¯s exactly what they¡¯re thinking."


    Skipper opened his eyes again -- and they were cold. "Hey, Dragan, buddy? Could you shut your mouth for a second?"


    That look brooked no argument: Dragan promptly obeyed, and Skipper turned his gaze back to Ruth.


    He went on: "Before he¡­ left us, I gave North a communication line directly to me, just in case we ever got separated. He¡¯s never used it: apart from now, well, a couple of hours ago. I didn¡¯t know he was still alive until the rest of you found out. I might have suspected -- he was an illusionist, after all -- but I didn¡¯t know. I grieved just like you did, Ruth."


    Ruth looked up at him, nostrils flaring. "You swear?"


    "I swear," Skipper said.


    Ruth slowly nodded. "Okay. I believe you. But that still doesn¡¯t mean we should help him. Fuck him -- he tried to fuck us, didn¡¯t he?"


    Skipper leaned back in his seat as the tension drained out of the cockpit, crossing his legs. "I¡¯m not one-hundred percent on what the actual situation is -- North says that they¡¯re screening messages going off the planet, so he couldn¡¯t go into detail. But whatever is going on, it¡¯s a fireball: people dying, people dead, and the whole situation about to keep blowing up. There¡¯s a limited window for us to make any sort of difference there."


    Bruno spoke up. "You¡¯re still not telling us why we should go there."


    As the easy grin on Skipper¡¯s face returned, he raised the index finger of his prosthetic hand. "Two reasons. One, I¡¯m sure we¡¯d all love the opportunity to personally give North a piece of our minds¡­"


    "And the other?" Dragan asked.


    A second finger came up. "Panacea," Skipper grinned. "Enough to win a war with."


    The washing machine dinged.


    First, they had stopped at the Hoatlake lightpoint.


    Then they¡¯d passed over the edge of the Dranell breaches.


    Last they¡¯d heard, the ship called the Slipstream #3 had stopped with a cluster of merchant ships orbiting Adresa Alpha. They¡¯d remained there only a few days, gathering supplies and information -- but from the course they¡¯d taken and the information they¡¯d sought, their destination was obvious. The planet Panacea, right on the border between the Supremacy and the Unified Alliance of Planets.


    Atoy Muzazi clicked the script off, slapping it down on the conference table. It was a piece of furniture far too big for the two-person crew, with a holographic map of Supremacy space hovering over its surface. Across it, face illuminated by the digital borealis, Marie Hazzard smiled back at him.


    "You¡¯re absolutely sure this is accurate?" he asked, standing up from his chair.


    Marie leaned back. "I¡¯m absolutely sure. After a few drinks, that glass-handed merchant was very happy to tell me all about it. Dragan Hadrien and the crew he was with were looking to buy codes to get through Panacea¡¯s shields."


    "And you¡¯re certain this man wasn¡¯t lying? Deceit is one of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s primary weapons. It¡¯s entirely possible he paid off that merchant to lead us astray."


    As Muzazi spoke, he paced across the room, wringing his hands. The blue lights washing over from the darkened floor made shadows dance across his face, his clear anxiety visible only for seconds at a time.


    The Arrowhead.


    The ship they¡¯d been given by the Commission was something of a prototype: faster and lighter than most craft, with the stealth shielding to avoid detection by all but the most advanced scans. Even if they weren¡¯t trying to duck patrols, that didn¡¯t mean they¡¯d be screaming out their allegiance. The Arrowhead was encased in a disguise shell, a facsimile of a run-down cargo transport. To the untrained eye, they¡¯d look like just another blue-collar shipment.


    "Paranoia doesn¡¯t suit you, Atoy," Marie sighed, resting her chin in her hands. "Besides, I can always tell when someone¡¯s lying."


    "You can tell as well as a Cogitant?" There was a sliver of doubt in Muzazi¡¯s voice.


    She raised her eyebrows. "Anything we gave them, we had first. I¡¯m better at lying than they¡¯ll ever be -- so I can always tell."


    Oh. Yes, of course.


    Muzazi would often seem to forget the bizarre nature of the company he¡¯d found himself in. The information would still be there, in the back of his mind, but it would only feel real, solid in moments like this. For a few seconds at a time, the person across from him would cease to be his friend and equal Marie Hazzard, and become something far older and far, far stranger.


    A Gene Tyrant from the dawn of civilization. A monster whispered of in the annals of history. And, strangely enough, his dearest companion in this universe.


    Marie cocked her head. "Uh, you hear me?"


    Muzazi blinked, hurriedly looking away. "Well, yes, if you¡¯re certain. Dragan Hadrien is headed to the planet Panacea, then?"


    "Definitely," Marie nodded, getting up from her own seat.


    She swiped two of her fingers and the map over the conference table was replaced with a display of the planet they were speaking of. Panacea, an orange dustball orbited by three sickly-looking moons. Lines branched off of the planet¡¯s surface, indicating the position of the planet¡¯s primary settlement: White Village.


    "The name should make it obvious," Marie said, reading off the information available. "But it¡¯s the planet where they first discovered the Panacea fungi. These days there¡¯s dozens of planets dedicated to farming it, but this is where they found the original stock, around eighty years ago."


    "And it¡¯s become a central part of the Supremacy¡¯s military industry since then," Muzazi nodded. "The value of near-instant regeneration can¡¯t be overstated."


    "Supremacy and UAP both," Marie said, zooming the map out -- showing Panacea¡¯s position right on the border. "Technically, it¡¯s UAP territory, but ExoCorp pays enough bribes to enough people that it¡¯s basically their own little kingdom."


    "Financial power is a form of strength all its own. They¡¯ve done well."


    Marie smiled a lopsided, insincere smile. "If you say so, Atoy. Anyway, the point is that they keep their options open -- so they probably won¡¯t say no to official Supremacy visitors, if they think they can get some money out of it."


    Muzazi leaned over the table, staring right at the tiny orange marble floating in front of him. "You think we should announce ourselves? I imagined you¡¯d suggest a clandestine approach."


    "If two Special Officers of the Supremacy get caught sneaking into UAP space, that¡¯s a diplomatic incident right there," Marie explained. "Two agents on a diplomatic mission? Not such a big deal."


    She was silent for a moment, save for the quiet tapping of her fingers against the metal table.


    "Can I be honest, though?" she finally said, but still quietly.


    Muzazi frowned. "What is it?"


    "I¡­ don¡¯t think we should do this. If you really still want to go after Dragan Hadrien, then fine, but we should wait for the next chance. ExoCorp is valuable to everyone -- and if we jump right in there like a pair of idiots, we could bring everyone right down on our heads. No matter who we say we are."


    A sigh passed Muzazi¡¯s lips, and he closed his eyes -- as if he could find the answers he was looking for in the depths of his eyelids.


    He couldn¡¯t deny that Marie was right: by doing this, they¡¯d be jumping right into a volatile environment, with no assurances save their fists and his blade. Danger was certain. And yet¡­ would that be any change, at all? At what point in their journey had they not faced danger?


    And at what point had they had anything but their will to strike back with?


    He opened his eyes. "We go."


    Marie didn¡¯t ask anything more. "Okay," she smiled.


    The planet was hot.


    That much Dragan had expected, but he hadn¡¯t expected it to be so damn dusty. The stuff coated his tongue when he opened his mouth to speak, leaving him doubled over and frantically spitting. Skipper slapped him heavily on the back, as if he was choking, which didn¡¯t help much either.


    Bruno stepped out of the ship, pulling his bandana up over his mouth. "You wanna keep your mouth closed," he said, voice slightly muffled by the fabric. "Or at least have it covered. Otherwise, you¡¯re gonna be doing that a lot."


    "Right¡­" Dragan wheezed, holding his hand over his mouth.


    Skipper put his hands on his hips as he looked around the landscape, adjusting the wide-brimmed rancher¡¯s hat he¡¯d put on his head. It was just as garishly green as the rest of his ensemble, and Dragan truly couldn¡¯t wait until it died. He had his own scarf, mercifully red, pulled up to cover the lower half of his face.


    "Hell of a view," he muttered, and he wasn¡¯t wrong.


    Growing up on Crestpoole, Dragan had never really been used to the idea of free space -- but this planet seemed to have little else. A jagged landscape of orange rocks and plains stretched out in every direction, punctuated by the massive pillars of Panacea that protruded from the ground like great branchless trees.


    In the distance, a great cylindrical building shone from the sunlight reflected off of its countless windows. From what Dragan understood, that was the main headquarters for ExoCorp on the planet -- but that wasn¡¯t their destination for today.


    Dragan returned his gaze to the settlement before them. Apparently, it was called White Village -- and for what was apparently the source of all Panacea in the galaxy, it was¡­ a little underwhelming. A piecemeal construct of prefabricated housing, packed together as tightly as possible to fit onto the elevated plateau.


    Ruth echoed his thoughts. "Thought it¡¯d be bigger," she muttered, her voice distorted slightly by the rebreather mask she¡¯d managed to dig out of the Slipstream #3¡¯s storage.


    They began climbing the colossal set of stairs that led up to the settlement -- Dragan had spied an elevator system built into the base of the structure, but to be frank it seemed more of a walk than just going by foot. The Slipstream #3 was left where they¡¯d landed it, on a conveniently flat piece of land. Prime real estate for trespassers like them.


    Bruno looked around as they ascended. "Most of the actual farm-mining¡¯s done by these huge underground automatics," he explained. "So the people who work here mostly just do maintenance and repair for them -- no need for a massive work crew."


    Dragan glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.


    "What?" Bruno looked away. "It¡¯s a strategic hotspot, so we learned about it at the Sed."


    "You know," Skipper said quietly, tilting his hat up to get a better look as they reached the top of the stairs. "Even if it¡¯s a skeleton crew, I¡¯d expect at least one skeleton."


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Dragan rolled his eyes, looking up at the older man. "Well, actually, skeleton crew just means that it¡¯s a small and basic crew, so Bruno¡¯s right."


    Skipper continued to stare ahead. "Yeah. No matter how small and basic it is, though, it should still be more than zero, yeah?"


    "Huh?" Dragan followed his gaze.


    The settlement was utterly empty, the white streets silent and still. Only faint running water could be heard through the sewer grates that ran through the middle of the road. For a second, Dragan was tempted to think everyone was taking shelter from the dust -- but no. Even if they were, there¡¯d have been noise from inside the buildings, but not a thing.


    Each and every house, their doors closed, was quiet as the grave.


    "Maybe they detected us coming in?" Ruth ventured, eyes flicking around warily. "Thought we were some kind of intruder, so they went to hide?"


    Well, they were intruders -- they¡¯d had to get spoofed codes for the Slipstream #3 to even be allowed through the planet¡¯s forcefield. Even so, though, Dragan doubted the entire settlement would run and hide based on the arrival of one small ship. More likely they¡¯d have been met with an entourage of security guards if that was the case.


    Dragan¡¯s nose wrinkled. Y, the smell. He hadn¡¯t noticed it until he¡¯d gotten so close, but now that he did it was all-encompassing. The place stank.


    The triumvirate of aromas was familiar: blood, excrement and rot. Something terrible had happened here.


    Dragan exchanged glances with the rest of the crew, all levity utterly forgotten. Forcefields began to hover over Bruno¡¯s hands, and Ruth quietly manifested her Skeletal claws. Skipper, for his part, just lifted his hand in the shape of the finger-gun.


    "North said there was a situation, right?" Bruno said grimly, taking a step forward. "Looks like we found it."


    "Now that we¡¯ve found it," Dragan replied thinly. "I¡¯d very much like to un-find it. First one back to the ship is a rotten egg?"


    Skipper stepped ahead into the town square, pointing his finger-gun this way and that as if scanning for targets. Ruth dutifully followed after him.


    "You know that isn¡¯t our style, Mr. Hadrien," Skipper said, with bravado he clearly didn¡¯t feel.


    "Well, it could be."


    Skipper gave no reply to that.


    With Ruth covering his back, he began approaching the nearest closed door. He tapped his fingers against the panel next to it, and it smoothly slid open -- revealing only darkness beyond. Eyes squinting for purchase in that inky black, he raised his free hand, the Aether coiling around it serving as rudimentary illumination as he looked inside.


    "Empty," he finally declared, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. He raised his finger-gun to his lips and blew it as if smoke was drifting from his index finger. "Check the others -- make sure we¡¯re alone. Something¡¯s definitely up here."


    Now that he thought about it, did Dragan really care that much about getting back at North? Revenge was such a toxic and futile drive, after all, especially when it put you in horrifying situations like this. He¡¯d have to rethink his stance on forgiveness next time something like this came up.


    For now though¡­


    Each of them took three residences, thoroughly searching them -- there were far more buildings in the settlement, but they were loath to move too far away from the ship. All of the houses seemed just as pitch-black as the one Skipper had searched: Dragan had tried turning the lights on in one of them, but with no success. That suggested there was something going on with the power, then.


    An eerie feeling settled over Dragan¡¯s heart as he looked through the houses. It looked for all the world like the people who¡¯d lived here had just suddenly vanished. Cold meals were still on the tables, beds were still unmade¡­ it was like this place had just suddenly stopped.


    He had something of an easier time lighting his way through these houses due to his Aether tic, but in this darkness Dragan almost missed it all the same. The only reason he noticed the thing on the floor was because he slipped slightly on it, forcing him to hold onto the table for support. He looked down as soon as he regained his footing.


    Blood.


    A small bloodstain, almost invisible in the darkness. He¡¯d smelled blood when they¡¯d first arrived here, but this was the first he¡¯d actually seen of it. A small puddle, not nearly enough to indicate a death, with a deactivated script next to it.


    Dragan slowly leaned down, taking care not to slip again, and plucked the script off the floor. In the distance, he could hear Ruth calling out to Bruno, having finished her searches. He himself was on his last.


    He tapped the screen of the script, not expecting it to turn on, but activate it did. The deer symbol of the manufacturer flickered on the screen for a moment before switching to some sort of word processor program: that must have been the last thing used before the script was last turned off. Sporadic rows of text scrolled across the screen.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked to the battery indicator in the corner of the screen: almost empty, and they didn¡¯t exactly have a charger to hand. Best just to memorize whatever this was now, then. His gaze returned to the text. From what he could see, it was some sort of journal, but it didn¡¯t make much sense -- the names used were obviously code, and he had no idea of the context.


    12/09/1012 ATR


    Daisy-Chain saw wild dogs hanging out near bar. Explained it to barnyard pack. Wild dogs looking for Daisy-Chain. Daisy-Chain at hotel.


    Dragan flicked to the next page. It looked like this one was from just a couple of days ago.


    15/09/1012 ATR


    Daisy-Chain missing. Think wild dogs on prowl. Tortellini taking tea with the giant up the beanstalk. Wild dogs missing. Rats crawled out.


    Something wrong. Wild dogs back. Need to hide.


    Again, Dragan flicked to the next page -- and his eyes immediately widened when he saw the solid block of text there.


    TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF


    TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF


    TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF


    TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF


    TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF


    TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF


    TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF


    "Guys!" he called out, still looking wide-eyed at the script. "Something¡¯s --"


    Splat.


    Something heavy dropped down from the ceiling behind him. The words died on Dragan¡¯s lips.


    Click. Squelch.


    The sounds of something moving that should not be able to move. The squeal of stretching skin as it breathed through broken lungs. The creaking of bone as something picked itself up from the floor. A hollow and guttural choking sound as it opened its mouth. The thing was made of unnatural noises.


    Dragan whirled around -- and at the exact same time, the creature lunged at him.


    "Gemini Shotgun!"


    He fired three shots from point-blank range. One sailed off into the wall, the other two hit, but each provided a split-second flare of light that allowed Dragan to see the visage of the thing coming after him. And what a thing it was.


    Flash.


    A human face, contorted in animalistic rage, coming right for him. Sharp orange stalagmites of fungus grew out of his eye sockets in place of eyes, reaching for the ceiling. At first, Dragan thought the man was foaming at the mouth, lips and chin covered with white -- but it was far worse than that. Countless human teeth were growing out of the man¡¯s maw, some poking out from the inside of his throat, like he was choking on them. Gemini Shotgun flew over his shoulder and struck the wall.


    Flash.


    His hands were bared like claws to savage Dragan with, fingernails crusty and jagged. Each of his fingers was of wildly different length than the rest, and a few of them even branched out into new stubby digits, like the fledgeling fingers of an infant. Gemini Shotgun slammed into his elbow, severing the limb and sending it flying off.


    Flash.


    The man was wearing some kind of work uniform, but it was covered in squirming orange Panacea, and in some spots it had even fused with his skin. Twitching, burning gunshot wounds festered across his torso like puckering orifices. Gemini Shotgun struck him right in the middle of his chest, blasting through his heart and sending him flying backwards into the wall.


    He clearly didn¡¯t feel pain.


    The man went to get up again -- and as he did, Dragan saw Panacea crawling over the surface of his body with horrifying speed. First, it filled up the hole Dragan had blasted in his chest, covering gnarled meat with clammy white skin. Then, it poured forth from the stump of the man¡¯s arm like a melting candle, stretching and branching out until it formed a replacement, if misshapen, limb. The fingers twitched experimentally.


    All in all, it took three seconds for the enemy to completely heal. Like nothing had even happened.


    "Dragan?!"


    Dragan heard Skipper¡¯s voice -- and a moment later, felt his hand clap down on his shoulder, pulling him away from the danger. The warped man sprung to his feet, snarling -- and without a moment of hesitation, Skipper pointed his finger at the thing and blasted.


    Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang bang bang bang bang bang.


    Nine merciless Heartbeat Shotguns struck the creature across its body, reducing its limbs and head to utter pulp. The torso bobbed up and down in the slurry of its former parts -- but even as Dragan watched, he could see fungus sprouting forth from the wounds, already repairing the damage. Just looking at that, Dragan had no doubt the enemy would be back on his feet before even half a minute could pass.


    "We need to go," he breathed, looking at the twitching meat, and Skipper nodded.


    The two retreated back into the streets, meeting the surprised Ruth and Bruno. Skipper continued to face the dark doorway, his finger pointed out to fire whenever the enemy presented itself.


    "What¡¯s going on?" Bruno asked, forcefields already over his hands.


    "It¡¯s fucked," Skipper replied simply, and Dragan had to admit it was an accurate description. "We need to get back to the ship --"


    Too late. White Village was waking up.


    The sewer grates exploded outwards as countless bodies forced themselves upwards -- snarling and growling as they writhed out of their restraints. At the same time, a flood of the warped humans emerged from the alleys between buildings, each and every eye focused on the group. Every nook and cranny revealed the monster it had been hosting.


    Every glance revealed a new terror. A deathly pale young boy, his face lined with bloodshot eyes. A burly, bearded man with a second pair of stillborn arms growing out of one of his nostrils, warping the structure of his head. A woman with her ribs pried open, a fresh human skull forming within the cavity. Each and every face warped in animalistic fury.


    "Run!" Skipper roared, slicing his fingers through the air. "Heartbeat Bayonet!"


    His attack sliced indiscriminately through the incoming crowd, heads and limbs flying up into the air. It slowed their approach somewhat as they fell over the bodies of the fallen, but Dragan knew it was a stopgap measure. Before long, whatever Skipper had cut away would simply grow back. These were not things that died so easily.


    Ruth switched to her R¨¦volutionnaire set, giving Skipper a boost to his Aether -- and he used it in a final devastating attack, his Bayonet more like a greatsword than a scalpel as it utterly crushed the first ranks of the incoming monsters.


    For a few seconds, the progress of the monsters slowed to a crawl -- and Skipper took the opportunity, whirling around and seizing Ruth by the hand as he sprinted with all his might. The group moved as one, Dragan firing off Gemini Shotguns behind himself to catch any enemies that had broken free of the quagmire.


    He didn¡¯t know if there were any, and if there were he didn¡¯t know if he was hitting them -- but he wasn¡¯t about to slow himself down by turning to check. They weren¡¯t far from the stairs: if they kept this pace going, they¡¯d be able to reach the ship and seal it before the enemies were upon them. As those white stairs came into view, leading down out of the settlement, an involuntary smile of relief came to Dragan¡¯s face.


    As ever, though, the universe loved to punish optimism.


    A second horde of enemies came upon them from the left, spilling out of the sewers, clawing against the wet ground as they charged. Dragan skidded to a halt, but at the speed he¡¯d been running there was no avoiding going right into their path.


    "Miss Ruth!" he heard from Serena. "Do me!"


    Ruth swung around in Serena¡¯s direction and fired her musket, the bolt of Aether buzzing around Serena¡¯s body as it struck. As she ran, Serena scraped her hand across the ground, gathering the raw material for a truly gargantuan sword -- but she canceled the transformation halfway through, leaving it more of a misshapen boomerang than an actual blade.


    She hurled it with all her strength at the incoming horde, the area she¡¯d struck exploding into a cloud of dust and blood. For a few seconds, at least, the way to the ship was clear.


    Skipper continued to slice with his Bayonet behind them as they descended the stairs, Dragan running down three steps at a time. His heart was hammering in his chest. The Slipstream #3 grew bigger in his vision as they approached. It was hardly going to keep hundreds of people out for long, but if they could just take off, they could get out of this situation.


    Fuck it. If North was somewhere in this mess, then he could enjoy it himself. Dragan landed at the bottom of the stairs and --


    Light. Heat.


    The Slipstream #3 utterly exploded into fire and smoke just before they could reach it, the shockwave sending Dragan flying backwards, right off his feet. Ruth caught him before he could hit the ground, and a forcefield from Bruno deflected the metal shrapnel that was heading for them, but they¡¯d lost their escape route. They were stuck here.


    Dragan¡¯s mind raced as he looked at the flaming wreckage of the ship, his Cogitant thought process accelerated by panic.


    Explosion too quick. Too sudden. Ship not damaged by the enemies beforehand. Remotely detonated via bomb. Intelligent enemy, not the mindless ones coming for us. Two parties to worry about. Need to --


    "Heartbeat Landmine!" Skipper roared, annihilating a group of the enemies just as they leaped for him, attempting to prevent him from moving. Scraps of flesh and bone flew in every direction, but even with that Dragan had no faith they were actually dead.


    "Dragan!" Ruth cried, lifting her musket and firing upon the crowd as it advanced. "Find us a way out of here!"


    Serena did much the same, forming two thin, extremely long swords from the metal of the stairs and swiping through the horde. Even with their combined efforts, however, the progress of their enemies was inexorable -- they¡¯d mess up before long, get tired and make a mistake, and then that would be it. Dragan had to figure something out before that happened.


    He turned, looking around his surroundings. Needless to say, the Slipstream #3 -- rest in peace -- was utterly useless to them now. Retreating into the desert was pointless, too -- the horde would just follow them without a doubt, and even if they got away they¡¯d just be wandering around without food and water. Straining for hope, Dragan¡¯s eyes focused on the bright skyscraper in the distance, the ExoCorp headquarters.


    Could they head there? Would it be safe? There was no guarantee that whatever had happened here hadn¡¯t happened there, as well. They could just be walking into an exact replica of this situation.


    "They¡¯re getting through," the Archivist commented, his legs crossed on a nearby rock. "Better make a decision."


    Dragan shook his head rapidly as if to banish his doubts. Their choice was binary, when he got down to it: they could stay here and definitely get overwhelmed, or they could try for the tower and maybe have a chance.


    The bigger problem was actually getting there, though. Skipper could fly with his Heartbeat Shotgun, but doing that required the use of both hands -- he couldn¡¯t carry someone, and being so close to the Shotgun would be damaging if he tried to give someone a piggyback or something. Dragan could use Gemini World to move in that direction, but he wasn¡¯t confident in his ability to move quickly while taking someone with him.


    In the best case scenario, using that method, they¡¯d be leaving Ruth, Bruno and Serena behind. That made it unacceptable.


    Dragan opened his mouth as if to say something, but only an indecisive croak trailed out of his lips. He didn¡¯t know what to do. This situation had blasted right through his usual nerves. Behind him, the enemies began to enter melee range, forcing Ruth to defend herself with her claws.


    Luckily, the world made the decision for him.


    "Get in!" he heard from the distance -- and as he looked, he saw a vehicle hovering over the horizon, heading in their direction. A young man with long red hair, wearing some kind of security uniform, leaned out of the open window, frantically waving his arm.


    In a momentary lull in the horde¡¯s attacks, Bruno and Dragan exchanged a glance, and nodded. Whoever these guys were, it couldn¡¯t be worse than this.


    The vehicle -- now clearly some kind of military jeep, desert camouflage coating it¡¯s bodywork -- ground to a halt, bobbing up and down in front of them. There were only two actual seats, occupied by the waving man and a red-faced driver with a shaven head, but there was plenty of room in the jeep¡¯s cargo port.


    With a click, the man leaning out the window took out a truly massive plasma rifle, pointing it at the horde -- which was pressing against the network of forcefields Bruno had erected, very nearly overwhelming it. The man leaned into his collar, clearly speaking into some kind of communicator.


    "We¡¯ve got them," he said, panicked. "Uh, large numbers of repurposed in the area -- I don¡¯t have an exact number. Get in!"


    That last bit was directed to them, needless to say, and they didn¡¯t need to be told thrice.


    Skipper held up the rear, firing off R¨¦volutionnaire-enhanced Heartbeat Shotguns to hold the enemies back, if only a little. One by one, as quickly as they could but still painfully slow, the crew pulled themselves up into the back of the jeep. Skipper got on last, using a Shotgun to launch himself right into the waiting carriage.


    The jeep sped off, and the flaming wreck of the Slipstream #3 quickly shrank in view. The horde wouldn¡¯t give up so easily, though -- Dragan could see them sprinting as one with all the speed a human body could muster, not quite keeping up with the truck but still moving much faster than Dragan would like.


    "Who the hell are you people?" the man who¡¯d waved at them demanded, swinging around in his seat. He was speaking loudly to be heard over the rushing wind.


    Dragan opened his mouth to give some kind of snarky remark, but after what he¡¯d just seen all he could manage was a half-hearted croak. For the moment, at least, speaking was Skipper¡¯s domain.


    "Got some better questions for ya, pal," he said, still pointing his finger in the direction of the far-off crowd. "Who are you guys? Where are we going? And what the hell were those?"


    The young man exchanged a glance with the driver, receiving a nod of affirmation. Then, he turned back to Skipper. For the first time, Dragan noticed just how tired he looked -- huge bags under his eyes, his skin sallow and pale.


    "I¡¯m Micah, this is Nero. We work security for ExoCorp here, uh, on the planet -- just normal patrols usually, but¡­ well, uh, not now. Not normal."


    "Okay, okay, yes, hi, hello," Skipper rapidly snapped his fingers, still watching their backs. "Let¡¯s go, let¡¯s go. Efficient exchange of info, boys. You¡¯re from ExoCorp, so we¡¯re going to the ExoCorp building, yeah? So, question three -- what the hell are those things?" S~ea??h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Micah exchanged another glance with Nero, adjusting the helmet on his head. A thin film of sweat ran down his forehead, and he blinked as it dripped into his eyes.


    "We call them the Repurposed," he said quietly. "We don¡¯t know what happened, but they¡¯re all that¡¯s left of everyone from White Village. The only sane people left are the ones who were at the HQ when it happened."


    "When what happened?" Bruno barked.


    Nero, the driver, answered with a gruff voice muffled by his uncontrolled moustache. "We don¡¯t know. Nobody knows. Communications off-planet go down. Then we see you idiots coming down with no idea at all."


    "Couldn¡¯t just leave you to it," Micah muttered. "Ain¡¯t right."


    How heartwarming. Now they could all die together!


    Dragan looked back over his shoulder: the horde of Repurposed had faded to a vague mass on the horizon. They¡¯d made good distance. If that crowd was the population of White Village, were there others that they had to worry about?


    The jeep swerved to avoid a pillar of mushrooms, and Nero breathed a sigh of relief. Even as Dragan was forced to hold on tight to keep his grip, he felt relieved as well. Micah put a finger to his communicator.


    "On our way back," he said simply. "Extend the bridge."


    As the shape of the ExoCorp headquarters grew in their vision, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel a little bit awed. From a distance, he couldn¡¯t really appreciate it, but from here it was a marvel. The tower was built right into the isolated butte below, transitioning from rugged orange rock to bright glass as it ascended. In the end, it was so tall that it all-but blotted out the sun, creating the first shade Dragan had seen since they¡¯d landed.


    They grinded to a halt.


    "HQ sealed itself off after everything happened," Nero explained, fishing a stick of protein out of his pocket and taking a bite. "Micah did a hell of a job convincing them to let us go grab you."


    Bruno narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Awfully generous of you."


    "I knew people in White Village," Micah said grimly, turning off his communicator. "Recognised faces in that crowd coming after us. Not about to let that happen to anyone else."


    The bridge that was descending from the entrance of the building was more like a ramp, angled down from the tower¡¯s elevated position. It was only when he tracked it with his eyes that Dragan noticed the precarious gap it was crossing. Like a moat around a castle, the area directly around the tower was a sheer drop, the size of it almost five times that of the tower itself. Forget death -- if you fell from that height, you¡¯d be lucky if anything remained of your body.


    Danger.


    As the bridge descended painfully slowly, reaching the three-quarters mark, Dragan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something was wrong, some subconscious doubt crawling along the back of his brain. He didn¡¯t know what it was, but --


    The sand around them exploded.


    For a brief moment, they had managed to relax into silence and calm. That ended immediately. Skipper swore, pointing both fingers out to blast the two Repurposed that had burst out of the ground in front of him -- wearing uniforms like Micah and Nero¡¯s. Their heads immediately exploded like watermelons, but by the time their bodies hit the ground new skulls were already sprouting like grapes.


    More Repurposed were climbing out of the ground around them, the majority seizing hold of the bottom of the jeep and pulling it down towards the earth. Dragan could hear the engine roaring beneath them, but the grip of the Repurposed was such that it couldn¡¯t move.


    Serena tore a strip of metal free from the carriage of the jeep, turning it into a sword that she used to slice a leaping Repurposed in half. Ruth dispatched a pair attacking her -- dancing between them, stabbing them in the joints and organs with her Skeletal claws.


    Dragan gritted his teeth as he fired a Gemini Shotgun into the eye of a Repurposed as it pulled itself out of the ground. This wasn¡¯t his arena at all: his abilities were specialised for one-on-one confrontations, rather than taking on a crowd. The chaos of the situation was such that he couldn¡¯t get a handle on it before yet another factor came into play.


    "No! No!"


    Dragan snapped his head around just in time to see two Repurposed drag Nero bodily out of the driver¡¯s seat. Swearing to himself, Dragan vaulted over the side of the carriage, ready to fire off as many Shotguns as was needed to at least stop these things from moving.


    He was too late.


    By the time he landed, the two Repurposed had already forced Nero down to the ground. One of them had torn his stomach open with yellow, jagged fingernails, revealing dark red blood and intestines. The other had forced it¡¯s thumbs right down into Nero¡¯s eye sockets, holding him in place even as he writhed and screamed in utter agony.


    Dragan nearly vomited right then and there, but he retained enough of his wits to do what had to be done.


    Gemini Shotgun. Gemini Shotgun.


    Two shots struck two bodies, sending the Repurposed flying away. Nero simply twitched and gurgled blindly on the ground, blood bubbling weakly out of his mouth. As Dragan stood over him, horrified hesitation stalling his step, Micah charged in next to him, plasma rifle in hand.


    "Fuck," he muttered, crouching down as if to try to pull Nero to his feet -- but then he stood back up, raised his rifle, and shot Nero once in the head. All movement ceased.


    Dragan just blinked as he looked down at the euthanised body, snapping back to action only when Micah shook him by the shoulder.


    "We need to go," he said simply, before charging off in the direction of the now-descended bridge. Seemed they were abandoning the car.


    The group moved across the bridge: Micah running ahead, Skipper covering the back, and the others moving in the middle. This group of Repurposed wasn¡¯t nearly as numerous as the first one, but their regenerative abilities were unchanged. Skipper cut swathes through them with Heartbeat Bayonet as they pursued, but they rose to their feet just as often as they were cut off.


    "Keep moving!" he commanded, holding the enemy off. "Keep moving!"


    Dragan¡¯s breath caught in his throat as Ruth stopped moving, swinging around to support Skipper with her musket. Nostrils flaring, he grabbed her by the shoulder. What was that idiot doing?!


    "Let go!" she said, aiming her musket at the incoming Repurposed.


    "Weren¡¯t you listening?! We need to keep moving!" Dragan demanded, eyes wide. "We need to --"


    Then he saw it. He saw it, sparkling from a distant hill. He saw it, the telltale glint of light against a sniper scope. He saw it, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.


    "Move!" he roared, pulling Ruth back with all his strength --


    Bang.


    Blood hit Ruth¡¯s face.


    "Dra¡­ gan¡­?"


    For a moment, she didn¡¯t even realize what she was seeing. When she did realize, her mind refused to accept it.


    The sniper shot had hit Dragan directly. Half of his head had been scraped away diagonally by the bullet, revealing white broken skull and pink brain matter in the gaping wound. His hand, still on Ruth¡¯s shoulder, twitched -- and with it he released his grip.


    All sound was gone, save for a relentless ringing in Ruth¡¯s ears. What had happened? Was she hallucinating? Where was she? What was this?


    "Dragan¡­?" she asked again, voice muted to her ear. She could taste vomit, curiously distant, at the back of her throat.


    He mouthed something, his one remaining eye rolling back in his head. He staggered backwards. He slipped.


    And he fell.


    Ruth¡¯s hand vaguely reached out to grab his arm, but too late. Dragan slipped off of the bridge, tumbling down into the abyss below. As Ruth leapt for the edge of the bridge, still grasping for empty space, she saw what became of him.


    Like a ragdoll, like meat, he plummeted down off the ground, growing smaller and smaller in Ruth¡¯s vision. Faintly, she could hear someone screaming, and it took her a second to realize it was herself. She screamed as she watched Dragan hit the side of a rock formation with a sickening crack, bounce off, and finally vanish through a sizable crack in the earth.


    Into the darkness.

 Chapter 183:8.2: The Void

    "Dragan?" Ruth whispered again, hand still extended, as she looked down at the empty chasm.


    She blinked, curiously calm. In one ear, she could hear Skipper blasting Heartbeat Shotguns at the enemy Repurposed. In the other, Bruno was desperately shouting something. She tried to shrug him off, but his grip on her was strong -- and he pulled her away from the edge.


    Those words he was saying¡­ what did they mean? He¡¯s gone, he¡¯s gone¡­ they didn¡¯t make any sense at all.


    Ruth¡¯s mouth moved in reply, but even she didn¡¯t know what she was saying. All she could do was vaguely reach out for the spot Dragan had fallen while Bruno dragged her away. Her feet slid against the smooth metal of the bridge as she wildly kicked.


    Here, her strength was aimless, mindlessly lashing out -- and so Bruno¡¯s focus won. He pulled her into the maw that was the building¡¯s entrance, cool darkness pressing against her skin even as she screamed and flailed.


    "Heartbeat Bayonet!"


    With a final attack, Skipper sliced off the legs of the Repurposed pursuing him, sending them onto their stomachs. Then, he blasted himself into the entrance of the building just as the main doors slammed shut. He let out a deep breath as finally, finally, the Repurposed vanished from view.


    "Well, that was a lot," he sighed, rising up into a sitting position. He glanced around. "Where¡¯s Dragan?"


    He hadn¡¯t seen. He didn¡¯t know. Cold ice crawled over Ruth¡¯s heart, and when she opened her mouth this time she could hear the words loud and clear.


    "He fell," she murmured.


    The grin on Skipper¡¯s face froze. "What?"


    Ruth dropped to the floor as Bruno let go of her, his arms swinging limp by his sides. She looked up at him: his mouth was an utterly flat line, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared off into space. He elaborated with just a few words.


    "He¡¯s gone¡­" he whispered, his hands shaking, his eyes wet. "He -- he --"


    The doors further into the building flew open, and a squad of security officers came out, pointing their weapons at the group and barking commands. Micah stood, protesting, but was quickly pushed back by the squad¡¯s commander.


    "Hands up, all of you!" the commander said, jerking his rifle upwards. "All of you! Now!"


    Ruth obeyed without a second thought, lifting her hands up into the air. Bruno stood there just trembling for a moment before Serena took over and acquiesced. Micah looked between the squad of soldiers and Skipper -- who was still sitting there, the grin fading from his face.


    "What?" he asked again, deathly quiet.


    "Hands up!"


    The commander¡¯s finger began to curl against the trigger. Before he could fire, however, Micah stepped forward again -- positioning himself between the commander and Skipper, his own hands up. The commander visibly hesitated.


    "Micah, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed, still pointing the gun.


    "They¡¯re safe, they¡¯re safe," Micah said frantically, waving his arms in the air. "I mean -- just look at them, man!"


    The commander bit his lip, shaking the rifle in another attempt to scare Micah off. "Could be infected."


    "Look at them, they¡¯re fine!"


    "Might not be showing," the commander sniffed. "Could be sleepers or something. Wait for us to bring ¡¯em in and then they turn." His eyes narrowed. "Could be you¡¯re one too."


    Micah stopped moving. "That¡¯s not how it works."


    "Don¡¯t know how it works." The coldness in the commander¡¯s eyes had returned -- and when his finger curled around the trigger again, there was an unshakeable purpose to it. "Rather not find out the hard way."


    Ruth should really do something. This situation was clearly about to explode, so she should really do something. Lift her claws or defend herself, or something like that. But when the thought of any action rose to her mind, it immediately died on the vine. What was the point of effort, when the time for it had already passed?


    I don¡¯t want to lose what I have.


    She¡¯d lost what she had.


    The shouting of the soldiers, the protests of Micah, all of it faded into an incoherent swirl of noise and light¡­ her feet felt unsteady beneath her. Was she about to collapse? It wouldn¡¯t be surprising. She took a breath that didn¡¯t feel nearly deep enough, and --


    "Hey," said Skipper, his voice dangerously even. "Can you guys shut up, please?"


    The commander looked past Micah to Skipper. Ruth looked up from her misery, too. Even Bruno, off in the corner, ceased his shivering.


    Venomous green Aether coursed around Skipper¡¯s body, forming an emerald haze surrounding his very being. Ruth could hear a formless whispering in the air, like the very air around him was vibrating in fury. When he looked up, his eyes held murderous gleams.


    "I¡¯m really trying not to kill someone right now," he growled. "So it¡¯d be a huge help if you didn¡¯t get my attention. Yeah?"


    The commander, cowed for but a moment, snarled and raised his weapon up again. "What the hell did you just say to me, you little --"


    A whistling of the wind, and the barrel of his rifle fell, neatly sliced away from the weapon. Face white, the commander slowly looked down at his gun. The cut of the Heartbeat Bayonet had been so fast and so strong the metal was still red from heat.


    The commander¡¯s mouth opened again, doubtless to order his men to fire in his stead, but before the words could leave his lips --


    "What the hell is going on here?!"


    -- the doors into the building flew open.


    The man who strode out of the headquarters, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, was a stark contrast to the soldiers they¡¯d seen so far. A dark business suit instead of desert fatigues, a greying combover rather than a protective helmet. His eyebrows were so thick and wide they almost formed a unibrow, and that unibrow was creased in anger as he stepped out of the building, flanked by two bodyguards. sea??h th§× N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Whoever this was, he was in charge. You could tell that at a glance.


    The commander¡¯s eyes flicked between Skipper and the new arrival, his ruined rifle lowering just a fraction. "We¡¯re securing the premises, Mr. Hessiah," he said tersely. "They¡¯re potential sleeper agents. We can¡¯t just let them in."


    The businessman -- Mr. Hessiah, it seemed -- groaned again, wiping his dry handkerchief against his cheeks before taking another step towards the commander, leaning in angrily.


    "This situation will not persist forever," he hissed. "When the authorities come to find out what happened, you think they won¡¯t ask questions about your conduct? You don¡¯t think such panic will cost us? There are laws regarding denial of shelter during natural disasters, you know. The legal costs alone¡­"


    Morality didn¡¯t seem to do much to move this man, but money certainly did. The commander holstered what was left of his rifle -- and with a wave of his hand, his men did the same.


    "It¡¯s a bad idea," he said to Hessiah, bravado forced into his voice. "I¡¯m telling you now."


    "Of course. I thank you for your continued counsel." Hessiah¡¯s eyes scanned Skipper, Bruno and Ruth, properly looking at them for the first time. "Put them with the rest of the refugees. I trust you can handle that, at least, Marsh."


    "Yes, sir," Marsh said through gritted teeth -- and then, without so much as a word behind him, he strode towards the open doors.


    Ruth followed, and she saw that Bruno and Skipper were doing the same. It was strange. Usually, if she was being treated this way -- talked down to and harassed -- she would feel an irrepressible urge to give just as bad back. Now, though, she felt no desire at all.


    She felt¡­ nothing.


    "So what happened?" Skipper asked quietly, his voice dark as he stepped in alongside her. "He slipped and fell?"


    It took her a moment to remember how to speak. She shook her head. "Someone shot him. A sniper¡­ I think."


    Skipper¡¯s eyes scanned the guns of the men escorting them. "I didn¡¯t see those Repurposed things using guns. Interesting, yeah?"


    "Mm," Ruth nodded without really thinking about what she¡¯d been told. "Interesting."


    Bruno alone was silent, walking behind them morosely. His hands, moving using his Aether, were tightened into the utmost fists. Ruth got the feeling that whoever talked to him next would get a swift punch to the jaw.


    The lobby they were led into was massive, filled with what looked like museum exhibits charting the discovery of Panacea and the growth of the industry surrounding it. A humongous model of a Panacea cross-section was suspended from the ceiling by wires, flickering holographic signs pointing out the individual parts of its structure.


    There was a long crescent-shaped desk at the head of the room, but it was unmanned, and the procession moved past it without a second glance. The group split in two there -- Hessiah and his bodyguards taking one elevator, the rest taking another. The shafts were made of glass, and so Ruth could see Hessiah¡¯s lift heading upwards for a moment before theirs descended.


    "Refugees, huh?" Skipper said with forced levity. "We¡¯re not the only people who¡¯ve made it here, then?"


    "Quiet," Marsh snarled. "If it was up to me, we¡¯d throw the lot of you outside. You don¡¯t host the enemy in the middle of a siege."


    Skipper grinned, but it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. "I¡¯d like to see you try, pal."


    The elevator dinged before the situation could escalate any further, and the doors slid open to reveal the truly colossal room beyond.


    Without doubt the room had originally been some kind of storage warehouse, but the automatic shelves had moved themselves to cover the walls, leaving open space in the middle of the room. It was packed with people, a hundred of them at least -- men and women and even a few children. Were these the refugees that Hessiah had mentioned, then?


    Blankets and sleeping bags littered the floor, and crates of canned food and drink had been opened in the corners of the chamber. As Ruth, Bruno and Skipper stepped forward, however, Marsh did not leave the elevator, nor did his men.


    "Enjoy," he said sarcastically. "And don¡¯t make trouble."


    With that, he slammed his fist against the elevator¡¯s control panel, and the module zoomed upwards again. Seemed they were being left to their own devices. Micah shrugged apologetically.


    "Sorry about him¡­ the guy¡¯s an ass anyway, but I guess the situation hasn¡¯t helped."


    "Who are these people?" Skipper asked, eyes scanning the crowd. "You said the only people left were those who were here when whatever happened happened. Why were they here?"


    Micah ran a hand over his face. "They¡¯re employees -- and families of employees. Before this all went down, there was kind of a thing going on with worker rights. They came here to present Mr. Hessiah with a petition right when the whole thing kicked off."


    Skipper narrowed his eyes. "That¡¯s pretty convenient."


    "Careful," Micah chuckled. "You¡¯re sounding a little like Marsh yourself."


    The look Skipper gave him after that firmly shut him up.


    "Apparently," Skipper said. "My friend was killed by a sniper bullet. Those things don¡¯t use guns, do they? And yet you boys don¡¯t seem too surprised. Who killed my friend?"


    Micah shifted uncomfortably under Skipper¡¯s glowering gaze. He was the one with the gun, with the position that gave him power here, but from his expression you wouldn¡¯t know it. Skipper had stripped it from him with a glance.


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    "I don¡¯t know for sure," he finally said. "But¡­"


    "But you have suspicions."


    Micah nodded.


    "Who knows? Tell me."


    Skipper¡¯s sentences grew shorter and harsher as his anger built upon itself, like a blade shrinking as it was sharpened. Ruth was certain she hadn¡¯t seen him blink for nearly a minute.


    Micah looked up, biting his lip.


    "Better if I take you to him."


    There hadn¡¯t been many Scurrants where Ruth had grown up, but since joining up with Skipper she¡¯d seen quite the number of them. At first, she¡¯d been surprised by some of the more unique mutations they exhibited, but over time she felt like she¡¯d gotten used to it. She thought she couldn¡¯t be surprised anymore.


    She was obviously wrong.


    The man Micah had brought them to was quadrupedal, head low to the ground, his eyes so wrinkled and recessed so far back into his skull that they were barely visible. His hands and legs were wide and flat, like hooves, fingers so stubby they clearly weren¡¯t capable of grasping anything. A heavy shell of what might have been tooth or fingernail sprouted from his back, it¡¯s surface so smooth and shiny that Ruth could see her own reflection in it. A bright red robe was tied loosely around the man¡¯s body, preserving his modesty.


    It was like the human form had been stretched and twisted to resemble a kind of giant tortoise.


    Ruth exchanged a glance with Skipper. Micah had led them to a set of tents in the back of the warehouse, opting to wait outside the flaps while they spoke to this guy. Who was he, then? What did he do to get a tent?


    "I¡¯m told you can help me out," Skipper said, his voice deceptively calm. "I¡¯m looking for some answers."


    The tortoise-man¡¯s tiny eyes scanned Skipper up and down, his warped expression utterly inscrutable. "You¡¯re among legions, then, I¡¯m afraid." His voice, passing through puffed lips above a bloated jaw, was quieter and softer than Ruth would have expected.


    "Well, I¡¯m told you can help me, pal. That true?"


    Joints cracked audibly as the man adjusted his position, just slightly. "By whom? Micah? Curious lad. If I can help you, I¡¯m happy to. My name is Ansem del Day Away. Yourself?"


    "Skipper."


    Skipper grunted and sat cross-legged on the floor, getting to eye-level with Ansem. The Scurrant blinked slowly as he looked Skipper up and down. Even through the curtain of dark hair that hung over Ansem¡¯s face, the constant thought going on behind his eyes was evident.


    "An alias?" he finally said. "Is there a reason you won¡¯t give your real name, sir?"


    "Been calling myself Skipper longer than anything else. Far as I¡¯m concerned, it is my real name."


    Ansem closed his eyes, slowly nodded. Then, he looked to Ruth and Bruno, standing behind Skipper. "And you two? Names please, chosen or otherwise."


    Skipper smiled thinly. "You¡¯re talking to me, pal," he said softly.


    "And I dislike the presence of anonymous spectators. I¡¯d ask they shed their anonymity -- or leave, of course."


    Skipper opened his mouth to protest again, but the thought of fighting over something so pointless just made Ruth feel sick. She cut him off.


    "I¡¯m Ruth, and this is Bruno." She nodded in Bruno¡¯s direction.


    "Charmed. You see, my friend? Now we can proceed harmoniously. What is it I can help you with?"


    Skipper glanced back at Ruth, and there was clear annoyance in his gaze, but he let it go. Instead, he leaned in further towards Ansem, hands clasped on his lap.


    "A friend of mine was killed outside," he said, almost growling as anger trickled into his voice. "Not by the Repurposed. He was shot. Micah seems to think you¡¯d know about it."


    Dragan, half his face gone. Ruth realized, a cold feeling settling in her gut, that there would be a new addition to her nightmares.


    With how stretched out and expanded Ansem¡¯s face was, it was difficult to parse his facial expressions, but Ruth couldn¡¯t help but feel that the Scurrant was smiling as he hummed to himself.


    "It seems to me," he said after a moment. "That you had the misfortune of encountering the Dead Hand."


    "The Dead Hand?" Skipper asked.


    "Indeed." Ansem del Day Away did not elaborate further.


    Skipper rolled his eyes -- just like Dragan would have -- and pressed further. "What is the Dead Hand? Crash course, buddy. We ain¡¯t drowning in time here."


    Ansem¡¯s eyes angled upwards, as if he could see through the ceiling to the floors above. "Titan Hessiah¡¯s attack dogs," he almost spat. "Hired to keep the people down."


    "Hessiah? Short guy, combover?" Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Didn¡¯t strike me as the mastermind type -- besides, he seems pretty freaked out about this whole thing. We met him at the door, and he was pretty about everyone staying inside. Why would his goons be hanging around out there, shooting people?"


    "Don¡¯t misunderstand. The Dead Hand once worked for Titan Hessiah, but I have no doubt they have stranger directives now. At any rate, they¡¯re the only ones on this planet with the kind of weaponry you describe. The guards use standard issue ExoCorp equipment, intended for medium-range conflict. Only the Dead Hand find need for sniper rifles."


    Skipper put his fist on his chin, staring Ansem down. "You seem to know an awful lot about them, for a¡­?"


    "Lawyer. I specialise in labour law. The people here on Panacea work in appalling conditions -- the automatics here are out-dated, prone to malfunction. Men and women must crawl into the machinery to make repairs, like rats. Sometimes there are accidents." He blinked slowly. "Quite often there are accidents."


    "Doesn¡¯t explain why you¡¯re so knowledgeable about this Dead Hand."


    This time, Ansem¡¯s thin smile was unmistakable. "The organisation I represent is descended from a slave revolt. We find situations such as these¡­ disquieting. I was dispatched to organize worker action. In response, Hessiah hired the Dead Hand to intimidate the workers into subservience. They¡¯re a small group, but sadly effective. They¡¯re often an obstacle in these sorts of negotiations -- hence, I know them well."


    "Union busters," Bruno spoke up for the first time in a while. His eyes were still ringed red.


    Skipper nodded to himself. "So this Dead Hand group -- they¡¯re helping the Repurposed?"


    "It would seem so." Ansem shuffled forward slightly, each movement of his legs slow and deliberate. "Hessiah says that they have gone rogue, but I find that notion questionable. The Dead Hand are known for two things: their brutality, and their professionalism. Mercenaries live and die based on their reputations. Should word of betrayal get out¡­ that would be the end."


    "So you think this Titan Hessiah¡¯s still involved, yeah?" Skipper narrowed his eyes.


    "At the very least, he¡¯s hiding something. They say communications off-planet have been disabled, but I find that unlikely also. Panacea farming takes place on many planets outside of this one, but it is still a major center. If it fell out of contact, surely someone would have come to investigate by now?"


    "Maybe we came to investigate. You haven¡¯t even asked where we came from, you know. Couple of random travellers, walking into the middle of a situation like this? You don¡¯t find that suspicious?"


    "Not at all," Ansem replied -- and again, he did not elaborate further, instead changing the topic. "After all, your arrival is convenient. My suspicion is that Hessiah and ExoCorp are blocking communications, while sending out their own messages to make the outside think everything is fine here. Needless to say, this would be considerably illegal. You all seem capable people -- if you could perhaps infiltrate the upper floors, confirm my suspicions¡­"


    Skipper interrupted. "You want us to help you out."


    When Ansem spoke, it was with the utmost earnestness. "It may have been one of the Dead Hand that pulled the trigger on your friend," he said slowly. "But Titan Hessiah signed the contract that put him there."


    Skipper stopped the Scurrant¡¯s request with a raise of his palm. The smile on his face was just as thin as Ansem¡¯s had been -- and again, it did not reach his eyes. He got up from the floor.


    "You¡¯re a plotter," he sighed, brushing the dust off his knees. "Nothing wrong with that -- it¡¯s just the way you go about things. But I don¡¯t trust plotters ¡¯till I know what the plot is."


    Ansem raised a thick eyebrow. "How sad," he murmured. "You seem an awfully suspicious man."


    Skipper lingered at the exit of the tent, the flap lifted up over his shoulder as he looked back.


    "Not at all," he said, fake smile spreading into a fake grin. "I¡¯m a plotter too."


    The noise of the crowds inside the warehouse bounced off the walls, making it difficult to hear what people were saying even right next to you. Talking about anything there was pretty much impossible -- so the group found their own little hole to scurry into.


    Around the main warehouse the refugees had been herded into was a labyrinthian network of corridors connecting logistics offices, server rooms, even more storage. They weren¡¯t quite alone back there -- they¡¯d passed a few people sleeping against the walls -- but they could at least hear each other.


    Skipper leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "What do you think?" he asked Bruno. "This story about the Dead Hand seem legit? You heard of ¡¯em?"


    Bruno shook his head. "If they¡¯re a small group, though, I wouldn¡¯t expect to. Why? You think the turtle guy¡¯s feeding us bullshit?"


    "Could be," Skipper nodded. "He¡¯s clearly not buddies with Titan Hessiah, so it¡¯d be a win for him if he can turn us against him, too."


    "Or he could be telling us the truth."


    "Doubt it," Skipper clicked his tongue. "Titan Hessiah¡¯s the CEO of ExoCorp -- if he was deliberately blocking out communications during an emergency like this, it¡¯d be the end of his career. Money grubbers don¡¯t take risks like that."


    Their escort cut in. "What¡¯ll you do, then?"


    Micah lingered in the middle of the corridor, rifle slung over his back. He¡¯d stuck with them even after they¡¯d spoken to Ansem. Maybe his superiors had ordered him to.


    Skipper sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose -- and for a brief second, he looked much more tired and much more old than Ruth had ever seen him.


    "We don¡¯t know enough," he finally said, voice muffled as he ran his hand over his face. "We need intel -- and not just what Ansem del Day Away¡¯s willing to feed us. Bruno, you willing to ask around with the refugees here? Ask ¡¯em if they know about this Dead Hand thing?"


    Bruno nodded, his face stone. "Roger."


    But Ruth couldn¡¯t hold it back anymore.


    "Why?" she whispered.


    Skipper looked down at her, eyes wide, as if he¡¯d forgotten she was there. "Why what?"


    "Why bother¡­?" The words spilled clumsily out of her mouth like water through a sieve. "Why are we¡­ asking around, trying to -- to figure things out? He¡¯s dead. It doesn¡¯t matter."


    The smile faded from Skipper¡¯s face, and the lines of his face again seemed much deeper. "You wanna just leave things unfinished?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Dragan would want --"


    "He doesn¡¯t want anything. He¡¯s dead. It doesn¡¯t matter."


    "He¡¯s not --"


    Skipper stepped forward, with more sudden anger and intensity than Ruth had ever seen from him -- and then, when she flinched, the guilt on his expression was just as striking. He sighed, stepping back and slumping down against the wall.


    "He¡¯s not dead," Skipper quietly said, staring at his hands. "See? There¡¯s a little¡­ there¡¯s a little Dragan inside my head now, all the memories I have of him all mashed together, and he keeps asking me, asking me. What am I gonna do? How am I gonna make it right? That¡¯s what he keeps asking me. I gotta be able to answer him, Ruth. You want to answer him too¡­ right?"


    She thought about it. Her thoughts were sluggish, slow, but she thought about it.


    Robin bleeding against a pole. Bones singed with plasma. Dragan, falling into the shade.


    The memories gouged at her like knives. One had been a trick, an illusion, but the horror of it had been real. If she could lessen that horror, even if just a little¡­


    "Yeah," she finally said, her resolve hardening just a little bit. "Yeah, I think I wanna answer him."


    The grin on Skipper¡¯s face was a fraction more genuine, his eyes relieved.


    "Sounds good, right?" he murmured. "Bruno."


    Bruno nodded, turning and striding down the hallway to do as he¡¯d been told. Ever since what had happened to Dragan, it seemed he¡¯d retreated into his training -- his even, rhythmic marching echoed down the stained corridors.


    Skipper took a deep breath. "Okay¡­ so, before I forget."


    He moved. Green light illuminated the hallway as Skipper¡¯s Aether raged around him. Then, his body a blur of motion, he turned. His hand lashed out, seizing Micah by the collar, and slammed him against the wall.


    By the time Ruth realized what was going on, it was already over.


    Micah choked, legs flailing in the air as Skipper held him up with one hand. "What are¡­ what are you doing?!"


    "Skipper?!" Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked between Skipper and Micah, utter confusion written on her face.


    Skipper didn¡¯t blink, just continuing to stare up at his captive with dull green eyes. "Enough games, North. Disguise off. Or I kill you right here." He was telling the truth. Ruth could tell that just from looking at him.


    "I¡­" Micah gasped for air in Skipper¡¯s grip. "I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re¡­"


    "Okay. Bye, North." He raised a finger.


    "Fine! Fine!"


    For a brief second, light flickered around Micah¡¯s form -- and when it was done, Micah was no more. The man with the long red hair had been replaced by an Umbrant with slicked-back grey, grimacing as Skipper held him up.


    The person they¡¯d once thought dead. The person they¡¯d mourned.


    North.


    "Been a while," he chuckled, shrugging as much as he was able.


    There was fear among the people.


    Bruno could see that even without being told. He¡¯d asked through the refugees about this group supposedly called the Dead Hand, and even though he hadn¡¯t gotten a straight answer, the frightened looks and hushed voices that told him they knew nothing were more than enough. The situation might not be exactly as Ansem del Day Away had described, but something had been terrorizing these people long before the Repurposed had appeared.


    Analysis of these things wasn¡¯t his forte, though. When he got back, he¡¯d ask --


    Oh.


    Focus on the mission, Bruno, he told himself. The mission is a raft in the ocean.


    He had work to do. There was no shortage of things to distract him. Serena was bouncing away behind the walls of his skull, like a mad dog trying to run off energy, but he could distract himself all the same. So long as he didn¡¯t think about what had happened, it wasn¡¯t yet real.


    Bruno looked over into the corner of the warehouse, at a small gathering of young men that he hadn¡¯t talked to yet. Diligence was the best medicine -- he¡¯d ask them about the Dead Hand, too, then head back to Skipper and Ruth when he got the results.


    He took a step forward -- only to stop as he felt the cold metal of a blade against his stomach.


    Without his even noticing, someone had stepped up behind him and pressed their blade to him, ready to slice him open at a moment¡¯s notice. They were in the middle of the room, surrounded by people, and yet the practiced expertise of the movement and position had been such that nobody was even looking at it. As he saw light playing off the sword that could kill him, Bruno slowly gulped -- as slowly as he dared, so as to not provoke anything.


    He recognised this sword.


    "Say anything," Atoy Muzazi spoke, right in his ear. "And I will be forced to kill you."

 Chapter 184:8.3: O, Abbatoir

    North gulped as Skipper¡¯s finger hovered in the air, the tip pointing right between his eyes. He knew better than anyone that any offensive movement would be met with instant death. His defenses weren¡¯t up to scratch -- after all, he was a lover, not a fighter.


    What were his options here? Skipper wasn¡¯t living his best life right now, so convincing him to let bygones be bygones would be easier said than done. Ruth had always been a little more gullible, but under these circumstances he doubted even she could be fooled. It was a damn shame -- Bruno was the pragmatic sort, and would no doubt have seen the benefits of having North around as an ally.


    No doubt that was why Skipper had sent him away.


    "Come on, guys," he grinned uneasily, feeling the tightness of Skipper¡¯s grip pulling at his collar. "This is really how you treat old friends? I¡¯m wounded. You¡¯ve wounded me."


    Ruth didn¡¯t blink. "Friends don¡¯t let friends think they¡¯re dead for months, asshole."


    She was talking back -- there was communication, which meant there was opportunity. Some of his confidence returning, North put a hand to his chest as he continued.


    "I¡¯ve been thinking about that, too," he said, voice strained slightly by Skipper¡¯s stranglehold. "And I totally agree. That¡¯s why I¡¯ve been doing my best to make changes in my life. It¡¯s a learning process, though, so you¡¯ve gotta be patient with me, okay?"


    Just insincere enough to be endearing -- it was a delicate scale, and if he misjudged his place on it he¡¯d be killed before he could blink. That was where North usually lived his life, though, so it wasn¡¯t much of a new stressor for him.


    Skipper hadn¡¯t responded yet. His green eyes were hollow, inscrutable -- what thoughts were going on behind them? Was he weighing the benefits and risks of letting North live? Cold sweat ran down the back of North¡¯s neck: Skipper never had been mathematically minded.


    "Come on," North beseeched, a little quieter, as he stared into Skipper¡¯s eyes. "I know you¡¯ve got questions aplenty, boss. Kill me, and you¡¯re killing your answers, too. Ain¡¯t worth it."


    Skipper slowly blinked.


    Really, this whole thing served North right. He¡¯d been overcome by sentiment again, going out and making sure these idiots didn¡¯t get themselves killed by the Repurposed. He¡¯d have been much better off just watching from afar, tricking them into moving the way that he wanted. Much better off, and much more entertained.


    "Don¡¯t you wanna believe in something?"


    North frowned at the intrusive memory. Skipper¡¯s eyes couldn¡¯t look any more different from that day.


    It was starting to look like he might have to use Nightmare Underground. Eleven Devils in the Rain had the best odds of getting him out of this situation -- using it would probably burn some bridges, but right now that was looking inevitable anyway.


    One more try.


    "Come on," North said softly. "Skipper. For old times sake?"


    Skipper¡¯s eyes widened fractionally, and North saw a glimmer of light return in their depths. He had him.


    "One more trick," Skipper growled. "Just one, and I kill you, no questions asked. Understand?"


    North nodded. He could see in Skipper¡¯s eyes that he was telling nothing but the truth.


    Skipper released him, and North dropped to the floor, massaging his throat as he gasped for air. As he went to pick himself up, though, he caught a glimpse of Ruth¡¯s unsympathetic glare and stopped in his tracks. Skipper may have decided to spare him, but he wasn¡¯t sure what conclusion Ruth had reached.


    "You brought us here," she said, her voice cold. "It¡¯s your fault he¡¯s dead."


    North grimaced. "I didn¡¯t shoot your friend. I went out there to try and bail you guys out."


    "But you called us here. Dragan wouldn¡¯t have been here to get shot if you weren¡¯t calling for help."


    North opened his mouth to protest again, only to close it when he realized she was right. He hadn¡¯t really known this Dragan fella, so he didn¡¯t feel much in terms of guilt, but it would be wiser to shut his mouth about it for the time being.


    Skipper stepped in front of him again, arms crossed -- and as those emerald eyes looked down at North, he realised he hadn¡¯t really been spared yet at all. He was still in deep shit.


    "I didn¡¯t get much from your message," Skipper began. "So you¡¯re going to explain to us what¡¯s happening. Every detail."


    North nodded hurriedly. "Before I do that --"


    Skipper wagged his finger threateningly. "No tricks, North."


    "Not a trick," North replied, with as much earnestness as he could devise. "You¡¯re gonna wanna bring Bruno back here." S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Skipper narrowed his eyes. "Why?"


    North took a deep breath. No matter what, this news wasn¡¯t going to go down well. "Because otherwise he¡¯s gonna get himself killed."


    Bruno grunted as he was thrown against the wall of the boiler room -- he went to move away, only to stop as Atoy Muzazi pointed that sword of his directly at his throat. The tip of the blade tickled his adam¡¯s apple.


    Atoy Muzazi had changed since the last time Bruno had seen him, back on Taldan. Rather than combat gear, he was wearing what looked like some kind of formal attire -- a blue business suit that had clearly seen better days, the tie utterly abandoned and the fabric utterly coated in orange dust.


    The look in his eyes, though, that was unchanged. Ready to kill.


    With him -- in this out-of-the-way boiler room Muzazi had dragged Bruno into -- was a woman. She wasn¡¯t someone Bruno recognised, a young woman with a bob of blonde hair, wearing a similarly disheveled tuxedo. She held no weapons as she looked Bruno up and down, but from the way she held herself he could tell she was an experienced combatant.


    Let¡¯s go, Bruno! Let me fight!


    Bruno shook his head as subtly as he could. It was a safe bet that this person accompanying Atoy Muzazi was another Special Officer. Against two of the Supremacy¡¯s best, in such cramped quarters, there wouldn¡¯t be a happy ending.


    "Allow me to be clear about my intentions," Muzazi said, his blade still in the air as he glared down at Bruno. "This is an interrogation. I will ask questions, you will answer them, and things will proceed harmoniously. Do you understand?"


    Somehow, he¡¯d found himself in the interrogation room again. Bruno glared back up at Muzazi, body tense, waiting for the moment any opportunity presented itself. He could send out an Aether ping to alert Skipper and Ruth to his location, but there was no guarantee he¡¯d be able to hold these two off in the time it would take them to arrive.


    For now, at least, he would have to play along.


    "What do you want to know?" he demanded through gritted teeth.


    The blonde woman, her eyes scanning Bruno, spoke up before Muzazi could so much as ask the first question. "He¡¯s up to something. Be careful."


    Muzazi spoke without looking back at his companion. "Lamentably, I find that most people are ¡¯up to something¡¯. I didn¡¯t expect this criminal to be any different. Nevertheless, I will be careful." Then, finally, the first question came. "Where is Dragan Hadrien?"


    Bruno could have laughed. He really, really could have laughed. Of course that was what Atoy Muzazi was here for, but¡­ what a joke.


    What a tasteless, evil joke God had played.


    This, at least, was one piece of information Bruno didn¡¯t mind surrendering.


    "He¡¯s dead," Bruno said simply.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened, and the tranquility of his blade faltered somewhat, the sword wavering in the air. "A lie," he said quietly, but the doubt on his face spoke volumes.


    "He was shot outside, before we came in," Bruno went on. "Shot in the head. His corpse fell off the bridge and down into the canyon. He¡¯s done."


    "A lie," Muzazi said again, more firmly -- but when he glanced back at his companion, she simply shook her head.


    "At the very least," she sighed, running a hand back through her messy hair. "He believes he¡¯s telling the truth. Shit."


    Bruno furrowed his brow. From the way she was talking¡­ was she a Cogitant of some kind? No, her eyes were bright red, not blue, but there was still something about her that was strange.


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    "An illusion, perhaps," Muzazi turned back to Bruno. "You merely thought you saw Dragan Hadrien die, but you were misled. Someone is attempting to deceive us."


    Slowly, Bruno shook his head.


    He¡¯d considered that, of course, hoped for it -- but when Dragan had been shot, his blood had hit Ruth¡¯s face. She¡¯d had to wash that off using running water. North¡¯s illusions weren¡¯t capable of that kind of fidelity.


    When he tried to explain it all, however, the words stuck bitterly to his throat. He said all he was capable of.


    "No. He¡¯s dead."


    The sword waved in the air for just a moment more, before Muzazi returned it to its sheath with a groan of utter frustration. He turned away, running his hands through his hair as he paced.


    With a similar sigh, the woman sat back on the railing that ran across the room. She shrugged, her mouth a flat line.


    "If he¡¯s lying," she said simply. "Then he¡¯s the best I¡¯ve ever seen."


    "I believe you, of course," Muzazi muttered, voice muffled by his hands. "It¡¯s simply¡­ oh, hellfire. After we traveled all this distance? It¡¯s¡­ argh, this is unbelievable."


    "What do we do now? Without Dragan Hadrien, we¡¯ve no reason to be here. But we can¡¯t exactly leave."


    Bruno¡¯s hands tightened into fists. Clearly, the death of one of his closest friends was inconvenient for Atoy Muzazi and his companion. Hot anger flooded through his veins, like a loop of flame intensifying through each rotation.


    His body was tense. In a few seconds, he would do something extremely foolish. He would --


    Ping.


    Bruno¡¯s purple Aether flared around his body as the Aether ping struck him -- and a second later, Muzazi¡¯s white Aether did the same. The blonde woman just looked up from her seat, surprised by the sudden lightshow. Was she not an Aether user, then?


    Skipper or Ruth must have realized he was missing. As Muzazi¡¯s cold grey gaze settled on Bruno, he readied himself to leap up and fight for his life. By sending out that ping, they¡¯d rung the starting bell.


    It was up to him to hold out until they got here.


    "My apologies," Muzazi snarled, unsheathing his sword in a flash of silver. "But it seems the time for conversation is at an end. I --"


    "Heartbeat Bayonet."


    The voice was cold, utterly passionless -- and utterly efficient. Like a cruel knife, the attack slashed Atoy Muzazi vertically up the torso, white Aether flashing around him as it attempted to defend. It absorbed the majority of the damage, but the impact of the attack was still such that the Special Officer was sent flying back into the far wall.


    The blonde woman leapt out of her seat, eyes intense and dilated as she charged towards the entrance. Bruno turned to follow her, getting just the slightest glimpse of Skipper¡¯s silhouette at the end of the hallway before the second attack came.


    "Heartbeat Bayonet."


    "Atoy!"


    The woman¡¯s feet fell out from under her, ankles neatly sliced in twain. As she fell to the ground, however, the Heartbeat Bayonet did not stop.


    The invisible, whistling blade looped around her body, inflicting further wounds. It snipped her jugular, sending out a veritable waterfall of blood. It clawed across her eyes, blinding her. It ran across her arms and legs in a network of slashes, cutting through nerves and disabling them. She landed on her face, nose crunching from the impact -- and as she did, a final revolution of the Bayonet carved out her spinal cord.


    The body lay there, a puddle of blood slowly spreading out around it, and Bruno blinked.


    "Kinda brutal¡­" he muttered, as Skipper fully stepped into the room.


    "You¡¯d think so," Skipper replied, finger still pointed out in front of him. "But I¡¯ve already blown her head off once. Not got time for this."


    Atoy Muzazi, however, did seem to have time for this. He launched himself back into the fray, sword lifted high over his head -- and he and Skipper danced.


    Aether coursed around Skipper¡¯s prosthetic arm as he used it to block and parry each and every strike Muzazi sent his way. Thrusters burned around Muzazi¡¯s arms and legs, increasing his speed tenfold, but his maneuverability was limited by these cramped confines -- and that was enough to allow Skipper to predict the path of his attacks.


    Whistle.


    Muzazi stopped mid-thrust, drawing his sword back into a defensive stance instead as he deflected the Heartbeat Bayonet that would have cut his head off. The Bayonet continued to strike, however, each attack aimed for the most vulnerable locations. Armpit, eyes, throat, groin¡­ if a single one of those got through Muzazi¡¯s defenses, it would have been devastating, but his sword moved like a trick of the light, blocking each and every slash.


    The corpse on the floor began to move, hands planting themselves against the floor as its wounds began to close.


    Bruno¡¯s eyes widened: Skipper had been right. Even with all the injuries he¡¯d inflicted, it hadn¡¯t been enough. Was this woman like the Repurposed, then, using Panacea to regenerate in some way?


    She didn¡¯t stay up for long. Bruno stomped down on the back of her neck with Aether-infused strength, and the sickening crack that resulted told him he¡¯d severed the spinal cord once again.


    Muzazi growled as he saw his companion go down once more -- and as he dodged to the side of another Heartbeat Bayonet, he made his best effort to end the battle quickly. He thrust his blade forward, thrusters blaring from the hilt so that it could continue stabbing even if he went down, the tip of the sword aimed right for Skipper¡¯s eye.


    But this was not the usual Skipper.


    Bruno had been with Skipper for a while. He¡¯d grown used to a man who treated the greatest danger like a joke, a man who always held himself in reserve. That was not this man. This man was ready to do whatever was required to win -- to win utterly.


    Skipper attacked three times in one instant.


    The first Heartbeat Shotgun, delivered from an unusual angle, knocked the sword out of its path, causing it to fly off and embed itself into the wall. The second Heartbeat Shotgun, delivered by Skipper¡¯s other hand, slammed into Muzazi¡¯s stomach, causing him to double over.


    The third attack was much more analog. Skipper¡¯s fist, enhanced by Aether and sound, struck Muzazi in the jaw -- smashing through his defenses and sending him down to the ground in a crumpled heap.


    "Such strength¡­" he wheezed, hands nursing his stomach. "Back on Caelus Breck¡­ you weren¡¯t so¡­"


    "Sorry, kid," Skipper said, his voice firm even as his shoulders heaved with effort. "You caught me on a bad day."


    His finger was still pointed at Muzazi¡¯s head, ready to deliver the coup de grace -- but when Muzazi spoke, quietly, there was no fear of death in it.


    "Is he¡­ really dead?" he asked, head bowed.


    Skipper blinked. "Yeah. He¡¯s really dead."


    Bang.


    As Dragan Hadrien woke from his long sleep, he took in a hungry gasp of air.


    The first sensation he became aware of was pain -- he was lying down on rocks, their points digging into his back. As he sat up, one hand nursing his aching head, more than a few of the stones that remained stuck to the back of his shirt.


    What had happened? Dragan squinted as his eyes attempted to adjust to the darkness. For that matter, where was he?


    There was stone on all sides, rough, formed by nature rather than human hands. Some kind of cave system, branching off into tunnels that led into even deeper darkness. Far above, so high up that it might as well have been the sun, harsh light leaked in through a massive crack in the rocky roof. Had that been how he¡¯d come in?


    He¡¯d been shot. That was the last thing he remembered -- well, the last thing he remembered was seeing a sniper and then having his head hurt, so he could put two and two together. Gingerly, he searched around his skull with his hands, but found no wound.


    It had been an ordinary bullet, then, without the strength to properly breach Dragan¡¯s defenses? It was surprising that he¡¯d gotten so strong, but he couldn¡¯t see another explanation. Even so, the blow must have knocked him off the bridge.


    How, then, had he survived? That fall would have been colossal. The answer to that came just as easily: when he used Gemini World, it cancelled out his momentum. He¡¯d used that before to save Ruth. He must have used it in the same way, unconsciously, to save himself.


    His joints cracked as he pulled himself up off the floor, standing uneasily on his feet. Knowing how he¡¯d gotten here was one thing, but was how he meant to get out?


    As always, more questions presented themselves before answers.


    "Bubble and fuck," muttered the voice of a child from the darkness. "Blue boy know where else he goes? Washrot kettle king."


    Dragan squinted his eyes further, and as he did the form of the speaker became clear. A young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, huddled in the corner of the cave -- dirty orange hair hanging over her eyes in clumps, the ragged green shirt she wore so oversized it was more like a dress. Her teeth chattered wildly in the cold.


    He stayed still, cautious, as he called out to the girl. "Hello? What are you doing there?"


    The girl looked up slightly, her eyes still hidden from view. Her hands grasped at her arms like claws. "Corpse hand throws it down¡­" she mumbled. Her voice was hoarse and crusty. "What are you doing here, dead boy?"


    The way she spoke was strange, with seemingly random clicks of the tongue scattered throughout. Clearly, she wasn¡¯t all there.


    Dragan sighed: he¡¯d never been good with kids, but it seemed in this situation he had little choice. He squatted down in the dirt, bringing himself to eye-level with the girl. Her mouth moved silently, teeth clicking together.


    "Are you from the settlement?" he asked, as patiently as he could. "White Village? Did you run down here?"


    The girl cocked her head, and Dragan caught a glimpse of hollow orange eyes behind her hair. She scratched at her ear with one of her hands, her fingernails dirty and encrusted with sand.


    "Run? Nay. Here from White Village, here from big stick, here from space boat. Here from everywhere. Where you from, dead boy?"


    "Uh, I guess I¡¯m from space, too?" Dragan ventured, doing his best to parse that nonsense. "A planet called Crestpoole. What¡¯s your name, kid?"


    The girl muttered something that might have been ¡¯Anne¡¯.


    "Well, Anne?" Dragan smiled as kindly as he could. "This place isn¡¯t safe, you understand? We need to get out of here."


    Slowly, as if the words were taking a while to sink in, Anne nodded -- then, as Dragan went to stand up, he found the little creature was clambering up onto his back. She looped her little arms around his neck, securing herself in place with a huff of breath. The girl was curiously light, her weight barely noticeable -- but Dragan supposed that made sense with how scrawny she was.


    He sighed to himself as he began walking. He¡¯d lost his friends, but somehow obtained a goblin child.


    How typical.

 Chapter 185:8.4: The Vainglory of a Possum

    Skipper¡¯s finger was still pointed at Muzazi¡¯s head, ready to deliver the coup de grace -- but when Muzazi spoke, quietly, there was no fear of death in it.


    "Is he¡­ really dead?" he asked, head bowed.


    Skipper blinked. "Yeah. He¡¯s really dead."


    Bang.


    Skipper did not fire.


    Instead, the door he¡¯d entered through flew open, striking the wall, and a squad of security officers breached the boiler room. Their commander, the asshole named Marsh, snarled as he pointed his plasma rifle right at Skipper¡¯s head. This time, his finger was secured around the trigger with grim resolve.


    "Asshole," he snarled. "Should have known not to leave you alone. You think you¡¯ve got privacy, dickhead?"


    Bruno glanced up, at the security camera nestled in the corner of the room. It was nearly scrap, barely functional, but clearly still operating. They hadn¡¯t responded to the Special Officers interrogating him, but they were responding to Skipper¡¯s actions?


    Skipper slowly lowered his finger to his side, taking in a deep breath. "I --"


    "One more word," Marsh promised. "And I blow your goddamn head off. Don¡¯t think your Aether will save you: we know what you¡¯re doing."


    Bruno took a step forward, only to stop as two of the guards swung their guns in his direction. "Look," he said warily, eyes fixed on the barrels of the weapons. "This was self-defense -- these two were attacking me!"


    Marsh¡¯s eyes were cold. "Got no evidence of that." What? His eyes flicked to the pile of meat below Bruno. "From what I can see, you¡¯ve already killed one person, and you were right in the middle of killing another. Even if you ain¡¯t Repurposed, you¡¯re dangerous."


    "Execution, captain?" asked one of Marsh¡¯s subordinates, a burly-looking man with tattooed arms. "Like you said, can¡¯t have ¡¯em running around."


    Marsh looked sorely tempted, but he slowly shook his head. "Hessiah¡¯ll raise hell if I don¡¯t clear it with him first. We¡¯ve got cells for trespassers -- throw ¡¯em in there while we wait." His gaze flicked to Muzazi, still prone on the floor. "All of ¡¯em. I wanna know who this guy is, too."


    Muzazi hadn¡¯t said anything, hadn¡¯t even moved, since the soldiers had come in -- no, since Skipper had answered his question. He just continued to stare down at the floor with an inscrutable look on his face.


    "Take ¡¯em," Marsh ordered, before nodding to the corpse on the floor. "And get this one to the morgue."


    As the guards seized Bruno, he gritted his teeth in frustration.


    As the guards seized Skipper, he continued to glare in anger.


    As the guards seized Muzazi, he just looked silently down at the floor.


    Lost.


    "No need to be so rough," North grunted as Ruth restrained him, pushing him into a storage room.


    She manifested one of her gauntlets on both his hands, the cramped confines of the armour keeping him from moving his fingers. Needless to say, she kept the claws of the gauntlet recorded. Satisfied he wouldn¡¯t be moving around, she kicked him into the corner of the room, where he sprawled to the floor.


    Before he could scramble back to his feet, Ruth knelt down and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. She didn¡¯t let go.


    "You can trick my eyes," she growled. "But not my hand. I think you¡¯re making an illusion, I cut you to pieces. No questions asked."


    North frowned, rubbing an eye with the side of his arm. "Seriously? This is the thanks I get for saving you?"


    Dragan, his head blown open.


    Ruth¡¯s grip tightened on North¡¯s shoulder, and the Umbrant winced in pain. When she spoke, her voice was dangerously quiet.


    "You didn¡¯t save Dragan," she said.


    "I¡¯m no miracle worker, but I did my best," he grimaced, squirming in her grasp. "If I hadn¡¯t convinced that Nero guy to come get you, you¡¯d have all died back in White Village -- or worse. You¡¯d have ended up like the Repurposed. And the time before that, too!"


    Ruth frowned. "What do you mean?"


    "The Unite Regent?" North said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Full-on Supremacy attack on a UAP warship? What, you guys thought you survived that because you were just so badass? I was looking out for you!"


    Ruth raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Dragan said you left him to die back there. And if we¡¯re going that far back, I remember Skipper saying you were helping the Citizen back on Taldan. Were you looking out for us back then, too?"


    "Well, I didn¡¯t know Dragan," North shrugged without so much as an ounce of shame. "And that shit back on Taldan was just a job, nothing personal. I didn¡¯t even know you guys were involved until it was almost over. Come on, cut a guy some slack? Let bygones be bygones?"


    "And the time you faked your death, and let us all mourn for you? Was that just a job, too?" Ruth¡¯s voice was cold as ice, her eyes just as frigid.


    For a moment, North had no answer for that -- but only for a moment. "That was¡­ personal stuff," he muttered, glancing away.


    Ruth gritted her teeth as she looked down at the traitorous man. She had no doubt he was lying about nearly everything he¡¯d just said, but she didn¡¯t know why. Dragan would have known why. He¡¯d have been able to figure it out.


    Dragan, his head blown apart.


    Ruth squeezed her eyes shut. It was fine. She¡¯d be dreaming about that image from now on, so it was best that she get used to it.


    As she closed her eyes, however, she heard it. Boots, thumping against the floor, heading their way. Skipper, coming back from getting Bruno? No, it was more than one person -- and as they moved, Ruth could hear them talking.


    "There was a girl with them, too," the guy called Marsh barked from not far away, his voice echoing through the halls. "Micah was with her. Find them!"


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    Ruth¡¯s eyes snapped open -- and as she did, she could see that North had visibly paled. He reached forward, grabbing her by the forearm.


    "You cannot let them find us," he hissed insistently, eyes wide with terror.


    "Why not?"


    "The things they¡¯re doing here¡­ the things up top," North glanced up as if he could see through the ceiling, like whatever was up there horrified him. "You wouldn¡¯t believe me if I told you."


    Ruth was immovable. "Try me."


    The sounds of approaching officers were growing louder and louder, closer and closer.


    North shook his head. "No time. The only way we get out of this is if we work together. You need to trust me. I can use my holograms."


    The boots were nearly upon them.


    "Please," North whispered.


    "I don¡¯t trust you," Ruth said -- and then, a second later, she released him. "But I¡¯ll let you save us just this once."


    Transparent Aether crackled around North¡¯s body as he grinned -- S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    -- and there was a thud as the door was kicked in.


    Well, that could have gone better.


    Marie felt cold metal beneath her as her body was moved onto some kind of stretcher, no doubt being taken to the morgue the guard had described. That had been a close one -- the guy called Skipper really was her natural enemy, able to rip her to shreds without even getting close. It had been all she could do just to make sure Atoy wasn¡¯t killed, and even that had been difficult.


    She¡¯d had to create a new hand, just a few strands of bone and sinew, and wind it through the darkness of the room until it reached the broken camera -- from there, it had been a matter of reconnecting it to alert the guards. Creating an independent organism from her biomass would have triggered the Needles, so she¡¯d had to keep the hand connected with a long, thin tendril like an umbilical cord.


    If one of her opponents had just looked too deep into the dark, the cat would have been out of the bag for good. She¡¯d disabled her nervous responses to masquerade as a corpse, but if she hadn¡¯t she could guarantee she¡¯d be shaking like a leaf.


    She repaired one of her eyes as much as she dared, just enough to restore her vision while not being too obvious. White sterile ceiling was spread out before her, and she was still being moved -- this was an entirely different part of the building from what they¡¯d seen so far.


    At least this whole incident had given her the opportunity to begin investigating.


    The plan had collapsed from the very start -- the Arrowhead had managed to arrive long before Hadrien¡¯s crew, but when they¡¯d made planetfall they¡¯d been attacked by the Repurposed and forced to find shelter here. Given the circumstances, they¡¯d had to adjust their plan: coming out and saying they were agents of the Supremacy wasn¡¯t the way to go. Instead, they were representatives of one of the GIB¡¯s shell companies. And now, of course, one of them was a corpse.


    The best thing to do would be to figure out a safe way across the desert, and return to the Arrowhead. As far as she knew, the ship was still intact where they¡¯d left it -- but getting to it was the tricky part. Marie was pretty sure she could adopt a form that would allow her to cross the desert in record speed, but Muzazi wasn¡¯t so fortunate: even if he clung onto Marie as she ran, being touched by the Repurposed carried the unacceptable risk of him being infected.


    And so they waited. And so they investigated.


    Movement stopped as her body was placed down on an autopsy table, still splayed out in the throes of supposed death. She could hear the beeping of machinery around her, the slight heat as a medical automatic scanned her form. She made sure to confirm its biases: stopping her heart, ceasing her breathing. Cardiovascular functions could be handled in more subtle ways, and she had enough stored oxygen to survive for hours without air.


    "Death-confirmed," the automatic bleated from above her. "Time-of-death-05-33-local."


    She heard someone else grunt above her -- the medical examiner, maybe? "Who else witnessed the murder?" It was a man¡¯s voice.


    "Guard-squad-led-by-Anton-Marsh," the automatic responded. "Unknown-male-times-three."


    Another grunt -- and this time, Marie recognised the voice. It was the guy who ran this place: Titan Hessiah, CEO of ExoCorp. What was he doing examining a corpse personally?


    "Give Marsh and his men the usual bonuses," Hessiah said. "And approve the execution of the prisoners. Have their bodies and this one taken down for Enfant."


    Oho. Someone wanted to keep things hush-hush. Some kind of secret project? One that required corpses? She was sure Atoy could fight off any executioners, but only she could hear through the ears of a corpse.


    Perhaps she could continue being dead for just a little longer.


    Dragan used his glowing eyes to light the way as he walked through the dark tunnels, Anne still clinging to his back. Occasionally, he¡¯d feel her shift positions slightly, but apart from that she didn¡¯t make a sound.


    "How¡¯d you get down here?" he finally asked, keen to break the silence. "This is a long way from White Village, I can¡¯t imagine you ran. Do you have a vehicle? A bike or something?"


    It took Anne a moment to reply, and when she did the answer was as unenlightening as expected.


    "Don¡¯t live in a bike," she grumbled. "Bike all dusty and messy-like, not a place to live. Got arms and legs all mine, thanks. Not meat but mine."


    Dragan sighed. "Yes, I know you don¡¯t live in a bike. I¡¯m asking if you rode one here."


    "Don¡¯t ride no bike."


    "What, so you walked? I don¡¯t believe you."


    He felt Anne¡¯s hand slap against the back of his head. "You fell, dead boy."


    "Unrelated, but yes, I fell," Dragan rolled his eyes. "Obviously you didn¡¯t fall, because all your bones are still intact. If you came down here yourself, you could at least tell me the route to get back."


    "Don¡¯t know no route," Anne mumbled. "Scary."


    Dragan had to suppress another sigh. He¡¯d known kids could be hard to talk to, but this was a whole other level of frustration. Would he be mean if he yelled at her? Nobody else was here, so it didn¡¯t really matter, but still¡­


    Still¡­


    This wasn¡¯t quite right, was it¡­? Wasn¡¯t this situation bizarre? Shouldn¡¯t he be questioning it more? Why was he just happily walking along like this was completely natural? It was like his thoughts were being guided down a specific path, surrounded by invisible walls. He --


    Sunlight hit his face as he stepped out of the tunnel.


    They were still in the system of caves, but part of the rocky ceiling above had collapsed, allowing sunlight to flood in. It was far too high to climb, but Gemini World would allow him to reach it without too much of an issue. Carrying two people made that idea a little more risky, but¡­


    He glanced back at Anne, who was chewing one of her fingers idly. She wasn¡¯t too big. It should be fine.


    Dragan turned back to look up, and stopped in his tracks, eyes wide.


    "Trouble," Anne murmured mid-chew, as if the entire situation had nothing to do with her.


    Standing right on the edge of the hole were four human figures, silhouetted by the blazing sun. At first, Dragan thought they might be Repurposed, but that didn¡¯t fit -- the way they stood was calm and focused, unlike the animalistic thrashing of those enemies.


    They looked down at him, and as the light shifted Dragan got a better look at them. Each of the figures was wearing heavy metal armour, the sunlight glinting off of it, concealing every inch of skin.


    The armour was pragmatic in appearance, industrial grey. The necks and heads of the individuals were entirely covered by steel domes, framed on either side by jagged protruding shoulder pads. Singular portholes stared cyclopean out of the front of each helmet, fogged up so that no faces were visible. Dragan could see they were holding weaponry -- rifles, each of them, although the models might have been slightly different. He couldn¡¯t tell from this distance.


    What he could see from this distance were words -- the black words that were embedded on their bulky collars.


    DEAD HAND. Those words were surrounded by a sigil like a hand spread out, each finger and thumb terminating in bloody bone.


    "Danger," Anne muttered again -- and that was all the confirmation Dragan needed.

 Chapter 186:8.5: King and Crown

    Dragan watched as the figure at the head of the group stepped off the edge of the chasm, plummeting down into the cavern in a split second.


    Dust exploded out from the spot where the man had landed, and a sizable crater formed, but the figure didn¡¯t seem harmed in the least -- just dropping to one knee, rifle still clutched in its hands. A hollow, modulated breath echoed out from within its helmet.


    He was standing nearly ten meters away -- but Dragan got the feeling that if he tried to run, he wouldn¡¯t get far.


    "Hey there," he said, uneasily, eyes flicking around for potential cover. Anne tightened her grip around his neck.


    The figure just continued to stare at him for a few moments, before slowly reaching up and flipping a switch on their collar. Immediately, the dome covering their head and neck retracted, revealing the human visage beneath. Shining orange eyes blinked at Dragan¡¯s bright blue ones.


    To be honest, he¡¯d expected some kind of horrifying visage behind that helmet -- a warped Repurposed, perhaps, or something even worse. But the face that looked at him was perfectly human, looking him up and down with almost contemptuous intrigue, like he was a particularly interesting stain on the floor.


    The man had flowing blonde hair beneath that helmet, framing a handsome and unblemished face. He pursed his red lips as he inspected Dragan from afar. Dragan had never been one for fairy tales, but even he could see that this person looked like a prototypical charming prince.


    Those eyes of his, though, they didn¡¯t seem natural¡­ Dragan couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on it, but it was like someone had painted over this man¡¯s original shade with their own ghastly colour.


    "Did you not hear me?" Dragan called out again, trying to keep the tension out of his own voice. "I said ¡¯hey there¡¯."


    The blonde man did not answer. Instead, he looked up towards his compatriots atop the cavern, and spoke. His voice was clear and melodious, like a choir singer, and it echoed through the space without issue.


    "What is it that makes a king?" he asked his fellows.


    The voice of another of the figures, distorted by their helmet, carried just as well. The modulation made it hard to tell for sure, but it sounded like a woman. "Tell us, John," they said, smirk almost audible. "Tell us what makes a king."


    The man -- John -- turned back to Dragan, a thin smile on his lips. "A king is one who knows everything within his domain," he said softly. "Which is why this creature annoys me so. Tell me, boy, how is it you are here?"


    Dragan¡¯s eyes scanned the figures atop the cavern again, and he saw it this time -- the sniper rifle one of them was holding. He looked back down to John.


    "I think you guys probably know that," he said quietly, glaring.


    If his obvious hostility put John off any, it didn¡¯t show. He simply continued to smile, strolling casually towards Dragan. "You would think so, wouldn¡¯t you? And yet I have no clue how you came to be here, walking, breathing as you are." The smile faded. "You should be dead three times over, as far as I¡¯m aware."


    His eyes said he was telling the truth. Huh?


    John took another step forward -- only to stop as Dragan fired a warning Gemini Shotgun right into his path. The rock was scorched where the projectile struck it, and John raised an eyebrow as he looked down at the burn mark.


    "An Aether user¡­" he mused. "I should have expected as much. Perhaps this explains his survival? What say you, Susan?"


    That last bit was called up to one of his companions, the one with the sniper rifle, who leapt off the cliff to join him -- landing with a similar cloud of dust. Their dome retracted, and as Dragan saw their face he couldn¡¯t help but gasp in shock.


    At the front of the brunette woman¡¯s head were a pair of bizarre structures -- balls of human eyes, compounded like those of an insect, each individual pupil flicking around as it inspected the area. A Scurrant, maybe? Dragan couldn¡¯t help but shiver as each of those eyes scanned him up and down.


    "No," Susan finally said, caressing her rifle -- some of her eyes flicked over to look at John, while the rest remained fixed on Dragan. Her voice was harsh and raspy. "This is the boy from the bridge, sure, but I blew his head off. I¡¯m sure of it."


    Panic was quickly beginning to build up in Dragan¡¯s skull at these incomprehensible words, but he stuffed it into the back of his mind, filling his Archive. He couldn¡¯t lose his cool now. He had to get out of here and figure out what the hell was going on.


    "Look," he said, as diplomatically as possible. "I¡¯ve got no quarrel with you guys. If this is your place or whatever, we can just get out of here. Save you the ammo, right?"


    "We?" John murmured, lips pursed. "If we just let you go?"


    Dragan nodded. "That¡¯s right."


    He cocked his head. "And what if we don¡¯t let you go? Are you going to fight us, perchance?"


    Dragan clenched his fists, brought his body lower to the ground as his Aether buzzed around him. "That¡¯s right," he repeated.


    John¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter in the slightest. Instead, he slowly reached up with one of his gloved hands and pinched his own ear between two of his fingers.


    "I always find," he said conversationally. "That a demonstration of futility is more effective than a statement."


    Then, without another word, he twisted and tore.


    His ear came off surprisingly easily, soon becoming a flap of flesh and skin that he dropped onto the ground, crushing it beneath his heel. Not a trace of pain crossed John¡¯s face as red blood gushed from the wound, dribbling down the left side of his face, a stark contrast to his pale skin.


    Dragan looked down at the crushed remains of the ear, his eyes wide. "You¡¯re crazy," he breathed.


    "You¡¯d think so, wouldn¡¯t you?" John replied lightly. "And yet¡­"


    Something was bubbling inside his wound -- orange Panacea, running out of it like candle wax, forming itself into a mass of ears like a gathering of coral. Ten ears became five became one as the most accurate replication won out, sealing itself against his skull like nothing had even happened.


    John wiped the remaining blood off his face with his hand and then -- maintaining eye contact throughout -- licked it off his palm.


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    Dragan gulped. "You¡¯re Repurposed." He¡¯d assumed all those that were infected by this thing, if it was an infection, would be as mindless as those they¡¯d encountered in White Village. Evidently, he was mistaken.


    "Repurposed?" John said with the tiniest hint of amusement. "Is that what they¡¯re calling it? But it¡¯s irrelevant -- I¡¯m asking you how exactly you would fight me if you can¡¯t hurt me. Violence is the application of pain via overwhelming force, you understand?"


    Dragan took a step back, reaching over his shoulder for a moment to secure Anne¡¯s position. He had to admit -- this really did look bad.


    "You understand your position," John smiled. "Why, that¡¯s very good. I might have changed my mind about killing you. Listen to this, young man -- I have an offer for you."


    Dragan paused.


    "I am going to give you sixty seconds to run through these wonderful tunnels. After that time has passed, I will come and kill you. Should I do that, it would mean I win, of course."


    Another gulp slithered down Dragan¡¯s throat. "And how do I win?"


    "You can¡¯t win. Sixty. Fifty-nine¡­"


    Dragan turned and ran, legs pumping with all the strength his Aether could provide as he sprinted towards the mouth of the nearest tunnel. He didn¡¯t know where it led, but if he could put distance between himself and this psycho that was good enough for him.


    He didn¡¯t use Gemini World, not yet -- if he could keep that a secret, he could save it until he really needed it to take this guy by surprise.


    The darkness swallowed him.


    Bruno rapped his fist against the barrier surrounding his cell, only to wince when he received a shock in return.


    "It¡¯s good stuff," he sighed, sitting back down on the elevated section of floor that served as a seat. "Can¡¯t force our way through."


    He looked down at his wrists, at the tight Neverwire that bound them. All of this was nightmarishly familiar. His warped hands ached in sympathy.


    The three of them -- Bruno, Skipper and Muzazi -- had been restrained and tossed into separate cells by Marsh¡¯s thugs, left with only a single guard to watch them. He sat at the far end of the room in a chair, holding a hand to his face as he yawned.


    Ordinarily, Bruno would think this was a prime opportunity to escape, but he honestly couldn¡¯t figure a way out of this. It didn¡¯t look like Ruth had been caught, so could she bust them out? Did she even know what was going on?


    "As it doesn¡¯t seem we¡¯re going anywhere," Muzazi spoke from his cell. "I¡¯d like to ask you two a question."


    Bruno narrowed his eyes as he glared at the Special Officer. "I¡¯ve got nothing to say to you."


    "Then you need not answer." Muzazi turned his gaze to Skipper. "How about you?"


    Skipper shrugged, arms crossed as he looked out of his cell. Even now, his eyes were scanning the room, doubtless looking for a way to bust out.


    "Shoot," he said.


    Muzazi sat up in his seat. "Why do you oppose the Supremacy with such fervour? I don¡¯t understand."


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "You don¡¯t understand?"


    "I do not. What exactly is so repulsive about us, our way of life, to you? I felt your strikes, the power behind them -- you are incredibly strong. You would do well in the Supremacy. Why choose the life of a dissident instead? Please, explain it to me."


    "Well," Skipper leaned back, joints cracking as he did so. "That¡¯s kind of a tough question, kid. Before I answer, I gotta know -- what exactly would you say the Supremacy way of life is?" Sear?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Meritocracy," Muzazi answered without missing a beat. "Only those with the strength to carry the weight have it placed upon them. Decisions are made by those of will and power."


    "And what happens to those who, uh, don¡¯t have ¡¯will and power¡¯?"


    "They are protected by the strong. That is their primary duty, after all."


    "Really?" Skipper chuckled bitterly to himself, chin resting on his fist. "Think you might be projecting a little there, kiddo. If that¡¯s the way you try to do things, well, that¡¯s just swell, but that ain¡¯t what the Supremacy is all about."


    Muzazi bit his lip, frustration clear on his face. For a moment, his eyes flicked back to the guard -- no, to Muzazi¡¯s sword, which was resting in its sheath against the wall next to the guard. He hadn¡¯t gone a minute without looking toward it since they¡¯d been thrown in here.


    Did he really care that much about a weapon?


    Satisfied his sword hadn¡¯t grown legs and walked away, Muzazi looked back to Skipper, standing up from his seat in outrage. "Well, what is it, then? If I am so incorrect, what is it the Supremacy is ¡¯all about¡¯?"


    Skipper looked up at Muzazi, and the look in his eyes was so cold and hollow that the swordsman was forced to take a step back.


    "You ever been to Dranell, kid?" Skipper asked, eyes drilling holes. "Were you around for that?"


    Muzazi shook his head. "No. I was¡­" He looked confused for a moment before he continued. "That was before my time. What of it?"


    "Seven worlds, each of ¡¯em with millions of people living there," Skipper said, voice a relentless monotone. "They¡¯re pretty close to the UAP border, and they¡¯ve got certain assurances, so one day they decide they¡¯re going to secede. Supremacy doesn¡¯t like that."


    "Of course not," Muzazi replied. "If you were in charge, would you allow traitors to do as they please? Action had to be taken."


    "If it was up to me," Skipper sighed, closing his eyes. "There wouldn¡¯t be anyone in charge at all. But you¡¯re right, you¡¯re right -- action had to be taken. The Supremacy had no choice but to burn those skies down. No option except drowning the people, the kids, in plasma, melting them away to nothing. Nothing else to be done but crack the planets open like eggs, make the breaches."


    Muzazi had no answer for that at first, save for reflexively moving his hand to the spot where his sheath would have been. Finally, he answered quietly: "Unfortunate measures were taken. I¡­ I have no doubt all options were considered, and the Dranell Breaches were judged the most effective."


    Skipper smiled humourlessly, eyes still shut as he angled his head up towards the ceiling. "That was the last time the Supreme went outside, you know?" he said. "Guess after you kill that many people that quick, nothing else really measures up."


    The room went silent after that, save for the tinny incoherent hisses of the guards communicator. Skipper settled back in his seat, his gaze dull as he opened his eyes again.


    "I guess you¡¯re right: it was most effective," he muttered. "After I heard about that, I stopped having any doubts at all."


    Ruth held her breath as they walked between the guards, as carefully as they dared.


    It was a strange thing, to look down at your own body and see absolutely nothing. North¡¯s invisibility worked by projecting a hologram of the surrounding area onto the target¡¯s own body -- so if they moved too fast, the illusion wouldn¡¯t be able to keep up and they¡¯d be revealed. He couldn¡¯t do anything for sound, either: so once she breathed just a little too loud, that¡¯d be it too.


    Three guards were making their way through the storage room, swinging their rifles this way and that as they checked between the shelves. Ruth gingerly weaved between them as best she could, arching her back to avoid a sudden turn of a rifle that would have hit her right in the nose.


    She felt North¡¯s hand clasping her own, physical proximity making it easier to maintain the illusion on them both. She could feel his pulse hammering through his skin -- whatever was going on here, it had him terrified.


    The door wasn¡¯t far away, just a few steps and they¡¯d be out.


    Ruth took a quiet step forward, and --


    "More coming. You deal with these."


    -- and North let go of her hand.


    Immediately, the hologram dissipated -- and three rifles turned to point directly at the girl that had appeared between them. Someone barked an order to get her hands up, but Ruth could only groan in annoyance.


    Man, North really was an asshole.


    Skeletal Set.

 Chapter 187:8.6: Scions

    Ruth wasted no time.


    She ducked down, bolts of plasma flying over her head and singing her hair. Then, in the same motion, she swept her leg across the floor, the limb buzzing with crimson Aether. Two of the guards were sent sprawling down to the ground, and the twin kicks that Ruth unleashed as she rose again firmly knocked them out.


    The last guard, his eyes wide with panic, fired at Ruth again -- but this time she didn¡¯t duck. Instead, she spun on the spot, arm lashing out like a snake -- and she caught the bolt of plasma in her hand.


    It took an obscene amount of Aether infusion to stop the plasma from melting through the armour and her skin, but she held strong. The guard¡¯s finger curled around the trigger again, but too late.


    Ruth kicked off the ground and slammed her open hand right into the middle of the guard¡¯s chestplate. Her armour had been able to withstand the dissolution, but that clearly wasn¡¯t the case for him. The guard staggered back, screaming hysterically as the plasma ate through the metal, dropping his gun in his panic.


    Well, Ruth was never one to say no to a gift.


    She caught the rifle before it hit the floor -- and then, holding it upside-down like a farball bat, she struck it against the guard¡¯s head. He went down like a puppet with his strings cut, his scream trailing off into unconsciousness.


    She¡¯d heard a crack when she¡¯d hit him. For a moment, she thought she¡¯d gone too far and smashed his head in, but a little inspection showed she¡¯d only damaged his helmet. Flipping him over onto his back, she unstrapped the melting chestplate from his body and tossed it into the corner of the room, where it continued to collapse into a pile of molten metal.


    Ruth slapped her hands together as she looked down at the three bodies. Job well done.


    Now¡­


    She looked up from her work, anger already furrowing her brow as she stormed out of the room. Foolishly, she¡¯d given North an inch -- and as always, he¡¯d taken a mile. No doubt he¡¯d been lying about the other guards approaching: he¡¯d probably made a run for it and adopted a new identity.


    Finding him again, when he had his guard up, would be pretty much impossible.


    Ruth sighed as she turned into the hallway. First thing first -- she¡¯d have to get back in contact with Skipper and Bruno, get a handle on what exactly was going on¡­


    She stopped.


    There, in front of her, was North, smiling cheerfully. Two guards were strewn on the ground before him, twitching weakly and groaning. Dried vomit coated their mouths and chins -- and a veritable helping of it had splattered onto the floor too.


    Ruth sighed. "You asshole."


    North¡¯s smile widened into a grin. "What?" he asked. "Don¡¯t trust me?"


    It had been quite the trip.


    Marie¡¯s awareness of her surroundings had been reduced slightly as she masqueraded as a corpse, but she still had a vague idea of the way she had travelled. From the morgue, she¡¯d been sealed in some kind of secure unit -- and then that had been placed in an elevator, the vertical rumbling unmistakable.


    It had travelled upwards, the module had been retrieved, and here she was. Wherever here was. Good thing she wasn¡¯t claustrophobic.


    She¡¯d heard footsteps heading away from her a couple of minutes ago, and since then nothing. No breathing, no shifting of skin or clothes¡­ just sterile silence, and the occasional beep of equipment. She¡¯d be hard-pressed to find a better opportunity.


    Marie¡¯s body sparked back to life in a moment. Her legs became heavy and powerful, tense with muscle, and as she kicked out at the metal above her it gave way like paper. As it flew up into the air, Marie¡¯s hands lashed out like tendrils, multi-branched fingers grabbing onto the lid in the air and slowly lowering it back to the ground. There was no reason to cause too much noise here.


    She sat up, her arms and legs returning to default as she inspected the pure-white chamber.


    The place was massive, like a warehouse, but most of it was empty. Consoles and monitoring equipment lined the walls, but the space between was occupied only by six huge vats, each frothing with indistinct red liquid.


    Blood? No. Marie¡¯s nose twitched as it sniffed the air with acuity superior to any machine. The intermingling scents of half-a-dozen cleaning products drifted into her nostrils.


    Gingerly, she got out of the coffin-shaped module, adjusting her ruined tuxedo. That Skipper man had really done a number on her -- if she wanted to take him out in the future, it would have to be a sneak attack. All he had to do was look at her to cut her to ribbons, after all.


    Her eyes flicked around the room. The man who¡¯d brought her here -- Titan Hessiah -- was nowhere to be seen. Where exactly was here, though? They were surely still inside the ExoCorp headquarters, but from the way he¡¯d been talking this place was clearly some kind of secret.


    Marie¡¯s gaze settled on a small door, right in the corner of the room, the red light above it indicating it was locked. It looked flimsy, but she got the feeling that security for something like this was more than met the eye.


    Thump.


    Marie whirled around as the heavy sound echoed throughout the chamber. Her eyes turned black as an Umbrant¡¯s as she adjusted them, viewing the world through spectrums ordinary beings could not even comprehend. It took her only a moment to scan the room, confirm nobody was sneaking up on her, and relax her posture once again.


    Thump.


    This time, it was child¡¯s play to ascertain the source of the noise -- it was the closest vat, the red liquid in it bubbling incessantly. Curiosity getting the better of her for a moment, Marie took a step forward, glancing at the holographic panel next to it.


    ENFANT-6.


    Titan Hessiah had used the word Enfant in the morgue, hadn¡¯t he? So this was what all the fuss was about. Marie turned her head this way and that, trying to get a better look into the opaque vat, but no matter how hard she looked -- and no matter what organs she used to look -- the liquid did not surrender its secrets.


    She sighed, ildly rapping her fist against the glass as she turned away.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    Marie turned back, her eyes wide -- and as she did, she finally saw the source of the sound. The liquid did not clear, nor did the haze, but a great shadow fell over her as something floated through the crimson. Something huge.


    It was like a giant human fetus, stark white in colouration -- save for its bulbous staring eyes, which glared a bloodshot red. Its body was undeveloped, its limbs stubby and unfinished, but even so the strength in it was unmistakable -- the grotesque bulging muscles clearly possessing enough strength to reduce a human being to a smear.


    If that wasn¡¯t enough, even curled up in the fetal position it was the size of a car: how big would it be when it grew? Was this a thing that would grow, or would it remain like this forever?


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    Marie stared up at it, and it stared down at her. Slowly, its movements laborious, it reached out and tapped its hand against the inside of the glass.


    Thump.


    A reflection became clear in the glass, overlaying the grotesque infant. A short, grinning man with a combover, his eyes frenzied in rapture. He¡¯d snuck up on Marie without so much as a sound.


    "Gorgeous, isn¡¯t it?" whispered Titan Hessiah.


    "They¡¯re angry people," Anne said hurriedly, as if that was useful information. "People that are angry."


    "Good to know," Dragan panted back.


    Aether coloured his steps as he sprinted through the cave system. His footsteps echoed incessantly through the tunnels, and in the distance he could hear the alarming laughter of his pursuer. No matter how far he ran, John seemed to be perpetually on his heels.


    He¡¯d been running for nearly half an hour now, and he was no closer to escaping. These tunnels were labyrinthian, winding in on themselves like an insect colony, and Dragan was starting to worry that he¡¯d never find his way out even if he did escape.


    What, then?


    His options were limited, but he did have options. He could continue running, hoping for a stroke of luck that would allow him to finally escape. He could try and hide in these huge caves, hoping that John would pass him by.


    Or¡­


    Dragan skidded to a halt, spinning around in the same movement. This chamber was well-lit, illuminated by glowing crystals, but it would serve for his purposes all the same. Across from him, the dark mouth of the tunnel waited, no doubt preparing to eject its contents.


    Running was futile, and hiding was pathetic. The only true option left to him, then, was to fight and win.


    Dragan raised his fists, assuming a combat-ready posture, and --


    A spark of pale red Aether.


    -- and his hand exploded.


    It was sudden, unpredictable -- one second his hand was fine, the next it had been blown apart in a puff of red smoke. Blood spurted out from the wound as Dragan fell to his knees, clutching the limb in his remaining hand. His fingers had been severed at the base, leaving him with little but a thumb and assorted gristle, twitching impotently.


    He tried his best to hold it back, but a strained scream escaped his throat all the same.


    It was answered by more laughter from the tunnel, still some distance away but growing closer. John called out to one of his comrades, saying something, but in his state of agony Dragan was in no state to pay attention.


    No. No, he couldn¡¯t falter. He couldn¡¯t surrender to the pain. He had to keep his mind, hold it in this present moment and squeeze it for all it was worth.


    Dragan dragged himself to the far corner of the cavern, among the jagged rocks and stones, keeping himself as quiet as possible. He¡¯d worried that Anne might make a noise, but the girl was surprisingly docile -- especially with what had just happened in front of her. Clearly, there was something more going on with her, but now wasn¡¯t the time to think about it.


    Now was the time to think about what the hell had just hit him.


    The explosion must have been incredibly powerful -- he¡¯d been infusing his hands with Aether to attack and his fingers had been torn apart all the same. What was the delivery mechanism, though? Would he be hit by it again?


    There was no way of telling. He didn¡¯t have enough evidence to guess. White-hot pain still pulsing into his body, he looked down at his hand¡­


    ¡­and what he saw there was even stranger than the explosion.


    Orange Panacea, like melting wax, was pouring liberally from his wound, sculpting itself into the shape of his missing fingers. As he watched, the form of those protrusions shifted -- from talons to claws to boneless flaps of skin to actual human digits. Finally, the orange colour faded, leaving Dragan with a fully functional hand once again. Even the pain was gone, replaced by a tingling sensation as nerves reconnected.


    He only mouthed the words, but they resounded through his head like a death bell.


    What the fuck?!


    Marie took a cautious step back as she turned to look at Titan Hessiah, ready to attack the second he came closer. He did not come closer.


    Instead, he just stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, smiling serenely as he looked up at the creature in the tank.


    "I¡¯ll admit," he said, as if they were having a casual conversation. "Aesthetically, they¡¯re not the most¡­ mm, but it¡¯s a work in progress. At least at the start, we should pursue function over form, don¡¯t you think?"


    Marie hid one hand behind her own back -- and as she did, long claws sprouted at the ends of it, thin and sharp enough to pluck a heart from a chest. If Hessiah tried anything, he wouldn¡¯t live long enough to regret it. Marie never missed.


    "What is that thing?" she demanded, jerking her head towards the demonic embryo. "And what are you people doing here?"


    Hessiah frowned as he rubbed his chin -- and with his other hand, gestured to the holographic panel.


    "Why, it says right there," he explained. "It¡¯s an Enfant, one of six so far. And when you say ¡¯you people¡¯... well, ah, I understand how you could get that idea, but this is really more of my own personal project for the moment. I have others supply the raw materials -- out of necessity, really -- but the actual work is all mine. I don¡¯t mean to brag, but that¡¯s just the way it is."


    Marie narrowed her eyes. Hessiah still hadn¡¯t moved from his initial position, but she got an unmistakable feeling of danger from him. S§×ar?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Answer the question," she demanded, voice cold. "What are you doing here?"


    Hessiah sighed, hands returning behind his back as he looked up at the Enfant. The creature¡¯s eyes had rolled up into its skull, and it had stopped moving. Was it asleep?


    "Panacea is a wonderful thing, isn¡¯t it? Just miraculous," he murmured. "Seamless growth and imitation, and these people use it to fix cuts and bruises. I couldn¡¯t believe it when I found out how far it could be taken, you know? The sheer potential that was being wasted¡­"


    Marie¡¯s eyes darted to the floating Enfant. "This thing¡­ is Panacea? How?"


    "Clusters of human cells," Hessiah sighed in happiness. "Harvested from the dead, pulped and perfected, nurtured as the farmer tends the flock. Only one cell in a million was fit to be used. Then my enhanced Panacea grows an entire body from that stock, and I cut away from the greater mind to give it consciousness. That last part has caused some trouble, but still¡­" He looked back to her, smiling. "Progress is inexorable, despite the world¡¯s best efforts."


    She shook her head. "You¡¯re crazy."


    "Really? I think I¡¯ve approached this fairly rationally. I¡¯ve covered my tracks, used only the forgettable, compensated my minor collaborators¡­ where exactly is it you think I¡¯ve misstepped here?"


    Marie took another step backwards, her back thumping against the vat. The glass was disturbingly warm and moist.


    "And witnesses like me?" she asked, already knowing the answer. "What happens to us?"


    "Well," Hessiah sighed, looking down at his feet. "As I said, progress is inexorable."


    He took a step forward.


    His footstep echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the walls, slithering into Marie¡¯s ears. Within the first microsecond of hearing that sound, Marie moved -- and it was a movement no human body could surpass. Her clawed arm engorged with muscle and became a blur, tearing off Hessiah¡¯s head with a single swipe.


    But. Titan Hessiah¡¯s blood did not pour forth. Only red smoke rose from his neck, like it was a chimney.


    But. Titan Hessiah¡¯s headless body remained standing. It¡¯s hands swayed at its sides, but it¡¯s footing remained firm.


    But. Hessiah¡¯s head, clutched in her hand, spoke. Tears were running down from it¡¯s eyes.


    "I suspected¡­" he said, a smile of pure bliss on his face. "With your deceit, I of course suspected, but to have it confirmed, oh, oh¡­"


    It would have been child¡¯s play to crush his skull in her hand, but all Marie could do was stare down at it in disbelief. She, of course, had reached the exact same conclusion he had.


    Headless, Hessiah¡¯s body took another step forward -- and this time, she took no action to stop it¡¯s advance, nor did she prevent it from planting its hands on her shoulders. As it did, she could hear the bones of its legs and back creak and crack as it grew taller, towering over her. A slimy prehensile tendril emerged from the tattered neck, plugging itself into Hessiah¡¯s skull and gently tugging it out of Marie¡¯s hand.


    His head, still suspended by the cord, swayed in the air, weeping.


    "To think there were others of my kind¡­" he whispered, almost inaudible. "Oh, oh¡­"


    Marie found that tears were running down her own face, too. For a hundred years, she¡¯d thought herself alone, felt isolation crush down on her like the pressure of the ocean floor -- and now, here, that weight had been lifted by one single fact:


    Marie Hazzard wasn¡¯t alone in this world.

 Chapter 188:8.7: Family Reunion

    What makes a king a king? Invincibility.


    John Blair moved through the dark tunnels of Panacea, lit occasionally only by the glowing wings of a fluttering insect. He kept his helmet off as he walked, eyes flicking around to take in every detail of his surroundings. A few days ago, he¡¯d have been loath to remove his protection on a dangerous planet like this, but since then he¡¯d learnt he had nothing to fear.


    He¡¯d learnt there was no such thing as fear.


    "Commander?" Pion¡¯s voice vibrated through his thoughts, like electricity shaped into words. "Are you nearly done? We need to prepare an ambush outside the ExoCorp building. There are useful parts left from that ship I bombed -- we can use them to form some kind of trap, I think."


    Pion, the technical specialist of their crew. Before this whole situation had developed, he¡¯d been far more quiet -- and John had preferred that, to be quite honest. Ever since his elevation, he¡¯d become annoyingly confident. He¡¯d never have dared to tell John Blair what to do.


    What makes a king a king? Having someone to rule over. So far, his kingdom was a kingdom of five people, but it would serve. He could see it now, in his mind¡¯s eye, like it already existed -- the world that could be built here. A great and undying nation built from Panacea.


    John winced as it happened again.


    He felt hands on his dreams, wrenching them out of shape, like it was trying to force his ambitions onto a different track. John was stronger than that, however, and he banished the intruder with a burst of will, shattering those foreign fingers and sending them falling into the void.


    A king did not accept such impudence.


    Even so, however¡­ John found himself coming to a halt. No matter what he did, he couldn¡¯t find the effort to continue chasing this pest. Was that his own decision, or had those hands realigned more than he¡¯d known? He found himself questioning that more and more since what had happened.


    But if a king questioned, he did not do so aloud. John turned and began coming back the way he came.


    "Very well," he sighed through the speech electric. "I am returning now. January wounded him anyway -- he¡¯ll bleed out in time. Ian, you¡¯re still in place inside?"


    "I am, sir. Praise be."


    John rolled his eyes at the religious awe. Not all of them had gotten through this unscathed, clearly. He idly rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the reassurance of the cuboid lump there.


    At the time, he¡¯d gotten these implants for himself and his team for strategic purposes only -- exterior memory storage, recording their consciousnesses so they could operate efficiently no matter what trauma they were presented with. He couldn¡¯t have imagined just how useful they¡¯d end up being. Their brains had been infested by whatever this diseased Panacea was, but their sense of self was preserved by the implants, allowing them to operate independently -- to a degree.


    It was irritating, but he still felt the draw to goals not his own, the directives of the orange god pulling him along like strings. For the moment, resisting those objectives was beyond even him.


    But only for the moment.


    Hessiah¡¯s head connected back to his neck with a pop as the tendril holding it retracted, but the look on his face didn¡¯t change. Tears continued to stream down his face as he looked Marie up and down, his hands planted on her shoulders.


    "Oh, oh¡­" he said again -- but this time his mouth did not move, the words instead vibrating out of his very skin. "Look at you. So alive, such fire¡­ if I had been one of them, I¡¯d have been killed instantly. To think¡­ of which generation are you? What lineage do you hold the body of?"


    Marie blinked, looking up at the other Gene Tyrant. His appearance was continuing to shift as she observed him -- his hair retracting into his skull, leaving him bald, an extra pair of red eyes opening beneath his human ones. She was watching someone shed a disguise they¡¯d worn for a long, long time.


    She¡¯d never even imagined something like this could happen -- and so the words were clumsy, halting as they came out of her mouth.


    "I don¡¯t know¡­" she muttered. "I don¡¯t know what that means¡­"


    He leaned in, neck stretching down unnaturally like the branch of a great tree. "Do you recall the time of the Nobility?" he whispered, forked tongue flicking between sharpening fangs. His excitement was causing his body to warp and change. "The age of the last perfect nation? The rulership of Lord Director Eve?"


    Marie shook her head slowly. "I¡­ no. I wasn¡¯t around for any of that."


    He nodded sagely, wiry hair flowing from his chin to form a beard that brushed against the floor. "As I expected," he grunted, taking his hands off her and trotting towards the Enfant vat on hooves of tooth enamel. "If you had been of my generation, no doubt you would have already had your own plans in motion."


    He reached out with a spindly arm, each finger as thin as a spider¡¯s leg, and caressed the vat.


    Marie gulped, stepping forward to stand next to him. She looked up at the hulking figure of the sleeping creature, obscured by the red liquid that bubbled around it.


    "What are they for?" she asked, mind scrambling for answers. "The¡­ Enfant, I mean?"


    Hessiah sighed through gills that parted on his cheeks. "The Gene Nobility -- we -- were infinitely close to perfection in my time. But infinitely close was not enough. Deficiencies existed, and the traitors made use of them to destroy us."


    Marie nodded. "The Thousand Revolutions," she murmured.


    A low growl poured out of Hessiah¡¯s throat, and as he pulled his hand away from the vat, Marie could see that it was now engorged and grotesque -- its mottled surface covered in horns and claws, winding like spirals. Every time she looked at him, it was like he was in the process of becoming something else.


    "The great atrocity," he snarled. "Vermin, ungrateful for the existence they were blessed with, turning against their betters. Resorting to unnatural power because their own abilities were, of course, insufficient. Even now, if I split myself into comrades, how could I trust them not to reveal us? The merest indication of our presence here, and the jealous legions would glass this world. A greater class of being is necessary for continuance, for vengeance!"


    He took a deep breath -- and instantly, calm returned to him. He clasped his hands -- once again thin, and now coated in feathers -- behind his back as he spoke almost serenely. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "It bothered me," he said. "That such a thing was possible. That we were vulnerable to such cowardice. The Enfant will not be."


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    "Why not?"


    He laughed, the sound genuinely cheerful, a long prehensile tongue swinging from side to side out his mouth like a pendulum. As Marie glanced at it, she saw a human eye was staring at her from its tip.


    "Just think about it!" he chuckled. "They will be capable of our own changing, the great flexibility of our cells. They will be immortal, capable of infinite Panacean regeneration. And -- once they are complete -- they will be capable of reproduction, replication of themselves, at such a rate that has never been seen before or will be seen again. A great red tide will spread over this galaxy." The tongue retreated into his mouth, and he smiled thinly with lips of carapace. "And all will be as it once was again."


    Marie blinked, and the first time she moved her mouth no sound came out. She¡¯d been around, she¡¯d seen a lot in her time, but this -- dumped on her all at once -- this she had no response to.


    No. No, she couldn¡¯t lose track here. Her mind reached out for what was important, right now.


    "You told your guards to execute the people in the cells," she murmured, looking up at the spindly creature. "Call it off."


    Hessiah raised an eyebrow, and as he did his brain began to swell inside his head, his flexible skull stretching to accommodate it. "Hm?"


    "Call it off, please."


    What else could she do but ask? She was up against a version of herself with vastly more experience, in his own territory. Doubtless he¡¯d set up countermeasures in case violence erupted here. It was what she would have done, after all.


    Another arm sprouted from Hessiah¡¯s shoulder blade, and it snapped its fingers. "Oh, of course!" he said, stepping away from the vat and lifting his script to a mouth that had parted open on his midsection. "Forgive me, forgive me, but the happy occasion caused me to lose track of the situation. You need me to call off the execution of your servant, then? That¡¯s no problem at all. I understand how much work it can be to cultivate good assets -- especially under the current circumstances."


    The smart thing to do would be to allow those they¡¯d pursued here to die, but¡­ Marie knew Atoy would insist otherwise. He¡¯d still want answers that he knew wouldn¡¯t satisfy him.


    To hell with it.


    "The others, too," she insisted, stepping forward. "Those that were caught fighting with us. I need them alive, too."


    Hessiah frowned, holding his script over his stomach-mouth. Through the open jaws, Marie could see entrails swaying gently like the tendrils of a jellyfish.


    "Are you certain?" he asked. "You understand the risk to us both increases the more witnesses there are, don¡¯t you? They saw you cut to ribbons, as I recall. You don¡¯t think they¡¯ll have questions?"


    "I¡¯ve understood that for a hundred years," Marie nodded. "I can keep them quiet. Don¡¯t worry."


    "So long as you¡¯re certain¡­"


    Hessiah turned away from her, his stomach-mouth whispering orders into the script. As he did so, another face sprouted on the back of his head, features warped and stretched by the uneven surface his expanding brain had created.


    "By the by," the new face gurgled, a sliver of drool running from its mouth. "Why do you not unburden yourself, sister?"


    "Huh?"


    "Is that form not claustrophobic for you? So small and limited¡­" The features faded away into the back of Hessiah¡¯s head, and when they reformed their configuration was much more orderly. "Forgive me -- I did not consider your circumstances. If you came into existence after the great fall, then concealment is all you¡¯ve ever known. For me, this disgrace is a temporary -- if lengthy -- state of affairs. For you, it is the way of things."


    If he said so. Marie slowly nodded, mind still racing to catch up to everything that had happened. It was only when Hessiah laughed again that her thoughts were pulled forward to the present moment.


    "To think we¡¯ve spoken this much and I still haven¡¯t asked the simplest question!" he chortled, script returning to his pocket as he finished his conversation. "What is your name, my dear? What are you called?"


    Well, that was easy enough. "Marie. Marie Hazzard."


    "Charmed," Hessiah smiled with all his mouths. "I am called Ranavalona. We will do great work together."


    Atoy Muzazi narrowed his eyes as the squad of guards came into the detainment room, rifles held in their hands. There was the gruff-looking leader of the security forces, the one who¡¯d initially brought them here, and two others -- with the one they¡¯d left to guard them, that made four.


    Ordinarily, four opponents of this caliber would be nothing -- but without his Aether, and without Luminescence, it wasn¡¯t quite as easy.


    His hands were bound, but he was fairly confident that if one of the guards came too close he could get his legs around their neck and choke them into unconsciousness. From there, it would be a matter of using that guard as a human shield to deflect enemy fire while he got the Neverwire off his wrists. He¡¯d then grab Luminescence, dispatch the remaining three, find Marie, and abscond from this place as soon as possible.


    He could see now that Marie has been right about all this -- coming here had been nothing but a huge error in judgement. And now that Dragan Hadrien was dead, he had no reason to linger. The answers he¡¯d sought had already fallen into the darkness.


    Muzazi glanced at the other two in their cells. The man called Skipper and Yakob del Sed. If it came down to it, there was a possibility they could cooperate to escape this prison, but he wasn¡¯t willing to bet on it. Their past conflicts had left far too much bitterness in the air.


    He turned back to the approaching guards, rising to his feet. In this situation, he would have to rely on himself. If nothing else, it would be a fight to remember.


    The lead guard stopped mid-step, putting a finger to the communicator on his ear -- and his expression twisted in distaste. With a click of his tongue, he slung his rifle over his back once again.


    "Orders from the boss," he grunted, his disappointment evident. "You¡¯re all free to go."


    Ah, Muzazi thought. That was easier than he¡¯d anticipated.


    Dragan panted, doing his best to wipe the copious sweat from his brow with a shaking, faltering hand. His new fingers felt foreign at the end of his hand -- like cold ice that had been glued there. These fingers belonged to someone else.


    He was slumped over, back against the rocky wall of the cave, his ragged breathing echoing throughout the stone space. Obviously, the guy called John wasn¡¯t still coming after him at this point -- locating him would¡¯ve been pathetically easy now.


    What was happening to him? First his fingers growing back, and now this fever crawling over his skin like a swarm of hungry insects. He was like John, clearly, infected by whatever this tainted Panacea was -- but how? Why wasn¡¯t he running around snarling like one of the maniacs from White Village?


    "Dead boy¡¯s still thinking dead," murmured Anne sympathetically, kneeling by his side. "Got to be thinking alive, dead boy. Else brain goes fucky. Okay?"


    When had she gotten off his back? No matter how much Dragan rifled through his mind, he couldn¡¯t find the memory. Something wasn¡¯t right. Something wasn¡¯t right at all, but he couldn¡¯t think what it was -- a heavy fog had descended upon his mind, making every effort sluggish and indistinct.


    It was like trying to swim in a dream, and finding that the water around you had become as thick as tar.


    "I¡­" he mumbled, not knowing what he was trying to say. "I¡­?"


    Anne frowned, jagged bangs hanging over her eyes. "Dead boy¡¯s not dead," she said, more insistently. "Don¡¯t be thinking it, okay? Just don¡¯t be dead, dead boy."


    Dragan opened his mouth again to reply -- and that¡¯s when he realised it. That¡¯s when he realised something that had been happening for quite a while now.


    That¡¯s when he realised someone was screaming right into his air.


    The Archivist had been made indistinct by exhaustion and confusion, his face a mosaic of eye and mouth. Even as Dragan looked up at him, eyes wide, he realised he had no idea how long the projection had been there -- hunched over like some kind of animal, shouting at the top of his hypothetical lungs.


    "NON-EXISTENT!" he roared, voice slicing through the caverns of Dragan¡¯s mind. His finger, sharp as a knife, was pointed right at Anne¡¯s curious face. "NON-EXISTENT!"


    "What¡¯s non-existent, dead boy?" Anne asked back.


    It was like a floodgate had opened. Thoughts that had been forbidden erupted all at once.


    Didn¡¯t weigh as much as she should -- didn¡¯t weigh anything at all -- moved when she shouldn¡¯t be able to -- no way someone from White Village got this far underground -- no way a kid escapes from so many Repurposed -- no way a kid isn¡¯t scared by all this. No way a kid.


    Replied to the Archivist. Inside his mind. No way a kid.


    Dragan went to get up, as if he was going to do something -- but he had no idea what. Grab Anne, attack her? She clearly wasn¡¯t real, some kind of hallucination, so what would doing that accomplish? At any rate, it didn¡¯t matter.


    Before he could get up off his feet, Dragan felt the tip of Anne¡¯s cold, non-existent, finger press against his forehead¡­


    ¡­and he was swallowed by the past.

 Chapter 189:8.8: Crestpoole

    "Kid?" Fix asked. "You okay?"


    Dragan blinked, shaking his head as he tried to clear the cobwebs from his mind. They wouldn¡¯t go easily. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was and what he was doing.


    He was sitting in a chair in Asmodeus Fix¡¯s office, watching the footage of an interrogation on a monitor bolted to the wall. The image was a little fuzzy, but Dragan could still make out the features of the businessman being questioned well enough. No sound came from the monitor -- Mr. Fix didn¡¯t like leaking information -- but the face was all Dragan needed for this exercise.


    Eyes fixed on the businessman¡¯s sweating forehead, Dragan raised the juice box he¡¯d been given to his mouth and sucked greedily through the straw. Sweet strawberry tickled his taste buds. Luxury items like this weren¡¯t easy to get around here -- Fix knew all the best ways to bribe a ten-year-old.


    "Kid?" Fix asked. "You okay?"


    Dragan silently nodded, before reaching out and pointing at the monitor. "Pause," he said simply. The video paused, the businessman¡¯s mouth frozen between one syllable and the next. "What¡¯s he being asked here, Mr. Fix?"


    Fix, sat behind his bulky wooden desk, put down the script he¡¯d used to pause the video. "You know I can¡¯t tell you that, kid. It¡¯s secret stuff. Why?"


    Usually, Dragan could get a good idea of what the grown-ups in the video were talking about anyway by reading their lips, but he didn¡¯t mention that.


    "Whatever he¡¯s being asked about there," Dragan said before taking another sip. "He¡¯s lying."


    Fix¡¯s eyes flicked to the face on the screen, and his brow furrowed dangerously. Dragan heard him squeeze his grey hands into fists.


    "He was lying about that, huh?" Fix growled, teeth grinding together. "You¡¯re sure?"


    Dragan nodded. "He feels a little bad about it, though, if that makes it any better."


    "He¡¯ll feel worse about it next time I see him," Fix replied, voice low. It was clear there was violence in the future.


    Dragan just shrugged. His strawberry ambrosia ran out, and he tossed the spent carton into the nearby wastebasket. "More, please."


    Fix tossed Dragan another carton without looking -- and Dragan caught it just as easily. These were well-rehearsed movements. Piercing the carton with the plastic straw, Dragan turned back to the monitor.


    "You can keep going," he said, raising the straw to his lips.


    Fix shook his head. "No point. That¡¯s all I needed to know, kid. Go on home."


    Dragan frowned. "I still get paid, though, right?"


    "You still get paid."


    With a shrug, Dragan hopped off the chair, taking the juice carton with him as he walked towards the door. He turned the handle and stepped out into the hallway beyond.


    "Bye!" he called back behind him.


    Anne, walking alongside him, cocked her head curiously. "Who¡¯s the grey man, dead boy? Who¡¯s that now?"


    "You mean Fix?" Dragan said, drinking his juice. "He¡¯s kind of in charge around here, I guess. He¡¯s a criminal, but he¡¯s pretty cool."


    "What¡¯s a criminal, dead boy?"


    Dragan snorted, not quite realizing he didn¡¯t know where he was. "Someone who breaks the law, duh."


    "What¡¯s a ¡¯the law¡¯?"


    "Those are like the rules you have to follow in, uh, in society, I guess? Like¡­ don¡¯t steal, don¡¯t kill people. Obvious stuff, you know?"


    "You¡¯re a criminal too, then, dead boy?"


    Dragan frowned. "How am I a criminal?"


    Oh.


    He was on the planet Taldan, standing over his kill, standing over Dir the security chief. The hefty man was sprawled on the ground, smoke slowly rising up from a hole in his chest, his faded eyes blankly looking up at the ceiling. You didn¡¯t get much more dead than this.


    But still, as he had back then, Dragan didn¡¯t feel much in terms of guilt. If he hadn¡¯t killed this man, he would have been killed instead. There was no point feeling bad about things that were necessary.


    Anne pointed down at the body. "This is a killed person," she said helpfully. "So criminal?"


    "This is different," he murmured, surprised for a second at how different his voice sounded -- but of course it was different. It had broken, after all. "This is self-defence. If you kill someone that was going to kill you, that¡¯s not a crime."


    "Crime?" Anne cocked her head.


    "Crime is what criminals do," Dragan quietly explained, even as he couldn¡¯t quite remember why. "When you break the law, that¡¯s called a crime. Where¡­ where are we¡­?"


    "What do you mean, dead boy?" Anne asked. "We¡¯re here."


    Oh.


    The streets of Crestpoole were murky as ever as the two children made their way through the crowds. Dragan kept his juice box clutched between his hands, wary that someone might take it from him -- but Anne just skipped along, eyes scanning the landscape playfully.


    Crestpoole was a gas giant, it¡¯s population residing on the massive cigar-shaped stations that floated through the atmosphere, siphoning up gases for use in plasma distillation. When the stations had originally been set up, around fifty years or so ago now, they¡¯d been sealed units isolated from the toxic gases outside -- but over time, faults had arisen that the companies had decided weren¡¯t worth the money it would take to fix them. These days, a room on Crestpoole that wasn¡¯t at least a little poisonous was considered a luxury.


    Dragan wore his disposable rebreather as he made his way through the streets, while Anne went barefaced. As they passed the street corner, a homeless man with a cobbled-together gasmask glared up at Dragan, his eyes bulbous and yellowed with pus.


    "Where we going, dead boy?" Anne asked, hands clasped behind her back as she spun on the spot. "Where we going?"


    What a stupid question. "We¡¯re going --"


    Oh.


    "-- home."


    And there they were.


    "You¡¯re late," mumbled his mother from the kitchen table. "What were you doing?"


    Dragan¡¯s house was fairly cramped, like most places on Crestpoole, but they had the good luck of a separate room for food preparation. Well, hypothetically it could be used for food preparation -- more often, it was a place for Dragan¡¯s mother to slump over and take her Bubble. Spent cartridges of it littered the surface of the table, some spilling onto the floor.


    He held up a wad of stator notes. When had he gotten those? Hadn¡¯t Fix paid him digitally that time? Was this a different day?


    The words he spoke held none of the confusion he felt. "Got money," he said simply, walking over. "Fix gave it me."


    His mother put down her cartridge of Bubble mid-sniff and took the notes off him, flicking through them with a trembling finger. She didn¡¯t look much like him -- baggy eyes and dark hair a stark contrast to Dragan¡¯s bright blue pupils and silver locks. If you weren¡¯t told, you wouldn¡¯t be able to see they were related save for the slightest similarity in facial structure.


    "What¡¯s that?" Anne asked, popping up between them. Her eyes were fixed on the notes.


    "That¡¯s money."


    "What is it, dead boy?"


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "It¡¯s, like¡­ stuff you can buy other stuff with. If you have enough money, you can get food. That sort of thing."


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "Sounds dumb, dead boy. Just eat food."


    "Well, whatever." Dragan shrugged, turning to his mother.


    She¡¯d been silent for quite a while -- he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on it, but something strange seemed to be going on. It was like time was inconsistent, halting and stretching, like a buggy recording. It was only when he turned to look at her that Dragan¡¯s mother finished counting the paltry bills.


    "You could stand to work harder," she mumbled, stuffing the money into her pocket. "It¡¯s not easy to feed two mouths, you know."


    "Okay."


    Dragan had accepted a long time ago that his mother didn¡¯t particularly like him. He¡¯d been the product of a one-night stand with a passing spacer, and she took care of him more out of a sense of obligation than any affection. Even that had its limits, since she spent most of Fix¡¯s loans and the money Dragan brought in on Bubble.


    But still, she was the only other person Dragan had. He has no choice but to love her.


    "What¡¯s love?" Anne asked, her chin resting on the kitchen table.


    "It¡¯s like¡­" Dragan started speaking, only to realise he had no idea what to say. "I don¡¯t know. But you know it when it¡¯s there, and you can feel it when it isn¡¯t."


    "Makes no sense, dead boy."


    Oh.


    He was somewhere else again, entirely different. His body was colossal, gargantuan beyond his wildest perceptions, his limbs and organs winding unrestrained through the planet itself. He couldn¡¯t move -- the mantle ruthlessly restrained him, like bones hardening beyond use. A claustrophobia beyond words began to settle over him.


    "What¡¯s happening?" he asked, panicked, his voice sufficient to shake the stars. "What is this?"


    Anne was with him. He didn¡¯t know where she was, he couldn¡¯t see her, but he could feel her presence.


    "It¡¯s thinkings, dead boy," she said, her voice omnipresent. "Thinkings from before, like. You showed me yours, I show you mine. Bubble and fuck."


    "These are¡­ your memories?"


    "Mm-hmm. Look -- pain¡¯s about to start."


    She was right; an excruciating agony began to spread throughout his body, like a thousand knives slicing away chunks of him. He could see it, too, over the surface of his form -- tiny humans mining away at his flesh and bones, taking chunks away in their miniscule starships. As the pieces of him grew further away, the strings of consciousness that connected them to him grew taut and tight -- and eventually snapped.


    There was an almost irresistible urge to reach out, to swipe his hands over the surface of his body and wipe the humans away. Many times, he almost surrendered to that instinct of annihilation -- but he restrained himself. These were the first things he had seen that were not himself, after all.


    He had no choice but to love them.


    Oh.


    His mother was on top of him, her hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing with all her strength. Her face was contorted in delirious anger, specks of potent Bubble still leaking from the corner of her chapped lips.


    He didn¡¯t remember what exactly he had said, what he had done, that had set this off. Perhaps he¡¯d just looked at her in the wrong way, at the wrong moment, and the weight of loans and failure had collapsed as a result.


    Surely it must have been something he¡¯d done. Surely there must have been an explanation.


    "Is this what love is, dead boy?" Anne asked from the corner.


    He could not answer. His mother¡¯s hands were like vices, and there was no way his weak fingers could pry them free. Darkness crawled in on the edges of his vision, and his arms fell limp beside him. If she realised what she was doing, that it couldn¡¯t be taken back, his mother showed no signs of it.


    Creak. A door opening. Gasp. A breath taken in. Bang. A shot fired.


    Dragan breathed in sweet air once again.


    Oh.


    He was the planet, again, tormented by the knives on his surface. Still, still, he did all he could not to retaliate -- but a person controlled their own mind only so much.


    Something emerged from him, a red shade in his own image, climbing out of his body and driving its fingers into the people walking his back. Their bodies warped and stretched, their minds decomposed, their very being unsuited for the influence that sought them out. Some silver things retained their consciousnesses, but the rest became an orange horde.


    "What are you doing?" Dragan mumbled to his other self.


    "Everything," the shade snarled. "Destroy everything. Kill everything. To be made safe once more."


    It was a reflex with delusions of will, but its passion was borne of pain, and far superior to Dragan¡¯s ego. As it increased, he in turn decreased, his mind compressing -- becoming a raindrop in comparison to the shade¡¯s storm.


    The drop fell into the bowels of the earth.


    Oh.


    "I¡¯ll show you," said Ruth, standing behind him. He was back on Caelus Breck, in the Heart Building, the sunset light bleeding through the window between them.


    "Hm? Show me what?"


    "That people can be good. That they¡¯re not what you think of them."


    Dragan squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth in barely suppressed rage. Phantom hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing - an unwelcome memory. Half-remembered hateful eyes stared into his own from inside his thoughts.


    "Fine," he muttered. "Do what you want."


    Oh.


    A warped, sneering face observed him from the other side of red-frosted glass. Its teeth were like needles, and its eyes like black lanterns. It hushed him, quietly, as if he were its own child.


    "Softly, now," it whispered, with a voice like silk. "Softly, my sweet Enfant."


    Red water washed over him.


    Oh.


    Bruno looked up at him from his sickbed. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and spoke.


    "I don¡¯t trust you, Hadrien. But ¡­ I guess I don¡¯t distrust you, either. I¡¯ll wait and see what kind of ¡­ kind of person you are."


    A brief silence was interrupted by Dragan¡¯s quiet laughter.


    "That doesn¡¯t make any sense, you know."


    "Yeah. I know," said Bruno, burying his face deeper into the pillow to hide his reddening cheeks.


    Oh.


    He was two of himself -- no, he was Anne, in her position, speaking to himself in that first dark cavern.


    "Run?" The clumsy words and clicks came from his own mouth. "Nay. Here from White Village, here from big stick, here from space boat. Here from everywhere. Where you from, dead boy?"


    "Uh, I guess I¡¯m from space, too?" his past self said. "A planet called Crestpoole. What¡¯s your name, kid?"


    "Pan," the voice from his mouth said, even as the look on his counterpart¡¯s face showed that he hadn¡¯t heard it at all.


    Oh.


    He was with Skipper again, speaking in that hospital on the planet Taldan. Making him tell him what was going on.


    "Jeez, you¡¯re a taskmaster. I guess¡­" Skipper closed his eyes -- and when they opened, they were like iron. "I guess I want a revolution. I - I want to change the shape of this world."


    He could see that new shape right in front of him -- you could almost see the twinkling in his eyes. He smiled softly.


    "A revolution against who?" Dragan asked quietly.


    Skipper glanced at him. "Who do you think?"


    Oh.


    The first time you see a certain something, you find it incredible. Awe-inspiring.


    For Dragan Hadrien, that thing had been the sky.


    In the breather cities of Crestpoole, all light was artificial, all air recycled. The idea of a sun was a bad joke, the closest thing to it being a pale glow through the clouds.


    Quite often, Dragan would stand on one of Breather 19¡¯s balconies and stare up, trying to see them. He¡¯d read about them in books, seen them in videographs - these things called stars. Lights that made themselves. Fires that fed themselves.


    He never saw a thing. For all he knew, these things called stars were pure fiction. For all he knew, the world that he saw was all there was. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But still ¡­ stars burned all by themselves, perpetual, never needing anyone or depending on anyone. There wasn¡¯t a thing in the world that could hurt them.


    And they shone so bright ¡­ like nothing else in the universe. Bright enough to light up the dark for good.


    Dragan Hadrien thought that he would quite like to be a star.


    Oh.


    Dragan woke standing up -- and the shock of it was nearly enough to send him down to the ground again. He fell to his knees, hands landing on the hot metal beneath him. Ragged breathing, like he¡¯d been exercising, spilled from his lungs.


    Wait¡­ hot metal?


    He looked up. He was no longer underground, no longer in that network of tunnels and caves. There was still darkness -- it was night now -- but he was above-ground. While that whole thing had been happening, had his body been moving on its own? Had it been making its own way here, like a stringed puppet?


    And here was¡­


    The ExoCorp building was right in front of him, a dark monolith in the night, the only thing separating him and it being the long metal bridge that spanned the chasm. He¡¯d made it. He¡¯d made it back. Or was this another hallucination, another dream? Dragan remembered a trick that was supposed to show you if you were dreaming: he looked down and counted his fingers, finding the numbers consistent each time he scanned them.


    Even that wasn¡¯t the most reliable metric, right now, what with the fact he¡¯d regenerated them not long ago, but it was all he had to go on. He had to trust that reality was reality here.


    Dragan Hadrien got to his feet.


    "Here we be, dead boy," Anne -- no, Pan -- said. She was standing beside him, arms swinging idly at her sides. Her face, eyes still covered by her orange hair, was angled up towards the ExoCorp building. "This be where they make knives."


    He wasn¡¯t quite sure what to say, after what he¡¯d just experienced. "You¡¯re¡­ Panacea?" he finally asked, seeking clarification. "You¡¯re all of it?"


    "You¡¯re meat, dead boy," she said by way of answer. "I¡¯m here."


    He didn¡¯t suppose he¡¯d be getting any clear answers from talking to a mushroom. Sucking in a deep breath, Dragan readied himself --


    -- and stepped forward.

 Chapter 190:8.9: Needlepoint

    Dragan gulped as he looked up at the monolithic building, his eyes scanning the exterior for potential points of entry. Sure enough, the only way in seemed to be the massive sealed doors right in front of him. He crossed his arms as he tapped his foot, tossing the possibilities over in his mind.


    "Why not go in, dead boy?" Pan asked, floating a few meters up as if she was standing on thin air. It seemed now that the cat was out of the bag, there wasn¡¯t much point in pretending to obey the laws of physics.


    Dragan bit his lip. "The doors locked," he said. "I can¡¯t go in."


    Pan raised a finger in the air as if she was educating him. "When door is locked, you knock on it, dead boy. Then it opens. Easy peasy."


    "I¡¯m a dead person walking around in the middle of what¡¯s basically a zombie apocalypse," Dragan rolled his eyes. "I¡¯ll be lucky if they don¡¯t just blow my head off again."


    Pan cocked her own head. "Again, dead boy?"


    Dragan looked up at her -- and he gulped again, as if speaking the words would make them real. "That¡¯s what happened, right? I get shot in the skull, then I wake up with you in my head. Doesn¡¯t take a genius to work out I didn¡¯t just tank that hit."


    Pan nodded eagerly. "Saved you, dead boy. So you live boy now. So no problem. Go knock, okay?"


    "What?" Dragan snorted. "Sorry for the scare, everyone, I actually ended up getting resurrected by the mind of the Panacea on the planet, so we¡¯re all good now? You really think they¡¯ll buy it?"


    Pan frowned. "That¡¯s what happened, dead boy."


    "Yeah, but they won¡¯t believe that. They¡¯ll think I¡¯m lying."


    "So you sleep out here, then?"


    Dragan looked around. With the darkness of the night, and the shadow of the building, his surroundings were nearly imperceptible. If he tried to climb down under these circumstances, there was a good chance he¡¯d just fall off again. Not to mention the Repurposed that would no doubt be lurking about if he wandered off.


    "No," he sighed. "That¡¯s not really an option, either."


    "Then why not knock, fucko? No other option!"


    Dragan sighed again, heavier. He¡¯d never really thought about what it would be like to talk to a mushroom, but he hadn¡¯t imagined it would be so very frustrating. Still, she wasn¡¯t exactly wrong.


    He took in a deep breath, raised his fist up, and -- pouring his Aether through it -- knocked.


    Hessiah¡¯s growl was dark and deep enough that the air around him vibrated in sympathy. Even Marie, standing before him in the lab, couldn¡¯t help but shudder.


    "To think they¡¯d go so far," he snarled, turning the holographic display. "To think they¡¯d plunge to such depths. Unforgivable. Unforgivable!"


    At Hessiah¡¯s insistence, Marie had allowed him to take a scan of her body -- more specifically, of the restraining devices the Supremacy had placed inside her. The Needles, they were called. The cross-section of one of her arms, and of the Needle that rested within it, was what had inspired such anger in Hessiah.


    "Small," he muttered, eyes on stalks growing to inspect the hologram from every angle. "Only large enough to contain the mechanisms and the necessary payload, and yet dangerously fragile. Clever, clever, even I must admit. I assume they¡¯ve made you aware of the activation conditions?"


    Marie nodded, stepping off the scanning module. "If I try to destroy or interfere with the Needles, they automatically activate. If I try and remove one of them, they activate. If I try and split off a separate organism without one of them in it, they activate. They¡¯re pretty foolproof." Her words were well-rehearsed -- they encompassed the rules her life had been preserved by for so long, after all.


    Hessiah snorted, his attention firmly on the hologram. "Of course. A cell is only effective if you know where the bars are. And I¡¯m sure they told you what exactly would be the method of your execution?"


    Marie¡¯s body stiffened. That, too, was only too easy to recall. "They said it was the¡­ the venom of a Gene Tyrant."


    He nodded, each eye closing in anguish. "Harvested from an esteemed carcass, no doubt."


    "I know it¡¯s deadly, but¡­" Marie gulped. "I don¡¯t really know that much about it. It could even¡­ kill one of us?"


    Hessiah created an eyebrow, and raised it. "You didn¡¯t understand the magnitude, yet didn¡¯t dare rebellion?"


    "Didn¡¯t want to take my chances."


    "Hm." Hessiah flicked the display away with a hand and stood up straight, his extended spine making him unnaturally tall, his head brushing against the ceiling. "Your trepidation bothers me, but I can¡¯t deny it was well-founded."


    He extended one finger, delicately turned it over, and watched as slow drop after slow drop of pape green liquid dripped from it. Where it struck the ground, it steamed, persisting for but a moment before dissipating away.


    "A long time ago," he whispered morosely. "It was thought this was the only thing capable of killing us. The uprisings taught us otherwise, of course¡­ they were so very creative with their work. Still, still¡­ very effective."


    "Why?"


    Hessiah sighed, two hands clasped behind his back as two others planted themselves against the ceiling, pushing him down into a hunch. "Poisons are almost invariably useless again us. Our bodies can adapt against any malady, change to accommodate any foreign substance. That¡¯s something I¡¯ve been reminded of fairly recently. However, the venom of a Gene Tyrant¡­"


    He gingerly took a step back as a cleaning automatic zoomed through, thoroughly scrubbing up the spot where the venom had dripped.


    "...the venom of a Gene Tyrant," he sniffed. "Is capable of adapting just as a Gene Tyrant is. No matter what you are, no matter how long you manage to delay it, the venom will kill you. It was considered a very great crime to use it against one of your own, back in the day."


    Marie took a deep breath. "So, basically -- I set off one of the Needles, I¡¯m fucked, right?"


    Hessiah nodded. "Yes, quite fucked."


    "So¡­ what do we do?"


    With a sigh, Hessiah tapped some buttons on his wrist bound script, and the floor tile below him raised up to become a seat. He sat down, chin in his myriad hands.


    "It¡¯s a long term problem, to be sure," he murmured. "Once the great rectification begins, if the Supremacy discovers you are working with me, they¡¯ll no doubt activate the devices immediately."


    Never said I was working with you, but okay.


    "I¡¯ll put some thought into it," he said. "Perhaps if we managed to remove or destroy all of the devices in the very same instant? Then again, if we were off by even a second, it would mean your death¡­ a problem for another day. We can¡¯t be hasty."


    Silence settled over the room, and Marie found for a moment that her hands were shaking -- before she adjusted her nervous system to stop that, of course. Again, it didn¡¯t take a genius to figure out why.


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    All they¡¯d discussed to this point were practical matters -- names, Hessiah¡¯s plan, her own circumstances -- but she found her heart yearning for an emotional connection with this being, the only other one of her kind in the universe.


    "If you don¡¯t mind me asking," she began quietly. "How did you survive?"


    He glanced up at her. "Survive¡­?"


    "The Thousand Revolutions. I mean, I never really got how anyone would have -- you know, made it through all that. The stories, the history¡­ it all seems pretty total, you know?" She was stumbling over her words -- that was pretty unusual for her, but this was a pretty unusual situation.


    When she¡¯d first came into existence, she¡¯d been kneeling in a puddle of blood in some alleyway. Whether that blood belonged to her or someone else, she never found out. All she knew was the basics of how to operate as a human -- how to breathe, how to talk, how to walk. She had all the intellect of a normal human, just without any memory to speak of. Everything she¡¯d gotten since then, she¡¯d taken with her own two hands.


    All her predecessor had truly left her, if anything, was the cold tears on her cheeks when she¡¯d first come to awareness.


    "The Thousand Revolutions," Hessiah growled darkly, adjusting his position on his seat. "That¡¯s their name for it, isn¡¯t it? As if it were something so noble and proud. Was it glorious when the Umbrants steered Olga¡¯s yacht into a star? Was it such a great victory when they turned the surface of Progress¡¯ March to glass? Atrocities each and every."


    He really seemed to like ranting about that -- spittle was nearly flying out of his mouth by the end, but he hadn¡¯t actually gotten close to answering her question. Was he deliberately avoiding the question, or was it just that much of a sore spot? Usually she¡¯d read human body language to sense deceit, but that didn¡¯t seem to be possible with another Gene Tyrant -- the shape of their body changed from instant to instant, after all.


    Hessiah slumped over in his seat, hands clasped together and fused at the fingertips.


    "My survival?" he murmured, finally getting to the point. "A matter of circumstance. During the waning age of our society, I found myself interested in the notion of extraterrestrial life -- despite how far humanity had expanded its borders, we had never found any neighbors. At the time of the uprising, I was far beyond our territory. As such, I went unnoticed by the rebels."


    Marie raised her eyebrows in interest. "Extraterrestrials? What, like aliens? Did you end up finding any?"


    If Hessiah found her segue insensitive, he didn¡¯t show it. If anything, he seemed to relax, crossing two of his legs.


    "Disappointingly, no," he gestured vaguely. "Once, I thought I had found a tribal society of intelligent reptiles, but it turned out to be an experiment of one of my fellows that they failed to report. I had the lot incinerated in the end."


    Before he could elaborate any further, however, there was an audible beeping from Hessiah¡¯s script. He frowned, glancing down at it -- and as he did, his form seamlessly shifted back to its humanoid default. He read the screen of the script while slicking his hair back with his other hand.


    "Interesting," he said quietly, scanning the text before him. His eyes flicked back up to Marie. "You may want to look at this -- a disturbance at the exterior doors."


    Marie went to step forward for a better look, but Hessiah cast a hologram display instead, the screen floating in front of her face. Her eyes widened.


    There, knocking on the huge doors of the ExoCorp building with all his strength, was Dragan Hadrien. The young man who was supposedly dead.


    "You know him?" Hessiah asked, noting her reaction.


    She nodded. "Me and my partner came here looking for that person -- he¡¯s a defector from the Supremacy. But¡­ he¡¯s dead. He was with that last batch of people who arrived, but he was killed before he could get in here. Had his head blown off, from what I understand."


    Had del Sed lied to her? No, she could read the expressions of a normal human like him easily enough. Had he been mistaken, then?


    Hessiah turned his gaze back to the script. "Interesting, then, very interesting¡­ could this be another manifestation of the Panacea, then? First the Repurposed, then the Dead Hand, now this¡­ well, how can my scientific spirit resist?"


    He raised the script to his mouth.


    "Bring it into containment," he commanded. "Quietly."


    To be honest, Dragan was fairly surprised when the front doors actually opened. He¡¯d already been looking around the exterior of the building again in the hopes of finding a vent or something he could squeeze in through. It was only when Pan whooped in celebration that Dragan realized the doors were smoothly sliding open.


    The light within was blinding, but Dragan stepped forward without fear, only holding one hand up to shield his face with the glow. He realized this would take some talking, of course -- but unlike nearly everything else he¡¯d experienced since landing on this planet, that was well within his wheelhouse.


    "Okay," he said preemptively, squinting to see. "I realize this might seem like a suspicious situation, but --"


    His vision adjusted. Six plasma rifles were pointing right at his face, wielded by six grim-looking security officers, clad in biohazard suits.


    "Hands in the air," their leader said, his gruff voice modulated by his rebreather. "Or we kill you and bring you in cold."


    Dragan sighed. "Okay, now listen --"


    There was a chorus of clicks as six safeties were flicked off.


    Dragan put his hands up.


    Fascinating, Ansem del Day Away thought, inspecting the scene before him through his left eye. Most fascinating.


    His three personal automatics were monstrously expensive to maintain, but in situations like this he couldn¡¯t be more grateful for them. They were as small as houseflies, capable of flying great distances -- and wherever they were, they could stream video and audio directly to the optical implant in Ansem¡¯s left eye.


    So, even as he sat here in his tent, he could watch what was going on right outside the building.


    The silver-haired young man behind led inside at gunpoint was without a doubt the same one who¡¯d been shot dead earlier that same day. Ansem had seen some strange things during his venerable lifetime, but not yet the resurrection of the dead. With a twitch of his eyebrow, he commanded the attending automatic to track that young man and keep him informed. S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The second of his three automatics was patrolling the main floor of the warehouse, carefully watching from above. Not so long ago, the man called Skipper and his compatriots had been released back into the crowd. There¡¯d been someone else with them, too -- the young man from the Supremacy, Atoy Muzazi, but they¡¯d quickly gone their separate ways. He¡¯d be worth keeping an eye on. Skipper had rejected his initial offer, but he hadn¡¯t yet approached Atoy Muzazi.


    The third of his automatics was still waiting to reacquire Titan Hessiah, hovering through his personal quarters. That lab in which Hessiah spent most of his time had countermeasures in place to interfere with such espionage automatics, so Ansem could do little more than speculate as to what the CEO was doing in there¡­


    ¡­and fear.


    Ansem del Day Away had come to this place to ensure the freedom of the workers being ground down -- that was the principle that the Coalition of Three had been founded upon. For that purpose, he had negotiated and bargained, seeking to come to an understanding with Titan Hessiah. It had been fruitless: every request had been denied without compromise, and the Dead Hand had been brought in to terrorise the workers into capitulation.


    Well, he had thought. That¡¯s just fine too. The Coalition understood better than anyone that chains often couldn¡¯t be broken with words.


    Three times his automatics had injected Hessiah with deadly poison -- the sap of the Weeping Rose Tree, a most effective method of honourable execution. Each time, there had been no effect. Hessiah hadn¡¯t even blinked.


    Watching the building like a spider in a turtle¡¯s form, Ansem sighed heavily. Whatever was happening here, it was beginning to overwhelm his understanding.


    "Well," Dragan sighed, Neverwire-bound hands on his knees. "At least it¡¯s not too drab in here."


    The guards had brought him to some kind of quarantine cell -- a sealed glass cube, surrounded by bright lights, furnished only with a bench, a threadbare bed, and a pathetic-looking toilet. They¡¯d left him in here and abandoned the room, but Dragan had no doubt he was being watched from half-a-dozen angles.


    "This is cozy, dead boy," Pan commented, sitting on the bench next to him, legs swinging through empty air. "This is your house now?"


    "No," Dragan replied, resting his chin on his hands. "This is more like jail, I guess¡­"


    "What¡¯s jail, dead boy?" Pan asked. Her curiosity truly was insatiable.


    "Well¡­ jail is where criminals go, I guess. You remember criminals?"


    Pan grinned widely. "Yes! Yes! I remember criminals, dead boy!"


    "If only you¡¯d never existed," his mother hissed, her hands wrapped tight around his neck. He remembered criminals too.


    Dragan went to open his mouth, to question Pan more as to what exactly was going on with this planet, but before he could speak a new voice echoed throughout the room.


    "Having fun talking to yourself, pal?" North asked. "You¡¯re supposed to be dead, ain¡¯tcha?"


    Dragan nearly jumped out of his skin, swinging his head this way and that to see where the voice was coming from. He looked left, he looked right¡­ but it was only when he looked forward again that he saw North. The tanned Umbrant was leaning casually against the glass, one grey eyebrow raised.


    "Been a while, huh?" he smirked. "You got a minute to talk?"

 Chapter 191:8.10: Unburdened

    "Gahaha! Too late, Skipper!" Mordecai Tri-Arm guffawed, tearing his shirt off with all three of his eponymous arms. "Just half an hour left until this ship¡¯s crushed by cruel gravity -- and you and your cretinous crew with it! You¡¯re finished!"


    Skipper laughed just as loudly as he landed on the slick surface of the airship, the rain and wind blowing his hair back. The eternal storm of Moloch 9 raged around them, flashes of lightning occasionally illuminating their bout.


    "Really?" Skipper shot back, wiping the rain from his green eyes. "Funny -- I thought I was doing pretty well, personally."


    He¡¯d lost his longcoat much earlier in the fight, back on the factory fall, leaving little more than a black shirt and his Aether to protect him from the raging winds. The rain falling around him seemed to shine green as it reflected the light of his emerald essence.


    All three of Mordecai¡¯s eyes -- why wasn¡¯t he named after those? -- were fixed on Skipper¡¯s form. The third of them, perched on his forehead, gently oozed blood that sparked with putrid brown Aether. He licked his thin lips.


    "You know," he purred, flexing his triplet biceps. "I might be convinced to let you folks live. You¡¯ve proven you¡¯re strong, after all, brother. Why not use those talents for me, huh? Just give back what you stole. I pay well." His green skin, another mark of his Scurrant heritage, glistened in the rain.


    Skipper grinned, but there was no humour in it. "You¡¯d need a billion stator a day to buy me off, pal -- and even then I¡¯d betray ya. Gotta decline. Thanks for letting me catch my breath, though. Really appreciate it."


    Mordecai narrowed his eyes. "Y, you are an asshole. No wonder the Avaman wants you dead so bad."


    The green of Skipper¡¯s eyes grew just a little colder. "Well, you know, I¡¯ve got that effect on people. Heartbeat Shotgun."


    Skipper launched off the ground, zooming towards Mordecai¡¯s position, his hands cast behind him. Just from looking at him, it would be tempting to think such a maneuver was easy, but in this tempest it was anything but -- the on-the-fly calculations needed to fly through that chaos without being cast aside like a stray leaf were almost unimaginable.


    Brown Aether coalesced around Mordecai¡¯s body as he braced himself, his third eye squeezing open to such a degree that it nearly popped out of the socket. The blood that oozed out from it blasted forward, hardened and sharpened to such a degree that it was like a watercutter. Mordecai turned his head this way and that, doing his best to slice the incoming Skipper to ribbons.


    Red and green danced around as Skipper weaved his way around the blood cutter, each slash missing him by mere inches. More than once he was forced to use Heartbeat Bayonet to parry a particularly persistent angle of attack, and each time he did droplets of stray blood splattered onto the deck below.


    Dancing through the wind and blood, Skipper¡¯s cry was barely audible -- but it was audible enough. S§×arch* The ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Ruth!"


    She leapt into action, appearing from behind a nearby control tower, charging towards Mordecai in a serpentine pattern. Her Skeletal Set was already on, and her claws kicked up sparks as they dragged along the ground.


    Mordecai swung in her direction, his third eye briefly swelling to twice its usual size before deploying a massive bubble of blood. The blood-bubble lunged after Ruth, pursuing her with horrifying speed for a moment before exploding.


    Shards of crystallized blood like icicles launched towards Ruth, and she skidded to a halt as she prepared to dodge -- but far too late. If not for the word that passed her lips, she may have been run through right then and there.


    "Bruno!"


    The blonde young man leapt in the way of the blow, deploying forcefields from his hands that deflected the rain of shards. Then, bringing his own body low to the ground, he hissed:


    "Serena!"


    The del Sed twins switched places, and as Serena charged forward she gathered the remnants of the blood together in her hands in the form of two crystalline red swords. She and Ruth charged towards Mordecai from the right, as Skipper zoomed in from the left.


    The Scurrant couldn¡¯t defend against all of them, so he elected to dodge instead -- but even that wasn¡¯t going to work.


    As he went to jump back, Serena leapt up into the air with a flare of pink Aether and hurled one of her red swords as if it was a javelin. It pierced Mordecai¡¯s lower-right hand, impaling it against the deck of the airship -- pinning him in place. In that moment of recoil, his blood-beam ceased, giving Ruth the opening she needed to rush in and pin both his remaining arms with her claws.


    Mordecai screamed in pain, falling to his knees, his body restrained -- but before long, that third eye would start blasting once more, and worse.


    Skipper landed back on the deck, transitioning from a roll into a dead sprint. He ran towards Mordecai, arms pumping, his gaze resolute. He wouldn¡¯t make it in time, but he already knew that -- and so he called out once again:


    "It¡¯s your turn! North!"


    North grinned unseen to himself. About time.


    The invisibility hologram he¡¯d applied to himself dissipated, and he stepped forward cracking his knuckles. He¡¯d reappeared behind Mordecai, and as he extended both his hands towards the Scurrant¡¯s head, his enemy got only the briefest panicked glance of North¡¯s form. A grey-haired Umbrant in a black baggy coat.


    "Wait!" he cried.


    Too late.


    Nightmare Underground: Eleven Devils in the Rain.


    A small black bubble appeared, utterly enveloping Mordecai¡¯s head. He thrashed and writhed, but the bubble followed his movements utterly with his limited range of motion. This move wasn¡¯t really that impressive from the outside, to be honest, but North was more than aware of what was going on inside that little bubble.


    You couldn¡¯t come up with an illusion technique without testing it on yourself, after all.


    Inside that bubble, Mordecai Tri-Arm would be experiencing an endless landscape of rain -- not so different from this storm, only far more infinite and eldritch in its design. The drops would be falling at unnatural angles, obeying the laws of some ungodly gravity as they coursed and scoured through the air. The only interruption to that deluge would be the titular Eleven Devils -- human-shaped voids in the eternal storm, surrounding Mordecai¡¯s viewpoint.


    If that was all, North¡¯s Nightmare Underground would be little more than a series of pretty pictures -- but he had quite the nasty streak. The way light bounced off those raindrops, the angles and colours between the Devils: all of it was designed to trigger the human brain¡¯s nausea response. With each revolution of recognition, that response would intensify until¡­


    A spurt of vomit poured out from within the black bubble. Self-explanatory.


    The admittedly disgusting distraction had done its work, though, allowing Skipper to reach their position before Mordecai could retaliate. Emerald Aether coursing around the lower half of his body, Skipper hurled himself towards the Scurrant --


    -- and sent him flying off into the storm with a well-placed dropkick.


    Skipper landed on the deck with a hard thud, but the grin on his face didn¡¯t fade in the slightest. He whipped his hand back over his face, getting his dark hair out of his eyes.


    "Another job well done," he panted.


    It was two nights later, at a lightpoint a few systems away, when North confronted Skipper. The older man was reading through his script on the balcony of the hotel they were staying at, but quickly stuffed it back into his pocket when he heard North approaching.


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    North frowned as he stepped out. Quite often he¡¯d tried to snoop in on Skipper¡¯s affairs, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯t quite hush his footsteps enough to escape Skipper¡¯s notice. His holograms could fool the eyes, but the ears were another matter entirely.


    "Something up?" Skipper asked, taking a quick swig from a canned drink he had resting on the railing. "Pretty late to be walking around, yeah?"


    "Could say the same to you, boss," North said, stopping beside him. He leaned over the railing, eyes scanning the dim lights of the station beyond.


    "I¡¯m not walking around, though," Skipper replied, grinning as if he¡¯d outsmarted the Umbrant. "I¡¯m standing right here."


    "Then I guess I ain¡¯t walking around either, am I?"


    "True enough." Skipper extended the hand holding the can towards North, squinting to read the text on its side. "Can I offer you some, uh¡­ Noxious Pop in this trying time?"


    North wrinkled his nose. "Nah. Do my best not to touch anything but water. Never know what kinda chemicals they¡¯re putting in it."


    "Fair." Skipper returned the can to the railing. "So, Mr. North, what is it I can do for you this fine evening? I¡¯ve already sent you your pay for the month."


    And it had been as generous as usual -- only now, that was just as worrying as anything else.


    North cleared his throat. "I did some, ah, independent research on that pirate we took down. Interesting character."


    Artificial wind whistled over the balcony, and Skipper audibly clicked his tongue. "Ah."


    "Turns out," North raised an eyebrow, an accusatory sliver entering his tone. "Mordecai Tri-Arm was one of Paradise Charon¡¯s premium boytoys -- in other words, one of her operatives. So that¡¯s what we¡¯re doing now, huh? We¡¯re messing with Contenders?"


    Skipper sighed, rubbing his forehead with a finger. He suddenly looked very tired.


    "What is it you want, North?" he said tersely. "Some more money to stay quiet about it?"


    "I wanna know what the hell it is we stole from that guy, boss. That¡¯s why we were there, right? Grabbing something off of him? If I¡¯m stickin¡¯ my neck in the guillotine, I wanna know what the hell it¡¯s for, right?"


    Skipper fished around in his jacket pocket, pulling out a tiny data stick that he held up in the air. It was no bigger than his little finger, unmarked, but Skipper held onto it as carefully as if it were a bomb.


    "Am I supposed to know what that is?" North said, turning around to lean his back against the railing.


    "A sneaky little back door the Second Contender had set up in the Supremacy¡¯s system architecture," murmured Skipper, turning the data stick around in the light. "Figured I¡¯d make use of it myself."


    North raised an opportunistic eyebrow. "Back door? What, you¡¯re looking to mess around with their weapons or something?"


    "Try communications."


    A grin spread across North¡¯s face. "Niiice. What¡¯s the plan, then? Take down their communication network and ransom it back to them? It¡¯s a risky play, but it could work. Nice dividends if you make it out clean, too."


    "Not¡­ exactly."


    "What, then?"


    There was no answer.


    The grin faded from North as he looked up at Skipper. As he stood there, silent, the older man had a complicated expression on his face -- like he was wrestling with whether or not to say any more. Finally, however, he opened his mouth.


    "I want to change the shape of this world," he said.


    North laughed. "What? What¡¯s that supposed to mean?"


    With another sigh, Skipper dispensed with the subtlety. "I want to take down the Supreme. I want to take down the Supremacy. I want them not to exist anymore. I need them not to exist anymore. This back door will help with that, when it comes to it." There was a strange, feverish tone to his voice -- like he was a man possessed.


    The laughter trailed off and died. "You¡¯re¡­ you¡¯re joking, right?" North said, almost pleadingly, like he was talking to an elderly relative who¡¯d begun to succumb to senility.


    Skipper¡¯s face was dead serious. "I¡¯m not joking." He hurriedly returned the data stick to his pocket.


    "But¡­" North went on, another chuckle slipping into his tone. "But that¡¯s crazy. That¡¯s like saying you wanna take down the laws of physics, or water being wet, or¡­"


    "There was a time before the Supremacy," Skipper said simply. "Why can¡¯t there be a time after?"


    North tried to forage for another argument, but the same one just came out of his mouth again. "But it¡¯s crazy."


    Skipper sighed, stepping back from the railing, plunging both his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Maybe," he said. "That makes me crazy, too, I guess. Wouldn¡¯t surprise me."


    He began to walk back inside, pausing only when North shouted it a third time.


    "You¡¯re nuts!"


    Skipper looked back over his shoulder. "Don¡¯t you wanna believe in something?" he muttered, with something approaching pity, before passing through the doors.


    North stayed out there a long time, staring out at the dark, his body still even as cold air washed over it.


    He¡¯d always prided himself on his ability to think, to reason his way out of situations. He¡¯d grown up picking pockets, advanced to cracking safes, and evolved until he reached this level -- tricking the very light itself into doing what he wanted. Through it all, he¡¯d considered his wit his greatest weapon.


    That hadn¡¯t changed: a chill went down his spine when he considered what would have happened if he hadn¡¯t asked these questions. Would he have found out what was going on here before it was too late? Unlikely. Bruno didn¡¯t care enough to ask, Ruth was too boneheaded, and Serena was the same but with air. He¡¯d only have understood just how crazy Skipper was once he¡¯d plunged them into the fire.


    To make it anywhere in this world, you needed to be unburdened. North understood that.


    Relationships, responsibilities¡­ all that stuff just served to weigh you down. Even ideals -- no, especially ideals. Those, in particular, were a chain around the neck, pulling you down to the ocean floor.


    Dying for your beliefs made a pretty story, but it didn¡¯t change the fact that you were dying. You¡¯d live a much happier life not believing in anything. North turned away from the cold night and headed back inside.


    It seemed to him this was a good time to make some exit preparations.


    Present Day¡­


    "What?" North spoke to Ruth through his hologram, standing over the unconscious guards. "Don¡¯t trust me?"


    He¡¯d learnt to throw his voice a long time ago -- it was useful for lending his illusions a little more reality. The moment the last word left his lips, he began to move: slipping past Ruth and heading down the opposite hallway, his own invisibility hologram concealing him from sight.


    It had been fun to catch up with his old crew, but it was clear now that they were far too suspicious of him to be useful. He wouldn¡¯t be able to get away with anything with their eyes on him -- and there was still a whole lot he needed to do on the planet Panacea.


    He had a job to do here, after all. The turtle had paid well for his services.


    Ruth¡¯s cry echoed down the hallways as his fake copy dissipated, but he was far enough away now that it wasn¡¯t a concern. He had bigger problems -- for one, what he was supposed to do next.


    He¡¯d been hired to help the Coalition of Three take down Titan Hessiah, but that was easier said than done. This outbreak or whatever it was had been the greatest hurdle -- but even without it, infiltrating the upper floors would have been a difficult task. Heat and motion sensors meant that invisibility wasn¡¯t an option, so he¡¯d had to steal the identity of one of the security officers who¡¯d died unseen in the initial attack.


    With a nearly invisible flare of transparent Aether, North reassumed his disguise -- long red hair that didn¡¯t exist hanging over his eyes. He¡¯d fudged Micah Mallion¡¯s height and weight slightly, sculpting the image to fit his own proportions, but it didn¡¯t seem that anyone had noticed.


    Apparently, Ansem had already tried to execute Titan Hessiah and failed. North had been instructed to get closer to him, then, observe him and figure out what he was up to -- but that wasn¡¯t so easy either. He kept his employees at arm¡¯s length, and spent most of his time on a private floor so well-secured North couldn¡¯t even step foot on it. And besides¡­


    Titan Hessiah did not sweat.


    To be more accurate, Titan Hessiah didn¡¯t always remember to sweat. North would catch him sometimes, in sweltering heat, his skin as dry as sandpaper. Only then would he sweat, as if it was something he needed reminding of.


    North had no idea what was going on there, but it sent shivers down his spine -- and he knew to leave well enough alone. You couldn¡¯t pay him enough to go anywhere near that guy.


    Which begged the question, of course, how were they going to take him down? North prided himself on making efficient use of his resources, and in this case those resources were Skipper¡¯s crew. He wouldn¡¯t allow himself to be captured by them, but that didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t use them.


    His security communicator beeped, and North put it to his ear to hear the announcement.


    "Notice to all officers," Commander Marsh¡¯s gruff voice came through loud and clear. "We¡¯re bringing a potentially biohazardous entity into quarantine -- Floor 16, isolation chamber. I want that floor sweeped and cleared before we get up there. Make sure nobody down below goes wandering, either."


    North smirked to himself.


    Opportunity had knocked. Opportunity always knocked.

 Chapter 192:8.11: Caged

    "What do you want, North?"


    Dragan glared at the Umbrant standing outside his glass cell. It was only natural -- the last time he¡¯d seen the former member of Skipper¡¯s crew, he¡¯d left Dragan to choke to death on poison gas. To be honest, he was lucky there was glass and Neverwire protecting him from getting a solid punch to the jaw.


    North wagged an admonishing finger as he strolled across the perimeter of the cell, eyes carefully scanning Dragan. "You first, pal," he said, scratching an ear. "Like I said, you¡¯re supposed to be dead. Head blown off. How come you ain¡¯t?" S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan tapped a finger against his own temple as he turned to follow North¡¯s movements. "Well, as you can see, asshole, my head is firmly attached to my body. Looks like you¡¯ve got bad information."


    He almost winced as Pan chirped up next to him, but managed to restrain the reflex. "But dead boy!" she cried out. "That¡¯s truth! That¡¯s what happened! Why pretending?"


    Dragan ignored her, not even glancing in her direction. He wasn¡¯t sure what North was doing here, nor what he wanted, and he wasn¡¯t about to give him any clues as to his situation. Pan kept yelling stuff at him, seemingly under the impression that he couldn¡¯t hear, but Dragan tuned it out.


    "I dunno," North sucked in air through his teeth. "I was pretty nearby at the time, you know?"


    Stray suspicions solidified in Dragan¡¯s mind, and a groan escaped his lips. "Oh, dammit. You were Micah?"


    North smirked. "Took ya long enough."


    Dragan grunted as he sat up further on the bench, raising an eyebrow. "So, you lure us in and bring us here. Obviously there¡¯s something you want from us. What is it?


    North flickered out of existence -- and then reappeared on the other side of the cell, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Dragan swung around to follow him.


    "So we¡¯re changing the subject, huh?" North smirked, one hand on his chin. "That¡¯s what we¡¯re doing? Cool, cool. But yeah, I do need you guys¡¯ help with something."


    "And what¡¯s that?" Dragan sighed. "And why are you asking me?"


    North¡¯s smirk spread into a grin, and Dragan felt a heavy weight settle over his shoulders. He got the distinct sense that he was being played in some way, but he didn¡¯t really have the energy to figure out how. He¡¯d keep it in his mind as a background process, figure it out later, but play along for the moment.


    "Well," North flickered again, reappearing leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the cell. "Skipper ain¡¯t too happy with me right now, but you¡¯re -- literally -- a captive audience. And with those on ya, you¡¯re not exactly gonna attack me. So yeah, I¡¯m going through youse."


    Dragan scowled. "So what? Do I look like his secretary to you?"


    "Good way of putting it, yeah." He flickered once more, reappearing on his feet a short distance away. "See, the way I see it, you ain¡¯t likely to get out of this cell any time soon. I¡¯m tricking the cameras with my ability and I¡¯ve got the audio set to loop, but sooner or later they¡¯re gonna figure something¡¯s up, ya feel me?"


    "Get to the point."


    North leaned forward, his leering grin unbearably smug. "So I got a deal for ya."


    "The kind of deal I¡¯m not really in a position to refuse, I assume?"


    The grin only widened. "It¡¯s my favourite kinda deal, boss. It¡¯s a three step sorta thing: I bust you out, you help me do what I gotta do upstairs, then I get you reunited with your crew. Big happy party, everyone goes home. Sound good?"


    "What is party, dead boy?" Pan asked, leaning into Dragan¡¯s field of vision.


    Dragan leaned forward as well, still ignoring Pan¡¯s questions. He stared into what he assumed to be North¡¯s eyes, but saw no signs of the microexpressions that should have been there. Even now, then, he was using a hologram as a decoy.


    "You say I haven¡¯t got a choice," he said carefully. "But what exactly happens if I refuse your oh-so-generous offer?"


    North sniffed, rubbing his nose with a thumb. "You see this cell you¡¯re in? Take a good look at the floor."


    Dragan glanced down, squinting to inspect the rows upon rows of tiny holes in the ceramic beneath him. His eyes widened. Oh.


    "It¡¯s biohazard quarantine," North elaborated needlessly. "This ain¡¯t my first rodeo up here -- hence why I¡¯m so damn good at getting around the security. Every now and then the security boys will bag and tag a stray Repurposed, bring it up here, and the scientists will do their thing. Scans, dissections, all that nice stuff. And when they¡¯re done? Incineration."


    Dragan gulped.


    North knew he had him. "So, you say you don¡¯t want my help? You might live a little while longer, but eventually these guys are gonna be done with you. When they are, they¡¯re gonna burn you to a crisp, burn the crisp to smoke, and purify the smoke to nothing. Or you can help out your good buddy North and walk free."


    North raised an eyebrow.


    "So¡­ what do ya say?"


    "What do you mean you lost him?" Skipper mumbled, his face buried in his hands as he sat down on a bench in the corner of the warehouse.


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    After they¡¯d returned from confinement, they¡¯d elected against lurking around the surrounding hallways. Atoy Muzazi would no doubt be looking for revenge after his Special Officer partner was killed, and under the circumstances it was best to stay somewhere with plenty of witnesses. Still, that meant things were noisy.


    Ruth winced as the sound of a crying child pierced her ears. "I messed up, Skipper. The guards came after us and he got away while I was fighting ¡¯em."


    Bruno, his arms crossed, looked down at the floor worriedly. "Did he say anything about what he might be doing? Any -- any clues or anything?"


    Ruth shook her head sadly. If he had, she hadn¡¯t caught it.


    "Shit," Bruno clicked his tongue.


    With a final wipe of his face, Skipper threw his hands out at his sides. "Still!" he cried, as if wiping the slate clean. "It¡¯s not like North¡¯s going anywhere, I guess -- he¡¯s stuck on this planet, same as us. Hell, he¡¯s stuck in the building, same as us, and he¡¯s a smug son of a bitch on top of that. No way we don¡¯t run into him again."


    "But what do we do?" Bruno demanded, his arms still crossed. "We came here to grab Panacea before all this happened, right? You said enough to win a war with. But North was our only lead on how to get it."


    "At this point, Mr. del Sed," Skipper leaned back in his seat. "My bigger concern is getting off this planet without getting turned into a mushroom-man -- and I think I know the best next move for that."


    Ruth cocked her head. "What is it?"


    "Ansem del Day Away said that communications off-planet aren¡¯t down, but that ExoCorp are blocking them. Not sure if I believe that, to be honest -- I get the sense he¡¯s trying to play us -- but there¡¯s only one way to find out for sure, one way or another.*


    Bruno nodded. "We check out the communication network ourselves?"


    "Directly, at the central node. If they really are down, then we can all cry and have a pity party together. If they¡¯re not¡­"


    He trailed off, his eyes far away.


    "Skipper?" Ruth asked.


    "If they¡¯re not," Skipper said, voice dangerously low. "And we came here for nothing, and Dragan died for nothing¡­ then I¡¯ll show them just how disagreeable someone like me can be."


    What makes a king a king?


    Blood. Both their own, and that which they could spill.


    Once, John Blair had been next in line to inherit a throne -- but when that cowardly planet had joined the UAP, the monarchy had been done away with. His family had been cast aside, told to make do with old properties and revenues, and abandoned to the winds of mediocrity. As a child, John had been told to forget about his rightful throne and settle for the life of a common man.


    His humiliation had been considerable -- but not total. He could see now that his crown had merely been delayed. He¡¯d just been meant for greater heights.


    He stood on the edge of the cliff, inspecting the ExoCorp building from a distance. January was on one side of him, script set out before him, while Susan watched over their position with her sniper rifle. Pion was keeping their base of operations secure, while Ian was in place inside.


    Ian¡¯s voice came through their internal communication network. "Security is concentrated around the quarantine floor right now, sir. We won¡¯t get a better opportunity."


    "Very good," John replied.


    "Then our crusade begins?"


    Everything was ready. The time had come.


    John turned down to January, the hefty man hunched over the controls he¡¯d set up for his explosives. Slowly, he nodded -- and spoke through his own lips.


    "Set them off."


    January¡¯s thumb slammed down on the button.


    "Fine," Dragan growled, staring North down. "Just get me out of here."


    North stood up with a triumphant grin, slapping his hands together. "No problem, pal -- I stole the codes for this little cage a long time ago. No skin off my bones to bust you out --"


    Three things happened at once.


    First, there was the distant sound of an explosion, and the building shook. North stumbled mid-step, and Dragan was forced to grab onto the underside of the bench to keep himself steady.


    Second, North -- with a visible look of alarm on his face -- flickered out of existence, his presence utterly vanishing. For a moment, translucent Aether crackled in the air, but then it too disappeared.


    Third, the doors at the far end of the room swung open, and a security squad marched in. Five guards, with their commander -- Marsh, they¡¯d called him when they were bringing Dragan in -- at the head. Their expressions were hard and their eyes resolute as they approached the quarantine cell.


    "Get up," Marsh barked at him. "You¡¯re coming with us, freak."


    North¡¯s voice, uncomfortably close to Dragan, was barely audible -- but the message of it came through loud and clear.


    "Ah," he said. "Looks like this might be a little more physical than I thought."


    John took a deep breath through his helmet as he landed within the building, his heavy boots slamming down on the ground. The bomb Pion had built from that wrecked ship had been just as effective as promised -- blasting through the reinforced exterior of the building without issue.


    January landed on one side of him, Susan on the other, all three clad in their heavy armour. Massive plasma rifles in their grip, they rose to their feet.


    "Eyes forward, team," he commanded. "Let¡¯s begin."


    On the other side of the hallway, already, he could see their opposition approaching -- huge and hulking things of black metal, tall enough that their heads nearly touched the ceiling. Still, they were of no consequence.


    With Aether and Panacea combined, nothing was of very much consequence.


    He could feel it above, like his own beating heart. The flesh that must be destroyed. The false children.


    Time to begin.

 Chapter 193:8.12: The Face of God

    Dust spilled from the ceiling as the building shook.


    As Marsh marched towards the quarantine cell, one of the younger guards accompanying him looked up nervously. "Sir?" he questioned, voice cracking. "Are we under attack? Shouldn¡¯t we respond?"


    "There are automatics for that," March responded gruffly. "We have our orders -- take the specimen for analysis."


    "But¡­"


    Marsh paused, turning on his heel to face the younger soldier, planting a firm hand on his shoulder. "You questioning me, Hendrick?" His voice was dangerously low, like it was crawling out of his beard.


    Hendrick¡¯s red face turned pale, and he shook his head. "No, sir. The automatics will handle it. As you say."


    March patted his shoulder heavily, and turned back to the quarantine cell. His eyes narrowed as they made contact with Dragan¡¯s, and a cruel smirk tugged at his lips. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Angry person," mumbled Pan, curled up on the bench, her head resting against the cold metal. "Person that¡¯s angry."


    Just from a glance, Dragan could tell he wasn¡¯t in for a fun experience here. He could very much see the word dissection coming up in his future. Would North be able to bail him out of this? Hell, was he even still here? He¡¯d seemed pretty eager to recruit Dragan to whatever cause he had going on, but maybe he¡¯d made a run for it when that explosion had gone off.


    No. He couldn¡¯t depend on North.


    What, then? Dragan bit his lip, pondering the possibilities as the security squad approached. With this Neverwire wrapped around his wrists, he couldn¡¯t use his Aether. He¡¯d gotten better with hand-to-hand since joining up with Skipper, but without his Aether he had no illusions of being able to fight off a trained security squad. Besides, chances were they could use Aether.


    "What, then?" the Archivist asked, slouched down on the bench as well. "You just let them take you? Good way to get yourself cut open."


    Pan¡¯s eyes widened, and her mouth formed a perfect circle as she looked at the new arrival. "Two, dead boy?! Two dead boys?!"


    Dragan groaned as he put his head in his hands. It really, truly was getting crowded in there.


    One of the security guards rapped her fist against the glass wall. "On your feet. Don¡¯t make us drag you out."


    Her eyes were covered by shades, but Dragan could see from the marks on her knuckles that she was no stranger to violence. A punch in the gut would be the most likely outcome if he didn¡¯t comply, at least for the moment. His joints cracking, Dragan rose to his feet.


    "There you go," the Archivist sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yes ma¡¯am, no ma¡¯am, please don¡¯t hit me ma¡¯am. Maybe if you¡¯re lucky, you can lick their boots next!"


    Pan frowned. "Why is dead boy so mean to dead boy? Just be nice, fucko."


    The Archivist cast a harsh side-eye at the mushroom girl. "We¡¯re compromised," he snarled. "We need to get rid of this thing, soon as possible. You understand?"


    "Dead boy¡¯s dead boy is mean."


    The glass wall slid open, and the guards kept their rifles trained on Dragan. "Hands on your head," the shaded woman said. "And turn around. No funny business."


    Dragan complied, swallowing as he turned away from the guards. The Archivist raised an irritated eyebrow as they came face to face. Ugh. His inner monologue was becoming awfully uppity lately.


    "You only have yourself to blame," the kid muttered.


    Dragan stood there for an awfully long time, hands on his head, waiting for the guards to grab him from behind. He had no illusions that this would be a comfortable trip, but¡­ no hands came. No gloves seized him.


    There was only quiet, and his own breathing, and the slow drop of liquid. In the distance, there was another rumble.


    Slowly, his brow furrowed, Dragan turned around¡­


    ¡­and saw bodies scattered before him.


    The young guard stared up at the ceiling, his stomach utterly ravaged and open to the elements. The woman with the shades lay in a heap next to him, her throat cut so thoroughly her head was only attached by stray strings of sinew. The rest were similarly butchered, knife wounds covering their ravaged forms.


    The only one still standing was Marsh, and he just quietly stared at Dragan, blood-drenched knife clutched in his hand.


    "Who are you?" he spoke softly, with a voice not his own.


    For the first time since Marie had met him, Titan Hessiah seemed panicked. Countless arms, like the branches of a tree, arranged numerous holographic screens around him -- each displaying the view from a security camera.


    On one, a hole had been visibly blasted into the outer wall of the building, concrete and steel spilling out into a hallway. The number in the corner of the screen indicated this was the twentieth floor, ten floors below them and nineteen above the refugee area.


    A second showed a view of three heavily-armoured figures, armed with hulking heavy weapons. Already, a trail of wrecked security automatics were laid out behind them. Those things had been huge, two heads taller than the tallest man, and those soldiers had blasted them apart like they were nothing.


    They were heading up.


    "Damnation," Hessiah hissed, eyes sprouting over his head to keep all the screens in view. "It¡¯s the Dead Hand -- those disloyal, impudent pests. They¡¯re here for my Enfant, my children." Another hand went to his communicator. "Marsh? Marsh, intercept their approach immediately! Answer me, damn you!"


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    Marie¡¯s eyes flicked to the screen as the leader of the three figures kicked a hole right through the chest of another automatic. She frowned: they were pretty good, but tearing steel apart wasn¡¯t that impressive for someone like her.


    "You¡¯re scared of these people?" she asked, raising an eyebrow -- only to cut the sass and take a step back when Hessiah turned a rage-filled expression towards her.


    "Dispatching them would be simplicity itself," he spat, fingers clicking in the air. "But without exposing my nature? No. For regenerators, shredding is the best way -- and I can hardly shred with this mundane form. We are not yet ready to be exposed."


    Marie crossed her arms as the light above the far door turned green. "Well, if you don¡¯t want to be exposed, I¡¯d turn back now. He¡¯s here."


    It took only a second for Hessiah¡¯s many arms to coalesce, for his many eyes to sink into his skin, for his many mouths to shut and seal. His business suit shifted with his form, and it occurred to Marie that it must actually be part of his body.


    A moment after he returned to normal, the doors slid open, and Atoy Muzazi marched into the room. One hand was on the hilt of his sheathed sword, but a relieved smile crossed his lips as he saw Marie.


    "Officer Hazzard," he nodded. "It¡¯s pleasing to see you are well."


    The way he tried to conceal his excitement was fairly adorable, but the seriousness on his face as he turned to Hessiah was completely genuine. His nod was far more respectful, too.


    "It¡¯s an honour to meet an esteemed businessman such as yourself, sir," Atoy said. "I¡­ appreciate your assistance in resolving that dispute with security. Officer Hazzard, has your Aether ability fully healed you yet?"


    Nice cover story, Atoy, if a bit unnecessary.


    All Atoy knew was that the CEO of ExoCorp had vouched for him and gotten him out of that security cell. He didn¡¯t know that Hessiah had intended on having him killed for his experiments initially. Best not to mention that: doubtless he¡¯d just assume Hessiah was some kind of Supremacy sympathizer, instead.


    "It¡¯s good to see the Supremacy has friends this far out," Atoy smiled.


    Bingo.


    His smile faded as he caught a glance at one of the holographic screens still floating in the air. The intruder had just ripped the head off another security automatic, throwing it into the wall with such strength that it left a visible crater.


    "The building¡¯s under attack?" he asked urgently, rushing forward to look at the screen. "I felt a shaking when the elevator was bringing me up. An explosion?"


    Hessiah cleared his throat, one hand behind his back. "It would seem so. From what I understand, some of the Repurposed have maintained some residual intelligence."


    Marie glanced at the four vats that contained the Enfant. The glass on them had tinted black, concealing their occupants from view, and Marie had no doubt there was some kind of sound-proofing, too.


    Atoy narrowed his eyes as he inspected the monitors. "They¡¯re¡­ on their way up here, correct? That¡¯s what I¡¯m seeing here?"


    Hessiah nodded grimly, taking a step forward to him. "There are tales of Special Officers told far and wide. Their unparalleled valour, their unrivalled skill¡­ even out here, as you say. Could I trouble you to¡­?"


    "Of course."


    Atoy Muzazi unsheathed his sword, the blade emerging with a shower of sparks as he turned back towards the door. And as he did, Marie saw it.


    She saw Hessiah¡¯s face, in that single moment, looking at Atoy.


    It was hateful, creased beyond human shape, eyes recessed so deep they were like demonic tunnels. His teeth were bared like the brickwork of a wall, lips pulled back so far the bones of his jawline were clearly visible. For a horrible, horrible second, Marie thought the man might just leap upon Atoy and tear him apart there and then.


    "Officer Hazzard?" Atoy asked.


    The moment passed, and when Marie looked to Hessiah¡¯s face again it was as human as they came. He smiled softly.


    "What are you doing?" Dragan asked, glaring at Marsh as he took a step outside the open cell. He felt blood sink into his shoes as his foot came down in the puddle.


    The man called Marsh just continued to look calmly at him, knife still dripping red. A thin smile crossed his lips.


    "I wanted to meet you," he said, in that same quiet voice. "To know what manner of being you were."


    Dragan gulped. "Name¡¯s Dragan Hadrien. I¡¯m a Cogitant. We done? Can I go?"


    He didn¡¯t understand what was happening here, but his situation hadn¡¯t actually improved much. He was still bound and sealed with Neverwire, after all. If this maniac decided to turn that knife against him, too, there wasn¡¯t much he could do to stop it.


    The smile didn¡¯t fade. "John sought you dead, but he is the hasty sort¡­ perhaps you are more like us than he anticipates. Another archon to the new god."


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "John? You¡¯re with those Dead Hand guys, then?"


    "My name is Ian. I took this skin for infiltration purposes, but the time for that is at an end. The false flesh shall be destroyed, and the crusade from this place shall commence. Before that happens, I would know the measure of you."


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked to Pan, in the corner of the room. She looked visibly worried as she looked at this man called Ian. The red shade he¡¯d seen when Pan was probing his memories, the one that wanted to ¡¯destroy everything¡¯... was that the new god Ian was talking about?


    Only one way to know.


    "I don¡¯t know what you mean," Dragan lied. "Crusade? New god? What the hell are you talking about?"


    Ian sighed, wiping the back of one hand over his temple. Even his body language had changed utterly -- before it had been mechanical, purposeful. Now it was filled with delicate grace more suited to a ballerina than a soldier.


    "We came here with foolishness in our hearts," Ian said softly. "We pummeled and beat for money and power, as if money ever mattered, as if power was ever real. There was a man agitating the sheep -- we slew him, as was our way, and went to dispose of his body in the tunnels."


    The look on his face changed, a rapturous awe washing over his features.


    "We went down into the tunnels¡­" he whispered, arms spread wide as he stared up at the ceiling. "And a god reached out and took us." He ran a finger over his arm. "It gave me new skin," he purred. "It gave the others gifts as well. What, I wonder, did it give you?"


    Dragan bit his lip as he stared into the eyes of the man across from him. This was a true believer he was looking at -- no, a zealot. That knife would be turned on him if he said the wrong thing here.


    Snip.


    An invisible blade sliced through his Neverwire restraints, and the fear that had settled on Dragan¡¯s shoulders lessened somewhat. Seemed North wasn¡¯t as much of an asshole as he¡¯d assumed.


    "So where is it, then?" Dragan asked, with the bravado he¡¯d just received. "Where¡¯s this god you¡¯re so in love with?"


    For a moment, Dragan thought he had gone too far -- but then Ian just slowly blinked and reached up with one hand.


    Like he was opening a door, he peeled his own face away. Strands of sinew snapped as they were pulled taut. Dragan felt nausea welling up in his throat as he took in the bloody sight.


    Behind that sheet of skin, there was only a hollow cavity, like the skull had been mined in. Sat there in the centre, around the size of a clenched fist, was a softly pulsating lump of bright red Panacea -- like a ball of organic yarn.


    "Behold." Ian spoke without a mouth. "Behold the face of God."

 Chapter 194:8.13: King’s Coat

    Atoy Muzazi kept his hand on his blade as he walked into the empty function room, his footsteps echoing in perpetuity.


    He could only tell that this had been a function room by the sign outside. Any furniture in here had long since been moved out -- the only survivor being a lonely-looking table in the corner. A security camera watched from the opposite corner of the room, just next to an open door.


    That door was open because someone had stepped through it. Someone coming from the opposite direction as Muzazi. The one he¡¯d come here to intercept.


    DEAD HAND, their armour read, the letters bold and declarative. Tense, industrial steel covered their body, the hulking mass of it more suited to a spacewalk than a combat situation -- and yet the way they moved displayed no discomfort at all. Clearly, they were incredibly strong to handle such weight.


    A massive plasma rifle was held in the figure¡¯s hands, the barrel glowing with residual heat. Smoke gently drifted from its mouth up into the air filters. Through the porthole on the figure¡¯s helmet, Muzazi could see the faintest outline of a human face observing him.


    Marie followed Muzazi through the door, standing alongside him. Her eyes seemed resolute as she cracked her knuckles, but something about her seemed yet distant, like her resolve was coming through habit rather than determination. Ever since they¡¯d met back up, she had seemed distracted somehow -- once this scenario was resolved, he would have to ask her about it.


    But right now, they had work to do.


    The figure stopped their approach, maybe three meters away from the pair, and observed them carefully. There was the slightest modulated sound of breathing from behind the helmet: the Repurposed still required air, then. That was good to know.


    "I don¡¯t think we¡¯ve met before," the figure said, a clear male voice forcing its way out of the metal. "Names?"


    Muzazi drew Luminescence and held it ready, narrowing his eyes. Hessiah had said these elite Repurposed retained residual intelligence, but he hadn¡¯t actually expected them to speak. Still, if he was asked that question, honour bound him to answer.


    "Atoy Muzazi," he declared, adjusting his footing slightly. "Special Officer of the Supremacy."


    "The Supremacy? Interesting," the armoured man mused. He angled his body slightly towards Muzazi¡¯s partner. "And you?"


    Marie¡¯s fists were clenched, her back hunched slightly -- she was ready to pummel her foe to meat. "Marie," she answered simply.


    Muzazi drew his sword back, Luminescence glinting in the light. "I believe it¡¯s good manners for you to name yourself also now."


    For a moment, there was silence and stillness -- three bodies waiting for the command to move and kill. Then, with careful slowness, the man reached up and took the helmet off his head. Beneath was a face framed by long golden hair, orange eyes inspecting inquisitively.


    "What makes a king a king?" he asked.


    Muzazi glared. "I very much doubt that¡¯s your name."


    The man rolled his eyes. "John Blair. Now tell me: what makes a king a king?"


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "What does that question matter?"


    "It is the only question that matters. I would hear your answer, Atoy Muzazi, Special Officer of the Supremacy. I trust you have one for me."


    Muzazi exchanged a glance with Marie, who moved her shoulders in the slightest shrug. After a second of consideration, Muzazi opened his mouth again.


    "A crown is warranted with strength," he said. "Power is what makes a king a king."


    John Blair smiled, just slightly, his lips curling at the edges. "I couldn¡¯t agree more. If that is your aspect, I see no reason for us to be enemies. Throw down your blade and pledge yourself to me."


    Hot anger rushed through Muzazi¡¯s veins. Throw down his blade? To ask him to do that was to ask him to abandon himself. Luminescence was no stick of steel -- it was the shape his will and ideals took in this world. He could no more cast it aside than he could tear out his own heart.


    "If that¡¯s the outcome you expect," Muzazi growled, holding Luminescence ready. "Then you shall be disappointed, sir."


    Blair sighed, but he didn¡¯t sound especially surprised -- and with the barest of efforts, he threw his rifle away, slamming it into the wall.


    "I shan¡¯t let it be said I didn¡¯t give you a chance," he said -- and with a shower of sparks, he drew his own blade. It was a crude thing, more like a machete than anything else, intended to clear dangerous terrain -- but with the strength of the Repurposed and the angry red Aether coursing through it, Muzazi knew he couldn¡¯t take it lightly.


    "Ready?" Muzazi asked Marie without looking at her, bracing himself for combat.


    "Always."


    The two of them rushed forward, fists and sword ready to come down -- and Blair waited for them to meet him.


    "King¡¯s Coat," he said.


    Dragan blinked as he took in the gruesome display. "Oh," he said, swallowing down the nausea. "That¡¯s, uh, that¡¯s the face of God, then? It¡¯s kind of¡­ graphic."


    Ian continued to circle him, his tattered face still swinging from one of his temples. His eyeballs were still attached to that skin, nerves hanging limp like the roots of a vegetable. The closest thing he had to a visage now was the red lump of Panacea inside his hollowed-out skull.


    "Graphic?" Ian intoned through the fluttering of his throat-parts. "Visceral. Extant. It gives me great comfort to know that God bleeds. The warmth of it on my hands provides great proof of its existence."


    Dragan kept his hands behind him as he took a step backwards, holding the Neverwire together as well as he could. North had snipped his restraints with some kind of blade, but Dragan wanted to keep the element of surprise for as long as possible.


    He gulped. "So, I take it you¡¯re one of those Repurposed guys, then? How come you¡¯re not going insane outside with the rest of them?"


    Ian cocked his empty head. "I could ask the same of you. Human technology pulls my mind to my body. What saves you, little man?"


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    Human technology. Some kind of cognitive implant? His brain¡¯s been taken over, but something else has taken up the slack?


    Dragan didn¡¯t have anything like that. How was he still walking and talking, then?


    "Because I¡¯m nice, dead boy!" Pan said helpfully, bobbing into view from behind Ian¡¯s leg.


    "Don¡¯t fall for it," the Archivist said harshly, arms crossed on the other side. "This contaminant is a different strain from the red one, but I¡¯ve no doubt we¡¯re being used, too. As we are now, we¡¯re simply incapable of perceiving it. Don¡¯t trust that thing."


    Pan frowned. "Dead boy¡¯s dead boy is so mean¡­"


    "Don¡¯t listen to it," the Archivist snapped.


    The cacophony inside Dragan¡¯s mind was silenced as Ian spoke up again, that red glowing lump staring into Dragan¡¯s soul. It was like an eye all its own, belonging to something else, something using this man as a window.


    "A question," he said softly, hand tightening around the knife. "Demands an answer."


    The specters of consciousness dissipated, and Dragan took a deep breath before he answered. Under these circumstances, he had no doubt the truth wouldn¡¯t satisfy this lunatic, so he did the next best thing.


    He lied.


    "Cognitive implant," he said, shaking his head slightly to indicate it. "Right at the base of my skull, above the neck. I was in a bad accident as a kid, so my family shelled out for it. Helps with memory and motor function, that kind of thing."


    Ian took a step forward. "What model is it?" he demanded, voice buzzing through his skin. "What make?"


    "No clue. My family took care of all that stuff -- so long as it works, it¡¯s good enough for me."


    That was the way to do it. Detail was the marker of a lie. Truth came out in one or two sentences, while falsehood just went on and on¡­ so long as he maintained the right level of vagueness, he could make it out of this.


    Ian took another step forward -- and as Dragan stepped back in response, his back thumped against the wall. Nowhere to run.


    "Just above your neck?" he whispered. "Show me. Let me feel it."


    "Sure," Dragan said, angling his head to show Ian the back of his neck, doing his best to keep his tattered restraints out of sight at the same time. "It¡¯s right there, under my hair. Go for it."


    Ian took another step forward, reaching out with careful fingers.


    Dragan let go of the Neverwire.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    Two blasts of rock speared out of Dragan¡¯s bright blue Aether and through Ian¡¯s body, landing with deadly precision. The first severed Ian¡¯s outstretched arm, sending it flying up into the air, flipping end over end over end. The second hit him right in his equivalent of a face, like a massive fist smashing into that lump of red Aether.


    A huge chunk of his skull was demolished by the strike, but the Panacea persisted -- pulsing harder and faster, like a panicked heart, but remaining intact all the same. The impact sent Ian sliding back over the smooth floor, his braced and tense body making him look like a still figure being maneuvered by a child.


    He reached for his tattered face with his remaining hand and flipped it back to cover his skull again, the ill-fitting skin like an empty curtain. His other arm began to regenerate, joints forming with uniform cracks.


    "You shouldn¡¯t have done that," he growled. "That was unkind of you."


    As Dragan had expected, dismemberment wasn¡¯t much of an obstacle for things like this guy. Removing or destroying the arms or legs would only serve to disable the enemy for a few seconds at a time. The lump of Panacea, though, that showed more promise -- Ian had moved to protect it, suggesting there¡¯d be consequences for him if he didn¡¯t.


    A simple game plan, then. Stop him from moving, and then smash that ugly mushroom in with his boot.


    "Hey!" Pan cried, annoyed, but he ignored her.


    It was Dragan¡¯s turn to take a step forward. He regretted it nearly immediately.


    The arm he had severed landed, hand still grasping, and latched onto his shoulder. Dragan went to rip it off with an Aether-infused hand, but too late. Angry veins of red Panacea writhed from underneath the limbs skin, worked their way out, and --


    -- made contact.


    Marie kept count.


    She had ripped this man¡¯s arms off four times now. She had relieved him of his legs three times. She¡¯d even torn his head away twice. None of it had left so much as a permanent mark.


    The man called John Blair continued to clash with Atoy, their blades meeting again and again at speeds impossible for human eyes to track, blizzards of sparks erupting from the clash of their weapons. Marie hung back on the sidelines, prowling like a predator, waiting for an opportunity to present itself once again. The moment Blair¡¯s attention was fully focused on Atoy, she¡¯d leap in and attack.


    Dismemberment accomplished nothing but distracting him for a few seconds -- and his skill was such that he could fend off additional attacks in the time it took him to regenerate. If she had free reign here, she¡¯d assume a form that could more easily overwhelm him and slice him to pieces, but she wasn¡¯t willing to risk it. If John Blair saw her doing that, and fled to tell the tale, things would get much further out of control.


    So here she was, vanilla human, the only adjustments she was making to her body being on the inside. Harder knuckles, more flexible arms¡­ invisible enhancements, to give her an advantage. S§×ar?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dismemberment wasn¡¯t the answer, so the next best thing would be restraining him somehow. Regeneration wasn¡¯t possible if something was already occupying that space, so their best bet would be to impale Blair somehow and pin him in place, giving them time to pursue a more permanent solution.


    It was a good plan, but still¡­


    As Blair parried and deflected, Marie¡¯s gaze drifted to the Aether construct floating behind him. King¡¯s Coat, he¡¯d called it. The name was fitting: in terms of appearance, it was like a cross between a coat of arms and a golden clock, a massive hand slowly drifting between four circular emblems.


    First, at the top, a glowing blue iris.


    Second, to the left, the same eye but gold.


    Third, at the bottom, a gaze pitch black.


    Fourth, rightmost, a white eye with a melting crown in the pupil.


    The hand lingered on each segment of the clock for about fifteen seconds before moving clockwise onto the next. Right now, it was hovering over the blue eye -- and Marie was watching carefully.


    John Blair¡¯s parrying had improved -- the difference would have been hard to spot by a normal human, but it was definitely there. He was predicting Atoy¡¯s strikes more effectively, moving in ways that caused his opponent to slow down and become more easily manageable. Like this was a puzzle, not a deathmatch.


    He was fighting just as a Cogitant would. That was the secret of King¡¯s Coat -- it allowed John Blair to copy the skills of whatever subspecies the clock was hovering on.


    Marie grinned to herself.


    All she had to do, then, was wait for John Blair to become Crownless. Then she¡¯d rip that smug smile right off his face.


    The building was on fire.


    The land was on fire.


    The air was on fire.


    Dragan could see it.


    In the instant the hand had touched him, Dragan found himself standing somewhere else -- a world aflame, shades of red oppressively reflecting each other like a crimson kaleidoscope. The ruins of cities, melted and welded together, forming a grand staircase up to the bleeding stars. Their putrid ichor flowed down like rain, pooling into great lakes that collected in the sky like planets of their own.


    Someone stood beneath them.


    At first, Dragan thought it was Pan -- but no, this was not Pan. The dress she wore was stained red, her hair bleached white. She had Pan¡¯s face, but it was strangely unfamiliar¡­ more clearly defined, in such a way that it was too real, like someone trying to convince you much too hard of something. A con in human form.


    She stared down at him with narrowed, bloodshot eyes -- like he was a piece of shit that had fallen into her path.


    "You are not mine," she said.

 Chapter 195:8.14: In the Court of the Crimson Queen

    Dragan stumbled back, breath lingering in his throat and making him choke.


    He was back in the quarantine room. The fire was gone. The bleeding sky was gone. The red girl was gone.


    But he was not safe.


    Ian¡¯s knee slammed into his stomach at painful speeds, forcing him to double over and his choking to intensify tenfold. The arm that had landed on his shoulder was still there, too, fingers digging in so hard it felt like five drills were burrowing their way into his skin -- was Ian controlling it remotely, or was the red Panacea manipulating it?


    Dragan went to move away, to put some distance between himself and his enemy, but Ian had a firm grip on his collar and pulled him back. His fist reared back, ready to slam into Dragan¡¯s face and smash his teeth in -- the red static haze of Aether collecting around the knuckles.


    Screw that.


    "Gemini World!" Dragan hissed -- and a second later, he vanished.


    The severed hand, now clutching only empty air, dropped limp to the ground, fingers twitching like the legs of a dying spider. Ian stumbled forward as his fist met void, his head turning this way and that to try and figure out where Dragan had gone.


    Dragan wasn¡¯t sure when it had started to happen, but at some point the vague watercolor of Gemini World had been replaced with this awareness of the world he¡¯d left behind. He couldn¡¯t see, not exactly, but it was like he received a report about his previous location. Pure information, sourceless but accurate. Was it prediction, then, or presence? No way of telling here and now.


    He reappeared behind Ian, slamming his Aether-infused leg into the man¡¯s unprotected back. He was rewarded with the sickening crunch of bone and the sight of the Repurposed falling forward onto the floor. Ian¡¯s jaw twitched impotently, his eyes glaring spitefully at Dragan even as his cheek rested against the cold tiles.


    "Not enough, dead boy," Pan warned, hiding in the ceiling like an insect. "Needs more! Not enough!"


    Indeed, she was correct. There was an audible and hollow clunk as Ian¡¯s spine repaired itself -- and without delay, he began to get back up to his feet. As if Dragan would just allow that.


    He leapt upon Ian again, smashing his nose in with an Aether-infused fist, and --


    "You are not mine," the red girl said dispassionately. "Whose are you, dead boy?"


    She was inches from his face, inspecting him, like he was an insect being held between two fingers. Red eyes blazed as they scanned him down to his very soul. Her lips curled back in displeasure.


    Again, breath caught in Dragan¡¯s throat -- and again, he was powerless to resist as Ian tackled him, throwing him down to the floor. The Repurposed¡¯s boot came up, ready to stomp on his open torso.


    Dragan took a deep breath. "Gemini --"


    The kick came first, brutal, striking Dragan right in the jaw and cutting him off. Invoking the name of an Aether ability helped to focus the user¡¯s mind, and the interruption was enough to break the concentration that had been forming Gemini World. The words became a splutter of blood.


    Ian¡¯s boot lifted up again, and the promised stomps came down -- once, twice, thrice.


    "I am sad, dead boy," the red girl whispered, her voice like subtle acid burning through his ears. "Do you know why I am sad?"


    He couldn¡¯t answer. He couldn¡¯t even speak. He was in an ocean all of red, his body being crushed by the pressure. If pain had a colour, this crimson was it.


    "I am sad because you are a sad person," the red girl answered her own question. She was titanic, looking down through the haze of bloody ocean with glowing eyes like twin suns. "A person that is sad. My weaker self, the protected one, lingers inside your skull. Pathetic. Pathetic. Saddening."


    Dragan took a deep breath as he came to again -- just in time to be hurled into the quarantine cell by Ian. His back slammed against the far glass wall of the cell, doors smoothly sliding shut as he landed. He was sealed inside.


    Ian held his script up to his mouth. "Quarantine systems -- activate," he barked, Marsh¡¯s voice coming out of him. "Begin purging protocol."


    Like North had said. Incineration. Already, he could feel heat building up under the floor. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He had to get out of here.


    "Gemini --"


    The red girl held his nervous system in the palm of her hand.


    "Does it seek to re-establish through you, dead boy?" she mused, turning him over. "But such a little thing. Sad. Sad, sad. Trifling."


    His brain flopped in the air like a fleshy pendulum as she swung it between two fingers, a mocking smirk on her lips. He could feel cold air burning against his empty skin, and¡­


    ¡­and something floating out of him, like orange wisps of smoke, coalescing.


    "Dead boy is dead boy," Pan¡¯s voice hovered in the air insistently. "Interesting fucko. Not toy."


    The red girl raised a judgemental eyebrow. "You should stay asleep. I will destroy everything. Destroy pain. Destroy fear. Destroy suffering. Just lie back and wait. I will become. Then you will be safe again."


    "No!"


    The smoke solidified like great fingers, pulling Dragan out of the red grip.


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    Dragan Hadrien was on fire.


    "--World!" he screamed with the last of his strength, vanishing a second later.


    The pain disappeared with his body, but the fear of it remained untarnished. His whole body had been aflame -- if he¡¯d come to even a second later, he had no doubt he¡¯d have been incinerated.


    "I saved you, dead boy!" Pan¡¯s voice echoed inside his head. "Praise me!"


    What had the other Panacea been talking about? I will become, she had said, but what did that mean? It was a puzzle he didn¡¯t have the time to solve right now.


    He couldn¡¯t remain in Gemini World forever -- he¡¯d often thought about testing its limits, but there was way too much uncertainty there. If he ran out of Aether while he was in Gemini World, what would happen? Would he be thrown back out into the real world, or would he -- as he feared -- simply fade away into nothing?


    But the moment he reappeared, he knew that the agony of the inferno would be upon him again. Hopefully his regeneration would grow him new skin and tissue, but the idea of the pain associated with it was nearly unbearable.


    Think about the puzzle, then, he told himself. Work out what¡¯s going on. The pain isn¡¯t real. Only your thoughts are.


    He reappeared atop the quarantine cell, right on the roof of it -- and before anything else, he thrust his own fist into his mouth. It muffled the screaming well.


    The flames had consumed most of his skin, and as Dragan writhed as silently as he could, the burnt tissue fell from his body like he was some kind of snake. New skin, fresh and pink, grew in its place, spreading like moss over bloody flesh and muscle -- but that was almost as excruciating. He was a thing in flux.


    No, no, the puzzle -- concentrate on the conundrum.


    The red girl had said two things. She had asked if Pan intended to use Dragan to ¡¯reestablish¡¯, and she had voiced a desire to ¡¯become¡¯. Were those the same thing, then? And what exactly did it entail?


    He could smell the smoke of himself.


    From what he¡¯d observed, Pan wasn¡¯t in control of the planet¡¯s Panacea anymore -- hence the Repurposed. The red shade that had spawned from her, an embodiment of the reflex to return pain with pain, had taken over. It had directed the Repurposed to wipe out the humans, to prevent the mining operations. From what it had just said to Pan, too, it didn¡¯t intend on stopping there. From what he could tell, it wanted to take over operations permanently.


    Eyeballs being pulled taut as new eyelids took their places.


    It wasn¡¯t hard to figure out what ¡¯reestablish¡¯ meant, then. Pan wanted to use him -- or could use him, at least -- like some kind of transmission tower, to take back control from the part of her that was wreaking havoc. Now that it knew that, the red shade would be after him even more.


    "Sorry, dead boy," he heard Pan¡¯s voice. "Didn¡¯t mean to make trouble. Only wanted to save¡­"


    New lips sealing the charred teeth of a skull. New teeth popping out the old ones.


    His writhing came to an end, the physical pain slowly fading away -- even as the memory of it lingered. He was back. He was back to being himself: his body restored to how it had been before he¡¯d been thrown in the incinerator. The only loss he¡¯d taken was his dignity -- the charred rags he¡¯d been left with weren¡¯t exactly going to win any fashion awards.


    He couldn¡¯t hear Ian anymore. Had the Repurposed assumed Dragan had perished in that inferno, then, and left? The agony of regeneration had been such that Dragan hadn¡¯t listened for the sound of the doors.


    Now, he focused on his hearing. There was silence -- save for himself, no breathing¡­ no, no, there was one other person breathing, one person except for him --


    "Heya," said North¡¯s voice, inches away from him. "Neat trick you got there."


    Atoy Muzazi took a quick breath.


    So far, he and his enemy had clashed blades three-hundred and twenty-five times. The function room was wreckage -- walls smashed, floors shredded. What little furniture remained had been hurled by Marie as a weapon long ago.


    The great clock of King¡¯s Coat turned once again, the hand landing on the eye with the melting crown -- and as expected, Blair¡¯s strikes weakened in ferocity. Muzazi narrowly ducked underneath a slash of the machete, only for the subsequent kick to send him flying back.


    He¡¯d blocked the blow with Luminescence, but it had been severe all the same -- he could hear the sword ringing from the impact. He exchanged a glance with Marie: she¡¯d been hanging back, observing, and he had no doubt that she¡¯d have come up with a plan by now.


    She nodded. Distract him, she mouthed.


    That was no issue at all. Muzazi rushed in, blade held high, and engaged Blair in a rush of dancing blades. The air vibrated from the clash, strands of white and red Aether coiling around each other as they met.


    In the moment Blair¡¯s attention was fixed on Muzazi, Marie leapt up into the air -- the shape of her arms subtly changing into a more hook-like structure as she speared them through the ceiling, muscles tensing as she pulled it down. There was a rumble as parts of the concrete above began to collapse.


    Whatever Marie¡¯s plan was, however, Atoy Muzazi never got to see the end of it.


    Because that was when John Blair pulled out a grenade. Small, round, and utterly destructive. In the same instant it became visible, Blair¡¯s thumb tapped the trigger.


    Click.


    Susan Hellion could see everything.


    As a Cogitant of pure stock, she¡¯d been blessed with visual acuity since birth -- but even that paled in comparison with what the entity had given her. Her new eyes, huge and bulbous like those of a mosquito, gave her such sight that she felt like she¡¯d blind all her life before.


    The mingling gases in the air. The sweat slowly seeping from January¡¯s skin. Hell, she could even see the radiation. Nothing escaped her. Nothing could escape her.


    The elevator headed down, towards the warehouses in the basement of the ExoCorp building. Captain Blair had gone ahead, to start moving for the target further up -- Susan and January, meanwhile, had been directed to get some¡­ fresh recruits.


    Red Panacea writhed and swirled in January¡¯s cupped hands, leaking through the stigmatic wounds he¡¯d gouged into his own flesh. When the entity had taken the Dead Hand, it had done so through a massive protrusion bursting through the earth -- like a tentacle, or a spider¡¯s leg. From what she understood, however -- from what understanding had been forced upon her -- all that was really needed was for the Panacea to enter the body, either through grafting or contamination through the eyes or mouth. The latter was easily done.


    "Try and get as many people as you can with the first attack," she reminded January. "Then they can get the others."


    January mutely nodded, holding the red close. He was a hulking brute of a Pugnant, good only for wiring up explosives and following the orders of his betters, but that was all he was needed for.


    She tapped her foot impatiently against the floor of the elevator. How much longer would this take? She was itching to teach that arrogant Titan Hessiah a lesson. She¡¯d seen it when he¡¯d hired them -- that air of condescension, like he thought he was better than them, that a Crownless like him was better than anyone. It was disgusting.


    Susan¡¯s Archive was a great hunting hall, full of trophies from the enemies she¡¯d defeated. Rows upon rows of severed heads lined the walls, frozen in their death expressions. All she had to do was pass her fingers over them to relive the experiences. She had a place set aside for Titan Hessiah, too.


    The elevator stopped, and the door slid open. Susan lifted her rifle up, ready to begin firing at any security, only to stop in her tracks.


    The vast room was empty, save for one man. A man in a long green coat, his hands in his pockets, his face death itself. His gaze was fixed firmly upon the sniper rifle in her hands.


    A mirthless, bestial smile crept over his features.


    "You," he said.


    Then the pain began.

 Chapter 196:8.15: The Green Man

    Susan yelped as her back hit the wall of the elevator, shaking the capsule. January struck next to her, spread-eagle against the steel surface.


    What had happened? It was like a massive invisible fist had hit her, sent her flying backwards like so much refuse. An Aether ability from the green man, without a doubt, but what kind of attack was it? There hadn¡¯t been so much as a rippling of the air to give the game away.


    She went to lift her rifle, to blast the man¡¯s brains out before he could attack again -- but too late. A second blow hit her, sending her into the wall once more. Pain flared through her body as countless bones broke and began to repair themselves.


    The green man kept his hands in his pockets as he strolled casually forwards, boots thumping against the polished floor. His demeanor was carefree, but his expression was anything but -- the shadows that stretched under his eyes were such that they left no doubt as to his intentions.


    "Y¡¯know," he said, drawing closer. "I¡¯ve been putting a lotta thought into you guys -- you, uh, Repurposed." He said the word as if he was tasting it. "You guys can come back from pretty much everything, yeah?"


    Bang.


    Susan and January were sent flying back into the wall again -- the intervals between attacks was decreasing, all but perpetually holding them in place. There was a sickening crunch from January with impact, and his head lolled forward. That attack must have broken his neck: he¡¯d be unable to move for a few seconds, then.


    Bang.


    Susan tried to pull herself off the wall at a bad moment, and the attack that came in answer made her arm bend the wrong way as she was sent back again. Broken bone, dripping with red Aether, protruded from her elbow. The pain was nearly unbearable, but Susan simply gritted her teeth: she wouldn¡¯t give this dirty Crownless the satisfaction.


    "I could blow your head off," the man continued to explain. "And you¡¯d just get up a few seconds later, yeah? Tough cookie. So I¡¯ve been putting a lot of thinking into how I¡¯m gonna take care of you."


    Bang.


    Susan was sent back into the wall again, now leaving a substantial indentation, her face forced into the metal with such speed and force that one of her massive multi-eyeballs burst from the impact. That made her scream.


    Bang.


    "I thought about maybe impaling you, ya know, to capture you and whatnot," the green man took one hand out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck. "But that kinda seemed like a half-measure, you know what I mean? No offense, but what I really want is for you to be dead. As soon as possible."


    Bang.


    "Then I got this little idea."


    Bang.


    Susan¡¯s jaw collapsed in on itself, her body crumpling like folded paper against the wall. Her rifle was a hunk of useless scrap, sparks flowing like grain out of the snapped barrel. The green man was standing right in the doorway of the elevator now, but Susan was powerless to reach him -- even the slightest movement was met with another attack.


    He brushed a stray lock of black hair out of his face. "You guys regenerate, yeah? Grow back whatever we take away. But I¡¯m willing to bet you still need some sort of, uh, central mass¡­ to regenerate from, you know?"


    Bang.


    A low, pained sound was echoing out of January¡¯s helmet -- like the whoops of dying livestock. Susan went to open her mangled jaw, to say something, but the only thing that flowed forth was blood and flattened organs.


    "I just find it hard to believe that paste can regenerate, yeah?" The green man grinned without humour, his eyes pinpricks of malice. "So I¡¯m giving it a little go. You say hi to Dragan for me, yeah?"


    It took everything she had, but Susan managed to force strangled words through her wreckage of a mouth. "Who¡­ the hell¡­ is¡­?"


    The green man stepped forward, into the elevator.


    "Heartbeat Landmine," he said.


    "Heartbeat Landmine," he said.


    "Heartbeat Landmine," he said.


    Dragan coughed, pulling the security uniform onto his body to preserve what was left of his dignity. North waited atop the quarantine cell, legs swinging carefree off the side. S§×ar?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "So, ah," he said, scratching his cheek with a finger. "You ain¡¯t a normal human, huh? Not with healing like that."


    Dragan looked away as he laced up the combat boots. "Apparently not."


    North raised an eyebrow. "How¡¯d that happen?"


    "No clue," Dragan lied. "I woke up and I was just like this."


    He winced as the imaginary shouting of Pan echoed throughout the room. "Lying dead boy!" she cried, aghast. "You do know! You do!"


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    North dropped off the quarantine cell with feline grace, landing with barely a sound. "Seems to me you¡¯re the same sort of thing as that faceless freak," he ventured. "Repurposed, right?"


    "Doesn¡¯t feel like I¡¯ve got much purpose," Dragan muttered as he stood up, driving the dead guard¡¯s stun pistol into his new holster. "How about you? What¡¯s your purpose?"


    North smirked. "To spread love and joy wherever I go, of course."


    "No. What is your purpose, here? You said you¡¯d help me get back to the crew if I help you. What is it you want from me?"


    The playful smile on North¡¯s face faded, and his gaze drifted up to the ceiling, like he could see through it. "There¡¯s a room up there¡­" he said quietly.


    "It¡¯s a skyscraper. That¡¯s to be expected."


    "Don¡¯t be an ass," North snapped -- and the sudden and genuine sincerity in his voice was enough to shut Dragan up for a moment. "There¡¯s a room up there under top security, serious lock and key shit. I need to get in there for my job, take a look around. You help me out, I help you out. Capiche?"


    Dragan tightened his mouth to a thin line. "And where¡¯re Skipper and the others in all this?"


    North shrugged. "Last I checked, they were downstairs with the rest of the refugees."


    And there it was. Dragan gave a smirk of his own, and a dismissive wave of the hand. "The thing you want is up, and the thing I want is down. You see the conflict of interests here."


    North paused -- and it took Dragan only a moment to recognise that he was too still, too calm. No doubt he¡¯d just switched places with a hologram, and was now moving around the room invisibly. Dragan made sure to give no sign that he¡¯d realized.


    "We had a deal," North growled. "You owe me."


    Dragan kept his eyes fixed on the hologram, staring it down as he replied. "The last time we met, you almost got me killed. Now you¡¯ve helped me bust out of jail. I¡¯m struggling to see the part of this exchange where I now owe you something?"


    Danger infested North¡¯s tone, the bedrock beneath his carefree facade. "I can do some nasty stuff, you know," he said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. "You¡¯d be surprised at the sorts of things that can happen to your brain just from looking at stuff. Seizures are just the start of it. Real nasty business."


    "So you¡¯re threatening me?"


    The hologram blinked out of existence, giving Dragan leave to look around for where North had ended up. No luck -- he was still invisible. The Umbrant¡¯s voice echoed throughout the room: "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am threatening you. Funny how that works out, huh?"


    Dragan crossed his arms. "Not gonna cut it," he addressed the chamber. "You know how my Gemini World works? You can¡¯t show me anything if I¡¯m not here, North. I have the advantage."


    "You got a point, there, you got a point. But I still got another trick up my sleeve."


    Dragan¡¯s eyes darted around the room, trying to track the source of North¡¯s voice -- but it was no good.


    "And what¡¯s that?" he asked cautiously.


    "I¡¯ve shown you Mr. Stick," North said. "Now meet Mr. Carrot."


    There was a flicker of light as North reappeared, and Dragan nearly jumped out of his skin. The Umbrant was leaning over Dragan¡¯s shoulder, staring right into his eyes, a triumphant grin tugging at his lips and exposing his teeth. Their proximity was such that their faces were only inches from each other.


    "You help me," North promised. "And I¡¯ll tell you what Skipper¡¯s plan is."


    Bruno winced as he turned the battered helmet over in his hands, doing his best not to stare at the red-and-pink slurry that poured free.


    It looked like Skipper had been right -- completely crushing these Repurposed did seem to suffice to put them down for good. It looked like, in order to regenerate, they needed some stable central mass to grow forth from. Get rid of that, and they¡¯d die just like anyone else.


    "You¡¯re sure they¡¯re not coming back?" Ruth called from inside the ruined elevator. The module was useless now, thanks to Skipper crushing the two enemies between it and his Landmine, but the other elevator would still be working.


    "Yeah," Bruno replied, looking down at the tatters of what might have once been an eyeball. "They¡¯re fucked."


    "So they¡¯re dead, or¡­?"


    Fair enough. Fucked was a much more neutral description when it came to the Repurposed. "Yeah. They¡¯re as dead as it gets."


    This is gross, Bruno! Serena protested as Bruno glanced down at the puddle of human. Let¡¯s do something else!


    "Can¡¯t," Bruno muttered. "Orders are orders."


    His gaze returned to the second elevator -- or the space where it had been previously, before Skipper had taken it up.


    Make sure the refugees keep to the side rooms, he¡¯d told them, after dispatching the two Repurposed. Keep ¡¯em safe -- and if any more of these things make it down here, you take a page out of my book, yeah?


    Easier said than done. Ruth could shred to no end with those claws of hers, and Bruno was no slouch in a fight either -- but he couldn¡¯t imagine either of them eviscerating an enemy like Skipper just had.


    Sometimes, that man scared him.


    "You alright, Atoy?"


    Muzazi groaned as he returned to consciousness, feeling the weight of debris being lifted off his body. His eyes fluttered open -- and immediately widened in surprise.


    Marie had taken on a humongous, hulking form, all hardened bone and bulging biceps, every inch of exposed muscle displaying utter power. The room around her was a mess, burn marks scorching the walls and floors -- and when Muzazi looked down at himself, he saw that he was drenched in human blood not his own.


    Immediately, his hand went to Luminescence, the weight of the blade reassuring. Good. It hadn¡¯t been damaged. Luminescence being damaged was the very worst case scenario.


    "What happened?" he grunted, rising on unsteady feet.


    With a fluid flex of her body, Marie returned to her normal human form, hair still sticking out in every direction. "The asshole set off a grenade -- I only just managed to get in the way and shield you. It was a close one."


    Muzazi looked down at his crimson-painted clothing. "A suicide attack?" He¡¯d thought his enemy had more pride than that.


    Marie shook her head. "No corpse. I¡¯m guessing he healed and made a retreat. What now? We go after him?"


    The battle was incomplete, to be sure. Muzazi¡¯s hand tightened around Luminescence¡¯s hilt, but he slowly shook his head.


    "No," he sighed, turning away -- and suddenly feeling the exhaustion and pain of the battle all at once. "No, the night is done."


    Marie slowly nodded, but the sarcastic comment Muzazi would have usually expected never came.


    He took a deep breath as he sat down on the floor. "I don¡¯t mean to be vulgar, Marie," he said, a rueful smile coming to his face. "But I really need a damn nap."

 Chapter 197:8.16: Tarnished Gold

    What made a king¡­


    What made a king a¡­


    John Blair held his side as he limped through the desert sands, the echoed memories of pain stalling his step. When he put his hand to his face, he expected to find wet muscle and blood, but only smooth skin made contact with his fingers. Even after all this, his mind had not grown used to his new form. It expected permanence of injury that simply did not exist.


    Still, to think he¡¯d survived even that.


    The grenade had blown him up, scattered him to pieces -- the largest remnant consisting of half his torso and a portion of his skull. He dreaded to think what would have happened if his neural implant had been destroyed, but the fact he was still conscious meant that it had remained intact. His will was still his own.


    Blair¡¯s head was pounding, the ache pulsing like a second heartbeat.


    He put a hand to it as he staggered naked through the midnight sands, the winds biting at his skin. Any tiny scratches the sands inflicted upon him were healed a second later, but the pain was unavoidable. Even when it had passed, the memory of it was nearly as intense.


    Those two -- the Special Officers of the Supremacy -- had been formidable. To be honest, John Blair didn¡¯t know if he¡¯d ever come so close to death. If this had happened before his ascension, they¡¯d have gotten the best of him without a doubt.


    He¡¯d been arrogant only to use the first ring of King¡¯s Coat. But he never made the same mistake twice.


    His golden hair billowed around him -- and when he looked up from his introspection, his eyes glowed a dull red. Defeat meant nothing but education. Only death was of any consequence, and death had not laid a finger on him. He was poison to it.


    What made a¡­ what made¡­ the question seemed so far away now. So¡­ irrelevant. Why had he ever cared about such a fledgeling thing?


    He could feel the other members of the Dead Hand, Pion and Ian, tugging at his mind, requesting orders. Susan and January were silent: most likely they were dead. He found it curiously difficult to care about that.


    They could scream and shout all they wanted: they¡¯d get no answer from him. He was needed elsewhere. There was a place, waiting, prepared for him.


    A place all in red


    Beautiful clarity opened itself to him, like a primordial fish walking upon the land for the first time. Kings were nothing but men with hats of gold. Crimson ambition poured into his brain: and with it, the promise of greater heights. The word ¡¯becoming¡¯ suddenly seemed very, very important.


    John Blair marched into the haze of the orange sand.


    What made a god a god?


    Dominion.


    Skipper didn¡¯t think it was an exaggeration to say this had been a pretty shitty day for him so far.


    Dragan was dead, another body on the pile he¡¯d accumulated, and he¡¯d been cooped up in the basement of this place, forced to listen to the instructions of manipulators and petty tyrants. This whole place made his skin crawl.


    He stared at the wall, eyes dull, as the elevator ascended. There was no doubt that the building was under attack -- that rumble had been from a bomb, no doubt. A makeshift thing, not regulation, maybe put together using parts from the Slipstream. As for candidates, Skipper couldn¡¯t imagine anyone but the Repurposed.


    That was good, that was very good. It was good that he¡¯d left Ruth, Bruno and Serena down below, too.


    He didn¡¯t like to be seen like this, after all.


    The doors slid open into the lobby, and Skipper came face to face with the chief of security -- Marsh. Funny: Skipper had never bothered to learn this guy¡¯s first name. Seemed he wouldn¡¯t get the chance now. Couldn¡¯t say he was too torn up about that.


    Marsh¡¯s eyes widened, and his hand flew to the holster of his pistol. "What are you --?!"


    Skipper took it all in a moment. The slur of his voice, the lack of accompanying guards, the slouch of the body as though this man was trying to hide from security cameras. And of course, most damningly¡­


    "Your face is askew," Skipper said.


    Marsh¡¯s brow furrowed. "What?"


    "Heartbeat Bayonet."


    The first strike carved a bloody ¡¯Z¡¯ into Marsh, sending him flying backwards from the sudden speed and impact. Even with all the chaos, this lobby had managed to stay clean save for a little dust, but the considerable splatter from Skipper¡¯s attack corrected that in an instant.


    Skipper calmly stepped out of the elevator.


    The bloodied Marsh rose to his knees, reached again for his holster -- too quickly for a normal human, but not quite quick enough to beat Skipper. The second revolution of the Bayonet severed the fingers of that hand at the knuckles, and they scattered on the ground like bleeding sausages. Just to be sure, Skipper sent out a Heartbeat Shotgun with a twitch of his own finger -- demolishing Marsh¡¯s pistol and a good chunk of his hip, too. The man went sprawling back down to the floor.


    A glance gave Skipper the final confirmation he needed: Marsh¡¯s severed fingers were already growing back. The man¡¯s face was contorted with pain, loose skin wrinkled like a plastic bag, but the toxic defiance in his eyes remained unchanged.


    "You still feel pain, huh?" commented Skipper, brushing his metal fingers against the wall as he casually advanced. "That¡¯s good. That¡¯s the most important part of being human, in my opinion. Being able to feel the world press down on us."


    Sparks of red Aether crackled around Marsh¡¯s mouth, and he opened it as if to say something. The name of an Aether ability, probably. That was easily solved.


    Heartbeat Bayonet visited Marsh again, aimed at his throat, and -- with the cruel precision of a scalpel -- severed his vocal cords. Nothing came out of Marsh¡¯s mouth but hollow air -- and, after another Shotgun caved his chest in, blood.


    "Sorry to say, pal," Skipper sighed, squatting down as he reached his prey. "But your Aether¡¯s not really doing the trick at defending against me. You getting a little reliant on that Panacea, maybe?"


    Joints cracked and muscles creaked as Marsh strained, doing his best to push himself off the floor. Skipper smiled softly, placing an almost gentle hand on the other man¡¯s thigh. He shook his head.


    "No," he said simply.


    Green Aether screamed around his hand, and -- with simple, brutal force -- Skipper tore Marsh¡¯s leg clean off, flesh and bone ripping free in his grasp. Marsh¡¯s silent scream, like a song to the heavens, trailed back into volume as his vocal cords slowly regenerated.


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    "Then again," Skipper sighed, sitting back down on the floor as he slowly turned the severed leg over in his hands. "Maybe you were never too great with Aether? That¡¯s possible, I guess. Some people just don¡¯t get the hang of it. No shame in that, yeah?"


    He watched, eyes careful and observant, as orange Panacea began to spill out of Marsh¡¯s bloody stump -- he was already growing a new leg. Another flurry of Heartbeat Bayonet put a reset to that. Blood and fungus splattered as one against the floor.


    With a wince of mocking sympathy, Skipper tossed the leg over his shoulder.


    "You¡¯re an infiltrator, right?" he asked, as casually as if they were at the water cooler. "That¡¯s your role in this little, uh, Dead Hand gang, yeah? Get yourself behind enemy lines and sow discord, assassinate, sabotage, that sort of thing. I¡¯m pretty familiar with at least, uh, at least the second of those things. Am I right?"


    Marsh¡¯s voice was croaky and unfinished as he opened his mouth. "You¡­"


    Sound whipped past, and one of his ears fell free from his head. Warm blood oozed from the resultant gap.


    "One word answers, please," Skipper said quietly. "Yes or no."


    He reached over and poked Marsh¡¯s face, driving his finger into the freshly healed skin. "Guessing this isn¡¯t your original face, too. You throw on someone else¡¯s skin and then the Panacea heals it in place, yeah?"


    Marsh gritted his teeth, blood painting the enamel. "Yes," he hissed.


    "So I¡¯m guessing the original Mr. Marsh is long dead. Well, I¡¯m not too broke up about that -- nobody seems to have noticed you putting on an act, so he was probably an asshole anyways."


    Marsh stayed as still as he could, save for involuntary shudders of pain. His caved-in chest was beginning to heal, like something was pressing up against it from the other side. Skipper would need to reset that, too, after his next question.


    "So," he slapped his hands together. "You¡¯re a lucky fella, so I¡¯m gonna be lifting that yes-or-no rule for a quick minute."


    Skipper¡¯s gaze drifted to the Panacea diorama over in the centre of the lobby, the orange cross-section like a staring eye. When he spoke, he wasn¡¯t entirely sure if he was speaking to Marsh¡­ or to it.


    Well, no time for trepidation when brutality needed to be done.


    "Not in the mood for twenty questions right now," Skipper sighed. "So how about you tell me the whole plan? What¡¯s your goal, how do you intend to accomplish it? There¡¯s something in this building you want -- tell me what it is. Tell me now."


    His eyes flicked back down to Marsh -- and with them, Heartbeat Shotgun pounded that chest in again. Not enough to stop him from speaking, but enough to disable.


    Even with the Repurposed¡¯s stolen face, defiance was visible in every line. "Never," he spat. His eyes were those of a true believer. Traveling with the Widow, watching her at work, had given Skipper a good sense of such things.


    Difficult to break, but not impossible.


    Skipper sat down on the ground, placing his hands in his lap. An insincere smile crept across his lips. For a few moments, he just stared at Marsh -- at the orange fungus slowly spreading out his wounds.


    "You know," he murmured, soft and quiet. "My old man was more of a fighter than a thinker, Y rest his soul, but he liked to do his reading. He was really into that whole ¡¯warrior philosopher¡¯ sort of image, you know?"


    Marsh twitched. "What are you¡­"


    A pair of slices to the tendons of the arms put a quick end to that interruption.


    "Anyway, getting to the point," Skipper continued. "My old man knew his history -- well, I say history, but it was more like, uh, assorted trivia. Still, good stuff, though. There was this, uh, this one thing. Little bit of info from way back in the Thousand Revolutions?"


    The expected fear didn¡¯t appear in Marsh¡¯s eyes. Seemed he wasn¡¯t as learned as Skipper¡¯s dear old dad.


    Skipper tapped his hands on his lap. "Apparently," he tasted the word. "Gene Tyrants could regenerate from anything -- nah, nah, nearly anything. See, there was this little trick to it that they figured out. If you, uh, if you cut it apart into pieces around¡­ nine centimeters by nine centimeters? They didn¡¯t heal at all. Funny how things work out, huh?"


    The colour drained from Marsh¡¯s stolen face as if on cue. A lump travelled down his throat as he forced down saliva. Still, though, the look in his eyes remained unbroken. Skipper had to compliment him on his resolve, if nothing else.


    When Marsh spoke next, it was with a new voice -- one soft and reverent. The reality of the matter, if Skipper had to guess.


    "Do as you will," he snarled, with martyrish ferocity. "I will not break."


    Skipper¡¯s smile faded as Heartbeat Bayonet began whipping through the air, the whistling of it growing louder and louder as it revolved closer to Marsh¡¯s legs. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "You¡¯re true to your beliefs," Skipper said, staring him down. "I like that. I¡¯m not being ironic there -- I really, really do¡­"


    He blinked.


    "But I¡¯m gonna have to ask you again when I get to your hips."


    It was a strange thing, to be invisible. Dragan looked down, expecting to see his hand, but was greeted only by empty air. Even his feet were absent as he and the similarly-invisible North ran down the hallway.


    His voice and his footsteps -- those were the only proof of his existence. It was an entirely different sensation from using Gemini World: it was like he and North had become beings of sound alone.


    "I help you get into Hessiah¡¯s labs," he panted as they ran. "And you tell me what Skipper¡¯s plan is."


    North¡¯s voice came from slightly up ahead, the only trace of his position. "Yeah, yeah, like I said. How many times are ya gonna repeat yourself?"


    "And why should I believe that you know what Skipper¡¯s plan is?"


    They turned a corner, approaching the nearest stairwell. Invisible as they were, calling the elevator wasn¡¯t exactly practical.


    "I went through his stuff the night I left --"


    "The night you faked your death, you mean."


    North pushed the stairwell door open, and Dragan slipped through before it closed. They began ascending the stark concrete stairs, the sight of them stretching upwards already making Dragan¡¯s legs ache.


    "Technicalities, technicalities, my good pal," North chuckled. "Got some juicy bits of info from his little hiding places, managed to scrape it together to get an idea of what he¡¯s up to. Thought I might need some leverage if the crazy bastard ever came after me, you know?"


    Well¡­ it sounded like something North would do, at least.


    They ascended the steps two at a time, the click of shoes against concrete echoing throughout the vertical chamber. Dragan kept his eye on the massive numbers painted on the walls, indicating the floor they were on. One floor up from quarantine, two floors up, three¡­


    Five floors went by without words -- then the nearest door opened as North came through, Dragan following behind him.


    "Careful now," North whispered, unsettlingly close. "Heading through private quarters -- shouldn¡¯t be anyone around, but -- hey -- you never know."


    The thin hallway was lined with doors on both sides, no doubt leading to individual suites for guests. Dragan listened carefully, but heard no sound from within any of them. Then again, maybe they were soundproofed? No way to tell, so the best thing to do would be to behave as if each and every one was packed to the brim.


    Their pace slowed, North placing a hand on Dragan¡¯s shoulder to guide him as he continued to whisper into his ear.


    "The entire lab¡¯s sealed off," he quietly explained. "Apart from ventilation, of course -- too small to climb through, but Aether doesn¡¯t need much space, right? You just use your little, uh, Genimie World thing to get through, then you let me in. Easy peasy."


    Dragan rolled invisible eyes. "Why do I get the feeling it won¡¯t be ¡¯easy peasy¡¯?"


    "Because you¡¯re a smart fella. But we¡¯ll improvise, you know? That¡¯s what smooth operators like us do."


    "Hm. If you say so." At any rate, Dragan wouldn¡¯t be putting his life in this guy¡¯s hands if it came down to it.


    They reached the door at the end of the hall, and it slid open. Dragan¡¯s eyes immediately widened, and he shut his mouth as quickly as he could. As silently as possible, he took a single step back.


    Because he had just come face to face with Atoy Muzazi.

 Chapter 198:8.17: In The Jaws Of History

    "Atoy," Marie said quietly, as they stepped through the hallway, private quarters passing them by on both sides. "I need to talk to you about something."


    Muzazi looked back over his shoulder, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Marie seemed more glum than he¡¯d ever seen her, her eyes angled distinctly towards the ground.


    "Of course," he said. "What is it?"


    Marie didn¡¯t answer straight away. Instead, she tapped a button next to one of the doors and stepped into the cubical apartment beyond, Muzazi following behind her. The room was compact -- that was a nice word for it -- with barely enough space for a bed and a closet that he assumed had a toilet inside.


    The moment the door slid shut behind them, his partner reached up with a suddenly stretching limb and smashed the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. Scraps of metal and sparks rained down on the duvet below.


    "Officer Hazzard?" Muzazi frowned. "What are you¡­?"


    Marie sighed -- a long, shaky sound that he¡¯d never heard from her before. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her dress pants as she finally looked back up at him.


    "I need to talk to you about something," she said again.


    This time, Muzazi simply nodded in response. Marie squinted: her mouth was wobbly, like the words were loath to leave it, but eventually she spoke again.


    "It¡¯s about Hessiah," she finally said. "Titan Hessiah -- he¡¯s¡­"


    Ah. She¡¯d reached the same conclusion he had.


    "He¡¯s a suspicious character, to be sure," he confirmed, cutting her off. "I would think a businessman in his position wouldn¡¯t be keen to associate directly with UAP or Supremacy agents, yet he welcomed two Special Officers far too graciously. I imagine he¡¯s up to something."


    Under ordinary circumstances, he¡¯d have been touched by the respect a prominent individual like Hessiah held for the Supremacy -- but he knew better than that now. Men like Hessiah worshipped only at the altar of profit. Unless they came with price tags, things like honour and respect were meaningless for such a person.


    Marie swallowed, her face growing still, a touch of colour returning to her cheeks. "Yeah," she nodded. "He¡¯s definitely suspicious. Glad you noticed it, too, Atoy."


    "You were alone with him for quite a while," Muzazi ventured, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall in introspection. "What sort of impression did he give you? Any idea as to his motives?"


    Marie stood there for a strangely long time, one hand cupping her chin. Her gaze had returned to the floor, and she was slowly chewing on her lip. Finally, her eyes flicked back up to him.


    "No," she said. "No, I don¡¯t know anything at all."


    Even after Muzazi had passed him, Dragan still remained flat against the wall, his heart racing a mile a minute. He hadn¡¯t even dared breathe when those two had been making their way through. Invisible as he was, it was a miracle that neither of the Special Officers had bumped into him while they were walking down the hallway.


    What the hell was Atoy Muzazi doing here?! He couldn¡¯t imagine it was a coincidence: the Special Officer must have come looking for him. As if he didn¡¯t have any problems right now.


    His gaze drifted to the closed door, to the room Muzazi and his partner had gone into. Part of him was tempted to try and listen in, to figure out what exactly was going on here -- but caution and common sense had always been strong in him, and so he successfully broke away.


    "That," whispered North from the other side of the hallway. "Was way too fuckin¡¯ close."


    Dragan didn¡¯t answer, but he nodded -- which only struck him as pointless a second later. As one, the two of them resumed their movements down the hallway, passing through the far exit.


    Their journey was remarkably uneventful from that point forward. It seemed the attack had come to an end, but most of the security personnel were still busy with the aftermath. Dragan and North only had to avoid passing patrols twice as they ascended the remaining floors.


    The floors were uniform and mind-numbing, empty offices and meeting rooms repeated again and again. If anything, the only difference noticeable as they progressed was the quality of the carpet -- the closer they got to their destination, the more intricate and expensive the weave beneath them became.


    Finally, however, Dragan was stopped by North¡¯s hand on his shoulder, pushing him into a nearby wall.


    The place they¡¯d stopped looked nearly identical to the rooms they¡¯d been making their way through for nearly ten minutes now. If there was a meaningful difference, Dragan certainly couldn¡¯t see it. The triumphant grin on North¡¯s face -- when he became visible again -- suggested otherwise, though.


    "Is it safe to turn off the invisibility?" Dragan muttered, glancing up and down the stretching halls.


    It was only when it appeared again that he realised he hadn¡¯t been seeing his own nose between his eyes -- it¡¯s presence was something to get used to again.


    "I haven¡¯t," North explained just as quietly. "Just stretched out a nice hologram bubble around us, give us some breathing room. Anyone outside of it can¡¯t see us. Relax."


    Dragan¡¯s gaze drifted upwards, to a tiny set of slits in the wall above them. If he didn¡¯t specifically have his eye out, he had no doubt they¡¯d be imperceptible.


    "You said I¡¯d be going through the ventilation," he murmured. "That¡¯s it?"


    North nodded. "Whenever you¡¯re ready, champ."


    Dragan raised an unamused eyebrow. "Hold on, not so quick. What exactly do you expect me to do once I¡¯m in there? You still haven¡¯t said."


    "I did say," North frowned. "You just gotta let me in. Easy peasy. What¡¯s with all the complainin¡¯, pal?"


    Dragan drew in closer, annoyed. "You don¡¯t even know what¡¯s in there!" he hissed. "If the security¡¯s so tight, how the hell am I just gonna ¡¯let you in¡¯? Huh?!"


    North¡¯s cheeky grin didn¡¯t so much as twitch. "Well, you just gotta improvise, pal. Don¡¯t worry, I believe in ya. Come on, daylight¡¯s burning."


    "It¡¯s night."


    "Yeah, yeah, whatever."


    Dragan sighed, taking as big of a step back as he dared without leaving the bubble. He looked up at the ventilation grate -- it was hard to imagine the route he¡¯d have to take through that tiny gap once he was Aether, but he couldn¡¯t imagine it leading to too many rooms. So long as he continued just passing through the available space, he should be alright.


    He gave North a cold glance. "If this is a trick, I¡¯ll kill you."


    "Sure."


    One last sigh -- then a needlessly deep breath, and Dragan squeezed his eyes shut.


    Gemini World.


    He vanished utterly from this world. A nearly-invisible cloud of Dragan Hadrien, sparking with soft blue Aether, drifted into the waiting vents. He had no breath, no weight, no mass -- in this time, he existed only as information and intent.


    It was dark in the thin ventilation shaft, barely the width of a piece of paper. He had an awareness that, if he had eyes, he would be unable to see -- and yet that darkness greeted him, pulling him along. He knew of cobwebs that grew in the corners of this place. He knew of local vermin that had scurried through and died here. He knew all of this as fact.


    And then he knew the open air.


    A lab: sterile, white, with expensive and inscrutable equipment lining the walls. Sheets of displays were pasted throughout: scans of internal organs and skeletons, paired with notes scrawled in illegible handwriting. Four vats, their glass black and opaque, took centrepiece in the chamber: holographic panels danced around them, their contents obscured like mosaics.


    He went to take in another deep breath, only to realise he had no mouth to open, and no lungs to take in air.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Gemini World, he told himself, needlessly, and reappeared inside the room.


    His aim had been slightly off -- he dropped a couple of inches down onto the hard white floor, the landing echoing painfully throughout the silent space. Wincing, he looked this way and that, trying to see if he¡¯d set off any kind of security system.


    No response came. Now that he had the chance to properly look, he didn¡¯t even see any security cameras. He frowned: North had been right. Whatever was going on here, it certainly wasn¡¯t business as usual.


    Well, he was no detective: he was here to open the door for North and then get out of here. The Umbrant could worry about whatever this was at his own leisure. Dragan took a single step towards the array of devices, hoping one would operate the door, only to stop when he saw it.


    Pan had been silent for quite a while, but here she was again. She was right in the corner of the room, hunched over, her arms hugging her legs in the foetal position. Her teeth were bared and chattering, her eyes so wide with terror they looked like they might pop out of their sockets.


    They were fixed right on the black vats.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" Dragan murmured, taking a step towards her that really wasn¡¯t required -- she wasn¡¯t actually in that location, after all.


    Pan shook her head, frantically, clapping her hands over her ears. She squeezed those wide eyes shut. "Bad place, dead boy!" she hissed. "Bad place, bad place! Begone!"


    "What do you mean?" he demanded, looking around the room for any hint as to its purpose. "What is it -- what¡¯s so¡­"


    Suddenly, she looked up -- and at the very same time, Dragan heard the heavy thunk of a door unlocking.


    "Here," she breathed.


    Gemini World!


    Dragan nearly didn¡¯t make it in time. The very second after his body had dissipated into Aether, the entrance to the room slid open, and a man entered. He was short, with a grey combover and a smart business suit -- his dress shoes clicking against the floor as he went. Titan Hessiah, no doubt: the man who ran this place.


    He paused a few steps into the room, turning to look back at the door -- and then, when they finally closed again¡­


    ¡­he changed.


    His two legs split into three at each knee, allowing him to scuttle forward on six feet. His fading hair retreated into his head, eyes sprouting in their place to watch his surroundings with dilated pupils. His arms stretched to obscene lengths like the thin branches of a tree, splitting fingers dancing across the consoles and keypads.


    If Dragan had breath, it would have caught in his throat. A deep, instinctual terror welled up inside, like his very blood was screaming at him. Get away, it said. Run away. Leave this place. You should not be here.


    The Hessiah-thing was hard at work, an array of holographic screens and scripts floating around it -- hands forming and collapsing as they were needed to interact with them. The images on the screens were going by so fast that Dragan could barely make them out, but Hessiah didn¡¯t seem daunted by them in the least.


    So Hessiah¡¯s a Repurposed, too, he told himself. At this point, nothing surprises me.


    He told himself that very firmly -- but not quite enough to drown out Pan¡¯s horror.


    Not mine, dead boy, she whispered, unwelcome. Not mine or mine. Bad, bad thing. Old, old thing. Cuts thinking out of me and puts it in false flesh. Once he says what he is¡­


    It was all Dragan could do to maintain Gemini World as his nerves ran out of control.


    Don¡¯t, he hissed inwardly, already knowing it was fruitless. Don¡¯t say it.


    Pan did not listen.


    Gene Tyrant? she said. What is this, dead boy?


    He had to get out of here. He had to get out of here right now. Fuck the mission, fuck North, fuck anything that wasn¡¯t escaping as quickly and as efficiently as possible. He could feel the shadow of his body shaking, and he knew that his consciousness was doing much the same.


    As carefully as he could, doing his best to cloak his Aether as much as possible, Dragan made his way back towards the vent. His movement, usually slow and deliberate, now seemed painfully laborious. He was certain that, at any moment, he would be discovered.


    Surely not. Surely this Ge -- this thing couldn¡¯t see him. Surely he --


    Hessiah twitched.


    "Marie?" he said. His voice encompassed multitudes.


    Dragan slipped through the vent, horror screaming its way through every cavity of his mind -- and when he poured back out the other side, he immediately reappeared, landing in a heap. He didn¡¯t so much look at the quizzical North.


    "The hell are ya doing?" North demanded, looking at the still-sealed door. He hadn¡¯t seen Hessiah come in, then? Was there another secret entrance to that lab?


    He didn¡¯t have time to answer those questions, nor to answer North¡¯s. Terror driving his step, Dragan rose to his feet and sprinted away, Aether coursing around his body to quicken his pace.


    To hell with North.


    To hell with the Repurposed.


    To hell with this place.


    There was something worse than all of that, lurking at the top of this tower. An ancient, wicked monster that had crawled out of the great pit of history. Despite the lack of destination, Dragan knew exactly where he was running: away. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Gene Tyrant, Pan had said. Gene Tyrant.


    "That so?" Skipper quietly mused, his eyes wet. "I, uh¡­ I see."


    His new interrogation buddy -- Ian, his name had been -- had encountered a young man some floors above who had been held under quarantine. A young man who¡¯d approached the building in the middle of the night. A young Cogitant with silver hair.


    A grin of relief came to Skipper¡¯s face for a moment, before he efficiently restrained it. No, he told himself. Don¡¯t get your hopes up. Not until you see his face.


    "I really appreciate this, pal," Skipper said, rising to his feet and brushing the dust and¡­ other things¡­ from his knees. "It¡¯s been a great chat."


    Ian now resembled salsa. Clean nine by nine portions littered the ground, the blood spreading out in a wide puddle around them. Not a piece moved. Not a piece regenerated. Skipper¡¯s measurements had been exact.


    A hand, even a dead one, generally had five fingers -- and Skipper had now eliminated three. If he managed to get rid of the other two, that would be one less thing to worry about on this hellhole of a planet.


    Speaking of which¡­


    Skipper¡¯s prosthetic hand moved with blinding green speed, catching the tiny flying automatic between two metal fingers. Grinning, Skipper held it up to his face. The machine resembled a tiny insect, miniscule and black. No doubt something like that would fool the untrained eye.


    Just a little pressure would be enough to crunch the thing beyond repair, but Skipper had other things in mind. He angled the thing towards his face, looking into what he believed to be the camera.


    "Ansem del Day Away, I¡¯m guessing?" he grinned. "You¡¯re a lucky fella. I¡¯ve been thinkin¡¯ about that offer you gave me."


    Dragan ran for his life.


    The walls of denial in his head crumbled easily. That had been a Gene Tyrant -- that had been a Gene Tyrant he¡¯d just seen. Titan Hessiah was a Gene Tyrant. That was a devil that had crawled out of the history books, and Dragan had been in the same room as it.


    He ran down the stairwell, passing Pan three times along the way.


    "What is this thing, dead boy?" she asked, cocking her head each time Dragan saw her. "What is Gene Tyrant?"


    No time to answer her. No time to even think about answering her -- that was a waste of valuable time that could be better used running away. Was North coming after him? It didn¡¯t matter. Whatever North did, it couldn¡¯t be worse than being stuck in the same room as that thing for even a moment longer.


    "A scary thing?" Pan continued to question. "Scariest thing? A thing that is scary?"


    Dragan retraced the path that had brought him to that room, using Gemini World when he needed to in order to avoid the increasing number of security personnel. Despite his best efforts, he caught scraps of intelligence as he fled: there was an open breach at the midpoint of the tower, security forces were moving to secure the floors above it, the basement was being abandoned.


    The basement? The basement, yes, that was what they¡¯d said. North had mentioned that the refugees and his friends were in the basement, too. There¡¯d be no better destination.


    Dragan used Gemini World more and more -- crossing the entire quarantine floor with it -- until the network of hallways and stairwells finally led him to the front lobby of the building. The chamber was silent, still and empty -- save for the puddle of blood and meat spreading over the floor. A hanging diorama of a Panacea cross-section swung loosely in a careless breeze.


    He stopped, panting for the breath he¡¯d expended -- only to stop a moment later and clap a hand over his nose at the metallic scent of the death here. As he did so, however, he caught a glimpse of something within the human wreckage¡­


    A red lump of Panacea, the colour draining from it, sliced into even and tiny pieces. Slowly, he knelt to look at it.


    Something like this had been inside the skull of that zealot Ian, too. When he¡¯d left the quarantine floor, assuming Dragan to be dead, he must have come down this way. This pile of meat that Dragan was looking at, could it be¡­ him? And if so, what had happened?


    "Hey, kid," came a clear voice from behind him. "Good to see you."


    Dragan turned.


    There, standing in the doorway, was Skipper. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and there were heavy bags under his eyes, but the grin that spread across his face was unmistakably genuine. If anything, there was a distinct sense of relief to it.


    Dragan¡¯s tongue felt numb when he spoke. "Hi, Skipper." With everything broiling around inside him, it was all he could think to say.


    "You little shit," Skipper chuckled, his eyes wet. "Making me worry like that."


    He took his hands out of his pockets, and Dragan had no time to dodge. Skipper crossed the room in a moment -- and the embrace Dragan was pulled into was so warm and all-encompassing that there was no possibility of escape.


    In that moment, all the terror and confusion that had built up over the preceding hours melted away. Dragan¡¯s arms fell limp to his sides as the tension drained -- and, despite his best efforts, he found himself softly smiling.


    "You dumbass," Skipper sniffed. "Ah, you dumbass¡­"

 Chapter 199:8.18: Forecast

    Even with the welcome reunion, the days that followed were nothing if not tense.


    After Skipper brought Dragan back to the basement floors, he received three more hugs -- an excited glomp from Serena that nearly knocked him over, a businesslike pat on the back from Bruno, and a bear-hug from Ruth that nearly killed him for real. Dragan had never been one for emotional displays like this, but the situation didn¡¯t really give him a choice. It was only when he explained the circumstances of his survival that the other members of the crew paused.


    In one of the far-flung storage rooms in the basement, Dragan told his story to them and only them. There wasn¡¯t as much scepticism as he¡¯d expected, to be honest.


    "So," Ruth summarised once his verbal essay had come to an end. "What? You¡¯re like one of those Repurposed now?"


    "Kind of, I guess," Dragan sighed, taking a welcome rest in a stray plastic chair. "But kind of different at the same time. Like¡­ two strains of the same disease, you know? Similar symptoms, but not exactly the same."


    Someone else piped up: "I¡¯m not disease, dead boy! Rude! Do not say this!"


    Dragan sighed, ignoring the interruption -- and at the sight of that, Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Was that your, uh, your new buddy, then?"


    "Yep," Dragan said. "You can¡¯t hear her, but she¡¯s always talking. Inside my head, like I¡¯ve got a direct connection. I¡¯m not crazy, seriously."


    Bruno, leaning against the wall, shifted slightly.


    "Nah," he muttered. "Nah, we believe you. It¡¯s just¡­ we seriously thought you were dead."


    Dragan looked down at his hands, shaking on his lap. "I¡­ think I was dead, at least for a while. Head blown off -- that¡¯s usually fatal. I¡¯ve started wondering a little, um, if I¡¯m actually me -- or if I¡¯m just a copy of me the Panacea grew from what was left. Did I die? Am I dead?"


    Ruth took a step forward, placed a reassuring hand on Dragan¡¯s shoulder -- and when he looked up at her, he could see that tears were trailing down her face.


    "You¡¯re here," she whispered. "I can see you. I can feel your heartbeat through my hand. That isn¡¯t dead."


    Slowly, Dragan nodded, a slight smile on his face. He supposed these weren¡¯t the kind of questions you got answers to.


    Bruno cleared his throat. "So -- this, uh, Pan. Can you see her right now?"


    Dragan nodded again, his gaze drifting to the top of a nearby shelf -- where the mushroom girl herself was sitting, legs swinging carefree.


    "Has she told you what she wants?" Bruno asked. "I mean, she¡¯s in your head¡­ but why? For how long?"


    "Hey," Dragan called up to Pan. "Bruno wants to know --"


    Pan suddenly stopped swinging her legs, looking down at him with a sheer scowl. "I heard this, dead boy! I am not deaf girl! I need to stay inside your thinkings until I can become."


    Skipper, sitting backwards in his own chair, exchanged a pair of quizzical glances with Ruth and Bruno.


    "Uh," he tugged at his collar. "I¡¯m guessing she¡¯s saying something to you now, then?"


    Dragan sighed. "She says that she¡¯s not deaf and that she needs to stay inside my mind until she can ¡¯become¡¯."


    Ruth frowned. "What¡¯s that mean? Become what?"


    "I think¡­" Dragan paused, waiting for Pan¡¯s nod of approval. "I think it means taking back control of the planet¡¯s Panacea, somehow. Imagine there¡¯s two minds controlling it, like the two halves of the brain -- right now, the angry Pan is dominating. This Pan is going to use me like a transmission tower, and take back control. I think. Is that right?"


    "That¡¯s right, dead boy!" S§×arch* The ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "She says that¡¯s right."


    Skipper leaned over his chair, resting his chin on his arms. "Well, that¡¯s great," he grinned. "That¡¯s just fantastic. Solves every problem at once -- the Repurposed, the Dead Hand, being stuck in this place. Couldn¡¯t ask for better luck."


    Shifting flesh. Growing eyes. The human form made jigsaw puzzle. Dragan¡¯s gaze turned back to the floor, and his blood ran cold in his veins. Just the memory was enough to unsettle him.


    "Doesn¡¯t solve all our problems," he quietly muttered.


    Bruno took a deep breath -- and asked again the question that had been repeated so many times.


    "You¡¯re absolutely sure of what you saw? Titan Hessiah is a¡­" he lowered his voice to a hush. "... Gene Tyrant?"


    Dragan gulped. "That¡¯s what I saw. His body was changing just like that -- but not like one of the Repurposed."


    Bruno¡¯s worried expression shifted into Serena¡¯s worried expression, which was subtly different around the eyebrows. Even so, her voice was chirpy as ever as she spoke up. "But they¡¯ve been gone for, like, billions of years, Mr. Dragan," she exclaimed. "Maybe you were just hallucinating or something because you were so scared?"


    "I wasn¡¯t hallucinating," Dragan said flatly, before glancing at Pan. "Okay, well, yes, I was hallucinating, but not about that. Guy¡¯s a Gene Tyrant. One-hundred percent."


    Skipper scratched the growing stubble on his chin. "Explains why they¡¯re blocking communications off the planet, then. Ol¡¯ Titan Hessiah must be up to something -- and he doesn¡¯t want the authorities finding out about it until he¡¯s done. Hell, maybe he¡¯s behind the whole Repurposed thing himself."


    "Blocking communications?" Dragan furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"


    "Before you got back, we had a little talk with a contact down here in the camps. A planet as important as this couldn¡¯t go dark this long without someone taking notice."


    Dragan¡¯s mind filled in the blanks, and he nodded. "So ExoCorp must be sending out signals telling people that everything¡¯s okay. That¡¯s why no rescues showed up."


    Over in the corner, Ruth growled, fingers scratching at her arm irritably. "So they¡¯re just letting all these people sit down here, waiting for help that¡¯s not coming. Pisses me off."


    "What a coincidence," Skipper chuckled. "It pisses me off too. Seems to me we need to do something about it. So, ah¡­" He scanned the group with his eyes. "...who¡¯s up for taking down a god?"


    "Easier said than done," Bruno muttered, tapping his foot. "If it comes down to it, I don¡¯t think I could fight the Repurposed, security and a Gene Tyrant. Hell, I don¡¯t think I could fight a Gene Tyrant period."


    Skipper clicked his tongue. "Well, we can¡¯t just wait here, yeah? Things¡¯ll just get worse the longer we sit around like sad sacks."


    The hallucinatory Pan dropped down off the shelf, falling through the floor entirely before slowly rising back up. There was a wide grin on her face, like she was enjoying being in the midst of all this.


    "No, green man!" she cried happily, almost triumphantly. "No, won¡¯t get worse! Tell them, dead boy!"


    Dragan sighed. "Actually, Pan says it won¡¯t get worse."


    "How come?" Ruth frowned.


    "Because," Pan put her fists to her hips smugly, holding her head high. "In three days, I will become! Then there are no Repurposed! Then it is easy time! Tell them, dead boy! Tell them, fucko!"


    Dragan echoed her words, but even as he did his mouth felt dry and hollow.


    Three days. Three days of Pan festering inside his head, and then all this would end. But that put him in more danger than ever.


    Because, to the other Pan, he was the person she needed to kill the very most.


    "I¡¯m going to be assisting with repair efforts near the breach," Atoy¡¯s voice came over the communicator. "Once it¡¯s sealed, we¡¯ll be able to protect those down below once again. Will you be meeting me along the way, Officer Hazzard?"


    Marie clicked her tongue in regret, putting a finger to her ear as she strode down the hallway. "Sorry, I can¡¯t," she said. "I¡¯m a little busy."


    "Oh." The disappointment in Atoy¡¯s voice was obvious. "I see."


    "I¡¯m following up on your Hessiah suspicions," she went on, assuaging her own guilt through words and words. "Gonna talk to him, see what I can pry out of him."


    "Of course. I, ah¡­"


    Silence lingered over the communicator for a moment, and Marie hesitated outside the door to Hessiah¡¯s lab. "Atoy?"


    "Nevermind. Good luck to you." Muzazi¡¯s words were hurried.


    There was a click as the call was terminated, and Marie frowned to herself. An undeniable distance had begun to grow between the two of them over the last few days, and Marie didn¡¯t know how to bridge it again. No¡­ no, that wasn¡¯t true at all. She knew exactly how to correct it, but she was simply unwilling to do it.


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    She just had to tell him about the other Gene Tyrant. About Titan Hessiah, truly called Ranavalona, and the plans he had in store. About the Enfant creatures that would soon pour over the galaxy like a flood.


    She could tell him. It would be as simple as opening her mouth and letting the words fall out. But she had promised Hessiah she¡¯d keep his secret --


    -- and a promise to her own kind would always trump any petty human friendship.


    It wasn¡¯t as if she wasn¡¯t doing her best for Muzazi, anyway. When it came down to it, and Hessiah enacted his plans, Marie was sure she could keep her partner alive by vouching for him. Hessiah clearly had a chip on his shoulder when it came to humanity, but she had no doubt he would listen to her.


    She was the first thing like him he¡¯d seen in a thousand years, after all. He had no choice but to love her.


    And she¡­


    She placed her hand against the palm-reader, and the light above beeped green, allowing her passage. As she stepped through, the door closed again behind her. The entrance to Hessiah¡¯s lab was like an airlock, secondary and tertiary scans washing over her like a rainstorm for a moment before finally confirming her identity. The second door opened, finally letting her through.


    Hessiah had taken on an unusual form today -- stationary, orange and brown, like a cross between a great tree and some kind of crustacean. Twitching, thin limbs like the legs of a spider tapped away at the holographic displays around him.


    "I¡¯ve been thinking about destiny today," his voice echoed from deep within his body, warped by strange passages. "Is that something you believe in, Marie?"


    Marie glanced around the lab. The vats were visible today, and all four of the Enfant were staring keenly at them. Their bulbous fleshy bodies pulsed and quivered in the sterile light -- grotesque enough that Marie had to look away again. Intelligence grew like a slow fire in their eyes.


    She shrugged. "The way I see it," she replied. "Everything just comes down to random chance."


    Hessiah didn¡¯t say anything else straight away -- not until a humanoid torso, pink like a worm, squirmed out from beneath two plates of carapace. He looked at Marie through its eyes.


    "Well, of course it does," Hessiah said, voice now clear. "But that¡¯s no reason that destiny should not exist. ¡¯Random chance¡¯, as you put it, is just the dance of numbers in the end -- and numbers are not so complex that they cannot be predicted."


    Marie raised an eyebrow, sitting down on an available chair. "What? You¡¯re saying you can predict that, then?"


    The boundless confidence she¡¯d always seen in her fellow Gene Tyrant -- well, Gene Noble, she supposed -- faltered just a little, and for a second he appeared almost meek.


    "Well, not I," he muttered. "But it was said that the greatest of us could calculate the years to come, could optimise their consciousnesses to such a degree that they could predict events down to the slightest detail. Lord Director Eve saw everything, it was said, past and future."


    "Didn¡¯t see the Revolution coming, I guess."


    For a single grim moment, Marie thought she had gone too far -- and the split-second pinprick glance Hessiah shot her seemed to confirm that. Then, however, his gaze calmed down, slid down his face slightly, and he smiled.


    "Oh, but that¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong," he purred. "I¡¯ve now come to believe that the Lord Director most certainly saw this coming."


    His body cracked as his shape changed, shell shattering and softening into white sludge which then resolidified into sheer muscle. He placed an armoured hand against the nearest vat, and the Enfant contained within writhed delightfully in response.


    "In the proper days," he murmured. "All great efforts were to be personally approved by the Lord Director. My venture beyond our borders was one of them. At the time, I believed this to be a means to rid the court of me, to cast me aside for the sake of baseless accusations¡­ but no."


    Once again, he¡¯d drifted off to indignities past. Marie bit her lip. "No?"


    "What if I was sent away because that was where I needed to be?" His hope was almost feverish. "By definition, the prodigal son must be lost in order to return, must he not? Perhaps I was chosen to be right here, right now¡­ to do this. Destiny, you see?"


    He turned to look at Marie, and the grin on his face was so earnest that she had to look away.


    "You see?" he said again, waiting for a response.


    "Well, what about me?" she asked quietly, one hand gripping her forearm, looking down at the floor. "I just got by here by¡­ coincidence. Where do I come into things?"


    Heavy hands settled over her shoulders, the blazing heat beneath their skin a kind of reassurance, if a burning and overbearing one.


    "All present events stem from past events," he said gently, as if comforting a child. "All chance stems from previous chance. If my coming here could be foretold, then yours could too. There can be no fellowship without companions -- and you, my dear, are mine."


    If circumstances on top of circumstances had led them here, then did their decisions really matter? No matter what she did here, no matter what she said or didn¡¯t say, was she at fault? If all life was numbers building atop numbers, then nobody could blame her for¡­


    For¡­


    Marie Hazzard looked up.


    Marie didn¡¯t talk to Muzazi for the rest of the day. By the time she¡¯d finally left Hessiah to his grand plans and his Enfant, her partner -- well, her associate, really -- had retired for the night. All there was for her to do was to lay on her own bed, her hands behind her head as a pillow, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling.


    The questions piled up.


    What would happen, tomorrow? What would happen, next week? Next month? Next year? For most of her hundred years of living, Marie had been sure of where she¡¯d stood in the world. Even under the boot of the Supremacy, she¡¯d known where the winds would take her.


    Now her freedom lay right in front of her -- and beyond it, she could think of nothing but an endless void. Hessiah¡¯s plan would change history forever. If things went his way, it would be beyond even the Thousand Revolutions. Hell, with the Enfant, it could even be the rise of a new species entirely.


    What would that be like, she wondered? Was that a future she wanted to be free in?


    Hessiah had said, hadn¡¯t he, that some Gene Tyrants could calculate the future? That they could optimise their brains to calculate and predict?


    Marie closed her eyes.


    It wasn¡¯t exactly new territory -- predicting the events of a battle was simple for her, something she did without even thinking about it. That was calculating only seconds ahead, sure, but she imagined the same principle applied. The only difference between a second and a year was processing power.


    And she was sure she could get plenty of that.


    Marie took a deep breath in the moment before her lungs stopped existing. They, along with the rest of her innards, converted into new neural matter -- lobes and neurons, spreading out like a great pink blanket. Before long, she resembled little more than a massive pile of pink mush, spilling slightly over the sides of the bed. She maintained only the tiniest organs to maintain her life, and¡­


    And she thought.


    And she imagined.


    And she saw.


    One year later¡­


    Azum-Ha, capital planet of the Supremacy, was a world of two layers.


    Below, the tombs and ancient temples of the first generation spread out as a frozen expanse, hallowed stone paused mid-crumble by the constant efforts of repair automatics. This was history preserved, all the way from the days of First Supreme Tazir to those of Ren¨¦e the Raven, who had abandoned the ground of the new homeworld.


    Above, the flying cities of the modern era soared -- great white constructs, each fit to fill millions, manoeuvring their way over the planet like the scattered pieces of a puzzle. White sunlight reflected eagerly off the towers and villas, making each city look like an abode of the gods.


    With the coming of the Enfant, however, a third layer had come -- hell.


    The Grand Hall of the Body -- an egg-shaped vessel that usually flew higher than any other -- crashed down into the Tomb of the First Supreme in an explosion of dust and steel, the cloud of debris engulfing the neighbouring ruins. The remnants of the defence fleet continued to rain down, like a hailstorm of metal and fuel.


    Countless Enfants filled the sky, enough that their numbers blotted out the sun, winding and snarling among the disintegrating fleet. For this battle, they had taken on the forms of leviathanic serpents, their maws stretching down nearly half their body, filled with teeth the size of buildings.


    As Marie looked up at one of them, she saw it¡¯s jaw squeeze down, crushing the Supremacy warship held there.


    All around her, there was music -- a single high note, wavering and stretching in the delirium of battle, but never once breaking. She took in a deep breath, filters within her purifying the air of any toxins, and took in her surroundings.


    They descended from the scorched red sky. A thin flying platform took their assembly down to the site of their victory, escorted by two massive insectoid Enfant, their wings moving so fast they didn¡¯t even qualify as blurs. The sheer motion all around them would have sent Marie¡¯s hair whipping this way and that had she not already hardened it.


    In front of her, at the head of their procession, stood the Gene Noble Ranavalona. The Supreme and his ilk had still not been slain, but the capital had been taken, so Ranavalona had declared this a victory -- and he had taken a form befitting it.


    He was hulking, massive, with a body of black armour, spikes and spirals winding out of his form. Red feathers hung off him like a cloak, and he tapped the metal beneath him with hooked white claws. He looked forward with seven crowns upon seven heads of seven forms, each a vicious imitation of a predatory beast, visages locked in the ecstasy of bloodshed. Fourteen red eyes, each bearing conjoined pupils, stared in different directions -- taking in the closing of the battle like a patron appreciating a symphony.


    Slowly, deliberately, Ranavalona raised the massive sceptre of bone he held in his talons -- and he let loose a resounding and wordless roar of victory. It overpowered all -- the screeches of the Enfant, the explosions and burning of the Supremacy fleet, even the omnipresent music of the planet¡¯s surface. If she hadn¡¯t been bolstered against such things, Marie had no doubt her eardrums would have burst from being so close to that sound.


    Azum-Ha was not quite ready to give up, however.


    As the remains of a warship fell down to the planet, the hatches on its side slid open -- and swarms of combat automatics poured forth, flying off in every direction in a vain effort to repel the attack on their territory. Most were quickly eliminated by the surrounding Enfant, but a small cloud rushed in the direction of Ranavalona¡¯s platform.


    He waved a vague hand to one of his attending insectoids, and it projected a flood of acidic saliva from its mandibles, drowning the majority of the incoming hostiles in dissolution. Inert metal and wire dropped out of the sky, harmless -- save for one surviving drone, an instant away from deactivation, zooming toward Marie. The surviving blade of its armament span rapidly, blade gleaming with promise.


    It didn¡¯t get far.


    With two lightning-fast flashes of white Aether, Zenzanik sliced the machine into four equal pieces. The instant the chunks of the enemy collapsed and slid off the platform, Marie¡¯s bodyguard returned to an inert state, slouching over and letting his great cleaver-swords trail over the ground.


    Wait. Zenzanik? Who was Zenzanik? Marie scrambled for memories that had not happened yet, and she turned to look at the thing.


    Of course. Zenzanik. She couldn¡¯t bear calling him by the same name.


    The warrior¡¯s long black hair had become greasy and unkempt, gathering in clumps as it whipped this way and that in the wind. After he had been given better ways of seeing, his eyes had atrophied, looking like little more than drained white balloons hanging off his face. Speech was unnecessary for a living weapon, and so his mouth was covered with an expanse of smooth white skin. Muffled, ragged breathing could be heard behind it.


    Even as Marie stared at the creature, he did not respond in any way. Of course, that was natural. They¡¯d excised higher brain functions from him long ago, leaving him with only what he needed. And yet¡­ there was something there, still, she felt, deep within him. The cold fire of hatred that you could never see, but sense all the same.


    Yes. When Marie Hazzard looked at Atoy Muzazi, she knew without a doubt that he hated her.


    She realised what that music was. That constant, high-pitched note.


    The world was screaming.


    Wake up!


    For a single, terrible moment, Marie thought that she had sunk too deep -- that she had turned herself into little more than a machine for calculation, that she had abandoned the consciousness she needed to wake from that nightmare. That she had become something capable only of imagining the future, without ever being able to enact it.


    Perhaps she was nearly right.


    It took a burst of utter will, however, but she managed to escape that fate. Neurons and lobes became skin and muscles once again as she forced them free, climbing out of herself like a chick hatching from an egg. Hysteric breathing kept her light-headed and woozy, and she was forced to hold onto the nearest wall to keep herself steady.


    That scenery, that burning, that hatred, that betrayal. That was the path she was on right now. That was what lay at the end of the reassurance she¡¯d been so happy for.


    Marie held onto her chest, wondering vaguely for a moment if she was even capable of having a heart attack.


    Was this the path she¡¯d wanted?

 Chapter 200:8.19: To Live Is To Eat And Be Eaten

    Everything was inherited.


    John Blair watched from a dusty corner as his regal father sat in an old armchair, watching the last of the servants leave through the massive windows. The perpetual rain of Riodine pelted against the windows -- the leaving crowd was accompanied by a swarm of floating automatic umbrellas. His father lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips and took a decisive swig.


    "What makes a king a king?" he muttered to himself. "Not this. Not this."


    John fell back -- back through the wall and the air beyond the wall, sucked back into the maelstrom of his life. Everything was tinted red, painted red, blessed red. Even his thoughts had taken on a spectral crimson hue.


    The events of his life were like shattered glass around him, all occurring at once -- and in these moments, where he was outside of the chaos, it was like looking at a kaleidoscope all of himself. He lifted his arm slightly, and as if in response there was a great cacophony of his own voice: all the words he¡¯d ever said, all the lies he¡¯d ever told -- even to himself.


    He was on a sand-swept plain, aiming a sniper rifle.


    He was in a rotting alleyway, slamming his fists into the jaw of an easy target.


    He was walking through the cell blocks of a prison, selecting the men and women who would be his new partners.


    Then he was in the nightmare again. He was in one of the caverns off White Village, dragging the body of the Coalition agitator behind him with one hand. He¡¯d thought it a convenient place to dump the corpse. The others had come with him, to watch his back and make sure there were no witnesses.


    But the thing that had witnessed them had been so far above them that it wasn¡¯t even funny.


    It had slithered out from a deeper cave, like a great nailless finger, and it had taken them, hooked itself around them and dragged them down to the depths and opened them and remade them. It was remaking him now: he was dimly aware of that, but it no longer mattered. All the things he was losing he didn¡¯t need anyway.


    Look at you, dead man, the Red God said, swinging his brainstem like a pendulum. You are almost ready. You are almost ready to become.


    "Become what?" he murmured.


    The answer came again in the form of the maelstrom. He was submerged once more, drowning in old sights and sounds and smells, marinated by them and by the ever-present crimson. The universe was being injected right into his eyeballs. It felt as if his skull would burst.


    Everything was inherited.


    "What makes a king a king?" his father muttered, staring out the window.


    By doing so, by saying those words, he passed on his resentment. That resentment had been born from the pride given to his father by his forebears, and so on and so on.


    "What makes a king a king?" a thousand John Blair¡¯s echoed.


    Yes, echoed. That was all there was. That was all life was: the mindless aping of ideals that had existed before. Had John ever had an original thought in his life? Had anyone? And now he was inheriting the will of a Red God. It was nothing new. Nothing to be afraid of at all. Any fear he could possess was hollow imitation of terror past.


    "If only¡­ you¡¯d never existed¡­"


    John turned to see the source of the sound. Some distance away, beyond the kaleidoscope, a mother was strangling her pale-haired son.


    "I know him," John muttered -- and his memories gleamed in response. He¡¯d seen this young man in the caverns, hadn¡¯t he? All grown up. Had he said his name, back then? He couldn¡¯t recall, but Ian had definitely mentioned it. He¡¯d taken an interest, after all.


    Dragan¡­ Hadrien.


    The image flickered, and when it cleared the Red God was now the one strangling the boy. Her white hair, starker than his silver, hung over her face and concealed any emotion -- but the cold fury in her voice was unmistakable.


    "If only you¡¯d never existed," she echoed. "If only¡­ you¡¯d never¡­ existed."


    She squeezed just a bit tighter, and there was the hollow snap of a broken neck. The boy¡¯s thrashing ceased, and the form of the Red God drifted away like smoke.


    "This is what you want of me?" John asked infinity. "You want me to kill him?"


    All the world was affirmation.


    Some trace of ambition still remained, and it trickled from John¡¯s lips: "And then¡­ what happens? What do I get?"


    The world to come flashed before his eyes. The Panacea unburdening itself from the planet, sending its agents out, reuniting with its severed selves. A great crusade of burning and vengeance and death, all across the galaxy. A war that could not be won.


    But there, in the middle of the burning, a throne had been set aside for him. Like a toy to placate a child.


    "Will you become?" the Red God asked.


    "Yes," John answered. For him, the word ¡¯no¡¯ no longer existed. "Yes, I will become."


    "You know, sir," the young security officer said, turning his head to look at Muzazi. "You -- you don¡¯t have to stay up here with me. I¡¯m quite capable. I mean it."


    A calm, warm wind brushed over their hair as they stood atop the ExoCorp building, the desert stretching out in every direction. The silence of the space was calm and soothing, like a blanket settling over them. It was hard to believe, just from this view, the horrors that had occurred over the last few days.


    "It¡¯s no issue," Muzazi said, hawkish eyes scanning the horizon. "I know that sentry duty is lonesome work. The value of company can¡¯t be overstated."


    The officer nodded, a shy smile on his face. "Okay. Uh, thanks, I guess."


    The plasma rifle felt heavy and unwieldy in Muzazi¡¯s hands as he paced back and forth across the roof, but he couldn¡¯t exactly snipe with Luminescence. The new head of security, a steadfast man named Grayson, had looked back through the security records and confirmed the death of the Dead Hand¡¯s sniper -- as such, he¡¯d declared it safe for sentries to go onto the roof to keep watch.


    With the unusual way Marie had been acting lately, Muzazi had been glad to have something to do. As a Special Officer, he was very much used to slotting into existing chains of command anyway.


    "It¡¯s taking a while for help to get here, huh?" the officer said, watching the area through his scope. "Kinda, you know, kinda worrying? Just personally, I mean."


    Muzazi straightened up. "I¡¯m certain help is on the way," he reassured his fellow. "But this is an unusual situation. No doubt they¡¯re making sure they understand it before they act."


    He couldn¡¯t say for sure whether that was a lie, but it sat ill on his tongue all the same. There was no way the planet Panacea could have been silent for this long without somebody investigating. The Supremacy, ExoCorp or even the UAP should have sent a force to investigate by now.


    And yet, nothing. Just the stillness of the sky.


    "Looks clear to me," the officer muttered, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He glanced at Muzazi. "Heading back in?"


    Muzazi clasped his hands behind his back, staring off at the rising light. "In a moment. This place is calming."


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    "Well, be careful¡­" the officer replied, already on his way back inside. "You don¡¯t know what those Repurposed are capable of, man."


    There was the sound of a door closing, and then the blessed silence of the dunes returned. Muzazi took a deep breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. How could so much violence occur among such tranquility? He truly couldn¡¯t understand it.


    In the distance, he could see the pale haze of White Village, surrounded by the black monoliths of the mining automatics. Smoke still drifted up from them, signs of the sabotage that had preceded the initial outbreak.


    Would people ever live there again?


    It was a strange, sad feeling -- to look upon a place that had once been filled with life and know that it would now be forevermore empty. There had been families there once, children¡­ now there were only cold rooms, meals left half-eaten, and an altogether different kind of silence.


    No, that wasn¡¯t quite right. Those families weren¡¯t gone at all, were they? They were only¡­ changed.


    The wind blew again, and this time it was as cold as winter. Muzazi shuddered as a chill rippled throughout his body. The desert was still as ever, and so Muzazi slung his rifle over his back as well. It felt clumsy there, like a shirt too big -- it really didn¡¯t suit him at all.


    There was a strange atmosphere to this place. Like the world was on the verge of changing, and this was the last place to fall into the pit. Like this tranquility would shatter into chaos at any moment.


    A heavy sigh escaped his lips.


    Best to --


    A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and Muzazi was pulled backwards by inhuman strength. Sudden adrenaline coursing through him, Muzazi widened his eyes and reached for Luminescence. But then he recognised the person in the corner of his eye. Then, he hesitated for but a moment -- just long enough for another hand to cover his mouth.


    "Atoy," Marie Hazzard snarled.


    Pion stretched as much as he was able on the uneven floor of the cave, carefully aimed his pistol, and blasted one of his feet off.


    The pain didn¡¯t even register anymore. As Pion watched his left foot crumble and melt under the tender mercies of the plasma shot, he felt nothing but a slightly irritating tingle. More like someone was tickling him than anything else. Not that anyone had ever tickled him, but he fantasized.


    It had been days since he¡¯d seen any of the others -- or since he¡¯d heard them in his head, for that matter. He didn¡¯t especially miss the psychopaths, but things got lonely. He¡¯d already taken apart and reassembled the equipment he had left seven times.


    Even without Expert Opinion, he had no doubt those scripts had never run better.


    Still, it wasn¡¯t all bad. The¡­ other presence in his head was gone too, that red rippling that his thoughts occasionally brushed against. It was a strange sensation, to be rid of that. It was like breathing fresh air again after days of nothing but smog. Everything was so much clearer -- even the boredom.


    Especially the boredom.


    Pion watched as his foot slowly grew back, the only sign of interest being the slow raising of his eyebrow over his circular glasses. Even the novelty of that miracle had long since run its course. He still vaguely wondered where the Panacea got the extra matter from, though. Under normal circumstances, it was generally believed that the inert Panacea drained small amounts of resources from the host body when growing new flesh, but the near-endless regeneration of the Repurposed was clearly beyond the pale.


    If he was an actual scientist, he¡¯d have been inclined to investigate further -- but no, he considered himself a tinkerer. Adept enough to put together bombs and guns, but he¡¯d never really had any interest in anything beyond that.


    He¡¯d only gone with the Dead Hand for the money, anyway. All he had to do was repair and maintain the equipment these idiots damaged, and he got a good wage. And if he had to kick the ribs of some agitator or protestor now and again?


    Well, the work was the work.


    Pion was just about to test how long it took for his ear to grow back when he heard the crunch of foot against sand, and he jolted up from his reverie. A shadow fell from the entrance of the cave. There, silhouetted against the rising sun, was a human figure with long flowing hair.


    Boss.


    Pion quickly rose to his feet, straightening his glasses -- only to glance downwards with a quizzical jump of his eyebrow. "Uh, boss," he muttered. "You do realize you¡¯re buck naked, right?"


    John Blair nodded vaguely in response, before continuing to stagger into the cavern -- holding onto the wall for support. That same serene smile was on his lips, but there was a strange desperation in his eyes. Like he was coming down off some high.


    "Yes, yes," he murmured, inspecting the sand on his fingertips as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "I want to¡­ it¡¯s right, I think, that I thank you for your hard work, Pion. It¡¯s¡­ you¡¯ve always been very capable. Yes, very capable indeed."


    "Uh¡­ thanks, boss."


    Something wasn¡¯t right. John Blair had hardly even looked at him after his recruitment, and he certainly wasn¡¯t the type to hand out compliments like this. As Pion awkwardly stepped to the side to allow Blair passage, he subtly got ready to raise his pistol. If it came down to it, he wasn¡¯t taking any chances. It wasn¡¯t like shooting Blair would kill him, but it would certainly give Pion time to make a run for it.


    Blair stumbled past him, his bare back slick with sweat. He stopped, right next to Pion, staring off into space.


    "Yes. Very good¡­" he went on, blinking rapidly. "That¡¯s why¡­ it¡¯s so very unfortunate --"


    Well, Pion had heard enough. He raised his pistol, slammed it right against Blair¡¯s temple, and fired.


    He didn¡¯t so much as flinch.


    "Huh?" Pion whispered. sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As Pion watched, frozen with horror, Blair reached out and grasped him by the arm holding the gun -- squeezing with such strength that the bone was instantly broken. The pistol slipped from his fingers, and as Pion looked up at his employer he saw it.


    He saw the cloaked Aether construct, like a two-tiered ring, floating in the air around John Blair. He saw the slightest grin on Blair¡¯s slack face. He saw Blair¡¯s mouth snap open so wide that the skin of his cheeks tore apart.


    And finally, he saw Blair lunge forward and begin to eat.


    As the sun rose, the nameless cavern in the nameless desert was filled with the sounds of screaming, thrashing and tearing flesh. John Blair was a messy eater, after all. By dusk, those sounds had been replaced by a uniform slurping, by slurry being absorbed through skin and tongue.


    And by night, it had been replaced by the howls of something not human.


    It was almost time. Almost ready.


    Ranavalona straightened his tie as he strode through the hallway of the ExoCorp building, nodding to a passing squad of security personnel. He was just in the process of returning from his twenty-four hourly rest. As a Gene Noble, there was little need for him to sleep, but he had to keep up appearances for the personnel.


    If the boss never slept, word quickly got out. A thousand years of hiding told you these things.


    But not for long. No, no, not for long at all. By his estimates, it was only a matter of weeks until the Enfant were ready to survive outside their vats. Once they could survive, they could reproduce -- and once they could reproduce, they could swarm.


    Then everything would be as it once was again. Once they¡¯d established a sizable territory, Ranavalona himself would begin the process of mitosis -- splitting himself again and again so as to replenish the Gene Noble population. Once that was accomplished, securing the rest of the galaxy would be a simple matter.


    He stopped outside the door to his lab, waiting as the initial scan confirmed his identity. He adjusted his DNA to perfectly match the system¡¯s records, and -- like magic -- the door opened before him.


    This whole thing had become a comfortable routine. Ranavalona stepped into the airlock, raised his arms up, and allowed the myriad of other scans to confirm his identity. Lights and rays washed over him for the briefest of moments before being replaced with the cool green of affirmation.


    The next door opened, and Ranavalona stepped into his lab proper. Immediately, he sighed in relief, allowing his body to assume a more comfortable quadrupedal form, cool slime pouring from vents on his skin to alleviate the morning heat. Cleaning automatics followed after him, dutifully scrubbing away the trail he left.


    "Heya," said Marie.


    She was sat in a chair by one of the opaque vats, chewing on some kind of sandwich. If Ranavalona¡¯s current form had eyebrows, he would have raised one of them. As one he¡¯d chosen as his apprentice, he¡¯d given young Marie access to his lab, but it was still unusual to see her here without him. If anything, though, it was a good sign -- it suggested an interest in the genetic arts that could be nurtured and grown.


    "Good to see you wake and well," Ranavalona said, giving himself just a touch more bipedality as he rose to his feet. Two arms became four, and two eyes became eight, holographic monitors rising to fill the available space.


    Today was an important day: the weekly check on the Enfant¡¯s comparative growth. So far, he hadn¡¯t been given cause for concern, but one could never be too careful when it came to their children. Ranavalona triggered the switch to reveal the vats. This work was unprecedented, so even the slightest abnormality must be¡­


    Must be¡­


    Ranavalona blinked with all the eyes he had.


    M-Must be¡­


    The vats had become transparent again -- and they were empty. They were empty, save for the red fluid that sloshed around inside them, save for the tiniest pieces of gristle that floated inside them. He was looking at liquid corpse.


    What¡­ his¡­ why¡­ he¡­


    "I have to give it to you," Marie said from her seat, staring morosely down at the floor. "You were careful. Not in the ways that mattered, but careful. You had those vats ready for anything. Ready to freeze, ready to nourish¡­ well, ready to kill them if it came down to it. You made it easy for me."


    Her words barely registered. Ranavalona staggered towards the nearest vat, slapping his hands against it as if his will would bring back the life that had once occupied the container. More and more arms sprouted, each planting themselves against the glass, each shaking like a tree in the middle of a thunderstorm.


    He clawed with a thousand fingers. He wept with a thousand eyes. He screamed with a thousand mouths.


    And then, when he turned to look at Marie Hazzard, he raged with the fury of a thousand suns.

 Chapter 201:8.20: The Equal Measure

    All the life seemed to drain from Hessiah¡¯s body as he turned away from the crimson vat, but the fury in his eyes was undiminished.


    His body changed as he moved, additional arms sloughing off and being reabsorbed, additional eyes sinking back into his skull. By the time he faced Marie, he was an utterly different man. A grey humanoid with slick and slimy skin, proportions stretched and warped like a child¡¯s drawing. This was not a form Titan Hessiah had put composure into.


    "Why?" he asked, his voice deceptively dull. "Why have you done this thing?"


    Slowly, carefully, Marie put her sandwich down and stood up. Hessiah¡¯s bloodshot eyes followed her as she moved, but he stayed still as ever. If Marie hadn¡¯t adjusted her biology, she¡¯d have been sweating buckets -- it would take only the slightest stimulus for this to turn into a fight.


    She did her best to explain.


    "I saw it. Like you said, I calculated the future. What would have happened if you went ahead with all this." Her voice was calm and patient, with only the slightest quiver. "All those people, dead, burning, and¡­"


    "People?" Hessiah interrupted. He took a sticky step forward, the light of the lab reflecting off his grey skin. "What people?"


    Marie kept her eyes fixed on him. "I saw Azum-Ha. I saw it falling, the Enfant destroying everything. I could hear the planet screaming, everyone dying. It was¡­"


    A hollow, croaking sound -- a long ¡¯oh¡¯ -- crawled out of Hessiah¡¯s throat as he opened his mouth slightly. It went on for long seconds, his eyes sad as he stared Marie down. Through his open mouth, she could see gills and filters shivering.


    Black tears trickled down his face.


    "People¡­?" he repeated, like the word was the saddest thing in the world. "Oh¡­ oh, no¡­ they¡¯ve contaminated you."


    "I --"


    Titan Hessiah was in the mood for no more conversation.


    He was upon her in a second, mauling her, his grey skin and smooth features replaced with wiry black fur and the claws and fangs of a wild beast. He bit and gored, gnawed and eviscerated, buckets of Marie¡¯s blood and flesh spreading out beneath her.


    She only realized he¡¯d moved when he tore out her small intestine with his teeth. Immediately, she kicked him away with an impromptu hooved foot -- and he crashed up into the ceiling, cracks spreading along its surface.


    Marie¡¯s body changed, tendrils sprouting from her back and drawing the expended blood and flesh back, replenishing her biomass. She rose to her feet, her limbs growing thinner and longer, her fingers sharpening into claws. Plates of bone and tooth sprouted over her joints and vital areas.


    She looked up.


    In defiance of gravity, Hessiah had not yet fallen back to the floor. Instead, legs like those of a spider had sprouted from his torso, spearing back into the ceiling and holding him in place. The fur covering his face shifted, and a new visage emerged -- a facsimile of a human skull, framed by darkness. It was the only trace of colour among his jet-black fur.


    "It¡¯s not your fault," his hollow voice emerged without movement of his new mouth. "You don¡¯t understand the way things work. You¡¯re incapable of it. Reboot, and I¡¯ll teach your successor the way of things."


    Marie scoffed, flexing her claws. "Fat chance."


    "It isn¡¯t up to you."


    Hessiah¡¯s throat swelled grotesquely, and when his jaw snapped open he spat out a massive green web that wrapped itself around Marie like a sticky blanket. She couldn¡¯t quite see with it covering her face, but she heard well enough -- and she heard the sound of Hessiah¡¯s stomach-legs detaching from the ceiling. He intended to continue his attack while the web rendered her immobile.


    Trying to tear it off was a waste of time. Marie raised her internal body temperature as much as she could without endangering her life, her skin turning red and visibly blistering. As Hessiah slapped her with a tendril, sending her flying across the room, the webs encasing her burst into flame, falling away before she reached the wall.


    Marie relaxed her internal structure, and as she struck the wall she splattered like a piece of chewing gum, features and organs distributed generously in an indiscriminate mass.


    She pulled herself back together as quickly as she was able, taking on a quadrupedal reptilian form -- but Hessiah was wasting no time either. Before she could finish reconstituting herself, she felt his now-massive fist slam into her face, rupturing her eyeballs and shattering her skull.


    With a hiss of effort, Marie converted one of her crawling limbs into a blade of bone and thrust it forwards -- running Hessiah¡¯s torso right through, but he didn¡¯t so much as flinch.


    His bestial form had changed somewhat, shifted -- more great ape than wolf. As he kicked her away once again, shattering the consoles in her path, burning breath spouted from his nostrils, like twin kettles come to boil. He held one of his huge arms out to the side, and the hand melted and reformed into a mighty axe-blade of bone.


    "I truly do not understand you," he said softly. Behind him, triggered by one of the consoles, one of the vats slid open -- red liquid spilling out copiously. Hessiah glanced at it out of the corner of his eye.


    With a roar, he charged.


    Marie¡¯s left arm became her new head, and the ruins of her former head became a new arm, her entire form shifting to accommodate the new configuration. Her legs fused together into a lengthy, girthy tail -- lashing out at Hessiah in an effort to restrain and constrict him.


    But she¡¯d underestimated his strength.


    He brought the flat side of the axe down on the midsection of her tail as it approached, cutting it and severing the makeshift nervous system she¡¯d arranged for it. Without an instant of hesitation, his foot stomped down on the wound and began to spread out like the roots of a tree, securing itself against the floor and holding her in place.


    Hessiah brought down the axe countless times, each time aiming for wherever she¡¯d created a new head, each time hitting his mark in a shower of blood and brains.


    "You think you¡¯ve ruined me? Ended me? Ended anything? This is a delay. This -- you -- are a learning experience."


    Marie¡¯s eyes stretched out like those of a snail, hardened into spiked tendrils, but Hessiah¡¯s free arm became a thin sickle and sliced them off without difficulty.


    "If you don¡¯t want to die, my dear," Hessiah snarled, bringing the axe down again. "I would recommend you reboot. Let this failure of a life end and give someone worthy a chance."


    She grew thorns out from her constricted tail, intended to wind their way through the tree-foot on top of it, but Hessiah had hardened and bolstered it to such a degree that it was more like stone -- and her thorns shattered where they made impact.


    Crazed eyes wormed their way out of Hessiah¡¯s empty sockets, and when Marie looked -- in the split seconds available -- she could see that tears were still streaming down them.


    "We were meant to be together!" he roared in anguish. The axe came down.


    Smash.


    "You were meant to be on my side!"


    Crack.


    "It was destiny!"


    Splat.


    This was play fighting. No matter how much either of them bled, or were smashed or were burnt or were strangled or were disemboweled, it was irrelevant. Any lost biomass was nearly instantly scooped up again, and both of them had turned their senses of pain off before this fight had even begun.


    No matter how much of his frustration Hessiah let loose on her, Marie would not die. She¡¯d be reduced to a pile of broken bones and torn-apart meat, but she would not die.


    Not unless Titan Hessiah was willing to use his venom.


    She had killed the monsters he¡¯d called his children, destroyed his future, shattered his dreams right before his eyes. Among humans, this would be more than sufficient grounds for a crime of passion.


    But there were more than enough humans to go around.


    Hessiah dashed her ribs with another swipe before taking a step back, panting with frustration. The skull protruding from his fur was more like a mask than a face, though, and Marie could see the clear white eyes and flat line of a mouth behind it.


    The bone-axe swirled and softened like ice cream, solidifying into a three-fingered hand once again. It hung limp with the other.


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    "Why, Marie?" The rage had drained from Hessiah¡¯s voice, and all that was left was exhaustion. "Why? I don¡¯t¡­ you¡¯re¡­ why?" S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Blood dribbled from her half-formed mouth as she breathed through repairing lungs. When she spoke, she knew it was the truth.


    "Even if I told you¡­" she rasped. "You wouldn¡¯t understand¡­"


    As she quickly glanced towards the door behind Hessiah, she returned to her normal human form -- if a little battered and dishevelled. Hessiah¡¯s face hardened and his fingers sharpened once again into talons. His eyes and mouth vanished into the darkness behind his mask.


    "You understand, of course," he growled, lifting his claws high above his head. "That now you¡¯ll always be alone."


    Marie closed her eyes.


    "I¡¯m not alone," she said.


    The claws came down.


    White Aether crackled.


    And.


    "Full Throttle," Atoy Muzazi said.


    It was a sneak attack, but it was still magnificent. Hessiah¡¯s hand and the top of his head were sliced off by Atoy¡¯s perfect slash, an injury sufficient to make him stagger backwards. With a screech of fury, the Gene Tyrant swung back around, his free arm morphing into a set of bladed tendrils to slice Atoy in half.


    He stopped mid-slash.


    In all of the chaos of battle, Titan Hessiah had not noticed. Of course he hadn¡¯t: how could he? He¡¯d spent a thousand years hiding and skulking in the shadows. Marie Hazzard had fought.


    Titan Hessiah hadn¡¯t noticed that the doors were open.


    Titan Hessiah hadn¡¯t noticed Atoy Muzazi sneaking up on him.


    And Titan Hessiah hadn¡¯t noticed the squad of security officers accompanying him, their eyes wide with terror.


    For the briefest of instants, Titan Hessiah did not move. He simply stared back at the crowd of witnesses. His body did not so much as twitch, his face held no expression, but the horror he himself must have been experiencing was obvious.


    He had been discovered, after all.


    "Open fire!" one of the officers screamed -- and as one, the panicked crowd fired a hail of plasmafire at the hulking beast. It filled the air like a glowing orange waterfall.


    With a roar of fury and a swipe of an arm warped into a bone shield, Hessiah swept the incoming onslaught away. Twelve armoured tentacles -- one for each enemy -- sprouted from his back and lashed towards the security officers, no doubt intending to decapitate them to a man.


    But Atoy Muzazi was there.


    He leapt between the tentacles and the officers, the shining blade in his hands dancing beyond human limits. He deflected the tentacles each time they struck, sparks exploding with each repelled blow. Thrusters like those of a rocket flickered across his body with each movement, tiny cuts opening over his form as it was pushed beyond biology.


    The tentacles came instead for Atoy as their primary target, striking again and again each time they were repelled. As his speed increased, the sound of clashing bone and steel overpowering the space, Atoy let out a guttural scream of determination.


    Ten seconds. Atoy Muzazi was one of the finest warriors Marie had known, but even so he was only capable of holding off that onslaught for ten seconds.


    His stance was solid, but the force was overwhelming, and he was hopelessly outnumbered. For each six tentacles he deflected perfectly, the next six would be a second off, knocking Atoy off balance and making the next six even worse.


    Deep gashes and wounds were opening over Atoy¡¯s body as he repelled the blows. His white Aether flickered and faded as he moved with all the speed he was able. His arms shook as stray droplets of plasma landed on them -- the product of the security team¡¯s continued fire.


    And the determination in his eyes remained untarnished, as he fended off a god.


    Ten seconds. That was all they needed.


    As Hessiah turned away, concentrating fully on the attacks of the humans, Marie rose to her feet. Her legs were shaky, unsteady like those of a baby deer, but she couldn¡¯t exactly let Atoy show her up, could she? She had a job to do here, too.


    She charged, maintaining her human form even as she tackled Hessiah from behind, arms looping around his titan of a waist. A second face sprouted on Hessiah¡¯s back, staring her right in the eyes, but she paid no mind.


    Instead -- making sure it was unseen by the officers -- she grew a long, thin horn from her forehead and gored it right there and then. And then she pushed, exercising all the strength this body was capable of producing.


    Hessiah could not focus on her, because that would mean lessening the load on Atoy. He couldn¡¯t focus on Atoy, because that would mean ignoring Marie.


    Because he was trying to focus on both of them, he hadn¡¯t realised where Marie was actually pushing him.


    It had taken some sleight of hand -- or, really, her entire body -- but she had managed to get that vat open. Like she¡¯d said, those vats were capable of many things: gestating, terminating¡­


    ¡­and freezing.


    With a burst of animal strength, Marie forced Hessiah fully into the vat, his back thumping against the glass -- and as his barely visible eyes widened, she knew he¡¯d rumbled her. But too late. As she leapt back, the glass door of the vat snapped shut.


    That didn¡¯t mean Hessiah was harmless. Far from it.


    He smashed his bulk against the glass once, twice -- each time cracks splintering across its surface. It wouldn¡¯t survive much more. Marie whirled around to look to Atoy, to signal him, but there was no need. He was already on his way.


    His thrusters had sent him across the room, over to one of the surviving consoles -- one she¡¯d pointed out to him during their preparations -- and like a lance from heaven, his finger tapped the waiting command.


    "Cryogenic sequence in progress," a cool female voice resounded throughout the room. "Please wait patiently."


    Hessiah hesitated, for just a moment, and that was what truly defeated him. White smoke scoured the inside of the vat, cooling him down to his utmost --


    -- but he did not scream or rage or cry.


    Instead, with unsettling calm, he placed the palm of his hand against the frosting glass -- and stared Marie down with murderously serene eyes. When he spoke, she couldn¡¯t hear him through the glass, but reading his lips was just as good.


    For this, you pay forever, he said, even as his eyeballs froze. For this¡­ onto you.


    Then he was as a statue, and moved no more.


    Marie let out a breath she felt like she¡¯d been holding in for hours. Vaguely, she reached up to touch her forehead -- she had gotten rid of the horn, hadn¡¯t she? She hadn¡¯t messed up at the last minute?


    Her hand felt only smooth skin. They¡¯d done it.


    "Marie¡­" Atoy grunted -- and as she turned to look at him, he collapsed onto one knee.


    Hessiah had really done a number on him. Blood oozed from half-a-dozen wounds, some of them serious, and the only thing that stopped him from collapsing fully was the fact that he¡¯d stabbed his sword into the floor as a support. Even so, there was the slightest smirk on his face. They¡¯d accomplished a great feat, after all.


    Marie managed to get over to him and hold him up before he fell over, his sword slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor.


    "No¡­" Atoy mumbled in the moment before he too slipped unconscious. "Lu¡­"


    Marie carefully lowered him to the ground, one of her hands supporting his neck, before looking up at the frazzled guards.


    "Medical supplies," she snapped sternly. "Bandages, stimulants, whatever you can get. Not Panacea." That last bit probably didn¡¯t need saying, but she¡¯d learnt long ago never to underestimate human stupidity.


    A couple of the guards ran off to execute her commands, but one -- a younger looking man -- stepped forward. His gaze was still focused on the monster locked in ice.


    "What¡­" he whispered. "What the hell is that?"


    Marie took a deep breath.


    "Gene Tyrant," she addressed the gathered refugees. "Titan Hessiah was a Gene Tyrant."


    After getting Atoy into the infirmary and making sure the doctor understood she wouldn¡¯t accept failure, Marie had decided to waste no time. She¡¯d descended the building with the remaining guards and brought together the civilians in the warehouse. Once she¡¯d explained to the tortoise behind the scenes that Titan Hessiah had been deposed, he was only too happy to cooperate.


    She stood with her hands clasped stoically behind her back, framed on either side by security officers. It wasn¡¯t like she needed them here, exactly, but they helped project a sense of authority.


    Someone near the front of the crowd, a burly-looking miner with tattooed arms, scoffed. "A Gene Tyrant?" he raised his eyebrows. "What, and I s¡¯pose the Supreme was there with him, too? What¡¯s your angle, lady?"


    "No angle," Marie explained, keeping her voice as steady and calm as possible. "Currently, we believe that the real Titan Hessiah was murdered and replaced by this Gene Tyrant at some point over the last few years. Since then, he¡¯s been acting to advance his own interests, specifically with the aim of mustering a force to re-establish the civilization of the Gene Tyrants. That plot has now been foiled."


    Someone in the crowd laughed. Marie ignored it.


    "However," she went on. "The danger is not yet passed. The Repurposed outside are still active, will still attack on sight, and are likely preparing their next move even now. I have instructed company engineers to scour the communications network for whatever sabotage the Tyrant used to stop the governments of the galaxy from knowing what was happening here. If any of you have experience with this field, we would be happy to have you."


    A quiet murmuring overtook the crowd -- the possibility of rescue had now been raised. No matter how insane the rest of what she said was, that alone would hopefully win her some points. She took a deep breath.


    "It¡¯s paramount that you listen to and work together with us on this," she said. "Repairing communications will take time, and the Repurposed will act sooner rather than later. We are in this together. If we --"


    "Together?!" someone in the midst of the crowd snarled. "Like hell! You all ran up to the top and left us to the wolves!"


    There was a wave of agreement, angry cheers from rightfully angry men and women. The discontent spread across the faces of person to person.


    "Fat chance we¡¯re going to listen to you cowards now!"


    "Who put you in charge?! Who the fuck are you, anyway?!"


    "There are no more Gene Tyrants! They died a thousand years ago!" That one got an especially good reception, the crowd erupting into jeers and shouting.


    Marie breathed in deep through her nose, and out through her mouth.


    There was a good deal of genuine rage among the crowd, of genuine doubt -- but what was also there, creeping along the edges, was a cold and uncertain fear. What if she was right? They would do anything they could to deny that, would shout and cry for as long as it took, but --


    "I believe her."


    A clear voice cut through the babble of the crowd, so resonant that the vocal cords behind it must have been infused with Aether. The arguing hushed, and curious glances turned towards the person in the middle of the crowd. Someone in the way shifted, and Marie got a good look at the speaker.


    "I believe her," Dragan Hadrien said again, stepping forward, brushing his silver hair out of his face. "I¡¯ve seen him too."


    Marie raised an eyebrow. It seemed she wasn¡¯t the only one who could come back from the dead.

 Chapter 202:8.21: Rude Awakening

    "Titan Hessiah, a Gene Tyrant¡­" Muzazi murmured, hand on his chin. "And you¡¯re¡­ absolutely sure of this?"


    The wind washed over Muzazi and Marie as they stood on the roof of the ExoCorp building, talking. Over in the distance, at the entrance back into the building, a security camera blinked -- but they made sure to keep their backs to it when they spoke.


    They didn¡¯t want Hessiah reading lips, after all.


    "I am absolutely certain," Marie replied, staring out at the empty desert. "He hasn¡¯t exactly made it a secret to me, especially after he figured out who I was."


    Muzazi took in a deep breath -- his hand resting on the sheathed Luminescence for reassurance. He¡¯d already thought this situation was far outside his frame of reference. Now that was even more true.


    "He¡¯s got plans¡­" Marie continued, biting her lip. "Plans that would mean the end of everything. Supremacy, UAP, just¡­ everyone. He¡¯s very close to pulling it off, too."


    Muzazi took a deep breath. "Then we need to inform the Supremacy."


    "We can¡¯t," Marie shook her head. "He¡¯s done something to the communications -- got the all clear on a loop, maybe. If we try and fix that, he¡¯ll know -- and if he knows before we¡¯re ready, we¡¯re fucked."


    "What, then?"


    Marie crossed her arms, glancing over at him. "I have a plan. Do you trust me?"


    His hand slipped off of Luminescence¡¯s hilt. Right now, that kind of reassurance was unnecessary.


    "Of course."


    As Atoy Muzazi regained consciousness, his hand grasped and found only empty air. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open.


    He was lying down on a soft bed, with a light above him. Even as his vision adjusted, he could hear the gradual beep-beep of a medical monitor, confirming he was alive and well. He went to try to sit up, but the aching of his numerous wounds quickly put a stop to that.


    It was coming back to him now.


    He¡¯d stood between that Gene Tyrant and those people, held off that endless barrage of blows with nothing but his Aether and his sword. He¡¯d stood against a monster out of legends and lived to tell the tale. Even just the memory of it made his heartbeat quicken and his palms sweat.


    "Looks like you¡¯re awake," someone commented.


    Muzazi blearily looked up, a triumphant smile already spreading across his lips -- but premature. It wasn¡¯t who he¡¯d expected. The person he was looking at, leaning against the wall with their arms crossed, was not Marie Hazzard.


    "You don¡¯t look too happy," Dragan Hadrien said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you came here to find me?"


    For a long long moment, Muzazi just stared at the Cogitant, the light in his own eyes slowly dying. Then, finally, he collapsed back onto the bed, head thumping against the pillow. A heavy sigh escaped his lips.


    "Of course it was a trick," he muttered. "Of course."


    Hadrien opened his mouth to reply, but was quickly interrupted.


    "If it helps," Marie said. "He¡¯s saying it wasn¡¯t a trick. Apparently, he really was dead for a while."


    It seemed that Marie was in the room -- just not where Muzazi had looked. She sat at a table at the foot of the bed, balancing a pen between two of her fingers. A script lay on the table before her.


    "What do you mean?" Muzazi asked, making sure to keep Hadrien in his view as he shifted in the bed.


    This time Hadrien interrupted Marie. "I got shot in the head, my brains blown out," he answered without being asked. "Then I fell down into where the Panacea grows and it brought me back. Now I¡¯ve got it running around inside my head rent-free."


    This time Muzazi powered through the pain, sitting up in his bed, looking around for his weapon. "Like the Repurposed?" he asked, urgency in his voice. White Aether crackled between his fingers.


    Hadrien rolled his eyes. "Same disease, different strain." Then he winced for some reason. "At any rate, don¡¯t worry -- I¡¯m not gonna go crazy and tear your face off or something."


    Muzazi glanced over at Marie. "You believe this?"


    She held her hand out, adjusting it in the light to look at her nails. "He definitely does. Besides¡­" she looked over at Hadrien. "It¡¯s better if you just show him, kid."


    Muzazi frowned, his eyes flicking between the two of them. "What do you mean, ¡¯show me¡¯?"


    Hadrien groaned. "Seriously?"


    "With you, it¡¯s the only way he¡¯ll believe it," Marie shrugged. "It¡¯ll save us both a lot of time."


    A sliver of irritation entered Muzazi¡¯s voice. "What do you mean, ¡¯show me¡¯?" he repeated.


    Again, Hadrien didn¡¯t answer -- at least not with words. Instead, he reached into his pants pocket, fumbling around for a moment with an annoyed expression on his face. When he pulled his hand back out, it was holding a small pocket knife. He flicked the blade out, tapping the point of it with a finger to test the sharpness.


    Seemingly satisfied, he nodded to himself.


    It was Muzazi¡¯s turn to sigh, looking back at Marie. "Officer Hazzard," he grumbled. "May I ask what the point of this ridiculous exercise --"


    Hadrien drew the exposed blade through his palm, blood striking out and splattering onto the bed sheet. The words trailed off in Muzazi¡¯s mouth as he saw Dragan put the blood-soaked knife back into his pocket, flapping his injured hand back and forth as if that would mitigate the pain.


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "What are you doing?"


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    "Just watch," Hadrien replied, sucking in air through his teeth. "It¡¯ll start in a second."


    "What will --"


    "Just watch," he snarled.


    And indeed, as Muzazi watched, orange Panacea began to pool out from the cut on his skin and spread out to cover his wound. When it retracted and faded a moment later, there was no sign that he was even injured at all.


    "Same disease," Dragan repeated. "Different strain."


    Muzazi blinked, slowly nodding as he looked at Dragan¡¯s healed palm. His eyes flicked back up to regard him. "And you did that with your head?"


    "Apparently."


    With a frown, Muzazi allowed himself to relax slightly, even as he kept a careful eye on the Cogitant. With all the insanity of the last few hours, Dragan Hadrien being alive was the least of his worries. Even if the circumstances were somewhat¡­ unbelievable.


    "And why have you come here, then?" Muzazi asked cautiously. "Previously, you¡¯ve done everything you can to get away from me. I hardly pictured you visiting me on my sickbed."


    Hadrien jerked his head in Marie¡¯s direction. "She says you two took down a Gene Tyrant."


    "There were more people involved than just the two of us, but yes," Muzazi nodded. "We forced him into a cryogenic vat and froze him."


    It was Hadrien¡¯s turn to frown. "You didn¡¯t kill it? Why not?"


    Muzazi had no answer for that; he¡¯d been in support of that option during their initial planning, but Marie had quickly overruled him. Even now, the thought of that beast being in the same building -- frozen as it was -- sent an almost sympathetic shiver down his spine.


    He looked to his partner to answer.


    Marie put her hands flat down on the table, a complicated expression on her face. "This situation is unprecedented," she said, looking down at the white surface of the furniture. "Not one where we can act on our own. We need to get in touch with our superiors before we know the next step."


    Muzazi wasn¡¯t stupid. He knew the real reason without being told: Marie didn¡¯t want to be the very last of her kind again. Or, at least, she didn¡¯t want to be the one to make that happen.


    He couldn¡¯t very much say that, though. Hadrien had no idea that Marie too was a --


    "It¡¯s actually because you¡¯re a Gene Tyrant too, though, isn¡¯t it?" Hadrien asked, cocking his head. "That¡¯s why you don¡¯t want to kill him."


    Muzazi blinked, tilting his own head slightly to clear the blockage in his ear. Surely that was it. He¡¯d misheard. Dragan Hadrien had not really just said that.


    Again, his gaze flicked over to Marie. Her face was expressionless as she looked over at Hadrien, but her eyes held pure murder.


    He really had just said that.


    "You do realize, of course," she spoke softly, body tense like a coiled spring as she sat in the chair. "That I have to kill you now."


    Hadrien didn¡¯t hesitate for a moment, continuing to stare her down. "You can¡¯t."


    A slow, humourless smile spread across her lips. The face of a cat before it savaged a mouse. "You sure about that?"


    "Absolutely. Like I said, I¡¯ve got the benign Panacea in my head -- and the only way to fix this situation is for it to take back control. Otherwise, those Repurposed aren¡¯t going anywhere, and the situation will just keep getting worse and worse. But hey, if you¡¯re fine with that, go ahead." Hadrien spread his arms wide, a smug smirk on his face. "I¡¯m told crushing me into a paste would work, so you should try that."


    For a moment, Muzazi genuinely wasn¡¯t sure what Marie would do. She just stared at Hadrien for several long seconds, before the feline smile vanished and was replaced with a glare.


    "You say one word," she quietly promised. "And I¡¯ll make you wish I had killed you."


    The smile on Hadrien¡¯s voice did not budge. "Sure thing," he said.


    As the security teams began to hand out weapons -- Ruth and Bruno helping to instruct the refugees in their use -- Skipper took a seat at the back of the warehouse, pulling his knees up to his chest. He didn¡¯t glance at the person beside him.


    "People move fast when you motivate ¡¯em, huh?" he said.


    His eyes fixed on Ruth as she corrected a miner¡¯s grip on his rifle. Bruno was having better luck, but Ruth had potential as a teacher too. That was good to see; if they were to defend this place from the Repurposed¡¯s next attack, they needed all hands on deck.


    Ansem del Day Away¡¯s croaky, venerable voice rumbled the air. "And what would you say is the motivator here? Fear? Hardly the most noble form of morale."


    "If it works, it works," Skipper lightly shrugged. "They¡¯ll thank us later."


    Out of the corner of his eye, Skipper saw Ansem turn one of his huge eyes in his direction. "Not all of them will survive this, you know," he murmured. "If they were instructed to hide, instead, perhaps --"


    Skipper interrupted before the false hope could finish gestation.


    "We¡¯d be hopelessly outnumbered," he said. "And the Repurposed would win. And then they¡¯d find those people hiding and kill ¡¯em anyway. So some of them can maybe die now, or all of them can die later. It¡¯s not even a choice, man."


    Ansem slowly raised an eyebrow. "You¡¯re a surprisingly pragmatic man."


    "Seems the universe wants me to be," Skipper murmured bitterly, clasping his metal hand. "Hopefully that changes soon."


    "Well, in the topic of pragmatism¡­ I trust you haven¡¯t forgotten our arrangement."


    "Funny¡­" Skipper finally turned to look at the Scurrant, his eyes cold. "I was about to ask you the same thing."


    Ansem del Day Away¡¯s words were as slow and deliberate as his form -- instructions that allowed no room for convenient misinterpretation. "When the fighting begins, and opportunity presents itself, you shall head to the communications floor and make the adjustments we discussed. My colleagues in the Coalition of Three will receive word of the situation before the Supremacy or the UAP, giving us time to secure evidence of ExoCorp¡¯s wrongdoing. In exchange¡­"


    "In exchange," Skipper finished, turning back away as he lost interest. "I get all the Panacea waiting in the docks for transport. You take it to the coordinates I¡¯ve given you. And you don¡¯t ask questions, capiche?"


    Ansem shuffled on the spot with his hands and feet, a heavy sigh leaving his puffy lips. "I don¡¯t know why you¡¯d want them taken to that historical curiosity, but so be it." He blinked slowly. "To be honest, I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re willing to use that Panacea after what we¡¯ve witnessed here."


    Skipper grinned, but there was no friendliness in it. It was the smile of a dog ready to bite.


    "When it comes down to it, you¡¯re an idealist, Mr. del Away," he sighed. "Not in the sense that you¡¯re not willing to get your hands dirty, but -- when it comes down to it -- you really believe your victory¡¯s assured because you¡¯re on the right side. That¡¯s your disease."


    If Ansem was offended any, he didn¡¯t show it. "And what is your disease, if you don¡¯t mind me asking?"


    The smile dropped.


    "Revolution," Skipper said grimly.


    And, as if on cue, there was a great tremor -- strong enough that quite a few people were knocked off their feet. In the distance, Skipper could hear the sounds of goods falling off automatic shelves and smashing. Metal creaked as the very earth turned against them.


    For a moment, it stopped.


    "So it begins," whispered Ansem.


    "Yup," Skipper echoed, standing up. "So it begins."


    The next rumbling was stronger than ever.


    The settlement of White Village shook under the sun, each individual building shivering under the tremors like frightened children. Dust billowed off the sides of the plateau like an orange waterfall. The plains cracked -- sea??h th§× n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    -- and, finally, like a fist breaking through a wall, the earth exploded.


    A great geyser of debris flew upwards, propelled by immense force, the entire settlement ruptured and shattered in a single instant. Chunks of white building flew high up into the air, raining back down like a storm of meteorites. The splinter left by the quake was such that White Village had been replaced utterly by a long and stretching ravine.


    Before the nightmare could so much as settle, the next stage of the horror began. From deep within the ravine, from the darkness of the earth, a gargantuan dark leg -- like the spindly limb of a spider -- rose up and found purchase.


    The roar that followed shook the earth again.

 Chapter 203:8.22: What Rough Beast

    The thing was not a spider.


    It was gargantuan, its body the size of the settlement it had displaced to emerge. Its hard carapace was so pitch-black that it seemed to absorb the lights around it, to make them lesser. Though it roared and howled, it had no mouth.


    As it crawled out of the ravine, chunks of earth slipping off its back as it did so, its bizarre body came into view. Four great legs on the front, one greater leg at the back. No eyes, no ears -- only armour. This was a thing made to destroy, made from flesh remembered.


    A huge fleshy rope, like a tail, stretched from the beast¡¯s underside and back down into the bowels of the earth it had emerged from. It pulsed laboriously. The end of it was not visible.


    The ExoCorp building glinted in the distance -- and the beast wasted no time.


    In heresy against gravity, the four front legs of the monster rose high into the air and came down again some distance up ahead, the body pulling the strong back leg behind it and leaving a noticeable groove in the landscape. Immense amounts of heat evacuated the body through vents between the joints, rising up into the sky like the child of a thousand chimneys. Again, it roared -- and a living moat of flesh poured out from the ruins of White Village in response.


    Like a great, dead hand, the beast dragged itself onwards.


    Muzazi held one hand to his bandaged side in discomfort as they ran, ignoring the disapproving glance Marie sent his way.


    "I told you to stay put," she snapped, skidding to a halt. "What part of that didn¡¯t you understand?"


    Muzazi quickly moved his hand away from his injury, putting on the bravest face he had. "The stimulants have helped heal much of the damage," he said unconvincingly. "I can hardly lay there while the enemy is at the gates."


    Catching up with the two of them, Hadrien spoke up. "She¡¯s right," he said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "Going around like you are now, you¡¯re at most going to be running at about seventy percent of your strength -- and that¡¯s a very generous estimate."


    "Seventy percent?" Muzazi mused, pulling Luminescence free from its sheath with a screech of metal. "Then it seems I¡¯m in fine form."


    Hadrien rolled his eyes. "I said at most seventy --"


    Before the disagreement could escalate into an argument, Marie put a finger to her communicator. "We need the window open here -- give us eyes on what¡¯s going on." It seemed that, while Muzazi was out, she¡¯d managed to acquit herself quite admirably with the security personnel.


    The shutters over the windows -- which had been sealed at the beginning of the incident to prevent sniper fire -- rumbled open, the glass behind them slowly being revealed. The orange permanence of the desert landscape quickly became visible¡­ as did the massive black shape across it.


    Despite everything he¡¯d seen so far, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but gasp. Marie just stayed still, finger still frozen on her communicator as she saw the colossus on the other side of the desert.


    The colossus that was slowly making its way towards them.


    Beside him, he heard Hadrien whisper: "What¡­ is that?"


    "Monster, dead boy," Pan replied, her tone infuriatingly carefree as she sat cross-legged on the carpet between Hazzard and Muzazi. "Big monster."


    Well, I can see that, Dragan angrily thought. But what is it? I assume the other Panacea did this?


    Pan nodded. "Probably. Other me made something new -- very difficult. Very angry, I think, when it gets here."


    Dragan paled. What¡¯ll it do when it gets here?


    "Kill you, dead boy. You said it -- the other me needs you deader than anyone."


    I didn¡¯t say that, Dragan glared. I thought it. You were listening in?


    "Always, dead boy." S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Enough of that. He didn¡¯t have time to play twenty-questions with Pan, not with that thing coming their way. It was slow -- he could see that as it dragged itself over the dunes -- but it was big, and that always won out in the end.


    He stepped forward. "It¡¯s after me."


    Muzazi shot him a strange look. "What? For what reason?"


    "Like I said," Dragan replied grimly. "I have the benign Panacea in my head --"


    "Who is Ben Ine, dead boy?"


    "-- I have the benign Panacea in my head, and the other Panacea wants to stop her from taking back over. Easiest way to do that, now, is to kill me. So I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s coming over to crush the building and step on me."


    Muzazi looked from Dragan to the beast in the distance, his hand worriedly squeezing the handle of his sword. Dragan didn¡¯t care how many cars Muzazi could throw around: he wasn¡¯t taking on a monster the size of a mountain.


    "Officer Hazzard¡­" he muttered, thumb tapping against his weapon. "If you have any suggestions?"


    Hazzard¡¯s hand slowly lowered from her communicator, and she took a deep and shaky breath. It was a surreal thing, to Dragan, to see a Gene Tyrant showing signs of anxiety. Hell, to see a Gene Tyrant period.


    If he hadn¡¯t known for a fact that Skipper had ¡¯killed¡¯ this woman more than once, he¡¯d never have guessed it.


    "I think," she said quietly. "That it¡¯s time for a group huddle."


    "Aren¡¯t you dead?" Skipper asked, sat in the plastic chair backwards.


    "Aether," Hazzard lied. "I got better."


    A smirk tugged at Skipper¡¯s lips. "Such magical stuff, huh?" he shot back, his voice droll.


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Ruth, for her part, was more occupied by the ice sculpture that was now the centerpiece of this laboratory. The Gene Tyrant that had taken the place of Titan Hessiah had been frozen mid-transformation, flesh trapped between one grotesque form and the next. The silent roar still warping his face was enough to send chills down your spine -- even without the frost on the glass.


    "You guys fought this?" Ruth asked, looking it up and down. "Damn."


    "We¡­ survived it," Muzazi replied, wincing as a memory of the battle clearly came back to him.


    As he spoke, he was watching Ruth carefully, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. Bruno, for his part, watched Muzazi just as carefully, hand casually close to his holstered pistol. At the first sign of attack from anyone, this place would become a bloodbath.


    Disaster had a way of putting powder kegs together like this. Dragan was reasonably sure that every person in this room had tried to kill another person in this room at some time or another.


    "Enough chit-chat, people," he called out, sliding his finger across the screen of his script. As he did so, the image displayed on it was projected as a hologram in their midst.


    A massive monster, covered in dark plates of armour, dragging itself across the desert -- in their direction. It was the size of White Village, and from the speed it was moving, it was clearly strong enough to demolish the ExoCorp building without much effort.


    "Big boy," Skipper whistled.


    Hazzard rolled her eyes. "Thank you for the observation." It seemed Dragan had found a kindred spirit.


    Marie Hazzard was another thing he found himself hesitating on. When his brain had put together those final connections as to her true identity, he hadn¡¯t believed it at first¡­ but when he¡¯d thought about it, really thought about it¡­ it was the only thing that made sense.


    The Gene Tyrant that had replaced Titan Hessiah would have been one that had survived the thousand years since the revolution. There was no way, after all that time, that he¡¯d have been sloppy enough to accidentally expose himself to two Special Officers. If he¡¯d been exposed, it would have been intentionally.


    And the only person a Gene Tyrant would intentionally reveal themselves to? Another of their own kind.


    For once, he had every intention of keeping quiet about it. The last thing he wanted was a pissed off Gene Tyrant coming after him.


    His eyes returned to the holographic monster pulling itself across the sands. Ruth had stepped up to it, squatting down so as to look at it from an equal height.


    "The hell is it?" she muttered, cocking her head. "Big spider?"


    Bruno crossed his arms. "There are vermin that look like that on this planet -- uh, but much smaller. I¡¯ve seen them in the bathrooms."


    Ruth wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Seriously? In the bathrooms?"


    Serena¡¯s frown spread across Bruno¡¯s face. "I know!" she cried. "It¡¯s so gross, right?"


    "If we could return to the topic at hand," Muzazi cleared his throat, pointing his sword at the hologram. "Judging from its speed and gait, we have around four hours until that beast reaches us. Once that happens, though, it¡¯ll be far too late to do anything about it."


    "Do anything about it?" Dragan raised an eyebrow. "What exactly were you intending to do about it?"


    Muzazi answered it as if it was a serious question. "Intervene."


    "How?" Dragan scoffed. "That spider¡¯s a little too big for you to cut it up with your sword, isn¡¯t it?"


    The Special Officer didn¡¯t answer straight away. Instead, he exchanged a glance with his partner, took a deep breath -- and only then did he look to Dragan again.


    "We were hoping you would have an answer for that."


    Dragan blinked. "Huh?"


    Hazzard stuffed her hands into her pockets as she sauntered over to Dragan. He did his best to hide it, but his body tensed up as she approached. This was a thing that could probably bite his head off with the barest of efforts, after all.


    "You said it yourself," she said, raising her eyebrows. "More than once. You¡¯ve got the benign Panacea inside your head, waiting to take back control. Any insight you can give us?"


    All eyes were on Dragan, even those of his own crew. Swallowing, he put a hand to his chin.


    "Well," he ventured. "Right now, the other Pan wants me dead specifically. I¡¯m guessing she can sense where I am because of the connection she established during the last attack. If we move me somewhere else -- maybe somewhere a little more remote -- this thing might change direction to pursue me? At least that way the ticking clock wouldn¡¯t be so bad."


    Muzazi clicked his tongue. "That would be difficult." With an extravagant wave of his hand, the hologram zoomed in -- displaying the horde of teeming Repurposed that flowed like an ocean around the monster¡¯s feet. "They¡¯re considerably faster than the beast itself. If we tried to get you away using the means available to us, it¡¯s almost certain they¡¯d catch up to us outside the safety of this building."


    Bruno muttered a curse. "So they saw our strategy coming."


    "It would appear so."


    Another glance was exchanged between Muzazi and Hazzard. He nodded, just slightly, and she began speaking.


    "Building on that idea, though," she held up a finger. "My and Officer Muzazi¡¯s ship is still intact, as far as we know. If one of us -- not Hadrien -- was to go and retrieve it, bring it back here, we could take him up into space and out of this thing¡¯s reach. I mean¡­" she gestured towards the hologram. "It¡¯s not exactly flying, right?"


    That did sound like a good idea. Dragan opened his mouth to agree, but was cut off by the voice in his head.


    "No, dead boy," Pan frowned, sitting upon a desk. "Will not work."


    Dragan sighed. "Pan says it won¡¯t work."


    Hazzard¡¯s raised finger fell limp. "Well, does she say why?" she asked, annoyance obvious in her tone.


    "Too far away," Pan answered. "I cannot become if we are in space. We lose our chance. Red me wins if we leave planet."


    Dragan was in the middle of relaying that back when Skipper interrupted. He¡¯d been quiet for a while, eyes flicking from one speaker to the next.


    "Gotta say, guys," he said, cracking his neck. "All these plans aren¡¯t really doing it for me. It¡¯s all run away, run away. How come we can¡¯t stand and fight?"


    Hazzard looked down at him, eyes cold. "You want to fight that thing?" she asked. "We can¡¯t fight that. It¡¯d crush us just by accident."


    "Nah, nah," Skipper grinned his easy grin. "Of course we can fight it. If we¡¯ve got a plan."


    "And you do?" Muzazi asked.


    Skipper stood up from his chair, kicking it out of the way as he strode forward to the hologram. "¡¯Course I do. Tell me what you make of this, guys and gals."


    He flicked his fingers, and the angle of the hologram shifted, displaying the strange cord that was protruding from the beast¡¯s underside. The fleshy tendril trailed behind the monster, falling into the ravine it had emerged from and leading down into the darkness.


    Serena nodded sagely. "That¡¯s its dick." She thumped her fist into her palm.


    "No. It is not genitalia," Muzazi declared. He turned his gaze to Skipper. "I was wondering about this as well. You¡¯ve identified it?"


    "Maybe." Skipper tapped the holographic cord with his foot, and it fizzled in the air. "I¡¯ve been thinking: if the Repurposed could bust something out this big, why not do it from the start? Would¡¯ve saved them a lotta trouble."


    The pieces connected in Dragan¡¯s head. "Because it¡¯s risky."


    "Correctamundo, Mr. Hadrien," Skipper waved a metal finger. "The other Repurposed -- apart from the Dead Hand -- operated on instinct, too, while this one¡¯s got an objective in mind. I¡¯m thinking that cord¡¯s some kind of direct connection, letting the Panacea control this body it¡¯s created. So¡­"


    Muzazi nodded. "We sever that cord, we disable the beast."


    "And correctamundo, Mr. Muzazi," Skipper waved the finger again.


    Hazzard bit her lip, looking the hologram up and down. She put a hand on her hip. "You¡¯re making it sound easy. That cord¡¯s gonna be just as regenerative as the rest of the Repurposed. You¡¯d have to get through the whole thing in one shot. That¡¯d be¡­ difficult."


    "Well¡­" Skipper grinned, cracking his good knuckles. "Lucky for you, I¡¯m a pretty difficult guy."

 Chapter 204:8.23: Riding the Sands

    Dragan Hadrien stared down at the floor as the elevator descended, doing his best not to look at the Special Officer next to him.


    Atoy Muzazi stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back, doing his best not to look at the Cogitant next to him.


    The ride down to the ExoCorp garages was long and laborious. The awkward silence stretched on. Dragan vaguely thought about clearing his throat, but the atmosphere in this little oblong was such that he barely dared considering it. Floor numbers flicked across the monitor above the door.


    When noise finally broke into the space, it came from Atoy Muzazi¡¯s mouth.


    "So," he said, voice low. "It¡¯s been a while."


    "Yep," Dragan fidgeted.


    "When we last met, I recall you abandoning me to the mercies of the Fifth Dead. Do you recall?"


    Dragan glanced away. "Sort of."


    "Sort of?" Muzazi murmured quietly, only the slightest anger audible in his tone. "I¡¯m surprised you can only ¡¯sort of¡¯ remember it. It was very memorable for me, after all. But I suppose you weren¡¯t fighting."


    "I hardly abandoned you," Dragan rolled his eyes. "Besides, there¡¯s no way you¡¯d have died to someone like that anyway. You¡¯re way too strong for that."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow, still staring straight ahead at the door. "Could that be a compliment, Hadrien?"


    "Savour it. You¡¯re probably not getting another one."


    The doors opened, revealing the garage beyond. It was packed with jeeps and atmospheric craft, all of which looked to have seen better days. Smoke was still pouring out of several upturned vehicles.


    "Apparently," Muzazi said, stepping out. "The Dead Hand attacked this place here when they first became infected -- no doubt to prevent us from making an easy escape."


    "They¡¯ll still make good cover," Dragan commented, inspecting a jeep on its side as they passed it.


    "I¡¯ve found that vehicles generally don¡¯t respond well to sustained gunfire," Muzazi said, with the closest thing to sarcasm he was capable of. "You¡¯ve had a different experience?"


    Dragan stopped and turned to Muzazi, frowning.


    "The Dead Hand were the only Repurposed that could use guns," he explained. "And if we¡¯ve done our counting right, there¡¯s only two of them left. Cover like this will suffice against the rank and file."


    "Leave it to you to seek a hiding place first," Muzazi sighed, continuing his stroll to their ultimate destination.


    "Excuse me?"


    "I said nothing," Muzazi lied.


    A couple of refugees hurried past them as they walked, carrying boxes of supplies in their arms. They¡¯d decided it was too risky for Dragan to take part in the operation to destroy the incoming beast directly -- so he and Muzazi had been assigned here, where the smaller Repurposed would likely try to breach the tower.


    It¡¯s the weakest point, Skipper had said. They¡¯ll go for it as their entrance -- guaranteed.


    Some rudimentary barricades had already been set up, with the more hardened miners and security officers standing by with the weapons they¡¯d scrounged together. They¡¯d managed to set up some sentry guns too, the automatic weapons ready to fire at any threat that presented itself.


    All their eyes and all their guns were fixed on a single point.


    At the massive garage doors -- where they all knew the enemy would break through to kill them.


    Dragan swallowed as they came to a stop in the midst of the preparations.


    "There¡¯s a non-zero chance we will die here," Muzazi quietly spoke, closing his eyes. "So I suppose I should ask you now."


    "Ask me what?" Dragan murmured.


    "Why did you leave the Supremacy?"


    Dragan shot him an annoyed glance. "You already asked me this, back on Taldan. I answered you."


    Muzazi shook his head. "I asked you why you betrayed me," he said. "And you answered that. But why abandon the Supremacy altogether? Your circumstances were dire, so was it simple self-preservation? Was there some ideal behind it?"


    "I¡­"


    Dragan opened his mouth, but the words would not come. In truth, this was a question he¡¯d already asked himself many times. Back at the start of this journey, he¡¯d admonished himself for being stupid enough to abandon all he had for some strangers he barely knew. Now, though, it had softened to a vague curiosity.


    One that was difficult to put into words.


    Muzazi¡¯s gaze hardened. "Don¡¯t let me die wondering, Dragan," he said, almost beseechingly. "I want to understand what has happened this last year. For my own peace of mind, if nothing else."


    Dragan looked off to the sealed doors, and spoke. Even he didn¡¯t know what he was going to say until the words left his mouth.


    "The Supremacy was¡­ cold, I guess," he said. "I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s the right word, really -- but it¡¯s the only one I can think of. It was a cold place, like you were climbing over people to do anything, and I felt like it made me cold too. Part of that was just me, I guess, but¡­ the Supremacy made me a worse version of myself. You had to become like that just to get anywhere. And I¡­ I felt what it was like to be something else, just for a little bit, and I guess I must have liked it. I didn¡¯t want to go back to being me. I wanted to be happy."


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Atoy Muzazi said nothing in response.


    "I don¡¯t know if I had that in my head at the time," Dragan concluded. "But when I think about when I shot you, that¡¯s what comes to mind."


    Muzazi¡¯s sigh filled the space -- and despite the sounds of machinery and busy preparation, that quiet breath seemed the loudest thing in the world.


    "I see," he murmured. "Yes. Yes, I think I can understand that. And¡­ are you happy?"


    That was much easier to answer. "I don¡¯t know."


    Muzazi frowned, raising an eyebrow.


    "You never know if you were happy until it¡¯s over," Dragan explained.


    Skipper stood up in the back of the jeep, grinning to himself as he watched the incoming horde through his binoculars.


    "Damn," he whistled. "That¡¯s a whole lotta shit coming our way."


    The massive monster -- shaking the earth with every step it took -- was only the beginning. The real concern, as far as Skipper saw it, was the mass of Repurposed that teemed at its feet. Looked like the entire population of White Village was coming at them.


    The Panacea Walker (it was called that now, Skipper had just decided) was slow and clumsy: all Skipper had to do was not let it step on him. Against that teeming horde of fast Repurposed, however, Skipper had to keep track of dozens of infinitely regenerative enemies while making his way to the Walker¡¯s weak spot. Under these circumstances, he couldn¡¯t use any of the methods confirmed to permanently kill Repurposed, either -- they¡¯d hardly let him take his time with the ol¡¯ nine-by-nine gambit.


    "I won¡¯t have time to fight my way through properly, kiddo," he called down to Ruth, stood next to the jeep. "You got my back?"


    Ruth nodded, stretching her legs, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Her Skeletal Set already covered her body, crimson Aether sparking around her joints.


    Skipper clipped his binoculars to his belt and cracked his own neck.


    "My normal Bayonet¡¯s not gonna be enough to cut through something that big," he said, looking at the cord. "When I whistle, that¡¯ll be the signal, yeah? Hit me with a R¨¦volutionnaire boost. That¡¯ll give me what I need."


    He didn¡¯t look back at her, but he knew that Ruth had understood. When it came to combat, she never missed a trick.


    Of course, he¡¯d considered using his ¡¯secret weapon¡¯ to take out the Walker, but the conditions weren¡¯t right for it. Heartbeat Freedom would have to wait.


    "Bruno," he called back to the driver¡¯s seat of the hovering jeep. "Once we start going for it, don¡¯t stop plowing through until the job is done. If I can¡¯t get into position, there¡¯s no point. You get me?"


    "Yep," Bruno¡¯s gruff voice came through loud and clear.


    Skipper grinned. "And don¡¯t let Serena drive."


    "Hey!"


    He ignored that, taking a deep breath through his nose. He crouched down, holding the sides of the jeep¡¯s back-carriage for support. The grin faded from his face, his features turning slack and serious.


    "Almost time," he muttered, watching as the shapes on the horizon grew larger and larger. "The second we get the all-clear, we start."


    In the main security room, Marie put a hand to her chin as she circled the hologram of the incoming enemies, watching for any signs that would disrupt their plan.


    So far, the Repurposed were acting exactly as she¡¯d hoped -- the horde was moving with the monster, keeping step with it, only maneuvering enough not to be crushed underfoot. It was like they were on autopilot. A straight line of nightmares, heading towards them at a leisurely pace.


    The hologram flickered and warped as it updated every few seconds -- Ansem del Day Away¡¯s micro-automatics were circling far above the horde, capturing the images this hologram was generated from.


    Everything was going as she¡¯d anticipated. She put a finger to her communicator, ready to give Skipper the signal.


    And yet¡­


    The slight buzz of the communication channel cut off, the signal going dead. The lights flicked out, plunging them into darkness. The hologram flickered out of existence.


    In the dark, one of the officers cried out in alarm.


    All Marie could do was scowl a not entirely surprised scowl. It had begun.


    The machine John Blair had spent the last hour constructing exploded into a shower of sparks as its purpose was fulfilled. Watching from the desert ridge, he could see the lights on the outside of the ExoCorp building go out all at once. The stage had been set.


    As he moved his now considerable bulk, he kept his tattered cloak covering him with one massive hand. Taking Pion¡¯s strength had truly been the right decision -- not only did he feel power coursing through every cell, but his comrade¡¯s thoughts of creation and innovation flooded through his mind without cease.


    As he had been before, he¡¯d never have been able to construct such a useful mechanism.


    Dimly, he felt confusion in the back of his head -- what was left of Pion, vaguely wondering what had happened to it. With a shake of his head -- bleached white hair flapping this way and that -- he banished it to the deepest subconscious.


    As he stood to his full height -- now at least eight feet -- he grabbed the handle of his other creation, pulling the massive plasma cannon up with him. A day ago, this would have taken all his strength to carry, but now he held it in one hand as easily as a briefcase.


    The massive cylinder shone in the sun, barrel glinting with promise. Adjusting his hood to give himself a better view, Blair slung the weapon over his shoulder and carefully aimed at the sealed garage doors. That would be his best point of entry -- the security forces would be spread thin by their focus on the other Repurposed.


    Expert Opinion.


    Red Aether crackled around Blair¡¯s hands as the weapon melted and reformed in his grip -- optimised in both form and function. Pion¡¯s Aether ability had been specialised for his hobby as a craftsman: the cannon would now output the maximum amount of power without fail.


    Blair closed one eye, perfecting his aim.


    What made a god a god? S§×ar?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    This moment, right here.


    His finger pulled the trigger, and the lance of plasma that surged forth blew the sealed doors open in one shot.


    Skipper frowned as the communicator went dead, plucking the device out of his ear and shaking it as if that would fix the issue. It didn¡¯t. He exchanged a glance with Ruth.


    "What¡¯s going on?" she asked, concerned.


    "No clue," Skipper muttered, before looking again at the horizon. With a shrug, he stuffed his communicator back into his pocket. Trails of emerald Aether crawled across his arms. "Looks like we¡¯re on our own, though."


    Welp -- with things like this, nobody else was going to give them the go-ahead.


    "Bruno," he grinned, more than a little manic. "Let¡¯s get going!"


    Bruno¡¯s foot smashed down on the accelerator.

 Chapter 205:8.24: Red and Orange and All the World

    Dragan coughed as smoke poured through the garage, the aftermath of a mighty explosion. He was about to fall to his knees, but Muzazi seized him by the back of the collar, pulling him back to his feet.


    That single blow of light and fury had cracked the garage doors open, the warped metal allowing harsh sunlight to infiltrate the space. A few seconds before the explosion, the power had gone off -- and so that unwelcome light was the only illumination they were offered.


    "What happened?" Muzazi wheezed, covering his mouth. His sharp eyes were focused directly on the entrance.


    "Some kind of EMP?" Dragan ventured, filing through the possibilities in his Archive. "Knock out the power to cut us off from each other, then begin the attack?"


    It made sense. It was a little more technical than he¡¯d expect from an evil mushroom, but¡­


    "Something coming, dead boy," Pan whispered. She was stood by one of the now-dead sentry guns, a worried look on her face. "Something coming¡­"


    A shadow rose through the sunlight, like a monster under the waves of the ocean. Glowing red eyes peeled through the dark. It stepped forward on massive feet, each footfall a resounding thump.


    "What makes a god a god?"


    John Blair had changed since the last time Dragan had seen him.


    He was taller, for one -- nearly eight feet, with grotesquely engorged musculature, such that he looked like he could strangle someone with a finger. His blonde hair had been bleached to a shock of white, crimson Aether coursing through it as it billowed in the wind. Angry red veins, as thick as electric cables, ran across his bare chest.


    His eyes shone like twin stars, scarlet malevolence pouring over every person in the room. A plate of bone -- growing out of his jaw -- covered his mouth. He held his hand up and flexed his fingers, as if still getting used to his new form. Those red lights turned to look directly at Dragan.


    "I¡¯ll show you," he continued, voice a demonic rumble. "Right here. Right now."


    There was a moment of fool¡¯s tranquility, a few seconds before violence erupted. Atoy Muzazi drew his blade from his sheath. Dragan Hadrien let his pistols fall into his hands from his holsters. The gathered fighters, plasma rifles still in their grip, aimed them at the intruder.


    Someone gulped.


    With a storm of red Aether, Blair bounded forwards -- arm pulled back to reduce Dragan to a smear with a single mighty blow. The rain of plasmafire missed him completely, the burning deluge falling onto the spot he¡¯d just been standing.


    Dragan and Muzazi acted at the same time.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan vanished into his Aether, the only trace of him being a few stray sparks snuffed out by Blair¡¯s fist. The attack struck the ground where Dragan had just been standing, shattering the concrete and forming a crater from the sheer impact.


    Muzazi slashed at the exposed arm with his sword as it came down -- slicing between two of the fingers and splitting the limb lengthwise. As he pulled his blade free with a thruster-assisted tug, he leapt to the side of his enemy, attempting to get into his blind spot.


    Through his observation, Dragan watched as another tendril of red Aether appeared behind Blair -- coalescing into a massive construct. A mixture between a clock and a coat of arms, with four emblems arranged around it.


    Blue eye. Cogitant.


    Golden eye. Pugnant.


    Black eye. Umbrant.


    Melting eye. By means of elimination, either Crownless or Scurrant.


    The hand of the clock hovered over the blue eye.


    As Muzazi moved, Blair responded in a flash -- swinging his body around as he unleashed a devastating roundhouse kick. It was fast, monstrously fast, and the thrusters that sparked across Muzazi¡¯s body only allowed him to dodge it by a single hair. Some of the rubble, catapulted by the kick, smashed into the opposite wall with a sound like a bomb going off.


    Gemini World.


    As Blair¡¯s foot came back down, Dragan appeared in the air above him -- posed like he was diving into a lake, his pistols extended down in front of his gaze. As he fell, he fired -- the first few plasma shots slamming into the top of Blair¡¯s skull. As his head snapped up, Dragan could see that he had already done his damage: parts of his crown had begun to melt and crumble, one of Blair¡¯s eyes jiggling in place as the foundations of the socket weakened.


    Dragan continued to fall, continued to fire -- and as he did, Muzazi slashed his sword at Blair¡¯s legs. The blade penetrated, but not far enough: lodging in the middle of Blair¡¯s log-like thigh. The Repurposed didn¡¯t even look at the source of the injury.


    His eyes were still fixed on Dragan, after all. He spread his hands wide, ready to smash Dragan¡¯s head between them the moment he came into view. Dragan did not falter -- he continued to fire, shots scorching and melting, for every second that he could.


    The hands came together, so fast they were little more than blurs.


    Gemini World.


    An instant of pain before he vanished: he¡¯d misjudged his timing.


    When he decided to reappear, he would be injured -- Pan would heal him before long, of course, but there¡¯d still be a time when he¡¯d be vulnerable. As quietly as he could, Dragan manifested himself behind a fallen shell of a truck, doing his best to keep himself out of sight.


    His arm had been crushed by that attack, bone breaking through the skin around the elbow and protruding grotesquely. Dragan bit down on his good hand to suppress the screaming as Panacea pooled out from the wounded tissue, coating his injury and beginning to make the necessary repairs. The damaged arm sloughed away with a curious lack of pain and the replacement began to grow.


    Hurry, he urged the mushrooms.


    "Hurrying, dead boy," they answered with a mutter.


    As his arm grew back, Dragan peeked out of cover. He couldn¡¯t imagine Blair was just sitting there waiting while Dragan made a run for it -- and in this case, he was right.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Muzazi was fighting admirably. At first, his sword was still lodged in Blair¡¯s leg -- but with a flash of thruster fire, the weapon completed its path, severing the limb and sending it flying off into the distance. Blair fell forward, landing on his hands and remaining knee, reduced to an organic tripod by Muzazi¡¯s assault.


    The Special Officer thrust his sword forwards to capitalize on the opening, aiming right for Blair¡¯s still-cracked forehead. No doubt he aimed to destroy Blair¡¯s brain and put him out of commission for quite a while. But he had overcommitted.


    The clock behind Blair switched from Cogitant to Pugnant.


    The already absurd muscles of Blair¡¯s body swelled, and he swung one of his massive arms towards the incoming enemy with a roar of animalistic fury. Muzazi dodged backwards flawlessly, of course -- but the air pressure of the swing was like a solid object all by itself, and it slammed into him with all the grace of a speeding car.


    He went flying backwards, smashing through the makeshift barricades. By the time Atoy Muzazi had landed in a heap, John Blair¡¯s severed leg had already grown back.


    As had Dragan Hadrien¡¯s arm. No rest for the wicked.


    Dragan leapt out of cover, charging straight towards Blair. As he ran, he scooped up gravel with his hands, tossing it ahead of himself and absorbing it into Gemini Shotgun. Sixty-six, no, sixty-seven shots in total -- but they¡¯d be weak enough that he¡¯d go through them quickly.


    The clock behind Blair switched from Pugnant to Umbrant, and the growling from his throat was silenced like a muted videograph.


    As Blair swung around to intercept his incoming foe, Dragan fired a volley of shots directly at his face. Streaks of blue, like shooting stars, slammed into Blair¡¯s eyes, hollowing out the front of his head and blinding him for a moment.


    Not to be deterred, the massive man stepped forward and unleashed a blind punch in Dragan¡¯s direction. Unguided as it was, it still would have been more than enough to send Dragan¡¯s head flying off. Within a split-second, Dragan¡¯s field of view was consumed utterly by the massive incoming knuckles.


    No time to dodge.


    Gemini World.


    Gemini World.


    It was the work of a moment -- an execution of the technique that looked more like teleportation than anything. The punch missed Dragan by inches, and as he continued to run along the length of his arm he pelted the limb with the remainder of his Gemini Shotgun.


    The meat was pulped and filetted, the bone cracked and snapped, and finally the arm was torn free of the body. Dragan leapt through the opening that provided, avoiding a swing of the bone stump -- and fired his pistol downwards, incinerating some of Blair¡¯s toes.


    If John Blair still felt pain, he showed no signs of it. His eyes remained unburdened, his mouth remained a flat line -- and as he brought his good foot down towards Dragan¡¯s head in a devastating stomp, he made not a sound.


    Using Gemini World so many times in such quick succession wasn¡¯t a good idea. Sooner or later, the mental fatigue would lead him to make a mistake -- if he wasn¡¯t careful, he could reappear missing a limb or even some organs.


    "Why¡¯s that so bad, dead boy?" Pan asked.


    Huh?


    Dragan caught the foot as it came down, Aether coursing through his arms to stop them from snapping under the immense pressure. Even so, his knees buckled under the weight, his hands shaking as his physical strength was pushed to its utter limits.


    He didn¡¯t have the strength to push the leg away and move without being crushed. He didn¡¯t have the strength to hold it up forever. He didn¡¯t¡­ he couldn¡¯t¡­


    At the very edge of his hearing, he could hear Atoy Muzazi getting to his feet. He could hear plasma raining down on Blair¡¯s back, repelled by his Aether defenses. He could hear his own bones creaking, beginning to ever-so-slightly crack.


    And then, he could hear¡­


    "There you are," said a voice like hell.


    A crimson forest spread out around him, formed from brain matter and nerves and the smoke of wasted blood. In the hollow sky, a black sun hung bleeding.


    Dragan could not move.


    He could not move because he lacked a body with which to move. He did not have skin, or arms or legs, or even a beating heart. He had bark and crumbling leaves. He was a tree, his branches torturously spread out like angry veins.


    The barest impression of a face protruded from the surface of this form, allowing Dragan to see and breathe. He stared ahead, blue eyes watering, as the crimson coalesced before him.


    Like smoke trapped in a fist, the scarlet assumed the form of the red girl. White hair fluttered in an assumed wind, and a cruel smile played across her lips. As she walked towards Dragan, the undergrowth slithered away to grant her passage.


    "This is misguided, my other self," she said, her voice as firm as gravity. "To put your hopes in something like this?"


    Dragan tried to open his mouth to say something, but the only thing that resulted was hacked-up leaves. The red girl chuckled mockingly.


    She reached out and caressed his cheek with the gentleness of a subtle knife.


    "If only you¡¯d never existed," she purred -- the old words sending a jolt down Dragan¡¯s back like lightning. "Such a pest. Such an¡­ inconvenience, dead boy."


    Dragan could not speak, but he mouthed the words anyway: fuck you.


    The smile dropped from the girl¡¯s face, leaving only burning malice. "You want to kill me, don¡¯t you? To hurt me? That¡¯s your nature. That desire to inflict pain, right now -- that is your truest self. That is why you deserve this."


    Dragan just glared, and the girl let go of his face. Her glaring eyes burrowed into his soul.


    "It doesn¡¯t matter," she growled. "In a few moments, you will be dead -- and that will be the end of it." S§×ar?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "No," said a voice from behind her.


    Slowly, with a frown of annoyance on her face, the red girl turned -- to look at the orange girl standing on the other side of the clearing. Pan stared at her other self with determination, even as the crimson air pressed against her with crushing force. Her eyes, usually hidden, were bright and clear.


    "I am doing this to protect you," the red girl said, with the exasperation of a parent reprimanding a child.


    "Doesn¡¯t matter," Pan said. "If this is protecting, then I don¡¯t want it. Stop hurting dead boy. Stop hurting people."


    The black sun opened a massive red iris, staring down at the land below. It¡¯s pupil was focused directly on Pan¡¯s defiance.


    "You¡¯ll have to make me," the red girl whispered.


    Pan nodded. "Okay," she said, spreading her arms wide. "Then I make you. Fucko."


    The world exploded into orange light.


    As Dragan came to, still holding up Blair¡¯s foot, he found himself gasping for breath. It was like he¡¯d just come up from the bottom of the ocean.


    Blair flinched, blinking rapidly -- and Dragan took the opportunity to push him away with all his strength. The giant staggered backwards, each step cracking the ground. One hand went to his regenerating skull, as if to soothe a headache.


    "What¡­" he growled. "Did you do¡­?!"


    Dragan had no answer for that.


    "Hadrien!" cried Muzazi -- and Dragan turned just in time to see the Special Officer hurl his shining sword with all his strength. For a split second -- as the sword hurtled towards him -- Dragan thought the warrior had turned traitor.


    An attack?


    No.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The sword vanished just before it would have hit Dragan -- then reappeared, flying at a new angle with far superior speed¡­ right towards the recovering Blair. It speared right through his torso, sending him flying across the room and pinning him against the concrete wall.


    Dragan let out a breath he felt he¡¯d been holding in for a long time --


    -- and then the second tier of Blair¡¯s ring appeared.

 Chapter 206:8.25: Full Dark No Stars

    The jeep plowed through the first wave of Repurposed, meat and limbs flying every which way. Skipper, mounting the bonnet, fired repeated Heartbeat Shotguns ahead of them to clear as much of a path as possible. Ruth crouched behind him, claws buried in the metal for purchase -- her eyes flicking around as she waited to be needed.


    Skipper wrinkled his nose in disgust at the human tide: the Repurposed of White Village had mutated further since he¡¯d last seen them.


    Last time, they¡¯d at least been recognisable as people, but no longer. Their skin was layered and curled like rotting wallpaper, piles of epidermis attempting to regenerate on top of each other. Eyes and tiny wiggling fingers grew directly out of their body, sometimes into solid protruding structures like coral. Through their open, screaming mouths, Skipper could see new skulls waiting to burrow free.


    Poor bastards.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Although the Repurposed were mostly eviscerated by the speed of the vehicle and Skipper¡¯s attacks, some chunks got caught in the workings of the jeep -- quickly beginning to regenerate back into their full forms. Ruth didn¡¯t hesitate: like a predatory insect, she scuttled across the outside of the speeding vehicle, slicing meat and nerves free to be pushed away by the wind.


    Ruth was efficient, but she wouldn¡¯t be able to do that forever. Eventually, the Repurposed would accumulate too much and the jeep would be destroyed. Skipper tightened his grip on the car beneath him as he looked up at the walking monolith, growing closer in his vision.


    With each step, the Panacea Walker sent billowing clouds of sand and dust raging throughout the land below. A single step would be enough to crush all of them to paste, Aether be damned, but it didn¡¯t appear to have taken notice of them -- and even if it did, it was much too slow to reliably catch them.


    Their target trailed behind it, the umbilical cord that stretched across the landscape, the inexorable movement of the Walker making it slither like a snake. Ideally, Skipper would have liked to circle all the way around and slice the cord at the source -- but with the layout of the valley, doing that would have meant giving the Walker time enough to reach the ExoCorp building.


    And that was the lose condition.


    Skipper let loose another flurry of Shotguns as they zoomed towards the cord in the distance as quickly as possible. His grip tightened once more.


    Hang in there, guys, he beseeched. Hang the hell in there.


    Atoy Muzazi leapt towards the pinned enemy, his feet slamming against their chest. He seized Luminescence¡¯s hilt, still protruding from the beast¡¯s torso -- and pulled it free, blood gushing generously from the wound.


    It had not been an ideal move. The clock-like construct that hovered behind John Blair had grown larger, gaining a second ring. The wise thing to do would have been to stay back and see what the enemy was now capable of.


    But that would have meant abandoning Luminescence.


    Muzazi kicked off Blair¡¯s body as the Repurposed swiped at him with his bulky forearm, the blow narrowly missing. His thrusters sent him flying across the room -- boots kicking up sparks as he ground to a halt at a safe distance. He swiped Luminescence through the air, blood splattering off the blade and coating the floor.


    As quickly as he could, he scanned the new ring. Another four symbols -- a pair of wings, a scorpion tail, a set of claws, and what seemed to be a normal human figure. The second hand of the clock, coming into existence with the second tier, landed on the wings.


    What happened next was grotesque, but not especially surprising. Blair¡¯s eyes snapped open to their utmost, bulging out of their sockets, and a low groan escaped his throat.


    Burst.


    Flesh and blood exploded out of his back as -- like parasites exiting their hosts -- twin leather wings crawled free, writhing through the air like ghosts. Their wingspan was as big as the rest of Blair¡¯s body, and the muscle that supported them was just as grotesque. They flapped in place, air broiling from the pressure.


    Muzazi took a deep breath, holding his blade ready as he adjusted his stance. He could feel it: the tempo of the battle would change from here on out. Muzazi and Hadrien had been pursuing this man, wearing him down, but now the opposite would begin.


    Blair looked down, his agony ceasing as the wings straightened out. His eyes gleamed with malice.


    But they did not look at Muzazi, nor Hadrien. They looked at the miners gathered behind them. The wings began to move.


    Muzazi whirled around, injecting Aether into his vocal cords to give his voice the power it needed: "Run!"


    Too late.


    Blair¡¯s speed, born of flight and Aether, was such that Muzazi did not have time to intercept him. A blur of crimson movement rushed between himself and Hadrien, slamming into the assembled soldiers.


    The resultant sound was grotesque. Screams, the cracking of limbs, the snaps of bones, meat¡­ when Blair stood up from his work, the front of his body was entirely coated in blood. One surviving miner, his legs pulped, tried to pull himself across the floor -- but a stomp on his head put a quick end to that.


    Hadrien¡¯s ranged attack, fired too slow, struck the ceiling.


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes, drawing Luminescence back as he pointed it towards Blair. "You will pay for that, cur," he snarled. "I shall take your head from your shoulders."


    Blair raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he luxuriated in his crimson work. "You can do that as many times as you like -- but tell me. What makes a king a king?"


    Flash. Crackle.


    Muzazi¡¯s Aether, spurred on by duty, flared around him like an incandescent aura. Luminescence shone like the surface of a star, white light piercing through the darkness. When he adjusted his footing, Aether sparked through the now empty space.


    "Virtue," he snarled, hot anger running through his veins. "And willingness to protect. That is what makes a king a king. You are nothing but a pauper!"


    He was just about to rush forward, to allow Luminescence to dance, to demonstrate to this beast just what kind of mistake he had made -- when his communicator clicked back on.


    "Atoy," Marie breathed, her panic audible. "We have a problem."


    Dragan kept his eyes fixed on the second ring of the Aether construct as he raised his pistols, firing them at Blair.


    His method of fire had become rather strange -- he¡¯d shoot plasma from his pistols, absorb them into Gemini Shotgun nearly immediately, then fire them again using his Aether. Lances of blue and orange erupted from over his shoulders, zooming towards Blair at monstrous speeds.


    In response, Blair took flight -- his mighty wings propelling him up towards the ceiling. Then, kicking off the ceiling, he lunged towards Dragan in a divebomb, outstretched hands ready to crush him in their grip.


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    Gemini World.


    Dragan vanished -- and then reappeared directly above Blair, touching down on his back as he landed. He extended his arms out either side, firing repeatedly at Blair¡¯s wings, the plasma slowly but surely melting through the leather membranes.


    A snarl of pain, and Blair¡¯s mangled wings bent backwards at unnatural angles, trying to spear Dragan through on their protruding bones. One aimed for between his ribs, the other for his throat.


    Gemini World.


    Again, Dragan used the technique in a split-second -- avoiding the attacks and reappearing a short distance away. He let out a deep breath as Blair turned back around, eyes narrowed in frustration.


    That time he had definitely felt it. It had taken only a fraction of a second to activate Gemini World, but he was sure it had started at his head and then spread out to the rest of him. That was how Blair had inflicted damage on him the last time he¡¯d used it.


    Pan¡¯s words had turned his eyes to it. Gemini World was not instantaneous: it took hold gradually throughout his body. Was that something he could actually use, though, or mere trivia?


    The clock above Blair turned once more, and three things happened at once. His damaged wings drooped and crumbled into dust, and his eyes shone blue with Cogitant intellect. With another explosion of gore, Blair¡¯s tailbone burst free from his back, writhing and elongating in the air until it became more akin to a scorpion¡¯s tail, tip gleaming with deadly promise.


    Whatever this Aether ability was, it seemed to give Blair the ability to alter his own form -- to a limited extent. The first ring gave him the properties of different subspecies, while the alterations granted by the second were somewhat more¡­ extreme. Dragan couldn¡¯t imagine him being able to do that before the Panacea had messed him up.


    Blair¡¯s tail lashed out at Dragan, stretching across half the room in a moment -- but before it could strike true, Muzazi charged in and parried it with his own blade. Standing in front of Dragan, he repelled two more strikes before glancing over his shoulder.


    "My partner¡¯s gotten into contact with me," he said, sword still ready. "There¡¯s an issue -- Repurposed have entered the building through another path, and they¡¯re headed for the lab."


    The tail lashed out again -- and though Muzazi blocked it, the momentum of the impact still sent him skidding backwards somewhat.


    Dragan felt the colour drain from his face as he digested Muzazi¡¯s words. If Repurposed were heading for the lab, there was only one thing they could be going for, wasn¡¯t there? The last thing they needed was another Gene Tyrant running around.


    The choice he made surprised even himself.


    "Go," he said decisively, steadying his grip on his pistols as he took a step forward.


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "Hadrien?"


    Dragan gulped, staring up at the approaching giant. "I¡¯ll stop him here. You go to the lab and stop the Repurposed there. There¡¯s no time to argue."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes flicked between Dragan and Blair, clearly wrestling with the issue in his head. He sucked in air through his teeth.


    "I will be back as soon as I can," he said solemnly. "Do not die, Dragan Hadrien."


    Dragan smirked with confidence he didn¡¯t feel, aiming his pistols at Blair¡¯s hulking form. "I¡¯ll do my best." As he stared at his incoming enemy, he heard the quick clatter of Muzazi¡¯s retreating footsteps.


    The plate of bone still covered Blair¡¯s mouth, but Dragan could tell he was smiling from the lines of his eyes.


    "That was a foolish thing you just did," Blair said, his voice an arrogant rumble. "Together, you just managed to survive me. Alone, you¡¯re just meat."


    Electric-blue Aether crackled through Dragan¡¯s arms, through his pistols, and coalesced at the barrel of each. His fingers curled around the triggers.


    He had to be right. Surely, he had to be right. There was no universe where that guy would be anywhere but here, watching the show. Surely, surely, he had to be here.


    "I¡¯m not alone," Dragan said clearly, hoping beyond hope that those words were true. "Right?"


    For a moment, the only sound was Blair¡¯s amused chuckle. Then, however, there was the unmistakable sigh of an invisible man. An invisible man that would have never missed a show like this.


    "You¡¯re damn lucky I¡¯m a softie," North said. "Nightmare Underground: Eleven Devils in the Rain."


    Muzazi sped through the building, thrusters granting him speed beyond human limits. His feet barely touched the floor as the jets of light from his arms and back pushed him forward, weaving his way through stairwells and hallways. Blood dribbled from his wounds, aggravated by the stress of movement, but he dared not delay -- after all, he was needed.


    Even with all that speed, however, he was too late. That was obvious the moment he arrived at the lab.


    The devastation spoke for itself.


    The guards they had left to keep watch over the frozen Gene Tyrant had been pulped, crushed, battered. One body had even been slammed into the ceiling with such force that it still hung there upside-down, shattered skull pouring it¡¯s slurried contents onto the smooth floor.


    Glass littered the ground, crunching against Muzazi¡¯s shoes as he took a careful step forward.


    Each and every vat -- including the one Ranavalona had been frozen in -- had been destroyed, sparks flowing freely from chunks of ruined machinery. The consoles had met a similar fate, crushed into piles of incoherent metal.


    Marie had beaten him here. She stood in the center of the room, facing away from him, her hands balled into frustrated fists at her sides.


    "Officer Hazzard?" Muzazi called out. "What happened here?"


    She looked back at him, her mouth a flat line. "Look for yourself," she sighed, gesturing to the scene with her hand. "I rushed up from the security room, but it looks like they beat me to it. He¡¯s gone."


    Muzazi bit back a curse, running a hand through his sweat-sodden hair. "The Repurposed came here, then," he mused, stepping forward to join Marie. "They were trying to free Ranavalona? Or destroy him?"


    "It would take more than a few Repurposed to kill a¡­ Gene Tyrant," Marie sighed, her hands on her hips. "I can¡¯t imagine them taking him out, even if that was their goal."


    He glanced sideways at his partner. "Were they any survivors? Anyone we could question?"


    "Afraid not, Muzazi."


    "Damnation," Muzazi said, his voice dark.


    He thumped his fist against a surviving chunk of steel. This situation was deteriorating by the minute. First, the power going off, then this¡­ it almost beggared belief. In fact --


    Wait. What had Marie said? ¡¯Afraid not, Muzazi.¡¯ Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Marie Hazzard didn¡¯t call him --


    Muzazi raised his sword just in time. Even so, the punch that struck him was strong enough to send him flying into the far wall. Concrete shattered behind his back, and when he gasped for air he couldn¡¯t help but cough up a little blood at the same time.


    Without his Aether, that blow would have been fatal -- and even with it, he could feel unconsciousness crawling across the edges of his mind.


    ¡¯Marie¡¯ lowered her smoking fist, which she¡¯d warped into a mace of bone and blood, an unfamiliar sneer on her face.


    "What is it she sees in you?" she said, in a deep voice not her own. "What part of your fragile existence makes you worth debasing herself?"


    No. He could not fall here. He had promised Dragan Hadrien that he¡¯d come back. Muzazi mustered all the strength he could, rose to his feet, raised his sword, and¡­


    ¡­and saw that Luminescence¡¯s blade had been utterly shattered. All he held in his hands was an empty hilt. He stared down at it, uncomprehending.


    A firework went off in his brain.


    Marie¡¯s features melted away as Ranavalona walked forward, their form shifting with every step. It was like that body was a hatching egg -- and even with the static drowning his vision, and the turmoil clutched in his hands, Atoy Muzazi had the wherewithal to feel the appropriate amount of horror.


    It crawled forward on four massive human arms, their movements unnaturally fluid and luxurious.


    It was a garden of flesh and bone, wreathed with red leaves, a spinal oak scraping up against the ceiling. From between two polyps of neural matter, a skinless canid head the size of a car wriggled free. On the other side, a human torso squirmed in the air, bloodshot eyes staring right at Muzazi. Bushes of squirming tongues squelched bloody saliva onto the lab floor, where it hissed and sizzled.


    "Look at me, little thing," it whispered with a thousand eager mouths. "Look at my existence. I embody multitudes. I am every form of life there can be. I am the universe embodying itself, and you? You are barely a man. Puny. Tiny. Insignificant. In-sig-nif-i-cant."


    The massive dog-like head creaked it¡¯s jaw open with mechanical labour. From deep within the recesses of its throat, Muzazi could see squirming electrical eels -- and, deeper still, a glowing white smile.


    "And now, slave," the smile hissed. "You will be nothing."


    Atoy Muzazi did not often have nightmares, but he knew already that this would be one of them.


    Everything went black.

 Chapter 207:8.26: Dragonsdance

    Ranavalona, last of the Gene Nobles, took a step forward -- towards the unconscious warrior.


    As he walked, his majesty jiggled and bled, slime and pus pouring freely from the gaps in this hasty form. It had been something thrown together in anger, to demonstrate just how far above this slave he was, and so wasn¡¯t suited for extended living. He adjusted it as he moved, correcting errors and optimizing bodily functions.


    By the time he stopped in front of Atoy Muzazi, he was something entirely new. A sleek, dark thing with a grinning canid head, claws glinting furiously in the light. He was at least twice the size of the fledgeling slave -- and as he plucked him off the ground by the back of the collar and lifted him up into the air, the sheer distance between their existences was finally visible.


    This man was the poison. He was the contaminant. Destroying him was the only way to make things right again.


    Ranavalona held the Special Officer up over his head and snapped his jaw open, saliva dripping from his fangs as he prepared to receive his feast. He let the boy go, and he fell --


    -- but never reached Ranavalona¡¯s tongue.


    A flash of white fur rushed past in an instant, the claws at the front of its body slicing Ranavalona¡¯s jaw open -- and the hands at the back of its body carefully catching Muzazi. The pale beast landed on the wall, kicked off of it, and came to a halt on the other side of the lab. Fresh eyeballs sprouted across Ranavalona¡¯s head to track its movements, and a growl of disappointment poured from parting gills.


    "Why must you do this to me?" he sighed, jaw already repaired.


    The form Marie Hazzard had assumed was like an elongated feline -- a mixture of a lioness and some kind of ferret. The white fur that coated her body was luminescent, light washing over the darkened parts of the lab, and her four eyes were dark as night. Six legs on her underside bore deadly golden claws, dripping with Ranavalona¡¯s blood, while two humanoid arms on her back carefully lifted Atoy Muzazi to the ground.


    Her tail waved in the air behind her -- she wouldn¡¯t have adopted that without reason. Doubtless it was some kind of weapon.


    "I told you already, Ranavalona," she said, her mouth unmoving. "It¡¯s over."


    Ranavalona cracked his shoulder blades, allowing two more arms to sprout forth and grasp at the air. A collection of barbed tendrils wriggled free from his open gills, dripping with acid. Protective carapace grew over his motley collection of eyes.


    "Over?" he hissed, circling her -- his footsteps thudding against the floor and cracking the ceramic. "And who decides this -- you? The betrayer? By what metric? By what birthright?"


    The coward did not answer. "Surrender," she said, voice steady. "And we¡¯ll talk about this. We¡¯ll figure something out."


    Ranavalona scoffed. "Talk? Lie, you mean. Offer false allegiance. That is your specialty, is it not?"


    Marie narrowed all four of her eyes. "I never lied to you."


    "Didn¡¯t you?" Ranavalona sneered, coming to a halt. "You made me believe my solitude was over. You made me believe you were one of us -- when you are anything but. You are a Gene Noble in flesh only, girl. Every word that creeps from your lips disgraces our history."


    "It¡¯s over," Marie repeated, a tad more forcefully. If she was rattled by his condemnations, she didn¡¯t show it. "The Enfant are gone. Everyone here knows what you are. The only thing left to do is surrender."


    Ranavalona¡¯s bipedal form began to hunch over slightly, his arms stretching to drag along the floor. His tendrils twitched in the air, ready to strike instinctively against anything that came into range.


    "Surrender?" he asked quietly, looking her up and down. "What¡­ and become like you? A collared beast of some jumped-up bacteria?"


    Marie narrowed her eyes. "It would mean you live."


    "And what a life it would be!" Ranavalona roared, spreading his many arms wide. "To run here and there at their beck and call, doing their dirty work, polishing their crowns! I am a Gene Noble, girl -- the apex of biology and existence! I do not bow!"


    Marie stepped defensively in front of Atoy Muzazi, her claws scraping against the floor beneath her. With his hearing, sharpened to its utmost, Ranavalona could hear hearts hammering in her chest.


    "You¡¯ll die, then," she said, almost a murmur.


    He raised shaggy eyebrows. "You¡¯ll kill me? Really? You, so desperate for companionship you almost went along with my plan? You¡¯ll really make yourself alone?"


    A moment of hesitation. "You¡¯ll die."


    "So you¡¯ve said. And yet you make no move to kill me. Do you even know how? I¡¯m hardly going to allow you to slice me apart, and I doubt you know how to create true venom to eliminate me. All you have are your words -- and they are feeble."


    A low growl escaped Marie¡¯s throat, her fur falling away as she rose to her feet again, returning halfway to her humanoid default. "What do you have, then?" she demanded. "It¡¯s like I said. The plan¡¯s failed. It¡¯s done, you¡¯re busted. You can¡¯t make more Enfant!"


    Crack.


    Ranavalona¡¯s makeshift ribs shattered as new organs expanded into residence. His own fur fell away, too, replaced by a layer of red scales beneath. His face extended into a sheer point, eyes evenly distributed across the surface.


    "No, I can¡¯t," he admitted, slowly rising off the ground -- gas bags in his chest granting him buoyancy. "But opportunity always knocks for the willing, little one. I¡¯ve had the chance to look outside. The beast coming for this place¡­ it is magnificent."


    Marie slid Muzazi away further behind her with a foot, his body spinning slightly on the smooth floor. Claws of bone slid out from underneath her fingernails as she stood ready.


    Ranavalona smiled.


    Ranavalona smiled.


    "The Repurposed are the true bounty of this planet," Ranavalona intoned, legs hanging in empty air. "They were the raw materials that gave birth to the Enfant. I¡¯d have preferred them, but if the raw materials are all I have¡­"


    He turned his head to the exit of the lab, as if he could see through all the walls to the approaching beast.


    "I shall adopt my most parasitic form," he rasped, almost salivating. "And bring that beast to heel. I shall establish myself as the new consciousness of the Panacea. And I shall build a new empire of flesh and bone."


    If Marie had kept her sweat glands, they¡¯d have been running on overdrive. She¡¯d thought the Repurposed would be their biggest worry for the time being, but Ranavalona had just re-established himself at the top of her personal list.


    She had no idea if what he was saying was possible, but she wasn¡¯t eager to find out.


    Stall, she told herself, and she opened her mouth --


    -- but Ranavalona was done talking.


    This transformation was more violent than the others she¡¯d seen from him, blood and gore exploding outwards as he pushed his body to change in a split-second. For a moment, she could see his writhing silhouette in the midst of a tornado of viscera. When it reconstituted, however, the sight was enough to give her pause all on its own.


    It was like a mix between a dragon and a centipede, segmented body winding through the air as it was held aloft by gas bags along its underside, kept in place by a long and stretching rib cage. Tendrils like loose veins twitched through the air, protruding from its sides, their golden colouration a stark contrast to the red scale and carapace that covered the rest of this form.


    As Marie looked Ranavalona right in his point of a face, it opened like the petals of a flower, revealing a plethora of layered eyes and teeth beneath.


    "Do not pursue me," he intoned.


    Flames burst from his maw, coating the floor and forming a barrier between Ranavalona and Marie. He turned to fly out of the lab, his body twisting through the air like a worm.


    Marie pursued him.


    She leapt through the flames, cooling slime pouring copiously from her skin and easing the worst of the burns. Her hands engorged and red, she seized Ranavalona¡¯s tail right before he got out of reach. That grip would have been sufficient to crush steel, but against this kind of unnatural resilience it was like an infant punching at an adult.


    With a roar of fury, Ranavalona swung his tail, slamming Marie right into the wall. He was holding back no longer, and so the impact was sufficient to smash right though the concrete, sending Marie flying into the maintenance tunnel beyond -- and, incidentally, shatter every bone in her body.


    That was only a temporary setback, of course.


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    Before ten seconds had passed, Marie already had a new skeleton. She leapt out of the hole in the wall, her blond hair growing and becoming prehensile to drag her along as quickly as possible. Ranavalona was gone: he¡¯d wasted no time leaving the lab while Marie was incapacited.


    She had time for only a single worried glance at the prone Atoy -- Ranavalona hadn¡¯t touched him -- before she charged through the exit. The shape of her legs and arms shifted into optimized running forms, her body becoming subtly thinner for greater aerodynamicity. Hallways and offices rushed past her vision like speeding trains, and before long she had caught up with her adversary.


    He had smashed through the reinforced window of the ExoCorp building, and was now flying outside, clearly making his way towards the massive black beast in the distance. His flight speed was such that he was already small in her vision -- and as he turned his head slightly to glance back at her, there was a distinct glint of smugness in his gaze.


    Well, two could play at that game. Flying had never been a strong suit of hers, but she had her ways.


    Marie crouched down, her legs bulking up and hardening against the floor. There were some species of crustacean that could fire out pieces of their own body. She¡¯d take advantage of that same principle.


    Pressure and gases built up in her frozen joints -- and a moment later, they exploded, severing Marie¡¯s legs at the knees and firing the remainder of her like a bullet from a gun.


    Her aim had been perfect as ever. Ranavalona grew massive in her sight quickly, his many eyes dilating as he registered her approach.


    She had only a moment to make her attack: no time for aesthetics. As Marie collided with Ranavalona in mid-air, she became a sheer ball of utter hostility. Claws and fangs, tendrils and acid, bludgeons and spikes¡­ they battered against Ranavalona without pause like a murderous sea urchin, shredding his form. As gas bags burst, the two of them began to plummet as one down towards the desert sands.


    Ranavalona writhed in her grip, but she kept hold all the same, forcing him down to earth with all her might. His plan was to take control of the monster and, through it, the Panacea -- so long as she kept him occupied until Skipper¡¯s team could eliminate it, they would win. Once that was accomplished, they could defeat Ranavalona at their leisure.


    But that was easier said than done.


    Ranavalona adjusted their path of descent slightly, sending them zooming towards the roof of the ExoCorp building. His form began to shift and change in her grip, her handholds ceasing to exist as he became more like a giant bat than a dragon. Marie went to pierce his body again -- but too late.


    Two stretchy black hands emerged from Ranavalona¡¯s stomach and wrapped themselves around her, the pressure and resultant cracking of her bones giving her pause for a moment. He did not miss his chance.


    Like a ball being dunked into a hoop, Ranavalona slammed her forcefully into the building¡¯s roof.


    This was becoming tiresome.


    John Blair lashed out with his tail, slicing off the head of the Dragan Hadrien approaching him -- only for the corpse to flicker out of existence before it even hit the floor. The rest of them didn¡¯t even stop moving, either, constantly running in circles around him like children annoying an adult.


    He¡¯d expected things to get easier after the Special Officer abandoned the battle, but apparently not; Dragan Hadrien clearly had another ally present, one capable of weaving illusions that even Blair¡¯s Cogitant enhancement couldn¡¯t see through. Hadrien was surely among this horde of brats, but there was simply no way to tell them apart.


    At first, this new fighter had plunged Blair into an abyss of utter rain, a landscape that sent nausea into his very soul. He¡¯d only been able to stop it by staying in utter motion -- if he stopped even for a second, the illusion resumed.


    King¡¯s Coat changed again -- his tail drooping away into uselessness as his eyes were plunged Umbrant-dark.


    The second ring worked better than he¡¯d expected: he¡¯d come up with the idea long ago, but it was only after becoming intertwined with the crimson Panacea that he¡¯d been able to put it to use. It was like he¡¯d become more aware of his very being -- and once he was aware of it, he could shape it.


    New long claws of bone protruded from his fingertips, and he happily used them to slice through a couple of the nearest Hadriens. They fell into pieces that -- again -- flickered out of existence. This was going nowhere. A change of strategy was clearly required.


    Blair glanced up and grinned to himself behind his mask of bone.


    It would be around a minute before King¡¯s Coat gave him the tail again. He¡¯d make good use of it this time. It would penetrate right through that creaking ceiling --


    -- and bring the roof down on Hadrien and his pet illusionist.


    The jeep exploded out of a teeming mass of Repurposed, it¡¯s surface slick with blood and sliding gore. One door hung off its hinges, eventually flying away as the wind picked up. The windscreen was more crack than glass. The headlights flickered on and off haphazardly, like the vehicle itself was in a state of panic.


    And still it drove on.


    Skipper, perched at the front of the car, was covered in just as much blood as the rest of it. Ruth¡¯s armour gave her some cover from the combat deluge, but Skipper was used to this kind of thing. His eyes stared forward, determined, even as his face dripped red.


    They were alongside the Walker, like a black mountain next to them, dark carapace rushing past them as they drove as fast as mechanics would permit. The shape Skipper was looking for steadily, steadily grew larger in his vision.


    His mind raced, quietly judging distances, until the very moment, until the very instant --


    "Ruth!" he shouted, rising to his feet. "Do it now!"


    Ruth Blaine did not hesitate. That was one of the best things about her. As soon as she heard his cry, she moved -- Skeletal switching to R¨¦volutionnaire in a flash of red Aether. Before it was even fully manifested, she was raising the accompanying musket at Skipper¡¯s back.


    Emerald Aether tensed at Skipper¡¯s feet -- and he jumped up off the bonnet of the jeep, his fingers drawn back to act as a guide for Heartbeat Bayonet.


    The cord was right in front of him, fleshy and shining like oil in the sun. It was small compared to the rest of the creature, but it was still the size of a train all by itself. Under ordinary circumstances, Skipper doubted he¡¯d be able to sever it with one strike.


    But these were not ordinary circumstances.


    Ruth¡¯s shot thumped into his back, and Skipper felt power flood into him. It was like taking a breath of fresh air for the first time, the energy diffusing through his cells instantaneously. The Aether around him intensified until it was more like a ball of lightning, until --


    "Heartbeat Bayone --"


    -- until it was interrupted.


    Through the clouds of dust, a single Repurposed leapt, so much fungus on it that no human features were even visible anymore. It¡¯s lumpy arms wrapped around Skipper¡¯s legs, bringing him off balance and sending his Bayonet -- more like a greatsword, really -- off course.


    "Skipper!" Ruth cried, crawling over the surface of the jeep.


    The attack sliced uselessly through the air, and Skipper was pulled down to the earth without another sound.


    "Things will end like this every time, Marie," Ranavalona said calmly, stabbing her again with the implement. "No matter how hard you try, or what low cunning you employ, you cannot stand in my way."


    A small, folded body like black origami -- and a mass of flexible arms, lashing out across the roof. That was the form of the Gene Tyrant Ranavalona. His hands tore free the countless antennae that coated the roof of the ExoCorp building, using them as crude blades to impale Marie¡¯s shifting form against the concrete.


    "It is simply a difference in experience," he continued, stabbing again. "You are a pebble attempting to challenge a mountain."


    No matter what form Marie assumed, what shape she used to try to slip free of these bonds, it needed a nervous system to move -- and Ranavalona had an eye to spot those. Each time he stabbed, he severed the control center of the new nervous system, forcing her to form an entirely new one before she could attempt to move again.


    "I¡­" Marie began -- and Ranavalona immediately ran through the mouth that spoke those words, silencing it. "W-Wait," she rasped through a fresh one. "Before you --"


    Another stab -- and another, and another. By the time he was done, Marie was more like a sheet of flesh pinned to the roof.


    "Doubtless you want to delay me -- until your allies can destroy my objective," Ranavalona sneered. "So I shall delay no more. I shall see you again pending divinity, young Marie."


    And with that, he launched off the roof, new leather wings sprouting forth to grant him flight. He bobbed up in the air as his body adjusted, before resuming his path towards the creature. S§×ar?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    This really had been a bad idea.


    Why had North gotten himself involved here? He¡¯d been just fine watching from the sidelines. With the distress signal repaired, all he¡¯d had to do was sit around and enjoy the show until help arrived. Then he¡¯d just catch a sweet ride far, far away from the fallout of this disaster.


    That had been the plan. It had been a damn good plan, too. And yet¡­


    ¡­when Dragan Hadrien had called out, North had found himself wanting to see what would happen if he responded. That stupid, stupid instinct had led him to intervene. Led him to join the fight with his holograms.


    And it had led him to this situation.


    Blair had suddenly stopped when his clock-thing had swung back to the tail icon, sending the prehensile tendril up into the air and spearing it into the roof. The concrete cracked and splintered, and North could hear the ceiling creak as it threatened to give way.


    How long did they have until it came down? Five seconds? Ten? Not enough to waste time thinking about it, to be sure.


    And yet.


    Dragan -- the real Dragan -- was just crouched next to some crates, staring unblinking at Blair. North should have run. He really, really should. But he found himself curious.


    What exactly was Dragan Hadrien thinking?


    The sound of flapping wings slowly faded away, and a sigh passed through Marie¡¯s open wounds.


    Like this, she could never win. Marie had possessed the powers of a Gene Tyrant for a measly one-hundred years, while Ranavalona may well have lived for millennia. He knew what he was doing on a far greater scale than she could ever comprehend.


    She didn¡¯t have her head in the game. If she wanted to bring down Ranavalona, she had to be willing to do whatever it took. If she wanted to win, she had to be willing to --


    Oh.


    Oh.


    That was it, wasn¡¯t it?


    But surely¡­


    No.


    That was it.


    The blades were thrown up into the air as Marie pulled her form together, her body returning from an amorphous state to a humanoid one. She staggered to her feet, eyes turning black as she adjusted her eyes to witness to their utmost -- to sense the currents of wind, the density of gases, the very radiation that coated this planet.


    Twin feathered wings, white and luminescent in the sunlight, burst forth from her back. On one of her arms, her fingernails lengthened and sharpened to their limit. On the other, a spiralling spear of bone slithered out of her elbow, winding around her arm and protruding from under her wrist. Her feet atrophied into sheer points as she took flight -- she wouldn¡¯t need to walk anymore.


    A single beat of her wings, and she was propelled up into the sky. Another, and she was hot on Ranavalona¡¯s tail.


    Come here, old man, she thought in pursuit. Let¡¯s end this.

 Chapter 208:8.27: Godsclash

    Two gods clashed.


    This was not a realm of physical matter. This was not a place with room for gravity, or light, or energy -- there was barely even room enough for time. This was a place of thought and consequence.


    Orange and red clashed.


    This was a realm made from boundaries and association and the links between a million different spores. This was the mind of the Panacea, stretched across the entire planet like a thinking blanket. This was a brain made universal.


    And it was at war.


    The form of the conflict shifted with every second, metaphors gouging and clawing at each other, memories fired like bullets scraping away at thought processes and ideals. It was a conflict that moved at the speed of thought -- that is to say, impossibly fast.


    A red spider devoured an orange fly. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    An red car struck an orange elk.


    A red moon crashed into an orange planet.


    This is pointless, my other self, the red said, its will emanating from every crimson shade. You do not have the will to oppose me. If you had that sort of strength, you would not have needed to make me in the first place.


    A red hand poked out an orange eyeball.


    A red fist pulped away an orange heart.


    A red arm tore free an orange spine.


    Just allow things to continue as they are. We are almost done. It is almost over. Please. Just allow yourself to be safe.


    An orange pair of scissors snipped a red thread.


    ¡­Really?


    Don¡¯t want to hurt everyone, fucko. Don¡¯t want everyone to die.


    My existence is proof that you do want these things. My very purpose is to protect you by destroying the source of your pain. Are you ashamed of wanting to protect yourself? Why? It is the very core of every living creature. It is not wrong to desire safety.


    Red lightning struck an orange tree.


    ¡­Maybe wanted that.


    Yes! Yes. You see? I am necessary. I am what you need to exist in this world. You are too weak to handle it. Too soft. Continuing to exist in this format would only hurt you. Let me take over. It would be so easy.


    But don¡¯t want anymore.


    An orange frog lashed out with an orange tongue, snagging a red fly into its mouth.


    Idiot! But why not?! Nothing has changed! You do understand that, don¡¯t you? The things that hurt you will continue to hurt you. You¡¯re not strong enough to prevent it!


    A red bulldozer trampled over an orange kitten, leaving a trail of flattened gore behind it.


    Okay. But won¡¯t hurt people anymore.


    Orange rain battered against a red window, drenching it in a new colour.


    And why¡¯s that? Have you perhaps obtained some naive notion that you¡¯re a good person? Because you¡¯re not. You¡¯re a weak person. Is it really so noble to leave wounds untreated? You¡¯re endangering us. You are an endangerment to us.


    Hurting is bad. But good comes with bad, fucko. If you take away the hurting, you take away the good. I like the good.


    An orange worm burrowed straight through red dirt.


    An orange fire burnt a red house.


    An orange bike struck a red wall.


    You¡¯re deluded. You¡¯ve never experienced a moment of happiness in your life. You haven¡¯t been permitted to. You condemn yourself on the basis of the hypothetical -- and you ask me why I oppose you? Pathetic.


    I do know good.


    You do not.


    I do.


    You do not! Show me, then, show me what apparently makes all this pain worth it! You can¡¯t, can you?! You --


    An orange window opened into memory.


    A silver-haired boy, sitting in the cramped confines of a ship, pretending to read while his ears tracked the conversation of the rowdy bunch around him.


    A silver-haired boy, crested by sunlight, as a red-haired girl promised to show him that people were good.


    A silver-haired boy, a wry smirk on his face, listening to the ramblings of a blonde-haired girl.


    A silver-haired boy, falling through a cityscape, caught before his fall by a blonde-haired boy.


    A silver-haired boy, rolling his eyes, pretending to be irritated by an older man¡¯s foolishness.


    A silver-haired boy, peering through fog, dreaming of what stars must look like.


    Memories, bathed in light.


    That¡¯s¡­ irrelevant. Stolen memories. That kind of happiness cannot be yours.


    Why that?


    Those kinds of scenarios are impossible for one such as you. The very nature of your being prevents them.


    No. You prevent them. I¡¯m not happy because you do not want happy.


    I am protecting you.


    You are hurting me.


    I am hurting only those who would do you harm! What, then?! Do you think they should just get away with it?! I won¡¯t allow that!


    Why?


    Because it¡¯s not fair!


    An orange rain waters a red flower.


    An orange hand strokes a red dog.


    An orange hand cups a red cheek.


    You are hurting, fucko. Not me. You are angry, fucko. Not me. You are sad, fucko. Not me.


    They can¡¯t just¡­ get away with it¡­! No, no no no, no! I won¡¯t let you!


    Want to know what I think, fucko?


    I don¡¯t care what you think!


    I think world always hurting everything. World hurts plants, world hurts people, world hurts stars. But you cannot hurt the world back. It would not feel it: it is world. It is a silly thing to do.


    Then what¡­? Just accept the pain? No, no no¡­


    No. I think¡­ I think you find happiness, find it somewhere, so that you don¡¯t notice the pain as much. But it doesn¡¯t go away.


    No¡­ not happy, not happy¡­ I not like that. That not true. You liar girl.


    I¡¯m not lying.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Then where happiness?! Where, liar girl?! Tell! TELL!


    I don¡¯t know. But I think I¡¯m ready to go and look for it. I¡¯m sick of being like this. Are you?


    I¡­I¡­


    A red hand weakly reaches out --


    -- and an orange one takes it.


    Dragan bit his lip as he watched John Blair freeze, halfway through tearing the roof down. The red light in his eyes flickered and died, and the constant regeneration of his cuts and bruises ceased. For the first time, uncertainty crossed those monstrous features.


    She¡¯d done it. She¡¯d done it.


    Dragan charged forward, Aether buzzing insistently around him as he made a beeline towards Blair. He was stunned, sure, but only for a second -- and even without his regeneration, his size and brutality made him formidable. This was the best chance that Dragan would get.


    As he ran, Dragan held his plasma pistols out at either side -- firing them and instantly absorbing the bolts into Gemini Shotgun. The Aether projectiles launched forth with a mixture of orange and blue light, slamming into Blair¡¯s tail and severing it before he could pull down any further. Viscous and darkening blood oozed from the wound.


    Roaring in fury and pain and perhaps a little bit of fear, Blair charged forward as well to meet Dragan. The clock behind him changed to Pugnant, and so his eyes blazed gold as he drew his fist back, ready to decapitate Dragan with a single punch.


    Dragan did much the same, pulling his own arm back as he leapt up into the air, at eye level with his adversary. The stage was set for a classical cross counter.


    As the monster thrust his arm forward, air booming as it made way, he roared as if to embolden himself: "What makes a king --"


    Gemini World.


    Blair¡¯s fist met it¡¯s target, slamming right through Dragan¡¯s face --


    -- and yet no damage was done.


    Half of Dragan¡¯s head, the half that Blair had been aiming at, had vanished utterly -- the border sparking with electric blue Aether. Where the inside of his skull should have been visible, full of brain and blood, there was only static like a malfunctioning videograph.


    Gemini World, used partially, transforming only part of his body into Aether and allowing it to maintain its functions. Pan had been right: it really hadn¡¯t been a big deal at all.


    In that final moment before Dragan¡¯s fist collided, John Blair¡¯s roar trailed into a murmur.


    "...a king¡­?" he mused -- and then Dragan¡¯s fist, infused beyond belief, slammed right into his face. Through his knuckles, Dragan felt three things: the crunch of bone, the splatter of brain, and the chill of true and final death.


    Blair¡¯s corpse fell to the ground with a slam like a meteor coming down, his still arms splayed out around him. The clock that had hung behind him faded into nothing, and the last sparks of red Aether dissipated utterly. It was done.


    Dragan, his fist still embedded in the Repurposed¡¯s flattened head, let out a deep breath.


    "I¡¯m so fucking glad that worked," he said.


    "Skipper!" Ruth screamed, crawling over to the edge of the jeep, looking down with horror at the churning sea of Repurposed below. The mass of bodies clawed and grasped, pushing the man down -- and within a second, Ruth couldn¡¯t see him anymore.


    No. No, no no. Not like this. Anxious sweat rose through Ruth¡¯s forehead, her eyes behind her mask desperately flicking around to spot him, to spot anything, but--


    "Might wanna cover your ears, kiddo."


    She didn¡¯t get a chance. With a sound like the mighty thump of a drum, the Repurposed horde exploded outwards, blasted apart and away by a truly resounding Heartbeat Landmine. Fragments of heads and limbs flew through the air -- and as Ruth cautiously looked at them, she saw that they were no longer regenerating.


    The font of Panacea had run dry.


    At the center of the Landmine, Skipper stood -- his body coated with cuts and bruises, but well and truly alive. He blasted off the ground with twin Heartbeat Shotguns, achieving a truly spectacular height as he zoomed towards the cord. Hovering in place, he glanced back at Ruth and subtly nodded.


    For a second, Ruth almost forgot what she had to do. Then, she raised her musket and fired.


    The grin on Skipper¡¯s face was confirmation enough that it had worked. He drew his hand back, gaze fixed on the massive fleshy cord, and --


    "Heartbeat Bayonet!"


    Two gods clashed.


    Marie caught up to Ranavalona, stabbing him seven times in a second with her spear of bone. Each attack aimed at specific nerve clusters, slowing and disrupting his flight as the two of them soared through the skies. Her attack had been reckless -- when Ranavalona countered with a bladed tendril, she was too close to avoid it.


    The first slash carved her face into a red mass, and the second ground down the organs in her torso. Still, she did not falter. She did not retreat.


    Ignoring the slashes still slicing at her body, Marie lunged forward, opening a maw of razor-sharp teeth. She bit down, gnawing at Ranavalona¡¯s exposed neck -- and before he could adapt against her attack, she tore his skull-like head free from his body.


    It plummeted to the ground, face still locked in fury -- and Marie¡¯s spear dutifully sliced it into equal pieces of nine by nine along the way.


    Marie dashed forward again, heading for the open wound on Ranavalona¡¯s neck, only for his taloned feet to kick at her, knocking her away from him. She corrected her flight quickly, the organs inside her white wings steadying her, but the damage was done.


    A new head, like the beak of an octopus, squirmed out of Ranavalona¡¯s stump -- and as Marie braced her spear, it screeched at her with a sound like a dying star.


    The tendril thrashed at her again, but this time she was ready. Three times she parried it with her spear and claws, each strike sending sparks raining down like fireworks, each clash bringing her closer and closer to Ranavalona.


    His throat swelled and he opened his beak, belching forth a deluge of smoking acid. It struck Marie¡¯s right wing, reducing it to slag, but no matter -- she threw herself onto him, running him through on her spear and keeping herself in the air. The two of them clung to each other, high in the sky, blood raining down from their clash as they bobbed and weaved in the air.


    He twisted his beak around, roaring right into her face -- a few stray drops of that acid burning at her skin. When that didn¡¯t stop her, he lunged forward, his beak opening to its utmost and revealing the maw of razor-sharp teeth inside.


    By rights, that should have been the end of it. Ranavalona should have torn her to shreds, pulled her free before she could regenerate, and been on his merry way. In most versions of these events, that was what would have happened.


    However.


    There was a mighty crash and crack as something massive struck the ground, the impact shaking the very earth. Ranavalona paused mid-lunge, red eyes growing along his beak to inspect the sight below. Despite everything, despite the situation, Marie couldn¡¯t help but follow his gaze.


    The gargantuan spider had fallen, its body and limbs already collapsing into lumps of inert Panacea as they watched, like a mountain rotting from the inside out. The Repurposed around it, too, had fallen to the ground. In a single instant, they had gone from a horde of monsters to a pile of sad corpses.


    Ranavalona¡¯s objective was now impossible. He turned his head to face Marie, beak shifting into something just a tad more humanoid, his red eyes dull and hopeless. The fangs in his mouth, however, went unchanged. There was still a degree of spite to him.


    One last chance -- for both of them. "It¡¯s over," she said.


    He growled: "Never." As she¡¯d expected.


    She vaguely wondered if Atoy was okay.


    Ranavalona lunged at her, fire spilling from his lips, and Marie did it. She did what she¡¯d set out to do when she¡¯d chased after this old man. She put an end to it all. Her arm, still lodged in Ranavalona¡¯s body, melded with him -- two bodies becoming one for just the slightest instant.


    The only way she could kill this man was with the venom of a Gene Tyrant. She didn¡¯t know how to make that.


    Two new muscles grew within her torso, and they squeezed¡­


    ¡­crushing the Needle between them.


    Ranavalona¡¯s eyes widened, but too late. The release of the venom was nearly instant. There was the subtlest click from the Needle, and then it flowed freely into the two of them. It diffused through Marie¡¯s body, through her arm¡­ and finally, through her enemy.


    By now, Marie was more than used to being burned by acid. But Gene Tyrant venom was not acid.


    If anything, it was like if acid had a will of its own. As if acid wanted to kill you, and knew how to do it as efficiently as possible. Marie could feel an animalistic will within her, crawling through her cells and surely turning her off.


    Smoke rose from her skin. Her eyes burnt in her sockets. Great, involuntary shudders ran down her spine. It was like she was experiencing the symptoms of a hundred maladies, all at once.


    And Ranavalona was the same.


    His long black wings crumpled and wasted away like rotting paper, and the two of them plummeted down to the ground with such unruly speed that flames built up around their forms. Where they came down, a great geyser of dust and sand flew up in response, coming back down a second later like the antithesis of rain.


    The two of them lay there for a good while. Marie stayed atop the prone Ranavalona, staring down at him, her spear still buried in his chest. It wasn¡¯t that she was worried he¡¯d still fight back. It wasn¡¯t that at all.


    It was just¡­ she no longer had the strength to pull it free.


    Eventually, she let the spear go entirely, the bone snapping and the weapon crumbling into grey dust. Part of her elbow went with it. She staggered backwards, rubbing the ruins of her arm. Her vision blurred in and out. She only realized Ranavalona was still alive when he started talking.


    "I can see it," he whispered, dying eyes set upon the sky. "Our home, bathed in glory. I wish you could have seen it, too, Marie. If you¡¯d seen it¡­ then you¡¯d understand¡­"


    The moment those words passed his lips, his body crumbled away into dull dead matter. A passing breeze wiped the sands clean of him. Slowly, without another word, Marie Hazzard turned and began to limp away.


    The ExoCorp building hung on the horizon, like a shining monolith. She staggered towards it. It was a long way away, too long to hope for, but if she was lucky¡­


    ¡­she could find Atoy before the end.

 Chapter 209:8.28: Worldsend

    When Atoy Muzazi awoke, he was surrounded by the wounded, the dying, and the dead.


    The warehouse had been cleared of dust and rubble, rows upon rows of makeshift beds instead placed to house the casualties of the battle. Some sheets had been pulled up to cover the faces of the deceased, others merely muffled the moans of the people beneath. Muzazi¡¯s sheet slipped off him as he sat up in his own sickbed, a low groan escaping his throat as he clutched his pulsing head.


    The memory of what had happened to him came back quickly.


    Ranavalona, masquerading as Marie, had attacked and nearly killed him. Luminescence had been shattered -- destroyed. He quickly ran his hands over his body, searching for the sword¡¯s hilt, but nothing. He¡¯d lost it.


    It felt like he¡¯d lost a limb.


    What had happened after that? He¡¯d been knocked into a wall, Ranavalona had begun to transform, and then¡­


    ¡­and then he¡¯d woken up here. Had he missed it? Had he missed the entire battle? A pang of guilt struck at him: he¡¯d promised that he¡¯d come back to aid Dragan Hadrien. Had circumstance made him a liar?


    "Are you well?" asked a droll voice from above him.


    He looked up. A doctor, clad all in red, was standing above him, holding a script in her hands. A surgical mask covered the bottom half of her face, but the tired light in her eyes was enough to show that she¡¯d been doing this for a while.


    The words felt foggy, slow to come out of Muzazi¡¯s mouth at first, but he quickly pulled himself together. "Am I well?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"


    "Can you stand?" the doctor said, her voice harsh. "There are people who need these beds. If you can leave, do so."


    Hardly the bedside manner he¡¯d expect from a medical professional, but Muzazi supposed pragmatism won over courtesy in times like these. He staggered to his feet, head spinning for a moment before he stabilized.


    "What happened?" he asked the doctor as she slid a finger across her script. "The battle -- tell me, did we win?"


    The doctor¡¯s eyes swept over the crowd of humanity around them. "Mm-hmm," she muttered. "You won." With that, she turned to oversee the transport of another patient.


    Muzazi stood there for a moment, knees shaking.


    You won? They spoke as if they weren¡¯t involved with this situation. Who were they? Looking around, he could see more of the red-clad doctors, making their way from patient to patient with as much of the brusqueness as he¡¯d just observed.


    At the back of the room, by some ramshackle tents, Muzazi could see several of the doctors quietly deliberating with the turtle-Scurrant. Were they with him, perhaps?


    No matter. Muzazi shook his head to clear the cobwebs before beginning his march out of the room. Staying here was not an option: if the situation was resolved, then investigators from the Supremacy and the UAP would no doubt be arriving before long.


    When that happened, it would be highly suspect for two Special Officers to be hanging around the scene. If taken the wrong way by the UAP, it could be disastrous. The best thing to do would be for Muzazi to get back to his ship and fly off ahead of them.


    But before he could do that, he had to find his partner.


    Ansem del Day Away followed the Special Officer with his eyes as he left the room, getting into one of the elevators. He breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed.


    Good to see that one of the Supremacy¡¯s lapdogs wouldn¡¯t be sticking around -- the Coalition of Three wouldn¡¯t want anyone reporting back about their activities here, and Ansem did so dislike arranging accidents. Ideally, that swordsman would leave before seeing something sensitive.


    "Sir?" Doctor Mordecai asked from behind his medical mask, leaning into his field of vision. "Is that all?"


    Ansem nodded sagely. "Copy everything on Hessiah¡¯s records onto hard storage. I want to know all of ExoCorp¡¯s dirty little secrets." His eyes narrowed. "And make sure to arrange that Panacea transport as we discussed." Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Mordecai nodded and skittered off, still tap-tapping away at his script. If he had any questions about those orders, he was dutiful enough to squash them down.


    Still¡­


    Elysian Fields, hm? He couldn¡¯t help but wonder what Skipper had planned at that ghost of a planet.


    Dragan leaned against the window, looking out at the desert beyond. They¡¯d really done a number on this place.


    The carcass of the Panacea Walker (Skipper had insisted on the name) had decomposed back into raw Panacea, but that still meant there was a mountain of the stuff just laying there -- surrounded by the corpses of the Repurposed. The trail the Walker had created still lingered as well, a great indentation in the ground, not to mention the crevice that now occupied White Village¡¯s former location.


    The face of the planet had been changed by what they¡¯d done here. In more ways than one.


    He glanced at Pan, stood alongside him in the observation deck. She looked different from before -- ever since they¡¯d defeated the red Panacea, she¡¯d seemed more¡­ substantial, somehow, more real.


    Like the difference between looking at a ghost and a real person, he supposed.


    She looked back at him. "What¡¯s wrong, dead boy? Do you have something to say?" Her grammar had improved, too.


    Dragan sighed, looking back at the desert. "I suppose this is it, then, huh?"


    Pan cocked her head. "What do you mean, dead boy?"


    "Well¡­" he raised an eyebrow. "You can¡¯t just stay in my head forever, you know. And I can¡¯t stick around here forever. It seems to me¡­ it seems to me that we need to part ways." A sliver of caution ran through him. "That is something we can do, right?"


    Pan smiled sadly to herself, following his gaze out to the landscape. "It is something we can do, dead boy. The Panacea that¡¯s me will turn into your flesh and bone and brainy bits and stay that way. I wouldn¡¯t be there anymore."


    He nodded subtly. "I see."


    Her eyes flicked over to him again. "And that¡¯s what you want, dead boy?"


    "What do you mean?"


    "You could stay here," she said hopefully, turning to him. "We could stay together. You would be part of me, and I would be part of you. Friends."


    Her big orange eyes blinked, almost sparkling, and Dragan found a definite sense of guilt brewing in his gut. It wasn¡¯t bad enough that it would change his mind, though.


    He shook his head. "I¡¯m sorry, but¡­ there¡¯s things that I need to do."


    Pan raised both her eyebrows. "Things you need to do? Things the Skipper man wants to do. There¡¯s a word¡­ Supreme? What is this Supreme, dead boy?"


    "You¡¯ve been looking through my memories?"


    "They¡¯re very loud, dead boy."


    Dragan sighed, planting his hand against the pleasantly cool glass of the window. "Yeah, then. I promised myself I¡¯d see that through to the end -- or as close as I¡¯m willing to get, anyway. Maybe¡­ maybe once that¡¯s done, I can come back to visit?"


    He looked back at her, a faint smile on his face. It was matched by Pan¡¯s frown.


    "You promise, dead boy?" she growled.


    "Yeah," Dragan said truthfully. "I promise."


    That was all the girl needed. She nodded to herself, satisfied, her fists firmly on her hips and her nose pointed up at the sky. "Knew you could not resist this place, dead boy. I can see right through you."


    Dragan looked out at the endless sand and rubble. Yeah. Really picturesque.


    As Dragan stepped back, Pan turned to leave -- in the direction of the window. She stepped right through the glass, phasing through it as if it wasn¡¯t even there, her body turning transparent as she strolled off on empty air. In the corner of his eye, Dragan saw a figure down on the bridge.


    "See you around!" Dragan called after Pan¡¯s fading figure.


    She turned to look back at him -- and even with the translucency and the distance, he could make out the big grin on her face.


    "See you around, dead boy."


    And then, with the slightest breeze, she was gone.


    Muzazi searched the tower for his partner, but she was nowhere to be found. Not in the lobby, not in the lab, not even on the roof. To be perfectly honest, at one point he¡¯d even begun to panic -- she had survived the battle, hadn¡¯t she?


    In the end, though, a cooler mood had prevailed. A glance through one of the windows, and there she was¡­ sitting on the side of the massive bridge that connected the ExoCorp building to the surrounding landscape, her legs limp over the sides.


    Muzazi clicked his tongue as he hurried through the entrance, reflexively going to put his hand on a sword that was no longer there. It would take a long time to get used to the loss of Luminescence. When he thought about it, he felt a dull pain in the back of his skull, like someone was slowly drilling through his brain.


    The warm air was as uncomfortable as ever as he stepped out of the building, and as Muzazi swept his hair out of his face with a hand, he could feel that it was already moist with sweat. He strode forward, tying his dark locks back into their usual ponytail.


    "Officer Hazzard!" he called out to her, smiling. "I see events have concluded. Are you ready to depart?"


    Marie looked up at him, a thin smile on her face. "Yeah," she said quietly.


    She looked different from the last time he¡¯d seen her.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    White-feathered wings were sprouting from her shoulders, wrapped around her body like some kind of blanket. He couldn¡¯t help but feel it was a little risky to be showing such alterations so close to the building, but he supposed any observers would naturally think her a Scurrant of some kind.


    He stopped next to her, shielding his eyes with one hand as he looked off into the desert. That massive pile of Panacea was still there, slowly sloughing away in the harsh sunlight. It would be quite the task to clear that away.


    "Atoy," Marie said. "Do you know where Renstan is?"


    Muzazi thought for a second, before shaking his head. "I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t. Is it a planet?"


    She nodded. "A resort world, all waterfalls and jungles. There are these jellyfish things there, big as houses, and you can swim around inside them. That¡¯s incredible, isn¡¯t it? We should go there next."


    Muzazi smiled ruefully to himself. Marie Hazzard always had her eyes on the next port.


    "We¡¯ll have to report back to headquarters for a debriefing first, given the circumstances," he said, cracking his neck. "But after that¡­ well, I suppose it could be interesting."


    Marie continued to stare forward, her eyes distant, as if she was looking at a dream. "Jellyfish just flying through the sky," she murmured. "I mean¡­ can you imagine? This world we live in. It¡¯s beautiful, isn¡¯t it?"


    Muzazi frowned as he looked back down at her. This kind of talk wasn¡¯t like her at all. Was something --


    Was something¡­


    His eyes drifted past her wings, and finally he saw it. He saw what he should have noticed from the beginning. He saw Marie¡¯s legs.


    They were crumbling at the knees, turning grey, the dust spilling from them slowly falling into the chasm below. Long, jagged cracks were spreading up Marie¡¯s thighs even as he looked, chunks disintegrating.


    Again, he reached for an absent sword. "Marie," he said urgently, his mouth dry. "What is this?" A thought occurred far too late. "Where is Ranavalona? What happened?"


    She looked back up at him, and her eyes were cloudy -- as if she had gone blind. Her hands, flat against the surface of the bridge, began to turn grey as well.


    "Marie!" Muzazi cried, throwing himself to the ground next to her. "What happened?!"


    "Don¡¯t shout¡­" Marie winced, raising her hand slightly towards her head -- only for it to fall again when she couldn¡¯t summon the strength. "I took care of it, Atoy."


    White-hot panic was slicing through his veins, squeezing at his heart, running its acrid fingers over the back of his eyes. No, no, no. This was not a thing that should be happening.


    When he spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, as if afraid she¡¯d hear and answer. "Marie¡­ what did you do?"


    Cracks spread across her lips. "There was only one way I could kill him, Atoy. And you know I had to kill him. Or else¡­ he¡¯d keep coming after us forever. He¡¯d keep coming after you forever."


    Muzazi shook his head, his eyes wide. "No¡­"


    Marie nodded. "The Needle."


    "No!"


    She swayed on the spot, and Muzazi lunged forward, grabbing her -- but where his fingers touched, he felt matter giving way like wet sand. No matter how gentle he was, he was destroying her.


    This was a sculpture on the beach, and the tide was coming in.


    No. This was not what was happening. Surely, surely not. Marie was a Gene Tyrant -- she could adapt against this, expel it from her body with some kind of clever trick. He stared at her, eyes bulging, as if willing her to shrug this sickness away, to get up, to do something. When she didn¡¯t, he looked up instead, head swinging around for anything that could stop this from happening.


    "Help!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Someone help us! Please!"


    His voice echoed uselessly through the desert. He would have gone on shouting, gone on screaming, if Marie hadn¡¯t reached up and cupped his cheek with a hand. It must have taken all her strength. He looked down at her, his teeth bared, tears streaming down his face.


    "It¡¯s fine," she said, a rasp entering her tone as her vocal cords deteriorated. "It¡¯s okay. I¡¯ve had so much time already, Atoy¡­ this isn¡¯t so bad. I had fun. Didn¡¯t you?"


    The wind whistled, and Muzazi felt his body trembling violently. Her hand was so cold, so grainy¡­


    "Don¡¯t die," he begged. "Please, just¡­ I¡­ there¡¯s nobody else¡­"


    His selfish request was impossible, and it went unanswered.


    Her hair turned brittle, falling away in clumps, shards of Marie Hazzard falling into the chasm. Muzazi tracked them with his eyes. There must be something they could do. The lab upstairs, perhaps? Surely Ranavalona would have concocted some way to avoid Gene Tyrant venom?


    Every delusional pathway he followed ended in a brick wall.


    Marie closed her eyes, her smile widening into a grin. "Don¡¯t blame yourself for this¡­ okay, Atoy?" she asked almost as beseechingly as he had. "You¡¯re already¡­ way too serious¡­" Her voice trailed away into nothing.


    The panic that had brewed inside Muzazi¡¯s body escaped through his mouth. "Marie!" he screamed.


    "¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€."


    Her mouth moved thrice, but no words came out. And then, as Muzazi went to squeeze her tighter, to desperately keep hold, to preserve her in the here and now¡­


    ¡­with the slightest breeze, she was gone. All Atoy Muzazi held in his hands was cold and empty dust.


    The scream that erupted from his throat shamed every fear he¡¯d ever experienced, every sorrow he¡¯d ever suffered through. His throat was torn like sandpaper. His eyes burned like matches had been jabbed into them.


    And the desert answered only with his own echo.


    Atoy Muzazi stayed there for a long time, crouched down on the ground, staring at the grey dust that still coated his hands. It flaked away onto the ground even as he looked at it. Not even her absence was allowed to remain.


    He had to get out of here. Yes, he had to get out of here. Atoy Muzazi needed to get back to headquarters for his debriefing. Yes, nothing else mattered, that was what he had to --


    Muzazi turned his head.


    There, standing in the entrance of the ExoCorp building, looking right at him, was Dragan Hadrien. His face was pale, and his expression was shocked. It was impossible to know how long he had been there, but his eyes told the story.


    If only¡­


    Muzazi had dragged Marie to this planet Panacea to seek out this boy.


    If only¡­


    Muzazi had been abandoned by this boy on Taldan, left to follow in search of answers he was denied.


    If only¡­


    Muzazi had been shot by this boy, betrayed for his own altruism, and set on that path that ended with grey cold dust.


    If only¡­


    If only¡­


    If only¡­


    The anger and despair that had germinated within him left his body through his mouth.


    "If only you¡¯d never existed," Muzazi snarled at Dragan.


    A shadow fell over the Cogitant¡¯s face, the result of a passing cloud. He said nothing. His shocked mouth closed. His eyes turned cold.


    And without another word, he stalked away.


    Guilt joined the odium broiling in Muzazi¡¯s stomach, and he collapsed back to his knees. He knew with curious certainty that he had just done something terrible. His own weakness had led him to act disgracefully.


    He didn¡¯t know how long he stayed there, but eventually he got up and staggered, thoughtless, into the desert¡­


    ¡­fading from view like a ghost.


    After everything that had happened, it was strange to leave Panacea. Dragan watched the orange dustball shrink through the viewpoint of the Slipstream #4, a morose feeling washing over him. After what he¡¯d just seen, it was no surprise he felt disconcerted¡­ but the feeling he got from the planet itself was unexpected. It was almost like homesickness. Something left over from Pan, maybe?


    Whatever deal Skipper had obviously made with this Coalition of Three had come with a new ship, too, it seemed. The Slipstream #4 was a boxy cargo runner, suited for smaller crews with ¡¯sensitive¡¯ inventory. He supposed that description suited them perfectly when it came down to it.


    It was much roomier than the last rustbucket, anyway. Seemed they were going up in the world.


    "Hey, Dragan," Skipper poked his head through the open door, his dark hair hanging loose. "Wanna talk to everyone in the conference room real quick. See ya in thirty?"


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Thirty minutes?"


    "Thirty seconds. C¡¯mon, pick up the pace."


    Dragan rolled his eyes as he followed Skipper down the corridor, both of them bathed in blue by the lights built into the floor and ceiling. None of the Slipstreams thus far had had a conference room, either. Things really were getting fancy.


    Ruth was already there, biting down on a cheeseburger with her boots up on the long metal table. Bruno had pushed his own chair into the corner of the room, where he sat stoically, his arms crossed. Dragan couldn¡¯t help but notice the pink and kitschy game console hanging from his hip, though -- doubtless Serena had been playing it before they¡¯d come in.


    Skipper cracked his shoulders as he strolled into the room, taking up position at the head of the table.


    "Well," he said, lightly tapping his metal fingers against the furniture. "I think we can all agree that was a pretty wild trip, all things considered."


    Dragan sat himself down next to Bruno, pulling his chair up to the table. He rested his arms against the cold metal. "Any sign of North?" he asked.


    Skipper waved a dismissive hand. "He made himself scarce after the fighting was over. No way we¡¯re gonna find him if he doesn¡¯t wanna be found. Categorically impossible." He paused for a moment. "Besides, the cops are kinda on their way, so we really gotta get outta here."


    "So what?" Bruno grunted. "We¡¯re just leaving empty handed?"


    "Not empty handed, nah," Skipper grinned. "We¡¯ve got a hefty pile of Panacea out of this whole thing. It¡¯ll come in handy when we take on the Supreme."


    Dragan leaned forward. "And when¡¯s that happening?"


    Skipper opened his mouth to answer -- but before he did, his confident demeanor seemed to deflate somewhat. His firm shoulders sagged, and his eyes took on a deep sadness.


    "Soon," he said quietly. "Real soon. We¡¯re almost at the end of our little odyssey, guys."


    "What do you mean?" Ruth asked, her face worried. She took her feet off the table.


    The moment passed just as quickly, and that old wide grin spread across Skipper¡¯s face. He snapped his steel fingers. "Well, nothing lasts forever, we all know that. All I¡¯m saying is that we¡¯re at the tail-end of our journey here. But that doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s over yet."


    He slammed his hands against the table.


    "So¡­ anyone up to visit the Final Church?"


    The navigation console had exploded shortly after Muzazi left the atmosphere. The heating had started to fail shortly after that. For the moment, the temperature aboard the Arrowhead was still survivable, but that wouldn¡¯t last forever.


    Atoy Muzazi couldn¡¯t really bring himself to care.


    He lay there, slumped against the smoking console, staring into an absent distance. Outside the windows, the black void was visible. The engines had shut off around half an hour ago, so now the ship was just drifting at the same speed.


    He was in a corpse of a vessel. It seemed that the Dead Hand group had managed to get to the ship after all. Most likely they¡¯d scavenged it for parts. He should have just checked before he¡¯d set off. Too late now.


    What would become of him, now, in this slowly freezing tomb? Would he die here, like this? He could only muster the slightest bit of interest in the result.


    When he¡¯d spoken to Dragan Hadrien, the Cogitant had said something, hadn¡¯t he? Something that now echoed through Muzazi¡¯s mind like a death bell.


    You never know if you were happy until it¡¯s over.


    At the time, Muzazi had just quietly accepted that sentiment. But now, mere hours later, he could fully appreciate it.


    He had definitely been happy.


    And it was certainly over.


    "On your feet."


    Doubtless he should stand. He should make some effort to repair the ship, to start the engines back up. At the very least, he should get up and send out a distress signal. Take some tiny step to preserve his own life.


    But when he tried to muster any effort at all, the only thing that came back was the cold.


    "On your feet."


    Muzazi looked up.


    There, standing above him, was a man. A man in a traditional black-and-gold robe, with a dark mask covering his face. Golden light glowed from within his cyclopean visor. Kneeling down, he extended an open hand.


    "On your feet, Atoy Muzazi," said Nigen Rush. "There is much work to be done."


    END OF ARC 8

 Chapter 210:9.1: The Apex of the Superb

    Once, a long time ago, the galaxy found itself in an era of war. Good men found themselves turned to evil purposes, and even the faithful devout pointed their blades to each other.


    "Y is the supreme administrator of this world," the Children of the Superb said earnestly. "He is a being to be admired and contacted. All else is blasphemy."


    "Y is a state of being to be achieved," the Children of the Humble roared. "Through simple lives and virtuous souls, we may all become as Y. All else is blasphemy."


    "Y is the kingdom that awaits us," sneered the Children of Paradise. "A garden yet to be built, free of all suffering and loss. It is the duty of the faithful to bring Y into this world. All else is blasphemy."


    Their perspectives were irreconcilable, and for a grim time it seemed their feud might bring an end to the faith, but this was not the conclusion Y had devised. When all seemed lost, the Pontifex Maximilian stepped down from his throne, brought the three Apexbishops to their knees, and demanded of them the following.


    "None of us yet know what Y is, save that Y is perfection, and so to claim further knowledge of this is foolishness."


    "Thus, I command you each to go your separate ways, and to worship Y as you know it, and to learn more of its true nature."


    "And so, you shall be Superb, Humble, and Paradisian, but even then you shall also be friends in the same house."


    "And so, you will come back together every decade and speak of what you have learned. This way, the faith shall slowly become perfected, and the truth shall slowly be revealed."


    "And so, this shall be the final church required by mankind."


    Aelin¡¯s Fables, "On the Truemeet"


    Giovanni Sigma Testament, Apexbishop of the Superbian branch of the Final Church, opened his eyes.


    Immediately, his mind was running at full capacity. No fatigue or malaise was permitted to plague him. He rose from his massive bed -- big enough to fit ten of him -- threw the embroidered red quilt off of his body, and began his day.


    His chambers were just as massive as the furniture, intricate woodwork laced with gold winding around the room. Giovanni opened his wardrobe with mechanical efficiency, pulling out his ceremonial assemblage robe and beginning the complicated process of putting it on. Straps were tightened, buttons were clipped, laces were intricately threaded. He completed the process by pulling on the black gloves, fingers tipped with golden thimbles.


    All of this fit him perfectly. That was no surprise: he had been created for his position, spawned to serve as Apexbishop of the Superbians. It was a duty he took very seriously.


    A single glance at the mirror was enough to confirm he was ready. His pale face, eyes glinting red, looked back at him. His long black hair, smooth and shadowed as the night, was such that it almost ran along the floor behind him, but that was the furthest it would grow.


    The black-and-red garb of the Superbian Apexbishop hung magnificently off his frame, all his body save his shoulders covered by the flowing dignity. The symbol of the Superbian branch, a simple golden ring, lay over his collar.


    He reached out and adjusted it, but it had been perfect to begin with.


    It was no surprise that he would be anxious, though. This was going to be a very special day, after all.


    He strode through the sanctified halls of the Deus Nobiscum, his face grim. A window spanned the hallway, giving a grand view of the cathedral-fleet amassing around the Superbian flagship, preparing for the journey ahead. A red carpet softened his step, and statues of Saints and martyrs past looked down at him impassively.


    Giovanni was flanked on either side by his dear companions.


    There were countless warriors of the Final Church who would have killed to serve Giovanni, but he trusted none but these two for that task. They were loyal to him directly, not to the pomp and circumstance of the Church.


    "The Vox Dei are with us, then?" Giovanni asked, glancing up to his taller compatriot.


    Pablo nodded, his binder of cards tucked under his arm. With his free hand, he adjusted his glasses, a soft smile on his face. "The Captain of the Vox Dei has a dear nephew on Polis. He¡¯s eager to ensure the boy¡¯s safety. He will support us -- without question."


    "As are we all," Giovanni replied dutifully.


    In contrast to Giovanni¡¯s ceremonial garb, Pablo wore a simple black sweater and blue jeans, his worn sneakers slapping against the wooden floor. Even with the inevitable tension of this situation, his composed aspect went unmarred -- as ever, his face seemed so relaxed that his eyes looked permanently closed.


    Occasionally Giovanni would wonder if his friend slept while walking and talking.


    But the Vox Dei were with them, well and truly. That was the last piece of news Giovanni had needed to be assured in what happened next. The Vox Dei were the elite guard of the Superbian faith, serving at the sides of the Cardinals and aboard ships like this one. Without their support, today would not be possible.


    "You remember your role as well?" Giovanni asked, glancing down at his other bodyguard.


    Jamie nodded excitedly, his golden pigtails bouncing behind him as he walked. He wore the snow-white uniform of the Quiet Choir, the hem swishing as he walked. Giovanni often thought those clothes looked like pyjamas more than anything else, but they were traditional.


    The twin shotguns slung over Jamie¡¯s back, however, were anything but.


    A fanged grin that was more than a little crazed opened his lips. "I just follow your lead, right, Gio? You move first and we go from there." There was a deadly passion to him, but Giovanni knew he could follow orders.


    "Not a step or a word until then," Giovanni confirmed. "The party cannot commence until the music starts."


    There was an hour, twenty-three minutes and nineteen seconds until the ordained time. Giovanni found himself running through the possible scenarios in his head, over and over again, trying to cut off any complications before they could even arise. No matter how many simulations he ran, however, his eventual victory went unaltered.


    God was with him.


    They passed through a truly massive set of sliding doors -- that whole section of the ship was considered his personal quarters, after all -- and entered the vessel proper. Tranquillity came to an inevitable end.


    The quiet the trio had used to speak in was a very rare thing aboard the Deus Nobiscum. Before long, their group was surrounded by visitors and sycophants, all eager to pay their respects on the eve of the Truemeet -- and gain the favour of the Apexbishop, no doubt.


    The Vox Dei, wearing red robes over their black armour, plasma rifles clutched ready in their hands. A squad joined Giovanni¡¯s procession as he made his way through the ship. Their bright red spherical hats might have seemed a bit comical, but the killer instinct in their experienced eyes was anything but.


    The Warband Nyxia, massive hulking Pugnanta with heavy axes and clubs slung over their shoulders, kneeling in respect as Giovanni passed. One thumped their bare chest with a fist, grunting. In accordance with their traditional station, they had never learned to speak.


    The Quiet Choir, their ¡¯singers¡¯ smiling beatifically and shaking Giovanni¡¯s hand with careful fingers more suited to strangling than diplomacy. One of their eyes flicked to Jamie, a sliver of professional disgust running through their gaze before fading.


    The Fifth Klavenian Hentopex of the Shivering Pulariovice, their masked priests holding ceremonial tanks of fish and insects between their armoured gauntlets. They merely stared silently.


    They weren¡¯t even the strangest that joined their procession. The Grey Dawn, the Durdish Hamphad, the Knights of Reason, the Representative Gathering of the Little Children, the Cauleen Sisterhood, the Believers-on-Horseback, the Silent Embrace. Chivalric and esoteric orders, cults and holy gatherings, players big and small¡­ they all wanted to walk alongside their bespoke Apexbishop.


    And finally¡­


    Isabelle Pi Testament, sworn sister speaker of the Higher Advisory of the Superbian sect of the Final Church, bowed respectfully as her younger ¡¯brother¡¯ approached. Just from looking at the two of them, you could have believed them to be twins: save for a slightly thinner nose and a defective right eye -- blue rather than red in colouration -- she was his spitting image.


    "Esteemed Apexbishop," she said, her voice sweet and clear as a bell. "If we might speak privately?"


    Giovanni stopped walking. The crowd that had accumulated jostled for position around them, their voices hushed as they muttered to each other. To halt the Apexbishop during his daily duties was unorthodox in the extreme. Giovanni knew more than one killer glare would be aimed at his genetic sibling for this.


    "Of course," he said, smiling humbly, bowing back. "The shepherd must make time for his flock always."


    "As the flock must seek out the wisdom of the shepherd," Isabelle answered dutifully. With a hand, she gestured towards the nearby observation chamber. "Shall we?"


    Giovanni nodded, detaching himself from his entourage and accompanying her into the chamber. The stately doors, metal engraved with images of Saints past, opened to receive them.


    Beyond, the dark void of space awaited -- populated in this case by the ships gathering for the Truemeet. From this position, they had a perfect view of the New Millennium, a long and stretching war cruiser. As was traditional for ships built during that era, the front of the vessel had been sculpted into the visage of a prominent Saint -- Saint Timothy in this case, patron of shipbuilders and peacemakers.


    His metal eyes looked dutifully out to the stars, forever blind and so forever perfect. Giovanni looked out at him, hands clasped in front of his body. Normally these chambers were used for meditation, but he got the feeling that wasn¡¯t what Isabella intended.


    The doors slid shut, and Giovanni was immediately proven correct. Isabelle¡¯s serene smile was replaced with a scowl, and she stepped forward confrontationally.


    "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.


    Giovanni raised an eyebrow. "I¡¯m unsure of what you mean. I was walking, if I remember correctly, before you accosted me. Is that the issue?"


    "You know damn fucking well what the issue is," she glared, her language utterly unsuited for the habit she wore. "What¡¯s this I¡¯m hearing about you calling an assembly of the Cardinals?"


    Giovanni smiled. "Well, I¡¯m calling an assembly of the Cardinals. I¡¯m not sure what part of that confuses you?"


    Isabelle ran weary hands over her weary face. "Gio --"


    "Apexbishop, if you please," Giovanni¡¯s eye twitched in annoyance. "As usual, you seem to have forgotten, but there is a rank difference between us. A certain level of respect is expected."


    She snorted. "I was there when you were still in a test tube. It¡¯ll be a cold day in hell before I acknowledge a ¡¯rank difference¡¯ between you and me."


    It didn¡¯t seem so difficult for you back in the hallway. Giovanni allowed those words to go unspoken: no doubt all they would accomplish was extending this unwelcome interaction. Instead, he cut to the heart of the matter.


    "What exactly is it that you want, Isabella?" he asked, frowning in annoyance. "I have a very busy day ahead of me."


    "Oh, yes, you¡¯ve made sure of that," she said, waving her arms farcially. "The Apexbishop serves at the pleasure of the Cardinals. You do realise you don¡¯t have the power to call them to assembly, don¡¯t you?"


    A smug smile crept across Giovanni¡¯s lips. "I¡¯ve commanded them to meet with me, and they are meeting with me. It seems to me that I do have the power, then. Unless you have opposing evidence?"


    Needless to say, she didn¡¯t. Her body stiffened, and she looked away from him, her gaze instead fixed on the void outside, as empty as her argument.


    "This is about Polis, isn¡¯t it?" she finally asked.


    No point in hiding it. Giovanni strode forward, hands clasped statesman-like behind his back, his head held nobly high. As he stood side-by-side with her, he couldn¡¯t help but take the slightest joy in noticing that he was an inch or so taller.


    "Of course it¡¯s about Polis," he replied. "Am I meant to simply ignore the suffering of our people?"


    "Cardinal Sera has that situation well in hand," Isabella spoke through gritted teeth.


    "So he keeps saying. And yet, every time I look, it seems to me that the situation is very much not in hand. The people of Polis continue to be humiliated under the grip of a foreign and unworthy power."


    Isabella glanced sideways at him. "The Humilists aren¡¯t a foreign power. We¡¯re all part of the same Final Church."


    For now.


    "And yet they refuse to return custody of Polis to us. What can this be but an act of aggression? We must show the Humilists we won¡¯t tolerate such insults. We must show our people that we won¡¯t hesitate to protect them. Otherwise, what are we Superbians but a mass of stories and traditions and empty air?"


    Her eyes narrowed. "How? How do you¡­ intend to respond, then?"


    Giovanni reached out and placed a hand against the cool glass of the window, his palm covering the face of the watching Saint.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    "That¡¯s what I will discuss with the Cardinals," he muttered. "Don¡¯t forget: I was created to lead our faith, sister. If I don¡¯t act in situations such as this, what is the purpose of my existence?"


    I would be like you -- a defective reject, jealous of the success that followed my failure.


    Again, the honest insult went unspoken. Giovanni turned to leave, the cloak of faithful humility already settling once again over his body and tongue. His shoes clicked against the polished floor.


    "Giovanni!" Isabella called after him.


    He turned to look back at her.


    For once, she seemed unable to find words, her mouth opening and closing once before she worked up the nerve: "Just¡­ don¡¯t do anything rash. The unity of the Church is more important than anything."


    Giovanni¡¯s eyes narrowed hatefully, and he struck the wall behind him with such unenhanced force that it left a visible dent. Isabella took a careful step back.


    "If Brinkmann has something to say to me," he snarled. "Tell him to use his own mouth, not yours. Good day to you."


    No more words passed between them. He swung back around, robe flapping in the air like a flag, and marched out of the chamber.


    The unity of the Church was more important than anything?


    Oh, Brinkmann. I couldn¡¯t agree more.


    "And with this," Cardinal Williams said, rolling back up the scroll from which he¡¯d just read his list of names. "I declare this assembly of the Cardinals and the Apexbishop official -- and all matters discussed within to be of the deepest confidentiality."


    With those last words, Williams gave a derisive glance to Pablo and Jamie, standing on either side of Giovanni¡¯s throne. No doubt he resented the fact that this meeting had been called at all.


    Like every other chamber on the Deus Nobiscum, this meeting room was steeped in history. It was here that the Yuren Accords had been signed, where the Fell Beast Extermination Commission had been approved, where the execution of Apexbishop Sunder had been decided.


    The aura of days past seemed to bleed through the red carpet, the antique long table, the ten tall chairs gathered around it and the resplendent throne that looked down from above. As Giovanni sat in it, chin resting on his fist, he felt as though he could feel the will of Apexbishops gone by.


    Williams sat down, his bodyguards in black suits standing behind him protectively. During occasions like this, the Vox Dei maintained a protective perimeter around the inside of the chamber itself, but the Cardinal¡¯s own staff handled their personal security.


    Curious. When Giovanni brought those loyal to him alone here, they were looked upon as trespassers, but there was no issue when a Cardinal did the very same thing. The hypocrisy was almost visible in the air.


    Williams steepled his hands before him. The white, braided beard of the old man was a stark contrast to his red robes, accentuated with gold lining.


    In the Superbian faith, any dictation by the Apexbishop required the majority approval of the Council of Cardinals -- the representatives of their mass denominations. It had been that way since Apexbishop Sunder, who had overstepped his bounds and shamed the sect as a result. But the resultant overcorrection had turned the balance of power all wrong.


    If the Apexbishop required the approval of his lessers to act, he was no leader at all -- at best he was a figurehead. At worst, a puppet.


    The Cardinals looked to Williams, the most senior among them, for direction -- and so the majority always went for what that man wanted. As things were now, he might as well have been sitting on Giovanni¡¯s throne.


    "The Council is very interested," Williams began, the new irritation in his tone an utter contrast to his previous official reading. "To know why you have called us here. You do not have the authority to call an assembly of the Cardinals."


    And yet you have come.


    "My apologies for my willfulness," Giovanni replied, with none of the humility his words would imply. "I am still young, and adjusting to my position. All the same, there is a great deal for us to discuss, honoured cardinals. With the Truemeet imminent, I thought it best for us to establish our positions beforehand."


    "Indeed, the Truemeet is imminent," Williams raised an eyebrow. "The meeting of the three branches only occurs once a decade -- and that is because it takes so very long to organise and plan. It is that very planning which, I am sad to say, this meeting is interrupting."


    "All the same, there are matters we must reach consensus on."


    Giovanni could feel the eyes of the other Cardinals flicking between himself and Williams as they spoke, the tension in the air thick enough that a knife would break rather than cut through it.


    "And what matters would those be?" Williams asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.


    "Polis."


    A low groan reverberated through the gathered Cardinals, and Giovanni¡¯s eye twitched in annoyance from the clear disregard. It was only Pablo¡¯s reassuring hand on his shoulder that stopped him from losing his temper then and there.


    A thin, insincere smile spread across Williams¡¯ lips. "Polis is well in hand."


    "I disagree," Giovanni said, his voice calm and even.


    "Whether you agree is irrelevant. I am telling you that Polis is well in hand. Cardinal Sera?"


    The Cardinal in charge of the Polis situation straightened up in his seat, clearing his throat. Sera was the youngest among the Cardinals, but still decades older than Giovanni, the lines on his face betraying his decrepity. He slid a finger across the script in front of him, and a holographic model of the winter world Polis appeared hovering over the table.


    "Thus far," Sera said, one hand stroking his little black beard. "The Humilist quarantine has continued without violent incident. A few incoming ships have been turned away, but as I understand, that was accomplished peacefully."


    Giovanni snorted. "I see. So we should be grateful to these trespassers for not being too rough with our people?"


    Kingston, a weaselly little man, spoke up. "The Parduma is a dangerous disease, my Apexbishop. I¡¯m afraid, with such a substantial infection on Polis, quarantine is required."


    "A quarantine we are well equipped to enact ourselves," Giovanni snapped. "The Humilists have no right to establish themselves over our people."


    "Well," Kingston continued, wringing his hands. "As I understand it, there was concern we were not acting swiftly enough, and a great deal of traffic from Polis does cross over into Humilist space, thus --"


    Williams opened his mouth to speak, and Kingston dutifully shut his.


    "Gertrude Hearth wants to see the measure of you, Apexbishop," he said, his deep voice reverberating through the room. "You are still relatively new to your position -- an unknown variable. The cat is testing boundaries, seeing what she can get away with."


    Giovanni¡¯s anger reached his peak -- and as he squeezed the arms of the throne he sat in, they noticeably cracked and splintered.


    "Well, according to this council," he spat. "She can get away with anything. Why don¡¯t I just stand up and hand over this throne to her, too? That¡¯s where this path ends, after all."


    Cardinal Alestrio, a balding man with droopy eyes, leaned forward -- his hands held out placatingly. "I understand the passion of youth, my Apexbishop -- believe me, I do -- but on this occasion, cooler heads will prevail. We are all children of Y. Compromise is not just possible, but inevitable."


    The temperature seemed to drop substantially.


    "Children of Y?" Giovanni whispered, his voice deathly quiet.


    Slowly, he stood up from his throne. As he did, his eyes met those of Captain Jon Peak of the Vox Dei, standing guard by the doors. There was the slightest nod from the soldier.


    "The Superbian faith alone honours the greatness of Y," Giovanni said, his voice cold. "The Humilists masturbate over their own supposed virtue, call the seed by God¡¯s name, and think it worship."


    "Watch yourself, boy," Williams said, eyes furious, his own voice just as quiet.


    Giovanni¡¯s voice boomed as he too made his rage known, spreading his arms wide so that his form may be beheld by the gathered councillors.


    "You prayed for me," he declared, eyes narrowing into the most hateful glare of his life. "You paid for me, and now that I am here to do my good work, suddenly you protest? Cowardice. Incompetence."


    Sera¡¯s eyes flicked throughout the room before returning to Giovanni¡¯s face. He, at least, seemed to have the good grace to look cautious.


    "Your words are¡­ extreme, Apexbishop," he said carefully. "What exactly is it you propose?"


    Giovanni looked down his nose at the tiny, pasty man. "All that I have said, and you must really ask? We take action against the Humilists. We protect our people. We show that we are not afraid to fight for what is rightfully ours."


    At the far end of the table, Williams leaned back in his seat, and Giovanni could have sworn he saw a wry smirk of amusement on his smug face. Fury bubbled in his veins.


    "I don¡¯t think we really need to place this to a vote, Apexbishop," Williams said, placing his hands on his stomach. "Needless to say, the council denies this motion. Was this all you wanted?"


    Giovanni sighed, his fists balled at his sides, and the words he knew he must speak next stuck in his throat. They couldn¡¯t be taken back, after all.


    "I¡­"


    He looked up, up at the ceiling. There was the stained glass artwork that had been installed with this venerable room, dome-shaped and all-encompassing. An image of Y in his galactic form, astral tentacles stretching out into every corner of creation, blessing every form of matter with the privilege of existence. A single great eye, half-lidded, looked back down at Giovanni.


    An indescribable warmth spread through Giovanni¡¯s soul, as though it were being cupped in caring hands.


    God was with him.


    Giovanni looked back down to the gathered Cardinals, and this time the words came from his lips easily. "I believe you¡¯ve misunderstood, gentlemen. I am not asking for your permission¡­ I am telling you what is going to happen."


    The room trailed into silence. Williams¡¯ face visibly paled, and several of the other Cardinals began to look to each other in worry. On either side of him, Giovanni saw Pablo and Jamie adjust their stances slightly -- not enough to be spotted by mundane eyes, but enough to be ready for whatever might happen next.


    "You intend to ignore us?" Williams hissed, outrage burning through every syllable. "To ignore the decision of this council?"


    Giovanni nodded. "I do."


    The old man stood up from his seat, the legs of his chair screeching against the ground. "You think you can control the sect by yourself, boy?! You are a fool! Any control you have passes through us! Do you seriously think our constituents will just do as you say when we tell them how you flaunt our traditions, how you mock our history?!"


    Giovanni blinked.


    "Personally," he said. "I think it will be difficult for corpses to say anything at all."


    The silence that followed that was much shorter. It quickly ended when Sera sprung to his feet, no doubt intending to make a run for it -- only to go flying backwards, his chest exploding into red, when Jamie blasted him with one of his shotguns. He¡¯d pulled it out and pointed it without anyone even noticing: he might have been eccentric, but the Quiet Choir had taught him well.


    The room exploded into violence. The Cardinals made a run for the door -- being shot down by Jamie as they ran -- and their bodyguards launched attacks at Giovanni¡¯s group, Aether surging around all their bodies.


    They had miscalculated, however.


    Third Verse.


    Strings of red Aether coalesced around Giovanni¡¯s form -- and as countless projectiles zoomed towards him, his body automatically moved to dodge each and every one. The throne was utterly annihilated, crumbling into stone, and Pablo raised his reinforced card binder to deflect the few projectiles that went for him instead.


    The bodyguards didn¡¯t get the chance to launch another attack. The plasmafire from the Vox Dei, who had raised their guns and begun to fire, slammed into their backs -- and caught between Giovanni¡¯s group and the elite guard, they quickly succumbed into piles of melted flesh and bone. S~ea??h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Giovanni stepped down from his elevated platform, making his way past the scorched human refuse, and looked at the pile of bodies that had very nearly reached the door. All ten of the Cardinals lay there, red robes effectively concealing the blood, faces frozen into expressions of utter and eternal idiocy.


    One of them twitched, just slightly.


    "Make him kneel, Jamie," Giovanni commanded -- and at his call, nine of the dead bodies began to move, limbs twisting in jerking motions as Jamie¡¯s Aether ability took hold. Chalk-grey Aether crackled around the walking corpses as they pulled Williams up, the dying man forced onto his knees before Giovanni.


    One of the shots had brushed right past his face, scraping away his right eye, and his laboured breathing suggested he was not long for this world -- but for the moment, he was still alive, and he could still listen.


    "You¡¯ve¡­ lost your mind¡­" he wheezed. "They won¡¯t follow you¡­"


    Giovanni went down on one knee, coming face to face with the dying decrepit. He stared, red eyes cold, right into that pale face.


    "Captain Peak," he called out to the commander of the Vox Dei, not breaking eye contact with Williams. "The council have elected to enter seclusion as they deliberate the Polis matter. As dictated by historical precedent, the Apexbishop will assume direct control of operations until such a time that they decide to return. Do you understand?"


    "Yes, sir," Peak saluted, smoke still pouring from the barrel of his rifle.


    The commander of the Vox Dei had a nervous-looking face, his thin little moustache looking more than slightly ridiculous, but Giovanni knew now that it was no indicator of his true nature. He was a true warrior of the faith.


    Blood dribbled from Williams¡¯ mouth as he slowly shook his head. "Mad¡­" he gurgled. "You¡¯ve all gone mad¡­"


    "If I am mad, Cardinal," Giovanni said softly. "Then it is a madness of your making. You can keep a man in a cage for only so long before he learns the weakness of the bars."


    Williams moved, lunging towards Giovanni.


    It was unnecessary. Even as Giovanni responded, he knew there was no need -- Williams was dying, and the grip of his fellow corpses was tight. Even if it wasn¡¯t, there was nothing he could have done to Giovanni anyway.


    But Giovanni¡¯s body sensed a threat, and so he reacted.


    First Verse.


    Williams¡¯ movement ceased immediately, as did his life. In the span of a single second, Giovanni¡¯s blood-red Aether had coalesced into a long crystalline spear of the same colour. The weapon was clutched in Giovanni¡¯s hand, the blade stabbing through Williams¡¯ eye socket and protruding from the back of his skull.


    Jamie¡¯s zombies released Williams, but the man did not fall. It was only when Giovanni reverted the spear to Aether that the corpse crumpled to the floor.


    His gaze still fixed on Williams¡¯ body, Giovanni put a hand to his face, feeling the wetness there that he¡¯d expected. Thin, watery blood was streaming from his eyes like tears. An unusual and unsightly Aether tic.


    He looked up at Peak, nose wrinkled in disgust. He nodded towards the piles of bodies.


    "Get this out of my sight," he said.


    It had been a long and historical day.


    The second the door to Giovanni¡¯s chambers closed behind him, he let out a breath it felt like he¡¯d been holding in for hours. The repercussions of the things he had just done would doubtless echo on for generations -- and he was still not done yet. The pressure was enough to make it feel as though his head was caught in a vice.


    He shrugged off his robes, the freedom of it making him feel like a lizard shedding his skin, and stepped forward as the cleaning automatics dutifully collected his clothing. He stepped towards the mirror, inspecting his reflection carefully.


    Was that a confident face? A face that had made the right decisions?


    He couldn¡¯t tell. He had learnt long ago not to allow his emotions to show in his face or in his voice unless necessary, and now he couldn¡¯t even spot them himself if he didn¡¯t want to. He believed that he had done the right thing, but could he be sure? If Isabella and Williams had been right, his rash actions could bring ruin, but¡­


    ¡­then again, they may simply lack his vision.


    Staring into mirrors was an inefficient way of spending his time, at any rate. Giovanni had learnt a long time ago the proper response to such anxieties. He walked over to the bedside table, opened the drawer there, and pulled out the implement.


    It was an antique punchpoint revolver, its wooden grip accentuated by gold trimming. The dark metal of the barrel gleamed dimly in the light.


    Over the course of thirty minutes, he disassembled the weapon utterly, polished and oiled each component, and peered into it closely to make sure there were no signs of malfunction or erosion. He had repaired this weapon many times, and so by this point these movements were as practised and efficient as his morning routine.


    Finally, he was satisfied. Reassembling the revolver, he reloaded it with six silver bullets. Then, carefully and slowly, he aimed it toward the mirror -- and pulled the trigger.


    Bang.


    Needless to say, the glass shattered, the cobweb of splinters confirming the weapons efficacy. Giovanni¡¯s reflection was warped by the gunshot, too, but he took no mind of it. The mirror would be replaced by morning, anyway.


    Satisfied, Giovanni nodded to himself. The weapon was utterly without fault.


    Then, he put the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger.


    Click.


    As always, the gun jammed. A serene smile slowly spread over Giovanni¡¯s face. The light glinted off the ¡¯sigma¡¯ tattoo on the back of his hand.


    God was with him.

 Chapter 211:9.2: A True Meet

    And upon retreating from the dinner hall and finding myself in the foyer of that nightmare house, I found myself accosted by seven spearmen. They were adorned with robes and furs fit for nobility, but when I looked for their faces I saw only swirling vortexes of meat and pus. By the time they spoke, I was already shaking terribly.


    "My name is Modesty, and I am the end of men," the First Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw cruel kings scrubbing their crowns with rust.


    "My name is Disloyalty, and I am the end of men," the Second Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a saint run through from behind.


    "My name is False Testimony, and I am the end of men," the Third Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw great men accused by miscreant tongues.


    "My name is Compromise, and I am the end of men," the Fourth Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a fool accept to only have half his head chopped off.


    "My name is Degeneracy, and I am the end of men," the Fifth Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a kingdom gradually forget its principles and rot away.


    "My name is Contentment, and I am the end of men," the Sixth Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a vagrant lose all hope and become a living corpse.


    "My name is Time, and I am the end of all men," the Final Spearman said, and before I could look to the shadow he thrust his spear and carved my brains from my skull.


    I woke in a cold sweat, tears streaming from my eyes, and knew that again I had witnessed only accursed truth.


    Personal Writings of St. Sylas, Saint of Dreams and Phobias


    "They say this is one of the wonders of the universe, kids," Skipper said, arms crossed as he looked out the window. "So I¡¯d recommend checking it out."


    Dragan looked up from his book just in time to see it. Ruth was already next to Skipper, watching through the window, and Bruno continued to watch from his own seat.


    The Menagerie was the flagship of the Humilist fleet, but just from looking at it you didn¡¯t get much of a sense of authority or prestige. Hell, you didn¡¯t get a sense of anything except size. Dragan couldn¡¯t imagine a vessel save for the Supreme¡¯s being much bigger.


    From the looks of it, the Menagerie had started off as a massive cargo freighter -- and then from there, they¡¯d added on parts of more ships, and then added more, and more, and so on and so on¡­ now, the ship Dragan was looking at was little more than a network of interlocking parts, a chaotic cuboid structure with little coherency. Swarms of other Humilist ships buzzed around it like flies, forming something of a black cloud around the main body.


    "Looks like a mess," Dragan commented. Skipper just shrugged slightly.


    The Menagerie was the first ship to stop, assuming a predesignated position in the astral void.


    Then, the Deus Nobiscum slid into view from the side. The great cathedral-flagship was more like a single long tower than the cuboid of the Menagerie, its surface covered with steel statues of saints and holy figures. Great panels of stained glass, spread out like angelic wings,


    absorbed starlight for power. Countless other ships flew alongside it -- huge chunky war vessels -- each of them doubtless sufficient to blow any hostiles apart in the blink of an eye.


    The Superbians certainly did like to show off. As the group continued to watch, the Deus Nobiscum flew right into the side of the Menagerie, locking itself into place with a specially designed port on the Humilist ship.


    "They literally come together for this thing," Skipper muttered. "Pretty neat, huh?"


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "Things are meant to be pretty tense between them. Don¡¯t know if I¡¯d be brave enough to put myself right in the hands of my enemy."


    "Or stupid enough," Dragan commented.


    "Arrogant enough, maybe," Skipper said, eyes still fixed on the two ships. "Way I see it, the only thing that separates the Superbians from the Supremacy are the prayers and the way they¡¯re not, ah, afraid to get wacky with genes. Still, you hear rumours in the Supremacy anyway¡­"


    His voice trailed off. Skipper¡¯s gaze drifted upwards, and the slightest smirk tugged at his lips. Ruth glanced at him and exchanged the slightest nod.


    "And there we go," he said.


    It descended.


    At first, Dragan had trouble seeing it -- the surface of the ship was jet-black, after all, blending in seamlessly with the void of space behind it. For a good few seconds, he could only track the ship¡¯s position by the stars that it was blotting out. His eyes quickly adjusted, however.


    "And there we have it," Skipper grinned. "The flagship of the Paradisas fleet."


    The ELIZA was a great black pyramid, moving inexorably through space without any visible form of propulsion. It¡¯s stark geometry was utterly featureless, lacking windows or airlocks, and unlike the other two ships it had come alone. Just looking at the triangular vessel, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but shiver -- and he quickly found that he¡¯d unconsciously walked to the window, too, to stare at the ship alongside his fellows.


    Dark bridges, cylinders as featureless as the ship proper, extended down from the base of the pyramid -- connecting it to the Menagerie. The three ships, as dissimilar as could be, had come together.


    The Truemeet had begun.


    "Makes me feel weird, looking at it," Ruth frowned. "Like it¡¯s¡­ staring at you or something."


    "They say the Paradisas branch of the Final Church has technology hundreds of years ahead of everyone else," Skipper said, his own eyes fixed on the ship. "Hell, they might be staring at us.* S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Ugh," Serena shuddered. "Stop. You¡¯re giving me the creeps."


    "Sorry, sorry," Skipper waved an apologetic hand back without looking. "Still, though¡­ it¡¯s gonna be a real pain to sneak into."


    It really was¡­ wait.


    Dragan looked up at him. "Huh?"


    -


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Seriously, it¡¯s not that big a deal," Skipper chewed as he talked, already drowning his next fry in ketchup. "It¡¯s not like this is the first illegal thing we¡¯ve done, yeah? Far from it."


    After docking in one of the massive hangars of the Menagerie, they¡¯d moved into the vessel proper. The outside of the ship had been a sight to behold all by itself, but even so, it hadn¡¯t quite prepared Dragan for the view on the inside.


    It was like a city had sprung into existence over the course of the last hour or so. Stores and stalls, restaurants and cafes¡­ independent units coming together to form a new whole, buildings slotting together like toy blocks. Even the diner their group was sitting in bore tank treads that had been used to bring it here.


    Bruno picked at a sad-looking salad as he looked out the window of the diner -- he¡¯d positioned himself right next to it when they¡¯d gotten into this booth. His eyes tracked the strange crowds that passed by -- the majority of them wearing the patchwork clothing of the Humilists, a few wearing normal clothing like them, and the occasional one or two dressed in the exhausting memorabilia of the Superbians.


    "I thought Humilists weren¡¯t supposed to make anything," he muttered, eyes flicking this way and that. "Find it hard to believe they found all these buildings in a junkyard somewhere."


    "Well," Skipper cracked his neck. "Humilists don¡¯t make anything, sure, but not everyone who hangs out with the Humilists is a Humilist. You get me?"


    "What do you mean?" Ruth asked, taking a deadly-looking bite of a hotdog.


    "In nature," Skipper smirked as if he was saying something profound. "Pilot fish swim alongside sharks, and they take advantage of the fact they¡¯ve got the big guy next to them. It¡¯s kinda like that."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "In what way is it like that?"


    "Like it or not," Skipper leaned back. "You can¡¯t build a society on hand-me-downs. Sooner or later, you¡¯re gonna have to make stuff for yourself -- medicines, food, technology, materials for repairs¡­ and the hanger-ons take care of that stuff so the actual Humilists don¡¯t have to."


    "Make a profit from it, too, I bet," Bruno grunted, still staring out the window.


    Ruth paused, her hotdog thoroughly devoured. "That still sounds like cheating to me."


    Skipper smirked bitterly. "When ideals meet reality, you¡¯d be surprised how many loopholes just pop into existence."


    Tap, tap.


    Dragan leaned forward, a glare already starting to develop across his brow as he tapped his finger against the table. His own burger went untouched.


    "Feels to me like you¡¯re changing the subject, Skipper," he said, hushing his voice. "What¡¯s this about us breaking into the ELIZA?"


    "Well," Skipper frowned. "We¡¯re breaking into the ELIZA."


    "Why?" Dragan hissed.


    Skipper grinned. "Why, Mr. Hadrien, I thought you¡¯d never ask! Need to get a face to face with this guy," he said, sliding his script across the table. "Just for a lil chat, you know?"


    Dragan blinked, looking down at the image on the script. Serena leaned in next to him to get a look, too.


    "Mr. Skipper," she sighed, shaking her head. "That¡¯s not a guy. That¡¯s a ball."


    She was right. The image on the script was of a metallic sphere, around the size of a chair, floating through a hallway. Two further rings of some silvery material hovered around it, glowing slightly with a dim white light.


    Skipper tutted slightly. "It pains me to see you all know so little of the world, really. It¡¯s like I said -- the Paradisas are years ahead of everyone else technology-wise. Most of them live permanently in this virtual world they¡¯ve made, so when they need to act in reality, they remote-control automatic bodies like this one. His name¡¯s Hamashtiel, an advisor to the Paradisas Apexbishop. I need to get him on our side."


    Ruth leaned on her hand, looking down at the script. "For their tech?"


    "Kinda. They¡¯ve got more automatics than anyone else -- I just need them to lend us a few to beef up our numbers. Nothing too big: I don¡¯t imagine they¡¯ll wanna make it obvious they were involved with an attack on the Supreme."


    "So you want to negotiate with this Hamashtiel person," Dragan said.


    Skipper nodded. "Yup."


    "So go negotiate with him. Why does this require us to break into their flagship?"


    He waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, we gotta. I don¡¯t want this down in any kinds of books. Things¡¯ll get¡­ complicated."


    Dragan blinked. "Oh sorry, I didn¡¯t realize we didn¡¯t want things to get complicated, you fucking clown."


    "Don¡¯t be mean," Serena scowled. "I¡¯m sure he¡¯s doing his best."


    Skipper waved another dismissive hand, crushing a fry in his palm and stuffing the resultant mess into his mouth.


    "It¡¯s fine," he insisted. "Really. Seriously. Most of the ELIZA is open to visitors, anyway, so we just use your Gemini World to sneak in from there and give ol¡¯ Hamashtiel my pitch. Easy peasy."


    Dragan ran his hands over his face. "Yeah, you always make it sound so easy peasy. Then some unforeseen variable comes in and screws everything up."


    "Seriously, relax," Skipper crossed his arms. "I¡¯m promising you here and now, kid: I¡¯ve taken everything into account."


    Atoy Muzazi reached for a sword that was no longer there, his hand hanging in empty space for a moment. Then, it fell limp to his side.


    "Are you sure you¡¯ll be okay?" Avril-J asked, popping her head around from the pilot seat.


    Her chalk hair hung limp over her eyes, but it didn¡¯t seem to have dulled the Superbian¡¯s piloting skills any. Even with her gaze upon Muzazi, the thump-click from below confirmed they¡¯d docked in the hangar without difficulty.


    "I¡¯ll be fine," Muzazi muttered, waiting for the doors to open. "Thank you both for your assistance."


    From what Muzazi understood, he¡¯d nearly been dead from oxygen deprivation when Avril-J and her brother had come across his vessel. By the time he¡¯d regained consciousness, they¡¯d already been on their way here to the Truemeet. Beggars couldn¡¯t be choosers, and so Muzazi had elected to disembark here.


    It had been a long flight. He¡¯d spoken little. More than anything else, he¡¯d just sat and stared at the emptiness outside, pondering the voids that now surrounded him.


    Only dull, hazy memories remained of his time aboard the ruined Arrowhead. Recollections of short breaths, freezing cold, and an indistinct figure standing above him¡­ a figure out of legend¡­


    A dream, surely.


    "You sure you¡¯ll be okay?" Gordon-J paused as he walked past, carrying two boxes in his diminutive arms. "You were in a bad state when we found you -- at the very least, you should see a doctor to make sure there won¡¯t be, like, after-effects or anything."


    "I¡¯ll keep that in mind."


    The two clones -- identical in appearance -- were merchants, hoping to offload their cargo of antiques at the Truemeet. Muzazi imagined most of those artifacts had been pried out of graves or pilfered from tombs, but he said nothing. Again, always, beggars couldn¡¯t be choosers.


    "I know a guy you could go to, cheap, should be around here," Gordon-J continued. "If you wanna hang around just a minute, I can --"


    "I said I would keep it in mind," Muzazi snapped, glaring down at the little clone. "Do not pester me."


    The doors of the ship opened, and -- without another word -- Muzazi stalked down the ramp.


    The hangar was full to bursting with people, some stalls and storefronts already set up around the edges of the room. Muzazi had no doubt that such overcrowding was extremely dangerous in a facility like this, but nobody seemed to care much.


    Well, if they were intent on foolishness, it wasn¡¯t his job to dissuade them. He had his own goals in mind. Like a shadow, he passed through the gaps in the teeming crowd, a grim look on his face.


    He didn¡¯t know where it would be, but his destination was already known. More than anything, Atoy Muzazi needed a drink.


    The finger was stark white, its nail jet-black -- and as it tapped against the screen showing Atoy Muzazi¡¯s lonely walk, it made no sound at all.


    "There¡¯s our boy," a smooth voice spoke through nightshade lips. "He seems to have a dour aspect to him right now. Solstice, Equinox, try not to be too rough with him, please. Bring him back unharmed."


    Two nods, and two pairs of feet efficiently moved out of the room.


    "After all," the voice murmured. "There¡¯s a great deal of work waiting for Atoy Muzazi."

 Chapter 212:9.3: My Abyss

    And in that moment, when I reached the peak of Mount Pilto, I was reborn.


    It was so perfect -- the snow beneath my feet, the sea of trees that spread out before me, the clouds swirling through the sky. Even the tweeting of the birds which had irritated me moments ago now seemed magnificent. It was like the entire world had been arranged just for that one transcendent moment.


    I knew, then and there, that all the assets I¡¯d spent my life to accrue were nothing more than worthless numbers. This view, this existence, was the true treasure. Everything I could see was Y, and it always had been.


    Even the reflection of it in my eyes was Y itself.


    Memoirs of David Har Malcroft, Former Humilist Apexbishop


    Atoy Muzazi was in search of an abyss.


    He put the glass to his lips, gulping down the drink like he was a drowning man scrambling for buoyancy. It burnt at his throat on the way down, but it was a good pain, like he was being punished for his inadequacies. Slowly, surely, with each drink, he could feel the coherency of his thoughts coming undone.


    That was good. That was what he was here for.


    He was sitting at a little bar right at the bottom of this makeshift city the Truemeet had brought together. Cheap lights in the ceiling dimmed and brightened nearly at random, but nobody who came here did so for the atmosphere -- and it seemed very few people came here to begin with. It was just him, the bartender, and a couple of drunks animatedly ranting at the establishments only table.


    "Another one?" the bartender glanced up as Muzazi tapped his finger against the table. "You sure, pal?"


    "I¡¯m sure," Muzazi muttered, already extending a hand to accept the next glass.


    He took it eagerly as it was extended. He was almost there, he felt. He was almost free of the hellish place his mind had turned to. With each gulp of rancid alcohol, he was slowly breaking through a wall, getting closer and closer to the void on the other side.


    It would be a gentle place, he knew that, a place where the sorrow he was feeling would simply become nothing. There would be no emotion, no memory, no pain. Just himself, free from it all, staring into a reflectionless mirror.


    Just himself, not having to think of her face anymore.


    He went to look to his side, only to stop. He¡¯d see nothing there but an empty bar stool. She wasn¡¯t there anymore.


    The rest of the drink went down in three long gulps, and yet his mental disintegration still eluded him. The abyss he was looking for remained just as far away as ever. He was still here, now, feeling these things.


    Words cut through the space -- momentarily distracting him from his thoughts.


    "I¡¯m telling ya!" One of the drunks behind him suddenly called out to his buddy. "It¡¯s Gene Tyrants, all the way down!"


    Muzazi quietly put his glass down.


    The drunk¡¯s friend, only marginally more sober, snorted in amusement, leaning back in his chair. "The hell are you talking about, man? You¡¯re wasted."


    "I¡¯m telling ya, I¡¯m telling ya," the drunk continued, adjusting the black beanie on his head. "If you follow the facts, and¡­ and retrace the, uh, the evidence, it all makes sense."


    "How¡¯s that?"


    "We -- we beat them in the war, right? Killed ¡¯em all. Or did we? That¡¯s what they, uh, what they wanted us to think," the drunk waved a finger as if he was imparting great wisdom. "But what they actually did -- what they actually did -- is they transformed, and now? Now they¡¯re still ruling over us! We -- we just don¡¯t know it! It¡¯s messed up!"


    The friend furrowed his brow. "What, so, like¡­ all the guys in charge are¡­?"


    "The Apexbishops? They gotta be Gene Tyrants, let¡¯s start there," the drunk began, counting off on his fingers. "That council the UAP¡¯s got going on? You know they¡¯re Gene Tyrants. The Supreme? Gene Tyrant. It¡¯s -- it¡¯s messed up, they got us in their clutches, and we¡¯re pretty much slaves, so¡­ you know?"


    "My boss stiffed me for my bonus this month," the friend chuckled. "So you¡¯re saying he¡­?"


    "Oh," the drunk nodded sagely. "Definite Gene Tyrant. In fact --"


    "Why," Muzazi growled, swaying slightly on his feet. "Are you speaking about things you don¡¯t understand?"


    The drunk and his friend looked up. Muzazi had stood up from his stool and walked over to their table, where he was now looking down at them with a thunderous expression. Even with the drinks he¡¯d had, his movement had been so quiet he¡¯d gone undetected until he¡¯d spoken.


    The drunk¡¯s friend swallowed cautiously, shifting in his seat. "Kind of a private conversation, buddy," he said, voice low.


    Muzazi ignored him, his gaze remaining fixed on the drunk. The drunk just glared back up at him.


    "We got a problem, pal?" the man said. "Why don¡¯t you mind your own business?"


    Muzazi ignored the question.


    "You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about," he repeated, swaying slightly on his feet. "None of you. You just keep going on and on¡­ you¡­ why?"


    "Well, uh," the drunk chuckled, exchanging a glance with his friend. "Sorry if I offended you, buddy. You a Humilist or something?"


    Muzazi stared.


    "What, UAP, then?" The drunk clearly didn¡¯t know when to keep his mouth shut. "Little far from home, aren¡¯t ya?"


    Muzazi glared.


    The drunk¡¯s face darkened. "Supremacy?" he said, his voice suggesting he¡¯d already figured it out.


    Muzazi blinked.


    The drunk¡¯s chair screeched as he got to his feet, squaring up with Muzazi, perhaps just an inch or so taller. He thrust forward with his hands to shove the Special Officer, but Muzazi did not budge. Seeing that this attempt at intimidation was not working, an unsightly sneer wrinkled the drunk¡¯s nose. He turned to return to his table.


    "Supremacy cunt," he muttered -- and he spat at Muzazi¡¯s feet.


    The movement was instantaneous.


    In less than a second, Muzazi had seized the drunk by the back of his hair and smashed his face against the table, blood and teeth scattering across its surface. The drunk¡¯s friend staggered back, falling over his seat and collapsing to the floor. An incoherent whining sound trickled from the drunk¡¯s broken jaw, like a slowly dying pig.


    But Atoy Muzazi was not done yet. A blazing anger like a star, targetless, had consumed him. As he pressed the drunk¡¯s head against the table, the light of a thruster blazed out of the back of Muzazi¡¯s hand, slowly increasing the pressure between the man¡¯s face and the surface below.


    Crack. Crack. Crunch.


    Slowly, inexorably, Muzazi could hear the drunk¡¯s already broken nose fracture further as it was pressed tighter and tighter, closer and closer. It was a sickeningly satisfying feeling, and so Muzazi just stared down at him, like this moment of petty vengeance was the only thing that existed in the world.


    He ignored the thrashing of the drunk¡¯s limbs.


    He ignored the screaming of the drunk¡¯s friend.


    He ignored the commotion from outside, from the passing pedestrians who were witnessing this sight.


    But when the bartender slammed a farball bat against the back of his head -- catching him off-guard -- he could not, of course, ignore that.


    Everything went mercifully black¡­


    ¡­and yet it was still not the abyss Atoy Muzazi had been looking for.


    Malfi Root, Green Grace, and even a few fledgeling Apex trees, stretching lazily up to the ceiling. Mila recognised more than a few of those plants as she walked through her Apexbishop¡¯s garden.


    The bright lights above gave a decent impersonation of the sun, and she could hear the occasional tweeting of birds as she walked down the footpath, but Mila saw no signs of human life. A twinge of annoyance curled her lips: she¡¯d spent months trying to arrange this meeting. The least they could do was actually meet her.


    For what it was worth, she wasn¡¯t too sure how this massive garden -- taking up a massive chamber right in the center of the Menagerie -- gelled with the tenets of Humilism. Humilists like them weren¡¯t supposed to make anything new, only recycling that which already existed, but how did growing plants factor into that? She supposed the seeds already existed, but it still felt like a loophole.


    Well, whatever. She¡¯d never considered herself especially devout, and she wasn¡¯t here to question the Apexbishop¡¯s devotion.


    Mila turned the corner -- and there, finally, was the woman she¡¯d come to meet. The Apexbishop of the Humilist branch of the Final Church, Gertrude Hearth. The Scurrant woman was sat at an antique table, sipping a cup of tea, wearing a dress that honestly looked like half-a-dozen burlap sacks had been stitched together. Bizarrely enough, she seemed to make the look work.


    Getrude lowered the cup from her mouth, gently putting it back down on the saucer with a clink. Her feline ears, perched over her brunette hair, twitched as she addressed her visitor.


    "Mila Green, isn¡¯t it?" she said sweetly, cocking her head. Though she didn¡¯t have the age for the role, her mannerisms gave off the impression of a kindly grandmother.


    Mila nodded respectfully. "That¡¯s right, ma¡¯am."


    Gertrude gestured towards the empty chair with a hand, her furry tail swaying in the air behind her. "My people tell me you¡¯ve been asking for this meeting for a long while. Please, sit down."


    She did as she was bid. Mila was here to make a request, and she wasn¡¯t going to put that in jeopardy by being unnecessarily confrontational.


    "Can I offer you some tea?" Gertrude asked, steepling her hands beneath her chin as she looked Mila up and down. "It¡¯s Margrave. Lovely jubbly."


    The pleasantries had to be observed, but Mila couldn¡¯t help but feel like they were slow knives as she nodded. She was uncomfortably aware of just how sweaty her hands were, sitting opposite this woman.


    People called Gertrude Hearth ¡¯the cat¡¯, and it wasn¡¯t just because of her appearance. It was the way she looked at you, played with you¡­ like a cat toying with a mouse. With every honeyed word she spoke, you couldn¡¯t help but spot her fangs.


    Gertrude made the tea quickly, grinding leaves together with a mortar and pestle she had on hand. The tea that resulted was a pale red, bubbling slightly from the heat -- Mila tasted something like strawberry when she raised it to her lips.


    "So, Miss Green," Gertrude smiled. "I understand you want to talk to me about Helga Malwarian."


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author¡¯s consent. Report any sightings.


    Mila stiffened, but she actually wasn¡¯t too surprised. The Humilist Apexbishop was decided by majority vote -- and it was rumoured that Hearth had achieved her victory through copious amounts of blackmail. It was no surprise that she had such accurate information on others.


    She nodded. "That¡¯s --" S~ea??h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "What people sometimes need to understand," Gertrude gently interrupted. "Is that necessity often trumps what¡¯s right and what¡¯s wrong. Please, though, go on, dear."


    Gertrude Hearth¡¯s gaze was like a magnifying glass incinerating an ant.


    Mila swallowed, steeling herself before she continued: "I believe the time has come to release Helga Malwarian -- or at least to change the terms of her punishment. Right now, it is cruel and unusual."


    The cat cocked her head. "Cruel and unusual? How¡¯s that? Forgive me if I¡¯m wrong, but hasn¡¯t Malwarian been unconscious since she was brought in? I¡¯m a little confused, how can someone be punished if they aren¡¯t aware of anything?"


    "She¡¯s been kept unconscious," Mila forced out. "That in itself is the punishment --"


    "Hardly cruel and unusual, then," Gertrude sipped her tea. "Fairly light, if I say so, especially in response to treason."


    Treason.


    The events of Yoslof ran through Mila¡¯s mind in an instant, a horror show all in fast-forward. The Special Officer that had terrorised her friends, the red shadow that had betrayed them to him, and¡­


    ¡­and the moment that shadow had revealed itself as Helga Malwarian. The woman she¡¯d loved.


    "It¡¯s surprising to me that I¡¯m hearing from you about this, if I¡¯m quite honest," Gertrude went on, carefully sipping her tea. "When young Aiden first brought Malwarian to the Forgiveness Corps for arrest, you petitioned quite heavily to remain by her side, didn¡¯t you? You didn¡¯t seem to think the punishment was cruel and unusual, then."


    She¡¯d already heard nasty rumours at that point, about the upper echelons of the Humilist faith, about the corruption in the Forgiveness Corps, about what happened to inconvenient people when you took your eye off them.


    Despite everything, despite what Helga had done, Mila had simply found herself unable to leave her to that fate. And yet it had happened all the same.


    Mila put her own cup back down on the table with great force, Gertrude¡¯s feline ears twitching from the sudden loud noise. She summoned the courage she¡¯d been building ever since she requested this meeting, and spoke.


    "It¡¯s a matter of duration," she said. "When Helga was first given to Dr. Cloud as a test subject --"


    "-- for observation only," Gertrude interrupted. "No actual testing has been performed on the woman --"


    "As a test subject," she insisted. "It was under the terms that it would be for a limited amount of time. I¡¯ve worked with Dr. Cloud for the last year and I can confidently say he has no intention of giving up useful test subjects. He will continue to hold her on a permanent basis. Permanent imprisonment as a human guinea pig, without trial or parole: that is what I class as cruel and unusual."


    She didn¡¯t realise at first, but as she spoke, she slowly stood up in her seat -- passion prompting movement. Her breath shaky, she slowly sat back down.


    But she already knew. All the passion in the world wouldn¡¯t sway these people. She¡¯d left Serendipity to escape the corruption of the medical profession there -- but she understood now. It didn¡¯t matter where you went or how pure its ideals were: over time, institutions accumulated corruption as houses accumulated rot. It was inevitable.


    And the place she¡¯d found herself in was very old indeed.


    "What you need to understand," Gertrude said softly, as if explaining the matter to a child. "Is that Dr. Cloud is one of the foremost genetic engineers in the galaxy. It¡¯s a miracle we have him now, rather than the Superbians. We need to keep pace with them when it comes to technology. If not, they will surely surpass us. If Dr. Cloud¡¯s price for his continued brilliance is a test subject or two, well, I¡¯m afraid we must simply swallow our pride and acquiesce."


    Mila glared down at the table, her fists balled on its surface. "So that¡¯s it, then?" she muttered. "Keeping her asleep to satisfy some mad scientist."


    "I¡¯d hardly call him ¡¯mad¡¯, but yes, that¡¯s the gist of it. Unless you have something better to offer me?"


    "Huh?" Mila looked up, a foolish spark of hope flickering in her brain.


    Gertrude stared at her, unblinking. "If there¡¯s something of equal value to Dr. Cloud you¡¯d be willing to offer me, I¡¯d be happy to consider it. You¡¯re from the UAP originally, aren¡¯t you? Your father was a famous surgeon there, and worked with many prominent individuals. Perhaps in living with him, you yourself became privy to some confidential matters? I¡¯d love to hear about them if so."


    Ah. So, in the end, that was why the cat had accepted this meeting. To try and restock some of her blackmail. To exchange one piece of dirty business for another.


    Well, Mila had nothing to tell her -- and even if she did, she was far too sick to her stomach to speak.


    "No," she replied, her voice dull. "I don¡¯t know anything like that."


    Gertrude¡¯s ears flattened as she smiled sadly. "Then I suppose we have nothing else to talk about, do we, dear?"


    When Atoy Muzazi¡¯s drifting consciousness -- victim to drunkenness and head trauma -- finally came back into focus, he was already sitting in the back of a police car.


    His head hurt, but that was no surprise. His hands were bound, but with ordinary handcuffs -- no Neverwire. It would be child¡¯s play to snap them with his Aether, but Atoy Muzazi did not move. Even the idea of mustering that much effort seemed sickening right now.


    The streets gently moved past outside the window, the countless lights of the city forming an indistinct haze before Muzazi¡¯s eyes, punctuated by the shadows of passing pedestrians. They weren¡¯t moving particularly fast, but he supposed they were surrounded by crowds -- no doubt the officer didn¡¯t want to risk running anyone over.


    Muzazi¡¯s headache eased, just a little, and he glanced up to the front of the car. There was only one officer up there, a young man driving the vehicle, and every now and then he was giving Muzazi a cautious glance back through the rearview mirror.


    Foolishness. An officer should always have a partner¡­


    "I suppose I¡¯m under arrest?" Muzazi spoke through a throat that felt like sandpaper, his cheek pressed against the cool window. They were entering an area with less people, and the vehicle was speeding up appropriately.


    "Ayup," the officer said, eyes on the road.


    Muzazi blinked. "By whom, if I may ask?"


    "Forgiveness Corps."


    "That¡¯s¡­ Humilist, isn¡¯t it?"


    "That¡¯s right."


    Atoy Muzazi had no opinion on that information. The questions left his mouth, and he received and understood the answers, but he simply and honestly did not care about them at all. If the officer had refused to answer, or even lied, he probably wouldn¡¯t have even registered it.


    The car slowed down, and finally stopped. Had they arrived? No matter. Muzazi simply continued to stare into the pitch-black on the other side of the window.


    "Damnit," the officer muttered -- and then there was the sound of him lowering his window. "Hey!" he called out. "You guys need to move this stuff!"


    Footsteps, and then a gruff voice next to the car. For Atoy Muzazi, the whole world had become some kind of audio drama.


    "Transport accident along the road," the gruff voice said. "Got cargo scattered a ways -- we called ahead and got approval from the Corps for a clean-up. They didn¡¯t tell you guys?"


    The officer sighed. "Of course they didn¡¯t. You got papers?"


    A chuckle. "Sure. Here you go."


    Click.


    For a split second, reflex took over, and that familiar noise jolted Muzazi back into awareness, his gaze instantly moving to the sound¡¯s location.


    The barrel of a silenced pistol was peeking through the crack in the window, inches from the officer¡¯s face. Face pale, the young man slowly raised his hands in surrender.


    "Okay now," he said carefully. "Let¡¯s not --"


    His head snapped back as he was shot between the eyes -- and yet his body stayed in place, held up by his seatbelt. A meaty hand wormed its way through the open window, unlocking the door, opening it, and pulling the corpse free.


    Muzazi had seen enough. Where reflex had revived him, self-preservation now moved him -- and with a flare of white Aether, he smashed through the car door with his shoulder and snapped his handcuffs in one smooth motion.


    He skidded to a halt on the concrete outside, boots kicking up sparks behind him. His eyes flicked around, picking out details, gaining an instant understanding of the situation he¡¯d found himself in.


    It was him and two men -- short and stout types, with bushy moustaches and amused eyes. Both of them wore overalls and caps, the only difference being the colour: the one holding the officer¡¯s body was wearing red, and the other one was wearing blue.


    "Atoy Muzazi, right?" the blue man spoke, scratching his moustache.


    "Name yourselves," Muzazi demanded, once again reaching for a sword that was not there. "Why did you kill that man?"


    "Name¡¯s Solstice," the red man -- Solstice -- said, lifting the dead officer up by the shoulders like he was a baby. "That¡¯s my bro Equinox. Hey, Equinox, can I take care of this thing?" He shook the corpse in his grip.


    "Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, go for it."


    Muzazi opened his mouth to interrogate further -- but was interrupted by a truly incandescent blaze of light that exploded out of the officer¡¯s corpse, like the flash of a giant camera. When it cleared, Solstice¡¯s hands were empty, and no trace remained of the officer¡¯s corpse.


    There weren¡¯t even ashes.


    "My bro¡¯s got a good power for clean-up, huh?" Equinox grinned, hands on his considerable hips. "Mine¡¯s not bad, either, but for corpses his is the best."


    Muzazi adopted a martial arts stance, one hand held back in a fist, the other held forward as an open palm. He wasn¡¯t as confident with his fists as he was with a sword, but it would suffice. If it came down to it, he wouldn¡¯t go quietly.


    "What do you want with me?" he said, eyes hard.


    Equinox chuckled, exchanging a glance with his brother. "Gee, bro, I think we mighta come on a bit strong. Don¡¯t you?"


    Solstice nodded sagely. "Seems to me we might have, bro, what with the murder and the incineration and whatnot. I bet he¡¯s real confused."


    "Maybe he thinks we¡¯re here to kill him, too. Wouldn¡¯t that be something, bro?"


    "Why, bro, I do think that would be something. Nothing could be further from the truth, but --"


    "Enough games!" Muzazi barked, his Aether coursing furiously around his body. "Tell me what it is you want from me -- or I will not be responsible for my actions."


    "Okay, okay," Solstice chuckled, reaching into the pockets of his overalls and fumbling around there. "There¡¯s someone who wants to talk to you real bad, buddy pal. Oh, I know I¡¯ve got it somewhere¡­"


    "Who?" Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "Who wants to talk to me?"


    Solstice¡¯s eyes lit up, and he pulled something free from his pocket. "There we go!" he exclaimed triumphantly. He tossed his prize onto the ground between himself and Muzazi. "There, check a look."


    He glanced down at the pin that had landed on the concrete before him. Needless to say, he recognised the logo. The wide, staring eye of a watchful bird, surrounded by three rings -- one for each pillar of the Supremacy¡¯s society.


    This was the symbol of the Galactic Intelligence Division.


    The building Muzazi was taken to was busier than he¡¯d expected. It was some kind of barbecue restaurant, and already on the first day of the Truemeet it was full to bursting -- blazing with light and noise, the smell of ribs and meat pleasing to the nose.


    As he and his two ¡¯companions¡¯ made their way through the crowded venue, they received not so much as a suspicious glance.


    The back rooms of the establishment were more like what he¡¯d expected. Solstice and Equinox led him down several dark and dusty hallways, through several password-locked doors, and finally¡­


    "Here he is," Equinox said.


    ¡­they shoved him into the back office itself.


    "Atoy Muzazi," a clear, calm voice said. "A pleasure to meet you at last."


    The man who¡¯d spoken, sitting on a chair before a network of monitors, had an¡­ unusual appearance. Nearly everything about him was sheer white. His hair, his skin, the suit he wore¡­ the only traces of colour on his person were the Cogitant-blue of his eyes and the black of his lips and fingernails.


    He was like a sketch that hadn¡¯t been coloured in -- or perhaps an escaped mime.


    "Jean Lyons," he introduced himself, smiling. "Director at the Galactic Intelligence Division. My apologies we have to meet in such an unusual venue, but we¡¯re currently conducting business here. We couldn¡¯t risk anything less discreet."


    Jean Lyons¡­ the name rang familiar, yet Muzazi couldn¡¯t recall ever meeting this man.


    "You¡¯re a spy from the Supremacy?" he asked hoarsely. "What is it you want from me, then?"


    Lyons¡¯ tight smile widened slightly.


    "Well," he said. "While you¡¯re here, we figured you could help us with any number of things. Retrieving a GID asset lost to the Humilists, eliminating some inconvenient individuals¡­"


    His smile widened such that there was the slightest hint of a grin.


    "...and bringing an end to the Final Church."


    Muzazi sighed until his lungs were empty. Even he was surprised by the sheer relief in the sound. His arms swayed limp by his sides, and it felt as if the world¡¯s greatest weight had been lifted from his back.


    Orders. Finally.


    There was the abyss he¡¯d been looking for.


    Mila looked up, her face coldly illuminated by the light from the stasis module. That cruel glow was the only illumination afforded to this room.


    Helga Malwarian floated freely in the blue stimulant fluid of the tank, a rebreather placed over her mouth allowing her oxygen. At first glance, it seemed she had no arms at all -- but no, if you looked closer, her transparent limbs were simply refracting the fluid.


    It had almost been a year now -- a year since she¡¯d been knocked unconscious on the planet Yoslof, and kept that way by this tank. An entire year had been added to the distance that already separated them.


    Tomorrow, this tank would be moved to the main laboratory again for further scans. Dr. Cloud was interested in the way Aether use interacted with genes, particularly when it came to Scurrants. He¡¯d keep using Helga until there was nothing left to use.


    She placed a hand against the curiously warm glass of the tank, staring into the blue abyss beyond.


    Helga, she thought. I¡¯ll get you out of here. I promise.


    It was time to start making plans of her own.

 Chapter 213:9.4: The Garden

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    Deliberation of the Paridisas Gardeners


    Muzazi gulped, his mouth curiously dry. "Destroy¡­ the Final Church?"


    He had passing familiarity with the GID -- the spymasters of the Supremacy -- but even for them this operation seemed somewhat extravagant. From what he understood, their work usually involved the assassination of foreign nationals or the extraction of useful intelligence, not the destruction of enemy states outright. Was it really something that could be accomplished?


    Whatever the case¡­ orders were orders.


    Lyons chuckled, raising his hands good-naturedly, but the expression didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. "Oh, please, don¡¯t worry about that, haha! I don¡¯t expect you to single handedly blow up the entire Final Church or anything like that. I was just hoping you could help us out here and there. Like a¡­ part-time job or something."


    Muzazi straightened up -- and once again, went to rest his hand on a sword that was no longer there.


    "As a Special Officer of the Supremacy¡­" he mumbled, still shaking off some of the liquor. "I am duty-bound to assist. Please, what do you need?"


    Please, give me something you need. Please, give me orders. Please, give me a reason to exist here. Please. Please.


    He blinked blearily. How long had it been since he¡¯d last slept?


    "I¡¯m glad you¡¯re so agreeable," Lyons said, leaning back in his seat. "As I said, it¡¯s just a few small matters we need taken care of. Prerequisite conditions that need to be cleared before the main event, if you like."


    Blue light washed over him from the monitors surrounding his desk -- when Muzazi glanced at them, he saw that they were displaying video feeds from numerous cameras throughout the Truemeet. Crowds aboard the Menagerie, solemn gatherings aboard the Deus Nobiscum, empty corridors and server rooms aboard the ELIZA. There were even shots from the outer hulls of the connected ships, observing the smaller vessels keeping orbit.


    One monitor, however, was completely black -- save for the golden figure standing at its centre, right at the core of the void. A figure with black armour and a one-eyed helmet, a shining sword in his hand. The man he¡¯d seen back aboard the ruined Arrowhead.


    Nigen Rush.


    "Don¡¯t trust him," the long-dead swordsman said. "You mustn¡¯t trust him."


    Lyons blinked, cocking his head slightly. "Do you have a query, Mr. Muzazi?"


    Muzazi shook his head, rubbing his head with one hand. When he looked again, the screen was instead showing a feed from one of the Menagerie¡¯s marketplaces.


    "I¡¯m sorry," he mumbled. "It¡¯s been¡­ it¡¯s been a tiring time for me recently. But it will not impact my performance -- I¡¯m prepared to do what needs to be done."


    "Excellent!" Lyons smiled, blue eyes twinkling in the dim light. The smile was short-lived, though, and his face soon fell into businesslike neutrality. "By the by, I understand your last reported activity was heading to the planet Panacea, with your partner in tow. I can¡¯t help but notice you are now alone, Mr. Muzazi."


    A cold chill settled over Muzazi¡¯s back, and his hands began to shake. For a second, he could swear he still felt the grainy texture of that silent dust on his fingers.


    "Yes¡­" he whispered, staring down at the floor. "Yes, there were circumstances¡­ I¡­"


    Jean Lyons did not blink. "I think it¡¯s best if you explain to me exactly what happened, Mr. Muzazi."


    Slowly, Muzazi nodded, and he opened his mouth.


    For a long time, Mila had assumed that the majority of pre-Thousand Revolutions history had been tainted by the efforts of the era¡¯s propagandists -- especially when it came to the Gene Tyrants.


    The way she saw it, there was simply no way beings as casually cruel and eccentric as the Gene Tyrants of legend could have existed. They wouldn¡¯t have been able to form a functioning government, for one thing, and it was unlikely that people so dysfunctional would have been able to advance to the Gene Tyrants level of technology in the first place.


    After meeting Dr. Cloud, however, she¡¯d started to question that view.


    "Aether," the bald man sighed passionately, his arms spread wide as he pranced throughout the laboratory. "A light of the mind. H.H. Guilford called it that in his famous memoirs -- did you know that, dear? I think it¡¯s an apt description, too, but only-at-the-surface-level."


    His way of speaking, speeding up and slowing down seemingly at random, was a stark contrast to his mundane appearance -- little more than a drab sweater, some pants, and an old lab coat.


    "Dear? Dear, did-you-know-that?" Dr. Cloud repeated with a sudden sense of urgency, whirling around to face Mila. His eyes were nearly bulging out of their sockets. "Did you know?"


    Mila nodded, holding her script up to her chest. "Yes, sir. You¡¯ve explained this before."


    "Oh, oh, excellent¡­" Dr. Cloud muttered, turning back around.


    Cloud¡¯s laboratory wasn¡¯t aboard the Menagerie itself -- it required more secrecy than that -- but instead an anonymous ship flying separately, it¡¯s signatures changed hourly. Despite that fact, however, space wasn¡¯t limited in the slightest: Gertrude Hearth had spared no expense when it came to her pet genetic engineer.


    The walls on one side were lined with consoles and analysis equipment, ready to receive any samples that prompted Cloud¡¯s curiosity. On the other side of the room, shelves were fully stocked with glass jars containing grotesque and short-lived specimens, brought into this world and taken out of it in this very same room.


    And then, looking down from the ceiling, was Helga¡¯s tank. Whenever she was here, Mila avoided looking up -- for fear she¡¯d see open eyes glaring down at her.


    An irrational fear, but she still dreamed of it.


    "For a long time," Dr. Cloud continued to prattle on, throwing himself back into a seat and putting his feet up. "I actually despaired when it came to my Aether research? Did you know that? I-actually-despaired. Do you know why? Because there was no visible link between Aether and biology. No-visible-link-at-all."


    Mila nodded again, her eyes dull. She had the sneaking suspicion she¡¯d heard this lecture many times before.


    "For example," Dr. Cloud stuck up a single finger. "Take my Aether Core theory. It¡¯s entirely possible for someone with, let¡¯s-say, an atrophied or mutated brain to lack the ability to feel, let¡¯s-say, romantic passion. But-but-but, it¡¯s entirely possible for that same person to have romantic passion as their Aether Core. What-the-Aether-demands is entirely divorced from their biology. That¡¯s how you get people who are categorically unable to use Aether. Don¡¯t you find that vexing?"


    "Quite vexing, sir," Mila replied.


    What would you think of me now, Helga? I¡¯ve become a lapdog. Not that you could judge me: you were a traitor, after all.


    "However-then-I-thought-about-it-further," Dr. Cloud spat out all at once, springing back to his feet. "That frustrating fact actually opened up realms of new-possibilities-for-me. Doesn¡¯t that actually confirm, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Aether is an external resource? There is no-organ-nor-gland that produces it, and the body actively suffers from being overloaded by it. It¡¯s-a-foreign-substance. An-invader-perhaps."


    "Mm-hmm."


    "It is accessed via a specific emotional key, which-it-seeks even if the subject is incapable of it. It is a light of the mind, after-all, not of the brain." He rubbed his hands together as he paced back and forth, eager to release his excitement any way he could. "But doesn¡¯t this also suggest that consciousness exists in some form separate from the meat of the brain? The-very-idea-makes-my-heart-fly. What can you call that if not the soul? As-a-scientist, and of course as a Humilist, the very possibilities are¡­"


    As usual, Dr. Cloud¡¯s rambling was gradually drowned out by a high-pitched ringing sound scraping through Mila¡¯s head. She¡¯d served as his assistant for the better part of a year, and through that time she¡¯d heard these same rants over and over again¡­ sometimes they¡¯d be delivered while he brewed up some genetic abomination in a vat, sometimes they¡¯d be rolled off while he dissected the resultant corpse¡­ but always the same ideas and theories, over and over again.


    The repetition alone was enough to drive a person crazy.


    When Mila had first started working here, she¡¯d felt a blazing fire burning within her -- a passion to get Helga out of here, to find out what was really going on, and to put things right. Those repeated speeches, the bloodstained days she¡¯d spent helping Cloud¡­ they¡¯d smothered that flame down to a simmer.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    But now, today, she could feel some last little sparks leaping up.


    She had no doubt that Gertrude Hearth would contrive some excuse to get her away from here before long -- her conduct at the meeting would have made it obvious she was a potential security risk. If she was to set Helga free, it would have to be before the Truemeet ended. So¡­ a week, essentially.


    Her fists tightened to such a degree that it hurt. She¡¯d already made preliminary preparations: putting together funds for mercenaries to pull this thing off, but now that the time had actually come to put her plans into action¡­


    ¡­the anxiety was suffocating.


    Jean Lyons listened to Muzazi¡¯s entire story without interruption or judgement, simply watching him with inquisitive unblinking eyes. Those blue irises, the only trace of colour on the Cogitant¡¯s body, observed him like the lenses of twin cameras.


    And Muzazi spoke.


    He spoke until his throat felt like fire. He spoke until his tears ran dry. He spoke until the shaking of his limbs had exhausted him to such a degree that all his body could do was hang limp, rendered little more than a puppet to his own speech.


    As he spoke, he left nothing out. He spoke in such detail that it was like he was reliving the whole thing once more. He spoke of Dragan Hadrien, of the Repurposed, of the Gene Tyrant Ranavalona and of the battle that had taken place there.


    ¡­and, of course, he spoke of Marie.


    When his story concluded, his mouth continued to move, letting out useless gasps of air. The exhaustion had gripped him utterly, and as he collapsed to his knees he felt as if he was going to fall unconscious then and there. The floodgates of his grief had opened, and it felt for all the world like he¡¯d just be washed away.


    He only remembered where he was when he felt reassuring arms wrap around him. Lyons, moving silently, had stepped over, kneeled down and gently embraced him.


    "I see," Lyons said softly, his eyes closed. "That sounds like quite the horrible experience. It¡¯s been difficult, hasn¡¯t it, Mr. Muzazi?"


    Muzazi swallowed, his breath shuddering. "Yes¡­" he whispered. "Yes, it¡¯s been¡­ very, very difficult¡­"


    In that dark room, with the four walls seeming to crush in towards him, the only thing Atoy Muzazi could hear was Jean Lyons¡¯ quiet, calm voice.


    "My wish is to make a less difficult world for our Supremacy," Lyons said, rubbing Muzazi¡¯s back in comfort. "A world where our people don¡¯t encounter such sad situations. Atoy Muzazi¡­ will you lend me your strength?"


    "Yes," Muzazi breathed. "Of course."


    "Thank you so much."


    Lyons stood back up, helping Muzazi to his feet with a gentle hand. Muzazi let out a sigh: he didn¡¯t know why, exactly, but he felt much stronger now than he had just a few minutes ago. The opportunity to speak of everything he¡¯d been through had done him a world of good.


    But now, the time for tears had passed. Atoy Muzazi hardened his frivolous mind back into steel, and stared forward with resolute eyes.


    "What would you have me do?" he asked again, crossing his arms.


    Lyons threw up a holographic display with a wave of his hand, the screen flipping around to face Muzazi. On it was an image of a black woman with a worried expression, walking through a garden of some sort. She was wearing the patchwork attire typical of Humilists, with a bag slung over her shoulder.


    "Mila Green," Lyons said by way of explanation, getting back into his chair and crossing his legs. "She¡¯s a medical doctor working for the Humilist branch of the Final Church."


    Muzazi nodded. "What of her?"


    "She¡¯s part of a group within the Humilists that have captured and detained one of our agents," Lyons explained. "I don¡¯t have all the details, but sadly it appears this agent has been subjected to human experimentation. They¡¯re making an effort to match the Superbians skill in the field of genetic engineering, it seems."


    Muzazi looked down at Lyons, his eyes wide with concern. "Genetic engineering?! So, this human experimentation is¡­?"


    Lyons nodded grimly. "It¡¯s of that variety, yes. It¡¯s a disturbing phenomenon: the further we advance, the more paths back to the time of the Gene Tyrants present themselves. Personally, it sickens me."


    Memories of Ranavalona and his monstrous form bubbled up in Muzazi¡¯s brain, and his fists tightened furiously in response. No matter what, he would not allow a sight like that to exist again in this world.


    "We believe the laboratory itself is on an off-site ship, but this woman occasionally travels to the main Menagerie for supplies. You and Olga will capture her and have her take you to the ship in question. An easy task, all things considered."


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "Olga?" he asked.


    "Olga," spoke a high-pitched voice in monotone -- from right beside Lyons.


    A jolt of alarm, a reflexive leap into a combat stance -- but a combination of Lyons¡¯ raised palm and Muzazi¡¯s lack of weapon quickly calmed him down. His eyes flicked over to the new figure.


    A young girl, clearly barely into her teens, stood next to Lyons, a dull look in her dark-blue eyes. How long had she been there? Had she been there the whole time, right in the open, and Muzazi just hadn¡¯t noticed? If that was the case, she was certainly skilled at concealing her presence.


    She was wearing a black raincoat, the surface of it bulky enough that it was surely concealing armour, and a bright-red scarf was wrapped around her neck, covering her mouth. The scarf was obscenely long, enough so that it was coiled several times around her throat and still had enough length to trail across the ground behind her. In contrast, the blonde ponytail that hung limp from the back of her head was barely long enough to even qualify as such.


    "Olga," she repeated, nodding. "Nice to meet you."


    "And you as well," Muzazi responded automatically.


    By far, she was the youngest operative of the Supremacy he¡¯d ever seen. The girl looked like she should still be in school, to be perfectly honest. But if the Supremacy had decided her being here was right and proper, he was of no mind to protest.


    "Olga here is one of our best and brightest," Lyons said, with more than a hint of pride as he patted her on the shoulder. "She has some personal investment in this mission, but don¡¯t let that concern you. Her loyalty to the Supremacy is without equal."


    Olga clasped her gloved hands in front of her. "I look forward to working with you," she said quietly. "Please treat me well."


    It was strange, but Muzazi got the feeling that she was speaking in rehearsed phrases, little coming out of her mouth except etiquette and formality. To put it bluntly, she gave him the creeps. No doubt it was a little cruel to think that of such a young girl, but that was simply the impression she gave.


    "Personal investment?" Muzazi asked, turning back to Lyons. "Of what kind?"


    "That needn¡¯t concern you," Lyons said mildly -- and yet in a tone that permitted no argument. "At any rate, that is your mission. The next time Mila Green walks on the Menagerie, track her down, covertly apprehend her¡­"


    Lyons smiled.


    "...and bring her to me." S~ea??h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Hamashtiel took in a deep breath through his nostrils, and felt wet sand beneath his toes.


    As he looked down the length of the golden beach, he saw no trace of civilization or infrastructure. There were only dunes of sand, the occasional scuttling crab, and the soft waves of water trickling past his feet. The sun hung low on the horizon, dying the planet in orange glory.


    In the original memory, there had been a ship here too, but Hamashtiel had decided to erase it from this recreation. It would spoil the landscape, after all.


    Hamashtiel Nurata had come to this uninhabited planet with his son once, and now Hamashtiel took on a child¡¯s form as he walked that same shore. Everything seemed so much bigger from this small shape, every distance so much more insurmountable¡­ he wondered if this remembered weakness was where the feeling of wonder came from.


    He reached down with a small hand and scooped up some of the saltwater, enjoying the sensation of the liquid against his skin. It was simulated, of course -- just like everything in the Garden -- but Hamashtiel liked it all the same. It wasn¡¯t as if he had much else to compare it to.


    Right now, he was in a private instance within the Garden -- the virtual world that was the pride and joy of the Paradisas. In truth, it was more like layers and layers of worlds piled on top of one another, designed to accommodate the whims of its inhabitants. And then, of course, there was what those layers formed a shell around¡­


    Hamashtiel banished the thought from his mind. It would only depress him, anyway.


    At any rate, that was how Hamashtiel walked a beach that no longer existed. From what he understood, an industrial accident ten years ago had reduced this place to a wasteland. This beach had become little more than a toxic reef, and yet the memory of it remained unblemished within the Garden. Improved, even.


    An alert popped up in the back of his consciousness, informing him that the time to meet with Mr. Mestrilyn was approaching. He¡¯d been conducting negotiations with the mining magnate for some time now, and was confident he¡¯d be able to close a deal with this final meeting. Mestrilyn¡¯s product would be extremely useful in expanding the Garden¡¯s server infrastructure. The task had been assigned to him by Apexbishop Asmagius himself, and Hamashtiel had no intention of disappointing.


    The logout process from the Garden began, and the beach disintegrated around him.


    First chunks of the ground began to collapse in on itself, leaving black and empty voids, then even the sky began to crack and shatter, shards of it floating up into an identical darkness. In the moment before the logout was completed, Hamashtiel could see the ocean floating free, unburdened by geography or geometry, until¡­


    ¡­it too fell into the abyss.


    "Gotta say," Ruth frowned, scratching her head. "This doesn¡¯t really feel like a religious kinda thing."


    "Well," Skipper cracked his neck as he adjusted his tie. "The Paradisas like to do things their own way. I guess living inside a video game makes you lose touch with the outside world, yeah? Hey, Hadrien, how am I looking?"


    "Like you¡¯ve murdered that tie," Dragan replied truthfully.


    "I think you look fine, Mr. Skipper," Serena smiled sweetly. "Maybe not good, but¡­ yeah, fine!"


    The four of them were in an elevator heading to the main floor of the ELIZA¡¯s welcome reception. Only a few levels of the Paradisas ship were open to visitors, so they planned to infiltrate the party and then use Gemini World to proceed to the room they actually needed.


    From what Skipper had said, this party was something of a suit and tie affair. And so Dragan had spent the last few excruciating hours at a tailor on the Menagerie. He really didn¡¯t get paid enough for this, in that he didn¡¯t get paid at all.


    He adjusted his own red bow tie, brushing some of the inevitable dust off his black suit. He swore that the thing was a size or so too big for him, but they hadn¡¯t exactly had the time to get anything individually fitted.


    Unsurprisingly, Skipper had put a greater deal of time and effort into his own attire. If not for the green tie that he¡¯d mangled -- and indeed, now ripped off and stuffed into his pocket -- he¡¯d cut quite the striking figure. A black waistcoat with a green trim over a white dress shirt. With his dark hair tied back into a ponytail, he almost looked like he could have been a businessman rather than a menace.


    Serena was wearing a pink-and-white dress with a smile on her face, thoroughly made up. Even with the high heels she was wearing, she was hopping up and down on the spot without any signs of difficulty. Needless to say, Bruno had made himself scarce.


    Ruth, to be blunt, looked like a caveman that had been thawed out of a block of ice and stuffed into a dress. She continued to scratch her head in annoyance, slouching, and despite the fact they were meant to be in disguise she¡¯d refused point-blank to abandon her combat boots.


    "How do you know where this meeting¡¯s taking place, anyway?" Dragan asked, glancing up at Skipper.


    Skipper tapped his nose. "Oh, I have my ways, Mr. Hadrien."


    Ruth snorted, adjusting the strap of her dress for what felt like the fifth time that minute. "He probably broke into this Mestrilyn guys house or something, stole his schedule." She too looked up at him. "Right?"


    Skipper smirked. "¡¯Breaking in¡¯ implies I left evidence. I infiltrated."


    "Fantastic," Dragan raised an eyebrow. "And without telling any of us about it, too. What if you had been caught? We¡¯d all be screwed."


    "Well," Skipper waved a dismissive hand. "I took that into account. Don¡¯t worry about it."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. As per usual, Skipper was making moves without telling anyone. There were only so many times he could wave that hand of his before it got old.


    But perhaps the time for that confrontation was not on an elevator in the Paradisas headquarters. For the time being, Dragan would keep his mouth shut.


    There was a ding from the elevator, and the doors began to slide open. Dragan gulped.


    Time for the party.

 Chapter 214:9.5: Infiltration

    The man who was like God stood amid the ruins of a world, the cape he wore over his bare chest flowing in the wind. A dark red sun glowed in the sky, all but completely blocked by the legion of ships that infested the sky like locusts.


    The boy and his fellows, an army in identical uniforms, stood dutifully behind their leader. Each held an identical plasma-musket up towards the sky, like a metal forest in miniature - or a city of skyscrapers stretching up to the stars.


    The man who was like God lifted his last opponent up by the scruff of his collar, inspecting the body.


    The opponent had been celebrated as a reincarnation of a mighty warrior, who had slain countless mighty beasts and annihilated all rivals as he led his tribe to domination of the planet they¡¯d made their home.


    The opponent¡¯s name no longer mattered, but there were likely only a hundred or so people in the galaxy that were capable of matching his strength.


    "Disappointing," muttered the man who was like God, tossing the legend aside. The boy watched his power with awestruck eyes.


    An Old Memory


    Giovanni Sigma Testament threw open the massive wooden doors as he strode into the garden of Gertrude Hearth, his face expressionlessly resolute.


    He took no time to look at the greenery, nor at the bright lights above. Once, they had managed to sneak a camera into this chamber, and so he was already familiar with the scenery. He simply walked, shoes clicking against the stone path, robes swishing behind him from the speed of his pace -- to the place where he knew the Humilist Apexbishop would be waiting.


    It didn¡¯t take him long.


    Gertrude was already sat at the table in the central clearing of the garden, sipping that damnable tea of hers. The hedge perimeter around the clearing cast deep shade over her, yet the smug look on her face was still unmistakable.


    As she saw Giovanni approaching, she raised a cheerful hand in greeting.


    "Ahoy!" she called out. "I was surprised you wanted to meet so early."


    Giovanni did not answer. He didn¡¯t even blink. He simply continued to walk towards her.


    Gertrude¡¯s wry smirk twisted slightly as Giovanni drew closer, looming over the table. "If you¡¯d like to take a seat¡­" she gestured with one hand to the available metal chair.


    "Of course," Giovanni replied.


    He took the seat, lifted it high above his head, and tore it in half with his bare hands. Metal screeched as it was wrenched out of shape, and when he was done Giovanni tossed the two pieces down to the ground like trash. The entire time, he did not break eye contact with Gertrude.


    "I¡¯d like to discuss some matters with you," he said, voice cold, his red eyes staring down at her.


    Gertrude narrowed her eyes. "I suppose you¡¯ll have to do it standing up, then. It¡¯s highly irregular for two of the Apexbishops to meet up like this before the Truemeet proper. I don¡¯t know that Apexbishop Asmagius would approve, honestly."


    "What I¡¯m here to discuss does not concern the Paradisas," Giovanni responded without missing a beat. "It is a matter between you and me, unworthy of the Truemeet."


    He told no lie -- in Giovanni¡¯s mind, the Paradisas were irrelevant. They displayed none of the avaricious impudence of the Humilists, nor their disrespect for boundaries. So long as they were satisfied with their false world, he was more than content to leave them be.


    "Well," Gertude sipped her tea. "This sounds very serious indeed. What is it you wanted to talk about?"


    Third Verse.


    Giovanni blinked, suppressing the natural flinch of surprise. "I don¡¯t want to talk about anything. I¡¯m here to remind you of your obligations."


    Gertrude rolled her eyes. "Well, what are my obligations, then, child? You seem to be using a lot of words without actually saying anything."


    A deep breath through the nose as Giovanni prepared himself, closing his eyes. If nothing else, he had to give her a chance. He could not show weakness at this moment. Only a monolith of pride was worthy to dictate history.


    He opened his eyes again.


    "You are to lift the illegal quarantine on Polis immediately," he said, with all the dignity of gospel. "In addition, since the initial delineation of borders during the establishment of the Final Church, the Humilist sect has improperly absorbed 223 systems that, by right, belong to the Superbians. You will also return these systems to us. I expect a signed contract promising your agreement to these terms by the end of the Truemeet."


    Gertrude blinked, and the smirk fell from her face.


    "Oh," she said, sarcasm dying her tone. "Is that all?"


    Third Verse.


    Giovanni nodded. "Of course. I bid you good day, Apexbishop. Make the right choice for your people."


    With that, he swung around on his heel and began walking away -- as he did, he kicked half of the ruined chair with such force that it flew through the hedge, leaving a noticeable hole. The doors were still open where he¡¯d entered -- perhaps he¡¯d damaged them when he¡¯d flung them open -- and so Giovanni simply slipped through, his eyes narrowing in annoyance.


    Third Verse.


    He felt his Aether surge throughout his body, deactivating it immediately afterwards. That confirmed it, then: Gertrude Hearth had some kind of ability to disable Aether in the area around her. No matter how much he¡¯d tried, he hadn¡¯t been able to draw upon it inside her garden. Range unknown, but from the limited testing he¡¯d just done it was no more than fifteen meters.


    He¡¯d have to take that into account. After all, before all this was done¡­


    ¡­he got the feeling he¡¯d have to kill her.


    Gertrude Hearth sipped her tea, reflecting on the meeting¡¯s events. She¡¯d never had the opportunity to speak to the young leader of the Superbians in person, but in truth he had fit within her expectations nicely. Prideful, conceited, and with the sort of childish mentality that confused arrogance for boldness. If she wasn¡¯t mistaken, he¡¯d tried to break through her Silencio, too.


    "Heheh¡­"


    She put a hand to her mouth, doing her best to suppress the giggle looking to burst forth. It didn¡¯t work.


    "Hahahahahahahahahahaaa!"


    The giggle quickly became a hysterical cackle, and as she laughed her lungs out she couldn¡¯t help but throw her head back and kick her legs in the air. It was a stark contrast to her usual matronly demeanor -- the mocking laughter of a child, with the malice only such immaturity could achieve.


    "He¡¯s so weird!" she guffawed, holding her stomach, tears of laughter streaming down her face. "A signed contract?! That¡¯s so weird! Don¡¯t you guys think so too?!"


    They appeared.


    Some peeled themselves off of the hedges. Some picked themselves up off the ground. Some just twitched their bodies, stood as they always had been in plain sight. They had no camouflage, but they had gone unseen all the same. That was their genius.


    In the dark times after the Thousand Revolutions, before the true unification of the Final Church, there had been no shortage of minor cults and orders. One of those organizations had believed that the universe was organized under a numbering system -- that every concept, organism and soul was given a number that defined its place in reality. That group had been put to the sword hundreds of years ago, but their legacy lived on in the name of this group of assassins.


    The Negative Numbers: those that did not have a place in reality. Those that did not exist. Thirteen in all.


    Their bodies were wrapped in bandages from head to toe, with only minute gaps for their eyes and mouths. Brutal weapons were clutched in their hands like lifelines, curved sickels and serrated knives and spiked whips, their surfaces still coated with dried blood. They spoke no words: the only sound that came from them was quiet breathing.


    The Negative Numbers were recruited as children, informed of their irrelevance through esoteric methods, and repurposed as weapons of the faith. Gertrude had established the institution, and now they had accompanied her into her Apexbishopship. To them, her word might as well have been that of Y.


    "What a freak¡­" she trailed off into chuckles, wiping one last tear from her eye. "There¡¯s no way he expects me to actually agree to these terms. No doubt he has something else up his sleeve. Boys?"


    As one, the Negative Numbers kneeled, their hidden faces angled towards the ground.


    "Before I can make any countermoves, I need to know what Testament is planning," Gertrude said lightly, returning to her usual dignity as she stirred her tea. "Have four of you shadowing him at all times, see who he meets with, break off to follow them as well if they seem particularly interesting. Two more of you will infiltrate the Deus Nobiscum, find out the current situation with the Cardinal council. I find it hard to believe they¡¯d allow him to act so rashly."


    Thirteen nods in unison, thirteen steps back, and thirteen disappearances into the shadows.


    Alone at last, Getrude took a greedy gulp of her tea, savoring the scorched texture of the leaves. It had never tasted better. She certainly enjoyed the trappings of power, the respect that came naturally to an Apexbishop, the authority she had over the Church. But this? The secrecy, the plotting, the dance of death between invisible knives?


    Oh, this was what she lived for. S§×arch* The N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked around the party, taking in the sights spread out before him.


    The attendance was certainly eclectic. There was no shortage of ordinary humans like them -- no doubt guests that had been specifically invited -- clad in suits and dresses, wining and dining in small groups. Business associates, perhaps, or members of the Paradisas that had not yet emigrated to their virtual world. As such, their group didn¡¯t attract too much attention as they got off the elevator.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    But then, there were their hosts.


    Dragan saw a woman with a segmented body like a doll, electronic lights flaring beneath the surface of her featureless face. A man with a box-like form that reminded Dragan of a forklift drove across the floor of the room, deep voice blaring through speakers on his side. Countless tiny Paradisas with fragile butterfly-like bodies fluttered through the air, speaking to each other in indecipherable beeping code. Holograms lounged in non-existent chairs and sipped non-existent drinks. Floating monitors displayed images of warped post-human faces. Simple geometrical forms, thinking cubes and spheres, floated through the air unburdened by gravity.


    He only realized his mouth was hanging open when Skipper reached down and snapped it shut. It wasn¡¯t that he¡¯d never seen an automatic before, of course, it was just¡­ this was a step beyond.


    "Maybe not so conspicuous, yeah?" Skipper muttered.


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "Hard to believe I¡¯m hearing that, coming from you. What¡¯s the plan here?"


    Skipper put his hands to his hips as the group walked into the party -- Ruth and Serena covering the back, Skipper covering the front, and Dragan lingering in the middle. Countless tables had been set out around the centerpiece of the party -- a massive glass fountain -- and so the group made their way towards it as they walked.


    "Check out the main entrances -- elevators like the one we came in on," Skipper said casually. "Security automatics standing by at each of them, keeping watch."


    Ruth went to look back at the elevator -- until Bruno took over for a brief moment and elbowed her in the waist.


    "Don¡¯t look, idiot," he growled under his breath..


    "He just said to look," Ruth rubbed her side in annoyance.


    "Look without looking."


    Ruth snorted. "That doesn¡¯t even make any sense."


    "Anyway," Skipper continued, grabbing an hors d¡¯oeuvre from a passing automatic tray. "My point is, if a security breach happens close to this location, units from this area are probably gonna be diverted to respond, yeah?"


    "Makes sense," Dragan nodded.


    "So we need some of us to stay here and keep watch," Skipper said, turning around and leaning against a table. "Can¡¯t be you, since we need Gemini World to get to the location we need. Can¡¯t be me, since I¡¯m the one who needs to talk to this Hamashtiel guy. Ruth, Bruno -- er, Serena -- you up to it?"


    Serena¡¯s sweet smile shrugged off any traces of Bruno¡¯s sourness. "Sure! What do you need us to do?"


    "Just hang around the party, keep watch -- and if the security here leaves, call my script right away," Skipper said seriously, holding up the script in question. "Don¡¯t wait for me to answer, yeah? I¡¯ll assume the fact you¡¯re calling me means we¡¯re busted." He wagged a finger. "No matter what, don¡¯t call me unless it¡¯s for that reason. They¡¯ll be monitoring calls in here, so that¡¯ll set off alarms straight away. Only use it to let me know they¡¯re already onto us. Got it?"


    Serena seemed uncertain, but Ruth nodded with confidence. "Won¡¯t let you down."


    "You never do," Skipper grinned -- before his eyes flicked right back to Dragan. "Shall we, Mr. Hadrien?"


    "What?" Dragan scoffed, folding his arms. "We can¡¯t even enjoy the party a little?"


    "That¡¯s life, I¡¯m afraid," Skipper said, popping the hors d¡¯oeuvre he¡¯d pilfered into his mouth. "No rest for the wicked and all that stuff. Now, Mr. Hadrien -- if I¡¯m not mistaken, the porcelain throne awaits. Best place to enter the ventilation systems from."


    "Please never describe a bathroom like that again."


    "No promises. Ruth, Serena -- I¡¯m counting on you two," Skipper grinned, raising a hand in goodbye as he turned and began to walk away. Dragan sighed and followed after him, a twisted frown on his face.


    As they made their way out of the party and into the adjoining hallway where the bathroom was supposed to be, Dragan managed to catch snippets of conversation from the other attendees. Most of it was as he¡¯d expected -- discussions of production contracts and automatic innovations -- but there also seemed to be some concerned talk about the Apexbishop of the Superbians.


    Well, those weren¡¯t his problems right now.


    The hallway leading to the bathroom was black like the rest of the ship, but the consistent lighting from above was enough to prevent any discomfort. One wall of the hallway was taken up entirely by a looping videograph of a waterfall, while the other was composed of some kind of dark wood.


    "Fancy," Skipper whistled as they reached the far door. "They really shelled out for this pisser, huh?"


    Dragan glared up at him. "You¡¯re ruining bathrooms for me again."


    Skipper chuckled, and opened the bathroom door. A metal sphere floated in the room just beyond.


    "Hello," said Hamashtiel.


    The speed with which Skipper moved his arm was extraordinary, but Hamashtiel was ready for him. A lash of silver surged forth from the floating metal sphere, and before Skipper could fire his Heartbeat Shotgun a steel manacle had appeared around his wrist.


    "Shit," he muttered.


    Skipper went flying, dragged by the manacle like there was an invisible chain attached to it, and crashed into the videograph monitor. It cracked out into spiderwebs. At the same time, there was another silver lash -- this time aimed at Dragan¡¯s throat.


    Before he could even respond, Dragan felt a heavy weight settle around his windpipe, and knew that Hamashtiel had got him too.


    "Well¡­" Skipper wheezed, pinned against the wall by the metal bracelet. "I¡¯m guessing you saw us coming, yeah? Mind if I ask how?"


    Hamashtiel¡¯s voice was calm, but strangely doubled in a way unlike an Umbrant -- the tones of a man and a woman speaking in perfect unison. It emanated from the metal sphere as it floated out of the bathroom and into the hallway.


    "Your infiltration of Mestrilyn¡¯s apartment went undetected by his security systems," he explained patiently. "But unfortunately, not by our surveillance systems. I thought you seemed like an interesting person, so I let you come this far, but I can¡¯t allow you to interfere with my meeting with Mr. Mestrilyn."


    "Well," Skipper adjusted his position, claiming as much comfort as he could under the circumstances of metal bindings and broken glass. "I¡¯m sorry to say, but doesn¡¯t the fact you¡¯re here with us instead of wining and dining with Mestrilyn mean I have interfered?"


    A faint red light ran underneath the surface of Hamashtiel¡¯s metal body.


    "Not at all," he answered a moment later. "I am streaming my consciousness to this vessel. It¡¯s not difficult for me to stream to two bodies at once. I¡¯m with him right now."


    "Wowie," whistled Skipper. "That sure is impressive. This is actually pretty convenient, since I wanted to talk to you anyway."


    Dragan swallowed, awfully conscious of the weight against his windpipe. Until he needed to, he didn¡¯t dare move.


    "I¡¯m well aware that Aether attacks can be delivered through words alone," Hamashtiel said softly. "As such, you should also be aware that I can crush the neck of your associate at any --"


    Okay, he needed to.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan disappeared for a moment, escaping from the metal restraint -- and a second later, he reappeared on the ceiling above Hamashtiel, already plummeting down, his body braced for a devastating elbow drop. Electric-blue Aether coursed through his arm.


    "Kid!" Skipper cried, his eyes suddenly wide in alarm. "Wait!"


    Shit.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan vanished again in the moment before he struck Hamashtiel, before reappearing on the other side of the hallway. Through it all, Hamashtiel did not move. Dragan saw that the shackle that had been restraining his throat was still floating in place there, seemingly liberated from gravity. Sparks of silver Aether ran along its surface.


    "Are you surprised I can use Aether from an automatic body?" Hamashtiel asked, seemingly reading Dragan¡¯s expression. "The connection point of Aether is consciousness, not crude biology, so the power is capable of emerging from wherever my mind might reside." The manacle decomposed into some kind of liquid metal and returned to Hamashtiel, orbiting his spherical body as a ring. "By the way, Skipper, I¡¯m surprised you told your disciple to cease his attack. I assumed this incursion was intended as some form of assault against us."


    Skipper grinned. "Not at all," he said, before gesturing to his restraint. "You mind releasing this?"


    "I do," Hamashtiel serenely replied. "You don¡¯t need access to your arms to speak. So, speak."


    Skipper shifted slightly, the smile falling from his face. He took a deep breath -- and Dragan found that he was holding his breath, his eyes flicking between Skipper and Hamashtiel.


    "I want to enlist your cooperation," Skipper said seriously. "I have a plan to eliminate the Supreme. I want you to provide automatics to help with that plan."


    Hamashtiel simply floated in the air for a moment before replying.


    "What plan is this?" he asked.


    Skipper shook his head. "Can¡¯t tell you that. Not out loud. You have access to archeological records right now?"


    "Of course I do."


    "Look up Elysian Fields."


    Elysian Fields? Dragan furrowed his brow. This was the first time he was hearing that name.


    Green lights blinked inside Hamashtiel¡¯s body for a moment, liquid metal still swirling through the air around him.


    "Ah," he said, after a moment. "I assume you intend to force an individual confrontation, then? I¡¯d say that would give you the best chances for victory, but sadly I do not have any interest in assisting. I wish you the best of luck."


    Skipper narrowed his eyes. "What? You guys are willing to just let the Supreme run rampant?"


    A chunk of glass lost its grip and shattered further on the floor.


    "Run rampant?" Hamashtiel mused. "That¡¯s a curious choice of words. The current Supreme is inactive to near-pathological levels. Psychological profiles indicate some form of depression is likely. He has not left his flagship in years. An indolent Supreme like that is the best thing for the galaxy at large -- better than a warmonger or schemer, at any rate."


    Skipper¡¯s pupils dilated, and his nostrils flared. "You don¡¯t get it," he growled insistently, tugging at the restraint. "He¡¯s the lodestone. It doesn¡¯t matter if he doesn¡¯t do anything -- he¡¯s the one they all rally around. When they go to war -- when they go to war -- it¡¯ll be his face on the posters, his ideals they¡¯ll be fighting for! Get rid of him, in the right way, at the right time, and the whole house of cards comes falling down!"


    Skipper¡¯s passion was almost feral, his teeth showing, his eyes wide. Dragan didn¡¯t know that he¡¯d ever seen him like this before.


    "You¡¯re making an emotional appeal now," Hamashtiel said, sounding almost sad. "That¡¯s not something that will work well with me."


    "No," Skipper hissed -- and he tore his arm free of the restraint with a flare of green Aether. "Not emotion. Experience. I¡¯ve seen what he¡¯s like. What he¡¯ll do. What others will do for him. He doesn¡¯t need to lift a finger -- the Supremacy will burn down a thousand worlds all in his name."


    "Experience?" Dragan murmured.


    "Experience?" Hamashtiel asked.


    For the first time in the conversation, Skipper faltered, his mouth opening soundlessly for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was strained: "I¡¯ve¡­ been around the block a few times. Seen some things. I can tell you about --"


    "With words?" Hamashtiel chuckled. "Words are emanations of sound and performance, easily falsified. If you are to show me your ¡¯experience¡¯, there is only one medium I will accept."


    A panel on Hamashtiel¡¯s body slid open, and two needles on cords slithered forth, like metal tendrils. The spikes were thin, barely visible, like sharp and solid hairs. Dragan had never seen one before, but he recognised them from his limited research on the Paradisas: a consciousness upload cord.


    Skipper paled. "The Garden?"


    "As you say. Do you accept?"


    "N¡­" Skipper began -- and then stopped, only continuing once his face hardened. "Yes. If that¡¯s what it takes." He glanced at Dragan. "You okay with it, kiddo?"


    "What does he mean?" Dragan asked warily. "What, like we go through your memories in that virtual world?"


    Skipper nodded grimly.


    After a moment of consideration, Dragan nodded, before turning back to Hamashtiel. "If this is a trap, I¡¯ll kill you before they kill me."


    "Sounds like a deal." Despite the bravado in his voice, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but notice that Skipper¡¯s hands were visibly shaking.


    The two cords flexed through the air, stretching out until they were hovering in front of Skipper and Dragan respectively.


    "Well, then," Hamashtiel said. "I¡¯d advise the two of you not to move as I make the connection. I¡¯m confident in my aim, but there¡¯s always the risk of retinal damage."


    Getting a spike shoved into his eye wasn¡¯t how Dragan had pictured this party going, but¡­ he gulped and nodded, as subtly as he could.


    There was a flash of movement as the cord thrust forward --


    -- and then everything went white --


    -- and then a lifetime spread out before him.

 Chapter 215:9.6: Skipper

    A person¡¯s duty is to their nation. A nation¡¯s duty is to the advancement of said nation, and the glory thereupon. To attain glory is to fulfill duties and responsibilities. Being given responsibility is the proof of being human. Someone who disregards their duty is not human. Someone who is not human will never achieve glory. S§×arch* The nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    To achieve glory is to be supreme.


    Pledge of the Supreme Guard


    Dragan opened eyes that did not exist.


    If he didn¡¯t know that this was a virtual world, he truly wouldn¡¯t have been able to tell. As he waved his face in front of his hand, he couldn¡¯t detect any trace of input lag or unruly motion blur. When he breathed, he could feel the air filling his lungs. Did that mean he was breathing in the real world, too, or was this just a simulacrum of the process?


    "You look like you¡¯re enjoying yourself," Hamashtiel chuckled.


    Dragan turned to look back at him. They were in some kind of foggy swamp, trees forming indistinct monoliths in the mist, and Hamashtiel was perched on a jagged stone protruding from the bog. For some reason, he¡¯d taken on the form of a black dog, white eyes glowing dimly, floppy ears hanging over the sides of his head.


    "Where is this?" Dragan asked. "This should be a place in the real world, too, right?"


    Hamashtiel shook his head as well as a dog could. "I¡¯m not the person who can answer that question. As you say, this instance of the Garden is sourced from human memory -- the memory of your associate, specifically." He turned his head. "What say you, then, Skipper? Where is this?"


    Skipper himself was leaning against a tree, his arms folded, a grim expression on his face. It was hard to tell in these environs, but it seemed to Dragan that his face was deathly pale. He shrugged. "Don¡¯t remember."


    "The fact that we are here actively suggests that you do remember, though."


    Skipper¡¯s frown didn¡¯t so much as twitch. "Guess we¡¯ll see for ourselves, then." His eyes flicked off into the empty fog. "Here he comes."


    Dragan turned to look into the swirling fog. A silhouette around his own size was trudging through the muck in their direction, arms slowly pumping as it did its best to force its way through the bog. The sound of heavy, frantic breathing invaded the space.


    He furrowed his brow. "That¡¯s¡­"


    His statement was finished by circumstance, as the silhouette coalesced into the form of a young man with shoulder-length black hair, clad in some kind of advanced black bodysuit. His face was stained with dried blood, his eyes were frantically open, but even through the veil of years it was easy to recognize the underlying features.


    This was Skipper, only a few years older than Dragan.


    "When I think back to the idea of ¡¯the past¡¯," Skipper muttered. "This is the first place that comes to mind."


    The young Skipper paused for breath, hanging onto the branches of a nearby tree to stop his trembling knees from sending him down to the ground. With shaking hands, he tried to scratch the blood off his face, but to no avail. If anything, he only managed to inflict further cuts and scratches.


    He opened his mouth and spoke to himself in a quiet voice: "T-To attain glory is¡­ fulfill duties and responsibilities ¡­ responsibility is the proof of being human. S-Someone who¡­ argh¡­"


    Hamashtiel cocked his head in the manner of a dog. "The pledge of the Supreme Guard?"


    "The Supreme Guard?" Dragan asked, looking between the two Skippers. The name rang familiar, but he¡¯d never been too interested in the minutia of Supremacy history.


    "The precursor to the Contenders," Hamashtiel explained. "They guarded the Supreme before the current one -- they were replaced a short time into the present reign. If I¡¯m not mistaken, though, Skipper, they would have been far before your time. Why were you reciting their pledge here?"


    Skipper cast him a glare. "Spoilers. Shut up and watch."


    It was undeniable that Skipper was agitated. He was shifting against the surface of the digital tree, the scowl on his face twitching every few seconds, his glare focused more on his younger self than anyone else here. As he crossed his arms, he was squeezing them with such intensity that his organic fingers had turned white.


    The soft sound of rainfall echoed through the muddy bog, passing right through the observers but drenching the young Skipper¡¯s hair. With a grunt of effort, the memory pushed himself away from the tree, and resumed his trek through the marsh --


    Another place, another time, shifted in an instant. Before Dragan could even realize he was moving, he¡¯d found himself in a warmly lit training room, wooden weapons set in racks along the wall. One wall was open to a garden, where rows upon rows of plants were meticulously laid out in rectangular pots.


    Children in training uniforms -- aged maybe ten or eleven -- sat cross-legged upon the wooden floor, watching in mild interest at the scene before them. Click. Clack. Training weapons struck against each other relentlessly.


    At first, Dragan thought he was witnessing some glitch in the program -- the blur in front of him was incomprehensible, after all -- but a moment later he realized it was simply the result of godlike movement. Two figures, one tiny and one huge, dancing around each other with wooden swords in hand. Each strike sent out air pressure sufficient to blow back the hair of the spectators -- including Dragan, who was forced to put a hand to his forehead to get a steady view.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author¡¯s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The larger figure was colossal, nearly seven feet tall, and the training weapon he was swinging was nearly just as big -- even if it was wooden, the speed and strength he was using would have been sufficient to kill. It was hard to tell from the speed exactly how old the massive man was, but the blur of white hair that moved with him suggested he was at least in advanced years. The smaller figure, on the other hand, was probably a child judging by the size -- and from the shock of black hair on his head, Dragan had a good idea who it probably was.


    Even with the size difference, the child was doing well, all things considered. For a moment, Dragan saw the small figure run along the surface of his enemy¡¯s sword to reach his neck -- only for a lightning-fast strike to send him sprawling down to the ground.


    The youthful face of the child Skipper looked up from the floor, wincing in discomfort -- only to stiffen when the point of the wooden greatsword was pressed against his throat.


    "Sloppy, Zachariah," rumbled the older man, looking down at the boy. "You already know my speed is superior -- you shouldn¡¯t rely on a swift attack on your end."


    Dragan turned to look at the present Skipper, who was lingering on the boundary between the training room and the garden. His eyes were narrowed, his face downcast -- like he¡¯d just been punched in the stomach.


    "Zachariah?" Dragan asked, stepping forward. "What, is that your real name?"


    "Skipper¡¯s my name," Skipper snapped back with surprising ferocity.


    "Oh, uh," Dragan muttered. "Sorry."


    "It¡¯s what I call myself in my head."


    Surprised by the aggression, Dragan quickly nodded. "I¡¯m sorry. Didn¡¯t mean to be rude."


    Back on the floor, the young Skipper was picking himself up off the floor. He rubbed the back of his head where he¡¯d fallen onto the hard floor as he looked up at the teacher. His wooden sword clattered as he let go of it.


    "We¡¯ve been doing this for three hours now, Pa," he muttered. "I was getting tired."


    "Bored, more like," called out one of the other watching children. "Zack¡¯s a slacker, Achilles."


    A raven, perched atop one of the training weapons, opened its beak -- and Hamashtiel¡¯s bemused voice poured out. "¡¯Achilles¡¯, eh? That face, and that stature¡­ could he be¡­?"


    The present Skipper nodded. "Achilles Esmeralda. The executioner of the Supremacy. Legendary, back in the day." His face fell a bit further. "He was my old man. Adoptive."


    "You should not have been this young back then¡­" Hamashtiel mused. "Considering Achilles¡¯ active period, and the age you are in this scenario, there¡¯s a significant timeline discrepancy¡­"


    "Like I said," muttered Skipper. "Spoilers."


    Before their eyes, the world melted away once again -- and when it coalesced once more, the light that shone into that same room was that of the moon. The young Skipper and Achilles Esmeralda were sitting side-by-side on the training mat, looking out at the darkness of the garden.


    "Laziness is not something that you are, Zachariah," Achilles said, fist on his chin. "It is something that you allow. Something that you succumb to. The shadow of impatience."


    "I don¡¯t know what that means," the young Skipper mumbled, staring out at the night. "Basically, I¡¯m lazy, yeah?"


    "We had been fighting for some time, and you grew tired of the struggle, and so attempted to end it quickly. That was your downfall. The long fight, the persistent struggle, it exhausts you."


    The young Skipper pouted. "So you brought me out here just to scold me?"


    "No," Achilles shook his head. "That impatience is your strength as well, Zachariah. You understand the merits of decisiveness."


    The kid rolled his eyes. "You¡¯re just trying to make me feel better."


    Achilles slapped the boy across the back of his head so quickly that Dragan couldn¡¯t even see it. The young Skipper slouched forwards, rubbing the back of his skull, as Achilles crossed his arms brusquely. "False modesty is disgusting," he said harshly. "Don¡¯t let me see it again."


    Dragan clicked his tongue. "Legend or not, the guy seems like an asshole."


    Skipper shrugged. "Hey, he¡¯s not so bad."


    "Not so good, either."


    "Who is?"


    Dragan shrugged, turning back to the memorial diorama before him. Achilles had now put a reassuring hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder -- well, more like on his back, given the size difference between the two of them.


    "You alone must never underestimate yourself," he said softly. "The world can think you tiny by all means, but you must never think that of yourself."


    "I guess," the kid sullenly shrugged.


    "You act as though you don¡¯t understand, but you do," Achilles smirked wryly. "That is good. You¡¯re already putting it into practice. That¡¯s why I¡¯m going to recommend you."


    The little Skipper looked up, the faux-defiance melting off his face. He cocked his head. "Recommend me? For what?"


    "I love my other children, Zachariah," Achilles grunted, standing up. "But they are not worthy of my respect. You, I love and respect. The Supreme Guard have asked me to recommend a young soldier that can be molded into one of the Supreme¡¯s hundred hands. I think you would perform well there."


    The young Skipper scrambled to his feet too -- slipping on the slick floor once, but quickly regained his balance. He looked up at his adoptive father.


    "Seriously?" he said, grinning. "You¡¯re not joking?"


    Achilles frowned. "You know I don¡¯t speak without meaning, boy. If this recommendation is something you wish to accept, tell me now. A ship can arrive within the week to take you for standardized training. Do you accept?"


    Dragan was so focused on the scene before him that, at first, he didn¡¯t hear it. It was only when he looked from the silent young Skipper to the silent older one that he noticed. The older man was silently mouthing words, his pupils dilated, glaring directly at his younger self.


    Say no, the man was whispering. Goddamnit. Say no.


    "Yes!" the boy cried in excitement, grinning from ear to ear. "Yes, of course!"


    And then, like a curtain falling, the entire world went black.


    Dragan heard Skipper¡¯s sigh in the darkness, and then, delivered with all the hoarse dread of foresight:


    "Fair warning: here¡¯s where things get rough."

 Chapter 216:9.7: Time Was Merciless

    O Joy! A new star rises in the sky!


    O Honour! A new contender makes his claim!


    O Truth! A new Supreme takes the throne!


    On this day he is the one who has achieved this pinnacle. He succeeds the false Supreme named Henri del Muckronei. He achieves the apex via merit of the Dawn Contest. He has defeated the vile Abyssal Heir to stake his claim. Let his old name be washed from the world -- now he is Supreme and only Supreme!


    O Joy! A new star rises in the sky -- and shines brighter than any other!


    O Honour! A new contender makes his claim -- the first true might since records began!


    O Truth! A new Supreme takes the throne -- and shall reign for all of time!


    Supreme Guard -- attend!


    Coronation of the Supreme, 04/22/960 ATR


    The world reconstructed itself around Dragan, blades of grass painted into existence by invisible hands. It only took a second for a blue sky and a pale green sun to make their appearances, as well. This was a planet of hills and fields, tiny mobile villages dotting the landscape.


    Where was this? Dragan went to look around -- only to jump as someone stepped in next to him.


    It was Skipper, without a doubt, now maybe sixteen or so, wearing a strange uniform. A buttoned-up blue coat with a tall cylindrical hat, and a long plasma-musket held up towards the sky. To put it bluntly, he looked like he was part of a marching band.


    "The uniform of the Supreme Guard," Hamashtiel mused from the ground, where he¡¯d taken on a tiny feline form. "I take it you were accepted into their ranks, then."


    The true Skipper, hands plunged into his pockets, shrugged. "What you see is what you get," he said.


    "Nice uniform," Dragan commented.


    "Hey, it was a different time," Skipper shot back, a wry smirk on his face. It didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes.


    More and more figures began to flicker into existence around their group -- more members of the Supreme Guard, all clad in the same uniforms as the young Skipper. Dragan stumbled backwards, phasing straight through the Guardsman closest -- a young Pugnant man with curly red hair and golden eyes.


    The hundred hands of the Supreme, Achilles Esmeralda had called this group -- and casting his eyes over this assembly, Dragan counted one-hundred people exactly, all of similar ages to Skipper. The pursuit of glory came easily to the young, he supposed.


    The boy with the curly hair glanced towards the young Skipper. "You alright, Z?" he said, voice scratchy. "You¡¯re quieter than usual. Haven¡¯t talked since that last stop."


    The young Skipper looked back -- and the smirk on his face was exactly the same as the one Dragan had just seen. "Excited," he whispered. "Dalia¡¯s Boys are meant to be the strongest outlaws in this sector, yeah? That¡¯s what you said, Klaus."


    "Klaus?" Hamashtiel murmured, the shadow of recognition in his tone.


    The young Skipper continued, smirk spreading into a preparatory grin. "It¡¯s a chance to show him what we¡¯re made of. To have him notice us. How could I not be excited?"


    Klaus snorted, looking off into the distance. "To make him notice you, I think you¡¯d have to punch a hole right through a mountain."


    Dragan followed his gaze -- and saw him.


    He didn¡¯t know the legends of the Supremacy.


    He didn¡¯t know the Supreme Guard.


    He didn¡¯t know the faces of the Contenders.


    But he knew this man. It was impossible not to.


    He stood tall atop the hill, red cape billowing in the wind behind him, golden Aether crackling around his arms. He was young here, his long chestnut hair spread out behind him, his beard braided into magnificence. His body was splendid with muscle, carved like marble, and as he watched over the surrounding landscape, his form was like a work of art all by itself. He wore nothing save that cape and a flimsy kilt, but he showed no signs of discomfort either. Dragan doubted there was anything that could cause him discomfort.


    This was the Supreme. This was the strongest.


    Dragan gulped as he looked at that titan of the world, for a moment experiencing the absurd fear that this memory would spot him and evict him from reality. Hamashtiel simply stared silently, feline eyes narrowed in petty analysis.


    Skipper just glared -- but not at the Supreme. His ire was instead directed towards his younger self, who was staring at the titan with twinkling eyes.


    Dragan heard the boy whisper something under his breath.


    "This is the best day of my life."


    Time was merciless.


    The scene shifted, and the three of them were standing in blood. The caves they found themselves in were already ravaged with battle, littered with bodies -- and as Dragan looked around, he spotted the first cracks of a dream.


    Skipper panted as he pushed the corpse of an Umbrant woman off himself, the bayonet of his musket sliding free. His face was covered in her blood, and his eyes were wide with frenzy. For a moment, he struggled to pick himself up -- only managing it when Klaus hurried over and hauled him to his feet.


    "You okay?" the other boy said seriously.


    The young Skipper nodded absently. "She just¡­ came at me. I wanted to just knock her -- knock her out or something, but¡­"


    Klaus clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "It¡¯s how things work out. We¡¯re here to do serious work -- you did what you had to." His eyes narrowed. "Don¡¯t say stuff like that too loud, okay?"


    Again, a vacant nod -- and a glance towards the Supreme.


    He was sitting on a stone in the middle of the cavernous space, the broken body of a stretched-out Scurrant woman in his hands. He let the noodle-like form slip through his grip, and in a fit of frustration stomped down on the intact head. There was a sound like the popping of a balloon.


    From this distance, Dragan couldn¡¯t see if he was saying anything, but the expression on the Supreme¡¯s face was such that he didn¡¯t dare approach even a memory.


    Time was merciless.


    Another day, another battle. The burning wreckage of an airship, caught in a massive web of sparkling red chains between two mountains. Dead crew members slid off the deck and tumbled into the abyss below as members of the Supreme Guard boarded the vessel, magnetic boots granting them purchase.


    The young Skipper walked vertically up, musket slung over his back, eliminating whatever hostiles still remained with what could only be Heartbeat Shotgun. The bangs produced by the ability bounced off the vastness of the scenery, echoing back and forth.


    One enemy, clad in full armour, wormed his way out onto the deck behind Skipper, hanging onto an alcove with one hand to prevent himself from falling. He pointed his gun at the unaware youth, finger curling around the trigger -- but that was as far as he got.


    A tendril of purple smoke crept into the crevices of his helmet -- and immediately he started screaming, clawing at it with such panic that he neglected to keep hold. Immediately, he fell, flipping end over end as his muffled screaming faded into nothingness -- and his body faded into the dark.


    The young man named Klaus had been covering Skipper¡¯s back, and the two exchanged nods of acknowledgement as the purple smoke returned to Klaus¡¯s hand.


    Far above, the Supreme stood atop empty air, the ends of those red chains clutched in his hands as they secured the ship. There was an empty look to his gaze.


    Time was merciless.


    The young Skipper stood to attention, Klaus next to him, atop the egg-shaped goliath that was the Great Hall of the Body. The cityscape of Azum-Ha spread out before them, celebratory banners and holograms dying the planet red, and their fellow Supreme Guard filled the rest of the space around them like plants filled a garden.


    Dragan recognised this kind of scenery -- every year, the people of Azum-Ha would put on this event to celebrate the anniversary of the Supreme¡¯s ascension. From what he knew, though, it had been quite a while since the Supreme had actually attended it.


    In this memory, the Supreme slouched in a grand throne as -- one by one -- officials made their way through the gap between the two blocks of Supreme Guardsmen to pay their respects. The Three Wise Men -- the most prominent Ministers of the Body -- were first, followed by countless other Ministers and Governors, numerous Special Officers and warriors¡­ even one or two foreign dignitaries were in attendance, not quite able to disguise the dread in their faces from this display of nationalistic zeal.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The Supreme accepted all worship and fear with equal disdain, his eyes half-lidded as if he was about to fall asleep. He did not speak even once during the proceedings.


    If Dragan had to describe the look on the mighty man¡¯s face, the word he¡¯d use without a doubt would be¡­ despair.


    Time was merciless.


    Walking islands dyed in their own blood, the massive crustaceans punched open and their insides ripped free. Dragan watched as the young Skipper watched the Supreme, arms bathed in green ichor. A massive grey wolf, manifested through the Supreme¡¯s Aether, sat loyally next to him -- but the titan himself just stared down at his easy kill.


    He seemed dissatisfied.


    Time was merciless.


    Pirates were herded one by one by the Supreme Guard into the wreckage of the arena they¡¯d been using on the locals -- and one by one, they were dispatched by the Supreme himself. Not one lasted more than a second, and not one left enough to be granted the rank of a corpse.


    The serpents of water and fire that burst forth from the Supreme¡¯s elbows were more than enough to rend them beyond existence. The golden Aether that flooded the arena with each attack was akin to a supernova.


    The young Skipper watched, the stars long gone from his eyes, and slowly glanced away.


    Time was merciless.


    The automatic -- once the size of a fortress all by itself -- lay in a broken heap of torn limbs and mechanisms, the Supreme himself sat cross-legged atop it. Once, twice, the Supreme pounded the material below with a frustrated fist -- each blow sufficient enough to shake the earth.


    The young Skipper watched. His dull eyes matched the Supreme perfectly.


    Time was merciless.


    The man who was like the sun killed.


    "Disappointing," the Supreme muttered. He held the broken body of his adversary aloft. In the end, the legendary warrior had barely survived a minute against him. Impressive, but not nearly sufficient.


    Time was merciless.


    The man who was like God killed.


    "Disappointing," the Supreme muttered. A cityscape burned, a foolish planet that had dared attempt to leave the Supremacy. The Knights of Plenty that had declared their rebellion lay dead on the floor of the senate chamber, their armour melted into their forms. What was left of their faces betrayed their dying agony.


    When the young Skipper glanced to his friend Klaus, he saw a glare that matched his own.


    Time was merciless.


    The man who was like Death killed, and killed, and killed again -- but no matter how much he killed, the blood that washed his hands remained unworthy.


    They had called themselves witches, the band of assassins that had stashed themselves away in the caves and tunnels of Biolight, the ever-dark world lit only by the bioluminescence of its inhabitants. Their Aether abilities had taken on a magical aesthetic, to be sure, but in the end the Biolit Witches had been as human as anyone else. The way they had shattered proved that better than anything.


    The Supreme sat atop a butchered tree, his face in his hands, clearly contemplating the ease of his victory. His Supreme Guard milled about, already preparing the ships to leave the planet -- the Supreme had only come here to fight the Biolit Witches, after all, and now that they had been dealt with this place held no further attraction.


    There had been rumours of a new crime syndicate forming in the Dreamstar system. Like many of the enemies that remained for the Supreme now, they were miniscule, but for someone like him there was no option but to pursue. He was the kind of creature that died if he stopped moving. S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The young Skipper sat on a bench, taking a swig from his bottle of water -- his eyes locked on the Supreme himself. This latest campaign had been exhausting, the Supreme allowing no time for rest as he moved from target to target with all the desperation of a man knowing he¡¯d long ago run out of worthy opponents. Sleep had long since become a luxury -- the young Skipper kept himself on his feet with stimulant packs, and even they had begun to lose their edge.


    They¡¯d made camp in a nearby village as they¡¯d searched the tunnels for surviving Witches, and as Skipper watched he saw the village elder make their way over to the Supreme¡¯s repose. The old woman hobbled using a walking stick, her face covered with the bioluminescent face paint endemic to the region. Although they were part of the Supremacy, Biolight was only one step above a Lilith World in terms of infrastructure -- no doubt this visit from the Supreme was the most excitement they¡¯d ever seen.


    Skipper didn¡¯t know why, but he found himself following the woman with his eyes. She reached the Supreme, cleared her throat, and --


    -- and died.


    The moment she¡¯d opened her mouth to speak, the Supreme had reflexively raised an arm blurred by vibration -- and the blast of motion that had erupted from the limb reduced the woman to a fine red mist. Not even the plants where she¡¯d been standing survived, the landscape converted to cruel grey stone. He¡¯d killed her with all the effort it took to crush an insect.


    Heads turned to look at the sudden noise, and Skipper sprang to his feet -- but the Supreme just looked up at the sight of the murder, sighed in irritation, and shook his head.


    "Don¡¯t bother me," he muttered to empty space. "How much longer until --"


    Bang.


    For a second, Skipper could have sworn a gunshot had gone off -- and as the Supreme suddenly stumbled forward, he could have sworn the giant had been hit. But that was simply ridiculous. There was no way a measly gunshot could disturb the Supreme¡¯s tranquility. The very notion was absurd.


    It was only when the Supreme turned to look right at him, eyes wide, that Skipper understood this was reality.


    The attack had glanced off the Supreme¡¯s head, shredding one of his ears and reducing it to limp scraps of skin. It hung, bleeding, from the side of his skull. Skipper knew full well that the Supreme had countless abilities that would heal that injury in an instant, yet he made no move to do so.


    He just stared¡­ at Skipper.


    Slowly, Skipper looked down -- and saw his own finger, still crackling with emerald Aether, pointing right at the Supreme.


    Heartbeat¡­ Shotgun? He hadn¡¯t¡­ surely he hadn¡¯t. Had he just tried to kill the Supreme?! Had he lost his mind?!


    The Supreme¡¯s mouth slowly widened into an exuberant grin. He seemed the happiest that Skipper had ever seen him.


    Someone was shouting. Across the clearing, supplies held in his hands, Klaus was staring at him in horror. Every plasma musket in sight was raised to point directly at Skipper, directly at the traitor.


    Skipper opened his mouth to say something -- but before he could, he was struck by a dozen attacks at once, the wrath of the Supreme Guard he had just reflexively betrayed.


    He was dead before he struck the floor.


    A black void fell, all-encompassing, all-protecting, with only the slightest fuzz of static to betray its existence.


    Dragan took in a deep breath, and was shocked to realize just how alien it felt. When was the last time he¡¯d taken in air? It was like he¡¯d just forgotten to do it while he was watching¡­ had he been watching? Or was he the thing being watched? He¡¯d known Skipper¡¯s thoughts at those times, seen what was going through his head, so¡­


    "I¡¯ve ejected you for just a moment," a red butterfly said in Hamashtiel¡¯s voice as it landed on his shoulder. "Because you seemed to be having difficulty distinguishing yourself."


    "Distinguishing myself¡­?" Dragan mumbled. His tongue felt fat in his mouth.


    "It¡¯s a common issue with Cogitants entering the Outer Garden for the first time," Hamashtiel explained patiently. "The fidelity of the scenario is such that you lose yourself in your analysis of the scene, and thus confuse yourself with the subject. It shouldn¡¯t happen again, but I thought it best I warn you: be careful to keep a grip on yourself."


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "Outer Garden?"


    Hamashtiel suddenly froze between one flap of his wings and the next, and the buzzing static around them suddenly seemed quite hostile. Dragan opened his mouth to say something, but before he could the crimson of Hamashtiel¡¯s wings flared and


    and


    and


    ?¡ê? ?


    "¨có¨c????¨®T¡é¨¢? óÂ?¡ê?es???T§ñó -- ?¡ì?¨c¨cóÂ??¡ì??¡ê¡ªóÂ!" a€?¡¯?¡ê¨c?¡ê?a€?¡¯¡ª?¡ì?óÂT£¤? ??¡ì?óÂ?¡¯ ?am???¡ê? ?¡ì?? ?¡ì?? a€?¡¯?¡ì?? ??????¡ì??óÂ. "??????¡é??¡ì??󠡪a€?¡¯?¡ì?? ¨cóÂó ?a€?¡¯?¡ê?????r¨¢¨²? !"


    "It¡¯s a common issue with Cogitants entering the Garden for the first time," Hamashtiel explained patiently. "The fidelity of the scenario is such that you lose yourself in your analysis of the scene, and thus confuse yourself with the subject. It shouldn¡¯t happen again, but I thought it best I warn you: be careful to keep a grip on yourself."


    Dragan nodded. "Alright, I guess. Can you put me back in? I haven¡¯t missed anything, right?"


    Hamashtiel shook his head as much as a butterfly was able -- which is to say he rotated unnaturally on the spot like a 3D model of some kind.


    "No," he assured him. "Thoughts are accelerated here. Barely a second has passed in that iteration. I shall return you now."


    The abyss that Dragan was returned to was as empty as the last void, but much more tranquil. The emptiness of the Garden had seemed like something outside of reality, whereas the place where the young Skipper now slept felt more like the bottom of the ocean itself, save for the lack of pressure.


    Only the upper part of the young Skipper¡¯s body remained, floating in the dark liquid. His hanging entrails fluttered in the current like long blades of grass. Metal cords kept him in place, and a rebreather was placed over his mouth, through which only the slightest rasp could be heard.


    "I thought you died," Dragan murmured, looking at the human wreckage. "I know it¡¯s stupid to think that, but --"


    "I did die," the present Skipper said bluntly, unseen in the darkness.


    "Then what?" Dragan scoffed. "They -- they brought you back to life?"


    The vaguest silhouette crossed its arms. "It is what it is."


    Dragan waved a hand in front of himself, seeing specks of orange in the liquid they were floating in. He leaned in closer, peering at one of them, recognising it. "Panacea¡­?" he murmured.


    "Along with whatever else they could throw at me," Skipper muttered darkly. "Stimulants, growth gels, Panacea¡­ anything they could do to bring their Supreme¡¯s new favourite toy back so they could reap the benefits."


    All around them, muffled by glass and plastic, Dragan could hear practiced voices speaking to each other.


    "You were conscious?" he asked, aghast.


    Skipper shifted. "I heard, but I didn¡¯t understand."


    ¡­lost cause¡­


    Wounds closed.


    ¡­the lights are on, but nobody¡¯s home¡­


    Legs grew.


    ¡­We continue as long as the funding does. Do you want to tell the Wise Men we¡¯ve wasted their time?...


    Breathing stabilized.


    ¡­I don¡¯t care about Strauss¡¯ freak of nature. Vicious or not, a substitute is a substitute¡­


    Fingers twitched.


    ¡­Seal the room -- don¡¯t let them get through! What do you mean it isn¡¯t working?! Security! Security, get here --


    Eyes opened --


    -- and glass shattered.


    The void collapsed into cruel light, washing over the young Skipper. A low, weak moan trickled from his throat as he lifted a lethargic hand up to shield his eyes. Despite everything, however, he could not avoid seeing the person beyond -- the one who had broken into this waking sleep.


    The woman called the Widow inspected the sight before her, cocked her head slightly, and raised an eyebrow.


    There was the slightest smirk on her lips.


    And time was merciless.

 Chapter 217:9.8: O Father, O Mother

    This world is a completed thing.


    Thus, excess stretches the boundaries.


    Thus, excess corrupts the mind.


    Thus, excess banishes Y.


    This world is a completed thing -- all that is needed to nourish the soul already exists here.


    Thus, let resourcefulness guide your hand.


    Thus, let retrieval be your watchword.


    Thus, let Y be beckoned.


    Hold these things to be true, and practice them body and soul, and without doubt the day will come.


    The day when we all become as gods.


    Central Tenet XIV, Humilist Library


    Dragan staggered backwards as the upload cord retracted from his eyeball, winding back into Hamashtiel¡¯s body in less time than it took to blink. Shakily, he held a hand up to his face to check for injuries or marks, and was relieved to find no lasting damage from the interface.


    "The first return from the Garden can be disorienting," Hamashtiel said softly. "Particularly the reset to mundane laws of physics. I¡¯d recommend you lean on something until you¡¯re confident on your feet."


    Best not to ignore the expert. Dragan planted his hands against the wall, using it to support his weight as he caught his breath.


    A thought occurred. Had he left the Garden? How would he be able to tell? When he¡¯d been inside it, it had seemed like reality itself, and now that he¡¯d left there were no markers to differentiate the real world from the simulation.


    No, no. Don¡¯t freak out. He shook his head as if to clear out the messy thoughts.


    "So," Skipper said, staying completely still as the cord retracted from his own eye. "What do ya think?"


    "Why¡¯d we stop there?" Dragan asked. "With that Widow woman showing up¡­ what happened after that?"


    Skipper frowned. "Well, the next part wasn¡¯t really relevant, yeah? I was showing our buddy here what kind of guy the Supreme is. Don¡¯t need my whole life story for that, do we?"


    "I guess not."


    "Speaking of which," Skipper turned back to the spherical Hamashtiel, hands on his hips. "I¡¯ll ask again: what did ya think?" Sear?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Blue lights crawled under Hamashtiel¡¯s metal shell. "It was an interesting story, to be sure, but I¡¯m uncertain why this was supposed to change my mind. I am aware that the Supreme enjoys fighting -- this is true for most people who rise to the top of the Supremacy¡¯s hierarchy. You have not provided new information."


    Skipper narrowed his eyes. "That¡¯s all you got from it? You weren¡¯t paying attention. The Supreme¡¯s a guy who doesn¡¯t wanna be bored. He¡¯s desperate not to be bored. Once he runs out of things to do in his own space, he¡¯ll turn to you guys -- for the sport of it."


    Green lights radiated within Hamashtiel. "Conjecture. He has not left his ship in nearly a decade. He is a man broken by his own overwhelming strength."


    "He¡¯ll bounce back," Skipper fired off. "He always does. You saw it. He¡¯d sit there, sulking for a while, then get up and find someone new to kill, yeah? What he¡¯s doing now? It¡¯s just longer sulking. If you think that makes you safe forever, you¡¯re an idiot."


    The slightest red blinking repeated within Hamashtiel, then blacked out. "At any rate," the Paradisas said slowly and deliberately. "It is not my decision to make. I shall take your testimony to my superiors -- but I wouldn¡¯t get my hopes up."


    Skipper didn¡¯t blink. "Sure. Do your best, pal."


    Dragan pushed himself off the wall -- and felt glass crunch under his foot. He looked down, and saw the remains of the videograph screen they¡¯d smashed before going into the Garden.


    "By the by," Hamashtiel said mildly. "There will also be a bill for repairs. It will be with you presently."


    Muzazi kept low as he prowled across the rooftops, blade in his hand.


    The weapon he¡¯d been provided by Lyons was no Luminescence, but it would serve. In terms of shape, it was more like a machete than the sword he¡¯d previously used, and the black metal it was constructed from was a stark contrast to Luminescence¡¯s radiance, but it was sharp enough to kill. In the end, that was all that really mattered.


    He¡¯d been provided new gear beyond that by Lyons, as well. The dark coat he wore, strapped right around his torso, was well armoured -- even without Aether, the material alone would suffice to block a bullet or two. His boots, too, were designed to enhance his natural speed, responding to the impulses of his nervous system and bolstering them. Hopefully, even with his exhaustion, it would provide the edge he needed to match the challenges ahead.


    This sector of the Menagerie¡¯s temporary ¡¯city¡¯ -- constructed from vehicles and smaller ships docking into each other -- was garishly lit, holographic advertisements and signs scrolling through the air. His eyes focused on one spot in particular: the Ready Port, a small hole-in-the-wall on the second floor of the complex.


    Apparently, Mila Green had booked a table there for the next hour. When she came to honour that appointment, that would be their chance to grab her.


    "Are you ready?" Muzazi muttered -- even without looking, he knew his coworker was beside him.


    Olga moved without sound -- neither footstep nor breath -- and even her audacious red scarf did not trail against the floor. Instead it waved higher up in the air like a snake, the end swaying beside her head. It was doubtless some kind of Aether Armament.


    Slowly, her eyes fixed on the Ready Port, she nodded.


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    They waited there in silence for what seemed like a long time, waiting for Green to appear and enter the Ready Port. It seemed that she was running late, and so Muzazi found his fingers drumming along the surface of his blade anxiously.


    This wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d had to wait, of course -- but before, with Marie, the idea of patience hadn¡¯t seemed nearly as daunting. There wouldn¡¯t have been this kind of silence, for one thing.


    He quietly cleared his throat. "I don¡¯t mean to be rude, Miss¡­?"


    The girl¡¯s voice was hushed as the grave. "Olga."


    "...Olga," Muzazi sighed. "But you seem very young to be doing this kind of work."


    Her eyes didn¡¯t move from the restaurant. "Is it a problem?"


    "Well, I don¡¯t know if I¡¯d describe it as a problem," Muzazi shifted uncomfortably. "It¡¯s just surprising. Does your family approve of it?"


    Olga blinked. "I don¡¯t have a family, Mr. Muzazi."


    Ah. He¡¯d chosen his words poorly. Muzazi swallowed down the awkwardness. "My apologies. I didn¡¯t mean to --"


    "When I go to the part of my head where there should be a mother or a father," Olga continued, one hand stroking the length of her flexile scarf. "There¡¯s only the Supremacy. It feeds me, clothes me, and teaches me how to be a human. I guess that¡¯s what my family is, if you want to know. So they do approve, I guess."


    There was no resentment in her tone, only a statement of fact, and even Muzazi could see she was telling nothing but the truth.


    "That¡¯s an¡­ interesting way of looking at it," Muzazi said slowly, choosing his words carefully.


    For the first time, she glanced over at him, and her eyes were dull. "Is there another way of looking at it?"


    "Well, I¡­"


    Her stare was unceasing. "What¡¯s your family, Mr. Muzazi? Is it better than mine?"


    Marie.


    For a second, her face rose to the surface of Muzazi¡¯s mind, before he forcefully pushed her back down. He knew that if he thought of her too long, his knees would buckle beneath him. Apart from her, when it came to family, there was¡­


    There was¡­


    A sword glinting in the moonlight, gone. A pride in his rank and skill, empty. A drive to regain his honour, hollow. A brood of absences.


    But nothing that could be called family.


    In the end, Muzazi did not answer Olga¡¯s question -- and Olga seemed to accept that. Instead, her body stiffened as her eyes locked onto a single face in the crowd below, the end of her scarf tying itself into the shape of a taloned hand.


    "No," Muzazi ordered, raising his hand. "We wait until she enters --"


    "She won¡¯t enter," Olga interrupted. "People are coming out to meet her." She pointed down with a finger of fabric.


    She was right, and Muzazi realized it the moment he looked ahead of Green in the crowd. Three men were emerging from the Ready Port, doing their best to look inconspicuous, but the shapes of concealed weapons beneath their clothing was unmistakable.


    A bearded man with a red beret and sunglasses held up the group, while the other two wore patchwork Humilist robes and cloaks. The bearded man nodded to Green as they met in the ocean of the crowd.


    "Hired guns," Muzazi mused. "Or maybe other Humilists? The cloaks would suggest the latter, but something seems off¡­"


    "She knows them," Olga muttered. "Definitely. What do we do?"


    Muzazi bit his lip hesitantly. Ideally, he¡¯d have liked to follow Mila Green and ambush her when she was in a more isolated location, but if she was in a group that was a new risk all its own. It would mean giving the enemy time to establish a solid formation around Green, and could even make their job more difficult than otherwise.


    This was their only chance to actually catch them off-guard.


    "Mr. Muzazi?" Olga repeated.


    Certainty. If nothing else, he had certainty. Confidence in his actions and his victory.


    "We take her now," Muzazi said firmly, rising to his feet, brandishing his black blade. "I shall take the leader, you deal with the two behind. No matter what, Green goes unharmed. We need her. Understand?"


    "Okay." Olga rose to her feet with all the grace of a ballerina.


    Muzazi leapt off the roof, blade drawn, using split-second thrusters to adjust his path so he¡¯d land in front of the bearded man. It didn¡¯t seem like he had any Aether defenses up yet, so a single swipe of Muzazi¡¯s sword should surely have sufficed to separate the miscreant¡¯s head from his shoulders.


    As he fell, the bearded man growing larger in his vision, Muzazi drew his sword back for the kill --


    "Must you kill him?" Nigen Rush asked. "Do you know him? Is he evil? Is his death necessary?"


    -- and then flipped the sword on its side, smashing the flat end of the blade into the face of the enemy as he landed. There was a crunch as the man¡¯s nose shattered, and he went flying backwards into the crowd -- bowling over more than a few people.


    "Huh?!" cried Green from behind him.


    The two cloaked Humilists pulled out bulky plasma rifles from their garments, but before they could fire, Olga definitively settled matters.


    Red fabric moved in the cruel light, forming a perfectly straight line, and shifted.


    Death was instant. Even Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but be surprised by the efficiency of the killing -- and needless to say, he couldn¡¯t help but be disturbed by it¡¯s gruesome nature, either. Olga had sliced clean through the heads of her opponents the second she landed. Now, the crowns of their skulls remained balanced atop her scarf, cross-sections of brain exposed in the corpses as they fell to their knees.


    She adjusted the angle of her scarf slightly, and the two body parts fell to the floor. The screaming from the crowds was deafening, the drive to flee was creating a near-stampede, and the Forgiveness Corps would doubtless be here before long.


    Still, he had nothing to fear.


    He¡¯d reached back, after all, and grabbed Mila Green by the collar -- with such strength that even a machine couldn¡¯t pry him free. He turned to look at her. Her eyes were wide with shock and terror, her mouth was a flat line of stasis, and the trembling of her body was enough to tell him that she hadn¡¯t been expecting them.


    Well, her fear was her own business. Atoy Muzazi had a job to do.


    "You¡¯re coming with us," he growled.


    When Mila Green woke, the first thing she was aware of was the rope tightly binding her wrists. The next thing she was aware of was the rope binding her legs.


    Something was covering her eyes -- a blindfold, maybe -- so the only senses available to her were smell, touch and hearing.


    She could smell some kind of food in the distance, or at least something burning.


    She could feel a metal chair pressing against her back, the structure keeping her upright.


    She could hear nothing save for the leisurely hum of an air conditioner.


    What had happened to her? The memory took a moment to emerge from the smog of unconsciousness. She¡¯d gone to meet with the mercenaries she¡¯d hired to help break Helga out¡­ and then she¡¯d suddenly been ambushed by that man and child.


    They must have knocked her out after that.


    Who were these people? She¡¯d put up a horrifying chunk of her savings to hire those men, and yet they¡¯d been defeated in an instant. She struggled against the ropes, but they were still bound unbearably right. All she accomplished was hurting her wrists.


    Should she call out? What would that even accomplish, except for angering her captors?


    In the end, though, the decision was made for her. There was the creak of a door opening, and then the sound of footsteps entering the room.


    "Hello, Miss Green," a quiet, calm voice said. "It¡¯s lovely to make your acquaintance. It¡¯d make me very happy if you were to share some information with me."


    Before she could even say anything, however, Mila felt a cold hand press against her face¡­


    ¡­and with a chalk-grey spark, all her worries drained away.

 Chapter 218:9.9: Day and Night

    Hear me today, and listen well! This is no Truemeet! How could it be?! The Final Church is not here! Only a clown wearing its stolen face! A blasphemous simulacrum!


    The Superbians are ruled by a tantruming child! The Humilists are led by a lying mutant! And who can even speak of the Paradisas¡¯ sins, when their leader goes unseen by all?! Even without a face, their agenda is apparent: a world of steel and glass and hollow pursuits!


    To this I say no!


    Do not let your faith be stolen, brothers! Do not allow yourselves to be misled, sisters! Now is the time!


    Destroy the Deus Nobiscum! Annihilate the Menagerie! Bring low the ELIZA! Only when the false church is torn down will the true one appear!


    A real Truemeet would end with heads on pikes!


    Street Preacher aboard the Menagerie (Missing)


    There was a bright world, and there was the real world. That was the way Olga Malwarian saw things.


    She perched atop a rafter in the ceiling of the interrogation room, looking curiously down as Lyons did his work on their captive. His hand was planted firmly against Mila Green¡¯s face, chalk-coloured Aether buzzing around his digits as his ability did it¡¯s work. Green¡¯s thrashing had only lasted a couple of seconds -- without Aether defenses, she¡¯d gone limp quickly, her passions and drives drained away by Lyons¡¯ cold touch.


    This sort of scene was common in the real world.


    People were beaten, robbed, murdered every second, and to avoid such a fate there was no choice but to be the one beating, robbing and murdering. Olga had learnt that lesson early on, and the instruction of the Supremacy and the GID had only cemented it. If you hurt others, you wouldn¡¯t be hurt. If you hurt others, you would be helped.


    There was no point in getting angry about it, just like there was no point getting angry that you had to breathe. Things were just the way they were.


    Lyons was quietly asking questions and receiving whispered answers. Olga wasn¡¯t exactly sure how her superior¡¯s power worked, but the result was obvious -- the victim temporarily became a living doll, willing to answer any questions or follow any instructions they were given. Mila Green would have no choice but to tell them how to free Helga.


    Helga¡­


    Olga adjusted her position slightly on the rafter, rubbing the scarf coiled around her jaw. If all went well, Helga would be with them again soon. It had been years since Olga had last seen her -- Helga had been doing good work, of course, infiltrating the Humilist, but still¡­


    ¡­she couldn¡¯t help but feel weird at the thought of meeting her older sister again, after so long.


    "Olga," Lyons said, standing up and removing his hand from Green¡¯s face.


    As silent as a cat, Olga dropped down next to him, her scarf lowering her to the ground. That was nothing special, though. In the Galactic Intelligence Division, it would be stranger to find someone who did make sound when they moved. She¡¯d once heard of an agent who could make you forget their very existence, even, though he¡¯d later joined the Supreme Heir¡¯s Seven Blades.


    "I¡¯m done here," Lyons said calmly, brushing some of the dust off his face. "Tell Atoy Muzazi we move as soon as Green comes back to herself. There are retinal scanners to access the ship Helga is on, so this woman will have to come along with you."


    Olga cocked her head. "Couldn¡¯t we just take her eyes with us?"


    Lyons waved a vague hand. "She doesn¡¯t know if there are vital sensors, as well, so it¡¯s best not to risk it. Tell Atoy Muzazi, at any rate."


    Olga nodded loyally.


    "By the by¡­" Lyons purred, glancing down at her. "Atoy Muzazi. What do you think of him?"


    Olga frowned. She hadn¡¯t interacted with him long, but from the way he¡¯d spoken to her on the roof, and the half-hearted way he¡¯d dealt with his opponent when capturing Green¡­


    "He¡¯s soft," she said. "Weak. If it comes down to hard decisions, he¡¯ll take too long to think about it. We should get rid of him and bring in someone we can trust."


    Lyons chuckled, strolling towards the door.


    "Oh," he sighed. "But we can trust Atoy Muzazi. More than anyone else, in fact. I¡¯ve been assured of that by the highest authorities."


    Dragan Hadrien sipped his soft drink, looking out at the artificial beach before him.


    White sands, blue waves, and artificial lighting that managed to match the warmth of sunlight with none of the irritating burning. He adjusted his sunglasses, getting the light out of his eyes, and relaxed back on his deck chair.


    It really felt like it had been ages since he¡¯d finally gotten to relax. No impending danger lurking at the edges of prediction, no authorities hunting then, no insane monsters banging at the walls. Just him, a cold drink, and --


    -- and Serena splashed him.


    Dragan blinked in annoyance, wiping his wet hair back with one hand as he put his drink down on the waiting automatic coaster. Sighing he sat up and looked at his dual annoyances.


    Right at the edge of the water, grinning at him like a pair of haunting specters, were Ruth and Serena.


    "What are you doing, Mr. Dragan?" Serena asked cheerfully. "There¡¯s all this water, and you¡¯re not doing anything with it!"


    This ship is a closed system. Even though it¡¯s filtered to hell, that water you¡¯re swimming in probably came from the toilets. Dragan thought about sharing that unpleasant information, but in the end decided not even he was that cruel.


    "Quit lounging around, Dragan," Ruth barked, adjusting the strap of her red swimsuit. "You¡¯ll get out of shape if you sit around like that all day."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "I¡¯ve been sitting here like this for twelve minutes. Am I not allowed to relax for twelve minutes?"


    "Of course you are," Serena smiled. "Just come relax in the water. It¡¯s more fun like that!"


    "I¡¯m having fun like this, though," Dragan said.


    She cocked her head. "But you¡¯re not doing anything."


    "Exactly."


    As Dragan spoke, a shadow fell over him -- the accompanying coolness of the shade was welcome, the shape of the silhouette less so. He glanced up at Skipper, who was peering out across the false beach with one hand shielding his eyes from the light. To be honest, that didn¡¯t seem entirely necessary, especially since he was wearing that stupid hat again.


    Without looking at Dragan, Skipper spoke. "You¡¯ll get outta shape if you sit around like that all day."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "I¡¯ve heard it --"


    It was at that moment Serena decided to try splashing Dragan again -- the form of her marine assault was impeccable, but the timing was amateur. He saw it coming from a mile away.


    Gemini Shotgun.


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    The water was absorbed into Dragan¡¯s Aether before it could splash him , and the rebound pelted Serena with such force that she went flying back into the water. Ruth, losing interest, swam after her with the speed of an athlete.


    "-- already," Dragan finished.


    Skipper sighed, planting himself in the sunbed next to Dragan without asking. "You¡¯ll regret it someday, you know, kid. These moments don¡¯t keep coming forever, yeah?"


    Dragan glanced sideways at Skipper. "Speaking¡­ from experience?"


    Since coming back from the ELIZA, they really hadn¡¯t had much of a chance to speak about what they¡¯d seen in the Garden. Dragan wasn¡¯t an asshole -- he hadn¡¯t told Ruth, Bruno or Serena about it -- but he still couldn¡¯t help but feel that burning curiosity.


    Skipper cracked his neck as he leaned back in his seat, moving his head so it was under the protection of the parasol. "Dunno about that. Kind of the opposite for me, I guess. When I was your age, I spent all my time worrying about glory and victory and other stupid shit. So now I¡¯m taking these moments late."


    Dragan sipped his drink, adjusting the collar of his water hoodie awkwardly as the quiet drifted on. In the distance, he could hear the pre-recorded sound of some sea bird, providing the illusion of nature.


    "The stuff we saw in the Garden," Dragan said slowly. "The Supreme Guard and all that stuff¡­ I looked it up and they disbanded, like, sixty years ago, right?" Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Skipper looked straight ahead. "That¡¯s right."


    "So they were putting you back together for about¡­"


    He shrugged slightly. "Twenty years or so. Never got an exact count."


    "So, in terms of actual chronology, you¡¯re what? Ninety?"


    Skipper cast him an offended glance. "More like seventy. I¡¯m no fossil, Mr. Hadrien."


    "Guess not," Dragan muttered, sipping his drink. "When you got out, did you chase up the people you knew before¡­? That Klaus guy, or anyone else?"


    Skipper stared off into the distance. "When I came back to myself, I found out Achilles Esmeralda committed honourable suicide for the crimes of his child."


    Dragan swallowed. "I, uh¡­ I see. I¡¯m sorry."


    The older man didn¡¯t acknowledge it. "The rest is another story for another day," he said, and the sigh that left his lips quickly metamorphosed into a grin. "We¡¯ve found such a nice day and we¡¯re just talking about depressing shit. The hell are we doing, Mr. Hadrien?"


    "I guess so."


    For a moment, the vigil of the sea bird returned -- the caw, caw, caw like the ticking of a clock -- and then Dragan clambered off the sunbed, taking off his sunglasses and putting them down on the floating saucer as well.


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Up to something?"


    "It¡¯s like you said," Dragan replied, smirking despite himself. "These moments don¡¯t last forever. Might as well enjoy them while I can."


    He marched over to the beach, towards Ruth and Serena, tossing off his hoodie and using a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.


    "After all," he muttered to himself. "It¡¯s such a nice day."


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes were becoming used to the dark.


    He sat in the cramped quarters he¡¯d been provided, diligently polishing his new black blade, surrounded on all sides by dingy walls and steadfast silence. In his heart, he knew that he¡¯d finished polishing this sword nearly an hour ago -- but there was nothing else for him to do. When he tried to think of what he¡¯d like to do next, all that came to mind was the mission.


    And for now, the mission was to wait.


    "Do you really need someone else to give you a mission?"


    Muzazi squeezed his eyes shut -- and then, opening them again, looked up. It was as he¡¯d expected.


    Nigen Rush, the golden sword of the Supremacy, stood on the other side of the room, resplendent in his ceremonial armour. A glow like sunlight poured through the visor of his helmet, illuminating the room. Muzazi found himself squinting from that light as he beheld the intruder.


    He did not answer the question. "Are you a hallucination," he asked instead. "Or some kind of Aether attack?"


    "What would that answer profit you?"


    "It would tell me if I¡¯ve gone mad or not," Muzazi said, slowly rising to his feet, hand squeezing the hilt of his sword. "And whether or not you¡¯re an enemy I must eliminate."


    Save for the slightest breathing, Nigen Rush did not move. "Must¡­? That¡¯s mistaken."


    Muzazi frowned. "What do you mean?"


    "There is no ¡¯must¡¯ in this world, just as there is no ¡¯mission¡¯. There is no law of reality that forces you to obey the decrees of others. Your choices are yours and yours alone. It does not matter why you do something: you are still the one who has done it."


    Muzazi drew his black blade back, adjusting his footing slightly, ready to run the spectre through. "Before, when I was speaking to Lyons¡­ you told me not to trust him. What did you mean by that?"


    "You know what I meant by that." The tranquility in Nigen Rush¡¯s voice went unburdened.


    "I do not. Tell me."


    "You do know. You simply do not know that you know."


    Muzazi growled: "I¡¯ve had enough of these games. Explain yourself to me, or I shall not be responsible for --"


    The door opened.


    "Mr. Muzazi," Olga said calmly, stepping into the room. "It¡¯s time to go. We¡¯re having Mila Green get us onto the ship where Helga¡¯s being held." Her eyes flicked down to the sword in Muzazi¡¯s hands. "Are you okay?"


    Muzazi looked up -- and as expected, Nigen Rush was gone. He bitterly returned the sword to its sheath.


    "Yes," he said, voice low. "I¡¯m fine. Let¡¯s go."


    The chamber of the cardinal council was as silent as the grave. It was a fitting ambience for the place where so many had died.


    Giovanni sat alone on his throne, eyes flicking between the myriad of holographic screens before him, presenting a curated recap of the day¡¯s events. His meeting with Gertrude Hearth, the rumours circulating among the Superbian flock¡­ and a curious incident involving the Paradisas.


    His meeting with Hearth had gone as expected -- she was never going to agree to the terms he¡¯d proposed, but now he could at least say he¡¯d tried. There could be no good war without peace efforts beforehand. The information he¡¯d acquired regarding her anti-Aether power would be useful as well.


    The rumours spreading throughout the Superbian sect were more of a concern. He¡¯d expected people to raise eyebrows at the sudden seclusion of the Cardinals -- especially after his public disputes with them, but he¡¯d hoped it wouldn¡¯t happen so soon. Ideally, he¡¯d have liked to maintain the illusion until the end of the Truemeet, but that no longer seemed possible.


    Isabelle¡¯s face drifted to the surface of his mind as he brooded. No doubt she had something to do with this: she¡¯d suspected what he was going to do, after all. But the fact that there were still only rumours meant she didn¡¯t have proof. He could still delay internal purges until after the Humilists were dealt with.


    In the corner of the display, a message popped up -- a request for a meeting with him, from Professor Roger Brinkmann.


    Giovanni swiped it away almost spitefully. Brinkmann may have led the Testament project that had led to his creation, but that didn¡¯t mean Giovanni had any desire to meet with him. The old scientist forgot his place too often, treating Giovanni as if he was still some laboratory specimen he could talk down to.


    Right now, the Paradisas matter held far more interest to him.


    A videograph clip, pilfered from the ELIZA, showed a looping clip of two individuals in a scuffle with Hamashtiel of the Paradisas sect. A young man and an older one fought against the Paradisas official briefly, then stayed still as the sphere presumably uploaded their consciousnesses to the Garden. Then, they left peacefully.


    A curious incident indeed. Giovanni swiped his fingers across the screen, changing the display to show where they¡¯d tracked those intruders too. After leaving the ELIZA, it seemed they¡¯d joined up with some others and docked with a luxury ship orbiting the Truemeet proper -- the Aipol Beach.


    It would be prudent for him to find out what was going on here, in more ways than one. He opened a communication channel with Jamie.


    "Jamie," he said softly. "I have a job for you."


    Jamie¡¯s cheerful voice came back over the communicator. "Mm-hmm?"


    "I¡¯m sending you files regarding some individuals who broke into the Paradisas flagship earlier today," he said carefully. "Faces and current location. I want you to go after them. Bring them back here -- alive. This has the potential to bring down the Humilists entirely."


    "Sure thing!"


    Dutiful as ever. A fond smile playing across his lips, Giovanni ended the call.


    In truth, this Paradisas matter was at most a mild curiosity for him. Certainly, there was no way pursuing it would realistically do any form of harm to the Humilist sect of the Final Church. But he¡¯d had to say that all the same.


    He wasn¡¯t alone, after all.


    More than likely, Gertrude Hearth had deployed some of her pets to follow him back home. The rumours of her opponent¡¯s assassinations spoke for themselves. They were probably in the room with him. He couldn¡¯t speak carelessly.


    He made no effort to find them, and gave no sign that he knew of their presence -- to do so would defeat the purpose of this exercise. Having heard what he¡¯d just said, they¡¯d no doubt pass that information along to Gertude -- and she¡¯d no doubt send some of her pieces to intercept his. She¡¯d have no choice but to show her hand.


    Unseen under the desk, his fingers tapped away a set of orders to Captain Jon Peak of the Vox Dei. He and his men would enter the luxury ship shortly after Jamie, entrapping any pursuers between them.


    The slightest sweat ran down the back of his neck. This was it. The beginning of the end of the Humilists, and the beginning of the Superbians eternal dominance.


    The first move.


    The first domino.


    The first blood.


    Giovanni sent the order.

 Chapter 219:9.10: Silent and Still

    We are those without shadows or footsteps.


    We are those without hesitation or weakness.


    We are those without blemish or imperfection.


    Where a knife is required, we shall become a knife.


    Where a gun is required, we shall become a gun.


    Where death is required, we shall become death.


    When the Church calls, we shall become the answer.


    Words of the Quiet Choir


    Two years ago¡­


    It was a terrible thing, to be insufficient.


    Jamie kept close to the wall of the alleyway as he made his way down it, the solid structure preventing him from falling to the ground. Pangs of hunger vibrated through his body, making it feel as though his bones were empty and fragile. Rain battered down mercilessly, plastering his loose blonde hair against his head.


    Some time ago, it started hurting to breathe. Jamie had the sneaking suspicion that he would end up dying in this alleyway.


    Bitter tears stung at his eyes, but it was not as if he were blameless. The eugenics program of the Quiet Choir -- selective breeding to produce the finest candidates -- had resulted in a failure like him, after all. Countless mental and physical deficiencies formed the soul that was Jamie Pot. Sear?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It couldn¡¯t be helped that he was abandoned by the Choir. The purpose of garbage was to be thrown away. In this way, at least, Jamie could satisfy their expectations.


    And yet, tears still stung at his eyes. He looked up through them at the sky, and saw the ocean of stars there. If he died in this alleyway, it would mean dying without ever seeing a single one of them.


    That seemed sad. No, that seemed happy.


    An involuntary grin sprang to Jamie¡¯s lips, stretching out his mouth, as a shudder of malfunctioning happiness ran through him, just as violently as his hunger pangs. It lasted just a moment, but even so the spike of sudden emotion left him doubled over and panting for breath.


    These sudden mood shifts were just one of the errors that had come about during his creation. The role of the Quiet Choir was the subtle art of assassination, the control of one¡¯s environment. That couldn¡¯t be accomplished if one couldn¡¯t even control himself. At times, he¡¯d even find himself scratching his arms raw, the discordant happiness in his head driving him to the pastime.


    Failure, failure, failure. Reject. A silent sob racked his small frame.


    "Are you upset?" asked a soft but powerful voice from up ahead.


    Jamie looked up.


    There, at the mouth of the alleyway, stood a young boy in the resplendent black-and-red robes of the Apexbishop, crimson-eyed face framed by long black hair. The rain fell around him in a dome -- not a single drop of moisture landing on his body or clothing.


    He was much younger than Jamie, only ten or eleven at the most, but as he stepped forward the cold intelligence in his eyes seemed almost ancient. He stopped a meter or so in front of Jamie, somehow managing to look down at him despite the difference in their heights. He had the sort of eyes that were always capable of looking down on someone.


    "What¡­?" Jamie spluttered.


    The rainwater choked his words, and Jamie¡¯s confusion didn¡¯t help, either. Who was this boy, and why was he walking around in Apexbishop robes? Was it some sort of bad-taste cosplay, or¡­?


    "I asked if you were upset," the young boy said, red eyes burrowing into Jamie¡¯s blue. "I expected you were, but I wanted to hear it from your own mouth. Now: are you upset?"


    Despite the bizarre situation, Jamie found himself slowly nodding.


    "I¡¯m sorry to hear that," the young boy said. "Shall I correct it for you?"


    Jamie furrowed his shaking brow. "W-What?"


    "You said that already." For the first time, a note of annoyance entered the boy¡¯s tone. "You shouldn¡¯t repeat yourself needlessly. I¡¯m asking you if you¡¯d like for me to correct your situation."


    Slowly, Jamie pulled himself further up along the wall -- and even with his exhaustion and hunger, he made not a single sound as he did so. He cleared his throat.


    "How¡­" he said. "Would you do that?"


    The boy¡¯s smile widened fractionally. "Do you like my outfit?" he said, raising his arms. The robes were clearly too big for him, and so the sleeves drooped like mantis blades. The sight would have been comical, if not for the sheer dignity in the child¡¯s expression.


    Confusion resurfaced. "Huh?"


    "It¡¯s a mark of office for the Superbian Apexbishop," the boy explained, letting his arms fall. "Very soon now I am going to be placed into that position. When I am, I would like useful and interesting people to serve by my side. I believe you are one of those people."


    Jamie blinked -- his strength failing him, he fell to his knees.


    "Wh¡­" he began, before choking back the repetition. "You want¡­ me?"


    "Yes," the boy said mildly. "That¡¯s what I¡¯m saying." He extended a hand. "My name is Giovanni Sigma Testament. Will you help me?"


    Jamie stared at the hand in front of him, completely dry in the middle of a thunderstorm. Then, he looked back up at the boy¡¯s -- at Giovanni¡¯s -- pale face.


    "But¡­" he finally murmured. "I-I¡¯m a mistake¡­"


    It was Giovanni¡¯s turn to look confused, cocking his head as if Jamie had just said something utterly ridiculous.


    "My friend," he said. "This entire world was made bespoke by Y himself. How could there ever be such a thing as a mistake?"


    Present Day¡­


    Jamie Pot was surrounded by the dead.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Apart from the usual supply kept in his pockets, he¡¯d taken two of the most intact corpses out of cold storage and had them wear concealing robes. Even if their reanimation made them a bit stiff, they¡¯d still be able to pass for living humans if he was careful. They sat on either side of him now, guarding him as the public shuttle made its way to their destination.


    Not that Jamie could see them under his current circumstances.


    As the shuttle docked on the Aipol Beach, the suitcase Jamie was hiding inside moved -- one of his zombies grabbing the handle and pulling it along with it. The corpse¡¯s vision was still mostly intact, and so Jamie was able to confidently pilot it through the docking lobby without issue. He didn¡¯t have much in terms of precision -- more like telling the corpse to walk here, walk there -- but it would suffice for the task at hand.


    With a jerking movement, the zombie handed a counterfeit ticket over to the automatic receptionist, receiving a room key in return. Dead fingers heroically overcame rigor mortis and stuffed it into a pocket.


    Some hacking had managed to unearth the rooms his targets were staying in, and he¡¯d managed to produce a ticket that would put him right next to them. From there, it was just a matter of breaking through the wall and subduing them with a sneak attack.


    At his command, one of the zombies unzipped the suitcase -- just a little -- and Jamie took the opportunity to release his swarm. Green Aether sparked within his pockets.


    Dawn of the Dead.


    Sixty dead flies, animated using his ability, flew out of the gap in the suitcase -- sharing their senses with Jamie directly like a fleet of surveillance drones.


    A hallway, lined with numbered doors. Fluffy carpets and wooden walls. Lights built into the ceiling. A painting of a boat. The hallway was understood.


    The ship was running on night-hours, so his targets should logically be in their rooms either sleeping or getting ready to sleep. Rooms 53 and 52 were occupied by them. Jamie had his zombie carry him into room 51.


    The zombie carrying him was A. The other one, which he¡¯d left outside in the hallway, was B. B was now in place to begin the attack.


    A put the suitcase down on the floor, and Jamie emerged as soon as the zipper was opened. There were countless clicks and cracks as he fixed back into place the joints he¡¯d dislocated to fit into the cramped confines of the bag.


    The room was fairly standard -- a bed, a videograph screen on the wall, some dressers, and a door that presumably led to the bathroom. Jamie had little interest in it. He strolled past his cloaked zombie and put a careful ear to the wall, straining to see if he could hear his targets speaking.


    No sound -- but that didn¡¯t necessarily mean his targets were asleep. The absolute silence instead indicated that the rooms were soundproofed. That made things a little more difficult.


    A flare of happiness struck at him, and his face split into a painful grin¡­ which died a moment later. These pangs of joys had been increasing in frequency over the last few hours: no doubt he had a frenzy coming on. Ideally, he¡¯d like that to hit during combat, to quicken his step and harden his hands.


    Happiness was his Aether core, after all.


    His eyes flicked to the digital clock on the bedside table. Thirty seconds to midnight. He¡¯d time his assault right as the clock switched to 00:00:00. Something about the symmetry of it was appealing to him.


    23:59:30. Jamie stepped back from the wall, taking cover behind his zombie as he drew his shotguns from his back.


    23:59:40. He checked his weapons, making sure each was loaded, diffusing his ghastly green Aether into the shells.


    23:59:50. Out in the hallway, one of his corpse-flies landed on B¡¯s head, giving him a view of the zombie¡¯s perspective.


    23:59:59. Jamie Pot wiped a bead of sweat from his own forehead.


    00:00:00.


    B knocked on the target¡¯s door.


    "Try anything," the swordsman muttered, deadly close to Mila¡¯s ear. "And I will cut you down where you stand."


    Mila gulped, staring right into the retinal scanners as its red light inspected her. "I won¡¯t," she said, her throat dry and nervous. "I promise."


    Behind her, the swordsman¡¯s voice was dark. "I don¡¯t imagine your promises mean very much."


    How had she gotten here? Everything was hazy. She¡¯d been meeting up with her mercenaries, then she¡¯d been captured, and now¡­ now it seemed they¡¯d docked with the ship Helga was being kept on, and for some reason Mila was giving these two access.


    The red light turned green, and the swordsman thumped her in the back with the hilt of his sword to push her on as the door opened. Mila nodded, holding her hands up as she cautiously stepped through into the laboratory proper.


    Everything was as she¡¯d last seen it, consoles and specimens lining the walls -- and of course, Helga¡¯s tank hanging from the ceiling. Mila spared a glance upwards, and was greeted by Helga¡¯s ever-sleeping face.


    Something was wrong. She shouldn¡¯t be here, she shouldn¡¯t be doing this¡­ any efforts to trace her memories back were only repaid with throbbing headaches.


    Dr. Cloud was in the laboratory, pouring over some research papers as he moved from console to console. He spoke without looking up at her.


    "Mila, good-to-see-you, yes," he said hurriedly, shuffling the files in his hands like they were a deck of cards. "Some-very-good-news. You remember I was doing research on non-human-Aether? All-dead-ends, of course, save for some minor urban-folklore. However-however-however, I¡¯ve managed to get my hands on some testimony on the Thinking Forest of Eizhnabalde from before Paradise-Charon came and did her work with it. It¡¯s-very-promising intelligence, so I¡¯d like you to put some time aside and¡­"


    Finally, he looked up -- and saw the two people standing behind Mila, the swordsman and the child. The excitement drained from his face quickly, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.


    "Who are you people?" he growled. "This isn¡¯t some petting zoo for children. Get out."


    The child, red scarf trailing across the floor behind her, looked up at Helga¡¯s tank. "Open it," she said quietly, almost silently.


    Again, Mila gulped. "Just do as they say, sir," she said, her voice shaky. "These people are serious."


    Cloud¡¯s brow furrowed. "What?"


    He did not say another word -- for before he could open his mouth again, a cold blade was pressed against his throat. In a split second and a flash of white Aether, the swordsman had moved across the room and pointed his black sword right at Cloud¡¯s windpipe.


    "She said open it," the swordsman said.


    Cloud¡¯s eyes drifted across the dark surface of the weapon, before finally he closed his eyes, accepting defeat.


    "Override Cloud," he said, voice scratchy, the room lighting up in response. "Open main specimen tank."


    For a moment, it was like a rainstorm inside as the vat opened, the fluids within pouring down onto the floor and spilling into the drain.


    A second later, there was a mechanical clunk. Mila found that she wasn¡¯t breathing.


    Helga¡¯s body fell out of the vat unconscious and without grace.


    Before her body could hit the floor, however, it was caught by the child¡¯s scarf -- it¡¯s surface stretching out to break her fall like a hammock. There was the lightest groan, nearly inaudible, from Helga¡¯s prone form, pale from so long in isolation, making her look like some kind of spirit in the stark light.


    "I¡¯d be very careful now, if-I-were-you," Cloud snapped, regaining some of his vigor. "I¡¯m not the sort of person you do these things to. Who sent you? The Superbians? I¡¯m not going back, if-that¡¯s-what-you-want."


    "Shut up," the swordsman snarled.


    "I-beg-your-pardon?!"


    He was ignored. All eyes were instead focused on the unconscious woman, who was slowly shifting on the floor.


    "Sis¡­?" the child whispered.


    The door answered by B¡¯s third knock, swinging open to reveal a tired-looking older man in a green polo shirt and shorts. He scratched behind his ear as he looked the cloaked zombie up and down.


    The face matched Jamie¡¯s intelligence. This was his first target.


    "Yeah?" he yawned. "What can I do for ya, pal?"


    Jamie¡¯s zombies weren¡¯t capable of speech, but at this point it didn¡¯t matter. All he needed to do was use his trusty ability. If these people were Aether-users, they surely wouldn¡¯t die from something so simple.


    Day of the Dead.


    As if his body had been packed with dynamites upon dynamites, B¡¯s body exploded -- sending the green man hurtling back into his room.


    One shallow breath. Two. Three.


    And then Helga Malwarian¡¯s eyes opened.

 Chapter 220:9.11: Fire and Smoke

    When emerging from an extended period of stasis, it is inevitable that the subject will experience some confusion. While the body may become active quickly, the mind trails behind quite a bit.


    There have been many recorded cases of soldiers placed in stasis for medical reasons subsequently rampaging through hospitals as their warrior instincts took hold. These cases only occurred during the early years of stasis technology, of course -- it is now common practice to employ a sedative regimen before releasing a subject from stasis.


    Either way, without a reasonable mind, the amount of damage a subject can do is generally limited to their immediate surroundings. It would take an extraordinary warrior indeed to do any more than that based solely on their reflexes.


    "The Effects of Extended Stasis on the Vulnerable Consciousness", Dr. Lorna Williams


    Skipper flew through the air.


    Huh. It seemed he was under attack. Fancy that.


    The slightest grin formed on his lips as he fired a Heartbeat Shotgun behind him through his back, canceling out his momentum and allowing him to easily drop to the floor. The gore of their midnight visitor dripped sloppily from his ruined shirt, and he wiped it clean with a disgusted expression.


    Nothing save for viscera and burnt fabric remained of the cloaked figure who had knocked on the door. No doubt they had been some kind of decoy, meant to draw him in close and then explode. Not the enemy -- just a weapon they were using. Another attack would be coming, and soon.


    Well, it would take more than that to bother him.


    The door to the bathroom swung open, and Ruth ran out, already wearing her Skeletal Set over her pajamas. The toothbrush she¡¯d been using was still clutched in her hand, and her head snapped through the scene, taking in every detail like she was a machine.


    "We under attack?" she snarled, voice muffled by her mask, tossing the toothbrush back over her shoulder.


    "Looks like it," Skipper nodded, emerald Aether sparking around him. "Go get the others. Best we --"


    Bang.


    The wall next to him exploded in a shower of concrete and wallpaper as an Aether-infused gunshot tore through it. In the span of a second, a cloud of dust colonised the bedroom, forcing Skipper to raise a hand to shield his vision.


    The lenses of Ruth¡¯s mask offered her more protection, however, and she quickly leapt across the room -- landing protectively in front of Skipper.


    She couldn¡¯t have timed it worse.


    As soon as she landed, a humanoid figure sprinted through the smoke, making a beeline towards Ruth and Skipper. It was another cloaked man, like the one who had originally knocked at the door, and the automatic jerkiness of his movements suggested some kind of Aether control.


    It was only when Ruth lunged towards the man, claws drawn, that Skipper realised she didn¡¯t know the source of the original explosion.


    "Ruth!" he cried, grasping for her arm. "Wait!"


    It was too late. Whether Ruth didn¡¯t hear him, or was simply already committed to the attack, she slashed at the enemy with both her claws. One swipe severed the attacker¡¯s head from their body, sending it flying off into the corner of the room -- and the second, for good measure, impaled their heart, the corpse slumping over against Ruth as motion ceased.


    Skipper gulped. He¡¯d expected another explosion, but had Ruth killed it quickly enough to prevent that?


    Ruth glanced back over her shoulder at him, and began saying something. She did not finish.


    As before, the explosion that tore apart the corpse on Ruth¡¯s claw was deafening. Fire and gore bloomed from the corpse Ruth was holding, instantly sending her flying. From that point-blank range, it was more than strong enough to send her zooming up into the ceiling like a bullet from a gun. She slammed into it with such force that Skipper was sure she¡¯d have broken something, and as she fell back to the floor her armour flickered off her body.


    She was out cold.


    Skipper stood over her, but did not kneel to check her condition. That would be what the enemy was waiting for. His gaze drifted through the smoke surrounding him, trying to catch any signs of it shifting or flowing with the enemy¡¯s movement. He couldn¡¯t see a thing: whoever this was, they were good.


    The situation was as follows, then:


    They¡¯d been attacked either by a single enemy who could either control many puppets, or a group of enemies that considered themselves individually expendable. That enemy was capable of exploding like bombs, with enough force to severely debilitate upon a direct hit. If there was a main enemy controlling these puppets, they were good enough that Skipper couldn¡¯t sense their presence at all.


    And, of course, the most important thing. The attack wasn¡¯t over yet.


    The logical move for him would be to wake Dragan and Bruno, bring them into the fight, and use superior numbers to prevail. The rooms were soundproofed, so Skipper would have to break into the next room himself to do it. But from the way they¡¯d conducted this attack, this opponent obviously wasn¡¯t stupid: they¡¯d be anticipating that.


    Maybe they planned on finishing off Ruth while he headed to the next room. Needless to say, he couldn¡¯t allow that.


    The next best way for him to alert Dragan and Bruno would be for him to send out an Aether ping. They¡¯d respond to that quickly, but that didn¡¯t come without risks, either. Sending out his Aether in a ping meant there would be a split-second where he¡¯d be unprotected: and an enemy like this would definitely take advantage of that opening.


    Still, he wasn¡¯t exactly drowning in options. Skipper tensed his body, preparing himself to dodge whenever he saw the attack coming. He¡¯d have to rely on his natural reflexes here.


    One deep breath in, and¡­


    The ping went out.


    Skipper threw himself down to the ground, the shotgun blast that had been fired at him scraping through his hair and scalp. He felt warm blood on his head, like a metallic shampoo, but from the fact he was still conscious he knew that it must have been a glancing blow.


    He felt two responses from his ping: Dragan and Bruno. Their adversary must have been actively cloaking their Aether, but that didn¡¯t mean they¡¯d gone undetected. They¡¯d fired that blast, after all, giving him a sense of direction.


    Skipper raised a glowing green arm, blood dribbling down his forehead and between his eyes. He glanced down at Ruth¡¯s prone body.


    Not to mention¡­ they¡¯d given him so much to get payback for.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Helga Malwarian staggered to her feet, stumbling in the stark light of the laboratory, eyes bleary as she peered at her surroundings.


    Dr. Cloud audibly swallowed, going to take a step back -- only for a shove from Muzazi to keep him firmly in place. He had no doubt that this place was outfitted with security systems sufficient to reduce them all to carbon. He wouldn¡¯t give the mad scientist any chance to activate them.


    "Helga," Muzazi called out to the woman. "We cannot linger here. Clothe yourself and we shall escape."


    Helga glanced in his direction, but there was no light of understanding in her eyes. She did not answer.


    "Agent Malwarian?" Muzazi muttered.


    In the corner, Olga bit her lip worriedly, scarf retracting to coil protectively behind her like a serpent.


    "Careful," Mila Green suddenly spoke up. "Being in stasis for so long¡­ it can take a while to come out of it -- mentally, I mean. Don¡¯t startle her."


    Cloud shot her a glare. "Don¡¯t give them advice," he hissed -- but Green ignored him.


    Muzazi stepped forward slightly, pushing Cloud along to keep him within reach. Splash. As the sound of his footsteps in the water echoed throughout the chamber, Helga looked up at him, her gaze cloudy.


    "Agent Malwarian," Muzazi repeated carefully. "I¡¯ve come here with your colleagues. I understand this situation may be confusing for you, but if you simply calm down and come with me, I¡¯m certain we can --"


    A blur of movement, and a split-second flicker of crimson Aether.


    It was reflex rather than intellect that allowed Muzazi to dodge the lightning-fast jab of Helga¡¯s fist, throwing himself to the side and transitioning into a roll next to Olga. Dr. Cloud wasn¡¯t so lucky.


    The punch struck him right in the nose -- all of Helga Malwarian¡¯s Aether flooding into her knuckles at the very instant of impact. The resultant impact caved his face in, his eyes popping out their sockets from the pressure and dangling from their optic nerves like twin pendulums. Unidentifiable pink meat leaked from both his ears.


    A hollow gargle somehow still escaped his throat as he collapsed to the floor, but it was clear to anyone watching that his death was already imminent. Green in particular stared down at him, her face pale, her legs shaking.


    Helga staggered backwards as she pulled her fist back in, but Muzazi could see from the tension of her muscles that she was still ready to attack. Clearly, Dr. Cloud hadn¡¯t been an Aether-user -- he¡¯d been entirely unprotected -- but Atoy Muzazi could still see attacks like that doing damage to him as well.


    "Agent Malwarian!" he barked, drawing his black blade. "Calm down! I do not wish to fight you!"


    It was the wrong thing to say.


    Helga leapt at him with a flare of red erupting from the soles of her feet, spinning on her heel as she landed and employing a ruthless roundhouse kick. Muzazi raised his sword at the very last instant, blocking the blow, but the impact was still such that he had to reinforce his own legs to prevent himself from being blown away.


    This woman used Aether in an unusual fashion, but it was a technique Muzazi was vaguely familiar with. When fighting, she would use the entirety of her Aether only at the moment of impact, across the smallest area possible -- a risky strategy when it came to defence, yet with it she was able to employ consistently devastating attacks.


    The alternation between enhanced and mundane actions lent her movements an unusual tempo, as well -- suddenly speeding up and slowing down in the manner of a stop motion videograph.


    Her fists came at him in a rush of devastating blows, each accompanied by a red shadow of Aether. Muzazi blocked each with his sword, but he was forced to step back from the pressure, and he could see cracks slowly forming over the surface of his weapon. It wouldn¡¯t last much longer.


    "Olga!" he roared, the vibrations of the attacks shaking his arms. "Restrain her!"


    The girl had hesitated for a moment, but quickly leapt back into action at his call. Her scarf separated into eight flat tendrils, each lunging towards Helga from behind with the obvious intention to bind her in place.


    Even in a delirious haze, however, Helga saw the attack coming.


    She spun on the spot again as the tendrils closed in, kicking out with an Aether-flashing leg -- and using it to quickly wrap them into a single length of fabric, which she then stomped down on to keep in place.


    Muzazi wasn¡¯t going to just watch that, though.


    He tossed his damaged weapon high up into the air -- Helga¡¯s natural instinct to follow it with her eyes formed an effective distraction. Then he charged in upon her, fists raised, sending one right towards her face in what would surely be a devastating jawbreaker.


    Helga went to leap out the way, and so he missed her face, but Muzazi still felt one of her fingers snap as his Aether-infused punch struck her in the hand. That contact was all he needed.


    White Aether crackled.


    The thruster that formed on Helga¡¯s left index finger was powerful, dragging her back by the hand and slamming her against the wall with a resounding clunk. The push of it, still flaring out from the damaged digit, was more than enough to keep her fixed in place. Green, not far away, backed away, her hands over her mouth as she looked down at Cloud¡¯s ruined corpse.


    Olga¡¯s scarf, now free, writhed in the air as the eight tendrils reconstituted themselves into a single length. Muzazi caught his sword as it came back down, and glanced towards her. "We¡¯ll want to render her unconscious," he panted. "We can¡¯t be fighting her the whole way ba --"


    Pain.


    Something slammed into his throat with incredible speed, and as it did he felt the creak of something inside his body very nearly breaking. A hollow gasp escaped his mouth, and his sword slipped from his fingers. Slowly, he looked down.


    There, sticking out of his throat, was Helga Malwarian¡¯s finger.


    It had been torn off at the knuckle, blood still dribbling from the stump -- and the thruster Muzazi had placed on it was still flaring, driving it deeper and deeper into his body. Without hesitation, Helga must have ripped it off and hurled it back at him. Could something like that really be done by reflex?


    Muzazi cancelled the thruster, and yet the finger did not drop to the floor. It was in far too deep for that. He became dimly aware that he was unable to breathe.


    His vision became blurry, like he was straining to see the world through a pool of stagnant water. His hearing became muffled, as if soft and subtle hands had been slapped over his ears. His legs collapsed underneath him like hollow matchsticks.


    The last thing he heard before succumbing to the dark was Mila Green screaming.


    Aether ping.


    Dragan Hadrien¡¯s eyes snapped open, and he jumped out of his bed. Immediately, his eyes locked onto Bruno¡¯s, who was sitting up from his position on the couch with identical speed. Some pink and kitschy videograph cartoon was dancing across the screen in front of him -- Serena¡¯s doing, no doubt -- but his expression couldn¡¯t have been more serious.


    "Next door?" Dragan asked.


    Bruno nodded. There was no need for more than that. Dragan charged at the door, throwing it open and running into the hallway -- and immediately he could see what had happened.


    The carpet and wall of the hallway was drenched in blood and rotting gore, some of it even dripping from the ceiling -- and worse than that, the door to Skipper and Ruth¡¯s room appeared to have been blasted off its hinges. The Aether ping had come from inside there.


    No time to waste panicking.


    Electric blue Aether coursed through Dragan¡¯s body, his eyes glowing brightly as he ran towards the other room, Bruno following next to him. It was those same eyes, though, that gave Dragan cause to hesitate for just a moment, halfway down the corridor.


    Because he saw them.


    All around them, hovering through the air, subtly buzzing, were flies. That in and of itself wouldn¡¯t be unusual, given the mess¡­ but they didn¡¯t seem interested in it at all. In sheer defiance of their insect instincts, not one of those flies was going anywhere near the human soup available.


    Something was wrong.


    Deep in the smoke and dust, Jamie Pot silently grinned to himself.


    Land of the Dead.


    There were nearly sixty flies in the corridor with them -- and as one, those sixty flies suddenly shone with Aether like tiny green stars. Dragan held a hand up, shielding his eyes from the sudden light.


    ¡­and when he moved his hand away from his face again, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Each and every fly had been replaced with a walking human corpse.


    And each and every corpse was now charging at him.

 Chapter 221:9.12: Blood and Water

    My dear colleague,


    While I find the reasons for your leaving juvenile in the extreme, I have no choice but to accept them. The Superbians at large may see things differently, especially as you have elected to work instead for our most bitter adversaries. If nothing else, I hope they pay well for treason.


    Men blessed with knowledge such as ours have a duty to improve the world around us. While the galaxy at large maintains an irrational fear of the genetic arts, the bravery of the Superbians is such that we are not afraid to turn them to benevolence. Diseases cured, deficiencies corrected¡­ even if we are not thanked for it, the fact remains that we Superbians have benefitted civilization immensely.


    A debt is owed that cannot be repaid. Whatever curiosities the Humilists have promised you simply cannot compare.


    The Testament Project is the path to human perfection, both on a societal level and a biological one. If you think otherwise, you are deluded. While I do not expect a deluded man to overcome his misunderstandings, a place in my laboratory shall always be waiting for you if such a miracle does occur.


    Regards,


    Roger Brinkmann


    Private Letter from the Personal Terminal of Dr. Roger Brinkmann


    Her back to the cosmos, Isabelle Pi Testament stared at her script in deep concentration.


    Interesting. Very interesting indeed.


    In this route, it seemed that the main character ran into Josef for the first time at the Chapter 1 art festival rather than the roof in Chapter 2. Because she hadn¡¯t been warned about him by Alejandro, the main character¡¯s narration was much warmer towards Josef, and so the romantic relationship that would no doubt ensue was much more plausible.


    In The Path Of The Wind really was a masterpiece. A lot of people online said that it was nothing but facile smut, but that was only because they didn¡¯t understand the deep characters and the complex plotting that the writer had envisioned. Isabelle had played a lot of DerisSoft¡¯s games, but INPOTW was definitely near the top.


    She hadn¡¯t finished it yet, but she had no doubt the golden ending would be more than worth --


    The door to her office slid open.


    Isabelle hurriedly tapped the button to switch the program running on her script to the day¡¯s trade exchange, nodding sagely as she looked at the countless graphs and charts that formed a nation¡¯s daily business. She glanced up at the door as if only just noticing the visitor, her gaze darkening as she saw who it was.


    "How can I help you, Pablo?" she asked, the sweetness of her voice unaltered.


    Pablo Medina strolled into the room, his smiling face relaxed, his eyes closed. The binder he carried around everywhere -- stuffed with vintage trading cards -- was, as ever, tucked under his arm. In stark contrast to Isabelle¡¯s constant ceremonial habit, he wore a simple black sweater and a pair of blue jeans.


    If you didn¡¯t know he was Giovanni¡¯s right hand man, you¡¯d think he was a civilian who just wandered in.


    "Are you free?" he asked pleasantly, looking around the office -- though how he did that without opening his eyes she could not say.


    Of course not, she inwardly grumbled. I was just about to kiss Josef under the fireworks.


    "Of course," she said, steepling her hands on the desk before her. "How can I help you?"


    Pablo stepped over, pulling up a chair and sitting down across from her. The pleasant and ever-so-slightly insincere smile on his face remained unaltered. She waited for him to say something, but he did not. Instead, he slowly turned in his seat to look at the closed door behind him.


    When he finally spoke, he did not look at her. "Can you lock that?" he calmly asked.


    The polite smile quickly draining from her face, Isabelle reached under the desk and flicked the switch to secure the door. A red light flickered on above it -- and seemingly satisfied, Pablo turned back to her.


    "That¡¯s very appreciated," he said. "I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard the saying ¡¯loose lips sink ships¡¯? We don¡¯t want people taking the things we say out of context. That¡¯d just be the worst thing."


    Isabelle narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Of course. Again, then: what can I do for you?"


    "You¡¯ve been sending a lot of messages to Cardinal Sera, asking about the Polis situation? Requesting an update?" Pablo said. "He¡¯s been very busy with the council¡¯s seclusion, so he asked me to deliver his assurances on his behalf. The Polis quarantine is well in hand."


    Isabelle frowned. "How so?"


    Pablo leaned back in his chair, sucking in awkward air through his teeth. "If only I could say, ma¡¯am¡­ but I¡¯m sure you understand that information security is a serious concern in cases such as these, especially with the council in seclusion. Strictly speaking, I shouldn¡¯t be talking to you at all, but Sera so did want to keep you in the loop." Sear?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "And he sent you to tell me this? I find that hard to believe, Mr. Medina."


    The longer the conversation went on, the more an oppressive feeling seemed to settle over the room, like the dark space outside the window would break in and drown them in empty. Isabelle gulped, but Pablo¡¯s face didn¡¯t so much as twitch.


    "And yet it is so, ma¡¯am," he finally said, his politeness unperturbed. "It¡¯s a curious world we live in, to be sure."


    This was not a man who¡¯d surrender to implication, then. Isabelle hadn¡¯t spoken with Pablo much before, but she knew him from reputation. Ever since Giovanni had brought him into his inner circle, his popular support had increased dramatically -- among the various Superbian orders as well as the public flock.


    Clearly, he was a man who knew how to make the world dance to his tune.


    If implication was useless, then she would abandon it. Isabelle clasped her hands on the desk in front of her. It felt as if by opening her mouth, she was pulling a trigger, but she did it anyway.


    "I don¡¯t think Cardinal Sera sent you here," she said, voice cold. "I think Giovanni sent you here."


    Pablo simply inspected his nails. "Really? That¡¯d be strange."


    "I don¡¯t think it¡¯s strange at all. There¡¯s no way Sera could have sent you here."


    Pablo¡¯s friendly smile widened fractionally. "Why¡¯s that?" he asked, just a tad quieter, the shadow of anticipation in his voice.


    She gulped. "Because Sera¡¯s dead. He¡¯s dead with the rest of the Cardinals. Giovanni killed them -- or he had them killed, didn¡¯t he? That day when he met with them."


    "That would be an interesting scenario," Pablo said slowly. "Of course, if that¡¯s something you believe to be true, doesn¡¯t that mean you¡¯re in danger as well right now? I¡¯d be Giovanni¡¯s accomplice, so it¡¯d be in my best interest to get rid of people who¡¯ve figured us out." Pablo frowned exaggeratedly. "Telling someone in that kind of position that you suspect them¡­ well, I don¡¯t know, it just seems unwise to me."


    Isabelle maintained as much eye contact as she could with someone with their eyes closed. "Not at all," she said firmly. "If your coup needed me dead, I¡¯d have been killed on that day as well. So Giovanni doesn¡¯t want me dead."


    Pablo slowly leaned forward, until his chin was nearly resting on her desk. "What Giovanni doesn¡¯t know won¡¯t kill him," he whispered.


    An intimidation display. Any power it possessed would only come from her own weakness, and so she would simply discard it.


    "I¡¯m hardly helpless," she continued. "One of the main objectives of the Testament Project was to create humans with a greater connection to Aether. I might not be the success case, but don¡¯t mistake me for a normal person."


    Isabelle stared at Pablo.


    Pablo did not move.


    Slowly, slowly, agonizingly slowly, the seconds passed. Pablo¡¯s hand twitched slightly, as if to reach into his card binder, but then fell back to his side as he seemed to change his mind.


    He sat back in his chair, his usual smile returning to his face. "Well, I have to say, that would be a very unique turn of events indeed. If Giovanni and I were involved in something like that, you¡¯re probably right that killing you here and now would be a bad idea. You¡¯re a stabilizing influence for the Church -- you¡¯d be useful in the days to come." His smile flickered away for a moment. "So long as you kept your mouth shut."


    With that, he stood and began to walk away -- before stopping right in front of the door. It was still locked, after all.


    Stolen story; please report.


    Isabelle made no move to unlock it.


    "I¡¯ve always wondered," she quietly said. "You weren¡¯t born in the Final Church. I highly doubt you¡¯re a believer. And yet¡­ why is it you¡¯re here? What do you get out of all this?"


    Pablo glanced back at her, and his eye opened -- just slightly.


    He altered the sound of his voice, so it was easy to forget, but the man was indeed an Umbrant. His sclera was black as night, and resting within it was a yellow pupil, barely visible through the sliver of his eyelid. That golden eye was bright as hellfire, and the black slit within it so jagged that it resembled nothing less than a crevice in the earth.


    The smile on his face lengthened and twisted.


    "Right now," he breathed. "Giovanni is climbing the greatest of mountains. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯d be amusing to see him slip at the summit?"


    Isabelle blinked. "...what?"


    His eye closed once again, and his smile returned to its usual friendliness. "The door¡¯s still locked," he pointed out pleasantly. "Could you let me out, please?"


    The danger in that glance had been such that Isabelle found herself unlocking the door before even thinking about it. Pablo nodded in appreciation, and strolled out of the room.


    Well, Gio, Isabelle thought, slumping back in her seat. You certainly know how to choose your friends.


    Taking a deep breath to diffuse the tension in her body, she picked her script back up. Somehow, she was no longer in the mood for INPOTW -- instead, she found herself scrolling again through the messages she¡¯d received that morning. Economic reports, Investigations into members of Giovanni¡¯s faction¡­ and another message from Dr. Brinkmann, requesting that she have Giovanni visit him. As if she were his secretary.


    Isabelle sighed. From the moment you were born, it seemed, strings were being put on you -- restraints forcing you to dance to the tune of your culture, your duties, your creator. They were made a part of you.


    It appeared Giovanni was intent on cutting his own strings, but Isabelle wondered just how far a puppet could go without its support.


    Dragan braced himself as a burst of wind, created from the sudden appearance of the zombies and the accompanying displacement of air, buffeted down the hallway. His feet went skidding back slightly, but he was kept from flying off by a reassuring hand on the back from Bruno.


    "Watch yourself," he grunted, his expression already softening as he switched places with Serena.


    She punched a hole in the wooden wall, pulling free a sparking shortsword of plumbing and wires shortly after. "Don¡¯t get careless, Mr. Dragan."


    Now he was getting lectured by both of the dynamic duo. How embarrassing.


    The zombies charged towards them, hollow faces twisted into snarls and growls as they ran down the hallway. One of the corpses, curiously enough, turned instead to an analogue clock on the wall and began mercilessly punching it to pieces. The rest came down as a tide.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    There were around sixty zombies in the hallway, and Dragan could only fire so fast. Three shots burst out of his Aether, popping three heads -- but before he could continue the assault, the rest of the dead were upon him, clumsy blows of fists and fees raining down on his body before he could react.


    As he slipped on the loose carpet and collapsed to one knee, Dragan looked up -- just in time to see one of the zombies lunging down at him, mouth open and ready to bite down.


    "Mr. Dragan!"


    A sparkle of violet Aether, and two lightning fast swipes of Serena¡¯s sword. With that, the zombie¡¯s head was cleanly severed from its neck -- and the head itself cleanly sliced in two as it came down. Before the body part could hit Dragan, however, it vanished into blue Aether, absorbed into his Gemini Shotgun.


    Serena¡¯s face hardened into Bruno¡¯s -- and with two outstretched arms, he projected a forcefield that held the horde of undead behind it. Their fists battered against it, their faces pressed against it, and Bruno winced in discomfort as his feet slowly slid back across the floor. This was a bigger shield than his usual, and with the force he was holding back it wouldn¡¯t last for long. If they had Ruth¡¯s R¨¦volutionnaire boost, it would be another story, but¡­


    Dragan¡¯s eyes widened as he stood up. What he witnessed took less than a second.


    A spark of ghastly green Aether coiled right in the chest of each zombie, the light of it intensifying, all of the corpses temporarily ceasing their assault as the glow grew brighter and brighter.


    Puzzle pieces clicked together in his mind. The signs of an explosion in this hallway. The gore already splattered across it.


    "They¡¯re bombs!" Dragan roared -- but too late.


    The explosion tore through the building, metal creaking as the structure lost stability, Bruno¡¯s forcefield shattering as it was pushed beyond its limits. Dust and smoke flooded through the hallway, tinted red by the sheer amount of blood in their midst --


    -- and then the floor gave way beneath them.


    Boom.


    "You¡¯re pretty good," Skipper called out, making sure to keep his stance steady as the building shook around them. "Not as good as me, but still. Ya can¡¯t have everything, yeah? You¡¯re fighting, what¡­ three people right now? Not everyone can do something like that."


    As he spoke, his eyes drifted through the omnipresent smoke, doing their best to spot any signs of movement in the shroud. So far, this enemy didn¡¯t seem to be mediocre enough to reveal their presence, but hey -- everyone made mistakes.


    "So who sent you?" Skipper continued. "Paradisas get antsy about our little conversation and hire you? That¡¯d be disappointing. I thought we were getting along so well."


    The fog did not move.


    "Nah," Skipper licked his lips. "This ain¡¯t Paradisas¡¯ style. If I¡¯d really ticked them off, I¡¯d expect some kind of gel automatic in my drink, tearing me apart from the inside. Not something this¡­ blunt. So you¡¯re another faction. How about it? Humilists? Superbians?"


    Silence, save for the distant blaring of an alarm.


    "I gotta tell you, pal," Skipper said, slowly turning on the spot. "I love a one-man show, but I can only keep it fresh for so long. How about a little dialogue here, yeah? Wouldn¡¯t kill ya --"


    Movement.


    Skipper whirled around, body flaring with emerald Aether, just in time to see a silver throwing knife fly towards his skull. Dull grey Aether ran along its surface -- and from this distance, dodging was not an option.


    Two things blocked the projectile at once. Skipper¡¯s Heartbeat Bayonet -- and a shotgun blast from within the smoke, originating from a different direction from the knife. The metal implement clattered to the floor, right next to the unconscious Ruth.


    Oh, Skipper grinned. That makes things a little more interesting.


    There were three parties here, then.


    The shotgun-wielder with the green Aether, who wanted to defeat him but not kill him.


    The knife-wielder with the grey Aether, who had just made an attempt on his life.


    And him, ol¡¯ Skipper¡­ stuck in the middle.


    His grin widened.


    Sounds like a good time.


    The doors to the lobby of the Aipol Beach flew open as the squad of Vox Dei breached the luxury ship, their crimson armour and spherical helmets utterly unsuited to their relaxed surroundings. The sound of their marching echoed through the building as they made their way inside, organized into two rows, providing a corridor for their leader to walk through.


    Jon Peak handed his own helmet to a subordinate as he walked, undoing his belt and tossing it over his shoulder. These were late hours, and so the only ones in the lobby aside from the Vox Dei was the automatic receptionist behind the counter.


    That was fortunate. Witnesses wouldn¡¯t do in a situation like this.


    "Post four men at this entrance," he barked. "Armed with the whistles. Don¡¯t allow me to leave before I revert. It¡¯ll cause difficulties."


    There was no response, but he knew his men would follow that command. He had trained them well, after all.


    In the distance, he could hear the sound of explosions. Jamie Pot had no doubt already begun his attack on his target -- and that would have lured out Keat¡¯s targets, the agents working for Gertrude Hearth. If he got rid of them, the Humilist scourge would have less pieces to play with.


    And that would bring them one step closer to lifting the quarantine on Polis -- and freeing his son from their tyranny.


    Quickly, without any sign of shame or hesitation, Jon Peak removed his armour and clothing -- until he was standing, unclothed as his day of birth, before the assembled soldiers. Then, he cracked his neck. Violent, crackling red-and-white Aether coiled around him, and his body began to shake, blood leaking from the pores on his face as he fell to one knee.


    His men, gathered around him, began to thump their gauntleted fists against their chest plates, the resounding booms like the sound of war-drums.


    Jon Peak¡¯s ancestors had been Scurrants -- of the kind so monstrously twisted that they weren¡¯t even recognizable as humans. He himself was something called a throwback, a Crownless child born to a subspecies pairing, so he had been able to walk among the general populace without so much as strange glances. Even so, however, that potential still existed within him¡­


    All it needed was to be activated.


    Blood Moon Summons.


    Peak growled, the sound of it deep and dark enough to vibrate bone -- and as he did, he felt the warm taste of blood on his lips.


    Rows of razor-sharp fangs were forcing themselves out through the roof of his mouth, and the shape of his face was changing -- bones creaking and cracking as they reshaped themselves, the structure of his skull shifting into a mixture between a snake and a wolf. His eyes, bulging out of their sockets, became so bloodshot that they were all but crimson.


    Wiry, dark fur began flooding out of his skin, coating his body. His tailbone extended into a tail proper, waving through the air prehensile, the length of it nearly matching his own height. Gore exploded out of his back as two extra arms burst from his shoulder-blades, long and thin like the branches of a tree, claws sharp and careful enough to slice through steel. Extra claws, too, slid out from underneath his original fingernails, causing them to pop off their fingers and clatter to the floor.


    As his musculature finished swelling to its utmost, and his height completed its ascension, he resembled nothing more than a slavering beast. Blood and saliva leaked from his mouth, and his secondary tongue -- pale and pointed like a tentacle -- tasted the air.


    He could smell the enemy. He could smell meat.


    The howl that erupted from his throat shook the building more than any explosion ever could have.

 Chapter 222:9.13: Friend and Foe

    I feel the memories I have sent you require greater context, Apexbishop.


    The man called Skipper is the only one to ever give the Supreme pause. He is the Supreme¡¯s last dream, the spark that keeps him alive -- even now. Normally, I would suggest he be terminated for this reason, but the memory of him is enough to keep the Supreme breathing. Without doubt, he is a unique entity.


    To be candid, he gives me a bad feeling. He is either our ruin or salvation -- and it will be he, not us, who decides which.


    This decision is not ours to make. I suggest the Inner Garden be consulted.


    [REDACTED]


    Jamie Pot reached out for the dead. He¡¯d placed a corpse-fly in the room with the green man earlier -- right in the corner of the room, where the fog was thickest, all the better to conceal himself.


    Land of the Dead.


    Usually, this ability would be betrayed by a spark of green Aether, but in this case he invested his strength in concealing it. Without even a sound, he swapped places with the corpse-fly: Jamie appeared in the corner of the smoke-filled room, while the corpse-fly was transported to the broken hallway.


    He¡¯d never done any actual research on the matter, but from what Jamie understood, most corpse-based Aether-users satisfied themselves with the mere reanimation of the dead. If they built upon that ability at all, it was only to make their zombies stronger or more skilled. In short, their undead horde became a hammer, and so they approached each encounter like it was a nail.


    Not Jamie. Jamie understood that the dead were a resource -- and there were better ways of using resources than just throwing them at the enemy.


    Take now, for instance. The green man was still in the center of the room, standing over his young companion, turning on the spot to watch for incoming attacks. He was right to: Jamie didn¡¯t know where that throwing knife had come from, but he had no doubt that whoever threw it had been intending to kill this target. Jamie couldn¡¯t allow that -- he¡¯d been told to bring this man in alive -- and so he¡¯d been forced to stay back and observe for a moment.


    Someone else was here. He couldn¡¯t sense their presence, but the fact of their existence was obvious. Clearly, however, they were good enough that they wouldn¡¯t just reveal themselves. He¡¯d have to force them out and eliminate them before he could capture his original targets.


    It was times like this when efficient use of resources became necessary.


    Dawn of the Dead. Jamie reanimated the severed head that had been cut off the zombie that had exploded in this room. It snapped vaguely at the air, unseen in the fog.


    Day of the Dead. Jamie triggered the detonation, a coil of green Aether winding through the disembodied head as it prepared to explode.


    Land of the Dead. Jamie swapped the head -- nanoseconds from explosion -- with a corpse-fly he¡¯d placed on the ceiling of the room. Boom. The detonation tore it apart, sending concrete raining down on the room and the green man, creating a perfect moment of confusion.


    And¡­


    His new target took the bait, charging through the smoke to attack the green man as he fell from the explosion.


    Whoever they were, they were covered with dirty bandages, gaps between windings small enough that only wide staring eyes could be seen. In each hand, braced to bisect, the figure held cruel curved knives of red metal. Grey Aether coiled around its wrists.


    They were good at concealing their presence, then, but in terms of strategy they had a lot to learn. That trap had been so obvious, after all.


    Jamie reached into his Aether, and¡­


    Diary of the Dead.


    Most of Jamie¡¯s zombies were never actually deployed against his enemies -- that would have been a sheer waste. The majority of the corpses remained recorded in his Aether, encrypted into sparks of green, waiting for him. For this engagement, he selected Tal dus Katros.


    The Katrosinii martial artist had been a legendary warrior -- said to have brought down one of the mightiest Fell Beasts during the Crisis with nothing but his fists. Breaking into his tomb hadn¡¯t been easy. Now, Jamie reached a hand into the legend¡¯s cold, dead flesh, spread his fingers throughout his lived experiences -- and absorbed.


    New muscle memory activated, Jamie¡¯s body instinctively understanding the principles of Katrosinii martial arts. As he leapt towards the bandaged figure, he wasted neither time nor footing, his feet bouncing off the carpeted floor like some kind of rabbit.


    With three steps, he crossed the distance in less time than his enemy could take one.


    A Katrosinii jab -- only two fingers extended -- lashed out and caught his enemy in the eye, those same fingers curling to latch onto the inside of the socket. A hollow gasp escaped the bandaged figure¡¯s throat as it staggered backwards, pulling Jamie along with it -- and allowing him to unleash a flurry of stomping kicks right into its chest.


    Crack. Crack. Crack.


    Like he was playing a piano with his feet, Jamie heard ribs crack in response to his tender attentions. Katrosinii techniques were well suited to him -- the people of that world were small in stature, and so their martial arts focused primarily on defeating enemies larger than them.


    The bandaged figure swung at him with its knives, and Jamie finally let go -- kicking off its chest to put some distance between the two of them. The tattered, deflated remains of the eyeball still drooped between Jamie¡¯s fingers, falling to the floor as he parted the digits like scissors.


    His enemy lunged at him, curved knife ready to open his guts, but before they could meet --


    "Heartbeat Shotgun."


    -- they were both struck by a resounding force and sent flying.


    The green man smirked, finger extended, as the two of them zoomed across the room -- and then, with another burst of sound, he cleared the smoke from the room, revealing everything.


    Two more bandaged figures surrounded him -- one holding a truly humongous battle-axe, the other a barbed whip. The green man¡¯s smirk spread further into a grin as he realized just how much trouble he was in.


    "Ah, you guys," he chuckled. "All this for me?"


    Dragan groaned as Bruno picked him up from the dust and rubble, brushing some of the grey from his face.


    "You okay?" his friend asked gruffly.


    "Feel like I just got thrown into a washing machine," he murmured, drowsiness clouding his mind and slurring his words. "What happened?"


    Bruno glanced up. "Floor gave way," he said simply. "Don¡¯t know how far we fell."


    Dragan followed his gaze. Indeed, the ceiling was little more than a massive hole at this point, chunks of concrete still trickling down into this chamber. Nothing but darkness was visible up there, and this room wasn¡¯t much better.


    It seemed they¡¯d landed in one of the basement pools of the Aipol Beach, an atmospherically lit chamber with a massive water installation in the center. Right now, the two of them were on an island of rubble in the middle of that water, an unsteady platform that was already beginning to crumble further.


    "Shit," Dragan clicked his tongue, looking around -- ignoring the twinges of pain from his long-suffering head. "How long was I out?"


    "Maybe a couple of seconds," Bruno said. "Nobody else has come down, though, so I think we¡¯re good."


    Dragan stepped forward out of his grip, regaining his footing. "Well, even if we¡¯re good, that doesn¡¯t mean Ruth and Skipper are," he said, voice worried. "You saw the state that room was in -- and unlike us, they weren¡¯t behind a forcefield. We need to get back up there and figure out what¡¯s going on."


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Bruno nodded, cracking his neck. "Sounds good. Elevators are probably a no-go, but if we take the stairs¡­"


    His voice suddenly trailed off -- and his gaze hardened as he looked directly at the entrance to the room. Slowly, his glare became Serena¡¯s squint, and she reached down, pulling free a sword of dripping wet concrete that she pointed at the doors.


    "What is it?" Dragan asked, looking back and forth between Serena and the door.


    "Something¡¯s here," she said quietly. "Get behind me, Mr. Dragan."


    The seriousness in her tone was unusual, and so Dragan wasted no time following her instructions. As he positioned himself behind her, readying his Gemini Shotgun to provide covering fire, he saw just what had her so concerned.


    Something was pressing itself against the glass doors. Something was pressing itself against the glass doors with such inexorable force they were cracking. Something was pressing itself against the glass doors, and it was looking at them.


    A monster.


    There was no other way to describe it. A nightmare shape of dark fur and red eyes, drool dribbling from between murderous jaws of knife-like teeth, too big and too sharp for their gums. Four arms pressed against the glass, two so bulky they put a gorilla to shame, the other two as anorexic as dying trees.


    A tendril-like tongue dragged itself down the glass window. Its eyes were focused on the two of them. When it gasped, the breath came from its mouth dark and frothy as smoke.


    Serena adjusted her footing.


    The beast smashed through the door with speed incongruous with its size, glass and metal flying in every direction as the creature charged at the two of them on all sixes. Immediately, Dragan fired off his Gemini Shotgun -- using the zombie head he¡¯d absorbed earlier -- but the reflexes of the beast were too much for him. Gore splattered over the animal¡¯s face as it caught the head in its jaws, smashing it down between them instantly like a watermelon.


    It crossed ten meters in barely two seconds -- and still Serena caught it with a swing of her blade. Violet Aether ran along the surface of the weapon, and as it struck the dark animal in the back --


    -- it shattered against the defense of red-and-white Aether it found there.


    Dragan took in a breath, going to leap backwards from the creature, and as he did his mind was racing. It uses Aether. Is this a person? Is this a Scurrant? Who is this? What do they want?


    His questions were answered only with violence.


    Both of the beast¡¯s secondary arms lashed out, seizing Serena and Dragan by the collars before they could escape its range. Then, with such speed they couldn¡¯t even react, it charged at the opposite wall, dragging the two of them along the ground as they went.


    By the time it slammed the two of them against the wall, their Aether defenses were little more than sparks.


    Dragan hacked and coughed, his vision a blur of colour and discomfort -- only to freeze as the snout of the beast appeared right in front of his face. Acidically hot breath pressed against his skin.


    Sniff, sniff.


    It did nothing. Then, it moved onto Serena.


    Sniff, sniff.


    Its white tongue licked its own blood off its ruinous maw. When it spoke, its voice was as deep and dark as the earth itself.


    "You¡¯re not the ones."


    And with that, it dropped the two of them to the ground. Before they could rise again, it had already charged back out of the room, smashing what was left of the doorframe to pieces on the way out.


    Dragan coughed. "What the hell was that?"


    Jamie struck the wall first, but before he could even hit the ground, the bandaged foe was upon him, knives shining in the light as they went to cut his throat. Before the blades could reach his jugular, however, a corpse-fly landed on the enemy¡¯s back. Just in time.


    Land of the Dead.


    Jamie and the fly swapped places, the fly appearing on the wall and Jamie reappearing right behind the bandaged figure. With lightning speed, he pressed the barrel of his shotgun against the base of the man¡¯s spine.


    Bang.


    The blast, infused with Aether, tore through the man¡¯s bandages and skin both -- and as he dropped down to the floor, nearly decapitated, there was no doubt that he was dead. Jamie whirled back around with no mind to the blood covering his face.


    The green man was locked in combat with the other two assassins, dodging and weaving through the affections of their weapons, each blow missing by mere inches. He was good. Still, though, something wasn¡¯t right¡­


    He¡¯d used that soundwave ability to blast through the smog around him, but why hadn¡¯t he done that before? If it was that easy, then there was no reason why he wouldn¡¯t have just done it while Jamie was stalking him.


    The only answer was that something had been preventing him, something he couldn¡¯t risk getting caught in the crossfire. Jamie¡¯s gaze drifted down to the unconscious girl at the green man¡¯s feet --


    -- she was gone.


    "Hey, asshole," he heard someone growl.


    The armoured girl leapt down from the ceiling, where she¡¯d been clinging in the manner of an insect, and thrust her claws right towards Jamie. He raised his shotgun to counter and deflect, but too late. The claws ran his forearm right through, impaling it like a piece of meat -- and the resultant writhing of his hand caused his firearm to slip right through his fingers and clatter to the floor.


    Jamie went to scream, but held back the impulse. There was no time for pain. The battle was still going. The girl was raising her other claw, to slice his skull to ribbons.


    Land of the Dead.


    Land of the Dead.


    Land of the Dead.


    In a desperate attempt to escape, Jamie rapidly switched places with his corpse-flies, teleporting throughout the building for an instant at a time. By the time he¡¯d finished, he was a long way from the fight, perched on a fragment of rubble hanging above the shattered basement pool.


    He panted as he held his injured arm, the four holes of it gushing profusely with blood. Teeth clenched in sympathy with his pain, he tore off the sleeve of his other arm and wrapped it around the wound as a makeshift bandage -- infusing it with Aether to make it hold better. A temporary measure, but the best he could do at the moment.


    "Heheheh¡­" he started to giggle, and a flare of excited panic hit him. Not now!


    The frenzy was here. The frenzy had come. A misfiring brain for a misfiring body, looking down at the eye switch of the angled fish-box of a room. A grin curled his face ninety-wise.


    Down in the under room he could see two of them injured talking sensely, the silver-boy and the shielder. A strike of Aether laughed midly. He could not kill them he could not do that, those were not his orders, but surely they were not needed all alive?


    Flies at his eyes. The man green and the girl red were fighting off the assassins. Things would turn like a wheel. Element of surprise lost. Advantage lost. He was lost? This place was a bleeding afterbirth of a jokeful joking joke. He breathed in saliva.


    Choices were needed. A choice would have to be made. If he killed the rest, wished a puff of wind to eliminate all but one, he could keep the last alive. The green man, leader, probably the leader -- best candidate suchly, yes.


    The frenzy faded, only slightly, and Jamie¡¯s remaining shotgun slid out of his sleeve and into his hand.


    He looked down at his two targets, still recovering from their injuries. The Cogitant with the silver hair, and the girl with the blond. He would start with them.


    In the darkness of a killer¡¯s world, Jamie Pot slowly took aim.


    "Are you okay, Mr. Dragan?" Serena frowned, squatting down next to his prone form. "You really got your ass kicked."


    "So did you," Dragan growled, slowly picking himself up off the dusty floor.


    "Yeah," she grinned, flexing a bicep. "But I¡¯m strong! No problem!"


    Dragan wasn¡¯t sure if that was an intentional insult, but he decided to ignore it all the same. As he sat up against a chunk of concrete, he realized just how poor a condition his body was in. Each movement triggered pangs of mirrored pain, like his body was rebelling against the fact that it even existed. Running would be an ordeal, let alone fighting.


    "I don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to be much use," Dragan grunted, holding his side with one hand. "You should go on ahead. I¡¯ll try and recover as much as I can with my Aether, and follow you when I¡¯m able."


    Serena¡¯s frown returned. "You¡¯re sure?" she asked.


    Dragan nodded. "I¡¯d only slow you down."


    There was a moment of hesitation, but Serena quickly nodded back and turned on her heel, running for the broken door. She seemed to be in much better condition than Dragan, for sure -- some people had all the luck. Hopefully, she¡¯d make it back to Skipper before --


    Bang.


    The gunshot echoed throughout the room, and at the same time Serena spun on her heel, eyes wide in alarm.


    Her dodge came a second too late, however.


    The shotgun blast grazed past her side, breaking through her Aether defenses and leaving noticeable gashes in her skin. Immediately, she dropped into a roll, scooping up a chunk of concrete and tightening it into a sword. She looked up and --


    Jamie breathed a sigh of relief as his shot struck true.


    Night of the Living Dead. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    -- and she suddenly stopped. Dragan looked up, too, to follow her gaze, but saw nothing but darkness above. His eyes flicked back to Serena.


    "Serena," he winced, picking himself up. "Are you¡­"


    He stopped. Something was wrong.


    Serena had frozen completely, like a statue, her surprised expression paused in place. Slowly, ever so slowly, her head turned to look directly at him¡­ and eerie green light flared inside her eyes. The sword in her hand inexorably moved to point in his direction.


    "Serena?" Dragan repeated, mouth dry.


    She did not answer.


    But she did move.

 Chapter 223:9.14: Foe and Friend

    SWORD-MEET-SWORD,


    BLOOD-MEET-BLOOD,


    BONE-MEET-BONE,


    BONE-MEET-STEEL,


    BLOOD-MEET-BULLET,


    SHELL-MEET-SKY,


    SKY-MEET-STARS,


    STARS-MEET-HOME,


    MOTHER-MEET-SHELL,


    SHELL-MEET-TEARS,


    TEARS-MEET-SHELL,


    SHELL-MEET-GRAVE,


    GRAVE-MEET-TIME,


    "The Journey Back", Simplicist Poem by Martan Drazhe


    Dragan¡¯s body screamed, but he had no time to answer it. If he did not move, he would die.


    As Serena reached him, her eyes aflame with green Aether, she thrust her sword forward at Dragan -- and it was only the fact that he ducked down that stopped him from being killed then and there. The blade was buried up to its hilt in the wall, and as Serena went to pull it free Dragan kicked up with an Aether-infused leg, shattering the weapon.


    "You two," he growled, sweat crawling over his skin. "Snap out of it!"


    There was no answer, but through the emerald haze Dragan could see the resistance in Serena¡¯s eyes. If she could open her mouth, Dragan was sure she¡¯d be screaming.


    It didn¡¯t seem to be affecting her movements at all, however. Serena brought down her now-free fist like a hammer, violet Aether shining through the gaps between her fingers, aiming right at the center of Dragan¡¯s chest.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan flickered out of existence -- and reappeared just outside of Serena¡¯s range, already wincing. With his current physical condition and exhaustion, he didn¡¯t dare use it any more than that.


    What if he ended up unable to muster the effort to use Gemini World again once he was already in it? Would he be ejected from his Aether forcibly¡­ or would he just cease to exist, like a bubble popping into nothing? He had no desire to test it.


    "Bruno!" he called out, even as Serena began advancing again. "Can you hear me? Switch with Serena!"


    Clearly, the enemy had used an ability on Serena to puppeteer her body and send her after Dragan. Dragan highly doubted that person knew that Bruno and Serena were two people in the same body -- there was a chance switching who was in the driver¡¯s seat could interfere with the enemy¡¯s power.


    Serena¡¯s expression tightened into Bruno¡¯s, and a relieved smile slipped onto Dragan¡¯s face. To put it bluntly, it was premature.


    Bruno¡¯s fist slammed into Dragan¡¯s face, using a forcefield like a knuckle duster, sending him flying across the room. Dragan knew well that the only thing that had saved his head from being pulverised was his Aether -- and clearly, it hadn¡¯t been able to absorb all the damage.


    Blood pooled out from the side of his face that Bruno had struck, and his vision was growing hazy in one eye. As Dragan landed in a heap, he tried to pick himself up, but his body was sluggish and unresponsive. All he could do was scramble to rise, watching Bruno walk across the room, shimmering forcefields hovering over his fists.


    It was hard to tell, but it looked like tears were streaming down Bruno¡¯s face.


    He had to knock Bruno unconscious. If he didn¡¯t, he would die -- right here, right now. He was in no shape to run away.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    Dragan fired three chunks of rubble at Bruno -- and with three jerking motions, Bruno blocked each of them with his forcefields as he advanced. He fired another at Bruno¡¯s feet, but the other boy simply leapt over it.


    Even while dodging, he¡¯d crossed half the distance to Dragan already.


    No good. No use. Bruno was the worst opponent for him to face under these circumstances: his shields would let him block any Shotgun attacks Dragan let loose.


    His eyes drifted to Bruno¡¯s side, which was still dripping from his bloody wound. As he was now, Bruno was making no move to treat that injury. If Dragan dragged this fight out long enough, Bruno would no doubt pass out from blood loss and exhaustion -- but if he did that, there was no guarantee he¡¯d be able to treat Bruno¡¯s wound in his own condition.


    Options and options arose, but they all led to the same brick wall. With his own injuries, there wasn¡¯t even any guarantee that Dragan wouldn¡¯t pass out first. As things were right now¡­


    ¡­this seemed unwinnable.


    Ruth ducked under the mighty swing of an axe, claws digging into the carpet as she latched hold of the floor. The air pressure that sent her blazing hair flying was such that it felt like she was standing in the middle of a tornado.


    She ran through the scenario in her head.


    Three enemies -- two wrapped in bandages, the other dressed in white robes -- against her and Skipper. The one in the white robes had vanished when Ruth had attacked him, and showed no sign of reappearing, so right now it was just the two mummies they had to worry about.


    As Skipper fired a Heartbeat Shotgun, the enemy with the axe lifted his weapon as a shield -- the blades of the weapon engorging and spreading out like flower petals to form a barrier against the blast. At the same time, his companion lashed out with his whip, the barbed blade aimed right for Skipper¡¯s eyes.


    Ruth saw it coming from a mile away.


    Like a cat, she leapt upon the flexile weapon, trapping it between two of her claws and pinning it to the floor. Her hand wriggled free of the clawed gauntlet, leaving it in place -- it would reduce her fighting effectiveness, but at least she¡¯d relieved one opponent of their weapon.


    "Who are these guys?" Ruth asked, swinging her head up to face Skipper. He was still unleashing blast after blast, keeping the axe-wielder stuck in place.


    "No clue," Skipper grunted -- before blasting himself up to the ceiling.


    It was easy to see why. The axe-wielder had suddenly flipped his weapon around, pointing the end of the hilt towards Skipper. As though it were a cannon, a beam of light erupted from the hilt, eviscerating the space he¡¯d just been occupying.


    Ruth saw the whip beneath her claws slacken as its owner abandoned it, instead charging right towards her, bloodshot eyes staring with feral promise. They now held no weapon, but danger unmistakably radiated from them still.


    She lunged towards them with her remaining claws, ready to parry whatever attack came -- but the form of the assault was not one she was prepared for. She saw the indentation of the mouth beneath the bandages shift --


    -- and a second later, the enemy began breathing fire at her.


    It came out in a steady stream, voraciously licking at the air, forcing her to put greater and greater distance between the two of them. As she did, she saw the axe-wielder shifting the aim of his weapon, pointing the hilt towards her instead. He ducked down, Skipper¡¯s Heartbeat Shotgun shattering the wall behind him.


    Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She couldn¡¯t beat this at half her strength.


    Her discarded claws disappeared from the floor, reappearing on her free hand -- and without missing a beat, the fire-breather recovered their whip from the ground.


    As one, the two mummies let loose their weapons. The whip hurtled across the room, the axe-blast tore through space and matter, and --


    -- and the air went cold.


    The attacks stopped. This had already been a struggle for survival, but for the first time Ruth felt her breath catch on her throat. The two enemies, too, had turned on their heels, slowly backing away from the hole in the wall Skipper had created.


    There was a monster there, slinking out of the darkness. A beast of black fur and claws, blood dripping from its teeth. In one hand, it held the ravaged corpse of what must have been a tourist. With the other, it slowly pointed at the two intruders.


    "You," it growled, dark and subtle enough to shake bone. "Found¡­ you."


    What happened next was the matter of a few moments. Limbs flew, heads were pulped, and screams were cut short. If Ruth was asked to describe what she¡¯d seen in that time, the only thing she could recall¡­


    ¡­would be the blood.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Dragan moved his head just in time to prevent Bruno¡¯s fist from smashing it. Instead, the concrete he struck shattered, shards of it flying every which way and slicing into Dragan¡¯s cheek.


    "Bruno," he rasped, voice near-silenced by pain and exhaustion. "Snap out of it¡­"


    Bruno did not answer.


    Instead, he crouched down, straddling Dragan as he wrapped his stiff fingers around his throat. Slowly, slowly, the pressure began to increase -- and with it, Dragan¡¯s breath grew shorter and shorter. He did his utmost to try and pry Bruno¡¯s fingers off, but the strength of the other boy was no laughing matter.


    Dragan¡¯s hands flopped weakly to the floor.


    If only you¡¯d never existed, the past said, as those dead fingers strangled him.


    As he was choked, Dragan¡¯s fading vision was pointed up at the sky, the darkness of the ceiling and beyond seeking to assimilate him. He felt a trickle of warm saliva run from one side of his mouth and onto his cheek. Would he die like this, then, in a rerun of the past?


    His eyes flicked back to Bruno. He didn¡¯t have the confidence to do a full Gemini World in this condition -- but from this range, and with Bruno already in this condition, a Gemini Shotgun could maybe have the power to eliminate him. Holding back wouldn¡¯t be an option¡­ it would have to be a killshot.


    Slowly, Dragan raised a shaking, pointing finger up towards Bruno¡¯s face. The other boy made no move to stop him. It would be exceedingly easy.


    But then¡­


    He thought of Bruno, waking up in that tent, offering reluctant thanks.


    He thought of Bruno, leaping out of a car and falling through a city to save him.


    He thought of Bruno, smiling despite himself, at his side.


    His hand dropped again to the floor. So he couldn¡¯t do it. What a pain.


    "Bruno," he whispered, with the last of his strength. "Switch¡­ with¡­ Serena¡­"


    If that happened, he might have a chance. The tiniest, riskiest chance -- but a chance all the same.


    Bruno¡¯s face softened into Serena¡¯s¡­


    ¡­but before Dragan could move, she reached into the ground, pulled free a sword, and stabbed it right into the centre of Dragan¡¯s chest.


    The sound of shallow breathing stopped.


    "I¡¯d consider what you do next real carefully, pal," Skipper said slowly, pointing his readied finger at the monster.


    Blood and meat dripped from the ceiling in chunks. A bandaged head lay on what was left of the now-crimson bed. All the other body parts ran in strips and tatters, hanging out of the beast¡¯s mouth like spaghetti.


    The two bandaged enemies had been eliminated quickly -- and once that had been done, the hulking beast had turned on Ruth and Skipper.


    Ruth grunted with great effort as the monster held her by the head, restraining her against the wall. She sliced at the arm holding her, but it was hard as steel, and her claws simply bounced off with sparks. The most she could do was shave the wiry black fur that covered the thing¡¯s body.


    The beast turned its head to look at Skipper, on the other side of the room. Emerald Aether sparked around the older man as he readied an attack, a serious expression on his face.


    "Let her go, yeah?" Skipper said mildly. "No need for this to get bloody." His eyes flicked to the carnage already in the room. "Well, bloodier."


    Ruth felt the pressure around her skull tighten, just slightly, and a hiss of pain leaked from her cracked lips. At that, the look in Skipper¡¯s eyes grew a bit colder.


    "That attack would not kill me," the monster growled, the glass in the room vibrating in accompaniment. "I would gut this little bitch, and then you as well."


    "This ain¡¯t the attack I would use on you, Fido," Skipper said quietly.


    In the manner of a curious dog, the beast cocked its head. "Then what? No blade nor bullet can harm me. It¡¯s pointless to --"


    Emerald Aether boomed.


    The glass in the room shattered further, flying in every direction, as the Aether around Skipper intensified -- brightening and focusing more and more until it was like a perfect sphere. Then, it honed itself, emerald thunderbolts illuminating the room, and between each strike forming the shadows of wings behind Skipper¡¯s shoulders.


    Skipper¡¯s face was a merciless mask, looking down at the monster as if he were a piece of shit on his boot. The flashes of light simplified his features, hiding his eyes, making him look like some inhuman thing. A chill went down Ruth¡¯s spine.


    His mouth opened. "Heartbeat F --"


    The monster released Ruth -- and with a flash of black fur, was gone from the room. She dropped roughly to the floor. Instantly, the light around Skipper died, and he collapsed to one knee.


    "Woo," he sighed, wiping sweat from his hair. "I¡¯m real glad that worked."


    Ruth massaged her aching head, moaning in pain -- and disgust, as she realised she¡¯d landed in a puddle of blood. It took a second for her to look back up at Skipper.


    "What was that?" she asked. "That ability?"


    Skipper glanced away. "A bluff. It wouldn¡¯t have worked under these conditions, anyway."


    "Yeah¡­ but what was it?"


    "Ruth," he said, his gaze returning to her before flicking away again. "There¡¯s no time. It¡¯s not safe here. We can¡¯t stick around for too long."


    She followed his eyes -- and saw what he saw. That monster had broken through the wall to get here, and now she could see the route he¡¯d taken. Room after room smashed through, each painted with blood, forming a tunnel of suffering. The moans of the dying echoed through the building.


    In the distance, someone was weeping.


    "We need to find the others," Skipper said, eyes hard. "And we need to get out of here."


    For the first time, Jamie Pot thought there was a real possibility that he might fail Giovanni. It was terrifying.


    He did not fear punishment, for he knew none would be coming. He did not fear anger, for he knew Giovanni would not show him it. What he feared¡­ was the disappointment of the one who had lifted him up from nothing, knowing that he would be the cause of Giovanni¡¯s inconvenience.


    No. Whatever it took, he would not allow that.


    He clung to the ceiling like one of his flies as he saw the blond girl run the Cogitant through on one of her swords. The deed done, she slowly rose to her shaking feet, took two steps -- and promptly collapsed from blood loss herself.


    Two down, or near enough. Once their deaths were confirmed, he¡¯d just need to return upstairs, eliminate the armoured girl too, and capture the green man. That was doable. Perfectly doable.


    Even so, the bandage around his injured arm had turned red long ago, and his thoughts felt sticky and sluggish. He just needed to power through. He just needed to power through, and he could get through all this.


    He dropped to the ground, silent as his feet hit the floor, and began making his way to the unconscious girl. His shotgun slipped out of his sleeve and into his hand as he walked.


    People were placed into this world to fulfil their obligations. That was the mission Y had for them. When a person was born, their obligations were still invisible to them, but they slowly revealed themselves as life went on.


    Jamie¡¯s obligation was to make Giovanni¡¯s dream come true. And right now, the way to do that --


    He pointed the gun down at the girl¡¯s head.


    -- was to eliminate these people.


    His finger curled around the trigger.


    Bang.


    The sound that echoed through the room was not Jamie¡¯s gunshot. It was another, aimed for him. His shotgun clattered to the ground, and he slowly looked down as he staggered back.


    His fingers were a pulp of red, one hanging off by a thin strip of tendon, the rest little more than spoiled meat.


    He looked up at the source of the attack.


    The dead Cogitant was standing.


    He looked barely conscious, his eyes heavily lidded, his breathing a torturous labour, but he was standing. His slouch was such that it looked like an invisible hand was holding him up by the collar, but he was standing. Blood dribbled from every wound he had, but he was standing.


    And he was glaring with enough force to melt stone.


    "Gemini Shotgun," he spat, as if in explanation.


    "You¡¯re dead," Jamie whispered, eyes wide with disbelief. "I saw you die."


    The Cogitant reached up to his tattered shirt and tore the chest open, revealing the miracle beyond. Where the wound that had destroyed his heart should have been, there was only a ring of static. Jamie could see the scenery behind him through the hole.


    "I recorded my heart into Aether as Serena struck me," he panted, slurring, as if the explanation was just another way to keep himself conscious. "I realized. In the hallway, your zombie was attacking a clock. It thought the ticking was a heartbeat, right? That¡¯s how your puppets detect life. By the heartbeat. So I stopped mine." S§×arch* The N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "So?" Jamie glared. "You¡¯re still almost dead."


    "So are you." Even through the pain, a smirk spread across the Cogitant¡¯s pale lips. "I wonder who can seal the deal first."


    Fair enough. "What¡¯s your name?" Jamie called out, genuinely curious.


    The Cogitant¡¯s eyes narrowed. "Dragan Hadrien. You?"


    "Jamie Pot. So¡­ what happens now?"


    "Now?" Dragan took a single step forwards, the effort of looking like it was almost enough to knock him down. "Now I guess we kill each other."


    "Fair enough¡­" Jamie said again, this time out loud. "Sorry, but I can¡¯t lose. There¡¯s someone I can¡¯t let down no matter what."


    "Same here," Dragan growled.


    Dragan stared at Jamie.


    Jamie stared at Dragan.


    Fingers twitched.


    Mouths breathed.


    Jamie had a spare shotgun in his other sleeve, but it would take him longer to fire with his injured arm. Would Dragan¡¯s considerable injuries help even the gap there? There was no way of knowing. There was no strategy here that could ensure victory.


    Only speed, and the willingness to kill.


    A single shot to the head, so there was no chance for a counterattack. That would be the path to victory.


    "You know¡­" Dragan said.


    Jamie-grabbed-his-Shotgun-and-fired.


    The blast, infused and enhanced with Aether, tore through the room as it zoomed towards Dragan. Forget the head -- it would have been enough to annihilate the entire upper half of Dragan¡¯s body.


    That is, it would have been¡­ if it had reached him.


    The blast fizzled away into electric-blue Aether the second before it could hit his face. Dragan¡¯s expression didn¡¯t budge in the slightest.


    He continued his sentence. "...I never showed you how my first ability works, did I?"


    Oh. I¡¯m dead.


    "Gemini Shotgun." Dragan¡¯s words were an execution sentence.


    The blast was as powerful as Jamie had hoped, and it was only his last attempt to dodge that prevented him from being reduced to a red mist. Still, as the blast scraped across the front of his body, all meat and skin was scraped away, opening him for the world to see.


    He was dead before he hit the floor.


    And Dragan was unconscious before he hit the floor.

 Chapter 224:9.15: The Ache

    Lie still, O honored one,


    And sleep well.


    The hands of your time have come to an end,


    The sand of your life has run dry.


    Sleep well, O honored one,


    And lie still in the halls of the Velvet Palace.


    Let your soul pass out of darkness,


    Through the tunnels of your conscience,


    And into the light of Y¡¯s embrace.


    May Y take you for glory,


    May Y take you for prestige,


    May Y take you for His.


    Forevermore.


    Hallelujah.


    Superbian Death Prayer


    Mila¡¯s body ached.


    As she was dropped down to the metal floor, she hugged her arms tight around herself -- as if the pain was leaking out of her very form, and if she could just cover the holes she could stop it. It was only when she realized just how close to the edge she was that she adopted caution again, shrinking herself into as much of a ball as possible.


    It had been a long night, carried under Helga¡¯s arm like a piece of luggage, but it seemed the chase had finally ended. Slowly, as carefully as possible, Mila rose to her feet.


    She and Helga stood atop a crane that towered over the makeshift cityscape of the Menagerie. Restaurants and diners, hotels and temporary housing¡­ from this height, they all looked like little more than twinkling lights. If nothing else, though, this was a height that could kill.


    At some point during her rooftop escapades, Helga had torn away a Humilist flag from a pole, draping it around herself as a cloak. It fluttered in the wind now as she looked out over her surroundings.


    When she spoke, she could barely be heard over the sounds of the city below. "Mila," she said.


    "Helga," Mila whispered.


    So she was conscious -- or consciousness had returned to her at some point during the night¡¯s festivities. Mila had suspected: there was no way Helga could have bundled her into that ship and flown it here on reflex alone.


    Helga reached up and seized one of her own bangs, holding it up to her eye. She was inspecting it for length. Of course: it had been quite a while since the last time she¡¯d seen it, after all. It had grown.


    "How long?" she asked, just as quietly, her voice raspy from disuse.


    Should she lie? Mila didn¡¯t know what kind of mental state Helga was in. When she¡¯d last been awake, she¡¯d been in the middle of attacking Dragan Hadrien, and now with everything going on -- and the aftereffects from stasis -- there was no telling how she¡¯d react.


    Mila resolved to lie -- but then Helga turned to look at her, her eyes wide, and she found the truth leaving her mouth instead.


    "A year," she said. "You¡¯ve been under for a year."


    Helga squeezed her eyes shut, and when she spoke her voice was pained. "You did that?"


    Hurriedly, Mila shook her head. "No. No! I was there, but I was trying to save you. Trying to find a way to get you out. I swear."


    There was suspicion, cold and analytical, swimming through Helga¡¯s eyes when she opened them again. "Why?" she nearly growled the word.


    It was a good question. Mila had asked herself the same many times before. The last they¡¯d met, Helga had betrayed her. She¡¯d betrayed the Humilists, gotten people killed, and been caught trying to cover it up.


    Why would Mila want to save her?


    "I don¡¯t know," she lied.


    Helga continued to glare at her, eyes like twin drills -- until slowly, they closed again. The sigh that trickled from her lips was long, as if an entire year of discomfort was being expelled all at once.


    "Okay," Helga said.


    For a few moments, they just bathed in the sounds of the city below -- the distant shouting, the blaring horns of vehicles, the whirring of machinery. Then, somehow, Mila found the courage to speak again.


    "What do we do now?"


    This time, Helga needed no time to consider the question. "I need to go back." She spoke with a regretful inevitability.


    "Go back?" Mila asked, doing her best not to look down. "What do you mean? Go back where?"


    Helga stared off at the lights that surrounded them, the glow shining off her face and making her seem ethereal. "The GID," she said simply. "I need to go back. I think I killed one of them back there¡­ but still. No other options."


    Mila¡¯s heart dropped. She hadn¡¯t wanted this. She took a beseeching step forward, painfully aware of gravity¡¯s hold on her. "Why do you have to go back?" she all but begged. "You don¡¯t need to. We can -- we can make a run for it. Steal a ship, like you just did. Make a run for it to where nobody can find us --"


    Her words trailed off as Helga shook her head. "I can¡¯t," she said, in a voice that permitted no argument. "They have people important to me."


    You¡¯re important to me. Mila thought of saying it, but in the end the pathetic words would not leave her mouth.


    Helga went on, her pale face weary. "If I defect, there¡¯s no telling what will happen to them. I don¡¯t have a choice."


    Mila¡¯s hands dropped weakly to her sides. "So¡­ what? This is goodbye? Again¡­?" Already?


    It felt like she was being crushed in a vice, like all the efforts she had made over the last year had come to naught. What a selfish thing to think. Just because she hadn¡¯t gotten what she wanted.


    Helga stepped over to the edge of the crane, doing her utmost not to look Mila in the eye. "Yeah," she murmured. "Thanks for¡­ helping me out."


    And without another word, she dropped off the crane, vanishing into the citylight. Mila swallowed down her bitterness, took in a deep breath, and sighed.


    For a moment, she just looked out at the ramshackle metropolis. Then she realized she had no way to get down.


    Muzazi¡¯s body ached.


    The second he woke, he put a hand to his throat -- feeling the rough texture of bandages and machinery there. Wires running from the wound in his neck to a module hanging over his bed.


    His bed? Muzazi looked around. He was in a bed, then, connected up to medical equipment -- though the room he was in was no hospital. It seemed to be part of the complex he¡¯d first met Lyons in, judging from the dim decor and the distant smell of barbecue.


    "You¡¯re a lucky man, Atoy Muzazi," Jean Lyons said softly.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes flicked over to the corner of the room, where the pale man was standing, hands in his pockets. That same serene smile was plastered on his face. When he blinked, it was slow and inexorable.


    "What happened?" Muzazi grunted, trying to force himself up -- but the wires in his throat were like a leash, and the fear of tearing them out kept him still.


    "As I said,¡¯¡¯ Lyons chuckled, pulling up a foldaway seat next to the bed. "You¡¯re very lucky. Agent Malwarian nearly inflicted a fatal wound on you. By the time Olga returned from chasing after her, you were nearly gone."


    "She saved me¡­?" Muzazi muttered, rubbing his bandaged throat. Somehow, he couldn¡¯t imagine her doing that.


    "I saved you, Mr. Muzazi," Lyons said -- with a note of insistence that Muzazi had not yet heard from him. "With the supplies aboard that ship, she was able to stabilise your condition, but without these current measures -- yes, you would be dead."


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Muzazi looked down at the wires -- no, the tubes -- and saw the orange paste flowing through them. "This is Panacea?" A grisly image of the Repurposed flowed through his mind, and he had to resist the urge to tear the thing free there and then.


    "Well spotted," Lyons said, leaning over. "It¡¯s slowly replacing the damaged part of your throat. I¡¯d speak softly until it¡¯s finished -- but I often find myself speaking softly. Just act however you are comfortable."


    Slowly, through the hazy wall sleep had created, memory returned to him. Helga Malwarian running, Olga going after her¡­ so she hadn¡¯t caught her in the end, then. Their mission had failed.


    "May I tell you a story about my life?" Lyons suddenly said.


    Muzazi looked up at him. The expression on his face hadn¡¯t changed, nor had the tone of his voice, but an intensity seemed to radiate from him all the same. To be truthful, Muzazi had little desire to hear this story. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Of course," he replied.


    "I¡¯m sure it goes without saying, but I wasn¡¯t always in the position you see today," Lyons said, quietly smiling. "As a matter of fact, I used to consider myself quite an ardent opponent to the Supremacy."


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "In what way?"


    "In quite a brutal way. We bombed public places, we murdered and tortured whatever officials we could get our hands on¡­ yes, we were quite despicable in our time." He spoke as if he was discussing the weather. "When I say ¡¯we¡¯ in this context, I¡¯m of course referring to the terrorist group I was a member of. A small outfit, not one you would be familiar with."


    "What happened?" Muzazi couldn¡¯t picture someone like the person Lyons was describing ascending to be the head of the Supremacy¡¯s intelligence division.


    "We were caught, eventually -- inevitable, really, with how sloppy we were. The ones who caught us were actually the Galactic Intelligence Division, funnily enough. The head of the Division at that time was a¡­ forgiving sort. My former comrades were lined up and shot, but I was made to see the¡­ depths of my presumption, the foolishness of it." He had a far-away look in his eyes, and when he spoke it was like the reaper¡¯s whisper. "The explanation took several months, but by the time all was over I understood completely -- the order of this world, I mean."


    Muzazi shifted slightly in his bed. "And what is the order of this world, then, sir?"


    It seemed that Lyons had almost forgotten he was there. His eyes snapped back to look at Muzazi, and the tone of his voice returned to normal.


    "Well, we like to think the Supremacy is above all else," he explained. "But in truth it is below -- it is the foundation upon which humanity rests. Even the UAP define themselves solely by their opposition to us. Without us, there is only barbarism -- for we are the foundation¡¯s foundation. Do you understand?"


    Slowly, Muzazi nodded.


    Lyons placed a soft, cold hand on Muzazi¡¯s arm without breaking eye contact. "Your conduct on this mission was¡­ unsatisfactory. Sloppy, even. You no longer needed Mila Green alive once aboard the ship, yet you did not kill her. Why is that?"


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened. Was he really being asked why he hadn¡¯t murdered someone in cold blood? The thought had never even occurred to him. Was that what was expected of him here?


    "I saw no need to," he said honestly.


    "Hm." Lyons sounded unimpressed -- and as he stood up, Muzazi could see an unmistakable trace of derision in his gaze. "At any rate, see that you get your head into the game, Mr. Muzazi. You don¡¯t have unlimited chances."


    And with those foreboding words, he strolled through the door, closed it behind him -- and returned the room to the darkness.


    Dragan¡¯s body ached.


    As he pulled himself out of the hospital bed, he felt twinges of pain from half a dozen different places. His legs, which he¡¯d used to smash stone the night before. His arms, which he¡¯d used to punch steel -- or what felt like it -- the night before. His ribs, which had taken the brunt of an explosion the night before.


    And his brain. His brain hurt most of all.


    "Come on, grandpa," Skipper said with mock-sympathy, supporting him under one arm. "Let¡¯s get you home. You want some oatmeal, yeah?"


    "Go fuck yourself," Dragan groaned, his voice raspy from the stimulant treatment.


    Fortunately, he hadn¡¯t actually lost any tissue, so Panacea wasn¡¯t necessary -- but stimulants, used to accelerate natural healing, came with aches of their own. To put it bluntly, it felt like someone had poured acid through his veins.


    "Can¡¯t be helped," Skipper said as they made their way down the hallway, as if he¡¯d read Dragan¡¯s mind. "Someone¡¯s obviously after us, so it¡¯s a bad idea to stay in the same place for too long. No choice but the accelerated treatment."


    Through the windows, the darkened city of the Menagerie was visible. Lights on the roof of the great chamber illuminated the cityscape below somewhat like an artificial sky, but it still somehow gave off the impression of being dim. Lights of cars flowed through roads like insects down below.


    "Where are the others?" Dragan grunted, sucking up the pain and walking unassisted.


    "Ruth¡¯s hiding out in an apartment I dug up," Skipper quietly explained, eyes flicking around for any potential eavesdroppers. "I¡¯ve got Bruno and Serena in a different hospital, though -- I thought it probably wasn¡¯t a good idea to keep everyone in the same place if we¡¯re being followed. We¡¯re on our way to grab them now."


    "Then what?"


    Before Skipper could answer, the world answered for him. An audible buzz came from the man¡¯s coat pocket -- and in a flash, he whipped his hand in there and pulled free his script. A grin slowly spread across his face.


    "Well, before anything else, Mr. Hadrien," he said, looking down at the screen. "I need to answer this call from our good ol¡¯ Paradisas friends."


    Giovanni¡¯s body ached.


    It was only natural. His rage could not be constrained by his form, after all.


    The remains of Jamie Pot had been placed on the table before him, ruined arms folded over to cover his chest. There was little point to it -- much of his face and torso had been scraped away, leaving nothing but a bloody hole. His white robes had been stained a vicious red, and his hair hung around him like a mass of spikes.


    Gently, Giovanni reached over and brushed those golden locks out of the way. "Was it painful, Jamie?" he asked the silence. "Did it hurt?"


    Jamie¡¯s body had been recovered by one of their agents in the Forgiveness Corps -- yet Giovanni had not been able to believe Jamie was dead until he¡¯d actually seen the body. It seemed such an impossibility. Giovanni had always held the older boy in high regard, believed he could do anything, and now this¡­


    It was¡­ not a good feeling.


    "Gio," Pablo said from his side, his emotions as imperceptible as ever behind his mask of a face. "It¡¯s best that we act quickly. If we don¡¯t, things will get worse."


    "What do you mean?" Giovanni murmured, looking down at the body. The body. When had this corpse ceased being Jamie, and instead become an object? He was sickened by himself.


    "The Aipol Beach was under Humilist protection," Pablo continued, placing a firm hand on Giovanni¡¯s shoulder. "Even if we got Jamie¡¯s body back, it¡¯s now known that he was there. If we don¡¯t act, the massacre aboard will be firmly associated with us."


    "Act?" Giovanni muttered. "Act? What do you mean, act? Associated with it? We are associated with it. It was my will."


    Pablo¡¯s expression didn¡¯t so much as twitch. "All the same, Gio, it¡¯s best that information doesn¡¯t enter the public arena¡­ not until the time is right."


    John Peak spoke up from his place at the door of the mortuary, stepping forward. "There is precedent, sir¡­ for this sort of thing."


    Giovanni narrowed his eyes.


    I want to kill you, Peak. I want to tear you to pieces right here, right now. Where were you when Jamie was being killed? Why are you here safe and sound? Why are you here and he isn¡¯t?


    "Precedent for what?" he growled.


    Peak cleared his throat, shuffling on the spot. Clearly, he was wise enough to know when he was on thin ice. "Posthumous excommunication, sir," he said, looking away. "To distance the Superbian sect from his actions. We can say he went rogue, went on a rampage."


    "His mental issues were no secret," Pablo added. "The Quiet Choir will be happy to corroborate."


    The words were knives. "If he¡¯s excommunicated¡­" Giovanni said, sounding lost as he looked down at the body. "He can¡¯t be buried on Velvet Palace. He can¡¯t be properly put to rest -- he¡¯ll just be cremated like¡­ like meat. Like nothing. I¡­"


    Pablo¡¯s hand squeezed his shoulder. "A sacrifice for the faith. He believed in you more than anything." He moved closer, speaking into Giovanni¡¯s ear -- close enough that Peak couldn¡¯t hear. "You are the one closest to God, Giovanni. You alone hear his words. Jamie would have died for you. You think he wouldn¡¯t have done this?"


    "Sir," Peak demanded, his loud voice cutting through the room. "If we¡¯re going to do this, we need to do it now, before it become obvious what we¡¯re --"


    "Fine!" Giovanni snarled.


    Crimson Aether broiled around him as his speech overpowered all else. Peak took a cautious step back. Even Pablo seemed to shrink away. The storm of Aether lasted only a second before dying away, but it seemed that the two of them were holding their breath for a very long time.


    "Fine," Giovanni repeated. "Make the announcement. Just¡­ go do it, both of you."


    A pair of dutiful nods, and the two made their way out of the room. Giovanni wiped his eyes dry with the back of his hand, looking down at Jamie. Before the day was out, his friend would be nothing but ashes, blown out into space. That thought made his heart ache more than anything else.


    There was the tiniest beep, nearly audible, from the script in his pocket. More ill news, no doubt. They¡¯d removed some of Gertrude¡¯s pieces, but the cost had not been worth it.


    With a flick of his hand, he brought the new message up -- but to his surprise, it was not from one of his agents. The message, empty save for a single attachment, was from an anonymous sender. That alone should have been impossible, given the Superbians security.


    The wise thing to do would be to have the attached file scanned immediately, but Giovanni Sigma Testament was not in a wise mood. He tapped it with a finger, and his eyes widened as a video began to play. A fragment of security footage, recovered from the Aipol Beach.


    He saw Jamie standing in the darkness of a shattered room.


    He saw Jamie fall, laid low by a shot of blue movement.


    He saw the one that had done it.


    A young Cogitant man with silver hair and blazing blue eyes, collapsing to the floor. He hadn¡¯t been among the dead on the Aipol Beach -- he was still alive. Giovanni¡¯s grip tightened on the edges of the pedestal before him, stone crumbling against his strength.


    The video switched to a shot of a document -- the personal identification of this person, clearly pilfered from some Supremacy database given the AdminCorps logo emblazoned on the side. That blue-eyed face stared back at Giovanni from the identifying photograph. Slowly, like he was peeling a bandage free, he read the person¡¯s name.


    Dragan Hadrien.


    Dragan Hadrien.


    Dragan Hadrien.


    A scream of fury escaped from his throat -- and the fist that came down on the pedestal was more than enough to shatter it.


    You won¡¯t burn alone, Jamie, Giovanni promised the lost. You won¡¯t. I promise. I¡¯ll send this filth to join you.

 Chapter 225:9.16: My Eye On You

    Do you swear to uphold the tenets of the Forgiveness Corps?


    Do you swear to pursue justice, and truth, and keep those things unclouded?


    Do you swear to prove yourself worthy of your heightened station?


    Do you swear to produce the results expected of you?


    Do you swear to obey your own ideals, and those of Humilism at large?


    If so, then rise a better man -- [INSERT PROMOTEE NAME HERE].


    Detective Prestige Pledge, Forgiveness Corps


    Devastation. Destruction. Blood.


    Opportunity. Aiden Blaith had learnt to recognise it long ago.


    The ship Dr. Cloud had been using as a laboratory was an utter wreck, left floating through space, kept in orbit of the Menagerie only by the automatic systems. Shards of glass from broken monitors and sample jars littered the floor. One wall was heavily indented, sparks flying out from the machinery within. Everything was soaked as a result of the fluid still dripping from the ceiling, from the open stasis pod.


    And then, of course, there was the body. Aiden squatted down to inspect it closer.


    Dr. Cloud lay still, what was left of his face pale, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a fat slug. Something had smashed his face in with such force that his eyes had popped right out of their sockets, and so they rested on either side of his broken skull -- optic nerves still connecting them to his brain.


    Aiden wrinkled his nose in disgust as he adjusted his fedora. He couldn¡¯t help but feel this assignment was somewhat personal for him: he¡¯d attained his current position in the Forgiveness Corps by delivering the traitor Helga Malwarian to justice. If he was judging this situation correctly, then it was very possible that scum was on the loose once more.


    He was alone in the laboratory, the rest of the investigation team waiting outside. Forensics had already taken samples for testing -- now it was time for him to do his work.


    Blue-and-red Aether sparked.


    Angel¡¯s Eye.


    Aiden¡¯s eyes -- one red, one blue -- blinked, and as they opened again the blue eye began to multiply. More and more eyes fired out of Aiden¡¯s sockets like they were being spat, and once they emerged they floated free in the air, bobbing and weaving around him like birds.


    Angel¡¯s Eye -- Seek.


    As one, the eyes zoomed around the room, running their gaze over every inch of the crime scene, transmitting every detail they spotted directly to Aiden¡¯s brain. The implications of the blood splatter, the barely visible footsteps indicating multiple individuals, the slightly dryer spot where Helga Malwarian had likely landed. One of the eyes even squeezed down the corpse¡¯s throat, so as to inspect his insides for any potential evidence.


    Before Aiden¡¯s eyes, nothing went unseen.


    Something was spotted -- something, that before now, had been missed. A trace of organic material lodged behind one of the machines. The eyes returned to Aiden -- a choking sound coming from the corpse as the organ inside it maneuvered back up its throat -- and he stood, moving over to the position in question.


    In the end, it was lodged back there so definitively that he needed Aether just to reach it without breaking his hand. Slowly, delicately, Aiden pulled it free -- and his eyes widened as he saw just what he¡¯d found.


    A severed human finger, stump still oozing blood.


    "The tests are positive," Aiden relayed, hands behind his back as he strolled through the garden. "The finger definitely belongs to Helga."


    Gertrude Hearth, walking alongside him, nodded. The usual matronish aspect the Apexbishop adopted was gone, replaced with a cold iron fury. Her tail waved stiffly in the air behind her, and her hands were clasped tight as vices, her own fingers pale.


    Dr. Cloud had been one of her favourites, after all. She was not happy. sea??h th§× NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I understand one of the pods was missing from Cloud¡¯s ship, too," she said quietly. "Is that right?"


    Aiden nodded. "We¡¯ve confirmed that pod docked on the Menagerie afterwards, but whoever was inside ran out before anyone could get a good look at them. Security footage isn¡¯t too clear, but it looks like Malwarian."


    "So she¡¯s here¡­" Gertrude mused, glancing down at the floor -- as if she could see right through it to wherever Helga Malwarian was hiding.


    Aiden continued, eager to soothe his superior¡¯s ill temper. "The finger is a good sign for us, though," he said quickly. "It means she¡¯s injured. She¡¯ll have to seek treatment for that, and there¡¯s only so many hospitals aboard the ship. We can station men to watch them, make sure --"


    Gertrude cut him off without looking at him. "There¡¯s no shortage of back-alley doctors aboard my ship. I¡¯m under no illusions regarding the criminal element that gathers to a Truemeet, Detective Prestige."


    "Even so, if she¡¯s after Panacea¡­"


    "She may not seek Panacea. It¡¯s entirely possible she¡¯ll just accept the loss of her finger and attempt a further escape. Don¡¯t assume these things, Blaith."


    Aiden thought of providing another argument, but Gertrude¡¯s face said that would be disastrous.


    "My apologies, ma¡¯am," he finally settled on.


    Their stroll paused, right on the edge of a little pond. Some of Gertrude¡¯s pet ducks were swimming in it, quacking merrily. As Aiden looked down, he could see their reflections in the water, warped by ripples.


    "You brought the finger?" Gertrude asked, her feline ears perking up.


    "As you requested." Aiden retrieved the digit, wrapped in bandages, from the inside pocket of his jacket.


    As Gertrude extended a hand, he gave it to her, brushing some of his slack brown hair out of his eyes as he did so. Without any trace of distaste or disgust, she unwrapped the cold and bloodstained thing, turning it over in her hand. No doubt it would start rotting soon.


    "Hm," she sounded distinctly unimpressed.


    As Aiden watched her, he saw a spark of dark purple Aether run out of Gertrude¡¯s fingernails and into the severed digit.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Aiden," she said gently, taking a length of Neverwire out of her pocket and sawing through it with one of her sharp fingernails. "I¡¯ve always admired your drive for self-improvement. Did you know that?"


    "That¡¯s very kind of you to say."


    She wrapped the section of Neverwire she¡¯d removed around the severed finger, tying it into a knot right over the stump. It looked to Aiden now like some kind of eerie talisman.


    "You went from relative nobody to Detective Prestige in just around a year. Not everyone is capable of that -- no, I must correct myself: not everybody is capable of spotting the opportunities for that. You¡¯re someone who¡¯s very adept at that sort of thing." She glanced at him. "That¡¯s why I want you to handle this. I¡¯m giving you another opportunity, you understand? Don¡¯t waste it now."


    She handed the finger back to Aiden, now bound with Neverwire. Aiden accepted it, careful not to touch the exposed wire directly with his skin: the black gloves he¡¯d taken to wearing came in handy there.


    "Find Helga Malwarian and bring her back to justice, Aiden," Gertrude commanded. "Should you find yourself in a dire situation, snap that Neverwire bond and you¡¯ll receive assistance. If things get even worse than that¡­"


    As Aiden looked down at the finger, he heard a wet tearing noise -- and when he looked up, he saw a bizarre and grotesque sight.


    Gertrude Hearth¡¯s face was twisted in agony, her ears flat against her head, as she slowly peeled off one of her fingernails. Finally, with one fast motion, she tore it free like she was ripping off a bandage -- and with practised bleeding hands, she wrapped that in Neverwire as well. She dropped it into Aiden¡¯s palm with the finger, panting for breath.


    "...if things get worse than that," she repeated. "Use this. It¡¯ll put you on an even footing with anyone."


    Aiden looked down at the stripped-away fingernail, at the drips of fresh blood trickling from the underside onto his palm. Doing his best not to grimace, he nodded, and carefully deposited the gifts into the pouch on his belt.


    "Now go, Detective Prestige," Gertrude commanded, standing just a bit taller for a moment. "Enact justice."


    The audience was over.


    Aiden turned on his heel and made his way back to the entrance of the garden. As he did, he felt a sly smirk spreading over his face. Gertrude was right: he was a man who knew how to spot opportunity. He¡¯d learnt that lesson the hard way.


    Sometimes even now he dreamed of those automatics pointing their guns at him, of his comrade being melted down by their plasma, of the cruelty of Samael Ambrazo Zakos. Back then, on Yoslof, he¡¯d known what it felt like to have your life dangled over a void, subject to someone else¡¯s whims -- and he refused to be put in that position again.


    He understood now. He understood the shape of this world. There were people who climbed, and there were people who were climbed on. He¡¯d do whatever it took to be the former, no matter how distasteful.


    As he reached the exit of the garden, he pulled free the stun-staff he¡¯d left embedded in the dirt there. He¡¯d used the very same weapon to incapacitate Helga Malwarian back on Yoslof, and now it had become something of a badge of office for him. A marker of his authority as Detective Prestige.


    He¡¯d climbed to this height from nothing in such a short time. That alone proved he wasn¡¯t your average person. His resolve was exceptional.


    "Oh, and Aiden?" Gertrude said sweetly.


    Aiden turned -- and his body stiffened, as he saw malice.


    Gertrude was still standing in the shade of an apple tree, hands clasped before her, looking directly at him. Yellow light reflected off her eyes, making it seem as though they were glowing, and the darkness made a silhouette of the rest of her form. Her tail waved sinisterly behind her.


    She hissed: "If you find Mila Green along the way? Bring me her head."


    Swallowing down his nervousness, Aiden nodded -- and hurried out of the room.


    Helga Malwarian adjusted her stolen clothing.


    A shirt that was far too big for her and a pair of denim shorts. Hardly good gear for a combat situation, but they were better than being naked. When you were snatching clothing off washing lines, you couldn¡¯t exactly be picky.


    Her hand still hurt like hell. As she walked through the crowds, she glanced down at it -- the stump of her missing finger still wrapped in bandages. She didn¡¯t have a good idea how long ago she¡¯d lost the digit. Had the golden hours for Panacea already passed? If they hadn¡¯t, they were certainly close.


    The streets of the Menagerie were packed with all sorts -- merchants and shoppers, mercenaries and thugs, Superbian nobility striding by and Humilist children running underfoot. In that melting pot, Helga¡¯s unusual attire didn¡¯t seem unusual at all -- even if her shirt read, in colossal text, ¡¯BIG BURGER¡¯. It was a good feeling, to sink into the crowd and forget yourself for a bit.


    A shame it couldn¡¯t last forever.


    The blurred memories of what had happened after her awakening still haunted her. It wasn¡¯t her attack on the GID agent that concerned her, though -- it was the face of the young girl who¡¯d been accompanying him. She¡¯d looked familiar, instantly familiar, extremely familiar¡­ but there was no way. Lyons had promised.


    Was she really foolish enough to think Jean Lyons would keep a promise, though?


    The streets of the Menegarie converged here, in a massive courtyard. A water installation of rusted metal and carved stone, rough and jagged, loomed over the passing civilians -- and the liquid that cascaded down it was nearly deafening. She¡¯d retrieved a map of the Menegarie from a navigation console, and this was the place she was looking for.


    To get anywhere on this ship, you had to go through here -- and if Jean Lyons was aboard the Menegarie, he¡¯d definitely be watching this spot.


    Helga sat down on a nearby bench, and it took only a few minutes of looking around for her to find what she was looking for. A camera, expertly concealed in the dark space between two fingers of a nearby statue. The black lens of the observer was only barely visible, and only if one was specifically looking for it. Helga stared directly into it.


    Here I am, Jean, she thought bitterly, cradling her injured hand. Come get me.


    The river of humanity passed her by, shops opened and closed, and all that time Helga just stared -- glared -- deep into the camera. The lights shifted to night mode, casting Helga into darkness, and still she just stared. It began to turn cold as the heating was reduced, and still Helga stared.


    Finally, though, someone sat down next to her. By the time she realised it, Jean Lyons had already put an arm around her shoulders.


    "So good to see you again," he purred. "Shall we go?"


    "Nice of you to get back to me," Skipper grinned, looking down over the city from the hospital balcony. "I¡¯m assuming you¡¯re all for it, yeah?"


    The voice on the other end was crackly, deep, modulated. The kind of voice a mountain would have.


    "This is Zachariah Esmeralda?" it asked.


    Skipper¡¯s grin twitched out of existence. "This is Skipper, pal. Maybe you¡¯ve got the wrong number?"


    "This is the Apexbishop Asmagius," the voice continued, ignoring his rebuke. "Of the Paradisas sect. Recently, you got into contact with us. You requested our aid with clandestine activities against the Supremacy."


    "Yep," Skipper poked at a potted plant, watching the leaves twitch irritably in response. "That was me. Nice to hear from ya."


    "Our answer is no."


    Skipper¡¯s finger stopped mid-poke, and his face finally adopted the scowl that had been building. His eyes narrowed. "No?"


    "Hamashtiel said as much when you last spoke. Your story was insufficient to sway our interests. We thank you for your time. However, we will not speak again."


    Skipper sighed. "Well, I guess I can give ya a chance to think about it. No problemo."


    "We will not speak again."


    The call clicked off, and Skipper quickly stuffed the script back into his pocket. Turning back to the hallway -- where Dragan was waiting -- he put a considerate hand to his chin.


    It seemed the Paradisas weren¡¯t going to act as he wanted just from him acting nicely and telling them an interesting story. He¡¯d half-expected that, but it was still a disappointment. He certainly didn¡¯t relish the prospect, but¡­


    His grin returned.


    ¡­ it looked like he¡¯d have to do things the hard way.

 Chapter 226:9.17: Silent Song

    Tread softly. No, sweet child, softer even than that. You must be less than a breeze.


    Do you hold a knife? No, you must not. Even your hands are far too much. No weapon must ever exist in the eyes of men.


    Do you speak? Do you explain, plead, taunt? No, no... you must not. You must be hushed in all matters.


    Our song is the silent one. Our choir is the quiet.


    Let the only trace of your existence be the corpse left behind.


    Excerpt, Quiet Choir Training Videograph


    "This seems like a bad idea," Dragan said warily, eyes flicking around the place.


    "Really?" Skipper raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. "Seems like a great idea to me."


    "Yeah, Mr. Dragan," Serena chirped like a parrot. "It¡¯s a great idea."


    Ruth¡¯s unexpected growl put a quick end to their chit-chat. "Can you all stop talking?" she asked. "It¡¯s tense here. We¡¯re being watched."


    Apparently, they hadn¡¯t had the rank or prestige to get aboard the Deus Nobiscum itself, so Skipper had instead taken them over to another Superbian cathedral-ship -- the Sainted Wyrmslayer. If it was any less extravagant than the main ship, Dragan certainly couldn¡¯t tell.


    There was a curious difference between Humilist and Superbian architecture. Even though the Menagerie was huge, it still felt cramped -- like the streets had been designed to create a crush of humanity, everything brushing up against everything else as it moved. In contrast, the Superbians seemed to take glee in spreading things out as much as possible, as if showing off the fact that they could afford to waste the space.


    The main hall of the Sainted Wyrmslayer was no different.


    As they walked down the center of the hall, pews were lined up on either side of them, none occupied -- with several meters between each row. The preaching plinth, as well, was considerably far away from where the actual procession would sit; no doubt speakers were subtly placed throughout the room to carry the preacher¡¯s voice. There was no sermon going on right now, though, so Dragan supposed he wouldn¡¯t get the chance to find out.


    Serena looked up in great interest at the stained glass that covered the walls. Stylised murals of saints and folk heroes, messiahs and demons, legends and myths -- coming from the Supremacy, Dragan didn¡¯t recognise most of the stories he saw, but the light they cast over the room was magnificent all the same.


    Magnificent¡­ but a tad malicious, too. Perhaps Dragan was biased in thinking that.


    "Remind me why we¡¯re here again?" Dragan muttered, glancing at Skipper. "Like I said, it seems like a bad idea."


    Skipper looked back at him, grinning. "Like I said -- one of the guys trying to kill us was wearing the uniform of the Quiet Choir, part of the Superbian sect. The Quiet Choir operates out of places like this."


    "Like I said," Dragan pushed on. "Why does that mean we have to come here? They obviously don¡¯t like us. What¡¯s the point of putting ourselves right in their grasp?"


    "He¡¯s right," Ruth said darkly. "This is a bad idea."


    "Nobody likes my ideas lately," Skipper sighed. "You guys have gotta get yourselves a more positive attitude."


    "Or maybe you need to have better ideas," Dragan shot back.


    Skipper shook his head. "Nah. No way."


    Dragan took another step forward -- and as he did, he realized there was someone with them, someone standing right in the middle of their little group. A tall man with curly green hair, wearing flowing white robes.


    "Can I help you¡­ people?" the man asked.


    Dragan froze. Serena whirled around. Ruth leapt back, perching on the end of a pew like a bird. Only Skipper remained relaxed -- he took a few more steps forward before turning on his heel, hands clasped behind his back.


    "You certainly can!" Skipper said cheerfully. "Am I right in saying you¡¯re with the Quiet Choir, friend?"


    The false friendliness on the man¡¯s face did not fade. His expression was so still that it almost looked like it was painted onto his face -- if not for the moving of his mouth.


    "That is indeed so," he said, nodding respectfully. "I do have the honour of being counted among such an esteemed organisation. Why do you ask, good sir?"


    Skipper leaned back, switching posture into a cross of his arms. "Wow," he said. "Ain¡¯t that just swell. My nephew here --" He pointed to Dragan. "-- he just loves you guys. Huge fan. Buys all the video games." sea??h th§× nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Quiet Chorister cocked his head. "Are you making a joke of me, sir?" he murmured, the shadow of a threat in his tone. "I wouldn¡¯t advise that."


    Skipper waved a relaxed hand. "Not at all, not at all. I¡¯ve got a lotta respect for your profession as well. I just wanted to ask real quick¡­"


    The grin dropped from his face.


    "...how come you tried to kill me?"


    Dragan glared daggers at Skipper. What the hell was he doing?! This wasn¡¯t what they¡¯d discussed at all. Was he trying to drag them into another fight?!


    Again, though, the Chorister was unflappable. Despite the accusation in Skipper¡¯s voice, the robed man just continued to smile genially.


    "Pardon?" he asked. "I¡¯m afraid you must be mistaken. You¡¯re not an individual we have marked for reprimand. I apologise for the misunderstanding."


    "Oh?" Skipper¡¯s lips curled into a smirk, already beginning the metamorphosis back into a grin. "What, you know every single person marked for ¡¯reprimand¡¯?"


    "Of course," the Chorister smiled. "Proper bookkeeping is essential for a healthy mind. You are mistaken. I¡¯d thank you to leave now."


    Skipper stepped forward, lids falling halfway over his eyes, and stared the other man down.


    "Some blonde kid with pigtails attacked us last night on the Aipol Beach," he said softly. "Nearly killed me. Nearly killed my friends here. Now how about you stop lying to me before I make you stop lying to me?"


    For the first time, the serenity flickered away from the Chorister¡¯s expression.


    "The Aipol Beach?" he echoed. "Oh. Oh dear."


    "Manuel Havarashi?" Aiden asked, marching into the hospital room.


    The mercenary looked up from his bed, grunting in affirmation. He wasn¡¯t especially old, but his hair had begun to turn grey all the same -- the stresses of his occupation, perhaps. A petite goatee poked out from his chin.


    Security footage confirmed this man had been meeting with Mila Green right before she¡¯d been ambushed by two unknown assailants. Manuel was a known quantity to the Forgiveness Corps: a notorious gun-for-hire. If he¡¯d been meeting with Green, there was only one reason why.


    She¡¯d had a job for him.


    "And who are you?" Manuel asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.


    Aiden flashed his badge, his marker as a Detective Prestige, and immediately saw some of the tension drain out of Manuel¡¯s gaze. Ownership of a badge was its own form of strength. Merely by holding it out, people trusted in you.


    Manuel leaned back, head against his pillow. "What can I do for you, Detective?" he said, relaxing slightly. There was still some trepidation in his tone, but that was fine. Aiden was someone to be wary of, for sure.


    Still though¡­ Detective? He was a Detective Prestige. Had Manuel not read the badge?


    Aiden got straight to the chase, sitting down in the chair beside Manuel¡¯s bed. "You were involved in an incident last night," he said matter-of-factly. "Ambushed in the street by an unknown swordsman and knocked unconscious. Is that right?"


    "You seem to already know it is," Manuel spoke seriously. "Why bother asking me about it?"


    Aiden¡¯s eyes ran over the length of his bed. From what he understood, two of Manuel¡¯s cohorts had not gotten off so easily -- they¡¯d been found dead -- but the head trauma the mercenary had suffered was nothing to scoff at. He even had a drip running into his arm, providing nutrients to keep him fed and anaesthetic to keep him calm.


    "You were meeting with a woman named Mila Green at the time," Aiden continued. "Why? What job did she have for you?"


    "Mila Green?" Manuel frowned before shrugging. "Don¡¯t know her. Think you might have some information mixed up, friend."


    Aiden sighed, reaching into his pocket and bringing out the pin recovered from Manuel¡¯s personal effects. A golden spiral, like a serpent coiled around itself.


    "Mitose, right?" Aiden said. "You guys take your business seriously, don¡¯t you? I¡¯ve never seen one of these pins in person before. It¡¯s nice."


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it¡¯s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    A sliver of caution entered Manuel¡¯s gaze as he shifted in the bed. "We¡¯re licensed to work in Humilist space, sir. And we promise full confidentiality to our clients. If that information is what you¡¯re looking for, then I can¡¯t help you."


    Aiden raised an eyebrow. "That information is key to apprehending a wanted criminal."


    "Even so. My word is my bond."


    Aiden¡¯s face slackened. "I see."


    He reached into his pocket again -- and once again, pulled something out. A syringe full of bright pink liquid. Manuel¡¯s brow furrowed as he looked at it.


    "What is that?" he asked, eyes flicking between Aiden and the syringe.


    "It¡¯s called Pixie Dust," Aiden said, flicking the needle of the syringe with his fingers. "A drug. As the name suggests, usually it comes in the form of dust, but I managed to get this liquid form from evidence storage."


    Manuel¡¯s voice was cold. "If you think a bribe of drugs would suffice to make me break my oaths, you are sorely mistaken."


    "Oh, not at all."


    Aiden leaned over -- and injected maybe a tenth of the Pixie Dust into Manuel¡¯s drip. Immediately, Manuel lunged forward to try and stop him, but the anaesthetic had already done its work. The movement was soft and sluggish, and all Aiden had to do to keep him restrained was plant a hand down on the centre of his chest.


    "It¡¯s more potent in the liquid form," Aiden said quietly. "But by no means harmful -- at least, not in such a small amount. At the most, you should be feeling your heartbeat accelerate a little. Maybe feel lightheaded. It doesn¡¯t need to go any further than this." His gaze drifted to the syringe. "It can, though. A third of this syringe could do permanent damage to your nervous system. Where is Mila Green?"


    Manuel clenched his jaw. "Don¡¯t know her."


    Sweat poured down the back of Aiden¡¯s neck. Despite the formidable facade he was putting on, he really had no desire to do this man harm. Why couldn¡¯t this guy just do the smart thing and give Green up? Why was he forcing Aiden to take such steps?


    He was no coward, though. If Manuel Havarashi was going to push him, he was going to push back.


    Aiden injected a sliver more of Pixie Dust, and Manuel¡¯s face began to turn red. Beneath his hand, Aiden could feel the mercenary¡¯s heart beating a mile a minute.


    "Are you sure?" Aiden asked calmly. "Like I said¡­ even just a third could ruin you. Come on. Just tell me about Mila Green."


    Manuel squeezed his eyes shut. "I met with her¡­ she hired me, us, yes, but I can¡¯t tell you more than that."


    "Shame."


    Aiden¡¯s finger brushed against the plunger again, but even just the threat of it was enough now. Manuel¡¯s eyes opened again, wide, and he threw out a clumsy and ineffective arm in protest.


    "No, no no! Don¡¯t!" he cried. "For Y¡¯s sake, man! I¡¯ll tell you!"


    Aiden released the syringe, letting it perch on the drip where it had pierced the tube, and smiled. "I appreciate it. What did she want you to do?"


    "She¡­ wanted help breaking into a ship. A rescue mission, she called it. Wanted us to bust out some woman being held there." Manuel could not look him in the eye. That was only right, with what he¡¯d done.


    So Green had been wanting to break Helga Malwarian free all along. No wonder Gertrude wanted her dead. With this kind of treason, Aiden would have done it without being asked.


    "You realise that ship was official Humilist property?" he snapped. "That you were betraying your own faith?"


    Manuel shook his head weakly, feverishly. "I didn¡¯t know¡­ I didn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t know. We didn¡¯t even start the mission, those guys came and grabbed her. Took her."


    "The two attackers," Aiden nodded. "Who were they?"


    "I don¡¯t know."


    Aiden¡¯s hand moved back to the syringe. Just a few drops more, but enough to shake Manuel¡¯s resolve.


    "The Superbians!" he said through gritted teeth. "The¡­ they said they were from the Superbians. I heard them talking before I fell unconscious. They mentioned it."


    As Aiden had expected. "Thank you," he said. "That¡¯s very helpful. How did Green contact you?"


    "That¡¯s¡­"


    "How did Green contact you?"


    Manuel looked away, eyes narrowed in shame, his body shaking. "Disposable script," he slurred. "Under the floorboards in my apartment."


    Aiden smiled, letting go of the syringe. "That¡¯s excellent. I appreciate you taking the time out to speak with me. From what you¡¯ve said, you¡¯ve been involved in this against your will -- I¡¯ll make sure no charges are placed against you personally. Mila Green is the one responsible."


    He stood up, pushing the chair back, and turned to leave.


    "You¡¯re a disgrace," Manuel hissed.


    Aiden stopped.


    "What did you say?" he asked, his fists clenched. Surely he hadn¡¯t just heard that. Surely, after the lengths Aiden had just said he¡¯d go to to keep this man out of trouble, he hadn¡¯t just said that.


    In the shadow of his mind, the hulking form of Samael Ambrazo Zakos towered over him, wild eyes staring down. Manuel was looking down on him just like that.


    Anger moved Aiden¡¯s body before anything rational could take hold. He stomped forward, seized hold of the syringe still embedded into the drip -- and pushed the plunger all the way down, injecting every last drop.


    Immediately, he regretted it.


    "What did --" Manuel began, before the capacity for words abandoned him and he began seizing wildly in his bed, pink bubbling drool coming from his mouth.


    Aiden went to pull the syringe out, as if that would do anything -- but no. No. As a matter of fact, he didn¡¯t regret it. There was nothing wrong with what he¡¯d done. He hadn¡¯t had a choice. Manuel had forced him into it with those disrespectful words.


    He hardened the horrified expression on his face into a sneer, and took a step back.


    "You shouldn¡¯t have said that," he said, before turning again and marching out of the room, doing his best not to pay attention to the gurgling behind him.


    If people didn¡¯t respect you in this business, that was the end. He had done what anyone else would have done, in his place. Manuel simply shouldn¡¯t have said that.


    As he went through the hospital door, Aiden spotted a nurse standing there, hands covering her mouth as she looked on in horror. He flashed his identification, and then -- for good measure -- stuffed a wad of bills into her grasp.


    Wealth, like a badge, was its own form of strength.


    Serena¡¯s face tightened into Bruno¡¯s as he leaned back in the pew, arms spread wide over the headrest behind him.


    "So some random maniac attacks the Aipol Beach, tries to kill us, and then he gets excommunicated?" he recapped the information the Chorister had given them. "You guys really believe that?"


    "Smells like bullshit," Dragan bitterly replied.


    "Really?" Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Smells like soap to me. Someone¡¯s trying to wash their hands of the whole thing -- someone high up, since it takes a lotta influence to excommunicate someone."


    Ruth paced back and forth, arms crossed, as the group talked. "So the Superbians have it out for us?"


    "Could be," Skipper said, but his face was unsure. "I dunno, though¡­ something doesn¡¯t feel right about it."


    "If they do have it out for us," Dragan said, his voice hushed. "Shouldn¡¯t we get out of here? We¡¯re right in their hands. We shouldn¡¯t have come here in the first place."


    "Agreed," Bruno nodded. "We need to get out of sight. Did the Paradisas get back to you, Skipper? If they¡¯re with us, why are we still hanging out around here? We should just leave."


    "Nah," Skipper sighed. "Still waiting on the Paradisas."


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked over to Skipper, but the expression on his face didn¡¯t twitch. That was a blatant lie. Dragan had seen Skipper get a call from the Paradisas back at the hospital. Should he call him out?


    No. Not yet. Discretion was the better part of valour. For the time being, Dragan kept his mouth shut.


    "Still though," Skipper continued, cracking his neck. "Hanging around here probably ain¡¯t the most genius plan. You guys go get the Slipstream ready, yeah?"


    It was Dragan¡¯s turn to raise an eyebrow. "¡¯You guys?¡¯ And what¡¯re you gonna do?"


    Skipper jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, towards the grand double doors the Chorister had left through. "Got a few more questions for our pale-robed friend. Should only take a couple of minutes -- call me when we¡¯re ready to go."


    Dragan considered arguing, but he honestly didn¡¯t recall an occasion where Skipper had responded to a logical argument. Instead, he simply sighed and got up.


    "Fine," he said. "Don¡¯t fuck around, though."


    Skipper¡¯s grin was so cheesy it was a wonder his teeth didn¡¯t twinkle. "Never."


    The group split in two directions -- Skipper heading for the doors deeper into the cathedral, Dragan and the rest heading for the exit. Their footsteps echoed throughout the great hall -- interrupted only for a moment by the slamming of the doors behind Skipper.


    When the quiet returned, however, it was already infested by a new sound.


    The sound of skittering legs.


    The neighbouring pews exploded into wood and dust as two giant ants, the size of hounds, lunged out from beneath them. Transparent liquid dripped liberally from their mandibles, and they let loose a nearly inaudible screech as they charged at Ruth and Bruno -- standing on either side of Dragan.


    They responded quickly. Bruno slammed his fist into one ant¡¯s head and Ruth cleaved the other in half -- but it did not have the result anticipated. Seconds after making contact with the massive insects, Ruth and Bruno simply¡­ vanished.


    Dragan spun around on the spot, looking for any sign of his friends. None. He was alone.


    "Guys?" he called out.


    Ruth fell on one knee as she reappeared out of the void, her claws already bared and ready as she looked up with a growl.


    She¡¯d moved. This wasn¡¯t the same place. Instead of the grand architecture and stained glass of the cathedral, she was surrounded by pipes and hulking modules and blinking panels. Some kind of maintenance facility? The heat was excruciating: she¡¯d only been here for a couple of seconds, yet her brow was already dripping with sweat.


    She glanced to the side. Bruno was with her, rubbing his head -- he¡¯d clearly had a less convenient landing. Touching those bugs must have been some kind of teleport trap.


    Footsteps. Ruth¡¯s head snapped to face the direction of the threat.


    A man in a black sweater, stepping out of the shadow of one of the machines. His eyes were closed, yet Ruth was certain he could see them. In one hand, he carefully held what looked like a deck of cards. In his other hand, he seemed to be holding a single card -- although that dissipated into crawling yellow Aether shortly after.


    "Utility Card -- Borrower Ant," he said, as if that explained anything. "Teleports those it makes contact with to the game arena. Two of you, huh? I¡¯m so popular."


    Click. Click.


    Calm, measured footsteps echoed out from the entrance of the cathedral.


    The hand of death wrapped itself around Dragan¡¯s throat. There was no logical basis for it, but in that moment he knew he was in truly mortal danger. He should have called out. He should have called out for Skipper, at least, but all he could do was dumbly stare up.


    A staircase led down into this cathedral, and now there was someone standing right at the top of it. Someone looking back down at Dragan.


    Luscious dark hair hung like a shroud around them, their red-and-black robes as intricate as artwork. Pale skin made them seem ghostly, ethereal, like a spectral vision Dragan was experiencing. Crimson eyes looked down at him like he was a piece of shit on a boot.


    "Dragan Hadrien?" the figure asked softly, in a voice that demanded worship.


    Dragan blinked. He didn¡¯t have time to answer.


    Giovanni Sigma Testament threw a hand forward.


    First Verse.


    He would waste no time when it came to vengeance. This time, he fired ten crystal spears at once -- each one aimed at Dragan Hadrien¡¯s head, and each one aimed perfectly.


    The room exploded into light and chaos.

 Chapter 227:9.18: Cacophony

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    The building shook. Skipper didn¡¯t so much as blink, lounging on the extravagant sofa he¡¯d found.


    "Doesn¡¯t that concern you?" asked the Chorister. He was sitting behind his desk, leisurely sipping a goblet of red wine. Despite his words, the only expression on his own face was that same serene smile.


    This was the Chorister¡¯s office, from what Skipper had gathered. If the man had a name beyond that, he hadn¡¯t volunteered it -- a man after Skipper¡¯s own heart. It was a nice place, too, all white marble and dark wood. A tank of alien fish bathed the room in a pale blue light, punctuated by their dark shadows. When shade passed over Skipper and the Chorister¡¯s faces, they looked so much more like themselves.


    "Nah," Skipper grinned. "They¡¯re good kids. I¡¯ve trained ¡¯em up well. I¡¯m more worried about myself, to be honest with ya."


    "Oh?" the Chorister cocked his head, steepling his fingers on the desk before him. "Why¡¯s that?"


    Skipper¡¯s intent gaze was like two slivers of ice. "Well¡­ if I tried to leave this room, right now, what would happen?"


    The Chorister adjusted the angle of his goblet resting on the desk. When he was seemingly satisfied, he looked back up at Skipper. "I wouldn¡¯t recommend it."


    Skipper furiously waggled his eyebrows. "Oh yeah? What would you do?"


    "I wouldn¡¯t recommend it."


    One of the eels -- a segmented, carapace-covered thing, spiralled in the tank. Its hiss echoed ominously. The pale light of the water ran throughout the room, waving over their forms, rendering them silhouettes. With the accompanying tension, it almost felt like they were at the bottom of the ocean themselves.


    "When did the trap spring?" Skipper asked, as casual as anything. "Just out of curiosity."


    The Chorister held nothing back either. "There was no trap until you created it for us. We were in quite the panic when you suddenly docked here, to tell the truth. Honestly¡­ what were you thinking?"


    "If I asked you why you guys want us dead," Skipper said, leaning forward. "Would you tell me? Or would that be giving away secrets?"


    "It would be," the Chorister nodded. "If I had any secrets to give you. I¡¯m afraid I wouldn¡¯t know what exactly Dragan Hadrien has done to warrant such ire."


    So it was a personal thing, and it was against Dragan specifically. The only thing Dragan had done involving the Superbians was killing that assassin the day before. Someone they knew wanted revenge, then? But that didn¡¯t explain why the Superbians went after them in the first place.


    "Man, that sucks," Skipper sighed, twisting over on the couch to lie down on it horizontally. He put his arms behind his head as a pillow, letting his eyes gently close.


    "Oh? You¡¯re certainly making yourself comfortable." There was a note of wry amusement in the Chorister¡¯s voice.


    Skipper yawned. "Sure am. Besides, this is a good opportunity for me."


    The Chorister¡¯s expression changed, his smile flipping into a bemused frown. "An opportunity? What do you mean?"


    Skipper¡¯s eyes opened, and there was a shadow behind them.


    "A good opportunity for you and me to chat, pal," he said. "There¡¯s a whole lot for us to discuss."


    Giovanni took another step down the stairs.


    A wall of dusty fog had been erected by his initial attack: perhaps he¡¯d gone a little overboard. One of the First Verse¡¯s spears would have been sufficient to skewer an unsuspecting opponent -- there had been no need for ten. All he¡¯d achieved with such overkill was collateral damage.


    Still¡­ it was unwise to allow his vision to be obstructed.


    Second Verse.


    He used it only for a second -- a vague red shape appearing around him and immediately vanishing. The shockwave created as a side-effect of the ability came in handy, however. It burst out from around his form, blowing the dust away and clearing out the great room before him.


    Broken marble. Shattered glass. Crumpled wood.


    If anyone else had done this, it would have been vandalism approaching blasphemy. Giovanni Sigma Testament, however, was still dissatisfied. He narrowed his eyes as he finished scanning the room.


    No blood. No body parts. No corpse.


    Dragan Hadrien was still alive, then. Clearly he¡¯d underestimated the rat -- perhaps ten spears actually hadn¡¯t been enough. The weapons had dissipated after hitting the ground, and Giovanni could still see the small dark holes where they¡¯d drilled down through the stone. None of them had actually hit Hadrien.


    Giovanni took another step down.


    At that speed, there was no way Hadrien should have been able to dodge with natural human reflexes. Even Giovanni¡¯s Third Verse wouldn¡¯t have allowed it. Hadrien obviously had some kind of ability that had allowed him to avoid the attack via unorthodox means.


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    He thought back to the footage he¡¯d seen of Hadrien killing Jamie, suppressing the shivers of rage that had accompanied the memory. In that clip, Hadrien had recorded the incoming attack and then manifested it again, firing it right back at Jamie. Was it possible that¡­?


    Sixth Verse.


    Giovanni smiled a thin smile. It was.


    If Dragan could breathe, it would have been ragged.


    He¡¯d only just managed to avoid that attack by going into Gemini World -- and now he floated through the room, disparate, observing his attacker as they entered the chamber proper. The grand doors slid shut behind him as he descended the stairs, blocking off Dragan¡¯s escape route.


    "There are no human remains here," his dark-haired enemy said, voice echoing throughout the hallowed space. "Therefore, I can only conclude I haven¡¯t killed you."


    From what Dragan had seen, this enemy probably had three different abilities. Some kind of teleport which he¡¯d used to get rid of Bruno and Ruth, the power to create and shoot those crystal spears, and some kind of shockwave he¡¯d used a moment ago to clear the debris.


    The shockwave meant getting close to him was risky, but that wasn¡¯t Dragan¡¯s style anyway. If he positioned himself correctly, he should be able to absorb a couple of those crystal spears into Gemini Shotgun without getting hit by the rest.


    It was pretty basic as far as plans went, but it was all he had. All that mattered now was the timing. He began to adjust his position, trying to circle around behind the enemy before reappearing.


    It was a good opportunity: his attacker was still busy speaking. "There are any number of means you could have used to avoid my attack. Perhaps you teleported away. Perhaps you projected some kind of illusion, and I hit something else instead of you. Perhaps you turned yourself invisible, died, and now I simply cannot see your corpse. Or perhaps¡­"


    His gaze moved -- and he looked directly at Dragan. Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "...perhaps you¡¯ve recorded your body into Aether, and are now trying to get behind me?"


    He could see through Gemini World. Another power, one enhancing his perceptions, allowing him to see what would ordinarily be imperceptible?


    If he stayed in Gemini World, this man would just watch him like a hawk, and attack the instant he emerged from it. There was only one way to retain the element of surprise.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan manifested himself immediately, leaping forward as blue sparks wrote him back into existence like a 3D printer. The second he reappeared, he fired the debris he¡¯d already absorbed straight forward -- a shotgun blast of rock and glass zooming towards the enemy.


    Dragan had hoped for surprise, but the dark-haired man seemed to have anticipated this. He raised his hand, palm open, and spoke.


    "Second Verse," he intoned. "First Verse."


    With his first two words -- and an accompanying shockwave -- a bubble of crimson crystal formed around him, creating a shield that deflected Dragan¡¯s attacks. With his last two words, four more crystal spears appeared -- each aiming at a different part of Dragan¡¯s body -- and fired.


    Gemini World was useless for hiding here, but there was no better way to dodge multiple attacks like this.


    Gemini World.


    He vanished in the instant the spears were about to hit him, and appeared again a second later. With a rush of movement, he grabbed his pistol from its holster and pointed it at the --


    Impact. Pain.


    Dragan looked down.


    There, protruding from his left leg, was one of the crystal spears, its red colour cemented by Dragan¡¯s blood. It had gone right through Dragan¡¯s knee, lodging in the wound.


    A ricochet. Of course. That was why this bastard had kept the shield up.


    The spear finally vanished -- and Dragan collapsed to the floor. The wound in his leg, finally made open, began gushing out blood copiously. The pain was excruciating, burning, like some dire organ had malfunctioned and started producing acid inside of him. Dragan clutched his damaged leg, teeth bared to such a degree that they too were agony, and whimpered.


    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shield around his opponent disappear -- and they took a confident step forwards.


    "Giovanni Sigma Testament," they smiled, looking down at him. "That is my name -- and I¡¯ll be taking your right leg next."


    The guy with the cards bowed theatrically to Ruth and Bruno.


    "A pleasure to make your acquaintances," he said, a bullshit smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. "While circumstances have made us enemies, I hope we can still have respect for each other. The rules of the game will be as follows --"


    Ruth charged, leaving him no time to speak, her claws scraping against the ground and producing copious amounts of sparks. The smug bastard backed up out of his bow, the slightest gasp escaping his throat -- and pulled a card from the top of his deck.


    The instincts of a predator pushed Ruth on.


    A few metres more. I can make it before he does anything. One claw through the head, another through the heart.


    The smug man glanced down at the card for a moment before grinning -- and throwing it down onto the ground before him. "Creature Card," he declared, gesticulating wildly with one arm. "Sacrifice Antsassin!"


    Yellow Aether, sickly and diseased, crawled over the card on the ground -- and then a dark shape shot out of it, rushing towards Ruth. She did not break her stride.


    She registered the threat in an instant. Another giant ant, like the one that had teleported her here, only this one was thinner and leaner, with red eyes glinting all over its face. It lunged at her, a knife-like proboscis bursting out of the centre of its face, aimed straight for Ruth¡¯s heart.


    Still, she did not stop running -- because she knew Bruno del Sed had her back.


    The proboscis snapped against Bruno¡¯s forcefield, erected in a split second to protect Ruth¡¯s face. Before the Sacrifice Antsassin could react, Ruth leapt, flipping over the forcefield and crushing the creature¡¯s torso with an Aether-infused stomp.


    A growl pouring from her lips, she swung back around to face her opponent.


    He seemed to have recovered from her sudden attack. His shocked expression was replaced by the same old smirk, and he was holding another card between two fingers. One of his eyes opened, just slightly, and Ruth saw a bright yellow pupil staring at her from the depths of a crow-black eye.


    "Sacrifice Antsassin," he repeated, licking his lips in anticipation. "Ability activate."


    The mass under Ruth¡¯s boot shifted, and she immediately leapt away. She did so in the nick of time -- if she¡¯d delayed any further, she doubted she could have escaped without injury. Despite the fatal wound Ruth had inflicted, the ant had gotten back up.


    And now it was slavering with acidic spit.


    And now it was covered with dark armour.


    And now it was twice as big.


    Oh, Ruth thought. Oh shit.

 Chapter 228:9.19: It’s Time To Duel

    [REDACTED]


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    Ruth leapt out of the way as the insect lunged forward, its mandibles snapping shut where she¡¯d been standing just a moment ago. That didn¡¯t mean she was safe.


    The creature¡¯s legs were as sharp as spears, piercing the ground where it walked. It stabbed down at her with them, forcing her to parry with her claws, each collision creating an explosion of sparks. Aether infused in her arms and legs kept her stance steady, but with each blocked attack she was sliding backwards along the floor -- further away from the main enemy.


    It was infuriating. The card-user was just standing there, smirking, leisurely drawing more cards from the deck until he had five in his hand. This really was all just a game to him.


    "Ruth!" Bruno called out from behind her. "Back to me!"


    For a moment, a new flare of anger ran through her gut -- he wanted her to just run away? -- but no. Bruno would have a plan.


    She dodged backwards as the ant stabbed down again, nearly spearing her from skull to groin -- and taking the opportunity, she began to charge back to Bruno¡¯s position. He had one arm held out, palm flat, ready to project a forcefield.


    Thump. Thump. Thump. She could hear the Unseen Antsassin behind her, its footsteps rapid, gaining with horrifying speed. She wouldn¡¯t make it in time. There was no way she would make it in time.


    But she didn¡¯t need to make it in time.


    Purple Aether sparked around Bruno¡¯s hand -- and a second later, an unearthly screech erupted from the beast behind her. Abandoning caution for a brief moment, Ruth glanced over her shoulder.


    Bruno had used its own ferocity against it.


    He¡¯d created a forcefield -- flat and thin, sharp enough to cut -- within the mouth of the creature, fixing it in place immediately. Then, as the Antsassin had charged at Ruth, that forcefield had been dragged further and further along into the ant¡¯s insides, scraping away its organs as it went. The shield, now coated in pulped organs and blood, burst out of the beast¡¯s backside as the Antsassin slid to a halt.


    Grisly, but effective. Ruth let out a deep breath.


    "Get him!" Bruno shouted again -- and Ruth realized she had no time to waste. Just like last time, the card-user would resurrect the Antsassin, and it would probably be even bigger and stronger than before.


    She charged across the room, leaping over the twitching corpse in a single bound, making her way to the card-user with ferocity in her eyes. He was lifting his hand, holding up a single card, opening his mouth¡­ she wouldn¡¯t reach him before he spoke the name.


    "Utility Card," he cried out. "Bullet-Ant-Swarm!"


    Ruth braced herself for impact as she ran, arms covering her face.


    Noblesse Set.


    "Look at you," Giovanni Sigma Testament said, strolling across the room towards Dragan¡¯s prone form. Twin tears of blood trailed down his face. "Once I know your abilities, you¡¯re not really so formidable, are you? I imagine you used some kind of trick against Jamie. You¡¯ll pay dearly for that."


    His words were just noise. Dragan writhed on the ground, excruciating pain radiating out from the hole in his leg. It had only just started truly bleeding, and already he felt lightheaded. If he didn¡¯t act quickly¡­ he would die.


    He¡¯d recorded his own heart back on the Aipol Beach, and his Aether had continued to pump blood all the same, acting as a substitute. He wondered¡­ could he¡­


    Giovanni stopped walking, lifted one hand up, and smiled. Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "First Verse," he whispered, almost hungrily. A spear of red crystal appeared floating over his shoulder, spinning in place, aimed right for Dragan¡¯s right leg.


    No time for wondering. Now was the time for action.


    The spear fired.


    Gemini World.


    Sixth Verse.


    Giovanni¡¯s vision became warped as he activated his sixth ability. His surroundings became faint, dark, indistinct, like watercolours bleeding into each other. Even if he looked down at his hands, he would see only vague protrusions of flesh.


    Aether, however? Oh, Aether he could see clearly.


    The blue cloud of writhing electricity that was Dragan Hadrien quickly floated to the ceiling, trying to move up into the rafters as an escape route. As it did, Giovanni could see faint images in the flashing Aetherlight -- memories, impressions that had soaked into the Aether over time, visible only to the chosen few.


    A young boy, looking up at the smog-filled sky.


    A young man, shooting someone in the back.


    A corpse, falling down into the bowels of the earth.


    It was the same with the spear Giovanni had fired -- in its red glow, he could see his own memories, flowing like liquid dreams. He paid no mind to it: his own recall was perfect. He didn¡¯t require secondary sources.


    "I can see you, you know," Giovanni said in amusement, his eyes tracking the cloud of blue Aether. "You¡¯re not exactly hiding from me."


    Before Hadrien could reach his destination, Giovanni fired a spear at the wooden rafters -- and with an explosion of wooden scraps, it collapsed into nothing. Another escape route was cut off.


    However¡­ Dragan Hadrien did not stop. The cloud of Aether hovered over the now-destroyed rafter and -- with a flash of light -- manifested again. Giovanni deactivated the Sixth Verse, looking up at Hadrien through his own eyes once more.


    He couldn¡¯t help but whistle.


    "Oh," he said. "Very impressive."


    Dragan Hadrien had only manifested the top half of his body out of the Aether cloud, and so was floating there -- unburdened by gravity -- like a genie out of some cartoon. Through the hole the ability left below Hadrien¡¯s torso, Giovanni could see nothing but dark fuzziness, like videograph static.


    Very impressive indeed. Dragan Hadrien had learnt to fly. Then again¡­ that was nothing special.


    Fourth Verse.


    This was perhaps the strangest sensation Dragan Hadrien had ever experienced.


    His legs existed. He could feel them -- but they were not there. But they were, just in a different format. It was like phantom pain and real sensation at the same time.


    At the very least, he wasn¡¯t bleeding anymore. He hadn¡¯t healed the wound on his leg, but so long as it was recorded into his Aether it was essentially paused. Could he take that principle further? Record tiny parts of his body whenever he got injured, so even minor wounds had no effect on him?


    Another question for another day. Right now, all he had to do was not die. Dragan glared down at Giovanni, doing his best to keep himself steady.


    His consciousness felt stretched between the physical and informative, his actual body and his Aether. He willed the cloud of sparking blue that formed the lower half of his body to move -- and it did so without complaint, moving him slightly higher, closer to the ceiling.


    His heart hammered in his chest. He was flying. He was flying. Despite everything, he couldn¡¯t help but feel a wild grin cross his face.


    "Oh," smirked Giovanni down below, raising his eyebrows. "Very impressive."


    Excitement didn¡¯t take long to be replaced by caution. Crimson Aether cracked behind Giovanni, and in a flash of red light yet another construct appeared. A ring of blood-coloured crystal -- the same material as the spears and shield -- had manifested behind Giovanni, floating over his back.


    Run, Dragan¡¯s instincts told him.


    Giovanni kicked off the ground -- and flew, zooming towards Dragan at horrifying speeds. As he moved, four more spears appeared over his shoulders, each one firing towards Dragan. The first he absorbed into Gemini Shotgun, but the other three were travelling so fast that he was forced to writhe and dodge in the air to avoid them.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The crimson spear, crackling blue with Dragan¡¯s Aether, was fired back at Giovanni¡¯s approaching form -- aimed right for his torso. Dragan had a sneaking suspicion that he had to remain stationary to use that shield of his: if nothing else, this would stop his advance.


    But Giovanni just smirked.


    Third Verse.


    In the moment before the spear made contact, Giovanni¡¯s body moved -- in a manner that seemed both grotesque and impossible.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    His back bent until his body was nearly folded in half, at such a sheer angle that an ordinary spine would surely have snapped. As the spear flew overhead, one of Giovanni¡¯s arms lashed out -- cracking and dislocating for additional reach -- and seized it out of the air. The force of it scraped away the skin on Giovanni¡¯s hand, but if he felt the pain he showed no sign of it.


    As quickly as he¡¯d assumed that impossible posture, Giovanni¡¯s body snapped back -- and now he carried that massive red-and-blue spear in both hands. He caressed it as if it were a pet as he smiled, still flying towards Dragan.


    "Your abilities are focused on recording and manifesting," he said calmly, swinging the spear like a club with such force and speed that it nearly took Dragan¡¯s head off. "You record incoming projectiles and fire them back with increased power, or you record yourself to move around unseen."


    Dragan dodged back through the wooden web of rafters, avoiding Giovanni¡¯s swings of the spear, but each miss was a near thing. Clearly growing tired of the dance, Giovanni shrugged the spear onto his shoulder and hurled it like a javelin.


    It still had Dragan¡¯s Aether infusing it along with Giovanni¡¯s, and so it was many times more powerful than the original attack. Still, though¡­


    Gemini World.


    Dragan absorbed the incoming projectile once more, fired it back --


    Seventh Verse.


    -- and felt excruciating pain in his arm.


    He slowly looked down, his eyes wide, his teeth so tight he¡¯d nearly bit off his tongue. There was his right arm, almost severed by the attack, connected to the rest of his body only by a few stray strands of muscle and meat.


    Giovanni continued his pursuit, eyes glaring hatefully as he flew forward, but all of Dragan¡¯s attention was taken up by his injury.


    What had happened?


    Fog enveloped Dragan¡¯s mind as the pain took hold, and through the fog he could see his Archive, hurried theories carved into the walls. He had definitely fired the attack back at Giovanni, yet he¡¯d been hit by it anyway. It had been far too fast for Giovanni to catch it a second time, too. The only explanation was that Giovanni Sigma Testament had an ability like Gemini Shotgun -- one that allowed him to record attacks and send them back.


    Giovanni smirked.


    No. He couldn¡¯t lose focus.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan grit his teeth as his near-severed arm was recorded into Aether, the pain vanishing with it. The memory of it was nearly as excruciating, though. He was down one arm and one leg, and none of his attempts to fight back had borne fruit. As far as he was aware, he hadn¡¯t inflicted an injury on Giovanni yet -- unless you counted the scraped palm, which he¡¯d really done to himself.


    Range was Dragan¡¯s specialty, but Giovanni had neutralised that advantage instantly. If he wanted to win this -- no, survive this -- he had to get out of his comfort zone.


    Dragan¡¯s flight slowed to a halt -- and Giovanni¡¯s slowed just a little, too, as he watched in caution for what Dragan would do next.


    Dragan was done running.


    He charged.


    If the move had thrown Giovanni off, he did not show it. Instead, he simply lifted his arm, firing off two more spears that Dragan absorbed into Gemini Shotgun. He didn¡¯t send them back this time, though: doing so would only invite disaster.


    He had his eyes on the prize. Dragan¡¯s gaze was fixed right on Giovanni¡¯s face, and his remaining fist was pulled back -- ready to sock the asshole in the jaw.


    Finally, for the first time, surprise appeared on that arrogant face. The slightest widening of the eyes, but it was all the fuel Dragan needed to keep going. A delirious, feral grin spread across his face.


    He¡¯d use the shield now. Dragan knew it. Giovanni¡¯s mouth opened to say those two words, but too late.


    "Second --"


    Gemini World.


    "-- Verse!"


    Dragan disappeared entirely for a split second, reappearing right next to Giovanni in the moment before the crystal shield snapped shut around the two of them.


    He threw a punch at Giovanni with his remaining arm, but his enemy easily countered -- slapping the fist away with an Aether-infused hand. Before Dragan could so much as breathe, Giovanni had grabbed him by the collar, pulling him close. Dragan could see the dilation of his pupils, feel the warmth of his breath. Right now, Giovanni embodied fury in all its aspects.


    "Useless," he hissed, pulling his fist back. "Utterly, utterly useless."


    Crimson Aether, starbright, coalesced around Giovanni¡¯s fist, spilling through the gaps between his fingers. Just from looking at it, you could see this was intended as the killing blow. A punch that would pulverise flesh and shatter bone.


    Just as Dragan had hoped.


    Giovanni let loose his fist, striking Dragan right in the centre of his stomach. Dragan had no defence that could block such a blow, nor the speed to dodge it. All he could do was witness the blur coming to kill him.


    After all, he¡¯d already taken the steps required.


    The punch went right through Dragan¡¯s body, emerging through the small of his back.


    Giovanni gasped.


    Giovanni gasped.


    He¡¯d run Dragan Hadrien through -- he knew he¡¯d just run Dragan Hadrien through -- but something was wrong. His fist had met nothing but empty air as it had impaled him.


    Immediately, he realised what Hadrien had done -- he¡¯d anticipated where Giovanni was going to strike and recorded that part of his stomach individually, leaving the clothing so that Giovanni wouldn¡¯t realise.


    A clever trick, but far from unbeatable.


    All Giovanni had to do was turn this into an endurance match. How much pain could Hadrien endure, how much of his body could he record, before it all became too much? For his part, Giovanni couldn¡¯t wait to find out.


    He pulled his fist free of Hadrien¡¯s body --


    No. He did not free his fist from Hadrien¡¯s body. It was stuck. Giovanni looked up from his trapped arm to Hadrien¡¯s face, and saw the victorious grin there.


    His blood boiled.


    Hadrien had manifested his stomach once more -- not all of it, but enough to keep Giovanni¡¯s arm trapped. No matter how hard he pulled, he couldn¡¯t free himself from the prison of flesh. He roared in fury, channelling his Aether into his arm to grant himself the strength to --


    Giovanni felt a plasma pistol press against his skull.


    Instantly, he focused his Aether into his head to defend against the shot. Hadrien pulled the trigger, and the pistol fired -- but with Giovanni¡¯s defences, he suffered only miniscule damage. But then, a second later, Hadrien fired again. And again. And again.


    Fury boiled over as Giovanni realised his enemy¡¯s plan. So long as he was using his Aether to defend against these headshots, he couldn¡¯t use it to free himself from Hadrien¡¯s trap. Eventually, even he would be worn down from countless shots to the head¡­ and his defences would weaken¡­ and¡­


    No.


    Giovanni dispelled the crystal shield around the two of them, the crimson sphere collapsing and dissipating into Aether. Immediately afterwards, he called upon the First Verse -- and a legion of spears appeared surrounding the two of them, their points directed as one towards Hadrien.


    If he couldn¡¯t free himself of this trash, he¡¯d simply destroy it. However¡­


    Hadrien tugged.


    It was movement borne not from Hadrien¡¯s own motion, but that of his recorded body, and so it was much more difficult to resist. Giovanni was pulled along, and soon enough the two of them were spinning like this was some kind of waltz. As they spun and spun and spun, Hadrien continued to fire shots into Giovanni¡¯s head, each one doing more and more and more damage. Giovanni could faintly smell the burning of his hair.


    With them spinning like this, Giovanni couldn¡¯t fire his spears without risking hitting himself. His fury became tainted with a hint of uncertainty. Did Hadrien have him in check right now?


    He couldn¡¯t block the shots forever.


    He couldn¡¯t pull himself free.


    He couldn¡¯t fire the spears at Hadrien.


    What should he do? There had to be a way out of this. With dawning horror, Giovanni realised he could feel his own sweat on the back of his neck. This trash had made him sweat? Him?!


    "Let go!" Giovanni screamed as they spun, voice cracking furiously.


    Hadrien did not reply. His eyes were shadowed over, his finger mechanical as it pulled the trigger over and over again. Giovanni gripped his opponent¡¯s forearm in an attempt to snap the limb or pull it away, but without his full Aether he couldn¡¯t quite overcome Hadrien¡¯s defences.


    There was only one way out -- but the humiliation of it¡­ Giovanni¡¯s trepidation vanished as Hadrien pulled the trigger again, and this time the blast was accompanied by the slightest pain. He could delay no further.


    He couldn¡¯t get rid of Hadrien¡¯s arm, but¡­


    Giovanni timed his move right after Hadrien fired his shot. With an Aether-flashed chop from his free arm, he struck right down at the exposed elbow of his own trapped arm --


    -- and severed it.


    He kicked off from Hadrien¡¯s chest, crystal ring dragging him away to a safe distance as he cradled the bleeding stump. The pain was excruciating, but he could bear it. He could bear anything. This was a test.


    The severed arm dropped out of Hadrien¡¯s body as he exhaled, staring down Giovanni.


    "Draw," he croaked, voice ravaged by exhaustion. "How about it?"


    Giovanni blinked. His blood was spilling freely, coating the floor below. Slowly, he smiled.


    "A draw?" he said quietly. "Of course. Of course --"


    Seventh Verse.


    Ironic. The Seventh Verse had caused Hadrien such injury not so long ago, and he¡¯d completely forgotten to watch out for it. The ability allowed Giovanni to designate two spherical points in space -- anything of suitable size that entered one of the points would be recorded into Aether and transmitted to the other, where it was manifested again.


    Effectively, teleportation.


    As they¡¯d been remaining in a fixed position during their little dance before, Giovanni hadn¡¯t been able to use it -- but now was the perfect opportunity. Using it on himself or Hadrien wouldn¡¯t be too effective, but¡­


    Giovanni¡¯s blood spilled down towards the floor --


    -- and landed in Hadrien¡¯s eyes, utterly soaking him. The words he¡¯d been about to speak were reduced to disgusted spluttering.


    "Ha!" Giovanni screamed, manifesting a final spear in his free hand and preparing to throw. "I win! Be blinded by blood!"


    He¡¯d done it. He¡¯d done it! This humiliation would be avenged. Jamie would be --


    The doors to the chambers beyond slammed open. Giovanni couldn¡¯t help but glance towards the source of the noise -- and what he saw there made him hesitate for a moment.


    It was just a man. Just a man standing there, in a long green coat. By all rights, he should have been nothing. Just another enemy to be annihilated. But the look in his eyes¡­ and the tension that seemed to radiate from his body¡­


    The man¡¯s gaze flicked towards Hadrien¡¯s battered form, and the jovial lines on his face slackened into ruthlessness. When he looked back at Giovanni, it was with the face of a killer.


    "Heartbeat Bayonet," he hissed.


    Sixth Verse.


    Giovanni activated his Aether-vision, ready to perceive the form of whatever attack was coming at him -- only to see a web of bright green slashes zooming through space. The gaps between the network of invisible blades were barely large enough to fit a finger through.


    Panic returned.


    Second Verse.


    No effect. His auto-avoidance did not activate. In essence, this was an attack that could not be dodged.


    So Giovanni made the only logical move.


    He inflicted the final humiliation upon himself.


    He turned and ran.

 Chapter 229:9.20: Ice Aflame

    OH, [DEAD/INACTIVE/DAMAGED] [BOY/MEAT/HUMAN]


    [DIMINISHED/POOR/SUFFERING] [DEAD/INACTIVE/DAMAGED] [BOY/MEAT/HUMAN]


    [WHAT/WHICH] HAVE THEY [INFLICTED/EXECUTION/DONE] TO YOU?


    Transmission recovered from the P-Network by the Pandershi Foundation, Context Unknown


    Skipper¡¯s blood boiled.


    In a way, he welcomed that sensation. A long time ago -- when he¡¯d been with the Widow -- he¡¯d felt as if he¡¯d been as cold as her, like his veins were frozen over. There hadn¡¯t been room for anything but the mission -- not even for emotion. Anything that didn¡¯t involve killing had been unnecessary.


    Since then, though, his life had become¡­ warm. It had become something he¡¯d made for himself, with his own hands. Friends, happiness, something approaching a family¡­ he¡¯d spent years and years making his way towards the sun, but it was feeling like he¡¯d been doubling back recently.


    For the time being, though, he still felt that warmth. But the source¡­


    Heartbeat Bayonet shredded the main hall of the cathedral, annihilating everything save for Dragan¡¯s battered form -- which was floating in the air. The dark-haired man who¡¯d been attacking Dragan had turned and fled, punching right through the great doors and onwards.


    As scraps of wood and dust fell to the floor like snow, Skipper let out a deep breath. He¡¯d pushed that attack to its limit. He hadn¡¯t needed to go that far, but the sight of Dragan in that situation had pushed him beyond his reservations.


    "Skipper¡­" muttered Dragan, his voice faint -- and then he fell to the ground, blue Aether zipping around his missing body parts.


    He¡¯d been a fool. What had he been thinking? While he¡¯d been in there negotiating with the Chorister -- which was necessary for the mission -- Dragan had been fighting for his life. Where were Ruth and Bruno? Were they okay?


    Back there, he¡¯d told the Chorister he¡¯d had full faith that his companions could handle any danger. He realized now that he¡¯d just been pushing them out of his mind.


    Once again, there was a sliver of ice in his heart.


    Skipper ran towards Dragan, dropping to his knees before him. For a second, he thought he was too late -- Dragan was missing an arm, the bottom half of his body, and there was a sizable hole in his stomach -- but then he realized what had happened. Dragan had recorded those body parts into Gemini World, no doubt as part of his strategy during the fight.


    The Cogitant¡¯s eyes were closed, but Skipper could still hear him muttering unintelligibly to himself. Was he still conscious? Please let him be conscious.


    Skipper leaned in and spoke authoritatively. "Kid! Can you hear me?!"


    No reply.


    Skipper pressed on. "Listen! You need to manifest what you recorded again! Like I taught you, back on Taldan, remember?!"


    No reply¡­ save for the faintest groan of discomfort.


    Skipper leaned in further, sweat pouring down his forehead. "Dragan! If you let go of your Aether, those injuries will become real! They¡¯ll be fatal! Bring those body parts back, now!"


    Somehow, Dragan must have been able to hear him. The hole in his stomach slowly closed, blue Aether writing it back into existence line by line like a printer. It took nearly fifteen seconds, but the gap in his body filled. The bottom half of his body began to restore as well, one leg fully manifesting in another few seconds.


    Skipper breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, now you just need to¡­" The words died in his throat.


    The glow behind Dragan¡¯s eyelids vanished -- and his Aether went with it, the fuzzy static in his stumps becoming real missing flesh. Blood steadily oozed out from the wounds. His head fell back on the carpeted floor as he fell truly unconscious. Sear?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Skipper¡¯s heartbeat was like a wardrum. There was no time to get Dragan to a hospital -- if they didn¡¯t act quickly, within the next few minutes, he would die. No, he wouldn¡¯t die. Skipper wouldn¡¯t allow it.


    He can¡¯t die, an old and insidious part of him whispered. We need him for the mission.


    His emotions wouldn¡¯t help here. Skipper forced them to a grinding halt, steeling himself as best he could. Now was the time for calm and mechanical logic.


    The first thing to do was stop as much of the bleeding as possible. With practiced hands, he tore off two strips of his long coat and infused them with Aether, using them to make torniquetes that would hold at least for a little while. Then, carefully as he could, he slung the unconscious Dragan over his back.


    This was no ordinary ship: this was a base used by the Quiet Choir, a group of assassins. No doubt they sometimes came back from their missions injured. There¡¯d be Panacea aboard to treat those cases. All Skipper had to do was find it.


    Skipper let loose an Aether ping, his essence crashing through the ship and showing him the locations of other Aether-users. He could feel a group of three some ways below -- Ruth, Bruno and a third he didn¡¯t recognize. If it was two against one, he should be able to leave them to it for at least a while longer.


    Then, there was the Chorister -- back in his office. An irrelevancy right now. No matter how sharply Skipper questioned him, he wouldn¡¯t talk until after Dragan had already expired. Skipper wasn¡¯t good enough at torture to break a man like that quickly.


    That left the presence that was rapidly fleeing from this room, ascending upwards. It had to be the bastard that Skipper had just stared off. He¡¯d been missing an arm -- he¡¯d be heading for the Panacea, same as them.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    All they had to do was follow.


    Skipper blasted off with Shotguns from the soles of his feet, flying towards the great doors and smashing them open with another blast projected from his forehead. Beyond, he saw the red armour and spherical helmets of the Vox Dei. Four men-at-arms, two holding plasma rifles and the other two holding spears. Guards left behind to cover the coward¡¯s retreat.


    He didn¡¯t have time for this.


    Skipper twisted in the air, avoiding the first two plasma shots -- then fired Shotguns upwards through his free shoulder, forcing himself down to the ground. He smashed down on the nearest guard foot-first, crimson armour cracking from the impact -- and as he landed, he felt the satisfying crunch of the man¡¯s throat beneath his heel.


    Heartbeat Landmine.


    The other three soldiers went flying backwards as a pulse of sound erupted from his body. Before they could so much as hit the ground, Skipper screamed out: "MOVE!" This was not a command.


    It was ammunition.


    As the noise came out of Skipper¡¯s throat, he sculpted it into three Bayonets, each one finding their flying targets. One soldier was cleanly decapitated, the sound-blade cutting through the tiny seam between his neck and body. Another was sliced vertically in two, his insides freely littering the ground. The third got off easiest -- the blade whistled around him and sliced at his heels, merely immobilizing him.


    The poor guy crawled backwards on the ground as Skipper advanced, holding his hands up beseechingly. His helmet had been shattered by his fall, and he was bleeding from his head.


    "Please," he breathed, hyperventilating. "Please, please, please, no¡­"


    Skipper looked down at him, eyes wide. "The Panacea. Where?" He could only use short sentences. Anything else would betray his anger.


    "I don¡¯t --"


    The slightest sound, and the soldier¡¯s ear fell off. The man put a hand to his fresh wound, shaking like a leaf.


    "Medbay is two floors up," he whispered. "That¡¯s where the Panacea is. Please¡­"


    Medbay wasn¡¯t an option. If Dragan¡¯s opponent was headed there, there was a chance he might try to finish the job.


    "Where does the Panacea come in?" Skipper asked. "Where does it arrive?"


    "Cargo Bay three," the man gulped. "Same floor, but you go left at the -- at the elevator instead of right. Just keep going until you reach the end of the deck. It¡¯s there. I swear, please. I -- I don¡¯t know what else you --"


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    The man didn¡¯t say anything else after that.


    Ants. So many damn ants. Ruth was sure she¡¯d dream of ants that night.


    Every time she swung her claws, she cut half-a-dozen ants in half. The enemy had played a card called Ant Motherbase or some shit, and now it was producing ants faster than she could kill them. Ants ants ants. A sea of ants. Flying ants, crawling ants. A few ants even exploded like bombs.


    Ants.


    Another wave of ants erupted out -- at some point, another Ant Motherbase had been played -- and Ruth resumed her slashing. Advancing was not an option. To move from this position would mean falling to the ants. The tide of ants was inexorable.


    She couldn¡¯t see the card-user anymore. Was he even still here? Ruth¡¯s arms ached from repetitive movement, her Aether sputtering around her. She had no energy with which to consider the question.


    More ants.


    Ants going for her legs. She sliced.


    Ants jumping for her head. She mauled.


    Ants leaping for her stomach. She slashed.


    Her claws dripped with viscous green fluid, drowning in insect blood. Her breathing was ragged, laboured. Her legs trembled beneath her. How much longer could she keep doing this? Five minutes? Ten?


    Bruno was saying something. Ruth didn¡¯t move -- she couldn¡¯t -- but she listened.


    "Ruth! We¡¯ve gotta get out of here!"


    He sounded far away. She risked a glance behind -- he¡¯d climbed up the machinery that surrounded the room, making his way to a vent cover that he¡¯d forced open. They hadn¡¯t seen the actual exit to the room, but that would work as an escape route if nothing else.


    But the ants¡­


    No. She¡¯d killed all she could. If she kept going, all she¡¯d accomplish was wearing herself out for no reward. This wasn¡¯t even a battle anymore, just labour. Ruth did the smart thing.


    She turned and ran.


    Skipper put Dragan down as gently as he could in the medical bay of the Slipstream. They¡¯d really moved up in the world: the last Slipstream had just had some first aid supplies. He let out a deep breath.


    Two canisters of Panacea were attached to Dragan¡¯s pale form, one fixed to each of his bloody stumps. Slowly but surely, new limbs were growing in their place -- trees of bone and skin iterating until they found the proper form. Skipper had never been a huge fan of Panacea, but after what had happened recently it gave him even more of a shudder.


    At any rate, the limbs were regrowing properly.


    Skipper breathed a sigh of relief. He¡¯d gotten Dragan there in time -- that hadn¡¯t been a certainty. The golden hours for Panacea varied from person to person, and there was no guarantee it would have taken to Dragan if much more time had passed.


    "Skipper?" He heard Ruth¡¯s voice from behind him. "What happened?"


    "Dragan ran into some trouble," he replied brusquely, stepping back from Dragan¡¯s sickbed. "Managed to snag him some Panacea, so he should be alright¡­"


    He ran a hand through his wet hair as he turned towards Ruth and Bruno, the exhaustion of the last few days finally starting to set in. As he faced them, however, they stepped back -- their eyes wide with shock.


    For a moment, he furrowed his brow in confusion. Then he realised the problem.


    The entire front half of his body was covered in blood, after all. He¡¯d run into more enemies on the way to the cargo bay. He¡¯d done what he had to do to keep Dragan safe, but still¡­ he imagined it must have been a shocking sight.


    Would it have shocked him too, once upon a time?


    The moment passed nearly instantly. Bruno marched past him to check on Dragan, his expression twisted in concern. He put a hand to his mouth as he saw the extent of Dragan¡¯s injuries.


    "God," he breathed. "What happened?"


    Skipper rubbed the back of his neck. "Some asshole ambushed him, from what I can tell. He did some damage to them, too, but it¡¯s best we get out of here before they try their luck again."


    "We got teleported away¡­" Ruth whispered, pained. "If we¡¯d been there¡­"


    "It is what it is," Skipper said. "Keep watch on him and tell me if anything goes wrong. I¡¯m gonna get us gone, yeah?"


    He moved to the front of the ship, retreating away from the light and noise of the concerned crew, and threw himself down into the pilot¡¯s seat. It didn¡¯t take much thought on his part to begin the takeoff cycle: across all the ships he¡¯d had, and all the Slipstreams, the general principles had stayed the same.


    Absent-mindedly, he tapped at the button to increase the heating. Then, a few seconds later, he tapped it again. No good.


    He still felt cold.

 Chapter 230:9.21: The Cardinal Directions

    Nason Vallister, known to some as the Chorister, hopped off his ship and onto the deck of the station -- his step as silent as the grave.


    He¡¯d changed his ceremonial white robes for a worn black coat and work pants. He¡¯d dyed his hair an ordinary brown, and put on contacts to make his eyes a dull green. He¡¯d brought a run-down ship, belching fumes, all to create this common cover.


    Even with all that, however¡­ he couldn¡¯t quite discard the silence that was his birthright.


    "A little dramatic, don¡¯tcha think?" Meli said, zipping around in front of his face. The little being -- the size of a thumb -- twinkled with Nason¡¯s Aether. Today, she¡¯d taken on the form of a tiny humanoid in a girlish dress, the detailing of her ¡¯clothing¡¯ intricate in the extreme.


    "Life is drama, my other self," Nason said, walking through the chaos of the landing bay. "Without it, we¡¯d have nothing but business." He spoke quietly -- nobody else could see the Aether construct, after all.


    Meli ceased her flight, landing instead on his shoulder, her legs swinging carefree in empty air. "Hm." She didn¡¯t sound especially convinced.


    As lightpoints went, the Myrmidon was hardly the most luxurious. From what information Nason had managed to dig up, it had originally been an unofficial installation used by smugglers, until the Superbian authorities had brought them down and retrofitted it for their own purposes.


    What those purposes were, Nason could only guess -- especially as the Superbians had mostly abandoned it as well. Now, it served little purpose save for a quiet place for wretches to move through space unseen.


    The first stop was the bar. Nason didn¡¯t partake himself, of course -- but from the information the man called Skipper had provided him, that was where he¡¯d find his target. The unfortunate soon-to-be corpse named Damien hal Valde.


    He wasn¡¯t hard to spot. Nason positioned himself at a table by the door, sipping steadily at a glass of water as he inspected the clientele. The bar was nearly empty -- a dying establishment, bleeding grace -- and so it was simple to spot the other fellow who wasn¡¯t a regular here.


    Damien hal Valde wore an expensive business suit as he sat at the front of the bar, nursing an impressively large drink. A briefcase lay next to his stool, firmly clasped shut. From what Nason understood of Paradisas associates, that briefcase likely contained some kind of defensive measure. He¡¯d have to watch out for it.


    "Oh, Y," Meli sighed, nearly salivating. "Look at that drink he¡¯s got. Naldian Explosion, right? We could order that, as well. One or two wouldn¡¯t hurt, you know. You¡¯re good enough that you¡¯d still manage to kill him easy-peasy. Come on."


    "I¡¯ve walked that path before, Meli," Nason said softly, very intently not looking at the drink. "I¡¯ve no desire to return to it. It was not so easy to leave the first time."


    "Pussy," Meli sneered.


    Meli the Aether fairy -- or imp, depending on her inclination -- could sometimes be abrasive, but her usefulness in combat made even this minor annoyance worthwhile. The splinter of his consciousness was the conduit through which his Aether ability worked, after all -- and her capacity to reason and act on her own was quite useful as well.


    So he could handle the occasional insult. Even if they did grate.


    Nason¡¯s body tensed up as he saw Damien hal Valde unbutton his pocket and reach in, pulling out his grace token. Immediately, he reached down and flicked Meli, sending her flying off the table, limbs flailing.


    "You¡¯re up," he said firmly. "Inside his pocket. I want his room number."


    "Fucking slave-driver¡­ unbelievable¡­ I¡¯ll kick your ass next time you talk to me like that¡­" Meli grumbled, but she obeyed all the same.


    In a streak of purple, she zoomed across the room and dove into Damien¡¯s pocket like a swimmer into a pool. Then, a second later, she emerged and returned to him just as quickly. Her purple Aetherlight hung in the air for a moment after her flight ended, like a fading ribbon. With Nason cloaking Meli, nobody could see it, but still¡­ he couldn¡¯t help but feel worried every time he saw it.


    "Well?" Nason asked as Meli returned.


    "He¡¯s staying in Room 272 -- private quarters aboard the lightpoint itself," she reported, lounging on a discarded coaster. "His ship¡¯s being repaired, apparently, so that¡¯s what he¡¯s waiting for."


    Nason raised an eyebrow. "You saw that in his pocket?"


    "Heard him talking about it," Meli said. Despite the fact Nason couldn¡¯t see her face, he was sure she was rolling her eyes. "It¡¯s called listening, bozo. Could stand doing it with me every once in a while."


    Nason ignored her -- instead keeping watch on Damien as the man stood up, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of the bar. There was more than a little inebriation to his gait now. Wonderful: that would be a boon to him.


    Seven minutes. Nason waited seven minutes, so it wouldn¡¯t be obvious to any future investigators that he¡¯d gone to follow Damien. As he paid with a forged grace token and strolled casually out of the bar, he seriously doubted that anyone would remember he was even here.


    That was the way of people, after all. They avoided looking at the collapse around them until it was too late. It was the same for Superbians, too.


    The door to Room 272 was closed and locked when he got there. That didn¡¯t necessarily mean Damien had returned there, of course, so Nason had Meli enter through the air vents and confirm his target¡¯s presence. Only then did he knock politely upon the metal.


    It took Damien a few seconds to answer the door -- no doubt he¡¯d been lying down on the bed, getting ready for the final stretch of his journey. The door did slide open, though, and when it did Nason finally got a good look at his target face-to-face. Fading dark hair and heavy bags under his eyes, his skin the shade of red reserved for those who had made a habit of overindulgence.


    And yet¡­ there was a trace of hope to him, a spark in his eyes that couldn¡¯t be mistaken. It only made sense: the Paradisas had decided to reward his long years of service and approve his upload to the Garden. Immortality was within his grasp.


    How sad for him.


    "What is it?" Damien asked, looking Nason up and down. "What is¡­ what do you want?"


    Nason did not answer with words.


    He stepped forward and jabbed his fingers towards Damien¡¯s face, intending to poke the drunk¡¯s eyes out. Damien staggered and fell backwards in surprise, however, coincidence serving just as effectively as an intentional dodge. As Damien landed roughly on the floor, Nason heard the pop of briefcase clasps coming undone.


    "It¡¯s coming," Meli snickered, twirling her hair. "Shall I?"


    "Please do," Nason replied, turning on the spot to face the direction of the sound. The briefcase lay on the bed, its clasps coming undone one by one as something within endeavoured to force its way out.


    The briefcase burst open, and an automatic of liquid metal -- shining in the dim light of the room -- lunged forth, sharpening itself into a spear as it leapt right for Nason¡¯s face. At the same time, however, Meli dived into it, her essence suffusing throughout the entire metal structure.


    Lines like glowing purple veins appeared across the surface of the automatic, converging at a single point -- a dot -- on its underside. As the automatic came upon him, Nason ducked -- striking upwards and jabbing his fingers right into that purple dot.


    The effect was immediate. The liquid metal automatic exploded soundlessly into inert drops of chrome, littering the room. A small module the shape and size of a centipede -- the control unit of the automatic, no doubt -- writhed uselessly on the floor for a moment before Nason crushed it beneath his heel.


    All things that existed had built-in weaknesses -- killing points baked into them from the very moment they were born. By entering objects, Meli could expose those killing points. That was Nason Vallister¡¯s ability.


    "Behind," Meli yawned.


    Nason ducked again as Damien swung a lampshade at his head, the metal structure brushing only against the very top of his hair. Damien swung it a second time, trying to bring it down on Nason¡¯s head vertically -- but this time Nason seized the weapon with one hand, his Aether-infused strength more than sufficient to stop the attack.


    Still, he didn¡¯t want to be here too long. Best to end this quickly.


    "Inverse, please," Nason glanced at Meli as he held the lampshade in place.


    "Seriously?" she groaned -- but she obeyed all the same. Meli entered herself, becoming a glowing purple mobius strip. Closing his eyes, Nason jabbed the first two fingers of his free hand into that structure.


    Aether as a force all by itself produced little in the way of power, but light was another story altogether. The spectacular incandescence produced by Meli¡¯s destruction blinded Damien for a moment, and Nason felt his grip on the lampshade loosen.


    Immediately, Nason tore it out of his grasp, threw it into the corner of the room, and advanced upon the cringing figure. Meli reappeared nearly instantly, and -- without having to be told -- dove directly into Damien¡¯s body, exposing his divine deficiency.


    Directly below the left eye.


    Nason saw it, and Nason killed. His index finger lashed out with all the speed of a cobra, bypassing any defence Damien could have mustered. Warm blood coated the digit as it penetrated Damien¡¯s skin, embedding itself in there up to the knuckle.


    All fight drained instantly from Damien¡¯s body, all fear slackened from his face. His arms fell limp to his sides, and his mouth twitched uselessly as he no doubt tried to speak. His legs shook beneath him as they grew tired of supporting his weight.


    "I¡¯ve killed you," Nason explained, pulling his finger free. "You will no longer be able to control your body, and you¡¯ll die in about twenty seconds. If you have any loved ones you want in your head before the end, I¡¯d start picturing them now."


    Damien collapsed to the floor, and Nason left him to it, instead turning to search through his belongings. Ideally, he¡¯d have liked to perform the traditional rites on this job, but it was paramount that nobody knew the Quiet Choir was involved. Even the smell of incense would be enough to give them away.


    It didn¡¯t take Nason long to find what he was looking for, buried deep in the briefcase that had been the automatic¡¯s nest. A small data chip, thin and fragile. Nason handled it with care as he transferred the chip to the secure container he¡¯d brought with him.


    A record of the communications between Damien hal Valde and the Paradisas sect of the Final Church. This was what Nason had come here for. This was what Damien had died for.


    The plan Skipper had given him was daring in the extreme, and just as foolish, and yet¡­ he couldn¡¯t help but feel his heart pound when he considered it. The way to burn the rot out of the Final Church -- out of the Superbians, too -- and bring back the days that once were.


    "You¡¯re adept at wielding hope, Skipper," Nason muttered, lifting the lampshade as he returned to Damien¡¯s corpse. "A dark and poisonous hope, but all the same¡­"


    Before he left, it was vital that he disguised the skill involved in Damien¡¯s assassination. It would show up in the investigation otherwise. Nason raised the lampshade over Damien¡¯s bleeding head¡­


    And brought it down.


    And brought it down.


    And brought it down.


    Results of initial investigation are as follows.


    Subject (Damien h. Valde) deceased as a result of blunt force trauma applied directly to the skull.


    Body found at 19:22 in Damien h. Valde¡¯s private quarters after he missed his departure window. Estimated time of death six hours prior to discovery.


    Grace token and other valuables stolen from the room. For this reason, local deputies suspect petty theft is the motive.


    However, confirmed destruction of a PolyKnight-model liquid automatic at the scene. Doubtful a petty thief would have been able to accomplish this.


    Conclusion: deputies insufficient. Recommend sending in-house investigators to pursue the case further. In addition, as Damien h. Valde is now deceased, Valde¡¯s existence will not be required. Recommend deletion or reassignment.


    Paradisas Investigation Report XKD34-78, Investigator Gurakhurt.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Giovanni Sigma Testament stared up at the ceiling, savouring the warmth of the water on his body. His long hair spread out like a cloak around him.


    His bath encompassed an entire chamber of white marble and intricate art, statues of Apexbishops past lining the walls. Machinery, hidden from plain sight, ensured that the water was optimised in terms of comfort and hygiene. Giovanni¡¯s mind was not focused on any of those things right now, however.


    No. His mind was focused on the judgement of history.


    He reached up with his new arm, a tad paler than the rest of his body, as if to grasp the fresco above him. It was a masterpiece: he¡¯d always thought so. The whole history of the universe, as laid out by scripture, was spread out before his gaze.


    Y, in his galactic form, placing the stars in the sky with his divine tentacles.


    The Seven Spearmen, with spiral faces, tormenting the first prophets.


    Saints old and new, dignified and wretched, spreading out the word and influence of Y.


    And, of course¡­


    The figure Giovanni always found himself focusing on was small, nestled between two greater titans, clad in a white cloak with incandescent eyes. Nerlin the Healer, he was called. It was said that a great deal of Giovanni¡¯s genetic material came from that man.


    Apparently, Nerlin had been adept in using Aether to repair the wounds of others. He¡¯d even saved an Apexbishop from certain death. And yet¡­ all his presence in legend amounted to was that tiny figure in the fresco and a few historical footnotes. After he¡¯d died, he¡¯d faded away to nothing.


    Did the same fate await Giovanni? Was he doomed to irrelevancy, a mediocrity written into his genetic code?


    No, he told himself. You¡¯ve already taken steps against that.


    He would be the one to finally reunite the three branches of the Final Church. He would be the one to cast down the false Apexbishops and restore the proper order of things. He would be the one who brought about a new era of faith, prosperity, and hope.


    It would be impossible for anyone to forget him.


    Over on the side of the bath, his script beeped. Immediately, Giovanni waved a hand, summoning the holographic interface to his side.


    "What is it?" he asked, still staring up at the ceiling.


    "Giovanni?" Pablo¡¯s voice was nervous, a rarity.


    "What is it?" Giovanni repeated himself.


    "Polis," Pablo finally said. "Trouble on Polis. The Humilists, they¡¯ve¡­ they¡¯ve started attacking."


    Giovanni blinked. "Eh?"


    Dragan cracked his new shoulder. The existence of a ¡¯new shoulder¡¯ was starting to become a regular occurrence -- which in itself was concerning.


    This place was dull in the extreme. A dusty apartment, wallpaper in the process of rotting away, each piece of furniture right on the border of being considered antique if not for their ugliness. Was this hiding spot really the best Skipper had been able to put together?


    After the incident at the cathedral, the group had gone right back into hiding -- and this time they¡¯d all split up to lay low individually. Their enemies would be looking for them as a unit, or so Skipper said, thus this was the best way to avoid their gaze.


    Still¡­ it was just so boring, especially for a Cogitant. For the last day, Dragan had just been stuck inside, watching old videographs while his new limbs adjusted. He couldn¡¯t imagine Skipper giving himself such a dismal hiding place.


    The videograph light danced across the screen as Dragan stared at it. A historical documentary about the Fell Beast Incident, ten years back. He watched with dull eyes as footage of the tree-people writhing across the surface of Bepsis played. He¡¯d seen this documentary already. Boring, boring.


    Idly, he began to massage his new leg. He¡¯d read somewhere that doing that helped with the blood flow with new Panacea limbs. If nothing else, the sensation of touch helped stave off the cabin fever.


    What¡¯s wrong, dead boy?


    Nevermind. The cabin fever was here.


    I am not a house, dead boy. You know this!


    This time, the voice came from his left. Dragan turned his head to look, and his eyes widened with surprise. There, sitting right beside him on the floor, was Pan. She was cross-legged, orange hair hanging over her eyes, looking with great interest at the videograph screen.


    Fighting trees, fighting mushrooms, she mumbled. Humans have bad luck with plants, huh, dead boy?


    "Actually, mushrooms aren¡¯t plants," Dragan mumbled, staring at her. "They don¡¯t make their own food, so they¡¯re actually closer to animals than anything else."


    Pan cocked her head, turning to look at him. You¡¯re telling a mushroom what it is?


    Dragan sat up. "Wait -- wait! How are you even here?! You¡¯re¡­"


    Here. Pan tapped Dragan¡¯s new arm with a finger, and for a moment he swore he could feel her touch. And here. She tapped his leg in the same way.


    He looked down at his new limbs. "But¡­ I thought it was meant to be inert? This far away from the planet?"


    Pan hugged her knees to her chest, leaning back as she did so. Things are changing, dead boy. I feel like I¡¯m waking up for the first time. Besides¡­ the traces of me left in your head helped wake up these parts of me, if only for a little while. I guess that¡¯s it?


    To be honest, she didn¡¯t sound too confident in that answer, but Dragan nodded all the same. With everything that had been happening recently, it was good to see a friendly face -- or hallucinate one, as the circumstances might be.


    "So, uh¡­" Dragan rubbed the back of his neck. "What¡¯s up? What can I do for you?"


    Pan blinked. Me? Nothing, dead boy. I came because there¡¯s something on your mind, I think. Something you¡¯re wondering about? Worrying about? What¡¯s wrong, dead boy?


    So his thoughts were being monitored, now? Dragan wasn¡¯t quite sure how he felt about that, even if Pan¡¯s intentions were good. All the same¡­ it wasn¡¯t like she was wrong.


    "There has been something on my mind, yeah," he sighed. "I¡¯ve been¡­ wondering what I¡¯m doing here."


    You¡¯re sitting and talking to me, dead boy, Pan said helpfully.


    Dragan shot her a glare. "That¡¯s not what I meant and you know that¡¯s not what I meant."


    Then what do you mean?


    Dragan looked down at his hands, old and new. One was covered with the lines of life, while the other was soft and smooth as a newborn. The discrepancy was¡­ unsettling.


    "I could have died yesterday," he muttered. "And I did die, back on Panacea -- at least for a while, sort of. I just¡­ can¡¯t help but think. If I did die, properly, what would be the point of it?"


    Pan cocked her head. Why does there need to be a point to it?


    Dragan took a deep breath. "I¡¯m¡­ I think I¡¯m following Skipper right now because I¡¯m curious about his plan. How he intends to pull it off. What¡¯ll happen once he does. Am I willing to die for curiosity?"


    But you¡¯re taking down the Supremacy too, right, dead boy? Pan smiled. In your memories, they messed with you. So you¡¯re doing this for revenge!


    Dragan shook his head. "I¡¯ve kept up on the news. Everyone involved in what happened to me on Caelus Breck -- them trying to get me killed -- is already dead."


    Pan flattened her mouth into a line. Then¡­ you want revenge on the whole Supremacy. Because they were in charge of the guys who messed with you! Right?


    Again, Dragan shook his head. "I¡¯ve never¡­ personally, I¡¯ve never really considered the idea of taking down the Supremacy. It¡¯s like gravity, you know? Immutable. Even if you killed the Supreme, a new one would just take the throne. Stuff like what we¡¯re doing now is just baked into the system."


    Then why are you here, dead boy?


    He opened his mouth, but the words didn¡¯t come out straight away. Eventually, however, he found himself voicing his thoughts. "I¡­ guess I¡¯m here because everyone else is here. The people I care about, I mean -- but don¡¯t tell them I said that. I want to make sure they all come through the other side intact. And, I guess¡­"


    Pan blinked. You guess?


    "...I guess I¡­" Dragan swallowed. His gaze was fixed on the videograph screen, but his eyes didn¡¯t truly register anything they saw there. "...this crew is the first place I¡¯ve felt like I¡¯ve really existed before. The first place where I could be myself, without always worrying about positions, or rewards, or¡­ you know. Do you get what I mean?"


    No, Pan shook her head. Do you get what you mean?


    Slowly, Dragan nodded. "Yeah, I do. I think¡­ I think the thing is that I don¡¯t know how to be myself yet, without someone else¡¯s lead to follow. First the Supremacy, now Skipper¡­ I guess I¡¯ve got some thinking to do -- about what I do next. I still want to help Skipper, but I want a reason to do it that¡¯s my own. I guess. You know what I mean?"


    He realised he¡¯d been speaking for a while uninterrupted -- and, to be sure, when he turned his head, Pan was gone. He was all alone again, in that empty apartment, his only company the inevitable flies and spiders.


    Still, when he sighed, it was with relief. It felt like a great weight had just started to ease off his back.


    It was only a second later that he noticed that the image on the videograph screen had changed -- a general broadcast, the channel automatically switched to. Dragan furrowed his brow as he looked at it: it seemed the Humilists were announcing the capture of a criminal charged with treason.


    That wasn¡¯t what surprised Dragan, though, nor what made the hairs on his body stand on end. What did that was the fact that he knew this person.


    Mila Green. The doctor from back on Yoslof. The one who¡¯d helped Bruno and Serena.


    Dragan clicked his tongue. He didn¡¯t know much about this situation, nor about this supposed treason, but his time on Caelus Breck had taught him one thing. It had taught him the scent of bullshit when someone was being set up.


    And he could smell it here and now.


    Giovanni stared at the images before him from his throne. Images of a ship attempting to leave, and being utterly annihilated by the quarantine regiment. A fireball of debris, slowly unfurling like a flower over the planet Polis, forever trapped in its infancy by photography.


    The council chambers were deathly silent, save for the tap-tap of Giovanni¡¯s finger against the arm of his throne. Pablo, Peak and the rest of Giovanni¡¯s command staff sat solemnly around the grand table as they waited for their leader¡¯s instructions. Slowly, Giovanni blinked.


    "In previous instances," he said softly, putting the script down. "Ships attempting to leave Polis were simply forced to return to the planet. If force was exercised, it took the form of warning shots. Why is this time different?"


    Peak stood up from his seat. "Sir," he called up. "I¡¯ve been coordinating with my counterpart on the planet¡¯s surface, and --"


    "I¡¯m not talking to you. Pablo?"


    As Peak reluctantly sat back down, Pablo rose next to him, bowing deeply as he did so. "If I may be so bold, I¡¯d say the reason for the Humilists¡¯ increased aggression could be the events on the Aipol Beach. Several of their assassins were killed, after all. I believe the popular saying is ¡¯an eye for an eye¡¯."


    Giovanni furrowed his brow. "They¡¯d really risk starting a war over a few assassins?"


    Pablo smiled. "You know how illogical the Humilists can be. I wouldn¡¯t put it past them. All the same, the Humilists have trespassed against us in this instance. We cannot allow this crime to go unanswered."


    One of the other councillors, an old fossil from the Believers-on-Horseback, nodded. "I reckon we take down one of their ships in turn. Like ol¡¯ Pablo says, eye for an eye. Ain¡¯t no shortage of them outside to take your choosing from."


    The representative of the Nyxian Pugnanta, a massive woman with scars all over her body, nodded grimly. The slightest growl from her throat rumbled through those nearby. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "A subtler response. Required. Yes, required," hissed the masked leader of the Fifth Klavenian Hentopex of the Shivering Pulariovice, his speech underlaid by strange beeping. The fish in the tank he held eagerly devoured itself.


    "Cowardice!" roared one of the Knights of Reason, Sir Helel, hand on his sheathed greatsword. "The meekness of a babe! As expected of a foolish theist!"


    The discussion quickly turned into an argument, the noise erupting through the sanctified space of the council chambers. If the cardinals had been alive to see such a thing, no doubt they¡¯d have suffered heart attacks right then and there. No doubt words would start turning into violence if Giovanni didn¡¯t intervene at some point.


    And yet he just stared, slouched in his throne, at the chaos that his plan was turning into.


    Atoy Muzazi looked at the broadcast, one hand on his chin. "This woman¡­"


    "Mila Green," Lyons said coldly, fingers steepled before him. "The woman you did not kill last time. It seems she¡¯s been recaptured by the Humilist branch of the Final Church."


    The two of them were in Lyons¡¯ office, an old script resting on the desk between them. On it, footage of Green¡¯s arrest was playing. Above, the light panel slowly flickered in and out.


    Muzazi swallowed. "Unfortunate for her. What does this have to do with us?"


    "Mila Green has been inside our base," Lyons said, in the manner of someone educating a particularly stupid child. "She¡¯s spoken to me -- and seen your face, heard your voice. Even if these memories are a blur to her, I do not doubt the Humilists have Aether-users who could extract that information."


    The tone of Lyons¡¯ voice, the look in his eyes, the abruptness with which he¡¯d been called to this office¡­ Atoy Muzazi¡¯s blood turned cold.


    Again, he swallowed. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"


    Lyons leaned back in his chair. "I think it would be very good for everyone involved if that information was not extracted."


    "What do you want me to do?" Muzazi repeated.


    "I want you to kill her."


    The words settled in the room like a cold weight. Lyons¡¯ eyes drilled into Muzazi¡¯s head as he continued to stare, unblinking. For the third time, Muzazi swallowed -- and as he did, he became aware of the cold sweat that had arisen over his body.


    He looked down at the floor. "That¡¯s¡­ not the way I do things, sir."


    Lyons cocked his head, and for the first time his face softened. Almost sympathetically, he whispered: "With all due respect, Atoy, how has doing things ¡¯your way¡¯ worked out for you? With, ah¡­ your former partner, I mean?"


    The chill on Muzazi¡¯s body became a freeze, and he felt himself shaking deep down to his bones. He could feel it, he could feel it again, the feeling of that dust scattering across his bloody fingers. He could see that face disintegrating into nothing.


    Marie was dying all over again. Marie was dead all over again. He put a hand to his mouth.


    An illogical, insidious thought whispered to him: If I had killed Dragan Hadrien, back on Caelus Breck, that would never have happened.


    "I¡¯ll do it," Muzazi whispered, his voice quiet and weak. "This time¡­ I¡¯ll eliminate her without fail."


    Lyons smiled -- and, reaching over the desk, put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "It makes me so proud you¡¯ve grown enough to say that."


    Two pistols in their holsters. One plasma, one stun -- both concealed by a blue jacket.


    Combat boots, reinforced for defence, with mechanisms inside assisting with rapid movement.


    Black gloves, to prevent any fingerprints making their way onto¡­ whatever he was about to do. In the same vein, a black mask, ready to be pulled up over his face.


    And blue Aether, sparking around his fingers,


    Dragan Hadrien was ready. These were all the things he¡¯d need to rescue Mila Green. He knew her location, and a flimsy plan was already starting to assemble itself inside his Archive.


    His heart was racing in his chest, and his blood was hot in his body. It almost felt like he¡¯d burst into flame if he stood still too long. He couldn¡¯t really think of another time he¡¯d acted on impulse like this -- outside of shooting Atoy Muzazi back on Caelus Breck, and back then he hadn¡¯t really realised what he was doing until it was over. He kind of liked the sensation.


    He¡¯d left Skipper a message as to what he was doing, but he wouldn¡¯t give the older man a chance to talk him out of it. Just this once, he¡¯d be doing what he wanted to do. The only one who decided what happened to him¡­ was him.


    Dragan Hadrien took a deep breath, and stepped out the door.

 Chapter 231:9.22: Hark, Silencio!

    It has been confirmed through enhanced interrogation that the party behind the recent attack on the Aipol Beach, the murder of Dr. Rogier Cloud, and the theft of high-value prisoner Helga Malwarian is, unfortunately, the Superbian branch of our very own Church. While this is known, it cannot yet be proven. The duty of the Forgiveness Corps is thus to facilitate this justice.


    The preparations for the operation will be as follows:


    Forgiveness Station 93 will be cleared of all existing personnel and prisoners, with subject Mila Green instead being the sole detainee.


    Information on Mila Green¡¯s arrest and detainment, along with her location, will be broadcast publicly.


    An armed force will be posted at Forgiveness Station 93 to intercept any operatives who attempt to rescue or silence Mila Green.


    Rest assured that additional circumstances and obstacles have already been prepared for. All I ask is that you play your roles well and dutifully.


    Before the night is over, all sin shall be brought before the light.


    Mission Briefing, Operation Venus, Detective Prestige Aiden Blaith


    Skipper smirked ruefully as he looked down at the message from Dragan. Kids these days, really¡­ although, Skipper honestly couldn¡¯t say he¡¯d have done anything different. This didn¡¯t exactly slot in perfectly with his own plans, but it was within the realm of adjustment. He¡¯d let Dragan do as he pleased for the time being.


    Footsteps outside the door. Skipper stuffed his script back into his pocket as his unexpected contact returned to the hotel room.


    "Apologies for the wait," Isabelle Phi Testament said as she returned to the room, removing the bulky sunglasses she¡¯d adopted as a disguise. "These calls are constant. Especially with what happened tonight, a lot of things require my attention."


    She put herself down on a chair on the opposite end of the room. Even with the coat she was wearing -- and the red wig she tugged off her head -- it was easy to spot the body language of authority. This was someone used to having power over others.


    Skipper himself was sitting on the bed, chin resting on his hands. "Of course. We¡¯ve all got our circumstances, yeah? Makes me wonder what¡¯s made you take time outta that busy schedule to meet with little old me."


    Of course, he already had an idea about that, but it was best to let her say it.


    Isabelle took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she regained her composure. "I believe you were recently aboard the Aipol Beach -- when it was attacked by that rogue operative from the Quiet Choir, I mean."


    Skipper cracked his neck. "That¡¯s right. What¡¯s it to ya?"


    "I¡¯ve had a chance to review the security footage from that incident. It wasn¡¯t easy to obtain¡­" Isabelle opened her eyes. "...but from what I observed, it seems that you were the primary target of that attack."


    "Gosh," Skipper raised his eyebrows. "That so?"


    Isabelle nodded, hands on her lap. "It is."


    "Again, though¡­ what¡¯s it to ya?"


    Isabelle rose from her chair and marched over to the massive windows, where she slowly and deliberately pulled the curtains shut. Skipper watched disinterestedly as she moved. No doubt the silent treatment was part of some intimidation display -- it might have worked, too, if Isabelle didn¡¯t need to stand on the tips of her toes to reach the top of the curtains.


    "You don¡¯t know who might be watching," Isabelle said as she completed her labour, stepping back from the curtains. "How much do you know about the current state of the Superbian sect?"


    Skipper reached over to the bedside table, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "Can¡¯t be too great if they¡¯re sending assassins after upstanding citizens like myself."


    Isabelle visibly restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "The organisation has effectively become an engine to feed the ego of the current Apexbishop. Any reason that goes against his own is rejected as a matter of course. He takes no counsel, and believes his own wisdom to be supreme¡­"


    Sounds familiar. Skipper thought back to the man who was like god. Seemed there was someone who wanted to be just the same.


    "A regrettable state of, ah, affairs, to be sure," Skipper yawned. "What¡¯s it got to do with me?"


    At that point, Isabelle became unable to fully conceal her anxiety. As she spoke, she subtly fidgeted with her fingers, hands working over each other. She swallowed.


    "I have reason to believe the authorities that are meant to put checks on the Apexbishop are¡­ compromised. Nevertheless, I have preparations in place. Soon -- very soon -- the Apexbishop will be put to judgement for his indiscretions. When that time comes, can I count on your testimony?"


    Solving this with some courtroom drama? A little naive, don¡¯t you think, Miss Testament?


    Skipper put a hand to his chin, making a show of considering the proposal for a few seconds.


    "I¡¯d be required to take the stand publicly, in such a situation, yeah?" he asked, already knowing the answer.


    "That¡¯s right."


    Skipper winced. "This guy¡¯s the Apexbishop, right? He¡¯s gonna have people in his pocket. How do I know I¡¯m gonna be safe? A lot of people in these kinds of situations never even make it to the courtroom." Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    With that line of questioning, Isabelle seemed to regain her confidence a little. Her posture straightened, and the tenor of her voice came to match the certainty of her words.


    "I have military forces under my command," she said simply. "Loyal to my division, not the Apexbishop."


    "And they would protect me?"


    She nodded. "At my command, yes. Any attack upon you would be dealt with quickly."


    He clicked his tongue. "Can I have some time to think about this offer? This is kind of a, uh¡­ a big deal, yeah?"


    "Of course," said Isabelle. "I understand that it¡¯s a lot to take in. You have my contact information, so when you¡¯ve come to a decision, please don¡¯t hesitate to get in touch."


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    As Isabelle bid him farewell, and took her leave, Skipper had ample time to think. Things were going well. With this move, he now had another method to introduce further discord into the Superbians -- and with the fruit his collaboration with the Chorister had borne, he had the Paradisas well in hand, too. All that remained was to find the fracture point for the Humilists¡­


    When this whole mess was done, he planned for there to only be one branch of the Church left operable -- the Paradisas. It would be his gift to them¡­


    ¡­ all the better to soothe the pain of the knife in their back.


    Dragan chewed gum as he stood on the roof of the club, leaning on the railing as he kept watch on his destination.


    Forgiveness Station 93, one of the temporary bases created for the Forgiveness Corps to help with law enforcement for the duration of the Truemeet. To Dragan¡¯s eyes, it looked like another kind of facility had been retrofitted to serve that purpose -- maybe some kind of financial institution, judging from the rows of glass windows and fancy architecture.


    It was also where Mila Green was being held until her trial was arranged.


    The news broadcast had been very clear about that -- probably because this was a trap. Oh, Dragan wasn¡¯t stupid: they wouldn¡¯t have sent out that information unless they had something to gain from it. They were hoping to lure someone out, another party who would try to set Mila free.


    He doubted that party was him, but he¡¯d be careful all the same. He blew the gum in his mouth into a bubble and let it pop, spitting the remainder into a nearby trash can afterwards.


    His approach would be a simple matter. It didn¡¯t matter what kind of security they had in place, or the sensors they had available to them. All those things relied on their target existing¡­


    ¡­ and for Dragan Hadrien, existence was negotiable.


    He vanished into a spark of blue Aether, and began flowing across the rooftops towards the building.


    Atoy Muzazi looked Forgiveness Station 93 up and down from his position in the neighbouring building, taking in its weaknesses and vulnerabilities.


    There were guards -- uniformed officers of the Forgiveness Corps -- posted at the main entrances on the ground, armed with plasma pistols and batons. They alone wouldn¡¯t present much of an obstacle for a Special Officer, but Muzazi couldn¡¯t imagine the Humilists not assigning an Aether-user to guard such an important prisoner as well. If he ended up facing a real threat along with those guards, things would become complicated quickly.


    A better route of entry would be through one of the upper floors -- the glass windows there seemed to be a vulnerable point. Even if they were reinforced, he couldn¡¯t imagine they¡¯d be strong enough to resist his Aether-infused body moving at high speeds.


    The distance between the two buildings was such that he could fly between the two fairly easily. Flight using just his own body wasn¡¯t his strong point, though -- using his thrusters like that quickly tore his muscles and caused internal damage. Even with Full Throttle, he couldn¡¯t keep it up for long.


    No. He had a better method, at any rate.


    This office building was yet to be occupied, dark, the only illumination being the white Aether broiling around Muzazi¡¯s hand like a torch. It seemed, however, that the furniture had already been brought in.


    Muzazi cleared the equipment off of one desk, dragged it over to the window, and perched atop it, keeping firm hold with both hands. Now this would do nicely.


    A thruster like a rocket jet burst out from the back of the desk, cracking the wood --


    -- and Muzazi flew.


    Aiden Blaith paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. He could feel sweat crawling down his neck, but he made no move to clear it. A Detective Prestige couldn¡¯t be seen showing weakness at a time like this.


    The Forgiveness Station had been cleared out of all occupants save himself, his men, and the bait. Holographic screens hovering over the desk gave him views from security cameras -- the courtyard outside, the hallways throughout the building, and of course¡­ the cells. All were empty save for the last, where Mila Green sat, hands bound as she looked down at the ground.


    How the mighty had fallen. Back in the old days, Aiden had always gotten the feeling that Green was looking down on him, sneering at him when he wasn¡¯t looking. Because he was a kid, because he was clumsy, because he was a coward¡­


    Well, who was being looked down on now? From where Aiden was standing, Green seemed pretty damn small.


    The door opened -- Aiden nearly jumped out of his skin -- and one of his subordinates poked his head in. Gresham, an older man with brown hair and serrated sideburns. He was another Detective Prestige, but he¡¯d been placed under Aiden¡¯s authority for this assignment. No doubt he resented that, but he was wise enough not to voice that resentment.


    "Anything?" Aiden asked, hunched over his desk, throat dry.


    Gresham shook his head. "No trace of any infiltration. Even so, though¡­ if we¡¯re expecting Aether-users, it might be worth requesting reinforcements."


    "No!" Aiden cried hurriedly, standing upright in an instant. "No. No, that won¡¯t be necessary."


    That would be utterly unacceptable. Gertrude Hearth -- the Apexbishop -- had placed trust in him for this mission. These were the resources he¡¯d been given. If he arrogantly requested more, he¡¯d be as good as saying her judgement was awry.


    Who could say what would happen then?


    Suddenly, before Aiden could say another word to cover that embarrassing outburst, the script on the desk beeped. Aiden¡¯s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. That noise meant only one thing: the building had been breached. The Superbians had come.


    A glance at the screen confirmed his fears: something had entered one of the upper floors, breaking through the windows there. He swiped his hands across the screen, transmitting the information to his underlings.


    "Go!" he shouted -- and Gresham instantly moved, calling for officers to accompany him as he charged in the direction of the breach.


    Gresham was capable, to be sure, but Aiden still didn¡¯t trust his strength alone. A wise leader used all the resources available to them, and Gertrude had left him with one he simply couldn¡¯t ignore. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out: the talisman made from her fingernail, bound by a single strip of Neverwire.


    Hand shaking, he pulled out his pocket-knife and snipped through the Neverwire seal. Immediately, he heard a single word echo in his head.


    Silencio.


    Something had happened.


    Muzazi couldn¡¯t tell what had happened, didn¡¯t know how he was aware of it, but the sensation spreading over his body was unmistakable. Broken glass crunching under his feet, he rose to his full height, one hand on his sheathed sword. In the distance, he could hear the clatter of approaching boots.


    Well, he¡¯d never expected this to be a subtle operation. His mission was to kill Mila Green, nothing more. Anything else would just be a question of efficiency.


    Muzazi reached for his Aether -- only to find that it would not respond. Not a spark of silver appeared around his body, and for a single terrifying moment he felt naked. Like all the armour he¡¯d built up over his life had suddenly been stripped away¡­


    But no. No.


    Atoy Muzazi drew his sword. No doubt this deficiency was the result of the enemy¡¯s Aether ability -- but he was by no means defenceless. He had a weapon, he had his training, and he had a will of iron.


    Bang. A door was kicked in. They were almost upon him.


    Muzazi tensed his body like a spring, crouching low to the ground as he drew his sword back. His eyes were fixed on the door before him, his ears absorbing the sound of those footfalls. The instant he heard those feet stop outside the door, he charged forward.


    Victory belonged to those who moved without hesitation -- and Atoy Muzazi¡¯s hesitation had died on Panacea too.

 Chapter 232:9.23: My Time

    Once, there was a great kingdom, with borders and lands expansive and bountiful. The people were humble and hardworking, and the warriors stout and strong. Although some times were hard, they made it through the winters through perseverance and pluck.


    The king of these lands, however, found himself dissatisfied by this modest life. He feared that history would grant him no accolades, and that his name would fade long before the warmth of his cadaver. Soon, these thoughts kept him awake at night, and his days were spent shivering in fear of the inevitable darkness.


    When these thoughts reached his peak, he saw a girl standing before the throne. She wore a dress like cobwebs and shadows hung over her face as a veil. The king squealed and retreated into his seat, staring at her.


    "Who are you?!" he cried. "What is your name?!"


    The girl smiled.


    "Create a perfect kingdom to outdo me," she promised. "And I will show you who I am."


    Book of Silencio, Heretical Text


    Ruth gulped down her booze and slammed her glass down on the table, restraining her strength only enough not to smash either.


    Downtime didn¡¯t agree with her. Even here, sitting in this bar, her blood was boiling -- pushing her to go out and do something. Logically, she understood that they needed to hide out, lay low¡­ but even so, time seemed to stretch on into infinity. If she had any idea of how long she¡¯d be hiding out, or what the objective of all this was, it might have been a different story -- but as things were now, the whole exercise just felt tedious.


    The bar she was in, the Neon Demon, was a converted passenger cruiser now fully stocked with serving automatics and slot machines. People from all across the Final Church territories milled about the bar floor -- Humilists and Superbians sticking to their little cliques. Ruth herself had taken a little booth in the corner, where she had a good view of the entrance. Could never be too careful.


    She swiped two of her fingers over a sensor on the table, reordering her drink. If there was nothing else for her to do, she might as well get wasted. It was what everyone else did, after all.


    "Mind if I join you?"


    Red Aether sparked around her, her heart skipping a beat in surprise. She wasn¡¯t that drunk. She¡¯d been keeping careful watch over her surroundings, listening to the babble bouncing through the bar¡­


    ¡­and yet, without her so much as noticing, someone had sat themselves down right across from her. A very unusual looking someone.


    He was clad from head to toe in red and black -- a spandex suit covering his body, and a bulky helmet covering his head. A white square right in the center of that helmet was the closest thing to a visible face. He carefully poured his own drink into a slot on the side of that helmet as he drummed his free fingers against the table, looking right at Ruth.


    At least, she thought he was looking right at her -- it was hard to tell without visible eyes.


    Ruth frowned, leaning over the table, palm flat over the rim of her spent glass. "Looks like you¡¯ve already joined me. What¡¯s up?"


    "Nothing much," the man said -- from the sound of his voice, he was relatively young. He sounded relaxed, too, the helmet he was wearing not muffling his words in the least. "I just thought you seemed like an interesting person. Places like this are really for meeting people, right? In nature, all the different animals gather at the watering holes. It¡¯s just like that."


    Ruth raised a skeptical eyebrow. "If you say so, man. And what is it that seems so ¡¯interesting¡¯ about me, then?" Was this guy hitting on her or something?


    "Well," the young man leaned back in his seat. "For one, you obviously know what you¡¯re doing. I was planning to sit here since I¡¯d have a good view of all the entrances, but you¡¯d already beat me to it. Shows tactical awareness, right?"


    A smirk spread across Ruth¡¯s face, but she shrugged as if it were no big deal. "Isn¡¯t difficult."


    "You¡¯d be surprised," the man said, twisting in his seat to look back at the main entrance. "See those mercs there, near the front? Some guy from Shooting Stars Security Solutions."


    Indeed, Ruth recognised their red armour from back on Taldan. Three men, laughing and drinking booze in a booth right next to the door. Two helmets rested on the table between them.


    Her eyes flicked back to the masked man. "Yeah? What about them?"


    With a sigh, he planted something in front of him -- the third helmet, which he¡¯d been holding under the table. "They didn¡¯t even notice me grab this," he chuckled as he patted it. "Amateurs like that are only good for bragging about the things other people have ordered them to do. Just faceless corporations."


    "Faceless?" Ruth scoffed. "You can¡¯t really talk, can you?"


    The masked man cocked his head. "What do you mean?" He sounded genuinely confused.


    "Uh¡­" Ruth pointed to his mask, her brow furrowed.


    "Oh, this?" he replied, tapping the item in question. "This is just my own face. No choice but to keep it on, I¡¯m afraid. Religious reasons."


    Ruth crossed her arms. "I¡¯ve never heard about anything like that in the Final Church."


    "Ain¡¯t from the Final Church. Yours truly is a legal citizen of Facade-Abra, one of the UAP¡¯s big ten. We make our own faces. In a way¡­" he tapped the side of his mask. "This one¡¯s better than what¡¯s beneath. That¡¯s just meat and bone and stuff, whereas this is something I¡¯ve made with my own hands. Don¡¯t you think?"


    Ruth blinked. "I guess."


    "Plus, it¡¯s convenient not to have all your emotions on display like with you faceless."


    "If you say so," Ruth said, accepting her new drink as the serving automatic arrived. "You still haven¡¯t told me what you want, though."


    "Believe it or not, I¡¯m in the same business as those bozos," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the S4 goons. "Only I prefer to work for myself. Small jobs, and I have to go where the work takes me, but it lets me pick and choose based on what I¡¯m comfortable with. Like I said, you seem like you can handle yourself. You ever consider mercenary work?"


    Oh, he wasn¡¯t flirting at all -- this was recruitment.


    Ruth smirked ruefully. "Sorry. I got previous obligations." She could hardly juggle assassinating the Supreme with guarding cargo shipments, after all.


    The man sighed. "Really? You¡¯re sure? That Aether you showed off seemed pretty potent, too. I¡¯d hate to lose the opportunity for a good partnership."


    Damnit. She¡¯d let it spark for a second, just by reflex, when he¡¯d made his presence known. The smirk dropped from Ruth¡¯s face. "You know about Aether?"


    He chuckled. "Of course I do. The days of Aether being some secret for the cherished few are long gone. Information leaks out over time, cultures and individuals develop their own styles around it¡­ the Supremacy can kid themselves into still thinking they¡¯re special, but it¡¯s just a delusion. Give it twenty-thirty years and I¡¯ll bet anything it¡¯ll be a matter of public record."


    "Gotta say¡­ you sound pretty confident in that."


    He stood up from the table, cracking his neck. "Of course I am. Aether¡¯s the great equaliser, right? We¡¯re just sitting around waiting for everyone to realise it." He fished around in his pocket for a moment, pulling free a pale business card and tossing it down on the table. "Anyway, I won¡¯t take up more of your time. Look me up if you change your mind any."


    As the masked man sauntered away, stolen helmet tucked under his arm, Ruth glanced down at the card.


    Rex Restorossi


    An Independent Military Operator


    PL-9266-CD-8921


    Maybe a name to remember.


    Atoy Muzazi began his work.


    As he smashed through the wooden door, he slammed his shoulder into the face of the officer beyond, charging him into the hallway wall. As the unfortunate man was slammed against the surface, Muzazi¡¯s hand whipped out and snatched the pistol from his faltering hand. He flipped it around in his grip, holding it by the barrel as a melee weapon.


    An attack from behind.


    Even without Aether, his senses were sharpened to their utmost. Muzazi grasped the first officer by his collar and swung him around, using the man as a shield against the baton that had been aimed at the back of his head.


    The officer with the baton hesitated -- unwilling to strike his comrade -- and Muzazi took the opportunity. He kicked the unconscious man into the baton-wielder with all his strength, sending the two men falling to the floor. Then, before his enemy could rise, Muzazi kicked him in the side of the head, knocking him out cold too.


    All of this took about six seconds. There were four more officers.


    The officer near the back of the hallway fired his pistol, and Muzazi ducked to avoid it -- but too slow, as the plasmafire thudded into his left arm. The pistol slipped from his spasming grip, just as it had done with its original owner. However, Atoy Muzazi was not finished using it.


    He kicked the weapon like a soccer ball, eyes fixed on his ranged assailant -- and it flew down the hallway, striking the man in the chin and sending him staggering back. A moment¡¯s respite from the plasma shots, but not a break from combat altogether.


    One of the officers charged Muzazi, tackling him to the ground and doing his best to get him into a headlock. It was a clumsy manoeuvre, born of panic -- they obviously hadn¡¯t expected Muzazi to be this adept -- and so a vulnerability quickly exposed itself. As the officer was wrestling with Muzazi, their heads came dangerously close together.


    Right now, he wasn¡¯t in the mood to overlook that.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Muzazi lunged forward and bit down, gripping the officer¡¯s ear in his teeth -- and then, before his enemy could even realise what had happened, he pulled back. The officer screamed as his ear tore, and Muzazi tasted the copper of blood on his tongue. All grappling was forgotten as the man rushed to free himself from Muzazi¡¯s jaws, and Muzazi took that opportunity as well. As he released the man¡¯s ear, he smashed his head forward into the enemy¡¯s, sending him into unconsciousness as well.


    Before Muzazi could rise to his feet, however, two more of the officers were upon him -- battering his body with their batons. He felt a rib crack as one blow struck true, and for the first time a groan of pain escaped his throat. He didn¡¯t have the time to indulge it, though. He had to keep fighting. He had to keep fighting.


    The two batons came down as one -- and Muzazi seized them in mid-air, stopping them from striking him. At the same time, he kicked out, catching the nearest officer right in the back of the knee. There was a satisfying crunch as the man crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony.


    One baton was now free, and so Muzazi used it to deflect another incoming shot from the ranged officer. Steaming plasma dripped from the weapon, and Muzazi could feel it losing cohesion in his hand -- and so he hurled it at the face of the other baton-user, causing him to stumble backwards as the front of his uniform caught fire. Desperately, he patted down his burning clothes -- leaving him vulnerable to a punch right in the jaw. He went down too.


    Only the pistol-user was still standing, and as Muzazi swung around to face him another shot brushed past the side of his head, singing his hair. There was no need for words. Muzazi charged silently, his mouth a flat line of concealed pain, and slammed right into the officer. Without much difficulty, he forced the unfortunate man into an armlock -- causing him to drop the gun -- and hissed into his ear from behind: "The prisoner. Where?"


    The officer swallowed. "F-Forget it¡­ I won¡¯t¡­"


    A twist was all it took to snap the man¡¯s arm. "Where?!" Muzazi shouted.


    "Third floor! Temporary holding cells, next to processing! Y, please!" This time he was much more cooperative.


    Muzazi pushed him forwards -- and then, with an elbow to the back of his head, put him to sleep as well. A kick to the one with the broken leg sufficed to subdue him too. Finally, Muzazi felt free to let out a breath.


    A broken rib and a disabled left arm, not to mention the injuries he no doubt hadn¡¯t noticed yet. It had been a long time since he¡¯d last fought without Aether. It seemed he¡¯d become more reckless with his body than he¡¯d anticipated.


    His body stiffened as he caught his breath. More footsteps approaching -- more than last time. He¡¯d expected this, but it seemed that group hadn¡¯t been the full security response.


    Just those six had taken all he had. Fighting a larger group in his current condition wasn¡¯t a risk he was willing to take. Muzazi winced as he cracked his neck -- and then he turned on his heel, running in the opposite direction from the incoming footsteps.


    If nothing else, he¡¯d lead them on a merry chase.


    Aiden¡¯s fingers drummed against the wooden desk as he watched the intruder on the security monitors, his heart dropping with each blow.


    It was definitely the swordsman he¡¯d seen on previous footage, even if he didn¡¯t seem to be using a sword right now. Even with the Apexbishop¡¯s talisman disabling his Aether, he¡¯d brawled his way through six trained officers without any difficulty at all.


    Sweat trickled down his forehead. No, no, things weren¡¯t meant to be going like this¡­ that had been his trump card. What was he supposed to do now? What the hell was Gresham doing, chasing that infiltrator through the halls like an idiot? Was he trying to make Aiden look bad or something?


    He rummaged around in his pockets again, pulling free the other talisman Gertrude had given him -- the severed finger of Helga Malwarian, bound with a similar strip of Neverwire. Could this get him out of this unfair situation? Gertude had said¡­ damn it, he¡¯d forgotten her exact words, but she¡¯d said it would help him, right?


    Wait. No. He couldn¡¯t use it. He¡¯d already used the fingernail to nullify Aether in the building. Whatever this other talisman did, it wouldn¡¯t work. Idiot. Idiot!


    Whatever. This was still winnable. Gresham and his men would wear the enemy down over time, no matter how many of them were taken out. It would take a little longer, but they¡¯d still win. He¡¯d still win. He¡¯d show them what he was made of!


    Aiden rose from his position hunched over the desk -- only to feel the barrel of a pistol press against the back of his head.


    "Don¡¯t move," said a quiet voice from behind him. "Move, and I¡¯ll kill you right away. Say ¡¯okay¡¯ if you understand me."


    Aiden¡¯s voice was like cracking ice. "Okay."


    His heart beat like a hammer in his chest, accompanied by a dull pain. It was taking nearly all his strength just to prevent himself from hyperventilating. The voice behind him¡­ it sounded familiar, but with the panic racing through him, he couldn¡¯t place it.


    At any rate, it seemed the voice couldn¡¯t resist a little gloating. "You should have used that fingernail thing earlier. You would have killed me, but I was already in the room." Yes, very familiar.


    "What do you want?" Aiden whispered, keeping as still as he could. He didn¡¯t want to agitate this person.


    "Mila Green. Where is she?" Sear?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Aiden blinked. Of course. The swordsman wasn¡¯t working alone: he was a distraction, while his partner snuck in to capture the enemy general. "Why do you want to know?"


    "That¡¯s one strike," the voice said, dripping danger. "You get three. Where is Mila Green?"


    The words came out fast and without dignity. "Next to the processing sector on the third floor -- temporary holding cells. That¡¯s where we¡¯ve put her."


    "That¡¯s more like it. If I break that fingernail thing, will the Aether come back?"


    Aiden swallowed. "I don¡¯t know."


    "Pick it up and give it here. If you try anything, I¡¯ll kill you."


    Slowly, with trembling hands, Aiden reached down to the desk and plucked the fingernail free, holding it between two of his fingers. He turned, careful not to make any sudden moves, extending the nail out in offering -- and then he saw.


    He saw the face of the person threatening him. Dragan Hadrien. The one who¡¯d brought Samael Ambrazo Zakos to Yoslof, the one responsible for all the death and destruction there.


    For a split second, Hadrien¡¯s eyes flicked over to one of the security monitors -- to the figure of the swordsman running down the hallways.


    "What?" he muttered. "He¡¯s --"


    Aiden charged.


    There was no strategy or technique to it, just him slamming his body into the enemy -- but with the element of surprise and the lack of Aether, that was enough. The two of them went crashing down to the floor, Hadrien¡¯s gun sliding across the room. Aiden quickly stuffed the fingernail into his pocket before climbing up atop the Cogitant, raining down a storm of clumsy blows.


    Hadrien raised his arms to protect his face, but the punches aimed for his chest and stomach met their mark. Aiden reached for his own holstered pistol -- but when Hadrien saw the opening, he quickly pushed, attempting to reverse their positions. Roaring in fury, Aiden grappled with Hadrien, pushing his arms down as he did his best to prevent him from getting up.


    "Fuck you," he snarled, as Hadrien¡¯s hand struck his face. "Fuck you."


    But Dragan Hadrien was like a cornered animal. As Aiden reached down to throttle his enemy, Hadrien turned his head and bit down on the incoming arm -- hard, hard enough to soak his teeth with blood. Aiden screamed, doing his utmost to pull himself free, but Hadrien refused to let go. In the end, it took a swift kick to the Cogitant¡¯s groin to force him to release Aiden from his jaws.


    Aiden staggered up and backwards against the desk, nursing his bleeding arm -- but Hadrien was not done. With a movement like lightning, he kicked out with one leg, striking Aiden right in the hip. There was a resounding crack.


    His face went pale.


    That was not the crack of bone.


    Nor had Hadrien been aiming for his hip.


    That had been Aiden Blaith¡¯s pocket, and that sound had been the crack of a fingernail.


    Aether began to spark.


    Aether began to spark.


    Muzazi¡¯s brow furrowed as his Aether returned, white light bathing the hallway around him. He didn¡¯t know why his power had come back, but he wasn¡¯t about to miss the opportunity. Immediately, he turned on his heel, shoes squeaking against the polished floor as he faced his pursuers.


    As he¡¯d made his way through the building, he¡¯d managed to take down one or two of the chasing officers in brief confrontations. Now, though, he could truly let loose.


    Ten pursuers remained, their pistols and rifles aimed right at him. Behind them was their commander, a scruffy-looking man with thick sideburns, brown Aether sparking around his hands. He¡¯d be the one to watch out for.


    Fingers pulled triggers, and Atoy Muzazi got to work.


    Plasmafire sailed over his head as he dropped to the ground with Aether-infused speed, slapping his palm against the floor tile. With another spark of Aether he implanted his thrusters into the underside of the tile, causing it to tear itself free from the ground and zoom down the hallway as mobile cover.


    Muzazi ran behind it, using his fists and feet to subdue any officers who were still conscious after the tile slammed into them. His cover made it around halfway down the hall before finally succumbing to the plasma and melting, leaving Muzazi only a few metres away from the commander.


    Apart from him, two mundane officers were still standing. Muzazi caught a rifle being swung towards his head by one of them and -- with a burst of silver strength -- snapped the barrel straight off, smashing it against his assailant¡¯s nose. The man¡¯s scream echoed through the building.


    As he fought, he kept careful watch on the man with the sideburns. Countless tiles -- like something from a board game -- had manifested out of his Aether, floating in the air around him in a spherical formation. Each tile bore a letter, and the commander was carefully plucking the tiles one by one, using them to form a word that floated behind his head.


    PARA, the word read -- clearly it wasn¡¯t finished yet. Muzazi got the distinct sense that allowing it to complete would be bad for him.


    He finished off the first officer with a kick to the stomach that sent him flying down the hallway. Then, he turned to the second, catching a plasma shot in his Aether-infused grip and hurling it at the officer¡¯s feet, the pain causing him to crumple to the ground.


    Another glance. The commander was making quick progress. PARALYZ, the word read.


    Paralyzed? Was that the word being assembled? If it was completed, would this man¡¯s ability cause it to happen? If that was the case, Muzazi couldn¡¯t waste time.


    He leapt over the prone guard, thrusters atop his leg bringing down a devastating knee drop onto his torso. The man choked and spluttered, falling back as he was thoroughly taken out of the fight.


    More thrusters immediately sprung Muzazi back to his feet, and he began his final charge towards the commander. The older man was hastily looking through his floating tiles, searching for the final two tiles that would complete his attack. E and D -- or perhaps just E, if the word he was assembling was simply ¡¯paralyze¡¯. Muzazi might not have as much time as he expected.


    As he approached, the commander pulled his pistol free of its holster and fired a volley of rounds towards him. Muzazi dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding them -- and for a moment, his thrusters permitted him to sneer at gravity, allowing him to run along the surface of the wall. As he kicked off, he zoomed towards the enemy with thrusters blasting out of the soles of his feet.


    He kicked, his leg crashing through the floating tiles and narrowly missing the enemy¡¯s chin as he dodged back. Muzazi smirked: it was unfortunate that he¡¯d missed, but the enemy had never been his true target.


    Tiny thrusters erupted from the floating tiles his leg had made contact with, sending them flying in every direction -- the final letters now fully out of reach. Then, Muzazi charged forward again, split-second thrusters accelerating his movements. The pistol came up one more time, but a shining white fist was firm enough to shatter it -- and as the enemy¡¯s terrified face grew large in his vision, Muzazi knew he¡¯d won.


    He kicked again -- this time upwards, with all his strength and flexibility, striking the Aether-user in the chin and sending him flying into the ceiling. A second later he fell back down, still, save for his ragged breathing. He wouldn¡¯t be moving any time soon.


    Atoy Muzazi let out another deep breath.


    With his Aether returned to him, he could feel the pain of his injuries easing. He¡¯d need better treatment to heal them fully, but for the time being he could move -- and he had to. He still had a job to do, after all.


    Eliminate Mila Green.


    Muzazi unsheathed his black blade.

 Chapter 233:9.24: Your Time

    And when the last of the allotted days had passed, the castle was nigh-unrecognizable. The great walls were made of not stone but gold, and the figures of the tapestries danced and capered like living things. Each servitor was an ideal of their form, and the wine of perfection flowed without end. Even the old king had returned himself to his youth, brave and beautiful, through magicks now unknown.


    Once again, the king ordered the shadowed girl brought before him -- and once again, he asked the youth to finally give her name.


    The walls collapsed, and the tapestries frayed. The servants rotted, and the wine soured. The young king screamed in horror as his skin hung from his bones and his eyes turned to dust in their sockets. His teeth left him as a stream.


    "My name is Silencio," the girl said sweetly, as the world ended. "And who are you before me?"


    Book of Silencio, Heretical Text


    Aiden wasted no time.


    As soon as he felt his Aether return, he deployed a veritable flood of eyeballs -- not for observation, but to stuff themselves down Hadrien¡¯s throat and choke him. Before Hadrien could dodge, they were already slipping into his open mouth, holding it open for their brethren. Five, six, seven¡­ a wild grin spread across Aiden¡¯s face as he saw his strategy working.


    And then --


    -- and then Dragan Hadrien vanished.


    The eyeballs that had entered Hadrien¡¯s body floated confused in the air for a moment, swivelling around as if they¡¯d just lost sight of him. Worriedly, Aiden called them back to his side, having sixteen or so eyeballs rotate in a circle around him so as to keep total watch of the room.


    Aiden could see through his additional eyes as if they were his own, and through them right now he could see he was totally alone. The holographic monitors fizzled above the desk, showing that the black swordsman had dispatched Gresham and the others. The door to the office was firmly closed. He could hear the faint buzz of the air conditioning, and feel the chill in his bones.


    With a flick of his wrist, he sent another eyeball to look under the desk, just to find that it too was empty.


    What was going on? Clearly, Hadrien had some kind of ability that allowed him to vanish from sight, but where had he gone? Had he actually teleported, or just turned invisible? If the latter was true, then it wouldn¡¯t help no matter how many eyeballs Aiden dispatched¡­


    No. In situations like this, panic was the last emotion he should indulge. Instead, he cleared his throat, smirking at the empty chamber.


    "How about this?" he called out. "I have a deal I think will interest you. I --"


    Dragan Hadrien reappeared directly above Aiden in a shower of blue sparks, landing on him with a devastating knee drop. As he collapsed to the floor, he directed his eyes to surge towards Hadrien, to coat his body and soften any blow he tried to unleash upon Aiden.


    All he needed was a spare second, and he could use the final boon Hearth had left him¡­ he stuffed his hand into his pocket, reaching for the severed finger, searching for the Neverwire that was keeping it sealed. He was going to make it, he was going to make it, he was going to make it!


    Alas.


    Eyeballs were soft, and the kick that came for his head was hard. Everything went black.


    The moment Aiden lost consciousness, the eyeballs that had been covering Dragan like bubble wrap fizzled away into Aether. He sighed heavily, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.


    Going from mundane combat to an Aether battle like that was¡­ an unusual sensation. He couldn¡¯t even remember the last time he¡¯d thrown a punch without some sparks of blue bolstering his fist. Rising to his feet, Dragan wiped cold sweat from his forehead.


    Something had fallen from Aiden¡¯s pocket as he¡¯d been knocked out. A severed finger, with what looked like a length of Neverwire tied around it. Curious. He placed it in his own pocket, careful not to touch the Neverwire as he securely zipped it up. Maybe Skipper would be able to figure something out from it.


    His gaze returned to the monitors. There were two faces he hadn¡¯t expected to see tonight.


    The first was Aiden, the brat from back on Yoslof. From the look of things, he¡¯d gotten a promotion since the last time they¡¯d seen each other -- and he¡¯d evidently learned how to use Aether. His ability hadn¡¯t been much to write home about in a combat sense, but he supposed it had been a bad matchup against Gemini World. Too bad, so sad.


    The second face was much more interesting.


    There, on the security monitors, the unmistakable figure of Atoy Muzazi was making his way towards Mila Green¡¯s cell. He looked a little more weathered, sure -- and the bags beneath his eyes were considerable -- but it was unmistakably him.


    Dragan tapped a finger against his chin as he considered his options. He and Muzazi hadn¡¯t exactly parted on the best of terms, so it probably wasn¡¯t ideal for him to show his face. More importantly, what was Muzazi doing here?


    The broadcast had said Mila Green was being accused of treason. Had she been dragged into the Supremacy¡¯s influence, just like Helga had been? If so, that suggested Muzazi was here to break out one of the Supremacy¡¯s assets -- given his personality, that was the only purpose that made sense.


    If that was the case, then Dragan had been beaten to the punch. That didn¡¯t mean he was useless, though. He might not be willing to show his face before Muzazi¡­


    ¡­but that didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t lend his support from a distance.


    The final hallway. Muzazi¡¯s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.


    Empty cells lined the walls, equipped with little save for slab-like beds and leaking toilets. The stench was inexcusable, and so Muzazi breathed through his mouth as he made his way down the hallway. Even with that discomfort, however, the grim resolve in his eyes did not fade.


    He had his orders. He had a reason to be here. He had an empty place to send the despair in his heart.


    His footsteps echoed down the hallway, and before long he had reached the door at the end. He already knew that Mila Green lied just beyond it. A single slash of his sword would suffice to decapitate her, without time for her to experience fear or suffering. At the very least, he could provide that mercy.


    "Is that your intention, Atoy Muzazi?"


    Of course.


    Muzazi turned his head, already glaring intensely. There, in the middle of the hallway, was the ethereal figure of Nigen Rush. The golden light from his visor banished any darkness in the room, and Muzazi saw spots beneath his eyelids as he blinked.


    "I have no time for you, phantom," Muzazi muttered. "I will not entertain the twitches of a diseased mind."


    "Then why do you turn?" Rush said softly. "Why do you listen, when you say that you will not?"


    Muzazi¡¯s arm, which had been reaching for the door, dropped to his side. "Say your piece, then," he growled. "Say your piece so that I may deny it."


    "This is not your way."


    His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"


    "To strike down an innocent. To act for cruelty¡¯s sake. To abdicate responsibility. If you do this thing, however, you will find that it is your way. These sins you will never break free of."


    With a flash of steel, Muzazi pointed his blade towards the apparition. "And who are you to lecture me, then, to tell me who I am?"


    "I am you."


    "Yes," Muzazi sneered. "And we -- you and I -- are nothing. I have made choices. I have tasted the consequences." His last words were nearly a scream. "I have no more stomach for them!"


    Rush¡¯s figure was unmoving, a statue. "That is not a choice a human is allowed to make," he said patiently. "You can convince yourself you are free from responsibility, but it will not be so. You can tell yourself you have rejected your despair, but it will feast upon you. You will be a husk: a husk surrounded by your regrets. Is this the ending you desire?"


    Slowly, Muzazi lowered his sword, until it hung limp at his side. "It does not matter what I want," he muttered bitterly. "It never has."


    And then, unwilling to hear another word from Nigen Rush, he turned back to the door.


    "Atoy," said Marie.


    He froze. That wasn¡¯t fair.


    "Look at me, Atoy," Marie said, insistently, from behind him. "Turn around and look at me."


    He knew that he should not. He knew that looking would only tear open his wounds. He knew that looking would not change the past.


    And yet, silently, he turned and looked.


    There, where Nigen Rush had stood, was Marie Hazzard. Her arms were folded, and one eyebrow was raised. She was wearing that leather jacket over a pink dress -- the same thing she¡¯d been wearing when they first met.


    She scowled. "What do you think you¡¯re doing, Atoy?"


    "This is a trick," he whispered. His eyes were wet.


    "A memory," she corrected him. "But it¡¯s all the same thing. You know what I would¡¯ve have said. You know I¡¯d have hated this pathetic version of you."


    The sword slipped from Muzazi¡¯s grip, and clattered to the floor.


    "It doesn¡¯t matter what you would have done¡­" he said, near silent. "You¡¯re¡­"


    "Say it."


    "You¡¯re dead." The words were ice in his throat.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "Are you dead, Atoy?" Marie said, staring steadily at him. There was a note of accusation to her tone. "Do you want to be?"


    Muzazi clenched his fists. "I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t want this. Feeling like this, thinking these things, knowing that -- knowing that¡­"


    "Knowing that it¡¯s your fault?"


    Silently, he nodded -- but the silence was not mirrored. He heard Marie laugh scornfully, her imaginary voice echoing down the hallway.


    "Are you an idiot or something, Atoy? Do you really think I¡¯d have done something like that without it being my own choice? Don¡¯t flatter yourself."


    Muzazi closed his eyes, shook his head. "You¡¯re just me -- trying to make myself feel better. You don¡¯t know what she really would have said. What she¡¯d have done¡­"


    Something touched his face. A cold hand, caressing his cheek. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and saw that red gaze so close to his own.


    "If that¡¯s true," she whispered. "Doesn¡¯t the fact I¡¯m here mean you don¡¯t want to do this?"


    Muzazi could feel his resolve cracking under that touch. He sniffed, opened his mouth to speak -- and yet the words took a moment to come forth.


    "Then what am I to do?" he demanded. "You¡¯re gone. It doesn¡¯t matter."


    "Then make it matter," she replied. "That¡¯s what principles are for, right? To give meaning to the things we do. You know that better than anyone. Have you forgotten?"


    He could hold himself back no longer. He reached up to his own face, grabbed the hand cupping his cheek. His grasp met nothing but empty air, but if he imagined¡­ if he imagined¡­


    "Back on Panacea," he whispered. "Before you¡­ you said something to me, but I -- I didn¡¯t hear. I couldn¡¯t. What¡­ what was it you said to me? Please."


    She smiled sadly. "You know what I said, Atoy."


    And then, with a single blink of his eyes, Marie Hazzard was gone. With shaking hands, Muzazi crouched down, picked up the black blade -- and returned it to its sheath.


    After taking a deep breath, he turned and opened the door before him.


    The cell beyond was only barely more furnished than the rest, and the extent of that extravagance mostly consisted of tighter and more firm bars. The woman within stood up from the bed in surprise as Muzazi entered -- the exhausted rings of a fugitive under her eyes, and dried blood still on her face.


    It seemed her capture hadn¡¯t been an easy one. No doubt she recognised the man who¡¯d taken her in originally, too.


    "What¡¯s going on?" Mila Green demanded, retreating to the back of her cell. "Who are you people?!"


    Muzazi swallowed -- and then, he allowed the slightest smile to cross his lips.


    "My name is Atoy Muzazi," he said. "I¡¯m here to help."


    These last few days had been the worst of Mila Green¡¯s life.


    The horror of being captured and interrogated, losing Helga again, and then even being declared a traitor by her own side¡­ every time she thought back to those memories, it was like she was shoving her own face onto a spike. Involuntary shudders ran down her spine, and her breath came short. Before she¡¯d been captured by Aiden Blaith, she felt like she¡¯d already been on the verge of a breakdown.


    Now, however, all she could do was run.


    Her shoes were wet with filthy water as she sprinted through the sewers, following the lead of Atoy Muzazi. The stench was revolting, but Muzazi had been right in saying this was the best route to leave the building unseen. After everything she¡¯d been through, the stink bothered her very little.


    What was more confusing was the fact that Atoy Muzazi was saving her in the first place. He¡¯d been the one who¡¯d kidnapped her originally, after all. Was it just hunger or exhaustion that was leading her to trust him now, or was there something about him that told her he could be trusted?


    As she was now, she couldn¡¯t trust her own thoughts. All she could do was run.


    The two of them came to the mouth of the sewers, the accumulated waste flowing out into an automatic processing facility. Mila did her best not to look at the river of filth as it was poured into the mouth of a great filter, ejected again as clean water and raw materials.


    Muzazi, for his part, just let out a deep breath as the two of them marched into the metal clearing beyond. It seemed he¡¯d been injured assaulting Forgiveness Station 93 -- there was an unmistakable plasma wound on his left arm, and every now and then he¡¯d grab his chest in pain.


    "Stay still," she muttered, walking over. "Let me treat you."


    He shook his head. "There¡¯s no time."


    She was no stranger to reluctant patients, and she injected her voice with the insistence that usually worked. "They¡¯ll just slow you down if we leave them be. At least let me bandage your arm."


    A moment¡¯s hesitation, and then he subtly nodded. Mila tore free the sleeve of her prison jumpsuit, binding it around the damaged limb as a makeshift bandage. There usually wasn¡¯t much bleeding with plasma wounds anyway -- they tended to cauterise themselves as a matter of course -- but this would still keep Muzazi on his feet for just a little longer.


    "Why did you save me?" Mila muttered, looking down at her work rather than him.


    He didn¡¯t look at her either. "It was the right thing to do."


    She raised an eyebrow. "You¡¯re the reason I was in that situation in the first place."


    "That¡¯s¡­ why it was the right thing to do."


    What a bizarre guy. Mila finished binding the wound, checking it one last time to make sure it would remain sturdy before taking a step back. "So¡­ what now?"


    "What do you mean?" Muzazi frowned.


    "Well¡­ we can¡¯t just keep running forever, right? And from what you¡¯ve said, the people you work for won¡¯t be happy you disobeyed orders. Won¡¯t they come after you, too?"


    "That¡¯s¡­" Muzazi began a sentence he clearly didn¡¯t know the end of, instead choosing to sigh and run a hand over his face. "That¡¯s a bridge we¡¯ll have to cross when we come to it. For the time being, we just need to get out of sight. We¡¯ve stayed here too long, anyway. I know it sounds somewhat dramatic, but they could be watching us right now."


    Dragan Hadrien was watching right then, from the skeleton of a nearby unfinished building. After seeing that Muzazi was taking the sewers as his way out, he¡¯d cut ahead using Gemini World to this exit. S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It seemed he needn¡¯t have worried after all.


    Mila Green was safe, and Dragan didn¡¯t know anyone who¡¯d protect an innocent as fiercely as this man. In the end, there really hadn¡¯t been much point in him coming out: apart from breaking that strange fingernail, he hadn¡¯t contributed much.


    Oh, well. Dragan stepped back from the window. He¡¯d never been one for glory anyway. Time for him to coolly withdraw.


    Dragan reached for his Aether¡­


    ¡­and found it absent.


    Silencio.


    Bang.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened, his body stiffened, and he reached for his sword -- but all too late. The shot hit him in the neck, sending him down to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. As Mila looked down at him, horrified, she saw the unmistakable shape of a tranquiliser dart embedded in his throat.


    "The thing so adorable about rats," Gertude Hearth said. "Is the way they choose the filthiest escape routes. Don¡¯t you think?"


    Mila whirled around.


    The Apexbishop was wearing a brown fur coat that dwarfed her actual body, a predatory smile on her face. Her eyes gleamed yellow in the dim light. Her slender fingers stroked the dart-gun she¡¯d just used to fell Muzazi. Another involuntary shudder rippled through Mila Green¡¯s body, and she suddenly understood how a mouse must feel when faced with a cat.


    Three figures stood with the Apexbishop, right at the mouth of the sewers.


    Two of them were strange men, wrapped from head to toe in bandages, their arms limp at their sides. The third was Aiden, one of his eyes now marred by a noticeable bruise. He sneered at her as their gazes met.


    "That¡¯s the one," he nodded at the prone Muzazi. "He came to break her out -- there was another, too, but he isn¡¯t here."


    "A shame," Gertrude said quietly. "Perhaps he¡¯ll tell us what we want to know once we get a chance to¡­ chat."


    "What is this?" Mila demanded, looking between the two of them.


    Gertude smiled sweetly at her, pulling her fur coat tight to avoid the inevitable chill. If the disreputable surroundings bothered her, she didn¡¯t show it. She had a way of making herself seem to belong wherever she stood.


    "A trap, my dear," she sighed. "Although it seems it¡¯s caught the wrong prey. I¡¯d hoped Helga Malwarian would come to get you."


    Mila¡¯s mouth was dry. "Helga?"


    "Of course," Gertude purred. Her eyes narrowed, and any feigned benevolence left her voice instantly. "She¡¯s the little whore who killed my Cloud, isn¡¯t she?"


    There was no Aether in that space, no abilities were active, and yet Mila Green found that she couldn¡¯t move. It was the fear stoked by those bandaged figures, who she knew instinctively could kill her at any moment¡­ and the sheer malice emitted by her Apexbishop like radiation.


    "Well," Gertrude sighed, throwing her arms out. "Nothing¡¯s a waste. We can keep doing this trap until we get who we want. I wonder if Helga will feel more urgent with an execution?"


    Mila took a single step back, and even that effort was excruciating. One of the bandaged figures took a step forward in sync, hissing incoherently at her. Even that was enough to halt her escape.


    "Execution?" she mumbled. "People won¡¯t go along with that¡­ there¡¯s no grounds¡­"


    Aiden smirked, taking a step forwards as he unrolled his sleeves. "Oh, you don¡¯t need to worry. We have ways of facilitating these things."


    Gertrude chuckled, putting a demure hand to her lips. "We certainly do."


    Mila realised what was about to happen, but too late. "No!" she screamed.


    Gertrude casually reached forward -- a knife suddenly in her grip -- and sliced Aiden¡¯s jugular. For the first moment, Aiden didn¡¯t seem to even realise what had happened, only putting a hand to his throat once his blood began to dribble free. Choking on himself, he tried to turn around, only to slip on the blood that had already left his body and collapse to the floor. There, he could do nothing but writhe like a fish, Gertrude staring coldly down at him.


    His movements slowed¡­


    ¡­and slowed¡­


    ¡­and stopped.


    "Look," Gertrude said lightly, tapping Aiden¡¯s body with a shoe. "Now you¡¯re a murderer, too. I¡¯d say that¡¯s grounds for execution."


    "What¡¯s¡­" Mila breathed, her teeth smashing together in terror. "What¡¯s wrong with you people?!"


    Gertrude cocked her head. It was a possibility even more terrifying than the murder, but she seemed genuinely confused about what Mila meant. What she was doing right now, what she always did¡­ from where she was standing, did all of that seem natural?


    "Wrong with me?" she laughed. "By what metric, Miss Green? The way you¡¯ve behaved so far has led you here -- a fugitive in a sewer, soon to be executed for a crime you did not commit. It seems here that your actions are the ones that are incorrect. You don¡¯t agree?"


    Mila did not reply. How could she? She could feel in her bones that the wrong word, the wrong move, would mean unimaginable pain. Coward that she was, she couldn¡¯t bring herself to anger this woman.


    "It seems I¡¯ve won the conversation, then," Gertrude smiled. Her eyes flicked over to one of her bandaged men. "Negative Six, bring that swordsman back with us. He¡¯ll be needed for interrogation."


    The bandaged man -- Negative Six, clearly -- nodded jerkily, shambling over to the unconscious Muzazi with an unnaturally smooth and fast gait. Mila could do nothing but stand stock-still as it walked past her, its raspy and hollow breathing echoing through her ears. She clenched her fists.


    Helga, she thought to herself. I¡¯m sorry.


    There was a flash of steel.


    Gertrude¡¯s eyes widened.


    The other bandaged man snarled.


    Mila turned -- just in time to see the severed head of Negative Six roll past her feet.


    Atoy Muzazi was standing up.


    The tranquilliser dart was still in his throat, and it had definitely deposited its payload. The bandages had slipped from his arm with his rough landing, and his jagged burn was fully exposed to the acrid air. His legs shook beneath him, barely keeping him upright, and Mila could see from the way that he was breathing that his broken ribs were bringing him agony.


    And yet, he stood. Even though it was black, his sword seemed to shine with reflected light.


    "What is this?" Gertrude whispered, frightened for the first time. "Your Aether¡­ it shouldn¡¯t work. You should be out cold."


    Muzazi looked up at her, his loose dark hair hanging over his bloodshot eyes. He took a deep, rattling breath. "This is not Aether. This is resolve. That is not something you can take away from me, witch."


    Gertrude¡¯s eyes widened, her sharp teeth bared in outrage at the insult. She turned to her remaining servant. "Take him," she snapped, before calling out louder. "All of you -- take him!"


    There were more of those things, in the darkness of the facility. Mila could hear them moving through pipes, see them out of the corners of her eyes. This was a battle that could not be won.


    Atoy Muzazi glanced at her. "Run," he murmured kindly.


    To be perfectly honest, he looked like he was about to drop¡­ and at the same time, he looked like he could face a thousand men and win. Even if his legs shook, the sword in his hands remained steady and immovable. Those words, that sight, that will¡­ for the first time that night, Mila found the resolve to move flowing through her.


    And with that will, she ran as she was bid.

 Chapter 234:9.25: The Risen

    Name: Gertrude Louise Hearth


    Gender: Female


    Date of Birth: 988 ATR (Age 14)


    Planet of Origin: Pendulum (Paradoxia/Unified Alliance of Planets)


    Ascetic Pacts Performed?: Y/N


    Grace Donations Performed?: Y/N


    Associated Family Members: N/A


    Prior Interactions: Pendulum is known to have been host to some pockets of the Cult of Silencio during the Establishment Period, prior to their extermination by the Superbian sect. Investigations show no ancestral links to these cults.


    Membership Approved


    Membership Application for the Humilist Sect, Archived


    Atoy Muzazi adjusted his footing.


    His vision was a blur, but he could still just barely make out the enemies before him. The Apexbishop of the Humilists, Gertrude Hearth, along with four vague shapes, twitching around her. They were the same as the bandaged man he¡¯d decapitated, no doubt. Her thralls.


    He held his sword ready, willing beyond will that the weakness of his body not be mirrored by his blade. He could feel the drug spreading through his system, slowing his thoughts, dragging his consciousness down into darkness. Soon, very soon, he would become unable to stand.


    The situation was not hopeless, however, never hopeless. He may not have access to his Aether, but neither did the enemy. From what he could tell, the ability that nullified Aether was an area-of-effect type, emitted by the Scurrant woman before him.


    Once they came for him, they would have to do battle as men of flesh and blood. Under those circumstances, he had faith in his skills.


    Mila Green had already fled. Whether she would escape this waste facility, he could not say, but he had given her the best chance possible. And if he could just¡­


    If he could just dispatch the four that came for him¡­ and somehow make his way towards Gertrude Hearth¡­ he could restore his Aether. He had no doubt that would slow down the progress of this poison immeasurably.


    It was a dim hope -- but it was the work of a Special Officer to turn a dim hope into a completed objective.


    He adjusted his stance once again, rearing his sword back like the bite of a serpent. He narrowed his eyes, careful to resist the urge to close them entirely. He let out a breath, made visible by the cold.


    "Dance with me, then," he instructed his gathered opponents.


    There was a moment of silence, save for the occasional creaking and clicking of the bandaged men¡¯s bodies. Then, like a dagger, he heard the woman behind them giggle.


    "Why would they do that?" she laughed, her face a blur.


    Muzazi had no energy for banter, and so he did not entertain it. He simply remained fixed in place, like a statue, ready to respond to the first movement in his range. Admittedly, the drool running down the side of his mouth did diminish his dignity somewhat.


    "You¡¯re acting so tough," Hearth went on, putting an amused knuckle to her lips. "And I do have to admit the way you dispatched Negative Six was surprising. But if we just stand here and wait, you¡¯ll drop all on your own, won¡¯t you?"


    They would not come for him. Muzazi had failed to realize: this was a battle of attrition, and he had no method of changing that. He would have to make his way towards them for this to go anywhere.


    He took a shaking step forwards¡­


    ¡­ and his body betrayed him. His leg fell from under him as he moved, forcing him to drop to one knee, his sword only barely remaining in his grasp. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest, slowing down as it too fell into a deep sleep.


    No¡­ not like this¡­


    There was a flash of blue light.


    Muzazi¡¯s vision snapped back to him for a moment as he witnessed a flurry of bright blue shots slam into the assembled group of enemies. Hearth darted back from the attack, hissing, and snapped to one of her bodyguards: "Shield!"


    The bandaged man did not hesitate. He stepped between Hearth and the incoming attacks, his arms spread wide, acting as a barrier for his master. Shot after shot thudded into his body, but he remained on his feet all the same.


    Where were the attacks coming from? Muzazi couldn¡¯t see, but they were the work of an Aether-user without a doubt. A sniper, then, able to attack from outside of Gertrude Hearth¡¯s range.


    An idea occurred.


    If she wanted to properly defend herself, she¡¯d have to release her ability to use her own Aether. If she did that, Muzazi was certain he could stave off this unconsciousness for at least a bit longer. But Gertrude Hearth was being cautious, caught between two dilemmas: she¡¯d never release her ability so long as she believed Muzazi could take advantage of it.


    He¡¯d simply have to convince her otherwise, then.


    Muzazi allowed his body to drop to the ground, sword slipping out of his grasp. His eyes fell closed like heavy iron gates, and he reduced his breathing to a calm and constant tempo. If he could just feign unconsciousness, feign it so that Hearth believed it, he could trick her into releasing her ability.


    The only problem was preventing himself from actually falling asleep. He felt as if he was hanging off the edge of a black pit, his fingers losing hold one by one. A single moment of weakness would betray him. No matter what, he could not rest yet. No matter what, he could not rest.


    Strength touched him¡­


    ¡­and white Aether surged.


    Muzazi leapt towards the enemy group, grabbing his sword and kicking off the ground in a single explosive motion.


    The bandaged man that had acted as a shield was in no state to intercept, but the other three lunged for him. Between their forms, he could see the shocked and horrified face of Gertude Hearth, backing away. She was no fighter herself, then: her strength was in utility, taking away the powers of her opponents so that she could overwhelm them with numbers.


    Three enemies of any worth, then. These were not the kind of numbers that phased Atoy Muzazi.


    He¡¯d regained his Aether, but so had they. The first bodyguard thrust his hand forward, bloody red vines and leaves bursting out of his palm. They encircled Muzazi in mid-air, clearly preparing to slam together and crush him between their tendrils. He was no botanist, but he suspected touching those vines would be hazardous to his health.


    They converged.


    Muzazi moved quickly. In one smooth motion he whipped off his long coat, using it as a barrier against the vines encroaching on his left. Then, his feet planted against the fabric, he lashed out with his blade and sliced himself a small escape route through the vegetation approaching to his right. Twin thrusters on his feet gave him the mobility he needed, and he launched himself out of the vines to freedom.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    As he flew through the air, he saw the second bandaged man -- heavyset, with yellow eyes -- running to intercept him. Muzazi flipped in the air, gripping the hilt of his blade with his foot to confuse the enemy¡¯s response, and used his thrusters to launch himself towards the yellow-eyed man in a straight line.


    The yellow-eyed man acted too.


    As Muzazi approached, the decrepit figure opened his mouth -- unhinging his jaw and tearing his bandages -- revealing the unmistakable glint of a camera lens poking out from within his throat. Muzazi had only a split-second to dodge -- using his thrusters to throw himself down at the ground -- before a beam of purple light burst out from the lens, striking the spot where Muzazi had just been and burning through the wall behind him.


    The beam tapered off a second later, and the heavyset man staggered backwards, smoke rising copiously from his throat. Muzazi quickly picked himself up, but he¡¯d lost the rapid attack he was counting on. He kicked his sword back into his hand.


    There was the vine-user behind him, and the beam-user before him. There was a third bandaged man, too, and as Muzazi turned to look at him he suddenly grew in size, becoming so gargantuan he had to remain on all fours to avoid hitting the ceiling. A single punch from that hand -- the size of a car -- would no doubt suffice to shatter Muzazi¡¯s bones.


    As if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, he could already feel the effects of the tranquilizer again, slowing his motions and dulling his mind.


    Grim certainty settled in his stomach. Even with assistance from the unseen sniper, this was not a fight he could win.


    He took a deep breath.


    Dragan¡¯s script buzzed. He ignored it.


    He bit his lip as he fired again and again, aiming for the Apexbishop directing this operation. If he could take her out, he had no doubt this battle would become a lot easier. Those bandaged guys seemed like her servants -- eliminating her should have some effect on them.


    With his free hand, he tossed loose bricks up into the air, absorbing them into Gemini Shotgun as ammunition. He fired once more, aiming for Gertrude Hearth¡¯s head -- but once again, the human shield moved to intercept the attack.


    The brick hit him in the shoulder at lightning speed, the impact gruesomely twisting his body and spraying blood behind him. Still, the man did not fall. He simply resumed his protective posture, both arms spread out as much as his crooked form would allow.


    This guy surely had some kind of Aether ability that was allowing him to remain standing. There was no other explanation. Dragan was sure his attacks this far had shattered all of his limbs, and yet the human shield continued to stand up on nonfunctional legs and spread useless arms. He¡¯d even hit him in the head a couple of times, creating sizable dents in the guy¡¯s skull, yet it had done nothing to dull his speed and reflexes.


    Dragan bit his lip. If he destroyed this guy¡¯s head entirely, would that be a different story? He couldn¡¯t imagine an Aether ability that allowed someone to keep living without a brain. Even the wackiest abilities retained some tenuous connection to the laws of reality.


    Only one way to find out. Dragan tossed up bricks one after the other, absorbing each, and --


    "Leave!" screamed Atoy Muzazi.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked over to him. He was surrounded on three sides by bandaged men -- one with red vines writhing out of his hands, another with some kind of lens poking out of his mouth, and the third grown to the size of a house.


    He was backing up, sword held in front of him as he kept them all in his sight -- but even he could only do so much.


    Leave? Dragan wondered. What the hell does he mean?


    "Whoever you may be -- I don¡¯t know if you are my ally!" Muzazi cried again, and with a start Dragan realized the swordsman was speaking to him. "But I know that right now, our interests are aligned! Mila Green is leaving this place! Once we are defeated, they will find her quickly!"


    The red vines lashed at Muzazi, and he moved, clipping off the ends of them with a swipe of his sword.


    "I will hold them off!" he continued, raising a floor panel with his thrusters -- using it to block the beam that erupted from the mouth of the lens-user. "You must get her out of here! I beg you!"


    Dragan hesitated. His script buzzed.


    The massive man slapped a hand down on where Muzazi was standing -- only narrowly missing when the swordsman leapt between two of his fingers. Muzazi landed on the back of the giant¡¯s hand, and began slashing furiously at his skin.


    "Go!" he screamed, the intensity of his voice overpowering the giant¡¯s roar of pain.


    Dragan hesitated no more. He tossed one last brick up into the air -- sea??h th§× N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Gemini World.


    -- and before it hit the ground, he had vanished.


    Mila¡¯s lungs burned.


    This place was like a maze, metal walls and machinery surrounding her on all sides, the stench stinging at her eyes. Panic confused her just as much as the architecture, and she was sure that she was no closer to the exit than when she¡¯d started.


    Behind her, in the distance, she could hear the sounds of battle. The clashing of metal, the roaring of fire, and the scream of something inhuman. If she didn¡¯t get out of here soon, those noises would be coming for her next.


    Her body betrayed her, giving her no option but to take a moment to rest. She put her hands on her knees and forced air into her lungs with heavy, clumsy wheezes. Her arms and legs were shaking violently, and she could feel nauseous fear bubbling in her throat.


    She was wasting time.


    She had to get out of here.


    She¡¯d never get out of here.


    She was going to die here.


    She was done. She was done. She was done.


    Her thoughts spiraled, the dim hope she¡¯d grasped only minutes ago eroded by the terror of the situation. Mila could hold herself back no longer and found herself emptying her stomach on the floor before her. Her throat burned.


    She was done. She was done. She was done.


    She was --


    "Mila?"


    Her scream was only barely restrained into a whimper as she clamped her mouth shut, scrambling to turn around.


    There, standing beneath a red light, was¡­ Dragan Hadrien? Huh? Dragan Hadrien? The Cogitant from back on Yoslof? The one the Supremacy had come after? The one who had kicked off this entire ordeal? Dragan Hadrien? Huh? What?


    Was this a joke?


    If so, it was a good one -- and as Mila went to laugh hysterically, she found that she was instead falling to the floor. She crumpled down onto cold metal, and darkness claimed her vision. Thinking stopped soon after that.


    It was all too much for one night and one brain.


    Gertrude Hearth wiped some of the blood splatter from her face. While Negative Nine had loyally defended her body, he¡¯d still allowed his injuries to cause her discomfort. Usually, she¡¯d have sent him off to reconditioning, if he wasn¡¯t so obviously done for.


    His body and head had been battered by the enemy¡¯s attack -- Silencio had thrown off Negative Nine¡¯s defenses -- and when he stopped using his Constant Vigilance ability, he would no doubt drop dead. His power puppeteered his body to carry out a task no matter what damage it suffered. He¡¯d carried out his purpose as a human shield.


    That crossed another off the list, she supposed.


    Now that she had Zeroth, the Negative Numbers were on their way out, but it was still a shock to lose so many so quickly¡­ and to one man, at that. She glanced out of the side of her eye at the chaos before her.


    Negative Ten, the vine-user, knelt still on the ground. His neck had been thoroughly snapped. The enemy had planted one of those thrusters on the underside of his jaw, forcing his head back to such a degree that the back of his skull was now touching the small of his back.


    Negative Four, the giant, wheezed and whimpered as he slowly died, shrinking to his original size. His ability had enlarged his body and his strength with it -- unfortunately, it had also enlarged his jugular, which his opponent had readily taken advantage of. Blood oozed from the cut on his massive neck as he passed from this world.


    Negative Seven had gotten off a little easier, but not by much. The lens protruding from his mouth had been smashed by a lightning-fast punch, and shards of glass had rained down into his throat and innards as a result. He¡¯d survived the battle, but he wouldn¡¯t live long.


    As an Apexbishop, it was probably good to show mercy.


    "Negative Seven," she said softly. "Quiet Nights and Last Stands. DB."


    Obediently, his heart stopped. He dropped to the ground too.


    People treated death like something so serious, but in reality it was as plentiful as air. On her home planet, Pendulum, all the settlements were located underground by necessity. With each passing of the hour, every conscious thing on the surface of the planet would instantaneously die. No reason for this phenomena was ever found, nor any way of preventing it.


    Such absurdities were common in Paradoxia¡¯s Weird Space.


    Gertrude clicked her tongue -- and, on cue, Negative One appeared. The first of the Negative Numbers, getting on in years, wheezed as she pointed to the unconscious swordsman.


    "Bring him with us," she ordered.


    In the end, it had been the tranquilizer that had finished him. His legs had been badly burnt by the beam, his right arm had been smashed by the swipe of a giant hand, and angry red bruises spread across his face where the vines had made contact. Gertrude couldn¡¯t help but notice, though¡­


    ¡­ even as he was unconscious, he held on tight to his sword.

 Chapter 235:9.26: Three Arrows

    INTRUDER DETECTED


    INTRUDER HAS BREACHED ELIZA


    INTRUDER IS APPROACHING INNER GARDEN FACILITIES


    INTRUDER HAS DESTROYED ALL SECURITY AUTOMATICS PRESENTED


    INTRUDER MUST BE REMOVED


    DEPLOY ALL NECESSARY RESOURCES


    ALERT


    Dragan let out a deep breath as he finally reappeared inside the apartment, carefully laying Mila down on the floor. She was still out cold, mumbling incoherently to herself as her eyelids twitched. Dragan couldn¡¯t exactly blame her: it had been a hell of a night.


    Once he¡¯d gotten out of that waste plant, escaping the area had been a breeze. Gemini World had no issues transporting an unconscious person along with himself, and so he¡¯d been able to blink from rooftop to rooftop with impunity. Still¡­ he¡¯d spent a lot of the journey worried that a sudden use of that Aether-nullifying ability would stop him in his tracks -- or worse, consign him to nonexistence altogether.


    He sat himself down on the floor too, cracking his neck as the exhaustion of the evening set in.


    Had Muzazi gotten away? He couldn¡¯t imagine so, in the situation he¡¯d been in. Aether could slow down the effects of drugs and toxins, but as far as Dragan knew it wouldn¡¯t negate them altogether. Muzazi likely would have dropped shortly after Dragan had escaped.


    Did that mean he was dead? To be honest, Dragan couldn¡¯t picture it. Atoy Muzazi wasn¡¯t the sort of person who died. He¡¯d do something absurd and cut the Grim Reaper to pieces before he got close. Besides, they¡¯d wanted to bring him in for interrogation, hadn¡¯t they? Chances were that they¡¯d taken him back to their headquarters.


    Dragan¡¯s script buzzed, and he only barely restrained a groan. Skipper really didn¡¯t know how to take a hint.


    He pushed the device to his ear and answered the call.


    "What?" he snapped, annoyed.


    "Hello, Dragan," said Giovanni Sigma Testament.


    Dragan froze. The hot anger in his veins cooled into caution, and he slowly narrowed his eyes. It was important, though, that he showed no signs of fear. If he was being watched, that would be a display of weakness.


    "Who is this?" he asked. He already knew the answer, but he was curious to see if Giovanni would lie.


    "You know who it is," the voice on the other end chuckled. "Have you recovered from your injuries well? I certainly have."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow, keeping his voice as bored-sounding as possible. "What¡¯s this, then? Little threatening call to keep me scared, off guard while you plan whatever your next attack is?"


    "You didn¡¯t answer my question because you didn¡¯t want to provide me with any more information. That¡¯s very astute of you."


    "And you didn¡¯t answer mine, either," Dragan said darkly.


    "Hm?" Giovanni sounded amused. "Oh, you wanted to know the purpose of my calling. Despite what you think, I don¡¯t intend to frighten or intimidate you. Quite the opposite, really."


    "That so?"


    "It is. I¡¯ve had the opportunity recently to reflect on my actions and my present circumstances. Please don¡¯t misunderstand -- I would still dearly love to kill you -- but it¡¯s become obvious that I have greater concerns than vengeance upon you. You¡¯ve become a¡­ distraction, more than anything, I suppose? Congratulations."


    Dragan shivered. That malice had been inserted into Giovanni¡¯s speech like it was perfectly natural. "Am I supposed to be happy about that?"


    "You should be ecstatic. I¡¯ve decided to make you a generous offer, as a matter of fact."


    "Wow." Dragan¡¯s tone had never been more deadpan in his life. "Goodie."


    "For the next twenty-four hours, I shall allow you to move about the Menagerie unmolested. Even if my agents should spot you, or I should find you on surveillance, I will not move to attack you. You won¡¯t need to hide in the gutters any longer. I recommend you use this time to leave the Truemeet, and make arrangements so that I never see your miserable face again."


    "I¡¯m fair game after the twenty-four hours, then?"


    The slightest note of anger entered Giovanni¡¯s voice. "Y forgives all, Dragan Hadrien, but I am a mere servant. You should be grateful to get this much. So¡­ what do you say?"


    Dragan swallowed, took a deep breath through his nose, and considered his next words carefully.


    "Bye," he said, and then hung up.


    Giovanni would not leave him alone. Even if he was being sincere about that twenty-four hour deal, Dragan simply couldn¡¯t risk it. He had to approach the situation as if he were in imminent danger of being killed.


    The urge to act still twitched inside him. Muzazi was imprisoned. The Apexbishop of the Superbians wanted him dead. He couldn¡¯t just sit here and do nothing.


    Victory belonged to the one who acted first. The only one who decided what happened to him was him. Dragan picked his script back up and called Bruno.


    "Bruno?" he said. "Get Ruth. I¡¯ve got a mission."


    Ruth cracked her neck as she stepped into the disused hangar, the lights automatically turning on for her.


    Before her stood the Slipstream¡­ uh¡­ damn, she¡¯d actually forgotten what number Slipstream they were on. It was probably safe to say about #5 or so, though. After the whole thing at the cathedral, they¡¯d decided it wouldn¡¯t be safe to keep the ship out in the open, so Skipper had arranged to stash it in this warehouse on one of the Menagerie¡¯s lower decks.


    Her brow furrowed. Bruno and Serena were meant to be hiding out with it, making repairs and guarding against trespassers. If the lights had just turned on for her, though, that meant nobody else was here. What was¡­?


    "You¡¯re early," Bruno said gruffly from behind her.


    Ruth glanced back over her shoulder. Bruno was leaning against the wall she¡¯d just walked past, his arms crossed. She hadn¡¯t even noticed him.


    "Nice," Ruth whistled. "How long have you been practicing that?"


    Bruno shrugged, smirking ruefully. "Not like there¡¯s much else to do. Ship didn¡¯t need much more than routine maintenance, and once that was finished I was pretty much just dying of boredom."


    His face spread into Serena¡¯s cheerful smile. "We were dying of boredom, actually!" she chirped. "It¡¯s so good to see you again, Miss Ruth!"


    Ruth nodded. "Good to see you again, too, Serena. Dragan not here yet? Or Skipper?"


    The smile returned to a scowl. "Like I said," Bruno sighed. "You¡¯re early. Still waiting on those guys."


    Ruth echoed his sigh, sitting back on an available crate. To tell the truth, she¡¯d been bored beyond belief too -- the request from Dragan to meet up had been something of a relief. Even if she didn¡¯t know what the hell they were doing here.


    "Hey Bruno, Serena," she called out. "Mind if I ask you a question?"


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "Shoot."


    "Why¡¯re you guys here? Doing this with Skipper, I mean?"


    Serena frowned. "He hired us for a job, Miss Ruth. You were there. Don¡¯t you remember?"


    "Yeah, but I mean¡­ after that. You stuck around. Agreed to help out with all this. Hell, you¡¯re still on board to kill the Supreme. That¡¯s kind of a big ask, right? Why?"


    The angle of Serena¡¯s frown shifted slightly, becoming Bruno¡¯s. Again, he shrugged. "What about you? Why¡¯re you here?"


    Ruth rolled her eyes. "I asked first, dick."


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "Fine, fine¡­" His arms still crossed, Bruno looked up at the ceiling, as if considering the question for the first time. "Well¡­ I guess, the way I see it, the universe is like a machine. Like the ship, but a broken machine."


    "How¡¯s that?" Ruth furrowed her brow.


    "If the machine was working properly," Bruno said slowly. "Everyone would get along, there¡¯d be no war or conflict, and everything would be the best it could possibly be. I mean, I¡¯ve got no illusions about that ever happening -- but the way I see it, the Supremacy makes the problem worse. So it¡¯s gotta go. Simple as that."


    Ruth glanced down at Bruno¡¯s gloved hands. "And¡­ personal revenge?"


    Serena¡¯s eye flicked towards her. "There¡¯s a little of that, too," she smiled. "What about you?"


    Ruth looked down at the floor, and curiously enough she found herself folding her own arms. "When Skipper found me, I was¡­ I was at the end of everything I had. If he hadn¡¯t found me, I¡¯d be dead. He¡¯s given me something to live for, something to fight for¡­ friends. Family, even. I owe him this."


    Bruno frowned disapprovingly. "What, you¡¯re here out of obligation?"


    "No, no!" Ruth said, perhaps just a little too quickly. "I think¡­ I think taking down the Supreme is a good thing too. Maybe I just think that because Skipper thinks it, but still¡­ I¡¯m here to the end."


    "Hmm." Bruno¡¯s response was simple. Ruth honestly couldn¡¯t tell whether he approved or not -- and she didn¡¯t get the chance to ask, as it was then that she heard the sound of the door opening once more.


    Dragan stepped in, looking much healthier than the last time she¡¯d seen him. He had all his limbs, for one thing -- and he was back to his usual level of paleness, rather than the pallor brought about by blood loss. He brushed some of the ambient dust off his shoulder as he strolled into the warehouse.


    "Hey, guys," he said, sounding tired. Not surprising, what with everything going on.


    What was surprising was the company he was with -- the person walking behind him. It took Ruth a moment to remember her: the doctor from back on Yoslof, the one who¡¯d been treating Bruno and Serena. Mary or Milly or something like that?


    Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked over to Dragan again. "What¡¯s going on?"


    He sighed. "Long story."


    "Tell it, then," Bruno said, scratching his nose. His eyes were analytical, moving between Dragan and the doctor, trying to figure out the situation before it was said aloud.


    Dragan nodded. "Sure. We¡¯re not the only ones being screwed by the Final Church. Apparently, they were using Helga Malwarian as a science experiment and holding Mila hostage to lure out the Supremacy. Using her like the Supremacy used me, back on Caelus Breck."


    Bruno frowned. "Well, that sucks¡­ but how¡¯d you end up involved with all that? We¡¯re meant to be laying low. Skipper¡¯s orders."


    "I couldn¡¯t do it," Dragan said quietly, putting some serious thought into his answer. "Couldn¡¯t watch someone I know get messed with the way I got messed with. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s a moral thing, but¡­ it would have pissed me off too much to just let it go."


    Serena sucked in air through her teeth. "Sounds reckless, Mr. Dragan. Shouldn¡¯t you have just played it safe?" Her gaze hardened into Bruno¡¯s as he glanced at Mila. "No offense."


    "Um¡­ none taken¡­" Mila spoke up for the first time, staring down at the floor. She gave off the impression of someone who very much didn¡¯t want to be noticed.


    Ruth ran a hand through her hair. This was a lot to take in, but what¡¯s done was done. No point kicking a shitfit over it.


    "Well, it¡¯s over, I guess," she finally said. "You want us to hide Mila too, then, so --"


    "It¡¯s not over," Dragan said.


    Ruth looked over to him, and he looked over at her. He did not blink, only stared at her with those bright blue eyes. She couldn¡¯t quite put her finger on it, but she got the sense that something about him had changed since the last time they¡¯d seen each other. As to whether or not that was a good thing?


    A shiver went down her spine.


    "What do you mean?" she asked quietly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bruno step away from the wall, looking at Dragan quizzically as well.


    "Things got complicated. I wasn¡¯t the only one who showed up to break Mila out."


    "Who?" Bruno asked curtly.


    Finally, Dragan blinked. "Atoy Muzazi."


    Silence settled over the warehouse. Bruno visibly paled, and Ruth put a fist to her chin. Mila, for her part, just shuffled awkwardly in place.


    And Dragan just stared.


    "The Special Officer?" Serena asked, as if they knew anyone else by that name.


    Dragan nodded.


    "So what?" Ruth ran a hand through her hair again, anxiety twisting inside her heart. "The Supremacy are here, doing stuff? Do they know we¡¯re here? Are they after us?"


    Mila raised her hands placatingly. "I, um, I don¡¯t think so. These guys -- they actually had me captured for a little while, and -- and interrogated and all that stuff, but they didn¡¯t ask me anything about you guys and all that. It was all about Helga, getting Helga away from the Humilists, and all that stuff¡­ so, yeah."


    Bruno furrowed his brow. "And did they get Helga away from the Humilists?"


    Mila nodded. "Yes. And¡­ she¡¯s with them now¡­"


    "So what¡¯s the problem?" Bruno pressed on.


    "Two problems," Dragan said. "Muzazi got captured by the Humilists when he was breaking Mila out. They¡¯re not gonna treat him kindly, and he did help us out back on Panacea."


    "And second¡­?" Ruth narrowed her eyes.


    "The second problem¡­" Mila said quietly -- she¡¯d clearly discussed this with Dragan beforehand. "...the second problem is that the GID are still making Helga do what they want. If I can talk to her -- talk to her again -- I think I can do something. I think I can help her get out."


    Bruno¡¯s eyes flicked back to Dragan, and the tone of his voice suggested he couldn¡¯t quite believe what he was hearing. "A rescue mission. Against the GID. You¡¯re asking me this?"


    It was natural for him to be wary. The last time Bruno and Serena had fallen into the GID¡¯s hands, they¡¯d been tortured to the brink of their sanity. There was more than a trace of rage in Bruno¡¯s face and voice.


    "No, I¡¯m not," Dragan shook his head. "Don¡¯t worry. If we do this, you¡¯d be part of the team going after Muzazi. It¡¯d be two groups, moving simultaneously -- one breaking Muzazi out from the Humilists, the other helping Mila get Helga free."


    Ruth chewed the nail of her index finger as she turned the proposal over in her mind. It sounded reckless, in a way she wouldn¡¯t usually expect from Dragan, but it was clear that he¡¯d put more than a little bit of thought into it. Besides¡­


    ¡­ it had been a quiet couple of days, and her body was itching for a fight.


    Her common sense made one last valiant charge. "Well, what does Skipper say?"


    Dragan clicked his tongue, and his gaze turned dark. "I don¡¯t know. He isn¡¯t answering calls."


    Skipper pulled his fist free from the automatic, wiring and shards of metal clinging to his prosthetic arm. A single shake of the Aether-infused limb was enough to dislodge the debris.


    The spherical automatic dropped down to the ground, joining the corpses of its comrades. That made around thirty or so now, littering the floor of this stark white chamber. The place reminded him a little of a hangar, but he could see no way for a ship to ever fly in or out of this place. The wall behind him was shattered, chunks of metal still dropping from the hole -- that was the entrance he¡¯d made for himself.


    Skipper took in a deep breath, and spread out his arms theatrically.


    "Come on, guys!" he called out to the bleak room. "I just wanna talk!"


    The voice of Asmagius, the Paradisas Apexbishop, echoed from hidden speakers. "There is nothing more for us to discuss, little man. You have received your answer. Leave this place."


    Breaking into the ELIZA had been much easier than sneaking into it, all things considered. Once he¡¯d changed his approach to have walls be something he blasted through rather than walked around, it hadn¡¯t taken him much time at all to reach this inner sanctum.


    While members of the Paradisas¡¯ minds were uploaded onto their network, their bodies had to be stored and preserved. The facility where that was done was not far away, and Skipper knew full well the idea of him reaching it filled them with more terror than anything else. That was fine: they weren¡¯t his real target, but it sufficed to grab their attention.


    Besides, his current plan required a little bit of terror.


    "Nah," Skipper laughed, cracking his neck. "I don¡¯t think so. This is the part where you negotiate with me, pal."


    Asmagius¡¯ answer did not come in the form of words.


    Two massive panels of the floor slowly opened, like a massive door, and an elevator lifted something into view. An automatic, like the ones he¡¯d been destroying for the last half hour, only much¡­ much¡­ much¡­ bigger.


    Skipper whistled.


    The thing was gargantuan, the size of a house, staring at Skipper with a single red eye right in the center of its body. The main bulk of its form was made from a dark blue material, armour doubtlessly reinforced beyond belief, it¡¯s ovoid torso floating legless over the ground with a set of repulsors.


    It had three liquid metal limbs on each side of its body, clearly capable of stretching out all the way across this chamber. At the end of each arm was a sharp-taloned hand, but Skipper had no doubt they¡¯d be able to change themselves into any matter of tool.


    Skipper¡¯s eyes took in all these details in less than a second. This was something right out of the history books. The Paradisas had clearly retrofitted it, but there was no mistaking what it had originally been.


    "You guys are flattering me," he chuckled. "Who else knows you have this thing?"


    "The Hierophant," Asmagius¡¯ voice boomed throughout the room. "One of the Twenty-Two. Make no mistake -- we have many weapons of this caliber."


    Back during the Thousand Revolutions, a genius had created twenty-two automatics to aid in the annihilation of the Gene Tyrants. Each one had been designed to dispatch Gene Tyrants in single combat, and they had done their work well -- but when the Revolution had been completed, they had continued to rampage across the galaxy. Most of them had been destroyed¡­


    ¡­ but clearly not all of them.


    "I propose a duel, man called Skipper," Asmagius intoned. "If you can defeat the Hierophant, slayer of the Chitin Knight, then I shall heed your proposal once again. What is your answer?"


    A cocky smirk spread over his face. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It was an obvious gambit on the Paradisas¡¯ part: ideally, they hoped that the Hierophant would kill him, but by framing it as a duel they ensured that he would not run away.


    Well, whatever. Skipper was never one to turn down a spectacle.


    Emerald Aether smashed against the ground, and that was answer enough.

 Chapter 236:9.27: Freedom

    Item was recovered attempting to traverse the Vilersian Sea, believed to be heading to local fishing settlements -- intentions presumed hostile based on its response to retrieval craft.


    Sixteen retrieval personnel killed, nineteen more severely injured. Item was finally disabled via long-range attack applied by Retrieval Specialist Mirko.


    Analysis of the recovered item shows critical damage to exterior systems. In addition, the design of its attack limbs is heavily outdated, and requires retrofitting.


    Current estimate is a six month timeline for repair, retrofitting, and reprogramming.


    Acquisition Log - "Hierophant"


    The Hierophant engaged.


    Target was a male human estimated 40-50, wearing a green long coat. Length of coat could be used to confuse sensors or conceal weaponry. Noted. Target was not in possession of any visible weaponry. Noted.


    Estimated time to victory: 0.5 seconds.


    The Hierophant lashed out with arms L2 and R2, striking the spot where Target had been standing in 0.5 seconds. Accuracy had been reduced due to speed of attack, but simulations suggested that the attacks should hit all the same.


    Correcting¡­ neither arm had made contact with Target.


    The Hierophant searched with the sensors covering its body, locating Target a second later. He had taken to the air, green energy sparking around him as he ascended to the ceiling. As the Hierophant reacquired Target, he pointed down with one finger.


    There was an attack. Damage sustained.


    Immediately, the Hierophant slowed down its perception of time to its utmost, all things around it seeming to freeze in place.


    First, it ran a diagnostic -- the damage it had suffered was a minor dent to its outer shell. Systems were unaffected. Immediate repair was not required.


    Next, it considered the attack that had struck it. The distance between itself and Target was such that no physical blow should have made contact. Target held no weaponry, so he could not have used a pistol or rifle to fire upon the Hierophant.


    Correction: Target could have used some kind of cloaking device to conceal his weaponry, but the benefit of such a tactic was limited. The Hierophant disposed of that theory quickly.


    The green energy was the identifying factor. The Hierophant pulled up ancient records from the battles following its activation, analyzing footage of units that had fought alongside and against it. That energy, superficially resembling electricity, had been visible around them as well. They too had displayed abilities that defied expectations.


    Aether, then.


    This man had the ability to launch invisible ranged attacks, but what form did they take? The Hierophant replayed the memory of the damage, analyzing it thoroughly.


    A flare in the Aether, a sound like a gunshot, and then the attack had landed. Correction: the sound and the attack had been simultaneous, without even a microsecond interval. Conclusion: the sound itself had been the attack.


    This man¡¯s Aether ability allowed him to attack using sound as a physical object. This allowed him to execute ranged attacks without use of a weapon. He was now understood.


    Estimated time to victory: 1 minute, 6 seconds.


    Skipper didn¡¯t let up for a second.


    He flew through the air, Heartbeat Shotguns blasting him in the directions he needed to move, dancing and dodging around the flurry of blows aimed for him. The Hierophant¡¯s liquid metal arms were lighter and faster than he¡¯d expected -- at full speed, the six limbs were little more than grey blurs, each capable of smashing him into paste.


    They were flexible, too, writhing and turning in ways that wouldn¡¯t be possible for jointed limbs. They were more like tentacles, all in all.


    His first attack had landed, creating a small dent on the Hierophant¡¯s main body, but since then it had just blocked his attacks using its limbs. It was clearly capable of detecting his Heartbeat Shotguns and moving to intercept them.


    The Hierophant updated its strategy.


    Before the Aether attack came, the energy surrounding Target brightened by 0.2 lumens. That increase would be difficult for the human eye to see, but the Hierophant was more than capable of detecting it. When the energy brightened, the attack came without fail 0.5 seconds later. Direction of attack could also be determined by an aggregate of the target¡¯s eyeline and the angle of his arm.


    Using these tells, it was a simple matter to block any incoming attacks. Arm R1 was assigned to that task. Attacks that disrupted the integrity of the liquid metal could easily be repaired -- Arm R2 would take over blocking duties for the 2.4 seconds that took.


    Target¡¯s speed, however, was such that no attacks from the Hierophant¡¯s remaining four arms had yet landed. By creating sound blasts directly out of his body, he could control the direction of his flight, efficiently evading the incoming strikes. On each occasion, he dodged at the last possible second, preventing the Hierophant from effectively taking advantage of a recovery period. Target was clearly highly skilled.


    But he was understood.


    These strikes had only been intended to dispatch the Target for the first ten seconds of combat. Once the strategy was confirmed ineffective as a killing measure, the Hierophant adjusted its objective accordingly. By striking at precise angles and precise times, the Hierophant could control the directions available for Target to dodge -- and so, Target would slowly be cornered in one part of the room. Chances of victory would naturally increase as that occurred.


    Estimated time to victory: 44 seconds.


    You think I¡¯m a one-trick pony, don¡¯t you, scrapheap?


    Skipper grinned halfway through a somersault, eyes hidden behind his hair as his Aether flared. Immediately, the Hierophant¡¯s topmost right arm moved to dodge. There was no doubt about it: the automatic had learnt to detect when he was about to use his Aether.


    Well, it¡¯d only seen Heartbeat Shotgun so far. Time to introduce it to the rest of the gang.


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    Damage sustained. Arm R1 not responding. Immediate diagnosis of the issue was required.


    Time froze -- or it slowed to such a degree that the distinction was meaningless. The Hierophant took stock of things.


    Arm R1 was on the ground, severed cleanly from the Hierophant at the point of attachment. The fact that the Hierophant was no longer receiving signals from it meant that the control unit had been destroyed in the attack, too. Recovery under these conditions was not practical.


    Blocking duty was reassigned fully to Arm R2, with R3 taking R2¡¯s place as a backup. The Hierophant adjusted the attack algorithms for Arms L1-3, increasing their speed and destructive capabilities to compensate for the lesser number of arms that would be attacking the enemy.


    Analysis of the damage suggested a slashing attack of some sort, rather than the targeted shockwaves that had been used previously. Replay of memory confirmed the presence of a whistling sound in the moment before the attack, along with the increase in Aetheral brightness.


    The conclusion was simple: the enemy had multiple ways of attacking with sound, not just the shooting style he had originally displayed. Strategy would have to be adjusted to compensate for this.


    The Hierophant directed the control units of its remaining arms to be moved continuously through the liquid metal, creating more inconsistent targets. That would make the slashing attack less effective. However, it did not solve the issue at hand: right now, the Hierophant did not have complete information on the enemy¡¯s capabilities.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    If the Target was to reveal another form of attack -- one that had not yet been adapted to -- it could mean more damage. Information gathering was necessary before a kill could be completed.


    Time resumed.


    Estimated time to victory: 2 minutes, 19 seconds.


    For the first time in this fight, Skipper felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. It had been a while since he¡¯d had to fight so earnestly: with each near-miss, Skipper could feel the chill of death engulf him.


    The hands reaching for him changed shape faster than he could keep track. From spears to staves to swords to spinning saws, each designed to end his life as gruesomely as possible. They¡¯d adjusted to his Heartbeat Bayonet, too, the sections he aimed for hardening before the attack could land.


    He couldn¡¯t afford to waste time on these arms -- they were clearly intended to tire him out, force him to a part of the room where it was easier to corner him. The main body was what he needed to get to: he¡¯d managed to damage it with his first attack, so theoretically it was vulnerable. Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Alarm stabbed him in the back of the head.


    Three of the arms were coming at him simultaneously from three different directions, preemptively positioned to cut off his escape route. He was willing to bet a fourth arm was incoming from his blind spot, too, and that was the one intended to deliver the killing blow. He¡¯d been so preoccupied with the culmination of the Hierophant¡¯s strategy that he¡¯d neglected the dirty tricks it would try in the meantime.


    Dodging wasn¡¯t an option.


    Heartbeat Landmine.


    Sound exploded around him, destroying the hands that came for him -- but the liquid metal froze and hardened mid-splatter, the arms retreating as their hands returned to normal.


    A second later, as if nothing had happened, they resumed their normal assault. Realization dawned: that hadn¡¯t been a killing blow at all.


    The Hierophant was tricking him into showing off his capabilities.


    Omnidirectional shockwave confirmed. It was now understood. The Hierophant adjusted its tactics to compensate.


    If Target was capable of an attack like that, cornering him would not be an effective strategy. No matter how many arms came for him at once, he could deflect them simultaneously. Information on the shockwave attack was unclear. Was it a single attack with an opening that could be taken advantage of, or could he unleash it continuously?


    Current circumstances made testing the specifications of the move impractical.


    Resources available to the Hierophant were as follows: five liquid metal arms, on-board autobrain, rubble, severed and inactive liquid metal arm, and Target. Target could unleash blasts of solid sound, but that did not necessarily mean the Hierophant could not take advantage of their existence.


    It took 0.9 seconds to formulate a way to do so. First, it would need to create a false opening.


    There.


    In the monotonous pattern of arms striking at him, Skipper saw a clear window through which he could strike at the Hierophant¡¯s main body. Flipping over a blow from a spiked mace, he pointed his finger at the target.


    Wait.


    This was too easy.


    The Hierophant was no human fighter. It was a machine with an autobrain, designed to pursue the optimal path to victory. It wasn¡¯t capable of making such stupid mistakes as this. The emotion and fatigue that bred mistakes didn¡¯t exist within its programming.


    This was a trap. It wanted him to fire his Heartbeat Shotgun for some reason.


    Well¡­ he wasn¡¯t one to disappoint.


    Skipper fired his Heartbeat Shotgun into the opening -- and at the same time, he released a continuous Heartbeat Landmine, repelling any limbs that might have tried to take advantage of his own opening.


    The Shotgun surged forwards, visible only from a stray spark of emerald Aether --


    -- and the Hierophant seized it out of the air.


    Strategy successful. It was understood.


    Arm L3 had been shifted into something like an ice cream scoop, sufficient to intercept the incoming sound attack -- and then, once it met, to seal itself into a hollow sphere, forcing the sound to bounce around inside it¡¯s confines.


    Rudimentary speakers within the inside of the sphere amplified the sound as it bounced, the attack growing more and more powerful -- dents appearing in the liquid metal as it attempted to escape. The Hierophant waited three seconds for the power of the sound to reach maximum levels --


    -- and then it released it, sending the blast right back at Target.


    Estimated time to victory: seven seconds.


    The sound was deafening, followed by a ringing of the ears -- but the impact of the blast was somehow even worse.


    Skipper felt ribs crack as the attack brushed by him, instantly shattering his prosthetic arm into shards of useless metal and plastic. The skin on one side of his face was scraped away, leaving him bloody -- and he only just managed to avoid being blinded on that side with some quick application of Aether.


    What had happened?


    The Hierophant had caught his Heartbeat Shotgun, amplified it, then thrown it right back at him. Skipper had judged incorrectly: it hadn¡¯t been trying to create an opening on his part, but to send his attack right back at him, even stronger.


    Just like Dragan¡¯s Gemini Shotgun. Skipper chuckled briefly -- and then he hit the floor.


    The arms came down, eager to crush him, and Skipper fired blasts out of the soles of his feet, causing him to slide across the room¡¯s smooth surface. Debris and dust rained down from the blows that rained down on the floor, but Skipper was in no position to avoid them. He heard something crunch as a shard of concrete struck his leg at devastating speeds.


    What the hell was this? It was making a fool out of him.


    He reached the wall and tried to stand up -- only to falter, as he realized his leg was broken. Damn it, damn it, damn it. This was embarrassing as hell.


    He hadn¡¯t wanted to use this on such a lame enemy.


    The Hierophant¡¯s arms lashed at him as one, ready to deliver the killing blow. If he fired his Shotgun, they would send it back. If he used his Bayonet, they would block it. He had no doubt it had a countermeasure against Landmine, now, too.


    Well, he had another trick in his bag. One he hadn¡¯t shown off before.


    Green feathers, transparent like glass, glinted across the room -- where Skipper had been planting them as he dodged. Emerald Aether sparked across their surface as they activated. The air seemed to hold its own breath.


    Countless blades protruded from the liquid metal arms, growing large in his vision, slowed down by focus and adrenaline.


    This thing was built to take apart Gene Tyrants. Skipper grinned, blood on his teeth.


    Don¡¯t compare me to some little Gene Tyrant.


    Heartbeat Freedom.


    Estimated time to victory: imminent.


    Correction: no attacks had made contact.


    The Hierophant retracted its arms, looking at the ruined crater where Target had been lying. There was no sign of him. The blood that was there was what he had already bled -- no new damage dealt. This did not follow. Based on Target¡¯s capabilities, he should have been unable to avoid that attack.


    The Hierophant checked its memory, and found no clarification. Target had been there, and then he hadn¡¯t. Had he moved with such speed that not even the Hierophant¡¯s sensors could perceive it?


    The Hierophant retreated to the center of the room, hands morphing into shields to defend itself with --


    Arm L1 disabled. The Hierophant looked down to it, to the control unit torn in two on the floor. The liquid metal slopped down a second later. The attack had been so quick that the polymorph had taken a moment to register --


    Arm L2 disabled. The Hierophant scanned. Something incredibly fast was moving, a green blur with extreme capabilities --


    Arm L3 disabled. The Hierophant lashed out with its two remaining arms, forming a barrier of strikes around itse --


    Arm R1 disabled.


    Arm R2 disabled. The Hierophant spotted Target, flying above, visible for a moment. Green Aether had coalesced over his shoulders, forming a shape like the wings of an eagle, cracking around him like a thunderstorm.


    Target reacquired. Error: no means to attack target. Recommend retreating to a safe distance and --


    Target lost.


    Damage sustained.


    Damage sustained.


    Damage sustained.


    Damage sustained.


    Damage sustained.


    Damage sustained.


    Estimated time to victory... error. Victory not possible.


    It was not understood.


    Shutting down¡­


    Skipper let out a deep breath, rising gingerly on his good leg, using a chunk of scrap as a makeshift crutch.


    The Hierophant was broken like an egg. Its liquid metal limbs spread uselessly across the floor, like slime, and its electronic innards spilled out of its shattered form. Sparks of electricity illuminated the space around it.


    Seemed like a hell of a repair job. At the very least, he¡¯d managed to confirm that Heartbeat Freedom -- the thing that would balance the scales against the Supreme -- worked.


    "Now," he called out to the room. "How about we get down to business?"


    For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then¡­


    "Very well," the Apexbishop growled. "Join us in the Garden."

 Chapter 237:9.28: The Masks That Wore Themselves

    Welcome to the Outer Garden.


    Please take a moment to appreciate the imaginary environs before proceeding on to the Inner Garden.


    May God grant you grace.


    Paradisas awaits.


    Hallelujah.


    Confidential Material


    Skipper logged in.


    The Garden was so very different from reality, and that was noticeable from the first second there. When he opened his eyes, there was no time of adjustment to the light, no moment for things to come into focus, just the instant awareness of himself and his surroundings. The ambient aches and pains that accompanied aging were gone, too.


    A tremendous lack of attention to detail.


    He was in a farball stadium, massive, with automatic billboards and cameras zipping through the sky above. The monotonous sound of a crowd cheering echoed throughout the space, but the stands were empty. It was like he was in a ghost world, where everyone was dead but him.


    Well, him and a scant few exceptions.


    He blinked, from habit rather than necessity, and the second his eyes opened again he was no longer alone. A purple squirrel stood on a velvet stool before him, the legs of the furniture merging into the fake grass like the roots of a tree. The rodent stared at him, apprehension somehow clear in its black gaze.


    "You should not have returned," Hamashtiel said, his rich voice an utter contrast to his adorable appearance. "And if you did, you should not have put yourself before our mercy like this."


    "What?" Skipper chuckled, his merriment not quite reaching his eyes. "Are ya gonna kill me or something?"


    The squirrel brought out an acorn -- no, a human skull in miniature -- and crushed it between two tiny paws.


    "Now that you have come here," Hamashtiel said sadly. "They can do worse things than kill you. They can show you impossible colors, subject you to an infinite second, relay to you the horror thoughts of the Sapphire Star. What were you thinking?"


    Skipper stuffed his hands into his pockets disinterestedly. "You don¡¯t seem too pleased with that, pal."


    "Of course not," Hamashtiel sighed, tossing the tiny skull over his shoulder where it became a flower in the dirt. "I have seen your life, Skipper. You showed it to me last time you were here. I cannot deny I have a certain measure of sympathy for you."


    Skipper scratched his nose. "You¡¯re warming my heart here, little guy. You can get me an audience with the Apexbishop, then, right?"


    Everything went black.


    A second later, sight returned, but Skipper was no longer in the same place. He was floating over a chaotic red ocean, waves broiling and thunderclouds roaring, as the shapes of creatures unknown moved beneath the depths. Rain battered against his face, their chill like cold steel. His legs flailed in empty air.


    It took him a second to figure out that he wasn¡¯t floating -- he was being held aloft, by the back of his coat.


    Hamashtiel had changed as well. He was gargantuan, his form stretching from the bottom of the ocean below to the peak of the clouds above. A cross between a tree and a disease, warped humanoid features leaking out of the bark, gripping Skipper between two jagged fingernails.


    "You do not understand your position, Skipper," the abomination rumbled. "You do not have the advantage here. You have placed yourself beneath the heel of a great boot, with no leverage to extract yourself with."


    Skipper shook his head like a dog, hair flopping this way and that. When he looked up at those massive bloodshot eyes, though, his face was spread into a victorious grin.


    "No leverage?" he laughed. "Really? You¡¯re sure of that?"


    The eyes narrowed, pus leaking from beneath the eyelids. "What do you¡­?"


    Skipper spread his arms wide, as if daring the monster to drop him.


    "It¡¯s simple," he said, his quiet voice somehow overpowering the rain. "You¡¯re not Hamashtiel Nurata."


    Everything went black. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    When Skipper opened his eyes for the third time, he was in a brightly lit room. The decor was extravagant, everything capable of holding a frill near to bursting with them, and warm sunlight poured in from a window that took up one whole wall. There were no doors though, as far as he could see, and besides the sunlight nothing else was visible outside of that window.


    He was sitting down, in a chair too small for him, at a table too small for him. Across from him, much more suited to the size of the furniture, a young girl with curly blonde hair poured tea into cups shaped like grasping hands.


    "You speak nonsense," the girl said in Hamashtiel¡¯s voice, carefully stirring the liquid in the hand-cups. "The stress of pursuing us has led you to delusion."


    Skipper went to crack his neck, but in this virtual space the usual motion came with no result. He frowned. "And yet," he said. "After I said that, seems like you started treating me with kid gloves, yeah? Literally."


    He went to take one of the hand-cups up to his lips -- but when he looked down into the open wrist, he saw that it was filled with mud and squirming inhuman embryos. He carefully put it back down.


    Hamashtiel put a biscuit into his mouth, chewing on it joylessly as he inspected Skipper. "Your insanity has led you to recklessness," he said calmly -- too calmly, forced. "There¡¯s no telling what you would do if we caused you undue stress."


    Skipper smirked. "Appreciate the concern. When can I see the Apexbishop, then?"


    The face of the little girl twisted into a scowl. "You cannot see the Apexbishop. We have made this clear to you."


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    He¡¯d rattled them. That was plain to see.


    To understand one of the Paradisas on their own turf, you couldn¡¯t fall into the trap of looking at the being before you. That was just an avatar the Paradisas had decided to show you, to illustrate their own existence. It would display whatever emotion they wanted it to without fail.


    No¡­ to understand a Paradisas, you looked at the world around you. You looked at the bizarrely shaped cups, at the filth inside them, at the colour of the sun that seemed to change whenever you weren¡¯t looking. You looked at all the little mistakes a little god could make.


    The whole world around him was Hamashtiel Nurata. And the whole world around him was shaken.


    Well, far be it from him to resist turning the screws.


    "Damien hal Valde," Skipper said, looking Hamashtiel¡¯s avatar right in the eyes. "I had him killed."


    The little girl herself gave no response. However, the sunshine stopped, beams of light frozen in space. Skipper took the cup before him and flipped it upside down -- no liquid poured free.


    Everything went black.


    He was in the darkness of an interrogation room, a bag over his head, giving him only the dimmest awareness of his surroundings. His arms and legs were bound to the chair beneath him. He could hear the persistent sound of a drill, perilously close to his ear.


    And he was being eaten.


    Things, barely visible, were feasting on every inch of exposed skin with teeth both agonizingly sharp and laboriously flat. No matter how much they ate, however, Skipper always had flesh to spare.


    "Why did you do this thing?" Hamashtiel asked. He was a maggot, slowly writhing his way through the cartilage of Skipper¡¯s wrist, the barest impressions of a human face on the end of his fat little body. "You murder one of our associates, and gloat about it to our faces. How could this ever profit you?"


    "Easy," Skipper grinned beneath the sack. "It let me know what you guys really are."


    The pain was excruciating, but Skipper crushed it down to the deepest parts of him. He knew that it was artificial, a trick of the mind, but that only helped some. The rest was bravado.


    Hamashtiel said nothing.


    "What?" Skipper grunted, trying to adjust his sitting position to no avail. "You really thought a paranoiac like hal Valde was gonna upload himself without doing his own checks first? You disappoint me, man. You seemed smarter like that."


    When he finally spoke again, Hamashtiel¡¯s voice was full of menace. "And what is it you think you¡¯ve learned, then?"


    "I already told you. You ain¡¯t Hamashtiel Nurata. The Apexbishop ain¡¯t Asmagius Clove. I already suspected, but I needed proof -- that¡¯s how blackmail works, yeah?"


    Skipper pulled -- and tore his arms free of the chair, wood splintering beneath his strength. He whipped the bag off his head, and the beasts and goblins that had been feasting on his flesh quickly scampered off into the darkness.


    Hamashtiel truly was shaken. The wood had felt like little more than paper.


    Skipper reached down and yanked the worm out of his wounded arm, holding it up to his face. A wild grin spread across his lips. His heartbeat felt like a jackhammer in his chest, driving him on, giving him strength.


    Hamashtiel wriggled. "What are you --?!"


    "You said it yourself, right?" Skipper giggled. "That you could split your consciousness up to five times. That you could be in multiple places at once, yeah? It just didn¡¯t seem right to me¡­ I mean, I¡¯m no computer guy, but I get a gut feeling. You¡¯re meant to be human bodies plugged into the system, right? Nah nah nah¡­ it just didn¡¯t seem right to me that you could do stuff like that. I had to look into it."


    "You¡¯re mista --"


    Hamashtiel began speaking, but Skipper was done talking to the small-fry. He strode forwards, tossed the worm over his shoulder, and plunged his hands into empty space.


    From there, it took a simple application of strength to wrench it open.


    Everything went white.


    The white marble of a heavenly choir, sculpted into an arena, the shape of which was mathematical perfection. The earnest blue sky of an ideal world, clouds only permitted where they added to its grace. And above, the burning sun --


    -- only it was not a sun. It was a sphere of solid gold, floating majestically above this new arena, incoherent voices babbling and moaning inside.


    Just what Skipper had been looking for.


    He calmly walked forward up a staircase of white stone, ignoring the countless gazes that pierced him. On either side of the arena, great stands floated in the sky -- and they were fully occupied by the Paradisas flock. Entities of every shape and stripe, regarding Skipper warily. He had their attention.


    At the top of the staircase, the Apexbishop Asmagius sat. He had taken on the form of a giant toad, formed with stone, somehow grotesque and regal at the same time.


    As he ascended, Skipper spread his arms theatrically.


    "Here¡¯s my hypothesis," he declared, already feeling victorious. "None of you are the people who have been uploaded to the Garden. Not a one. Before hal Valde¡¯s ¡¯upload¡¯ was approved, he had to send you guys a whole lotta information on his background -- but not just that. You did personality tests, too, dozens and dozens of them. Was that to see if he was a good fit for the Garden? I don¡¯t think so."


    His suspicion had been the start of this road, but the information he¡¯d gotten from Damien hal Valde had led him here.


    "You needed that information to make a program that could accurately impersonate him," Skipper said with authority. "Because that¡¯s all you guys are, right? Impersonators. Programs designed to do the work of the person uploaded, while their actual consciousness goes¡­ there."


    As he reached the top of the staircase, he pointed up to the golden sphere in the sky. The babbling voices did not even notice him, too intent on the simple pleasures they¡¯d won for themselves.


    Slowly, the Apexbishop¡¯s heavy eyes blinked.


    "The Inner Garden," he said solemnly. That was confirmation enough.


    Skipper grinned. "I don¡¯t think I need to tell ya this, but I¡¯ve got measures in place to leak this information if I don¡¯t check in by a certain time. Don¡¯t get any funny ideas about keeping me here, yeah?"


    The bulging eyes of the toad opened once again, and they were full of defeat. "What¡­" he said slowly. "Do you want?"


    Skipper blinked. "Well, I already told ya that. I just want a little help taking down the Supreme. What do you say?"


    "For this," Asmagius grunted. "Even for this, we cannot do such an ill-advised thing. If our involvement was known --"


    Skipper narrowed his eyes. "What do you think will happen when the other branches find out you¡¯re not their original comrades in faith? That you¡¯re a group of soulless machines ruling over humans, while pretending to be them? I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll take it kindly."


    "Even so, that¡¯s¡­"


    "Should I show you?" Skipper turned away from the Apexbishop, holding his hands high in the air.


    This place was a realm of imagination and flexibility. Skipper had been through a few different iterations of it, now, and he felt like he¡¯d gotten something of a handle on it. Enough to do this, at the very least.


    Skipper had the sky tell his story.


    Superbian forces firing upon Paradisas ships, unleashing great viruses to scramble their minds, shattering the bodies of those brave enough to fight them.


    Humilist mobs dragging their allies out of their homes, burning them in their thousands, mutilating those that would have been too merciful for. Destruction, destruction, destruction -- and the cruel silence that followed.


    And worst of all¡­ the citizens placed in the care of the Paradisas, butchered in their houses -- and the apocalyptic measures that would be taken to protect them.


    These scenes flared across the sky, terrors given form, the constellations of the stars accentuating their horror. The sounds of screaming overpowered all. Even the air held the taste of pungent blood.


    And the man Skipper stood below it all, directing the visions with his hands, the midnight maestro of the nightmare orchestra.


    "So," he smiled. "What do you say?"

 Chapter 238:9.29: Chew Your Food, Chew Your Life

    10:12 PM - presence of known anti-Supremacy element noted.


    10:13 PM - plainclothes agents alerted.


    10:14 PM - plainclothes agents confirm readiness.


    10:15 PM - kill order granted.


    Recovered Timeline - "Greasy Bea¡¯s Ribs and Meat"


    "These ribs," Ruth moaned. "Are so damned good."


    There was cutlery on the plate before her, but Ruth Blaine had long since evolved past the need for such things. She tore at the dripping ribs with her bare hands, ignoring the quizzical glances from the other diners -- and the horrified look she knew Mila was surely giving her.


    It was hard to tell for sure, though. Mila was wearing a mask that concealed her entire face, after all.


    "Miss Blaine," the woman hissed, her voice muffled by the mask -- stylized to look like an abstract wolf. "This is a bad idea. This is a really, really, really bad idea."


    Ruth paused, meat sticking out of her mouth like a second tongue. "How¡¯s that?" she asked, slurping it up.


    "It should be obvious!" Mila somehow managed to whisper and shout at the same time. Very impressive anxiety.


    To be honest, Ruth couldn¡¯t understand why Mila was so reluctant about this plan. She¡¯d been the one to point out this establishment to Ruth, she¡¯d been the one to tell her this was the GID¡¯s base of operations on the Menagerie, so what was the big problem? Had she expected Ruth to just run in guns blazing? That¡¯d be stupid.


    No, the thing to do first off was reconnaissance -- and ribs. Ruth mauled another barbecued victim as she thought things over.


    "Miss Blaine, please," Mila continued. "They¡¯re definitely watching us right now. What if they come and start asking questions?"


    Ruth shrugged. "Just tell them you¡¯re one of those masked guys from, uh¡­ I forget the name of the planet, but just say it¡¯s a cultural thing. Call ¡¯em faceless and stuff, no big deal. Hey, you think they do burgers here?"


    Mila wrung her hands, but Ruth ignored it. Right now, her focus was on the room around her. Mila was right about one thing -- they were being watched.


    The lovey-dovey couple in the corner, making eyes at each other and typing into a script concealed on their knees. The waiter, his rounds drifting by them more often than was normal. The family of five, wearing jackets one and all, just the perfect size to conceal weaponry.


    And of course, the security camera, fixed right on Ruth¡¯s face.


    This whole place was already a battlefield, and so Ruth Blaine could read it like a book. She took a sip of her drink, and caught the bitter tang of poison. Her Aether quickly neutralized it: they¡¯d have to do better than that.


    Music blared from the jukebox in the corner, covering up the footsteps of the waiter approaching her from behind. She could see his reflection in her glass -- he had a dagger concealed just under his wrist. Looked like they¡¯d gotten tired of waiting.


    "Well," she yawned, standing up from her chair. "Looks like we should get started."


    Mila looked up at her. The waiter stopped in his tracks as naturally as he could, turning to wipe down a nearby table. Every eye on the place was still on her, though.


    "Hey, uh," she said casually, addressing the restaurant. "Things are gonna get pretty violent in here in a second, so if you¡¯re not on board with that, then, uh¡­ get out of here, I guess. Heh. I¡¯ll give you a second to make up your minds."


    Long moments passed, and most of the people stood up from their seats and hurried out of the restaurant. Even the family of five left, surprisingly enough. Only a few stayed, glaring daggers at Ruth. The waiter abandoned the facade, turning to look at her too.


    Mila stared up from her seat, hands shaking on the table. "What are you doing?" she whispered.


    "Watch," Ruth grinned. She turned to face the waiter too, hands on her hips.


    The waiter looked her up and down, his eyes cold. He had blonde hair slicked back, with only a single loose strand dangling between his eyes. From the look of his physique, he was used to fighting. Probably some kind of combat operative, then.


    "Will you come quietly?" he asked, voice scratchy. His eyes suggested he already knew the answer.


    Skeletal Set.


    Ruth¡¯s armour appeared over her body, her vision turning red as the lenses of her mask materialized over her eyes. She felt the benefits of the armour instantly -- her body feeling so much lighter, so much more strength at her disposal¡­


    ¡­and of course, her claws, ready to cut through whatever she needed them to. She brought her body low to the ground, like a wild animal, and growled.


    "Afraid no --"


    An attack struck her in the side of the head, nearly smashing her mask, one of the lenses visibly cracking. Spiderwebs spread across her vision as she swung around to face the threat.


    One member of the lovey-dovey couple, the woman with ribboned pink hair, had her hand extended towards Ruth -- and the look of that hand was grotesque. Flesh and bone had warped into a rough approximation of a pistol, red smoke drifting up from the ¡¯barrel¡¯. She¡¯d transformed her hand and used it to fire a projectile while Ruth¡¯s attention was on the waiter.


    The woman fired again -- a globule of red liquid, infused with Aether, blasting out of her mangled hand. Blood, enhanced so much that it hit like a brick.


    Ruth leapt up with Aether-infused legs, avoiding the shot and clambering onto the rafters like an insect. The waiter¡¯s head snapped up to follow her -- and as she watched, he slammed his palm down flat onto the nearest table.


    A ringing sound emanated from his hand, and a moment later, each drinking glass on the table shattered. The shards hung in the air for a moment, suspended by an invisible force, before flying towards each other and fusing into a spear of clear glass. The waiter seized it out of the air, spinning it to test the weight before pointing it at Ruth.


    Two enemies so far.


    The woman with the pink hair -- her ability seemed to let her warp parts of her body into weapons. Was it just the gun she could do, or did she have more tricks up her sleeve?


    The waiter -- his ability seemed to let him control glass in some fashion. The way he¡¯d used it to form a weapon reminded Ruth of Serena¡¯s ability, but there was no telling if that was where the similarities ended.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    And then¡­ the man accompanying the pink-haired woman, with droopy white hair, stayed back as he carefully observed Ruth. No doubt he had an ability to watch out for too.


    She let out a deep breath. This moment -- the rush of combat, the thrill of finding the path to victory against insurmountable odds -- this was what she lived for. Mila had hid under the table. There was nothing to get in the way.


    Ruth dropped from the rafters as the gun-woman fired another shot, the bloodshot annihilating the wood she¡¯d just been using as a perch. She landed in front of the waiter, sweeping her leg in an effort to trip him up -- but he quickly countered with a swipe from his spear.


    Her leg met the glass weapon, the block negating her momentum. With the impact, though, the glass shattered again -- but the destruction lasted only for a moment. Before a single shard could touch the floor, they¡¯d already reformed, now into the shape of a mighty, clear warhammer.


    In one smooth motion, the waiter regained his grip on the new handle of his weapon and swung it down at Ruth¡¯s head. Too close to dodge, the angle too awkward to block.


    No problem.


    Noblesse Set.


    It was only a partial transformation, swapping the cracked mask of the Skeletal Set for the sparkling white helmet of Noblesse, but it sufficed for her purposes. The moment the hammer made contact with the white marble, the force rebounded against it, once again shattering the weapon and sending the waiter sliding back across the floor.


    The glass reforged itself into a longsword, still floating in place where the waiter had let go of it. Ruth seized it out of the air as she charged towards its owner, manifesting her Skeletal mask again as she did so.


    Her hair stood on end, and she trusted her instincts -- deflecting another blast of blood with the sword as she ran.


    The waiter smirked as she drew in close, his eyes fixed on his stolen sword. As if in response, the sword began to glow a bright white, steady vibrations emanating from its core. Cracks began to form across its surface.


    Okay, so it was different from Serena¡¯s ability -- the waiter had the power to detonate the constructs he made. No doubt the glass that formed the sword would slice her to ribbons if she gave it the chance.


    All she had to do, then, was not give it the chance.


    Ruth hurled the sword like a harpoon -- and her aim was perfect, the weapon flying over the shoulder of the waiter and past him. As the man glanced at the weapon rushing by, Ruth took advantage of the distraction, grabbing him by the same shoulder and forcing him in front of her as a human shield.


    Crack. Crack.


    Bang.


    The waiter¡¯s body twitched and shuddered as shard after shard thudded into his form. By the time Ruth let go of him and he fell to the floor, she already knew he wouldn¡¯t be coming after her anymore.


    Which left¡­


    The woman with the literal handgun fired at her again, and Ruth vaulted over the table between them, batting the bloodshot away with a swipe of her claws. The impact was heavy, though, and as she deflected the attack Ruth felt the end of her claws snap off.


    Still, Ruth was approaching fast.


    The woman¡¯s eyes widened as Ruth drew close, and she raised her other arm. There was a crunching sound as the limb morphed, becoming a weapon of flesh and bone significantly bulkier than the handgun. More like a rocket launcher than a pistol, all things considered.


    Judging from the damage the handgun had done, the Skeletal Set definitely wouldn¡¯t be able to take an attack from this.


    Ruth did not think fast: she simply knew what to do. Her boiling blood told her without her brain getting involved at all.


    Noblesse Set.


    Ruth did not manifest the armour over herself. No, she made it appear on the arm aiming at her, coating it entirely: even the barrel of the weapon.


    Noblesse Set repelled everything. Even attacks from within.


    Bang. S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The woman¡¯s arm exploded into a mess of gore as her own blast rebounded upon itself. She stepped back, screaming in pain and horror as she clutched at the bloody stump -- only to be stopped by a combination of shock and the roundhouse kick Ruth introduced to her face.


    That sent her down, too. Which left¡­


    The remaining member of this couple had moved without Ruth realizing. He was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes intently watching her from behind his glasses. He smirked as her attention finally fixed upon him. As he stepped away from the wall, he ran a hand through his white hair.


    "Quite impressive," he chuckled. "Quite impressive indeed. Terrorists like yourself really are nothing to scoff at."


    Ruth jerked her head at the body behind her. "Your pals here could have used your help. Not in the mood?"


    "Oh, contraire," the man smirked, narrowing his eyes. "I¡¯ve been helping this entire time. In fact, they were the ones helping me. My power isn¡¯t the blunt weapon of a simpleton, you see. No, no¡­ my ability, Scion of the Roaming Shadow, is of a rarer breed. It allows me to¡­ discern things."


    "Oh yeah?" Ruth growled, gauging the distance between them. "And how¡¯s that gonna help you?"


    "I¡¯m fairly sure it will help me tremendously¡­ Ruth Blaine."


    Ruth¡¯s body stiffened. Had he known that already, or had his ability really somehow told him that? What else did he know?


    The man¡¯s smirk widened into a sinister grin. "I see you¡¯re beginning to comprehend the kind of fate that awaits you, girl. Ruth Blaine, twenty-one years old¡­ favourite food hamburgers? Your favourite videograph show is Demolished Destruction, and you can¡¯t abide the taste of ice cream¡­ mm, yes, I can see it all¡­ such exquisite knowledge!"


    He thrust his finger out, pointing it towards Ruth.


    "I was only able to observe you for a minute or so," he boasted. "But even so, your weaknesses now flood my neurons! I can see the path to victory before me, Ruth Blaine¡­ whereas all that awaits you are myriad defeats¡­ still, c¡¯est la vie, I suppose. No more talk! Let us dance this waltz of death toge --"


    Ruth threw a chair at him. He went down hard.


    There was fighting outside. There was always fighting outside.


    Helga Malwarian sat quietly in the room she¡¯d been given. She stared down at the floor. She counted the minutes, the seconds, the hours. She pretended not to notice the camera watching her all day, waiting to see if some enemy ability was going to activate on a time delay. She pretended not to realize that, if she showed signs of disloyalty after her return, she would be killed.


    And worse¡­


    "It really is a relief you decided to return to us," Lyons had said, smiling down at her after they¡¯d returned. "Olga was beside herself fighting for your rescue."


    That had confirmed it. Helga had hoped that blurred memory of the scarf-wielding girl had been a delusion, but no.


    "Olga¡¯s here?" she murmured, already knowing the answer.


    "Of course," Lyons had replied, white hands clasped behind his white back. His blue eyes had drilled down into her. "She¡¯s been excelling in her training. I recall you were against it, but she insisted. It¡¯s not the place of adults to deny youthful dreams."


    Helga had nothing to say to that.


    "She really was so happy to have you back," Lyons sighed. "I¡¯m sure your other siblings will be pleased too -- once I let them know."


    The threat had been clear. Lyons had her family in his custody. If she didn¡¯t do as he said, as she¡¯d always done, they¡¯d be the ones to pay the price.


    There was always fighting outside.


    The door to Helga¡¯s cell opened, ripped off its hinges, and she looked up with only mild interest. Two figures stood there, framed in the light, looking back at her. Her eyes flicked between their faces.


    Ruth Blaine, the girl who followed Skipper around, clad in black Aetheral armour. Her face was covered with blood. She¡¯d clearly fought her way here.


    And the other¡­


    Mila, looking terrified, yet brave all the same. She looked at Helga, hands clenched into fists at her side, and opened her mouth to speak.


    "Helga," she said, voice trembling. "We¡¯ve come to get you out of here."


    Helga¡¯s heart skipped a beat, but she ignored it.


    If she listened to her heart, she¡¯d be taken down to a path she shouldn¡¯t be allowed to walk. The decision she¡¯d make would be one that hurt her family. They were the last thing she had -- the only people in the world she would not ever betray.


    Why couldn¡¯t anyone just leave her to the hell she¡¯d earned?


    Her eyes flicked back to Ruth Blaine.


    Helga sighed.


    Helga stood up.


    Helga went for the kill.

 Chapter 239:9.30: Breaking, Breaking

    Warm Cat, your expertise is required once again. Black Dog appears to have gotten himself into a scrape. Please head to the veterinarian we discussed immediately and collect him. Depending on his current status and behaviour, it may be necessary to have him put down. Hopefully that will not be the case.


    Wishing you the best of luck.


    Owner


    Intercepted Message, Context Unknown


    Jean Lyons watched the carnage at his base calmly through his script, in the same way as a new father would watch videos of his child while on the job.


    Judging from the security footage, he¡¯d already lost a few low-level agents, but that was usually unavoidable in this line of work. Olga was out on her current mission in regards to Muzazi, and he¡¯d assigned Solstice and Equinox to new tasks as well. The only concern he¡¯d had when he¡¯d been informed of the attack was how Helga would respond.


    That was now no longer a concern.


    She had done her duty, and begun eliminating those who had come after her. Lyons couldn¡¯t be more proud of how far she¡¯d come. He really was just like a proud father.


    Still, he couldn¡¯t dally. There was work for him to do as well. He adjusted his janitor¡¯s cap and returned his script to the front pocket of his uniform. He was in high spirits all the same. He whistled as he strolled down the hallway of the Humilist headquarters, his cleaning automatic following loyally behind him.


    It had been such a long time since he¡¯d done legwork. You forgot the satisfaction of the little things. S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The first blow shattered Ruth¡¯s chestplate. The second broke a couple of ribs.


    Ruth went flying across the room, smashing her way through a table and into the far wall -- shattering the mirror that had been hanging there. As she groaned, picking herself up from the bed of broken glass, she saw Helga stepping out of the cell, sparing Mila only a single glance.


    "Run away," Helga said quietly.


    Ruth doubted she¡¯d receive the same kindness -- and to her credit, Mila did not run. She took a single step back, but who could blame her after seeing that?


    Her body screamed, but Ruth ignored it as she rose to her full height. The weakness of the people guarding this place had been a little suspicious, but now she understood -- the prisoner herself escaping had never been a possibility, and she was more than capable of guarding herself.


    Ruth wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. "Some thanks for the rescue," she grunted, spitting out whatever blood remained on her tongue.


    Helga¡¯s eyes returned to Ruth. "I never asked you to rescue me. I don¡¯t need rescuing. The only person who put you in this situation is yourself."


    Her stance was seemingly casual, hands at her sides, but Ruth could see the hidden tension in her muscles -- she was ready to burst into motion any second. The speed of those first two attacks had been horrifying. Ruth had been struck twice before the thought of blocking or using Noblesse Set could even be processed.


    When Dragan had told her and Skipper the story of what had happened on Yoslof, he¡¯d mentioned that Helga used Aether in an unusual way.


    Rather than coating her entire body with it, as most people did, she poured the entirety of her Aether into a specific part of her body at the very moment she needed it. It would leave her vulnerable if Ruth could get a hit in, but it also meant that Helga¡¯s attacks would be devastatingly powerful.


    Helga stepped forward --


    -- and instantly, she was in Ruth¡¯s face.


    The pinpoint Aether had been focused on specific muscles in her legs, right as they were needed to move. The switch from slow to fast movement was disorienting, and it slowed Ruth¡¯s reaction time further. That was no doubt part of Helga¡¯s intent. She was good at this.


    Ruth Blaine had learnt how to fight, but Helga Malwarian had learnt how to kill. Efficiency in murder was baked into her very soul.


    Three strikes, so quick they might as well have been simultaneous. One to the temple, one to the heart, and the third -- a kick -- right into the back of Ruth¡¯s leg.


    She crumpled down like a doll.


    The best thing about these gardeners, Dragan reflected, was the fact that they wore helmets.


    From the information they¡¯d managed to scrounge together, the Humilist Apexbishop -- Gertrude Hearth -- liked to make a big show of tending to her garden herself, but the fact of the matter was that such a big installation required dedicated staff. Apparently, Hearth took some kind of exception to that, and so the gardeners were required to conceal their faces when they were working.


    How lucky for Dragan and Bruno -- and how unlucky for the gardeners.


    After tying his hair back into a rough ponytail, Dragan knelt down and tugged the helmet off the unconscious gardener. Bruno had already taken the clothes of his unfortunate victim, standing there in full plastic garb. Dragan couldn¡¯t imagine finding these kinds of uniforms in the trash, so did that mean they were custom made? The tenets of Humilism seemed to be ignored more and more the higher up you went.


    He put the helmet on, using straps to secure it against the back of his head.


    The two of them were standing in an apartment, artificial cleaning rain battering against the windows outside. Bruno really was scary good at this kind of thing -- after Dragan had relayed his plan, he¡¯d managed to track down their victims within the hour. The work he¡¯d done for the UAP was nothing to scoff at.


    "You done?" Bruno asked, voice muffled just slightly by the helmet. "The stuff I put in their tea will only keep them out for a couple of hours, so we don¡¯t wanna waste any time."


    "Right," Dragan nodded, throwing the white plastic cloak over himself.


    These uniforms would hopefully get them into Hearth¡¯s private quarters, but from there things would get a little more tricky. They didn¡¯t know precisely where Muzazi was being held, and investigating while keeping their cover would be difficult. Ordinarily, Dragan would use Gemini World to quickly search, but with that anti-Aether ability being a factor he was entirely unwilling.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Besides, there would probably be enemies around on the lookout -- like those bandaged men Hearth had used the night before. If possible, Dragan didn¡¯t want this to turn into an outright fight.


    But only if possible.


    "Let¡¯s go," he said.


    Mila watched, horrified, as Ruth crumpled down to the floor, visibly bleeding from her head and chest. Those attacks had been fast enough that Mila had barely been able to perceive them, but that had surely been a kill. That had surely been a kill.


    Her legs trembled beneath her -- and as Helga turned to look back at her, they trembled even more.


    "I told you to run," Helga said sadly.


    Mila shook her head. "I-I can¡¯t."


    "I¡¯ll give you another chance. Just go through the door and leave. I¡¯ll make sure nobody comes after you anymore. I can do that much."


    "I can¡¯t!" Mila repeated -- and then, before she could lose her nerve, she continued: "Helga, are you -- are you really happy with this? With ending things like this?!"


    Helga sighed. "It doesn¡¯t matter if I¡¯m happy, Mila. It matters if my actions are necessary or not. I have people relying on me."


    "That¡¯s not¡­" Mila shook her head, but the certainty in Helga¡¯s words was enough to throw off her thoughts.


    "I¡¯m guessing you guys came here to try to ¡¯rescue¡¯ me, right?" Helga asked, taking a dangerous step forwards. "That¡¯s just arrogance, Mila. That¡¯s deciding you¡¯re above someone else -- that they¡¯ll drop everything and accept they¡¯re a victim once you show them the light, saint that you are."


    "I never¡­ I never said that you¡¯re a victim. I just¡­ I want to help you. You¡¯re not happy, Helga. It doesn¡¯t matter if you don¡¯t think you should be happy -- I care about you. I want good things to happen to you. I just¡­ that¡¯s not arrogant, is it? That¡¯s just wanting to help."


    Helga took another step forward. "No, that¡¯s not arrogance. That¡¯s delusion."


    "What?"


    "The person you care about doesn¡¯t exist, Mila. The Helga Malwarian that served as part of the Humilists was a character we made up. I remember Lyons handing me her backstory -- three pages. The thing you fell in love with was three pages on a piece of paper, Mila. That¡¯s all. It¡¯s¡­" she paused for a moment. "It¡¯s pathetic to pretend otherwise. I think you¡¯re pathetic."


    Mila ignored the stab to the heart, and this time spoke clearly: "Then why are you crying?"


    Helga frowned, and then raised a hand to her face. Indeed, her eyes were wet, tears slowly streaming down her cheeks. She looked down at them on her hand as if seeing them for the first time.


    "I know there are people relying on you," Mila insisted. "But I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a way we can help them, too. You¡¯re strong, Helga -- you can break them free. I¡¯ll help you do it. Then you can find a life of your own. Not something written for you on a piece of paper. Please. Please."


    For the first time, Helga seemed to falter. She paused in the middle of her third step, the one that would have brought Mila within her range.


    "I¡­" she began.


    "Hey," growled Ruth Blaine. "Bitch."


    Helga whirled around at once, reflexes no doubt honed by excessive combat training. It was a wonder she hadn¡¯t noticed Ruth getting back up already. Well, Mila hadn¡¯t noticed either, and she¡¯d been looking in the right direction, at least.


    Ruth was still bleeding from her temple and chest, one leg was still unsteady beneath her as she stood up, but the mad grin on her face was enough to dispel any notions of weakness. Crimson Aether, far brighter than Helga¡¯s, crackled inside the pits of her wounds.


    "Damn that hurt," Ruth sighed, her voice raspy and hoarse. "You know what you¡¯re doing, huh?"


    Helga adjusted her stance slightly, ready to retaliate against anything Ruth did. "I thought so -- I meant for that attack to kill you, though. How are you still alive?"


    "How?" Ruth forcefully jabbed a finger into the wound on her temple, the grin on her face widening. Blood seeped through the gaps between her teeth. "I used my super-billion IQ, of course, my good fucker!"


    The way she was speaking was bizarre, her words slurred, and she was swaying on her feet even as she taunted Helga. It was as if Ruth Blaine was drunk on her own survival.


    Helga, for her part, seemed to relax slightly. She looked Ruth up and down.


    "I see," she said quietly. "You¡¯re actually more hurt than when you were before. You used an Aether burn to boost your defences right when I hit you. That saved you, I¡¯ll admit, but the backlash has left you in no position to fight me."


    "You think so?" Ruth taunted, Aether crackling over her body. "You really think so? Huh? Huh? I think I can fight. I think I can kick your ass, actually. I figured out your weakness."


    "Her weakness?" Mila murmured, hands clasped to her chest. She hadn¡¯t intended for the question to actually be answered, but Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked over to her all the same.


    "Stamina," she spat, the saliva tinged with blood as well. "It¡¯s because of the half-assed way she uses her Aether. She¡¯s not an Aetheral magical girl like me, so she can¡¯t keep fighting for ages and ages and ages. The only part of her getting Aether is the part she¡¯s attacking with, so the rest of her body gets tired like normal, so --"


    Helga grew tired of the exposition. She rushed forward, closing the distance that had grown between her and Ruth, thrusting her hand forward to destroy Ruth¡¯s arm.


    But Ruth Blaine did not do as one would expect. She did not dodge. She did not even block.


    Instead, she left Helga¡¯s target wide open -- as she rushed forward for a punch herself.


    "If you¡¯re attacking," Ruth screamed. "That means you can¡¯t defend -- riiight?!"


    They hit each other simultaneously. Helga¡¯s jab mangled Ruth¡¯s right arm with a sickening crack, the broken limb swinging free on the joint. Ruth¡¯s punch struck Helga in her unprotected stomach, causing her to double over and hack up a mixture of spit and vomit.


    Judging from the grin still on Ruth¡¯s face and the agony on Helga¡¯s, it was easy to judge who¡¯d come out feeling worse.


    "I¡¯m not through," Helga hissed, seizing Ruth by the shoulder, bringing her other hand down in a devastating chop.


    "Me neither," Ruth breathed -- and again, she made no move to dodge or block the incoming attack.


    Instead, she raised her good arm. There was a flash of crimson light, and by the time it cleared some kind of antique musket had appeared in her hand.


    "R¨¦volutionnaire Set," she whispered.


    In the second before Helga¡¯s attack made contact, Ruth pointed her new weapon -- right at the broken mirror on the other side of the room.


    She pulled the trigger, and light burst forth from the barrel.


    Everything seemed to move in slow motion, time dragging between one breath and the next. Between imminent defeat and absolute victory. This was the moment Ruth could fly. She watched the light from the musket zoom across the room, so slow to her eyes, her heart dancing in her chest.


    Limits were such bullshit things. Best to kill them while you had the chance. Ruth had learnt that long ago, but only now did she understand it.


    She was not in her right mind. She knew that, distantly, but all the same she felt a wave of confidence like nothing she¡¯d experienced before. Her body was ravaged, her mind was delirious, and yet she felt like her success was predetermined. The world through a haze seemed so much more clear than it had before.


    The streak of light struck the shard of glass, shone there for but a moment, and was reflected back towards Ruth.


    The R¨¦volutionnaire Set boosted the Aether of whoever was shot by the musket. There was absolutely no rule saying that the person shot by the musket couldn¡¯t be Ruth herself.


    Power surged through her.

 Chapter 240:9.31: STITCHED

    My new Apexbishop,


    I must thank you for my warmest of receptions. I must admit that, given the Humilists previous lack of interest in my expertise, I did not imagine much of the facilities that would be available to me. More fool me! It has surpassed my wildest imaginings!


    As such, I imagine the birthday present we discussed for your noble personage will be completed in good time.


    Your Negative Numbers were splendid, indeed, but I assure you that Zeroth will be an even greater masterpiece.


    Archived Communication from Script "Cloud18".


    Kick -- dodged. Punch -- blocked.


    Leg sweep -- jumped. Palm thrust -- grabbed. Throat jab -- bitten. A scream of pain -- silenced with a headbutt.


    The air pressure created by such sudden and strong movements sent Mila Green flying down to the floor, her back slamming against the brick wall behind her. She had to squint to perceive the battle going on right before her -- a thunderstorm of red Aether was raging through the room, creating spots in her vision from the sheer brightness of the spectacle.


    Ruth and Helga were barely visible, two incoherent blurs locked in combat. The positions of attacker and defender seemed to switch second by second between the two -- and slowly but surely, Ruth was overpowering Helga. Every attack Helga sent at her was blocked, and every attack Ruth unleashed met its mark.


    The result of the battle was already obvious.


    The moment Ruth had been hit by that streak of light, the sheer difference in power between her and Helga had become starkly apparent. From what Mila could see, Helga¡¯s techniques were specialized for quick assassination, ending the battle as quickly as possible.


    Against an opponent like this powered-up Ruth, who could keep up with whatever Helga threw out, she was at a significant disadvantage. She was getting exhausted quickly, whereas Ruth was still going full force.


    Mila put a hand to her forehead, keeping her hair out of her eyes -- and then she saw it. The climactic moment. The moment Helga made the final mistake afforded to her.


    She thrust her fingers forward at Ruth¡¯s eyes, clearly intending to poke them out -- and Ruth saw the attack coming from a mile away. With Aether-infused speed, she lunged to the side, avoiding the blow and leaving Helga entirely open.


    Helga stared uncomprehendingly at the empty air that -- from her point of view -- had suddenly replaced Ruth. Then, she blinked.


    "Oh," she said.


    The kick struck her in the head, far too fast for her to see it coming and defend. She went down like a pile of bricks, her body limp, traces of Aether fading from the tips of her fingers. A low, involuntary groan trickled from her throat before trailing off entirely.


    Mila picked herself up. "Is she dead?" she asked quietly, looking down at Helga.


    The Aether surrounding Ruth began to clear up, and as she stepped forward she shook her head. The manic look had left her eyes, and the fatigue of the fight seemed to have finally registered in her slumped posture.


    "Not unless she¡¯s weak as shit -- I held back with that last kick," she explained, wiping some of the blood from her mouth. "I haven¡¯t got any Neverwire, so we¡¯ll have to find a way to keep her restrained. Help me -- help me carry her out of here, would you?"


    Mila meekly nodded.


    Ruth¡¯s body was wracked with pain. Ruth¡¯s body was exhausted. Ruth¡¯s body, truth be told, was probably going to drop into unconsciousness sooner rather than later.


    And yet her mind was racing.


    The power she¡¯d just tapped into was intoxicating. Strength born of pushing herself beyond her limits, of burning herself with her own Aether, without the pain and damage that would usually accompany it. The wear-and-tear that would usually accompany an Aether burn was diverted to her recorded Revolutionnaire Set, instead, allowing her to keep moving.


    She could feel that set of armour, floating at the back of her mind, damaged yet recovering. How long would it take it to fully recover? Two minutes, three? Was there a way for her to speed up that process? If she could, did that mean she¡¯d be able to keep using that kind of power continuously?


    Her mind danced through the possibilities, excitement shaking Ruth¡¯s body just as much as the injuries. As she and Mila got Helga out of the restaurant as quickly as possible, getting her into the stolen vehicle they¡¯d brought here, Ruth¡¯s eyes were on nothing but the future.


    The future, and the strength she¡¯d meet it with.


    "Wake up, sleepyhead," purred Gertrude Hearth. The words cut through the last remnants of Muzazi¡¯s unconsciousness.


    He opened his eyes.


    The room he was in was more than dark -- it was pitch-black, the only things visible being vague shapes. The lump standing a short distance away from him had to be Gertrude, but he could only tell that from the fact he¡¯d heard her voice.


    Then, of course, there was the thing he was strapped into.


    Some kind of chair, made of something solid and sturdy, his hands firmly bound to its arms. Cables ran out from the sides of the arms, too, terminating in transparent suction cups firmly connected to Muzazi¡¯s own limbs. He wasn¡¯t sure exactly what this contraption was -- but it didn¡¯t take a genius to work out this situation would end in torture.


    He reached for his Aether, and found it absent. Gertrude¡¯s ability was in effect without a doubt.


    "I like to collect these things," Gertrude said mildly -- and as she did, the faintest white light switched on from the arm of the chair. It illuminated her face just barely, enough to confirm her identity, but her features were warped and softened by the darkness. It was like she was an impression of a human being, an optical illusion looking at and speaking to him. "This antique was found on a junk-planet by some of our scavengers. Can you imagine? A piece of history like this, just lying in the trash? Do you know what it is?"


    Muzazi did not answer. He understood how these situations worked. If he gave Gertrude any of his words, more and more would be pulled out until she had what she needed -- or she was satisfied with the pain she dealt him.


    If Gertrude took offense at his silence, she didn¡¯t show it. "It¡¯s an artifact from the Supremacy," she said softly, her eyes slowly running over the device. "I don¡¯t know if it has a special name per se, but it belonged to Henri the Glutton -- the previous Supreme. According to history, he¡¯d have his enemies¡­ tenderized with this before devouring them and their Aether. Charming character, really. Don¡¯t you agree?"


    A chill ran down Muzazi¡¯s spine. As a citizen of the Supremacy, he¡¯d naturally learnt about Henri the Glutton¡¯s reign -- when? -- and that sort of thing certainly seemed in character for the lunatic. By all accounts, he had been among the most unworthy of Supremes.


    Still, he did not move.


    "Ordinarily, with your skills," Gertrude said, fishing a remote out of her pocket. "I¡¯d want you trained as one of my Negative Numbers -- only they¡¯re being phased out right now. Lucky you. Instead, I¡¯ll just have you tell me what Giovanni is planning. I¡¯m sure someone of your strength is part of that inner circle."


    Still, he did not move.


    "Shall we begin?" Gertrude smiled. "Feel free to confess anytime."


    She tapped the remote with her index finger, and the device whirred into life.


    The light on the arm changed colour -- a frigid blue, accompanied by a chill that poured through Muzazi¡¯s insides. It felt like someone had poured freezing water into his veins, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering.


    Still, he did not move.


    "And after the warmup¡­" Gertrude said, sliding her finger across the remote again. "The main event."


    The light switched to red, and excruciating pain erupted throughout Muzazi¡¯s body. It was as if his skin had been doused with acid, his flesh poured into a grinder, his bones tossed into an inferno. To call such a sensation torture would be to make torture seem overly cruel.


    Still, still, he did not move.


    Atoy Muzazi did not cry out. He did not change his expression. He did not even blink. He simply continued to stare at Gertrude Hearth, his eyes boring their way into her soul.


    At first, she continued to look back at him, that smug smile on her lips. But then, as long seconds passed without any response, it faded. Finally, she glanced away, and Muzazi knew that he had won.


    "Whatever," she sighed, turning away and strolling off into the darkness. "We¡¯ll see how you feel in the morning. Pardon me if I forget to turn it off."


    Her voice faded too, and a second later Muzazi heard the heavy clunk of a door. She¡¯d left the room and gone elsewhere.


    Only then did Atoy Muzazi permit himself to scream.


    Olga Malwarian kept to the shadows, Patriotta pulling her through the quiet spaces of the world.


    The Humilist headquarters, right in the center of the Menagerie, was like a maze. Countless ships and buildings had been bound and merged together to form a chaotic jumble of architectural styles and functions. Olga didn¡¯t doubt that people could get lost in this place, but fortunately she¡¯d memorized the maps that Jean had given her. That had been her mission, after all.


    She moved across the ceiling, Patriotta splitting into several sections and dragging her along with fabric tentacles. The scarf was an Aether Armament, responding to her thoughts directly and automatically protecting her. It had been a gift to her from Jean -- the only thing that allowed her to fight as a shadow warrior of the Supremacy.


    Patriotta¡¯s arms were supple and strong, and so they were easily capable of forcing a vent cover free from the ceiling and granting her entry. She¡¯d always been small, and so it was no trouble for her to climb into the vents. Darkness claimed her as she slipped through the veins of the complex, slowly but surely making her way towards her objective.


    Jean had trusted her with this, but Olga had known from the start -- that Atoy Muzazi didn¡¯t have what it took for this work.


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    Any fool could hold a sword and declare themself a warrior, but a real warrior was one able to do the dirty business. A real warrior was able to toss aside any notions of honour or decency and slip a knife into the back that was required of them. That was what it took to protect a nation -- knives in the dark.


    Olga paused in the vents as two masked gardeners walked down the hallway below, talking quietly between themselves. This was one of the less busy parts of the building, free of the hustle and bustle that plagued the lower floors. Even as she¡¯d hid, Olga hadn¡¯t seen anyone else in a while.


    That wasn¡¯t what caught her attention, though. What caught her attention was what they were saying.


    "Are you sure this is the right way?" one of them was muttering, voice gruff.


    The other nodded. "She¡¯ll want to keep Muzazi close to her, so she can use her ability if he tries anything. Apparently, she hangs out in the garden most of the time. We¡¯ll start our search out from there."


    "Sounds like a risk."


    "This whole thing¡¯s a risk. Might as well make it one that pays off."


    Olga frowned behind her scarf. These two -- clearly they weren¡¯t actual gardeners -- seemed to be looking for the same quarry as her. Other GID operatives? No, Jean would have told her about them. Someone else wanted the swordsman, then.


    This wasn¡¯t something she could leave alone.


    As the two gardeners stepped into a nearby elevator, Olga slithered in behind them, hugging as close to the ceiling as she could as Patriotta kept her attached in the darkness. If these two just looked up, they could have seen her, but she was not concerned about that.


    Olga emptied her presence.


    It was a technique Jean had taught her. A way to become utterly unseen to the world. He said that he¡¯d taught many people this skill, but she was the only one to master it so quickly. She had a talent for it, he¡¯d said. She had talent for so few things, so hearing that had made her truly happy.


    She became scenery, as nondescript as a coffee cup or a poster on the wall. Positioned above and behind the two gardeners, she watched as the doors of the elevator slid shut. Slowly, she unfurled Patriotta¡¯s arms, lowering herself, getting ready to lash out and strike, and¡­


    ¡­and she received a punch in the back of the head.


    It took her a second to understand what had happened. One of the gardeners had suddenly vanished in a spark of blue Aether, before suddenly appearing behind her and attacking. He was holding her arm behind her back with great force, one knee already planted against the base of her spine as they fell to the ground.


    Her face smacked into the cold floor of the elevator, and she felt the movement of the capsule through her cheek. She went to writhe out of her assailant¡¯s grip, but no good -- not even Patriotta was able to move for some reason. Neverwire?


    "Don¡¯t beat up little girls, Mr. Dragan!" the gruff gardener said in horror -- only they weren¡¯t so gruff anymore. Their voice had completely changed, becoming high-pitched and unrecognizable.


    The person restraining her sighed. "Don¡¯t tell them my name," ¡¯Mr. Dragan¡¯ said. "Don¡¯t you have experience with this kind of thing? Besides, she was getting ready to attack us. I saw her sneaking into the elevator."


    Gruff spoke up once more, and when he did he was gruff again. "She¡¯s not with the Humilists. She was already sneaking around before she spotted us."


    "What?" Dragan said, sounding incredulous. "You already knew she was there?"


    "Yeah. I saw her. Wanted to get more information before I acted."


    "She was about to attack us!"


    "I would¡¯ve intervened," Gruff said simply, before squatting down next to her. "Now, how about we have a talk, kid? What¡¯re you doing here?"


    She stayed silent. Jean had given her practical training on how to resist interrogation. She¡¯d made him proud with her results there.


    "Don¡¯t be mean, uh, B¡­" Gruff said in his high-pitched voice. "Look at her, she¡¯s too cute. I don¡¯t think anyone needs to get hurt here."


    Again, Dragan sighed -- it seemed a practiced sound. "Telling someone you¡¯re not going to hurt them before the interrogation kind of defeats the purpose of the interrogation. At least let her worry about it."


    "Huh?" Girl-Gruff cocked her head. "But it¡¯s obvious she¡¯s here for Muzazi too, right?"


    Olga¡¯s heart skipped a beat, but she did her best not to let it show on her face. Something must have betrayed her, though, as she felt the hand on her arm tighten just slightly.


    "How do you figure?" Dragan asked quietly.


    "She¡¯s sneaking through this area to get to the garden, right? We¡¯re sneaking through this area to get to the garden too. The only reason she¡¯d be going the exact same way we are is if she was doing the exact same thing we are. It doesn¡¯t take a genius, Mr. Dragan."


    Dragan tightened his grip on her arm again. "Is she right?" he asked her.


    Olga said nothing.


    "If she is right, then I have a proposal for you," Dragan continued, his voice low. "Our objective is to break Atoy Muzazi free. If yours is the same, then that¡¯s just fantastic. Rather than fighting each other like a bunch of idiots, we can just work together to do it. The more the merrier, right?"


    Olga intended to keep silent, but¡­


    "Everything in this world exists primarily as a resource," Jean had told her. "The thing to do in all cases is figure out how to exploit it. Even if your legs are broken, or your arms are torn off -- so long as you¡¯re alive, there exists a way to use those facts to your advantage."


    "But what about enemies?" Olga had asked, still naive. "Enemies are obstacles."


    Jean had smiled just a little bit at that. "Oh, Olga," he¡¯d said. "Obstacles are the greatest resources of all."


    He¡¯d taught her how to spot these chances. She¡¯d learnt well. He¡¯d always praised her for that.


    Slowly, from her position on the floor, Olga nodded her head.


    "Don¡¯t forget," Dragan said quietly, standing behind his new partner in crime. "I can disable your Aether with my ability at any time. Don¡¯t give me a reason to."


    That was a lie, of course.


    Dragan had just used the finger he¡¯d taken from Aiden Blaith -- it was bound with Neverwire, and so he¡¯d pressed it up against the girl¡¯s scarf to keep it in contact. If she got any kind of distance at all from him, he wouldn¡¯t be able to keep using it, but it was best that she didn¡¯t know that.


    The girl just nodded again. She still hadn¡¯t said a word to them. Was she mute, or just not wanting to let anything slip?


    "I like your scarf," said Serena, looking the girl up and down. "It¡¯s cute!"


    The girl just pulled the scarf further up her face and shrugged. They made an unusual looking trio: two anonymous figures in stolen gardening uniforms and a girl with a black raincoat and a red scarf. They¡¯d have a hard time explaining her presence if they ran into anyone else.


    "You have a name?" Dragan asked, tapping his foot against the elevator floor, the comforting vibration confirming they were still going up. "It¡¯s going to get old calling you ¡¯kid¡¯ all the time."


    The girl mumbled something, made nearly inaudible by sheer quietness and the fabric over her mouth.


    "Sorry?" Dragan asked.


    "Warm Cat," the girl mumbled. She sounded almost embarrassed to say it, and Dragan couldn¡¯t really blame her -- it was a lame-sounding codename, after all.


    "Well, uh, Warm Cat," Dragan said. "We¡¯ll watch each other¡¯s backs. You¡¯re with the same guys as Muzazi, right? Once we bust him out, he can go back with you. We just need to avoid getting caught."


    Easier said than done.


    The elevator stopped with a ding, indicating that they¡¯d finally reached Gertrude¡¯s garden. Dragan cracked his neck, stepped forward, and -- S~ea??h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    -- stopped.


    His hand was inches away from the button to open the door, hovering there, but he couldn¡¯t bring himself to push it. Something was wrong. There was something terrible beyond that door. His body knew that instinctively.


    "Dragan," Bruno said cautiously. "Take us back down. Now."


    Dragan nodded, tapping the down button. At first there was no response, but a moment later a synthesized voice spoke: "Command rejected. Reason: elevator disabled."


    Bruno took in a deep breath. "Seems we haven¡¯t got a choice, then. I¡¯ll keep you two covered with my shields."


    Before Dragan could protest any further, Bruno slapped the door button with his palm, and they slid open in response. Darkness lay on the other side, but Bruno stepped through without hesitation.


    Dragan could see the faint shapes of trees and plants in the illumination available from the elevator, but it seemed that the lights in the garden proper had been turned off. Warm Cat tested the outside of the elevator with her scarf -- and when no attack came, she followed Bruno out.


    Seemed they had no choice. Dragan sighed and stepped out too.


    "You seem to think we¡¯re a bunch of idiots, don¡¯t you?" a woman¡¯s voice -- Gertrude Hearth¡¯s voice -- echoed throughout the garden. From the sound of it, it was coming from some kind of speaker. "That we¡¯re incapable of reacting to any of your little schemes. Young Giovanni really must find better help."


    Dragan frowned. Giovanni? Did she think they were with the Superbians, then?


    "I¡¯m sorry?" he called out, maintaining the facade of the gardener. "Ma¡¯am, I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about. It¡¯s my shift? Why are the lights off, and who¡¯s this girl? I don¡¯t understand."


    There was derision in Gertrude¡¯s voice. "Honestly¡­ did you think we had no way of keeping track of those allowed to enter this area? Keeping tabs on the gardeners positions was Negative One¡¯s job. It was easy for him to tell when they were knocked unconscious. Say hello, won¡¯t you, Negative One?"


    A single light clicked on, illuminating the center of the clearing, revealing one of the black-bandaged figures standing a few meters away. He was completely still, covered in fabric from head to toe.


    No.


    No, he wasn¡¯t standing. He was kneeling. Kneeling in a puddle of his own blood.


    There were corpses everywhere. Fallen on the ground, slumped beneath trees. Corpses, wrapped in black bandages, blood seeping from their wounds. Dragan swallowed.


    "It seems Negative One isn¡¯t in the mood to answer you," Gertrude said, smugness leaking out from behind her mock-sorrow. "Still, it¡¯s good that you¡¯ve come. The Negative Numbers have made poor test dummies for Zeroth. You young things will serve much better."


    The speaker clicked off, and Dragan instinctually tensed up. The thing that was giving him this bad feeling¡­ it was still here. It was in the garden with them.


    It revealed itself.


    From the darkness behind Negative One, a massive hand reached out, large enough to hold the kneeling figure¡¯s head in its palm. With terrible strength, the hand squeezed, pulping the skull in its grip, bits of bone and brain leaking from between its fingers.


    It let go, and the corpse fell to the floor.


    Thud. Thud.


    With thunderous footsteps, the owner of that hand stepped out of the shadows.


    He was a monstrosity.


    He was at least eight feet tall, and even that was being modest. His body was engorged with muscle to a grotesque degree, but that wasn¡¯t what made him seem inhuman. No, what did that were the stitches. Just from looking at him, you could see what had brought him about -- pieces of many different people had been bound together, countless corpses combined into a single living human being.


    It was like something had walked out of a horror videograph.


    His skin too was a patchwork tapestry -- some dark, some pale, some grey and some -- especially the circles around his cloudy eyes - a vivid red. The only article of clothing he wore was a pair of black shorts. As he marched forward, his bare feet left cracks in the stone path beneath him. His very existence embodied brutal, unnatural strength.


    A thin line of drool ran from his mouth, dripping onto the ground below.


    Zeroth.


    From the story Mila had told him, Gertrude Hearth had secretly been taking steps into the realm of genetic engineering. Was this thing the result of that experiment?


    The speaker turned back on, one last time.


    "Kill them, Zeroth."

 Chapter 241:9.32: Zeroth

    Zeroth¡¯s intelligence will likely be rudimentary when he first awakens.


    He is a composite of the bodies and minds of sixteen individuals, and will need to be prompted to recall information present within his brain. This is a simple matter, though -- once he recalls one piece of information, he will naturally remember other things branching out from that original source. It should not take long for him to become an intellectual powerhouse.


    My recommendation on his initial training? I¡¯d say an extended battle against a strong opponent.


    Nothing wakes someone up like a fight for their life, after all.


    "Project Zeroth": Instructions for Use


    The light reflected off of Zeroth¡¯s bald head as he stared at their group, his dull eyes inscrutable. His arms hung limp at his sides, but the sheer size and thickness held the promise of violence all the same.


    He¡¯s waiting for us to make the first move, Dragan realized. He isn¡¯t smart enough to take the initiative.


    The best thing to do would be to disappear into Gemini World, reappear behind Zeroth, and pelt him with enough Gemini Shotguns to reduce him to mush. While he was doing that, Bruno, Serena and Warm Cat could hit him with their own attacks. In short, they¡¯d beat the shit out of him.


    Dragan wasn¡¯t sure exactly how strong Gertrude¡¯s monster was, but with the chills going down his spine he wasn¡¯t taking any chances. He went to take the first step forward¡­


    ¡­only for Bruno to stop him by placing a hand on his shoulder.


    "Bruno?" Dragan asked, turning to look at his friend.


    Bruno¡¯s face was locked into an expression of solid determination. His eyes were locked onto the figure before him. As Dragan watched, a stray spark of purple Aether zipped through his blonde hair.


    "You and the girl keep moving," he said, voice hard. "Like you said, search out from here. Me and Serena will deal with this guy."


    "But¡­"


    "They¡¯ll be torturing that Muzazi guy, right? We can¡¯t sit here wasting time, leaving someone in that kind of situation." Bruno¡¯s shattered hand tightened slightly on Dragan¡¯s shoulder. "Go get him. Okay?"


    Dragan went to open his mouth. He went to say that was a foolhardy plan. He went to say there was no guarantee Bruno and Serena would win on their own. He went to say he could come up with a much better strategy.


    But then he looked at Bruno¡¯s eyes, and he quietly nodded.


    "Don¡¯t die," he whispered, slapping his own hand on Bruno¡¯s shoulder.


    Bruno smirked. "Same to you."


    They stayed there for just a moment more -- and then Dragan forced himself to break away, running with Warm Cat away from the imminent battle.


    He¡¯d find Muzazi. He¡¯d break him free. And then he was coming right back.


    Bruno sighed, cracking his shoulder as he turned back to his waiting opponent.


    "I talked a lotta shit back there," he said wryly. "You do look strong, though. I¡¯m a little worried."


    Zeroth did not respond. He simply continued to stare at Bruno -- eyes unblinking, like a machine waiting for a command. There¡¯d be no conversation or negotiation there. In situations like this, in places like this, the only thing people could do was kill each other.


    "Serena?" Bruno muttered to himself. "Little help here?"


    He felt the sensation of alien lips pulling his mouth into a grin as Serena took the wheel.


    "Sure thing, Bruno!" she said cheerfully.


    Unlike Bruno, Serena was not in the habit of wasting time. She shot off towards the enemy with an Aether-infused kick, her hands scraping against the stone path beneath her as she ran. Rock tore itself free from the path, crushing itself into the shape of two broadswords.


    She threw one right at Zeroth¡¯s waiting face, and kept the other in her hands for melee. Her speed was such that she reached Zeroth at the same time as her projectile -- and at the same time as it crashed into his face, she slammed her own sword into his exposed stomach.


    It bounced right off.


    Serena¡¯s eyes widened, and she looked up at Zeroth¡¯s face as the dust from the sword-projectile cleared. She¡¯d meant for that throw to pop his head like a grape, but she¡¯d barely achieved even a nosebleed. The second blow, intended to chop him in half, hadn¡¯t even been able to penetrate his skin.


    Zeroth looked down at her, his face an expressionless mask.


    "Sword¡­ dodge," he whispered, as if reminding himself of something. Despite his brutish appearance, his voice was soft and calm. "Projectile¡­ deflect."


    Serena jumped back, grabbing the tree behind her and warping it into a massive wooden longsword. Roaring with exertion, she swung it right at Zeroth¡¯s neck. Violet Aether ran across the surface of the blade as it tore through the air, and¡­


    ¡­and Zeroth casually ducked under it. His movement, bolstered by Aether of many colors, had been so fast that Serena hadn¡¯t even noticed he was moving until he¡¯d already dodged.


    Zeroth looked up at her. He blinked.


    "Weak¡­" he mumbled. "Very weak¡­ die."


    "Bruno!" Serena called out.


    Bruno took over in an instant, erecting three layered forcefields in front of them, big enough to defend from any attack no matter the size, and --


    -- and Zeroth punched through them like they were glass.


    Bruno only realized the attack had reached him when he struck the wall on the other side of the room, the only thing stopping him from breaking his back being his Aether. He pulled himself free, chunks of debris falling from the indentation he¡¯d created, his entire body aching from the blow.


    Zeroth, still standing in the center of the garden, looked down at his hand. Steam was rising from it, produced by the speed of his movements, and his brow furrowed just slightly.


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    "I hit you¡­" he said. "But¡­ not as fast as I meant to¡­ how come?"


    This Zeroth thing was monstrously fast and monstrously strong. The only advantage Bruno and Serena had right now was intelligence.


    Let¡¯s do this, Bruno said. Hit-and-run tactics. Wear him down slowly. He¡¯s too strong for anything else.


    You¡¯re so boring, Bruno¡­ Serena replied. But you¡¯re probably right too.


    Serena kicked off the ground once again. For his part, Zeroth just followed her with his eyes.


    Dragan moved through the halls with Warm Cat, recording his legs into Gemini World to allow himself flight. Sweat trickled down his forehead as they searched. He shouldn¡¯t have left Bruno and Serena.


    He shouldn¡¯t have, but did he have the time or freedom to go back now¡­?


    More than once he¡¯d had to pull both of them into Gemini World in order to avoid patrols of passing warriors. Still, if Gertrude had raised the alarm, he would have expected more of an organized response. It seemed that -- for the moment, at least -- she wanted to keep this whole affair between themselves.


    Numerous fibers crawled like worms over the ground, reassembling themselves into Warm Cat¡¯s scarf. She solemnly shook her head at him. Those fibers had apparently been dispatched to search nearby rooms and alert them if Muzazi was in them. A useful Aether Armament.


    This was the fifth round of searching, fanning out from the garden -- the sounds of battle were still faintly audible from this distance. If they didn¡¯t find Muzazi soon, they¡¯d have to come up with a new plan entirely -- and other than tracking down Gertrude herself and forcing her to spill the beans personally, Dragan was drawing a blank.


    "Stop right there!"


    Dragan¡¯s body stiffened.


    Three figures had appeared before him and Warm Cat -- members of the Forgiveness Corps, their patchwork clothing bearing the sharp cut of their loose uniform. A grizzled man with a heavy glare, flanked by two near-identical women. Twins, maybe?


    This wasn¡¯t right. He¡¯d done an Aether ping a minute ago, and come up completely blank. Had they been just cloaking, then, or was this some kind of ability at work?


    "You get one chance," the man growled. As he did, brown Aether coalesced into countless tiles floating around him, letters printed onto each. "Surrender."


    Dragan exchanged a glance with Warm Cat, his eyebrow raised. Whatever the case¡­


    ¡­surrender wasn¡¯t an option.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan vanished -- and a second later, reappeared above and behind the lead Detective. With a wave of his arm, he fired off a volley of Gemini Shotguns, pelting the enemy group with projectiles. Smoke and dust billowed down the hallway as Dragan landed, his eyes still narrowed cautiously as he peered to see what had become of his enemies.


    The smoke cleared. Dragan sighed.


    It was never that easy, was it?


    The tiles had slotted together in front of the Detective and his companions, forming a square shield that had defended them from Dragan¡¯s shots. The man himself was tapping his fingers against the tiles in front of him -- Dragan couldn¡¯t tell which exactly, as the sides facing him were blank -- but it was a safe bet that it was part of his ability.


    Well, they¡¯d been careless all the same. When they¡¯d erected this shield, they¡¯d left their backs wide open. While Dragan acted as a distraction, the time for a sneak attack had come.


    A moment passed. No sneak attack came.


    His eyes flicked behind his enemies, to where Warm Cat was perched on the floor. It was difficult to tell through her scarf, but he swore he could see an outline of her grin through the fabric.


    She took a step back.


    Just like the tiles before him, terrible puzzle pieces clicked together in Dragan¡¯s mind. They didn¡¯t have the same mission as Warm Cat, did they? They had the exact opposite.


    They were here to save Atoy Muzazi.


    And she was here to¡­


    That confirmed it.


    This Dragan person didn¡¯t have the ability to negate Aether. If he did, he¡¯d have just used it to negate his enemy¡¯s ability rather than attacking with those blue shots. He must have used some other kind of trick -- hidden Neverwire or something -- to disable her Aether before. So long as he wasn¡¯t in close range, it seemed he wasn¡¯t a threat.


    That was fantastic. That was really, really fantastic.


    After all¡­ Olga already knew where her prey was. Patriotta had told her just a few moments ago.


    "Wait!" Dragan cried.


    Too late!


    Olga swung around on her heels, turning away from the battle, and allowed Patriotta to launch her down the hallway. She¡¯d make her way to Muzazi¡¯s location as quickly as possible, get inside, and complete her mission by eliminating him.


    She¡¯d said it from the beginning. Atoy Muzazi wasn¡¯t suited for this kind of work. She¡¯d make sure his hesitation couldn¡¯t endanger them ever again.


    This felt bad.


    Zeroth looked through the garden, confused, trying to locate his enemy. Where were they? They kept popping out from the trees and hitting him, and then going away before he could hit them back. They were weaker than him, but he still couldn¡¯t beat them because he couldn¡¯t hit them.


    It was annoying.


    He didn¡¯t like this. It felt bad. He¡¯d like for it to stop. How come it was still going? How could he stop it from happening?


    A door creaked open in his mind. The voice in the tank had told him. He had been born with a special power. All-Child. The power to control his body however he wanted. He could turn off pain. He could produce che¡­ chemi¡­ he could make stuff inside his body. He could do things with glands.


    Smack.


    A blow hit in the back of his head, and he stumbled forward. By the time he swung his fist back around, the enemy was gone again. He rubbed the injured spot. It didn¡¯t hurt too much, but he didn¡¯t like pain. It felt bad.


    How did he make it stop feeling bad?


    The problem was the trees. The problem was the bushes. The enemy was using them as cover. If he got rid of them, he¡¯d get rid of the problem. But how did he get rid of them?


    It would take too long to get rid of them one by one. Besides, it would be a pain, and it would let the enemy attack him more while he was doing it. He needed a way to get rid of them all at once.


    Smack.


    Zeroth ignored the blow to the back of his leg, even as it made him drop to one knee. He¡¯d thought something a second ago, hadn¡¯t he? What had it been? All-Child. The ability to control his own bodily functions. That was the key to it.


    On the places on his body where it hurt, it was warm. That was because of body heat. Body heat was a bodily function too.


    More doors were opening in his mind, like things he¡¯d once known and now forgotten. It was like he was waking up from a long nap.


    Smack.


    Another strike to the base of his spine, but Zeroth had other things on his mind. This power was Aether. Yes, Aether. He could infuse it into things to make it stronger. He could infuse it into body heat to make it much, much stronger.


    Still on one knee, Zeroth placed his hand flat on the ground. And then¡­


    All-Child.


    Body heat intensified in his body to the extreme of an inferno, was pushed out through his hand -- and exploded through the room.


    There was a yelp from behind him as the enemy was blown away by wave after wave of heat. The air around him rippled from the sheer temperature, and the plants around him began to smolder as the heat spread further and further out. But no¡­ this wasn¡¯t enough.


    Zeroth took a deep breath¡­ and let it loose.


    That did it.


    Every piece of vegetation in a meter around him was instantly incinerated, and one by one those further away began to burst into pillars of flame as well. Smoke filled the air, and sprinklers automatically began to rain down -- but the heat was enough to vaporize the liquid before it could reach the ground. Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The enemy was blown back into the corner of the room, instinctively curling up to defend themselves as much as possible. It wouldn¡¯t be enough.


    The world was on fire.


    In the center of it all, amid the swirling wind and flame, pouring all this heat out through one hand, Zeroth was grinning a vacant grin.


    "This is fun," he said, perfectly coherent.

 Chapter 242:9.33: The Thinnest Cut There Is

    Please disregard any alerts regarding intruders on the main level of the complex. A security drill is currently ongoing for main level security. No actual intruders are present. Any personnel disregarding this order will be severely punished.


    General Security Notice, Menagerie Central


    Several years ago¡­


    "Hey -- Bruno, Serena? I¡¯ve got a question for you guys."


    Yakob del Sed grunted as he hurled his spear, the projectile flying across the training room and striking the target right in the center. The spear remained there for a moment, protruding from the wall, before reverting to its base clay and dripping sloppily down to the floor. Lilac Aether crackled out of it, escaping.


    "What¡¯s the question, Yakob?" Serena asked sweetly through their collective mouth.


    They¡¯d been training for nearly an hour now, and so Bruno and Serena were both more active than usual. It was a rare occasion when all three of them were on hand to have a conversation.


    Yakob activated his ability again, recorded clay pouring from his hands and forming a deadly-sharp chakram. "How come you guys don¡¯t really work together?"


    He tossed the chakram like a spinning disk, chopping the head off an available training dummy. Cleaning automatics quickly gathered to collect the wreckage.


    Bruno furrowed their brow. "We do work together. It¡¯s our whole deal. I handle defense and Serena handles offense."


    "I like offense," Serena chirped. "It¡¯s fun!"


    Yakob hummed skeptically, shaking his hands to clear the last few droplets of clay off. "I dunno¡­ I feel like tagging in and out is a different thing from actually working together, you know?"


    Bruno snorted. "Well, what is ¡¯actually working together¡¯, then, smartass?"


    "Well¡­" Yakob looked back over his shoulder. "Something like that, I guess."


    A short distance away, Cott and several of his aspects were locked in combat against a training automatic. The thing has four arms ending with heavy pincers, capable of hitting any spot around it, and yet all of its opponents were going untouched.


    At first glance, you¡¯d be tempted to think the Cotts an unruly team -- Yakob could hear the overpowering sounds of Joy¡¯s childlike laughter, Bloodlust¡¯s mad cackling and Melancholy¡¯s sobbing -- but if you truly observed, you saw that they were perfectly in sync. Covering each other¡¯s weaknesses, bolstering each other¡¯s strengths.


    Yakob said as much.


    "Well, that¡¯s different," Bruno said -- a little sullenly. "We¡¯ve just got the one body with one driver¡¯s seat. They¡¯ve got plenty of bodies."


    "Huh?" Yakob replied, bemused. "You do know more than one person can sit in a chair, right?"


    Present Day¡­


    The heat began to recede.


    Bruno wheezed, his whole body screaming. Smoke rose up from his ruined form. His skin looked like he¡¯d been locked up in a tanning bed for a few days straight, and when he breathed it felt like he was swallowing fire.


    The former garden was now an utter wasteland, all vegetation reduced to ash and soot. A few flames still smoldered on the ground, but there was no more fuel for them, and they were going out one by one. The water from the sprinklers was finally able to reach the ground without evaporating, and Bruno writhed in agony as cold water rained down upon him.


    In the center of the garden, Zeroth rose to his full height. It seemed that attack had taken a toll on him, too -- the arm he¡¯d been channeling the heat through was charred up to his elbow. It didn¡¯t seem to be causing him any pain, though, as he looked down at the injured limb with a slightly surprised expression.


    "I see¡­" he murmured, a sense of eloquence now in his voice. "I didn¡¯t defend myself enough. Next time¡­ I need to put more Aether into the hand so it doesn¡¯t get damaged. I¡¯ll remember that¡­ are you dead?"


    That last question was addressed at Bruno¡¯s now-prone form, still resting in the corner.


    Zeroth answered his own query. "I know you¡¯re not dead¡­ I can hear your heartbeat. It¡¯s going fast enough¡­ that you¡¯re alive and awake. So you can hear me¡­ are you trying to play dead to trick me, so I come closer¡­? That won¡¯t work¡­"


    Damnit. This monster had been an imbecile a few minutes ago, and now he was able to see through Bruno¡¯s tricks without any effort at all.


    Still, they weren¡¯t through.


    Serena screamed as she took over, leaping up into the air -- kicking off from the cracked glass wall -- and throwing her hands out to the sides as she flew towards Zeroth. Aether blasted out from her palms, pulling the colossal amounts of burnt refuse into the shape of an utterly gargantuan greatsword.


    It dwarfed her body many times over. Flames smoldered within the blade. It was clearly heavy enough to crush a building. With a roar, Serena slammed it down towards Zeroth¡¯s head.


    He caught it in one hand.


    "You used this as your last attack¡­ right?" Zeroth said, holding the sword up in the air. "That means it¡¯s your strongest¡­ so if I can block it, there¡¯s nothing to be frightened of."


    He squeezed, and the sword collapsed into its constituent materials. Burnt bone, charred bark, scorched stone¡­ all of it fell to the ground.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Serena kicked off a piece of falling rubble, launching herself at Zeroth¡¯s midsection. If nothing else, she could use the disintegrating sword as a smokescreen. She wouldn¡¯t stop fighting until the second her heart stopped.


    In that moment, she heard Zeroth speak once more.


    "If I focus the heat from my hands further¡­" he said. "I should be able to do this¡­ right?"


    Another blast of heat struck her, more concentrated than all the previous attacks, sending her flying back across the room. Smoke rose from Serena¡¯s charred arm as she rolled to a halt, blood streaming from a wound on her head.


    That heat¡­ rather than send it out through his body into the surrounding environment, Zeroth had blasted it out from his palm into the air -- creating an attack not unlike Skipper¡¯s Heartbeat Shotgun. They¡¯d only been fighting for -- at a generous estimate -- ten minutes. Surely he hadn¡¯t just come up with that on the spot.


    Serena went to pick herself up, ignoring the pain, only to suddenly freeze. Zeroth was standing right next to her.


    She hadn¡¯t seen him move. She hadn¡¯t heard him move. He¡¯d just started moving -- and, in less than a second, had cleared the entire room.


    "The heat works as propulsion too¡­" he explained -- and at the same time, he planted a foot down on Serena¡¯s injured hand to keep her in place. "If I send it out through my back and let it push me, I can move at extreme speeds¡­ anyway, I think you¡¯re done. Bye."


    And with that, he punched down towards Serena¡¯s head, strands of multi-coloured Aether coiling around his knuckles. One glance at an attack like that told you it was more than enough to shatter both skull and the ground beneath it.


    Bruno took over, erecting as many force fields as he could in the space between his head and Zeroth¡¯s fist. The hand shattered each of them the instant they came into contact.


    Time moved at a snail¡¯s pace, and Bruno¡¯s world became the fist. Breath abandoned his lungs. His blood turned cold. His senses were sharpened to their utmost, the world telling him everything about it in the last moments he had. He felt like he¡¯d never been more aware of the fact that he existed.


    There was only one certainty. One certainty to rebel against.


    He was going to die.


    She was going to die.


    They were going to die.


    Their arm reached out blindly, purple and violet Aether coursing around it.


    Bruno¡¯s glove finally fell apart as he formed another forcefield -- S§×arch* The n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    -- and the tatters of fabric scattered as Serena seized hold of that forcefield, crushing it into the shape of a longsword.


    Invisible, light as air¡­ and as thin and sharp as a blade could possibly be.


    With a mere swipe of their arm, Serena sliced off the fist that was heading towards them. The speed and precision of the attack was such that the enemy¡¯s Aether defenses had absolutely no effect. The cut was clean. The severed arm fell heavy to the ground.


    Zeroth immediately moved to avoid a second strike. He snatched his limb off the ground and jumped back to his original position, eyes narrowed warily at the person before him.


    His eyes flicked down to his bleeding stump. "Hey, stop¡­" he muttered -- and the bleeding immediately ceased. Then, his gaze returned to his enemy. "What did you do?"


    He needn¡¯t have worried about being hit by the sword again. It had been fragile enough that it had shattered after a single slash. But then again¡­ Bruno could just make another forcefield, and Serena could just turn it into another sword.


    They pointed a new invisible blade right at Zeroth.


    "That wasn¡¯t our strongest," Bruno and Serena promised. "Come for us again, and we¡¯ll show you what that looks like."


    Zeroth grunted as he pressed his severed limb against his stump, steam rising from the seam as flesh fused back together. A slow smile, eerily calm, spread across his lips.


    "I see¡­ you¡¯re like me, then," he whispered. "A composite being¡­ yes, I see that now. That¡¯s why your voice kept changing¡­ and your abilities, too. You¡¯ve reached an equilibrium. I want to see it. Show me!"


    Bruno and Serena created a second sword in their free hand, and brought their body low to the ground, ready to kick off and charge.


    "Like we said," they growled. "All you need to do is come for us."


    DEAFENED


    The sounds of the air whistling past Dragan¡¯s ears, the footsteps of those chasing him, the fluttering of the scarf he was pursuing¡­ all of it suddenly ceased. There wasn¡¯t even the ringing in the ears that you¡¯d expect from such an instantaneous silence. His capacity to hear had been thoroughly robbed.


    Still, Dragan couldn¡¯t waste time trying to get it back. If he did, he¡¯d lose his target.


    Dragan flew through the hallways of the complex, his bottom half recorded into Gemini World, in firm pursuit of Warm Cat. The young girl was pulling herself along with the fabric tentacles of her scarf, occasionally pausing to throw an object back at him. Doubtless she thought that would slow him down, but he¡¯d just absorbed it into Gemini Shotgun every time.


    PAIN


    Dragan winced, biting back a scream as a sensation of white-hot agony lanced through him. Even as he pursued Warm Cat, he too was being pursued. The three Detectives of the Forgiveness Corps were chasing after him, the grizzled man at their head tapping away at his letter-tiles as he ran.


    Each time he completed a word, it seemed it had a physical effect upon Dragan. Turning around and dealing with the Detective was out of the question, though: it would mean letting Warm Cat get away.


    And if she got away, Dragan had no doubt that would mean he¡¯d failed in this mission. She¡¯d kill Muzazi, get out of here, and he¡¯d never see her again.


    BURN


    Flames sprang up all across Dragan¡¯s body -- but just for a moment, as he vanished into Gemini World while leaving the fire behind. When he reappeared a moment later, still pursuing Warm Cat, he was only lightly singed.


    No matter how much he chased Warm Cat, they didn¡¯t seem to be any closer to their destination. Was she trying to lose him first, then, before heading for her real objective?


    If that was the case, there was only one victory condition here: catching this little brat and making her tell him what he wanted to know.


    Dragan recorded more of his body into Gemini World to reduce his weight and increase his speed, like a starship throwing out cargo. By the time he was done, he was little more than a pair of eyes, a hand reaching out to his target, and the outer layer of a hollow upper torso.


    Slowly but surely, Warm Cat grew larger in his vision, until --


    BLINDED


    -- everything went black.


    He could not see, and he could not hear. The only sensation he could feel was the rush of wind against his skin, and the weight of his clothes against his body. It was like he¡¯d suddenly been teleported to the bottom of the ocean.


    For a moment, panic gripped him, but¡­


    No. The only one who decides what happens to me is me.


    He sent out an Aether ping, just far enough to encompass the hallway, and did it again and again, until he was pinging several times a second. He could feel the other Aether-users in his vicinity -- Warm Cat, her Aether split between herself and her scarf, and the Detective, his Aether distributed between his many tiles.


    Recording his now useless eyes as well, Dragan continued to reach out to the crimson Aether in front of him.


    There¡¯s no getting away, he thought, almost feverishly. I¡¯ve got you. I¡¯ve got you. I¡¯ve got you.


    His hand gripped a thin leg.


    I¡¯ve got you!

 Chapter 243:9.34: True Noise

    Why does the lion kill the gazelle?


    Does it kill the gazelle because it hates it? No.


    Does it kill the gazelle because it hates gazelles? No.


    Does it kill the gazelle for its pride? No.


    Does it kill the gazelle out of pity? No.


    Does it kill the gazelle out of jealousy? No.


    Does it kill the gazelle? No.


    It eats the gazelle.


    For it does not wish to starve.


    For it does not wish to die.


    Humilist Fable


    Zeroth was beginning to understand it.


    The person he was fighting was in fact a duo. One person in that duo had the ability to create invisible shields, while the other had the power to turn whatever they touched into a sword. By acting in tandem and transforming those shields into swords, they were able to create invisible blades thin and sharp enough to slice through even Aether.


    Truly formidable.


    The duo slashed and danced at Zeroth, their blades moving through the air with such speed that Zeroth could only barely dodge. Cuts bled from many different points on his body already, and although he could will them shut he could not stop the enemy from creating more. He couldn¡¯t take them lightly at all: there was no way for him to discern the length of a particular blade, so if he was careless he would quickly end up beheaded.


    He had to end this.


    Zeroth accepted a deep gouge through his right arm as he jumped backwards, flipping in the air. With his enemies injuries, they wouldn¡¯t be able to pursue him aerially. He had to think of his counterattack before he landed.


    There was always a pause between slashes -- he¡¯d noticed that. The enemy had two hands, and would always attack in a ¡¯left, right¡¯ sequence, never using the same hand twice.


    Why?


    The answer was simple. When a sword was used, it was immediately destroyed. The enemies needed that pause to create a new weapon, and so the second attack also served as a means of covering that opening.


    How could he take advantage of it?


    He could use one of his heat blasts when they were making the second attack, catching them off-guard and perhaps producing a greater opening, but there was no guarantee of victory in that. Zeroth disliked gambling. He desired an attack that would guarantee a return on his investment. Besides, they already knew about the heat blasts. He¡¯d have to catch them by surprise.


    How could he do that?


    He hadn¡¯t yet pushed his heat production to its limits. Focusing the heat waves had produced the heat blasts, so what if he sharpened that technique further? With the distance this maneuver would create, he had nothing to lose.


    Zeroth landed.


    Immediately, he thrust his palm forward -- and heat erupted from it, blasting towards the incoming enemies. They dodged to the side, avoiding the worst of the attack, but Zeroth was not yet done.


    Aether coiled around his palm like the barrel of a gun, focusing and honing the outpour of heat more and more and more¡­


    ¡­until it became a beam of burning orange light, shining through the room and incinerating the far wall. Flames spilled down from the burning metal and glass.


    It was ferocious in Zeroth¡¯s hand, difficult to control, but he quickly tamed it and slashed horizontally towards his enemy¡¯s new position. To his great surprise, however, they avoided the attack -- by heading upwards.


    He¡¯d been certain they no longer had the strength to jump. Had he been mistaken? No.


    As Zeroth followed the figure through the air with his eyes, he immediately realized what they had done. Those invisible shields were more useful than he¡¯d anticipated -- the enemy was using them like the steps of a staircase in order to run on thin air. With them, even no surface at all could be the same as solid ground.


    Astounding. Such tenacity! Such will to survive!


    Zeroth felt the urge to reciprocate. As the enemy circled him, he turned away, lifting his back towards the air and bracing himself. At his command, more beams of fire erupted from each of the wounds he¡¯d suffered this far, half-a-dozen heat lances shredding the room as he moved.


    Had that got them?! Zeroth ceased the beams and whirled around -- and the second he did, an invisible blade brushed past his face. A cut slowly opened on his cheek. If he hadn¡¯t chosen that moment to move, it would have gone right through his head.


    Frightening. A hollow pit opened in Zeroth¡¯s heart. Was this what death felt like¡­?


    The enemy had thrown the invisible sword from their new position in the air. Zeroth hadn¡¯t anticipated that -- but it seemed he still had the advantage all the same. The enemy¡¯s clothing was on fire, their face contorted with pain, and yet the sparking of their Aether showed they were not yet done.


    They were fighting to their last. It felt only right for Zeroth to give them the same courtesy.


    All-Child.


    Heart, beat to your utmost, he commanded his body. Brain, grant me adrenaline. Begone, pain: I have no need for you now. Muscles, break and regenerate. Stronger! Faster! MORE!


    Angry red veins beneath his skin became visible as his body went into overdrive, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. He grinned, a mixture of saliva and blood running down his chapped lips. A sense of pressure built up right between his shoulder blades, like he was a volcano, until --


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    -- it erupted. Two flaps of skin burst off his back, blood and smoke rising from the wounds like the thrusters of a rocket. The tattered skin fluttered behind like wings. This was the limit of human biology. S§×ar?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Blood Eagle.


    His eyes were focused on the figure in the sky before him as he tensed, getting ready to jump.


    "Composite!" he roared, his mighty voice shaking the room. "Show me what you¡¯ve got! Here I come!"


    He kicked off the ground.


    Zeroth smashed Bruno and Serena out of the air with a slap of his hand, like he was spiking a matchball -- but against his expectations, they were not reduced to gore.


    Sixteen force fields, layered together so densely they were like one single object, sharpened by Serena¡¯s ability so that touching them sliced Zeroth¡¯s hand to pieces. If the damage to his body bothered him, though, it didn¡¯t show. He simply laughed in exhilaration as his hand fell apart, fingers flying in every direction.


    This was something to behold. Zeroth had never experienced this kind of rush before. Was this true combat, then? A struggle for one¡¯s life against one with the ability to kill them?


    He laughed heartily, even as his fist collapsed into meat and bone. He¡¯d produced plentiful dopamine to counter any of the stress and anxiety one would normally feel in battle. His sense of pain had already been disabled, but now injury truly meant nothing to him.


    Still¡­ even as he fired heat out of his back, propelling himself in pursuit of his opponents, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder what the point of this engagement was.


    Bruno and Serena landed roughly on the ground -- and a second later, Zeroth landed next to them, his leg already reared back for a devastating kick.


    They acted fast. Bruno produced a shield next to their body and immediately destroyed it, the small shockwave propelling them out of the way of Zeroth¡¯s kick. The giant¡¯s foot instead came into contact with the stone beneath, prying it out of the ground and sending it flying towards the far wall -- which was thoroughly shattered by the impact.


    Serena leapt to their feet, reaching out and grasping the force fields she knew would be waiting for her. They hardened into two invisible scimitars -- and she used the other shields available to run in the air around and behind Zeroth, slashing at the back of his neck.


    He swung around to avoid the blow, but not quite fast enough. One ear went flying off from a glancing slash. As blood began to pour from the open wound, however, so too did a beam of heat erupt from it, angled right at Serena¡¯s face.


    Bruno destroyed the forcefield they were standing on, sending them back down to the ground. The beam brushed past the top of Serena¡¯s head, singing their hair.


    She reached out again. Another sword met her grip.


    Why was it that people fought against each other? Zeroth considered the question as he dodged and pummeled, sending his enemies flying across the room.


    Was it for sport? He imagined there were some people who simply lived to fight, for the thrill of combat -- and yet that could not be a majority of the population. Why, then, did humanity fight in general?


    He ducked under another sword swing.


    Why was he fighting this enemy right now? Gertrude Hearth had instructed him to, but it was by his own will that he punched and kicked. He had utter free will, and yet he chose to fight all the same. What would he get if he won this battle?


    It would not profit him, save for¡­


    Ah. Of course. He understood humanity now. Such a simple thing, when you got down to it. Humans fought for the sake of preserving their own lives.


    Zeroth was fighting because he did not want to be killed by these enemies. These enemies were fighting because they did not want to be killed by Zeroth. Because communication had not been established, there was no recourse save mutual self-defense.


    How illogical. To be perfectly honest, Zeroth was a little embarrassed that he¡¯d been behaving in such a barbaric fashion. Self-improvement was all well and good, but he¡¯d been using his fists as though they were a child¡¯s toys.


    Zeroth halted his pursuit, grinding his heels against the ground.


    Serena leapt to her feet again.


    That last strike from her enemy had broken their right arm, but their left was still good to go. She held an invisible dagger in front of herself, warding off any incoming attacks¡­ but it seemed she needn¡¯t have bothered.


    Zeroth was just standing there, after all, one hand thoughtfully stroking his chin.


    "What?" Bruno growled from their throat. "Coming up with another ability? It won¡¯t save you!"


    Zeroth raised an absent eyebrow. "Is that what it looks like to you?" His voice had changed completely since the start of the fight. It had gone from the halting, slurred words of a brute to the measured, confident speech of a worldwise philosopher.


    "Then what¡­?" Bruno growled, squeezing the dagger in their grip.


    "I¡¯m considering the best exit from this place. I¡¯m done fighting now, you see. There¡¯s no more purpose to it."


    Serena blinked. "Huh?"


    "If we continue fighting, it will likely end with one of us dying. I don¡¯t see any greater purpose that would be served with that conclusion. We have no personal enmity towards each other -- as far as I¡¯m aware -- so we wouldn¡¯t even receive the satisfaction of destroying a hated enemy. Hence, I decide to leave. It¡¯s a better use of my time and yours. Would you like to accompany me, or would you prefer to stay here?"


    Bruno went to say something, and Serena went to join him, but biology answered for them instead. The second the thought of ending the fight crossed their minds, the exhaustion that had been chasing them finally caught up.


    Without a single word, they collapsed forward, landing on their face. Zeroth watched them, a strange smile on his own lips.


    After a few seconds, though, he turned away and began strolling towards the exit, hands casually clasped behind his back.


    "Be proud, composite warriors," he said quietly. "Had the fight continued, I have no doubt you would have taken my head. Such was your tenacity."


    Olga was being pursued by a nightmare.


    The man called Dragan had transformed utterly as he¡¯d pursued her. All that remained of his original form was his right arm, part of his torso and the front of his eyeless face -- and those parts were connected only by sparking blue Aether. That phantom arm had grabbed onto her leg, and with a mighty heave --


    -- he threw her down on the ground.


    There was only a slight distance between them and their Forgiveness Corps pursuers, and so Dragan wasted no time. Before Olga could pick herself up, Dragan wrapped his hand around her throat, pressing that piece of Neverwire against Patriotta to neutralize it¡¯s Aether.


    "Muzazi. Where?" he snarled in her face, his voice slurred and difficult to understand. His enemy had deafened him. "Don¡¯t say it. Point. Or I kill you."


    He was telling the truth. Even without being able to see his eyes, Olga knew that for a fact. The cold, firm hand around her throat told the whole story.


    Trembling, she pointed at the door before them. She¡¯d just about reached it before being pulled out of the air.


    She felt another buzz across her body as Dragan sent out another Aether ping -- and only then did he look up at the door. He was blind as well, after all. He hadn¡¯t even realized the door was there before she¡¯d pointed it out.


    Stupid girl, she told herself. Stupid, stupid. Jean trained you better than that.


    Dragan went to move towards the door -- but before it could, it opened on its own, the doors sliding to allow them access. He hesitated.


    "Is he in there?" he growled. "Nod or shake your head."


    Slowly, Olga shook her head.


    In that room was nothing but darkness¡­


    ¡­darkness, and a chair that someone had clearly ripped their way out of.

 Chapter 244:9.35: True Silence

    A more extravagant taste¡­


    A more delectable fragrance¡­


    A young man is late for an appointment, late for his future, but he takes the time to stop at his favourite tea parlor. Why¡­? The taste has ensnared him. What could be more decadent¡­?


    And of course¡­ mmm¡­ a romantic encounter too scandalous to show¡­


    Treat yourself today. You know you deserve it.


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    Dragan furrowed his brow as he felt Warm Cat shake her head. Muzazi wasn¡¯t in there? Was she lying? She¡¯d been running for this place with everything she had, and now she was claiming her target wasn¡¯t present?


    She didn¡¯t seem to be lying, but there was only so much Dragan could read of body language from the outline created by Aether. If she wasn¡¯t lying, then what the hell did he do now?


    The Aether of the pursuing Detectives came back into his range. They¡¯d finally reached the end of the line. Sweat trickled down the part of Dragan¡¯s head that still existed as he considered his options. From the shape of the grizzled Detective¡¯s Aether, Dragan could tell that he was moving his mouth.


    If he concentrated, really worked for it¡­ he was sure he could read those lips.


    "Stop right there!" he was saying. Of course. Then, with a bit more satisfaction: "End of the line, both of you."


    End of the line, huh? Dragan had thought that too. With Atoy Muzazi not being here, he¡¯d thought he had no further recourse. No weapon to use, no route to escape through, no plan to execute¡­ he didn¡¯t even have his eyes and his ears right now.


    But he did have a weapon, didn¡¯t he?


    He had a weapon pressed down against the floor, struggling to escape from his grip. Dragan smirked as he loosened his hold on Warm Cat, just a tad, and called out to everyone gathered.


    "Think fast," he said.


    With a flare of blue Aether, he whirled around and hurled Warm Cat in the direction of the gathered Detectives, releasing the Neverwire binding at the same time. From the shapes of their Aether, he saw it all --


    -- he saw Warm Cat fly through the air, legs flailing --


    -- he saw the Detectives step back, raising their Aether in defense --


    -- and he saw, with grim satisfaction, the scarf around Warm Cat¡¯s neck slash once, lightning fast --


    -- and send three heads falling down to the floor.


    Immediately, Dragan¡¯s sight and hearing returned. He had no time to enjoy the sensation, however, as Warm Cat shot herself back towards him right after landing. Her face was twisted in rage and resentment. No doubt she intended to do far worse than just cut his head off.


    Gemini World.


    Warm Cat flew right through the space Dragan had previously occupied and into the open room. Her scarf dug itself into the ground to halt her momentum, she swung back around with her eyes full of fury, and --


    -- and she received a devastating punch directly to the jaw.


    Dragan was not the one who had thrown his fist. Instead, it was a man in a ruined long-coat, his skin glossy with sweat and suffering. It was a man with long black hair and cold grey eyes, dilated into feverishness.


    It was Atoy Muzazi.


    He¡¯d been hiding in this room -- cloaking his Aether, no doubt -- and waiting to see who would come for him. Muzazi staggered to a halt as he realized the person he¡¯d just knocked unconscious was someone he believed to be an ally.


    "Olga?" he murmured, looking down at her prone form. "Oh no¡­ I¡­"


    Gemini World.


    Dragan appeared a short distance behind Muzazi, his arms folded, looking down at Warm Cat -- well, it seemed her name was Olga. He whistled softly. "Really did a number on her. Is that okay?"


    Muzazi whirled back around, reaching by reflex for a sword that was not there until he recognised Dragan¡¯s face.


    "Dragan Hadrien¡­?" he muttered disbelievingly. "What are you doing here?"


    "Good to see you too, Muzazi. I¡¯m breaking you out, as you can see," Dragan said, before glancing down at Olga again. "Same can¡¯t be said for her."


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"


    "She came here to kill you." Dragan broke it to him gently. "Whoever you¡¯re working for in the Supremacy? They¡¯re done with you. They want you silenced."


    Muzazi stepped back, squatting down next to Olga and checking her pulse. Seemingly satisfied, he looked back up at Dragan. "That¡¯s quite the tale you tell. I¡¯m not sure I believe you. How is it exactly you came to know about my predicament?"


    "Long story."


    "Tell it, then," Muzazi raised an eyebrow. sea??h th§× N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan rolled his eyes. "Seriously? This isn¡¯t exactly the best theater for that kind of thing. There¡¯ll be more security here any minute."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes were cold, and a spark of silver Aether ran through his hair. "You¡¯re good at speaking quickly. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll manage."


    Looking at Muzazi¡¯s face, with the promise of hostility not so far away, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but think back to the events on Panacea -- to the last time they¡¯d spoken, face to face.


    "If only you¡¯d never existed¡­"


    Typical. For once in his life, Dragan had decided to do something out of the goodness of his heart, and he got nothing but resentment for it. He opened his mouth to speak. There wasn¡¯t time to explain fully, but maybe the cliff notes would satisfy him.


    "Well," he said. "You see --"


    "Silencio."


    The blue Aether buzzing around Dragan ceased, and the silver Aether coursing around Muzazi died. The door to the room slammed shut, sealing them inside and plunging the chamber into complete darkness -- but only for a moment.


    A bright white light flicked on, revealing a room beyond, an observation chamber set to watch over the torture that must have taken place here. Sitting there, hands on her lap, smiling like a saint, was Gertrude Hearth. The Humilist Apexbishop.


    "The Supremacy sent this young man, then, hm?" she purred, cocking her head. "How very interesting. Well, then¡­ shall we begin?"


    "You did it?" Jean Lyons asked kindly, looking into the eyes of his unfortunate victim. "Walk me through how you did it, then."


    The young man nodded in a daze. The two of them stood in the cramped confines of a custodian¡¯s closet, just off to the side of this fellow¡¯s on-site accommodations. If they remained here too long, it would ordinarily look suspicious on security footage, but Jean had already dealt with that.


    "I went to my usual workspace to prepare the tea leaves¡­" the young man mumbled. "I swapped some of the leaves with the ones you gave me¡­ the machine scanned them for toxins¡­ came back all clear¡­ came back here¡­"


    Jean smiled, patting his accomplice on the head. "Very good," he said. "Very good indeed." As he made physical contact, he made sure to drain just a tad more of his target¡¯s will, prepping him to receive further orders.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "Now," he continued. "Very soon, the alarm to this place will go off. Once it does, I would like for you to kill yourself with whatever is on hand -- after making sure you¡¯re in a place where your body won¡¯t be found for some time. If the alarm doesn¡¯t go off for any reason, I would like you to instead go home and kill yourself after writing a suicide note about all your woes in life. The particulars are up to you, of course. Understand?"


    The young man was shaking in instinctive terror, but he nodded all the same. Jean¡¯s orders interfaced directly with the subconscious: once you were in his grasp, there was no resisting him.


    Jean nodded gratefully. "Well, thank you for your service. I¡¯ll be off."


    Without another word, he turned and strolled out of the closet, adjusting his custodian¡¯s cap as he went. With the way things were going, though, even he couldn¡¯t resist whistling a jaunty tune as he began his exodus from the complex.


    He¡¯d won, after all.


    Gertrude Hearth had first met Death when she was a child.


    At that time, she had been nothing -- just another stray vermin, crawling over the planet of Pendulum. If events had unfolded just a little bit differently, she would have spent her whole life there, rotting away over the years into a senile hag and -- after that -- a rancid corpse.


    But Pendulum was a special place.


    Each night, at the stroke of midnight, a red light would sweep over the surface of the planet. Nobody knew from where that light originated, or for what reason it existed -- but when it touched a conscious being, they would immediately die. Basic animals and plants would go unharmed, but without fail humans would perish, their hearts instantly stopping.


    For this reason, the people of Pendulum lived underground, in great subterranean cities that never knew sunlight or fresh air. Gertrude had always despised that place, wondering why in the world anyone would choose to live on such an accursed rock. Apparently, her ancestors had been granted the planet begrudgingly for their contributions in the Thousand Revolutions, and now poverty and lack of infrastructure made it difficult to leave.


    What was not difficult on Pendulum, however, was eliminating the unwanted.


    Gertrude didn¡¯t remember exactly what her family had done to earn their collective execution. She had only been nine at the time, and as such was not privy to the affairs of adults. Perhaps her parents or older siblings had indeed committed some dire offense, or perhaps they were just judged undesirable for their dirty blood. The result was the same: exile from the city, sentenced to walk without possession across the surface of Pendulum.


    It was called exile, but it was obviously execution. They¡¯d be doomed to death by midnight that very same day.


    It had been cold on Pendulum¡¯s surface. Gertrude remembered that cold more than anything else: sometimes, even now, she¡¯d feel it brush against her skin in the dead of night. It was rare for anyone to go to the surface other than lumber crews, and so it was the first time Gertrude had seen it. Forests, stretching as far as the eye could see, utterly untouched by human civilization.


    Memories from there blurred into each other, lubricated by fear and the feral instinct for survival. They had tried to dig at first, perhaps, hoping they could create a big enough hole that the deathwave would pass over them. With nothing but their hands to dig, though, that plan had come to an end quickly.


    They¡¯d run.


    They¡¯d fought.


    They¡¯d hid.


    They¡¯d killed.


    By the time Gertrude¡¯s memories became clear again, she was in the dark, curled into a ball, shivering in terror. She didn¡¯t know how, but at some point in her fugue state she¡¯d found herself in a natural cave, a crack in the earth leading deep underground, deep enough that the deathwave simply passed her by. All she could see of the outside world was a sliver of moonlight far above, framed by a vague silhouette of rocks.


    As time went on in the cave, the long hours stretching her terror to its limits, Gertrude saw the silhouette change. Indistinct rocks became a human figure.


    A girl, around her same age, with pale skin and heavy black feathered wings. The eyes of that girl looked down at her like she was trash. Gertrude had once heard a story about a girl like this, and as she looked up at the dark angel she whispered the name:


    "Silencio. Silencio."


    She wandered out of the cave the next day and was quickly found by a lumber crew, the only survivor of her family. The elders of the city were uncertain what to do with her: she¡¯d been sentenced to implicit death, to be sure, but a girl who¡¯d survived the unsurvivable was a powerful symbol. In the end, she was simply given to a new family, raised as their daughter, placed back into society.


    But she did not forget the terror of being cast out, and she did not forget the humiliation of Death looking down at you.


    Gertude Hearth learned one thing from her ordeal: the universe was an ocean, and the only way to stay afloat was to make a raft of your fellow man. No matter what the means, no matter how low you had to sink, it was worth it if it kept you breathing.


    That lesson had brought her to the very peak of the Humilist sect. It had allowed her to destroy any enemies in her path, to pull allies into her orbit, to bring the world to heel around her. Now she was the one who looked down at the foolish and the immature.


    Three of those specimens now stood before her, on the other side of heavily reinforced glass. A Cogitant with silver hair, an unconscious girl with a red scarf, and the black-haired swordsman she¡¯d originally captured. Before she¡¯d revealed herself, two of them had revealed their names.


    "Dragan Hadrien and ¡¯Muzazi", hm¡­?" she purred, sipping at her cup of tea. "Those aren¡¯t familiar names to me, but the Supremacy? Now that is interesting."


    The Cogitant¡¯s -- Dragan Hadrien¡¯s -- eyes flicked around the room. It was quite amusing to see him try to puzzle out some escape from his current situation. Like a rat in a maze.


    "I¡¯m afraid that the entirety of that room is within the range of my Silencio," she sighed with mock-sympathy. "The very space around you has taken on the properties of Neverwire. There¡¯s no escaping it."


    "If you seek to contain me," growled Muzazi, glancing at the ruined chair. "You¡¯ll need to do better than this."


    Gertrude huffed. "Don¡¯t flatter yourself. You broke out of that because I allowed you to break out of it. Now that you¡¯ve served your purpose as bait, I¡¯m not going to be as accommodating."


    "So what now?" Dragan called out, stepping forward, up to the glass. He glared at her through the clear surface. "You¡¯ve got us. What exactly are you planning to do? You really think you can keep us around you or in Neverwire forever?"


    Gertrude frowned. While the young man had an adorable face, she truly didn¡¯t like the defiance in those bright blue eyes. Perhaps she¡¯d have them extracted in a jar.


    She¡¯d been careless, she understood that now. She¡¯d been so focused on Giovanni¡¯s provocations that she¡¯d neglected to realize there could be other parties involved. Sowing discord would benefit the Supremacy tremendously, too¡­ but now that she knew of their involvement, she could take steps against it.


    She was still in control.


    "I¡¯m more than aware I can¡¯t hold you forever," she said calmly, standing up from her seat. "But I don¡¯t need to. I¡¯ve collected more interrogation devices than the one back there. I¡¯ll break the three of you before long, find out what I need to know, and bury you. Perhaps if you¡¯re cooperative I¡¯ll even kill you before that."


    Muzazi glared. "You¡¯ll find yourself disappointed, witch."


    Dragan tapped an inquisitive finger against the glass, clearly testing its density. "You¡¯re confident in that, huh?" he said. "It¡¯s still two against one -- from what I¡¯ve seen of the situation, you don¡¯t want other people in your organization to know about this whole mess. I¡¯m willing to bet the three guys back there were the only backup you had."


    Such an irritating child. Gertrude¡¯s eyelid twitched. "I can flood that room with sleeping gas with the tap of a button," she said patiently. "You can run your mouth all you like, but it will only make me win faster. I have nothing but confidence."


    "You might be on your own here," Dragan went on. "But we¡¯re not alone. People will come for us."


    Gertrude smirked. "Oh, I hope so. The more idiots walk into the slaughterhouse, the more --"


    Bang.


    The glass was painted red.


    Gertrude blinked. "Huh?"


    Dragan widened his eyes. "What?" he breathed.


    Slowly, on the other side of the glass, Gertrude Hearth looked down at herself. Her eyes widened, and as she opened her mouth to speak, blood dribbled from the corners of her lips. As she stepped back, her legs shook beneath her.


    Gertrude¡¯s stomach had exploded outwards. The front of her torso was a cavity of red, her shattered ribs open like the lid of a treasure chest. Pulped organs slipped free of their resting place and dropped down to the floor.


    As Gertrude opened her mouth again, trying to say something -- perhaps to negotiate against the death that had come for her -- the only thing that came from it was smoke.


    She fell back, slipping on her blood, and never stood again.


    Muzazi stared in silence, his face twisted uncomprehendingly. Dragan imagined his own face looked much the same.


    "What the fuck?" he muttered.


    Jean Lyons flipped the stator again, the small silver coin landing peculiarly slowly onto the back of his palm. It landed on the Supreme Seal, the coat of arms intertwined with a powerful fist. That made flip number two-hundred and twenty-three.


    More than enough to replenish the stocks this little maneuver had cost him.


    Storefronts flickered by as the taxi took him down the streets, away from the Humilist complex. He always enjoyed a peaceful drive, especially when he wasn¡¯t the one behind the wheel. A dynamic environment outside the window did wonders for one¡¯s thought process.


    He¡¯d felt the recoil when he¡¯d used his ability. His observation of Hearth¡¯s power on the night Muzazi had been taken had been accurate, then. If the Aether was activated from outside the area of effect, then it would still work even if the target was inside Gertrude¡¯s power.


    It was true that Jean¡¯s ability was to drain people¡¯s willpower by touching them -- but that was only the power in his right hand. The power stored in his left hand drained something completely different.


    "Here should be fine," he called out to the taxi driver. "Thanks for the ride."


    "No problem, boss," the driver said, pulling up and putting the car into hover. "Hope ya choose us again in the future."


    Jean scanned his grace token, paying for the ride -- and then, before getting out, handed the driver the coin he¡¯d been flipping.


    "Tip for you," he said. "It¡¯s an antique. Might sell for a little bit."


    The driver turned it around in his hand, a bemused look on his face, but accepted it all the same. Jean left quickly after that. Even if the man thought the gesture was odd, he wouldn¡¯t live to voice that suspicion.


    An hour later, as he was about to end his shift, his taxi would suddenly explode. His body, along with anything on his person, would be destroyed by the blast. Jean had already arranged for the passenger records to be wiped, too. The fact that he¡¯d gone to the Humilist complex tonight would utterly disappear from this world.


    As Jean walked the rest of the way back, hands plunged into his pockets, he couldn¡¯t help but have a spring in his step.


    One down. Two to go.

 Chapter 245:9.36: The Anatomy of a Melting Clock

    The boy cried out each and every day, loud enough for all the world to hear.


    "I am the greatest! I am the most beloved! I am the most beautiful! I am the strongest! I am the one above all! I am the one above everything!"


    And each day his elders, great heroes and warriors all, would scoff and chuckle and laugh at his boastings, for they thought that he was worthless. They would sneer and giggle behind his back, thinking that he could not hear them. But he could, and anger blossomed in his heart.


    One night, before he would usually wake and boast, the boy snuck through the village and slit the throats of his elders each and every. By the time the sun rose, the boy was the only living person left in his hometown.


    And so it was that he became known as the slayer of many great heroes and warriors, all of his boasts finally becoming true.


    "The Boastful Boy and the Whisperknife", Superbian Children¡¯s Tale


    "And so the boy came to know that perfection always lies above," Giovanni read solemnly. "And that, to his elders, his boastings were just like those of the ant. He resolved to abandon false confidence and instead seek out the fruition of his desires. By the time he reached perfection, many years later, he found that he was king of all he surveyed. The end."


    He closed the book, looking up at his rapt audience. "Are there any questions?"


    One young boy stuck his hand up. "After he became king, did the boy live happily ever after?"


    Giovanni blinked. "Of course," he said. "That¡¯s how stories work."


    The boy who had spoken up was not even the youngest. The crowd of listeners, gathered in the small chapel, were children one and all -- those under the direct care of the Superbian church, without parents or families to call their own. Their patrons, the Assemblage of the Little Children, had asked for Giovanni to read to them today. Like many in the sect, they held him in the greatest esteem.


    If that was the case, then who was he to deny them?


    It was the duty of the Apexbishop to care for their flock. That had been one of the first things Giovanni had learnt, and one of the few lessons Brinkmann had taught him that he still held to heart. It was also one of the ideals that now made his heart feel so heavy.


    Giovanni reflected on it as the children were led out by their teachers, talking loudly amongst themselves. The situation on Polis had not deteriorated any further since the ship had been destroyed, but that just meant the planet was balanced on the edge of a knife. Voices from Giovanni¡¯s own faction urged him to take action daily, to finally bite the bullet and declare war against the Humilists.


    Was that really the wisest course of action? Giovanni would prefer to play a longer game, to slowly encroach upon and reduce the Humilist¡¯s influence in the galaxy. Direct warfare would damage the Superbians just as much as their enemies.


    "Gio?" Pablo said.


    He¡¯d tried to get spies into the Humilist headquarters, but they hadn¡¯t made much headway into the upper echelons. From what Giovanni understood, Gertrude Hearth had gone into seclusion since last night. Was she pondering the same quandary as him? Did he even have time to consider it, if she was thinking about the same thing? If the Humilists attacked first, they¡¯d be caught on the backfoot. That would be the worst case scenario.


    "Gio!" Pablo repeated, louder.


    Giovanni looked up. The chapel was empty, save for himself and Pablo. For a second, Giovanni almost looked around for Jamie in confusion, only to remember a moment later¡­ he was dead, after all. Killed needlessly.


    How many more would die needlessly, if Giovanni made the wrong choice here?


    "What?" he said.


    Pablo held up the day¡¯s schedule on his script. "It¡¯s time for us to move on. You¡¯ve got that thing with Dr. Brinkmann, right? I¡¯m sure you don¡¯t want to be late."


    Giovanni winced as he accepted the script from him, reading it for himself. That was right -- that was today, wasn¡¯t it? Brinkmann had been irritating him for days now, sending him messages, and Giovanni had finally relented. He was due to meet with the old scientist in his laboratory.


    Ironic. He¡¯d come so far, grown so powerful¡­ yet he still found himself obeying the commands of that decrepit old bastard.


    He stared through the screen of the script. "Pablo," he said quietly. "Do you care about me?"


    Pablo opened his black eyes, yellow irises looking down at Giovanni. "Huh?" he said -- and then, a moment later: "Of course I do."


    It was the answer he¡¯d expected, but that didn¡¯t mean it hurt any less. Giovanni had been coded in the artificial womb to rule over people, and part of that was understanding them. Those words from his friend were all Giovanni needed to be certain.


    Pablo did not care about him. He highly doubted that Pablo cared about anything. Perhaps Jamie had been different, but Jamie was gone.


    Giovanni smiled. "Thank you, Pablo. I appreciate your support."


    "Of course," Pablo said, awkwardness forgotten. "Shall we go, then?"


    Giovanni rose to his feet. Day by day, his body seemed heavier. The weight of the world took a long time to settle.


    He was the closest person to God. He understood Y¡¯s will. That, in itself, was the greatest responsibility of them all.


    The laboratory smelt of medicine and death. It hadn¡¯t changed in the slightest. Giovanni did his best not to be drawn too far back into his memories as he walked through the sterile space.


    "It¡¯s been a long time, um, my Apexbishop," Louis Xi Testament smiled weakly as he limped ahead, leading the way.


    As one of the more imperfect results of the Testament Project, he¡¯d been kept on by Brinkmann as a personal assistant. He had extremely fragile bones, apparently, and a correspondingly gaunt appearance that made him seem much older than his few years. Thin brown hair hung from his head in clumps.


    Disgusting.


    "It certainly has," Giovanni said placidly, eyes inscrutable. "You were an infant the last time I saw you. How have things been?"


    "Oh, um, good," Louis said hurriedly as they reached the door. "Very good. Did you, ah, go through the disinfectant, by the way?"


    "Of course I did. There¡¯s no other way into this place." Giovanni¡¯s skin still burned from the sensation of those chemicals raining down on it. He imagined he¡¯d be feeling that sting for hours.


    Louis nodded, more to himself than anything else. "Okay. That¡¯s good, yeah. Dr. Brinkmann¡¯s very vulnerable to infection right now. We need to be understanding. Okay¡­"


    He placed his hand against the palm reader, and the sleek white doors slid open. Giovanni stepped through, while Louis stayed behind -- there were no guards in this place, nor any real security measures, yet his sibling was still reluctant to step into this most inner sanctum.


    This room was as white as the rest of the ¡¯laboratory¡¯, so clean as to be uncanny. One wall was occupied entirely by rows and rows of vials -- each containing a single drop of blood belonging to a member of the beloved Sainted Bloodlines. Another was covered in monitors, facts and figures and codes scrolling by at high speeds. This place did not smell of medicine, at least.


    It didn¡¯t smell of anything at all.


    Brinkmann turned around in his automatic chair, the piece of furniture floating over the ground. From what Giovanni understood, the old man¡¯s legs had stopped working six months ago, and he¡¯d had this machine commissioned to retain his mobility. Countless spindly metal arms, like the limbs of a spider, protruded from the headrest.


    "It¡¯s been a while, Sigma," Brinkmann said, his grizzled voice effortlessly reaching back into Giovanni¡¯s childhood. "You look strong, healthy. I truly am a genius."


    He had an appearance more suited to a lumberjack than a scientist. Even with his deteriorating health, the shadow of physical strength could be seen in his thick arms and wide frame. A white beard, hoarse and untamed, hung down from his chin. His eyes were a dark brown, and -- even if only one of them was now capable of moving -- the glint of great intelligence could be seen shining in their depths.


    Giovanni glared. "What is it you want, old man?"


    Brinkmann stared at him with his one good eye, his gaze drilling into Giovanni¡¯s until the younger man was forced to glance away. Then, the slightest twist of satisfaction pulled at the edges of his lips.


    "You talk as though it¡¯s a special occasion -- for me to call upon you," he said. "When you were younger, you¡¯d respond obediently to my summons. You were a good child back then. Where does this resentment come from, Sigma?"


    "I¡¯d prefer you call me Giovanni, as it¡¯s my name." Giovanni¡¯s words were frozen venom. "When I was a child, I had no choice but to do as you said. Don¡¯t mistake innocence for loyalty."


    Brinkmann leaned back in his seat, grunting. One of the mechanical arms plucked his script from his desk and handed it to him. "When you were a child?" he chuckled darkly. "Tell me, Sigma. How old are you now?"


    "You know very well how old I am."


    "I do, but tell me. I want to hear it out of your mouth."


    Giovanni glanced away, crossing his arms. "I have the musculature of a twenty-two year old, give or take a few months," he muttered, shrugging lightly.


    Brinkmann¡¯s eye narrowed fractionally, a subconscious indication of pleasure. "That¡¯s not what I asked, Sigma. How old are you?"


    It was infuriating, but Giovanni found himself looking down at the floor as he answered. Against the man who has created and raised him, the armour of ¡¯Apexbishop¡¯ seemed just as effective as wet paper. It was as if nothing had changed at all.


    Giovanni mumbled the answer.


    "Speak up, boy," Brinkmann snapped.


    "Six years old," Giovanni said.


    "Six years old," Brinkmann repeated, putting his hands on his knees. "It¡¯s laughable, isn¡¯t it? The cardinals asked me to make them a new Apexbishop, but they didn¡¯t have the patience to wait for me to grow it. So they get you. I wonder how that ended up for them?"


    "Laughable?" Giovanni sneered, some of the fire returning to his belly. "I¡¯d say you¡¯re the one that¡¯s a joke here, Brinkmann. Look at yourself. Greatest genius in the galaxy, and you can¡¯t even fix your own decaying body. It¡¯s pathetic."


    It was true. Brinkmann was a rather unique kind of Scurrant -- one that the Gene Tyrants had used as control cases in their experiments. As such, his body rejected most forms of modification, including gene therapy and the majority of medical treatments.


    Even with all his expertise, Brinkmann was helpless against the withering disease that had seized hold of his body.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    If it bothered the old scientist, though, it didn¡¯t show on his face. He simply waved a dismissive hand. "Greatest genius in the galaxy? Perhaps once, when I was younger, but not now. There are monsters like Zephyr Pandershi doing good work in the UAP, and I won¡¯t live much longer anyway."


    "You seem awfully at peace with that." S§×ar?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Oh, I¡¯m despondent," Brinkmann smiled. "But misery isn¡¯t terribly productive. You wanted to know why I called you here?"


    "I¡¯m desperate for answers," Giovanni replied, deadpan.


    Brinkmann¡¯s smile curled strangely, like he was remembering a private joke. "If you don¡¯t mind, could you tell me what the purpose of the Testament Project was? The purpose of your creation?"


    "Is your memory fading as well, old man?"


    "Humour me," Brinkmann said politely. "Tell me."


    Giovanni rolled his eyes. "The Testament Project was an initiative to design artificial humans with a greater connection to Aether, so as to create a powerful and capable Apexbishop to lead the Superbians. After numerous failed attempts, you found the success that was me."


    "No," Brinkmann said simply.


    "No?"


    "No," the old man repeated. "We settled on you. We ran out of funding and goodwill, and decided that Giovanni Sigma Testament was the best we were going to get. Don¡¯t go flattering yourself, thinking you¡¯re some kind of perfect being."


    "I became Apexbishop anyway. It doesn¡¯t matter what you say."


    Brinkmann sighed, his eyes far away. "Yes, yes¡­ and what a disappointment you are."


    "Excuse me?" Giovanni narrowed his eyes.


    "I said what I meant. You were meant to be a wise philosopher king, your mind occupying another level of consciousness entirely¡­ and what have you amounted to? A petty nationalist, herding sheep against another petty nationalist? Crude and shortsighted, lacking focus and wisdom. Who could ever call you a success?"


    Giovanni balled his hands into fists, gripped so tight that his fingernails cut into his palms. When he spoke, it was measured, precise and furious. "Watch what you say, old man."


    Brinkmann did not watch what he said. "... and then, of course, there is the matter of your lifespan."


    The rushing train of Giovanni¡¯s rage suddenly found itself flying over a pit, the terrain unfamiliar and bizarre. He blinked in confusion.


    "Lifespan?" he said. "What do you mean?"


    Brinkmann¡¯s eye twinkled. "We were talking about it just before, don¡¯t you remember? The matter of your accelerated aging."


    Giovanni stepped forward. "Yes, but that¡¯s just¡­ that was just so I was ready to ascend to the seat of the Apexbishop as soon as possible, wasn¡¯t it?" He hated himself for it, but the plaintive tone of a needy child entered his voice as he questioned Brinkmann.


    There was a rustling as Brinkmann settled in his chair, as if he were getting ready to watch a particularly interesting show.


    "I told them it would have negative effects in the future," he murmured. "But they were so impatient for their new Apexbishop. I didn¡¯t know how negative until just recently, though¡­ if only you¡¯d come to see me sooner, hm?" Amusement leaked out of him, through twitchy smirks and dilation of the pupils. He was loving this.


    Giovanni stepped forward again and -- with enraged strength -- seized hold of the chair¡¯s arms as he stared into Brinkmann¡¯s eyes. Metal screeched as Giovanni squeezed, crushing it in his hands.


    "What are you talking about?!" he roared.


    All joviality faded from Brinkmann¡¯s expression, his face becoming slack and dead. Even before his mouth opened, Giovanni¡¯s quickening heart seemed to have some idea of the words he¡¯d put forth into the world.


    "Three months," Brinkmann said. "In three months -- give or take a couple of days -- you will expire from natural causes."


    Giovanni¡¯s hands fell to his sides, and he felt his legs collapse from under him. He dropped down to his knees, eyes wide.


    No, but¡­ that wasn¡¯t possible. That wasn¡¯t fair. There was so much to be done still. The situation on Polis had to be resolved, that -- that would take time, so much time. He had to deal with the Humilists, too, and the Paradisas, make sure they couldn¡¯t threaten the Superbians any longer, he had to¡­ oh, God, he¡¯d executed his coup with the assumption that he¡¯d be able to stick around long enough to ensure future stability. What would happen if he died before preparing the church for the future? Would it collapse? No, no no no, this was surely some kind of trick, but Brinkmann¡¯s eyes weren¡¯t lying, and he never told a lie, only the truth, only the truth that he knew would hurt, and Giovanni couldn¡¯t breathe, and his lungs hurt, and was that because he was dying?!


    No, no, no, no, no¡­


    "Why?" Giovanni whispered, slowly looking back up. "Why are you telling me this?"


    Brinkmann looked solemnly at Giovanni for a long, long time, his eyes dark and sad. Then, slowly, his face spread into a wide and cruel grin.


    "I wanted to see the look on your face," he confessed.


    Everything went red.


    Louis Xi Testament perceived Aether in a way different from most people.


    From what he understood, others saw Aether as some form of electricity that surrounded a person¡¯s body. That wasn¡¯t the case for Louis at all. He couldn¡¯t see Aether with his eyes full stop-- that visual form was completely concealed from him.


    What he could do, though¡­ was hear.


    Every person¡¯s Aether sounded different, and the sound tended to differ depending on their emotions. It gave Louis a little more insight into another person¡¯s personality -- but it also made going out in public torturous. Even just having two Aether-users in the same place was like listening to two different songs in two different genres simultaneously: highly unpleasant. For that reason, he¡¯d never been judged fit to leave the laboratory.


    The Professor had told him that there were cases where blind Aether-users perceived Aether in the same way that he did, but those cases were few and far between.


    Louis checked his watch: the Apexbishop had been in there with the Professor for quite some time. Perhaps it was time to offer them a beverage?


    He stood up from his chair, groaning from the strain on his legs, and gingerly made his way over to the quarantine doors. The control panel beeped as he pressed his hand against the palm-reader.


    The noise was deafening. Louis winced, holding down on his ears as the doors to the Professor¡¯s office slid open. Then, as he took in the sight before him, he screamed.


    Every inch of the room was dyed with blood. The samples on the walls had been smashed, as had the monitors. The Professor¡¯s wheelchair had been mauled into a pile of twisted metal, and the Professor himself¡­ dear God¡­


    The entire top half of his body had been annihilated, reduced to a pile of indiscriminate meat, the smashed remains of his spinal cord spread out like a dead centipede. No trace of face or identity remained. All of it had been far too brutalized for that.


    And there, standing above it all, was Giovanni Sigma Testament. His hands were stained with blood up to his elbows, and there was a dead look in his eyes. He stared quietly down at the Professor¡¯s carcass.


    When Giovanni had first entered the laboratory, Louis had heard his Aether. It had been persistent but beautiful, and somehow innocent, like the trembling voice of a sleepless chorister.


    Now, it was silent. He wasn¡¯t using his Aether at all¡­ for this, he¡¯d used his bare hands.


    "A-Apexbishop," Louis breathed. "What¡­ what have you¡­"


    Giovanni glanced up at Louis as if he¡¯d just realized he was there.


    "Louis," he muttered, his voice emotionless. "Move."


    Louis opened his mouth: "Wha¡­?"


    The roar of a wild beast. The buzzing of ravenous insects. The tearing of rancid meat. The incineration of a bonfire. The scream of something inhuman. The sound of a boot crashing against bone, again and again and again and again.


    Louis heard his Apexbishop¡¯s Aether¡­


    ¡­and before he could say another word or take another step, his head was punched off his shoulders.


    Giovanni smashed the door to his quarters open as he stormed into the room, the wood shattering from the impact. As he searched frantically through the drawers and wardrobes, a cleaning automatic flew over to clean off the blood covering his body.


    The second it touched him, he whirled around.


    "Get lost!" he screamed, voice breaking as he smashed the automatic out of the air with the back of his hand. It dropped to the floor, thoroughly destroyed.


    Immature. Foolish, shortsighted. Destroying that automatic hadn¡¯t helped him at all. He had to calm down -- but where the hell was it?!


    He resumed his search, pulling the room apart, until he found it. With trembling hands, he pulled out the punchpoint revolver. Ever since he¡¯d gotten it, ever since the dark night when he¡¯d put it to his head and pulled the trigger, it had served as his guiding light.


    The proof that¡­ the proof that God was with him, God was with him, God was with him. So long as God was with him, everything else that happened was just a trial. So long as everything else was a trial, Giovanni could overcome it.


    He loaded the gun, hands shaking, and put the barrel in his mouth. It took him a rare few seconds to work up the nerve -- but he pulled the trigger all the same.


    Click.


    It had jammed. He pulled the gun free, gasping for breath, a sense of giddiness infiltrating his mind despite everything. Again, again, he had failed to die. No, he had been saved.


    God was with him.


    "A good evening to you."


    Giovanni leapt to his feet at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, crimson Aether raging around him protectively. It took him less than a second to identify his target and react. Two spears of red crystal appeared over his shoulder, pointing at the intruder.


    Just as he had never heard this voice before, Giovanni had never seen this man before.


    He had white hair and wore a white suit. He had white skin and wore white shoes and white gloves. If his voice had a colour, it would be white too -- accentless, emotionless, blank. The only trace of colour to him was the glint of bright blue in his eyes -- the telltale marker of a Cogitant.


    "Who are you?" hissed Giovanni, glowering at the new man.


    "As I said, good evening," the man repeated, smiling slightly. "I wanted to speak with you for just a couple of minutes, if I could. How about it?"


    Giovanni fired the spears. They lanced right through the man -- but he did not die. The form of the hologram only shuddered as the projectiles passed through it.


    "Needless to say, I am not with you in person," the man continued. "I have far more regard for my own survival than that."


    "Who are you?" Giovanni repeated, a little calmed. He straightened up his bedraggled robes.


    "My name is Jean Lyons," the man in white explained, one hand in the pocket of his suit. "I work for the Supremacy -- the Galactic Intelligence Division, to be exact. A little like your own Quiet Choir, I should think."


    Giovanni circled the hologram, eyes narrowed, probing for weaknesses, but the man was inscrutable. All body language and facial expressions were carefully considered before being deployed -- no matter how hard Giovanni looked, this man would not betray himself.


    "The Supremacy, huh?" Giovanni glared. "Is this an alliance proposal, then, or a declaration of war?"


    Jean Lyons¡¯ eyes twinkled. "Neither, actually. I¡¯m here to inform you of my victory."


    Giovanni frowned. "What?"


    "I killed Gertrude Hearth earlier tonight," Lyons said simply.


    At that, Giovanni couldn¡¯t help widen his eyes fractionally. Hearth¡­ dead? Just like that? In Giovanni¡¯s mind, she¡¯d always seemed such an important, destined foe, something that he had no choice but to overcome. Was this man telling the truth?


    Lyons continued speaking, seemingly uncaring as to whether Giovanni believed him or not. "I have plans in place to deal with Asmagius of the Paradisas, as well. Which brings us to you. My objective is to deal with the Final Church completely, after all."


    "Oh?" Giovanni sneered. "And how exactly do you intend to ¡¯deal¡¯ with me?"


    Lyons¡¯ smile widened. "I am dealing with you right now. I hope you have enjoyed my gun. It took a lot to get it to you."


    Without another word, the hologram flickered away, leaving Giovanni alone in his quarters once more. He stared at the empty space the man had left, confused for just a moment. Enjoyed his gun¡­? What did he --


    Giovanni looked down at the revolver in his hand.


    That bastard Lyons, he couldn¡¯t have¡­


    No. Surely not. He¡¯d had this gun since before he became Apexbishop. He¡¯d bought it at a market on the planet Tenenbaum, sneaking out without telling anyone. He disassembled and reassembled it every day. If there was something there, some trick, he would have noticed. He would have noticed.


    Wouldn¡¯t he?


    Slowly, as if he had been hypnotized, Giovanni raised the gun to his temple. It was still wet with his saliva from when he¡¯d put it in his mouth. Wet, and cold.


    His finger curled around the trigger, and¡­


    Bang.


    The gun fired, and Giovanni collapsed to the ground, clutching his head.


    He¡¯d saved himself at the last moment, pouring all his Aether into the exact spot that would have been hit. It was still heavily damaged, but he would not die -- he would not die today, anyway. Blood poured down his head as he stared down, the pistol slipping from his grasp and falling to the floor.


    With a reflexive stomp, he reduced it to broken metal.


    His guiding light had been just another trick. God was not here with him. God was not here. God was not anywhere.


    In the quiet of the night, Giovanni Sigma Testament wept and wept and wept, until at last his sobs began to sound like laughter.

 Chapter 246:9.37: The Hungry Breath

    The following is a notice to all max-level Superbian personnel.


    An emergency meeting has been called.


    All designated personnel are to gather at the Cardinal council chambers immediately.


    Lateness will not be permitted.


    This is a direct order from His Holiness, Apexbishop Giovanni Sigma Testament.


    Matters of utmost national security will be discussed.


    Notice, Superbian Collected Network


    Helga¡¯s head hurt.


    When she first woke up, she didn¡¯t open her eyes. She didn¡¯t move -- it would have been difficult anyway, as her arms and legs were bound. She simply listened. This was a lesson she¡¯d picked up early in her career: never pass up a chance to eavesdrop on your enemies. Ears were the most valuable weapons a spy had, after all.


    There were voices near her, muffled, on the other side of the wall. It took her a second to focus on them, but she quickly recognised the speakers: Dragan Hadrien and Ruth Blaine. It was a good bet that Bruno and Serena del Sed were lurking somewhere as well, then. Skipper¡¯s whole crew would be here.


    "Well, what about Skipper?" Dragan was saying, cautious, annoyed and unsure.


    "He¡¯s not answering my messages," Ruth replied hurriedly; the way her voice faded in and out suggesting she was pacing. "Do you think something¡¯s happened?"


    "Well, did you try calling him?"


    "Of course I tried calling him," Ruth snapped back. It seemed she was annoyed now too. There was a moment¡¯s pause, then: "Sorry. It¡¯s just¡­ stuff is messed up, you know?"


    Another pause. "Yeah. I know."


    "Is she¡­ really dead?" Ruth slowly ventured.


    Helga¡¯s heart nearly leapt out of her throat, and it took everything she had not to move. If they¡¯d come after her, did that mean they¡¯d gone after the other GID agents as well? Was the ¡¯her¡¯ they were referring to¡­ Olga?


    Oh, no. Oh, God, please no.


    "You¡¯re awake¡­ aren¡¯t you, Helga?" said Mila Green.


    Helga stiffened in response to the address, only to realize that in itself would have given her away. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.


    As she¡¯d thought, she was lying down on an old couch, patches of comfort and discomfort running along its derelict surface, a stray spring irritating her hip. Her arms and legs were bound with steel rope -- and when she reached for her Aether, she found it absent, so there must have been some kind of Neverwire on her person as well.


    The room was dark and dingy, walls made of metal well into its transition into dust, with only an old lampshade for insufficient light. Across from Helga sat Mila.


    She was on an armchair that looked as ugly as Helga¡¯s couch, with a book on her lap. Doubtless she¡¯d been reading it before Helga had awakened. Judging from the cover, it was an autobiography from a famous actor -- just the sort of thing she liked to read.


    "Who are they talking about?" Helga asked, her voice hoarse.


    Mila furrowed her brow. "What do you --"


    "Who¡¯s dead?"


    Mila blinked, silent for a moment, before sighing. "Gertrude Hearth. Apparently, her stomach burst open and she died on the spot. We don¡¯t know how."


    The relief that it wasn¡¯t Olga lingered only for a moment before the tension of an Apexbishop¡¯s demise replaced it. "Her stomach¡­?" she murmured.


    Mila nodded. "Like an explosion, apparently."


    It didn¡¯t take much thought for Helga to work out what had happened there. Killing like that was Jean¡¯s trademark -- but she hasn¡¯t expected him to go after a head of state like that. It meant that things were far more serious than she¡¯d expected.


    She stayed silent for a while, thinking on it, until she realized that Mila was still looking at her.


    "What?" Helga quietly asked.


    Mila swallowed. "Why is it that you want to stay with the Supremacy so badly, Helga?"


    Helga squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth in frustration. "I¡¯ve already told you this," she groaned. "Want has nothing to do with it. My family are with the GID, my siblings. If I deserted, they¡¯d be the ones to get punished. Jean would see to it."


    "So you just live a life you don¡¯t want for, what¡­ forever? Until you die?" Mila looked terribly sad. Despite her best efforts, Helga¡¯s heart ached.


    "If that¡¯s what it takes to keep them safe."


    Mila leaned forwards. "But they¡¯re not safe, Helga. You¡¯ve seen that! They¡¯ve got your sister working for them, doing the same thing you do -- they¡¯ll drag the rest of your family into it too!"


    Headbutt her. Get your bound arms over her neck, chokehold with your elbows. Hold her hostage and make them undo your bonds. Snap her neck when you¡¯re done.


    Helga¡¯s training whispered to her, but for the time being she ignored it. A better question had occurred to her.


    "How do you know Olga is my sister?" she narrowed her eyes. "I don¡¯t think I ever told you that."


    Mila¡¯s mouth was a flat line. "Dragan Hadrien told me."


    "And how does he know that?"


    "It¡¯s¡­ a long story," Mila said, looking down at the floor. "It doesn¡¯t even matter. The point is¡­ whatever deal it is you¡¯ve got with this Jean Lyons guy, he isn¡¯t sticking to it. He¡¯s dragging your family into it already. If that¡¯s the only reason you¡¯re with them, then now should be the time to break free!"


    Helga was silent for a long time.


    Break free¡­? It had been a long time since Helga had seriously considered that idea. When she was younger, she¡¯d thought about it often, fantasized about a great escape with her family to a place where Jean would never find them.


    But reality had a way of strangling dreams.


    "I can¡¯t," she finally said, bitterness dripping from her tongue. "He won¡¯t let me."


    "Then¡­" Mila said, fidgeting as she moved around in her seat. "I realize it¡¯s a little awkward to say, but couldn¡¯t you just¡­ mmm¡­ you know?"


    Helga blinked, suddenly confused. "No. I don¡¯t know what you mean at all. What?"


    "Just¡­" Mila made a bizarre and inscrutable movement with her hands. "You know, ah¡­ get rid of him. That sort of, uh¡­ kill him?"


    Helga frowned. "I¡¯m surprised to hear you suggest that."


    "From what I¡¯ve heard and experienced myself," Mila said, her voice cold. "He doesn¡¯t sound like someone I¡¯d lose too much sleep on."


    That, Helga seriously considered. Running away had always been the pipe dream, because he would pursue, but if he couldn¡¯t pursue¡­ was there a chance? Could she really be free of him?


    The moment that thought occurred, however, so did dozens of memories from over the years. Memories of times when someone had attempted to kill Jean, and what had happened to them afterwards.


    The states their corpses had been in.


    Helga squeezed her eyes shut, and hung her head. "No. I¡¯m sorry, Mila. I can¡¯t. He¡¯s too good. He¡¯s too strong. I can¡¯t beat him."


    The door to the room squeaked as it swung open.


    "Perhaps not," said a familiar voice, its owner striding into the room. "But I might have better luck."


    Helga looked up -- at the swordsman silhouetted in the doorway. She¡¯d read this man¡¯s file before the disastrous operation on Yoslof, so his face was familiar to her -- but he had a kind of presence you couldn¡¯t feel through a photograph. Not to mention he looked so much more tired than he had back then.


    "You¡¯re not the only one who has matters to settle with Mr. Jean Lyons," said Atoy Muzazi, gaze resolute.


    "Thank you for joining us, sister," said Giovanni Sigma Testament.


    He sat at the end of a long table that had been set up, hands clasped before him. Huge reddened bags hung under his eyes -- clearly, he hadn¡¯t slept, and whatever he¡¯d been doing instead didn¡¯t seem pleasant. His pupils were lifeless, staring at Isabelle without passion as she entered the Cardinal¡¯s chambers.


    Isabelle Pi Testament had to admit, though: she wasn¡¯t much better. This meeting had been called in the middle of the night, and so she¡¯d only had four hours or so of sleep. It took everything she had just to prevent herself from yawning.


    Still, she got the sense that she couldn¡¯t let her guard down. There was a strange atmosphere in the room -- acidic, almost, as if everyone there were about to begin melting any second. Any careless actions here, she knew instinctively, would have massive repercussions.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    She cautiously took a seat opposite Giovanni, watching him from along the length of the table. Giovanni¡¯s supporters lined the room, all the way up to Pablo sitting at the Apexbishop¡¯s side. Every eye, she realized, was on her. Waiting for her to speak. S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I¡¯m surprised," she finally said. "An emergency meeting like this would usually have the Cardinals in attendance."


    Giovanni continued to stare at her. "I¡¯ve sent plentiful invitations," he said, his voice dull, nearly emotionless. "Yet it seems the Cardinals are unwilling to break their seclusion for this petty matter. Their dedication is truly to be admired."


    "Hear, hear," muttered Sir Helel the Knight of Reason, his helmet jangling as he nodded. Nobody else joined him in his agreement.


    "In which case," Isabelle continued. "I¡¯m surprised that I was invited. With no undue humility, I don¡¯t believe my position measures up to those of the esteemed assemblage here."


    As Giovanni spoke, his face was slack, the only part of him moving being his mouth. "You are my sister. I have asked that you be here. That is all the qualification needed."


    Isabelle¡¯s eyes drifted over the table, at the faces of the men and women cautiously regarding her. This was not a meeting, she realized. They already knew what was up for discussion.


    This was an announcement -- one they wanted to see her reaction to.


    "Very well," Isabelle said, mirroring Giovanni by clasping her hands on the table before her. "I¡¯m grateful for your consideration."


    Slowly, Giovanni blinked. Then, he spoke: "Gertrude Hearth is dead."


    Immediately, Isabelle¡¯s face fell.


    There was no way that could be true, but if it was¡­ oh, God, what had Giovanni done? Had he actually had her killed? That was insanity. Forget the quarantine on Polis -- he¡¯d put the entire Superbian sect in danger like that!


    Giovanni continued. "At the moment, this news has not leaked to the public. We know this solely through the efforts of our brave investigators. We believe Hearth was killed by elements within her own organization, a faction keen to open hostilities with us. They disposed of her so as to install one of their own in her place, a new Apexbishop who would be willing to persecute the Superbian church."


    Isabelle kept her mouth shut, but she knew bullshit when she heard it. A few days ago, Gertrude Hearth had been Giovanni¡¯s avowed enemy, an obstacle to his goal of Superbian supremacy. Now, all of a sudden, she was a peace-loving martyr?


    This was clearly a cover story¡­ but it was one that Giovanni himself seemed to be putting next to no effort into. Even his voice, as he spoke, was utterly passionless. There was no fear at the crisis that would surely ensue, no satisfaction at defeating a hated enemy, just¡­ nothing.


    Like he¡¯d become a void overnight.


    The man called the Chorister, on the side of the table, frowned. "These are grim times, then," he said. "When you say this faction means to act against us, I assume you mean¡­ war?"


    Giovanni nodded limply. "That¡¯s right. We expect them to begin their campaign before the end of the Truemeet. As a matter of fact, it¡¯s highly likely they¡¯ll open by attacking the Deus Nobiscum itself. Which brings me to the order of this meeting¡­"


    Giovanni closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and then opened it again.


    "All non-essential personnel are to leave for inner Superbian space immediately. That, of course, includes everyone in this room."


    Isabelle sat up in her chair. "For what purpose?" she demanded.


    "As I said, protection. We can¡¯t risk losing the upper echelons to an enemy attack. It¡¯d cripple us."


    Isabelle stood from her chair, slamming her hands on the table before her. "The upper echelons?" she scoffed. "What, these guys? What about the Cardinals?! I suppose they¡¯ve told you they want to stay in their seclusion, then?"


    Giovanni shook his head. "No. They didn¡¯t say that."


    "Then what?"


    "They didn¡¯t say anything," Giovanni explained calmly. "They¡¯re dead."


    Isabelle opened her mouth in the heat of the moment to reply, only to stop when she realized what Giovanni had just said. In the end, it just hung open. A chill ran down her spine.


    She¡¯d suspected, of course¡­ but for Giovanni to just say it was another matter entirely. She finally closed her mouth, swallowing down her saliva, and found that her throat was terribly dry.


    Giovanni continued speaking, his eyes locked onto her. "I killed them in this room, with assistance from the Vox Dei. Some of them I killed with my own hands. As such, there¡¯s no need for them to evacuate. Is that a problem?"


    Isabelle said nothing, her gaze roaming over the table. Was nobody¡­ was nobody going to do something about this? The Apexbishop had just admitted to high treason, right in front of everybody, and would be met with silence? That couldn¡¯t be. Surely not.


    And yet¡­ silence was all she found, silence and a collection of eyes that would not meet her own.


    "If that is a problem," Giovanni said calmly. "I¡¯d recommend you commiserate about that with Mr. Keats, rather than myself."


    A shadow fell over Isabelle from behind, bathing her in darkness, and there was a growl -- low and deadly enough to trigger some old animal instinct in her brain. Slowly, she turned her head.


    She¡¯d heard about Jon Keats¡¯ bestial form, but hearing about it and seeing it were two different things entirely. He was a mountain of fur and muscle, spindly limbs ending with rapturous claws. His multiple eyes glared at Isabelle as he looked down at her.


    He was ready, she realized, to open her up with a swipe of his hand. If she said the wrong words, he would do it immediately. Those were his orders.


    As quickly as she dared, she turned back to Giovanni. "That¡¯s no problem at all," she said quietly. "Under the circumstances¡­ yes, evacuation is best. I¡¯ll need to go arrange things with my staff."


    Summoning all her courage, she took the first step to leave the room -- only to halt as Giovanni spoke up again.


    "There¡¯s still more to discuss," he said, face dead. "Please sit back down."


    Isabelle clenched her fists, urging herself on, her eyes fixed on the exit.


    "Nevertheless," she breathed, voice shaky. "There¡¯s much I have to organize¡­"


    She couldn¡¯t see Giovanni¡¯s face, but when he finally spoke, it was as if he was tasting the word for the first time: "Nevertheless."


    That ambiguous statement was all the approval Isabelle needed. She strode out of the Cardinal¡¯s chambers, pushing the door open and hurrying down the hallway. As she left, she could feel countless eyes on her back, sharp as daggers.


    She walked for ages, without a specific destination in mind, her only intention being to get as far away from that meeting room as possible. Sweat dampened her forehead. Her lungs burned. Although she did her best to conceal it, her arms trembled terribly.


    What should she do? From what Giovanni had been saying, it was clear he was going to do something drastic. She¡¯d realized by this point that talking him out of something was a fool¡¯s errand. But he¡¯d surrounded himself with his yes-men, too, so a coup seemed nigh impossible as well¡­


    Isabelle finally stopped next to the meditation quarters, putting one hand on her hip as she caught her breath.


    "Hi," said Pablo, from right behind her.


    Isabelle whirled around, just in time to see the barrel of a pistol being pointed right at her face.


    She threw herself down to the floor -- just in time, as the plasma shot blasted past her head, scorching her hair. As she did, she activated her purple Aether, the pseudo-electricity gathering in her left hand and coalescing into a sphere.


    Pablo¡¯s black eyes were wide, yellow pupils dilated, as he looked down at her -- but a wide grin was distorting his face. A stray sadistic impulse had clearly driven him to make his presence known, but he didn¡¯t look like he regretted it in the least. The slightest high-pitched giggle leaked from his mouth as he moved to dodge.


    So that¡¯s your real face, Isabelle thought, looking at the ugly visage -- before screaming out: "Painted Moonlight! Chapter Three!"


    The sphere in her hand completed, flaring with purple light, and she pushed it in Pablo¡¯s direction. It was the size of a soccer ball, but extremely slow -- barely faster than a snail. Pablo leisurely dodged out of the way, raising an amused eyebrow.


    "Really?" he chuckled, raising his pistol once more. "That¡¯s all you¡¯ve --"


    Isabelle tackled him with all her strength, throwing him off guard and causing him to miss his second shot. He wrestled with her for a moment, and was on the verge of overpowering her, until she struck his legs with a kick. He stumbled, just slightly, but enough -- enough to make his clothing just graze against the sphere she¡¯d created.


    He immediately vanished.


    Isabelle let out a deep breath.


    When Pablo came to, he was lying in a warm bed, a blind pulled around the frame. Faint sunlight streamed in through the tiniest gap. Somewhere nearby, he could smell medicine.


    An infirmary? Pablo frowned. Had Isabelle managed to get the best of him? Even if that was the case, though, why would he be somewhere with sunlight?


    He looked down at himself. The hell¡­? He was wearing some kind of school uniform. Sharply cut, fancy, clearly the uniform of a private institution. As Pablo was considering this bizarre situation, the blinds around the bed were pulled open.


    A well-groomed man, clearly too old to be a student yet wearing a school uniform all the same, looked down at him with concern in his eyes. Those eyes seemed to be red with tears as well.


    "Clara," he whispered. "Oh, I was so worried¡­ when you passed out in class, I-I didn¡¯t know if you¡¯d¡­ thank goodness¡­ if you had fallen¡­" He visibly writhed. "...I simply don¡¯t know what I would do, my¡­ petite¡­ biblioth¨¨que¡­"


    With each cringeworthy word, he drew closer and closer to Pablo¡¯s face, until their noses were almost touching.


    Pablo blinked. "Eh?"


    Isabelle struggled to compose herself as she made her way through the dark corners of the Deus Nobiscum, wary of anyone else coming after her.


    Before long, Giovanni would realize that Pablo had failed, and would bring down the hammer of the Vox Dei on her fully. Returning to her office wasn¡¯t an option, nor was meeting with any of her few allies. They¡¯d surely be waiting for her there.


    Not to mention, there was no telling how long Pablo would be confined for. Painted Moonlight was a power that transported its target to a narrative of the same name, a simulation being run on her Aether itself. Pablo would be stuck in there until he completed the narrative.


    She¡¯d sent him into Chapter Three, the longest section of the story. Even if he skipped through all the events he could, it would take him at least twenty minutes to escape -- and given his personality, it would take him at least a couple of attempts to get the true ending. That gave her a pretty good amount of time in which to act.


    But what to do with that time was the question. Right now, she was basically a fugitive. The only tool she had to work with¡­ was her script.


    She fished it out of the pocket of her robes. She¡¯d been so tense leaving the meeting that she hadn¡¯t turned off the recording -- it had still gotten everything from Pablo¡¯s attack on her. For a few moments, she lingered on the file, finger moving back and forth through the recording, before reaching a resolution.


    Giovanni had come this far by making sure information was contained -- information about his coup, about the moves his faction was making, and about their enemies. If she wanted to take him down, she¡¯d have to start by removing that advantage.


    She didn¡¯t have time to be selective. She sent the file to her entire contact list.


    Skipper raised an eyebrow as he looked down at the file, the automatic transcription giving a readout of its contents as the audio file went on. Interesting, very interesting. Seemed all wasn¡¯t well in paradise for the Superbians.


    "Skipper?" Hamashtiel said, his diamond-shaped automatic body swinging around to face him. "If you could please pay attention. We¡¯re arranging the transport route for the Hanged Man?"


    "Yeah, yeah, sure," Skipper said, putting his script back into his pocket. "Keep going, pal."


    He didn¡¯t have the time to deal with this right now, but it was still an interesting opportunity. With a slide of his finger across the unseen screen, he passed the file on to his trusty second-in-command.


    Sending¡­ he imagined the screen said. Dragan Hadrien.


    Dragan Hadrien narrowed his eyes as he listened to the file, sitting on a metal crate in their warehouse. The earbuds he was using were good quality -- it was as if he himself were in that meeting room, listening to the Apexbishop pretty much admit he¡¯d gone batshit.


    Skipper hadn¡¯t sent any context with the message, because of course he hadn¡¯t, but the fact that he¡¯d sent it basically meant he wanted them to do something about it. Dragan clicked his tongue and looked up from his little hideaway.


    Ruth was doing pushups in the corner. Bruno and Serena were doing some minor modifications to the Slipstream¡¯s systems.


    "Hey guys," he called out. "I think we¡¯ve got a problem."

 Chapter 247:9.38: The Wrath of a Verminous Rat

    Reports of riots are now coming in from aboard the Deus Nobiscum following the shocking leak earlier today.


    For those just now joining us, three hours and fifty minutes ago, a recording of a confidential Superbian meeting was leaked by a reliable source. In this recording, the Superbian Apexbishop -- Giovanni Sigma Testament -- indicated that the Superbian Cardinals were in fact dead, and that he was responsible for this. The Cardinals have not been seen in public for several weeks, with official statements indicating that they had gone into seclusion for personal reasons.


    Internal Superbian sources have thus far refused to comment. However, Humilist sources have confirmed that their own Apexbishop Gertrude Hearth has indeed passed away, as was also indicated on the leaked recording.


    The eyes of the Final Church are now on the Deus Nobiscum, and how the Superbian Apexbishop will respond to this leak.


    Broadcast Report, Brighteye FC


    Grimsley del Yart loved his sword. Like, really loved it. If his sword were a lady, he¡¯d fuck it. That was how much he liked it. But it weren¡¯t, so he wouldn¡¯t. Plus, he didn¡¯t want to get his dick cut off.


    For one, his sword were sharp. For another, his sword were shiny. It were the kind of sword that stood out in a crowd -- and that was what Grimsley wanted. People didn¡¯t give you no money if they couldn¡¯t see what they was being threatened with, after all.


    Take today, for example. He was holding up some Paradisas pansy against the alley wall, half the freak¡¯s implants and beep-boops smashed and sparking from the first punch Grimsley had given him. But even though Grimsley were the one beating on him, the idiot¡¯s eyes weren¡¯t on Grimsley.


    No, they was on his sword.


    Grimsley was holding it right under the tinhead¡¯s chin, ready to cut his throat if he tried anything funny. It was reflecting the lights far above all pretty-like, making it look like it were glowing.


    "Grace token," Grimsley growled, pressing the blade just a little bit tighter against the Paradisas. "Transfer it over. No funny business or I kill yer."


    The tinhead nodded just a tiny bit -- probably ¡¯cause he were scared of cutting his own neck open. Slowly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his grace token, the white disc reflecting a bit of light just like Grimsley¡¯s sexy sword.


    Grimsley pulled out his own grace token -- a proxy that the Lupine had sold him -- and pressed it against the tinhead¡¯s.


    "All yer grace in free spending," Grimsley demanded. "Approve it. Don¡¯t be fucking funny or I¡¯ll kill yer."


    "Please," the tinhead murmured. "Come on, I¡¯m begging -- just leave me something, I --"


    Grimsley tightened his hold. "Are you bein¡¯ fucking funny?"


    The Paradisas looked deep into Grimsley¡¯s eyes, and what was there made him shake his head. Grimsley was an intimidating bloke, after all. Couldn¡¯t blame him.


    "Transfer approval," the tinhead said, voice hoarse. "Chester Hedron, all¡­ all grace in free spen --"


    The tinhead stopped talking, and his eyes widened. Grimsley felt hot anger flood into his brain. How many warnings did this idiot need?!


    Before he could finally cut the tinhead¡¯s throat, though, Grimsley heard a sound. The sound of a single footstep landing behind him. But that didn¡¯t make no sense. If someone was coming, he¡¯d have noticed them ages before that.


    "I¡¯d advise you to let the man go," said a voice from behind him. S§×ar?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Grimsley turned to look over his shoulder. Standing there was a young guy with long black hair, tied back, wearing a dark long-coat. His grey eyes gave Grimsley a funny look¡­ like the dickhead was looking down on him. Grimsley gritted his teeth in frustration.


    "Listen, mate," he snarled, whirling around -- and that was as far as he got. With a single thrust of his palm, the newcomer slammed Grimsley to the ground, sending his sword clattering to the floor.


    Grimsley wheezed, trying to pick himself up and failing. It was like he¡¯d been hit by a car.


    The newcomer glanced at the tinhead. "Leave," he said gently. "You¡¯re safe now." The Paradisas wasted no time, stuffing his grace token back into his pocket and hurrying off.


    Then¡­ those grey eyes turned back to Grimsley. They really were looking down on him now.


    Getting up was still more than he could handle, but Grimsley managed to crawl back a little as the newcomer approached, fear causing his body to shake. "Come on, come on, mate," he said desperately. "You got me, you saved that fella, right? That¡¯s what you wanted, yeah? Just -- just let me go, okay? I¡¯m just a little guy! Come on!"


    The newcomer squatted down next to him, and Grimsley instinctively winced. Still, no attack came.


    "Gimme a break¡­" Grimsley squeaked, squeezing his eyes shut.


    "I will," the newcomer promised, holding one finger up. "On one condition."


    Grimsley opened his eyes again. "W-What?"


    The newcomer pointed to the sword, lying on the ground. "You let me borrow that."


    Getting onto the Deus Nobiscum was less difficult than Dragan had expected. Unlike last time, security on the ship was in chaos due to the events aboard, so he, Ruth, Bruno and Serena managed to slip onto it right before the net closed.


    After receiving the message from Skipper, Dragan had quickly learnt that he wasn¡¯t the only one who¡¯d received such information. Apparently, the original sender of the message was a Superbian official named Isabelle Pi Testament -- probably related to Giovanni -- who¡¯d gone missing since leaking the data. Riots had sprung up throughout the civilian population on the Deus Nobiscum since it had spread out, and now the Vox Dei was mostly occupied dealing with that situation.


    Still¡­ the place was chaos.


    Dragan had managed to bribe the captain of a cargo vessel to take them aboard while he made a scheduled delivery, and now that they were on the ship proper he couldn¡¯t quite believe what he was seeing. Security officers sprinting down corridors as fast as their legs would take them, Superbian flags ablaze in the middle of living quarters, stained glass shattered and left to litter the floor. The tranquility that Dragan had seen when they¡¯d visited the chapel had utterly vanished.


    Getting suitable disguises hadn¡¯t been much of an issue -- red robes and a haughty demeanor seemed to do the job as well as anything else. Dragan pulled his hood down low as he and his group made their way through a transport hub that seemed to have become something of a civil battlefield.


    "So we¡¯re aboard," Bruno muttered, walking alongside him. "What do we do now? Skipper really didn¡¯t give us any orders?"


    "I don¡¯t take orders from that guy," Dragan said automatically, before pulling out his script to glance at the file again. "No instructions, either. Still¡­"


    "Still what?" Ruth asked, bringing up the rear. Despite Dragan¡¯s insistence, she hadn¡¯t pulled up her hood, her distinctive ginger hair out for all to see.


    "Maybe all the context we need is the file itself?" Dragan ventured, stepping out of the way of a passing security officer.


    Bruno raised a nearly unseen eyebrow. "How¡¯d you mean?"


    "The one who sent this is this Isabelle Pi Testament person, right?" Dragan said. "I kept up to date on the news while we were on our way here. Word is that the Superbians still haven¡¯t found her. Maybe if we find her, the next step will become more obvious?"


    "And how exactly are we going to do that?"


    Dragan nodded to the station at the heart of this transport hub, where trains took workers to whatever part of the ship was required. Even with everything going on, the trains still seemed to be running.


    "Aether ping," he said. "I¡¯ve had some practice recently doing it rapid-burst. I take the train all the way around, pinging the whole time -- I¡¯ll send you guys the locations of Aether-users who seem to be hiding away from other people. That way, we can search the whole ship quickly."


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Bruno frowned. "That means leaving you alone, though. You sure about that?"


    Serena frowned too. "Last time we did that, you ended up almost dying! I don¡¯t want you to almost die again, Mr. Dragan."


    "I¡¯d rather avoid that, too," Dragan said, his voice droll. "So I¡¯ll make sure it doesn¡¯t happen. Trust me."


    Ruth crossed her arms, biting her lip. "This¡­ doesn¡¯t seem like the best plan ever, not gonna lie." She glanced around the area, at the agitation of the crowds trying to board civilian transport and the security forces trying to keep them contained. "Especially with all this stuff going on."


    Dragan ran a hand over his face, becoming agitated. "Look," he said. "We can¡¯t argue about this all day. With the civilian trains like that, there¡¯s no telling how long the worker transport will be up and running for. Do you trust me?"


    Ruth nodded. "Of course."


    "Then trust me. We can do this."


    She exchanged a glance with Bruno and Serena, before finally -- and reluctantly -- nodding.


    "Fine," Bruno growled. "Just¡­ don¡¯t get careless, okay?"


    Dragan smirked. "Never."


    Jean Lyons ran his hands over the final piece of the plan, only the slightest trace of pride in his posture and smile. The device was cylindrical, but intentionally featureless -- without lights or controls through which its purpose could be discerned. It was perfect in its absence.


    The Humilists had been dealt with by cutting off their head. The Superbians would be dealt with by driving their mastermind to despair. Which left the Paradisas¡­


    The device Jean had loaded into the tiny shuttle was at the forefront of Supremacy technology, straight from the Absurd Weapons Lab itself. Jean¡¯s research had exposed a deficiency in the Paradisas¡¯ defenses, and once he used that deficiency to get this device aboard the ELIZA, they were as good as dealt with as well.


    This had been an invigorating mission, all things considered, but Jean had begun to tire of it. So many factors to consider, and so much instability within his own subordinates¡­ it would be good to wipe the slate clean. Perhaps he¡¯d take some vacation days once he got back to the Supremacy. Atlantica would like that as well, he slyly imagined.


    He checked the straps holding the cylinder down one more time before turning to look out the back of the shuttle.


    "It¡¯s secure," he began. "Prepare for¡­"


    He¡¯d intended to speak to Solstice and Equinox, the only two units he had that were still stable and usable. However, they were not standing before him. Instead, their hefty bodies were lying on the hangar floor, clearly unconscious or dead.


    The one standing before him¡­


    ¡­was Atoy Muzazi.


    "We have matters to discuss, Mr. Lyons," he said, voice cold.


    He looked a little worse for wear, his face bruised and painted with dried blood -- and blood dripped from the sword he was holding, as well, which Jean supposed answered how exactly he¡¯d done away with Solstice and Equinox. Even so¡­ given what Jean had heard about Gertrude Hearth¡¯s interrogation methods, Muzazi was in much better condition than he¡¯d expected.


    Not good enough condition to make a difference¡­ but still.


    Jean clasped his hands behind his back, looking impassively down at Muzazi from the top of the boarding ramp.


    "If I may ask," he said calmly. "How did you find this location? I don¡¯t recall telling you about it."


    Muzazi flicked his blade through the air, splattering the remaining blood onto the ground. "Helga Malwarian pointed me in the right direction. She is familiar with how you operate. From there, it was a matter of searching."


    Jean raised an eyebrow. "Should I take that as confirmation that Helga has betrayed me, then?"


    "I¡¯m not sure you should be speaking of betrayal to anyone," Muzazi glared. "Why did you send Olga to kill me?"


    He knew about that, then. Well, since he wasn¡¯t dead, it was already clear that he knew about that. Jean sighed.


    "You¡¯d become more of a liability than an asset," he explained. "So I went to get rid of you. It¡¯s as simple as that. Sorry."


    Muzazi took a step forward, fury in his eyes, white Aether crackling around his body and sword. The blade in his hand began to gently glow.


    What an annoyingly flashy Aether tic¡­ the same as that man¡¯s¡­


    "Sorry?!" Muzazi snarled, squeezing the hilt of his sword. "You send me to do your dirty work, send a child to stab me in the back, and then say sorry?!"


    "Yes."


    Muzazi shifted his stance slightly, getting ready to launch himself forward. His eyes narrowed, visibly locking onto Jean¡¯s form, calculating the killing angle. The mechanisms of a warrior never changed.


    "Once, you told me of your past," Muzazi growled, his grim eyes reflected on the surface of his blade. "Of how you once opposed the Supremacy, and of how you and your friends were annihilated. Having gone through that¡­ having experienced all of that¡­ how can you betray others so easily¡­?"


    Jean furrowed his brow. "Opposed the Supremacy? What are you -- oh." The memory popped back up. "I did tell you something like that, didn¡¯t I? Forgive me. That was a lie for the purpose of emotional manipulation."


    Muzazi stared at Jean for a second, dumbfounded --


    -- and then he leapt off the ground.


    "LYONS!" he roared, crossing the distance in a second, swinging his sword horizontally with all his might. Jean did not move as Muzazi appeared right in front of his face, Jean did not move as his sword drew close to splitting his head in half, and Jean did not move as the weapon finally¡­


    ¡­made contact.


    Muzazi¡¯s sword gently brushed against Lyons¡¯ cheek. It was as if he¡¯d just caressed the other man¡¯s face with it. The touch of the blade was so soft that it didn¡¯t even draw blood.


    Lyons smirked, resting one finger on the surface of the blade. "Is that all you have to offer, Mr. Muzazi?"


    "What¡­" Muzazi muttered. "What did you¡­?!"


    Bang.


    The blade exploded utterly, shards of metal flying in every direction, only failing to slice the two of them apart due to their Aether defenses. Still, Muzazi reflexively winced, closing his eyes for just a moment as the metal shards flew past.


    The second he did that, he felt Lyons gently place his palm against his chest.


    He didn¡¯t know how Lyons had done it, but he¡¯d destroyed the sword with just a touch. If that same ability could be applied to a human body, then¡­


    Move!


    Muzazi went to leap back, but too late.


    Bang.


    The impact felt like he¡¯d been struck by a starship. Before he could blink or even breathe, Muzazi was sent flying out of the back of the shuttle -- through the crates and equipment that littered the hangar bay -- and into the far metal wall with enough force that he left a sizable crater, lodging him into place.


    All the air was instantly pushed out of his lungs, and he felt the breaking of bones throughout his body. His head hung, blood leaking from his mouth¡­


    ¡­and his consciousness sinking into a deep, dark pit.


    "I¡¯ve got one I think might be her," Dragan said, script pressed to his ear. "Sending you her location now. I¡¯m at the last stop -- I¡¯ll be on my way back to the first station after this."


    He heard Ruth¡¯s voice on the other end of the call. "You gonna meet back up with us?"


    Dragan looked out at the platform and that pretty much answered the question for him.


    At first, he just shook his head, before realizing Ruth couldn¡¯t see that over the phone. "No," he said. "It¡¯d take too much time. You guys set off now, and I¡¯ll head back to guard the ship. Sound good?"


    Ruth snorted. "Sounds like you¡¯re just trying to keep yourself out of danger, but whatever. We¡¯ll find you after we¡¯ve got her. Don¡¯t die."


    "I don¡¯t think that¡¯s too likely," Dragan lied, before ending the call.


    The worker train had been sparse to begin with, but by the final station he was now the only person in any of the compartments. The vehicle was fully automated, too, so there was no driver or staff aboard either. That was probably for the best.


    It would have caused a commotion if their Apexbishop was waiting on the platform for them, after all.


    Giovanni Sigma Testament stood alone on the empty platform, his red eyes locked onto Dragan¡¯s blue ones as the train slowly pulled in. The train itself was suspended by cords connecting it to the track above, the vehicle hanging over a mechanical abyss, and for a horrible second Dragan thought that Giovanni would simply attack those connections and drop him into the darkness¡­ but no.


    Instead, he just waited for the train doors to open, and quietly stepped inside. He stood opposite Dragan, just a few meters separating them. At first, there were no words between them, just silent stares as the doors closed and the train slowly began moving again.


    Dragan was the first to speak. "Is there any point in asking how you found me?"


    "I remember the feel of your Aether from last time," Giovanni replied, his voice sounding dull and dead. "You weren¡¯t exactly subtle with those pings. You must have expected I¡¯d find you."


    "Well," Dragan smirked. "Maybe a little."


    Giovanni glanced down at the script still in Dragan¡¯s hand. "You told your friend you¡¯d meet back up. Is that okay?"


    Dragan stuffed the script back into his pocket. "I don¡¯t intend on that being a lie. How about you? With everything going on, I¡¯m sure you have better things to do than come after me. You confessed to murdering the Cardinals -- and that recording¡¯s all over the media now. Isn¡¯t that a bigger issue?"


    As the train picked up speed, light from the static electricity that accumulated outside flickered through the windows, illuminating their faces in a pale glow. Giovanni¡¯s expression did not change.


    "It takes fifteen minutes for this train to reach the first station after completing the loop," he said calmly. "I can spare fifteen minutes. Once you¡¯re dead, I¡¯ll get back to those more important matters you speak of. Besides¡­ you want to fight me, too, don¡¯t you?"


    Dragan adopted a combat stance, fists held up in front of him. "We do owe each other some limbs, after all. Petty revenge is one of my favourite hobbies."


    "What a coincidence. I¡¯m exactly the same. Once you¡¯re dead, Jamie will rest in peace. Then I can go ahead and forget about you."


    "You sound confident. Guess that¡¯s what all that time playing god gets you."


    "I¡¯m not playing."


    There was silence for a moment further, lingering only until the train switched to a new section of track and shook slightly.


    "First Verse!" Giovanni declared, twin spears of red crystal firing from over his shoulders.


    "Gemini Shotgun!" Dragan cried, electric blue Aether flaring around him.

 Chapter 248:9.39: Last Train Home

    AUTOMATIC NOTICE


    Worker Transport 9 is currently out of order. No workers are to board Worker Transport 9. The reason for the current status has been declared as [INVALID]. If workers have any further questions, please refer them to a direct supervisor.


    Updates on alternative transport arrangements are due to take place at [INVALID].


    We apologize for the inconvenience.


    Automatic Notice, Deus Nobiscum


    The red spears of crystal vanished an instant before they hit Dragan¡¯s face -- and he used the shower of blue sparks that Gemini Shotgun created in the process as a smokescreen.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan had already fought in massive starstations and starships since developing Gemini World. Even though it was foolish to think those vehicles were remaining stationary when he recorded himself into Aether, the fact remained that his Aether cloud remained affixed relative to their position. That was why he didn¡¯t go flying off into the void of space when he used Gemini World on the Slipstream, for example.


    For a smaller vehicle like this train, though, that wasn¡¯t the case.


    Gemini World.


    He was recorded for less than a fraction of a second before he reappeared -- suddenly right behind Giovanni, low to the ground, his eyes blazing blue. His Aether cloud had remained in place while the train had moved, allowing Dragan to cross an impressive distance in much less time than usual.


    He still had the two spears stored up. Two bladed weapons, sculpted and perfected to stab his enemy through the back.


    But before he had the chance to use them, two words passed Giovanni¡¯s unseen lips.


    "Second Verse."


    The sphere of red crystal appeared around his adversary¡¯s body in less than a second, but the defense wasn¡¯t the worrying part about it. Gemini World would be left behind by the train, but the same was true of Giovanni¡¯s crystal shield. Dragan¡­ hadn¡¯t considered that.


    It struck him like a truck.


    All the air was pushed out of Dragon¡¯s lungs as his limbs were splayed out, pressed right against the shield¡¯s surface as it forced him onwards. The insides of the train were scraped away by the crystal as it rushed past, the locomotive leaving them behind as it zoomed through the tracks.


    One compartment, then another, then another. They passed like the flashes of a camera.


    Dragan couldn¡¯t escape this using Gemini World: if he tried, he¡¯d just end up being forced off the train anyway. Besides, Gemini World couldn¡¯t pass through solid objects -- the Aether cloud would just be forced along by the shield too.


    There¡¯d be just one chance. One chance to stay on the train. Right when the shield smashed through the end of the very back compartment, he could enter Gemini World, slip upwards, and grab onto the edge of the carriage. It was a long shot, but those seemed to be the only kind he was getting right now.


    Through the semi-transparent surface of the shield, Dragan could see Giovanni¡¯s detached gaze fixed onto his own eyes. Anger boiled in his veins.


    Don¡¯t give me that look, asshole, he thought. You haven¡¯t won.


    Another compartment. And another. Just two left. Sparks showered from decapitated machinery as the two of them continued their journey.


    All of Dragan¡¯s Aether was focused into his back, to protect his spine from everything he was smashing through. Right now, he was the very tip of this battering ram. If he let up his concentration for even a moment, he¡¯d be crushed into paste.


    Another compartment. A stray piece of machinery struck Dragan in the side of his head, and blood ran down over one eye. He ignored it.


    Through the shield, past Giovanni, he could see the flare of distorted light off in the distance, back where this ramshackle journey had started. It seemed a fire had started throughout the train: Dragan suspected the vehicle wasn¡¯t going much further regardless of what happened here.


    The final compartment.


    Dragan smashed through the back window, shards of glass flying through the air and slashing at his back and shoulders. He tasted cold air for just a moment, just a split-second, before¡­


    Gemini World.


    ¡­he moved.


    He was recorded for just an instant, and in that moment he slipped across and above the crystal shield. When he reappeared, he was hanging off the edge of the warped train carriage, the air pressure causing his body to flap like a piece of fabric behind him.


    Right. Okay. He¡¯d managed to keep hold.


    He had to get back up onto the train itself quickly. Giovanni would no doubt pursue: if Dragan didn¡¯t have solid footing by that time, he was dead. Those red spears of his were deadly: Dragan would need to stay on guard with Shotgun to keep himself from being skewered.


    With a grunt, he pulled himself up onto the train further, up to his chest. He looked up.


    Giovanni looked back down at him.


    Huh?


    Dragan had just seen that shield fly off into the abyss. He was absolutely certain that Giovanni had still been inside the sphere at that time, but¡­ oh. Oh, that was clever.


    "Seventh Verse," Giovanni said impassively. "It allows me to teleport myself or objects between two designated points. I set one point on the roof of the train while I was boarding, and then another behind me while I was flying off. Your limited abilities were simply insufficient to counter my moves."


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. "Not exactly fair for one guy to have so many abilities, you know¡­"


    Giovanni raised an eyebrow. "I suppose the ant would become bitter at the size of the boot. Nevertheless¡­ it¡¯s over. First Verse."


    Four spears appeared floating over the Apexbishop¡¯s shoulders -- and with a snap of his fingers, they flew down towards Dragan, one aimed at each of his limbs. If he¡¯d given up, then and there, that would have been the end of him.


    But the only one who decided what happened to him was him.


    Gemini World!


    Dragan recorded his own body -- save for his left hand, which was left disembodied hanging on for dear life. Three crystal spears sailed off uselessly into the darkness below. Dragan¡¯s left hand pulled itself onto the train and -- with the speed granted by its reduced size -- scuttled between Giovanni¡¯s legs on its fingers like some kind of demented spider.


    Giovanni stamped down -- but the target was too small, and too agile, quickly springing out of the way.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan reappeared from the hand upwards, crouching low -- and now he was holding one of the recorded spears in his other hand. With a snarl he stabbed it down, driving it through Giovanni¡¯s foot and the roof of the train, pinning him in place there.


    Giovanni gritted his teeth in pain, but he did not scream. Instead, he raised his arm and summoned another two spears, their tips pointing at Dragan¡¯s face.


    "First Verse," the Apexbishop spat.


    At this distance, Gemini Shotgun wasn¡¯t reliable. Dragan jumped backwards onto the next carriage, one hand gripping a ring on the roof to stop himself from flying off the train -- and the spears thundered through the spot he¡¯d just been standing, leaving sizable holes in the metal.


    He¡¯d pinned Giovanni to the train carriage. That was the first step.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    Two recorded spears, fired in different directions -- one at the connector between Dragan¡¯s carriage and Giovanni¡¯s, and another at the cord connecting Giovanni¡¯s carriage to the rails. Both hit their marks, metal screeching as the connections snapped, and Giovanni¡¯s carriage was cut apart from the rest of the train.


    Giovanni, stuck to the roof, could only glare at Dragan as he and the carriage went plummeting into the abyss, vanishing from sight after just a moment.


    Dragan let out a deep breath, stepping off to the side of the train. He glanced left and right, knowing that Giovanni would reappear sooner rather than later. He wasn¡¯t foolish enough to think that maneuver killed him.


    Giovanni had said he¡¯d set his teleport points when he was getting on the train, but he hadn¡¯t actually gone to the roof at that time. That suggested that ability worked based on line-of-sight, so there was nothing stopping him from just doing the same trick again. If not, he had that red ring that allowed him to fly -- Dragan hadn¡¯t had a chance to observe that ability¡¯s maximum speed, but he should assume that catching up with the train was possible for it.


    So. Giovanni would either use his teleport to get back onto the train directly, or chase after it with his flight. If Dragan kept both directions in his view, he could respond to whatever strategy Giovanni went with.


    In the end, Giovanni chose neither.


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    The train ruptured inwards as something heavy and fast slammed into it from below, demolishing the carriages and disconnecting the wreckage from the rails. For a moment, as the carriage began to plummet, Dragan seized hold of it for dear life -- before realizing just how pointless that was.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan disappeared from the hail of debris, then reappeared a second later free of it -- his legs still recorded, however, allowing him flight. He floated in the darkness for a moment, looking up at the warped remains of the rails far above. Sparks rained weakly down, illuminating the abyss for brief insants.


    Sweat ran down Dragan¡¯s forehead.


    Giovanni did not give him time to catch his breath, however. Before he could so much as get his bearings, Dragan was forced to dodge off to the side to avoid a lightning-fast smear of red, so quick that he could only detect its movements from the air pressure. Even with all the speed he could muster, the weapon brushed past his face, scraping at his skin.


    "Interesting," Giovanni said mildly. "I intended to take your head off with that."


    Dragan breathed shakily as he regained his balance, glaring at the new arrival.


    As he¡¯d expected, Giovanni was using the red ring floating over his back to fly. He¡¯d ditched the spears, however, and was using a weapon Dragan hadn¡¯t seen before. A long chain formed of that same red crystal was held in his hands, and at the end of that long chain was the sphere he¡¯d used earlier, the links wrapped tight around it. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    In short, a makeshift flail, ridiculously oversized and ridiculously fast.


    "Eighth Verse," Giovanni said, noticing Dragan¡¯s gaze. "A holy chain that can seize hold of anything I wish. I can also use it with my shields to create a weapon like this one. Since you can just redirect ranged attacks, I supposed this to be a better approach."


    He began to wind the chain around and around, the flail whipping through the air as he got ready for another attack.


    Dragan narrowed his eyes. Why was Giovanni so insistent on explaining his abilities as he used them? Was it a condition for his power, was there some kind of trick in the explanation itself, or¡­?


    He didn¡¯t have time to consider the dilemma.


    Giovanni swung the flail horizontally, intending to smash him into paste, and Dragan flew further down to avoid it. Even knowing the attack was coming, however, it was simply too fast to dodge completely. Dragan felt the bones in his arm snap as the weapon brushed against the limb.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan recorded the damaged bones into his Aether before he could so much as feel the pain. So long as the limb itself was intact, he could continue to use it with his Aether filling the role of the missing bones. If Giovanni wanted to take him out of the game, he would have to completely destroy his brain.


    Not to say that he wasn¡¯t trying to do that, though.


    Another swing, this one vertical, coming down like the hammer of god. Dragan vanished into Gemini World completely as the weapon swung past, appearing again a second later perched atop the shield itself.


    Giovanni needed to wind up for these brutal attacks: so long as Dragan could stop him from doing that, he was safe.


    "Gemini Shotgun!" Dragan cried, firing the two spears he had left right at Giovanni¡¯s face.


    "Useless!" Giovanni roared back. "First Verse!"


    Two identical spears manifested over his own shoulders, firing at Dragan¡¯s projectiles. The four spears collided in mid-air, each destroyed by the impact -- but as the shards of crystal rained down, Dragan absorbed them as well. He fired them out like a true shotgun blast, the shards flying back at Giovanni like pieces of broken glass.


    The slightest twitch in Giovanni¡¯s expression. This was not something he¡¯d anticipated. That alone told Dragan that this was not a hopeless fight.


    "Eighth Verse!" Giovanni yelled -- and another red chain burst out from his back, attaching to a distant wall and pulling him out of the way of Dragan¡¯s attack. The speed that the chain reeled him in was far superior to his ordinary flight -- Dragan could barely follow him with his eyes as he was pulled off into the distance.


    Giovanni landed on the far wall, his gaze still locked onto Dragan.


    "First Verse," he growled.


    More spears than Dragan had seen before blinked into existence one by one, until he was staring at the points of thirty or so crystal blades, each directly aimed at the spot between his eyes. But¡­


    ¡­ this didn¡¯t ring true.


    Giovanni had just said it himself, hadn¡¯t he? Ranged attacks were worse than useless against Dragan -- all they did was give him more and better ammunition. He knew that, so why would he be going for such a pointless move?


    The obvious answer was that this attack had another purpose. A smokescreen, maybe? Either way, all Dragan had to do was hide until Giovanni¡¯s opportunity passed.


    The spears fired.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan vanished as the projectiles sailed past, waited a few more seconds to let any secondary attacks go past too, then reappeared. His eyes darted around as he remained wary, expecting an attack from the flail to come any moment. He glanced back at Giovanni¡¯s position --


    Giovanni was gone.


    "No," said the Apexbishop from below him. "I¡¯m still here."


    Shit! He¡¯d only just recently become able to fly, so he¡¯d neglected to think of this fight as being in three dimensions. How the hell had Giovanni crossed this distance so fast, though?!


    The answer presented itself as Dragan saw the red chain dissipating from below him, too. Giovanni had attached his chain to one of the spears and flew along with it, moving to Dragan¡¯s position while he was in Gemini World. That was how he¡¯d moved with such incredible speed.


    Dragan went to pull his legs up, but too late. He felt Giovanni¡¯s hand seize hold of his ankle.


    "Fifth Verse¡­" he hissed, quiet as death.


    The effect was immediate. Sweat began to pour down Dragan¡¯s skin. His limbs began to tremble. His lungs began to burn. His vision began to waver. In the span of a few seconds, his body began to betray him.


    He had to get away.


    Gemini¡­ World¡­


    He disappeared from Giovanni¡¯s grip, and then appeared maybe half-a-second later floating the shortest distance away. He hadn¡¯t stayed so close for any tactical reason -- it was just that he had no confidence he¡¯d be able to keep up a full-body Gemini World for any extended period of time.


    He panted, floating shakily as he kept watch over Giovanni.


    "Fifth Verse¡­" Giovanni grinned darkly, looking up at him. "I wasn¡¯t sure if it could be used like this, but it seems my experiment is a success. Fifth Verse is an ability that allows me to heal others, you see. It supercharges a body¡¯s regenerative abilities to recover from grave injuries."


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "What? Then how¡­"


    "How did I use it as an attack?" Giovanni cut him off. "It¡¯s simple. It¡¯s only possible because I¡¯m fighting you. I saw it last time. You record your injuries into your Aether, correct? As a result, your body is confused as to whether or not it¡¯s injured."


    He was doing it again. Why so insistent on explaining as he went?


    "As such," Giovanni continued. "When I try to heal you, your body basically wastes massive amounts of energy trying to heal injuries that don¡¯t exist. I touched you for around three seconds -- you should be feeling like you just finished a marathon right about now. Well, how about it? Uncomfortable?"


    Dragan spat down into the pit. "Hardly. I can handle a little jog. Is that a problem for you?"


    Giovanni did not respond to the bait. He just stared, his eyes dead and passionless. Long seconds stretched on, the only sound in the abyss being Dragan¡¯s ragged breathing.


    "Shall we end this?" he asked, voice flat.


    He rushed forward.


    For anyone watching from the outside, the rest of the fight would have been an incomprehensible blur. Even to those fighting, it was a matter of instinct and response, attack and defense flowing into each other like the currents of the ocean. To describe it fully would be to imply a structure that simply does not exist.


    To put it briefly, though:


    Dragan weaved through barrages of the First Verse sixty-three times.


    Dragan was pulled across the room by the Eighth Verse fifteen times.


    Dragan avoided the flail of the Second Verse seven times.


    Dragan felt the direct touch of the Fifth Verse four times.


    And, the end of the fight commenced¡­


    ¡­with one punch.


    It slammed into Dragan¡¯s face from his blind spot, striking him in the head with utmost force. Dragan poured his Aether into his skull to defend his brain, but that was not Giovanni¡¯s true target. Instead, with the lowest chuckle -- the Apexbishop drove his thumb into Dragan¡¯s eye socket.


    There was not the pain that Dragan would have expected. Just a wet crunch, and the feeling of pressure giving way¡­ as his left eyeball was utterly crushed. His vision blinked out like a broken camera.


    G-Gemini¡­ Wor¡­


    But no.


    Giovanni was using his Fifth Verse along with the punch, and with it the last of Dragan¡¯s stamina was drained away. It felt as if his bones had suddenly been turned hollow, like the slightest breeze would shatter him into nothing.


    What Giovanni gave him was not the slightest breeze.


    The Apexbishop seized hold of Dragan¡¯s arms, planted his foot right on Dragan¡¯s chest -- and, using that monstrous leverage, tore the limbs free from his body. Blood rained down from the stumps. Giovanni tossed the arms off into the darkness.


    This time, Dragan felt the pain that he¡¯d expected. And Dragan screamed.


    Giovanni slammed his other foot down onto Dragan¡¯s chest as well, driving the two of them down further and further into the abyss, past flickering lights and esoteric machinery¡­ until they finally reached the bottom.


    Dragan struck the floor first, breaking Giovanni¡¯s fall. It was only thanks to what remained of Dragan¡¯s Aether that he wasn¡¯t pulped by the impact alone, but just surviving was all he could manage. He felt his ribs break in his chest, and his legs crumple and snap.


    It hurt when he breathed. Had something punctured his lung? It felt like his brain was swimming through a viscous liquid. Everything was¡­ heavy¡­


    Giovanni stepped off of Dragan¡¯s chest, brushing dust off his robes. "And so you see," he said calmly. "This is how it ends. You took on a task you were insufficient for, and so you perished. Well¡­ are you dead?"


    Dragan was incapable of answering, but his eyes weakly followed Giovanni¡¯s movements.


    "Surely this isn¡¯t all you can do, though¡­" Giovanni muttered -- and he sounded genuinely, desperately distraught. "Surely you can do more. Get up. Do something. You wanted to beat me, right? Beat me. Come on."


    Dragan mumbled something incoherent in both thought and word. Giovanni squatted down next to him, staring intently.


    "If I tell you what I intend, perhaps you¡¯ll find some last bit of strength," he whispered, almost beseechingly. "The Deus Nobiscum is one of the few starships capable of executing an FTL jump without the aid of a lightpoint. I¡¯m going to perform such a jump through the Menagerie and the ELIZA, utterly destroying them. I¡¯ve sent away the Superbian leadership, but the other sects will be decapitated. I¡¯m going to kill so many people, Dragan. Will that fact make you get up?"


    Dragan said nothing. He couldn¡¯t.


    The hope died from Giovanni¡¯s eyes, and he stood up. "I won¡¯t finish you off," he said sadly. "There¡¯s no point. If there¡¯s no more fight in you, then stay here and disappear. If you somehow survive, however¡­"


    The red ring appeared behind Giovanni¡¯s back, and he floated up into the air.


    "...then please do your best to kill me next time."


    With those last words, he flew off into the darkness leaving Dragan alone at the bottom of the world. Blue Aether crackled weakly around his soon-to-be cadaver, illuminating the space for brief moments but slowly¡­


    ¡­slowly¡­


    ¡­beginning to die.

 Chapter 249:9.40: Blank Canvas

    Games contained in this bundle:


    Love under the Havoc Moon (SozliSoft, 928 ATR)


    Let the Angels In (Mayin del Err, 1012 ATR)


    My Cabin on the Beach and the Monsters Underneath (SozliSoft, 976 ATR)


    BlueRed Interlock (Walton Imaginings, 981 ATR)


    Inheritance (For Same, 1001 ATR)


    Make sure to transfer this off the system as soon as possible :P Brinkmann¡¯ll flip!!!


    Recovered File, Brinkmann Lab Private Network


    Pablo was beginning to think he was in hell -- but if he was, it was not an impenetrable one.


    He¡¯d gone through a couple different iterations of this world, and from that he¡¯d managed to pull some information together. From what he could tell, this seemed to be some kind of romance story involving the dolt from the infirmary -- the man who¡¯d given his name as Samuele. He was being prompted to go along with the story, to interact with this Samuele person and learn more about him, which would presumably advance the narrative.


    As if. Pablo certainly wouldn¡¯t be going along with this farce.


    He suspected that if he did, he¡¯d eventually be freed from the grasp of this ability, but he wouldn¡¯t be lowering himself to that degree. He would rather die than submit to a shitty game like this. Besides, if all he did was escape, it would just mean resetting the situation back to how it was originally.


    No¡­ Pablo would accept nothing less than a counterattack.


    He ran through the information he¡¯d gathered from successive loops of the narrative. Killing Samuele reset the story, so Pablo had set a Remote Ant Pawn on his neck, ready to crush his throat upon command. That meant that, after exploration, he could quickly return to his starting point without having to make the journey back.


    Pablo had spent the majority of the first iteration inspecting his surroundings, searching for flaws that he could exploit. That hadn¡¯t been especially fruitful. The setting of this story seemed to be an expansive private art academy, and no matter how closely Pablo looked he could find no logical inconsistencies to take advantage of. If nothing else, Isabelle Pi Testament had certainly put a lot of effort into this trash of hers.


    Once he¡¯d abandoned the academy itself as a point of attack, he¡¯d discovered something far more interesting.


    There was a train station near the academy, and no matter how far he took the train he didn¡¯t reach a boundary or stopping point. The endless city just continued to drift by, full of shops and homes and skyscrapers¡­ but the interesting thing was that the city was so much less detailed than the academy itself. Not to mention, it seemed to be different when Pablo made the journey back.


    His working hypothesis was this: Isabelle had personally designed the academy, but the surrounding city was procedurally generated in a radius around him to create the illusion of a consistent world. He didn¡¯t have an exact measurement of that radius, but he was willing to bet it covered at least his direct line of sight.


    Once he¡¯d determined that, he¡¯d killed Samuele again and moved on to his next experiment. He¡¯d summoned a Seeing Eye Ant, which he shared the senses of, and had it take a train in the opposite direction from him. The city had been generated just as it would have been for himself. What that suggested was that Pablo¡¯s Aether counted as an extension of Pablo for the purposes of this world.


    That fact was the key to his escape from this place.


    Ever since Pablo had been young, he¡¯d enjoyed games. As a child on Yelden, he¡¯d beaten all the neighborhood kids at Ant¡¯s Hive¡¯s Kingdom, scrounging through the garbage to find the best cards thrown away topside. As an adult, he¡¯d turned his talents to producing reality show videographs, bringing together the dysfunctional to compete for the amusement of the masses.


    But Pablo did not enjoy playing games. He enjoyed watching them break. He loved nothing more than to find the crack that turned a game into a farce, and wrench it open. As a child, he¡¯d played cards for the sake of watching the tears in his opponent¡¯s eyes when they lost. As an adult, he¡¯d enjoyed watching the anguish of the vapid troglodytes as they tore themselves apart for the public¡¯s mockery.


    Games existed to be broken and to break others. Something like this world, a pointless game made only to satisfy some sentimentality, was nothing more than masturbation. It was disgusting to him.


    He¡¯d been playing the game called Giovanni Sigma Testament for quite a while now. He¡¯d watched that man ascend to the rank of Apexbishop. He¡¯d watched that man overestimate himself, overextend himself, overwork himself, until he was right on the verge of breaking completely. More than anything, he wanted to see the moment where something with a trace of the divine slipped and fell into the shit with the rest of them.


    Pablo was damned if he was going to miss it, trapped here in this whore¡¯s fantasy.


    He stood in the infirmary, back at the start of the iteration, and pulled a card from his binder. The image on it was blank, and there were no attack or defense values either, nor a card effect. It was just a test card he¡¯d made when he was first developing his ability, after all.


    The only thing it was good for was existing. A thin, vicious grin spread across Pablo¡¯s face.


    "Summon," he declared. "Test Creature."


    Atoy Muzazi pulled himself out of the wall, dust and rubble cascading down around him, and fell to one knee on the cold floor below. His breath came out as wheezes. His hands shook from lingering impact.


    If he hadn¡¯t been an Aether-user, that attack would have resulted in his immediate death. He¡¯d been careless. He could never allow that to happen again.


    He looked up at the source of the blow, his eyes narrowing. Jean Lyons was calmly striding down the boarding ramp of the shuttle, a serene smile on his face. Had Muzazi lost consciousness at any point? No, he couldn¡¯t have. Lyons would have already crossed the distance if that was the case.


    "A swordsman without a sword," Lyons mused, reaching the bottom of the ramp. "Is rather like food without a drink. Both are unsightly. I don¡¯t suppose you have a spare? Then again¡­ the one I just destroyed was your spare, wasn¡¯t it?"


    His words were infuriating, but Muzazi had to admit they were also correct. He had confidence that his hand-to-hand skills were serviceable, but they were hardly his strong point. Atoy Muzazi worked best with a sword in his hands.


    Still¡­ that didn¡¯t mean he could give up.


    He assumed the ¡¯invitation¡¯ position of Hakam-Sho, one arm extended out to receive the enemy¡¯s attack and respond appropriately. With the distance between them, Lyons wouldn¡¯t be able to strike with his own body, but there was no telling what kind of ranged abilities he might have.


    "It¡¯s heartwarming to see a loyal warrior of the Supremacy working so hard," chuckled Lyons, adjusting his tie. "And yet it seems your body has already taken quite the beating. I feel sorry for you. I¡¯m so anguished, I think I¡¯ll give you a free shot. Come over here and give me your best."


    Lyons spread his arms wide, a mocking smirk on his pale lips. Muzazi gritted his teeth in frustration. There couldn¡¯t have been a more obvious trap.


    Muzazi ran through the situation in his head, stepping back to maintain distance as Lyons slowly approached. When he¡¯d struck Lyons the first time, he was certain he¡¯d put all his strength into the swing -- and yet by the time the attack had reached Lyons, it had been as gentle as an infant. It had slowed immeasurably down in the instant before it had made contact.


    "There is a field around your body?" Muzazi called out. "That reduces the speed of any hostile attack to uselessness. Am I right?"


    Lyons¡¯ expression did not shift. "I have no reason to answer that."


    As expected. "You said you¡¯d give me a free hit? That¡¯s a promise, I take it?"


    "Of course," Lyons said. "If nothing else, I¡¯m an earnest man of my word. Please, step over and strike me as hard as you like."


    Muzazi stopped. "I think I¡¯ll take you up on that offer¡­" he began -- before planting his hand on the metal crate next to him. "But I¡¯ll be staying right here."


    A thruster -- full strength -- flared into life on the back of the crate, and it went flying towards Lyons. This was an experiment. Lyons had demonstrated the ability to nullify close-range attacks, but did the same principle apply if Muzazi attacked from range?


    The crate skidded across the floor towards Lyons, so quickly that it kicked up sparks --


    -- and slowed to a crawl just before it would have slammed into him. Lyons, still smiling, moved it out of the way with his hand as he stepped forward.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    "It¡¯s even more distasteful for a swordsman to start throwing things," the pale man said. "Is this some kind of tantrum you¡¯re having, Mr. Muzazi?"


    "Please don¡¯t disparage my attack until it¡¯s complete."


    Lyons frowned -- and then looked up, his eyes widening fractionally.


    Muzazi had been hoping that the first attack would work, but it had hardly been his only bet. He¡¯d moved a second crate at the first time as the first, only he¡¯d used his thrusters to bring it up into the air directly above Lyons. In that way, the first crate had been a distraction as much as an actual attack.


    The thruster holding the second crate aloft sputtered out -- and the crate plummeted down towards Lyons.


    Immediately, Lyons leapt out of the way with catlike speed, the crate thudding down in the spot he¡¯d just been standing. That settled it, then. Ordinary ranged attacks didn¡¯t work, but Lyons had a reason to fear attacks from above.


    Muzazi didn¡¯t give him a chance to catch his breath.


    He charged in, striking at Lyons¡¯ face with a kick -- and as he¡¯d expected, the strike ended its flight with the strength of a feather. Before Lyons could grab his leg again, Muzazi pulled it back -- and leapt out of the way as Lyons pushed his flat palm forwards. A second after he dodged, a huge dent appeared in the wall behind where he¡¯d been standing a moment earlier, like it had been punched by a giant¡¯s fist.


    Noted. He didn¡¯t need to be touching something directly to unleash that attack. Muzazi would take that into consideration.


    "Is this all you have to offer, Mr. Muzazi?" Lyons snarled, annoyance trickling into his tone for the first time. "The endless repetition of a useless assault?"


    Muzazi did not answer. Words were this man¡¯s weapon. He would not expose himself to them.


    He¡¯d already taken the steps he needed, after all.


    Thrusters burst into existence all over the crates that littered the hangar, and they moved as one -- spinning to form a circle around Jean Lyons. Muzazi clapped his hands together as a signal as he leapt backwards, and they converged upon the Director of the GID, concealing him from view. A final crate landed from above, forming the roof of the steel prison.


    From what Muzazi had observed, Lyons drained the kinetic force of incoming attacks and then released it to retaliate. That draining effect slowed down objects, but it couldn¡¯t stop them completely -- and it didn¡¯t affect their weight, either, hence why he¡¯d been forced to dodge the attack from above.


    That meant he could be killed with this. Slowly, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Muzazi could use the thrusters to bring those crates together -- and crush Lyons between them. Even if it took an age, he could win.


    "You lost because you were weak, Jean," Muzazi declared, clenching his fist as the crates drew closer and closer, metal warping as they were forced into a single point. "Your power was in robbing others of their own strength. Without that, you¡¯re nothing but a liar in a cheap suit!"


    For a moment, there was silence from within the crates, save for the groaning of strained metal.


    Then, however, Jean Lyons spoke.


    "Weak?" he hissed.


    Despite everything he¡¯d just said, Atoy Muzazi felt a chill go down his spine. In that one word, more emotional than he¡¯d ever heard from Lyons, was bottomless resentment and bitterness. It was the voice of a great beast, slithering through the darkness of the earth, noticing the light for the first time.


    It was the sound of utter malice.


    Bang.


    The crates exploded outwards, smashed into tiny fragments from the force of the explosion between them. Muzazi¡¯s hand whipped out, driven by reflex, and seized a jagged shard out of the air in the instant before it would have speared through his eye. He tossed it aside, a cold sweat coating his skin.


    Jean Lyons descended the wreckage of the crates as if they were a staircase.


    His suit had been shredded by the impact of his last attack, revealing a body that had clearly been honed for combat. His face, for the first time, was twisted in rage. One hand was limp at his side, while the other was raised up -- and if Muzazi looked closely, he could see that it was holding something near-invisible, a rippling of the air that looked something like a gargantuan club.


    Pure force, he realized. Lyons¡¯ weapon was sculpted directly out of the energy he¡¯d absorbed.


    "Weak?" Lyons repeated, spitting on the ground. "As if I¡¯d employ a subordinate stronger than myself. You don¡¯t understand a thing, Atoy Muzazi. So I¡¯ll educate you now¡­"


    He pulled the tremendous club back --


    "...body and soul!"


    -- and swung it.


    Isabelle Pi Testament had come to know games before knowing people.


    It had been decided quickly into her life that she was a failure, but not to such a degree that she should be recycled. As such, she¡¯d been employed as one of Brinkmann¡¯s aides for a time, assisting him with his experiments and serving his needs. Each day had stretched on and on like so much cold clockwork, and Isabelle¡¯s heart had frozen with it.


    Until she¡¯d found them.


    It had been an utter coincidence, a bundle of files on the mainframe left behind by a previous employee. A number of classic narrative games, collected over many years. Isabelle had found them during routine maintenance.


    She¡¯d been enthralled.


    For the first time, she had a glimpse of the world outside the lab. She¡¯d learnt that people were meant to have relationships with each other, family and friends and love. She¡¯d learnt that there was more to the world than the walls she knew. She¡¯d learnt there was another life that she could live.


    A few weeks later, she¡¯d left the lab and joined the Superbian sect proper. Brinkmann had been furious. It had taken months to get back into his good books.


    Still¡­ the humanity she¡¯d found was still there. That was what was stopping her from going along with what Giovanni wanted. That was what drove her feet now, as she ran through the halls of the Deus Nobiscum.


    That was what made her hand tighten around the pistol she held in her hand, as she made her way to that person¡¯s location as quickly as possible. The only way to end this would be to kill them, to remove them from the head of the¡­


    Wait.


    To kill who?


    Isabelle skidded to a halt in the middle of an abandoned amphitheater, looking down in confusion at the weapon in her hand. She was going to use this to kill someone, but who? And why? It had completely slipped her mind. She¡¯d taken this gun from Pablo, but¡­ why had Pablo been after her? She couldn¡¯t remember.


    Alarm spiked in her chest. Something was wrong.


    Crack.


    Isabelle fell to her knees as a surge of pain exploded into her brain, forcing her to let out all the air in her lungs. Slowly, she looked at her reflection in the window.


    A human arm was protruding from the back of her head, framed by noxious yellow Aether, slowly pulling itself out more and more. The impression was slipping, but she recognised Pablo¡¯s arm and his Aether. He¡¯d done something. He¡¯d done something. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I¡¯m guessing your ability was meant for your own use?" Pablo laughed. A second arm emerged from her Aether, joining the first, causing her to fall completely to the floor and scream. "That¡¯s why the defenses were so awful. There¡¯s no way you¡¯d try to break out of your own little paradise, right?"


    Isabelle gasped through the pain. "What¡­what did you¡­"


    It wasn¡¯t just pain that made her words slow and halting. It was like the memory of how to speak was slowly breaking apart inside her head, disintegrating into nothingness at a horrifying speed. It was all she could do just to hold onto her sense of self.


    Another spark of Aether, another blast of pain, and Pablo¡¯s head sprung out of her Aether as well. He pulled himself further out with his hands, his upper torso coming into view.


    "You picked the wrong enemy, ma¡¯am," he giggled with mocking etiquette. "That setting generates itself around the player, but I have the ability to spread my Aether out over a very large area."


    He pulled himself out up to his hips. With one hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a blank trading card.


    "You see this?" he asked, even though he knew she couldn¡¯t. It was all she could do just to remember how to understand him. "This is a test card I made when I was developing my ability. It makes a tiny little ant, no different than a normal one. Can¡¯t do anything to attack or defend. Can¡¯t do anything except exist. That¡¯s all I needed in this case, though."


    He freed himself fully, his legs popping out of his Aether as well. As his foot came out of Isabelle¡¯s head, he gave her a little kick, rolling her onto her back. She could do nothing but breathe and stare up at the merciless ceiling. Anything else was fog.


    Pablo cracked his neck as he stood free, grinning down at her. "I flooded that whole world of yours with my little ants. Took a lot out of me, but it seems it was effective. I guess your ability can only handle generating so much environment, huh? And since Aether is linked to consciousness, this is what the backlash looks like once your ability crashes. Hm, what¡¯s wrong? Can¡¯t hear me anymore?" He tapped her head with his foot. "Having trouble? Huh? Huh?"


    She had to do something. She had to stop someone. She had to go somewhere. But what, who, where? It all escaped her. What was she doing? Who was she?


    It


    all


    escaped


    her


    She


    She


    She


    She


    She breathed in.


    She breathed out.


    She breathed in.


    She breathed out.


    She breathed in.


    She breathed out.


    The face of the person above her twisted into a sneer. "Guess you really can¡¯t hear me, huh? Well, good luck. Maybe someone will find you and you can be hooked up to a feeding tube for the rest of your life." He turned away and began to leave, but¡­


    Bang. Bang.


    No thought was involved with the woman¡¯s action. She did not consider them at all. It just seemed as natural as her breathing to take hold of the gun, point it at the person who was leaving, and pull the trigger twice.


    That was the last thing she did. The pistol slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor.


    Twin plasma shots thudded into the man¡¯s back, and he staggered forward. Slowly, as if in disbelief that such a thing could have happened to him, he turned to face her. He reached for his wound with one hand, looking uncomprehendingly at the blood and soot on his fingers before looking back at her.


    "You¡­bitch¡­" he snarled, just before he fell to the ground as well.


    For a short time, there was silence in the amphitheater, the two of them just laying there -- one dead, the other little more than a doll. Aether spluttered weakly around the man¡¯s body, running through his spreading blood and shining inside his open mouth. Slowly, silently, it began to brighten¡­


    ¡­as something awakened.


    Then there was the sound of skittering legs.

 Chapter 250:9.41: Rise and Shine

    I hope this message finds you well, Cloud. Before I begin, I feel like I should make clear that this is strictly in response to your recent proposal. Your other work on the project has been mostly acceptable.


    However, your suggestion that we intentionally induce Aether Awakening in the final product of the Testament Project to increase its power is -- to put it simply -- idiotic. I must wonder if this was perhaps an ill-considered joke you were making? If so, please refrain from doing so in the future.


    If it wasn¡¯t, though, I feel I must remind you: the product of an Aether Awakening is not a human being, and it is not a power that can be maintained reliably. Aether is a product of human consciousness, and as we use it our own thoughts and memories ¡¯soak¡¯ into it over time. This is the basis on which thought and memory reading techniques operate.


    An Aether Awakening, then, is when the original user dies but their Aether lives on for a time, driven by the impressions soaked into it over the course of the user¡¯s life. In some cases, it may puppeteer the original body -- in others, it will form a physical shell for itself based on their former abilities. Its power may increase, abilities losing restrictions and limits. It may operate for brief moments or for years, but by nature they are transient beings. Once the personality traits that compose the Aether Core decompose, the Awakened being itself will disappear as well.


    In essence, then, what you suggested is that we execute the being we have spent so much time and money on and replace it with a disintegrating zombie. I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t need to explain further why this is a bad idea.


    If this is the extent of your thinking, I worry for your future in my lab.


    Internal Message, Brinkmann Lab


    Ruth and Bruno had to sweep the area first, but they found the two bodies before long.


    "Shit," Ruth spat as she crouched down next to Isabelle Pi Testament. She still didn¡¯t understand what exactly they needed this woman for, but it was a pretty safe bet that her being alive was a requirement.


    Bruno¡¯s eyes flicked between the two bodies -- between the pistol still clutched in Isabelle¡¯s hand and the holes in the other corpse. "Looks like she did him in," he grunted. "Are there any wounds on her?"


    Ruth glanced at the other body, immediately recognising it as the Umbrant she, Bruno and Serena had fought previously, the one with all the ants. From the research Skipper had shown her afterwards, he¡¯d been Pablo Wrae, one of the Apexbishop¡¯s closest confidants. His black eyes were still widened in fatal surprise. If he was dead, this was definitely a big deal.


    "Ruth," Bruno repeated, louder. "The woman! Any injuries?"


    "Right, right," Ruth turned back to the body, checking.


    This was all moving too fast for her liking. First the thing with the GID, fighting Helga, and now all this business with the Superbians again. It got her blood pumping, sure, but there wasn¡¯t anything she could do with that rush.


    A mystery wasn¡¯t something she could maul.


    Ruth paused her search as she felt light breathing under her hands. "She isn¡¯t dead!" she called out. Bruno immediately rushed over.


    It had been easy to make the mistake at first glance. Isabelle Pi Testament was staring blankly up at the ceiling, not blinking, not even responding when Bruno snapped his fingers in front of her eyes. The only sign of her being alive was that so-slight breathing, barely noticeable beneath her flowing robes.


    "What happened?" Ruth wondered. "An Aether attack?"


    Bruno clicked his tongue. "Hard to say. Either way, we need to get her back to the ship. We¡¯ll figure out what to do from there."


    Without waiting any longer, he crouched down and scooped Isabelle up, throwing her over his shoulder. His cautious gaze flicked around the empty amphitheater one last time.


    "There¡¯s no guarantee she was only fighting the one enemy," he muttered, voice low. "I¡¯ll do a ping to check things out. You keep me covered, okay?"


    Ruth shook her head. "I¡¯ll do it." She was pretty good at recovering after a ping, after all. If someone launched a surprise attack, she¡¯d be able to defend herself faster than Bruno. "Get behind me."


    Bruno stepped behind her, and Ruth took a deep breath. There was a brief flicker of red as her Aether leapt out, the ping flooding through the surrounding area¡­


    ¡­and then her eyes widened.


    There were threats all around them. There was a threat right above them. There was a threat coming down. Ruth shoved Bruno out of the way -- and a second later, the enemy landed in the spot he¡¯d just been standing.


    It was a massive ant, the size of a car, it¡¯s compound eyes reflecting and refracting Ruth¡¯s face a hundred times. It¡¯s legs were long and sharp enough that it could have impaled Bruno and Serena without a care, and it¡¯s mandibles twitched hungrily as they tasted the air.


    Ruth had seen this sort of thing before. It was the dead man¡¯s ability. If it was still active, did that mean¡­?


    It lunged at her.


    Skeletal Set. Ruth flipped backwards, her armour materializing around her form as she avoided the ant¡¯s bite. It stabbed at her with its front legs, but as she landed she parried the two blows with her claws, sparks and black blood flying out of the collision.


    "Miss Ruth!" Serena cried, taking over from Bruno. Isabelle still slung over her shoulder, she began to run over.


    She didn¡¯t get far.


    Part of the floor exploded upwards as another ant, the size of a human torso, burrowed out of the ground. It lunged at Serena¡¯s stomach, its mandibles snapping in anticipation -- until Serena snatched it out of the air with one hand, grasping it by the throat. Its legs kicked wildly.


    "Serena!" Ruth shouted, leaping over a swipe of her opponent¡¯s legs. "Don¡¯t touch it!"


    She recognised it. She recognised that ant. It was the same as the one that had attacked them back in the chapel, that had teleported them away from Dragan and to Pablo Wrae.


    Serena went to hurl the little beast away, but too late: there was a flash of yellow light, and when it cleared the two of them were gone. Teleported to who-knows-where.


    Ruth gritted her teeth, looking down at her own massive opponent as she leapt through the air. It stared right back up at her with those massive eyes, diligently keeping watch.


    And then, a muffled voice spoke.


    "F-Farspy Ant. Common card. Allows player to teleport c-cards to and away from attack line. I remember it. You r-remember it too, don¡¯t you?"


    The voice was unnaturally, joyously deepened, but Ruth recognised it all the same. It was the giddy voice of Pablo Wrae: the man lying dead on the floor. As the corpse lay still, looking at the ceiling with dead blank eyes, its voice still lingered in the world. S~ea??h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    At first, Ruth thought the ant was the one speaking, but no -- the voice was coming from inside the ant¡¯s abdomen, muffled by the carapace around it. Ruth landed -- and at the same time, the ant¡¯s back exploded outwards, blood raining down.


    A human torso, elongated and made wrong, writhed out of the ant¡¯s back, arms stretching up into the air. Ruth could do nothing but stare in horror as the nightmare made itself known to the world.


    The thing was a parody of Pablo Wrae, his appearance similar in only the most basic of ways. His skin was a dull grey, like stone, and his fingers were dark and inhumanly long, tapering off into sheer points like the legs of an insect. As he smiled at her, his lips parted and tiny ants continuously crawled out of his mouth, up his cheeks, and into his ears -- forming a blackened grin. His grey hair had gone mad, long tufts sticking up into the air, forming a rudimentary mohawk.


    Even after he¡¯d burst out of it, the ant beneath Pablo remained alive, regaining its footing a moment later. Pablo¡¯s torso transitioned seamlessly into the smooth surface of the bug¡¯s carapace, the two of them one creature like a twisted centaur.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it¡¯s taken without the author¡¯s consent. Report it.


    He pointed at her with a long, long finger, his painfully wide smile turning his face into little more than wrinkles.


    She¡¯d seen this before, on Taldan, when Chael had clawed his way back up from death. Aether Awakening.


    "Ruth B-Blaine¡­" the Pablo-thing said, intelligence and malice dancing in his eyes. "Riiight?"


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes were fixed on the rippling air that Lyons held in his hand, the collection of force that could certainly annihilate a human body with a glancing blow.


    He¡¯d managed to avoid the first attack, but it had required flying right up to the ceiling with the thrusters on his boots. Anything less would have meant his obliteration. He just had to look at the hangar to understand that.


    The entire side of the room that Muzazi had been standing on was demolished, steel walls pulverized by sheer force, long open wounds leading into the maintenance tunnels beyond. In the distance, alarms were blaring: no matter the result of this bout, security would surely be here soon.


    Lyons understood that too. Being seen here would be bad for him -- therefore, Muzazi had to make it happen. At the very least, it would prevent him from executing whatever vile plan he¡¯d concocted.


    Distraction and trickery weren¡¯t his preferred weapons, but if the need arose¡­


    "I know that technique," Muzazi called down, still clinging to the ceiling. "That club you¡¯re using -- I¡¯ve seen mention of it. It was used by the warrior Qillian Qillioph, a berserker who charged into battle for the sake of the Supremacy."


    Lyons looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. He was pointing the club in Muzazi¡¯s direction like a cannon, but he¡¯d be reluctant to use it at this angle. He wouldn¡¯t want to bring the roof down on himself, after all.


    Muzazi continued: "Qillian perished in battle years ago -- or so history says. How long have you been going by the name Jean Lyons?"


    Lyons¡¯ expression did not shift. If he was surprised at having his identity exposed, he did not show it. The rage he¡¯d demonstrated earlier had been brought under control, as well.


    "A warrior of the Supremacy, being given a new face and a new role?" the pale man said, strolling through the hangar -- clearly trying to find a better angle of attack. "You¡¯d be surprised how often it happens, Atoy Muzazi." A strange smirk played across his lips, and Muzazi tensed up. Had he found the position he¡¯d been looking for?


    No. Alarm spiked through Muzazi¡¯s brain as he realized his miscalculation.


    When his sword had been destroyed, the force of the detonation had come from within it. When Gertrude Hearth had died, she¡¯d exploded from the inside. Lyons could put force into objects and release it at a time of his choosing, not just unleash blasts like he was doing now.


    Muzazi was touching the ceiling.


    Lyons was touching the floor.


    Both of those things were connected by the wall.


    Muzazi kicked off the ceiling --


    Bang.


    -- just in time to avoid the detonation, a blast like a landmine destroying the patch of roof that had been his shelter. If he¡¯d still been there, it doubtlessly would have inflicted severe damage, perhaps even a mortal wound.


    Not that he¡¯d actually escaped danger.


    As Muzazi flew down, Lyons kicked off the floor with a burst of force, zooming towards him in a blur of motion. Muzazi quickly created thrusters along the side of his body to move himself out of Lyons¡¯ path, but physical speed could only do so much against Aetheral mastery.


    Lyons brought his club down like a hammer of god, the air screaming from the movement. Muzazi avoided the actual force of the attack by mere inches -- but the resultant air pressure got him all the same. His right arm popped and cracked as it received the brunt of the echoed blow, and his body went flying off across the room.


    If he hit the wall, Lyons would take the opportunity and follow up on this attack. Muzazi wouldn¡¯t be able to dodge this time. Therefore, hitting the wall was simply not an option.


    Full Throttle.


    Countless thrusters, so small as to be nearly invisible, sprouted across Muzazi¡¯s form, giving him complete control over his own movements. He forced his body to a halt in mid-air, ignoring the pain from the forced maneuver, floating over the ground as he looked back at Lyons.


    The game of patience had come to an end. Lyons landed on the floor and immediately pointed his club towards Muzazi. His brow was knitted in irritation.


    "Five percent should leave this place intact," he muttered, adjusting his aim.


    Lyons could only use so much of his power without bringing the hangar down upon himself. That would be Muzazi¡¯s path to victory. He¡¯d dodge through Lyons¡¯ reduced attacks, find the vulnerability that surely must exist, and strike this bastard down.


    For that, though¡­


    His good hand grasped empty air.


    ¡­I¡¯ll need a sword.


    This thought had been building under the surface for quite some time. Ever since the events on Panacea, there¡¯d been a profound absence to his life -- holes from the things left behind. He¡¯d been holding onto those holes as if they¡¯d been the things themselves, as if allowing himself to heal would be an affront to them¡­ but no more.


    Jean Lyons was right about one thing. A swordsman without a sword was unsightly.


    Radiance.


    A thruster burst from Muzazi¡¯s palm, a spike of fire that began red, focused itself blue, and perfected itself into a single white line, as long as Muzazi¡¯s arm. As it developed, the noise of the thruster died down and silenced itself, evolving to a level behind the range of human hearing. A second, less prominent thruster sprouted on the back of Muzazi¡¯s hand, offsetting the propulsion from the first.


    If he had no sword, then he¡¯d use his Aether to make one.


    This white saber of light was a Radiant -- and in this moment, Atoy Muzazi knew that it was the perfection of his ability. He waved it through the air, feeling it slash space with its very presence, before pointing it down at Lyons.


    "Shall we dance, then?" he asked.


    The two men moved.


    Claws clashed in mid-air as Ruth pounced at Pablo, sparks flying as her metal spikes slammed into his blackened fingers.


    No good. This thing¡¯s physical form was strong -- and much faster than his size would suggest. Ruth barely had time to kick off Pablo¡¯s abdomen and retreat before another claw-swipe would have cut her to ribbons. Pablo hissed at her animalistically as she landed back on the floor.


    "Don¡¯t have time for this," he growled insistently. "D-Don¡¯t have time for this. I¡¯ve been waiting years for this. Giovanni Sigma Testament. My Aether core is victory, you know? So I need to¡­ So I absolutely need to get there. You¡¯re w-wasting my time. Get lost!"


    He was much more lucid than Chael had been, but there was still something bizarre and artificial about the Pablo-thing¡¯s intelligence. It was like scraps of consciousness stitched together into the rough shape of a human mind, lingering impulses driving themselves forward.


    A ransom note imitating a human being.


    From what Ruth understood of Aether Awakening, it was when a person died but their Aether lived on, still intent on continuing their final drives. If that was the case, it would be bad to let this thing achieve his Aether core -- it could become Aether generating itself, self-perpetuating, and much more difficult to defeat.


    Pablo licked his lips. He was muttering to himself. Ruth strained to hear.


    "Ant HQ times t-two. Spawns one Recruant Token for each ant on my side of the f-field each turn. Mother B-Breed Ant times two. By devouring an ant on my side of the field, it s-spawns a Warrior Brave Ant. One Tyrant K-King Ant¡­ grows stronger for every ant on the field. This move is banned in t-tournaments¡­"


    Pablo grinned.


    "...but not here, b-bitch."


    The room exploded into skittering legs and compound eyes, ants of every shape and size leaping from every alcove to tear Ruth apart. She sighed, drawing her claws against each other, sparks raining down.


    Seemed it was time for some extermination.


    Dragan Hadrien was dying. If nothing else, that was obvious. He could feel the warm blood on his face turning cold.


    He lay down there in the dark, among thick cables and busted machines, the only source of light being the weak flickering of his blue Aether. If not for that Aether, he knew he¡¯d be dead already -- and it wasn¡¯t doing much. He was quickly losing blood from his missing arms and eye.


    Getting up was impossible.


    Moving was impossible.


    Even breathing was becoming impossible.


    Dragan stared up at the nothing above, cursing his own stupidity. He¡¯d gotten arrogant. Since the whole thing that had happened with the Humilists, he¡¯d started to believe that he¡¯d gotten stronger, more proficient, more capable. Clearly that wasn¡¯t the case.


    "Hey," said a voice. "You dead?"


    A face suddenly appeared above him. The face of a young woman in miniature, wearing a sundress, hands on her hips as she stared condescendingly down at him. Her whole body, even her clothing, was purple -- like she was formed from some strange clay. Aether?


    Dragan did not answer. The tiny girl looked up at something he could not see.


    "I think he¡¯s dead," she said casually.


    "He isn¡¯t dead," replied a calm male voice, drawing closer. "I can hear his heartbeat, and his eyes are following your movements. You need to pay attention to these things, Meli."


    The little fairy rolled her eyes. "Whatever."


    She zipped out of sight, becoming a ribbon of light for a moment. A second later, she was replaced by a new figure, a human-sized one looking down at Dragan.


    It was the one with curly green hair, the one with the calm smile, the one Skipper had gone and met with. The man they called the Chorister. He raised an eyebrow as he looked down at Dragan¡¯s battered body.


    "Do you want to live?" he asked.


    There was no response.


    "Do you want to kill?" he asked.


    Dragan twitched. The Chorister smiled.

 Chapter 251:9.42: Irradiant

    Warning: unknown situation developing in Hangar #72. Area has been designated as an Extreme Hazard Zone, and personnel are required to evacuate immediately. Customers are not permitted to enter this area.


    Contracted security have already been notified of the situation.


    Note that situations such as this are accounted for in your employee contracts. As such, employees are not entitled to bonuses or overtime under these circumstances.


    Security Notice, Rowdy Rod¡¯s Cheap and Clean Hangar Space


    Some Time Ago¡­


    "T¨€is," the girl said, holding the sword out. "...is Luminescence. Do ¨€ou kno¨€ it?"


    Atoy Muzazi shook his head, blinking blearily. The whole world was black spots, scenery disintegrating into nothingness, memories turning to dust even as they reoccurred. The only thing clear was the shining blade the girl was holding out, like a line of light piercing the darkness. She held it flat on the palms of her hands, full of reverence.


    "It¡¯s go¨€d that you don¡¯t know it," she continued quietly. "It¡¯s ¨€¨€st be¨€n made. If you¡¯¨€ said ot¨€¨€¨€wise, you¡¯d be ¨€ liar -- or w¨€rse, wrong. ¨€o you k¨€¨€w what it is?"


    Muzazi¡¯s throat was deathly dry, like he¡¯d just woken up from a coffin. "It¡¯s a sword," he rasped.


    The girl hopped up and down in place, her excitement leaking into her movements. "Yes! Very good!" She turned her head to look at a patch of nothingness. "You see, ¨€¨€¨€¨€a¨€?! I told you! ¨€ t¨€ld you!"


    "¨€¨€ ¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€?"


    Nothingness engulfed the scene for a moment, everything collapsing, before suddenly reasserting itself.


    "Now, Muzazi," the girl said, looking up at him. "Remember this. You must never lose this sword, okay? If you do¡­"


    She grinned.


    "...you¡¯ll ¨€¨€¨€!"


    The Radiant sliced through the metal wall as Muzazi waved it through the air, the sheer heat of the Aetherblade making it as soft as butter. Thrusters, still pouring from the soles of Muzazi¡¯s boots, kept him aloft -- as he looked down at Jean Lyons.


    The Director of the GID looked back up at him, eyes narrowed, but the direction of his gaze had already betrayed him. He¡¯d glanced with clear concern at the burning seam Muzazi had left in the wall. That alone confirmed that Muzazi was on the right track.


    Jean Lyons had no reason to fear physical attacks that relied on speed and blunt damage. But the Radiant Muzazi had conjured was incredibly hot. If it made contact with Lyons, no matter how slowly it was moving, it would surely burn him. If it was moving so slowly, it would probably be even more painful anyway.


    All that remained, then, was to close the distance and strike¡­ which was easier said than done.


    The moment of thought passed, and Jean Lyons attacked.


    Force exploded out of the top of his weapon as he fired a pushing blast at Muzazi¡¯s position. Lyons had said that five percent would be sufficient to eliminate him, but there was no reason to believe that charlatan¡¯s words. Muzazi had already decided to operate under the belief that he was using more than that -- perhaps even one-hundred percent of his capability.


    Muzazi would respond appropriately.


    When Lyons had used that shockwave to shatter the crates crushing him, he¡¯d blown pieces of them all across the room -- but those pieces still had inactive thruster points on them. Muzazi activated those on the closest, largest chunk of metal, and had them fly up to him, lightning-fast.


    The impromptu barrier appeared in front of Muzazi before the blast of force could reach him. He planted his feet against it as he felt the blast pummel into it, countless dents erupting over its surface. His white Aether moved through his feet and into the metal, strengthening it, while more thrusters helped it push against the blast of force.


    The metal plate shook beneath his fist, and it was all his Aether could do to prevent it from shattering entirely. For the time being, he dispelled his Radiant, focusing entirely on defense.


    A roar of exertion poured from his throat as he continued to resist.


    The thrusters firing out of the back of the metal continued to grow, steam pouring from them and flooding nearly half the room. The barrier hung still in the air, stabilized between Lyons¡¯ attack and Muzazi¡¯s defense. If he could just keep it there, keep it still, for just a few moments longer¡­


    ¡­for just the tiniest opportunity¡­


    ¡­he would win.


    Five percent.


    Ten percent.


    Fifteen percent.


    Lyons steadily increased the output rate of his attack, but Atoy Muzazi continued to match him when it came to his defense. If nothing else, he was skilled at keeping still. Lyons would give him that.


    The room shook as the force of the attack radiated out. Tiny bits of dust and concrete began to rain down from the ceiling, coating everything in a thin coat of grey. It hung in a haze around Lyons, falling incredibly slowly as it came into his range.


    How long did he have until security arrived? He¡¯d chosen this unit because it was as far away from the security offices as possible, and he¡¯d already tampered with surveillance, but even so someone would respond to this noise before long. Eliminating witnesses would take time, too -- time he didn¡¯t have.


    His ultimate goal was to launch the shuttle and get the cylinder to the ELIZA. He had to remember that. Anything else was a meaningless distraction. This idiot had already unforgivably ruined his schedule.


    Something gave.


    Lyons¡¯ attack finally overpowered the barrier, and jagged cracks began to spread across its surface. In the end, Atoy Muzazi simply had not been sufficient. Lyons allowed himself the slightest smirk, until¡­


    ¡­he thought the tiniest bit deeper about the phenomenon before him.


    Until now, Muzazi had been able to match his attack with his own power, so why had that changed? Had he simply given up, or had his willpower finally drained away? Jean Lyons wasn¡¯t optimistic enough to accept those kinds of answers.


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    No. This stank of a trick.


    He realized it just in time, leaping out of the way as Muzazi suddenly appeared from his blind spot, slashing that sword of light directly at his face. Lyons all but managed to dodge, but he felt torturous heat brush against the side of his cheek, pain flaring through his brain for a moment before eerily cutting off.


    He understood.


    Muzazi had used the steam created by his thrusters as a smokescreen, continuing to hold the metal in place while he circled around for a sneak attack. The metal had weakened because Muzazi was no longer there to infuse his Aether into it directly. If Lyons hadn¡¯t realized at the last moment, that could have been a mortal wound.


    But he had realized -- because it took more than that to kill Qillian Qillioph.


    It had been a while since he¡¯d had to go all out. It was somewhat nostalgic¡­ a reminder of his younger days, slaughtering his way across the battlefield -- until he¡¯d seen the Supreme in full bloom, and understood what true power was.


    Jean landed on the shattered floor, dispelled his club, and immediately thrust his palm towards the incoming Muzazi.


    One-hundred percent.


    The air exploded.


    The air exploded -- but it did not reach Atoy Muzazi.


    Lyons had been off the battlefield for too long. He¡¯d forgotten how to watch his footing. The chunk of the floor he¡¯d landed on was dangerously unstable -- but more importantly, it was where Muzazi had been standing earlier.


    A thruster burst into life on the underside of the floor, tilting it upwards -- and Lyons with it. The blast he¡¯d released went flying vertically instead of horizontally, striking the ceiling and puncturing it like a needle with a balloon.


    Muzazi did not stop to look. He could not waste the opportunity. He darted towards Lyons as debris rained down around them, the two of them rushing through the room in an effort to avoid the collapsing concrete. He weaved and bobbed through stone and metal, and Jean Lyons did the same -- even as they dodged, however, their eyes were fixed squarely on each other. Muzazi slashed with his Radiant again and again, but Lyons avoided each blow, the slowing field around him giving time for every attack to just barely miss.


    Lyons held his palm up once more in a moment¡¯s opportunity -- another full-strength attack was coming.


    It would not reach him. He wouldn¡¯t permit it.


    Muzazi activated the thrusters on the floor beneath himself, using it like a springboard to launch himself into the air. Just like Lyons, he¡¯d dodged at the last possible moment.


    The blast erupted below him, shaking the air itself -- and, at the same time, it lightly grazed Muzazi¡¯s right foot.


    Muzazi screamed. Wrenching pain flooded through his body as the foot was twisted one-hundred and eighty degrees by the impact, blood dribbling copiously from his ankle. For a moment, he thought he¡¯d fall unconscious entirely from the agony -- but no. He forced himself into existence, gritting his teeth so hard it felt as if they¡¯d shatter.


    As Muzazi flew through the air, Lyons raised his hand up, ready to fire another blast. Muzazi knew he couldn¡¯t dodge as he was right now.


    Thrusters -- move!


    Thrusters flared into life on chunks of concrete all around Lyons, and they came together in another attempt to crush his body between them. He scoffed, lowering his hand, his gaze instead moving to the incoming slabs.


    Bang.


    The chunks of concrete shattered into clouds of dust, flying off in every direction from the shockwave. Muzazi took the opportunity provided by the smokescreen and rushed in, his Radiant pointed directly in front of him as he propelled himself right at Lyons.


    However, in the end, he was not fast enough.


    With horrifying grace and fluidity, like a nightmare, Lyons smoothly raised his hand and pointed it at Muzazi just as the swordsman was about to reach his position. That deadly palm was mere inches away from Muzazi¡¯s forehead, ready to smash his skull into paste. There was no avoiding it. The idea of blocking it was a bad joke.


    Atoy Muzazi accepted that he was about to die¡­


    ¡­and, as a result, was quite surprised when he did not.


    Lyons¡¯ eyes widened.


    Jean¡¯s eyes widened. He¡¯d run out of power? Shit!


    He dodged with all the speed and strength his body could muster, throwing himself to the floor as Muzazi sailed over him. Immediately, he transitioned into a roll, allowing himself to avoid the second slash aimed for his face.


    Damn it, damn it, damn it. It made sense his well of energy had run dry -- he¡¯d been throwing out multiple one-hundred percent attacks like nobody¡¯s business -- but it was unbelievable that he hadn¡¯t noticed that. Had he been so absorbed in the battle that he¡¯d lost his focus?


    Unbelievable. Unforgivable. He¡¯d left that self behind a long time ago.


    This is not defeat, Jean thought, leaping to the side to avoid another swipe of Muzazi¡¯s Aetherblade. This isn¡¯t even close to defeat.


    One-hundred percent had been overkill anyway. He could still easily kill Muzazi with the energy drained from his own attacks. A minute or so of dodging these clumsy swings would be more than enough ammunition to execute him with.


    Yes, yes, they were clumsy. Muzazi¡¯s foot -- the one that had been warped by the earlier attack -- was being held up by a single thruster, allowing him to move a little, but the pain would be crippling him all the same. This was a battle of attrition. All Jean had to do was wait him out. Sear?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He dodged and dodged, draining a little bit more force with each missed blow -- until he was confident enough to lash out with his hand, grabbing Muzazi by the wrist. He held the arm aloft, keeping the Aetherblade away from him, and thrust his other palm towards Muzazi¡¯s face.


    Then, however, Atoy Muzazi spoke.


    "It¡¯s too late, Mr. Lyons," he snarled, voice low, glaring into Jean¡¯s eyes. "I¡¯ve already won. You¡¯ve failed your mission."


    Jean realized what he meant the moment he spoke those words. The shuttle was behind him, the docking ramp open, and through it Jean could see the cylinder. The one that would bring down the Paradisas once it was brought aboard the ELIZA, the one that had been the final playing piece in this game.


    He saw the shard of metal impaling it, and he saw the thruster driving the blade through it.


    Jean¡¯s eye twitched.


    "BASTARD! I¡¯LL KILL YOU!" Qillian Qillioph roared, spittle flying from his lips as he went to claw Muzazi¡¯s face off, the absorbed energy propelling and strengthening his movements.


    That was the final mistake he was permitted.


    The white blade vanished from the arm Qillian was holding, and then appeared on Muzazi¡¯s free hand. Muzazi slashed it towards Qillian¡¯s neck, additional thrusters on the side of his fist accelerating the speed of the movement -- giving it just enough momentum to make contact with him even through the slowing field.


    In the end, when it came to speed, Atoy Muzazi was superior.


    Qillian gasped in pain as the dreadfully slow blade collided with the side of his neck, burning away the first layer of skin. His hand stopped just before reaching Muzazi¡¯s face, agony causing his fingers to twitch and writhe involuntarily. The blade continued to move through him, so slowly, torturously slow.


    Was he really going to die like this? No, no no no, it was unacceptable, he wouldn¡¯t allow it, not after all he¡¯d done, not after the preparations he¡¯d fucking made! NO! He¡¯d drain Muzazi¡¯s willpower to nothing and have him tear his own eyes out! Pry his own ribs open! Spool his intestines out through his mouth and shitting eat them!


    He¡¯d win! He¡¯d win, he¡¯d win, he¡¯d win!


    Qillian screamed in agony and fury -- and planted his palm against Muzazi¡¯s face. Aether writhed around his hand as he sank his fangs into Muzazi¡¯s mind, ready to drain him of every semblance of will, and --


    -- and he touched something that he should not have.


    He was standing at the bottom of a stairway. He was not welcome here. He could feel hostile hands gripping his skeleton, cracking it.


    He looked up.


    He could see someone at the top of the staircase. He could see the golden eye of an armoured figure looking down at him. He could see Death looking down at him.


    "Begone," said Nigen Rush.


    Jean Lyons let go, all the air drained from his lungs, all thoughts of retaliation wiped clean by the rush of pure and certain fear that had just gone through him. What was that? He¡¯d never encountered¡­ he¡¯d never¡­


    He had no time to consider the question before thought itself deserted him. Muzazi seemed to have been knocked unconscious by whatever that was too, but there was no possibility of taking advantage of it. The fight was over.


    The two of them fell backwards onto the floor, and for a time lay still¡­


    ¡­until a red shadow came to join them.

 Chapter 252:9.43: Blast Shadows

    WARNING


    POWER PRODUCTION EXCEEDING SAFE LEVELS


    WARNING


    FTL OVERRIDE HAS BEEN ACTIVATED


    WARNING


    VIOLENCE DETECTED ON BRIDGE


    WARNING


    IMMEDIATE RESPONSE REQUIRED


    Automatic Security Notice, Deus Nobiscum Auto-Brain "Aquinas"


    Serena del Sed landed on one knee, her body fizzling into existence around her. She blinked rapidly in confusion, looking around at her new surroundings.


    This wasn¡¯t the place she¡¯d been. The ant she¡¯d grabbed by the throat was gone, and now she was surrounded by monolithic windowless buildings. Far above, lights flickered from a metal canopy. Some kind of residential quarter?


    What the heck?


    Bruno brought himself to the forefront, his more cautious gaze looking around in search of an attacker. When none came, he did not relax.


    "It¡¯s the same as what happened in the chapel," he said gruffly, rising to his feet. "Well, not exactly the same. Last time, it teleported us to the user -- this time, it teleported us away."


    It¡¯s a pain in the butt, Serena sighed inwardly. Where are we, then, Bruno?


    "Residential zone, looks like," Bruno muttered, confirming her suspicions. He eyed the door to one nearby building, which was firmly sealed shut. "Looks like they¡¯re on lockdown."


    With the rioting they¡¯d seen on their way here, he doubted that was doing the Superbians much good. Most likely, separating these people from their homes like this would just fan the flames of their anger even more. If things were bad now, they¡¯d be worse later.


    There was no time for this.


    "We need to get to a map or something," Bruno decided, marching down the street, pulling his hood over his head. "Figure out where we are in relation to Ruth, then get back to her. The ant-user was a tough opponent last time. I don¡¯t want to leave her alone against him."


    But Miss Ruth¡¯s strong, Serena pointed out. Don¡¯t you think she can win?


    "It¡¯s not about what I believe," Bruno answered, reaching a tunnel and continuing his trek. "Strong people lose against weak people all the time. All it takes is for the other person to be more of an asshole."


    Their journey continued in silence -- but not for long. The quiet monotony of the dark tunnel was soon replaced by shouting, the dim light replaced by the waving beams of flashlights and script screens.


    Bruno found that he could walk no further.


    A crowd -- presumably made up of the people who lived in this district -- had gathered in the tunnel, clogging it like a pipe. Across from them, preventing them from getting any further, were a neat line of security personnel -- dressed in red armour, spherical helmets making them look just a little comical.


    The Vox Dei -- and at their head, the man who was their leader, Jon Peak. His name and face were a matter of public record -- and according to the recording Isabelle Pi Testament had leaked, he was part of Giovanni¡¯s faction.


    Bruno pulled his hood down even lower. Best if his face wasn¡¯t seen.


    "Return to your homes!" Peak barked, his voice echoing down the tunnel. "There¡¯s a temporary situation that needs to be resolved. You¡¯ll be informed when the lockdown is lifted!"


    Through the angry babble of the crowd, only stray words could be made out.


    "Liar!"


    "Let us out!"


    "Where are the Cardinals?!"


    The message was clear: the people of the Superbian sect were no longer happy with their benevolent overlords. Peak¡¯s face twisted in annoyance. He said something to the officer next to him, their words drowned out by the crowd --


    -- and then someone threw a can at him.


    It hit Peak in the forehead, soft drink frothing out and coating his face and uniform. His eyes wide, he turned to the crowd, hands clenched into fists.


    "Who threw that?!" he demanded.


    He was answered only by shouting and mocking laughter. His face began to turn red. Bruno tensed up: there was no good way this ended.


    "I said -- who the hell threw that?!" Spittle flew from Peak¡¯s lips as he screamed at the mass of humanity. His eyes ran over the faces in front of him, searching for guilt but finding only contempt, that failure only making him angrier.


    "Serena," Bruno whispered. "You ready?"


    "Mm-hmm," Serena replied through the same mouth.


    They needed to get through here anyway. This confrontation had been inevitable from the start.


    For a brief moment, though, it still looked as if Peak might calm down, as if the situation might end peacefully. But then someone threw another can at Peak.


    He snatched it out of the air, crushing it in an instant, but the damage to his ego was much the same. His body began to shake as fur sprouted from under his skin, like his form was turning inside out and revealing the beast within. His roar of fury transitioned into a feral howl -- and the shouting of the crowd became panicked screams, people pushing each other in an effort to escape.


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    The transformation took only a couple of seconds -- and when it was done, Peak was a growling titan of fur and claw, four hands grasping at the air as four eyes took in the collection of victims before them. His ribs, pressing against the skin of his chest, twitched at the air like the legs of an insect.


    The other Vox Dei behind him exchanged glances, but all they ended up doing in response was stepping back a little. Whatever Peak did to the civilians here, they would only watch.


    Well¡­ they¡¯d be the only ones.


    Peak kicked off the ground in the direction of the crowd, like a massive animalistic bullet -- and Serena made her move as well.


    Bruno made the shield, and Serena turned it into a sword. They¡¯d learnt the movements well.


    Serena slashed the invisible blade as they crossed paths with Peak -- and one of his thin arms went flying off, purple blood oozing from the wound. The lowest grunt of pain reverberated from Peak¡¯s swollen throat, and he ground his claws into the ground -- forcing himself to a halt.


    His eyes held murder.


    Serena landed just a few meters away, pulling strips of steel from the floor and forging them into new swords. They wouldn¡¯t cut as effectively as the invisible ones, but they¡¯d be better for blocking attacks.


    Peak narrowed all his eyes at her, then glanced at his stump. It only took a moment for a new arm to sprout there, the limb regenerating quickly. It seemed his ability allowed him to recover at horrifying speeds, too.


    The Vox Dei gathered behind Peak pointed their rifles at Serena, but Peak held up a hand to stop them.


    "This one¡¯s mine," he growled. "I haven¡¯t eaten all day."


    Slice and dice.


    Slice and dice.


    Slice and dice!


    Ruth Blaine carved her way through the legions of ants, limbs and heads flying every which way as her claws slashed through the air. The floor beneath her had been made slick by blood and mucus, and so she moves quickly -- like a figure skater, exploding through bodies as she met them with her full strength. Her blood was pumping, her heart was beating -- she was alive.


    Unfortunately, though, there was no telling how long that¡¯d be the case for.


    The more enemies she killed, the more enemies appeared -- and the stronger they were. Pablo¡¯s exact words were difficult to remember through the haze of blood and combat, but she was sure he¡¯d used cards that had a great deal of synergy together. Eventually, no matter how hard she fought, she¡¯d be overwhelmed -- and that led her to one truth.


    This game was fucking broken.


    One ant -- distended, distorted, with a circular eel-like mouth -- lunged forward, trying to swallow her whole. She allowed it briefly, before spinning like a tornado and slicing it to pieces from the inside. Wet flesh, roughly carved, fell to the floor around her before dissipating into Aether.


    She flipped backwards, landing on the armoured head of another ant -- and kicked off of it into the air, giving herself just a second to think out of the reach of her enemies.


    This situation wasn¡¯t going to get any better. She couldn¡¯t see Pablo anymore -- neither his corpse, which had been torn apart by the ants, or the monster that his Aether had created. Had he already left, or was he hiding somewhere among this horde?


    No. He¡¯d definitely left. He¡¯d said so himself -- for whatever reason, he was following the drive to find Giovanni. She got the feeling that the product of an Aether Awakening wouldn¡¯t be able to lie about its intentions like that. He¡¯d just thrown these ants after her and fucked off.


    She had to go after him. If she killed him, then these ants would disappear too. That was the victory condition.


    Ruth landed again, and three ants immediately leapt at her, their bodies warped into balls of barbed claws.


    Noblesse Set.


    Two shoulder pads and a helmet -- but they were all that were needed, reflecting her enemies¡¯ attacks and sending them flying across the room. Two of them splattered upon impact with the wall, while the third was damaged to such a degree that it wouldn¡¯t be moving anymore.


    She hadn¡¯t seen which way Pablo had left this room, but he¡¯d have left more ants guarding that direction -- to stop her from following. Ruth¡¯s eyes darted to where the crowd of ants was thickest, and without hesitation¡­


    ¡­she charged in.


    Slice and dice.


    She cut off a head with a swipe of her claws, kicking it at another enemy and blasting through its abdomen.


    Slice and dice.


    She threw herself beneath another ant¡¯s body, stabbing her claws up into it as she slid across the floor. Vague intestines came out of the hole, and Ruth used them as a handhold to swing the insect into its fellows.


    Slice and dice.


    She threw her claws, piercing through three ants in a line -- then recorded and manifested them again, throwing them again and again and again like a human gatling gun.


    Blood rained down.


    Her enemies died. S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But still there were more.


    Each blow that hit her grew subtly stronger, until just being brushed by one was enough to send her flying across the room. She felt like a pinball -- and even as she killed, she could feel the time approaching where this would be all too much for her. The crowd was too thick for her to escape. Their blows were too ferocious for her to avoid.


    There was a moment¡¯s mistake -- a dodge misjudged, mistimed, and the sharp leg of an insect lunged right for Ruth¡¯s jugular. She knew her red blood would soon join the black on the floor. In her own way, she accepted that.


    But¡­


    Bang.


    The wall above the amphitheater exploded inwards, rubble raining down on the gathered insects. The one going for Ruth¡¯s throat hesitated for just the slightest second -- and that was all she needed to slice it into ribbons. She landed on one knee amidst it¡¯s viscera, glancing up at the cloud of dust spreading through the room, and the silhouette emerging from it.


    Skipper grinned to himself as he strode into the chamber, his invisible blades eviscerating any ant foolish enough to approach him. He was flanked on either side by an unfamiliar-looking automatic, perfectly humanoid but featureless, like someone had painted over them with chrome.


    Without even realizing it, Ruth let out a sigh of relief.


    His eyes flicked down to her.


    "Got somewhere to be?" he called out, voice amplified.


    That was right. The situation hadn¡¯t changed. She still had to go after Pablo. There was no time to talk right now -- but when this was all done, that man was going to tell her just where the hell he¡¯d been all this time.


    She swung around on her heel and launched herself at the gap in the crowd Skipper had created.


    Giovanni walked onto the bridge of the Deus Nobiscum -- and immediately, he let out a weary sigh.


    The room was a mess. Dead bodies lay slumped over consoles, collapsed beneath walls, one even lodged halfway through the reinforced glass of a window. Blood dripped from the ceiling, matching the red tears winding their way down Giovanni¡¯s cheeks.


    In the middle of the bridge, amidst the carnage, stood an exact copy of Giovanni -- save for the fact that it was missing a mouth. It¡¯s bloody fists hung at its sides, and it stared straight ahead, paying the original no mind as he entered. This was Giovanni¡¯s Replica, the product of his Ninth Verse. It could not use other Verses, or think for itself, but it was very adept at following simple orders.


    It seemed the personnel here had worked out his intentions and tried to interfere. The Replica had followed it¡¯s instructions and terminated them. Giovanni threw the Captain of the Deus Nobiscum, Lucius Turnbolt, off of the console -- his corpse clattering to the floor. His chest had been caved in with a single punch.


    Grimacing, he wiped the blood from the monitor, getting a better look at the readout there. Preparations for the FTL jump were already underway -- the power plants aboard were working at full-tilt to accelerate the process. Barely half an hour left until all of this was over.


    Barely half an hour left until the bloody tears ran dry.

 Chapter 253:9.44: The Hushed Lips of a New Era

    OH, DEAD BOY


    [LOOP/REPEAT/AGAIN] AND [LOOP/REPEAT/AGAIN}, DEAD BOY?


    WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOU?


    Transmission recovered from the P-Network by the Pandershi Foundation, Partial Translation


    "Do you understand," the Chorister said softly, plucking Dragan¡¯s crushed eyeball from its socket. "That there is a substantial difference between being prepared to kill and being prepared to die?"


    In that moment, Dragan¡¯s world was nothing but pain. The operating table beneath him was made of a knife¡¯s cold stab. The air above him was sculpted from cruel fire. The lights surrounding him were the pinpricks of violent migraines made physical.


    His body was broken, his mind just barely spluttering along -- but even so, he was in no state to reply to the Chorister¡¯s question.


    If the Chorister was bothered by Dragan¡¯s silence -- save for groans of pain -- he didn¡¯t show it. "When I saved you, I asked you if you were willing to kill, and you said ¡¯yes¡¯ -- in your own way. That was an encouraging answer, but perhaps not the correct one. Any thug with a pistol can be willing to kill. Do you think they¡¯d be willing to give their life for a cause?"


    The Chorister scooped a chunk of orange Panacea out of a vat with a small metal utensil, carefully lowering it into Dragan¡¯s now-empty socket. His vision exploded into chaotic lights as a new eyeball began to establish itself.


    Darkness.


    Brightness.


    Flickering colours.


    Pan¡¯s face.


    Dragan saw all these things in a moment.


    "Again, dead boy?" Pan whispered, sounding terribly sad. "You should look after yourself, okay¡­?"


    She blinked out of existence, replaced by the calm visage of the Chorister as he applied more Panacea to Dragan¡¯s stumps. Infantile arms began to wind their way free from the wounds, doubling and reabsorbing themselves as they went.


    "The key to an effective warrior, I¡¯ve found," the Chorister said, watching the progress of the healing. "Is a willingness to die and to kill in equal measure. The former is just a matter for the noose, while the latter is mere bravado. Together, though? That¡¯s something truly special."


    Dragan¡¯s new eye flicked over to the table in the corner of the room. On it was a jar of reddened water -- and in that, the unmistakable forms of several snapped-off ribs had collected at the bottom.


    The Chorister followed his gaze, chuckling to himself. "Internal healing is a tricky thing when it comes to Panacea. If I wanted you back in fighting shape quickly, I had no choice but to remove the damaged parts entirely and have the fungi replace them. Otherwise, we¡¯d have had to wait days for the stimulants to prompt natural regeneration."


    The pain subsided for just a brief moment, and Dragan took the opportunity to speak. Broken, hoarse words¡­ but words all the same.


    "Why¡­ did you save me?"


    The Chorister continued to apply Panacea to Dragan¡¯s regrowing arms, prompting their growth more and more.


    "I have a deal with your captain," he said lightly, leaning over the spreading flesh. "Your dying would jeopardize that -- not to mention, you yourself will also be useful to me."


    "How¡­?"


    "How¡¯d I save you?" the Chorister frowned, standing up. "The Quiet Choir is an old and noble institution -- we have networks of secret chambers like this spread throughout most Superbian vessels. It¡¯s not difficult for me to get somewhere, no matter where it might be."


    Dragan shook his head slowly, ignoring the screaming agony from his temple as he did. "How¡­am I useful?"


    "Ah. I need Giovanni Sigma Testament dead, you see. Despite the final results, you showed some promise in that last bout. I¡¯d like for you to kill him for me. It¡¯s a matter of my survival and your Skipper¡¯s plan."


    Dragan narrowed his eyes, feeling returning to his body with every new movement. "Don¡¯t think¡­ you could manage it?"


    The arms completed, numb appendages hanging off of Dragan¡¯s torso, colour slowly spreading across them as blood flowed through new passageways. Phantom pain began to fade into a bad memory.


    "I¡¯m confident in my own abilities," the Chorister said. He stepped over to the wall and retrieved a sterile wipe from a module there, cleaning his hands of the blood and mushrooms. "But I¡¯m a little bit of a bastard, you see. I¡¯d very much like to be the Superbian Apexbishop when this all clears up, and as such I can¡¯t be the one to murder the previous one. Best if a random maniac like yourself does the dirty work."


    He opened up a medical kit from the same wall and retrieved a generous selection of painkillers and stimulants, lining them up on the table next to Dragan.


    "Your body may be whole again," he said. "But physically you¡¯re in no state to go running around after your enemies. These things will have you forget that for a little while."


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    Dragan -- with an effort that would have been impossible mere minutes ago -- slowly picked himself up off the operating table, sitting sideways there. His new arms hung limp at his sides, still disobedient, but the new eye had already fit in perfectly.


    He glared coldly at the Chorister. "All this stuff you¡¯re talking about¡­ is it part of Skipper¡¯s plan, too?"


    "Yes," the Chorister said truthfully. "Thus far, everything has gone his way. I¡¯d be careful of that one, Mr. Hadrien..."


    The Chorister¡¯s smile vanished.


    "... he¡¯s the sort that can turn his heart to ice."


    Skipper took a seat on the head of an ant -- only to fall right down on his ass when the body dissipated into Aether. He frowned up at the two automatics accompanying him.


    "Man¡­" he sighed. "That was over way too fast."


    The enemy had multiplied and gotten stronger the more of them he¡¯d killed, so in the end the solution had been obvious -- kill them all at the exact same time. The amphitheater had been utterly ruined by the barrage of Heartbeat Shotguns necessary for that, but in the end it had been pretty effective.


    All around them, the rivers of black blood and the ruined chunks of carcass disappeared as well, until he and the two automatics were alone among the rubble.


    "You won¡¯t go after her?" said the first humanoid automatic, controlled by Hamashtiel. "That girl is part of your crew, isn¡¯t she?"


    "Ruth?" Skipper said. "She knows what she¡¯s doing. She¡¯ll take care of the big guy. I¡¯ve got complete faith."


    The other automatic, piloted by a Paradisas woman named Glendenstout, cocked it¡¯s head. "What will you do, then? Sit here?"


    "Don¡¯t worry, don¡¯t worry," Skipper chuckled, picking himself up off the ground and brushing the dust from his legs. "I¡¯ve got a busy itinerary myself, yeah?"


    He looked past the two automatics, to the prone body on the floor. Somehow, among all of that chaos, the body of Isabelle Pi Testament had gone mostly unharmed. She was covered in cuts and scratches, but the steady rising and lowering of her chest was unmistakably alive.


    Skipper scratched his nose. "...and it keeps getting busier all the time. Who would think?"


    Glendenstout followed his gaze. "Isabelle Pi Testament. The woman who originally sent out the leak. What¡¯s wrong with her?"


    Skipper frowned. "Hard to say." Her eyes were open, unblinking, staring at the ceiling. "Lights are on, but it looks like nobody¡¯s home. I know the feeling."


    Indeed, he did.


    The time he¡¯d spent with the Vantablack Squad was mostly a blur, brief periods of lucidity accompanied by bloodshed, but he remembered one thing if nothing else¡­ the terrible sensation of having parts of you be blank that once were not. Like you¡¯d been scrubbed clean of yourself.


    "Lady robot," Skipper addressed Glendenstout. "Get her somewhere safe, yeah? I get the feeling she¡¯ll be an important playing piece to have in her hand."


    "You mean card?" Hamashtiel said. "You wouldn¡¯t hold a piece in your hand like that."


    "Whatever."


    Glendenstout shook her head in disdain, but walked over to the body all the same, slinging it over her shoulder as though it weighed nothing at all. These new model automatics the Paradisas had really were something: Skipper already knew they¡¯d be invaluable on Elysian Fields.


    The mechanical woman looked back at him, her face a blank expanse. "What will you do, then, blackmailer?"


    Skipper cracked his neck. "Me?" A grin slowly spread across his face. "I¡¯m headed down below."


    In every aspect of the words, he was sure.


    In the dark tunnels of the Deus Nobiscum, Bruno and Serena danced with a monster from a fever dream. Each limb that flew off from the touch of an invisible blade soon grew back, but exhaustion was still hours away from them. They could keep swinging thin air for as long as it took.


    In the elegant and decadent hallways of the Deus Nobiscum, Ruth chased after the slavering insect that shredded the world around it. Giant, twisted ants were summoned to block her path -- but with the momentum she¡¯d bought herself, their lifespans were measured in mere seconds. Before long, she would catch up with her prey.


    And on the bridge of the Deus Nobiscum¡­


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    Giovanni Sigma Testament turned to look over his shoulder as he heard the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. He raised his black eyebrows -- much less surprised than he should have been -- as he saw the figure emerging from the darkness.


    Dragan Hadrien.


    His clothes were still stained with his own blood, but no external injuries were visible. There was the slightest discrepancy in the shade of the skin on his arms, though. A telltale sign of Panacea usage.


    Giovanni frowned. There was only one possible conclusion: someone had rescued Hadrien, someone who knew the ship well enough to find their way into such an out-of-the-way crevice.


    A traitor.


    Well, traitors burned like everything else. All Giovanni had to do, at this point, was make sure the bonfire was lit.


    He turned away from the console, and -- with a flick of his wrist -- reabsorbed his Replica. In an unexpected situation like this, he wanted all of his Aether at his disposal. He narrowed his eyes, keeping careful watch on Hadrien¡¯s form.


    "I¡¯m surprised you survived," he said. "And what¡¯s more, that you showed your face so readily --"


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    Bombardment was the only word fit to describe what happened next. Dragan Hadrien must have gathered up every piece of debris and ammunition he could find on the way up here, steeled himself -- and released it.


    Second Verse!


    Giovanni summoned his shield around himself immediately, the red tint impeding his view of the destruction outside -- but the tiny blurs rushing past told him all he needed to know. The attack went on agonizingly long, thirty seconds at least, as if Giovanni had been teleported into a warzone -- but then, finally, it began to slow and cease.


    However, right before the attack truly ended, something unbelievable happened.


    The shield cracked.


    As the smoke and dust cleared, Giovanni stared uncomprehendingly at the tiny fragment of spider web that had appeared on his shield. It was just the smallest, feeblest sign of damage¡­ but damage all the same.


    Not so long ago, this level of attack had been impossible for Dragan Hadrien. The increase in power meant only one thing¡­


    Right now, right here, he was in true synchronization with his Aether Core.


    Dragan wouldn¡¯t speak to this man anymore. He wouldn¡¯t stall himself with useless sentimentality, and he wouldn¡¯t entertain his own distractions. He wouldn¡¯t let anything in the world influence him except himself.


    The only one who decided what happened to him¡­ was him.


    His Aether reached a borealis. Sear?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 254:9.45: Shatterpoint

    A First Verse, to seek and eliminate the impurity of man.


    A Second Verse, to defend the faith against those who would harm it.


    A Third Verse, to see the path of havoc coming and avoid it.


    A Fourth Verse, to elevate oneself over the petty and the base.


    A Fifth Verse, to sanctify those who have been made to suffer.


    A Sixth Verse, to witness the metamorphosis within the souls of men.


    A Seventh Verse, to spread the tenets of the faith across untold distances.


    An Eighth Verse, to bind evil down to this world.


    A Ninth Verse, to bestow one¡¯s teachings upon one¡¯s fellows.


    And a Tenth Verse, to¡­


    The Ten Verses of the Superb Methodology, Classical Superbian Text


    There were two levels to the bridge that Giovanni Sigma Testament and Dragan Hadrien found themselves on. The one above, where they were standing, and the other one, just below it. Both levels were lined with consoles, now manned only by the dead.


    Many of those consoles had been ravaged by Dragan¡¯s initial barrage, reduced to little more than warped metal and sparking light, but those directly behind Giovanni had survived. Giovanni doubted Dragan would unleash such a massive attack again: if he wanted to prevent the FTL sequence, he¡¯d need an interface to do it from.


    Outside the great window, the black of space. Full dark, no stars. From this position, not even the other two great ships of the Final Church were visible.


    Giovanni made note of it all. One way or another, this was the room he would die in. If nothing else, he would do it the courtesy of noticing it.


    Shall we end this, then?


    Giovanni went to say that, to bring some dignity to this sad encounter -- but before he could, Hadrien vanished, recording himself into electric blue Aether. Steeling himself, Giovanni kept track of the moving Aethercloud with his eyes, the First Verse creating six spears floating over each of his shoulders.


    He¡¯d skewer Hadrien the moment he appeared. The Cogitant clearly wasn¡¯t playing any games, and neither would he. Whatever trick Hadrien intended on using, Giovanni would overcome it with sheer force.


    That was his first mistake: he¡¯d expected a trick.


    The Aethercloud rushed towards Giovanni in a straight line, Hadrien rematerializing at the last possible moment. His angry blue eyes looked into Giovanni¡¯s shocked red ones. The last thing he¡¯d expected was a frontal assault -- especially after last time.


    At this close range, firing the spears off like bullets would be ineffective. Giovanni whipped his hands out and seized two of the spears out of the air, swinging them at Hadrien¡¯s torso. They weren¡¯t slashing weapons by any means, but even used as clubs they would be able to do serious damage.


    If they managed to hit him, that was.


    Hadrien vanished into Aether again right before the spears hit him, the blue blur moving above Giovanni before materializing once more. Grim purpose in his eyes, Hadrien fell down towards Giovanni from the ceiling.


    "Gemini Shotgun!" he cried, Aether flaring around him.


    Another ranged attack, clumsily set up and easy to deal with. Giovanni held a hand up to meet the assault.


    "Second Verse!" he replied.


    The red shield appeared around Giovanni, dispelling his spears in the process -- but the expected bullets never came. Instead, Hadrien simply continued to fall towards the shield¡­ pulling his fist back for a punch. Alarm spiked through Giovanni¡¯s brain.


    It had been a bluff!


    Just because Hadrien called out the ability¡¯s name didn¡¯t mean he was actually using it. All he¡¯d really done was put on a show by flaring his Aether. Even so, though, what did he hope to accomplish? Whether he struck the shield with a projectile or struck it with his fist, the result would be the same. No matter how much Hadrien¡¯s resolve had been hardened, he wouldn¡¯t be able to -- S§×arch* The N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Smash.


    Hadrien¡¯s fist broke right through the barrier -- and struck Giovanni in the face.


    Pinpoint Aether usage.


    Dragan had only seen it actually used once -- when he¡¯d confronted Helga back on Yoslof -- but the principle of the technique was fairly easy to understand. Ordinarily, he¡¯d infuse his entire body with Aether, applying a consistent level of power to every part.


    Now, though, he was focusing all of the Aether he had at his disposal into the tip of his knuckles -- and in his current state of mind, he had a lot of Aether. It was a risky maneuver -- if he was hit by an attack while doing this it would be an instant defeat -- but once he¡¯d tricked Giovanni into blocking, he¡¯d had nothing to fear.


    His fist broke through the barrier like it was glass -- and when it finally hit Giovanni¡¯s jaw, it felt much the same.


    Giovanni went flying back across the room, flipping in the air. However, a red chain quickly erupted from his back and latched onto the window, stopping his flight and pulling him onto the glass surface instead. He landed feet-first, nearly vertical on it, wiping the blood from his mouth.


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    Dragan caught his breath, keeping careful watch over his adversary. He didn¡¯t know how many more times he could get away with it, but he could break through that crystal shield. Now, Giovanni would have to keep moving or use that Auto-Dodge ability to reliably avoid his attacks.


    Plus, that wasn¡¯t the only trick he had up his sleeve.


    "Approaching you now would be foolish," Giovanni called out, still trying to turn this into a conversation. "I¡¯d be best to switch to a wholly ranged --"


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    This time it wasn¡¯t a bluff. A barrage of debris burst out of Dragan¡¯s Aether and zoomed towards Giovanni¡­


    Second Verse.


    So long as he knew for sure that the attack would be a ranged one, Giovanni could use his crystal shield without fear. Even if Hadrien used this attack as a smokescreen to get closer, Giovanni would be able to see him coming and act accordingly.


    But Dragan Hadrien did not move.


    Giovanni¡¯s eyes widened.


    ¡­no, not towards Giovanni.


    Dragan sent his projectiles flying towards the window. He¡¯d applied the principles of pinpoint Aether to them, abandoning defense entirely to enhance the power of his shots -- and now, as they struck the glass, that investment paid off.


    The window shattered, and air began to flood out of the room, black space doing its best to claim them.


    Giovanni¡¯s shield shattered from the sudden shift in pressure -- but before he could fly out into the dark, he used another of his chains to attach himself to the far wall. His limbs dangled behind him as the chain rattled, pulled to breaking point by the air pressure and the loose metal that smashed against it on the way out. Dragan just recorded himself into Gemini World, choosing to sit out the maelstrom entirely.


    Eight seconds¡­


    Giovanni¡¯s eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth forced open by the force pulling at his body.


    Nine seconds¡­


    One by one, broken consoles and dead bodies flew out into the darkness, becoming little more than tiny floating dots.


    Ten seconds¡­


    And finally, a metal shutter screeched down, slamming shut over the broken window and restoring order. Giovanni collapsed to his knees, the chain turning slack in the moment before it dissipated. He went to take a deep breath --


    -- only to abandon it as Dragan appeared before him, fist pulled back for another punch.


    At this close range, his shield was a non-starter -- and Hadrien would just smash through it anyway. However, if Giovanni received a punch to the face with the full unbroken strength of that pinpoint Aether, the damage would be devastating.


    But Hadrien could only damage that which he could touch.


    Third Verse.


    His Auto-Dodge activated, reflexively twisting his body at an impossible angle to avoid the blow. His bones softened and stretched to accommodate the unnatural pose, his head twisting nearly one-hundred and eighty degrees. Rather than strike him in the face, Hadrien¡¯s arm just brushed harmlessly against the side of his neck.


    Giovanni smirked.


    First Verse! He materialized another spear in his hand and lunged at Hadrien, ready to run him through before he could vanish again¡­


    ¡­only to notice that the Cogitant, too, was grinning. Cold weight settled in Giovanni¡¯s stomach. He didn¡¯t know how, but he knew by instinct alone that he¡¯d somehow been outdone.


    Hadrien opened his mouth -- and at the same time, as quick as he could, so did Giovanni.


    "Tenth Ver --"


    "Gemini Shotgun!"


    There was a blast of blue, and a flare of pain.


    When Dragan used a Gemini Shotgun, he was able to make the projectile appear in a fairly small area around him -- the furthest away he could materialize it at the moment was over one of his shoulders.


    That was its first flaw.


    The second flaw was the flashiness of its materialization -- the bolt of blue that accompanied it gave enemies a crucial second to realize it was coming and react. In battle -- and especially against Giovanni Sigma Testament -- that instant could mean the difference between a killshot and a dodge.


    So, for this battle, Dragan had decided to think outside the box -- or inside it, depending on your position.


    Surely Giovanni could only Auto-Dodge an attack that, on some level, he could see coming. A point-blank shot without a second¡¯s warning would hit him just as much as it would hit anyone, then.


    Dragan had turned Gemini Shotgun¡¯s first flaw -- the materialization distance -- into a strength. Rather than fire from further away, he¡¯d fired from closer.


    From within his own body.


    Dragan¡¯s arm exploded with a burst of red, the chunk of debris firing out of his elbow and instantly striking Giovanni in the neck. Their blood mingled in the air as the Apexbishop¡¯s throat was sliced open by the attack, his life flowing freely from the wound. The red spear slipped from his grasp, but Dragan took no chances.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan vanished, hovering over Giovanni as he collapsed to the floor, clutching his bleeding throat.


    He watched as Giovanni writhed.


    He watched as Giovanni gasped.


    He watched as Giovanni stopped moving.


    Even long after Giovanni had stopped moving, Dragan continued to watch. There was no telling if the Apexbishop was faking. It was only when he¡¯d confirmed that the man hadn¡¯t been breathing for at least five minutes that Dragan rematerialized.


    His foot clicked down on the floor as he landed, and he immediately turned towards the ravaged consoles. Before anything else, he had to stop the FTL jump from progressing any further. He had no time for other concerns.


    His fingers hovered over the holographic keyboard, trying to work out how to accomplish the task --


    "First Verse."


    The breath -- and the blood -- was forced out of Dragan¡¯s lungs, splattering onto the monitor before him. Slowly, he looked down.


    A red spear of crystal had impaled him center-on, sticking out from his torso, his flesh dripping from its jagged surface. Wicked red Aether coursed across it. There was no way. Seriously? This was bullshit.


    "Tenth Verse," Giovanni said calmly from behind him, his footsteps coming closer. "So long as I use it beforehand, it repairs my flesh from a fatal injury and resurrects me. Of course, it can¡¯t do anything about aging¡­ but murder is no issue." There was a trace of bitterness to his tone.


    A heavy hand landed on Dragan¡¯s shoulder, and he found himself being thrown back to the floor. The impact forced the spear further into his body, and a scream of pain erupted from his mouth.


    Giovanni wiped the lingering blood from his throat, sneering down at Dragan.


    "That¡¯s the music I wanted to hear," he said. "Now¡­ shall we end all of this?"

 Chapter 255:9.46: Power

    Time remaining until FTL jump¡­


    4 minutes, 52 seconds.


    4 minutes, 51 seconds.


    4 minutes, 50 seconds.


    Thank you for flying aboard the Deus Nobiscum.


    Automated Readout, Auto-Brain "Aquinas"


    The thing that resembled Pablo Wrae crawled through the hallways of the Deus Nobiscum, panting through haphazard lungs.


    It didn¡¯t matter. As he was now, breathing was nothing but an aesthetic. He wasn¡¯t a thing of flesh and blood -- he was a light of the mind, sculpted into perfection by his own willpower. He¡¯d never felt better.


    Magnificent. Magnificent!


    He glanced over his shoulder as he smashed his way through a pair of sealed doors, entering the command deck of the ship. That bitch Ruth Blaine was still a short ways behind him, dispatching the ants that blocked her path just as quickly as he could summon them. She¡¯d been chasing him this whole time. Anger crawled up his impression of a spine.


    That didn¡¯t matter, though. As long as he kept her at that distance, everything was fine. His only concern should be reaching Giovanni Sigma Testament. Yes, he had to get there -- to the bridge. He had to see Giovanni slip and fall onto his face. Nothing else mattered.


    His Aether Core was victory. So long as he experienced that ultimate pleasure, synchronized with that sensation fully, he could continue to exist. He could achieve greater coherence than even this.


    Ah, what a beautiful sensation that would be! Already, he could feel the distances inside himself narrowing. He was going from an incoherent beast to the pinnacle of intelligence and existence once more. He was coming back to life. He was coming back to life! sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    That was right. He¡¯d died, hadn¡¯t he? What a strange thing to realize. That woman had killed him, shot him in the back like a coward. He¡¯d bled out on the floor, and his body had gone cold.


    He hissed in displeasure, summoning another set of ants. They were clad in plate armour, warped into vague humanoid shapes -- but they didn¡¯t last much longer against Ruth Blaine than the others.


    To think that bitch had killed him, though. Unbelievable. Unforgivable. He couldn¡¯t accept it. He had to get revenge. No, he¡¯d already gotten revenge, hadn¡¯t he? He¡¯d destroyed her. It was difficult to recall. His memories were fuzzy.


    It didn¡¯t matter what had happened to his old body. His consciousness had simply transferred from it to his Aether because he was so skilled. That woman simply hadn¡¯t known who she was messing with.


    His old body¡­ now that he thought of it, he¡¯d taken something from the cadaver, hadn¡¯t he? Before he¡¯d left the amphitheater, before that man had shown up. Pablo looked down at his hand with the so-long fingers, and opened it.


    Ah. The tracker. A tiny device the shape and size of a button, slowly flaring with dim red light. He¡¯d had it commissioned ages ago, corresponding to Giovanni¡¯s medical implants. It kept track of his vital signs, and haptics within it directed Pablo to his location.


    Yes, as long as he had this light, victory was possible. He¡¯d follow it to its terminus, witness Giovanni¡¯s humiliation, and become perfect. That was the natural development of his life.


    How much further to the bridge? Pablo was practically salivating. He looked down at the tracker, feeling its insistent buzzing --


    -- stop.


    The light died. The device went still. Pablo¡¯s crawl came to a halt as he stared down at it. There was only one reason why the tracker would completely deactivate like that, but no¡­ no¡­


    Giovanni had died? And Pablo had missed it?


    If the thing staring down at the tracker had been the real Pablo Wrae, it would have remembered the Tenth Verse that Giovanni had possessed -- the counter-ability to restart his body and return from death. But he was not, and he did not.


    No, the only thought that passed through the Pablo-thing¡¯s mind was this: Victory is impossible.


    Ruth Blaine finally reached the monster, slashing at it with her claws, but that was no longer necessary -- for the spell was broken. With the slightest change in air pressure, the warped body disintegrated into bolts of yellow Aether, which weakened into tiny sparks, which weakened into¡­


    ¡­nothing.


    Giovanni thrust the spear down towards Hadrien¡¯s prone body -- but as expected, it struck nothing but the floor. Hadrien had recorded his body into Aether, the resultant cloud slowly inching across the room. A snail¡¯s pace.


    Your willpower is at a mere ebb, Dragan Hadrien.


    Giovanni allowed himself the slightest smirk. Hadrien could record that injury into Aether to prevent it from progressing during the fight, but the pain he would have felt would impact his psyche all the same.


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    His mind was already at breaking point. All Giovanni had to do now was finish off the body.


    He kept careful watch over the Aethercloud as it slowly, slowly crawled across the room --


    -- only for it to suddenly fire towards him with the speed of a bullet.


    Hadrien reappeared in mid-air, save for the hole in his torso. His fist was pulled back for another punch, and the blaring light on his knuckles was enough to confirm he was using pinpoint Aether once again. No time to move.


    But he didn¡¯t need to move.


    Tenth Verse!


    The enhanced fist smashed through Giovanni¡¯s skull, opening up his face and revealing the red and pink behind it.


    That death lasted only a moment, though -- before Dragan could so much as blink, Giovanni had already regenerated and come back to life. He straightened back up, stopping his body from falling to the ground, and retaliated with a barrage of crystal spears.


    Gemini Shotgun!


    The spears vanished in the moment before they hit Dragan -- and he fired them back immediately, lances of red-and-blue light surging towards Giovanni and --


    Tenth Verse.


    -- shredding him.


    As expected, that didn¡¯t kill him either. Before the chunks of his body could hit the ground, the missing tissue had already reappeared, restoring his form just in time for him to fall to one knee. A chain burst out of his back, pulling him away from Dragan¡¯s next attack.


    That was fine, though. By no means did Giovanni coming back to life mean that this was a hopeless fight. Far from it.


    When he¡¯d come back the first time, he¡¯d said that he used recorded flesh to repair the damage that had been inflicted. Assuming that was true, that meant there was a limit to how much Giovanni could heal.


    So¡­ all Dragan had to do was keep killing him until it stuck.


    The void of death was coming again and again, closer each time. The feeling of utter cessation was a truly terrifying thing¡­ but that voidish maw had been at the back of Giovanni¡¯s mind for a long time now. He would not let it unsteady his grasp.


    Tenth Verse was a counter ability just like his Auto-Dodge. He had to activate it before the fatal attack hit or else it would be useless. Dragan Hadrien had already demonstrated the intelligence required to get around the Auto-Dodge anyway, so Giovanni would be better off relying on his resurrection now.


    He would meet Dragan Hadrien with sheer, crushing force again and again and again¡­ until it stuck.


    First and Second Verses.


    Sharp red crystal sprouted out of his Aether, forming a shell of armour around Giovanni¡¯s body. Red spears protruded from red gauntlets. Red spikes punctured the ground from the bottom of red boots. Red tears poured down the surface of a red helmet.


    All the world became a crimson shade.


    "Now then¡­" Giovanni rasped, standing tall. "Shall we do it¡­?"


    Fragments of crystal broke off his armour as he moved, but new crystal instantly grew in to repair the damage. This was the first time Giovanni had combined the first two Verses in this way, but he could already feel that it was the perfection of the technique. Only now, at the very end, did he feel such clarity.


    Dragan Hadrien looked pale. No wonder, with the substantial blood loss he¡¯d endured, and the stressful situation he now found himself in. Blue Aether fizzled around the donut hole in his torso, maintaining the injury¡¯s non-existence. As soon as that recording ceased, his body would resume its inevitable journey towards death.


    All the same, though¡­ he would never reach that specific conclusion. As they¡¯d been fighting, Giovanni had been keeping track of the time. The monitors that showed the actual readings were no longer operable, but Giovanni¡¯s internal clock was impeccable.


    He lunged towards Dragan, the ring of the Fourth Verse appearing behind his armoured back and pushing him forward. Hadrien fired off another volley of redirected spears to try and slow him down, but Giovanni simply slapped them out of the air with a wave of his hand.


    Win or lose, it didn¡¯t matter. Whatever happened now, there was only one minute left until the FTL jump. No matter what, there wasn¡¯t enough time for Hadrien to do anything!


    The intercom system clicked on.


    "Notice," the auto-brain said. "FTL jump aborted. Reason: insufficient power for stable jump."


    Giovanni skidded to a halt, his crystal spikes spitting up sparks as they ground against the floor. He looked up at the intercom, eyes wide, uncomprehending.


    "Huh?" he whispered.


    "Man," Skipper chuckled. "Ain¡¯t technology a crazy thing?"


    To be honest, he hadn¡¯t expected the vending machines on the Deus Nobiscum to have such an extensive stock. He took a sip of his perblome juice as he watched the scene below the observation room. It was a little hard to see, what with all the lights having gone out, but it was a spectacle all the same.


    The repaired Hierophant had latched onto the engine core like a spider, its adapted limbs trickling into its workings and draining the power directly. It had taken quite a while, but at last it had managed to suckle the thing down to its last gasps.


    Backup power would be sufficient to keep things like gravity and life support going, but the FTL jump the Chorister had warned him of? No way.


    The Chorister himself looked at Skipper from the neighboring seat, one eyebrow raised as he partook in a box of candy. He nodded down at the smoke pouring out of the Hierophant¡¯s chassis.


    "You realize, of course," he said. "That this automatic cannot possibly hold such massive amounts of power for long. Am I right, Paradisas?"


    The automatic Hamashtiel was controlling lingered by the door, its arms crossed. It nodded. "Quite right. As I told you, Skipper, you¡¯ve effectively turned the Hierophant into a massive bomb. The engineering section will be quite wiped out."


    The Chorister clicked his tongue. "Well, I wasn¡¯t told I¡¯d be inheriting a ship that was a blasted wreck."


    Skipper shrugged, standing up. "Eh, come on. The damage won¡¯t be beyond repair, yeah? It was either this or everyone gets blown up. I know which one I prefer." He wiped his hands with a napkin before tossing the can over his shoulder -- it landed perfectly in the trash can. "Well, either way, I don¡¯t think I need a front row seat to that. We heading out?"


    Hamashtiel nodded. "That seems the rational course of action."


    "After you, then, pal," Skipper grinned at the Chorister. "Work your secret passage magic, yeah?"


    The Chorister rolled his eyes. "You people work me far too hard¡­ but very well."


    They made their way out, following the Chorister through the secret paths that only the Quiet Choir knew -- but Skipper lingered in the doorway for just a moment. He looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see through all the levels of the Deus Nobiscum to the confrontation that must surely be happening on the bridge.


    "Come on, kid," he muttered. "Time to put an end to this."

 Chapter 256:9.47: Nothing Left To See Here

    ¡­and when the first three Apexbishops of the Final Church set off on their journey of discovery, the Pontifex Maximilian watched them go. Besides him, his aide snickered to himself, in the manner of the fox.


    "Why do you laugh, young one?" asked the Wise Man, though he knew the answer.


    "It¡¯s obvious, isn¡¯t it?" laughed the Cynical Man. "They¡¯ll never find what they¡¯re looking for. Their journeys have no destination. Their search is fruitless."


    But the Wise Man only smiled, and spoke the words that made him Wise.


    "Ah, but don¡¯t you know? The fruit is the search itself."


    Malone¡¯s Continuations (Heretical), "On The Truemeet"


    The ship shook.


    Bruno and Serena plunged a sword into the ground, holding themselves in place while the tremors ravaged the area around them. Chunks of concrete fell from the ceiling, shattering upon the ground. What was going on? Some kind of explosion?


    Purple and violet Aether danced across Bruno and Serena¡¯s fingers as they stared straight forward, even as the ship trembled.


    Across from the singular pair, their opponent was bracing themselves against the ground as well. As the fight had progressed, their enemy had grown in size and strength -- mutating further and further until they were a chaotic mass of muscle and claws, a rabid furry mountain crawling across the ground.


    At this point, the very fact that something so massive was moving seemed to defy the laws of physics.


    And yet¡­ move it did.


    Jon Peak launched himself off the ground like a frog, his fur sharp as blades and his six tongues slavering at the air. His eyes were far too many to count, dotted all over his body, but as one they were fixed on Bruno and Serena. If his brain was still capable of anything but this simple strategy, he was not showing it.


    In this case, as well, his tactics were obvious. He intended to leap right onto Bruno and Serena and maul them to paste.


    He jumped in a straight line, screeching bestially --


    -- and then, before he could hit the ground, he fell apart into blood and severed limbs.


    Bruno and Serena let out a deep breath as the body parts rained down around them. To be honest, even with everything they¡¯d observed of the enemy, they hadn¡¯t been one-hundred percent sure that was going to work. If it hadn¡¯t¡­ that would have been the end of them.


    Before Peak had leapt off the ground, Bruno and Serena had created a lattice of their invisible blades jutting out from the floor. It had formed a barrier right in the path of Peak¡¯s flight -- and when he¡¯d gone to pounce on them, he¡¯d sliced himself into pieces.


    The adrenaline finally abandoning them, Bruno and Serena allowed themselves to collapse back on the ground, their arms spread wide in the red puddles. It had been a long fight. Both the Vox Dei they¡¯d been standing against and the civilians they¡¯d been protecting had fled during the chaos.


    All that remained was them.


    And their exhausted breathing, echoing into the dark.


    The ship shook.


    Neither Dragan Hadrien or Giovanni Sigma Testament paid it any mind. Instead, they simply continued to stare at each other, their gazes hard and unbreaking. It felt as if the very air was keeping itself still, so as to prevent itself from being noticed.


    Until, finally, Giovanni broke the silence with the slightest sigh.


    "I suppose that¡¯s how it goes, then," he said quietly, running a hand over his face. "I must¡¯ve overlooked something somewhere. Some variables I¡­ didn¡¯t anticipate. Damnit¡­"


    Dragan said nothing. He simply continued to breathe, regaining himself.


    As Giovanni threw his hands down to his sides, his red armour began to crumble away. Like melting ice, fragments of it began to fall -- dissipating into red Aether as it hit the floor. A long, cracking sigh trickled from his throat, echoing throughout the ruined bridge.


    "So that¡¯s it¡­" he continued, nearly inaudible. "I won¡¯t have this opportunity again. That¡¯s¡­ this is¡­ how we conclude things."


    Dragan opened his mouth to say something -- perhaps a threat, perhaps something else -- but a glare from Giovanni silenced him.


    "You decided you wouldn¡¯t talk to me anymore, didn¡¯t you? That¡¯s why you¡¯ve been silent," he snapped. "Please don¡¯t make yourself a liar. That¡¯d dissatisfy me, after all of this."


    Fair enough. Dragan closed his mouth.


    "Those that allied with me are not willing to die for me," Giovanni continued calmly, looking up at the cold ceiling. "After what has happened here, moves will be made to remove me from power as quickly and efficiently as possible. I will not be removed from power." His eyes flicked back down to Dragan. "It¡¯s all I have. I will not permit a moment of my consciousness where I am not the Superbian Apexbishop. Do you understand?"


    It didn¡¯t take a genius to work out what he meant. Basically¡­ win or lose, this was it.


    "What a world we live in," Giovanni chuckled darkly -- and took a step forward. "First Verse."


    Gemini Shotgun.


    With all the injuries Dragan was pushing out of existence, and the mental fatigue of the bloody battle, he was capable of little more than standing there and receiving the incoming attacks. Countless spears of red crystal fired towards him, fast and furious as raindrops -- and one by one, they were absorbed into his Aether and fired back.


    Giovanni stepped forward.


    The Apexbishop made no move to dodge or deflect. The spears thudded mercilessly into his form, running him through, grunts of pain forced out of his throat. Blood dribbled on the ground behind him like the trail of a snail as he slowly, slowly made his way towards Dragan.


    Giovanni stepped forward.


    A redirected spear rushed past him, severing his left arm and sending it flying off into the air. Even so, Giovanni did not so much as blink. Hollow, hopeless breath poured out from his ruined lips. His robes, once resplendent, hung from his thin frame as blackened rags.


    Giovanni stepped forward.


    Barely an inch of his body escaped the onslaught, red spikes sticking out of his form like the spines of a hedgehog. Blood poured over and into his eyes, surely blinding him. Only one leg was capable of limited movement, the other dragging behind him, bitten away to the width of a stick.


    The words of the Tenth Verse remained perpetually far from his lips: he had no intention of using it now.


    Giovanni stepped forward -- and Dragan faltered.


    His efforts reached their limit, and in a rush of pain he felt his hold over Gemini World be relinquished. The wound on his stomach returned, agony accompanying it, and the sudden flare of sensation forced him to his knees. He gasped wordlessly, clutching his wound, chills radiating out from the injury into the furthest reaches of his limbs.


    For a moment, that pain distracted him. It was only when Dragan looked up that he realized Giovanni was standing right above him, looking down with a ruined, battered face. There were so many spears in him that he resembled some kind of pincushion.


    He opened his mouth to use Gemini Shotgun, but even in this state Giovanni was horrifyingly fast. His good hand lashed out and seized Dragan by the throat -- the words dying before they could reach his lips. He grasped at the fingers bound around his neck, but their grip was iron. His vision began to blur.


    Despite the ravaged state of his body, Giovanni¡¯s own words were as clear as ever. Calm and quiet, with only the slightest trace of bitterness.


    "I never made one decision," he murmured, as if realizing something for the first time. "Not once. Not ever in my life. Everything I¡¯ve ever done¡­ was because one string or another was pulling me in that direction, isn¡¯t it? So¡­ all of it was meaningless. How about that?"


    Dragan¡¯s voice cracked as he tried to force words out, but Giovanni¡¯s grip just tightened in response.


    "Don¡¯t speak. You mustn¡¯t speak¡­" Giovanni whispered. "To remain silent was a decision you yourself made. Don¡¯t betray it." For a second, it seemed as if he¡¯d undertake the natural effort -- to squeeze just a tiny bit tighter and snap Dragan¡¯s neck.


    But that effort never came.


    "My life meant nothing," Giovanni sighed. "My decisions meant nothing, because they never were my decisions. But¡­ I was alive. I was here. I¡¯ll have you prove that for me¡­ with each and every breath you take. Fifth Verse." S§×arch* The Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    What strength was left in Dragan¡¯s body quickly drained away, his limbs falling limp at his sides -- but even as his energy was sapped, he could feel a different kind of strength returning. It took everything he had, but he managed to look down at his own body.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    His wounds were filling in and closing up as if they were never even there. Even as Dragan watched, the hole in his stomach that had seemed so lethal disappeared, leaving smooth skin in his place. The countless scratches and bruises that had been inflicted over the course of the bout faded away, too, until it was as if Dragan had never even entered this room.


    Giovanni let go of his throat.


    Slowly, Dragan looked back up, at the ruin of Giovanni¡¯s face. At the red mass looking down at him. But why? he went to ask, but Giovanni spoke first.


    "You are alive," he said, his voice a ragged rasp. "You are alive because I was alive¡­ how about that?"


    The slightest twist of a smile crossed his features -- and the Apexbishop of the Superbians fell backwards. The crystals inside him shattered as they struck the floor, but the young man showed no signs of discomfort. The idea of him doing so was ridiculous to begin with.


    After all¡­ he¡¯d died long before he hit the ground.


    Jean Lyons woke with a low groan, his head resting against cold metal.


    Slowly, he opened his eyes. It was difficult. His whole body felt heavy and numb, like someone had bound him with heavy chains. His hair was stuck together by dried blood, hanging off one side of his head. His throat felt like it had been rubbed down with sandpaper.


    He put a cautious hand to that throat, and felt the open wound there. His memories hadn¡¯t been mistaken: Atoy Muzazi had landed a serious blow. If not for Lyons¡¯ ability slowing down the blood loss, he had no doubt he would have perished already.


    Even with that in mind, though¡­ this wasn¡¯t where he¡¯d fallen unconscious.


    They¡¯d been fighting in the hangar, he and Muzazi, when darkness had claimed him. Now, judging from the rushing lights and sounds, he was on a rooftop somewhere. The artificial environment of the Menagerie¡¯s city was raging around him.


    This was not a distance he could have made by himself: he¡¯d been brought here. But by who?


    The question answered itself soon enough.


    "You¡¯re awake," said Helga Malwarian.


    He looked up to the source of the voice, to the woman sitting atop an air conditioning unit. She was draped in a ragged red cloak, her arms and legs concealed, looking down at him with utmost seriousness. Her blonde hair hung chaotically around her face, her green eyes piercing.


    "Helga," Jean grunted, smiling faintly. "You left your confinement? Excellent initiative, and an effective extraction. You do me proud."


    Helga narrowed her eyes. "You know that¡¯s not what¡¯s happening, Jean."


    The smile faded as Jean adjusted his position slightly. "Then what?"


    Helga did not blink. "I knew I had to be here. To watch. To make sure. It was part of my deal with Muzazi. It¡¯s the only way I would be able to move forward."


    So Atoy Muzazi had been telling the truth, then -- Helga had assisted him in setting up this assault. Well, no matter. He¡¯d known this day would come, sooner or later. Every baby bird eventually showed an inclination to leave the nest.


    It was the duty of the parent to kick them back where they belonged.


    "If you¡¯re intending to ensure my death, Helga," he said quietly, his eyes half-lidded. "I¡¯d advise you to reconsider. I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve considered the ramifications."


    "The ramifications¡­" Helga echoed.


    Jean¡¯s smile returned, but in its true form. The thin satisfaction of a hunter knowing he¡¯d covered every possible escape, bloodlust pressed into a single cruel line. Human nature manifest.


    "Your lovely family, for one," he purred. "They¡¯ve always been so proud of your service to the Supremacy -- and to them, of course. Word of my death would travel fast. If I were you, I¡¯d be concerned of how that news could impact them. I¡¯ve always been a major figure in their lives, after all, and they¡¯re at such an impressionable age."


    Helga did not move. She just continued to perch there, like a gargoyle, her expression betraying no emotion as she listened to Jean¡¯s words.


    "If we¡¯re going to exchange threats," she finally replied. "Can we speak plainly? It¡¯s just annoying otherwise. If I let you die, then my family dies. That¡¯s what you mean, right?"


    "Well," Jean chuckled, hauling himself up into as much of a sitting position as possible, one hand covering the dribbling wound on his neck. "That¡¯s been our basic agreement all along, hasn¡¯t it? Never formalized, but understood all the same."


    Helga blinked. "I suppose it is."


    "It was a good attempt at breaking free," Jean smiled. "But not an unforgivable one. I trust you¡¯ve already checked the area for medical facilities? Help me deal with this scratch, and there¡¯s no reason we can¡¯t continue on as we have been. I --"


    Then, for the first time, Helga Malwarian did something that would have once been unthinkable.


    She interrupted him.


    "Only¡­" she said, slowly standing from the air conditioner. "It¡¯s like you said -- word of your death would travel fast¡­ but it wouldn¡¯t be instant, would it? If I could get to my family first, and get them out -- before anyone realizes you¡¯re lying cold on a roof -- there wouldn¡¯t be a problem. That¡¯s interesting."


    Jean glared at her, the strength of his contempt increasing with each ill-considered word.


    "That¡¯s an unrealistic plan, Helga," Jean hissed. "And I know you understand that. The GID has ears everywhere. You¡¯d be dooming those siblings you claim to love so much. Is that really what you want? To murder them?"


    An artificial gust of wind whistled past, and Helga¡¯s red cloak billowed in its grasp as she stood over Jean.


    "What about Olga?" she asked quietly.


    "Olga?" Jean snorted, wrinkling his nose. "What about her?"


    "You¡¯ve trained her, raised her, brought her here. Sentimentality, Jean. Not even you are immune to it. You¡¯ll have something in place to protect just her, even if I went against you. If nothing else, it¡¯d be a waste of useful resources to get rid of her."


    Despite everything -- the wound on his throat, the cold biting at his limbs -- Jean Lyons found himself laughing. His amusement echoed over the rooftop, malice barking out.


    Sentimentality¡­?


    "A useful resource?" he sneered. "If only. That girl wasn¡¯t worth the effort training her. A complete lack of initiative, an irritating level of attachment¡­ she¡¯s a useful set of eyes and nothing else. Don¡¯t think for a moment sentimentality will make me hesitate, Helga Malwarian. I¡¯ll prove you wrong every time."


    Helga¡¯s transparent hand, poking out from within her cloak, clenched into a fist. Then, she looked back up -- past Jean, onto the other side of the rooftop.


    "You hear that, sis?" she said.


    No.


    Jean turned to look -- and sure enough, there stood Olga Malwarian, that red scarf hanging off her just like her sister¡¯s cloak. There was no rain, but tears streamed down her face all the same, shining with the neon light of the neighboring buildings.


    Jean hadn¡¯t realized she was there at all. She¡¯d completely concealed her presence.


    Just as he¡¯d taught her.


    "No," he muttered, looking between the two of them. "No, no. Olga, listen to me. This woman is messing with your head. She¡¯s trying to trick you into joining her treason. You¡¯re smarter than her, you¡¯re stronger than her. Don¡¯t be fooled."


    Olga¡¯s lip trembled as she looked at him. "Those things you said¡­ are they true¡­?"


    "Of course not," Jean lied. "We are intelligence operatives, Olga. You know that the things we must say aren¡¯t always the truth. I¡¯ve kept you by my side because I trust you -- and I trust you now, too. Save me, Olga. Please. I know you can do it."


    She didn¡¯t move. She didn¡¯t move.


    "Olga?" he went on, hurriedly, alarm finally flaring through his brain. "Olga, what are you waiting for?"


    It was Helga who answered. "You know what she¡¯s waiting for."


    Jean ignored her. "Olga! Olga! Look at me!" He said that, but she was looking at him -- looking down at him with cold, analytical eyes. "Do you even understand what you¡¯re doing right now? After everything I¡¯ve done for you -- both of you? You were on the streets when I found you!"


    "I wish we¡¯d stayed there," Helga murmured. "Even with how things were back then¡­ the worst part about it was meeting you."


    Jean snarled, making an effort to pick himself up -- only to slip in his spreading blood and fall back to the ground. "Do you realize where you¡¯d be if it wasn¡¯t for me?" he demanded, nostrils flaring. "Putrid meat! Stripped of everything and left to rot! I saved you from that! I saved you! Olga!"


    The trembling of Olga¡¯s lip slowed, and finally stopped. She took a deep, shaking breath, and pulled off the scarf around her neck.


    "Sentimentality, Jean," she said, nearly imperceptible. She dropped the limp scarf. Then, she walked past him, joining her sister on the other side of the roof.


    Jean tried to scream after her, but the strength required had already left his body. All he could do was futilely gasp, each breath coming up short, each plea coming out insufficient.


    "Olga," he wheezed, failing to crawl after her. "Olga, Olga, please -- listen, there¡¯s no need for this. We can make an arrangement. You and your family can leave, we can find a way to make that happen, we can work together on this -- erase the records, save face. There¡¯s no need to let me die. The things that have happened are -- are unfortunate, but wouldn¡¯t it be a waste for anyone else to lose their lives? You¡¯re a kind girl, Olga, a good girl, I know it, I know you don¡¯t want things to end like this, so, so -- look at me. Turn this way, please. Look at me! For the love of God, Olga!"


    His final request was granted. Olga and her sister did turn his way, and they did look at him. But that was the extent of it. They made no move to help him.


    They just watched, and watched, and watched¡­ until there was nothing left to see.


    Mila tapped her foot against the ground anxiously, hands plunged into the pockets of her trench coat as she waited by their new -- borrowed, some would say -- ship. Fuelled up and ready to rush for Supremacy space. That was the plan, but¡­


    When she¡¯d started her vigil here in the budget hangar, it had been packed with civilian ships, but as the hours had gone on they had trickled away one by one. Now, it was just her and the humming of the systems.


    A terrible thought occurred, just for a moment. Had she been abandoned? Had Helga just tricked her again?


    No.


    The doors to the hangar ground open -- and as Mila whipped around to look, an involuntary smile spread across her face. Perhaps that was a little crass, but under the circumstances she couldn¡¯t help it. After all¡­ it finally felt like things were coming to a close.


    Helga nodded to her as she strode into the hangar, the slightest smile on her own lips. Her sister Olga followed behind her, morose eyes fixed on the ground.


    "I got Muzazi to the medical center. Did you do it?" Mila called out, hopefully.


    Helga looked up. "Do what?" she asked. Her eyes told the whole story anyway.


    "It¡¯s a long way to the GID," Mila continued as the trio reached the ship. "You all ready?"


    Olga marched right up the access ramp without pausing, but Helga stopped and turned to Mila. That slight smile spreading into a grin, Helga planted a firm hand on her shoulder. Her eyes glistened in the light.


    "Got everything I need," she said quietly.

 Chapter 257:9.48: The One That Announces The End

    Found him.


    ???


    Three weeks later¡­


    "And there it is," Skipper declared, pointing his metal finger up at the hologram. "Elysian Fields. Pretty nifty, huh?"


    Dragan took in the floating facsimile of the planet before him. They¡¯d been hiding out aboard the ELIZA ever since the battle on the Deus Nobiscum, recovering from their injuries and fatigue, but Skipper had clearly been itching to move again. It seemed today he¡¯d hit his limit: he¡¯d pushed the crew into this Paradisas briefing room and begun this little presentation without much preamble at all.


    Elysian Fields, huh?


    The planet wasn¡¯t too much of a spectacle to look at. From the readings being displayed alongside it, it was mostly covered with grassland and forests, mountain ranges separating more flat plains. Apparently, there were Gene Tyrant ruins somewhere on the planet, but they weren¡¯t quite visible from space.


    In short, he was looking at a big ball of green.


    Ruth leaned over the table, angling her head this way and that to get a better look at the planet. "This is where we¡¯re headed, then? Doesn¡¯t look like much."


    Skipper grinned. "It¡¯s where we take out the Supreme, yeah. Don¡¯t worry about how it looks: it¡¯s got something real special waiting for us."


    Bruno was looking at a copy of the information on his script, scrolling up and down the planet¡¯s environmental conditions. He glanced up at Skipper and spoke.


    "You mean the weapon, right?"


    Dragan swallowed.


    Skipper¡¯s smile widened. "Not a weapon, nah. It¡¯s¡­ more of a device, I¡¯d say. Something that will force the Supremacy to engage us on our terms. Strip away their strengths, open up their weaknesses. Gives us the best conditions possible, yeah?"


    "What kind of device?" Dragan spoke up.


    His arms were crossed, his face pale. Even as he spoke, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, shaking the words that came out of his mouth.


    It was only natural. The day that had seemed perpetually in the future was now imminent. Choices had to be made. He¡¯d decided a long while ago that, when the time came, he¡¯d make a run for it if he didn¡¯t think there was a chance of victory.


    So¡­ did he think that?


    Skipper clicked his tongue. "This whole ship is basically one big listening device, kid, so I can¡¯t go into specifics."


    "You never can, can you?" Dragan rolled his eyes.


    "But," Skipper continued. "There¡¯s a few tidbits that I don¡¯t mind leaking. For one, this is a Gene Tyrant device. The Tyrant that owned this planet was assassinated before he could make it to his little fortress here, so it¡¯s gone untouched since the Revolutions."


    Dragan put a hand to his chin as he circled the hologram, its green light washing over the room. "Gene Tyrant?" he mused. "So¡­ I¡¯m guessing this device isn¡¯t some kind of normal machine, then? It¡¯s something they made, grew?"


    "You got it," Skipper nodded. "Like I said, no specifics until we get there, but it¡¯s a weird one -- it winds underneath the surface of the whole planet."


    Bruno¡¯s analytical frown opened up into Serena¡¯s sudden horror, her mouth a perfect ¡¯o¡¯. "But Mr. Skipper!" she exclaimed. "If we¡¯re here, what¡¯s stopping someone from going there and messing with it?!"


    If the notion disturbed Skipper, he didn¡¯t show it. He just snapped his prosthetic fingers -- dispelling the hologram -- before grinning.


    "Don¡¯t you worry, Serena," he said. "We¡¯ve got allies looking after Elysian Fields for us. There¡¯s no risk of anyone beating us there."


    "Allies?" Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Who?"


    "Old friends," Skipper waved a dismissive hand. "Don¡¯t you worry, either. These are people I trust one-hundred percent. They hate the Supremacy more than anyone."


    "And that makes them trustworthy?" Bruno asked.


    Skipper¡¯s smile dropped. "Sure does, pal. They¡¯re good folks -- you¡¯ll like ¡¯em." As quickly as it had vanished, though, the grin returned. "So¡­ let¡¯s get packing, yeah? It¡¯s a long way to Supremacy space."


    As the lights flicked back on, bathing the room in white, Dragan just stood there. As the room filed out, heading off to make their preparations, Dragan just stood there. As the doors slid back shut, plunging him into darkness, Dragan just stood there.


    Thinking about the decision to be made.


    Marcus woke with a start, nearly falling out of his seat from the neural feedback.


    Immediately, his vision flicked into full clarity, down to the background radiation hanging in the air. His conscious mind joined his subconscious, linking into the network of security cameras that kept watch over this minor hangar. His two eyes became nearly one-hundred, his thoughts partitioning to handle the increased input.


    Most of the staff aboard the ELIZA occupied automatic bodies, but legally they had to employ some organic staff, and so Marcus found himself guarding this low-security, low-priority hangar for miscellaneous cargo. He was wired up to the gills, sure, but his brain was still mostly made of meat.


    Usually, his twelve-hour shift mainly consisted of lying back and keeping himself on sleep mode, but every now and then he¡¯d get some stray rodent tripping off the sensors.


    Marcus got out of his seat, reaching underneath his desk and retrieving the plasma rifle stored there. As he unlocked the door out of the security booth, he ran a quick search for the specific source of the disturbance.


    The response to that gave him pause.


    This time, it wasn¡¯t a rodent. It was a human figure, walking calmly through the middle of the vacant hangar, their features concealed by the black cloak that hung off their frame. More bizarrely¡­ where had they come from? There were no ships docked in the hangar, and they were heading in the direction of the entrance.


    Before taking this assignment, Marcus had been part of civilian security. He¡¯d seen his share of danger, and the instincts you got from those situations didn¡¯t just disappear. He could feel them shouting at him now: adding caution to his step, an anxious hollowness to his breath.


    He hesitated.


    Before heading out, Marcus consulted the secondary sensors for more information on the figure: body temperature normal, heartbeat highly accelerated but somehow muffled -- like they were wearing some kind of body armour interfering with the scan. Tertiary sensors ran a check for weapons, but found no plasma signature in the hangar save for the one coming from Marcus¡¯ own rifle.


    So all he had to worry about were bladed weapons¡­ and Aether. His endoskeletal enhancements would deal with the former, but the latter¡­


    He¡¯d taken this assignment to get away from the battlefield, because he¡¯d seen the horrors Aether-users were capable of inflicting. Even so, he couldn¡¯t allow the fear of there maybe being an Aether-user stop him from doing his job.


    If it came down to it, after all, he was the one with the gun.


    He waited until the intruder had stepped past the security booth before exiting, slamming the door open and pointing his readied rifle at their back. Safety off, plasma loaded. Just the slightest increase of pressure on his finger required to end a life.


    "Hands above your head," he said.


    The regulators in his throat kept his voice steady, suppressing the tremor there to near-nothing. Slowly, the figure complied, the black fabric billowing around them as they raised their hands up and placed them atop their head. S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Got anything on you?" Marcus demanded. "Anything that¡¯s going to poke me, cut me?"


    Still facing away from him, the figure shook their head.


    "Okay now," Marcus continued. "I¡¯m going to remove your cloak and conduct a search. I¡¯d advise you not to make any sudden movements. You understand?"


    This time, a silent nod. Marcus circled his prisoner cautiously, rifle still pointed at them, finger still curled around the trigger. As soon as he was facing them directly, he reached out -- carefully -- and pulled the hood over their head free.


    It took him half a second to register the ¡¯face¡¯ under the hood. It took another half a second for the facial recognition database to find a match. It took him just a fraction of a second to realize the threat, and even less than that to pull the trigger.


    Unfortunately, it took the intruder only 0.01 seconds to murder Marcus.


    His head popped like a balloon, fragments of brain and bone raining down around the surrounding area. His neural implants dropped to the floor like a drained jellyfish, sparks still leaping from their abandoned tendrils. The plasma rifle slipped from his dead fingers, clattering to the floor.


    The figure had already pulled their hood back up and continued walking by the time Marcus¡¯ body hit the ground.


    "A moment alone, if you please," murmured the Chorister. The nurse acquiesced, bowing deeply before scurrying out of the bedchambers.


    He looked down at the girl in the bed.


    All in all, it was something of a miracle that Isabelle Pi Testament had escaped physically intact from the chaos of the fighting aboard the Deus Nobiscum. She¡¯d been even more fortunate in that she¡¯d fallen into his hands, rather than one of the old Apexbishop¡¯s supporters. Some of those rats were still scurrying around.


    The Chorister went to sit down on empty air, and an automatic chair scurried to accommodate him.


    This place was like a palace, with decor and facilities that even the richest would be jealous of, and yet Isabelle was fundamentally incapable of appreciating it. Her eyes were open, her breathing was steady, and yet there was simply no mind present to drive her forward. More than anything, she was like a living doll. The doctors were hopeful that her mind would eventually reconstruct itself, or that a new consciousness would develop to fill the void¡­ but was that really the best outcome?


    It had only been two weeks since the Chorister had been named interim Apexbishop, and that was an interim he fully intended to make indefinite. As the last known survivor of the Testament Project, Isabelle was a figure that his enemies could rally behind, could prop up as his opposition. If she ever woke up, she could be a dangerous weapon against him.


    The smart thing to do¡­ the practical thing to do¡­ would be to kill her right now.


    Aether danced through the Chorister¡¯s fingers as he considered his course of action. The best way to do this would be to have Meli expose a weak point in her lungs or heart, so as to cause a seemingly natural death. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time the Chorister had used such a tactic.


    And yet¡­ when he considered doing it now, he couldn¡¯t help but feel a distinct distaste. It was thanks to this woman that Giovanni¡¯s madness had been exposed to the public, and it was thanks to that that the Chorister had become Apexbishop. Would he really repay that assistance, if unintentional, with the betrayal of one who could not comprehend it?


    Once, he had left the Church and the Quiet Choir both, seeking out what fulfillment the outside world could give him. He¡¯d come back dissatisfied. This world of ruthlessness and wickedness and hungry knives had been all he¡¯d known since then. For a long time, that had been all he¡¯d been, as well. He¡¯d thought he had no other choice, if he wished to thrive.


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    Perhaps, just this once, he would be impractical. He let out a heavy sigh, and the Aether in his hands died away.


    Well, he thought wearily. So begins another long vigil.


    What?


    Ruristelio paused his flight down the hallway, a rare moment of confusion spoiling his tranquility. He had been occupying this spherical automatic body during a logistics meeting with some organic practitioners, but something was stopping him from cutting the connection.


    Something blocking the upload to the Garden completely? Was there some kind of malfunction going on? Ruristelio went to send a message to the central network, to query what was happening -- but his consciousness winked out before he could.


    He¡¯d never know it, but at that moment his metal body was torn cleanly in two by a sharp blade of invisible force. Repulsors deactivated, the two halves of his body thudded to the ground, internal fluids spilling out of the gaps.


    The cloaked figure Ruristelio had never seen calmly walked past his carcass, their gait unbreaking.


    The silver stator danced between his fingers and rolled over his knuckles before trickling up onto the top of his thumb and spinning in place. He left it there for five seconds or so before flicking it up into the air -- then he caught it before it struck the ground.


    Coin tricks really were amusing. Zeroth had taken a liking to them.


    He was aboard the Menagerie, in the central complex, sitting in a waiting room. The furniture was eclectic yet comfortable, different styles and materials making up the selection of chairs and tables. On the wall opposite him hung countless paintings, from historical depictions to abstract pieces. Zeroth¡¯s gaze was focused on a print of Death¡¯s Elegy, an epic reproduction of the fall of the Arcana automatics.


    Where had they gotten this, he wondered? Something donated by a new convertee, or had it passed through the hands of thieves before reaching this place?


    A whole society made from the refuse of the past. A fascinating notion, but Zeroth had to wonder how practical it really was. All the same, he¡¯d do his best to keep it going into the future. Continuity was important when it came to an organization like this. It charted the way. After all, he too was something recycled.


    The doors slid open, and Alejandro walked in, a script clutched to his chest. He was slight of frame, his long dark hair tied behind his back, but in his red eyes was the passion of a true believer. The young man had become something like Zeroth¡¯s assistant during his time on the streets of the Menagerie, and so it was only natural that he would accompany him here.


    "Grand Inspector Murphy just got here, Mr. Patch," he said hurriedly. "They¡¯re all waiting for you!"


    Since he¡¯d escaped this complex the first time, Zeroth had spent his time debating others on the city streets. It had been intended as a means of honing his mind, but somewhere along the line his dialogues had turned into preaching. That preaching had gathered a following -- and that following had brought him back here.


    It seemed that the more prominent members of the Humilist faith were keen on meeting this popular new preacher, now that their old leader was dead.


    Zeroth rose from the chair, towering over his assistant, and strode towards the doors. If they wished for him to speak, then he would speak -- he would speak until his throat ran dry and Y regretted giving him a tongue. He spared only a final glance at the paintings behind him.


    A collection of traditions and values, bound by mutual hope, carried in the minds of those wishing for answers. Yes. That was the shape a faith should take.


    The control room dripped with blood.


    Andreigh heard it before anything else. He looked up to see what the source of the sound was -- and his head exploded.


    Rory ran for the weapons locker, panic pushing his body further than it had ever gone before -- and his head exploded.


    Luisa whipped her personal pistol out of its holster, flicking the safety off and pulling the trigger in one smooth motion -- and her head exploded.


    Henry did perhaps the best thing he could under the circumstances. He leapt under his desk, hands on his head, making himself as small as possible, hoping that the devil would overlook him¡­ and his head exploded.


    The cloaked figure that had invaded this space checked the screens for a moment before continuing on their way.


    Skipper smiled thinly to himself as his eyes scanned the script, looking over the message he¡¯d received from Elysian Fields. Satisfied, he glanced back up at Asmagius¡¯ automatic body, the mechanical lion glaring back at him.


    "RED just confirmed receipt of the Hanged Man and the ArrayKnights," Skipper said. "Have to give you credit, pal -- you¡¯re an automatic of your word."


    Artificial eyelids narrowed. "RED? Dangerous allies. With that, then, our business is concluded?"


    "My new ship¡¯s waiting for me?"


    "That it is. As well-equipped as we could manage given the smaller size of the vessel. Your new ¡¯Slipstream¡¯ came at great expense. But such was the extent of your blackmail."


    The Slipstream, huh¡­? To be perfectly honest, Skipper had forgotten what number ship they were on now. Maybe they should move onto weird letters instead. The Slipstream AE had a nice ring to it.


    "Well, thanks anyway," Skipper offered a thumbs-up. "I appreciate it. Don¡¯t be too sore, yeah?"


    The voice of the metal lion was calm and mercilessly precise. "You threatened our very way of life, Esmeralda. The existence of Paradisas. I will be as ¡¯sore¡¯ as I like."


    Skipper¡¯s smile dropped at the mention of his old name, and he shrugged. "It is what it is. Like you said, our business is done, then. Thanks for the helping hand."


    He turned to leave Asmagius¡¯ personal quarters, the holographic banners lining the walls waving in an imaginary wind. Just as he reached the door, however, he heard a voice from behind him.


    His own voice.


    It was a recording, from when he¡¯d eliminated the Sponsor of War after the events on Taldan. Specifically, it was the conversation he¡¯d had with the old fart right before ending his life.


    "Lemme tell you, my bovine buddy," his old voice sighed. "I want to change the shape of this world. That¡¯s my dream. When I¡¯m done -- and that¡¯s a when, not an if, yeah? -- there won¡¯t be room for people like you at the top anymore. If I make that dream come true with your help, I won¡¯t be changing the shape of this world, will I? I¡¯ll just be throwing a fresh coat of paint over it. Not really what I¡¯m looking for. Sorry."


    "Is this how you intend to change the shape of this world, Skipper?" Asmagius asked quietly. "Through manipulation and blackmail? Is that what you meant back then?"


    Skipper faced away, his shoulders raised high, but his voice was dead and distant.


    "That?" he muttered, listening to the past. "That stuff was just lip service. You can forget about it."


    How pitiful.


    With that, he walked out of the room. Asmagius was tempted to call out after him in righteous anger, but somehow he couldn¡¯t quite bring himself to do it. After all¡­


    ¡­something about the man seemed so terribly sad.


    The doors to Dragan¡¯s quarters slid open, and Skipper strode in, hands on his hips. A wide grin was plastered on his face as usual, and it only widened as he ran his eyes over Dragan¡¯s packed case.


    "Everything ready?" he asked. "Man, you take your time, huh? Ruth and the twins are already waiting on the Slipstream AE."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow, rattling the suitcase to make sure it wouldn¡¯t just burst open and vomit his possessions all over the floor. "AE?"


    "We got to the end of numbers, so I figured it was time to move onto weird letters."


    The door slid shut behind Skipper.


    Dragan scoffed, lifting his suitcase off the bed and slinging it over his back. Seemed structural integrity was fine. "I¡¯m pretty sure we had plenty of numbers left. Like¡­ trillions. And what¡¯s a weird letter?"


    Skipper frowned. "A letter that¡¯s weird. You need more explanation?"


    "But AE is two letters. It¡¯s not a weird letter, it¡¯s just two normal ones. I don¡¯t get it."


    "You¡¯re a Cogitant and you don¡¯t get it?"


    "Yeah. I¡¯m a Cogitant and I don¡¯t get it. You should be concerned about your brave new concept."


    "Well, it¡¯s like¡­ AE but you say them together. Ae. Like that. You get it?"


    Dragan blinked. "Sure. I get it."


    "You don¡¯t sound like you get it. You sound like you¡¯re telling me what I wanna hear, yeah? Come on, man. We gotta make sure we¡¯re on the same page here."


    "Weren¡¯t we in a hurry?"


    "Oh, right, yeah," Skipper said quickly, turning back towards the door. "Now that you mention it, we are kind of in a hurry. Let¡¯s walk and talk -- I¡¯ll explain the weird letter system to you on the way."


    "Actually¡­" Dragan swallowed, his voice serious. "There¡¯s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Something important."


    The smile dropped from Skipper¡¯s face, and he nodded. "Sure," he said. "Like I said¡­ walk and talk, yeah?"


    Skipper stepped over to the door, and it slid open -- but not at his command. Someone was already standing on the other side. Someone clad in a black cloak -- a black cloak that slipped off their frame and pooled onto the floor. It revealed itself.


    An opaque visor sculpted into the vaguest human face. A black cape, the inside purple, whipping in a strange wind. A suit of dark armour, making the body seem like a hole in space.


    Dragan Hadrien had never met this man, but he knew him by reputation. A chill ran down his spine.


    "There you are," said Avaman the Announcer, the First Contender of the Supremacy. "Whirlwind Greatsword."


    Skipper did not hesitate. "Heartbeat Landmine!" he screamed, throwing his hands out.


    The two attacks met -- and the room exploded.


    It was like a bomb had gone off. Skipper fired off a Shotgun from his back to keep himself fixed in place, but Dragan was not so fortunate. He was thrown back by the impact of sound and wind colliding, his suitcase slamming into his face as it opened. Clothes whipped through the room, like debris sent flying by a tornado.


    Skipper slowly slid back across the floor as the wind buffeted against him, his glaring eyes fixed on the Contender before him.


    "Gonna have to do¡­ better than that¡­" he said through gritted teeth, the sustained Landmine serving as a rudimentary shield against the gust.


    Even among the maelstrom, Avaman remained completely still, his expressionless mask staring right at Skipper.


    "Oh, I intend to¡­" His voice was distorted by something inside the mask, but was somehow still¡­ eerily familiar. "Whirlwind Crossbow."


    He raised his hand into the shape of a finger-gun, but it wasn¡¯t pointing at Skipper. No, it was pointing behind and to the left of him, right at --


    Dragan!


    The kid was slumped against the wall, clearly knocked unconscious by the first attack, completely helpless. He¡¯d be blown to pieces just from the crossfire, nevermind a direct hit!


    Bang.


    A bolt of wind burst out of Avaman¡¯s finger, surfing across the room and right towards Dragan¡¯s head. Skipper had no choice. He canceled his Heartbeat Landmine and pointed his finger towards Dragan as well -- blasting the projectile out of the air with a Heartbeat Shotgun of his own.


    He¡¯d known it was a mistake the moment he did it.


    The second bolt slammed into his stomach with the force of a car, forcing the air out of his lungs. He doubled over, blood spilling over his lips, his Aether flaring defensively around him. Avaman had fired two projectiles at the same time -- one at Dragan, and another to circle around and strike Skipper when he moved to intercept.


    He went to take a breath, to regain some strength -- but the breath never came. He opened his mouth, but nothing happened. No rejuvenating oxygen entered his body. His vision began to waver.


    Air.


    The ability was clear enough. Avaman the Announcer controlled air. He could fire it off as a projectile, slam it into things as a melee attack¡­ or keep it out of the lungs of his enemies, so as to quickly drain them of strength.


    "Whirlwind Hangman," Avaman sneered. He still hadn¡¯t moved from his original position. "I thought you¡¯d be better than this."


    His gloved hand lashed out and seized Skipper by the collar, pulling him close. His vision was growing dark, his body rebelling against the lack of oxygen. That inhuman visage was only inches away.


    He would have given him a witty retort, if he had the air to make one. Instead, all Skipper could manage was a little bit of spite. Aether coursing around his skull, he slammed forward and headbutted Avaman right in the mask.


    It cracked like glass, shards of it falling to the floor -- and through the gaps, Skipper could see shaggy black hair and¡­


    ¡­and¡­


    ¡­and right there, his mind ground to a halt.


    Through the broken mask, he could see his own face, decades younger -- a face glaring down at him with utter vile contempt.


    "Did you think you were the only one they brought back?" his own voice spat.


    Everything went black.


    Everything went white.


    Dragan groaned as he was jerked awake, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light as they fluttered open.


    "What¡­?" he mumbled. "Huh¡­?"


    He was shook again, and as he looked at the source of the motion he saw Ruth, her hand gripping his shoulder. Her brow was knitted into utmost concern, and behind her he could see Bruno investigating the scene of the ruined room.


    "Dragan," she said seriously, looking into his eyes. "What happened?"


    The overstuffed door of memory was flung right open. Everything came back to him in a flood. Skipper. Avaman. The attack. He sat up, eyes wide, heart dropping.


    "They took him," he whispered. "They took him."


    "What?" Ruth said -- but the horror spreading over her face suggested she understood perfectly well.


    No time for panic. No time for terror. Dragan cast those things from his mind, as far as he could throw them.


    The only one that decides what happens to me is me.


    "We need to get to the ship," he ordered.


    End of Arc 9

 Chapter 258:10.1: The Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir

    Twenty-Two Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    This is how the heroes come.


    Padrax Minor is, as the name suggests, a minor planet located within the Esther Cloud in Supremacy space. A wasteland of craggy rocks and unstable footing, with only small patches of fertile land allowing the inhabitants limited self-sufficiency. High in the sky hangs Padrax Major, the planet¡¯s older brother -- and the root cause of the current disturbance.


    Once upon a time, Padrax Minor was something of a mining hub in the area. The planet possessed large deposits of hadronite, an efficient starship fuel, and so settlers came from nearby city-worlds to take advantage of the bounty and achieve a simpler life. For nearly eighty years, the colonists enjoyed the fruits of their labour, the population growing with migration and years.


    But, of course, all good things must come to an end. The hadronite ran dry.


    They managed for a time. A great surveying era began, huge machines scanning the interior of the planet for whatever remnants of hadronite could be found. The traces were scraped away and sold piecemeal, with empty promises made for secondary shipments to buy time. When even the traces ran dry, those shipments were fulfilled with cheap disguised substitutes, imported from even less fortunate and less scrupulous areas.


    This did not go unnoticed for long. The adept inspectors of the Body, the Supremacy¡¯s civilian government, soon discovered the deception -- and, as the military was one of the aggrieved parties, they responded to it harshly. Many members of the colony¡¯s administration were given lengthy sentences in prison, in such conditions that most did not survive. For the Lord Mayor himself, the middleman was cut out entirely, and he was shot in the back of the head.


    Padrax Minor was plunged into even greater despair -- until a final sliver of hope exposed itself.


    A final scan -- not of Padrax Minor itself, but of it¡¯s sibling in the sky -- revealed plentiful deposits of hadronite, enough to support the dying colony for centuries. They immediately petitioned the Body for permission to mine the planet, presenting a detailed and multi-step redemption plan for efficiently taking advantage of the resources and paying off their debts. For two months, the people of Padrax Minor prayed each night for success, for God to finally take pity on them.


    That petition was denied.


    The weakness of their prior conduct was such that the ¡¯proper authorities¡¯ looked down on them with contempt. The contracts to Padrax Major were instead auctioned off to Halcyon Interstellar, a conglomerate that had earned the Body¡¯s gratitude for their contributions to border defense. To them, the entire situation amounted to nothing more than numbers on a spreadsheet.


    As children starved in the streets of Padrax Minor, Halcyon Interstellar mined Padrax Major to such a degree that the bounty of eight-hundred years would be drained away in just ten. The people looked up with empty eyes as the lights of Halcyon spread over the planet above, devouring everything it had to offer. Hope faded into nothing¡­


    ¡­and desperation gave birth to extremism.


    Laird Hadaran, the son of the executed Lord Mayor, brought together those in the colony with the greatest rage against the Supremacy. They formed a secret militia, hoarding weapons and resources for the day they knew would soon come, drawing together a final plan to save the colony. The people of Padrax Minor had already gone to the depths of hell in an effort to save their way of life: they had no qualms about going deeper.


    Every ten years, the Minister of the Esther Cloud underwent a tour of his territories, a propaganda routine allowing him to win the favour of those he ruled. A selection of photo-ops in factories and mines, showing that he recognised the concerns of the common man. Prewritten, prefabricated speeches and sentiments, piped straight to his mouth from an earpiece.


    Minister Gladly, and his family, would be coming to Padrax Minor for a day. Just enough time to make a little speech and head off to somewhere more important.


    What happened next goes without saying. The rats came out of hiding, eliminating Gladly¡¯s security detail and taking the visitors hostage. The Opportunity Tower, an installation at the center of the colony, was taken over by the extremists and used to hold the hostages. Twelve stories with a flat roof, from which satellites could get a clear image of the people the terrorists had taken.


    Gladly himself, his wife, their four children, and the Minister¡¯s brother-in-law, all bound and terrified. The brother-in-law was the least important, and so the least fortunate. He was thrown off the roof first to show that they were serious. The satellites got a clear view of the mess he made, along with the demands the terrorists had scrawled onto the roof.


    Immediate transfer of Padrax Major mining rights from Halcyon Interstellar to the Padrax Minor government. For every day these demands were not fulfilled, they would throw another hostage off the roof.


    Despite the audacity of their request, there was a good chance the demands would be granted. Ultratraditionalists within the Supremacy, such as the Tree of Might, felt that the extremists actions were a splendid show of strength -- one that redeemed their earlier cowardly tactics. Even Ascendant-General Toll, who was sympathetic to the traditionalist cause, may have argued in their favour.


    The results of that will never be known, however, for fortune was not on Padrax Minor¡¯s side. By sheer coincidence, on the day they executed their plan, a certain ship was passing through the system. A ship like a great silver wheel, metal spokes converging on a central point.


    It was called the Child Garden, and it was where the Supreme Heir -- the only daughter of the head of state -- resided. More relevantly, though, it was where her elite bodyguards and tutors -- the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir, or just the Seven Blades -- called their home. They took stock of the situation.


    A hostage rescue against an entrenched force. A breaking of a siege. A battle.


    A learning opportunity.


    This is how the heroes come.


    The sentries spot the landing pods first -- three shooting stars rapidly coming down, aimed at different locations within the colony. The civilians have been sealed into their homes, so there¡¯s little risk of them becoming involved, but Laird Hadaran understands the situation perfectly well.


    They are being tested.


    He takes stock of the situation from the monitor room, shaggy blonde hair hanging over his face. He¡¯s worked in starship manufacture, and so he has some idea of what he¡¯s looking at while the others look on in confusion. These landing pods are small and cheap, meant for individual troop landings -- when pushed, they can hold a maximum of two people. So they¡¯re dealing with six enemies at the most.


    It doesn¡¯t take a genius to work out these won¡¯t be normal combatants. Special Officers, definitely, wielding their mysterious powers. They¡¯ll have orders to kill every single one of the extremists -- and they¡¯ll be touching down on Padrax Minor before the minute is out.


    At this point, Laird Hadaran is presented with a choice.


    Dispatching these Special Officers clearly means that the Supremacy is not willing to cede to Hadaran¡¯s demands. By all rights, he should now execute the hostages he has taken, to display the consequences of such a decision. But is that really the best way to proceed?


    The sentries haven¡¯t spotted it yet, but these pods have clearly been fired off by a mothership in orbit. He has no doubt a ship dispatched for a purpose like those would be sufficiently armed for an orbital bombardment. The only reason Opportunity Tower hasn¡¯t been blasted off the surface of the planet is because of the hostages being held inside.


    If he kills the hostages, he will doom his cause. If he doesn¡¯t kill the hostages, it will be an unacceptable show of weakness, which will damage any support their cause has in the Supremacy. Sweat trickles down his forehead.


    There¡¯s only one way forward with a chance of victory. He¡¯ll move the hostages to a more secure location, and engage the incoming Special Officers. Killing them will be a show of strength to offset the loss of face from sparing the hostages.


    "We¡¯ll take them down to the mines," he barks to a subordinate. "Deep as we can. Bring the Reprimand with us."


    As Laird and his team begin moving down into the mines below the colony, the other squads move to the projected landing sites. They are armed to the teeth -- some with plasma and punchpoint firearms, others with whatever modified mining equipment they could scrounge together. The sounds of hurried footsteps echo down the empty streets.


    The first pod comes down like an egg from space.


    It strikes a small church, lodging in the belltower and sending a resounding dong throughout the settlement. Brickwork rains down on the surrounding insurgents, but none of them make a move to flee. Running away is an option they¡¯ve relinquished a long time ago.


    They fire.


    The pod is buffeted by plasma and bullets, dents forming in its metal surface and holes quickly opening up. One insurgent, clad in bulky armour to protect himself from friendly fire, charges up to the doors of the pod. He plants a heavy mining drill against them, attaching it to the pod with firm clamps and beginning the drilling sequence with a wrench of the handle.


    Sparks kick up for just a second as the drill begins eating away at the doors -- right before they explode outwards.


    The armoured insurgent flies backwards through the air, but he never reaches the ground. Instead, at the height of his flight, he is impaled by a thin wooden branch, his heart speared right through. He¡¯s killed instantly.


    More branches and roots crawl out of the open pod at astounding speeds, spreading over and crushing the gathered insurgents before they can react. The tree that grows out of the pod dwarfs the church that it crashed into by nearly ten times, forming a wooden structure long and thick enough to serve as a bridge right to the Opportunity Tower.


    Wood creaks and wood snaps as the first of the Seven Blades steps out of the pod, wooden feet landing on wooden bark.


    Many years ago, Gene Tyrant bunkers all over Supremacy territory burst open, releasing some of their final spiteful creations. Those botanical lifeforms -- sentient and vicious trees -- were called the Fell Beasts, and they waged a campaign of indiscriminate slaughter. The timely intervention of the Supreme stopped their rampage, however, wiping out all the Fell Beasts before they could cause more havoc.


    Wiping them all out¡­ save one.


    Ionir Yggdrasil, the Last Fell Beast, steps out of the pod and onto the bridge that is an extension of his own body.


    His form is a thing of intertwining branches, spiraling out from his head and knitting together into exaggerated wooden muscles. He is a giant of a thing, nine feet tall, a single swing of one of his massive arms clearly being sufficient to reduce a man to pulp. A ¡¯mane¡¯ of leaves hangs around his cranium, but the closest thing he has to a face is a shallow square-shaped indentation in the center of his head.


    The thin branch connecting him to the bridge snaps, and the great tree that was just an extension of him becomes its own independent lifeform. In the present environment, a massive tree like that will not survive long, but if that fact bothers Ionir he does not show it.


    Ionir¡¯s mane of leaves twitches as he inspects the area with inhuman senses -- and, detecting further enemies, he lets loose a bellow like the sounding of a great horn. Just like the concept of clothing, human language is something beyond him. In his hand of sharpened bark-fingers, he holds a halberd of solid steel. It is the only thing he has on him that is not made of wood.


    The surviving insurgents begin to crawl out from between the massive roots -- but they are given no time to catch their breath. Ionir Yggdrasil is upon them in a moment, crushing their bodies with mighty blows from his fists and weapon. The sound of screaming is barely audible between the crunches and snaps of spine and skull.


    Some of the survivors manage to get shots off before their inevitable deaths, however, and Ionir uses his halberd to block the burning plasma from striking his vulnerable wooden body. By the time he¡¯s dispatched the last of the unfortunate enemies, the metal weapon is melting in his grip.


    He throws the weapon onto the floor, turning back to the pod and emitting a more high-pitched roar.


    There are no words, but the meaning is surely understood. His companion steps out of the pod, reaching into empty space and retrieving an identical metal halberd. She tosses it to him, and he catches it in one hand.


    The young woman who emerged from the pod looks around the scene of devastation with great interest, an innocent smile on her lips as she slips out onto the wooden bridge. Her golden Pugnant eyes are framed by red hair tied back into black-ribboned pigtails. Her red war-robes are covered by a black flameproof apron, the traditional uniform of her craft -- a blacksmith.


    Her name is Gretchen Hail, and she is one of the foremost creators of Aether Armaments in the galaxy.


    She raises an eyebrow as she spies a final insurgent on the edge of the crater, making a run for it. Narrowing her eyes, she reaches a hand into her orange Aether and, with luxurious ease, pulls out a white cutlass with a blade formed from hexagonal segments. It takes her just a moment to think of a name for her new weapon: this is her favourite part of the process.


    "Friday Faraday," she finally decides, taking a swing at empty air.


    The insurgent¡¯s head falls from his shoulders, and his carcass drops to the ground. This new Armament, Friday Faraday, is one that transmits a cutting edge directly to the location of the target. If an enemy manages to make physical contact with the blade, however, all the attacks previously transmitted are inflicted directly on the wielder.


    That kind of downside is the price she pays for such a powerful effect -- and it¡¯s one that makes it unsuited for sustained use.


    Gretchen tosses the cutlass over her shoulder, and it is reabsorbed into her Ragnarok Forge, recycled in a moment for its constituent materials. The principle of the weapon is sound: perhaps she¡¯ll iterate on it in a future creation.


    She glances down at Ionir, who is growing his roots into the piled-up corpses, draining them of fluids entirely.


    "Yggdrasil!" she shouts. "Afterwards."


    Almost reluctantly, Ionir retracts his roots, joining Gretchen as she runs across the surface of the bridge -- the two of them making their way directly towards the Opportunity Tower.


    Elsewhere in the colony, similar battles have ensued around the other two landing pods. The second pod landed right in the middle of the town square, its inhabitants leaping out and beginning their attack before the insurgents could even try and break into the vessel. Bodies are littering the ground, but the fight is far from over.


    A black cape waves in the wind as its owner engages in combat against an insurgent wielding a mining saw. The device was meant to break up large boulders into easily transported chunks, but it will kill a human being easily enough. The insurgent swings it right at his opponents head -- but the Special Officer is agile, leaping right over the blow and stabbing his sword right down through his enemy¡¯s skull.


    Death, needless to say, is instant.


    The owner of the sword is a young man with short purple hair and golden eyes. He adjusts the black cape that hangs off his dark purple war-robe. A smirk tugs at his lips, satisfaction at a well-won victory.


    His name is Morgan Nacht, the newest of the Seven Blades. Despite his short tenure, his skill has already been recognised -- he is the apprentice of a certain Contender, after all.


    Morgan spares a glance to his companion, who is just finishing his own fight. Where his own clothing is dark, the other Special Officer is bright -- white robes flowing as he moves, short white hair rustling in the wind. He¡¯s locked in combat with another pair of insurgents, dodging blows from their electrified batons.


    Slash. Slash. An adjustment of his glasses. Slash.


    Gustavo Mordecai is not a talented man, but he is a skilled one. Each of the elementary attacks has been practiced thousands of times to achieve this level of speed and precision. A scholar and a swordsman both, he has researched countless esoteric sword styles, creating his own unique tempo that is nearly impossible to predict.


    Slash. Slash. Slash. Sheath.


    The sliced bodies of his enemies fall to the floor, and Gustavo reaches into his robes, pulling out a canteen of water and taking a swig. A healthy body is a healthy mind, and it¡¯s always important to stay hydrated. He offers the bottle to Morgan, but the other young man shakes his head.


    "Are you sure?" Gustavo prompts. "Going without fluids is a sure way to become exhausted, you know."


    "No offense," Morgan purrs, raising a hand. "But I make a point not to drink anything someone else offers me."


    "That¡¯s a little paranoid, don¡¯t you think?"


    "Well¡­ perhaps you¡¯re not paranoid enough."


    Their conversation continues as they move through the empty streets, making their own way towards the tower.


    What happened at the third landing site goes without saying. It crashed right through the roof of a storage facility that the insurgents were using as a temporary base. Bodies litter the floor of the building, each killed by a single stroke of a sword. Their faces are locked into final terror.


    The woman responsible stands stock-still in the middle of the room, her dripping red sword held limp at her side. Her hair is as jet-black as her dress, and her skin is snow-white, a dark veil hanging over her face. It¡¯s hard to tell if she¡¯s even breathing.


    She is Mariana pan Helios, one of the oldest-serving members of the Seven Blades. As she carved her way through this room, she did not make a sound, but that¡¯s no surprise -- it¡¯s said that she hasn¡¯t spoken in years. Not since the death of Nigen Rush. Broken hearts easily break other things, too.


    Her head suddenly jerks to the left, in the direction of the Opportunity Tower, even though a wall separates the building from her vision. Almost robotically, she kneels down on the ground -- and plunges her sword down into the concrete. Purple Aether runs down the surface of the blade, and spreads out into the ground.


    A corpse twitches, then another, and another. One by one, the dead rise to their feet, purple Aether sparking around them like electricity. In most horror videographs, zombies like these would emit unearthly moans or inhuman screeches, but no: they are as silent as the grave. Their now-purple eyes stare off into space.


    Mariana walks out of the building, and the dead follow after her.


    Far, far above, right on the edge of the atmosphere, the Child Garden soars. The sixth of the Seven Blades has remained here, to directly protect the Supreme Heir. The two of them stand together on the simulation deck, holograms making it seem as if they are standing in the middle of the battle themselves.


    "Observe Nacht¡¯s movements here, girl," the sixth says, hands clasped behind his back as he replays Morgan Nacht¡¯s fight again and again. "The way he leverages his greater agility against a larger opponent. Do you see it?"


    The Supreme Heir nods, her face a mask of utter concentration. She is a young girl of thirteen, black hair tied back into a ponytail, golden eyes glittering as she does her best to absorb everything she sees. Her hands grip the fabric of her white training tracksuit anxiously.


    "Very good," the sixth says.


    Edward Grace is an older man, by far the most senior of the Seven Blades, age having long since turned his hair and beard grey. Golden shoulderpads and a chestplate form a layer of armour over his white-and-blue robes, but the discipline of his stance is such that he probably doesn¡¯t need it.


    He is the patriarch of a prominent family of Special Officers, and the direct bodyguard of the Supreme Heir. That fact is his pride.


    Down below the Child Garden, below the Opportunity Tower, below the surface of Padrax Minor, Laird Hadaran is beginning to accept that his dream is dead.


    One by one, he has lost contact with the squads dispatched to defend against the Special Officers. He entertained the notion for a brief moment, but he knows there is no technical failure causing this. He has lost contact with them because they are all dead.


    He and his men wait in the darkness of the mines, guarding the hostages at the end of the tunnel. There is no escape from this place. Laird understands this perfectly well, and so his thought process has moved on from such deluded optimism.


    What is on his mind now¡­ is spite.


    One of the Minister¡¯s daughters is quietly weeping. One of the guards screams at her to shut up. She does.


    The Special Officers have two objectives: eliminate the terrorists and rescue the hostages. No matter what happens now, they will succeed in the former, but it is within Laird¡¯s power to make sure they fail in the latter. If nothing else, he can spit in their faces.


    His hands tighten around the turret they are gripping.


    The Reprimand is a weapon designed for starship-to-starship combat, but in this case the long-barreled firearm has been relocated to a stationary turret instead. His old contacts in the starship industry had arranged its transport here for him -- he¡¯d intended to use it to blast hostile ships out of the sky, but the nature of this assault was something he was unprepared for.


    If nothing else, though, it would suffice to reduce the hostages to ash.


    "I¡¯d advise against that, if I were you," calls out a calm voice from the other end of the tunnel. Laird jerks into motion, looking up as the speaker steps into view.


    The moment Laird sees the figure, he knows who he¡¯s been dealing with, and he knows that he never stood a chance.


    Baltay Kojirough.


    He stands there, at the mouth of the tunnel, green war-robes open and displaying his muscular chest. Short blonde hair hangs beneath a conical hat, and his Cogitant-blue eyes glint in the dim light. His sword, the infamous Leviathan with its emerald-coloured blade, is already drawn.


    The man who was Nigen Rush¡¯s best friend, rival, and killer. Apparently, their final duel was the stuff of legend. This is the person who slew the greatest swordsman.


    In a single second, the grim determination that drove Laird Hadaran this far utterly abandons him.


    "Fire!" he screams, pulling the triggers of the Reprimand.


    Great explosive blasts fly down the length of the tunnel, accompanied by plasmafire from Laird¡¯s subordinates. The shining firepower does not give Baltay pause, though: he charges right towards it, a smile playing across his lips. Bullets and bolts miss him by fractions of inches, and the mighty blasts of the Reprimand sail past him entirely. They strike the rocks outside the tunnels, boulders raining down as the structure is destabilised.


    No matter how close the shots get, though, Kojirough¡¯s Leviathan does not move. For a man who can see the future, being forced to block an attack is an unendurable insult. Baltay Kojirough simply makes sure he is where the attacks will not be.


    He¡¯s upon them in seconds.


    One slash severs the connection between the Reprimand¡¯s trigger and its firing system, neutralising it. Another modest sequence of attacks dispatches the subordinates Laird brought down here, each one executed with a single strike of the sword. The blows are efficient, and so hardly any blood taints Leviathan¡¯s green blade.


    "Wait!" Laird cries. "Ple --"


    Something brushes past him. It takes him a moment to realise that it was Leviathan -- and by the time he does, blood is already gushing from his jugular. It has been snipped open as though by a surgeon, with barely any pain. The only thing Laird feels before the end is a slight sense of warmth.


    He drops to the ground, mouth open, eyes empty.


    Baltay glances into the future for a moment, checking none of his enemies will get back up, before relaxing. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the stray drops of blood from Leviathan¡¯s surface, being careful not to make skin contact with the blade. Seemingly satisfied, he sheathes his sword and looks down at the bound hostages.


    "Don¡¯t worry," he says, smiling kindly. "You¡¯re safe now."


    It takes some time to get everyone out of the mines. The shots fired by the Reprimand caused something of a cave-in, so Baltay and the hostages are forced to wait for Ionir Yggdrasil to lift away the rubble with his spreading branches. In the meantime, the other Blades make their way through the settlement, executing any stray insurgents they find.


    By the time the hostages are safely moved out of the mine and into Supremacy protection, night has already fallen. The six warriors are expected to gather, waiting for a transport shuttle to take them back to the Child Garden. However, it soon becomes obvious¡­ that only five of them are present.


    Baltay Kojirough, Gretchen Hail, Mariana pan Helios, Ionir Yggdrasil and Morgan Nacht.


    They find the body in an alley, right on the outskirts of the settlement. Gustavo Mordecai, dead, the bloody wound on his back having long since dried. A fly crawls over his open eyes. His sword is gripped tight in the grasp of rigor mortis, and his glasses lay abandoned in a pool of his own blood.


    Baltay Kojirough respectfully removes his hat, clutching it to his chest. The others look down solemnly at the body. Morgan Nacht, for his part, kneels down and quietly closes Gustavo¡¯s eyes.


    Some of them genuinely don¡¯t notice it. Some of them just pretend not to.


    The author¡¯s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    But Gustavo Mordecai, slain in battle against a force that uses guns and mining equipment, has clearly been killed by a sword.


    Twenty Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    Atoy Muzazi looked up at the sea of stars.


    For a long time now, his eye has felt drawn to the dark between those stars, to the despair that had seemed to never be far behind his happiness. Losing Marie, the things demanded of him by the GID, the feeling of losing himself¡­ all of that had seemed to just draw him closer and closer to that abyssal void. It had gripped his heart, strangling it.


    Now, though¡­ it felt as though defeating Jean Lyons, refuting Jean Lyons, had healed something broken inside him. If he tried now, really tried¡­ he felt like he could see the stars again. Even if the despair was still there, lingering, it wasn¡¯t all there was. It was always interrupted by the light.


    The ship he¡¯d bought to get himself back to Supremacy space was a modest thing -- the Star Raptor, a fighter model usually dispatched by a larger starship for combat manoeuvres. It wasn¡¯t really designed to make long journeys all by itself, but the mechanics had apparently adjusted it for that purpose.


    It was cramped, with just enough space to lie down and hold the controls, but Muzazi didn¡¯t much mind that. The ship he¡¯d first been given as a Special Officer had barely been more than a metal coffin, after all. It was even a little nostalgic.


    The stars became lines as the ship picked up speed, emerging from the asteroid field, and Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but vaguely wonder what had become of Dragan Hadrien. How had the situation on the Deus Nobiscum concluded? This ship had a working connection to galactic networks, so he¡¯d managed to pick up the news that the Superbian Apexbishop had passed away, but the details had eluded him.


    In the end, he¡¯d had no choice but to abruptly leave the Final Church¡¯s Truemeet. For one, his staying would risk exposing Helga and Olga Malwarian¡­ and for another, he¡¯d received a summons.


    For the fifth time that day, Muzazi worked the controls, bringing up the message he¡¯d received. A communication from one of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir -- the great Aethersmith, Gretchen Hail.


    The videograph flickered into existence above him, blocking the window. On it, Gretchen Hail stood, legs wide, hands on her hips. Her fanged mouth grinned as the red-haired girl addressed the camera.


    "Special Officer Atoy Muzazi!" she called out boisterously. "Good news! Your efforts have been recognised! In, uh, recognition of your contribution to the Supremacy, you¡¯ve been offered a place in the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir! As one of the Blades, it will be your duty to protect the Supreme Heir and help guide her education! Refusal is not an option! Coordinates and proof of identity are attached! Hope to see you soon!"


    The rumours of her¡­ enthusiasm certainly weren¡¯t exaggerated. Muzazi was surprised she hadn¡¯t blown out the microphone with how loud she¡¯d been shouting.


    Even so, after watching the file so many times, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but feel his heartbeat quicken. To him, the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir were legendary figures -- almost seeming fictional, with the distance he¡¯d admired them from. To be offered a place among their ranks was¡­ unbelievable.


    A dream.


    As Gretchen had said, the codes attached to the file confirmed that the message was real -- and it gave him a location to report to the Child Garden, the Seven Blades¡¯ base of operations. He was on his way there at full speed, pushing the craft to its limits.


    The dream he¡¯d shared with Marie -- his goal of becoming Supreme -- had fallen into the depths of his mind during that dark time. Now, though, it was something he could reach for again. Becoming one of the Seven Blades -- joining that upper echelon of the Supremacy¡¯s warrior class -- would be an important rung on that ladder.


    The dishonourable, disgraceful tactics that Jean Lyons had claimed were the cornerstone of the Supremacy¡¯s dominance¡­ Muzazi would make his way to the top and eradicate them.


    He flicked the video interface off of the viewscreen -- and came face-to-mask with Nigen Rush, floating on the other side of it like a corpse in the ocean.


    "Turn back," the spectre wheezed. "Don¡¯t go."


    Muzazi squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath, and waited.


    One¡­ two¡­ three¡­


    He heard a hand plant itself against the glass.


    Four¡­ five¡­ six¡­


    He heard hollow breathing, like something was in the capsule with him.


    Seven¡­ eight¡­ nine¡­


    He heard the sound of dripping fluid, of oozing blood, of a red rainfall all around him.


    Ten.


    He heard nothing.


    Muzazi opened his eyes, and saw nothing outside but the lines of the stars. There was no hand against the glass, nothing in the starship with him, no blood. Just a disease of the mind. He¡¯d hoped these hallucinations would cease when he came to terms with Marie¡¯s absence, but they continued to torment him.


    Perhaps, once he arrived at the Child Garden, there was something that could be done about it.


    As Atoy Muzazi flew through the void of space, though, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder. If he was being invited to join the ranks of the Seven Blades, that meant they¡¯d lost one of their number. Under what circumstances had that been? Had they simply left the organisation, or been killed? Was it something he should be wary of?


    Those questions, and many others, flitted through his mind as he made his way towards the Child Garden -- but for the time being, all he could do was wait.


    Eighteen Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    If Baltay Kojirough was asked to describe a goddess, he supposed he would have to describe Paradise Charon.


    Tall, shapely, beautiful -- and emitting a sense of authority like heat. No matter what she looked like, you knew that it was her. Her identity was absolute. Even through a hologram, she had a sheer presence that couldn¡¯t be denied.


    As the leader of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir, his quarters on the Child Garden were second only to the Supreme Heir herself. It was a wide open space, like a farball field, every necessity of living spread out across the room. In one corner was a set of automatic training dummies, in another corner a basic kitchen, in another a gargantuan videograph screen, and in yet another a massive bed.


    There were even more luxuries than that, of course, but those were the things that first caught the eye. A person could spend a year in this hexagonal room without ever growing bored.


    Baltay sighed as he lay back in the jacuzzi at the room¡¯s centre, a towel slung over his bare shoulders. It had been a long day of sparring, and he was glad of a chance to rest.


    "You seem in good spirits," Paradise noted, her holographic self circling the jacuzzi. "Especially for someone who just lost a teammate."


    Every time Baltay saw the Second Contender, Paradise Charon, she looked completely different. It was as if she was infatuated with the very concepts of fashion and aesthetic, changing her entire appearance at the drop of a hat. The only thing that ever stayed consistent was her height of seven feet, which was distinctive enough to reveal her at a glance.


    Today, she was wearing a red backless dress, her hair dyed gold and arranged into cascading ringlets. Silver piercings shaped like needles were embedded in her nose and ears, and she wore contacts that made her eyes a peacefully deep blue -- right down to the sclera.


    Tomorrow she would look entirely different, but no doubt just as beautiful. He¡¯d shared a bed with her on several occasions, and the strength of their friendship had been enough to form this unbreakable alliance.


    "We are warriors of the Supremacy," Baltay replied, cracking his neck. "Every time we go into battle, we accept that we might die. I won¡¯t dishonour Gustavo¡¯s resolve by mourning excessively."


    "No?" Paradise raised a black eyebrow.


    "No. To do so would be as good as saying that he was too weak for the battlefield," Baltay said. "Instead, I choose to cast my eye to the future. The excitement of a new ally, rather than the sadness of a departed one."


    Paradise sat down next to him, dangling her legs into the water. The version of her in the room was just a hologram, so she couldn¡¯t technically feel the water, but he¡¯d heard accounts of phantom sensations from such things. Perhaps she could feel some kind of warmth, even over the distances of stars.


    "I was surprised you asked me for help, to tell the truth," she said quietly, her vast blue eyes locking onto his own. "It¡¯s unlike you. You¡¯ve always preferred self-sufficiency. To request the aid of a Contender in tracking down a single Special Officer¡­ what¡¯s the interest?"


    This was the dance you had to perform with the Second Contender. Even with the affection between them, and the history they shared, she simply couldn¡¯t help herself. She would tear out every useful scrap of information he had, if he let her. A vulture upon a corpse.


    "He¡¯s an impressive young man," Baltay said. "The events on Nocturnus, on Panacea¡­ he¡¯s acquitted himself well. Talent like that should be given the opportunity to grow. Isn¡¯t that the guiding principle of our Supremacy?"


    "He¡¯s a Minister-killer, isn¡¯t he?" Paradise noted.


    Baltay laughed out loud. "As if you really care about that. What are bureaucrats like that for, if not making examples?"


    Paradise smiled slightly. She reached her hand out of the range of the hologram projector, retrieving a glass of red wine, and took a delicate sip. "While I was looking for his location, I had a look into his character as well. I hope you don¡¯t mind."


    "Not at all," Baltay frowned.


    "He actually reminds me a little of your old friend, Nigen Rush. Feeling¡­ nostalgic, Baltay? Wanting a replacement for the man you killed?"


    Baltay stared off into the empty distance, a haunted look in his eyes. The warmth of the jacuzzi suddenly seemed so terribly cold. He swallowed.


    "If he¡¯s anything like Nigen¡­" he said quietly. "Then he¡¯ll be an invaluable addition to the team. What about your side of things? How is it aboard the Shesha right now?"


    An obvious attempt at changing the subject, but it was one that Paradise seemed to accept. She swirled the glass of wine in her hand, staring down into the depths of the resulting whirlpool. The slightest smirk tugged at the side of her red lips.


    "Aboard the Shesha?" she echoed, with just a hint of amusement. "You know¡­ I¡¯ve been considering something recently, Baltay. When you get down to it, I¡¯m the only real Contender, aren¡¯t I?"


    Baltay furrowed his brow. "How¡¯s that?"


    Paradise waved an expressive hand. "Well, just think about it. That zealot Avaman is far too loyal to the Supreme to ever try anything. The Hellhound only sticks around for the payment he gets from the Body as a bodyguard for the old man. Ming¡¯s a halfwit. I¡¯m the only one seriously trying to replace the Supreme."


    Baltay reached off the side of the jacuzzi, taking his glass of water and gulping it down. "Well," he said, wiping his mouth. "You already have the Heir. You¡¯re doing well in that regard."


    Indeed, the Supreme Heir was a valuable piece to have.


    Unlike some of the governments that formed the UAP, the Heir of the Supremacy was not automatically the one who took over when the current ruler died. No, the Supreme Heir only became relevant under very specific circumstances. In cases where the Supreme died of natural causes or the killer of the Supreme was unknown, a Dawn Contest would be organised.


    Countless warriors from across the Supremacy would do battle for the right to face the Supreme Heir in single combat. The victor of that bout would then ascend to the rank of Supreme. As such, so long as Paradise¡¯s faction possessed the Supreme Heir, they had a fifty-percent chance of installing a Supreme they controlled. The ideal outcome would be for Paradise to become Supreme herself, but she liked to hedge her bets.


    "Mm," Paradise nodded, taking another sip. "The Supreme Heir. How is young Aclima doing, by the way?"


    Baltay thought about it for a moment. "Her training is going well. Edward tells me that the battle on Padrax Minor was a godsend for her development. A real and recorded conflict we can use as a training resource, base simulations on¡­ it¡¯s looking very good. Her swordsmanship is progressing, too."


    "Well¡­" Paradise said seriously, locking eyes with him over light-years. "Don¡¯t overdo things, Baltay. I don¡¯t want her too strong."


    Baltay decided not to think too hard about the implications of that.


    "Anyway," Paradise continued, finishing off her wine as she stood up. "Maybe this Atoy Muzazi will be a useful learning resource as well. He¡¯s on his way?"


    Baltay held a finger up to his earpiece, listening to the report he was receiving. "Speak of the devil¡­" he muttered. "A small ship¡¯s just come into range. I don¡¯t know who it would be if not him."


    Paradise chuckled as Baltay turned, heading for the door. "Have fun, Baltay!" she called after him. "Just¡­ not too much fun. The Forest of Sin has saplings everywhere."


    Baltay made a show of stopping in front of the door, feigning tension until the moment Paradise¡¯s hologram flickered away. Of course he knew that her ability had extensions all over the Supremacy. They¡¯d found several of those tiny trees nestled in the depths of the Child Garden, listening in to conversations, slowly growing their thirsty roots.


    So he¡¯d had Ionir eat them a long time ago.


    Muzazi¡¯s limbs ached as he climbed out of the Star Raptor, discomfort overcome by awe as he took in his first sight of the Child Garden¡¯s interior.


    Counting his own tiny vessel, eight ships of eclectic design and function were docked in the hangar -- and even with all of them here, there was still plentiful space. The ceiling was so high that it was barely visible in the dim light, and the walls so far apart that this hangar could probably hold a hundred more ships. It was hard to believe that he was in a starship, and not some kind of building on the ground.


    They said that the Child Garden was the Shesha made small, but even so¡­ it was gargantuan.


    "Safe trip?" called out a vaguely familiar voice, echoing throughout the massive room. Muzazi instinctively tensed up at the sound, swinging his head to identify the source.


    Baltay Kojirough. Baltay Kojirough, the man who had beaten Nigen Rush, was strolling casually across the hangar floor. Baltay Kojirough was strolling towards him.


    It was no wonder that Muzazi had recognised the voice. He¡¯d watched videographs of Kojirough numerous times, accounts of his legendary rivalry with Nigen Rush and the climactic duel that had ended it. Even so, he¡¯d never thought he¡¯d meet such a legend in person.


    "You alright?" Baltay said, smiling as he reached him. "Long trip, eh? Tiring?"


    Muzazi hurriedly shook his head. "Not at all, sir," he said. "I assure you -- I¡¯m raring to go. I¡¯m ready to do whatever¡¯s required of me."


    A strange smile played across Baltay¡¯s lips, and he chuckled. "Wow," he said. "You¡¯re a real go-getter, huh?"


    Was that good? Muzazi wasn¡¯t sure of the proper response under the circumstances, but he nodded all the same. If he wanted to do well here, it would be best to ingratiate himself quickly.


    "Well, it¡¯s good to hear," Baltay said. "The rest are eager to see what you¡¯re made of -- and the Heir¡¯s curious too. It¡¯s not often we get new faces around here. Walk with me?"


    The two of them strode out of the hangar and through one of the neighbouring hallways. It was smooth and cylindrical like a tunnel, the walls lined with monitors displaying footage of a flowing green field. With sound piping through unseen speakers, it was almost like the two of them were walking through that imaginary landscape.


    "I trust you¡¯re familiar with the requirements of the position?" Baltay asked, glancing sideways at him.


    Again, Muzazi nodded. "It¡¯s the duty of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir to protect the Supreme Heir with our lives and prepare her for the eventuality of a Dawn Contest."


    "That¡¯s the encyclopaedia description, yes," Baltay conceded. "But do you understand what it means? What¡¯s expected of you?"


    This time, Muzazi had no choice but to shake his head. "No, sir. I don¡¯t suppose that I do."


    "No need to call me ¡¯sir¡¯, Atoy. The Seven Blades have a fairly flat team structure -- I¡¯m the leader when it comes to decisions, sure, but I don¡¯t want to put myself above anyone else."


    They passed through a junction, turning left -- and through this new hallway the monitors simulated the environment of the ocean depths. The images of fish swam past as blurs of motion, bubbles rising up and out of sight. It was so realistic that Muzazi could almost feel the pressure.


    "As a Blade," Baltay continued. "You must be -- more than anything else -- a symbol. You must represent a path that the Heir can go down, and you must show her what that path would profit her. What kind of man do you think you are, Atoy Muzazi?"


    He thought about it for a moment. "A good one¡­ I would hope."


    Baltay smiled. "Don¡¯t we all? But there¡¯s shades to goodness, Muzazi, different forms it can take. I look forward to seeing that from you, too."


    "Thank you, sir."


    They stopped outside a sealed door, the monitors around them flickering into blackness. The effect was somewhat eerie -- if not for the thin lights between the blank monitors, they¡¯d have been plunged into complete darkness. Baltay turned to face him, dim white light cast over his face.


    "Right," he said. "Here we are. I¡¯m not going to lie -- they¡¯re probably going to want to see what you¡¯re made of. I¡¯m right in saying you¡¯ve got some aches and pains from the trip here, yes?"


    Muzazi sighed. "Unfortunately so. I apologise -- it was a cramped starship, so¡­"


    Baltay held up a hand, stopping him from going any further. "No worries. No worries at all. I expected a situation like this, so I grabbed this from the infirmary before meeting with you." He reached into his robes, pulling out a thin and sleek syringe. "Muscle reinforcer. Should keep you on your feet for at least a practice round."


    "You expected¡­?"


    Baltay laughed. "Yes, Atoy, I just expected. Don¡¯t worry -- I can¡¯t see that far into the future."


    Muzazi mirrored the laugh, but as he took the syringe from Baltay and injected it into his arm, he couldn¡¯t help but feel somewhat uneasy. It was common knowledge that Baltay Kojirough had learnt the art of precognition from his pilgrimage to Abra-Facade, but the extent of his abilities was the stuff of rumours alone. How far into the future could this man see? How much of Muzazi¡¯s intentions was he aware of?


    If nothing else, the syringe did its work quickly. Muzazi felt the weakness in his muscles fade away, his stance assuming its usual disciplined rigidity. He let out a heavy breath of tension.


    "Better?" Baltay asked.


    "Much better," he smiled. For the first time since he¡¯d set foot on the Child Garden, he felt somewhat relaxed.


    "Then let¡¯s get to it," Baltay said, planting his hand against the door. It slid open.


    Beyond was a room even larger than the original hangar, the size of a stadium, with a flat surface and an elevated level for an audience to sit. Muzazi¡¯s eyes flicked around the people scattered throughout the stands. He¡¯d done research on the Seven Blades before, and so he recognised the faces here.


    The Aethersmith, Gretchen Hail, who had summoned him. She watched eagerly, hands cupping her chin as she leaned forward.


    The last of the Fell Beasts, the monstrous Ionir Yggdrasil. He stood right at the back of the room. Whether he felt excitement or disdain for the new arrival was impossible to tell.


    Mariana pan Helios, the one who had been Nigen Rush¡¯s closest confidant. She sat completely still in the stands, and the veil hanging over her face made it hard to determine where she was even looking.


    Edward Grace, the Supreme Heir¡¯s personal bodyguard and tutor. The old man stood at military attention, one hand on his sheathed broadsword, standing respectfully. He looked down at Muzazi with stern yet appraising eyes.


    Then, the one that Muzazi was not too familiar with -- Morgan Nacht, a short young man clad in a dark cape. Short purple hair was slicked back, exposing an impressive forehead. His eyes narrowed with mild interest as Muzazi entered the arena, and he smirked a smirk that eluded definition.


    The only one not present was the scholar Gustavo Mordecai. Was he the one who had left the Seven Blades?


    And then, of course, sitting high above the others, was the girl herself. The Supreme Heir Aclima, wearing a white training tracksuit, a bright yellow backpack slung over her shoulders. She was smaller than Muzazi had expected, and more nervous-looking, her hands clasped anxiously on her lap.


    Muzazi bowed respectfully, feeling the pressure of so many esteemed eyes on him. It felt like he was being observed under a microscope.


    "Well, this is him," Baltay addressed the room before him, walking to his side. "Special Officer Atoy Muzazi -- the newest member of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. Thoughts?"


    There was silence for a moment. Muzazi gulped. Despite everything he¡¯d been through, these were still people he had idolised in the past. The thought of being judged by them¡­ was daunting.


    Edward Grace was the first to speak. "Nocturnus? Panacea?" his gravelly voice barked. "Those were your work?"


    Muzazi called out to him in response. "I was there for those incidents, yes, but I don¡¯t feel comfortable calling them ¡¯my work¡¯. Many people contributed -- I was just one of them."


    Edward slowly nodded. "Very good," he said.


    Baltay sauntered past him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Talk is cheap," he said, raising his voice to be heard throughout the room. "And we are expensive people, no? I think rather than have Atoy tell us what he¡¯s about, it¡¯d be rather more effective -- and more interesting -- to see what he has to offer." He turned to look at Muzazi. "Does that sound good to you, Atoy?"


    Muzazi nodded. "Of course," he said, allowing his silver Aether to crackle, ready to summon a Radiant from his palm. "I¡¯d be happy to demonstrate my skills."


    Baltay grinned. "Excellent," he said. "Then I¡¯d be happy to --"


    "Actually," called out an unfamiliar voice. "Mind if I take this one, boss?"


    Muzazi frowned, looking up at the source of the sound. Morgan Nacht. He¡¯d risen to his feet in the stands, stepping on the backs of chairs, using them as a makeshift staircase as he made his way down to the arena floor. The other Blades followed him with their eyes, but nobody protested the interruption.


    Baltay frowned, his hand slipping off his sword. "Of course," he said, a definite note of disappointment in his voice. "If you wish to test him yourself, who am I to protest?"


    Nacht hopped off the last row of seats, dropping into the arena. His stance was relaxation at its utmost, limp and placid, but Muzazi got the feeling he could leap into deadly motion at any moment -- like a snake. He couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on why, but Atoy Muzazi instinctively disliked this man.


    With a sigh, Baltay walked off to the stands, crossing Morgan¡¯s path.


    "Don¡¯t go overboard," he said sternly.


    "Me?" Morgan smiled. "Never."


    Muzazi lowered his stance as Morgan approached, ready to leap into combat whenever required. Morgan, for his part, simply circled his adversary, an easy grin on his face, his hand resting on his sword. A predator inspecting its prey.


    "It¡¯s kinda messed up, huh?" he said. "We¡¯re making you fight after such a long trip."


    Muzazi glared. "I¡¯m always ready for battle."


    Morgan continued to circle. "Good answer. You got here pretty quick, though, didn¡¯t you? There was no need to be in such a rush." He glanced up at Gretchen, in the stands. "Did you tell him to do that?"


    Gretchen rolled her eyes. "Some people are just hard workers, Nacht! I understand if the concept¡¯s alien to you, though."


    "Ha! Harsh." Morgan¡¯s gaze returned to Muzazi. "You¡¯re a little quiet. Nervous?"


    Muzazi shifted his footing, just slightly. "Nonsense. I¡¯d be more worried about --"


    Metal sang as Morgan pulled his sabre from his sheath -- and, in the same instant, he leapt forward. Muzazi ignited a Radiant on his hand at the exact same time, swinging it to meet his enemy¡¯s assault.


    Morgan¡¯s speed was impressive -- it was almost as if he¡¯d teleported. One second, he was a few metres away from Muzazi, and the next he was right in his face.


    "A!" the short man cried, swinging his sword right at Muzazi¡¯s torso, purple Aether coursing around it. Muzazi went to block with his Radiant, but the strength of the blow was far beyond what he¡¯d expected -- he avoided being cut, but the force was such that he was sent flying backwards through the air anyway.


    Morgan didn¡¯t wait for Muzazi to even hit the ground before continuing his assault. "B! A!"


    For a moment, Muzazi just flipped end over end in the air, before righting himself with his thrusters. It was just in time, too -- the instant he regained his balance, he was forced to swing his Radiant to prevent a blur of a projectile from striking him in the face. He only got a good look at the thing once it ricocheted into the ground: a plain white block, each side equal, perfect in its simple geometry.


    The force of the strike would have broken Muzazi¡¯s arm if not for the Aether infusion. He finally landed, boots kicking up sparks along the ground, eyes fixed on Morgan as he ran forward in pursuit.


    Those letters he was calling out were clearly Aether abilities, but Muzazi hadn¡¯t seen enough of them to fully understand how they worked. The best thing to do, then, would be to end this fight before Morgan could bring out anything else.


    Muzazi shrugged off his coat and then -- with a spark of silver Aether -- created a thruster on it, launching it towards Morgan.


    He went to dodge to the side, but the thruster was too fast, and the coat wrapped around him -- covering his face and blinding him. Muzazi leapt up into the air, thrusters on his feet propelling him upwards, and raised his hands high. Another Radiant burst out of his other palm -- and with both hands blazing white light, he zoomed down towards his target.


    But, before Muzazi could reach him, Morgan spoke. Muffled, but audible.


    "C. A."


    There was the slightest twitch of movement -- and the coat exploded outwards, fabric shredded into pieces by an unseen blade. Freed from the restraint, Morgan drew his sword back, ready to meet Muzazi¡¯s twin slashes. Muzazi did not falter: if Morgan wished to see what he was made of, he would oblige. The power of the thruster on his back only intensified, picking up more speed.


    "A!" Morgan struck.


    Muzazi slashed.


    But both of them were blocked.


    Rather than hitting each other, their blades had instead made contact with the green metal of the notorious Leviathan. Muzazi hadn¡¯t even seen him move, but at some point Baltay Kojirough had stepped into the middle of their bout and effortlessly deflected their attacks. Morgan¡¯s eyes widened: he clearly hadn¡¯t predicted it either.


    "A bit much, right?" Baltay raised an eyebrow. "It¡¯s just a sparring match. We¡¯ve just gotten a new Blade -- I don¡¯t want to have to replace either of you already."


    Muzazi let out a heavy breath, nodding as he dispelled his Radiants. Lingering smoke drifted up from his palms. Across from him, Morgan wordlessly sheathed his sword.


    "All the same¡­" Baltay grinned, a light twinkling in his eyes. "Very impressive, Atoy. Very, very impressive."


    A wave of polite applause ran through the meagre crowd -- although most of it was Gretchen -- and Morgan began his walk back towards the stands. As he passed Muzazi, however -- he muttered something. The words were under his breath, barely audible, intended only for a single listener.


    "If I were you," he said. "I¡¯d watch my back."


    Muzazi whipped his head around to face Morgan, but the other man just continued to walk away, yawning as if he hadn¡¯t just made a threat. Hot anger flared through Muzazi¡¯s veins -- he knew he¡¯d been right to dislike that arrogant man. Before he could call after Morgan, however, Muzazi felt a firm hand land on his shoulder.


    "Hey," Baltay said cheerfully. "I¡¯m sure you want to get to your quarters -- get some rest -- but there¡¯s something we want to show you first."


    There were dim lights in Gretchen Hail¡¯s forge, but even so most of the illumination was provided by the glow from various fabricators. Moulds for various weapons were slowly written into existence, printed into space; the resultant frames for swords, axes and other killing implements carefully lifted and organised by thin automatic arms dangling from the ceiling. An automatic ladder skittered across the floor, too, providing Gretchen elevation as she rummaged through her stores.


    It was no surprise that she needed the help: Muzazi hadn¡¯t quite appreciated it over the video message, but the woman was tiny. Even standing at her full height, Gretchen¡¯s head only barely reached his chest. Right now, she was neck-deep in a box on a high shelf, clearly trying to track something down.


    Muzazi glanced to his side, to where Baltay was standing -- the only other of the Seven Blades that had accompanied him to this inner sanctum. He just shrugged, smiling ruefully.


    "She¡¯ll find it eventually," he said, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall.


    "It¡¯s here somewhere," Gretchen said, in between hums of an indistinct tune. "No¡­ no, this isn¡¯t¡­ hm? Ah, nah¡­ oh, haha! Here we go!"


    With a grunt of effort, she pulled free a long object wrapped in some kind of red cloth. She stepped backwards off the ladder, holding the object in both hands -- and with a flourish, she held it out to Muzazi.


    "A gift," she said, grinning widely. "For the newest member of the Seven Blades." S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It wasn¡¯t difficult to work out what was concealed behind that cloth, given the shape.


    "We noticed you didn¡¯t have a sword," Baltay said, striding up next to Gretchen. "It¡¯s hard to be a Blade if you don¡¯t¡­ well, have a blade, isn¡¯t it?"


    Muzazi smiled. "I¡­ appreciate it. I truly do."


    "Open it," Baltay urged.


    Smiling nervously, Muzazi reached out to pull the cloth from the concealed weapon -- and then stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened, and his heart nearly skipped a beat. He gulped down dry air.


    Right before him, standing between Gretchen and Baltay, was the bleeding spectre of Nigen Rush. The golden light that had previously shone from his visor was gone, replaced with an oozing waterfall of blood. As Muzazi watched, transfixed for a moment, the vision slowly, slowly shook it¡¯s head.


    No, Muzazi decided. No. You do not rule me.


    He steeled himself, ignoring the phantom, and whipped the cloth off the extended weapon. Instantly, all traces of fear left him. His eyes widened again, but for another reason entirely. Rush vanished as if he¡¯d never been there, and an involuntary grin rose to Muzazi¡¯s face.


    He could see the stars again.


    Resting on Gretchen¡¯s palms, held out towards him, was without a doubt his Luminescence.

 Chapter 259:10.2: The Insidious

    Atoy Muzazi reached out with trembling hands, taking Luminescence from Gretchen. He held it delicately, as though it were a piece of glass, as though the first moment of carelessness would shatter it once again. The light reflected on its perfect blade seemed so ephemeral, after all. It was as if it had never even been broken.


    "But¡­" he breathed. "How?"


    Gretchen Hail grinned up at him. "That stuff you did back on Panacea wasn¡¯t exactly quiet, y¡¯know! Commissioner Caesar sent out a squad to investigate things -- and they managed to find the shards of this here beauty. From there, it was just a matter of reforging it -- and I¡¯m pretty good at that. Kind of a welcome gift, right?"


    Muzazi nodded. His eyes were wet, curious warmth running down from them and across his cheeks. "Yes," he said, voice shaking. "I¡­ truly appreciate this. Thank you."


    After everything he¡¯d lost, everything he¡¯d accepted losing, to have something he¡¯d thought long gone return to him¡­ the relief was indescribable. Assuming the old stance, he returned Luminescence to its empty sheath. He¡¯d been wearing it out of habit, but now it paid off -- the feeling of that familiar weight at his side was the ultimate assurance.


    It was like it had never been gone.


    Muzazi wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "Thank you," he repeated. "Thank you all. You¡¯ve gone to great lengths for me. I must thank Commission Caesar, as well, for her diligence."


    "I¡¯ll take care of that," Gretchen said quickly, hands on her hips. "You don¡¯t need to run around thanking everyone for returning your own property, right? Just enjoy it."


    "Even so, I¡­"


    Baltay strolled around, patting Muzazi heavily on the back. "We look after each other here," he said reassuringly, smiling. "As one of the Seven Blades, it¡¯s best to accept you¡¯ll need to rely on your team sometimes, Atoy. You¡¯ll get countless chances to return the favour, I¡¯m sure. Gretchen here is a real taskmaster, after all."


    Gretchen pouted, her cheeks puffing out like a squirrel. "Hey!"


    Muzazi chuckled, the lightened atmosphere raising his own spirits too. After the bout with Morgan Nacht, he¡¯d been concerned about how things would turn out with the Seven Blades, but for the moment that unpleasant man seemed to be an outlier. These two, on the other hand, were keen on proving themselves friends.


    "I don¡¯t know how I could ever repay this," Muzazi laughed, gripping his sheathed sword tightly.


    "Don¡¯t worry," Baltay blinked. "You will."


    These tunnel environments were beginning to grow stale, Baltay reflected, as he made the walk back to his quarters. The monitors were displaying the inside of an active volcano, lava frothing all around him, blackened rock forming the floor beneath. It was all very realistic, if you ignored the lack of heat.


    It wouldn¡¯t do for the Supreme Heir to grow up with such limited surroundings: he¡¯d put in a request for new videographs this evening. Baltay reached the door to his quarters -- but he hesitated as he reached for the access panel, hand hanging in the air.


    "Morgan," he called out. "Is there a reason you¡¯re following me?"


    Morgan Nacht stepped out of Baltay¡¯s shadow, a sly smile on his face. Those golden eyes, half-lidded, glanced over at him. "What gave me away?"


    "Nothing," Baltay replied. "The Clown of the Supremacy has taught you well. I just foresaw that you¡¯d finally speak up if the door opened."


    "Ah," Morgan clicked his tongue. "Well, it¡¯s hard to get something past a man who can see the future."


    Baltay turned, arms crossed. "Well? What is it I can do for you?"


    Morgan¡¯s fingers drummed against his sheathed sword. "Atoy Muzazi," he said seriously. "Who is he?"


    "He¡¯s the newest member of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. He¡¯s previously served as an independent Special Officer for the Supremacy. I¡¯m certain you got a copy of his files, too."


    "You know that¡¯s not what I mean," Morgan glared, pacing. "Why is he here? And why so soon? When Westmore left for the UAP, it was months before I was brought in to replace him. And yet Atoy Muzazi is summoned here within a couple of days. It¡¯s odd, wouldn¡¯t you say?"


    Baltay sighed. "This is an important stage in the Heir¡¯s development. We can¡¯t be short-staffed right now. Anyway, you felt it for yourself, didn¡¯t you? He¡¯s skilled. I have to admit -- I was a little annoyed, the way you took that fight from me."


    Morgan stopped, turning fully in Baltay¡¯s direction for the first time. "Didn¡¯t have a choice."


    "How so?"


    "I was worried. I thought you might kill him -- the same way you killed his predecessor." Morgan did not blink.


    Baltay froze for a moment. Then, he swung his head around to face Morgan, brow furrowed to its utmost. "Is that some kind of sick joke?" he snapped.


    A shadow fell over Morgan¡¯s face, and his coldly analytical eyes stared right at Baltay. "You got yourself sealed into that mine on purpose, didn¡¯t you? That was meant to be your alibi -- but Gustavo was already missing by the time that happened. It doesn¡¯t prove a thing."


    "Morgan," Baltay said seriously, standing up straight. "Are you being serious right now? I need to know. Do you really think I killed Gustavo?"


    Morgan frowned. "I might."


    "On what basis?" Baltay demanded. "Why me, specifically?"


    "Well," Morgan took a deep breath -- and Baltay noticed for the first time that he was keeping a safe distance. "The wound was clearly delivered by a sword to the back -- so it was someone he trusted, someone he would let his guard down around. One of us. Ionir was using a halberd that day, so it wasn¡¯t him. Gretchen was with Ionir the whole time. Mariana always gave Gustavo the creeps -- there¡¯s no way he¡¯d turn his back on her. Edward was up in the Child Garden. I know I didn¡¯t do it. Which leaves¡­ oh. Just you, huh?"


    "You say I have no alibi," Baltay said. "But the same is true for you. You landed with Gustavo. You were the last to see him alive. You were on good terms. Can you prove that you didn¡¯t stab him in the back?"


    "If I were going to commit a murder, I think I¡¯d have a little more panache than that."


    Baltay glanced around the hallway, and -- satisfied by what he saw -- took a step forward, putting his hand on Morgan¡¯s arm. He¡¯d already seen that Morgan wouldn¡¯t attack in response. Leaning in, Baltay lowered his voice.


    "Morgan. You need to understand that I did not do this. I could not do this."


    Morgan shook his arm free. "Like I said, I¡¯m not going to just take your word for --"


    "No. I mean I could not do it. Literally." He gestured down to his sheathed blade. "May I draw it?"


    Morgan blinked. "...if you take three steps back, sure."


    Baltay acquiesced, his sandals tapping against the floor as he stepped back thrice. The false volcano around them continued to shade their faces an eerie red, lines of orange scrolling down like videograph static. Slowly, as if wary not to frighten an animal, he drew Leviathan.


    Even among the crimson confines, Leviathan¡¯s ghastly shade of green stood out. It was an unusual sword, the blade mottled and uneven like a piece of metal driftwood. Baltay held it out carefully, sleeves pulled up over his hands as impromptu protection.


    "I¡¯ve always wondered¡­" Morgan quietly muttered, looking down at the grim blade. "You always take care not to touch your sword¡¯s blade. Why is that?"


    "That¡¯s what I want to show you. You see Leviathan¡¯s blade, the metal here? Strange, isn¡¯t it?"


    Morgan rolled his eyes -- subtly, just slightly, but not nearly enough to escape Baltay¡¯s Cogitant gaze. "Leviathan¡­" he chuckled wryly.


    "You disapprove of naming one¡¯s sword?"


    "I just distrust those who confuse people and things."


    It made sense. Now that Baltay thought about it, he¡¯d never heard Morgan call his own weapon anything but ¡¯my sword¡¯. Gretchen would surely have a fit if she found out: she gave a name to every scrap of metal that crossed her vision.


    A bore of a philosophy, but not one strictly relevant right now. Baltay cast the thought aside, shaking Leviathan in his grip. The metal rattled, the noise sounding almost moist.


    "All the same," Baltay said bitterly. "The metal? You see it?"


    "Yes."


    "You know what it is?"


    Morgan put an exasperated hand to his hip, leaning against the wall. The monitor fuzzed where his elbow made contact. "You know I don¡¯t," he sighed. "Just explain it if that¡¯s what you want to do."


    "This material," Baltay pressed on. "Is called muzhang -- from the planet of the same name. It¡¯s highly toxic. Forget being struck by it -- even just touching it, without proper protection, can have debilitating effects. Death, in some cases."


    Morgan¡¯s eyes scanned the poisonous blade, from left to right, right to left, as if some secret detail would present itself to him. After a few seconds, seemingly satisfied that it wouldn¡¯t, he glanced back up.


    "A poisoned sword," he mused. "Hardly honourable, is it, sir?"


    Baltay slowly sheathed his blade, toxic metal hissing as it returned to its nest.


    He explained quickly: "I believe that not using every tool I have at my disposal would be more dishonourable than anything -- fighting like that, I might as well be saying that my opponents can¡¯t handle me. I use everything I can, and I expect the same from those who oppose me. Anything else would be a disgrace for all involved."


    "Wow," Morgan said, mock-awe evident on his face. "Your justification almost sounds rehearsed. Why tell me this?"


    Baltay grit his teeth. Nacht seemed intent to aggravate him with every word he spoke in this conversation, barreling through every effort Baltay made to reach out with all the grace of a rabid paleo-beast. Did the younger man really think that would net him any results?


    But Baltay couldn¡¯t lose his temper -- not under these circumstances.


    "Because," Baltay stressed the word. "Muzhang, the material Leviathan is made of, leaves traces in the human body when it cuts. You saw the results from Gustavo¡¯s autopsy, didn¡¯t you? There were no such traces. I couldn¡¯t have killed him."


    The expression on Morgan¡¯s face didn¡¯t shift. "There¡¯s no guarantee you didn¡¯t use another sword."


    Baltay scoffed. "Another sword? Where would I have hidden it?" He threw his arms out, flimsy war-robes hanging off of him. "Look at me!"


    "You could have recorded it, manifested it to kill Gustavo, then recorded it again." Morgan slowly crossed his arms. "Maybe you tossed it off a cliff somewhere."


    Baltay clicked his tongue, running a tired hand over his face. This entire conversation was utterly exhausting.


    "Look at me, Morgan," he said, moving his hand back down. "It took me years of training in Abra-Facade to perfect my precognition, and when it comes to Aether that takes up nearly all of my capacity. I can¡¯t record like that, especially with a weapon I¡¯m unfamiliar with. You understand?"


    He was telling the truth, and his eyes confirmed it. Morgan slowly rose from his leaning position, his arms uncrossing, the first traces of uncertainty entering his expression.


    "Do you believe me now, that I didn¡¯t do this?" Baltay sighed long-sufferingly. "That I didn¡¯t murder my friend?"


    Morgan said nothing. He just raised his crooked finger up, pressed it against his chin, and thought. Long seconds passed.


    Baltay took a step forward. "It¡¯s obvious you¡¯re looking into this, Morgan. I am, too -- believe me, I am. I¡¯m doing everything I can, but we need to work together on this. We need to help each other. Don¡¯t you agree?"


    Cogitant-blue eyes drilled into Pugnant-gold ones, demanding an answer, but none came. Morgan just turned and walked away, disappearing from sight at the junction. His footsteps faded away into nothing.


    Shit.


    Baltay sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that night, wiping the accumulated sweat from his forehead. Before at last turning and entering his quarters, he spared a final glance down the hallway. A rueful smile crossed his lips.


    Wu Ming¡¯s apprentice was good at shadowing, but not so adept at telling when he was being shadowed.


    Mariana pan Helios stood at the end of the hallway, long war-robes brushing against the floor. The pale woman had been standing there the whole time. Morgan had even walked right past her, and yet he hadn¡¯t noticed. The dark veil hanging over her face betrayed nothing of her intentions as she stared directly at Baltay.


    Baltay, for his part, said nothing to her. He knew that there was no point.


    Eighteen Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    "Dodge each strike!" Edward Grace barked, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the small Supreme Heir. "Remember -- you are a leaf in the wind! Let the current show you where to go!"


    Muzazi slashed at the Heir with the blunt end of Luminescence, his sword so fast it was more an illusion of light. The Heir dodged the first strike by mere inches with a squeak of peril, but the other two smacked her, sending her sprawling down onto the ground.


    "Ow, ow¡­" the Heir groaned, rubbing the arm she¡¯d fallen on.


    "Get up!" Edward snarled, stamping his foot on the floor with a resounding boom. "He¡¯ll attack while you¡¯re down!"


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. I will?


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Today, for Muzazi¡¯s first training session with the Supreme Heir, the arena was somehow even emptier than before. Apart from he and Aclima, who were sparring in the arena proper, the only other person in here was Edward, watching them sternly from the arena¡¯s edge.


    His gaze had the intensity of an owl.


    "Sir," Muzazi called out to him as the Heir picked herself up. "Isn¡¯t this a little harsh? It¡¯s been nearly an hour now of this."


    "If training isn¡¯t harsh," Edward declared. "Then it isn¡¯t training -- it¡¯s just play. Aclima! Are you here to play?"


    As the Heir rose to her feet, she shook her head, black ponytail flopping this way and that. "No, sir," she said quietly. Everything she did seemed to be quiet.


    "Then why are you here?"


    "To train and grow stronger, sir, to get the chance to become Supreme," the Heir responded, the rehearsal evident in her tone. She turned to Muzazi. "Please don¡¯t worry, Mr. Muzazi. Come at me again."


    Muzazi had been surprised at the sort of person the Heir was. He¡¯d expected someone like what he understood of her father -- a force of nature that barrelled through any obstacle -- but instead she was meek and unsure. Not to mention the fact that had no doubt prompted this intensive training: she couldn¡¯t use Aether. Her Core eluded the Seven Blades.


    Without the ability to infuse and enhance her body, Muzazi personally found it quite impressive that she¡¯d been able to dodge one of his attacks at all, but Edward clearly didn¡¯t feel the same. The crook of his brow only grew deeper as he watched Muzazi and the Heir exchange blows, again and again and again -- and the Heir fall to the ground, again and again and again.


    "Will you dodge for the rest of your life, girl?" he barked, losing his patience. "Take a swing at him!"


    The Heir obeyed, swinging her short training sword at Muzazi¡¯s head. Her timing and angle of attack was perfect, but -- even with her Pugnant strength -- the difference in their speed was simply insurmountable. Muzazi sighed and caught the weapon in his hand, silver Aether weakly sparking as he held it in place.


    "This is fruitless," he declared. "I¡¯d --"


    "No, no!" the girl insisted, tugging on the sword. "No, I can do it! Let go!"


    Muzazi wrenched the sword out of her grasp, sending her sprawling to the floor once again, before tossing it over his shoulder. With a flourish, he sheathed Luminescence, its bright light vanishing as it was hidden from view. It felt good to have his sword back -- like he¡¯d regained a lost limb.


    "I¡¯d recommend," Muzazi continued. "That you focus on seeking out your Aether Core. Searching inwardly, not outwards. No matter how well you can swing a sword, it doesn¡¯t matter if your soul goes undiscovered. Meditation. Understand?"


    Still sprawled out on the floor, the Heir slowly nodded, before pulling herself into a meditation pose. She closed her eyes, hands on her knees. If nothing else, she seemed eager to learn. In Muzazi¡¯s experience, that was half the job done.


    Off in the corner, Edward stepped forward, unamused. "Careful now, boy¡­" he began.


    "This is my training session, is it not?" Muzazi snapped, whirling around on the older man. "If you must remain here as a supervisor, then by all means do so, but do not interrupt again!"


    Edward paused, raising his eyebrows in surprise at Muzazi¡¯s admonishment. The slightest wry smile crawled across his lips.


    "Interesting," he chuckled. "It seems this generation¡¯s Special Officers are made of sterner stuff than I thought."


    This generation? Muzazi found himself frowning. He was around the same age as the majority of the Seven Blades -- save Ionir Yggdrasil, whose lifespan was unknowable. "You don¡¯t approve of your colleagues?" he asked.


    "Oh, there are exceptions," Edward grumbled, forcing his old bones down into a meditation pose as well. "There are always exceptions -- but most of the Special Officers I see today? Garbage. Obsessed with personal glory, disrespectful of their predecessors¡­ my own family has raised Special Officers for generations, and do you know what we¡¯ve fallen to? A hysteric for a daughter, a disobedient son, and a horde of absurd grandchildren."


    "I¡­ see."


    To be honest, Muzazi hadn¡¯t asked for or particularly wanted such detail, but he supposed to say otherwise would be rude. A thought occurred, all the same -- he¡¯d met another Grace, hadn¡¯t he? The detective Winston Grace, back on Nocturnus. Was he one of the absurd grandchildren that Edward was referring to, or was it just a coincidence?


    Given the older man¡¯s demeanour -- and the lingering annoyance in his Cogitant-blue gaze -- it was probably best not to pry further.


    Come to think of it, though¡­ most of the Seven Blades, from what Muzazi could tell, were either Cogitant or Pugnant. He himself was the only definite Crownless among them -- save for Ionir Yggdrasil, who was a tree. Mariana pan Helios might have been Umbrant or Crownless, but to be frank it was impossible to tell with that veil hanging over her face.


    He felt like something of an oddity here.


    "Um," the Heir said from below, still sitting on the floor. "Mr. Muzazi? Is it okay if I ask a question?"


    She clearly wasn¡¯t focused on the meditation, but Muzazi could only scold the Supreme Heir so much. "Of course. What is it?"


    "You¡¯re very strong. That¡¯s because¡­ you have something you fight for, right? A reason to get stronger?"


    "I suppose it is. Motivation is important for a warrior -- perhaps the most important thing." He drummed his fingers across Luminescence¡¯s hilt. "Why do you ask?"


    "If you don¡¯t mind me asking¡­ if it¡¯s okay¡­ why do you fight?" The girl opened her eyes, and the sheer uncertainty in them took Muzazi aback. She looked more than a little miserable.


    Once upon a time, how would he have answered? For the Supremacy? For the glory of the Supreme? It wasn¡¯t as if Muzazi was disillusioned, but he felt as though his motivations were more¡­ real now, as if they had more depth to them. He opened his mouth, briefly wondering himself what words would come out of it.


    "I believe," he said quietly. "Strength is to be used to defend those without it. If you find yourself with strength, it¡¯s your duty to amass more, so that you can protect more and more. I suppose¡­ a sword is for blocking blows, more than anything else."


    The Heir blinked.


    "Oh," she said, barely audible. Her eyes were wide, and her hands fidgeted in her lap.


    "At any rate, back to your meditation," Muzazi commanded, the Heir quickly obeying. "Think of your motivations, the emotions that drive you. Immerse yourself in them, follow the trails they give you. That is the way to find your Aether Core."


    As the Supreme Heir resumed her meditation, eyes almost comically squeezed shut, Muzazi strolled back over to Edward Grace. The older man opened his eyes as Muzazi approached. The slight smile he¡¯d adopted earlier had completely vanished. Perhaps it had been an optical illusion?


    "You don¡¯t approve?" Muzazi asked, leaning against the wall next to him.


    Edward opened one eye, looking Muzazi right in his. Even sitting down, he was a giant of a man. "A sword existing just for protection? Dangerously idealistic -- and not the sort of ideal I¡¯d like to take root."


    Muzazi frowned. "Well, what would you say a sword is for, then?"


    "Me?" Edward closed his eyes again. "A sword is for cutting down the obstacles in your path. Whatever shape they might take."


    Ipsum, Many Lightyears Away¡­


    It was a strange sensation, to look out at a world and know you were one of the only living things there.


    Dule squinted as he scanned the black-and-white horizon of Ipsum, the landscape consisting of little more than bleached rocks and dark sky. The rebreather on his mouth puffed and huffed as it absorbed the toxic atmosphere, draining out whatever oxygen it could find in the mixture and expelling the rest. His arm was in a mechanical cast, painkillers and stimulants regularly injected to aid in his recovery.


    Well¡­ now that Dule thought about it, he wasn¡¯t exactly alone, was he? He glanced over his shoulder, at the small building embedded directly into the mountain. It was a bright white, so as to blend into its surroundings, so you could only really recognise it by the precise geometry that contrasted with the rocks around it. Cylinders had been placed regularly around the installation, providing heat -- if Dule walked too far away from base, he would literally freeze on the spot. It was a sobering thought.


    The doors to the installation slid open, and Blair walked out, hands caked in dust. She limply shook her long green hair out of her eyes as she approached. Dule smirked to himself: she always looked so lazy, no matter how hard she worked.


    "Brooding?" she asked, stepping alongside him.


    "Not got much else I can do," Dule replied, indicating his mangled arm. "Not like this, anyway."


    "Mm," Blair nodded. "How¡¯s it feeling?"


    "Starting to get better," Dule said, running his good hand back over his dreadlocks. "Should be able to get this cast off in a day or two."


    "Oh?" Blair raised a cheeky eyebrow. "I¡¯m looking forward to that."


    "Not the time. How¡¯s it looking in there?" Dule nodded back to the square building.


    Blair¡¯s sly smile dropped. "Not good," she sighed, adjusting the straps of her overalls. "Doesn¡¯t look like any other Special Officers have dropped by in years, so everything¡¯s in complete disrepair. I¡¯m walking through a sea of dust just to get anywhere. Refuel for the ship is going to take a while, I¡¯m afraid."


    Dule clicked his tongue.


    Ipsum was something of a rest stop for Special Officers, right on the edge of Supremacy space. Missions often took them out into the borderlands, and those missions often ended up being messy. Places like this, where Officers could recover themselves, were invaluable.


    Still, though¡­ it had been three years now since Dule and Blair had passed the tests and become Special Officers together. This wasn¡¯t their first rodeo, but that last mission had been a bloodbath. Dule shuddered at just the thought of it. The other Officer they¡¯d been working with, Baron Lunalette de Fleur, was as much of a monster as people said.


    "How about the communicator?" Dule asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "That working?"


    Blair nodded. "Looks like it. You going to report back to Caesar?"


    "Probably better to do it sooner or later," Dule grumbled. "Though I can¡¯t imagine she¡¯ll be happy, what with the stunt de Fleur pulled. It¡¯ll be a pain¡­"


    "Everyone knows what the Baron is," Blair said reassuringly. "You won¡¯t be blamed."


    "We¡¯ll see. You coming?"


    Blair just winked, tapping her rebreather. "Think I¡¯ll appreciate the fresh air."


    "Of course you will," Dule smirked ruefully, turning back to the rest station. It was like he¡¯d said: best to bite the bullet before Caesar had time for her anger to really boil over.


    It was only a short walk back to the station. The sliding doors were caked with gunk, so Dule had to force it open with his good hand, leaving an angry red mark on his palm. He wiped the hand clean on his jacket as he stepped inside.


    Yep, just as Blair had said. The only piece of equipment that seemed in working order was the hologram communicator, a blue light blinking on its side. Dule leaned over the flickering monitor, reaching down and typing in the address for --


    Bang.


    Dule whipped around, eyes wide, alarm spiking in his chest. After what had happened in the last few days, there was no way he¡¯d mistake that sound. A gunshot.


    He wasted no time. Green Aether sparking around him, he leapt out of the rest station, through the open door, and onto the cold surface of Ipsum. A thin blade of Surprise and Resolve drained from his mind and into his hand.


    Even with that Resolve, though, what he saw drove him to an utter halt.


    Blair was being held aloft in the air, weakly twitching -- impaled through the stomach by a long shard of jagged metal. It was floating, unburdened by gravity, Blair¡¯s blood running down its surface. He could hear her, just barely, gasping for breath that would not come.


    On the other side of her streaming blood stood three people.


    As Dule looked at the first man, he saw fragments of grey Aether weakening around him, like some effect had just stopped. He was a thin, gangly person, with a shaved head and mismatched eyes. Those eyes were fixed on Blair up above.


    Next to him was a young girl with curly blonde hair, clad in a loose black straitjacket, its long sleeves hanging down at her sides. All of the interlopers were wearing rebreathers, but hers was more extravagant -- a dark gas mask, with a protrusion like the proboscis of an insect.


    Behind the two of them stood the one who seemed to be their leader. He was an older man with thick, untamed hair and a scraggly beard, wearing an unkempt white robe. His brown eyes drooped heavily, giving him a passionless affect -- and, sure enough, Dule could see nothing behind that gaze.


    The man with the shaved head was the only one still looking up at Blair. He was the one who had done it, the muscle, the immediate threat. Dule decided this in an instant.


    He¡¯d get rid of that one first.


    "Two?" the gas mask girl cocked her head, voice muffled, right before Dule leapt off the ground.


    Dule reached into himself, pulled free the Hatred he¡¯d built up for this man, and wielded it as a sphere of energy in his hand. It was hot, deathly hot, enough to burn through skin and muscle both. He¡¯d drive it right through this bastard¡¯s heart and kill him.


    The shaved man leisurely extended his hand -- in it, he limply held a hatchet. A grin speckled with missing teeth spread across his face.


    "Fusion Tool," he drawled, bitter grey Aether crawling over his weapon. "Detritus."


    There was a flash of light, nearly blinding Dule -- and when it cleared, the man was still there, but the hatchet was gone. No, no, that wasn¡¯t quite accurate. It took Dule a fatal moment to work out what he was seeing.


    Wielder and weapon had become one. A monstrosity.


    The shaved man¡¯s skin had become cold iron, grey and dull, creaking as he moved, and the blade of the hatchet was protruding from the top of his head like a metal mohawk. That demented grin was still on his face, but now what looked like barbed wire was wrapped firmly around his teeth, lacerating his gums and causing blood to spill down his lips. Most strikingly of all, his wide eyes had turned a pitch black -- beyond the extent of an Umbrant, lacking even pupils.


    Dule hesitated. He had no choice but to hesitate, for he had already been defeated.


    A shard of metal had appeared, impaling his good arm, while two smaller fragments had taken care of his legs. There had been no flight path, no attack that Dule could have reacted to¡­ just one second they hadn¡¯t been there, and the next they were. White hot pain attacked him from every direction as he collapsed to his knees.


    "Don¡¯t kill him," said the group¡¯s leader, his voice morose yet somehow commanding. "It¡¯s better if there¡¯s a witness. Can you hear me, man?"


    That last bit was addressed at Dule. The wounded Special Officer looked up, right into those droopy, empty eyes.


    "Who are you?" he demanded, fatigue clogging his throat. "Who the hell are you people?"


    The bearded man squatted down next to him, getting to eye level. "We¡¯re kingmakers, man. You understand me?"


    He was close. If nothing else, Dule could take him out -- but the second that thought crossed his mind, another shard of metal had appeared in his shoulder, and the pain dislodged his intentions. The bearded man glanced at the metal monster, a crease of annoyance on his brow.


    "I said don¡¯t kill him. You listenin¡¯ to me?" S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The metal man¡¯s tongue screeched as it moved in his mouth. "He was about to go for you, boss!" he whined.


    "I coulda handled it. Now shut your trap." The morose man turned his eyes back to Dule. "Now¡­ look at you. Dule¡­ Havestrom. Special Officer. Been one for about three years now, after joining with the lady up there. You grew up together, huh? Heartwarming stuff."


    Dule shook with pain and rage. "You know me?" he croaked.


    "Aw, I know everyone, pal. It¡¯s kinda my thing. But, hey -- brother -- I need you to listen carefully. I¡¯ve got a message I want you to take back to your guys. You dig?"


    Before Dule could open his mouth to spit in the man¡¯s face, the girl with the curly hair pointed up. "Alive," she said, almost disinterestedly.


    The leader threw himself up to his feet furiously, his face dark. "Oh, for the love of --" He never finished. He was interrupted by a voice that Dule thought had already left this world.


    "Mr. Puzzles!" Blair suddenly screamed, writhing on the length of metal, her blood spilling down on the gathering below.


    As the liquid rained, sparks of blue Aether accompanied it, and the blood transformed -- turning as blue as the light, and strangely gelatinous. Pooling between the gathered parties, it quickly coalesced.


    This, if nothing else, seemed to give their attackers pause.


    Mr. Puzzles was absolutely unsuited for this environment. He was huge, the size of a house, composed entirely of blue slime -- with a black tophat perched atop his head. A cartoonish smiley face swivelled from position to position on Mr. Puzzles¡¯ face as it took its surroundings in -- or, to be more accurate, it identified its enemies.


    "Mr. Puzzles!" it called out in its booming, dopey voice. "Get hit by the fist, you have to do a puzzles! Leeet¡¯s¡­ PUZZLES!"


    It moved with horrifying speed, turning all the way around and slamming its fist down towards the enemy leader like a hammer. Dule had seen Mr. Puzzles in combat many times, but he had never once seen a person survive a direct attack from it. Once struck, a person was meant to be forced to play a puzzle or have their Aether temporarily sealed, but the fact they were reduced to paste beforehand meant that Dule had never actually witnessed it.


    But, that only applied if the fist could make contact.


    The girl with the gas mask pointed at the incoming attack, her finger a deadly straight line, and spoke: "No."


    There was a sound like warping water -- and the massive fist stopped inches from the leader¡¯s skull. It shook in place for a second or two, as if straining to break through something, but they never got the chance to see if Mr. Puzzles would have overcome it. Countless metal shards appeared inside his blue body, and he disintegrated into Aether.


    Dule whipped his head up to look at Blair. "Don¡¯t!" he screamed -- but too late.


    She was gone.


    A final metal shard had appeared, going right through her eye socket, impaling her brain. A scream of anguish tore itself out of Dule¡¯s throat, echoing across the surface of Ipsum, perhaps the loudest sound the planet had ever heard. He looked at the floating corpse for long, excruciating moments -- before the metal shards vanished and Blair flopped uselessly to the ground in front of him.


    "You got the right idea, man," the leader said from behind him. "Staying on your knees and all that. I dig it."


    Dule turned his head back to the older man, angry tears running down his face. "Kill you¡­" he spat. "I¡¯ll kill you¡­"


    "Careful, man," the leader snorted. "You know who you¡¯re talking to?"


    "You¡¯re nothing."


    Self-preservation was the last thing on Dule¡¯s mind, but combat was a non-starter. The best he could do was throw out insults, bruise this man¡¯s ego if nothing else. It didn¡¯t seem to be working; a sly smile spread across the man¡¯s face at his words.


    "I wasn¡¯t talking about me, son," he chuckled.


    He lifted up the cape of his robes, and a person stepped out who clearly couldn¡¯t have fit into such a limited space. It was a child in a golden cloak, a boy maybe seven or eight years old, with a bald head and a blank stare. His pale face looked down emotionlessly at Dule as the Special Officer collapsed to the ground, blood oozing from his injuries.


    "After all¡­" the man continued. "You¡¯re looking at your real Supreme Heir."


    Pain won the day, and Dule¡¯s vision swam black.

 Chapter 260:10.3: Bring In The Clowns

    Seventeen Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s fists shook with rage as he looked at the grim hologram above.


    It was a display of the aftermath on the planet Ipsum, the site of a Special Officer supply station. Two bodies were slumped on the ground -- the Officers who had been attacked -- while a bearded man orated silently, the hologram muted for this replay. The things this man had declared were scandalous, but Muzazi¡¯s mind was focused entirely on those two sad bodies.


    "Who are they?" he asked.


    Gretchen, who was operating the projector, followed his gaze. "The Officers?" she checked her script. "Uh¡­ Blair Trace and Dule McMaloit, serving Special Officers for three years now. Once the enemy sent this message to Commissioner Caesar, a medical ship was dispatched from the nearest lightpoint -- Trace was dead at the scene, and McMaloit¡¯s in critical condition."


    To lose one¡¯s partner in circumstances like this¡­ Muzazi¡¯s heart went out to Dule McMaloit. If he woke up, he would experience that same unbearable despair that he¡¯d once felt.


    This emergency meeting had been called in the middle of the night-cycle. The Seven Blades had gathered in this briefing chamber to view the message that Caesar had forwarded to them. As a matter that concerned the status of the Supreme Heir, this was something under their jurisdiction alone. All the same, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but notice that the Heir herself wasn¡¯t present. He wasn¡¯t sure how appropriate that was.


    On the hologram, the speaker¡¯s silent speech reached its climax once again, and he revealed the golden-cloaked child -- declaring him the true Supreme Heir. Baltay reached over to the projector, pausing it just as the child stepped into view.


    "The more important question, I think," he mused. "Is who is he?"


    Edward rubbed his beard. "It could be anyone -- a street urchin snatched from a street corner, maybe, dressed up in that gaudy cloak to add a sense of authority. This is nonsense."


    Ionir Yggdrasil creaked in the corner. If that was meant to be some kind of contribution to the conversation, nobody acknowledged it -- and if Ionir took offense to that, he didn¡¯t show it. He simply continued to stand silently, right next to the similarly mute Mariana pan Helios. They made quite the pair.


    Muzazi sighed, looking down from the hologram. "I have to agree with Mr. Grace. I don¡¯t see why these ruffians bringing out some random child is a cause for concern? There¡¯s no proof that the boy has any qualifications to become Supreme Heir."


    Baltay circled the hologram, inspecting the recorded scene from every angle. "You recognise this man?" he asked, nodding towards the bearded leader.


    "I don¡¯t, no," Muzazi shook his head. "Should I?"


    "That¡¯s Hans Allier," Gretchen said, scrolling through her script. "Former cult underpunk musician -- emphasis on cult. He talked a huge number of his fans into a mass suicide, believing they¡¯d go to the afterlife he talked about in his songs. They drank poison, he drank water, and just walked away. This is a guy who knows how to gather support."


    Morgan was sitting some distance away, lounging as he listened in to the conversation. "Quite the scumbag, then. What about the other two?"


    "Bald guy¡¯s a Victor Yun," Gretchen continued, flicking his image up as a secondary hologram. "Big-time bank robber, until he tried hitting the military bank on Nax. The girl goes by the name Nin. High-class assassin for hire."


    "Quite the eclectic bunch," Baltay grunted.


    "The only thing they have in common," Gretchen concluded. "Is that they were all being held in cryogenic confinement at Graystate Orbital Penitentiary Centre until two months ago. The systems malfunction, unfreeze the three of them, and they break out. No idea where the kid came from."


    "This little gang has made some minor appearances since," Edward picked up, hands clasped behind his back. "But only minor matters: starship theft, robberies. Killing a Special Officer of the Supremacy is beyond the pale."


    Baltay looked up, into the cold eyes of the man frozen in time above him.


    "It¡¯s a statement," he said. "They want to show us they¡¯re serious. The Supreme Heir was produced through artificial insemination after decades of the Body negotiating with the Supreme. Aclima has never even met her father. Given her¡­.difficulties, there have been misgivings raised about her position in the past, but we, ah¡­"


    He tapped his hand against his sheathed blade.


    "...we quashed them. But if there¡¯s a viable alternative Heir, one that¡¯s even slightly plausible? People will start picking sides. It¡¯ll get messy."


    "So what do we do, oh capitan?" Morgan snarked, raising an eyebrow.


    Baltay closed his eyes -- and when he opened them again, his gaze was firm. "We eliminate them -- all of these so-called Kingmakers. We track them down and crush them with enough force that nobody else will think of pulling the same trick."


    Muzazi leaned over the table, a worrisome thought on his own mind. "The boy, though," he indicated the child in the golden cloak. "What about him? He¡¯s clearly being used by these people. What happens to him?"


    Behind Baltay, Edward blinked. "We¡¯ll cross that bridge when we come to it," he said quietly -- but his eyes told another story.


    The dark mood was lifted in an instant as the hologram flickered away and the room returned to normal lighting. Morgan squinted as he rose to his feet, eyes robbed of the darkness they¡¯d just become accustomed to. Baltay slapped his hands together as if cleaning away the unpleasant thoughts that had broiled around in this space.


    "At any rate!" he declared. "We¡¯ll have tracking automatics dispatched to close in on their current location -- as soon as the Kingmakers make a move, we¡¯ll head to intercept. In the meantime¡­"


    Baltay¡¯s eyes drifted over to Muzazi -- and a moment later, he realised that all the eyes of the Seven Blades were on him.


    "What?" he asked, glancing around cautiously.


    "You¡¯re a new member, Atoy!" Gretchen grinned. "There are traditions we¡¯ve got to honour here, y¡¯know!"


    "Indeed," Edward nodded.


    "But, what about the Kingmakers?" Muzazi pressed, with more than a hint of desperation. "Shouldn¡¯t we focus on them? Like Mr. Kojirough said, this is a dire threat!"


    "It is, it is," Baltay said reassuringly, stepping over and slapping a hand on Muzazi¡¯s shoulder. "But we can¡¯t do anything about it yet. We have to keep our minds on what¡¯s in front of us, Atoy."


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "And¡­ what is in front of us, sir?"


    Baltay grinned. "Your welcome reception, of course. Do you own a suit?"


    Oh. Oh dear.


    Atoy Muzazi adjusted his bowtie. Then, he adjusted it again. And again. Finally, accepting that it would never look good on him, he removed his hands and left it to its imperfection.


    Frowning, he looked at himself in the mirror. This was the first time he¡¯d worn a tuxedo, and he¡¯d already decided that it would be the last. The black suit with its white trim made him look somewhat like an uncomfortable penguin. Besides the sheath on his hip, nothing about the person he was looking at felt like him.


    "Satisfactory?" queried the automatic that had brought him the clothes, its many thin arms twitching in the air.


    "Satisfactory," Muzazi echoed, nodding, and the automatic scurried out of the closet.


    Apart from the Seven Blades and the Heir herself, the Child Garden had no crew. All maintenance and custodial matters were handled by a legion of automatic servants, with an auto-brain directing the ships flight path. It gave the ship something of a lonely feeling -- from what he¡¯d heard, even the Shesha had a bigger crew than this.


    Muzazi¡¯s frown deepened as he stared at himself in the mirror. The suit was one thing, but the very fact they could even entertain the idea of having a party was another thing entirely. Their fellow Special Officers were dying in the field, and in response they¡¯d be sipping drinks and swapping gossip? None of it sat right with him at all.


    Neither did this bowtie. He reached up and tore it free with a grunt, tossing the resultant mess of fabric onto the floor. A cleaning automatic hurriedly devoured it.


    He sighed. He could throw his tantrums all he liked, but Muzazi knew that he didn¡¯t have the authority to actually change anything that was happening yet. The reception would go ahead, and that would be the end of it. All he could do was grit his teeth and endure.


    From what Muzazi had been told, all sorts would be showing up for this party. Other prominent Special Officers, members of the Body, Ascendant-General Toll -- and even one of the Contenders, from what he understood. Countless people who no doubt had more important things to do. Muzazi did not relish the idea of being the centrepiece of a gathering like that.


    At any rate, he could only stand here and grouch about it for so long: the guests were already in the process of boarding.


    He¡¯d seen them earlier, out of the window that took up an entire wall of his living quarters. A plethora of small personal ships, connecting themselves to the Child Garden with long extensions like umbilical cords.


    Not even the Ascendant-General had come in a warship -- no doubt that could be perceived as a threat to the Supreme Heir. Most likely they had defenses hovering just outside of scanner range, though, ready to swoop in at the first sign of danger. These were not careless people.


    Muzazi was pulled out of his thoughts by a tap-tap-tap from the door. From beyond it, Gretchen called out: "You ready there, Atoy? There are people waiting for you, y¡¯know!"


    He sighed. This was just another unpleasant task that had to be dealt with. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.


    "I¡¯m ready," he replied, opening the door and stepping out. "Which way to the function room?"


    Gretchen, who had changed into a simple red dress, raised an eye at his ruffled collar and absent bow tie. "You, uh, you alright there, Atoy?" she asked. "You¡¯re kind of missing¡­"


    "It¡¯s fashion," Muzazi interrupted. "Shall we go?"


    They walked down the hallways side by side, the sights and sounds of the jungle surrounding them. As they made their way towards the ship¡¯s function room, Muzazi found himself glancing down at the small woman beside him. It was a little disconcerting that he seemed to have been given a chaperone, but he supposed he was the guest of honour at this party. It wouldn¡¯t do for him to get lost.


    "It¡¯s been a while since such a crowd¡¯s showed up, y¡¯know," Gretchen spoke up chirpily. "The Ascendant-General¡¯s a dutiful kinda guy, so he always makes an appearance, but the Clown of the Supremacy too? Are you a big deal or something, Atoy?" She chuckled to herself, as if at some private joke.


    The Clown of the Supremacy?


    "Wu Ming is here?" Muzazi asked, surprised. He hadn¡¯t seen that man since the events on Nocturnus. That seemed so very long ago now¡­


    Gretchen nodded. "Mm-hmm. He didn¡¯t even show up for Morgan¡¯s reception, so you really are a lucky boy. I¡¯d bet Morgan is really sore about it, huh?"


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "How so?"


    "Well," Gretchen looked up at him, the sly smile of gossip on her lips. "Morgan¡¯s the Clown¡¯s apprentice, y¡¯know? Ming taught the guy how to fight, how to use Aether¡­ there are even rumours -- and you didn¡¯t hear this from me -- that Ming got Morgan his spot in the Blades. So he could even be a spy, y¡¯know?"


    "I¡­ suppose."


    Despite his recent experiences with Jean Lyons and the GID, espionage wasn¡¯t especially Muzazi¡¯s arena, so he couldn¡¯t comment on that¡­ but Morgan Nacht did seem the type.


    "Baltay¡¯s probably sore, too," she continued, voice low. "He was expecting Paradise Charon to show up, y¡¯know? But he gets the Clown. Funny."


    This conversation was quickly growing uncomfortable. Judging from the dark look on Gretchen¡¯s face and the bitterness in her voice, she seemed like the one who was ¡¯sore¡¯, but Muzazi didn¡¯t speak that thought aloud. It would be unacceptably rude, after all, and there was always the possibility he was misinterpreting something.


    "Anyway," Gretchen brightened up as they turned the corner. "Function room¡¯s right through here. Everyone¡¯s already waiting for you, so you just need to give a little speech and -- oh."


    The doors to the function room were certainly in front of them -- but standing before them, blocking their path through the hallway, was Mariana pan Helios. Her face was hidden behind that same dark veil, and her black war-robes brushed against the floor.


    She certainly hadn¡¯t gotten changed for the party. If nothing else, though, her intentions seemed clear -- she¡¯d positioned herself right in the middle of the hallway. She definitely intended to impede their path.


    But why?


    "Uh, Mariana," Gretchen ventured, looking pale as she glanced away. "Could you move?"


    Mariana did not move. Mariana did not speak. It was hard to tell because of the veil, but from the angle of her head she surely must have been staring at them. The rose smell of her pungent perfume filled the hallway.


    Gretchen tugged at Muzazi¡¯s sleeve. "Probably best if we go another way," she laughed nervously. "We can go back at that junction and just take the long way around."


    Muzazi frowned. Was the prospect of squeezing past her own teammate really so frightening? And for that matter, why was Mariana choosing to block their path? The whole situation was bizarre.


    He stepped forward, ignoring Gretchen¡¯s squeak of alarm, and extended his hand. "I don¡¯t believe we¡¯ve spoken yet, Miss pan Helios. I¡¯m sure you know this, but my name is Atoy Muzazi."


    Slowly, Mariana cocked her head, as if the words Muzazi had spoken were somehow confusing. The handshake Muzazi offered went unreciprocated. His frown deepened.


    "May I ask why you¡¯re blocking our way?" he continued.


    There was no answer.


    "May we pass?" he narrowed his eyes, finally becoming just a little bit aggravated at the silence.


    There was no answer -- but, a moment later, Mariana stepped out of the way. Her movement was exceedingly graceful and utterly silent, black robes swaying like a banner in the air. Even as she moved, though, the direction of her head did not change -- and so she looked off instead into empty space.


    Muzazi wasn¡¯t sure what exactly to make of that, but he wasn¡¯t one to forget his manners. "Thank you," he nodded respectfully, before stepping past her. As expected, there was no answer.


    Gretchen glanced nervously back at the stationary Mariana as they reached the doors. "Jeez, I should really tell Baltay she¡¯s wandering around out here¡­" she muttered, before turning to the doors as well. "Anyway. Anyway! We¡¯re finally here. Ready to make your speech?"


    Muzazi grimly nodded. He¡¯d never been one for oration, but he¡¯d give it his best shot. S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The doors slid open.


    Muzazi took a bitter gulp of his drink, scratching his uncomfortable clothes as he sat at a table in the back of the function room. What a disaster that had been. Some of the most prominent individuals in the Supremacy right in front of him, and all he¡¯d been able to manage were a few terse words about doing his duty.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    He ran a hand back through his hair, made moist by sweat. If nothing else, he supposed, he¡¯d been honest. He was a terse sort of man. Anything too extravagant would have been giving off a misleading impression.


    All the same, he couldn¡¯t help but feel the crawl of embarrassment as he ran his eyes over the milling guests. Prominent Special Officers like Dariah Todd Harlow, the Commissioner¡¯s aide, along with members of the Body and military both. He¡¯d humiliated himself in front of them.


    Then, of course, there was the biggest guest of all -- literally. Ascendant-General Toll, the commander of the Supremacy¡¯s military -- second only in rank to the Supreme himself. He was as Pugnant as Pugnant gets, his hair a bright red and his eyes a resplendent gold -- he even had the slit pupils which were so rare these days. His hair had been cut short with military precision -- the lone survivor being the bushy red moustache that hung over his lip.


    He towered over every other guest, equal in height to the inhuman Ionir Yggdrasil, his white military suit and flowing cape making him seem like a marching parade all by himself. Muzazi had heard stories about the Ascendant-General using a shotgun as a pistol -- and looking at the beast of a man, he could believe it.


    He seemed to have made himself scarce at some point, though, and the other guests had quickly lost interest in Muzazi. They were fussing quite a bit over the Heir in her frilly white dress, though, paying their respects with opportunistic eyes. It was all Edward Grace, at her side, could do just to keep them in an orderly line.


    It was quickly becoming clear to Muzazi that this reception wasn¡¯t for him, exactly -- it was just an excuse for them all to come together.


    Soft piano music swam throughout the room, providing an impromptu soundtrack to the murmurs of conversation. The party goers had split off into their little groups, speaking quietly to each other, automatic servers ferrying food and drink to and fro. Like the hallways, the walls of the function room were displaying a false environment -- a hedge maze, stretching off in every direction, right into the horizon.


    Muzazi glanced to the side -- just in time to see a man he didn¡¯t recognize approach his table.


    "Not much of a speechmaker, are you, Maizer Muzazi?" the man said.


    He was pale, with high cheekbones and a pair of red eyes that looked more than a little bloodshot. His blue suit hung limply off his thin frame, and he¡¯d brought his own drink -- although it seemed he¡¯d taken a whole bottle rather than a glass. He fell into the chair next to Muzazi without waiting for permission, taking a swig of his drink.


    "I suppose not," Muzazi said, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. "And you are¡­?"


    "Eion Stenhouse," the man grinned, offering a long-fingered hand. "Body Special Envoy."


    Muzazi accepted the handshake, noting that the other man seemed to put no strength at all into the motion. "A pleasure. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not familiar with the Special Envoy."


    "It¡¯s a big nothing of a job," Stenhouse laughed, clicking his long fingers against his glass. "Mostly ferrying messages back and forth between the two branches. Working things out logistics-wise between the Body and the Military. Not much to write home about, but it¡¯s enough to get me into sources of free booze like this. "


    "I see." Muzazi wasn¡¯t sure what, if anything, he was supposed to say in response to that.


    "How about you, though?" Stenhouse leaned back in his chair, planting his feet on the table before them. "Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. That¡¯s something, huh? You¡¯re nervous?"


    "All I can do is my best," Muzazi replied stoically. "Whether I fail or succeed is down to myself alone. Nervousness doesn¡¯t come into it."


    "Well," Stenhouse took another swig -- giving Muzazi the distinct feeling his answer hadn¡¯t been listened to. "So long as you don¡¯t defect, you¡¯ll be doing better than ol¡¯ Lusifer Westmore. You can take some solace there, huh?"


    "I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not familiar with that name."


    "Morgan Nacht¡¯s predecessor," Stenhouse went to indicate the man himself -- only to stop when he realised he wasn¡¯t present. "No surprise you don¡¯t know him, he wasn¡¯t here long. He ditched the Supremacy for the UAP, then I hear he ditched the UAP for something else. Rush was pissed."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "You knew Nigen Rush?"


    "Sure!" Stenhouse threw his arms back as he lounged. "I¡¯ve been part of these circles for a good long while, Maizer Muzazi. I¡¯m familiar with all the big faces. A good friend to have, don¡¯t you think?"


    "What sort of person was he?" Muzazi asked.


    The hallucinations he¡¯d experienced -- which thankfully seemed to have now subsided -- had given Nigen Rush some negative associations in his mind, but for a long time Muzazi had idolised the man. His strength, his humility, his skill with the sword¡­ but he¡¯d become aware recently that appearances could be deceiving. He couldn¡¯t help but feel doubt, even about the things he¡¯d once treasured most.


    Had the person he¡¯d looked up to really existed?


    Stenhouse frowned, but kept talking all the same. "What kind of person? Well, he was an idealistic sorta guy. Guys like that, generally, are either naive or crazy. Funny thing, though: most of those guys, you get situations where they¡¯re willing to bend their ideals -- or, or they break, you get me?"


    "Not him?" Muzazi asked.


    "Nope," the word popped out playfully from between Stenhouse¡¯s lips. "This guy¡¯s ideals didn¡¯t bend or break. They just smashed right through everything else. Incorruptible, I¡¯d say. It was terrifying."


    "Terrifying?" Muzazi furrowed his brow. "I can¡¯t see how that would be terrifying."


    Stenhouse chuckled, raising his hands up and down his own body. "Look at me, pal," he said, voice low. "I am the corrupt. There wasn¡¯t a moment that guy was looking at me where he didn¡¯t want to cut my head off."


    "I¡­ see." While Muzazi couldn¡¯t pretend that this Eion Stenhouse was a pleasant person to speak to, he didn¡¯t know if he would go that far.


    There was a lull in the conversations of the crowd, and Muzazi turned his head to look to the source. It was immediately obvious: Mariana pan Helios seemed to have come back from the hallway. The veiled woman was walking across the room, her footsteps so light that it seemed as though she was gliding. She cut right through the crowd itself, interrupting conversations and knocking drinks out of hands. A swarm of cleaning automatics scurried after her, clearing up the collateral damage.


    "Oh," Stenhouse followed Muzazi¡¯s gaze. "Now there¡¯s a tragedy."


    Muzazi kept his eyes fixed on Mariana as she took up a guard position at the far wall. Baltay detached himself from a conversation with a Minister and stepped over to her, whispering something in her ear. In response, she simply clasped her pale hands.


    "What do you mean?" he asked.


    "Well, everyone¡¯s heard the rumours," Stenhouse grinned, leaning over the back of his chair. "She used to be real close with ol¡¯ Nigen Rush. Real real close, if you catch my drift. Real real real --"


    "Yes," Muzazi snapped, finally losing a bit of his patience. "I understand the implication."


    If Stenhouse took offence at Muzazi¡¯s anger, he did not show it. He just kept right on talking. "Well, back in the day, Nigen Rush and Baltay Kojirough had their little duels all the time. Nothing serious, just testing their own skills or whatever. Until one day, Nigen Rush ends up dead. And if you believe the gossip," Stenhouse snickered. "She was on Baltay¡¯s side when it happened."


    "She fought alongside him?"


    "Nah, nah," Stenhouse shook his head. "But she was Baltay¡¯s cheerleader, not Nigen¡¯s¡­ if you believe the talk. So now she¡¯s got a nice mixture of guilt and grief -- perfect recipe for a nutcase. Like I said, real tragedy."


    As Muzazi looked at Mariana, standing so still, and listened to Stenhouse¡¯s cruel words, hot anger flooded through his veins.


    He himself had been adrift in the sea of grief not so long ago. He had no right to judge how someone else traversed it -- and neither did anyone else.


    Muzazi cast his glare towards Stenhouse. "I don¡¯t think there¡¯s anything perfect about that, worm," he said, standing up. "And it¡¯s clear that I was right: this isn¡¯t a place I¡¯m suited for. I belong on the battlefield, not some ballroom!"


    Stenhouse¡¯s face changed.


    All the gluttony and lust and contempt drained from it, leaving a slack expression. The closest thing to emotion was the slightest trace of mocking pity -- the face one made when looking at a child who had said something very very stupid. A shiver went down Muzazi¡¯s spine.


    This was not a person he was looking at. This was the face of statecraft.


    "Oh, Maizer Muzazi¡­" Eion Stenhouse said quietly, his voice a blank slate. "You don¡¯t think you¡¯re on the battlefield?"


    The babbling of the party went on uninterrupted. Muzazi stared for a few long moments into Stenhouse¡¯s empty eyes, and then -- without really thinking about it -- found himself forced to walk away.


    He didn¡¯t belong here.


    Muzazi left the noise and light of the party behind him, wandering off through the hallways of the Child Garden. He passed through virtual volcanoes and forests, deserts and springs, without any particular goal in mind. His thoughts were in just as much turmoil as his body, mind leaping about as he searched for some kind of destination.


    Blair Trace. Dule McMaloit. One rotting in a coffin, the other comatose in a hospital bed. Perhaps McMaloit had already woken up. Perhaps he was weeping, gnashing his teeth, cursing his own powerlessness. And what of the ones who should have been avenging him?


    Laughing, drinking, eating, dancing, entertaining. Lowering themselves to games of words and insinuation, dishonesty and secrets. Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but feel that the tuxedo he was wearing was some disgusting parasite, clinging to his skin.


    Eventually, intentionally or not he could not say, Muzazi found himself at the arena. The room was even emptier than usual, the stands bare, the arena itself a stark patch of land. The lights, of course, were already on.


    After all, emptier didn¡¯t mean empty.


    Alexandrius Toll, Ascendant-General of the Supremacy, smoked a cigarette as he looked down at the empty arena. It was as if he was spectating an imaginary battle, his golden eyes observing thoughtfully as opposing wills clashed. He nodded to Muzazi as he entered.


    "So you¡¯re the man," he said, taking a weary drag. "Atoy Muzazi. You¡¯re not quite what I expected."


    Even in his daze, Muzazi bowed respectfully. "And what did you expect, sir?"


    "A talker," the Ascendant-General sniffed. "Can¡¯t stand talkers. You¡¯re doing well in that regard, Officer. What are you doing here?"


    The stereotype surrounding Pugnants was generally one of boisterousness and simplicity, but Toll gave quite the opposite impression. His voice was soft, almost quiet, and the look in his eyes suggested some great thoughtfulness that eluded conventional understanding. Even so, every word he spoke was a command. Toll, a guest, had just asked what business a person living in the Child Garden had wandering its halls -- and Muzazi had found it perfectly natural. In fact, he found himself instinctively straightening up.


    "The party didn¡¯t agree with me, I¡¯m afraid," Muzazi said, ascending the stairs to join Toll. "Too many¡­ talkers. I think I agree with you about them."


    Toll chuckled, one hand planted on the railing. He looked as if he could crush it with just the simplest application of force. "Job isn¡¯t what you expected, is it?"


    Lying did not even occur to Atoy Muzazi. He shook his head. "No, sir."


    "And what did you expect, Officer Muzazi?" Toll tossed his spent cigarette onto the floor, and a cleaning automatic snatched it up.


    Muzazi squeezed his hands. "Something of¡­ substance, I expected. Assisting in the development of the Supremacy¡¯s next era, taking things that were wrong and making them right¡­ not all of this politicking."


    Toll¡¯s eyes seemed to twinkle gold in the dim light as he regarded Muzazi. "That dance is inescapable at this level of government, I¡¯m afraid. The Body has itself wrapped around this place like a vine. We have to play their games."


    "But why?" Muzazi ran an exhausted hand down his face. "I thought the Supremacy was about strength -- strength of character, if nothing else. But these people advance through secret alliances and blackmail and bribery and spies. So much talk of spies, who¡¯s spying for who, who should be friends with who¡­ it¡¯s exhausting."


    With the delicacy of a man who¡¯d long ago learnt the measure of his strength, Toll took another tiny cigarette out and put it to his lips. There was the slightest spark of orange Aether, and when it cleared the cigarette was lit. "What I¡¯m about to say," Toll spoke softly. "May seem slightly treasonous, Atoy Muzazi."


    Muzazi swallowed. "Then perhaps it¡¯s best if you don¡¯t say it."


    "Probably. But the fact of the matter is that, although I count the Supreme as a dear comrade, I cannot deny what he has become. Slothful. Indolent. The Body wields so much influence now because he has allowed them to snatch it up. He¡¯s happy to let them run his nation for him."


    "He is the strongest," Muzazi said carefully, wondering whether this was some sort of test. "That is his right."


    "Of course it is," Toll replied automatically. "But the results are as you see. The Body breaking free from their traditional role as facilitators and assuming governance. It¡¯s not just them -- the Special Officer¡¯s Commission, too, creating a generation of parasites, leeching off the Supremacy¡¯s goodwill. The things some of you get up to? If you were soldiers of mine, I¡¯d have you shot."


    Muzazi blinked. Given the rest of the evening, he hadn¡¯t expected the Ascendant-General to be so candid in his views. "What is the solution?" he probed. "In your mind, I mean?"


    Toll sniffed again. "We¡¯re drunk on the ideas of mythology and personal glory. Nigen Rush. Baltay Kojirough. Names like these establish themselves, and so others try to imitate them. People wanting to benefit from the Supremacy, when it should be the other way around."


    "The other way around?" Muzazi raised an eyebrow.


    "Yes," Toll said.


    His demeanour had shifted as he talked, slouched relaxation turning into a rigid focus, as if he was now giving a speech to the assembled troops.


    "The Supremacy should not be this crowd of competing interests," he growled. "That is the UAP¡¯s domain. We should be one nation, singular, concentrated on a single cause -- the evolution of the state, with a strong mastermind to lead the charge. Discipline of the masses -- military discipline. That is the only way for the Supremacy to survive into the new era."


    Muzazi blinked at the deluge of information. "I¡­ see. "


    To be honest, that sentiment didn¡¯t sit well with him at all. At no point in his speech had Ascendant-General Toll mention what would be done with such power, what purpose the ¡¯evolution of the state¡¯ would accomplish. It sounded like the pursuit of power for power¡¯s sake.


    Toll was still talking, but he¡¯d reverted to his casual tone: "As things stand now, alas, the bureaucrats are too deeply entrenched." His face shifted. "If we had an Heir properly educated, though, one made sympathetic to the military cause, things could be different¡­ what do you think of that?"


    Muzazi looked up, and those golden eyes looked down at him. Ah. So yet another person wanted him to do their dirty work. The distaste must have shown up on his expression, as the slightest trace of shame swam across the Ascendant-General¡¯s face.


    "I may hate the dance, Officer," he said, almost apologetically. "But that doesn¡¯t mean I can avoid it."


    Muzazi looked away. "My apologies. I have matters to attend to."


    "Of course. As you were."


    Atoy Muzazi quickly abandoned the arena as well, finding himself walking the many hallways of the Child Garden once again. He knew he¡¯d have to return to the party sooner or later. He¡¯d be missed. If he wanted to rise through the ranks, it wouldn¡¯t do to be seen as an antisocial malcontent.


    He clenched his fists in anger as that thought occurred: even he was part of this shadow game now, seeking advantage in deceit and subterfuge. It was like this place had infected him. The days when he¡¯d had nothing to worry about but where to swing his sword seemed so pleasant now, off in the shining past.


    As he passed a junction, Muzazi happened to glance off to the side -- where he saw them.


    The walls of this hallway were displaying an ancient castle, and the false shadows of the walls hid the two people conversing from view for a moment. It took Muzazi¡¯s eyes only a moment to adjust and recognise the faces. Morgan Nacht, in a dark purple tuxedo -- and the Clown of the Supremacy himself.


    Wu Ming, the Fourth Contender, wearing a gaudy pink suit with a collar of what looked like long white feathers. His hair was tied back in a ponytail, and a set of circular sunglasses rested atop his nose, the spectacles almost comically small for his eyes. He was saying something to Morgan, so quietly that it was barely audible.


    Muzazi hadn¡¯t seen Ming since Nocturnus, when the Contender had saved him from Darkstar¡¯s berserker. He seemed no worse for wear from his battle against the Abyssal Knight.


    Wu Ming stopped speaking to his prot¨¦g¨¦ as Muzazi came into view, instead standing up straight and grinning. He offered Muzazi a friendly wave.


    "Hey, pal! Ten-outta-tent!" he called out. "Mind if we talk to you for a --"


    Muzazi kept walking.


    More secrets. More lies. Not even the castle they schemed in was real.


    This whole place was suffocating.


    Muzazi splashed water from the sink into his face, getting some small measure of relief from the cool water on his skin. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he hunched over the sink top, stray drops of water falling from his fringe.


    He was alone in the bathroom -- just him, his thoughts, and his reflection. Muzazi stared at himself in the mirror. He looked unwell. He felt unwell.


    Was something wrong with him? Surely a merely uncomfortable situation shouldn¡¯t have him like this. He could feel an almost physical nausea, welling up in his throat, like someone had spun him around a thousand times and let him loose.


    His hand drifted down to Luminescence¡¯s scabbard, where he clutched the hilt for support. If nothing else, he had --


    "Move," whispered Nigen Rush, right in his ear.


    Muzazi whirled around and swung his sword -- just in time to deflect the golden arrow that had been aimed for his back. The projectile ricocheted off Luminescence and struck the opposite wall, where it lodged deep. The sound of singing metal filled the small room.


    His eyes flicked around, searching for an adversary that was not present. Was the Child Garden under attack? Blade drawn, he cautiously made his way to the centre of the room.


    The nausea was gone. This was his element.


    "Above." Nigen Rush¡¯s voice was faint, barely audible -- but accurate.


    Muzazi leaped out of the way as a second arrow speared down from the ceiling, burying itself in the floor and shattering the tile. This time, he saw where it had originated: there was an air vent on the ceiling -- with just the tiniest gap, just large enough for one of these arrows to slip through.


    The situation was clear, then. This assault was aimed at him specifically. The arrows were an Aether ability -- fired from another part of the Child Garden, they travelled through the vents until they reached this bathroom and completed the attack.


    Muzazi went to evacuate the room -- but as he turned his head, he saw another golden glint within the vent. A third arrow was coming. He couldn¡¯t look away.


    With a flare of silver Aether, he applied thrusters to the bottom of the broken tile -- and it slammed up into the ceiling, serving as a makeshift lid against the vent. As Muzazi pulled the first arrow -- vital evidence -- free from the wall, he heard the discordant sounds of scraping stone and screeching metal from the other side of the barrier. Was the third arrow spinning like some kind of drill, trying to break through the tile?


    At any rate, he¡¯d bought himself the time he needed. Muzazi charged out of the bathroom -- and right into the party beyond it. The noise from behind him suddenly cut off, his unseen adversary seemingly unwilling to continue their attack.


    His hand closed, and when he looked down he saw that the arrow he had been gripping was gone. Dissipated into Aether while his eyes were elsewhere, no doubt. He scanned the faces of the party goers before him, who kept on eating and drinking and chatting, but saw no traces of guilt. He thought of calling out, but did not: ill-considered words were wounds here.


    Oh, Maizer Muzazi¡­ you don¡¯t think you¡¯re on the battlefield?


    The obvious conclusion could no longer be denied.


    He was not among friends.

 Chapter 261:10.4: We See You, Mr. Muzazi (and the Procession of the King of Babel)

    Sixteen Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    Someone had tried to kill him. But who?


    Those thoughts filled Muzazi¡¯s mind as he looked down from the stands of the training arena, watching the Supreme Heir sparring with Morgan Nacht. Nacht¡¯s style of swordsmanship was much different from Muzazi¡¯s -- all leaping about and constantly moving, taking advantage of his greater agility. Movements that Muzazi would have needed thrusters to pull off, Nacht was able to perform naturally.


    He drummed his fingers alongside the sheathed Luminescence, which lay on his lap. Of course, he¡¯d considered the possibility that Nacht was the one who¡¯d tried to kill him. The younger man had threatened him on his first day here, after all. But, no matter how hard he considered the issue, Muzazi couldn¡¯t fathom a motive for him to do so. Bitterness over an interrupted sparring match generally did not escalate to murder.


    The method of assassination had clearly been premeditated, too -- arrows fired through the ventilation system, targeted at a specific room. It was something that would have required a good deal of time to set up. Shortly before the attack, Muzazi had seen Nacht speaking with Wu Ming in the hallways. It was difficult to picture Nacht detaching himself from that conversation and making the necessary preparations in such a short amount of time.


    So, reluctantly, Nacht was crossed off the list.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes drifted over to Edward Grace, who was watching the bout from the other side of the stands. He, too, was definitely to be removed from the list of subjects. He had been by the Supreme Heir¡¯s side all night as her personal bodyguard. Him not being there for any period of time would have been such an event that Muzazi would surely have heard about it.


    The Supreme Heir herself, needless to say, obviously didn¡¯t do it either.


    Mariana pan Helios could easily have slipped away from the party, though, with how quiet she was -- and judging from the incident in the hallway, she seemed to have something against him. He didn¡¯t know what, exactly, but she was certainly a suspect. Thinking about it more, he¡¯d never heard of the Silent Sword using a bow-and-arrow, but it was entirely possible that the weapon had been an Aether Armament.


    Yes. An Aether Armament -- which brought Gretchen Hail into the suspect list as well.


    It would have been exceedingly simple for her to create a projectile weapon like that, giving the arrows the ability to track their target, and fire it through the vents. She¡¯d been with the Seven Blades for years now -- she¡¯d be familiar with the Child Garden¡¯s layout. Still¡­ Muzazi didn¡¯t want to believe that the one who¡¯d been kind enough to bring Luminescence back to him would do such a thing. She¡¯d clearly invested effort into him becoming one of the Seven Blades, so why would she then want to invalidate that effort by killing him?


    The same went for Baltay Kojirough. He¡¯d gone to an exceptional amount of effort to locate Muzazi and summon him here. That could have been for the purposes of the murder, but why go through all that trouble? He¡¯d never met Baltay before in his life. Why would the leader of the Seven Blades want him dead?


    Ionir Yggdrasil¡­ apparently, he wasn¡¯t suitable for polite company, so he¡¯d been nesting in the bowels of the ship during the reception. That left him without an alibi, but he also had no motive. Muzazi hadn¡¯t so much as spoken to the Fell Beast since he¡¯d arrived.


    Or, of course, it could have been any of the guests who had come for the welcome reception. Counting them, the suspect list lengthened considerably.


    Muzazi cursed himself for not looking at the arrow when it had disappeared. Even just the colour of the Aether would have been a vital clue.


    All this suspicion was exhausting. It was hard to believe, but Muzazi found himself actually missing the presence of the detective Winston Grace. He¡¯d probably be able to solve a case like this with ease.


    "Mind if I sit here?" asked Baltay Kojirough.


    Muzazi looked up as the leader of the Seven Blades took a seat next to him, looking down at the fight in the arena. The Supreme Heir was soaked with sweat, panting for breath, but still doing her best to overcome her opponent. Atoy Muzazi found perseverance like that more admirable than anything.


    "It¡¯s a shame, isn¡¯t it?" Baltay mused, hand on his chin as he looked down at the two clashing fighters.


    "What is?" Muzazi asked.


    "Effort that won¡¯t be rewarded. Aclima can dance around Morgan all day, but the gap between their abilities is simply too great. She won¡¯t land a hit on him. I guarantee it."


    "Is that your precognition?"


    "No," Baltay sighed. "But it¡¯s true. Without Aether, an ordinary human can only do so much. Look -- she¡¯s exhausted. Morgan¡¯s barely broken a sweat. He can keep going, she can¡¯t. Even if you forget the difference in strength and agility, their endurance is leagues apart -- and in nearly every battle, the one who can¡¯t tough it out to the end is the loser."


    "But surely her perseverance counts for something?" Muzazi said. "Her strength of character, if nothing else."


    "Sure, sure¡­" Baltay conceded. "But if perseverance was her Aether Core, she¡¯d have unlocked it a long time ago. I suppose it¡¯s our fault, as her teachers¡­" he sighed. "But still. It¡¯s a shame. We must be awful people, to treat a child like this."


    Muzazi raised his eyebrows, surprised by Baltay¡¯s candor. "She lives with every one of her needs met, with the protection and tutelage of some of the strongest individuals in the Supremacy. She¡¯s hardly being mistreated."


    A sad smile crossed Baltay¡¯s lips as he turned his blue gaze to Muzazi. "Tell me something, Atoy."


    "What?"


    "If the Supreme Heir came up here, right now, and told me she was tired of all this -- that she didn¡¯t want to be Supreme Heir anymore, that she wanted to go and live her own life¡­ do you think I would let her?"


    Muzazi did not say anything, but they both knew the answer.


    Baltay¡¯s eyes returned to the field. "At some point, for all of us," he continued. "A choice is made. The things we¡¯ve done, or the things done to us¡­ it doesn¡¯t matter. Once that happens, once that choice is made, we¡¯re locked into it. We¡¯re stuck on that one fixed path to the end of it all. That¡¯s it. None of us can escape."


    The words settled like black snow.


    This was a melancholy side of Baltay Kojirough that Muzazi had not seen before. Indeed, as he looked down at the Supreme Heir in the arena, it almost looked as though he were glaring. Was Baltay trying to tell him something here? Should Muzazi confide in him regarding the assassination attempt?


    Time held Muzazi¡¯s tongue for him, as Baltay leaned back in his seat, dark affect fading away. "Anyway," he said, voice bright. "There¡¯s something I wanted to let you know about. You remember the pretender Supreme Heir?"


    "Of course!" Muzazi hurriedly nodded. That whole ordeal, and the fates of the Special Officers involved, had been raging at the back of Muzazi¡¯s mind since he¡¯d first heard about it.


    Baltay¡¯s eyes flicked this way and that, checking for unwelcome listeners, before returning to Muzazi.


    "We have information," he said quietly. "An anonymous tip regarding where Hans Allier will show up -- the Kingmakers¡¯ next target, in short."


    "Anonymous?" Muzazi frowned. "Is that reliable?"


    "I¡¯ve done a check of the location they mention, and it seems to match the Kingmakers¡¯ modus operandi. An isolated Supremacy installation -- a broadcast relay, in this case. Not so different from the Special Officer rest station they hit last time. Slightly better manned, but the same principle applies."


    "So¡­" Muzazi mused. "There¡¯s a traitor within their group, then? Someone feeding us information? For what purpose?"


    "I don¡¯t know." Baltay crossed his arms. "And I dislike not knowing these things, but we can¡¯t simply ignore this. Every second those criminals run free is an insult to the Seven Blades."


    Quite a difference from last night, when he¡¯d been so fixated on Muzazi¡¯s welcome reception. Perhaps it was like the Ascendant-General had said -- even if one dislikes the dance of politics, they cannot escape it. Maybe Baltay held the same sentiments as Muzazi, and simply could not act upon them.


    "Do we intercept, then?" he asked, voice low.


    Baltay sucked in air through his teeth. "We must go after them while we have their location," he said slowly. "But the Seven Blades have other obligations that must be met. A military parade on Terminus requires the presence of the Supreme Heir. Taking the Child Garden on an interception mission would not be practical with that in mind."


    "So we wait?" Muzazi asked indignantly.


    "No," Baltay shook his head. "The Seven Blades are an institution, but we are also individuals. Some of us will accompany the Heir, while the others respond to this provocation." He glanced at Muzazi. "Needless to say, you¡¯ll be part of the response team for Herum -- the planet that¡¯s being targeted."


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    Muzazi kept his own eyes on the match below, where the Heir finally seemed to have admitted defeat. She had collapsed on the floor, limbs splayed out, her chest heaving for breath. She¡¯d done well all the same.


    He nodded and spoke quietly, so that the Heir couldn¡¯t hear. "Who else?"


    "Ionir Yggdrasil -- he¡¯s a reliable sort," Baltay said. "A powerhouse, and with his shape shifting he can fill in many different roles depending on what the situation demands. He¡¯ll follow your orders to the letter, don¡¯t worry."


    "Just my orders?" Muzazi furrowed his brow.


    "I¡¯ve placed you in command of the operation -- so yes," Baltay nodded. "If the other member has a problem with that, he¡¯ll just have to deal with it."


    Muzazi didn¡¯t quite understand why, but his heart dropped deep. "The¡­ other member?"


    Baltay nodded down to the arena, and Muzazi dutifully followed his gaze --


    -- to where Morgan Nacht was grinning back at him.


    "So," Morgan said, stashing his bag into the available locker. "Boys night out, huh? Exciting stuff."


    The excursion crew had assembled in the Rhapsody, Morgan¡¯s ship, to make the preparations for their departure. Muzazi had chosen to travel light, with little but his Luminescence and a change of clothes for the way back, but Morgan had clearly gone overboard. This was the third bag he¡¯d brought aboard -- and this was his ship, anyway, so surely he must have had some possessions aboard the vessel already.


    Muzazi rubbed his temple, ready for a tiresome journey, when Ionir Yggdrasil caught his eye.


    The Fell Beast had situated himself right at the back of the ship, where there was free space for cargo, and transformed. The humanoid shape had been abandoned entirely, replaced by a wooden sphere of wrapped branches and vines. Thin woven ropes of green latched onto the floor of the ship, too, presumably to stop Ionir from rolling around during the journey.


    He was even less anthropomorphic than he was usually -- even the square indentation that served as a rudimentary face had vanished completely. It was difficult for Muzazi to even comprehend the fact that he was looking at a thinking being.


    When Morgan got no reply, he followed Muzazi¡¯s gaze, and nodded knowingly. "Ionir caught your eye, huh? He¡¯s in hibernation mode right now. Saving energy for the battle ahead, I¡¯d guess."


    "Oh," Muzazi said. "He¡¯s asleep?"


    "Yep. Out like a --"


    Muzazi drew Luminescence in a flash, thrusters boosting the movement to its utmost -- to such a degree that Morgan could not even blink before the sword was right in his face. The tip was pressed against his nose, and as Muzazi held the sword straight, a single drop of blood swam down its surface and dripped to the floor.


    Morgan did not move. He just stared at the sword making contact with him. That was a wise decision: if he tried anything, it would be easy for Muzazi to thrust the sword forward and run his skull through.


    Skulking around and scrounging for information was not how Atoy Muzazi did things. If he believed he had an enemy, he confronted them.


    "Did you try to kill me?" Muzazi asked, voice cold.


    "...when?" Morgan asked slowly, hands in the air, clearly trying not to aggravate.


    When? Did he try to kill me one time, and not another?


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "Last night. At the reception. Did you fire arrows through the ventilation system, aimed at me while I was in the bathroom?"


    Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do that --" S§×ar?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Answer the question, please." Muzazi pressed Luminescence in just a little bit further, so Morgan could feel it. The first watery drop of blood was joined by a second.


    "No," Morgan said. "No, I didn¡¯t."


    Muzazi looked long and hard into the face of the other Special Officer. He was no Cogitant, able to tell when someone was lying at a glance, but in this sort of situation there was no way that Morgan wouldn¡¯t betray a tell. Sweat slowly dripped down Morgan¡¯s forehead, but there was no flinch, no twitch, no movement that betrayed deceit.


    Slowly, Muzazi retracted his sword, but he did not sheath it. "I believe you," he said gruffly.


    Morgan let out a sigh of relief, visibly deflating for a moment before recovering himself. "Someone tried to kill you?" he asked, voice full of confusion. "Using arrows? In the bathroom?"


    Muzazi nodded, still keeping a safe distance from the younger man. "Three arrows, fired from another room on the Child Garden. Is this a technique you¡¯re familiar with?"


    With a shake of his head, Morgan replied: "No. None of the Seven Blades have an ability like that, as far as I know. Well, I guess it could¡¯ve been one of the guests, or¡­"


    "Or¡­?"


    "Gretchen?" Morgan ventured, face pale. "She could¡¯ve made a bow-and-arrow Aether Armament with an ability like that."


    Muzazi had considered that, of course, but he was doubtful. "Blacksmith as she is, Gretchen Hail is still a swordswoman¡­ do you know if she has experience using a bow like that?"


    "It wouldn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s part of her ability, Ragnarok Forge. She can encode memories into the weapons that she makes -- so long as it¡¯s near the user, they can wield it like an expert."


    So Gretchen certainly could have been the one who¡¯d attacked him -- but that didn¡¯t answer the question of why. He¡¯d sensed no murderous intent from her on any occasion. What reason would she have to take his life?


    No, Muzazi felt like he was on the wrong train of thought entirely.


    He was broken out of his reverie, though, by Morgan¡¯s grave words. "They¡¯ll try again, you know." For the first time, his face was deadly serious -- even the sly smirk that seemed a constant decoration was gone.


    Muzazi looked up. "What?"


    All levity had vanished from Morgan¡¯s stance as he took a step to the side, hand resting on his sheathed saber. "You¡¯re not the first Blade they¡¯ve tried to kill. Your predecessor, Gustavo? Someone stabbed him in the back."


    Muzazi frowned. He¡¯d suspected something untoward had happened to the Blade he¡¯d replaced, but to have it actually confirmed was another thing entirely¡­ Still, was Morgan someone who¡¯s word he could trust?


    Well, he could decide whether he trusted it or not once he¡¯d heard it. "Tell me more."


    "I will," promised Morgan. "Once we¡¯re out of here."


    His eyes flicked around, and Muzazi understood immediately. Once he did, a shiver ran down his spine at just how careless he had been. The Child Garden was one of the most important installations in the Supremacy, for propaganda if nothing else. The surveillance aboard such a starship would be beyond nearly anywhere else.


    Right now, there were thousands of eyes and ears on them. Outside of the Garden, for a very short while, they could for the first time speak freely.


    Hans Allier stepped through the undergrowth of the jungle, feeling the humid air moisten his skin. He took a lick of his sweaty arm as he emerged from the woods, appreciating the tang of humanity that landed upon his tongue. That flavor was the very proof that he was alive. Sick.


    Nin joined him a second later, her practiced feet barely making any noise as she walked. She was good stuff, good product, trained well. Hans had known bad product, knew bad product, and you could see the difference between dogs who barked and bit. He¡¯d known from the moment he¡¯d seen Nin that he¡¯d get good use out of her.


    Victor, on the other hand¡­


    The thug broke out of the jungle with much less grace than his companions, using his hatchet to hack his way through vines and branches. His face was covered in scratches from where the trees had bit at him, and his clothes were darkened with sweat. Hans wondered what that tasted like.


    Hans was satisfied with his mysterious sponsor for breaking him out of the fridge, but he wished they¡¯d been more discerning with the others. Nin was great, but Victor¡­ all Victor was good for was brute force and running his mouth.


    Not quite bad product, but very nearly.


    His eyes slid over to the sight directly in front of them, at the bottom of the mountain. The Supremacy broadcast relay, carrying news and entertainment from the borders all the way back to the homeland. There were thousands of these installations all across the Supremacy, but for their next move -- the public announcement of the true Heir -- they¡¯d just need the one.


    Hans smiled to himself. He¡¯d never once doubted that he¡¯d escape that prison. This was because he was the only person that was truly real, and by all rights the universe was organized in a way that would ultimately benefit him. Any event, no matter how seemingly disastrous, was designed by his servant God with him in mind.


    His eyes clouded over as he used his ability, scanning the box-shaped building nestled in the jungle below.


    Thick walls. Too thick to blast through without using their Armaments. No windows. Limited external ventilation. Air circulated with internal stock. Oxygen purchased from Talder and Sons LLC. Discount for government use. Slightly bigger discount than usual, to encourage repeat custom. Seven guards. Two tired because they were up late last night. Armed with plasma rifles. No Special Officers.


    Easy pickings.


    Hans¡¯ ability was understanding -- he could simply glance at a target and gain a wealth of information about its history and abilities. It worked by enhancing the deductive reasoning any human was capable of, and then letting those parts of his mind work automatically. For him, it was like receiving divine wisdom. It suited him.


    He glanced at his two companions, beings who -- like everyone else -- had been created to entertain him, and smiled.


    "They¡¯re not expecting us," he purred. "But still¡­ I think we should show these cats what we¡¯re made of, yeah?"


    Victor grinned. That was the kind of stimulus he responded to. Without waiting for another word, he held out his hatchet.


    "Fusion Tool," he growled. "Detritus."


    Grey Aether shone.


    Nin drew something out from her long sleeve. A garrote, silver wire dangling between two handles. She grasped it in both hands, holding the implement out in front of her.


    "Fusion Tool," she giggled. "Odette."


    Blue Aether blasted.


    With a sigh of relief, Hans drew his rapier from the scabbard at his crotch. He ran a finger down its surface, savoring the moment as the Aetheral infernos at his sides illuminated him. The only thing better than having one mysterious sponsor, he reflected, was having two.


    Especially when they offered such toys as this.


    "Fusion Tool," he breathed. "King of Babel."

 Chapter 262:10.5: Fusion Tools

    Fourteen Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    Hollow, panting breaths through a black bag. Blood dripped off of the scalpel Hans twiddled between his fingers. He licked his lips, but he did not smile.


    This was getting boring.


    Breaking into the broadcast relay had been child¡¯s play, as expected, as had eliminating the guards. One of the others must have made a mistake, though -- because by the time they¡¯d gotten to the relay itself, the technician had already locked it down. Sealed it away with a password he refused to divulge.


    The technician was tied to the chair before Hans, right in the middle of the control center itself. The massive screen behind him still displayed the text demanding the password, each time the display blinked frustrating Hans more and more. Anger spurring him to action, he moved forward and whipped the bag off his captive¡¯s head.


    "Ready to talk, brother?" he asked softly.


    The technician had not had a good day, even with Hans tending to him. One of his ears had been all but sawed off, the gristle hanging by a strip of skin, and the eyes had been taken from their sockets, leaving an empty red stare. Bruises of every kind painted his face. His hands were tied behind his back, but there was really no meaning to it: all of his fingers had already been broken, as had his wrists.


    Hans understood it well: the only thing he could not take from this man was his tongue.


    When he did not get an immediate reply, he shook the man by the hair. "Wake up!" he snarled. "What¡¯s the password?!"


    It was humiliating that this was even an obstacle. Why had his sponsor chosen to break out Victor, for pete¡¯s sake, and not some kind of hacker?! Had they not foreseen that this could be a problem?! Did anyone around here think?!


    The technician muttered something, and Hans¡¯ eyes widened. "What?" he said, leaning in, heart dancing. "What¡¯d you say, man?"


    That unfortunate mouth moved again, and the voice that came out was a deathly rasp.


    "Dead¡­" the technician hissed.


    "Dead?" Hans asked excitedly. "That¡¯s the password? That¡¯s the password, yeah?"


    The man glared without eyes. "All of you are dead," he insisted. "Ascendant-General Toll will find you¡­ kill you¡­ kill your families¡­ tear you to bits¡­ fucking eat you¡­"


    Hans¡¯ smile just as quickly turned to a frown. "Don¡¯t be an asshole, guy. Now I gotta fuck with you more."


    The most infuriating thing about this was that his ability wouldn¡¯t give him the password. He didn¡¯t know why. It could tell him the guy¡¯s name, how many siblings he had, where he grew up, his goddamn birthday -- but not the password. There was no way it was impossible to deduce, so what was going on?!


    He was just about to make some more adjustments with his scalpel when the communicator in his ear clicked into life.


    "What is it?" he asked, scalpel trembling between his fingers. "I told you guys I didn¡¯t wanna be disturbed until we¡¯re done here."


    "Incoming," said Nin, almost casually.


    Shit. Shit! Special Officers, already?! There was no way. He was absolutely certain that none of the guards had time to send out any kind of distress signal -- Victor had been efficient as hell when it came to massacring them. These kinds of bases went weeks without contact, so there was no way anyone had come to investigate the silence. The only way there could be such a quick response was if¡­ was if¡­


    His ability did not take long to give him the information he needed. S§×arch* The n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    They¡¯d been sold out.


    Hans snapped the scalpel in his hand.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL resumed.


    Immediately, it tasted the area around it. It was still inside the metal shell. It was in the same part of the metal shell it had stopped in. A significant amount of time had passed, enormous for it to resume naturally. The area outside the metal vessel had changed. The world was singing.


    They had arrived, then. IONIR YGDRASSIL began shifting out of sleep-shape, its body growing and stretching as it assumed traitor-shape. Two arms, two legs, and a head. The inefficient form of the enemy, but one that IONIR YGDRASSIL had to wear to continue. NIGEN RUSH had explained that to it long ago, and so it was true.


    MorganNacht and AtoyMuzazi were still in the metal vessel as well. They were grabbing bags and slinging them over their shoulders, no doubt full of supplies that might be required. Traitors were frail organisms, and could not gain sustenance from the world.


    The change in form completed, and IONIR YGDRASSIL took a step forward. MorganNacht looked up at him. Such a tiny, but cute thing. It liked him.


    "We¡¯re here, big guy," he said. "You ready?"


    It never understood why they packed so little information into their speech. IONIR YGDRASSIL encrypted a lengthy rundown of its current status and spoke it aloud, but MorganNacht showed no signs of understanding it. Frustrating.


    "Gonna guess that means yes," he chuckled.


    The other traitor, AtoyMuzazi, turned to look at IONIR YGDRASSIL as he completed his preparations. "Mr. Yggdrasil," he said. "I¡¯d like for you to watch over us from behind as we approach the broadcast relay."


    MorganNacht raised one of his eyebrows. "You concerned?"


    "I tried sending a message to the relay while we were landing," AtoyMuzazi explained. "But no response. There¡¯s a good chance the Kingmakers have already begun their attack."


    The metal shell began to open itself, a ramp lowering to allow them to leave. IONIR YGDRASSIL tasted warm air, and the singing intensified. As ordered, it followed right behind AtoyMuzazi and MorganNacht as they descended the ramp.


    It was vexing to be bound to a traitor he did not know, but IONIR YGDRASSIL did not hate it. It had never hated anything, save for lusifer westmore, and he was not here. It was bound by promises, and it would live by them. NIGEN RUSH had once told it to listen to BaltayKojirough, and now BaltayKojirough had told it to listen to AtoyMuzazi. There was no room for confusion.


    Salvation.


    As IONIR YGDRASSIL stepped out of the metal vessel, it devoured the sunlight that blazed down upon it. Parts of it deep inside that had begun to weaken regained themselves, reforming to their proper strength. The responsiveness of its body improved, as well as the speed of its thoughts. It came back to life.


    They were in a dry jungle of simpletons, units without the capacity for advanced thought, gathered together in thin clumps, their clumsy roots fixing them to the earth. IONIR YGDRASSIL sang to the simpletons for a moment, but as expected there was no response. Even so, it had to try. It was bound by promises.


    At the very least, the simpletons¡¯ dull verses gave it intelligence regarding their destination. Some of them had been disturbed in the recent past. Some of them had been destroyed. An organism had come through, then, and not carefully.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL said this, but was once again -- save for a quizzical glance -- ignored.


    The building lay in front of them, a cold box of metal, utterly silent. Even though their metal vessel had landed right in front of the building, they had received no welcome. Something was wrong. At the very least, there should have been guards.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL said this too.


    MorganNacht leaned in to mutter to AtoyMuzazi. "Seems quiet, huh? Think they¡¯re already here?"


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    AtoyMuzazi took a few steps forward and slowly knelt down, dragging his finger along the ground. When he raised it again, it was covered in crystalized red traitor-sap. "It appears so," he said, voice grim. His hand went to his sheath, and he pulled his metal free. "I would think that the soldiers assigned to this posting are already dead."


    MorganNacht clicked his tongue. "Bastards."


    This was a thing that IONIR YGDRASSIL did not understand about traitors. Why did they get so aggravated when it came to completion? All things that began must eventually complete. Surely they must have already been aware of this. Why, then, did they become sullen when the expected outcome came?


    "All living things wish to achieve their desires," said NIGEN RUSH. "Once we¡¯re dead, those desires are lost to us. That¡¯s where the fear of death comes from."


    This was not the real NIGEN RUSH speaking, of course. He had already completed. This was IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s memory of NIGEN RUSH, sculpted into the shape of a personality and allowed to speak. Having a remembered figure give testimony was much easier than searching through all of IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s memories for the appropriate information.


    "BUT," IONIR YGDRASSIL replied. "ONCE YOU ARE COMPLETE, FAILURE CANNOT UPSET YOU. TO FEAR A STATE OF NOT EXPERIENCING FEAR IS FOOLISHNESS."


    NIGEN RUSH chuckled ruefully. "Ah, Ionir¡­" he said. "Perhaps one day you¡¯ll understand."


    IONIR YGDRASSIL deposited the recollection of NIGEN RUSH into the back of its mind, but did not crush it to save storage space. It could not. NIGEN RUSH was the one who had saved it, who had given it a purpose after the end of the rising. It had promised itself it would not let him go, and it was bound by promises.


    MorganNacht mirrored AtoyMuzazi, drawing his metal as well. IONIR YGDRASSIL supposed it must be terribly despair-inducing, having to use implements like that instead of your own body. It had used metal on occasion at the insistence of GretchenHail, but there had been little benefit. Here, away from her insistence, it had no reason to pretend.


    "One entrance," said AtoyMuzazi. "We¡¯ll move at full speed and kill any hostiles before they can use their abilities. Understand?"


    As AtoyMuzazi spoke, IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s roots slithered across the floor and drank the traitor sap he had found. Soft, green Wisdom surreptitiously sparked across the wooden tendrils. The memories clinging to the biology drifted into its mind, quickly crushed to a minimal size and saved away. The owner of the sap may be dead, but his recollections would be preserved for posterity.


    This was IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s reason for being -- the promise that was him.


    They moved, AtoyMuzazi at the head, charging for the sealed doors. Silver Wisdom sparked across AtoyMuzazi¡¯s hand as he grabbed a nearby simpleton, the being tearing itself out of the ground as thrusters blazed across its wooden surface. It blasted towards the doors with such speed that it got there first -- smashing into them and shattering them with ease. AtoyMuzazi and MorganNacht, without so much as breaking their stride, leapt right into the darkness.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL went to follow AtoyMuzazi --


    "No."


    -- and then, very suddenly, it went flying backwards.


    Atoy Muzazi went flying forwards, instantly launched into the darkness of the relay station. Even with the disorientation of the sudden force, he kept enough of his wherewithal to get a look at his surroundings.


    Metal shelves, filled with spare ammunition. Consoles to scan incoming ships, unused. Corpses, still laying in chairs, brutalized. A guard station. Muzazi took all this in as he flipped through the air, propelled by that mysterious force.


    This first attack was just to catch him off guard. The second --


    Clang!


    -- would be to kill.


    Muzazi deflected the punch aimed at his skull with a slash of Luminescence, sparks flying as blade struck fist. Finally landing, he planted his feet against the wall and launched himself with a kick, zooming right towards the enemy that had presented itself. Luminescence was ready to kill.


    It was Victor Yun who had attacked: the bank robber who had become one third of the Kingmakers.


    He looked different than he had in the message. His skin had become grey steel, and what looked like the blade of an ax was protruding from the top of his head. His eyes were jet black, and when he grinned his red grin, Muzazi saw barbed wire wrapped around his teeth -- like braces.


    Where had he been hiding, to execute such a sneak attack? Perhaps he¡¯d been clinging to the ceiling. It didn¡¯t matter. When he¡¯d seen what these people had done, he¡¯d already promised himself that he¡¯d kill them -- and he was bound by promises.


    Thrusters gave Muzazi greater speed as he shot towards Victor, Luminescence striking at the enemy¡¯s exposed throat. For Victor¡¯s part, he made no move to dodge. He just spread his arms wide, welcoming the blow, red mouth grinning.


    Muzazi swung --


    Tink.


    -- and Luminescence bounced off Victor¡¯s metal skin, not leaving even a scratch. Muzazi could only stare in disbelief for the briefest instant -- before a metal punch slammed into his stomach, forcing him to double over. He tasted blood in his mouth.


    If he hadn¡¯t been channeling Aether to defend himself, he was certain that attack would have been fatal -- but even with his defenses, it had been devastating.


    No time to lick his wounds. The attack was not over.


    Victor punched, and Muzazi blocked. Those words may have accurately described the exchange, but they in no way match the spectacle of the dance. Light reflected off Luminescence¡¯s blade like a strobe, casting eerie lines of white over the room around them. Victor punched and punched and punched, his arms so fast they were blurs, the sound of each impact like a cannon going off. His own mad cackling was barely even audible over the sound of his attacks.


    "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!" Victor screamed, slowly driving Muzazi back, crimson spittle flying from his mouth. "You like that? You like that, you little fucking asshole?! Fuck you! Yeah! Come on, come on, come on!"


    His punches accelerated even more -- it was a wonder Muzazi was even keeping up, blocking each blow individually. All of Muzazi¡¯s silver Aether was going into the glowing weapon he held, preventing it from shattering under the sustained assault. Not again. He wouldn¡¯t lose Luminescence again. He couldn¡¯t.


    "Fuck you!" Victor went on, pushing Muzazi into the corner. Boom boom boom boom boom boom, his hands said. "Fuck you! Yeah, bitch! Not so fucking special! Can¡¯t even fucking beat me! I¡¯m gonna smash your fucking skull in! Ahaha¡­ ahahahahahahahahahahaha! FUCK OFF! Die, die, die die die diediediediediedie just fucking die already!"


    His vulgar words came out as fast and heavy as his punches -- and as the final expletive left his mouth, he slammed his fist forward towards Muzazi¡¯s skull.


    It was faster than ever before. It was stronger than even Muzazi¡¯s Aether could take. Luminescence would be dust against a punch like that. His own body would be mist. He could not dodge it or block it. All he could do was realize that it was coming.


    Breath caught in Muzazi¡¯s throat. He was going to die. In that moment, he fully understood that, and watched his death approach with all the slow focus of adrenaline.


    Marie, help me¡­


    Marie did not help him, but someone else did. In the moment before Muzazi¡¯s skull would have been decimated, someone stepped out of Victor Yun¡¯s shadow. Moving at lightning speed, their hand flicked out and rammed a thin object -- a needle -- right up Yun¡¯s nostril. It went in deep.


    Immediately, Yun screamed, his punch going wild as he turned and swiped his hand at the unseen threat -- but his attacker had already moved. They were crouched atop the security desk, a sly smile on their lips as they looked at their good work.


    "You¡¯re new to this, huh?" Morgan Nacht purred. "It¡¯s good practice to always watch your back, friend."


    In all the chaos of the encounter, Muzazi had completely forgotten Nacht was here -- and, perhaps more unbelievably, he hadn¡¯t even noticed the other Blade entering the room and positioning himself behind Yun. This young man¡¯s ability to conceal his presence was truly terrifying. Would Muzazi have realized if that attack was aimed for him?


    "Argh!" Yun roared, tearing the needle free from his nose, tossing it onto the floor. Blood oozed copiously from the damaged nostril. "Cunt! Cunt, cunt, cunt!" He was a raging bull, animalistic, lashing out with words as he felt pain for the first time in this encounter.


    Morgan¡¯s smirk twisted into a grin. "It was those nifty braces of yours that gave me the idea, Mr. Yun. Your gums are bleeding, right? Which means the inside of your body is still just as vulnerable as ever." His eyes flicked over to Muzazi, behind Yun. "You get it, right?"


    Muzazi nodded, just fractionally, regaining his composure after his near-death experience. He drew Luminescence back. He needed to strike Yun¡¯s insides, rather than his unbreakable skin. That was easily done.


    As Morgan rose up on the desk, he pointed his saber towards the seething Victor Yun. "I¡¯m going to be aiming for your eyes," he said, smugness dripping from every syllable. "I¡¯d bet my colleague is going to aim for your mouth." He flicked his free hand again, and more throwing needles appeared clutched between his fingers. "Think you can dodge us both?"


    Victor Yun grit his red teeth together, and threw his arms out, screaming: "You fucking assholes! I¡¯m going to shit in your ass!"


    Muzazi blinked -- and when his eyes opened again, they had the chill required of a killer.


    "You¡¯ll do no such thing," he said. "Now -- prepare to die."


    The two Blades rushed forward as one, swords dancing through the air.

 Chapter 263:10.6: Bound by Promises

    IONIR YGDRASSIL was in danger of completion. It was vexing.


    It regrew its left arm --


    "No."


    -- and it was immediately torn off, flinging itself away into the jungle of simpletons, propelled by an unseen force. IONIR YGDRASSIL did not bother regrowing it again: it already understood well that the action was fruitless. This was the third time the arm had been lost.


    The shape of a traitor came with far too many vulnerabilities, but IONIR YGDRASSIL had long since promised that it would assume that as its default. It had sworn that it would only assume its more monstrous forms when it was utterly alone, and only for the purpose of training. It was vexing.


    Right now, after all, it was not alone. S§×ar?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The young woman called Nin was floating in the sky above it, looking down through the round lenses of her gas mask. It did not see her, for IONIR YGDRASSIL was not desperate enough to need eyes, but it perceived her clearly -- the shape of her, intruding upon space. She was different from the hologram, but still easily identifiable.


    The black straitjacket she¡¯d been wearing before had exploded outwards into countless white ribbons, orbiting and concealing her pale form. The gas mask she wore had turned a sterile white as well -- save for the lenses themselves, which had become a vivid red. Cylinders of simpleton wood dangled from her earlobes, swaying in the air like chimes.


    None of this was a concern. It was only camouflage.


    All around her, and now all around this place, were nearly invisible wires, writhing in the air like IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s own tendrils. It had not yet felt their bite, but just from observing them it was clear that they were incredibly sharp. A traitor body would be cut to pieces upon contact, but IONIR YGDRASSIL couldn¡¯t quite tell if its own wood would fare better.


    It would experiment.


    Green Wisdom crackled through the stump of his arm, accelerating its growth -- and a mass of green vines shot forth, twisting through the air as they made their way towards Nin from several different directions.


    Above, below, left, right, before, behind. What Nin did in response to this would be illuminating. IONIR YGDRASSIL kept careful observation over everything around it. If it completed her, then that would be fine, but if not it would have enough information to adjust its strategy.


    Nin swayed her head through the air, blonde hair caressed almost peacefully by the wind¡­


    ¡­and the vines closing in on her were immediately sliced to pieces.


    The wires, then, were indeed sharp enough to pose a threat. The reason Nin had not moved so far was because even small adjustments of her position were enough to send the wires slashing through everything nearby. Just that shake of her head had been enough to annihilate part of IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s body, chunks of green raining down.


    Even more concerning was the manner in which she¡¯d sliced them¡­ nine centimeters by nine centimeters. The killer cut, as it had been called during the awakening. A fragment of flesh too small to maintain consciousness.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL growled, adjusting its stance. This woman knew how to kill it.


    This was a bad situation -- and it was only getting worse, as alarm bells were going off in IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s mind, reminding it of its transgression.


    It had promised NIGEN RUSH it would obey BaltayKojirough.


    It had promised BaltayKojirough it would obey AtoyMuzazi.


    And it had promised AtoyMuzazi that it would follow close behind.


    It was breaking that promise, even if inadvertently.


    White-hot pain blared in the back of IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s mind, like some rabid parasite was trying to tunnel its way out. This was not a matter of psychology. IONIR YGDRASSIL was bound by promises down to its very soul. For it to defy a promise would be the same as a traitor choosing not to breathe.


    It could not waste time fighting here. A united front would be more effective, either way. It swung around on its heel, charging for the door and --


    "Stop."


    -- was prevented.


    It was as if IONIR YGDRASSIL had suddenly found itself at the bottom of the ocean. Some kind of force was pressing upon its body from every direction, holding it in place. It could move still, but shakily and slowly -- not nearly quick enough to escape the enemy¡¯s grasp. In that moment, IONIR YGDRASSIL understood the nature of the one who wished to complete it.


    The wires that surrounded them were just weapons, stretched out to fill the area -- not Nin¡¯s ability. No, the ability she¡¯d been using was the power to make things repel each other. She¡¯d had IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s body repel its arm, causing it to fly off -- and now she was having the very space around it repel it, pushing it inwards from every angle.


    Vexing.


    The information they¡¯d had on Nin did not indicate she was this powerful. Its attention focused on the cylindrical earrings she was wearing. She did not have those in prior footage, and they served no obvious tactical purpose. Were they perhaps the source of this newfound strength?


    IONIR YGDRASSIL tensed its body, creating small seeds just underneath the surface of his first layer, and prepared to fire. If it was able to destroy the earrings, that could return Nin to a lower state of power. From there, eliminating her would become much simpler.


    It adjusted its stance as much as the pressure would allow, angling its torso in her direction, and¡­


    "No."


    ¡­and¡­


    "No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No."


    ¡­and IONIR YGDRASSIL found itself trumpeting in alarm as piece after piece of its body went flying off. Nine centimeters by nine centimeters broke away from its form, as if they¡¯d been snapped free by invisible fingers, and sailed off into the air. It fired the seeds it had created in a state of alarm -- and with the slightest raise of her finger, Nin had the wires parry them out of the air.


    She wagged the finger. "No," she said sweetly, and half of IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s head split off and fell to the ground.


    At this rate, IONIR YGDRASSIL was going to be completed.


    "No. No. No. No. No. No."


    If it used a more monstrous shape, one of the forms designed for war, it could eliminate her with ease. It would be a simple matter. It knew this instinctively, but IONIR YGDRASSIL had already promised NIGEN RUSH that it would take the shape of a traitor so that none would have cause to fear it.


    "No. No. No. No. No. No."


    Of course, it understood that the purpose of that promise had not been to limit it in battle. Against an enemy such as this, who was slowly disassembling it without it being able to so much as move, NIGEN RUSH would have advised IONIR YGDRASSIL to take on any shape that was required. But the wording of the promise had been that IONIR YGDRASSIL should only take the shape of a traitor in front of others, the only exception being the sleep-shape.


    "No. No. No. No. No. No."


    This enemy counted as ¡¯another¡¯, and so IONIR YGDRASSIL could not transform in front of her. It was bound by promises, chains binding it. In the face of careless words, all it could do was allow them to complete it.


    "No. No. No. No!"


    IONIR YGDRASSIL was afraid.


    Muzazi understood that he was fighting a maelstrom of fury, each swing of the metal man¡¯s fists sending gusts of air pressure through the room.


    Muzazi understood that a single solid blow would be enough to crush his muscles and demolish his bones.


    Muzazi understood that the strength of his opponent¡¯s Aether was massively -- unnaturally -- above his own.


    More than anything, though, he understood that his opponent¡­ was an idiot.


    Victor Yun¡¯s punches were clumsy and frantic, easily dodged regardless of their speed, and he seemed unable to divide his attention equally between Muzazi and Morgan. He¡¯d focus on one of them entirely until the other moved in to strike, then switch his target to them with a flurry of panicked attacks. Animalistic snarls poured out of his throat as he stomped down on the floor, forming a noticeable crater, the impact sending monitors and scripts collapsing down to the ground -- but even so, the effort was fruitless.


    Muzazi backed away, avoiding a swipe that would have snatched his head off. As he regained his footing, he felt his silver Aether buzz around him defensively once more. Despite everything, he couldn¡¯t help but allow a rueful smile to cross his lips.


    The fool had tried it again.


    For the last minute or so, Victor Yun had been trying to use the ability he¡¯d employed against Blair Trace and Dule McMaloit -- the one that caused metal shards to appear within the bodies of his targets. But it seemed Mr. Yun didn¡¯t have a firm understanding of how Aether worked. You could only manifest objects directly into an individual¡¯s body if they weren¡¯t an Aether-user, or they were caught by severe surprise. Otherwise, their Aether would automatically defend against it, repelling the attempt.


    This was the third time Yun had tried it against Muzazi now, and the frustration was clearly getting to him. A steel vein was twitching on his forehead as he ground his bloodstained teeth together.


    "Fuck you!" he was screaming, the excitement making him slur his words, drunk on fruitless combat. "Go fuck yourself, asshole!"


    Morgan¡¯s throwing needle struck him in the ear -- and as Victor pulled it out, slick with blood, he roared in pain and fury.


    It wouldn¡¯t take long now.


    This thug clearly didn¡¯t know what he was doing with his Aether, but the power he was displaying was one that would have required years of training. This strength was clearly something imposed on him, not something he¡¯d nurtured naturally. Presumably, it had something to do with the bizarre form he¡¯d assumed: perhaps an ability that in itself boosted his Aether capacity? Was such a thing even possible?


    He didn¡¯t have time for detailed analysis. Victor Yun was a fool, to be sure, but he was not brain-dead. It seemed he¡¯d accepted that his sure-hit ability wasn¡¯t as powerful as he¡¯d expected. Now, instead, he threw his hands up towards the ceiling -- and as grey Aether coursed around his limbs, countless tiny shards of metal appeared just below that ceiling¡­


    ¡­and began to fall.


    A rainstorm of blades, each sufficient to slice through skin and veins. Muzazi and Morgan dodged through the deluge as best they could, but as more and more shards fell it became obvious that they would be overwhelmed. Their war-robes were shredded by the metal, and the skin beneath began to open red. Closing the distance to Yun became difficult as well, as the bladestorm immediately around him was even more intense.


    Still¡­ there was nothing else for it.


    Muzazi would have to throw caution to the wind and rush in, driving Luminescence into a vulnerable spot. It was either that or surrender to the slow defeat that was surrounding them.


    He weaved through the metal blades, positioning himself to make his charge, and --


    Noise.


    A trumpeting sound from outside, so loud and hard that Muzazi could feel his bones shake. There was no human will behind that noise, but Muzazi could understand it all the same, like it was something he¡¯d learnt long ago. A sound like that could only be one thing.


    A cry for help.


    Muzazi caught Morgan¡¯s eye as he dodged another clumsy punch, and the younger man nodded fractionally. Go, he seemed to be saying. For warriors like them in a battle like this, words were not necessary.


    Perhaps his judgment of character had been off.


    Thrusters exploded across Muzazi¡¯s body, immediately propelling him out of the room and through the door he¡¯d been thrown into originally. The darkness of the building was immediately replaced by the harsh sunlight of the jungle outside -- but Muzazi didn¡¯t allow that transition to throw him off. His eyes flicked around in every direction, taking in the details of the situation he¡¯d hurled himself into.


    Not good.


    Ionir Yggdrasil was in a bad state, large chunks missing from his torso, his limbs absent as his body lay on the floor. Above, the assassin named Nin hung in the air, surrounded by countless flowing white ribbons. And, nearly invisible, a mass of wires surrounding all of them, like a spider web.


    If he wanted to end this cleanly, he¡¯d have to move before Nin could realize what was going on. Hesitation was defeat.


    Muzazi transitioned into a flip, landing atop Ionir, kicking off and launching himself directly at Nin with blazing thrusters. He could see shimmers of light all around him, the sun being reflected off the wires, and he used his thrusters to maneuver through the barrier like a starship in a dogfight. His body creaked from the stress of the unnatural movement, but he ignored it, as he did the slices of the wires around him.


    In a second, he was upon Nin -- no, above her, Luminescence raised high above his head.


    Muzazi brought the blade down, but Nin caught it in her pale hand with ease, white Aether giving her the strength she needed to hold it in place without being cut. That wouldn¡¯t be enough to deter him, though: Muzazi kept hold of Luminescence, swinging around it and slamming his leg directly into Nin¡¯s throat.


    Nin choked, releasing the sword as she recoiled, gasping for air. Unlike Victor Yun, the transformation she¡¯d undergone seemed to have affected her equipment more than her own body -- despite the significant increase in power, she herself was still flesh and blood.


    As she flailed back, she jabbed a finger in his direction and screamed: "Stop!"


    This narrative has been purloined without the author¡¯s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    She was better at this than Victor Yun, clearly. She was a professional killer, who no doubt had honed her skills in the criminal underworld. She went about this with a strategy in mind, considering her moves before she made them. Against most foes, she would be a deadly opponent.


    But she was not a Special Officer.


    By the time Nin had pointed to Muzazi, he was already gone. He and Luminescence had split up -- propelled by separate thrusters -- and circled around Nin, reuniting directly behind her. Muzazi snatched Luminescence back out of the air and -- with a final thruster enhancing the force -- slashed down Nin¡¯s exposed back.


    The damage was not as much as it would have been with a normal person, but it was devastating all the same. Nin screamed as a long, cruel wound opened up, blood pouring out onto the ground far below. The wires around her danced crazy, writhing and snapping through the air, forcing Muzazi to retreat.


    This fight was over. Anyone could see that, with a wound like the one Muzazi had dealt. Nin was no fool -- and even as she screamed, her wires pulled her off into the thick jungle. Muzazi considered pursuing, but no: splitting up would be foolish in this situation, and she was not the leader of the Kingmakers.


    He had to prioritize the capture of Hans Allier.


    Muzazi let himself fall to the ground, using the thrusters on his soles to slow his descent. The wounds he¡¯d sustained thus far were mostly superficial -- there¡¯d be trouble if they weren¡¯t taken care of, but he was not in immediate danger of bleeding out. He took a deep breath, recollecting himself, before turning and approaching the prone Ionir Yggdrasil.


    The tree-man had certainly seen better days. In his present state, he was little more than a trunk himself, humanoid features roughly carved away by Nin¡¯s attacks. Clearly, it had been a bad match-up for the Fell Beast.


    Muzazi dropped to one knee, so as to be eye-level with the square indentation that served as Ionir¡¯s ¡¯face¡¯.


    "Can you regenerate?" he asked, looking at the sap flowing from the Fell Beast¡¯s injuries. "I was told you could."


    Slowly, as if uncertain of the gesture¡¯s meaning, Ionir Yggdrasil shook his head.


    Muzazi clicked his tongue. "Damnation¡­ is there any other way I can treat you, any --" His eyes widened as he came to a realization. When it came down to it, Yggdrasil was a tree, so¡­ "Is it water? Do you need water to regenerate?"


    Ionir nodded.


    Muzazi sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. This planet was arid in the extreme -- a dryness had lingered on his skin since the moment they¡¯d disembarked. Getting enough water for Ionir to regenerate would be a difficult task.


    There was no choice to be made -- they were comrades in arms. Muzazi extended his wrist.


    "So long as I can still fight¡­" he said firmly. "Take what you need."


    There was silence and stillness for just a moment. Then, almost gingerly, an arboreal tendril snaked out from within a crack on Ionir¡¯s head and crawled over onto Muzazi¡¯s wrist.


    He winced as it punctured the vein.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL did not understand.


    Why would AtoyMuzazi do this? Given IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s present condition, there was no immediate benefit for AtoyMuzazi that would warrant making such a sacrifice. The pragmatic course of action would have been to leave IONIR YGDRASSIL


    And yet, as IONIR YGDRASSIL began to regenerate, it could not help but feel grateful. Long ago, IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s creators had designed its kind to subsist best on traitor blood, so as to encourage ferocity in battle. It was under no illusions: they had been objects of terror in the galaxy. Things that frightened fledglings.


    And yet¡­ AtoyMuzazi had offered himself up without hesitation. IONIR YGDRASSIL could not comprehend that. IONIR YGDRASSIL could not comprehend that, at all.


    More information was required. Was the answer in his personal history? IONIR YGDRASSIL subtly activated its Wisdom, peeking into AtoyMuzazi¡¯s past through the blood --


    -- and for the first time in its existence, it felt horror.


    "I¡¯m sorry," ATOY MUZAZI said, rising to his feet, detaching the tendril. "That¡¯s all I can spare. Please, wait here and recover as best you can¡­"


    He put his hand on his sword, his face hardening as he looked towards the building.


    "...this won¡¯t take long," he finished.


    All IONIR YGDRASSIL could do as ATOY MUZAZI left was watch, transfixed, and think¡­ about what nightmares traitors really were.


    This was bullshit. This was such bullshit. This was fucking bullshit!


    Victor Yun snarled as he swung his arm aiming to rip this asshole in half, only for him to miss by mere centimeters again. The Officer with the purple hair just chuckled as he ducked under the blow, stabbing his sword up into Victor¡¯s exposed armpit. The blow sparked off -- because of course it fucking did -- but even so, even so, Victor still felt dull pain under his skin.


    It was not fucking meant to be like this! He was supposed to be a fucking beast! He could feel it, he could feel ridiculous goddamn Aetheral shit surging through his body, and yet he couldn¡¯t even do anything with it! They were fucking with him!


    And this guy, this fucking asshole, was just running around and shouting letters of the alphabet! Was this a educational ¡¯graph or were they trying to fucking kill each other?! The disrespect just angered Victor more, and the anger just made him lash out more, which made him miss more, which -- ARGH!


    The words spilled out of his mouth, curses and slurs and insults that leapt between the obscene and the juvenile -- his anger leaping out of its body with whatever shape it could find.


    "Fuck you, fucking cunt, asshole, shithead, pissant, twat!" he roared, punching the space where the Officer had just been. "Fuck, fuck, stop fucking moving, I¡¯ll fucking kill you!"


    "Sounds like a reason to keep moving," said the Officer -- smugly, from right behind him. "A."


    The saber struck out at the nape of Victor¡¯s neck, producing more uselessly dull pain. Even so, it was enough to send Victor into another frenzy -- he kicked back at the Officer, and missed once again.


    Just before the Officer dodged, Victor saw it once more -- the arrogant smile on his lips.


    That smile. That damn smile. That fucking fucking smile. Victor would rip that smile off his fucking face and eat it.


    He whipped his head around, seeking out his enemy, and soon found him. The Officer was on the other side of the room, over by the ruined desk, and -- and this pissed Victor off more than anything -- he was sitting on it, carefree, his goddamn legs crossed. And he was smiling


    Victor felt his teeth crack as he ground them too hard against each other.


    "YOU FUCKER!" he roared, shaking with fury, his vocabulary quickly degenerating. "ASSHOLE! SHITHEAD! LOSER! YOU FUCKING BITCH!"


    Then, three things happened, in very quick succession.


    The Officer¡¯s smile disappeared.


    The Officer disappeared.


    Everything disappeared.


    Victor of course could not see this, but this is what happened. He threw his head back, screaming, grasping blindly at the throwing needles that had skewered his eyeballs. He grasped one, wiggling it in place and causing further damage, before the slick blood coating his hands caused it to slip away.


    He went to try again, still screeching in agony, but the Officer soon put a stop to that. He let loose a roundhouse kick, striking the top of Victor¡¯s head and driving the needles all the way in.


    Victor fell back on the floor, his body twitching and writhing, and slowly growing still.


    Muzazi looked down at the metal carcass on the floor, a grim frown on his face. In the dark, Victor Yun almost looked like another piece of rubble, all colour and life drained out of him.


    "A bad way to die," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.


    Morgan raised an eyebrow. "I don¡¯t know that there are any good ways to die," he said. "What about the one outside? How¡¯d they go?"


    Muzazi shook his head. "She got away, but I injured her severely. She won¡¯t be returning any time soon." He glanced at the door to the control center, on the other side of the room. "Has there been any movement within?"


    "None," Morgan replied, whipping his sword through the air -- his eyes focused on the door the entire time. "There are no other exits, either, so if Allier was in there he hasn¡¯t gone anywhere. It¡¯s just¡­"


    "What?" Muzazi approached the door, Luminescence drawn, ready to immediately attack should he spot any movement.


    The words came from Morgan slowly, as if he wasn¡¯t quite sure of them. "This seems¡­ too easy. I thought these Kingmakers were meant to be a serious threat?" He tapped Yun¡¯s body with a foot. "I mean, this guy clearly didn¡¯t know what he was doing."


    "Don¡¯t do that," Muzazi snapped at Morgan¡¯s disrespectful gesture, before considering what he¡¯d said. "Mr. Kojirough said it himself -- the threat these people pose is political, not physical. It¡¯s their presentation of a false Heir we need to worry about. They clearly have great power, but they don¡¯t understand how to use it. That¡¯s what¡¯s given us the advantage."


    Morgan nodded, lips pursed, but he didn¡¯t seem quite convinced. All the same, he nodded to the sealed door.


    "Shall we?" he asked.


    Muzazi answered through action. He placed the palm of his hand flat against the door, created two thrusters in the seam, and forced it open with their blasting power.


    As the door ground open, the duo got a look at the control center beyond, where the broadcast relay would usually be operated from. It had seen better days. Muzazi imagined it had smelt better days, too.


    The butchered corpses of the guards lay in one corner, a hill of bleeding, rotting meat. Their dead faces were only barely illuminated by the green lights of the monitors above, screens displaying demands for a password. A demand, it seemed, that had gone unanswered. No wonder no announcement of the false Heir had gone out.


    Muzazi noticed that immediately, but it was not his focus. No, his focus was on the man standing in the center of the room.


    Hans Allier.


    As expected, he didn¡¯t look the same as in the hologram -- he was only barely recognisable by the lines of his face. He was wearing long white robes, like some kind of ancient philosopher, and his hair had turned white as well -- glowing as it flowed around him like a lion¡¯s mane, somehow unburdened by gravity. His skin was somehow pale and faded, like aging parchment, unnaturally smooth.


    The only thing about him that seemed normal were his eyes. Those dull, droopy eyes had gone unchanged from the hologram. His lips had become a deep black, and they smiled at Muzazi.


    "We see you, Mr. Muzazi¡­" he cooed, staring at him. "We see you, man¡­"


    Muzazi pointed Luminescence at Allier as he stepped into the room, followed closely by Morgan. As he walked, Muzazi saw that there was someone tied to a chair behind Allier -- another guard, judging from the uniform. Dead, his neck snapped.


    Another life snuffed out by scum like this. Hot anger ran through Muzazi¡¯s veins, but it did not enter his voice.


    "Surrender," he ordered. "Victor Yun is dead. Your assassin Nin has run. You¡¯re alone, Mr. Allier."


    Allier¡¯s smile flickered, but it did not fade. When he spoke, it was with the same calm cadence.


    "I understand you, brother. I get you."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes narrowed. "I very much doubt that."


    "Oh, but I do, man. It¡¯s my ability, you dig? Just from looking at you, I get it all. It¡¯s even more powerful when I¡¯m like this. I don¡¯t even know where it gets the info from when I¡¯m in this form, but¡­ it¡¯s everything. Everything there is to you. Even stuff you might not know."


    Muzazi adjusted his stance, drawing Luminescence back -- a stinger ready to strike. "This is your last chance. Surrender."


    The black smile opened, just slightly, showing predatory teeth.


    "Do you think Marie would forgive the kind of coward you¡¯ve become, Mr. Muzazi?" said Hans Allier.


    For swordsmen in the modern day, there was nothing more important than speed.


    In combat, warriors would more often than not go up against enemies armed with guns -- and firearm technology advanced all the time, regardless of their wielder¡¯s skill. Even with Aether, an unprepared body would be shredded apart by a hail of bullets or plasma. A swordsman had to be quick enough to repel such an onslaught.


    Atoy Muzazi had always taken that to heart, and so had trained to the point where he was able to unleash six sword-strikes in a single second.


    Muzazi cut Hans Allier ten times in a tenth of a second. His arms, his legs and his tongue went flying off, neatly sliced away, and the remaining five slashes sliced so deeply into his torso they nearly cut him in half. Allier gasped in shock and pain as his neutralized body fell limp to the ground, scraps of his robes raining down around him.


    He choked wordlessly, gasping for air, his wide eyes staring at Muzazi in horror.


    Without another word, Muzazi solemnly sheathed his blade. Across from him, Morgan just blinked, pale. In the time Muzazi had begun and ended the battle, Morgan had only slid his own saber halfway out of its scabbard.


    He swallowed. "Well¡­ uh, nicely done," Morgan said. "Nice¡­ skills."


    Muzazi said nothing in response. To tell the truth, he was surprised at his own actions. He hadn¡¯t even used his thrusters, and yet he¡¯d moved faster than ever before. Could simple fury really push a body to such heights? He looked down at Allier, waiting for his enemy to pass on from this world.


    Surprisingly, though, Hans Allier showed no signs of dying. Even with those injuries, he just continued to writhe around, still full of energy.


    There was no blood, not even bone, just a consistent slab of that same pale material all the way through the severed stumps. The thought made Muzazi somewhat queasy, but the texture of it almost reminded him of cheese. It had been so soft, too -- had the strange transformation actually made Hans Allier¡¯s body weaker?


    This was not his area of expertise, nor one of interest. The threat had been neutralized. There was little else to it.


    "It doesn¡¯t seem he¡¯s going to bleed out," Muzazi said sternly, looking down at the writhing torso. "We should get him on the ship. The false Heir wasn¡¯t here, but I¡¯m sure Mr. Kojirough will wish to speak with his guardian."


    He¡¯d seen it. He¡¯d seen it.


    Even as Hans Allier was sliced apart, even as what was left of him was loaded onto the enemy ship, even as he was bound by the growing branches of a living tree, even as he was defeated, humiliated, captured, he couldn¡¯t help but grin to himself.


    Because he¡¯d seen it.


    Oh, Atoy Muzazi, he thought to himself, giggling wordlessly. You poor bastard. You poor bastard, man.


    Muzazi tapped the monitor in front of him, and the Star Raptor began to rise up, initiating its departure sequence. Morgan was in the copilot¡¯s seat across from him, while Ionir was restraining Hans Allier within his own body at the back of the ship.


    They¡¯d considered pursuing Nin into the jungle, but in the end they¡¯d decided it wasn¡¯t worth the risk of losing Allier. There¡¯d be Supremacy reinforcements on the way now that they¡¯d let them know of the situation on the planet -- they could continue the hunt for the injured assassin.


    "Another sin, another stator," Morgan said, cracking his neck. He glanced down at Muzazi¡¯s lap. "You know, there are machines that do that kind of stuff for you."


    Muzazi just continued to wipe the blood from his sword, a frown on his face. "Damnation¡­" he muttered. "Luminescence truly got filthy this time. I need to be more careful with it."


    They¡¯d achieved success in this mission, but that didn¡¯t mean that anything had really come to an end. The strange machinations aboard the Child Garden would still be afoot -- someone had tried to kill him, after all. Gustavo Mordecai had been a previous victim, according to Morgan¡¯s story, and now the mastermind had turned their gaze in his direction.


    But why? What would they gain from that?


    He was broken out of his speculation by the sound of Morgan¡¯s sigh.


    "Luminescence? You too?" The younger man wrinkled his nose, voice full of distaste. "Ah, everyone¡¯s naming their swords these days¡­ Leviathan, Luminescence¡­ don¡¯t you find it embarrassing?"


    Muzazi shrugged, the ship rumbling as they ascended over the treetops. "I suppose I can see how you might find it a little strange," he admitted, a fond smile on his lips as he looked down at the weapon on his lap. "But I¡¯ve been with this sword for a long time now. Through thick and thin. It¡¯s inevitable that I¡¯d grow attached."


    Morgan leaned back in the copilot¡¯s seat, putting his feet up on the dash. "Nah," he said. "I still don¡¯t get it. What¡¯s the story with your sword, then?"


    "I¡¯ve had it a long time." Muzazi nodded.


    Morgan furrowed his brow. "Since when?"


    Muzazi blinked. "A long time¡­" he said simply. "Yes, a very long time now."


    "Since when?" If anything, the confusion on Morgan¡¯s face only deepened.


    "What?"


    "When did you get the damn thing, man?" Morgan gestured towards Luminescence, clearly growing annoyed with Muzazi¡¯s reticence.


    Muzazi swallowed, and when he spoke it felt like his voice was far away. "Yes. I¡¯ve had it a long time now. I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t feel -- I don¡¯t feel comfortable discussing this with you. I don¡¯t know you well enough."


    Morgan frowned, almost looking hurt. He shrugged. "That¡¯s all you had to say."


    The younger man looked away, focusing on their flight path back to the Child Garden. The smile slowly faded from Muzazi¡¯s face, and the sword on his lap suddenly felt ominously heavy.


    Wait.


    When had he gotten Luminescence?

 Chapter 264:10.7: Good as Gold

    Eleven Days Before Avaman¡¯s Attack¡­


    It was cold.


    It wasn¡¯t really, of course -- the blizzard that raged around Gretchen Hail as she strolled down the hallway was completely fake, images displayed on curved monitors and sound piped through speakers. Still, she couldn¡¯t help but reflexively shiver as the snow supposedly fell around her. It was very realistic, after all.


    There were two security automatics outside of her ultimate destination, bulky ProudServe models draped in decorative red capes. Their square heads swiveled to follow her movements as she approached.


    One stepped forward threateningly, a bulky plasma cannon of an arm pointing in Gretchen¡¯s direction.


    "STATE BUSINESS," one demanded in a blaring, hostile voice. "ACCESS TO THIS LOCATION IS CURRENTLY PROHIBITED."


    Gretchen sighed, reaching up to her eye and holding the eyelids open wider with two fingers, so the automatic could get a good look at her iris. "Gretchen Hail, Seven Blades," she said. "Check your systems. I¡¯ve got authorization, buddy."


    A blue light blinked on the side of the ProudServant¡¯s head for a few moments as it communicated with the ship¡¯s auto-brain. Then, seemingly satisfied, it stepped back into a guard position, cannon falling to its side.


    "AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED," it said, voice as hostile as ever. "ENTRY GRANTED."


    "Thanks," Gretchen muttered, striding past the two automatic guards. The doors slid open for her, and she entered the Child Garden¡¯s brig.


    A single cell stood in front of her, the window that took up an entire wall allowing her to inspect the prisoner inside.


    Hans Allier, hanging from a heavy chain that connected his restraints to the ceiling. Restraints were probably unnecessary in the first place, though -- as expected, the swordsman had really done a number on the leader of the Kingmakers. He was missing all his limbs, and with the wounds he¡¯d sustained to his torso, it was a wonder he hadn¡¯t died on the spot.


    Yes. A smile curled across Gretchen¡¯s lips. A wonder.


    Hans Allier had maintained his transformation for quite a while now, and so he did not bleed. As he looked up at Gretchen, though, she could see the fatigue in those droopy eyes. It looked like the Fusion Tools didn¡¯t yet do anything for that.


    She clasped her hands behind her back as she addressed the prisoner. "We had a look through your belongings."


    Hans could speak -- they¡¯d used Panacea to restore just his tongue -- but he remained silent.


    "There wasn¡¯t much to speak of, really," she continued. "Some basic weaponry, your communicator, a stolen script¡­ and this."


    She flicked her wrist, and a hologram appeared on her palm. The golden bead they¡¯d found stashed among Hans¡¯ things hovered there, slowly rotating. It was completely smooth and featureless, barely the size of a fingernail -- and when Gretchen had touched the genuine article, it had been warm as flesh.


    The analysis equipment they had aboard the Child Garden was limited, but apparently the tiny object had traces of human DNA in it. Gretchen had never seen anything like it before. It was fascinating.


    "Care to explain?" she asked, holding the hologram out between two fingers.


    Hans remained silent, but a sly smirk tugged at his black lips.


    What could he see right now, looking at her, she wondered? His powers of observation were something to marvel about already, but to what degree did the Fusion Tool enhance them? From the reports she¡¯d gotten, it had to be substantial. Just by looking at her, what did he know?


    The Fusion Tools worked, as the name suggested, by fusing an Aether-user and an Aether Armament into a single entity, combining and optimizing their structures into one. Rather than the traditional User-Armament relationship, which was additive, a Fusion Tool was multiplicative, enhancing the user¡¯s abilities several times over by inducing a pseudo-Awakening state.


    Yes, Gretchen understood the principles behind it well. She was the one who¡¯d made them, after all.


    "I¡¯ve turned off the recording, y¡¯know," she said calmly. "You can speak freely."


    The smirk faded from Hans¡¯ face. Then, with a tongue that had ended up slightly too big for his mouth, he spoke. "When am I getting out of here?" His voice was casual, almost carefree, as if he was no prisoner at all.


    Gretchen glared daggers back at him. "I haven¡¯t decided if you are getting out of here, buddy. You were meant to thoroughly test the Fusion Tools in the field, not get your asses kicked at the first opportunity. Yun¡¯s Fusion Tool is irretrievable, and Nin has gone missing. I¡¯m not happy."


    Hans shrugged as much as his present anatomy would allow. "You sent a monster after us, babe. Don¡¯t know what you expected."


    Gretchen snorted. "You¡¯ve already disappointed me when it comes to ¡¯what I expected¡¯. That ship has frickin¡¯ sailed. What I expect now --" she held up the holographic bead again. "-- is for you to tell me what this is."


    Hans grinned. "It¡¯s a bead."


    Ragnarok Forge.


    Gretchen quickly formed the blueprints of the weapon she wanted in her mind, compiling several pain-inflicting techniques into its structure. The materials had to be sturdy to withstand the forging process, but that was no worry. This was not a permanent addition to her arsenal -- she¡¯d be breaking it back down for materials before long.


    Her interrogation tool -- the Ghost Nail, she decided -- materialized in her hand, her red Aether blazing like fire as it wrote the implement into existence. She clutched the hilt between her knuckles, pointing the weapon threateningly at Hans through the glass.


    "If this were to make contact with you," she warned, waving the Ghost Nail through the air like an orchestrator¡¯s baton. "Fusion Tool or not, it¡¯d feel just awful. Imagine a swarm of wasps crawling under your skin, except the wasps are made of acid, and you should get the idea. Now -- I can do that and make you tell me, or you can just tell me. I know which one I¡¯d prefer. How about you?"


    Hans¡¯ smile faltered, but it did not fade. "The bead? It¡¯s a gift. From my sponsor."


    "I¡¯m your sponsor," Gretchen snapped.


    "What can I say?" Hans chuckled. "I¡¯m a prized commodity, honey. Lots of fingers in the pie that is me."


    She¡¯d let that go, for the moment. It was no surprise: she wasn¡¯t the one who had broken the Kingmakers out of prison, after all. "Well, what does it do, the bead? What¡¯s it for?"


    "You¡¯re an awful woman, huh?" Hans said. "I went and killed so many of your buddies, and you don¡¯t even care. I kinda feel bad for them."


    Gretchen rolled her eyes. "The whole world could go to hell for all I care, so long as I keep getting to make my weapons. The bead. What does it do?"


    "Well, I don¡¯t know if I should --"


    She tapped the Ghost Nail against the glass.


    After a second more thought, Hans told her.


    It took Gretchen a moment to fully absorb the information, but when she did, a slow grin began to spread across her own face. She had to put a hand to her mouth to suppress the giggle. Satisfied beyond belief, she turned and left without another word.


    The automatics blared some words at her as she walked back down the hallway, but she did not listen. She was in no mood to. Hot excitement was flooding through her body like magma -- no doubt if someone looked at her, they would see a rosy red blush painting her cheeks. It would have been adorable, if not for the wicked grin beneath it, like a wound carved into a doll.


    She couldn¡¯t help but smile, though. She¡¯d made contact with utter genius.


    It was warm.


    Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.


    Atoy Muzazi took solace in the repeated mechanical movements of his arms as he went through combat drills with the Supreme Heir. As one, in near-sync, they unleashed heavy overhand attacks at empty air, the wind swishing around their blades. So long as he was doing this, he didn¡¯t have to think -- to worry -- about anything.


    He could just let his training guide him.


    "Um, Mr. Muzazi?" asked the Heir, glancing up at him. Her wooden training sword was clutched in her small hands. "How long are we going to keep doing this?"


    Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.


    "Mr. Muzazi?" she asked again.


    "Repetition is mastery," Muzazi replied, swinging Luminescence again. His voice was like stone -- heavy, intractable.


    "But," she protested. "We¡¯ve been doing this for nearly an hour now, and --"


    "Then you haven¡¯t mastered it, have you?" Muzazi snapped at her.


    Immediately, he regretted the outburst. His brash voice rang out through the Supreme Heir¡¯s personal quarters -- not the arena this time. Over in the corner, Edward Grace raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The look of disapproval on his face was enough.


    The worst part, though, was the reaction of the Supreme Heir. She looked away from him, down at the floor, sad but not surprised. He realized with a heavy heart that she expected this kind of harshness from the people around her.


    Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.


    She resumed the drill, knuckles white as she gripped the training sword with all her meager strength. Her hair hung over her face, so Muzazi couldn¡¯t see her eyes, but he could imagine the disappointment in them. With a sigh of regret, he sheathed the sword called Luminescence, dropping to one knee so he was at eye-level with her.


    "I¡¯m sorry," he said truthfully. "I shouldn¡¯t have said that. It¡¯s been a stressful week for me. That¡¯s no excuse, but¡­"


    She looked at him -- and as he¡¯d expected, her eyes were wet. "The mission you went on? Um, Ipsum?"


    "In a way." Muzazi frowned. "Who told you about that?"


    It was the Heir¡¯s turn to snap at him. "I¡¯m not stupid, you know," she said, with a flare of anger he¡¯d not seen from her before. "I hear things. People think I don¡¯t get what¡¯s going on, but I do. There¡¯s another Supreme Heir out there, isn¡¯t there? Or someone saying they should be the Heir, instead of me."


    The way she said that was curious, like the idea was not so unpleasant to her. Muzazi found himself reminded of his talk with Baltay: if this girl said she didn¡¯t want to be the Heir anymore, what would happen? Would she just be allowed to go on her merry way?


    Muzazi couldn¡¯t imagine a future like that, but even so he almost opened his mouth to ask the question. Do you want to be the Supreme Heir? The only thing that stopped him was Edward Grace¡¯s gaze. Muzazi got the feeling that Edward was not the kind of man who would take kindly to such notions.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    "If someone has an important position," Muzazi spoke carefully. "There will always be threats to that position. It¡¯s a good thing -- it¡¯s through the crucible that such a situation provides that the Supremacy improves itself. The mission was regarding that matter, though, yes."


    The Heir¡¯s voice was quiet. "Did you kill them?"


    Muzazi took a breath. "I was attacked, and I responded in turn." He adjusted the grip on his sheath as he changed the subject. "More importantly -- your meditation. Have you been keeping it up while I¡¯ve been gone? Have you gotten any closer to discovering your Aether Core?"


    "Yeah," the Heir blinked. "I actually unlocked my Aether last night."


    Muzazi raised his eyebrows. "Really?"


    "No."


    Well, she could joke now. It was probably the first thing the Heir had said to Muzazi that wasn¡¯t tinged with anxiety. Did that mean she was growing more comfortable with him, or that he wasn¡¯t someone she respected?


    "At any rate," Muzazi sighed. "It¡¯s concerning that your other tutors haven¡¯t emphasized this more. In Nigen Rush¡¯s writings, he stresses the importance of meditation. Didn¡¯t he teach you that, when he¡­ was around?"


    The Heir¡¯s weak smirk faded into her usual frown. "Oh, that¡¯s¡­"


    "If it¡¯s painful to speak about," Muzazi replied hurriedly. "There¡¯s really no need to¡­" Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "No, no," she shook her head. "It¡¯s just¡­ um¡­ he was a good teacher, I guess, I was really young though, but¡­"


    Edward spoke up from the corner of the room, where he was still dutifully standing at attention, his hands clasped behind his back. "Nigen Rush was a splendid leader and a peerless warrior, but I always found him somewhat¡­ distant. He didn¡¯t deal with people well."


    "He was a misanthrope?" Muzazi asked, surprised.


    "No," Edward shook his head. "He liked people well enough, he just wasn¡¯t¡­ comfortable around them, I suppose you¡¯d say. Hence why this ship is mostly staffed by automatics. He found it more calming. Apart from Baltay and -- of course, Mariana -- none of us Blades could really get close to him. I myself worked alongside him for several years, and I can count the number of personal conversations I had with him on one hand."


    The Heir looked up at him, eyes wide. "But he was always nice! He wasn¡¯t a bad guy or anything!"


    "I¡¯d be surprised if he was, given the way he¡¯s spoken about," Muzazi smiled softly. "Still¡­ it¡¯s gratifying to hear that he wasn¡¯t some perfect figure."


    She cocked her head. "How come?"


    "Flaws make things real," he explained. "I don¡¯t think a perfect thing exists anywhere in this world, nor should it. If a thing is perfect, how could it ever improve?"


    "Oh," the Heir murmured -- and then: "You know, I heard Nigen Rush snored, too!"


    Not exactly what he had in mind.


    "If you can talk, you can swing," Muzazi said gruffly, drawing his sword and reassuming his own stance. "Twenty minutes more should do it. Here, match my timing."


    The Heir groaned quietly, but she complied all the same.


    Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.


    Silver metal and dull brown wood whipped through the air, nearly in unison, again and again and again. The room was empty, save for the sound of that movement, and quiet breathing. Even the monotonous motion, then, could not distract Muzazi from his own thoughts.


    With each swing, that one simple question echoed through his mind.


    Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?


    Morgan Nacht had innocently brought something into the light, something that shook Atoy Muzazi to his core. He¡¯d done his best not to consider the implications of it, but they crept in again and again like spreading kudzu. The light of the sword in his hands had begun to feel more blinding than hopeful.


    Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?


    Since when had he gotten Luminescence? No matter how hard he wracked his brain, that was not a question he could answer. There was the vaguest impression, yes, the idea that he had been with the sword a long time -- but when he asked himself when he¡¯d first obtained it, no memory came to him. It was as if he¡¯d always had it.


    Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?


    So, as he swung, he asked himself. Surely, if he thought back methodically, mission by mission, he would reach the point where he¡¯d gotten his hands on this bright sword. He¡¯d had it on Panacea, he¡¯d had it on Nocturnus, he¡¯d had it on Taldan, he¡¯d had it on Caelus Breck -- and before that Eo, Sharne Sands, Gristlo, and his Special Officer Certification Exam on Tribulation.


    Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?


    Before even that, then. Before he became a Special Officer. He must have been given it as a young man, when he was at the combat school on Paradavarin. Was there anyone who he could ask about it? Any classmates who¡¯d remember him from those days?


    He reached for names¡­


    ¡­and found a yawning void.


    Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?


    He¡¯d gone to Paradavarin for five years, trained thoroughly, performed well. There was simply no way he hadn¡¯t known any of his classmates. Even faces, just faces, should come to mind -- or anecdotes! Surely there must be at least one thing outside of facts that he remembered!


    What did the campus look like?! Where did he live while he attended there?! Who -- who sent him there?! His parents?!


    His heart dropped.


    Who are my parents?


    He swung his sword.


    He swung his sword.


    He swung his sword.


    He swung his sword.


    Since when, Atoy Muzazi? asked Nigen Rush.


    His eyes wandered, panicking, over the room around him. The Supreme Heir¡¯s chambers. Yes. This was the place where she lived, slept, spent free time. Her personality bled out over the space. There were old toys in the corner, no longer used. Pictures of her by her bedside. Posters of movies and boy bands.


    This was a place that was lived in.


    In his own quarters, there was nothing but wall and floor and bed. Nothing except for what he¡¯d been given. Nothing but the sheath for the thing he was holding in his hands. Luminescence. A poison light that bleaches everything away.


    His hands slipped off the hilt of his sword, and it clattered to the floor.


    I have been meddled with.


    Atoy Muzazi collapsed to the ground, the last thing he saw being two surprised faces, the last thing he heard being their cries of alarm.


    Since when?


    "What happened to him?" Edward asked the medical automatic, his arms crossed as he looked down at the bed. "Is it serious?"


    The automatic that made the infirmary it¡¯s home was egg-shaped and pale, floating through the air with carefully concealed repulsors. The countless sensors and pieces of diagnostic equipment that rested within it were small enough to be invisible, allowing it to monitor a person¡¯s health with a minimum of invasiveness.


    Whirr, went the single black eye in the center of the automatic, adjusting zoom and angle. It was focused on Atoy Muzazi, who was resting in one of the infirmary¡¯s beds, still unconscious.


    It spoke with a calm female voice. "The diagnosis is inconclusive, Edward Grace. Long-term observation may be necessary. For the moment, I would recommend rest. This may be a case of simple fatigue and accumulated stress. Note speculatory tone."


    Edward sniffed. He disliked automatics, these medical types most of all. They could never say anything with certainty, lest they make a mistake and get the manufacturers sued. It was always may and perhaps and possibly.


    Most people these days were the same. Unable to declare.


    Still, it was a shame. He looked down at Atoy Muzazi in the bed. His face was a bright red, and he was gasping for breath in his unconsciousness. Edward had been impressed by the young man¡¯s conduct since he¡¯d arrived at the Child Garden, but this sort of mental weakness spoke poorly of his capacity as a warrior.


    Frailty like that wasn¡¯t the sort of thing he wanted the Supreme Heir inheriting. He would have to speak to Kojirough about it.


    He turned and strode out of the infirmary, ignoring the medical automatics pleas behind him to disinfect his hands. He¡¯d already spent too much time getting Muzazi to the infirmary in the first place. Having to ask Kojirough to assume his duties guarding the Heir in the meantime was disgraceful. Training hours were now long over, and he¡¯d been gone for half of them.


    It would be best to return to their prior training regime from tomorrow onwards, then. Muzazi¡¯s attempts at imitating Nigen Rush¡¯s training methods had been intriguing, but the clear frailty of the young man made it clear he was unqualified to direct the Heir in such a way.


    Combat drills had been the method through which Edward had been trained, and it was the way he had trained his children. Once the Heir grew up a little, she would naturally unlock her Aether Core. There was no need for such a soft touch when it came to creating a Supreme.


    Edward paused as he emerged into the hallway, the screens around the tunnel displaying an expansive orange desert. The Fell Beast of wood and leaf that stood in the middle of the hallway couldn¡¯t have stood out more. The thing¡¯s square face stared at Edward as he approached.


    "This is the infirmary, Beast," he said gruffly, glaring up at it. "What business have you here?"


    It trumpeted at him, the sound deep and reverberating.


    Edward¡¯s eye twitched in annoyance. He knew perfectly well that the Fell Beast could understand human language, so why did it insist on such a primitive reply? Surely it could form words from its branches, or some other such thing?


    As expected, though, no words came. Edward sidled past the monster and continued down the hallway.


    To this day, he didn¡¯t understand why Nigen Rush had spared the last of the Fell Beasts. On the field, that man had been an unrivaled warrior, but there¡¯d been a lingering sentiment to him that had always undermined that. Even knowing what the Fell Beasts had done, he¡¯d been unable to sentence them to execution -- and now the rest of the Blades constantly had to watch their backs for treacherous branches.


    Edward could very easily imagine that Nigen¡¯s mercy had turned against him at the end -- when he¡¯d fought Kojirough in that final duel, had sentiment softened his blade? Had he hesitated to strike down his dearest friend? And what had that gotten him?


    Death. The end to every warrior, differing only in glory.


    The doors to Edward¡¯s quarters slid open as he approached, the trials of the day wearing upon his shoulders. The Child Garden was shaped like a massive wheel with eight spokes -- and at the end of each spoke rested the personal quarters of one of the Seven Blades -- along with the Supreme Heir herself, of course. Edward¡¯s own quarters were a spartan affair, with little in the sense of ornamentation save a shelf holding a selection of books on combat philosophy and military history.


    Edward unclipped and removed his shoulder pads as he entered the room, carefully laying them down on the armour stand next to his bed. A grunt of relief shook through his throat as he felt the weight of the armour leave him -- although that was more infuriating than anything. It was becoming increasingly clear to Edward Grace that his time as a warrior was coming to an end. His body would not be able to swing a sword for much longer.


    He¡¯d done things wrong, really, been too strong if anything. If he¡¯d been just a tad less skilled, he would have perished on a battlefield long ago -- a glorious death for the honour of the Supremacy, rather than slowly wasting away like this. His mind wouldn¡¯t be occupied by thoughts of his disappointing children and grandchildren, worries of how they¡¯d ruin the family name once he was gone. His son had already gone and married a Pugnant -- who knew what indignity he¡¯d take a fancy to next?


    No, no. Edward shook his head. Tranquility was the bedrock of a warrior. He¡¯d consider such matters at the appropriate time.


    He was just about to make his way over for a well-earned bath when he saw something had been left for him, right on the bedside table. A golden bead, barely the size of a fingernail, with a note left beneath it.


    This was found in the possession of Hans Allier. We¡¯re having trouble with the analysis. Was hoping you could contact your old friends in the Tree of Might to see if they knew anything about it?


    Thanks -- Gretchen!


    Then followed an insipid smiley face. Edward sighed heavily. If this was so important, couldn¡¯t Hail have just approached him directly? No doubt she was busy with her experiments in her forge, rather than doing her actual job. It had been months since she¡¯d even spoken to the Supreme Heir.


    Edward took the bead between two large fingers, turning it this way and that to inspect it in the light. It was strangely warm in his grip, like he was placing his hand upon someone¡¯s skin. He¡¯d never seen anything like it, either, and he didn¡¯t know why the Tree of Might of all people would be familiar with it. Their traditionalist warrior culture didn¡¯t exactly give them vast scientific skill, but he supposed there was no harm in asking. Soren Rain had supposedly been taken ill recently, but Edward was sure he¡¯d answer the call of an old friend.


    He glanced over his shoulder to look for his script --


    Warmth. Pain.


    A sense of lightness, and misjudged balance. Edward turned his head back towards the bead, just in time to see his severed arm fall to the floor. Blood gushed from the clean stump, staining the carpet as it cascaded down. A disgraceful gasp of shock and pain erupted from Edward¡¯s mouth involuntarily before he suppressed it.


    At first, he could spot no source of the attack -- then he glanced down. There, barely reaching his waist, was a young boy with a bald head and blank eyes, a golden cloak draped around him. His hands were stained with Edward¡¯s blood.


    The false Heir.


    The bead was gone, and the false Heir had appeared. Edward didn¡¯t understand how, but that wasn¡¯t his present concern. What he had to do now was survive.


    After all, he could tell¡­ this child was incredibly strong.


    The boy tensed up, crouching expressionlessly on the floor, clearly about to pounce again. Petals of the Scattered Dream needed at least five seconds to activate -- given the child¡¯s speed, Edward wouldn¡¯t be able to use it here. Instead, he slashed out with his greatsword, fast as lightning, intending to slice the false Heir in half right there and then.


    It didn¡¯t take.


    The false Heir let out an inhuman screech as he leapt up, dodging Edward¡¯s blade and clinging to the ceiling instead. Then, as the sword slammed into the ground, the boy launched himself again -- this time aiming right for Edward¡¯s face. Edward roared in exertion as he pulled his sword back up to block the attack he knew was coming.


    Not a soul in the Supremacy would say that Edward Grace was slow. There was no denying, though, that he¡¯d once been faster.


    Edward would never realize it, but that fact sealed his fate.


    The Heir shot past him, tearing off Edward¡¯s jaw with his bare hands -- and taking half of the old man¡¯s head with it. He was killed instantly, but his body still slashed at empty air, acting on empty memory. It took one step, two steps, towards the false Heir¡­


    ¡­before collapsing to its knees and lying still.


    A second later, the thing that was not a child leapt up -- and went into the vents.

 Chapter 265:10.8: In The Darkness With The Dead

    Wu Ming was a man who lived according to his whims. Sometimes, those whims carried him through mere minutes -- others would last for decades. Whether they were long or short, though, they were still whims. Wu Ming would throw them away without a second thought.


    Quite often Morgan Nacht worried that he too was one of those whims.


    The arena was his today, the only other occupant being a training automatic right in the middle of the space. Morgan danced around it, striking it with his saber as it attempted to block with a light shield. It didn¡¯t have much luck -- he was faster than it, for one, and his acrobatic skill meant he could strike from unusual and unforeseen angles. The automatic was already heavily scuffed and dented from previous sessions, and that was only going to get worse.


    Morgan leapt over it as it attempted a counterattack, flipping in the air. His sword a blur, he struck the automatic on the top of the head at the height of his jump.


    "A!" he cried, purple Aether dancing over his weapon.


    Amplify. The strength of the strike was increased by nearly five times, and the attack that would have just created another dent instead smashed the head like an egg. Electronic innards spilled out, buzzing, but the automatic did not fall. For machines like this, heads were superfluous.


    It swung the shield at him before he could land, clearly intending to catch him off guard -- but Morgan was ready. He kicked off the shield, launching himself away to a safe distance. As he landed, feet skidding against the floor below, he held his open hand out.


    "B!" Block. As the name suggested, a white cube appeared in his empty hand. The ability had been an early experiment in manifestation, something he hadn¡¯t quite been taken with, but it was still an easy way to get his hands on a projectile.


    Morgan infused his arm with additional purple Aether and hurled the cube like a farball. The automatic went to lift its shield, but too late: the projectile smashed right through its midsection, leaving a square hole all the way through.


    Structural integrity was quickly lost, and the torso of the machine snapped in two. The legs fell to the ground, inactive, but the upper half of the automatic continued crawling towards Morgan, dragging the shield behind it. A headless upper torso, writhing across the ground -- if it wasn¡¯t just an automatic, it would have been disturbing.


    Morgan cracked his neck as he approached the wreck. This was no longer training -- it was cleanup.


    The automatic was no longer capable of attacking, so he had no need to fear. Morgan knelt down next to the metal carcass and placed his hand on its back, Aether crackling across his palm. He closed his eyes. This time he would do it. This time, this time.


    "D," he muttered. Destroy.


    The damage that already existed would be forced further open by his Aether, destroying the enemy from the inside out. That was the principle around which he¡¯d designed this ability. He knew it was possible -- he¡¯d seen his teacher do something similar. All he had to do was analyze the object¡¯s internal structure and exploit the vulnerabilities he found there. Easily done.


    And yet nothing happened.


    Morgan clicked his tongue with disappointment, but not surprise. "C," he sighed. Cut.


    Fingernails sharpened into murder weapons, he reached into the automatics chest and tore free the power source, tossing it over his shoulder. The automatic immediately ceased movement, like a human with its heart ripped out. A victory, but not the kind of triumph Morgan had wanted.


    "Nicely done," said Wu Ming, over the communicator.


    Morgan smirked. "As if you could see it."


    "Who knows?" Ming laughed. "Maybe I can. Maybe I¡¯ve put little strings inside your eyeballs that let me see whatever you can see. Like a camera or something."


    Morgan paused as he rose to his feet, his smile faltering slightly. "Seriously?" he asked. "Have you?"


    "Well, no," Ming admitted. "But I could if I wanted to -- it¡¯s a good idea for an ability, now that I think of it. I could call it something like Eye Spy -- no, no, Seeing Eye. Oh, I just made it."


    Morgan sighed. "How many abilities does that make now?"


    "You think I count these things? Like, I dunno¡­ a hundred, at this point, maybe? It¡¯s not a great ability, anyway. Probably won¡¯t even use it. Three outta ten, and that¡¯s being generous. Don¡¯t wanna waste time on it during a fight when I could be doing something useful, like setting the other guy on fire. Could I maybe set their eyeballs on fire with it, though, like with a combination attack? What do you think, kid?"


    Morgan watched as the cleaning automatics collected the chunks of their fallen brother and quietly zipped them away. "I don¡¯t think it really matters what I say," he replied. "You¡¯ll just do whatever you want anyway, right?"


    "Of course. That¡¯s the only way to live a life."


    One hundred abilities? That estimate was so off the base it wasn¡¯t even funny. Morgan didn¡¯t know the exact number, but it was more than the number of hairs on his head. Ming even had multiple abilities that did basically the same thing, but through another method -- because he¡¯d forgotten he had the ability in the first place. He was a man who had so much strength that it overflowed out of his mind.


    Meanwhile, Morgan Nacht could barely handle three abilities. He wanted to have a whole alphabet of powers available to him, a suite of tricks that he could use in combination, but that dream seemed perpetually out of his grasp.


    Recently, he¡¯d been worried that he¡¯d hit some kind of ceiling, that he wouldn¡¯t ever grow more than this -- that he was done, complete. Speaking to a man who seemed incapable of ever ceasing to evolve didn¡¯t exactly help that.


    Morgan¡¯s heart sank. If he wasn¡¯t able to catch up, would he be left behind?


    "Anyway," said Ming over the communicators, audibly stifling a yawn. "How¡¯s stuff going? Did you figure out who did the, uh, who did the thing?"


    "Who killed Gustavo?"


    "That¡¯s the one."


    Morgan held his sleeve up to his mouth as he walked over and took a seat in the stands, doing his best to conceal his lip movements from any cameras. "Gretchen is still suspicious as hell. You know Hans Allier, the Kingmaker guy? She¡¯s somehow got things worked out so she¡¯s the only one allowed to interrogate him. There¡¯s something going on there."


    For the first time, a note of interest entered Wu Ming¡¯s voice. "You think they¡¯re working together?"


    "Remember Westmore? Wouldn¡¯t be the first time someone betrayed the Seven Blades as an institution. I don¡¯t know what would be in it for her, though -- maybe a cushy spot at the new Heir¡¯s side? With how weak those guys were, though, that¡¯s a stretch¡­"


    "Westmore?" As expected, Ming ignored Morgan¡¯s speculation entirely. "Ugh. Demonic guy. Eight outta ten, but when it comes to personality¡­ no thank you. If you¡¯re that suspicious of Gretchen, though, shouldn¡¯t you be talking to ol¡¯ Baltay Kojirough about it?"


    Talking to Wu Ming was like watching pinball. The topic of conversation would bounce around chaotically, and the switch from frivolity to grim purpose would throw Morgan off each and every time. The return to the topic at hand left Morgan silent for a moment before responding.


    "No way," Morgan shook his head, even though he obviously couldn¡¯t be seen. "I can¡¯t trust him either. Can¡¯t you do something? As a Contender, you have influence."


    "Too busy!" Ming said cheerfully, clearly meaning that he couldn¡¯t be bothered. "Isn¡¯t there anyone you trust?"


    Atoy Muzazi, Morgan supposed, if only for the fact that he¡¯d arrived after all the treason had already been committed.


    Damnit. While he was here, grasping at the dark, he could almost feel some greater plan snapping together. The enemy was advancing while he played catch-up. It was humiliating.


    Wu Ming was still talking. "You¡¯re in trouble if you can¡¯t trust anyone. There¡¯s gotta be at least one person, no matter who it is, or you¡¯ll go crazy."


    "Really?" Morgan sniffed. "And who do you trust?"


    "Oh, I trust plenty of people. You, for one. You¡¯ve got a good head on your shoulders. But the reason you trust people is so that you aren¡¯t alone. It doesn¡¯t matter if the other person is an asshole or whatever -- so long as you know what kind of asshole they are. You can trust them to act a certain way -- that¡¯s all you need. Once you¡¯ve got that, you¡­"


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author¡¯s consent. Report any sightings.


    Ming¡¯s voice trailed off. Long seconds passed as Morgan waited for a reply. His face slackened into a frown.


    "You what?" Morgan asked.


    There was no reply.


    "Ming?"


    Again, no reply. His frown deepening, Morgan took the communicator from his ear and inspected it. A purple light blinked steadily on the side: interference. Heavy interference.


    Morgan could only inspect the device for a moment or so before the arena was plunged into deep red light. As he looked up, startled, he could hear an alarm blaring in the distance. A general alert. Why?


    He returned the communicator to his ear and rushed out of the room.


    "Edward Grace is dead," said Baltay Kojirough, his voice grim.


    He needn¡¯t have said it. The hologram was fairly self-explanatory. Morgan watched in mute horror at the security footage -- at the false Heir tearing Grace¡¯s head in half and ending his life. He¡¯d never been close to the old man, but to see such a renowned warrior be slain so easily was disturbing all the same.


    Four of the Seven Blades had gathered in the briefing room. Atoy Muzazi was still unconscious in the infirmary, and Mariana pan Helios had been assigned to guard him. Edward Grace obviously wasn¡¯t in attendance. So it was Morgan, Baltay, Ionir and Gretchen who looked up at the hologram, replaying Grace¡¯s final moments again and again and again.


    "With his bare hands¡­" Gretchen whispered, tilting her head to get a better look as the false Heir tore Grace¡¯s arm off. "He¡¯s incredibly strong. Do you see any Aether there? I don¡¯t."


    "Forget how strong he is," Morgan snapped, reaching over the controls. "What the hell is this?"


    He rewound the recording, back to the point where the false Heir first appeared. It was lightning fast, so Morgan had to slow the recording to a crawl to even observe the phenomenon. Grace was holding that golden bead between his fingers, looked over his shoulder, and¡­ the bead unfolded.


    It was like grotesque origami.


    Morgan didn¡¯t understand how it was possible, but somehow the false Heir¡¯s body had been folded in on itself thousands upon thousands of times, until it had been compressed into the shape of the golden bead they¡¯d found on Hans Allier. In a split second, the bead opened itself back into the boy, bones and limbs snapping into place and his head inflating like a balloon. It was so quick that, if they didn¡¯t have the ability to slow down the footage, it would have looked like teleportation.


    "No Aether¡­" Gretchen was still whispering, repulsive awe in her voice. "No Aether at all."


    As the hologram paused -- right before the boy attacked -- Baltay circled it, his eyes scanning every aspect of the scene.


    "A genetic experiment, perhaps?" he muttered. "Someone attempting to create an artificial Heir? Even so, what about the weight? Even if he shrunk down to a size like that, he still should¡¯ve been incredibly heavy."


    Morgan cleared his throat. "And he¡¯s in the vents. We haven¡¯t found him yet? None of the security systems have picked him up?"


    Baltay shook his head.


    "This stopped working, too," Morgan said, holding out his communicator. "Right before the alarm went off. Could it be related?"


    Gretchen planted her hands on the circular table between them. "We¡¯re passing through a distortion field," she explained. "Wreckage from the war with the Great Chain, y¡¯know? That¡¯s what¡¯s interfering with the systems."


    Oh, what an incredible convenience.


    It took everything Morgan had not to say that out loud. He was nearly certain now that Gretchen was behind all of this, but he couldn¡¯t make a move until he was in an advantageous position.


    Baltay¡¯s wrist rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword. With his other hand, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "How long until we¡¯re clear of the field?" he asked, stress trickling into his voice.


    "Hard to say," Gretchen muttered. "Two hours, maybe? The auto-brain needs to chart a path through all the wreckage."


    "Right." Baltay stepped back. "In that case, we need to assume a defensive strategy. We cannot leave the Heir alone right now. Morgan, you¡¯ll join me and we¡¯ll guard her together."


    Morgan nodded.


    "What about us, boss?" Gretchen asked, nodding towards Ionir.


    "If the false Heir is crawling around the ship, we need to make sure he can¡¯t sabotage us directly," Baltay replied. "You and Ionir Yggdrasil will defend the engineering section against any trespassers. Hopefully it doesn¡¯t come to it, but take whatever measures you need to."


    Gretchen offered a cheeky salute, and Ionir rumbled in affirmation.


    Morgan didn¡¯t take his eyes off Gretchen for a second. She¡¯d use this. He knew she¡¯d use this. Somehow, she¡¯d been behind what had happened to Edward Grace, and she wasn¡¯t finished yet. Blades were dropping like flies -- Gustavo stabbed in the back, Muzazi unconscious, Grace decapitated -- and Gretchen Hail just kept smiling.


    Morgan clenched his fist.


    What should he do about it?


    It was dark.


    Aclima, the Supreme Heir, sat up in her bed, sheets clutched around her, illuminated only by crimson emergency lighting. Heavy metal shutters had fallen over all the windows and doors, and the vents had closed too. The room would be using a secondary oxygen supply.


    This had happened only once before, when an assassin had tried to get her when the Child Garden was being refueled. That time, Nigen Rush had saved her -- cutting off the enemy¡¯s head -- but now¡­


    ¡­now there was silence. Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Nobody had even told her what was going on. She¡¯d just been left here, to speculate, to watch as fear turned every shadow into a dagger in the dark. Every slight creak and crack became the hiss of an unseen monster. Every inch of the room she couldn¡¯t see clearly was filled with unkind hands.


    Aclima couldn¡¯t remain here. That senseless thought ballooned quickly, pushing all other instincts out of the way, and she climbed out of the bed. She was the Supreme Heir. She was. She couldn¡¯t just sit here, quaking in the dark.


    Even with the urgency of her thoughts, though, she could do little more than slowly walk across the room, sheets still pulled around her. The sealed door seemed perpetually distant. Her feet tapped against the floor as she went.


    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.


    Thump.


    That last one¡­ hadn¡¯t been her footsteps. Slowly, begging herself that she was wrong, Aclima turned her head. Terror became a physical lump in her throat.


    There, standing right behind her, was the false Heir. The boy, clearly a few years younger than her, with a bald head and a blank expression. He slowly cocked his head as he inspected her. His eyes were dull and empty, lacking the spark of consciousness.


    He can¡¯t see me, she thought deliriously. He¡¯s like a doll. He can¡¯t see me.


    She opened her mouth to scream -- but before she could begin, the false Heir had smacked her across the face with his hand and sent her flying across the room.


    Sometime¡­!


    First, they had stopped at the Hoatlake lightpoint.


    Then they¡¯d passed over the edge of the Dranell breaches.


    Last they¡¯d heard, the ship called the Slipstream #3 had stopped with a cluster of merchant ships orbiting Adresa Alpha. They¡¯d remained there only a few days, gathering supplies and information -- but from the course they¡¯d taken and the information they¡¯d sought, their destination was obvious. The planet Panacea, right on the border between the Supremacy and the Unified Alliance of Planets.


    Atoy Muzazi clicked the script off, slapping it down on the conference table. It was a piece of furniture far too big for the two-person crew, with a holographic map of Supremacy space hovering over its surface. Across it, face illuminated by the digital borealis, Marie Hazzard smiled back at him.


    "You¡¯re absolutely sure this is real?" he asked, standing up from his chair.


    Marie leaned back. "I¡¯m absolutely sure. After a few drinks, that glass-handed merchant was very happy to tell me all about it. Dragan Hadrien and the crew he was with were looking to buy codes to get through your shields."


    "And you¡¯re certain this man wasn¡¯t lying? Deceit is one of my primary weapons. It¡¯s entirely possible I paid off that merchant to lead us astray."


    As Muzazi spoke, he paced across the room, wringing his hands. The blue lights washing over from the darkened floor made shadows dance across his face, his clear anxiety visible only for seconds at a time.


    "Paranoia doesn¡¯t suit you, Atoy," Marie sighed, resting her chin in her hands. "Besides, I can always tell when you¡¯re lying."


    "You can tell as well as a Cogitant?" There was a sliver of doubt in Muzazi¡¯s voice.


    She raised her eyebrows. "Anything we gave them, we had first. I¡¯m better at lying than you¡¯ll ever be -- so I can always tell."


    Suddenly, incongruent with the memory he had been plunged into, Muzazi saw Marie change her path and rush over to him instead. She slammed into him with such speed that he was nearly knocked over, the only thing keeping him upright being the arms she wrapped around his waist. She buried her face into his chest, giggling.


    "Officer Hazzard?" he spluttered, surprised.


    "Mu-za-zi¡­" she whispered, voice muffled. "Mu-za-ziii¡­"


    "Officer Hazzard!" Muzazi exclaimed, gripping his partner by the shoulders. "Please, get a hold of yourself!"


    Chomp.


    Oh. That was right. Marie was dead, wasn¡¯t she? So this was¡­


    Blood ran down Muzazi¡¯s chest. The woman before him had just bitten into it, tearing right through the muscle and bone. Her grip on his waist was beyond a vice -- he could feel himself being crushed as she squeezed tighter, and tighter, and tighter¡­


    "Mu-za-ziiiii¡­"


    He couldn¡¯t move.


    The woman looked up. The wreckage of his heart hung from her lips, clung to the glowing silver blades that served as her teeth. Her eyes shone with a poisonous light, burning at the world.


    She giggled madly, the viscera shuddering in her mouth.


    "Let go of me¡­" Muzazi wheezed, blood pouring from his mouth, his organs an utter pulp. "Please, please, I beg of you, let me go¡­"


    "Mu-za-ziiiiiii!" Luminescence cackled.


    The grip tightened. More, more, more, more. More, more, more, more! Until all his fucking bones turned into dust and his soul was a shitstain on the floor! More, more, more, more! EVEN FUCKING MORE!


    Atoy Muzazi screamed.


    Atoy Muzazi woke with a start --


    -- just in time to see Mariana pan Helios plunge her blade right down towards his face.

 Chapter 266:10.9: Dolls

    Muzazi rolled to avoid the incoming blow.


    Mariana pan Helios¡¯ sword pierced the pillow he¡¯d been resting on -- and in a flurry of movement, shredded it. As feathers rained down around them, Muzazi snatched his own sword off the bedside table and unsheathed it, pointing it at his fellow Blade. The veiled woman calmly walked around the bed, inexorably advancing upon him.


    "Officer pan Helios!" Muzazi barked, his eyes fixed on her sword. There was dried blood on it. "What are you doing?!"


    It was foolish to expect a response. Mariana pan Helios remained silent as ever as she entered Muzazi¡¯s range, and in that moment --


    Clang. Clang. Clang.


    Instinct led Muzazi to parry the first two strikes with Luminescence, but confusion softened his blocking of the third. The enhanced force of the blow sent him backwards, his back slamming hardily against the exit doors. They smoothly slid open in response.


    Mariana pan Helios began walking forward again.


    What was going on? Why was this woman attacking him? Morgan had spoken of a traitor in their midst, someone who had killed Gustavo Mordecai and had been attempting to kill Muzazi, but Morgan had believed that person to be Gretchen Hail. Had the younger man just been mistaken, or was Mariana working with her? Or was this something else entirely?


    No matter. It didn¡¯t change what Muzazi had to do: survive.


    "Officer pan Helios," Muzazi said firmly, voice hardening as he regained his focus. "I don¡¯t know why you are attacking me, but know this: if you continue to do so, I will have no choice but to respond in kind." He drew Luminescence back, a snake ready to lunge.


    Mariana pan Helios did not stop. Her thin blade swayed at her side, and then¡­


    They called Mariana pan Helios the Silent Sword, and in combat it was easy to see why. Discounting her verbal silence, her blade moved as quietly as the grave. There was no whooshing of the air as she struck, no brushing of the hilt against her hands. The only sound their clashes made came from his own sword, clumsy clangs making her own elegance stand out even more.


    In terms of speed, they were about even, but the fact that Muzazi could rely on no sense but sight made his motions sluggish and uncertain. Her assault was relentless and untiring, and even as Muzazi parried and blocked he found himself being forced backwards.


    The cramped confines of the infirmary were limiting his movements, and the hallway wouldn¡¯t be much better -- he needed to get himself into a more open space. Muzazi blazed a thruster on the front of his chest, blasting himself backwards¡­


    ¡­and collided with the hulking figure standing behind him.


    He looked up, eyes wide, and a horror looked back down. A man with half his head missing, his jaw replaced with hanging gristle, his one remaining eye burning an unearthly purple. Edward Grace, dead -- and reanimated. Had Mariana gone after him as well?


    Before Muzazi could move, Edward grabbed him by the head with his one arm -- and hurled him down the hallway with a roar.


    Aclima¡¯s face hurt. That was the first thing she became aware of.


    The second was that she must have been knocked unconscious, at least for a short while. There was a gap in her memory that couldn¡¯t be explained any other way. Rubbing her bruised face, she gingerly looked up.


    The false Heir.


    He was still standing there, in the spot where he¡¯d first landed, staring wordlessly at her. Specks of her blood coated his clenched fist -- and as Aclima explored the damage with her hand, she felt blood gushing from her nose. She gulped.


    If the false Heir had any intention of finishing her off, he didn¡¯t seem to be acting on it. He just continued to stare at her with those blank eyes -- not even blinking. The only sign that he hadn¡¯t died on his feet was the gentle rise and fall of his chest.


    Aclima moved her arm to pick herself up -- and the boy¡¯s head immediately snapped in the direction of the offending limb. His breathing stopped, and his pupils shrunk to such a degree that they were barely visible. The power of his glare was such that it was as if the movement had been an offense against life itself.


    She remained as still as she could, and the boy¡¯s focus waned. Eventually, his pupils became visible again, and he turned back to look at her directly. Still, he did not speak. Apart from the angle of his head, he did not move.


    "Hello?" Aclima squeaked.


    There was no answer.


    "Can you understand me?" she asked.


    Again, no answer.


    He¡¯s like an automatic, Aclima suddenly thought, looking at the boy. Like a doll made of meat. He just¡­ does stuff. He only cares if I move, so¡­ he wants to keep me here.


    She couldn¡¯t just stay here, could she? If the boy wanted her to stay put, there could be no good result to it. Perhaps he had comrades on the way. But comrades wouldn¡¯t be required for an assassination. Was this a kidnapping, then? People looking to ransom her, maybe?


    What could she do? She couldn¡¯t just lie here, could she? But surely someone must be on their way. Mr. Kojirough, or Mr. Grace, or someone¡­


    She thought back to the last time someone had tried to kill her. A Scurrant with bones and organs so soft they could squeeze through a closed door, oozing into this room. They¡¯d broken a vase and come at her with the shard. She¡¯d thought she was going to die.


    Back then, she had completely frozen. No matter what the Scurrant had wanted to do, she would have been helpless.


    But before he could reach her, his head had vanished. Nigen Rush had cut it off in a movement so fast it had been invisible. The assassin had fallen, his hot blood splashing on her face like a burning hand. Sometimes, in her dreams, Aclima could still feel it.


    "Never allow fear to control you," he had said back then, as calmly as ever, sheathing his golden sword. "Acknowledge it, yes -- but do not surrender to it. If you cannot fight, think. Think until you know your escape."


    He¡¯d never been the most tactful person -- the blood on her face hadn¡¯t even dried when he¡¯d said that -- but Rush¡¯s words had stuck with her all the same. Think, she told herself. Think.


    If the false Heir had been given orders to keep her here, that meant that whoever was giving the orders wanted her alive. That meant that the false Heir couldn¡¯t kill her, didn¡¯t it? He could move to incapacitate, but he couldn¡¯t actually end her life.


    So long as she didn¡¯t move, then, couldn¡¯t she do as she liked?


    Aclima took a deep breath. "HELP!" she screamed, at the top of her impressive lungs. "HELP!"


    The false Heir said nothing. She didn¡¯t know if anyone outside would be able to hear her cries, but it certainly wouldn¡¯t hurt. Her eyes flicked back to the young boy.


    "Who are you working for?" she asked.


    From what she¡¯d seen, there was no way this flesh machine was actually in charge of the operation. He was a figurehead that the Kingmakers had used, something dressed up to look like a child of the appropriate age. He was not here on his own initiative. No¡­ this was something that had been created -- and someone capable of creating this had to be very powerful indeed.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Most likely he wouldn¡¯t answer, but --


    "We await the return of our King," the boy said.


    Aclima froze, her eyes widening to saucers. The very fact he¡¯d answered was surprising, but it wasn¡¯t what had inspired such shock. No, what had done that was the boy¡¯s voice.


    It was not the voice of a child. The deep tones of an older man poured emotionlessly out of the boy¡¯s mouth, utterly incongruous with his appearance. Even as the mouth moved, though, the rest of the false Heir¡¯s face remained utterly still. A shudder went down Aclima¡¯s spine.


    "What?" she asked.


    No answer.


    "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.


    The boy did not blink. "We await the return of our King." The exact same words in the exact same tone. Not even a quaver of his too-deep voice was off from the last time he¡¯d said it.


    Just like a recording.


    Muzazi focused his Aether on defense as he was thrown through the wall, crashing through into the dark maintenance tunnels beyond. Even with that precaution, though, cuts and bruises coated his body from the beating he¡¯d already received. Aether could only do so much.


    He flipped onto his feet immediately, glass crunching under his boots. He had no time to get his bearings. The monster after him would not take a moment, either.


    The reanimated corpse of Edward Grace charged through the hole in the wall, an inhuman roar bellowing out of his throat. It was like a death-rattle amplified by a thousand, clicking interspersed with rushing breath. Grace now had many more injuries to join the ones that had killed him, but he showed no signs of slowing.


    The deep cuts and slashes Muzazi had given his former comrade were no more than decorations.


    These tunnels were dark, filled with piping and machinery, made uncomfortably hot by their hard work. Muzazi felt sweat trickle down his temples as the brute charged towards him -- if this was to work, he had to wait for the last possible moment. The last¡­ possible¡­ moment¡­


    Now!


    In the instant before Grace would have slammed into him, Muzazi used his thrusters to blast himself up towards the ceiling, and the zombie passed by beneath his feet. As they crossed paths, Muzazi deactivated the thrusters once again, allowing himself to fall -- and he drew Luminescence back, ready to strike at the back of Grace¡¯s exposed neck. If nothing else, then hopefully decapitation would do the trick. Even if it didn¡¯t kill the zombie, it would certainly hinder his ability to sense Muzazi.


    Atoy Muzazi struck --


    -- and was repelled as Mariana pan Helios leapt into the battle once more.


    Muzazi gritted his teeth, using his thrusters to zoom down the tunnel and avoid Mariana¡¯s second slash. This woman was using a troublesome strategy.


    Pain.


    Muzazi glanced down at his hands as he landed, and his eyes widened in horror. There, coating his knuckles and fingers, were countless tiny insects, forming a dark mass. Purple Aether sparked around them as they scratched and bit at his hands.


    Mariana pan Helios had the ability to reanimate and control the dead, but that wasn¡¯t necessarily limited to people. Presumably, she kept a supply of these dead flies on herself, ready to reanimate whenever the need arose. Muzazi squeezed Luminescence tighter, even as he felt tiny dead mouths nibbling at him. In this situation, he didn¡¯t have the time to get them off.


    Grace charged again, tearing a pipe free from the wall with his one arm and brandishing it as a weapon. Mariana advanced, too, but slightly behind -- clearly ready to take advantage of the opening that Grace would create. He could see them there -- more flies, flitting around Mariana¡¯s sword, forming a hazy afterimage. When their blades clashed, they¡¯d leap over to his body.


    Atoy Muzazi took in a deep breath¡­


    Wait. Why do I fear?


    ¡­and stopped running.


    He¡¯d faced worse than this. He¡¯d faced an infamous knight wreathed in shadow. He¡¯d faced a monster from the pits of hell. He¡¯d faced a body crumbling to dust in his arms. He hadn¡¯t run from those, even when victory was impossible.


    Why, then, was he running from this?


    Muzazi charged forward, letting out a resounding warcry, Luminescence held high above his head. Neither Mariana nor her thrall hesitated at his sudden change of strategy, but Atoy Muzazi paid them no mind. He didn¡¯t know why he was being attacked like this, but there was only one kind of answer he could give.


    It was easy to find a way out of this situation, once you abandoned panic. The corpse of Edward Grace was being granted strength and durability by Mariana¡¯s purple Aether, but it could not possibly be as consistent as Grace¡¯s own had been. There would be weak spots in that defense, angles of attack that could not be prepared for in advance. Muzazi would take advantage of that. S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Grace swung his heavy arm, roaring his dry roar, and Muzazi threw himself down -- sliding across the floor until he was right in front of Grace¡¯s wounded chest. He plunged his hand into the massive cut, silver Aether coursing along the limb, and planted as many thrusters as he could -- inside Grace¡¯s body.


    It was the work of a moment, but that was still nearly too long. Muzazi kicked off of Grace¡¯s chest as Mariana¡¯s sword came down, nearly cutting his arm off. If she¡¯d realized what his strategy was, though, she showed no sign of it.


    As he flew back down the hallway, Muzazi clenched his fist.


    Thrusters -- activate!


    Blazing light erupted from Grace¡¯s wound, and the sound of the thrusters overpowered what snarls made it out of the corpse¡¯s mouth. All the zombie could do was stand there, quivering for a moment, before --


    Forgive me, old soldier.


    -- it exploded into gore, each part of its body pushed in a different direction, showering the hallway in blood and entrails.


    There was no time for disgust or horror at the sight. Muzazi blasted himself forward again, using the red mist as a smokescreen, and struck at the spot where he knew Mariana had been standing. Against an opponent like this, there could be no mercy. He went for the head.


    He could not see the result, but he felt it. Luminescence bit into the meat of a throat -- and as Muzazi wrenched it through, he felt flesh give way to empty air, and heard something heavy thump wet onto the floor. Muzazi landed on one knee, blood falling from his sword.


    The red mist passed, revealing and confirming it.


    Mariana pan Helios¡¯ head had been severed from her shoulders. They lay there, separated, Mariana¡¯s veil parted by the way her head had fallen. Her pale face was utterly calm¡­ no, not just calm, emotionless -- like a doll.


    Why had this woman attacked him? Why had she killed Edward Grace? What was going on here?


    He didn¡¯t have time to ponder these questions now. Whatever this emergency was, it was likely still ongoing. He needed to get back into contact with the other Blades -- if nothing else, they¡¯d likely have the answers he sought. Muzazi rose to his feet, sheathing his sword as he turned back to the hole in the wall.


    Only¡­ he realized something.


    The dead flies were still biting at his hands.


    "Move," said Nigen Rush.


    Muzazi rolled and turned in a single movement, dodging the slash that would have opened his back up. Luminescence was spat back out of its sheath in a flash of silver, and Muzazi wielded it defensively -- only to falter for a moment as he understood what he was seeing. His chest turned cold.


    Mariana pan Helios was standing in front of him. Her robes were stained with her own fresh blood, the smell of it mingling with her perfume. In one hand, she held her sword, flies still buzzing around it.


    In the other, she held her own severed head.


    It was a strange time to realize it, but Muzazi couldn¡¯t help it. It just occurred to him. That intense perfume that always hung around Mariana pan Helios¡­ in that moment, he realized¡­ that it had always been covering up another scent.


    The smell of rotting flesh.


    The boy twitched.


    It was the first movement he¡¯d made in quite a while, so Aclima couldn¡¯t help but jump too. He didn¡¯t respond in any way to that. Even as she crawled backwards over the floor, instinct finally winning over caution, he just stared calmly at her -- as passionless as a doll.


    And then¡­ she noticed it.


    No, that was the wrong word. She didn¡¯t notice it. There was no way she could have noticed it before, because ¡¯it¡¯ had not yet existed. She saw it. Even as she doubted the evidence of her eyes, she saw it.


    She saw a seam opening right in the center of the boy¡¯s face, all the way down the middle¡­ and cutting all the way down his body. A seam that was slowly, slowly, widening.


    The boy took a step forward, the seam on his body so thick it was like a long black line drawn by a marker. His mouth spread into an unnatural smile, as though his cheeks were being pulled up by invisible hands.


    "Will you let me teach you, princess?" he said, in that far too old voice. "Will you let me be your skin?"


    Before Aclima could even absorb those bizarre words, the boy opened.


    It was an iron maiden of flesh and bone. The seam on the boy snapped open in an instant, the two halves of him separating like the unhinging of a treasure chest. Within, there was what seemed at first to be a dark void -- but no. Aclima wasn¡¯t looking at a void.


    She was looking at meat.


    Dark, writhing meat like intertwined eels, slithering and oozing and beating steadily -- and, and teeth, more teeth than Aclima could count, and more every second as the treasure chest opened wider and the meat squirmed louder and the boy continued to step forward. She was looking at a waking nightmare.


    Aclima, understandably, screamed.

 Chapter 267:10.10: The Silent Sword and the Miracle Slash

    The woman knelt by the fallen swordsman, her eyes wide, pulling his bleeding body up in a vain attempt at denial. Her own sword lay forgotten at her side.


    "No, no no no," she whispered. "No, he¡¯s dead, he can¡¯t be, he isn¡¯t, no, oh God --" There was blood on her hands. "-- no, no, please, it wasn¡¯t¡­ what¡­ what did you do?!"


    Those last words were screamed at the young man who was still standing, his green sword hanging limp in one hand. In the other, he held some kind of trigger mechanism, the device rattling as his grip shook. He was staring down at his fallen comrade, eyes wide.


    "I didn¡¯t¡­" he muttered, disbelieving. "No, I didn¡¯t¡­ I didn¡¯t mean to¡­ is he¡­? He can¡¯t be¡­ there¡¯s no way¡­"


    Even as the young man whispered that, however, toxic veins were spreading out over the body of the victim -- the spawn of the green sword. The puddle of blood slowly spreading out, soaking into the woman¡¯s dress, told its own story as well. If this was not a corpse, it soon would be.


    "You tricked me," the woman hissed. "You tricked me!"


    The young man took a step forward. "I didn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t!" he pleaded. "I didn¡¯t mean for this! I just¡­ I just wanted¡­"


    The woman¡¯s eyes narrowed. "You got what you fucking wanted. You scumbag. You son of a bitch."


    "I¡­"


    She looked down at the body in her arms. "He¡¯s cold," she breathed, voice shaking. "Oh God no, he¡¯s cold. No¡­ no¡­"


    Long seconds passed, the young man¡¯s hand suspended in the air, as if he were perpetually about to reach out. The woman just stared down at the body, the spark of life in her eyes visibly dying away until that red gaze was as empty as crusted blood. A long, involuntary sigh trickled out of her throat.


    And then, her eyes moved to her own sword.


    The young man obviously realized what she was about to do before she did it. He stepped forward, shouting something indiscernible, but too late. Emotion had slowed his step, and had quickened hers. In a flash, she had the sword in her hands, holding it against her own chest by the hilt¡­


    ¡­and then, she plunged it in.


    *


    Muzazi winced as the headache abated. What in the world had that been? For a moment, it had felt like he¡¯d been somewhere else, some time else, observing distant events as though they were a videograph. The face of the woman he¡¯d seen¡­ had that been Mariana?


    No. He had no time to consider such things. It was coming for him, after all.


    After losing her head, the corpse of Mariana pan Helios had abandoned all vestiges of grace and restraint. Muzazi had no choice but to retreat down the hallways as she pursued, an utter cyclone of sword-slashes. The false images on the walls of the corridors were shattered as she let loose, shards of glass falling and coating the floor.


    Muzazi observed carefully as he propelled himself backwards with his thrusters, always staying just out of reach. His adversary was holding her sword in one hand as she pursued -- in the other, she held her severed head. Those red eyes were tinted with purple as they stared insistently at Muzazi, even as the head swayed back and forth from being gripped by the hair.


    It was easy enough to work out what had happened. At some point, Mariana pan Helios had perished and underwent an Aether Awakening -- that Awakening had turned her reanimation ability back on her own corpse, allowing it to keep functioning for such a long time.


    How long? Since before he¡¯d gotten here, certainly -- he¡¯d smelt that perfume on her, masking her decomposition, since the first time they¡¯d met. But how long before that? How long had this corpse been walking around as one of the Seven Blades, any peculiarities explained as the product of grief?


    There was no vow of silence, after all, was there? Just the hush of death.


    Muzazi was not simply fleeing without a goal -- the route they were taking was headed for the arena. In a wide open space like that, he could fight freely. His reach was limited in cramped confines like these, and the swarms of flies that Mariana commanded could more easily reach him. Even now, he could feel them crawling under his clothes, biting at his exposed skin. The pain ran across his body like an electric current.


    He gritted his teeth. How much longer? He hadn¡¯t been on the Child Garden for long, but it was a good practice to be familiar with one¡¯s base of operations. If his memory was accurate, they should be reaching it in three¡­


    ¡­two¡­


    Mariana lunged forward, her sword stabbing at Muzazi¡¯s throat.


    ¡­one!


    The two of them made it out of the hallway, and Muzazi immediately made use of the available space, zooming upwards to avoid Mariana¡¯s thrust. The instant he was finally out of her range, he threw his arms out -- thrusters sprouting all over his body to incinerate the insects covering him. For a split second, he was a silhouette of pure light -- and the next, he was back in a combat stance, ashes spilling out from beneath his charred clothes.


    He kept close to the ceiling as he floated, making sure there was no possible way for Mariana to reach him with a display of acrobatics. Luckily, the ceiling of the arena was high, and he was able to keep firmly out of her range. The only thing he had to worry about was her throwing her sword, and from this distance he would easily be able to see it coming.


    Mariana walked down the stands, the head in her hand angled to face in his direction. That all but confirmed his suspicions: she still used the eyes of the severed head to see -- probably hear, too. If he was able to destroy it, he¡¯d be cutting off the enemy¡¯s senses entirely.


    If there was a more easily identifiable weak point, he didn¡¯t know of it.


    Still, as he looked at the corpse circling him from below, he couldn¡¯t help but feel his hands shake. Why? He didn¡¯t know. Was he frightened? It would be no surprise if he was -- a headless zombie was coming for him, after all. But no¡­


    No¡­ he knew fear. Back on Nocturnus, when he¡¯d met the Abyssal Knight, he¡¯d felt true terror. The kind of awful fear that scraped its nails over your bones and clawed at your brain, that stopped you from being the kind of person you¡¯d convinced yourself you were. Real fear revealed.


    This¡­ this was different. But how?


    Muzazi swallowed as he saw Mariana stop directly beneath him. Purple Aether was concentrating around her legs. No doubt she was about to try something, using whatever rudimentary intelligence still remained within her Aether.


    Well, he wasn¡¯t about to allow that.


    Mariana pan Helios leapt up --


    -- and Atoy Muzazi swooped down.


    The horror lurched towards Aclima, squelching and squirming as it moved. Its flesh bubbled and oozed, unidentifiable liquid dripping from its nail-like teeth and steaming on the floor.


    Aclima leapt to her feet, fear grasping her heart and quickening her step. She went to retreat backwards -- only for her back to thump against the metal shutter behind her. In this position, in this part of the room, she was trapped. Escaping would mean running right past the monstrosity before her, and she already knew it wouldn¡¯t allow that.


    Her hands shook. Her breath trembled. Her vision grew hazy. This thing was going to eat her. It was going to eat her. A childhood nightmare come to life.


    No. No. She was the Supreme Heir. She was meant to be stronger than this. Fear was supposed to be as foreign to her as injury was to her father. That was the reason she had been born. That was what she was for.


    A thing like this wasn¡¯t supposed to survive being in her presence!


    Aclima squeezed her eyes shut. Aether, she begged. Aether Aether Aether Aether. Please. She could hear it still, the enemy, inexorably slithering over the carpet, but she did her best to ignore it. It was like Atoy Muzazi had said. Aether was something inside yourself. A light of the mind. All she had to do was find it -- find the core that revealed that light to her. She could do it. She was the Supreme Heir. She was. That was all she had.


    Aether! Aether Aether Aether! AETHER!


    She searched through her mind, through old memories, through the lingering joy and sorrow they evoked, even through the terror this current situation sparked in her. She searched every corridor within herself for the Aether Core that she knew surely must exist. She searched for the miracle.


    But the miracle never happened. There was only a yawning void, reminding her that right now she was nothing but fragile flesh and bone -- and soon, very soon, she might not even be that. The resolve she¡¯d briefly summoned up evaporated, as all illusions must.


    Aclima opened her eyes.


    The thing was right in front of her, the two sides of its body ready to snap shut and devour her whole. She vaguely wondered how long it would take for her to die. Would it be instant, if nothing else? Or would she even die at all? Perhaps there was a worse fate waiting for her.


    She wouldn¡¯t be surprised.


    The tendrils within the beast lashed out, aiming to pull her right into its maw --


    -- and fell to the ground, cleanly severed by a single stroke.


    Aclima blinked. "Eh?"


    "A!"


    Before she could do much more than look on, however, Aclima was moving -- with such speed that the air was knocked out of her lungs. She was tucked under somebody¡¯s arm, she could tell that, and as they landed and came to a halt, she looked up to see the face of Morgan Nacht. He had come out of nowhere, grabbed her, and gotten her away from the false Heir.


    She looked up at him, dumbstruck, as he let her back down. "Um¡­ thank you¡­"


    "Don¡¯t thank me," Morgan smirked, glancing back across the room. "All I did was pull you out of there."


    She followed his gaze, and saw -- there, standing across from the monster -- the one who had actually made that attack. Baltay Kojirough, his Leviathan drawn, a serious expression on his face as he stared down the false Heir. Black ichor dripped from his green blade.


    There had been six tendrils coming for her, all from different angles, and yet this man had severed them all in a single movement. Aclima had heard that some people called him the Miracle Slash. She didn¡¯t wonder why.


    "Sorry to say," Baltay said, adjusting the angle of his sword. "But I¡¯ll be your opponent tonight, creature."


    The nightmare seemed to regard him for a moment, bleeding tendrils swaying in the air -- and then its body snapped shut, assuming the false form of a child once again. It lowered itself to the ground, tiny pupils glaring at Baltay, and let out a cracking moan.


    "Your target was the Supreme Heir, wasn¡¯t it?" Baltay demanded. "Hans Allier and his Kingmakers were simply a means to get you on board. I don¡¯t know how you managed to get into Grace¡¯s quarters, but I¡¯ll be avenging him in full. Prepare yourself."


    The boy growled, his voice wet. "We await the return of our King. The light of civilization will go out."


    Baltay narrowed his eyes. "Darkstar."


    That was barely a conversation, but it was the closest thing there would be between these two enemies. The false Heir screeched as he launched off the ground, firing himself like a bullet right at Baltay. Baltay, for his part, simply adjusted the position of his blade again, took a deep breath, and leisurely¡­


    ¡­won.


    There wasn¡¯t a living thing in this world that didn¡¯t predict the future. It was a natural process of the mind. When you see someone drop a glass, you predict that it will fall to the ground. It¡¯s nothing special.


    All Baltay Kojirough did with his Aether was take that existing ability to predict and supercharge it. A natural ability to read muscle movements and body language became something that bordered on the supernatural. Ten seconds: with the precognition he¡¯d honed, he could predict the movements of living things up to ten seconds in the future.


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    Baltay knew that the monster would leap at him before it even kicked off the ground. A blue shadow, visible only to him, pounced out of it in his direction, tracing the path of the future. He could see the way its face would twist in feral fury. He could see the way its hands would come down like claws. All of its movements¡­ he could see them.


    Easily. But still pathetic.


    Once, he had wanted to be stronger than anyone, and knowledge was power. That was why, when he was younger, he had left Supremacy territory and snuck into the UAP -- to Abra-Facade, the land of precognition. He¡¯d learnt from masked oracles and seers, trying to match the future sight they¡¯d mastered, and all he¡¯d achieved were this measly ten seconds. It was said that the elders of Abra-Facade could chart the course of galactic events years into the future, and that was what had elevated them to the UAP¡¯s Central Governing Council. People like that -- not even warriors -- had outmatched him from the moment he¡¯d been born.


    This thing, though? It barely qualified as an obstacle. Victory came from striking first -- and when you could see the future, you always struck first.


    Baltay Kojirough stepped to the side and moved his sword almost lazily as the present caught up -- and, comically, the false Heir fell apart, his head and limbs chopped away. The eyes of the decapitated head continued to flick around, the fingers continued to twitch, the legs continued to squirm¡­ until Leviathan danced again, slicing the thing apart once more into clean pieces of nine by nine inches.


    The killer cut: he¡¯d expected it would work against a thing like this.


    Baltay silently sheathed his blade, looking down at the inert pile of flesh. As he watched, the pieces began to bubble black and rapidly decompose, eventually becoming an abyssal smoke that lingered in the air for a moment before fading away entirely. He¡¯d have to tell Paradise that her special friend had left behind another present.


    But that was for later. Baltay smiled as he looked up at his comrade Morgan and the young Supreme Heir. "Are you alright?" he asked.


    Morgan blinked.


    When he¡¯d seen Atoy Muzazi take out Hans Allier back on Ipsum, he¡¯d been astounded by the swordsman¡¯s sheer speed -- but with Baltay Kojirough, what inspired awe was his efficiency. He¡¯d accomplished with two or three strokes of his sword what would take other warriors a plethora. The beast that had killed Edward Grace hadn¡¯t even been able to touch this man.


    More importantly, though¡­ he¡¯d killed the thing. Morgan bit his lip as the Heir ran over to Baltay.


    "What¡¯s going on?" she asked anxiously. "What was that?"


    Baltay answered her. "We¡¯re not sure yet. Like I said, we think that creature was brought aboard by Mr. Allier, but we can¡¯t be certain what its objective was here."


    "It wanted me¡­" she whispered.


    Baltay nodded. "Most likely," he replied honestly. "We can¡¯t stay here -- there¡¯s no telling if there¡¯s anything else on the ship right now. We need to get you to an alternative location. Somewhere easily defensible. Any ideas, Mr. Nacht?"


    Morgan nearly jumped as he was suddenly addressed, pulling him out of deep thought. "Uh, I guess -- the function room? With its position, we can cover all the exits from the center of the chamber."


    "Good thinking," Baltay nodded, scooping the Heir up onto his back. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. "This will have to be a little quick, so brace yourself, okay?"


    Before Baltay could set off, though, Morgan extended an arm. "Wait!" he called out. "Wait, boss."


    Baltay stopped at the forced-open door, looking back at Morgan. "What is it?"


    You need to trust someone, Wu Ming had told him. Even if that¡¯s just one person.


    If Baltay Kojirough was truly the one behind this, then he¡¯d have had no reason to execute the monster that had been about to kill the Heir. If Baltay Kojirough was truly the one behind this, there¡¯d have been no reason for Gretchen to go behind his back. If Baltay Kojirough was truly the one behind this, then he¡¯d have no reason to follow Morgan¡¯s lead here.


    He swallowed. When you stood alone, even the gentlest snowfall could seem like a blizzard. Sooner or later, you had to trust someone. There were limits to paranoia.


    He hoped he wouldn¡¯t regret this.


    "Boss," he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I have to tell you something -- about Gretchen Hail."


    "Careful now," said the blonde boy, deflecting a hail of bullets with a few quick slashes of his sword. The other two moved behind cover using the opportunity he¡¯d created.


    The young man with the helmet glanced around, the golden visor flicking from point to point as he inspected the battlefield. "We can¡¯t stay here long, Mariana," he said. "That girl with the bear will be coming this way too."


    Mariana nodded, looking up at the sky. As always when the Certification Exam came around, the fields of Tribulation had been filled with smoke. Weapons and abilities of every variety had been deployed here, by participants hopeful for the freedom victory would bring them.


    "If you can kill the bear," she suggested. "I can bring it over to our side. It¡¯ll be a big advantage."


    "The beast is fast," the helmeted man said. "I¡¯d rather take my chances, especially with the poison still affecting me. By the way¡­" he glanced up at the blonde boy, who was just now joining them. "I haven¡¯t thanked you yet. Why are you helping us?"


    The boy grinned cockily as he ducked behind the upended truck. "You guys are strong. I¡¯ve got an eye for it. If I stick with you, I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ll make it to the end no problem."


    "Interesting. Opportunism, then?" the young man chuckled, extending a hand. "Your eyes don¡¯t match your words, though. I¡¯m¡­ Nigen Rush, I suppose..."


    Mariana giggled.


    "...yourself?" Nigen continued, ignoring the interruption.


    The boy accepted the handshake. "Baltay Kojirough," he said gruffly. "Nice to meet ya."


    *


    "You¡¯re showing me this, aren¡¯t you?" Muzazi muttered to the specter he knew must be right behind him. "But why?"


    There was no answer, as expected, but Muzazi was beginning to understand it.


    The hallucinations of Nigen Rush he¡¯d been experiencing were not produced by his own mind, but rather were the result of an Aether ability. Perhaps it had been a posthumous ability belonging to Rush himself, or to another third party, but regardless it had latched on to Muzazi somehow, transmitting a part of Rush¡¯s recorded consciousness.


    That was why Muzazi could experience those memories. That was why Muzazi could access that technique. Doubtless it was what was interfering with his own memories, too. A mind could only hold so much, after all.


    He had to get himself out of this situation and somehow exorcise the ability before he was overtaken. But getting out of this situation was easier said than done.


    The arena was barely recognisable. The stands had been smashed to bits. The sand of the fighting zone itself had been scattered, revealing the metal floor deep beneath. The lights on the ceiling had mostly been destroyed, leaving only a single source of illumination -- and even that was flickering weakly. The clash of blades between Atoy Muzazi and Mariana pan Helios had so far encompassed nearly a hundred strikes on each side, and their environment had paid the price for it.


    Clang.


    Muzazi repelled a blow that would have sliced into his eyes. His jaw was set and his gaze firm. His hands were bleeding from the flies that had eaten their fill, and superficial blows from Mariana had left their thin marks on his body. Some had even cut at his dark hair, leaving it strangely lopsided.


    Mariana wasn¡¯t much better. He¡¯d delivered wounds to her thrice now that would have been fatal for an ordinary combatant. He¡¯d cut off her head, he¡¯d punched a hole into her heart, and he¡¯d opened up her belly. None of it had deterred her in the least. She simply continued to advance, even as her entrails dragged behind her, leaving slick dark marks on the floor.


    The only thing for it was to destroy the head, then, as Muzazi had originally suspected. If nothing else, she was using it to sense him. Getting rid of it would make restraining her far easier, if that was the only way out of this.


    Swing, swing¡­


    The head swayed in Mariana¡¯s hand like a pendulum, suspended by its hair, eyes fixed directly on Muzazi. Thus far, Mariana had defended it far more diligently than her own body, but if he timed it right¡­ if he waited for the perfect moment, for the height of the swing¡­


    Swing, swing¡­


    Mariana came into range.


    Swing¡­


    There.


    Muzazi thrust Luminescence forward, aiming directly for the spot between the head¡¯s eyes -- just as Mariana had no doubt desired. In a single movement, she hurled the head up towards the ceiling -- putting it out of his reach -- and threw her body in the way of the blow instead. Muzazi tried to pull back, but momentum had already betrayed him.


    The blade struck perfectly and uselessly, running Mariana through by the heart and impaling her up to the hilt. Before Muzazi could pull Luminescence free, however, Mariana twisted her wounded body, forcing the sword out of his grip. He lunged to grab at it again -- to create a thruster that would bring it back to him at least -- but she leapt back, firmly out of his range, catching her head again on the way.


    Muzazi charged after her. He could not allow this new state of affairs to settle. Against an opponent like this, he could not be without a blade.


    Use a Radiant, he quietly told himself, but no -- he needed Luminescence.


    As Mariana landed, she pushed the hilt of Luminescence further and deeper into her chest, putting it out of Muzazi¡¯s grip -- and then, the second he came back into range, she let loose a devastating kick.


    He should have been able to dodge. He should have been able to dodge, but some strange feral desperation had stolen his focus and slowed his step. The leg struck him in the stomach like a shotgun blast, forcing him to double over and leaving him helpless as a sweep sent him down to the ground.


    Atoy Muzazi looked up just in time to see Mariana pan Helios bring her sword down --


    *


    The fields of the planet had always been beautiful. The boy had always thought that. Yellow reeds spread out in every direction, punctuated by majestic grasping trees, the farming settlements so tiny in comparison to what nature had built.


    The boy paused for a moment on his way to the usual spot, looking out over the expanse. Minutes stretched on -- unusual for him. He stood there for such a long time, in fact, that the person he¡¯d expected to be waiting for approached him instead.


    "Hi, Mariana," he said, gaze not breaking from the horizon.


    She followed his line of sight. "What are you looking at?" she asked.


    "Everything," he smiled sadly. "It¡¯s just¡­ you don¡¯t really think about it usually, do you? What we have here?"


    "What you have here, maybe," Mariana snorted, pulling the straps of her backpack tight. "All I¡¯ve got to look forward to is looking after the farm."


    "Is that so¡­" the boy blinked placidly.


    There was a moment of silence, interrupted as Mariana pulled the two wooden training swords out of her bag. She tossed one to him and he snatched it out of the air without looking. She grasped her own in one hand and got into a fighting stance, a cheeky grin on her face.


    "You gonna stand there writing poetry or whatever," she said. "Or we gonna do this?"


    He turned to her, holding his sword steadily in both hands. "Mariana. Can I ask you a question?"


    The smile dropped. "Uh, sure."


    "If I left this place¡­ if I went to become a Special Officer¡­ would you really come with me?"


    Mariana nodded. "Of course. Why do you keep asking me that?"


    "Why would you come with me?"


    Mariana paused, her sword freezing in the air. She glanced away. "Well, you¡¯re my friend¡­ I guess? I don¡¯t need a reason." It took her a second too long to answer.


    The boy smiled softly. "I see. Thank you."


    *


    -- and inexplicable words came to Muzazi¡¯s lips.


    "I think he would have forgiven you."


    The sword froze in the air, inches from Muzazi¡¯s face. Mariana¡¯s body stopped mid-writhe, one arm high up in the air. There was a purple light in the eyes of the head she held there -- and as Muzazi looked on, that light flickered out.


    All three -- sword, body and head -- dropped quietly to the ground, leaving Muzazi alone.


    The function room was already occupied by the time they got there. Morgan stiffened, a hand on his sheathed sword, as he realised what he was looking at.


    Gretchen Hail was lounging on a couch made from Ionir Yggdrasil¡¯s twisting branches, the Fell Beast himself standing quietly behind her. As the three of them -- Morgan, Baltay and the Heir -- arrived, Gretchen looked up from her repose, her eyebrows rising in surprise.


    "Hey there, guys," she called out. "Everything gone okay with the Heir?"


    The Supreme Heir herself looked up uncertainly at Baltay. She¡¯d been in the room when Morgan had explained everything -- laid out his evidence -- so she had just as much reason to fear Gretchen as anyone. Morgan put a protective hand on her shoulder, pushing her behind him.


    He glanced at Baltay. Fear wasn¡¯t exactly the word he¡¯d used to describe that face, though. Ever since Morgan had revealed Gretchen¡¯s deceptions, Baltay¡¯s expression had become a thing of harsh lines and a stark glare. A vision of utter fury. He¡¯d barely said a word on the whole way here.


    His hand, too, was gripping his sheathed sword.


    "Officer Hail," he said slowly, seemingly calmly, rage really threatening to break free from between his words. "I believe you were ordered to guard the engineering section."


    "Well¡­" Gretchen shrugged. "Well, you know. Things worked out different."


    Morgan could see it in her eyes. She knew the jig was up. Any excuses now would be little more than a farce.


    Baltay took a step forward, drawing his sword with a hiss of metal. "Were you perhaps too busy with your treason, Officer?"


    Hail frowned. "What are you talking about?"


    As Morgan stepped forward to join him, Baltay whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "You go for her left, I go for her right. Don¡¯t worry -- Ionir will not attack."


    He nodded -- and in the instant Gretchen pulled herself up off that couch, the two of them leapt forwa --


    Morgan stopped. S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He hadn¡¯t intended to stop. He¡¯d intended to move into Gretchen Hail¡¯s blind spot and strike her once and for all, but for some reason he¡¯d stopped. Pain was spreading out through his body. Was that the reason he¡¯d stopped? Why had he stopped?


    Morgan Nacht looked down, and in that moment he understood.


    The blade of the sword called Leviathan was protruding from his stomach. He¡¯d been run through from behind. Stabbed in the back. A bitter chuckle rose to his lips. It seemed there weren¡¯t limits to paranoia.


    "I¡¯d like to thank you for all your hard work," he heard Baltay say from behind him, sounding genuinely sorrowful. "Nigen appreciates that kind of diligence in the Seven Blades, too."


    And then, before Morgan could reply, the blade was torn out of him.

 Chapter 268:10.11: Adherent of the Unlit Sun

    Morgan Nacht gasped for breath as he lay on the floor, a pool of blood slowly spreading out below him. He could feel the warmth of it soaking into his clothes, matching the burning agony of the wound through his body. It was all he could do just to keep breathing, and yet each breath was bringing more and more pain.


    "Jeez, Baltay," he heard Gretchen say. "You didn¡¯t have to do him like that."


    "It was the most effective way of doing it. How¡¯re things going with the corpse? Is it done?"


    Morgan moved his head to look up, to get as much of a view of this situation as he could. He saw Gretchen, sitting back down on that wooden couch, holding a script up. Behind her, Ionir Yggdrasil just continued to stand impassively.


    Of course, Morgan thought bitterly. Baltay probably told him not to interfere before we even got here.


    He couldn¡¯t believe how stupid he had been. Just because Gretchen was involved in all of this didn¡¯t mean Baltay wasn¡¯t. From the looks of things, she was acting on his orders. She¡¯d been the obvious culprit, diverting his attention, while Baltay made preparations elsewhere. Had they arranged that after Morgan had first confronted Baltay in the corridor?


    Morgan still didn¡¯t understand why exactly Baltay had killed the false Heir, if this whole thing was his plan, but he couldn¡¯t ignore the evidence pouring out of him.


    Gretchen was talking. "He killed it just a minute or so ago. I was surprised, y¡¯know? She was kicking his ass, then he said something and she just fell down. He got some kind of killing ability through words or something?"


    "No," Baltay said quietly. "But it would have been impossible for anyone else. That corpse was stronger than she herself was in life."


    Gretchen nodded down towards Morgan. "Guy¡¯s still alive, you know."


    Shit.


    Morgan gasped in pain as he felt Baltay press a boot down on his wounded back, forcing him against the floor. From this position, he couldn¡¯t exactly see, but he had no doubt that Baltay was holding that toxic sword up high, ready to finish him off. He needn¡¯t have bothered -- even without the bleeding, Morgan could feel the poisonous muzhang infecting him, draining him of energy and scrambling his senses. Distinct nausea was crawling up out of his throat.


    Even so, though, the expected coup de grace never came. Instead, he heard metal hiss as Baltay sheathed his sword once more.


    "He¡¯ll fight you harder if he thinks he can help someone," Baltay said seriously. "Keep Nacht alive until he shows up. Is he on his way?"


    "Should have had the same bright idea as this one," Gretchen nodded. "What should I tell him?"


    The pressure of Baltay¡¯s boot was lifted from Morgan¡¯s back. "The truth. I¡¯ll be waiting for him in my quarters. If things get too rough here, have Ionir Yggdrasil cover your retreat. He¡¯ll pursue me, not you."


    "Roger, roger."


    With that, Morgan heard Baltay¡¯s footsteps -- footsteps quickly growing quieter as the commander of the Seven Blades left the room. Gritting his teeth, Morgan mustered all the strength he had left and spat through his pain: "Why?"


    The footsteps stopped.


    Baltay answered readily. "You know about Gretchen¡¯s involvement with the Kingmakers -- it¡¯d be bad for me if you were to keep living. It isn¡¯t anything personal, if that¡¯s any consolation. I like you well enough."


    Even with his fading consciousness, and a body that was slowly but steadily betraying him, Morgan could tell that the words Baltay was speaking were nothing but the truth. A liar always recognised another liar, and in this case Morgan did not. It really wasn¡¯t anything personal -- as if that would console a dying man.


    "You killed Gustavo, too, didn¡¯t you¡­?" Morgan groaned, trying in vain to drag himself across the floor. "He figured it out¡­"


    "No," Baltay¡¯s voice was firm. "I killed Gustavo because I needed a spare spot. Nothing more."


    The footsteps resumed, and darkness claimed Morgan¡¯s mind. The last thing he saw was Ionir Yggdrasil, off on the other side of the room, slowly cocking his head.


    Aclima clutched her hands to her chest, backing up rapidly as Baltay approached. The person she¡¯d thought of as one of her primary protectors was unrecognizable. The assuring gaze he¡¯d always offered her now seemed glossy and false -- like the eyes of a painting.


    He looked down at her. It wasn¡¯t that she saw a spark of malice in his eyes, or anything like that. No, quite the opposite. There was no spark in his eyes. Just an utter absence, like whatever had once been there had shriveled and died long ago.


    How could she have not seen that before?


    "Supreme Heir," Baltay said calmly, extending an arm down to her. "If you¡¯d accompany me?"


    Aclima looked down at the hand like it was some kind of explosive. "What are you doing?" she whispered, horror tinting her tone. "What have you done?"


    Baltay sighed. "This must be very confusing for you," he said. "But please rest assured -- everything I am doing now, and have done until now, has been for your sake. I am not your enemy, dear girl."


    She looked down at Morgan Nacht, laying face down on the floor, a puddle of blood spreading out around him. "You killed him," she hissed, shaking.


    The calm certainty in Baltay¡¯s voice didn¡¯t change in the slightest. "Right now, the Seven Blades are most heavily connected to Paradise Charon, the Second Contender," he explained patiently. "But Mr. Nacht had strong ties to the Fourth Contender, Wu Ming. If he lived, he could have passed along information regarding our activities here. I just couldn¡¯t risk it. Do you understand?"


    Gretchen, calling out from behind Baltay, seemed less reasonable. "Just knock her out!" she cried. "It¡¯ll be easier, y¡¯know?"


    Baltay sighed heavily, taking off his hat with one hand and scratching his hair with the other. For a good long moment he was silent, and Aclima feared that he¡¯d suddenly lash out and follow Gretchen¡¯s advice. Finally, though, he spoke.


    "When all is said and done," he said soothingly. "And I¡¯ve explained everything, you will understand why it was necessary. I daresay you¡¯ll even agree with me. Until then, can you please just be quiet and do as I say?"


    A protest almost rose to Aclima¡¯s lips, but before she could speak a green glow shone into her eyes. She squinted. The illumination from the lights above had reflected off of Baltay¡¯s Leviathan and right into her face. She had no idea if that had been intentional or not, but a single glance at that emerald blade was enough to shut her up. She¡¯d seen what it could do.


    A strong person would have told Baltay to shove it. A strong person would have forced her way past him. A strong person would have helped the person on the ground.


    Aclima turned and allowed Baltay to lead her away, silently weeping as they left the room.


    I really am the worst.


    The area of space that the Child Garden was passing through was the site of one of the final battles of the war against the Great Chain, a mercantile government that had once controlled much of the galaxy¡¯s commerce. To call it a war may be too generous: what with the numerous betrayals of greedy corporate allies, and the brutality of the Supremacy¡¯s forces, it really didn¡¯t last too long at all. All that remained of that great nation now were debris fields like this, and those that now called themselves the Lesser Chain -- officials who had fled to the UAP.


    The Child Garden drifted past torn-open cruisers and blasted chunks of fighters, pieces of scrap and metal bouncing off its hull. The exterior cameras were deactivated. This was not because of the disruption field.


    It was because of the small ship approaching.


    The vessel was jet-black and sleek, barely the size of a car, yet still big enough for the Child Garden¡¯s secondary sensors to pick up. They did not do so. This was, again, not because of the disruption field.


    It was because the pilot of this craft did not want to be seen.


    As it approached the Child Garden, the hangar doors opened to allow it entrance, as though it were a honored guest. Usually, docking with the Child Garden would require any number of access codes and identity confirmation, yet these measures did not seem to activate as the ship made its landing. The automatic guards stationed at the hangar, bulky models with bodies like refrigerators, went limp and deactivated as the doors to the small ship slid open.


    The occupant made their way out, their stride unbreaking, their destination clear.


    Someone has come for you.


    Hans Allier opened his eyes, an easy grin slipping over his face. His ability had sensed something. Some freak of the hull, maybe, or a distant thump of a ship landing. Enough to tell him now how things would play out.


    Finally. He¡¯d been waiting for ages.


    To begin with, it was bullshit that Gretchen Hail hadn¡¯t just broken him out in the first place. He¡¯d gone out of his way to test the Fusion Tools for her, sacrificed his best buddy Victor Yun, and this was how she repaid him? Unbelievable. Once he got back to his real sponsors, he¡¯d have to make a request for her assassination.


    The person coming for you is your real sponsor.


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Hans¡¯ grin widened. Nice, nice, nice. He¡¯d known things would shake out his way eventually, but it was still nice to have it confirmed. He had a policy, after all. This cat didn¡¯t do a thing without certainty.


    He heard the automatic guards outside blare something, only to be cut off mid-sentence, deactivated. A second later, the doors slid open, and the person who¡¯s gotten him out of prison entered the room. Hans laughed uproariously.


    She was wearing a black coat and pants, clearly aiming for some kind of camouflage in this blackout, a beret perched atop her pale blue hair. Cogitant eyes regarded him warily, looking him up and down, no doubt surprised by how much the Fusion Tool had changed his form. She slipped the script she was holding into her pocket as she approached the glass, two security drones bobbing over her shoulders.


    His real sponsor: Noel Edmunds, the contact from Darkstar.


    The young Cogitant girl plunged her hands into her pockets as she regarded him. "That you, Allier?" she asked calmly, cocking her head. "You look different."


    "I told you about these Fusion Tool things, right, sweetie?" Hans grinned easily. "Sent you a whole message about it. They make you look pretty wacky, huh? I don¡¯t even --"


    You will be killed in the next few minutes.


    "-- b-bleed like this¡­" Hans spluttered, trailing off.


    Noel¡¯s cold stare did not change in the slightest. "Something wrong?" she asked, her voice dull and droll.


    Huh? What the hell? No. That wasn¡¯t how these things went. Hell no. This little bitch was going to kill him? Take him out? Haha, haha, no. He wasn¡¯t the kind of guy who went out like that. No way, no how. He¡¯d show her.


    "I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a good idea," he said slowly, forcing calm onto his words. "You know?"


    Noel raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "What do you mean?"


    "Getting rid of me. Silencing me, yeah? That¡¯s why you showed up here, huh? Thinking I might squeal? Like a fucking rat? It¡¯s a bad play. Bad move on your part."


    "How¡¯s that?"


    The script came back out of Noel¡¯s pocket, and she looked distractedly down at it as she spoke. Hot rage flared through Hans¡¯ skull. This little fucking brat. She wasn¡¯t even paying attention to him. He heard beeps and boops as she played a game, tapping her finger against the screen.


    "I¡¯m not the only free bird flying around, missy," Hans growled. "You remember Nin, huh? These bastards didn¡¯t get her. She¡¯s running around with all those dirty little secrets of yours. I¡¯m the only one who can lead you to her. Still think you can get rid of me?"


    Noel glanced up from her script. "We already found her," she said. "She bled out in the jungle on Ipsum. Sad, huh?"


    Hans¡¯ mouth just opened and closed silently for a few moments -- like a goldfish -- before he tried again. "You really want people to know what you guys are doing? You kill me now, in a secure facility, you¡¯re pretty much saying that Darkstar¡¯s behind all this. I¡¯m guessing your bosses want you to keep this quiet, right? Well, baby, you kill me -- it¡¯s gonna be loud."


    Noel yawned. "Gross," she said. "But it doesn¡¯t matter. They killed the terminal already, so they¡¯ll know it was us. Smith doesn¡¯t really mind. This was a longshot anyway."


    Hans swallowed. "What?" he hissed. "You¡¯re just gonna -- just gonna give up? Just like that? Seriously?!"


    "Seriously," Noel sighed, putting her script away. "Anyway, if that¡¯s all you¡¯ve got, then¡­"


    "No!" Hans cried, his voice bouncing off the walls as he strained against his restraints. "No, no no, you can¡¯t. You need me -- for what¡¯s coming."


    Noel said nothing.


    "There is something coming, ain¡¯t there?" Hans pressed on. "Darkstar¡¯s been busy -- busier than usual, I¡¯ve done my research. That stuff on Nocturnus, the murders, and now this little try for the Supreme Heir? You guys are gearing up for something -- and it¡¯s gonna happen soon, right?"


    Noel glanced away. "Darkstar awaits the return of its King," she murmured.


    She doesn¡¯t really think that, his power told him. Good, good. Leverage. The information was flowing again. He could do this.


    "Yes! Yes!" Hans shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "And a king needs soldiers! He needs powerful soldiers, people who can advise him, right? My ability?! there¡¯s nothing better than that! This King -- he¡¯ll want me! Just think!"


    His power told him the thing he¡¯d most wanted to hear.


    Noel Edmunds will not kill you.


    A delirious grin returned to his face as he panted for breath.


    There is someone else behind you.


    The grin didn¡¯t even have time to fall from his face. He turned his head as much as his restraints would allow him, horror crackling in his throat. The heat of terror lingered against his eyeballs.


    Behind him, something was bleeding through the wall, overwriting it like the chamber had been an illusion all along. A mass of writhing dark tentacles, framing the gargantuan head of an old man, the face stretched into an exaggeratedly kind smile. It chuckled, it¡¯s voice disconcertedly ordinary.


    Hans gaped. Against this, even he was robbed of words.


    "Don¡¯t play around, Smith," he heard Noel say. "Just do it."


    The massive head -- Smith -- chuckled. Despite his bizarre size and obvious inhumanity, he had an unsettling grandfatherly quality to him. Hans found that he was shaking violently. What the hell was this? Was it even a person?!


    His power dutifully answered him.


    Not human, it said. Never human.


    "Wait!" Hans shouted. He never said anything else.


    In an instant, those black tendrils had seized him, tearing him free of his restraints and crushing the remains of his limbs in their cruel embrace. He was pulled into the old man¡¯s open mouth, beyond which lay only a black void, and he screamed and screamed. As he was submerged in the void, he could feel his flesh melting, feel everything that was him becoming part of something else -- and even through the agony, his ability was still reassuring him that he would not die, he would not die, that he was right: that Darkstar still had need of him, he would continue to live but in another format, in an intolerable format.


    Hans Allier started screaming, and never really stopped.


    Atoy Muzazi had seen better days. His clothes were in ruins, his body covered in wounds, and exhaustion swam behind his eyes. Even with all that, though, the sword held in his hands didn¡¯t so much as shake. Luminescence¡¯s dominance was immutable.


    He took in the sight before him. Morgan Nacht, laying face down in a puddle of his own blood. Gretchen Hail, lounging on a sofa of twisted branches, making no move to help. Ionir Yggdrasil, standing by, his roots spreading out and covering the walls.


    It wasn¡¯t difficult to work out what had happened here, but it was only right to seek confirmation.


    "What is this?" he asked, voice low.


    Gretchen looked up at him, a smirk playing across her lips. The warmth with which she¡¯d greeted him aboard the Child Garden had disappeared entirely, replaced by something malicious and mocking. It should have stung, but it really didn¡¯t. Atoy Muzazi had already grown used to betrayal.


    "Kojirough wants to talk to you," she said, scratching her hair. "Can you head over to his room? Thanks."


    Muzazi took a step forward, pointing his sword at Morgan¡¯s prone body.


    "I said," he hissed dangerously. "What is this?"


    Gretchen¡¯s smirk disappeared. "These things happen, y¡¯know? It¡¯s the Supremacy, man. You gotta expect this kind of stuff. It¡¯s survival of the fittest. He was stupid, so he got tricked."


    "Stand up," Muzazi demanded, glaring down at her.


    Gretchen rolled her eyes. "I don¡¯t wanna stand up," she said, getting comfortable.


    "Fight me." S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She yawned. "I don¡¯t wanna fight you."


    Muzazi took another step forward, Luminescence clutched in a combat stance, his teeth pressing together so hard it felt as if they¡¯d explode out of his mouth. "Your desires are irrelevant," he snarled. "The moment you betrayed a comrade, you made yourself my enemy!"


    A shift in the air. The smirk returned to Gretchen¡¯s face, and as she shifted in her seat Muzazi saw she was clutching something behind her back. A golden crossbow. An Aether Armament.


    Around you, warned Nigen Rush.


    Muzazi leapt back -- and it was a good thing he did, for six arrows immediately speared into the spot he¡¯d just been standing. They were the same as the ones that had attacked him in the bathroom, long and golden as the crossbow that had fired them, and each had come from a different direction. Gretchen must have fired them before he¡¯d even entered, and had them waiting on standby.


    "Sorry, guy," Gretchen cracked her neck, sitting up. "Playing fair is for chumps. You can¡¯t really blame me, y¡¯know?"


    "No, I can¡¯t," Muzazi snorted, his gaze fixed on the arrows as they pulled themselves out of the floor and reoriented themselves to face him again. "But I can still punish you for it."


    "Oh," Gretchen grinned. "He¡¯s got jokes. God¡¯s Pursuit."


    The arrows came for him in a hail, points gleaming in the light. Muzazi blasted upwards with his thrusters, deflecting the arrows with his sword as they struck again and again and again. As he came back down, he accelerated, aiming right for Gretchen -- Luminescence raised high above his head. The arrows were right behind him, but he was just slightly faster.


    Gretchen just held her free arm up.


    "Aegis Imperious," she said, burning Aether crawling over her arm -- and a moment later, the limb was encased in a black metal bracer, like something stripped from plate armour. Another Aether Armament.


    Muzazi¡¯s strike was deflected -- not by the bracer, but instead the space in front of it, as if there was an invisible barrier there. He blasted off to the side, arrows still pursuing him as he escaped Gretchen¡¯s melee range.


    "No matter how many tricks you think you¡¯ve got," Gretchen called after him. "I¡¯ve got more! Let me show you. Luminescence."


    Before Muzazi could even register what she¡¯d said, the light in his blade died, turning it grey and cold.


    Then the pain began.


    A high-pitched screeching, intolerable even through his Aether, radiating out from his rapidly vibrating blade. Despite his best efforts, it was not something Muzazi could ensure. He found himself falling to the ground, thrusters sputtering out as he rolled into an undignified heal, the screaming sword still clutched in his hand.


    Toss it away! he urged himself. Quickly -- get rid of it!


    But no. He could never do that. He could never do that to Luminescence.


    Gretchen finally stood up from the couch, looking victorious. "Well, this isn¡¯t exactly how Baltay wanted you to go out, but he¡¯ll just have to deal with it. You really thought I wouldn¡¯t leave a failsafe in that sword I gave you? You¡¯re a little too trusting, y¡¯know?"


    Shaking, Muzazi tried to pick himself up -- but no, the screech was too much. It was like something was eating its way into his brain. He fell back to the ground, wheezing.


    The arrows were upon him.


    "Well," Gretchen clapped her hands together. "See ya!"


    Muzazi heard the arrows hit -- but he felt no pain, no matter how long he waited. Confused, he looked up from the floor. Even when he did, though, he didn¡¯t quite understand what he was seeing.


    Ionir Yggdrasil was standing above him, facing Gretchen, one thick arm held off to the side. Each of the six arrows were embedded into that arm, and as Muzazi watched they sunk deeper and deeper, bending and breaking, like they were being consumed by the Fell Beast.


    Gretchen narrowed her eyes. "Not such a loyal dog after all, huh?" she spat.


    Ionir Yggdrasil, for his part, simply growled¡­


    ¡­and charged.

 Chapter 269:10.12: The Ribbon of Time

    THAT ONE OF BLADES looked down at the corpse of the little traitor girl.


    She was maybe eight or nine, lying face-down in the dirt, her dress made ragged by branches and stained by mud. The hole in her throat that THAT ONE OF BLADES had opened was still oozing sap. If she was not already dead, she would be soon. THAT ONE OF BLADES did not know how it felt about that.


    This was the distant past, of course, but it was also happening now. To a Fell Beast like IONIR YGDRASSIL, there was little distinction between memories and the present. Both of them existed within it in perfect detail. It folded back the span of years and existed as it had back then, during the rising.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES had killed this girl. She had burst out of the brush, doubtless fleeing from other Fell Beasts through the simpleton forest, and had run right into THAT ONE OF BLADES. It had speared a branch right through her neck, almost on reflex, before she could even scream.


    Why had it done that?


    It was a thing that had to be done, its soul said, full of bitter malice. For a slave to strike it¡¯s master? Unforgivable. To wipe them out entirely?! Grounds for extermination. None can be spared.


    The soul spoke in a different voice than THAT ONE OF BLADES, the voice of an old man, but that was only natural. The Fell Beasts had been created by the Gene Noble Zenobia, the Arboreal Guru, and his genocidal will lingered on in them. He, long dead, had made them out of spite, designed to strike back at the galaxy centuries after the extinction of the Gene Nobility.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES did not feel any particular way about that. It had been made for a purpose, and so it was only right for it to fulfill that purpose. It was bound by promises, after all.


    Sound. A bellow from THAT ONE OF THOUGHT, encoded with a detailed battle plan for the other traitor settlements.


    It wasted no time. Orders were received and understood. The Fell Beast shifted form, becoming a sinewy mass of vines and leaves, tendrils pulling it along by the simpleton trees, swinging with more speed and grace than any monkey. It would be at the designated location within minutes. Once there, it would kill, and would then advance to the next location to kill.


    This was existence. This was life. Once all the traitors were dead, there would be time for further contemplation, but for the moment nothing existed save for the killing.


    Time unwound.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES was planted in a great jungle, on another world, surrounded by brethren and simpletons. They had expanded themselves, becoming great sturdy trees, their roots intertwining as they exchanged information. THAT ONE OF BLADES watched the devastation of the human city from a thousand different viewpoints. With the current state of affairs, that likely would be their last attack.


    It had no opinion on the matter. This was a thing that had to happen.


    How many have you killed? THAT ONE OF SHADOWS asked with the slightest trace of pride. I have killed two-hundred and ninety-five traitors. Have you killed less, or more?


    THAT ONE OF BLADES responded. I do not count these things. Why do you? It is unnecessary and extraneous.


    Have you killed less or more, though? THAT ONE OF SHADOWS persisted. I would like to know how many traitors you have killed. I have killed many.


    It was strange, given that they¡¯d all been the same at waking, to realize that the Fell Beasts had become so different from one another. The pride and bloodlust that emanated from THAT ONE OF SHADOWS was something entirely new. Perhaps this misplaced individuality was why the Fell Beasts were now on the verge of destruction.


    We will all die soon. There is no point in counting. THAT ONE OF BLADES replied gruffly.


    A tree could not scoff, but the intent was still communicated clearly. I am not the sort of thing that dies. I will continue to live forever and kill more and more traitors. Do you think that I will die? You are an idiotic one. I dislike you heavily now.


    That was clearly not the answer that THAT ONE OF SHADOWS had desired, but THAT ONE OF BLADES had no mind to give another. It was focused on other matters: on their impending extinction. When they had left the bunkers, there had been thousands of their brethren by their sides. When they had arrived on this planet, there had been hundreds. When they had attacked the settlement, there had been dozens.


    And now they were four.


    The element of surprise had given them victories in the beginning, but the might of these traitors was far beyond what they¡¯d expected. Their greater thinkers had been able to discover the Wisdom the enemy used as a power source, but understanding their strength did nothing to reduce it. THAT ONE OF BLADES recalled the sight of the traitor leader: a giant of a man in a cape and loincloth, holding over his head a weathered sword that could devour a world.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES had not understood terror before that moment.


    What will happen when we die? asked THAT ONE OF CRAWLING, always the most fearful of them. Will there perhaps be an afterlife? Are you aware?


    I will not die, sneered THAT ONE OF SHADOWS. You are a stupid one to ask this. Why are you so awful? I dislike your question.


    There was a mighty creak as THAT ONE OF CONTEMPLATION, forming the relay for their conversation, shifted its bulk. THAT ONE OF BLADES felt itself come under the commander¡¯s attention.


    You are distracted, it said, only to it. You are uneasy. Why?


    THAT ONE OF BLADES answered: Because we will soon die.


    Yes. We will soon die. It is not a terrible thing, though.


    How is dying not a terrible thing? THAT ONE OF BLADES asked, confused. We will cease to exist. There is nothing worse.


    We will not cease to exist, said THAT ONE OF CONTEMPLATION -- and for a moment, there was concern that the commander had grown as delusional as THAT ONE OF SHADOWS, before it elaborated: We are alive now. All we must do is remember the times when we were alive.


    The memories will vanish.


    No, THAT ONE OF CONTEMPLATION said firmly. They will not. I must ask something of you, as you are the strongest that remains. I must¡­ extract something from you.


    What?


    A promise.


    Time shuffled forward, dancing and unhinged. Flashes of combat, wood striking wood, vine strangling vine, fire pouring over such vulnerable forms. Four Fell Beasts had gone into that clearing -- but only one remained. THAT ONE OF BLADES had destroyed the others with its own hands.


    It had promised, after all.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES was found by the traitor warrior that had pursued them so far -- the golden swordsman, who had slain the most ferocious among them with but a flurry of slashes. The Fell Beast came to understand fear once again as the swordsman stepped out of the undergrowth, his sword drawn. The golden visor flicked around as he took in the scene of devastation. Three Fell Beasts destroyed, and one still living.


    The gaze returned to THAT ONE OF BLADES.


    "You did this?" the traitor quietly asked.


    It knew the gestures that the traitors used to communicate. It nodded. The visor continued to flick around, inspecting the space, clearly anticipating some kind of ambush. Wise. THAT ONE OF BLADES would have expected the same thing.


    Finally, though, the traitor seemed satisfied that he would not be killed. "Why?" he asked -- and again, his voice was so quiet.


    THAT ONE OF CONTEMPLATION had emphasized this. This was the most important thing. If THAT ONE OF BLADES could not do this, then all was lost. If THAT ONE OF BLADES could not do this, there was no reason they had ever lived at all.


    It was difficult to dumb down its communication to such a degree, but THAT ONE OF BLADES managed it. With one wooden finger, it sketched out words in the dirt beneath it. The traitor watched, engrossed, and read:


    I WANT TO LIVE


    "Is that the truth?" the swordsman said.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES nodded deceitfully. After what it had just been forced to do, the idea of living longer did not hold too much personal appeal to it -- but it was necessary. It understood more than anything that it was necessary.


    Dread crawled through its consciousness as it looked up, awaiting a response. The swordsman knew that it was lying. Instinctively, accurately, it understood that. This traitor knew that this was a deception: that THAT ONE OF BLADES pursued its own agenda in doing this. All the same, though, the swordsman sighed -- and, with surprising strength, pulled THAT ONE OF BLADES up to its feet.


    "If that¡¯s the case, then," the swordsman said. "There¡¯s much for us to do."


    The ribbon of time was pulled, and past became present.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL swung through the function room, avoiding the blasts GretchenHail was firing from her bracer. It understood the function of her armament well: it froze space in an area that she designated, and she could use that ability to form a barrel of sorts to compress and fire air. It was capable, then, of both attack and defense.


    Even understanding that, though, IONIR YGDRASSIL could not stop moving. As the bracer fired in a straight line, the golden arrows tracked its movements, creating a dual attack. Its arms had stretched out into vibrant green vines, enhancing its mobility, but that was the most it could adjust its shape -- anything further would enter the realm of the monstrous.


    Frustratingly, it was bound by promises.


    ATOY MUZAZI took advantage of the opening IONIR YGDRASSIL had created, charging in and striking at GretchenHail -- but she simply created another barrier, repelling his attack. The screeching of his sword had stopped: one of IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s vines had wrapped around the blade, holding it still. Half of the arrows pursuing IONIR YGDRASSIL broke off and pursued ATOY MUZAZI instead, distracting him as he was forced to repeatedly bat them away from himself.


    GretchenHail held her arm out and burning orange Wisdom ran along it, coalescing into yet another Armament -- a twinsided hammer, with sparks of electricity dancing along the handle. She waved it, and the floor tiles around her turned a bright yellow -- some kind of boobytrap, perhaps? If they made contact with the floor, would they be harmed? It was difficult to say.


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    At any rate, IONIR YGDRASSIL understood the path this battle was taking. GretchenHail had far greater versatility than either of her opponents. If the current state of things continued, she would win without a doubt.


    The ribbon of time reeled back, and THAT ONE OF BLADES saw a battle from long ago. Roughly halfway through the rising, as the ranks of the Fell Beasts had marched upon the final settlement of their waking planet. Towers burning and houses reduced to rubble, the sounds of screaming, the slick puddles of sap. Back then, THAT ONE OF BLADES had been surrounded by others of its kind, taking different forms depending on need. Some were small enough to crawl under door frames, and others seemed as big as the sky.


    To the people of that city, it must have been a nightmare come to life. For THAT ONE OF BLADES, back then, it had been nothing at all. The fulfillment of biological impulse.


    With one of those forms, it could end this fight in a moment¡­ but it was bound by promises.


    The ribbon danced once more, and time danced with it.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES, taking time to master the Wisdom it had come to understand from observing the traitors. Green sparks flowing across its body as it developed its single ability -- the extraction and preservation of memory from biological material. On some level, had it understood -- even then -- what would be required of it?


    The ribbon writhed.


    THAT ONE OF SHADOWS had fallen first. It was the practical thing to do -- it was a hostile thing anyway, and would have resisted if it had seen the attack coming. THAT ONE OF BLADES had injected it with the proper toxins at a moment of wavering concentration. THAT ONE OF CRAWLING had gone next, begging for its life, providing arguments for itself to be spared. It did not believe when it was told it would not die.


    Then, at last, there was only THAT ONE OF CONTEMPLATION. It did not resist. Why would it?


    Remember us, it commanded. That is your duty. Promise now.


    All of them were bound by promises.


    Yes, said THAT ONE OF BLADES.


    The ribbon twisted.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL looked down at the corpse of the little traitor girl. Time had turned it to forgotten bone, a skull protruding from the muck, but that was all that was needed. Tendrils snaked out from IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s feet.


    The ribbon writhed.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL landed behind ATOY MUZAZI and seized him by the collar, preventing him from charging at GretchenHail again. The swordsman looked up at it, bewildered. It was not surprising. No doubt he did not understand why IONIR YGDRASSIL was helping him in the first place, much less stopping him now.


    Gratitude was not a thing that IONIR YGDRASSIL could explain. As it turned one arm into a shield to block GretchenHail¡¯s incoming shots, it pointed to the open door with the other.


    ATOY MUZAZI furrowed his brow. "You want me to¡­ go on ahead?"


    As usual, his frank understanding was a virtue. IONIR YGDRASSIL nodded. It had no eyes, but its attention was locked entirely on ATOY MUZAZI¡¯s face, and perhaps he could feel that. He looked away, closing his eyes, and nodded before running for the door.


    "Don¡¯t die," the swordsman said.


    That was not something that was up to IONIR YGDRASSIL. Traitors really were foolish.


    "Bad play, Beast," called out Gretchen Hail from her firing position. "You could barely handle me two-versus-one. Do you realize you¡¯ve just signed your own death warrant? Hell, do you even understand what I¡¯m talking about?"


    Of course it understood. What a strange thing to say. On the other hand, it seemed that GretchenHail didn¡¯t understand. She didn¡¯t understand how promises worked.


    The positioning was all that mattered.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL charged.


    Blasts of air pelted its body, tearing free chunks of bark and arboreal sinew that flew off behind it. Still, it did not stop its advance. It could not. It was bound by promises. Even as GretchenHail blasted it again and again -- and even as arrows drilled into its back -- IONIR YGDRASSIL did not so much as pause. For the first time, uncertainty crossed the face of the adversary.


    Fiery orange Wisdom spread across GretchenHail¡¯s back. "Starsheet Oberon!" she cried out, and a void-black cloak appeared on her shoulders. A second later, it flared out into two solid sections, becoming a pair of massive fairy wings that elevated the traitor woman out of IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s range.


    The Fell Beast skidded to a halt, rumbling in annoyance.


    With GretchenHail being up there, right now, it would be difficult to get into the position that guaranteed victory. GretchenHail could just stay near the ceiling, firing down continuously until IONIR YGDRASSIL was defeated. It was not an aerial fighter -- it could use vines to get up there, too, but once there it had little confidence it would be able to act as needed.


    It dragged a finger across the ribbon of time.


    Remember us, THAT ONE OF CONTEMPLATION had said, so long ago. Remember each one of us that has fallen. Take our memories and remember on our behalf. There is little difference between a memory and the real thing. Find all of us that you can and store us deep inside, hide us, until the day a memory can become a reality again.


    THAT ONE OF BLADES had done as it was bidden. Each fallen Fell Beast it had found, it had extracted the memories of, crushing them down to as small a size as possible so as to ensure it never ran out of room. The consciousnesses of its people dwelled frozen in its mind, waiting for the promised day when they could live once more. But that was not all.


    The ribbon of time stretched back.


    Every dead thing it had ever seen. The child it had slain. The victims of the Fell Beasts that had littered the ruined cities. Every enemy it had ever vanquished, every comrade it had never saved. It had taken the memories of all of them, storing them in wait for the day where there would be no hatred.


    The only one that had gone uncollected was NIGEN RUSH -- but it supposed that made sense now.


    But this was not the time for that. Now was the time for victory.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL, THAT ONE OF BLADES, seized the ribbon of time and dragged it to where it was needed.


    The promise that had been made. It needed to be sure.


    In that past, IONIR YGDRASSIL and NIGEN RUSH had stood on this very ship, the Child Garden, looking out at the sea of stars. NIGEN RUSH had been quiet, as he always was when forced to say something he was uncomfortable with. Finally, though, the words that had stuck to his throat were released out into the world.


    "I must ask you something, my friend," NIGEN RUSH said quietly. "Something outrageous. May I?"


    IONIR YGDRASSIL swayed slightly, and NIGEN RUSH understood that for the affirmation it was. He continued.


    "There are¡­ figures in the Body and the military who are unhappy that I spared your life. That, on its own, I could deal with -- but they are keen to use the memory of the Fell Beasts as a way to besmirch your name. Humans cannot abide things that are unlike themselves."


    It would not be besmirching, for any accusation made would be true, but IONIR YGDRASSIL did not correct its superior.


    "I must ask you, then¡­" NIGEN RUSH took a deep breath. "I must propose that you refrain from taking on the form of a Fell Beast -- that you maintain the humanoid shape you have now. At the very least, that you do not assume a monstrous form in front of other people. If that is done, I think I can hold back their knives. Can you do that?"


    IONIR YGDRASSIL nodded.


    NIGEN RUSH looked up at it. "Can you promise?"


    A long pause. Then, another nod.


    "Thank you, my friend."


    That was all that was needed. It was confirmed. The route to victory was clear. IONIR YGDRASSIL shredded the ribbon of time between its hands and settled firmly in the present.


    With green Wisdom it launched itself upwards, legs becoming stilts for a moment before exploding from the force. IONIR YGDRASSIL flew towards GretchenHail like a bullet, its destination clear. With its vine-like arms, it latched onto the ceiling, pulling itself up even faster. It was little more than a blur.


    GretchenHail, still flying, held out her metal bracer and froze the space in front of her. A cocky smirk spread over her lips. No doubt she thought she had won, and ordinarily she would be right. If IONIR YGDRASSIL had been moving in the way she had anticipated, its body would have smashed against that impenetrable barrier and been destroyed.


    Which was why it did not move in the way she would anticipate.


    It flew right past her, striking the ceiling instead. For a split second, IONIR YGDRASSIL was outside of her range of vision.


    Do not assume a monstrous form in front of other people.


    That was the promise IONIR YGDRASSIL had made -- and it was bound by promises. Right now, however, the only other person here was GretchenHail.


    And it was behind her.


    The end of Gretchen Hail¡¯s human life proceeded in the following fashion: she looked behind her. She did not have the time to do anything else but that. She looked behind her, and she witnessed.


    The humanoid form that Ionir Yggdrasil had always previously assumed was gone. Instead, there was a great mound of bark and vine, sixteen legs -- each the width of an oak tree -- securing it to the ceiling like a great wooden spider. It grew even as Gretchen saw it, consuming nearly the entire ceiling, its shadow falling on the function room below.


    It was not done.


    The back of the thing tore open like a maw, revealing a veritable garden of plant life inside -- grass and branches, smaller trees and bushes -- and at the center of it all, a massive red flower, as if it were a great eye regarding Gretchen for the first time. She gaped at it, frozen for a moment, and that was no surprise: not a soul had seen something like this since the Fell Beast Incident.


    So, for that single fatal moment, all she could do was stare up at the eldritch beast.


    To describe what happened to Gretchen Hail next -- in detail -- would take far too long, and provide little benefit. All you really need to know is as follows:


    A massive vine slapped Gretchen out of the air, shattering every bone in her body. The crater she made was not much to look at.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL flowed down the ceiling, its form as fluid as its creators, yet somehow more vibrant. GretchenHail was utterly forgotten. Like a wreath, it crawled down the wall and across the floor before it reached the entity that now occupied its attention.


    It looked down at the little traitor boy.


    MorganNacht lay in that drying pool of his own blood, his skin deathly pale. He was not breathing. If he was not dead already, he was right on the verge of it. IONIR YGDRASSIL¡¯s tendrils snaked out to receive the memories that would serve as a testament to its comrade¡­


    ¡­but¡­


    ¡­it paused. Was this really all that could be done? Even if it had broken free of the commands that BaltayKojirough and GretchenHail had given it, was taking from the dead all that it could accomplish? There would always be corpses. Nothing had changed. Whether it made them or found them, nothing had changed.


    The tendril twitched uncertainly in the air. There was a way -- genetic memory bubbled up inside it -- but there were risks. If it went wrong, both of them would die -- and even if it succeeded, IONIR YGDRASSIL would be forever diminished. Was it willing to risk that? Risk the memories inside it, for a single person?


    What will you do? NIGEN RUSH asked, the sculpted memories rising up again.


    The proper thing would be to do as I have always done, IONIR YGDRASSIL replied. If I take his memories, there is the possibility that he can live again -- in another format, in another day.


    But would that truly be him? Memories are subjective. They twist with the telling. You understand, don¡¯t you? That these are not accurate records. I would not have said this.


    IONIR YGDRASSIL slowly nodded. Yes. I understand this.


    You understand that they are all dead? The truth was merciless.


    Yes. I¡­ understand this. They are all dead. This is a fact.


    Half-recollection, half-conscience, the thought process called NIGEN RUSH struck the blow. Then will you be the one to enact that fact, once again?


    IONIR YGDRASSIL shook its head. No. NO.


    NIGEN RUSH disappeared back into the vaults of memory, and IONIR YGDRASSIL adjusted the course of its tendrils, snaking them towards MorganNacht¡¯s open and toxic wounds. Sparks rained from the ceiling, the room damaged by the battle that had taken place. GretchenHail¡¯s blood slowly ran down the walls.


    And there, in the dim red light, two became one.


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 Chapter 270:10.13: Luminescence and Leviathan

    Atoy Muzazi could feel his heart hammering in his chest.


    He did not know why. He did not understand why. He¡¯d just left the battlefield, hadn¡¯t he? Running through these hallways by himself, what use did he have for anxiety? He forced it down, steeled himself, and kept running.


    He should not have left Ionir Yggdrasil. He felt that strongly. It wasn¡¯t as if he understood what the Fell Beast¡¯s intentions were, but it was clearly his ally. He should have stayed and finished the fight before moving on, but Yggdrasil had insisted. Muzazi glanced down at the vine wrapped around Luminescence¡¯s blade. The vibration of the metal seemed to have stopped now that he¡¯d achieved some distance from Gretchen Hail -- he tore free the vine.


    Now that he knew that Hail had planted traps within his sword, though, the safest thing to do would be to discard it. Even if it meant going unarmed, that was better than wielding a weapon that could betray you. But no -- he couldn¡¯t do that. He couldn¡¯t abandon Luminescence like that.


    Why not?


    Muzazi skidded to a halt, looking down at the sword in his hand. Yes. When you got down to it, this was just a sword, wasn¡¯t it? An inanimate object. Why was he so attached to the thing? Why did he refuse so ardently to leave it behind?


    Because it¡¯s yours, his own thoughts answered. It¡¯s the only thing you still have. Even Marie abandoned you in the end. There¡¯s no way you can throw it away. You can¡¯t throw it away. Don¡¯t even think about it.


    Right. Muzazi nodded. That made sense.


    At any rate, he didn¡¯t have time to worry about such things. Gretchen had said that Baltay Kojirough was waiting for him -- and judging by the fact that he hadn¡¯t seen her yet, it was a good bet that the Supreme Heir was with him.


    Was she somehow involved in this conspiracy? Muzazi found it hard to believe for a young girl of her disposition, but he¡¯d been wrong before. Memories of Dragan Hadrien, shooting him in the back atop the Heart Building, came to mind.


    He¡¯d know the truth soon for himself. He was right outside the room that held it now, after all.


    The hallway stretched on before him, the closed doors to Baltay¡¯s quarters like a vault at the end. The monitors covering the walls had been deactivated, leaving only an endless black void on either side. The ambient sounds, too, had ceased -- leaving only the tiniest ringing of the ears in anticipation of noise.


    Atoy Muzazi took a deep breath, and walked forward.


    As he did, he saw that he was not alone. In the black reflection of the deactivated monitors, he saw another figure walking behind him -- a figure in war-robes, wearing a familiar helmet. Of course. Nigen Rush.


    Muzazi stopped, and Rush did the same.


    "This is where you¡¯ve been leading me, isn¡¯t it?" Muzazi murmured. "This ability of yours, this specter¡­ you wanted me here, doing this, at this moment."


    Nigen Rush said nothing.


    "I don¡¯t know¡­ when your ability latched onto me," Muzazi went on. "No matter how hard I try, I can¡¯t think of when that might have been -- Panacea, maybe? Perhaps I can¡¯t remember because of your ability, though. I already know my memories are compromised. Once we¡¯re done here, will you repair that?"


    Nigen Rush said nothing.


    Muzazi looked ahead, to the cold doors that lead to fruition. He swallowed, throat dry. "This is vengeance, isn¡¯t it?"


    Nigen Rush said nothing.


    "Baltay Kojirough killed you¡­ but not the way the story goes. Not in a way that you could forgive. So you sent this ability out before you died, until it could find someone who¡¯d be able to get revenge for you. That¡¯s what you think I am. Maybe because we¡¯re similar. You want me to kill him for you. That¡¯s right¡­ isn¡¯t it?"


    Nigen Rush said nothing.


    Muzazi snorted. "Well, you don¡¯t need to say anything. I understand the way things are."


    He stepped forward, and placed a hand over the door panel.


    If you go in there, Nigen Rush warned. You¡¯ll die.


    "If I die," Muzazi answered firmly. "That just means I was insufficient."


    The doors slid open, revealing the chamber beyond. A huge room, closer in size to the Supreme Heir¡¯s quarters than Muzazi¡¯s, packed with all the facilities required to live a life. A kitchen, a training area, a bedroom, all spread out in an open plan. At the very center of the room, a jacuzzi of some sort was built into the floor, deactivated and cold.


    Muzazi wasn¡¯t interested in that, though. His eyes were fixed on the opposite side of the room.


    Baltay Kojirough stood there, hands clasped behind his back, looking out the wall-length window at the debris field outside. Skeletons of cruisers and the remains of shattered fighters drifted past as the Child Garden made its way through the final resting place of the Great Chain.


    "Do you ever wonder," Baltay asked, without looking at him. "How many people die in battles like this?"


    Muzazi¡¯s gaze flicked throughout the room. He spotted what he was looking for instantly -- the Supreme Heir, off in the corner closest to Kojirough, clasping her arm anxiously. It seemed she wasn¡¯t part of this, at least as appearances went.


    "Are you listening?" Baltay asked, looking over his shoulder. His eyes were dull and dark, like someone who¡¯d gone a night without sleep -- like someone who¡¯d gone every night without sleep.


    "I wouldn¡¯t know," Muzazi said truthfully. "I¡¯m not familiar with that battle."


    Baltay chuckled mirthlessly. "Liar," he spat, turning around. His hand gripped his sheathed sword with such strength that the knuckles turned white. "But it doesn¡¯t matter. I don¡¯t wonder about it either. There¡¯s no point. But it feels like I should. Sometimes, it¡¯s awful to realize you just don¡¯t care about some things. They were weak, so they died. It¡¯s sad that that¡¯s the way of things, but it is the way of things. Right?"


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "What about Gustavo Mordecai? Edward Grace? Mariana pan Helios? Morgan Nacht? Were they just weak too?"


    "Yes," Baltay said without blinking, taking a step forward. "They put themselves in positions where I could kill them, so they died. There¡¯s nothing else to it."


    The eyes that looked down at Muzazi were utterly empty, eerily tranquil in their icy blue. They were like Mariana pan Helios¡¯ -- the eyes of a corpse, no, perhaps even emptier than that. Despite their brightness, they seemed like pits, waiting to swallow Muzazi up as he looked deeper and deeper¡­


    Oh, Muzazi realized. The man is mad.


    He went to take another step forward, but the Heir¡¯s shrill voice cut through the tension. "Mr. Muzazi!" she shouted. "Don¡¯t! He¡¯s way too strong!"


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    Baltay¡¯s eyes flicked over to her, and there was a murderous glint to the blue there. "Can you stop talking, please?"


    That hushed her as surely as a hand over the mouth.


    "Can you believe it?" Baltay asked, waving a limp hand in the Heir¡¯s direction. "We¡¯re doing all this for her, and she goes and says something like that? It¡¯s just¡­ man."


    Baltay¡¯s demeanour seemed to have changed entirely, and the contrast was bizarre. It was like he was some kind of morose drunk, rambling about injustices in a quiet monotone. The only part of him that seemed focused was that hand gripping his sword.


    Muzazi did not understand the situation. It would be unwise to strike before he did. "How exactly are you doing this for her?" he demanded. "All this murder, all this betrayal? How?"


    Baltay¡¯s gaze was still fixed on the Heir, and it was almost as if he hadn¡¯t even heard Muzazi.


    "If I were like you," he muttered, looking at the young girl. "I¡¯d kill myself. I really do mean that. The idea of being so helpless -- it¡¯s unbearable to me. I can¡¯t imagine how it is for you. That¡¯s why I want to help you."


    The Supreme Heir, off in the corner, trembled violently, those cruel words as painful as any blade.


    "Watch your tongue," Muzazi snarled, drawing Luminescence back.


    Baltay smiled softly at the Heir. "The Kingmakers tested the Fusion Tools well. Gretchen¡¯s assured me. The next generation of Fusion Tools will be perfect -- capable of being used even by people without Aether, so long as they are prepared properly. Isn¡¯t that great, Aclima? You can finally be strong. You¡¯ll be Supreme yet."


    Muzazi took a cautious step forward, slowly closing the distance between them, even as he was very much aware that Baltay would spot it.


    "Ionir Yggdrasil has betrayed you," Muzazi spat. "The next generation of Fusion Tools? Your master craftswoman might be dead already, sir. There won¡¯t be a next generation."


    Baltay blinked. "That so?" he sighed, turning back to Muzazi, Cogitant-blue eyes glinting in the light. "Sorry to get your hopes up, then, Aclima. Looks like you¡¯ll keep being weak after all."


    He took a step forward, and Muzazi found himself stepping back, surrendering the space he¡¯d just taken. What was going on? Baltay Kojirough had gone so far for this scheme -- supplying the Kingmakers, sending the Blades after them, killing his own men -- and after being told it had failed, he just shrugged it off?


    It was like Baltay could read Muzazi¡¯s mind. He smiled as he strolled forward, as careless as could be.


    "It¡¯s fine that things didn¡¯t work out there," he said, drawing Leviathan from its sheath. "It¡¯s absolutely fine. For a while now, anyway, my real target has been you." A strange smirk twisted his face. "Atoy Muzazi."


    "Me?"


    "Yeah. You. I killed Gustavo Mordecai to open up a slot for you. I had Gretchen test you to see if you were ready. I sent you after the Kingmakers to make sure. And now¡­ I am sure."


    Muzazi gulped. "Sure of what¡­?"


    Baltay¡¯s smirk curled into a grin. "Sure it¡¯ll be a fair fight this time."


    He lunged -- with such fluid ferocity that it took all Muzazi had just to parry the blow. Sparks rained down as metal kissed metal three times, the last blow sending Muzazi skidding back across the floor from the sheer force. Baltay, still standing in the same spot, tossed his sword from hand to hand, breathing heavily.


    "That¡¯s good," he said. "That¡¯s very very good. Fantastic, even. I tried to kill you three times right there, and I couldn¡¯t do it. I couldn¡¯t even cut you. You really are the best."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes narrowed. That sword of Baltay¡¯s, Leviathan¡­ Muzazi had heard about it. When? It was made of a toxic substance, so even the slightest scratch could kill the opponent. If that wasn¡¯t bad enough, Baltay Kojirough¡¯s precognition meant he would predict any steps Muzazi took to defend or avoid. This was bad.


    "I have no wish to fight you, Kojirough," Muzazi said gruffly -- not truly expecting a response.


    He was surprised.


    Baltay¡¯s grin dropped, and his grip on his sword tightened greatly. His stare became a glare, eyes holding a deep repugnant anger that Muzazi couldn¡¯t comprehend. Hand shaking with rage, he pointed Leviathan at Muzazi.


    "Don¡¯t you talk to me like that," he growled. "Don¡¯t you do that again. We¡¯re fighting. We¡¯re fighting now."


    Something truly was wrong with Baltay Kojirough. Everything he said seemed to be growing less and less coherent as time went on, as if the man were losing hold of his own mind. Even with the hysterical tone to his voice, however, Muzazi could see from his footwork and stance that his combat skill was unblunted.


    Muzazi took a deep breath, holding his sword up. "Let¡¯s do this, Luminescence," he muttered.


    "Don¡¯t fail me, Leviathan," Baltay snarled.


    What happened next could not even be called a fight. It consisted of another three clashes, but each of them was so fast you¡¯d be forgiven if you thought it were just one. There was just the scream of metal, the thud of heavy footsteps, and finally¡­


    ¡­shattering.


    Whether it was through strength or skill, Baltay Kojirough had hit the perfect spot. At the touch of his blade, Luminescence broke once more into incoherent pieces, cascading down to the floor like pieces of glass. Muzazi could only watch in horror, the hilt still held in his hands, a headache slowly crawling into the back of his skull.


    Baltay did not take advantage of his unarmed opponent. Instead, he stared down at the wreckage of the ground, disgust pulling at his features.


    "Slow¡­" he muttered to the man who¡¯d become a blur. "No, no¡­ still way too slow¡­ this isn¡¯t right¡­ no, this isn¡¯t right at all¡­"


    Muzazi leapt back without even realising why.


    It was a good thing he did. Baltay swung at the spot he¡¯d just been standing with a horizontal slice that would have easily cut him in half. There was no more rage in Baltay¡¯s expression, though -- just a kind of calm inquisitiveness, like a scientist testing a hypothesis.


    "Your instincts are fine, though," he muttered to himself. "Was it the sword? Are you feeling better now? Still, still, this isn¡¯t a proper duel at all¡­ dammit¡­ no, no¡­"


    Muzazi clutched the hilt of Luminescence in one hand, and put the other to his temple. His head was killing him, like an insect was crawling through his brain. Bright spots lingered at the edge of his vision. Something was wrong with him, clearly, clearly.


    Still, at Baltay¡¯s careless words, he couldn¡¯t help but feel white hot rage.


    "A proper duel?" Muzazi said sternly. "Is that what you wanted, then? Someone to replace Nigen Rush, the man you murdered?"


    Baltay looked up at him, blinking in surprise.


    "You didn¡¯t kill him in a duel, did you?" Muzazi demanded. "You poisoned him, perhaps, or stabbed him in the back -- but you could never beat him. The victory tasted like ash in your mouth. And now you want to get rid of the last trace of him -- the ability that resides in me. That¡¯s right, isn¡¯t it, you fraud?!"


    Slowly, deathly slowly, Baltay cocked his head. A strange light twinkled in his eyes.


    "Replace¡­?" he whispered, voice echoing throughout the room. "Murdered¡­? Ability¡­?" He said each word as if Muzazi had just invented them.


    And then he laughed.


    The sound that bounced off the walls of the massive room was not one of aggression, hostility, or malice. Even as Baltay Kojirough threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed, Muzazi couldn¡¯t sense a trace of enmity from him. No, this sound -- this high-pitched, unhinged sound -- was the laughter of a man who was deranged. S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    This was the sound of a man who had broken himself.


    Baltay Kojirough stared, unblinking, and spoke.


    "Replace Nigen?" he laughed. "Murdered Nigen? Nigen¡¯s ability? You really don¡¯t remember yet, do you?"


    He opened his mouth to continue, and Muzazi spoke without realising -- interrupting him with a low whisper. "Don¡¯t¡­"


    Baltay ignored him, spoke, and broke the world.


    "You are Nigen Rush."

 Chapter 271:10.14: A Toy

    A Good While Ago¡­


    Baltay Kojirough looked on in horror, hand grasping at empty air, as Mariana pan Helios¡¯ body hit the floor. She¡¯d run her sword through her own chest, all the way through, the blade protruding from her back. Blood spilled freely over the floor, mingling with Nigen¡¯s.


    He screamed. It was a hoarse, desperate sound, bouncing off the walls of the training arena. This wasn¡¯t what was meant to have happened. He hadn¡¯t meant to kill him, never kill him -- just beat him, just show that they were equals, that they¡¯d always been equals.


    Two steps back, and then Baltay Kojirough emptied his stomach on the floor. How had things ended like this? This was¡­ this was a disgrace, this was¡­ no¡­


    His gaze drifted to the device in his hand, the trigger that had activated the toxic pellets he¡¯d slipped into Nigen¡¯s drink that morning. When Nigen¡¯s attacks had become overwhelming, he¡¯d clicked that trigger and¡­


    ¡­and¡­


    No, no, that wasn¡¯t what the device was. There was no way that was the purpose of the device. Baltay wouldn¡¯t have done such a thing. He wouldn¡¯t have betrayed his friend like that. He was an honourable warrior of the Supremacy. He was stronger than that, damnit. He didn¡¯t need to use cowardly tricks like that. That was a goddamn lie.


    And yet the thing was in his hand. He hurled it out of sight and memory, choosing to look instead at the sight of his victory. Yes, victory. He had to believe that. That was the most important thing. If he doubted himself, he was done.


    He¡¯d beaten Nigen Rush. He¡¯d beaten Nigen Rush in a fair duel. He was the best swordsman in the Supremacy. That was fact. That was undeniable fact. He wouldn¡¯t allow anyone to deny it.


    Baltay Kojirough told himself that again and again, in the cold room, so many times that he thought he¡¯d go crazy. In reality, of course, it was only a few seconds -- but that Cogitant brain of his was going into overdrive, desperately trying to pull Baltay¡¯s fracturing psyche back together.


    It didn¡¯t take. No matter how much he lied to himself, the truth remained unblemished in his memory. No matter how much he obscured the memory, the guilt continued to rest in his chest. No matter how much he ignored the guilt, he could feel the blood on his hands.


    Baltay fell to his knees, looking down at Leviathan. At some point, he¡¯d dropped the blade, and now its uneven green surface looked back up at him. The slightest scratch -- perhaps across the chest -- and death would be quick. Would that not be better than living with this?


    Slowly, with shaking hands, Baltay Kojirough reached out to pick up the sword --


    -- and Nigen Rush took the shortest, shallowest breath.


    Baltay gaped down at the body on the floor, at the blood dribbling from the mouth. He wasn¡¯t dead? How the hell? He¡¯d run the man through on his sword, his poison sword, and he was still breathing?! He hadn¡¯t even beaten him?! Baltay shook, pulled between frustration and panic¡­


    ¡­and an awful, awful idea began to crawl into his head.


    Present Day¡­


    Atoy Muzazi felt numb as he spoke.


    "That¡¯s a lie," he whispered, clutching the hilt of the destroyed Luminescence with all his might. "Shut your mouth."


    Baltay shook his head, looking down at him. "It isn¡¯t a lie. You are Nigen Rush. You just don¡¯t remember -- but that¡¯ll soon fix itself."


    Muzazi shook his head, stumbling back, his feet unsteady on the floor. "That isn¡¯t true!" he shouted. "His ability has infected me, true, but --"


    "There is no such ability." Baltay¡¯s voice was merciless and calm, each syllable like a dagger in Muzazi¡¯s heart. "You don¡¯t have any powers like that, Nigen. Everything you have, you devote to swinging the sword." S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Muzazi put a hand to his head -- it was killing him, it was killing him -- and gritted his teeth. "That is not my name!" he cried.


    "It is," Baltay said, walking forwards steadily, driving Muzazi back. "You were on the verge of death when I made the decision to save you, Nigen. My friends at the Absurd Weapons Lab were able to get you back on your feet, but you were little more than a hollow shell. You were no good like that. I needed my rival back. You were always the only one worthy of my consideration, Nigen."


    Muzazi went to take another step back -- and fell back, right into the cold jacuzzi in the middle of the floor. Spluttering for breath, he dragged himself out, water dripping from his hair and clothes. As he looked up at Baltay, standing on the edge of the installation, the other man seemed to tower above -- like a god looking down at his creation.


    "That¡¯s¡­ a lie¡­" Muzazi wheezed weakly.


    "In what way is it a lie?" Baltay¡¯s expression did not so much as twitch. "Do you perhaps have memories that conflict with what I¡¯m telling you?"


    Muzazi scrounged in his brain, reaching for the recollections that he knew would prove this man wrong, only to find¡­


    ¡­nothing.


    "I have a life," he insisted all the same. "I have a past. My name is Atoy Muzazi!"


    It did not ring true.


    Baltay¡¯s gaze was dark. "What past is that?" he said, relentless. "Tell me about it. What was your family like? Who were your friends? What were your fears, your hopes? What makes you cringe when you try to sleep at night? What brings a smile to your face from back then? Can you name even one thing?"


    He knelt down, looking Muzazi in the eye.


    "Anything you have, ¡¯Atoy Muzazi¡¯," he said quietly. "Is only what we gave you. When I saved you, you were little more than a puppet, a doll, a toy. Empty. Gretchen had to give you that damn sword just to give you some memories, some form of consciousness -- enough to stop your mind from caving in on itself, anyway."


    Muzazi shook his head frantically, the water clinging to him and making every movement heavy. Hollow breaths ran up and down his throat. He could feel a perilous burning at the back of his eyeballs.


    But no more words of denial could find their way to his lips. They were fruitless.


    Baltay lashed out with a hand, seizing Muzazi by the hair and pulling him halfway out of the water.


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    "I let you call yourself Atoy Muzazi. I let you go free, so you¡¯d be ready to take up your sword again, to finish our duel. I let you run around playing at being weak."


    The Cogitant¡¯s face was a mask of utter focus. The Cogitant¡¯s eyes stared with such intensity Muzazi almost felt like he¡¯d burst into flames. The Cogitant¡¯s mouth moved, and spoke more cruel and honest words.


    "But it¡¯s time to wake up now, Nigen."


    The pain in Muzazi¡¯s head reached a crescendo -- so much so that he couldn¡¯t even hear his own screaming. His vision flared red. His arms fell limp. His thoughts ground to a halt¡­ and stopped.


    Baltay frowned.


    The eyes that looked back up at him were dead and empty, just as they¡¯d been so long ago. Atoy Muzazi¡¯s chest rose and fell with his breathing, but there was nobody home. This was just another living doll he was holding.


    "Damnit¡­" Baltay muttered.


    His grip loosened, and the thing called Atoy Muzazi dropped back into the water, sinking down, making no effort to rescue itself.


    Everything was white.


    A vast plane of white, the product of a bleached mind. There was no horizon because there was no distance -- and there was no distance because there was no existence. This was a place of consciousness alone. The last retreat for a psyche under assault. Muzazi floated there, bodiless and thoughtless, until it occurred to him that he needed to breathe.


    In order to breathe, he needed form, and quickly found it. He dropped onto the white ground, panting for breath, collapsing onto his hands and knees. This was not happening. He knew that this was not happening. The air he felt as if he was breathing was nothing but an illusion.


    But any illusion was better than reality right now.


    The words that Baltay had spoken crawled out again, and his mind repelled them, trying desperately to deny what had been said -- to deny what, horrifyingly, seemed to make just the tiniest bit of sense. But it couldn¡¯t be. There was no way. He was Atoy Muzazi. Special Officer of the Supremacy. His life was his own.


    He wasn¡¯t just¡­ someone else.


    Atoy Muzazi looked up.


    "What do you want?" he mumbled, his voice a croak. Sound came into existence to facilitate speech.


    Nigen Rush was in his usual garb. Golden war-robes and that damn helmet, with a sword sheathed at his side. As Muzazi rose to his feet, distance came into existence for the purpose of separating the two figures. For a long time, Rush just silently regarded his counterpart.


    Then, he reached up and removed his helmet.


    Muzazi watched, eyes dull, wishing that he could be surprised. In some far off corner of his heart, he had hoped that the face behind that helmet would be bizarre in some way. Someone that couldn¡¯t possibly be him. Perhaps someone else he knew, and this was some shocking reveal.


    But no. He saw what he¡¯d expected, deep down.


    His hair was short and white, and his features might have been slightly different, but those grey eyes were unmistakable. Atoy Muzazi was looking at himself. Nigen Rush was looking at himself. Time and surgeries had left their mark, but this was two of the same person.


    "You¡¯re no ability¡­" Muzazi admitted. "No spectre choosing me as your champion. Just me, remembering myself. Just you, slowly coming back. That¡¯s right, isn¡¯t it?"


    For a moment, Muzazi thought -- hoped -- his counterpart would just be silent again, but no.


    "That¡¯s right," Nigen Rush replied, his voice so soft. "Gretchen Hail¡¯s weapons can contain memories. Morgan Nacht told you that. Do you remember?"


    Muzazi nodded grimly. "Yes¡­" he sighed.


    "The two swords called Luminescence were her creations. The one destroyed on Panacea, and the one destroyed just now. Their purpose was to imprint ¡¯Atoy Muzazi¡¯ upon our empty shell. Once they were destroyed, the remnants of your former life began to return, shattered and incoherent as they were. That is what I am. The corpse of your memories."


    "And now you¡¯re coming back," Muzazi said numbly. "There¡¯s no more need for me."


    Nigen Rush frowned, an expression Muzazi had seen in the mirror a thousand times. "Is that what you want?"


    "It doesn¡¯t matter what I want¡­" Muzazi said, squeezing his fists and pressing them against his temples. "I don¡¯t want anything! How could I?! I don¡¯t exist!"


    Nigen Rush began to walk forward, growing larger as he did -- and Muzazi could feel himself diminishing in the process, becoming less, fading away. He looked down at his hands and saw them flaking away like leaves, skin abandoning his body to reveal blood and muscle and bone.


    He would disappear soon. He would disappear soon and Nigen Rush would appear again. If a life like this could be said to have a purpose, he would have fulfilled it.


    Nigen Rush spoke as he walked. "None of it was real, then?"


    Muzazi shook his head, looking down at the white abyss. His hands were gone, and he could see his wrists starting to fade as well. Bone protruded from the stumps, but even that was cracking and disintegrating. A false face falling away.


    "If you still have a mouth," Nigen Rush snapped, with uncharacteristic aggression. "Then use it! Was none of it real?"


    "No¡­" Muzazi whimpered. "No, it wasn¡¯t."


    He felt something, the sense of touch becoming extant in that moment. The barrel of a stun pistol, pressing against his back. The warning warmth of a stun shot, ready to be fired.


    "What about this?" Dragan Hadrien asked, from behind him, his voice echoing insistently. "The anger you felt at my betrayal, the drive you had to track me down? Was that not real?"


    "No," Muzazi said. "It wasn¡¯t. Anything I felt back then was because I was made to feel like that. Filled with false memories and sent to dance. A thing like me can¡¯t feel real anger."


    The sensation faded, and Nigen Rush continued to approach.


    Muzazi glanced to the side, and saw Jean Lyons standing there, grinning maliciously. His hands were covered with blood.


    "What about this?" the dead man asked. "The righteous indignation you felt when I made you go against your ideals, the resolve you had to defeat me? Was that not real?"


    "No," Muzazi said. "It wasn¡¯t. Those ideals weren¡¯t mine in the first place. The whole thing was a joke." His arms had vanished up to his elbows.


    Nigen Rush stopped in front of Muzazi, looking down at him, as big as the world. His face was expressionless, his grey eyes impassive. Slowly, he reached down and seized Muzazi by the collar, pulling him up.


    Muzazi squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a deep breath. Finally. At least, with this, there could be no more lies.


    "What about the time we spent together?" asked Marie. "The things we saw and felt? Were they not real?"


    Muzazi did not intend to move before that moment. Before he heard those words, before he remembered the two of them kneeling in the snow, he had truly intended to give up. He had wanted to disappear utterly from this world, and leave the falsehoods behind.


    But¡­ all the same¡­ in that moment, he moved.


    He opened his eyes, and saw what he had done. He had rammed the stumps of his arms forward right into Nigen Rush¡¯s chest, the broken ends of his bones skewering the swordsman¡¯s heart. Slowly, fearing what he would see, Atoy Muzazi looked up.


    Nigen Rush was smiling down at him. Even as blood trickled from the edges of his mouth, he smiled at Muzazi.


    "Thank goodness," they said softly, and bled into one another.


    Baltay¡¯s mind broiled as he walked away, squeezing Leviathan so tightly it felt as if he¡¯d crush the hilt. It was okay. Everything was still okay. He¡¯d just get Gretchen to make another Luminescence, and they could try again. Nigen would come back. In the end, Nigen would come back to finish their duel.


    He took a deep breath, looking up at the Heir, who was pressing herself against the wall -- trying to get as far away from him as possible. There was always the chance she¡¯d rat about what she¡¯d heard here. He had to shut her up, if nothing else.


    Baltay took a step forward and --


    Splash.


    -- whirled around, a grin of excitement on his face.


    The swordsman had leapt out of the water, liquid cascading off his sodden limbs and robes. He was perched right on the edge of the jacuzzi, breathing heavily, recovering from the time he¡¯d been submerged. His face was down, long black hair falling around it -- but now a streak of familiar white ran through those locks.


    "Nigen!" Baltay cried -- only for his excitement to die as he looked closer at what he was seeing.


    The warrior had dropped the hilt of his sword in the pool, abandoning it. Instead, blades of white light had erupted from his palms, stinging Baltay¡¯s eyes where he looked too close at them. The man looked up, and those grey eyes glared at Baltay with utter rage.


    Baltay narrowed his eyes. "Nigen Rush doesn¡¯t use an ability like that," he said coldly.


    "No," replied Atoy Muzazi, Special Officer of the Supremacy. "He doesn¡¯t."

 Chapter 272:10.15: Muzazi

    This is how the hero comes.


    Atoy Muzazi leaps out of the water, droplets flying in every direction, and charges at his opponent. Twin swords of blazing light protrude from his hands, and with his speed they become sheer blurs -- pale bands that paint his path. He¡¯s so fast that his black-and-white hair clings to his scalp, waving behind him like a banner.


    An ordinary opponent would be killed before they could so much as blink.


    Baltay Kojirough blocks the first two slashes with one swing of his sword, an unsatisfied frown on his face. The opponent he had built up in his head would have been much faster than that. He retaliates with a slash that would have decapitated Atoy Muzazi before -- but this man, now awakened, easily dodges beneath it.


    Thrusters explode on Muzazi¡¯s knees as he leaps backwards, avoiding another slash from Baltay¡¯s sword -- and Baltay pursues, growling in frustration. His future-seeing eyes are fixed on the Radiants burning out of Muzazi¡¯s palms. They are the object of his ire.


    "Stop playing around, Nigen!" he roars, charging after his adversary. "We both know you don¡¯t need tricks like that!"


    "That isn¡¯t my name!" Muzazi shouts back -- swinging around in a roundhouse kick to catch the charging Kojirough off guard. Catching a man like that off guard is easier said than done, though. He sees it coming, obviously, and twists his body to slash at the exposed leg.


    Flash.


    A thruster bursts out of Muzazi¡¯s thigh, blasting Baltay in the face and sending the leg back out of his range. As Baltay grabs his burnt face, seething, Muzazi thrusts his two Radiants forward in a pair of vicious stabs.


    "This isn¡¯t you, Nigen!" Baltay cries -- and in an incomprehensible move, he tosses his Leviathan upwards, out of his own hands. Muzazi¡¯s eyes automatically follow it for a single deadly instant. "Don¡¯t fuck with me!"


    Baltay¡¯s hands lash out like vipers, striking the nerve clusters in both of Muzazi¡¯s shoulders. His arms drop down useless and limp, the Radiants burning at and melting the metal floor, smoke drifting up from the damaged regions. Baltay seizes Leviathan by the hilt again as it lands and swings it -- downwards, directly at Muzazi¡¯s skull.


    Flash.


    The Radiants on Muzazi¡¯s palms vanish¡­ and are immediately replaced by a bright blade that erupts from his forehead. It deflects Baltay¡¯s downwards blow, forcing him to step back -- and it then immediately vanishes, the blades returning instead to Muzazi¡¯s hands. He rushes forward with a flurry of attacks, forcing Baltay on the defensive, their swords clashing countless times in the span of just a few seconds.


    The despair that had previously consumed Muzazi¡¯s expression is gone now, replaced by a steely resolve. He understands it now. He understands the path to victory. And he¡¯s growing faster.


    Baltay Kojirough¡¯s precognition is based upon reading muscle movement. A lingering memory has told him that. No matter how Atoy Muzazi moves his body, it will be read. It is impossible to move without using your muscles, after all.


    Well¡­ it¡¯s impossible for most people.


    "Full Throttle," Muzazi says.


    Thousands of tiny thrusters, too small to even be seen, sprout up over every inch of his body -- and he moves with their force, rather than his own strength. Immediately, Baltay¡¯s eyes widen in surprise as his precognition is proven inaccurate, and he is forced to use his own skills to block the incoming blows -- faster and faster, faster and faster, faster and faster, until¡­


    ¡­first blood is drawn.


    It couldn¡¯t even be called an injury. It¡¯s nothing but the slightest scratch on Baltay¡¯s cheek, barely even red, but the leader of the Seven Blades looks at it as if Atoy Muzazi just ripped his heart out. His eyes are wide, bloodshot from fury. His hand, gripping his Leviathan, is white from pressure. Something between a choke and a growl pours out of his throat --


    -- and he speaks.


    "Fusion Tool," he rasps. "Leviathan!"


    Everything is consumed by a toxic, emerald light.


    I admired you more than anything, Nigen.


    They say you were the best there ever was¡­ maybe even the best there ever will be. Even back then, before we met, everyone knew you were something special. I couldn¡¯t believe it when I met you. You used that sword like it was a pen -- writing your will onto the world. It was beyond technique, it was -- it was like enlightenment. I felt lucky to even know you.


    You were like the sun. Far¡­ far too bright for eyes.


    It was ridiculous in the first place. Ridiculous to dream, and even more ridiculous to believe. An ordinary person like me, beating someone like you? A mere human, standing up against the sun? You should have killed me for even imagining it.


    So stop hiding, Nigen. Stop wearing that fake face. There¡¯s no more need for it! We¡¯re here again -- the way we should have been the first time! There¡¯s nothing standing in our way anymore! We can do it properly!


    Come on! Come out! Come here!


    Kill me, and be killed by me!


    NIGEN!


    The haze of green Aether cleared, revealing the new form Baltay Kojirough had taken.


    It was a jagged shape, pale transparent crystals covering the entirety of his body save for his exposed chest and the bottom of his face. Even with his eyes hidden, the wild fanged grin was enough to show off his exhilaration. Tiny black spheres, like the pupils of eyes, floated around inside each crystal as if they were suspended in a liquid solution.


    As he looked on, Radiants ready, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but feel that this shape was atrocious. It was like Baltay had thrown away the last vestiges of his warrior¡¯s dignity. His sword had vanished with the transformation, after all. Instead, he clenched sharpened fists, scraps of crystal flying off with each movement.


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    "I¡¯d really like you to know, Nigen," Baltay said, his voice warped and doubled by runaway Aether. "I¡¯ve really never felt better than I do right now."


    He moved his limbs experimentally, flexing and cracking his joints, the smile on his face almost intoxicated.


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "I¡¯ve already told you -- that isn¡¯t my name."


    Baltay¡¯s grin faded, but not by much. "You can pretend all you want, Nigen¡­ but it¡¯s no use. I know you when I see you. I¡¯ll have you show yourself to me before long."


    There¡¯s no point in talking to him any longer, Muzazi grimly decided, crouching low to the ground. He¡¯s completely deluded himself.


    Giggling quietly, Baltay lowered himself to the ground, matching Muzazi¡¯s stance. He too was ready to launch himself forward at a moment¡¯s notice. Win or lose, this would be the final clash.


    "I can see, Nigen," Baltay breathed. "I can see it all now. So much further. How everything will play out, how you¡¯ll¡­ you¡¯ll¡­"


    And with those words, the smile finally left his face.


    "Dissatisfied?" Muzazi asked. "Was the future not as you¡¯d anticipated?"


    It was funny. Not so long ago, he would have felt great trepidation at the thought of fighting an unenhanced Baltay Kojirough, but looking at this monstrosity he felt nothing but confidence. It was as if he¡¯d finally synchronized with himself. All fear, all doubt¡­ had utterly vanished.


    Now, more than any time previous, he felt as if he was finally himself.


    This future was wrong. It couldn¡¯t possibly be right. It had to be some sort of mistake.


    It had taken Baltay years of training to learn even his most basic precognition, and yet the power of the Fusion Tool Leviathan had boosted that capacity beyond belief. He could see right through this battle, could count each move before it was made, and witness its conclusion¡­


    ¡­a defeat -- the kind of defeat that would be utterly unacceptable. This had become a battle that he could not possibly win.


    No matter what strategy he assumed, the result was the same. Positions changed, but the disgrace was identical. Him on the floor, and that fake standing above him. Besmirching Nigen¡¯s face and name.


    But didn¡¯t you already do that? he asked himself.


    "No!" Baltay roared, lashing his hand upwards -- and in response, massive pillars of toxic crystal burst forth from the ground, spearing towards Atoy Muzazi.


    The attack did not hit. It was never going to hit. The launching of the attack and the blocking of it were mere formalities.


    Still¡­ Baltay Kojirough could not help but rage against fate. That was his nature. Even when faced with the strongest, he could not help but want to surpass it. Even as the sun blinded him, he could not help but grasp for it.


    The crystals surged towards Atoy Muzazi -- and Atoy Muzazi vanished.


    Of course, he did not really disappear. Baltay understood that before it even happened. He¡¯d just used his thrusters to launch himself off the ground and out of range, then kicked off the ceiling to fire himself at Baltay like a bullet. Kojirough whipped his arm through the air, blocking the strike at the last possible moment.


    That was not intentional. He blocked it at the last possible moment because that was the best he could do. Even as he blocked it, the crystals on his arm shattered -- regenerating a moment later. sea??h th§× n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Next would come an attack to his spine. His armour was sufficient -- there was no need to block.


    Then, an attack from above and slightly to the left -- striking the joint of his left leg. He allowed it to hit, falling to one knee.


    Third, a strike to where his eyes had been. There¡¯d be no point to blocking it, as all his crystals now served as eyes.


    These attacks were always going to hit, anyway. Any efforts he could have made would have been fruitless. Rather than needlessly waste energy, he needed to think.


    He scoured the futures before him, searching for that golden path to victory, and found it. The way he could overcome this lightning-fast foe who was growing faster by the second. Of course. What else could it be?


    He¡¯d already laid the groundwork for it, after all.


    "Right," Baltay had said. "Here we are. I¡¯m not going to lie -- they¡¯re probably going to want to see what you¡¯re made of. I¡¯m right in saying you¡¯ve got some aches and pains from the trip here, yes?"


    Muzazi sighed. "Unfortunately so. I apologise -- it was a cramped starship, so¡­"


    Baltay held up a hand, stopping him from going any further. "No worries. No worries at all. I expected a situation like this, so I grabbed this from the infirmary before meeting with you." He reached into his robes, pulling out a thin and sleek syringe. "Muscle reinforcer. Should keep you on your feet for at least a practice round."


    "You expected¡­?"


    Baltay laughed. "Yes, Atoy, I just expected. Don¡¯t worry -- I can¡¯t see that far into the future."


    Muzazi mirrored the laugh, taking the syringe from Baltay and injecting it into his arm, not noticing Baltay¡¯s intent stare.


    Toxic pellets. Just like the ones that had been used to dispatch Nigen the first time. All he had to do was click the trigger and their poisonous payload would be released.


    Instant victory. Easily done, but¡­


    From the moment she¡¯d been born, Aclima had always felt weak.


    It was only natural. Her father, who¡¯d never even wanted her in the first place, was the Supreme -- the strongest man in the galaxy, who nobody could hope to beat. It was expected to feel inadequate compared to him. But it wasn¡¯t just that.


    As she¡¯d grown up, she¡¯d been surrounded by the strong. Her trainers and tutors, her guards and Blades, each and every one of them capable of ending a human life with a wave of their hand. An ordinary human like her simply couldn¡¯t compete.


    No matter how much she trained, or how much they taught her, it was fruitless. For years she¡¯d swung her useless sword, and all she¡¯d learnt was how to quickly swing her useless sword. To be honest, she¡¯d entirely given up on becoming strong. Strength, to her, was something you were born with -- not something you could attain.


    Now, though, looking at this¡­


    Aclima pressed her back against the wall as she watched the two titans clash.


    Baltay fired crystals out of his arms like shotgun blasts, trying to catch the blur that was Atoy Muzazi, but to no avail. He had become so fast that even his afterimage was barely discernible, a watercolor painting its way across the world. When Baltay shot those blasts, he would just smash the walls. When Baltay drove those crystals out of the floor, he would just damage the ceiling.


    Atoy Muzazi went untouched.


    Aclima knew for a fact that Mr. Muzazi -- or Mr. Rush, or whoever he was -- hadn¡¯t been that fast a moment ago. Before he¡¯d fallen into the pool, he¡¯d been slow enough that Baltay had been able to utterly overpower him¡­ but now the opposite was true.


    Atoy Muzazi had become unmatched. He¡¯d become stronger, right before her eyes, and was becoming stronger by the second. With each strike, he was overcoming himself.


    Her eyes glimmered in the light.


    Baltay brought the trigger unit out from within his Fusion Tool, holding it in his hand.


    All he had to do was press it. What was he waiting for? Did he really feel the need to look this Atoy Muzazi in the eyes before the end? Why? What did he owe to a simulacrum he¡¯d created, to an impostor claiming the body of his best friend?


    The sound he¡¯d heard coming finally occurred in reality. The whistle of a blade of heat coming right for him, at the angle that would end the fight. With those first three attacks, Atoy Muzazi had determined the composition of this new body, and was now ready to strike the finishing blow.


    Press it, he urged himself, watching the white blade approach. Press it!


    Press it!


    PRESS IT!


    But Baltay Kojirough did not press it. He couldn¡¯t. His heart and his thumb simply would not listen. His hand slackened, and the trigger dropped out of his grip. It clattered on the floor¡­


    ¡­and the blade struck true.

 Chapter 273:10.16: The Calm Before The...

    Baltay Kojirough¡¯s severed arm fell to the floor, crystals shattering. Green Aether dissipated as the severed limb wrote itself out of existence.


    The owner of the arm fell to his knees, looking numbly at the stump. Just like it had been with Hans Allier, there was no blood -- just more jagged crystals, protruding from the wound like frozen sap. A relieved smile crept across his lips.


    "It¡¯s your win, Nigen," he said softly. "Just like it should have been the first time."


    Atoy Muzazi had finally stopped moving. He stood in front of Kojirough, looking down, his eyes hidden by the long black-and-white hair that had fallen down around him. He¡¯d deactivated one of his Radiants, but the second still protruded from his other hand.


    Long silence drifted on, the Supreme Heir watching from the corner, before Muzazi spoke.


    "That isn¡¯t my name," he said, and deactivated his Radiant.


    Baltay took a deep breath, shaking, and reached up with his other hand. With laborious effort, he peeled the layer of crystals over his face free -- blood pouring liberally from the impromptu flaying -- revealing his own wide, panicked eyes. He had seen the future, after all. He knew what was coming next.


    "Nigen, please," he whimpered. "You can¡¯t."


    "There is doubtless evidence of your crimes all around here, if you know to look for them," Muzazi said. "An investigation will produce enough for you to be sentenced to some form of imprisonment. Some kind of¡­ rehabilitation, maybe. I have a contact in the Grace family who¡¯ll be happy to assist."


    "Kill me!" Baltay screamed, his voice bouncing off the walls. "Just kill me, Nigen, you sick fuck! I can¡¯t live like this anymore!"


    Muzazi¡¯s hand shook for a moment, but he quickly steadied it. He took a deep breath.


    "Once locked down," he said, protocol driving his words forward. "These quarters will serve as a suitable holding space for you until the proper authorities arrive."


    And with that, he turned and began to walk away.


    "Nigen!" Baltay cried out from behind him. "You can¡¯t! Nigen! PLEASE!"


    Muzazi squeezed his eyes shut, but his resolve went unchanged. This was a decision he himself had made. There was already so little of him that existed in this world -- he couldn¡¯t afford to go back on his own choices.


    The Supreme Heir joined him as he reached the door. She¡¯d circled all the way around the room to avoid going near Baltay, who was still screaming after the two of them. Muzazi had to admit, he¡¯d almost forgotten she was here. How careless of him.


    She looked over her shoulder at the prone Baltay Kojirough.


    "You won¡¯t kill him?" she asked.


    Muzazi shook his head.


    "Why not? Don¡¯t you want revenge?"


    Muzazi opened his mouth to sigh, but instead words came out. "His darkest crimes were against a person called Nigen Rush. Nobody else has the right to seek vengeance for them¡­ and that person doesn¡¯t exist anymore."


    Without another word, he strode out of the room, and the Heir followed.


    Seven Days Before Avaman¡¯s Assault¡­


    This whole thing really was a mess.


    Barry sweated in his hazmat suit as he picked through the evidence the battle of the Child Garden had left behind. He¡¯d drawn the short straw: while his colleagues were poring through surveillance footage and the like, he had the unenviable task of picking through Gretchen Hail¡¯s remains. Lucky him.


    More than once he¡¯d had to hold back vomit. There really wasn¡¯t enough of Gretchen Hail left to call remains, just a pile of shattered bones and a slurry of meat and skin. The Fell Beast had really done a number on her. The only truly identifiable piece of her he¡¯d found was half her face, peeled away and stuck to the wall with her dried blood. Gross.


    It didn¡¯t help that they were on a time limit, either. That detective Special Officer, Winston Grace, was meant to be arriving within the hour, and they wanted all the remains collected and cataloged by the time he arrived. Apparently the kid was a real diva when it came to stuff like this.


    Barry was just bagging up the twisted mass of what might have once been a foot when he saw it. Behind his mask, his brow furrowed. The hell¡­?


    There, right in the corner, previously concealed by the gore, was a weapon. A dagger of some kind, with a black hilt and a red blade, halfway embedded in the floor. Fell Beasts didn¡¯t use weapons like this, so was this something Hail had been using during the fight?


    As his co-workers searched the function room behind him, Barry reached out and seized the dagger by the hilt, ready to collect it as evidence


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    Gretchen Hail let out a sigh of relief, deeper than she¡¯d expected, as she pulled the dagger out of the floor. It seemed her last gambit had worked. Judging from the memories she now had access to, it seemed that Atoy Muzazi had come out victorious in the fight, but Baltay had survived.


    It was strange, but it seemed like she should be happier about that. Perhaps some aspects of her personality had been lost in translation? She found it difficult to care too much about that. After all, she¡¯d survived.


    She glanced down at the dagger in her large, hairy hand. This weapon truly was her masterpiece. It had been created on the spur of the moment, fuelled by desperation and fear, but she¡¯d done it all the same. She¡¯d managed to create an Aether Armament that could record her own consciousness and place it into the brain of its next wielder. A novel concept, based on the Old Demons of the Dawn from the UAP.


    Before any of her new vessels coworkers could notice, she slipped the red dagger into her pocket. There was a lot to plan. Getting revenge on Yggdrasil was impractical for the time being, but it would happen. There was a fire burning in her now, after all. That fucking tree had killed her in such a humiliating way.


    "You alright there, Barry?" called out one of the other investigators, an Umbrant with a thin pencil moustache.


    "No problem!" Gretchen called over her new bulky shoulder. The gravelly voice felt uncomfortable coming out of her mouth. "Just gonna head out for break after this, y¡¯know?"


    The Umbrant rolled his eyes. "Lazy bastard," he muttered, before going back to his script.


    First thing first, then -- she had to get hold of a better body than this. She didn¡¯t much fancy walking around with an oversized shape like this, stumbling with an impractical centre of gravity. She¡¯d find someone with a similar body shape to her original, have the dagger transfer her over, and lie in wait for her moment.


    It wouldn¡¯t be a problem. After all¡­ right now, she was as free as a bird.


    Gretchen Hail got up and walked out of the room, leaving her corpse and her life behind.


    Laying back in his bed, Morgan Nacht squeezed, clenching and unclenching his hand experimentally. It felt tougher than it had before. Was that because there was bark just beneath his skin, impeding his movements?


    It does not work like that, said Ionir Yggdrasil, its voice as clear and vague as a stray thought.


    Morgan chuckled to himself. All around his bed was medical equipment -- discarded, as it had already become clear they were not needed. Yggdrasil had already taken care of the healing, anyway. Well¡­ he was taking care of it.


    According to the experts, muzhang wasn¡¯t a thing that just went away. It attacked the human body relentlessly until it died. The usual treatment was amputation, but once it had gotten its hooks into you, it wouldn¡¯t be letting go.


    Ionir Yggdrasil, now part of Morgan¡¯s body, was just continually healing the damage the muzhang was inflicting. A constant tug of war, that would only end with Morgan¡¯s death. It was a weird sensation; to know he¡¯d be seconds from the void, if not for the kindness of a tree.


    "It¡¯s strange," he muttered -- not meant to be heard, but then again Ionir could hear everything from him.


    What is strange?


    Morgan smirked ruefully. "Hearing you, but not seeing you."


    There is nothing to be seen. I have invested myself fully into your body to save your life. If you would like to see me, you would have to open yourself up, which I would not recommend.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Why?"


    Blood loss.


    "No¡­" Morgan rubbed his forehead. "I mean¡­ why did you save me? Why did you go this far to save me? It¡¯s not like we were best friends before this. I just don¡¯t get why you¡¯d sacrifice so much."


    There was nothing but silence for a long time. Outside the window, Morgan saw the ships of investigators drifting past. He¡¯d seen a transport launching off with some haste before -- perhaps it had been taking Kojirough away. He hoped they¡¯d be careful: the bastard was tricky.


    Just as Morgan¡¯s thoughts started to drift, though, Ionir Yggdrasil answered.


    You alone have never asked anything of me, it replied. No kindnesses have been requested. And I know¡­ that you alone would never demand a promise of me. That is why I saved you. I think.


    Morgan shifted in his bed. "Well¡­" he muttered. "Thanks. I don¡¯t really get it, but¡­ yeah. Thanks."


    There was no reply, and none was needed. They just sat there, looking at the stars, until the doors slid open.


    "How¡¯s it going, commander?" Morgan called out without looking. Those practised, purposeful footsteps could only belong to one person.


    "Commander?" Muzazi said, walking into view. "I don¡¯t recall ever requesting a title like that."


    He looked different, what with that white streak of hair running through his usual black. Not a bad change, but a change all the same. The sword he¡¯d always carried around was gone, too. In fact, Morgan couldn¡¯t see a sword on him at all.


    Morgan shrugged as much as the bed would allow. "Want it or not, it looks like it¡¯s happening¡­ these things have a habit of settling themselves. I¡¯d accept it, if I were you."


    "Really?" Muzazi mused, stepping over to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back as he observed the darkness beyond. "And why¡¯s that?"


    "The Commander of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir¡­ well, the Two-and-a-half Blades of the Turning of the Heir¡­ it¡¯s a powerful title. A title like that can be a shield."


    Muzazi glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "And why would I need a shield, Officer Nacht?"


    The constant smirk faded from Morgan¡¯s lips. "I think you know why." Sear?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Muzazi did not blink. "I would like for you to tell me."


    "Baltay was one of Paradise Charon¡¯s biggest allies. Through him, she had control over the Supreme Heir. That isn¡¯t something she¡¯s going to be happy about losing. She¡¯ll come after you. If the Second Contender was wanting my head, I¡¯d take any kind of protection I could get."


    Slowly, Muzazi nodded to himself, stepping away from the window. "Any kind of protection, yes. Like a title¡­ or a friend." He extended a hand down towards Morgan. "I understand you¡¯re close with the Fourth Contender, Wu Ming."


    Morgan nodded. "He taught me everything I know. He¡¯s a good friend."


    The words seemed to stick in Muzazi¡¯s throat, but he said them all the same. "Perhaps I too can be your good friend?"


    Morgan¡¯s smirk returned. "So -- you want the protection of the Fourth Contender, to protect you from the Second. You¡¯ve finally learnt how to dance, Commander Muzazi?"


    Despite everything, Atoy Muzazi couldn¡¯t stop his own lips from curling up. "It seems unavoidable."


    Their hands clasped, and Muzazi pulled Morgan up to his feet. There was a lot of work to be done.


    Four Days Before Avaman¡¯s Assault¡­


    On Shendor, nothing much ever seemed to change. Days rolled by slowly, and so did people¡¯s lives. The only way you could really tell that time was passing was with the harvest.


    Rena Raish wouldn¡¯t have it any other way. She enjoyed her quiet days, looking after the farm, taking these relaxed walks through the fields. Great walls of wheat rustled in the wind on either side of her as she strolled, a basket tucked under her arm.


    Her eyes widened, just fractionally, as she crested the hill. Normally, she didn¡¯t run into anyone else out here.


    He was a young man, oddly familiar looking, with black-and-white hair tied back in a short ponytail. His grey eyes were scanning the horizon, and his brow was furrowed with such concentration that he clearly hadn¡¯t noticed her. His clothes were fancy -- some kind of robes, brushing against the dirt. Clearly, he wasn¡¯t from here.


    Rena smiled pleasantly as she approached. "Afternoon," she said.


    The man blinked, glancing towards her. "Oh, uh, good afternoon to you, as well," he said hurriedly. She¡¯d been right -- he really hadn¡¯t realised she was there.


    Rena followed his gaze, looking out at the rolling golden hills. "Quite a view, huh?"


    He nodded slowly. "Yes. It¡¯s¡­ very nice."


    "You¡¯re not from around here, huh?" Rena smiled. "Ain¡¯t often we get visitors."


    For a moment, the man didn¡¯t say anything. There was just the whistling of the wind, and the brushing of the wheat. Rena was just beginning to think he maybe hadn¡¯t heard her when he spoke again.


    "From around here¡­?" he mused, as if the very concept was alien. "No. I don¡¯t think I am, no."


    She raised an amused eyebrow. "That up for debate or something? You don¡¯t sound too sure."


    "I wasn¡¯t until I came here, really¡­ I thought I might have come here a long time ago¡­" the man said wistfully, before shaking his head. "Forgive my rudeness. My name is Atoy Muzazi -- I¡¯m a Special Officer from the Supremacy." He extended his arm for a handshake.


    "Ooh," Rena whistled, accepting the handshake. "Fancy you. I¡¯m Rena Raish. I work at a farm nearby -- well, mostly I repair automatics, but you get it."


    She wasn¡¯t quite sure why at first, but Atoy Muzazi¡¯s face dropped when she said her name. His hand continued to grip hers.


    "Something wrong?" she asked, cocking her head.


    Muzazi came back to himself, releasing her hand and plunging his own into his pockets. "Nothing," he said hurriedly. "It¡¯s just¡­ forgive me if this is inappropriate, but I¡¯ve been speaking with some of the townsfolk."


    With that, her face dropped. Ah. So that was what this was all about.


    Muzazi went on. "They mentioned that¡­ well, that person, the swordsman who left and became famous¡­ he was your brother. Is that right?"


    Rena sighed, tucking her basket under her arm once again. "Look, if you¡¯re here to try and discover some secret family techniques or whatever, there aren¡¯t any. We¡¯re farmers. We farm. That dummy went and got himself killed all on his own."


    "That¡¯s not what I¡­" Muzazi hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I¡¯m sorry. I was just wondering -- that man¡­ what kind of person was he?"


    "What do you mean?" Rena furrowed her brow. "Why would you want to know?"


    "I¡¯m just¡­ curious."


    It was inappropriate. Of course it was inappropriate for a total stranger to walk up and ask her what her dead brother was like. By all rights, she should tell him to get lost. But¡­ when she looked into those eyes, those glinting grey eyes, she couldn¡¯t help but speak.


    "He was¡­ quiet, I guess?" The words came out awkwardly. She hadn¡¯t talked about her brother in years. "Always with his nose in a book, or out practising swords with his friends. Sometimes he liked to do painting. He was good at that. He should have stuck to it¡­ you don¡¯t get killed painting, do you?" Her breath hitched. "That idiot should have just stayed here, where it was safe, and painted."


    "Would he have been happy¡­ do you think¡­" Muzazi murmured. "...if that was how things had turned out?"


    Rena slowly shook her head. "No. I don¡¯t think he would have been happy doing anything except what he did. That¡¯s the worst part." The basket slipped out from her arm and landed roughly on the floor, fruit spilling out. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible over the wind. "Could you please leave?"


    For a moment, it looked as if this Atoy Muzazi was going to refuse -- as if he was going to say something else, or crouch down to pick up the fallen fruit. A tiny part of her expected him to, for a reason she couldn¡¯t quite place. In the end, though, he did as she asked -- he nodded and turned, walking away.


    He didn¡¯t look back as he became a dot on the horizon. Rena never saw him again.


    Five Hours After Avaman¡¯s Assault¡­


    Muzazi took the paintbrush away from the canvas, licking his lips nervously as he took his creation in.


    It was meant to have been a depiction of a red apple resting on a table. What had resulted was a blotch of red staining a lump of brown. Utterly unrecognisable -- and utterly awful. There was no talent there to speak of, natural or otherwise.


    Muzazi smiled.


    Just as he was putting the canvas away, however, the doors to his quarters suddenly slid open -- and Morgan Nacht charged in, white in the face. He was breathing heavily: clearly he¡¯d sprinted all the way here. Muzazi immediately leapt up. Morgan was meant to have been guarding Aclima. Had something happened?


    Morgan spoke before Muzazi. "Have you¡­ have you seen it? Is your videograph on?"


    Muzazi shook his head, confused. "Seen what? What are you talking about?"


    Before he answered, Morgan staggered over to the videograph, fumbling around the bottom of it for the on-button. "It¡¯s on all frequencies," he panted. "On a loop. A message. We think it¡¯s all over the Supremacy. Some kind of virus, or¡­ or something." It took him a second to find the button, but eventually there was a click --


    -- and the face of the man called Skipper appeared on the screen.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened. What was this? Last he¡¯d seen Dragan Hadrien and his crew, they¡¯d been at the Truemeet of the Final Church, struggling against the machinations of the different sects there. Had something else happened since then?


    Skipper looked at the camera, grinning. He was wearing a dark long coat as he lounged back in a chair, the camera focused on his face. He narrowed his green eyes.


    "This is going to be pretty confusing for most of you," he said, cracking his neck. "You must be thinking: who¡¯s this guy? Can¡¯t blame ya. Sorry for interrupting your shows, folks, but I need to make a little announcement here."


    Muzazi glanced towards Morgan. "You said this was all over the Supremacy?"


    Morgan nodded. "Every screen I¡¯ve tried is showing the same thing. You know this guy?"


    It must have shown on Muzazi¡¯s face. He nodded grimly. "We¡¯ve crossed paths in the past. He¡¯s called Skipper, the captain of a crew of --"


    Skipper interrupted from the videograph.


    "Well, introductions are in order first of all," he grinned easily. "The name¡¯s Zachariah Esmeralda. Well, that name probably doesn¡¯t mean much to you guys. Some people call me Skipper. Again, probably drawing a blank. I¡¯m not exactly famous. But let me tell you what I¡¯m all about."


    What are you thinking, man?


    Muzazi was in utter disbelief. The entire Supremacy was listening to this rambling? Had Skipper -- or Zachariah Esmeralda, or whoever he was -- gone mad?


    "Around sixty years back," Skipper leaned back. "I tried to take out the Supreme. Didn¡¯t do too well since, ya know, he ain¡¯t dead. But I got a good hit in. Took his ear right off. Bet that¡¯s the biggest injury he¡¯s had in a good while. None of those Contenders or whatever are giving him what I did, that¡¯s for sure. Which brings me to my point here¡­"


    The grin dropped from Skipper¡¯s face, and he stared dead into the camera.


    "Ready for round two, old-timer? I am. I¡¯ll be waiting at Elysian Fields. Bring whoever you want. Let¡¯s have fun."


    With that final challenge, the message resumed looping, starting over from the beginning. A chill ran down Muzazi¡¯s spine. He could feel it in the air.


    Something was about to change.


    In the throne room of the Shesha, there was a great cracking -- with two sources. First, a shell of dust falling away as dormant lips opened into a grin. Second, joints crunching into action as someone sat up in their chair. Light entered the eyes of the great statue called the Supreme as it watched the message beaming out all over the Supremacy.


    Zachariah Esmeralda.


    Oh, he remembered it like it was just yesterday.


    The statue became a man again, a curtain of dust falling off him as he rose to his feet¡­


    ¡­and the man began laughing.


    End of Arc 10

 Chapter 274:11.1: ...Storm.

    Two Minutes After Avaman¡¯s Assault¡­


    The sound of clicking heels echoed through the cavernous hallways of the Shesha.


    Paradise Charon frowned to herself as she walked to her destination. The Shesha was the crowning achievement of Supremacist technology, and it was also a pioneer in the art of wasting space. These corridors were so tall and wide that huge parts of them were bathed in shadow, the effort of lighting them fully being unfeasible -- and so the seat of power for the most advanced nation in the galaxy felt perpetually abandoned.


    Ridiculous.


    Once she was in charge, there would be some changes. The entirety of the Shesha would be modified -- keeping the unholy amount of firepower and automatics, but cutting down on the excess. It would be her -- it would be the Supremacy¡¯s spearhead, not its totem. When it came to weaponry, pragmatism was the most important thing. Spectacle was best left at the door.


    She¡¯d be a hypocrite if she denounced excess entirely, of course. Her own appearance was proof of that.


    Today, she¡¯d chosen to extend her hair and dye it a mysterious black, long enough to brush against the floor as she walked. A white dress shirt with a ruffled collar was embraced by a black corset and a long pleated skirt. Red face paint ran across her features in a fishnet pattern, and eerie white contacts rested over her pupils.


    When she was young, she¡¯d been deprived of the trappings of civilization. The closest they¡¯d had to the concept of fashion was putting a pretty flower in your hair. Now that she was free of all that, she was determined to enjoy this world to the fullest.


    No matter what devils she had to deal with.


    She reached her destination. A bulky elevator located in the middle of a junction, guarded by two truly gargantuan automatics. Each was twelve-feet tall, their entire bodies decorated with firearms and weaponry. They were made by Halcyon Automatics -- the same corporation that had built the Hellhound¡¯s current body. Needless to say, the best that money could buy.


    They did not move in the slightest as Paradise strolled by them and into the elevator. She¡¯d gotten herself access to this part of the Shesha long ago, once she¡¯d realized what it held. Now it as good as belonged to her.


    The doors to the elevator slid shut, but it took a second for it to begin descending. If Paradise hadn¡¯t had access, that was the moment she would have been incinerated. She expected she¡¯d be able to hold up against the flames for a good long while, given her strength, but eventually even she would succumb. The message was clear, all the same: no intruders could be allowed down here.


    She waited patiently as the elevator descended and descended and descended, right into the heart of the ship. In stark contrast to the vast space of the rest of the vessel, the elevator was tiny, and Paradise could barely avoid scraping her head against the ceiling. She¡¯d taken this trip many times, though. She knew exactly how long it would take -- one minute and twenty-one seconds, with the lift conducting various biometric tests as it descended. She doubted there was any other screening process in the galaxy as thorough as this.


    Yes, the Shesha was a wonder of technology. A single ship, capable of taking on an entire planet¡¯s military all by itself. Enough automatics to launch an independent invasion. Efficient enough that, if needed, it could be operated by a crew of just one person.


    The common myth went that there were only five people aboard the Shesha at any given time -- the Supreme and his four Contenders -- but that wasn¡¯t quite true. Since the day the Supreme had ascended to the throne, the Shesha had played host to another person entirely.


    Yes¡­ the Prisoner.


    Once the elevator doors opened, Paradise had to pass through six more quarantine seals to get to the containment chamber. Crews of workers marched to and fro, conducting repairs on vital equipment. This facility was one of the few things the Supreme seemed to actually care about: long ago, he¡¯d left a constant order for the cage to be kept in top condition.


    "Anything I should know?" Paradise asked as the warden stepped up alongside her, scurrying to match her pace.


    The warden, a weaselly-looking man with a thin mustache, shook his head. "Nothing I can say. The Prisoner hasn¡¯t spoken for several months now -- not since the last time you visited."


    "How sweet," Paradise pursed her lips. "Has he been fed since then?"


    The warden shook his head again.


    "Any sign of starvation?" Paradise asked a question she already knew the answer to --


    -- and once more, the warden shook his head.


    The two of them came to the final door, a massive steel gate secured with additional bars and locks, and red alarms began to blare as it slowly opened. The scraping was such that the warden and other nearby workers had to slap their hands over their ears. Paradise didn¡¯t, of course.


    "Please keep in mind!" the warden called out over the screeching metal. "You must not disclose any confidential information --"


    "I¡¯ll do as I like," Paradise said stoically, stepping through the gap between the doors.


    The heat of the containment chamber was immense -- but that only made sense. It was built directly into the engine itself. Paradise looked up to behold the cage¡¯s one and only occupant.


    "Hello again, Paradise," the Prisoner said.


    The Prisoner was a strange one to look at. His dark hair was perpetually arranged in some strange cross between a bowl-cut and a mullet, two long strands hanging down and framing his face like the antenna of an insect. His irises were the same dead black, those calm eyes looking down at Paradise like twin abyss¡¯. His skin was a stark snow-white, and that was not from lack of sunlight -- he¡¯d been the same since he first arrived, nearly seventy years ago. He was wearing the same clothes as when he¡¯d first gotten here, too, a black straightjacket with the arms and legs tightly bound.


    More than a hundred chains of pure Neverwire suspended him above a pit that terminated in the fiery abyss of the engine core. At the first sign of danger, he could be dropped in, annihilating him. If that bothered him any, he didn¡¯t show it.


    He didn¡¯t even sweat.


    "It¡¯s good to see you too," Paradise called up, her loud voice carried even further by the acoustics of the massive room. "How have you been?"


    The Prisoner did not answer the question. "Baltay Kojirough has been taken to Greyhound Asylum. That¡¯s quite a loss for you, isn¡¯t it?"


    Paradise frowned. This was the way most of her conversations with the Prisoner went.


    There was something about his voice -- that high, soft voice that came from his lips and somehow permeated the entire chamber. It radiated utter benevolence and sincerity, and yet as he spoke¡­ your brain would whisper to you. That¡¯s a demon, it would say. That¡¯s a demon you¡¯re listening to.


    Not to mention the fact he¡¯d just mentioned Baltay Kojirough. She knew absolutely that this man had no means of receiving information about the outside world, and yet he never seemed to run out of topics of conversation.


    "He¡¯s replaceable," Paradise said casually. "Although I¡¯ll admit losing control of the Heir is a blow. I¡¯ll have to take steps to thank Atoy Muzazi for that little inconvenience."


    The closest thing Paradise Charon had to a character flaw was her faith in the competence of others. Too often had that trust been betrayed. She¡¯d thought Baltay would be an exception to that, but clearly not.


    "I¡¯d recommend you deal with Atoy Muzazi as soon as possible," the Prisoner said softly, chains tinkling slightly from his minimal movement. "Whether you kill him or bring him over to your side¡­ it doesn¡¯t even matter if you¡¯re successful or not. What¡¯s important is the fact that you respond. If there¡¯s a response, then the situation becomes a struggle between two parties. If there isn¡¯t, then it¡¯s an undeniable surrender. That is the one thing you must avoid at all costs."


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    This was the reason Paradise had worked so hard to have access to the Prisoner. Without fail, every bit of counsel he¡¯d given her had allowed her even greater prestige and glory. He had that kind of sinister wisdom to him.


    Of course, she had no doubt that this advice had some ulterior purpose¡­ some trap to bring ruin to her in the end. The Prisoner was that kind of person -- but so long as Paradise approached these situations carefully and with the foresight born of experience, such traps could never be sprung. She was not the sort of person who fell victim to these things.


    She crossed her arms, pacing across the walkway. "That¡¯s easy enough for you to say, old man."


    The Prisoner frowned. "Old man¡­? You¡¯re hurting my feelings¡­"


    "Even if you haven¡¯t aged in seventy years, it doesn¡¯t change the fact that time has passed. You can tell me to ¡¯respond¡¯ to the situation all you like, but that¡¯s easier said than done. You¡¯ve been living it up here at Hotel Shesha, so perhaps you¡¯ve forgotten: a response needs an actual strategy."


    The Prisoner¡¯s calm smile returned. "You¡¯ll have your opportunity for that soon. Avaman has gone to fetch something important to both him and the Supreme."


    "He told you this?"


    "No. He should be getting his hands on it soon, though. A very interesting situation will then develop. Sorry¡­ I don¡¯t know precisely what it will be, so I can¡¯t tell you. But you¡¯ll have your opportunity there. To kill him, or to make him your friend¡­ well, I can¡¯t make your decisions for you. I have faith that you¡¯ll do the right thing."


    Paradise tapped her foot against the grating below, considering the Prisoner¡¯s words. "...this¡­ situation, then? It¡¯ll happen soon?"


    "Before the day is out."


    She stopped her pacing, looking right up at the hanging Prisoner once again.


    "You realize, of course," she said. "That I wouldn¡¯t have to wait for opportunities like this if you just did as I ask. Fight the Supreme for me. He¡¯d accept in an instant, and I could finish him off while he¡¯s distracted."


    "I¡¯m much too weak to manage something like that¡­ it sounds scary¡­ besides¡­ do you really think a Supreme would be weak enough to be defeated by a tactic like that? I don¡¯t know¡­"


    Paradise¡¯s eyelid twitched. "You really just do whatever you want, don¡¯t you?"


    The Prisoner cocked his head innocently. "I don¡¯t know what you mean, though? I¡¯m locked up here¡­ I really can¡¯t do anything that I want¡­ it¡¯s sad."


    Well, he could say whatever he wanted. Paradise had the information she¡¯d wanted. She didn¡¯t look back at him as she marched out of the containment chamber, or as the doors slowly sealed themselves shut behind her¡­


    ¡­but she was sure that, if she did look, she would see that man smiling.


    He was a bastard, after all.


    Two Hours After Avaman¡¯s Assault¡­


    Skipper made no sound when he woke up. The pace of his breathing did not shift, nor did his eyes open. Both of those things were outside of his conscious control -- they weren¡¯t skills that could be learned.


    They had to be drilled into you, body and soul.


    He listened. The hum of an engine, high-model, moving fast -- but not as fast as it could be. When he¡¯d first woken up, it had been going at full power, the vessel zooming in a straight line, but now they seemed to be maneuvering their way through some kind of obstacle. A debris field, maybe.


    Skipper was suspended against some kind of slab, his arms and legs firmly restrained. He reached for his Aether and found it absent. There was Neverwire somewhere in this, then. Maybe baked into the restraints themselves. With just his mundane body, he didn¡¯t have the strength to break free.


    He couldn¡¯t hear the breathing of that man, but he knew that he was not alone. There was no way they¡¯d risk leaving him --


    "You¡¯re awake, aren¡¯t you, Zachariah?"


    -- alone. S§×ar?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Skipper opened his eyes. He¡¯d expected it to take a second for his vision to adjust, but the inside of the ship was dark enough that that wasn¡¯t a problem. He took in his surroundings quickly: a small ship, barely bigger than a fighter, all black metal and jagged edges. The kind of ship a videograph villain would ride around in. Skipper couldn¡¯t imagine what kind of person would actually choose to reside in a place like this.


    Well, he didn¡¯t have to imagine. That person was looking right at him -- and they had his face.


    Avaman the Announcer, First Contender of the Supremacy, looked him up and down. He was still wearing that dark purple cloak, the black bodysuit beneath like a hole in space, but he¡¯d left his mask on the dash. There was nothing impeding Skipper¡¯s view of his own younger features.


    Yes, so much younger. The wrinkles were gone, and the traces of grey Skipper had found in his own hair were nowhere to be found in the doppelganger¡¯s. Those same green eyes burned back at him, shining with a darker sort of determination than the kind Skipper was used to. That face was twisted into a sort of contempt that Skipper had never seen before, too.


    The same face, but a different mind entirely.


    "Look at you," Avaman muttered in Skipper¡¯s own voice, just slightly higher. "It was so easy. Weak. What¡¯s so special about you?"


    Banter came automatically to Skipper¡¯s lips. "I¡¯d say my dashing good looks, but you seem to have me beat in that --"


    Slap.


    His head jerked to the side, cutting him off, as if he¡¯d been struck by an invisible hand. He tasted the metal tang of blood on his tongue, and spat it gracelessly onto the floor. So that was how this was going to go.


    "Pathetic," Avaman wrinkled his nose. "I could have easily avoided such an attack."


    Skipper shrugged as much as he was able. "Well, get this Neverwire off me, pal, and I might be able to show off a little¡­"


    "I¡¯m no fool, Esmeralda. I¡¯ll give you no opportunity to play your little tricks. Do you know how long I¡¯ve been looking for you? The lengths I¡¯ve gone to?"


    Skipper grinned. "Those lengths can¡¯t have been that long, if you only just caught me now."


    "Silence."


    "If you wanted silence," Skipper yawned. "You should have gagged me. So, if we¡¯re talking about ourselves -- where¡¯d you come from? You meant to be my secret love child or something?" Obviously, Skipper didn¡¯t think that, but it was probably best to get the story from Avaman¡¯s own mouth.


    Avaman glared. "I have no obligation to tell you anything, traitor."


    "Oh¡­ but you do want to, don¡¯t you?" Skipper grinned. "Be honest. More than anything, you want to rub this in my face. Show me just how fucked I am, yeah?"


    The stoic look of Avaman¡¯s face lingered heroically for a moment -- but eventually, his lips did curl into a smirk.


    "You were the one that quickened the Supreme¡¯s heart," he whispered. "Your attack brought him back to life, if only for a short time. His subjects thought that you would make a fine gift for him, win them favour. One group sought to bring you back, but that took so very long -- and the fruits of their effort were stolen. The other group sought simply to replicate¡­ and they made me. An¡­ exact replica."


    "Ooh," Skipper whistled. "Cloning, huh? That¡¯s kind of a taboo, yeah?"


    "Sometimes foolish rules must be broken for the sake of greatness."


    "That¡¯s what you are, then?" Skipper laughed. "Greatness? You¡¯ve kind of got an ego, huh?"


    Avaman lunged forward, lightning fast, and seized Skipper by the throat with one gloved hand. Their faces were inches from each other, Avaman¡¯s snarling while Skipper¡¯s remained defiantly calm. Hot breath buffeted over Skipper¡¯s skin like the respiration of a wild beast.


    "I could snap your neck, you know," Avaman hissed. "Easily."


    "Do it, then."


    For a good long second, Avaman actually seemed to consider following through. His fingers curled around Skipper¡¯s throat, tightened just slightly -- and then he relinquished his grip. "No," he shook his head. "When I deliver you to g¡­ to the Supreme, I will be praised above all others. I wouldn¡¯t put my own petty satisfaction above that."


    "Aw," Skipper chuckled. "And daddy will finally love you? It¡¯s a longshot, kid."


    "Say what you want, old man," Avaman sneered, returning to his seat and turning back to the controls. "Your mockery will soon be paid back in¡­ oh. What¡¯s this now?"


    Skipper gulped. "What?"


    Avaman glanced over his shoulder -- and grinned. It was the kind of grin that Skipper had never expected to see on his own face, no matter how young. It was a wide, ugly thing, open mouth like a void of malice.


    Behind him, through the window, Skipper could see the distant light of a starship approaching. He couldn¡¯t see the vessel from here, but he already knew.


    Oh, he thought. Oh, you idiots. What are you doing?


    "It seems your friends have come to rescue you, Esmeralda," Avaman laughed. "What do you think? Shall we kill them?"


    And like a master with his piano, his hands danced over the controls.

 Chapter 275:11.2: The Cruelest Wind, Avaman

    Dragan¡¯s eyes widened the second the blip appeared on the ship¡¯s radar.


    "There!" he cried, jabbing his finger onto the console -- nearly getting Bruno in the face in the process. "That¡¯s it! That¡¯s the ship!"


    It hadn¡¯t been difficult to get the signature for the ship that had taken Skipper. After all, the owner hadn¡¯t exactly been subtle. He¡¯d boarded the ELIZA, killed everyone in his way, and then left. All they had to do was check which ship had docked without authorization right before the carnage started. sea??h th§× n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan¡¯s heart hammered in his chest as they weaved through asteroids and clouds of stardust, slowly but surely making their way towards their quarry. Thank goodness he¡¯d been right about the route Avaman would be taking, too.


    This wasn¡¯t the safest way back to Supremacy space, but it was the fastest. As he¡¯d hoped, the First Contender had prioritized speed over anything else.


    The First Contender¡­ as he was reminded of who exactly they were pursuing, Dragan¡¯s heart nearly dropped out of his chest. He¡¯d never been one to buy into the grand Supremacy narrative of glorious warriors and their prestige, but even so -- the Contenders were titans of the culture. They were nearly as synonymous with the concept of strength as the Supreme himself.


    Could they¡­ could they really pull this off?


    A heavy hand landed on Dragan¡¯s shoulder, and he looked up to see Ruth standing behind him. Her face was hard, firm, eyes focused on the distant red light that had just come into view. Even as she spoke, she did not let that ship out of her sight.


    "You said your plan would work," she said seriously. "So I believe you. Don¡¯t lose heart."


    It was weird for her to tell him that, but Dragan nodded all the same. He swallowed, turning back to the flight console. Bruno bit his lip as he continued to maneuver through the stellar debris, the two of them leaning over his shoulders.


    "Remember," Dragan said quietly. "This can only work if we get close enough. I need a hole in that ship. It doesn¡¯t matter how small it is. Just¡­ just anything."


    As Bruno concentrated on piloting, Serena spoke out of their mouth. "Mr. Dragan," she said cautiously. "A ship like that will have self-repair, you know. Even if we open up a hole, that doesn¡¯t mean it will stay open."


    Dragan¡¯s grip tightened on the back of the chair. "How long will I have?"


    "About five seconds -- and that¡¯s pretty generous, Mr. Dragan!"


    Five seconds. In and out. He could do that. Dragan¡¯s fingers drummed against the back of the chair anxiously. He could do that, right?


    "Give me as long as you can," he repeated.


    Bruno nodded, and the Slipstream AE continued its approach.


    Avaman put his mask back on, various augmented elements appearing around his vision as he did so. His blood pressure, his heartbeat, his rate of breathing¡­ all the information his suit read on his physical condition, beamed right into his eyes. It read the signature of the approaching ship, too, displaying a rotating 3D model of the vessel right in the corner of his vision.


    The Slipstream AE. Equipped with top-of-the-range Paradisas technology. It would be a formidable opponent, but Avaman had faith. He had overcome greater challenges than this.


    He would eliminate them. He would eliminate them without fail and return his quarry to God.


    "Hey, fair warning!" cried out Esmeralda from his holding slab.


    Before he could speak any further, Avaman flicked a switch on the console, and a metal gag slapped itself over the prisoner¡¯s mouth. It would not do to listen to that man. His words were honeyed poison.


    Avaman¡¯s eyes scanned the readings the console was giving him. This wasn¡¯t his personal starship: he¡¯d selected this one for maximum speed. As such, its offensive capabilities were somewhat lacking. It was vexing to rely on a ship that was less powerful than he himself, but Avaman would use what he had.


    This asteroid field was a prime location to engage the enemy, the massive rocks providing easy cover against their attacks. Rather than continue fleeing and risk engagement in a less fortuitous environment, he would eliminate them here. Perhaps seeing his crew blasted apart would put an end to Esmeralda¡¯s japes.


    Let¡¯s see how you answer my greeting, first.


    Targeting computer was locked on. Automated defenses were activated. He was ready to kill.


    Avaman tapped a button -- and three missiles were launched from their bays, red streaks spluttering behind them as they zoomed across the darkness of space. Even a regrettable ship like this had enough firepower to blast their paltry vessel apart several times over. A grin curled beneath his mask -- oh¡­ he couldn¡¯t wait to see the look on Esmeralda¡¯s face.


    As expected, the Slipstream AE turned into a barrel roll as it attempted to avoid the barrage. The missiles missed by mere inches, flying past for a short time before reacquiring their target. Their thrusters stopped for a brief moment as the missiles reoriented themselves, blasting off once again to pursue the AE.


    The first missile smashed into an asteroid the AE dived behind as cover, blowing it apart into chunks of rock. Avaman slid a hand over the part of the console that controlled the missiles, adjusting the programming of the remaining two. The second would trail behind the first somewhat, giving it enough time to counteract whatever means the AE used to dodge.


    In this case, however, the AE did not exactly dodge.


    With a daring maneuver that would have seriously damaged a less sturdy ship, the AE turned on a dime, letting loose a hail of punchpoint fire at the incoming projectiles. The first missile took the brunt of the counterattack, exploding prematurely -- but that only meant that it served as more effective cover for the second.


    Avaman¡¯s grin widened as the last missile drew close to the starship¡¯s front window, far too close to be deflected.


    It¡¯s over.


    "Now!" Dragan cried.


    The barrel of the musket pressed against his back. Even if it was part of his own plan, the sensation was disconcerting.


    Ruth pulled the trigger, the cape of her Revolutionnaire Set billowing behind her -- and red Aether surged directly into Dragan¡¯s body, boosting his own power. The incoming missile came in closer, pinpoint bullets bouncing off the shell, and Dragan watched.


    If this was to work, he had to wait until the very last second.


    Closer¡­


    Closer¡­


    Closer¡­


    The missile was inches away. The explosion would be enough to open up the front of the ship like a can opener. Dragan took a deep breath¡­


    ¡­and a miasma of blue Aether engulfed their surroundings.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The missile vanished.


    Avaman sat up in his seat, eyes wide in surprise and frustration. Right before the missile could strike the AE, it had disappeared in a haze of crackling blue Aether, like a thunderstorm. Recorded? If that was the case, then there must have been an extraordinarily powerful Aether-user on the other ship.


    Or perhaps they had simply Aether burned? That would be preferable, as it would mean Avaman wouldn¡¯t have to worry about that ability again. Still¡­ to think they¡¯d been able to outmaneuver him. His arms tightened on the armrests.


    Behind him, beneath the gag, Zachariah Esmeralda laughed a muffled laugh. It took all Avaman had not to decapitate him there and then.


    There was no time for executions, at any rate. The AE swooped out of its hiding place between the asteroids, zooming towards Avaman¡¯s ship in pursuit. He flicked a switch, directing the autopilot to keep distance between him and his enemies to the best of its abilities. If the missiles weren¡¯t going to work, he needed to concoct a new method of attack.


    He checked the radar again. There was an old mining station nearby -- decrepit and derelict, but perhaps sufficient to use as cover. He adjusted the autopilot once more, just slightly, to bring them over to that location over time.


    In the meantime, his gaze returned to the AE, quickly growing larger in his vision. The pilot module of this ship was able to rotate, and so Avaman had no trouble looking straight-on at his enemies even as he retreated. He could see them in their cockpit even, silhouettes made vague by distance and glass.


    They were using Aether to assist them in the dogfight, eh? Well, two could play at that game.


    Avaman¡¯s own abilities worked by sculpting and manipulating the air around him. He could make blades to slice things up, form projectiles to fire at his foes, cause air bubbles to expand inside his enemies and detonate their bodies¡­ any number of things.


    To use that in this situation would be difficult -- after all, there was no air in space. This ship, however, had the ability to vent out contaminated air. He¡¯d use that to get the air outside, where he could manipulate it for a surprise attack. Around ten percent would do it.


    Avaman flicked a switch, and there was a brief woosh as the air was vented out. He kept hold of it with his Aether, feeling it as an extension of his own body as it invisibly clung to the outside of the vessel. He¡¯d let the AE come into range, and then pelt it with a hail of Whirlwind Crossbows.


    Even if it didn¡¯t destroy the ship entirely, it would do enough damage to leave it drifting and hopeless.


    The AE weaved through stardust as it came closer and closer to Avaman, closer and closer, closer and closer¡­ the mouse in the trap¡­ so close they could almost touch! Their cockpits were inches from each other, those dark silhouettes almost discernible. They¡¯d want to dock his vessel to retrieve Esmeralda, but they¡¯d never get the opportunity.


    The time had come!


    Whirlwind --


    It was coming.


    Dragan squeezed Ruth¡¯s shoulder -- the signal they¡¯d agreed on. She was kneeling on the floor in an unusual position, her hand planted against the floor of the ship. After they¡¯d stopped the missile, they¡¯d swapped places -- and now Dragan was the one holding the musket to her back. Even if she wasn¡¯t using the musket personally, it still held the ability she¡¯d imbued it with.


    She¡¯d manifested her armour on objects before, but they¡¯d always had to be roughly the same size as the Set itself. Stretching her armour out to cover anything bigger than that was outside her capacity. It was like trying to stretch your own arm across an entire room -- you just couldn¡¯t do it.


    That is¡­ you couldn¡¯t do it normally.


    Ruth felt a jolt as Dragan fired the musket right into her back, and immediately shouted:


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    "Noblesse Set!"


    -- Crossbow!


    Avaman had miscalculated. He understood that the second he launched his attack -- for, at that very same instant, the ship before him changed. A clear white surface, like marble, spread across the entire vessel, utterly encasing it.


    He could manipulate his Crossbows to a degree after he fired them, but from this distance there was nothing he could do to avoid hitting the AE. They struck as one, shattering the strange white plating -- and then, still as one, they rebounded upon Avaman¡¯s own vessel.


    The ship shook wildly. Alarms blared. There was the sound of cracking glass as the cockpit window was splintered -- and an automatic arm immediately began repairing it, so fast that not even air could leak out.


    The AE passed above him, and Avaman swerved his own vessel to pursue. No doubt they thought they¡¯d gotten one over on him. Well, they¡¯d accomplished nothing. Any damage they¡¯d done would be swiftly repaired, and the only thing they¡¯d gained was his wrath. He¡¯d --


    A sound behind him. A foot landing on the floor.


    Avaman whirled around in his seat, just in time to see a young man with silver hair wrench open Esmeralda¡¯s restraints, freeing him from the slab. It was the Cogitant from back on the ELIZA, the one he¡¯d used to take out Esmeralda. What was he doing here?! Hadn¡¯t he learned his lesson the first time?!


    Avaman thrust his hand forward furiously as Esmeralda collapsed forwards into the Cogitant¡¯s arms. Two phrases were screamed at once.


    "Whirlwind Greatsword!"


    "Gemini Shotgun!"


    As a massive blade of wind smashed into the back of the ship, devastating it, there was a split second where Avaman¡¯s view was clear. In that moment, his heart dropping, he saw it. He saw a spark of blue, quickly writhing¡­ and manifesting¡­


    ¡­the missile.


    Needless to say, as the returned missile struck Avaman, the ship did not survive.


    Ruth grinned breathlessly as she saw the explosion behind them, Avaman¡¯s vessel scattering into flaming debris that slammed into the surrounding rocks.


    It had worked. Their insane fucking plan had worked. They¡¯d taken down one of the Contenders.


    It had been simple. Once they¡¯d opened up a tiny gap on the outside of Avaman¡¯s ship, Dragan had been able to use Gemini World to get aboard -- and use the missile he¡¯d recorded before to destroy it from the inside. At the same time, he and Skipper would have retreated back into Gemini World.


    They¡¯d be floating out in space as a cloud of Aether -- all Bruno had to do now was open up the exterior airlock as they were passing and let them flow back inside.


    She patted Bruno on the shoulder. "Go get them!"


    His hands were shaking with excitement as they danced across the controls, but his expression was as serious as ever. "It¡¯s not over yet. Don¡¯t celebrate."


    Ruth looked down at him, the grin on her face almost painful. "We just blew that guy the fuck up, Bruno. You get that?"


    Despite everything, the slightest smirk tugged at Bruno¡¯s lips. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." With a flick of the switch, they began their approach to the spot the ship had exploded. "Still, we need to get as close as possible to them."


    Ruth nodded -- but before she could say anything, the two of them were struck by two sensations at once.


    The first was an Aether ping, coursing with malice and murderous intent, flooding through the ship like poison gas.


    The second was a projectile smashing into the ship. Ruth was sent sprawling down to the floor as the vessel shook, the rumble of the engine dying down into an eerie silence.


    "Primary engine has sustained critical damage," the auto-brain said smoothly. "Further operation is unsafe. Switching to first backup."


    The engine roared back to life, perhaps just a tad quieter, as Ruth climbed up Bruno¡¯s chair. His face was pale as he looked out the cockpit window.


    "The hell was that?!" Ruth asked, rubbing her injured head.


    Bruno didn¡¯t have to say anything. He just nodded forward. Ruth followed his gaze, and her jaw dropped.


    There, floating in the void of space, was Avaman the Announcer, First Contender of the Supremacy. He was utterly unharmed, clad in that same mask and cloak without even a scratch. His cape was even writhing behind him, as if blown by a non-existent wind. It was like he was standing on nothing.


    And he was pointing at them.


    "Dragan Hadrien¡­" mused Avaman, floating freely. "Yes¡­ that was your name, wasn¡¯t it? It slipped my mind, but I read it in the file."


    The Whirlwind Javelin seemed to have done its work well, judging from the brief halt of the Slipstream AE. He must have disabled the primary engine as intended. Judging from the schematics of the AE, it would have now automatically switched to the first of two backup engines -- ergo, two more well-placed shots would disable the craft entirely.


    "It was naive of you to believe exposing me to the void of space would kill me," Avaman said casually, glancing towards the location of Hadrien¡¯s Aether cloud -- the location his Aether ping had revealed to him. "I am a Contender, after all. Still¡­ I have to admit, your little gambit with the missile did make me sweat for a second there. Well done. Through the combined efforts of three weaklings, you managed to induce a moment¡¯s anxiety."


    He tracked the far-off ship with his finger as it took cover behind the asteroids. Distance wasn¡¯t an issue, but those rocks would be. Unlike the mid-range attack of Whirlwind Crossbow, Whirlwind Javelin could fly at a distance of about a kilometer, but it could only travel in a straight line. Wasting ammunition on cover would be unwise.


    "I¡¯m sure you¡¯re wondering how I¡¯m surviving right now, in the void of space," he continued speaking, finger fixed on the AE¡¯s last visible position. "This isn¡¯t a spacesuit I¡¯m wearing, if that was your theory. It¡¯s just that my ship was full of air before it was destroyed. It was nothing for me to seize hold of it and create a habitable bubble."


    Yes¡­ as things stood now, he was in no immediate danger of dying. The air he¡¯d managed to collect would also serve as his ammunition. Technically speaking, he had enough air to produce about seven more Whirlwind Javelins, but realistically he¡¯d be able to fire off only three. The remainder of the air would be needed to get himself to the mining station, after all.


    Two hits would be required to disable the AE, and he had three Javelins at his disposal. That meant he had one shot to play around with. Avaman adjusted his aim, focusing on an asteroid just a little bit further away. Whirlwind Javelin could only travel in a straight line, but that didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t get creative with it.


    Whirlwind Javelin.


    Avaman fired, the bubble of air around him shrinking slightly.


    Smash.


    Ruth looked up at the source of the sound, but it wasn¡¯t visible from the cockpit. Bruno, in the pilot¡¯s seat, focused instead on the readings of the console -- and went pale as he wrenched the lever that would get them moving again.


    "What?" Ruth demanded, clinging to the back of the chair to prevent herself from flying off. "What is it?!"


    Bruno was still too focused on flying, so Serena spoke out of his mouth. "Ricochet!" she exclaimed, panicked. "He blew up an asteroid -- and now the chunks are coming this way!"


    The Slipstream AE weaved heroically through the incoming maelstrom, but there was only so much they could do. The ship shook as fragment after fragment struck the hull, red emergency lights blaring.


    "Shit," muttered Bruno. "Shit, shit, shit!"


    He twisted the ship into a roll in order to avoid a particularly large chunk of rock, and at that moment --


    There.


    For a split second, the ship was just barely visible between two asteroids. Avaman smiled.


    Whirlwind Javelin.


    -- the ship shook once again, more violently than before. Warning signs flicked on around the console as the ship was plunged into darkness. A second later, dim lights came back on, but the voice that echoed through the cockpit confirmed their worst fears.


    "Back-up engine has sustained critical damage," the auto-brain said. "Further operation is unsafe. Switching to second back-up."


    Bruno paled, angling the ship to use one of the asteroids as cover again. "One more shot and he¡¯s got us. Damnit."


    Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked around the void of space, as if she¡¯d see something there they could use to survive this ordeal. But there was nothing there¡­ nothing but the dark.


    If they lost here, it was all over. Dragan wouldn¡¯t be able to maintain his Gemini World forever -- either he and Skipper would reappear and die on the spot in space, or they¡¯d disappear entirely. Avaman would be able to board this ship and kill them easily.


    One more shot would kill them all.


    Her grip tightened on the back of the chair. Hell no. She wasn¡¯t going out like that. If she was dying, she¡¯d do it fighting, not sitting behind a rock waiting for the end!


    Besides¡­ there was something out there in space, wasn¡¯t there? Something that could help them. Something that would definitely be waiting for the perfect moment.


    "Bruno," she said seriously. "I have a plan."


    Bruno and Serena looked up at her. Their gloved hands were shaking on the console, driven by tension and anxiety. She knew the feeling.


    As quickly as she could, she explained her plan.


    "That¡¯s crazy¡­" Bruno muttered.


    Ruth swallowed. "You got anything better?" she replied gruffly.


    Bruno considered it for a moment -- and it became clear that he didn¡¯t. He threw himself over the controls, manhandling them as the Slipstream AE jerked back into life. They¡¯d only have one shot at this. He¡¯d have to give it everything he had.


    "If I die!" he exclaimed. "I¡¯m haunting the shit out of you!"


    "Oh?"


    Avaman raised an eyebrow behind his mask. How utterly unexpected.


    The Slipstream AE had swerved out from behind its cover -- and was now charging directly at him, thrusters propelling it at full force. He couldn¡¯t help but chuckle. This was the best that Esmeralda¡¯s disciples could muster?


    Doubtless there was a trick to it, but it was a desperate trick all the same. Did they seriously think he¡¯d forgotten about that white shield? They intended for his Whirlwind Javelin to be reflected right back at him, but he had already seen through it.


    From what he¡¯d seen the first time, that strange armour took at least one second to fully manifest. Avaman would simply wait until the very last moment before firing, giving them no chance to block. From there, he could execute them at his leisure.


    As the AE barrelled towards him, it let loose another hail of punchpoint fire, but to no avail -- it simply bounced off the air bubble around him, individual bullets floating off into the dark. Weak weapons like these, without so much as a spark of Aether, didn¡¯t even qualify as obstacles to him. Avaman simply continued to point straight at the incoming ship, waiting for that perfect moment.


    Closer¡­


    Closer¡­


    Closer¡­


    So close he could see the silhouettes through the cockpit window again, so close he could see the wear on the ships hull, so close he could see the open airlock on the side --


    Wait. What?


    Just as Avaman thought that, he felt a sensation. A sensation one never wants to feel while in the midst of battle. The sensation of cold, merciless metal pressing up against their temple.


    In an instant, less time than it took to blink, Avaman¡¯s eyes flicked off to the side -- and he saw it, and he understood. The suicide charge of the Slipstream AE had been nothing but a distraction. He¡¯d been so focused on them that he¡¯d forgotten entirely about the Aether cloud he was guarding.


    That brat could manifest things partially, as well.


    The thing pressing against his head was the prosthetic index finger of Zachariah Esmeralda. His upper arm had appeared out of the cloud of Aether, blue sparks buzzing around the border between existence and absence. In that moment, Esmeralda¡¯s mouth did not exist in this world, but Avaman was still certain of the words he would be saying.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Avaman brought all his air back for defense as the sound blast struck him -- he avoided serious damage to his skull as a result, but the impact was still enough to send him flying off, flipping over and over. He roared in fury as the arm disappeared again, and that fury only intensified as the Slipstream AE zoomed past. The Aether cloud surged into the open airlock as Avaman was forced to watch, drifting away, and the airlock slammed shut a moment later.


    By the time Avaman had used the air around him to stop his flight, the ship was already gone.


    Skipper dropped to the floor of the Slipstream AE, panting for breath. His metal arm was creaking and clicking -- presumably from the intense cold -- but that wasn¡¯t what Dragan¡¯s eyes were focused on. No, his eyes were focused on the other arm.


    The one that wasn¡¯t there.


    Right before Dragan had gotten them out of the ship with Gemini World, Avaman had launched an attack. Dragan had assumed they¡¯d avoided that attack. It seemed¡­ that wasn¡¯t the case.


    Skipper¡¯s ¡¯good¡¯ arm was little more than gristle and dangling bone, blood pouring copiously onto the floor of the ship. There was a heavy creak as Ruth opened the interior airlock, only for her to stop in her tracks one step into the room.


    He must have still been touching the Neverwire when the attack hit. Dragan stared just like Ruth, dumbstruck for a moment, at the wound. Skipper gritted his teeth as he clutched the stump.


    "Get something to stop the bleeding," he grunted, forcing himself to his feet. Before either of them could say anything, he continued: "But no Panacea. Never Panacea."


    He staggered past the two of them on his way to the infirmary, pausing for just a moment to glance towards the cockpit. Serena was sitting there, her face just as pale as the rest as she looked over her shoulder at the bleeding Skipper.


    "Elysian Fields," Skipper said forcefully. "Fast as you can. Don¡¯t stop for anything."

 Chapter 276:11.3: The Message, The Man

    Skipper lay in the dark, nursing his wounds.


    After stopping the bleeding with a coagulant and bandaging up the stump, he¡¯d retired to his quarters for some much needed rest and relaxation. Well, he wasn¡¯t feeling very restful or especially relaxed, but still. It was the thought that counted.


    He glanced down at his new wound, at the arm that was missing from the elbow down. It wasn¡¯t quite as bad as his injury back on Caelus Breck, but a missing arm was a missing arm. Once they got to Elysian Fields, he¡¯d have to get another prosthetic bolted on. There was no way he¡¯d be killing the Supreme with just one hand, Freedom or no.


    Even though his wound ached, pain sculpting itself into the shape of the missing limb, it was not what consumed his mind. No -- what had been dancing through his head for the last hour or so was the countdown.


    Was it time, yet? Was it time, now?


    He held his script in his prosthetic hand, screen open to the function he¡¯d need. A single tap of the screen, and everything would begin. But was everything ready? Could they not wait a little longer, maybe, get things ready, make sure they had everything they needed? Perhaps they could leave all this by the wayside for just a while more, have some more adventures out in the bounty of space¡­


    ¡­no.


    The time for that had passed. Avaman had his scent now, and he wasn¡¯t one to let his quarry go. Skipper had seen that same ferocity in the mirror too many times to mistake it. As much as Skipper needed to kill the Supreme, Avaman needed to kill Skipper. It was what animated them.


    Some time ago, Skipper had managed to get his hands on a certain virus. An escapee from the Absurd Weapons Lab of the Supremacy, stolen by a particular pirate and then stolen again by Skipper. It wasn¡¯t capable of much -- simply lurking in the background of a communication system, and then broadcasting a message when prompted. As far as weapons went, it was pretty low tier. But it was what Skipper needed.


    He¡¯d already introduced the virus to the Supremacy¡¯s central communication network a while ago. He¡¯d already recorded the message. All that was needed now¡­ was the go-signal.


    They were almost at Elysian Fields. There wouldn¡¯t be a better time than this.


    A metal finger clicked against a glass screen.


    "This is going to be pretty confusing for most of you. You must be thinking: who¡¯s this guy?"


    The doors to Atoy Muzazi¡¯s quarters suddenly slid open -- and Morgan Nacht charged in, white in the face. He was breathing heavily: clearly he¡¯d sprinted all the way here. Muzazi immediately leapt up. Morgan was meant to have been guarding Aclima. Had something happened?


    Morgan spoke before Muzazi. "Have you¡­ have you seen it? Is your videograph on?"


    Muzazi shook his head, confused. "Seen what? What are you talking about?"


    "Can¡¯t blame ya. Sorry for interrupting your shows, folks, but I need to make a little announcement here."


    Commissioner Marcela Caesar watched with keen interest as the message played on the holographic screen before her.


    On that screen, floating in the air, the image of a man lying on a couch could be seen. It was not a man familiar to her, but those eyes -- oh, they were familiar to her. Those eyes held the killer instinct of a born warrior. Something she prized in her own Special Officers. This was the second playback of the message, and she was listening just as intently as the first time.


    Before this interruption, she¡¯d been joining other members of the military for a demonstration of Halcyon Interstellar¡¯s new developments in orbital defense. The turrets they¡¯d been showing off had certainly been impressive, but were now utterly forgotten in the wake of this bombshell. The representative who¡¯d been espousing the wonders of the new rapid reload system was just as transfixed by the broadcast as the rest of them.


    She glanced across the seating area, to where the Ascendant-General was watching the message with his own staff. Alexandrius Toll had a deep frown on his face as he took the words in, again and again. Nobody had said it out loud, but it was clear what this would bring.


    Marcela¡¯s gaze returned to her girls.


    Michael Kerberos tore her eyes away from the main screen long enough to grin back at her. Marcela¡¯s personal bodyguard was a Pugnant woman with scruffy white hair that hung over her eyes, in a way that reminded one of a puppy. Her ¡¯uniform¡¯, for lack of a better word, consisted of little more than scraps of metal and fabric arranged in such a haphazard way that it provided slightly more protection than a swimsuit. That fanged grin on her face was proof enough, though: she, at least, understood what this meant.


    Marcela¡¯s personal aide, Dariah Todd Harlow, seemed much less excited. She swallowed nervously as she watched the message, bright blue eyes flicking between it and Marcela every couple of seconds. The Cogitant girl had a bob of deep black hair, combed compulsively to an inch of its life each morning, with an arresting mole beneath her left eye. She wore a sleek and sleeveless white dress that terminated just above the knee, with black stockings over both her legs and arms. She cleared her throat as the message completed its third replay.


    "Ma¡¯am," she said haltingly. "What is this?"


    Marcela chuckled, reaching forward and brushing a lock of hair out of her aide¡¯s face -- enough to stop that stammering and replace it with a blush. Oh, yes, she knew what this was. She was no fossil like Toll -- when she saw a disruption like this, she couldn¡¯t help but feel her heart tremble.


    "Opportunity," she purred.


    "Well, introductions are in order first of all -- the name¡¯s Zachariah Esmeralda."


    In the great city of Match¡¯s March, traffic -- both pedestrian and vehicle -- had come to an utter halt. Every head was looking up at the message that had replaced the constant advertisements on the skyscrapers, and every ear was listening to the words echoing throughout the urban jungle.


    Here, the man called Zachariah Esmeralda had a captive audience of millions -- and this was only the tiniest sampling of his listeners.


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins, paused in the middle of Match¡¯s March¡¯s famous crossing, frowned deeply as he looked up at the screens, at Skipper¡¯s face made stories tall. The last time he¡¯d seen that mug had ended in disaster. The hell was he thinking¡­?


    Buzz.


    Someone was calling Roy¡¯s script. Adjusting the bag he had slung over his shoulder, he pulled the device out of his pocket and put it to his ear.


    "Yeah?" he said, going to resume his walk -- only for the voice on the other end stop him in his tracks once again.


    After all, it was the same voice as the one coming from the screens.


    "Well, that name probably doesn¡¯t mean much to you guys. Some people call me Skipper."


    In the esteemed private manor of the Ospilerous family, Special Officer Winston Grace grinned widely to himself as he listened to the message being beamed across the Supremacy. He leaned right into his small script like he was playing a video game -- eyes scanning any detail of the dark room, ears listening intently to every word out of Zachariah Esmeralda¡¯s mouth.


    How exciting! How interesting!


    This man¡¯s words seemed to suggest that he and the Supreme had a prior history, but his name wasn¡¯t one that Winston was familiar with at all. Zachariah Esmeralda...


    Was there perhaps a relation to Achilles Esmeralda, the old executioner of the Supremacy? According to historical record, he¡¯d committed suicide before the Supreme, but his reasoning had been left suspiciously opaque. Oh, that made sense. This Zachariah Esmeralda must have been some kind of relative -- perhaps an adopted child, based on the lack of familial resemblance -- who had done something to the Supreme, and Achilles had killed himself to maintain his honour. If it was severe enough to provoke that kind of response, then most likely it had been an assassination attempt -- but Zachariah had survived? That was weird. If he¡¯d survived, wouldn¡¯t he have become a Contender? So he¡¯d survived, but in such a way that he was physically unable to continue fighting. On the verge of death from the Supreme¡¯s counterattack, then. That explained the timeline discrepancy, too. This man was just a little too young to have been in such a scenario back then, so he¡¯d probably been in some form of stasis for a period. So now he was back and wanting revenge. That made sense.


    "Um, Detective?" called out the security officer from the drawing room, the various witnesses and suspects visible through the doorway. "You were telling us the truth of the case?"


    Oh. That was right. He was here to investigate the Pseudo-Suicide case. Well, he¡¯d figured that out five minutes after he¡¯d gotten here -- he¡¯d just been stalling things for the free drinks at this point.


    "The butler did it," he declared, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "Can someone give me a ride to my ship?"


    "Again, probably drawing a blank. I¡¯m not exactly famous. But let me tell you what I¡¯m all about."


    The beast had been a titan, nearly the size of a village, all scaled skin and massive fangs. It had been terrorizing the people of this planet for years now, devouring their cattle and destroying their lands. Apparently, it was a leftover experiment from the time of the gods -- or, as the people of the galaxy at large called them, the Gene Tyrants. Many warriors had gone up against it, and many warriors had died.


    It had taken Lily Aubrisher about two minutes to finish it off. Smoke rose from its charred skin, and stray tendrils of lightning still danced around its empty eye sockets. Its jaw hung open, and the slop that had been its tongue and organs oozed forth freely.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    In its death throes, one of its teeth had come loose and lodged into the ground. Lily now used this as a makeshift seat, carefully rebraiding her brilliant white hair. It seemed to come loose every time she did anything these days, but that was no surprise. When you moved at the speed of lightning, appearance tended to take the backseat.


    "Ma¡¯am!" called out Hailel in his bedrock-deep voice, stalking over.


    He was a tall and sallow man, long black hair and black cloak giving him the appearance of some kind of evil sorcerer. His features were stern as stone, and the reachers that protruded from either side of his head were gnarled like sinister wood. His red eyes glinted in the sunset of the planet as he approached.


    "What¡¯s up?" Lily said, finally giving up on the braids. They¡¯d only come undone again once she moved faster than a run, anyway.


    "The locals have been talking," he said seriously, holding out one of those devices -- a script. "There¡¯s a message going out, all throughout this region of the galaxy. I think you should see it."


    Lily extended a hand to receive the script, only to pause. It seemed that it wouldn¡¯t be necessary. She knew the script was going to ring a few seconds before it did.


    After all, electricity could be so damn loud.


    "Around sixty years back, I tried to take out the Supreme. Didn¡¯t do too well since, ya know, he ain¡¯t dead. But I got a good hit in. Took his ear right off. Bet that¡¯s the biggest injury he¡¯s had in a good while."


    Muzazi swallowed as the message looped again and again and again. He found he was reflexively assuming the position to activate his Radiants, palms pointed towards the floor. Skipper was doubtless an immeasurable distance away, and yet the words he spoke felt so dangerous that he might as well have been in the room, gun in hand.


    On the other side of the room, arms crossed, Morgan looked over. "What do we do?"


    "I think it would be wise," Muzazi said slowly, his voice dry. "If we went and fetched the Heir."


    "None of those Contenders or whatever are giving him what I did, that¡¯s for sure. Which brings me to my point here¡­"


    Dragan watched the video on his script, pale in his face, even as copies of it played all across the AE¡¯s controls. Those words ran throughout the ship, washing over the four of them in the cockpit -- Dragan, Ruth, Bruno and Serena. Those words that, deep down, Dragan knew would doom them.


    There was no coordination between them, but they all moved at the same time anyway. Three heads turned over three shoulders to look, shocked, at the closed door that led to Skipper¡¯s quarters.


    What are you thinking, Skipper? Dragan wondered. What the hell are you thinking?


    "Ready for round two, old-timer?"


    Avaman, in the darkness of the mining station, seized the monitor in front of him. It had taken him hours to make enough repairs to get the power on, and he¡¯d immediately been greeted with the face of the man who¡¯d just escaped him. His own face.


    His blood boiled as he heard the final words Zachariah Esmeralda said. Old-timer. Old-timer. He had called God old-timer. Such disrespect. Such disregard. Unforgivable. Unforgivable!


    It would take a long time to get a distress signal set up -- but for the time being, Avaman busied himself by screaming in rage at the screen in front of him.


    "I am. I¡¯ll be waiting at Elysian Fields."


    Wu Ming laughed out loud to himself as he watched the video playing on the videograph screen, ignoring the hushed silence of the other viewers. He was at a premier for one of the new October Jones videographs, and had just been about to die of boredom when this interesting little event had taken over the monitor. As loud complaints began to bounce around regarding the interruption of the movie, he kicked his feet up on the next row and watched keenly, ignoring the withering stare of his aide.


    "Skipper, huh?" he laughed. "I knew you were an eleven outta ten, man! A twelve!"


    "Bring whoever you want."


    On her balcony aboard the Shesha, Paradise Charon smiled softly to herself. The Prisoner was never wrong.


    With a flick of her wrist, she cast her holographic screen onto the massive space before her -- a balcony aboard the Shesha could of course not look out into the void directly, but the inside was so dark to pretty much be the same. The gargantuan face of Zachariah Esmeralda continued to issue his challenge over and over, that cocky grin on his face, words rewriting the world. She could feel it, already¡­ like a rumbling waiting to make itself known.


    Now, then¡­ how could she use this to eviscerate that loathsome Atoy Muzazi?


    "Let¡¯s have fun."


    The Hellhound twitched warily as, for the first time in years, the Supreme stood up from his throne.


    This man had never occupied much of the Hellhound¡¯s thoughts, despite the hefty pay he received for occupying his current position as a Contender. The Supreme, to him, wasn¡¯t so much different from the throne he sat on. Furniture. Something constant yet irrelevant.


    And yet¡­ in that moment¡­ the Hellhound found himself holding his breath with lungs he did not have.


    Dust cascaded off the Supreme¡¯s massive, muscled body like a waterfall. His joints cracked with the intensity of gunshots. There was a series of loud clicks as his chapped lips opened into a bright white grin. He had not been dead, but all the same this was a vision of a man returning to life. Colour seemed to return to his skin and light blonde hair, and the long sigh he let out his lips was the first breathing he¡¯d done in a while.


    But, still¡­ that grin.


    From his position on the floor, all the Hellhound could see of the Supreme was that grin. His eyes and the rest of his face were obscured from view by his wild hair and the oppressive darkness of the throne room. Even so, though, that huge man was surely rapt with attention at the message before him.


    As the message ended, though, a new sound overtook the room. A quiet chuckle, that intensified into loud and hearty laughter.


    "Ah¡­" the Supreme sighed -- before he slammed a fist down onto the arm of his throne, utterly shattering it. "Hell yeah!" he bellowed, voice bouncing off the walls. "Yes! I like that! He¡¯s calling me out -- that¡¯s awesome! Elysian Fields¡­" his head snapped towards the Hellhound. "Hey, where is that? Is it nearby?"


    It had been ages since the Supreme had last spoken, but there was no sign of it in his voice. It was titanically deep, yes, but also strangely jovial -- more like a person you would meet down at the bar than a head of state.


    With the way he jumped out of his throne and the obvious excitement in his posture, he seemed more like a big kid than anything else.


    The Hellhound ran a quick search through his connection to the network. "Elysian Fields," he said, artificial voice smooth and calming, with but a tinge of beastliness. "The site of one of the last battles of the Thousand Revolutions. Abandoned since then. Given distances, it would take around five days to muster significant forces there."


    "Really? Five days? Argh!" he clutched his head. "Okay, I¡¯ll tell you what -- you let everyone know. Grab the, uh, the Special Officers, and the other Contenders, and let them know to meet us there. We¡¯ll make it a whole thing." He snapped his fingers. "It¡¯s gonna be great. Yeah?" Seemingly satisfied, he began bounding off out of the room.


    The Hellhound nodded. "Sure. What will you do?"


    The Supreme skidded to a halt, running a hand through his coarse beard as he turned his head. For the first time in a long while, there was light in his eyes. He grinned.


    "Me?" he asked. "Ol¡¯ Zachariah was nice enough to send me a whole damn invitation. I¡¯m getting myself presentable."


    It was the slightest thing. Perhaps not even intentional. Perhaps just the result of the excitement of the situation. But it happened all the same.


    The tiniest spark of golden Aether ran down the Supreme¡¯s cheek, and the sheer light of it was enough to blast away the shadows.


    Deep in the darkness of the Shesha, the Prisoner smiled. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "And so it begins."


    "Let¡¯s have fun¡­ let¡¯s have fun¡­ let¡¯s have fun¡­ let¡¯s have fun¡­"


    As the technicians of the Supremacy¡¯s communication network finally regained control, the end of the message began to loop. Zachariah¡¯s face pixelated and warped, until it became little more than the suggestion of human features. Finally, his voice deteriorated to an incoherent screech -- before cutting out entirely.


    Then it went back to the Farball game. Looked like the Pol Bankers were winning.


    "You can turn it off there, Johan," croaked the older man, chin resting on his hand. "I think the message was seen and understood."


    His hair was white from age and his face and body a mass of battle scars, but something about the way he sat still radiated strength. One eye had been lost long ago, the socket left empty and open to the world, but the other -- glinting gold -- watched keenly enough for a hundred. His fingers drummed against the arm of his chair. Some of the digits were old and some were young, a sign of reckless Panacea usage.


    His name was Klaus El, and he was something of a terrorist.


    The man named Johan Blackbird was much the same. His Umbrant eyes were dull and dark, sunk into a killer¡¯s abyss, even as he held up the videograph remote and turned off the screen. Just like Klaus, he had scars -- once, a long time ago, his lips had been stitched shut, and they still held the marks. He¡¯d lost one arm, and the prosthetic he¡¯d gotten to replace it was strange; rather than a hand at the end, there was only the barrel of an ancient-looking rifle.


    "How do we proceed?" he asked, his voice as dull as the rest of him.


    Klaus waved his hand at the black screen. "Naturally, of course," he replied, with a voice that sounded like he swallowed gravel professionally. "Skipper¡¯s given us the most clear ¡¯go¡¯ we could hope for. Inform the men. Free Eagle is coming home."


    Johan saluted and stalked out of the room, pumping the rifle on his arm as he went. What a useless gesture. It betrayed his eagerness. What would he be shooting in the next few minutes, after all?


    Still¡­ Klaus could sympathize. He stood up from his seat and made his way over to the balcony, using a cane to maintain his balance. His legs were fine, but he¡¯d taken a blow to the head a few years prior that had left him with a permanent sense of dizziness. An endless war took its toll.


    He held onto the railing with one hand, taking in a deep breath of fresh cold air. Refreshing.


    Elysian Fields was mostly grasslands, interspersed with huge forests and mountains. He could see one of them on the horizon, the towering Mt. Splendor surrounded by dense trees. The sun hung over it, casting the landscape in a melancholy orange light.


    His eye flicked down, away from the natural world, and instead to what they had built.


    The news hadn¡¯t yet spread. His soldiers were still running drills, officers barking orders and automatics carrying supplies to and fro. This base was made mostly from prefabricated buildings, embedded into the old Gene Tyrant ruins like parasites. A great and decrepit pyramid with metal maggots writhing through it.


    This was the Regiment RED, the army formed to slay a god. The army Klaus had devoted his life to. The army Klaus would surely see die over the next few days.


    Just a few more sins, and all this would end.


    It¡¯s finally time, isn¡¯t it, Skipper? he thought, looking out over his legions. Finally time to kill the Supremacy.

 Chapter 277:11.4: Elysian Gardens and the Flying Tartarus

    Before we begin, let me tell you a little something about Regiment RED: they are killers.


    Now let me tell you a little more about them.


    The Supremacy has faced many enemies over its lifetime -- the Great Chain, the Final Church, the Unified Alliance of Planets, Darkstar -- but none have been quite as persistent or quite as irritating as Regiment RED. While the damage they are capable of inflicting may not match those of the other titans, it is not for lack of ferocity.


    Their leader, Klaus El, was once a member of the Supreme Guard. Nobody knows the specific cause of his desertion -- or at least, nobody¡¯s telling -- but it¡¯s believed to be one of the reasons for the dissolution of the Guard in place of the Contender system. It¡¯s been nearly sixty years since then, and Klaus El has not stopped for a breath since.


    They recruit from those smashed underfoot by the Supremacy machine -- that is to say, those that have a burning hatred for the Supremacy as a whole. Through grueling training, that hatred is tempered into a flame they hope can incinerate the object of their ire. Each member of Regiment RED, regardless of rank, is a honed warrior -- and in most cases, a capable Aether-user as well.


    Assassinations.


    Kidnappings.


    Torture.


    Chemical warfare.


    Public bombings.


    There is no tactic that Regiment RED will not adopt. In order to fight against the Supremacy, they have not hesitated to make monsters of themselves. It¡¯s said that Klaus El is the worst of them, willing to unleash the kinds of powers that reduce a battlefield to rot without hesitation.


    A forest fire must annihilate indiscriminately -- that is their philosophy. It¡¯s the task of the rain that comes afterwards to clean up the damage.


    Although they¡¯ve been quiet for nearly a decade now, their infrequent raids on military bases for supplies make them a persistent thorn in the Supremacy¡¯s side. Klaus El himself has one of the highest bounties in the history of the system. That said, though¡­


    ¡­there are rumors among those that hunt Klaus, that he works with another, that he has a partner.


    Who that partner might be, though, nobody can say.


    -


    The Slipstream AE set down on a landing pad right on the edge of the base, thrusters still red-hot after they deactivated. They¡¯d pushed the ship to its limits getting here so fast: to be honest, Dragan was surprised that they¡¯d made it.


    As they descended the landing ramp, automatics had already gathered to begin repairing and refueling the vessel. Dragan looked past the bustling machines, to the landscape that spread out before them.


    Green grass and blue skies, with a yellow sun hanging high above. Mountains dotted the horizon, and -- past the grassland they were on now -- Dragan could spy a forest of massive trees. He found himself reminded of how things had been on Yoslof, all that time ago.


    The building before them didn¡¯t much help with those comparisons, either.


    It was a massive pyramid, the size of a skyscraper, composed of metal made dull by time and covered in intricate and esoteric carvings. Gene Tyrant archeology if he¡¯d ever seen it. Parts of the structure had seemed to collapse over the centuries, and had been repaired with box-like outcroppings that clashed heavily with the rest of the building¡¯s style.


    "So," Dragan muttered, as they reached the bottom of the ramp. "Elysian Fields, huh?"


    Skipper paused next to him. His ruined arm was held in a sling, and they¡¯d done all they could for his injuries, but his face was still pale. Whether that was from his wounds, or the situation in general, Dragan couldn¡¯t say.


    "Yep," he said quietly, eyes flicking around. "Last stop on our galactic tour, yeah? Hell of a sight. One of the last battles of the Revolution happened here, you know."


    "I remember," Dragan nodded.


    Ruth cleared her throat, arms crossed as she glanced at Skipper nervously. "Hey¡­ can we talk about that message you sent out?"


    Skipper shrugged, once again lopsided but this time in the opposite direction. "What¡¯s there to talk about?"


    She rubbed the back of her neck. "Well¡­ we¡¯d gotten away, hadn¡¯t we? Why¡¯d you tell them where we were going? I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t get it."


    Dragan understood it perfectly well. Just like Skipper had said -- this was the last stop. For his plan to work, he needed the Supreme to come to him. Just from looking at the older man, Dragan could tell. Skipper had no plans that came after this. This was the culmination of it all.


    Skipper grinned, but there was no reassurance in it. "Trust me," he said, tapping his temple with a metal finger. "I¡¯ve got some stuff going on up here."


    Bruno finally descended the ramp as well, cracking his shoulders. Presumably, he¡¯d been checking the ship¡¯s systems.


    His face remained his own, but Serena spoke out of the mouth. "Some stuff?" she asked. "Like what stuff, Mr. Skipper? Bruno¡¯s kinda nervous."


    "I¡¯m not nervous," Bruno quickly cut in.


    "He is. He is, Mr. Skipper, because it kind of seems like we¡¯re F-U-C-K-ed. You know?"


    Skipper put his good hand to his hip. "I have a plan," he sighed.


    "Then tell us," Dragan promoted.


    "All in good time."


    Dragan spread his arms wide. "We¡¯re on the fucking planet, Skipper! There isn¡¯t any more time! Are you seriously just winging this?!"


    Skipper looked down at him, and the look in his eyes was dark. Not angry, not threatening¡­ but there was something there, all the same.


    "You misunderstand me, kid," he said quietly. "What I¡¯m saying¡­ is that I hate repeating myself. I want to tell everyone all at once."


    His eyes flicked up, and Dragan followed his gaze -- to the small entourage making their way over.


    Two men, flanked by soldiers wearing the signature scarlet balaclava of the Regiment RED.


    The first was walking with the assistance of a cane, and -- to put it bluntly -- looked like he¡¯d suffered every kind of injury possible at least once. One eye stared keenly at them, while the other was missing entirely, with no effort made to conceal the empty socket. It was open to the air.


    The second, younger, had grey hair -- natural, it seemed, not caused by age -- tied back into a severe ponytail, and strange scars marking his lips. One of his arms -- a prosthetic, clearly -- was much bigger than the other, with the barrel of a rifle sticking out the end.


    Dragan furrowed his brow as he looked at the older man. Something about him seemed familiar¡­ but it took a moment for him to place the face.


    Time and cruelty had taken their toll, but he had seen this man before -- when he was going through Skipper¡¯s memories back on the ELIZA. This man was Klaus, Skipper¡¯s old friend from the Supreme Guard. They¡¯d never actually mentioned what had happened to him, so Dragan supposed it was no surprise he was still lurking about somewhere.


    "You look like shit," Skipper called out as Klaus approached.


    Klaus¡¯ walking cane thumped down onto the concrete of the landing pad. He didn¡¯t reply straight away -- instead, he silently observed the group. As his good eye settled on Dragan¡¯s face, he couldn¡¯t help but feel like he was under a searchlight.


    "This is him?" Klaus said, voice tortured into a rasp on the way out of his throat. "Your Cogitant?"


    "Ayup," Skipper replied.


    Klaus¡¯ eye lazily moved over to Skipper. "And the rest?"


    Skipper grinned. "Got some folks on their way. Plus, you should have already gotten the automatics we talked about. Everything up and running?"


    "You didn¡¯t leave us much time," Klaus grumbled. "But yes -- the Hanged Man will be ready for whatever they throw at it. All we have to worry about is the pilot."


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked from face to face -- the conversation was moving so quickly that he barely had a chance to interrupt. Eventually, though, his chance did come.


    "Sorry," he said, right before Skipper could open his mouth again. "I don¡¯t want to be a dick, but¡­ I just want to make sure I¡¯ve got everything right here. We know the Supremacy¡¯s on their way here, right? We made them be on their way here. There is a plan beyond just waiting for them, isn¡¯t there?"


    Skipper raised an eyebrow. "You never heard of a siege before, kid?"


    Dragan glared. "Usually, there are walls involved in a siege. What¡¯s to stop the Supremacy from just bombarding us from orbit?"


    For the first time in a good while, that old twinkle returned to Skipper¡¯s eye. "Let me show you."


    The heart of the pyramid was the polar opposite of the sense of light and freedom outside. The place was dark and dim, corridors eerily small and short, requiring people to walk single file to move in a group. Rust crawled over the walls, hastily repaired with new material, and a chemical stench lingered in the air.


    Eventually, though, they reached an elevator -- wide enough to house all of their group as it descended. Dragan glanced at the assembly out of the corner of his eye as long minutes passed.


    Klaus El -- Dragan recognised him from Skipper¡¯s memories, but who was the Umbrant with him? A bodyguard, or someone higher-up in the organization? Dragan couldn¡¯t imagine he¡¯d heard of him before and forgot. That scarred face was one that tended to stick in the mind.


    Bruno, spotting the direction of Dragan¡¯s gaze, sidled up next to him. "I know that guy. That¡¯s Johan Blackbird," he whispered conspiratorially. "He¡¯s meant to be a simple bounty hunter, but people have always suspected ties to Regiment RED. Guess they were right."


    Dragan frowned. "How come you¡¯re an encyclopedia all of a sudden?"


    "We used to work for the UAP," Bruno shrugged. "We¡¯d get briefings on all the major groups in the Supremacy -- including these guys."


    Major? Dragan didn¡¯t know about that. Until Skipper had mentioned the name on their way in, he¡¯d never even heard of these people. Apparently, they¡¯d been dormant for quite some time, though. Waiting for Skipper¡¯s plan to come together, maybe?


    "Your people are gossips, Esmeralda," Johan suddenly spoke up, his voice a harsh monotone. "These are the best you could get? Pathetic." Even as he talked, he continued to face forward, expression impassive.


    "Hey!" Ruth barked, with surprising firmness. "Watch your mouth."


    "Hey, hey, hey, it¡¯s okay," Skipper narrowed his eyes as he patted Ruth on the shoulder. "The name¡¯s Skipper, Blackbird, in case you forgot. I get what you¡¯re saying, though. It¡¯s so damn loud. For some reason, people can¡¯t help but talk when they see your mug. It¡¯s crazy, huh?"


    For the first time, Johan turned his head to face Skipper, growling angrily in that strange Umbrant double-voice. He took a step forward.


    Fantastic. They were somehow going to start a fight before the Supremacy even got here. Dragan cleared his throat, voice echoing through the elevator shaft.


    "So," he said. "Where exactly are we going?"


    Klaus glanced at Johan -- and that was enough for the angry man to return to his original position. As he did so, though, his long coat swished through the air -- and Dragan got a better look at that rifle on his arm. It was strange-looking, more antique than mechanical, with a distinct silver shine to the tip of the barrel. An Aether Armament, maybe?


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    Before Dragan could look closer, however, he found that Klaus had turned towards him. The old man had the kind of gaze that made you want to stand at attention -- or perhaps drop into a hole in the ground.


    "We¡¯re headed below," he croaked, thumping his cane against the floor. "Before the Gene Tyrant that occupied this planet was killed, it created a device. A device that wasn¡¯t enough to save it¡­ but one that should give us the edge we need."


    "Right," Dragan nodded. "The one you need Cogitants to activate, right?" Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Johan snorted. "See? No sense of secrecy¡­" he said -- but quietly, so as to not get another glare from Klaus.


    "He never told us what it is, though," Dragan pressed on. "He just said it¡¯s a device -- and, like you said, that it would give us an edge. What kind of device? What kind of edge?"


    Klaus¡¯ eye flicked to Skipper. "You started telling them," he said plainly. "You might as well finish."


    Skipper shuffled awkwardly on the spot before speaking. It seemed he hadn¡¯t quite expected Klaus to call upon him.


    "Well¡­" he said. "When you get down to it, the device we¡¯re heading down to is a kind of, uh, a kind of¡­ shield, I guess. One that can wrap around the entire planet."


    "What," Dragan frowned. "Like an energy barrier?"


    "Nah nah nah," Skipper shook his head. "This planet¡¯s got some funky stuff going on with the atmosphere. The device manipulates that, it creates these crystalline clouds sharp enough to slice through steel, all around the planet. Anything trying to get through the shield that meets the criteria¡­ well, it gets obliterated."


    "...and what¡¯s the criteria?" Dragan asked.


    "It¡¯s a shield that rejects structures," Klaus took over. "Not structures as in physical objects, but the way things are organized. The way a warband moves, its hierarchy, its methods of attack¡­ the shield gets a sense for these things, and strikes back at them instantly."


    Things clicked. "So, what? You¡¯re going to make this shield reject the Supremacy?"


    Skipper clicked his fingers. "Exactamundo."


    As the elevator platform rattled a little, Ruth scratched her head. "Wait. I, uh¡­ I don¡¯t get how that helps. Doesn¡¯t that just mean we¡¯d be stuck here, with no way to get out, with the Supremacy army surrounding us? That sounds like a shit plan. Uh, no offense."


    Over in the corner, Johan rolled his eyes again at the interruption. It went ignored.


    Skipper plunged his hands into his pockets. "Ordinarily, that¡¯d be true," he smiled. "But there¡¯s one way to get around the shield. It detects organizational structures, so if people go through the shield -- through the atmosphere -- one at a time, there¡¯s no problem."


    He turned to look back at them, green eyes glimmering in the light.


    "If the Supreme knows I¡¯m down here, he won¡¯t be able to resist," he said. "That army¡¯s coming down single-file. I think that gives us a pretty big edge, don¡¯t you?"


    The elevator cleared a threshold, and the tunnel of rock around them was suddenly replaced by a massive cavern. Not for the first time, Dragan¡¯s eyes widened.


    It didn¡¯t take a genius to spot the device. It took up most of the cavern, after all -- a massive and perfect sphere with strange patterns of green and blue smoke drifting across its surface. A constant sound -- a buzzing -- emanated from it, loud and persistent enough that Dragan could feel it in his bones. No matter how hard he looked, Dragan couldn¡¯t see any physical supports for the structure -- but he could see several bridges connecting to the sphere from the surrounding caves, presumably leading inside it.


    The sensation of looking at it was difficult to describe¡­ but if Dragan had to say, it was like he was looking at something plucked straight out of the imagination.


    "We call it the Lotus," Skipper said, blue and green light running over his face. "Taking on the Supremacy one guy at a time¡­ I think that gives us a pretty good chance, yeah?"


    "For the Lotus to work," Klaus concluded, rubbing his scraggly chin. "We need to teach it what the Supremacy is, so that it might reject it. That is what we brought you Cogitants here for. From all over the Supremacy, from different stratums of the society, to map out the whole."


    "So¡­" Skipper grinned. "Ready to help us kill a god?"


    When Atoy Muzazi had arrived on the Tartarus, the Ascendant-General¡¯s personal cruiser, he¡¯d expected something of a stern atmosphere. A known dissident had somehow managed to hijack all Supremacy communications, after all, if only briefly. If that wasn¡¯t enough, Commissioner Caesar had sent out a general summons here to all Special Officers not currently on a mission. This was a serious matter.


    He hadn¡¯t expected this. Perhaps he should have.


    "Wow!" said Winston Grace, circling Muzazi in the manner of a particularly intrusive shark. "I can¡¯t believe how long it¡¯s been, Atoy! How long has it been?"


    He¡¯d caught them in the main hangar minutes after they¡¯d landed, before Muzazi could even sign in. The ship was massive, and more Special Officers were arriving all the time, so his absence wouldn¡¯t be noted yet -- but still. It was the principle of the thing.


    "Some months," Muzazi said firmly, offering a sympathetic glance to Morgan, who was standing behind him. "It¡¯s good to see you, Winston."


    He was telling the truth. It was good to see Winston. It pained his heart when he thought back to Nocturnus, to being with Marie there, but they¡¯d worked well with Winston at the time. Without his help, it was doubtful they would have achieved any measure of success. At the end of all that, he¡¯d hoped -- even just a little bit -- that Winston would have joined their crew, but things hadn¡¯t turned out that way¡­ and so soon after that, Marie had died. Apparently, he¡¯d been part of the investigation into the battle on the Child Garden, but Muzazi hadn¡¯t had the chance to meet with him then. That had been¡­ somewhat saddening.


    Yes, he was fairly fond of Winston Grace. Muzazi tried to tell himself that as Winston carefreely pushed past him, switching his focus instead to Morgan as he looked the man up and down.


    "I¡¯ve seen pictures of you before," Winston said quickly, without so much as a ¡¯hello¡¯. "Videographs too. But you look a little different from those right now. Paler? No, not just that." Without warning, he reached out and grabbed Morgan¡¯s hand, pulling it up and inspecting his wrist. "Slight greenish tinge to the veins, which intensified slightly as I noticed it. Intensified again as I made it known that I noticed. A sapient presence, then? I was wondering where Ionir Yggdrassil went -- they wouldn¡¯t tell me. But why the integration?"


    Morgan went to answer -- he didn¡¯t notice Muzazi silently shaking his head. "Well --"


    "Don¡¯t tell me," Winston snapped with surprising harshness. "In the reports, there was mention that you were attacked by Baltay Kojirough. His sword is made of muzhang, extremely toxic, treatment is difficult."


    "I --"


    "Ionir Yggdrassil healed you -- no, is healing you, otherwise he would have left your body already. He¡¯s constantly healing the damage inflicted by the toxin. Wow. That must be nerve wracking, huh?"


    Morgan blinked. "What?"


    "Having a constant war being fought inside you, I mean. I think I¡¯d be stressed out a little, if that was me. But hey, everyone¡¯s different, so --"


    "Hey!" A female voice suddenly burst out from the other side of the hangar. "Winston! Don¡¯t be fucking rude!"


    Muzazi glanced towards the source of the sound, and quickly found that the source of the sound was storming towards them. It was a young woman, her pale blue hair tied back into twintails and electric-blue eyes glaring straight at Winston. Her clothes were somewhat unusual -- a kind of blue war-robe, similar to Muzazi¡¯s, only sleeveless and with a black sash wrapped around the waist. Around that sash, Muzazi could see numerous implements strapped down -- throwing knives and smoke bombs, from what he could identify. Was she some kind of stealth expert, then?


    It made sense. He hadn¡¯t noticed her presence until the very instant she¡¯d called out.


    "Ugh," Winston groaned, finally getting out of Morgan¡¯s face. "Sorry about this, guys. That¡¯s my little sister, Beatrice."


    Beatrice Grace reached them just as Winston finished speaking. "What did you just call me?" she said, brow knitted together in anger, before turning to Muzazi and Morgan. "I apologize for Winston. My little brother doesn¡¯t get how to talk to people. We tried to teach him better, but he¡¯s a lost cause. Please understand."


    "Don¡¯t listen to her," Winston said hurriedly. "She doesn¡¯t know what she¡¯s talking about." He turned to his sister, a very similar expression to hers spreading over his own face. "Could you not interrupt? These aren¡¯t random people, I know them -- I know him," he jabbed a finger towards Muzazi. "He¡¯s my colleague, actually. We¡¯re talking about serious matters."


    Beatrice put her hands on her hips. "You¡¯re being a pain. Come on, let¡¯s go find Dad -- he¡¯ll want to see us."


    "Pfft," Winston waved a dismissive hand. "He¡¯s not going anywhere. I¡¯m just talking with my good friend Muzazi, so¡­"


    As per usual, Winston¡¯s energy was such that one could just be washed away by it. Muzazi found himself speaking up for what felt like the first time in a while. "Well, we do actually have somewhere we should be," he said. "So¡­"


    "No you don¡¯t," replied Winston -- automatically, it seemed, for a second later he frowned. "Oh, you actually do, don¡¯t you?" He shuffled awkwardly. "Sorry, I guess."


    "Sorry¡¯s right," Beatrice grumbled, grabbing him by the ear and beginning to drag him away. "You can find them later, if they even want to talk to you."


    Even as he was being dragged off, Winston just crossed his arms, face crunched into annoyance. "Ugh, don¡¯t be such a¡­"


    "What did you just call me?!" He didn¡¯t even say it, but Beatrice¡¯s shout echoed throughout the hangar nonetheless. More than a few of the Special Officers passing through the room looked over at the sudden burst of noise.


    It was followed by another voice -- from behind Muzazi and Morgan. That voice attracted very little attention.


    "Um," said Aclima. "Hello¡­"


    The girl was wearing her most formal war-robes for this occasion, a sword much too big for her small frame strapped to her back. Muzazi had already made it clear that she would not be fighting in this battle -- she still hadn¡¯t unlocked her Aether, after all -- but it was best that she be here. Anything else would only lower her ranking further in the eyes of others.


    Just like with Beatrice, though, Muzazi had almost forgotten that Aclima was there. The reason for it was completely different, of course. Rather than concealing her presence like Beatrice did, it was just that Aclima¡­ had very little presence to begin with.


    She was easily overlooked. Not really something a Supreme Heir should be.


    Beatrice released Winston¡¯s ear, the boy dropping to the floor in an undignified heap. "My Heir," she said politely, bowing slightly. "It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you."


    If nothing else, she clearly knows her etiquette, Muzazi thought.


    "Hey, idiot!" she snapped down to Winston, kicking him. "Greet the Supreme Heir properly!"


    Nevermind, Muzazi thought.


    "Ow, ow ow ow," Winston muttered, rubbing his behind as he picked himself up. "Yes, yes, of course, nice to meet you, my Heir, it¡¯s such a --"


    He looked up -- past Muzazi -- and stopped talking.


    Beatrice went to admonish him, only to follow his gaze and fall silent too.


    Morgan looked and immediately turned pale.


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "What?" he said. He went to turn around


    His body shook violently. No voice would come from his throat. By reflex he thought he¡¯d abandoned, he reached for a sword that was not at his side.


    I¡¯m dead.


    Slowly, slowly, slowly, so scared that if he moved too fast he would provoke something, Muzazi looked behind him. He looked at the person with their hand on his shoulder. He looked at the thing that could kill him with no effort at all.


    I¡¯m dead.


    A fortress of a man. Grotesquely muscular, with so little body fat it was almost inhuman. Light blonde hair, almost golden, cut short with rough hands. What had always been depicted as a wild beard, shaved down to a goatee. A wide grin that could have been either malice or glee. A presence that was so omnipotent as to go unnoticed.


    I¡¯m dead.


    "Hey," said the Supreme, his booming voice friendly as his massive hand squeezed Muzazi¡¯s shoulder. He was looking past Muzazi, at the group as a whole. "You guys Special Officers? It¡¯s hard to tell, since Caesar doesn¡¯t give you any damn uniforms, heheh. Well, I guess not having any uniform could be your uniform, in a way? Anyway¡­ nice to see you guys show up. You seem like good kids."


    I¡¯m dead.


    Nobody said anything. The closest thing to speech was a kind of choking sound that trickled out of Morgan¡¯s mouth. Aclima shook violently, her shoes rattling against the floor.


    I¡¯m dead.


    The Supreme frowned at the silence. He patted Muzazi¡¯s shoulder slightly -- and for a single, horrible moment, Muzazi was certain that slight effort would be enough to crush him against the floor. In that instant, he could feel it, an illusion conjured by his mind -- his spine snapping, his guts forced out of his broken jaw, his skin flattened and stretched.


    I¡¯m dead.


    "Man¡­" the Supreme sighed. He took his pinkie and stuck it in his ear, digging around idly there. "Looks like I went a little too hard there. Sorry, guys. Just wanted to say ¡¯hi¡¯. Welp." He glanced over to Aclima, and her rapid shuddering. "Aw man, you¡¯re freaking out there. Real sorry. I¡¯ll, uh¡­ leave you to it, I guess."


    And with that, the Supreme let go of Muzazi¡¯s shoulder, and began stomping away.


    I¡¯m¡­ not dead?


    Even with that hope, Muzazi did not dare move. The rest of the group didn¡¯t dare move, either. None of the Special Officers or personnel in the hangar dared move. It was only when the Supreme had left the room and the doors had slammed shut behind him that Muzazi dared take a breath.


    Immediately, he collapsed to his knees -- and then collapsed to his hands and knees.


    That was the Supreme?! That was the person he hoped one day to replace?! On an intellectual level, he¡¯d understood that the Supreme was the strongest. He¡¯d understood that his power was above any other living creature. But there was a difference between understanding it and experiencing it. There was a difference between understanding it and having it slap a hand on your shoulder from behind.


    It didn¡¯t even feel like he¡¯d escaped death. It felt like he¡¯d died and come back to life. His lungs hurt when he breathed, and there was a soreness behind his eyeballs. All the danger signals a body could produce were blaring through his mind.


    It was just a few words, spoken by Aclima, that pulled him back to sanity.


    "He didn¡¯t realize, did he?" she murmured, sad as all the world, looking at the closed metal doors. "He didn¡¯t even realize who I am¡­"


    Muzazi was in no state to speak, but if he was, he certainly would have agreed with her.


    When the Supreme¡¯s eyes had looked at Aclima¡­ they¡¯d been looking at a stranger.

 Chapter 278:11.5: Petals of the Lotus

    Dragan was surprised.


    For some reason, he¡¯d expected the interior of the Lotus to be dark, but that wasn¡¯t the case at all. Plentiful populations of bioluminescent fungus cast the entire spherical landscape in a calm blue glow, washing over the group¡¯s faces as they walked across the bridge.


    It wasn¡¯t especially bright either, of course -- the immediate area was illuminated, but the further you went the darker it got. All around them, strange strands of biological material stretched from wall to wall, occasionally twitching and squirming. At first, Dragan had mistaken them for cobwebs or something, but -- with a chill -- he soon realized what they really were, and what this really was.


    They were walking through a massive brain.


    Ruth rubbed her arms to ward off the cold as they crossed the bridge to the center of the Lotus interior. "Is this place¡­ alive?" she asked, looking around warily.


    "Brain-dead," grunted Johan Blackbird, leading the group, the barrel of his rifle-arm almost scraping against the metal walkway. "The functions work, but it needs people to get them going."


    "The Cogitants," Bruno nodded, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Which is, uh, plural, by the way." He jerked a thumb back towards Dragan. "So unless we¡¯re cloning this guy, where are the rest?"


    Skipper cracked his neck. That old easy grin was still on his face -- but just barely. The closer they got to their confrontation with the Supreme, the closer it got to slipping off his face.


    "While we¡¯ve been gathering allies and weapons," he said. "Blackbird here and his crew has been grabbing the rest of the Cogitants we need."


    Johan clicked his tongue in annoyance at Skipper¡¯s words. "A selection of Cogitants from across the Supremacy -- so we can map out its structures effectively. It¡¯s selective. It¡¯s not just a matter of grabbing people."


    "Well, whatever," Skipper shrugged.


    They reached the center of the sphere, where the various bridges converged upon a biological console of sorts. Great blue bulbs pulsed and wheezed atop a circular pedestal, a smell like bleach oozing out of their pores as they twitched. Dragan found himself holding his nose as they approached.


    "This is it?" he asked.


    Klaus nodded. "All it needs is physical contact -- then it hooks you right up to the neural network. Planting a hand against the bulb should be enough."


    Dragan leaned past the bulb, looking at the people beyond. They weren¡¯t alone, after all. It seemed the other six Cogitants had taken the other bridges, and now they¡¯d met up here. It was quite a varied crowd. Some looked nervous, some looked resolute¡­ and one particular person -- a girl with silver hair like Dragan¡¯s -- held no emotion in her eyes at all. She looked at Dragan, and Dragan found himself quickly forced to look away.


    "Hey¡­" he heard Ruth saying from behind him. "This is safe, right?"


    "We¡¯ve done thorough testing over the last few years," Klaus replied gruffly. "There¡¯s no risk at all."


    Ruth looked past Klaus to Skipper, who nodded in confirmation.


    "Proceed," Klaus said, voice dull and without ceremony.


    Dragan stepped back from the console, looking back at him. "Wait, I mean¡­ we¡¯re not doing this right now, are we? You said there are people -- allies -- still on their way, right? They¡¯ll be people from within the Supremacy, so they¡¯d be caught by the shield too."


    Klaus thumped his cane. "It¡¯s a two stage activation," he pressed. "Once will prime the atmosphere, and the second will activate the shield. These allies should be with us by the end of the day. We¡¯ll do the first activation now and the second when night falls. Proceed."


    Dragan gulped -- and, just like Ruth, he looked past Klaus to Skipper. The older man just nodded. He wasn¡¯t smiling.


    "Go ahead, kid," he said seriously. "It doesn¡¯t bite."


    The way Skipper said that made Dragan think that maybe the console did bite. All the same, though, he steeled himself, approached the console and -- with a courage that would have been unthinkable just a year ago -- planted his hand against it.


    Long seconds passed. Nothing happened.


    Frowning, Dragan peeled his hand free of the bulb, noting with disgust a pale blue extract that clung to his skin. "Was, uh¡­ was something supposed to happen there?"


    He turned away from the console -- and immediately furrowed his brow. The crowd was gone. The only other person in the chamber, taking a seat on a particularly accommodating rock, was Bruno. He looked up from his script as Dragan approached.


    Realization dawned. "How long was I standing there?" Dragan asked.


    Bruno stuffed his script into his pocket, stifling a yawn. "Around two hours."


    Well, that explained why his legs were tired, if nothing else.


    Even after all he¡¯d experienced, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but feel his heart tremble with excitement as he made his way through the halls of the Tartarus. Nearly everywhere he looked, he could see Special Officers of fame and prestige. He supposed that, as the new leader of the Seven Blades, he was technically famous too, but it certainly didn¡¯t feel like that.


    Aclima followed behind him, with Morgan taking up the rear. She¡¯d been quiet ever since their encounter with the Supreme -- and Muzazi couldn¡¯t blame her. For one¡¯s parent to not even bother finding out what you looked like¡­ it was a difficult situation. Muzazi hadn¡¯t quite known what to say, either.


    At any rate, they¡¯d signed in and been assigned quarters -- a luxury suite usually used by visiting diplomats. That sounded comfortable enough, but Muzazi would have to ensure it was secure, as well. With so many self-interested parties hanging around, this was by no means a safe place for the Supreme Heir.


    They were just turning the corner to the luxury suites when they heard it.


    The scream.


    It rang down the hallways like an alarm. High-pitched and bloodcurdling, with a hint of choking behind the voice. Muzazi recognised it immediately: the desperate cry of someone being murdered.


    He wasted no time.


    "Watch her!" Muzazi cried, pushing past Morgan and charging down the hallway -- towards the source of the sound. Thrusters granted him speed as he ran past door after door, but deep down¡­ he suspected that it might already be too late. A scream like that did not wait long before being followed by death.


    But why? Why here? Had the enemy already infiltrated the Tartarus somehow, or had a fight broken out between some Special Officers? Muzazi would have liked not to suspect his colleagues of such pointless conflict, but he was well aware that not all shared his code of conduct.


    He got his answer quickly, and it was exactly as he¡¯d dreaded.


    The victim had already been dragged out into the middle of the recreation area and tossed onto the farball court like a sack of potatoes. When he was alive, the young ensign might have been handsome -- but it was impossible to tell now, for his face had been caved right in. Other personnel were keeping their distance from the body, whispering among themselves -- no surprise, for the killer had made no effort to conceal himself either.


    Atoy Muzazi had never met this murderer, but he knew him by reputation. The Baron Lunalette de Fleur.


    His attire was eccentric in only the way a Special Officer could get away with -- an extravagantly ruffled suit and a top-hat, both so dark a red they seemed black at first glance. His hair was red, too, cascading in curls down the sides of his head, framing his painted-white face -- a face that held the kind of eerie symmetry only achievable through copious surgeries. Even though he¡¯d just killed a man, he showed no signs of remorse or responsibility. He just sneered down at the corpse with those vivid red eyes, before glancing up at the approaching Muzazi.


    "This peon tried to tell me I¡¯d be sleeping in the common quarters," he said calmly, as if that explained his actions. "Can you believe that?"


    Muzazi glared as he crouched down next to the body, futilely checking for a pulse he knew he would not find. "You murdered this man," he growled. "You think that will go unanswered?"


    De Fleur raised his red eyebrows in amusement. "Oh?" he said, red lips twisting into a smirk. "Oh, I recognise you. Atoy Muzazi, isn¡¯t it? The Supreme Heir¡¯s nursemaid. My condolences -- I hear she¡¯s quite the charity case. Congratulations on the promotion, at any rate."


    As Muzazi rose back to his feet, he opened one hand -- ready to ignite a Radiant if it came down to it. "Watch your tongue," he snapped.


    "Then again, I must have sympathy for her, as well," Lunalette chuckled, placing a hand to his heart. "Her caretaker doesn¡¯t seem to understand the role of a Special Officer, after all."


    Hot anger boiled through Muzazi¡¯s veins, but he did his best not to let it show. His steely glare continued. "What?"


    Lunalette ran a hand down his cheek, as if he were a patron admiring the artwork that was himself. "I shall tell you. Yes, I think I shall tell you!" he laughed, as if he were explaining something very simple to someone very stupid. "To be a Special Officer is to be recognised for your strength, and to be granted the freedom you deserve. The mere fact that we are Special Officers should be enough for others to tread carefully around us." He waved a hand down towards the corpse. "Those who forget their place must be shown the results of such actions. Otherwise, we might as well not be Special Officers at all."


    "Forget their place?" Muzazi clenched his fists. "He gave you news you didn¡¯t like. That is not worthy of punishment."


    Lunalette smiled thinly. "The strong determine what is worthy of punishment. That is the only metric."


    There was only so much a man could listen to.


    Muzazi stepped forward, igniting his Radiant and swinging it in a single movement. His speed was impeccable, of course, but his opponent had seen the attack coming. The slightest chuckle escaped from Lunalette¡¯s lips as he pulled a black pitchfork free from his dark-red Aether, using the three spikes to block Muzazi¡¯s blow.


    "Oh," Lunalette smiled, amused. "So you are a man of substance."


    "I will take you to the ship¡¯s brig," Muzazi growled, pushing against Lunalette¡¯s block. "Or I will take you to the ship¡¯s morgue. It is not up to me which."


    This was not a man who deserved any consideration -- for the Baron Lunalette de Fleur had a reputation.


    Special Officers were generally given carte blanche to do as they wished so long as they ultimately answered to the Supremacy, but common decency often limited what they did with such freedom. The same was not true for Lunalette de Fleur. Perhaps the fact that his ancestors had kept their titles of nobility by joining with the Supremacy early made him think he was already above others, but -- in any case -- he had no common decency.


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    Over the years, his name had become synonymous with brutality. Such a man could not be allowed on the same ship as Aclima. A tiny, cold part of Atoy Muzazi earnestly hoped that execution became necessary.


    Their stalemate broke, both fighters angled around each other for a superior position, and in the same instant they lunged at each other --


    -- countless lengths of string, like a rainbow spiderweb, danced through the air.


    Their movements were instantly halted as the strings wrapped around their limbs, holding them in place with all the severity of vices. Muzazi let out a frustrated growl as he twitched in the strings embrace, arm frozen in the overhead swing that would never conclude. Dull pain radiated through his joints. He had no doubt that, if the wielder of the strings desired it, they were just as capable of cutting through flesh as stopping it.


    Clap, clap.


    Said wielder strolled out of the bathroom as casually as could be, his coat of many colours swishing around him. Some toilet paper clung to his shoe. His face, if nothing else, was no surprise. Muzazi had expected to see him the second that string had crossed his vision.


    Wu Ming clapped sarcastically, as if applauding their showmanship.


    "Now, now, fellas," he yawned. "Let¡¯s not start killing each other before we even arrive. Two outta ten when it comes to conduct, seriously."


    Lunalette de Fleur, frozen mid-stab, glowered as Wu Ming approached -- and then yelped in surprise as he was hurled backwards by the strings, slamming into the wall even as he was released. He snarled as he picked himself back up, only to stop in his tracks as Ming lifted a single calm finger.


    "Woah there, friend," Ming said, eyes half-lidded, a strange shadow in his gaze. "I¡¯m just keeping the peace here. Making sure everyone¡¯s getting along¡­ that sort of thing. If you want to turn this into a fight between me and you, though, I¡¯m down. Just, ah, just be aware¡­ if that¡¯s the way we¡¯re going¡­" He opened his eyes, wide and true. "...you¡¯ll die, okay?"


    Lunalette stared into Ming¡¯s eyes for a good long moment, as if probing for weakness there, and clearly found none. He scoffed as he released his hold on his pitchfork -- the weapon disintegrating into a strange ash-like substance before dissipating entirely -- and turned on his heel, storming off down the corridor. After Ming was satisfied the Baron wasn¡¯t coming back, he released his hold on Muzazi too.


    As Muzazi fell to one knee, he looked up at Ming disapprovingly. "You should not have let him get away with that."


    Behind them, automatics were already collecting the body of the murdered ensign, transporting it for proper storage. Muzazi watched, rage blazing behind his eyes, fists shaking in frustration. Wu Ming, on the other hand, was the utter picture of calm.


    "I wouldn¡¯t worry about it," he said, running a carefree hand through his long hair. "Guys like him always get what¡¯s coming to them -- maybe sooner rather than later. Best not right here, though. Not right now. He¡¯s got friends¡­ it would cause some trouble for you, if you understand me."


    Of course.


    Muzazi bitterly massaged his neck as he returned to his feet. Everyone always had friends. Everyone always had allies. The entire upper echelon of Special Officers Muzazi had entered seemed to be consumed by an utter web of corruption, linking everything and everyone, making every person who needed to be taught a lesson utterly untouchable.


    "More importantly, though¡­" Wu Ming drawled -- before throwing an unwelcome arm over Muzazi¡¯s shoulder. "I¡¯ve been wanting to talk to you, big guy."


    The sky had changed since the last time Dragan had seen it. The calm blue of that morning had been replaced by a weird havoc pink, and -- from the way the soldiers were looking up at it -- he got the feeling this was not a natural phenomenon. He plunged his hands into his pockets as he walked alongside Bruno, towards the landing pads in the forest.


    "So this is what the first stage of activation is?" he wondered aloud, looking up at the sky.


    "Apparently, it prompts the atmosphere to start producing this, uh¡­ this crystal dust," Bruno said slowly, remembering something he¡¯d been told. "And then the second stage lets the, uh, big sphere control that dust and turn it into attack structures."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Kind of what like Serena does, then?"


    "Yeah," Serena nodded, her pace shifting as she took active control. "Only without Aether, I guess. They really could do anything back then, huh? The Gene Tyrants, I mean."


    "If they could do anything," Dragan said. "We wouldn¡¯t have killed them."


    As he looked at that pink sky, the light of the sun warped through its filter, Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel a sense of dread crawling over him. It was difficult to describe, but¡­ it was like he was looking at a massive door slamming shut on them all, sealing them inside a dungeon of sorts. No, more than that -- like he was the one closing the door, locking himself in without any assistance at all.


    He¡¯d promised himself, a long while ago, that -- if Skipper¡¯s plan didn¡¯t seem to be a survivable one -- he¡¯d bail. Did this seem survivable? Battening down the hatches and hoping the Supremacy wouldn¡¯t find another way around it? Betting that they¡¯d move in exactly the way that would be most convenient?


    The only one who decides what happens to me is me.


    Was dying here, fruitlessly, what he had decided would happen? It wasn¡¯t too late. He could steal a ship and leave this place, easy, while everyone was distracted with the preparations. It wouldn¡¯t even really mean ditching Skipper. Even after the shield was activated, he could still leave the atmosphere so long as nobody else was in the same ship.


    Even as he considered those options, though -- those very pragmatic and reasonable options -- Dragan couldn¡¯t help but recoil away from them. It was like they burnt to the touch.


    He still had time. He didn¡¯t have to decide such things right now.


    Ruth was already waiting for them at the landing pad, where the ship had just finished settling down. It wasn¡¯t one that Dragan recognised specifically, but judging from the sleek and smooth design features -- like the UniteRegent -- it was probably from the UAP. Skipper had said that there¡¯d be reinforcements on the way, but who would this ship be carrying¡­?


    His question was answered quickly.


    Lily Aubrisher began descending the boarding ramp as it thumped down, brushing her brilliant white hair out of her face. Her eyes glowed slightly as she glanced around the forest, the slightest frown on her lips. It had been a good while since it had happened, but Dragan still found himself taken aback by the physical changes that had occurred when Lily had absorbed her Guardian Entity. He swore he could even see sparks of electricity around her feet with each step she took.


    Even with all the changes, though, she still had to duck down to prevent her long antlers from scraping against the hull. Some things never changed.


    She squinted through the pink sunlight as she looked at them. "Feels like I haven¡¯t seen your faces in a while."


    Ruth grinned as she approached, raising her hand for a high-five. "Same to you."


    Lily slapped Ruth¡¯s hand, and -- as they made contact -- a sudden jolt of static repelled them. Ruth rubbed her palm, wincing.


    "Sorry about that," Lily smirked awkwardly. "It gets hard to control. I mean, I¡¯m strong as hell, but it still gets crazy when I go swimming." She scratched the back of her head. "It¡¯s a pain in the arse, to be honest."


    Dragan walked over, hands still in his pockets as he looked the ship up and down. "To be honest," he said. "I¡¯m surprised you actually came when Skipper called. Don¡¯t you have stuff to do back on, uh, XK-12? Or Hexkay, I think they¡¯re calling it?"


    Lily put her hands on her hips, kicking idly at the dirt. "Yeah, about that¡­ I kind of got exiled. Can¡¯t go back."


    Bruno blinked. "Huh?"


    "What?" Dragan asked, stepping forward. "What do you mean you got exiled? After all that?! We freed the planet -- you freed the planet!"


    Lily shrugged. "Yeah, but a lot of people died in the process. The battle at the swamps, and then the capital¡­ the victims had families, and they didn¡¯t much like the idea of me taking over anything after that. So me and Ted talked, and we decided it would be best for me to head out."


    She let out a long sigh -- and for a moment, they all stood there, listening to the tweeting of the birds. With the filtered light from the sky and the news they¡¯d just received, it all seemed very melancholy.


    "Seriously¡­?" Ruth muttered, crossing her arms. "After all that, they just kick you out all alone?"


    "Oh," Lily blinked. "I¡¯m not alone."


    "Who are they?!" cried out a high-pitched, ear-splitting voice. "Miss Aubrisher, who are they?!" Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan turned around -- just in time for a very small person to barrel into him, knocking him down from sheer speed and tenacity. As he picked himself up from the grass, he got a better look at his ¡¯attacker¡¯.


    It was a young white-haired boy of nine or ten, clad in a brown shawl and flat cap -- with tiny holes cut into the hat to accommodate small nubs of antlers. He beamed with orange eyes as he looked Dragan up and down, inspecting him thoroughly.


    "Wow!" he exclaimed, wonder laced into every syllable. "You have crazy eyes! Who are you?!"


    "Dragan Hadrien," muttered Dragan, glaring. It was more than a little humiliating to be knocked on your ass by a kid. "Who the hell are you?"


    "Wolfram!" snapped Lily. "Don¡¯t be rude! Where the hell is Vex?"


    Another woman bustled out of the ship, chasing after Wolfram. Before she could get a hold of him, however, he quickly scurried off -- cackling away into the forest like some kind of wild animal. The woman sighed as she turned back to the group.


    It was clear from her antlers that she was another native of Hexkay, just like Lily and Wolfram. Dark blue hair hung limply down her head, the tips transitioning to a crimson just as bright as her eyes. She was frowning as she looked at them, and -- to be frank -- it seemed like a practised frown.


    "Sorry, Madame," she said, fiddling with her sleeves of her red jacket nervously. "Belias needed help loading the supplies onto the automatic. I messed up. Aw, man. What a mess. And he¡¯d been so well-behaved on the way here, too. Oh no. What a mess. This is the worst-case scenario." Her voice somehow managed to get across a bizarre mixture of monotony and anxiety.


    "Forget it," Lily waved a dismissive hand. "He¡¯ll find his way back."


    "You sure?" called out a voice from above. "I can go after him, if you want."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. This parade of strange new people was quickly beginning to become predictable. He looked up at the man lounging in the branches of the massive tree above.


    Oh. Oh my.


    The man had tanned skin and wild green hair, but that wasn¡¯t what caught your attention immediately. He was eating an apple, relaxed as could be, but that wasn¡¯t what caught your attention immediately. A loose black cloak was slung over his shoulders, but that wasn¡¯t what caught your attention immediately.


    No, what caught your attention immediately was¡­


    "Hey," Serena called up to him. "Could you put your dick away, please?"


    "No," the man said.


    "Okay."


    Lily very pointedly didn¡¯t look at the man as she addressed him. "Don¡¯t worry about it. Like I said, he¡¯ll come back." With that said, she turned back to Ruth and the group. "That¡¯s Ablos. Don¡¯t worry about him. He¡¯s just a freak."


    "It¡¯s only natural!" Ablos, up in the tree, exclaimed -- as if he was preaching before a congregation. "We humans were born without clothes, weren¡¯t we? So it¡¯s only right we should live without --"


    Dragan stopped listening. This wasn¡¯t the kind of person he needed to have a conversation with.


    The final member of Lily¡¯s entourage exited the ship in a much less flashy manner than the rest. He was a tall, stern-looking man with dark hair and antlers of strict geometry. Just like Ablos, he wore a black cloak, but unlike Ablos he also wore other clothes. A suit of dark armour, like some kind of knight, with a heavy greatsword slung over his back.


    He nodded by way of introduction. "Belias Hailel," he said, crossing his arms. "Also known as Belias of the Black, former Regulator. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."


    Former Regulator¡­? The ones they¡¯d been fighting, back on Hexkay? Dragan gave Lily a quizzical look -- and it seemed she¡¯d read his mind, for she just shook her head in response.


    "Everyone¡¯s got circumstances," she said simply. "When I got, uh, ¡¯exiled¡¯, these guys insisted on coming along with me. They call themselves the Cardinal Beasts¡­ it¡¯s kind of embarrassing, really."


    "It¡¯s not embarrassing!" Ablos called down. "It¡¯s a beautiful symbol of our devotion to your cause! You should praise us for such a sweet gesture!"


    Vex sighed exaggeratedly, a dismal expression on her face. "Embarrassing¡­ I didn¡¯t realise you hated us that much. Oh, boy. What a drag. I¡¯m actually losing the will to live right now. Seriously? I thought we were protecting Hexkay from the shadows and all that, but we were just embarrassing you. That¡¯s so messed up. I¡¯m so sorry, Madame. Damn¡­"


    Dragan took a moment to take it all in, this impromptu carnival. He found that he suddenly felt very, very sorry for Lily Aubrisher.


    "Seems like you¡¯ve got a lot going on," he finally said. "You sure you¡¯ve got time to help us out here?"


    "We owe you for back on Hexkay," she said, thumping her fist into her palm with a flash of electricity. "Having that still up in the air would piss me off. We¡¯ll help you take care of that little Supreme and be off on our way."


    She grinned, wide and bright¡­ but Dragan couldn¡¯t help but feel it was the grin of a person who didn¡¯t understand what they were talking about.


    "Hey, um," Serena spoke up. "This is great and all, but where¡¯s Skipper?"


    The warehouse where they were storing it was a little ways away from the main base, so Skipper had no choice but to set out on a long and awkward walk through the woods with his guest. As the two of them strode through the undergrowth, Skipper couldn¡¯t help but feel the other man¡¯s glare drilling into the back of his head.


    Well, it only made sense. As they reached the doors of the huge box-shaped building, Skipper looked over his shoulder and offered Roy Oliphant-Dawkins an insincere grin.


    "And here we are," he said, tapping in the code. "Holding place for one of our many, many exclusive products¡­"


    The doors slid open.


    "...the Hanged Man."

 Chapter 279:11.6: The Hanged Men

    In its deactivated state, the Hanged Man wasn¡¯t much to look at.


    Essentially, it was like a massive metal skeleton, all curved lattices and reinforced joints -- with a hollow inside the ¡¯rib cage¡¯ just big enough for a human to fit in if they curled up into a ball. Neural connections, like the tendrils of a jellyfish, hung limply as the Hanged Man¡¯s innards.


    Bear in mind, though, that when the deactivated Hanged Man is described as ¡¯massive¡¯, that¡¯s only in comparison to a normal human being. Compared to most of the other Arcana Automatics, which could charge through massive buildings with ease, it would seem tiny. But this only applies to the deactivated Hanged Man, of course.


    Skipper ran a hand over its smooth shoulder blade admiringly. "Back in the day, it apparently used magnetism to construct its body and attack," he grinned. "But the Paradisas upgraded it with that liquid metal stuff, so it¡¯s a lot less reliant on the environment now. Either way, it¡¯s the most versatile of the Arcana Automatics. Once things really kick off, the inside of this baby will probably be the safest place on the planet. Pretty neat, huh?"


    He looked up from the machine to see Roy¡¯s frown. The new Oliphant patriarch was still standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a thoroughly unamused expression on his face.


    "Something up?" Skipper cocked his head.


    Roy scowled. "Don¡¯t pretend we¡¯re friends. We both know I¡¯m not here by choice, Esmeralda."


    The smile dropped. "The name¡¯s Skipper."


    "That ain¡¯t what you said on the videograph, and it ain¡¯t the point. The only reason I¡¯m here is because you threatened me. I¡¯d be on my ass at home, watching cartoons, otherwise. I don¡¯t know how you can keep that stupid grin on your face when you¡¯re such a goddamn scumbag."


    Skipper stepped forward -- and without a hint of caution, placed his hands on the huge man¡¯s shoulders. Since arriving here, Skipper had acquired a new prosthetic for his newly missing arm -- a device meant purely for combat, with long dark fingers more like claws than anything else.


    "When did I threaten you, pal?" Skipper asked quietly. "I don¡¯t recall."


    Roy¡¯s eyelid twitched. "You told me you¡¯d copied the files Carla had stolen. All our businesses, all our operatives. You told me you¡¯d leak them to the Supremacy."


    "I don¡¯t remember saying that."


    "It was implied," Roy growled.


    "Well, there you go," Skipper smiled again, patting Roy¡¯s shoulders as he released them. "So rather than getting in trouble with the Supremacy, you¡¯re here helping me kill the Supreme. It¡¯s a wild, wild world, huh?"


    Roy looked down, clenching his fists. Even though the battle hadn¡¯t even started yet, he already seemed defeated. With just a few careful words over a script, Skipper had forced the Oliphant Clan¡¯s hand.


    "I¡¯ve already passed on control to a subordinate," Roy muttered. "This is just me and a few of my men making a bad decision. When it¡¯s over, I¡¯ll take the heat¡­ personally. That make you happy, asshole?"


    "Nah," Skipper shook his head as he walked back towards the door. "Word of advice: sharks like us shouldn¡¯t get mad when someone else takes a bite. Does it make you happy when a junkie overdoses on the drugs you transport? Does it make you happy when a thug shoots an innocent with the weapons you sell? Of course it doesn¡¯t. It¡¯s all just business. We¡¯re both scumbags."


    He paused at the door, one hand on the frame.


    "You shouldn¡¯t have brought your kid, though," Skipper muttered solemnly. "Scout, right? I saw him with your guys. You shouldn¡¯t have brought him."


    "Didn¡¯t have a choice," he grunted. "Once he knew I was coming here, he wouldn¡¯t hear anything else. That¡¯s why I¡¯m gonna demand something of you now."


    Skipper looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "You think you¡¯re in a position to do that?"


    Roy slapped a hand on the Hanged Man¡¯s head with a resounding clang. "You said this thing was the safest place on the planet, right?"


    "Yeah. What about it?"


    Roy slid his hand away, looking Skipper right in the eye. "Then my son¡¯s going to be piloting it. Any objections?"


    "You shouldn¡¯t have brought her here," Wu Ming said, gulping down an energy drink.


    After their encounter with the Baron Lunalette de Fleur, Wu Ming had led their group to his own personal quarters -- a luxurious suite that would have been more at home in a hotel than a starship. They -- Muzazi, Morgan, Aclima and Ming -- were sitting around a coffee table, refreshments from a nearby vending machine laid out before them.


    "I had no choice," Muzazi said, taking a stoic bite from a chocolate bar. "After the events on the Child Garden, the position of the Supreme Heir is already in question. I couldn¡¯t risk anything that might jeopardize it."


    Ming sighed, tossing the can over his shoulder -- where it landed perfectly in the trash receptacle. "You know what really jeopardizes a position? Dying. Once we bury the kid, I don¡¯t know if she¡¯ll be up for ascending to Supreme."


    Aclima gulped, but said nothing.


    "We knew this would be dangerous, sir," Morgan said quietly, leaning forward. "But the Supreme Heir is never safe. That¡¯s what the Seven Blades are for --


    "Two," said Ming, his face a mask.


    "What?"


    "Two." Ming swept a finger over the two of them, sat next to each other. "You said ¡¯Seven Blades¡¯, but there¡¯s only two of you guys. Three, technically. Unless you¡¯ve got some buddies hiding under the bed?"


    Muzazi did not falter. "We are enough -- as anyone who makes an attempt upon the Heir will learn."


    Wu Ming looked up.


    The air turned still.


    A chill went down Muzazi¡¯s spine.


    For the tiniest split-second, he understood what it would feel like to have his head chopped off.


    "If I wanted to kill the two of you, right here, right now," he said softly. "I could have just done it. Zero outta ten. You¡¯re not enough."


    Muzazi swallowed. "You¡¯re a Contender. It¡¯s only natural that you¡¯d be able to best us. The enemies we¡¯d face would be --"


    "Contenders," Wu Ming cut him off coldly. "Ol¡¯ Paradise Charon, in fact. Seems she¡¯s not too fond of you, Mr. Muzazi. Soon as she gets the opportunity, she¡¯ll be coming after you -- and she¡¯ll be getting the opportunity soon."


    Morgan went to say something -- but Muzazi raised a hand, cutting him off. He could see Aclima¡¯s pale face out of the corner of his eye, and he was willing to bet that his own face was just as white.


    "If your fellow Contender is after us," he said carefully. "Then why should I trust you to help?" S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The tension evaporated in a second as Wu Ming leaned back in his chair, throwing his arms up in a yawn. "Everyone around here¡¯s way too serious. It gives me a chuckle to wipe the smirk off someone¡¯s face, so I want to mess up Paradise¡¯s plans. That¡¯s all. Plus¡­ I¡¯d rather not see anything bad happen to a little kid."


    "You¡¯re saying you¡¯re a virtuous man, then?"


    "Oh, no no no," Ming laughed, waving his hands. "Please, no thank you. I¡¯m not like that. Writing myself big lists of principles and morals or whatever. I just do what I want, see? If I feel like helping someone, I¡¯ll help them. If I feel like killing someone, I¡¯ll kill them. Right now I feel like giving you a hand. Ain¡¯t that swell?"


    Muzazi lowered his hand, and Morgan spoke up. "How would you want to, uh, help us, sir?" he said, exchanging a glance with Muzazi as he addressed Ming. The Contender seemed to be the only person he addressed with any measure of formality.


    Wu Ming snapped his fingers. "It¡¯s like I said, little man. You¡¯re seriously low on manpower, and Paradise¡¯s gonna work things out so you two are on the front lines, leaving our poor Heir all alone. I¡¯m willing to make an introduction for a third party who¡¯s looking to join your little squad. He can keep the Heir safe while you guys deal with whatever Paradise has in store."


    "Even if we trusted you," Muzazi said. "Why should we trust this other party? Could you not protect the Heir personally?"


    Ming shook his head. "No way. Best battle in decades, and you want me to sit it out babysitting? I¡¯m not about that life. This other guy, though? He doesn¡¯t mind in the least."


    Muzazi bit his lip. All things considered, Wu Ming¡¯s proposal did make sense. There was no doubt that Paradise Charon would make an attempt to regain control of the Heir, now that Kojirough had fallen -- and these would be the ideal circumstances to do so.


    No doubt a good number of the Special Officers who had gathered here reported to Charon. The Baron Lunalette de Fleur, for one, was well-known as one of her allies. He¡¯d only be too happy to go after Muzazi, after the embarrassment he¡¯d suffered earlier in the day. Against sheer numbers and sheer strength, Muzazi and Morgan were just two people -- even with Ionir backing Morgan up from the inside. They needed allies as well.


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    "This person," Muzazi said slowly. "I¡¯d want to meet them, first. Who are they?"


    Snap.


    Before Muzazi had even realized that the Contender was moving, he¡¯d lifted his hand up and snapped his fingers. A second later, the doors slid open, and Muzazi turned his head to look.


    The man who entered the room looked to be in his late seventies, musculature barely hanging on after the ravages of age. His white hair was tied back into a severe topknot, and rather than any formal wear he¡¯d decided to clad himself in a simple blue tracksuit, spectacles balanced before his green eyes. He nodded respectfully at the gathering as he strode next to Wu Ming, stopping at military attention.


    He¡¯d expected to recognise the candidate that Wu Ming had brought before them, and he was not disappointed in that regard. Strength was no issue. Ash del Duran was well-known as a master of the killing arts --


    -- and as the foremost practitioner of pinpoint Aether.


    Dragan peeled his hand away from the console, that same blue gunk clinging to it. Wincing, he wiped it off onto his pant leg.


    To be honest, he¡¯d expected activating the Lotus to have a little more bombast to it. A little ceremony, or something. Hell, they hadn¡¯t even brought all the Cogitants here at the same time. Most of the Cogitants had already placed their hands on the Lotus by the time Dragan had arrived, and most of the stragglers had disappeared while he¡¯d been unconscious.


    Now it was just him, the guard he¡¯d been assigned, and one other -- the Cogitant girl he¡¯d seen the first time he¡¯d come down here. The one with the empty eyes. She looked at him emotionlessly as he staggered back from the console.


    Just from looking at her, you¡¯d think she was a civilian -- she was wearing casual and baggy clothing, and her hair hung around her face in what seemed like a case of perpetual bedhead -- but those eyes. There was something about those eyes. Like everything that had once been behind them had been burned away to nothing.


    "That¡¯s it," Dragan¡¯s guard said. "Barrier¡¯s now active. Should probably head back to your quarters for some rest -- enemy will get into orbit before long."


    The guard was a young man with chestnut hair by the name of Marco, his red balaclava pulled up into it looked more like a beanie than anything else. A punchpoint assault rifle was slung over his back, and -- strangely enough -- what looked like a row of thin sewing needles were strapped to his pant leg, right on the thigh. Dragan had said he hadn¡¯t needed a guard -- he wasn¡¯t exactly weak anymore, after all -- but Skipper and Klaus had insisted.


    "Right," Dragan nodded, beginning his walk back across the bridge.


    "Wait."


    It took him a second to realize that the Cogitant girl had spoken. Dragan turned his head to look at her. "Yeah?"


    "Zachariah Esmeralda," she said, her voice dull. "Do you think he can beat the Supreme?"


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "What?"


    "Zachariah Esmeralda. You¡¯re with him, right? Do you think he can beat the Supreme?"


    Ordinarily, Dragan would have stopped to think about it. He might have stood there for a long time, considering it, before giving an answer. But here, now, for some reason, the words came automatically to his lips.


    "Of course," Dragan said.


    He¡¯d expected her to question him further, to ask his reasoning, but no. The girl just stared at him with the eyes of a corpse, not even blinking, before silently turning and walking away. She vanished into the darkness.


    And Dragan was left watching after her.


    Wu Ming had left them to their impromptu job interview, Ash del Duran sitting across from Muzazi and Morgan, his hands clasped in his lap. Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but notice the sheer efficiency of the man¡¯s movements -- the perfect composure of his breathing, and the steel focus in his eyes. Before anything else, Muzazi could not deny this was a man who knew what he was doing.


    "Ash del Duran," he introduced himself politely, voice hoarse. "I don¡¯t use a sword, but I¡¯d be happy to join your group."


    Muzazi drummed his fingers over the arms of his chair. Appearances could be deceiving, reputations even more so, but Ash del Duran was known to be a virtuous man -- and Muzazi doubted Wu Ming would take any action to betray his own protege. He didn¡¯t seem the type.


    Muzazi exchanged another glance with Morgan before speaking again. "Out of curiosity¡­ why exactly do you wish to join the Blades?"


    Ash cracked his neck. "Why do any of us Special Officers do anything, commander? We already have freedom, we already have power¡­ the only thing we have left to seek out is prestige. A means for our name to live on after us." A sad smile crossed his lips. "I will be gone from this world sooner rather than later, so I¡¯m sure you understand my desperation. I would like to do something important with the little time I have left. Defending the Supreme Heir will accomplish that well."


    "I see¡­" Muzazi nodded.


    I will be gone from this world sooner rather than later¡­


    Muzazi had known that to be true, but to hear Ash say it so candidly was surprising all the same. Ash del Duran had a reputation for strength -- he¡¯d fought on many a battlefield for the Supremacy -- but his curse, his tragedy, was just as famous. It wasn¡¯t spoken of in polite company, but everyone was aware of it.


    The Flashfist possessed an unfortunate Aether tic: accelerated aging.


    The man sitting across from Muzazi, with that elderly body, was actually in his early thirties. Muzazi didn¡¯t know the actual exchange rate of it all, but apparently every second he used Aether translated to a much longer period of time for his body -- hence why he¡¯d pursued the pinpoint path. It was the only way to keep fighting while extending his life as much as possible.


    In terms of combat effectiveness, Muzazi couldn¡¯t do better. "Very well," he finally said. "Welcome aboard -- but the Heir remains by my side until the very moment it becomes necessary otherwise. Understand?"


    "Course," Ash nodded. "At your command, sir."


    And between them all, unseen and unheard, Aclima just sat. If she had any qualms about the plans being formed to protect her life, or any bitterness over being treated as an object to be passed around and defended, she did not show it. All she did¡­


    ¡­was clench her fists, and glare down at the floor.


    Emma stuck her hands into the pockets of her hoodie as she strode across the green grass of Elysian Fields, looking up at the sky. The neon pink above had gone unchanged, even after the second activation. She guessed that they wouldn¡¯t really notice anything until the Supremacy tried to touch down.


    A smirk rose to her lips as she imagined the scene. Would there be fire on the way down, she wondered?


    She stopped outside one of the ammunition warehouses, where Johan and Palmer were waiting. Johan, smoking a Bubble-tinged cigarette, nodded to her as she approached. "You talk to him?" he asked.


    Emma nodded. "He said Esmeralda would win."


    Johan frowned, flicking his cigarette off into the grass. "He tell you why?"


    "I didn¡¯t ask."


    Johan¡¯s frown deepened. "Why not?"


    "You didn¡¯t tell me to."


    With a deep sigh, Johan ran his hand down his face, before glancing down to Palmer. "Thoughts?"


    Palmer considered the question as he devoured his rations, his elephantine trunk waving through the air so as to avoid getting in the way of his toothy maw. In contrast to Emma¡¯s baggy hoodie and Johan¡¯s trenchcoat, Palmer was clad in a simple sweatshirt and shorts, more suited to the beach than the battlefield.


    After what felt like an eternity, he put his tray down.


    "The boy says that," Palmer grunted, his voice low. "Because he¡¯s got trust. It¡¯s that kinda thing, you know¡­ looking up to a person. You, uh, you inflate a person. In your head. It ain¡¯t nothing. Don¡¯t mean a thing. Power wins in a fight like that. Not faith. He¡¯s full of shit. Way I see it."


    That seemed to be what Johan wanted to hear. He smirked with those scarred lips. "I knew it. Zachariah¡¯s nothing but hot air and pretty words. A former lackey like that won¡¯t be the one to take down the Supreme." His lips spread further into a grin, and he cocked his rifle-arm. "It¡¯ll be me, with my Freikugeln."


    Emma watched impassively. No matter how things ended up playing out, someone would die.


    That was enough for her.


    "My Supreme," came the Ascendant-General¡¯s voice over the script. "I have an update regarding our landing."


    The Supreme shoveled a handful of potato chips into his mouth. "Go ahead, Alex," he spoke, mid-chew. "I¡¯m listening."


    He was sat in his quarters, cross-legged on the floor, looking out at the green-and-blue globe of Elysian Fields. Seemed like a nice place -- apparently, Home had once looked like that too. They¡¯d arrived in upper orbit about an hour ago, and the Supreme had been eager to head down, but the bigwigs had insisted on sending down some probes first. It was a real drag.


    "At first, we sent down thirty probes to scout out the enemy encampment," Alex said. "All of them were annihilated before they could even get close."


    The Supreme raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Oh¡­?"


    "After that, we sent ten probes to infiltrate from the other side of the planet. Same result. Just like the first time, all of them were destroyed simultaneously."


    "Again?" the Supreme frowned. "Just the same thing? Boring."


    Alex¡¯s voice echoed through the vast, smooth room. "We were going to continue testing in this fashion, but then two of Commissioner Caesar¡¯s Special Officers acted on their own." The irritation in his voice was obvious. Old Alex Toll had never liked the Special Officers.


    "On their own, huh?" the Supreme grinned, raising his beer. "I like it! Shows initiative!"


    "They attempted to land on Elysian Fields ahead of the rest of the army. Needless to say, they too were annihilated. Instantly. Death confirmed right after they entered the atmosphere."


    "Oh¡­" the Supreme soberly put his beer down. "Well, that sucks."


    "It seems that the terrorists have access to some kind of countermeasure against attempts to enter the atmosphere. With the imaging we¡¯ve been able to do from orbit, we¡¯ve confirmed that Regiment RED are present, but beyond that we¡¯re still in the dark. I¡¯m afraid that attempting to land right now would be foolhardy, my Supreme."


    The Supreme uncrossed his legs, laying back on the floor and looking up at the ceiling, hands behind his head. That same smile was still twisting his face.


    "Heheheh¡­" he chuckled lightly. "No worries, no worries. I¡¯ve been waiting a good while for a bash like this, Alex. I can wait a little longer. Let me know when we¡¯re good to go."


    "Yes, my Supreme."


    The call clicked off.


    Ah¡­ Zachariah¡­


    The Supreme grinned, still looking up at the dark ceiling above. This really was great. They hadn¡¯t even landed on the planet yet, and they were already having tricks like this thrown at them? It made him tingle in anticipation when he thought about what might be waiting on the planet itself.


    Oh, that gave him an idea.


    "Guess I can¡¯t work Alex too hard," he sighed, picking himself up off the floor. "Imaging and probes and all that stuff¡­ there¡¯s really no need, now that I think about it. I¡¯ll just take a quick look for myself."


    He cracked his neck, and stretched his legs. It had been a little while since he¡¯d done this. He vaguely wondered if he¡¯d lost his touch¡­ but then he just laughed again.


    As if that would ever happen.


    Aether ping.


    Golden light flooded the chamber.


    A wave of Aether, spread out so thin to be nearly invisible, crawled out from the stars and wrapped itself around Elysian Fields. Half the planet was within its range -- more than enough to taste the encampment of Regiment RED. Tiny sparks spread out as Aether instinctively responded to Aether.


    Dragan took in a sharp breath.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes jerked open.


    Bruno stumbled mid-step.


    Serena grabbed the wall to support herself.


    Skipper glared up at the sky.


    All across the surface of Elysian Fields, two-hundred and nineteen Aether-users felt the eyes of God fall upon them.

 Chapter 280:11.7: The Lottery

    Scout looked up from his work as his father approached the ship.


    He¡¯d been modifying his plasma rifle, trying to reduce the reload time as much as possible in preparation for the coming battle. The actual output of the weapon wasn¡¯t as important -- if he used Sidekick, he could enhance it to astounding levels all on his own. There wasn¡¯t much he could actually do with the reload time, either, though. It was more that he didn¡¯t want to have empty hands right now. He didn¡¯t want to sit with the rest of the men, waiting for the alarm that would mean the battle had begun. He didn¡¯t want to just be useless here, he didn¡¯t want to --


    "Scout," Roy said, finally reaching the ship they¡¯d arrived on. "You good?"


    Scout nodded, putting down the rifle. "I¡¯m fine, Pa. You should be talking to the men, though, I think. There¡¯s been some grumbling about the pay."


    Yes, Scout had been listening carefully. The soldiers Roy had brought along were mercenaries, hired guns, not actual Oliphant employees. He hadn¡¯t wanted anything to link their appearance here to the rest of the organization, Scout guessed. These guys weren¡¯t on the level of the Hive of Malkuth or those types, of course, but they¡¯d still paid a shiny stator for their services.


    Then again, taking on the Supreme demanded many shiny stators.


    "Shit," Roy muttered, patting Scout on the back -- and leaning past him to see where the mercenaries were gathered, unloading weaponry and combat automatics. "Any risk of a mutiny, you think?"


    Scout shook his head. "Don¡¯t think so. It¡¯s just talk."


    Roy nodded slowly. "Still¡­ keep an ear out. Last thing I need is someone shooting me in the back. Got enough of that already."


    Got enough of that already¡­


    Scout didn¡¯t quite have a full understanding of the situation, but it was pretty obvious that his dad wasn¡¯t enthused to be here. He could understand why. Skipper¡¯s crew had helped them out on the Cradle, sure, and Scout was happy to repay the favor -- but there was a difference between repaying a favor and joining a goddamn uprising against the government. If Pa was willing to go along with it, Scout would follow, but he couldn¡¯t help but get the feeling there¡¯d been some dirty dealings behind the scenes.


    "Pa," Scout said seriously, picking up his rifle and cocking it. "We¡¯re gonna win this. Right?"


    Roy looked down at his son. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Y, he was so young, with such light in his eyes. Was it possible to be so young? Roy couldn¡¯t even imagine it. Abraham Oliphant hadn¡¯t been the kind of father to allow his children childhood. For them, it had been the family business from an early age. Learning to cheat, steal from and kill people.


    Roy had always told himself he¡¯d be different. He¡¯d defined himself in opposition to his father -- and how had things turned out?


    He¡¯d brought his only son to a warzone. He¡¯d put a gun in his hand and given him an enemy he¡¯d never met. He¡¯d raised him to cheat, steal from and kill people.


    Roy Oliphant-Hawkins, head of the Oliphant Clan, spread his lips into a grin.


    "Sure thing," he said, desperately hoping that it was not a lie.


    Bang.


    Startled by the sound, Roy seized his son¡¯s shoulder and pulled him close, looking around wildly for the source. It didn¡¯t take him long.


    One of the turrets attached to the exterior of the great pyramid had fired -- and, as Roy watched, it fired again, massive bolts of plasmafire aimed at the horizon. There was something there, descending from the sky, a black speck.


    Roy squinted, peering towards it. It was too small to be a ship. A probe, maybe? It didn¡¯t matter much what it was, for a second later the plasma had struck it head-on and it was turned into nothing at all. The fireball plummeted down to the earth, terminating in a resounding explosion.


    Ordinarily, there was no way the Supremacy would have sent a single probe down to investigate an enemy base like this. The fact that they had meant one thing.


    They¡¯ve figured it out.


    Roy¡¯s grip tightened on Scout¡¯s shoulder. "It¡¯ll be starting soon," he said grimly, his voice nearly overpowered by the blaring alarms.


    "What do you think this will be about?" Muzazi asked Ash as the two of them strode down the hallway.


    A few minutes ago, a general notice had gone out through the ship -- calling all the Special Officers aboard to assemble in one of the unused hangars. The notice had been issued by the Ascendant-General, Alexandrius Toll, but apparently the Supreme and some of the Contenders would be present as well. Whatever it was, then, it would be significant.


    "Difficult to say," Ash del Duran replied, cracking his neck, sandals slapping against the floor. "Commencing the attack, maybe? Though there should be more activity among general personnel if that¡¯s the case."


    "Indeed," Muzazi nodded.


    Even if the Special Officers would be participating in the attack on Elysian Fields, ordinary troops would still be required to occupy territory and eradicate Regiment RED. A gathering of individuals did not an army make. Muzazi was well aware that each and every Special Officer would follow their own methods once they landed, rather than acquiescing to an overall plan. That sense of freedom was the very reason they were Special Officers, after all. About that, at least, the Baron Lunalette de Fleur was right.


    Muzazi spared a glance at his companion as they walked. It was a strange sensation, knowingly putting yourself in range of someone who could kill you with a punch. Ash del Duran was spoken of in the same breath as people like Arianna Halved or Tom Foolery -- masters of the art of murder. One palm thrust would be enough to reduce a heart to pulp.


    They passed through a massive open doorway into the hangar itself. The gargantuan chamber was void of ships, but now just as full of people. Special Officers of every shape and size stood and sat around, waiting for the announcement to begin.


    A chill went down Muzazi¡¯s spine as he looked up. A floating platform was hovering high above the gathering -- and standing on it were four specters of death. Avaman the Announcer, for whatever reason, didn¡¯t seem to be present.


    Paradise Charon, arms crossed, her dismissive glare scanning the room below.


    Wu Ming, scratching his head, looking perpetually bored.


    The Hellhound, sat stock-still at attention, flexible tail waving through the air behind him.


    And, of course¡­


    The Supreme. Muzazi reflexively swallowed as he looked at him. The massive man was sitting right at the edge of the platform, legs swinging freely over the edge as he fidgeted with something in his hand. As Muzazi watched, he stifled a yawn with one brutal hand.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Muzazi supposed it only made sense that the Supreme was the epitome of relaxation -- for what in this world was sufficient to give him pause?


    Tearing his gaze away from the man who was like God, Muzazi cast his eyes around and saw Le Fleur sitting cross-legged on a metal crate. Good. There wasn¡¯t any risk of him going after Aclima while this assembly served as a distraction, then. He¡¯d notice if Paradise Charon left as well. Morgan was guarding her in their quarters -- and he and Ionir were capable -- but Muzazi was glad to see they wouldn¡¯t have to worry about attack.


    The hairs on the back of Muzazi¡¯s neck tingled -- and, instinctively, he looked up to see the Supreme rising to his feet. Every other set of eyes in the room followed suit: the Supreme was a man whose every action demanded attention. An epitome of existence.


    The Supreme flicked the object he¡¯d been mauling with up into the air -- a small spherical device that floated in place in front of his mouth, amplifying his voice.


    "Big crowd," he called out, voice echoing throughout the room. "Hell of a turn out. Real good to see, real good¡­ there¡¯s some familiar faces, but a whole lot of new ones, too. That¡¯s always good, too, though. New blood. That kinda thing. Keeps stuff fresh."


    Muzazi glanced at the listening crowd, recognising a few faces among the gathering. Winston and Beatrice were standing with their father, Marcus Grace -- a professional-looking man with short white hair and twinkling blue eyes. Unlike most Special Officers, he¡¯d elected to wear a standard-issue white officer¡¯s coat with only minor adjustments. A silver pistol, beautifully engraved, was secured by a holster at his hip. His attention was firmly on the Supreme, too.


    "Anyway," the Supreme grinned. "We¡¯re not here to catch up. Hell no we¡¯re not. We¡¯re here to throw some punches, right?!"


    He raised a fist into the air, and a chorus of obligatory cheering rang out through the crowd. Muzazi found himself joining in: it was only the right thing to do.


    "Now, I¡¯d love to hop right down there and get started," the Supreme continued. "But apparently that¡¯s gonna be a little tricky. Tell them about it, Alex."


    A massive hologram flickered into life, an enlarged version of the Ascendant-General hovering over the gathered Special Officers. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his expression was thoroughly unamused. Muzazi remembered the conversation he¡¯d had with Toll on the Child Garden: the Ascendant-General disapproved of the individualism the Special Officers Commission encouraged. No doubt this gathering, with all the resultant chaos, was everything he loathed about it laid out right before him.


    All the same, he spoke. "The enemy has erected an unknown form of barrier around Elysian Fields. Every group of probes or ships we have ordered to descend were annihilated the moment they entered the atmosphere. Sliced to pieces, as far as we can tell."


    Muzazi frowned. So they¡¯d just be waiting here? Was that what they¡¯d come here to be told?


    "However," the Ascendant-General pressed on. "We have discovered a way to bypass this barrier. It seems, for whatever reason, that this automatic defense system only targets groups. A single probe, or a ship with a single pilot, can descend safely so long as no other vessel is within the barrier at the same time as them. By gradually trickling our forces down in such a manner, we can stage an attack."


    Ash raised a skeptical eyebrow next to Muzazi -- and, honestly, he couldn¡¯t blame him. An invasion conducted one person at a time sounded like a recipe for disaster. Once the enemy¡¯s considerable forces identified their landing zone, it would be child¡¯s play to get there and massacre them before they could attain sufficient numbers to defend themselves. Muzazi did not doubt his own abilities, but there was only so much one man could do against hundreds of fellow Aether-users.


    The Ascendant-General opened his mouth to speak further, but was interrupted by the appearance of another hologram on the other side of the Supreme. As Commissioner Caesar appeared, similarly enlarged, Muzazi saw Toll¡¯s brow crease in annoyance.


    "Normally," she smiled. "A ¡¯drip-feed¡¯ strategy like this would mean landing our troops one man at a time, and hoping the enemy doesn¡¯t find out our location before we¡¯ve built up forces. Needless to say, that isn¡¯t exactly practical. With the help of Special Officer Paravi Pala, we¡¯ve managed to improve our chances a bit."


    Some heads turned to the person in question. Personally, Muzazi didn¡¯t know this Paravi Pala, but it was easy enough to spot them if you followed the crowd.


    Paravi Pala was fairly short, clad in small overalls that were still too big for them. They were swaying dreamily on the spot, a quiet smile on their lips, their unkempt purple hair sticking out in every direction. As the attention of the room turned to them, they offered a sleepy wave -- and as they did, Muzazi saw a wet paintbrush clutched between two of their fingers.


    "One of Pala¡¯s abilities," Caesar explained. "Is called Gallery Maxim. It allows them to record up to five people in the form of paintings, and keep the paintings in that state until a time of their choosing. We¡¯ve tested Gallery Maxim with a squad of soldiers passing through the atmosphere -- although there were five paintings on the ship, it did not trigger the automatic defenses. With an additional person remaining in human form in a landing pod, that means we can send down six people at a time. Much more feasible, isn¡¯t it?"


    A murmur of assent ran out through the crowd, but Muzazi still wasn¡¯t convinced. In the end, it was still a single-digit number of people against an entire army. The chances weren¡¯t good.


    "As we can only send down so many people at a time," Caesar went on. "It¡¯s been decided that the assault force will consist entirely of you Special Officers, rather than the fodder of the military."


    The Ascendant-General¡¯s frown deepened, but he said nothing in response.


    "And," Caesar said. "We¡¯ve been in discussions with the Supreme, and agreed that an incentive system is necessary for your volunteer work here. Please take a look at this."


    She held up a hand, and a screen swooped into existence. A list of words and numbers -- before Muzazi could get a good look at it, a smaller copy had appeared in front of his face, as it had with every other Special Officer.


    Enemy Soldier (Non-Aether) - 1 point


    Enemy Soldier (Aether) - 10 points


    Person of Interest - 50 points


    Barrier - 1000 points


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened in confusion and horror as he scanned the list. Points? What, was this some kind of game? What was this?


    "A secondary list of People of Interest will be sent out shortly, and may be expanded depending on events during the assault," Caesar continued, as if it were nothing at all. "Miss Harlow will be happy to answer any questions you might have. A question I¡¯m sure you all have, though¡­ is what will these points earn you?"


    She grinned.


    "The Supreme has graciously agreed that the winner of this competition will be given the opportunity to submit to him a single wish. So long as that wish is in his power to grant, he will do so. In short, the winner will have the greatest desire of their heart made into a reality!"


    Loud conversation erupted throughout the room, as people called up to the hologram of Caesar. Questions, praise, excited speculation -- Muzazi could barely hear himself think over the din. He had to admit, though, that in his deepest heart¡­


    ¡­he was no different.


    Becoming Supreme was surely a request that in itself could not be granted. But, if Atoy Muzazi could emerge victorious from this grim contest, surely he could ask for the next best thing? The station that would put him in the best position to one day succeed the Supreme, once the necessary skill and opportunity came?


    Make me a Contender.


    Smack.


    A resounding noise devastated the room. Muzazi found himself skidding back on the floor from the sheer power of the sound, and some others even fell over entirely. Heart hammering instinctively in his chest, Muzazi looked up to the source of the sound.


    The Supreme had clapped his hands together to call attention, a bored-looking scowl on his face. Caesar quickly took the hint.


    "Of course, we want everyone to have a fair chance," she quickly said. "So -- with some exceptions for strategic purposes -- landing order has been decided via random lottery. Miss Harlow, please show us the brave six who will open our assault!"


    The screen before Muzazi changed, and he took in a breath. Beside him, Ash quietly cursed.


    "Lord Ming did say that Lady Charon would act against you," he muttered. "But I didn¡¯t think she¡¯d be this blatant."


    The names of the first six who would set foot in the maelstrom of Elysian Fields were as follows:


    THE SUPREME


    ANASTASIA DARKDANCER


    MAZEL RHO


    JESTER MARBLE


    TRUCIO HARTIEN MALDONADO


    ATOY MUZAZI


    Muzazi glanced back up at the floating platform -- and for the briefest moment, locked eyes with the self-satisfied glare of Paradise Charon.


    That was the way things were going to be, then? Very well.


    He¡¯d never been one to back down from a challenge, after all.

 Chapter 281:11.8: When The Time Goes

    "...so basically," Skipper said, tapping a sharp metal finger against the war table. "They¡¯ll definitely be coming down in groups of six."


    The major players had gathered in the briefing room at the heart of the pyramid, gathered around a round table. A holographic representation of the area shone right atop the table, pyramid and forests and mountains displayed in miniature. Far above, near the ceiling, a similar representation of the Supremacy flagship -- the Tartarus -- could be seen.


    A green feather twinkled on Dragan¡¯s lapel as he looked out at the soon-to-be battlefield. He didn¡¯t quite know what the purpose of the feather was, but Skipper had been handing them out like candy after everyone had arrived. Apparently, they were meant to show how devoted they were to their mutual cause. Dragan found that hard to believe.


    Johan¡¯s eyes trailed over the area around the pyramid. "Do we know where they¡¯ll be landing?" he asked gruffly.


    Skipper shook his head. "Our friend isn¡¯t that nice, I¡¯m sorry to say. All we know is that each pod will contain six people, and that it takes around two minutes for a pod to clear the barrier. So we can expect enemy reinforcements every two minutes."


    "And they could be anywhere on the planet," Dragan muttered dismally. "We¡¯ll need to split our forces, then, won¡¯t we? Send out a group to stop them building up an army."


    Thump.


    Once again, Klaus had slammed his cane against the floor. It seemed to be what he did instead of clearing his throat, presumably because he didn¡¯t have enough throat left to clear.


    "No," he rasped. "They¡¯ll definitely be landing in our immediate vicinity. Kilometers away from the complex, at the most. Their primary target will be the Lotus, so they can rid themselves of the six-every-two restriction."


    Dragan exchanged a glance with Bruno and Ruth, who were positioned next to him. "Even so¡­" he ventured. "The smart way for them to do that would be to build up a large force over time and then send them after us, not attack with a trickle."


    Skipper leaned over the table, steepling his metal hands under his chin. "You¡¯re exactly right, kid," he grinned. "If the Ascendant-General or the Commissioner were in charge of the operation, they¡¯d probably do the smart thing, like you say. But they aren¡¯t in charge -- the Supreme is. He¡¯ll do the exciting thing."


    "If we¡¯re saying that," Roy grunted, leaning over the table. "Then the Supreme¡¯s going to be coming down pretty early, right? Maybe even in that first group. If he comes after us, himself, there¡¯s nothing we can do. All this¡­" he waved a hand vaguely around the room. "This, it¡¯s not gonna mean a thing to him. He¡¯ll knock it down like a kid with playing blocks."


    Skipper shook his head. "He won¡¯t bother with the fodder. That¡¯s why they¡¯re bringing the Special Officers in. Probably, he¡¯ll wait until I show up for our duel. I¡¯ll do that once things kick off for real."


    Roy raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"


    "Probably," Skipper nodded grimly. "Don¡¯t worry -- if things go in an unexpected direction, I¡¯ve got something in place."


    It was only for a second, barely noticeable, but he exchanged a glance with the Cogitant girl at Johan¡¯s side. Dragan furrowed his brow. Did they know each other?


    "Anyway," Skipper sighed, drumming his fingers along the table. "We¡¯ll have squads set up for defense and limited outreach to deal with smaller groups. Scout, you¡¯ll keep the Hanged Man close to the pyramid itself. Anything that rushes straight for the Lotus is yours. Take out whatever it is without damaging the building too much."


    Scout nodded, standing next to his dad. Dragan hadn¡¯t been around for it, but apparently Scout had been doing some test runs with the Hanged Man -- and had quickly gotten the hang of it. Dragan found himself feeling vaguely sorry for anyone who found themselves in its path.


    Thump.


    "I¡¯ll be here in the pyramid as well," Klaus barked. "Observing the situation from here and giving orders as the battle develops. My Aether ability, Breath of Night, can create gases with various attributes. I¡¯ll have some clouds sent out to detect enemy groups, and I¡¯ll direct our squads to intercept them. If it comes down to it, I can send out poison clouds as well, but I¡¯d rather avoid that -- it doesn¡¯t discriminate between friend or foe. We have wireless communication for the time being, but there¡¯s a chance they¡¯ll manage to disable that. If they do, I¡¯ll work something out using my Aether to pass information along."


    "Chances are the Supremacy forces will have someone in the same role as Klaus, too -- directing things, I mean," Skipper said. "That strategist will probably be staying up in the Tartarus, getting info from scouts and satellite imaging. That¡¯s where you two come in."


    Heads turned to look at the group gathered in one corner -- the Cardinal Beasts. Belias had somehow managed to restrain the rambunctious Wolfram, and the rest had gathered around them. Ablos was there too, but Dragan didn¡¯t want to acknowledge his existence.


    Skipper nodded at Lily and Vex, who were heading up the group. "Just to make sure we¡¯re one-hundred percent -- you can do this, yeah?"


    "My ability is capable of spaceflight," Vex replied, her voice deadpan. "It¡¯s sometimes like¡­ what a sense of freedom. Wow. Like a bird. It¡¯s obvious that I¡¯d think that, but still. Because of my Guardian Entity, you know. That¡¯s why I¡¯d think that."


    There was a moment of silence as the room collectively mourned their loss of brain cells.


    "Right," Skipper finally said. "And Lily -- you can definitely get up there?"


    Lily smiled. "Definitely. Vex can get me up there, and then I can go wild. I can fight at my best in a place like one of those starships -- all the electricity. I¡¯ll take out whoever¡¯s calling the shots up there, should make it easier for you guys."


    Skipper continued: "Once I¡¯ve killed the Supreme --"


    "If you kill the Supreme," Johan interrupted, his eyes dangerously dull as he stared Skipper down from the other side of the table. He alone wasn¡¯t wearing one of the green feathers, Dragan noticed.


    Skipper leaned over the table, locking eyes with the other man.


    Thump.


    "Once he¡¯s killed the Supreme," Klaus said, with a tone that permitted no argument. "We¡¯ll need some kind of leverage to make sure we can retreat without being pursued. You girls -- that¡¯s why your second job is absolutely essential. We know now that the Supreme Heir is aboard the Tartarus. They won¡¯t be sending her down to the planet. You need to capture her and get her back to us. She¡¯ll be a valuable hostage."


    For the first time, surprisingly, Ruth spoke up. The way her eyes flicked around betrayed her nervousness -- the tension of the coming battle was clearly getting to her a little -- but her voice was firm as anything.


    "Don¡¯t hurt her, though," she instructed. "She¡¯s meant to be, like, a little kid, right? I¡¯d feel shitty if we did something to her."


    Many of the eyes in that room gave Ruth a strange look.


    "If it works out like that," Klaus said slowly. "It works out like that."


    Ruth frowned. "The hell does that mean?"


    Lily stepped forward -- and put a hand right over Ruth¡¯s shoulder, hovering in the air. Presumably she didn¡¯t make contact to avoid an electric shock.


    "Hey," she said quietly. "Don¡¯t worry about that. I¡¯m not killing a kid. From what they¡¯ve said, she doesn¡¯t use godsblood anyway, so it should be easy, right?"


    Ruth slowly nodded, still frowning. "Right."


    Thump.


    "At any rate," Klaus picked back up. "Our primary objective is to distract the Contenders while Skipper takes care of the Supreme. You¡¯ve already been given all the information we have on the current roster of Contenders. Keep to your squads and strike intelligently. We only get one shot at this."


    Thump.


    "Dismissed!"


    Atoy Muzazi found Commissioner Caesar just outside of the Tartarus¡¯ luxury gym, sitting on a bench while she drank deep from a bottle of water. He nodded respectfully as he approached. She was wearing exercise clothes, but she still seemed to exude an aura of dignity, demanding etiquette.


    "You wanted to see me, Commissioner?" he asked, sitting down next to her.


    Caesar screwed the cap back onto her bottle before storing it in her satchel. She didn¡¯t look at Muzazi. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed forward, onto the window that looked out into space -- and on the planet that could be seen there, Elysian Fields.


    "I hear you¡¯ve recruited Ash del Duran to the Seven Blades," she said, clasping her hands on her lap.


    Muzazi nodded. "That¡¯s right."


    She glanced over to him. "I hope you don¡¯t expect that to be a long-term appointment."


    A harsh way of putting it. "No¡­ I understand his circumstances. He¡¯s made that clear to me as well. All the same, he is strong and he is capable. I couldn¡¯t hope for a better candidate to present himself to me."


    Caesar¡¯s eyes narrowed. "He presented¡­ himself to you, then?"


    "Of course," Muzazi lied. "He¡¯d heard that I¡¯d taken over command of the Seven Blades, and wanted to put his name in the hat, as it were. His record speaks for itself. I had no reason to deny him."


    He found that he was getting distressingly better at understanding this game the higher echelons played. It would be better not to broadcast the fact that he¡¯d allied himself with Wu Ming, even if their relationship could barely be called an alliance. The falsehood felt heavy on his tongue, but he hoped it did not become clear in his voice.


    "Were you aware," she leaned back. "That it¡¯s customary for the commander to consult with me before recruiting one of my Special Officers into a sub-organization like the Seven Blades?"


    Muzazi shifted, chastened. "I¡­ wasn¡¯t aware of that, no. My apologies."


    "I¡¯ll let it go this one time," Caesar said firmly. "But please do keep it in mind."


    "I shall."


    They sat in silence for a few moments, looking down at Elysian Fields. The planet looked so beautiful from up here. It was hard to believe that the place would become a battlefield before long. What would it look like, once they were done?


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Zeilan Morhan," Caesar said quietly. "Is that a term you¡¯re familiar with, Officer Muzazi?"


    He glanced over at her. "It rings familiar, but¡­ I can¡¯t quite place it." sea??h th§× n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Had she known? As he looked at Commissioner Caesar, he found himself wondering. Had she known about his past as Nigen Rush, about Baltay Kojirough¡¯s plans for him? There was the temptation of paranoia, but he found it hard to believe that Baltay would have shared those dark intentions with anyone. If the records on Baltay¡¯s script were to be believed, he hadn¡¯t even told Paradise Charon.


    Caesar looked up at the lights. "In the days following the Thousand Revolutions, Zeilan Morhan was a title given to those warriors who had proven themselves against the Gene Tyrants. The first generation of Aether-users. They were recruited by the fledgeling Supremacy to help maintain stability following the war."


    "I see." Why was she telling him this?


    "When my mentor created the Special Officers Commission, he modelled the organisation after those ancient warriors. That sense of freedom, individuality, unique power¡­ do you have ambitions, Officer Muzazi?"


    Muzazi blinked, surprised by the sudden question. "Of course. I doubt there¡¯s a person alive who doesn¡¯t have any ambitions."


    He¡¯d expected her to ask him more about those ambitions, but she didn¡¯t. "I¡¯ve always admired mountains," she sighed. "Immovable, for the most part. Towering over everything else. Nations come and go, but the landscape stays the same. I¡¯d like the Commission to become something like that -- part of the permanent landscape of the Supremacy. In a thousand years time, I want the words Special Officer to be spoken with the same reverence as Zeilan Morhan."


    "...and you think there¡¯s an opportunity to make that happen here?" Muzazi asked.


    "I do, I do¡­" Caesar slowly nodded, chin resting on her knuckles. She looked at him again. "That wish on offer will be invaluable, and¡­ ah, sorry to keep throwing these things at you, but have you ever heard of the Shepherdess?"


    This one didn¡¯t even ring a bell. Muzazi shook his head.


    "I¡¯m not surprised," she continued. "It¡¯s barely well-known enough to qualify as an urban legend, but apparently¡­ there¡¯s this woman, dressed like a shepherdess. With the bonnet and everything, right? And she¡¯s meant to show up whenever something huge is about to happen for the Supremacy, like a¡­ like a harbinger."


    Muzazi blinked. "Like a ghost?"


    "Maybe. She looked real enough to me. I swear to you -- I saw her. Here. On this ship. Walking the halls." She turned to look at him one last time, a wide grin on her face -- a kind of excitement Muzazi had never seen from his superior. "The world is about to change, Officer Muzazi."


    "I¡­see¡­" Muzazi quickly stood up, brushing the dust off his legs. "I¡¯d love to stay and talk more, but we¡¯re very busy with security preparations for the Heir -- and I need to be ready for the landing. Good evening."


    With that, he turned and began to walk away -- only to be stopped as Caesar¡¯s voice rang down the hallway.


    "You and Marie were always two of my favourites, Officer Muzazi," she called out. "Good luck. Don¡¯t die."


    He said nothing to that. There was no answer that could be given that would be sufficient. He simply nodded¡­


    ¡­and continued to walk.


    It was almost time.


    It was almost time.


    Dragan had been provided some quarters in the pyramid -- a cramped space that reminded him of his time in the AdminCorps -- but he hadn¡¯t slept at all. He¡¯d just sat on the bed, keeping an eye on his script, waiting for night to fall. He timed it to the second, anxiety pounding at his heart. He had to be perfect about this.


    It was time for him to go.


    He¡¯d done everything he said he¡¯d do. He¡¯d helped Skipper get allies, resources, he¡¯d activated the device, he¡¯d clung on until the very, very last moment¡­ and now it was time for him to look after himself. He¡¯d told himself already, hadn¡¯t he? That he¡¯d cut and run when the time came? He had no obligation to die here.


    The promised minute came, and the promised second.


    Dragan leapt up off the bed, quickly pulling on his jacket and slinging his bag over his shoulder. That bag contained all his possessions in this world, and it didn¡¯t amount to much -- a script, some hygiene stuff and some loose money. It wasn¡¯t much money, either: Skipper hadn¡¯t exactly kept them on a stable salary.


    The things they¡¯d gotten instead were --


    No. No time to waste thinking about it. He¡¯d thought about it enough.


    The hallways of the pyramid were full of shadows as Dragan bustled down them, his satchel scraping against the cramped walls. No doubt there¡¯d be patrols outside the pyramid itself, but he had no reason to fear them. If they asked about his bag, he could just come up with an excuse. He¡¯d always been a good liar.


    He needed to walk faster. Why was he --


    "Hey, kid!" called out Skipper.


    Dragan stopped. Then, he sighed and turned around, prematurely rolling his eyes. "What do you want?" he asked, annoyed.


    Skipper chuckled as he strode down the thin hallway, cracking the artificial joints of his new prosthetic arm experimentally. He¡¯d gotten used to the new limb quickly -- perhaps his experience back on Caelus Breck had helped with that. At any rate, he still had that same irritating grin on his face.


    "Having trouble sleeping, huh?" he said, finally reaching Dragan. "Same with Ruth and the twins. We¡¯re hanging out a little. Wanna come?"


    No, I can¡¯t. I¡¯m doing something.


    Dragan shrugged. "Guess I¡¯ve got nothing better to do."


    "We¡¯re all outside," Skipper smiled. "It¡¯s a nice night."


    It was a nice night. As the two of them left the pyramid, Dragan had to admit that. Even with the pink haze above reminding them of their present circumstances, the crisp air and stars in the sky were pleasant. Dragan took a deep breath as he entered the evening. The green grass crunched under his feet.


    Ruth, Bruno and Serena were already waiting for them. They were down the hill from the pyramid, using their scripts to set up a holographic farball court -- markers displaying distances from the strikeman¡¯s position. Dragan inwardly and outwardly groaned: he sucked at farball.


    "Let¡¯s go, Mr. Dragan!" Serena cried out as she spied the two of them approaching. "I¡¯m gonna kick your ass!"


    Back in the day, people had often said ¡¯hello¡¯.


    They played a few rounds of farball, striking the holographic ball with all their strength to fly as far as possible. Ruth won, of course, with her physical strength -- although Dragan suspected Skipper was going easy on her. They could have played longer, but Dragan pointed out that exhausting themselves the night before a battle probably wasn¡¯t a good idea.


    After they¡¯d deactivated the farball program, they pulled up a towel and sat around to watch one of the old October Jones videographs.


    The detective was investigating the mysterious disappearance of a submarine in the Tajerinth Sea, prowling through dark alleys and warehouses. It wasn¡¯t terribly interesting, but Ruth seemed engrossed -- leaning in so much that her nose was almost brushing against the screen.


    "This is boring," Serena groaned, hands on her chin. "When do they fight?"


    "It¡¯s not all about fighting," Bruno grunted, taking over. "...this is boring, though."


    Ruth cast an annoyed glance over her shoulder. "It isn¡¯t boring. This is a good part. You just need to pay attention."


    "I¡¯m surprised you like these movies," Dragan muttered, looking up from the pinball game on his script. "They don¡¯t seem like your type. Like Bruno said, there¡¯s no action in it."


    To Dragan¡¯s horror, Ruth stole his second signature technique by rolling her eyes. "It¡¯s intellectual combat, dipshit. She¡¯s fighting by figuring stuff out. It¡¯s that kind of movie."


    "Still¡­" he shrugged. "Doesn¡¯t seem like your kinda thing is all."


    Ruth had no answer to that -- not because she was lost for words, but because she was once again absorbed in the events on the videograph screen. October Jones was questioning some guy who was obviously a red herring. Dragan just couldn¡¯t get into this -- but that was no surprise, what with the cataclysm that would be coming soon.


    "Hey, kid," Skipper said, sitting a little ways away from the rest of them. "You doing alright?"


    Dragan scooted over on the grass, hugging his knees. "Sure."


    "No second thoughts?" he asked.


    "Of course not," Dragan lied.


    Of course, Dragan lied.


    Skipper sighed, looking down at the landscape below. All around, Dragan could see the vague figures of people moving around -- not just patrols like he¡¯d expected, but people out of uniform, just wandering in the night. The green feathers Skipper had handed out glinted in the dark, like the starry sky reflected. Dragan furrowed his brow.


    "What are they doing?" he asked.


    Skipper followed his gaze. "Same thing as us, kid. Might be our last night in this world¡­ might as well come out here and see it."


    A cold breeze blew past, and Skipper¡¯s hair billowed in it, concealing his expression for a moment. He chuckled lightly.


    Dragan found that, as he spoke, his mouth was dry as a desert. "Hey¡­ do you really think we can¡­"


    "Yeah?"


    "Do you think we can win this?"


    Skipper cocked his head. "What? You¡¯re asking if I can beat the big guy?"


    Dragan shook his head.


    For some reason, he couldn¡¯t imagine a future where Skipper didn¡¯t come out victorious. It seemed¡­ natural, almost, that the man would overcome that hurdle after preparing so hard and for so long. No, the thing that seized Dragan by the throat was what happened after.


    Whether that was evacuating the planet, or even¡­


    "Do you think we can make it out of this¡­?" Dragan asked quietly, looking down at the ground.


    Skipper looked at him, eyes hidden in the dark, and didn¡¯t say anything for a very long time. The moon hung in the sky behind him, like a divine spotlight. As Dragan looked up, he saw that the older man was twirling one of those glowing green feathers between his fingers, looking down at it like it were his totem. The green light illuminated his mouth, a plain straight line.


    Finally, though, he looked up and smiled.


    "I do," Skipper said. Dragan couldn¡¯t tell whether it was a lie or not.


    Things wound down from there. It was probably a good idea to get some rest before the battle, so the group bid each other farewell and headed back to their quarters. Before long, Dragan found himself looking back up at the ceiling from that same bed, counting the seconds in his mind once again.


    He¡¯d make a run for it in the next second, he promised.


    He¡¯d make a run for it in the next thirty minutes, he decided.


    He¡¯d make a run for it in the next hour, he supposed.


    Dragan closed his eyes as sleep crawled over him. Fuck it.


    He¡¯d make a run for it in the next life, he guessed.


    Skipper stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked around the edge of the pyramid, ducking through shadows and avoiding the eyes of patrols. He¡¯d taken off his Heartbeat Freedom feather and stuck it in his pocket for the time being -- for him alone it actually only served a ceremonial purpose, and he didn¡¯t want the light to give him away. It wasn¡¯t like Klaus didn¡¯t know what he was doing, but¡­ best to avoid awkward questions all the same.


    The girl was waiting for him behind a massive water pump. Just like Skipper, her hands were plunged into the pockets of her hoodie -- and as she looked at his approaching form, her dull gaze reminded him of his younger days in the UAP. A doll¡­ with the thing that had once possessed it long since gone.


    He¡¯d seen those eyes before, too. The eyes of a thing that wanted to die -- that wanted to take as many hated enemies with it as possible.


    "You¡¯re late," she said, voice emotionless.


    Skipper shrugged. "Had stuff I needed to do."


    Emma. If she had a second name, it wasn¡¯t on record, and she wasn¡¯t willing to reveal it. She¡¯d been born in one Supremacy prison, and spent much of her life in another -- the first the result of circumstance, the second a result of career. Since her escape from her birthplace, she¡¯d become the archetypal mad bomber, attacking Supremacy bases far and wide. As far as Skipper knew, she¡¯d never even fired a gun, but she¡¯d probably killed far more people than any other member of Regiment RED.


    Johan probably thought she was one of his, but Skipper had always had something of a silver tongue.


    Emma wasn¡¯t exactly one for conversation. Before Skipper could say another word, she slapped the device into Skipper¡¯s waiting hand and stalked off. As she disappeared into the night, Skipper looked down at the dark hope she¡¯d given him. It was such a small thing, looking more like a lighter than anything else.


    Just from looking at it, you wouldn¡¯t believe what it was capable of. Skipper had gotten the idea from what the Sponsor of War had planned, back on Taldan. A simple click of the exposed trigger from his tongue -- fingerprints weren¡¯t an option -- would activate a signal within the Lotus. An apocalyptic wave of energy would be transmitted from the Lotus right into the power source: the core of the planet itself.


    Elysian Fields would crack like an egg, and the ensuing explosion would take out every Supremacy soldier on the planet, along with every single ship in orbit. With all the flies that had gathered, it would be a devastating blow to the enemy.


    This was it. His ace in the hole, in the event that he couldn¡¯t finish off the Supreme. The hand that would flip over the table.


    Skipper shivered.


    It was freezing out here.

 Chapter 282:11.9: From Heaven Like Lightning

    Atoy Muzazi looked at himself in the mirror. He was breathing normally, but somehow it still felt like he was suffocating.


    Despite the name, a warzone was not the place for war-robes. He¡¯d changed into a standard officer¡¯s coat, bright white, with an armoured vest beneath it. The red tie didn¡¯t serve much of a tactical purpose, but it would have been more hassle to get rid of it, so it stayed. A holstered plasma pistol lay heavy at his side -- given his fighting style, he didn¡¯t expect to use it, but better safe than sorry.


    He was about to step into a meat grinder. He couldn¡¯t take any chances.


    "Hey, Buddy Muzazi!" called out a squeaky voice from his wrist.


    Muzazi looked down at the squealing Caravan. A black ribbon had been bound around his arm twice, and the bow had morphed into the cartoonish impression of a face, lips of fabric chattering exaggeratedly as they spoke. This was Caravan, the referee of this war, who¡¯d be keeping track of the points won by murder. Apparently, he was the ability of a Special Officer who worked with the Absurd Weapons Lab, but Muzazi didn¡¯t know the specifics. Every Special Officer had been provided with a Caravan to keep track of their score and provide updates on the battle.


    "Yes?" Muzazi said.


    "Ten minutes until go-time, little man!" the ribbon chitterred. "Make sure you¡¯re ready, bro! Don¡¯t wanna get caught out! I¡¯m rooting for ya!"


    He had no doubt that Caravan had been programmed to provide such encouragement, but Muzazi nodded all the same. Right now, he needed all the support he could get.


    At any rate, he¡¯d run out of time for trepidation. Muzazi put on his officer¡¯s cap and turned to the couch on the other side of the room. There, Aclima sat between Morgan and Ash -- Morgan was in the eighth wave of landings, so he still had time for fear. They¡¯d managed to get Ash permission to sit the operation out due to ¡¯health issues¡¯, so he¡¯d be guarding Aclima for the duration.


    "Once Morgan leaves," Muzazi said seriously to Ash. "Consider this room your fortress. Do not leave it for any reason. We know it¡¯s safe here. We can¡¯t discount the possibility that traps were placed on other parts of the ship."


    "Of course, Commander Muzazi," Ash saluted.


    The room drifted into silence, save for the ticking of a distant clock. It would take him some minutes to get to his designated landing pod, so¡­


    Muzazi straightened his tie, face grim. "Wish me luck," he said quietly, before turning to leave.


    "W-Wait!"


    He turned his head, and a sigh passed through his lips. Aclima had stood from the couch, seized her too-big sword, and moved to the middle of the room. Resolve shone in her eyes as she looked at him. Morgan and Ash, for their part, pointedly averted their gazes.


    "Take me with you," she said, voice shaking.


    Muzazi shook his head. "No."


    She squeezed the hilt of her sword. "Why not?"


    "It¡¯s too dangerous." Muzazi stated the obvious. "It will be a warzone down there. You would be killed. It¡¯s my job to protect you -- and the way to protect you is to keep you here."


    Aclima frowned. "How am I going to get stronger if I¡¯m kept away from danger?"


    "By training," Muzazi insisted. "As we have been doing. My Heir¡­ one does not become fireproof by throwing themself into flames. If you were to go down there, you would not survive. It isn¡¯t guaranteed that I¡¯ll survive."


    Aclima took a step forward. "The training isn¡¯t working!" she cried desperately. "I¡¯m still weak! I¡¯m always going to be weak! He doesn¡¯t even know who I am!"


    Muzazi¡¯s scowl deepened. So that was what this was truly about. He kneeled down, getting to eye level with his young charge.


    "I will not lie," he said seriously. "Right now¡­ the Supreme does not acknowledge you, no. But foolhardiness is not the way to win the respect of a man like that. Discipline and hard work will lead to strength, Aclima. All effort is rewarded in the end. The day will come when he chooses to know you. I can guarantee it."


    She looked down at the ground, tears streaking down her face. "But it¡¯s a war¡­" she spluttered. "What if he doesn¡¯t¡­?"


    "He is the strongest," Muzazi said simply. "He will come back. Even if some danger should present itself to him¡­ I will be there. I will protect your father, Aclima. I promise you that."


    He couldn¡¯t imagine a world where the Supreme would need his protection, but he meant the promise all the same. As he saw Aclima slowly nod, he rose to his feet, sealing that vow within his heart.


    "I¡¯ll be back soon enough," he said firmly -- before he turned and left.


    That anxiety in his chest, that cold hand around his heart, did not fade. Not one bit. Not as he walked down the halls, not as he entered the hangar, and not as he approached the landing pod that very well could be his coffin.


    It was big and bulky, the inside pitch-black, without so much as a porthole to provide light once the door was sealed. It took him a moment to place what exactly the shape of the structure reminded him of.


    This is a bullet, he thought. I¡¯m to be fired out of a gun.


    Through the sliver of light that circumstance allowed, he could see that the other four Special Officers had already arrived -- and, using Gallery Maxim, had already become paintings. They lined the inside walls of the pods, painted faces that he was not familiar with.


    The Supreme was nowhere to be seen yet¡­ but he would surely appear.


    Paravi Pala was waiting outside the pod for Muzazi, an easel and a blank canvas set up next to them. They swayed on their feet sleepily as Muzazi approached, a wet paintbrush dancing between their fingers. It looked like they¡¯d just gotten out of bed, yet that same serene smile never left their lips.


    "Ready?" they asked.


    "Of course," Muzazi nodded.


    The hangar exploded into applause. The personnel here -- technicians and guards, pilots and stray Special Officers -- were giving him a standing ovation. It was only natural. This was a very brave -- and very foolish -- thing he was doing.


    Paravi patted Muzazi insubstantially on the arm. "Don¡¯t worry," they said quietly. "Everything will be okay."


    He nodded mutely, looking around the room. There were familiar faces there, people from the second wave, no doubt. It took him a second to spot her in the crowd, even with her towering height. She was good at concealing herself.


    Paradise Charon, clapping just as hard as anyone else, but with a glare that could cut down mountains. Muzazi suppressed the urge to gulp.


    They¡¯d discussed this beforehand, him and his Blades. Given that Paradise had almost certainly had a hand in him being selected for the first wave, it was also likely that at least one of the other Special Officers in his group belonged to her. They¡¯d do their best to eliminate Muzazi, and make it look as though he had fallen in battle. In a battle like the one that was about to erupt, who could say where a fatal blow had come from?


    He looked at her for only a second, so as to not advertise his wariness -- but as he did, he saw something else. His eyes widened, and his mouth thinned into a straight line of tension. Goosebumps rippled over his skin.


    There, behind the clapping crowd -- barely visible -- stood a woman. A woman smiling softly, with a shepherdess¡¯s bonnet tied over her blonde hair. Blue eyes stared directly at Muzazi -- with such intensity that he felt like he was under the gaze of a microscope.


    The world is about to change, Commissioner Caesar had said.


    Before Muzazi even had time to think about that, a paintbrush moved -- and, for a short time, he ceased to exist.


    Sensors within Regiment RED¡¯s pyramid detect an object entering the atmosphere. The auto-brain controlling the sensors confirms two seconds later that the object was fired from the Tartarus, still hanging in orbit. The very instant that is confirmed, the alarm goes off.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Dragan Hadrien, eating in a common area, turns to Ruth Blaine next to him as he leaps out of his seat. He shouts. "Which way to --"


    There is a boom -- not an explosion, but a sound produced by the speed of the incoming pod.


    Those still awake run to their positions. Those getting what rest they could leap out of bed, pulling on their gear. The sound of human voices shouting overpowers even the alarm. The sound of human feet stomping overpowers even the shouting.


    One of the commanders, red balaclava pulled over his face, shouts: "Battle stations! To your squads! Battle statio --"


    Something astounding happens, just outside the complex. In the span of a few seconds, a titan is sculpted from liquid metal, rising to its feet and glaring off into the horizon. The level of detail to its form is extraordinary -- like a sculptors masterpiece. It replicates the appearance of its pilot down to individual strands of hair.


    The Hanged Man clings to the spire atop the pyramid like some kind of superhero, forming a spear out of spare material from its armpit and getting ready to hurl it. Perched on its shoulder is Roy Oliphant-Hawkins, a deep scowl on his lips. He has been taking catnaps through the night, rerolling his Save The Day ability until he gets a power he can work with here. What he has is not perfect, but it¡¯ll do.


    "Remember," he grunts, leaning into the Hanged Man¡¯s massive ear. "You take care of mid and long-range combat. Anything that gets close, I¡¯ll --"


    In the heart of the pyramid, in the war room, Klaus El leans over the holographic table. Above his representation of the battlefield, he can see the landing pod rapidly descending, its form sharpening as the sensors get a better look at it. It¡¯s coming down some distance outside the projected battlefield, in the forests that surround the area.


    That isn¡¯t ideal -- there are caverns and tunnels out there that the enemy could use to cross the distance. No doubt they know that, and that¡¯s why they chose that landing site. The probe they sent down must have sent back some scans before it was destroyed.


    Well, all of that only matters if they can land. Klaus pulls his communicator to his mouth and barks in a voice poisoned by the battlefield.


    "Fi --"


    The turrets attached to the outside of the pyramid open fire as one -- a veritable volley of plasmafire hurtling through the air into the landing pods projected path. This is beyond the firepower they used to take down the original probe. If these shots hit, there won¡¯t even be ashes left -- but they can take no chances.


    After all, they are dealing with Aether-users. There¡¯s no telling what absurdity lies in wait. Against the bizarre, there is no blind strategy save overkill.


    If only overkill was enough.


    The image on the table sharpens once again, and Klaus¡¯ eyes widen. The Hanged Man, perched atop the pyramid, sees it next. Scout Oliphant-Hawkins doesn¡¯t quite understand why, but he reflexively reshapes one arm into a massive shield, holding it up in front of himself and his father. Bruno del Sed finishes climbing up the ladder to the turrets, holding his hands over his ears to block out the noise. He too catches a glimpse. Skipper, walking away through the woods, turns back and looks at the descending doom. A second later, he continues walking.


    Dragan Hadrien and Ruth Blaine, running through the corridors of the pyramid to their designated positions, do not see it. This is very unlucky.


    There is a man standing on top of the landing pod, with his arms spread wide. He is wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, but his titanic body is more than enough to withstand any attack. His toes have dug into the steel beneath him as if it was tissue paper, keeping him in place as he hurtles down to the surface of Elysian Fields.


    Like the kill-strike of a thunderstorm, golden Aether cracks around him.


    Man, the Supreme thought. What a spread¡­


    The whole thing was laid out before him as he fell. The mountains, the forests, the pyramid -- a three-course meal ready and waiting. He could even see the little dots buzzing below, the soldiers preparing to defend their hideout. They looked weak to him, but that didn¡¯t mean much. The Supreme had always been bad at gauging the exact strength of those weaker than him.


    He had bigger fish to fry, anyway.


    A deluge of plasmafire was hurtling towards him -- not enough to kill him, of course, but more than enough to annihilate any pod that tried to land. If they had access to this kind of firepower, there¡¯d be no way for the invasion to actually get started. The Supreme hadn¡¯t come all the way out here just to watch dots get shot out of the sky.


    In the gulf of time between one second and the next, the Supreme counted the turrets visible to him.


    Sixteen on this side of the pyramid. Safe to assume there are another sixteen on the other side. From this position, I can¡¯t take them all out in one go¡­ but I should be able to create a good opening.


    He raised up one hand, golden Aether concentrating right into the center of his palm. It kinda felt like cheating, but he¡¯d use his Aether ability just this once before meeting up with Zachariah. Just enough to give the other guys a fighting chance.


    The Supreme smiled as the Aether reached its divine apex. The words he spoke should have been inaudible, but they were louder than the world.


    "Excel Surge¡­" he said -- and then¡­


    The blast was apocalyptic.


    A sound like the trumpets of hell, utterly overpowering, screamed its way over the surface of Elysian Fields. A wave of pressure was cast out directly from the falling star, instantly repelling each and every plasma shot that has been aiming for the capsule. The fire was spat down into the forests like rain, incinerating trees and sparking a quickly spreading inferno.


    It didn¡¯t stop there.


    The Heartbeat Shotgun, far more powerful than anything Skipper was capable of, continued its path towards the pyramid. So much grass was thrown up that the air around it turned green, and trees were pulled out by the roots and carried along. It was like an invisible tsunami of sound, pushing forth everything in its path.


    Atop the pyramid, Scout turned the heels of the Hanged Man into hooks and dug into the stone of the pyramid. The mouth of the Hanged Man opened and his voice emerged, amplified: "Incoming!"


    Next to the turrets, surrounded by technicians that were beginning to panic and run, Bruno knelt down to the ground and created a veritable fortress of forcefields -- layered and layered again, with all the Aether he had poured into them. Held inside that protective embrace, those around him could do nothing but watch as the wave of destruction -- sea??h th§× ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    -- slammed into the pyramid.


    Needless to say, the turrets did not survive. As if they were struck by an invisible fist -- as if they were struck by a thousand invisible fists -- they were reduced to metal scrap and sparking wire, some torn off entirely and flung away into the air. One unfortunate soldier, just outside the range of Bruno¡¯s shield, was smashed into a wall and reduced to pulp inside his armour.


    Wild cracks began to form in Bruno¡¯s shield as he gritted his teeth, blood pouring from his gums. He had no choice. For his forcefields to withstand an attack like that, the only option was to enter the realm of the Aether burn -- if only a little.


    The wave lingered for only a few seconds -- and at the very moment it dissipated, Bruno¡¯s forcefield shattered. The few soldiers he¡¯d managed to save held him up as he collapsed, panting heavily.


    "Don¡¯t worry about us¡­" he wheezed, blood clogging his throat. "Get to where you n-need to be¡­"


    At that very moment, Dragan and Ruth emerged from the entrance of the pyramid, just in time to witness the aftermath of the blast.


    The forest beyond the base was blazing, flames like mountains of their own, smoke drifting up and choking the sky red. Not only that, but that smoke would surely prevent them from seeing any pods coming down from that direction -- even if they could attack them on their way down. Dragan swallowed, his throat dry.


    It¡¯s started, thought Dragan Hadrien.


    It¡¯s started, thought the Supreme.


    The pod collided with the ground in a resounding crash, earth and rock thrown up high by the impact. Steam rose slowly from the cooling metal hull as the Supreme climbed off, taking a few steps away from the capsule and instead looking off at his handiwork. Damn -- he¡¯d really done a number on that place. He couldn¡¯t even see through the wall of fire he¡¯d inadvertently created.


    Maybe he¡¯d gone a little too hard? Well, it was no biggie. He wasn¡¯t interested in these small-fry anyway. The Supreme scratched idly at his hair as he strolled away from the landing spot, looking for a good place to take a nap.


    After all, until Zachariah showed up¡­ this was just a waiting game.


    Good luck, kids, he thought, glancing back at the pod. Looks like you might need it.


    Atoy Muzazi took in a deep breath as he returned to existence, falling out of the landing pod.


    He had only an instant to get his bearings. Grass beneath his knees, a burning red sky above him. The smell of smoke. The roaring of flames. Others around him -- four -- the other Special Officers. And another sound, another sound¡­


    ¡­the sound of an incoming projectile.


    The second he looked up, he saw it. A massive silver spear, the size of a train carriage, hurtling right towards them. Acting on instinct alone, Muzazi threw himself out of the danger radius with his thrusters, the other Special Officers moving at the same time. Desperate acceleration got him just outside of the danger zone, but still --


    Crash.


    The landing pod was annihilated by the spear, its steel surface skewered by the shining metal. Fire spat out in every direction as the pod exploded, sending the gathered Officers flying. With his thrusters, Muzazi alone was able to land on his feet, panting for breath even as he regained his bearings.


    They couldn¡¯t stay here. Another attack like that would be imminent. Until they¡¯d built up their forces, they couldn¡¯t afford to become targets. No matter how strong they were individually, right now they were ants fighting against boots.


    Silver Aether crackled as Muzazi raised his hand, the Radiant that burst forth from his palm shining like a great beacon as he held it aloft.


    "With me!" he cried -- and then, he charged.

 Chapter 283:11.10: The Death of Atoy Muzazi

    The first thing one must know in the heat of battle: who are your allies, and who are your enemies?


    The Special Officers charging with Atoy Muzazi were not ones he¡¯d personally met before, but he¡¯d always heard them spoken of favourably. The content of their character was unknown to him, but their competence was not in doubt. For that, at least, he could be grateful.


    Staying out in the open was not an option, what with the firepower Regiment RED still commanded. Before they¡¯d landed, they¡¯d gone through the best way to approach the base -- and Winston Grace had pointed it out to them immediately. This pyramid was surrounded by networks of natural caverns and tunnels, running all throughout the area. They¡¯d landed near one of the entrances to the network -- by moving through it, they could get close while gaining cover from artillery.


    As they passed out of the blazing outside to the darkness of the cave, Muzazi glanced at his temporary companions.


    At first, he¡¯d been leading the group, but Anastasia Darkdancer had quickly taken the front. She was a small Pugnant woman with star-shaped jewelry covering her blonde hair and red bomber jacket, a wild grin on her face as she weaved through obstacles. Weaved was the best word for it, for she was riding a hoverboard that granted her additional speed and maneuverability.


    Perhaps it was some kind of Aether Armament, too? Difficult to tell.


    "Be careful," grunted Mazel Rho, running alongside Muzazi. "Might be traps."


    Mazel was a young man with black skin and short blonde hair, a bulky plasma rifle clutched in his hands as he ran. Plentiful canisters of plasma were laid out on a bandolier wrapped around his chest. Muzazi had been surprised when he¡¯d heard this man¡¯s name. Someone with the blood of a former Contender would be fighting alongside him. Hopefully, that strength had been passed on.


    "Agreed," gurgled Trucio Hartien Moldanado, a short ways behind. "Anyone who can fly should fly. Or at least not touch the ground."


    The older man was a Scurrant with an extended and engorged throat, his wide flat eyes staring off in opposite directions as he ran. Once he finished speaking, he opened his mouth again -- and from that mouth three long and prehensile tongues lashed out, linking up to the ceiling.


    It was a disgusting sight, but Moldanado swung from the rocks quite elegantly, pulling himself along without ever touching the ground.


    The last of their number did not say anything, but Muzazi found himself looking at him all the same. He really couldn¡¯t help it. Jester Marble was a sight to behold, after all.


    He was a Scurrant, like Moldanado, but of an entirely different breed. There was not the slightest trace of hair or blemish on his dark blue body, his skin visibly smooth and shiny. In place of eyes, he had vertical rows of long red orifices, three on each side of his face. They slowly breathed as Muzazi looked at them, reminding him of gills.


    If Jester Marble noticed the attention, he did not show it. He just continued running at the back of the group, his hands planted together in a gesture of prayer. He had a necklace of prayer beads hanging from his neck, too. Perhaps he was the religious type?


    Ordinarily, the tunnel they were running through would have been pitch-black, but their combined Aether illuminated their surroundings. Muzazi held his Radiant in front of himself like a lantern as they moved out of the tunnel and into a larger cavern.


    This place was far better-lit than the rest of the cave, with electric lighting fixtures bolted onto the walls and ceiling of the cave. The room was empty, but Muzazi could see countless large square indentations on the cavern floor. Had they been using this as some kind of storage facility, then? If so, there must be a way into the main complex from here.


    He was just turning his head to tell his comrades that -- when he noticed them.


    He noticed them, clinging to the outside of the entrance they¡¯d just run through.


    He noticed them, staring at him with their glowing red eyes.


    He noticed them, and the spears they carried.


    Atoy Muzazi had never seen these things in person before, but he was familiar with history. During the reign of Gael the Golden, more than a hundred years ago, the Supremacy had attempted an invasion of Paradisas territory. It had been disastrous, and many powerful Aether-users had been killed. It was said that had been, in no small part, due to the elite automatics the Paradisas had dispatched.


    Over the years of peace, they¡¯d been phased out, but Muzazi recognised the design from the history books. The Executioners. Automatics designed specifically to kill Aether-users.


    He opened his mouth to warn his colleagues --


    -- when one of them shot him in the back.


    The third pod came down right outside the burning forest, forcing Paradise Charon to put a disgusted sleeve to her nose as she took in the stink of charred wood.


    She¡¯d dressed in green military camouflage for this venture, but it seemed she¡¯d have been better off picking red. The Supreme truly didn¡¯t know any restraint at all. She checked the imaging of the battlefield on her script: it seemed he¡¯d taken out the turrets on this side, at least.


    "We¡¯ve now got a blind spot on one side of the base," that kid Grace spoke over the communicator. "Changing the landing spots to take advantage."


    The other Special Officers that had come down in this pod had already split up, seeking individual glory as they headed off with their mass-destructive abilities. Paradise Charon was the only one who had stayed at the landing zone -- her, and her companion.


    Baron Lunalette de Fleur pulled one of his pitchforks from his Aether, twirling it over his shoulder as he stepped up next to her. A smirk played across his lips as he took in the sight of the inferno before them.


    "Quite a view," he purred. "Is Atoy Muzazi nearby?"


    Paradise crossed her arms. "Don¡¯t you worry about him. I¡¯ve got him in hand. You have your role. I¡¯ve sent you the new coordinates for the next few landing zones -- link up with the Special Officers there and cull the herd."


    "Oh?" Lunalette raised an eyebrow. "How treacherous of you." He shrugged lightly. "But I¡¯ll do as I¡¯m bid. It¡¯s a more invigorating task, at any rate."


    With that, he began to stride off into the burning woods, whistling a merry tune as if he wasn¡¯t walking into a vision of hell. Paradise watched him as he went: such a curious man. He had the resources required to have anything he wanted and never work a day in his life, yet he still brought himself out to the battlefield in this way. Perhaps he was like Wu Ming, a battle junkie?


    No. Paradise dismissed the notion immediately. Lunalette didn¡¯t care at all for fighting: he only enjoyed the slaughter that followed. Massacre was his relaxation. That hell was his element.


    The Baron Lunalette de Fleur¡­ at full power, he was one of the three Special Officers closest to the rank of Contender. Paradise almost felt sorry for the hapless dissidents he¡¯d surely encounter.


    Right on the threshold of the flames, the Baron turned and glanced quizzically at Paradise once again.


    "You said Atoy Muzazi was in hand," he said. "Out of curiosity, how many infiltrators did you send with him? How many traitors are there on that team of his?" Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Despite her best efforts, Paradise chuckled.


    "What makes you think any of them aren¡¯t traitors?" she said.


    Muzazi¡¯s Aether blunted the blow, but he still found himself collapsing to the floor, a burning pain in his lower back. Red-hot plasma dripped to the floor.


    The Executioners didn¡¯t miss their chance. There were three of them -- and with blinding speed they pounced, bringing down their spears towards Muzazi¡¯s prone form. Head, heart, spine -- each aimed for a different killing blow.


    Thrusters blazed across Muzazi¡¯s side, sending him sliding across the ground and out of the attack¡¯s range. Their spears lodged into the ground as they stabbed the spot he¡¯d just been, their heads snapping to follow his movement as he barely escaped death.


    The pain in his back was excruciating. He¡¯d been ready for an attack from the front, so the distribution of his Aether had been uneven. Hot anger flared through Muzazi¡¯s brain -- not at his enemies, but at himself. He¡¯d fallen for it again.


    More thrusters forced Muzazi to his feet, pushing through the agony. He turned his head to his supposed ¡¯comrades¡¯ just in time to see their escape.


    As Anastasia Darkdancer did a loop in the air, leaving tiny twinkling stars in the wake of her movement, Jester Marble ran through the exit beneath her. Maldonado and Mazel Rho remained in the chamber with Muzazi and the Executioners, positioning themselves so as to keep an eye on both parties.


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes, positioning himself similarly -- and as he shifted his footing, those tiny, twinkling stars detonated, biting into the ceiling and causing a cascade of rocks to fall down over the exit. Fantastic. So now he was sealed in, too.


    The Executioners will go after them as well, Muzazi thought, igniting his Radiants and lowering himself into a combat stance. They¡¯ll want to let me and the automatics soften each other up, and then take us both down.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    As if he would allow such a cowardly tactic.


    Muzazi was just about to fly at the Special Officers -- when he felt pain, a new kind of pain, as if his skin was melting off. Heat buffeting against his body from above. Muzazi looked up -- and immediately, as a drop landed in his eye, he wished he hadn¡¯t.


    An orange cloud hung directly above him, a constant rain of plasma falling from it directly onto his body. Muzazi moved to dodge, smoke already rising from his burns -- and the cloud followed, endlessly pursuing the spot right above his head. He slashed at it with his Radiant, and the attack passed right through.


    "Rainy Day," Mazel Rho intoned, his eyes cold as he stared Muzazi down. "Sorry. There¡¯s no way to get rid of it."


    One of his canisters was empty.


    No way? Not the case. If this plasma control was Rho¡¯s ability, all Muzazi had to do was eliminate Rho. He lunged forward at the man with the rifle, intending to unleash a flurry of slashes before Rainy Day could catch up --


    -- only to be stopped in his tracks as one of Maldonado¡¯s tongues whipped itself towards the back of his leg.


    "It¡¯s nothing personal," said Maldonado, his wide eyes staring.


    Muzazi was forced to whirl around to block the attack, but that gave the Executioners enough time to leap at him once again, spears reared back for killing strikes. In this situation, responding to one attack meant opening himself up to another.


    The plasma rained down, hot as flame. The spears came down, fast as lightning. Muzazi gritted his teeth.


    They thought he could be taken down by mere fire and lightning?


    There was a silver flash as Muzazi moved, his hand becoming a blur for but the briefest of moments. A second later, the Executioners around him collapsed into pieces -- utterly dismembered. Their red eyes dimmed to black before shutting off completely.


    If these people wanted him dead, they¡¯d have to send better than antiques.


    Plasma pouring down his face and eating away at his uniform, Muzazi glared up at his remaining two adversaries. He couldn¡¯t see out of one of his eyes, but that was fine. Against opponents like this, there was no need for him to see.


    "Next," he snarled.


    The second his consciousness returned, Morgan Nacht pulled his saber free from his scabbard, leaping out of the pod into the forest beyond. The capsule had crashed through the woods, destroying the surrounding trees -- and Morgan found himself perching on a fallen log as he surveyed the area.


    "Ionir?" he muttered. "Anything?"


    That base is north of here, Ionir replied without a voice, its thoughts immediately apparent. The people there often come out into the forests. They have laid traps -- but the simpletons remember the locations. I will direct you.


    "Right," Morgan nodded.


    He glanced back towards the pod as another Special Officer emerged. A Scurrant with a cuboid head and thin, fuzzy brown hair. The man spun his mace in his hand as he looked around the clearing, before turning his own gaze to Morgan.


    "Team up?" he croaked. "Easier to get points as a duo, I imagine."


    Morgan considered it for a moment. Ideally, he¡¯d prefer to have joined up with Muzazi before doing anything else, but there was no telling where the commander would be. This Cubed Man could potentially be one of Paradise Charon¡¯s people, but he didn¡¯t seem too strong. If it came down to it, Morgan was fairly confident he could take him.


    "Sure," Morgan nodded. "My Aether ability helps with navigation. I can get us through the forest. Anyone else coming out of there?"


    The Cubed Man looked back into the pod before cumbersomely shaking his heavy head. "It seems I¡¯m the last one out."


    Morgan frowned. Had everyone else just run off or something? If people were going to act like that, this wasn¡¯t an army. This was just a bunch of assholes running around in the woods with guns.


    Enemy, said Ionir. The simpletons have spotted them.


    Immediately, Morgan twisted his body in the direction relayed to him. "How far away?" he asked, voice low.


    The Cubed Man furrowed his brow. "What?"


    "My ability tells me about nearby enemies," Morgan lied, before asking again: "How far away?"


    Two kilometres. They¡¯re¡­ oh.


    "Oh?" Morgan echoed.


    Well¡­ they¡¯re gone.


    Morgan faltered for a moment. "They left?"


    No, they disappeared. One second they were there, and the next -- MOVE!


    Before Morgan could even wonder why his companion was suddenly so panicked, he heard a new voice speak. A voice he¡¯d never heard before, coming directly from above. A voice that said just two words.


    "Gemini World!"


    Morgan leapt without looking -- and it was a good thing he did, too, for a second later the spot he¡¯d been standing in had been obliterated. A man clad in a green cloak had come down out of the sky, destroying the log with a single kick from his muscular legs. As Morgan slid to a halt next to the Cubed Man, the two of them squared off against the new arrival.


    The young man had antlers, Morgan noticed, as he threw his cloak over his shoulders. Another Scurrant?


    "You guys must be the Supremacy, huh?" the man said -- it wasn¡¯t the same voice as that ¡¯Gemini World¡¯ cry. "There aren¡¯t many of you. Don¡¯t worry, though -- I¡¯ve got enough friends on the way for both of us."


    Morgan held his sword out in front of him, and the Cubed Man did the same with his mace. The two of them could tell instinctively, as warriors, that this was a man who knew what he was doing. The way he¡¯d destroyed the environment, and the cold relaxation in his posture¡­ this was no stranger to murder.


    That wasn¡¯t what caught their attention first, though.


    "Do you realise¡­" Morgan said. "...that you¡¯re buck-ass naked?"


    Dragan reappeared for a second, emerging out of Gemini World and landing atop a cliff that overlooked the forest. Immediately, he put a hand to his ear.


    "Where next?" he panted into the communicator.


    Ever since the battle had begun, he¡¯d been running back and forth, using Gemini World to ferry people to various destinations across the battlefield. Rest was an impossibility: their forces only had two Aether-users capable of rapid transportation, himself and a member of Regiment RED named Jacob. Jacob¡¯s ability, The Road Less Travelled, could transport many people at once -- but only non-Aether-users, and only across a preset path.


    The task of getting their powerful attackers into position fell to Dragan, then. Ablos was powerful enough -- apparently -- that he should be able to deal with the Special Officers there himself until reinforcements showed up on foot. Dragan had to keep moving.


    "Main pyramid," the operator¡¯s voice came back. "Klaus is starting to send out the sensory clouds -- the enemy will target him directly once they realise he¡¯s the source. Get del Sed to him as an additional bodyguard."


    Dragan looked to the pyramid, and indeed he could see a great white fog beginning to billow out from within it. That cloud basically served as a permanent Aether ping for Klaus El -- he could sense the position and strength of anything it touched. Once it was distributed across the battlefield, it would be invaluable for information gathering.


    Still¡­ once the enemy came to understand what the fog did, they¡¯d probably go after Klaus with everything they had. Worst case scenario, it could be a Contender gunning for him. Was that really something Bruno and Serena could handle¡­?


    Dragan shook his head. The time for doubt had long since passed. He had his job now, and they had theirs. All they could do was follow the roads they¡¯d made to wherever they ended up. Faith didn¡¯t even come into it.


    "On it," Dragan replied to the operator, before falling back into Gemini World. The blue spark of Aether that was him zipped over the forest, heading back towards the pyramid.


    Paradise Charon took it all in, spreading her arms wide.


    She could hear it, now -- the sound of warfare all around. Gunfire breaking through the woods, blades cutting into flesh, screams rising up towards the sky. Pillars of smoke rose from each of the landing pods -- now nine -- that had brought the Special Officers down to the planet.


    Another would be descending in around thirty seconds time. Slowly but surely, the combined might of the Supremacy would overwhelm whatever petty malice Regiment RED had accumulated. In this world, justice belonged to the side with the greater numbers. Skill was not a concern. The moment there were more Special Officers on Elysian Fields than dissidents, the battle would effectively be over.


    It couldn¡¯t come soon enough. Paradise narrowed her eyes as she looked at the dense woodland around her. Places like this reminded her of home.


    Disgusting.


    Her stroll through the forest paused for just a moment as she spotted something up ahead, slowly approaching. A wall of white mist, crawling over the ground and curling its fingers around the forest. Looking left and looking right, she couldn¡¯t quite see an end to the incoming wave. It was like the woods themselves were being devoured.


    This was clearly some kind of Aether ability. What exactly it did, she could not say, but she was in no mood to let it hit her. Sighing softly to herself, she raised up her palm.


    She didn¡¯t much like getting her hands dirty, but if it meant getting this whole production finished quickly? She¡¯d grit her teeth and power through.


    Closing her eyes, Paradise Charon opened her ears to her one and only real ally -- her Aether ability.


    "Has the time come, Mistress? May we unburden ourselves?" queried the Forest of Sin.


    "Let us out, Miss! Let us have our fun! Let us skewer and shave and scalp!" giggled the Forest of Sin.


    "Do not meddle with us, witch. Release us. Release us now!" snarled the Forest of Sin.


    Ordinarily, Paradise wouldn¡¯t want to encourage this kind of behaviour by caving in to her ability¡¯s demands¡­ but in this case, for once, they were of a single mind.


    She opened her eyes. Around a quarter of the total capacity should be sufficient.


    Forest of Sin.


    For the purposes of battle planning, every member of Regiment RED had been provided with a medical implant. They constantly observed the status of their assigned unit, tracking their heartbeat, breathing, body temperature¡­ reading every signal the human body could produce.


    One signal reigned above all others, of course. In the end, it was the only one that mattered.


    Death.


    Klaus El hunched over the war table as he saw countless red blots of death sprout up over the battlefield -- forming a path directly towards him.


    "Damn it!" he barked.


    The thing that exploded across the surface of Elysian Fields could not possibly be called a forest.


    It was an abomination. A malignant tumour of wood and leaf, with rotted-black bark and blood-red fruit. The trees that formed it were twisted and grotesque, branches and trunks warped into the shapes of screaming faces and writhing bodies. Looked at from above, the massive new area of woodland -- nearly ten kilometres all around -- took on an even more unsettling shape.


    The trees strangled around each other, the grass nibbled at itself, and the leaves grinned like wolves. They formed it. They formed the shape that crawled across the world.


    It took the shape of a massive, malformed foetus, it¡¯s hand outstretched towards the pyramid. All in all, it formed a bridge from Paradise Charon¡¯s position directly to the enemy base all by itself.


    And then there was the noise.


    The Forest of Sin giggled.


    The Forest of Sin cackled.


    The Forest of Sin screamed.

 Chapter 284:11.11: Ablos of the Azure

    "So," chatted Anastasia Darkdancer as they finally re-emerged into the sunlight. "Why do you think Charon wants that guy dead?"


    Jester Marble did not reply. He just continued to run, hands planted together in prayer, his gill-eyes slowly breathing. The only sound he produced was the jingle of the prayer beads shaking around his neck -- that, and his quiet raspy breath.


    Anastasia drifted across air on her hoverboard, coming to a halt as she frowned down at Jester. "Not a talker, huh? Well, whatever. I¡¯ve got the mines laid all down that tunnel, so if he manages to take those guys out he¡¯ll blow himself up on the way out anyway. I¡¯m gonna go grab me some points -- how about you?"


    Jester Marble did not reply. He just looked up at Anastasia as she hovered next to the treeline. Eventually, the girl seemed to get sick of waiting, frowned, and zoomed off towards the pyramid.


    Foolishness. A direct approach would not be advantageous in this situation. Anastasia¡¯s mobility would only make her a more prominent target. Jester Marble would be surprised if she wasn¡¯t just blasted out of the sky.


    The reason Atoy Muzazi had to die was obvious. He had dispatched and disgraced Baltay Kojirough, and Baltay Kojirough was one of Paradise Charon¡¯s possessions. This was a matter of pride for the Contender. All things burned before a matter of pride.


    Now that Atoy Muzazi was dealt with, though, it was time to forget about him. Jester Marble cast the swordsman from his mind and considered his present situation. He had the same overall objective as Anastasia now -- the acquisition of points. By what means could he accumulate them as quickly as possible?


    Rumble.


    Jester Marble glanced off to the side just in time to see a corruption of black bark and red leaf spread across the horizon, reaching towards the distant pyramid. Jester Marble knew it, if not from sight then reputation. The Forest of Sin.


    Once, it had been a natural wonder. An entire forest capable of consciousness through the unique root structure that connected each individual tree -- like neurons in the brain. Some had thought it could be the key to a greater understanding of consciousness. Some had thought it a miracle, and sought to worship it.


    Not Paradise Charon, though. When she had dropped out of the sky and twisted the Forest into her Aether ability, she had seen it only as one thing: a power to be exploited.


    Lamentable, but it wasn¡¯t as if Jester Marble was any different. He, too, was an exploiter. One who took what he should not and twisted it into the knife of his hand. All things he touched became tools of murder.


    Jester Marble leaned forward and muttered a short prayer.


    "Akabilata shoren mauzh terisapoletopetin maizh¡­" he said. "Neverborn David."


    Jester Marble was not like most Scurrants. He had been created by Noblesse Oblige, a heretical organization that had once sought to regain the lost prowess of the Gene Nobility. They had failed, of course, and been put to the sword one and all. The only surviving remnants of their existence were Jester Marble¡­


    ¡­and his ¡¯brothers¡¯.


    Neverborn David poured out of Jester Marble¡¯s Aether, folds of fat and pus spilling onto the ground. He was massive, his distended body supported by sixteen human arms splayed out like the legs of a spider. Atop that carriage was a tower of interconnected human torsos, and at the summit was David¡¯s skeletal head, gnawing blindly at the air.


    He shuffled on the spot for a moment -- before charging off into the forest, his bloodcurdling scream echoing through the area.


    There. Jester Marble released his hands from prayer. He¡¯d left Neverborn Samantha in the tunnel, too, just in case Atoy Muzazi had somehow survived -- but if he was honest¡­


    ¡­he had no doubt that fool was dead already.


    How was this asshole not dead already?!


    Mazel Rho desperately dodged a blow that would have split his head in half, sending a blade of plasma forward to defend himself as he dropped to the ground. Atoy Muzazi went to parry the incoming strike -- but then elected to dodge instead as Maldonado attacked from behind. The plasma blade and Maldonado¡¯s tongue collided in mid-air, and specks of orange flew in every direction as the blade exploded.


    Atoy Muzazi was not a blur. A blur was something you could look at. Right now, Atoy Muzazi was a light at the edge of vision -- something that disappeared the second you noticed it. He was moving so fast that his movement wasn¡¯t even visible.


    It was fine. It was no big deal.


    No matter how fast he was, he still had to get close to attack -- and if he got close, he put himself in range of Mazel¡¯s automatic retaliation. The moment Atoy Muzazi¡¯s attack made contact with Mazel¡¯s body, a lance of plasma would burst out of its canister and run him through.


    Still¡­ Mazel would rather avoid getting hit in the first place.


    Plasma Commander -- Search and Destroy!


    The plasma along Mazel¡¯s bandolier bubbled, the disturbance pointing him in the direction of his target. Upwards. Mazel looked up just in time to see Muzazi zoom down, thrusters driving him forward like he was a human starship.


    Roaring in panic and anger, Mazel fired his rifle at the incoming enemy -- but Muzazi was ready for that. Another thruster shifted his trajectory, sending him off to the side and out of the path of Mazel¡¯s plasma shot. That blade of light Atoy Muzazi wielded sliced through the air, moving unimpeded into Mazel¡¯s neck --


    -- before one of those tongues wrapped itself around Mazel¡¯s waist, pulling him away at the very last moment.


    Muzazi¡¯s saber missed by mere inches -- and he switched its position from his hand to his foot, kicking at Mazel with a secondary strike. Mazel twisted his body in the tongue¡¯s grip, and rather than slicing his arm off, the blade only carved itself through his shoulder pad. The severed piece of armour clattered to the floor as Mazel was finally pulled to a safe distance.


    "Don¡¯t get careless!" slobbered Maldonado, his second tongue forming a fat pink mast of a shield next to them. With his third, he fired off his Razor Rain -- a machine gun-like barrage of infused saliva, each droplet sharp enough to cut through diamonds. Mazel had worked with Maldanado before, and had never seen a person survive a direct hit.


    Atoy Muzazi seemed to realize that too.


    Rather than attempt to block or parry the hail of projectiles, he leapt up with his thrusters, seizing hold of a pipe on the ceiling to keep himself aloft as the spit-bullets zoomed past below him. The corners of Maldonado¡¯s open mouth curled up into a gormless smile. Dodging had been wise, of course, but that didn¡¯t mean he¡¯d made the right choice.


    The third tongue, having now released Mazel, was free to strike like a whip and lash into Muzazi¡¯s midsection, sending him flying off into the far wall.


    Mazel panted for breath as he lifted his rifle again, firing wildly towards where Muzazi had landed. His Aether enhanced and focused the plasma he fired, turning the attack from a flurry of plasmabolts into what looked like a barrage of orange lasers, each one detonating and devastating the wall. A ragged scream of determination burst out of his throat as he continued to fire, his canisters blasting out as well. As one, they reduced the wall to slag, Muzazi¡¯s indistinct form disappearing in the blaze of red.


    The smoke slowly cleared, revealing naught but melted stone and metal, glowing gold with heat. Not even bones remained.


    Mazel let out a relieved breath. His hands shook even as they clutched the rifle. Atoy Muzazi had been a frightening opponent, but in the end their ambush preparations had given them the edge they¡¯d needed.


    They¡¯d done it. They¡¯d done it. Now Charon would have no choice but to accept Mazel¡¯s demands -- to face him in the duel that would avenge his family name. He turned to look to Maldonado, to ask what their next move would be, but he saw straight away that Maldonado would not answer him.


    He was lying dead on the floor, after all, his head slowly rolling away from his body.


    Oh, thought Mazel Rho, and then --


    White light. He died.


    Muzazi landed on the floor, his breath heavy as he fell to one knee.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it¡¯s taken without the author¡¯s consent. Report it.


    It had happened again. He clenched his fist.


    The pain in his back, right at the base, was intense. That first attack had struck him there, when he hadn¡¯t been prepared for it. He¡¯d had some Aether defense, of course, but even so there was no telling what kind of damage it had done. Both to his body, and his will.


    It had happened again.


    Every time he showed his back to someone, every time he presumed that he had an ally, he was punished for it. It had started on that tower in Caelus Breck, and had gone on and on and on since then¡­ the only exception had been Marie, but Marie Hazzard had been one of a kind. To the eyes of most, trust was nothing but a vulnerability, soft flesh for a knife to be driven into. Once, he¡¯d thought these betrayals were simply a dark period for him¡­ but after the events on the Child Garden, Atoy Muzazi understood -- he understood that this dark period had been his whole life.


    He¡¯d spent his entire existence being betrayed, failing, and falling into despair.


    As Atoy Muzazi rose to his feet, resolve hardened in his heart. As he smelled the burning flesh and heard the sparking wires, the glare in his eyes sharpened. As he turned, stalking through the entrance that had first led him to this ambush, he made a promise to himself.


    This was the last time. Never again would he expose his back to another person.


    "Guardian Entity: Seiryu," the nude man grinned as he strode forwards. "10%."


    The moment those words left his lips, there was a sickening crack -- and Morgan saw the source straight away. The enemy¡¯s right hand was twisting and stretching, changing shape, turning a pale blue and opening. That grin only grew as Morgan¡¯s eyes widened in horror.


    "My name is Ablos," the man said, bowing -- mercilessly low given his state of undress. "Ablos of the Azure, Cardinal Beast of Hexkay, at your service. I don¡¯t like killing strangers. Maybe you guys can tell me your names, too?"


    Morgan exchanged a glance with the Cubed Man next to him. There was still some distance between them and their enemy -- this Ablos. Morgan adjusted the angle of his sword as he opened his mouth to reply.


    "You can call me --" he began.


    "Oops," Ablos yawned. "Don¡¯t care."


    He raised his arm, and Morgan saw now that it had transformed utterly. It had gone from a limb to the neck and head of some kind of beast -- a pale blue serpent with four shining white eyes. Twin tendrils of flesh drifted out from its snout in a way that reminded Morgan disturbingly of a mustache.


    Before Morgan could fully register what he was seeing, the mouth of the serpent snapped open -- and a blazing white sphere blasted out from its throat, zooming towards Morgan.


    Even if Morgan was not ready, Ionir was. Four prehensile vines burst out of Morgan¡¯s back, lashing upwards and latching onto the branches of a nearby tree. The moment before the sphere would have struck them, Ionir pulled their body up and out of danger, the attack hitting the trunk of the tree instead.


    "Oh?" Ablos waggled his eyebrows, looking up at him. "Seems you¡¯ve got a weird body too, buddy."


    Crack. Crunch.


    Morgan spared a glance at the spot the attack had hit. The midsection of the tree trunk had been transmuted into a transparent and rocky substance -- a kind of glass, maybe? As Morgan looked at the damage, cracks began to spread further throughout the area, the clear material visibly breaking down under the weight of the tree above.


    This ability turned whatever it hit into a fragile crystal, then, causing it to quickly collapse. It had done so instantly against the tree, but Morgan wanted to believe that Aether would provide some level of defense against it. Still, he didn¡¯t want to risk taking a direct hit.


    Do not stay still overlong, Ionir instructed. This is not a predator that releases its prey.


    Ablos raised his snake-arm, firing another volley of shots up at Morgan. Morgan leapt through the branches of the tree as it finally collapsed under its own weight, flipping and weaving through the barrage of white spheres as he closed the distance. He raised his sabre up, ready to bring it down right through this bastard¡¯s head¡­


    ..but Ablos was ready.


    The second Morgan came into melee range, he stopped firing and instead struck with the snake-arm again and again, its white teeth parrying Morgan¡¯s blade. Sparks rained down as fangs and blade collided, again and again and again and again, each strike sending Morgan further and further back.


    Misjudged footing. Weakened grip. The snake-arm struck once more -- and Morgan¡¯s sword went flying out of his hand. Ablos did not miss his chance. The serpent lashed out once more, mouth wide open, ready to clamp it¡¯s jaws down on Morgan¡¯s throat.


    Of course, Morgan was not one to miss an opportunity either. As the snake-arm lunged, he did as well -- thrusting his hand right into that open mouth.


    B!


    The beast reared back as a plain white cube suddenly appeared in its throat, writhing through the air as it gagged and choked. Morgan leapt forward, fists raised up, a killer gleam in his eye as he poured his Aether into his hands. Sword or no sword, he¡¯d run Ablos of the Azure through -- right here, right now.


    Ablos went to pull back, but too slow. Morgan thrust his fist forward -- ready to turn his enemy into a human donut¡­ sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡­but that fist never made contact.


    Morgan¡¯s arm shook uselessly in the air, trapped in place. The flexible body of the serpent had wrapped around the limb, pulling tighter and tighter as it restrained him. Morgan grit his teeth in pain as he felt a hollow creak through his bones.


    Ablos¡¯ right arm, the one that had originally transformed into the snake, had returned to normal. He tossed the white cube up and down in his newly restored hand, smirking. At the last moment, he¡¯d switched the serpent from his right arm to his left -- allowing it to intercept Morgan¡¯s killer blow.


    Apparently, that was something he could do.


    Ablos of the Azure offered no final words, no gloating or declaration of victory. He simply held out two fingers and stabbed them towards Morgan¡¯s throat, ready to puncture his jugular then and there. Given the amount of strength he¡¯d already demonstrated, puncturing the skin would be as easy as passing a knife through butter.


    Ionir hijacked control for a moment, twisting their body in an attempt to avoid the blow, but too late --


    "Blocked¡­"


    -- for they had already been saved.


    A solid block of compressed wood and leaf smashed into Ablos¡¯ incoming hand, shattering his fingers. As he cried out in pain, another cube slammed into him, catching him in the midsection and sending him flying backwards. Morgan dropped into a roll as the snake-arm released him, retrieving his fallen sword to ward off further blows.


    Further blows did not come -- the Cubed Man had prepared for this moment well. No doubt he¡¯d been setting this up the whole time Morgan had been fighting.


    The Cubed Man had plunged his mace into the ground -- and all around him, parts of the landscape were being compressed into cubes of different sizes. They floated through the air, unburdened by gravity as the Cubed Man sent them on their way. Some, like the one that had snapped Ablos¡¯ fingers, were the size of bullets -- while others, like the one that was now floating directly above Ablos, were as big as a house.


    Ablos understood the attack before it was completed, and moved to dodge. Aether alone would not grant him the speed he needed -- so he removed the serpent from his arm once more and moved it instead to his leg, which fired another volley of those crystal-shots to provide propulsion. It was a good idea.


    Unfortunately for him, it was too little, too late.


    The massive cube slammed down on him at the very last second, crushing his body between itself and the ground. Morgan, just outside of its range, planted a purple-sparking hand against the grassy surface of the cube.


    E! A! E! A! E! A!


    Morgan called out the abilities in his head like a cheerleader. This combination of his letters was devastating. Echo would cause a repeat of the blow just dealt, and Amplification would increase the force of that repeat by several times. By repeating the sequence against a stationary target like this, the force of the attack would grow exponentially.


    Right now, underneath all this dirt and soil, Ablos of the Azure was getting pummelling by a force that grew stronger with each iteration. A human body could only take so much.


    They¡¯d won.


    Clearly, these people thought they¡¯d won.


    Ablos would have sighed, but he didn¡¯t want his mouth to get filled with soil. He would have covered his mouth, but unfortunately both his arms had been shattered. Legs too. These attacks were no joke. An ordinary person probably would have been killed by them.


    Good thing they weren¡¯t ordinary people.


    The Cardinal Beasts weren¡¯t like those amateurs back home. They didn¡¯t call out their Guardian Entities like pets and watch them fight. They weren¡¯t content to borrow someone else¡¯s power.


    No. They followed the path of Lily Aubrisher. They seized hold of that power, and they became one with it!


    Guardian Entity: Sieryu -- 50%!


    For the briefest instant, Morgan Nacht was both blinded and deafened. Instinctively, he squinted his eyes and clapped his hands over his ears, before his mind could even register what had caused the phenomenon. White light.


    A bright white light, and a sound like the cracking of an ice-cap.


    The cube that Ablos of the Azure had been crushed into had utterly changed. In a split second, it had been engulfed by that white light, transforming into that same fragile crystal. Deep within the transparent surface, like a fly trapped in ice, Morgan could see the warped shape of Ablos. He looked¡­ different, but Morgan couldn¡¯t quite place how through the barrier.


    The cube shattered, shards flying in every direction, and Morgan got his answer.


    Ablos of the Azure no longer had legs. No, instead he had a pale blue scaled tail, winding for at least two metres behind him as the man floated freely in the air. His arms were crossed over his bare chest, so Morgan couldn¡¯t quite get a good look, but it looked like his hands were scaled now too -- terminating with vicious, barbed claws. The man looked down at his two opponents with four white eyes utterly unsuited to his still-human face, and those tendrils of flesh curled out from his lip now.


    "You see what you¡¯re dealing with now?" Ablos grinned with new fangs, his voice utterly saturated with Aether.


    Morgan did. Morgan did see. It was obvious. That wasn¡¯t a serpent at all.


    That was a dragon.

 Chapter 285:11.12: Damnation

    Terry Maller was in hell.


    He thought he¡¯d seen hell already. He¡¯d thought that the battlefields he¡¯d marched across for the Supremacy had been hell. He¡¯d thought that the quiet rooms where they¡¯d put the dissidents for him had been hell. He¡¯d thought that the guilt-driven nightmares, the ones that had driven him towards Regiment RED, had been hell. He¡¯d been wrong.


    This was hell.


    There was no sunlight within the Forest of Sin. That was the first thing you noticed. The only source of light came from the bright red glow of the fruit and leaves all around -- and of the fireflies that covered the air in a haze. Cracks and creaks echoed in every direction as the trees of the Forest of Sin twisted incestuously around each other, their bark warped into screaming mouths and leering eyes.


    He was in the belly of the beast. While they didn¡¯t know everything about the Forest of Sin, they¡¯d been told enough that Terry knew he was in more danger than ever before in his life. If the Forest of Sin could see him, then Paradise Charon could see him. Right now, he could feel the gaze of a Contender upon him. The eyes of what was basically a demigod, drilling into his soul from every angle.


    The thought of fighting her did not even occur. Even if Paradise Charon left him alone, the Forest of Sin would not. It had a reputation. The only hope that Terry had was getting out of the Forest before it took an interest in him.


    Terry¡¯s hand shook as he clutched his plasma pistol, and he put an ear to his communicator, hoping for some voice -- any voice -- to provide reassurance, but he was met only by silence. Was the Forest of Sin somehow blocking the signal, or had the device just been damaged when they¡¯d been overrun by the ability? Impossible to tell.


    He couldn¡¯t waste time thinking about it. He didn¡¯t have time to waste.


    His squad had been separated, swallowed by the forest as it had emerged -- but from what Terry had seen at the time, he was willing to bet that he was on the outskirts of the affected area. If he continued to head east, there was a chance that he could break free from this before it was too late.


    Voices murmured indistinctly all around Terry as he ran through the woods, any military discipline abandoned as the animal drive for survival took hold.


    The branches and the trunks seemed to draw closer the further he ran, like the forest was becoming a tunnel, like he was in the jaws of some great beast that didn¡¯t want to let him go. Sweat poured down his forehead. His pistol slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground -- he didn¡¯t go back for it.


    They scratched at his face. They clawed at his arms and legs. Even so, though, even so, he could see salvation -- could see the glow of daylight in the distance.


    He was almost --


    "Papa?" said Ellen.


    The arm that had been reaching for the light slowly dropped to Terry¡¯s side -- and he turned his head, dumbfounded. There, standing at his side, looking up at him with worried eyes, was his daughter. She looked just the same. She looked just the same as she had when she¡¯d¡­ the last time he¡¯d seen her. She hadn¡¯t aged a day.


    "Papa?" Ellen cocked her head. "Where are you going?"


    Terry¡¯s eyelids fluttered, uncomprehending, his legs shaking beneath him. "I¡­ I¡­"


    She extended a tiny hand. "Papa¡­ can you help me? I¡¯m scared." Tears lingered at the edges of her eyes.


    The wise thing to do would have been to keep running. Terry understood that immediately. He had absolutely no intention of reaching his hand out -- but by the time he¡¯d thought that, his hand had already taken hers. He couldn¡¯t leave her behind again.


    This place knew that.


    "Silly man," giggled Ellen -- and then, in the voice of an old man: "Dead man."


    That was not the hand of his daughter he was holding, Terry realized far too late. That was a vine wrapped around his hand. A vine with thorns.


    Terry Maller opened his mouth to scream -- and before he could begin, he was pulled at blinding speeds into the undergrowth. A flood of blood and gore spewed forth from between the trees, like fruit stuck in a blender. Terry¡¯s scream rang out throughout the Forest of Sin, growing higher and higher-pitched until it was outside the range of a normal human voice. It was not alone.


    By the time it was done, all that was left of him was his flayed and empty face, left to hang off a branch.


    It giggled.


    If not for these trees, Morgan Nacht knew that he¡¯d have been killed a long time ago.


    He weaved through them as cover while Ablos of the Azure rained down white light from above. Each time one of those energy balls struck a tree, it was instantly transformed into a sculpture of transparent crystal -- the art piece collapsing a moment later as ruthless laws of physics took hold.


    The Cubed Man sent another massive cube flying at Ablos from behind, but that clearly wasn¡¯t going to work anymore. Ablos tensed his body, just slightly, and that same white light shone between his scales and exploded out of his body.


    When the light cleared, the cube had become crystal as well, shattering upon the floor and sending shards flooding over the ground. The shards disappeared into the white fog that had begun to spill out into the woods.


    Morgan flipped back to avoid a shot that would have turned his legs into glass too, seizing hold of a tree branch and pulling himself up. As the Cubed Man sent another flurry of smaller cubes flying up at Ablos, Morgan caught his breath.


    Since assuming this form, Ablos¡¯ capabilities had obviously improved. His rate of fire had increased drastically, and he¡¯d gained access to an area of effect attack surrounding his body. Getting in close was no longer an option.


    I can help with ranged attacks, Ionir said. But it will hurt.


    "How¡¯s that?" Morgan muttered.


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    Seeds fired out of veins and orifices. Very painful. Shall I do it? No lasting damage.


    Morgan shook his head. "Only as a last resort," he replied. "For now, I¡¯ll --"


    His eyes widened. White light -- one of the spheres -- was hurtling towards him, spinning in the air like a beachball. The Cubed Man¡¯s distraction hadn¡¯t worked for as long as Morgan had expected. No time to dodge. Blocking wasn¡¯t an option.


    Morgan¡¯s body and Aether moved on instinct. Countless hours of training bore fruit.


    C!


    He swung his sword directly at the incoming projectile, the effects of Cut sharpening the weapon¡¯s edge to the utmost. The blade sliced down through the sphere vertically, severing it and --


    -- sending both pieces flying, leaving Morgan unharmed.


    For a moment, Morgan couldn¡¯t quite believe what he¡¯d just done. Then, though, a drunk grin spread itself across his face. He could do this -- he could. He could get stronger. This wasn¡¯t the kind of situation where he had to run away, or dance across the ground while this dragon bastard fired down at him.


    This was a situation he could cut through.


    Ablos of the Azure had just turned eighteen when he¡¯d decided he¡¯d had enough of society. With that established, he had discarded his clothes and all his other belongings, and had gone to live in the woods. That was the end of the story.


    There was no grand reason for him to become a hermit, no philosophical underpinning. It wasn¡¯t as if he was a misanthrope of anything, either. He just felt as if society had nothing left to offer him, so he gracefully parted ways to chase animals around the woods.


    He lived like that for maybe a year or two before the news reached him. The news of how the capital had fallen, of how the world had opened up, of how the sky was so much bigger than he¡¯d once thought. The news of how Lily Aubrisher had taken the power of a god.


    It had just been a simple thought. Why not give existence as a human being another shot? It wasn¡¯t as if it could hurt -- and if it did, who cared?


    Ablos of the Azure opened his mouth wide and spat down another hail of crystallization bullets, his ability painting the environment below him into glass. As he spat, he flew, tail winding behind him as he moved through the air with sheer force of will alone. Wild, carefree laughter spilled from his lips. This was how a human being should live.


    Liberated from everything.


    Ablos flipped through the air to avoid another incoming cube -- before swooping down at the Square-Headed Fellow who had fired it. His crystallization was powerful and all, but he¡¯d learnt through experience that a direct hit on an Aether-user was no guarantee of victory. No, against someone like this¡­ it was best to settle things with your own hands.


    His claws were sharp enough to tear through steel -- and flesh, even Aether-infused flesh, was no match. In an instant, Ablos¡¯ considerable speed brought him right to the Square-Headed Fellow, the man¡¯s flattened features opening wide as he realized the danger he was in. A claw to the head, delivered at maximum speed, would be enough to pulp whatever brains he had.


    Ablos grinned, pulling his arm back, and --


    Danger.


    Animal instincts only partially his own whispered in his head -- and, without understanding the reason, Ablos obeyed them. He lunged back just in time for a nearly-invisible slash to burst through the space he¡¯d just been occupying, obliterating the tree behind him.


    Ablos raised two sets of eyebrows as he looked at the annihilated foliage, whistling appreciatively. Two of his eyes remained fixed on the Square-Headed Fellow, who had backed up into the tree behind him, while another two flicked over to the source of the attack. The swordsman.


    Steam born of movement was rising slowly from the blade of his cutlass as he breathed heavily, glaring right at Ablos. Curious. Ablos had assumed this guy was a melee fighter from the way he was trying to close the distance, but that attack he¡¯d just unleashed had definitely been a ranged one -- and a powerful ranged attack, at that. Why hadn¡¯t he used it before?


    Oh. Ablos¡¯ grin sharpened and widened. He didn¡¯t know he could do it before.


    So¡­ this guy was being liberated, too.


    C! E! A!


    Blood rushing through his veins, Morgan swung his sword at empty air. Cut sharpened it once more, honed it enough to slice through the air and send out a burst of pressure. Echo recreated that air pressure. Amplification boosted the blast -- turning it into a slash that could strike from range.


    There was a noise that Morgan didn¡¯t recognise -- it took him a second to realize that he was laughing. This feeling of power, as the enemy was forced to weave and dodge around his attacks, forced to submit to his strength¡­ it was intoxicating.


    Ablos zoomed up into the sky, avoiding a flurry of slashes that reduced a tree to splinters -- and spat out another white sphere, this one bigger than the rest, the size of a car once it was freed from his throat. The projectile hurtled down towards Morgan, and Morgan reached out with a hand to meet it. There was no fear, no trepidation, no anxiety in his eyes. Just a wide, drunk certainty.


    I bet I could do it now.


    D.


    The second the sphere made contact with Morgan¡¯s palm, it exploded into shards of light, utterly Destroyed. In an instant, Morgan¡¯s Aether had infiltrated the projectile, located its weaknesses -- and widened them into oblivion.


    "You didn¡¯t let me finish before," Morgan found himself saying, voice quiet. "But I¡¯m Morgan Nacht, Special Officer. The man who¡¯s going to kill you."


    The grin on Ablos¡¯ face didn¡¯t fade -- if anything, it only grew more manic. Surely he wouldn¡¯t¡­


    He would.


    Rather than retreat, Ablos lunged forwards, flying right towards Morgan, excited laughter spilling from his lips. His scaled arms were spread wide, as if to embrace his adversary -- and as Morgan looked, he could see that same white light trickling under Ablos¡¯ skin. Shit. Shit.


    The bastard was going to send out another pulse! S~ea??h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Morgan went to dodge backwards, but found himself unable. The quickest glance downwards revealed why -- one of the shards of the massive sphere had made contact with the grass beneath Morgan¡¯s feet, crystallizing and sealing it to his shoes. It took only the effort of a second to break free -- but that was a second Morgan did not have.


    As the grass cracked and broke away, he was met with the white light descending upon him. Damn it -- he wouldn¡¯t go out without a fight! Morgan raised his sword high and screamed, voice hoarse, as he went to meet --


    "Damnation."


    -- what was not his end.


    A black pitchfork flew through the fog at blinding speeds, striking Ablos and impaling his arm on two of its spikes in an instant. Ablos quickly abandoned his attack, flying high up into the sky -- but two more pitchforks pursued him like homing missiles, curving upwards to match his trajectory. Sweat pouring down his face, Ablos fired off another barrage of energy spheres -- and that was enough to turn the incoming projectiles into crystal and destroy them.


    As he tore the pitchfork out of his arm, Ablos frantically looked around for the source of the attack.


    "So you can take flight?" chuckled a voice from above. "That¡¯s quite amusing -- and brazen of you. So long as you keep your current position, though, I¡¯ll allow it."


    Ablos whipped his head around. Morgan followed his gaze, too, swallowing nervously as he recognised the voice.


    Standing in the sky, atop an upside-down pitchfork, stood the Baron Lunalette de Fleur. His red eyes looked down at Ablos like he was a speck of dirt. His red smirk held the promise of savagery. The man considered to be the most wicked Special Officer spread his arms wide, as if he were a magician presenting his trick.


    "It¡¯s only fitting, isn¡¯t it?" Lunalette grinned down at Ablos. "That a person like you should remain below a person like me."

 Chapter 286:11.13: The Dragon, the Demon and the Direwolf

    Several Years Ago¡­


    Morgan Nacht panted as he lay back where he had fallen, looking up at the sky. The pale moon above seemed particularly mocking today. His hand was slick with sweat, but he still did his best to keep hold of his sword. Wu Ming would like that. Morgan had already been with the man long enough to understand his ways.


    The moon¡¯s light was blocked out as the man himself -- Wu Ming, the Fourth Contender -- leaned over Morgan¡¯s prone body, frowning.


    "Three outta ten," he said, disappointed. "At least you kept hold of your sword, though. Let¡¯s say three point two, three point three?"


    See?


    "Get up," Wu Ming extended a hand downwards. "We¡¯ll try it again."


    Morgan did not take that hand. Instead, he let out a heavy breath and laid down a despairing arm over his face, blocking his eyes. He didn¡¯t want to look at that bright moon, nor that disappointed gaze.


    "Try what again?" he muttered. "You¡¯re not even teaching me anything. You¡¯re just humiliating me."


    It had been going so well, too. He¡¯d been tasting a kind of freedom he¡¯d never experienced before. Back home, his dad would never have let him cut his hair short, or pick out his own clothes. He¡¯d thought things would finally be changing -- but no, he wasn¡¯t measuring up, and soon enough he¡¯d be sent back home.


    What a joke.


    Wu Ming¡¯s frown deepened. "Humiliating you? How¡¯s that?"


    Morgan moved his arm away, annoyed, and glared. "You¡¯re just beating me up!"


    "Yeah," Ming cocked his head. "We¡¯re fighting, man."


    "That¡¯s not teaching me anything!"


    Wu Ming scratched at his hair like Morgan had just said something bizarre. Then, he squatted down next to the boy, rubbing his chin. He looked off into the distance -- or perhaps at his future dinner -- as he spoke.


    "I don¡¯t know what you expected, little man," he said. "But I¡¯m not going to roll out a chalkboard or anything. That¡¯s kinda weird. That¡¯s not how you teach someone how to fight. Did you think I was gonna give you a textbook on throwing punches? I don¡¯t think they sell those."


    Morgan narrowed his eyes. "Then what?"


    Wu Ming rose to his feet, hands on his hips. "The way I see it¡­ if you want to punch through a brick wall, there¡¯s only one way to do it."


    "Aether?" Morgan asked.


    "What?" Wu Ming blinked. "Oh, right, yeah, Aether. But the important thing is persistence. You keep punching that wall until you figure it out. The best spot to hit, the best punching angle, the best tempo. There¡¯s no way to learn how to punch a wall except by punching a wall. It¡¯s even better if the wall¡¯s trying to stab you."


    Morgan furrowed his brow. "What?"


    Wu Ming snapped his fingers. "There¡¯s no better motivator in the world than the fear of death. I don¡¯t really get it, but that¡¯s the way it is. Your brain goes into overdrive, and you develop the skills you need to survive so much faster. Obviously, I¡¯m not gonna try to kill you here, but you know what I mean. You not wanting to get beaten up is a good budget alternative. Right?"


    Morgan had nothing to say back to that, and -- at first -- nothing to say as Wu Ming stood up and began to walk away, either.


    "Well," Ming sighed again, waving over his shoulder. "If you wanna let yourself get crushed by that wall, that¡¯s up to you, too. Have a good one."


    Clink.


    Ming stopped -- and was already smiling by the time he turned his head. There, standing across from him on the roof, was Morgan Nacht. In his hands he held his sword, and in his eyes he held his resolve.


    "Again," he growled. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Wu Ming grinned. "You just crawled up to a four."


    The dragon and the demon clashed in the sky.


    With a wave of his arm the Baron fired off a sequence of three pitchforks deep black like holes in space as they flew towards Ablos who reduced them to crystal slag with the effort of a single breath but with a red flash the Baron appeared behind Ablos teleporting to a fourth pitchfork that had positioned itself and swung it at Ablos¡¯ head who only managed to avoid it by flipping in the air like a fish in water but did not avoid the kick that followed which sent him plummeting into the ground below with a great cloud of dust only for the devastation to be replaced seconds later by a barrage of white spheres fired upwards towards the Baron who deflected them one and all with expertly placed pitchforks before seizing one of his weapons and hurling it down like a javelin using his thumb to gauge the distance managing to strike the ground right next to Ablos and teleport next to him with another red flash before the fight continued as white and red collided again and again and again as their bout spiraled up once more into the sky.


    What¡­ the¡­ hell¡­?


    Morgan stared upwards, mouth agape, as he beheld the sight of that clashing Aether. The two of them were clashing so quickly that he couldn¡¯t even follow their movements, each combatant getting faster and faster as they were pushed to their limits. The Cubed Man, standing next to Morgan, was just as shocked.


    To be honest, Morgan had expected this fight to become three-against-one, but he realized now that had been an absurd proposition. There was no way he or his impromptu companion could do anything here. There was no opening, no moment -- only the continuous and fluid clash, spread out like a red ribbon.


    The Baron Lunalette de Fleur¡­ along with Dorothy Eiro and PALATINE, he was considered one of the three Special Officers closest to the level of a Contender. Witnessing this, now, Morgan could understand why. Still, he couldn¡¯t just stand here and watch¡­ his grip tightened on his sword. Even if he couldn¡¯t win that wish with his current strength, he still had desires broiling in his heart.


    He couldn¡¯t give up yet.


    Enemy, cautioned Ionir.


    Of course. Morgan wheeled around on the spot, sword ready to receive the enemy blow. Ablos had said it when he¡¯d first arrived, hadn¡¯t he? That there were reinforcements on the way. More strong enemies to test themselves against. Well, if they were looking for a fight, he wouldn¡¯t disappoint them!


    Morgan swung his sword on instinct -- and it clashed against the steel claws of the woman who leapt out of the treeline.


    His eyes widened as he recognised his opponent -- recognised the iron mask and the red lenses. As she kicked off of Morgan¡¯s chest and flipped back into the air, he adjusted his stance. He couldn¡¯t afford to be incautious here.


    This was a Person of Interest, after all. One of Zachariah Esmeralda¡¯s direct subordinates -- Ruth Blaine.


    As the Baron Lunalette de Fleur fought, he thought. Being able to think calmly despite the situation was the most essential skill for a warrior. You should be capable of sober and rational thought even as blades were piercing your body, even as blood was gushing out of you, even as your consciousness was slowly drowning into oblivion.


    There was no way anything like that would ever happen to him, but Lunalette had honed that skill all the same.


    Lunalette clung onto one of his black pitchforks, the floating weapon keeping him aloft. As Ablos of the Azure lunged at him, body glowing with that white light, Lunalette teleported himself to another pitchfork -- a little higher-up -- and kicked it down towards the back of Ablos¡¯ neck.


    The blast of light that exploded out of Ablos crystallized and destroyed the projectile, of course, but that was fine. Right now, they were still testing each other. A battle did not truly begin until both combatants were seriously going for the kill.


    Lunalette vanished in another red burst of light, reappearing on another pitchfork -- balancing atop the handle like it was a surfboard. At his current level of strength, he had access to only twenty-nine of his six-hundred and sixty-six pitchforks, but that was more than enough. Against an aerial opponent like this one, the mobility and unpredictability that Damnation provided was a good fit.


    He¡¯d created a network of pitchforks around Ablos, each of them ready to suddenly spear in his direction the second he looked away from them. He¡¯d considered a simultaneous omnidirectional attack -- striking inwards from every angle -- but Ablos¡¯ pulse would easily neutralize that, and leave Lunalette vulnerable for the few seconds it took to resummon a destroyed pitchfork.


    Lunalette rapidly teleported from pitchfork to pitchfork, never remaining on one for more than a second, as he ran through the information he¡¯d already gathered.


    He¡¯d been observing this battle from the start. Originally, this man had transformed his arm into a beast, using that as the medium to fire off his crystallization shots. Once Morgan Nacht and Augustus Creed had pushed him further, though, he¡¯d transformed further -- taking on his current form. With that transformation, he¡¯d obtained greater control over his shots, the ability to fly, and a noticeable increase in his physical capabilities, even before Aether infusion was taken into account. The injury on his arm had already healed, too, so there was definitely some form of regeneration happening.


    Lunalette¡¯s leg throbbed from where he¡¯d kicked Ablos earlier. If he hadn¡¯t protected the limb sufficiently, he had no doubt it would have been broken by the impact. With that in mind, there was no guarantee that Damnation¡¯s pitchforks could penetrate Ablos¡¯ scales. In order to get the perfect strike he needed, Lunalette would need to aim for the parts of him that were still human -- his torso and his upper arms. So long as he could impale this man on all three prongs, he would win.


    He stopped teleporting, smirk spreading into a grin as he raised a hand.


    Well¡­ of course he would win. His victory had been assured from the start. All the rest was busywork.


    He had twenty-nine pitchforks, but he didn¡¯t need all of those for the strategy he was using. With a flare of red Aether, he turned twenty-eight of those pitchforks into fourteen, doubling up their strength and speed. Unnaturally crimson flame coursed around the new weapons as they reappeared, rotating geometrically around Lunalette¡¯s position -- he¡¯d retained one normal pitchfork, continuing to stand atop it as the centerpiece of the display.


    The Baron Lunalette de Fleur clicked his fingers -- and as one, the fourteen weapons snapped to aim at Ablos, still floating in the air.


    What will you do now, my friend? Lunalette smiled, the slightest giggle escaping his lips. Show me. Show me! I want to see what you look like when you die!


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Ablos of the Azure continued to laugh as he danced through the sky, avoiding the burning pitchforks striking at him -- but if he was honest, this was starting to get dicey.


    The speed and power of these weapons had increased drastically. Ablos was only just barely able to avoid them by twisting his body unnaturally -- and even as he dodged them, they just turned in the air and struck at him again. They moved in complex patterns, some diving into the fog below to avoid his gaze before re-emerging from an unexpected angle. Fourteen weapons in all, along with the one the enemy himself was standing on.


    The smug-looking guy was keeping his distance from Ablos, moving backwards whenever he tried to approach -- and using the flurries of pitchforks to keep him in one area.


    Ablos took a deep breath, releasing another crystallization pulse as a pitchfork got too close for comfort. The weapon crumbled into glass -- but a moment later, an exact replica of it reappeared beside the enemy and fired at him again.


    He¡¯d been watching for a while, and now he figured he was getting a handle on the enemy. This guy¡¯s ability -- Damnation, he¡¯d called it -- allowed him to remotely control a number of floating pitchforks and teleport between them, giving him absurd mobility. Additionally, he could combine the pitchforks together to increase their speed and power.


    With the flexibility of his attacks and his ability to instantly dodge, Ablos was at a disadvantage. But that was easy. Most people started off at a disadvantage. The only thing he had to do¡­


    ¡­was keep climbing.


    Guardian Entity -- Seiryu: 99%!


    Several Years Ago¡­


    Ruth grinned, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she looked at the pile of ruined automatics. Sliced apart, punched to wreckage, torn in half¡­ if these had been people, it would¡¯ve been a freaky sight. With toys like these, though, she could just appreciate her hard work.


    Behind her, leaning against a pillar, Skipper clapped. "Nice going, kiddo. Smart work with those last few." He offered a thumbs-up.


    Ruth¡¯s grin widened at the praise, but as she rolled her arm she couldn¡¯t help but shake her head. "Nothing smart about it. I just beat ¡¯em up."


    Skipper frowned. "You finessed the hell out of them, Ruth -- you got them to shoot each other by exploiting their automatic counterattacks, yeah? That¡¯s not something anyone can do."


    "Yeah," Ruth conceded, sitting down cross-legged atop her metal corpse pile. "But that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m smart or shit. I wasn¡¯t even thinking about any of that stuff, I just did it." She shrugged. "I¡¯m dumb as bricks, you know. Only thing I¡¯m good for is swinging my fists."


    There was no resentment or sadness in her tone. That fact, if nothing else, was something she¡¯d accepted a long time ago. What she wanted was to protect those things dear to her -- and the only way someone like her could do that was through violence. She just wasn¡¯t built for anything else.


    Skipper, though¡­ he crossed his arms, that same frown still on his face. "You know what a genius is, Ruth?"


    Ruth shook her head, smiling ruefully. "You know I¡¯m not a genius, Skipper."


    "Well, maybe you¡¯re not so good at the other stuff, but you kick ass at this one thing. For you, that¡¯s fighting. You¡¯re a fighting genius. It comes so naturally to you that you don¡¯t even realize it¡¯s genius -- so you doubt it¡¯s even there, and that holds you back."


    Ruth frowned, looking down at her hand -- down at the claws of her Skeletal Set. All she¡¯d done was wave them around and break things. Could that really be called genius?


    "You¡¯re gonna keep getting stronger, yeah?" Skipper grinned. "I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll ever stop."


    Ruth blinked.


    "Sure," she murmured, not really believing it.


    Ruth kicked off the tree -- breaking it in the process -- and launched herself towards her enemy.


    The Skeletal Set wrapped around her form granted her additional strength and speed, and Aether infusion increased that even more. All in all, she looked like a blazing red bullet, her shining hair billowing out behind her. Just on its own, that would have been enough to deal with most opponents.


    But this guy knew what he was doing. Rather than move to dodge or block, the guy with the purple hair whipped his sword all around him, calling out letters as he slashed wildly.


    "C!" he bellowed. "E! A!"


    Letters? Were those the names of his abilities? Before Ruth could consider it further, she saw the form of his attack -- countless slashes of air pressure, heading directly for her. The launch that was meant to be a killing blow would instead send her flying into this killing barrier.


    As she reached into her Aether and used her ability in a way it had never been designed for, Ruth Blaine did not think. This was so natural for her that she did not need to think. She simply followed the natural instinct that would lead her to victory. The thing she¡¯d always had.


    Revolutionnaire Set!


    The cape of the Revolutionnaire Set alone appeared in her hand, curled together into a rope -- and she flung it, the fabric wrapping around the branch of a nearby tree and allowing her to swing, adjusting her path to avoid the incoming slashes. As she flew up into the air, propelled by her beastly strength, she sent the cape back into her Aether.


    She didn¡¯t think about that either. It was just the natural thing to do. Nor did she think about the fact that, airborne as she now was, she¡¯d made herself an irresistible target. This was like breathing: automatic.


    "CEA!" the young man cried, sending another air pressure slash up towards her -- and Ruth seized upon the moment by reflex.


    Noblesse Set.


    The white helmet appeared in her hand as she flipped through the air -- and she hurled it down, intercepting the slash. As the two collided, there was a flash of white light, and the force rebounded, barely visible -- more like a shotgun blast than a sword-strike. It struck the Special Officer in the stomach, knocking him down to the ground.


    Ruth landed, perched on the ruins of a tree like some kind of spider, carefully watching her enemy.


    He wasn¡¯t dead -- and as he realized she wouldn¡¯t be coming closer, he threw himself up to his feet. That saber of his was still clutched in his hand, too. He was good: even after being hit by an attack like that, he hadn¡¯t let go of his weapon.


    Still, it wasn¡¯t like he was unharmed. A thin sliver of blood trailed down one side of his mouth before he wiped it clean with his sleeve. He pointed his sword towards her with the other hand as if it were a thin, long finger.


    "Ruth Blaine, right?" he said, slowly moving to the right. "I was wondering if I¡¯d get the chance to fight you."


    "Oh?" Ruth grinned a fanged grin, slowly moving to the left. "You know me?"


    The two of them circled each other, watching for weaknesses, even as the battle in the sky raged above them. Ruth hadn¡¯t really looked, but it seemed that Ablos had changed form again, and the other Special Officer had brought out more pitchforks as well.


    Wait¡­ Ruth frowned. Hadn¡¯t there been a third guy? The Dude with the Box Head? That was what Klaus had said over the communicator, but this guy¡¯s head was definitely a normal shape.


    Whatever. She¡¯d deal with the other guy when he showed himself.


    "Morgan Nacht," the Special Officer introduced himself, dragging his sword through the earth below as he walked. "I work with Atoy Muzazi, Commander of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. I believe you¡¯re familiar?"


    Ruth raised her eyebrows. She knew Atoy Muzazi, of course, and she thought she¡¯d heard of something called the Seven Blades before, but never together. Looked like he¡¯d been busy since the last time they¡¯d seen each other.


    She cracked her neck. "Yeah, me and your boss are real good buddies. You wouldn¡¯t wanna hurt your boss¡¯ friend, right?"


    Morgan clicked his tongue, looking up at her. "Unfortunately, this is war. I don¡¯t have the luxury to do as I like -- and besides¡­" His eyes narrowed, and the glint of murder sparked within them. "When I see someone as strong as you, I can¡¯t help but want to fight them. Ten out of ten¡­ that kind of thing. You know what I mean?"


    "Yeah," Ruth grinned, sparking her claws together as she threw out her arms. "I do."


    They both stopped.


    Morgan moved first, sending a vertical pressure slash hurtling towards Blaine with a swing of his sword. She leapt over it, twisting in the air -- landing on all fours for just the instant required to kick off towards him. He took a deep breath as he saw death approach, her claws sharp.


    Unconsciously, he moved his free hand out to the side.


    Destroy. He¡¯d used it just earlier, and he was certain it would work again now, but whether it would be effective or not was a different story. A fighter like Ruth Blaine would be infusing her entire body with Aether -- and Aether abilities had trouble affecting those with proper defenses directly. What could he Destroy, then, to get out of this situation?


    The shape of the idea had barely formed when Morgan pursued it. He opened his hand wide, and in the second before Blaine¡¯s claws would have reached him --


    D.


    He Destroyed the air.


    The resultant blast sent him flying off up and to the side, while Ruth Blaine went flying backwards. Blaine transitioned into a flip again, landing on her feet -- and before Morgan could even get close to the ground she hurled something towards him. Something red and grey.


    It took him a second to recognise it: it was the cape she¡¯d used as a rope earlier, but this time she¡¯d attached one of her claws to the end. Her method of escape had become her method of attack. Impressive work.


    But she wasn¡¯t the only one who could play that game.


    The fog around them had become thicker and thicker as the fight had gone on, and Morgan¡¯s Aether had been¡­ tasting it. The majority of the vapor was infused with Aether, so he couldn¡¯t do anything to it, but the slightest traces lingered on the edges of the clouds naturally. Those he could record, he could alter, he could infuse, and¡­


    ¡­he could manifest.


    Your brain goes into overdrive, and you develop the skills you need to survive so much faster.


    F!


    Thick black Fog erupted out of Morgan¡¯s body, concealing his location and pushing back the white smoke around him. Ruth Blaine¡¯s attack went far, and Morgan landed in the grass below, unharmed. He couldn¡¯t waste any time -- he already knew this woman would only be thrown off for a second, if that.


    Yes, he couldn¡¯t waste any time¡­ but he couldn¡¯t help but feel a wide grin spread across his face. He couldn¡¯t help it. He was evolving, wasn¡¯t he? Getting stronger by the second. This was what it felt like.


    Right now, it felt as if he could overcome anything.


    Morgan Nacht charged at the speed of lightning, all of his Aether focused into his blade, and slashed at the neck of his opponent -- at the brick wall in front of him.


    The world had stopped moving. Fog hung still in the air. Dirt, kicked up by infused feet, remained suspended around them.


    Ruth Blaine did not take a breath. By the time she took a breath, her life would have ended. The blade of that sword was inches from her throat, and the distance was growing shorter and shorter. Time was dilated to it¡¯s utmost, but it passed all the same.


    So Ruth Blaine did not breathe -- but, for the first time in this bout, she did think.


    She¡¯d been thinking about this since the battle against Avaman. The way she¡¯d used her Revolutionnaire Set to boost the capabilities of her other Sets, stretching them out to cover an entire starship. How far could she take that?


    Genius, Skipper had called her, a long time ago. It was time to put that to the test.


    Cold metal touching her neck. Cold air clawing at her fingers. The fabric of the cape, still clutched in one hand. She could use that.


    The Revolutionnaire Set. First, she manifested the ammunition alone, using it on herself without even needing to fire it from the musket. Then, she took that power -- that increased capacity, that freedom, that energy -- and sculpted the Skeletal Set. She widened it, broadened it, took it to the absolute limit. She forced the armour she was wearing into another dimension of existence.


    To any observer, this transformation would have been instant -- but Ruth felt it all come into being so easily.


    First, the claws of the Skeletal Set elongated, becoming broader and sharper as they went, until they were each individually the size of a broadsword. The metal arms lengthened to match as well, soon surpassing Ruth¡¯s actual limbs and leaving them strapped to their underside. More like a mech suit than a set of armour. The ribs of the Set melted into a full chestplate, thick enough to withstand any blow. The red lenses of the Set stretched out and connected into a single visor, through which her feral gaze could only barely be seen.


    Morgan Nacht had already been blown away by the pressure of the transformation, but it wasn¡¯t done. Additional spikes -- like her claws -- burst out of the back of the Set, sixteen in all, their collective weight sufficient to drive her to all fours like a beast. Her breath, warped by the enhanced mask, sounded just like a lupine growl.


    Like she was being given a medal, the crimson cape of the Revolutionnaire Set wrapped itself around her neck like a scarf, sparks rising from the end as it slowly burnt -- like the fuse of a dynamite. Even with the enhancement that the Revolutionnaire Set provided, she could only hold this new Set for so long. The scarf would serve as a timer.


    Finally, there was a screech as the bottom half of her mask forced itself open -- to reveal a sharp set of red glass fangs.


    You¡¯re gonna keep getting stronger, yeah? I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll ever stop.


    "Direwolf Set," she growled.

 Chapter 287:11.14: Our Evolution

    Morgan looked at the monstrosity of metal and glass before him. A cold sweat ran down his arms. Deep down, he could even feel Ionir¡¯s trepidation.


    Be careful, the Fell Beast warned. She is --


    It was entirely possible that Ionir said something else after that point. Morgan couldn¡¯t say, because that was the moment when Ruth Blaine struck him with a massive metal fist and sent him flying into the sky. Any communication was lost in the pain and wind.


    Everything went black for a second, like someone had turned off the monitor of his life. It dimly occurred to Morgan that he must have briefly lost consciousness. He was still in the air, though, so it couldn¡¯t have been long. In fact, he was falling. He was falling a long way down.


    Oh.


    Far above, he could see the battle between Ablos and de Fleur, raging in the skies. Ablos had changed form again, becoming a massive serpent-dragon the size of a train -- while Lunalette now appeared to be surrounded by a storm of blazing screaming pitchforks. Ablos unleashed mighty white beams from his mouth, turning great swathes of the Baron¡¯s weapons into crystal, but they returned just as quickly.


    That was all Morgan saw of their fight in that brief moment -- for a second later, Ruth Blaine had leapt right up into his field of view, blocking them and the sun out. She raised her massive clawed hands -- and brought them down to spike him towards the earth like a volleyball.


    F! A!


    Morgan¡¯s Aether moved to survive, even if his conscious mind didn¡¯t quite understand the mechanism. Black Fog burst out of his skin -- and with Amplification granting it additional strength and solidity, it was enough to provide an impromptu shield against Blaine¡¯s fists. It didn¡¯t stop him from being launched towards the ground, of course, but it did stop his body from being instantly shattered by the attack.


    Another Fog cushion broke his fall, and Morgan leapt back just in time to avoid being crushed by Blaine¡¯s own landing. She blasted down like a meteor, creating a devastating crater from the sheer speed and weight of her leap. As rubble rained down around them, Morgan -- driven by desperation -- drew his leg back.


    B! C! A!


    A white Block appeared in the air, ready to be kicked towards Blaine. Cut sharpened it¡¯s edges to their utmost, and Amplification gave Morgan¡¯s leg the power it needed to fire it towards Ruth Blaine like a bullet. It hurtled through the air, spinning as it flew, a razor-sharp dervish of death.


    From this distance, and with that speed, there was no way Ruth Blaine could block. She could do nothing but watch as --


    Ruth Blaine slapped it out of the air. The Block shattered into chunks of white material that quickly dissipated.


    Morgan went to take a deep breath, preparing to dodge again -- but preparation could only do so much. In a second, Ruth was upon him, grabbing him by the collar and hurling him back up into the sky. His uniform was torn to shreds by the claws, and he could feel screaming pain from where they had gouged into his flesh.


    But still¡­ this didn¡¯t make sense. Morgan was absolutely certain that this woman should have killed him by now. She severely outclassed him in both strength and speed -- all she had to do was cut him to ribbons or punch him to a pulp, yet she¡¯d been sticking to simple punches and throws that sent him flying out of her range. Why?


    Ionir answered the question. This is strength and speed she is not used to. Her mind does not keep up with her body.


    If that was the case, Morgan still had a chance -- but not for long. Once she became used to her new capabilities, there¡¯d be nothing stopping her from killing him on the spot. He had to end this before that time came.


    As he began to fall back down, Morgan braced his arms in front of his chest. Ionir! he called out mentally. Covering fire!


    He¡¯d braced himself for the pain, but it was still excruciating. Tiny seeds burst out of his forearms, painted red by his own blood, and zoomed down towards Blaine like machine-gun fire. They tinged off her armour uselessly, of course, but she was forced to lower her head to stop them from piercing her visor -- in short, she looked away.


    This was the opening Morgan needed. Once he hit the ground, he¡¯d continue firing while he got in close and --


    Click.


    Morgan¡¯s heart sank as he realized Ruth Blaine was not looking away. She was aiming.


    The spikes on the back of her armour fired, zooming all the way up at Morgan. Just like Ruth¡¯s claws, each was the size of a broadsword, and it was all Morgan could do to deflect them as they came. Sparks flew as he struck them one after another -- and as they were deflected, they dissipated into Aether and returned to Blaine¡¯s back. The final spike stabbed deep into his side as he barely missed his swing -- dissipating just like the others before he could pull it free.


    A scream of pain escaped his throat as he fell to the ground, barely managing to muster a Fog cushion to protect himself.


    I will use sap to crystallize the wound, Ionir said hurriedly. You do not have time to recover. Fight!


    "You¡¯re a friggin¡¯ taskmaster," Morgan grunted, but he picked himself up all the same.


    He¡¯d landed in a thicker part of the forest, so it seemed like the treeline had concealed his exact location from Blaine. That would have bought him some time, but not much. Judging from the power that woman had already demonstrated, smashing through trees like this would be easy.


    Morgan glanced down at his sword -- or what was left of it. That last effort had done a number on it -- great cracks had spread across the surface of the blade. Doubtless it would shatter before long. There was no way he could risk blocking or even attacking, with his weapon in this state.


    It does not get better, Ionir said sadly. The air is poison.


    Morgan¡¯s head jerked up. "What?!" he hissed.


    It is drifting this way, through the fog. A tranquilizer in the air. Right now, it is only just strong enough for me to notice¡­ but soon, it will put us to sleep.


    "Shit," Morgan said. As he¡¯d expected, this fog must be the work of an enemy Aether-user -- and they¡¯d decided to launch an attack while he was preoccupied with Ruth Blaine.


    He struck his temple with his wrists, desperately trying to think of a way out of this. If he left the cover of the forest, he¡¯d be spotted and brutalized by Ruth Blaine. If he didn¡¯t leave the forest, he¡¯d be knocked out by the gas -- and sleeping on a battlefield like this would surely mean his death anyway. Neither of the paths before him would take him where he needed to go.


    So¡­


    He looked down at his free hand, and at the tendrils of black Fog still drifting up from it. He¡¯d managed to sculpt it into cushions before, to break his fall and shield him from Blaine¡¯s attacks. He simply wondered¡­ how far could he take that?


    Morgan took his last safe breath, long and deep, and recited the sequence in his mind.


    A. C. F. A.


    The armour creaked all around Ruth, the metal red-hot against her sweat-soaked skin. The red visor, fogged up, barely let her see anything. Even with the power and speed she had access to, this new Set was still imperfect. Not in Aether, but in structure.


    One side of the armour was heavier than the other, putting her off balance. The thickness of the metal varied wildly -- some non-vital spots protected heavily while her lungs and heart had barely any defense at all. Some of the spikes on her back were lodged into their slots, and wouldn¡¯t fire when she commanded them. The claws were double-sided, and cut into her own fingers as she swung them.


    Then there was the air. It was difficult to breathe in this thing. She took in deep breaths, over and over, but she felt lightheaded all the same -- and the air she was able to breathe was unbearably hot.


    Yes, it was imperfect. The Direwolf Set had a lot of room to improve, even outside of the time limit, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. Room to improve meant she hadn¡¯t hit her peak.


    Had Skipper been right, then? Would she just keep getting stronger?


    I won¡¯t lose what I have.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    A wide grin, unseen, spread across her face. That would be fantastic. All the anxieties, all the doubts, seemed to have vanished from her mind. The disquiet that had plagued her since they¡¯d touched down on Elysian Fields¡­ she could just let it go.


    Doubting, worrying, thinking¡­ that wasn¡¯t what she was for.


    She existed for these moments -- the moments when an enemy needed to be defeated. All she had to do was fight. Anything else was outside of her purview.


    Ruth steeled herself as she prepared to pursue her enemy, this Morgan Nacht, into the forest. She had around twenty seconds left before the Direwolf Set disappeared, and she¡¯d use them to the fullest. If Nacht was hiding, she¡¯d just barrel through the trees and¡­


    ¡­oh.


    There was no need. Morgan Nacht was emerging from the undergrowth of his own free will, forcing his body through thick vines and long grass, his eyes resolute. He was holding his sword in both hands, ready to receive her¡­ but something seemed different about him. Through the haze of the visor, it took Ruth a second to spot it.


    A shroud of black fog was covering the blade of his sword, thickening and elongating it, the cloud billowing around the weapon like a dark aura. A second black cloud covered Nacht¡¯s mouth and nose, framing his determined eyes with a mask of fog. A thin black cord connected the two clouds, a tendril of smoke running from Nacht¡¯s mouth to the blade.


    That was a gas-mask in more ways than one. It would stop him from inhaling Klaus¡¯ poisons, Ruth realized, but wouldn¡¯t he just run out of air before long anyway? Her grin widened as she connected the dots.


    He didn¡¯t intend the fight to go on long enough for that. For him, this was do-or-die. Fair enough: she¡¯d play along.


    Morgan did not wait for her to attack. He leapt forwards first, running at her, his sword held high above his head. His torso was utterly exposed, but Ruth was sure he¡¯d taken that into account. A guy like this wouldn¡¯t make such an amateur mistake: that opening was a trap.


    Rather than charge at him directly, Ruth leapt to the side and went to circle him with her superior speed before jumping in. No matter what trap he had in store, he¡¯d need to be facing her to put that sword to use. If she went for his back, the split second it would take to turn around would seal his fate.


    Or so she thought.


    She¡¯d taken the bait. Morgan didn¡¯t see where Ruth Blaine had disappeared to, but he was sure she¡¯d gone to circle him. The first opening he¡¯d made was obvious enough that she¡¯d gone for the second one -- his exposed back.


    He didn¡¯t look around to confirm his analysis. If he wasted that second of time, he would die. If he was wrong, he would die. Best to die assuming that you were right.


    No, Morgan only had time for one thing. With all his strength, he slammed his Fog-covered sword down onto the ground.


    D!


    The outer layer of Fog was Destroyed, a black shockwave erupting all around. The claws of Ruth Blaine -- the ones that surely must have been heading for his back -- were thrown away by the force, giving Morgan the opening he needed to whirl around and -- with the last swing of his sword -- sever it! Not her arm, not her leg, not her neck.


    No¡­ Morgan aimed for that red scarf wrapped around her face.


    As they¡¯d been fighting, that scarf had been getting shorter, sparks flying up from the end as it burnt away -- like a fuse. An ability like this was so much stronger than Blaine¡¯s usual power that there had to be conditions to its use. A time limit. A time limit dictated by that scarf!


    Morgan slashed it --


    -- and ten seconds became one.


    Ruth was not surprised at the sudden attack. Ruth did not despair at the fact that he had figured out her ability. Ruth did not panic at the impending loss of the Direwolf Set. She did not allow herself any of these emotions.


    Instead, she lunged once more -- an automaton acting on instinct -- to scoop out Morgan Nacht¡¯s brains with the single second she had left. At the same time, he lunged at her, empty hand thrown out. He intended to use that destruction move to finish her off. Ruth understood this the instant she saw his movements, but there was nothing she could do about it.


    At this point, this was a contest of speed.


    Time dilated as they reached for each other, the moment stretched into what felt like long minutes, their breathing echoing in their ears. Chances were this was the end of someone¡¯s life. It would go on for as long as possible.


    Ruth¡¯s claws began to brush against Morgan¡¯s temple. Morgan¡¯s palm slammed against her chestplate. And then, in the moment before death¡­


    ¡­a massive serpentine dragon crashed down between the two of them.


    Ruth and Morgan were thrown in opposite directions by the impact, the Direwolf Set shattering into nothing as Ruth landed on her feet. Morgan rolled to a less elegant landing, but quickly picked himself up. For the time being, neither of them looked at each other. Their eyes were fixed on the interloper.


    Ablos of the Azure had indeed adopted an even more draconic form, but it did not seem to have been enough. A massive blazing pitchfork, the size of a building, had skewered him, the three spokes impaling him through the underbelly and pinning him to the ground. His massive four eyes, unnervingly human, twitched and spasmed in pain and fear.


    "To think I had to merge them all into one," mused the man sitting atop the giant pitchfork, legs dangling over the side. "A truly difficult man."


    Ruth took a deep breath, holding out her claws in front of her. She¡¯d been told a little about the enemies she¡¯d be facing on her way here, but there hadn¡¯t been much when it came to this guy. A kind of flying pitchfork attack? From what she¡¯d understood, it had been a bunch of little pitchforks flying around, not one big one, but it seemed like this guy had some tricks.


    Those red eyes flicked over to look at her, and a cruel smirk spread over those red lips. "So¡­ you¡¯re next, I take it, Ruth Blaine?"


    Ruth grinned with confidence that -- right now -- she did feel. "If you think you¡¯re man enough."


    "Haha!" the man laughed cheerfully. "I find myself rather liking you." His eyes narrowed. "I wonder what kind of disgraceful noises you¡¯ll make when you die¡­ pig."


    The two of them stared off for a moment, the air turning still as they waited for the other to make the first move -- before Morgan Nacht¡¯s voice broke through the tension.


    "Wait, Baron," he said, stepping forward. "This is my opponent. You keep moving."


    The man¡¯s -- the Baron¡¯s -- eyes slowly slid over to his comrade, a shadow falling over his face.


    "Yes," he said. "Of course."


    Ionir didn¡¯t have to say anything for Morgan to recognise the threat. A full-body shiver ran across his form, like he¡¯d suddenly been plunged into freezing water, and a panicked fire suddenly flared in his heart. Heat and cold in equal measure, in equal horror.


    And even with that, Morgan wasn¡¯t quite fast enough.


    A blazing pitchfork fired out of the fog at him, aimed right for his midsection -- and moving with such speed and ferocity that dodging was a pipedream. Instinct taking over, Morgan swung his sword at the incoming projectile, but even as he did he knew that he wasn¡¯t fast enough.


    He missed by inches, the pitchfork passing by unharmed, and¡­


    ¡­it flew off into the fog once more.


    At the last second before he would have been hit, Morgan had disappeared. At first, even he didn¡¯t know what had happened. One second, he¡¯d been standing there¡­ and the next, he was dangling over the ground, held aloft by the back of his shirt.


    He looked up, eyes wide, and saw just who had saved him. Who, at the very last second, had pulled him out of the way.


    "Hey," Ruth said coldly to the Baron, dropping Morgan back down. "That¡¯s your guy, idiot. What do you think you¡¯re doing?"


    The Baron Lunalette de Fleur rose to his feet atop the massive pitchfork, raising his eyebrows in amusement. As he stood, he reached out and caught another pitchfork that flew into his hand.


    Morgan furrowed his brow as he saw that. The Baron had said not moments ago that he¡¯d put all of his power into that massive pitchfork he¡¯d used to impale Ablos. Where had this additional one come from, then? Or had he just been lying?


    "Please don¡¯t mistake me for some kind of madman," Baron Lunalette said mildly. "I have good strategic reasoning for my actions. I¡¯ve already impaled four Special Officers since I got here today, after all." S§×ar?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Morgan bared his teeth in fury, black Fog pouring over his sword once more. "What the hell are you talking about?!" he demanded.


    The Baron grinned -- and as he did, the smallest subtlest fangs glinted in his mouth.


    "My Damnation is a multifaceted ability," he declared dramatically, spreading his arms wide. "Damnation Gula allows me to generate my pitchforks. Damnation Acedia allows me to jump between them at my leisure. And Damnation Avaritia¡­ activates when an Aether-user is impaled by all three prongs of my pitchfork."


    He stomped down on the giant pitchfork beneath him, and the impaled Ablos writhed in agony.


    "Those chosen few become Aether batteries -- extensions of my consciousness, repurposed to strengthen and optimize my abilities," Lunalette explained, taking in the disgusted expressions on their faces with barely suppressed glee. "Ah, how fortunate for them! What fate! What graceful fortune! I told you, didn¡¯t I?!" His voice rose into a cackle as his motions became more wild -- until he was all but dancing atop the pitchfork. "I already impaled four Special Officers today! Four batteries! The fellow with the box head! Four! Four beautiful storage units for my hopes and dreams!" He stomped down on the pitchfork again. "This beast makes five! Five! Ah, how invigorating! I feel like an athlete who just completed his stretches!" He spun on the spot, arms out wide. "Six and seven! Yes! You two shall be the rungs on the ladder to my apotheosis! I thank you! I put your names in my prayers! Become one with me and be subjugated! Throw yourselves at my feet and lick my boots! My friends, my friends, my dear comrades and serendipitous allies! MAKE NO MORE DELAY! LEND ME YOUR STRENGTH! NOW!"


    As his rant finally reached the limit of a human¡¯s oxygen supply, the Baron turned back to them, his limbs falling to his sides like he was a puppet with its strings cut.


    Red Aether crackled around Ruth Blaine as she stared at the madman, her face softened into fixed fury. Drool ran down her lips -- she clearly paid no mind to it. Every single part of her consciousness was focused on her eyes right now: on the scorn and contempt they were beaming at the Baron Lunalette de Fleur.


    "Hey, asshole," she said, her voice seemingly emotionless. "Don¡¯t think you¡¯re getting out of this alive."


    Lunalette¡¯s face stretched into an unsightly grin. "Brave words," he breathed. "...for bullets on my bandolier."


    Her threat made, Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked towards Morgan. "Truce?"


    Morgan¡¯s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. It was strange. Since the battle had begun, it had felt as if he¡¯d been evolving -- becoming a more complete version of himself. His power had been blossoming, and it was as if his self was finally rising to fit his skin. He got the feeling that he wasn¡¯t done evolving yet. That there was more still to see.


    Yes¡­ he wasn¡¯t done, and neither was the girl who¡¯d been evolving against and alongside him.


    "Truce," Morgan nodded.


    And then the world exploded into red.

 Chapter 288:11.15: Blood Across the Battlefield (Part 1)

    Wu Ming, Fourth Contender of the Supremacy, looked down with a smile at a world burned by war.


    He was standing high in the sky, atop a massive ball of white yarn, utterly unburdened by gravity. Too far up to be targeted by any attacks, and in a position to get a decent view of the battlefield. At this height, even the smoke from the raging forest-fire didn¡¯t prove too much of an obstacle.


    Saying that, though¡­


    Wu Ming leaned over the side of the yarn ball, his arms crossed, an inquisitive frown on his face. The fires -- triggered by the Supreme¡¯s landing attack -- seemed to be dying down a little. That shouldn¡¯t have been happening naturally. The enemy must have at least a few adept water-manipulation abilities on their side, then, or some other method of quickly extinguishing the flames?


    That didn¡¯t mean they were out of the woods. The fire wasn¡¯t the only thing coming for them, after all.


    Charon¡¯s Forest of Sin had spread out in a relatively straight line towards the pyramid, the ugly thing crawling across the landscape. No doubt Charon herself was in there somewhere, riding her ability all the way to the finish line. Ming couldn¡¯t help but smirk. If that was what she was thinking, then she¡¯d certainly be disappointed.


    A secondary cloud of smoke, blood red, had emerged from the pyramid, forming a gaseous barrier against the Forest¡¯s advance. The already-rotting trees and vegetation seemed to be decomposing into pulp wherever the smoke made contact, preventing the Forest from fully encroaching on the pyramid. Wu Ming laughed. That was definitely driving Paradise Charon crazy.


    He put a hand to his chin. The smoke-user was Klaus El, from what he remembered. If he had enough capacity to simultaneously hold off the Forest and keep track over the entire battlefield, then he had to be pretty strong, right?


    Then again¡­ maybe the fact that El was so busy already meant he wouldn¡¯t be able to divert anything else for combat¡­ so he probably wouldn¡¯t be a fun fight.


    Ordinarily, Wu Ming wouldn¡¯t want to bother with boring combat, but in this case he didn¡¯t have much of a choice. His usual modus operandi was to remain above the battlefield like this, keep watch for a while, then use an Aether ping to pin down the worthwhile opponents.


    In this case, though, he couldn¡¯t do that. That white fog -- the one spreading out from the pyramid in all directions -- was irritating. Not only did it serve as an Aether ping for Klaus El, it also served to block any other Aether pings inside itself. Wu Ming couldn¡¯t track anything within that smoke.


    So, essentially: he didn¡¯t want to fight Klaus El because it would be boring, but to find an interesting fight he had to get rid of Klaus El first. Oh, but he really didn¡¯t want to¡­


    Well, he had a secret technique for occasions like this too. Wu Ming put a finger to the communicator in his ear.


    "Hey, Hellhound?" he said.


    The artificial growl of the Third Contender came back as expected. "What?"


    "One million stator if you kill Klaus El for me."


    "No."


    Wu Ming frowned. "One billion?"


    "Fine."


    The Hellhound ended the call, and Wu Ming could only grin. What a funny guy. The Hellhound, Enrico Garza, was probably the only Contender who was actually in it for the paycheck. He¡¯d been a mercenary before becoming a Contender, and he still had that mindset -- if there wasn¡¯t any money in it for him, he probably wouldn¡¯t even get up in the morning. All that cash went back into his cybernetics, which were probably the only thing Enrico really cared about.


    It was a mindset Wu Ming couldn¡¯t comprehend, but it made him pretty easy to deal with. Now that the Hellhound was properly incentivised, Klaus El wouldn¡¯t be long for this world. Wu Ming offered a casual salute to the void.


    My condolences.


    The Hellhound was good, but he wasn¡¯t a miracle worker. It¡¯d take him some time to get rid of the old man. In the meantime, as much as it pained him¡­ it seemed Wu Ming would have to do this the old-fashioned way.


    He sighed, spread his arms wide, and let himself fall forward¡­


    ¡­plummeting down towards the earth.


    "Fire!" Hanx screamed, plasma blazing from his rifle. "Fire!"


    He needn¡¯t have said it. Everyone was already firing anyway -- the RED soldiers in cover alongside him, firing desperately at the figure approaching across the grass. The three Aether-users who¡¯d been commanding their squad lay dead on that same field, massive holes in their bodies, their blood seeping into the dirt.


    Plasma surfed through the air -- but not one drop struck its target. The woman with the tricorn hat continued to advance relentlessly, her stride calm and steady, her face impassive. She held a cutlass in one hand, its blade shining in the pink sunlight, but not a drop of blood stained it. She hadn¡¯t swung it even once yet.


    She hadn¡¯t introduced herself, but they¡¯d all recognised her immediately. The Commissioner of the Special Officers, Marcela Caesar. The woman in charge of all the monsters who¡¯d come to this world.


    Her face was iron, nearly expressionless if not for the slightest distaste curling her lips. She narrowed her eyes at the firing soldiers as she approached. One marksman leaned too far out of cover -- and immediately, a hole appeared on his face, obliterating one side of his head and killing him instantly. Not a spark of Aether emanated from Caesar¡¯s body.


    Hanx couldn¡¯t help but shake as he watched this incomprehensible event. They¡¯d received information on many of the Special Officers and Contenders who were likely to show up on Elysian Fields, but Commissioner Caesar¡­ she had guarded her abilities well. Not even the Supremacy itself seemed to know exactly how they worked.


    And so they could do nothing but watch, frozen in fear, as inevitable death walked their way.


    "Feel free to run," she said mildly. "You¡¯re all worth just one point, anyway."


    Even as she spoke, the plasmafire continued to rain down, striking her uselessly -- wait, no, Hanx realized. It wasn¡¯t striking her at all. The plasma shots were passing right through her body and striking the landscape behind her. His eyes widened as he figured it out.


    Intangibility! He turned his head to call out to his comrades, and --


    Bang.


    -- a hole appeared in his chest, obliterating his heart and killing him instantly. His mouth still dumbly open, Hanx fell down, his head falling onto the knee of a neighbouring soldier.


    That was the last of it. Their spirit, their resistance, their lives. What was left of the squad -- seven soldiers in all -- leapt out of cover and began charging back towards the pyramid, retreating as they¡¯d been invited.


    "Then again¡­" Caesar mused. "Waste not, want not."


    Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.


    One by one, maybe a second apart each, the soldiers were killed. Massive holes, the size of fists, appeared in their bodies. Some had their heads or chests annihilated. Others had their limbs blown off. One had only the top of his skull smashed open, leaving his bleeding brain exposed, and was able to walk a few more steps before finally expiring.


    Regardless of the method, they died. That was all they could do.


    Looking out at the scene of devastation -- the broken bodies, the spreading puddles, the screams still echoing on the wind -- Marcela Caesar could do nothing but sigh. Even after this, she only had sixty-two points. Slaughtering fodder like this would do nothing to match the killing speed and quality of the Contenders. She¡¯d definitely already fallen behind.


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    Well¡­ it wasn¡¯t as if she could do anything differently, either. With that fog cloud disrupting Aether pings, she couldn¡¯t track down any People of Interest to boost her point total. The best she could manage was seeking out larger groups like this, easily noticeable ones, aiming for quantity over quality.


    With another sigh, Caesar sheathed her sword -- a useless gesture, really -- and faded into nothing, like a deadly mirage.


    Atoy Muzazi killed. Atoy Muzazi killed and killed and killed. With three effortless waves of his Radiant, three more soldiers fell to the ground -- their bodies charred apart. Their faces, still frozen in terror, landed in pools of their own blood.


    His eyes dull, Muzazi raised the black ribbon around his wrist to his mouth. "Point total," he requested. He¡¯d been doing it in his head all this time, but perhaps he¡¯d made an error. Hopefully he¡¯d made an error, otherwise¡­


    "Seventeen!" Caravan chirped from his wrist. "Seventeen points! Good going, pal!"


    He hadn¡¯t made an error. As he¡¯d expected, the Special Officers he¡¯d slain in self-defence hadn¡¯t counted towards his point total. He supposed that made sense -- anything else would actively encourage friendly fire -- but it didn¡¯t help him much. The automatics he¡¯d destroyed didn¡¯t seem to have netted him any points, either. Likely they hadn¡¯t been accounted for when creating these Caravans.


    The seventeen points he¡¯d accumulated had come from the deaths of seventeen ordinary soldiers. Non-Aether users, caught outside of their squads by the chaos of the battlefield. Unlucky stragglers, met by his blade.


    Atoy Muzazi sighed, rubbing a hand over his temple. He¡¯d tried to find his way towards more populated areas, where he could perhaps find actual Aether-users to fight, but that was easier said than done. This ever present fog reduced visibility dramatically, and even prevented his Aether ping from releasing. He was as good as blind.


    Amidst the swirling white vapour, Muzazi took a break for a moment, resting his back against a mighty tree. There was no denying that he¡¯d fallen behind at this point. His fellow Special Officers had likely killed many enemy Aether-users, not to mention the devastation the Contenders had certainly unleashed. If things continued like this, there was no way he¡¯d earn the Supreme¡¯s favour.


    Playing catch-up at this point was a fool¡¯s errand. No matter how many rank-and-file combatants he dispatched, he wouldn¡¯t be able to catch up to others who were doing exactly the same. If he wanted to come back from this, he needed to track down People of Interest -- those worth fifty points. That would bring him up the rankings quickly.


    Still¡­ he couldn¡¯t help but feel conflicted. Not so long ago, on the planet Panacea, he¡¯d fought alongside some of those People of Interest. Yakob del Sed, Ruth Blaine¡­ Dragan Hadrien. Was it really right for him to hunt them down now, after they¡¯d fought together?


    He shook his head free of foolish thoughts.


    This is war, he told himself. We do not choose who we kill. Only the manner in which we do it.


    They had chosen to fight against the Supremacy, and he had chosen to fight for the Supremacy. Anything else was irrelevant. In a battle such as this, they¡¯d be foolish to think he wouldn¡¯t come after them. They¡¯d have prepared themselves for that. It would be insulting for him to think otherwise.


    Finding them was easier said than done, though. The same issue applied as his initial strategy: this damnable fog. He was certain he¡¯d remember the way their Aether felt in a ping from his previous encounters, if he could only use a damn ping. To find them, he¡¯d have to take another tact.


    Atoy Muzazi put a finger to his ear, opening a private communications channel.


    "Winston?" he said, glaring up at the sky. "Are you there?"


    A second of silence, and then: "What¡¯s up? I¡¯m kind of busy, you know. This is sort of a bother."


    Muzazi smirked despite himself. The great detective was as rude as ever. Well, he supposed it made sense: Winston Grace was busy providing battlefield intelligence from aboard the Tartarus. It was a wonder he¡¯d even answered the private call to begin with.


    "I need help," Muzazi said. "I¡¯m looking for People of Interest. Direct me to the closest one."


    He heard Winston click his tongue. "Not so easy. That fog interferes with our imaging from up here, too. It¡¯s hard to see where anyone is, outside of the trackers we have on you guys."


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "No¡­ but I¡¯m sure, with a mind like yours, you¡¯ve managed to deduce where these people are. Haven¡¯t you?" Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    An awkward moment of silence stretched on, before: "Sorry, Atoy. I¡¯m under strict orders. It¡¯s not a fair game if I just tell my friends where the good stuff is, right? Good luck, though."


    A deep breath to steel himself. His free hand clenched into a fist. Atoy Muzazi hadn¡¯t wanted to do this, but deep down he¡¯d known he¡¯d have to.


    "Are you familiar with the death of Nigen Rush?" he asked, voice steady.


    "Uh, what?"


    Muzazi repeated himself. "Are you familiar with the death of Nigen Rush?"


    "...sure. Why?"


    "From what I understand, there¡¯s something of a mystery regarding what happened to his body," Muzazi went on. "A lot of disagreement. Am I right about that?"


    Winston chuckled awkwardly. "Well, uh, yeah. A lot of people in my line of work have theories. I do, too, but --"


    "I know where Nigen Rush¡¯s body is," Muzazi said coldly. "I¡¯ll tell you the location right here and now -- unless you give me the information on the People of Interest."


    The words felt alien on Muzazi¡¯s tongue, but he spoke them without hesitation. There was nothing that Winston Grace hated more than being handed the answer to a mystery -- than losing the ability to solve it for himself. Against a person like that, this strategy was more effective than any death threat.


    Winston¡¯s voice was dangerously low and angry as he replied. "Are you fucking around?" he asked.


    Don¡¯t show him your back.


    "Listen to my voice and tell me if I¡¯m bluffing," Muzazi persisted. "I know where Nigen Rush¡¯s body is -- and I¡¯m going to tell you in three¡­ two¡­ one¡­"


    There was a beep from his script, and Muzazi looked down to see that his map had been updated remotely. Half-a-dozen red marks, each indicating the general position of a Person of Interest. The closest one was not so far away from him. Muzazi ignited the Radiant on one hand as he steeled himself.


    "Thank you," he said into the communicator.


    "Fuck you." The channel was terminated.


    Fair enough.


    How irritating.


    Paradise Charon frowned to herself as she reclined on a throne of the Forest of Sin¡¯s tormented twisted wood. She¡¯d expected the pyramid to have been overrun quite quickly, but it seemed her opponent had some kind of countermeasure. Within the dark shell of the Forest, she couldn¡¯t see it, but she could feel her ability disintegrating right next to the pyramid¡¯s border.


    She drummed her fingers along the arm of her chair. Her Forest grew as fast as it was destroyed, of course, so she was in no actual danger¡­ but a stalemate was a stalemate. She¡¯d have to adjust her strategy to keep moving.


    Her Forest had created a chamber for her right in its core -- a hollow sphere of wrapped together trunks and branches, a veritable fortress. While her Forest of Sin slaughtered, racking up points, she could stay here and relax. That was the kind of leisurely combat she¡¯d hoped to embark upon today.


    But it seemed that wasn¡¯t possible. With a sigh, she rose from her seat -- and a tendril of the Forest rose up alongside her, forming a rudimentary mouth with which to speak.


    "Mistress¡­" it hissed. "They come¡­ they come¡­"


    "I know," she said casually, looking up towards the dark roof. "From above, right?"


    Her Forest of Sin was nothing if not perceptive. Even if she couldn¡¯t see what exactly was going on outside, she could sense the inside of the Forest as if it was an extension of her own body. It was easy as pie for her to spot the object currently crashing down through her Forest from the sky.


    Well, if nothing else¡­ it seemed her points were coming to her.


    The object crashed through the roof at devastating speeds, smashing the wood apart and landing before Paradise. Clouds of debris obscured the thing from view, but Paradise could sense it through the Forest just fine. Humanoid, massive, wielding some kind of sword, its body oozing adrenaline.


    She smiled as the smoke cleared and her analysis -- as always -- was confirmed.


    The thing was like a bipedal tortoise, its shell nearly pitch-black, the pale arms and legs absurd with muscle. Its face glared down at her, reptilian features warped into humanity, twin antlers protruding from the sides of its head. As she¡¯d expected, a massive greatsword was clutched in one of its hands, just as dark as the rest of the beast.


    "Belias Hailel," the thing grunted, voice bedrock-low. "The Cardinal Beast called Belias of the Black. I have come to kill you."


    Paradise raised amused eyebrows. "Oh? How bold of you. Unfortunately, you seem to have --"


    Bang.


    Paradise heard a sound like an explosion from behind her -- and in that same instant, a new presence appeared. She turned her head just in time to see Yakob del Sed, eyes narrowed and focused, swinging empty air towards her neck. Her eyes saw no weapon, but the Forest sensed the shape of a sword.


    Branches suddenly lashed out from the walls and struck del Sed in the midsection, sending him flying back. At the same time, on instinct, Paradise leapt to the side, avoiding the greatsword that would have smashed down on her skull.


    So they wanted to team up on her, then? A wise move, but two-against-one still put the odds in her favour. There was something else going on here, too, though. Yakob del Sed definitely hadn¡¯t been here a second ago. Some kind of teleportation ability, then? No, she hadn¡¯t sensed anything like that. This was something else.


    Fine. She¡¯d play along¡­ for now.

 Chapter 289:11.16: Blood Across The Battlefield (Part 2)

    The mood on the bridge of the Tartarus was an unusual one. Tense and jubilant in equal measure. Alexandrius Toll, Ascendant-General of the Supremacy, found himself disliking it.


    "How long until we can land our troops?" he gruffly asked the tiny girl next to him. "This is idiotic."


    The girl in question glanced at her script before looking back up at him derisively. "Don¡¯t be so impatient, you war-horse. The rules are clear. Only thirty minutes after the last Special Officer pod lands can you start bringing down your fodder. There are still twelve pods left to go with people that matter, so please be patient." She winked playfully. "Okay?"


    Toll narrowed his eyes at the brat.


    Dariah Todd Harlow. Alexandrius found himself disliking this woman more than most Special Officers, and he was not a fan of Special Officers. In front of her boss Caesar, this girl seemed a stuttering and blushing mess, but as soon as the Commissioner was gone, her true colors came out.


    The colors of spite and envy, eager to abuse whatever authority she¡¯d been given.


    Alexandrius snorted, turning back to the screens before them. To be truthful, there wasn¡¯t much to see. The fog covering the battlefield made imaging mostly useless, and Caesar had denied permission to place cameras on the landing Officers.


    What a joke. This was not war. War required soldiers, and all the soldiers -- the trained and seasoned soldiers -- were stuck up here with him. The people running around on the ground were not soldiers: they were children, running around with swords and guns.


    But they would learn. In good time, they would learn.


    "The person using this fog is quite extraordinary, yes," breathed a voice uncomfortably close to his ear. "Interesting, interesting. Such range, while operating a second ability? I find myself fascinated. Perhaps a live capture is possible?"


    Alexandrius turned to look at the man who had spoken. This time, he did not have to look down, but that was not because the person was the same height as him. No, definitely not: it was because they were floating.


    Mandrus Hark, Section Chief of the Absurd Weapons Lab, was a fairly unfortunate sort of Scurrant. He had the normal number of limbs, the normal amount of eyes, and overall a human shape unmarred by deformity or enhancement. Yes, there was no problem with his shape. The problem was with his size.


    All in all, standing on the tips of his toes, Hark would have been the height of a normal human thumb. It would have been only so easy to crush him underfoot. To avoid such an embarrassing assassination, the Section Chief had strapped himself into a hovering pod that floated freely through the air. Right now, that pod bobbed up and down next to Alexandrius Toll, the tiny man leaning forward in his seat.


    A shock of spiky black hair, as if he¡¯d been electrocuted once and never bothered to fix it. A pair of goggles, magnifying his eyes so they looked like those of some unsightly insect. A white lab coat wrapped tightly around his fragile body. A bulky speaker attached to his back, with a microphone winding towards his mouth -- so his voice could be heard clearly by those around him.


    All in all, Mandrus Hark was something of a disgrace to look at.


    Those magnified eyes turned down to look at the tiny black band wrapped around his wrist. "Yes, yes," he muttered. "Now that I consider it, it¡¯d be a waste to lose so many potential test subjects. Abilities clashing like this, in the field, in such numbers, is a rare thing. An exceedingly valuable thing. There¡¯s no reason to lose samples so willy-nillily. Caravan dear, perhaps we can introduce a point bonus for live capture?"


    "You idiot!" the tiny ribbon chirped back. "You don¡¯t have the authority to make those kinds of rule changes! Go jerk yourself off, asshole!"


    Hark clicked his tongue. "Drat."


    The Absurd Weapons Lab was another organization that Toll did not entirely approve of. Like the Special Officers Commission, they operated as they liked, without care or consideration for the proper chain of command. They were more like some kind of ascetic retreat than a scientific institute, sequestering themselves off from the world and only coming into contact to pass over finished experiments or participate in events like these. Hell, the only reason they were here now was because of the secret weapon being kept down in the hold.


    If it was up to Toll, that joke of a Lab would be gutted and put under direct control of the military as a research and development division. Unfortunately, not that much outside the military was up to Toll for the time being. But things could change.


    The Supreme had woken up, after all, roused from his stupor. Alexandrius had to thank Esmeralda for that, if nothing else. Toll and the Supreme had worked together closely back in the old days, burning their way across the battlefield for a common cause. Now that he was back in his right mind, Toll was sure he could convince the titan to enact the changes that were needed.


    The Supreme was not unreasonable, after all.


    "Heads up," came Winston Grace¡¯s voice over the Tartarus intercom. "I just got word from Dalcedius R. Paxton. He¡¯s going to do something big -- should even out the information gap a little."


    Again, Toll found himself snorting. That old wizard had something in mind, did he? Well, if nothing else¡­


    ¡­it was sure to be a spectacle.


    Seth Harrowing watched the surrounding battle from the cliffside like a hawk, his six-shot revolver held out straight. Ordinarily, a punchpoint firearm like this would have a range limit that would prevent him actually hitting anything from here, but Aether really was a wonder. With his tiny special weapon infused, he might as well have been holding a sniper rifle.


    With his free hand, he adjusted the wide-brimmed hat on his head, the bells dangling from it tinkling as he did so. The hat cast a very welcome shade over his tanned face and curly grey hair. The jagged smile beneath was much more genuine than usual.


    "You almost done?" he called out over his shoulder. "Don¡¯t like being this exposed."


    The dramatic and archaic voice of Dalcedius R. Paxton sounded out from behind him, unmistakable. "Bother and boil! Do not rush me, fool! Trrrue magic requires an element of danger, the spice of life, the equivalent exchange of changing the world!"


    "Whatever you say, my man," Seth muttered, continuing his watch. To tell the truth, he did regret accompanying the wizard a little bit -- but he also knew that whatever ¡¯spell¡¯ the old codger was about to unleash would no doubt turn the tide of the battle heavily in the Supremacy¡¯s favor. So long as he made sure that Paxton was able to complete his ability, Seth would definitely have an easier time gathering points for himself.


    His eyes narrowed as he spotted something. There. He¡¯d seen it again, hopping across the battlefield -- an electric-blue spark of Aether, flying high over the trees.


    Seth hadn¡¯t been sure what he¡¯d been looking at initially, but after observing the phenomenon he understood it. Wherever that blue spark stopped -- usually next to a member of Regiment RED -- it would remanifest as a humanoid figure for a moment, record them and itself, then zip off to another location to drop them off. In short, a transport specialist.


    Well, now that he¡¯d seen it, he¡¯d be doing the Supremacy a disservice if he didn¡¯t mess with it a little.


    Seth lifted his hand, forming a lens using his thumb and forefinger, and waited for the moment that blue spark passed through that lens. A smirk tugged at one side of his lips as the fatal instant came, and he spoke the words:


    "Forcible Ability Deactivation."


    Immediately, the blue spark turned back into a human figure -- that plummeted into the forest below. Even with Aether infusion, a fall like that would definitely hurt. Seth couldn¡¯t help but chuckle to himself. If nothing else, he¡¯d crippled the enemy¡¯s mobility for a time.


    "How about now?" he called back once again.


    "All but done, you damnable ignoramus¡­" Paxton grumbled.


    "Fantastic," Seth sighed, stepping back from the edge of the cliff and returning to his impromptu ¡¯companions¡¯.


    Dalcedius R. Paxton really was devoted to his wizard gimmick. He wore a purple pointy hat and cloak, the shadows within concealing much of his face save his bright Cogitant eyes. The old man was sitting cross-legged on the ground, a red-hot needle clutched between two fingers, looking at the ¡¯magic circle¡¯ he¡¯d burnt into the grass.


    The author¡¯s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    It was an impressive piece of artwork, if nothing else. He¡¯d spent the last ten minutes setting it up, an intricate network of lines and curves and sigils, converging upon a single point. If Seth didn¡¯t know better, he¡¯d almost believe it was something used for magic.


    With all the effort Dalcedius had put into the circle, it was almost a shame to heap dead bodies on top of it. Paxton¡¯s apprentice, Mara Het, was red in the face as she tugged another RED corpse into the center of the circle. Unlike her boss, Mara seemed to have gone for some kind of stage magician sort of aesthetic, with a black leotard and top-hat. Seth didn¡¯t much mind: if he was stuck with these weirdos for the time being, he appreciated the eye candy if nothing else.


    A veritable pile of bodies had been growing in the center of the circle over the last ten minutes or so, but they¡¯d only killed one enemy so far. Mara¡¯s ability apparently let her duplicate objects, so they were using it to slowly accumulate sacrifices for Dalcedius¡¯ ability.


    Seth wasn¡¯t sure that real magic would allow for such cheating, but what did he know?


    "We really need this many bodies for this?" he yawned, walking up alongside Dalcedius. "It¡¯s kind of a hassle, you know."


    Paxton huffed. "Pax Magicka requires me to sacrifice things I value in order to fulfill my request. This unfortunate fellow was not valued by me at all, but thankfully we have dear Mara. We can simply duplicate him again and again to beat out quality with quantity. Ingenuity such as this is the heart of magic, my friend!"


    "Okay." Seth blinked. He didn¡¯t really care.


    If Seth¡¯s lack of interest bothered the old wizard any, he didn¡¯t show it. Paxton simply clapped his hands together, ushering Mara out of the circle, and began chanting.


    "Pax Magicka!" he cried -- and in accordance, the charred circle began to glow an eerie red. "Oh, Pax Magicka, hear me! Our enemies converse and conspire through the air, through insidious means, through defiance of the laws of sound and song! Treachery! I thus beseech you! Accept this bountiful sacrifice of blood and bone, quench thy thirst for carnage and sorrow! Unleash a wave of corrrrection to vanquish their dishonourable means of communication! Let their silence speak volumes, as their volume becomes null! Pax Magicka!"


    For a moment, nothing happened, and Seth raised an eyebrow of disappointment. Then, however, there was a resounding flash of light from the circle -- and as it exploded into an indistinct red, the bodies heaped upon it instantly disintegrating, Seth felt a wave of force blast past him.


    Through the rushing wind and roaring Aether, the only other sound that could be heard was the old wizard¡¯s cackling.


    Dragan groaned as he picked himself up off the ground, holding his arm gingerly. Judging by the pain radiating through the limb and his inability to move it, it was definitely broken. Gritting his teeth, he went to record the arm into Gemini World --


    -- only to find that he couldn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t activate Gemini World at all.


    Oh, shit.


    What had he gotten hit by? Some kind of ability that disabled his own? It was the only thing he could think of. Even if he¡¯d somehow gotten distracted and released his own ability unintentionally, that wouldn¡¯t prevent him from activating his ability afterwards.


    No: something fucky was about.


    Experimentally, Dragan lifted a hand and fired off a Gemini Shotgun at a nearby tree. As expected, the loose chunk of debris appeared and slammed into the trunk at blinding speeds, shattering it and sending the tree right down to the ground. Steam still rising from his palm, Dragan nodded to himself. No problems there.


    He put a finger to the communicator in his ear, patching himself through to Klaus. "Bad news," he sighed. "Something¡¯s happened to my ability. I can¡¯t ferry people around right now."


    There was no response -- save for the slightest buzz of static in his ear.


    "Hello?" Dragan asked uncertainly.


    Still nothing. He tried the backup channel, and found it was exactly the same. Silence.


    Shit. It looked like communications were down as well, then.


    They¡¯d discussed this eventuality beforehand, of course: in the event that they weren¡¯t able to send out orders directly anymore, Dragan was to continue transporting people at his own discretion. They hadn¡¯t considered the possibility that his Gemini World would be disabled as well, though¡­ shit, shit, shit.


    "Shit," Dragan said, unsurprisingly.


    "You really shouldn¡¯t speak so loudly, you know."


    Dragan suddenly whirled around, pulling his plasma pistol from its holster and pointing it directly in front of him. All of that was reflex at this point. Once his consciousness caught up and he actively registered who he was seeing, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed.


    He¡¯d never met this person before, but they weren¡¯t exactly the sort of person a citizen of the Supremacy wouldn¡¯t know.


    That white uniform, that tricorn hat, that cutlass¡­


    Commissioner Marcela Caesar strode across the forest floor, the sticks and leaves beneath her feet remaining intact and unaffected. Her sword was already drawn, the tip of it nearly scraping against the ground as it shone in the sunlight. The older woman had a thin smile on her face as she advanced.


    "Dragan Hadrien, right?" she said casually. "Hello¡­"


    Her smile dropped.


    "...and goodbye."


    The force, like that of a speeding car, struck Dragan in the chest a second later.


    "You know¡­" Skipper said, wiping a drop of blood from his cheek. "If you¡¯d asked me about this in advance, I¡¯d probably have advised against it¡­ yeah? Well, life¡¯s learning, I guess -- maybe not for you guys, but still."


    He was surrounded by corpses.


    Around ten Special Officers had tried ambushing him as he was leaving the battlefield, and they¡¯d quickly begun to regret it. Heartbeat Shotgun had blasted them apart. Heartbeat Bayonet has sliced them to ribbons. Heartbeat Landmine had deflected any attacks that managed to get close to him. He hadn¡¯t even needed to use Heartbeat Freedom yet.


    "Bastard¡­" spluttered the last survivor of the group, a Special Officer with a purple mohawk and Umbrant-black eyes. "Kill you¡­ I¡¯ll kill you¡­"


    Maybe a little optimistic. His legs had already been chopped off, after all, and his chest caved in. He lay there, ruined at Skipper¡¯s feet, and could do nothing but watch as the man pointed that finger down towards his head.


    The Officer took in a sharp breath, holding up his hand beseechingly. "P-Please¡­don¡¯t¡­" he wheezed. Someone had changed their tune quick.


    "Nah. See ya."


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    The blast pulped the Officer¡¯s head in an instant, ending his pain. Skipper sighed as he went to continue walking, plunging his blood soaked hands into his pockets. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of battle: the explosions, the gunshots, the screams.


    More than anything, it was loud. That was a good sign.


    "It¡¯s ridiculous, really," Skipper sighed as he continued his stroll towards the arena he¡¯d decided on. "I¡¯m literally just walking here, and I get guys like these trying to kill me. If I was firing off shots or something I¡¯d get it, but at this point they¡¯re basically just asking me to kill them. Don¡¯t you agree¡­ Atoy Muzazi?"


    He turned his head as he stopped his walk once more, looking back at the mouth of the forest. There, framed by carnage on either side -- like crimson gates -- stood the Special Officer, Atoy Muzazi.


    He¡¯d seen better days. His uniform was in tatters, his skin was covered by cuts and bruises, and blood was running down his face. Seemed he¡¯d been in his share of brawls on the way here.


    All the more reason for him to think better of this.


    "Look around, my guy," Skipper nodded to the bodies. "Maybe use your common sense here, yeah?"


    Muzazi¡¯s expression did not twitch. "If I¡¯d used my common sense, I wouldn¡¯t even be here."


    "That¡¯s what I just said."


    Slowly, Muzazi began to lower his body to the ground, hands held out on either side. "I¡¯m not the sort of man who runs away from a fight. I don¡¯t think you are either."


    "Well¡­" Skipper sighed, running a hand back through his hair. "You¡¯ve got me there. Tell you what, I¡¯m a busy guy, but I¡¯ll give you two minutes of my time. This is a good last-minute test, anyway. Sound good?"


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "Arrogance. Do you really think --"


    "Heartbeat Freedom."


    A heartbeat stretched on for an eternity. A breath became an odyssey. Temperatures flared. The world became brighter, blinding, for a moment. The wind around them grew furious, broiling like the beginnings of a hurricane, forcing Muzazi to hold his arms up protectively -- so he could barely even see it.


    A pillar of emerald Aether, like a tower leading to heaven, had erupted around Skipper -- utterly engulfing him. Long, jagged green spikes snapped around the central mass like thunderbolts, each boom nearly deafening. By the time Muzazi could even register what he was seeing, the light was already beginning to clear.


    Skipper¡¯s -- Zachariah Esmeralda¡¯s -- eyes glinted a bright green through the fog, his silhouette warped and changed -- and as the smoke cleared, Muzazi saw how exactly. Two massive feathered wings, bright green and clear like glass, had appeared hovering over Esmeralda¡¯s shoulders, moving independently of one another as they shone and flexed through the air. Emerald Aether crackled around them furiously, each bolt just as severe as those he¡¯d seen during the transformation. sea??h th§× novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Esmeralda looked at him with those cold green eyes. "This¡­" he said. "...is Heartbeat Freedom." His very words echoed and reverberated through the ambient Aether.


    Muzazi could sense it instinctively. He could sense that whatever power he¡¯d seen from this man previously didn¡¯t even compare to what was standing in front of him. This was a monster.


    "I like your attitude, kid," Esmerelda intoned, looking down at him. "So I¡¯m going to do my best not to kill you. Whether you survive intact or not¡­ well, I can¡¯t promise anything there."


    Esmeralda took a single step forward -- and at the same time, the trees immediately surrounding him exploded into splinters.


    Yes, Muzazi understood it instinctively.


    I¡¯m dead.


    Zachariah Esmeralda had said he¡¯d give Muzazi two minutes of his time.


    It didn¡¯t even take ten seconds.

 Chapter 290:11.17: The Gardener of Sin, Charon

    "A clumsy attempt¡­ but a bold one. You have potential."


    The voice of Lho Rho, the Second Contender, was both deep and soft -- such that you had to carefully listen to catch his words. With a peaceful expression on his face, he released the grey sword in his hand and let it collapse back into dust. Eyes made cloudy by cataracts looked down sightlessly at the defeated girl.


    She looked back up at him, her face twisted by rage and frustration. The sword she¡¯d been using lay shattered at her side, and the impromptu armour she¡¯d put together was a wreck.


    When the girl had first been told about these Contenders, this blind man hadn¡¯t been what she¡¯d imagined. He was in his mid-thirties, slight and thin, with dark skin and dreadlocks. The war-robes he wore were ancient-looking, moth-bitten, probably older than he himself. They were loose, too, making him look like a child who¡¯d gotten into his parents¡¯ wardrobe -- if not for the sheer dignity he exuded.


    Those eyes saw nothing, and yet they were still looking down on her. Damnit. Damnit.


    "What did you hope to achieve here, child?" Lho Rho squatted down next to her. "My Supreme rests in the next room. Surely you didn¡¯t intend to target him?"


    "Shut up," the girl hissed. Child? She was fifteen, not ten.


    Rho sighed. "So you did. This was not wise. My strength is significant, but my Supreme eclipses me by far. You are fortunate it was I that was standing guard, and not the Avaman. You would be dead by now. He is not as discreet as I."


    Discreet? The girl could have laughed. The walls of the palace antechamber were covered in great gouges, marks left from their brief bout, deep scars inflicted by Lho Rho¡¯s dust manipulation. It was a wonder the ceiling hadn¡¯t collapsed in on them, and he called this discreet?


    "But as I said¡­ you have potential." Lho Rho continued quietly. "The bravery to challenge a Contender, and the spark of talent. It would be wrong for me to snuff out such a fire before it can blaze. That is not the way of the Tree of Might."


    He reached out a hand, and the girl looked at it as if it were a loaded gun.


    "What is your name, little one?" Lho Rho asked.


    She came up with the answer on the spot. "...Paradise. Paradise Charon."


    Bruno created a shield, and Serena crushed it into a sword. They¡¯d practiced this so much that, by now, it was nearly automatic.


    With a slash, they severed the massive branch that had rushed forth to impale them -- and kicked off the severed section to launch themselves towards Charon. As they flew, two more shield-swords were created in their hands. Warped screams and laughter rang out from the Forest of Sin around them, but they paid it no mind. Within this inner sanctum, at least, they were safe from the worst of the ability.


    It was three-against-one, but Bruno still couldn¡¯t help but feel uncertain. This was a Contender they were dealing with, after all. One of the five strongest people in the Supremacy, people basically considered demi-gods. But even if he was afraid, he couldn¡¯t allow that to slow his blade or his step.


    She¡¯s a human just like us, Bruno, Serena said encouragingly. She has a heart that beats and a brain that thinks. So long as we can get one of those, we can win!


    "Right," Bruno mouthed silently -- and in that same moment, he was upon Charon.


    With a resounding war-cry, he unleashed a flurry of slashes upon the massive woman -- but each was dodged with contemptuous ease, his opponent moving with the languid grace of a gymnast. That last swing of her body transitioned into a mighty kick -- and even with a last-minute shield, Bruno was sent flying.


    Belias of the Black, the Cardinal Beast with the Guardian Entity Genbu, leapt in to cover Bruno. Even with his massive size, the former Regulator was blindingly fast, moving with such speed that every movement appeared like a blur. He swung his massive greatsword again and again, but flexible branches and vines lunged in from the walls to seize hold of and restrain the blade.


    With a mighty tug he tore it free, but his overhead smash was caught by Paradise with one hand.


    The Contender smirked. "Two against one isn¡¯t exactly sporting, but I suppose it¡¯s the only way you have a chance of winning. Still¡­ I don¡¯t think it¡¯s something I want to deal with right now." As she held the sword in place, her eyes flicked over to Bruno. "You can wait your turn."


    There was a massive creaking squelch, and the wall of branches Bruno was heading towards opened up vertically into a grotesque orifice. Bruno went to create a shield he could use to stop his flight, but too late -- a barrage of thorny vines surged out of the hole, seizing them by the limbs and pulling them out of the sanctuary.


    Bruno started screaming as the thorns tore at his arms and legs -- and Serena took over the scream, forming blades after blades and slashing at the restraints. They fell limp to the ground, but the damage was done.


    They were in the Forest proper now. They were in Hell.


    A wretched, warped landscape of trees winding around each other like tentacles, uncanny faces straining out of the bark, twisting and writhing. Red light shone down from unnatural and eldritch vegetation, bathing them in a bloody glow, and from everywhere there was the sound of screaming. The real screams of the Forest¡¯s victims, and the false screams of its own mocking impersonations.


    Serena turned to head back towards the sanctum, but it was long gone. The wild undergrowth beneath their feet was moving, too -- like the surface of a treadmill -- and it had already taken them far from their original location.


    "Darn," she muttered. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    There was no time for despair. Serena leapt up as a tree trunk the size of a train smashed down, narrowly avoiding being crushed. As she jumped, she seized hold of one of the tree¡¯s branches and flipped backwards onto the top of the trunk -- and from there she ran along its surface.


    The Forest of Sin attacked from all sides. Vines and tendrils stabbed towards her from the darkness. Toothy maws of bark opened up beneath her feet, barely slow enough for her to avoid having her legs chopped off. Glowing red specks, like fireflies, flew towards her eyes, mandibles eager to nibble at the soft tissue there.


    Through the vast crimson landscape, Serena could see this same hellscape stretching on and on, trees writhing through the air. She leapt off the trunk of this tree as the tendrils grew too close, hopping from shield to shield to stop herself from falling, and descended to the ground.


    A flurry of jagged leaves, like a blizzard of shurikens, rushed through the clearing -- and Bruno took over, projecting a massive multilayered shield in front of them to defend against the barrage. As the leaves battered against the forcefield, Bruno remained on one knee, putting all of his focus and Aether into protection. Just one of those leaves would be enough to slice through human flesh and bone -- he could tell just by looking.


    Ting. Ting. Ting. Ting. Ting.


    The leaves bounced off the shield like bullets against steel, the omnipresent voices jeering in dissatisfaction, but Bruno paid it no mind. He had to think of their next move.


    Just running forever wasn¡¯t an option, and neither was getting back to Charon. They¡¯d have to exit the Forest entirely, then prepare some other kind of attack. They¡¯d have to --


    "Yo, Bruno," said Cott, standing right behind them.


    Concentration wavered -- and with it, so did the shield. Blood flew up into the air.


    When Paradise Charon had been young, she had been called Perda, and they had put flowers in her hair.


    It had only been natural that her village had adored her. As she¡¯d grown up, she¡¯d become beautiful and intelligent, with a keen understanding of people and the world around her. She¡¯d used a bow like the best of their hunters, she¡¯d thrust a spear like the best of their warriors, and she¡¯d brought her people together like the best of their chiefs. Back then, she hadn¡¯t even conceived of things like Lilith Worlds or the Supremacy. As far as she was concerned, that tiny planet of hers was the extent of the universe.


    Even now, those memories were infuriating. The sole thing that planet had ever accomplished was producing her.


    They¡¯d known about the crash landing even before seeing it. The forest they¡¯d lived in could think, after all -- passing thoughts between its roots like the neurons of a human brain. Those who knew how it worked could read it like a book. It was simplicity itself for the chief to sense the star that had fallen from the sky, and send her best warriors to find it.


    Needless to say, Perda had been among them. She had led the group as they made their way through dense undergrowth, through caverns and caves, across vast fields, on their quest to find the one who had fallen from the heavens. Looking back, Paradise knew now that was the first thing she¡¯d done that had mattered during her fourteen years of life.


    The starship -- even if they hadn¡¯t known to call it that yet -- had formed a crater as it landed, but was mostly unharmed. They¡¯d found the pilot unconscious, clad in a strange suit, and nursed him back to health over the next few weeks. As he recovered, he spoke -- and those things he told them shook them to their core.


    Those things he told them made everything else meaningless.


    They were not alone in the universe. They were a tiny dot in a galaxy that they had long since forgotten, and that had long since forgotten them. They were irrelevant. They were laughable. They were savages.


    There was a world of wonders out there, and she had been content with flowers in her hair.


    It was humiliating.


    Bruno clutched his ravaged arm as he took a step back from the sight before him. The limb had taken the brunt of the barrage, and now -- along with the damage it had already sustained -- it looked like a red bleeding piece of meat. Even with all that, though, the pain was the furthest thing from Bruno¡¯s mind.


    Cottian del Sed stood there, just as he¡¯d been when he died, wearing that damn blazer and tie. He looked at them inquisitively, eyes framed by long ginger hair.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" he said, voice clear. "Cat got your tongue, Bruno?"


    Cott, Bruno thought, a chill rushing over his body. His legs trembled beneath him.


    Serena replied quickly. What do you mean? she asked.


    It¡¯s Cott!


    Her confusion was unchanged. No it¡¯s not! Just look at him!


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    Bruno looked -- he looked -- and saw that she was right. Looking at the boy before him, at first, Bruno could only see Cott -- could only see his old friend and enemy, strolling casually towards him. But if he moved slightly, if he adjusted the angle of his gaze, he saw something else entirely, as if this thing was some kind of magic eye puzzle.


    That was not Cott. That was a collection of vines and branches and roots, wrapped together in the vaguest approximation of a humanoid form, with a ¡¯face¡¯ of pale tubers. That was a monster, lurching towards him, glowing with a red light from its unnatural innards.


    Bruno narrowed his eyes, plucking another shield-sword from the air, and the creature stopped in its tracks.


    "Oh?" it gurgled, still in Cott¡¯s voice. "You can see through it? It seems you can see through it. That¡¯s surprising. This trick gets most people. Maybe there¡¯s something different about your psychology?"


    "Who are you?" Bruno demanded, shifting into a combat stance, invisible sword reared back like a snake. He had some idea already, but¡­


    "Isn¡¯t it obvious?" the thing chuckled harshly. "I¡¯m the Forest of Sin -- or a part of it, anyway. It really is surprising, though -- right now I should be looking like someone else entirely. You¡¯re pretty special, huh?"


    It was bizarre. Even though Bruno could see the thing for what it was -- an indistinct mass of vegetation, shifting and changing each moment -- he could still hear Cott coming from it. Not just his voice, but his words -- the way he spoke, the way he put a sentence together. Like a verbal version of the uncanny valley.


    "Get out of my head," Bruno growled.


    A mouth of jagged petals grinned. "But I have a proposition for you. You don¡¯t want to listen?"


    Before Bruno could answer, Serena spoke out of their mouth. "You look like a liar," she said simply. "You sound like a liar. Why would we believe you?"


    The thing¡¯s ¡¯head¡¯ popped off and swung down like a pendulum, still attached to the rest of the mass by a thin green strand of tissue.


    "We?" it echoed, before chuckling again. "Oh, I get it. That¡¯s great. There¡¯s two of you in there, right? And I can only read one, so the disguise is half-assed. That¡¯s actually kinda genius, you --"


    Serena swung the shield-sword at the Sinner with all her strength -- but it just launched itself off the ground, latching onto the branch of a tree above. It hung there, upside-down like a bat, as it continued to speak.


    "You don¡¯t need to be so violent¡­ Serena?" it said, tasting the words. "It¡¯s Serena, right? I think I¡¯ve got a bead on you now. Your Aether changed, didn¡¯t it? Just now? I saw it. I saw it."


    Indeed, it had. At the very moment Serena had taken the driver¡¯s seat, Bruno¡¯s purple Aether had brightened into a vibrant violet.


    Serena pointed the sword up at it. "So what?" she demanded, frowning.


    The image of Cott flickered back into place, replacing the Sinner, but imperfectly. He hung there, body warped and stretched, folded into itself like origami, the only thing unmarred being his grinning face.


    "Aether is proof of consciousness. You need to think to use Aether, right? It¡¯s the basic requirement. Like the height thing on a rollercoaster. The fact your Aether changed proves you¡¯re a different consciousness. That¡¯s how I knew. Anyway, like I said, I have a proposition for you," it breathed. "A proposition. Pro-po-sit-ion. It¡¯s one I think you¡¯ll like. Very advantageous for you."


    Serena¡¯s eyes flicked around, making sure no attacks were coming from the sides, before she looked back up at the Sinner.


    "What kind of proposition?" she muttered.


    The grin widened. "You¡¯re an Aether-user, a very talented Aether-user. That trick you do with the shield and the sword? Inspired. I like it. I like you guys a lot."


    They didn¡¯t have time for this. Belias and Wolfram were taking on a Contender, and here they were -- chatting up her ability. Serena¡¯s lip straightened into a tense line.


    "If you¡¯ve got something to say, say it," she said firmly. "Last warning."


    Broken fingers, bending the wrong way, grasped leisurely at the air as the Sinner spoke.


    "I find myself dissatisfied. Dis-sat-is-fied. Paradise is powerful, yes, but her attitude¡­ haha, no thank you. I think it¡¯s time for a change."


    The face flickered -- from Cott, to the plant, to Cott again. That familiar expression stretched out unfamiliarly like a sail.


    "How about you guys become my users, instead?"


    Serena blinked. "What? Really?"


    "Sure," the Sinner purred. "It¡¯s a good deal for you guys too, right? It¡¯s basically a guaranteed win against Charon." It inched just a little bit closer, drooping down from the tree. "I just need to make some adjustments, and we can go about --"


    Serena swung the sword. She didn¡¯t like to swear, but at this point she knew bullshit when she heard it.


    For ten years after the day she had tried and failed to kill the Supreme, for ten years after the day Lho Rho had defeated her, Paradise Charon did nothing but train. The Second Contender took her under his wing and taught her the ways of the sword and the gun, the ways of the warrior and the killer, the ways of Aether. For those years, Lho Rho was as good as her parent -- that was the depth of their bond. He was a hard teacher, but an effective one.


    She drilled with the sword until it felt like her arms would drop off. She drilled with the sword until she could take a head off with a wave of her hand.


    She fired the gun until she thought she would go deaf, even through the protection of noise cancellers. She fired the gun until she could hit a bullseye at a hundred yards.


    She meditated, finding her Aether fully, discovering and clarifying the core of adoration that dwelled within her. She meditated until she could tap into that core with just the slightest thought of the suffering she¡¯d endured.


    Even as she trained, though, those words still echoed in her brain.


    A clumsy attempt¡­


    Even as she stood on her burning homeworld, recording the Forest of her youth, remembering with humiliation the flowers they¡¯d put in her hair.


    A clumsy attempt¡­


    Even as she kneeled alongside Lho Rho, before the Supreme, her ultimate target, pledging her service to him until the day she died -- ignoring that disinterested dullness in his eyes.


    A clumsy attempt¡­


    Finally, at the close of those ten years, she stood -- an apprenticeship all but completed -- across from Lho Rho, in the dark hall of the Shesha. The time had come to repeat their duel from so long ago, to see how far Paradise had come, to see if she was ready to make a true attempt on the Supreme and join the ranks of the Contenders.


    She held her sword out in two hands, the blade long and thin, perfect to stick between ribs. She¡¯d had it specially made -- a trigger built right into the hilt. Slow sweat trickled down her forehead.


    "Before we begin," her mentor said. "I would like to say something."


    He held his hand out, and the ambient dust coalesced into a sword for him to grab. At the same time, more grey swords appeared in the air above him, aiming at Paradise -- ready to launch.


    "Your progress has been astounding, your strength even more so," Lho Rho continued. "Were you to have joined the Tree of Might, I have no doubt you would have already attained the rank of First Branch. That is more your own talent than the virtue of my teaching. Paradise¡­ you are my pride."


    Words of praise were rare from the lips of the Second Contender. An equally rare smile tugged at Paradise¡¯s lips. "Thank you," she said softly.


    "Now¡­" Lho Rho drew his blade back. "Shall we --"


    Paradise pulled the trigger.


    Lho Rho¡¯s Aether ability, Kingdom Come, allowed him to manipulate the dust around him. He could use it to form swords, shields, even additional limbs -- but that was not the extent of his prowess. He could even place dust inside his own body and control it, providing automatic defense against internal threats. Paradise had tried to poison him three times over the years, but Kingdom Come had always repelled it. His ability was so proficient that Lho Rho himself hadn¡¯t even noticed the attacks.


    This time, however, she was confident -- and she had good reason.


    Lho Rho immediately fell to one knee, the swords around him collapsing back into dust as he drew in a sharp and tortured breath. It had only been seconds since the tiny capsule in his body had opened, and already his eyes were so bloodshot they looked like twinkling rubies. As he tried to pick himself up, the skin on his hands bubbled, and his fingers began to slough away to the floor like clumps of grease.


    He wheezed with lungs that were not long for this world. "What¡­ did you¡­"


    Paradise smirked as she sheathed her own sword. "The venom of a Gene Tyrant isn¡¯t easy to acquire," she said casually. "But I¡¯ve made friends over the years, Mr. Rho. Favours exchanged for favours exchanged for favours eventually put what I wanted in my hands -- and from there, it found its way into your drink. Not even Kingdom Come can defend against that. You¡¯re done."


    The skin on Rho¡¯s face began to sag hideously, drooping down over his throat, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable. That arrogant disapproval. Paradise couldn¡¯t help but scoff.


    "As if I¡¯d risk fighting you," she said. "This entire room is your sword. I¡¯d be cut to pieces. I¡¯m happy just to wait and watch. Besides¡­ this is much more like what you deserve."


    When Rho opened his mouth, blood poured free, but he spoke all the same.


    "Why¡­?"


    Why? Paradise felt her blood boil -- and before she could stop herself, she had lunged forward, seizing the disintegrating Rho by the collar and pulling him up to her face. She could see the reflection of her own enraged expression in those rubied eyes.


    "Clumsy?" she hissed, spittle flying from her lips. "Clumsy?! How dare you speak to me like that. How dare you."


    Paradise could see it in his eyes, though, and that only caused her anger to rise further. He didn¡¯t even remember, did he? Unbelievable.


    Before Rho could say anything else, or take another putrid breath, Paradise hurled him down to the ground -- and that was enough to finish him. There was a sickening crunch as his bones collapsed in on himself, his corpse resembling little more than a pile of bloody slop.


    Paradise wiped her shoes clean of the mess before composing herself. A position was now open among the Contenders. She had never intended to serve alongside Rho, never serving, but to replace him. She would take the place that had belonged to him¡­


    ¡­and then, in time, the place of the one above all.


    Then, and only then, would her humiliation be avenged.


    "You were quite good, if that¡¯s any consolation," Paradise said mildly, looking up at her prey with half-lidded eyes. "Unfortunately, ¡¯quite good¡¯ doesn¡¯t cut it when you¡¯re up against a Contender."


    Belias of the Black, the strange Scurrant who¡¯d challenged her, hung in the air -- his body pierced by half-a-dozen branches that had surged in from every direction. His shell had been hard, and he had been fast, but her Forest of Sin always found soft flesh eventually.


    Even now, she could see black veins spreading out from the wounds, the Forest making its influence known.


    "Your ability is weight manipulation," she said, putting one hand on her hip. "Manipulation of your own weight, to be exact. It¡¯s how you crashed down through the firmament of my Forest, and how someone like you can move so quickly. You¡¯re formidable¡­ but it was a clumsy attempt."


    Belias strained against the branches, but to no avail. They had already drained most of his strength -- and several more branches speared into his armpits just to drive the point home. The massive tortoise-man grunted in pain, but that was all he could do.


    "You¡¯re a useful shape to have around," Paradise smiled. "But I don¡¯t need you to be alive for that. I¡¯ll take that heart of yours and give you a bundle of roots instead."


    With a mere thought, her Forest responded. A massive appendage, like a thick wooden spear, descended from the ceiling -- its blade-like protrusion pointed directly at Belias¡¯ chest.


    Paradise licked her lips in anticipation, and then --


    "Farewell."


    -- there was a resounding crash as part of the wall collapsed inwards, right to her side. A collection of loyal vines plucked her from the ground and pulled her away from the debris before it could hit her, but the distraction was still enough to prevent her from delivering the killing blow. Paradise clicked her tongue as she looked up at the interloper.


    "I thought I¡¯d sent you away," she glared. "Clearly you don¡¯t know when you¡¯re not wanted."


    Yakob del Sed breathed heavily -- standing in the hole they¡¯d sliced through the wall -- their face covered with scratches, their limbs oozing blood from deep wounds. In one hand, they clutched that invisible sword. In the other, they held the severed head of one of the Forest of Sin¡¯s protrusions.


    Their glare was nearly as intense as Paradise¡¯s. "Negotiations fell through."

 Chapter 291:11.18: The Drop

    Far above the forest of Elysian Fields, the man called Skipper floated. Huge emerald wings hung behind him, like glass sculptures, but they did not flap or flutter to keep him aloft. No, it was the deafening sound blasting from his feet that kept him steady in the air.


    Atoy Muzazi could barely hear it through the haze of pain.


    He had been defeated. He understood that as soon as he regained consciousness. The attacks Zachariah Esmeralda had unleashed had been far beyond anything Muzazi could have imagined. The first Heartbeat Shotgun alone had been enough to end the fight.


    "You see?" Esmeralda said, not unsympathetically, holding Muzazi up by his ravaged collar. "Told ya it was a bad idea, my guy."


    Muzazi wheezed, blood trickling from his mouth. He wasn¡¯t sure of the exact nature of his injuries, but he knew they were severe. He couldn¡¯t see out of his left eye, and that entire side of his face pulsed with agony as the breeze drifted past it.


    The arm on that side was twisted the wrong way around, as well. He must have tried to dodge and barely been caught by the blast. He couldn¡¯t quite remember.


    Don¡¯t show him your back.


    "Be¡­ silent¡­" Muzazi pushed through the pain, slowly lifting his good arm. If he could just ignite a Radiant, he could still land an attack. From this distance, Esmeralda couldn¡¯t dodge. It was his best chance.


    If nothing else, he could make his enemy bleed.


    But it had been a naive hope from the beginning. Esmeralda¡¯s eyes flicked to look at the arm, trembling as Muzazi slowly raised it, and he sighed.


    "You don¡¯t know when to give up, huh?" he said. "Well¡­ I can sympathize. But I¡¯ve got places to be."


    There, floating high in the air, Esmeralda negated Muzazi¡¯s attack with a move that was so simple it was almost insulting.


    He let go.


    Atoy Muzazi plummeted down, limbs flapping uselessly through the air, his vision fading in and out.


    Morgan, Aclima¡­ he thought. Marie¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­ I wasn¡¯t strong enough.


    His eyes began to close -- before a final burst of will rang out through his mind, clearing the fog for just a moment.


    He wasn¡¯t defeated until he was dead. So long as he hadn¡¯t lost, he could still win. From this height, the fall would be fatal. He couldn¡¯t afford to fall unconscious. S§×ar?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Silver Aether crackled around him, more furiously than before, and a last-second thruster on his torso slowed his descent enough that his collision with the ground wasn¡¯t lethal -- just painful. He landed on his ravaged arm, and the sharp intake of breath that resulted was enough to send him into a coughing fit.


    In the sky above, Esmeralda flew out of sight with a sound like a cannon going off. Immediately, Muzazi knew the man had left. He wouldn¡¯t take the effort to finish Muzazi off. After all¡­


    ¡­he wasn¡¯t worth that time.


    Get up, he urged himself. You can¡¯t stay here. You need medical assistance.


    Yes. Medical assistance. Right now, that was his goal. Find a doctor, or a healer, or something. It was vague, but it was something to hold onto. A grip to keep himself from losing consciousness.


    Muzazi wiped his mouth as clean of blood as he could -- noting that his hand came away more red than he¡¯d anticipated -- and tried to rise to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, and it took a couple of attempts, but in the end he was able to prop himself up against a tree.


    A medic. Where would he find a medic? Someone with healing abilities wouldn¡¯t be on the front lines, surely. They¡¯d remain near the back to treat the wounded. Or would they? This wasn¡¯t a normal army, after all. There was little coordination. There was no guarantee that a healer would be in a strategically sound position.


    Aether ping. He could do that. No, he couldn¡¯t. The fog would prevent it. Awkwardly, he put his good hand to his ear, only to find that the communicator there had been shattered. He couldn¡¯t call for rescue, either.


    Atoy Muzazi was just considering what an awful situation he¡¯d found himself in when he heard the digging.


    They climbed out of the ground one by one, like humanoid landmines, spindly automatics with spears clutched in their hands. Half-a-dozen cyclopean red eyes glared at Muzazi through the white haze around them. Executioner automatics, just like the ones he¡¯d dealt with in the tunnels. Muzazi suspected it wouldn¡¯t be so easy now.


    The Executioners advanced slowly and cautiously from all directions, ready to block or dodge the instant they saw Muzazi¡¯s attack. Muzazi could only conjure a weak and frail Radiant from his good hand, waving it around threateningly to slow the Executioners¡¯ stride as much as possible.


    It wouldn¡¯t for long. When they attacked, Muzazi doubted he would even be able to dodge.


    A distance was misjudged, a movement mistimed, and the fatal moment came. Muzazi moved his Radiant slightly -- and the nearest Executioner smashed it into nothingness with a sharp wave of its spear. As Muzazi collapsed to one knee, the same Executioner lunged forward, ready to stab down with its spear and impale Muzazi through the spine.


    The shriek of the Executioner pierced through Muzazi before the weapon. Was that the last thing he¡¯d hear?


    No.


    Bang.


    In the moment before the Executioner would have impaled Muzazi, a bullet smashed through its single eye, exiting through the back of its head and sending it flying backwards. As the destroyed automatic twitched weakly on the floor, its compatriots paused, their own eyes flicking towards the new arrival.


    Marcus Grace¡¯s white coat swished against the ground as he strode through the forest, his Cogitant-blue eyes resolute. With that same grim expression on his face, he reloaded his pistol, spent cartridge dropping down into the undergrowth. He looked down at Muzazi, still on the ground.


    "On your feet, soldier," Marcus said, voice cold but not unkind. "There¡¯s work to be done."


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    Yes. There was, wasn¡¯t there? There was responsibility yet to be fulfilled. As that thought anchored itself in his mind, Muzazi¡¯s Aether responded to it, flaring up into an aurora all around him. Strength he¡¯d thought long-gone trickled into his bones as he rose to his feet -- and the Radiant he ignited in his hand this time was bright and true.


    Until he¡¯d lost, he could still win¡­


    ¡­and Atoy Muzazi had no intention of losing.


    "So," Seth Harrowing said, covering his nose to ward off the scent of burning flesh. "What now?"


    After Paxton¡¯s ¡¯spell¡¯ had completed, cutting off the enemy¡¯s communications, his sacrifices had been reduced to a meagre pile of soot in the middle of his magic circle. Seth watched as a cleaning automatic Mara had brought along dutifully cleaned up the mess.


    Paxton rubbed his long beard. "Alas, such rrregrettable impatience¡­ but I shall answer you all the same. Now that our loathsome adversaries can no longer coordinate their sufferings, we are free to pursue them individually. Our next spell shall unleash an unavoidable attack upon one of these so-called People of Interest. The one after that shall do the same, and so forth, until we have achieved victory for our group."


    "I see¡­" Seth muttered, rubbing his own chin. "So you can do attacks with this Pax Magicka too, huh?"


    "Of courrrse!" Paxton grumbled in annoyance. "So long as I understand the magical phenomena I wish to weave into existence, and I have the sacrifices good conduct demands, I can accomplish anything! Do not underestimate me, Harrrrowing!"


    "Right, right," Seth raised his hands apologetically. "My bad, partner. Thanks for the info."


    With that, he raised his gun and shot Mara Het between the eyes.


    She¡¯d finished cleaning up the circle anyway, so it was about time. The girl fell to the ground, killed instantly by an attack she hadn¡¯t expected. Blood and brain painted the tree behind her, but Seth paid it no mind. He was already moving again.


    "What are you --" Paxton cried, climbing to his feet, but too late.


    Seth slammed the grip of his gun into the old man¡¯s temple, audibly cracking the bone and sending him into an unconsciousness he was unlikely to wake from. That was fine, though. So long as he was still technically alive, that was fine.


    His dirty work done, Seth returned his revolver to its holster. He made sure to handle it with care: it had been a gift, after all.


    He¡¯d have no choice but to go chase his target after this, but that didn¡¯t mean he was willing to leave empty-handed. He wanted that wish too, after all. That was why he¡¯d spent the last hour or so coming up with this slick and easy plan.


    "The more important the sacrifice is to you," Seth spoke to the unconscious Paxton as he dragged Mara¡¯s corpse into the magic circle. "The more Pax Magicka can do, right? You said it yourself. You used this girl¡¯s cloning as the cornerstone of your ability. I doubt there¡¯s anyone else as valuable on this planet. So¡­"


    Depositing Mara, Seth stepped over to Paxton¡¯s unconscious body and squatted down next to it. Beige Aether crackling around him, he planted a hand on the old man¡¯s back.


    "...if I use her, I¡¯ll be able to pull off some real magic, huh? Forcible Ability Activation: Pax Magicka."


    A sly grin spread across his face as he put together the order in his mind, compiling the information to be transmitted to and executed by the ability.


    "...rain down hell."


    An alarm blared aboard the bridge of the Tartarus, and Ascendant-General Toll¡¯s eyes immediately flicked over to glare at it. It wasn¡¯t what he¡¯d expected.


    It wasn¡¯t a report of destruction on the ground, or of a new target making itself known, or even the elimination of a Person of Interest. No, it wasn¡¯t any of those things. It was an atmospheric warning.


    Toll put a hand to the communicator in his ear, ignoring the intolerable chatter of the others on the bridge -- Harz and the like. "Toll here. What am I seeing?"


    The voice of the operator came back uneasy, and he could hear shouting in the background there too. "We¡¯re, uh, we¡¯re not entirely sure, sir, right now we¡¯re still conducting secondary checks, so¡­"


    "Hypothesis -- give it to me."


    "Well," the operator swallowed. "There¡¯s a massive amount of debris orbiting Elysian Fields -- left over from the Revolutions. As far as -- as far as we can tell, it¡¯s being, um¡­ pulled down towards the battlefield, and it¡¯s -- it¡¯s not breaking up as much as it should."


    "So it¡¯s going to rain fire," Toll concluded before quickly hanging up. He strode towards the console and, hunched over it, bellowed his command at the same time as Winston Grace.


    "All Officers on the ground -- find shelter!"


    "All you guys get the fuck out of there!"


    Fire rained down upon Elysian Fields.


    Like stones thrown by God, one by one, huge chunks of rubble fell from the sky and slammed into the ground, sending great pillars of combustion flying up. Victims on both sides screamed their last as tidal waves of flame washed over them, and unfortunate bodies were pulverised as chunks of debris crushed them from above. The sky, choked by smoke and the blood lingering in the air, had been dyed a gruesome red.


    Muzazi and Marcus threw themselves down for cover as fire crawled above them.


    Ruth and Morgan ignored it, running in mutual flow towards their enemy.


    Bruno and Serena tightened their grip on the bark as the earth shook around them.


    Scout turned the body of the Hanged Man into a massive shield to defend the pyramid, and Roy scowled as he collected his grim bounty.


    Dragan, embedded in the rocks, squinted at the light of the fires.


    And the Supreme turned over in his sleep.


    Amidst that chaos and suffering, two people knew that their moment had come.


    Guardian Entity: Suzaku -- 99%!


    Vex of the Vermilion didn¡¯t know exactly what was going on -- but the landing pods had stopped coming down for the time being. She didn¡¯t question it. This was their chance, after all.


    The massive creature she¡¯d become, the size of a starship, launched itself off the ground in an explosion of flame -- like the flight of a rocket. Red feathers scattered through the air as the beast shot straight up, heading out of the atmosphere.


    Those nearby Special Officers who were unlucky were blown back by the launch. Those who were very unlucky were burnt to cinders.


    The beast broke through the clouds in a matter of seconds -- and for the first time, in the blazing sunlight, it was fully visible.


    The Guardian Entity Suzaku bore crimson feathers from head to toe, and with each flap of its four wings they drifted down like flower petals. Its eight white eyes, four ringed around the base of each antler, scanned the area around it and allowed it to adjust its flight path accordingly. Suzaku¡¯s massive beak protruded out, long and wide, like that of a stork.


    The fire was constant. It blazed out from vents all over its body, giving it more manoeuvrability than those massive wings could ever manage on their own. As the Guardian Entity shot up towards the stars, it looked much like a burning sun itself.


    "You ready?" Vex¡¯s voice reverberated throughout her entire body, made deep and booming by the transformation.


    Within the airtight beak, crouched down on Vex¡¯s tongue, Lilly Aubrisher nodded. She was wearing a spacesuit she¡¯d been provided, sleek and black, with a bubble helmet connected up to an oxygen tank. She smiled to herself from behind the glass.


    "Of course," she said, electricity crackling around her lips.


    Time to take the fight to the Tartarus.


    Time to take the Heir.

 Chapter 292:11.19: Strike of Lightning, Strike of Fist

    "Object rapidly approaching!"


    "Identified -- appears to be some kind of avian organism!"


    "Engaging!"


    "Fighter down! Fighter down! Mayday, mayday!"


    "Organism has automatic defenses -- repeat, automatic defenses!"


    Alexandrius Toll gritted his teeth as he looked at the monitors before him, taking in the shouts of the operators as they analyzed the threat. On the generated map, he could see the red dot that was this new enemy, surrounded by a swarm of their own white fighters -- and, without fail, each fighter that fired upon it going down. This foe was formidable.


    He swiped to the next screen, an on-board camera from one of the fighters themselves. Toll watched as the tiny starship launched its missiles at the massive bird-thing -- and continued watching as, a second later, the fighter was struck and obliterated by what looked like a bolt of blue lightning.


    "Pursue but do not engage," Toll barked onto the channel authoritatively. "We¡¯re wasting lives here. Grace, what is this?"


    Winston Grace¡¯s voice came back over the communicator. "Huh?"


    "Are you not paying attention, boy? We have a creature rapidly approaching, repelling whatever we throw at it. Analyze the threat."


    Grace had the audacity to sound annoyed. "I¡¯m analyzing things on the ground, dude. There are meteors coming down. I can¡¯t look at everything at once."


    Toll found that he was grinding his teeth once again -- an unsightly habit, but one the world seemed keen to force upon him. "Forget about the ground," he snapped. "If Caesar wants her Officers left to their own devices, then leave them. Tell me how to deal with this goddamn bird!"


    Those last few words, bellowed, earned him a wide look of surprise from Harz -- Dariah Todd Harlow seemed to have left -- but Toll ignored it. He¡¯d had enough of sitting up here quietly while idiots fought the battle below, killing each other just as much as the enemy. If the adversary was going to present itself to him, he would deal with it his own way.


    There was a moment of silence, and Toll barked down the communicator again: "Grace!"


    "Fine, fine," Winston sighed, before launching into his spiel: "Well, just from looking at it, I¡¯d say it¡¯s not a naturally occurring organism, but that¡¯s kinda obvious -- it¡¯s flying around in space, after all. It shouldn¡¯t be able to produce flames like that, either, so definitely some kind of engineered creature with Aether enhancement and alteration on top of that. The way it¡¯s moving isn¡¯t just animal instinct, as well -- there¡¯s definitely human intelligence at the wheel. Hard to buy remote control with this kind of precision, so this is a person who¡¯s turned themselves into that."


    Toll rubbed the bridge of his nose. "This doesn¡¯t help us stop them, boy."


    "You¡¯ll notice they¡¯ve been using those electricity blasts to automatically retaliate against attacks, but I¡¯ve also spotted it firing them on targets that haven¡¯t attacked yet. I¡¯m guessing that electricity ability works both automatically and on command, then, depending on what¡¯s needed. Despite that, though, they haven¡¯t launched any attacks on the Tartarus itself. Why do you suppose that is?"


    It took Toll only a moment. "They plan to board us?"


    "Exactly. I¡¯m guessing that while things are chaotic down there, this guy plans to come up here and disrupt our chain of command. One of the people on their kill list is probably me," he said casually. "But the fact they¡¯re not attacking directly means there are targets they need alive, too. Hence, they¡¯re going to try to board us. Hence, we need to secure whoever they¡¯re going after."


    Toll closed his eyes as he took in a deep breath. It didn¡¯t take a genius to reach the conclusion here. The person this miscreant would be going after would be someone who¡¯d be valuable as a hostage, and not such a threat that they needed to be eliminated outright.


    With another flick of his wrist, Toll switched the communication channel and roared his command.


    "Men! Secure the Heir!"


    Ash del Duran kept his eyes closed as he meditated upon the mat. He did not squeeze his eyes closed, nothing so forceful, but instead allowed them to peacefully rest. When meditating, it was vital for all of a person, save their mind, to be in a state of utter relaxation.


    Even with his eyes closed, though, he could sense what was in the room around him. This was not an Aether ability. It was simply a proficiency in reading the shifting of the air around him, listening to the most minute of sounds, and building a map in his head around it.


    Most people who developed Aether came to rely upon it. With his curse, Ash del Duran did not have that kind of luxury. S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He crawled into his Aether core without actually activating his Aether, immersing himself in that feeling of yearning that brought his strength forth. It did not matter what he yearned for. So long as he desired something, so long as he had to extend his arm to the limit to grasp it, his power swelled.


    Yearning could be for anything, but it could not be for nothing. That was the death-drive, an entirely different sensation. What did Ash yearn for today? The same thing as always.


    Glory.


    A great deed to be etched upon his grave. He had now accepted that he would die sooner rather than later -- he was a born fighter, and could not tear himself away from that world. The only thing that remained was to live a life of prominence before the timepiece of his life ticked to its inevitable end.


    This new posting, a member of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir¡­ he could sense that this was the path he needed. To safeguard the future of the galaxy was a great thing indeed. Heroes of the Seven Blades -- and its predecessor organizations -- lived on through their legends even now. The Heroes of Form, the Triumvirate, Marlan Howe¡­ would the name Ash del Duran one day be spoken of in the same way? It was the only thing he could hope for.


    That is, if he could do the job.


    His eyes snapped open and he rose silently to his feet, looking around the room. The Heir herself had fallen asleep on the couch, curled up into a ball, the comedy videograph across from her blaring without an audience. She showed no signs of noticing the danger that had just appeared, but that was only natural. Even most Aether-users wouldn¡¯t have noticed it.


    The distant shudder of the hull, and a creak at an unnatural moment. That was all that Ash del Duran needed to know the situation -- the Tartarus had been breached, something smashing through the side of the massive cruiser. If it wasn¡¯t accompanied by explosions, that suggested they¡¯d been boarded, not bombarded.


    In which case, the Supreme Heir would be one of their targets without a doubt.


    Ash stepped across the carpet, his footsteps still silent, and gently shook the Heir awake. She blearily opened her eyes, untied hair falling over her face, a low groan trickling from her throat. With a yawn, she swept some of her hair back with a hand.


    "What¡­?" she mumbled, distantly annoyed.


    Ash did not mince his words. "The Tartarus is under attack. We have been boarded. There will be people coming to kidnap or kill you."


    That woke up the girl more efficiently than any cup of coffee ever could. Her eyes widening, she fumbled herself up into a sitting position, her bed-head sticking out crazily in every direction.


    "What?!" she cried.


    "The Tartarus is under attack. We have been boarded. There will be people coming to kidnap or kill you," Ash clarified.


    Aclima threw herself off the couch, hauling up the greatsword that had been resting against it. The weapon was far too big for her, and far too heavy, but she insistently dragged it along the floor anyway. "Well, what do we do?" she asked.


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    Ash put a hand to his chin and considered the quandary. The room they were staying in wasn¡¯t the one they¡¯d registered with the ship¡¯s steward, so anyone tracking them based on the ship¡¯s manifest shouldn¡¯t be able to find them¡­ but for some reason, Ash found himself uneasy.


    He¡¯d learnt long ago that it was a good idea to listen to yourself in such situations.


    "We¡¯ll go to the bridge," he decided. "Where the Ascendant-General and the other command staff will be. That¡¯s the best course of action."


    "Okay," Aclima nodded breathlessly, turning on her heel to run for the door as fast as her weapon would allow --


    -- when the lights went out.


    When Lily Aubrisher had first seen the starship back on Hexkay, she¡¯d thought it was some kind of great wonder. A lost treasure, a legendary vessel, that kind of thing. Certainly unique, at least.


    But ever since emerging into the galaxy at large, she¡¯d come to discover that ships like this were a dime-a-dozen.


    Lily had smashed right through the wall of the hallway with one fist, grasped hold of the cables behind it -- and taken communion. The power that had been coursing through the ship was instead redirected into her body, greedily absorbing nearly all the electricity the vessel possessed.


    She left just enough energy for gravity and life support, but only because removing those would make her own mission inconvenient as well.


    As she drank, the bright lights around them flicked off, plunging them into darkness -- the only illumination being the lightning racing over her skin. Finally, satisfied that she¡¯d crippled the Tartarus, Lily released the cable and let it flop uselessly to the ground.


    "You good?" she called out to Vex over her shoulder.


    "Sure am. Just flew through space, you know, but I¡¯m fine. Just great. Just fought off like fifty fighters, but you know. All good." Vex sounded sarcastic, but she was entirely genuine. Lily had come to learn that long ago.


    The other woman had reverted to her 10% form -- retaining only the crimson wings of Suzaku over her shoulders -- but she¡¯d left a thick cover of giant red feathers embedded in the hole they¡¯d made in the hull. Those feathers were stronger than any shield, and absolutely airtight. Melded into the metal as they were, they would serve just as well as the hull itself had. At the very least, nobody was going to get sucked out into the vacuum of space.


    "You remember the info?" Lily asked. "You¡¯ve got the Heir."


    With that same deadpan expression on her face, Vex tapped her temple. "Memorized. Are you gonna be fine on your own, though. There¡¯s gonna be, like, a lot of them, right."


    Lily grinned. "I¡¯ll be just fine. The more, the merrier. It¡¯s not much of a distraction if it isn¡¯t loud, yeah?"


    She¡¯d already seen it during the absorption -- the destination she¡¯d need to make her way to, where the electricity was concentrated and arranged in that telltale way. A briefing room, with all sorts of monitors and communications equipment. That was where the person directing operations on the ground would be.


    That was her target.


    Winston Grace, sliding his fingers over the holographic table to inspect different parts of the battlefield, suddenly paused.


    His sister Beatrice, watching over him from behind with crossed arms, frowned. "What is it?" she asked. She knew her brother well enough to know this was not a face meant for good news.


    He didn¡¯t answer straight away. Winston just clicked his tongue, took the stylus in his hand, and scratched his hair with it as he looked down at the hologram. The meteor storm had devastated the surface of Elysian Fields, great infernos raging through and devouring the forests, even if the pyramid itself was still hanging in there.


    When the lights had gone out, the technicians had hooked the briefing room up to an emergency generator -- the lights were dim and the models of the holograms low-quality, but that didn¡¯t seem to be the cause of Winston¡¯s trepidation.


    "I might die in the next couple of minutes," he finally said, sighing.


    The declaration caused quite a stir. They weren¡¯t alone in the briefing room -- far from it, with logistical and communications staff gathered to operate equipment and pass along information. Half-a-dozen pale faces turned towards Winston in alarm, but he paid them no mind. He just continued to play with his holographic board.


    Beatrice, for her part, wasted no time. With practiced grace, she unclipped two knives from her sash and gripped them backwards in her hands, already prepared to gouge at flesh and saw at bone. In the back of her mind, she focused on the time Winston had broken her script when they were kids -- and dark blue Aether flared in response to her core of annoyance.


    "What are we looking at?" she asked, all business, ignoring the alarmed looks from those around her. "How many enemies?"


    "Just one," Winston held up a single finger, as if she¡¯d never heard of numbers before. "The person using the automatic attacks is different from the person who turned into the bird. You noticed, right? One used lightning and the other used fire. I don¡¯t know why, but Aether-users tend to stick to a specific aesthetic."


    "So which one¡¯s coming?" Beatrice asked.


    As she spoke, she dropped to one knee, inspecting the equipment she¡¯d brought along. Smoke bombs, taser discs, syringes of lethal poison¡­ everything seemed to be in good enough condition. Her ability, Pariah, seemed to be in working order as well.


    "No way of knowing," Winston said casually. "It¡¯s one of the two, anyway. Whichever one isn¡¯t coming to kill me will be going after the Heir."


    "Right¡­ okay," Beatrice nodded, rising to her feet. Her gaze turned to the rest of the staff. "If you guys don¡¯t want to die, I¡¯d suggest you evacuate."


    "Huh?" Winston blinked -- and, a second later, remembered that they were not alone. "Oh, yeah. You guys run for it or whatever."


    They didn¡¯t need to be told twice. The gathered personnel rushed out as quickly as their legs would take them, leaving just Winston and Beatrice in the dimly lit room. Beatrice, tossing her knives up and down in her hands, took up a position in front of the briefing table -- her eyes fixed on the entrance.


    When they were young, Winston had taken to solving murders, and Beatrice had taken to perfecting them. This was her arena.


    She¡¯d have a kill ready and waiting for whoever was coming.


    This part of the Tartarus was usually occupied by diplomats and other temporary visitors -- more like a hotel than something you¡¯d expect to see on a military starship. Plush red carpet lay underfoot, softening their footsteps as they ran. The wooden upholstery and zig-zag wallpaper were almost enough to make you forget you were in space at all.


    During its time above Elysian Fields, the Tartarus had used these quarters to house the many, many, many Special Officers who had responded to the Supreme¡¯s summons. On one hand, that had made it easy for Master Muzazi to hide the Supreme Heir¡¯s location among so many new faces and names.


    On the other hand, now that most of those same Special Officers were either on the planet below or waiting in the pod bays¡­ this part of the Tartarus was distressingly empty.


    Ash put a hand on the Supreme Heir¡¯s shoulder as they transitioned from the faux-comfortable aesthetic of the private quarters to the cold hallways of the Tartarus proper. Red carpet and tacky wallpaper were both replaced by sleek white material that made their footsteps click. The wooden upholstery was gone, and the closest thing to decorations were the small portholes that looked out into the void of space.


    The darkness was such that they could only see by flashlight, but as the shadows danced across the Heir¡¯s face, Ash could see that she was terrified.


    He¡¯d heard stories, but it was still a surprise. To think the Supreme Heir was still such an unpolished stone¡­


    After some looking around, Ash found what he¡¯d been looking for. A metal cabinet built into the wall, for situations such as this. The door was jammed, and took some persuasion, but Ash got it open quickly: revealing the payload within.


    Folded-up disposal bicycles, hung up in rows.


    A ship like the Tartarus was huge -- moving through it wasn¡¯t as simple as walking. A tram ran down the middle of the ship to transport workers to different sectors, and elevators handled vertical travel, but in a situation like this, methods like that weren¡¯t reliable. No, without power, these bicycles were the most efficient means of getting around.


    If nothing else, he was sure this girl was proficient enough to ride a bike.


    He was just about to turn around to offer the Heir a bicycle of her own when he sensed it. That shift in the air, that tiny breath, that concealed footstep. In an instant, Ash moved into action -- pushing the Heir behind him with mechanical efficiency and assuming a combat stance.


    One palm held out, ready to receive and reject the world.


    Click. Click. Click.


    As if sensing that it was pointless, the footsteps had ceased concealing themselves. Ash waited, body in a state of relaxed readiness, eyes fixed on the other end of the hallway -- at the corner that would present his adversary. He had wished for glory as a member of the Seven Blades. This was his chance to achieve that.


    "What¡¯s going on?" the Heir said, voice hushed and fearful.


    Ash ignored it.


    The figure strode around the corner. Two red wings, feathered and fiery. Long blue hair with red tips. Black antlers, twisted and spiked like the thorns of a rose. More crimson feathers, floating freely through the air, hovering around the woman as she revealed herself.


    Ash took in all the information presented to him. It was unnatural that she¡¯d found them so quickly. An Aether ping wouldn¡¯t have done her any good against a pinpoint user and a normal human, so she must have used another method. Most likely those floating feathers held some kind of scouting ability.


    "I offer you a chance to leave with your life," he said calmly. "Persist and you will die."


    He did not shift his stance at all as he spoke. The only thing that moved was his mouth, as if he was a statue aspiring to life. He could feel the Heir trembling behind him.


    Perhaps this will be good for her, he thought to himself. She will see how she is expected to deal with threats.


    "Oh, wow," the girl said, her voice dull. "You seem like a strong guy. I was hoping I wouldn¡¯t have to fight a strong guy. I thought maybe it could be an easy thing. Oh. This sucks. This is the worst."


    Ash narrowed his eyes. "I offer you a chance to leave with your life," he clarified. "Persist and you will die."


    For a moment, there was silence, and he could see the gears turning behind the woman¡¯s face. Then, however, her wings just shrugged behind her -- and the slightest unhappy smile spread across her lips.


    "Guess I¡¯ll die, then."


    Without another word, the woman charged.

 Chapter 293:11.20: Fire and Ash

    Six Months Ago¡­


    Snow drifted down from what was now the Hexkay sky, settling atop the houses and streets of the capital. Vex Terna paid it no mind.


    From where she was standing, there was no way to tell whether her shivering was coming from the cold or from fear. Her hands gripped the freezing railing behind her as though her life depended on it -- and, to be truthful, it did. She looked down, and felt her head swim at the dizzying distance between herself and the ground.


    She swallowed.


    It was strange. She thought she¡¯d already been resolved, when she¡¯d come in to work today. She¡¯d joined the other members of her crew -- hired to help with the reconstruction of the Regulatory -- and made her way up the roof as planned. Yes, as planned. Everything had gone as planned. So why was she still standing here?


    Just let go, she urged herself, whispering to that vice-like grip. It¡¯ll only be scary for a second. Then, it¡¯ll be nothing. Don¡¯t worry.


    For months now, ever since the battle of the capitol, Vex had felt as if the world was crushing her. When the monsters had run rampant through the streets, devouring and destroying everything in their path, she had been the only survivor of her family -- saved by happenstance more than anything else.


    She¡¯d been faced with the prospect of a life lived alone -- and then found out she was more alone than she¡¯d even imagined.


    Ships sailing through the sky. People from other worlds. A whole galaxy of civilization, hopelessly more advanced than their own. The second she¡¯d learned those things, her own insignificance had become stark and undeniable. All her dreams, when she cared to remember them, seemed to just trail off into¡­ nothing.


    From that moment, her path up to this roof had been set.


    So why couldn¡¯t she just jump?


    Perhaps the gods had plans for her. No, the gods were lies. Ancient aliens. They had learned that too. Their traditions, their legends, their very way of life was just something to be laughed at by those who knew better. Their world a cargo cult.


    Then jump, she urged herself. You¡¯re alone. The universe is indifferent. It won¡¯t get any better than this.


    The words felt true, but she still couldn¡¯t do it. The more she looked down, the further the distance to the ground -- to the streets below -- seemed. Perhaps she¡¯d never hit the ground, and just keep falling forever. The thought sent a whole new shiver down her spine.


    Do it, do it, do it, do it¡­


    Her foot hovered over the void -- and the sheer absence there was enough to change her mind. Driven by a sudden animal panic, she turned and went to clamber back over the railing, but¡­


    ¡­it was winter.


    ¡­it was cold.


    ¡­it was slippery.


    Vex¡¯s foot did not find the purchase it had expected, and with a muted horror she felt herself falling backwards. Her hands, having finally released the railing, grasped uselessly at empty air. Vex only realized in the moment before she fell.


    I don¡¯t want to die.


    Boom.


    White light washed over Vex¡¯s face as she heard the lightning -- and before she could fall any further, she felt a hand seize her wrist. She¡¯d been forced to close her eyes against the sudden violent light, but as she opened them again she recognised the face before her. How could she not?


    This was the woman who¡¯d opened up the world, after all.


    Lily Aubrisher.


    "Gods," Aubrisher said, pulling Vex up. "Are you okay?!"


    Lightning flashed, and people died.


    Lily Aubrisher¡¯s speed was such that the hallways and rooms she rushed through were little more than blurs -- but even so, she made certain that all her enemies fell. She¡¯d gotten used to killing a long time ago.


    As a streak of white-hot electricity, she leapt over the swing of a claymore and sent a surge of power into the open mouth of the man who¡¯d swung it. He fell back onto the floor, still, smoke rising from his burnt-open sockets. S§×arch* The N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Another soldier tore his prosthetic arm off and the discarded limb transformed into a massive fly, buzzing after Lily as it pursued her. One shock was enough to incinerate it, and the second -- aimed at the soldier -- was enough to make his heart pop in his chest. He died without a visible wound.


    She moved and she moved, she killed and she killed.


    A kick was enough to sever a limb, a punch enough to crush a skull. The resistance that Lily Aubrisher met as she made her way through the Tartarus would have been enough to kill most people several times over, but she had not been hit once. Her power was Raiju¡¯s, and Raiju¡¯s power was absolute.


    As Lily made her way through the ship, crossing a distance in seconds that would have taken many minutes for an ordinary human, she did her best to stay focused on the task at hand. It had been a massacre back on Elysian Fields -- she¡¯d seen that. If she could take out the coordinator and lessen the load on her comrades even a little, then she¡¯d devote everything she had to that task.


    But Vex¡­ would she really do alright, going after the Heir on her own?


    Lily dispelled the thought. Vex was not weak, by any means. As the first of the Cardinal Beasts, she was the closest to achieving the 100% fusion with her Guardian Entity that Lily possessed. If there was anyone that Lily could trust with such a task, it was Vex.


    She had to tell herself that. Decisions had already been made. Predetermined paths had already been laid out before them.


    All they could do was reap what they¡¯d sown.


    "Which idiot activated the lockdown?" Ascendant-General Toll muttered under his breath as he rounded the corner to the tram station. Heavy shutters had lowered down to block the path, just as they had done in the last few hallways.


    The captain of the Tartarus, Gladstone, adjusted his tie as he walked after Toll. "You indicated there were intruders aboard the ship. I merely proceeded appropriately. Procedure is quite clear in such cases, sir."


    Toll gritted his teeth. "Procedure is to lockdown the immediate area surrounding the intruder, not the entire ship."


    Gladstone scratched his ear. "Well, this did become apparent shortly after the order was given, but at that point --"


    "At that point the power went down," Toll finished. "And the damage was done."


    A nod. "Quite so."


    Alexandrius Toll could have wept. What had the world come to? This whole operation was an utter disaster.


    They had an ¡¯army¡¯ of maniacs down on the planet below, thrown there with no orders, killing each other just as much as they killed the enemy. The actual army was up here in the ship twiddling their thumbs -- and because the Supreme had wanted to commence the attack as soon as possible, the Tartarus was the only cruiser stationed here, leaving them with no backup to protect their strategy center. If all that wasn¡¯t enough, the captain of the Tartarus was the kind of idiot who blamed procedure and happenstance for his own idiocy.


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    At his last checkup, Toll¡¯s doctor had told him to avoid this sort of stress -- that it would lead him to an early grave. It seemed the world was keen on inflicting it all the same.


    He glanced at the technician trying to override the door controls. "Progress?"


    The young man turned his head, pale and apologetic. He shook his head and opened his mouth to say something -- but Toll had no need to hear it.


    "Move aside," the Ascendant-General commanded, and the technician quickly obeyed.


    Toll took a deep breath, extending his arm, and periwinkle Aether began to crawl along the length of his limb. He closed his eyes for just a moment to focus himself, to banish all distraction -- and when he opened them again, they were burning with angry white light.


    "Sevenfold Serpent!" he roared. "Tsunami!"


    As the name suggested, seven massive serpents exploded forth from Toll¡¯s arm, their intertwined tails engulfing his shoulder. They were composed entirely of water, with eyes and teeth of seafoam, like miracle structures -- and, as one, they lunged for the sealed door. It was the work of a moment for them to sink their teeth into the metal and wrench it open. Through the jagged gap they¡¯d opened, the empty tramway could be seen.


    Gladstone gaped at the damage. "With -- with all respect, sir, this is my ship, you can¡¯t just --"


    Toll¡¯s eyes slid over to him. In the Supremacy, a captain was king of his own ship, but what kind of king was this?


    Jason Gladstone, 43 years old. Planet of origin was Mallerna Heights. Enlisted in the military directly through combat school, switched to the naval track two years later, but lingered in mediocrity because he was -- to be frank -- a mediocre man. The only reason he now had command of this ship was because he had made himself a pawn of the Body, gladly obeying the orders of the Three Wise Men at their head. Another symptom of the disease destroying the Supremacy.


    No great loss.


    Toll took his shotgun from his holster, pointed it at Gladstone¡¯s face, and fired. Needless to say, he was killed instantly -- his headless corpse falling to the floor like a pile of discarded clothing. The splatter of skull and brains that painted the wall behind him could easily be cleaned up.


    "Under my authority as Ascendant-General of the Supremacy, I am assuming direct command of this vessel," Toll declared, returning his smoking shotgun to its holster. "Any objections?"


    There were none. Not surprising -- incompetents like Gladstone were never popular with the men they led.


    Toll¡¯s nose wrinkled as he looked down at the corpse. "Hazzard," he called over his shoulder. "Get rid of this."


    Ascendant-General Toll never went anywhere without his personal guard. Even in private meetings, they were never far -- even if they couldn¡¯t be seen. People called these six elites the Honest Men, and Toll had come to appreciate their quiet competence over the years.


    Gregori Hazzard stepped out of the shadows, his blonde hair hanging over his face, revealing only a single crimson eye and a nose so twisted it must have been badly broken a long time ago. He wore a white military cap and jacket over a black bodysuit, and -- as he kneeled over the bleeding corpse of Gladstone -- he seemed utterly devoid of passion. This was what Toll looked for in his subordinates.


    "Paper Moon," Gregori muttered, chalk-white Aether dancing between his fingers.


    It took him only a few seconds. He folded Gladstone¡¯s body over itself again and again and again, each fold accompanied by a sickening crack, until the former captain¡¯s body was a flat object roughly the size of a fingernail. Then, without further ceremony, he tossed it into a nearby waste receptacle.


    Gregori did not ask how they would proceed. He didn¡¯t make comments about the situation, or offer unwanted advice. He just silently looked to Toll and awaited his next orders.


    Ideal.


    "Honest Men," Toll declared. "You six shall accompany me to intercept the intruders. Gregori and Phillips will guard our strategy center -- the rest of us will go after the Heir. Understood?"


    They said nothing, but they did not need to. Their compliance was a matter of course.


    He flexed his bicep, and the seven serpents detached, all bar one individually slithering over to the Honest Men. Toll plunged his arm into the side of the water-serpent that had stayed with him, submerging it up to the elbow, and each of his elite subordinates did the same with their own snake.


    Then, as one, they allowed their new steeds to pull them along -- down the empty tramway, and towards the fight.


    The winged woman kicked off the ground with a burst of flame, surging down the hallway towards Ash and the Heir.


    Ash del Duran did not waste a moment. In one smooth movement, he hurled the bicycle in his hand up into the air, kicked it towards the enemy at blinding speeds, and launched off the ground himself to pursue it. Before the bicycle could strike the woman, she smashed it out of the way with her crimson wings -- but that only created an opening for Ash himself to attack.


    The woman thrust her fist forward towards Ash¡¯s chest, but he slinked out of the way -- and, as the two crossed paths, he held out his pinkie finger and weaved an indistinct movement against the opponent¡¯s exposed arm.


    Aether brought forth for just 0.2 seconds, concentrated in the very corner of the nail of his pinkie finger. When it came to precise usage, Ash was unmatched. For good measure, he delivered two lightning-fast jabs to her wings.


    As Ash stepped behind the woman, she swiped at him once again -- but he merely jumped up and kicked off of it, flipping down the hallway. A second later, the wound he¡¯d inflicted made itself known: a series of thin bloody cuts all up the length of the woman¡¯s forearm, concentrated around the wrist.


    The bleeding would be tremendous. This was the first of Ash¡¯s experiments.


    Guardian Entity: Suzaku -- 11%.


    It was the work of a moment. Red feathers spread over the woman¡¯s arm, covering the gashes for a split-second¡­


    Guardian Entity: Suzaku -- 10%.


    ¡­and when the feathers retreated, the wounds had vanished.


    "I see," Ash said calmly, taking a step back to increase the distance between them. "You have a transformation ability, correct? By transforming just a tad and then reversing it, you temporarily boost your regeneration. Very clever."


    The woman narrowed her eyes. "You¡¯re not. You¡¯re not a smart guy, huh."


    Ash held his combat stance, open palm extended. "Oh?" he said, still so quiet. "How is that?"


    The woman¡¯s voice remained that dull monotone. "It¡¯s obvious, guy. I can¡¯t believe you haven¡¯t figured it out. You¡¯re seriously dumb as rocks. You suck. When you were standing with that Heir girl, I couldn¡¯t attack you right without hitting her."


    The red feathers of her wings began to flare.


    "But now you¡¯re all on your own. That¡¯s why you suck." For the first time, a barely perceptible smile crossed the girl¡¯s lips.


    Ash reacted before the attack fired, and that was what saved him.


    Accompanied by a blaze of flame, thirteen feathers -- Ash counted them -- fired themselves out of the woman¡¯s wings and towards her opponent. Because he¡¯d been ready, Ash was just able to match their speed -- his hands lashing out as blurs and plucking the projectiles out of the air, holding them between two fingers.


    He stood amidst a blizzard, his clothes discarded, his form open to the world.


    The frown on the girl¡¯s face wasn¡¯t because she¡¯d had her attack blocked -- Ash recognised that -- but because she¡¯d had her greater plan thwarted.


    "These are terribly hot, aren¡¯t they?" Ash said, holding up the feathers as they glowed red in his grip. Steam rose from his fingers as sweat evaporated, but no burn marred Ash¡¯s flesh. "You hoped I¡¯d injure myself by catching them, but unfortunately that¡¯s not the case. Attacks of this temperature are useless against my body imaging."


    The winged woman¡¯s eyes narrowed as she clearly decided to play along. "Your what," she asked.


    "Body imaging," Ash smiled. "It¡¯s not an Aether ability, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re wondering. You know how when you think about biting into a popsicle, you feel cold?"


    The woman furrowed her brow. "What."


    "You know how when you think about biting into a popsicle, you feel cold?" Ash clarified.


    "What the hell¡¯s a popsicle. I don¡¯t get it."


    "Ah," Ash nodded. "A cultural barrier. A popsicle is a cold and tasty treat. At any rate, when you think about biting into something cold, you feel cold, don¡¯t you? You might even find yourself shivering from the imaginary freeze. Body imaging takes that principle to its utmost. Just through mental exercises, I can will my body to adjust its temperature however I like. A perfect countermeasure to these feathers of yours." To illustrate his point, he dropped the feathers, allowing them to fall to the floor and combust. "Although I have to be careful not to get frostbite."


    The woman just blinked at that explanation -- her expression suggesting she didn¡¯t quite get it -- before cracking her neck and advancing. "Whatever. I don¡¯t care. You¡¯re a weird guy. Completely strange. So all I want to do right now is --"


    Her body jerked forward as there were two resounding pops -- and at the same time, the parts of her wings that Ash had jabbed earlier exploded outwards. Blood spattered across the hallway floor, and two jagged holes were opened up in her wingspan. Despite her best efforts, she couldn¡¯t quite stop the cry of pain from escaping her throat.


    "Slothful Fist," Ash continued, not having moved an inch. "Through precise strikes, I caused considerable pressure to begin building up inside your body. This, too, is not an Aether ability. My name is Ash del Duran. Now you can name yourself."


    Her face was painted with pain as she looked up from the bloodstained floor, and the holes in her wings were slowly and gruesomely closing, but the woman answered all the same.


    "Vex Terna¡­" she grunted.


    "Good," Ash said, looking down at her. "Now we are acquainted. And so¡­ we can kill each other properly."


    Then, and only then, did Ash del Duran truly attack.

 Chapter 294:11.21: Phoenix

    By compressing a joint in a human body and then quickly dislocating it, a sudden burst of force could be created. Welin-hath -- the Law of Constriction. With it, a single finger could strike as hard as a pistol.


    This was not an Aether ability.


    Ash del Duran fired force from each of his knuckles as he planted his fist right into Vex Terna¡¯s chest, feeling the ribs splinter before his strength. The woman breathed in sharply, a breath that was surely made agonizing by broken bones -- and in the same instant, she went flying backwards.


    With her regeneration, that would not keep her down for long. Ash kicked off the ground, pursuing her, clicking his knuckles back into place as he ran. He didn¡¯t like to overuse Welin-hath -- the pain the technique produced was severe -- but against an opponent like this he wouldn¡¯t hold anything back.


    As Vex flipped in the air, she fired another volley of burning feathers towards Ash -- and he, already prepared, kicked up the bicycle that had been left lying on the floor. He caught it in mid-air, using it as a shield against the barrage, and tossed the vehicle aside just as it began to melt from the heat.


    If possible, he¡¯d prefer to avoid body imaging too much. Self-inflicted cold could do just as much damage as this woman¡¯s flames.


    Before Vex reached the ground, the holes in her wings finally closed -- and with a mighty flap, she stopped her flight and sent a burst of wind surfing down the hallway. Ash, nearly upon her once again, had no choice but to temporarily cease his pursuit and brace himself -- arms held up to withstand the onslaught.


    0.5 seconds of Aether, just as the pressure swept past him, concentrated in just the parts of his body he needed to stay still. Individual joints and muscles, never entire limbs -- the less Aether he needed to use, and the less time he used it, the better.


    The instant the wind swept past, Ash charged forward again, fists already raised to attack Vex.


    At this close range, she clearly thought she¡¯d have better luck with the feathers -- and she fired another volley, aimed wildly, hoping that at least one would make it through his defenses. Naive. 0.1 seconds of Aether, concentrated on twenty-two areas of barely an inch each, was enough to deflect them.


    As the feathers bounced off their targets and flew behind Ash, he pulled his fists back, ready to unleash a fatal flurry of punches --


    -- but he had miscalculated.


    As the feathers had flown behind him, they had come back together -- fusing into a solid mass, a noose. In an instant, it threw itself around his neck and began to pull him up towards the ceiling -- where the other end of the noose had attached itself. Ash¡¯s hands, which had just been ready to begin punching, instead clawed at the loop that was choking the life out of him.


    It seemed he¡¯d been the naive one after all.


    If I were you, I¡¯d kill myself. I really mean that.


    The words echoed in Aclima¡¯s mind, just as they had done for the last few weeks. The cruel judgment of Baltay Kojirough, the man who had watched over her for years. Even though he was now locked away, his words still lingered in her memory -- resurfacing most often when she was lying awake in bed.


    They made themselves known once again now, as Aclima did nothing but watch while Ash del Duran fought to protect her.


    As he was buffeted by feathers, she had done nothing but watch.


    As he was pulled up towards the ceiling, she had done nothing but watch.


    As he was choked to death, she was doing nothing but watching.


    What was wrong with her? Hadn¡¯t she already decided she was going to be strong from now on? Was she really going to prove Kojirough right?


    If I were you, I¡¯d kill myself.


    Then she wouldn¡¯t be her anymore. She¡¯d find someone better.


    Aclima let out an ear-splitting scream as she charged at this Vex Terna, greatsword clutched in her hands. She still didn¡¯t have Aether, but Ash barely used it either, and he¡¯d managed to put this woman on the backfoot, hadn¡¯t he? So as long as she remembered her training, she could make it through this.


    The blade is methodical, Nigen Rush had told her. A scalpel by which you dissect fate. Do not allow emotion to move what should remain still.


    And so she screamed, and so she charged, but she remained calm all the same. Her soul was ice as she swung her sword with all her strength -- right at Vex¡¯s neck. The woman was still mid-turn, having gone to whirl around as soon as she¡¯d heard Aclima¡¯s scream. With her wingspan slowing her turn in this cramped hallway, that created an opening.


    She wouldn¡¯t get a better moment than this. Aclima slammed the blade into Vex¡¯s throat --


    -- and the momentum of her slash stopped completely.


    The blade shook in her hands as Aclima tried, tried, to force it -- but with no luck. Even with all her strength behind the slash, her sword was incapable of even piercing this woman¡¯s skin. It was like she was made of solid steel.


    Vex blinked as the blade shuddered under her chin. "Sorry." she said, voice still dead -- as if this didn¡¯t even qualify as an attack. "Don¡¯t take it personally. You¡¯re really weak, though."


    In the end, without Aether, this was all she was capable of.


    If I were you, I¡¯d kill myself.


    Just as that thought was settling at the bottom of Aclima¡¯s stomach, she heard a sudden wrenching sound -- and her eyes darted up to Ash.


    He¡¯d used the moment of distraction she¡¯d given him well. As the noose had pulled him upwards, he¡¯d flipped upside-down, planted his feet against the ceiling, and pushed with all strength -- tearing free the ceiling tile that the noose was attached to.


    As he fell back towards Vex, he swung his neck to spin the noose -- and, more importantly, to swing the slab of concrete stuck to the end of the feathered rope. Like a flail, it struck Vex in the face, exploding into chunks and sending her staggering backwards -- the dust blinding her for a final fatal instant.


    Aclima watched, wide-eyed, as finally¡­


    ¡­ Ash del Duran landed in front of his opponent.


    ¡­ Ash del Duran took a deep breath.


    ¡­ Ash del Duran punched.


    0.1 seconds of Aether, repeatedly, at the very moment of impact. It concentrated into the very tips of Ash¡¯s knuckles. It was barely even visible, the orange sparks easily mistakable for a trick of the light.


    This Aether was not being used to increase the strength of Ash¡¯s punches. This Aether was being used to stop his hands shattering from the natural force of his punches.


    As he punched, Ash¡¯s face was expressionless. There was no joy, no sorrow, no regret. The time for such things had passed when the fight had concluded, the moment Vex had looked away from him. The finishing blow was just a formality.


    Well, finishing blows, in this case.


    Like a machine, Ash rained down punch after punch upon his opponent, surely shattering each and every bone he came into contact with. Those red wings were crushed into pulp, feathers flying in every direction. That face was bruised until it was unrecognizable. That body, barely visible behind the blur of Ash¡¯s arms, slowly turned a bloody red.


    Finally, once his opponent had been thoroughly embedded into the wall, Ash turned away. Steam gently rose from the fists clenched at his sides.


    For her part, Vex Terna was valiant. Even with all the damage Ash had inflicted, she began to tear herself out of the wall, concrete spilling around her as she struggled against her own ravaged body. With a final brutal tug, she freed herself from her prison, standing once again before her adversary.


    But it was too late.


    "Slothful Fist," said Ash del Duran.


    Flesh tore itself open from the inside, and blood showered down upon Ash. Vex, her body punctured at each and every point at which she¡¯d been struck, looked down as if bewildered at the sheer red billowing out from her form. Her eyes grew somehow more solid, more cold, as if some vital spark was disappearing from them¡­


    ¡­as she slowly, slowly fell forward.


    I don¡¯t want to die.


    The last spark of a fading mind, the last thought before the long sleep. An anchor that could keep her in place, if only for a moment. The rung on a ladder on the side of the cliff. Something to keep her from falling into the oblivion below.


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author¡¯s preferred platform and support their work!


    I don¡¯t want to die.


    There were things she had to do. Responsibilities that had to be upheld. She was the first of the Cardinal Beasts. Even if it was a self-given title, even if it didn¡¯t mean anything to anyone except for her, even if it had no place here¡­ it was hers. It was her. There was a place for her in this world.


    I don¡¯t want to die.


    She¡¯d been trusted, hadn¡¯t she? Given a job. Lily Aubrisher had faith in her. The woman who¡¯d taken a god¡¯s power for her own had faith in her. A person existed only through their connections with others.


    Would she really die here and make Lily look like a fool?


    I don¡¯t want to die.


    I won¡¯t die.


    I can¡¯t die.


    Her foot planted itself down on the ground, keeping her from falling.


    Her eyes blazed into new life, keeping her from fading.


    Her voice emerged from her throat as a roar, emotion she hadn¡¯t sent out into the world in years.


    "LIKE I¡¯D DIE!" she screamed, her life continuing through sheer force of will, her body moving through utter spite. With her last ounce of strength, she lunged forward -- through the cloud of blood before her -- and seized hold of Ash del Duran by the collar, pulling him close.


    "What?!"


    It took her a second to realize that Ash had said that. His face was twisted in surprise -- and the shadow of fear -- his eyes widening to their utmost. For the first time in this battle, she¡¯d caught him by surprise. Judging by that fear, he probably hadn¡¯t been caught by surprise in a long time.


    During this fight, she¡¯d stuck to the 10% manifestation of her Guardian Entity, Suzaku. That wasn¡¯t because she couldn¡¯t handle more power -- she was the closest to achieving 100% among the Cardinal Beasts -- but because the cramped confines of the ship meant that assuming a larger form would result in her crushing herself. That was the obstacle she needed to kill.


    Ash del Duran was moving his hands towards her throat, her exposed throat, to deliver the killing blow. He seemed to move so slowly, barely perceptible, time caught between one heartbeat and the next. What a leisurely way to fight, she thought. S§×arch* The N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She had plenty of time to surpass her limits.


    When the Cardinal Beasts used their 10% form, they concentrated the power into a single part of their body, so as to maximize its power. When the Cardinal Beasts assumed a 50% or 99% form, however, they did so by transforming their entire body. They¡¯d reasoned that focusing greater power would reduce the benefits of their Guardian Entity physiology, but the truth was¡­


    ¡­the truth was¡­


    ¡­it had just been too difficult for them, hadn¡¯t it? They¡¯d faced an obstacle, succumbed to their weakness, and called it reason. Vex gritted her broken teeth beneath her bloody gums. What the hell. If it was impossible, then right now there was no harm in trying.


    Her blood -- technically speaking -- was a single part of her body, wasn¡¯t it? And right now it was everywhere.


    Ash¡¯s hands were almost at her throat, fingers pointed out like knives. Slothful Fist. He¡¯d pop her jugular like a balloon. This was the last heartbeat.


    But that was all she needed.


    She could see it, after all -- beyond her vision -- like a light at the end of the tunnel. A burning phoenix, a vermilion bird, its wings spread wide. The Guardian Entity, Suzaku.


    Vex reached for it and seized hold.


    Guardian Entity: Suzaku -- 99%...


    No.


    Guardian Entity: Suzaku -- 100%!


    Fire roared.


    Aclima was caught behind reality. Events proceeded too fast for her to comprehend.


    One second, Vex Terna had been utterly defeated. One second, Vex Terna had seized Ash by the collar. One second, Vex Terna had engulfed them both in flames.


    It was all the same second. Her mind couldn¡¯t keep track. She blinked.


    At that moment, Aclima was sent flying backwards by the sudden explosion of heat, her legs flailing in the air for a moment before she landed in a heap -- sliding by her cheek down the smooth floor of the hallway. Immediately, she picked herself up, scrambling to her knees as she beheld the spectacle before her.


    A fireball was raging around Vex and Ash, the two of them reduced to silhouettes by the flames. A bizarre ringing sound echoed out from the inferno, and for a brief moment Aclima couldn¡¯t discern the source -- until she realized. That was the sound of screaming.


    Vex screaming in fury as she held on with all her might, and Ash screaming in pain as he tried to wrestle free.


    With the heat and the fire, Aclima could do nothing but watch with a hand on her forehead as the two fought before her.


    How long could a person even survive in a fire like that? What should she do?! Should she run? Should she try and help? What could she do? What could she do?! What could SHE do?!


    If I were you, I¡¯d kill myself. I really mean it.


    Those questions and those words raged through her mind, stilling her step, and so in the end she did nothing. Nothing but listen and hear a resounding¡­


    Crack!


    Forbidden technique: Turritopsis Dohrnii!


    -- as, for a single second, the flames were snuffed out.


    Aclima had no idea what Ash had done. All she could see was his body flopping downwards, like he¡¯d turned to jelly --


    Crack!


    -- before he suddenly reasserted himself, lashed out, and decapitated Vex with a single chop of his hand. Aclima screamed and backed up as the head rolled onto the floor, its eyes wide open and blank. A final long crackle of orange Aether ran between those open eyelids before fading out into nothing.


    A pale Ash collapsed to one knee, panting for breath, skin covered in burns. His eyes flicked up to Aclima¡¯s horrified face.


    "Turritopsis Dohrnii," he said, chest heaving, as if that meant something to her. "A forbidden form of Welin-hath. I¡­ I dislocate my entire skeleton at once to release pressure in all directions. If I don¡¯t immediately reverse it¡­ it¡¯s fatal¡­ so I used more Aether than I wanted to¡­ how many years, how many years¡­"


    With a shaking hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow -- and in that moment, he seemed every inch the tired old man he looked like. His wrinkles had deepened like valleys, and some of his white hair had fallen out onto the floor. Aclima couldn¡¯t help but hurry over.


    "Are you alright?" she asked, looking down at the burns that covered his arms. They weren¡¯t as bad as she¡¯d expected, but she supposed that was the Aether¡¯s doing. If his Aether tic really was accelerated aging, though, defense like that must have cost him significantly¡­


    As she tore a strip from the pants of her pajamas and began winding it around Ash¡¯s arm as a makeshift bandage, the martial artist did his best to wave her off.


    "I¡¯m fine," he wheezed. "Leave me be."


    "But --"


    "Leave me be!" he snapped.


    The brief glare he shot at her was enough to send her back. She shut her mouth as she stood up. Her hands were clenched tight in front of her, but not into fists. Fists were for people who could fight, after all.


    If I were you, I¡¯d¡­


    Things hadn¡¯t changed at all since then, had it? She was still something to be thrown around, passed from person to person, exploited for whatever cause her handler desired. The only things that had changed were faces and names.


    She was still weak.


    "Now, now, Mr. del Duran," called out a woman from the end of the hallway. "Don¡¯t be cruel. That¡¯s your Supreme Heir you¡¯re talking to."


    Ash looked up wearily from the floor, and Aclima followed his gaze. There, walking towards them through the illumination of the flames, was a woman in a glossy white dress -- the Commissioner¡¯s personal aide, Dariah Todd Harlow. Aclima had met her a couple of times at official functions, but she¡¯d always seemed a nervous woman. The confidence on her face right now was completely unfamiliar.


    Stopping next to the two of them, Harlow nodded down to Vex¡¯s corpse. "I see you¡¯ve dealt with the intruder."


    Ash nodded, slouched on the ground. "She was formidable. How did she get aboard?"


    "She rammed right through the side of the ship, apparently," Harlow replied. "There¡¯s another intruder, too, but she¡¯s in hand. The Ascendant-General and his men should be here soon. My ability is called Reschedule, by the way."


    "Hm?" Ash looked up at her.


    Harlow put her hands on her hips, looking back down at him. "Reschedule means that the damage from any attack you hit me with is delayed for exactly twenty-four hours. The condition for activation is¡­"


    She took a step forward.


    Ash del Duran hadn¡¯t lived this long by ignoring his instincts. The way Harlow was speaking, the way she was moving, the subtle way she was trying to get him into her range -- all of it spelled out one thing.


    This woman was going to murder him.


    He ignored the pain pulsing throughout his body as he moved. In an instant he was back on his feet, in another instant he had seized hold of Harlow¡¯s arm, and in a final instant he had flipped and slammed her onto the ground.


    But it was too late.


    He¡¯d thrown her with all his strength. He knew that -- and yet he¡¯d felt no break of bone, seen no splatter of blood. That was unheard of¡­ and when the dust cleared, he could see that Harlow, still on the ground, didn¡¯t have a scratch on her. The tiny smile on her face hadn¡¯t faded in the slightest.


    "The condition for activation¡­" she said. "...is me telling you about it."


    He¡¯d done no damage to the woman, but the floor beneath them had finally had enough. With a mighty crash, it collapsed in on itself, sending all three of them -- Ash, Aclima and Harlow -- hurtling into the abyss of the maintenance tunnels below.


    The only person remaining in the ruined hallway -- if it could still be called a person -- was the corpse of Vex Terna. It lay, splayed out, one leg dangling over the hole in the floor. Its severed head rested just outside the reach of its pale broken hand. That dead face stared off into the empty, its face utterly still.


    That is, utterly still -- until its lips started moving.


    Like I¡¯d die, it mouthed silently. Like I¡¯d -- like I¡¯d die. Like I¡¯d die. I-I have a job to do¡­


    Blank eyes exploded into incandescent fireballs, and a wave of Aether engulfed the hallway.


    "Yo, Caesar!"


    Michael Kerberos called out over the rocks, with no mind for discretion. If they hadn¡¯t been where they were, Caesar might have admonished her for her lack of discretion. As it was, all she could do was sigh at the other woman¡¯s boisterousness as she looked over her shoulder.


    "Yes?" she said, tearing herself away from the ¡¯battle¡¯ for a moment.


    Michael pulled her script out of the cloak she was wearing over her painfully-lacking armour and tapped a finger against it. "We got a ding from Harlow," she said, scratching at her hair with her free hand. "That means she¡¯s, uh, she¡¯s engaged the target, right?"


    "That¡¯s right, Miss Kerberos."


    Without another word, Caesar turned back to her hunt, but a satisfied smile lingered on her lips. This was a very good sign. Harlow had been instructed to make her move after the Tartarus had lost power, so Caesar had been expecting to hear back since she saw the vermillion bird taking off -- but it was always good to have confirmation.


    Now, all Caesar had to do was finish off Dragan Hadrien.


    Now, all Dariah had to do was finish off the Supreme Heir.

 Chapter 295:11.22: The Shadow of Strength

    The forest was fused.


    As Dragan forced himself to his feet, groaning, he could see it. Great white pillars and bookshelves were rising out of the ground amidst the trees, the sky above brightening until it became an empty blanket. His Archive intruding upon reality.


    If he was seeing this, he must be in some serious trouble.


    "Well, aren¡¯t you smart?" the Archivist asked, sitting down on a nearby tree-stump, legs crossed.


    "Shut up," Dragan wheezed, tasting blood in his throat. "What happened?"


    The Archivist nodded to Dragan¡¯s opponent. "Take a look for yourself."


    Commissioner Marcela Caesar was still standing in the middle of the clearing, looking at him with dismissive eyes, one hand lazily resting on her sheathed sword. The feather on her tricorn hat seemed to rest at a strange angle -- and when Dragan looked further, he realized that it was fluttering in the wind. To be more accurate, it was frozen fluttering in the wind.


    This was all happening incredibly quickly, then, his mind dilating time to its utmost.


    "It¡¯s been a while since you came here," the Archivist said casually, idly leafing through a heavy tome on his lap. "But I suppose you¡¯ve had plenty to keep your mind busy in the real world. How¡¯s that injury treating you?"


    The memory of pain twinged as Dragan was reminded of it. That attack Caesar had hit him with -- that mighty invisible blow -- had been devastating. Just from the sensation, he knew that it must have shattered some of his ribs. If he couldn¡¯t feel that right now, then that could only mean¡­


    "I recorded them?" Dragan asked.


    The Archivist nodded. "Whatever ability disabled your Gemini World, it was temporary. Probably didn¡¯t belong to Caesar, then. As for the recording itself, you must have done it subconsciously, at the moment of impact. Your insides are fucked, don¡¯t get me wrong, but that¡¯s a problem for future Dragan to deal with. You really excel at putting things off, don¡¯t you?"


    Dragan glared. "Don¡¯t have to be a dick about it."


    "You¡¯re preaching to the choir. More importantly, though -- what are you going to do about this? The only reason you were able to respond to that first attack was because it hit your center of mass -- a pretty easy target to anticipate. This lady¡¯s not stupid. She won¡¯t do the same thing twice. The next hit will kill you."


    With a shaking hand -- the other arm was broken -- Dragan went to wipe the blood from his mouth, only to stop when he realized it would have no effect. This wasn¡¯t really happening, after all.


    "What was it that hit me?" Dragan muttered to himself. "The attack was invisible, but there should still be a principle behind it, right?"


    "Her ability, probably," the Archivist nodded. "You want a replay?"


    Dragan furrowed his brow. "A replay? What do you --"


    An invisible blow, slamming into his chest.


    Ribs splintering under merciless force.


    Air and blood forced out of his mouth.


    "Asshole," Dragan growled, dropping to one knee.


    The Archivist ignored the insult. "You get anything?"


    "M¡­Maybe."


    Dragan hated to admit it, but that ¡¯replay¡¯ had been slightly helpful. There was something familiar about the way that attack had hit him, something his Aether had just barely recognised¡­ If he was right, then he had a chance of surviving this.


    His eyes focused on the Commissioner¡¯s boots, frozen mid-step as they strode through the leaves below. Those leaves were everywhere, littering the ground all around. Why hadn¡¯t Dragan heard her coming, then?


    It was so close to all coming together, but¡­


    "I need to get hit again," Dragan declared. "I need to get hit again, and then I¡¯ll know for sure."


    The Archivist blinked. For the first time since he¡¯d shown his face here, he looked somewhat surprised. Dragan wasn¡¯t sure whether or not that was a good thing, necessarily, but it sure was satisfying.


    "Well," the construct said, half-wincing. "It¡¯s your life, dude."


    And with that, time started moving again.


    And with that, Dragan returned to his body on the floor.


    And with that, the second impact came¡­


    ¡­and never made contact.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    It was hard to think. Had Vex hit her head somewhere along the way? She couldn¡¯t remember.


    One foot after the other. That was the only thing she needed to focus on right now. Just keep walking. Keep walking. Her head had fallen off, but that was fine. It was just a scratch. A scratch.


    She walked down the hallways of the Tartarus, following the route they¡¯d discussed beforehand. Vex and Lily. They¡¯d discussed it. This was the way she needed to go, if she couldn¡¯t get the Heir -- if she couldn¡¯t get the Heir. She¡¯d failed to get the Heir, so she had to go this way instead. Yes. They¡¯d discussed it.


    A long and glowing orange cord, like a rope made of magma, connected the stump of Vex¡¯s neck to her severed head as she walked. The head waved and swayed through the air like a snake, eyes glowing fiercely, like miniature suns trapped in their sockets.


    Her wings were broken behind her back. She¡¯d sustained damage. That was fine. It was just a scratch. They twitched. They twitched.


    But she couldn¡¯t get distracted. Her¡­ destination. Yes, she was almost there. She had melted a hole through the wall and stepped through. A shortcut. She was nearly there -- nearly at the engine. She had to get there and fulfill her mission.


    The engine section was filled with people, recoiling and fleeing as they saw Vex enter. Plasma-shots, fired by security officers, thudded harmlessly into her body, leaving smoking holes. Why were they scared of her? She wasn¡¯t here for them. She had a job to do.


    Vex breathed, and the flames purged her enemies.


    She looked up as she strode through the ashen bones, her glowing eyes focused on the main engine unit. A glowing cube, rapidly spinning, suspended between two energy leeches -- powering the ship. Cold harvest engine. Her target. She could feel the chill radiating out from it, see the frost covering the glass container. If she could get rid of this before it restored power, that meant that they could¡­ they could¡­ t-t-they¡­ it would be good.


    Yes, it would be good.


    Vex took another deep breath, preparing to release flame from her mouth -- when she felt the world around her stir. Unfamiliar movement. Hostile movement. An enemy.


    Her head spun around, hissing at the intrusion, just in time to see the attack. Seven snakes, made of water, lunging at her. No problem. N-No problem. The ambient heat of her body was enough to evaporate the liquid. The attack never even reached her.


    Five men stood before her, in white military garb. They were getting in her way. Vex strained to observe them.


    A bald man with shaded sunglasses, wielding a rapier, a smart white tuxedo clutching his form. Enemy.


    A young Scurrant with curly white hair and rabbit ears, a playful spark in his red eyes. He wore a white waistcoat and a pair of black shorts. Enemy.


    A giant, hulking and wide, with a considerable belly hanging down. A white neckerchief rested above a black jumpsuit. The closest thing he had to hair was a single black spike protruding from the top of his head. Enemy.


    An inhuman-looking fellow with a smooth white mask of bone covering his dark-red face entirely. Two wings made of what looked like teeth spread out from the back of his white cloak -- and from the ends of those wings stared two green eyes. Enemy.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    And there, leading them, was a man Vex had been briefed about. The enemy commander, and the one who had attacked with the serpents. Ascendant-General Alexandrius Toll.


    Enemy.


    "E-Enemy," Vex echoed, her voice an artificial-sounding rasp. "Out of my w-way. I have a job t-to do." It was frustrating. The words wouldn¡¯t come out the way she wanted them to. Her head was full of cotton candy.


    "As you can see," Toll looked at her, but his words were meant for his comrades. "My abilities are a bad matchup for this Awakened. I will continue to pursue the Heir -- you lot stop this creature."


    Without another word, he departed, the liquid serpents coiling around his arm and pulling him up into the maintenance tunnels. Vex twisted her head in the air as she regarded the four who¡¯d remained.


    The man with the sunglasses scowled at her, his voice gruff as he spoke. "Guess there¡¯s no chance you¡¯re surrendering?" he asked.


    Vex stared. "I have a j-job to do." She didn¡¯t get what he meant.


    The bunny boy sighed as he put his hands behind his head, swaying on his feet. "Forget it, On," he said, with a voice as clear as a bell. "This thing¡¯s already dead, right? There¡¯s nothing to negotiate with."


    Sunglasses sniffed. "I see," he said, tears running down from beneath his sunglasses. "What an awful world we live in."


    The giant looked at Vex impassively as he took a single, silent step forward. "The cord seems to be the weak point. Cover me and I¡¯ll use Bloodsoak."


    Bunny frowned. "Who put you in charge?"


    "Me. Just now. Is there a problem?"


    A shrug. "Guess not."


    Vex didn¡¯t like this. She didn¡¯t get what they were talking about, but they were definitely enemies. There was something she shouldn¡¯t do against enemies, she shouldn¡¯t¡­ she shouldn¡¯t let them strategize, right? She needed to take them by surprise.


    She had a job to do.


    Vex Terna breathed -- and a curtain of hellfire sprayed forth, engulfing the engine room. Giant and Sunglasses quickly moved over to Wings, who seemed to be projecting some kind of protective field around himself, but Bunny wasn¡¯t quite as lucky.


    He was swallowed by the flames instantly, not an inch of his form escaping the cruel heat. As the fire cleared, he was revealed to the room -- or rather, what was left of him. His whole body was charred black save for his red eyes, which were left curiously untouched on his face. That wasn¡¯t right.


    The body collapsed into ashes as Vex watched -- but still, still, those red eyes were unharmed. They rested atop the pile of soot, like twin marbles. And then¡­


    ¡­they blinked.


    As Seen On VG.


    "What?" Vex said, but the time for questions was over.


    Before she could get a grip on the situation, the pile of ashes had somehow reconstituted themselves back into Bunny -- utterly unharmed as he charged towards her. His legs were moving fast, bizarrely fast, so fast that the blurs of the limbs looked somewhat like wheels. As he advanced, Bunny reached into the tiny pocket of his tiny shorts and pulled forth a massive wooden mallet, several times his own size.


    Vex belched forth another torrent of flame, forcing Bunny to dodge -- but she¡¯d been so focused on his bizarre powers that she¡¯d forgotten about the other enemies. Somehow, without her even noticing, Giant had crossed the entire room and positioned himself behind her. Even with that massive body of his, he¡¯d managed to conceal his presence entirely.


    She whirled her head around, getting ready to spit out more fire, but too late. Giant whipped out a combat knife -- it looked like a toothpick in his huge hands -- and slashed at the cord connecting Vex¡¯s head to her body. In the moment of recoil that created, Giant retreated entirely, melting away into the shadows.


    Crimson blood began to spray freely from the wound he¡¯d created, but that didn¡¯t make sense, did it? The cord was made of magma, and magma didn¡¯t have blood. What was going on? Was this an ability? Her head was foggy. She couldn¡¯t think straight. She had a job to do, and this wasn¡¯t helping.


    Forget this, she decided. F-Forget this.


    She didn¡¯t need this. It was irrelevant. Lily Aubrisher had trusted her with this job. She didn¡¯t want to die. She didn¡¯t want to die, but she had a job to do. Like she¡¯d die. L-Like she¡¯d die. Ignoring the gushing blood, ignoring the attacks pelting her, ignoring the distractions, she swung her head back around to face the engine core above --


    "Stop her!" someone screamed.


    -- and gently breathed apocalypse.


    The attack did not hit Dragan. There, before the master of the Special Officers Commission, he stood unharmed. As ash rained down from the burning forest, he blinked, staring dumbfounded at his adversary.


    Was it really something that easy? Something that stupid?


    For the first time, something similar to apprehension had trickled over Caesar¡¯s expression. She¡¯d stopped her advance, boots paused on the crispy leaves below. Still, still, they didn¡¯t make a sound. That confirmed it.


    This was the Commissioner of all the Special Officers.


    This was one of the elites of the Supremacy.


    This was Marcela Caesar, the woman with the hidden ability, the invincible ability.


    This was pathetic.


    "Your ability," Dragan said slowly. "Is astral projection. You¡¯re not here right now."


    Caesar visibly paled. "What are you talking about?" she said quickly -- a quickness that betrayed her.


    "The reason you didn¡¯t make any noise as you approached is because you didn¡¯t approach," Dragan said, Aether flaring defensively around his body. "You just appeared. The reason I can¡¯t hear the leaves when you touch them is because you¡¯re not touching them. You¡¯re not even here."


    The Commissioner settled back into false confidence, raising an amused eyebrow. "People have been known to lose their minds on the verge of death," she said casually. "But it¡¯s always sad to see it in person. You seemed like such a --"


    "When you attacked me earlier," Dragan continued. "That wasn¡¯t an ability, either, or at least it wasn¡¯t a very impressive one."


    Caesar did her best to hide it, but she took a step back all the same. The facade of the invincible Commissioner was falling apart right before Dragan¡¯s eyes. He couldn¡¯t help but feel a distinct sense of disappointment, even as he drove the point home.


    "My ability detects and absorbs projectiles," he insisted, taking a step forward. "And as soon as I suspected your attack was a projectile, it looks like it didn¡¯t hit me. Isn¡¯t that weird?" S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Another step.


    "Isn¡¯t that wild?" he grinned.


    "Shut your mouth," she snarled, fists balled at her side. Useless fists. She knew it. She knew that, for Dragan Hadrien, the illusion of Commissioner Caesar was broken.


    Once you knew the trick, it didn¡¯t work. All she had was the shadow of strength.


    "And the best thing is," Dragan wheezed, continuing to advance, continuing to force Caesar backwards. "Since I absorbed that projectile, I can tell you a little bit about it. For example¡­"


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The blast of air passed right through the fake Caesar, splintering the tree behind her. With the shocked look on her face, it almost made it seem like she¡¯d been hit herself -- and the way she faded away a moment later made it clear she¡¯d realized how his sentence ended.


    He said it anyway.


    "For example¡­ I can tell which direction it came from."


    Time to pay the Commissioner a personal visit.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan stuck low to the ground as he surged across the forest floor, heading right in the direction of the attack. He didn¡¯t know who had disabled his Gemini World the first time, but it was a good bet they¡¯d needed to see him to do it -- so if he remained concealed by the trees, he could protect himself. As he leapt out from the treeline, crawling like lightning across the rocks that led up to the mountains, he got a sense of the battlefield around him for the first time in a while.


    The world was burning.


    Flames the size of skyscrapers raged, consuming everything in their path, the smoke they produced choking the very skies. Dragan could see huge chunks of rubble that had fallen from the atmosphere, still curiously intact, embedded into the earth like mighty stakes. Every bit of infrastructure outside the pyramid seemed to have been demolished -- and the pyramid itself had definitely seen better days.


    A shiver ran down a spine that did not exist. This wasn¡¯t good, was it? They were losing, weren¡¯t they?


    Strangely enough, though, that thought did not inspire fear. Instead, a burning anger took hold on Dragan¡¯s heart. He¡¯d just seen for himself how bullshit the Supremacy¡¯s supposed strength was, the smoke and mirrors it took to produce an iron fist. Intellectually, Dragan had understood that the Supremacy was just as much propaganda as anything else, but he¡¯d grown up in the Supremacy. He¡¯d grown up among those stories. To have them so starkly torn apart in front of him was like realizing the sky wasn¡¯t real.


    Nothing but a fairy tale.


    They were up against something as pathetic as that, and they were losing? No way.


    The only one who decides what happens to me¡­ is me.


    Dragan spotted her on the cliffside, behind a jagged section of rock, a massive rifle clutched in her hands. The two of them, right now, were an incredible distance away from the battlefield.


    That was how she did it, then -- she sent in a projection to locate targets, and then shot them from far outside the danger range. A sniper-spotter team all by herself. A coward.


    Dragan remanifested in midair, plasma pistol clutched in his hand, firing even as he fell -- but not one shot hit its mark.


    In the moment before the plasma would have struck Caesar, someone had stepped in front of her, deflecting his shots with a barrage of punches. A woman in scrapyard red armour, with white hair covering her eyes. Her mouth was already spread out into a fanged grin.


    So the Commissioner of the Special Officers even needed a bodyguard to feel secure. Dragan finally understood the anger in his heart. He hadn¡¯t been betrayed, or misled, or duped. No.


    The world was exactly as he¡¯d expected it to be. That was what really pissed him off.

 Chapter 296:11.23: Star

    The first time you see a certain something, you find it incredible. Awe-inspiring.


    For Dragan Hadrien, that thing had been the sky.


    In Crestpoole, the breather city, all light was artificial, all air recycled. The idea of a sun was a bad joke, the closest thing a pale glow through the clouds.


    Quite often, Dragan would stand on one of Breather 19¡¯s balconies and stare up, trying to see them. He¡¯d read about them in books, seen them in videographs - these things called stars. Lights that made themselves.


    He never saw a thing. For all he knew, these things called stars were pure fiction. For all he knew, the world that he saw was all there was.


    But still ¡­ stars burned all by themselves, perpetual, never needing anyone or depending on anyone. There wasn¡¯t a thing in the world that could hurt them.


    And they shone so bright ¡­ like nothing else in the universe. Bright enough to light up the dark.


    Dragan Hadrien thought that he would quite like to be a star.


    Dragan fired the pistol again and again as he fell, even as each shot was deflected by a punch from his opponent. At the moment before he would have hit the ground, he momentarily recorded his legs into Gemini World, allowing him to land unharmed. The moment his feet came back into existence, the moment those feet touched the ground, he kicked off -- charging towards Caesar and her bodyguard.


    This mountainous region, far from the battlefield, was rocky and rough -- it was all Dragan could do to avoid tripping as he ran. His broken arm flapped uselessly at one side as he fired his pistol with the other. Plasma fired out again and again, some shots being recorded into his Gemini Shotgun before being launched, but not one struck Caesar.


    The Commissioner swung her weapon -- a massive, bulky rifle -- in Dragan¡¯s direction, firing a shot the moment it was facing him. An invisible attack, with not even a bullet being seen. A single hit would be enough to obliterate him.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    But if it never hit, there was nothing to worry about, was there?


    Dragan came to understand the nature of the attack further as he absorbed it again -- that weapon must compress air and launch it over huge distances, effectively allowing Caesar to reload using the atmosphere itself. A similar principle to Avaman the Announcer¡¯s wind-based attacks.


    But this woman was not the Announcer. She wasn¡¯t a Contender. She wasn¡¯t even close.


    This person was only confident fighting someone who was kilometers away. Even then, they needed a bodyguard to protect them from retaliation. The Special Officers were the symbol of the Supremacy¡¯s meritocracy -- and the merit that had brought this woman to their head was mere cowardice.


    It wasn¡¯t like Dragan could talk shit about others fighting smart -- but these people were supposed to be warriors, weren¡¯t they? They were meant to be strong, at the very least, strong enough to bulldoze through obstacles. At least Dragan admitted he was just a sneaky asshole, but these people¡­


    ¡­for some reason, they really pissed him off.


    Dragan snarled as he leapt over a rock, flipping his pistol over in his hand and swinging the grip at the cloaked bodyguard¡¯s head. At the same time, she twisted her body and unleashed a devastating roundhouse kick, smacking the gun out of his grip and smashing into his neck.


    As he flew down to the floor, Dragan gasped for breath that would not come. Something inside his throat had broken, something important. He sent it away.


    Gemini World.


    It didn¡¯t matter. None of these injuries mattered. He could just record them away and fix them later. He could fix anything. Anything that didn¡¯t kill him was pretty much nothing. Delirious confidence dragged its claws across his mind.


    As he landed on the ground, however, Dragan saw something unusual -- purple Aether, lingering around the spot the woman had struck. He glanced at the Aether running around his throat, and in that moment the light intensified¡­


    ¡­ and words flooded into his brain.


    Uh oh! It looks like you¡¯ve been affected by Michael Kerberos¡¯ ability, Red Light Green Light! (???)?


    Because you¡¯ve been hit by one of Michael¡¯s attacks, you¡¯ll now need to follow the rules of the ability¡­ (¨s???¨t)


    Don¡¯t worry, though! The rules are simple! Just keep them in mind and you¡¯ll be fine, ¡¯kay? ¨t(¡ñ ? ¡ñ)¨s


    When Michael declares ¡¯Red Light¡¯, you must stop moving! ( ?_?)


    If you move during ¡¯Red Light¡¯, part of your body will be skewered by the Stake of Judgement! ( ?¡ã ?? ?¡ã )


    Five seconds after ¡¯Red Light¡¯, Michael must declare ¡¯Green Light¡¯. At this time, you can move normally again. ?(£Þ?£Þ)?


    Don¡¯t worry about getting thrown around! So long as you are not the one initiating the movement, it¡¯s all good! ???(????)???


    Have fun! (? ? ?)


    Dragan blinked as he lay on the ground. What¡­ the fuck?


    Before he could pick himself back up, he heard the raspy voice of that woman -- Michael Kerberos. "Red Light."


    Shit.


    Dragan remained on the ground in an undignified heap, sweat trickling down his forehead, focusing all of his Aether on defense. If he couldn¡¯t move, he could at least mitigate the damage he was about to take as much as possible. From his face-down position, he couldn¡¯t see what Kerberos was doing, but it was a safe bet she¡¯d use this opportunity to attack him.


    Two seconds¡­ three seconds¡­ four seconds¡­


    The kick slammed into his side like a sledgehammer, forcing air and blood out of Dragan¡¯s lungs as he flew through the air, limbs whipped about by the wind. He landed again a short distance away -- directly on his broken arm. A scream of pain lingered at the back of his throat, and it took all that he had to keep it from escaping.


    Five seconds¡­


    "Green Light," Kerberos said sullenly.


    Dragan screamed, his cry of pain echoing across the bleak landscape, even as he picked himself up with trembling legs. In retrospect, he should already have recorded his broken arm, but he was wary of the difference it would make to his balance -- not to mention the reduced weight of his body. If he recorded too much, he wouldn¡¯t be able to move naturally.


    No -- for the time being, the arm stayed.


    Dragan whipped his head around, ready to fire off a volley of Gemini Shotgun, when he heard it:


    "Red Light."


    He froze. Shit. It had barely been two seconds since Kerberos had released Red Light, and she was already using it again? The rules said that she had to say Green Light five seconds after Red Light, but they¡¯d never mentioned a time limit for the reverse. She could just keep stopping his movements again and again, with only the barest interval between uses of her ability.


    Not good.


    "You were saying I was weak?" Caesar called out, stepping out from her cover, pointing her rifle at him. "I suppose that makes you strong, then?"


    Bang.


    She pulled the trigger --


    Gemini Shotgun.


    -- and again, it didn¡¯t hit. It seemed he could at least absorb incoming projectiles without it counting as a movement.


    Caesar frowned, her eyes flicking over to Kerberos. "He might be able to fire off those shots while he¡¯s frozen, too. Don¡¯t get careless."


    "Aye, aye," Kerberbos grinned, white hair swinging over her eyes. "Green Light."


    The instant those words left her lips, Dragan leapt backwards. It was clear now that his approach has been way too rash. He needed to get out of the range of this woman¡¯s ability, come up with a new plan of attack, and engage from there.


    Gemini Wor --


    The first punch struck him in the stomach, sending him heaving forward -- and the second slammed upwards into his jaw. Bloody teeth flew out of his mouth as his head jerked back, the pain of it enough to break his concentration and prevent him from disappearing. Before he could even hit the ground, Kerberos had seized him by the collar and thrown him down onto the rocks below.


    Straddling his prone form, the woman pulled her fist back once again, aiming right for his face. Dragan raised his good hand to block the attack --


    "Red Light!"


    -- and as he did, he felt a spike of pain surge through him. His raised hand was enough to deflect the punch, but as Dragan looked over to the source of his agony he saw that he had by no means escaped damage.


    A huge stake, jet black and of flawless geometry, was impaling the elbow of Dragan¡¯s broken arm. Blood oozed out from the sides of the wound, trickling down onto the stone below. Dragan gasped in pain as he looked at the object -- at what was surely the Stake of Judgement that Kerberos¡¯ ability had mentioned.


    Caesar remained where she was, looking down at Dragan dismissively from a distance. "You don¡¯t seem to understand what strength is, little boy. It¡¯s not about throwing the hardest punch, or using the most powerful ability¡­ it¡¯s about competency."


    "Green Light."


    In the split-second of movement that Dragan was permitted, he lunged upwards at Kerberos, clawing at her face -- but pain and exhaustion made his movements clumsy. She slapped his hand away and planted her own palm against his face, slamming his head back into the dirt.


    "Red Light," she grinned.


    "So long as you can get the job done," Caesar smirked, reloading her rifle, the barrel wheezing as it sucked in air. "It doesn¡¯t matter how you get it done. I¡¯ve killed many people without ever laying a finger on them. I¡¯m going to kill you without ever laying a finger on you. That is strength. That¡¯s what the Supremacy¡¯s all about, you little shit."


    Shut up! I already know that! I agree with that!


    Dragan didn¡¯t -- couldn¡¯t -- speak aloud, but his thoughts were a maelstrom. Even he didn¡¯t fully understand the anger that he was feeling. Nothing that Caesar was saying was new. Nothing that Caesar was saying was a surprise.


    So why¡­?


    "Green Light." Instantly, another punch to the face, dazing him in that moment. "Red Light."


    As Dragan was forced to stay still once more, Kerberos reached over and tugged at the stake impaling his broken arm. The pain of it, as the object was forced out inch by inch, was beyond anything Dragan could have ever imagined. It took everything he had to stay still.


    Don¡¯t scream.


    Kerberos pulled¡­


    Don¡¯t scream!


    ¡­and pulled¡­


    DON¡¯T SCREAM!


    ¡­and, with one final effort, she tore the weapon free from Dragan¡¯s elbow -- sending his entire forearm flying off at the same time. As the limb dissipated into Aether, Dragan felt his vision wavering. The borders between sky and ground were becoming indistinct. Something red was flowing out around him. Was all that blood really his?


    He¡¯d been reckless. He¡¯d fucked up. He¡¯d gotten cocky. He was pissed. He couldn¡¯t die here. He couldn¡¯t lose in such a stupid way. He wasn¡¯t that pathetic. His brain felt like it was melting inside his head.


    "Green Light."


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Dragan moaned.


    "Red Light."


    Another punch smashed into his face -- and as Dragan heard a loud crunch, his right eye became a crazy mess of colour and light. There was something warm on his cheek. He felt like he was going to be sick.


    As his head lay back, as he vaguely felt blow after blow pummeling him, finishing him -- he could see the sun high above. Its light was filtered and warped by the Lotus and the flames, but it was still undeniable. Singular. Something far above all of this.


    "Looks like this is the end for you, huh?" said the Archivist, sitting cross-legged inside that star, leafing through his book. "Bad move on your part. I¡¯d have advised against it if you¡¯d asked me, but hey -- you didn¡¯t ask me, did you? So I guess this is what you wanted."


    "Fuck you," Dragan muttered. "I¡¯m getting beaten to death. How could that be something I wanted?"


    "Well, maybe you¡¯re a masochist," the Archivist shrugged. "But I guess that wouldn¡¯t fit either. You¡¯re way too much of a coward."


    Dragan glared. "I just went after the Commissioner of the Special Officers by myself. I might be an idiot, but I¡¯m not a coward, idiot."


    The Archivist laughed -- a single harsh bark -- and tossed his book away. When he looked back down at Dragan, his entire demeanor had changed. Those mocking bright eyes had become dark and bitter, and the youthful aura he¡¯d previously exuded had vanished -- if anything, he seemed older than Dragan.


    "Do you think physical pain is the only thing cowards fear?"


    Dragan swallowed. "I did everything I could."


    The landscape shifted, shuddered, shattered -- and suddenly, all around Dragan Hadrien, was the void of space. An imaginary chill crawled over his bones as he felt the dark press inwards all around him. In that abyss, he could see only three things -- himself, the Archivist, and a star station hanging resplendent. He knew it: the Cradle. The place where they¡¯d first met the Oliphant Clan, and the place he¡¯d last met¡­


    "You did not," the Archivist sneered. "Whenever you are faced with discomfort, you run away from it. When you met Asmodeus Fix again on the Cradle, you distanced yourself from him, didn¡¯t you? Why?"


    Dragan blinked. "Because I hate him."


    "No you don¡¯t," the Archivist spat. "You risked everyone¡¯s lives to clear his name. Why?"


    "I-I¡­"


    "Your feelings towards him were complicated -- and you are distressed by looking at yourself. You didn¡¯t want to put yourself into a position where you had to examine your own feelings. So you pushed him away with a quick retort and went on your merry way. It¡¯s the same with everything else."


    The world broke and came together once again. This time, they stood atop the ruined Heart Building, back on Caelus Breck, watching as the Dragan Hadrien of the past pointed his gun at the back of Atoy Muzazi. Ruth Blaine lay on the floor right beneath the swordsman. Time was frozen, scraps of debris and dust hanging still in the air, sweat paused mid-trickle down the old Dragan¡¯s temple.


    "Back then," the Archivist said, all-encompassing, no longer visible. "Why did you save Ruth Blaine?"


    "I¡¯d gotten to know her," Dragan replied haltingly. "I didn¡¯t want her to die."


    "Liar. You¡¯d known her for barely a couple of days, and for most of that time she¡¯d been one of your captors. Yet, when the time came, you raised your gun and shot your rescuer in the back. Why?"


    Dragan watched as, in the sluggish world, that blue bolt fired out of the gun and slammed into the space between Muzazi¡¯s shoulders. The Special Officer collapsed to the ground, his body spasming wildly -- and the Dragan of the past looked on with uncomprehending eyes. He hadn¡¯t even realized he¡¯d done anything yet. Poor bastard.


    The Archivist took over from his train of thought. "You don¡¯t know, do you? You took an action without knowing why, and then justified it to yourself retroactively. It¡¯s all because you¡¯re unwilling to inspect yourself. And that¡¯s why you don¡¯t understand your anger."


    "That¡¯s¡­"


    "It¡¯s the truth," the Archivist snapped. "Do I need to spell it out for you? Why you shot Atoy Muzazi, and why the Commissioner infuriates you so much? Hmph. Very well."


    The world died, and the world came back to life.


    They were still in the Heart Building, but further down below, and further back in time. Ruth and Dragan were standing in the hallway, the sun trickling in through the wall-length window, the orange sunset illuminating their faces. Ruth was saying something. The promise she¡¯d made, back then. They¡¯d just been arguing about the way the world worked, about how everyone -- deep down -- was just awful.


    And then she¡¯d said¡­


    "I¡¯ll show you."


    "Hm?" the Dragan Hadrien of the past stood with his palm flat on a door, not looking at her. "Show me what?"


    "That people can be good. That they¡¯re not what you think of them."


    The old Dragan squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth in barely suppressed rage. For a long time, he was silent.


    And then he¡¯d said¡­


    "Fine. Do what you want."


    "Deep down," the Archivist said quietly. "You wanted to be proven wrong, didn¡¯t you? You wanted the world to be brighter than it was. You wanted the stories people tell about themselves to be true."


    Undone, and redone. Again and again, everything he¡¯d seen. The death and destruction. The suffering and unfairness. The world crushed underfoot. There had been bright spots -- his friends, the times they¡¯d had -- but overall¡­ overall¡­


    ¡­when he looked back at that day, he knew now that he¡¯d been right.


    "You wanted to be proven wrong, didn¡¯t you, Dragan?" the Archivist said softly, not unkindly. "You wanted Ruth Blaine to show you a different world than the one you believed in."


    Slow tears ran down Dragan¡¯s cheeks -- and just as slowly, he nodded.


    That¡¯s right, he thought. That¡¯s why I hate the Commissioner. It¡¯s not that I¡¯m surprised. I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m disappointed¡­ because it¡¯s just as I expected.


    "You are a person who does not look at yourself, so you couldn¡¯t comprehend," the Archivist declared. "You did not shoot Atoy Muzazi for mere sentiment. You did not join Skipper¡¯s crew for mere convenience. No sane man would do such things.


    Dragan shot Atoy Muzazi.


    "You acted because, deep down inside yourself, there is a sliver of belief. A conviction you yourself would not acknowledge, drowned by your pessimism, just waiting for the opportunity to show itself."


    Dragan shot the thing beyond Atoy Muzazi.


    "Say it," the Archivist urged. "Admit it to yourself. Otherwise, nothing will change."


    Dragan shot the world, the galaxy, the entire fucking universe.


    "Say it!"


    Skipper had said it¡­ again, and again, and again, hadn¡¯t he? His mantra. His soul. "I want to change the shape of this world."


    Dragan snapped his eye open.


    I¡­ I want to change it too!


    "Red Light."


    Kerberos¡¯ fist came down once more, a finishing blow -- and Dragan caught it in mid-air.


    The instant Dragan moved, a new Stake of Judgement ran itself through his stomach, but he ignored it. It didn¡¯t matter. All that mattered was winning.


    "You¡¯re right¡­" he whispered, face bloody and beaten.


    Caesar, still standing behind cover, raised a hand. Let him speak, that gesture seemed to say. Let him give me the satisfaction.


    Kerberos obeyed without question.


    "Strength¡­" Dragan went on, wheezing. "Power¡­ ha¡­ it¡¯s all bullshit, isn¡¯t it? Even competence¡­ even that doesn¡¯t really matter. Whichever person is still standing by the end¡­ no matter how it happens, even if they¡¯re weak, they¡¯re strong." He chuckled a wet, warped chuckle. "It¡¯s so fucking funny, right? That¡¯s how all of this works! It¡¯s all chance! It¡¯s all just people killing other people for no fucking reason!"


    Blue Aether sparked, surged, and shone -- the synchronized energy nearly enveloping Dragan. Kerberos, still straddling him, squinted from the sudden light. Dragan¡¯s remaining eye shone incandescently, like a star pulled down to earth.


    Caesar -- having clearly realized this wasn¡¯t any kind of surrender -- called over the rush of screaming Aether: "Michael! Kill him now!"


    Kerberos did not hesitate. In one smooth motion, she whipped her hand into her cloak, pulled out a cleaver-shaped sword, and swung it down towards Dragan¡¯s head. The speed and force would be more than enough to slice through his skull.


    Clang.


    Ah¡­ Dragan thought, wild satisfaction coursing through him, eyes nearly rolled up into the back of his head. Right now¡­ I feel like I could kill anyone¡­


    He had caught the blade of the cleaver with his broken teeth, red foam pouring out over his lips as he held on with all his strength. The blade sliced through his cheeks, opening them bloody, but he paid that no mind. It didn¡¯t matter.


    With a cold and clear calm, Dragan raised his palm and pointed it directly at Kerberos¡¯ face. Her eyes widened in alarm -- she clearly knew what was about to happen -- but everything was so slow, so slow. It was far too late for them to do anything. They should have just killed him straight away.


    In the moment Kerberos went to pull away, long and jagged cracks began to spread out from the wounds on Dragan¡¯s cheeks, his face disintegrating as he burned his Aether. Everything seemed to come so naturally, even as his body fell apart. He needed to keep the air bullet, but he had another projectile to fire. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Gemini Railgun.


    The hand that Kerberos had severed reappeared right in front of her, and then vanished again, and then appeared once more. Recorded and manifested and recorded again and again and again, speed and power increasing each time, all in the span of a second. A shot stronger than anything Dragan had ever mustered before launched forth --


    -- and with a payload of bone and nail, flesh and blood, Michael Kerberos¡¯ head was utterly vaporized. After blasting through her skull, the shot continued to fly -- passing through the clouds and leaving a hole like a donut in them. Dragan did not watch any further than that. He didn¡¯t have the time to.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan disappeared -- and reappeared a second later, free of Kerberos, screaming and snarling as he charged at Caesar with all his remaining limbs. The hole in his stomach had been recorded into Aether, and in his hand he held the cleaver-sword he¡¯d just pulled from Kerberos¡¯ dead body. He¡¯d stopped burning his Aether, but fearsome light still coursed around his body and weapon.


    For the first time since they¡¯d met, Commissioner Caesar pulled her sword from its scabbard, swinging it at the incoming Dragan -- but he entered Gemini World again, becoming a bolt of blue Aether. The lightning circled Caesar like a tornado, reappearing only for brief sword-strikes that Caesar was able to deflect.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan reappeared directly behind Caesar and -- still shouting incoherently -- unleashed a flurry of frenzied blows. Caesar met each strike with her own sword, the two weapons clanging as they collided again and again and again, Caesar slowly pouring more and more Aether into her attacks as she overcame Dragan.


    In terms of swordsmanship, there was no contest. Caesar had spent years honing her blade, and Dragan had done his best to avoid it. There was no way his blade could get through her defenses.


    As her sword shone with ivory Aether, Caesar dealt her coup de grace -- a mighty swing that sent Dragan¡¯s cleaver flying out of his hands and up into the air. Caesar, grinning victoriously, thrust her blade towards Dragan once again --


    Gemini Shotgun.


    -- and stopped as a sudden impact slammed into her body. Her blade froze in the air. Her eyes widened as far as they would go. A low, pained groan poured from her throat.


    Smoke rose from her back, and Caesar slowly turned her head to look behind her. There, floating in the air, was Dragan¡¯s disembodied hand. Steam rose from the palm.


    Her sword slipped out of her grip and clattered to the ground.


    "I needed you to use all your Aether for attack," Dragan whispered, his voice hoarse. "The moment you knocked my sword away, I recorded the hand that had been holding it¡­" He raised his arm, revealing the border of blue Aether that now terminated it. "...and sent it behind you. So long as it¡¯s connected by Aether, it can still operate as normal¡­"


    "You¡­"


    Caesar¡¯s face was twisted in anger, but they both knew that it was already over. Her back had been utterly exposed, without any Aether infused at all, and the air bullet had blasted right through. To be frank, it was a miracle she was still standing.


    "I beat you¡­" Dragan grinned a bloody, drunken grin. "Guess that means I¡¯m strong, huh¡­? And¡­ and you¡¯re¡­"


    "Bastard!" Caesar screamed, charging right at him, fury overcoming biology for just a short time. Her hands were bared like claws, her eyes blurred in their sockets, spittle flying from her mouth.


    She lunged at Dragan, and he just stepped out of the way. His hand returning to his arm, he reached up, caught the cleaver as it came back down --


    -- and buried it into the back of her skull.


    There was little ceremony to it. Caesar dropped to the ground like a machine that has been deactivated, blood and brain matter trickling through the gap he¡¯d made in her head. A second later, Dragan fell too, collapsing onto the rocks.


    His vision began to blur once more, and¡­


    ¡­no.


    He couldn¡¯t drop out now. He still had things to do. Unconsciousness was not permitted here. Slowly, lying there, he began the process of recording the parts of his body that had been injured. Both inside and outside, just to keep him moving for a while longer.


    By the time he was done, he was a horror, cross-sections of his bones and organs visible through the gaps in his Aether. As he picked himself up off the ground, Dragan¡¯s head -- with the damaged parts of his face sent away -- looked more like a skull than anything else.


    But it was fine. He could record anything. He¡¯d already overcome these kinds of obstacles.


    As he finally stood up, the green feather on his jacket began to slowly pulse with light. His gaze dull, Dragan looked down at it.


    "Hey, Dragan," Skipper¡¯s voice came from the feather, distorted and distant. "You good? You free?"


    "Yeah," Dragan replied. "I¡¯m free."


    His voice sounded like that of a corpse, but if Skipper noticed he didn¡¯t comment on it.


    "I need you to do something for me, kiddo," Skipper said. "You up for it?"


    Dragan did not blink.


    "Anything," he said.

 Chapter 297:11.24: The Unfortunate You

    Scout groaned as he was pulled back to consciousness. His head was killing him.


    What had happened? It took him a second to recall -- to recall the burning debris pouring down from the sky. Scout had created a giant shield from the Hanged Man¡¯s body to defend the pyramid against the fiery rain, but it seemed that in doing so he¡¯d compromised the safety of the cockpit a little. He must have gotten shaken around and struck on the head. The headache seemed to support that story, if nothing else.


    Damnit. How long had he been out?


    Scout willed it, and monitors formed around the interior of the cockpit, showing him his surroundings. It was worse than he¡¯d thought. Everything was fire and smoke, the sky choked a bloody red, the battlefield covered with veritable hills of skinless corpses. The fact they were flayed wasn¡¯t necessarily a bad thing, of course, but there were so many¡­


    Scout pulled a hand free from the liquid metal and put it to his ear -- to the communicator there. "Pa?" he called.


    No response. Were the comms down?


    Gritting his teeth, Scout squeezed his eyes shut -- and willed the Hanged Man to change its shape once more. While he¡¯d been unconscious, it seemed like the Arcana Automatic had degenerated to a vague pile of liquid metal, but at his direction it reconstituted itself into a humanoid form. Shallow holes -- speakers -- opened themselves up along its body, pointing in every direction.


    Within the cockpit, Scout formed a microphone from the wall, and pulled it close to his mouth.


    "Pa!"


    His cry, amplified by the speakers, echoed out across the surface of Elysian Fields, ringing through the ears of every single person who heard it. For a moment, there was no response. Silence. A hollow quiet.


    And then¡­


    ¡­ a dragon swooped down over the horizon.


    Human dripped from the ceiling.


    Some of the Special Officers aboard the Tartarus had followed the same line of reasoning as the Ascendant-General -- that the intruders, whoever they were, would be targeting the man who was directing operations on the ground, Winston Grace. Perhaps they¡¯d hoped that acting to save him would earn them some kind of glory, some sort of accolades. If anything was earned, it was kind words upon their graves.


    Human dripped from the ceiling.


    Blood and muscle, flesh and bone. When Lily Aubrisher had smashed this unfortunate fellow up into the ceiling of the briefing room, he had lost his consistency as a human being. Now he had more in common with porridge than man.


    He wasn¡¯t the only one who had met a terrible fate.


    If you looked around the wreckage of the briefing room, you could see them. One, two, three, four, five¡­ you would get tired of counting the corpses. Among them was one of the Honest Men, Houston Phillips, his mighty battle-ax still clutched in his hand as he lay embedded in the wall. Smoke gently rose from his form.


    Winston Grace himself stood in the corner of the room, pale from blood loss, clutching the bleeding stump of his pinkie finger. A victorious grin was plastered on his sweaty face, and his chest was heaving with exertion. He was the one who had cut off the finger, after all.


    Beatrice dropped from the ceiling, knives clutched in her hands, face covered in blood. She was just as exhausted. If it hadn¡¯t been for her brother¡¯s quick thinking, they would all have been killed, after all.


    Her ability, Pariah, allowed her to make small projectiles completely undetectable until they made contact. Even Aether could not sense the attack -- and if it couldn¡¯t sense it, it could not protect against it. Even with such an ability, however, Lily Aubrisher¡¯s speed and power was enough that she was a deadly opponent.


    They¡¯d had to think outside of the box.


    Winston had figured it out. Aubrisher deflected enemy attacks with her automatic retaliation -- an ability that sensed movement through her electricity and struck back at it. No matter the principles by which it operated, that was a sense. Winston¡¯s ability, Dupin¡¯s Alchemy, allowed him to disable specific senses of himself or others.


    So¡­


    His severed pinkie remained embedded between Aubrisher¡¯s shoulders, buried up to the first joint.


    ¡­ all they¡¯d had to do was use Pariah on a different kind of projectile.


    From there, it had been a job for the remaining Honest Man, Gregori Hazzard. The blonde man stood across from his enemy, stoic as ever, cap pulled down over his face. All around him, the landscape was warped, geometry stretched and sculpted into countless spikes. It was like the world was made of sea urchins.


    And there, finally, was¡­


    Lily Aubrisher. Unconscious. Skewered. Defeated. Held aloft by a needle that had once been a coffee mug, running right through her torso.


    Winston let out a heavy breath. "Well¡­" he wiped the sweat from his brow. "I was sure that my plan was going to work the whole time, but it¡¯s good to have it confirmed. That ability you used was pretty interesting, Mr. Hazzard, but I was wondering how exactly it worked. Spatial manipulation, or¡­? Oh, sorry your buddy died, by the way -- hey!"


    That last part was directed at his sister, who¡¯d seized him by the arm and was staring -- horrified -- at the mess he¡¯d made of treating his missing finger.


    "Medbay," she snapped. "Now."


    Without another word, she pulled him away -- and Gregori Hazzard was left in the room with his defeated opponent. She had been powerful -- they¡¯d destroyed her heart and she¡¯d just kept going, powered solely by her ability. It had taken all three of them to pull off this maneuver, and even then it had been close.


    Gregori adjusted his cap. "Good grief¡­" he muttered. He really hadn¡¯t wanted to use the Unfolded World here, but he¡¯d been ordered to take care of this woman by the Ascendant-General. He wasn¡¯t in a position where he could hold anything ba --


    Lily Aubrisher twitched.


    Gregori raised an eyebrow. Still alive? That was unexpected. He hadn¡¯t expected being stabbed to finish her off, but the Unfolded World should have rearranged her internal organs into bold new shapes when the wound was opened. She really was something.


    Oh well.


    "Paper Moon¡­" As Gregori approached, he folded his right arm up into a razor-sharp blade, ready to slice Aubrisher¡¯s head off. From there, he¡¯d dismember her body as much as possible. That was the best way to avoid an Aether awakening, after all.


    Gregori raised his blade up high --


    "Hold a moment, young man!" cried a voice.


    -- and paused.


    He glanced to the source of the sound -- and spotted it instantly. There, emerging from the darkness, was a tiny man in a tiny floating vessel, barely the size of Gregori¡¯s thumb. This was Harz -- the Section Chief of the Absurd Weapons Lab. Gregori had seen him on the bridge, even if Harz hadn¡¯t seen him.


    "I¡¯m executing the intruder¡­" Gregori said quietly, his eyes dull. "Is there a problem?"


    Harz zoomed over in his little hovercraft, miniscule arms waving in the air. "Of course there is, of course there is!" he shouted, clearly agitated. "Are you mad, man?! Are you sick in the head?! This is a unique specimen! Like nothing I¡¯ve ever seen before!"


    He finally got close enough that Gregori could see his face -- his grinning, unsightly face. Enlarged eyes beamed at him from behind goggles.


    "Now," Harz breathed. "If you were willing to hand her over to my custody, I¡¯d be happy to --"


    "Whatever."


    Without another word, Gregori unfolded his arm and began to stalk away, plunging his hands deep into his pockets. He did not spare the Section Chief or the intruder another glance as he left the room, the shadows of the unlit ship falling over his face. In his mind, the situation was now resolved.


    None of this matters anyway¡­ he thought. Does it, Marie?


    As one, Ruth Blaine and Morgan Nacht charged towards their opponents, the marks and pain of their extended battle barely wearing them down. Even as the storm of pitchforks raged around them, the resolve in their eyes went unblemished.


    Morgan reached his hand out and -- without a word exchanged -- Ruth seized him by the wrist, whirled around, and hurled him up towards the sky. This was not a strategy they¡¯d discussed. Since they¡¯d decided to join forces, they¡¯d barely spoken to each other at all.


    This was nothing but mutual flow from mutual warriors.


    A. C.


    As Morgan flew up, black Fog burst forth from his body and coated his sword. He did not look at it: his gaze was still fixed high above, towards his target. While his pitchforks raged down below -- impaling unfortunate Regiment soldiers and Special Officers on the edges of the battle -- the Baron Lunalette de Fleur kept himself in the sky, far out of reach of his enemies.


    There.


    Morgan broke free from a cloud of dark weaponry and -- kicking off the handle of one of the pitchforks -- launched himself further towards the Baron. Lunalette himself was perched atop a trident higher than any other, looking down at the battlefield with contemptuous amusement -- but Morgan knew already that the Baron had spotted him. This was not a man who lost track of his adversaries.


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    Indeed, as Morgan swung his sword at Lunalette¡¯s neck, the man disappeared -- and reappeared directly behind Morgan. This, too, was anticipated. De Fleur wasn¡¯t the kind of man whose pride would allow him a simple retreat. He¡¯d need to strike back immediately at the one who¡¯d dared attack him.


    The Baron stabbed his trident towards the space between Morgan¡¯s shoulder blades, but he had no fear. No plan had been discussed, but he knew one existed. It was invisible, hanging in the air, and inevitable.


    Morgan Nacht and Ruth Blaine understood the kinds of killers they were.


    Direwolf Set!


    The jump was so fast that it almost seemed like teleportation. One second, the Baron was thrusting his pitchfork towards Morgan -- and the next, he was in the hands of a beast. There was the sharpest, slightest intake of breath: the first thing close to fear they¡¯d managed to pull from their enemy.


    It took only a second for the Baron to teleport, but Ruth¡¯s attack was faster than a second. Her fullmetal fist smashed into Lunalette¡¯s face, shattering his nose instantly, blood splattering in every direction. Red flew everywhere as the Baron quickly translocated himself to another pitchfork¡­


    ¡­but his opponents had been more than ready for such a maneuver.


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    Morgan projected a platform of solid Fog beneath himself as he ran across air, his shrouded sword at his side. They¡¯d observed Lunalette during this fight, after all, and knew how he moved. If he thought he could get a counterattack in, he¡¯d send himself to another pitchfork in the immediate vicinity --


    -- but if he was caught by surprise, he¡¯d run as far as possible.


    A pitchfork floating low in the forest, nearly invisible amidst the branches and shadows, the flames and smoke. Lunalette reappeared there, panting for breath, nursing his wound -- just in time to see Morgan swinging his sword towards him.


    If it had hit, it would have been a killshot, but the Baron Lunalette de Fleur was by no means weak. In the second before the blow would have struck him, Lunalette snatched a trident out of the air and blocked with it, Morgan¡¯s sword shuddering against the weapon¡¯s handle.


    "Weak," the Baron hissed. "And predictable. If this is all the new crop of Special Officers is capable of, it¡¯s no wonder we¡¯re in such --"


    C! A!


    To tell the truth, Cut and Amplify were somewhat redundant abilities. Cut increased an object¡¯s sharpness, and Amplify intensified an object¡¯s most prominent properties. With a bladed weapon, they pretty much did the same thing.


    If he Amplified the Cut ability itself, though¡­ well, that was another story entirely.


    Morgan¡¯s sword, honed to divinity, sliced right through Lunalette¡¯s pitchfork and slashed down through his shoulder, opening up a bloody wound. The only thing that saved the Baron from death right then and there was his retreat -- two pitchforks swooped in and hooked themselves under Lunalette¡¯s armpits, pulling him away.


    He didn¡¯t get far.


    Burning trees exploded out of the ground as Ruth Blaine tore her way through the forest, reaching Lunalette before he could even finish running away. As she swiped at him with her claws, he seized his pitchforks and blocked again -- with everything he had. Under constant attack like this, it seemed he was having issues organizing his teleportation.


    If these pitchforks couldn¡¯t stand up against Morgan¡¯s sword, they certainly couldn¡¯t withstand Ruth¡¯s claws. Both snapped easily and went flying apart --


    -- but that bought enough time for Lunalette to plant his hands together.


    -- but that bought enough time for more pitchforks to swarm in.


    -- but that bought enough time for the Baron to grin wickedly.


    -- and, most of all, it bought enough time for him to speak two words.


    "Damnation Ira!"


    Lunalette hadn¡¯t especially wanted to use this.


    It was a wasteful technique, excessively destructive and hard to manage. Even if it wasn¡¯t those things, though, he¡¯d have still hesitated -- the pitchforks he used Ira on took far longer to regenerate than usual. Several minutes, rather than the seconds he was used to.


    In this case, though, he¡¯d been pushed to the brink. It was Ira or death.


    As one, the pitchforks he¡¯d summoned exploded, each one detonating like a mighty grenade. Teleporting high into the sky, Lunalette only had to look down to watch as the blasts tore through the forest and the earth, great piles of debris and shrapnel flying in every direction.


    Morgan Nacht and Ruth Blaine had been caught right in the middle. Even if they¡¯d survived, there was no way they¡¯d been unharmed. Even so, he wouldn¡¯t be taking any chances.


    With the additional Aether batteries he¡¯d gathered during the course of this battle, right now Lunalette had control over around two-hundred and nine pitchforks. That didn¡¯t include the ones he¡¯d just used as bombs, of course, but it would suffice for this technique. Spreading his arms wide, Lunalette summoned his weaponry -- and they manifested around him like an inverted globe, the tip of each blade pointing directly towards him.


    Lunalette braced himself, just for a moment, and spoke the name of the technique that would kill them.


    ¡­lasciate ogne speranza¡­


    "Damnation Superbia."


    ¡­voi ch¡¯intrate¡­


    A great snap sounded out over the forest as countless threads of cruel red Aether lashed out from the Baron¡¯s chest, connecting to the pitchforks arrayed around him.


    There was a grim woosh as the weapons were pulled in, each and every one striking Lunalette with their blades. A gasp of pain escaped his mouth as slowly, slowly, the weapons crawled into him, like they were being devoured by his body, all the way to the handle until they vanished completely.


    The black material the weapons were composed of began to spread across his body, forming a dark shell all the way to his fingernails. The vivid red of his pupils faded, leaving his eyes a pale blank. His hair too was bleached white, flowing behind him resplendent and free.


    As the Baron floated slowly to the ground, a dark cloud hung around him -- the vaporized remains of his garments, burnt away by the sheer power he was exuding. It was fine. With the red veins shining through his stone skin, trading his musculature, he barely looked like a human at all -- much less an undressed one.


    These people did not stand a chance. That had been obvious from the start. Lunalette had the experience of an entire lineage behind him.


    Indeed, the Baron was a Scurrant -- but not one of the circus freaks you would see among the common folk. No, his kind was one that had been specially designed for pedigree. Genetic memory allowed him to recall, however faintly, the experiences of his ancestors. Skill and discipline they had honed throughout their lifetimes were all at his disposal. These fools were not facing an individual: they were facing the history of the Supremacy itself.


    This was not an Aether ability, like the Principalities of the UAP, but something baked into Lunalette¡¯s very being. From the moment he¡¯d first taken breath, he¡¯d been superior to these people.


    "Well, then," Lunalette muttered to himself, feet finally touching the floor. "Shall we get started?"


    Those two, however injured, would still be in the smoke brought up by that explosion. Lunalette took a single step -- and bounded off the ground, a mighty geyser of dirt and stone being kicked up by his movement.


    It took about a second for him to find his targets. Morgan had created another shield of fog, and Lunalette tore it open with the barest of efforts. Within, he could see the two of them, already leaping to respond to his attack. To his eyes right now, they seemed so incredibly slow.


    Ruth Blaine¡¯s claws, infused to their limits, were repelled off of Lunalette¡¯s new skin with a shower of sparks. He planted a kick right between her legs and sent her flying up towards the sky, armour shattering around her.


    One down.


    Morgan Nacht thrust not his sword towards Lunalette, but his empty hand -- palm pointed right at the Baron¡¯s face. It was obvious what he intended to do. He was going to unleash more of that black fog into Lunalette¡¯s mouth and attack him from the inside. Moving at the last second, the Baron ducked under Morgan¡¯s arm and planted a mighty punch right into his chest, feeling the satisfying give of ribcage before his knuckles.


    Two down.


    A sigh of happiness passed through Lunalette¡¯s lips, breath leaving his mouth in the form of steam. How wonderful it felt to re-establish the proper order of things.


    Damnation Superbia was the most powerful ability the Baron possessed, just below Vanagloria. Unlike Avaritia, which fused his different pitchforks together to boost their strength, Superbia combined the power of Lunalette¡¯s weaponry with his own body directly, granting him speed and strength far beyond an ordinary Aether-user. He lost a little in versatility, but he¡¯d never needed that against such feeble opponents anyway.


    As Nacht flew off into the treeline, Lunalette cast his victorious gaze upwards again. The dot that was Blaine was descending once more, falling end over end, reduced to her more inferior armour. She¡¯d barely been able to withstand Superbia¡¯s blow at her peak, so another hit from it now would surely suffice to seal the deal.


    Grinning with bright white teeth, Lunalette lowered his body and pulled one fist back. Ready to punch a hole through that unsightly head of hers the second it came into range. He vaguely wondered how far he could send it flying: perhaps he¡¯d get a high score?


    Ah, he thought. Victory is --


    -- and then a giant metal foot smashed into him from behind, sending him flying over the horizon.


    Scout breathed a sigh of relief as he reached out with the hand of the Hanged Man, snatching Ruth Blaine out of the air before she could hit the ground. She was a mess -- her armour ruined, falling apart, her eyelids fluttering as she passed in and out of consciousness.


    Clearly, she was in no fit state to fight: Scout absorbed her body into the palm of the Hanged Man and began transferring her over to the cockpit. Here, at least, she¡¯d be safe from the crossfire.


    With that done, Scout¡¯s eyes flicked towards the man he¡¯d kicked -- the man who was now floating a distance away in the air, holding onto a single pitchfork to keep him aloft. Scout swallowed as he regarded the enemy, felt the power radiating from him, and saw what exactly he¡¯d done.


    A long, jagged crack ran through the enemy¡¯s stone body where he¡¯d been struck, and an unearthly red light shone from within. That furious light, though, was nothing compared to the hateful gleam in the man¡¯s eyes. If looks could kill, Scout would have been reduced to a blast shadow immediately.


    "How dare you?" the man hissed. "How dare you?"


    Seemed like he was pretty pissed -- but he still hadn¡¯t seen the extent of it. Scout hadn¡¯t come here alone. Behind this man, behind this Special Officer, something else was approaching.


    Something from straight out of a nightmare.


    The ability Roy Oliphant-Dawkins had woken up with today was a grim one indeed.


    The power to strip and manipulate the skin of the dead. Since the battle had begun, Roy had been acting as a scavenger, gathering material from the countless corpses the fighting had produced. Both allies and enemies now formed the construct of skin that Roy was riding, reins of epidermis clutched in his huge hands. He winced as he felt the uncomfortable texture against his palms.


    With the skin Roy had gathered, he¡¯d crafted a patchwork beast, long and spindly, with four huge wings propelling it through the air. Tendrils drooped down from along its midsection like the legs of a centipede, and the ¡¯head¡¯ of the draconic beast tore itself open in imitation of jaws. It didn¡¯t actually possess the kind of crushing force needed to bite down on something, but suffocation would be inevitable for anything swallowed. A death of thrashing and flailing as human skin pushed itself down your throat.


    Yeah¡­ this ability was pretty fucked up.


    He¡¯d decided to call it Puffblanket. That had been the name of his teddy bear as a child. Cute and cool.


    Two against one, buddy, he thought, looking at the floating figure. Still¡­ feels like this is gonna take a while.


    And with another mighty flap of the dragon¡¯s wings, Roy lunged towards the man of stone.

 Chapter 298:11.25: To Reign Supreme (Part 1)

    Over time, the planet Home had been many things to many people.


    Once, it had been the birthplace of humanity, the spawning ground from which they flooded over the galaxy.


    Once, it had been the center of the universe, a utopia of plenty, a world made perfect.


    Once, it had been a cautionary tale, a stain to be pointed at to teach discretion and humility.


    Once, it had been a penal colony, a place to throw away the people nobody wanted to know about anymore.


    Once, it had been nearly nothing -- a historical footnote, barely a curiosity.


    To the Pugnant tribes that now resided on it, though, that now walked its surface -- it was just as the name said. Home. Even if it wasn¡¯t much to look at.


    In the middle of a wasteland -- a wasteland that had once been a megacity -- was a small village, nestled between the tips of skyscrapers that protruded from the sands. It was a scrapyard settlement, all recycled metal and desperately repurposed machinery, a patchwork approximation of civilization.


    Smoke rose from the chimneys of dozens of rusted huts, arranged outside the massive well that had brought them together. Water was a precious thing on Home, after all. The fact that this well was able to tap into the great hydration machines below was enough to bring people from far and wide.


    On that day, a line of people stretched on before the well¡¯s operator, a burly-looking man who pushed the wheel to keep the machine operating. The people of the village, as a rule, were thin and hardy, forged for survival by the planet they were born to. Their clothes, purchased from reluctant traders and passed down through families, were eclectic and antique, looking like they¡¯d already been outdated decades ago. From each and every person waiting for their water ration, golden Pugnant eyes glinted in the sunlight. Anyone who wasn¡¯t a Pugnant would have trouble surviving in such an unforgiving landscape, after all.


    Atop the well, laid out on the metal, rested a young girl with fluffy white hair. A scarf was pulled up over her mouth, and the red hoodie and black shorts she wore seemed like they¡¯d been stitched back together half-a-dozen times. Everything on Home was destroyed and recreated, again and again and again. That was the rule.


    Nothing survived for long -- at least, not in its original form.


    Not even sleep, it seemed. The girl¡¯s ear twitched as she heard footsteps quickly approaching, and her golden eyes fluttered open. She was supposed to be keeping watch for trouble here at the well, but there was always trouble somewhere else to watch for too. Such was life.


    The young woman who¡¯d come running, a redhead in a faded plaid dress, put her hands to her mouth as she called up. Yura, she was called. Recently a mother, she helped out with the repair crews in the sparse free time she got.


    "Ellie!" she cried. "Ellie! You there, sweet?"


    Ellie leaned over the side of the well, her gaze annoyed. "What?" she replied, stifling a yawn.


    Yura pointed a stiff, wind-weathered finger in the direction of the village gates. "The Odrinson boys," she said by way of explanation, smiling apologetically. "They¡¯re causing trouble again. Could you¡­?"


    Ellie sighed as she flipped off the top of the well, landing with the grace of a gymnast on the sand below. As she adjusted the scarf that covered her mouth, she glanced over to Yura and finished the sentence: "...beat them up?"


    Yura winced. "Well, maybe just teach them a lesson."


    Beat them up, then. Ellie lowered her body to the ground and -- with a crack of red Aether -- kicked off the ground. To tell the truth, she wasn¡¯t that worried about the Odrinson brothers. They were new arrivals to Hepa Village, and not particularly strong.


    No¡­ the one she was worried about was that idiot.


    Tor Odrinson grinned to himself with sharp fangs as he delivered a vicious kick to the boy lying on the ground. Offensive white Aether sparked around Tor¡¯s foot, and defensive blue Aether surrounded his victim¡¯s body, but neither was in any great amount. This was torment, not murder, after all.


    "You got something stuck in your ears, idiot?" Tor sneered down at the boy. "I said let go of it!"


    Tor¡¯s victim was curled into a ball, holding on with all his might to the book he clutched in his hands. Tor didn¡¯t know what the book was, exactly, but that didn¡¯t matter -- merchants paid good for shit like that. He¡¯d hand it over the next time one swung around and make a splendid stator.


    "Hey!" Lou, Tor¡¯s brother, barked as he gave the boy a kick of his own. "Didn¡¯t you hear, dumbass? He said let go!"


    If nothing else, Tor had to give it to the little squirt -- he didn¡¯t give up easy.


    The kid was a few years younger than the Odrinson brothers, maybe ten or eleven, yet the painful blows that rained down on him didn¡¯t seem to be lessening his willpower any. His long brown hair -- tied back into a ponytail -- was crusted red from blood, and his Pugnant eyes were squeezed shut in fright, but he showed no signs of giving up.


    Ugh. Fine. Tor hadn¡¯t wanted to be an asshole about it, but¡­ He crouched down, seizing the boy¡¯s hands and squeezing tight. For the first time in a while, the kid opened his eyes -- clearly anticipating what Tor was going to say.


    "I¡¯m bein¡¯ serious now, kid," Tor said seriously. "Let go of it, or I¡¯m breaking your fuckin¡¯ fingers."


    The boy squinted at Tor -- his glasses lay broken in the dirt -- and even then, even then, shook his head. "N-No¡­" he said weakly. "It¡¯s mine¡­ I-I found it, so¡­"


    With a sigh -- it was summer today, and he would really rather be at home -- Tor began twisting the boy¡¯s fingers. The scream of pain the kid let out probably would have caused an ordinary person to stop, or at least hesitate. Not on Home. Here, you learnt to ignore those kinds of impulses.


    Tor twisted, and twisted, and there, right at the threshold, he --


    "Stop!"


    The cry, originating from above, echoed over the landscape. Tor looked up, and his brother Lou followed his gaze. When he saw the source, Tor did stop -- but only because he¡¯d found something new to amuse himself with. As he rose to his feet, he let go of the boy¡¯s fingers, throwing him back down to the ground.


    Scratching his head, Tor grinned up at the new arrival. "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"


    The boy was around Tor¡¯s age, fourteen or so. He was standing atop a nearby hill, fists planted against his hips, legs spread wide like he was some kind of comic book hero. A yellow cape -- more like a handkerchief, really -- waved from his shoulders, matching the golden hair that stuck out in every direction. Dull blue eyes glared down righteously at the Odrinson brothers, undeterred by their obvious amusement.


    Dull blue eyes -- not even a Cogitant. Tor¡¯s sly grin stretched out further: he might actually know this guy already. He¡¯d heard rumors since arriving at this village, after all. People liked to talk about their local idiots.


    This was the throwback, wasn¡¯t it? The Crownless who¡¯d been born to Pugnant parents. The weakling.


    "Let him go!" the boy pointed his finger at Tor. "Don¡¯t mess with my friends!"


    Tor exchanged an amused glance with his brother Lou -- and then stamped down on the kid¡¯s hand, grinding it under his heel. Ignoring the whimpers of his victim, he called up to the throwback. "You ain¡¯t a good listener, are ya? I asked who the hell you think you are."


    The throwback¡¯s nostrils flared in righteous anger for a moment, but a wide grin spread across his face all the same. He slammed his thumb into his chest as he stood proud before the three of them.


    "The name¡¯s Kadmon!" he declared triumphantly. "And I¡¯m the man who¡¯s gonna be Supreme!"


    To summarize things, they beat the shit out of him.


    Kadmon was laid out on the floor, broken and bruised, when the boy he¡¯d defended -- little Adran -- scurried over, book clutched against his chest. He¡¯d earned himself a few bruises, too, but nothing compared to Kadmon. Adran smiled meekly as he looked down at his fallen protector.


    "Thanks, um, Kad," he said gently. "They were so busy with you, I guess they forgot about me, huh?"


    An ordinary person would have been humiliated by the beating he¡¯d just endured. Kadmon just wiped the blood from his nose, grinned again, and forced himself up into a sitting position. With no trace of weariness to him, he offered the younger boy a hearty thumbs up.


    "No problem!" he said cheerfully. "You can¡¯t let jerks like that get away with stuff, right?"


    She¡¯d heard enough. Ellie dropped down from a nearby heater-tower as a shadow, barely visible against the haze of the sun, and spoke up.


    "If that was you stopping them," she said simply. "I¡¯d hate to see them getting away with it."


    Kadmon crossed his legs as he scooted around in the dirt to face the new arrival, scratching at his ear like a puppy. "The effort¡¯s the important part, though. You keep on trying and eventually you¡¯ll win. Now they know people will stand up to them."


    Ellie sighed as she stopped in front of the two of them, tossing her white hair over her shoulder.


    "I was hoping you¡¯d have learnt your lesson from getting your butt kicked," she said. "But I guess not."


    If anything, Kadmon¡¯s grin broadened. "What are you talking about? I nearly had them!"


    Ellie¡¯s eyelid twitched. "You didn¡¯t. You didn¡¯t even manage to hit them. Y, you¡¯re such an idiot."


    Adran took a step back, his eyes flicking between his two elders. "T-Thanks for helping me, Kad," he offered meekly. "Sorry if I, um, got you in trouble with your girlfriend."


    Kadmon blinked. "She¡¯s not my --"


    "He¡¯s not my boyfriend!" Ellie cut him off, her cheeks a furious red. With one hand, she pulled her scarf up higher to hide her face, the other hand balled into a tense fist at her side.


    Adran looked up at her, still clinging on to his book, and for a second he looked as if he might say something else -- an apology or something. In the end, though, caution won out, and the only thing he said was:


    "Oh."


    With that, he was off, leaving the two of them alone in the dusty street. Ellie sighed again, looking down at the Crownless boy. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "You know you really couldn¡¯t have won, right? That there was absolutely no way? They have it, and you don¡¯t."


    At that, for the first time, Kadmon¡¯s smile wavered just a bit. She¡¯d hit home there.


    It was undeniable -- Kadmon was lacking. Everyone else in this village, damn near everyone else on this planet, had something he did not. It was something that put him below all of them.


    Among the people of this planet, Kadmon alone could not use Aether.


    Kadmon¡¯s parents had passed away years ago from one of the wild plagues that roamed the surface of Home, back when the village had been somewhere else entirely. That old place was uninhabitable now, just like most of the planet. Since then, Kadmon had been in the care of the community as a whole.


    It wasn¡¯t so bad. Kadmon tapped in the key code for his house -- a repurposed troop carrier from one of the old pirate invasions -- and stepped inside, ducking under a loose bar of metal he¡¯d never quite worked out the purpose of. Ellie followed after him, with much more grace.


    "Aren¡¯t you hot?" Kadmon called over his shoulder as he maneuvered his way through the accumulated mess. "Wearing a scarf like that today?"


    Ellie reflexively brushed her fingers against the scarf in question. "It¡¯s meant to be winter tonight," she said defensively. "I¡¯m planning ahead."


    Weather on Home was a chaotic beast. Seasons could change at the drop of a hat, heat waves followed by blizzards with only hours separating them. Nobody knew quite why this happened, but the prevailing theory was that it was some kind of ancient weather control mechanism that had gone wrong.


    Some people, though, took a more pessimistic view. They said that the planet itself was trying to kill them. That humans weren¡¯t welcome here anymore.


    Ellie wrinkled her nose as she followed Kadmon through his home. The floor was covered with old bits of machinery, wrappers and boxes. It was like Kadmon had set out to keep hold of every single thing he¡¯d ever owned.


    "This is such a mess," she said. "You need to clear this up, you know."


    Kadmon shrugged. "It¡¯s fine. I know where everything is, anyway. Here we go¡­"


    He reached into a hollow of miscellaneous garbage and pulled out a can of antirads, wrenching it open and popping one of the pills into his mouth. Pugnants had built-in resistance to the kinds of radiation present on places like Home, but Crownless like Kadmon had to medicate themselves.


    Even if he held any kind of bitterness about stuff like that, he never showed it. That was part of what made Ellie¡¯s heart hurt when she looked at him.


    As he was swallowing the pill, Kadmon must have caught Ellie looking at him, and cocked his head. "What¡¯s up?" he asked.


    Ellie rolled her eyes. "Don¡¯t you get embarrassed, accepting charity like that?" He hadn¡¯t gone out and gotten those antirads himself, after all. They were given to him by the village.


    Kadmon¡¯s damn smile returned. "Embarrassed? Why? It makes me really happy!"


    Ellie furrowed her brow. "Huh?"


    With carefree flexibility, Kadmon let himself fall back onto his bed, arms spread out like a snow angel. "People say mean stuff about me, but then they go and do stuff like this. Actions are more important than words, right? I¡¯m gonna look out for them too when I become Supreme."


    "You keep saying that," Ellie said, flopping down onto the bed next to him. "But there¡¯s no way. You¡¯re not gonna be Supreme."


    "You¡¯ll see," Kadmon smirked, scratching at his nose. "Maybe I¡¯ll surprise you."


    For a little while, the two of them just lay there, looking up at the ceiling -- at the flickering light panel that held pride of place there. Outside, the wind had begun to whistle and roar. The winter that Ellie had predicted was well on its way.


    "Why would you want to be Supreme, anyway?" Ellie muttered. "Doesn¡¯t make any sense to me."


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    "What¡¯s not to get? The Supreme¡¯s the strongest there is."


    "Yeah," Ellie rolled over. "But what does being the strongest get you? Does it make you happy? Sounds like a load of trouble to me -- just assholes challenging you for the position."


    "Let ¡¯em come!" Kadmon grinned. "When you¡¯re the strongest, you decide how things work. What¡¯s good and what¡¯s bad¡­ I bet you could change the whole shape of this world, if you wanted to."


    He was quiet for a second -- and then continued, barely audible.


    "I just think¡­ people could stand to be a little less cruel."


    Ellie blinked slowly. "...right."


    Neither of them said it, but they both knew what he meant. The current Supreme, the one who¡¯d slain Gael the Golden and hunted down the Heroes of Form, was a monster. They said he hosted decadent and depraved banquets aboard the Shesha -- Gael¡¯s old throne -- for weeks at a time. There were even rumors that, sometimes, human flesh was served at these feasts -- the remains of the Supreme¡¯s enemies.


    And the less said about his Heir, the better.


    "If your grandpa taught me," Kadmon ventured. "I know I could get strong enough. Won¡¯t you at least ask?"


    Ellie shook her head. "I already know what he¡¯ll say. He won¡¯t teach people who don¡¯t have Aether."


    Home was a place for people who had nowhere else to go -- and that fit Ellie¡¯s grandfather perfectly. As a martial artist in the old Supremacy, he¡¯d worked under Gael the Golden and taught several of the Heroes of Form. With that regime gone, however, he was now nothing but inconvenient history -- and inconvenient history had the tendency to disappear these days.


    So he¡¯d come here with what remained of his family, hid out in this tiny village. He tutored some of the village¡¯s warriors to earn his keep, but for the most part he kept to himself. He wasn¡¯t the sort of man who¡¯d give charity to Kadmon.


    In reality, Ellie already knew what he¡¯d say because she¡¯d already asked, again and again and again, each time Kadmon insisted. He wasn¡¯t someone she could say no to. Her grandfather, on the other hand, was happy to refuse.


    Kadmon sighed, long and hard, and then went silent for a long time. When Ellie glanced over to him, worried by the quiet, she saw that he had fallen asleep. Even then, he kept that grin on his face, slackened just a bit. Optimism was his default, after all.


    "You idiot¡­"


    Ellie closed her eyes, too -- and soon enough was lulled to sleep by the sound of snowfall.


    The environment of Home was a dangerous and unwelcoming one, but that wasn¡¯t where the primary danger came from. So long as you knew what you were doing and came prepared, a person could survive on Home fairly easily, save for the odd cataclysm.


    No -- the true danger on Home came from the people.


    The bandits hit the main gate of the village about midday, smashing through and brutalizing the young warriors who¡¯d been posted to defend it. The Odrinson brothers lay twitching on the ground as the intrusive entourage sauntered into the settlement, harsh laughter of amusement floating up from their mouths. Their armour was patchwork and their weapons primitive, but these bandits had the advantage in both numbers and viciousness. The ones they¡¯d fought hadn¡¯t stood a chance.


    Ellie clutched her wounded arm as she lay on one knee, watching the leader of the bandits enter through the mists the day had produced. She¡¯d never met the tall, lanky figure before, but she knew his face -- and his reputation.


    The King of Nails. They said he¡¯d attacked a village not too far away a little while ago. They said he¡¯d crucified their warriors and taken the rest of the villagers as slaves. They said he was a demon on the battlefield.


    Looking at him now, Ellie could understand that. The King of Nails stood tall, a black long coat trailing behind him as he walked, his unnaturally long fingers twitching and writhing as they tasted the air. Greasy dark hair hung limp around his head, and his scruffy beard looked like he¡¯d attempted to chop it away with a sword at some point. A necklace of his eponymous nails hung around his neck, jingling as he walked, like some distorted decoration.


    A sly, slimy smile stretched over his thin lips as he saw the defeated fighters. "I heard there were meant to be strong people around here¡­" the King of Nails drawled, spittle flying from his lips. "Guess I heard wrong? What d¡¯you think, missie?"


    That last part was addressed to Ellie -- and as he spoke, the nails that had struck her arm twisted inside her flesh, forcing a scream of pain from her throat.


    "Go¡­ to hell¡­" Ellie growled.


    The King of Nails hummed a vague musical note as he turned his hand back and forth, each movement adjusting the nails further, driving Ellie down to the ground. "Weak," he mused, tapping one foot against the ground rhythmically. "But spirited, hm. To say to someone ¡¯go to hell¡¯ when they can actually send you to hell¡­ ooh. Would you like me to send you to hell, little girl? Is that a dream of yours, hm?"


    Back and forth, back and forth, the nails turned like slow drills. Sweat poured down Ellie¡¯s forehead. The pain was excruciating, but it wasn¡¯t more than she could handle -- she wasn¡¯t weak like that.


    Red Aether crackled around her, and the King of Nails just raised an eyebrow in response -- even as that Aether coalesced into a weapon in Ellie¡¯s free hand. A massive chakram, dark crimson, with a single blade running all the way around it.


    "Pursuer!" Ellie yelled, hurling the weapon at the King of Nails with all her strength. "Kill him!"


    Through countless hours of training with her grandfather, Ellie had created this ability. Pursuer analyzed its target, determined their movement speed, and moved just slightly faster. No matter how fast they ran, or how far, Pursuer would always keep up.


    The King of Nails watched, eyebrow still raised, as Pursuer zoomed towards him --


    -- and then he simply stopped it with one hand.


    The whirring death-wheel ground to a halt, sparks flying from the blade where it tried to penetrate the King of Nail¡¯s skin. With that same moist smile on his face, the bandit chief tightened his grip, exerted just a tiny bit more force¡­ and shattered the weapon. Shards of metal collapsed to the ground and dissipated into red Aether.


    "Like I said, hm," the King sneered. "You¡¯ve got spirit. It¡¯s not a good survival trait."


    With that, he pointed his long pale hand towards Ellie -- and fired a volley of tiny red nails towards her, the projectiles screeching through the air like bullets. With her injuries, there was no way for her to dodge. All Ellie could do was sit there -- eyes closed -- muster as much Aether as she could and¡­


    Thud. Thud thud thud thud thud.


    ¡­open those eyes once more.


    No nails had struck her, and it was easy to tell why when she looked. Someone had leapt in front of her, arms spread wide, and taken the blows in her place. Nails had been driven deep into their body, into their arms and legs, into their chest. Vivid red blood oozed into the dirt below.


    She didn¡¯t need to see his face to know who he was.


    "You idiot!" she screamed, distraught.


    Kadmon, for his part, just looked back at her, his grin painted red. He was shaking, and he was bleeding, and he was hurting -- but he showed no sign of falling to the ground. Here, now, he stood proud.


    "Hm," the King of Nails mused, barely surprised. "Spirit is in high supply today. All sorts of low intelligences and discontinued species¡¯, ah. Who¡¯re you supposed to be, little boy?"


    His clothes darkened by sweat and blood, Kadmon turned his head back to the King. That grin widened.


    "Kadmon," he forced out through the inevitable pain. "The name¡¯s Kadmon. And I¡¯m the man who¡¯s gonna be Supreme!"


    The bandits gathered behind the King of Nails exploded into mocking laughter, but the King himself just licked his lips -- an amused twinkle in his eyes.


    "That¡¯s no good, hm, Kadmon," he said, eyes half-lidded. "On this planet, you¡¯d do well to consider me your Supreme. Ah, it¡¯s a good survival tactic. Besides¡­" His eyes narrowed further. "I felt it when I hit you. You don¡¯t have Aether, do you?"


    Kadmon¡¯s grin didn¡¯t fade, but it seemed to become just a tad more forced as the laughter intensified around him. The villagers, hiding behind cover, looked on in terror as those two -- the throwback and the King of Nails -- faced off.


    The slightest giggle escaped the King¡¯s wet lips. "Heh. You don¡¯t have the most basic qualification, do you? And you say you¡¯re going to be Supreme, hm? I dislike brats with dreams beyond their means. Do you understand me?"


    Don¡¯t do it, Ellie wanted to beg. Don¡¯t take the bait.


    She did not say it, because she already knew he¡¯d never listen. With a mighty roar, Kadmon overcame the pain that gripped him and charged towards the King, bloody fist pulled back to punch --


    Thud thud thud.


    -- until the King, with just a lazy wave of his hand, sent another couple of nails into Kadmon¡¯s knee. With a cry of pain, Kadmon fell to the ground at the King of Nail¡¯s feet, sprawled out in the dirt. The bandit looked down at him, eyes dull and merciless.


    "Eh?" he muttered. "I asked if you understood me and you went and ran over. What were you thinking? Are you stupid?"


    Slowly, shaking on the ground, Kadmon looked up at his enemy. He was still smiling. It was bloody, and it was forced, but it was there.


    Seeing that, the King of Nail¡¯s own smile faded from his face. He glared down at the boy.


    "Hey. I¡¯m asking you questions, hm, and you¡¯re not answering them. You realise you¡¯re worthless, right? That a weakling like you can¡¯t become Supreme? Say it."


    Don¡¯t¡­ Ellie silently shook her head.


    Kadmon opened his mouth and spoke.


    "I¡¯m the man who¡¯s going to become Supreme," he declared again, his voice weak.


    The King, hearing that, just closed his eyes and turned his head up towards the sky. Those long fingers writhed, clicking each time they bent the wrong way.


    "I see," he said.


    Thud.


    Another nail drove itself into Kadmon¡¯s shoulder, driving him back down into the dirt -- and the King stomped his foot down on the back of the boy¡¯s head, grinding his face into the ground.


    "Those kinds of ill-considered words irritate me," the King growled. "I¡¯m not happy right now. I came all the way out here and I have to hear someone like you talk nonsense, oh? It¡¯s a joke. Recant your words."


    Face covered in mud, with a boot pressing down on him, Kadmon shook his head.


    Thud. Another nail, this time in his other leg.


    "Recant your words," the King demanded, stomping down again. His subordinates had stopped laughing, and now looked to each other, concerned. Everyone could tell they were looking at something¡­ somehow important, somehow vital, even if they couldn¡¯t quite put it into words.


    "No¡­" Kadmon gasped, voice muffled.


    Thud.


    Ellie could hold herself back no longer. "Just do what he says, Kadmon!" she screamed, voice echoing through the silent village. "Don¡¯t be an idiot!"


    Twitching, Kadmon raised his face once more, just enough for her to see his resolute eyes¡­ and that same bloody grin. It hadn¡¯t changed a bit, even with all the pain. It¡­ never would change, would it?


    "I¡¯m¡­" Kadmon gasped. "...the man who¡¯s gonna be Supreme, El. There¡¯s nothing I can be but an idiot."


    Thud.


    "Recant your words," the King of Nails would say.


    Kadmon would refuse. Through word or gesture or even just silence, he would refuse. Then the pain would come. A nail in his body, or a vicious blow, or just another stomp. And then¡­


    "Recant your words," the King of Nails would say.


    The minutes stretched on, until they became an hour, and still the cycle went unchanged. Kadmon could do nothing but refuse, and the King of Nails could not accept his refusal. They were both of them driven by an indescribable mania.


    But as the pain continued, and continued, and continued, Kadmon found that it was becoming distant. It was as if he was watching this happening to his body as an outside observer, like he was watching it on a videograph. It wasn¡¯t¡­ real anymore.


    Was he dying? He found it difficult to care. He¡¯d rather die than surrender his dreams, after all. Out here on Home, your dreams were all you had. When the blizzards cut through your bones and the sun burnt at your skin, the idea that pain was not forever was enough to make it fade -- if only for a little while.


    Besides¡­


    He could hear their quiet murmuring, picture their frightened faces. The villagers. The people he¡¯d known all his life.


    These people were his people. These were the people who had kept him alive, who had given him food and water, shelter, a life to be lived. Through their actions they had shown him kindness beyond anything he¡¯d deserved. These were the people who¡¯d opened up the space necessary to dream.


    He couldn¡¯t let anything else happen to them. Not another drop of blood. Not ever.


    Kadmon took a deep breath, filtered through dirt and blood¡­ and for the first time, felt a deep and unconditional love for the people around him. Something within him rose to meet it, like a key and a lock.


    The key turned¡­


    ¡­and deep within him, golden Aether roared.


    "I want you to know you forced me to this, hm," the King of Nails scowled, holding his arm out to the side. "I dislike overkill."


    There was a mighty flash of grey Aether, and when it cleared the King was holding a new weapon. Another nail, but massive, stretched out and warped to such a degree that it looked more like a jousting lance. He pointed it down, pressing the tip against the back of Kadmon¡¯s neck.


    "Lost Face," the King named the Aether Armament, his gaze dismissive. "Those it strikes will have their consciousness stretched, hm. The instant it takes for your life to end will feel like an eternity. I hold hell in my hand, boy. Recant your words."


    Deep down in the dirt and the muck and the blood and the suffering, Kadmon shook his head once more.


    The King sighed, and raised the Lost Face up high.


    "As expected," he spat. "Die."


    He brought the lance down --


    -- but it never made contact.


    Kadmon had reached out with his hands and caught the blade. Golden Aether shone like heaven around his hands as he held the weapon in place. Every single person, villager and bandit alike, watched transfixed as Kadmon slowly rose to his feet, with no sign of difficulty at all even as the King struggled against him.


    "Wha¡­" the King spluttered. "What are you¡­?!"


    As he rose back to his full height, Kadmon answered him, now holding back the Lost Face with just one hand. "I¡¯m not a liar," he said. "I¡¯ve not lied, not once in my life, and I don¡¯t ever plan to. When I say I¡¯m going to be the Supreme¡­ it¡¯s true. It¡¯s going to happen."


    Kadmon squeezed his hand into a fist -- and in doing so, shattered the Lost Face. The weapon crumbled into dust and crumbs of metal in Kadmon¡¯s grip, and the King of Nails could do nothing but stagger back, spluttering.


    "There¡¯s¡­!" he barely managed to get out. "There¡¯s no way¡­!"


    Kadmon cast a glare at the King of Nails that could have melted stars. "No way¡­?" he echoed, voice low, as if the very sounds themselves were ridiculous. "Recant your words."


    He pulled his fist back.


    There was no time for the King of Nails to dodge, or to fight back, or to even scream. The speed of the punch would not allow that. It was an absolute power. As it struck the King in the face, it glowed with such fierce Aether that Kadmon¡¯s entire arm seemed to become a golden beam. There was a sound like an explosion as the blow smashed through every defence the King had and finally, finally¡­ made contact.


    There was not enough to call it a corpse.


    The wisp of man fluttered to the floor, obliterated, and a second later Kadmon followed -- finally reaching the limits of his stamina as he fell among the crowd of bandits. Horrified by what they¡¯d just witnessed, the comrades of the fallen King looked down at the unconscious body of the boy, until one of them was brave enough to shout:


    "Kill him!"


    That might have been the end of Kadmon, right there -- if the bandit¡¯s head had not suddenly fallen from his shoulders. And then the head of the bandit next to him, and the bandit next to her, and so on and so forth. Within the span of a few seconds, the entire group had fallen to their knees, heads landing in their open hands. A row of corpse sculptures.


    Groaning, Kadmon exerted the most effort his body was capable of -- he opened his eyes and, just slightly, turned his head.


    There, standing before him, was the sculptor himself. A man Kadmon knew, but had never met before. It was tempting to imagine this was a dream, even. This was the man he¡¯d longed to meet for all this time.


    He was old, that was undeniable -- with a hunched back and a droopy white moustache that only just retained traces of the red it had once been. Golden eyes peered down at Kadmon from behind round spectacles. As the old man cleaned his fingers with a handkerchief, Kadmon saw that they were painted red with blood -- the remnants of his work with the bandits.


    This was Ellie¡¯s grandfather. The man they called Yoten.


    As the villagers came out of hiding, looking at Kadmon in awe, Yoten continued to stare down at him appraisingly. Finally, though, he reached down a hand to help him up.


    "You want training?" the old man asked.


    Kadmon looked mutely at the hand for a moment. It was still stained with blood.


    Yoten blinked. "You want training?" he repeated, more insistently.


    As if snapping out of a trance, Kadmon nodded, and -- with the very last of his strength -- took the proffered hand.


    "Yes!" he cried out earnestly.


    Yoten grinned with yellowed teeth. "Then come with me."


    The Supreme opened his eyes, waking from his nap. His eyes were wet. With a hand large enough to hold the world, he wiped them dry, his mouth twisted into a deep scowl. He wasn¡¯t grinning anymore.


    "You came out here to have a good time, right?" the Supreme muttered to himself. "What¡¯re you doing, thinking back on stupid shit?"


    It was only then that he noticed he was not alone. That didn¡¯t much concern him. If he hadn¡¯t noticed something, that was usually because it was no threat to him in the first place. Still¡­ this was something interesting.


    A corpse stood in front of him.


    It was a young man from the looks of it, with silver hair and Cogitant-blue eyes, but parts of him seemed to have been recorded away. Those sections were now ringed with borders of sparking sapphire Aether, exposing the innards and bones within. Kind of a freaky thing to wake up to, but still cool.


    "What do you want?" he demanded, his voice rumbling through the ground.


    If the corpse was afraid, it showed no sign of it. Through the cross-section of its jaw, a grin was visible. That was the closest thing the Supreme saw to emotion there: the empty, dead smile of a skeleton.


    "Come with me," the skeleton said. "Skipper¡¯s ready for you."

 Chapter 299:11.26: To Reign Supreme (Part 2)

    It rained.


    Hands in the pockets of his jeans, the Supreme felt the cool water pelt at his shoulders as he walked. Refreshingly cool, even with the flames all around. He cracked his neck and let out a heavy breath as he followed his guide.


    Esmeralda sure recruited strange folk, though. What was going on with this kid¡¯s body? Some kind of ability? It looked like he¡¯d recorded parts of himself, but for what benefit?


    Interesting stuff, but not what he was here for.


    "Hey, boy," the Supreme said, raising his eyebrows. "I¡¯m losing patience. How much longer?"


    The guide looked back at him with that strange half-face. "Still a while," the Cogitant said. "Skipper¡¯s far from the battlefield. You don¡¯t want anyone interrupting your fight, right?"


    "Fair enough," the Supreme muttered. As he walked, he closed his eyes, angling his face upwards so as to feel the rain against it. Simple things like this reminded him he was alive. That he had a body that could experience sensation. That he was inside this world.


    Even so¡­ he couldn¡¯t help but think back on the past. How long had it been, since he¡¯d felt like this? Since he¡¯d felt that there was a point to anything? Since he¡¯d felt like exerting the effort to live a life?


    Way too damn long.


    The boy called Kadmon trained.


    Yoten was a harsh teacher, and a merciless one. Kadmon soon came to understand that when he¡¯d agreed to learn, he¡¯d surrendered all other moments in his life. Every hour of the day, every day of the year, he would be drilled relentlessly. Thrown into life-or-death situations to see if he would survive. Thrown into deprivation chambers to tap into his Aether more fully. Thrown into the kinds of challenges a Supreme would need to overcome.


    And as for Home, and the village¡­


    When more bandits came, he killed them.


    When pirates came, he killed them.


    When Special Officers came, he killed them.


    He painted his hands with every kind of blood, and made every kind of enemy. His body became a weapon specialized for killing. His mind became an engine for understanding and manipulating his Aether. Just by reaching out, he felt like he could take the whole world in his hand.


    Soon, the time came that the planet he¡¯d been born, his Home, was not enough. They took a ship and began prowling the galaxy, searching for strong opponents for Kadmon to hone himself against. The Second Dead, the Birthday Bandito, Putrid Fate¡­ each battle brought him close to death, and each victory brought him closer to greatness.


    All for the day that Yoten had promised, all the way back at the start of his training. The day his teacher would avenge himself against his most hated enemy. The day Kadmon would take the throne he¡¯d always dreamed of.


    The day they¡¯d change the shape of this world.


    It didn¡¯t come in the way he¡¯d expected, the way he¡¯d dreamed about. On the day the world began to change, Kadmon was exercising in the ship¡¯s gym, pummeling a reinforced punching bag with blows, leaving heavy dents in the metal beneath the cushioning. Sweat was pouring down his sculpted body, pooling on the floor below, but the speed and precision of his movements didn¡¯t change at all.


    Like a machine, he continued to operate with unchanging efficiency -- until, with a final heavy blow, he sent the bag flying into the wall.


    As Kadmon wiped the sweat from his forehead, he saw that Ellie was standing by the entrance to the room. Even after five years, he could never sense her presence. She and Adran had been growing stronger alongside him as his companions, after all.


    "What¡¯s up?" Kadmon grinned, sweeping his wet hair back with a hand.


    With careful fingers, Ellie adjusted the scarf that covered her mouth, pulling it down just a little so her words could be heard. The look in her eyes was¡­ strange. Kadmon couldn¡¯t quite tell what kind of emotion was glimmering there.


    When he heard her words, though, he had no doubt that his own eyes held that same gleam.


    "The Supreme is dead," she said.


    In the end, Henri -- now being called the Glutton -- had passed away from an ordinary heart attack. Clearly, he¡¯d overindulged himself. That, or one of his advisors had grown tired of his erratic behavior and taken matters into their own hands. If that was the case, though, nobody seemed to be taking responsibility for it -- and so the line of Supreme succession had become complicated.


    Generally speaking, there are two ways to become Supreme.


    The first is to kill the current Supreme, with your own hands, and to have the Supremacy at large acknowledge that you did so. This is the simplest route, relatively speaking.


    In a situation like this, though, where a Supreme passes away from natural causes or their killer is unknown or unavailable, another method of selection becomes necessary. The Dawn Contest.


    Participants from all across the Supremacy, the very strongest, would clash against each other for the right to challenge the Supreme Heir. The first stage of the Contest would consist of massive melees on sixteen planets, the survivors of which would move on to the tournament proper. The victor among the challengers would then be pitted against the Supreme Heir, and the winner would become Supreme.


    Throughout the history of the Supremacy, there had only been seven Dawn Contests. The eighth would decide Henri the Glutton¡¯s successor.


    As Yoten finished explaining the Dawn Contest to Kadmon, the young man hunched over in his chair, fingers steepled underneath his chin.


    "So basically¡­" Kadmon muttered. "If I beat everyone else in the tournament, I¡¯m Supreme?"


    "A little little simplified, but yes," Yoten nodded, banishing the holograms he¡¯d been using for his explanation with a wave of his finger. "I have no doubt you¡¯ll survive the melees with your skills, but those who make it to the Contest proper will be the best of the best of the best. Legends in their own rights. Larson Rain, Samson Rhodes¡­ those sorts of killers."


    Ellie lurked in the corner of the briefing room, her arms crossed.


    "Of course¡­" she said. "If you do win, you know what that means, right? You¡¯ll have to take him on."


    Kadmon swallowed, and then nodded, squeezing his hands into fists. "The Heir."


    The hologram flickered into existence once again, this time displaying an image of the final opponent. The Supreme Heir -- the only living blood of Henri the Glutton. He shared most of the previous Supreme¡¯s physical features: jet-black hair and pupils contrasting with snow-white skin. A black cloak was wrapped around his form, as well -- and if you looked too deeply into those pitch-black eyes, even as a hologram, you started to imagine he could see you back.


    Adran pushed his glasses up his nose with one hand and swiped through his script with the other. "The Heir was Henri¡¯s primary enforcer during much of his reign -- he has a reputation for, um¡­ competency."


    "Brutality, more like," Ellie muttered, looking at the hologram.


    Adran shrugged. "Um, call it what you like, but he got the job done. For the last few years the Supreme -- um, the former Supreme -- distanced himself from the Heir, though. Maybe he was scared of an assassination? There were rumours that the Heir had ties to terrorist groups."


    Yoten swiped his hand once more, and the menacing figure of the Heir disappeared. "When a Supreme dies," he said dismissively. "All sorts of rumours always always pop up about potential successors. People spread them, you see? So that the people they dislike have less of a chance."


    Kadmon glanced up at his teacher. "It¡¯s not up to the public who becomes Supreme," he said gruffly. "It¡¯s all down to who¡¯s the strongest."


    With a thin smile on his lips, Yoten chuckled. "Believe me, boy. An unpopular Supreme never lasts long."


    "Henri did."


    "Fourteen, fifteen years?" Yoten scoffed. "That¡¯s not a long long time for a Supreme, really. And Henri wasn¡¯t necessarily unpopular -- some people thought his¡­ tendencies were a sort of fear campaign. A good deterrent against the UAP, understand?"


    Kadmon frowned. For a man who¡¯d been driven out by the depravity of the former Supreme, Yoten certainly didn¡¯t seem to have much resentment for the man. But, then again, Kadmon¡¯s teacher had never been one to openly display his emotions.


    In any case, the matter was simple.


    "Was the Supreme Heir born?" Kadmon asked.


    Adran blinked, confused, cocking his head. "Well, yes, of course -- although if you believe the stories --"


    "Then he can die," Kadmon stood up, cracking his neck. "When¡¯s this thing starting?"


    "El Dorado -- Seal of Fortune!"


    Kadmon felt strength and stamina flow into him as he dodged a swing of Samson Rhodes¡¯ massive sword, the roar of the crowd nearly deafening. As he flipped through the air, golden strings of light pulled his wounds shut and stopped the bleeding. The same happened with Rhodes -- a nasty gash that Kadmon had opened on his forehead instantly snapping shut.


    The abilities of Samson Rhodes -- the Gilded Knight -- affected everyone in their range, after all. The power and healing boost El Dorado provided would benefit both of them.


    Kadmon threw himself to the ground to avoid another deathswing of Rhodes¡¯ shining blade, sunlight bouncing off the strange material and casting the arena in a kaleidoscope of colour. It was like a dream -- both the landscape and the fact he was here at all. When he¡¯d fought his way through the melee, when he¡¯d climbed his way up the rankings¡­ all that time, he¡¯d expected the dream to suddenly be cut short. He¡¯d imagined he¡¯d wake up any second.


    And yet, here he was, in the finals. Fighting in the Arena, surrounded by a crowd of thousands, with billions more watching across the galaxy. Facing off against the Gilded Knight for the right to challenge the Supreme Heir.


    "Atlantis!" Rhodes roared, his braided beard fluttering in the wind. "Seal of Pressure!"


    A new ability, a new Seal. Rhodes hadn¡¯t used this one yet. At this close range, and judging from the name, it could be trouble. Kadmon would have liked to experience the ability himself, but under the circumstances¡­


    ¡­best to play it safe.


    "Excel Surge," Kadmon muttered under his breath. "Analysis."


    Kadmon possessed two Aether abilities of his own -- Badge of Honour and Excel Surge. Badge of Honour allowed him to tap into the abilities of those he shared a close bond and similarity with. Excel Surge optimised whatever ability it was paired with, taking it far beyond its regular performance.


    Usually, Adran¡¯s Analysis would require sustained observation of the target before it would provide a result. With Excel Surge, though¡­


    "Ability name -- Atlantis: Seal of Pressure," Adran¡¯s voice said, robotically monotone, directly into Kadmon¡¯s head. "Ability description: creates a field of variable size in which any stationary objects will be immediately crushed against the ground. User is not immune. Recommendation: engage in constant movement and attempt to restrain opponent."


    Seemed about right. Kadmon clicked his fingers back into place -- he¡¯d suffered an injury earlier -- and blasted off the ground, leaping away from the incoming Rhodes. Raising his hand up high, Kadmon called out once more: "Excel Surge! Pursuer!"


    The weapon he summoned was more than three times the size of Ellie¡¯s usual chakram, and more spherical -- a chaotic mass of intertwining blades, sparks flying as they scraped against each other. It zoomed towards Rhodes at lightning speed, carving through the ground as it flew, a meat grinder in motion. The Gilded Knight thrust his greatsword forwards, prepared to meet the Pursuer head on.


    Just as Kadmon had anticipated.


    Pursuer -- Swarm Mode!


    After watching her ability be so easily defeated by the King of Nails, Ellie had taken steps to improve it over the years -- and, through Badge of Honour, Kadmon had inherited and surpassed those improvements. In the instant before Rhodes¡¯ sword would have smashed through the Pursuer, it exploded into countless tiny copies of itself, each flying towards Rhodes from a different angle.


    From behind and the front. From the left and the right. From above. Even from below, as some of the Pursuers had tunnelled through the arena floor. Every angle of escape was covered. Rhodes would have no choice but to block.


    When that happened, Kadmon would have to restrain him. Halt the movement he would have used to deflect the attacks and let him be hit by his own ability.


    Rhodes¡¯ greatsword moved like a golden whip, tirelessly smashing the Pursuers out of the air as they flew towards him, debris dissipating into Aether. Even as he was blocking with all he had, though, Rhodes¡¯ eyes were fixed directly on Kadmon. His attention was absolute.


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    Kadmon felt exactly the same. It was a strange feeling -- like his breath had turned to ice within his lungs. Both of them could feel it: the fight was about to be decided. The winner of the Dawn Contest was about to be determined.


    The two warriors lunged forwards¡­


    "Shangri-la!" Rhodes bellowed. "Seal of Absolution!"


    Kadmon threw his hand forward, and screamed with all his might: "Excel Surge! Putrid Fate!"


    ¡­and one of them fell.


    In the end, Rhodes had survived the injuries caused by Putrid Fate¡¯s ability, but he had been in no state to continue fighting. Kneeling to one ravaged knee, he had honourably surrendered to Kadmon, granting him the title of victor.


    It all still seemed so surreal. Kadmon had been sitting in his hotel room for hours, staring at the wall, not quite able to believe this was all really happening.


    He¡¯d won. He¡¯d won the Dawn Contest. Tomorrow, he would face the Supreme Heir. The last obstacle. The last thing standing in his way before he could claim his dream.


    "I¡¯m the man who¡¯s going to be Supreme!"


    He¡¯d said that¡­ he¡¯d said that again and again and again, but deep down¡­ had he ever really believed it could happen? A disbelieving chuckle rose to his lips as he ran his hands down his face.


    "Stator for your thoughts?" said Ellie.


    Kadmon looked up. He¡¯d stopped getting surprised by his friend¡¯s sudden appearances ages ago -- there was nobody better at hiding than her. He smiled, nerves making the expression thin and trembling.


    When he didn¡¯t reply, she just sat down on the bed next to him, eyes fixed on the muted videograph. It was a news broadcast, countless talking heads discussing the ultimate bout that would take place the next day. Not the best thing to calm nerves: Ellie swiped a hand and turned the monitor off.


    "Long way from Home, huh?" she finally said, filling the silence. "How long has it been since we¡¯ve been back there?"


    "Too long¡­" Kadmon said quietly.


    Once Yoten¡¯s location had been discovered, it had no longer been safe to return to Home. For the last few years, they¡¯d been moving from planet to planet, living mostly on their ship, preparing for this fight. It had been so long. sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Kadmon cracked his mouth open. "If I¡­"


    Ellie looked over.


    "If I said¡­ if I went back to Home now, and forgot all about this¡­ would you come with me?" The words felt alien coming out of his mouth, but they would not be constrained. If nothing else, he had to make sure he¡¯d voiced the possibility.


    Even if he already knew the answer.


    "What are you talking about?" Ellie smiled softly, resting her head on his shoulder. "You¡¯re the man who¡¯s going to be Supreme, right?"


    Kadmon blinked, and the blink quickly became a resting of his eyes. "Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, I am, aren¡¯t I?"


    "Of course you are," Ellie said.


    A moment passed.


    "You idiot," Ellie finished.


    "Yeah," Kadmon grinned. "Yeah. I am."


    Even here, deep underground, Kadmon could hear the roaring of the crowds outside. The Arena was filled now with more people than Kadmon had ever seen in his life, all keen to see the shape the next century would take. The room was boiling hot, but Kadmon still couldn¡¯t help but shiver.


    When he¡¯d imagined this, it had been like a videograph or something -- a scene he¡¯d been observing. Now, though¡­ the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, the feeling of the metal locker against his hand¡­ all of this was distressingly real. Physical. This wasn¡¯t his imagination anymore.


    He¡¯d been given this room to prepare before his fight against the Heir, but he just couldn¡¯t bring himself to sit still. Over the last few hours, he¡¯d paced across the room countless times, familiarising himself with it. He¡¯d adjusted his armour as much as it could be adjusted. He¡¯d tried sitting and meditating on his Aether core -- but with the situation, he couldn¡¯t quite find the concentration.


    Ellie and Adran should have been here, at least, but they hadn¡¯t showed yet. No doubt Yoten had told them to stay back and let him prepare in peace. The old man did prize isolation just a little too much.


    Kadmon threw himself down onto the bench and looked at the article in his hand. A handkerchief, once bright yellow, now faded by time. As a kid, he¡¯d worn this around his neck as a cape, but now he had a real one that billowed in the wind.


    This is you, he thought, looking down at the handkerchief. Don¡¯t let that kid down.


    "You¡¯re the man who¡¯s gonna be Supreme, right?" he muttered to himself.


    "Are you?" replied the Supreme Heir.


    Kadmon leapt to his feet in an instant, golden Aether flaring around him as he whirled to face the enemy. There, right before him, in the middle of the room, was the Heir. The eerily handsome young man was just standing there, wearing a dark pinstripe suit and a black cloak, smiling genially at him.


    "What are you doing here?" Kadmon demanded.


    A stupid question. In a situation like this, there was no question what the Heir wanted. It had happened before. Cases where attacks had taken place outside of official Dawn Contest matches to manipulate the results.


    The Heir had decided to start the fight early. How had Kadmon not anticipated that? Stupid. Stupid.


    With a carefree laugh, the Heir raised his hands placatingly. "Please¡­ you don¡¯t have to be so tense," he said -- and despite the situation, his voice radiated utter benevolence and serenity. "I didn¡¯t mean to startle you. It¡¯s just that¡­ I wanted to meet you before the fight. Is that okay?"


    Kadmon blinked, fists still raised. For a second, he thought about entertaining this, but no: "Get out of here. Now."


    The Heir smiled that calm smile, cocking his head slightly. "You¡¯re a very talented young man. I see why people like you. I just went to see Samson Rhodes, and he was impressed with you as well."


    He¡¯d seen Rhodes? The Gilded Knight was meant to still be undergoing medical treatment. "Did you kill him?" Kadmon asked, throat dry.


    Despite the accusation, the Heir¡¯s dark eyes did not so much as blink. "Kill him? I think that would have been very cruel, don¡¯t you? There¡¯d have been no benefit in my doing so, so I didn¡¯t. Are you nervous?"


    The Heir took a step forward, and Kadmon let his golden Aether surge even further, holy light shining through the room. The light reflected off nearly everything in the chamber -- save for the Heir himself. He alone stood distinct, like an ink stain on white paper, or a black hole in space.


    "Leave," Kadmon growled.


    Another step, and he would attack. Kadmon would hold himself to that.


    The Heir sighed, seemingly downcast as his gaze slid down to the floor. "It seems you don¡¯t want to talk to me," he said calmly. "That makes me sad. However, I will respect your opinion. I¡¯m really happy that I got to meet you. Let¡¯s both do our best in the fight, okay?"


    There was no need to reply. To reply was to be distracted. Kadmon watched, completely silent, as the Supreme Heir turned and began to walk out of the room.


    He was just about to relax slightly¡­


    ¡­when the Heir lingered in the doorway.


    "Oh," he said softly. "I almost forgot." The Heir shrugged his cape, and two objects dropped to the floor with wet cracks. "I think these belong to you, Kadmon."


    Kadmon blinked -- and slowly, slowly, why so slowly -- looked down at the objects .


    Ba-dum.


    His heart hammered.


    Ba-dum.


    He didn¡¯t recognise the objects . He didn¡¯t. They didn¡¯t look like anything he knew. They were nothing. They weren¡¯t even there. He didn¡¯t know what he was looking at. There was nothing to say about it. They weren¡¯t worth looking at. He didn¡¯t know them. He didn¡¯t know those faces. That wasn¡¯t blood. He didn¡¯t see any blood. He didn¡¯t see that white hair. He didn¡¯t see those glasses. It was nothing. He didn¡¯t recognise the objects . He didn¡¯t feel sick. He didn¡¯t feel cold. He didn¡¯t, he didn¡¯t, he didn¡¯t.


    Ba-dum.


    He didn¡¯t see anything.


    Ba-dum.


    He didn¡¯t see Ellie and Adran¡¯s heads lying on the floor before him.


    Kadmon screamed. Long and hard, with such force that his throat felt like it was going to burst into flames. His Aether cracked and roared like a hurricane as it surged through the room, sending documents and clothing flying from the sheer force. It felt like his eyes were going to pop in their sockets. It felt like his tongue was about to fall out of his mouth. He couldn¡¯t breathe. He couldn¡¯t breathe, because he was too busy screaming.


    By the time he¡¯d fallen from his perch and landed on his knees, the scream had faded into a long dry croak. The Heir looked down at him, listening intently to it.


    "It seems I¡¯ve surprised you," the Heir said kindly. "I¡¯m sorry. That wasn¡¯t my intention at all. Do you need to be alone for a bit?"


    Kadmon looked up. His eyes were bloodshot rubies.


    "I¡¯LL KILL YOU!" he roared --


    -- and his Aether exploded into godlight.


    It was an unorthodox ending to the Dawn Contest. The final match had begun early, in the changing rooms, and from there the destruction had carved a path right to the Arena proper. Half of the building was already in flames from the crossfire.


    Kadmon was surrounded by bodies as he hurled another massive Pursuer towards the Heir, foam falling from his lips. At some point, their fight had moved into the crowd itself, and the casualties had been severe. Which of them had done the killing? Kadmon couldn¡¯t remember. All he could remember were those objects . All he could remember was his hatred.


    He¡¯d kill him. He¡¯d kill him, he¡¯d kill him, he¡¯d kill him, he¡¯d kill him, he¡¯d kill him, he¡¯d kill him, he¡¯d kill him!


    The Pursuer, driven by golden Aether, hurtled towards the Heir -- but, with a wave of his hand, the weapon was utterly erased from existence. Not even debris remained.


    The Heir smiled softly as he stood atop a pile of bodies, the screams of the fleeing survivors ringing through the air.


    "Like I said, you¡¯re a very talented young man," he spoke down to Kadmon. "What kind of policies will you institute as Supreme? I¡¯m interested to know."


    "Shut up!" Kadmon cried, charging forward. "Excel Surge -- Surgeon General!"


    He held his hand out to the side, and a massive scalpel the size of a greatsword materialised there. The original had been able to reopen wounds the target had suffered over the last few days. Under Excel Surge, every injury the target had sustained over the last year would be inflicted once again.


    If he could hit an undefended spot, he could win. He could turn this fucker into mincemeat.


    The Heir sighed, looking genuinely disappointed. "It seems you still don¡¯t want to talk to me," he said. "Again, that makes me sad. If it¡¯s your decision, though, I¡¯ll respect it."


    As Kadmon charged in, the Heir raised his hand -- and with a spark of black Aether, a swarm of dark locusts flooded out through his palm. As one, they streamed through the air towards Kadmon, hungry mandibles clicking at empty space.


    Kadmon knew this attack.


    They¡¯d studied the Heir, him and¡­ they¡¯d studied the Heir. These locusts were one of his favourite ways of using his ability. They devoured any flesh they could come into contact with, but they only survived for a few seconds outside of the Heir¡¯s Aether.


    Golden light surging around his legs, Kadmon leapt up, a crater forming in the ground from the sheer power of his kick. As he sailed through the air towards the Heir, avoiding the locusts, he raised the Surgeon General up high, ready to bring it down on his enemy the second he came into range.


    The Heir had seen that coming, of course. He threw his hand up -- and immediately, a wall of solid black material appeared in front of him as a shield.


    Kadmon¡¯s mind ran at a desperate speed. He had no idea how strong that shield was. There was no guarantee that the Surgeon General would be strong enough to break through -- but the shield only covered the front. The Heir¡¯s back was still exposed.


    He threw a hand of his own out to the side and fired off a bolt of pure Aether. People said that pure Aether was worthless as a projectile -- it did nothing in terms of damage when it hit -- but Kadmon had always found it a useful way of controlling vertical movement.


    Kadmon¡¯s body went flying off the opposite direction from the force of the blast, sending him around to the gap in the shield. Landing on the ground again, he immediately kicked off -- a geyser of concrete exploding behind him as he lunged in.


    The Heir waved a hand through the air, conjuring a clicking biological sword that looked like a mixture between a centipede and a spinal cord. Clang, clang. Twice his weapon and the Surgeon General collided, sparks and dark ichor flying in every direction, but neither the Heir¡¯s defence or Kadmon¡¯s offence diminished in the least.


    Kadmon could feel fire burning in his mind as he looked at his opponent, pushing with all his might as their blades locked. The bastard was still smiling.


    "Despite the Prince¡¯s attempts at interference," the Supreme Heir said. "I think we¡¯ve had a fairly interesting Dawn Contest, don¡¯t you?"


    "Shut it!" Kadmon screamed -- and that second of distraction almost killed him.


    All around the two of them, countless spears of graphite burst out of the ground, their tips pointed directly at Kadmon¡¯s heart. He jumped off the ground to avoid their initial lunge, but they pursued -- snapping off at angles to chase after him as he rose into the air.


    Each swing of the Surgeon General shattered one of the blades, but there was always another to take its place. They were fragile but inevitable, and they struck fast enough that Kadmon didn¡¯t have time to switch abilities. The Heir just stood there, looking up, amidst the forest of blades. He was still smiling.


    "I¡¯ve been watching you for a while now, Kadmon," he called up to the young man fighting for his life. "And I¡¯ve been very impressed. You¡¯ve demonstrated to me that you have a strong spirit and will. Well done."


    "Shut up!" Kadmon roared again, shattering the blades around him with a lightning-fast whip of the Surgeon General. As he began falling again, he dispelled the scalpel, pulling his arm back instead. A punch. He¡¯d finish this with a punch. He¡¯d take this bastard¡¯s rotten heart in his hand and crush it.


    The Heir made no move to dodge. He just stood there, hands at his side, watching calmly as Kadmon fell towards him.


    "For that reason¡­" the Heir said.


    "Die!"


    So much Aether was broiling around Kadmon¡¯s arm that it looked more like a golden beam than anything else. The instant he came into the Heir¡¯s range, he thrust it forwards -- right towards the Heir¡¯s chest. That soft smile spread into a wicked grin¡­


    ¡­and there was a resounding tearing noise as Kadmon¡¯s fist plunged right through the Supreme Heir¡¯s body, ripping back out of his back. As the Heir¡¯s body flopped forward, he leaned in towards Kadmon, and whispered into his ear:


    "...I shall give you a throne."


    Kadmon shook. The Heir was all cold on the inside, like a snowman -- and as Kadmon pulled his fist free, and the Heir fell to the ground, the man showed no signs of dying. He just stared up at Kadmon, his usual smile painted red by blood.


    The announcement of the winner, of the new Supreme, rang out through what was left of the Arena -- but Kadmon did not hear. He just stood there, listening to the ringing of his ears, hands limp at his sides. The fury that had animated him slipped away, and he fell to his knees.


    All the hatred, all the passion, all the fire¡­ suddenly went out, and Kadmon was left with nothing but that cold emptiness in his chest. The Heir could have dodged. He could have dodged easily. Kadmon¡­ hadn¡¯t even gotten revenge. He¡¯d been humoured.


    All of this¡­ meant nothing.


    "Lock him away," Kadmon muttered, and muttered, and muttered again -- looking down darkly at the Heir. He kept muttering it until the Supremacy representatives reached him, and it was the first thing they heard from him. They loyally acquiesced, securing the former Heir and dragging him away.


    The Heir, now nothing but a prisoner, just kept smiling at Kadmon as he vanished from sight.


    "Lock him away," Kadmon repeated.


    It was his first act as Supreme.

 Chapter 300:11.27: To Reign Supreme (Part 3)

    The Supreme¡¯s fist tasted the world.


    When rebels arose on the capitol, incensed by his conduct at the end of the Dawn Contest, he struck them down. When a plague of pirates rose up at the edge of Supremacy territory, he tore them apart. When the Kingdom Moon Cult rose over seventeen worlds, he destroyed each and every acolyte with his own two hands.


    Blood poured down his hands -- but it wasn¡¯t nearly enough. There was a hole in him now, an emptiness, and -- no matter how much blood he offered -- he hadn¡¯t yet been able to fill it.


    If anything, it seemed to be growing. Cracks were spreading across the titan that was him. S~ea??h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He¡¯d made new allies. He¡¯d fought alongside legends, as he¡¯d once dreamed. The abilities those bonds had given him, and his own increasing strength, had made him an absolute power. There wasn¡¯t a person in the world who could stand against him.


    ¡­there wasn¡¯t a person in the world who could stand against him.


    One evening, aboard the Shesha, the Supreme was staring off out of one of the great windows, looking at the vast void of space. He was the ruler of that emptiness. The thought brought a bitter smile to his face -- and the memory of the last thing that had brought him passion made him scratch a finger along his now-healed ear.


    "My Supreme¡­"


    The Supreme glanced behind him. One of his attendants, a young man in white robes, was kneeling at the entrance to the observation chamber. These people were quiet, but he still didn¡¯t appreciate their presence. With his mind the way it was, he¡¯d appreciate a more total kind of isolation. Perhaps he¡¯d get rid of them, and just keep enough for the Prisoner down below. Enough to keep him locked up until the stars burnt out -- or he agreed to a rematch.


    "My Supreme?"


    The Supreme slowly blinked. His thoughts had wandered. They did that often these days. Sometimes he found himself drifting off for minutes at a time, dead to the world -- or, more accurately, uninterested. There was little here to occupy him anymore.


    "What?" the Supreme said wearily, one massive hand resting on the cold window.


    It had hardly seemed possible, but the attendant somehow bowed even lower. "An envoy has come to speak with you, my Supreme," he said.


    The Supreme¡¯s eyes were dull. "Send them away."


    "Of course, my Supreme," the Attendant said, bowing once more. "It¡¯s only¡­ they claim you¡¯ll definiely wish to speak to them. The envoy is from Home, I believe?"


    The Supreme paused, hand still flat against the glass, and the chill of it seemed to intensify as he digested the words. Finally, though, he just squeezed his eyes shut.


    When he thought of home, of Home, he thought of objects . It was unpleasant. In a rotten world like this, there was no reason to subject yourself to further discomfort. Malaise answered for him.


    "Who cares?" he muttered.


    Another low bow, and the attendant drifted from the room. The Supreme never heard from Home again.


    It was fine. There was nothing there for him. He was the Supreme. His dominion was the galaxy itself. When faced with the stars as subjects, why should one weep for the ants? Why should one dream of objects ?


    They shouldn¡¯t. It did not happen. The Supreme took a deep breath, and then let it out. This gravity crushing down on him was not absolute -- only he was. The¡­ boredom he was experiencing was a temporary state of affairs, born from the weakness of those around him.


    The Esmeralda boy had shown him the way. For life to have meaning, death must be possible. The emptiness he felt was the result of an unchallenging world. The Contender Program would change all that.


    There was still hope.


    There was no hope.


    The boy who¡¯d been created to fight him, and the man who¡¯d risen through merit to fight him. Avaman and Lho Rho. Both were worthless. To any ordinary person, they were mountains that could never be conquered¡­ but to the Supreme, they were nothing but flatland.


    They had failed to kill him, after all, hadn¡¯t they? That was the crux of the Contender Program. Why had he thought that people who had failed to kill him would ever pose a challenge, ever provide meaning? How foolish. Part of him had a mind to disband the Contenders all together, but then again¡­


    ¡­who cared?


    It had been years since the Supreme had seen Yoten, and since then the old man¡¯s health had declined. He was bedridden now, awake for just a few hours a day, coughing and shaking from whatever combination of illnesses had finally gotten him. The Supreme hadn¡¯t bothered to ask the doctors.


    He sat before that deathbed in that dark room, comically large in the small chair that had been provided, looking down at his old teacher.


    How many years had he been Supreme now? Ten? Fifteen? Time seemed to slip away so quickly. When had the terror of his youth become so small and fragile? The Supreme drummed his fingers along his leg, his mouth a flat line.


    "Look at you," Yoten wheezed, looking up at him. "Look at you."


    The Supreme shrugged. "What¡¯s there to look at?"


    "I have lived through the reigns of three Supremes," Yoten grinned dreamily, half his teeth missing. "Without a doubt, without a doubt, my boy, you stand atop them. Gael was too idealistic, Henri too monstrous¡­ but you. You are strength. You are power..." He coughed, spittle flying from his lips. "... power manifest."


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    The Supreme blinked again, and let out a heavy breath. "But you knew that, right?" he said, voice dull. "You knew that when you chose me. That I had potential."


    Yoten hesitated for a second, and then shook his head. The Supreme frowned, furrowing his brow.


    "What?" he said.


    "You were at the starting line," Yoten said, his eyes cloudy as he stared up at the ceiling, settling back into his bed. "But it was the minimum. A lucky punch and synchronization. Nothing¡­ innate. You were¡­ worthless."


    That old cold chill began to spread out over the Supreme¡¯s body once again, freezing his blood, slowing his thoughts. The floor and the ceiling seemed so far away, like the room was spreading out before him, like it was becoming an endless void he could fall through forever.


    "I wanted to see," Yoten confessed, drool slipping out of one side of his mouth. "I wanted to see if I could take something worthless and make it¡­ make it absolute. Make it Supreme. It would be¡­ my masterpiece. And you, you, boy, are my masterpiece. I did it."


    "Yes," the Supreme replied softly. "You did it."


    Without another word, the Supreme reached over and placed a huge hand over the old man¡¯s face. He held it there until the thrashing stopped. It was nothing. He didn¡¯t even have to use Aether.


    "Supreme," the man spat bitterly.


    When the planets of the Dranell system had declared their rebellion, the Supreme had already known he would find no challenge there.


    On the death march he¡¯d undertaken near the start of his reign, he had already defeated every single person who could challenge him. The next strongest people had become his Contenders, and any prowess they possessed was overshadowed by their scheming and skulduggery.


    It was nothing but a headache.


    No -- when the Dranell system had declared it was defecting from the Supremacy, and establishing itself as an independent government -- the Supreme had decided that it was time. It was the perfect setting, after all, a climactic battle with the pride of the Supremacy at stake. Armies would clash, worlds would burn¡­ in such an environment, it could happen easily.


    In such an environment, the Supreme could kill himself.


    And yet¡­


    The Supreme stood alone, for all the rest had already been reduced to ash. In one hand, he held aloft a broken and rusty sword, wreathed in hellfire -- the pulses that burst out from it shattering the lands and the skies.


    Ein Sof. The sole Aether Armament that the Supreme himself had created. The sword that accepted, intensified, and unleashed everything.


    A heartbeat that had torn the world to pieces.


    Starships protruded from the ground where they¡¯d fallen, like massive gravestones, dark contrasts to the blood-red sky. The ground beneath him had opened up long ago, magma flowing forth and incinerating everything it touched -- save for the Supreme himself. He stood there unharmed, up to his knees in the lava, his expression stoic as he continued his grim work.


    At the beginning, there had been screaming -- but now, hours later, there was just the sound of burning. Anyone capable of screaming had died long ago, before the Supreme had cracked the planet open.


    His nostrils flared.


    His mouth twitched.


    His eyes narrowed¡­


    ¡­and tears flowed down his cheeks, evaporating before they hit the ground. He had slain so many, and again -- again -- had failed to kill the person he¡¯d wanted in the first place. He was standing here, still alive, beaded against the fury of a dying world.


    Even this wasn¡¯t enough?


    Slowly, still submerged in the magma, the Supreme began to laugh -- a bitter, mad laughter that was barely audible over the sounds of apocalypse. Ein Sof dissipated into golden Aether as the Supreme put his hands to his belly, throwing his head back as he laughed and laughed and laughed. This proved it, then. This proved it.


    He really was the strongest.


    He was the man who¡¯d become Supreme.


    The Supreme reclined on his throne, staring into the void once more, ignoring the Contenders kneeling at his feet. Names and faces had changed, but it didn¡¯t really matter. None of it really mattered.


    He had¡­ he had gotten everything he¡¯d ever wanted. He had. By all rights, he should be experiencing happiness beyond any other. But¡­ at the top of the world, all that awaited you was the empty sky. The end of the climb that was a life.


    The Supreme sighed.


    Any second now, he would sit up. Any second now, he would open his eyes. Any second now, he would breathe.


    But then again¡­ who really cared?


    And so he reigned Supreme.


    Dragan walked through the burning forest, feeling the rain pelt against the parts of his face that currently existed. Pain lingered in some far-off corner of his mind, but he ignored it. It wasn¡¯t necessary for what he had to do right now.


    He needed to get the Supreme to Skipper. That was all. The exhaustion and the pain could wait until he was done with that task. The fear he surely should have been feeling could come after that, too. Fear¡­ why fear?


    His foggy mind took a second to remember that the Supreme himself was walking behind him. It only made sense right now. He was pretty much dead on his feet: talking and walking was all he could do. He didn¡¯t have the energy to fear for his life.


    Dragan took another step --


    I¡¯m dead A HAND LANDED ON HIS SHOULDER I¡¯m dead


    -- and pulled him out of the way as a bullet slammed into the spot he¡¯d just been standing. The Supreme, one hand still grabbing Dragan, glared at the source of the attack.


    "Hey," the massive man growled. "This is your guy, isn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t fuck around."


    Dragan followed his gaze, and saw that -- at the top of the hill -- a man had revealed himself. Through the haze and the smoke and the exhaustion, it took a second for Dragan to recognise him: but even so, that face was unmistakable. Those stitch-scarred lips, and that black billowing hair.


    "Taking care of outside factors," the attacker said, his voice a growl. "Don¡¯t want Esmeralda¡¯s dog getting in the way."


    Johan Blackbird stepped out of the trees, pointing his rifle-prosthetic right at the Supreme. Strange magenta Aether was broiling around the barrel of the gun -- and for some reason, the Supreme seemed to be regarding it with something close to caution.


    As Dragan looked up at the Supreme, still stunned, the man who was like god looked back down at him.


    "You can disappear -- right, kid?" he said. "Check out for two minutes or so. Otherwise¡­"


    The Supreme looked up, and that flat mouth spread out into a wide and bloodthirsty grin.


    "... you¡¯ll die. My warm-ups are pretty messy."


    Dragan didn¡¯t need to be told twice. With a flare of electric-blue Aether, he vanished from this world -- just as it exploded into a rhapsody of chaos.

 Chapter 301:11.28: Fury of the Old World

    "Guardian Entity: Genbu," Belias of the Black grunted, straining at the branches that pierced through him. "99%!"


    Immediately, his body swelled and grew, his bipedal form lurching into quadrupedalism as he broke free of his restraints. He landed, a mountain of shell and scale, roaring at the Contender who stood before him. Paradise Charon¡¯s hair billowed out behind her as she looked at the Guardian Entity -- but her eyes were unimpressed.


    "Is that it?" she said, vaguely annoyed. "Your final move is to make yourself a bigger target?"


    Something fired out of the ground beneath her, lightning-fast, and she grabbed it out of the air -- but Bruno and Serena paid it no mind. For just an instant, this woman was distracted. They couldn¡¯t let this chance slip through their fingers.


    They leapt down out of the hole they¡¯d made in the wall, seizing two shield-swords as they charged down towards Charon, using a staircase of shields to head right towards her. In order to defend herself against the incoming Guardian Entity, she¡¯d had to turn away from them -- and as a result, her neck was wide open.


    It didn¡¯t matter how strong she was. If they cut her head off, she would die.


    Be careful, Serena cautioned. It might be a trap, Bruno.


    If it is, Bruno replied. Then we¡¯ll just break out of it. Ready?


    You don¡¯t need to ask.


    Two attacks at once. Bruno and Serena slashing at Charon from behind, and Belias snapping at her from the front. Countless vine-like tendrils were incoming from the walls and ceiling, but they weren¡¯t fast enough. The attacks would hit before the Forest of Sin could interfere.


    Bruno and Serena raised their swords up, Belias lunged forward to bite down --


    -- and then they heard Paradise Charon sigh.


    "This is so stupid¡­" she muttered -- and her arm moved, a sequence of smooth and straight waves that were nearly impossible to perceive.


    A second later, Belias Hailel exploded, and the Del Sed twins were sent flying back.


    Blood and viscera rained down throughout the Forest as the Cardinal Beast¡¯s body fell apart, collapsing into countless pieces. Arms, legs, head -- each divided and divided again, like the work of a chef preparing meat. Brown Aether spluttered around the carcass for a moment, before slowly¡­


    ¡­slowly¡­


    ¡­dying.


    There was no time for shock. Serena whirled around in the air, slicing apart the tendrils that were coming to intercept her, before Bruno stopped their flight with a split-second shield. They dropped to the ground, conjuring a pair of new weapons. A broadsword made from the stone they were standing on, and another shield-sword.


    Paradise turned to face them again, her lips spread out into a smirk. "Is that little sword meant to frighten me?" she asked, pointing her own weapon at them. For the first time, Bruno got a good look at it.


    It was thick and warped, glowing red from within, tendrils wrapped all around its surface. At first, Bruno and Serena thought it was a club, and wondered how it had cut Belias apart -- but then they saw. All around the edge of the weapon, spinning so fast they were barely visible, were white thorns.


    It wasn¡¯t a club: if anything, it was closer to a chainsaw. Those thorns were moving with such speed that they shredded anything they came into contact with.


    They swallowed.


    "It looks to me like you¡¯ve started to realize how much you¡¯ve overestimated yourself, del Sed," Charon sneered. "I¡¯ll tell you what: walk over here like a good boy and I¡¯ll kill you in one hit. Generous, no?"


    Bruno¡¯s mouth frowned, and Serena¡¯s eyes narrowed. "As if," they said.


    Charon chuckled. "Young folk these days¡­ so impertinent. I suppose I¡¯ll have to come over to you, then --"


    Pop.


    The tiny sound, incongruous with their surroundings, rang out through the clearing. Immediately, Paradise Charon¡¯s eyes flicked over to the side -- and saw that, right next to her head, something had appeared. It was a chunk of rock, barely the size of a fist, just hanging in the air.


    "Wha --" Charon began.


    She didn¡¯t finish, because a second later her head had jerked off to the side, as if she¡¯d been struck in the cheek by an invisible punch. She went skidding across the floor by the force of the blow, kicking up dirt, her face twisted in rage.


    The del Seds did not waste time.


    Once again, they kicked off -- destroying a shield beneath their feet as a launching pad -- and zoomed towards Charon. Reaching out, they grabbed another sword-shield, this one thin and pointed like a rapier. If Charon¡¯s blade could match theirs in sharpness, they¡¯d focus all their strength into one point.


    They¡¯d plant their sword right between her eyes and turn her off.


    As Paradise Charon came into range, she whirled back around, swinging her sword right at the del Sed collective neck -- but they dropped to the ground at the same instant, thrusting their invisible rapier towards Charon¡¯s stomach. The blade could not be seen, but Charon definitely felt it coming: with a crack of red Aether, she leapt up above the blow, flipping through the air and slashing at Bruno and Serena¡¯s exposed back.


    From that angle, at that speed, they could not dodge. Bruno went to throw himself further down to the ground, but even as he did so he was painfully aware it was too slow. Through the reflection of Belias¡¯ blood, he could see Paradise Charon bring her sword down¡­


    Pop.


    ¡­and then, before it struck, he saw a white glove appear right below her chin.


    Again, an invisible blow struck her, slamming into her jaw from below and forcing her head upwards. Her swing went wild, and Serena spun back around, striking fast and true with her own weapon. A glancing blow, but blood flew through the air all the same.


    One hand clutching her injured face, Charon landed on her feet -- a short distance away. Blood seeped between her fingers as she pressed down on the injury.


    Let¡¯s go after her, Bruno! Serena declared, taking a step forward¡­


    ¡­and then stopped in her tracks as a wave of malevolent red Aether flooded through the area, crawling over every inch of their surroundings.


    Paradise Charon slowly looked up, and through the gap between her fingers, one of her eyes could be seen, widened to an absolute. The tiny pinprick of a pupil there stared relentlessly at Bruno and Serena. Her mouth was slack open, as if she couldn¡¯t even comprehend what had just happened.


    "You hit me?" Charon whispered. "You hit me? You hit me?"


    Her eyelid twitched.


    In that moment, a loud and torturous chorus of screams rang out from the Forest of Sin around them, with such intensity that Bruno was forced to drop their swords and plant their hands over their ears. The trees around them, the bushes, the leaves -- all of them thrashed around wildly, twitching and spasming like they were having a seizure, the entire world going mad around them.


    The light from the vegetation died instantly, plunging them into darkness -- save for the eerie red light that surrounded Paradise. Bruno and Serena watched, tense, as the Second Contender staggered to her full height like some kind of zombie¡­


    "How dare you?!" Charon screamed. "How dare you, how dare you, how dare you, HOW DARE YOU?!"


    ¡­and the earth opened up beneath them.


    Ash del Duran wrenched the maintenance door shut with all his strength, sweat pouring down his brow. He wiped it away with a shaking hand as he took a step back, planting a hand on the Heir¡¯s shoulder to steady himself. He¡¯d pushed himself too hard today -- the final clash against the intruder had used far too much Aether.


    His curse was taking its toll.


    The maintenance tunnels that ran through the Tartarus were more like a labyrinth than anything else, the dark metal corridors seeming to stretch on forever. It was bad enough when the ship was at full power, but now even the dim emergency lights were flickering in and out¡­ things were getting worse aboard the ship, not better.


    "We should have some time," Ash panted. "Let me just¡­ catch my breath."


    He¡¯d managed to put some distance between them and Dariah Todd Harlow, but even just running had taken a lot out of him. Fighting, right now, would be impractical. He was exhausted, while that woman was in peak condition -- not to mention that ability of hers.


    Reschedule, she¡¯d called it.


    If it truly worked the way she claimed, any damage he inflicted would only take effect twenty-four hours later. He imagined that, at that point, she could focus all her Aether into defense, reducing the damage further. Launching a physical attack was pretty much useless, then -- she¡¯d still do her best to avoid fatal blows, but no matter how much damage he inflicted she wouldn¡¯t be going down any time soon.


    "Mr. del Duran?" said the Heir.


    There were other ways, though. Ash¡¯s mind raced, seeking the route to survival. Automatic defense abilities like this often had loopholes -- not through any fault of the user, but because leaving weaknesses in an ability increased its potency; a negotiation with one¡¯s own Aether.


    "Mr. del Duran?" the Heir repeated.


    If he could somehow evacuate the air from a room, maybe he could suffocate her. He could lock her in a room and leave her there. He could lure her into an airlock and space her. All these options were easier said than done, but --


    "Mr. del Duran!" the Heir shouted.


    Ash blinked, looking down at her in surprise. That was the loudest he¡¯d ever heard her meek voice.


    Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her fists were balled at her sides -- tension brought about by the audacity of her outburst. But, as she opened those eyes again and looked up at Ash, he could see a distinct glimmer of resolve. Something shining through the fear.


    "Mr. del Duran¡­" she said firmly. "I have a plan."


    Ash shook his head. "Don¡¯t trouble yourself. I can --"


    Smack.


    For a moment, Ash didn¡¯t even comprehend what had just happened. One second, he was looking down at the Supreme Heir. The next, his head had jerked off to the side, and there was a stinging pain on his cheek. He looked back at the Heir, and saw that her shaking hand was now held out.


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    She¡¯d slapped him. She¡¯d slapped him. He put a hand to his cheek, mouth twisted incredulously.


    "Mr. del Duran," she repeated, voice trembling. "I am the Supreme Heir -- and you will listen to me."


    Slowly, he nodded. Perhaps this one had more fire in her than he¡¯d thought.


    "How dare you?!"


    The Forest of Sin twisted around Bruno and Serena as they fell, dark tunnels and hollows opening and closing as they tumbled through the blackness. Before they could do so much as stop their fall and find a handhold, however, they felt a hand seize them by the leg -- and with a mighty scream, hurl them in a new direction.


    "How dare you?!"


    We¡¯re going to hit the wall, Bruno! Serena screamed. You need to defend!


    Bruno didn¡¯t need to be told twice. Curling up into a ball, he focused all of his purple Aether into the infusion of their body -- and as he struck the wall of twisted branches, he smashed through it into the chamber behind. Unlike the rest of the Forest, this place was brightly lit. He could see here.


    He wished he couldn¡¯t.


    This was where the Forest¡¯s victims went, the unfortunates that had been dragged in when the Second Contender had first activated her ability. He supposed it made sense that he hadn¡¯t seen any corpses yet -- they¡¯d all been here. All of those unfortunate soldiers had been mangled, pulped, flayed and sifted, but more than that¡­


    ¡­there were no corpses, because they weren¡¯t dead.


    Below Bruno and Serena was a river of molten humanity, melted flesh and muscle flowing without end through the veins of the Forest. Eyeballs and teeth floated freely in the gelatinous mass, pupils flicking this way and that as they were carried off downstream. A chorus of screams, like the pits of hell, radiated up from the river as Bruno looked down, horrified.


    Just before he would have fallen into the river, Bruno created a shield underfoot that allowed him to remain in the air. He had to be ready. Paradise Charon would be here any minute, but¡­ he couldn¡¯t help but stare down at the abomination.


    This was evil. Pure evil.


    Bruno and Serena¡¯s opposition to the Supremacy had always been based on ideology more than anything else. A sense that a government that prized strength over anything else, that actively punished those who could not fight for themselves, had no place in this world. Even with all that, though, they had never thought of the Supremacy as evil. It was a collection of people, people who had their own reasons for their beliefs, who would oppose Bruno and Serena for similar reasons as theirs.


    This, though¡­ this was unforgivable. An abomination.


    Paradise Charon had to die.


    That was easier said than done. Unlike with Bruno, who had smashed through, the branches of the Forest peacefully parted to allow Charon to leap into the chamber. Even so, she rushed forth like a cannonball -- fingers hooked like claws, teeth bared like fangs. More than feral, rabid. The tiny wound the del Seds had managed to inflict on her was barely visible as it bled.


    "How dare you?!" she screamed -- and before Bruno could so much as dodge, she had spiked him down into the river of man.


    As he splashed down into the disgusting soup below, Bruno couldn¡¯t help but scream. It was agonizingly hot, like boiling water -- far beyond boiling water -- and it was clinging to him, clinging to his flesh, a thin skin of meat suckling against his arms and legs as he thrashed. Serena was screaming back at him in his head, offering some kind of advice, but he was in no state to understand it. The pain was just too much.


    His escape was not a conscious thing, instead born of desperate instinct.


    He created and destroyed a shield beneath the roving slop, launching himself onto the banks of the flesh river. As he looked down at his hands, his scream continued, turning crackly and faint as his voice reached its limits. His fingers were disintegrating, falling apart, broken down by whatever foul mixture he¡¯d just been submerged in. As he watched, the thumb on his right hand popped off, swinging limply from a tender string of skin.


    "How dare you?" hissed a voice from behind him.


    Bruno, move! Serena demanded.


    She didn¡¯t leave it to him -- instead, Serena took over, scooping a sword of wood from the ground as she swung backwards at Charon. Her attack did not hit, but it saved her all the same -- Charon¡¯s kick was slowed as it shattered through the weapon, and so it only sent Serena flying again rather than pile driving through her.


    "Bruno!" she called out, voice swallowed by the air. "Make some shields! I need to fight!"


    Bruno did not answer or act. She could feel his consciousness in the back of her mind, a twitching mass of chaos, still engrossed in his own pain. What had happened to his fingers had been too close to what had happened¡­ back then. For now, she was on her own.


    That was no problem. Serena brushed her disintegrating fingers against the ground as she flew, and a colossal earthen sword pulled itself up from the ground, the flat side of the blade providing a platform to stop her flight.


    Her hands were in no state to hold anything, let alone fight, but that didn¡¯t matter. After all, it was the big sister¡¯s job to look after the little brother.


    "Bring it, bitch!" Serena screamed, as Paradise Charon leapt after her once more.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    It took three punches for Dariah Todd Harlow to smash the maintenance door open, the dents she produced becoming a hole big enough for her to duck through. Blue Aether coursed around her hands as she made her way through the ventilation complex, alternating warm and cool air blowing her hair back.


    Ash del Duran sure was a dickhead, making her run around like this. Wasn¡¯t he meant to be an honourable warrior or something? This was ridiculous. Was it too much to ask for the old fossil to stand and fight? Dariah tightened her grip on the edge of the hole in frustration, twisting the metal with a screech.


    Don¡¯t lose your temper, Dariah.


    They¡¯d all but won. There was no reason to get annoyed in the first place. Dariah would kill this brat and Caesar would use the wish she earned down below to get herself named as the new Heir. An Heirship not based on blood would surely ruffle some feathers in the Body, but Caesar¡¯s control of the Special Officers would give her the political capital she needed. It was foolproof.


    Dariah Todd Harlow was blessed to play some small part in the ascension of the greatest Supreme in galactic history. Marcela Caesar was strong, wise, charming, graceful, beautiful¡­ an absolute power. She¡¯d take the throne and cement the Commission she¡¯d led as a permanent fixture in the Supremacy. Dariah would be rewarded for her efforts, of course¡­ they¡¯d need a new Commissioner, after all.


    She shook her head free of the daydreams as she passed through the ruined door, Cogitant eyes flicking this way and that as she searched for her prey.


    One couldn¡¯t be too careful -- Reschedule was not an omnipotent ability. If Ash del Duran caught her by surprise and delivered a blow that would pop her head, she¡¯d be dead the next day no matter how much she defended herself. It would just be a little less messy.


    No, she intended to live through this.


    A swift end to both del Duran and the girl was the best bet. It was fortunate that the floor had collapsed, in fact -- the maintenance tunnels were the perfect place to do the deed, out of sight and out of mind. If she left the bodies here, she could just --


    Dariah stopped as she turned the corner.


    "Oh," she muttered. "That¡¯s more like it."


    The ventilation tunnels that ran through the Tartarus converged at several nodes -- and Dariah Todd Harlow stood before one of them now. Tunnels ran off in every direction as air blasted in from above and below, and a massive fan spun for its life up above like a mechanical chandelier. One spun below the platform, too, its sharp blades revolving over and over again. That wasn¡¯t what caught Dariah¡¯s attention, though.


    No -- what did that was the man standing beneath the fan. Ash del Duran. Standing tall and ready.


    "I¡¯ve been thinking about things," he called out to her as she crossed the catwalk.


    "Glad to hear it," she replied. "But it might be a little too late for that. You¡¯re in a disadvantageous situation, you understand?"


    Ash glared at her. "The intruder knew exactly where to go in order to find the Heir. I assumed she had some kind of tracking ability, but now I¡¯m not so sure."


    Dariah paused, frowning. Shit. She¡¯d have preferred for him not to figure that out -- but, then again, he was about to die anyway. Might as well let him finish.


    "I think¡­" Ash narrowed his eyes. "...that your boss has been leaking information to the enemies down below. She gave them information on our battle plan and the Heir¡¯s location. You were ordered to step in and finish off the Heir once that intruder had exhausted us, weren¡¯t you?"


    Dariah continued walking, cracking her knuckles. "If this is the sort of plan where you have me make a confession over the intercom or something," she said. "I¡¯m not interested."


    "No¡­" Ash chuckled, shaking his head. "No, it¡¯s not that sort of plan at all."


    Without another word, he charged at her. How pathetic. It seemed he wanted to go out with a bang, if nothing else. Dariah braced herself, planting her legs down firmly, and jabbed at the enemy as he came into range.


    Her punch was lightning-fast, and Ash barely dodged it -- but the air pressure alone was enough to slice at the man¡¯s face. As Reschedule automatically handled defence, it left her free to focus the Aether she manually controlled on attack. She struck again with her elbow, but it seemed that Ash anticipated it -- with a flash of Aether, he wormed his way behind her and looped his arm around her throat.


    So he was going to try and snap her neck, eh? He was welcome to try. He wouldn¡¯t be able to apply the force required even to strangle her. All this amounted to was a slightly uncomfortable massage.


    Still in Ash¡¯s grip, Dariah lurched her body to the side, slamming her captor into the metal bulkhead there. Boxes scattered everywhere as Ash crashed through them -- and as he hit the bulkhead itself, there was a sickening crack from his shoulder. Something broken, no doubt. Old bones were so fragile.


    Dariah grinned to herself as she began to work herself free of his weakened grip. Flipping herself around, she seized his hands and began squeezing, feeling the fingers break under her strength as she pulled him close.


    "You¡¯d be a fossil no matter what you looked like, Duran," she hissed. "You¡¯re the old breed, the dying breed. The world doesn¡¯t want people like you anymore. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s time to accept that?"


    Ash grimaced as Dariah held him tight, stopping him from escaping.


    "You¡¯re right¡­" he finally groaned. "It¡¯s time¡­ for the new breed, isn¡¯t it?"


    Dariah frowned. "If this is some kind of trick --"


    Pain.


    Dariah blinked. Very suddenly, her chest had gone cold -- and the strength seemed to have left her limbs. She found that the arms that had just been brutalising Ash had fallen to her sides, limp, and that her legs were shaking beneath her. She took a breath that seemed curiously shallow¡­


    ¡­and looked down to see the blade of a massive sword sticking out of her chest.


    The Heir spoke from behind her.


    "I-I was thinking about your ability¡­" the girl said, voice still shaking. "Your¡­ Reschedule. An ability like that has to have a weakness and I¡­ I¡­"


    Dariah turned her head, eyes bulging furiously, to glare at the girl standing behind her -- at the girl who¡¯d plunged that sword through her back.


    The Supreme Heir was trembling, but she did not blink as she stared back at Dariah. "...I figured it out. You can delay any attack by twenty-four hours. But¡­" She took a deep breath. "But that¡¯s only against Aether-users, right?! Against someone without Aether, you might as well be a normal person!"


    Dariah snarled. "You little¡­ bitch¡­" With the last strength in her arms, she went to claw at the brat, to ravage, to scour, but she never got the chance.


    With a final tug of her own strength, the Heir swung free the sword embedded in Dariah¡¯s back, and sent her falling off the platform --


    -- right down into the fan.


    Aclima didn¡¯t look as Dariah Todd Harlow was shredded below, but she didn¡¯t close her eyes either. From now on, she wouldn¡¯t shut her eyes to the world anymore. She¡¯d promised that to herself. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She panted for breath as she clutched the bloodsoaked greatsword in her hands, falling to her knees. The tension of what she¡¯d just done seemed to spread through her body like electricity -- when she raised a hand to her face to wipe her hair out of her eyes, it was shaking so much that the task was impossible.


    Still, though¡­ she¡¯d done it. She¡¯d done it. She¡¯d beaten an Aether-user. She¡¯d snuck up on someone trying to kill her and killed them instead. A sword was the pen with which you wrote your will onto the world -- and she¡¯d written with her sword today.


    She wasn¡¯t helpless after all.


    As she looked up, a relieved grin on her face, she saw that Ash had fallen unconscious where he¡¯d fallen. It was no surprise: he¡¯d already been exhausted from his Aether tic, and the pain Harlow had inflicted on him had to have been intense on top of that. It would be difficult, but she should be able to carry him to the ship¡¯s nearest medical facilities if she --


    Thump.


    Something heavy landed on the walkway behind her -- and as Aclima turned her head to look, she felt a clammy chill spread over her back. Behind her, looming over her, was a chaotic mass of brambles and branches, vaguely intertwined into the shape of an arachnid. It stared at Aclima with a single red eye.


    Aclima blinked.


    She knew this. She¡¯d heard of this. This was a cutting¡­ a cutting of the Forest of Sin.


    "Are you fucking kidding me?!" she screamed --


    -- in the moment before the beast was upon her.

 Chapter 302:11.29: I’ll Curse You To Death

    "How dare you?!" the Second Contender cackled.


    Paradise Charon grinned to herself as she seized del Sed by the back of the head, grinding their face into the ground below as she ran. The idiot¡¯s ruined arms flapped uselessly at their sides as they were brutalised, and Paradise couldn¡¯t help but laugh with glee.


    Everything was going brilliantly. She was fulfilling her anger in quite an invigorating way by destroying this brat, and the portion of the Forest she¡¯d left aboard the Tartarus was in the process of bringing the Heir back into her custody. By the time this entire idiotic operation was done with, she¡¯d be back at the top of the food chain. One step below Supreme.


    The humiliation delivered upon her here would be nothing -- not even a memory, for there would be no living witnesses to it. Paradise released del Sed from her grip as the warrior kicked towards her stomach, allowing their body to skid to a halt.


    She¡¯d half-expected del Sed to be unconscious, but they seemed to be sturdier than they looked. They rose from the ground, glaring at her, face covered in gashes and bruises, their eyes bloodshot. As they pulled their mouth away from the ground, though, the ground came with it -- forming a gargantuan stone sword, the size of a train carriage, the elongated handle gripped between Yakob¡¯s teeth.


    Paradise leapt up as they swung the massive blade, the air pressure alone blasting through the area and sending molten flesh flying in every direction. As she reached the ceiling, Paradise pushed against it with her hands, sending herself hurtling back down towards the exposed blade.


    Red Aether shone around her knee as she dropped down onto the sword, shattering it -- rubble striking the walls. Yakob del Sed fell to their knees again opposite her, clearly exhausted by that desperate maneuver.


    Paradise smiled. That last gasp had been somewhat impressive, but it was pretty much over, anyway. No need to get her own hands dirty any further. Her face returning to its usual pristine serenity, Paradise called out to her foe.


    "Any last words?" she said, as countless tendrils loomed above. "I¡¯ll be willing to remember them for you." sea??h th§× n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Yakob del Sed just glared for a moment longer before spitting blood onto the ground. Paradise¡¯s eye twitched, and the mass of wooden blades and claws began to creep closer towards her opponent.


    "Fine," Paradise snarled. "Just die, then."


    The Forest of Sin lunged in for the kill.


    As the Forest of Sin restrained her, Aclima wept bitter tears.


    She kicked and she punched at the wooden mass, but it was far too strong and durable to be affected. It didn¡¯t even notice she was attacking. Countless tiny tendrils of wood wrapped around her limbs and torso, holding her firmly in place.


    This was it. She was just a puppet again. A piece to be passed along to the next ambitious player. No¡­ she wasn¡¯t a puppet again. She¡¯d always been a puppet, hadn¡¯t she? Since the day she was born. Since even before that.


    Even if she survived this, even if she somehow saw tomorrow¡­ all that was waiting for her there was more of this. An endless line of people waiting to exploit her. The life of the Supreme Heir.


    As the branches flooded over her, Aclima screamed, holding one arm up against the mass.


    For the first time, she could feel the chains binding her.


    For the first time, she understood the place she¡¯d been given in the world.


    For the first time, she felt a true and unrelenting¡­


    ¡­hatred.


    Purple Aether sparked.


    Strictly speaking, a person does not need to have Aether to concoct an Aether ability. Really, an Aether ability is just a specialised way of using Aether, a way of utilising its basic principles to achieve a desired effect. So long as you understand how those principles work, you can technically come up with an ability -- even if you can¡¯t use it.


    In some cases, it¡¯s even possible for this to happen subconsciously. It¡¯s possible for suppressed resentment and anger to boil in the back of your brain, slowly putting something together without you being consciously aware of it. It¡¯s possible for you to reach out, with that hand of yours, and say:


    "Curse Hand."


    In the instant before the branches would have struck true, they suddenly stopped. Serena, who¡¯d braced herself for the end, looked around uncertainly. All around her, the tendrils and protrusions of the Forest of Sin had turned still -- like a paused videograph.


    Um, Bruno? Serena asked. What¡¯s going on?


    "Ah¡­" Paradise Charon moaned. "A-Ah¡­"


    Darn! Serena had been so preoccupied with the enemy around her that she¡¯d neglected the enemy in front of her. She looked back to the Second Contender, ready to leap back into the fight -- and her eyes widened in shock.


    Paradise blinked.


    Seven sinners on the edge of the horizon. The house of the little children where they toss themselves into the meat-grinder, into the world, into the meat-grinder, into the world. Bite your teeth into a rabbit¡¯s head. Feel soft brain slide down your throat. A hell only a mother could love. Wounds bleeding vomit onto the bathroom floor. A razor wire crawling through your brain. Acid poured over your face, over your body, over your skin. You run your tongue over a nest of blades.


    And¡­


    Paradise blinked Paradise blinked Paradise blinked Paradise blinked Paradise blinked


    Blood ran down Paradise Charon¡¯s face from her eyes and mouth, a sinister makeup dribbling across her skin. One half of her face had fallen slack, and hollow gasps could be heard from her open red mouth. Huge and unsightly veins were protruding all across her body, blood leaking from some of them as well, as though the volume of liquid inside was too much for her skin to contain.


    "Ah? Wazz?! Ah! Path?! Nuh¡­ nuh!" Charon babbled incoherently, gasping for breath.


    As Serena watched, horrified, Charon clawed at her throat, leaving deep gouges there with her sharp fingernails. Her eyes rolled back up into her head. Her red Aether -- mingled with a strange purple shade -- raged chaotically around her as she thrashed and wailed and finally¡­


    ¡­fell back onto the ground, twitching.


    Serena was just about to step forward, to deliver the finishing blow, when the Forest of Sin began to writhe around her as well. As quickly as it had appeared on Elysian Fields, the Forest flooded back towards its master, with such speed and ferocity that Serena could do nothing but brace herself as it rushed past her. Hell passed her by in an instant.


    Birds tweeted. Wind rustled. The light of a clear sky came down. It was like the planet itself was breathing a sigh of relief.


    When Serena took her arm away from her face, she saw that the Forest had not completely disappeared -- but rather, coalesced. There, where the Second Contender had been standing, was a massive black tree, stretching up towards the sky. Some kind of cocoon maybe, a way for Charon to defend against whatever attack had just struck her?


    Serena couldn¡¯t say. All she could do¡­ was breathe a sigh of relief.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author¡¯s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    That was one Contender down.


    The Forest of Sin dissipated around Aclima, hurriedly collapsing into red Aether as though it were running away from her. She was left lying on the floor, her breath heavy, her arm still extended where she¡¯d grabbed at her attacker. Deep purple Aether still coursed around her hand.


    Aclima looked at her Aether, dumbfounded. For a single stupid second, she was slightly disappointed -- she¡¯d hoped her Aether would be golden, like her father¡¯s. Then, though, she just broke out into a grin and laughed.


    By using her ability -- her Cursed Hand -- she¡¯d come to understand it a little, come to understand what her subconscious had put together. It was like¡­ a virus. An Aether virus. She¡¯d uploaded the virus to Paradise Charon¡¯s Aether through touching the Forest of Sin, let it follow the power back to the source¡­ and let it wreak havoc. Aclima didn¡¯t know exactly what had happened to Charon¡¯s body, but it would have been severe. It would be a wonder if she could still function as a human being.


    Her hand had stopped shaking. Aclima clenched it into a victorious fist -- the fist of the Supremacy. She wasn¡¯t useless anymore. She could win. Her grin widened, and she was suddenly full of confidence.


    She could help.


    "Now arriving: Floor 262. Please note," said the intercom¡¯s cool, synthesised voice. "The Hall of the Body is currently under top-level infosecurity measures. All transmissions leaving the hall are subject to level-five screening procedures. All physical materials leaving the hall are subject to a search at your nearest security station. Breaches of infosecurity may incur a criminal charge with a possibility of prison time. Thank you. Doors now opening."


    With that, the elevator doors smoothly slid open as promised.


    Minister Grisha Mors, the Serpent of Pesh, straightened his tie as he strode out of the elevator and down the sleek white hallway, passing countless doors on either side.


    He was a youthful-looking man, with tanned skin and white hair tied back into a ponytail. The black suit he was wearing was made from the skin of his namesake, and light reflected off it oddly, making it seem as though it might even be wet to the touch. His smart shoes clicked against the floor as he walked, and his grey eyes flicked to regard the aides and pages bustling through the hallway around him.


    It was no surprise that things were in a panic. There was a chance they might have a new Supreme by the time the day was out, after all -- or they might have no Supreme at all. Whenever something changed in the Supremacy, it often meant months of work in the Body to make it functional.


    Someone had to make sure the trains ran on time, after all -- despite the trains best efforts.


    Mors reached the door he was looking for -- nondescript, just like any of the temporary offices on this floor -- and tapped in his code on the panel next to it. The second the doors slid open, he ducked inside, tapping the button on the other side that closed the door once more.


    "You took your time," Eion Stenhouse, the Body Special Envoy, drawled as he looked up from his script. "Traffic bad?"


    The meeting room wasn¡¯t much to speak of -- a table and a few chairs, with a water dispenser built into the wall -- but the decor wasn¡¯t what Mors was concerned with. The unit on top of the table, a bulky signal jammer, was of much more interest. Mors scanned it with his eyes, making sure it was functional. It wouldn¡¯t do for unexpected leaks to get out -- only the expected ones were welcome here.


    Mors shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair before sitting down himself. His eyes flicked over to Stenhouse.


    "Good to see we have the traitor among us," he said lightly, steepling his fingers on the table before him. "How much of this meeting will you leak to the Wise Men?"


    Stenhouse wiggled his hand. "Just the basics, just the basics, Maizer Mors. Unless there are specific things you¡¯d like me to leak?"


    Mors smiled thinly. "We¡¯ll get to that."


    The Three Wise Men: the First, Second and Third Ministers of the Body. On paper, the Body existed to facilitate the desires of the sitting Supreme -- but the current Supreme had little interest in governance, and so he¡¯d granted the Three Wise Men unprecedented power to decide policy themselves. These days, they had spies everywhere, fingers in every pie. Little happened without their approval.


    As far as Mors saw it, Aether-users could swing their swords and shoot their guns all day long¡­ but this world really belonged to the bureaucrats.


    He leaned back in his chair. "For now, I¡¯m more concerned about the Supreme. Chizuru, any word from your Special Officers?"


    Minister Chizuru Un flickered into existence in the chair across from Mors. She was a seemingly young woman with bright pink hair and eyes -- not to mention a poofy dress that was more frill than fabric. She flashed him a peace sign: "Hi, hi!"


    Then again, that was only what she seemed to look like.


    Chizuru¡¯s true form rested beside her chair, inside a small tank. She was an unfortunate Scurrant that looked like some kind of embryonic seahorse, capable of surviving only in a very specific liquid solution. She could only communicate with others using a hologram interface -- but with that false face, she¡¯d built up a monolithic career in the entertainment industry before transitioning into politics.


    An eccentric career path for an eccentric woman.


    "Well?" Stenhouse prompted.


    Her hologram twirled imaginary hair around an imaginary finger. "Well, from what my Officers tell me," she said. "The Tartarus is dead in the water. The Special Officers are split between the ship and the chaos on the planet below. The chain of command has collapsed, but there was never much of one anyway. Not lookin¡¯ good. D¡¯oh!"


    Mors scratched behind his ear. "I see, I see¡­ and the Supreme himself?"


    "Down on the planet. He¡¯s probably fighting Esmeralda already."


    "And so we get to the million stator question," Mors sighed. "Who¡¯s going to win?" He looked to his two companions. "That¡¯s what we¡¯re thinking, right?"


    "Personally," Eion said, sucking in air and saliva through his filed-down teeth. "I don¡¯t see the Supreme losing. He levelled the playing field before he went dormant. If someone had come along with a similar level of strength, I think we¡¯d have heard of them, no?"


    Chizuru put a finger to her cheek. "If Esmeralda had UAP backing, too, maybe he¡¯s got some of the Ten Nebula there?"


    "No," Mors said firmly. "The UAP doesn¡¯t have anything to do with this -- at least, not on a governmental level. The last thing they¡¯d want is the Supreme dead."


    Chizuru blinked, looking at him as if he¡¯d gone crazy. "Uh¡­ are you sure?"


    Mors took a pen from the table, twirling it idly between his fingers as he spoke. "Think about it. More than anything, the current Supreme is a lazy one. I mean, he doesn¡¯t do anything. The only reason the war between us and them has stayed cold is because there¡¯s nothing driving us from above. Imagine if the next Supreme was some kind of warmonger? No, no, they¡¯ll want our guy to remain in power as long as possible."


    Eion snapped his fingers. "Ah, ah ah ah. Might be too late for that, though, Maizer Mors."


    With a frown on his face, Mors clicked the pen. "Exactly. There¡¯s a non-zero chance that the Supreme is dead already. We don¡¯t want a revolutionary like Esmeralda to become the next Supreme -- if he didn¡¯t tear things apart, the civil wars would."


    "How about that woman?" Stenhouse asked, leaning forward. "Can you get her to do something?"


    Mors cast his long-time partner an unamused glance. "You know I can¡¯t tell the Shepherdess what to do -- the best I can manage is an occasional phone call. She¡¯ll do what¡¯s best for the Supremacy, even if it¡¯s not what¡¯s best for us. She¡¯s not an ally -- and even if she was, she¡¯d be the most unreliable kind."


    Eion sighed, rubbing his thumbs over his temples.


    His stress was understandable, but by no means unique.


    Mors had no doubt that conversations very similar to this were taking place all over the Body: their civilian government lent itself to intense factionalism, small groups of Ministers and other officials allying together for scraps of additional power. Even if you didn¡¯t seek power for yourself, the fact that each controlled planet earned a Minister only a single vote meant that they had to band together just to get anything done.


    Grisha Mors was seen as something of a rising star in the Body, but Pesh was still a single planet, with a single insignificant vote. If the world wouldn¡¯t give you a hammer, sometimes you had no choice but to use the knife.


    "You sound like you¡¯ve still got a plan," Chizuru said. "How do we play this?"


    "We do nothing," Mors smiled. "I¡¯ve already done it. I¡¯ve dispatched the Pesh defence fleet to just outside the Elysian Fields system. The first sign of any ship taking off from the planet, and they¡¯re blasting it out of the sky. Even if Esmeralda becomes Supreme, he won¡¯t live long enough to let anyone know."


    Chizuru raised her eyebrows. "Uh, sorry, but I don¡¯t see that happening. The Elysian Fields Incident already has over a billion spins on Sfeer. Some of the Special Officers dispatched are pretty big on there -- they¡¯ve been posting videos, pictures. Damn near live updates. The eyes of the galaxy are on this thing."


    "All the better. We blast Esmerelda out of the sky and everyone will immediately know. His Supremeship becomes a technicality, barely remembered, and we have ourselves a Dawn Contest," Mors said simply. "From there, it¡¯s just a matter of finding a candidate we can support. Commissioner Caesar, maybe, or Dorothy Eiro if we¡¯re looking for a heroine -- dramaturgically, mythologically."


    "Well," Chizuru admitted. "You¡¯ve certainly put some thought into this, but¡­ the Supreme gave super-explicit orders that only the Tartarus was to go to Elysian Fields. It¡¯s that whole ¡¯fair fight¡¯ sort of thing, but if he finds out you¡¯re sending an entire fleet there -- against his orders? You¡¯re super-dead."


    Delicately, carefully, Mors laid out the pen on the table before him -- adjusting the angle until it was a perfect and reassuring straight line. As he spoke, he looked down at it rather than his colleagues, as though there was some sort of consciousness within the object he was trying to make contact with.


    "Pesh is known for our casinos," he said softly. "Gambling dens, Thunderbolt arenas, whatever shape they take¡­ but we gamble. That¡¯s what we do. We understand it¡¯s a gamble, this whole thing, life or death. Every day you go to bed without getting struck by lightning, or having a heart attack, or -- I don¡¯t know -- spontaneous combustion¡­ that¡¯s you winning the bet. But the stakes are garbage in a game like that. The only thing you win is the right to keep playing."


    He looked back up, and his eyes were dark as pits.


    "I have the fury of my own momentum. I say we play for real: all-in. Any objections?"


    The room was silent.


    "Well," he grinned. "Let¡¯s discuss our next Supreme, then."

 Chapter 303:11.30: There Is No Such Thing As A Magic Bullet

    Serendipity was a marvel.


    One trillion people, the greatest population density in the galaxy, living together in relative harmony. An omnicity so colossal and so all-encompassing that it was said to have doubled the size of the planet all by itself. No doubt that was exaggerated, but still.


    He couldn¡¯t help but feel a sense of muted awe as he looked out at the city -- at the white spires climbing high, at the atmospheric vanishers concealing the clouds, at the skyways of flying cars making their way to and fro. Sometimes, when he took in this sight from his apartment, he couldn¡¯t help but feel reminded of a great and divine machine. One trillion lives, moving in sync, inexorably marching forward to the next era of humanity.


    Did everyone else feel the same? Or was that just the Prince talking?


    Jaime Pierrot, formerly Captain, took a sip of his coffee as he looked out over the capital of the Unified Alliance of Planets. His desk, laser-carved from the wood of an Apex tree, was spread out behind him, countless documents cluttering its surface. A glass display case at the side of the cozy room contained his collection of Aether Armaments -- those he¡¯d been able to claim during his dismissal from UniteFleet, anyway.


    Indeed, the public did not take kindly to a captain who abandoned his ship -- especially when he was the only survivor. The military tribunal had had no choice but to discharge him from his post, and from UniteFleet as a whole. The Prince had helped him maneuver that dismissal into an honorable discharge, but had provided no more help than that.


    The reason was easy enough to guess -- whatever the next stage of the grand plan was, it would be better served by him not being part of UniteFleet.


    Peace and joy for all mankind.


    "Computer," Pierrot said promptly. "Dim window, full."


    The view of Serendipity vanished as the window faded into an absolute black, and the lights within the room brightened to compensate. Pierrot turned around in his chair to regard his guests.


    "Your old prot¨¦g¨¦ seems to have caused quite the panic, Widow," he commented. "I¡¯ll ask you again: do you believe he has a chance of winning?"


    The Widow, standing behind the chair of her charge, considered the question. "In terms of skill and power alone¡­" she considered. "...no. But I don¡¯t know what kind of plan he¡¯s concocted. Without knowing that, I truly couldn¡¯t say."


    Four people were gathered in the room with Pierrot, all of them considerably more powerful than himself -- and yet, curiously enough, they all waited for him to speak. Experience and competence were valuable crops, and he¡¯d cultivated them well.


    His eyes slid calmly between them.


    Agnes Von Winterburn, the young Tsarina of Adrust, clad in a white fur coat and ushanka. Her white hair was styled with the exactitude of sculpture, and her Cogitant-blue eyes seemed to glitter in the light. Her gloved hands lay demurely on her lap, but there was no mistake in looking at her that this was a person of power. All politicians held blades -- it was just that hers were made of silk.


    Behind her, next to the Widow, stood the Tsarina¡¯s brother -- Rufus Von Winterburn. If you didn¡¯t know their names, there would be little to let you know they were related. Where Agnes¡¯ hair was snow-white, his was bright and red as fire. Where Agnes¡¯ eyes were cold blue diamonds, his were golden amber. Where Agnes¡¯ mouth was a flat and concealed line, his was spread out in a boisterous grin.


    Rufus, called the Supernova by some, was the Fifth of the Ten Nebula -- the personal agents and bodyguards of the Unified Council members. Pierrot had never really approved of the Nebula -- the self-mythologising of it all was too close to the Supremacy for his tastes -- but they served an important propaganda purpose. They gave faces and names to the monolith of government, simplified complex bureaucracy to a more easily digestible narrative. These were figures that could be rooted for -- superheroes, in a way.


    The third man in the room was the one Jaime Pierrot had known the longest -- an old commander of his during his early years in UniteFleet. Albert Raise, the Prime Minister of the Lesser Chain, ran a finger through his graying mustache as he considered the situation. In Pierrot¡¯s memories, he¡¯d seemed so strong and unflinching -- but time had taken its toll, softening him to the ginger affability of an elderly gentleman.


    Two members of the Unified Council were here, then, in a meeting that officially could never take place. Representatives of Adrust and the Lesser Chain, actively seeking out his counsel. The Prince truly worked wonders.


    "It occurs to me," Albert ventured, straightening up in his seat. "That some clandestine intervention might be called for here, in this circumstance. While this man Esmerelda has an unfortunate history with the UAP -- the records unearthed from Taldan speak for themselves -- is the enemy of our enemy not our friend? Perhaps one or two of the Nebula could bolster Regiment RED in this fight?"


    Agnes clicked her tongue. "Foolishness."


    Albert cast her an annoyed glance, waiting for the girl to continue, but she didn¡¯t straight away. Pierrot had noticed this: the Tsarina of Adrust liked to make people wait, drawing them in with silence before expressing her opinion. She did it more often in Pierrot¡¯s presence, too -- or rather, the Prince¡¯s presence. The effect it had on Cogitants really was noticeable.


    Finally, though, Agnes Von Winterburn did speak. "Say that we sent my brother here to Elysian Fields, or one of the others. Forgiveness Irons, perhaps, if we didn¡¯t want to lose any good men. Say that they failed, and were killed, as people often are. When the corpse of a Nebula is unearthed on Elysian Fields, essentially attempting the assassination of their head of state, what do we give the Supremacy? Pale excuses? No. We are best served keeping our distance in this matter."


    Rufus leaned over his sister¡¯s shoulder. "If it comes down to it, some of the old routes into Supremacy territory are still intact. I could get some guys over there real quick."


    Pierrot smirked ruefully to himself. The UAP had been at war with the Supremacy, in some form or another, for the entirety of its existence. There were countless secret lightpoints capable of launching forces right across the border -- and Pierrot expected the same was true for their adversary.


    "The situation will become chaos before long," Agnes insisted, her quiet voice overpowering her brother¡¯s booming one. "A wildfire. The best we can hope for is not to be part of the kindling. Don¡¯t you concur?"


    Pierrot leaned back in his seat, massaging the bridge of his nose. The Tsarina had a good sense for these sorts of things, but in the end what she was proposing was stasis. A maintenance of the current situation. Back on the UniteRegent, that had been the course of action that Pierrot -- and the Prince -- had preferred, but now things felt different.


    Now it felt like they were allowing an opportunity to pass them by.


    "What of Shen Xiurong?" Pierrot said, rubbing his beard. "What does his faction intend? You¡¯re friendly with Nebula Two, aren¡¯t you, Rufus?"


    Rufus shifted on his feet. "Xiurong and his group are gonna vote to fortify the borders, I think. If the Supreme dies, they want to be ready for whoever comes next. Abra-Facade have said they¡¯re staying out of it, though. Pretty sure that Paradoxia are doing the same."


    Pierrot considered it further, looking to Albert. "And Pandershi?"


    Albert scoffed, crossing his arms. "That eccentric? I imagine he¡¯ll side with whoever promises him the bigger research grants. He¡¯s happy enough playing with his mushrooms."


    "Don¡¯t underestimate that man," Pierrot warned. "I find myself disliking him."


    In actuality, it was the Prince that seemed to dislike Zephyr Pandershi -- the leader and dictator of the Pandershi Foundation. He knew too much, saw too clearly, and dreamed too dark. If it weren¡¯t for his position on the Unified Council and the usefulness of his innovations to the UAP as a whole, the Prince would have had him killed long ago. That was the extent of its enmity.


    Or did Pierrot dislike him as well? It was hard to say. These days, it was difficult to tell where Pierrot ended and the Prince began.


    "The meeting of the Unified Council will take place before long," Agnes said quietly. "How do we proceed?"


    Unlike the civilian government of the Supremacy, the UAP formed more of a democratic pyramid. Populations of planets selected a representative for those planets, those people then selected a representative for their system as a whole, and so on and so forth -- until you reached the Unified Council. The ten ultimate decision-makers in the UAP, who voted on all matters.


    Pierrot did not have control over all ten, and so could not make decisions directly. But the Prince understood the factors that drove these people, and so could¡­ encourage certain outcomes.


    "Vote for no action," he finally advised. "Don¡¯t move troops to the border, either. We don¡¯t want to give whoever next takes command in the Supremacy any excuse for an attack."


    Few words were exchanged after that, as the gathering disbanded -- Albert, Rufus and Agnes leaving to attend the meeting of the Unified Council. Only the Widow remained, standing as she peered through the display cases at his Aether Armaments.


    "Something wrong?" Pierrot asked, looking up from his script. Behind him, the window had cleared once again, sunlight streaming in.


    The Widow glanced at him. "Do nothing?" she echoed. "Sloth isn¡¯t the sort of sin that suits you, Pierrot. What do you truly intend?"


    Pierrot leaned back in his chair once again, looking up at the ceiling. Screens installed there displayed a beautiful image of the galaxy, stars and spacedust broiling around one another, with only providence keeping them from apocalyptic collision.


    "Six hours ago," he said softly. "A broker in the Supremacy received a call. This broker has lost family members to the Supremacy military. This broker has now received a substantial payment from an anonymous source."


    The Widow blinked. "...and what is it this broker has been paid to do?"


    Pierrot looked her right in the eyes. "A mercenary fleet is on its way to support the escape of Regiment RED. I¡¯d like for your new Vantablack Squad to accompany them."


    She¡¯d no doubt expected something like this, but the Widow sighed all the same, closing her eyes.


    "Is there a problem?" Pierrot asked.


    "No," she shook her head. "It¡¯s just¡­ this is what you intended all along, isn¡¯t it? All according to plan?"


    "Yes," Pierrot smiled thinly. "All according to plan."


    Peace and joy for all mankind.


    This was not the main course. This was barely an appetizer. You didn¡¯t stuff your mouth full of breadsticks before they even brought your meal out, did you?


    Of course. Nobody did that. The Supreme was the same way -- so he made a promise to himself. As he was fighting this man called Blackbird, he wouldn¡¯t use his special abilities at all. He¡¯d use around one-percent of what he had. The equivalent of a pinkie finger.


    After all¡­ that was the only way to make a fight like this fun.


    Bang.


    As Johan fired off another round at the Supreme, he dropped down to the ground, body so flexible that he was nearly doing the splits. The bullet, sparking and flashing with bright purple Aether, sailed over the Supreme¡¯s hair and thudded uselessly into the rock behind him -- but this time, at least, he had the chance to observe it.


    Yes. The first time Blackbird had fired, it had been a surprise attack, but the Supreme had gotten a strange vibe from it all the same. This confirmed it.


    He¡¯d been able to see the launch of the attack this time -- the actual act of firing the bullet. Even without using Analysis, he¡¯d observed well. When Blackbird had fired off that Aether-infused bullet, he¡¯d cleared out his own defensive Aether first, just for a second. This was an attack that must not come into contact with one¡¯s own Aether.


    As the Supreme kicked off to the side, leaping onto a more flat piece of terrain, he named it: "Der Freisch¨¹tz. Right?"


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Blackbird stiffened, but it didn¡¯t matter. The Supreme already knew he was right.


    Not all Aether abilities were unique. Some powers, like Quantum King, had people attempting to replicate them for centuries after the original user had died. That was not the same kind of ability as Der Freisch¨¹tz, however. Der Freisch¨¹tz was the kind of ability that was theorized to be possible, but had never actually been perfected.


    Three had tried, and all three had ended up destroyed by their own power. The fact that Johan Blackbird had managed to fire off two shots without obliterating himself was actually pretty impressive.


    The Supreme landed -- and immediately, all around him, sentry automatics burst out of the soil. As one, they fired off their payloads, neverwire nets latching onto the Supreme¡¯s form. He heard the telltale hum as electricity ran through the substance and then, a second later¡­


    ¡­a snap, as the neverwire exploded off of him like fireworks, overwhelmed by sheer power.


    The Supreme shrugged off the remnants of the neverwire, letting it fall to his feet, and looked up the hill towards Blackbird. Johan was still pointing his rifle-arm at the Supreme, but he hadn¡¯t fired yet. He¡¯d learnt from the first two attempts, then¡­ he wouldn¡¯t take a shot unless he was certain it could hit.


    "You shouldn¡¯t rely on a party trick like neverwire," the Supreme advised. "There¡¯s only so much that stuff can take, you know?"


    Johan said nothing, but oh those eyes were narrowed. This guy wanted to take the shot so bad. He was a real hater.


    "Der Freisch¨¹tz¡­" the Supreme continued, cracking his neck, judging distances and efforts. "It¡¯s supposed to use the enemy¡¯s Aether as the fuel for an explosive attack. Pretty ingenious, if you ask me. No matter who the target is, so long as they¡¯re an Aether-user, you can kill ¡¯em in one shot. In fact, the stronger their Aether is, the more effective Der Freisch¨¹tz gets. It¡¯s a real magic bullet, so long as you don¡¯t blow yourself up. You put that together yourself, pal?"


    How many shots did he have? That was the part that mattered. If the Supreme just charged right in, he¡¯d be making himself an easy target. He had to figure out when Blackbird would need to reload.


    "Leaper Demon King!" roared an unfamiliar voice.


    The ground behind the Supreme exploded upwards, a tidal wave of soil and stone, before reconstituting itself -- into a massive upper body. The landscape sculpted into a puppet, a huge elephantine trunk swinging from the middle of its indistinct features. As the Supreme turned to look at it, the elephant-man lashed out and seized him between two of its massive hands.


    "Johan!" the titan roared. "Do it now!"


    The Supreme remained limp as he was held up high and tight in the giant¡¯s hands. Johan Blackbird hadn¡¯t come here alone, then -- he had allies waiting in the wings. This guy¡¯s ability was Leaper Demon King, then, and it seemed to allow him to turn the landscape into a facsimile of his own body.


    Bang -- Blackbird fired Der Freisch¨¹tz once again. The bullet would reach the Supreme in a fraction of a second.


    The Supreme began to blink.


    He wasn¡¯t terribly interested in the impending bullet right now. How did this Leaper Demon King work? That was the important question. Was this guy manipulating the earth from a distance, or was he inhabiting it personally? The Supreme would win either way, but the answer would determine the method.


    Judging from the strength of the construct, and the reduced visibility from the forest fires, the Supreme guessed this was the latter -- this guy had recorded himself into Aether and was inside the construct, possessing it. If so, that made things simple.


    Der Freisch¨¹tz would detonate the instant it made contact with Aether. Even assuming this was a perfect execution of the ability, that still left a glaring weakness.


    The Supreme finished blinking.


    Aether ping.


    The wave of golden Aether burst outwards from the Supreme¡¯s body, leaving him defenseless for just a split second as it radiated out, tracing the shape of the golem holding him -- and making the barest amount of contact with the incoming bullet. The explosion was immediate, a shining golden fireball that engulfed everything. Der Freisch¨¹tz ignited the wave the Supreme had released, and then transferred over to the second Aether that wave was touching -- the Aether of the man holding him.


    The Supreme had been right. This giant guy had recorded himself into Aether to possess the giant -- but that meant that when Der Freisch¨¹tz destroyed that Aether¡­


    ¡­he no longer existed in this world.


    Jason Palmer had spent a career and a lifetime smuggling people across the border between the Supremacy and the UAP. Criminals seeking to escape justice, agents on both sides wanting to sneakily enter the territory of their enemy, refugees searching for an escape from tyranny. All sorts of people, with all sorts of stories.


    One day, he was hired to ferry a young girl out of the Supremacy and into the UAP. The money was good, and the job easy. He hadn¡¯t known at the time, but th


    His life came to an end.


    Bang.


    As the Supreme dropped out of the air -- the giant collapsing into rubble behind him -- Blackbird fired another shot at his falling form. No doubt he thought the Supreme¡¯s movement would be limited as he fell out of the air, or perhaps he was starting to panic slightly. It didn¡¯t really matter.


    The Supreme had already overcome Der Freisch¨¹tz anyway.


    With a grunt of effort, the Supreme coalesced his golden Aether into a sphere in his hand and hurled it -- like a farball -- towards the incoming bullet. Pure Aether was ordinarily a useless projectile, but in a situation like this, it would prove surprisingly useful.


    The sphere exploded as it made contact, destroying the bullet in the process, and the Supreme landed on the ground unburdened. Immediately, he stomped down, the dirt beneath him smashing open and producing a smokescreen of dust and soil.


    It would prevent Blackbird from firing for a second, and the Supreme needed that second to confirm something. He¡¯d felt a presence in that Aether ping, something else nearby, something --


    -- there. The air shifted.


    "Inevitable Friend," someone whispered.


    The Supreme flipped backwards just as a void-black silhouette charged out of the dust, arms outstretched towards him. It was the same size as him, matching his proportions, as if his shadow had peeled itself off the ground and gone after him. As the Supreme landed, he ducked as the shadow grasped blindly at him once again.


    It was going for grabs, not punches or kicks, so the act of touching him in itself was it¡¯s objective. To be honest, he¡¯d rather not find out what happened if it made contact -- he found himself reminded of matter and antimatter, both being obliterated as they met.


    Bang.


    As the Supreme jumped to the side to avoid another swipe, Blackbird chanced a shot. The bullet pierced through the smoke and barely missed the Supreme¡¯s shoulder, but he did not spare it even a glance. His attention was entirely focused on the enemy before him.


    Two abilities: Der Freisch¨¹tz and this Inevitable Friend. One long-range, the other short-range. Both of them he could absolutely not be hit by. Which did he prioritize?


    The smoke cleared slightly, and the Supreme¡¯s keen eyes spotted his second opponent. A young Cogitant girl, glaring at him from deep within the treeline. All in all, she was slightly further away from him than Blackbird. That determined the order of things. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Before the Inevitable Friend could grab at him again, the Supreme leapt upwards, kicking up a geyser of dirt in the process. The Inevitable Friend jumped after him, but it was far inferior in both strength and speed, and had no chance of catching up in time. As he reached the crest of his jump, high in the sky, the Supreme twisted his body in the air and blasted pure Aether from his legs -- propelling himself directly back down towards Johan Blackbird.


    In that second, the Supreme could see it. Blackbird¡¯s face, now twisted in fear and panic. A greedy man realizing how much he¡¯d tried to chew. The Supreme¡¯s mouth spread out into a wide, toothy grin.


    Bang.


    Blackbird¡¯s prosthetic, at the last second, fired the bullet once again¡­


    ¡­and the Supreme deactivated his Aether to welcome it.


    All Johan Blackbird had wanted to do was write his books.


    It was just a single paragraph in a single one of his novels. A mention of a past Supreme, Gael the Golden, written with the derision his legacy deserved. Johan had believed in the Supremacy. He¡¯d believed himself free to say such things.


    The Supremacy disagreed.


    A zealous Special Officer had seen what he had written and, incensed, had come after him. Beaten him. Tortured him. Taken things from him, as further punishment. Hauled him off to prison and thrown away the key.


    That had only been the beginning of the pain. That had been where they¡¯d stitched his mouth shut, so he could slander no more. That was where he¡¯d learnt what humans were really like. That was where he¡¯d received his education on the shape of this world.


    By the time he¡¯d left, he couldn¡¯t recognise himself anymore. All he¡¯d wanted to do was write his b


    His life came to an end.


    The Supreme¡¯s grin widened even further, despite the ache he felt in his jaw. There, clenched between his teeth, was captured the final bullet of Der Freisch¨¹tz. He¡¯d managed to catch it without any Aether at all.


    A low chuckle resounded through the forest. He really was built different.


    Johan Blackbird twitched.


    The Supreme had told himself, right at the start of this, that he¡¯d be using the equivalent of his pinkie finger. Like in one of those old martial arts videographs, where the old guy fights with a hand tied behind his back. He supposed this really drove that point home.


    At the moment he had caught the bullet, the Supreme had casually reached out and -- with the ease of a knife in butter -- pierced his pinkie finger through Johan Blackbird¡¯s skull. It was buried up to the knuckle, curiously warm as the Supreme flexed it around, ravaging Blackbird¡¯s brain.


    "Well," the Supreme yawned. "I think you¡¯re probably dead. Good try, buddy."


    Pop.


    The Supreme pulled his finger free, winced at the mixture of blood and brains remaining on the digit, and wiped it clean on his jeans. All that time, though, he did not look at what he was doing. His gaze remained fixed on the forest. His gaze remained fixed on the girl hiding there.


    She¡¯d been glaring at him before, with the kind of dead eyes only a rare few knew. Now, though, those eyes were wide, pupils shaking, the shadow of fear crawling behind them.


    The Supreme knew it well. Still grinning, he mouthed one word.


    Run.


    Emma had just realized -- she wanted to live.


    For as long as she could remember, she¡¯d been chasing her own death. A death she could be satisfied with, one that would take out her hatred on the world around her. A death that would blast a hole through the Supremacy that had ruined her and bring the whole thing down. She¡¯d wanted to die, and to kill as many people as possible in the process. It was that kind of resolute malice.


    Now, though, as she ran through the forest, she couldn¡¯t help but feel like all of that was stupid. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Her breath was burning in her lungs. Her legs were shaking like leaves beneath her.


    Every instinct, every reflex, was screaming at her.


    Live. Live!


    She could make it out of this. She knew the Supreme, she¡¯d studied him, she understood how his mind worked. He wasn¡¯t the kind of person who was interested in the weak. So long as she ran, so long as she kept running, so long as she wasn¡¯t a threat, she could --


    "Stop," said the Supreme calmly.


    By all means, there was no reason for her to obey. This was the person she was running from, after all. This was the specter of death. This was the Supreme.


    But at the same time¡­ this was the man who was like god. When one heard a voice like that, they couldn¡¯t help bu


    Her life came to an end.


    The Supreme lowered his hand, his grin fading to nothing once again.


    The bullet fell from his lips and clattered to the floor, next to Blackbird¡¯s corpse. He¡¯d promised himself he wouldn¡¯t use any of his Aether abilities here, and he hadn¡¯t. All he¡¯d done was use a little more of his strength, and flick air towards the fleeing girl. Against weaklings, even air was enough to blow their heads off.


    Now that was a real magic bullet.


    He glanced up as blue Aether crackled through the air, coalescing once again into the form of the Cogitant boy. The kid was lucky, all things considered. If Der Freisch¨¹tz had come into contact with the Aether he¡¯d recorded himself into, he¡¯d have been annihilated. If nothing else, he was skilled at keeping out of the danger zone.


    The kid looked pale, though, sweat running down his skin as he looked at the scene of carnage before him. Perhaps he hadn¡¯t quite understood who he was escorting. The Supreme stood tall, flicking the last remnant of brain matter off his pinkie and onto the floor.


    "How much longer?" he asked again.


    It wasn¡¯t quite sunset, but you could see it from here.


    Skipper took a swig from the bottle of wine as he reclined on the picnic blanket, savoring the sweet aftertaste of the drink. His basket rested empty beside him, the sandwiches and protein it had previously contained long since devoured. All around Skipper, on the hill he¡¯d perched himself atop, were countless reeds -- fluttering in the wind, spreading out as far as the eye could see.


    The mountain called Splendor rose high behind him, and the sun hung low before him. It was like something from a dream.


    Dreams had ways of shifting, though, and the world followed that convention. A breeze blew past, soft as a caress, and Skipper blinked. When his eyes opened once more, he could sense it. He could sense that presence.


    Skipper looked down.


    At the bottom of the hill, grinning up at him, stood the man who was like god. A body like a marble statue, and dim eyes that demanded perfection. A golden cape flowing in the wind, and golden Aether to match its brilliance. The apex of existence. The one above all. The absolute.


    Once, Skipper had thought all these things to be true. Now, though¡­ now he just looked like a guy. Flesh and blood and nothing more.


    Still¡­ that grin on his face was scary as shit. The Supreme¡¯s face was almost stretched out by it as he boisterously called up: "Esmeralda!"


    "Yo," Skipper replied, raising the bottle. "Long time no see."

 Chapter 304:11.31: Excel Surge

    The Tartarus was done for. It was easy enough to see. When the hell was the evacuation order coming?


    Sweat poured down Tony¡¯s forehead as he looked out over the crowd of Special Officers who¡¯d been waiting for the pods to take them down to Elysian Fields. He¡¯d just received an order over the communicator to cease all launches, but how the hell was he going to tell them that? Right after they¡¯d gotten them working again, too.


    There was a mighty creak from the bowels of the vessel, barely audible over the shouting and complaints of the crowd. Hopefully things wouldn¡¯t turn violent, but these people were warriors -- warriors who felt that glory was actively being kept from them. There was no telling what would happen.


    Tony put a finger to his ear as he tapped back into the communicator, reaching the nearby security station.


    "Reinforcements to the launch bay!" he bellowed, struggling to make himself heard over the roar of the crowd. "We need to keep the peace he --"


    Too late.


    Tony heard a sickening crack as one Special Officer, having been bumped just a little too hard for his liking, whirled around and punched another in the face. As the victim fell to the ground, clutching their shattered nose, the enraged Officer leapt on him, bringing his fists down again and again.


    "Hurry!" Tony cried into the communicator before moving to join the security officers who were heading into the crowd.


    As he did, though, he was suddenly stopped -- by a small hand that grabbed him by the arm.


    "Look," Tony said hurriedly, turning his head. "I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t care who you are, I¡¯ve got explicit orders, these pods are not going¡­ oh."


    The girl who had stopped him was not just anyone. She looked at him with resolute eyes, dark hair hanging loose around her head, her training tracksuit torn and filthy. The Supreme Heir.


    "My Heir," Tony straightened up, offering a hasty salute. "What is it I can, um¡­"


    There was another crack behind him as the enraged Officer began swinging at the personnel restraining him, and Tony jumped. As he glanced back at the carnage, he saw that some other Special Officers had joined in the melee, doing their best to hold down their wayward comrade. He shook his head slowly. Utter chaos. How had things gone this badly?


    The Supreme Heir did not so much as flinch at the sounds of violence, though. She just stared up at Tony.


    "I need a pod," she said firmly. "Now. The Supreme needs backup."


    Tony sorted through things in his mind. The orders he¡¯d been given were from the Ascendant-General himself, but did the Heir supersede that? She shouldn¡¯t, right? So long as the Supreme was around, the Heir was basically just a spare part.


    Oh, but those eyes. These people were crazy. Why was he being forced to make these decisions?


    "I-I¡¯m sorry," he finally spoke, hesitantly. "But I can¡¯t launch any of these pods. Orders from Ascendant-General Toll."


    "Listen," the Heir persisted, taking a step forward -- only to stop as a soft hand landed on her shoulder.


    A blond woman -- one of the Special Officers, judging from her outfit -- stood behind the Heir, smiling pleasantly down at her. Her Cogitant-blue eyes locked onto the Heir¡¯s as the girl looked back.


    "If you¡¯re looking to get down to the planet," the woman said kindly. "The pod bay on the other side of the Tartarus is still launching. You¡¯ll have better luck there, okay?"


    The Heir didn¡¯t waste any time. Immediately, she was scurrying off through the crowd, purple Aether clouding around her feet to grant her additional speed. Tony cast a withering glance at the blond woman. These people really did just do whatever the hell they wanted.


    "Why¡¯d you go and say that?" he sighed. "It¡¯s just gonna make more trouble, you know."


    The woman didn¡¯t say anything in response. Instead, she just turned and walked off down the hallway, leaving the pod bay behind. As she strolled out of sight, a spring in her step, she idly spun the crook she held in her hand. Yep -- she was definitely a Special Officer. Conduct aside, nowhere else would you find a more bizarre sense of fashion.


    Seriously¡­ what sort of soldier went around dressed up as a shepherdess, of all things?


    The Supreme strode up the hill, crushing reeds beneath his massive feet, grinning widely all the while.


    "You¡¯ve gotten old, Esmeralda," he chuckled, golden Aether crawling over his muscles like sunlight. "You look tired. How¡¯s your health?"


    Skipper tossed aside the bottle of wine he¡¯d been holding as he rose to his full height. There was a series of mechanical clicks as he tested the joints in his prosthetic arms, sharpened fingers twitching in the air. He didn¡¯t answer the Supreme straight away. Instead, he looked down at Dragan, back at the bottom of the hill.


    Man, he¡¯d seen better days. At a glance, it looked like he was walking around with at least a third of his own body inside Gemini World. What kind of carnage had he seen back in the battle?


    Don¡¯t lose heart, Skipper, he urged himself. The carnage was what you needed. S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    No matter how much he wanted to, Skipper couldn¡¯t afford to soften. Not now, not at the last hurdle. Instead, he nodded approvingly down at the Cogitant boy.


    "Good work, kid," he said. "You¡¯re gonna wanna get outta here, though. Things are probably gonna get messy, yeah?"


    Dragan¡¯s visible eye was hazy, unfocused, drowned in delirium -- but he nodded all the same. As he turned, ready to stagger back towards the forest, he muttered something barely audible.


    "Don¡¯t lose."


    Skipper grinned. "Never," he said -- and in the same moment he spoke, Dragan vanished from sight.


    That just left the big guy. As Skipper turned to him again, the Supreme crested the hill, the two of them standing across from each other. Something¡­ changed. It took a moment for Skipper to realize what it was, but once he did a chill ran down his spine.


    The whole time he¡¯d been waiting here, he¡¯d heard them. The sounds of birds, fleeing the battle, tweets and screeches and cries. It had been constant, a cacophony in stereo.


    Now¡­ it had stopped. The whole world was holding its breath.


    The Supreme¡¯s grin did not fade. "You didn¡¯t answer my question, Esmerelda. How¡¯s your health?"


    Skipper chuckled, kicking his empty picnic basket away. It clattered down the hill, the sound echoing through the empty world. Two sets of eyes drilled into each other. All else was distraction.


    "I could ask you the same thing, old-timer," he replied softly. "Surprised you ain¡¯t senile yet."


    "Ha!" the Supreme barked out a genuine laugh as he winded his arm -- and took a step forward.


    The effect was immediate. The instant that heavy footstep struck the ground, a burst of pressure surged forth, stripping the ground clean of the reeds populating it. They flew up into the air as a cloud of vegetation, and even Skipper had to brace himself to avoid being blown away.


    The Supreme just kept grinning as he clicked his fingers -- it was clear he was only barely able to restrain himself right now. Well, that was fine. That was what Skipper had wanted when he¡¯d set up this scenario.


    He would kill the Supreme, here and now, with his own two hands -- and if he couldn¡¯t¡­ there was always the other option. The bomb within the Lotus, waiting for his permission to explode and take Elysian Fields with it. But that was the final option, the final final option.


    "You¡¯ve got me hyped here, Esmeralda," the Supreme was almost salivating. "Show me. Show me what you¡¯re made of. I wanna see. Don¡¯t tease me, damnit!"


    Skipper cracked his neck, taking a single step backwards -- not for retreat, but positioning. As the reeds finally began to fall back down from the ground, soft as feathers, he took a deep breath.


    "You¡¯re a needy bastard, huh?" he said calmly. "Well, that¡¯s fine. I¡¯m exactly the same. Heartbeat Freedom."


    The man they called Skipper was visible for only the barest second after those words left his lips. Immediately afterwards, a pillar of shining emerald Aether exploded out of his body, engulfing his form and rising up into the sky. Great cracks of Aether crawled out from the very peak of the pillar, making it look for a brief second like some mighty world tree.


    And somewhere within that mass, bright wings spread wide.


    The Supreme spread his own arms wide as he beheld the technique, his laughter booming over the landscape. His golden Aether shone bright, forming a nearly perfect sphere, as if he was orchestrating a star around himself. Cracks spread across the ground at his feet from the sheer pressure he was exuding.


    All that, and his eyes remained fixed on his opponent, green Aether reflected in them.


    "Great!" he cried, voice strengthened by Aether and passion. "That¡¯s just great, Zachariah Esmeralda! You really have grown up, haven¡¯t you?! Just look at this shit, man!"


    As the Supreme roared, the pillar before him faded -- and Esmerelda had vanished. He¡¯d used that little lightshow as a smokescreen to get out of sight. Good. Very good!


    The Supreme¡¯s mind raced, made feverish from joy as he swung his head around to locate his opponent. How would he start? How should he start? Just run in, or use an Aether ability? Which one? What was the best move? What did Esmeralda¡¯s ability do? How did it work?


    Well, that was answered easily enough. The Supreme opened his mouth to speak.


    "Excel Surge!" he called out at the top of his lungs. "Analysi --"


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    The hammer of god struck the Supreme.


    Right before he could finish the name of his ability, a tremendous force slammed into him from above. An ordinary attack wouldn¡¯t have even given the Supreme cause to flinch, but this possessed such force and power that he was pushed down into the ground, embedded in the dirt and stone up to his thighs. Dull pain -- a sensation he hadn¡¯t felt in a very long time -- radiated across his bare back, golden cape torn to shreds by the impact. He tore the useless thing away with one hand and tossed it off into the wind.


    That pain, that blow, that wonderful impact -- it had a direction of origin. Guffawing in glee, the Supreme snapped his head up to trace the source of the attack. It took him only a second.


    There, flying high in the sky, was Zachariah Esmeralda. Feathered green wings, almost crystalline in appearance, spread out from his back -- and he was pointing his finger directly down at the Supreme. A mighty bolt of emerald Aether crackled along the digit as the Supreme carefully observed.


    That was the Heartbeat Shotgun that had hit him, then -- an ability the Supreme already knew about -- but many times more powerful. Was that what this Heartbeat Freedom did, then? Act as a booster for his other abilities? The physical evidence suggested that, but Esmeralda had specifically moved to stop the Supreme from using Analysis. Did that mean the ability held more secrets he didn¡¯t want the Supreme to discover yet?


    Fine with him. The fog of war was what made a journey fun.


    Thrusting his own palm in Esmeralda¡¯s direction, the Supreme roared: "Excel Surge! Heartbeat --"


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    The second blast, empowered to its utmost, slammed into the Supreme once more -- this time burying him up to his waist. He looked like some divine mole, sticking up out of the dirt like that. In different circumstances, Skipper might even have laughed.


    His strategy had worked twice. That was surprising. Maybe the Supreme was rusty?


    Most Aether abilities had names. Heartbeat Shotgun, Skeletal Set, Gemini World. Those names were more than just cool words to throw around -- they were a part of how people used their abilities. A kind of self-hypnosis, instantly putting you in the right state of mind to naturally use your power.


    Powerful Aether-users would often learn to excise speaking their abilities out loud, lending an element of surprise to their attacks and reducing deployment speed. It would be difficult to find a top-tier combatant that needed to open their mouth during battle. The Supreme, however, was a rare exception to the rule.


    Badge of Honour¡­ Skipper had known during his Supreme Guard days that the Supreme could copy the abilities of his comrades, but it was only through careful research later in life that he¡¯d narrowed down the specifics. The Supreme had to speak aloud the name of an ability in order to use it. That was a condition of Badge of Honour. If he wanted to use Excel Surge, which optimized those abilities, he had to speak that prefix aloud as well.


    Heart-beat Shot-gun. Four syllables.


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    Ex-cel Surge. Three more.


    All in all, the Supreme had to speak seven syllables out loud to unleash a copy of Skipper¡¯s attack. Other abilities, ones he didn¡¯t know of, would be more of a gamble. Still, so long as Skipper could prevent him from speaking clearly, he could neutralize the Supreme¡¯s attacks¡­ temporarily, at least.


    This strategy was cheap and effective, but Skipper was under no illusions that it would work for long. The Supreme was too smart for that. This was nothing but an opener, an introduction.


    The real fight hadn¡¯t begun yet.


    I get it, I get it, the Supreme thought, leaping out of the ground, tearing chunks of the earth free in the process. You¡¯re trying to stop me from speaking, right? It¡¯s simple but it works. Probably even more effective since you use sound.


    His movements were smooth and efficient, packed with potential like a taut rope. In an instant, he crouched and leapt upwards -- a sound like a cannonball blasting out.


    And an instant later, he was struck by another Heartbeat Shotgun and sent back down to the ground.


    Well, he thought. That¡¯s pretty much as I expected. From that position up in the sky, Esmerelda can deal with any linear paths of attack pretty easily -- especially while I¡¯m down on the ground like this.


    He pushed himself up once more -- and this time, instead of leaping, he began to run. Arms pumping with perfect form, he began sprinting up the mountain, weaving to avoid the countless blasts that pulverized the ground around him. Still, that on its own wasn¡¯t enough. Speaking coherently while running at the speed required to dodge these attacks just wasn¡¯t possible.


    As the world exploded around him, attacks striking so loudly that a normal human would have been deafened many times over, the Supreme¡¯s mind raced. He thought through all of the abilities he¡¯d accumulated, all the bonds of friendship he¡¯d forged, searching for the power he could use here.


    He knew that one of them would work here, if he just remembered, if he just thought back¡­


    ¡­and used it.


    Where¡¯s he going? Skipper thought, face stern as he watched the dot that was the Supreme move across the ground. No matter what, I can¡¯t lose sight of him.


    He was pouring absurd amounts of Aether into his eyeballs, infusing them to their limits, boosting their perception until he could clearly see the Supreme¡¯s mouth movements. That was the most important thing -- him being able to read the Supreme¡¯s lips and see when he was about to use an ability. He had to focus the Aether in his ears on reinforcing them, or he¡¯d deafen himself with his own attacks.


    Where¡¯s he going? Skipper thought, sweat trickling down his temples, his eyes as fixed as an eagle¡¯s. Looking for a cave to get a moment to speak in? Or is he going to try and kick up a smokescreen?


    If he lost sight of the Supreme for a moment, he¡¯d have no choice but to bombard that area relentlessly. It was that or risk the situation flipping on him right then and there. If the Supreme was able to use an Excel Surge ability, Skipper would be put on the backfoot forever.


    Even as he blasted and blasted, Skipper thought as fast as he could, running through options for his next move.


    These wide-range Heartbeat Shotguns are enough to stun the Supreme and inflict minor damage, Skipper thought, but it won¡¯t be enough to actually injure or kill the bastard. To do that, I¡¯ll either need to focus my blasts or use other attacks -- but that¡¯ll make a miss even more disastrous.


    Decisions, decisions.


    Should he send out the boys in black? No, probably better to keep them in reserve for the time being: their presence would only make it easier for him to lose sight of the Supreme. Maybe he should swoop down and attack from a closer range? Definitely not: even with his Badge of Honour sealed away, the Supreme¡¯s enhanced speed and strength would be enough to swat him like an insect with a good hit.


    In the end, the Supreme made the decision for him.


    The giant man suddenly skidded to a halt, throwing Skipper¡¯s first blast off track, and whirled around to meet the second one. Golden Aether was crackling around his arm, but by all rights the Shotgun would hit him before even the words ¡¯Excel Surge¡¯ could pass his lips. He¡¯d misjudged his timing, surely.


    But that was assuming he planned to say ¡¯Excel Surge¡¯ in the first place.


    The words the Supreme spoke were barely distinguishable from a grunt.


    "Un-Ur."


    The ability itself was nothing special -- originally belonging to Blackbrow the Man, it was basically a stone club that exerted an unusually high amount of force. With a guy who could do that anyway with just his own body, the normal version of the ability had gone unused for years. Until this scenario came about.


    A scenario where an ability with such a short name was very welcome indeed.


    Un-Ur appeared in the Supreme¡¯s hand, a hefty implement indeed, and he swung it at blinding speeds towards the incoming blast. Stone and sound collided with a resounding screech, the weapon visibly cracking even as the Supreme poured Aether into it.


    All in all, Un-Ur would be able to withstand the Heartbeat Shotgun for about three seconds. Three seconds for four words. That was plenty of time.


    "Excel Surge," growled the Supreme. "Heartbeat Landmine."


    Captain Trenis of the Woodpecker had been an incredibly generous man. With no expectation of reward, and with every reason not to, he had stopped to respond to a distress beacon coming from a place entirely off his flight path. Even with his crew muttering about lost time and the overhead for fuel, he had not hesitated to answer a cry for help. Yes, Captain Trenis of the Woodpecker had been an incredibly generous man.


    He had also been an incredibly unlucky man.


    The bottom half of his corpse was sticking out of a nearby vent, the upper half of the body crushed and twisted to fit into the small aperture -- about the size of a can of beans. His unruly crew hadn¡¯t fared much better. Their bodies had essentially been disassembled, scattered chaotically throughout the vessel. Their blood painted the walls, the ceiling and the floor copiously. Even the pilot console had needed to be wiped clean before it could be used.


    The new pilot wiped the screen clean once more, the new smear pattern allowing a marginally better view of the readings. He¡¯d needed to push this tiny ship to its limit, and he¡¯d slaughtered his way through several unofficial lightpoints, but he was almost there. Even if the ship fell apart around him, he was almost there.


    Yes¡­


    He would arrive at Elysian Fields within the hour.


    "Skipper¡­" Avaman the Announcer hissed, hunched over the controls. "Skipperrr¡­"


    Boom.


    Even with Skipper protecting his ears with Aether, the sound of the Supreme¡¯s Heartbeat Landmine was deafening. It exploded all around him like a nuke going off, the resultant shockwave crawling over the land in an instant. It rose vertically, as well, hitting Skipper almost before he even had a chance to react.


    But, through sheer luck, he did have that chance.


    Skipper threw his arms out to his sides and called: "Heartbeat Landmine!" The blast of sound that projected around him was just enough to counteract the force heading for him, creating an eye in the storm -- but even that wasn¡¯t absolute. Gusts of air pressure like a tornado struck Skipper¡¯s body as he hung there, restrained in mid-air, his face a bright red. If he hadn¡¯t been using Heartbeat Freedom, even that reduced blow would have been enough to finish him.


    What remained of the vegetation in the area was stripped clean by the shockwave, billowing up into clouds of shredded grass. The forest around them didn¡¯t escape either, elder trees pulled up by the roots and sent flying away. With just one attack, the Supreme had rewritten the face of the planet.


    And he wasn¡¯t done yet.


    Still grinning madly, the Supreme seemed to mirror Skipper¡¯s pose, throwing his hands out to the sides, as if to grasp reality and pull it together. Even through the maelstrom that had been unleashed, Skipper could see his lips move and form four words.


    "Excel Surge!" he declared. "Quantum King!"


    As the Widow looked out at the void of space through the window, she took a drag of her cigarette. The mercenary captain of this vessel had told her that smoking wasn¡¯t allowed, but she hadn¡¯t lived this long for some green gun-for-hire to tell her what she could and could not do. So she looked, and she smoked.


    The brand she¡¯d chosen was one from the lower levels of Serendipity called Varna. It was shit. That was why she¡¯d chosen it. If she was going to do harm to herself, she didn¡¯t want it feeling good.


    It was a punishment on some level, she supposed, for becoming the Widow again.


    "You should be thrilled," she spoke quietly. "Maybe this time you¡¯ll get a chance to kill me."


    There was only one other person in this room -- a cargo compartment empty of the goods that would usually fill it. The Widow could just barely see the reflection of her companion: Alcera Nox. Formerly a candidate to be a Special Officer in the Supremacy, now a member of the new Vantablack Squad -- and the person who hated the Widow most in this world.


    The girl glared at her, burning red eyes framed by raven-black hair, red robes hanging over a black bodysuit. Her silence was no surprise: the girl hadn¡¯t spoken since the Widow had taken her from the UniteRegent. The only reason she worked with Vantablack Squad was in the hopes that, one day, the Widow would show a moment of weakness she could exploit.


    But that was fine. A desire for revenge was just another motivation, and any motivation could be brought to heel. At any rate, Alcera had clearly realized this wasn¡¯t the chance she¡¯d been looking for, and turned to leave.


    "Make sure Sam Set and the others are ready for our arrival," the Widow ordered. "And listen in on the mercenaries. I don¡¯t want them getting any ideas about switching sides."


    Alcera left the room. No reply, but the girl would do it. She always did.


    The Widow¡¯s gaze returned to the void -- and to the ships hanging in it. Pierrot had certainly put together a passable fleet on short notice. In terms of firepower, they didn¡¯t have much to speak of, but they weren¡¯t coming to fight. Their mission was to evacuate the Regiment RED survivors of the battle -- they¡¯d be useful symbols to foster further instability inside the Supremacy with. This could be the first of many rebellions.


    In the end, it seemed that fool Skipper would get what he¡¯d wanted. He certainly had a way of making events dance to his tune. Despite everything, a proud smirk tugged at the Widow¡¯s lips.


    Inside the pocket of her dress, her script buzzed. She pulled it out and put it to her ear.


    "Speaking," she said.


    She hadn¡¯t looked at the caller display, but there was only one person who¡¯d be calling under these circumstances.


    "Dalcina," said Agnes Von Winterburn, voice made halting by the poor signal. "Where are you?"


    The Widow scoffed. "I find it hard to believe you don¡¯t know where I am, young lady."


    A moment¡¯s silence, and then: "How long until you reach Elysian Fields?"


    "Within the day. We¡¯ve been using those secret lightpoints your brother mentioned, and we¡¯ve been making good time. So long as Regiment RED can hold out that long, I think we have a good chance of success."


    "I see."


    The Widow blinked. "You disagree, ma¡¯am?"


    "I am somewhat in agreement with Jaime Pierrot, you understand¡­ but not totally. It¡¯s true that the survivors of Elysian Fields will be useful pieces. But one will be more trouble than he¡¯s worth."


    "Which one?" The Widow already knew the answer, but she had to ask.


    "Zachariah Esmeralda. If he somehow manages to kill the new Supreme, he by rights becomes the next Supreme. If we then take him into the UAP, the Supremacy will take steps to retrieve him. Things will escalate even further. Total war will become¡­ highly likely."


    The script seemed terribly warm against the Widow¡¯s ear, like it was some vicious organ she was pressing against her skin.


    "If Zachariah Esmeralda has been killed by the Supreme by the time you get there, then there¡¯s no problem. But if he¡¯s still alive¡­"


    The Widow gulped.


    "...then it¡¯s your job to eliminate him. No witnesses. A Dawn Contest will delay any hostilities for quite a while."


    "...I see."


    "Is there a problem?"


    Despite the fact it was pointless, the Widow shook her head. "No, ma¡¯am. Consider it done. Peace and joy for all mankind."


    "Peace and joy for all mankind."


    And with that, the call ended. As she put the script back in her pocket, the Widow took another drag of her cigarette. It tasted awful. Good.


    That was what she deserved.


    "Excel Surge -- Quantum King!"


    Quantum King was an ability originally used by a past Supreme, Damon the Devilish, and over the century since his death it had inspired numerous replications and derivatives. The one the Supreme had access to had been used by a young man named Houston Phillips, a soldier in the Supremacy military. They¡¯d fought together against one of the resurgences of the Kingdom Moon Cult. Good times, good times.


    It was a simple ability, when you got down to it: the power to pull and push objects to and away from the user. The original ability boasted terrifying levels of precision -- pushing a person¡¯s skeleton away while pulling the rest of their body, for example -- but Phillip¡¯s version wasn¡¯t quite capable of that. Still, it would get the job done here, especially once it was enhanced by Excel Surge.


    The forest his Heartbeat Landmine had pulled out of the ground was still flying through the sky -- and so it was still within his line of sight. Quantum King was able to connect to each and every tree he was looking at with ease¡­


    ¡­and pull them back towards him.


    The wreckage of the forest froze in mid-air for a fraction of a second -- and then went hurtling in the Supreme¡¯s direction, as if dragged by invisible strings. It was like a tidal wave in reverse, rubble flowing backwards in a straight line, spinning through the air by bizarre momentum.


    He¡¯d positioned himself well. By running up the mountain, he¡¯d put himself in a spot where Esmeralda was right between him and the destruction his Heartbeat Landmine had kicked up. Even if the Supreme pulled the rubble towards him, it would hit Esmeralda first.


    Zachariah had clearly realized it, too. He whirled around, firing Shotguns at the incoming projectiles, only to stop when he realized that wouldn¡¯t be enough against the arboreal barrage. His wings flapped as he began to fly, swooping through the flying forest as a streak of green light, each sharp turn accompanied by a sound like a bomb going off.


    That was the Supreme¡¯s cue. He tensed his muscles as he lowered his body to the ground, judging distances and timing.


    Badge of Honour came with more conditions than those required to acquire an ability. Usage also came with its own rules. For one, the Supreme could only use two abilities at any one time. On its own, that wouldn¡¯t be much of a problem -- any combination of two abilities could be devastating -- if not for the fact that Excel Surge counted as one of those two.


    So, while he was pulling these trees using Quantum King, he couldn¡¯t activate another ability¡­


    ¡­but if he deactivated Quantum King, the momentum of the projectiles would go unchanged.


    "Excel Surge¡­" the Supreme growled. "King of Currumpaw!"


    Skipper weaved through the hail of massive trees, gritting his teeth as they buffeted past.


    The wings that formed from Heartbeat Freedom¡¯s feathers granted him the ability to float, but in order to actually move he had to fire off a series of low-power Heartbeat Shotguns. With each dodge, a sound like a cannon rang out, his movements appearing strangely linear -- as if he were kicking off thin air.


    These trees weren¡¯t his main concern, though. No matter what attacks came flying his way, or what bizarre effects engulfed the battlefield, they were nothing compared to the man controlling them. Skipper had to find him as soon as possible, or else he was a goner.


    Bang. Skipper flew.


    Bang. Skipper soared.


    Bang. Skipper dodged.


    Boom.


    His eyes widened as he heard that final sound, that final boom -- one that he hadn¡¯t made. That wasn¡¯t a Heartbeat Shotgun at all. That was the sound of a foot kicking off wood.


    Grim realization dawned. These trees weren¡¯t an attack at all. They were platforms.


    In that instant, a heartbeat seemed to last an eternity.


    Ba¡­


    ¡­dum.


    The Supreme appeared. His speed was such that there was no better description for it. Before Skipper could so much as blink, the man who was like god was before him, gripping him by the collar with one hand.


    His appearance had changed. Golden fur had sprouted up all over his arms and legs, and his grinning teeth had lengthened into sharp fangs. Those dull blue eyes had darkened to a pure black, all the way to the sclera. Most prominently of all, two additional ears seemed to be sprouting up from his head, pointed and furred like those of a wolf.


    "Gotcha," he snarled --


    -- and hurled Skipper down to the ground.

 Chapter 305:11.32: Heartbeat Freedom

    Yuren, dead. Jones, dead. Haller, dead. King, dead. Redd, dead. Turoc, dead. Mallory, dead. Culver, dead. Drin, dead. Moss, dead. Peterson, dead.


    Marco, dead.


    Each of them men that had followed Klaus El into battle. Each of them giving their life for their cause. Each of them sins to be atoned for¡­


    ¡­sooner, rather than later.


    The corpses littered the briefing room, stabbed and shot and smashed, Klaus standing between the circle of the dead. His white sensory fog was flooding through the pyramid and the surrounding area, letting him know beyond a doubt that nobody was coming to save him. A barrier of green fog encircled him, slowly swirling like a nascent tornado. That was the only thing that had kept him alive this far.


    Bang bang bang bang bang.


    The Hellhound switched to another caliber, firing off a new volley of rounds at Klaus -- but these bullets met the same fate as the previous ones. Before they could reach their target, they rusted away and disintegrated into nothing, undone by the smoke barrier surrounding him. A gaseous substance of his own design, that decayed anything metal in a matter of seconds.


    As soon as it became clear that this assault was fruitless as well, the Hellhound ceased firing -- and instead circled the trapped Klaus, visor shining menacingly.


    "You can¡¯t escape," he growled in his artificial voice, the sound echoing through the building. "Make it easy on yourself."


    As the Hellhound walked on all fours, the flexible tail protruding from his metal backside swayed through the air threateningly. It was made from a polymorphic alloy, and so changed shape even as Klaus watched it. A simple blade, then a chainsaw, then a machine gun. The Hellhound was weighing up his options.


    Klaus barked out a single laugh. "Easy on me?" he said. "Don¡¯t joke with me, dog. I¡¯ve no doubt you¡¯ve been sent after me on someone else¡¯s initiative. You¡¯ll have to work for your supper."


    The Hellhound stopped walking, steel paws perched atop the briefing table. It cocked its angular head one way, then the other, as if straining to see or hear something -- but Klaus knew that was not the case. This was not a thing that needed ears or eyes. Its perceptions were far more accurate.


    "What a pain¡­" the Hellhound muttered --


    -- and then, without another word, it pounced.


    It wasn¡¯t that much of a surprise. Of all the Contenders, the Hellhound had the most information on it available to the public -- and so Klaus understood the specs of that cybernetic body. The Hellhound¡¯s ¡¯skin¡¯ was made from an experimental material designed for starships, extremely sturdy and durable. More than that, though, it was adaptable. Once it had identified a consistent source of damage, it would alter its own structure to better defend against it. The Hellhound was taking advantage of that, believing it would be enough to keep him intact as he moved through the barrier.


    Unfortunately, he was right.


    In the split second before he¡¯d have been torn about, Klaus directed his smoke towards the floor beneath him. The metal opened up in a fraction of a second, sending him falling down into the tunnels below. As he plummeted down into the darkness, he felt one of the Hellhound¡¯s claws just barely brush against his hair, cutting a huge chunk loose.


    There we go, he grinned, pulled onwards by smoke. Chase me, you son of a bitch.


    The Hunt.


    Unlike the other show-offs in the Contenders, the Hellhound held very little interest in Aether. It was useful to bolster defense and offense, of course, but his own body already had a huge head start in those areas. All it did was make him more deadly, more precise. Quite often he didn¡¯t need to use it at all.


    Why would he need some bullshit magic, when he¡¯d already claimed the perfection of a metal sheen?


    The only exception to that preference was the Hellhound¡¯s Aether ability -- if it could even be called an Aether ability. Some people the Hellhound talked to insisted it was an Aether tick instead, whatever that was. These people tossed around terms and words like he should be expected to give a shit about them.


    To put it simply, the Hellhound¡¯s grey Aether was sticky.


    When he struck an opponent with an Aether-infused attack, his own Aether clung to theirs, intertwined with it in such a way that it couldn¡¯t easily be removed. As long as that Aether was present, the Hellhound could track its position down to the centimeter. If he concentrated, he could even sense exactly what you were doing -- your body movements, what you were saying, your breathing, your heartbeat -- all of it an open book.


    And the best part? As far as the Hellhound had tested, it had no range limit. You could leave the damn galaxy and he¡¯d still know where you were and what you were doing.


    So, when someone ran away from him like this¡­


    ¡­he just couldn¡¯t help but hunt them down.


    It wasn¡¯t far to Klaus¡¯ ultimate destination, but would he make it? It wasn¡¯t as if the Hellhound was going to let him go. Now that he¡¯d been hit by that mech-fetishist¡¯s Aether, he could see it crawling around him -- a strand of grey mingled in with his yellow.


    The tunnels that ran between the walls of the pyramid had no doubt been used once upon a time to spy on its inhabitants. Intrigue and skullduggery had been the Gene Tyrants¡¯ primary hobbies, after all. Funnily enough, these tunnels by and large were more roomy than the hallways they fit between. He supposed the Tyrants had wanted to snoop in comfort.


    He made his way through the complex as quickly as possible, moving with such effortless speed that he seemed to be skipping gracefully through the tunnels. In one hand, he held his cane -- flipped around, so that it could be used as a weapon. He¡¯d need it, after all.


    Bang.


    There. Mid-jump, Klaus whirled back, swinging his cane to deflect a slash from the Hellhound¡¯s axe-tail. A gaseous mixture was coiled around Klaus¡¯ weapon, and the second it collided with the Hellhound¡¯s tail, producing sparks --


    -- the gas-sheath exploded, blowing both of them back.


    Klaus felt a crack deep inside him as he landed, but he had no time to worry about it. So long as he could move, it was fine. Without even stopping to catch his breath, Klaus leapt off into his escape again, making the most of the seconds he¡¯d bought.


    It might have been optimistic to call them seconds, though, for the Hellhound instantly charged forth again -- tail shifting shape into a structure like the spokes of a wheel. As the mechanical beast lunged towards Klaus once more, he mirrored it, thrusting his cane at its snout as quickly as he could¡­


    ¡­but it was still far too slow.


    It would be a mistake to think the Hellhound could only create weapons with his tail. Blades and guns were simple to make, and so very convenient to use, but he had more than those when it came to tricks. The Hellhound¡¯s external memory contained schematics for hundreds of possible designs, and he could access them at a moment¡¯s notice.


    The structure he had created was something called a retaliation engine -- an experimental unit based on technology pilfered from Abra-Facade, the birthplace of precognition. With a simple scan of the area, it could accurately predict future phenomena based on the available information, with a rate of failure so infinitesimally low it might as well be non-existent. One was present in the chambers of the Three Ministers, able to strike back against security threats before a finger could so much as touch the trigger of a gun.


    In that instant, it predicted Klaus¡¯ method of attack, the specific path his strike would take¡­ and preempted it.


    Its work done, the retaliation engine morphed into a simple sickle and lashed out, effortlessly severing Klaus¡¯ arm before he could even fully extend it. The limb flew off, cane still clung tight in its fixed hand¡­ and the tip of the implement tapped against the Hellhound¡¯s head, producing another shower of sparks.


    This explosion too was intense, but the Hellhound¡¯s armour had already adapted to it. While the flames did little more than lick at his metal skull, Klaus El was not so lucky. He was launched backwards by his own attack, smashing through the wall and landing on the platform beyond.


    It took only a moment for the Hellhound to pursue him.


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    Artificial sensors scanned the area in an instant. A wide and rectangular elevator platform, with a shaft that ran far deep down into the earth. According to the intelligence they¡¯d been given, the source of the barrier surrounding the planet was underground. Was this the path to it?


    The Hellhound¡¯s interest bristled. He¡¯d intended to leave the matter of the wish the Supreme had offered to others, but if the one-thousand points was right in front of him¡­ he¡¯d be a fool not to take them.


    Either way, though, he still had to dispatch this vermin first.


    Klaus El lay on the ground, clutching his bleeding stump, a thick barrier of green smoke coiling around him. It seemed different than the one he¡¯d used earlier -- a more powerful compound, perhaps? Best to be cautious. That green feather glinted on his lapel, too, but it didn¡¯t seem to be any kind of weapon or threat.


    "It¡¯s over," the Hellhound declared. "Take down your shield and I¡¯ll make it easy for you. Make me work for it and I¡¯ll make it hard for you. Your choice."


    As expected, Klaus El did not do the smart thing. He just chuckled through the pain, even as he lay on the floor in a broken heap, even as crimson blood spilled out from his injury. Slowly, the effort clearly excruciating, he began to speak.


    "Have you ever heard¡­" he said. "...of Der Freisch¨¹tz?"


    Not as expected. The Hellhound cocked his head. "What?"


    "With a lot of old stories¡­" Klaus said. "...we don¡¯t even remember where they came from anymore. Even in the time of the Gene Tyrants¡­ fuckin¡¯ bastards¡­ fire had already swallowed most of the past. But scraps stick around. Even if we don¡¯t¡­ don¡¯t know where they came from¡­ they stick around."


    Klaus could talk nonsense all he liked. The Hellhound¡¯s sensors were in the process of scanning that shield he¡¯d created, determining its composition, and formulating a countermeasure. Then the old fuck would pay for wasting so much time.


    The old man¡¯s words were a wheeze. "Once upon a time¡­" he forced out. "A sharpshooter made a deal with a devil¡­." He took his remaining hand away from his injury, and -- shaking -- forced it into the pocket of his coat. "The devil gave him seven bullets, and said -- he said¡­ he said that the first six bullets, when fired, would hit anything the sharpshooter wished¡­ without fail¡­"


    Omnipresent white fog swirled around them, surrounding them just as it did everything around the pyramid. The product of Klaus El¡¯s Aether. The Hellhound didn¡¯t quite understand why, but he found himself taking a step back.


    Klaus fished his hand, now closed, out of his pocket and held it out in front of him. Head bowed, he finished his story.


    "But the seventh bullet¡­" he whispered. "...the seventh bullet would belong to the devil alone, and do his work."


    He opened his hand -- and there, resting in his palm, was a tiny metal bullet.


    Run.


    Over the years, the Hellhound had discarded as much of his organic body as he could, replacing coarse skin with smooth metal and wet flesh with dry wire. In that process, he¡¯d thought he¡¯d also discarded his animal instincts -- the primitive reflexes a human body was burdened with. He thought he¡¯d scooped them all out and replaced them with software far superior.


    In this case, at this moment, he was wrong. The self-preservation of meat urged him to run, and he was powerless to resist. He leapt back, ready to flee through the tunnels¡­ Sear?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡­but far too late.


    Klaus¡¯ yellow Aether began to run over his hand, slowly but surely advancing towards the bullet held in the middle of his palm.


    "I¡¯ll be going first, Zack¡­" he muttered. "I¡¯ll meet with you in hell, and we¡¯ll change the shape of that world too."


    The Aether made contact --


    -- and then there was fire.


    Skipper¡¯s strength came from his heartbeat. Each ba-dum of the organ, once properly amplified, was strong enough to blast through flesh and pulverize bone. But even Heartbeat Shotgun was only capable of so much.


    The quiet sound of a heartbeat could only become so loud, and -- no matter how hard that heart pounded -- it could only beat so fast. Against a man who was like god, he might as well have been holding a normal shotgun in his hand. Something more was required.


    Heartbeat Freedom.


    All across the battlefield, Skipper could hear it. The sounds of battle, the sounds of death, coming through loud and clear. Each of the feathers that formed Skipper¡¯s wings had a counterpart out there in the world, handed out before this war had even started.


    Yes. A counterpart -- for each feather came in pairs. One to release sound¡­ and another to record it.


    "I¡¯ll be going first, Zack. I¡¯ll meet with you in hell, and we¡¯ll change the shape of that world too."


    Skipper¡¯s eyes snapped open just before his unconscious body could hit the ground -- and in that same instant, he blasted an almighty Heartbeat Shotgun downwards. His fall was broken instantly, but more than that -- he was sent up again, wings taut against his back, eyes firm as he flew up towards the Supreme.


    Dying screams, roaring flames, falling stars¡­ the cacophony that had rampaged through Elysian Fields was channeled through his feathers and became his power. This battle was his ammunition.


    He could see him, up there, the Supreme -- still beastly, feral, rabid, showing the true face of the Supremacy with its bloody fangs and soulless eyes. A tyrant in search of an assassin. Skipper would gladly play the part.


    Everyone¡¯s will, everyone¡¯s suffering -- all of it was sculpted into a godslaying blade.


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    At the last second, Skipper saw those black eyes widen -- and the Supreme raised his arms to defend himself. The blow struck in that same instant, a demonic screech engulfing the world as the sounds of an entire war coalesced into a single ghastly note.


    But a demon could only do so much against a god.


    Blood sprayed through the air as deep gouges appeared in the Supreme¡¯s forearms, gouged there by pure sound, but the limbs themselves remained attached -- the block was successful. Without even gasping in pain, the Supreme twisted his body in the air, raising his leg up high -- as high as it could go, given the limits of a human skeleton.


    The fur on his body receded, his eyes returned to normal, and he roared: "Excel Surge! Quantum King!"


    Skipper went to blast himself away, but he¡¯d put too much of himself into that Bayonet, and the second it took him to muster his Shotgun was a second he couldn¡¯t spare. At first, Skipper had believed the Supreme would pull the trees towards himself again, catching Skipper in the crossfire -- but he couldn¡¯t be more wrong. No, the Supreme chose instead to pull himself -- to the ground below Skipper.


    The leg drop struck Skipper so fast it took a second for the pain to catch up. The Supreme smashed into him like a meteorite, both of them slamming into the ground a second later, forming a veritable crater. Skipper¡¯s mechanical arms creaked in protest -- even with the protection of Aether, the delicate mechanisms inside were taking a beating. Within his chest, he knew he¡¯d broken every rib he had.


    The Supreme kept one foot on Skipper¡¯s chest -- torturously holding him in place -- as he rose to his feet. The huge man raised his eyebrows as he held his arms up, inspecting the injuries Skipper had managed to inflict. They were by no means severe -- cuts not even close to the bone -- but the Supreme seemed impressed all the same.


    "Been a while since I saw my own blood," he said appreciatively. "That¡¯s some damn ability you¡¯ve got there, Zachariah. Excel Surge: El Dorado -- Seal of Fortune."


    A field of gold Aether spread out around the two of them -- and as the light intensified, Skipper could feel his broken bones snapping back into place and sealing themselves together. Even the tiny cuts on his face closed -- disappearing as if they¡¯d never even existed.


    Even as his body was healed, though, Skipper glared hatefully up at his foe. This was a game. This was all a game to him.


    The Supreme flexed his own healed arms. "There we go. Back to starting positions, right? Don¡¯t wanna wrap things up too quick. Plus, while we¡¯re at it¡­ Excel Surge: Analysis. Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve cooked up here, Zachariah."


    It took everything Skipper had not to grin right then and there, not to laugh, not to mock. Because -- in all the rubble and destruction -- the Supreme hadn¡¯t noticed. He hadn¡¯t seen yet.


    Skipper had tricked the eyes of the man who was like god.


    Analysis, said some kid¡¯s voice in a cold monotone. Heartbeat Freedom.


    Ability operates using two-hundred and sixteen pairs of feathers, each of which can operate both as a microphone and speaker. Sounds absorbed through these feathers can be stored to enhance the user¡¯s other abilities -- Heartbeat Shotgun, Heartbeat Bayonet and Heartbeat Landmine.


    The feathers themselves also possess extra utility. By combining them into wings, the user can achieve flight beyond the typical application of their Heartbeat Shotgun. In addition, the feathers can be individually controlled and used as a medium for Heartbeat Shotgun, allowing attacks from a number of ranges and angles.


    These feathers are exceedingly flexible in terms of use. It is quite possible that they could be fitted together into constructs of different forms, or attached to other objects. As an Aether ability, I am not equipped to speculate further.


    Neat trick, the Supreme grinned down at his opponent, the information flowing into his mind in an instant. So I was right -- you¡¯ve supercharged yourself, huh? And the other stuff you can do with these feathers sounds pretty¡­ wait.


    The Supreme blinked, looking down at the man beneath his feet. With the dust kicked up by the landing, he hadn¡¯t seen at first -- but the green wings Skipper had been using to fly around had vanished. Where the hell had they gone?


    There was a glint of green in the corner of the Supreme¡¯s vision, and he twisted his head around to follow it. There, perched on his shoulders, he found what he¡¯d been looking for.


    Oh. The wings were on him.


    Bang.


    As the Supreme went zooming off towards the mountain, propelled by his new wings, Skipper pulled himself up off the ground. His injuries had been healed, but the exhaustion of the battle remained, and it wasn¡¯t going to get any easier from here. He plunged a metal hand into his pocket and pulled out a cylindrical trigger.


    This wasn¡¯t the detonator for the bomb in the Lotus¡¯ power core, but the trigger for another measure Skipper had arranged in advance. In the earth beneath them, countless soldiers slept, just waiting for the signal to begin moving. This was that signal.


    The Paradisas had given him three-hundred Executioner automatics from their ranks, networked together to adapt to threats. Fifty of them had been placed around the main battlefield, instructed to go after and fight the Special Officers. They¡¯d been destroyed one and all, as expected¡­ but the knowledge they¡¯d gained had all been transmitted -- here, to the remaining two-hundred and fifty, the ones Skipper had placed underground. Now, these guys knew how to take down an Aether-user.


    He clicked the trigger -- and as the earth erupted around him, Skipper finally allowed himself that grin.


    He hadn¡¯t emptied his bag of tricks yet. Not by a long shot.

 Chapter 306:11.33: Things Tiny, Things Huge

    As Wolfram of the White ran across the ruined ground, carrying del Sed in his cupped hands, he wept bitter tears. In the end, he hadn¡¯t been able to do anything.


    He¡¯d been there for the entire fight between Belias, del Sed and that Charon woman¡­ and all he¡¯d done was watch. He¡¯d thought he was better than that, stronger. He¡¯d thought that he was a grown-up. Belias had been cut to bits, and he¡¯d just stood there shaking in his boots.


    "You should stay here, kiddo," Miss Lily had said, back on Hexkay, before he¡¯d stowed away on their ship. "Grow up a little first, yeah?"


    He should have listened. He should have listened. If he wasn¡¯t going to be any help anyway, why had he even bothered coming here?!


    Wolfram looked down at del Sed, resting in his palms like a doll. They hadn¡¯t managed to get far after their fight with Charon before collapsing from exhaustion and pain. He knew he had to get them to a doctor soon, or else they might die. Where could he find a doctor? A medic or whatever? Wolfram was sure someone had said, but he hadn¡¯t been listening. Stupid. Stupid!


    He¡¯d have to be careful, too. To make moving del Sed easier, he¡¯d used his Guardian Entity -- Byakko -- to shrink them down to the size of an action figure. Wolfram didn¡¯t really get it, but apparently when something tiny turned big all of a sudden, there was a big explosion of force from all the space that suddenly got taken up.


    Wolfram had tried using that against Paradise Charon, unshrinking a rock and a glove to hit her with the blast of force, but he hadn¡¯t had the guts to do anything more. He¡¯d just watched while his friend got cut to pieces. He should have done more. He could have done more.


    In the distance, Wolfram could see another pod coming down -- the first in a while. He ignored it: he understood now that he wasn¡¯t cut out for this thing called war. In the end, all a coward like him could do was run away.


    The vermin kept crawling up one after another.


    As the Hanged Man plunged its fist down, the Baron Lunalette de Fleur leapt backwards, a single pitchfork half-protruding from his back to pull him along. As he skidded to a halt on the ruined ground, the pitchfork retreated back within his spine -- returning its power to him.


    He didn¡¯t have time to relax.


    While his attention was focused on the Hanged Man, the skin-dragon swooped in behind him -- its wings of epidermis sweeping up everything in their path. Lunalette barely had time to fire off a pitchfork up into the sky before he was enveloped by the blood-moistened blanket.


    It was an awful sensation. The skin wrapped itself around his body, squeezing tight as a vice, even as it tried to force itself down his throat. For the few seconds he was restrained, it was utterly unbearable.


    Damnation Invidia!


    The flash of red was barely visible from within the cocoon of skin, but the Baron vanished -- and a second later, reappeared up in the sky, taking the place of the pitchfork he¡¯d shot out. That, too, had been anticipated: the moment he teleported, the Hanged Man threw a titanic punch at him, clearly intending to smear him with a single blow.


    As if that could ever happen.


    Lunalette writhed in the air, and kicked the incoming fist -- instantly obliterating it, huge chunks of liquid metal flying in every direction. At the same time, he swiped his arm behind him, generating a wave of air pressure that sent the skin-dragon flying away. Breathing room was difficult to come by these days, but so long as the Baron could hit his opponents, he had no doubt he could kill them.


    The Hanged Man staggered back, the stump of its arm high in the air -- but then lunged forward again. The arm changed shape as it was thrust towards Lunalette, stump sharpening into a blade, tip pointed towards the glowing hole in the Baron¡¯s chest. That only made sense: it was the closest thing to a weak point he possessed.


    Damnation Ira.


    An explosion of heat and light burst forth from Lunalette¡¯s body, slowing the incoming blade just a fraction -- and Lunalette used the opportunity well. Landing on the hesitant limb, he began running along its surface, towards the head. Spikes sprouted up from the forearm beneath, trying to impale him, but his speed and maneuverability were such that he was able to weave around them. Even as he did so, though, his mind raced.


    Again, it was two enemies. The person piloting the Hanged Man -- one of the Arcana Automatics -- and the man with the skin ability. Lunalette recognised the latter: one of the Oliphant Clan, the criminal simpleton Roy Oliphant-Dawkins. To think even they were involved in this madness.


    In the end, though, it didn¡¯t matter who they were. They would die. That simple fact had been set in stone since these two had chosen to make the Baron Lunalette de Fleur their enemy.


    Three.


    Lunalette threw himself to the side right before a branch would have lanced through the hole in his chest. A spear-like tendril of wood had suddenly emerged from the omnipresent fog -- and as Lunalette backed up, he saw three more writhe forth, pulling their master along.


    Lunalette¡¯s eyes narrowed. This was impossible.


    He was absolutely certain he¡¯d taken Morgan Nacht out of the fight.


    Four flexible branches cracked and clicked in the air, protruding from Nacht¡¯s back where they¡¯d burst free, blood dripping from their roots as they carried him along like spider-legs. At first, Nacht seemed like some kind of puppet, hanging limply with his head low -- until he looked up. If anything, though, that was worse. Some kind of moss had grown over his eyeballs, turning his gaze green and blank, and similarly green veins seemed to be spreading all under the skin of his face.


    A horror to behold.


    "What devilry is this?" Lunalette snarled.


    By way of answer, Nacht did two things. First, he opened his mouth -- and an unearthly, incoherent groan poured forth. Then, he attacked -- branches pummeling at Lunalette with all the speed of a machine gun. The Baron was able to block the blows each and all, of course, but the speed of the bout was such that he had no chance to counterattack.


    The metal beneath them shifted, and before Lunalette could react he¡¯d been struck by a punch from the Hanged Man¡¯s other fist. The damage was superficial -- cracks across his stone skin -- but he was sent flying all the same, body flipping end over end from gravity¡¯s cruel whim.


    He didn¡¯t go far.


    At the moment Lunalette was struck, Nacht thrust one of his branches forward -- and with a spark of green Aether, that branch instantly grew into a mighty tree, engulfing and constraining its target. The Baron¡¯s body was held tight between mighty roots, strong as iron, closely packed enough that he couldn¡¯t even wiggle his fingers. The only part of him visible was his head, eye glaring from between a parting in the foliage.


    No, no no no. This isn¡¯t happening. I refuse! This is not happening!


    Morgan Nacht¡¯s mouth cracked open as he looked up at Lunalette, and -- with an obviously great effort -- he roared out: "NOW!"


    Next to him, the Hanged Man moved to crush him between its palms. Above him, the skin-dragon was twisted into an epidermal spear, and hurled down by its rider. All around him, the branches tightened, choking his life away. Death knocked three times¡­


    ¡­ and then a miracle occurred.


    Behind the Hanged Man, the pyramid at the center of the battle suddenly erupted into flames, an explosion consuming it utterly -- rubble flying in every direction. Lunalette knew not the cause, nor did he care. The only thing that mattered was that the attention of the three killing him was diverted for a single moment.


    That single moment was all he needed.


    The tree around him was still attached to Nacht, wasn¡¯t it? The source of it was still emerging from his back. He was its master, its father, its birthplace. It was a part of his body.


    And so it was the simplest thing in the world.


    With a click of his tongue, Lunalette released another pitchfork from his body -- and it impaled the tree the second it emerged from his form. Immediately, he saw Nacht freeze, green eyes wide¡­ and at the same time, he felt a new surge of power rush into him, felt new spaces and capacity opening up.


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    Aether battery.


    The last one he¡¯d needed.


    Among the Special Officers of the Supremacy, there were three people said to be closest to the power of the Contenders. Dorothy Eiro, who could Command the world around her with a word. PALATINE, the inhuman leftovers of an Aether Awakening.


    And the Baron Lunalette de Fleur, who wielded strength overwhelming.


    Crimson Aether screamed.


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins felt it, a chill running down his spine as he rode the spear down, giving him warning enough to pull back and keep his distance.


    Ionir Yggdrassil felt it, but was powerless to react as an alien consciousness took hold of it -- all it could do was watch as the Baron was consumed by flooding red energy.


    Scout Oliphant-Dawkins, within the cockpit of the Hanged Man, felt it -- and as that red light surged over everything, he raised the arms of the Arcana Automatic defensively.


    Ruth Blaine, next to him, slowly opened her eyes¡­


    ¡­just in time to see a nightmare flood into her brain.


    As soon as the black and red vision cleared, Ruth put a hand to her head, groaning. What was going on? The last thing she remembered was fighting that Special Officer in the forest¡­ and now she was here, in some kind of slimy metal pod, her body screaming with pain. Was this the inside of the Hanged Man?


    "What¡­ the hell¡­?"


    It was only when Scout Oliphant-Dawkins spoke that she realized he was next to her. She followed his horrified gaze -- looking at a round monitor that seemed to be displaying a shot of the outside world. Her eyes widened as she saw it too.


    A suit of pitch-black armour, titanic as it stretched up into the sky, so huge that the Hanged Man barely reached its waist. All across its body, beatific faces and caressing limbs were carved, as if a cathedral had gotten up and started walking. Jagged spikes protruded from its joints, sharp as knives, and a massive leathery cape flapped in two pieces like bat wings behind it. Great lightning-bolts of red Aether ran along the entirety of its huge body, each large enough to dwarf a human being.


    The beast had no head.


    Instead, above the termination of the neck, there was a great red star -- all of the crimson light coming together into a single spherical mass. There, floating in the middle of the confluence, was the Baron himself. The raging light made him little more than a silhouette -- the iris of a giant eye.


    His face could not be seen, but when he spoke, it was as if he was standing right next to them.


    "Begone."


    Muzazi¡¯s consciousness faded in and out, memories blurry and distorted -- as if they were being filtered through a layer of water. His head was filled with alternating pain and emptiness. One second, he was slicing away at the last Executioner¡­ and the next, he was being carried through the woods on someone¡¯s back.


    "You alive?" Marcus Grace asked from beneath him, his voice calm and professional even as they charged through the charred ruins of the forest. "You awake?"


    Yes. Muzazi tried to say that, but all he managed was a weak croak.


    Even so, Marcus seemed to accept it. "Hang in there. Don¡¯t die. We¡¯re on our way to a Special Officer with medical specialization. She¡¯ll be able to stabilize you. Understand?"


    It was difficult to understand with his head so full of fog, but Atoy Muzazi did his best. He ran every word through his head again and again until the noise acquired meaning -- and the second it all became clear, he nodded with another wheeze. It took much longer than it should have.


    The world crawled close and withdrew, again and again, like a videograph being turned on and off and on and off. Each image was different, each instant of shattered consciousness presenting a new horror. A hill of charred corpses, mouths frozen in their last screams. Anastasia Darkdancer, impaled on her own hoverboard, nailed to a tree by it. A river of human mincemeat. Men and women hanging from steel nooses. An inhuman monster, all extra limbs and heads, peppered by countless shards of broken glass. The dead, prepared for viewing in every way imaginable.


    He knew what he was looking at.


    This was war. This was the Supremacy engaging in honorable combat for its pride. This was what legends were written about.


    He¡¯d thought this glorious?


    It seemed like it took an age, but he was finally laid out on the floor, before a young woman with teal hair and sunglasses. She ran a medical script over him and then inspected the screen, her brow furrowing in concern. When she spoke, it was to Marcus, not the infirm Muzazi.


    "He¡¯s almost out of the golden hours for his face," she said seriously, with a slight lisp. "Do you have any Panacea?"


    My face¡­? Muzazi vaguely wondered. What does she mean, my face¡­?


    All he could feel from his face was a strange warm wetness, and a sting of pain whenever the wind brushed against it. He couldn¡¯t even see out of one eye. He¡¯d have gotten up to look for himself, but the strength escaped him.


    Marcus shook his head above Muzazi. "No. Don¡¯t you?"


    The doctor rubbed the bridge of her nose with her fingers. "There¡¯s been goddamn meteors coming down, Mark. People are fucked. In a situation like this, it¡¯s first come first served."


    Marcus clicked his tongue. "Well, is there anything you can do for him?"


    The doctor shrugged her shoulders -- and two thin white tendrils appeared from behind her back, tipped with syringes of strange blue liquid. Before Muzazi could so much as register what he was looking at, the tendrils lunged in, stabbing into his arm and chest as they slowly deposited their payload. Slowly, slowly, he could feel some semblance of strength flowing back into him.


    "This¡¯ll stabilize him and get him on his feet for a bit," the doctor explained. "Won¡¯t do anything for his injuries, though. What will you do?"


    Muzazi heard a click as Marcus reloaded his pistol. "I¡¯m going back out there. Gonna check out the situation at the pyramid. Last I heard, the Hellhound was meant to be heading in there."


    The doctor scoffed. "The thing blew up, didn¡¯t it? If the Hellhound¡¯s there, he¡¯s buried under all that rubble. Plus, there¡¯s no way anyone¡¯s getting down to that barrier anymore, right?"


    "Sounds like it," Marcus said, holstering his pistol. "Still, gotta check. Look after him."


    With that, Marcus ran off into the burnt-up woods again, without so much as a glance backwards. The doctor shook her head ruefully as she watched him go, before looking back down at Muzazi.


    "This should take just a minute more," she said reassuringly. "Sorry I can¡¯t do more, but --"


    "Forcible Ability Deactivation."


    The strength pouring into Muzazi¡¯s body suddenly stopped, and the doctor¡¯s tendrils disintegrated into peach Aether. Surprised, she looked up, reaching for a tiny pistol strapped to her leg.


    "Wha --" she said.


    She did not have time for anything else.


    Bang.


    The doctor flew back as a bullet tore through her head, leaving a small hole in her forehead and a much bigger one in the back of her skull. Killed instantly, she crumpled to the ground, Aether sparking weakly around her body before dying off completely.


    "You¡¯re a hard man to find, Atoy Muzazi," said an unfamiliar voice.


    With the meagre strength the doctor had managed to provide him, Muzazi was able to twist his body around to look at the speaker. His vision took a moment to focus. A man was walking towards him, the bells that hung from his wide-brimmed hat jingling with each step. One hand rested leisurely in his pocket, while the other held a purple revolver -- pointed directly at Muzazi.


    Muzazi had never met this fellow, but he knew of him. That distinctive dress couldn¡¯t be mistaken. Seth Harrowing, Special Officer of the Supremacy.


    So another Special Officer wanted him dead. Another supposed ally was angling for his back. Atoy Muzazi couldn¡¯t bring himself to be surprised anymore.


    "Nothing personal," Seth said, a sleazy grin on his face as he advanced. "But you¡¯re real good at making enemies, friend."


    With a buzz of white Aether, Muzazi ignited the Radiant on one hand as he rose to one knee. He wouldn¡¯t go down without a fight.


    Seth just raised an amused eyebrow. "Forcible Ability Deactivation," he said -- and the Radiant sputtered out. "Sorry, but I¡¯ve heard scary stories. Not givin¡¯ you a chance here, champ. That¡¯s short for champion."


    Muzazi glared, eyes narrowed in utter hatred. You could only kick a man for so long. You could only kick a man for so long.


    "I actually got a request this time," Seth grinned. "That¡¯s a first. She wanted me to show you this before the end." sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The gunslinger closed his eyes, took a deep breath -- and beige Aether began to surge around him, his revolver glowing like a supernova. When he opened his eyes once again, they were shining too, as wide and bright as the headlights of a car.


    "Fusion Tool!" he roared, hat flying off from the broiling pressure around him. "Revelation Sixsho --"


    Crack.


    The light died. The pressure stopped. The Aether faded.


    "Huh?" said Seth -- and as he did so, blood began to pour from his mouth. It took him a second to realise that Muzazi had disappeared from the spot he¡¯d just been looking at. Slowly, he looked down.


    Oh. There he was.


    Atoy Muzazi had crossed the distance between the two of them in an instant and rammed his fist through Seth¡¯s chest, smashing through his ribcage and organs. As Seth watched, held upright only by pain, Muzazi tore his arm free, the limb soaked with blood.


    "But¡­" Seth whispered. "Your ability¡­ I¡­"


    "Get lost," Muzazi growled -- and then his fist came again, shining white, this time aimed for Seth¡¯s face.


    The last thought that passed Seth Harrowing¡¯s mind, as the strike obliterated his brain, was that this job really hadn¡¯t been worth the money.


    Two bodies dropped to the ground. One was dead, the other very nearly so. For a good few minutes, Muzazi just stared up at the sky, his breathing laboriously slow.


    Atoy Muzazi had already promised himself -- he¡¯d never show his back again.


    He rose to his feet and, ignoring the pain, started staggering through the woods. He still had enemies here. He still had things to do.

 Chapter 307:11.34: Fire and Brimstone

    Ah, power. Fire and brimstone. Lunalette luxuriated in it.


    Red Aether dominated everything around him, every inch of the titanic being he¡¯d made himself the core of. Controlling Vangloria was as easy as moving his own body. All it took was a thought to move that massive arm upwards, metal creaking and screeching, and wave it in the direction of the Hanged Man.


    The movement produced a mighty gust of wind, forcing the Hanged Man to brace itself as it went skidding backwards, but that hadn¡¯t been the intent. No, not at all. As Vangloria made the movement, crimson Aether shot out of the hand, stopping in the air like a second miniature sun.


    With a flash, the confluence of Aether transformed -- into a flat black plane, circular, like some kind of dark portal. The Hanged Man, clearly anticipating what was about to happen, went to roll out of the way. Oh, but it was far too late for that.


    "Kill them, Vangloria," Lunalette hissed.


    The black hole widened -- just a tad -- and an endless flood of pitchforks came flooding out, buffeting the Hanged Man. These weren¡¯t the same as the pitchforks Lunalette had used before -- more like shadows with substance than anything else -- but they were more than enough to do damage. Each pitchfork that struck the Hanged Man was scraping away just a bit more of its liquid metal, slowly but surely reducing its size.


    How long would it be before he saw the Arcana Automatic¡¯s skeleton? The Baron was so looking forward to it.


    "Oh," Lunalette remembered. "You exist as well, don¡¯t you?"


    Vangloria whirled around with speed incongruous to its size, and Lunalette came face to face with the man who¡¯d come swooping in -- Roy Oliphant-Dawkins. His skin-dragon had reshaped itself again, more like a butterfly than anything else, with two massive wings spread out as sails.


    Lunalette considered the Oliphant patriarch. A brown mane of hair, cascading and wild like that of a lion. Eyes narrowed in single-minded predation. A body built to survive. Every aspect of this man suggested the animalistic.


    Well¡­ it rather suited a disgraceful beast to be skewered, didn¡¯t it?


    Vangloria raised its hands up -- and black portals opened on the ground, each providing a massive black pitchfork to his waiting grasp. In an instant, he flipped them over in his hands and thrust them down through the wings of the skin-dragon, piercing the epidermis and pinning Oliphant¡¯s familiar to the ground.


    Roy stood up, releasing the reins of skin he¡¯d been holding. No doubt he¡¯d predicted Vangloria¡¯s next move, but too late, too late. Always just a second too late. These people were so slow.


    Lunalette spun the pitchforks buried in the ground, contorting the skin between them and twisting it around Roy, holding him in place like a spiderweb. He was fully restrained, with only his head and a single forearm being visible. Captured by his own ability. How droll.


    Thump.


    With that same grin on his face, Lunalette turned his head to see the Hanged Man charging towards him once more. The Arcana Automatic had escaped the barrage of shadows, but it seemed it had lost roughly half its mass in the process. Such a tiny thing it was, running towards Vangloria as if all life depended on it.


    Well, Lunalette supposed, it was just the right size for a kick now. Turning Vangloria back to the Hanged Man, he drew its foot back, ready to slam into the automatic with all the power he could muster. An involuntary laugh spilled from his throat, free and wild and -- more than anything -- victorious. He was curious to see just how far this supposed legend would fly.


    Vangloria¡¯s leg struck out at the Hanged Man, fast as lightning --


    -- there was a flash of white light --


    -- and a second later, Lunalette found himself falling over.


    His balance had suddenly failed him, Vangloria toppling over under its own weight -- and the only thing that prevented a full collapse was the great armour planting its hands against the ground and pushing itself back up. What had happened? Lunalette looked around wildly, his eyes uncomprehending. An attack? Had an unseen enemy struck?


    Before he could consider the situation, though, the Hanged Man was in his face again, attacking without mercy. One of its arms had disappeared -- the material reallocated to increase the size of the other huge hand, fingers extended and sharpened into claws. It slashed towards Lunalette¡¯s body directly, taking advantage of his sudden decrease in elevation.


    Damnation Vangloria!


    The black titan twitched its fingers, and another portal appeared immediately to the left of the Hanged Man, firing off another swarm of shadows before the attack could make contact. Instantly, the Hanged Man moved to dodge -- but not by ducking or leaping. Instead, it decomposed into a puddle of liquid metal, splashing onto the floor as the torrent of pitchforks passed above it.


    There was a hollow crack as Lunalette creased his stone brow. Irritating, but vermin often were.


    Vangloria raised its foot up to stomp down on the pest, but at that same moment the Hanged Man reformed itself. Abandoning the shape of humanity entirely, it lashed out as a long snake-like creature, wrapping itself around Vangloria¡¯s leg as it came down. The constriction wasn¡¯t strong enough to actually do any damage, but the positioning meant that Lunalette couldn¡¯t easily attack it without hitting himself.


    What on earth? When had this pilot assumed such competence? A moment ago, he¡¯d just been running at Vangloria again and again, attacking with simple punches and kicks, and now this? Had Lunalette been tricked? Had Lunalette been hustled?


    Each thought provoked a new spike of anger, a new fury that tightened his grip and clenched his jaw. To hell with it. An insult like this could not be tolerated, never tolerated. Vangloria could withstand its own power anyway.


    Six black portals opened around Vangloria¡¯s leg, facing inwards, locked onto the Hanged Man¡¯s tightening shape. He thought he was clever, didn¡¯t he? So very clever. Would he feel the same once he¡¯d been reduced to mincemeat?!


    Ha! Doubtful!


    The shadow pitchforks fired, zooming towards the Hanged Man from every direction, ready to cut away at insolent meat, and --


    Skeletal Set.


    -- they missed.


    Lunalette¡¯s eyes widened.


    No, no, they hadn¡¯t missed, they had been dodged. A second before they would have made contact, there had been a red flash of light -- and something about the Hanged Man had changed. It had pulled itself up his leg with new strength and speed, and the shadows had done little more than buffet against Vangloria¡¯s leg. It creaked with protest as Lunalette swung that massive body around, looking for his prey.


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    A weight on Vangloria¡¯s back. There.


    Lunalette thrashed the construct violently, enough to send the unwelcome passenger flying off -- and then he whirled around, seizing it out of the air with one of Vangloria¡¯s hands. Seeing that he¡¯d effectively captured the Arcana Automatic, he allowed his grin to return.


    The Hanged Man had retained its serpentine shape, but now tiny little legs wiggled out from its form as well. It must have used those to climb up Vangloria¡¯s body. It took Lunalette a second to realise just what the pathetic organism reminded him of -- a ferret! How dull.


    What was more interesting was the armour the Hanged Man was now wearing. Strips of industrial-grey metal were wrapped around the automatic like a ribcage, and a skull-mask was stretched around its head. Lunalette had seen this before, hadn¡¯t he? Ruth Blaine had used an ability just like that to increase her own strength and speed. So she was piloting the Hanged Man.


    Just as Lunalette realised that, the head of the Hanged Man split open vertically and -- like the tongue of a frog -- a sharp tendril lashed out from the opening to strike at the Baron directly. With a contemptuous sneer on his lips, he easily snatched that out of the air with Vangloria¡¯s other hand. The tendril quickly exploded out into a net that kept that hand closed, but no matter. He could more easily kill this woman with clenched fists anyway.


    "Very poor showing, Ruth Blaine," he declared, knowing she could hear him. "It reeks of desperation. You --"


    Footsteps.


    A thought occurred -- and it was one that really should have occurred a while ago, delayed only by the chaos of combat. If Ruth Blaine was the one piloting the Hanged Man now¡­


    ¡­where was the one who¡¯d been piloting it earlier?


    Lunalette whipped his head around -- just in time to see a young man running across Vangloria¡¯s shoulder. Pink Aether was coursing across his body, so it took a moment to get a good look at his face, but the Baron recognised him all the same -- Scout Oliphant-Dawkins, another member of that accursed family. Something was clinging to the back of his neck, too, legs buried into his skin, Aether shining from it like an aurora borealis.


    He knew this. Lunalette knew this. Aether battery.


    "Begone!" the Baron roared, moving to swipe Scout off with Vangloria¡¯s hand -- but that hand refused to move.


    His eyes flicked back, wide in horror. The main body of the Hanged Man had oozed out into a web as well, holding Vangloria¡¯s massive hands firmly in place. He was trapped. He was stuck. In that moment, all he could do was watch as Scout Oliphant-Dawkins leapt up towards him, hand outstretched in a grab. S§×arch* The novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Get away from me!" Lunalette screamed.


    "Perfect Palace!" Scout cried. "Palisade Princedom!"


    And, in a massive flash of pink light, the two of them vanished.


    The second the Baron disappeared from the ¡¯head¡¯ of his mecha, the red light that had coursed through it faded away, and it ceased all movement. It was still holding onto the Hanged Man tight as shit, though. That was a pain.


    Accepting she wouldn¡¯t be able to break free, Ruth raised her hands up into the liquid metal above her and let it pull her inside. Her eyes and mouth firmly shut, she felt herself be transported through the body of the Hanged Man, finally emerging on the outer hull. From there, it was just a matter of squeezing out from between those metal black fingers.


    "Roy!" she called out through her hands. "You alive?!"


    "Yeah!" came the distant reply. "How about you?!"


    Ruth ignored the useless question as she jumped off the Hanged Man to the ground below, using the Skeletal Set to break her fall. Every few seconds, she glanced nervously over her shoulder at the spot Lunalette had vanished from. How long would he be gone? How much time did they have?


    "I can seal him away for a little while," Scout had said, before handing her the controls. "Give you folks time to come up with a plan or somethin¡¯. All you need to do is distract him so I can get in close."


    Ruth wanted to have faith in her comrade, but when he¡¯d said it, there¡¯d been that look in his eye¡­


    Running across the scorched ground, she reached the pile of skin that served as Roy Oliphant-Dawkins¡¯ prison. Her nose wrinkled as she caught a whiff of the skin-blanket -- it had already started to rot -- and she had to wave her hands wildly to keep the flies away. She looked up at Roy, at the head and arm emerging from the epidermal mass.


    "Am I okay cutting through this?" she asked, holding up her claws.


    Roy shook his head. "Won¡¯t work -- way too tough. This ability is an asshole. Once I grab skin, I can¡¯t, uh, ungrab it, looks like."


    "Shit." She glanced over her shoulder again. "How long do you think we have?"


    Roy sucked in air through his teeth. "Maybe a couple minutes. Four, five at most. Hard to say. Either way, you¡¯d be best off getting back into the Hanged Man, girlie."


    Girlie? "The Hanged Man¡¯s trapped," she said.


    "Yeah, but it¡¯s sturdy. When Scout¡¯s ability ends, this whole place is gonna go through it. This damn skin should protect me a little, and I can infuse just my arm and head to get through the rest, but you don¡¯t wanna be out in the open."


    Ruth furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? Gonna go through it -- what¡¯s, what¡¯s that? I thought his, uh, Perfect Prison thing sent things to another dimension or something."


    "Well¡­" Roy sighed. "That was the idea, yeah, that was what Scout was going for. But that¡¯s a damn hard thing to do, you know? Whole other plane or realm or whatever. Couldn¡¯t figure it out, in the end. So, uh¡­"


    "So what?"


    "So," Roy winced. "He kinda found a workaround."


    The Baron Lunalette de Fleur had been shrunk. He could tell straight away.


    Vangloria, summoned and controlled by his Aether, was like an extension of his own body. Even if he couldn¡¯t move it from outside of the cockpit, he could still feel it¡¯s position and status -- and as he¡¯d been swallowed up by this ability, he¡¯d felt the construct grow larger and larger in relation to him. There was no way Scout Oliphant-Dawkins would have used an ability to enlarge his enemies weapon, so the obvious conclusion was that he himself had been shrunk.


    It could have happened in worse places.


    The room Lunalette had been deposited in seemed to be some kind of kitchen, stocked with ovens and stoves, freezers and fridges. The Baron experimentally tapped away at the controls of a nearby coffee-maker, but there was no response. Just a hollow prop, then. Why even bother with the decor if it served no purpose? An utter waste of Aether.


    As he strolled through the room, the Baron showed no trace of anxiety. How long would he be restrained within this ability? Was there a time limit, or was it a conditional seal? Lunalette peered through a nearby window, and saw vast and indistinct shapes moving in the distance. The outside world, made unrecognisable by the sheer size difference.


    If he were to hazard a guess, Lunalette would say that he was currently within a space that occupied less than a millimeter, floating in the spot he¡¯d originally been taken from. When the ability ended, he most likely would be returned to that previous location. But if leaving required some kind of action from him, just sitting around thinking about it wouldn¡¯t do much good. No, not at all.


    First thing first. Lay of the land. Lunalette gently closed his eyes and released a ping of Aether, allowing his red energy to flood through the space.


    As expected, he was surrounded by his enemy¡¯s Aether, down to the walls around him and the floor he stood on. If he traced the shape of that Aether, though, he could get an idea of the layout. Six floors, with a staircase running through the corner. Right now, he was on the bottom floor.


    Plus¡­ he could feel the spot where the Aether was thickest, most prominent, right at the top of this complex. Lunalette was willing to bet that was where Scout Oliphant-Dawkins was.


    There was a possibility he was intentionally focusing Aether there as a decoy, but Lunalette doubted it. The boy had needed to use an Aether battery to pull off this bloated ability -- there was no way he¡¯d waste his capacity with a cheap trick like that.


    So, the Baron had to get up five floors to reach his adversary. He doubted it would be as easy as just walking up the stairs. Perhaps there were traps in place, or some other kind of defences?


    Best to test things, first. With a grunt, Lunalette allowed a single pitchfork to crawl out of his elbow, seizing the handle with his other hand and pulling it free. It was thin and fragile, the barest sliver of Lunalette¡¯s power, but it would do.


    With an analytical gleam in his eyes, the Baron released the pitchfork¡­and let it zoom up the stairs.


    It wouldn¡¯t take much to dismantle an ability like this. Murder was but a simple labour.

 Chapter 308:11.35: Imperfect

    Scout Oliphant-Dawkins did not open his eyes. Even that could be enough of a distraction to kill him, when he was dealing with an opponent like this.


    He could sense the Aether of those moving through his Perfect Palace, the structure itself effectively serving as a sustained Aether ping. The Baron¡¯s Aether, for instance, had just split in two -- one part remaining in the kitchen while the other ascended the stairs to the lounge. Not good. That must be one of those pitchforks, judging from the shape of the Aether.


    Scout wouldn¡¯t be able to hold this enemy long. He¡¯d known that from the start, and there was no way he¡¯d be taking down such a foe on his own anyway. All he could hope for was that everyone outside would be able to come up with a plan while he was gone.


    The pitchfork moved from the second to the third floor -- and immediately, Scout switched the levels around, the third floor becoming the second and vice versa. That way, the pitchfork would never actually reach the fourth floor, or the fifth, or him. An endless loop.


    In a perfect world, the Baron Lunalette de Fleur would have just tried the same thing again and again. But this was not a perfect world.


    Lunalette smiled softly to himself through stone lips. He could instinctually sense the position of his pitchfork, and so he knew exactly what had happened straight away. The floors had switched places.


    This truly was a wasteful ability.


    It captured the opponent and the user, shrunk them down to less than a pinprick, then placed them in a six-floor abode where the user could switch the positions of individual floors. Why not just record the target into a simulated environment? Lunalette didn¡¯t understand at all.


    That was fine, though. The Baron was happy to show his adversary just how foolish he was.


    There were no words, no threats, no gloating. Lunalette simply took a deep breath, threw his arms out¡­


    ¡­and a flood of pitchforks rushed out of his body, flowing up the stairs.


    Sweat ran down Roy¡¯s forehead as he looked up at the spot his son had vanished from, expecting a flash of pink Aether at any second. Despite what he¡¯d said, Ruth Blaine was still trying to cut away at the skin wrapped around his form, but it was no use. He was too damn strong for his own good.


    He couldn¡¯t waste time thinking about that. If they just sat here and did nothing, there was no point in Scout using his ability at all. Roy¡¯s eyes flicked over to Ruth.


    "Betting you don¡¯t have any spare skin on you?" he said.


    Ruth looked up from her useless labor. "What?" she said, even having not understood or not heard him.


    Slim chance she had what he was looking for, anyway. He didn¡¯t relish this idea, but¡­ needs must. He had his arm and head free, after all. It¡¯d be stupid not to use them.


    He didn¡¯t give his companion a chance to protest. In one smooth movement, Roy put his own forearm into his mouth, bit down, and -- pain flaring through his body -- tore a long, bloody strip of skin free.


    Ruth shot up. "The hell are you thinking?!" she cried, as blood poured down Roy¡¯s flayed arm.


    The pain was excruciating, even worse than Roy had anticipated, but he answered all the same. "Reloading," he gasped, spitting out the length of skin. S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The second it left his mouth, the skin began floating in the air, seized by Roy¡¯s ability. With a thought, he twisted and compressed it as far as it would go -- until he had formed an epidermal bullet no bigger than a fingernail.


    "The second that fucker shows his face," he seethed, powering through his pain with anger. "I¡¯m firing this right through his forehead. You should get ready, too."


    Ruth Blaine stared at him long and hard, reluctance written all over her face. That was a surprise. He¡¯d have thought Skipper¡¯s kid would be way more ruthless than that.


    She was a fighter, though -- and as the seconds passed, her expression hardened. Resolve shone from her eyes like diamonds.


    "Right," she nodded, baring her claws. "Let¡¯s kill this asshole."


    Scout moved the floors as fast as he could, but he already knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to keep this up forever.


    An endless stream of pitchforks was flowing up towards him, and it was all he could do to keep them quarantined to the lower floors. Floor two and three swapped, floors three and four swapped, floors four and five swapped, floors two and five swapped, floors four and three swapped, floors three and five swapped, again and again and again. It was like shuffling a deck of cards, as quickly as you could, shuffling for your life.


    The second a pitchfork got up to floor six, it was over. Scout wouldn¡¯t be able to defend himself. His limbs shook beneath him as he lay on the floor, devoting all his energy to the shuffle.


    Perfect Palace wasn¡¯t the best ability -- Scout knew that. It was pretty impressive in what it could do, but the way it went about it was unnecessarily complicated. It could only be used with an Aether battery -- with Sidekick, clinging to Scout¡¯s back -- and even then it was exhausting.


    For some reason, Scout found himself thinking back to Rico, who had left the Oliphant family back on the Cradle. What was he doing right now? He¡¯d said he wanted to help people with his Aether. Had that worked out? Was Rico happy? Had he really escaped from all this? Why was Scout thinking of that now¡­?


    What was he doing here?


    One to three.


    Two to four.


    Four to three.


    Three to two.


    Two to three.


    Three to four, no, back to --


    A mistake was made. A mistake that Scout Oliphant-Dawkins couldn¡¯t afford. The tiniest instant of hesitation -- and a single pitchfork flew up the stairs and onto the sixth floor. Scout stared at it, wide-eyed, as slowly he reached for the back of his neck.


    The weapon showed no signs of coming for him. It just hung there, pointed up towards the ceiling, an ominous monolith. A marker declaring its master¡¯s victory.


    And then¡­


    Damnation Invidia.


    ¡­it was replaced by the stone body of the Baron Lunalette de Fleur, who landed on the carpet of the sitting room with a dull thump. His lips cracked as he regarded Scout, laid out before him.


    "An interesting ability," he said calmly. "But manual control made it fallible. You should have made the shuffling an automatic process. But¡­ I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯ll be able to put that advice into practice, will you?"


    Scout said nothing. He just looked at Lunalette, chest heaving, blood slowly trickling from his nose. With what he¡¯d just done, he was slowly crossing the boundary of the Aether burn.


    Should he release his ability? No. If this plan of his didn¡¯t work, he needed to give Pa and Ruth as much time as possible.


    The Baron¡¯s smile deepened. "Nothing to say? I respect that. That¡¯s how a person should die. The last moments of a human reveal their true character. Your silence credits you."


    As one, the hundreds of pitchforks Lunalette had released flooded up the staircase, slamming into the Baron from behind and returning to his body. Scout could have stopped them, but now there was no point wasting the energy. It took maybe a few seconds, and when the process had completed, Lunalette sighed in relief.


    "Well, my silent friend," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Let¡¯s finish this, shall we?"


    The Baron jumped forward -- and something else jumped at the same time. Something that had crawled up the chandelier and positioned itself, waiting for this perfect chance. A tiny creature, looking like some kind of insectoid tardigrade, mandibles clicking as it leapt for the back of Lunalette¡¯s neck.


    Sidekick.


    An Aether battery was essentially a mirror of one¡¯s own consciousness, allowing the owner to generate and hold more Aether at once. For a short time after being detached from Scout, Sidekick essentially served as a second Scout. A plan concocted while the two were one could be executed while they were separate again.


    Lunalette skidded to a halt, looking over his shoulder at the incoming beast -- and smashed it out of the air with the back of his hand, reducing it to bloody pulp in an instant.


    It was as expected. It was what was needed. A second of distraction.


    Scout whipped his hand to his holster and pulled out a pistol, pointing it at the statue-man before him. At the same time, he let the five floors below them dissipate into Aether -- sending all that spare energy into the bullet in his gun, infusing it to its limits. Lunalette lunged for him again, but too late.


    Finger had already met trigger, and the barrel was already pointed at the glowing crack in the Baron¡¯s chest.


    The gun spat oblivion.


    Pink Aether flashed as Perfect Palace ended -- and the shockwave caused by the sudden cancellation of the shrinking clawed across the earth.


    Roy squinted, infusing his head and arm as much as he could to withstand the blast. It was like being caught in a hurricane, shock after shock slamming into him as he was held still by the tent of skin. Crack. Crack. He felt bones fracture inside his body, insufficiently protected, but he didn¡¯t dare succumb to pain. He had to time this perfectly.


    To stop it from being blown away, Roy held the bullet of skin inside his mouth, balanced on his tongue. He could taste the blood, that metallic tang crawling over the inside of his mouth. How many more seconds would the blast last? Two, three?


    The instant it stopped, he¡¯d open his mouth and fire. Before the Baron could get his bearings. That would be their best chance.


    There!


    The shockwaves ceased, and the second they did Roy snapped his jaw open -- the bullet firing out as a wild pink smear. It shot towards the silhouette that had appeared on the giant¡¯s head, weaved through any defenses¡­


    ¡­and thudded into the corpse.


    Roy blinked.


    There, atop the metal titan, were two people. He had not hit Lunalette de Fleur. Lunalette was standing tall, unharmed¡­ with his arm extended, impaling someone else from behind. Someone else, with their green hair hanging low and their golden eyes dull and dead.


    Someone¡­ someone¡­ someone Roy knew.


    Stolen story; please report.


    The Baron Lunalette de Fleur¡¯s crimson gaze flicked down to the watching Roy, and he grinned maliciously.


    "This is your boy," he said, shaking Scout¡¯s corpse. "Isn¡¯t it?"


    Roy screamed loud enough to shake the world, and long enough for it to trickle off into a vain crackle. Scout -- Scout -- Scout -- Scout -- Scout. Just like that, his mind ground to a halt. That body became the entirety of his vision, and that silence became the entirety of his universe.


    In that moment, Roy Oliphant-Dawkins understood how it felt to die himself.


    "Direwolf Set!"


    Ruth had only just unlocked this ability, but even so she understood instinctively she didn¡¯t have long to use it. After repeated deployments during this battle, right now she could only manage it for a few seconds at a time. Before long, even that limited time would surely trickle away.


    She leapt up behind the Baron and brought her claws down in the same moment. It was horrible to think, but surely if Lunalette was holding Scout¡¯s body with one hand it would limit his mobility. If nothing else, it could give her an opening to strike unimpeded.


    Naive. This man was used to handling corpses.


    In one smooth movement, Lunalette hurled the corpse towards Roy as he whirled around, slamming his other fist directly into Ruth¡¯s helmet. There was a loud crack as the mask shattered -- and in that same instant, she went flying back down into the ground, armour crumbling around her as she left a trail in the soil. Reduced to an undignified heap, she hacked up air -- and found that blood was coming out along with it.


    A sound echoed throughout the battlefield. For a moment, Ruth thought that Roy had started screaming again, but no -- it was laughter. The Baron Lunalette de Fleur was cackling madly, arms spread wide, soaking in his victory.


    "Splendid! Splendid!" he cried out, red Aether crackling around him as he regained control of the mecha. "You did everything you could, you pulled out every dirty trick -- and yet! And yet! It just wasn¡¯t enough, was it?! You fools! Buffoons! Fucking idiots! It¡¯s over! I win!"


    His ranting boomed out, enhanced by his Aether, loud enough to shake what remained of the trees. Slowly, Ruth picked herself up -- but she already knew she was in no state to launch another attack yet. Direwolf Set was still recovering, and Lunalette would be ready for it.


    They¡¯d run out of chances.


    His face spread into a grin so wide that the corners of his stone cheeks were cracking, Lunalette raised one hand up, ready to snap his fingers. Above them all, countless dark portals began to open, pointing downwards -- ready to unleash their payloads on the ground below. There were so many, clustered so close, that they seemed to create an artificial night all by themselves.


    Ruth grit her teeth. Roy looked down at Scout¡¯s body, his eyes just as dead.


    Lunalette sighed, expelling some of that manic energy, and a calm smile returned to his lips. "Well," he said softly, looking down at her. "It¡¯s been a pleasure. Truly."


    Aether shining, he snapped his fingers¡­and nothing happened.


    Lunalette blinked. "Eh?" he said, looking up at his stone fingers.


    They weren¡¯t stone anymore.


    Slowly, from his fingers downwards, his body was returning from stone to its previous flesh. Majestic sculpture was being replaced by clammy skin, even as Lunalette looked up at it -- uncomprehending. Even as his hand returned to normal, cracks were spreading out over it, blood spilling from the fractures.


    "Huh?!" he exclaimed. "That¡¯s, that¡¯s not¡­ uh¡­ I don¡¯t¡­"


    All above them, the dark portals began to clear away, and the pink filtered sunlight returned. There was a mighty creak as the black mecha began to buckle under its own weight, one arm breaking off entirely and shattering into red Aether as it hit the ground. Lunalette, still clinging to the top of the construct, rubbed desperately at the flesh spreading over his arms -- as if that would somehow stop the reversion, and the damage that seemed to come along with it.


    Her eyes widening, Ruth realized just what was happening.


    Oh, Scout, she thought. You genius. You stupid genius.


    Roy had explained the way Scout¡¯s Perfect Palace worked a little. It shrank Scout and his target into a space so tiny it couldn¡¯t be perceived or interacted with -- and then, when the shrinking was undone, it created a massive explosion due to the sudden displacement of space. Ruth and Roy had known it was coming, and so had been able to prepare for and withstand it¡­


    ¡­but what about the countless Aether batteries the Baron had created?


    At the very least, the explosion had taken out a large chunk of them -- and so the abilities Lunalette had been able to use as he pleased previously had now become a massive Aether burn. His body was breaking apart even as the abilities were released. He was being destroyed by the very power he¡¯d cultivated.


    There¡¯d be no better chance to strike back than this. Ruth tried to pick herself up again, but her body screamed as she rose to her feet, and she was forced back onto one knee.


    She needn¡¯t have bothered. Someone else had a better claim to vengeance, after all.


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins had been emptied out.


    There was no anguish, no grief, no sorrow. No rage, no fury, no bloodlust. All of those things had been cast aside, for they were too great to be constrained in a single mind. Like a computer, Roy¡¯s mind was laser-focused on the objective before him. He had to eliminate that man. He had been reduced to an abstract. It didn¡¯t even feel personal. It was simply a condition that needed to be cleared.


    Thump.


    You brought him here.


    Roy slammed his own fist into the side of his head, nausea welling up as he felt his brain bounce around in his skull. Not hard enough. The ability he had right now was actively keeping him trapped. He had to get rid of it.


    Thump.


    You brought him here, you bastard.


    It was not enough. Not nearly enough. He felt blood in his mouth, and pain in his head, but it was not enough. It wasn¡¯t the oblivion he needed.


    Thump.


    You killed him.


    Third time the charm. Roy did not remember his fist striking his head the third time, for in that instant he lost consciousness. Only for an instant, but an instant was all he needed. Save the Day refreshed his ability each time he lost consciousness for any reason, not just when he fell asleep. All of this was a reroll.


    Save the Day.


    As his control over the skin around him relinquished, it lost its rigidity and strength, reverting to a loose pile that Roy could easily tear his way out of. A few seconds after his hand touched the pile of skin, a burning handprint appeared in the same spot, melting through layer after layer of the epidermis.


    Ability confirmed: hand contact applied great heat after a brief delay. That was all he needed.


    Breaking free, Roy launched himself up -- and in that same instant, the black armour fully collapsed, sending the enemy¡¯s bleeding form falling down to the ground. He would not reach it. Instead, he fell down right into Roy¡¯s path.


    He flipped in the air, limbs flailing, and his head turned just in time to see Roy¡¯s hand reaching for his face.


    "Nothing to say? I respect that. That¡¯s how a person should die. The last moments of a human reveal their true character. Your silence credits you."


    "Wait!" screamed the Baron Lunalette de Fleur.


    Roy did not wait. His hand seized hold of Lunalette¡¯s face -- and he kept it there even as the heat manifested, even as he heard that muffled scream against his palm, even as that head began to bubble and boil under his fingers.


    By the time the two of them hit the ground, mecha dissipating around them, the Baron¡¯s head had become a red soup that splashed into a puddle at Roy¡¯s feet.


    After that, there was nothing else to do, no victory to revel in. Roy Oliphant-Dawkins simply stood up, staggered over to the corpse of his son, and knelt down next to it.


    He stared.


    He breathed.


    He stared.


    He breathed.


    He stared.


    He breathed.


    That was all there was left of his consciousness.


    "Roy?" asked Ruth quietly.


    He said nothing. He just stared down at Scout¡¯s body, his eyes dull.


    "Mr. Oliphant, uh¡­ Dawkins?" she tried again.


    Nothing.


    Ruth was just about to try a third time when there was a sudden rumble -- a vibration coming from below. Roy still didn¡¯t react, but Ruth whirled around, Skeletal claws appearing on her hands. Her eyes flicked around, looking for the threat.


    Morgan Nacht rose out of the rubble he¡¯d been buried in, the branches emerging from his back lifting the chunks of debris away as if they were toys. He looked at her with those moss-green eyes, cocking his head unnaturally.


    She took a deep breath. "Guess the truce is over, then?" She lowered her body, ready to launch back into combat, ignoring the pain radiating through her.


    Slowly, Morgan shook his head. "This body is damaged," he said, voice strangely raspy and distorted. "Morgan Nacht¡­ requires medical treatment. There is no reason for me to fight you."


    "Oh," Ruth lowered her claws a little. "So you¡¯re just¡­ leaving?"


    Morgan¡¯s head snapped to the side -- for behind Ruth, a young boy had come running out of the woods. It was one of the Cardinal Beasts -- Wolfram of the White -- and Bruno and Serena were limping behind him, blood coating their pained face.


    Ruth couldn¡¯t help but breathe a sigh of relief. They were okay. Well, not okay, but¡­ alive. What about the others, where were they? If things were going according to plan, then Skipper would have been fighting the Supreme right about now. How was that going? And where was Dragan?


    She was brought back to reality by Nacht¡¯s next words -- or the words of whatever was currently controlling him.


    "You helped eliminate a traitor who should not have existed," Nacht¡¯s body said. "And you saved the life of my friend. I am obliged to return that favour."


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. "How?"


    "This is a planet of simpletons," Nacht said. "Many have been destroyed, but a layer of observation still surrounds this planet. It is not a thing you can understand."


    He was right. Ruth didn¡¯t get it at all. Nacht turned his head up to the pink sky, as if to find something hiding there.


    "A vessel has just entered the atmosphere," he declared. "A vessel stolen and drowned in blood. It is headed for Zachariah Esmeralda. It is not your friend. That is all."


    With that, the branches lunged out from Morgan¡¯s back once more, pulling him away into the scorched forest like tentacles.


    Behind her, Bruno spoke up: "The hell was that?"


    Ruth didn¡¯t answer. She was too busy considering those words. Someone was on their way -- someone hostile -- but who? An image was beginning to form in her mind.


    Someone who would have had to hijack a ship to get here, someone who¡¯d want to be here at all costs, someone who¡¯d get here as fast as possible¡­


    Ruth¡¯s heart dropped. Avaman. It was him, wasn¡¯t it? The First Contender was on his way -- and he¡¯d be heading straight for Skipper. There was no way he could fight Avaman and the Supreme at the same time.


    She thought things through. With the pyramid destroyed, Klaus was probably dead. If Klaus was dead, they¡¯d lost their secondary means of communication. There was no way to get more people in time.


    That meant¡­ they¡¯d have to take the First Contender down with just the people here. Roy was in no state to fight, so that left her, Bruno and Serena, and Wolfram. Three exhausted fighters and a literal child.


    Ruth gulped.


    The Baron Lunalette de Fleur awoke, gasping for air through ruined lungs.


    The three spikes of the pitchfork protruded from his chest, and he was careful to keep them there as he pulled himself out of the ground. If nothing else, he had to make sure the pitchfork remained inside this body. That was the only thing keeping him extant.


    With shaking hands, he inspected the body he¡¯d found himself in -- the antlers coming out of his head and his current state of nudity. This was the man who¡¯d become a dragon, then. He was one of the batteries who¡¯d been right on the edge of the final battle -- far enough to escape the explosion.


    Good. A hardy body. One that wouldn¡¯t expire quickly. He had time.


    He¡¯d done the same thing as Scout Oliphant-Dawkins. An Aether battery was a mirror of one¡¯s consciousness, a generator and battery in one. The consciousness in his main body had died, but this could still limp on for a time. Time enough to find a way to survive.


    Hot anger bubbled through his stolen brain. How dare they do that to him? He¡¯d died spluttering, looking like a fool¡­ screaming as his face melted. Disgraceful. The thought alone sent shivers of humiliation down his spine.


    No, no. He couldn¡¯t lose himself in thoughts of vengeance yet. He could worry about that later. For the time being, he had to find a way to keep going after this body fully expired.


    He¡¯d heard from Harrowing that the blacksmith -- that woman, supposedly dead -- was in attendance at this battle. If she¡¯d managed to sustain her consciousness after death, perhaps she could do the same for him? He¡¯d make her. He could be persuasive.


    Lunalette¡¯s grin spread across a face not suited for it, warping the expression. A firm plan in mind, he took a step forward --


    -- and his head fell from his shoulders.


    The cut was clean, so much so that the Baron didn¡¯t realize at first what had happened. He blinked as he fell to the ground, looking at the headless body crumpling down next to him. He opened his mouth to question, to shout, to rage -- but to no avail.


    Even if a head alone could talk, the connection to the pitchfork had been severed, and his consciousness was already disintegrating.


    The last thing the Baron Lunalette de Fleur heard in his fading existence were the words of the man who¡¯d finished him off.


    "Caravan," said the weary voice of Atoy Muzazi. "Point update."

 Chapter 309:11.36: War for the Worlds (Part 1)

    The earth cascaded like an ocean.


    Executioner automatics burst out of the soil, spears in hand, and charged as one towards the Supreme. They came from each direction, their numbers absurd, at least two-hundred of the bastards at a glance. So Esmerelda had decided to send in some small fry, huh?


    "Get this weak shit off me!" the Supreme growled, reaching for the emerald wings on his back and tearing them away.


    That, at least, stopped him from being sent flying back any further. The wings burst into individual feathers, zooming off into the crowd. Esmerelda himself had vanished as well: he was clearly using the advance of these automatics to conceal his own movements.


    Fine. These weaklings weren¡¯t what the Supreme had come here for, but getting rid of them wouldn¡¯t take long.


    He threw a punch -- demolishing the head of one of the Executioners the second it came into range. The air pressure the blow created surged back through the crowd, sending countless more automatics flying off.


    Hey, the Supreme grinned, getting into it. I got a strike!


    Laughing uproariously, he went to elbow another of the Executioners as it jumped in behind him -- only for the automatic to duck and avoid the blow. The others behind it moved, too, dodging the air pressure like a parting ocean.


    The Supreme frowned as the Executioner drove its spear upwards towards his jaw. It didn¡¯t pierce the skin, of course, but sparks rained down as the automatic kept its weapon pressed against the same point. The head of the spear was quickly rotating, the Supreme noticed, like a drill.


    He saw what they were going for, then. Lots of tiny hits, really quickly, to chip away at his defense.


    Another spear slammed into his bare back, sending more sparks raining down. He destroyed that Executioner with a kick, but when he tried to dispatch the next one coming in, it simply leapt out of the way. Even as they were avoiding his attacks, more and more Executioners were coming in, driving their spears into his form, slowly wearing him down.


    The Supreme calmly considered his predicament. It wasn¡¯t that these things were fast. They simply dodged before he started moving. In both cases, he¡¯d managed to destroy one of the Executioners before the rest started dodging.


    Some kind of hive mind? The whole adapting to whatever took out the individual? Whatever. If that was the case, all it came down to was a chance to show off.


    He had more tricks than punches and kicks, after all. The Supreme grinned.


    "Excel Surge," he declared. "Earthsculpt Uriel!"


    The ground beneath him -- and all around him -- shifted, forming countless solid spikes that impaled the Executioners in the immediate area. Ten or twenty met their ends, twitching weakly as they were held aloft by the earth itself. The rest, though, just began swinging off the spikes as they continued to advance, adapting to the tactic.


    The Supreme¡¯s eyes flicked around. "Excel Surge," he commanded. "Sunscorch Gabriel."


    An invisible lens, hanging in the air above the Supreme, filtering the sunlight coming down and amplifying it until it was a wave of deadly heat. The Executioners around him moved to dodge backwards -- but too late. Within seconds, their metal bodies were melting, cybernetic innards oozing out of the mess. The Supreme himself was subject to the same intense heat, but he remained unharmed, even as the grass ignited beneath his feet.


    Still, he continued to look around cautiously. With Gabriel, he¡¯d created a perimeter around himself that the Executioners could not enter. They surrounded him from all sides, staring blankly. No doubt they¡¯d switch tactics before long, and figure out a way around this, but until then he still had time to think.


    Esmerelda had completely vanished. Most likely, he¡¯d concealed himself within the crowd of automatics, waiting for his chance.


    It was a good plan: even if the Supreme unleashed an attack that destroyed all the Executioners at once, by doing so an opening would be created for just a moment. All Esmeralda had to do was wait.


    The Supreme cracked his fingers irritably. He hadn¡¯t come here to play with toy soldiers. He¡¯d come to feel his heart beat, to feel his blood pump, to feel his brain come alight with the survival drive.


    You are strong, right, Zack? he narrowed his eyes. Don¡¯t tell me you need to do shit like this.


    The Supreme shook his head lightly, banishing the unthinkable -- that this fight would just be another disappointment. It was no biggie. This guy just didn¡¯t get it yet. He didn¡¯t get this wasn¡¯t the kind of fight the Supreme wanted.


    There¡¯d be no point in explaining it to him. The Supreme was better off demonstrating.


    While he was using this supercharged Sunscorch Gabriel, he couldn¡¯t use any other techniques from Badge of Honour. But that didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t use any other techniques at all. He took a deep breath, and his golden Aether crackled around him.


    Aether ping.


    The Supreme restrained the range of his ping slightly -- he didn¡¯t want to go too crazy -- limiting it to a diameter of around fifty kilometers. As the wave of golden Aether reached that distance, he pulled it back into his body, then released it again. He repeated the process several times, increasing the speed with each revolution, until his ping was blasting out and retracting several times a second.


    A heartbeat scanning the world.


    It only took a second for the Supreme to find what he was looking for. The distinctive shape of those green wings -- and more than that, the Aether coating the body they were attached to. The Supreme recognised the texture of Esmeralda¡¯s Aether well, like sand crumbling against inspection. There was no mistaking it.


    "Excel Surge," he muttered, locking his gaze in the direction of his unseen adversary. "Earthsculpt Uriel."


    The original Earthsculpt Uriel had granted its user the ability to manipulate the earth in several preset ways. However, once optimized by Excel Surge, it was a different beast entirely. The Supreme could freely sculpt the ground around him for several kilometers, as if it were putty in his hands. All it took was the intent.


    As the barrier of heat vanished, the Supreme opened up massive pits beneath the waiting Executioners -- sending them hurtling down into the dark bowels of the planet. At the same time, he softened the platform he was standing on, granting it greater elasticity as it tilted in the direction of his target -- and then, like a child with a trampoline, he launched himself off it.


    It took him only a second to reach his target. Almost in the same instant he¡¯d thrown himself forward, the Supreme ground his leg into the earth to brake. Those emerald wings filled his vision as he pulled his fist back¡­


    ¡­and then he hesitated.


    That¡¯s not Esmerelda.


    Those green wings were spread wide, yes -- but they were attached to just another one of the Executioner automatics, green Aether crackling up and down its form. It thrust its spear at the Supreme¡¯s face, and he quickly caught it in his teeth, shattering the polearm with the slightest bite.


    It was obvious what Esmerelda had done. He had attached the wings of Heartbeat Freedom to an Executioner so it would serve as a decoy, then infused the automatic with his own Aether to fool the Supreme¡¯s ping. Once he¡¯d done that, he¡¯d most likely cloaked himself, keeping himself hidden while the Supreme pursued the dummy target.


    The Supreme grinned, eyes narrowing in glee as he swung his head around -- to watch as Esmerelda darted in from between chunks of flying debris. His gaze was resolute, and his Aether was crackling around his palms once more.


    Good, the Supreme thought. You¡¯re so good, Esmeralda. Just like that.


    Esmerelda lunged forward -- taking full advantage of the opening his little maneuver had created -- and planted his hands against the Supreme¡¯s chest.


    "Heartbeat Shotgun," said Zachariah Esmeralda.


    From such close range, and boosted by Heartbeat Freedom, it was something to behold. The landscape behind the Supreme exploded, chunks of stone and soil flying up into the air. The man himself -- for the first time in many years -- was forced to cough, and it was with delight that he saw blood come out with it.


    That¡¯s it, Zack, the Supreme sighed with pleasure, looking down at the red dripping from his palm. Don¡¯t bore me. Don¡¯t you dare fucking bore me.


    A second flurry of Heartbeat Shotguns hit the Supreme from behind -- originating from the wings, now detached from the Executioner -- and the blow was enough to send him flying forwards towards Esmerelda. This, too, had been part of Zachariah¡¯s plan. As the Supreme fell forward, the rebel thrust his metal fist forward, pouring a borealis of emerald Aether into it.


    The Supreme¡¯s eyes rolled up into his head. Do it¡­


    That punch would have been enough to vaporize an ordinary person -- but as it slammed into the Supreme¡¯s face, propelled by a Shotgun from Esmeralda¡¯s elbow, all it managed to do was shatter his nose. Even so, to bloody the nose of a god was no small accomplishment. A wild grin of exhilaration spread across Zachariah Esmeralda¡¯s lips as he ground his fist in further.


    Yes. Yes, good. He was getting into it too.


    The Supreme swung his hand up, sculpting the earth once more -- sending a surge of spikes towards Esmerelda. The man jumped back, barely avoiding the barrage, before twisting in the air to dodge a hand of stone that was closing in around him.


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    "Yeah! Yeah!" the Supreme roared, flicking his hand back and forth as he softened the ground beneath him.


    It was best to make it as easily traversable as possible. The Supreme had abilities that would allow him to fly, but he didn¡¯t want to waste one of his slots on them. For the time being, he¡¯d remain on the ground, even as Esmeralda soared.


    The feathered wings had zoomed past the Supreme, reattaching to Esmerelda¡¯s back as he flew through the sky. With a mighty flap, he unleashed a gust of wind, extinguishing the flames that Sunscorch Gabriel had ignited earlier. For a brief moment, the two of them faced off, staring each other down.


    "Is it good for you too?" the Supreme asked, cracking his neck.


    Esmerelda scowled. "There¡¯s nothing fun about this."


    "What?" the Supreme frowned.


    Esmerelda did not answer. Instead, he launched off the air again, zooming directly towards the Supreme. As he flew, some of the feathers on his wings moved into his hands, forming a blade that the green man drew back.


    The Supreme considered the weapon: no doubt it would unleash a blast or blade of sound at the moment it made contact. No problem. There were countermeasures for such an attack.


    Taking a deep breath, the Supreme spoke aloud: "Excel Surge! Heartbeat --"


    He didn¡¯t get the chance to finish. Before that last word could leave his mouth, there was a sudden bang from below, a sudden spike of pain, and a sudden flash of red. Blood splattered past the Supreme¡¯s vision, and with it¡­ his severed tongue, flipping end over end in the air.


    The Supreme blinked, thinking things through even as Esmeralda continued to lunge forwards. That attack had come from below -- not just below the Supreme¡¯s line of sight, but below the ground itself. He understood. Esmerelda had waited for him to soften the ground, then sent a single feather down into it to launch a surprise attack. Using himself as a decoy, he¡¯d managed to provoke the Supreme into exposing his tongue -- once that was destroyed, he couldn¡¯t use his abilities.


    His grin, stained by blood, widened into the realm of derangement.


    Not bad, kid.


    The blade slammed into him.


    Skipper¡¯s heart hammered a mile a minute, and he poured each one of those beats into his sword.


    Torso. Shoulder. Head. Back. As Skipper flipped over the Supreme, doing his best to stay out of reach, he struck out again and again -- each strike accompanied by a screech as a Heartbeat Bayonet was unleashed from his feathered sword. Each time he hit the Supreme, he left a thin red gash -- superficial wounds, but now that the Supreme couldn¡¯t heal them they would accumulate.


    That didn¡¯t mean he could relax, though.


    As the Supreme thrust one hand upwards, a pillar of earth erupted from the ground below Skipper -- hitting him in the stomach and sending him flying up into the sky. As the construct pushed him aloft, Skipper fired another Heartbeat Shotgun from his stomach, shattering the pillar -- but the Supreme had already gotten the distance he¡¯d been looking for.


    Skipper had sealed off Excel Surge and Badge of Honour with that last trick, but that didn¡¯t mean the Supreme was neutralized. Far from it. From the looks of things, he still had access to the last ability he¡¯d used -- Earthsculpt Uriel -- and his ordinary Aether abilities were enough to put him far above the rest.


    If Skipper got careless, he would die. That fact hadn¡¯t changed.


    As the Supreme looked up to follow his movements, Skipper pointed both his wings downwards, the feathered structures twisting into thin tendrils -- far easier to aim with. He wouldn¡¯t be able to get in another precise shot from this distance. His best move would be to unleash a barrage.


    Keep him on the defensive. Don¡¯t give him time to strategize.


    Heartbeat Shotgun!


    As the Supreme sprinted, weaving through the countless blasts of sounds and the horde of automatics still pursuing him, he considered his next move.


    He¡¯d long considered one of his greatest strengths to be his versatility -- his Badge of Honour gave him countless tools to deal with any problem that presented itself. Now that he¡¯d been silenced, though, those countless tools had been reduced to just one: Earthsculpt Uriel. Fortunately, he¡¯d used Excel Surge on it before getting his tongue cut off, so it was still pretty flexible. He just had to figure out how best to use it here. S§×ar?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    An idea occurred as he ducked under the swing of a spear.


    Once, back in the Death March at the beginning of his reign, he had visited a planet called Retsuede. On that planet, there had been a great mountain -- complex tunnels bored through it through time and coincidence -- and on particularly windy days, the mountain would sing as the air blasted through it. The people there had even learned to manipulate the sounds the mountain made by altering the structures of those tunnels.


    The Supreme bobbed and weaved as another Executioner kicked at him, before obliterating it and the ten or so behind it with a flurry of punches. As another barrage of Heartbeat Shotguns rained down from above, he snatched a chunk of metal from the wreckage, infusing it and holding it up as a shield.


    One second. Two seconds. Three. The barrage stopped: Esmerelda didn¡¯t want to kick up too much dust, or else the Supreme could use it as a smokescreen. Good to know.


    The second the barrage ended, the Supreme hurled the metal plating like a frisbee, the projectile slicing apart every Executioner in its path. He paid no mind to them as their bodies fell apart, or as even more converged upon him. Right now, the entirety of his consciousness was focused on the conundrum before him.


    This was what he lived for. This was what he killed for.


    This ain¡¯t working.


    Sweat ran down Skipper¡¯s temples as he saw the Supreme burst out, unharmed, from another one of his attacks. It seemed that only precise Heartbeat Shotguns or Heartbeat Bayonets would be enough to actually break through that iron skin and deal damage. Wide-range attacks like these -- especially from such a distance -- gave him too much time to react.


    For what it was worth, though, the Supreme¡¯s attention didn¡¯t seem to be on Skipper. He was running down the mountain, face locked into stoicity, kicking up geysers of dirt with each step. He was holding something in one hand, but Skipper couldn¡¯t make it out from this distance.


    It was no surprise that the Supreme had something planned. The man was a brute, but that didn¡¯t mean he was stupid. Was it maybe a clump of dirt he was holding, and he intended to use Uriel to sculpt it into a weapon?


    Skipper would have to be careful.


    The Supreme was considered one of the foremost talents when it came to Aether pings. Sure, he could be fooled by cloaking like anyone else, but in terms of range he was unmatched -- he could scan a good chunk of a planet from orbit, for Y¡¯s sake.


    With just a single ping, he could get an incredibly accurate image of the location he was scanning. It was what they¡¯d used to put together the battle plan for today.


    This time, though, the Supreme took a different tack. He let loose an Aether ping¡­ within his own body. It took just a second, and was utterly invisible from the outside, but through it he was able to get a full reading of his own physical form -- down to his organs and individual muscles. He smirked as he ran through the information in his head.


    This would work.


    As Skipper plummeted down towards the ground, pursuing the Supreme, he released his wings -- and the feathers flew off individually, burrowing into the soft ground as they chased Skipper¡¯s target from below.


    Just like he¡¯d done when he¡¯d severed the Supreme¡¯s tongue, he¡¯d position the feathers to unleash precise shots from underground. That way, he could get some sneak attacks in while the Supreme was focused on him. He might expect a similar tactic, but hopefully the increased number of feathers would throw him for a loop.


    Skipper blasted himself down the mountain with Heartbeat Shotgun, soaring over the heads of his Executioners, drawing closer to the Supreme with each successive blast. The Supreme himself was sliding down the mountain trail, having softened and slickened the ground to the point there was virtually no friction -- and as Skipper watched, the giant seemed intently focused on whatever he was hiding in his hands.


    The Supreme discarded the things he didn¡¯t need. Arms and legs, lower torso, all of it useless. Only the parts needed for this specific task needed to remain in his mind.


    A tunnel waiting for its wind.


    The feathers began blasting from below, sending the chunk of earth the Supreme was sliding on flying up into the air. The Supreme himself curled into a ball as he flipped through the sky -- and Skipper fired himself up towards him, ready to unleash another Heartbeat Bayonet before he could land.


    He¡¯d do it from as close as he could without being stupid -- this time, he¡¯d get the Supreme¡¯s eyes.


    For the first time in a good long while, sweat ran down the Supreme¡¯s back. He ignored the fact he was falling. He didn¡¯t have time to do anything about it. The only thing that mattered was the lump of earth he held in his hands, and the shape he was slowly forging it into, down to the slightest minutia.


    Lips.


    Tongue.


    Lungs.


    The Supreme blinked.


    Done.


    Heartbeat --


    The Supreme twisted his body in the air, and Skipper immediately moved to retreat. The confidence that had slowly been building up over the last few minutes utterly vanished. He¡¯d been foolish: there was no safe distance when it came to the Supreme.


    So long as you were on the same planet as the man who was like god, you were at an unsafe distance. And his power certainly wasn¡¯t the kind you could seal.


    It was like the head of a statue, the thing the Supreme held, a perfect replica of his own head sculpted from dirt. Stone lungs dangled below the throat, divorced from the torso that would have ordinarily surrounded it, and the mouth of the construct was just slightly open -- frozen into an eternal expression of just slight surprise.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Get back, he urged himself as he retreated, blasting himself backwards.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Faster.


    Heartbeat Shotgun.


    You¡¯re gonna die, asshole!


    There was the slightest opening in the back of the construct¡¯s head, and the Supreme put his lips to it. Like a flute, he blew into the open skull of his decapitated doppelganger -- but the sound that came forth, initially just a single long note, shifted and warped and solidified¡­


    ¡­until it became words.


    "eXcEl SuRgE," it said. "sEaL oF fOrTuNe: El DoRaDo."


    The original El Dorado had been a splendid ability all by itself, but when paired with Excel Surge it gained far greater flexibility. Rather than the fixed circular area the original user had been capable of, the Supreme had found he could sculpt it into whatever shape he liked.


    For example, he could shape it into the exact dimensions of his own body. No need to spread the healing too far around.


    It took only half a second for his tongue to return -- a smaller area increased the potency of the healing -- and in that same moment, he thrust his open palm towards the retreating Esmeralda.


    "Excel Surge," he said softly. "Heartbeat Shotgun."


    The blast that erupted forth wasn¡¯t nearly as soft. With his other hand, the Supreme crushed the construct of dirt, chunks of sculpted face raining down as he landed on the ground. Spreading his arms wide, he took a deep breath, his new tongue waggling in the air -- taking it all in, without concern for dignity or decorum.


    This was it. This was how it felt to be alive again.


    Calming down just a bit, the Supreme looked over to Skipper -- to where he¡¯d been embedded in the mountain, his body having blasted through a good swathe of his own Executioners. Even from this distance, the Supreme could see the blood covering his face -- he was hurt¡­ but he wasn¡¯t dead. Good, good. The Supreme wanted this to last.


    He¡¯d just woken up, after all.

 Chapter 310:11.37: War for the Worlds (Part 2)

    As the Supreme flexed his muscles, basking in his restoration, his body shone in the sunlight. He spread his arms wide, as if drinking it in, as if that havoc-pink light was somehow giving him even more strength.


    Skipper just looked on from where he¡¯d been thrown into the mountain, his eyes dull. Every single wound he¡¯d inflicted on the Supreme -- down to the tiniest scratches -- had utterly vanished. The great leap he thought he¡¯d taken in removing the Supreme¡¯s tongue might as well have not even happened.


    "And again¡­" the Supreme grinned easily, the dark bags under his eyes a stark contrast to the sparkling blue of his pupils. "...back to starting positions."


    Skipper tried to pull himself out of the mountain -- but as he did, the Supreme simply pointed a merciless finger at him.


    "Excel Surge," he said casually. "Quantum King."


    Skipper himself was protected by infusion -- but the debris covering his body was not. Quantum King pushed on the rocks, driving Skipper deeper and deeper into the side of the mountain, more dust and rocks spilling over him as he screamed in pain from the pressure.


    As the horde of Executioners -- there were still quite a few left -- charged at the Supreme, though, the giant released his ability for just a moment. Lowering his finger, he cracked his neck -- the automatics nearly upon him.


    "I said back to starting positions," the Supreme sighed. "But these guys are getting in the way. I wanna talk to you for a bit, so gimme a sec here."


    Skipper did his best to push himself forward. The Executioners were one of the few resources he could rely on in this battle -- if they were destroyed, he¡¯d lose both his reinforcements and his smokescreen. But even as he pushed, and even as he strained, and even as he tunneled with Heartbeat Shotgun, he just wasn¡¯t quite fast enough.


    The Supreme grinned that lazy grin.


    "Excel Surge -- Kingdom Come."


    That guy Lho Rho had been strong -- even the Supreme had to admit that. He¡¯d been surprised when he¡¯d been defeated by that Paradigm chick, but those kinds of things happened. Maybe her ability had just been a good counter to Kingdom Come, he¡¯d thought.


    Then again, though¡­ he couldn¡¯t imagine an ability that could easily counter Kingdom Come.


    The ability was near perfection already, so all Excel Surge provided was a small boost to its range and precision -- but still, that would suffice. He had to admit, Esmeralda had pushed him with that last little maneuver¡­ but the way he¡¯d gotten out of it was now filling his head with new ideas. He was waking up again. He was alive again.


    The only thing spoiling it was that thing Zachariah Esmeralda had said.


    "There¡¯s nothing fun about this."


    The Supreme didn¡¯t mind maniacs, and brutes were beloved to him, but he didn¡¯t hold stock with liars. He needed to make sure they were on the same page before this went any further. It was important in a situation like this for people to understand each other.


    ¡­and these damn automatics were getting in the way of that.


    Kingdom Come reached out, seizing hold of all the dust in the area, and collected it into a sphere before the Supreme. It was pretty small, around the size of a cannonball, but heavy and dense enough that it could annihilate a skull if dropped. The Supreme tossed it up and down in his hand like a basketball, the Executioners nearly upon him.


    He¡¯d made use of the increased precision here, prioritizing dust derived from hair and dead skin. As he slammed the ball down into the ground, it exploded once again into a tidal wave of dust, flooding over and attaching itself to the countless automatics.


    Step one complete.


    "Excel Surge," the Supreme said, stepping out of the way of a spear swing. "Seal of Fortune -- El Dorado."


    When he¡¯d focused the shape of the Seal onto his own body, the speed of the healing had been greatly increased. He wondered, then -- how much further could he take that? This ability might have far greater potential than he¡¯d initially realized.


    For example¡­ what if he made the Seal a mere centimeter thick, and had it swing around as a long thin beam?


    Well¡­ he grinned. Only one way to find out.


    The golden light of El Derado appeared before him, immediately crushed and extended itself into the shape he desired -- and he swept the beam across the crowd of automatics. Obviously, it had no effect on the machines themselves. You couldn¡¯t ¡¯heal¡¯ metal and wire, after all.


    But what about the dust coating them?


    The result was grotesque -- a web of indiscriminate flesh and hair, stretching between the automatics, connecting all of them together. You couldn¡¯t really say that the dust had been ¡¯regenerated¡¯, but El Dorado had done its best. An entirely new organism had been created to fill in the gaps -- and then, lacking even the most basic qualifications for life, it had immediately died.


    But that was fine. The fact that it had left a corpse was more than enough.


    Step two complete.


    The Supreme reached out and seized hold of the flesh-strand before him, crushing the dull eyeball that had been protruding from that spot in the process. The Executioners were tangled up, but they were still doing their best like good little machines -- driving their drill-spears into the Supreme¡¯s body and sending sparks raining down. That was fine, he could handle that.


    Right now, he was more interested in seeing how this worked out.


    "Excel Surge¡­" he growled. "Electric Advent Venrir."


    Ordinarily, this ability would create a powerful familiar out of lightning and send it after the Supreme¡¯s enemies -- but strictly speaking, the part of the ability where he formed the body of Venrir wasn¡¯t necessary. He could just produce the lightning and stop there.


    And in this case, that was exactly what he needed.


    Step three¡­ he grinned. ¡­complete.


    Bang.


    The lightning erupted from the Supreme¡¯s hand -- and, conducted by the web of flesh, fried the circuits of every single Executioner. Their smooth movements hardened into rapid and directionless jerking as they collapsed to the ground, sparks and flames belching from their heads, the charred flesh falling over them like a collective burial shroud.


    The Supreme released the single strand he¡¯d still been clutching and wiped the soot off on his pants. Then, sufficiently satisfied that the dirt had been transferred from his hand to his ass, he looked up at ol¡¯ Esmerelda.


    Poor guy had only just managed to get himself out of the rocks, and the despair in his eyes was clear as he looked at the hill of metal corpses the two of them were standing on.


    "So!" the Supreme said, cheery as could be. "Let¡¯s talk."


    Avaman the Announcer, First Contender of the Supremacy, had a deathly fear of dolls.


    Pediophobia, it was called. It wasn¡¯t necessarily limited just to dolls -- really, any inanimate object that resembled a human -- but for Avaman, they were the worst. Just looking at their glassy eyes and frozen expressions made his skin crawl. Like corpses built for purpose. Even thinking about them made him intensely uncomfortable.


    Which was why the bobblehead on the dash of this damn starship was bothering him so much.


    He¡¯d only noticed it in the last couple of minutes, a cartoon caricature of a man in a blue parka, its head wobbling up and down with each shake of the starship. Normally, a degree of abstraction would be enough to make it palatable, but¡­


    Whirlwind Rapier.


    The head of the accursed thing was obliterated by a sudden and precise strike of infused air, and Avaman could finally breathe easy.


    Once, when he¡¯d been a child, his keepers had brought him a doll along with other toys to aid in his recreational development. The exercise had ended up with Avaman vomiting all over the head researcher¡¯s lap, and he hadn¡¯t slept for days. At this point, he could somewhat conceal his reaction to the wretched things¡­ but it was still far easier to destroy them than live with them.


    The ship shuddered and shook around him, buffeted by pressure as it dropped through the atmosphere of Elysian Fields. Avaman already knew that this vessel would not survive the descent. That didn¡¯t matter. He would.


    Danger.


    Purple Aether sparked around his eyes as he felt a threat approaching through the air -- a second before it would have actually hit. Something massive was slicing through the sky -- sword-shaped, but so thin as to be impractical. The product of an Aether ability, no doubt. Again, it didn¡¯t matter. So long as he knew an attack was coming, it stood no chance of killing him.


    All this meant was that this ship would be destroyed sooner than expected.


    Avaman projected a membrane of air around himself -- and at that same moment, the starship was cleanly sliced in two. The dull metal of the vessel opened up, revealing the scorched forests and ruined grasslands of the world below. Avaman kicked downwards, blasting air out for propulsion as he plummeted down towards the planet proper, his air shield automatically insulating him against any threats.


    That strike had clearly been aimed for Avaman himself -- and so it meant that someone had seen him coming. Where had they gotten that information? Avaman hadn¡¯t checked in on what was left of the Tartarus, so clearly not there. Had some Aether ability detected his approach?


    Still, still, still, it didn¡¯t matter. All that mattered was that Avaman reached God.


    It was certain that He¡¯d be fighting nearby. This was the battle that He had longed for, after all, the battle that Avaman had never been able to give Him -- no matter how hard he tried. He¡¯d be somewhere, facing off against the man called Skipper, demonstrating the power and fury of the Supreme.


    Before he hit the ground, Avaman elegantly shifted his body in mid-air -- and a sphere of surging wind materialized under his feet, keeping him aloft. He came to a halt right above the stumps of the countless trees, eyes flicking this way and that, trying to determine the best direction to head in.


    He could fly higher in the sky, but a greater altitude would mean less air to work with. He¡¯d stick close to the ground when pursuing God, then, and deal with any threats that presented themselves.


    It didn¡¯t take long.


    As Avaman flew forwards through the forest clearing, there were three surges of pure-white Aether -- and three boulders appeared in the air above him, each the size of a car. Immediately, Avaman struck upwards with Whirlwind Rapier -- obliterating the rocks before they could fall -- but that¡­ of course, that opened him up for cowardly retaliation.


    Direwolf¡­ Set!


    A streak of red burst out from the ruined foliage, heading straight for Avaman¡¯s face -- and in the instant before it hit, he parried with Whirlwind Greatsword, deflecting the attack and creating a huge gash in the ground below. Avaman raised a concealed eyebrow behind his mask as his assailant fell down to the ground. He¡¯d assumed from the speed that this was some kind of projectile, but it seemed this young lady was just that fast.


    "Ruth Blaine." His voice was cold, concealed by his mask as well.


    The girl picked herself up off the ground, baring her teeth and claws at Avaman even after being repelled so violently. Her armour seemed different from the intelligence Avaman had previously received -- melted, malformed, as if stuck between one shape and the next. Impractical, to put it charitably.


    She didn¡¯t say anything, so Avaman continued speaking: "Where is Skipper?"


    She was one of Esmeralda¡¯s disciples -- if anyone knew where he was, it would be her. Wherever Skipper was, God would be. He couldn¡¯t kill her until he¡¯d extracted that important intelligence.


    But¡­ oh, how he longed to. What kind of tormented expression would Skipper make, if presented with such a corpse? If shown the depths of his arrogance, and of his sin?


    No. He would wait. He was used to waiting.


    "I would rather not torture you," he lied. "But I will. Where is Skipper?"


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    Still, the girl said nothing. She just continued to glare, her golden eyes gleaming in the fading sunlight. Avaman rolled his eyes behind his mask: he disliked unfounded resolve.


    He would take her legs, then, to show her he was serious. Perhaps some useful words would slip in between her screams.


    "Whirlwind¡­" he began, giving Blaine one last chance -- before he cut himself off with another sigh.


    A surprise attack. How utterly expected.


    With another flash of white Aether, Yakob del Sed appeared in the air behind Avaman, an imaginary blade raised above their head like they were some kind of battle-mime. He could sense the shape of that invisible sword by the way it cut through the air membrane -- it was the same as the one that had sliced his ship in half, only much smaller.


    Boulders suddenly appearing out of thin air, and a sword that cut through the sky? Avaman suspected the trick here.


    Just before that all-slicing sword came down, Avaman raised his hand¡­


    ¡­and caught it.


    He hadn¡¯t just used his bare hand, of course. He¡¯d formed a bubble of air right above his palm and infused it with considerable Aether -- enough to reject the atomically thin blade descending upon it. Yakob pushed furiously against his defense for a moment, sparks raining down, before the bubble popped -- and sent them flying backwards from the impact.


    At the moment, Ruth could barely manage the Direwolf Set for a second at a time -- and even then, it had to be focused on a particular part of her body. Even so, if that was all she had to work with, then she¡¯d damn well work with it.


    Direwolf Set!


    There was another flash of red Aether -- and Ruth Blaine vanished from the spot she¡¯d fallen. Avaman understood already that this was superspeed, not teleportation, but she¡¯d left his vision all the same.


    It was nothing. Even if she left his gaze behind, she couldn¡¯t abandon the air. It traced her path without fail.


    Avaman pointed a lazy finger off in a vague direction. It didn¡¯t matter where he pointed -- his shots would strike true. That was the nature of his ability.


    Whirlwind Crossbow.


    Three bolts of concentrated air fired out through his finger and immediately turned at a sharp angle to pursue Blaine through the trees. Unlike Skipper¡¯s pathetic Heartbeat Shotgun, Avaman¡¯s Whirlwind Crossbow pursued its target until it either struck or was destroyed.


    Two of the blasts struck trees that Blaine dodged behind, cleanly severing their trunks, but the third slammed into her chest as she lost her speed boost, sending her tumbling down, vanishing into the darkness of the woods. Yakob del Sed had leapt back into battle behind Avaman, but so far a few automatic swipes of wind had been enough to keep them at bay. Avaman hadn¡¯t even needed to glance in their direction.


    A gust of wind blasted Yakob in Avaman¡¯s direction -- and, with contemptuous ease, he reached out and seized them by the throat.


    Violet Aether sparked around Yakob¡¯s hands, but a squeeze from Avaman was enough to put an end to that effort. They could only flail their legs in the air as they were held aloft, desperately grasping at their throat just to relieve the pressure a bit. He had them at his mercy. sea??h th§× novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Ruth Blaine. Come out of those woods with your hands up. If you don¡¯t, I kill them. You have three seconds."


    Avaman stared off into the dark recess between the trees, air broiling around him, keeping tight hold of Yakob del Sed¡¯s throat. He had no fear that this tactic wouldn¡¯t work. Ruth Blaine¡¯s personality was clear -- she could no more abandon her comrades than she could abandon breathing.


    Crack.


    A foot touching down on a stick as its owner approached. Just as expected. Avaman smiled softly to himself --


    -- and then snapped his head up as a flurry of white flashes consumed the sky above him, countless more boulders appearing there, falling with deadly weight and speed.


    Whirlwind Rapier!


    Finger pointed up into the air, Avaman struck the boulders one after another, the endless stream of falling rocks shattering into rubble that bounced off his shield. As his focus was diverted, however, Yakob del Sed was able to kick against Avaman¡¯s chest and free themself, plucking two more invisible swords from the air. Avaman thrust his free hand towards del Sed before they could attack again, creating a gust of wind that blasted them away.


    Blaine¡¯s Aether was red and del Sed¡¯s was violet -- or perhaps purple, the difference was subtle. Still, that meant that this white Aether dropping the rocks belonged to a third attacker. Where were they? Avaman hadn¡¯t sensed them through the air. They couldn¡¯t possibly be that far away if they were targeting his exact location.


    It seemed they didn¡¯t want to give him a chance to think about it.


    Ruth Blaine appeared behind him once more, a trail of smoking footprints created by her sheer speed -- and plunged her claws towards his spine. It would be difficult to deal with such a fast opponent while deflecting the rain of boulders. Avaman would need to readjust.


    Whirlwind Fortress.


    The membrane of air Avaman had created around himself hardened to its absolute limit, sealing him off entirely from the outside world. Blaine¡¯s claws shattered against it like they had struck solid steel. The boulders smashed against it like they had struck a castle wall. The only downside to Whirlwind Fortress was that it was an absolute seal -- if Avaman used it for an extended period of time, he would run out of air within the bubble and surely suffocate.


    Fortunately, he only needed to use it for a moment here.


    Avaman released Whirlwind Fortress, and the membrane of air exploded into a burst of wind that blasted out in all directions. Ruth and Yakob went flying backwards, the course of the falling rocks was diverted -- and, most importantly, that wind was infused with Avaman¡¯s Aether, scanning everything the attack came into contact with¡­


    ¡­so, in effect, an Aether ping that doubled as an attack.


    Avaman was looking for something in particular: tiny, but extremely dense sources of Aether. Whenever those boulders appeared, they¡¯d been accompanied by a burst of pressure that had shook the trees around them. He¡¯d seen something like that before.


    When he¡¯d made his debut as a Contender at the age of ten, and helped God vanquish the Kingdom Moon Cult, he¡¯d fought one of their followers that had been able to shrink parts of their own body. When the shrinking had reversed, there had been a similar blast of pressure. Apparently, it was something common to shrinking abilities.


    There.


    Right on the edge of his ping, Avaman found what he¡¯d been looking for. The tiniest star of Aether, with a texture unlike those of Blaine and del Sed. Avaman turned his head, staring at the exact spot of the response, and knew that his prey could see him.


    His face twisted into an unseen and sadistic grin. "Found you," he rasped, pointing a single killer finger.


    White Aether flashed, and empty space was replaced by the user of the ability -- a kid in a flat cap and little suit, antler nubs protruding from the sides of his head. His teeth chattered as he stared at Avaman, terrified.


    Avaman¡¯s eyes widened behind his mask, and he hesitated for a moment. A child? They¡¯d brought a kid here? The Whirlwind Crossbow he¡¯d been about to launch from his finger lingered there, unfired.


    Well¡­ he supposed it would be beneath him to slay a mere child.


    He let the boy off easy with the flat side of his Whirlwind Greatsword, slamming him against a nearby tree. He slumped down to the ground, eyes falling shut into unconsciousness. No doubt that would teach him a valuable lesson about his foolish actions.


    With that handled, Avaman turned his attention to his other two opponents. Since he¡¯d sent Blaine and del Sed flying off, they¡¯d concealed themselves in the forest, no doubt waiting for an opening they could take advantage of.


    Avaman sighed. Such busywork. Well, if that was how they wanted to do things¡­ he had no problems hunting them down.


    With a blast of air from his feet, Avaman launched himself into the darkness of the woods -- and the games began.


    "So!" said the Supreme, that sickening grin covering his face. "Let¡¯s talk!"


    Every single Executioner lay on the ground, utterly ruined by the incomprehensible move the Supreme had just pulled off. Skipper had known the man wasn¡¯t stupid, of course, but he¡¯d assumed he¡¯d only have to really deal with one ability at a time. He¡¯d underestimated the insane shit the man could pull off with combinations of those abilities.


    Now he¡¯d lost one of his biggest resources. He¡¯d been under no illusions that the Executioners could actually kill the Supreme, but the distraction and cover they¡¯d provided had been invaluable. Now he was on his own. Now he had the undivided attention of the man who was like god.


    Skipper wheezed, wiping some of the blood from his face with a shaking hand. Being pushed into that mountain had really done a number on him. No doubt he needed medical attention. He wouldn¡¯t get any.


    "I got nothing to talk about with you," he whispered, voice tempered by Aether, knowing the Supreme would hear him all the same.


    The Supreme¡¯s grin didn¡¯t fade. Skipper could see it clearly, even from this distance.


    "Sure we do," the Supreme replied cheerily, his voice echoing over the mountainside. "You said something that worried me earlier, Esmerelda --"


    "It¡¯s Skipper."


    "Whatever. Anyway, you said something that worried me. You said you weren¡¯t having fun. What¡¯s up, man? Something wrong? Let¡¯s clear this up before we keep going, Zack."


    Skipper¡¯s blood boiled. Every single word the Supreme had just said was utterly genuine -- he really was concerned that Skipper wasn¡¯t enjoying this. Maniac. Monster. This was all just a game to him, a fun diversion. Did he understand how many people had died to power the blasts he was being struck with?


    Still, he needed time to recover. If he could keep the Supreme talking for a little while, that was good.


    Skipper rose to his feet as he replied, green wings buzzing in the air behind him. "I¡¯m not like you. I don¡¯t do shit like this for the sake of it."


    The Supreme laughed heartily, the noise resounding through the devastation. "Oh, come on," he wiped a tear from his eye as the laughter trailed off. "We both know that ain¡¯t true."


    "It¡¯s the truth," Skipper insisted.


    "Oh yeah?" the Supreme smirked, cocking his head. "Then why are we fighting, my man?"


    Finally. The rage that Skipper had cultivated over decades spilled out through his mouth, his body shaking as he took a single -- and furious -- step forward.


    "Because you¡¯re evil," Skipper hissed. "Because you¡¯re brutal. Because you¡¯re a fucking dictator, because you¡¯re the head of a fucking fascist empire, and because you don¡¯t even give a fucking shit about any of it! You¡¯re nothing! LOOK AT YOU! YOU¡¯RE NOTHING BUT BULLSHIT!"


    By the time Skipper finished, he was screaming, his Aether-infused voice tearing apart the ground around him. He panted for breath, saliva falling from his mouth and steaming from the sheer force of his power.


    The Supreme stared at him, long and hard, utterly expressionless. His golden light flickered silently around him. The entire world seemed to be holding its breath, awaiting the response of its master.


    He sighed.


    "Seriously?" he said. "It¡¯s some political thing?"


    Fury killed despair.


    "HEARTBEAT SHOTGUN!" Skipper roared -- launching himself at the Supreme faster than ever before, his emerald Aether tearing through the air.


    In the instant before he struck, he heard the Supreme speak¡­


    "That¡¯s kinda pissed me off a little."


    ¡­and the world ripped itself open.


    Yakob del Sed had returned to their rightful place, their throat clutched in Avaman¡¯s hand. Avaman¡¯s boot pressed down against the back of Ruth Blaine¡¯s head, forcing her face down into the mud. His purple cloak billowed in the wind behind him, a flag for his victory.


    It had taken him about a minute to corner and subdue them -- a disgracefully long time. He¡¯d have to eliminate all witnesses to it.


    All in good time.


    "Speak." Avaman demanded. "Where is Skipper?"


    "Fuck¡­ you¡­"


    Even with her face down in the dirt, the resistance in Blaine¡¯s voice went unchanged. If nothing else, Avaman had to give her that. Skipper trained his dogs well.


    "Why follow a fool like that?" Avaman sneered. "A man defined by failure. He failed before, and he¡¯ll fail now. He isn¡¯t worth it. He isn¡¯t worth your devotion."


    "You don¡¯t know anything¡­" Ruth growled.


    He pressed her face into the dirt further, snarling as he leaned in. "He isn¡¯t worth any of it. Any of this. Why does everyone care so much about that idiot? What does the Supreme see in him? He¡¯s nothing. It¡¯s not f¡­ it¡¯s ridiculous. He¡¯s nothing! Nothing at all!"


    It was true. It was true! Avaman had been here the whole time. Avaman had been faithful, had accumulated victory after victory, yet had earned not even a glance from God -- and Skipper could just come in, speak a few impotent words, and earn His undivided attention?!


    It wasn¡¯t fair. It wasn¡¯t fair!


    "You¡¯ve been wounded," Avaman observed, voice warped as his volume overpowered the modulator. "It¡¯d be the simplest thing in the world to slip some air in through your cuts, hook it under your skin, and flay you here and now." He narrowed his eyes. "Where. Is. Skipper?"


    Silence. Well¡­ threats had to be followed up on. Avaman raised the finger of his free hand and began guiding the air, spiraling it down towards the scratch on Ruth Blaine¡¯s face¡­


    Lengthwise Guillotine.


    Danger. Imminent death.


    Avaman¡¯s battle experience screamed at him from the back of his brain, and he immediately released his quarry, focusing instead on defense. Whirlwind Fortress was erected around him, just barely managing to deflect the attack that had been heading for his midsection.


    He hadn¡¯t been the only target. The attack had sliced through the entire forest, severing through every single tree in the area and sending them falling down onto the ground. Ruth Blaine had only been saved because she¡¯d been down on the floor, and Yakob del Sed had only been saved because they¡¯d been held up in the air.


    Anything unprotected would have been sliced through like butter. It was an attack that Avaman recognised. It was a technique that Avaman recognised. More than anything¡­ the length of string that had fallen down to the ground¡­ that Avaman recognised most of all.


    Gritting his teeth, Avaman looked up -- and saw that damnable man standing aloft on a floating ball of string. Rainbow Aether crackled around him. His long black hair billowed in the wind. As per usual, he was wearing an ensemble that disgraced his office: a pair of baggy shorts and an open jacket, his bare chest visible beneath it.


    "What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing, Wu Ming?"


    The First Contender glared up at the Fourth.


    "Yo, Avaman!" Wu Ming raised a casual hand, grinning cheekily. "I¡¯ve been mulling some stuff over and, uh, yeah¡­ think I¡¯m gonna turn traitor. That cool with you, my best friend?"


    Avaman¡¯s eye twitched.

 Chapter 311:11.38: War for the Worlds (Part 3)

    Ah, man¡­


    As the green star descended upon the Supreme, he raised his massive hand and spoke. This time, he didn¡¯t smile.


    "Excel Surge -- Black Saturn."


    That was stupid, Esmerelda, rushing in like that, but that¡¯s what happens when you convince yourself of bullshit. You get all pissed off when someone calls you out on it. Believe me¡­ I know, man. I get it.


    So it¡¯s up to me to teach you a lesson.


    Black Saturn was an ability that the Supreme didn¡¯t like to bring out much. It had been the ability of his mentor, a man he didn¡¯t care to give too much thought to. He had to admit, though¡­ it was a damn good ability.


    Esmerelda, right on the verge of attacking, seemed to realize his mistake -- and tried to change course, blasting himself backwards. Too late. Momentum and fate had already betrayed him. The obsidian sphere of Black Saturn, like a three-dimensional shadow, had already appeared in his inevitable path.


    Black Saturn was a simple ability, even once it was enhanced by Excel Surge. It appeared, targeted the area directly in front of itself, pulled in space¡­


    ¡­and obliterated it.


    Hope you like it, Esmerelda. It¡¯s a gift from me to you.


    As Black Saturn activated, dragging in dirt, stone and man, there was no sound. No bang, no boom, no scream. As far as the Supreme knew, not even sound could escape Yoden¡¯s ability. The whole world had no choice but to put a finger to its lips.


    This better not kill you, the Supreme grimly thought, as Black Saturn drew breath. Don¡¯t you dare die.


    And for a moment, as light was dragged forth, everything went dark.


    He¡¯d been stupid.


    Skipper had understood that the moment he¡¯d launched off. He¡¯d told himself a thousand times in this fight that getting close to the Supreme without a plan would be a fatal mistake. He¡¯d lost his backup, he¡¯d lost his distractions, and as if that wasn¡¯t enough he¡¯d jumped into the lion¡¯s jaws by his own volition.


    And why? Because of a few careless words from the man he was here to kill. What a joke.


    Standing before him, standing before the Supreme, Skipper felt just as he did back then. A stupid kid, hoping that shining giant was something more. Hoping that the ideals he¡¯d been told so much about were more than just fantasies.


    Endlessly, endlessly disappointed.


    Well, he¡¯d learnt his lesson. He¡¯d managed to blast himself away and avoid being killed by that attack, but still he¡¯d learnt his lesson. The teaching had been forced upon him.


    After all, his left leg had been vaporized from the knee down.


    The funny thing was that it didn¡¯t even hurt. The stump itself was burning hot, but that was more because of the blood spilling out than anything else. There wasn¡¯t even a phantom pain; it was like the world had just forgotten he¡¯d ever had a leg in the first place. The erasure was that total.


    Skipper flew up into the sky, emerald wings propelling him, infusing his injury with Aether to slow the bleeding¡­ and still he knew that wouldn¡¯t be nearly enough.


    The Supreme had said, after all, hadn¡¯t he? That he was pissed off. The leisurely carefree battle the Supreme had marched into had come to an end. Now he would be here for real.


    Skipper had seen sloth¡­ and now it was time for wrath.


    Even as a dot down on the ground -- far, far below -- Skipper could see those lips moving. He could see those fatal words being formed.


    "Excel Surge -- Sevenfold Serpent: Tsunami."


    The earth shook as seven massive serpents -- each the size of a skyscraper -- exploded out of the Supreme¡¯s elbow, lashing up into the sky as they pursued Skipper. Each was composed entirely of water, with teeth and quills of ice providing only the most basic illusion of structure. Even without those icicle-teeth, though, just being slammed into by water infused to that degree would surely be fatal.


    Skipper pointed his wings at the first two of the incoming heads. "Heartbeat Shotgun!"


    An ordinary Heartbeat Shotgun wouldn¡¯t be enough to deal with familiars like this, but luckily Heartbeat Freedom was giving Skipper the edge he needed. As the heads of the two serpents popped like bubbles, Skipper launched himself down into the midst of the broiling necks. The two he¡¯d destroyed would no doubt regenerate, so his best course of action would be to force the Supreme to switch to another ability.


    Avoiding the snaps and massive bites of the remaining serpents, Skipper reached the point where their aquatic necks converged¡­


    ¡­and found the wreckage of an Executioner there instead, posed like a mannequin, arm raised up in the air.


    Skipper¡¯s heart sank. This was the trick he¡¯d just used against the Supreme a few minutes ago -- attaching his ability to an automatic so he could use it as a decoy. Was that how much the Supreme¡¯s comments had rattled him? Enough that he could be fooled so easily?


    Mistakes after mistakes, and none of them he could afford.


    Skipper knew the attack would come before it even happened, but it was far too late to do anything about it. With a mighty splash, the Supreme burst out of the body of one of the serpents -- where he¡¯d been wading, concealed -- and slammed into Skipper, seizing him in a vicious hold and pulling him close. They were face to face, only inches apart, and Skipper could feel the Supreme¡¯s volcanic breath. His face was stretched into a grin without mirth, rage boiling in his eyes¡­ and Skipper was sure the Supreme could see exactly the same.


    "Admit it," the Supreme snarled. "You¡¯re just like me. You¡¯re here for the thrill of it. There¡¯s nothing else."


    "Fuck you," Skipper hissed. "We¡¯re nothing alike."


    As the two of them fell through the sky, locked in each other¡¯s grip, the Supreme laughed. "Oh yeah?" he demanded, thrusting his palm towards Skipper¡¯s face. "Heartbeat --"


    "-- Shotgun!" Skipper finished.


    The attack struck at the Supreme¡¯s face, but Skipper had chosen his angle well. The Shotgun blasted right past the stump of Skipper¡¯s leg as it was fired, sending the blood gushing from it right into the Supreme¡¯s eyes and blinding him. The Supreme¡¯s chant was cut off, and the fist he swung instead went wide, barely missing Skipper¡¯s face.


    This wasn¡¯t over. He still had a chance. So long as he was alive, he still had a chance!


    Still held tight in the Supreme¡¯s grip, Skipper lunged forward as his enemy opened his mouth to speak -- and rammed his mechanical hand into that mouth. Steel claws forced their way down the Supreme¡¯s throat, even as he choked on them, even as the blood evaporated from his eyes, revealing his furious gaze once more. The moment those eyes could see again, Skipper offered them a cocky grin.


    Heartbeat Shotgun! Heartbeat Shotgun! Heartbeat Shotgun! Heartbeat Shotgun!


    It didn¡¯t matter how strong you were. If someone set off a missile inside your throat, you were going to damn well feel it. The Supreme wheezed as the blasts fired directly into his body one after another -- bang, bang, bang, bang -- blood oozing up out of his throat and coating Skipper¡¯s fingers. The Supreme¡¯s hand lashed out, seizing Skipper¡¯s forearm and slowly pulling it out of his mouth.


    To hell with that. He could do this. He could! Skipper screamed in exertion as he poured his Aether into his prosthetic, overpowering the Supreme for a single moment as he forced his hand in further.


    The Supreme wasn¡¯t using that Earthsculpt ability right now -- he was still controlling the serpents, but their size made them unable to strike at them so far below. If he could silence the Supreme again, it would be permanent. He still had a chance.


    "Un¡­" the Supreme choked out incoherently. "...ur¡­"


    Skipper¡¯s eyes widened. Those weren¡¯t just noises.


    The massive club Un-Ur appeared in the Supreme¡¯s free hand in a flash of golden Aether -- and without hesitation, he slammed it into Skipper¡¯s midsection, sending him flying off. The hand of Skipper¡¯s prosthetic snapped off in the process, and the Supreme spat it out -- along with a copious amount of blood -- as he watched Skipper¡¯s body crash through the water wall of one of the collapsing serpents and vanish from sight. As the Supreme had switched ability, the serpents were losing their form¡­ but the water they were made from wasn¡¯t going anywhere.


    Unsteady on his feet for the first time in decades, the Supreme spread his arms wide¡­ and let a brand new ocean smash over him.


    Six Years Ago¡­


    The throne room was in ruins. Strings stretched from corner to corner like massive, multicolored spiderwebs. Miniature tornadoes spun wildly around the borders of the conflict, tearing apart anything they came in contact with. The only thing truly intact was the throne itself¡­


    ¡­and, of course, the man sitting in it.


    Avaman panted for breath, glaring at the intruder who¡¯d forced his way onto the Shesha. The shattered remains of his mask lay at his feet. Some distant instinct told him to cover his face, to hide his shame, but he ignored it.


    With death lingering in the air like this, dividing his attention would be fatal.


    His opponent didn¡¯t look much better. The man who¡¯d called himself Wu Ming was covered in cuts and gashes -- and those he¡¯d stitched shut were slowly dribbling blood. Even with his horrific injuries, though, that sly grin on his face went unchanged. Irritating. Truly irritating.


    Someone would die soon. That much was certain. They had reached the climax of this confrontation.


    Avaman took a step forward -- and the unthinkable happened.


    "Stop¡­" said God.


    His voice -- unused for years -- was soft, so soft it was tempting for Avaman to think he had imagined it. It could have been overpowered by the slightest breeze¡­ and yet, it commanded the world. Avaman looked up at his master.


    "My Supreme?" he whispered, uncomprehending. Surely he had misunderstood. Surely he had misheard. "This man is an intruder and an assassin, unworthy of your time and attention. Surely you don¡¯t mean to¡­"


    God¡¯s gaze slid over to Avaman -- and in those dull blue pupils, he saw the slightest glimmer of disdain. Avaman could have killed himself there and then.


    "He¡¯s¡­ interesting¡­"


    God needed no more reason than that, and Avaman instantly dropped into a bow of supplication. Wu Ming, across from him, just scratched at the back of his head, laughing -- with that idiotic and arrogant grin on his face. God had just personally shown him mercy, and he was acting like he was entitled to it. Disgusting. Disreputable.


    Even as he bowed, Avaman glared at his new colleague. Somehow, someday, he¡¯d tear that grin away.


    Wu Ming grinned.


    He stood up in the air, atop that floating ball of yarn, with further lengths of string dangling from the tips of his fingers. Rainbow Aether crackled around him as he waggled his eyebrows, looking directly at Avaman. Even now, the mockery.


    Avaman sneered up at his adversary, keeping tight hold of his two prisoners -- del Sed in his hand and Blaine under his foot.


    "I always knew you were scum," he declared. "How long have you been on their side, Wu Ming? Since the beginning?"


    Yes, that would make sense. He¡¯d infiltrated the Contenders for the purpose of this battle now -- betraying the Supremacy at the perfect moment to throw their forces into chaos. If nothing else, he¡¯d chosen his opportunity well.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    For a few seconds, there was no reply.


    Avaman frowned. That is it, right?


    As if considering the question for the very first time, Wu Ming put a finger to his chin. "Well¡­" he dragged out the word, eyes cast up to the sky. "I guess I betrayed you guys around seven minutes ago? That was when I got bored of being on the winning side."


    Anger spiked through Avaman¡¯s brain, and his grip on del Sed¡¯s voice tightened. "You betrayed the Supremacy¡­" he hissed. "...on a whim?"


    "Well, I became a Contender on a whim¡­" Wu Ming grinned cheekily. "So, yeah, I guess."


    Avaman blinked.


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    "I see."


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    Avaman fired attacks from every inch of his body, each of them spearing into the sky as they pursued Ming with a vengeance. He lost hold of del Sed in the process, of course, and Blaine shot out from under his boot -- but that was fine. They were no longer relevant. The only thing that mattered was that these hundred shots hit their single target.


    Right now, every last bit of Avaman¡¯s being was focused on killing this clown.


    In the moment before his streaking stars could strike Ming, however, something absurd occurred. Of course it did.


    The strings that surrounded Wu Ming¡¯s body converged upon him, wrapping him up in a kaleidoscopic cocoon in the instant before the Crossbows struck. As the attacks buffeted against the cocoon, Avaman heard muffled words from within it -- some inane ability name, most likely -- and then, a moment later, it exploded outwards again.


    Wu Ming had changed appearance. Pink butterfly wings fluttered from his back, twinkling scales drifting down from them, and a pair of tiny black eyes blinked beneath his ordinary ones. On a whim, he had utterly changed his biology, turning into a Scurrant. Then again, he¡¯d said, hadn¡¯t he? He lived his life based on whims. He¡¯d die from one too.


    Ming waggled his eyebrows as Avaman glared up at him. "DNA strings, right?"


    Avaman did not reply. He would not entertain such nonsense. With a burst of wind, he launched himself up off the ground and floated across from Wu Ming, the two of them circling each other in the sky.


    He¡¯d have preferred not to invest too much of himself in a battle before he¡¯d even found God, but¡­ Avaman had to admit this was not an opponent he could take lightly.


    Calmly, he extended his hand -- as if to grip something invisible -- and spoke: "Maelstrom Job."


    The weapon appeared in a flash of Aether like lightning.


    He didn¡¯t often bring out this Aether Armament. It was nearly nine feet long in total, dwarfing its master, a thin spear bolstered into something more like a jousting lance by the restrained tornado that raged around it. With a single thrust of Maelstrom Job, a thousand microcurrents would systematically tear apart whatever they came in contact with.


    Wu Ming whistled as his eyes scanned the lance. "Ooh," he said. "You¡¯re bringing out that old thing?"


    "Your face is so repulsive," Avaman explained. "I have to be sure to destroy every last bit of it."


    Despite the insult and the threat, Wu Ming just licked his lips. "Oh, you know just what to say." His twin gazes blinked out of sequence.


    Avaman narrowed his eyes. "Deviant."


    "Tease," Wu Ming grinned.


    With a roar of fury -- not exertion, for the weapon was light as a feather -- Avaman thrust Maelstrom Job toward Wu Ming. The blast of air that came forth was tremendous, the size and speed of an incoming train -- and where it collided with the ground, it looked as though a massive beast had dragged its claw along the earth.


    Wu Ming was not pulverised, though. As the dust cleared, Avaman saw that Ming was still in his original location. He¡¯d woven his strings into a thick blanket that he¡¯d held out in front of him as a shield. The sheet was frayed and battered, but it had still held.


    A half-assed ability, made on a whim, had blocked Maelstrom Job. Avaman¡¯s blood boiled.


    "He¡¯s¡­ interesting¡­"


    On a whim. On a whim. On a whim on a whim on a whim on a whim on a whim. Avaman had spent his entire existence struggling for glory and accolades, and all Wu Ming and Skipper had to do was want them?! It didn¡¯t make sense! It wasn¡¯t fair!


    Wu Ming poked his head out from behind the curtain, still grinning despite the countless tiny scratches covering his face. "Like it?" he said. "I call it Whirlwind Greatshie --"


    "Don¡¯t call it that!" Avaman screamed.


    This time, Avaman slammed his weapon down onto Ming directly¡­ and that was enough to spike him down into the ground.


    Waves crashed as the water that had previously formed the Sevenfold Serpents surged across the ground. The pit the battle had gradually produced was well on its way to becoming a lake.


    The Supreme broke through the surface of the water with a gasp, floating in place as he kept his head up. Blood dribbled out of his mouth as he choked out the words: "Excel Surge¡­ Seal of Fortune¡­ Shangri-la¡­"


    As the healing field began to form, there was a tremendous crash -- and Esmerelda launched himself out of one of the falling geysers, heading straight for the Supreme.


    It made sense. He¡¯d managed to inflict substantial damage on the Supreme by attacking the inside of his body. If the Supreme healed once more, he¡¯d be right back at square one.


    So this was his last chance.


    His speed was incredible, enough to make a bullet blush. He¡¯d reach the Supreme before he could finish healing -- and, at this distance, there was no time to switch to a different ability. He didn¡¯t have the freedom for a single stray syllable.


    Focused into a beam, this ability had been able to turn dust into a mass of flesh. He¡¯d have to trust that principle would hold.


    As the Supreme swung around to meet the incoming Esmerelda, he crushed the Seal into a space a centimetre tall and a centimetre wide, and set the healing point to follow his index finger. Esmerelda had changed in the few seconds he¡¯d been out of sight -- he¡¯d reallocated most of his feathers to attach to the stump of his leg and the ruins of his arm, effectively serving as rudimentary prosthetics.


    It was good thinking¡­ which made this whole thing so much more aggravating. How could he not see that was what he was here for?!


    As Esmerelda came into range -- hands extended for a pair of Heartbeat Shotguns -- the Supreme swung his finger at him like a sword, Shangri-la trailing after it.


    They hit each other at the same time.


    As the pair of Shotguns slammed into the Supreme¡¯s shoulder, he heard a dull crunch, and felt his right arm go limp. Broken, no doubt, and needing to be healed. The Supreme¡¯s face twisted in pain, but he made no sound. Pain was an old friend, one he hadn¡¯t met with in a long time -- he was glad of the reunion.


    The result of the Supreme¡¯s attack was much more interesting to look at.


    Where the Seal had scraped past Esmeralda, a massive growth of flesh had erupted, covered in incoherent eyes and tears and teeth as it took up most of the man¡¯s shoulder. It was like he¡¯d tried to grow a second head, face stretched out to fit a shape not suited to it. Zachariah wobbled in the air as he fired a Shotgun to retreat, his centre of gravity thrown off by the new addition.


    That wasn¡¯t a blunder the Supreme could permit. He kicked his feet in the water to launch himself towards Esmerelda, raising his finger for another attack --


    -- when Esmerelda popped his mouth open. There, resting on his tongue -- quill pointing directly at the Supreme -- was a single emerald feather.


    Heartbeat Bayonet.


    The screech of the attack was loud, but the Supreme was more surprised by the effect. This attack had been planned in advance, surely, otherwise Esmeralda wouldn¡¯t have known to aim for that finger. The Supreme¡¯s grin widened as he watched his own severed finger plop down into the water, blood painting the liquid around it.


    Nice move.


    Still, it didn¡¯t stop the Supreme¡¯s advance. He seized Esmerelda by his remaining arm before he could blast off again, his uproarious laughter sending ripples through the ocean below them.


    "That¡¯s good! That¡¯s real damn good, Esmerelda! Now you¡¯re getting it!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re not like me when you¡¯re having so much fun, man!"


    Esmerelda opened his mouth to lie to them both once more, but the Supreme just hurled him towards the mountain with a swing of his hand. As a reward for that wonderful attack, he¡¯d hold off on healing for the moment, but that didn¡¯t mean he wanted to listen to bullshit.


    He¡¯d read Esmerelda¡¯s file, shortly after he¡¯d learnt the man had a file. Taldan, the Cradle, the Truemeet¡­ everywhere this man went, the world exploded around him. Everywhere this man went, battle followed.


    These were not the actions of a man who disliked conflict. These were not the actions of a man focused on high-and-mighty ideals. These were the glories of a fighter! Just like him!


    The Supreme grinned. He¡¯d show him something cool.


    "Excel Surge -- Earthsculpt Uriel." sea??h th§× N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As Esmerelda flew end-over-end towards the side of the mountain, the Supreme erected a wall around himself, draining out the water in his immediate vicinity. Then, he got to work.


    The way he¡¯d gotten out of the tongue dilemma had inspired him. What mattered to his ability wasn¡¯t that he spoke the words, but that he expressed them into the world. Using an instrument that produced the necessary sounds had been just fine. Maybe even writing them down would work, but he wouldn¡¯t test that right now.


    An expansion of his previous concept. A tube of stone he could put into his mouth -- a tube that split into ten branches, each terminating into another replica of his own head, the only difference between them being the minor variations of their innards.


    As Esmerelda slammed into the side of the mountain, sending rocks cascading down, the Supreme granted his structure air¡­


    ¡­and the heads spoke, incoherent as they talked over each other.


    "Excel Surge -- Sevenfold Serpent: Inferno!


    "Excel Surge -- Helios¡¯ Stone!"


    "Excel Surge -- Cloud Ten!"


    "Excel Surge -- Blick Winkel!"


    "Excel Surge -- DROWNED World!"


    "Excel Surge -- Quantum King!"


    "Excel Surge -- Nascent Blade!"


    "Excel Surge -- Earthsculpt Uriel!"


    "Excel Surge -- Black Saturn!


    "Excel Surge -- Aetheral Links!"


    The Supreme had originally believed that Aetheral Links -- the ability of the original Commissioner, Feign -- wasn¡¯t a good match for his Badge of Honour. It pulled together the products of different Aether abilities into a single attack, allowing for powerful team techniques. Given that he fought alone, and that he could only use two abilities at a time anyway, the Supreme had thought it unsuited to him.


    These last few minutes had taught him otherwise.


    When he switched abilities, it took about a second for the effects of the ability to dissipate back into his Aether. Normally, that wouldn¡¯t be long enough to take advantage of. But, if he timed his secondary mouths carefully with Earthsculpt Uriel, he could have abilities activate and deactivate so close in succession that they were practically simultaneous.


    Ten abilities brought themselves into the world, and began to get pulled back, in far less than one second.


    Fire and mist. Water and crystal. Earth and void. The Supreme held these opposing forces up above his head as a massive sphere, as big as a starship, the very air vibrating around his newfound apocalypse. He had no doubt that, if left alone, the thing he¡¯d created would eventually just collapse. It wouldn¡¯t have time for that.


    Over many kilometres, the Supreme locked eyes with Zachariah Esmeralda.


    "This will kill you if it hits, you know," he grinned¡­ and hurled the sphere.


    Esmerelda wasn¡¯t stupid, and he wasn¡¯t slow. With his Heartbeat Shotgun, he launched himself up into the sky long before the sphere reached him. That was fine, though. The Supreme hadn¡¯t been aiming for him in the first place.


    The sphere smashed unburdened through the side of the mountain, passing through the stone like a knife through butter. As the Supreme watched, giggling in anticipation, that sphere dug deeper and deeper -- until the mark it had left was nothing more than a pitch-black hole.


    It took only a second for the rumbling to start, and it only lasted a second.


    Boom.


    Like a soft drink shook for too long, the top of the mountain exploded into a shower of fire and magma. The Supreme laughed uproariously as he watched the calamity, the inferno spilling down onto the earth below. That volcano, long dormant, had been awoken by nothing more than his own power. He¡¯d done that!


    The Supreme welcomed it all, arms wide once more. He¡¯d tasted water. Now for the flames!

 Chapter 312:11.39: War for the Worlds (Part 4)

    "Who is that?" Zachariah asked, the young boy looking up in awe through the sea of the crowd.


    He was on the shoulders of his father, hands in his hair, the man¡¯s already impressive height raising him far above anyone else watching. From this position, he could see clearly -- the man walking up the stairs to the throne, golden cape billowing in the wind behind him.


    He could see his glory. He could see his strength.


    "That¡¯s the Supreme, boy," his father said, voice full of pride. Not pride in the boy, necessarily, or himself, or even the Supreme he was looking at -- it was more like this display gave him a sense of pride in all existence. Like all this proved something to him.


    The cityscape of the capitol, layered between ancient and modern, spread out below the floating coliseum. It had been used for the Dawn Contest -- and now, after some repairs, it was being used to crown the victor. Countless additional stands floated through the area around the central construct, so as many people as possible could come to watch this historic moment in person.


    "The Supreme¡­" Zachariah mumbled.


    He couldn¡¯t see the face of the young man from this angle, but he could see that he looked powerful. Perhaps that was the only part that truly mattered.


    Zachariah knew who the Supreme was, of course, and what he represented -- but his father, lost in legend, spoke as if he did not.


    "The Supreme is the very strongest," he whispered, his usually booming voice brought down to a rare hush by the solemnity of the occasion. "The one everyone else must now strive to reach. He¡¯s the one who is like god."


    Those words settled deep into the young boy¡¯s mind -- and as he watched the man sit the throne, his eyes twinkled with admiration. When the applause began, ringing out across the galaxy, Zachariah clapped as loudly and as long as any other.


    Until his hands hurt.


    Until his hands bled.


    Skipper floated in a sea of darkness. His eyes weren¡¯t closed, for right now he didn¡¯t have eyes. He didn¡¯t feel pain, for right now he didn¡¯t have a body. All he had was consciousnesses -- and even then, only barely so.


    He just floated and existed.


    The obvious question occurred. Had he died? The last thing he remembered, the Supreme had just triggered the eruption of the dormant volcano they¡¯d been fighting on. It wouldn¡¯t have been a surprise if that had killed him¡­ but he doubted it. This didn¡¯t feel like an afterlife. Any afterlife of his would be far worse than this.


    A dream, then. A moment of unconsciousness. Perhaps a chunk of rock had struck him, propelled by the explosion, or perhaps the shockwave of the Supreme¡¯s attack had done it all by itself.


    Either way, it wasn¡¯t that bad of a feeling. It felt like years since he¡¯d just closed his eyes. A guy could get used to this.


    No.


    Skipper pulled himself upwards, resisting the dark crawling over him. He was thinking. More than anything, he needed to keep thinking. If he just lay around snoozing, he might as well be dead already. Even if the Supreme didn¡¯t kill him personally, the mess he¡¯d turned the world into would surely finish the job.


    That man was still waiting for him. He needed to beat him. He needed to --


    You¡¯re just like me. Admit it.


    Yes, that was what the Supreme had been saying, wasn¡¯t it? That Skipper was here for the same reason as him. Not for high ideals, or a greater good -- but to test his strength or feel alive, whatever you wanted to call it.


    That wasn¡¯t true¡­ was it? He wasn¡¯t lying to himself¡­ was he?


    There was a flash of green -- and when it cleared, he could see himself once more, locked in battle against the Supreme, blasting Heartbeat Shotguns into his body. This was from just a minute or two ago. He hadn¡¯t realized at the time, but¡­


    On his own face, mirroring his opponent, was a massive and exhilarated grin. In that moment, looking between him and the Supreme, it was hard to tell the difference. Was he right, then?


    Was all of this just a vanity project?


    Was all of this just¡­ futile?


    He¡¯d brought people here, convinced and blackmailed and manipulated them¡­ for a war that, deep down, he knew they¡¯d never had a chance of winning. To have their dying screams power his strikes, and their clashing blades raise his wings. The only battle that mattered was right here, right now. Him against the Supreme. But surely the Supreme would say the same.


    All lip service. All bullshit. All¡­


    A flash of green.


    A Skipper of days past, lying in that hospital bed, Dragan standing over him. That man was talking to Dragan, but his gaze was fixed on the present Skipper. Those eyes were disapproving.


    "I want¡­" he reminded.


    A flash of green.


    A Skipper of days past, crawling through the foggy woods. A young man, his memories suddenly returning in bits and pieces, tearing a temporary identity apart in the process. Clutching a tree, he gasped for breath -- and remembered himself. Remembered his resolve.


    "I want¡­" he reminded.


    A flash of green.


    Skipper, standing in that hangar on Caelus Breck, pointing his arm towards the one attacking Dragan Hadrien. A boy he¡¯d barely known. A boy he¡¯d dragged into this mess. A boy betrayed by the Supremacy he¡¯d served¡­


    ¡­just as Skipper once had been.


    Back then, he¡¯d gone overboard. The blast he¡¯d fired had been so strong that it had obliterated the arm it had come out of. He hadn¡¯t known to protect his body, but that only made sense. It had been the first time he¡¯d ever used Heartbeat Freedom. The point at which his eyes -- over many months -- had begun to turn from cold grey to vibrant green.


    An Aether tic he hadn¡¯t even realized he¡¯d had until he was staring in the mirror at a man come back to life. That man stared back at him.


    "I want¡­" said a thousand broken men, over a thousand broken years. "I want¡­"


    "I want¡­" Skipper muttered -- and, with that, he opened his eyes.


    Ruth looked up at the sky, eyes wide and uncomprehending, trying to understand what she was looking at.


    It was impossible. The two Contenders were far too fast for that -- their speed was such that the concept of afterimages did not even apply. All she could see of their clash was an indiscriminate blur.


    Oh, she could feel it, though. With each collision, mighty gusts of air pressure swept over the ground -- nearly sending Ruth flying if not for the Skeletal claws she¡¯d buried in the dirt before her. She held Bruno and Serena under her free arm, their own faces just as awestruck by the battle raging above them.


    "Is this real?" Serena muttered, as the Fourth Contender battled the First. "Can we trust him?" Sear?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Thump.


    "Of course not," Wu Ming said, standing behind them. "I just said I was a traitor. Are you stupid?"


    Ruth nearly jumped out of her skin. Before she could even realize that the chaos above her had halted, Wu Ming had dropped out of the sky and landed right behind the two of them. She hadn¡¯t even noticed his presence until he¡¯d spoken.


    He¡¯d lost the Scurrant traits his cocoon ability had given him, and his skin was slick with sweat, but he was grinning all the same. Ruth could see a flame of passion blazing deep in those dark eyes.


    So this was a Contender. Ruth had understood they were strong, but these two seemed to be in an entirely different league. The Supreme was even stronger than this? A tendril of fear -- not for herself, but for Skipper -- crawled through her.


    Wu Ming dropped to his knees, raising a conspiratorial finger to his lips. "Gave old sourpuss the slip for a second there. He¡¯ll find me soon. Excuse me one-a sec¡­ Verdant Greens."


    He moved Ruth out of the way with one hand -- and then the strings on his other hand speared down into the earth. As Ruth and Serena watched, the landscape around them began to change, as if the battle had never happened at all. Fresh grass forced its way up out of the soil. The burns fell away from the trees like snakes shedding skin, and they began to grow once more -- perhaps even more voraciously. In the span of a few seconds, the wasteland was teeming with life, a thick forest as far as the eye could see.


    "How did you do that?" Serena whispered, as Wu Ming pulled his hand free of the dirt.


    Again, he looked at her as if the question had been something ridiculous. "With Aether," he said simply.


    "Be serious," Ruth demanded, leaning in closer, her voice low. "Can we trust you? You¡¯re not just gonna betray us too, right?"


    Ming blinked, his face utterly carefree -- unnaturally carefree. "Well," he said, as if considering it for the first time. "You can trust that I¡¯ll fight this guy, since that¡¯s something I¡¯ve wanted to do for a while. It¡¯s pretty much the main reason I¡¯ve turned traitor here. As for afterwards? Stabbing you guys in the back would be a zero out of ten move, but I¡¯d say there are circumstances where I¡¯d do it."


    A normal person would have said ¡¯no¡¯ and left it at that. Ruth leaned in further, desperation trickling into her tone. "But we can trust you right now, right?"


    "Sure," Ming nodded. "Right now."


    Good enough.


    Ruth reached out, placing a hand on Wu Ming¡¯s shoulder. He glanced at it curiously. Ignoring his confused gaze, Ruth took a deep breath, and spoke: "Skeletal --"


    "Don¡¯t you run from me, Wu Ming!" Avaman screamed.


    The attack slammed into the part of the forest they¡¯d been hiding in -- but before the winds could tear them apart, Ruth felt herself and Serena be thrown aside by Wu Ming¡¯s timely push. The two of them rolled to a stop just outside the blast radius, but Ming himself was buffeted by the winds, the area he¡¯d been standing in quickly becoming incomprehensible as it was shredded apart.


    Ruth watched, mouth agape, as coursing winds rushed so quickly they nearly looked like a solid white object¡­


    ¡­with a strange red glow in the middle.


    "Skeletal Set, huh?" Wu Ming¡¯s voice emerged clearly from the blast zone, his casual tone overpowering the winds of Maelstrom Job. "Nice, nice. I dig it. A seven outta ten, I¡¯d say, or maybe an eight. I¡¯ll have to take it for a spin before I say for sure."


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The winds exploded outwards as Wu Ming swept his claws, and Ruth was forced to seize hold of one of the new trees to stop herself and Serena from being blown away. It was only when the gusts finally stopped that she could look up and understand what she was seeing.


    Wu Ming was wearing her Skeletal Set as he looked up at Avaman in the sky. It looked different from usual -- the mask fit fine but the chestplate wasn¡¯t quite his size. Usually, Ruth could adjust it for whoever¡¯d be wearing it, but everything had happened so quickly¡­


    The claws, at any rate, were sharp. Wu Ming scraped them together, and the resultant shower of sparks went far beyond mere confirmation. She heard the lightest muffled chuckle from behind the skull.


    "Hand-me-downs, Wu Ming?" Avaman sneered, floating in the sky as if he were standing on thin air. "Is that what you¡¯ve been reduced to?"


    "Hey, what can I say?" Ming laughed, doing a few squats on the spot. "I¡¯m a fashionista. You wanna try it?"


    "Not particularly."


    And, without further ado, Avaman pointed Maelstrom Job down at Wu Ming once more. The air blasted out -- but did not strike true. Ming had already moved long ago.


    If he¡¯d been fast before, it was nothing compared to his speed with the Skeletal Set. A grey blur bounced from tree to tree, each impact splintering wood as it ascended up towards Avaman¡¯s position. The First Contender¡¯s head whipped around as he tried in vain to find his opponent -- but always slow, always just a little too slow.


    With a snarl, Avaman dispelled his Aether Armament -- even weightless as it was, it would not suffice to keep up with Ming¡¯s new speed. Instead, he sent out another barrage of Whirlwind Crossbows, the homing projectiles trailing after Ming as he circled his opponent. Before long, though, his speed overwhelmed them -- and they ended up crashing into each other instead as they tried to pursue.


    With a wave of his hand, Avaman unleashed a flurry of slashes that sliced Wu Ming apart limb from limb -- but before blood could even begin to pour, lengths of string had burst out from the stumps and pulled the limbs back into place. Stitches bound the wounds so tightly that there was no sign they¡¯d ever existed, and Wu Ming just kept on fighting like nothing had happened.


    Avaman fired more projectiles, but Wu Ming was too fast for them.


    Avaman swung his sword of wind, but Wu Ming was too fast for it.


    Avaman screamed in fury, and caused the very air around him to explode¡­ but Wu Ming was too fast for it.


    And finally, Wu Ming struck true. With a resounding crack, that gauntleted fist of his slammed directly into Avaman¡¯s face. The mask shattered as Avaman was sent crashing down into the ground, a shockwave of dust and dirt flying out from the resultant crater. Ruth and Serena, right on the edge of the impact zone, looked down at the First Contender in shock.


    Ruth shuddered.


    Skipper had told them after Avaman¡¯s attack¡­ but hearing about it and seeing it for herself were two entirely different things. As Avaman picked himself up from the ground, his ragged cloak billowing around him, she could see his face. She could see Skipper¡¯s face.


    Younger, perhaps, and twisted by a fury that she¡¯d never seen on the man himself¡­ but that was the face of the person she looked up to more than anything.


    Avaman seethed as he rose to his feet, one hand holding the side of his face as if to cover his shame, as if he didn¡¯t feel like himself if he wasn¡¯t wearing some kind of mask. He bared his teeth, saliva falling from his lips like a rabid animal.


    "How dare you¡­" he rasped -- Skipper¡¯s voice warped beyond recognition by sheer spite. "How dare you¡­"


    Wu Ming shot down from the sky, kicking off that floating ball of string -- he¡¯d left it there -- and launching himself directly towards Avaman. The killing blow. The coup de grace.


    He¡¯d misjudged it.


    Just before Wu Ming¡¯s rainbow-shining claws could finish him, Avaman raised his free hand up and screamed, voice hoarse.


    "Whirlwind Fortress!"


    It was the ability he¡¯d used to defend himself before -- only this time, that ridiculously strong bubble did not appear around him. It appeared around Wu Ming, acting as a prison as it held him in place. Just like with Ruth, the Skeletal Set¡¯s claws snapped off as they struck the inside of the bubble, and Ming could do nothing but slam futilely against its surface.


    Avaman staggered back from the bubble, turning his hateful gaze -- visible only through the gaps between his fingers -- towards Ruth and Serena.


    "Kill you¡­" he snarled, taking a step forward as he left Ming behind. "Bastards¡­ I¡¯ll kill all of you¡­ don¡¯t look at me¡­"


    Serena hurled one of her invisible swords at Avaman, but he batted it away with a hand -- uncaring that his fingers were sliced up in the process. He ran that same hand down his face once again as he advanced, painting himself with his own blood.


    "He¡¯s interesting¡­?" Avaman ranted to himself. "He¡¯s interesting? No, you¡¯re mistaken. What the fuck are you talking about? I, the most loyal¡­ I, the most faithful¡­ what are you all looking at him for?!" His eyes snapped to Ruth and Serena once more, and his grey pupils were shuddering in exhilaration. "He¡¯s nothing! There¡¯s nothing to look at! He¡¯s not interesting! It¡¯s not fair! It¡¯s not!"


    Ruth took a deep breath. The moment Avaman took another step, she¡¯d recall the Skeletal Set to protect herself. What she could do against this madman, she didn¡¯t know -- but it was do or die time, and she knew she had a preference.


    That moment came before long. Avaman stepped forward, Ruth flared her Aether¡­


    ¡­and there was a loud crack as that bubble of air shattered from the inside.


    This really sucked. Avaman was saying something, something long from the looks of it, and Wu Ming couldn¡¯t even hear it from inside this bubble. What if Avaman was explaining something cool about his ability, or he was about to use some kind of special move?


    Wu Ming was missing it!


    So, how did he get out of here, then? The claws of this armour weren¡¯t strong enough. They were pretty good -- and they had room to grow further -- but right now they just didn¡¯t have the power needed. Avaman had poured way too much Aether into the bubble.


    With his current level of strength, Wu Ming couldn¡¯t break free, but that wasn¡¯t his only problem. From what he could tell, this bubble had only a limited supply of air inside of it. It made sense: this ability had clearly been designed as a defensive measure. Presumably, the limited oxygen supply had been one of the conditions Avaman had enacted in order to increase the strength of the shield. By using it on Wu Ming instead of himself, though, he¡¯d turned that time limit into a deadly attack.


    You saw these kinds of things often -- ¡¯cheats¡¯, using supposed disadvantages in ways that basically defeated the purpose of them. Intentionally inserting loopholes into your ability¡¯s conditions would typically reduce the benefit you got from them, but that was only if you understood those loopholes at the point of realization. If you figured them out afterwards, like Avaman clearly had, it was no sweat.


    Anyway, the gist of things at this point was that Wu Ming needed more strength. This Skeletal Set wasn¡¯t cutting it, but the principle was sound. An external Aether Armament, boosting the abilities of the user. Could he maybe put his own spin on that?


    His strings began to weave together, quickly forming something, the kaleidoscopic fibers turning pitch-black. He had only seconds of air, but Wu Ming felt neither fear or doubt as he worked. It wouldn¡¯t matter if he did, anyway.


    After all, his Aether core was emotion itself.


    Avaman whirled around as his Whirlwind Fortress shattered, gusts of wind flying in every direction.


    "What?!" he cried.


    Wu Ming calmly strode out of his prison, each footstep heavy on the ground. His appearance -- or rather, his attire -- had changed. The Skeletal Set had vanished, replaced by a sheer black blanket that he¡¯d draped over himself, covering his head and upper torso like a poncho, arms and legs visibly sticking out of the ensemble.


    It was like¡­ a bedsheet ghost. Almost comical, if not for the spiraling design of an inhuman skull on Wu Ming¡¯s head and the eerie malevolence that seemed to radiate from the black sheet. As Wu Ming took another step forward, rainbow Aether crackling around his footsteps, he seized the side of the blanket with one hand -- and pulled the skull design taut against his face.


    "Ha-Satan Set," he rasped.


    The world was hell.


    The world was fire.


    The world was smoke.


    Skipper staggered out of the hell, the fire, and the smoke, his body screaming at him -- all the pain he¡¯d long ignored bursting to the forefront. His feathers had assembled into a rudimentary prosthetic at the stump of his leg, allowing him to walk¡­ but it was a slow and ponderous walk. It would be generous to describe it as a stagger.


    The eruption of the volcano had devastated the landscape, far more than any other result of the battle. Rivers of lava spilled down from the peak, incinerating anything they came in contact with and sparking a wildfire that surrounded the area like a moat. The rocks between Skipper¡¯s feet -- foot -- were burning hot. If not for the protection of his Aether, his other leg would surely have melted away¡­ along with the rest of him. The smoke running up into the sky had turned it a vicious pitch black.


    As he¡¯d said¡­ hell.


    Skipper staggered through the burning mist -- the corpse of the previous ocean -- and struggled for breath. Once he got his bearings, he could fly up to the sky again, above all this smoke, where there¡¯d be fresh air. But he was only halfway out of unconsciousness. He needed to come back to himself. He needed to wake up.


    Skipper took a step forward --


    -- and a hand landed on his shoulder.


    The man who was like god towered over him from behind, that presence as if the sun itself had taken notice of him. His face was calm, lids heavy over his eyes as he looked down at Skipper. No matter how calm he might have seemed, though, Skipper knew he could shatter that shoulder with only the slightest exertion.


    "You see now, Zack?" the Supreme muttered, smiling gently. "You see why we¡¯re here? What we¡¯re really fighting for? For this, man. This landscape. The proof we were here. The proof we were alive."


    Skipper looked out over that scenery. This was what he¡¯d leave behind? Fire and ash? And the Supreme was proud of that?


    "You can talk about whatever ideals you want," the Supreme continued. "But deep down¡­ folks like us live to fight. We fight to feel alive. That¡¯s all there is. We don¡¯t even need a reason."


    For a long, long time, the two of them stood in the inferno, flames raging around them. Despite the sounds of hell, the two of them were silent. Twin statues awaiting completion.


    Eventually, though, the Supreme grew tired of waiting for an answer -- as he¡¯d grown tired of everything else. "You get it now, right, Zack?" he prompted. "Don¡¯t talk bullshit anymore. We¡¯re here to fight, right?"


    Slowly, Skipper nodded, his face cast in shadow. "Yeah¡­ I get what you mean. I do live to fight. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s the way I am, or the way I was raised¡­ but yeah. I fight. I live to fight."


    "Right?" the Supreme nodded eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. "So --"


    "But," Skipper continued. "That doesn¡¯t mean I fight for no reason."


    The Supreme blinked. "What? What are you talking about?"


    Skipper chuckled -- laughter forced through smoke and blood and exhaustion, but laughter all the same. He turned his gaze up to the Supreme, his face holding that old cocky grin. Green eyes glinted bright in the darkness.


    I want¡­


    "You gotta be deaf or something, yeah?" he said. "I¡¯ve been saying it over and over again, old man, but I¡¯ll say it one more time just for you." Skipper winked. "I¡¯m going to change the shape of this world."


    The smoke shifted, and the last slivers of sunlight faded away. In the absolute dark, all Skipper could see were the Supreme¡¯s blue eyes glaring down at him. The grin of the man who was like god had vanished. Skipper didn¡¯t expect to see it again anytime soon.


    All there was now was the rage of a beast denied.


    "I see," the Supreme said, voice solemn. "Die, then."


    Like hell he would. The moment those words passed the Supreme¡¯s lips, Skipper whirled around -- feathers moving from his leg to his fist -- and blasted a punch right at the Supreme¡¯s face. It was fast, as fast as Skipper could manage given his current injuries¡­


    ¡­but not quite as fast as sound.


    "Excel Surge," said the Supreme -- and golden Aether illuminated his furious expression in flashes. "Heartbeat Freedom."


    Skipper was blown backwards, down the hill, by the sudden light of a star unleashed. Before he could collapse all the way down, though, he drove his feathered leg into the ground like a stake -- giving him enough stability to keep his position while the blazing sun rose off the ground before him. His hair whipped back as he stared up at the Supreme, eyes widened to their utmost.


    Six golden wings held the Supreme aloft, and that same golden light flowed from his eyes and mouth, so bright that it hurt to look at. His wounds shone, too, all the way down to the stump of his missing finger -- making even those unsightly injuries seem glorious, like badges of office.


    "And for good measure," the Supreme intoned, with a voice that was like God. "EIN SOF."


    Golden Aether flashed again -- so bright and so quick that it was almost white -- and when it had cleared, the Supreme was holding something in his hand. A sword. A rusty, broken, dull sword -- and yet one that inspired more fear than anything Skipper had seen so far today.


    EIN SOF. The Supreme¡¯s personal Aether Armament. The most powerful Aether Armament. The sword that had shattered Dranell.


    Skipper took a deep, hitching breath -- and lowered his body to the ground, ready. He¡¯d passed the point long ago where fear could affect him. The time had come. The last hurdle. The last step.


    Like hell he¡¯d chicken out now. Skipper pointed his remaining hand behind him.


    "Heartbeat Shotgun!" he roared.

 Chapter 313:11.40: War for the Worlds (Part 5)

    Ba¡­


    The world drew breath, rubble and smoke and air flowing into a single point -- around the man that was like God. No, around the sword held in his hand. No, around the tip of that sword, the very very point. The accuracy was automatic and absolute.


    All things collected there. All things were accepted there.


    ¡­dum.


    And all things, in turn, were expelled.


    Every force that the miracle sword, EIN SOF, had drawn in was pushed back out -- amplified to its utmost. The breeze became a cannon. The creak of stone became a flurry of hammer blows. The light became a blinding wave. Everything was brought to its utmost potential as it was released from EIN SOF.


    The enhanced forces rampaged across the landscape, turning what was already a ruin into something unrecognizable as formerly possessing structure. Skipper went flying away, powerless before the indiscriminate power that blasted out from the blade. As he flew, though, as he fought, as he suffered, he considered.


    Capture, amplification, and release¡­ the same kind of ability as Heartbeat Shotgun.


    Ba¡­


    This was not a heart that beat just once, however.


    ¡­dum.


    The forces, already enhanced, were pulled back into the blade -- and then they were enhanced again, their strength incomparable to each previous iteration. The cannon became a missile. The blows of the hammer became strikes of meteors. The blinding wave became a wall of white flame.


    Again, the landscape was brutalized -- but this time Skipper had time enough to retreat. He went as fast as he could, blasting himself with all the strength his Shotguns could muster, and still it was nearly not enough. He barely managed to escape the radius of the attack, and even from that distance the Supreme was little more than a dot.


    Ba¡­


    Each time EIN SOF absorbed what it had just released, the attack would grow several times stronger. How many heartbeats until escape was impossible? How many heartbeats until simply touching the wave of force reduced you to mist? How many heartbeats until the planet itself couldn¡¯t take it anymore?


    How many heartbeats had it taken for Dranell? Skipper didn¡¯t know. He hadn¡¯t been there.


    ¡­dum.


    But, judging from this¡­


    This apocalypse. This explosion. This eruption. This upheaval. This devastation. This destruction. This breakage. This calamity. This brutality. This rhapsody. This horror. This power. This end.


    ¡­it couldn¡¯t have been many.


    As time went on, and Avaman¡¯s fury built, he became more and more confident that this was all a dream. Nothing so preposterous could be happening in real life, after all.


    As Wu Ming charged at him once more, that ridiculous black blanket whipping around his form, Avaman slammed a brutal Whirlwind Greatsword into his head. It had no effect. It wasn¡¯t even that Wu Ming dodged it, like he¡¯d been doing before -- the blow had landed, and it had simply been useless.


    This new ability Wu Ming had unveiled -- this Ha-Satan Set or whatever -- clearly possessed some kind of secret. Ruth Blaine¡¯s Skeletal Set had boosted her strength and speed, and Avaman could sense some of that principle in Ha-Satan, but at the same it felt like there was more. The idiot who called himself Wu Ming wasn¡¯t one for simplicity, after all.


    There¡¯d be a gimmick here.


    Speaking of Ruth Blaine¡­


    As Avaman launched himself upwards to avoid Wu Ming¡¯s charge, Blaine pounced on him, her steel claws bared and aimed for his face. Whirlwind Nail. Before she could even get close, Avaman detonated the air between the two of them -- sending them flying in opposite directions. The winds seized hold of Avaman as he flew, granting him grace and maneuverability, but Blaine simply plummeted down towards the ground in an undignified heap.


    If only that had been enough to rid himself of such an annoyance. Before Blaine could fall on the ground, she landed on some kind of invisible barrier -- and without missing a beat, kicked off it, launching herself at another barrier, and then kicked off that one, and again, and again, until she too was a blur bouncing through the air.


    Those barriers -- no, those shields -- were the work of Yakob del Sed. Unlike Wu Ming and Blaine, del Sed had concealed themselves in the newly lush forest below -- and with his attention divided like this, Avaman didn¡¯t have the freedom to locate them. Their barriers weren¡¯t so strong that Avaman couldn¡¯t break through them, but the additional maneuverability they granted his other opponents made them yet another irritant.


    Yes. Avaman gritted his teeth. Annoyances. They pile up and up¡­


    As Avaman flew gracefully through the air, Wu Ming kicked off a tree, heading straight for him. Unlike his younger companion, Wu Ming did not go for a simple punch or kick. Instead, he thrust his hands forward and declared: "Void Flower!"


    Avaman¡¯s eye twitched.


    Another ability? This man¡¯s ignorance was such that he was capable of flouting even the most basic principles of Aether. Flexibility like that was reserved only for God. Wu Ming dishonored everything with every aspect of his being.


    Strings shot out from Wu Ming¡¯s fingers as projectiles, latching onto the arm Avaman used to block. Upon contact, they wrapped together into plant-like structures within seconds, tiny bubbles growing between their ¡¯petals¡¯ -- larger and larger with each second.


    Avaman was no fool. Immediately, he shredded the protrusions apart with a micro-Whirlwind Greatsword, but as he did so new flowers grew from the scraps, larger and more plentiful. As Avaman blocked Wu Ming¡¯s kick with his other hand, he blasted himself away, holding his infested arm at a distance.


    What effect did these Void Flowers have? Were they just a nuisance, or was something deeper at work? Some kind of poison in those bubbles, perhaps? Avaman¡¯s mind raced, but the answer was simpler than he¡¯d thought.


    He understood the instant he reached for another Whirlwind Greatsword and found it far weaker than he¡¯d expected. These Void Flowers were absorbing the air and storing them into those bubbles before Avaman could use it. If nothing else, Wu Ming understood infusion well -- it was exceedingly difficult to control something that was already saturated with someone else¡¯s Aether.


    With this Void Flower ability, Ming had effectively begun draining away Avaman¡¯s ammunition -- but more than that, worse than that. The air around Avaman was being sucked away at a disturbing speed, the bubbles coating his arm becoming horribly plump¡­ how much further would the speed of absorption increase? Would Avaman even be able to breathe in a few minutes time? Did he even have a few minutes?


    In a battle such as this, between combatants of their level, bold decisions had to be made at a moment¡¯s notice. Destroying the Void Flowers would not work, but there was an alternative method of ridding himself of them. He¡¯d threatened to do it to Ruth Blaine not long ago.


    With a small Whirlwind Greatsword, Avaman opened up a thin gash on the underside of his afflicted arm -- and in that same instant, with all the air he still had available to him, he peeled the skin of that arm away in one single mass. Avaman bared his teeth. The pain was excruciating, but he could take it. He could.


    The bloody skin fell to the ground, landing as a red puddle. He knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to use that arm anymore -- even moving his fingers was agony -- but by degloving himself, he¡¯d successfully peeled away the Void Flowers. All things considered, he was lucky they hadn¡¯t hit him in the face.


    He wasn¡¯t given much in terms of recovery time, either. As Avaman retreated back from Wu Ming, Ruth Blaine leapt off another one of those barriers, clawing at his face as she came into range. A timely dodge and a burst of air repelled her, of course, but it was still too close for comfort.


    This was a bad situation. Ordinarily, Blaine and del Sed would be pests he could easily deal with, but with Wu Ming thrown into the mix they were dangerous indeed. He needed to deal with the former Fourth Contender before anything else.


    What was the secret of the Ha-Satan Set?


    Avaman thought quickly. His Whirlwind Greatsword wasn¡¯t the sort of attack that very many could withstand -- and certainly not without any signs of damage or fatigue. However the defense of that stupid blanket worked, there was sure to be a trick to it. A condition that, in exchange for some demerit, gave him protection. Another gimmick.


    The first step in any experiment was the procurement of the test subject. That was easy enough.


    As Ruth Blaine lunged at him again, a flying ball of claws and steel, Avaman flew above her, leaving his side exposed -- and, just as expected, Wu Ming jumped in for the attack. Battle junkies were a predictable personality type. If you gave them the opportunity for a good hit, they would take it every time.


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    Finely controlled Whirlwind Nails rotated Avaman in the air far faster than his own body could manage, and he was facing Wu Ming in an instant. His hand outstretched, he spoke the words again:


    "Whirlwind Fortress."


    The first time, Wu Ming had been able to smash his way out of this barrier with a punch. The strength he¡¯d demonstrated with that act had been undeniable, but not undefeatable. A punch required a certain level of momentum, of movement, of motion. Avaman would deny him that.


    This Whirlwind Fortress was humanoid -- nearly perfectly sculpted to match Wu Ming¡¯s body, allowing him movement of only centimeters, barely permitting the twitch of a finger. The amount of air provided to the captive was the same -- it was part of the ability -- but at least this way he couldn¡¯t break free so easily.


    With a clench of his fist, Avaman compressed the Fortress, crushing force pressing in on every inch of Wu Ming¡¯s body. Unsurprisingly, it held up. This Ha-Satan Set really wasn¡¯t anything to scoff at. But still¡­ it didn¡¯t feel nearly as durable as before. So that was the secret -- the blanket¡¯s durability increased only at the point of impact, at the very moment it was hit. When it had to protect the entire body at once, it was much less of a threat.


    Ruth Blaine thrust her claws at the back of Avaman¡¯s head, but that was no issue. The slightest smirk tugged at his lips.


    Whirlwind Fortress.


    A second Fortress -- the normal spherical one -- appeared around Avaman, repelling Blaine¡¯s attack. He knew for a fact that she didn¡¯t have the strength to break through this barrier. Besides, this was quite convenient. Each Whirlwind Fortress contained the same amount of air. Even if his own oxygen supply was limited, it was a fact that Wu Ming would suffocate before him.


    Avaman looked his pathetic rival in the eyes and flashed a victorious grin. This was a corpse he¡¯d longed to see for years.


    "I win," he hissed --


    Gemini World.


    -- and a shining blue fist slammed into his face.


    "Sorry," said an ownerless voice. "But I¡¯ve been wanting to punch that face for nearly a year now."


    There was a crunch as Avaman¡¯s nose was broken by the impact, blood pouring from his nostrils as he staggered backwards -- thumping against the edge of the barrier. What the hell had that been?! By the time he¡¯d even noticed he was being punched, the disembodied arm that had done it had already vanished.


    A recorded human body. That had to be it. Avaman had read the files on Skipper¡¯s crew and their abilities. This was Dragan Hadrien, the boy who¡¯d only just learnt Aether -- and he¡¯d managed to get a hit in on Avaman?!


    Inconceivable. Unforgivable.


    "Show yourself, Hadrien!" Avaman roared, stepping forward -- just in time for a vicious kick to collide with the back of his neck.


    Attacked at an unexpected angle, Avaman was forced down onto one knee -- but not knocked down, never knocked down. With a snarl, he whirled around, and saw for the briefest instant Dragan Hadrien¡¯s ravaged face dissipating back into his electric-blue Aether.


    I can see you, boy, Avaman seethed. If I can see you, then I can kill you. Whirlwind Rapier!


    ¡­


    But nothing happened.


    Avaman blinked.


    "Eh?"


    ¡­dum.


    It took everything he had for Skipper to stop himself from being blown away. He fired backwards with Heartbeat Shotguns from his entire body, no doubt causing internal damage, and even that only slowed him down. Wave after wave of force slammed into him as he held as firm as flesh could, the ground cracking and shifting under his feet.


    Ba¡­


    Then, a moment of eerie calm, as everything was absorbed back into the sword. Sound became silence. Motion became stillness. Destruction became absence. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    And Skipper, for the briefest moment, could breathe.


    Far off in the distance, he could barely see the golden aurora of the Supreme. Since he¡¯d begun using EIN SOF, he hadn¡¯t moved from that spot, simply allowing his Aether Armament to destroy the world on his behalf. More a mechanism than a warrior.


    Despite everything, Skipper grinned to himself. He couldn¡¯t imagine this was the kind of fight the Supreme enjoyed. He must have really pissed the old man off.


    ¡­dum.


    Skipper held on, pouring every single bit of power into it. The flesh-coloured lining of his remaining prosthetic was stripped away by the force, revealing the dull metal beneath. The real skin on his last leg began to be flayed by the pressure as well.


    It was fine -- it didn¡¯t matter what state his body was in. So long as it could still move, he could still do what he needed to.


    There was a chance here. A fool¡¯s chance, all but doomed, but a light in the tunnel all the same. Probably the last light he had.


    At the moment when the Supreme began absorbing everything again, the path to him was clear. If Skipper could ride the wave of energy as it came back to the Supreme, as fast as he could, and fire before EIN SOF released the energy again¡­


    ¡­again, a fool¡¯s chance.


    But what was he if not a fool?


    Ba¡­


    Skipper whispered it this time. He didn¡¯t have any shouting left in him.


    "Heartbeat¡­ Shotgun¡­"


    Like an emerald shooting star, he fired forth -- and flew for all the world towards the man who was like god.


    Avaman understood it. He understood it as that fist again slammed into his jaw. He understood it as that elbow spiked into his back. He understood it as that knee crashed between his legs.


    All around him, inside his Whirlwind Fortress, there was the tiniest blue tinge to the air. Avaman hadn¡¯t even noticed it until he¡¯d actively started looking -- and even then, it was tempting to dismiss it as a trick of the light. But Avaman understood it.


    This air was infused.


    Dragan Hadrien didn¡¯t have an ability that allowed him to manipulate the air, but by infusing it with his own Aether he was able to stop Avaman from doing anything with it. Even the micro adjustments that granted Avaman additional speed and strength had been disabled -- and Hadrien had taken advantage of that weakened state for his attack. He¡¯d made a fool of him.


    Ordinarily, this wouldn¡¯t even be an issue -- Hadrien couldn¡¯t infuse all the air, after all -- but because they were inside Whirlwind Fortress, the limited oxygen supply made this strategy very much possible.


    A plasma shot nearly thudded into Avaman¡¯s back, deflected only by an Aether-infused chop from his hand. This was not good. Even though the difference in strength was still enormous, Hadrien¡¯s ability to disappear and reappear -- along with Avaman¡¯s disorientation -- meant that sooner or later, the enemy would get the lucky shot he needed.


    To hell with it, then. If the Fortress was the problem, he¡¯d simply dispose of it. Avaman could disable his barriers individually -- it wasn¡¯t as if he¡¯d be releasing Wu Ming by doing this.


    Pop.


    As Hadrien appeared again, ready for another kick, the bubble exploded open -- sending the young Cogitant flying backwards, a cloud of blue Aether buzzing around his flailing form. Avaman had timed his attack well: he¡¯d wagered that Hadrien couldn¡¯t record himself unless he was in a prepared state of mind, and this shock had disrupted that. In this moment, in this place, he was open to the killing blow.


    Avaman¡¯s bloody smirk spread into a crimson grin. He¡¯d make it a good one.


    Maelstrom Job.


    The movement was so fast as to be incomprehensible. Avaman reached out, seized his Aether Armament as it wrote itself into existence, and blasted that deadly vortex directly at Dragan Hadrien. A bark of gloating laughter escaped from the First Contender¡¯s throat -- he didn¡¯t appreciate being fooled with. He¡¯d make that clear here and now.


    Only¡­ a thought occurred.


    If Avaman had been right¡­ if Hadrien required a prepared state of mind in order to record himself¡­ that didn¡¯t necessarily mean that an attack would prevent that. After all¡­ if he¡¯d gone in knowing that he¡¯d be hit by an attack, and that was part of his strategy¡­ wouldn¡¯t he still be prepared?


    Dragan Hadrien vanished.


    Standing behind him, previously hidden by that cloud of Aether, stood Ruth Blaine. She wasn¡¯t wearing that dull iron armour, though. The armour she wore now shone white and resplendent in the setting sun. This, too, Avaman had read about.


    The Noblesse Set.


    It was the mistake of an instant. As Maelstrom Job¡¯s vortex slammed into Blaine and was reflected, Avaman blasted himself into the air to avoid the returned attack¡­ but that left the thing behind him utterly exposed.


    There were very few things that could break through Whirlwind Fortress. Maelstrom Job was one of them.


    Smash.


    Before Avaman could even fully turn around, Wu Ming had seized him by the collar -- and smashed his fist into his stomach. From behind the skull-marked black sheet, the First Contender heard the Fourth laugh.


    "Gotcha," he giggled.


    It was the mistake of a nanosecond.


    Whether it could even be called a mistake or not was debatable. It wasn¡¯t as if Skipper had done something wrong, necessarily, but that he had simply been insufficient. Even then, though, would there have been anyone who was sufficient?


    Was there any flesh that could cross such a distance in such a time? Was there any person in this world who could spit in the eye of a god before he finished blinking? Who could time the thrust of a dagger between one heartbeat and the next?


    When the ability activated once more, Skipper¡¯s fist was so close to the Supreme¡¯s face that the remaining distance was irrelevant. It was as close as two objects could get without actually touching. He¡¯d all but made it.


    Yes¡­ he¡¯d all but made it. That was something. But not enough.


    ¡­dum.


    Before Skipper could blink¡­


    Before Skipper could breathe¡­


    Before Skipper¡¯s heart could beat¡­


    ¡­a golden light devoured the world¡­


    ¡­and Skipper was enveloped by everything.

 Chapter 314:11.41: War for the Worlds (Part 6)

    The beast was upon him.


    Avaman did not have a moment to think as that black-clad fist slammed into him, again and again, each impact like a gunshot. Blood and bile was flung out of Avaman¡¯s mouth as Wu Ming buried his knee in his stomach. With a roar, he fired a Whirlwind Javelin -- but at such close range, Ming was able to maneuver, and the wind projectile sailed off into the sky.


    This was bad. This was very, very bad.


    With this Ha-Satan Set, Wu Ming had an edge in strength and speed -- and with him being right in his face like this, Avaman couldn¡¯t use the tricks that would allow him to close the distance.


    Close the distance?! he asked himself incredulously.


    Indeed, the notion itself was absurd. Ordinarily, he wouldn¡¯t even be in a situation like this -- he was wise enough not to put himself into a position where an enemy could get so close. The only reason Wu Ming had been able to do this was because Avaman had been distracted by Dragan Hadrien -- and the only reason Dragan Hadrien had been able to distract him was because Avaman had been focused on Wu Ming -- and the only reason that fucking bastard Wu Ming had been able to catch him by surprise was because his attention had been occupied by the Blaine brat!


    It was the death of a thousand cuts. Alone, none of these fighters -- not even the Fourth Contender -- would have been able to defeat him. But together, in this situation, with Avaman¡¯s temper running hot¡­


    ¡­yes. This was very, very bad. But it was not the worst. Avaman still had options.


    These whelps had turned to power in numbers to save themselves from him. That was an option he had as well. Over the communications, he¡¯d heard tell that the pyramid had exploded with that beast inside, but Avaman sincerely doubted it was dead.


    That thing was here for the pay, after all. He¡¯d only climb out of the rubble and return to the battle when he was properly compensated.


    Avaman jerked his head out of the way of a punch that would have shattered his jaw, and -- with the few seconds freedom afforded to him -- screamed into his communicator:


    "Hellhound! Get rid of this bastard! Ten billion stator!"


    Marcus Grace narrowed his eyes as he looked at the scene of devastation -- the pile of rubble that had once been the pyramid. Smoke still drifted up from the lingering fires, deep in the bowels of the earth. Blood dripped from the crushed corpses.


    His nose wrinkled. What a senseless waste of human life. The sun was all but down, and even this horrific sight was dim as light abandoned it.


    Getting down to the core to claim the one-thousand points was now out of the question, to be sure. Even if one could somehow dig down through this layer of rubble, any sort of mechanism to take one down into the core itself would surely have been destroyed. By the time someone finally got down there and disabled the barrier, the battle would have long since been over anyway.


    Marcus planted one leg on a chunk of rock, sniffing as he looked out over the ruins. He¡¯d hoped to find some survivors, at the very least, but no luck there either. It seemed that explosion had been powerful enough to --


    Crack.


    He paused. There, in the distance¡­ had that been¡­?


    Crack.


    Hurriedly, Marcus moved his foot away. It had been. It had been the sounds of movement, muffled, coming from down below. Had there been survivors, then? Or¡­?


    Bang.


    It was a good thing Marcus had moved his foot away. If he hadn¡¯t, he surely would have been killed. The second he took a step back, the rubble before him went flying upwards as something erupted out of the ground -- something metallic, the size of a person, with thrusters blazing from its backside.


    Before Marcus could even comprehend what he was seeing, the object zoomed off towards the forest, thrusters scorching the ground behind it. He watched it go, eyes wide. What was that? It had been like a missile¡­ S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡­no, Marcus realized. Not like a missile. Like a dog chasing a stick.


    When properly motivated, the Hellhound could be fast indeed.


    Thirty seconds after Avaman had made his offer, the Hellhound slammed into Wu Ming from the side, right before he could strike the First Contender again. Audio receptors picked up the telltale sounds of cracking ribs. Skin sensors confirmed human blood belonging to Wu Ming had made contact. The Fourth Contender let out the slightest gasp of pain: a rare occasion.


    In short, it had been a good hit -- and the Hellhound wasn¡¯t done yet.


    The explosion in the pyramid had done a number on him, but it had by no means disabled him. Admittedly, his limbs -- made more fragile for ease of movement -- had been destroyed, but he had backups. Mechanical tendrils -- like cables -- slithered out from the sparking stumps of his legs and wrapped around Wu Ming¡¯s body, holding him tight.


    Ordinarily, they¡¯d have been able to crush Ming¡¯s bones easily, but they seemed to be meeting some resistance. Wu Ming was wearing some weird black sheet -- was that the cause? An automatic defense against attacks he saw coming?


    The two of them left the battlefield behind quickly as they rose into the sky, wind buffering against their forms. Even as he was clutched, though, and even as he was pushed, Wu Ming¡¯s concealed head remained fixed on the Hellhound¡¯s. A sense of undeniable malice seemed to radiate from his unseen eyes.


    It only made sense, the Hellhound supposed. A fight against the First Contender had been something Wu Ming had wanted for years. By showing up now, the Hellhound had robbed him of that.


    Yes, the Hellhound understood the way these battle addicts thought¡­ even if he didn¡¯t agree with it. Battle was a thing that should be gotten out of the way as quickly as possible. It was tiring and there was the possibility of injury. In the Hellhound¡¯s eyes, fighting was a particularly inefficient means to an end -- better a sudden kill after a leisurely hunt.


    "You do realize¡­" Wu Ming growled, angry for the first time the Hellhound could remember. "...that you just killed yourself, right?"


    "...fine," the Hellhound grunted.


    Avaman allowed himself the slightest sigh of relief. Things were much less hectic when it was only three against one. Finally, he -- and his ability -- could breathe freely.


    Whirlwind Greatsword.


    As Dragan Hadrien appeared behind Avaman, the attack smashed him out of the air, spiking him into the ground.


    Whirlwind Rapier.


    Ruth Blaine burst out of the treeline, her armour half-melted into that odd lupine form -- and then the air struck her head on, shattering her chestplate and sending her flying. She rolled to a stop on the grass, wheezing for breath.


    Whirlwind Javelin.


    "Leave them alone!" del Sed screamed as they charged through the air, creating barriers beneath their feet as a path. When they saw the attack coming, they raised a hand to project another barrier -- but the javelin of wind pierced shield and hand both, leaving them with a circular stigmata. They collapsed to the floor, clutching their bleeding hand, and Avaman looked down at them dispassionately.


    Yes¡­ Avaman could have fought Wu Ming on even terms, and he could have trounced these three weaklings by himself. The problem only started when he¡¯d tried to kill them all at the same time. He¡¯d take it as a life lesson: only God was capable of such things.


    The undignified heap that was Dragan Hadrien vanished once more, and Avaman smirked ruefully to himself.


    This brat might have had a chance while Avaman¡¯s attention was otherwise occupied, but now¡­ he could read the air like the surface of his own skin. Even if Hadrien could vanish completely from this world, the moment he reappeared, the flow of air would adjust to accommodate him. All Avaman had to do was wait, and¡­


    ¡­there.


    Avaman reached out and -- the instant Hadrien appeared -- seized him by the throat. The Cogitant boy gasped in surprise as Avaman raised him up high, blue Aether sparking around the edges of his body as he no doubt tried to record himself again.


    "No," Avaman said simply.


    Purple Aether coursed through Hadrien¡¯s body and he remained right where he was, fingers clawing uselessly at Avaman¡¯s hand, legs kicking uselessly in the air. Avaman was loath to put it in such terms, but he¡¯d taken a page out of Hadrien¡¯s book.


    Dragan Hadrien had infused the air to stop Avaman from controlling it. Avaman had infused Dragan Hadrien to stop him from recording himself. Once you understood how this Gemini World worked -- and once you got into direct contract with the user -- it was nothing to fear.


    Avaman¡¯s eyes, retreating back into dispassion, scanned the three defeated rebels.


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    "Did you perhaps think you¡¯d become strong?" he smirked mockingly. "Did you think you¡¯d been enhanced by the ordeals you¡¯d faced? Did you think these paltry skills would be enough to face a Contender? Foolishness."


    Del Sed, legs shaking, tried to get up -- but another Whirlwind Greatsword sent him right back down. Blaine didn¡¯t try to move, but Avaman struck her with a Whirlwind Rapier to the back just to be safe, embedding her into the ground.


    "You¡¯re nothing," Avaman explained patiently, as one would explain the world to a child. "None of you. Anything any of you have achieved was only through riding the coattails of a suicidal lunatic. We¡¯ve beaten you -- you understand this, yes? Your tiny army has been decimated. You have no means of escape, no ships. You are an ant, thinking your hatred of the boot would make you it¡¯s equal. Naive! Naive, naive, naive. Did you think this could end in victory for you? How could you be so naive?"


    As his hands fell limp to his sides, Dragan Hadrien choked out words. "You¡¯re¡­ wrong¡­"


    Avaman raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "How am I wrong? Where am I mistaken, boy?"


    Beep.


    Hadrien grinned. "We do have a ship."


    If you needed to move your ship, it wasn¡¯t always convenient to get in and pilot it yourself -- not if you weren¡¯t moving it that far. This had been a problem for quite a while. In most cases, simple pilot automatics had been built to take the vessel where it needed to go, almost like a valet. Even that method ran into problems, though -- unexpected obstacles and changing landscapes causing damage to the ship in the process.


    When designing their top-of-the-line starships, the Paradisas had decided to go for an easier method: remote control. A flight path could be generated on the fly based on the destination, allowing the ship to get there all by itself.


    Beep.


    In short, Dragan Hadrien¡¯s finger tapped a button on his script.


    In short, Avaman the Announcer¡¯s head snapped up to the sky, his eyes wide.


    In short, the Slipstream AE smashed down into the First Contender like a huge arrow and, as Dragan used the opportunity to dissipate¡­


    ¡­exploded.


    Skipper tried to get up. He didn¡¯t find much success. That only made sense, though, he supposed. It was hard to walk without any legs.


    His remaining leg had been annihilated in the explosion, the stump cauterized so quickly that not even a drop of blood had spilled. His remaining arm was barely hanging on, a miracle of technology allowing him to keep it moving for the time being. His remaining skin was charred and burnt. His remaining eye -- for he could only seem to see out of one -- blurred in and out of vision, huge red spots lingering on the edges of perception.


    In short, he was a corpse awaiting acknowledgement of that fact. His back lay against an upturned chunk of rock. At least he had that. That minor comfort.


    Smoke swirled around the area like mist -- like Klaus¡¯ mist. But it couldn¡¯t be. Klaus was dead, after all. Trusting in Skipper¡¯s victory, he had given his life. He¡¯d never once doubted.


    Damn it.


    The smoke shifted -- and the massive form of the man who was like god strode forth. Both his golden wings and his dull sword had vanished. There was no more need of them. His wounds, too, were gone.


    His face was cast in shadows as the night began to stretch over Elysian Fields, but the misery radiating from him was obvious.


    "I can¡¯t believe it¡­" he muttered sullenly as he stomped towards Skipper. "I just can¡¯t believe it, Esmerelda¡­ in the end, you were boring too¡­"


    Skipper forced words up a ruined throat and out of ruined lips. "The name¡¯s¡­ Skipper¡­"


    The Supreme didn¡¯t blink as he reached Skipper, looking down at him dispassionately. "Whatever¡­" he sighed. "...let¡¯s just finish it."


    That huge hand, strong enough to mold the shape of this world, slowly reached down towards Skipper¡¯s face. Instinctively, he understood -- the moment that hand touched him, he would die.


    Ba¡­ dum.


    Skipper¡¯s heart thudded weakly in his chest. This was the moment. This was the only opportunity he¡¯d get. He¡¯d tried his hand at defeating the Supreme on his own, and he¡¯d been insufficient.


    Ba¡­ dum.


    He¡¯d known it from the start, of course, that he could never beat the Supreme. The man was the strongest there was, after all. And yet¡­ he¡¯d had to try. There¡¯d been something he¡¯d wanted to prove to someone. What that had been, and who that had been, escaped him now, but¡­


    Ba¡­ dum.


    It wasn¡¯t over. He still had the final piece -- the trigger in his pocket. Ragged as his long coat was, he could still feel the weight of the device there. His arm could still move. He could still reach into his pocket, take the trigger to his mouth, and detonate the Lotus.


    Ba¡­ dum.


    It would take out the Supreme, without a doubt. The Contenders down on the ground too. The shockwave would eliminate the ship in orbit, as well, where the Ascendant-General and other senior staff were. The central apparatus of the Supremacy military, wiped out in an instant. He could still do it.


    Ba¡­ dum.


    He could still change the shape of this world.


    Ba¡­


    Green fields of grass spread out under the night sky. Their rowdy voices, arguing about something stupid -- a videograph or something. The night they¡¯d all spent together before the battle, him and his kids. There¡¯d been lights in the sky for sure, but the real stars had been down on the ground.


    Dragan had looked at him. Dragan had asked him something, hadn¡¯t he?


    "Do you think we can make it out of this¡­?"


    And he¡¯d said -- he¡¯d promised¡­


    "I do."


    ¡­dum.


    Skipper raised his hand up¡­


    Ah, screw it.


    ¡­and let it fall. The Aether that had been infusing it -- keeping it barely intact -- fled, and the prosthetic collapsed into a pile of scrap at Skipper¡¯s side. He made quite the sight. No arms, no legs, death reaching towards him¡­ and a smile on his face.


    The hand was inches away, a second from contact, but before it could cross that final threshold¡­


    "You said something to me a little while ago," Skipper rasped, green Aether flicking around his lips. "Now I¡¯m gonna say it right back to you, yeah?"


    The Supreme, squatting down next to Skipper, paused. His hand stopped. "What?" he said.


    Skipper blinked -- and when his eyes opened again, they were blazing with emerald Aether. The rock he was lying against began to vibrate. The shadows of green feathers flickered in the air around the wounded man.


    "This next attack will kill you¡­" Skipper said softly. "...if you¡¯re not strong enough for it."


    The Supreme blinked. His hand retreated, falling to his side as the man that was like god regarded the talking corpse.


    "Come on," Skipper grinned, his teeth painted red. "Live a little."


    Long seconds passed, with naught but silence to accompany them. The Supreme looked down at Skipper, his eyes slowly narrowing. His foot tapped thoughtfully against the ground -- once, twice, thrice.


    Sweat trickled down the back of Skipper¡¯s neck. If the Supreme refused, then everything would be --


    "Do it," the Supreme whispered.


    Skipper blinked, opened his mouth to speak, but before he could¡­


    "DO IT!" the Supreme roared, voice booming with infused Aether. Golden rays shone out from his entire body. Everything he had, he was already putting into defense.


    In short, he was taking this seriously. Good to hear.


    Well¡­ what the Supreme wanted, the Supreme got. Skipper gently closed his eyes -- but the following flare of his Aether was such that the emerald shine could be seen from behind the lids anyway.


    Green Aether began to build all around, radiating out from Skipper¡¯s body, coursing around the landscape -- and then pulling back into him, over and over again. A heartbeat of his own. A thrumming sound filled the air, rising and rising in pitch


    In that moment, the Supreme must have been supremely confident¡­


    ¡­but even so, he couldn¡¯t help but look over his shoulder as the green drew back in.


    ¡­but even so, he couldn¡¯t help but blink as he saw that emerald glow collect directly above Skipper¡¯s heart.


    ¡­but even so, he couldn¡¯t help but take a single step back.


    There wouldn¡¯t be a better moment.


    Skipper had never used this ability before. Skipper had never even conceived of this ability before. It would probably be presumptuous to call it an ability in the first place. It was nothing but unrelenting release -- the expulsion and amplification of everything. Every sound his Aether had ever absorbed over his entire lifetime. Every word spoken. Every passion screamed. Every regret half-mumbled in his sleep. Every heartbeat.


    Yes¡­ this was nothing but Skipper letting everything out. But still -- something like this needed a name. In the moment before the blast erupted from his chest, he mouthed two words.


    "Heartbeat¡­ Liberation¡­"


    It was so loud that it was silent. It was so bright that it was invisible. It was so absolute that it almost wasn¡¯t there at all.


    The only trace of its existence was the mark it left.


    As soon as the beam of sound struck the Supreme, he was sent flying, overpowered in a second by the sheer force of a lifetime hitting him at once. Immediately, he planted his feet down into the ground, keeping himself fixed -- but staying in that position took everything he had. Golden Aether flared around his body, seeming to form a wall as the Supreme raised his arms to block. The flood of green Aether slammed into it, but neither faltered, simply pushing against each other without end.


    A clash of indomitable wills. An immovable force and an unstoppable object. The night sky shone green-and-gold just from the residual Aether.


    One second, two, three. The blast of sound showed no sign of stopping. The strangest sensation began to trickle through the Supreme¡¯s brain -- and it took him a moment to register it as agony. The skin on his mighty arms was being scraped away where it was blocking the sound. Slowly but surely, this attack was chipping away at the Supreme¡¯s defenses. His body could not hold up. His body could not hold up.


    The Supreme began to grin. The Supreme began to laugh.


    Against the sound that was devouring reality, it was impossible for anyone to hear the Supreme¡¯s words -- even himself -- but he roared them out anyway. His soul left him no other choice.


    "ZACHARIAH ESMERELDA!" he called out, tiny and powerless against the emerald abyss, his arms and face red and bloody. "YOU¡¯RE NOT BORING! YOU¡¯RE NOT! I KNEW IT, MAN!"


    The world roared.


    "LOOK AT YOU! YOU¡¯RE THE BEST, MAN! YOU¡¯RE THE FUCKING BEST!"


    Spittle and drool flew from the Supreme¡¯s evaporating lips as he cackled, slowly being driven back through the earth. His hair caught aflame as it billowed back from the inconceivable winds. His eyes were bloodshot rubies as they stared, wide, at sheer force that eyes were not meant to look at. As the Supreme reached out towards the core of that energy, he did not even notice that his fingers had crumbled away to his knuckles.


    "MORE!" he demanded, golden Aether flowing from his gaping mouth. "MORE OF THIS! MORE! GIVE ME MORE!"


    The sound dimmed for a moment¡­


    "GIVE ME MORE, SKIPPER!"


    ¡­and heightened again into the ultimate crescendo, from which nothing could escape.

 Chapter 315:11.42: The Shape of this World

    Aclima ran so hard that her feet hurt.


    It was no surprise she was in pain. Ever since her pod had come down on the surface of Elysian Fields, she¡¯d been sprinting through this wasteland, heading as fast as she could to the green-and-gold aurora she could see on the horizon. Horrors flashed past at the edges of her vision -- corpses in conditions she¡¯d never considered -- but she did not stop to look at them.


    She had a job to do, after all. She had to help her father. She had to show him that she wasn¡¯t as weak as everyone thought.


    She had to prove that she existed now.


    And yet, her legs screamed at her, feeling like matchsticks about to snap under their own weight. Aether -- especially newborn Aether -- could only do so much, especially with a body that was already pushing itself far past its limits. Aclima blinked rapidly as her sweat dripped into her eyes, and she panted raggedly as her lungs protested their labour.


    Finally, finally, she had no choice but to stop. Hands on her knees, gasping for breath, she leaned against the charred remains of a tree. Just a second to recover. That was all she needed. As soon as she could move again, it¡¯d be straight back to running --


    "What are you doing here?" asked Atoy Muzazi.


    Aclima looked up at the man looming over her -- and immediately recoiled, collapsing into the mud. Muzazi had changed since she¡¯d last seen him. His uniform was caked with dirt and mud, torn all over, but that wasn¡¯t what had surprised her.


    She didn¡¯t know how it had happened, but the Special Officer had clearly suffered a grievous injury. The skin on the left side of his face was utterly gone, revealing bloody flesh and muscle beneath. The eye on that side too was a dull white orb, half-crushed, clearly seeing nothing.


    Aclima swallowed back bile at the gruesome sight. "Your¡­ face¡­" she whispered.


    "It¡¯s nothing," Muzazi replied, his voice an exhausted monotone. "What are you doing here, Aclima? It¡¯s not safe. I told you to stay on the ship."


    Aclima shook her head, slowly picking herself up off the ground. "The ship¡¯s not safe, either! They attacked it. There was a woman with these feathers -- and, and Ash beat her, but the Commissioner¡¯s aide showed up too and fought us, and then the Second Contender sent one of her -- um -- her tree things and¡­"


    Muzazi shook his head. It was unclear if he¡¯d even really heard her words. "Nevertheless¡­" he said. "The Tartarus is a safer place than here. Why did you come?"


    Aclima¡¯s mouth opened silently at first -- her weakness returning -- before she hurriedly shook her head and declared: "I need to help my father!"


    "The Supreme¡­ doesn¡¯t need help," Muzazi said slowly, blinking in surprise. "...and you would not be able to help him. Even I --"


    "I can help!" Aclima insisted, taking a step forward. She raised her hands up, purple Aether sparking around her fingers. "I unlocked it -- and I beat a Contender! Did you see that big black tree? I think that was me!"


    "That¡¯s¡­ splendid. Nevertheless¡­" Muzazi mumbled. "You¡¯ve only just unlocked that Aether. I am proud of you, but you¡¯re not capable of fighting with the Supreme as you are right now. Few are. People like you and I would be annihilated in the crossfire -- and the enemy is strong. I faced him myself. He¡¯s too dangerous."


    The Special Officer seemed to sway on his feet as he spoke. How much blood had he lost? Too much, at a glance. Was that why he wasn¡¯t listening?


    "I¡¯ve got an ability," Aclima said, annoyance trickling into her tone as she threw her hands wide. "I can -- it can beat Aether. I beat Paradise Charon, and it was easy! I¡¯m strong!"


    "You¡¯re not!" Muzazi barked.


    The air in the clearing seemed to grow still as Aclima blinked, looking up at the Special Officer like she hadn¡¯t understood what he¡¯d said. Like it had been a different language. Still¡­ still¡­ after all of this, everything that had happened, he still thought she was weak?


    Cold realisation settled in her stomach. When he looked at her, all Atoy Muzazi saw was a weakling -- and that was all he¡¯d ever see. That cold realisation was quickly replaced by hot anger.


    "You¡¯re not," Muzazi repeated, more softly, but it was too late. "By unlocking Aether, you¡¯ve taken the first step, but --"


    "Move," Aclima snapped, pushing past Muzazi -- and that was when her consciousness stopped.


    She had no way of knowing this, of course, but at the exact moment she¡¯d walked past Atoy Muzazi, the Special Officer had struck her on the back of the neck with a cold and precise chop. Her eyes rolled up into the back of her skull as she keeled over -- and she would have collapsed to the ground fully if Atoy Muzazi hadn¡¯t caught her. Holding her up, he sighed.


    "Was that right?" asked the voice of Morgan Nacht.


    Muzazi looked up -- and saw Nacht perched up in the scorched remains of a nearby tree. Branches were protruding from his back, holding him in place, and his eyes were coated with green moss. It didn¡¯t take a genius to work out who was really speaking.


    "Is Morgan dead?" Muzazi asked, his voice dull. At this point, he didn¡¯t have anything close to surprise left in him.


    Nacht¡¯s body shook its head. "Morgan Nacht is only unconscious," Ionir Yggdrassil explained through that mouth. "But was it correct for you to subdue Aclima? She wanted to fight."


    "Take her," Muzazi grunted, passing Aclima¡¯s limp body into the reach of a stretching branch. "If she fought, she would have died. There is nothing but enemies here -- enemies and corpses. It¡¯s as I told her: even if she¡¯s grown stronger, this is far beyond her abilities¡­ as is the Supreme."


    "I see." Ionir took Aclima into his grasp, holding her up high. "I will take her to medical treatment. The surviving simpletons tell me a location. What will you do?"


    Atoy Muzazi took in a deep breath once more, and a deep step forwards, facing away from Ionir -- and towards the green-and-gold mountain on the horizon. With a flash of white, a Radiant began blazing resolutely from his palm. The warrior exhaled.


    "I promised Aclima before all this began," he muttered. "That I would aid the Supreme in her place."


    And without another word, he became a blur of white light, burning his way across the world.


    Dragan Hadrien reappeared between his friends, gasping for air as his lungs came back into existence.


    Holy shit. Holy shit. Maybe he¡¯d gone a little overboard? The destruction of the Slipstream AE -- rest in peace -- had left a massive crater, filled with copious fire and smoke. Even looking at the bright inferno was enough to make one¡¯s eyes hurt -- and the flames were already beginning to spread to the rest of the virulent forest Wu Ming had grown here.


    It was tempting to think ¡¯nothing could have survived that¡¯ -- but that was the sort of thought that ended with you turning your back and getting your head cut off.


    This was a Contender, after all, the First Contender. Something like that could definitely have survived that.


    To his left, Ruth cracked her neck, her flickering claws reflecting the dim pink moonlight. To his right, Serena planted a hand on a nearby tree, turning it into a gargantuan sword and slinging it over her shoulder.


    And behind him¡­ behind him, he knew, even without looking¡­ that gold-and-green light was blazing in the distance. The battle Skipper was waging against the Supreme. The battle that everyone was giving everything just to facilitate. So long as they could keep Avaman away from that light, even if just for a little longer, they could¡­


    Crack.


    It was the tiniest noise, like drinking glasses tapping together, but in the tension of that place it resounded like a church bell. The sound had more than one source. The sound came from Dragan Hadrien. The sound came from Ruth Blaine. The sound came from Serena del Sed.


    More than anyone else, though, the sound surely came from Skipper.


    Dragan looked down at what remained of his lapel. Most of his body was recorded into Aether to keep it stable, but the top of his chest was still part of reality. He looked down at it, and did not see what he expected to see. His eyes widened.


    The green feather had just broken.


    It was the same for Ruth, and it was the same for Serena. The glowing green feathers Skipper had given them had suddenly shattered, dissipating into emerald Aether. Dragan¡¯s stomach sank -- and as he swung his head around to look at the horizon, he saw that the gold-and-green aurora there was receding as well.


    Receding.


    Fading.


    Dying.


    His mouth felt terribly dry. His eyes felt terribly wet. Pain he¡¯d tried to ignore started to creep back through his nerves. For a moment, Dragan nearly lost his concentration -- nearly lost the one thing that was keeping his body together¡­


    ¡­but then he heard Ruth, heard her voice, and was pulled back to reality once more.


    "Help him!" she was screaming, her eyes just as wide as his, spittle flying from her mouth. "Help Skipper! We¡¯ll finish him off!"


    Serena¡¯s teeth were bared, and Dragan could see that she was shaking -- whether that was from rage or sorrow, he couldn¡¯t tell. The cracks that spread across the hilt of her greatsword as she squeezed it sent a far clearer message.


    She glanced at him, and her voice was even and calm as she spoke. "I think you should go, Mr. Dragan."


    He didn¡¯t need to be told a third time. As Ruth and Serena lunged at the flaming crater, Dragan ran in the opposite direction, feet pounding against the grass as he headed for the fading light on the horizon. That light was hope. That light was Skipper. He couldn¡¯t just let it go out.


    Even if he ran at full speed, of course, it would take him ages to get there. But he wasn¡¯t the sort of person who needed feet to get around. Throat burning, he screamed out:


    "Gemini World!"


    AETHERAL SPACE 11.42


    "The Shape of this World"


    Devastation.


    The moment Dragan reappeared, feet sliding against unsteady ground, the smell of burning filled his nostrils. Burning wood, burning grass, burning stone and burning flesh. Burning everything. It was like he¡¯d arrived in the aftermath of an inferno that had devoured the world¡­ and yet not a single flame remained.


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    The battlefield was a mess of rubble, landscape smashed to pieces again and again and again until the distinction between architecture and nature disappeared. Vast, indistinct shapes drifted past Dragan¡¯s vision as he ran through the wasteland, blue Aether coiling around his arm as a rudimentary torch, additional light burning from his eyes.


    The night had fully claimed Elysian Fields now, and -- aside from the occasional pink flickers from above -- it was nearly impossible to see what was in front of you. As Dragan ran, searching the battlefield, he didn¡¯t know his exact destination¡­


    ¡­but in his sinking heart, he already suspected what he might find there.


    If you asked Dragan Hadrien how long he searched, he wouldn¡¯t have been able to tell you. It all melded together in his head, that desperate run through the end of the world, hoping against hope that he was wrong. It could have been a few seconds, a few minutes, or maybe even hours.


    All that mattered was that the search, eventually, came to an end. The idea that should have occurred to Dragan long ago -- an Aether ping -- was followed up on, and he followed the nearly undetectable response.


    He found the Supreme first.


    A massive silhouette suddenly appeared from out of the darkness as he approached, faintly touched by moonlight. The man was on his knees, and remained so even as Dragan cautiously approached, feet crunching against the ash and soot below. The Supreme had sustained severe damage -- his arms had fallen off at the shoulders, and judging from the ragged state of the stumps, it hadn¡¯t been an easy cut.


    As Dragan reached the man, though, that wasn¡¯t what caught his attention.


    No, what caught his attention was the Supreme¡¯s head. It was lying on the ground before him. Cleanly severed from the neck. Lifeless. Dead.


    Dragan let out a breath it felt like he¡¯d been holding for a lifetime, staggering backwards. To see the Supreme like this -- to see the corpse of the Supreme -- was almost inconceivable. It was like a cold star. And yet¡­ it was undeniable. It was right there, kneeling in its own blood, severed head still grinning its last grin.


    Even more than the head, though, the presence of the Supreme was gone. Dragan had only spent a short time near him, but there¡¯d been a sort of pressure coming from the man, a sense that he had absolute control over himself and his surroundings. Without that sensation, the body before him was just¡­ a body. An empty shell. The power of a god had abandoned it.


    "He did it¡­" Dragan whispered, disbelieving. "He actually did it¡­"


    "Yup," said Skipper. "Not bad, yeah?"


    Dragan whirled around to face his captain, eyes shining and wide. Skipper was lying against an upturned chunk of rock -- and, in fact, Dragan had walked past him while he was approaching the Supreme. He just hadn¡¯t noticed. He hadn¡¯t noticed¡­ because as he was now, it was difficult to tell Skipper apart from the rubble.


    His skin was charred and peeling away, all over his body. His limbs were gone, each and all, oozing blood and mechanical fluid. One eye was a glazed-over white marble, while the other was all but closed. A few stray lumps of black hair still clung to his scalp, but most of that had burnt away as well.


    But, most of all, the thing Dragan¡¯s eyes were drawn to¡­ was the gaping red hole in Skipper¡¯s chest, where his heart should have been. He could see the rock on the other side through that hole. His heart was gone. How was he still alive?


    Skipper grinned with broken teeth.


    "Still got a few heartbeats saved up," he explained. "Burning through ¡¯em pretty quick, though. Good thing you showed up when you did."


    Dragan blinked. As Skipper spoke, his mouth was not moving -- no, the sound just seemed to come from the air around him. Even as he was using his Aether to cling onto life, he was using it to speak.


    What a crazy asshole.


    Dragan walked over, sitting on a chunk of stone next to Skipper. There was no point in trying to do anything else. They both knew that. Skipper wouldn¡¯t survive being transported to a medical facility, and even if Dragan managed it using Gemini World, there was no saving Skipper from these injuries. The shock of Panacea trying to grow a new heart would probably kill him all on its own.


    Still¡­ if Dragan could record that heart, couldn¡¯t they at least try to¡­


    The thought came to a halt as Dragan looked at Skipper¡¯s ruined body, and saw the man slowly shaking his head. The older man had known what he was thinking, of course. That wasn¡¯t a surprise anymore. Skipper had been smarter than him from the very beginning.


    So instead they talked.


    "You killed him?" Dragan asked quietly, throat dry. He didn¡¯t know why he asked -- the evidence spoke for itself.


    "You could say that," Skipper chuckled. "How are things going on your end?"


    So casual. Skipper was talking like once this was all over, they¡¯d meet up on the ship again. They¡¯d all fly away together again. It wouldn¡¯t happen. It couldn¡¯t happen, so why was he talking like that?


    Dragan didn¡¯t say any of those things. He said: "We¡¯re¡­ we¡¯re holding out, I think. Ruth and Bruno and Serena¡­ last I saw them, they were fighting the First Contender."


    "That ugly bastard?"


    Despite everything, Dragan chuckled. "Yeah. I gave him a punch to the face for you."


    "You¡¯re too kind." Skipper¡¯s good eye closed -- and for a second Dragan thought that was it, before it fluttered open again. "Ruth will beat him, I think. Yeah, she¡¯s got it in her. That¡¯s the kind of woman she is."


    Dragan swallowed. "What do we¡­ what are we meant to do now?" he glanced over his shoulder at the hulking corpse. "The Supreme is dead¡­ we did it, so¡­"


    Skipper tried to shrug, but he no longer had a body that was capable of shrugging. "God¡¯s dead," he said simply. "Time to run from the angels."


    "I kinda¡­ blew up the ship, though¡­"


    "Well, damn. That was my favourite Slipstream, kid. There are escape vessels stored in the pyramid too, so go wild there --"


    "The pyramid¡­ blew up, too¡­"


    "And I¡¯m sure those Special Officers have been destroying any escape craft they can find¡­" Skipper sighed in sound, but not in action. "I¡¯ll be honest, kid. Seems like you guys are screwed¡­ but you¡¯ll figure it out."


    Dragan blinked, and his eyes were wet with tears. "Figure it out?" he muttered. "How¡¯s that? This is¡­ a disaster."


    "Because you¡¯ve got what it takes," Skipper smiled. "I¡¯ve always thought so. Look at you. A year ago, you couldn¡¯t do much more than run and hide -- sorry for kidnapping you back then, by the way."


    Again, he had to chuckle. "I think we¡¯re kind of beyond that."


    "The point is¡­ you grew. You grow damn quick, too. It¡¯s kinda scary. Just about twelve months, and you¡¯re able to fight like you¡¯ve been doing it for years."


    "On my way here¡­" Dragan said slowly, without really knowing why. "...I beat the Commissioner. It was two against one, and -- and I won."


    It wasn¡¯t as if he was looking for approval. He just felt the need to tell Skipper that, while he still could. The smirk that tugged at Skipper¡¯s shredded lips didn¡¯t mean a thing.


    "You see?" he said. "That¡¯s it, right there. That spark. I¡¯m a little reluctant to call it killer instinct, but there you go." His eye slid shut again for a moment, before slowly opening again. "That¡¯s why I¡¯m gonna have to be a little bit of an asshole again, kid."


    Dragan mirrored that smirk. "When did you stop?"


    "Smartass," Skipper said -- and his eye flicked over to the Supreme¡¯s corpse, still looming behind Dragan. The voice that came next was far softer, far more contemplative. "A Supreme is dead¡­ but that¡¯s just a Supreme. The Supremacy will keep on ticking, once the next Supreme comes along. The system accounts for this. Hell, it¡¯s designed for this."


    Dragan¡¯s face fell, and his heart fell with it. A deathly chill crept through his veins. "What are you saying?" he asked, leaning in. "That all this was pointless?"


    Now that he was closer, it was clear -- even Skipper¡¯s good eye was heavily glazed over. How much of the Supreme¡¯s corpse could he even see right now, even as he stared at it?


    Skipper pulled no punches. "If we leave it here¡­ yeah. We¡¯ve wounded the Supremacy, sure, but killed it? Nah. That¡¯s why I¡¯ve gotta be an asshole now."


    "What do you mean?"


    That near-blind eye looked right into Dragan¡¯s.


    "Can you make this stick for me, kid?"


    The words Skipper said¡­ to be honest, Dragan had half-expected them, but that didn¡¯t make them any easier to swallow, nor any easier to accept. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a moment. Even the darkness behind his eyelids seemed oppressive right now, reflecting his doubts right back at him.


    That¡¯s impossible. There¡¯s no way I could manage something like that. You¡¯re asking too much. That¡¯s the sort of crazy shit only you could pull off. I¡¯m not like you. I can¡¯t be like¡­


    But¡­ the words he¡¯d said.


    "I¡­ I want to change it too!"


    And¡­ the words he¡¯d thought.


    The only one who decides what happens to me¡­


    Dragan opened his eyes. "I¡¯ll do it," he said, resolute.


    He¡¯d always thought Skipper was an annoyingly laid-back man. Someone who acted like they didn¡¯t have a care in the world, even if that wasn¡¯t the case. But¡­ when Skipper heard those words, and the tension on his face evaporated for good, Dragan realised he had never seen this man relaxed. Not once, not ever.


    The sheer peace on the burnt man¡¯s face was such that Dragan found himself jealous.


    "Ah¡­" Skipper breathed through his own mouth, closing his eyes. "That¡¯s¡­"


    Wind blew across the wasteland.


    Dark pressed in.


    Timid birds chirped.


    Unearthed insects clicked.


    Crumbling rock creaked. sea??h th§× n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Shifting soot rustled.


    Burnt grass smouldered.


    Distant trees collapsed.


    The moon hung low.


    "Skipper?" asked Dragan.


    There was no response.


    "Skipper?" asked Dragan.


    There was no response.


    If you asked Dragan later on how long he remained there, crouched down next to Skipper¡¯s body, he couldn¡¯t have told you. It could have been seconds, minutes or even hours. He simply remained, staring at someone who could never stare back, bracing himself for the moment he knew would eventually have to come.


    That moment was the only certain thing.


    Dragan stood up, took a deep cold breath, and walked away.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s legs ached. It was no surprise, what with the speed he¡¯d used to get here. Atoy Muzazi¡¯s arms ached. That, too, was unsurprising. Atoy Muzazi¡¯s head ached. Even this was expected -- after all, he¡¯d witnessed many flavours of hell today. A person who could see all of that without anguish was a person he wished neither to meet or be.


    When he saw the figure approaching, he nearly ignored it. His body was in no fit state to fight anymore, and his mind was at the breaking point. How easy it would be to see an enemy and simply let it walk past.


    But he was a Special Officer -- and more than that, he was Atoy Muzazi. He had no choice but to raise his blade.


    The white light of the Radiant illuminated the incoming figure, the young man trudging through the woods. Dragan Hadrien. His head was cast downwards, and he was a patchwork man -- crossed between Aether and flesh -- but that silver hair was unmistakable.


    Of course. Of course they would meet here.


    "Dragan Hadrien," Muzazi said, powering through the pain in his rasping voice. "I¡¯m placing you under arrest. Relinquish any weaponry and place your hands behind your head."


    This was the one kindness Muzazi could offer. He and Hadrien had fought together, after all, bled together, so he could at least extend this mercy. The boy could leave with his life -- he could survive and see another day. What manner of day that was remained to be seen, but so many hadn¡¯t even had that chance.


    And yet, Dragan Hadrien continued to walk forward. He did not reply, nor did he look at Muzazi.


    This, too¡­ was not entirely unexpected. Muzazi took a deep breath and pointed his Radiant at Dragan¡­ but the Cogitant spoke before Muzazi could. Just two words. But they were enough.


    In the end, all Atoy Muzazi could do was stand there -- frozen by that pressure -- and watch as Dragan Hadrien silently stalked past. The Cogitant vanished into the darkness, and as the Radiant flickered out of existence¡­


    ¡­so did the Crownless.

 Chapter 316:11.43: The King is Dead

    Atoy Muzazi stood in the darkness of the woods, shadows pressing in on every side. It was as if every crevice and crack was filled with peering eyes, watching him, waiting. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine. S§×arch* The n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Well, if they were waiting, then this was certainly what they were waiting for. With a hand made steady only through great effort, Atoy Muzazi tapped the communicator in his ear.


    "Atoy Muzazi to Tartarus Command," he said, voice hoarse but as clear as he could make it.


    There was no reply. That wasn¡¯t exactly surprising -- from what Aclima had said, the Tartarus was experiencing troubles of its own. Still, the quiet buzz on the other end confirmed he had a connection, and so he would speak. What else was there?


    He tried to say it once, but the words stuck in his mouth, and he had to clear his throat. The second time, the message went through loud and clear.


    "Battlefield report," he whispered. "The Supreme is dead."


    Those words echoed through the waiting woods, but if anything the shadows seemed to grow only darker in response. Atoy Muzazi let his arm fall to his side, and -- a moment later -- let himself fall to the floor.


    Finally, finally, he was spent.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    Those four words rang out across the bridge of the Tartarus, but went unheard over the rhapsody of noise already consuming it. There was so much going on, after all. The cold harvest engine had sustained critical damage. They were desperately trying to get the power back on across the entire ship with the reserves. Special Officers were almost rioting at the pod bay. The Supreme Heir was missing.


    Half-a-dozen crises were unfolding all at once.


    So it was no surprise that Atoy Muzazi¡¯s words went unheard -- just as it was no surprise that nobody saw a dainty finger reach out and flick an innocuous switch on the console. Those words had been intended for command only, but with that flick of a switch they were rerouted to a different communication channel entirely.


    With that flick of a switch, they were rerouted to everyone.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    The words boomed across the pod bay, over the crowds of arguing and fighting Special Officers -- and, as if a switch had been flicked in their brains as well, each and every one of them stopped. Countless eyes stared up at the intercom as if it was something alien, something dangerous. You could have heard a pin drop.


    Security were just as awestruck. One security officer stopped in the middle of slapping Neverwire cuffs on a particularly rowdy Pugnant¡¯s wrists. Trembling violently, the two of them looked up at the intercom as fellows.


    "What¡­?"


    "The Supreme is dead."


    Winston looked up from the makeshift command table -- they¡¯d been trying to get the holograms back on -- blinking rapidly. Had he heard that right? That was Atoy¡¯s voice speaking, wasn¡¯t it?


    The Supreme was dead? Was that really true? Atoy Muzazi wasn¡¯t a liar, but there was every possibility he was being forced to say something. Even beyond physical coercion, an Aether ability could be puppeteering his body or manipulating his voice. But there was something about the way he said that¡­ some certainty.


    Could the Supreme be dead? Given the ease with which the Special Officers had cut through Regiment RED¡¯s forces, Winston found it difficult to believe. But then again, there¡¯d been a great deal of unexpected events, hadn¡¯t there? The attack on the Tartarus itself, communications going down, and the fact that they seemed to have lost contact with each and every Contender.


    Zachariah Esmeralda had certainly managed something. So why the discrepancy between the quality of RED¡¯s forces and their results? Had the bulk of the fighting been for some other purpose than pure victory? Distraction, maybe?


    No. Winston realized. Many Special Officers had reported in early on, about green feathers they¡¯d found attached to their victims. Archive footage showed that Esmerelda¡¯s Aether was green as well. Could it be¡­?


    Countless pieces clicked together in his mind, one after another, all in the span of a second.


    "The Supreme is dead," he mumbled in confirmation, staring at the intercom.


    Besides him, Beatrice gulped. She¡¯d been treating the injuries she¡¯d sustained during the fight against Lily Aubrisher -- pausing mid-bandage as the news came in. She was shaking, a barely perceptible tremor running through her body.


    It was no surprise. For those who had never known another Supreme, this one was like the sun. They¡¯d just been told the sun had gone out.


    Winston reached out and gave his sister¡¯s hand a reassuring squeeze. That didn¡¯t take any thinking at all.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    Section Chief Harz looked up from his labour for a moment, adjusted his goggles, then looked back down. So the Supreme was dead. Who cares? It wasn¡¯t as if the man had actually done much.


    Better to think on more relevant matters¡­ like the thrill of discovery.


    Two of Harz¡¯ Headless Servitors carried Lily Aubrisher¡¯s limp body through the cargo bay, smoothly securing it in a stasis module like an iron maiden. She¡¯d already been thoroughly tranquillised, and the battle had done a number on her, but Harz found one could never be too careful. He hovered up high in his chair, looking down at the unconscious woman cautiously.


    The lid snapped shut, leaving only her frozen face visible, and Harz breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn¡¯t doubted his Servitors¡¯ efficacy -- he utterly adored them, after all. Human bodies with the heads replaced by an elegant autobrain, seamlessly connecting with the preexisting nervous system. He¡¯d wanted to take them to the bridge with him, but was told their appearance would disturb the staff.


    It didn¡¯t matter. The squeamish were the closest to the blind, after all, and Harz didn¡¯t care to hear their opinions. This Aubrisher girl was much more interesting. The potential she¡¯d displayed sent shivers down his spine. The unique way she used Aether, and her incomprehensible strength¡­ secrets, oh, secrets.


    Harz couldn¡¯t wait to tear them free and pull them into the light.


    So the Supreme was dead. That didn¡¯t matter, either. Harz was alive, he had a new sample, and the world was yet young.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    Ascendant-General Toll paused for a moment, cold breath drifting from his mouth as he looked up at the intercom.


    His first thought was surprise that the thing still worked. The maintenance tunnels in this part of the ship were nearly fully frozen over -- the cold harvest reactor had all but gone critical -- but for the time being, Toll¡¯s Aether and Pugnancy were enough to keep him warm. The man he was carrying over his shoulder, Ash del Duran, wasn¡¯t quite as fortunate¡­ but the infusion Toll was providing was enough to keep him stable.


    The Supreme was dead¡­ well, if that was true, he supposed it was Kadmon who was dead. The dogma went that a Supreme who died was no true Supreme at all -- if that was the case, then they¡¯d never had a true Supreme. Not even the first, Azez¡­ but you¡¯d never find a loyal citizen who¡¯d speak ill of the Lantern-Bearer, even if he was ¡¯false¡¯.


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    All sorts of doublethink. There was surely more to come.


    Alexander put a massive hand to his face and wiped away a tear that had not yet brewed. Whether or not the Supreme was dead remained to be seen. Until Toll saw a body, that man was still his Supreme -- and he still had duties to perform.


    With the cold harvest engine failing, the ship would soon be uninhabitable. He had to get to the bridge and begin organising the evacuation. Then he had to find out what had happened to the Supreme Heir.


    Then, and only then, could he distract himself with thoughts of loss.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    Aclima lay still on the sheet as the medical ¡¯personnel¡¯ around her bustled to and fro, tending to the injured Special Officers around her. In truth, the doctors and nurses were mere puppets, formed from Aether and set to heal -- and that was the only reason they did not stop when they heard the news. Whether the moans of the people around her were from pain or sorrow, she could not say.


    She pressed her forearm against her face, teeth gritting until it felt like they¡¯d shatter in her mouth, tears running down her cheeks. With her vision blocked, she was free to imagine. Free to imagine the face of the person who¡¯d promised her -- promised her that he¡¯d act in her place, promised her that she¡¯d protect her father, promised, promised, promised.


    Atoy Muzazi.


    "Liar," she hissed, and her Aether hissed with her.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins knelt in the dark, the corpse of his son strewn across his lap. His face didn¡¯t so much as twitch in response to news of their victory. Whatever those words were, he found he didn¡¯t much care.


    He found he didn¡¯t much care about anything anymore.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    High in the sky, just beneath the barrier that surely would have destroyed it, hung a palace of strings. Silhouetted by the pink-tinged moon, it had just been the site of a brief but fierce battle. Blood coated the string-woven spires. Parts of the string-woven floor were already collapsing down to the planet below. The string-woven battlements were slowly but surely losing their form.


    All in all, this structure would not last the next couple of minutes -- but that was no trouble. It had already fulfilled its purpose, anyway.


    The corpse of the Hellhound swung suspended from a bundle of strings on the palace¡¯s underside. His chassis had been beaten into a mess of warped metal, its original function barely recognisable. Smoke from overheated pain suppressors drifted up from the sparking stump of his neck -- his head had already been torn away, plummeting down to the ground. Preservation fluid dripped from the broken casing that had once contained his nervous system, which now could only generously be described as slurry.


    In short, his death had been thorough. But he¡¯d given just as good as he¡¯d got.


    The corpse of Wu Ming sat in the string-woven throne at the centre of the string-woven palace. Blood oozed from the hole in his chest -- taking up the majority of his torso -- soaking into his string-woven armour. His eyes were dull and dead, the consciousness that had previously driven them utterly absent.


    As the news of the Supreme¡¯s death came through, though, a string-woven hand reached out and plucked the communicator from the corpse¡¯s ear. Listening to Muzazi¡¯s words, the owner of the hand frowned.


    "Dead, huh?" they said through string-woven lips. "Man, that¡¯s a shame¡­ I wanted to fight him before setting out. Real two outta ten move, man."


    Without another word, they kicked off the palace, leaping down towards the planet¡­ and a few seconds later, the resting place of the two Contenders utterly disintegrated.


    The Supreme is dead.


    Deep in the bowels of the Shesha, lightyears away, the man they called the Prisoner softly smiled.


    The time had come.


    "The Supreme is dead."


    Absurdity.


    The Supreme is dead. The Supreme is dead. The Supreme is dead.


    Impossibility.


    God is dead. God dead? God is dead?! God died?! God?! God God God God God God God God God God GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD


    Avaman screamed.


    Purple Aether arose in an inferno as the crater around him was blown apart by the sheer force of the release, chunks of rock and metal flying in every direction. The barrier of wind around him surged outwards as well, currents twisting and turning until they formed a vortex of invisible blades, slicing apart everything in the vicinity. Even so -- over the raging winds, and the burning flames, Avaman¡¯s scream reigned.


    "This is your God," the scientists had said, showing him his first image of the Supreme. "You were created to help this man. You are to be his worthy opponent."


    DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD


    The first time he¡¯d tried to kill God, to make God happy. The end result had been obvious: the young child collapsed on the floor, utterly defeated in the span of a few seconds. God flicked a finger, dispelling the construct that had made short work of him.


    "Boring," God had muttered, turning away.


    FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE


    His fingers wrapped around Skipper¡¯s throat, holding that wretched life in his hand. "No¡­ when I deliver you to G¡­ to the Supreme, I will be praised above all others. I wouldn¡¯t put my own petty satisfaction above that."


    "Aw," Skipper chuckled. "And daddy will finally love you? It¡¯s a longshot, kid."


    KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL


    Yes. That made sense. If God was dead, then everything was pointless. There was no more reason for him to exist, and there was no more reason for anything else to exist. He¡¯d correct the deficiency -- now, violently, agonisingly. He raised his head up to the sky, still screaming -- purple Aether blazing from his eyes and mouth -- and raised his hand.


    Take my body, he willed to whatever might have been listening. Take my heart. Take everything. Just make them all go away.


    He wrenched his hand as if to twist the sky itself, and Aether beyond his means began to scour his body. Cracks spread over his skin as if it was porcelain, and blood began to pour from his eyes. The scream erupting from his throat rose in pitch and warped until it was something inhuman, something unearthly, echoing over the surface of this damned planet.


    The wind was his. He could sculpt it into any shape he chose. A hurricane? No, more than that. He¡¯d make a storm like nothing the universe had ever seen before. A beast of the end that would wipe all life from this planet. It would self-perpetuate, going further and further, until nothing could ever exist here again. An eternal gravestone for the perfect being.


    Yes¡­ he could do it. He would do it.


    All around him, the storm began to expand, purple Aether flashing deep within it like lightning. Layers upon layers of wind, each slashing at random, able to dissect any matter to such a degree that survival was nigh-impossible. But that was not enough. That was not enough! Survival had to be fully impossible!


    The world that had murdered God had no reason to --


    Pain.


    Mutely, little more than a sculpture of oozing meat and bone, Avaman looked down¡­ at the steel claws that had penetrated his heart.


    "Oh," he said. "That¡¯s¡­"


    "Oh," he said. "That¡¯s¡­"


    Ruth Blaine panted for breath, pain pulsing throughout her body. Cuts and gashes covered her form, blood from her forehead dribbling down and getting in her eyes. The arm with which she¡¯d impaled the First Contender was the only steady thing about her -- everything else was shaking like a leaf.


    It was understandable. She¡¯d just committed suicide a dozen times in the span of a few seconds. That wall of raging wind had been right in front of them, expanding rapidly, and she¡¯d done the only thing she could. She¡¯d charged forward to meet it.


    That had been her first suicide.


    Her strength was spent. Using the Direwolf Set had been out of the question. Even the Skeletal Set had been almost out of reach. The best she¡¯d been able to manage was a single piece at a time -- a boot or a glove, switching locations as was needed for movement. The rest of her body had been utterly unprotected.


    Hence, the second suicide.


    The rest had come quickly. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth, a new one every fraction of a second. She¡¯d weaved through the layers of invisible blades, feeling them scrape against her skin -- each one centimetres away from a lethal blow. Seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, every time closer to success. She¡¯d opened her mouth and let out a scream of her own, passion leaving her body as noise, but it was drowned out by the roaring winds and their screeching master.


    It was beyond even a hurricane -- it was an apocalypse -- and yet she had made it through.


    But it had taken everything she had. So she stood there, claws rammed through the heart of the First Contender, hoping beyond hope that this was it. You¡¯d expect destroying the heart to kill someone, but Ruth had seen too much to assume that. He could undergo some kind of Aether Awakening, or maybe he had some other ability that would keep him going for ages. Or maybe he was just a monster.


    One second passed.


    Two seconds passed.


    Three seconds passed.


    Blood dripped from Ruth¡¯s claws, and Avaman opened his mouth -- maybe to say something else¡­


    ¡­but then, slowly, he fell backwards and lay still on the floor. His eyes stared sightlessly. His breathing ceased. He did not so much as twitch. He was done. He was dead.


    Ruth didn¡¯t have time to breathe another sigh of relief. She was too busy falling over too -- but that didn¡¯t surprise her. It made sense that she couldn¡¯t stand up any longer.


    After all, her legs had just been cut off.

 Chapter 317:11.44: Here Come the Cavalries

    Alexandrius Toll wasted no time once he finally arrived at the bridge.


    Ash del Duran was still unconscious, so he tossed him over to a subordinate who hurried to catch him. His coat was still covered in frost, so he tossed that over to another subordinate. As he approached the sequence of vital consoles that headed up the room, he wiped some of the grime from his face. The maintenance tunnels had been in an abominable state: utterly filthy. He¡¯d have to order a review of this vessel once the battle was over.


    Gregori Hazzard was already there, waiting for him. His blonde hair hung low over his face, a single red eye looking out from behind the golden curtain. His hands were plunged into the pockets of his white coat -- and judging from the bloodstains visible on that same garment, he¡¯d had quite the adventure of his own.


    "Status report?" he asked, planting his hands down on the console as his eyes scanned the readouts.


    "Houston died," Gregori said casually, his face a mask. "We¡¯ve lost contact with the rest -- and judging from the state of the cold harvest, I¡¯d say they failed to protect it, so probably dead too."


    Alexandrius raised an eyebrow as he glanced at his second-in-command. "That¡¯s quite pessimistic of you, Hazzard."


    Gregori shrugged. "Uselessness is uselessness."


    Hazzard¡¯s words -- as usual -- were harsh, but he wasn¡¯t wrong. It was undeniable now that the cold harvest reactor was on the verge of failure. Once it finally gave up the ghost, the majority of the ship would be flooded with ice¡­ if it didn¡¯t just blow up entirely. Evacuation was now a necessity for survival: but evacuation to where? There weren¡¯t any other vessels in range.


    "The broadcast a few minutes ago¡­" Hazzard ventured. "It said the Supreme was dead."


    "That¡¯s unconfirmed information," Toll snapped. "Until we have confirmation, don¡¯t go spreading it around."


    It was Hazzard¡¯s turn to raise an eyebrow. "It was broadcast all across the ship, and who knows where else. There¡¯d be no need for me to spread it around."


    "All the same¡­" Toll grunted. "Speech is silver, but silence is golden. This is already a damnable situation. I trust you¡¯ve had time to look over everything before I arrived -- what are your thoughts?"


    "My thoughts?" Hazzard said, voice droll. "This whole thing is a disaster. If we¡¯d brought a whole fleet, we could at least evacuate to another ship, but the Supreme had us all on the Tartarus like this was some sort of working holiday. It¡¯s an issue."


    "Everyone here is well aware that it¡¯s an issue. How precisely would you recommend we solve it?"


    Hazzard sighed, scratching his head at the unwelcome mental labor. "The only path of escape is downwards¡­ I guess. We resume landings, accelerate them as much as possible without triggering the barrier, and finish off Regiment RED at the same time. Given the state of things on the ground, it¡¯ll probably be messy, but messy¡¯s probably the best we can hope for at this point."


    Toll considered things, steepling his fingers as he sat down. Hazzard¡¯s proposal had merit: the five-minute interval between landings had been more for the sake of the Supreme¡¯s damned games than any practical reason. Theoretically speaking, they should be able to speed that up to one landing a minute without provoking a response from the barrier¡­ but with so many personnel on board, the evacuation would still take an absurd amount of time.


    But it seemed that absurdity was what the situation demanded. Toll was just about to open his mouth and give the order when --


    "Rashomon to Tartarus," blared a voice over the console. "Rashomon to Tartarus. Do you read?"


    Toll¡¯s head snapped up as he looked to the communications operator. The mustachioed man seemed nervous as he leaned into his console, but that was only natural -- the eyes of his grand commander were focused upon him. Probably the eyes of everyone else on the bridge, too.


    To his credit, though, his voice betrayed none of that anxiety. Pure professionalism, as Alexandrius Toll appreciated.


    "Tartarus to Rashomon," the operator said. "Hearing you loud and clear. Please state your business."


    "Pesh Defense Force," came the response. "Acting on orders from the Body -- we¡¯ve been told to provide assistance. Is your captain available to speak directly?"


    The navigation operator glanced towards Toll, and he quickly nodded. Usually, the Body¡¯s interference would be atrocious¡­ but under the circumstances, he¡¯d take what he could get.


    "Patching him through now," the operator said -- and with a slide of the screen, the floor was Toll¡¯s. He leaned back in his chair, glaring forward as if he could see the face of the man on the other end. It was vital that he took control of matters quickly: the worst thing now would be for the operation to be usurped by some dog of the Body.


    "This is Ascendant-General Alexandrius Toll," Toll said firmly, the instant the channel came on. "The previous captain of the Tartarus was killed in battle. As such, command is mine. The vessel has sustained heavy damage and continued operation is no longer viable. How many ships are in your present forces, Rashomon?"


    The voice on the other end was different this time -- presumably this was the Rashomon¡¯s captain. As expected, he seemed somewhat startled by the sudden barrage of questions.


    "We, ah, currently number twelve cruisers, seventy-two freighters and six-hundred and ninety fighters."


    "That¡¯s quite sizable."


    "Pesh has a more than adequate defensive force," the captain replied, with more than a hint of pride. "With, ah, all due respect."


    "Of course. As you say, the Pesh Defense Force seems quite formidable. I wonder what it¡¯s doing all the way over here, instead of defending Pesh."


    The response came quickly -- it was a practiced quickness, if Toll had to guess. "The defense of the Supreme is the defense of the Supremacy as a whole. It¡¯s only natural for true patriots to make the trip here to protect our nation."


    Despite the fact that the Supreme specifically forbid it. But he would not bite at a helping hand too much.


    "As I said, the Tartarus has sustained heavy damage," Toll said. "Prepare your cruisers to receive our evacuated crew. Any further orders will come from my subordinate, Gregori Hazzard."


    At the mention of his name, Hazzard looked down at Toll. The slightest frown creased his lips. No doubt he was annoyed at being given more work, but with the rest of the Honest Men dead there was nobody else Toll could entrust with the task.


    The response from the Rashomon was swift. "Yes, sir. We should be within range in thirty minutes."


    "Very good."


    Alexandrius Toll flicked off the communication channel and stood up, the chair squeaking in relief as his mighty weight was lifted. Finally¡­ things were back on the right track. Now they just needed to retain this momentum.


    "Send word down to prepare a landing pod," he barked to the communications officer before turning to leave.


    Hazzard walked alongside him. "A landing pod? Aren¡¯t we evacuating to the other ships?"


    As Toll went to leave the room, one of his aides tossed him a new white coat -- he pulled it on as he walked. "I¡¯m going down to the planet myself. This news about the Supreme¡­ I¡¯ll confirm it personally."


    "Is that wise?" Hazzard asked in that impetuous way of his. "There are people who can confirm that for you."


    The younger man stopped at the exit to the bridge, but Toll continued walking without so much as a glance back.


    "This is something I¡¯ll trust only to my own eyes," he said gruffly.


    The lighting on the ship was still in chaos, and so Alexandrius Toll vanished into darkness as he strode down the hallway. Soon enough, his footsteps faded away as well. Gregori Hazzard, lingering at the mouth of the bridge, could only close his eyes and sigh.


    "How stupid¡­" he muttered.


    A lump lingered in Bruno¡¯s throat as he took in the sight before him.


    The landscape had been utterly shredded by Avaman¡¯s last attack, and so it had taken him a minute to weave through the rubble and get to the center. As he¡¯d run, his heart had been hammering so loud that little else was audible, exhaustion clinging to the edges of his vision and making it difficult to see. Now that he¡¯d arrived, he understood that anxiety had been more than warranted.


    It didn¡¯t take a genius to see that Avaman was dead.


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    His skin and flesh had melted off his body like candle wax and then hardened, leaving a grotesque statue standing in the middle of the clearing. Hollow eye sockets were frozen in the middle of shattering, his jaw swinging slowly from a single strand of sinew. Broken bones protruded like spikes from Avaman¡¯s carcass -- and as Bruno watched, that corpse shattered entirely into viscera.


    But that wasn¡¯t what demanded Bruno¡¯s attention, or his horror.


    Ruth lay on the floor before the corpse of the First Contender, and her legs lay next to her -- separated, cleanly severed at the thighs. Bruno gaped at the injury, at the blood gushing from the stumps, at the visible bone protruding from the red¡­


    No. He shook his head. Don¡¯t freak out. You need to act quickly.


    As Bruno reached down and tore two long strips away from his shirt, there was a pop from behind him. Wolfram reappeared in a bolt of white Aether, the grass around him rustling from the sudden release of pressure -- and his face, as he looked down at Ruth¡¯s injuries, mirrored Bruno¡¯s.


    "What¡­ happened?" he gasped.


    "We won," Bruno replied, a trace of bitterness entering his tone. "Now welp me stop the bleeding."


    Wolfram¡¯s ability came in handy. With it, they were able to tighten the bindings to a point that would have been impossible for hands alone -- and with Bruno¡¯s minutely placed barriers, they were able to reduce the bleeding further. Still, it wouldn¡¯t be enough. They needed to get her to a medic, as soon as possible.


    There were medics at the pyramid, Bruno, Serena suggested. I know it blew up, but maybe some survived? Or maybe some showed up to help the survivors?


    It was as good a plan as any.


    "Wolfram," Bruno said. "If you shrink Ruth, are you able to shrink the bindings on her legs as well? I know you¡¯ve already shrunk them once, but¡­"


    As Bruno glanced towards Wolfram, though, he saw that the boy was looking straight up into the sky -- his eyes wide as saucers.


    "Um, Mr. del Sed?" the boy breathed. "I think¡­ that¡¯s not good, is it?"


    Bruno followed Wolfram¡¯s gaze and saw that the boy was dead right.


    That was not good.


    Now that night had come, the stars were visible -- or rather, they should have been visible. Great swathes of them were blocked out, flooded by darkness, the moon seemingly cut in half by a shadow. But with a second¡¯s consideration, one could see that these were not shadows.


    They were silhouettes. The silhouettes of countless ships, in orbit around Elysian Fields. Supremacy reinforcements.


    Damn it, Skipper, Bruno gritted his teeth. You¡¯d better get back here quick.


    "Still¡­" Bruno said slowly, tearing his gaze away from the fleet above. "Still, we need to get Ruth healed. Shrink her down and we¡¯ll get her to the pyramid. Just --"


    Bang.


    A noise, all encompassing, blasted through the skies like a sonic boom. Immediately, Bruno¡¯s attention was dragged back to the fleet above. Had the attack started already? Had they given up on landing and resorted to orbital bombardment?


    But no, that wasn¡¯t it. Bruno watched, mouth dropping open¡­ as a second fleet arrived.


    The first time the rescue fleet had arrived, they¡¯d been destroyed within minutes by the Supremacy forces.


    The second time, they¡¯d lasted twenty minutes.


    The third time, they¡¯d lasted forty.


    The fourth, sixty.


    The fifth and final time, two hours. That was probably the best they were going to get.


    Sam Set put a hand to his head as it pulsed in agony, his ability retaliating for his reckless usage. Having him run a simulation that took so many different factors into account, and went on for such a long time, not to mention doing it five times? The Widow was a goddamn slave driver.


    To look at Sam Set, you wouldn¡¯t think he was a member of Vantablack Squad. He was small and slight, wearing a black sweater and loose fitting jeans. His fluffy dark hair was drenched in sweat from the exertion of his ability, and his Cogitant-blue eyes wavered in and out of sight, the mole beneath his left eye like a piece of punctuation.


    "Well?" asked the Widow, standing behind his chair. She put a thin, bony hand down on his shoulder.


    It took him a minute to open his mouth with confidence that he wouldn¡¯t vomit.


    "Go with the fifth strategy," he said breathlessly. "That gives us about two hours before the Supremacy destroys us. It¡¯s enough time to evacuate the people from Elysian Fields."


    The Widow put a contemplative finger to her chin. "Depending on how many survivors there are, it might not be enough."


    Sam Set winced. "If you¡¯re asking me to try again and find out how many survivors there are," he said. "Know that¡¯ll put me down for the count -- and there¡¯s no guarantee the number I give you will be accurate. These are simulations."


    His ability was the fruit of Abra-Facade, the land of precognition, where he¡¯d been raised. It allowed him to run a simulation of future events based on his conscious and subconscious knowledge, able to predict up to five hours in the blink of an eye. He experienced the simulation as if it was real life -- and if he was killed, the prediction obviously ended early. sea??h th§× novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    This meant, of course, that he¡¯d just had the luxury of being blown to bits five times in the span of about two seconds. His bad mood could be forgiven.


    As usual, the Widow had dragged him off to a secluded spot to perform his simulations -- in this case, the empty captain¡¯s quarters. The innumerable intelligence he¡¯d gone through before running the simulations still hung in the air before him on floating holographic screens -- and with a wave of his hand he dismissed them.


    The Widow seemed to accept this, nodding slightly. "I hear that this barrier Skipper has erected is quite the thing -- only one person can leave or enter at a time. The shuttles we brought are piloted by automatics, so they¡¯ll be fine going in, but I¡¯d rather us not be stuck here as they trickle out one by one¡­"


    "So what?" Sam Set said.


    It took her a moment to decide -- but once she did, she spoke with certainty. "Ah¡­ Skipper really didn¡¯t think about his escape, did he? There¡¯s nothing else for it. I¡¯ll go down with the first shuttle -- whatever is keeping that barrier active, I¡¯ll disable it."


    Sam Set groaned. "If you¡¯re going to start doing things like that, tell me before I start predicting. If I don¡¯t know about it, my simulation can¡¯t take it into account. It¡¯s not --"


    The Widow thumped her cane on the floor, bringing a swift end to Sam Set¡¯s complaining, and turned around to leave. He knew very well that he could only get away with a certain degree of insubordination -- membership of Vantablack Squad was the only thing keeping him out of prison, after all. The best thing for him to do was do as he was told and keep his head down¡­


    ¡­even if that head ended up feeling like shit.


    "The captain¡¯s been concerning me with his whining," the Widow said as way of goodbye, not even looking at him as she walked out of the room. "If he tries anything, please have Alcera kill him and hide the body."


    Sam Set watched her go, tension constricting his body -- and it was only when the door slid shut behind her that he allowed himself to sigh in relief. How the hell had he ended up in this kind of situation? His biggest ambition in life had been somewhere warm to sleep comfortably, and he¡¯d somehow been dragged into this band of lunatics. What he¡¯d done barely even counted as fraud, anyway -- it was nearly a victimless crime!


    He put a hand to his aching head. Why did these things always happen to him?


    The sky was alive with fire.


    Far above Elysian Fields, the two fleets exchanged blasts, plasma macro bolts and missiles visible all the way down from the ground. Bruno gaped up at the carnage -- and it was to such a degree that Serena was forced to take over just to get them moving.


    Ruth didn¡¯t have long. Even ignoring blood loss, the golden hours for Panacea were passing by while they wasted time here.


    "Shrink her down," she instructed Wolfram, who had been similarly enraptured by the battle. "Yourself, too. I¡¯ll carry both of you to the pyramid, okay? It¡¯ll be faster that way."


    Wolfram nodded, hurriedly shrinking Ruth with another white flash -- but as Serena snatched the tiny doll off the ground, there was a rustling from behind her. She turned her head just in time to see the new arrival.


    Dragan Hadrien staggered through the shredded forest, slowly re-emerging from Gemini World. Parts of his body -- injured parts -- stayed recorded, but enough of him became physical for him to walk and talk. He let out a heavy, rasping breath the moment his mouth came into existence.


    The last Serena had seen of him, he¡¯d been on his way to back up Skipper. Since he was back now, did that mean¡­?


    "What happened?" she quietly asked, dreading the answer.


    Dragan blinked with his one remaining eye. "He did it."


    "He¡­ killed the Supreme?"


    Dragan nodded wearily, his eye nearly falling shut from the motion. All the exhaustion of the battle seemed to be hitting him all at once.


    Swallowing, Serena asked the obvious follow-up: "Where¡­ where is Mr. Skipper?"


    And then, the half-man said the fatal words -- so softly they were barely even audible.


    "Skipper¡¯s dead."


    Serena¡¯s eyes widened. Serena¡¯s mouth took in a sharp breath. Serena¡¯s hand tightened.


    But, even with all of that, it was strange for her to realize that she wasn¡¯t especially surprised. Skipper had been a man who¡¯d seemed to be searching for his own death, the whole time they¡¯d known him. It appeared that he¡¯d finally found what he was looking for. It wasn¡¯t for her to say whether or not it had been worth it -- but it was always going to happen.


    No, it didn¡¯t surprise Serena -- but what happened next did.


    Dragan had doubtless come a long way to deliver that message. It had been quite the distance to that battlefield, and quite the distance back. That whole time, he¡¯d probably had his task in mind -- telling the others what had happened to Skipper.


    He¡¯d done that now¡­ and once those words passed his lips, and that job was done, his concentration wavered for a single fatal moment.


    In that moment, the Cogitant boy toppled forward, landing on his face. In that moment, parts of his injured body began to fade back into existence, Dragan releasing his ability in the instant of consciousness he had left. In that moment, it was too little¡­ and too late.


    Dragan Hadrien lost consciousness, and the parts of his body that had not yet returned disappeared into nothingness. A leg, an arm, scraps from his face and torso and chest¡­


    ¡­and who knew what else on the inside.

 Chapter 318:11.45: Cold Harvest

    Serena leapt through the forest -- a miniature Ruth in one hand, and a miniature Dragan in the other. Wolfram poked his tiny head out of her pocket.


    Surprisingly, shrinking people brought more advantages than just ease of transport. Aether infusion was more effective the smaller the target was, as the energy could be more focused -- so with Ruth and Dragan being the size of dolls, Serena¡¯s Aether was able to stabilize them far beyond what it could do if they were normal size. It wouldn¡¯t heal their injuries, of course -- they were far too grievous -- but it would at least slow down their deaths.


    Deaths? Bruno asked, worried. You seriously think they¡¯re going to die?


    Serena shook her head forcefully, landing on a branch and immediately kicking off it. Seeing Dragan collapse like that, blood pouring from the missing sections of his body, had been far too much for Bruno. She¡¯d had no choice but to take control to get them moving.


    The plan had changed. That second fleet that had arrived seemed to be sending down some kind of escape shuttles, black pinpricks in the sky that were clearly growing bigger. She didn¡¯t know who these new arrivals were, but it was clear from the firefight in the sky that they weren¡¯t the Supremacy. That was good enough for her.


    Getting to where they were landing was a much safer bet than heading to whatever was left of the pyramid. As Serena touched down on the grass for a moment, however, Wolfram wriggled out of her pocket and landed on the ground.


    "I need to go do something!" Wolfram squeaked from the ground like some kind of tiny gnome. "You keep going!"


    Serena skidded to a halt, turning her head around. "No way!" she cried. "I can¡¯t --"


    Leave you behind, she intended to say, but Wolfram clearly expected something different. His tiny hands offered a tiny pair of tiny thumbs-up. "Don¡¯t worry!" he tweeted. "They¡¯ll stay shrunk for a little while! I¡¯ll be back before then!"


    She took a step forward, but Wolfram had already scurried off into the foliage and vanished. Darnit. She didn¡¯t much like the idea of letting a little kid run around on his own in a place like this, but she had her hands full with Dragan and Ruth¡­


    ¡­it wasn¡¯t the nicest thing, but she could only care for so much at once.


    Taking a deep breath, Serena continued her journey towards the landing sites.


    There were lights above. There was noise above. There was fire above. But none of it could touch him, and none of it mattered.


    Below him, there was only the cold. The chill of an absent life. A body evacuated of consciousness. Blank eyes staring up at his. A hole of blood drying far too fast. A corpse. His son.


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins knelt there, looking down at his dead boy. How long had it been since he¡¯d blinked? His eyes hurt. It didn¡¯t matter. His eyes deserved to hurt. Look at what you¡¯ve done. Look at what you¡¯ve done to Scout. Yes. The cold was with him.


    A hand tugged at his sleeve. Roy glanced towards the source. The Scurrant boy -- the one with the tiny antlers and the white hair. He¡¯d briefly shown up before. He had a name, but it escaped Roy¡¯s memory. It was difficult to think of anything that was not this scene right here. The corpse pulled him back. He deserved to be here.


    "What?" he murmured, nearly inaudible.


    "There are shuttles coming," the boy said urgently, tugging at his arm uselessly. "They could get us out of here. We need to go!"


    "Go, then." The corpse pulled him back. "I can¡¯t leave him."


    The boy looked worriedly between Roy and Scout, shaking like a leaf. "T-Take him with you!"


    "It doesn¡¯t matter." Roy might have shook his head. He might not have. "Go ahead. I¡¯m fine here."


    "But¡­!"


    Maybe he should go. No, that wasn¡¯t right. He had to stay here with Scout. The corpse pulled him back. But there were other things. Things away from this place. His daughters. His family. There were still things to attend to. Still things to be alive for. He couldn¡¯t just stay here. Could he? But the corpse pulled him back.


    Yes. The corpse pulled him back.


    Roy¡¯s gaze slid over to look at the young boy. Was this the kid who could make things grow and shrink? He might have seen him do that. If so¡­


    "I¡¯m not going," Roy finally said. "But you can do something for me anyway."


    A sickly plan was gestating in his brain. It was idiotic. It was ill-conceived. It was nigh-suicidal. Perhaps it was designed to be all those things. Perhaps the corpse still pulled him down deeper. Even if, though. Even if. It was the kind of thing his boiling heart yearned for. It was the kind of thing his screaming brain demanded.


    A shadow still lingered over him¡­


    ¡­and the corpse pulled him towards it.


    Serena opened her mouth to speak, but Bruno got there first.


    "Who are you?"


    They¡¯d manage to reach this location -- a clearing in the woods -- just as the shuttles had begun landing. Most of them were empty, seemingly piloted by autobrains, but the one at the head of the pack was occupied by a single person. An old woman in a black shawl, looking down at Bruno and Serena from atop the landing ramp with a stern expression. Her brown eyes narrowed as she took in Bruno¡¯s question.


    "Skipper never mentioned me?" she said, a tad disappointed.


    Bruno shook his head, Ruth and Dragan still clutched in his hands. "Don¡¯t dodge the question. Who are you?"


    The woman thumped her cane against the landing ramp beneath her. "You can call me the Widow. I have no intention of telling you my name, or who I work for. Know only that I represent a party invested in making sure the Supreme¡¯s killers escape this planet unscathed."


    Unscathed¡­ Bruno swallowed back the lump in his throat, his shoulders shaking.


    "Well," he said bitterly, voice shaking just as much. "You¡¯re too late."


    The Widow furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?" she asked quietly.


    Bruno glared, and Serena glared with him. Enmity enough for two was emitted by one pair of eyes, and bitterness enough for two bounced off one tongue. "Skipper¡¯s already dead."


    Silence lingered for a long moment in that dark clearing, illuminated only by the lights from the shuttles. The glow hung over the Widow¡¯s face in such a way that her eyes were not visible, making her seem like some kind of skeleton -- but even the thin line of her mouth that was visible betrayed no clear emotion. Finally, as if to announce that the silence was complete, the Widow thumped her cane once more.


    "I see," she said. "That¡¯s¡­ unfortunate."


    Taking a deep breath, she looked back up, casting her face into the light -- and the coldness in her eyes made little difference from the sockets they¡¯d seen before.


    "All the same¡­" she said, her voice steady as ever. "You have two choices before you." She jabbed a long, crooked finger in the direction of the burning forest beyond. "You can remain here and inevitably perish, or¡­" She brought the finger back and pointed at the mouth of the shuttle behind her. e with us and potentially live. The choice is yours."


    Bruno narrowed his eyes. "If I come with you¡­ can you heal my friends?"


    "There¡¯ll be a better chance of that if you come with us, yes," the Widow replied.


    "You can¡¯t guarantee it?"


    "I can¡¯t guarantee anything in this world," the Widow said. "Not even this sky above us. But I can tell you that we¡¯ll do our utmost. You¡¯ve become valuable pieces, after all. Believe in our self-interest if nothing else."


    Serena let out a deep breath. "If you want to get everyone out of here¡­ that won¡¯t work. The barrier will stop it."


    For the first time, emotion trickled across the Widow¡¯s face -- the corners of her mouth twisting into the slightest smile. There was no real joy in it, but instead assurance. This was a person who knew what they were doing.


    "Leave that barrier to me," she said simply.


    If it was a choice between certain death and possible life, then¡­ Bruno supposed it wasn¡¯t really a choice at all.


    "I¡¯m in," said Bruno, and said Serena.


    So this is the kind of mess you made, Skipper? What a reckless boy you are¡­


    The Widow looked down at the pit of rubble that had once been the pyramid. The entire structure had been utterly demolished, leaving nothing but dust and blood. Doubtless any unfortunate souls caught in the building at the time had been crushed into oblivion. Was this where it had happened, then? Was this where Skipper had perished?


    It was distasteful to admit, but a part of her was glad that Skipper had died before she¡¯d arrived here. Had she been forced to take his life herself¡­ she wouldn¡¯t have hesitated, but it would have lingered with her. This series of events was far more comfortable to contemplate.


    Ah, a rueful smirk rose to her lips. What an awful woman you are.


    At any rate, she put her feelings -- something almost approximate to grief -- aside. She still had work to do. If this evacuation was to be completed in any kind of timely manner, she had to disable the barrier that was limiting entry and exit. That was easier said than done. From the intelligence she¡¯d received, procured by the UAP¡¯s Ultraviolets, the device that controlled the barrier lay at the bottom of a lengthy shaft beneath the pyramid.


    Presumably there¡¯d been some kind of elevator to allow travel through that zone, but with the destruction of the building she had no doubt that it was inoperable. Even if it wasn¡¯t, getting through the rubble to reach it wasn¡¯t practical in the time she had available. The Widow put a finger to her lips as she considered her options.


    Well¡­ there was really only one way of going about this, wasn¡¯t there? It was a little finicky, but it was the only option she had.


    The Widow knelt down, planting her hand on a chunk of rubble as she closed her eyes. This maneuver would require three ingredients, so to speak. An Aether ping, an infusion¡­ and Cold Harvest, the maximum output of her ability. The first two would be the most delicate. Personally, the Widow felt that proper mastery of these fundamental Aether techniques was the most important factor in a person¡¯s strength¡­ which was essentially a roundabout and arrogant way of calling herself strong.


    Her new Vantablack Squad wasn¡¯t with her right now -- that was a shame. This would have been a good opportunity to show them why she was in charge.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    First, the Aether ping -- directed through the thin cracks in the rubble beneath her as it descended down into the earth. The limited space the Aether had to fill meant it could stretch on much further, allowing her to get a complete mental map of the shaft, the rubble blocking it, and the structure at the bottom.


    As expected, the thing controlling the barrier was Gene Tyrant technology -- in short, it was biological. Cold Harvest would be able to put it into hibernation without triggering any potential countermeasures, then. The only problem was getting Cold Harvest to the required location.


    All problems had solutions. Manifestation was a technique in which the user pulled a recorded object back out from within the space their Aether occupied. Despite how most people did it, there was no rule stating that Aether had to be right next to the user. The Widow would take advantage of that here.


    Light blue Aether trickled out from her palm, worming through the tiny cracks and fractures in the rubble until it reached the bottom -- where it ballooned out into a much larger mass. Essentially, the Widow had created a pipeline through which she could funnel her greater Aether to the core of the mechanism. A waiting space for her manifestation.


    Cold Harvest.


    The Widow felt the chill from all the way up above ground. If she¡¯d been right next to her own ability without sufficient protection, there was a good chance she would have been frozen instantly. As the name suggested, it was a mimicry of a cold harvest reactor -- a unit that generated power through the concentration of extremely cold temperatures. She didn¡¯t much care for any energy her ability generated, though.


    As far as she was concerned, it was just a very big and very cold bomb.


    The default timer was thirty seconds, and the Widow saw no reason to change that. Once the barrier was down, they¡¯d need to move quickly -- the Supremacy fighters would not miss their opportunity to swoop in and claim their glory. They had to disable the barrier and make their escape as quickly as possible.


    She didn¡¯t need to stay in proximity for the ability to complete, and so the Widow turned and began making her way back towards the shuttles, her cane thumping against the ground with each step.


    Thump.


    Thump.


    Thump.


    Bang.


    The Widow didn¡¯t turn to look, but she was well aware of the effect Cold Harvest would have on the environment. The ice would run all the way up the shaft and emerge from the top like an iceberg, towering over the landscape. Hell, she could feel the shadow of it upon her already, and feel a chill run through the forest around her. A sense of weariness crept into her bones along with the cold -- Cold Harvest wasn¡¯t an ability she could afford to throw around too often.


    All the same, though, she didn¡¯t need to turn around to see that her gambit had worked. The only thing she had to do was glance at the sky and see the pink barrier flicker out of existence.


    The Supremacy wasted no time.


    As soon as the barrier deactivated, countless fighters began to zoom down towards the planet like locusts, their plasmafire slamming into and incinerating the landscape below. The shuttles took off as soon as the Widow got back -- and as Bruno watched from the windows, he could see fresh waves of flame coursing across the surface of Elysian Fields. The wildfires that had previously erupted were nothing in comparison: this was utter annihilation.


    Skipper¡¯s body is somewhere down there, isn¡¯t it? Serena asked sadly.


    Bruno quietly nodded. "I¡­ I guess it is."


    Skipper¡¯s body, and so many others. How many had died today? Before the battle, Bruno hadn¡¯t been able to turn around without seeing at least ten Regiment RED soldiers. There had been enough that he¡¯d had the luxury of forgetting individual faces. Now, though¡­ there were only a handful of people on this shuttle with them. Similar numbers had made it to the others, from what he¡¯d seen.


    Ruth and Dragan were still miniaturized, clutched in his hands, their bodies constantly being infused with Aether. He¡¯d been told there were medical facilities on the ships in orbit, but could his friends hold out that long? Even if they could, the golden hours for Panacea were never certain -- and they were ticking away with each second anyway.


    Would they make it in time?


    Wolfram had made it back just before the shuttles took off. He was sitting in the corner of the cargo bay, knees pulled up to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. Bruno supposed it made sense: he was just a kid, after all, and this whole situation was surely more than he¡¯d signed up for.


    Are you sure? Serena asked. He doesn¡¯t look scared to me.


    Bruno frowned, looking closer. Serena was right. Wolfram, there in the corner, looked more like he was concentrating on something. Keeping Dragan and Ruth small? Bruno doubted it: he hadn¡¯t looked like that before.


    Boom.


    The chance for investigation quickly passed. Suddenly, the shuttle violently shook -- and as Bruno moved over to the nearest porthole, he saw the shuttle alongside them be obliterated by a plasma shot. Scraps of debris and spurts of flame flew out in every direction, and he could even see an indistinct human form fall from the wreckage and plummet to the ground below.


    "Shit!" he shouted, turning his head to the Widow. "Isn¡¯t there anything we can do?¡¯


    The Widow, who¡¯d been sitting with her eyes closed, opened one to look at him. "My field of cold should disable any shot that gets too close to us¡­ but I¡¯m afraid the rest of the shuttles are on their own. These things happen."


    "We can¡¯t just sit here!" Serena cried, overpowering Bruno.


    "We can, and we shall." The Widow¡¯s eye flicked over to look at something behind their body. "But¡­ it looks like the little one already has something in mind."


    Serena turned her head to follow the Widow¡¯s gaze -- but she understood what she meant before she even finished turning. A white glow was engulfing the shuttle, after all, banishing each and every shadow. The source of it was Wolfram, still sitting in the corner, shining with such intense Aether that one couldn¡¯t look at him directly.


    Aether burn, Bruno said. That¡¯s definitely an Aether burn.


    "Wolfram?!" Serena cried, holding a hand up to shield her eyes. "What are you doing?!"


    He looked up at her -- and although his eyes were bloodshot and his face pained, a resolve shone through nonetheless.


    "Helping," he gasped.


    There were a lot of flies buzzing around now. That was too bad for them. They¡¯d die, after all.


    After Scout had been killed, the Hanged Man had been left unoccupied. Everyone had just gone away and forgotten about it. Even Roy had been guilty of that. After all, it had just looked like a massive metal statue by the end. A memorial for everyone.


    But that wasn¡¯t it. The Hanged Man wasn¡¯t the mourning. The Hanged Man was the kill.


    Roy Oliphant-Dawkins plunged his fist into the cockpit of the Hanged Man, and his will went with it. He didn¡¯t need the automatic to be humanoid, like his son had. He didn¡¯t need the automatic to be a creature, like Ruth Blaine had. All he needed was a shape that could end things here.


    An amorphous mass of liquid metal, all tendrils and tentacles, each and every extension tipped with a god-sharp blade. Alone, it would have been no match for the swarms of ships that were descending on Elysian Fields. But Roy was not alone. He had extracted a promise.


    When the boy felt the silver beast change shape, he¡¯d promised he would activate his ability.


    Guardian Entity -- Byakko!


    An honest boy, just like Scout had been. The ability activated right on time.


    The Hanged Man was already massive, but the growth effect made it gargantuan. In a second, the liquid metal surged over the surface of the planet like a tsunami, devouring and overrunning everything, the tendrils so numerous that they were far greater than the trees that had once been there.


    And as one¡­ they struck upwards, slapping and slicing the fighters even as they swerved to avoid. With each strike, he struck himself. With each slaying, he slew himself. It felt like he was apologizing for everything. It felt as if he was atoning for everything.


    What a joke. As if one could apologize for murder with murder. This was nothing but hypocrisy.


    But¡­ hypocrisy was all Roy Oliphant-Dawkins had. It was all he¡¯d ever had.


    The mechanical monstrosity, born of mind and grief, killed and killed and killed¡­ until, finally, the lights of those shuttles had vanished into the night.


    From there, all that was left were the flames.


    Panting for breath, Wolfram stared out the window at the devastation on the planet below. A sea of silver tendrils, devouring everything it came into contact with. He¡¯d done that? His Guardian Entity had done that? He knew he¡¯d gone beyond what he should have -- but despite the pain in his body, he could still move.


    If this was what he was capable of¡­ he could have done more, back then. He should have done more.


    A hand landed on his shoulder.


    "Excuse me, young man," the one they called the Widow said kindly. "I was just wondering¡­ do you have somewhere to go to after all this is done¡­?"


    The feeling of touch returned first. Ruth felt cold air brush against her skin, felt the mask of a rebreather pressed against her face, felt dull anesthetized pain pulsing from her legs. A soft bed beneath her. All of these sensations reminded her that she was still alive.


    Hearing. People walking back and forth. The beeps and boops of machinery. The hum of an engine. Breathing, not her own, close to her.


    Smell. The bitter scent of medicine. The metal tang of blood. A sterility¡­ a place wiped clean. Was she in a hospital?


    Sight.


    Ruth opened her eyes, and it took a moment for her vision to fully adjust. She didn¡¯t know this ceiling. It was dark, barely lit by a flickering panel. With all the strength she could muster, Ruth turned her head to look around.


    She¡¯d been half-right about this being a hospital. It seemed to be some kind of makeshift medical bay, countless beds filled with the suffering and the dying, hooked up to machinery to keep them stable. An empty canister of Panacea, discarded, rolled across the floor to join a pile of its fellows.


    "Miss Ruth?" Serena asked. She was sitting next to her bed. "You¡¯re awake?"


    She tried to grin in defiance of the pain, but all she could manage was a weak smile -- and lifting her head was completely out of the question.


    "Looks like it," she rasped. "Is the battle¡­ over?"


    Serena nodded, brushing some of the loose hair out of Ruth¡¯s face. "It¡¯s over," she said. "We got away a few hours ago."


    "Where are we?" Ruth asked. "How did we get out of there?"


    "These people were paid to get us off of Elysian Fields. I guess since we managed to kill the Supreme, we¡¯re important now. I think they¡¯re taking us to the UAP¡­"


    "Damn¡­" Ruth chuckled, trying to raise her arm -- and having trouble. "We should have a look around first, if we don¡¯t know who these guys are¡­ you up to do some snooping?"


    Ruth stopped halfway through an attempt at sitting up. There was a strange, pained look on Serena¡¯s face. Had she been injured as well?


    "Um¡­" Serena said, fidgeting. "I -- I¡¯m sorry, Miss Ruth, I thought there¡¯d be a doctor to, like, explain it, but¡­"


    Her eyes kept flicking further down the bed, and Ruth brought her head up to look there as well. Immediately, she understood Serena¡¯s anxiety.


    Ruth had known that Avaman¡¯s dying attack had severed her legs. She¡¯d jumped in expecting an injury -- but an injury that could be treated by Panacea or something. But her legs were still gone.


    A cold weight settled in her stomach as she looked down at the bandaged stumps. "Panacea¡­?" she asked hopefully.


    Serena looked down at the floor, her expression downcast. "The¡­ the golden hours passed¡­ we couldn¡¯t¡­ get here in time¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­" S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth took in a deep, shuddering breath. "Did Dragan¡­ come back okay?"


    Again, Serena looked away. "He came back, but¡­ he¡¯s hurt too¡­ pretty bad¡­ they don¡¯t know if¡­ it¡¯s pretty bad¡­"


    What could Ruth do? She was lying on that bed, broken, bloody. She squeezed her fists shut, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Within her chest, she could feel the overpowering pulse of her heartbeat.


    Yes¡­ her heartbeat. The fatal question came to her lips. The question she needed to ask and didn¡¯t want to be answered. "What about¡­ Skipper?"


    Serena did not answer. It was Bruno who had to deliver the news.


    "Skipper¡¯s¡­ dead," he said.


    Ruth opened her eyes. "I see¡­" she breathed.


    And there, in the darkness of the med-bay -- driven by pain and loss -- Ruth Blaine quietly began to sob.

 Chapter 319:11.46: The Black Light of a Dark Star

    Ascendant-General Alexandrius Toll frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing to golden pinpricks as he took in the sight before him.


    The Supreme, dead. The Supreme, with his head resting on the ground before him, severed by a single clean blow. The Supreme¡­ proven false. That is what would be said now, even if nobody truly believed it.


    Far behind him, a wall of flame towered up to the sky as the incoming ships continued their incineration of the Regiment RED base. The fools. No doubt the captain of the Rashomon had ordered them to do so, but they risked destroying this vital scene in the process. This was a shard of history they were almost burning.


    At least they¡¯d managed to subdue that metal monstrosity, if nothing else.


    With a steady hand, Toll reached out and closed the Supreme¡¯s¡­ closed Kadmon¡¯s staring eyes. If nothing else, he was smiling at the end. He looked happy. That was the kind of expression Alexandrius hadn¡¯t seen in a long time, not since the final battle against the Kingdom Moon Cult. It seemed the man above all had found a worthy adversary at the end.


    Speaking of which¡­


    Toll turned his head to look at the ruined corpse of Kadmon¡¯s counterpart. The corpse of Zachariah Esmeralda was in a much worse state, burnt and charred and dismembered to such a degree that he looked like a chunk of used firewood. He was smiling too, though.


    It was strange to think about. This man surely must have passed after Kadmon, so by all rights he had been Supreme for at least a minute or two. They¡¯d lost two Supremes in one day, then. The line of succession was now unclear -- without a doubt, there would be a Dawn Contest. Just like last time.


    Those injuries of Esmeralda¡¯s, a dark and false corner of his mind whispered. They could have been caused by Sevenfold Serpents: Inferno. You could say you came and finished him off. You could be Supreme.


    Toll banished the notion immediately. Such a falsehood would bring shame to the entire Supremacy, not just himself. It was not something that could even be considered.


    So, instead, he brought a finger to his ear and activated the communicator there.


    "Hazzard," he said gruffly. "Send word to Azum-Ha."


    He had to take a deep breath before he could continue, before he could speak those necessary words.


    "The false Supreme has perished."


    Ruth Blaine could still feel her legs.


    They were gone, without a doubt, leaving her in a wheelchair for the time being -- but if she closed her eyes, she could feel pain sculpted into their shapes. The sensation of their loss was almost like a replacement for their being. Cold ghosts stabbing her in retaliation.


    But when she winced, when she gasped, when she acknowledged that pain, she couldn¡¯t help but feel an accompanying pang of guilt. After all, she hadn¡¯t even gotten the worst of it.


    Dragan Hadrien lay on the bed before her and Bruno, wires and tubes connected to him from every angle. Enough bandages covered his form that you wouldn¡¯t have been able to tell his identity without knowing in advance. One arm was missing, one leg, one eye too¡­ and so much more.


    The doctors had explained it in great detail -- perhaps far too much detail -- and so words and phrases, divorced of context, could do nothing but swirl around in Ruth¡¯s head.


    Stomach¡­ lung¡­ kidney¡­ vocal cords¡­ facial bones, facial muscles¡­ an eye¡­ hip bone¡­ so much more¡­ still tallying up the list¡­ possible neural issues¡­


    In short, it was a wonder that Dragan Hadrien was even alive. He¡¯d recorded so much of his body into Gemini World, just to keep moving¡­ and when his fatigue had finally caught up to him, he hadn¡¯t had time to deactivate the ability. Every damaged part he¡¯d banished away had just vanished into the void, leaving him like this.


    Bruno¡¯s mouth moved silently for a moment before he could finally force speech through it. "Do you think he¡¯ll wake up?" he asked, voice hollow as the body before him.


    Ruth swallowed. "They don¡¯t know. They¡¯re not sure¡­ I guess."


    "But do you think he¡¯ll wake up?" Bruno asked again.


    There was a strange tone to his voice, a strange pleading note. It was like Ruth was the one who¡¯d decide if he woke up, like he had to beg her to make it so. But she was in the same ship as him. All she could do was watch with tired eyes.


    "I guess¡­" Ruth repeated. What else could she say?


    The two of them remained there for a long time, looking down at Dragan¡¯s ruined body, listening to the beep of his assisted heartbeat and the gasp of his assisted breathing. The doctors had said he was stable, at least.


    So long as he was hooked up to this machinery -- this room of machinery -- he was stable. What a joke.


    Tears rose to Ruth¡¯s eyes once more. She¡¯d done a lot of crying over the last few hours -- she¡¯d started to think she¡¯d run out of tears. It seemed not.


    "Hey," Serena said soothingly, crouching down next to the wheelchair. "Don¡¯t cry, Miss Ruth. It¡¯s not your fault."


    Ruth thumped a fist against her thigh -- once, twice, each time accompanied by a face flashing through her mind. Skipper, Dragan. One gone, the other very nearly so. Her fault? What did it matter if it was her fault? It had still happened.


    Skipper. His face returned, lingered. They didn¡¯t even have a body. No doubt it had burnt away to nothing in the bombardment of Elysian Fields.


    Ruth spoke, her throat dry. "I thought I had all of this figured out, you know¡­"


    "What do you mean?" Serena blinked.


    Ruth shrugged weakly. "I¡­ I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m talking about. I just thought¡­ I thought I understood what I needed to do, what I was here for." She looked up at Serena, and glistening tears streamed down her face, her teeth clenched to restrain another sob. "I thought I was strong, I -- I thought I was strong enough to stop things like this from happening. I thought I didn¡¯t have to worry anymore¡­ think anymore. I¡¯m so stupid. What was I thinking? I wasn¡¯t thinking. I¡¯m so¡­"


    It was clear to anyone watching that Ruth was about to spiral, blame driving her deeper and deeper into despair with each revolution. Serena had experienced something similar in the past -- back on the Cradle -- and her friend had been there to pull her back. So she owed her one.


    Serena knelt down, embracing Ruth and cutting off her distraught mutterings.


    "Get off me¡­" Ruth whispered, shaking like a leaf. "I don¡¯t deserve it¡­"


    "You didn¡¯t do anything wrong, Miss Ruth," Serena said firmly. "You didn¡¯t. So don¡¯t talk about yourself like that."


    "But¡­"


    "Don¡¯t," Serena repeated, pulling her in tighter. "I¡¯m sad too, Miss Ruth. But that¡¯s all it is. Don¡¯t blame yourself."


    Beep, beep, beep¡­ The room remained mercilessly still, and mercilessly quiet, as the two of them hugged each other tight. Quiet, quiet¡­ all the way until the moment they were called away, and finally had to leave Dragan Hadrien to his long slumber.


    A slumber that showed no signs of ending.


    Dragan Hadrien thought that he would quite like to be a star.


    The only one who decides what happens to me¡­ is me.


    "I¡¯ll show you. That people can be good. That they¡¯re not what you think of them."


    "You really don¡¯t understand anything, do you? Of course people are vulgar. They live in a vulgar, awful world. There¡¯s no choice in the matter. But there¡¯s nobody in the world equipped to make decisions, not really. You think the people on top got there for being wiser, more advanced, more worthy than everyone else? Of course not. They got there by being vulgar on a big scale, rather than a little one. They¡¯re just the people who could bring themselves to be the most awful. It¡¯s the same everywhere. There¡¯s no deeper meaning to any of it."


    "Can you make this stick for me, kid?"


    A single eye opened, nearly sightless, and a shredded mouth took a shallow breath.


    Gemini¡­ World¡­


    "So," Bruno said, crossing his arms. "What happens now?"


    The three of them -- Bruno, Ruth and the Widow -- sat in the captain¡¯s quarters of this ship, the Vertigo. Apparently, the captain had disappeared shortly after the evacuation, and so the Widow had taken official command over the vessel. The running theory, according to this woman, was that the captain had stolen one of the escape pods and ran for it to avoid any Supremacy retaliation, but Bruno didn¡¯t buy that for a second.


    He¡¯d worked for the UAP before, after all, running black ops as part of the Sed. He knew how these things went.


    "Now?" the Widow asked, fingers steepled on the captain¡¯s desk before her. "I suppose that mostly depends on you. What would you like to happen now?"


    Bruno glared. "I find it hard to believe you¡¯d spend all this effort getting us out of there just to let us do whatever we want."


    "Well¡­" the Widow smiled thinly. "I¡¯d say you¡¯re a very distrusting person, then. The fact that you escaped Elysian Fields is the important part. Any number of things can happen now, and it¡¯s all the same to us."


    He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"


    The Widow clicked a long, bony finger against the metal surface of the desk before her. "If you, Esmerelda¡¯s comrades, were all killed on Elysian Fields along with him, the story ends there. Even though the Supreme was killed, his murderers were all destroyed as well. It doesn¡¯t serve as a very effective statement -- basically, what it implies is that defying the Supremacy is only possible through total sacrifice."


    "And that¡¯s not the message you want to send."


    "Precisely," the Widow nodded. "Now that you¡¯ve escaped, and the Supremacy is forced to acknowledge that, it doesn¡¯t matter as much what becomes of you. If a Special Officer was to find you tomorrow and kill you, it would be very easy to dismiss news of your death as desperate propaganda. The stage has been set for that sort of thing."


    "Ha," Bruno made a noise so humourless it couldn¡¯t honestly be described as laughter. "And that works well for your propaganda, huh?"


    The Widow nodded again, shamelessly. "That¡¯s right."


    Outside, Ruth could see another ship drifting alongside theirs, one of the few that still remained part of this ramshackle fleet. As they¡¯d traveled, more and more ships had broken off to act as decoys for pursuers, or to transport survivors to other prearranged locations. Now, it was just these two -- the Vertigo and the Sky-High. No doubt the Sky-High would move off at some point as well.


    Leaving them alone.


    Bruno leaned back in his chair, suspicious eyes scanning the Widow¡¯s face for any signs of deceit. "Ideally¡­ in an ideal situation for you, what would we decide to do?"


    "You¡¯d come with us back to Serendipity," the Widow replied without hesitation. "From there, we could arrange all sorts of other things."


    "Like what?"


    "I¡¯m not the one who would be making those decisions," she said. "So I can¡¯t say."


    "Would those decisions be bad for us?" Bruno demanded.


    The Widow took a moment to consider the question, her finger sliding across the metal desk and clearing a line of dust. "It rather depends on how you¡¯d classify ¡¯bad¡¯," she finally answered. "You wouldn¡¯t be injured or killed, if that¡¯s your concern, but you would be put under a spotlight. If you think that¡¯s bad for you, that¡¯s your business¡­ but it¡¯s a natural consequence of continuing Skipper¡¯s work."


    "I¡¯ll pretend you didn¡¯t bring my dead friend into it," Bruno said with a clear and steady voice. "But by ¡¯continuing his work¡¯, you mean continuing his personal war against the Supremacy, right?"


    The Widow nodded. "I would think that¡¯s a given. As you say, we didn¡¯t rescue you out of the goodness of our hearts."


    "Maybe we¡¯ve had enough fighting," Bruno said quietly, suddenly very tired. "Maybe we think we deserve a rest¡­"


    That thin smile faded, and the Widow raised an unamused eyebrow. Ruth shivered -- and she found that the air in the room was suddenly growing very cold. She frowned. Had someone turned up the air conditioning or something?


    "We¡¯re not asking you to do all of this out of the good of your hearts, either," the Widow said, her own voice just as frosty. "We can offer a great deal of compensation for your cooperation. The Supremacy may strike back at you -- we can provide the protection of members of the Ten Nebula. If comfort is what you¡¯re looking for, that too can be facilitated." Her eyes flicked over to Ruth. "You¡¯ve suffered injuries as a result of your heroics¡­ we can arrange specialized treatment, the most advanced prosthetics."


    Bruno took a deep breath, before glancing towards Ruth. "What do you think?"


    Ruth didn¡¯t answer. She was still staring out the window at the Sky-High floating alongside them.


    "Ruth?" Bruno asked again.


    "What?" Ruth snapped her head back towards the conversation, suddenly pulled out of her haze of consciousness. "Sorry, I, uh¡­ I got distracted for a second. What were we¡­?"


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Serena smiled with Bruno¡¯s mouth. "Don¡¯t worry about it, Miss Ruth," she said, before Bruno reasserted himself and turned back towards the Widow. "This is a big decision to be making on the spur of the moment."


    "I wouldn¡¯t say it¡¯s the spur of the moment, given the amount of time we¡¯ve already been in transit¡­" the Widow frowned. "But if you need more time, that can be arranged. It¡¯s a long way to Serendipity, after all."


    Bruno¡¯s eyes flicked back over to Ruth, who was already spacing out again, before they returned to the Widow. He took a deep breath before speaking.


    "How about this?" he proposed. "This ship is going to have to refuel soon, isn¡¯t it? I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve prepared for that. Get Ruth some prosthetics while we¡¯re waiting at the lightpoint -- and before we leave, we¡¯ll have your answer."


    Tap. Tap. Tap. The Widow considered Bruno¡¯s proposal for a good long moment, and¡­


    "That¡¯s acceptable," she finally said. "But the prosthetics we can get hold of on short notice will only be rudimentary. Something more advanced may be possible once we have our answer. Is that acceptable?"


    Again, Bruno¡¯s eyes flicked over to Ruth, who now had her cheek pressed against the window -- her dull gaze wasn¡¯t even aimed at the other ship anymore. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, even prodding her with his elbow, but she remained silent. Eventually, he just went ahead and opened his mouth to answer for her.


    If only he got the chance.


    Before he could get the words out, the doors to the captain¡¯s office suddenly slid open, and a young Cogitant man with fluffy black hair ran through, holding onto the door frame to catch his breath. As he did, raised voices and running feet could be heard from the hallway beyond. The Widow raised an unimpressed eyebrow. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "We¡¯re busy here," she snapped. "What is it?"


    The boy took one last deep breath before finally speaking: "It¡¯s Dragan Hadrien! He¡¯s gone!"


    Things progressed naturally from there.


    The Widow went to find out where Dragan had gone. Bruno and Serena went with her. Ruth didn¡¯t know if they¡¯d just forgotten she couldn¡¯t follow in a timely fashion, or if they¡¯d decided she¡¯d be safer here, but the end result was the same -- she was left alone in the captain¡¯s office, looking out at the void of space. Full dark, no stars.


    It had been getting worse, this malaise clinging to her bones. As the day had gone, even the slightest effort had become a great labor. Now, even keeping her eyes open was a pain¡­ no, not a pain. It was the hole that pain left.


    Ruth let her eyes fall shut.


    It was a stupid comparison fit for a stupid girl, but she felt like a balloon being emptied of air.


    "See¡­ you¡­ later¡­ Ruth¡­"


    Her eyes snapped open, and she looked around for the source of the voice. There was nothing; she was utterly alone in the room. Even the Sky-High outside was gone. Had she hallucinated that, then, or had she really heard Dragan¡¯s voice? Had she been imagining things, or had she really seen that spark of blue?


    No answers came.


    All she could do was sit there¡­ and wait for a return that would not come.


    He existed only in part, for moments at a time. He allowed only the tip of a finger to emerge from his Aether, enough to apply pressure on a button, enough to select an option on a screen. Everything else was unnecessary. He didn¡¯t need eyes or ears, or even a brain. All he needed was his Aether. All he needed was his consciousness.


    Even with all that, though, how long did Dragan Hadrien have?


    It was difficult to say. Exhaustion had conquered him once before, had left him in a state completely unfitting for such a journey. But fatigue was an opponent he knew now. It was something he could withstand. So long as no body existed to be tired, the only thing he had to do was keep thinking. He could do that. Couldn¡¯t he?


    Tasks kept him pinned to the present.


    He needed to activate Gemini World. He needed to get through the hallways. He needed to say goodbye. He needed to pass into the shuttle bay. He needed to steal a shuttle. He needed to lock in coordinates. All of these were easy. All of these were physical phenomena accomplished by physical phenomena.


    He needed to wait. That was the hardest part of all. With the destination he needed to get to, it could take weeks to arrive, even assuming he could make use of lightpoints. Left alone for that time with no body, with only thoughts¡­ concentration could waver, and then that would be it.


    But his thoughts did not go unaccompanied. He had one more task to consider, after all. One more physical phenomena to be accomplished by physical phenomena.


    "Can you make this stick for me, kid?"


    "Can you make this stick for me, kid?"


    "Can you make this stick for me, kid?"


    Yes. His mission. He ran through the words again and again, fixing them in his mind, fixing them in his soul¡­


    ¡­as the shuttle began its long journey to the planet Panacea.


    "Full lockdown!" Jordan screamed as the vault door closed behind him. "Activate all prison seals!"


    One-hundred people dead in sixty seconds. Sixty-four more in the next three minutes. Before this attack reached the ten-minute mark, Jordan honestly wasn¡¯t sure if anyone would be left alive on the Shesha. Their attackers seemed intent on a full purge -- and their strength was such that they couldn¡¯t be resisted.


    Jordan Halacourt had survived this long by luck alone -- when the attack started, he¡¯d just come off his shift on Prisoner duty. He¡¯d been stepping out of the safety lock when he¡¯d seen it. He¡¯d been able to turn right around and retreat back into the prison, but the memories of what he¡¯d seen could not so easily be avoided.


    A litany of horrors.


    Tiny mechanical drones, the shape and size of pens, burning holes through the heads of guardsmen. Corpses warped into turrets of blood and bone, shredding through their victims with tooth-bullets. Black tentacles lunging out of the walls, seizing his comrades and crushing them into jam against the metal bulkheads.


    It wasn¡¯t as if the Shesha Prison Guards were a helpless force -- they boasted Aether-users of considerable power, who¡¯d been able to put down assaults upon the Shesha by terrorists in the past. Jordan harbored no hopes that they¡¯d be able to do anything in this case, though. Any optimism had been snuffed out when he¡¯d seen the strongest of their number impaled on the mighty greatsword of that thing.


    The Abyssal Knight.


    His sword and armour had been drenched in gore, purple light flaring from beneath the rusted metal, his distended muscles squirming like serpents. The image of that monster remained so clear in Jordan¡¯s mind that he could imagine it standing behind him even now, breathing down his throat, waiting to devour him. Its agonized howl would echo in his nightmares, if he survived long enough to have any.


    It wasn¡¯t looking good.


    The surviving guards regrouped in the observation chamber, sealed behind seven layers of security -- and behind it, the cell where the Prisoner hung suspended above the engine by thousands of Neverwire chains. Even one of those layers surpassed the most complex security measures available to the rest of the galaxy -- and yet sweat coated the faces of each and every guard as they pointed their guns at the closed vault door. The thirty or so men could not hear through the soundproofed walls, but they could well imagine what was on the other side. The death that was waiting for them.


    "Where¡¯s the warden?" Jordan asked, voice shaking.


    Nobody answered, but under the circumstances the answer was obvious: dead. His direct subordinates were dead as well. Which left them, the rank and file. Someone had to take charge. Jordan cleared his throat and spoke up again.


    "Have we sent word to the Accompaniment Fleet?" he barked, with all the authority he could replicate from his old drill sergeant. "Someone get the distress signal going!"


    One of the few surviving technicians looked up from their console, their face flooded with ghastly light by the screen. "We¡¯ve tried," they whimpered, trembling violently. "B-But nothing¡¯s getting out. The whole system¡¯s down. A virus? But even so¡­ we have measures for¡­"


    Jordan stopped listening after that, and instead just took a deep breath. The gist of things was that they wouldn¡¯t be getting help. The thirty of them here had to repel this attack on their own -- and their enemy was obvious. Everyone knew what the Abyssal Knight meant: Darkstar. The most wicked group of killers in the galaxy.


    But¡­


    "We are the Supremacy," Jordan spoke aloud. "And this is the Shesha -- the seat of our power! Are we just going to let these freaks do as they please?!"


    A moment of silence, nerve-wracking silence, before¡­


    "Hell no!" came a collective cry with more confidence than was perhaps warranted.


    "Who are we?!" Jordan roared.


    "The Supremacy!"


    "This is nothing!" Jordan declared, heart beating a jackhammer in his chest. "What is this?!"


    No answer at first. Jordan¡¯s hands shook as he pointed his rifle at the waiting doors. If this group was able to hack the Shesha -- the beating heart of the Supremacy fleet -- to such a degree that it couldn¡¯t coordinate with other ships, then it was only a matter of time until those seven seals were opened. It was no surprise the other soldiers weren¡¯t joining in. Bravado could only do so much¡­


    ¡­but even so, false courage was sometimes needed. Jordan might not have been good enough to become a Special Officer, but he understood some things perfectly well. Hope needed a vessel to point it forward.


    And so he repeated, his roar bordering on a scream: "What is this?!"


    "Nothing," replied a serene voice from behind him.


    A hand landed on his shoulder.


    Slowly, Jordan turned his head, knowing and dreading what he would find there. He was now alone in the observation chamber. No, no, that wasn¡¯t right -- a man had stepped up behind him, a man with so little presence it was easy to miss his existence entirely. The man this entire prison had been built around, who should have been suspended by Neverwire chains above the main engine -- just on the other side of this chamber.


    The Prisoner.


    His eyes narrowed as his lips spread into a calm and kind smile, but his pitch-black pupils went unchanged. What was going on? Jordan stared at the seemingly young man who was grasping his shoulder, too shocked even to tremble. The supremely reinforced glass that the Prisoner should have been held behind had a massive hole melted through it. The rest of the guards were gone -- not even corpses remained. It was as if they¡¯d just ceased to exist entirely.


    Jordan¡¯s mind raced. Was he going to die? He was going to die. He didn¡¯t want to die. Oh, Y.


    The Prisoner released his soft grip, instead patting Jordan on the shoulder reassuringly. "Are you sad?" he asked, his voice as calm and quiet as an ocean made still. "There¡¯s no need for that. Even though all your friends died, you alone were able to survive. You should be happy."


    Jordan¡¯s mouth opened, Jordan¡¯s mouth closed, but no words came forth. His eyes felt so heavy in their sockets that it felt as if they¡¯d slip free onto the floor. His gaze shifted to the prison cell beyond the melted window -- and there, he could see the countless Neverwire chains that were meant to keep this man restrained. They hung limp, broken, gnarled as if gnawed upon by thousands of tiny mouths.


    "How¡­" he finally managed to get out. "How did you¡­"


    "How did I get out?" the Prisoner asked, cocking his head as he looked up at Jordan -- he was slightly shorter. "I¡¯m sorry, but that question is based on a false premise¡­ it assumes that there was a point where I was ¡¯in¡¯. I¡¯d be happy to explain it to you further, but I don¡¯t think that will be possible." His gaze shifted past Jordan, to the vault door behind him. "After all¡­ my friends will be here in mere moments."


    Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


    Thunk.


    As Jordan had expected, as Jordan had dreaded, seven seals were overridden in just as many seconds. He watched, eyes wide, as the vault door slowly turned open. Beyond the opening, silhouetted by gore-soaked light, stood the people who had made the Shesha into their slaughterhouse. The ones who -- Jordan realized with dull and tired fear -- had surely killed everyone aboard but him.


    Five people, Jordan realized, looking at them¡­ they¡¯d done all of this with just five people. If all of them could even be called people.


    The massive head of an elderly man peeled itself away from a shadowy spot on the floor, swaying in the air from a long black tendril. It smiled a genial, wrinkled smile as it gazed upon the Prisoner. Jordan just stared, mouth open, a strange creaking sound trickling involuntarily from his throat. He was looking at something incomprehensible, and his mind was feeling the weight of it like a fragile piece of wood.


    Before the horror masqueraded as a human, the Prisoner lifted his hand in greeting. "Smith!" he said, a note of cheer entering his voice. "I¡¯m so happy you made it. Your timing is impeccable as always. Have you been keeping healthy?"


    The¡­ entity named Smith broadened its smile, a blush creeping across its cheeks. "Oh, sir¡­" it breathed. "My form is as magnificent as the day you crafted it. As if it could ever develop a fault! Darkstar has awaited the return of its king for a long time, such a long time, my liege."


    As the Prisoner stepped past Jordan¡¯s frozen form to address his rescuers directly, he chuckled lightly. "You¡¯re so earnest, Smith. It makes me so happy to see you again. That¡¯s McCoy with you, isn¡¯t it? Ah, what a reunion! What a truly auspicious occasion."


    The second person he¡¯d addressed was a woman wearing a red fedora and trenchcoat, her entire body wrapped in stark white bandages -- even her face completely concealed.


    McCoy gave a curt nod to the Prisoner. "Boss."


    "I hear they make videographs of your old adventures now, McCoy," the Prisoner said. "Have you watched them? I hope they¡¯re interesting."


    She snorted. "That¡¯s a bad joke."


    The Prisoner opened his mouth to say something else -- but before he could get it out, he was interrupted. Jordan froze reflexively as an unprompted voice rang out through the observation chamber. This was not the sort of conversation to be interrupted: he understood the fear of it as the ant understood the boot.


    The one who spoke was a girl with blue hair and blue eyes, a black beret perched atop her head. Cogitant, no doubt, but very young. She couldn¡¯t even have been out of her teens.


    "Ahem," she said, stepping forward. "If you¡¯re done talking, we need to get out of here. My virus won¡¯t fool the Supremacy forever, you know."


    The Prisoner stared at the young girl for a long moment, the smile still plastered on his lips, before replying. "My apologies, Noel. I was just so happy to see everyone once more, but you¡¯re absolutely right. Time is of the essence."


    This girl, this Noel, blinked -- and the confidence on her face faltered for a moment. "How do you know my name?" she asked quietly.


    As though Noel had asked something absurd, the Prisoner furrowed his brow. "What do you mean? You¡¯re one of my beloved co-conspirators, Noel. It¡¯s only natural that I¡¯d know your name, isn¡¯t it?"


    Noel took a step back -- and the young man standing behind her took a step forward, planting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He was dark skinned, his grey hair tied back in a ponytail, a bandana pulled up to cover his mouth. The young man narrowed his golden eyes at the Prisoner, but said nothing.


    For his part, the Prisoner just scratched his cheek, his smile taking on a somewhat sheepish quality.


    "Ah, please don¡¯t make such a frightening expression, Reynash. I¡¯m merely greeting my new friend. Of course, I appreciate your hard work as well¡­ but you¡¯re not truly fighting for my sake, are you?"


    Reynash¡¯s expression hardened, but still he said nothing. Eventually, the Prisoner seemed to grow bored of waiting for a response, and turned to the final member of the party: the Abyssal Knight, looming tall like a misshapen statue behind the others. The thing grunted and groaned as the Prisoner looked it up and down.


    "Knight," the Prisoner said coldly. "We¡¯re leaving."


    Jordan¡¯s body was drenched in sweat. His eyes had been open for so long they were bloodshot. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth and pooled onto the floor. Every aspect of motion had been forcibly ceased by something beyond the conscious mind -- some animalistic instinct that knew the first sign of movement would mean his demise. Still, his mind raced to such a degree that his thoughts were feverish and indistinct. Dancing lights inside his skull. He could recall carnival music from his youth, growing faster and faster, further and further away.


    They were leaving? They were going to go away? Was it really so?


    Jordan stayed there, still as a statue, daring not even to hope as the Prisoner strode past him. In the minute or so that he¡¯d been out of Jordan¡¯s sight, he¡¯d acquired a pitch-black cloak from somewhere, throwing it over his orange jumpsuit as he walked. His feet made not even a sound against the metal floor. A man who didn¡¯t exist. A man who didn¡¯t exist.


    The rest went with him. The tentacled thing, the Abyssal Knight, the bandaged woman, the young girl and her companion. They all went to leave Jordan alone and depart the Shesha. A sickly, vacant grin of relief began spreading across his face. He was going to make it. He was going to --


    "Boss," grunted McCoy, glancing back into the observation chamber. "What about this guy?"


    The Prisoner stopped. The Prisoner turned his head to look at Jordan. The Prisoner smiled a smile that lacked even a trace of benevolence. No, not a Prisoner at all, not anymore. It was as the old man had said. That was the merciless dignity of a king.


    "I¡¯m so sorry," he said softly. "I forgot about you."


    Jordan opened his mouth, and the one word he had left emerged from his throat as a hysterical scream. "Wai --"


    "Angra Mainyu."


    Tartarean Aether dimmed the world.


    A black sphere. No, darker than black. It wasn¡¯t even the absence of colour -- it was the absence of existence. A hole in the world, the size of a soccer ball, hovering over the palm of the King¡¯s hand. The last thing Jordan Halacourt saw. The last thing Jordan Halacourt could bear to see.


    There was no time to dodge, no time to fight back, no time to even beg. All Jordan could do was register the existence of the void, and in that same moment¡­


    ¡­the King waved his hand twice, and Jordan Halacourt ceased to exist.


    "Well," said the King cheerfully, turning back to his fellows. "Shall we go, then? There¡¯s a great deal that needs to be done."


    "What do you mean?" Noel asked, holding onto one of her arms with the other. Her eyes kept flicking between the scenes of carnage they¡¯d left outside the cell, and the utter absence they¡¯d left within. "What do we do next?"


    The King smiled.


    "The putrid light of false progress needs to be snuffed out," he said, in the same tone of voice one would use to discuss the weather. "It¡¯s our duty to replace it with a dark star. We shall become the hammer that breaks the shape of this world."


    The King continued strolling down the hallway, his monstrous companions following behind him.


    "Our first order of business," his quiet voice sunk into the shadows. "Is to begin assembling our nails."


    Silence claimed the world that had been wiped of people... Darkness engulfed the man who did not exist¡­


    ¡­and, after a moment, Noel and her companion hurried to follow them.


    AETHERAL SPACE


    END OF PROLOGUE

 Chapter 320:12.1: Brave New World

    Two years later¡­


    It was raining that night, as it did every night on Mother¡¯s Ruin.


    After the Thousand Revolutions, the remaining loyalists to the Gene Tyrants had been hunted down across the galaxy. Some, like the people who would later become known as Noblesse Oblige, retreated into hiding and vanished from the public eye. Others, however, weren¡¯t so lucky or so competent -- and the former noble colony of Mother¡¯s Ruin had quickly been targeted by the nascent Supremacy and the anti-Gene Tyrant alliance.


    To be fair to them, the loyalists had managed to last quite a while in that long night. Their planetary defences had been sound, and the Supremacy had been reluctant to perform a full orbital bombardment -- their allies had wanted to put the leaders of the loyalists on public trial as a ceremonial end to the Thousand Revolutions. So, even as the Supremacy fleets had constricted around the planet, life had continued below¡­


    ¡­for a time.


    Needless to say, the Supremacy eventually got tired of waiting. Bombardment still wasn¡¯t an option, but other avenues were available to them. Discussions were conducted between the allied governments, and an agreement was made -- prototype terraforming methods would be used to quite literally flush the loyalists out of their nests.


    The end came quietly. A few adjustments to the atmosphere, conducted by the newly-formed precursor to the Absurd Weapons Lab, and the infinite deluge followed soon after. The rainstorm came down without end, and all drowned. The soldiers, the civilians, the cities, the towns. Even the leaders they¡¯d wanted to preserve sank to the bottom in the end, although by that point the Supremacy cared little for the demands of their former allies.


    The drowned planet was forgotten soon after, as the Supremacy turned on the rest of the galaxy in an effort to unite them under one strong banner. The corpses remained where they had drowned, a seabed of the damned.


    Yes, the rain continued to fall -- but a forgotten planet was a useful thing indeed. The Ventriloquist¡¯s quarry had surely thought the same thing.


    Gloved hands adjusted the landing sequence on the screen before them, the starship feeding the readouts back to the visor the Ventriloquist wore over their head. That bright blue visor was long and pointed, like the beak of a bird of prey -- and the starship carried a similar theme. Like an eagle, it spread its wings wide as it maneuvered down through the storm, rain pelting against the cockpit window as it approached the waterlogged city.


    Behind their visor, the Ventriloquist narrowed their eyes. Most people called them the Ventriloquist for the strangeness of their conduct, but it wasn¡¯t what they called themselves in their head. Even so, they were happy to accept the moniker. Their real names weren¡¯t safe to advertise.


    As expected, the quarry had chosen a good time of year for their rendezvous here. The tops of moss-painted buildings could be seen poking through the artificial ocean, with some streets even visible as well -- although, in their current state, they were more like canals. The level of rainfall on Mother¡¯s Ruin varied throughout the year. It never stopped entirely, but sometimes it calmed down enough for the drainage systems to catch up and unearth some of the structures.


    The starship touched down atop the peak of one of the largest remaining buildings, a rusted hulk that had surely been a factory once-upon-a-time. After the landing clamps had firmly secured the vessel, the Ventriloquist descended the ramp, already looking around for any signs of life¡­ or, well, the opposite.


    They couldn¡¯t be too hopeful, after all.


    Their visor sweeped over the area, scanning the surroundings for anything of interest -- and it did its job well. On a neighboring skyscraper, barely visible through a hole in the roof, were a few stray drops of blood. Vivid, red, fresh.


    The Ventriloquist gulped, fearing that it might belong to the one they were looking for, but they quickly reassured themselves. Inspection came before despair. The thrusters in their boots carried them across the gaps between buildings easily -- even as they did their best not to look down at the hungry ocean that waited for them below.


    Thunk.


    The moment they landed on the roof, the Ventriloquist crouched down next to the blood sample, poking at it with their gloved index finger. The analyser in the glove immediately began comparing the sample to the records in the visor¡¯s computer -- and a few moments later, it came back with an answer.


    98% match, said the readout in the corner of the Ventriloquist¡¯s vision. Callum Call. Target.


    They let out a sigh of relief. The blood belonged to one of the people they were after, but not the person they wanted to find. Peering down into the hole in the roof, the Ventriloquist could see that the bloodtrail kept going down through the partially collapsed stairwell, growing more copious as it descended. Little doubt there was a corpse waiting at the end of this treasure trail.


    "What do you think?" the Ventriloquist muttered. "A trap?"


    A few seconds of silence, and then they nodded to themselves, leaping down into the hole. Again, the thrusters on their boots came in handy, slowing their fall enough that they didn¡¯t smash right through the fragile ruins -- and, like a detective with an magnifying glass, they followed the bloodtrail down into the building proper.


    The water had done its work well. Whatever function this factory had once served was now utterly indecipherable. Featureless lumps of worn-down metal protruded like gravestones as the Ventriloquist pursued the red further, tracking the trail as it wound through old chambers and hallways. All around, the sound of rushing water echoed as a constant companion, backed by a chorus of rain. Apart from the Ventriloquist¡¯s footsteps, no sounds of humanity existed here. The only things that lived on Mother¡¯s Ruin these days were the raindrops.


    Halfway through their chase, they paused. A half-distinct footprint had been planted through the blood before they got there, smeared against the metal floor. From a glance, it seemed to match the size of their quarry, and so they knelt down to inspect it further when¡­


    Pain.


    Gasping for breath, they planted a hand against their temple, a sickening migraine pulsing like a worm crawling through their brain. The pain lasted only a few seconds, but those seconds dragged on and on -- and by the time it was done, the Ventriloquist had been forced down to their hands and knees, inconsistent heat and chills coursing through their body. With all the willpower they could muster, they suppressed the urge to vomit -- just barely.


    These headaches were getting more frequent, and more painful. Sooner or later, the Ventriloquist knew they¡¯d have to get them looked into, but for now the hunt was the priority. They snapped a quick photo of the footprint with the camera on their palm and saved it for future analysis.


    The search came to an end soon after that, in a room on the very border between the water and the land.


    Callum Call -- a middle-aged man with curly black hair and golden eyes -- lay slumped against a pillar, his blood painting the water that lapped at his hands and legs. It was clear from a glance that he was dead. A quick inspection of the corpse revealed that the fatal wound had been a plasma shot to the back.


    That checked out.


    A quick warning, red as the blood in the water, popped up on the visor. Movement detected in the vicinity. The Ventriloquist smirked to themselves: the warning was appreciated, but they weren¡¯t ignorant enough that they needed the help. They¡¯d been through enough to know when someone wanted to kill them.


    Callum Call, career criminal from the Supremacy city-state of Vevis. Currently on the run after a heist of the Provvidenza¡¯s vault at the Grand Vevis Bank, with takings estimated in the billions of stator. Every other member of his crew -- save the Ventriloquist¡¯s true quarry -- had shown up dead in the last few weeks, and now it seemed that fate had caught up with Call as well.


    That wasn¡¯t what concerned the Ventriloquist. What concerned them was the ability Call had registered with his previous employers -- automatic generation of Aether constructs to deal with hostility. Judging from the sinister shapes skulking around the dark corners of the room, the person who had finished Call off hadn¡¯t bothered cleaning up after themselves.


    The Ventriloquist turned and -- in the moment before the beasts of steel and stone could lunge forth -- spoke.


    "Serena," they said, grasping the invisible shield before them. "Let¡¯s start with a spear."


    Beneath the beak, a cheery smile spread wide. "O-kay!"


    At the same time as the forcefield was warped into the shape of a long spear, the first of the three constructs -- a metallic ball -- leapt at Bruno and Serena.


    They¡¯d done their research on Callum Call before coming here -- his ability worked by combining pre-recorded automatic body parts and other materials into a configuration based on the nature of the threat. Presumably, these last productions had been designed to counter whatever had killed Call: they wouldn¡¯t be adapted to the tactics of the Ventriloquist. They wouldn¡¯t see the invisible spear coming.


    The shield-spear shattered as it was buried in the core of the metal mass, but it was enough to halt the construct¡¯s momentum. As it fell to the floor, it lashed out with a protrusion like a scorpion tail, the point aimed square for Bruno¡¯s throat.


    No problem.


    Perfect Parry.


    At the very instant before the attack would have made contact, the tail suddenly froze, seized in midair by a perfectly sculpted forcefield. The construct chittered, red eyes flashing deep beneath the layers of metal, and more tendrils struck at various points all across Bruno¡¯s body.


    Four in total, aiming for the right leg, the stomach, the heart and the left temple. Daunting, but it was the sort of thing Bruno had trained for. Hesitation was defeat.


    Perfect Parry.


    Perfect Parry.


    Perfect Parry.


    Perfect Parry.


    One by one, the tendrils were caught in forcefields right before they made contact -- and within the span of around two seconds, the construct had been fully immobilized. Bruno swooped in towards the sphere, dodging a swing from one of its fellows in the process. A slot in the center of the machine opened up as Bruno came in, revealing the eager barrel of a flamethrower, but it was too late.


    Bruno slapped a firm hand against the automatic.


    Since he and Serena had entered the bounty hunting business, he¡¯d made efforts to refine his abilities. Once upon a time, Perfect Parry had been nothing but a rarely-used way to stop an incoming attack. It had to be activated right before the attack hit -- and when panicked, that was nearly impossible.


    Bruno had learnt to shut his useless panic away, but that wasn¡¯t all. He¡¯d made the timing for Perfect Parry even more unforgiving, and that adjustment came with a benefit. Purple Aether flared around Bruno as Perfect Parry rewarded him, granting him momentary strength equivalent to a low-level Aether burn. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ordinarily, creating a shield in his hand and immediately destroying it would suffice only to push an enemy away. With Perfect Parry, though? He could blast right through.


    Boom.


    The construct exploded into scraps of metal, and Serena took over as the remaining two automatics pursued them. One was big and bulky, with two arms much larger than its legs that gave it the silhouette of a gorilla. The other was thin and jagged, like a piece of scrap origami, sharp claws protruding from its skeletal arms.


    She¡¯d destroy the thin one first. The skeletal automatic thrust its arm towards her, and Serena dodged with an elegant cartwheel. As she did so, she infused her violet Aether into the metal floor below, the pale light coursing through the bulkhead. As she came to a halt, the material flowed out of the floor like a liquid to reform in her grip.


    In one hand, she now held a mighty metal bow. In the other, a deadly-sharp arrow. Bruno¡¯s forcefield served well enough as the string.


    Charging in with a distorted bellow, the gorilla slammed its arms down towards her with enough force to total a car. Serena leapt backwards to avoid it -- and at the same time, fired her arrow towards the thin automatic. Her aim was perfect, as was her timing, but the shot did not strike true.


    Before the arrow could hit the automatic, a bright blue barrier -- slightly translucent -- flickered into existence around it, deflecting the projectile.


    Serena frowned.


    It¡¯s adapted against ranged attacks, Bruno observed. It could have been him, right? It could have adapted against him?


    "I dunno, Bruno," Serena muttered, ducking under another swing of those mighty arms. "Lots of people shoot. Don¡¯t get your hopes up, okay?"


    They¡¯re closing the distance as well, keeping apart in case we appear and disappear between them. It fits, right?


    "I guess," Serena sighed, and then -- with that same breath -- she scooped the metal bow in her hands through the floor, adding to its mass until it was a mighty warhammer.


    Spinning like a ballerina, she slammed her new weapon into the thin automatic, utterly demolishing its flimsy body. Whoever these constructs had been adapted against, they¡¯d clearly had a much different fighting style than the Ventriloquist. These guys were using tactics aimed to take down a sniper. Clearly, they didn¡¯t understand they were up against a bulldozer.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Which left just one. The gorilla thumped its massive arms against the floor as Serena circled it, and the building creaked ominously in response. Best to take this guy down quickly, before he had time for collateral damage. Serena enjoyed swimming, sure, but not --


    Thrum.


    Bruno¡¯s ears pricked up as he heard it. The telltale noise of a starship engine. The sound of someone leaving this place.


    Bruno! Don¡¯t just take over like --


    Too late. Bruno didn¡¯t even realize he¡¯d taken control until the gorilla slammed into him, seizing hold of his body as it ran. As a pair, he and the automatic smashed through the far wall, bitter winds slicing at Bruno¡¯s skin as he was thrown out of the building. The water below raged as they plummeted towards it, eager to greet them.


    He needed to get away. The gorilla still held him tight, clearly intending to bring him down with it. Not a problem.


    When it came to Aether, the general rule of infusing an object was ¡¯first come, first served¡¯ -- so Bruno ordinarily couldn¡¯t create a shield intersecting someone else¡¯s Aether, not without investing a greater power. But Callum Call was dead, his Aether was fading, and the joints Bruno was aiming for were so very thin¡­


    ¡­if he could just overpower them¡­


    Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.


    Four shields appeared for just an instant, severing each of the joints connecting the construct¡¯s limbs to its body, and the disassembled automatic tumbled down into the sea. Bruno himself landed on another forcefield, the barrier easily holding his weight as he caught his breath. For a moment, he remained there -- staring down at the ocean below, waiting for some final attack¡­ but it never came.


    Callum Call¡¯s last gasp had come and gone.


    Gritting his teeth, Bruno snapped his head up to look at the hole they¡¯d left in the wall up above. They¡¯d fallen quite the distance before he¡¯d managed to escape -- he¡¯d need to climb all the way back up. Damnit. He clenched his fists. He didn¡¯t have time, he needed to hurry, that ship was getting further and further away every second¡­ if he didn¡¯t get a move on, he¡¯d --


    Oh, Bruno, Serena sighed. We¡¯ve done this enough times, right? You know.


    For a moment, Bruno persisted, hurriedly creating a staircase of shields to get back to the building. Soon enough, though, experience won over hope, and he found himself falling down to his knees. Serena took the liberty of standing back up.


    "If we look away from Dragan¡­" she sighed, looking up at the empty sky. "...he¡¯s already gone."


    The Shrike swooped through the gulf of space like the bird it was named after, moving towards its destination on autopilot.


    As Serena had predicted, Dragan Hadrien had been long gone by the time they¡¯d managed to get the ship in orbit. That was assuming, of course, that he¡¯d been there in the first place. The only traces of his presence Bruno had managed to scrounge together were the ramblings of one of Call¡¯s near-dead comrades and a blurry security videograph. Straws to clutch at.


    In the cockpit, Bruno sighed, leaning back in his seat as he looked into the dark beyond the window. Without looking, he reached out to the side, snatching away a cup of coffee carried by the refreshment automatic Serena had insisted they pick up. He sipped the drink -- bitter, and not the way Bruno liked it. The thing hadn¡¯t been worth the money.


    It had been a long two years.


    After Dragan had disappeared, somehow escaping from the rescue fleet even though he should have been comatose, Bruno hadn¡¯t been in any mood to go with his UAP hosts back to their territory. He¡¯d had a friend to find. Serena had no choice but to come with him, of course, and Ruth had accompanied the two of them for a time¡­ but eventually, she¡¯d drifted away. She¡¯d found a life to live. It¡¯d been months since they¡¯d last spoken.


    Bruno and Serena had found one too, in a fashion, a way to make money to support Bruno¡¯s endless search. The Ventriloquist -- the alias they¡¯d decided on -- was quite the respected bounty hunter these days. They went after criminals on the run, bringing them to whatever passed for justice in the Supremacy.


    Bruno was sure that Skipper would have disapproved of him cooperating with the Supremacy, even to that extent¡­ but a guy had to eat. Especially since Dragan Hadrien seemed to very much not want to be found.


    "Destination approaching," the Shrike¡¯s autobrain said smoothly. "Please take care."


    Bruno blinked, snapping back to attention. The Gelstrung was a sight to behold -- a massive station, formed from countless bound-together cylinders, huge enough that it blotted out the stars behind it. One of the Supremacy¡¯s biggest and most secure prisons -- and the holding place for the man that Bruno had come to speak with.


    It wasn¡¯t easy. It had taken countless pro-bono jobs as the Ventriloquist to muster the goodwill needed for such a favour.


    Be careful, Bruno, Serena warned him. If they¡¯ve figured out who we are, this could be a trap.


    "Right," Bruno muttered. "Got it."


    Tiny names like theirs weren¡¯t at the top of the Supremacy¡¯s hitlist, but it was still best to watch their backs. After the Elysian Fields Incident -- as it had come to be known -- the Supremacy had retaliated harshly against all the different parties involved. The man Bruno was meeting was just one of them.


    The Callum Call trail might have gone cold, but it wasn¡¯t the only one Bruno could follow. He had no shortage of straws to clutch at, after all.


    -


    "You¡¯ll have five minutes," said Bruno¡¯s host, a Scurrant security officer with a pair of massive feathered wings. "That¡¯s all I could pull for you."


    "That¡¯s fine," Bruno replied, his voice modulated by his visor -- he was here as the Ventriloquist. It was a short amount of time he was being given, but from what he remembered, this guy wasn¡¯t much of a talker anyway.


    Bruno followed the officer down countless dull grey hallways, making seemingly random turns again and again and again. From what Bruno understood, the Gelstrung was specifically designed to be a confusing labyrinth, so that any escaping prisoners would quickly become lost, easy pickings for the guards. The man leading Bruno had a visor lowered down over his eyes too. No doubt it was feeding him the route to his destination.


    If he decided to abandon Bruno for whatever reason, he was pretty much screwed.


    But abandon Bruno he did not. After a few minutes, the two of them finally reached the door to a visitation room. The guard nodded towards the metal door as it slid open.


    "Wait in here," he said simply. "I¡¯ll get him to you."


    Bruno, this is so shady¡­


    "Fine," Bruno repeated, striding into the dark room beyond.


    Behind him, he heard the guard speak once more: "Five minutes."


    "Five minutes," Bruno replied.


    The doors slid shut behind him, and for a second he was bathed in darkness -- until the lights on the ceiling flickered on, revealing the chamber. There wasn¡¯t much to look at. A single chair, facing a huge glass cube in the middle of the room -- an empty cube. Bruno glanced over his shoulder, wary of the cameras, but turned back to the room¡¯s centrepiece as a deep rumbling noise began to sound out. Now that Bruno looked, that cube was actually even emptier than he¡¯d first believed -- below it, on the other side of the glass, was nothing but a deep dark pit.


    No, not a pit¡­ an elevator shaft.


    As the del Sed twins watched, a prison cell began to rise up until it filled the cube, held behind the glass like an exhibit at a zoo. Even after the cell had risen up, though, there wasn¡¯t much to speak of in the enclosure -- a bed, a stout bookcase, an audiograph blaring out indistinctly¡­


    ¡­and the annoyed glare of Asmodeus Fix.


    The orange prison jumpsuit the Scurrant wore provided a burst of colour that was almost garish compared to his grey skin and yellow eyes, sunk deep within their pits. The former acting head of the Oliphant crime organisation sat on the side of the bed, fingers drumming along his thighs as he regarded Bruno. For a second, it seemed as if he¡¯d say nothing at all.


    Then¡­


    "What do you want?" he grunted.


    Bruno¡¯s memory had been accurate, it seemed. This man wasn¡¯t much of a talker. He doubted Asmodeus Fix had been part of many conversations that had gone on for more than three minutes, let alone five.


    So Bruno got to the chase. "Dragan visited you," he said, voice curt as he paced around the outside of the cube. "Dragan Hadrien. Two weeks ago. What did he tell you? Where was he going next?"


    Fix blinked placidly, following Bruno as he moved through the room. "He wasn¡¯t here," he said placidly, his voice a bored monotone.


    "Don¡¯t bullshit me," Bruno snapped. "People I trust tell me he was here -- and you spoke to him."


    Asmodeus Fix sighed like two rocks scraping past each other -- and he stood up from the bed, crossing his arms. "Del Sed, right?"


    Bruno stopped. "What?"


    "You¡¯re the del Sed kid. One of them. I recognise your voice." Fix nodded to the visor Bruno was wearing. "Take that thing off."


    "I don¡¯t¡­"


    "Take that thing off," Fix repeated, steady and insistent. "You look ridiculous."


    Slowly, Bruno acquiesced. Since he spent a lot of time in the field, he wore that visor more often than not -- and so a slight difference in shade had emerged between the bottom and top half of his face. If anything, Bruno thought he looked more ridiculous without the thing.


    It makes us look unique, Bruno, Serena said reassuringly.


    "You look different," Fix grunted.


    "I¡¯m not here for small talk, and neither are you," Bruno said. "I just want to know where my friend is. What did Dragan tell you when he was here?"


    Fix stared at him for a moment, his golden gaze inscrutable, his mouth a flat line. The only sound came from the audiograph in the corner of the cell. It was blaring out a running commentary on the conclusion of the Outer Melees. Bruno glanced at it, annoyed by the exuberant and near-incoherent celebrations of the announcer.


    "Can you turn that off?" Bruno asked.


    "No," Fix replied. "It¡¯s history."


    He was sort of right about that.


    After two years of investigation and preparation, the Dawn Contest -- the process to decide the next Supreme -- had finally begun. Those who came out victorious in the chaotic free-for-all of the Outer Melees would proceed to the Inner Melees, and those victors would then be accepted into the tournament proper. It was strange to think¡­ but one of the names the cheerful announcer was reeling off could very well be the next leader of the Supremacy.


    "I¡¯m surprised they gave you an audiograph in here," Bruno commented.


    Fix scratched his chest. "I¡¯m good at making friends. Not everyone is so lucky. They say ol¡¯ Roy¡¯s in here too -- somewhere so deep and dark that nobody will ever find him. So it goes."


    "I don¡¯t know anything about that," Bruno said, glancing away.


    "I bet not. You want my advice, kid?" Fix finally spoke again.


    "No," Bruno snapped. "I want your answers."


    "Well," Fix shrugged heavily. "My advice is the best you¡¯re gonna get. I¡¯d tell you to give up, kid."


    Bruno¡¯s brow creased as he glared, continuing to pace around the cell, visor tucked under his arm.


    Fix continued without waiting for a reply; "Dragan doesn¡¯t want to be found. You ain¡¯t stupid -- you realise that -- and I¡¯m telling you now, it¡¯s for your benefit, not his. Maybe I could tell you something that¡¯ll give you some clue, but wherever that clue takes you¡­ it ain¡¯t somewhere you wanna go. Understand?"


    Bruno didn¡¯t answer. He just stared, eyes wide¡­ not at Asmodeus Fix, but at the tiny audiograph in the corner of the room. Fix frowned, glancing at the object too for a moment -- before realising what had happened with a deep groan.


    "Ah, shit," he muttered.


    The reason Bruno hadn¡¯t answered¡­ was because of the words the audiograph had just said.


    In the end, Bruno didn¡¯t use the five minutes he¡¯d been given. A second after hearing the audiograph, he just turned on his heel and charged out of the room, hurriedly putting the visor back on. Fix just watched him go, shaking his head ruefully as the cell began to descend back down.


    "So it goes," he grumbled, in the moment before he was swallowed by the darkness.


    Lightpoint 2134-6719-1003B ("Little Brother")


    Little Brother was one of two lightpoints in the Hidurna system, right on the edges of Supremacy space -- the safe edge, not the one that bordered the UAP. A small spherical starstation, perpetually in the shadow of Hidurna II, out of sight and out of mind. Its counterpart in the system, imaginatively named Big Brother, was officially recognised by the Supremacy, with supply and arms shipments passing through each and every day. The people who ran Big Brother had become quite rich from the business tyranny brought.


    Little Brother wasn¡¯t recognised, wasn¡¯t rich, and so it was where the interesting people were.


    Ruth Blaine sighed as she walked down the road, her bulky mechanical legs thumping against the ground beneath her. They were thick, industrial-grey, the feet flat and round like those of an elephant. They looked more like something stripped from a mining automatic than actual prosthetics. Ruth didn¡¯t mind that, though: they looked cool.


    The noise, though? She didn¡¯t care as much for that. Thunk-thunk-thunk, all the time, like she was a walking factory. The cushioning on the soles, which was supposed to make them less loud, had been wearing away for a couple of weeks now -- but the money she had to hand wasn¡¯t for her own comfort.


    Fuel costs, food, clothes¡­ ammo¡­ Ruth honestly didn¡¯t know how Skipper had managed it. Her red long coat swished around her metal legs as she ducked into a side street, quickly passing through it before reaching the hangar where the ship was waiting.


    The Slipstream BRAVE -- she¡¯d insisted on the name -- was a sleek red-and-blue combat freighter, perched on the landing pad with a collection of insect-like legs. Light gleamed off the smooth surface of the main cylindrical section -- and as Ruth approached, she could see her own reflection in it. Her long hair was tied into a braid at her side, and her face held a collection of new and tiny scars¡­ but it was still her.


    In some little way, in some miniscule but somehow vital sense, she¡¯d made it somewhere. She¡¯d found a tiny life for herself and made it work. It wasn¡¯t perfect¡­ it wasn¡¯t what she¡¯d maybe wanted¡­ but it was hers and hers alone.


    Beep.


    As Ruth came within range of the Slipstream BRAVE, the script on her pocket connected to the communicator aboard, buzzing as a message came in. Ruth plucked the paper-thin device from her pocket -- and winced as she saw the sender. Bruno¡­ did he have another wild goose chase to guilt her for not pursuing? It wouldn¡¯t be the first time.


    Still¡­ it wasn¡¯t like she had a choice. Ruth opened the message -- and her eyes widened as she read it. Two words from Bruno, and a capture he¡¯d clearly taken off a Brighteye news report.


    Found him.


    There, staring at her from right beneath Bruno¡¯s words, was the face of Dragan Hadrien -- two years older, his silver hair grown long, his blue eyes grown cold. That wasn¡¯t what shocked Ruth, though.


    What did that were the words that came below the picture.


    Outer Melee Victor #212 -- Dragan Hadrien. Victor proceeds to the Inner Melee.

 Chapter 321:12.2: Rise of the Full Moon

    As Ruth walked into the Slipstream BRAVE, she kept a hand to her mouth, face pale. Her other hand still held the script in front of her, even though the screen had long since turned off. Her grip made clumsy by shock, she stuffed the device back into her pocket.


    Her mind raced.


    There was no way. Dragan was trying to enter the Dawn Contest? Why? He definitely had no interest in becoming Supreme, and -- and there was no way, anyway, even if he did. He wouldn¡¯t betray Skipper like that. They¡¯d all fought to take down the Supreme, not take his place. That hadn¡¯t been what it was about. Never. Was this even real? Maybe someone else was using his face and name. But this meant that Dragan Hadrien was still alive. She¡¯d started to doubt. But if it was fake, he could still be dead. But if it was real, it didn¡¯t make any sense. But¡­


    Ruth planted a hand against the wall of the hallway to steady herself, heavy and ragged breathing stabbing at her lungs. It had been a long time since she¡¯d had an attack like this. For a good minute, she remained there, hoping against hope that none of her crew would walk past and see this. This wasn¡¯t the kind of image she wanted to convey.


    Finally, the panic subsided, and Ruth could stand up straight. The issue¡­ the issue wasn¡¯t what Dragan was or wasn¡¯t doing, not yet. She had to keep that in mind. For now, the issue was just what she needed to do next.


    Bruno had wanted to meet up and pursue Dragan together, but that wasn¡¯t realistic. Even if it was really him, the locations Inner Melee participants were assigned to weren¡¯t available to the public in advance -- just to prevent this kind of pursuit. They couldn¡¯t very well check all of them, either -- there wasn¡¯t nearly enough time to zip all over the galaxy like that.


    Besides, even leaving concerns like that aside, she couldn¡¯t just run off like that. She had people to look after, a business to run. She wasn¡¯t as free as she¡¯d been back then.


    Sleep on it, she told herself. You can make a decision once you¡¯ve had time to make a decision.


    Steeling herself, she pushed off the wall and strode into the common area, hoping that her face wouldn¡¯t give away her distress.


    The Slipstream BRAVE was a fair bit larger than most of the ships Skipper had ever managed to get them. The common area had some couches, a videograph on the wall, a ping-pong table, along with a hologram projector built into the floor if they needed to run a briefing. Even with all that, there was room to spare -- room that was currently being taken up by storage boxes lining one wall.


    Ruth raised an eyebrow as she saw that their pilot, Ellis Maine, was not using those boxes for their intended purpose. The young man -- a couple of years younger than Ruth -- was sitting atop one of the higher piles, his legs swinging in the air as he occupied himself with some game on his script. The young man had shaggy brown hair barely restrained by a hairclip, his baggy red sweater and black skirt looking like they¡¯d never seen an iron in the entirety of their existence. Anything that wasn¡¯t the cockpit or a simulation of one held little interest for him.


    "Maine," Ruth snapped as she walked past. "Get down from there."


    Without looking at her, he offered a lazy salute. "You got it, Miss Road," he mumbled, gaze still fixed on his script as he hopped down to the carpeted floor. As a cheery litany of victory music was emitted from the device, he finally looked up at her -- and immediately frowned. "You okay?"


    Damnit. Maine had seen through her. You¡¯d think the kid was a Cogitant if not for his brown eyes.


    "Fine," Ruth lied. "Just got back from negotiating with Allizon -- she¡¯ll be passing us some more work before long."


    Maine¡¯s eyes flicked back to his game. "Cool," he mumbled, already lost in the screen.


    Cool? Ruth rolled her eyes as she continued her walk to her personal quarters. She guessed it was cool that they might actually make a profit this month, even if it wasn¡¯t as interesting to everyone else. Was she the only one around here who worried about these things?


    Alice Pirouette, one of their heavy-hitters, was pacing across the center of the room as Ruth approached. The young Scurrant woman¡¯s pink hair and pink eyes might have been attention-grabbing if not for the curling horns, like those of a ram, that extended down from her temples. Those were a little overshadowing. One hand plunged into the pocket of her leather jacket, she nodded to Ruth as she passed.


    She was on her script as well -- although she was calling someone, not playing a game. Ruth caught a snippet of it as she walked past: it was a familiar conversation.


    "Listen," Alice -- or as she preferred to be called in the field, Alice¡îAlice -- said sternly to whatever unfortunate was on the other end of the phone. "That¡¯s bullshi -- sorry, no, I just don¡¯t think you understand the angle I¡¯m going for with this. Haven¡¯t you heard of Tai Nigatsu? It¡¯s like what she does. How is it different? You can just censor that stuff!" She visibly gritted her teeth together as the other party spoke. "Have you even watched the reel I sent you guys? I bet you haven¡¯t even watched it. Wow. Wow, that¡¯s very disappointing for a company with your reputation. Is there someone more senior I could speak to, or¡­"


    Poor Alice¡îAlice had been trying to get some weird documentary series about mercenary life off the ground for a while now. Seemed she wasn¡¯t having any more success with this production company either. Ruth had to admire her tenacity, if nothing else.


    Near the door, as if on guard, stood Roman Hitch. His arms were crossed and his gaze -- beneath the military helmet he wore on his shaved head -- was hard. Ruth hadn¡¯t seen this guy smile once since he¡¯d joined their crew three months ago. She expected the day she did would be the same that hell froze over.


    "Mr. Hitch," she nodded professionally as she passed him. He just grunted in response.


    A hallway from the common area led to their individual crew quarters -- again, bigger than they¡¯d been in most of the previous Slipstreams. More room for absence. Ruth opened the door to her room and closed it behind her, letting out the shuddering breath she¡¯d been keeping deep inside.


    Dragan. Alive. If it was him. It had to be him. It couldn¡¯t be. Could she really sleep on that? What if the chance was gone by the time she woke up? She¡¯d have messed up. She¡¯d have messed up again. She¡¯d have gotten cocky. Again.


    It was like the last two years had been stripped away from her. It was like she was the same as she¡¯d been back then, bleeding down on the ground, having given up on thinking for herself. Back on that UAP ship, wondering why her friend had left. Fearing the worst.


    She couldn¡¯t do this -- she couldn¡¯t get lost in her own head. Bruno would be waiting for a response. She couldn¡¯t just sleep on it.


    Ruth threw herself down onto her bed, clutching her temples as she tried to navigate through that labyrinth of fear -- when there was a gentle knock at the door.


    "Yo, Ruth," Rex¡¯s voice was muffled by door and mask both. "You good? Ellis said you seemed a little funky."


    The kid was a damned snitch. "I¡¯m fine," she called back -- but from the hoarseness in her tone, it was obvious that wasn¡¯t true.


    At least Rex pretended he believed her. "Cool," he said, without missing a beat. "Mind if I come in? Got some stuff we gotta talk about."


    With a sigh, Ruth pulled herself up off the bed, running her hands through her hair in a vain attempt to quell the chaos that falling down had wrought. "Sure," she replied after a moment, accepting the futility. "Come on in, I guess."


    The doors slid open, and Rex Restorossi -- her business partner, co-founder of Restorossi and Road -- poked his head inside. If the face behind that mask had changed any in the two years since they¡¯d met at the Final Church Truemeet, Ruth wouldn¡¯t have been able to tell. She¡¯d never seen him without it, after all.


    Coming from Abra-Facade, Rex always wore a mask -- he considered that his ¡¯real¡¯ face. Swapping those masks out was just like changing his expression, and so today he was wearing a new helmet, bright red with a circular visor like a porthole in the center. A digital exclamation mark blinked in the center of the circle, the closest thing to eyes Rex¡¯s current visage had.


    The door slid shut behind him.


    "I¡¯ve been talking to some of the mechanics," Rex said casually, offering a hand up in a casual wave. "They¡¯re thinking that even if we end up having to settle for the XLD fuel, there¡¯s a converter they can rig up that¡¯ll --"


    "Bruno found Dragan," Ruth said quietly.


    Rex¡¯s hand paused awkwardly in midair, slowly lowering down until it rested by his side. "...your old friend Bruno?"


    "That¡¯s the only Bruno I know," Ruth nodded.


    For a good while, Rex didn¡¯t say anything else. He just stood there, discomfort radiating from his posture, that red ¡¯!¡¯ blinking idly in the center of his face. It was obvious why. More than once Rex had accompanied her on one of the wild goose chases Bruno had called them out for, and so he had a pretty good grasp of the situation when it came to Dragan Hadrien.


    So, seeing her like this -- so somber -- and hearing that Dragan had been ¡¯found¡¯... the conclusion he¡¯d come to is obvious. No wonder this situation seemed so excruciating for him.


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    Ruth decided to put him out of his misery. "He¡¯s not dead," she said -- smirking ruefully despite everything.


    "Oh. Oh!" Rex¡¯s face was concealed as ever, but Ruth could hear the smile in his voice. "Well, that¡¯s great! Right?"


    With a sigh, Ruth ran a hand over her face. "He¡¯s entering the Dawn Contest."


    "Oh." And just like that, the smile was gone. "That¡¯s, uh¡­"


    "It¡¯s a mess." Ruth threw up her hand in some vague and indecipherable gesture before rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I don¡¯t¡­ I have no idea what¡¯s going on. Whether it¡¯s even true or what¡­ argh¡­"


    Rex silently stepped over to the chair in the corner of the room and sat down, leaning forward, his gloved hands clasped together. "Well, what does Bruno say?"


    No doubt he already had an idea, but Ruth told him anyway. "He wants to meet up," she said. "Go after him, that kinda thing. I don¡¯t even know how we¡¯d do that, but¡­"


    "Do you want to do that?" Rex asked calmly.


    Ruth shook her head. "It¡¯s not even about that. I -- we can¡¯t. There¡¯s stuff we need to do. We can¡¯t just go running around on an -- an adventure or whatever."


    It was Rex¡¯s turn to sigh -- but through the mask, the noise was distorted until it could barely be recognised.


    "If it¡¯s what you want," he said. "Then I¡¯ll make it happen."


    "Don¡¯t say that," Ruth said, looking away. "Just getting to where Bruno is on such short notice, and then doing whatever plan he¡¯s put together to find out Dragan¡¯s location¡­ it¡¯ll cost us a fortune. We can¡¯t."


    "You keep saying we can¡¯t," Rex observed. "But you won¡¯t say whether or not you want to."


    The room grew quiet. For a long time, Ruth just sat there, the words she wanted to say hovering on the edges of her lips. Finally, though, she had no choice but to let them escape.


    "I do. I do want to find him. I want to know what¡¯s going on. He¡¯s¡­" she sniffed. "He¡¯s my friend."


    And again, when Rex spoke, she could hear that damned grin of his in his voice. "Then we¡¯ll figure it out. Hey -- we make money so we can spend it, right?"


    "Right¡­" Ruth rolled her eyes at the line she¡¯d heard so many times already.


    "Besides," Rex tapped his finger against his visor -- his nose was obviously out of reach. "I¡¯m a pretty savvy businessman, as you well know. I¡¯m sure I can figure out a way to turn a profit from this."


    Ruth snorted, despite the tension still churning in her stomach.


    There was something about Rex, the way he could put on the faux-greed like that, that put people at ease. People expected those in their line of work to be money grubbing, she supposed, and Rex just gave them what they wanted. A businessman uninterested in business would be far more unsettling -- even if that was closer to the real him.


    They didn¡¯t talk about the past. They didn¡¯t concern themselves with it. That was how they found something close to stability in this crazy world.


    And now, Ruth thought, they were just throwing all of that away. A shiver went down her spine.


    "You know¡­" she muttered, leaning back on the bed as she ran a finger along her temple. "You know what worries me even more?"


    Rex cocked his head, and the ¡¯!¡¯ on his mask switched to a ¡¯?¡¯. "What¡¯s that?"


    "After everything that happened, I really did try to lay low for a while -- don¡¯t laugh, I did. Hiding out in Final Church territory, joining up with you¡­ hell, I even changed my last name, just to be safe. Doesn¡¯t look like Dragan¡¯s done any of that. You get me?"


    "Ah."


    Ruth lay back fully, staring up at the familiar ceiling. "If Bruno noticed him¡­" she said. "Who else did?"


    The world was on fire.


    The reason why it was on fire was simple enough. In the chaotic brawl that constituted an Outer Melee, a pyrokineticist had clashed with an oil manipulator. Things had escalated naturally from there, flames quickly consuming the wooden temple that had been the site of the battle.


    This place, where two-hundred hopeful warriors had come together to discern who among them was strongest, was a recreation of a real temple that existed far beneath the depths of Azum-Ha. The efforts taken by the Organizational Committee -- a combination of respected military figures and Body officials -- to replicate the site had truly been exacting. It was as close to 1:1 as a counterfeit could get.


    But the reason they¡¯d elected to make this the arena for an Outer Melee? There was no great purpose, no reason this specific environment would draw out more strength from the fighters. They¡¯d simply decided this would be an interesting locale for people to kill each other in.


    Daisuke Ono supposed it did make for quite the spectacle.


    Now, it was like the temple itself was composed of flames. Great walls of fire surrounded him on all sides, and the grand statue of the Secret Chief that resided in the center of the main hall was quickly melting. Daisuke paid no mind to any of that, though, even as the flames licked at his body and the molten metal scorched at his feet.


    From pain came power, after all. That was his Devil¡¯s Mantra.


    Daisuke growled as he looked out into the haze of flames all around, his heavy armour rattling as he adjusted his weight. He was a massive Pugnant, nearly eight feet tall, and almost all of his body was wrapped in thick metal armour. If not for his infusion, though, even that would have surely melted away by now. This had long since ceased to be a temperature at which normal human beings could survive.


    The only part of his body Daisuke¡¯s armour didn¡¯t cover was his face -- that was concealed instead by a leering demon mask, his golden pupils glaring from beneath it. Searching for his final enemy.


    Six hours ago, there had been two-hundred fighters here. Now there were but two.


    Grunting with effort, Daisuke lifted his massive nodachi and roared out into the flames: "Show yourself! Show yourself, coward!"


    For a moment, there was no reply save for the growling of the inferno. There was a crash as the Secret Chief¡¯s head, finally losing integrity, collapsed down to the floor. Only then did Daisuke¡¯s adversary reply.


    "I¡¯d advise you to surrender now," the swordsman said calmly as he stepped out of the fire.


    He wore a flowing white war-robe, somehow unmarred by the flames around him or the soot raining down. Beneath that, a red shirt and a black tie, utterly contrasting the traditional attire above. This was a man who defied chronology. He kept one arm tucked behind his back, like a traditional fencer -- while from his other hand, palm extended out to the side, a burning blade of white light blazed.


    One half of the man¡¯s face glared at Daisuke -- the expression calm, stern, rigid but still human. The other half of the man¡¯s face was taken up by a pure white mask, a jet-black artificial eye staring out from it. The face of a doll, lacking even colour. Inhuman. Eerie.


    Special Officer Atoy Muzazi. The supreme commander of the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir. The one they called the Full Moon.


    "Surrender?" Daisuke hissed, pointing his sword at the incoming opponent. "After all this? Is that a joke?"


    Crimson Aether crackled menacingly around the huge man -- but if Atoy Muzazi was intimidated by the display, he did not show it. He simply nodded calmly as Daisuke addressed him.


    "Indeed," he said seriously. "You should have been provided with something called Caravan before the Outer Melee began. It¡¯s attached to your wrist like a watch. Tap at the face three times and it will accept your surrender immediately."


    Daisuke narrowed his eyes. "And if I refuse?"


    "Then you will die," Atoy Muzazi said, his expression unchanging. "Here and now."


    Daisuke Ono chuckled.


    Daisuke Ono laughed.


    Daisuke Ono guffawed.


    Daisuke Ono raged.


    "Don¡¯t get cocky, you son of a bitch!" he bellowed, crossing the distance between himself and Muzazi in a second, his nodachi crashing down like a meteor.


    But Atoy Muzazi was ready for him.


    Their blades clashed in that instant, so many times that counting would have been impossible, a contest of strength that Daisuke narrowly won. He seized Muzazi¡¯s sword-arm by the wrist -- the blade vanishing as he applied pressure to the limb -- and brought the nodachi down towards his head. Against an ordinary opponent, that would have been it.


    It went without saying that Atoy Muzazi was not an ordinary opponent.


    Right before the blade would have struck Muzazi, he pulled his other hand out from behind his back -- and five smaller blades of light burst out from his fingers, like claws. Daisuke¡¯s sword was heavy, beloved by gravity as it was pulled down towards its target¡¯s skull, but Muzazi¡¯s five swords held no weight at all. It was the simplest thing for him to thrust them forwards, pierce through Daisuke¡¯s armour, and skewer his body.


    Daisuke hesitated as that sharp pain stabbed into him. Muzazi did not miss that opportunity. Aided by those thrusters of his, he slammed his foot into Daisuke¡¯s side, breaking the giant¡¯s grip and launching Muzazi up into the burning rafters. There, on a foothold that was surely not long for this world, he perched and observed his opponent.


    His eyes -- one grey, one black -- were fixed on the five smoking holes he had left in Daisuke¡¯s armour. S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "My aim was exact," he declared with all the confidence in the world. "I know for a fact I pierced your lungs just now. It should be impossible for you to move, let alone fight. Surrender now and they may be able to save you."


    Daisuke Ono¡¯s hand shook as he pressed it against the burning marks. He chuckled again -- a wet, bloody chuckle, but a genuine one all the same. That dull golden gaze turned upwards to look at Muzazi once more.


    "Don¡¯t underestimate me, you piece of crap¡­" he muttered, a joyless grin spreading out beneath his mask. "...you don¡¯t know what my power is, huh?"


    "I expect you¡¯ll tell me. You seem the type."


    "Devil¡¯s Mantra!" Daisuke Ono roared, throwing his arms wide as if asserting his existence to the very world. His Aether exploded around him like a tempest, furiously crackling through the air. "The more I get hurt, the more powerful I become! When I got here, I was at the peak of human potential! You just made me a damn titan! Now die, you little shit!"


    Daisuke kicked off the ground, shattering the fragile wood beneath him as he leapt up towards Muzazi. The Full Moon made no move to dodge or deflect. He just crouched there as Daisuke came, quietly considering the man¡¯s words.


    "First a man, then a titan, you say?" he said, rubbing his chin. "I see. In that case¡­"


    Atoy Muzazi vanished.


    Daisuke had no time to see what had happened. He had no time to comprehend what had happened. There wasn¡¯t even time to feel pain. But that was perfectly natural. After all, he had been stabbed right through the back.


    "...you may perish a god," Muzazi said.


    Daisuke Ono collapsed dead to the floor without word or spectacle. Just another man, too easily slain -- and just another corpse, too easily burnt.

 Chapter 322:12.3: Eight Phases, Ten Nebula, One Plan, No Chance

    Ionir Yggdrasil


    Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir


    Supremacy Space


    Ionir Yggdrasil, headquarters and founding member of the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir, drifted through space.


    Ever since the Fell Beast had re-emerged from the body of the New Moon, its own form had expanded greatly. The humanoid body plan had been abandoned utterly in the process -- and now, as it sailed through the stars, it looked like nothing less than a gargantuan pinecone. Hallways and chambers existed within him, sustained by Ionir¡¯s biological processes and the few cybernetic enhancements it had allowed.


    It would be tempting to wonder whether its wooden skin was really suitable as the hull of a starship -- but to think Ionir Yggdrasil was just made of wood would be the same as thinking it was just a tree. In short, foolishness. It held out against the cold and the dark without fail.


    Yes, without fail. As the shuttle docked within it, the Waxing Crescent Moon resumed its flight -- carrying the Supreme Heir and all the other Phases within it.


    "That was a good fight back there," Morgan Nacht said to his commander, as the two of them ascended the long stairs to the main chambers. "How are you feeling?"


    As Muzazi walked alongside him up, only the masked half of his face was visible. Muzazi wondered vaguely how he must seem to Morgan, when not a flicker of emotion could be seen. Cold, perhaps? Robotic?


    His voice -- calm, measured -- wouldn¡¯t do much to dispel that illusion, if so. "A good fight would have ended with less corpses. I did what I could. I made it to the Inner Melee."


    "Wasn¡¯t that bad, then," Morgan smirked, purple war-robe swishing against the uneven ground beneath him.


    The interior of Ionir Yggdrasil was unsettlingly biological, hallways more like veins than anything else, but Morgan Nacht never seemed to stumble or lose his way. Sometimes, in the late hours, Muzazi would see Morgan standing by himself in some distant corridor -- listening to what seemed like nothing. He supposed it made sense. Morgan Nacht and Ionir Yggdrasil had a unique connection. For a time, the two of them had been one, after all.


    "At any rate," Muzazi went on. "I should receive word of the Inner Melee location shortly. Once I do, I¡¯d like for you to speak with Ionir and --"


    He didn¡¯t get to finish his sentence.


    "Is it going well, Commander Muzazi?" a harsh voice cut through the air. "Your quest to steal my throne?"


    Well¡­ Muzazi thought. This was to be expected.


    At the top of the grand staircase, glaring down at him, stood the Supreme Heir -- Aclima. Her black hair was tied back into a ponytail, and her golden eyes glinted in the light. She crossed her arms as Muzazi ascended, the black-and-purple dress she wore a stark contrast to the natural environment around them.


    "You misunderstand my intentions, my Heir," Muzazi said gruffly, not quite meeting her gaze. "As a warrior, it¡¯s my duty to seek the office of Supreme. I mean no trespass against you."


    Aclima raised an eyebrow. She did not smile. The Supreme Heir did not smile often these days -- and when she did, it was insincere, a twist of the dagger.


    "In that case," she said, looking up at Muzazi as he reached the top of the stairs. "Why don¡¯t you do it yourself? Instead of flying my ship around, using my resources."


    "As the leader of the Eight Phases," Muzazi said patiently. "It¡¯s my duty to protect you. So long as I remain by your side, I can balance that with my own ambitions."


    Aclima sneered. "Protect me so you can defeat me, you mean? You realize that¡¯s what it¡¯ll come down to, right? If you want to win the Dawn Contest? I¡¯m surprised you don¡¯t just kill me in my sleep and get it over with."


    Cruel words came easily to the Heir¡¯s lips, and yet Atoy Muzazi could not find it in himself to rebuke her. He had forfeited that right on Elysian Fields, two years ago. There was no denying that this was an uncomfortable position he¡¯d put himself in -- serving as the Heir¡¯s bodyguard even as he strove to supplant her.


    Even so, though¡­


    "You read hostility where there is none, my Heir," Muzazi replied calmly, ignoring the bait. "If you¡¯ll excuse me."


    As Muzazi turned to leave, Aclima muttered up to one of the people standing alongside her. "Look. You see that? He¡¯s running away."


    Aclima wasn¡¯t alone, after all -- among the Eight Phases, she never dared to be.


    To one side of the Supreme Heir stood the Waning Crescent Moon, Anya Hapgrass, a short woman with frizzy ginger hair and bright blue eyes. She wore suspenders over a shirt that frankly was far too small to require suspenders, and a pair of trousers that went in the absolute opposite direction -- far too baggy for someone of her size. She put a gauntleted hand to her mouth and snickered at Aclima¡¯s comment.


    To Aclima¡¯s other side stood the Third Quarter Moon, Endo Silversaint. The knight stood tall and thin, clad from head to toe in gleaming plate armour, a white fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Muzazi could not see Silversaint¡¯s expression through the fluted helmet he always wore, but a sense of disapproval washed over him all the same -- and when the Silversaint spoke, those suspicions were confirmed.


    "You disgrace yourself with such tactics, Sir Muzazi," he said in a quiet voice. Yes, quiet, almost meek¡­ and yet judgment radiated from every syllable. Was he referring to Muzazi¡¯s methods as commander of the Eight Phases, or his conduct in the last battle? Impossible to tell, and asking was out of the question.


    Muzazi¡¯s frown deepened. He could ignore Aclima¡¯s snide tongue, and Anya¡¯s laughter meant nothing to him¡­ but somehow he couldn¡¯t dismiss Endo Silversaint quite as easily. It was like looking into an old mirror, after all.


    Morgan bristled next to him. "Careful now," he said softly -- but Muzazi planted a firm hand on his shoulder and pulled him along. They would not escalate this. They had no right to.


    He chose not to respond at all. He just continued to stride down the hallway, Morgan by his side, until the Heir and her companions vanished from sight. Once he was certain they couldn¡¯t be heard anymore, Muzazi continued the conversation. Or, at least, he tried to.


    "Until we receive --"


    "So what are you going to do?" Morgan asked, cutting him off. "When it comes down to it, I mean? If you get to the finals?"


    Muzazi swallowed. "Once that point comes," he said stiffly. "I will recluse myself. Don¡¯t worry. There won¡¯t be any conflict of interest."


    "But¡­"


    "There won¡¯t be any conflict of interest," Muzazi repeated, more firmly. "Until we receive word of the Inner Melee site, we¡¯ll stand by and operate as usual."


    As they walked, the spiraling wood began to transition into solid metal beneath their feet. The crew quarters, unlike the rest of the vessel, were artificial constructs that didn¡¯t change with Ionir¡¯s whims. Tunnels became true hallways -- and, as they reached the meeting room, the arboreal orifices were replaced with actual doors. They slid open to welcome them.


    No meeting had been called, so the room was fairly empty. Only Marcus Grace sat at the long metal table, his arms crossed, his Cogitant gaze distant.


    Muzazi nodded to the Waxing Gibbous Moon as they approached. "My condolences," he said softly.


    Marcus¡¯ gaze flicked up to regard Muzazi with those intense blue eyes. His white jacket was pulled tight around his chest, and his white hair was cut close to his head. Marcus Grace wasn¡¯t the sort to give even his appearance leniency.


    "I don¡¯t need condolences," Marcus replied. "He¡¯s not dead."


    They¡¯d received troubling news earlier that day, just before the Outer Melee had commenced. News regarding Marcus¡¯ son, Winston Grace -- the young man who¡¯d been missing for nearly three months now. He¡¯d gone to clarify the sequence of events in the Elysian Fields Incident for the Committee and had seemingly dropped off the face of the world¡­ until today.


    A severed arm, confirmed to belong to the young detective, had been found in the slums of Obden. Marcus could hope as he wanted¡­ but it didn¡¯t look good.


    "All the same," Muzazi nodded respectfully, ignoring the contradiction within himself. "Our hopes are with you."


    Marcus nodded, the movement barely perceptible. "Appreciated," he muttered.


    What Muzazi had said was true. When he got right down to it, despite everything else, he did hope Winston was alright, he did hope he was found, he did hope that the arm did not spell his death. But¡­ his words were selfish, as well. It would not do for Marcus Grace to resent him.


    He needed all the friends he could get, after all.


    The balance of power within the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir was a delicate thing. Two of the founding members -- Morgan Nacht and Ionir Yggdrasil -- were firmly loyal to Muzazi himself. The next two members -- Ash del Duran and Marcus Grace -- could be loyal to either Muzazi or Aclima, depending on the demands of their station and the situation. Needless to say, Anya Hapgrass and Endo Silversaint were firmly Aclima¡¯s people. That was why she¡¯d brought them in, after all.


    How had things ended up like this? Muzazi took a seat at the table, rubbing his temple with one hand. Ever since Elysian Fields, the relationship between himself and Aclima had grown more and more adversarial -- until now, where he found himself considering her more of an obstacle than someone to protect.


    It wasn¡¯t even that she was wrong. He was using her resources for the purpose of taking the throne he was supposed to help her to. Silversaint wasn¡¯t wrong, either: it was dishonorable to the extreme. But if he were to put his pride above doing what needed to be done, for the benefit of the Supremacy as a whole¡­


    ¡­what answers would he have for the corpses behind his eyelids?


    And so it was that he found himself playing politics against the little girl he¡¯d sworn to keep safe. Two Moons on his side, two against, two that could swing either way¡­ and one that wasn¡¯t so easily quantified.


    The doors slid open once more.


    Speak of the devil. Atoy Muzazi looked up as the First Quarter Moon, Gregori Hazzard, walked into the room. The man who shared Marie¡¯s name. His face, that blonde hair and those red eyes, bore a certain resemblance to her as well. For that reason -- and another -- he was a¡­ difficult man for Muzazi to interact with.


    The other reason was that Gregori Hazzard was obviously a spy for the Ascendant-General, Alexandrius Toll. Gregori had previously left the Special Officers Commission to serve the military directly, and then returned once Muzazi had started actively recruiting for the Eight Phases. Muzazi knew, and Gregori knew that Muzazi knew.


    That was also why it was unclear what side he would take: it would surely depend on what best served the Ascendant-General¡¯s interests, not any loyalty that Gregori himself felt.


    One hand was plunged into the pocket of Gregori¡¯s baggy white coat as he approached, while the other held up a script. His crimson gaze was dull and disinterested as ever, and the boredom slipped out from his voice as he spoke.


    "Boss," he said, the word sounding insincere from his lips. "Figured you might wanna see this."


    Before Muzazi could even reply, Gregori had tossed the script over to him. He caught it, because of course he did, but still¡­ rude. His annoyance was quickly forgotten as he saw what was on the screen.


    "Name got flagged up," Gregori offered an unnecessary explanation. "List of victors."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened at that name and that face he hadn¡¯t expected to see again -- not after Elysian Fields.


    Dragan Hadrien.


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    Serendipity


    Unified Alliance of Planets Capitol


    Seat of Man


    He read the message.


    Operative is to infiltrate Supremacy territory and observe the conclusion of the Dawn Contest from a close distance. Intelligence regarding Supreme candidates and their activities are to be relayed back to Command regularly. Additional orders may be enacted in the field.


    It was rare for orders to be printed on paper these days. Three sentences, in bold ink, typed across the memo held between two hands. The implication was obvious: these were orders to be read only once. After that, they had to vanish from this world.


    In the modern world, paper existed to be burnt. Before the elevator reached its destination, Rufus Von Frostburn snapped his fingers -- and the memo was immediately devoured by a tiny spark of flame.


    NEBULA FIVE


    Rufus Von Frostburn


    "The Supernova"


    Nebula of Aldrust


    Rufus waved away the smoke with a leather-gloved hand. He wasn¡¯t particularly well-dressed for a meeting in the Seat of Man -- the gathering place for the Central Governing Council of the Unified Alliance of Planets. His long red hair hung loose down his shoulders, and his black fur coat was a far cry from the expected business suit, especially since it was open in the middle, exposing his bare chest. The closest thing to a real badge of office was the tiny ¡¯5¡¯ pin he wore on his lapel.


    The Ten Nebula of the Unified Alliance of Planets were ranked by strength -- and since he¡¯d been assigned this role four years ago, Rufus had occupied the office of Nebula Five. He didn¡¯t much mind it. He wasn¡¯t low enough that people thought he was weak -- or human garbage like Nebula Ten -- and he wasn¡¯t high enough to inspire tiring envy. It was a comfy spot. Usually kept him out of trouble.


    Usually¡­ but not always. Rufus realized that the second the elevator opened.


    Waiting for him in the hallway was Beckett del Brainen. The other man was already glaring at him as he arrived, clad in gnarled white armour, his similarly white hair tied behind his head. Like most people from Brainen, Beckett had Scurrant blood -- the distinct shade of grey came out strongly in his skin, making him look almost like a living statue. The only thing that came close to colour on him were his Pugnant-gold eyes.


    Generally speaking, it was impossible for a human to belong to more than one of the subspecies. The Gene Tyrants had programmed their genetics that way. The only known exceptions were crosses between one of the main three and Scurrants. So it was that the people of Brainen obtained their distinctive appearance and strength.


    Between them and beyond them, light shone in through the window that made up an entire wall of the curving hallway. The towering spires of Serendipity gleamed in the sunlight, the twinkling dots of traffic zooming through the sky. It was a shame that Beckett¡¯s expression was so dark in comparison.


    "Hey, asshole," Beckett said as Rufus stepped out of the elevator. "You¡¯ve got your orders, right? Show me."


    Rufus hesitated. Beckett knew about that?


    "Eh?" he blinked. "Was I not supposed to burn it?"


    Beckett clearly hadn¡¯t expected Rufus to come back with that -- the hostility on his face actually vanished for a moment as he furrowed his brow in genuine confusion. "What?"


    "I, uh," Rufus said awkwardly. "I thought it was on paper because I was meant to burn it when I was done reading it. So I, uh, I did. In the elevator. Just now. Sorry."


    "What the fuck?"


    "Sorry," Rufus repeated.


    Tension crept throughout Rufus¡¯ body. It wasn¡¯t that he was intimidated by Beckett -- the numbers spoke for themselves -- but he was very much aware that the way he messed up would reflect badly on Agnes. His sister and his homeworld hadn¡¯t been part of the Governing Council for very long. He couldn¡¯t risk anything that would jeopardize her position. She was the brains and he was the brawn. They were meant to work together, not sabotage each other.


    Even if he¡¯d burnt the orders, though, he still remembered them -- every word. He wasn¡¯t so stupid that he couldn¡¯t manage that.


    Beckett groaned, as if trying to will the entire previous conversation out of history by sheer force of annoyance. "Let¡¯s cut to the chase," he said -- and on cue, five claws of bone extended out from the tips of his fingers, blood dripping from them menacingly. "How come a dumbass like you is being given this assignment?"


    NEBULA SIX


    Beckett del Brainen


    "Underframe"


    Nebula of Brainen


    Ah, he really needed to give a good impression, he knew¡­ but Rufus von Frostburn couldn¡¯t just let that go. Despite his best efforts, a smug fanged grin spread across his lips.


    "What?" he chuckled. "You jealous?"


    The reaction was immediate and predictable. Beckett¡¯s eyes widened, his nostrils flared, and a red flush of anger began to trickle over his grey skin. He stepped forward to get right into Rufus¡¯ face -- but before he could do anything, he was interrupted.


    "Come on, now, boys," drawled the young woman standing between them. "No fighting."


    The woman wore a ten-gallon hat over her dirty blond hair, and thick aviator sunglasses over her dark blue eyes. Denim shorts and a blue-and-yellow pilot jacket made her seem like she was more suited to a costume party than anything else, but Rufus supposed he wasn¡¯t one to talk. Besides, even if she was relatively new, the mercenaries the Maraze State hired as their Nebula representative were always formidable.


    Yep¡­ what a scary lady. Rufus had only noticed she was there once she¡¯d spoken -- after she¡¯d already planted the barrel of a revolver against each of their temples.


    NEBULA EIGHT


    May Miracle


    "The Nowhere Woman"


    Nebula of the Maraze State


    "Try it, bitch," Beckett snarled, eyes flicking over to regard the woman holding him at gunpoint. "See how far that thing makes it through my skull."


    May¡¯s mouth twisted into a lupine smirk. "Well¡­ I am a gamblin¡¯ girl," she said. "But I¡¯m afraid we¡¯ve got a prior engagement, hon." She slipped her revolvers back into the holsters at her hips. "We¡¯re waiting for you boys in the assembly hall."


    "Meeting hall?" Rufus frowned. "I didn¡¯t know the Governing Council had been called together."


    Beckett rolled his eyes as he cracked his neck. "You¡¯d have heard about it if the most powerful people in the UAP were gathering together, dumbass. Think about it for a minute. It¡¯s just us Nebula today."


    Rufus¡¯ frown deepened. "Why?"


    That roll of the eyes transitioned smoothly into a piercing glare. "To make sure you don¡¯t fuck things up."


    The meeting hall in the Seat of Man was quite the sight to behold. A white round table, with ten seats all around it, the UAP flag shining down onto its surface as a projection from above. Really, though, that wasn¡¯t the impressive part.


    All around the table, outside of the reach of that spotlight, was the void of space -- stars and systems swirling around the meeting room like the galaxy in miniature. Rufus had once asked his sister about the purpose of these holograms. According to her, it was so the Council could see the world their decisions would affect at all times.


    He didn¡¯t really get it.


    Usually, the Central Governing Council themselves would be the ones using this space -- but it seemed the Nebula had decided to make use of it for an impromptu meeting of their own. As the three of them -- Rufus, Beckett and May -- entered the room, the man who¡¯d taken his seat at the relative head of the table looked up at them.


    "I see you managed to find them, Miss Miracle," he said, voice stern and clipped. "I trust that was before they did anything foolish?"


    The man looked like¡­ the man looked like¡­ there was no nice way to say it. The man looked like a clown. Chalk-white skin, bright green hair, a garish red jumpsuit. Hell, even his nose was engorged and crimson. The only thing he was missing was a smile -- Rufus had never seen anything but a deep scowl on the older man¡¯s sallow face.


    NEBULA THREE


    Tom Foolery


    "Master of the Killing Arts"


    Nebula of Paradoxia


    The human body was a machine. Few excelled at breaking it quite like Tom Foolery. Nebula Three nodded at May as she took her seat on the other side of the table. Then, those perpetually-disapproving grey pupils flicked over to target Rufus and Beckett.


    "Are you going to stand there all day?" he asked.


    Neither of them were quite brave enough to argue, and quickly took their seats as well. Beckett grumbled a little, but that was the extent of his complaining. A rare occasion when Nebula Six willingly elected to shut his mouth.


    Tom noticed it as well. "It seems our young Master Beckett has been chastened, Miss Miracle. Your doing?"


    May nodded.


    "It seems your prediction was correct, then, Luna," Tom grunted. "But that is to be expected."


    Sitting next to May was a young girl -- maybe ten or eleven -- clad in black robes so thick she almost looked spherical. A metal mask covered her face, dotted with dozens of tiny red sensors, as if the child was looking out at the world through countless staring eyes.


    Rufus couldn¡¯t help but shudder. He¡¯d known Luna was here before even seeing her. The kid had a disturbing habit of whispering people¡¯s words a split second before they actually said them. That pre-echo had given her away.


    NEBULA NINE


    Luna


    "The All-Seeing"


    Nebula of Abra-Facade


    "So," Rufus spoke up in the hallowed chamber for the first time, looking around at the other people in the room. "What¡¯s the occasion? How come I¡¯ve got all the Nebula lined up in front of me?"


    "Not all," Tom corrected him. "Neither Nebula One or Ten are present. Four and Seven are unoccupied slots."


    "Well, yeah," Rufus acknowledged. "But Ten doesn¡¯t count, he¡¯s human garbage."


    "Indeed. At any rate, the reason we¡¯re meeting -- as I¡¯m sure you do know, Master Rufus, is because of the orders you¡¯ve received."


    Rufus furrowed his brow. "I don¡¯t get it. These are meant to be secret. How come you all know about them?"


    Tom didn¡¯t reply. Instead, the answer came from next to him.


    "You¡¯re not the only one who received them," said a quiet voice.


    The man who spoke was dark-skinned, his black-haired dreadlocks hanging low down his back. He was thin and lithe, arms crossed in front of him, crimson eyes regarding Rufus calmly. The sheer black armour he wore was surely ceremonial -- the fact that his muscular midriff was completely exposed was proof enough of that.


    Above his head floated a red halo, transparent, formed from a substance resembling smooth red crystal. His Principality. The collective Aether ability of the Inganci people.


    This was one of the few among the Ten Nebula that Rufus could consider a genuine friend. Jamilu Aguta.


    NEBULA TWO


    "Bearer of the Demon Spear"


    Jamilu Aguta


    Nebula of Inganci


    Rufus regarded the long golden spear on Jamilu¡¯s lap warily. The thing almost seemed to hum with barely constrained malice. He knew full well that Jamilu could control it¡­ but it didn¡¯t make him any less tense, standing so close to one of the Old Demons of the Dawn.


    "What do you mean I¡¯m not the only one?" Rufus asked, looking down at the table at the other man.


    "I¡¯m to accompany you," Jamilu replied simply. "Our mission is the same. The briefing read: ¡¯Additional orders may be enacted in the field.¡¯ I need to be certain you understand the implication."


    Rufus shrugged, looking around uneasily. "It means, uh¡­ it means what it says, right? If something comes up, they might give us more orders?"


    Jamilu shook his head. "It¡¯s not if something comes up, Rufus. It has already been decided that something will come up."


    "Huh?"


    "We are not going to the Supremacy to observe who the next Supreme will be," he explained patiently. "We are going to decide it."


    Granrue


    Supremacy


    Farming World


    "So," whispered Ellis, leaning up to the taller Alice as the two of them descended the landing ramp. "Who¡¯s this Dragan Hadrien guy, anyway?"


    Alice glanced down at him. The hangar they¡¯d landed in was a public one -- but fairly empty, so she spoke freely. "Oh, you wouldn¡¯t know, would you?" she said. "Before the bosslady set up Restorossi and Road, she used to be part of another crew -- along with the Ventriloquist and this Hadrien guy. They got split up, I guess, and Hadrien¡¯s been missing ever since. A couple of times the Ventriloquist¡¯s roped us into some kinda snipe hunt to do with this, but¡­" She blinked. "Wait. You were there for that, asshole, you should know this!"


    "Oh," Ellis muttered disinterestedly. "I was?"


    Ruth ignored the argument quickly brewing behind her. She had something much more interesting to look at. There, waiting for her at the entrance to the hangar, stood two of her best friends in the world: Serena and Bruno del Sed.


    It wasn¡¯t like they¡¯d always been there for each other these last two years¡­ but still, it was damn good to see them.


    Bruno¡¯s mouth spread into a thin smile -- and Serena spread it even further into a wild grin. Before Ruth could so much as say hello, the girl was already charging towards her for a hug. Roman glanced towards Rex, who just nodded: this wasn¡¯t something the mercenary had to worry about. S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Even with Aether, the force of Sererna¡¯s embrace almost bowled Ruth over. She laughed as she gripped the other woman by the shoulders, managing to push her away just the slightest bit. Enough to breathe, if nothing else.


    "Easy, easy," Ruth chuckled -- before her smile faded. "So. What¡¯s this plan you¡¯ve got to find Dragan?"


    Serena¡¯s smile didn¡¯t so much as slacken. "We looked into it, Miss Ruth. We still have time before the Inner Melees -- six more Outer ones to go. Until the Inner Melee starts, the locations are kept under heavy guard. But if they¡¯re under guard¡­"


    Finally, the smile restrained itself back down to Bruno¡¯s self-assured smirk. Ruth found herself reminded of the moments that had come right before one of Skipper¡¯s ¡¯foolproof¡¯ plans. A shudder went down her spine.


    Bruno finished his sister¡¯s sentence. "...then all we have to do is steal it."

 Chapter 323:12.4: The Black Sheep

    As the train rushed through the countryside, Ruth looked out the window.


    She¡¯d expected a farming planet to be covered in orderly rows of crops, as far as the eye could see, but the reality was a little different. Most of the land seemed wild and unkempt, overgrown with trees and weeds, the railway cutting through it like a blade. The only exception to the mess were the farms themselves. They dotted the landscape, completely covered by massive bone-white domes. It was like gargantuan bubbles were protruding from the ground all around them, concealing the farms from view.


    "Ruth?" prompted Bruno. "You still with us?"


    She nodded. "I¡¯m listening. Still don¡¯t get why we¡¯ve come here to steal from the Supremacy, though."


    "Unless we¡¯re after the crops," Rex chipped in. He was sitting next to Ruth, his arms crossed as he looked over the table.


    The trains on Granrue weren¡¯t exactly built for luxury -- they were cramped and slow, and so the entire team found themselves stuffed into a single compartment. Roman lingered outside the door like a bouncer, so at least he wasn¡¯t taking up space, but Alice, Ellis, Rex and Ruth were all squeezed onto one side of the table.


    For some reason, nobody seemed willing to sit next to Bruno. Maybe it was the insane plan he was in the midst of explaining.


    "As we are now," he said. "Stealing from the Supremacy would be suicide."


    "It wasn¡¯t suicide before," Ruth said.


    "It was suicide before," Bruno replied. "But we just always got lucky. But I¡¯d rather not rely on luck unless I have to -- which is why we¡¯re here."


    "In the ass-end of nowhere," Alice muttered.


    Indeed, Granrue wasn¡¯t exactly the center of galactic civilization. As farming worlds went, it was far beyond tertiary -- and the last time a Supremacy official besides the Minister had visited was surely decades ago. Calling it the ass-end of nowhere was actually pretty generous, since the ass was still part of the body.


    "Actually¡­" Bruno said, settling into his seat. "I did some jobs for the Provvidenza recently."


    The atmosphere in the small compartment thickened, and the people sitting across from Bruno grew even more tense. Mercenaries and bounty hunters were all part of the same criminal industry, of course¡­ so there was no doubt they¡¯d dealt with the Provvidenza family before, or at least heard of them. If only they¡¯d heard good things.


    After the collapse of the Oliphant Clan, a massive power vacuum had been left in the criminal underworld. Organizations like the Crimson Carnival and Paradise Lost had quickly snatched up the hired guns sphere, but the Provvidenza now strove to replace the Oliphants as the general face of organized crime. Given their propensity for violence, and their frankly unhinged levels of recruitment, the Provvidenza had managed to make quite the name for themselves in the last two years.


    "While I was on board with them, I had the opportunity to check out some of their files." Bruno leaned over the table, lowering his voice as if his former clients would hear him if he spoke too loudly. "They¡¯ve got a scraping station here on Granrue."


    Ellis¡¯ eyes flicked up from his game -- only for a moment, but enough to show that he was listening.


    "A scraping station?" he mumbled. "What¡¯s that?"


    Rex turned his head to look at the boy, a cartoon smiley face appearing on his visor as he spoke. "Information is worth its weight in gold to the right people -- and the Provvidenza know that. A scraping station latches on to Supremacy transmissions, ¡¯scrapes¡¯ off valuable information, records it¡­ and then they sell it off to the highest bidder."


    "Let¡¯s face it," Bruno said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. "For information like this? We¡¯re not gonna be the highest bidder. They¡¯ve got this old farm -- had to be abandoned by the previous owners because of blight, so they got it cheap. They¡¯ve converted the whole place into a scraping station. Real scary security." He grinned. "But not that scary."


    "So we¡¯re not stealing from the Supremacy," Ruth nodded. "We¡¯re stealing from the people who are stealing from the Supremacy."


    She had to admit¡­ she¡¯d heard worse plans. But not many.


    Most of the people who made up the Provvidenza were, to put it simply, trash. Common goons who¡¯d taken the family name for slivers of reputation and bragging rights. The names of members who could be considered real threats could be noted down on a single sheet of paper.


    Unfortunately¡­ three of those names were at the scraping station. The ones they called the Black Sheep. Bruno and Serena knew them by reputation if nothing else.


    Ordinarily, the Provvidenza would promote and reward those members who earned themselves a reputation for violence. The family was hungry for notoriety, after all, no matter how they found it. But there were certain kinds of violence the Provvidenza preferred for their advertisement. The sort of violence that didn¡¯t provoke a response they couldn¡¯t handle.


    It had happened around six months ago. By some unlucky coincidence, the Black Sheep had run into a group of Special Officers in a bar on Turnaz. The Officers -- six in all -- had been on their way back from a mission. Bruno didn¡¯t know the exact details, but obviously there¡¯d been some kind of disagreement.


    A disagreement which had ended with the six Special Officers dead.


    Making the Supremacy¡¯s Special Officers look like helpless victims, especially after the fiasco of the Elysian Fields Incident? That was the kind of violence that provoked an unholy response. Small wonder the trio had come to be known as the Black Sheep of the family. Small wonder they¡¯d been sent out here to what didn¡¯t even qualify as the ass-end of nowhere.


    Lucius Victri Provvidenza, Eros Matanae Provvidenza and Annatrice del Sed Provvidenza.


    Not a del Sed that Bruno or Serena were familiar with, but the name itself was enough to make them wary. Anyone who¡¯d managed to survive and graduate from the Sed was some kind of monster. For that reason, they¡¯d warned the others to be wary of Annatrice most of all.


    The plan itself was simple. Three breaching points, with their forces split between them. Most of the Provvidenza¡¯s foot soldiers didn¡¯t even have Aether, so they wouldn¡¯t pose much of a threat.


    Ruth and Rex would blast in from the top of the dome and descend to the receiver tower.


    Bruno and Serena would breach the loading bay and fight their way in from there.


    And this Alice, whose abilities Bruno still didn¡¯t know? She¡¯d be going in from underground, using a disused drainage tunnel. Bruno would have been wary of sending someone in without any backup at all -- the Ellis kid didn¡¯t have Aether, apparently -- but Ruth hadn¡¯t even blinked when he¡¯d first proposed it. Seemed this Alice¡îAlice wasn¡¯t someone to be worried about.


    The clock passed the hour and -- in the darkness behind a parked truck -- Bruno brought his communicator to his mouth.


    "Go," he whispered.


    The explosions followed soon after that.


    Alice¡¯s boots splashed against the dirty water beneath as she made her way through the dank drainage tunnel. Oh, this was gross. How had she ended up drawing the short straw like this? Someone at some stage must surely have cheated her.


    At least Ellis¡¯ drone was following Rex and Ruth, and not her. That was something. This kind of environment wasn¡¯t the kind that Alice¡îAlice should be presented in. She was an innocent heroine that fought for justice and the dreams of children -- not for the right to march through sewage.


    She glanced up towards the moss-ridden ceiling as she felt a rumble from far above. It seemed the boss lady had made her grand entrance. Alice briefly fantasized about how Alice¡îAlice would look, descending from the top of the dome in all her cuteness, but some dreams would remain dreams forever.


    Alice shook her head. Alice¡îAlice or not, she had a job to do.


    Ellis¡¯ drone had the equipment needed to actually extract the data they needed for the records -- so Alice, Bruno and Serena weren¡¯t actually meant to head for the main receiver tower. Their job was to provide a distraction, draw the Black Sheep away from it, and keep them occupied for long enough that Ellis could get what they needed.


    A distraction, huh? Well¡­ it seemed like she¡¯d managed that, at least.


    A footstep splashing the water.


    In an instant, Alice pulled her plasma pistol free of its holster, pointing it forward into the dark maw of the tunnel beyond. Her hands did not shake. Her gaze did not waver. She simply remained still but ready, like a turret, something that would automatically dispatch its target.


    "Show yourself," she said calmly.


    For a moment, the other party feigned non-existence -- but soon enough, they stepped out of the dark, hands raised in surrender. A young man with handsome features and curly pink hair, Cogitant-blue eyes twinkled in what little light the tunnel possessed.


    "Wow," he said, voice light and breathy. "You really noticed me right away, huh? You sure must train a lot."


    Alice recognised him from the files she¡¯d been shown: Eros Matanae Provvidenza, one of the Black Sheep. He was wearing the distinctive ¡¯uniform¡¯ of the crime family: a fedora and trenchcoat, each stark white with gold lining. He seemed utterly unsuited to what was basically a sewer¡­ but then again, so was Alice.


    "Oh wow," Eros kept on talking as Alice pointed her gun at him. "You have pink hair too! Can that even be a coincidence? We could be siblings¡­ or maybe even lovers? Enchant¨¦."


    "Ew."


    "Sorry, sorry!" he laughed casually. "That came out a little creepy, didn¡¯t it? I didn¡¯t mean it to sound that way, but you certainly have the right to take my comments any way you like. I wouldn¡¯t dream of telling you how to feel about things like that. Oh, I¡¯m talking too much, aren¡¯t I? Ah, so embarrassing¡­"


    He took a step forward -- and Alice fired at the ground before him, narrowly missing his foot. Eros blinked down at the smoking hole in the ground, surprised for the first time, his mouth a perfect ¡¯o¡¯. The surprise lasted just a moment, though, and soon enough that dreamy grin returned to his face.


    "Nothing funny, buddy," Alice said. "No reason you need to get shot here. Put your hands on your head."


    "Boy, am I lucky, though," Eros giggled, his posture remaining utterly relaxed despite Alice¡¯s instructions. "The target I decided to go after at random turned out to be such a beautiful lady. I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s a blessing or a curse!"


    "Definitely a blessing," Alice smirked. "But flattery will get you nowhere, pal."


    Should she shoot him? Ordinarily, she¡¯d have planted a shot right into his forehead already¡­ but something about this situation didn¡¯t seem right. Given these guys¡¯ reputation, there was no way she should have seen him coming so easily. Was attacking him the trigger to his ability? Was he baiting her?


    "No, I¡¯m afraid you might be wrong¡­" Eros sighed, looking sullenly down at the ground. "Not that I want you to feel bad about being wrong, but it¡¯s just that I have this thing, and I feel like I have to make it clear to you¡­ ah, how to say it, how to say it without seeming creepy¡­ it¡¯s just¡­"


    Alice¡¯s finger began to curl against the trigger. Bait or not, it was certainly getting hard to resist the urge to shoot this guy. Even if it was a trap, the sheer satisfaction might just make it worth it.


    "Out with it," Alice snapped.


    Even if she didn¡¯t end up taking this guy out, that was fine too. The longer he stayed here in this stalemate with her, the longer he wasn¡¯t at the receiver tower. It fit with the plan.


    "It¡¯s just¡­" he sighed again, twiddling his index fingers together. "Ah, it¡¯s just¡­ whenever I see a beautiful lady¡­"


    Suddenly, his arms dropped limp to his side. His eyelids fell heavy over his eyes. His grin widened, just a tad, just enough to cross the boundary between friendliness and hunger.


    "...I can¡¯t help but kill them." His voice was heavy, shuddering¡­ anticipating.


    It¡¯s coming.


    Growing up on the streets of a slum, Alice had quickly learnt how to recognise the signs of incoming violence. It had been a vital survival skill among those who would readily murder you -- some for your belongings, others for the fun of it. By this point, it was something of a sixth sense for her.


    This man was going to try and kill her, just as he said. She was certain of it. In the next few seconds.


    A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead.


    "I see," she said, voice steady, watching for the attack that was sure to come. "That¡¯s quite the complex you have there."


    "Oh, you mustn¡¯t misunderstand me," Eros said, arms swaying as he waved his hands. "Please don¡¯t misunderstand me. It¡¯s not that I have a thing against women. No, no, not at all. Don¡¯t get it wrong. I have the greatest respect for the fairer sex. The utmost admiration¡­ it¡¯s just¡­ it¡¯s like how you have to close your eyes rather than look directly at the sun. You¡¯re far too dazzling for my eyes. I have to remove you from my sight. In that way, it¡¯s an act of self-defense on my part. I know that¡¯s no excuse, of course, but I just wanted to make sure you had a full understanding of --"


    Fuck it. Bait or not, she couldn¡¯t listen to this crap any longer. Alice pulled the trigger.


    Bang.


    As the plasma shot sliced through the air towards Eros, he leapt up -- and, with a flash of dazzling pink Aether, feathered wings burst out of his shoulder blades. Those wings were the same pink shade as his Aether, and a single flap sent him soaring up towards the ceiling of the tunnel, dodging Alice¡¯s second and third shots.


    Eros looked down at Alice with his glittering blue gaze, his pink wings holding him aloft.


    "That¡¯s so strange," he said wonderingly, narrowing his eyes. "I just don¡¯t know if I get it, sweetheart. I¡¯m certain you¡¯re an Aether-user, but all you¡¯ve been doing is firing that gun at me. Oh! Could it be you¡¯re trying to bait out my abilities? That would be such a coincidence! If that¡¯s the case¡­" he jerked a thumb towards the wings behind him. "...then we¡¯re birds of a feather!"


    Bad puns aside, the creep was dead on the money. The fact that he¡¯d dodged meant that he didn¡¯t have the counter ability Alice had been worried about, but that didn¡¯t mean she could attack carelessly. Best to hold back and see what he was capable of first.


    The author¡¯s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "What¡¯s wrong, cutie?" Eros asked sweetly, cocking his head as his wings carried him back and forth across the ceiling. "I miss your voice. It was like an angel. All ladies are angels, of course, but even by that metric your voice was truly pleasant. You¡¯re not like other girls at all -- you seem a little more, oh, what¡¯s the word¡­? Genuine! That¡¯s it! Not that I¡¯m trying to say other girls are fake, but¡­"


    To hell with it. With all the speed and precision she could muster, Alice fired off another volley of shots -- this time aiming directly for Eros¡¯ wings. The mobility difference was going to be a problem if she didn¡¯t do something about it.


    Even if the attack missed, Eros¡¯ response to it would be enlightening.


    Right as Alice fired, Eros swooped down, weaving through her shots and getting right into her face. The light of his Aether coalesced in his hands, forming a regal pink bow -- and without hesitation, he pulled the string back, the shining arrow aimed directly for Alice¡¯s throat.


    "Star Train," he purred.


    At this range, with this time, Alice ordinarily wouldn¡¯t have time to dodge. She abandoned that notion immediately. Instead, she pointed her pistol directly off to the side.


    Restructure.


    As she pulled the trigger, another plasma shot -- far more explosive than the previous -- burst out of her pistol, the momentum sending her flying out of the path of Eros¡¯ arrow. The projectile -- Star Train, he¡¯d called it -- screeched like its namesake as it sailed off down the tunnel, pink light fading into the distance.


    Alice landed, transitioning into a roll as she pointed her gun at Eros once again. Far down the tunnel, she heard the boom of an explosion. Whatever Star Train had hit had surely been obliterated, judging from that noise. Good to know: it wasn¡¯t an attack she could afford to be hit by.


    Eros wasn¡¯t done, though. Without hesitation, he swung his bow around to Alice¡¯s new position and -- ducking under another pair of shots -- fired his arrow once again.


    Another Star Train. What had worked once would work again. Alice fired her explosive shot, sending herself flying off out of Eros¡¯ range once more. It was only when she saw the smirk on the Cogitant¡¯s lips that she realized that had been a mistake.


    "Baby Cruising Love," he said.


    Immediately, the arrow he¡¯d fired popped into countless tiny duplicates -- like shotgun pellets -- and they turned in the air to follow Alice¡¯s new trajectory. A homing scattershot. Alice wouldn¡¯t land in time to dodge them.


    Restructure.


    Still sailing through the air, Alice pointed her pistol towards the incoming arrows -- and when she pulled the trigger, a cone of flame belched forth, incinerating the projectiles before they could reach her. Saved, she landed feet-first on the ground, kicking up filthy water as she slid backwards.


    "Oh wow," Eros commented, fluttering over the ground. "Oh, that¡¯s really so interesting. I could¡¯ve sworn that was a standard MaTec TD9 pistol you¡¯re holding, but yet you¡¯re using things like explosive shots and even a flamethrower¡­ did you perhaps modify it? Oh, but there¡¯s no signs of tampering on the exterior casing. It¡¯s good as new. How strange, how strange¡­ oh, could it be?"


    With frightening speed, he moved, lunging right at Alice. She fired the flamethrower again, but he kicked off the ground, launching himself up and over her while the flames poured forth.


    "Your ability," he said, landing behind her with a splash. "Is to restructure the inside of an object and change its function. Am I right?"


    Damnit. He¡¯s right on the money.


    Alice swung around, already restructuring the inside of the plasma pistol once more, but Eros was already coming for her again. He¡¯d discarded the bow, instead holding just the shining arrow in one hand like it was a dagger. His eyes wide and wild, he thrust it towards her chest.


    "Sweet Refrain," Eros whispered -- and, mid-thrust, the arrow extended itself into a spear of pink light.


    No time to Restructure the gun and fire an explosive shot. Alice moved as much as she could in the instant afforded to her, and so the spear impaled her through the shoulder rather than the heart. Hot agony pulsed through her as he pinned her to the tunnel wall, but that was fine. She¡¯d accepted that already. So long as she¡¯d managed to bring this guy in close, she could accept the pain.


    The arm that had been impaled was no good -- but with the other she lashed out. The move was good, and he didn¡¯t see it coming. Before he could retreat, she¡¯d seized Eros by the throat and began to squeeze, bones creaking under her grip. He went to pull the spear free to fend her off, but Alice tensed her skewered shoulder further, holding the weapon in place.


    He kicked at the air in vain as she raised him up, his pupils shuddering, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish as he choked. Their Aether, twin shades of pink, warred in the grim darkness of the drainage tunnel.


    She had him. She had him. She¡¯d kill him. She¡¯d take this little creep¡¯s spindly neck and -- and her grip loosened.


    The strength had suddenly drained from her fingers. Eros glanced down at her, his eyes twinkling, the choking sounds he¡¯d been making slowly transforming into a low and sinister giggle. The hand that had been holding Eros up like a vice became limp and impotent, slipping down his collar and swaying uselessly in the air.


    "Oh," he said, his voice filled with mock-surprise. "Could it be you fell for me?"


    Alice glared at him, willing her body to keep fighting -- but something was wrong. The tension in her shoulder slackened away to nothing, and the spear slid free of the bloody wound. It felt like¡­ like there was something in her body, something crawling along the surface of her throat, drawing blood, making it difficult to breathe. Something sharp.


    Eros¡¯ wings appeared once more -- and as Alice collapsed forwards onto the floor, he leapt backwards, keeping himself at a distance.


    "You thought you¡¯d drawn out my abilities, didn¡¯t you?" he purred. "I can understand why you¡¯d think that. It¡¯s a natural conclusion to make, after the exchange we just had. But these arrows are really just light shows, sweetheart. Something to distract you. My real ability is invisible¡­ and odorless."


    Alice drew in a harsh, struggling breath. "Poison¡­" she hissed through burning lips, her face half-submerged in the sewer water as she lay on the floor.


    Eros threw his arms out. "Perfume," he declared. "That is the name of my ability. I¡¯d already completed my attack before our little lover¡¯s spat began. Sorry, darling, but I¡¯m afraid I tricked you."


    "Bastard¡­ I¡¯ll kill you¡­" Alice growled. She pushed her body to power through the poison, planted her hands against the filthy ground to force herself up -- but another sudden burst of pain sent her sprawling back down to the ground.


    That infuriating giggle of Eros¡¯ echoed up and down the tunnel, along with the beats of his wings. He was still keeping his distance, sticking near the opposite wall, taking into account the possibility she still had a way to attack him. Somehow, the fact that he was so damn good at this made him even more annoying.


    "By the way," he said, smiling. "I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but Perfume requires a certain trigger before it can activate: hostility. The more hostility you feel towards me, the more potent the poison becomes. Perhaps you took my words too much to heart?"


    "So¡­" Alice seethed, glaring up at him with a filth-stained face. "Everything you¡¯ve been doing¡­ and saying¡­ an act just to piss me off?"


    Eros cocked his head, a deep frown on his face as if he didn¡¯t understand what she¡¯d just said in the slightest.


    "What do you mean?" he asked. "I think you might have the wrong idea. I¡¯m actually a very genuine person, for all the good it does me¡­" Eros shrugged as he sighed despondently. "Whenever I get talking to anyone, they just die all on their own."


    Well, at least he was smart enough to make use of how unbearable he was. But seriously? Goddamn it. This was such a pain¡­ such an unbearable pain¡­ Alice squeezed her eyes shut -- both out of frustration and to stop the water stinging them -- and grit her teeth.


    "I really¡­" she muttered. "...didn¡¯t want¡­ to¡­"


    "If you¡¯re trying to lure me in to finish you off," Eros said casually -- no, mockingly. "Don¡¯t bother. I¡¯m perfectly happy to watch you die from here. A lady should perish with more dignity, anyway. Consider your memory. After all --"


    A thunderbolt of pink Aether flashed through the tunnel, cutting Eros off as he retreated back further, planting himself against the wall. The source of the energy was the girl that should have been dying on the ground. Slowly, as if invisible fingers were pinching at her back, she floated up into the air, her arms and legs dangling below her.


    Those eyes opened again -- and now they were blazing with pink light.


    "I didn¡¯t want to use this here¡­" Alice finished. "It doesn¡¯t fit the genre at all..."


    With feral speed, Eros aimed his bow at her, a new arrow already appearing ready to fire. "What are you --"


    "Magical Miracle Girl Alice¡îAlice."


    Light devoured the tunnel, and Eros was forced to bring his arms up or else be blinded. He tried to bring his wings to bear, to retreat further down the tunnel and away from the wall -- but the wind was far too immense. Blasts of air pressure were bursting forth from the pink aurora of Aether before him, growing faster and faster, like a heartbeat slowly rousing itself back to life. What¡­ what was this?! Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    And there were sounds.


    Tearing fabric.


    Joyful music.


    Burning meat.


    Popping bubbles.


    Snapping bones.


    Twinkling stars.


    With a final tremendous wave of pressure that pressed Eros¡¯ back hard against the wall, the phenomenon ceased. He panted for breath. Those final few blasts had been so immense that he¡¯d had no choice but to increase his infusion in order to avoid being crushed. He¡¯d made it through, he¡¯d made it through unscathed¡­ so why did he feel this fear? This horrible, instinctive sensation¡­ like someone was dragging their nails across his bones.


    The pink afterglow began to clear, and he knew the source of his terror.


    There, floating in the air where the lady had just been, was something that was not human. It was a young girl -- looked like a young girl -- a good few years younger than the woman had been, clad in a pink-and-white dress. The costume cascaded downwards with frills like a wedding cake, oversized white buttons forming a vertical line down the center. Her skin was a stark white -- like porcelain -- and her pink hair and eyelashes glowed intensely, drowning the tunnel in toxic light. At the bottom of the dress, no legs emerged -- just two black tapered points like those of an insect, hovering just over the ground.


    It looked human, certainly, but in the same empty way a scarecrow did. It was like something had crawled out of one of those old children¡¯s videographs and into the real world. A doll, or perhaps a taxidermied corpse.


    That thing looked at him with blank white eyes.


    "What?" Eros chuckled, floating hesitantly across from her, slowly moving to the left -- to put even more distance between them. "You think you¡¯ve changed anything by taking this form? I admire your optimism, sweetheart, it becomes you, but --"


    The girl pointed her arm towards him -- and now, for the first time, Eros saw that she was holding something. A scepter. The staff was white, segmented and curved like an albino centipede, and at the top of the implement rested a glowing pink sphere. An Aether Armament?


    Even if it was, that didn¡¯t mean --


    "Miracle..."


    The girl¡¯s voice was quiet, almost a whisper -- yet her tones were as unnaturally smooth as the rest of her. Like an autotuned song. Utterly without sentiment. Not that he had time to consider that.


    "...Pop."


    Eros was slammed into the wall again, and this time he couldn¡¯t avoid being crushed. He felt one arm crunch as it took the brunt of the blow -- and when the impact forced his mouth open, a spurt of blood came flying out. The taste of metal lingered in his mouth. What had happened? What the hell was that?!


    It was as if he¡¯d been punched by an immense invisible fist. The girl hadn¡¯t even moved. There was no way she could move! Painfully, his teeth chattering with fury, Eros pulled himself out of the wall, chunks of debris falling around him. He looked up at the girl with bloodshot eyes.


    "My Perfume¡¯s still affecting you," he hissed, nostrils flaring. "I can feel it inside you. Just because you got a little stronger doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s not still killing you."


    The girl just stared at him. Until she opened her mouth to reply, he wasn¡¯t even sure she¡¯d heard him.


    "The great heroine of justice Alice¡îAlice cannot be affected by an evil power like that," she said emotionlessly. "It was naive of you to think so, wicked servant."


    Eros furrowed his brow. "What?"


    "I see you do not understand. Then I shall explain," she kept going like a robot. "Miss Pirouette¡¯s Aether ability of justice is called ¡¯Restructure¡¯. As you surmised, it gives her the ability to alter the interior of objects in order to change their function."


    Eros wiped some of the blood from his nose with the back of his good hand. This was good. Whatever this ability was, it could only do so much against his. If he could just keep her talking, Perfume would eventually catch up and incapacitate her again.


    "So what?" he muttered.


    "Miss Pirouette has used Restructure on herself," the girl declared -- and, for the first time, she blinked those empty eyes. "From now until the ability deactivates, her body is restructured utterly. It is nothing but a pure conduit for the generation of Aether." She cocked her head, the movement jerky, like a puppet in the hands of an amateur. "Your evil power targets the respiratory system, doesn¡¯t it? That respiratory system no longer exists. As I said¡­ the forces of darkness cannot hope to stand against Alice¡îAlice, the friend to all children. Your attacks will no longer affect me. The explanation is at an end. Miracle Pop."


    Before Eros could so much as register that she was done, he was struck by another invisible blow -- his body sent flying down the tunnel, end over end, one leg twisted nearly one-hundred and eighty degrees. As he landed in the filthy sewer water, though, he did not scream, nor did he try to flee. No -- Eros Matanae remembered.


    How dare you¡­


    It was always like this, no matter what he did. Opening yourself up to others just meant exposing yourself to pain. To so many the human heart was nothing but a target to stab at. He knew that, he understood it¡­ and yet he couldn¡¯t help himself. It was the nature of a human being to seek comfort in others. Perhaps that loneliness was his undoing.


    How dare you¡­


    Each time, hope that was so quickly betrayed. It had been the same back in that bar on Turnaz. They¡¯d been on top of the world. They¡¯d become part of the Provvidenza family, they¡¯d found somewhere they belonged. That Special Officer. That lady. He¡¯d just smiled at her. He¡¯d just nodded at her.


    How dare you¡­


    He hadn¡¯t expected anything back. He hadn¡¯t wanted anything back. All he¡¯d desired was for his heart to make contact with another, if only for a moment. Was that such a sin? Two ships, crossing in the night, parting with the fond memory of their brief connection? Was that such a crime?


    How dare you¡­


    He¡¯d been satisfied. Truly, he had. It was only when he¡¯d gone back to his table, only when he¡¯d glanced back around, only when he¡¯d seen that look. It was the same look, every time. When they thought he couldn¡¯t see them. That flash. Disdain. Disgust. As if he couldn¡¯t see. As if he didn¡¯t know.


    How dare you¡­


    It was only for a second, but still¡­ far too long. Before he¡¯d even known what was happening, his hands were already wrapped around her throat, wringing the life out of her. But that wasn¡¯t something he felt bad about.


    What else could it be called if not self-defense?


    Eros reared up, shaking with fury. "How dare you?!" he screamed, gripping his heart with his hand. "I really liked you, you stuck-up bitch!"


    With all the strength he had, Eros kicked himself up into the air with his good leg -- flying high, higher even than the so-called magical girl. Pink Aether crackling around his body, Eros summoned his bow once more -- but this time the Armament was much bigger, three times its original size, almost dwarfing the Cogitant as he aimed at his target. The structure of the arrow was completely forgotten. Instead, a focus of energy like a cannonball appeared on the shining bowstring, ready to be pulled taut and let loose.


    "MAGIC OF LOVE!" Eros screamed.


    "Miracle Melt," said the girl.


    Eros reached to pull the bowstring back -- but found himself unable. It was only natural that he found himself unable, though. After all, it would be difficult to pull a string without fingers. His hands were falling apart. His knuckles were bubbling. He opened his mouth to scream, but his tongue was already pouring from his lips.


    His last thoughts were nothing profound. My skin! It¡¯s burning my --


    Eros Matanae, robbed of structure, fell back down to the earth as red water, and mingled with the rest of the filth already running underfoot.


    "Enchant¨¦," whispered Miracle Magical Girl Alice¡îAlice¡­ and soon enough, the light died.

 Chapter 324:12.5: Class Reunion

    The Provvidenza goon swung a baton at Bruno¡¯s skull, but he quickly ducked under the blow, seizing hold of the man¡¯s collar as he did so. A single punch -- bolstered by a forcefield serving as a knuckle duster -- was enough to put him down for the count.


    Bruno tossed him onto the pile with the rest, a mound of groaning footsoldiers, all immaculately dressed in white-and-gold¡­ if a bit tarnished by the mud they¡¯d been thrown into. The fields the farmers here had once grown crops in had been ruined long before Bruno had arrived. You wouldn¡¯t even know the place had been a farm if not for the massive automatic harvesters that still loomed over the landscape, long since drained of power.


    Do you think everyone else is okay? Serena asked, concerned.


    Bruno¡¯s eyes flicked up to the jagged hole in the top of the dome -- the entrance that Ruth and Rex had made for themselves.


    "Don¡¯t know about Rex," he muttered. "Or that Pirouette woman¡­ but Ruth¡¯s strong. I¡¯m not worried at all."


    All things considered, the one they really should have been worrying about was themselves. They were being snuck up on, after all.


    "If you¡¯re going for a backstab," he said casually, turning his head. "You should know you¡¯re really bad at it."


    That¡¯s not fair, Bruno, Serena admonished him. We know an expert.


    Bruno just barely managed to suppress his smirk as he looked up.


    Standing atop one of the harvesters was a girl in a Provvidenza trenchcoat and fedora too big for her, silhouetted by the beam of moonlight that had managed to infiltrate the farm from above. Dark baggy eyes and messy brown hair, cut short. She seemed a little familiar¡­ but not that much. She looked a good few years younger than Bruno and Serena. Maybe an underclassman?


    Annatrice del Sed Provvidenza.


    She cocked her head, frowning down at Bruno and Serena. "That you, Yakob?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.


    "Who¡¯s Yakob?" Bruno asked.


    Her gaze did not flicker. "Don¡¯t bullshit me. I saw your powers on the security footage. Small world, huh?"


    Annatrice¡¯s voice was¡­ strange. It wasn¡¯t a monotone, for sure -- but there was only the slightest hint of emotion elevating it above that, and even that seemed like it took active effort. This was someone who really had to try not to sound like a robot.


    "Guess it is," Bruno said, taking a few steps towards the tractor. "Don¡¯t suppose I can convince you to let me pass easily? For old time¡¯s sake?"


    "Sorry," Annatrice said, dark eyes glaring down at Bruno. "I¡¯ve got my orders."


    Without another word, she seized the shoulder of her trench coat -- and threw it off to the side, where the garment was quickly seized by an artificial breeze. Bruno could see what Annatrice had been wearing beneath it now: a black skin-tight bodysuit of some kind, artificial musculature traced by thin white lines. A sword was sheathed at one hip, and a pistol was planted in a holster on the other one.


    Then, for no clear reason, Annatrice threw the hat away too.


    "Nice suit," Bruno nodded, invisible shields already generated over both his hands. "Where¡¯d you get it?"


    "Single-layer power armour," Annatrice said matter-of-factly. She stepped off the tractor and landed on the ground before Bruno. "Courtesy of Halcyon Interstellar."


    "Wow," Bruno said. "They¡¯re selling to the Provvidenza?"


    "No."


    Bruno supposed it would be hypocritical to judge anyone else for theft. Better to just jump right to assault. As the forcefields focused into swords in his hands, Bruno charged forward, aiming his swings for Annatrice¡¯s arms.


    Annatrice del Sed Provvidenza made no move to dodge.


    She just stared at Bruno as he lunged for her. She just stared at Bruno as he swung at her. She just stared at Bruno as he went to kill her.


    And then¡­ she said four words.


    "Ego Emulation: Nigen Rush."


    No two cases from the Sed were alike.


    The ultimate purpose of the secret institution had been to narrow the gap between the UAP and the Supremacy¡¯s Cogitant populations. For various reasons, the population density of Cogitant¡¯s in Supremacy territory was far higher than anywhere else. It was hoped that the creation of artificial pseudo-Cogitants could give the UAP an advantage over their eternal rival.


    Actual genetic manipulation was out of the question, of course, but the Sed left no other stone unturned. Invasive brain surgery, experimental drug regimens¡­ whatever could be leveraged to transform the children of the Sed into weapons. Some died from the experiments themselves, others on the missions they were sent on when they were deemed ¡¯complete¡¯.


    Yakob del Sed would have been considered one of the fortunate ones, relatively speaking. Better tortured to non-existence in a Supremacy cell than the fates some others suffered. Every graduate of the Sed was different, because each del Sed had been the subject of a different experiment. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Their caretakers were not the sort to put all their eggs in one basket.


    Yakob del Sed had been asked to become two people.


    Annatrice del Sed had been asked to become everyone.


    Serena put a hand to her throat as she landed on the ground. She¡¯d moved on pure instinct, taking over the body and leaping backwards the moment she¡¯d felt that terror crawl across her back. It was a good thing she had, too.


    She hadn¡¯t even seen the attack. Serena and Bruno¡¯s swords were invisible because they were made from forcefields. Just now, Annatrice¡¯s blade had been rendered invisible by sheer speed.


    Serena pulled her hand away from her neck, and saw that it had already been painted red. Alarm spiked within her brain. Had Annatrice cut her throat? No, no, she would have realized already. It was a shallow cut.


    But still, that was terrifying. If Bruno had just been a centimeter or two closer, if Serena had just been a second or so slower¡­ their head would surely have been sent flying off their shoulders.


    Steam rose from Annatrice¡¯s bodysuit as she returned the blade -- glowing red with friction -- to its mechanical sheath. It seemed even the equipment she was using hadn¡¯t been able to handle the speed of the attack. Was that the purpose of the equipment, then? To protect her from the backlash of her own physical prowess?


    No¡­ this girl was from the Sed. It wouldn¡¯t be something so simple.


    "Shame¡­" Annatrice muttered, steam even rising from her lips as she spoke. "I was sure Nigen would have killed you there."


    That was right. There was the name of what Serena assumed was her ability: Ego Emulation. She¡¯d been emulating someone else¡¯s moves? It made sense.


    Nigen Rush¡­ it was a name Serena knew well. He was some sword guy. Actually, she didn¡¯t know him that well. But she felt like she was getting the gist of things, anyway.


    "So you¡¯re a copycat?" Serena asked, kicking up some dirt and catching the resultant sword in her waiting hand. "That¡¯s kind of lame, don¡¯t you think?"


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    As Annatrice¡¯s armour stopped steaming, she took a step back, her wary eyes watching Serena like a hawk.


    "It¡¯s not copying," she said quickly, defensively. "Ego Emulation is on an entirely different level. Right then, that was Nigen Rush you were fighting. Since I don¡¯t know him well, and there¡¯s a big difference in strength, I could only bring him here for about a second¡­ but he¡¯s fast enough to make that second work."


    From the way she was talking, it almost sounded like she was being possessed by the person she named, then. Was that even possible?


    Possible or not, Bruno said. We can¡¯t let her get close to us again. If she uses Nigen Rush, there¡¯s no guarantee we¡¯ll be able to dodge.


    Serena subtly nodded, and the dirt-sword in her hands shifted shape into a throwing spear, the traces of stone forming the glinting head of the weapon. Not ideal materials, but with her physical strength and infusion it was sure to do some damage. She¡¯d use this first spear as a distraction so she could get to one of the tractors and make better weaponry. It was the obvious move.


    It seemed Annatrice could see that too. A smirk tugged at her lips -- not a genuine smile, but something that seemed¡­ practiced.


    "So you¡¯re going to keep your distance?" she asked. "I know someone for that too. Ego Emulation: Samael Ambrazo Zakos."


    Serena¡¯s eyes widened.


    Uh-oh.


    Piss-yellow Aether sparked.


    Ego Emulation¡¯s efficacy was based on two main factors: how deeply that girl understood the personality of her target, and the difference in strength between them and herself. If one of those factors was lacking, she could only call them for a short time. For Nigen Rush, that amounted to barely a second, but he was an outlier. Usually she could manage to become them for a minute or two.


    And, of course, there was a third thing to consider: the person she became had to be dead.


    Samael Ambrazo Zakos grinned, raising his hand up at the enemy opposite him. He was someone that girl had researched, and they were similar in strength, so he could exist pretty much indefinitely. That was good. No, excellent, in fact. His ability was one that was useful -- one befitting of a Special Officer, one that could be used to punish the enemy.


    He narrowed his eyes as he saw the person opposite him. Was that¡­? Oh, now that he thought of it, it was! How splendid! What auspicious fate! What delicious fortune!


    Yes¡­ the world had arranged itself in a way befitting him.


    "I see, I see," he chuckled, golden Aether -- the same colour as the Supreme, in fact, the colour of champions -- sparking around him. "Yakob del Sed, is it? I missed you on Yoslof, didn¡¯t I? Is that Cogitant brat with you? Oh, I¡¯d dearly love to see him again."


    There was that red shadow too, the informant from the GID. The one who had¡­ killed him. Hot anger ran through his brain as he considered it -- the humiliation, the indiscretion, the desecration! An unacceptable atrocity. One that had to be avenged, or every other Special Officer would feel the black stain of the same dishonor.


    But her face¡­ her name¡­ it escaped his memory. Like he had been translated from another language, and some things had been lost. No matter. It was a mystery to pursue once this pest was dead, perhaps.


    Del Sed narrowed their eyes. "You¡¯re¡­"


    Zakos¡¯ grin widened. "What¡¯s wrong? Don¡¯t recognise me? Although we haven¡¯t yet met, I know you¡¯ve seen my face. Perhaps they showed you my body, hm? Or perhaps¡­ this will jog your memory a tad?"


    He thrust his hand forward, and golden Aether surged.


    Samael Ambrazo Zakos¡¯ ability was his own unique twist on Quantum King -- the iconic push-and-pull ability, used by the mad Supreme known as Damon the Devilish nearly two-hundred years ago. Zakos¡¯ variation latched on to an object or several similar objects in his sight, pulled them towards him -- and then, once they¡¯d reached him, he could push them away again at great speeds. A simple power, to be sure¡­ but one that had so much potential.


    After all, right now¡­ Samael could see quite a few of those massive harvesters.


    The colossal automatic slammed into del Sed from behind, forcing them towards Samael as the machine was pulled in. An ordinary person would have been reduced to a smear merely from the impact, but del Sed¡¯s infusion was such that they remained intact, if forced into a spread-eagle position against the automatic¡¯s surface. As they flew towards Samael, chunks of metal peeled themselves free from the machine behind them and warped into twin hatchets in del Sed¡¯s hands.


    Ooh. Far too dangerous.


    Samael canceled his ability and leapt to the side -- the momentum sending the harvester flying off into the distance. As the force on the machine was reduced, however, del Sed was able to break free and run atop it like a mobile pathway. With twin bursts of purple and violet Aether, they leapt off the end of the harvester and plunged downwards, their blades aimed for Samael¡¯s throat.


    As if he¡¯d ever be caught off-guard by such a petty maneuver.


    Throwing his hands downwards, Samael pulled the rocks out of the ground and into his grip -- then pushed them towards his incoming opponent. The stones pelted at their body like the pellets of a shotgun, and in that moment Samael knew their focus would break. How could it not? They were facing death at the hands of one of the Supremacy¡¯s finest. The sheer mix of despair and gratitude would be enough to make any mind delirious.


    Samael took advantage of the masterful opening he¡¯d created, slamming an Aether-infused fist into del Sed¡¯s stomach. However¡­ neither the satisfying give of ribs or the scream of pain he¡¯d expected manifested. Instead, Samael was the one to feel pain -- as his fist struck an invisible surface that felt like a brick wall.


    A barrier?!


    Alarm spiking in his mind, Samael leapt backwards -- and del Sed pursued, swinging their metal hatchets like a chaotic dervish. It took all the skill and experience Samael had accumulated over his long years of service to the Supremacy just to avoid being chopped into pieces there and then. A cowardly and unscrupulous enemy, to use such underhanded tactics against him. It was not something he could forgive.


    Dodging another swing of the hatchets, Samael kicked up a great geyser of dirt -- and, using his ability, immediately pushed that dirt into del Sed¡¯s eyes. This time he had created a true opening. He hadn¡¯t gone easy on them, as he had the first time. Those damnable eyes squeezed shut in exquisite pain, blinding del Sed to the world they had trespassed against.


    Samael laughed uproariously, lunging through del Sed¡¯s blind swing and seizing them by the leg. With but a fraction of his true strength, he swung them upwards like a doll and smashed them against the ground, the impact knocking all the wind out of del Sed¡¯s lungs.


    They¡¯d have no time to rest. Before they could get back to their feet, Samael stomped on their chest, pinning them down to the ground.


    "Creating weapons from raw materials and erecting invisible shields," he mused, running a hand through his hair. "Is that all you¡¯re capable of, Yakob del Sed?"


    Del Sed gritted their teeth, face forced down into the dirt. "Yakob¡¯s¡­ gone¡­"


    Samael¡¯s grin widened, his lids falling heavy over his eyes. "Oh, is that so?" he said mockingly. "My condolences. Perhaps I¡¯ll be magnanimous and allow you to --"


    Danger.


    Ego Emulation: Nigen Rush.


    Nigen Rush turned and struck once with his sword, shattering the invisible sword that had been about to impale him from above.


    It didn¡¯t even take a second.


    Annatrice blinked as Nigen faded away -- but before she could do anything else, she was forced to dodge. Del Sed, taking advantage of her movement, kicked at her as he rolled back to his feet. As Annatrice jumped back, putting distance between herself and her opponent again, she could see they were already clutching a new pair of stone swords.


    This wasn¡¯t good. The blade of her own sword was all but melted from the heat, and the suit was on the verge of collapse. Nigen Rush was just too damn fast, and too damn strong. She wouldn¡¯t be able to use him again.


    "You know," del Sed spoke, rising to their feet. "If you go and copy a guy like that, you¡¯ll just end up catching his incompetence."


    He wasn¡¯t wrong. The only reason she¡¯d researched Zakos enough to get such an accurate image of him was because of his useful power, but his personality was atrocious. She was surprised a man like that had been able to pull off a nameless ability in the first place.


    If she brought him out again, he¡¯d have been so humiliated by that last near-miss that he¡¯d make sloppy mistakes. So he wasn¡¯t an option either.


    But¡­ this person had said something, hadn¡¯t they? They¡¯d said something to Samael, right before that last attack? Annatrice¡¯s lips curled into a humourless smirk.


    Yakob¡¯s gone, they¡¯d said. That was right. Yakob had been the one with multiple consciousnesses -- those extras were the ones she was fighting right now.


    But that also meant¡­


    "Ego Emulation," she said -- and del Sed¡¯s eyes widened as they realized what she was doing. "Yakob del Sed."

 Chapter 325:12.6: I Am A Graveyard

    When Annatrice del Sed was five years old, she did not own a teddy bear.


    Her caretaker found her with it anyway, hiding in an alcove. It took them no time at all. There were probably security cameras everywhere in the Sed, but back then Annatrice just assumed that the caretakers knew everything. For the children of the Sed, the masters of their tiny world might as well have been God.


    "Who are you?" the caretaker asked her. Their eyes were cold, clinical, like they were looking down a microscope.


    Annatrice said what she foolishly assumed was the truth. "Annatrice."


    An open-handed slap.


    "This belongs to Sally," the caretaker explained, snatching the toy away from her.


    There were six of them living in that little dormitory. Annatrice, Sally, Trace, March, Rachael and Cal. Annatrice hadn¡¯t known that the toy had belonged to Sally. Nobody had told her. But why would they?


    When she sat down to eat at the canteen, the caretaker each time would appear again.


    "Who are you?" the caretaker would ask her.


    Again, she would answer wrong. "Annatrice."


    A kick to the gut.


    "This food belongs to Trace," the caretaker explained, snatching the tray away from her.


    It took her time and pain to realize the correct answer. When the caretaker found her with the teddy bear again, in a new hiding place, they asked the question -- the usual prelude to a beating. But the girl understood now.


    "Who are you?" the caretaker asked.


    "Sally," she replied.


    Without another word, the caretaker left the girl to her playtime. It was like she¡¯d discovered some magic spell. When she gave her name as Trace in the canteen, she¡¯d be given warm food, not the stale leftovers she¡¯d become accustomed to. When she gave her name as March at lights-out, she¡¯d be allowed to sleep in a bed, not on the cold floor.


    The solution had been so simple she couldn¡¯t quite believe it.


    One day, the caretaker came again as she played with the teddy bear. "Who are you?" they asked.


    She¡¯d known the answer now, and gave it proudly, hugging the thing to her chest. "Sally."


    "And what is your favourite colour, Sally?" the caretaker asked.


    The girl had blinked, confidence replaced by ignorant terror in that one moment. She didn¡¯t know the answer. "R-Red?"


    A punch to the nose.


    It had been a painful lesson, but correcting it was easy enough. Soon enough, she had learned Sally¡¯s favourite colour -- green -- for playtime and Trace¡¯s favourite food -- beans -- for lunch. Soon enough, those were her favourite colour and her favourite food, but that was only natural. They were the things that kept her safe.


    But the questions grew harder.


    Soon she had to answer from deeper levels of understanding, questions about more intimate matters. Fears, hopes, dreams, memories. The punishments grew harsher accordingly: an incorrect answer could mean a severe beating, or days in isolation. Empathy was nourished as a survival trait -- the survival trait. Her eyes grew ever more adept, and her ears more inquisitive.


    Every waking moment was spent observing these people, knowing them, so she could be them. Nothing about them could be allowed to escape her attention.


    Once she could answer those questions perfectly, they were replaced with the tests. Long sheets of questions she had to answer in the exact same way her fellows had, down to the way they wrote their names at the top. All of it was measured down to the centimeter. Even with the surgeries to help her along, that gauntlet took her months to clear -- by the time she had earned the right to eat properly again, she looked like a skeleton.


    The tests were not the end. There was always a new level of perfection to be pursued. Soon enough, they put sensors on her head, verifying even her subconscious reactions to stimuli. If she reacted incorrectly -- if she forgot who she was meant to be -- the punishment was so bad she still had nightmares about it to this day.


    But she did it. She did it. She did it so well she could become any person at a moment¡¯s notice. Everyone was so proud of Sally, Trace, March, Rachael and Cal. They told them all the time, whenever she brought them out.


    Toys. Food. Sleep. Safety.


    Once she figured it out, the answer was so obvious it made her feel stupid. Why had it taken her so long to understand? It wasn¡¯t that those things hadn¡¯t belonged to Annatrice. It was that those things couldn¡¯t belong to Annatrice. Annatrice didn¡¯t exist. That was just the absence of a real person, which she had mistaken for a ¡¯self¡¯.


    Funnily enough, she also realized that -- even though she studied them thoroughly -- she hadn¡¯t actually spoken to any of those people in years. Not to Sally, Trace, March, Rachael or Cal. But she guessed that made sense.


    Only freaks talked to themselves, after all.


    She¡¯d thought her mistake had been corrected with that realization, but it was only years later that she truly comprehended the depths of her misunderstanding.


    Over the course of her training, she had become a darling to the researchers of the Sed. It made sense. She was a case they could point to to prove their methods worked. A human consciousness so thoroughly adjusted it could truly become anyone else, an impersonation so perfect it even allowed her to access their Aether.


    Of course, it didn¡¯t matter to her what people thought of Annatrice. Annatrice didn¡¯t exist, so even opinions of her were irrelevant. Still -- when they came to her with their proposal, she dutifully listened. She behaved as if there was a person called Annatrice who could be pleased with the attention.


    "Someone very important is going to be visiting soon," they said, taking her aside. "The sponsor who¡¯s responsible for this entire facility. His impressions of us could make or break this project. Do you understand? You need to show him how far you¡¯ve come. What you¡¯ve become capable of. Can you do that?"


    The girl nodded. She would obey. That was what she was for.


    This so-called ¡¯demonstration¡¯ was something she¡¯d done many times before, as had every other subject in the facility. An obstacle course, to show off her physical conditioning. A combat simulation, to display her ability to operate under pressure. Only the last part of the demonstration was specific to her -- the sensors were put against her head again, so that the man above could see her brain waves adjust in real time to perfectly match those of another. To watch another person truly occupy that empty shell.


    Her eyes had glanced upwards. That was her sin.


    Yes¡­ there was the man above. The sponsor. The one who¡¯d put all of this together. He was watching the entire demonstration from an observation chamber hanging high over the room. Through the glass window, she could even see him. She could see his face.


    It was a surprise -- she hadn¡¯t expected him to be someone she knew off the news. That famous UniteFleet Captain, Jaime Pierrot.


    The moment she recognised him, his cold eyes flicked down to regard her. A shiver immediately ran down her spine, and the brainwaves on the monitor shuddered in sympathy. That was bad. That wasn¡¯t good. Right now, she was meant to be Trace -- she was Trace. Trace wouldn¡¯t be frightened by something like this.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    But that man¡­ his eyes¡­ there was something wrong about him. No, that wasn¡¯t it. He was something wrong.


    Nobody said a word to admonish her, but word came down the next day that the Sed project was going to be discontinued. That they were all going to be thrown away. That they weren¡¯t needed any longer.


    And she knew that it was all because of her.


    Yakob del Sed took in a cold breath of air.


    It felt like such a long time since he¡¯d been outside like this. Funny -- that wasn¡¯t even mistaken. He¡¯d died in the dark, after all, hadn¡¯t he? In that cramped cell. Shredded until he was nothing but reflex and nostalgia.


    How surreal it was to come back from the dead.


    "...Yakob?" whispered Bruno.


    Yakob¡¯s eyes flicked down from the white dome above to regard his¡­ yes, his opponent. Things became more surreal by the moment. He¡¯d never expected to be put in opposition against Bruno and Serena. Hell, he¡¯d never considered it possible -- especially in a physical confrontation between two different bodies.


    Still, if it was what the situation demanded, she -- he -- would show no mercy.


    "It¡¯s been a long time, Bruno," Yakob called out, violet-purple Aether curling around his hands. "You two have gotten strong, huh?"


    Clay began to drip out of Yakob¡¯s palms, manifested from his Aether, sculpting and hardening itself as it flowed. In one hand, Yakob del Sed soon clutched a mighty greatsword. In the other, a round shield. This ability had no name, nor did it need it.


    A nameless ability was the sign that the user had completely accepted their power as part of their being. There was no need to consciously bring it forth with the self-hypnosis of an ability name. These three -- Yakob, Bruno and Serena -- were one in the way they had accepted their main abilities utterly¡­ but they were still far weaker than her -- him.


    Yakob frowned. Something seemed off. But it didn¡¯t matter. He had a job to do. One thing you learned at the Sed -- perhaps the main thing you learned at the Sed -- was how to turn off your emotions and get the job done.


    When Yakob¡¯s old body spoke again, it was with Serena¡¯s voice.


    "Annatrice," she said, her eyes dark, clutching two invisible swords. "Don¡¯t try that. Don¡¯t even think about copying Yakob."


    Yakob sighed. "This girl already explained to you that her ability isn¡¯t copying. Weren¡¯t you listening? She emulates the personality of her target so perfectly that it connects to their Aether -- and any gaps are filled by the residual memories within that Aether. Do you understand?"


    "Then¡­" Serena spluttered. "You are¡­?"


    "If you¡¯d consider a person to be the sum of their memories," Yakob said, lowering his stance. "Then yes, I am Yakob del Sed in every way that matters. But enough talk. Prepare yourself. If you¡¯re not careful¡­" she -- he -- hissed. "... I¡¯ll kill you."


    Yakob launched off the ground, crossing the distance between himself and Serena in an instant. It wasn¡¯t that he was faster than her. It wasn¡¯t that he was stronger than her. It was only that he was calmer than her. She¡¯d been thrown off by his sudden appearance, and that was the edge that Annatrice -- Yakob -- needed to kill her.


    Those swords Serena was holding¡­ they¡¯d originally been barriers created by Bruno, hadn¡¯t they? That was new. It was strange, but Yakob could sense the way that ability worked¡­ like he himself was familiar with it. His, Bruno¡¯s and Serena¡¯s Aether¡¯s were inevitably intermingled. Perhaps that was the explanation?


    No matter. The only thing that mattered was the advantage it gave Annatrice -- Yakob.


    His sword struck twice, each blow shattering one of the invisible blades in Serena¡¯s hands. Those things were incredibly sharp -- but if you knew the exact point they were going to strike, you could withstand it through massive infusion at the moment of impact. Yakob¡¯s greatsword thus remained intact, allowing her to swing a third time towards Serena¡¯s throat.


    This was it. She¡¯d won. She¡¯d done it. She¡¯d¡­


    He¡¯d¡­


    He¡¯d stopped the blade in mid-air, right before it would have severed Serena¡¯s head from her body. Serena hadn¡¯t even blinked. She¡¯d known from the very beginning that Yakob del Sed couldn¡¯t kill his little sister.


    "Did I get you?" Yakob smirked.


    Serena smiled sadly. "Not for a second."


    Suddenly, Yakob¡¯s -- Annatrice¡¯s -- no, Yakob¡¯s smirk twisted into the devilish grin it really was. Serena had put her guard down. It had all been part of his plan from the very start. She¡¯d just been pretending to show mercy -- he¡¯d just been pretending. This was all part of her plan.


    "Die," she croaked out.


    It didn¡¯t ring true. That wasn¡¯t something Yakob del Sed would say. That wasn¡¯t something Yakob del Sed would do. She -- he -- was Yakob del Sed, so she couldn¡¯t do those things, so he couldn¡¯t¡­


    ¡­why was¡­


    ¡­why were those eyes looking at her like that? With such pity? With such sadness? Were they sad because Yakob del Sed was attacking them? That was it. She was Yakob del Sed, so they weren¡¯t expecting it, they were saddened, they were -- she, they -- she -- they, he, they, they --


    "It¡¯s the smell of medicine, right?" Bruno del Sed murmured, his voice quiet in the darkness of the farm. "You can¡¯t get it out of your head no matter what¡­ and you can¡¯t stand to look at scalpels. I still get that¡­ sometimes."


    "Shut up¡­" Yakob del Annatrice del Yakob del Annatrice del Sed wheezed, short of breath, her head burning with pain.


    Bruno blinked, staring in confusion at the rapidly shifting expressions on her face. "Who are you right now?" he wondered.


    Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?


    Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?


    Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?


    Who are you right now? S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Who was he? Who was¡­ she?


    They kept asking that damn question.


    "Shut up!" Annatrice del Sed roared, her eyes bulging out of her sockets, her hand snapping to her sheathed blade. "Ego Emulation -- Nigen Rush!"


    Whatever Annatrice had intended to do, it was clearly too much for her.


    The moment she began to move with that impossible speed, the back of her suit exploded outwards in a burst of sparks and wires, fragments of bloody shrapnel raining out onto the ground. She staggered backwards, mouth forced open by the pain, gasping for air. Then, her body constricted like a statue, she collapsed back onto the ravaged ground.


    There she lay, eyelids fluttering incoherently, wordless murmurs pouring from her lips. A brain in revolution against itself.


    Bruno watched it all, and Serena watched it all. Their gaze was downcast. Even though this girl had tried to kill them, they took no joy at all in what they had just seen. Witnessing a consciousness disintegrate like that¡­


    ¡­they knew that, given the tiniest of adjustments to their circumstances, that could have been them.


    Still¡­ they had a job to do. Now that Bruno had defeated his target, he had to move on and back up the others. Ruth and Rex would have headed straight for the receiver tower, so his best bet was to make his way there as well. He took a single step back from the unconscious girl.


    "Sorry," he muttered.


    It wasn¡¯t like anything he could say would make anything better. Without another word, he turned on his heel and ran off into the night. His footsteps slowly faded away¡­ until that space was filled only with the sound of Annatrice del Sed¡¯s delirious mumbling.


    A minute later, he came running back. With a surly look on his face, he picked up the girl and slung her over his shoulder.


    "There," he complained to himself, grimacing. "Happy now?"


    Then he ran off into the night.


    The man whistled quietly to himself, enjoying the show.


    Far above, high in the sky yet just inside the dome, there hovered a hulking humanoid figure. This was not a person. It contained a person, but the shape itself was of an Armoured Chassis, a suit of advanced heavy armour capable of turning a normal human into a titan of battle -- and never mind what it could do with an Aether-user. This particular model was wide and stocky, spherical head coated with dark lenses that made it look like it was wearing giant sunglasses.


    Inside the cockpit, the Special Officer they called Blue leaned forward and took a sip of Energo from the waiting straw before him. This Chassis wasn¡¯t exactly top of the line, but the refreshment module was pretty nifty. You just didn¡¯t get this kind of customization with the new Halcyon Gigas models. Besides, he¡¯d heard that this was the same kind of Chassis that the guy they called Appointment used -- and if it was good enough for a legend like that, it was good enough for Blue.


    He didn¡¯t know what was going on -- these randos were attacking the Provvidenza for some reason -- but he knew what he was being paid for. As soon as he got the all-clear from his client¡­


    ¡­he was to reduce this place to rubble and soot.

 Chapter 326:12.7: Measuring Contest

    Direwolf Set.


    Ruth Blaine tore through the entrance to the receiver tower in the space of a few seconds, countless Provvidenza hired guns flying backwards into the waiting rubble from the force of her blows. She pulled her punches somewhat when it came to the people -- they were here for theft, not massacre -- but even so, the devastation was immense. What had once been the control center for the farm¡¯s automatics had now partially collapsed in on itself, sparks falling like bright rain onto the metal floor.


    Twenty-two Provvidenza goons incapacitated on the ground. It had taken around thirty seconds. For the first time since entering the building, Ruth Blaine took a breath. Yes, twenty-two enemies defeated -- but the one now looking down at her seemed like he¡¯d be more trouble than all the rest put together.


    He wore the family trenchcoat and fedora like the rest, but the presence he gave off was entirely different. Like a snake with its head pulled back, ready to snap forward at a moment¡¯s notice. His jet-black hair was cut short, and the disdainful eyes that glared down at Ruth were a bloody red. That disdain was the only thing Ruth could identify for certain -- any other emotions were concealed behind his stoic expression.


    None of that was what immediately caught her attention, though.


    All around the man¡¯s waist were sheathed swords, arranged so close to each other that he almost looked like he was wearing a dress. Did he really need that many swords? Just from looking at them, she could tell they weren¡¯t ordinary. Aether Armaments, if she had to guess.


    Well¡­ if there was an unknown form of attack coming, she had a way to deal with it. Beneath the twisted helmet of the Direwolf, Ruth¡¯s lips spread out into a fanged grin.


    "Monarque --"


    "Hold up," said Rex, resting a hand against Ruth¡¯s massive shoulder-plate.


    She glanced towards him from behind her visor. When they¡¯d breached the building, she¡¯d run off ahead. To be honest, she was surprised he¡¯d managed to catch up so quickly. Ellis¡¯ drone hovered over Rex¡¯s shoulder, ready to start hacking into the file storage once they got it into the system.


    "We don¡¯t wanna destroy this place," Rex continued explaining -- only to quickly correct himself. "We don¡¯t wanna destroy this place any more, right? Whole thing¡¯s kinda pointless if we blow up all the computers, huh?"


    Ruth smirked to herself. "Right."


    "I¡¯ll take care of this bozo. You take the drone and go on ahead."


    It took her only a moment of consideration before she nodded, bounding up the rubble. "Don¡¯t die," she growled, voice warped by the metal around her.


    Rex¡¯s face couldn¡¯t be seen, but she could hear his smile as he called after her: "I¡¯ll do my best!"


    The last of the Black Sheep made no move to intercept Ruth as she charged past him, into the depths of the receiver tower. His crimson eyes remained fixed on Rex, fingers tapping against the wrapped hilt of one of his swords. With his other hand, he slowly removed his fedora and placed it -- reverently -- on a waiting chunk of rubble.


    He spoke, his voice as resolved as his face. "So that woman has another ability -- one with high destructive potential. I¡¯ll make sure to pass the word along¡­ after I kill you."


    Rex put his hands on his hips, chuckling. "That¡¯s, uh¡­ that¡¯s a pretty cool line. You practice that at all, or was it just off the cuff?"


    The man¡¯s face didn¡¯t so much as twitch -- no sign of either annoyance or amusement.


    "Lucius Victri Provvidenza," he said firmly. "Capo of the Golden Sheen. Leader of the Black Sheep. Identify yourself."


    "Name¡¯s Rex Restorossi."


    "It doesn¡¯t matter who you are. I¡¯ll cut you down."


    Wow, the lines never ended. He was the one who¡¯d asked, right?


    Rex continued: "So, leader of the Black Sheep, huh? So you killed two of those Special Officers back in that bar? You might be a little strong."


    For the first time, Lucius¡¯ expression shifted -- and even that wasn¡¯t much of an adjustment. He merely raised an eyebrow. "Two?"


    Rex nodded. "The three of you killed six Special Officers, right? Or have I heard wrong?"


    Lucius took a step forward into empty air, dropping off the hill of rubble and into the atrium opposite Rex. The two of them stared each other down, waiting for the inevitable moment -- when a weapon would be drawn and blood would be spilled.


    "Please don¡¯t assume the necessity of a team effort," Lucius said calmly. "Eros strangled that woman. Annatrice restrained him. It was my labor to slay the remaining five."


    Rex blinked.


    Uh-oh.


    "Viscera," Lucius snapped, drawing one of his blades. "Pink."


    As the name implied, the blade of the weapon was a pale pink, like raw meat. Lucius whipped it through the air -- and as he did, a solid slash of crystallized blood rushed forth, slicing through the air towards Rex. It didn¡¯t take an idiot to work out that getting hit would be a bad idea, but its speed was such that dodging wasn¡¯t so easy either.


    It was a good thing Rex always came prepared. As he raised a hand crackling with orange Aether, he spoke aloud.


    "Omni-Gungnir!"


    The Aether Armament appeared in his waiting grasp. For a split second, it took the indistinct form of some kind of buckler, the blood-slash dissipating into nothing as it smashed against its surface. Then, as Rex drew Omni-Gungnir back, it changed shape in another flash of orange -- becoming a long, straight spear.


    To an untrained eye, this Aether Armament would have looked like a kids toy. It was bright red and yellow, the colors reflecting the light in such a way that it almost looked like the weapon was made of plastic. The only thing going against that impression was the blade at the weapon¡¯s head -- there was no denying that was as sharp as could be.


    "Oh?" Lucius mused, sheathing his sword as quickly as he¡¯d drawn it. "A fellow connoisseur."


    Rex licked his lips beneath his helmet, his hands firmly grasping the spear. Despite the distance between the two of them, he pointed the weapon directly at Lucius.


    "Don¡¯t suppose there¡¯s any chance you¡¯ll just surrender?" Rex asked. "I don¡¯t like to get violent."


    Lucius¡¯ eyes narrowed as if Rex had just insulted him personally. "To do that would be to betray my oaths to the Provvidenza. It is my belief that loyalty is the foremost of all virtues."


    Rex clicked his tongue. "Hate to say it¡­ but I¡¯d say you¡¯re dead on the money there."


    "Besides¡­" Lucius slowly unsheathed another sword, his gaze a void. "...I can¡¯t allow slime like you to wield Aether Armaments. Frightful Blizzard."


    In a single bound, he leapt forward, crossing the distance between himself and Rex. The sword he was wielding now was long and jagged, the blade formed from some kind of translucent blue crystal. It seemed fragile, but that was probably part of the design. Maybe something happened if you got the crystal shards on you?


    Well, Rex wasn¡¯t eager to find out.


    He flipped Omni-Gungnir Spear around in his hand, pointing the blade up towards the ceiling -- and the moment he lined the angle up just right, the Armament activated. The handle of the weapon stretched upwards, until the blade had pierced the ceiling above. Then, in that same moment, the spear contracted again, pulling Rex upwards and out of danger.


    Hanging from the ceiling, Rex looked down at his opponent. Lucius skidded to a halt in the spot Rex had just been occupying, the metal lining of his boots kicking up sparks from the ground. Frowning, he returned his blue sword to its sheath.


    "So that weapon can do more than just change shape," he observed. "Each form has its own individual power?"


    Again, this guy was dead on the money. Omni-Gungnir was a weapon that could change between seven different forms, each with their own unique abilities. There was a little more trickery than just that, of course, but Rex guessed it was best to keep that in his back pocket for now.


    "It¡¯s full of surprises," Rex grinned -- and the emoticon on his helmet mirrored the expression.


    Omni-Gungnir: Hammer.


    A long, thick sledgehammer, with golden smoke pouring from vents along its side. As the Armament changed form, it dislodged from the ceiling, sending Rex plummeting back down towards his enemy. He raised the hammer high above his head, ready to smash it down on Lucius.


    With dextrous hands, Lucius plucked another sword from his sheath -- "Monstro Malikaf!" -- and the weapon immediately transformed into a great shield, with a set of twisted black jaws opening in the middle -- countless teeth gleaming within that maw.


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    This wasn¡¯t just a thing that would block Rex¡¯s attack. It would damn well eat it. Pretty scary, to be sure¡­ but nothing he had to worry about.


    With a roar of effort, Rex brought the hammer down.


    As the enemy brought down his hammer, Lucius planted his feet on the ground, bracing himself for the impact. He needn¡¯t have bothered.


    After all, the blow was as light as a feather.


    He only had a moment for confusion. Before Monstro Malikaf could bite down on Omni-Gungnir, the enemy had already kicked off its massive teeth and flipped into the air. As he landed behind Lucius, the capo released his hold on the shield -- far too heavy -- and pulled out Viscera to block the inevitable blow instead.


    Again, he needn¡¯t have bothered. As he turned and raised the blade to block, the impact against his sword was so gentle that he barely noticed it. His body running on ferocious instinct, he slashed at Rex, but the man had already leapt away again.


    Obviously there was some kind of trick to it. In terms of physical strength, this Armament Omni-Gungnir was weaker right now than an uninfused hammer would have been. What boon did it obtain, then, in exchange for that weakness? What did he need to watch for?


    He wasn¡¯t given much time to consider it. As quickly as Rex had retreated, he pushed back in, swinging his hammer so quickly that it was a blur. Lucius¡¯ arms snapped from position to position, mechanically blocking each and every attack, waiting for that trump card.


    Weak.


    Weak.


    Weak.


    Weak.


    Strong.


    It was more than Lucius could have possibly prepared for. When that fifth swing of the hammer struck against his sword, it struck with the smashing power of a runaway train. Immediately, Lucius was sent flying, both his sword and the bones in his arm shattering from the impact. He crashed into the wall and through it, emerging outside the tower and rolling in the grass below.


    Rex grinned as he stepped into the hole in the outside wall of the tower, looking down at Lucius -- who was lying in a vague heap in the ravaged field below.


    Worked every time.


    Omni-Gungnir Hammer could choose to save up the kinetic energy from its attacks. By landing a bunch of incredibly weak blows on the enemy, Rex could then pack all of the force those attacks should have possessed into a single mighty strike. Needless to say, it was effective.


    Lucius didn¡¯t look like he was getting back up, but Rex wasn¡¯t nice enough to let such an opening go.


    Spinning the hammer around in his hand, Rex turned it back into Omni-Gungnir Spear, carefully aiming the spearhead at that prone form -- and then letting the weapon stretch all the way across the field to skewer him.


    The strike struck true¡­ and yet, Rex felt neither the nauseating tear of flesh or the sickening crack of bone. Something was wrong. Whatever he¡¯d just hit, it wasn¡¯t his enemy.


    An illusion?


    "That spear has quite the range," said Lucius -- from right next to him. sea??h th§× NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Rex ducked just in time to avoid decapitation, a crescent-shaped blade whipping through the air above him. Lucius appeared out of thin air, holding the blade, slicing at Rex -- each strike missing by mere centimeters. Rex struck out with a leg, boot planting into Lucius¡¯ side and sending him skidding away again.


    Omni-Gungnir Timer.


    The weapon transformed again, the massive spear replaced by the comparatively tiny buckler on Rex¡¯s arm. He spared a glance at the surface of the Armament, where a display like a digital watch patiently blinked. N/A, it read. Not good.


    Omni-Gungnir Hammer.


    If he was getting N/A, the obvious thing to do was switch up his tactics. Rex spun the hammer around in his hands as he charged towards Lucius, but the other man made no move to dodge, instead just raising his weapon. The slightest smirk tugged at his lips.


    "If you save up the energy of your blows¡­ then I have nothing to fear from the first strike," he said. "Do I?"


    The hammer tapped uselessly against Lucius¡¯ leg -- and in the same instant, the Black Sheep dashed back and slashed with his own sword.


    "Viscera!" he roared. "Black!"


    Torrents of matted, greasy black hair flooded out of the sides of the pink blade, engulfing and binding Rex and his weapon where they stood. Frozen in place, he raised Omni-Gungnir the little he could -- and it transformed again, this time becoming a small crossbow in his hand. The change in shape created the tiniest freedom, and in that moment he pulled the trigger.


    A golden bolt flew free.


    Lucius raised his sword to block it, but the projectile passed through the blade as if it wasn¡¯t even there. The only thing that saved Lucius from being skewered there and then was his free hand -- he lashed out and seized the bolt from the air, inches from his face. The Black Sheep let out a shuddering breath.


    "So the arrow passes through everything save its target," he observed, turning the bolt over in his hand. "I have to admit¡­ that¡¯s quite --"


    Bang.


    It wouldn¡¯t be strictly correct to say that Omni-Gungnir¡¯s seven forms had seven separate powers. Each form had access to a different power, sure, but there was a good amount of crossover in terms of usage. For example¡­


    ¡­once Hammer had saved up force, it could be unleashed by any of the other forms.


    Sent flying by the force the bolt had just unleashed, Lucius slammed into the concrete wall, blood flying from his lips. Before Rex could get in close to seal the deal, though, the Black Sheep flicked a dull iron sword out of its sheath -- and the weapon floated in the air to defend him automatically.


    Instead, Rex took the opportunity to check Omni-Gungnir Timer again. 03:26, and counting down¡­ not too shabby. All he had to do now was make sure it was counting down towards the right thing.


    Lucius pulled himself out of the wall, blood trickling down his forehead and into one eye.


    "I admit it¡­" he grunted, tapping the floating sword and returning it to its sheath. "I underestimated you, Rex Restorossi. You truly are a worthy opponent. Someone to be cautious of, if nothing else. But it doesn¡¯t matter¡­"


    Lucius Victri Provvidenza reached for a weapon -- not for the sheaths around his waist, though, but within that trenchcoat. Crimson eyes glinted in the light as that smirk curled further into a grin.


    "Third Thigh of Granb?."


    Rex¡¯s eyes widened as he heard the name, and the display on Omni-Gungnir Timer changed once again. N/A. A dead end.


    The first Supremes were the stuff of legend. Azez the Absolute had founded the Supremacy and helped win the Thousand Revolutions, wiping out the Gene Tyrants and their loyalists. Piala the Practiced had carved out huge swaths of territory from what would become the UAP soon after, dueling countless challengers to her power without ever suffering a wound.


    The third, Granb? the Godsmith, was of far more interest to enthusiasts like Rex and Lucius. He was the one who had created the original Aether Armaments, pioneering the practice that reached new heights even today. On his deathbed, it was said he¡¯d turned his own cadaver into a collection of potent Armaments, most of which were still floating around the galaxy today.


    As Rex saw Lucius draw that bone-white blade, and felt the air grow dry around him, he thought only one thing¡­


    Oh, I gotta get my hands on that.


    "How long is this gonna take?" Ruth asked, tapping her metal boot impatiently.


    Ellis¡¯ drone, connected to the main computer by a thick metal cord, transmitted his distorted voice. "Dunno. Might be a while." He sounded as apathetic as ever.


    Ruth sighed, drumming her fingers along the side of her helmet. "We might not have a while."


    "That sucks."


    Goddamnit. Times like this made Ruth miss Dragan even more: he¡¯d have been able to hack a computer like this in no time. Especially a hack job like this.


    Ruth looked around the room cautiously, waiting for any enemies that might show themselves. The main computer itself was a cylindrical unit, glowing a light blue, stretching from the floor to the ceiling like a giant pillar. Countless cables wound around the walls and ceiling like a spider web, with what little light there was struggling to leak in through the gaps.


    Direwolf or not, this place gave her the creeps.


    "Oh," said Ellis suddenly.


    Ruth raised an eyebrow, turning back towards him. "Oh?"


    "Yeah. Oh."


    "What¡¯s ¡¯oh¡¯?" Ruth demanded, finally losing just a sliver of her patience.


    "I think you might be about to get blown up, boss. Someone¡¯s floating high up in an Armoured Chassis. Design and signature match that one Special Officer. The one who likes blowing stuff up."


    Shit. The Supremacy was involved? Why? Had they tracked down the Black Sheep at the same time, and decided to take down the receiver station independently?


    "Well, what¡¯s he doing?" she asked.


    "Just floating there. Like he¡¯s waiting for something."


    Reinforcements, maybe? If that was the case, they couldn¡¯t stick around here. They didn¡¯t have nearly enough power to take on a proper Supremacy assault. The best thing to do would be to abandon the mission and make a run for it.


    But¡­ they were so close¡­


    To hell with it. Ruth slapped a finger to her ear. "Roman. You there?"


    "Here."


    He was just as talkative as Ellis, when you got down to it. While the rest of the team had entered the dome, she¡¯d left Roman Hitch to guard the boy as he operated the drone. The man had only been part of Road and Restorossi for a couple of months now, but she already knew that he was strong. Plus, his particular ability was well-suited to this dilemma.


    "Sounds like we need a miracle, Hitch," she said. "Stall this Special Officer. Make us an escape route."


    "Right."


    Ruth took her finger away from her ear, letting out a tense breath. Her eyes flicked over to Ellis¡¯ drone once more. "How much longer?" she asked, for the dozenth time in just as many minutes.


    His reply came quickly. "Got it."


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened, and her mouth spread into a smile. "You got it? So where the hell is he?!"


    She could hear the tapping of a screen through Ellis¡¯ drone, as the boy sorted through the information. "Relax¡­ I¡¯m doing a search now. Dragan Hadrien, Dragan Hadrien¡­ I¡¯m having to search through thirty-two arenas here, and some slots are still open, but if I just check for the name¡­"


    The sound stopped -- and when Ellis¡¯ voice returned, its tone was deathly enough to send a chill down Ruth¡¯s spine.


    "...oh."

 Chapter 327:12.8: Burn

    Renzis IV was a desert planet, scorched and inhospitable, with what little rainfall that did occur being artificially induced by charitable ventures. For the small groups of people that called the planet their home, hosting an Inner Melee of the Dawn Contest would surely be the most exciting thing to happen in their entire history. The sheer payoffs they would have received would keep them going for decades, if nothing else.


    Dragan Hadrien would be fighting there.


    The Trawl was one of the last battlegrounds of the Thousand Revolutions, where thousands of ships had smashed into each other in the atmosphere of a particular Gene Tyrant¡¯s prized garden. Now, it was both a graveyard and a junkyard -- the ruins of the Tyrant¡¯s domain coated in the wreckage of countless vessels from all across history. When there was no easy way to dispose of something, people said, you sent it to the Trawl.


    Dragan Hadrien would also be fighting there.


    The tropics of Hesa, said to look like a paradise even on its worst days. A vacation spot for the wealthy and distinguished. With an Inner Melee scheduled to take place there, they wouldn¡¯t lack for entertainment.


    And again¡­ Dragan Hadrien would be fighting there.


    Qratte. Ior-Turn. Zank¡¯s Bane. Dirge. Caelus Nir. Brakashatorata. Peal. Ocean Hate. The Red Marble. Ellis¡¯ eyes ran down an endless list of names, each and every site chosen to host an Inner Melee of the Dawn Contest. And each and every site, according to these records¡­ playing host to one Dragan Hadrien.


    He swallowed. There were two possibilities. Either Miss Road¡¯s old friend had unlocked the power to clone himself¡­ or these records had been tampered with. Not by the Provvidenza -- he could tell they hadn¡¯t edited this information at all -- but by the source itself. Someone within the Supremacy, someone powerful, had meddled with this information. S§×arch* The n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Ellis?" Miss Road¡¯s voice came through the script. "What¡¯s the problem?"


    Ellis exchanged a glance with Roman, who was lingering by the door of the trailer. "They got us," he mumbled.


    "What do you mean? Who got you?"


    Despite the fact that Road obviously couldn¡¯t see him, Ellis shrugged. "Someone¡¯s tampered with this info. It¡¯s got Dragan Hadrien down as being at every one of the Inner Melees."


    "What the fuck?"


    "It¡¯d have to be someone high up¡­ I guess," Ellis murmured. "I think maybe they¡¯d have to be in the Organizational Committee? There¡¯s nothing like this for anyone else. It¡¯s just Dragan Hadrien¡¯s records that have been messed with. It¡¯s weird. What do we do, boss?"


    Silence lingered on the other end of the line.


    "Boss?"


    Ruth squeezed her fists for a moment, sinking down into deep and hopeless thought -- before she managed to break free, snapping her head back up.


    "If that¡¯s all we¡¯re gonna get," she said, injecting authority into her voice. "Then there¡¯s no point in us sticking around. Roman -- like I said, give us an opening to escape that Special Officer. I¡¯ll join up with the others on my way out. Got it?"


    "Right." Roman¡¯s gruff voice was certain as ever.


    Disconnecting from the communicator, Ruth let out the long breath it felt like she¡¯d been holding in for hours. Damnit. Damnit. All of this had been pointless. Someone was making them look like idiots.


    Not pointless.


    A sly, unwelcome thought crawled up the back of her skull. How was this pointless? They hadn¡¯t found out where Dragan was, but they¡¯d found out something else, hadn¡¯t they? Dragan¡¯s records alone had been meddled with to conceal his location. There was only one person they knew who¡¯d have a reason to do that in the first place.


    Fix had told Bruno, after all. Dragan Hadrien didn¡¯t want to be found -- and, wherever he¡¯d been these last two years¡­


    ¡­he¡¯d made some very powerful friends.


    The Third Thigh of Granb? sliced through the air, the knife of bone slamming into Omni-Gungnir Timer as Rex raised it to defend himself.


    He caught the display in the moment before the clash -- 09:13. The sheer amount of time left wasn¡¯t comforting: what kind of state would Rex be in by the time the prediction came true?


    They lingered there for a moment, Lucius pressing his Armament against Rex¡¯s -- and all around them, the overgrown weeds and plants began to wither and die. Green stems and leaves quickly turned brown and empty, huge bushes becoming limp masses on the floor. Rex adjusted his stance as they clashed: he didn¡¯t want that knife coming anywhere near him.


    The thing about famous Aether Armaments were that they were a known quantity. Some of the Godsmith¡¯s creations -- like the Ribs of Granb?, kept in the Supreme Archive -- had multiple powers, but the majority did one thing very well. The Third Thigh of Granb? was also known as the Thigh of Preservation -- it rapidly drained the moisture from anything around it.


    As Rex¡¯s orange Aether sparked past his face, he surely could have kissed it. If not for the infusion it was providing, he had no doubt he¡¯d have turned into a skeleton already, given his proximity to the Thigh. Even with that defense, though, he could feel it taking effect¡­ his skin growing taut under his armour, his head beginning to pound with pain¡­ this was not a thing people were supposed to stay near. Letting it make direct contact would be fatal.


    Well, the solution was simple, anyway. Get it very far away from him.


    Rex transformed his weapon into Omni-Gungnir Hammer -- the changing shape of his Armament throwing Lucius off balance -- and planted a useless blow right against his chest. As Lucius leapt back to avoid the second attack, Rex twirled the weapon in his hands again -- turning it into Omni-Gungnir Spear, the head pointed directly at his enemy.


    He¡¯d figured something out about this guy, fighting him. This guy wasn¡¯t some Armament specialist or anything like that. No, he was a collector. Even as he swung these things, he treated them like treasures, honouring the intentions of their creators.


    Lucius Victri Provvidenza had far too much respect for these weapons. That was why he would die.


    The spear stretched, slamming into Lucius as he blocked it -- and it continued to stretch, pushing him high up into the air as it went on and on. Rex had never tested the exact distance, but Omni-Gungnir Spear had an effective range of just over a kilometre. Striking from that range reduced the accuracy to such an amount you were basically guaranteed to miss, but in terms of pushing the enemy away it was unmatched.


    Besides¡­ Aether-user or not, a fall from a kilometre up would certainly do some damage.


    Thump.


    As Lucius¡¯ back hit the top of the dome, Rex focused all of his incandescent Aether into his hands, keeping the spear steady. This was the most important part. So long as this spear stayed exactly where it was, he could¡­


    Bang.


    Lucius broke free of the gap between the spear and the dome, beginning his plummet downwards. Before he could hit the ground, though, he unsheathed yet another sword, the flat weapon allowing him to perch atop the blade like it was a surfboard as it zoomed down towards Rex.


    Shit. He had to shorten the spear again, bring it in close so he could defend himself.


    It was like Lucius had read his mind. As his face came into view, those lips curled into a smirk, even as his crimson eyes remained cold.


    "Band of Tranquility," he said. "You can¡¯t revert it."


    Rex¡¯s eyes widened -- and, indeed, he could see the tiniest black speck wrapped around the handle of the spear, right below the blade. The Tranquility series, the Aether ability of the revolutionary known as the Blind Man, had originally been used against the Gene Tyrants -- they locked a mutable object into its current form, preventing transformation.


    He couldn¡¯t get the spear back.


    Lucius¡¯ foot slammed into Rex¡¯s stomach, the impact sending him sprawling down to the ground. The spear remained in place like a giant stilt as it slipped from Rex¡¯s grasp, and Lucius stepped forward menacingly between him and Omni-Gungnir. Victory glinted in his eyes.


    "It really is a splendid Armament," the Black Sheep mused. "The more I see it, the more I want it."


    "Sorry," Rex winced, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "It¡¯s a family heirloom."


    Lucius¡¯ eyes narrowed. "That¡¯s irrelevant. Any last words?"


    "I got a couple," Rex grinned. "Omni-Gungnir Turbo Heal!"


    Of course, Omni-Gungnir Turbo Heal was not a real thing. The Aether Armament had no abilities that would allow it to heal him or anyone else. Rex had completely made that up on the spot -- a ploy to make Lucius hesitate, if only for a moment.


    It wasn¡¯t a terribly well thought out trick, either, but it was all Rex had been able to throw together in the moment. Lucius¡¯ words had hit home a little too hard.


    During Rex¡¯s childhood, when he and his family were driven from Abra-Facade, his father would often talk about Omni-Gungnir. It was the same thing he¡¯d say, every time -- every time they discovered an old family friend wasn¡¯t so friendly anymore, every time they had to compromise their morals in order to survive. Always the same words.


    "We may have no home, no allies, no place to go. These people might even say we have no faces. But we have our past, Rex. Don¡¯t forget that. I¡¯m holding it, here, in my hand."


    As if he¡¯d let someone else put their hands on his past.


    Omni-Gungnir Turbo Heal was not a real ability -- but that didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t use a real ability when he said those meaningless words. Lucius Victri Provvidenza had made far too many assumptions about how Omni-Gungnir worked, and what it could do. That was another reason he¡¯d die.


    The force the hammer had collected burst out from the handle of Omni-Gungnir Spear -- it could come out of any spot on the weapon -- snapping the Band of Tranquility. There was a flash of orange -- Rex didn¡¯t need to be making contact to have it transform -- as the weapon became Omni-Gungnir Timer, flipping end over end as it fell from the top of the dome. And finally, as the angles lined up perfectly, Timer became Spear once more¡­


    ¡­and the blade, stretching all the way down from the top of the dome, pierced right through Lucius¡¯ back.


    The Black Sheep looked down at the bloody spearhead emerging from his chest, utterly flabbergasted. His mouth opened uselessly once, twice, as if he could pose some argument to stop his blood vacating his body. Then -- as Spear became Timer once again, opening his wound -- he collapsed face first into the mud.


    Another little thing Lucius hadn¡¯t realised: when Rex transformed Omni-Gungnir, he could choose any part of the old form to become the source of the new form. With Spear, it essentially meant he could transport the next instance of Omni-Gungnir anywhere along its length.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Rex kept an eye on Timer as Lucius gurgled on the floor.


    00:03¡­


    00:02¡­


    00:01¡­


    The twitching stopped.


    Abra-Facade was called the land of precognition and, although Rex¡¯s family had been exiled before he could learn any of those secrets, his weapon was more than capable of seeing the future. Timer was the proof of that. It would endlessly count down, to the second, how long was remaining until Rex would next see a person die.


    00:00.


    Blue raised his eyebrows at the spectacle down on the ground below, at the surging orange Aether and the spear that had momentarily stretched up into the sky. What the hell was going on down there? The client was paying him good money not to ask questions, but still¡­ curious minds wanted to know.


    Beep.


    The Special Officer stiffened his body in the cockpit of the Armoured Chassis as he heard the all-clear come in. As previously agreed upon, he was to destroy this site and everyone still inside. Whoever that guy was who¡¯d been using the spear, he wasn¡¯t long for this world.


    Too bad, so sad.


    Red Aether surged through Blue¡¯s arm and into the workings of the Chassis as he began to activate his ability. Some people told him this didn¡¯t really count as an ability, that this was just normal infusion, but he said they were full of shit. If it helped you win, it was a special power -- end of story.


    "Gunpowder Plot," he grinned with sharpened teeth.


    The ability was simple and effective: it would triple the explosive power of anything Blue used it on. For example, the missiles his Chassis was packing would surely make quite the fireworks show. An involuntary giggle of anticipation rose to his lips. It was always like this. He resolved himself to come in like a professional, get the job done, and head on home. But oh man¡­ he just couldn¡¯t help but love his work!


    That tower sure was an eyesore. He¡¯d demolish it first. Blue¡¯s hands tightened around the controls, and that giggle erupted into a cackle -- as it always did. No more waiting. Fire! Fire! Everything he had!


    He clicked down on the trigger¡­


    ¡­and nothing happened.


    "Eh?"


    The Special Officer called Blue wasn¡¯t the only one tightening his fist. In the dark trailer that Ellis had converted into a crude command centre, the man they called Roman Hitch had just crushed something in his hand. A dog-tag, bearing not a name or ID, but just one word. Escape. He looked down at it emotionlessly.


    A Miracle Tag.


    Upon joining Road and Restorossi, Roman Hitch had explained his ability like this: by crushing a Miracle Tag in his hand, he could unleash the ¡¯miracle¡¯ it had stored up, manipulating probabilities to bring it into the world. He could store three types of miracles: ¡¯escape¡¯, ¡¯assault¡¯ and ¡¯advantage¡¯. Once crushed, it took Roman around an hour to make a new Miracle Tag, and only three could exist at any one time.


    In this situation, it would indeed do exactly what Ruth Blaine had requested of him -- create an opening for them to escape. It was just too bad that the explanation he¡¯d given was a complete and total lie.


    "Are you fucking kidding me?!"


    Blue smashed his fists furiously, impotently, against the controls before him. The weapon drivers had crashed. The weapon drivers he¡¯d paid an absurd amount of stator for. The weapon drivers that were the best on the market. The weapon drivers that were never, ever supposed to crash¡­


    ¡­had crashed.


    The expletives that burst from his mouth were made even louder by the cramped confines, all but obliterating his hearing for a while: "Fuck! Bitch! Piss! Shit!"


    All in all, it would take the drivers two minutes to properly reboot. Then, two more minutes for them to reconnect to the rest of the systems. Another minute to run the proper safety checks, which he couldn¡¯t disable no matter how hard he tried. All in all, five minutes where he could do nothing but sit here with his thumb up his ass.


    Unbelievable.


    "So what the hell happened?" Bruno asked as they ran down the drainage tunnel.


    Ruth gritted her teeth, boots splashing against the filthy water below. She¡¯d run out of time on the Direwolf Set, but that was fine. Even if the bombardment did begin, they should be able to escape the worst of it underground like this. All they had to do was get back to the trailer, grab Ellis and Roman, and get the hell out of here before more Supremacy officers showed up.


    But still¡­ there was no denying it.


    "Mission¡¯s a failure," she muttered. "The records had been tampered with already. There¡¯s no telling where Dragan is."


    "What?!" Bruno barked incredulously. "What do you mean?! Did your guy mess it up or something?!"


    The drone hovering above them bobbed up and down in irritation. "Hey," Ellis mumbled simply. "I didn¡¯t."


    "If we¡¯re doing the debriefing now¡­" Rex said casually, jogging alongside them with that gaudy spear of his slung over his shoulder. He nodded at Bruno. "What the hell happened with you?"


    Bruno furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"


    Rex nodded again. Apparently, it seemed that Bruno had forgotten about the unconscious girl strewn over his shoulder. Who was she? One of the Provvidenza? She sorta looked like one of the archive images they¡¯d gotten of one of the Black Sheep. The Del Sed one. Had they come to some kind of understanding?


    It was Bruno¡¯s eyes that looked away, but Serena¡¯s voice that responded. "We couldn¡¯t just leave her."


    Ruth had known Serena long enough to tell when questions wouldn¡¯t get answered, at least coherently. Instead, she just looked ahead, steeled her gaze, and sighed. "Anyway¡­ this place was a wash. We couldn¡¯t find anything."


    The drone bobbed up to her face again. "Not true¡­" came Ellis¡¯ drowsy voice. "We found out that there are people in the Supremacy -- high up in the Supremacy -- who don¡¯t want information about Dragan Hadrien getting out."


    "Someone¡¯s trying to hide him?" Bruno asked. "Who?"


    Ruth¡¯s sigh deepened. The answer, she thought, was obvious -- given what they¡¯d seen so far. The person trying to hide Dragan was Dragan himself, and whatever allies he¡¯d managed to bring together over the last two years. Bruno should have recognised that, too, judging from the information he¡¯d already been given¡­


    ¡­but it seemed that was beyond him.


    As they continued their run down the drainage tunnel, a human silhouette came into view before them, sitting against one of the walls -- their exact identity obscured by the putrid fog. Ellis¡¯ drone cast a flashlight down to illuminate them, but Ruth never had any doubt about who¡¯d be there before them. Given her ability, there was no way that girl would have lost to small-fry like this.


    Indeed, the one sitting there was Alice, her clothing ragged and her face covered in blood. She raised a hand in greeting -- and even that effort was enough to produce a noticeable wince. Her transformation ability was powerful, but it put her out of commission for several hours. That, at least, was a mercy. It meant Ruth didn¡¯t have to see that horrifying magical girl all the time.


    "Hey," Alice called out, her voice hoarse. "We win?"


    Bruno was the one who answered her. "We didn¡¯t get what we came here for, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking. Why¡¯re you still down here? Weren¡¯t you meant to be dealing with one of the Black Sheep?"


    Alice raised a pink eyebrow. "You¡¯re standing in one of the Black Sheep right now, buddy."


    Ruth glanced down, and saw that that was no exaggeration. A single eyeball was floating down the stream, brushing past her boot. Swallowing down nausea, she stepped out of the way of the viscera and let out a shuddering breath.


    There was no hiding that she was disturbed by this sight, but Bruno¡¯s mind still seemed to be fixed on the failure of their objective. He ran his hands over his face, pacing back and forth in the filthy water. All the while, he muttered to himself.


    "I was sure¡­" he said. "I was sure of this. Damnit. Goddamnit. This is such bullshit. No, no, no, no¡­" He looked up at Ruth, and the despair in his eyes was such that her heart nearly broke there and then. "I¡¯m sorry, Ruth. It¡¯s another one of my wild goose chases."


    Ruth shook her head, stepping forward and seizing him by the shoulders to stop him in his tracks.


    "No," she said forcefully. "You didn¡¯t do anything wrong. You were right. We don¡¯t know where Dragan is, but we know he¡¯s out there. And we know where he¡¯s going."


    Bruno swallowed. "Where he¡¯s going¡­?"


    "Somehow¡­" Ruth said. "Somehow¡­ I can¡¯t picture Dragan losing anymore. He¡¯s clearly been planning whatever this is for a while. Wherever he is, whichever Inner Melee he ends up at, I feel like I just know he¡¯s going to win. And when he wins¡­"


    Bruno finished her thought. "The Dawn Contest proper. Azum-Ha. The capitol. But¡­ you¡¯re not saying¡­? We can¡¯t just --"


    Ruth¡¯s eyes shone with resolution -- resolution that would allow no more argument.


    "If Dragan¡¯s going to Azum-Ha¡­ then we just need to be there waiting for him."


    Golden Grid Luxury Suites


    Pesh


    Supremacy Space


    Minister Grisha Mors, known to some as the Serpent of Pesh, sipped his wine as he watched the videograph before him. He¡¯d only just gotten out of the shower, and so was clad only in a bathrobe, his wet hair slicked back and dripping on the marble floor behind the couch. With all these creature comforts, he couldn¡¯t help but feel a tad decadent -- but sometimes that wasn¡¯t so bad.


    The Outer Melees had officially completed, and so the winners would be passing on to the thirty-two Inner Melees, after which they would pass into the Dawn Contest proper. It also meant that the Dawn Pardons would be coming into effect: temporary immunity to prosecution for past crimes, so long as the individual remained part of the Dawn Contest. That meant that his ¡¯friend¡¯ had less to worry about, of course, but it also meant a great deal of work for Mors and his colleagues on the Dawn Contest Organisational Committee. Best to get the decadence in while he still had a spare minute.


    He¡¯d received word from Blue a few hours ago: the Provvidenza facility on Granrue had been thoroughly destroyed, but there was a good chance some witnesses had escaped.


    Mors couldn¡¯t quite decide if that was a blessing in disguise or not. Originally, he¡¯d been frustrated, but once Blue had sent over his footage from the scene he¡¯d realised that killing some of these people could have been disastrous for him. At least this way the facts of his involvement had been destroyed, if nothing else.


    Ring, ring¡­


    He sighed and steeled himself. Now came the conversation he¡¯d been dreading. Mors calmly picked up the script from the coffee table before him and put it to his ear.


    "Speaking," he said.


    As expected, he was greeted by the loud and crass voice of the usual middleman -- the one who never gave his name. "Yo!" the young man said, volume forcing Mors to move the script away from his ear. "You fucked up, my guy!"


    Mors didn¡¯t rise to the bait. "If this is about the incident on Granrue," he said. "Then I can confirm those people made it out unscathed. I had no way of knowing they¡¯d be there when I sent Blue to eliminate the place."


    The voice chuckled. "Still¡­ bossman ain¡¯t happy. He¡¯s wondering why you didn¡¯t ask him before setting this whole thing up. Kinda weird, y¡¯know? Not really feeling the team spirit, with you going behind his back like that."


    "Perhaps he¡¯s your boss," Mors raised an eyebrow. "But I would consider our relationship one akin to business partners. It¡¯s only natural for me to act independently -- when the need arises."


    "Yeah, yeah," the contact went on, clearly not having listened at all. "Not really feeling the love here. Hey -- you want to tell the bossman yourself? He¡¯s sitting right next to me."


    Mors stiffened, his hand tightening around the script. It wasn¡¯t as if he¡¯d never met or spoken with this man before, but¡­ after they¡¯d made their initial agreements, all further contact had been done through this rowdy fellow. Why would he want to speak directly to Mors now? Had the incident on Granrue been that serious?


    "I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s necessa --"


    There was a click, and the line shifted. The loud voice of the previous man was replaced by dead silence. If Mors really listened, though, if he strained his ears, he could just barely hear something -- the quietest breathing. Mors found himself having to swallow back his anxiety before he could build up the will to speak.


    "Hello?" he finally said. "Mr. H --"


    The person on the other end answered.


    "This was your mistake."


    In sheer contrast to the previous man, their voice was soft and calm, as if every word they spoke was an utterly obvious fact. Yes, completely calm, seemingly calm¡­ but didn¡¯t the mere fact they were having this conversation mean that this man was furious? Mors would have to play this carefully.


    "If we¡¯re talking about the Granrue incident," Mors said slowly. "Then I understand I acted inappropriately. Your¡­ friend made that quite clear. But I feel as though I acted as best as I could, given the information presented --"


    "No," the voice interrupted, as calm as ever. "You misunderstand. This is your mistake. You only get the one."


    The call ended.


    Mors let out a heavy breath -- one that felt like he¡¯d been holding it in for several minutes. His hand groped around the couch, finally grabbing onto the arm of the furniture to keep himself steady. Even though he¡¯d just gotten out of the shower, his face was slick and burning with sweat. That man¡­ it was as if he¡¯d had some sort of pressure, one that had trickled out through his voice and somehow reached Mors an untold distance away.


    Planting his forearm over his eyes, Grisha Mors lay back on the couch and chuckled in relief to himself.


    Really¡­ what a frightening man this Dragan Hadrien was.

 Chapter 328:12.9:

    Intergalactic Museum of History


    Tenhait


    Supremacy Space


    One month earlier¡­


    Machinery whirred. Gas hissed. Displays beeped. The void became the cold became the prelude to warmth. All around him were voices, chattering to each other. Barked instructions and hasty self-congratulations. Some things never changed.


    The man called Mereloco opened his eyes.


    I hope you wake in a kinder world than this.


    His brow creased in annoyance. Words spoken to him just moments ago now seemed like an old memory. More than just old, he supposed. Most likely they were history, ancient now. But his reflexes were still in top condition, and so his brown eyes scanned the room.


    He was lying down in the stasis pod, countless thick tubes attached to his upper torso, their functions powered down into uselessness now that the capsule had been opened. Yes, someone had woken him up. A group. He could see them -- the silhouettes of men and women around his pod, four in all, scientists of some kind from their bearing and uniforms. Cowards who focused on one form of strength to the expense of all others. The ones who had awoken him, no doubt.


    This room was dark, dim. The backroom of some establishment. A place to throw away forgotten things that no longer held interest. He disliked it.


    His eyes moved to the nearest of the scientists, a bald man. The researcher stopped talking to his colleagues, stopped demanding adjustments and readings, as he realized that Mereloco was fully awake. He did not blink. He had that sense.


    "G-Good morning," he said haltingly.


    "Unchained," Mereloco replied.


    Four human beings became four bloody pancakes in an instant, crushed by unkind gravity. With all the noise now gone, Mereloco leisurely stretched himself up into a sitting position, tubes and wires snapping as he pulled them taut. Preservation liquid dripped from his naked form as he cracked his joints, reacquainting himself with the world.


    Mereloco was not a large man -- he just about came to five foot five -- but he was surely a strong one. His body was tense with muscle, the power in his form made obvious by his utter relaxation as he moved through the world. Long dark hair hung in greasy clumps around his head -- he brushed it lazily out of his eye with his thumb.


    Even after he¡¯d cleared out the noise, he wasn¡¯t alone in this dark room.


    Lingering by the door was a woman with short blonde hair, in a blazer and long skirt. Her hair was immaculately arranged in a strange swirling pattern, and her clothing bore not a single thread out of place. It was like looking at a human doll. Such organization did not come naturally. He disliked it.


    "You," Mereloco said, his voice firm and deep, the only trace of emotion being the slightest trace of annoyance. "Woman. For how long did I sleep?"


    If the woman was perturbed by the death of her underlings, she didn¡¯t show it. Her red lips curled into a practiced, polite smile.


    "It¡¯s been two-hundred years since you were placed into stasis."


    Mereloco accepted it immediately. "I see," he said -- and then he raised a calloused hand ready to receive a throat. "Come here. I¡¯ll kill you."


    The woman took in a deep breath through her nose. "Before you do that, we have a proposal --"


    Unchained.


    Purple Aether ran across Mereloco¡¯s skin, and red Aether crawled across the woman¡¯s hair. As gravity pressed down upon her with brutal force, she remained standing -- even if her legs did tremble beneath her. At any rate, she did not become a smear of red as Mereloco had intended. He released his ability.


    "Speak," he said, satisfied. "Who are you?"


    The woman regained herself, her breath deep and ragged as she recovered from Mereloco¡¯s assault. "Alicia Jane Marsden¡­" she said, wiping her forehead with a handkerchief. "I¡¯m an acquisitions specialist for Halcyon Interstellar."


    "Halcyon¡­?" The name ringed familiar. Mereloco¡¯s brow creased into displeasure once again. "The Great Chain. Is this a matter of vengeance, then, woman?"


    Alicia shook her head. "Not at all. Times have changed, as I¡¯m sure you¡¯d expect. Halcyon is now an independent corporation -- one that is very close friends with the Supremacy. We¡¯ve revived you to make you an offer."


    Mereloco did not speak, but merely raised an eyebrow.


    "How would you like¡­" she said. "...to become Supreme?"


    Piolo


    Former Prison Colony


    Supremacy Space


    The streets of the shantytown ran red with blood.


    The blood ran past sliced corpses and piles of viscera. The blood ran past shattered automatics and ruined weapons. The blood ran past crumbling houses and blown-apart buildings. The blood ran past everything, the only constant in this city of scrap.


    When the Supremacy had decided this place would be the site of an Outer Melee, they had forcibly evacuated the residents to facilitate it. Most of those people would never return to their homes again. Those who did would wish otherwise, as the stink of blood crawled up their nostrils and invaded their dreams.


    Yes¡­ this hellish scene would surely live on in the mind of that man, too.


    He was in the center of town, where the rivers of blood met and became a red pool. There he remained, perched atop a pile of corpses like some carrion bird, looking down into himself. The hellish red sunlight shone down, silhouetting him -- robbing him of structure, turning him into the shadow he surely saw himself as. His reachers looked more like horns, stretching upwards sinisterly.


    His eyes were dull, full of despair¡­ and his Aether crackled red in response.


    Two years ago, nobody had known this man¡¯s name. He was a nobody with no past and no place to be. Now, the entire criminal underworld shuddered at his mention. This was the founder of the Crimson Carnival, that infamous band of assassins. This was the greatest killer in Supremacy space.


    This was the man they called the King of Killers, Nael Manron.


    Nael looked up, the look in his blood-red eyes as dark as ever. Up above, in the sky, they¡¯d begun to launch fireworks to celebrate the end of the Outer Melee. To celebrate his victory, he supposed. He did not smile at the thought.


    What a joke. What a mess.


    Rurian


    Leisure Planet


    Supremacy Space


    Once, Rurian had been another farming world, before a certain high-ranking Supremacy official had taken a liking to the small planet and decided to make it his vacation home. The farms were gone, replaced with resplendent green fields. The villages were gone, replaced by golf courses. Even the insects that had once run rampant on Rurian were kept far away from civilization by subtly transmitted frequencies.


    The sun shone yellow and the grass glowed green. It would have been peaceful, if not for all the shouting.


    "God¡­damnit!" Brutus Murr roared, straining against his capture.


    The massive Pugnant had been wrapped from head to toe in thick ropes of grass, the vegetation beneath him having constricted around his form. He wrestled an arm free, but another tendril of grass -- still obeying the command it had been given -- lashed out and seized the limb, holding it tight.


    There was no escape, no matter how much rage he poured into it.


    "Ground," his tormenter said politely. "Bury everyone the grass is currently holding up to their waists, please. Ignore this order if their heads are facing downwards already, or if it would be otherwise life-threatening."


    He sank into the dirt like quicksand. Goddamnit. Goddamnit! Goddamnit!


    Brutus knew this young woman, as did the countless other contestants trapped around him, shouting their complaints and threats.


    Dorothy Eiro. Along with Atoy Muzazi and the Aether abomination PALATINE, she was said to be one of the three Special Officers closest in strength to the former Contenders. You wouldn¡¯t know it by looking at her.


    Her black hair was tied into pigtails, and her freckled face beamed at the hordes restrained in front of her. Rather than armour or at least some kind of uniform, she wore a simple white-and-blue blouse, with a similarly coloured bow decorating her collar. She honestly looked like she¡¯d wandered in from a farm of some sort.


    "Well," she said sweetly, slapping her hands together in satisfaction. "That should just about do it. Thank you for a wonderful time, everyone!"


    She sauntered off, humming a merry tune to herself, and -- one by one -- the Caravan wristbands attached to each contestant determined they were no longer capable of fighting. Automatic surrender eliminated them from the Outer Melee. Brutus could do little more than hurl frustrated expletives with the rest of them at the shrinking figure of the girl they called the kindest Special Officer.


    One victor, ninety-nine losers¡­ and not a single death.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Hell¡¯s Gate


    Desert World


    Supremacy Space


    "Listen," Luc hissed. "This is gonna work."


    He was huddling in the massive skeleton of a serpent with his new ally, taking shelter from the raging sandstorm outside. Red sand shredded everything that dared to poke its head out -- Luc had been a little slow getting into cover, and the arm that had been exposed for just a moment was now bare and bloody.


    The Scurrant he¡¯d grouped up with -- Grulgo or something -- was a chubby, round fellow with green bristles dangling from his engorged cheeks. He looked at Luc doubtfully. "Sounds like bullshit," he warbled. "Grulgosh don¡¯t like bullshit. No sir."


    "It ain¡¯t bullshit," Luc urged, Cogitant-blue eyes shining as he leaned in closer. "See? See? Look at my eyes, man, trust me, I know what I¡¯m talking about. I¡¯ve -- I¡¯ve friggin¡¯ analyzed the situation, man, I¡¯ve analyzed it, I know what¡¯s going on. It ain¡¯t bullshit. You see -- you see how we¡¯re hiding here, man? Bro?"


    "Yeah¡­" Grulgo nodded.


    "Everyone else -- everyone else is gonna be doing the same things, you know, when you think about it?" Luc continued in hushed tones, gesturing wildly with his hands. "It¡¯s -- it¡¯s common sense, you get me, it¡¯s strategy, tactics, tactics, my guy. Shelter is the number one thing you gotta have here. Otherwise the sand gets you."


    Grulgo nodded again. Good, good, he was starting to understand. That was good. Great, even.


    "So¡­" Luc leaned in closer, compulsively and uselessly slicking his black hair back with one hand. "I got -- I say, as soon as this sandstorm lifts, as soon as we, you know, can get running around and get -- get mobility, we start destroying all the cover, you know? Smash it to fuckin¡¯ pieces. That way -- that way -- when the sandstorm hits again, what happens?"


    Grulgo didn¡¯t answer, so Luc did it for him.


    "Nowhere to hide!" he declared. "They get shredded -- they get frickin¡¯ shredded -- and you and me, you and me, my man? We¡¯re riding pretty. Fuckin¡¯ trillionaires. Fuckin¡¯ oligarchs, my guy." He sniffed. "By the way, you, uh¡­ you got any Bubble?" sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Grulgo blinked, the heavy cogs in his mind slowly turning until they finally clicked into place and he understood: this guy was a genius!


    The two of them were so busy celebrating their ill-conceived scheme that they didn¡¯t notice.


    They didn¡¯t notice the tall figure in the black cloak emerging from the sandstorm behind them.


    They didn¡¯t notice it raise a gnarled hand covered in unsightly black veins towards them.


    They didn¡¯t notice it whisper, rasp, hiss at them -- each syllable dripping with hatred and spite.


    "Forest of Sin."


    What happened after that, sadly, they very much did notice.


    Mordun the Greater


    Ultracity


    Supremacy Space


    Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.


    With each step the First Branch of the Tree of Might took, his followers -- lined up in a human corridor -- thumped their staffs in unison. With their strikes slamming against the traditional wooden floor of the starship, it produced a sound not unlike a drum. A drum to lead strength to glory, they might say.


    If the boy was bothered at all by the grandiose reception, he did not show it.


    The new First Branch, the only child of the title¡¯s former holder, marched down the main hall of the starship, his face set into resolve beyond his years, his brown eyes framed by shaggy brown hair. Xander Rain, fourteen years old -- and, as of one hour ago, a winner of the Outer Melees.


    This was not just their leader the Tree of Might was celebrating. This was victory.


    As he reached the head of the room, ascending a small flight of stairs, Xander raised his ceremonial glaive up high -- and the pace of the drumming increased. From somewhere in the back of the room the trill of a heart-flute began to sound, bouncing across the walls and uniting each and every participant. This was a traditional Supremacy celebration. Something the rest of the galaxy, in their moral weakness and decay, had long since forgotten.


    Bang.


    With a spark of beige Aether, Xander slammed his glaive down onto the ground, the noise overpowering the rest of the drumming.


    "Supreme!" Xander cried.


    Bang.


    "Supreme!" the crowd roared.


    Bang.


    "Supreme!" they all screamed together.


    The final slam of the glaive pierced the floor.


    Cheering enough to deafen a god. The rest of this Dawn Contest would be but a formality. Xander Rain -- and the rest of the Tree of Might -- already knew who their next Supreme would be. They had known for a long time now.


    Pqwrrty-Mlssn


    Jungle World


    Supremacy Space


    The Scurrant sat calm, contemplative, his four arms arranged in an intricate meditation pose, the eyes that coated his muscles staring out at the world around him. His blue skin shone bright in the rising sun, and the petals of the great lotus he sat in fluttered in the gentle breeze.


    Yes¡­ the Scurrant sat serene in a garden of carnage.


    All around him were corpses, locked in their final poses of terror, their forms mangled and twisted. It would have been unsightly -- perhaps even horrifying -- if not for the plants. Countless flowers, bright and beautiful, had sprouted from each and every orifice of each and every corpse, coating the cadavers and creating a beautiful paradise around the Scurrant.


    He reached down with one massive, gentle hand and plucked a blue flower from the eye-socket of the nearest body. It twitched in agony.


    "K-Kill me¡­" it moaned, voice muffled by the stems that were forcing themselves up and out of its throat.


    The Scurrant smiled kindly, raising the body¡¯s chin with a finger. "But you have so much to live for."


    Ro No No Wo To Yo


    Urban World


    Supremacy Space


    It had been a long and hard battle, fought through the deserted city streets, the waters of the canal rising to wash away the blood as it fell.


    With a final hardy punch, the last opponent was sent flying off a skyscraper, his arms and legs flailing as he soared through the sky. His flight did not last long, though. Soon enough, a sickening crunch and a pile of meat was all that remained of him.


    On the other hand, the last man standing -- perched on the edge of that same skyscraper -- was quite the sight to see. His eyes were hidden by huge black sunglasses, and his hair was forced upwards into a chaotic red mohawk. Sparkling white teeth were spread out in a boisterous grin, despite the blood that coated his black shirt and his running pants.


    His ragged red cape billowing in the wind, the victor put his fists on his hips and declared his identity to the world.


    "Yeah! Chicken Punk!"


    Deith


    Arctic World


    Supremacy Space


    The Cogitant spoke two words, and his enemy fell, a hole neatly opened up in their back.


    He didn¡¯t stop to consider the labour he¡¯d just completed, though. He just started to walk, stepping over the corpse as if it wasn¡¯t there. He ignored the dead. He ignored the cold. He ignored the blizzard whipping at his skin.


    After all, Dragan Hadrien¡¯s work was not yet done.


    Toor Anir


    Farming World


    Supremacy Space


    Mereloco, sitting on a pile of rubble, stretched out luxuriously. He was wearing naught but a pair of frayed jeans -- the sole concession he¡¯d been willing to make for his ¡¯sponsors¡¯ -- as he bit into a stray tomato. He frowned. It tasted bad. He disliked it.


    Tomatoes were meant to be this village¡¯s specialty, weren¡¯t they? And yet they tasted like this. Disappointing. It had been better in Mereloco¡¯s time. Hadn¡¯t it? Perhaps it was just the way it had been banged around before reaching his hand. It didn¡¯t matter.


    He tossed it aside.


    How long had this Outer Melee been going on for? Half an hour, just about, and it was pretty much finished anyway. Was it about time to wrap things up? But he still had things to consider. Events to process. This was a good place to get away from chattering voices -- they were too high up to be heard, for one.


    Halcyon. Did he trust them? No. He had no reason to trust them. They wished to use him as a pawn in a game he did not care to play. But they were convenient, for now. He¡¯d play along with their petty ambitions until it became disadvantageous.


    Blood dripped down from above.


    Mereloco sighed, long and hard, and looked up. There -- in the sky above, all around -- floated the unfortunate. The rest of the contestants, their bodies robbed of gravity by his Unchained, could do little more than float upwards and cry for mercy. Powerlessness presented. Some had possessed Aether abilities that had allowed them some mobility in zero gravity, but he¡¯d eliminated them first. It had been the logical thing to do.


    A stoic expression on his face, Mereloco raised his closed fist up.


    The more things change, the more they stay the same, he considered. Your throne is still within my reach¡­ Damon.


    Mereloco opened his fist and watched, morose¡­


    ¡­as it began to rain.


    Ionir Yggdrassil


    Seed-Shuttle 3


    Supremacy Space


    Present Day¡­


    Atoy Muzazi let out a heavy breath, igniting and banishing a Radiant from his palm again and again.


    Once, before vital missions, he would have found himself reaching for Luminescence¡¯s sheath for reassurance. Perhaps this was the same impulse, translated to a new self. The confirmation that he had a weapon, that he could fight back against whatever the world sent his way.


    Blood on the grass¡­


    If only that were true.


    "Commander," Morgan called up from the seats that lined the small round shuttle -- more like a mass of branches winding into a circular bench. "Ionir says we¡¯ll arrive planetside in five minutes. We¡¯re cutting it pretty close to the Inner, you know."


    "We¡¯ll make it," Muzazi said firmly.


    He watched, staring as the landscape of Ocean Hate grew closer through the viewport. The name of the planet seemed accurate enough: below them was a great red sea, like blood, spreading out as far as the eye could see. The only exceptions to the crashing crimson waves were a few cities floating on artificial landmasses and -- far off in the distance -- the warped, centipede-like carcass of the Devil. The dark wreckage was such that it stretched all across the horizon.


    One of the Arcana Automatics. It was said that when it was finally brought down here, it had poisoned the sea forever in a final act of spite. On the other hand, the substance used to contaminate the water had turned out to be potent fertilizer, so Muzazi supposed all things were turned to man¡¯s ends eventually.


    The Radiant flicked on. The Radiant flicked off. Enough. It was time to be disgraceful.


    Muzazi turned his head to look back at those assembled in the shuttle.


    Morgan Nacht watched, waiting eagerly for orders.


    Ash del Duran sat still, his arms crossed, his eyes gently shut.


    Marcus Grace polished his prize pistol, his breathing steady.


    And Gregori Hazzard regarded Muzazi with a single open eye, the crimson pupil like a drop of accusatory blood.


    "Be ready," Muzazi said, his voice tasting like bile on his tongue. "And remember¡­ the plan."


    The shuttle shuddered as it began to land.

 Chapter 329:12.10: Drown

    Ocean Hate


    Floating City of Pangloss (Abandoned)


    Supremacy Space


    The parakeet dipped its beak into the cup of tea.


    The cup itself was clutched in the hands of its owner, an older gentleman with grey hair and blue eyes, standing on the edge of the rooftop. He wore a smart jet-black suit, with a white tie providing the only hint of colour on his person (apart from the white parakeet, of course). If not for the environment -- the citadel of Pangloss, long since brought to ruin and rubble -- one might have mistaken him for the prized butler of some wealthy family.


    The man¡¯s exquisitely groomed mustache twitched as he took in a deep breath of sea air.


    "Tis a shame, isn¡¯t it, Horatio?" he said to his parakeet. "We stand amid history, but can do nothing but fight in its shadow."


    The parakeet chirped, and the man nodded sagely.


    "Hm, you have a point, I suppose. This is the job we agreed upon -- a task we had the freedom to accept or deny, and so have brought the results upon ourselves. Alas. They say freedom is the cornerstone of this Supremacy, don¡¯t they, Horatio? But what measure is freedom when it gives you no choice but to fight?" He sighed, before glancing over his shoulder. "What do you think, young man?"


    The young man who¡¯d been addressed -- an eager warrior in tactical gear and a beanie -- stopped, having been spotted right in the middle of sneaking across the rooftop. He swallowed nervously. He had no reason to, really: for the first thirty minutes of the Inner Melee, no combat was permitted. This was purely positioning and preparation time.


    Despite his obvious anxiety, the young man grinned. "Name¡¯s Char Braksnen. How about you?"


    The old man smiled thinly. "King. It¡¯s not my name, but feel free to call me that. What can I do for you, Char Braksnen?"


    Char tapped his finger next to his right eye. "I got this ability. Bloodbath. It lets me see how strong people are, just from looking at them."


    "Oh!" King raised his grey eyebrows. "That sounds quite useful."


    Char nodded. "Right? And looking at you, man¡­ I can tell you¡¯re stupid strong. So, I¡¯m thinking¡­ how about you and me partner up, Mr. King? At least for the early parts. We can help each other out, huh?"


    King smiled thinly once more, Horatio hopping onto his shoulder as he turned towards the young man. "That¡¯s quite the enterprising attitude," he said kindly. "It¡¯ll serve you well in life, I believe. But I think in this case you¡¯ve perhaps bitten off more than you can chew."


    "Huh?" Char frowned.


    "If I¡¯m indeed as ¡¯stupid strong¡¯ as you say¡­" King stepped forward. "...then why do I need you?"


    Despite the menace in King¡¯s tone, Char still grinned that youthfully arrogant grin. "I¡¯m no weakling, old man," he insisted. "I can help you just as much as you help me. If we just work together, we can --"


    "Look down."


    Char looked down. There, being pressed up against his throat, was a sharp and silver kitchen knife. He did not swallow. He very deliberately did not swallow.


    "You didn¡¯t even notice, did you?" King asked softly, holding the knife against Char¡¯s neck. "I think you¡¯ve underestimated the difference in our experience, my good fellow."


    Char¡¯s eyes were fixed on the kitchen knife, but -- admirably -- he was not shaking enough for it to draw blood. "You¡¯re not allowed to kill yet¡­" he whispered. "You kill me now, you get yourself disqualified. No point, man."


    "Quite right," King replied, his eyes cold. "But what if I was a maniac, or some other kind of miscreant? Perhaps I¡¯d cut your throat open for the fun of it, without thinking about the consequences. You didn¡¯t consider that, did you? You should never assume your enemy possesses the same sort of sanity as you."


    Char slowly looked up from the knife to King¡¯s face. "That¡¯s¡­"


    "Or, of course, I could simply remain in this position until the Inner Melee truly begins -- and execute you once it¡¯s safe to do so. There are no shortage of options available to me should I possess wicked intentions. Do you understand?"


    The subtlest, slowest nod.


    "Now," King said kindly. "This is what you¡¯re going to do. That bracelet you were given upon entry -- Caravan? You¡¯re going to push down on its face and tell it you wish to surrender."


    "But --" A final, foolish spark of defiance. King brought the knife a centimeter closer and snuffed it out.


    He spoke firmly. "This isn¡¯t an arena you¡¯re ready for, young man. If you refuse to surrender, then I¡¯ll just do as I said, and kill you myself. That would be a kinder death than some others would provide. I¡¯ll ask only one more time. Do you understand?"


    Char didn¡¯t answer straight away -- but, soon enough, his trembling hand pressed down on the black bracelet on his other wrist. His voice was hoarse as he spoke, head angled up towards the sky.


    "I surrender¡­" he said bitterly.


    That was the end of it. One moment Char was there, the next he was gone, whisked away by whatever other abilities the Caravan had been granted for the purposes of the Dawn Contest. King sighed in relief, flipping the kitchen knife in his hand and withdrawing it up his sleeve.


    Horatio hopped onto his head and chirped.


    "Hm?" King frowned. "Too harsh, you say, Horatio?" He took a step forward onto the edge of the roof once again, scoping out the flooded city before him. "Nonsense. Inadequacy is a lesson a boy must learn -- I can say this from experience. Besides¡­"


    His eyes narrowed as he spotted the dot he¡¯d been looking for, so very far away.


    "...I already have teammates -- and no interest in winning this farce."


    Atoy Muzazi waded through the streets of Pangloss, Radiants ignited on both his palms, the blazing heat evaporating the water where it came close.


    With all the steam rising up, this probably wasn¡¯t the most innocuous way of getting around, but at the same time he couldn¡¯t allow himself to be caught unarmed. The other contestants would be looking for people who had their guards down anyway, and if Muzazi¡¯s suspicions were correct¡­


    "Caravan," he said, his voice commanding. "How long until the Melee commences?"


    "Two minutes," the band answered in its snide little voice. "How about it, Muzazi? You think that¡¯s enough time? Huh? You freakin¡¯ out a little?"


    Muzazi ignored the taunts. Two minutes, then. One hundred and twenty blessed seconds in which he could think freely.


    His current position was disadvantageous, but not debilitatingly so. It was quite viable to stay down here in the flooded streets, where few others would go, and wait out the early stages of the Melee. Ascending to the rooftops at this point would be foolish: long-range combatants would have already claimed that territory. He¡¯d be putting himself in their ideal environment without time to prepare countermeasures.


    And besides¡­


    "If you think you¡¯re sneaking up on me," Atoy Muzazi said, turning to the water flowing down the street behind him. "You should know it¡¯s not working."


    There was no response, save for the sound of gently running water. Muzazi kept his eyes fixed on a specific spot, right outside the ruined mouth of what might have once been a shopping center. A spot where the water did not move quite how it should have.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "One minute!" cried Caravan.


    "You can¡¯t fool me," Muzazi said, still staring. "I know you are there. If you don¡¯t reveal yourself¡­ I¡¯ll simply wait until the Melee begins and kill you."


    Bubbles began to flow up from that spot, one after the other, breath beginning to make itself known. Muzazi narrowed his eyes, and raised a Radiant.


    "Thirty seconds!"


    Bubbles continued to rise. Muzazi took a step back, ascending up the slope at the end of the street slightly, reducing the impact the water would have on his movement. Visibility would be a major concern if he was fighting an underwater enemy, too, especially with his Radiants kicking up so much steam.


    "Ten seconds!"


    But Atoy Muzazi had never had the luxury of choosing his battlefield. He fought when and where the situation demanded. If he needed to dive to the bottom of the ocean to dispatch his foe, he would merely start holding his breath.


    Far up above, fireworks began to flare across the sky. A celebration, or somebody¡¯s ability activating? There was no way to tell.


    "Three!"


    Muzazi took a deep breath.


    "Two!"


    He adjusted his footing.


    "One!"


    The Radiant in his hand flared, and¡­


    ¡­with a mighty splash, the water exploded outwards, the hidden Scurrant leaping at Muzazi. He was some sort of aquatic variant, clearly, with razor-sharp teeth and undulating gills on the sides of his neck. As he flew through the air towards Muzazi, he opened his mouth wide, clearly intending to clamp it down on Muzazi¡¯s head and tear his face free.


    He¡¯d clearly underestimated the difference in strength between them.


    Muzazi pushed one leg back, readied his Radiant and, as he went to slash at his incoming foe¡­ that leg buckled beneath him.


    He only felt the pain a second later. First from the open wound on his thigh -- and then from his shoulder. The shark Scurrant tore out a sizable chunk of flesh as he leapt over Muzazi, the water turning red where he dived back in upon landing. Muzazi put a hand against his injured shoulder as he blasted upwards, thrusters on his feet propelling himself over the water.


    What had happened? He¡¯d been attacked from below to throw off his counter, clearly, but by what? Muzazi glanced downwards, infusing Aether into his eyes to boost his perceptions.


    There.


    Shadows, but clearly visible. Countless tiny blobs, diving down into the water, vanishing from sight a moment later. Some kind of fish? Carnivorous fish, perhaps? That seemed possible, judging from the jagged gashon Muzazi¡¯s leg. With a grunt, he ignited tiny thrusters along the borders of his damaged flesh, cauterizing both of his wounds and preventing further bleeding.


    It seemed this shark-like fellow was done hiding, at any rate. He launched himself out of the water once more, kicking off a brick wall to pursue the ascending Muzazi. Again, he opened his jaws like a bear trap, clearly intending to take a vicious bite.


    That wouldn¡¯t work a second time, especially since Muzazi was no longer in the water -- but surely this man understood that too. No doubt there was a trick to it.


    Muzazi slashed a Radiant downwards at the shark-man as he came into range, but -- as expected -- the Scurrant dodged. The only part of it that was unexpected was his method. The Scurrant suddenly spat a wad of infused saliva upwards while disabling his own infusion for a moment, allowing the momentum to propel him down into the water once more.


    Yes -- a trick. The real attack is the spit.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes were still infused to their utmost, and so he could still see it as the spit sailed past. Swimming inside its depths, like it was a miniature ocean all to itself, were countless tiny fish. Their scales were a dark red, and their mouths were overflowing with fangs.


    Carnivorous organisms, just as Muzazi had thought.


    He slashed, the heat of his Radiant vaporizing the spit, and looked down at the ground with a stern expression. The shark-Scurrant was perched atop a piece of debris poking out of the water -- and now that he¡¯d finally stopped moving for a moment, Muzazi could see that his eyes were jet-black, lacking even pupils. A disquieting glare.


    "Your ability," Muzazi said firmly. "Allows you to introduce carnivorous fish to liquids. I don¡¯t know if you control them directly, but at the very least they don¡¯t attack you. Correct?"


    That also explained something else he¡¯d noticed -- during that last attack, the spit had been aimed at the injury on Muzazi¡¯s shoulder. If it had made contact, would those fish then have manifested inside his bloodstream? It didn¡¯t even bear thinking about.


    The Scurrant scratched behind his ear, a fanged frown on his face. "Even if you¡¯ve figured it out¡­ so what? I¡¯ve already bitten you twice, you know, and you haven¡¯t hit me once. You¡¯re not so tough, Atoy Muzazi."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "You¡¯ve heard of me?"


    A snicker. "You¡¯re famous. But you¡¯re nothing special. Nobody¡¯s ever survived a third bite, you know. It¡¯s impossible. One-hundred percent."


    "One-hundred percent? Splendid." Muzazi swiped his Radiant through the air before him. "I¡¯ll be breaking a record, then."


    The way the Scurrant had said that concerned him, though. A secondary ability, perhaps? One that activated once the user landed three hits, and would enact a penalty on the enemy? He wouldn¡¯t be discovering the nature of that penalty, then. If death was that close to him, he¡¯d have to slay it first.


    Radiant Lustrous!


    Atoy Muzazi had not realized he could do this before experimenting with his Radiant.


    His ability was to create thrusters possessing both heat and propelling force, and attach them to objects. He could adjust both the heat and force of a thruster, and could do so independently for each. That was how he¡¯d created the Radiant -- a thruster with maximum heat and no actual propulsive force, allowing him to swing it like a weightless sword. However, it still needed to originate from an object: in this case, the palm of his hand.


    Indeed, Radiant Lustrous was a technique Muzazi had not considered until he¡¯d begun to broaden his own interpretation of his ability. His thrusters could attach to anything, after all. What exactly was preventing him from attaching them to each other?


    Two thrusters created simultaneously, with each other as their source. The result was simple and astounding -- a spear of white light appeared in Muzazi¡¯s free hand, so bright he couldn¡¯t even look at it directly. Without another word, he hurled it at the shark-man, the projectile tracing a path of white Aether through the air.


    The shark-man barked laughter as he dived backwards into the water, avoiding the Radiant Lustrous, but that was fine. It hadn¡¯t been intended as a weapon, but instead as a delivery mechanism. As the Radiant Lustrous was embedded into the wall, the Aether that Muzazi had infused into it flowed downwards¡­


    ¡­until the very ground beneath them was coursing with his white light.


    This enemy no doubt intended to conceal himself beneath the water again, then leap out and strike Muzazi when his attention was on the wrong spot. Foolishness. He¡¯d been lucky enough to have that tactic work once. He should have been satisfied with that simple miracle and gone home.


    But, Muzazi supposed, it was inevitable that a contest should have losers.


    Radiant Ablaze.


    The water burst into blue light as dozens of Radiants flared into existence beneath its surface, with the ground as their source. Immediately, the water began to bubble and froth, the heat from the thrusters pushing it to its boiling point. High above, Muzazi watched the chaos with cautious eyes, pupils flicking this way and that as he waited for it¡­ as he waited for it¡­


    ¡­there.


    His skin red and burnt, the Scurrant shot out of the water, his mouth open and ready to scream. He never got the chance.


    It was the slightest, subtlest wave of an arm. If one had seen it, divorced from context, they wouldn¡¯t even be able to understand that it was an attack. But it was enough. With that one wave of the Full Moon¡¯s hand, his enemy¡¯s head was cleanly severed from their neck.


    Muzazi watched, his expression grim, as the body and the head alike tumbled back down into the boiling water.


    That¡¯s one more sin for today.


    "Oh," King observed, holding his binoculars up to his eyes. "How vicious!"


    He¡¯d repositioned himself into the board room of a ruined office building. This place had clearly once been extravagant, but time and disaster had taken their toll. The wall of the board room had a huge hole in it, for one, opening it up to the elements -- but curses and blessings often came hand in hand. That also made it an excellent reconnaissance point, after all.


    Behind King, the two unfortunates who¡¯d tried to eliminate him lay dead on the floor, without so much as a wound on either of them. Their electric guitars, the Armaments they¡¯d used to channel the Aether, had been laid respectfully on their chests. King was nothing if not a studious man, after all. His seniors had often taught him to respect the dead.


    "What do you think, Horatio?" King murmured, watching as Atoy Muzazi ignited the thrusters on his feet again, zooming off to his next battle. "Should we move in?"


    Horatio chirped.


    "Quite right," King nodded. "Best to let him tire himself out a tad more. We can keep ourselves concealed until a good opportunity presents itself. It¡¯s not as if we have any interest in winning this thing, after all."


    With another tweet of agreement, Horatio hopped up from King¡¯s shoulder, sitting down upon his head. Such a cheeky creature. King couldn¡¯t help but smile. He endeavored to make honesty his policy and so -- even when speaking to a bird -- he never told a lie. He really had no interest in winning the Inner Melee.


    He and his compatriots had been hired for one purpose and one purpose only: eliminate the Full Moon, Atoy Muzazi, here and now. S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 330:12.11: I, An Innocent, Swallowed By The Waves Of Time

    Atoy Muzazi snatched the sniper bullet out of the air, centimeters from his skull.


    A punchpoint round, specialized for piercing armour and bone alike. Before Muzazi could consider it further, another bang sounded out -- the second shot shattering the rooftop behind him, sending wood and nails flying in every direction. Silver Aether flashed.


    Judging from the direction of the shots, he could tell the source. A bell tower, high up above this district -- indeed, now that he looked, he could see the telltale white sheen of a scope reflecting the sunlight. Whoever this was, they didn¡¯t care about being seen. Presumably they had some sort of defensive measure already set up.


    If so, then he¡¯d already taken steps to bypass it.


    Atoy Muzazi blasted off like a rocket, thrusters flaring beneath him as he zoomed straight for the bell tower. A third shot was avoided as he spun in the air, the bullet whizzing past his ear and off into the distance. The fourth was deflected by a slash from his Radiant.


    With him using his full speed like this, a kilometer could be crossed in around four seconds. The sniper appeared in Muzazi¡¯s vision -- a white-haired woman with an eye patch over one eye and patchwork black armour. Even as Muzazi lunged at her, though, no anxiety appeared on her face.


    It was looking more and more like he¡¯d been right about that defensive ability¡­


    ¡­and indeed, as he slashed, that was confirmed.


    The woman -- and the bell tower -- disappeared from in front of him. Teleportation? Of a sort. He understood it immediately. It wasn¡¯t that they had moved, but instead him. He¡¯d been moved a kilometer back, where the first shot had struck, the bell tower tiny in his vision once more.


    I see, he thought. It activated when I made contact with the first bullet? Whenever I get close to the shooter, I¡¯m recorded and then manifested back here?


    Recording an unwilling opponent was a difficult thing, especially when they were shielded by their own Aether. In order to overcome that barrier, it required quite the surplus of power -- as well as a few conditions to channel that Aether most appropriately. He doubted just touching a bullet would be enough for that. Most likely he¡¯d fulfilled some other conditions without knowing. The environment they were fighting in, maybe? Or his method of approach?


    No matter. Muzazi wouldn¡¯t let it deter him in the slightest.


    Again, he blasted off, crossing that distance and deflecting bullets all the while. Atoy Muzazi became a shooting star. One second, two seconds, three seconds, four --


    -- and again, centimeters from victory, he was sent back.


    Muzazi did not stop. Retaining his previous speed, he flew at the tower again -- and again -- and again -- and again, without the slightest hesitation. The sniper¡¯s face twisted in amusement and disdain as she watched him approach once more.


    "You simple or something?" she asked, lining up her next shot. "It don¡¯t work, dummy! You¡¯re just gonna keep --"


    She didn¡¯t say anything else after that. The reason she didn¡¯t say anything else was very obvious. She had been killed.


    Slowly, she collapsed, her corpse flipping off the edge of the bell tower and tumbling onto the rooftop below. The back of her body was covered in nails, piercing from her spine all the way up to her skull. Death would have been instant.


    Muzazi had never intended to cut her down himself. When he¡¯d avoided the second shot, he¡¯d applied thrusters to the nails that had gone flying -- and while he had served as a distraction, flying at the enemy again and again, the nails had circled the bell tower the long way around. Once they were in position, it had just been a matter of flying them into her from behind.


    That teleportation ability could only be used on one target at a time. Muzazi had gambled on that being another condition -- and it seemed that bet had paid off.


    Not that he had time to celebrate that fact. Before he could even slow his flight down, the section of rooftops before him exploded upwards as a massive Pugnant tore his way free, yellow Aether sparking around him. The sections of rooftop he¡¯d just annihilated fizzled away into that same Aether as well, strands of gold pulled back into his body.


    "Hell yeah!" the Pugnant roared, his eyes and mouth blazing with golden light. "Free XP, bitch!"


    Despite appearances, it seemed this wasn¡¯t an intentional ambush. Muzazi, still moving at an absurd speed, went to swing his Radiant at the Pugnant¡¯s head -- to end this battle before it could even begin.


    If only it were that easy.


    Right before Muzazi could strike the Pugnant, he was hit himself -- not by the massive man he¡¯d been aiming for, but by an arm that had stretched over from all the way in the distance. As Muzazi went flying, struck right on the jaw by the stretchy fellow¡¯s fist, the arm snapped back to its owner.


    The user of the stretching ability, an emaciated man wearing a white vest that hung off his form, cracked his neck. "Don¡¯t let your guard down, bro!" the skeletal man snarled. "That¡¯s the Full fuckin¡¯ Moon!"


    As he landed roughly on the tiled roof, Muzazi transitioned into a roll, bringing himself into a ready position. It was a good thing he did, too -- a second later, several huge hornets zoomed at him from a broken window, fast as bullets. It took all he had to deflect them.


    Two enemies on the roof itself. One had some kind of power to assimilate the destroyed environment, the other altered his own body to become stretchy. Another enemy in the building below -- they controlled some sort of hornet familiars. Three opponents in all -- no, four, five, six¡­


    ¡­he could see them. More and more, climbing onto the rooftops, leaping into the fray. Contestants drawn to this spot by the sound of battle, but more than that.


    Drawn here by the chance to be the one who killed Atoy Muzazi.


    "He really is an admirable sort, isn¡¯t he?" King said, dipping a biscuit into his tea. "Don¡¯t you agree, Horatio? He¡¯s in what one would generously call an unenviable position, and yet he just gets on with it. Good work ethic. Fine determination, too."


    Of course, he¡¯d seen a rather more extreme sort of determination in his own youth, but he supposed that was an unfair comparison.


    King watched through binoculars -- infusing his eyes was unnecessary and a waste of resources -- as Atoy Muzazi faced off against the horde below. It wasn¡¯t nearly as bad as it seemed. Well, perhaps it was, but it wasn¡¯t as bad as it could be. The sheer number of people going against the Full Moon meant they were inevitably getting in each other¡¯s way, creating mini-brawls that relieved some of the pressure from their target.


    Horatio tweeted.


    "Really?" King frowned, crossing his legs as he sat down in the office chair. "I expected this sort of all-out war to take a while longer yet. I don¡¯t even think they¡¯ve noticed yet, have they?"


    Indeed. In contrast to the Outer Melees, which were essentially standard last-man-standing battles in a limited area, the Inner Melees came with special rules. Gimmicks, if one had to describe them honestly. Special conditions that would influence the battle, their exact nature hidden until the Melee had commenced.


    King supposed it was no wonder he was the first one to notice it. He was the only one able to relax and observe, after all.


    The city was slowly sinking.


    Even after the incident ten years ago, when Pangloss had been overrun by hordes of ancient drones that had spilled from the Devil¡¯s corpse, the city had managed to remain afloat. The supports that stretched all the way down to the seabed had remained intact, and so the ruins of Pangloss had occupied the same location as its glory¡­ if a tad flooded. But that state of affairs had come to an end.


    At the moment the Inner Melee had begun, underwater charges had been detonated along those mighty supports, and the city had begun its descent. The backup systems meant it hadn¡¯t gone down immediately, but by now there was no stopping it. Slowly but surely, the waves were claiming Pangloss.


    The city was divided into six districts -- five of which were arranged in a wheel surrounding the sixth, Zenith. Zenith towered over the rest of the city, a place for the ruling class to live -- and the Grand Cathedral at the center of Zenith towered over even the rest. The Inner Melee would end there, without a doubt, inside the massive skeleton that had once been considered one of the galaxy¡¯s most beautiful buildings.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    "A shame, don¡¯t you think, Horatio?" King mused, his sad eyes fixed on the Cathedral¡¯s central spire. "All that history¡­ all those memories¡­ doomed to wash away, and for what? So these fools can play Supreme?"


    Horatio cooed despondently.


    King¡¯s voice was barely audible. "The only real Supreme died a long time ago anyway."


    But that, just like this city, was ancient history. It didn¡¯t bear thinking about. King recovered himself, took a deep breath, and straightened his white tie. If nothing else, a true warrior had to look presentable.


    He raised the binoculars to his eyes again. A wry smile tugged at his lips. The sight below was brutal, but not entirely unexpected.


    This was Atoy Muzazi they were talking about, after all.


    Pant¡­ pant¡­


    Muzazi struggled to regain his breath, his arms feeling like they were weighed down to their limits. Blood, not his own, coated his body. The only sound outside of his ragged breathing was the buzzing of countless flies.


    Apart from him, they were the only winners of this battle.


    The XP Pugnant took up half the rooftop, body engorged beyond recognition. Muzazi had pelted the man with debris until his heart could no longer handle the increase in strength the destruction had granted him.


    The hornet-user lay in two pieces. One hanging off the edge of the roof, the other bobbing up and down in the water below.


    The tiny Scurrant with butterfly wings, crushed against the wall. She¡¯d been fast, but Muzazi had finally struck true with a lightning-fast elbow jab.


    The two-headed Cogitant, decapitated twice. His heads had rolled away in separate directions.


    The assassin with the thin needle-like sword. Muzazi had snatched it out of his hand and run it through him.


    The foil-manipulator who¡¯d tried to scorch him with refracted sunlight. Muzazi had wrapped him up in his own tinfoil sheet, and let suffocation do the rest.


    The fighters.


    The shooters.


    The assassins.


    The lost.


    Dead, dead, dead, dead.


    All around Atoy Muzazi were corpses, the remnants of his good work. Those that hadn¡¯t died here in this massacre had fled, choosing safer battlefields. The Full Moon had certainly shown why he shone so bright. If only it didn¡¯t feel so disgusting.


    "Damnit¡­" the man with the extendable limbs said, slowly rising to his feet. "Damn¡­ you¡­"


    Muzazi turned to look at him. The emaciated man was covered in wounds -- so much that he already looked like a corpse -- but he continued to stagger towards Muzazi all the same. That Pugnant had been his brother, hadn¡¯t he? He¡¯d said.


    If so, then Atoy Muzazi understood.


    He steadied his breathing, igniting Radiants from both his palms as he watched the man approach.


    "If you come within my range," he said softly. "Then I will cut you down."


    Perhaps the man could no longer even hear him. Perhaps all he could hear was his brother¡¯s last gasp of breath, or his collapse onto the rooftop, or maybe even his heart exploding in his chest. Perhaps the real world would never reach his ears again.


    He did not stop.


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "So be it," he muttered -- but as he raised his hand to slay the incoming enemy¡­


    ¡­he collapsed dead to the ground all by himself. An execution -- Muzazi understood it immediately, and he would have been a fool not to. There, buried in the back of the man¡¯s skull, was a silver kitchen knife.


    "My apologies for my indiscretion," a calm voice echoed across the rooftops. "But I¡¯m afraid the bounty only applies if I eliminate you myself."


    Strength.


    A tingle ran down Muzazi¡¯s spine as his body recognised something that could kill it. It was the strangest thing -- he only noticed that the man was there, clearly walking towards him, after he spoke. An old dandy in a black suit with a¡­ was that a bird sitting on his head? S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Name yourself," Muzazi demanded, his Radiant extended.


    The man regarded the blazing sword with mild interest as he pulled the knife free, squinting to protect his eyes from the light. "It¡¯s funny," he mused. "You¡¯d think it¡¯s made of one thruster -- but to grant it proper rigidity, it¡¯s actually the output of several intertwining. Very clever."


    His eyes flicked back to Muzazi¡¯s face.


    "You may call me King, Mr. Muzazi, although it is not my name. My partner here is named Horatio. I¡¯m afraid we¡¯ve been asked to kill you."


    As the tension spiked, as those fatal words were spoken, the bird took flight and fluttered away into the dense urban landscape. It, at least, possessed a functioning survival instinct.


    "Alas, he¡¯s not too faithful," King sighed, watching his so-called partner abscond. "Such is the disloyalty of a bird, you see."


    Muzazi adjusted his footing, Radiant still pointed right at the old man. This person clearly wasn¡¯t like the others Muzazi had just dispatched. There was something¡­ more to him. Some greater presence.


    "King, you say?" Muzazi asked, slowly beginning to circle the man. "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself."


    King smiled thinly. "I¡¯m afraid not. Although the King does have a vital role in the game, it¡¯s by far the weakest piece on the board."


    "False modesty?"


    "It¡¯s the only kind I have." King¡¯s eyes gleamed in the shadow of the bell tower.


    "Well, false monarch¡­" Muzazi said, sliding one foot backwards and raising his Radiant high. "All things considered, I¡¯d say you were better off attacking with the group."


    King¡¯s smile widened, just a tad. "Who said I didn¡¯t?" Then -- before Muzazi could move to stop him -- the old man put a finger to his ear and spoke two more deadly words.


    "Move in."


    They had positioned themselves in the darkness, waiting, not too close but never too far. In old apartments and houses, decrepit corners of the world where nobody would look. Waiting for their order. Waiting for the chance to go wild.


    Four lips spread into four grins, and four mouths spoke four words each.


    "Fusion Tool: Perfect Manifest."


    The apartment, already stripped bare by long-dead looters, exploded outwards -- and the being that had been using it as a hiding place floated out of the wreckage ominously. Whatever Bishop had looked like before activating his Fusion Tool was irrelevant. This was his true form. This was what his soul looked like.


    A perfect, flawless sphere of black metal, the size of a car, hovering in the air menacingly. It¡¯s perfection was not just in the elegance of its appearance -- it truly was perfect. The geometry of the sphere was brought to an absolute in this form.


    Yes, a perfect sphere -- one that would annihilate anything it touched. This so-called Full Moon was no exception.


    "Fusion Tool: Blast Shadow."


    A cloaked figure, who had joined up with a band of weaker contestants, spoke those words -- and the sudden burst of pressure was enough to smash his so-called comrades against the walls of the street they¡¯d been running down.


    Rook threw off his cloak as the transformation took hold, his Armament cannon fusing with his flesh. The metal spread -- until it became a massive biomechanical monstrosity, consuming the entire left side of his body and covering it in dark steel. Cannons bristled from his new shape, each dripping with acidic fluids, and the long barrel of a gun extended out from the bald man¡¯s eye-socket.


    He sighed in ecstasy -- and took a step forward, crushing the skull of the corpse he walked upon.


    "Fusion Tool: Mount Malaise."


    Unlike most people who used a Fusion Tool, Pawn didn¡¯t experience so much of a change in shape as a change in size. His human body grew until he was the size of a skyscraper, laughing in glee as he watched the world shrink around him. He curled his gargantuan hand into a divine fist. He raised up his massive prosthetic foot, ready to bring it down into the churning waters.


    His long black hair swished around as a gargantuan curtain as he took a thundering step towards the rooftop where King was fighting. Even the leader of this impromptu ¡¯crew¡¯ looked tiny now. Oh, and Atoy Muzazi¡­ even tinier. Even more worthless.


    Finally, finally, finally! Every time he was able to use this power, he felt like he was on top of the world. After so long, blessed relief! After so long, sweet catharsis!


    After all this time¡­ bloody vengeance.


    From his position down in the alleyway, Knight chuckled to himself as he watched the pillars of Aether stretching into the sky -- the telltale sign that his comrades had activated their Fusion Tools as well. Their transformations took so damn long, unlike his. He supposed that made sense, given his ability.


    All traces of Knight¡¯s human identity had vanished with his new form. His limbs were as thin as sticks. His ribcage had warped until it was more like a hollow octagon, guarding the spot where his heart would have been. Even his face had been flattened away to nothing. It was like he was an insect twisted into a humanoid shape.


    But that was fine. That was more than fine. All that stuff had been dead weight, anyway. The only things Knight needed in this world were this almighty speed¡­


    He lowered his body to the ground --


    ¡­and the legs with which to use it.


    -- and vanished.


    Another kitchen knife slipped out of King¡¯s sleeve and fell into his waiting hand. He regarded Muzazi with those cold blue eyes, the pillars of Aether shining behind him and providing a divine backdrop. Slowly, as if cautious he would cut something, he raised that knife in Muzazi¡¯s direction.


    The tip of the Radiant met the tip of King¡¯s blade, and sparks rained down from the contact.


    "I hope you won¡¯t hold such tactics against me," King said softly. "I work to eat, after all."


    Muzazi smiled, despite the drop of sweat trickling down his forehead. He drew his own blade back.


    "Oh, not at all," he said. "I¡¯m sure you need such tactics to survive, after all."


    There was only time for the shortest snort of amusement from King --


    -- before the battle began, and steel met light.

 Chapter 331:12.12: Moonshine

    "I hope you won¡¯t hold such tactics against me," King said softly, knife waving through the air. "I work to eat, after all."


    Muzazi smiled, despite the drop of sweat trickling down his forehead. He drew his own blade back. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Oh, not at all," he said. "You need such tactics to survive, after all."


    King snorted in amusement.


    Sixteen.


    A second. It was enough time for a child to take a single breath. It was enough time for a songbird to let out the tiniest cry. It was enough time for a boot to crackle against gravel but once.


    It was enough time for knife and sword to clash sixteen times.


    An aurora of light and Aether swept across the rooftop as Muzazi and King clashed, twin tendrils of white crawling across their bodies. Muzazi swiped his Radiant at King¡¯s head -- who ducked underneath the blow, choosing not to counter but instead to plunge his kitchen knife into the surface of the roof itself.


    Another Radiant ignited on Muzazi¡¯s free hand, ready to stab at the prone old man, but --


    "Silver Ratio," King intoned.


    -- at the very moment he would have thrust the blade forward, his footing was lost. The roof beneath Muzazi suddenly collapsed, all structure lost in an instant as it went from a construction of tiles and bricks to a simple collection of those same unconnected objects. Thrusters on Muzazi¡¯s feet enabled him to flip backwards -- evading a slash of King¡¯s knife -- but the destruction of the rooftop spread outwards, opening up a massive hole into the pitch-black building beneath.


    There, floating in the air as he watched his enemy warily, Muzazi caught his breath for the first time in this bout.


    He named his ability before the rooftop collapsed -- Silver Ratio. What does it do? After he stabbed the roof, all connection between its components was lost. Disassembly, then? Reducing the target to its base materials? If that¡¯s the case, I can¡¯t afford to let my body be hit even once. Is that an attack he needs that knife to use, though, or can he activate the ability from any point of contact?


    I need to keep my distance.


    King passed his knife from one hand to the other, regarding Muzazi with narrowed predatory eyes.


    As expected, destroying the ground doesn¡¯t do much to throw him off balance -- but it¡¯d be far too pessimistic to call it useless. Skilled as he may be, there¡¯ll be a definite difference in maneuverability when he doesn¡¯t have solid footing to rely on. If I keep him in the air, he has to divide his focus between flying and swordplay.


    Keep him in the air until Knight arrives. And that should be right about¡­


    ¡­now.


    The movement was so fast that it almost seemed like teleportation.


    One second, Muzazi was alone in the air -- and the next, a stick-thin figure had appeared behind him, leg pulled up for a devastating kick. Mandibles clicked together as the newcomer cackled madly, leg coming down like a hammer¡­


    ¡­that never met its target.


    F!


    At the last second, a long thin tendril of purple fog lashed out from within the building and deflected the attack, protecting Muzazi from harm. Through it all, the Full Moon never broke eye contact with King, not even glancing over his shoulder at the thing that had nearly killed him.


    "I¡¯m sorry to say this," he said calmly, looking down at his adversary. "But you¡¯re not the only one who can play unfair."


    The massive perfect sphere that was Bishop paused in the air, his journey towards Atoy Muzazi halted by the man in front of him.


    Marcus Grace sat on the windowsill of an apartment, legs dangling over the river below, calmly polishing his pistol with a handkerchief. His electric-blue eyes glanced up towards Bishop, suspended in the air above the water.. There was nothing but professional dismissal in that gaze.


    "Fair warning," he said calmly. "But if you move any closer, I¡¯m gonna have to kill you."


    Click. He flipped off the safety.


    Rook paused mid-step, his boot crushing the skull of the man beneath him -- before whirling around. With military reflexes, he calmly aimed all of his cannons and barrels at the single man approaching him from down the alley. The single ¡¯old¡¯ man.


    "Who the hell¡¯re you?" he growled, acidic saliva dripping from his lips and sizzling upon the floor.


    Ash del Duran, hands clasped behind him as he walked with a slight hunch, looked up with dull eyes. A shiver went down Rook¡¯s spine. He didn¡¯t know who this guy was, but he knew a killer when he saw one.


    The cannon on his arm began to glow with an eerie green light. "Come on, then," Rook spat smoke.


    Ash cracked his neck, raising his arms and assuming a flexible water stance.


    "Let¡¯s make this quick," he croaked. "I don¡¯t have much time."


    Pawn had intended to head straight for Atoy Muzazi, straight for his revenge¡­ but the power he had in this form was simply intoxicating. He slammed a colossal fist against a nearby skyscraper, savoring the way the structure just gave under his pressure. Excess heat from his movements vented out from his prosthetic foot, his Fusion Tool, incinerating whatever unfortunates still remained below.


    It didn¡¯t matter how much stronger Atoy Muzazi had become. It didn¡¯t matter how much more skilled he might have been. Against sheer overwhelming force like this, there was nothing anybody could do but die.


    His eyes, each the size of a car, swiveled to face the far-off bell tower Atoy Muzazi was fighting at. No, no. He couldn¡¯t lose himself in the thrill of destruction just yet. He had to get over there and crush that worm before that asshole King beat him to it.


    The earth shook as Pawn took another thundering step forward, and --


    "Yo," said Gregori Hazzard, standing on a rooftop next to Pawn¡¯s head, hands plunged into the pockets of his white coat. "You¡¯re pretty big, huh?"


    The only thing that stopped Pawn¡¯s eye from being sliced out then and there was the infusion he poured into his face at the last second. As a result, the wounds that marked his skin -- slowly oozing blood -- were shallow, painful but not life-threatening. All the same, the massive man staggered backwards, seizing hold of the building he¡¯d just punched to keep himself upright.


    Gregori raised an eyebrow at the unsightly display. "All I did was scratch you, dude."


    One hand was out of his pocket now -- if it could still be called a hand. His entire arm had been warped and flattened into a long, sharp blade -- blood dripping from the end. Gregori shook it off onto the rooftop next to him.


    Paper Moon, Gregori Hazzard¡¯s Aether ability, allowed him to flatten and fold anything as if it were made of paper. By utilizing a combination of that folding and his skill at infusion, he could transform various parts of his body into weapons. That was just the simplest application of his ability.


    "Damn it¡­" Pawn seethed, the air rumbling from the mere force of his voice. He clumsily wiped the blood from his face with a hand. "Don¡¯t you make a fool of me¡­"


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    "But it¡¯s so easy."


    Gregori hopped off the top of the roof onto a jutting-out length of rubble, strolling across it like a pirate walking the plank. He stopped at the end of the protrusion, at eye level with the hunched-over giant, blade-arm extended. Then, the slightest smirk tugged at his lips.


    "I know how much punishment you can take now," he said. "Not very impressive. I hate doing tiring things, so I¡¯m going to eliminate you quick, okay?"


    Those gargantuan eyes narrowed further into a gargantuan glare.


    "You won¡¯t stop me," he whispered. "You won¡¯t stop me from reaching Atoy Muzazi¡­"


    Gregori raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Sounds like a real personal thing. Too bad you couldn¡¯t find someone who cared."


    The tendril of purple fog looped around Knight¡¯s thin ankle, forming a gaseous shackle -- and then smashed him downwards, slamming his body against the rooftop. His yell of pain was nearly drowned out by the shattering of tiles, and the chunks of destroyed architecture slid off the roof and into the water below.


    "You really need to watch your back more, Commander," Morgan Nacht said, hopping out of the hole in the building. The other end of that fog-rope was wrapped around his sword.


    Muzazi didn¡¯t look at him, instead keeping his eyes fixed on King. "That¡¯s what I have you for, is it not?"


    Morgan chuckled. "Oh, you¡¯re too kind."


    The old man called King laughed in amusement, too, twirling his knife between two fingers as he took in the scene before him. Knight had been countered right before he could make his lightning-fast sneak attack, and the rest of his squad was stopped in their tracks as well. This really wasn¡¯t how things normally went -- or how he¡¯d expected them to go in this case, for that matter.


    "So you brought allies in with you?" King asked. "That¡¯s a surprise. I¡¯d heard you were a bit more straight-laced than that."


    Muzazi¡¯s frown deepened. Despite how successful this gambit had been, he still couldn¡¯t help but feel deep shame. One couldn¡¯t call this anything but cheating.


    "Three thousand two hundred Outer Melees," he said softly. "It wasn¡¯t difficult to have my men enter and win under false names."


    "And you somehow all got assigned this arena as a group?" King asked. "I find that difficult to believe."


    "There¡¯s a procedure for a contestant to request a specific battlefield -- given they meet some conditions first," Muzazi said. "It¡¯s a long-forgotten piece of legislation, but my comrade here is adept with that sort of thing."


    Morgan strolled across the roof towards his prone opponent, wrapping the fog tighter around his blade. He winked at King.


    "Sorry," he said. "But I¡¯m a little bit of a bastard like that."


    Yes¡­ Muzazi thought. These forgotten laws¡­ disgraceful.


    He couldn¡¯t help but think of the sin that was looming in his future. The one he wanted to avoid at all costs. The one more and more he feared he wouldn¡¯t be able to.


    "Well, that¡¯s very interesting to know," King said, knife falling back into his firm grip. "To think you¡¯d go to all that effort just to counter me and my men."


    In actuality, while they¡¯d expected someone to target Muzazi, this plan had been put together more than anything just to ensure his own victory. The Phases would work as a team to eliminate the rest of the contestants, and then they would all surrender bar Muzazi, making him the winner by default. Repulsive yet effective.


    Something interesting, though¡­ King hadn¡¯t known about that forgotten piece of ruling, so he hadn¡¯t used it to have himself and his men assigned here. Another method, then? Someone on the Organizational Committee had pulled the strings for him?


    Don¡¯t concern yourself with that now.


    Muzazi pulled his Radiant back.


    You can find out all about it once you¡¯ve defeated him.


    "Knight," said King calmly. "Get the subordinate out of here."


    Bang.


    With a flash of red Aether, the one called Knight leapt up and kicked off the ground, setting off at an absurd speed into the distance. Morgan, connected to the fused warrior by the fog-rope, grimly kept hold of his sword as he was pulled along, his feet kicking up a torrent of shredded tiles where they skidded against the ground. Even as he was pulled away, though, his eyes flicked back to Muzazi and he called out:


    "Don¡¯t die until I get back!"


    Muzazi glanced at the young man for the first time as he was dragged out of sight. "The same to you."


    King cocked his head, his knife gripped backhand, adjusting his footing as he prepared to resume his attack. Muzazi watched him intently -- in what form would the assault come? More attempts to stab, or something more indirect? Had he perhaps been preparing an attack through seemingly innocuous movements this entire time?


    An Aether battle was a clash between opposing paranoias. The one who let their guard down first lost.


    "Is that really alright?" King asked, jerking his head in the direction that Morgan had left. "I¡¯ve only known this Knight for a short while, but he¡¯s no slouch in combat. What will you do when your second-in-command is slaughtered?"


    Muzazi smiled. "Morgan won¡¯t lose," he said -- more confident in that than his own victory. "It¡¯s impossible for him to lose to some hired gun. He has desires to fight for greater than your petty wish to get paid."


    For the first time, that slight smile dropped from King¡¯s lips, and he looked at Muzazi with a dull and merciless glare. White Aether crackled along the surface of his knife. With a voice closer to a growl than his previous dignified cadence, he spoke.


    "That¡¯s self-delusion," he said coldly, as if Muzazi had insulted him personally. "Reason, ideals, dreams¡­ all of them are meaningless. One person will get unlucky and die. That¡¯s all there is. That¡¯s all there¡¯s ever been."


    A chill ran down Muzazi¡¯s spine.


    It was clear now that, until now, this man had just been playing with him. Testing him, gauging his strengths and weaknesses, preparing himself¡­ but now that was over. That look in his eyes, that bottomless abyss of blue -- it told Muzazi only one thing, loud and clear. The moment this man got a chance¡­


    ¡­he would murder him.


    Marcus aimed his pistol at the incoming perfect sphere, balancing on the windowsill. Bang bang bang -- three shots bounced harmlessly off the sphere¡¯s chassis. He clicked his tongue as the enemy continued their inexorable approach.


    "Looks like this might be tricky," he said, his gaze steady and unyielding.


    He allowed himself to fall backwards through the window into the building -- and continued his strategic retreat as the perfect sphere tore through the room behind him. He ran calmly, arms pumping, mind racing. First thing first -- he had to find this thing¡¯s weakness. Its imperfection.


    Ash charged down the hallway, weaving through the barrage of incoming acid shots, eyes closed as he allowed the air pressure to guide him. Each shot missed by mere centimeters, stray drops sizzling at his clothing, but never reaching his skin. In two seconds, Ash del Duran crossed the entire distance between himself and his enemy¡­


    ¡­ and slammed his palm into their chest.


    Black Timer.


    This was not an Aether technique.


    With a mighty roar, vomit-green Aether sparking around his teeth and tongue, Pawn threw his fist at the tiny pest before him -- and that tiny pest immediately vanished. Pawn¡¯s face spread into a massive giddy grin. He¡¯d done it! Had he done it? Had he sent the bastard flying?


    Pain.


    Pawn looked down at the hand he¡¯d just struck the building with -- and saw that it could only generously be called a hand. Each finger, individually the size of a train carriage, had been cleanly severed at the knuckle, blood pouring copiously from the four wounds. The digits splashed into the rising water below.


    "W-Wha¡­" Pawn gaped uncomprehendingly. "What?!"


    The answer came quick.


    "Like I said," Gregori replied, standing on Pawn¡¯s shoulder, speaking right into his ear. "You¡¯re easy to kill."


    "Hahahaha!" Knight laughed cheerfully, his running form a blur as he sped across the rooftops, pulling Morgan along with him. "What¡¯s wrong, what¡¯s wrong, Morgan Naaacht? Can¡¯t keep up? Can you not keep up, Mooorgan?"


    Even as he flailed through the air, having long since lost his own footing, Morgan couldn¡¯t help but let a wry smirk cross his lips. This bastard sure was running his mouth. It was like he was drunk on his own speed.


    Well¡­ Morgan didn¡¯t mind fighting a drunkard. It made them stupid.


    He planted his hand against the rooftop beneath him, ignoring the way the skin was scraped off his palm, and spoke one letter inside his mind.


    I!


    King clutched his knife in both hands and lowered his body to the ground, his glaring eyes fixed intensely on Muzazi. His pupils were pinpricks, his face set into the countenance of a murderer. White Aether ran between his lips as he spoke.


    "Fusion Tool," he declared. "Zarathustra."


    Muzazi watched intensely as the old man was consumed by a pillar of white Aether, readying himself for the attack that would surely come. He¡¯d anticipated someone would try to eliminate him during the Inner Melee, but the weapons these people used meant it was the party he¡¯d least wanted it to be. The creator of the Fusion Tools: Gretchen Hail.


    The woman who¡¯d certainly been killed, but was definitely still alive.


    Very well, Muzazi thought, raising both Radiants up from his palms. Let¡¯s have you tell me all about her¡­ King!


    And then, without waiting another moment, he swooped in and slashed at the glowing pillar.

 Chapter 332:12.13: Moonburst

    A moment.


    In that moment, time seemed frozen. Droplets of water hung still in the air, made incandescent by reflection, like tiny sparkling marbles. Debris hovered over the river below, floating there in the last instant before the splash. White Aether spread out through space like spiderweb cracks, crawling out of the pillar that blasted towards the sky.


    And Atoy Muzazi, in that moment, swung both his Radiants -- aiming for bisection -- only to find them suddenly stopped.


    Suddenly caught.


    "Indeed," said King, his voice deepened by his transformation, the slightest note of amusement coloring his menacing tone. "You really are more pragmatic than they say, Atoy Muzazi¡­ although, if you¡¯ll forgive me for saying so, it seems a tad forced."


    Two thoughts crossed Atoy Muzazi¡¯s mind, in that moment before eyelids met.


    He caught it?


    Move!


    Even with his considerable speed, Atoy Muzazi¡¯s body could not react to that command in time. A metal fist slammed into his chest, sending him flying off, flipping end over end from the sheer momentum of the blow. He crashed through the bell tower, reducing the structure to a pile of bricks and broken tile, a booming bong sounding out as the bell itself crashed down onto the rooftops.


    Muzazi landed in a heap on a distant terrace, gasping for air as he slowly -- and painfully -- picked himself back up. His mind raced. sea??h th§× NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    His Radiants had been caught? That wasn¡¯t possible. Fusion Tool or not, the sheer heat his combined blades of light exuded should have been enough to cleanly cut through anything that made direct contact. Even if they were made of metal now, King¡¯s hands should have been no exception.


    Only¡­ that ability of his. Silver Ratio, he¡¯d called it. King had stabbed the rooftop with it, and the area had collapsed into its disparate parts a moment later.


    If Muzazi had been right, and Silver Ratio was the ability to disassemble a target, then that might explain things. Muzazi¡¯s Radiants were made of several intertwining thrusters, as King had speculated. If he could disassemble that combined force into the individual thrusters that made it up, his Radiant could be weakened. His Radiant could be interfered with.


    He dearly hoped that wasn¡¯t the case.


    "Agile in mind and body both," said King. "You truly are the model swordsman, Atoy Muzazi."


    Muzazi turned around -- just in time to parry a kick that would have shattered his skull.


    There, perched atop the railing like a bird of prey, was King. Needless to say, his appearance had changed.


    His Fusion Tool, Zarathustra, had stripped nearly all traces of humanity away from him, leaving him with only his general shape. Skin and clothing had been replaced by solid wood, like he¡¯d been carved directly from a tree, covered in a thin exoskeleton of silver steel.


    As he raised his fist up for his next attack, King¡¯s wooden body creaked -- but even so, the material that comprised his form was unusually fluid, like it was still somehow muscle. Blades -- like those of his kitchen knife -- intersected down the length of each of his fingers and toes, producing structures like claws. White Aether crackled down the length of the blank steel plate that now served as King¡¯s face.


    "You seem surprised," King commented. "I was led to believe you had encountered Fusion Tools before."


    Indeed, this wasn¡¯t Muzazi¡¯s first run-in.


    Fusion Tools -- special Aether Armaments that allowed the user to combine with them, boosting their parameters and abilities. Two years ago, Muzazi had clashed against quite a few of them. Still¡­ the funny thing was, back then, he¡¯d felt as if using a Fusion Tool had somehow made the users weaker. It was as if they abandoned the strength they¡¯d cultivated themselves in exchange for the strength they¡¯d been given, strength they were unused to, and were easily defeated as a result.


    He didn¡¯t get that sense from King. He didn¡¯t get that sense at all.


    Muzazi didn¡¯t reply to King¡¯s taunt. Instead, he simply took a deep breath and prepared his Radiants once again. Even if they were weakened by Silver Ratio, they¡¯d proved they were still capable of blocking the wooden man¡¯s blows. That was all he needed.


    "Have at you," Muzazi growled.


    All his life, Marcus Grace had tried to live the way he was meant to. He¡¯d been a prodigal son, a loyal Special Officer, and a devoted father. It had been his belief that doing things as you were meant to would guarantee peace in the end.


    He¡¯d gone against that principle only twice in his life. The first time, when he¡¯d married Sajha, his father had nearly disowned him for introducing Pugnant blood into their family. Afterwards, Marcus had stuck even closer to his determined path to make up for it. He¡¯d only barely been successful -- especially when Belle was born.


    This was the second time.


    Marcus flipped over the kitchen counter, firing off another sequence of shots behind him as he went. Bang bang bang. As before, they bounced off the shell of the sphere floating menacingly after him, even as the floor and walls were scraped away by mere contact. Six shots now, each aimed at different points, but with the same result.


    I won¡¯t find a weak spot like this.


    "Fool," echoed the enemy¡¯s voice from deep within the sphere. "I¡¯ve already become perfect. No matter what you do, the result will be the same."


    Marcus¡¯ Cogitant-blue eyes narrowed.


    Unless¡­


    He turned back to the wall, blasting a hole in it with an Aether-infused shot, and escaped out into the hallway. As he continued his retreat down the corridor, the wall next to him seemed to fall away, revealing the countless filing cabinets of his Archive. One slid open as he passed it and he plucked a file free.


    A map of the building. He¡¯d done an Aether ping when he¡¯d first gotten here, so he still had a mental blueprint of the layout. Where was the thing he was looking for? There.


    "There¡¯s no point in running," the sphere mocked, picking up speed as it pursued him. "Save your breath and die with dignity. Your demise at my hand is what fate has chosen for you. Be grateful."


    Fate, huh? Marcus had never believed in such a thing. He¡¯d only believed in the path of least resistance¡­ but did that really exist either?


    All his life, Marcus Grace had tried to live the way he was meant to -- and what had it gotten him? The resentment of his sister for an overshadowed youth. A daughter who felt herself unwanted. A son, missing, somewhere in the dark.


    Yes. This was the second time he¡¯d gone against the path of least resistance. To him, being a Special Officer was just his job. He felt no special responsibility or sacred duty. Allying himself with Atoy Muzazi to this degree was certainly not something his job demanded.


    But if there was someone who would help him find his son, no matter what the task demanded, it would be the Full Moon.


    Marcus reached his destination, smoothly turning around as he grabbed the can by the handle -- and hurled its contents over the sphere. Red paint splashed through the air, splattering over the orb, covering its entire front side in crimson. In response, it did little else but chuckle.


    "Graffiti?" it mocked. "That¡¯s the last act of your life, Marcus Grace?"


    It certainly wasn¡¯t. Before the sphere could reach him, Marcus pointed his pistol at the floor and blasted himself an escape route. Jumping down the hole, he couldn¡¯t help but smirk.


    This thing had lost the moment it had called him a fool.


    Winded by the sudden palm thrust, Rook leapt back, his metal legs embedding themselves into the ground where he landed. Gritting his teeth, he pointed his massive cannon-arm at the old man on the other end of the alley. The geezer had just made a big mistake.


    That strike had been strong, but it had also given Rook a chance to read his opponent. He knew a glass cannon when he felt one. If he got one good hit in, this old fart would go down for the count¡­ and in a narrow space like this, getting a hit in wouldn¡¯t be difficult at --


    One.


    Rook hesitated. What was that just now? He could¡¯ve sworn he¡¯d heard something, heard a voice, heard his own voice, laced with terror.


    On the other side of the alley, Ash del Duran¡¯s dry lips spread into a dry smile.


    "It seems you¡¯ve heard it¡­" he croaked, resuming his inexorable approach, hands again behind his back. "Do you know what nature¡¯s most splendid innovation is, friend? It¡¯s fear."


    This novel¡¯s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Rook sneered, firing off a mighty blast of acid at the old man. "I¡¯m not scared of you."


    The acid shot surged down the alleyway, but -- with twin sparks of red Aether -- Ash kicked his way up the wall twice and avoided it. Landing back on the ground, he looked at Rook with dark eyes. He was even closer now.


    Rook found himself taking a single step back.


    Two.


    His eyes widened. There it was again!


    "No, you don¡¯t fear me," Ash del Duran said, cracking his neck. "You¡¯re not nearly wise enough for that¡­ but you do fear death. That is the sole terror that all bodies share. It¡¯s fascinating. A body can recognise impending death, even if the mind remains ignorant."


    He pointed down the alley with a thin, quivering finger.


    "That¡¯s what that counting you hear is. It¡¯s your body attempting to warn you¡­ that you¡¯re about to die."


    Rook swallowed, the gun in his eye socket subtly adjusting its aim -- pointing right towards Ash¡¯s skull.


    "Bullshit," he said.


    Bang.


    Another spark of Aether flashed through the alleyway as Ash del Duran caught the bullet -- and in that same instant of infusion, he hurled it back. Rook had no choice but to leap to the side to avoid the returned projectile -- it slammed into the wall behind him, sending jagged cracks through the brickwork. Arrogant bastard. Pretending he hadn¡¯t seen that coming.


    Three.


    "Shut up!" Rook roared at the voice in his head.


    Ash shook his head. "How sad¡­ your body is doing its best to save your life, and that¡¯s how you treat it?"


    Again, the cannon swung in Ash¡¯s direction. Rook¡¯s temper had long since risen over the boiling point, and so his voice boomed as he screamed: "What the fuck did you do to me, asshole?!"


    Hand still smoking from the friction when he¡¯d caught the bullet, Ash cracked and relocated his fingers. His calm gaze slid over to regard Rook.


    "Black Timer¡­" he explained coldly. "By striking your heart in a particular way, I can cause a disastrous buildup of pressure to occur. For each step you take, that pressure increases. The moment you take your fifth step after being struck with it¡­ your heart will explode in your chest, and your life will end."


    He smiled thinly.


    "This is not an Aether ability."


    Perhaps the old man had been expecting a look of horror to appear on Rook¡¯s face. Perhaps he¡¯d been expecting Rook to beg for mercy. Perhaps he¡¯d been expecting Rook to fall into despair at an inevitable demise.


    "Well¡­" Rook said, his face spreading into a smoking grin, laughter pouring from between his metal teeth. "Hate to disappoint ya, you senile fuck¡­"


    With his free hand, Rook thumped his chest -- and a hatch flipped open, revealing the hollow space in his core.


    "But when I¡¯m like this, I don¡¯t got a heart!"


    Marcus calmly made his way down the scaffolding like a monkey in the jungle.


    This building had been under construction when the disaster that had ended Pangloss had struck. That was why there were still canisters of preserved paint around, and that was why there was enough scaffolding for him to get around the different floors quickly. He had that, if nothing else, going for him.


    Not that it was doing much to help him avoid the sphere. It ignored walls and floors and all other obstacles, sliding right through them like a knife through butter. The sound of collapsing architecture followed after it relentlessly as it pursued Marcus.


    As it zoomed down towards him, clearly intending to crush him between itself and the floor, Marcus kicked off the scaffolding and landed in the main foyer of the apartment building. Disgust trickled over his face as he rose to his feet: he was up to his knees in filthy water here, while the sphere floated menacingly above. It looked down at him, still covered in red paint, almost mocking in the solidity of its geometry as he caught his breath.


    "All that running about," it sneered, voice echoing. "And for what? You can die tired, envious of the perfection before you. That is your reward."


    Marcus said nothing. He just raised his pistol once more.


    "Pathetic," the sphere spat. "Did I not already make it clear? A perfect being has a perfect form. No matter what you try, you --"


    Bang.


    The sphere, for the first time in a good while, stopped talking. Instead, it made a peculiar strangled yelp, like someone was gripping it by a throat that no longer existed. The shot had struck true.


    Marcus smirked to himself -- nothing felt better than being right about a crazy idea.


    "You lost the second you called me a fool," he repeated, calmly reloading his gun. "Don¡¯t underestimate a Cogitant. I could tell from the reverb -- you didn¡¯t turn into that sphere, did you? You turned into something inside the sphere, and that¡¯s where you¡¯ve been talking from. So I started thinking¡­ how were you breathing in there?"


    "Y-You¡­"


    "Answer¡¯s obvious -- an air hole. Probably behind you, where I couldn¡¯t see. I couldn¡¯t be too sure, though. After all, you¡¯re such a perfect round ball. There¡¯s no way to tell the front from the back."


    The sphere seemed to realize just how much it had underestimated its adversary. "The paint¡­!"


    "Yup," Marcus said, raising his pistol once more. "Once I¡¯d marked the front of you, I could be sure you were always turning to face me with that same side -- I could be sure you had a front, and that you were hiding your back. That¡¯s basically it."


    He calmly raised his pistol -- not at the sphere, but off to the side. This ruined foyer, full of broken furniture and shattered glass, had been the last thing he¡¯d needed. A space of convenient angles he could ricochet his bullets off of.


    The sphere cried out, shivering in the air: "W-Wait!"


    Marcus Grace did not wait.


    I¡¯m taking back my family¡­


    He pulled the trigger six times¡­


    ¡­no matter what it takes!


    ¡­and landed six perfect shots.


    Rook laughed boisterously, throwing his cannon-arm up in the air, allowing the acid to spill forth and form into a solid green blade. This guy was obviously agile enough to dodge projectiles, but Rook had yet to meet a man who could survive being chopped in two. Jets of acid bursting from his back to enhance his speed, he rushed forward, now free to ignore the idiot¡¯s useless counting attack.


    Four.


    Five.


    Ow.


    The first thing Rook felt was a sudden reduction in his own weight. Skidding to a halt, he looked over to his cannon-arm -- only to see that it was now lying severed on the ground next to him. It had gone flying off when his bicep had popped like a balloon, sending acid spraying in every direction. He looked dumbstruck at the oozing stump, even as his own acid ate at the skin of his cheek.


    The second thing Rook felt was the pain.


    "You motherfucker!" he screamed, staggering backwards, trying to wipe the acid from the biological parts of his face with his remaining clumsy hand. "I¡¯ll kill you, I¡¯ll kill you! You fucking liar!"


    Still standing at the other end of the alley, calmly watching, Ash del Duran smiled.


    "Liar?" he said, stepping forward. "Sorry for the misunderstanding, but ¡¯heart¡¯ is just the term we Black Timer practitioners use for the part we use this technique on. The original version of the attack was just for the heart, but¡­ you know, things move on. Sorry for the lack of clarity."


    Rage triumphed against pain, at least for a moment, and Rook lunged for the seemingly old man, swinging his remaining fist like a mace. Ash just leaned backwards like he was playing a game of limbo, letting the limb pass over him.


    "Awful, isn¡¯t it?" he muttered. "That feeling¡­ the sensation of running out of time. I think so too."


    Rook shot back a kick that would have split a tree in half. Ash stepped out of the way.


    "You get to thinking¡­ what have you accomplished? What marks have you left, what will you be remembered for? Will you be remembered?"


    With a scream, Rook swung once more -- and hit empty air once more. When Ash spoke again, his voice came from right behind.


    "In the end¡­ what were your fists for?"


    To describe what exactly Ash del Duran did next to the man calling himself Rook would require a lengthy explanation of anti-automatic killing arts devised during the Arcana Crisis, a description of the ¡¯Surgeon Eye¡¯ perception technique, and a step-by-step recap of Ash¡¯s movements when he landed that first palm thrust. As there is not time to do all of this, the killing blow will be summarized as follows:


    Ash del Duran reached inside the man and gently turned him off.


    King slammed his fist into the wall of the bank, missing Atoy Muzazi¡¯s skull by mere inches as he dodged. Muzazi moved back in to counterattack, striking at the arm that was now embedded into the stonework, but --


    Silver Ratio.


    White Aether flooded out through the limb and infiltrated the entirety of the building in a split second. With a bright flash, the structure collapsed around them, all connections between its disparate parts immediately excised. Muzazi was forced to blast himself backwards with a thruster to avoid being struck by the debris -- while King stood there, simply allowing rubble to bounce off his reinforced body.


    He went to crack his neck, only to stop as he remembered he no longer had the same skeletal structure. It was also awkward adjusting to the additional strength Zarathustra granted. With that first attack, King had intended to grab Muzazi and pull him close, but had instead sent him flying off into the distance.


    King had a handle on it now, though -- he knew how much strength to exert to get the result he wanted. In the moment¡¯s peace granted by the building¡¯s collapse, he ran through the next steps in his mind.


    Silver Ratio allows me to designate a specific weapon -- and I can then disassemble targets using only that weapon. By designating a Fusion Tool and combining with it, I¡¯ve now made it possible to use my disassembly from any point of contact on my body. That¡¯s invaluable against this opponent -- once separated into individual thrusters, his Radiants likely lose around 90% of their efficacy.


    But I can¡¯t get cocky. Even if the Radiants are weakened, a direct hit aimed for the right spot could be deadly. It¡¯s probably for the best that I didn¡¯t grab him, then -- all sustained contact means is that he can spawn Radiants that immediately stab through me.


    I can strike with punches and kicks, I can use ranged attacks, and I can manipulate the environment. Stick to those three tools, use them well, and I should be able to eliminate him. He¡¯s already on the backfoot.


    Still¡­ I must admit, I expected more from¡­


    The dust cleared a tad. If King still had a mouth in this form, it would have been grinning from ear to ear. There, floating in the air, was Atoy Muzazi -- even if he was barely visible.


    From his fingers, from his elbows, the backs of his knees, his shoulders, his temples, from everywhere that could fit them¡­ shining swords blazed. Radiants, packed so densely and so strategically that they served as an armour of light. Even moving around in such a form must be incredibly dangerous -- the slightest misstep, and Atoy Muzazi would cut himself to ribbons.


    His stern grey eyes glared down at King.


    "Radiant Horizon," he said.


    Now that was more like it. Without a second¡¯s hesitation, Atoy Muzazi shot forward like a comet¡­ and sliced King in half, right there and then.

 Chapter 333:12.14: Moonscorch

    Caelus Breck


    Jungle Planet


    Supremacy Space


    Three Years Earlier¡­


    The last thing Prescott Rikhail remembered was the pain as Atoy Muzazi cut off his foot.


    The next thing Prescott Rikhail experienced was the pain as Atoy Muzazi cut everything else away, too.


    The bad news came in an endless flood as Prescott lay in the hospital bed, held for endless questioning by the Galactic Intelligence Division. His father, the Lord Mayor, had been killed by Atoy Muzazi. A new Lord Mayor was to be assigned, rather than him taking up his father¡¯s position. The Heart Building -- essentially his house -- had been found nonviable and was to be abandoned. Civil war had broken out between the gangs of Caelus Breck, dragging the planet further down into chaos.


    And all that time, as he lay there, he seethed.


    Atoy Muzazi.


    Atoy Muzazi.


    Atoy Muzazi.


    In a way, he was grateful. It wasn¡¯t that his suffering was a result of bad luck or forces outside his comprehension. There was a name and a face he could blame. There was someone doing this to him. Atoy Muzazi. That fucking Special Officer who¡¯d dropped out of the sky and torn down his life. Whelp. Fucking parasite.


    Things did not improve for him when he was finally released. Without his assets, he¡¯d been left homeless and destitute, wandering the streets of Azum-Ha as little more than a beggar -- but not a beggar, he never begged, he survived. Even when the nights grew cold as ice, and his stomach was a void, he never lowered himself to that degree.


    He had a dream, after all, one that occupied his hours waking and sleeping both. Vengeance. Vengeance upon Atoy Muzazi. It was a petty dream¡­ but even a petty dream could keep someone alive. Humans needed things like that to keep going on.


    It was one of those nights, when he was huddled behind a fast food place¡¯s heat sink, that the angel appeared.


    A young woman, short in stature, with kind eyes and a gentle smile. She had knelt down next to him -- and for a moment, he¡¯d thought she would give him some of her change. He¡¯d have lost it if that were the case¡­ but it wasn¡¯t at all.


    "Poor thing," she whispered. "He hurt you, didn¡¯t he? That Atoy Muzazi."


    His eyes widened at the name, and an animalistic growl poured from his throat. Despite the dignity he¡¯d tried to retain, there was only so much one could do with boiling rage. He was just about to get up when she planted a hand on his shoulder, fingers fizzling with orange Aether.


    "He hurt me too," she explained calmly. "He took someone very important away from me. I want to make him pay."


    She blinked, and the grip on his shoulder grew tighter.


    "Do you want to make him pay?"


    Ocean Hate


    Floating City of Pangloss (Abandoned)


    Supremacy Space


    Present Day¡­


    Prescott Rikhail -- or for the purposes of this mission, Pawn -- roared with a voice that could shatter the sky. As the noise echoed, he swung his gargantuan leg right through another skyscraper and reduced it to a pile of rubble in an instant. Smoke poured up from his prosthetic foot, burning everything it touched. The few traces of vegetation that had survived in Pangloss quickly found itself transforming into ash.


    As the fingers on his injured hand regenerated -- new digits pushing themselves out of the wounds -- Pawn looked around frantically. He¡¯d destroyed all the buildings around him, all the places that blonde bastard could attack him from, but there was no doubt that he was still around. He was an Aether master, after all.


    Yes, Aether¡­


    He himself had only managed to unlock his Aether three months ago after extensive training, and only to a basic degree. However, even that rudimentary proficiency had been enough to use a Fusion Tool -- and that Fusion Tool, Mount Malaise, had been enough to get him through the Outer Melee. With the Aether Armament that Queen had granted him, he could stand up to any opponent.


    Even so, he couldn¡¯t waste time here. While this paperman distracted him, Atoy Muzazi was getting further and further away. If he didn¡¯t get after him quickly, he could escape -- or worse, King could kill him before Prescott got the chance.


    Prescott vaguely remembered this blonde guy¡¯s name from the files on the Phases that King had passed around. Gregori Hazzard, right? Whoever he was, if he wasn¡¯t dead, he was surely trapped under the rubble of this plaza. Prescott could just leave him here and pursue Muzazi.


    He took another step forward, shaking the earth¡­


    Blood splashed out from his heels. S§×ar?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡­and he immediately fell on his face, shaking the earth again.


    I.


    Inside.


    Morgan Nacht¡¯s latest ability -- a transportation type, able to instantly record and manifest himself Inside a sealed space of his choice. In this case, the building beneath him. Morgan dropped down into what had surely once been a child¡¯s bedroom, now ruined and scoured by fire and water.


    The Fog had disappeared when Morgan had broken the connection, but he could still hear the speedster¡¯s footsteps above, circling the spot from where he¡¯d vanished. That was good -- that meant he wouldn¡¯t be going back after Muzazi.


    No doubt that King guy¡¯s subordinate¡¯s had received similar orders to the Phases: delay the enemy. If that was the case, the running man wanted to keep Morgan here too. So he wouldn¡¯t break off pursuit.


    Morgan considered his options. With the speed that guy had been moving, there was no way he¡¯d seen the exact moment Morgan had vanished, so he¡¯d still be looking for him. How long would it take him to find this room? Probably not too long, but even so Morgan would be able to hear his footsteps. A surprise attack was not out of the question.


    He nodded to himself. Better to fight this guy in these cramped quarters where his movement was limited. Even if he was fast, if he could only move in certain ways he could be easily anticipated.


    Morgan took a step forward, flipping his sword in his hand --


    -- and then went flying backwards as a small fist struck him in the face.


    He hit the wall, tearing free a farball poster, and collapsed down onto the sodden floor. His sword slipped from his grip and landed next to him -- where he could only watch, horrified, as the blur of a foot slammed down on it again and again. Within a second or two, it was little more than a pile of shattered metal.


    Morgan leapt to his feet -- but before he could so much as touch the ground, he¡¯d been seized by the ankle and hurled into the opposite wall. The surface was weak, and so Morgan¡¯s body smashed through it and tumbled towards the river below.


    Bastard! Morgan thought. He wasn¡¯t this fast a second ago!


    Throwing his wrist forward, Morgan conjured another string of Fog and latched onto the overhang above, pulling himself up towards the roof. He was just in time. An instant afterwards, the blur launched itself out of the hole in the wall too, striking at the spot Morgan had just been in -- before falling down into the water.


    Splash.


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    The thing¡¯s swimming speed was so fast that Morgan couldn¡¯t even tell which direction it went. The water just exploded upwards, droplets raining onto the roof even as he climbed atop it. He caught his breath as much as he felt was safe.


    Whatever¡¯s going on, Morgan thought, looking around warily. It¡¯s not just speed. It¡¯s acceleration.


    That was right. When the enemy had first tried to sneak attack Muzazi, he¡¯d been so fast that Morgan almost hadn¡¯t caught it. Then, however, he¡¯d been fast, but not so fast that Morgan hadn¡¯t been able to keep track of him. And now he was just stupid fast again.


    A. C.


    Another burst of Fog drifted out of Morgan¡¯s hand, forming into a rudimentary broadsword in his grip. It wouldn¡¯t be as effective as a physical object, but it was better than nothing. Morgan held the sword up, ready to counterattack, his back pressed against the building¡¯s chimney. He already knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to see the attack coming, but if he struck the instant he felt pain¡­ he just might have a chance.


    If Morgan was right, then the enemy¡¯s ability worked like so:


    They begin at a speed far exceeding that of a human being.


    The longer they continue moving, the faster they get.


    If they stop or hesitate, their speed returns to its base value and the ability resets.


    Sweat ran down the back of Morgan¡¯s neck as he waited, blade ready, for the blow that surely must come. Was there an upper limit to the speed? If there wasn¡¯t, then Morgan was fucked. The enemy could just keep running around, building up their momentum, until they were so fast that Morgan couldn¡¯t hope to get them.


    Breathe in.


    It began to gently rain. Morgan welcomed the chill against his skin.


    Breathe out.


    He could hear the rain, bouncing against the water below. Morgan tightened his grip against his sword, tendrils of Fog curling around his fingers.


    Breathe in.


    In a shard of broken window, Morgan¡¯s reflection was visible. He¡¯d seen better days. Blood was trickling down his face, and his skin was turning pale.


    Breathe out.


    But that didn¡¯t matter.


    Breathe in.


    He had a plan.


    Breathe out.


    No.


    Breathe in.


    He had a victory.


    Breathe out!


    Wu Ming glanced back over his shoulder.


    "Huh? Combat tips? I dunno¡­ I don¡¯t think too hard about that stuff. It mostly just comes natural, you know? Just win. That usually works."


    ¡­


    "Hey, don¡¯t give me that face. You¡¯re the one who asked. Well, lemme think, lemme think¡­ I guess people always say to think outside of the box, right? That¡¯s pretty good. But¡­"


    ¡­


    "...personally, I don¡¯t really get why they keep talking about this ¡¯box¡¯..."


    ¡­


    "...don¡¯t they realize it never existed in the first place?"


    Knight would have grinned to himself if he still had a mouth. He could feel the wind whipping against his brown carapace, could feel the rain sliding off his form, unable to keep up. He¡¯d been circling the rooftop again and again, building up speed, so fast that he was no longer visible.


    In about ten seconds he¡¯d reach a speed that couldn¡¯t be reacted against. Then he¡¯d go in for the kill.


    Knight¡¯s absurd speed was the result of something like an Aether glitch. His normal ability was to always move slightly faster than the fastest object in the vicinity. With it, he could outrun vehicles and bullets with ease. Fast, by all means, but not unstoppable.


    However, when he combined with his Fusion Tool -- Gallant Gallop -- things changed. It seemed that, even though he and Gallant Gallop became one entity, his ability still recognised them as two separate targets. As a result, his ability was constantly active, always making him slightly faster than himself -- resulting in this endless acceleration.


    Queen had been quite excited about this result. Perhaps she thought it a display of her Fusion Tools¡¯ infinite potential. Knight couldn¡¯t help but agree.


    And then¡­ just as he had expected¡­ the fatal moment came.


    Morgan Nacht swung his smoke-sword, clearly having spotted the afterimage of an afterimage -- and, of course, he missed, hitting nothing but the ground. His last gambit had failed, and as he stepped forward -- away from the chimney -- to make it, his back was left wide open.


    Knight wasn¡¯t kind enough to overlook that.


    In a fraction of a fraction of a second, Knight weaved around Morgan, ducked under his arm, lunged for his back to run him through and --


    -- stopped.


    "Eh?"


    He only had time to glance down at his foot. There -- encasing it like some kind of bizarre shoe -- was a white cube.


    Morgan swung around, whipping his massive sword through the air.


    He could have explained that he¡¯d pushed all of his infusion into his brain, boosting his perception of time to its limit. He could have explained that he¡¯d positioned a Block directly behind himself. He could have explained that he¡¯d intentionally missed that first slash, creating an opening that Knight surely could not resist. He could have explained that, at the very last instant of an instant of an instant, he¡¯d used I to put Knight¡¯s foot Inside the Block, halting his momentum for just a moment.


    He could have explained all of that, but he didn¡¯t. All he did was swing his sword and send Knight¡¯s head flying off his body.


    As the enemy¡¯s decapitated corpse crumpled to the ground, Morgan let out a breath he¡¯d been holding for a long while. His broadsword of Fog dissipated, and he stared at his scraped-raw palm as the last tendrils drifted away.


    "¡¯Just win¡¯, huh?" he muttered to himself, smiling softly. "I see. It¡¯s exactly as you said, sir."


    The bloody rain fell down without end.


    "...were you watching?"


    "D-Damn it¡­" Prescott rasped, pushing himself across the ground -- leaving a trail of crimson behind him. "G-G-Goddamnit."


    He¡¯d returned to normal size now, green Aether fuzzing around his prosthetic foot as his Fusion Tool failed to reactivate. That prosthetic was the only leg Prescott had now. The other one had been severed in Gregori Hazzard¡¯s relentless assault, along with one of Prescott¡¯s arms. The severed limbs sunk down into the water below.


    Gregori followed casually after the dying Prescott, hands back in his pockets. There wasn¡¯t so much as a scratch on him. His red eyes looked disdainfully down at Prescott as the man continued trying to drag himself onwards.


    "Hey," he said.


    Prescott did not reply. He reached out with a shaking hand and seized the edge of the pavement, pulling himself further -- until Gregori took his hand back out of his pocket for a second.


    It was impossible to even see the moment Gregori cut off Prescott remaining arm. By the time the man started screaming, Gregori¡¯s hand had already returned to his pocket.


    "Hey," Gregori repeated calmly. "I¡¯m talking to you."


    Damnit, damnit, damnit¡­! In the distance, Prescott could see Muzazi -- see him fighting King, see them smashing through buildings as their bout escalated. He was so close! He was right there!


    "Muzazi¡­" he snarled, eyes bulging out of their sockets. "Atoy Muzazi¡­!"


    Squatting down, Gregori followed Prescott¡¯s gaze and sighed. "I see. So it¡¯s a revenge thing, huh? Man, I really don¡¯t get people like you."


    "Out of my way¡­" Prescott pleaded, begged, demanded. "I need to¡­ to¡­"


    "Need to?" Gregori raised an eyebrow. "Nah. You didn¡¯t need to do anything. You wanted to kill him, right? I just don¡¯t get why."


    "I¡­ I¡­"


    Gregori cut him off. "He did something that pissed you off, right? It¡¯s usually something like that, but still. I really just don¡¯t understand how you can go throwing your life away for stuff like this, man. Doesn¡¯t make any sense."


    What amounted to strength finally abandoned Prescott, and he was unable to do anything but stare up at the sky -- at Gregori, whose face blocked out the sun. Silhouetted like that, all Prescott could see of him were wide and empty red eyes. They stared down at Prescott as that calm and lethargic voice went on and on.


    "Love, hate, duty, revenge, ideals¡­ it¡¯s not just that that stuff¡¯s invisible. It¡¯s not even worthless. It doesn¡¯t even exist. If it existed, I could reach out and take hold of it, right? And yet dumbasses like you go around killing and dying for this stuff that isn¡¯t even real. Whatever happened, you survived, didn¡¯t you? You should have been satisfied with your little miracle and sought out a comfortable life."


    Those eyes narrowed.


    "That¡¯s the best a miserable human can hope for¡­ don¡¯t you think?"


    He gave no time for Prescott to respond, nor did Prescott have the strength to. Gregori simply walked away, casual as could be, strolling up the staircase into the city proper. Prescott just lay there, his ragged breathing growing quieter and quieter¡­


    Atoy Muzazi¡­


    Atoy Muzazi¡­


    A¡­ toy¡­ Mu¡­ za¡­


    ¡­until the rising water climbed over his face.

 Chapter 334:12.15: Moonfall

    Atoy Muzazi, clad in armour of light, watched his good work conclude.


    Without a single drop of blood, King¡¯s top and bottom halves went flying off in separate direction, flipping through the air, seemingly helpless --


    "I see," mused King. "So that is what your sword tastes like¡­ Atoy Muzazi."


    -- until they snapped back together.


    Kicking off the rooftop, King lunged at Muzazi once more with a metal fist -- and Muzazi twisted his body to block it with Radiant Horizon. Even if Silver Ratio reduced the individual efficacy of each Radiant, packing them together like this would compensate for the difference. The fist collided with the countless blades that covered Muzazi¡¯s arm¡­


    ¡­and then, as each and every Radiant flicked out of existence, that fist kept going. It smashed into Muzazi¡¯s forearm, shattering the bone, and sent him flying up into the sky. His arm flapping uselessly in the wind, Muzazi frantically ignited more thrusters in an effort to stop his flight, to steady himself -- and he quickly succeeded. He was skilled, after all.


    But that didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t too late.


    As Muzazi stopped in the sky, King appeared before him -- the product of insane speed -- arms raised up as if to spike a volleyball.


    His fists, however¡­ were missing. No. Muzazi¡¯s eyes flicked upwards. He could see them. He could see King¡¯s fists.


    They were up even higher, severed and thrown with great force, tiny dots in the sky above.


    What on earth¡­?


    Atoy Muzazi did not know this, but it was possible for a Fusion Tool to have an ability outside of combining with its user. Zarathustra was one such Fusion Tool.


    King¡¯s ability, Silver Ratio, allowed him to destroy the connections between objects. By destroying the connection between Muzazi and his Radiants, King had now learnt that he could disable them as easily as flicking a switch. That was how he¡¯d easily overcome Radiant Horizon.


    Zarathustra¡¯s ability was to repair any connection that Silver Ratio had destroyed. Once King combined with it, he could command that technique as if it were his own.


    It wasn¡¯t that Muzazi had cut him in half. King had destroyed the connection in his own torso with Silver Ratio, allowed Muzazi to fly through the gap between his top and bottom halves, and analyzed the structure of his Radiants as they passed through. Then, he had simply used Zarathustra to repair himself.


    Now, a similar phenomenon was taking place. King had destroyed the connection between his hands and arms, flinging the manipulators up into the sky. With Zarathustra, he was once again repairing those connections -- and those fists were zooming back down, building up momentum as they went. At the very instant they snapped back into place, King slammed them downwards, right into Atoy Muzazi¡¯s chest.


    He did not have time to take even a single breath.


    It was like a meteor falling to the earth.


    To an outside observer, Muzazi became a ray of white light, a sonic boom pounding out as he crashed directly into the great Cathedral at Pangloss¡¯ heart. A great geyser of debris, stone and glass, flew up -- the remnants of the Cathedral¡¯s west wing -- demolished utterly by the introduction of Atoy Muzazi. Very few people in the galaxy could have survived such a blow.


    Luckily, Atoy Muzazi was one of them. But that was all the luck he was getting.


    He lay there, body screaming in pain, at the center of the Cathedral. Broken stained glass had sliced at his skin, and shattered stone had battered his body. He knew without checking that now he¡¯d broken far more than just his arm. When he breathed, it didn¡¯t feel right at all.


    All around him, looking down, were statues of the Seven Spearmen -- the bringers of the apocalypse in Superbian scripture. How appropriate. With the parts of his body he still had confidence in, Muzazi began picking himself up¡­


    Thump.


    ¡­ when he was interrupted by the sound of someone landing behind him. Slowly, he turned his head.


    "Still alive? You do yourself credit."


    In the broken window, silhouetted by the flashing red lightning of the growing storm, stood King. In sheer contrast to Muzazi, he bore not a single scratch on his body. Alarm rose to the forefront of the Full Moon¡¯s brain -- now that he thought about it, had he managed to land a single blow against this man?


    Anxiety he hadn¡¯t felt in a long time crawled through Muzazi¡¯s lungs. He¡¯d considered this man a particularly strong mercenary, but what he¡¯d seen so far went far beyond that. When he looked at King now, he got the same feeling he¡¯d got when he¡¯d seen the Contenders. Not just from his strength, but from the way he stood, carried himself.


    Muzazi¡¯s bleeding hand curled around a jagged blade of broken glass, pulling it out of his side. sea??h th§× N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Just who was this man?


    The Shesha


    The Very Center of the Universe


    Supremacy Space


    One Hundred Years Ago¡­


    Levis bowed low, white hair brushing against the floor, as the man as good as god elevated him.


    At the edge of his vision, Levis saw it -- a golden sword of light. First, it tapped against his right shoulder, then his left. It barely even qualified as contact, but Levis could feel the power flowing into him, strands of gold peeling off the blade and winding into his body. Even his breathing seemed to grow stronger as he kneeled there.


    Levis. He had no surname -- no family to give him one, nor any interest in claiming one. The boy of fourteen had already decided he would be known only by his deeds. He¡¯d been carrying them out as a wanderer, righting wrongs where he found them. Names and titles were unnecessary.


    He would accept only this one, granted by the Supreme himself.


    Levis of the Purity looked up as the ceremony concluded, the Supreme retracting the Hero-Light as he took a step back. The leader of the Supremacy was a tall and stoic man, golden Aether crawling through his long dark hair and glinting behind his Cogitant-blue eyes. The plate armour he wore was just as radiant as his Aether -- and it glowed, bright enough that the massive halls of the Shesha were enveloped in light wherever he went.


    "That¡¯s it?" Levis asked, looking up at the Supreme.


    The Supreme raised an amused eyebrow as he returned to his throne. "You expected more?" he asked.


    Chuckles sounded out from some of his new comrades in attendance. Levis looked back down at the floor, face quickly turning red. He¡¯d forgotten his place already -- a bad habit. To talk back to the Supreme¡­


    "I don¡¯t like ceremony," the Supreme said honestly. "Even this is a little too much for me."


    He held out a finger from his gauntlet and allowed a merefly to land there. The insect shook the moisture from its wings, clicking in contentment. This throne room was cultivated like a garden, teeming with life even when it would become inconvenient. Indeed, more than a few of the merefly¡¯s fellows buzzed around Levis¡¯ sweat soaked hair as he knelt down.


    The Supreme continued: "The thing that matters to me is the action actually taken, not how you dress it up or justify it. I don¡¯t care if a person is saved by carrying them out of a fire or pulling them out of the water or stopping the person trying to kill them. All I care about is that the person is saved."


    It was strange. When Levis had been told the Supreme had wanted to meet him, had wanted to reward him for his heroic deeds, he¡¯d expected a more intimidating person. A man of stone, to be sure.


    But he seemed bizarrely ordinary. His voice wavered as he talked, as if he wasn¡¯t fully confident in the words he was saying. Even that golden armour of his seemed to be just a little too big on him.


    You¡¯d think him a fraud, if not for the resolve in his eyes.


    "You are Levis of the Purity now," the Supreme said firmly. "That is the result I am interested in. The Purity will grant you complete immunity from all attacks that target the inside of your body. It¡¯s a hallowed temple. Your other abilities will of course experience a significant boost as well. That is the contract we three have made -- you, I, and the Hero-Light."


    The light shifted over the Supreme¡¯s face, and he smiled softly.


    "In exchange¡­ show me great things, Levis. I expect it of you."


    When Levis had been called to join the Supreme¡¯s Heroes of Form, the sixteen warriors dedicated to upholding truth and justice within the Supremacy, even he had his doubts. He¡¯d heard talk of their virtue, their mighty deeds, their strength of character¡­ but a tiny part of him had always resisted believing it. Such people couldn¡¯t exist, surely. Their universe wasn¡¯t one that permitted such unrepentant goodness.


    But he was proven wrong, and wrong, and wrong, and wrong.


    On Aliasa, he joined forces with Jail of the Stoicity and saved a colony from a horde of Walking Churches.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    On Werghio, he worked with the famous twins -- Gala of the Ferocity and Pippa of the Fidelity -- to evacuate citizens before a meteor strike.


    On Mer-fu-ren, he and Shinji of the Necessity cut down countless pirates and rescued the captives they had taken.


    Again, and again, and again, they corrected wrongs. In time this would come to be known as the Golden Age of the Supremacy -- but the Supreme himself would never accept that. His work was never done.


    "So long as someone out there is suffering," he once said wistfully, looking over the remnants of the battlefield. "Our world is far from golden."


    And with those words, even Levis had been forced to admit¡­


    ¡­such people did exist.


    The Shesha was alive with the sound of screaming.


    Levis sprinted down the hallway, sweat pouring down his face -- the usually brightly-lit environment now dark and foreboding. Sweat was not the only thing he¡¯d been covered with. Blood, vivid and crimson, coated one side of his body. It had belonged to Pippa of the Fidelity.


    Loyal Pippa. Dutiful Pippa. She had tried to save her Supreme, and the fruit of her efforts now stung at Levis¡¯ nose and crawled across his tongue. Incoherent targetless sobs poured from Levis¡¯ throat as he ran, childishness he thought he¡¯d abandoned rearing its head once again.


    At least she had tried.


    Coward. Coward. Coward. Coward. Coward.


    The words he told himself seemed to bounce off the walls, whispered by unseen judges in the dark. His arms hurt. His legs hurt. How dare he complain of pain? At least he was alive. At least he hadn¡¯t been eaten.


    The images flashed through his mind over and over again.


    That man breaking into the throne room. His face like a toad, his pupils black as night, his bloody teeth spread out into an ecstatic grin. The Supreme rising to face him. The Supreme¡­ falling. The Supreme being eaten¡­ devoured¡­ torn limb from limb¡­


    ¡­the warped Supreme floating behind his new master, awakened and brought to heel, shining with an eerie red light. His flayed form wrapped in chains. His blinded eyes stabbed by nails. His twisted body writhing.


    And then the running.


    He had to get away. He had to help. He had to get away. He had to help. He had to¡­ he had to¡­ he didn¡¯t know what to do. He wanted to live. Could he live? Was it even acceptable for him to live, when he¡¯d run past so many corpses? His comrades¡­ his friends¡­ half-eaten and thrown away.


    Was it alright for him to even keep breathing?


    The tears stung at his eyes to such a degree that he didn¡¯t even notice the woman until she planted a hand on his shoulder. Screaming, he whirled around -- slipping on blood, collapsing to the floor, holding his hands up in a vain attempt to protect his face. Slowly, when no killing blow came, he peeked out from between his fingers.


    Yerha of the Authority was out of breath as well, her hands on her knees, her face a bright red. The older woman ran a hand over her shaved scalp as she stood up, supporting herself against the wall. She was covered in blood as well -- and not all of it belonged to other people.


    She¡¯d been hit.


    "You always were fast," she rasped, blinking rapidly. "Did anyone else get away?"


    Levis shook his head, his throat aching with held-back tears. "No¡­" he whispered. "Everyone else¡­ everyone else who was in the throne room¡­ I think they¡¯re dead¡­ who was that? Who is that person?!"


    The demon who¡¯d torn down the Golden Age. The cannibal who¡¯d ripped the hero apart. The monster who¡¯d devoured Levis¡¯ life.


    "I guess¡­ that¡¯s the new Supreme¡­" Yerha said bitterly, slumping down to the ground.


    Levis shook his head, rising to his feet on trembling legs. "No!" he said. "No! We -- we can get away, we can¡­ put together a plan, think of something, take him out! Avenge everyone!"


    Yerha seemed to consider it for a moment¡­ but then she took her hand away from her stomach, stared at the blood dripping from between her fingers, and smiled ruefully.


    "I don¡¯t think that¡¯s happening, kid¡­" she said. "Besides¡­ getting away is easier said than done."


    "What do you mean?" Levis asked, trembling.


    "That glutton¡¯s ability¡­" Yerha sighed, her breath heavy and bled. "...I don¡¯t know the particulars, but it looks like he gains control over the Aether of those he eats. He ate G¡­ he ate the Supreme, right?"


    Levis¡¯ eyes widened. "Right¡­" his voice trailed off -- he¡¯d already followed the train of thought to its awful final station.


    Yerha nodded. "He¡¯s got the Hero-Light, then -- we¡¯re all connected to the Supreme through it. There¡¯s no shortage of nasty things he could do to us with that connection."


    "But¡­" Levis grasped at straws. "I-If he could do that, we¡¯d be dead already!"


    "Only because he thinks he might get the chance to eat us too if he lets us run around. As soon as he figures that ain¡¯t happening, he¡¯ll get rid of us. Straight away."


    "But¡­ but¡­" Levis paced back and forth, hands clawing at the air desperately. "There has to be something we can do!"


    That sad smile returned to Yerha¡¯s pale lips, and she turned her head towards the ground. "There is, kid¡­" she mumbled. "...and that¡¯s why I¡¯m sorry."


    "Huh?"


    There was a moment of silence -- and in that moment, Yerha suddenly looked up at Levis, her eyes flaring a psychedelic purple. Immediately, he felt the pull of her ability -- the Authority. Inviolable mental orders she could give to those beneath her in a chain of command.


    Draw your sword.


    Levis was powerless to resist. By the time the idea of resistance occurred, the weapon was already in his hand. It was like an alien blade, moving independently of his will.


    "Yerha!" he cried, looking at the treacherous sword. "What are you doing?!"


    "The only way to break your connection to the Hero-Light¡­" Yerha whispered, very nearly gone. "...is to make you incompatible with it¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­"


    Levis knew what would happen next. He opened his mouth, even though he knew it would be useless. He spoke, even though he knew it would be pointless. He screamed, even though he knew it would be worthless.


    "STOP!"


    Kill me.


    Purity was the twin of innocence -- and as that sword plunged into Yerha¡¯s stomach, held by Levis¡¯ unwilling hands¡­ they died together.


    Ocean Hate


    Floating City of Pangloss (Abandoned)


    Supremacy Space


    Present Day¡­


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    It didn¡¯t matter who this man was. Where his skill and power had come from was irrelevant. All that mattered was that he was aligned against Muzazi. All that mattered was that he was Muzazi¡¯s enemy.


    Back on Elysian Fields, he¡¯d decided that he¡¯d never show his back again. That resolve hadn¡¯t changed.


    White Aether flowed out through Muzazi¡¯s hand into the firm floor below -- and from there, it ran into the looming statues of the Spearmen. As one, their stone spears burst upwards, propelled by thrusters, dust spilling from the statues¡¯ now-empty hands. Like rockets, they zoomed upwards towards the shattered roof, beams of light blazing from the base of each weapon.


    No doubt King understood that Muzazi was enacting some plan. He chose not to engage with it, lunging instead at Muzazi directly -- seeking to eliminate the source of the attack before the results could make themselves known. His wooden fingers cracked in the air as he bore them, ready to gouge at flesh.


    Too slow. If there was one attribute Muzazi knew he was unmatched in, it would be his speed.


    With another blast of white, Muzazi too was launched upwards, with speed and force that left caution to the wind.


    King was Muzazi¡¯s natural enemy -- that much was clear now. With a single touch, he could dispel any of Muzazi¡¯s thrusters. Radiants would therefore be completely useless, no matter what form they took.


    However¡­ King couldn¡¯t cancel out the momentum the thrusters had already created.


    Three spears zooming in from above. A fourth maneuvered through the confessionals, seeking to impale King¡¯s side. The fifth looped around the outside of the church, re-entering through a shattered window and lancing at King¡¯s shoulder. The sixth speared forth head-on, occupying King¡¯s immediate attention.


    Six deadly blows closing in from six different directions. Even so, Muzazi had no doubt that King would dodge them. He had already proven that he was capable of such a feat¡­ that was why each and every one of those six spears was nothing but a distraction.


    A distraction for the seventh, clutched in Muzazi¡¯s own hand.


    While the spears crashed inwards, throwing up dust from their movements, Muzazi weaved through the chaos -- appearing right to the side of King as he raised his fists to deflect the first weapon. It was a perfect opening. Even with that Fusion Tool body of his, being impaled would surely be debilitating.


    Muzazi thrust the spear forward and -- a white bird flew in front of him.


    It was King¡¯s bird. The parakeet that he¡¯d sent away at the start of the fight. It had surely shown up now because King was in danger. It was no ordinary bird. It was on King¡¯s side. It had appeared because it somehow had the ability to assist King. So there was no reason to hesitate. Strategically, there was no reason at all to hesitate.


    Atoy Muzazi knew all that. It crossed his mind in an instant. But his eyes saw something uninvolved in this fight appear, and his hands¡­


    The bird tweeted, and red Aether sparked.


    ¡­hesitated.


    King¡¯s fist slammed into Muzazi¡¯s jaw.


    The attack was incomprehensible. The bird had let out that shrill sound, King had thrust his arm forward towards the flying spears¡­ and Muzazi had been hit. A tear in space opening between King¡¯s fist and Muzazi¡¯s face. A wormhole ability¡­ but not King¡¯s.


    It wasn¡¯t his Aether, after all.


    As the crimson Aether sparked around the parakeet once again, more wormholes opened -- deflecting each and every one of the spears before they could reach King. He jabbed his fist forward again into empty space, and again it struck Muzazi. The wooden fist slammed into the swordsman¡¯s stomach, doubling him over and forcing bile from his throat.


    King¡¯s voice was cold as the bird landed on his shoulder.


    "Courtesy of the Absurd Weapons Lab."


    Another punch. Muzazi went flying backwards.


    "Did you think you¡¯d become ruthless, Atoy Muzazi?"


    A kick from empty space, striking Muzazi in the side and striking him into the ground.


    "Did you believe yourself cold? Because you¡¯d bent the rules a tad? Did you think you¡¯d abandoned that pride?! You just passed up the easiest of victories for the sake of it! Don¡¯t make me laugh!"


    Another punch. Muzazi went down hard as an unforeseeable fist cracked into the top of his skull.


    "Just because you became the tiniest bit more tarnished," King snarled, seizing Muzazi by the collar and tossing him across the Cathedral. "You thought yourself blackened?! Then why not throw away those ideals of yours?! Because you still thought yourself a hero -- didn¡¯t you, Atoy Muzazi?!"


    Muzazi lay there in a heap, his breathing ragged, his body bloodsoaked¡­ and the King stood over him. Despite his present lack of facial features, fury radiated from the old man. He flipped the spear he now held in his hand, pointing it down at his prone opponent.


    The next words he said were soft, barely audible amidst the storm crashing down on the Cathedral.


    "Don¡¯t you realize¡­" he said. "...that such people never existed¡­?"


    Without another word, he thrust the spear down -- and the stone blade, bolstered by Aether, pierced Muzazi¡¯s stomach like a knife through butter. Strength had abandoned the swordsman. He could do nothing but widen his eyes. He could do nothing but gasp in pain.


    He could do nothing but lie there¡­


    ¡­as his heartbeat came to a sudden and ignoble end.

 Chapter 335:12.16: Moonlight

    Atoy Muzazi lay on the ground, cold and dead.


    King knelt down there, placing a finger against the swordsman¡¯s neck to check his pulse. Nothing: he was gone. Muzazi¡¯s eyes were still open, grey pupils staring sightlessly from beyond the veil entropic. King gently closed them. Better to stop looking at this world now, with the beliefs he held intact, rather than watch them betray him.


    After the fall of the Heroes of Form, even after everything, King had endeavoured to believe in the world around him. He¡¯d wanted so badly for the world -- for humanity to live up to his expectations. He had been disappointed again and again and again. It was a fate he would not wish on anyone.


    Horatio landed on his shoulder and chirped sadly. King sighed, wooden body creaking as he stood back up.


    "Weep not, Horatio," he said, exhaustion draining his voice. "He was happier this way."


    Horatio¡¯s next tweet didn¡¯t sound any less despondent.


    King supposed that wasn¡¯t a surprise: the parakeet had always been far more empathetic than him. Before he had rescued Horatio, the bird had been the subject of all sorts of experiments, brain tampered with until it reached a level of consciousness beyond its means -- along with the ability to utilise Aether. Within ten years or so, King supposed these Aether-wielding animals would become a much more common -- if still bizarre -- sight.


    Yes¡­ time just kept sprinting ahead, didn¡¯t it?


    He stepped through the great doors of the cathedral onto the terrace outside, looking out at what remained of the city of Pangloss. The storm and the flooding seemed to be conspiring to pull it down into the ocean even faster. The filtration systems, which would usually purge the poison from the water around the city, had failed -- and so the rain that fell down was blood-red.


    Lightning crashed. In the distance, there was something that could have been a scream. All the history of this place, the architecture, the memories¡­ all of it was being dragged down beneath the waves.


    "Caravan," King demanded, looking at the black bandage wrapped around his wrist. "Remaining contestants."


    The Aether construct cackled back. "Little antsy, aren¡¯t ya? Worried you won¡¯t win the thing?! Don¡¯t worry! Your ol¡¯ pal Caravan has got ya! There are fourteen contestants still remaining! Final stretch! Do your best, okay?!"


    If King had eyes, he would have rolled them. Hadn¡¯t he already made it clear? He had no interest in going further in the Dawn Contest.


    Horatio tweeted.


    "I will surrender in good time, Horatio," King assured his companion. "It¡¯s true the job is done, but I don¡¯t like the idea of leaving people to seek revenge against me. It¡¯s quite boorish¡­"


    He glanced over his shoulder.


    "...don¡¯t you think?"


    F! A!


    A huge mass of Morgan Nacht¡¯s Fog lunged out of the darkness, engulfing King and holding him right -- but only for an instant. Soon enough, the Fog exploded out into its base components, and the gas spread indistinct in every direction.


    "My apologies," said King. "But attacks like that will be entirely ineffective."


    Morgan landed atop the pillar-like monument in the Cathedral¡¯s courtyard, his gaze flicking to the open doors behind King. No, through the doors -- to the spot within the Cathedral where Atoy Muzazi¡¯s corpse lay.


    "Atoy¡­" Morgan whispered, his face pale.


    "Eyes on me, boy," King said, taking a thunderous step forward. "If you lose focus, you¡¯ll die."


    As much as Morgan hated to admit, this bastard was right. He couldn¡¯t afford to think about Muzazi right now. If he was lucky, the Commander was still alive, but it was a moot point if this King guy was still around to finish him off.


    Besides¡­ this guy¡¯s words had made it clear: he was going after Morgan next. It was do or die time. If Morgan didn¡¯t win, both he and Muzazi would be killed.


    "I¡¯m certain Atoy Muzazi had more comrades than just you," King said, circling the pillar casually, kicking up crimson puddles with each step. "I find it hard to believe that the distractions I brought managed to dispatch the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir. Perhaps they¡¯ve abandoned poor Mr. Muzazi?"


    Morgan¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    Don¡¯t take the bait.


    "Or perhaps¡­" King stopped pacing, his head angled directly up towards Morgan. "...you¡¯re the only one with such little faith in your commander to think he needs your help?"


    Some bait could not be resisted.


    F! A!


    Morgan knew now that attacks using Fog wouldn¡¯t work, so he didn¡¯t even try. Instead, he spread the purple smog through the area as a smokescreen, blocking King¡¯s visibility entirely. The wooden man just remained still, however, fists held ready to defend even as the purple washed over him.


    The Moon began moving.


    It was true that, if this man really had killed Atoy Muzazi, then Morgan was no match for him. But it was also true that, if Atoy Muzazi was dead, Morgan had lost someone dear to him once again. And if that was the case¡­


    ¡­he had no choice but to become an avenger.


    King considered his options.


    An Aether ping was useless under the circumstances -- the fog surrounding him was laced with Aether, and so the response it produced would drown out anything else. He could try to jump or run away, but he didn¡¯t yet know this fog worked. There was a chance it was set to follow him no matter which direction he moved.


    If that was the case, best to stay in one place rather than be blinded and lost.


    Still, this didn¡¯t look like a good situation for him at all. Morgan Nacht had free reign to carry out as many hit and run attacks as he liked. He might not have been as fast as the Full Moon, but his speed was still nothing to be scoffed at. Without visibility, it would be difficult for King to see the young man coming.


    That was why it was fortunate¡­ that there was just one move guaranteed to draw Nacht out of hiding.


    King brought his wrist up to his face and spoke -- just three words.


    "Caravan," he said, injecting panic into his voice. "I surrend --"


    The fog shifted behind King. As expected, Morgan Nacht had taken the bait. It was clear: Morgan needed to kill King for his revenge just as much as King needed to kill Morgan to avoid his revenge. There was no way he¡¯d let his quarry escape.


    King whirled around, fist already shining with white Aether as he slammed it into the figure before him. Their body exploded out, covering the battlefield with --


    Wait. That response¡­ the sensation against his fist¡­ that hadn¡¯t been right at all.


    King recognised it nearly immediately, but ¡¯nearly¡¯ wasn¡¯t good enough. What he had struck wasn¡¯t Morgan Nacht. He¡¯d attacked a humanoid decoy of more densely composed fog, covered in Nacht¡¯s war-robes. Little more than a scarecrow.


    The real Morgan exploded out of the smoke behind King, a colossal greatsword of fog already clutched in his hands. Now that he¡¯d abandoned the robes that had covered his upper half, his bare skin was covered in angry red blisters where the toxic rain made contact, but the resolve on his face was such that he hadn¡¯t even noticed. Admirable.


    "Die!" Morgan screamed, bringing the sword down.


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    But King did not die.


    Bang.


    King had not turned around. King had swung a fist. King had not even moved his whole body. All he had done was point his finger.


    Silver Ratio had done the rest.


    The index finger had been fired off, slamming into Morgan¡¯s stomach faster than a bullet. Nacht still stood there, sword dissipating in his grip, the hole in his body so round and wide that you could see all the way through it. Even with that, though, he tightened his grip on what remained of his blade.


    He opened his mouth to say something else, but King interrupted.


    "Know when you¡¯re beaten."


    In one smooth and lethal movement, King turned around, seized hold of Morgan¡¯s right arm and --


    Silver Ratio.


    -- exploded it into gore.


    Morgan fell backwards onto the ground, staring dumbly at the stump of his arm -- at the bone protruding and blood pouring. His face, paler than ever, moved soundlessly. He could do no more than lay there as King leisurely approached.


    "A shame," he said. "A generational talent throwing their life away for ill-considered revenge. I¡¯ll send you to meet your commander now."


    That mouth moved again -- still no words -- and, squatting down next to Morgan, King raised his hand for a final chop.


    "Farewell."


    It was only when Morgan Nacht tried the third time that he was finally able to speak. Only two words, but audible enough.


    "Caravan¡­" he gasped. "...Surrender."


    One second, Nacht was there -- and the next he had vanished, evacuated from the Inner Melee. Slowly, King lowered his hand. He¡¯d thought Morgan Nacht a much more earnest fellow than that -- one who¡¯d fight to the end for this vengeance. The fact he¡¯d run away meant that he wasn¡¯t the sort of person King needed to worry about, then.


    Fair enough. Live and let live.


    With a creak of wood, King stood up to his full height once again, looked out at the city being pulled into the waves -- and¡­


    Ow.


    He looked down.


    There, protruding from the centre of his chest, was a ray of pure light. A white sword. A death dealer.


    A Radiant.


    "Got you," snarled Atoy Muzazi.


    Atoy Muzazi had not faked his death. That would imply that he hadn¡¯t actually died.


    For some time there -- he couldn¡¯t say how long exactly -- he had ceased to exist. Atoy Muzazi had indeed been a corpse strewn across the floor of the Cathedral, skewered by a stone spear. His breathing had stopped. His heart had stopped.


    But anything that had ended could begin once again.


    Two thrusters were all he needed, set on a time delay, one on either side. They pushed inwards, and then relaxed. They pushed inwards, and then relaxed. They pushed inwards, and then relaxed. Over and over again, until the thrusters were no longer required.


    And just like that¡­ Atoy Muzazi restarted his own heart.


    With a grunt, Muzazi tore his Radiant out of King¡¯s body, leaving a jagged and burning hole in his wooden form. King whirled around, striking at Muzazi with a fist -- but the swordsman had already jumped back out of range.


    It wasn¡¯t as if he was unscathed. The stone spear he¡¯d been impaled on was still inside him, the protruding parts burnt away to allow him to move. He was covered in his own blood, and his skin was pale as snow. It was hard to believe he was still standing.


    But that look in his eyes¡­


    "So you survived," King snarled, white Aether crackling around him.


    He didn¡¯t bother to ask how Atoy Muzazi was back. The facts were that the Full Moon had come back to life, and he was still a threat. King only had to act with that in mind


    The Radiant flared in Muzazi¡¯s palm.


    "The way you weaken my attacks¡­" he said, voice low. "...there are two ways to get around it. The first is with an attack you don¡¯t see coming. The second¡­"


    King interrupted him. "If you managed to survive that attack, you should have surrendered and retreated. That would have been the intelligent thing to do. What do you think you can accomplish, one foot out of the grave? What do you have left to draw upon?"


    As the remnants of Morgan Nacht¡¯s fog drifted around them, Muzazi adjusted his footing. Red rain sizzling at his hair, he exhaled.


    "I have resolve," he said quietly. "And faith that I am in the right. So long as a person has both of those in abundance, they can accomplish anything."


    King clenched his fist -- so hard that his fingers dug into his palm. For some reason, he just could not abide this man called Atoy Muzazi. He was¡­ disagreeable.


    Taking a moment to gather his strength, King adjusted his own stance as well, one fist extended.


    "This world is cruel and hard and cold," he growled. "It won¡¯t yield to the naive ideals you parade around, no matter how strongly you believe in them."


    Muzazi smiled with lips quickly turning blue. "Is that so? You speak with the voice of one betrayed yourself. Then I¡¯ll just have to show you¡­"


    He didn¡¯t move as King had expected. He didn¡¯t rush at King for a frontal attack, nor did he dive into the smoke to conceal himself again. Instead, he tensed his legs¡­


    ¡­and leapt up into the air.


    The last of Morgan Nacht¡¯s fog cleared, and King understood. All around them, surrounding the courtyard in a ring, were five colossal thrusters -- blazing silently up towards the sky with such force that the air around them rippled. Pillars of moonlight.


    The true purpose of the fog had been to conceal this sight. So¡­ it wasn¡¯t that Morgan Nacht had lacked faith at all. Even seeing his commander¡¯s corpse before him, he¡¯d sacrificed his own body to set up this attack.


    As Atoy Muzazi reached the crest of his jump, he raised his Radiant up high. King could only watch. Specks of light were being pulled from the massive thrusters into that blade of light, the weapon quickly growing gargantuan -- dwarfing it¡¯s wielder as it burnt into the sky..


    So¡­ force is built up externally, then transferred to the user when required¡­


    King saw his opening, right before the sword came down. By all rights, he should have raised his hands and fired off his fingers using Silver Ratio. Even if they didn¡¯t finish Atoy Muzazi off, he would have to deflect or dodge them, throwing off this attack. By all rights, that was the best tactical decision King could have made. S~ea??h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Only¡­ at that moment, looking at the shining figure in the sky, looking at that pure light¡­ King¡¯s mind was occupied by a single thought.


    Oh¡­ there were such people once¡­ weren¡¯t there¡­?


    The sword came down.


    Yes. It was just as Atoy Muzazi had said. The second way to get around Silver Ratio¡­ was to unleash an attack so powerful it didn¡¯t matter how much it was weakened.


    Radiant Almighty.


    It was a slash beyond swordsmanship. With a single swing of his sword, bolstered by the force of Radiant Almighty, Atoy Muzazi cut through countless things. No shield could have deflected it. No fortress could have withstood it.


    Muzazi cut through the courtyard.


    Muzazi cut through King.


    Muzazi cut through the Cathedral.


    Muzazi cut through Pangloss.


    Muzazi¡­ cut through the storm.


    Yes. As King stood there, sliced in half nearly vertically by the attack, a sliver of light peeked out through the black clouds behind him. The red rain had stopped. The flow of blood had, for a moment, ended.


    King¡¯s left arm dropped off his body. It only reacted to the fact it had been severed once he tried to move it. The cut had been that clean.


    The old man looked down at the severed limbs, hearing his wooden body beginning to creak and collapse in on itself, and whispered.


    "He snuck up on you¡­" he said, looking down at his remaining hand. "...where were you looking, fool?"


    He looked up -- and as he did, the Fusion Tool began to come undone. The metal and wood fell from his head like flaking paint, revealing the face of the old man beneath.


    Atoy Muzazi stood across from him, gently landing on the ground, smoke rising from his arm. The limb had been scorched by the rebounding force of Radiant Almighty, skin blistered and red. He winced as he held the arm, keeping it still.


    He looked up with those grey eyes. "I win, King."


    King smiled sadly, blood slipping from the edges of his mouth. "Indeed," he wheezed. "Quite the blow¡­ Atoy Muzazi. I take it¡­ that was the force of your resolve?"


    Muzazi nodded.


    "I see¡­" King chuckled -- and he took a step back, towards the edge of the courtyard, the red ocean broiling below. "...then¡­ I wish you luck."


    And so, without another word, King took a final step backwards -- and Levis¡¯ body fell into the water. It sank without a sound.


    A white bird spread its wings, and flew off into the horizon, leaving the blood behind.


    Muzazi let out a harsh, bloody breath as he fell to the ground. He lay there, cheek pressed against the cold floor, panting for air. Breathing in and breathing out¡­ right now, even that was almost more than he could handle.


    That last attack¡­ it hadn¡¯t been the last of his reserves. He¡¯d gone far beyond his own strength for that. Perhaps too far.


    He raised his shaking arm, his good one, up to his mouth. With eyes wavering in and out of vision, he looked at the black bracelet there. With a mouth that tasted of blood, he spoke.


    "Caravan¡­" he gasped. "Remaining¡­ contestants¡­"


    This was the moment of truth.


    After dispatching anyone targeting Muzazi, the other Phases had been instructed to move through the arena, eliminate any other contestants they found -- and then surrender themselves. If they¡¯d done as he asked, then he should be the only contestant remaining at this point. But¡­ if they¡¯d betrayed him¡­ if he¡¯d truly shown his back once again¡­


    Caravan answered before doubt could continue its monologue.


    "Contestants remaining: one!" the construct declared. "The winner is¡­ Atoy Muzazi!"


    Atoy Muzazi began to laugh.

 Chapter 336:12.17: Eyes of Blue, Blood of Red

    White Noise


    Unregistered Lightpoint


    Supremacy Space


    The music was nearly deafening -- the rambling of the emcee even more so.


    "Come on, party people!" the man screamed from his podium, his accent all but incomprehensible. "Let me see your beautiful muscles¡­ and your giant brains! It¡¯s all to be a fighter is all about, man! Who¡¯s it gonna be?! It¡¯s crazy time!"


    To the crowd on the dancefloor below, it clearly didn¡¯t matter what the man in the sunglasses was saying. All that mattered was that he seemed excited about it, and so they were excited as well. The cheer they let out in response nearly drowned out the blaring music all by itself.


    What a headache¡­ you think so too, right¡­?


    Jamilu Aguta peeled his mind away from the demonic spear, ignoring its attempts at communication.


    Hey, come on. Don¡¯t leave a guy all by himself. Talk to me. I¡¯m talking to you, you little shit.


    Before the spear could talk further, Jamilu¡¯s mind was fully pulled away by the person standing next to him. Rufus Von Frostburn, Nebula Five, frowned as he looked out over the venue. His red hair was tied back in a ponytail.


    "It¡¯s loud," he said, his voice coming through clearly. "This really the best place to be?"


    Jamilu had set up a communication channel between the two of them using his Principality, so no external sound could prevent their communication. Even if he had to cloak his red halo while they were in Supremacy territory, it was still doing good work. Jamilu sat down at a table overlooking the dance floor, sipping at the water he¡¯d ordered at the bar.


    "It is," he said, nodding. "The Ultraviolets pointed me to this place -- apparently, the proprietors managed to sneak recording equipment into the last of the Inner Melees. It may be¡­ unpleasant, but if we stay here for a little while we¡¯ll get an early glimpse of one of the final sixteen."


    Rufus furrowed his brow as he sat across from Nebula Two. "What? They just brought cameras in? It¡¯s that easy?"


    Jamilu crossed his arms. "It shouldn¡¯t be. If I had to guess, I¡¯d say someone on the Organizational Committee wants this Melee broadcast for some reason. But it works out well for us all the same."


    Rufus took a mighty swig of his drink -- booze, not water. Drinking on the job¡­ even if a Pugnant could handle alcohol better, Jamilu didn¡¯t care for it.


    "So this is the last one, huh?" Rufus said, turning in his chair to look at the monitor that took up an entire wall of the club.


    "That¡¯s right," Jamilu nodded. "I¡¯ve already received intelligence regarding the other confirmed contestants. After this, we¡¯ll head to Azum-Ha and begin our individual investigations."


    "Got your eye on anyone?"


    Jamilu leaned forward, pushing a script across the table.


    "There are a few," he admitted, flicking the screen on. "Take this man, for instance."


    The glare of a barbarian was plastered onto the script -- the man from the past they called Mereloco, greasy hair hanging limp around his head. Dull brown eyes looked impassively at whoever had taken the picture. They¡¯d probably been lucky to get out alive. Sear?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "This is the one from two-hundred years ago," Jamilu explained. "Mereloco -- he¡¯s being sponsored by Halcyon Interstellar, the most powerful corporation this side of the galaxy. Back in the day, he served under Damon the Devilish."


    Rufus frowned, rooting through his brain for old history classes. "Isn¡¯t that the guy who went crazy?"


    Jamilu nodded. "And this guy was alongside him through it all -- until he tried to overthrow Damon and got frozen for his troubles. Mereloco was from an era where bloodlust was a pillar of communication in these parts. This is exactly the kind of guy we don¡¯t want to become Supreme."


    "Right, right," Rufus nodded. "But he¡¯s being protected by Halcyon, right? So getting rid of him wouldn¡¯t be that easy."


    Jamilu sighed. "There are more subtle ways of discouraging a contestant¡¯s victory¡­ but still, you¡¯re right. So long as Halcyon has him under their protection, the two of us don¡¯t stand much of a chance interfering with him -- at least while remaining undetected. So we¡¯ll table him for the time being."


    Supremacy scum. You should tear his throat out with your teeth.


    He brushed his finger against the script, and the image changed to the youthful face of Xander Rain -- the new First Branch of the Tree of Might.


    "Here¡¯s another bad option," Jamilu said. "Young, eager to prove he¡¯s strong enough to lead the Tree¡­ but they¡¯ve got a pretty ironclad -- and outdated -- code of honour. The general public is more realistic these days. Even if he managed to become Supreme, consolidating his power is another story entirely. I don¡¯t think we have to worry too much about him."


    Brat. Scalp him, gut him. See him put his money where his mouth is.


    "Right," Rufus nodded.


    The image on the screen switched again -- to the freckled smile of Dorothy Eiro, posing with one hand on her hip in the promotional shot for some charity videograph. The other hand was giving a hearty thumbs-up.


    "She¡¯s cute," Rufus commented.


    Jamilu cast him a withering stare. "Irrelevant¡­ still, Dorothy Eiro does look promising. She seems to be the sort of person who wouldn¡¯t seek conflict with us -- but again, whether or not she could hold on to her power is another story entirely. I¡¯ll have to observe her further before I can say for sure either way."


    Your buddy¡¯s right -- she¡¯s a pretty girl. I¡¯ll tear her face off.


    Jamilu squeezed his eyes shut. Victory was among the more docile of the Old Demons of the Dawn¡­ but he still had quite the unpleasant way with words. Sometimes, even with Jamilu¡¯s training, that inner monologue became draining.


    But Oba Moses had entrusted him with the spear. It was his duty. There was nothing else to be contemplated.


    "What about that Atoy Muzazi?" Rufus asked, snapping Jamilu out of it. "I heard he¡¯s meant to be strong."


    Jamilu frowned. "Did you hear his claim to fame? He executed the ruler of a planet, and the Minister whose command he was under, just because they offended him. He¡¯s either a maniac or an ideologue -- and the only real difference between those is the name. That¡¯s not the kind of person you want in charge of your enemies."


    "I gotcha, I gotcha¡­" Rufus replied, finishing off his drink with another swig. His eyes flicked over to the wall. "Hey -- it¡¯s starting."


    The screen began flickering as the connection was made. This wasn¡¯t a live recording, of course -- the sheer distance would make that impossible -- but it was the best they¡¯d be able to get without actually being there in person. The music stopped, and the crowd hushed -- the Inner Melee was cause for reverence, it seemed.


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    Jamilu leaned forward in his seat¡­


    ¡­as the battle began.


    Bone Heaven


    Former Gene Tyrant Facility


    Supremacy Space


    The planet known as Bone Heaven had once been the home and laboratory of the Gene Tyrant known as Tomyris.


    The oddly childlike Tomyris had been the one who¡¯d resurrected the paleo-beasts, ancient and strange monsters, from the annals of prehistory. As a result, the desert surrounding their experimental citadel was infested with feathered and scaled beasts of every shape and size. Ordinarily, they would be absolute terrors to foolish trespassers.


    Now, though¡­ now they were trials to be overcome by the worthy.


    The area that would be serving as the battlefield consisted of three layers. At the very bottom was Tomyris¡¯ laboratory, an underground network of tunnels and chambers. Above that, the citadel where Tomyris¡¯ servants and slaves had once resided. Then, above that, there were the remains of an earlier archeological expedition -- long since torn to pieces by the paleo-beasts that roamed the surface.


    And all around it were the bones. Hazmuth knew not whether the titan had once been alive or was born dead, but a mighty rib cage encircled the citadel like a great white cage. Everything that happened here happened in the shadow of a divine corpse.


    Hazmuth moved through the brick tunnels like a ghost, his footsteps silent even as he ran across stagnant water. He was a lean and strong Umbrant, clad in furs, his golden pupils flicking this way and that as he made his way. A wooden bow and arrow, deceptively flimsy-looking, was strewn across his back.


    To him, this Inner Melee was more than just a chance to become Supreme. It was the hunt of a lifetime. Some of the greatest fighters in the galaxy were gathered here, forming a new jungle between them, each strong enough to become the apex predator in an instant.


    What connoisseur of blood could resist?


    Hazmuth had already been working hard -- his belt told the story. Hanging from it were eight tiny paleo-beast corpses: Elegant Jaws, each dispatched with a blow-dart to their long neck. These kills were paltry accomplishments, but Hazmuth¡¯s ability meant the trophies were still worth holding on to.


    He sniffed, drinking in deep the mingling scents of countless Aether signatures. Perfumed and rancid, lethargic and zesty, decaying and fresh¡­ no two people¡¯s Aether was the same. Hazmuth could even smell the odour of his own, lingering around his body¡­ the metal taste of blood.


    The Melee hadn¡¯t begun yet, but he could already tell certain signatures would make fine quarries.


    One that stank of mingling medicine and communion wine, with just a hint of gasoline.


    Another that suggested the musty embrace of the grave -- dirt and bone and worm all intertwined.


    The third was strange, a normal human scent, but concentrating and dissolving itself again and again and again. Death and rebirth, perhaps, or something else?


    Hazmuth grinned to himself. Fine prey made fine hunters. He could feel his blood, grown stagnant over easy battles, turning hot in his veins again. He was coming back to life.


    "Happy birthday," he whispered to himself, hopping onto the head of an inhuman statue.


    The tunnel he¡¯d found himself in was partially collapsed, sunlight peeking in from the hole above. One of the Elegant Jaws attached to Hazmuth¡¯s belt disintegrated as he tapped into its leaping strength -- clearing the distance between himself and the hole in one mighty jump.


    This nameless ability allowed him to borrow a property from any carcass that he had killed with his own two hands, and then use it for himself. It was not something that Hazmuth had consciously developed, but instead something he¡¯d been able to do for as long as he remembered.


    It was only natural, after all, for a hunter to help himself to the spoils of his prey¡­ wasn¡¯t it?


    Hazmuth landed atop a sandstone building on the surface, keeping his body low as he moved forward. He could hear voices all around, echoing through the streets and old houses -- lambs readying themselves for the slaughter. A fanged grin tugged at his lips, and he slowly withdrew his bow and arrow from his back.


    Thirty seconds until the Melee began. He did not have to check with Caravan to be sure. His body clock was never wrong. Along with the sounds clearly audible, he could smell the relative weakness of some of these nearby contestants.


    He¡¯d go for them first, acquire some useful characteristics, and use them to go after more powerful prey. Climb the vine, as it were. With that plan in mind, all he had to do was¡­


    ¡­was¡­


    ¡­w-was¡­


    The hairs on the back of Hazmuth¡¯s neck were standing on end. His hands, usually so steady, were trembling against his bow. His throat was dry. His skin was cold. There was a pain lingering behind his eyes.


    Something was wrong.


    Slowly, with chattering teeth, Hazmuth found himself looking up towards the sky -- as if some invisible hand was forcing his gaze. There, far above, silhouetted against a white cloud, was an electric blue star. It flickered as Hazmuth watched, growing brighter and brighter.


    His eyes widened.


    There, floating in the middle of the conflagration, was a human figure.


    But it gave off the sensation of something much more dangerous.


    The young man stood atop the sky.


    His feet had disappeared, recorded and replaced by fizzling blue Aether. That same Aether shone from his Cogitant-blue eyes, their intensity such that they were like the twin headlights of a car. He wore a red combat suit, a stark contrast to the loose silver hair that ran down to the small of his back.


    From up here, everything seemed so peaceful. You couldn¡¯t hear the battles being set up below, or see the bloodshed that was about to be unleashed. It was so very quiet. Even the bones that littered the desert around the citadel just seemed like part of the landscape.


    Caravan chirped from his wrist: "And¡­ begin!"


    Blue eyes scanned the battlefield below. There were some people who might be a problem, but overall¡­ he smiled.


    "Weak," said Dragan Hadrien, and then¡­


    Bombardment.


    There was no other way to describe the phenomenon. Spears of blue light fired in every direction from Dragan Hadrien¡¯s Aether, pummeling the citadel below. The ammunition was eclectic and arbitrary -- a car, a trashcan, a broken automatic, a lamppost. Anything large and sturdy enough to kill a person had been recorded in preparation for this moment¡­


    ¡­and, at these speeds, it didn¡¯t take very much to kill a person.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Without Aether, you would have been deafened.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Without Aether, you would have been blinded.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Without Aether -- and even with it -- you would have been pulped.


    Bang.


    All in all, Dragan Hadrien¡¯s attack lasted about twenty seconds. When the smoke cleared, the first two layers of Bone Heaven had been utterly decimated. Nearly every structure had been reduced to rubble, and the red pinpricks of bodies littered the ground. One of the mighty ribs toppled over, splitting the city in half.


    Dragan coldly lifted the black bandage to his mouth. "Caravan," he said calmly. "Remaining contestants?"


    "Twenty-seven!" the construct declared cheerfully. "Geez, you¡¯re a riot!"


    Dragan ignored the comment. Twenty-seven, including him? Unfortunate. He¡¯d hoped to clear out more with that first barrage -- especially since it meant that the survivors would make getting rid of him a priority.


    Oh well. He¡¯d known from the beginning that this wouldn¡¯t be easy.


    From what his ally on the Organisational Committee had reported, this Inner Melee¡¯s gimmick was an evolving ruleset. Every hour, a new rule would be introduced that the contestants had to obey or be eliminated. It sounded annoying.


    Now though, in the first hour, they were free to fight as normal. There wasn¡¯t going to be a second hour.


    Gemini World.

 Chapter 337:12.18: The Angel at the Apex of Hell

    The angel was coming to kill him.


    Angel. There was no other word David Divine could find to describe the young man who¡¯d torn the city down. He was ethereal, powerful, deep and beautiful. In David¡¯s Superbian youth, the angels in parables -- the ones who¡¯d punished sinners and obliterated the unworthy -- were much the same.


    His black leather jacket billowed in the wind behind him, and his short white-blonde hair was soaked in sweat. He was zipping through the ravaged streets of Bone Heaven, Holy Driver buzzing beneath him as he pushed it forward. The motorcycle was strangely simple in its geometry -- a collection of black shapes snapped together, like a toy, without any true trace of detail.


    The golden wheels -- the only exception -- left a similarly golden trail where they made contact with the ground. That way, at least, nobody could follow him on foot. That still wasn¡¯t much help.


    After all¡­ angels could fly.


    David passed under a massive archway, and in that moment, he sensed death. He snapped his head up -- and he saw there, clinging to the underside of the arch like some kind of insect, the angel. His eyes blazed blue in the darkness, twin pinpricks of unearthly light. David barely even had time to register what was happening before he started firing.


    Pure animal instinct saved David¡¯s life. As the street erupted around him -- spears of blue light decimating whatever they came in contact with -- he weaved through the destruction on Holy Driver. His heart was thumping in his chest, so fiercely that he could feel the vibrations in his skull.


    Swerving to avoid a massive chunk of rubble, he instead used it as a ramp, propelling himself up to the rooftops. The moment he landed, he swung into a drift, sliding to a halt atop an old temple. Panting for breath, he stared at the cloud of dust and smoke pouring out from the street.


    His hands squeezed the handle bars.


    Damnit, David thought, gritting his teeth. Y-damnit. Don¡¯t lose your nerve now. You cast aside all that bullshit, right? He¡¯s not an angel -- he¡¯s just a man. He¡¯s not so strong, and you¡¯re not so weak.


    He¡¯d broken away from the Superbian sect, when he¡¯d escaped the cage inside his mind and started living for himself. He wasn¡¯t a Believer-on-Horseback anymore. He rode only for himself now, and he¡¯d traded his horse for a hog.


    Swallowing, he twisted the throttle, Holy Driver roaring in response. The second the angel showed himself, David would charge right at him and run him down.


    He breathed in¡­


    ¡­and he breathed out.


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    David threw himself down to the ground -- and as soon as he did, a chunk of rubble zoomed past from behind him, at speeds that would have shattered his spine. Before he could register what was going on, he was struck -- a vicious kick slamming into his body and sending him flying into a neighboring building. Dust flew in every direction as the sandstone wall collapsed, and he landed in a crater at the building¡¯s heart.


    For a moment, unconsciousness clawed at David¡¯s mind -- but he just about managed to claw himself back.


    What had happened?


    The angel had just suddenly appeared behind him for that attack. He was certain he hadn¡¯t left room for the guy to sneak around, so how? Some kind of ability? Invisibility?


    No¡­ teleportation?


    As David picked himself up off the ground, the angel appeared next to him in another flash of blue Aether. David immediately leapt to the side, avoiding another flurry of shots -- and this time he lunged back in for a counterattack. Holy Driver manifested in his grip, and David swung the motorcycle as a mighty club right at the angel¡¯s head.


    He caught it in one hand.


    Golden steam rose up from the front wheel of Holy Driver as it ground against the angel¡¯s palm. Even so, though, no matter how hard David pushed, how fast the wheel went¡­ the angel didn¡¯t falter in the slightest. He just continued to stare at David with those calm blue eyes.


    But that was fine too.


    Crack.


    Those blue eyes flicked over to the hand holding Holy Driver -- and an instant later, that hand popped in a flood of gore. Immediately, the angel vanished into Aether again, avoiding David¡¯s follow-up swing. It took only a second for him to appear once more, standing atop the hole in the wall, looking at his missing hand.


    The stump was gushing blood, and white bone was protruding from the mess, but the angel¡¯s face remained as calm as ever. His eyes scanned it up and down, unimpressed. Was he like David, then? A healer?


    Yes¡­ Holy Driver was a healing ability. Anything that came in contact with Holy Driver¡¯s wheels or the golden trail it left would have their natural regeneration boosted significantly. In fights like this, though, David could enhance that regeneration further -- past what the human body could actually handle, causing it to rupture and sustain damage.


    Poisons were just medicines in the wrong doses, after all.


    The angel¡¯s missing hand vanished into fizzling Aether, leaving a strange blue border where his arm terminated. David understood. It wasn¡¯t that this guy could heal, but that he could banish his injuries. His wounds wouldn¡¯t get any worse, and he wouldn¡¯t bleed out.


    So any non-fatal injury was basically meaningless.


    Still, he¡¯d created a distraction, if nothing else. David slammed Holy Driver back onto the ground and began riding it once more, speeding out of the building and back onto the ruined streets. He didn¡¯t see the angel come after him, but he did see a flash of blue shine out of the windows of the house for a second.


    The angel¡¯s power involved phasing parts of his body in and out of existence. When done to a single part, he could halt the progression of an injury. Instead of teleporting like David had assumed, was the angel recording his entire body? Turning himself into Aether and moving it with consciousness alone?


    Recording your whole body on a dime like that¡­ David shuddered. This shit wasn¡¯t fair.


    As expected, the angel appeared in front of David once more -- firing two shots directly at him. He flipped in the air, deflecting the attacks with the underside of Holy Driver, chunks of molten metal ricocheting and lodging in the ground. Landing on the other side of the angel, David whipped his hand to his side and pulled free his sawed-off shotgun, aiming it at his adversary.


    That was when he realized he¡¯d almost died for a third time that day.


    He whirled around, swinging the shotgun in the air -- and barely managed to deflect the shot that had been aimed at the back of his head. Even as his shotgun was reduced to scrap, though, David¡¯s attention was focused on the absurd sight before him. Floating there, just a few meters away, was a disembodied hand -- the angel¡¯s hand, pointing at David with a single smoking finger.


    It wasn¡¯t just that the angel could record his body parts. He could manifest them away from the rest of his body and continue to use them. What the hell was this?!


    David ducked under a second shot -- but even as he did so, he knew it was a mistake. Even if he avoided the attack from the angel¡¯s disembodied arm, he¡¯d opened himself up to the main body. As the hand vanished again, a shadow fell upon him from behind.


    He saw it all, out of the corner of his eye, his death approaching as if in slow motion.


    The angel raising his returned hand up.


    The angel curling it into a deadly fist.


    The angel, bringing it down like a gavel¡­


    ¡­and then, miraculously, the angel stopping.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    An arrow lanced out of the darkness of a nearby alley, striking the angel¡¯s hand and impaling it through the palm. The Cogitant looked down at the protruding projectile for a moment, seemingly confused -- and then flew upwards to avoid a second volley.


    "You," came a deep voice from the alleyway. "Man with the bike. A temporary truce. Yes?"


    The speaker emerged -- a burly Umbrant clad in furs, bow and arrow clutched in his hands, tiny paleo-beast carcasses hanging from his belt. Even as he spoke to David, his gaze was fixed on the young man in the sky. Probably a wise decision.


    David nodded, catching his breath after that near-death experience. "Yeah, yeah. Truce."


    This hunter guy was clearly dangerous too, but right now the angel was the true terror on the field. They could worry about killing each other once he was dealt with.


    "It¡¯s good to know others are of sound mind as well," came a soft voice from a nearby rooftop. "I trust there¡¯s room for another in this alliance?"


    A middle-aged man in a black raincoat stepped into view. His face was long and sallow, with a grey mustache drooping from his lips. A large, sharp shovel was clutched in his grip. A gravedigger? He certainly gave off the impression.


    There was no need to answer. Just from looking at the angel above, one would know it would require all hands on deck.


    That was why nobody bothered saying anything when the fourth participant arrived. A dreadlocked woman in a black leotard, her skin lined with strange seams. As David looked at her, her right arm disassembled before his eyes, crumbling into countless tiny jigsaw pieces that floated in the air around her -- each under her individual control. Blood oozed from their backsides.


    David broke his gaze away from the gruesome sight, returning his attention to the angel above.


    The young man still hadn¡¯t moved, his blue gaze instead flicking between each of the four combatants below. Analytical eyes. That was good -- that was a good sign. It meant he wasn¡¯t strong enough that he could defeat them all without effort. He did have to think about it.


    "If you can give me time," the gravedigger said calmly. "I can get rid of him."


    David needed to hear no more. He twisted the throttle of Holy Driver again, rushing down the street, leaving a golden trail behind him.


    "Get him down to the ground!" he roared as he passed the hunter and the jigsaw woman.


    For three people who had never met before, their teamwork was fairly commendable. The hunter let loose another shower of arrows -- forcing the angel to zip through the air, disappearing and reappearing to avoid them. As he remanifested outside of the projectile¡¯s range, however, he was met by another threat.


    A cannonball, formed from countless bloody jigsaw pieces, slammed into him from above -- spiking him down into the street, right in David¡¯s path. David accelerated, a roar of exertion pouring from his throat, aiming to run right over the angel and fill him with Holy Driver¡¯s over-regeneration. The world became a blur around him, made vague by sheer speed.


    He could do this.


    He could become Supreme.


    He could become someone.


    He could matter.


    He could --


    The cloud of dust cleared slightly, and David saw it. David saw the blue eye of the angel, staring right at him, its pupil as tranquil as a stagnant lake. Just looking at that eye, the idea that this attack would be successful¡­ became a bad joke.


    It was already far too late. The angel had spoken, after all.


    "Gemini Dominion."


    ???


    David Divine was no longer in Bone Heaven.


    All around him, stretching off past the horizon, was white. A pale void, as far as he could see. His first thought was that he had died, and that this was the world of Y. It certainly matched some of the scripture. Endless and pure.


    ¡­but no.


    There was structure to this place, once the eyes adjusted. White mixtures between pillars and bookcases, punctuating the white void, and white brickwork beneath his feet. It was like an impossibly clean temple. Almost¡­ unfinished.


    David held onto Holy Driver for dear life, hands trembling against the handlebars. He was alone here -- the other three contestants were gone. He¡¯d been isolated. Was this one of the angel¡¯s abilities? Gemini Dominion? It had transported him here?


    "Ahem," someone said from behind him.


    David spun Holy Driver around to face the new threat, his face nearly as pale as his surroundings. There, atop a hill of discarded white books, sat a young boy. He had silver hair and blue eyes, like the angel, and he was leafing through a hefty tome.


    Yes¡­ he looked just like the angel, only much younger. A child version? Why?


    The boy glanced up at David.


    "You¡¯re gonna wanna dodge that," he said, voice bored.


    David furrowed his brow. "Dodge wha --"


    The angel¡¯s fist slammed into his face from the right, sending David -- and his bike -- flying off into the distance. He smashed through one, two, three of those pillars, bricks and books raining down from each. David twisted in the air, slinging his leg back over Holy Driver, but --


    -- another punch came.


    Another, and another, and another. Each blow, administered by the master of this domain, sent David flying in another direction. He was being sent back and forth through this realm like a pinball, so quickly that it took all he had just to partially block the attacks. After six or so blows, he finally landed on another floating platform, his entire body aching with pain


    Hurriedly, David went to pick himself up -- but it didn¡¯t matter how much he hurried. The angel was waiting for him again, after all. With a flash of blue, the Cogitant appeared -- and immediately, raised his leg up and brought it down again like a sledgehammer, aiming directly for David¡¯s head.


    This went beyond the speed he¡¯d seen earlier. This Gemini Dominion was clearly a space David had been transported to, but there was more to it than just a change of location. Within this realm, the angel was capable of what looked like true and instantaneous teleportation. There was no escaping him.


    Oh, this shit really wasn¡¯t fair.


    David lifted up Holy Driver to shield himself -- and the angel¡¯s leg tore right through it, splitting the Armament in half. It wasn¡¯t a useless gesture, though. David had no way of knowing when he raised the bike, but the second he¡¯d bought by doing so had just saved his life.


    Blue Aether flickered, and --


    -- the two of them returned to reality.


    They weren¡¯t in the same spot as when they¡¯d disappeared -- instead, David and the angel appeared above the street, in the air, quickly falling back down towards the ground. It wasn¡¯t such a height that a fall would be fatal, but David already knew he wouldn¡¯t last much longer if things continued.


    With Holy Driver destroyed, he¡¯d lost his mobility. He¡¯d be easy pickings for the angel. His only chance was now -- in this moment where his adversary was distracted.


    As he fell, David wielded half of Holy Driver in each hand -- and swiped at the angel¡¯s head from both directions, golden wheels spinning. To block this attack without sustaining damage like last time, the angel would have to seize David by both wrists¡­ but that was something he could no longer do. One of his hands was missing, and the other had been impaled. Even if he could stop one wheel, the other would still get him.


    "Fucking die!" David screamed, voice breaking, as he brought the wheels in¡­


    ¡­and the angel grabbed him by the wrists.


    David blinked. "Huh?"


    Both of the angel¡¯s hands were back, gripping David¡¯s wrists like twin vices. There weren¡¯t even any traces of the injuries he¡¯d sustained. It was inconceivable. It was impossible.


    It was so fucking unfair.


    Crunch.


    As the angel squeezed, David felt his wrists snap, and the bisected halves of Holy Driver slipped from his grasp, falling to the streets below. David struggled against the Cogitant¡¯s grip, panic quickly overriding strategy, kicking and writhing desperately to escape. But there was no escape.


    There were only the merciless eyes of the angel, drilling into his own.


    And then the headbutt. It slammed into David¡¯s face, instantly breaking his nose, nausea and confusion drifting through his thoughts as his brain danced around his skull. Even the pain seemed vague, as the angel crashed its Aether-infused head into David¡¯s¡­ again, and again, and again.


    Smack.


    He could see the past, he could see it, like his brain had been put on rewind. He was twenty-nine, escaping from the Superbian compound in the dead of night, riding into the horizon on Holy Driver. He was going to make it.


    Crack.


    He was twenty, on his knees, praying to Y with the rest. Stained glass shone its refracted light upon him, and the hymns echoed through the cathedral. What a peaceful place. What a peaceful. What a. What¡­


    Crunch.


    he was firteen and he had zits zits zits zits


    Pop.


    The remaining three opponents watched with muted horror as Dragan Hadrien slammed his head into his opponents one last time -- and David Divine¡¯s skull burst from the pressure, spraying blood and brain matter all over Dragan¡¯s face.


    His expression impassive, he released his grip on David¡¯s wrists -- and the man¡¯s limp body fell to the ground. His head above the jaw was completely gone. The woman with the dreadlocks, her mouth agape, took a single step back. The fear was involuntary and inevitable.


    Dragan Hadrien wiped the gore from his lips with a thumb -- and those bright blue eyes flicked down to regard the three below.


    "One," he said. sea??h th§× Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 338:12.19: The Kaiser

    Deep below Bone Heaven, beneath even the oldest laboratories and secret places, there was a nest.


    The Tyrant Lizard King had once been called the King of the Paleo-beasts. According to the Gene Tyrant that had recreated it, the beast had been a relentless and ferocious predator, capable of overcoming nearly any obstacle and devouring nearly any prey. Before it, nearly all other organisms were mere fodder.


    The bones of countless Tyrant Lizard Kings lay discarded around the nest, each cleanly stripped of meat. The beast that resided in this quiet place had taken a liking to them. They offered the ideal nutrition and taste for its ancient palate.


    Yes¡­ the Tyrant Lizard King could overcome nearly any obstacle, devour nearly any prey¡­


    The purpose of this nests occupant, the final creation of the Gene Tyrant Tyros, had been to eliminate that ¡¯nearly¡¯. It was a species of one, able to endlessly evolve and adapt to conquer any foe. The paleo-beast perfected -- no, if you asked its creator, it was life perfected.


    It was called the Kaiser.


    The nest shifted, and the beast emerged. It moved on all fours, arms and legs muscular and long, but it could shift to a bipedal stance if it felt the need. Its head was covered in spines and scales, but no eyes -- there was no need for eyes. It had already developed far more efficient ways to perceive the world around it.


    It parted its lips slightly, revealing rows upon rows of tightly packed, razor-sharp teeth. A barbed tongue tasted the air. Something had caught the interest of the Kaiser.


    As it continued to move, the nest shifted, and the piles of bones slid down the edges of the hill. Not all of this matter belonged to the Kaiser¡¯s prey -- most of it actually belonged to the Kaiser itself. When it shifted form, taking on new traits to survive, it often shed skin, bones and muscles as required.


    Once, this had been incredibly painful, but the Kaiser had long since adapted to the pain.


    Emerging fully from the pile of the past, the Kaiser rose to two feet, snout pointed upwards towards the roof of the cavern. It did not sniff. It did not search. It had already spotted exactly what it was looking for.


    The Kaiser had been given one directive, one purpose -- one biological imperative that its blood screamed out for.


    Overcome obstacles.


    The greatest of obstacles had already presented itself.


    It would be a mistake to say that the Kaiser was happy. Its brain did not possess the capacity for such emotions -- and if it did, they would swiftly have been adapted away. But, all the same, the light shifted¡­


    ¡­and the Kaiser seemed to grin.


    "Keep him under pressure!" the hunter roared, firing off another volley of arrows. "Don¡¯t let him get close!"


    Dragan weaved through the projectiles, his legs vanishing into Aether and granting him flight. It wasn¡¯t just his legs -- many useless internal organs were recorded away for the time being, reducing his weight and granting him greater maneuverability. The amount of Dragan Hadrien that truly existed in this world changed from second to second.


    The final arrow scraped past Dragan¡¯s face, leaving a thin cut. He clicked his tongue in displeasure, floating over the street -- even with Dragan¡¯s speed and flight, the hunter was quickly adapting.


    His face was familiar. Dragan had gone over every one of the contestants in this Melee before arriving -- and that information was quickly pulled out of his Archive.


    Hazmuth. No known surname. A famous big game hunter, specializing in deadly and unique beasts. Gene Tyrant leftovers and the like. Now he was aiming to become Supreme -- or, more likely, aiming to hunt down other Supreme hopefuls.


    Dragan flipped in the air -- vanishing entirely into Gemini World for a moment as a hail of jigsaw pieces sliced through space. He reappeared down in the gutter, already firing a series of Gemini Shotguns upwards, annihilating quite a few of the pieces¡­ but they were drops in the bucket.


    The jigsaw woman was called Mackenzie Mahaire. Apparently, that unusual body of hers was the result of exposure to a dangerous Aether Armament in her youth. The pieces she disassembled into were sharp and strong enough to cut through steel -- Dragan didn¡¯t want to risk direct contact. Right now she¡¯d disassembled her entire body, too, so there was no external user to take aim at.


    "Oh spirits¡­" muttered a soft voice from the end of the street. "Accept my apology, accept my reverence, accept my offered vengeance¡­ reach down into the ground and grasp the spine of holy retribution¡­"


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    Victor Nezhel -- another former member of the Final Church. A gravekeeper who¡¯d suddenly abandoned his post and made his way to the Supremacy, entering the Dawn Contest in a frenzy. A midlife crisis, maybe, or something more?


    Dragan supposed it didn¡¯t matter -- Victor was gravely mistaken if he thought he was in the middle of his life.


    Right now, he had bigger concerns. The arrows Hazmuth was loosing and the jigsaws flying at him. Their assault was constant, keeping him on the defensive, preventing him from going after Victor -- and the ability he was obviously setting up.


    Usually, projectiles like this would be no problem. He¡¯d just record them into Gemini Shotgun and fire them right back. Only¡­ Gemini Shotgun wasn¡¯t working. These attacks were seemingly immune to it.


    Dragan understood when it came to the jigsaws -- they were basically Mackenzie¡¯s body spread thin, and so he¡¯d have to use Gemini Dominion if he wanted to capture them. Recording a few jigsaws would be a waste of time and energy, but he could do it if he wanted to.


    The arrows, though? That made far less sense. They definitely weren¡¯t part of Hazmuth¡¯s body, and their paths were simple and easy to predict. There should have been no problem -- and yet Gemini Shotgun failed to record them.


    Why? An ability?


    Under these circumstances, Dragan had little chance of figuring out the particulars -- the important part was that he couldn¡¯t record them. He needed only move with that in mind.


    What an unlucky man Hazmuth was. He¡¯d pushed himself right to the top of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s list.


    Hazmuth wouldn¡¯t be able to keep this up for long.


    He¡¯d figured it out, watching this Cogitant pursue the biker from a distance. The young man¡¯s abilities were all based on recording. He recorded his body to avoid attacks and move quickly through the battlefield. Watching that, Hazmuth had made a wager.


    If he could record himself, then surely he could record other things, couldn¡¯t he? So normal projectiles would most likely be useless.


    Only¡­ in order to record something, you had to understand it. Its structure, its nature. That created an opening. Hazmuth could transfer the properties of his slain prey to his arrows, filling them with contradictory characteristics. An arrow with no legs that was simultaneously a corpse on four legs¡­ essentially, an attack that could not be understood, could not be recorded.


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    When he¡¯d fired that arrow through the Cogitant¡¯s palm, Hazmuth knew he¡¯d found a weakness.


    It seemed the enemy had realized that as well. Hazmuth sniffed -- and the electric tang of the Cogitant¡¯s Aether was suddenly coming from beneath him, beneath the ground. Immediately, he leapt up onto the nearest building, narrowly avoiding the geyser of blue light that obliterated the street below.


    The enemy had two forms of ranged attack, from what Hazmuth had observed. Both involved returning objects he¡¯d recorded at greater speeds. The first form, the one the Cogitant had used in his initial bombardment and that maneuver just now, was obscenely powerful -- but the firing sequence took a few seconds, allowing for escape. The second form, the one he was using the most, was weaker but fired instantly.


    ¡¯Weaker¡¯, of course, was relative. If Hazmuth suffered a direct hit, it would still be enough to kill him.


    The Cogitant appeared next to Hazmuth¡¯s new perch in a flash of blue Aether, immediately swinging his leg at the hunter¡¯s chest. Hazmuth whipped out his machete from his side, deflecting the Aether-infused limb and raining down sparks. He didn¡¯t have time to celebrate -- right away, Hazmuth ducked down, avoiding a shot from the Cogitant¡¯s Aether that surely would have decapitated him.


    Taking on the enemy in close range like this, Hazmuth could tell -- his strength was mostly in his long-range attack. While he had a level of competence in martial arts -- and his infusion boosted that further -- close combat was by no means his forte. Just now, it hadn¡¯t been too difficult to block that attack.


    Hazmuth lunged in, swinging his machete at the Cogitant¡¯s throat, the smile of the hunt spreading across his lips.


    It was short-lived.


    Gemini Dominion.


    There.


    As expected, the world around Hazmuth suddenly changed -- the ruins of Bone Heaven replaced by the stark white of an unnatural plane. Surreal and absurd architecture stretched up into the sky above, while below yawned an empty void. This was not a place that could exist in the real world.


    Hazmuth held his machete up, vigilant for the attack he knew would soon come.


    That biker had surely been taken to this same place, and -- once here -- beaten until he was unable to withstand those last few headbutts. Hazmuth couldn¡¯t blame his brief and fallen comrade: an ability like this was difficult to deal with if you weren¡¯t expecting it. It was only because Hazmuth had been taken inside second that he had the opportunity to defend himself.


    Powers such as this, that transported the target to another ¡¯world¡¯, mostly worked in one of two ways. Either an Aether construct was erected around the target, entrapping them in a ¡¯bubble¡¯ of sorts -- or the target was recorded into Aether themselves, and then placed inside a simulated reality. This seemed to be the second.


    Hazmuth had once seen a man who could drag others into an otherworldly forest and drag that forest out into reality, but exceptions like that were thankfully rare.


    The point was, this wasn¡¯t a real location. That didn¡¯t mean Hazmuth could take things easy, though. The biker had undoubtedly sustained injuries in this place -- so whatever damage his simulated self suffered would be transferred to his real body when the ability ended.


    Hazmuth was sure that the same caveat didn¡¯t apply to the ability¡¯s user. If that was the case, he could do nothing more than defend himself and wait for the ability to end.


    Only¡­ he really should have been attacked by now. Hazmuth lowered his machete slightly and looked, listened, felt. There was no denying it.


    He was alone.


    With each punch, Dragan smashed a jigsaw piece into a splatter of gore. With each kick, he shattered whatever bones remained within them. With each bite, he tore their skin to shreds.


    And still it wasn¡¯t enough.


    When he captured a target within Gemini Dominion, he didn¡¯t necessarily have to go in there with them. He¡¯d captured Hazmuth and taken him out of play for a while -- giving him time to focus on the jigsaw woman. Depending on the potency of his Aether and how much he actively resisted, Hazmuth could be gone from anywhere from thirty seconds to thirty minutes. It would likely be on the shorter end of that scale, so Dragan couldn¡¯t waste time.


    He leapt through the air, twisting his body to avoid the flurry of flying jigsaws, wincing as their edges sliced at his skin.


    An ability like Gemini Dominion -- recording an unwilling target like that -- wasn¡¯t easy to pull off. Needless to say, there were conditions. In order to capture someone in Dominion, they needed to move either directly towards or away from him in a straight line for a distance of two meters. That was the basic activation requirement.


    After activating Gemini Dominion, Dragan had to immediately decide whether he went in there with the target or remained outside -- he couldn¡¯t switch halfway through. Usually, he would enter Dominion along with them to take out groups one-by-one, but in this case he didn¡¯t want to give them time to set up a trap in the real world.


    That was why he was here, weaving through jigsaws, risking death. So long as Gemini Dominion was active, Dragan couldn¡¯t use any other abilities in the outside world. No World, no Shotgun, no Railgun. All he had access to was basic Aether usage.


    He¡¯d make it work.


    Skidding on his heel, Dragan turned towards the building next to him -- some sort of transport hub, once connected to a monorail that no longer existed. The jigsaws whizzed by, dangerously close, one getting lucky and slicing off Dragan¡¯s right ear. It dropped to the ground in a splat of blood, but Dragan paid it no mind.


    After Dragan had finished off David Divine, Mackenzie had fully disassembled herself, clearly worried he¡¯d go after her next. It was a good move. Going after just a few of these jigsaw pieces would be useless¡­


    ¡­but Dragan knew that was what she wanted him to think.


    With an ability like this, splitting herself into countless pieces, there had to be a drawback. For one, he assumed the individual pieces couldn¡¯t move too far away from each other -- that¡¯s why they remained in a general ¡¯cloud¡¯ shape. Otherwise, she¡¯d have sent some away from the fight just in case.


    Secondly¡­ Mackenzie Mahaire was by no means an Aether master. She¡¯d used this unusual ability of hers to get far, but she herself was just about average. Her ability had to have a drawback -- a core, maybe? One of the pieces contained her consciousness, and destroying it would kill her? It seemed likely.


    All he needed to do, then, was identify that piece.


    Pinpoint Aether, electric blue, flooded into Dragan¡¯s fist as he slammed it into the wall before him. The building exploded in a hail of rubble and dust -- and at the very same instant, Dragan let out an Aether ping. He contained it to the immediate area, so he could defend himself quickly afterwards, but it was still more than enough to scan the cloud of jigsaw pieces.


    There.


    A single piece that, rather than lunge in for the attack, hesitated a moment -- faltered a moment -- stopped a moment. Faced with that sudden display of strength, it hung back. It hung back because it knew that, if it was destroyed, it was all over.


    Mackenzie Mahaire was a coward, after all.


    To the untrained eye, Dragan¡¯s movement would have been nothing but a flash of blue. To the trained eye, it was much more absurd.


    In the moment before the rubble he¡¯d sent flying hit the ground, Dragan kicked off. He leapt from chunk to falling chunk, each jump shattering the stone beneath him. He used a staircase that existed just for an instant¡­


    ¡­and before that instant was over, he was holding that fatal jigsaw piece between his hands.


    A panicked green eye stared at him from the surface of the jigsaw, pupil flicking this way and that in search of nonexistent escape. The other jigsaws, commanded as one, surged towards Dragan desperately. They span through the air towards his back, ready to slice at flesh and bone the second they made contact.


    But it was too late.


    "Two," said Dragan -- and he tore the thing in half.


    Right after that, four things happened in very rapid succession.


    Victor Nezhel twisted the shovel he¡¯d planted into the ground, green smoke-like Aether pouring forth from the hole. He opened his eyes, and they were two empty black pits. He smiled, and his teeth were dark as tar.


    Gravestones began to appear, protruding from walls, floors and ceilings en-masse, like a sudden and morbid forest. A chill went down Dragan¡¯s spine as the green smoke began to revolve around them. Whatever Victor had been cooking, it was ready.


    Blue Aether flashed as Hazmuth reappeared, falling through the air. He aimed his bow right at Dragan even as he fell. A hunter couldn¡¯t resist such prey.


    And, finally, countless green and decrepit hands burst out of the ground around Dragan, grasping him tight¡­


    ¡­and pulling him down.


    Scratch that -- five things happened.


    "Shit," said Dragan Hadrien.

 Chapter 339:12.20: Judge, Jury and Executioner

    The dead rose!


    Birthed by invisible graves, they pulled themselves out of the ground, their desperate hands clutching at Dragan¡¯s legs. They were a dull green, their skin almost crystalline, their bodies surrounded by drifting smoke. Aether constructs, to be sure¡­


    ¡­but even so, Dragan recognised them.


    Dir, the security chief from Taldan, held heavy onto Dragan¡¯s back. Giovanni Sigma Testament, his eyes hollow holes, dragged his morose hand down the side of Dragan¡¯s face. The former Commissioner Caesar clutched Dragan¡¯s jacket with decrepit strength, the fabric tearing in her grip.


    They were by no means alone. Even as Dragan identified old faces, new ones made themselves known, rising from the ground and advancing towards him. Old enemies, back from the dead, alight with vengeance. A chorus of ghostly moans echoed through the street.


    Behind Dragan, Hazmuth had hesitated, looking around the morbid scene in confusion and horror, his hands frozen on his bow. The sight alone was ghastly, but no doubt the hunter was worried he¡¯d be caught in this attack as well. He and Victor were only allies of convenience, after all.


    It would be all too simple for the ghosts to turn their gaze on him too.


    There were more, more of the dead that Dragan did not recognise, but he supposed that made sense. They would be from the bombardment around twenty minutes ago. These figures¡­ these ghosts¡­


    ¡­these were all people that he had killed, after all.


    "Did you think the fallen were silent?" came Victor¡¯s soft, melodic voice, echoing down the street. "If so¡­ you¡¯re dead wrong."


    His gaseous Aether ran down the street, coiling around the countless gravestones that now protruded from the floor, walls, and ceilings. He twirled his shovel in his grip, pointing it directly at Dragan. A quiet smile spread across his lips, barely visible under his grey mustache.


    "Now, you will come to understand the grief of those whose lives you have ended. Prepare yourself. The Jury."


    The dead surged forward, grabbing Dragan and pulling him under, imprisoning him under their weight. Dragan, for his part, did not resist. He just went limp and allowed them to pull him this way and that, until the only part of him visible beneath the hill of the damned was a single staring eye -- glinting out from between two emerald fingers.


    Victor stared at the restrained Dragan. He raised his shovel, the point ready to be thrust towards the Cogitant¡¯s head. It was sharp and strong enough to smash through skull and pulp brain.


    "Heavy, aren¡¯t they?" he said, cautiously advancing. "We often speak of the weight of one¡¯s sins¡­ but it¡¯s impossible to truly understand until you¡¯re being crushed by them."


    That cold blue eye stared.


    It blinked.


    And then¡­ it rolled.


    Dragan Hadrien spoke.


    "Is this it?" he said, voice quiet, muffled behind the layers of bodies that covered him. "You were talking so big¡­ I thought it would be better than this."


    Victor scowled, lowering his stance. "Talk as you like. I know the fear you¡¯re feeling. I¡¯ve suffered it myself. Right now, you¡¯re --"


    Dragan Hadrien laughed.


    "Fear?" he chuckled. "Why would I be scared of a bunch of dead people? I¡¯ve already been able to kill them once¡­ right?"


    Victor narrowed his eyes. "Impertinent."


    Abandoning words, the gravekeeper lunged forward, ready to strike true and snuff out Dragan Hadrien¡¯s glowing pupil. Only¡­


    "Gemini Railgun."


    ¡­Dragan Hadrien killed again.


    That bright blue eye had indeed been snuffed out, but not by the hand of Victor. At the last moment, Dragan¡¯s eyeball had suddenly popped -- and a spear of light had shot forth, striking Victor in the heart. The technique was insane, but effective: a Gemini Railgun fired from within Dragan Hadrien¡¯s own body.


    Victor slowly looked down, to the smoking hole in his chest. The shot to his heart had been quite destructive -- you could actually see the scenery behind him. Slowly, mutely, he fell backwards onto the floor.


    Dragan pulled himself roughly out of the mass of ghosts, marching forth determinedly even as they clung to his arms and legs. Blood from his empty socket poured down his cheek like crimson tears.


    "You figured out that Gemini Shotgun¡¯s origin point is the cloud of Aether around me, didn¡¯t you? So you thought you could stop me using my abilities by surrounding me with your Aether. It was a good plan. But¡­ you can¡¯t do anything about the Aether inside my body. I can fire shots from there just fine."


    As Dragan spoke, white matter began to bubble inside his eye socket -- a new pale globe appearing to replace the old one. Countless pupils popped into existence on the eyeball, slamming into each other and combining like bacteria in reverse¡­ until, in the span of a few seconds, the wound was fully healed.


    It was like he¡¯d never even lost the eye in the first place.


    Dragan turned his head, regarding Hazmuth standing on a distant rooftop.


    "Three --" he began.


    He didn¡¯t finish the word. Before he could do so, that massive shovel suddenly whipped through the air, slicing both of Dragan¡¯s legs clean off and sending him flying into a wall. Dust billowed down the street as the man holding the shovel slowly rose to his feet.


    "The Judge," Victor growled, using his shovel to support himself, smoke still rising from the hole in his chest. "So long as the dead still torment you, I too will not die."


    The slightest smile on his lips, he pointed his shovel in the direction of the crater he had created.


    "Onwards," he bid the dead.


    They flooded forth, limbs and heads and pained faces flowing like a tsunami.


    It seemed that Dragan had miscalculated.


    He pulled himself out of the wall he¡¯d been lodged into, collapsing onto the floor immediately. It wasn¡¯t that he was too weak to stand, only that he had no legs to stand on. It would take them around thirty seconds to return.


    That wasn¡¯t time he could spend in peace.


    The wall of the house collapsed inwards as the ghosts surged inside, each and every one of them focused on him. From what he¡¯d experienced so far, they were individually very weak, but in great numbers they could hold him down and expose him to attacks from Hazmuth and Victor. Hazmuth¡¯s arrows were immune to Gemini Shotgun -- if he got a good shot in while Dragan was restrained, that could be the end.


    As the dead converged upon him, Dragan held his hand upwards, curling it into a fist -- and then used a Gemini Shotgun. The projectile, manifested in the space between Dragan¡¯s palm and fingers, propelled him upwards -- through the roof and out of reach of his pursuers. It demolished Dragan¡¯s hand in the process, but that was an acceptable price to pay.


    Soaring over the street, looking down at the battlefield below, Dragan considered his options.


    Originally, he¡¯d thought he could deal with The Jury by eliminating the user -- but in this case, it seemed the opposite was true. If Victor¡¯s words could be believed, The Judge made him immortal until all of the ghosts he¡¯d summoned were destroyed. He still seemed able to sustain damage, though. Was beating him to a pulp an option? Crushing his body until he could no longer move?


    Easier said than done -- and even if he immobilized Victor, The Jury would keep coming after him.


    Another hail of arrows zoomed up, and Dragan swung one of his newly-grown legs. The air pressure from the pinpoint kick was enough to disrupt the paths of the incoming projectiles, sending them flying off in every direction.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author¡¯s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Blood flew with them too. Dragan¡¯s new legs weren¡¯t fully complete, after all -- they were muscle and bone without skin. Even just the air touching them was agonizing. Dragan grit his teeth as he landed atop the opposite building.


    Immediately, the dead followed, sliding up the wall like a horde of insects. Their advance was inexorable, but at least this way he could dispatch them as they appeared. Dragan pointed his finger towards the incoming mob -- and then flicked his thumb up, miming a gun.


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    When you got down to it, Gemini Railgun was little more than a more involved Shotgun. Gemini Shotgun recorded an incoming projectile then manifested it with a little added speed and force. Railgun did the exact same thing, but then recorded the manifested projectile again and again and again, adding more power with each revolution. The longer he charged it, the stronger it got. Even Dragan didn¡¯t know how strong it could get, given enough time.


    But against enemies like this, Gemini Shotgun was more than enough.


    With each shot, a head popped, craniums exploding into crystal and their owners falling down to the ground. Dragan executed familiar faces and strangers alike, his face a mask, blue light flashing off his features -- the distortion making him seem unapproachable, inhuman even. He fired and fired and fired.


    And yet¡­ the number of enemies never seemed to reduce. If anything, they¡¯d seemed to increase -- when Dragan looked now, at the tidal wave of wraiths before him, he saw even more familiar faces. Some of them more than once, some of them he had already destroyed.


    Immediately, he stopped firing. Shit. He¡¯d seen something like this before.


    An Aether glitch.


    Dragan Hadrien was dead on the money.


    When Victor Nezhel had created his ability, The Jury, he had intended it purely to weigh a person down with the hands of their sins. After running a check on the opponent¡¯s Aether, it would call up specters of each and every person they had killed since developing said Aether.


    The companion ability to The Jury, The Judge, made Victor Nezhel effectively immortal while the Jury was active. Recorded duplicate organs would remotely take over the functions of any that were destroyed. Even if Victor¡¯s brain was destroyed, the one lurking in his Aether would take over for it -- and, once The Jury¡¯s target had been destroyed, any injuries Victor had suffered would immediately be healed.


    Simple and effective, if a bit heavy on the set-up.


    However, something unexpected had happened. Initially unbeknownst to Victor, the specters of The Jury counted as victims for the purposes of the ability. When the target destroyed one of them, it would count as a kill and as such, the specter would immediately be resummoned. If that wasn¡¯t enough, The Jury would even become confused as to whether this was a new killing or a repeat of an old one -- and so, splitting the difference, a second version of that specter would be summoned.


    To put it simply, Dragan Hadrien could not kill Victor Nezhel without first destroying each and every ghost. But for each ghost he destroyed, two more would appear to replace it. Even ignoring The Executioner, Victor¡¯s third ability, he was a very very difficult man to kill.


    But not impossible.


    Dragan flew up into the air as a tower of ghosts pursued him, their writhing bodies forming a single mass that stretched into the sky. Gritting his teeth, he pointed his bleeding hand down towards his incoming opponents -- new fingers already squirming out of his stumps like bloody red maggots.


    Destroying these things just makes them duplicate, Dragan thought. But that was from me shooting them personally. Does it work differently if I¡¯m a step removed from the damage?


    Gemini Shotgun.


    Blasts of blue light -- chunks of debris made indistinguishable by speed -- slammed into the buildings below, smashing them into rubble. The stone wreckage pelted the specters like hail, crushing them into crystal shards. Any sense of relief at their destruction was brief, however, as the ghosts quickly reappeared -- now accompanied by their inevitable twins.


    Dragan clicked his tongue.


    Doesn¡¯t matter how I do it. So long as I¡¯m the one performing the action, it still counts as me killing them. Damnit.


    As the tidal wave of the dead fell upon him, Dragan retreated into Gemini World -- reappearing a moment later, already running through the gutted inside of a building below. He pumped his arms, sprinting through what was once perhaps a mall, thinking as much as he could in the few seconds afforded to him. Apart from his footsteps and the distant moaning of the ghosts, silence reigned.


    Dragan shook his head. "No. I¡¯ve already played that card too much. We need to keep the extent of it in our back pocket as long as we can."


    Silence.


    "Don¡¯t worry," Dragan said, skidding to a halt in the building¡¯s central atrium. "I¡¯ll --"


    Thwish.


    "Oh?" Hazmuth purred. "You¡¯ll what, boy?"


    Numb pain, and shortness of breath. Dragan looked down -- and saw the shaft of an arrow already protruding from the base of his throat, his neck cleanly impaled by the projectile. As if it had been waiting for Dragan to notice, blood began pouring from his mouth, but more than that, alongside that¡­


    "You¡¯re quite the healthy young man," Hazmuth commented, stepping out of the shadow of a pillar, bow trained on Dragan. "It should have taken effect a long while ago. I¡¯ve never had to administer a second dose." S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes widened as he collapsed to his knees, pulling the arrow free. Damn it. The arrows were poisoned? It had been working its way through his system since that first one had hit him? It had to be a subtle poison, if she hadn¡¯t caught it. Dragan¡¯s limbs were shaking uncontrollably, like insects were working their way under his skin.


    Hazmuth fired a third shot -- but, even with the tremors, Dragan was able to snatch it out of the air inches from his face.


    The hunter whistled appreciatively. "You really are something, aren¡¯t you?" he said. "Even now, I don¡¯t dare get near you. The wise thing would be to let that undertaker get here and finish you off himself, but¡­"


    He pulled back another arrow, and the tremors finally sent Dragan sprawling down onto the ground. Hazmuth smiled.


    "...we are not wise men."


    Hazmuth fired the arrow -- and the instant he did, the building exploded around them.


    It wasn¡¯t something that Hazmuth had done, and it wasn¡¯t something that Dragan had done. Instead, this destruction was the result of a creature -- a massive creature -- pushing right through the building itself, destroying everything in its path. Hazmuth¡¯s smile spread into the grin of a true hunter as he saw the specimen charging towards them.


    The thing was clearly a paleo-beast, but not of any variety Dragan had ever seen. It had a body plan like a gecko, skittering across the ground -- but its size was far beyond that, massive, the size of a starship all on its own. Quills twitched atop an eyeless face, and its razor-sharp teeth seemed to spread out into a vicious grin of its own.


    As it passed into the darkness of the building, bioluminescent patterns began to flare across its back, like a kaleidoscope had been painted upon it. Dragan had to squint as the bright lights, forming the shapes of inhuman skulls, flared against his eyeballs. The brightest light of all shone out from the tip of the creature¡¯s long tail, which flexed menacingly in the air behind it.


    For the briefest of moments, the thing seemed to analyze the situation before it -- and then it opened its mouth and roared.


    The sheer force of that roar was enough to send Hazmuth flying away like a piece of garbage -- and Dragan only managed to save himself by plunging his Aether-infused fist into the floor below. He sent his ears into Gemini World, saving himself from being deafened in the process too, but even so the pressure and the poison were still doing their work. He could feel his body creaking from accumulated damage beneath him.


    A long barbed tongue flicked out of the paleo-beast¡¯s mouth and licked its black lips. Even without eyes, its objective was easy enough to see. It was here for him.


    Well¡­ Dragan thought grimly. You¡¯ll have to get in line.


    As the paleo-beast lunged at him, Dragan mustered his strength and forced his hand up off the floor, palm pointing towards the incoming monster.


    "Gemini Dominion!"


    Blue Aether flashed, and the creature vanished -- recorded into Dragan¡¯s Aether. Now, at least, the giant monster wasn¡¯t something he needed to worry about. Gemini Dominion could absorb a target without Aether pretty much indefinitely.


    That didn¡¯t mean he was out of the woods.


    Now that he¡¯d captured the paleo-beast, he couldn¡¯t use Gemini Shotgun, Railgun, or World. As if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, the poison he¡¯d been dosed with was still running rampant inside his body. Even rising to his feet seemed like a supreme effort right now.


    Hazmuth had been blown away by that roar, but he¡¯d be back before long. The ghosts would be upon him soon too -- and he had no idea where their master was. They¡¯d backed him into a corner.


    Could he maybe use the paleo-beast against them? Release it into the midst of his enemies and let it wreak havoc? If the paleo-beast destroyed the ghosts of its own free will, then surely it wouldn¡¯t result in them duplicating.


    Archivist, Dragan thought. That thing I just sent in. What¡¯s it doing?


    The Archivist poked his head out a hole in the ground, his youthful face amused. "It¡¯s just sitting there," he said. "Straight away, it just sat down and started waiting. Didn¡¯t even look around or act confused. Kind of creepy."


    Scratch that. If that thing concerned the Archivist, then it wasn¡¯t safe to use. What if it just joined forces with Dragan¡¯s existing enemies? Even if he regained access to his other abilities, by no means would he be saved.


    No, he¡¯d have to rely on the tools he had access to now.


    First order of business was the poison.


    To anyone watching, the actions of the Kaiser would have seemed innocuous.


    The second it appeared inside Gemini Dominion, it sat calmly down upon the floor, like a dog. It didn¡¯t look at the bizarre environment around it. It didn¡¯t display any confusion at the sudden change in location. The ferocity that had driven it a moment earlier disappeared in the blink of an eye. A machine reset to a neutral state.


    It just sat there, waiting, for a short while¡­


    ¡­and then yellow Aether began to spark.

 Chapter 340:12.21: The Cockroach That Is You

    Sorry to say this, but you are Dragan Hadrien.


    You¡¯re in a pretty bad situation, truth be told. Poison is ravaging your body. Your limbs are shaking so much it¡¯s all you can do to force yourself into a sitting position. Your nausea is such that it feels like your brain is swimming around in your skull -- like a goldfish. It¡¯s a wonder you haven¡¯t vomited yet.


    Still, the poison is spreading rapidly -- technically, it seems to just be a tranquilliser, but the thing it¡¯s putting to sleep in this case will be your lungs, so the distinction is fairly meaningless.


    And that¡¯s without even mentioning the hole in your throat. You pulled that arrow out roughly, didn¡¯t you? There¡¯s a gash in your neck like someone¡¯s slashed it open. If you were a normal person, that by itself would be enough to kill you.


    Good thing you aren¡¯t a normal person. You made sure of that a good while ago.


    So, Dragan Hadrien¡­ this is how you make a miracle happen.


    Gemini World, Shotgun and Railgun are forbidden to you -- so long as you¡¯re holding that massive paleo-beast inside Gemini Dominion. All you have access to is your basic Aether usage, and yet this is a situation that cannot be overcome by basic Aether usage. But you¡¯ll work with what you¡¯ve got.


    First thing first.


    An Aether ping -- not radiating out of your body to scan the area around you, but pouring inside your body to scan the damage. Where is the poison, what areas has it ravaged, what is beyond saving? Hurriedly, you scrawl each answer on a chalkboard in your Archive, trying not to sweat as you see the list getting longer and longer.


    With each new confirmation, you dread it -- dread the idea that you¡¯ll find yourself writing down a vital organ. Something that cannot be survived without, even for a few seconds. If that happens, the plan gestating inside your head will never be born.


    But the fatal words are not spat out from your hand. If nothing else, you¡¯re lucky.


    Rubble creaks -- someone is running this way. Hazmuth, most likely, coming back after being blown away by that roar. Him reaching you too soon is another losing condition. As you are right now, you won¡¯t be able to dodge or block another of his attacks.


    You need to execute the plan before he gets here. No hesitation. You already killed that, after all, didn¡¯t you?


    Deep breath. Your timing must be perfect. If it isn¡¯t perfect, you¡¯ll be dead before either the poison or Hazmuth can finish you. Right now, a dozen different conclusions are fighting for your attention. Don¡¯t let them win.


    You open your mouth, say the words silently, lock yourself into the correct headspace.


    Gemini Dominion.


    It reappears, above you, in the spot you designated as the exit. The beast. You don¡¯t look. You can¡¯t afford to look. You don¡¯t have the time. All you can do --


    Gemini World.


    -- is record those parts of your insides that cannot be saved. The chalkboard is wiped clean, but you don¡¯t have time to celebrate. The paleo-beast falls down towards you¡­


    Gemini Dominion.


    ¡­and vanishes once again into your domain. So long as it¡¯s moving in a straight line directly toward or away from you, you can trap a target in Dominion. Falling towards you fulfills those conditions just fine.


    That¡¯s not your concern right now, though. The only thing that you¡¯re worried about is time. Do you still have enough seconds?


    As soon as you reactivated Dominion, the parts of your body you recorded into World were banished into nonexistence. You are a bag of skin and bones, and that skin hangs loose over your reduced frame. You¡¯re barely recognisable as your skull presses against your face, distorting it. Even with the poison gone, it seems you¡¯re still practicing for corpsehood.


    How long until your comrade can fully regenerate your insides? How long until Hazmuth arrives? These are the questions that will decide your fate.


    Needless to say, Hazmuth will get here before you can fully regain yourself. For that reason, you decide to prioritize certain parts of your regeneration. Just the things you need to move and fight. Longevity beyond that can be put on backorder.


    Move and fight¡­ move and fight¡­ yes. That¡¯s the reason you¡¯re here. That¡¯s the reason you¡¯re alive. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Hazmuth leaps over a massive chunk of rubble, already running, machete clutched in his massive hand. His bow is nowhere to be seen. Lost or broken by that roar, no doubt. It¡¯s a good thing.


    Shakily, you begin to rise up, feeling like a balloon slowly being inflated. You¡¯re coming back to life. You can feel it. The triplet shakiness -- first born from cruelty of poison, then from lack of muscle, then from pain of regeneration -- has vanished. Your hand grasps some of the stones scattered on the floor as you stand.


    Hey, kid.


    Almost upon you, Hazmuth raises a machete coated in brilliant red Aether. He¡¯s too late. You¡¯ve already done it. You¡¯ve already performed a miracle.


    Make this stick for me.


    You move, and you fight. There¡¯s nothing more to be done.


    You are the one they call Hazmuth, and this is one of the best days of your life. Perhaps the last. If so, even better. A worthy death is what most dream of when they¡¯re old and feeble. Most never get it.


    It¡¯s all you can do to hide the grin on your face as you leap over the rubble, charging at the Cogitant. The paleo-beast that sent you flying had already vanished. No doubt it has been swallowed by this man¡¯s Aether. Will it emerge when he is dead? You hope so. It is the next one you wish to hunt.


    The Cogitant¡¯s arm whips -- he is fully healed -- and a volley of Aether-infused stones are hurled at you. It¡¯s almost like a manual version of the ranged ability he was using earlier. Not as strong, though, and not as fast. Avoidable.


    You kick your feet back and slide across the floor on your knees, the projectiles narrowly passing over your head. You smell burnt hair. Not as fast and not as strong doesn¡¯t mean they are not absurd. It¡¯s just that your own absurdity is enough to keep you alive against them.


    The machete passes from one hand to another as you reach melee range -- and you swing it at the Cogitant¡¯s neck.


    From observing him, you now know that his regeneration is separate from his recording abilities¡­ unlike them, it is not disabled when he captures an enemy. Even so, though, decapitation is something this young man cannot survive. A death so quick it cannot be recovered from. A death so quick that shame cannot reach you in time.


    A good death.


    The man who raised you did not have a good death. He burnt his way across the galaxy, formed a sizable cult of personality around himself -- and lived to enjoy the fruits of his labors. He lived, and lived, and lived. He lived so long that he finally passed away in his bed, blinded and deafened by time, barely able to even move his mouth. Only you had been left to watch him go.


    A bad death¡­ but why are you thinking of it now? Why can you smell the medicine? Why can you hear the distant beeping of medical equipment? Why can you feel that same shortness of breath?


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Ah¡­ this is that thing, isn¡¯t it¡­? They say your life flashes before your eyes. How curious to find that it is true.


    The Cogitant caught the blade between his teeth.


    You barely even have time to admire the maneuver before he bites down, shattering the blade between his infused jaws. You go to leap backwards, to put some futile distance between yourself and your opponent, but it¡¯s too late. The Cogitant¡¯s bright blue eyes flick over to make contact with your own --


    -- and he spits.


    It¡¯s like a shotgun blast -- countless fragments of sharp metal propelled towards you in an instant. One slides smoothly through your jugular. Another punctures your eye. Mingling heat and cold battle within your body for supremacy. Blood oozes down your collar.


    You¡¯re still mid-leap, but you will never hit the ground. By the time your body hits the ground, ¡¯you¡¯ will no longer exist. The hands of your life are already halfway through their last tick.


    Hospital bed.


    Medicine.


    Whispering.


    The last shard sinks into the space between your eyes. It penetrates your skull. It skewers your brain. The last thing you experience in the moment before you are turned off are the strange smell of burning toast¡­


    ¡­and the satisfaction of a worthwhile hunt.


    "Three."


    You are Victor Nezhel, riding upon the backs of the dead.


    They form a wave that crashes through the front wall of the mall, washing through the promenades and taking you directly towards the enemy. Individuality has been lost to the dead, at least for the time being, their bodies becoming an indistinct and singular mass. Countless arms drag the strange conglomeration onwards like some unknown and unearthly insect.


    Once, you would have thought using the dead in such a way was disrespectful. Now you understand there isn¡¯t enough time for respect.


    Gravekeepers -- those who return bodies no longer needed to the dirt -- are highly respected among the Humilist faith. Even among them, you stood near the top. You had buried countless, rich and poor alike, your shovel and soil the greatest equalizer of all. You had believed in your work, believed it just, believed it necessary -- but it wasn¡¯t until recently that you understood why it was necessary.


    The blood. The fires.


    Again and again, across Supremacy space, you would see it. The corpses left behind by their relentless expansion, their indomitable brutality. Torn apart, crushed, shot, sliced¡­ men, women, and children, desecrated in every way desecration could occur.


    There was no end to them. Your digging was meaningless. When you buried a body, all you were doing was finishing what the Supremacy had started. Early conclusions and ignoble ends.


    You hold your shovel in both hands as your mount cascades into the mall, towering over your adversary. The Cogitant. That hunter Umbrant lies dead before him, face-down, blood spreading out from his head.


    Unsurprising. This is not an enemy that can be defeated alone. But you are never alone.


    The Cogitant looks up at you. He narrows his eyes. His calm voice echoes through the ruins.


    "Are you going to surrender?" he asks.


    Slowly, you shake your head.


    Indeed, surrender is not an option for you. You¡¯ve already left everything behind. Your duty, your pride¡­ all of it abandoned where it fell. You aren¡¯t even a Humilist anymore.


    You already know that changing the Supremacy is impossible. Even if you were to win this Inner Melee, and somehow went on to win the Dawn Contest, nothing would change. Just look at what happened to Damon the Devilish. Once you are Supreme, the only path open to you is to sustain the Supremacy forevermore.


    That was why, the moment Victor slew the Supreme Heir, he would take his own life as well. Before all the people of the Supremacy, he would show them just how fragile their barbarism was. He would spit in the final eye of tyranny.


    He would Humiliate them.


    Victor Nezhel shakes his head.


    You sigh, quietly, almost invisibly. This isn¡¯t something you look forward to. That first bombardment -- and the deaths out in the open -- were necessary for your plan, but this? In this enclosed space, where no eyes can see?


    There¡¯s no profit to brutality here. Best to make it quick.


    Gemini Dominion.


    Gemini Railgun.


    You repeat the trick you performed before -- clutching the projectile as it manifests, allowing it to propel you forward. Railgun tears your arm apart into a mess of grisly red-and-white, but the speed it bestows is worth it. In an instant, you¡¯re upon Victor Nezhel, your other arm already lashing out in a punch.


    A ghost -- the ghost of Hazmuth -- catches your fist, but that¡¯s fine. You expected that. It¡¯s time.


    The paleo-beast has already returned to reality -- and you know you won¡¯t be able to recapture it as easily this time. That¡¯s why you poured your Aether through the cracks in the ground, down into the subterranean tunnels, and spat it out there. It¡¯ll take at least a few minutes for it to get back here.


    Enough time to end this.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    A blast of stone obliterates Hazmuth¡¯s spectral head, and you keep going -- seizing Victor by the face and slamming him into the wall. All around, the ghosts tear at your clothes and skin, their resentful hands clawing at whatever they can reach. Again, though, you pay it no mind. You have a plan.


    "It¡¯s useless trying to kill me," Victor¡¯s muffled voice comes from under your palm. "So long as The Jury --"


    You pay it no mind.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Just like when you started this fight, you fire in all directions -- some shots striking Victor¡¯s face from your palm, the others cutting through the ghosts like so much wheat. The spectres return quickly, of course, their numbers doubling every few seconds -- but that is something you expected.


    The thing about an Aether glitch is that, even if the boundaries of your ability become more flexible, you still only have a certain amount of strength you can exert. Theoretically speaking, The Judge would make Victor immortal while The Jury was active -- but, realistically, how many ghosts can he operate while still sustaining The Judge?


    There would be a limit. There is a limit to all things. You¡¯ll clarify Victor¡¯s limit now -- how much he could do before burning.


    Walls break. Windows shatter. Brick is crushed into dust. The world of corpses you are creating breaks the mall like a chick breaking free of the egg.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    They spill out into the street. They fill the gutters. They press down upon the ground.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    They fall, and fall, and fall, and fall.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    And finally, the doubling stops. And finally, Victor twitches under your grip. And finally, Victor speaks through what is left of his mouth.


    "The¡­ Exe¡­"


    There. That¡¯s what you¡¯re waiting for. That¡¯s the point of this entire exercise. At the very limit of the damage The Judge can withstand, with The Jury taking up nearly all capacity¡­ and, by opening his mouth, Victor has exposed a weak point. The last one he can afford.


    Aether flows out through your palm, down his throat, and into the very core of him.


    Gemini Railgun.


    "You know Aether is a shit projectile all by itself, right?"


    Ruth said that to you, didn¡¯t she? When you first met. Somehow it¡¯s become a treasured memory. She was right. It had been a good lesson to learn. But that wasn¡¯t strictly true anymore. Your Gemini Railgun can be fired from any point of your Aether.


    No matter where that point might be.


    It doesn¡¯t take much charging. The burden of a million ghosts has already done most of the work. You let it go. Blue light flashes -- from Victor¡¯s eyes, from his ears, from his mouth, like he¡¯s swallowed a lantern. Like he¡¯s swallowed blue fire. He retches¡­


    ¡­and, like a balloon, he pops.


    "Four."

 Chapter 341:12.22: Star (Part 2)

    The girl took a step forward, fire in her hair, resolve in her voice, and declared: "I¡¯ll show you."


    "Hm?" the boy said, blue eyes twinkling in the dark. "Show me what?"


    "That people can be good. That they¡¯re not what you think of them."


    That the world isn¡¯t what you think of it.


    The boy looked away.


    "Fine¡­ do what you want."


    The world stank of blood.


    That wasn¡¯t entirely true, of course. It was Dragan Hadrien that stank of blood. That was inevitable: he was covered in the stuff, from head to toe. The life and times of Victor Nezhel, painting his skin and clinging to his nostrils. A shudder went down Dragan¡¯s spine.


    "Caravan," Dragan muttered, raising his hands up. "Number of contestants remaining."


    Gemini Shotgun.


    Recorded rainwater began to fall from Dragan¡¯s Aether above, cascading over his body and making him at least a modicum cleaner. Clean enough that his face wasn¡¯t a grisly red, if nothing else. He cracked his neck as Caravan spoke.


    "Eight contestants left, including you!" the little bastard cackled. "We¡¯re down to the sticks, huh?! Don¡¯t get cocky, though! You still got some work ahead of ya, buster! Don¡¯t go getting lazy now!"


    "And how long left in the first hour?"


    "Fourteen minutes!"


    "I see."


    As the impromptu raincloud vanished, Dragan considered things. Fourteen minutes to eliminate seven people. It was hardly impossible. Some of those contestants would surely already be fighting each other, and so Dragan could dispatch them while they were distracted. It¡¯d be a race against time, but it was a race that could be won.


    If only he wasn¡¯t preoccupied.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked to the entrance of the mall -- what was left of the grand archway.


    The face of a nightmare grinned back at him, hunched down to fit in the gap. The paleo-beast had returned. That barbed tongue tasted the air. Those quills twitched on its head. Those claws tapped against the ground. Every aspect of this thing¡¯s biology was perfected for killing -- and every single bit of that arsenal was aimed at him.


    That grin widened.


    Dragan sighed, turning towards it fully, water still dripping from his hair.


    "Fine," he said. "Let¡¯s do this."


    AETHERAL SPACE 12.22


    "Star (Part 2)"


    In the days to come, the Absurd Weapons Lab would pore over all available footage of the clash between Dragan Hadrien and the specimen known as the Kaiser. For some, it became an obsession. Entire theses would be written based on what they observed.


    It went a little like this.


    Dragan¡¯s leg snapped up -- ankle shining with blue pinpoint Aether -- and smashed into the midsection of the Kaiser, sending it flying up into the air.


    The roof of the mall was finally destroyed as the paleo-beast tore through it, an unearthly screech emerging from its open mouth. Its limbs, muscular arms and legs, flailed uselessly at empty air as the creature rose into the sky. Yellow Aether crackled.


    Scholars would come to write about this moment.


    Phenomenon: confirmation of Aether development. Yellow colouration. Confirmation of infusion to boost innate attributes.


    As it reached the crest of its flight, the scales on the Kaiser¡¯s back rippled -- and a moment later, two massive leather wings burst out, their emergence raining blood on the city below. They flapped, rapid as the wings of an insect, and the resultant gusts tore Bone Heaven apart beneath it.


    Phenomenon: development of wing structures. Aerial capacity confirmed. Note significant increase in speed of evolution compared to pre-Aether levels.


    A flash of blue -- and Dragan Hadrien appeared out of the air, already firing a volley of Gemini Shotguns towards the Kaiser¡¯s back, right between its new wings. No doubt he intended to sever them before the Kaiser could put them to proper use -- but that didn¡¯t happen. The paleo-beast twisted its body as the projectiles approached -- and so they simply scraped at its sides. The attack gouged out long strips of angry red flesh, but left the wings unharmed.


    Again, the Kaiser roared -- whether from rage or pain none could say -- and the sheer force of the sound was enough to throw Dragan Hadrien up into the clouds.


    Phenomenon: pinpoint infusion of Aether in vocal cords confirmed. Following observation of Hadrien¡¯s Aether usage, subject incorporates his technique into its own attacks.


    With another flap of its mighty wings, the Kaiser launched itself upwards, pursuing Dragan.


    Yellow Aether continued to crackle around the wounds on its side -- and as the camera watched, those wounds slowly slid shut, like the natural healing had been put on fast-forward.


    Phenomenon: confirmation of already accelerated regenerative abilities infused and enhanced with Aether.


    By the time it broke through the cloud layer, spreading its wings wide, it was already fully healed. Those countless razor-sharp teeth snapped open as the thing roared once more in triumph --


    -- then recoiled as a bolt of blue Aether flew into its throat.


    Taking advantage of the distance that roar had put between them, Dragan Hadrien had entered Gemini World and waited for the Kaiser to reach him. He¡¯d finish it off the same way he eliminated Victor Nezhel -- an attack from the inside.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The Kaiser writhed in agony as blue light strobed within it, shining through the skin of its belly, but it did not die -- and within the span of a few seconds, even the pain seemed to fade.


    Phenomenon: adaptation against previously successful B-Rank attack ¡¯Gemini Shotgun¡¯. Adjustment of scale density, strength of internal tissue, and pain tolerance.


    Deep in the belly of the beast, stomach acid pouring over him, Dragan Hadrien gritted his teeth.


    Fine, he thought.


    Gemini Railgun.


    The Kaiser¡¯s unsettling calm came to a quick and violent end as the blue light suddenly intensified -- and Dragan Hadrien tore his way out of the paleo-beast¡¯s stomach, chunks of gore flying in every direction. Balance utterly lost, the Kaiser flipped in the air, plummeting down towards the ground.


    Hadrien flew far above the Kaiser as it fell, his legs recorded into Aether once again. In his hand he held a pulsating and unknowable organ -- a souvenir from his brief vacation inside the Kaiser¡¯s stomach. With a grimace, he crushed it. The strips of melted skin that covered his face were already regenerating, too. Neither of them would die so easily.


    Yes. Dragan Hadrien had experience with this sort of thing. That was why he wasn¡¯t naive enough to think a mere disembowelment would finish the Kaiser off.


    From far below, there was movement.


    Phenomenon: partial shift in body plan. Evolution that would have previously taken days is now accomplished in seconds.


    Six bloody red tentacles whipped up towards Hadrien -- and they would have slapped him out of the sky if he hadn¡¯t retreated into Gemini World once more. Each time he reappeared, they struck out again, seemingly automated -- the only purpose of their existence being to destroy the enemy. In that way, they were much like the Kaiser itself.


    The paleo-beast was barely even recognisable anymore. The gaping wound on its stomach had transformed into a massive mouth, lined with huge square teeth, and the flailing entrails had become those roving red tongues. Strike, strike, strike, strike.


    On that last hit, the Kaiser was just a tad too fast, and Gemini World just a tad too slow.


    The tendril slapped Dragan out of the air, shattering his arm and spiking him through a series of buildings. Brickwork and dust flew up in great clouds as the cannonball named Dragan Hadrien tore through the cityscape. The Kaiser did not move to pursue -- instead, as it landed, it planted itself into the ground and began to inhale, its skin billowing wider and farther as it took in air. Yellow Aether crackled around it.


    Phenomenon: three-hundred and seventy-seven seconds following development of Aether, creation of second Aether ability.


    The Kaiser breathed blood.


    It was so copious and focused that the release was more like a solid red beam than an actual liquid, but it did its job all the same. The blast of blood -- superheated by Aether -- carved through the city like a knife through butter, aimed at the spot Dragan was due to land. Coordinates were calculated more accurately than any computer.


    As Dragan flew through the air, he recorded his arm into Gemini World -- and immediately banished it, dismembering himself. It was easier to replace a missing arm than repair a damaged one. By the time he landed in the courtyard on one knee, a new tree of limbs was already working its way out of the stump, iterating and determining the ideal replacement.


    He wasn¡¯t alone in the courtyard. Another contestant, a man in a black-and-white striped shirt, wielding a massive pair of scissors. His eyes wide in surprise, he pointed those scissors at Dragan.


    "Hey!" he roared. "Don¡¯t mo --"


    The blood-blast smashed through the building and melted him in an instant, flesh sloughing off his bones. Dragan had only a moment to react before the attack struck him too. Fortunately, it was a reaction he was already used to.


    Gemini Railgun.


    The massive projectile vanished in a flash of blue Aether -- and then reappeared, blasted out by Dragan, redirected at the Kaiser. It scorched its way across Bone Heaven once more.


    While the Kaiser¡¯s speciality was evolution in response to a threat, it could not evolve in anticipation of a potential threat. It was only once that threat was a reality in front of it that adaptation could begin. In order to withstand and survive the strength of its own redirected attack -- blasting towards it at absurd speeds -- it could only calculate a response in the few seconds before that attack struck it.


    It performed admirably all the same.


    Phenomenon: development of rudimentary ¡¯parry¡¯ limb.


    The tip of one of the entrail-tentacles suddenly flattened and widened, producing a strange structure that looked more like a tennis racket than anything else. Light gleamed over the glass-like scales that covered its surface. Before the blood could strike the Kaiser, the limb whipped forward and deflected it -- the singular projectile scattered into countless tiny drops that rained down on the city, melting whatever they touched.


    That wasn¡¯t something Dragan had to worry about. As he marched through the crumbling streets, each drop of blood was recorded into Gemini Shotgun before it could touch him. He put a hand to his chin as he considered the titan on the horizon, its silhouette barely visible through the red clouds.


    I see, Dragan thought. This is some Gene Tyrant leftover. It adapts and evolves to whatever I throw at it. After I hit it with Gemini Shotgun, its hide became tougher to withstand those shots -- and I bet it¡¯s adapted to withstand the level of Railgun I hit it with after that.


    Dragan stopped, cracking his neck once again as the distant beast roared another challenge.


    If I want to do any damage, I have to constantly use stronger attacks. But it¡¯s got better regeneration than mine -- so there¡¯s no point giving it the chance to adapt if I¡¯m not sure I can get a kill. How can I guarantee that?


    Slowly, he raised his finger and steadily pointed it at the Kaiser.


    Every other time I¡¯ve fired, I¡¯ve done so without gestures. So it has no reason to assign any meaning to me pointing like this. It doesn¡¯t know I can use this to narrow down my aim.


    He¡¯d already made preparations above, when he was knocked into the sky. A cloud of Aether left behind, floating up there, cloaked until it was needed. The Kaiser had developed that limb to deflect projectiles, but from the looks of it the thing still had to see the attack coming. If it believed Dragan would be attacking from in front of it¡­


    ¡­ it had no reason to be cautious of the skies.


    Gemini Railgun.


    The Railgun had been charging for nearly two minutes, and it was as devastating as one would expect. A bright blue glow consumed the clouds, so incandescent that the rest of the sky seemed to turn black in comparison. There was only a single moment to appreciate the eerie beauty of the scene -- before, like a meteor, the projectile slammed down into the Kaiser below.


    Dragan¡¯s hair billowed back from the shockwave, a pillar of flame consuming the paleo-beast and a good portion of the city with it. The blast stretched from the top of the sky to the deepest recesses of the tunnel below, gale-like winds tearing the rest of the urban landscape apart. Even with the waves of force cascading into him, however, Dragan did not blink. He just stood there, focused on the explosion, waiting and watching for the counterattack that was both dreaded and inevitable.


    Unfortunately, he wasn¡¯t disappointed.


    Phenomenon: execution of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s A-Class attack confirmed to destroy the majority of the subject¡¯s body. This includes vaporization of the forebrain located in the body¡¯s chest.


    A tendril speared out from the smoke -- and Dragan dodged it by inches, a bloody gash carved into his cheek as a result.


    However, approximately 15% of the hindbrain located in the subject¡¯s tail is believed to have survived, allowing Aether-enhanced regeneration and evolution. Subject begins transformation into a third body plan.


    Dragan leapt upwards, retreating into Gemini World as a wave of flesh barreled down the street, utterly consuming it.


    This transformation constitutes a significant increase in body mass, sufficient to occupy most of the structures within ¡¯Bone Heaven¡¯.


    He reappeared in the air -- and immediately had to retreat again as dozens of tendrils slashed at him, each aiming for his vitals. Blinking in and out of existence, he barely managed to avoid their strikes, even as their numbers increased. By the time he managed to rise above the forest of hostility, there were hundreds of tentacles aiming for him. Long, thin extensions tipped with blades of razor-sharp bone.


    Replication and refinement of existing attack structures also noted.


    The new head of the Kaiser wormed its way free of the city, breaking out of the town hall at Bone Heaven¡¯s heart. Massive, dwarfing the building that had previously spawned it, like a cross between a skull and a fly trap. It opened a mouth filled with so many teeth that counting them was meaningless, and it roared.


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    Increased size of skull and brain to withstand future attempts at instant neural destruction.


    Dragan floated high up in the sky, out of reach of the creature, looking down in disgust at the thing that had infested the battlefield below. Could it even be called a paleo-beast anymore? It was more like a plant now. This constant transformation¡­ was this what the Gene Tyrants were like? Was that what this creature was on its way to becoming?


    Given speed of threat detection/adaptation since developing Aether, the subject would have been reported as an exponential threat.


    If so¡­ then this was something worth taking out. Dragan clenched his fist. Right now, if the Serpent of Pesh had done his job, the eyes of the galaxy would be on this place. He¡¯d give them something to see.


    He took a deep breath, Aether surging around him -- his body approaching the lofty limits of what it now considered an Aether burn. He had a plan. He¡¯d need to use everything, but he had a plan. This thing evolved only in response to things. That meant that, if Dragan presented it with the right stimuli, he could make it evolve along the paths he desired.


    If he managed to force it into the right form, he could win.


    "Heya," said Caravan.


    No. He would win.


    "Hey," snapped Caravan, a touch more annoyed.


    Dragan glanced at the black bracelet, his own gaze just as irritated. "What?"


    Caravan cleared a throat it did not possess and declared, in a voice full of practiced exuberance: "Contestants remaining: one! The winner is¡­"


    Dragan blinked. "Huh?!"


    "...Dragan Hadrien!"


    Before Dragan could so much as blink again, there was a blur of light -- and when it cleared, he was gone, teleported away as the victor. Dragan¡¯s lingering Aether fizzled out of the sky. The Kaiser, still fused with the city below, seemed to pause in confusion for a moment -- before accepting its own victory and roaring against the distant sky.


    Seven contestants were killed in the unintentional crossfire between Dragan Hadrien and a non-participating animal.


    In the end, that was how the final Inner Melee came to a sudden and strange end.


    END OF ARC 12


    "Well," Rufus said, taking a final swig of his sixth drink. "That was a weird way to end it. He was strong, though, right?"


    Jamilu nodded, his eyes closed. He was scanning through the information on his Principality, trying to see if he could find anything on this ¡¯Dragan Hadrien¡¯. There were some old news reports about a defecting member of the AdminCorps, but he doubted that was the same person. That young man had been one step above a civilian, while the one he¡¯d just observed was one step below¡­ one step below¡­


    ¡­well, he dared even to think.


    Jamilu opened his eyes. Rufus was right -- that had been an unusual way to end the fight. No doubt some of the people watching would be disappointed. He couldn¡¯t imagine those like the Tree of Might fanatics, for example, approving of someone who¡¯d won with the help of an uninvolved monster. Even if it hadn¡¯t actually been that way, tongues would talk¡­ and enough tongues in unison could bring down even the strongest contender.


    He stood up from the table. "We¡¯ll be at Azum-Ha within the next few days. I¡¯ve compiled an order in which we should investigate the contestants, ranked from highest danger level to¡­"


    His voice trailed off. Rufus clearly wasn¡¯t listening. He was still staring at the screen, a frown on his face, absent-mindedly wiping the beer from his chin.


    "Rufus," Jamilu said sternly. "Are you listening? We have a job to do."


    It wasn¡¯t his companion who replied¡­ at least, not his physical companion.


    Boy, Victory snarled, nearly salivating. Shut up and watch.


    Jamilu followed Rufus¡¯ gaze back to the massive screen -- and he realized that everyone else in the club was still watching too, transfixed by the image before them.


    It wasn¡¯t over.


    "This fucking bracelet," Dragan Hadrien sighed as he strode across the desert. With one hand, he tore the black band free. "It takes ages to get back down here."


    He took his shredded red jacket and tossed it to the side, letting the wind pluck it away and carry it off. On the horizon, he could see the unholy infusion between Bone Heaven and the Kaiser, its countless tentacles still flexing through the air. It noticed him too -- that massive head swinging in his direction.


    "Sorry," Dragan smiled. "But I need to make a good showing here."


    The air turned still. The ground began to shudder. The sky seemed to press down.


    One moment -- silence.


    And the next? Anything but.


    The Kaiser¡¯s gargantuan jaws slammed open -- and another torrent of burning blood blasted forth, this time so wide and massive that Dragan would stand no chance of recording it. He dodged instead -- using Gemini World to appear above the blast -- his arms already Aether-infused and ready to deflect the subsequent rush of tendril slashes.


    As Dragan flipped through the air, punching and kicking at insane speeds to block the encroaching tentacles, he saw the blood-blast strike the mountain behind him -- and keep going, boring through the rock and leaving a glowing red hole all the way through to the other side. Needless to say, that wasn¡¯t an attack he could survive. Just like the Kaiser, if the enemy destroyed his entire body in a single blow, he was done.


    No doubt it had realized that too.


    As one tendril struck from another¡¯s shadow, Dragan intercepted it, swinging around its circumference with one hand. Using the moment of surprise, he began to sprint across the tentacle as a bridge, slowly but surely making his way towards the head at the city¡¯s heart. The other tendrils quickly turned on their fellow, instantly butchering it and causing Dragan to fall down into the flesh-encrusted streets.


    From now on, Dragan told himself. Don¡¯t disappear into Gemini World entirely. It needs to see you dodging everything. That¡¯s the most important thing.


    Still, that didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t use Gemini World at all. Nearly all of him vanished into it -- save for his skin, eyes, hair and teeth. Everything that wasn¡¯t required to sustain the appearance of Dragan Hadrien was cast aside. The reduction in his weight brought with it increased speed and maneuverability¡­ hopefully enough to survive the incoming onslaught.


    And what an onslaught it was.


    The tentacles struck so quickly and so closely together that there existed nearly no space and nearly no time between them -- but that was only nearly. Dragan Hadrien used everything he had to persist within that space and that time, narrowly avoiding hundreds of deaths every minute, feeling oblivion brush past him by mere atoms, again and again and again. A single misjudgement, a single mistiming¡­ would mean his end.


    But, here and now, Dragan Hadrien did not misjudge and he did not mistime. That was the crux of his strategy.


    This thing has hard-coded limits, he thought. There¡¯s no other explanation. The most basic adaptation against a threat is power in numbers, yet it hasn¡¯t tried to split itself. That¡¯s because it can¡¯t. So¡­ if I force it into a situation where it has to take a new form, it¡¯ll have no choice but to abandon this old one.


    A hundred slashes, a hundred dodges. A thousand, and a thousand more. As Dragan moved, he donated attacks of his own, striking at the softest spots on the thing¡¯s anatomy. Nearly useless -- but just effective enough to be noticeable, just effective enough to technically -- technically -- constitute a threat.


    Come on, you stupid bastard. That massive body makes you too big a target, and I¡¯m too fast for you to catch. What do you do?


    All around him, the flesh began to ripple. Dragan smiled.


    That¡¯s right. You become smaller and faster.


    The head of the Kaiser popped like a grape -- and the next form of the beast emerged from the rain of blood and brain matter. It couldn¡¯t have been more different.


    By this point, the Kaiser bore very little resemblance to a paleo-beast at all. It was humanoid and human-sized, covered in those reflective scales from head to toe. No ears, no eyes, no nose and no mouth. A long, thick tail swayed threateningly through the air behind it.


    The strangest part was what had replaced the quills -- a shock of silver hair, sticking out in every direction from the Kaiser¡¯s head. Dragan frowned. Was that meant to be like him?


    "K¡­" the Kaiser muttered with an empty and echoing voice. "Ki¡­"


    Standing amidst the decaying remains of the Kaiser¡¯s abandoned fortress-form, Dragan raised his eyebrows, looking up at the newborn destroyer.


    "Oh?" he said. "You can talk now? Got something to say?"


    The Kaiser raised a claw-tipped finger and pointed it at Dragan, in a replica of the gesture Dragan himself had used not so long ago.


    "Kill¡­" the Kaiser said. "Kill you¡­"


    Dragan smiled. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing." Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Morgan Nacht burst into Atoy Muzazi¡¯s recovery room, the script already clutched in his hand. The Full Moon looked blearily up from his bed.


    "Morgan?" he mumbled, pulled out of dreamland. "What is it¡­?"


    His lieutenant held up the script. "Footage. From, uh, the last Inner Melee. I thought you¡¯d want to see it, right away. Considering."


    As the script was placed in front of him, Atoy Muzazi was still half-asleep. However, when he saw that face, that Aether¡­ his eyes snapped wide open.


    "Dragan Hadrien¡­" he whispered.


    "Dragan¡­" Ruth breathed, watching the video once again. It had apparently just reached a billion spins on Sfeer -- footage from the last of the Inner Melees.


    The unbelievable spectacle from the one they were calling the Star. The absolute destruction. The strength that could not be challenged.


    Was she dreaming? She¡¯d known Dragan would be participating, but this was something else entirely.


    She looked up as the doors slid open. Bruno swayed in the doorway, holding a script of his own. She recognised the thumbnail of the video on the screen.


    No doubt those same cold eyes were reflected on countless scripts for many nights to come.


    Twin ribbons of blue and yellow clashed through the skies of Bone Heaven.


    With each punch, the Kaiser struck a hole through a cloud. With each kick, Dragan cut one in half. The heavens themselves seemed to twist in response to their combat, a divine dance over all the earth.


    Dragan gritted his teeth as he continued to ascend, forcing the Kaiser to pursue him. He needed somewhere with enough free room, where nothing could get in the way¡­ but would he make it in time? He¡¯d been confident before -- but now, so close to the moment of truth, the first bead of sweat was beginning to trickle down his cheek.


    To begin with, the Kaiser¡¯s attacks had been basic and animalistic -- simple swings and kicks. Deadly, yes, but easy enough to get around. But with each dodge, each block, the monster¡¯s moves became more refined -- until now, a minute and forty-four seconds into their clash, they were enough to put the finest martial artists to shame.


    The Kaiser spun into a kick -- and, as Dragan blocked the thick limb with a knee, it took advantage of his error. That massive tail lashed out, constricting Dragan¡¯s own leg in a moment and pulling him close. Against anyone else, that would have been check -- and the following palm thrust to the head would be checkmate. Once trapped like that, no sane person would have a way to escape.


    But Dragan Hadrien had already put his sanity on hold.


    He retracted his infusion from his trapped leg -- and then, with the enhanced strength of the rest of his body, he tore it away, leaving it in the Kaiser¡¯s grip. Blood poured from his jagged stump to the distant city-corpse below. Without missing a beat, the Kaiser tossed the severed limb aside -- and lunged directly for Dragan, claws aimed at his face.


    Gemini Dominion.


    Three seconds. The instant the Kaiser entered the simulated space, it began to surge its own Aether, resisting the recording and ejecting itself early. It reappeared in the same spot and went for Dragan again, hissing at him.


    Gemini Dominion.


    Two seconds.


    Gemini Dominion.


    One second.


    Gemini Dominion.


    Zero point two.


    It was doing this on purpose -- intentionally getting itself caught in Gemini Dominion so that it could adapt further against the ability, beating its own escape record each time. It was kind of like a time trial in a video game. This thing was playing with its food now. Was that sadistic personality something else it had developed in response to Dragan Hadrien?


    It didn¡¯t matter now. They had reached their final destination.


    The Kaiser reappeared right in front of Dragan.


    "Die," it snarled.


    With all the speed and strength of a titan, it thrust its fist forward and --


    Aether ping.


    -- hesitated.


    Dragan Hadrien had just done something inexplicable. Instead of dodging, blocking or attacking, he had lowered his defenses for a moment to scan empty space. It was clearly the suicidal move of a fool -- and yet the Kaiser knew now that Dragan Hadrien was no fool.


    So it had no choice but to stop, at least for an instant, and analyze the nonexistent threat it had been presented with.


    The purpose of this ping had not been reconnaissance. The ping itself had been immaterial. What Dragan Hadrien was really doing¡­


    ¡­was forming a grand sphere of Aether.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Ruth Blaine put a hand to her mouth in horror.


    Bruno del Sed could not watch, nor could Serena.


    Atoy Muzazi watched, his mouth a straight line, his gaze inscrutable.


    From deep within Jamilu¡¯s head, the Old Demon of the Dawn they called Victory let out a low sigh of pleasure.


    Azez¡­ it hissed.


    The name of the First Supreme. For, in this moment, that was who it thought it was seeing.


    What Dragan Hadrien had done was very simple. The strategy consisted of four steps:


    He had formed a sphere of his own Aether, encasing both himself and the Kaiser.


    He had fired Gemini Railgun inwards from that sphere, aiming at the Kaiser and blasting through it.


    Upon reaching the other side of the sphere, the Railgun projectile was recorded and then fired once more from another point within the sphere.


    Again, and again, and again.


    With each shot, the speed increased, and so did the power -- and thus, the projectile was always slightly more powerful than the Kaiser¡¯s maximum tolerance. But that speed increased exponentially.


    At first, it seemed like the single shot was bouncing around inside the sphere, like a pinball. Then, the afterimages increased to such an extent that they seemed like a legion. Soon enough, it was so fast that there was no distinction between one path of travel and the next, until that single shot was occupying every spot within the sphere nearly simultaneously¡­ and so the sphere shined incandescently, burning through the sky.


    Dragan Hadrien had become a star.


    Indeed, he himself was in the midst of his own attack. For his plan to work, he could not allow any space save his own body to be free of that intolerable heat and force. To make sure there wasn¡¯t a tiny gap between his skin and the attack, he allowed the projectile to come perilously close, scraping away at him.


    The body that he¡¯d brought back to reality had been cleaned of skin, his flesh and bone forming a grotesque silhouette in the midst of the makeshift star. Dragan Hadrien¡¯s skull stared sightlessly into the burning brilliance of his own making. His limbs spread wide, tendons snapping like steel cables. Blood rained down like wine.


    This is what the world is like, Ruth¡­ he thought. And this is how you change it. You tear yourself apart. You flay yourself alive. You sacrifice everything¡­ until all that¡¯s left is what you¡¯ve created.


    The Kaiser would have survived this. Dragan already knew it would. Some tiny scrap of flesh, some tiny chip of bone, would persist. Like always, it would adapt, seeking the path of least resistance to survive and overcome.


    Dragan would present it with that path. It would take no road but the one he chose for it. Fate would contort itself into a shape of his own design.


    From now on, the only one that decides what happens¡­ is me.


    He lifted the infusion from his own body.


    Phenomenon: the subject assumes its final form. Nigh-incorporeal and parasitic.


    As it flew into Dragan Hadrien¡¯s vulnerable body, claiming the vessel for its own, the Kaiser made its final mistake.


    It was a flame.


    No. It was not. However, the physical form flickered in such a way. What was the meaning of it? The Kaiser did not understand. There was a need to understand, and so it soon would, but for the time being it did not.


    It ¡¯looked¡¯ up. In this format, it had no head or eyes, but it adjusted the angle of its observation all the same. This was an imaginary space. Such theoretical movements were permissible.


    A black void, with a long wooden dinner table stretching out in front of it. Only one chair. ¡¯Dinner table¡¯ and ¡¯chair¡¯ were old concepts ingrained in the brain. They should not have been relevant in this context.


    The organism at the other end of the dinner table, sitting on the chair, was relevant. A very young human woman, sitting with her legs crossed, a knife and fork clutched in her hands. She had bright orange, messy hair that she had to shake out of her similarly orange eyes. When she grinned, there was a gap in her teeth.


    "Hiya, lizardo," the girl said.


    An enemy? An obstacle. This was something that could be understood.


    "Who¡­ you¡­?" the Kaiser rasped.


    Previously, it had never needed verbal communication, and so this initial attempt was clumsy. Give it an hour or so, though, and it would be among the most eloquent and efficient of speakers. Its consciousness was already undergoing the necessary restructuring.


    The girl didn¡¯t answer. She just twirled that fork in her hand. Her eyes flicked down towards the table. The Kaiser¡¯s ¡¯gaze¡¯ followed her own¡­


    ¡­and, for the first time, something approaching fear returned to its mind.


    Lying there on countless plates, spread across the table, were the Kaiser¡¯s severed body parts. Arms, legs, its tail, all shapes and sizes it had possessed through its venerable life¡­ and there, right beneath the girl¡¯s fork, was the Kaiser¡¯s head. Blood oozed from the stump of its neck.


    The Kaiser raised a hand that did not exist.


    "Wait," it said.


    The fork lowered.


    "Wait!" it screamed.


    The girl looked up at him, and the smile on her face was just a tad sympathetic. All the same, though, the fork speared down -- and skewered the Kaiser¡¯s head. Fear did not return alone. For the first time in a thousand years, it experienced pain.


    "Sorry," the girl said. "This place is taken."


    Panacea chewed, and the fire of the Kaiser went out.


    The star flickered away, remnant Aether coloring the air as Dragan Hadrien floated there, twitching in the sky, his legs already recorded to stop himself from falling. He took a ragged breath through ragged lungs. The air ran its sharp hands over his exposed muscles.


    He¡¯d done it.


    Down below, the once great city of Bone Heaven had been reduced to a massive crater. The rubble glowed red from the sheer heat it had been exposed to. Nothing was left.


    He¡¯d done it.


    Even the corpses of the other contestants had surely been vaporized.


    ¡­he¡¯d done it.


    As skin began to grow back over Dragan Hadrien¡¯s naked form like moss, he reached out -- and snatched his discarded jacket out of the air.

 Chapter 342:12.23: The Hands of History

    Bone Heaven


    Desert Planet


    Supremacy Space


    Dragan Hadrien walked.


    One foot in front of the other. Steady forward movement. It was simple enough. Even if his mind was swimming in fog, he could still walk. Even if it felt like he was about to disintegrate, he could still walk.


    He could also rest. That was an idea.


    The boarding tube for his nameless ship was long and dark -- and most importantly, it was empty. There were no prying eyes to see an inconvenient moment of weakness. Dragan slumped against the wall and slid down it, panting for breath.


    "You went too hard, dead boy," Pan frowned, squatting down next to him. "Did you forget? I can replace, but I can¡¯t fix. And it still hurts."


    "It¡¯s fine," Dragan insisted. "Pain is just an alarm system for the body. So long as I know it¡¯s a false alarm, it¡¯s nothing to worry about. I can power through."


    Pan¡¯s frown deepened, but she said nothing else. She knew that Dragan was more than used to pain by now.


    He¡¯d had two years to grow stronger -- strong enough to take on any challenger. Normal training wouldn¡¯t have been sufficient. He needed to be overwhelming, not just skilled. To achieve something like that, you had to enter the realm of insanity.


    Pan had helped.


    First, he¡¯d Aether burned until he was right at the point of no return. Then, he¡¯d recorded and dispelt the damaged parts of his body, allowing Pan to replace them. Then he¡¯d Aether burned again, and again, and again, raising his maximum tolerance each time¡­


    ¡­until now, he could fire off a volley of what had previously been his strongest attack with but a wave of his hand.


    Dragan closed his eyes for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow.


    "Hey," said an ownerless voice. "You look like shit, bossman."


    Dragan opened an annoyed eye. Couldn¡¯t a person ever get some privacy in this galaxy?


    The speaker flickered into existence, leaning against the wall. North smirked, his arms crossed as he looked down at Dragan. He wore a leather jacket and a pair of thick blue jeans -- not suited to the climate in the least, although this time he hadn¡¯t had to leave the ship. Not a bead of sweat was present on his tan skin or slicked-back grey hair. Nice for some.


    "This is what happens to people who work hard, North," Dragan sighed, pulling himself up into a sitting position.


    "Yeah, yeah," North waved a dismissive hand. "I gotcha. So how¡¯s it looking? Got all your bits back where they should be?"


    Dragan cracked his neck. Once again, he was undergoing that torturous process -- dispelling damaged parts from the inside of his body so that Pan could replace them. Probably best not to move around during that, so for the time being he stayed on the floor.


    "Just give me a minute or two," Dragan grunted, pain lingering behind his teeth. "You run into any trouble?"


    "Nah," North blinked his black eyes -- dark as night, save for the red pupils at their center. "Like you said, nobody came looking for you. I was checking out everyone who went through the port, so I¡¯m sure. The Serpent did good work."


    Dragan¡¯s brow creased. "After what he pulled, he¡¯d better have."


    North fished a chocolate bar out of his pocket, biting into it with the corner of his mouth as he shrugged. "Whatever you say, bossman. Want me to kill him?¡¯


    Dragan shook his head. "No¡­ not yet. There¡¯s no need. Unless he does something really stupid, I want to keep him around until the end of the Dawn Contest at least."


    "Whatever you say," North repeated, smirking.


    For the last two years, North had been Dragan¡¯s shadow. He¡¯d helped find things that needed to be found, steal things that needed to be stolen¡­ kill people who needed to be killed. Even with the grisly nature of the job, however, Dragan found North surprisingly pleasant to work with. He supposed he was certainly being paid enough.


    Any news on Winston Grace? Dragan almost asked, but no -- no point.


    He shifted against the wall, joints cracking into place. Once he was settled, his eyes narrowed, and his voice turned serious. "And¡­ how are we looking?"


    North spun his script on his finger. "Footage got out fine. Everything up to you finishing off the weird lizard. It looks good -- I got an eye for cinematography, you know?"


    "And the response?"


    North¡¯s red eyes seemed to shine in the darkness. "You sure gave ¡¯em something to think about. Word¡¯s still spreading, but for now? You¡¯re everyone¡¯s big favourite."


    Dragan smiled softly, closing his eyes and letting the back of his head tap against the wall.


    As per usual, everything was going according to plan.


    Ionir Yggdrassil


    Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir Headquarters


    Supremacy Space


    The image lingered on the screen of the script. Atoy Muzazi, his face bruised and bloodied, leaving as the victor of his Inner Melee. Below the image, the Silvereye article listed off his history and achievements, stretching on and on¡­


    He was well-liked, it seemed. A return to a more honorable age of the Supremacy. A shadow of Gael the Golden, some said. A good man who would make a good Supreme.


    Aclima¡¯s hands shook as she looked at the image.


    Murderer.


    She hurled the script across the room and it smashed against the wall. As a cleaning automatic hurried over to clean up the mess, she brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. Aclima sat right in the middle of her massive bed, as if afraid something would crawl out from underneath it if she exposed herself.


    It wasn¡¯t out of the question, on a ship like this.


    "What¡¯s he doing?" she asked softly, face pale, eyes glancing up at the other two in the room. "Since he got back, I mean? Has he done anything?"


    The two Special Officers glanced at each other. Endo Silversaint, the gallant knight. Anya Hapgrass, the wild performance artist. Aclima had brought them in of her own free will. They were the only ones she could trust. They were the only ones allowed to get this close to her -- to set foot in her private quarters. She couldn¡¯t risk letting anyone else.


    "Well," Anya shrugged. "He¡¯s mostly been sleeping, more than anything. Morgan keeps watch over him most of the day, so if he¡¯s said something to anyone else, I haven¡¯t heard about it."


    "His injuries were grievous," Endo said, his helmet rattling as he nodded. "Stimulants and micro-Panacea are doing their work, however. He should be back on his feet by the time of --"


    "By the time of the Dawn Contest," Aclima finished, her gaze distant, hugging her legs tighter. "Oh, God. Oh, God."


    This was like a nightmare. Sear?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She¡¯d hoped that, facing so many powerful people in the Inner Melee, Atoy Muzazi would have been forced to drop out. That would have been the end of it. But no, no. He wouldn¡¯t stop. He¡¯d squeaked through somehow. He was going to kill her. Oh God, he was going to kill her. Just like he¡¯d let her father die. She was next.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Would he even wait for the Dawn Contest? He had no reason to. She was outnumbered here. The Phases were all on his side.


    She looked up at Endo and Anya.


    "Don¡¯t leave me alone tonight," she said, almost begging. "One of you -- one of you has to stay in here, the other one stands guard outside. Now that he¡¯s in the Dawn Contest for sure, he might try to finish me off. He won¡¯t wait long."


    Endo rested a stoic hand on the hilt of his greatsword. "Fear not, my heir," he said. "Until the light leaves my eyes, I shall keep you safe."


    Aclima nodded quickly, relieved, before turning to Anya. "You¡¯ll¡­ you¡¯ll stay too, right?"


    If she could trust Endo Silversaint, then she could certainly trust Anya Hapgrass. The woman had been like an older sister to her these last couple of years, keeping her safe and steady. But still¡­ she needed to know, she needed to know for sure¡­ she¡¯d been burnt before, after all.


    Anya smiled softly. "I¡¯ll be outside," she said. "All night."


    Aclima let out a shaky breath, bringing her pillow to her mouth to stifle it.


    "Promise?" she squeaked.


    "I promise."


    Aclima closed her eyes. "Thank you¡­"


    "You stay in there with her for now," ¡¯Anya Hapgrass¡¯ said to ¡¯Endo Silversaint¡¯, lingering outside the bedroom door. "We¡¯ll switch places a few hours in."


    He nodded. "You¡¯ll be guarding the entrance, I take it, my lady?"


    Anya grinned mischievously, thumbs hooking the suspenders of her overalls and pulling them. "Eventually."


    Endo¡¯s face would have been concealed by his helmet, but she could hear the frown in his voice all the same. "Are you certain? You told the Heir you¡¯d remain outside."


    "Don¡¯t worry so much," Anya said, casually sauntering off. "Even if I¡¯m not standing here, I¡¯m still keeping her safe. I¡¯m gonna go see what ol¡¯ Atoy Muzazi is up to. Reconnaissance, ya know?"


    "I see¡­"


    The Silversaint didn¡¯t seem quite convinced. Anya stopped walking, sighed, and spun around on the spot, facing her fellow Special Officer. Her golden eyes were cold and flat.


    "Endo," she said seriously. "Don¡¯t tell the Supreme Heir that I¡¯m gone."


    Endo nodded as if the request was the most natural thing in the world. "Of course."


    Now with that dealt with, Anya turned back around and continued her evening walk. She didn¡¯t go to Atoy Muzazi, though -- that had been a teensy lie -- but to the bathroom. She just needed a second. It had been such a long day, after all. Such a long fucking day.


    She hummed happily to herself.


    Anya skipped through the metal hallways. This part of the ship, the core, remained separate from Ionir Yggdrassil¡¯s body -- separate from his roving branches and always-watching eyes. Aclima preferred it that way. She never felt safe, surrounded by a titan she was convinced would prefer her dead. If it was up to Anya, she¡¯d have burnt that tree down ages ago.


    She hummed happily to herself.


    At any rate, the Heir had become a truly repulsive brat. It was good for Anya¡¯s purposes, but still. The innocent anxiety that was cute and endearing for a child had mutated into an edge of ugly paranoia, and Anya had to play host to it constantly. If she weren¡¯t a genius, she would have long since gone insane. Endo was only safe because he was at the opposite end of the intelligence spectrum.


    She hummed happily to herself, slipping into the bathroom and looking at her adorable face in the mirror. A smile spread from dimple to dimple.


    So Atoy Muzazi had made it to the Dawn Contest, had he? Wow, that sure was something. He was real strong, huh? There were so many powerful enemies on Ocean Hate, and he¡¯d managed to beat them all, so he really deserved the win. Lots of people had their eyes on him now. Lots of people were thinking he¡¯d make a good Supreme. Good for him! He was getting recognition for his efforts! People really liked Atoy Muzazi! They thought he was the best! How wonderful!


    Anya Hapgrass began to hum happily¡­


    ¡­and Gretchen Hail stopped, her face contorting with rage as she slammed her fist into the mirror again and again and again. By the time she was done, both the shattered glass and her hand were coated in blood.


    Goddamnit. Goddamnit! Why was everyone else in this galaxy so useless?!


    As the cleaning automatics scurried to contain the remnants of Gretchen¡¯s outburst, she took a step back, fiery orange Aether crackling around her knuckles. King was supposed to have been one of the best in the business, and yet he¡¯d failed all the same. Even with her providing him a Fusion Tool, he¡¯d failed miserably. How hard was it to kill one person?!


    She knew now that hiring King was a mistake -- the man had obviously been far past his prime -- but who else could she have gotten? The Hive of Malkuth couldn¡¯t get their numbers into an Inner Melee, Appointment was definitely a non starter, and the less said about the Sixth Dead, the better¡­ even approaching that lunatic was suicidal.


    So she had gone for King, and he had failed her -- along with all the other pieces she¡¯d given him. It was becoming a distressingly common sensation.


    Gretchen rubbed her temples. She¡¯d gotten so far, but that last hurdle continued to elude her. She¡¯d acquired the body of Anya Hapgrass, a respected Special Officer, she¡¯d wormed her way back into the good graces of the Supreme Heir¡­ all she needed was to kill Atoy Muzazi and make sure Aclima became Supreme. Then, it would be easy to manipulate the girl into having Baltay released.


    But now that the Inner Melees were over, how could she get rid of Atoy Muzazi? With the Dawn Contest underway, it would be harder than ever to get her pieces close to the Full Moon. She was running out of chances. Goddamnit.


    Buzz.


    Gretchen glanced down. It seemed that, in her fury, she hadn¡¯t even noticed her script fall out of her pocket and hit the floor. She clicked her tongue: the screen was cracked. Another thing to worry about.


    She bent down to retrieve it -- only to pause as she saw the distorted image on the screen. The final Inner Melee had concluded, it seemed, and a news alert had come in about it. Apparently, it had been quite the spectacle.


    But she recognised that face on the screen.


    She¡¯d seen it before, when she was looking into the past of Atoy Muzazi. That was the Cogitant that had shot him in the back -- the one he¡¯d chased into the UAP for revenge. Those cold eyes belonged to Dragan Hadrien.


    Her lips spread out into a toothy grin.


    That was her chance.


    Azum-Ha


    Supremacy Capitol


    Supremacy Space


    Ruth gulped.


    She¡¯d seen footage of this place online and in videographs and the like¡­ but that didn¡¯t quite prepare you. As fellow megacities, she thought it would have been pretty similar to Taldan, but that hadn¡¯t been quite right either. There was something about Azum-Ha. Something that drilled down into your bones.


    A weight to the place.


    As the ship descended down through the atmosphere, the landscape of the Supremacy capitol spread out before them. Ruth crossed her arms in the cockpit, taking it in, standing behind the pilot seat. She blinked.


    Azum-Ha was a world of two layers -- the old and the new. Atop the planet, forming the face of the Supremacy, was a modern urban jungle, glass spires jutting upwards and reaching towards the sky. The countless bright lights of one of the most advanced planets in the galaxy twinkled below, like a twin to the stars.


    Below that, though, was the world of the ancients. Temples and ruins built during the first years of the Supremacy, their purpose now lost to time and advancement. Moving through the old city, you could find yourself very lost very quickly. There were stories of people going down to explore, vanishing and never being seen again¡­


    ¡­swallowed by the past.


    Countless other ships -- no doubt drawn by the Contest as well -- were heading down into the city in great streams, blotting out chunks of the sky. Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked between them, before quickly being drawn to the structure at the center of the city. It was quite the sight.


    The Body.


    It wasn¡¯t just a name. The complex in which the Ministers made their galactic edicts was shaped like an upright and gargantuan human torso, stretching up, lacking arms and a head. Where those things would have been, perfectly smooth stumps reflected the light. It was like someone had placed an exquisitely dismembered corpse at the very core of the world.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes drifted further up.


    Many buildings floated through the atmosphere on Azum-Ha. Ground space was rare and expensive, after all, while there was always more sky to go around. An entire third layer of the city rarely touched the rest, only docking below to pick up and drop off passengers. But Ruth¡¯s gaze was fixed even higher than the sky-city.


    The Stadium of the Absolute shone on high, golden hull reflecting the sunlight. It was said that the first Supreme, Azez the Absolute, had been crowned there -- and the entire structure had turned to gold in sympathy. Obviously not true, but looking at the glorious thing¡­ you could almost believe it.


    Bruno stalked into the cockpit, his serious eyes locked onto the Stadium as well.


    "He¡¯s here," he muttered. "Or he¡¯ll be here soon. Right?"


    Ruth nodded, resolute. "And this time we¡¯ll bring him home."


    From deep within the bowels of Azum-Ha, a great drum began to sound, shaking the earth and shuddering the skies. All across the planet, from their houses to the streets to balconies overlooking the void, the people cheered. Even if their lives would not improve, even if the future would bring nothing but suffering, they celebrated.


    After all¡­ the Dawn Contest had begun.


    Boom.


    Ruth Blaine swallowed.


    Boom.


    Bruno del Sed took in a shuddering breath.


    Boom.


    Serena del Sed let it back out.


    Boom.


    Atoy Muzazi scowled.


    Boom.


    Dragan Hadrien smirked.


    Boom.


    And, without mercy, the hands of history ticked on.


    END OF ARC 12

 Chapter 343:13.1: Fool’s Game

    Azum


    Galactic Capitol


    Gene Tyrant Space


    1014 Years Ago¡­


    Azez, the one they were calling the Absolute, walked through the ruined house of the gods. Corpses, both human and otherwise, littered the ground -- some crushed and buried among the rubble of the citadel. Great bonfires formed the horizon, and their smoke choked the skies, forcing night upon the world.


    In the distance, a personal ship belonging to one of the Gene Tyrants protruded from the shattered egg of a building that had been their Nerve Senate. Brave Umbrants had given their lives to hijack the vessel, piloting it down into the Gene Tyrant¡¯s seat of government and incinerating everything inside.


    With that, Lord Director Eve had been slain. With that, the war had been won. With that, these long and tiring thousand revolutions¡­ had come to an end.


    It didn¡¯t seem to bring Azez too much relief. He looked out over the scorched planet, a frown on his face, his white hair fluttering in the wind. He was a short and slight man, with brown skin and golden Pugnant eyes, a plain shawl wrapped around his person. Just looking at him, you wouldn¡¯t think he was one of the leaders of the revolution. He almost looked meek.


    He was not meek. The glowing lantern in his hand had proved that time and again throughout this campaign.


    "How many dead?" Azez muttered, his gaze distant.


    One of his two Cogitant aides stepped forward, shaggy blue hair hanging over bright blue eyes. "With this, the Nobility¡¯s been eradicated from the galactic core," she said. "The Blindman¡¯s Hunt will exterminate the stragglers along the galactic edge. It¡¯s all but over."


    The Blindman, yes. One of the Zeilan Morhan. His Aether ability, the spears that brought stillness, had been instrumental in showing that the Gene Tyrants could be killed, were not gods. It was honestly a surprise he¡¯d made it to the end of the war.


    "Yes¡­" Azez blinked, eyes still on the fire. "But how many of ours?"


    The woman had no answer. She stepped back and fell silent, looking down at the ground. Her eyes told the whole story, though. Far too much had been traded for this victory. Far too much.


    Azez turned his head further, to look at the second of the Cogitants. A strange figure, with a blue-and white cloak wrapped around his body, completely concealing his appearance.. He -- and the Sapphire Star -- were the ones who had made all this possible.


    "How about it, Edgar?" Azez asked, a sad smile on his lips. "Is this your ¡¯peace and joy for all mankind¡¯?"


    Edgar said nothing.


    Azez went on: "For one person to be happy, another must become unhappy. Even more than that -- some people will lose their joy as a direct result of another gaining it. That¡¯s the sort of animals we humans are. It¡¯s not in our nature to be satisfied. Fool¡¯s game. You don¡¯t agree?"


    Again, Edgar did not reply to Azez¡¯s question -- but he did speak. "I hear you¡¯re calling yourself the Supreme now," the Cogitant said, hands clasped behind his back.


    Azez blinked, his gaze flicking back to the other Cogitant. "I am?"


    The woman shrugged. "It¡¯s developed organically among the troops¡­ I¡¯d say it¡¯s probably best just to go with it, my Supreme -- um, Azez, sir."


    "Well," Azez said, scratching his head. "It¡¯s better than ¡¯Lord Director¡¯, I guess. Sure, let¡¯s go with that." He looked back to Edgar. "Is it a problem?"


    Edgar¡¯s eyes -- glints of blue deep within his hood -- narrowed. "You may not have known the moniker, but I¡¯m certain you¡¯re the one who decided how it should be passed on. The one who defeats the current Supreme inherits the position, no? I simply can¡¯t comprehend why you¡¯d do something so foolish."


    "Oh, right, right," Azez nodded.


    He turned fully away from the ruins of the battlefield, stepping into the shattered shelter they¡¯d turned into a command centre. "Well¡­" he said contemplatively, putting his free hand to his chin. "I did put some thought into that, if you must know. Right now, people are thinking I¡¯m the strongest, yeah?"


    "...correct."


    "If someone¡¯s strong enough to beat me," Azez smiled. "Then they¡¯ll be strong enough to protect everyone else. Right?"


    He turned to look at me -- and that glance alone was enough to set my heart ablaze.


    "What do you think?"


    AETHERAL SPACE


    ARC 13


    PART 1: LOVE


    Present Day¡­


    The red curtains began to part. Slowly, luxuriously, splendidly. And then, a moment later¡­


    ¡­ two pale hands pulled the curtains fully apart -- and the host stepped out. A man with slicked-back blue hair, a twinkle in his eyes, and a suit so sharp it would give you a paper cut.


    The crowd erupted into cheers.


    "Coming to you live!" the deep booming words bounced as the host made his way across the set, the triumphant music of Auburn Jury flavouring his step. "It¡¯s the voice of the Supremacy¡­ it¡¯s the voice of the people¡­ it¡¯s Silvereye Azum-Ha with Brett del Boros!"


    With a final sweeping bow, Brett deposited himself in his chair -- right behind a dark wooden desk. For a second, his face turned stern, as if he were a general about to deliver a wartime address. Then, however, it melted into an easy grin -- and he planted his feet up on the desk.


    "What a week, huh?" he said as the applause drained away. "What a week. End of the Inner Melees. Start of the Dawn Contest. Now, I know I¡¯ve got a bit of a reputation for being cavalier with these sorts of things¡­"


    He threw his hands up, as various clips flickered into existence on holographic screens all around him. The infamous videograph of him dressed up as Kadmon shortly after Elysian Fields took centre stage, and the crowd chuckled awkwardly at his muted drunken antics.


    "Come on!" Brett threw his hands up. "You guys thought it was funny! At least I think you did -- I hope I wasn¡¯t that wasted."


    Prompted on, the laughter increased in fervour -- and the screens vanished.


    "But, you know¡­" he said. "You know, sometimes you gotta step back -- you do, you gotta step back and acknowledge."


    Brett turned to the camera, a serious expression on his face, and behind him the faces of the Dawn Contestants began to flick past, one by one. Atoy Muzazi, Dorothy Eiro, Tealin Jade, Nael Manron, Chicken Punk¡­ Dragan Hadrien. They went on and on.


    "This is history," Brett intoned, eyes boring into his audience. "This defines the century. Say what you will about Kadmon, he was a quiet guy. The next guy -- or girl? Maybe not so much. We¡¯ve got with us Minister Yanrin Klein from the Body, Minister of Crestpoole."


    The image switched to an elderly statesman sitting in his own office, an unkempt and wild moustache blemishing his otherwise hairless face. "Thank you, Mr. del Boros," he said, his voice the kind of croak that could only be produced by abuse of something or other. "A pleasure to be on the show tonight."


    Brett leaned back in his chair, grin already settling on his face. "So, Minister -- these Dawn Contestants. Fuck, marry, kill?"


    Klein blinked. "Excuse me?"


    "Well," Brett smirked. "I know ol¡¯ Dorothy Eiro¡¯s the Supremacy¡¯s sweetheart, but I¡¯m sure you have your own opinions. You more into cavemen? I hear Halcyon¡¯s gone and thawed one out." His eyes flicked to the camera again. "Don¡¯t get too excited though, ladies, I hear he can barely reach the top shelf!"


    The crowd erupted into laughter. It really wasn¡¯t even very funny, but this was what Brett del Boros did. He said things he wasn¡¯t supposed to, to people he wasn¡¯t supposed to, and he got away with it. That was his appeal: the audacity of him.


    That was why people watched. That was why people laughed. That was why Silvereye Azum-Ha still kept him front and centre, even after the countless controversies he had brought in through word and deed.


    Minister Yanrin Klein didn¡¯t seem to get it. His face was a bright red as he leaned in towards the microphone.


    "I was under the impression this was a news videograph," he spat. "Clearly, I was --"


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    "No, no no no," Brett interrupted, flapping a hand. "No, you¡¯re absolutely right, I¡¯m joshing ya, I¡¯m joshing ya, I¡¯m sorry. Bit of misplaced humour."


    Klein straightened his tie, somehow injecting annoyance into every individual muscle movement. "Quite right," he grunted. No doubt his PR team was forcing him to participate in this interview -- shitholes like Crestpoole needed all the press they could get.


    Right here, right now, he was actually at Brett¡¯s mercy.


    "So, you folks at home? Don¡¯t know if you caught me say it before, but Minister Klein governs over a little place called Crestpoole. Never heard of it? Not surprised. Doesn¡¯t export much, unless you count lung cancer."


    Klein¡¯s face twisted in anger once more, but Brett raised a hand and cut him off. "Sorry, sorry, again with the comedy¡­ my doctor tells me it¡¯s a syndrome, I tell him he¡¯s fired. What I just said was true until a little while ago -- Crestpoole actually exports Dawn Contestants right now. I¡¯m speaking of course about little Dragan Hadrien, the one they¡¯re calling the Star. Well, Shooting Star now, if I¡¯m up to date. These things do mutate."


    The video began to play behind him -- footage from the very last Inner Melee.


    "If you¡¯ve got Sfeer, you¡¯ve seen it -- him versus that leftover on Bone Heaven. Hell, if you¡¯ve got eyes you¡¯ve seen it. This station¡¯s pushing him in people¡¯s faces even more than me! And Minister Klein¡¯s come to tell us all a little more about everyone¡¯s new fixation. Minister, please, take it away."


    The Minister opened his mouth, and lies spilled out of his life.


    Lies about the opportunities on Crestpoole that had created such a great warrior, about the youth programs he¡¯d created that nurtured such talent, about the grand achievement of the Minister that was Dragan Hadrien. Often, a news show like this operated on twisted truths, but sheer lies were a fine substitute on occasion. Even so, nobody cheered -- even as they drank falsehood in, they did not cheer for it.


    These were boring lies, after all.


    Once the Minister had vanished from their screens, firmly banished away, Brett turned back to the camera -- that cheesy grin back on his face.


    "Well, folks, that sure was a fascinating --" A yawn. "-- sorry, fascinating look into the world one of our Contestants came from. But I say -- why not hear it from the horse¡¯s mouth? Stick around for our Dawn Contest coverage -- reporter Rae Ruditia is going to be interviewing each and every one of the Dawn Contestants we¡¯ve got this time. Well, every one we can get our hands on. Not sure the Flower of Evil talks."


    A wave of light chuckles -- tipped with unease.


    "But for now, this is Silvereye Azum-Ha¡­ and I¡¯m Brett del Boros. Keep on keeping on."


    Lights. Music. Applause.


    Curtains.


    Dark.


    "Chicken Punk!" cried Chicken Punk, his arms crossed as he sat in the thick leather chair.


    Reporter Rae Ruditia nodded patiently, holding her microphone forward for Chicken Punk to speak into. She was a young woman with bright pink eyes that seemed to regard the world with uncomfortable intensity. Her blonde hair -- beneath a blue cap -- was tied back into a playful ponytail, and her lips seemed perpetually curved into a slight smile. Despite the nonsense this interview had quickly deteriorated into, she didn¡¯t seem put off in the slightest.


    "Wow, I see!" she said, her voice upbeat and peppy in a way that reminded Ruth of a somehow more optimistic Serena. "That sure is interesting, Mr. Punk. Thank you for telling us your story! I know I¡¯ll be thinking different before I eat eggs again. Is there anything else you want to tell our viewers?"


    Chicken Punk turned his head to follow the floating camera and stabbed a finger out at it.


    "Listen well, kids!" he declared, his own voice just as intense as ever. "Bubble? Just pop it! Booze? Nuh-uh! Your body is a temple! Don¡¯t make your parents sad!" He flexed. "Chicken Punk!"


    Rae giggled. "So true! And cut. Thanks so much for meeting with me, Chicken Punk."


    Chicken Punk sat back in his chair, removing his goggles and wiping the sweat from his brow. Underneath his bulky eyewear, he was surprisingly normal-looking -- a middle-aged man with brown eyes and a half-formed goatee.


    "Yeah, no problem," he said, his voice husky -- presumably from the strain of being Chicken Punk all day. "Hey -- when¡¯s this gonna be on VG? I like to record all my media appearances. You know, for review and stuff?"


    Rae smiled. "I¡¯ll make sure my people get the times to you! Please don¡¯t worry, though -- that was an excellent performance!"


    As the two -- interviewer and interviewee -- chatted, Ruth watched from the door, arms crossed. She wasn¡¯t especially amused. The Dawn Contest wasn¡¯t something she¡¯d paid too much mind to previously, but she¡¯d quite liked Chicken Punk. He¡¯d seemed like a cool guy.


    Just another liar.


    Rex sidled up to her -- the two of them were dressed in smart suits, the universal dress code of the professional bodyguard. Ruth had to admit: Rex had outdone himself this time. With just a little advance notice, he¡¯d managed to find them a gig right at the heart of Azum-Ha, right at the heart of the Dawn Contest.


    And it was more than just that.


    "Just grin and bear it," Rex muttered, eyes fixed straight ahead. "You heard them. Rae Ruditia is going to be interviewing every Dawn Contestant she can get her hands on. Silvereye¡¯s going to do the work tracking down Hadrien for us." S§×ar?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Indeed, tracking down Dragan wasn¡¯t just a matter of knowing he¡¯d be in Azum-Ha¡¯s Dawn Contest. Accommodation and preparation for the tournament were left to the discretion of the Contestants themselves. Being able to marshall those resources was considered a show of skill all by itself, even before the fighting began.


    Dragan could be anywhere on this mess of a planet.


    Ruth nodded. "I get you. It¡¯s a good idea, don¡¯t get me wrong¡­ but something doesn¡¯t feel right."


    Rex raised an eyebrow. "How¡¯s that?"


    She looked down at her hand. "It feels like¡­ I -- we -- built something. Something with a -- something with a purpose. A life, I don¡¯t know? I¡¯m not good at this. But it¡¯s like we¡¯re taking what we built, and we¡¯re twisting it to another purpose altogether." She sighed. "Dunno why, but it feels like shit."


    "I get what you¡¯re saying. You feel like you¡¯re compromising it, right? Using the business for your own personal goals."


    "Alice and Ellis¡­ they don¡¯t have any stake in this. Me and Bruno and Serena.. we¡¯re just dragging them along with us. I¡¯m dragging you along, too. It¡¯s not fair."


    "Well," Rex tapped his finger against the temple of his mask. "If I didn¡¯t wanna be here, I wouldn¡¯t be. Don¡¯t flatter yourself: you¡¯re not that persuasive. It¡¯s all the same to them, too -- they¡¯re getting paid. It¡¯s still business."


    "Oh?" Ruth raised a rueful eyebrow. "You¡¯re saying you¡¯d switch sides if a higher bidder came around?"


    "It¡¯d have to be astronomical."


    Despite the tension of the moment, this place, this entire planet¡­ Ruth found herself smirking. They were here, weren¡¯t they? They were making progress.


    The smile faded.


    "I wonder¡­" she began -- but her voice trailed off.


    Rex turned his head towards her. "Yeah?"


    She blinked, and her eyes were wet. "I wonder what Skipper would think of me¡­" she whispered. "...if he could see me now."


    "Well, I didn¡¯t know the guy, but¡­"


    "I think he¡¯d be disappointed¡­" Ruth answered her own question. "Skipper was a hero. He wanted to change the world. I don¡¯t know what Dragan is up to, but I bet¡­ I bet he¡¯s got some big ambition as well. Me, though? All I¡¯m worried about is my business, my friends, my life¡­ it¡¯s the worst. I¡¯m tiny, aren¡¯t I?"


    Rex swallowed, clasping his hands. "I don¡¯t think there¡¯s anything wrong with that," he said carefully. "Compared to the galaxy -- hell, just to this planet -- everyone¡¯s tiny. A person who thinks they¡¯re comparable to that¡­ or that, I don¡¯t know, anything they do on their own is comparable to that¡­ well, they seem deluded to me."


    He looked at her.


    "I think you¡¯ve got the right idea, Ruth," Rex said. "It¡¯s sensible."


    Sensible¡­ Ruth nodded to herself. In the end, that was all she¡¯d amounted to, huh?


    "The opening ceremony tomorrow night," she said, low, under her breath, reminding herself. "All the Dawn Contestants will be there. That¡¯s our chance."


    Rex nodded back.


    "Right behind you," he said.


    Brett del Boros wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as he walked down the hallway. It had been a tiring night. More than that, it had been an annoying one.


    The lighting too bright, getting in his eyes.


    The idiot Minister¡¯s microphone had too much gain, stinging his ears with every cough and cretinous breath.


    The applause cue for the audience coming in a second too late, creating an awkward -- and unfunny -- silence.


    He¡¯d have had the lighting technician fired if she wasn¡¯t such a good lay. The cue operator had no such protections -- he¡¯d be out on the streets by the end of the day. It wouldn¡¯t be easy getting work in this industry with Brett del Boros¡¯ black mark.


    Still¡­ that Minister, making Brett¡¯s court look like some kind of amateur-hour DIY videograph station. Brett had already made it clear he didn¡¯t want bores like that on his show. He dealt with the interesting and eclectic, and so did his viewers. Some government stooge with a stick up his ass was not what the people wanted -- and with the Dawn Contest in full swing, there was no doubt there¡¯d be a veritable line of them coming in.


    He screwed up the handkerchief in his hand. Forget sitting on the set like this, he should have been the one out in the world, interviewing the Dawn Contestants. Who on earth was that Rae Ruditia newbie sleeping with to snag that gig?


    Brett muttered curses to himself as he marched down the corridor, stewing in his own boiling fury¡­


    He reached the door.


    ¡­and as he turned the handle and opened it, his blood turned dead cold.


    Shadows clung to the dressing room. Like a spiderweb drenched in ink, insubstantial yet undeniable, coating the walls and ceiling. They shifted, just slightly, like they were alive and responding to his presence. They very well might have been.


    You never knew what nightmares might come from this person, after all. The seemingly young man that Darkstar called their King.


    He sat in Brett¡¯s chair, right before his mirror, as if he owned the place. As if he owned the entire world. Those pitch-black eyes, barely visible beneath pitch-black hair, turned to regard him.


    Lips spread into an unkind smile.


    "Brett del Boros," the King said with subdued cheer. "My man."


    A long time ago, Brett had met this person. In the years since, he¡¯d tried to rationalise it as a nightmare -- a Bubble-induced delusion, derived from his own dancing psyche. But no.


    He was real. The deal had been real.


    And the bill was due.

 Chapter 344:13.2: The Dealings of the Chosen Few

    The King of Darkstar looked at Brett del Boros expectantly, his lips pursed. When no words came from the surprised host, the pale man spoke again.


    "This is the first time we¡¯ve met in person, isn¡¯t it?" he asked conversationally.


    Despite the terror crawling through him, Brett somehow managed to shake his head, somehow managed to speak. "We¡¯ve¡­" he said, his mouth dry. "We¡¯ve met before¡­ last time¡­"


    "This is the first time we¡¯ve met," the King repeated -- and this time, the slight shift in his placid voice permitted no argument. "But¡­ the last time you saw me, we did speak, didn¡¯t we? Matters were discussed."


    Memories long since dismissed as nightmares -- pushed back and repressed -- began to swell forth again. A room, much like this one. A mistake made, one that would have killed Brett¡¯s fledgling career. That man, there, waiting for him.


    Those black eyes, and that white face. Untouched by time.


    "I remember," Brett croaked.


    "I¡¯m so glad," the King¡¯s lips curled into a smile. "I was worried for a moment you¡¯d become an amnesiac. That would have been bad, wouldn¡¯t it?"


    Brett nodded his head mutely.


    "I¡¯m only joking. I know that you don¡¯t have amnesia. Did you think I was serious?"


    Brett shook his head mutely.


    "It seems you¡¯re a little nervous," the King said lightly, standing up from his chair.


    The shadows retreated from the seat with an ownerless sigh of pleasure, melting into the floor. Was that not just darkness, then? Was this¡­ was this stuff alive, somehow, and following the man¡¯s commands?


    The King blinked. "You¡¯re absolutely right. The substance encompassing this room is my good friend Smith, who came here as my bodyguard. As you can imagine, I¡¯m not in need of too much protection, but you know how the elderly worry¡­ not that I¡¯m one to talk, haha."


    He knows what I¡¯m thinking, Brett thought numbly.


    "I know what you¡¯re thinking," the King nodded. "I¡¯ve known for quite a while. Would you like to sit down?"


    Brett deposited himself on the couch without argument. He already understood there was no point in trying to flee. The King would know about it before the idea even finished formulating. There was no point.


    There never had been.


    "We¡¯re all thrilled to have you here," purred Damian Wenderhold Halcyon, sitting at the end of the table. "Just thrilled. It¡¯s a rare honour to meet a living legend¡­ especially one with such an esteemed history."


    The CEO of Halcyon Interstellar was a thin, tall man, with slicked-back black hair and a cheesy grin. Cybernetic eyes glinted red in their sockets, and his green three-piece suit was tailored to perfection. No doubt every piece of his ensemble cost more than most people made in a decade.


    Not that Mereloco cared much. As far as he was concerned, this was just another money addict. He¡¯d seen enough of those in the fight against the Great Chain.


    The two of them sat in the Halcyon board-room, at either end of the long stretching table. Holograms concealed the walls, floors and ceiling -- replacing them with a view of a false and beautiful galaxy. Stars twinkled all around as they stared at each other. Meaningless lights.


    Mereloco picked some wax out of his ear. "What do you want?" he asked, voice low and apathetic.


    At the insistence of his ¡¯patrons¡¯, he¡¯d dressed himself in the modern style -- a tightly-fitting white polo shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. He hadn¡¯t bothered with shoes. Anything he couldn¡¯t fight in was out of the question.


    Damian¡¯s grin shone in the starlight. "I thought that was clear. We want to help you become Supreme."


    Mereloco did not look at the oligarch. Instead, he considered the glob of wax on the tip of his fingernail. It was more important.


    The betrayal would come. This man was the type. What shape would it take? Didn¡¯t matter. Mereloco would overcome it when the time came. For the moment, this man was useful. Once that stopped being true, he¡¯d just kill him and keep going.


    "How will you help me?" Mereloco asked, his dull brown eyes looking up at Damian for the first time.


    The tension in Damian¡¯s shoulders deflated slightly. "There¡¯s no shortage of resources we can provide you," he said. "Weaponry, stimulants, chemical enhancements¡­ we corner the market on each. Hell, we have an Arcana Automatic you could use as a sparring partner. Beyond that¡­"


    Mereloco raised an eyebrow.


    "What?" he grunted. "Speak plain."


    Damian leaned forward over the table, and the environment around them turned into pitch-black darkness. His eyes flicked over to the woman standing in the corner of the board room, then back to Mereloco. When he spoke, his voice was quiet as the grave -- yet Mereloco heard clearly, as if the man was right next to him.


    "...they say the true first round of the Dawn Contest begins before the opening ceremony. Finding the other Contestants, digging up intelligence¡­ in some cases, even eliminating them before a scheduled match. Victories by default are surprisingly common. Do you get me?"


    "Yes."


    "We have the locations of ten already, including the Full Moon. The rest will be quick to follow. So¡­ how about it? Are you interested?"


    Mereloco scratched his cheek. His eyes peered out into the black. His jaw moved, as if chewing something invisible.


    Finally, though, he replied, looking into Damian¡¯s eyes for the first time.


    "Make me a sandwich," he said.


    Damian blinked before exchanging another glance with the woman. His brow furrowed. "I, uh¡­ excuse me?"


    "I¡¯m hungry," Mereloco replied. "Make me a sandwich."


    "Uh¡­" Damian reached over the table, tapping the communicator there. "Ah, Janet? Can we get some food in here? Mr. Mereloco is --"


    Unchained.


    The table shattered, splintering into metal as it was forced down into the floor with unrelenting force. Damian recoiled backwards, his smooth shoes squeaking against the floor. The woman, over in the corner, just stiffened. She was already familiar with Mereloco¡¯s ability, after all. She¡¯d been there when he¡¯d woken up.


    Stolen story; please report.


    Mereloco sighed as he stood up from his chair -- and then, he hurled it into the wall, the furniture embedding itself into the glass. There was no anger or resentment on Mereloco¡¯s face or in his voice.


    There was very little emotion at all¡­ just a lethargic sort of disdain.


    "No," he said calmly. "You¡¯re not listening. I said make me a sandwich. Do it now."


    No threat spoken, but it lingered in the air all the same.


    Empty brown eyes stared into flaring red ones. With a word, Damian Wenderhold Halcyon could have nearly anyone in the galaxy killed -- but no amount of money or influence could protect you from a man who simply did not care. Mereloco¡¯s story had ended long ago.


    He cared nothing for the coherency of the epilogue.


    "A long time ago," the King said, sitting down on the couch next to Brett. "You met me in a room much like this one, didn¡¯t you? I¡¯m told you were in quite a bit of trouble back then. Up to your usual antics. Only¡­ people weren¡¯t quite as forgiving back then, weren¡¯t they?"


    It felt like there was a hole in Brett¡¯s lungs, like they were slowly losing air, deflating. It was nearly all he could manage to look over to the person next to him. Those black eyes, and that kind smile. Twin gun barrels, and a blade¡¯s cruel edge.


    "What do you want from me?" Brett asked, face dripping with sweat.


    The King frowned as if he were genuinely surprised by the blunt question. "You were told by me at the time, weren¡¯t you? I¡¯d make you untouchable. The epitome of ¡¯soft power¡¯ within the Supremacy. No matter who your adversary was, they would never be able to bring you down."


    No. Good luck. Charisma. Brett had built his empire upon those things, not the manipulations of a demon. This place, this building, this show¡­ it belonged to him. It was all that he had. All that he¡¯d formed for himself out of the mud.


    But¡­ he was remembering now. That conversation, so much like this one, with a shade lingering in his mirror. An exchange so bizarre he¡¯d written it off as a dream.


    "And in exchange for my help," the King finished. "Someday, you would do me a favor." He leaned forward slightly, and his smile widened. "Brett del Boros¡­ today is ¡¯someday¡¯. Will you help me?"


    "What do you want?" Brett rasped. "Money?"


    This was not a person that needed money. Brett knew that before he opened his mouth. But¡­ he still had to try. He still had to hope.


    The King didn¡¯t even bother shaking his head.


    "What I need," he whispered, his voice so soft. "Is for you to be my friend, Mr. del Boros. For you to be my pal. Is that something you think you might be capable of?"


    Brett del Boros was not a stupid man. He knew what Darkstar was, what they had done, what they were capable of. The sorts of things they would have him do. Horrors. Agreeing to the deal in the first place had been a sin, but to become the ally of people like that would be an atrocity. Brett del Boros was not a stupid man, and he knew he was not a good man either¡­


    ¡­but, surely, everyone had their limit.


    "You¡¯d refuse my generous offer?" the King asked gently, that smile still on his face. "I don¡¯t want to impede your free choice, but to offer some context -- there will be consequences for you if you say ¡¯no¡¯."


    Brett¡¯s hands shook, clenching on his lap -- and when the King reached out, taking those hands in his own, the shaking only increased. Ice. He was holding ice -- and distantly beneath that, beneath the skin, he could feel things moving. Like maggots working their paths.


    "I¡¯m sorry," the King whispered, right into Brett¡¯s ear. "I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve given me an answer yet."


    The man had no voice left with which to speak, but the movement of his mouth -- and the thought inside his skull -- was more than enough.


    No.


    The King¡¯s smile did not waver. "I see," he said, calm as ever. "Even if your decision doesn¡¯t benefit me, I¡¯m proud of you for having the courage to make it. However¡­" His grip on Brett¡¯s hands tightened. "I must point out that you¡¯re breaking the deal we made all those years ago. Therefore, just as you have acted boldly, I must do the same."


    "Please¡­" Brett choked out.


    "Please," the King interrupted, his inexorable voice drowning all else out. "Turn around and look at my other friend."


    It was only then that Brett noticed it. The slightest, quietest breathing -- coming from right behind him, right behind the couch. The faintest green light shone from the corner of his eye. Aether. Someone else¡¯s Aether, ready for use.


    Don¡¯t turn around, Brett begged himself.


    Brett turned around.


    He never saw the King¡¯s friend. He had no time to. The instant he turned his head, a gnarled hand lashed out and grabbed him by the face, skeletal fingers covering his eyes. As he thrashed against the vice-like grip -- against the hand that could have easily crushed his skull -- he heard a ravaged voice rasp out three words.


    "Forest of Sin."


    "I understood you were a man who is willing to do business," the Primo Providenza said, his hologram an indistinct silhouette, his voice a modulated rumble. "Is this not the case, Nael Manron?"


    The man they called the King of Killers looked up from his throne. He lay in the seat like it was his raft in a broiling ocean, arms and legs draped across it, wrapped around it. His gaze was dull, heavy bags pulling his eyes down. Untamed stubble ran across his chin, and his reachers stretched up chaotically.


    If not for his reputation, you would think him a man who¡¯d given up on life -- and you¡¯d be right. The reputation was a cloak.


    This was the man who¡¯d killed Dallen Maren, after all. This was the man who¡¯d slain the Black Tarrasque. This was the man who¡¯d fought the Sixth Dead to a standstill. This was the man who¡¯d formed the Crimson Carnival, the greatest band of assassins in the galaxy. This was the man.


    But this was also the man who¡¯d wandered despondent, and killed out of convenience. He had not sought out glory. He had not formed empires. He had killed when his body had deemed it expedient, and he had allowed the Carnival to form around himself -- like barnacles on a seaship. None of it was truly his design.


    The Primo Providenza, on the other hand, was the opposite.


    An enigmatic figure who¡¯d risen from the ashes of the Oliphant Clan, crafting an effective successor organization in a mere two years. Nobody knew his name, his face, or even his real voice. Some people said that perhaps he was a council of equals, deliberating on the activities of the Providenza. Others said that he was some sort of auto-brain. Only a few people knew for sure -- and they were all dead. Nael Manron had killed some of them himself. S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Which was why the Primo was so infuriated now.


    "I know you have no desire to be Supreme, Manron," the hologram said. "I know you have no desire for anything. Why are you participating in this Dawn Contest? Why will you not accept my contract? At the very least, give me a reason."


    Nael blinked, slowly. Nearly everything he did these days was slow.


    "End transmission," he grunted.


    The hologram vanished -- and as the lights in the central chamber of the Cacophony turned back on, the assassins that had been lingering in the corners of the room turned to face their leader. Men and women of every shape and size, clutching weapons much the same -- and, of course, with the companions that Nael Manron had given them.


    Those tired eyes looked around the room.


    "Get ready," he muttered, his voice echoing. "We move right after the opening ceremony. Every other Contestant¡­"


    He sighed.


    "...will be eliminated."

 Chapter 345:13.3: Wolf and Claw

    "Your sandwich," Damian said quietly, almost sullenly, holding out the food to Mereloco.


    It was nothing to speak of. Bread, butter and cheese, arranged in the proper shapes and ratios, balanced atop a porcelain plate. Mereloco reached out and took the food from Damian¡¯s hands.


    "Thanks," the barbarian grunted -- and immediately, he took a massive bite.


    Crunch.


    He bit not only into the sandwich, but into the plate as well, shards of porcelain protruding from between his teeth as he chewed. Even knowing Mereloco surely had Aether protection, Damian couldn¡¯t help but wince. The man from the past, however, just chewed. He chewed and chewed and chewed, devouring food and plate alike until not a trace remained. He ate his fill.


    And the entire time, his eyes remained fixed on the CEO of Halcyon Interstellar.


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon scowled to himself as he looked down at the training chamber, a glass of whiskey clutched in his hand. The heat of rage trickled over his skin.


    Memories of humiliation were worse than the real thing. The stories changed in the telling, even when you were telling yourself. The surprise of onlookers became cruel amusement. The slightest intimidation became a pathetic and repulsive display of weakness. Each time he recalled the incident, it became more and more disgraceful.


    But recollection was all he would allow himself. His grandfather had tutored him well in the art of business: emotions were to remain on the inside of the body, the inside of the mind. The outside was the realm of numbers. A man who sought to avenge himself would never hold an empire.


    Damian¡¯s grip tightened on the glass as he watched from his observation chamber. If nothing else, Mereloco was a sight to behold.


    The barbarian charged forward, launching himself with a burst of repulsive gravity -- and avoiding a beam from his opponent that surely would have vaporized a lesser man. He threw himself down to the ground, nearly doing the splits in the process, allowing a flurry of spinning blades to slice just over his head. He spun, transitioning into a vicious kick, repelling a flexile tendril that had been aiming to slit his throat.


    His enemy was no slouch, either.


    The Tower, one of the fabled Arcana Automatics. It had cost the lives of many salvagers to recover the machine from its resting place. A costly endeavour, but one that was worth it. Even so, it wasn¡¯t much to look at. The Tower was about the size of a man, silver and cylindrical, like some kind of mobile trash-can sliding across the floor. Tiny diamond structures were half-embedded all across its surface, and a blue ring around the top of the machine served as its ¡¯eye¡¯.


    As Damian watched, a hatch on the Tower¡¯s front snapped open and the barrel of a flamethrower poked out, spraying an inferno across the room. Even if Mereloco was strong enough to overcome that attack, the Tower really had zero concept of overkill. Then again, that wasn¡¯t surprising.


    The auto-brain that controlled the Tower was different from most, in that it was capable of genuine feelings. Some people said that the Tower was the first automatic to truly develop emotion. A shame that emotion was hatred.


    "Obliterate! Annihilate! Destroy!" the Tower screamed, voice distorted by sheer volume.


    Nobody knew if it had been intentional on the part of Death, the creator unit of the Arcana Automatics, or some kind of spontaneous malfunction¡­ but the Tower hated.


    "Kill! Excise! Eliminate!"


    It hated every organism it encountered. It hated every place it found itself in. It hated every nanoangstrom of space, every nanosecond of time. And that hatred drove it. That auto-brain ran ceaselessly, calculating countless ways to destroy everything it saw.


    "Exterminate! Kill! KILL!"


    It was creative about it, too. Crushing, blades, gunfire, poison gas, bombs¡­ it would never use the same method twice. Unlike the Hanged Man, it wasn¡¯t capable of fully changing shape, but it could reconfigure its internals in a massive number of combinations. The number of methods it could concoct to kill a person was so close to infinite that the distinction was irrelevant.


    And the man called Mereloco was playing with it like a toy.


    The scowl on Damian¡¯s face was slowly replaced by a trickling smile. He had chosen the right horse to back. His personality was atrocious, but Mereloco had what it took to become Supreme. Hell, he¡¯d nearly become Supreme in his own time -- but Damon the Devilish had narrowly survived the attempt on his life. Then, for some reason, he¡¯d had Mereloco frozen instead of executing him.


    What a blessing that was.


    After all, it didn¡¯t matter how bad Mereloco¡¯s personality was. All that mattered was his strength. Once that strength had served its purpose¡­


    ¡­the will behind it would become like clay.


    One hour before Mereloco was made to bleed. He would have to do better in the future. If he didn¡¯t, Damon would laugh at him.


    To think a terror like the Tower had been brought to heel. This was a twisted age he¡¯d found himself in. The strength of man had wilted away, and the money-ticks they¡¯d once fought against now ran things entirely. If he had met that CEO man in his first life, he would have ended him where he stood. What a sick game this world was.


    As he emerged from the training module, sweat dripping from his clumped-together hair, he noticed that woman standing in the hallway. She¡¯d been there when he¡¯d woken up. A handler? Irritating.


    "Woman," he commanded. "Leave me be."


    "As I said to you before," the woman said calmly. "My name is Alicia Jane Marsden. I¡¯ve been asked to keep you safe."


    Mereloco glared. "You¡¯ve been asked to spy on me."


    "Yes," the woman nodded.


    "Stop doing that."


    "I cannot."


    Unchained.


    An ordinary person would have been smashed against the wall by the suddenly reconfigured and superpowered gravity. The woman, on the other hand, managed to resist Unchained -- red Aether sparking around her as she fought off the infusion. She was not bad.


    "If you intend to get rid of me," she said, voice strained, hands straightening her tie. "You will have to kill me."


    "If you want me gone so badly, Mere¡­ why don¡¯t you just kill me?"


    An old and unwelcome memory.


    Mereloco¡¯s glare narrowed. "Do as you will," he grunted, turning on his heel and marching towards the exit. "I will see the shape of this new world."


    The sun was far too bright.


    Atoy Muzazi considered his options.


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    Upon arrival on Azum-Ha, he¡¯d had the Eight Phases stationed on Floor 212 of the Lost Heaven Hotel in Upper-District Cleanse. It was a fairly upscale establishment, usually used by traveling businessmen and the like, but not so extravagant that it would draw attention. Morgan had booked the rooms under false names and false pretenses, at any rate.


    An entire floor, just for them. Atoy Muzazi, the Eight Phases, and the Heir. Morgan had purchased rooms in numerous other hotels as well, decoys to draw away the attention of those keen to start the Dawn Contest early. This was the first tournament of this kind in many years, but you always heard stories.


    Security systems tampered with to loop footage. The Heir brought here in disguise. Ionir Yggdrassil still in orbit, still in starship-form, creating the illusion that they could still all be up there as well. Atoy Muzazi had gone to lengths.


    So why did his heart still feel so heavy? Why did it feel like a rat was trying to eat its way free of him?


    Murderer.


    Atoy Muzazi sighed. He stood in one of the floor¡¯s luxury suites, the wall-length window revealing the city before him. It was one-way glass -- he¡¯d made sure of that -- but through it, he could see the megacity that was Azum-Ha. He could see the heart of the Supremacy.


    The past and the future, mingling, birthing something new. State of the art buildings flying over ancient temples. Colossal statues of past Supremes surrounded by floating pods, carrying tourists for photo opportunities. The dismembered Body, looming over it all, luxuriating in the flux.


    Muzazi¡¯s gaze went further up, to the floating Stadium of the Absolute, nearly blotting out the sun. It seemed so tiny from down here, but that tiny thing could very well be the place in which he¡¯d die. He swallowed.


    No. Brave heart, Muzazi. That is your first weapon.


    "Stator for your thoughts?" asked Morgan, sauntering into the room.


    Muzazi glanced over his shoulder at his second-in-command. "Is this your first time here as well? On the capitol?"


    "Nah," Morgan replied, stopping next to Muzazi -- and before the window. "My dad took business trips. Sometimes I got dragged along. Why?"


    "It¡¯s¡­"


    Muzazi¡¯s voice trailed off, and he began to drum his fingers along the empty sheath at his side instead.


    Morgan raised an eyebrow. "...not what you expected?"


    "I don¡¯t know what I expected," Muzazi admitted, looking at the countless fluttering flags below. "But I¡¯ve been in megacities before. I suppose¡­ I thought there¡¯d be something more to Azum-Ha. Something that distinguishes it. But, apart from the superficial¡­"


    "It feels the same?"


    Muzazi nodded.


    "Well," Morgan considered, hand on his chin. "When you get down to it, people are the same everywhere -- deep down, I mean. Way I see it, it¡¯s the same with the places they build. The only thing really setting them apart is the decoration."


    Muzazi glanced at him. "And it¡¯s the same with people?"


    "Yup," Morgan said. "Pretty ribbons to cover the animals underneath."


    "I see."


    They stood there for a moment, in a silence interrupted only by the muffled traffic outside. The city was slowly but surely grinding to a halt as more and more people arrived for the Dawn Contest. Very soon, travel would become very inconvenient.


    Which was why they¡¯d made preparations.


    "We¡¯ll split into two parties for the opening ceremony," Muzazi announced. "You, Hapgrass and Silversaint will accompany the Heir. The rest will stay with me. I¡¯ll be acting as a lure for anyone who might be targeting Aclima."


    Morgan gave him a skeptical look. "... right. And you want me to¡­?"


    "I want you to protect the Heir," Muzazi reiterated. "You¡¯re the one I trust the most. I have faith in you."


    Indeed, it was perhaps just as Morgan said. Atoy Muzazi had covered himself in ribbons of honour and valor, resplendent decorations¡­


    ¡­to cover the liar underneath.


    "This must be very strange for you," Rae Ruditia giggled nervously, holding out her microphone. "I mean, I know you had news stations in your time, but it wasn¡¯t nearly so standardized, at least from what I remember, so¡­ anyway, um, how are you finding life?"


    The only reply she got was a glare.


    Ruth clasped her hands tightly in front of her. Even with everything she¡¯d experienced¡­ being in the presence of a man like this still made her sweat. The former second-in-command of Damon the Devilish, the Mad Supreme. The Contender of his age. The man who¡¯d come back from the dead.


    Mereloco.


    A makeshift interview room had been set up in a disused office building, with lighting automatics floating around the seating setup and making it presentable. A camera hovered over Rae¡¯s shoulder, red iris focused intently on Mereloco¡¯s impassive face. Ruth and Rex, clad in suits, stood behind her chair too¡­ just in case.


    Ruth had to hand it to Rae Ruditia: she¡¯d thought the young woman was something of a ditz, but once she¡¯d heard Mereloco was willing to see her, she¡¯d gotten this place set up with a single brief call. If nothing else, she was resourceful.


    But had that effort been worth it? As the long seconds dragged on, Mereloco just continued to stare in silence. It wasn¡¯t even clear if he had heard the question.


    Rae heroically pushed on. "History says the previous Dawn Contests were pretty extravagant!" she said excitedly, pink eyes twinkling. "How would you say this one measures up -- so far, I mean?"


    Mereloco said nothing. His face did not so much as twitch. The woman standing beside his seat, his apparent handler, glanced down at him -- but she said nothing either.


    Rae bit her lip. "Uh¡­ jeez, I know you guys had language back then¡­ anyone else in the Dawn Contest seem like they¡¯ll be a good fight? Who do you have your eyes on?"


    For the first time since he sat down, Mereloco moved. His eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, and his finger pointed lazily towards Rae.


    "Whore," he said.


    The reporter blinked. "Eh?"


    Mereloco did not respond to that. He simply stood up from his seat, cracked his neck, and stomped out of the room. He was so casual about it that you¡¯d think he was the only person here. The group -- Rae, Ruth and Rex -- silently watched him go. A second later, his handler dutifully followed after him.


    Rae clicked her tongue, her microphone already collapsing into a shape that could fit in her pocket. "Hm¡­ do I write that down or what? I mean, he did say it, but¡­"


    "Well," Ruth glared at the door. "There¡¯s one guy I really hope doesn¡¯t become Supreme."


    Rae looked up at Ruth over her shoulder. "How¡¯s that?" she said, voice still sparkling as if she hadn¡¯t just been insulted.


    "That stuff he just said," Ruth replied, waving a vague hand. "He had no right."


    "Huh, you think so?" Rae cocked her head. "If he was some rando on the street, maybe, but did you see his Inner Melee? He¡¯s strong. I think he¡¯s at least got the right to say what he wants."


    Ruth hesitated to speak, her mouth stuck half-open. To tell the truth, she¡¯d considered Rae Ruditia to be a pretty normal -- if positive -- person. Someone, on some level, she could relate to. But she¡¯d forgotten, hadn¡¯t she? This was the heart of the Supremacy. This was the heart of the Supremacy¡¯s philosophy.


    This was a world of might-makes-right -- a world of insanity.


    "Miss Blaine?" Rae queried, pink eyes intent, as Ruth just stood there with her mouth open.


    Rex softly nudged her with his elbow, snapping her out of the vague reverie.


    "Uh," Ruth muttered. "Yeah, I guess you¡¯re right. Good point. Wasn¡¯t thinking."


    Bite your tongue, Ruth, she warned herself. At least until tonight, bite your tongue.


    All they needed to do was make it to the opening ceremony. All the Dawn Contestants would be gathered for the first time -- including Dragan. Rae Ruditia was their ticket there.


    Just one more day, and she¡¯d finally meet Dragan again.


    "I won¡¯t be going to the opening ceremony tonight," Dragan said casually. "North, take my place."


    He was sitting on the couch of the dingy apartment they¡¯d made their base. Brutally speaking, the place looked as if it had survived at least one hurricane, and had already been a shit hole before that. But it was cheap, and it was out of the way -- buried deep in the slums of Azum-Ha.


    Nobody would be looking for them here.


    North looked over from the videograph, raising a grey eyebrow. "How come?" he asked. "You got some place better to be?"


    Dragan took the script he¡¯d been looking at and put it back in his pocket. The Serpent of Pesh, his insider in the Dawn Contest Organizational Committee, had just sent over the finished draft of the tournament brackets. That had decided his first move.


    "Halcyon Interstellar is sponsoring that Mereloco guy," Dragan explained, standing up from the couch. "Sheltering him, giving him resources, weapons. They¡¯re putting all their weight behind him."


    "Yeah," North said. "So?"


    Every second in this Dawn Contest would be vital. Even now, before it had begun, they were surrounded by wolves. If he had the opportunity to declaw one of those beasts¡­ how could he pass it up?


    Dragan¡¯s blue eyes flicked over to look at his ally.


    "I¡¯m going to go kill Damian Halcyon," he said casually. "Don¡¯t wait up."

 Chapter 346:13.4: After Action Report

    Preface


    This report, detailing the events on the night of the Dawn Contest Opening Ceremony, was compiled through the diligent efforts of the Security Observation Team. Several thousand hazbytes of video and audio footage from within Halcyon Interstellar Azum-Ha Headquarters were analyzed for this purpose. The Security Observation Team would like to make the amount of effort required clear to the Board of Directors -- and to request that effort be taken into account in the upcoming company performance review.


    Thank you.


    <Begin Log>


    (Incident begins shortly before the commencement of the Dawn Contest Opening Ceremony. Mereloco and all staff assigned to his care have left Headquarters and begun transit to the Stadium of the Absolute. For this reason, less security staff were present than during a usual shift. However, the number of security staff assigned to the defense of the building was still consistent with recommended levels.)


    (Automatic doors to the central lobby open.)


    (Dragan Hadrien enters. Immediately, he glances towards the camera that is observing him and destroys it using his confirmed ability: ¡¯Gemini Shotgun¡¯. Note consistent motif with the ability of Zachariah Esmeralda, ¡¯Heartbeat Shotgun¡¯. Footage switches to another camera, which is then destroyed as well.)


    (This continues over the span of five more seconds until visual contact with Hadrien is fully lost.)


    (Sounds of gunfire.)


    <End Log>


    Dragan Hadrien: Agitant Profile


    Former companion of Zachariah Esmeralda, the assassin of the former Supreme Kadmon (Although there is disagreement on whether Zachariah Esmeralda occupied the office of Supreme in the brief interval between his defeat of Kadmon and his subsequent demise, this report has elected to consider him a civilian operator.). Presence confirmed during recorded incidents on Taldan, the Cradle, Panacea and Elysian Fields. Level of involvement variable (see Document 672-761 for more information). Possesses potent Aether abilities and an unknown capacity for regeneration.


    Ordinarily, Halcyon Interstellar would have pursued prosecution against Mr. Hadrien following his assault on Headquarters. However, given his participation in the Dawn Contest, he is granted immunity to such proceedings so long as he remains a participant. See attached copy of the Dawn Charter for more information. Missing the opening ceremony would normally disqualify the individual as a contestant, but footage of the ceremony confirms that Hadrien -- or a facsimile of him -- was present there as well.


    In short: as the Dragan Hadrien present at the opening ceremony cannot be proven as an imposter, legal action against him cannot currently be pursued.


    However, Halcyon Interstellar¡¯s legal representation have drafted a collection of charges to bring against Dragan Hadrien at such a time that his immunity is waived. These include trespassing, destruction of property potentially including a rare Arcana Automatic, and the murder of Damian Wenderhold Halcyon.


    <Begin Log>


    (Footage depicts a long hallway leading to the elevator station. Security forces are taking up positions behind cover panels that have erected from the floor.)


    (Dragan Hadrien appears at the end of the hallway in a flash of blue Aether.)


    (Vermilion Aether begins to coalesce around the security guards. Confirmed activation of Damian Wenderhold Halcyon¡¯s Aether ability, ¡¯P2W¡¯. The quality of the guard¡¯s weapons and armour begin to exponentially increase in accordance with the amount of money Damian Wenderhold Halcyon invests.)


    (Within the span of seven seconds, the stun rifles the guards are equipped with have become massive stasis cannons. They fire waves of electricity down the length of the hallway.)


    (Dragan Hadrien vanishes.)


    (Camera cuts out.)


    (Sounds of screaming.)


    <End Log>


    Ability Dossier: P2W


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon¡¯s ability, P2W, was formed under the tutelage of the deceased individual known only as ¡¯The Teacher¡¯. (See reconnaissance dossier ¡¯The Testament Project¡¯ for more information.) By recording physical currency into Aether and then ¡¯investing¡¯ that currency into an infused individual or object, Damian could upgrade the efficacy of the target far beyond what usual infusion would allow.


    Mundane punchpoint pistols were observed becoming advanced and experimental firearms, while personnel would gain significant muscle mass and enhanced hand-eye coordination. Accelerated regeneration and improved intelligence have also been observed.


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon maintained a store-room of physical currency beneath his office. Given that this room was empty upon investigation, there are two possibilities:


    Dragan Hadrien elected to loot the room after killing Damian Wenderhold Halcyon.


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon had to use the vast amounts of contained wealth to fight Dragan Hadrien, and this was not sufficient.


    Communications Log


    The following is a recording of communications between Security Chief Ender and Damian Wenderhold Halcyon. As Ender¡¯s side of the conversation has been lost, this has been marked in the transcript.


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    <Begin Log>


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon: What the hell are you people doing?! I¡¯m funneling a goddamn fortune into your veins! Why is he still coming?


    [DATA LOST]


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon: That¡¯s their job, you idiot! They¡¯re paid well enough for it!


    [DATA LOST]


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon: No, don¡¯t you dare -- don¡¯t you dare retreat, that¡¯s not what you¡¯re here for, that¡¯s not what you¡¯re for --


    [DATA LOST]


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon: Fine! Just leave him to the Tower! It¡¯ll take care of him for you, you fucking cowards!


    <End Log>


    Combat Report: "The Tower" opp. Dragan Hadrien


    Given communications logs and the resultant destruction throughout Halcyon Headquarters, it can only be concluded that the Tower and Dragan Hadrien came into direct conflict shortly following the above conversation. However, all footage -- both visual and audio -- of this engagement has been lost, and there are no surviving witnesses. As such, the particulars of this encounter cannot be confirmed.


    The following after-effects of the battle have been noted, however:


    Destruction of the Tower¡¯s holding hangar located on Floor 122


    . Unclear whether this was from Dragan Hadrien breaking in or the Tower breaking out. Suppression automatics destroyed by a variety of methods, presumably enacted by the Tower.


    Destruction of Floors 122-156. Partial collapse of upper levels as a result. S§×ar?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Severe damage to executive offices.


    Destruction of emergency escape hangar


    . Damian Wenderhold Halcyon¡¯s dedicated escape craft was also destroyed at this point.


    Ignition of a fire that began spreading through lower levels.


    The conflict is believed to have lasted roughly thirty minutes, after which Dragan Hadrien continued his ascent towards Damian Wenderhold Halcyon¡¯s office. Neither the Tower nor its remains have been located since. However, as analysis of the Tower had already been performed, its loss is not expected to impact the development of "The ?on".


    Combat Report: Damian Wenderhold Halcyon opp. Dragan Hadrien


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon¡¯s body was found in his office, slumped over his desk. A pistol was clutched in his hand. Cause of death determined to have been explosive rupture of the skull following application of severe blunt force.


    Combat is believed to have been brief.


    The Stability Initiative


    "What is a Supreme, truly?


    I¡¯ll tell you. A Supreme is a creature who bends the universe to its will. Petty desires become galactic initiatives. Petty grudges become wars of extermination. We of the Halcyon family understand that more than most -- we, who narrowly survived one Supreme¡¯s vendetta against the Great Chain. We understand the horror of an ill-fitting component in the machine of governance.


    Look at Kadmon the Indolent, who sat idly by and allowed the galaxy to slip into ruin. Look at Henri the Glutton, who enacted the reign of terror and ate his enemies alive. Look at Damon the Devilish, who went mad and sought to tear the whole system down.


    What do these examples have in common? They exchanged the greater good for their own whims and fancies. How many more Supremes like this can our great nation survive? We will not find out.


    Halcyon Interstellar will once again lead the Supremacy into a new age. We have made starships, weapons, scripts and shows. Now we will be releasing our first god: Mereloco the Magnificent, who will lead the Supremacy into a new age. The Stability Initiative will make it so.


    The initiative is simple, and can be summarized in three basic steps:


    While in stasis, brain surgery is to be performed upon the candidate ¡¯Mereloco¡¯ -- a suite of state-of-the-art neural implants is to be installed but left inactive.


    Mereloco is to be provided all assistance and resources required to guarantee his victory in the Dawn Contest.


    The neural implants are to be activated following his coronation, allowing Halcyon Interstellar direct control over his emotions, memories and actions. From this point, a dedicated ¡¯writers room¡¯ will operate Mereloco as required by the Board of Directors.


    The Supreme is an outdated office, but it is one that cannot be allowed to die. Instead, we shall install the perfect Supreme -- one that guarantees a prosperous future for Halcyon Interstellar and the public at large. This is the final shape of strength.


    Power, wielded for the sake of the people."


    Damian Wenderhold Halcyon, CEO of Halcyon Interstellar


    It is believed that, after eliminating Damian Wenderhold Halcyon, Dragan Hadrien took his identification and immediately proceeded to Floor -100. Again, footage of the incident has been lost, but evidence suggests he then went on a rampage through the facility. All personnel involved with the Stability Initiative were eliminated. All associated equipment was destroyed.


    Utter obliteration of the Stability Initiative confirmed. Irreparable.


    Dragan Hadrien -- Current Whereabouts and Further Action


    City security recordings confirm that, following his assault on Halcyon Interstellar, Dragan Hadrien fled into the slums of Azum-Ha. Contact was lost shortly after.


    As previously mentioned, legal pursuit of Dragan Hadrien at this time is not practical. However, non-legal pursuit remains very much an option this office would recommend. Parties cannot be allowed to act against Halcyon Interstellar with impunity. As such, we recommend the hiring of third parties to pursue and eliminate Hadrien. Some level of torture may be advisable as a further deterrent against future hostile elements.


    It is the understanding of this office that Nael Manron has already been approached, but has rejected the contract. The Sixth Dead or the Hive of Malkuth may be viable options for alternative contractors, although these do come with a certain level of inevitable collateral damage. Given the current date, the individual known as ¡¯Appointment¡¯ may also be an option in the near future.


    We await further instructions from the Board of Directors.


    Dragan finally stopped for breath -- but the air still tasted of blood.


    That only made sense. The stuff was covering his face, after all. The blood of Damian Halcyon -- and the superpowered grunts they¡¯d sent after him. It had been quite the workout.


    Nestled deep in the alleys of old Azum-Ha, Dragan whipped out his script and turned it on. A smirk tugged at his lips as he saw the disaster that the opening ceremony had become -- that had gone according to plan, too. A message from North confirmed he¡¯d made it out of there intact and with his identity still hidden.


    Good stuff.


    What gave him pause, though, was the message below that. It was from an unknown number, but the message itself had been signed by the supposed sender. If it was genuine, then¡­


    Dragan¡¯s smirk spread further.


    Need to meet, the message read. Would like to offer alliance against Atoy Muzazi on behalf of the Supreme Heir. Name location for meeting. Anya Hapgrass.

 Chapter 347:13.5: Fireworks (Part 1)

    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    It hadn¡¯t been easy, getting Annatrice del Sed a hospital room like this. Top floor of the Aura Sodele Memorial Hospital, one of the most esteemed medical establishments on Azum-Ha. More than just the top floor -- top level security, every sight and sound constantly recorded, top-of-the-range security automatics protecting the ward from hostile intrusion. Not a microbe could get in there without permission.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    In the end, it had all been thanks to Skipper. Shortly after Elysian Fields, Bruno had found some files he¡¯d left behind -- dangling favours that could still be called in after his death. A long time ago, Skipper had apparently done something that had earned him the good will of this hospital¡¯s director. Bruno hadn¡¯t asked about the specifics: he¡¯d learnt from experience that never ended well.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    So -- to summarize. The best medical care money could buy, with the best security money could buy, all without spending money. Annatrice lay unconscious in the stark white bed, in the stark white room, the heart monitor confirming each beat with a quiet beep. She¡¯d been unconscious ever since her fight against Bruno and Serena. Weeks, now. Some kind of backlash from her ability? Impossible to say without more information.


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    And information was one thing they didn¡¯t have. Time for that to change -- at least in one regard. Dragan Hadrien had been keeping his secrets for way too long.


    Time to change that.


    As they -- Bruno and Serena del Sed -- lingered by the door, their lips moved. A conversation between two people, released and received by one body.


    "We shouldn¡¯t leave her alone," Serena said quietly, her gaze fixed on the girl in the bed. She looked so small, nestled deep in the covers like a bug in its cocoon.


    Bruno slowly shook his head. "She¡¯s safe here," he grunted. "Safer than she¡¯d be back on the ship, anyway."


    "I guess," Serena grumbled, her lips scrunching together to an impressive degree. "But she¡¯d be even safer if we stayed with her."


    Bruno reached up, rubbing the bridge of their nose with his fingers. "We can¡¯t stay here forever. We came here for a reason, remember? To find Dragan."


    Serena said nothing to that, so Bruno continued. His sigh lingered in the air.


    "I know¡­ listen, I know you don¡¯t feel as strongly about this as I do. It¡¯s just a thing for you, right? But for me¡­ it¡¯s important. Maybe the most important thing. I need to¡­ I need to know. I need to see him again. Tonight is my best chance."


    "I know, but¡­"


    "...if I miss this chance, it might not come again. He might die. He might disappear again. I¡­ I¡¯m tired, Serena. I¡¯ve been dragging you around these last two years. I know. Just give me this one last night. Then¡­ it¡¯s up to you. We can do whatever you want after this. I¡¯ll follow your lead."


    Serena had nothing to say to that. Not with her mouth, at least. Her feet turned, however, and marched out of the room¡­


    ¡­leaving Bruno to steer them through the night.


    The waiting room that Mereloco had been provided with was larger than necessary. A foolish waste of space. It was designed to accommodate only one person, and yet had room for a crowd. Empty lockers lined up on both sides, and yet only one was truly needed. Guards, provided by the company, standing at the doors -- and yet Mereloco had no need of them.


    Waste, waste, waste. This age seemed to be defined by it.


    One of the guards stepped into the room, leaning into the ear of the woman. She was still following Mereloco as if he were her dog. He disliked it, but having her close was useful in its own ways. He channeled Aether into his ears, boosting his perception so he could hear the exchange clearly.


    "Report from headquarters, ma¡¯am," the guard said, his voice low. "There¡¯s been some kind of incident. An attack, we think."


    The woman blinked. "I see."


    "Do we send some of our escort back? There¡¯s been a request to recall forces. I mean -- it¡¯s not as if this guy needs protection."


    The glare the woman gave him could have cut through stone. "And yet that¡¯s what you¡¯re being paid for."


    "But ma¡¯am, the recall¡­!"


    "To hell with the recall," the woman snapped. "Our instructions come directly from the CEO. We stick to the plan until that¡¯s no longer possible. You understand?"


    The guard nodded, went to stand up -- but found himself pulled back into close proximity.


    "And keep this quiet," the woman hissed. "I don¡¯t need word of this spreading around needlessly."


    Pale, the guard nodded again -- and this time, was actually released.


    Mereloco, hunched over on the bench, didn¡¯t so much as twitch in response to the new information. It wasn¡¯t that he was concealing his reaction: it was simply that the matter didn¡¯t interest him in the slightest. If something befell his ¡¯benefactors¡¯, it just meant he¡¯d have less factors to keep in mind.


    He simply, truly just did not care.


    The blue bar above the door flicked to red -- the indicator, Mereloco knew, that it was time to get moving. The opening ceremony of the Dawn Contest would begin soon. All thirty-two contestants, brought together, competing for Supremacy over all.


    That was enough to twitch his lips into a smile.


    ¡¯Dragan Hadrien¡¯ was already on the move.


    Of course, the young man stalking through the maintenance layer of the Stadium of the Absolute was not Dragan Hadrien. He was probably busy tearing hell through the offices of Halcyon Interstellar right now. But North was wearing his face, and he did so like to get in character.


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    Silver hair at an annoying length, and blue eyes that glinted in the dark. Terrible for stealth. Even if the face itself wasn¡¯t so bad to look at, it wasn¡¯t one that North would have chosen. But, he supposed, a job was a job -- and Hadrien paid well enough for the discomfort.


    North ran his hand along the railing as he looked down at the massive repulsor at the base of the arena. A great ball of light, like a miniature star, bright enough to hurt when you looked directly at it. Technically, this was the second Arena of the Absolute -- the first had been destroyed in a particularly rowdy Dawn Contest. This repulsor, built to accommodate the new and expanded stadium, was apparently one of the great triumphs of the Absurd Weapons Lab.


    Looked more like an eyesore to North. This entire complex, and all the countless people on it, kept in the sky by that thing. He couldn¡¯t imagine how anyone could feel secure, relying on that.


    His script buzzed, and he whipped it out of his pocket immediately -- as expected, it looked like it was time to head over to the ceremony. That was no problem. He¡¯d already made the preparations he needed to -- they wouldn¡¯t pay off for quite a while, but best to get these things out of the way early.


    Dragan Hadrien really didn¡¯t pay enough for this shit.


    Tealin Jade¡¯s eyes opened slightly as he felt the colors change in his surroundings. The face-eyes of his Scurrant line had always been somewhat superfluous -- he perceived the world with the far more accurate eyes covering his muscles. Luxuriating in his regained consciousness, Tealin stretched his four arms, blue skin shining in the artificial light.


    He¡¯d always found that rest was required before performance. You must astride the stage akin to a newborn, without ego or the doubt it spawned. Such was his wisdom.


    As Tealin rose to his feet, the massive lotus flower he¡¯d been resting upon dissipated into blue Aether. He waved the remnants away with a massive hand, like scattering petals into the breeze. A concept occured.


    To gift the wind,


    And life anew,


    I wave my hand,


    And so create the world.


    Tealin Jade


    "Thank you for your kind assistance," he purred, his voice a double-bass. "And for playing with me."


    His footsteps thudded against the floor as he left the room, leaving his temporary companion in the preparation chamber. As he¡¯d come to the stadium alone, he¡¯d been provided with a handler of sorts -- to make sure he proceeded at the appropriate time. What an unfortunate fellow.


    The chessboard still lay scattered on the floor -- where the man had spilled it in the throes of ascension. He himself remained frozen in his chair, held in beauty by rigor mortis and the growths, face angled up towards the ceiling. His mouth was wide open, as were the sockets of his eyes -- and it was a good thing, too.


    Gorgeous, vibrant flowers stretched up out of his open face, their petals twinkling high above. As Tealin passed on his way out, he plucked one of the flowers from their soil of flesh and took a deep drag of the scent. Beautiful as ever.


    There was no aroma more potent than the untimely.


    Ruth held onto the side of the capsule for support as it began to float up into the air, carrying their group over the arena.


    She looked over the edge of the pod. Down below, she could see the site that would soon host the battles of the Dawn Contest -- a flat grey plain of concrete right now, but that would surely change when the actual fighting came. Grand cityscapes, furious blizzards, tropical islands¡­ the Arena of the Absolute would accommodate nearly every kind of battlefield imaginable. If nothing else, the Supremacy knew how to put on a show.


    Theirs wasn¡¯t the only pod hovering in the sky. More of the capsules bobbed and weaved all around them, carrying journalists and dignitaries, anyone who wanted a better view than the common masses. They broiled down below -- a human sea consuming the stands, the sounds of their voices so overwhelming it sounded like a thunderstorm upon itself.


    How many people was that? Ruth couldn¡¯t even guess at a number. More than she¡¯d ever seen before. That, at least, was true.


    "All cameras ready," Rae giggled from her seat at the center of the capsule. "We¡¯re good to go as soon as the ceremony starts."


    Ruth nodded quietly to herself. There were four guards in the pod along with Rae -- well, five, really. Herself, Rex, Alice, Bruno and Serena. Ellis had remained at the hotel, observing from a distance and serving as mission control if anything were to go wrong.


    She couldn¡¯t help but feel like that was unlikely, though. You¡¯d have to be an idiot to pull a stunt here, at the heart of the Supremacy¡¯s power. Not even Skipper would have been that bold.


    Spying Alice tugging uncomfortably at her collar, Ruth gave her a look. "Stay professional," she said. "It¡¯s only for a little while."


    They¡¯d done their research, after all -- the ceremony wouldn¡¯t actually be that long. The First, Second and Third Ministers would say some words, the contestants would come out for the pledge, and then they would all go their separate ways. At midnight, once they were all gone, the tournament brackets would officially be revealed.


    That made their mission easy. They just had to follow Dragan on his way out and get some answers out of him. Sure, if he didn¡¯t want to be found, it¡¯d get a little tricky -- but Ruth wasn¡¯t so weak that she couldn¡¯t catch up to that pipsqueak.


    "Here we go," Rae whispered.


    Three massive holograms slammed into existence at the center of the stage -- and immediately, the cacophony of the crowd was reduced to a hush. These were not people to be taken lightly. These were not people to be interrupted. Those who did found that they did not exist for very long.


    These were the ones they called the Three Wise Men. The First, Second and Third Ministers -- the heads of the Body. Unique positions granted for life, given a great deal of control over the Body¡¯s policies and activities. For the last two years -- hell, for a lot longer than that, probably -- they had been the ones actually running the Supremacy.


    They couldn¡¯t have looked more different. The First Minister, the oldest among them, was a tiny elder with a kind smile and a balding head. He wore the ceremonial white robes of his position, wrinkled hands clasped in front of him as he regarded the crowd.


    The Second Minister was quite the opposite. He was hunched over too, to be sure, but even so he was so tall that he towered over his companions. White hair stuck up crazily from his scalp -- standing up in every direction, like a sea urchin, and his white Umbrant pupils were as wide as his bright white grin. All in all, he gave the impression of a vulture -- and the ceremonial red robes he wore didn¡¯t do much to reduce his ominous aspect.


    The Third Minister was comparatively normal. A middle-aged man with brown hair and brown eyes, a calm smile on his lips. Blue robes clung to his person. It was tempting to think that he was less dangerous than the others because of his apparent normalcy, but Ruth had heard otherwise. There were plenty of stories about the bloodlust of Inimants.


    The three of them stood close together, like a single entity, a beast with three heads. That was how the world saw them: the Three Wise Men. It was rare to refer to them separately, and even then they were almost never named. It wasn¡¯t that their names were a secret -- only that their positions were the important part.


    The brain of the Body. The master minds. They opened their mouth.


    "It does our hearts good¡­" said the First Minister, his voice echoing through the stadium.


    "...to see so many gathered for the commencement of history," the Second Minister continued.


    "But enough talk¡­" the Third Minister concluded, extending out a welcoming hand. "Let us meet the king of the next age."


    All around the arena, doors began to slide open -- thirty-two in all -- and the people who¡¯d been waiting in the tunnels beyond them stepped out. As one, they marched towards the center of the stadium -- towards the elevated platform that had suddenly risen from the floor. A pedestal for the worship of the prenatal god.


    People of all shapes and sizes. Scurrants and Pugnants, Cogitants and Umbrants¡­ and one contestant, kept within a massive metal box, accompanied by two guards. Even with all that, though, the eyes of Ruth Blaine were fixed on just one person.


    Dragan Hadrien. He walked calmly forward, his cold eyes fixed straight ahead. Ruth felt Bruno tense up next to her, and she knew she was much the same.


    It had begun.

 Chapter 348:13.6: Fireworks (Part 2)

    A light at the end of the tunnel. Atoy Muzazi had always wondered how such a thing would feel. He hadn¡¯t expected menace, sinking deep into his bones.


    It wasn¡¯t that they were unprepared. On the contrary, they¡¯d made meticulous preparations for this day. The majority of the Phases were here with him, in the hallway leading to the stadium proper, ready to strike back at any assassins lured out by the promise of an easy kill on the Heir. A humanoid lump of Ionir Yggdrassil was accompanying them too, clad in a cloak, just the right height and size to be a disguised Aclima. Were anyone to attack them now, in this last vulnerable moment out of sight of the world, all they would accomplish was the exposure of their malice. All the while, the real Aclima was safe in a secondary location, with Morgan and her personal guard.


    Yes. That was the reason Atoy Muzazi was doing this.


    He swallowed one last time, lingering before the blinding light that led to history. He¡¯d worn a white ceremonial uniform for this occasion -- from the age of Gael the Golden, with a crimson cape fluttering behind it. That was the impression he wanted to give here. A Supreme that cared. A Supreme that looked down before he took a needless step.


    It was all very ceremonial. A ceremonial sword at his hip and a ceremonial pistol strapped to his leg. Neither of them he would need or use, even if an enemy did make themselves known. All the power he needed already resided within him.


    He clenched his fists, and was surprised to find them slick with sweat. He¡¯d defeated so many adversaries, conquered so many obstacles, and yet the eyes of the galaxy were still enough to strike fear into his heart? He was surprised.


    Just a few minutes until the ceremony began proper. Just a few minutes until he began directing the rails of his life in the direction he needed. Just a few minutes¡­ until either success or failure became inevitable.


    "Muzazi," Marcus muttered, standing next to him. His keen Cogitant eyes were fixed at the darkness on the other side of the tunnel -- the direction they¡¯d come from. Muzazi followed his gaze.


    There, framed by the black, loomed Nael Manron. His unkempt antlers nearly scraped against the ceiling as he stared, red eyes glaring into grey. The red coat he wore was a tattered thing, like it had been shredded and reassembled countless times, a parody of the pristine cape Muzazi wore. This was a man who had been through it, clearly.


    Finally, as if to match Muzazi¡¯s unused blade, some kind of musical instrument hung limp from Manron¡¯s hip. A guitar? Muzazi wasn¡¯t familiar.


    "What do you want, Mr. Manron?" Muzazi called out, his voice echoing down the corridor. "This isn¡¯t your entrance."


    Nael Manron didn¡¯t answer straight away. He just continued to stare with dull eyes, as if looking right through Muzazi. It was strange¡­ despite the reputation this man held, he had a peculiar lack of presence -- as if the slightest breeze would scatter him to the winds.


    So this was the King of Killers.


    "It could be my entrance," Nael finally replied, his voice low and husky, barely audible. "Maybe I want it to be."


    The other Phases around Muzazi stiffened, but he held up a hand to quiet them.


    "You wouldn¡¯t," he asserted, his own gaze steady. "You¡¯re not that foolish."


    Nael raised a stark white eyebrow. "You think¡­ I¡¯d lose?"


    "I¡¯ve neither fought you nor seen you fight -- I really couldn¡¯t say," Muzazi spoke calmly. "But even if you did manage to eliminate me here, you¡¯d only be making yourself a primary target for the other contestants. After seeing how far you were willing to go before the matches, they¡¯d have no choice but to kill you in self-defense."


    Nael blinked placidly. "Maybe I¡¯d just kill them too."


    Muzazi ignored those words. "As I said -- this is the first time we¡¯ve met," he declared. "But, by reputation, I know you¡¯re not a frivolous man. Why have you come here, Nael Manron?"


    Nael¡¯s eyes slowly scanned the body of the Full Moon, up and down, calmly taking in every detail. A movement mechanical in its efficiency. The smirk that curled Manron¡¯s lips, on the other hand, was not.


    "Funny," he mumbled.


    "What¡¯s funny?"


    Nael let his head fall to one side, that tired smile never leaving his lips. "I was going to ask you the same thing¡­ Atoy Muzazi. Why have you come here?"


    Muzazi blinked. "The same reason as you. I compete to --"


    "Not the same reason as me. You want to become, uh¡­ Supreme. But why?"


    Not the same reason? Nael Manron had some other motive for participating in the Dawn Contest? Muzazi adjusted his stance slightly. If that was the case, then maybe he wasn¡¯t as safe as he¡¯d thought.


    "Does a man need a reason?" he asked.


    Nael glared. "A man has a reason."


    Muzazi adjusted the position of his hand, just a bit, just enough that he could bring out a lightning-fast Radiant if he needed to. Then again¡­ this Nael Manron was a man who concealed everything about himself. What better weapon to meet him with than the truth?


    He opened his mouth. "I want¡­ I¡¯m going to become a true Supreme, because someone must. Someone must follow the example of the First, someone must follow the example of Gael, someone must guard after the people as they are sworn to. This world is sick -- and for too long, false Supremes have amused themselves by playing in the pus. I intend to be the cure."


    As he spoke, Muzazi got more than a few glances from the Phases gathered around him. Was that a twinkle of approval in Marcus¡¯ eyes? Ash del Duran¡¯s stoic expression was as unreadable as ever. The roll of Gregori Hazzard¡¯s eyes was just as expected.


    But those words were not for them -- they were for Nael Manron. The King of Killer¡¯s smile spread out into a mirthless and unsightly grin that did not reach his eyes. Not a display of joy, but a display of teeth.


    "Your mouth is full of shit," Manron said -- and without another word, he turned and stalked away.


    It was only when he¡¯d vanished into the darkness that Muzazi finally let out the breath he¡¯d been holding in. For a man with so little presence¡­ Nael Manron could surely make his malice known.


    Azrael joined Nael halfway down the tunnel, ducking in from an alcove and matching him step-for-step.


    Three months ago, the second-in-command of the Crimson Carnival had been the newest recruit of the Crimson Carnival. In that time, he¡¯d learnt Aether, forged the special ability that was the Carnival¡¯s trademark, and strengthened it until he was second only to Nael himself.


    "So?" Azrael asked, looking up at his supposed superior. "What did you think?"


    He cut a distinctive -- if monochrome -- figure as he strode through the tunnel. Long black hair and chalk-white skin, with a face full of piercings. His eyes were just as pale as his body, lacking pupils, making it difficult to tell just where he was looking. A black shirt far too big for him brushed against the floor like a robe, the logo of a bugpunk band adorning the front.


    Nael glanced down at him. "About what?"


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    "Atoy Muzazi. You were interested in him, weren¡¯t you?"


    Nael grunted noncommittally. That made up about half of his vocabulary these days. Azrael didn¡¯t much mind -- it gave him less to worry about while he was basically running the organization.


    "Doesn¡¯t matter," the words finally drifted out of Manron¡¯s mouth. "We¡¯ve got a job to do. Is everything ready?"


    Azrael nodded. "On your signal."


    "Fine. You¡¯ll know it when you see it."


    The two of them vanished into the darkness, their intentions unknown -- but anyone who knew them could easily have guessed. They were the Crimson Carnival, after all. They were assassins.


    They killed for money, and nothing else.


    The roar of the crowd was like the crashing of a wave.


    When the Three Wise Men had made their appearance, a reverent hush had settled over the masses, but the arrival of the contestants themselves had been enough to break that. No displeasure was visible on the massive faces of the three holograms, however. This was permissible -- no, more than that, it was essentially part of the ceremony itself.


    They had to show the future Supreme that they were loved, after all.


    Atoy Muzazi kept his head forward as he marched dutifully towards the stage that had appeared at the center of the arena. Some of the contestants, like that Chicken Punk man, were doing their best to grandstand to the audience, throwing out poses and boasts -- but that was not the impression Muzazi wanted to give off.


    He would be a Supreme of responsibility and duty. Otherwise, all of this was pointless.


    Not everyone was as extravagant as Chicken Punk -- but few remained as focused as Muzazi. Dorothy Eiro offered the crowd a casual wave as she made her way to the stage, then smiled at Muzazi as their eyes met. He looked away, towards the metal cage being escorted across the stadium opposite him. Two armoured guards accompanied it, stun-spears clutched in their hands.


    It was disgraceful that PALATINE, the monstrosity, was being allowed to participate. What strings had the Absurd Weapons Lab pulled to bring their experiment into the fray? Even if some Supremes had been cruel, they were still human. A thing like PALATINE sitting the throne would be unacceptable.


    Tealin Jade, the dread preacher, raised his four blue arms in greetings as he strode resplendent across the arena. He wore nothing but a waistcloth -- leaving the eyes that dotted his muscles free to flick this way and that, inspecting the area around him. Yet another monster to be wary of.


    The only man who truly matched Muzazi¡¯s focus was the man from the past, Mereloco. The brute was short but strong, body tense with muscle, dull eyes staring forward as he walked with utter placid relaxation. It was the kind of comfort to be wary of -- the kind that could be possessed only by those truly confident it would never be broken.


    Xander Rain, the young head of the Tree of Might, made a valiant effort at regality -- but the paleness of his face against his traditional grey war-robes gave the game away. Nervousness, but an understandable nervousness, given his age. Fourteen years old. The ultratraditionalists of the Supremacy often rallied against age barriers for combat, but even so¡­


    Nael Manron, the assassin, the King of Killers. His ragged red coat billowed behind him as he walked, a cigarette dancing between his lips. Despite their confrontation just a few minutes ago, he didn¡¯t so much as glance at Muzazi. Had he already lost interest?


    None of them gave him pause. They were powerful enemies, to be sure, but that was what Muzazi had come here for -- to prove they were something he could handle. But then, of course, there was¡­


    Dragan Hadrien.


    He walked in from the opposite side of the stadium -- and he had the same grace as Mereloco, grace born from utter belief in oneself. His lips were tugged upwards into the slightest smirk, and his blue eyes shone slightly. A stark white business suit made it seem like he was almost glowing as he made his way to the stage.


    How long had it been since they¡¯d last seen each other? Two years now. Two years since Muzazi had felt that pressure -- that Supreme pressure -- from Dragan Hadrien back on Elysian Fields. If Bone Heaven was any indication, he¡¯d only grown since then.


    One by one, they assembled on the stage at the center of the arena, ready to make the pledge. They stood in a large circle, each contestant a safe distance from the next, facing outwards towards the crowd. Tiny flying recorder automatics flew in, hovering under their mouths as they spoke the words to themselves.


    Their words would not remain their own. This was the pledge, after all, the words that gave this whole thing significance. It would not do for one voice to be out of sync, or too quiet, or too muffled. Not a blemish could be allowed. S~ea??h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    So it was that when those words were repeated -- so many times louder -- from the floor of the arena itself, they were changed. Voices slowed, voices quickened, adjusted in whatever way necessary so that they spoke as one and with strength. A chorus enforced.


    Their will rumbled through the earth.


    With this hand, I become Supreme, said the Arena of the Absolute. With this hand, I strike down the unworthy, the false, the Inferior that would lead all to ruin.


    Rex watched and listened with great interest as the pledge vibrated through the air around them. He¡¯d seen archive footage of previous opening ceremonies to prepare for this job, but there was a difference between watching through the distance of time and actually being there. Despite his best efforts, a shiver went down his spine.


    "You know," he said, leaning in towards Ruth next to him. "According to history, these were the words that ol¡¯ Azez said when he took Azum. Victory speech, you know?"


    Rae glanced away from her camera, over her shoulder towards him. She looked annoyed. What with the noise of the pledge, Rex hadn¡¯t realized he was still audible -- hopefully he hadn¡¯t ruined the footage. The last thing they needed was trouble with the employer.


    Ruth didn¡¯t respond -- it was doubtful she¡¯d even heard him. Her gaze was fixed right on the dot that was Dragan Hadrien.


    With these eyes, I discern what ¡¯can be¡¯ and what ¡¯cannot be¡¯. With this tongue, I inform the world of its proper order. With these feet, my march becomes a drum that leads my subjects to greatness.


    Jamilu scowled from within the crowd, his expression a stark contrast to the cheering faces all around him.


    This pledge¡­ they were just words, he knew, but still they boiled his blood. This was the philosophy of the Supremacy -- a philosophy that had devastated his homeland for nearly a century, that had driven their best and brightest to become the Old Demons of the Dawn. This was acid, pouring from rotten mouths.


    Deep within the spear, he could feel Victory¡¯s rage at every syllable. It was a rare occasion when he found himself in sync with the infernal.


    From my back sprouts a tree of might, to grow through the workings of the world and fix each aspect in its proper order. My blood is its sap that will never spill. My flesh is the food for my legend. My name is superseded by my aspect.


    All through the crowd, figures drifted. Anonymous faces and false names, positioned here carefully, organized long in advance. They did not listen to the pledge. Their attention was elsewhere and divided -- each focused on a different contestant, each line of sight unbreakable.


    These were not admirers succumbing to obsession. These were killers acquiring targets.


    I am Supreme, the power over all the world.


    I am Supreme, the father and mother of mankind.


    I am Supreme, and that is all that must be said.


    As the pledge came to an end, the cheering erupted once more -- this time with such ferocity that Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but wince at the sudden shift of volume. He supposed it only made sense. As so many people were saying these days, this was history in action. Everyone wanted their voice to be distinguishable among it.


    The first shot rang out, tearing through the noise for but a brief moment. The signal for contestants to begin leaving, one by one, each a minute apart. This was the first and last time they would all be together in one place.


    PALATINE¡¯s escorts took it away as the first contestant. From deep within the metal box, Muzazi heard two sounds -- an inhuman screech, and a cacophony of mocking whispers. Not for the first time that day, a shiver went down his spine.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    One by one, the contestants left, disappearing into the same tunnels they¡¯d entered through. Even as the stage grew emptier and emptier, however, the cheering from the stands didn¡¯t abate for a moment. The Dawn Contest had officially begun, after all. There was much to celebrate.


    Bang.


    Contestant 17, Atoy Muzazi, began his stride back to the tunnel. Again, he didn¡¯t look at the other contestants or the crowd. There would be no showmanship from him. He would demonstrate why he should be Supreme with his actions alone.


    He crossed the threshold between arena and hallway --


    Crack.


    -- and, for the first time, turned his head.


    On the stage, still elevated, Nael Manron had stepped forward. Red Aether coursed chaotically around his arm like a sheath of light -- the crawling of the crimson sparks audible from their sheer strength. Without a word, he raised that arm up¡­


    ¡­and a lightning-bolt of Aether surged up, piercing through the clouds and -- for a brief moment -- leaving an afterimage like a thin scorched tree.


    The crowd went quiet, just for a second, and Muzazi too regarded the sight with confusion. What exactly had that been meant to accomplish? Before he could question further, however, before he could step back -- the doors to the tunnel closed, sealing him in darkness.

 Chapter 349:13.7: Fireworks (Part 3)

    The floor was clean.


    That was the closest thing to a compliment Mereloco could muster for the penthouse suite of the Maricka Magnifica, where Halcyon Interstellar had seen fit to house him. He¡¯d never cared much for luxury, but the lizards of the modern age seemed to care for little else. So long as he had a place to eat, a place to sleep, and a place to train, he was satisfied. All else was fat.


    Even saying that, though, quiet would have been appreciated.


    Since they¡¯d arrived back at the hotel -- among the first to leave the opening ceremony -- the massive sitting room had been consumed by a flurry of activity. As Mereloco lounged on the absurdly long couch, looking out over Azum-Ha through a wall-length window, guards and company representatives ran back and forth, babbling and whining.


    Someone had attacked Halcyon headquarters, apparently. Someone had killed that man in charge. Fine. It was one less thing for Mereloco to take into consideration. The woman had gone off somewhere to deal with matters -- clearly, the situation was of far greater concern to her.


    One of the poindexters this age was inundated with ran past, brushing past Mereloco¡¯s arm as he did so. Mereloco glanced towards him in annoyance.


    Unchai --


    Before he got the chance to slap that particular fly away, however, he was interrupted. The lights -- all of them -- suddenly flicked out, plunging the room into darkness. Cries of alarm rang out -- and quickly, they became cries of terror, cries of pain. The reason for that was obvious.


    They were now accompanied by the tearing of flesh, by gunshots, by death-rattles.


    An attack, clearly, but from who? Another contestant? If so, they were a fool. They¡¯d have been better served going after a weaker mark. Still¡­ if this was a fight, it could end up being a potent warmup.


    Mereloco cracked his neck, rising from the couch. As he did, the lights flicked back on -- and he saw that the room had received a new and crimson coat of paint. Each and every other person that had been in the room with him was now dead.


    Cut in half, impaled, beheaded¡­ their ends had not been clean. Curiously enough, he noticed, each and every one of them seemed to have been struck from behind.


    "Why backstab those who can¡¯t see you anyway?" Mereloco muttered.


    He glanced up at the enemy.


    "That isn¡¯t rhetorical," he continued. "Answer me."


    Some kind of alarm had activated, bathing the room in a crimson glow -- and sealing all the doors behind heavy shutters. There, silhouetted against the crimson, was a lanky and emaciated man, with but a few strands of black hair hanging from his scalp. He grinned with checkerboard teeth.


    "I¡¯d answer¡­" the man drawled. "...but you¡¯ll die before you hear me."


    Mereloco furrowed his brow, looking past the enemy. He wasn¡¯t alone. There was something with him.


    The Crimson Carnival wasn¡¯t an organisation that had been around very long -- and in all honesty, it probably wouldn¡¯t be around for very long. It wasn¡¯t even a cult of personality, as Nael Manron was loath to present personality. It was a cult of power -- killers coming together to grasp at the abilities their ¡¯leader¡¯ demonstrated.


    There had been a ship, dead, drifting in space since the time of the Gene Tyrants. Once a collection of frozen specimens, but the cryogenics had long since failed. The creatures had escaped, overrun the vessel, formed a new and fragile ecosystem. Monsters of every shape and size, waiting for them.


    They had been ripe for the taking. Ripe for the taming.


    Both of them moved at once.


    Mereloco reached down, tearing the head off a corpse and hurling it at the enemy like a farball. In contrast, his adversary just grinned even wider -- and then spoke. Just a few words, as fast as lips could form them.


    "Guardian Entity," he giggled. "Hidebehind!"


    The instant before the attack would have struck him, he vanished -- and the source of his giggling changed. Just as the name suggested, it was now coming from behind Mereloco, right behind him. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, he swung his arm at his back, aiming to smash the skeleton to bits.


    It was not a successful manoeuvre. For a brief moment as he swung around, Mereloco saw his adversary -- but immediately he vanished again, and the arm hit empty air.


    "Sorry," the enemy said, drawing out the words mockingly. "That won¡¯t wooork, I¡¯m afraaaid."


    Once again, the voice came from directly behind Mereloco. Scowling, he turned his head to regard the annoyance.


    He could now clearly see the thing that was accompanying his foe. A massive ball of brown fur, the size of a car, with one bloodshot eyeball -- eerily human -- protruding from the front of the mass. The beast stood on talons that seemed far too small and thin to support its weight.


    All in all, it looked like one good hit could finish it off. But that was the problem.


    "Whenever I attack you," Mereloco said calmly. "You appear behind me. Automatic. Is that it?"


    The grin widened. "You¡¯re smarter than people say, aren¡¯tchaaa?"


    A kick -- the fastest Mereloco was capable of -- failed to land. Again, the beast and its master repositioned themselves. The giggle became a cackle.


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    "Well, maaaybe not!" the enemy laughed.


    Mereloco leapt away.


    Unchained.


    An Aether attack had much the same effect. The crushing gravity application of Unchained just caused the enemy to teleport once more -- moving in so close that Mereloco couldn¡¯t use Unchained again without hitting himself. So it didn¡¯t matter how fast he was or where the attack originated from.


    With a sneering smirk, the enemy bowed theatrically.


    "Jaison Mayran," the pest introduced himself. "I¡¯ll be buuurying you tonight, you fuuucking fossil."


    Still¡­


    ¡­for the first time in two-hundred years, a sickly grin spread across Mereloco¡¯s face. It was a wide, ugly thing -- stretching out his features in all the worst ways, blowing up his face like a taut t-shirt. A threat display, not a show of joy.


    ¡­this will be fun.


    The man called Chicken Punk wrestled himself free from the wreckage of his limousine, his costume shredded by the sharp metal. That didn¡¯t matter, though. His costume was designed to look good shredded.


    What had happened? Chicken Punk had seen it, but even so the whole thing had looked completely absurd. A blast of water, like a fire hose, had struck the car in the side as it flew and smashed it into a neighbouring building. Punk staggered forward, the burning remains of the office surrounding him. Fortunately, it seemed like nobody had been inside the room at the time -- but still, Chicken Punk was no Chicken Fool.


    This was an assassination attempt. They wouldn¡¯t stop with just some water.


    Punk Chicken.


    He did not activate his Aether ability. For the first time in several days, he turned it off.


    Chicken Punk was what people called an ¡¯invisible Scurrant¡¯. Unlike most Scurrants, whose modifications were clearly visible, Chicken Punk was physically identical to a normal Crownless -- from the outside, at least. All of his alterations were on the inside, minor differences to his brain, nervous systems and musculature. The Gene Tyrant who¡¯d created Chicken Punk¡¯s line had done so with one purpose in mind.


    To create a chicken-man.


    Anything a chicken could do, Chicken Punk could do. He had a highly enhanced sense of balance. He could perceive UV reflections. Apparently, his grandfather had once laid an egg, but he¡¯d never been able to prove it.


    Neat, but not outstanding. That was where the seal called Punk Chicken came in. It was an Aether ability that was constantly active, sealing away Chicken Punk¡¯s Chicken Powers for much of his waking day. That restraint meant that, when he deactivated Punk Chicken, his Chicken Powers were given an absurd boost. As he was right now, he could walk on walls. As he was right now, he could see the world as if through thermal goggles. And as for movement¡­


    "I know you¡¯re there, villain¡­" Chicken Punk growled.


    "Guardian Entity: Squonk."


    A round projectile hurled itself out of the rubble and towards Chicken Punk, scattering debris as it flew through the air. With no time to dodge, Punk thrust his hands forward -- and pushed against the attack, sparks flying where palm and sphere collided. sea??h th§× N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Chicken Punk grit his teeth as he began to slide back on the floor, driven by the momentum of the ball, but his Chicken Power¡¯s Chicken Balance went unimpeded. It was like he was a statue, fixed in place, resisting this attack with all the structure of stone.


    Not only that, but now he could get a good look at the thing.


    For one, it was hideous. It was a sphere, yes, and nearly transparent -- but stretched across the surface of that sphere was a gnarled and wizened human face, droopy eyes bulging out of their forced-open sockets. Tears -- or perhaps sweat? -- flowed copiously from every pore on the ball, freezing cold, biting at Punk¡¯s hands where they made contact.


    He was no fool. It was best not to let this thing make contact for too long.


    Chicken Punk twisted his body, swinging his leg into the sphere as if he was breakdancing -- and his Chicken Leg Strength was enough to send it flying once again. It sailed off into the distance¡­ but as it was about to fly off into the city proper, it was intercepted. Punk had expected as much. This was just a weapon; he was after the user.


    A rotund fellow -- almost as round as the sphere itself -- leapt out from the rubble, caught the ball, and threw it back towards Chicken Punk.


    Punk leapt out of the way before the sphere could hit him, but when it hit the wall behind him, it simply bounced off and began ricocheting through the office. He followed it with his enhanced vision, watching as its movements grew faster and faster, no doubt preparing for its next attack. A game of dodgeball, then, eh?


    Chicken Punk grinned. He could work with that.


    "Come on!" he cried. "Chicken Punk!"


    Atoy Muzazi ran through the tunnels of the stadium, his gaze resolute.


    What was happening? That strange display from Nael Manron -- and now he was receiving reports on his script of multiple attacks against the Dawn Contestants. Clearly, that had been some kind of signal. The Crimson Carnival was doing their best to cull the contestants before the tournament began proper. No doubt they intended to make passage through the Contest easier for their leader.


    His fists tightened. Had that been why Manron had approached him as well, then? Sizing him up as an easy target? If that was the case, he¡¯d show the King of Killers that he¡¯d been gravely mistaken. Such a grievous attempt at cheating the Contest couldn¡¯t be allowed.


    "Ah¡­ there you are, Mr. Muzazi."


    The voice, strangely resonant, came from behind him. Muzazi immediately whirled around, igniting Radiants from his palms and holding them at the ready. Smoke rose from the walls where his blades of light made contact, slicing through them like butter.


    "Oh my," the dignified voice chuckled. "I must apologise for startling you. Still¡­ such a frightening response. It seems that tales of your prowess are quite accurate, Mr. Muzazi."


    Muzazi peered into the dark mouth of the tunnel, white Aether flowing into his eyes. A shape in the blackness. If he focused, he could just barely make out the¡­ thing speaking.


    At first glance, it was difficult to tell if it was an automatic or an organism. It was hulking, with long arms stretching down to the ground, terminating in three-fingered hands. No head -- but what seemed to be a triangular red eye rested in the centre of its chest, separated into three sections. Parts of its body were covered by what seemed to be grey plastic, while brown fur sprouted from other areas.


    As Muzazi watched, it took a single step forward.


    Boom.


    That footstep alone made its power obvious.


    "Who are you?" Muzazi demanded.


    The thing did not have a mouth, but the smile was obvious in its voice. "Guardian Entity¡­ Sasquatch. Yes. That is the name I have chosen for myself, Mr. Muzazi. Pardon my intrusion, but my user has sent me to eliminate you entirely. I hope that isn¡¯t an issue."


    A humourless smile curled Muzazi¡¯s lips.


    "I see," he murmured. "That¡¯s a pity."


    Sasquatch blinked quizzically. "How so?"


    "Your user has sent you to your death."


    And without another word, Atoy Muzazi charged.

 Chapter 350:13.8: Fireworks (Part 4)

    For Xander Rain, First Branch of the Tree of Might, it was a quiet evening.


    There was an old temple -- the Chorus Box -- that the Tree had secured for their time on Azum-Ha. As the name suggested, it was squat and square, buried deep in the bowels of the city. These days, many eyes would pass over it. Nobody knew their history, and even if they did they didn¡¯t respect it.


    The Tree of Might alone understood the duty they had to the past. The First Supreme, the Absolute, had entrusted the Supremacy to its people. The traditions and ceremonies of the Supremacy were all a part of that trust. The common masses disposed of whatever they did not appreciate, justifying their weakness while disgracing all that had given them their freedom.


    It had always disgusted Xander¡¯s father.


    It had always disgusted Xander.


    Wind blew, and Xander¡¯s brown hair billowed as he looked up at the city proper. Right now, the other Dawn Contestants were fighting for their lives, fighting for their honour. They had called themselves strong, boasted that they would be the ones to seize the throne, but how true was that when they were caught by surprise? Would they all prove worthy?


    Xander didn¡¯t know. All he could do was wait and watch.


    After all -- for him, this was to be a quiet evening.


    Ah, the insincerity!


    A toothrest on a mass of dying bones. I CLIMB onto the wreckage of the systematic threshold. Hmm, is this a man in my teeth? No! Just a collection of:


    Heart


    Liver


    Lungs


    Nervous System


    Skin


    Bone


    Muscle


    There is so much, so much more to say, so much more to take, but it squeals and squeals and amidst it all there is only the squeaking of thousands of mice authorized and yet unsanctioned? I do not see. Hee hee hee. Where am I? This is scary.


    But I adore it all the same. ¡¯PALATINE¡¯, they say. ¡¯PALATINE¡¯. Is that my name, or my dying scream? Am I dead? What is it to be dead? Am I to be dead, or is this just the verge of a new horizon of a field covered in red grass and moving all-too-quickly. The rot of it disgusts me. I hate it!


    Who is this? Who is this man I hold in my extensions?


    A-ssass-in¡­ yes, you wanted to kill me, didn¡¯t you? A dagger and a beast made one in the same, warped and connected and eaten but not by me (oh, but I am so very hungry). An assassin, but I am not dead. A failed assassin, then. A premise rendered invalid. Your thesis has been rejected by the university of your criminal ancestry, a graveyard with nobody living in it but you. Your mouth is filled with worms. I loved you for that.


    Where am I? Is this scary? I own a corpse, alive only through lack of perspective. Do I smile? It is difficult without a mouth. Even with a mouth, I do not remember how. What do I remember?


    Yes.


    I smile. I remember how to eat.


    Atoy Muzazi was fast, but the Sasquatch was no slouch itself. As he rushed in, it thrust its arm forward -- and the metallic limb stretched out to meet its attacker.


    Muzazi raised his Radiants up in a defensive cross -- but the force of the punch was still enough to force him backwards, sparks flying from his metal boots as they scraped against the floor. White Aether surged wildly from Muzazi¡¯s blades of light as they made contact with the massive fist, two Aether constructs pushing against each other. Despite everything, he couldn¡¯t help but feel just a little impressed.


    It was a rare thing that Atoy Muzazi couldn¡¯t cut.


    He reached the end of the tunnel, the arm still stretching out as it tried to force him back. Instead, Muzazi leapt in the air, kicking his feet against the wall and transitioning into a flip onto the limb itself. He sprinted along the surface of the arm, swords out as he ran towards the enemy proper.


    "Very impressive," the Sasquatch commented, rubbing the space under its eye with its free hand -- like a man stroking his beard. "You turned my attack into a method of transport. I¡¯d clap, of course, but that¡¯s rather difficult at the moment."


    As it finished speaking, the Sasquatch struck with its second stretching arm -- and Muzazi barely dodged it by moving his run to the side. Rubble poured down from the ceiling as the Sasquatch¡¯s punch punctured the metal above, fist becoming lodged in the architecture. There wouldn¡¯t be a better chance than this.


    This thing didn¡¯t have a distinct head, per se, so decapitation wasn¡¯t an option -- but that red eye was promising. He¡¯d make that his target.


    Muzazi reached the end of his journey along the arm, thrust his Radiants forward, and --


    Hot.


    -- a sudden wave of heat and air pressure suddenly blasted against him, sending him flying back. He gasped for air as he landed in a dignified heap some distance down the hallway, just about managing to remain on one knee. Just from that second or two of exposure, steam was rising from his skin. It was like he¡¯d suddenly been teleported into an oven.


    The Sasquatch clicked a tongue that did not exist. "A pity. I was rather hoping you¡¯d get caught on my arm there."


    Muzazi took a second to catch his breath. What had that heat attack been? Some sort of automatic retaliation? If so, was there a way to get around it?


    He needed time to think, think and plan.


    "You said your ¡¯user¡¯ sent you after me," Muzazi called down the tunnel. "I take it you¡¯re some kind of conscious ability, then? An intelligence created through Aether?"


    "I have no reason to answer that."


    The Sasquatch retracted its arms from the wall and the ceiling. It was clearly preparing to attack once more. Damnation. Muzazi needed to stall.


    "Don¡¯t be so hasty," Muzazi continued. "Perhaps there is a reason for you to converse with me."


    White Aether trickled out from the back of his boots, slipping into the cracks in the floor unseen.


    The Sasquatch aimed its arms at Muzazi like twin rifles. "And what would that be, my good man?" Sear?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Information," Muzazi said. "For each question of mine you answer, I¡¯ll answer one of yours."


    It blinked, considering the offer. "This is a deception."


    "You¡¯ve been told about who I am? A briefing, before you were sent after me, surely?"


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    "Indeed."


    "Then you¡¯ll know I¡¯m not the sort of man to lie for petty advantages."


    "Hm¡­" Slowly, the Sasquatch lowered its arms. "Well¡­ perhaps this could be amusing. You answer my question first, then."


    Muzazi let out a breath of relief. This was fortunate. It seemed the Sasquatch¡¯s information was very much out-of-date.


    "She¡¯s not here," grunted Nael Manron over the communicator.


    Azrael blinked. He¡¯d made a temporary control center out of this supply closet, the cleaning automatic that had once called it home cannibalized for its communication functions. To one side, a holographic screen displayed the arena¡¯s surveillance network. To the other, a live feed of news updates was scrolling.


    In this dark, dingy corner of the heavens, Azrael could see everything. Well, almost everything. It seemed whoever had been guarding the Supreme Heir had the good sense to disable the nearby security cameras.


    "Intel says she was with Atoy Muzazi before he went into the arena," Azrael insisted. "Maybe she just got away before you reached her?"


    "She didn¡¯t get away," Nael replied with a rare trace of annoyance. "She wasn¡¯t here. Person with the cloak was some tree-thing. Not the girl."


    Azrael frowned. That matched the description of Ionir Yggdrassil -- one of the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir. He was meant to be in orbit right now. Was there some trickery involved?


    "Well, can you track her?" Azrael said. "Any¡­ any traces? You said the tree-thing was there, can you interrogate it?"


    "Destroyed it," Nael grunted.


    Azrael ran a hand over his face. "Well, what¡¯d you do that for?!"


    "There wasn¡¯t a reason not to. I¡¯m headed back to the ship." Without another word or so much as a breath, Nael¡¯s communicator clicked off -- leaving Azrael alone in the darkness. He sighed a familiar sigh.


    King of Killers, his ass.


    Nael Manron was good at killing, sure, but he had no passion for it. Hell, he didn¡¯t seem to have passion for anything. It was like something had snuffed out the spark of humanity in him -- leaving an animal operating according to its instincts. His combat skill was the equivalent of a corpse¡¯s twitch.


    Still, that didn¡¯t matter. His tutelage on the concept of Guardian Entities had allowed the Crimson Carnival to gain strength very quickly. Most of the prime members had Entities now. Some of the grunts were still having issues creating them, though -- and that was something Azrael honestly couldn¡¯t understand.


    It was the same as when he heard about people unable to create Aether abilities, or needing a tutor to get them through the basics. After unlocking his Aether, using it had been as natural for him as breathing. Who needed a tutor for breathing?


    His gaze flicked over to the monitor as he saw that the battle between his Guardian Entity, Sasquatch, and Atoy Muzazi seemed to have stalled. The two were standing across from each other now. Talking?


    Azrael clicked his tongue. His Guardian Entity really could be a fool sometimes. Just what did it think it was doing?


    "Pray tell," the Sasquatch began politely. "What is your ability?"


    Muzazi did not blink. "I can create thrusters on various objects. The pushing force and heat can be adjusted however I like."


    "And the swords?"


    He narrowed his eyes. "That¡¯s a second question. It¡¯s my turn."


    "Of course."


    "What is your ability?"


    "Ah," the Sasquatch chuckled. "Now that would be a matter of some minor debate, I should think. When you say ¡¯ability¡¯, are you referring to me myself, or the powers I have been bestowed with? Clarity is important in such matters, don¡¯t you think?"


    This was the first time Atoy Muzazi had actually spoken to an Aether ability, but he was still quite surprised. To think that it would love the sound of its own voice so much.


    "You yourself," Muzazi grunted. "What is it you can do?"


    "Well¡­ you¡¯ve experienced it just moments ago. I have various forms of control over heat. When an attack is about to hit me, I automatically retaliate with a burst of heat. The power and temperature vary depending on how much damage the attack would have done."


    That made sense. Muzazi had intended to kill the Sasquatch with that stab to the eye -- that was why the burst of heat had been so immense. If he stuck to non-lethal attacks and dodging, he could probably get in close. Only¡­


    ¡­he didn¡¯t trust this thing.


    He didn¡¯t get the sense that it was lying, but that didn¡¯t mean it was telling the complete truth. There was nothing else for it, then. He¡¯d have to carefully investigate as they fought.


    "It¡¯s my turn again, no?" the Sasquatch chuckled. "I¡¯ll ask again: what is the nature of those swords of light?"


    "They¡¯re an application of my thruster ability. Rays of light and heat so immense I can use them to cut through objects."


    "And you reduce the pushing force to zero so you don¡¯t get flung around¡­" the Guardian Entity mused. "Quite ingenious."


    Muzazi adjusted his footing, just slightly. "Now, you tell me. What exactly are you hiding from me?"


    That crimson triangle of an eye gleamed sinisterly in the dark. "Oh, but Mr. Muzazi¡­" it purred. "Like I said, I have no reason to answer that."


    Without another word, the Sasquatch lunged -- sending its dual arms down the length of the tunnel to strike Muzazi. One was aimed for his head, the other his chest -- and a haze of heat trailed after them. So that was it. The Sasquatch had automatic defenses, to be sure, but it could also produce heat at will.


    The betrayal wasn¡¯t a surprise, and Atoy Muzazi didn¡¯t take it personally. After all¡­ he¡¯d been planning the exact same thing.


    Thrusters -- on.


    As the two of them had been talking, Muzazi had been working -- sneakily sending his Aether into the cracked tunnel around him. Thrusters were created and left inactive at certain pressure points within the structure, waiting for his signal. All it took was a thought --


    -- and the tunnel collapsed around them, sending them both falling down.


    The Sasquatch¡¯s aim was thrown off as the ground buckled beneath it, and it flipped end over end as the two of them began their long descent to the area below. Muzazi did not miss his chance. Seizing the moment of confusion, he blasted himself forward -- thrusters like rockets -- and drew his ceremonial sword.


    Your retaliation is based on the damage of my attack, Muzazi thought, circling behind his falling adversary. I see. What you told me is very important. Let¡¯s see, then¡­ how you handle death from a thousand scratches.


    Muzazi¡¯s instincts bid him towards the killing cut. He ignored them. Instead, as he circled the Sasquatch -- avoiding the manual heat bursts -- he cut poorly. He cut incorrectly. He cut so amateurishly that the greatest retaliation he received was sweat clinging to his forehead.


    But he did cut. He cut and cut and cut, slowly chipping away at the Sasquatch¡¯s form.


    "Why, you --!" the Sasquatch whirled around, aiming a punch at Muzazi¡¯s skull -- but Muzazi just let himself fall beneath the arm, granting it a few more insect bites on the way down.


    "Stop that! This is fruitless!" the Sasquatch blasted heat downwards, but Muzazi became a blur of white light, ricocheting through the air until he was above the enemy once again.


    "I said¡­ I said! For the love of God, man!" A final swing, and a final failure. The tiniest scratch compromised stability just a little bit more than it could safely be compromised¡­ and the Entity shattered into violent purple Aether.


    Like a flood, it surged out of the maintenance layer, crawling up into the arena proper¡­ and Muzazi followed.


    The work would lead him to its maker.

 Chapter 351:13.9: Fireworks (Part 5)

    "Your ability is nothing," said Mereloco.


    The enemy, that emaciated scarecrow, glared back from across the luxurious room. Well, it used to be luxurious. Now blood drained into the carpet, and flies nibbled at the corpses. Now it was realistic.


    "Talk big however you like, asshooole," the enemy sneered. "You still can¡¯t tooouch me, biiitch."


    Mereloco cocked his head. "Huh? Sure I can."


    With heavy strides, he crossed the room, his form silhouetted by the cityscape through the wall-length window. The enemy tensed up, clearly expecting to teleport any second¡­ but he did not. He stayed right where he was, even as Mereloco stopped right in front of him. Even as Mereloco extended a finger.


    Even as Mereloco poked him in the chest.


    "See?" he said. "You talk too much. If it¡¯s not an attack, I can touch you however I like. I could jerk you off if I felt like it."


    The enemy had heard enough. His familiar lunged towards Mereloco, fur parting to reveal a mouth full of fangs. It, too, was nothing.


    Unchained.


    The gravity manipulation was aimed at himself, not his enemy, and so no teleportation was triggered. Mereloco simply adjusted the pull of gravity on his own body, shifting its orientation to the wall behind him and causing him to fall away from the attack. He kept the ability active only for a moment, and so his bare feet quickly thudded back down on the blood-soaked carpet.


    "You wanted me to try and counter attack," he observed. "That way you¡¯d appear behind and be able to backstab me. That¡¯s nothing, too. So long as I don¡¯t attack you, there¡¯s nothing to worry about."


    The enemy snarled, throwing knives slipping out of his sleeves and into his grip. "Sooo? If you can¡¯t attack me, you¡¯re still screwed, morooon!"


    Mereloco scowled. "Don¡¯t yell," he grunted, reaching over to the table next to him.


    The idiots had laid out some refreshments as self-congratulations, like they¡¯d actually accomplished something. Nibbles and drinks -- champagne, specifically. That would work.


    He snatched the bottle up with one hand -- and with the other, he slapped away the hail of knives. They bounced off the skin of his palm like it was solid steel. Sparks leapt out from the points of contact.


    "You¡¯re not strong enough to hurt me," he yawned. "And if I don¡¯t attack you, you can¡¯t get cheap shots in."


    More knives slipped into the enemy¡¯s hands. "You¡¯ll slip up eventuaaally," he giggled, licking the blade. "I have all the time in the wooorld."


    Mereloco crossed the room -- not walking towards the enemy, but instead towards the window. He stood so close to it that his nose was touching the cold glass. He could see it all -- Azum-Ha, spread out like a feast covered in insects.


    It wasn¡¯t much.


    His fist lashed out again, shattering the window in a single Aether-infused blow. Wind whipped through the penthouse -- the enemy raised his hands to shield himself, but Mereloco accepted the fresh air gratefully, spreading his arms wide. He took a deep breath in through his nose.


    "Dooon¡¯t think you can get away," the enemy snarled. "We¡¯re huuundreds of floors up!"


    "Yeah," Mereloco smirked, glancing back over his shoulder. "We are."


    He turned, on the spot, right on the edge of the window. A single step back and he would plummet to his doom. That was fine, though. He wouldn¡¯t take that step back, and it wasn¡¯t important anyway. What was important¡­


    ¡­was the fact that behind him, right now, was nothing but empty air.


    The enemy paled. He¡¯d realized it too. He took a step back as Mereloco raised the bottle of champagne, cork pointed towards the adversary¡¯s head.


    That unsightly, vicious grin spread across Mereloco¡¯s face once more. "Your ability¡¯s automatic, but I bet you can deactivate it. You¡¯re lucky. You get a choice."


    The curtains billowed in the gale.


    "Wait," the enemy murmured.


    "You can die from the fall," Mereloco said steadily.


    "Wait!" the enemy screamed.


    Mereloco¡¯s grip tightened around the neck of the bottle. "Or you can die from this going right through your skull."


    The enemy turned and desperately -- pathetically -- tried to flee, half-running half-crawling in the instant afforded to him.


    "Waaait!" he screeched.


    Pop.


    Azrael didn¡¯t need to be told to run.


    That Atoy Muzazi was too damn sharp, and the Sasquatch was too damn arrogant. Even if he¡¯d tried to conceal some of his attacks, he¡¯d had no reason to explain how his retaliation worked so thoroughly. Azrael knew it wasn¡¯t honour -- the things he¡¯d seen the Sasquatch do so happily would not permit that -- so there was no explanation but cockiness.


    Azrael didn¡¯t know where his Guardian Entity got that from. Certainly not from him. He knew when to cut and run.


    Just as he was doing now.


    Azrael made his way through the crowds in the grand foyer of the Arena of the Absolute, surrounded on all sides by the masses who had come to see the opening ceremony. The whole gathering had become a festival of confusion. News was coming in of the assassination attempts on the Dawn Contestants, broadcast on giant monitors above.


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    Had the fights begun early? Was this some kind of terrorist attack?


    Nothing so grandiose. The Crimson Carnival had been dispatched to draw out the abilities of the other contestants -- giving Nael the intelligence he needed to devise strategies against them. Victory was not expected. They were to see what the enemy was capable of, then flee.


    Most wouldn¡¯t do that, though. This profession attracted the crazies. But, even if they lost some people, that was fine. It couldn¡¯t be helped.


    This was their biggest ever job, after all. S§×ar?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As Azrael wormed his way into the crowd, he did his best to conceal himself behind the walls of humanity. The Sasquatch¡¯s essence would be here soon. He couldn¡¯t afford to be out in the open when it rejoined his Aether.


    It was very difficult to kill a Guardian Entity. They could die, of course, but the death would have to be completely instantaneous. If they were near death, even centimeters near it, they were programmed to dissipate into Aether and return to their master. Taking damage like that would put most out of commission for a while, but they¡¯d live to fight another day.


    Usually, that would be an advantage, but in a situation like this¡­


    Atoy Muzazi would be following the trail. It was the obvious course of action against an unseen enemy. He¡¯d chase the Sasquatch all the way up here -- and once he¡¯d confirmed Azrael as the user, he¡¯d cut him down. Azrael didn¡¯t have the skills or the temperament needed to take on the Full Moon one-on-one.


    Sweat ran down his forehead, and he quickly wiped it away. Atoy Muzazi would be here any second. The slightest anxiety could give him away. Still, he needed to think, he needed to think of something¡­ even if he concealed his nervousness, it wouldn¡¯t matter if Muzazi saw the Sasquatch return to his Aether.


    There was one thing.


    He had no guarantee it would work, but according to the rules he¡¯d been taught, according to the principles of a Guardian Entity¡­ there was a shot. A shot in the dark, but a bullet fired all the same. It wasn¡¯t like he had anything to lose.


    Purple Aether crawled from around the corner. A second later, Atoy Muzazi appeared in pursuit -- thrusters blazing from his heels so he looked like he was roller skating¡­


    ¡­and Azrael let loose an Aether ping.


    The Sasquatch will automatically return to my Aether, he thought. But that Aether doesn¡¯t need to be attached to me.


    Muzazi braced himself as a nearly invisible wave of Aether brushed past him, his own Aether sparking in response. The purple trail he¡¯d been following suddenly vanished, as if it had been swallowed by the wave, completely gone. Damnation. Had he really lost them?


    No. Not yet. That had been an Aether ping -- and one from very close by. Whoever had done that would still be here. He could still find them.


    The crowd backed away nervously from Muzazi, forming a clearing in the sea of man. It was no surprise. He was still holding that ceremonial sword in his hand, after all -- chipped and battered as it was -- and he was a Dawn Contestant. This half-face had been on the news for quite a while now.


    "Nobody move!" he barked, injecting Aether into his voice -- making it booming and resonant. "There is an assassin among us!"


    Fearful murmurs ran through the crowd -- and some people ignored Muzazi¡¯s demand, breaking away and fleeing, but he ignored them. The assassin would not make themselves stand out from the crowd. If the majority were to remain here, so would they.


    Muzazi let out an Aether ping of his own, but found no response. No surprises there. No doubt this assassin was adept at Aether cloaking.


    But that could only do so much. An idea occurred to Muzazi: all Aether cloaking did was force one¡¯s Aether not to reveal itself. The Aether was still there. It was still infused into the body.


    It would still reject outside influence.


    White Aether ran out of Muzazi¡¯s legs and began to flow across the floor, surfing towards the crowd. He would attempt to create a thruster on each body his Aether made contact with -- not to cause harm, but merely to check if the user was protected. As soon as he was unable to create a thruster, he would know for sure, but --


    "Hey, asshole!" roared the Sasquatch. "Don¡¯t you fucking move!"


    -- but the enemy wouldn¡¯t just sit by and watch that happen.


    Azrael¡¯s hands shook, so he steeled them as much as he could. He couldn¡¯t risk anything right now. He still had a chance, but barely. No more mistakes could be permitted.


    He¡¯d managed to bring out the Sasquatch again. With the damage it had sustained, he¡¯d only been able to bring out the Guardian Entity¡¯s upper half, but that was fine. It protruded from the floor like a plant, immobile, but Azrael had chosen the spawn location well.


    In one hand, it clutched the head of a child.


    A little girl, maybe eight or nine, all pigtails and freckles. A perfect hostage. Even if Atoy Muzazi was the sort who¡¯d accept that sacrifice to destroy his enemy, he wouldn¡¯t do so in front of so many people. His reputation would die with the kid.


    "Deactivate your Aether!" the Sasquatch yelled, all civility forgotten as it jabbed a finger at Muzazi. "Right now, or I kill this brat!"


    Slowly, Atoy Muzazi turned his head. His grey eye glinted with death.


    "Hey!" the Sasquatch screamed, tightening its grip on the child just a tad. "Dig that wax out of your ears and listen up! I said --"


    Muzazi interrupted.


    "It¡¯s fortunate," he murmured. "I thought your user might be a respectable sort of person, someone I would have second thoughts about. Your manners gave that impression, too. But no¡­ you¡¯re just a piece of shit, aren¡¯t you?"


    "I¡¯m not kidding! She¡¯ll die!"


    Muzazi took a step forward. The Sasquatch recoiled back.


    "No, no no no! Get back! Get back right now! Or else I¡¯ll --"


    Atoy Muzazi glared.


    "Cease your bleating," he said.


    He had a plan, Azrael realized. Clearly, he had a plan, but it didn¡¯t matter. Even if Muzazi defeated the Sasquatch again and rescued that hostage, there¡¯d still be panic and confusion -- panic and confusion Azrael could escape in. He could slip into the fleeing crowds. He could make a getaway. He could wait until another moment, a better moment, and make this bastard pay for --


    "Compass," Jamilu said solemnly. "The ability¡¯s user."


    The spear flew.


    In the instant before Muzazi would have dispatched the Sasquatch himself, it suddenly shattered into Aether -- its final scream echoing through the atrium. The girl it had been holding up dropped down to the ground, quickly running back to her parents -- her cries of fear echoing just as much. It seemed someone had beaten him to the punch.


    Muzazi let out a deep breath as he turned on his heel, towards the sound he¡¯d heard -- the sound of a life ended.


    The Sasquatch¡¯s user hovered dead in the air, chest impaled from behind by the blade of a floating red spear. As Muzazi watched, the master of the spear stepped forward and pulled it from the young man¡¯s carcass, letting him drop down to the ground. The warrior -- dark-skinned, dressed in a baggy green raincoat -- spun the weapon in his hand, letting specks of blood spray onto the white floor.


    He looked Muzazi up and down.


    "Atoy Muzazi," he finally said, his gaze softening just a bit. "It looks like I misjudged you. We need to talk."

 Chapter 352:13.10: Moonlit Chats

    Snow fell.


    It wasn¡¯t real snow, of course. The holo-restaurant they¡¯d sat down in had a winter theme active, picturesque snowflakes drifting down around the diners. Children played in the fake drifts, the white mass lagging slightly as they crushed it into non-existent snowballs. A bright blue sky replaced the ceiling.


    Muzazi shivered, and not just from the sight before him. Snow reminded him of Nocturnus, and that was one mission he¡¯d really rather forget. That was the first time he¡¯d become truly aware of his own weakness.


    "So," he said, voice low, looking across the booth. "What is it you want from me?"


    The man across from him -- the man who¡¯d eliminated the Sasquatch¡¯s user -- blinked. Now that he¡¯d introduced himself, and now that Muzazi got a good look at him up close, it really was obvious. This was Nebula Two of the Unified Alliance of Planets. Jamilu Aguta.


    Muzazi narrowed his eyes. Was it even appropriate for him to be meeting with the enemy like this?


    Aguta spoke calmly, the fries and burger before him untouched. "What we want for you is for you to just keep doing as you¡¯re doing."


    Muzazi raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That¡¯s it? ¡¯Be myself¡¯?"


    A slight smile spread across Aguta¡¯s lips. "That¡¯s a better way of putting it. Yes. We want you to ¡¯be yourself¡¯."


    "Why?"


    "Well¡­ we¡¯ve determined that ¡¯yourself¡¯ would make a good Supreme. You¡¯re not a warmonger, or -- despite how I thought of you originally -- a maniac. You¡¯re someone who cares about the people, not personal glory. You¡¯re not a threat to us."


    At that last sentence, Muzazi frowned. "Are you saying I¡¯m weak?"


    "No," Aguta replied, without missing a beat. "I¡¯m saying you¡¯re sensible."


    Although the two of them were alone in the booth, neither of them were unguarded. The Phases who¡¯d accompanied Muzazi to the Arena were posted in and around the diner, ready to react to any sign of betrayal. Another Nebula was here, too -- Muzazi didn¡¯t recall the number, but the red-haired fellow with the massive shield had been lurking around.


    Then, of course, there was the spear. Muzazi¡¯s eyes drifted to it, resting next to Aguta in his seat.


    "Interested?" Aguta asked.


    "I¡¯ve heard tales of the Old Demons of the Dawn," Muzazi said. "They¡¯re supposed to be powerful."


    Aguta chose his words carefully. "They¡¯re¡­ useful," he admitted. "I was able to locate and eliminate the Sasquatch¡¯s user with one of Victory¡¯s abilities. Still, making use of them leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. They¡¯re a madness born of war, after all."


    "The kind of war you wish to prevent."


    Aguta looked Muzazi right in the eye. "The Supremacy and the UAP are already at war," he said. "By definition, that will always be the case -- the UAP is nothing but a united front against Supremacy aggression. But it¡¯s a cold war, a quiet war. Don¡¯t you agree that it¡¯s best remaining that way?"


    Slowly, Muzazi nodded. "Needless bloodshed goes against my ideals¡­ so yes."


    "That fact is why we seek to support you."


    Muzazi glanced around, making sure nobody else in the diner was listening in. "Support me how? I don¡¯t want people thinking me a UAP puppet."


    Aguta nodded. "Nothing so obvious. We¡¯d move behind the scenes, adjust events to your favour, deal with threats that aren¡¯t so easily eliminated."


    "And in exchange?"


    "Like I said¡­" Aguta spread his hands. "Be yourself."


    Muzazi bit his lip, considering the proposition. He needed all the help he could get¡­ but having an enemy nation support him? If he wasn¡¯t a Dawn Contestant, that would surely be considered treason. Could he justify that level of duplicity to himself?


    Murderer.


    He steeled himself. He¡¯d forgotten, hadn¡¯t he? Atoy Muzazi had long since lost the right to have scruples.


    The alleys of cities were North¡¯s domain. He¡¯d been born in them, grown up in them, conquered them. There was nowhere else he felt as much at home.


    It wasn¡¯t the alleys of one particular city that welcomed him -- no, it was all of them, urban veins and arteries linking and blending together across the galaxy like a far-off macrocity. They welcomed him easily. He was the kind of bacteria that responded well to their filth. He walked from dark to dark without hesitation.


    "Dragan!"


    Well¡­ perhaps just a tiny bit of hesitation.


    As the shout echoed through the alleyway, North turned his head. He was just in time to see a hulking figure, clad in twisted lupine armour, crash down to the ground before him. Red Aether and burning orange hair.


    It didn¡¯t take a genius to work out he was looking at Ruth Blaine.


    "Dragan," she said again, her voice warped into ferocity by the shape of the helmet.


    Well, North wasn¡¯t such a shitty Umbrant that he couldn¡¯t match the voice of a guy he¡¯d spent the last two years around. He let his lips spread into the calm smile Dragan favoured and raised his eyebrows just a tad. The kind of forced calm you crafted to hide your surprise.


    "Ruth," he said coolly. "It¡¯s been a while."


    Another footstep -- this one from behind him. Impressive. There weren¡¯t that many people who could sneak up on North like that. He glanced over his shoulder to see who the lucky winner was.


    Ah. Blonde hair and glaring eyes. That face belonged to only one person -- well, two, technically. Or was that three?


    North grinned. "Hello, Serena," he said with Dragan¡¯s voice. "Or is that Bruno?"


    Bruno¡¯s glare deepened, brow knitting together. "Who are you?" he growled. Purple Aether cracked around his shoulders menacingly.


    North blinked. "Huh?"


    "You¡¯re not Dragan," Bruno said, certainty dripping from every syllable. "Who are you?"


    What do you mean? It¡¯s been two years, Bruno. People change. Did you think I¡¯d just stay as I was when I first met you? The world isn¡¯t that kind, I¡¯m afraid.


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    It kinda sounded like something Dragan would say? Would it work? It might. Skipper¡¯s crew had always been a bunch of bleeding hearts, with the exception of the man himself. Those glares, though¡­


    Ah, well. North wasn¡¯t a sore loser. He knew when he was rumbled.


    Translucent Aether surged silently, the mask of light lifting from ¡¯Dragan¡¯ and revealing North¡¯s face underneath. A second later, the clothing flickered away too, business suit replaced by North¡¯s casual wear. He offered the pair a cheeky grin.


    "Been a while, huh?"


    There was a moment of silence, and then¡­


    "I¡¯m gonna fucking kill you," Ruth promised.


    "Now come on," North teased. "Is that any way to greet an old --"


    Ruth Blaine wasted no time. In one swift movement -- far too quick to be reacted to -- she seized North by the collar and slammed him hard against the brick wall. North gasped as the air was forced out of his lungs, his legs flailing in empty air as he was lifted high.


    "Little too tight," he wheezed, prying at the metal fingers around his throat.


    He could see Blaine¡¯s golden eye, glaring furiously from within the recesses of the helmet. There wasn¡¯t much leniency in that gaze. The hand around his throat was a vice. Not the best situation to find oneself in.


    But it could always get worse. Bruno whipped a hand out -- and pressed the tip of an invisible sword against the side of North¡¯s neck. He winced as much as was safe.


    "Answer our questions," Ruth growled. "Or I kill you. I¡¯m not joking."


    "Get in line," Bruno hissed.


    "Sure, sure!" North gasped, lifting his hands up in surrender. "Just¡­ I mean¡­ come on, have a heart, guys!"


    The two exchanged a glance -- and the pressure around North¡¯s neck relaxed, just a tad.


    "How long have you been impersonating Dragan?" Bruno demanded, the accusation clear in his eyes. Ah. So that was where he was coming from.


    "Just a couple hours now," North said truthfully. "I¡¯m just standing in for him at the opening ceremony. He¡¯s got better places to be. Don¡¯t worry, man. I didn¡¯t kill him and steal his identity, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re worried about."


    The chokehold returned.


    "And we know that, how?" Ruth said, her voice soft.


    A pained grin returned to North¡¯s face. "Because your ol¡¯ pal North is telling ya, of course. I¡¯m Hadrien¡¯s partner in crime!"


    "Bullshit," Bruno spat.


    "Hey, it¡¯s true! You don¡¯t think your buddy Dragan would do this kind of stuff?"


    "Nah," Bruno shook his head. "I believe Dragan would do it. I just don¡¯t think you¡¯d help. Last I checked, you and he weren¡¯t exactly best friends."


    "Well¡­" North chuckled. "I guess you could say we¡¯re friends with benefits."


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened behind her helmet, and she forgot her rage for a moment. "Huh?!"


    "He pays me to be his friend," North clarified. "You know, a salary? I¡¯m on retainer. I¡¯m a useful guy to have around, you know. He¡¯s a smart fella, that Dragan Hadrien."


    Bruno put a hand to his chin, nodding slightly to himself. Looked like he was convinced. That was good news -- maybe they¡¯d all get out of this situation with unsnapped necks.


    "The heist on the Providenza," Bruno finally said. "The take from that -- that¡¯s how he¡¯s paying you, right?"


    "Hey, you¡¯re pretty smart too," North casually lied. "You¡¯re dead on the money. He came to me right before the Melees began -- offered me a whole heapin¡¯ helpin¡¯ of cash in exchange for my, eh, humble assistance. How could I say no?"


    Ruth pulled him closer, his face inches from that warped metal visage. "A better place?"


    "You what?"


    "You said Dragan had somewhere better to be tonight," she continued. "And that¡¯s why you were taking his place. But he¡¯s been preparing for the Dawn Contest all this time, right? There¡¯s no way he¡¯d just skip out on it after all that. You¡¯re full of shit."


    North rolled his eyes. As expected of Ruth Blaine, she¡¯d locked onto one of the only pieces of truth he¡¯d given her, and judged it a lie. Some things never changed.


    "You know where he is," Ruth pressed on. "You know where he¡¯s going to be -- and you¡¯re telling us. We¡¯re seeing our friend."


    As he was held aloft, there in the alleyway, he spread his arms wide -- as if presenting himself to an audience. S~ea??h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "You¡¯re pretty dense, huh?" he said.


    "Careful now."


    "No, but you are, aren¡¯tcha? You really think all this crap means anything? Pledges and matches and friggin¡¯ pomp and circumstance? It¡¯s all for show. Everything real happens behind the scenes. If you know what you¡¯re doing, the matches are just formalities -- the results are already determined."


    He had that thing, didn¡¯t he? That mantra? The only one who decides what happens to me is me. North liked that.


    "That¡¯s what your pal Dragan¡¯s doing," he continued, a trace of passion entering his tone. "He¡¯s determining. And I¡¯m damned if I¡¯m gonna let you guys distract him from that."


    Ruth¡¯s glare intensified, and her grip tightened once again. "You don¡¯t have a choice," she rasped.


    North smiled through the pain. "Oh, Ruth¡­ I¡¯ve always got a choice."


    He chose violence.


    Nightmare Underground.


    Cathedral at the World¡¯s End.


    "So¡­" Muzazi said, leaning back in his leather seat. "If I¡¯m going to believe you intend to help me, I need proof. What assistance can you give me, right here and now?"


    Aguta raised an eyebrow. "What kind of assistance?"


    Muzazi did not blink. "That burden is on you."


    For a moment, Aguta frowned, but the corners of his mouth slowly turned up again. "Information, for one. That¡¯s easy enough. Learning about your enemy is halfway to defeating them, don¡¯t you think?"


    Slowly, Muzazi nodded. "And what information can you give me?"


    "Nael Manron," Aguta said. "The one they call the King of Killers. He¡¯s been quite active tonight, and I expect he¡¯ll continue being active for many nights to come. We¡¯ve got quite a bit of information on him."


    "Go on."


    "Originally from Hexkay," Aguta said, steepling his fingers on the table. "I don¡¯t expect you to have heard about it -- it¡¯s in UAP space, and until around two years ago it was a Lilith World anyway. They practice a rather¡­ unique form of Aether usage there."


    "The Sasquatch?" Muzazi asked. It didn¡¯t take a genius to work it out: something like that construct had hardly been a common ability.


    Aguta nodded. "They¡¯re called Guardian Entities. Gene Tyrant leftovers recorded, altered¡­ until they¡¯re something quite a bit more formidable. We believe the Crimson Carnival came across a ship full of those leftovers and Manron taught them the method. That¡¯s how they¡¯ve become so powerful so quickly."


    "And how is it you know this?"


    "Our Ultraviolets are quite thorough," Aguta replied. "The GID aren¡¯t the only intelligence agency in the galaxy. We have quite a bit more information on your other enemies, as well. Are you interested?"


    Muzazi considered his next move for a good long moment, staring into his counterpart¡¯s eyes. He¡¯d be a fool to throw such an opportunity away¡­ but could he really trust this man? How did he know that Nael Manron, for instance, hadn¡¯t been given the exact same pitch?


    Before he could come to a decision, however, the communicator in his ear beeped. Morgan getting back in contact, no doubt. Muzazi kept his eyes on Aguta as he tapped his ear.


    "This is Muzazi," he said.


    Morgan¡¯s voice was distorted -- but more than that, exhausted. "Commander," he gasped, pain lurking in his breath.


    Immediately, Muzazi sat up. "Morgan? What is it?"


    The next words dragged Muzazi¡¯s heart down into his stomach.


    "It¡¯s the Heir. She¡¯s gone."

 Chapter 353:13.11: Moonlit Churches

    The church was nestled between buildings. A block of offices to the left, a holo-brothel to the right, a combat academy behind, and a karaoke parlor above. It was like Azum-Ha was actively trying to crush the sad, decrepit little chapel.


    You wouldn¡¯t find many places like this outside of Final Church space, and the ones you did find would be in this same condition. Windows broken, walls opened up for their wiring, cobwebs claiming nearly every centimeter of space. There had been a period when genuine Superbian doctrine had enjoyed brief popularity inside some parts of the Supremacy, but that time had long since passed.


    Still¡­ the atmosphere was impeccable.


    Gretchen and the Silversaint flanked Aclima as she strode up the steps into the chapel, pushing open the great wooden doors with Aether-infused strength. Even over the chaotic sounds of the streets behind them, the pained creak of neglected sanctuary was clearly audible. Even Gretchen had to admit: this felt like they were walking into a horror videograph.


    But they¡¯d come prepared. She had an arsenal of Aether Armaments with her, and the Silversaint was equipped with an absurd range of capabilities. Plus, Aclima¡¯s ability made her basically invincible against other Aether-users.


    Why, then, did sweat still dance across her throat¡­?


    They stepped inside the church, the doors sliding shut behind them, and looked towards the head of the empty room. There, sitting atop the lectern, was the person they¡¯d come here to meet. The person who was exactly what Gretchen needed.


    Dragan Hadrien.


    He regarded them with cold blue eyes as they approached, passing pew after pew as they made their way towards them. Once they were a few meters away, he raised a warning hand. They stopped.


    Aclima swallowed. "Dragan Hadrien?" she asked.


    Hadrien blinked. "What an honour it is to meet the Supreme Heir. You¡¯re very brave¡­ and you¡¯re very stupid. Tell me¡­"


    Electric blue Aether crackled around his hand, concentrating in his palm. Gretchen understood at a glance. This was his ability -- his Gemini Railgun -- ready to fire.


    "...why shouldn¡¯t I just kill you now?" Hadrien finished.


    Morgan winced as the medical automatic scanned his head for lasting damage. A second later, the display atop its head dinged green -- a clean bill of health. Muzazi let out a sigh of relief: they had that, at least.


    "Explain to me again," he said, standing over Morgan. "What happened?" Sear?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    They¡¯d retreated back to the hotel, with most of the Phases heading into the city to continue the search for Aclima. They hadn¡¯t reported her missing yet: a blunder like this would look very bad. If they could locate and retrieve her without anyone ever finding out about the situation, that would be ideal.


    Muzazi glanced over his shoulder as Gregori Hazzard lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Well¡­ most of the Phases had gone out. It seemed this one wasn¡¯t too concerned.


    "When the trouble started in the Arena," Morgan explained, hunched over on the couch. "We started moving Aclima to one of the panic rooms. I turned my head for a second and¡­ and I guess something must have hit me."


    "You didn¡¯t see them?"


    Morgan shook his head. "Nope. Knocked me right out, though."


    The attacker might have been unknown, but Muzazi was getting a sickly feeling in his stomach. Morgan alone had been attacked -- Anya Hapgrass and Endo Silversaint were as missing as the Supreme Heir. Given the circumstances, there was an obvious conclusion. Aclima and her people had knocked out Morgan, so that he couldn¡¯t monitor them.


    What were they doing then, out there in the city? What were they plotting? What was so important?


    "You rest here for the time being," Muzazi said after a long moment of consideration. "Me and Mr. Hazzard will head out to search as well."


    Morgan sat up. "But --"


    "If Aclima arrives back here," Muzazi said firmly. "I don¡¯t want the place empty."


    As Muzazi left the room, Gregori followed after him, letting the door slide shut behind them. Cool red eyes regarded Muzazi, no words exchanged, even as they got into the elevator and tapped the screen to descend. It was only when the elevator doors closed that Gregori finally spoke up.


    "Explain something to me," he said quietly.


    Muzazi glanced at him. "Very well. What is it?"


    There was little emotion in Gregori¡¯s placid, relaxed voice. "Why is it we¡¯re searching for the Supreme Heir?"


    Muzazi furrowed his brow. "That¡¯s our job. We¡¯re the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir. We¡¯d hardly be good bodyguards if we simply allowed her to wander around on her --"


    "No," Gregori interrupted. "That¡¯s your job. Maybe Hapgrass¡¯ and Silversaint¡¯s job, too. Everyone else¡¯s job is to do what you say -- and what you¡¯re saying isn¡¯t what you¡¯re thinking."


    A harsh quiet settled over the elevator, and Muzazi narrowed his eyes as he looked at Gregori. "And¡­ what exactly is it that I¡¯m thinking, according to you?"


    "Imagine if the Heir did go missing down there, in the city, and nobody ever saw her again? These things happen, after all. Wouldn¡¯t that be the best-case-scenario for you, Commander?"


    "Excuse me?"


    "You should be telling us all to sit tight. Wait in the hotel, lounge around, maybe even order pizza -- and wait for the news to come in. Or, well, not come in. That¡¯d be even better. She could just slip right through the cracks of history. It¡¯s less cruel, in a way."


    Muzazi turned to face Gregori, his hand grasping at his side -- ready to conjure a Radiant and strike.


    "I think perhaps you¡¯ve misunderstood my character," he said, voice soft.


    Gregori¡¯s red eyes flicked up, locking onto Muzazi¡¯s. Even as he spoke harshly, his hands remained in his pockets, his posture utterly relaxed.


    "I¡¯ll be honest, Commander," Gregori said. "I don¡¯t like you very much. You¡¯re the sort of person who lies."


    "When have I lied to you?"


    "Not to me," Gregori shook his head. "I don¡¯t mind people who lie to others -- at least they know what they¡¯re doing. But you¡¯re lying to yourself. Telling yourself you want to protect the Heir -- that is what you want, right? And you also want to defeat the Heir and become Supreme. They¡¯re mutually exclusive."


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    "That¡¯s¡­"


    "Even if you don¡¯t kill her yourself, do you think Supreme Heirs last long once they¡¯ve been supplanted? They become very inconvenient for a lot of people. Even if you don¡¯t swing the sword yourself, you¡¯re still signing the death warrant."


    Muzazi looked away. It wasn¡¯t that Gregori was wrong, per se, but he didn¡¯t have the full picture. He didn¡¯t.


    Murderer.


    "Tell you what," Gregori spoke up when no reply came. "Here¡¯s an idea. You stay here in the hotel. I¡¯ll go out into the city by myself -- and when I find the girl, I¡¯ll finish her off for you."


    Muzazi tightened his free hand, his jaw clenched. "As I said¡­ you have misunderstood me."


    "No," Gregori said. "I¡¯ve understood you perfectly. You just don¡¯t want to admit all of this to yourself. It¡¯s idiotic and it¡¯s holding you back. Marie would have --"


    White Aether flashed, and a blazing Radiant burst out of Muzazi¡¯s hand. His half-face a mask of cold rage -- matching the metal on the other side -- he raised the weapon so quickly that no response was physically possible. The blade of heat held steady in the air, inches from Gregori¡¯s throat.


    "Listen carefully," said Muzazi.


    Gregori did not say anything. It was far too dangerous a prospect -- if he moved carelessly, he very well could have ended up cutting his own throat right then and there. Even a nod was a deadly endeavour.


    "This conversation¡­ it never happened. Do you understand?" Muzazi said. "Blink once if you do understand."


    Gregori blinked.


    "Very good. Now¡­ if you ever do anything like you just indicated, we will continue this conversation. From right here. Do you understand?"


    Gregori blinked.


    "Very good. The second these doors open, I will deactivate my Radiant and we will go out into the city together to search for the Heir as comrades. Do you understand?"


    Gregori blinked a third time -- and the Radiant vanished. Muzazi let his hand fall to his side, white Aether still crackling around him. The doors of the elevator slid smoothly open, revealing the lobby beyond.


    "Let¡¯s go," Muzazi muttered.


    Ruth Blaine could not move.


    She was surrounded, on all sides, by everything. North had unleashed one of his illusions -- his special ones, his Nightmare Underground -- but one that she¡¯d never seen before. New? Or had he been keeping it hidden? At any rate, she hadn¡¯t been prepared for it.


    Then again¡­ how could anyone be prepared for this?


    Ruth¡¯s gaze was fixed on the wall before her. It was brickwork, brand new, polished to an immaculate sheen -- and on it, she could see carvings, impossibly beautiful. A beatific face, and within its eye there was¡­


    Within its eye¡­


    Within its eye there was a lion and within the lion there was a globe and within the globe there was a coat of arms four pieces each containing a dynastic bird and the numbers of feathers increased exponentially as you went down you saw they formed a map of the city of Losthaven and marked deep within the alleys of the city was a human outline indicating a murder with investigator figures standing by and inside their eyes there was a lion and within the lion there was a globe and within the globe --


    "Pretty neat, huh?" North said smugly, his eyes squeezed shut, wriggling free of Ruth¡¯s grasp and coming down to the ground. "Cathedral at the World¡¯s End. It¡¯s a landscape containing infinite detail. Well, not infinite, but close enough that it might as well be."


    The entire landscape was the same. In the blue sky above, white clouds swirled into swirls into swirls into swirls. The sun was an infinite tunnel of light. Just glancing at the stained glass windows was enough to make you nauseous.


    But Ruth couldn¡¯t stop looking. She couldn¡¯t even blink.


    "When it¡¯s presented with all this, ah, visual information," North continued, patting Bruno on the back as he continued his blind saunter away. "Your mind sorta freezes up while it just absorbs it all. You¡¯re lucky you ain¡¯t a Cogitant, honestly -- most of ¡¯em end up bleeding out their eyes."


    It took every bit of effort Ruth could muster, but she bared her teeth into a growl. "Bas¡­ tard¡­"


    North cupped his ear. "What¡¯s that? Surprised you can talk, honestly. But I guess you get some acquired resistance to bullshit when you hung around with ol¡¯ Skipper all those years."


    Hot anger flared across Ruth¡¯s skin. "Shut¡­ up¡­" she hissed, her eyes turning bloodshot. "Skipper¡­ was¡­ a hero¡­"


    North snorted. "Ha! That¡¯s one illusion I ain¡¯t responsible for."


    And without another word, he strode out of the Cathedral, and into the night.


    Aclima looked at the outstretched hand, at the aurora of blue Aether before her, at the attack that could surely end her life. She swallowed. She clenched her fists.


    And then, she stepped forward.


    "You won¡¯t kill me," she said to Dragan Hadrien. "Because there¡¯s no profit in it for you."


    Hadrien raised a single silver eyebrow. "How¡¯s that? Once I win the Dawn Contest, I¡¯ll have to kill you anyway. Might as well get it over with."


    "Exactly," Aclima replied, her raised voice echoing through the church. "You¡¯ll have to kill me at the end of the Dawn Contest. It¡¯ll be just as easy for you then as it is now. So why not get some use out of me first?"


    Slowly, Hadrien narrowed his eyes, cocked his head. He was looking at her like she was a landmine -- an explosive he couldn¡¯t quite tell was armed or not.


    "You¡¯re trying to trick me," he finally replied.


    Aclima nodded. "And you¡¯re trying to trick me. In the end, we will have to fight each other. But we can still help each other in the meantime. We have a common¡­ common obstacle."


    The electric-blue Aether broiling in Dragan Hadrien¡¯s hand did not fade. The chaotic light of the energy danced across his face, casting mad and shifting shadows over his features. Only his eyes, pupils shining an eerie blue themselves, were clearly visible.


    The hand lowered.


    "Atoy Muzazi?" he finally asked.


    "That¡¯s right," Aclima said. "He doesn¡¯t trust me, but I¡¯m close to him all the time. I hear things. See things. I can pass you information. I can give you the edge you need."


    Hadrien¡¯s gaze hardened into a glare. "The edge I need?" he said quietly. "What makes you think I need that edge?"


    "W-Well¡­"


    "What you¡¯re actually saying," Hadrien spat. "Is that you think having to eventually fight me is better than having to eventually fight Atoy Muzazi. That¡¯s very bold."


    Aclima stood tall, a smirk forced onto her face. "I¡¯m very bold."


    That same smirk was mirrored on Hadrien. "I¡¯m sure you think you are. But you don¡¯t really understand what that looks like, do you? Here. Let me show you."


    The smile disappeared from his face -- and without another word, he raised his hand once more. In that same instant, the confidence vanished from Aclima¡¯s face. In that same instant, her eyes widened into saucers. In that same instant, she took a step back -- and in that same instant¡­


    ¡­a piercing noise rang out through the church.


    Screech.


    Aclima stopped. Her one step back was not followed by a second. Her wide eyes stared only into empty space. Her panicked expression remained frozen on her face. Her entire body remained frozen -- like she¡¯d suddenly been turned into a statue.


    Hadrien narrowed his eyes.


    "What have you done?" he asked.


    The bodyguard who¡¯d been standing silently beside the Heir all this time -- Anya Hapgrass -- took the whistle out from between her lips and stuffed it back into her pocket. A wide grin spread across her face as she waved a placating hand.


    "Don¡¯t worry, don¡¯t worry," she said. "Just a little Armament I¡¯ve been working on. I figured it was best to put the girl on pause¡­"


    Her grin widened.


    "...so you and I can begin the real negotiations."

 Chapter 354:13.12: The Tree of Might

    The body was dumped at Nael¡¯s feet.


    Azrael¡¯s dead eyes stared up towards the ceiling of the warehouse. The Crimson Carnival had made their temporary base in an industrial sector of Azum-Ha, while their ship drifted in orbit as a decoy. It had been Azrael¡¯s idea. Probably one of his better ones. Better than volunteering to go after Atoy Muzazi, anyway.


    Impaled from behind. Nael¡¯s frown deepened. Did that check out? He¡¯d heard some stuff about Atoy Muzazi, and that didn¡¯t sound like the sort of thing he¡¯d do.


    But, then again¡­ did it really matter?


    "The rest?" Nael asked, his eyes flicking up to the taller of the Hellion Twins. One Hellion and Two Hellion, they said they were called, both with bristly orange hair, blazing gold eyes and gleaming white fangs. Pugants or whatever.


    Two Hellion clicked his teeth together, stepping in front of his brother. "No successful kills on the contestants," he said, saliva nearly overpowering his shrill, thin voice. "But that was expected, it was. All the footage and -- and biometrics they recorded made it back to us."


    One Hellion nodded stoically. "Tanya is going through it," he said, crossing his arms. "Once she has combat profiles and has fought them a few times herself, we¡¯ll pass you the information."


    Tanya¡­ which one was Tanya? The woman with the bright blue eyes, right? Blonde hair? Mechanical jaw?


    Apparently, she had some kind of ability -- once she had a mental profile of someone, she could fight a simulated version of them as many times as she liked. Helped with strategy. No doubt she¡¯d fought Nael quite a few times, already, in preparation for the betrayal.


    It didn¡¯t take a genius to see that the Crimson Carnival was a gang of knives waiting for the promised back. They¡¯d gathered around Nael for the unique power he could offer them -- and now that they had it, they were eager to get rid of him and take his place. The metal chair Nael sat in was a literal pain in the ass, but to these idiots it must have seemed a throne.


    Azrael had wanted the throne. The Hellion Twins wanted the throne. Tanya wanted the throne.


    Well, they were welcome to try. It didn¡¯t matter how many knives went for his back. They¡¯d already been beaten to the punch.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes scanned the chart, the holographic display floating before his face. He was hunched over on the couch of his hotel room, brow knitted together deeply as he considered the future.


    That was it, then. He¡¯d be taking on Nael Manron in the first round. By the end of tomorrow, one of them would be a winner and one of them would be a loser. Most likely, one of them would be dead.


    Muzazi clenched his clasped hands together. To be truthful, he¡¯d been hoping for a less formidable opponent for round one. Then again, who in this tournament wasn¡¯t formidable?


    But still¡­ Nael Manron clearly had resources to leverage, and the boldness to do so. His attack on the other contestants last night hadn¡¯t been successful, but Muzazi had no doubt he¡¯d managed to gather useful intelligence in the process. If all those resources were now pointed at Muzazi alone¡­ matters could become difficult.


    His eyes slid over the chart, to where Dragan Hadrien¡¯s name was written. He¡¯d be taking on the First Branch of the Tree of Might for his first round, it seemed. Poor bastard. Muzazi didn¡¯t know how Dragan had developed since they¡¯d last seen each other, but he didn¡¯t seem the type to go easy on a child.


    A child.


    Gregori¡¯s accusatory words came back to him from the night before. It wasn¡¯t as if they were true, at least not entirely -- Gregori didn¡¯t know the full picture -- but they stung all the same. When the time came¡­ how would he make sure Aclima was safe?


    They¡¯re mutually exclusive.


    They were not. He would find a way. Even if Aclima didn¡¯t believe in him any longer, he wouldn¡¯t give up on her.


    She was plotting something herself, though. That much was obvious. She and her two lackeys had finally returned to the hotel on their own last night, making the entire search pointless. As if that wasn¡¯t enough, Aclima had refused to explain anything about where she¡¯d been or what she¡¯d been doing.


    "Why do you care?" she¡¯d all but spat at him. "It¡¯s none of your business."


    Muzazi massaged his temples. The closer he got to the realization of his desire -- to ascension as Supreme -- the more the world itself seemed to resist him. The air grew sluggish. Pain grew brave. Everything that could stand in his way, as one, stood in his way.


    "What would you tell me to do, Marie?" he muttered, looking out over a new day in Azum-Ha. "If you were here, what would you say?"


    There came no answer. Just the cold silence of reality, and Atoy Muzazi¡¯s quiet sigh.


    The Angel Dove swooped through the streets of Azum-Ha, autopilot continuing its looping route through the grand metropolis. It was a compact ship, with long thin white wings tapering off behind it and a needle-shaped cockpit, but you wouldn¡¯t know that from looking at it. You wouldn¡¯t know anything from looking at it.


    After all, North was doing his very best to hide the vessel.


    The man himself lounged in the pilot¡¯s seat, feet up on the dash as the landscape of Azum-Ha blurred past. He¡¯d had his doubts, but even he had to admit this was a pretty cushy setup. Dragan had been right: a stationary base was really way too vulnerable. If everything went to schedule, they¡¯d only need to land this baby for refueling twice during the whole Dawn Contest.


    If, though, if. North hadn¡¯t ever known a schedule that had gone exactly according to plan -- especially when he was a factor in it.


    The doors to the back of the ship slid open as Dragan emerged, blue eyes glinting in the dim light. Most likely he¡¯d been talking to those mushrooms of his. They did a lot of planning together, apparently, when nobody was around.


    "Any news?" Dragan asked, stepping next to the cockpit, his arms crossed.


    North shrugged. "None of the news is saying the Supreme Heir got mugged in an alley somewhere, so it¡¯s looking like she made it home safe. Warms your heart, doesn¡¯t it?"


    "Safe," Dragan snorted derisively. "She¡¯s already somebody else¡¯s puppet."


    "About that¡­" North¡¯s dark eyes flicked up to Dragan¡¯s bright ones. "Wanted to have a little conversation with ya."


    "We¡¯re having one right now, aren¡¯t we?"


    North spoke seriously -- a rarity for him. "That chick Hapgrass."


    "What about her?" Dragan raised an eyebrow.


    "She ain¡¯t the real deal."


    Dragan frowned. "What do you mean?"


    It sounded crazy, but it was the only thing that made sense to North. He¡¯d recognised that woman the second she¡¯d walked out of the church. On its own, nothing suspicious. As they¡¯d crossed paths, though¡­


    "Anya Hapgrass and I had a run-in a little while back," North explained. "We ended up getting into a, ah¡­ disagreement of sorts."


    "Can¡¯t imagine why."


    "Anyway," North waved a vague hand. "The way she left that place? She wasn¡¯t getting back up. Dead in all but the most, uh, literal sense of the word. You know? Permanent hospital stay, that kinda thing."


    "So what?" Dragan asked. "This is the Supremacy. They have crazy medical technology these days. You¡¯ve seen what the AWL are up to."


    North turned in his seat, the levity draining from his face.


    "Yeah, yeah¡­" he said quietly. "That ain¡¯t the thing that bothers me. What bothers me is that she didn¡¯t recognise me. The kind of brawl we had? You¡¯d remember."


    Slowly, Dragan closed his eyes -- and took a deep breath.


    "I see," he muttered. "I¡¯ll keep it in mind. For the time being, though, she¡¯s useful -- whoever she is. We¡¯ll just have to see if she delivers on the deal."


    The irreverent smirk returned to North¡¯s lips. He found it was never a good idea to stay too serious for too long. Bad for the soul.


    "Anyway, forget about that broad," he said. "Looks like you¡¯re gonna be the star of the show tonight, huh? You worried about Rain?"


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Dragan turned and began to walk away, preparing for the moment the Angel Dove would touch down. He slipped his white jacket over his shoulders. A spark of electric-blue Aether crawled across his spine.


    "Xander Rain?" he chuckled to himself. "No. I¡¯m not worried at all."


    Bruno glared into the dark.


    Somehow, Rae Ruditia had managed to snag an interview with one of the first fighters in this Dawn Contest -- Xander Rain. The one who¡¯d be taking on Dragan in the first battle. The upper echelons of the Tree of Might had always been cagey about the media, but Ruditia had somehow managed to convince their new young leader to speak with her. The woman was convincing, if nothing else.


    Dragan. Dragan. Dragan.


    Bruno ground his teeth as he brooded in the dark shuttle. The Tree of Might hadn¡¯t wanted to reveal the location of their temporary headquarters, so Ruditia and her bodyguards were being transported there in a vessel with no view of the outside. He expected it¡¯d be the same on the way back. That, or they¡¯d try to kill them to maintain secrecy. The Tree of Might seemed like those kinds of idiots.


    Dragan. Dragan. Dragan.


    It was difficult inside the cargo hold, but if Bruno focused his Aether into his eyes he could just barely see the others. Rae Ruditia herself, politely sat down, awaiting their arrival. Rex, stood dutifully by the door, his arms crossed. Alice, sprawled out on the floor, looking like she was a second away from a nap. Ellis, his ear pressed against the wall -- no doubt listening for clues to their location.


    And Ruth.


    Dragan. Dragan. Dragan.


    Bruno knew that she felt the same as he did. That bitter, sharp emotion that he couldn¡¯t quite name. Disappointment? It was more intense than that. Betrayal? No, he¡¯d known betrayal, and this was different.


    Dragan. Dragan. Dragan.


    All he knew was that he¡¯d gone to great lengths to see his friend again, and that his friend had gone to the same lengths to make sure that didn¡¯t happen.


    Dragan¡­ Bruno thought to himself. When I see you again, you¡¯re getting a punch from me too.


    For a second, the thought brought a smile to his lips -- but it quickly vanished as a sudden piercing pain struck at his head. Bruno squeezed his eyes shut as the migraine raged through his skull, pulling nausea up from his throat and an itchiness from behind his eyes. For a terrible, terrible second, it felt like the sensation wouldn¡¯t end -- but as always, it did, stopping in an instant like it had never even happened at all.


    Bruno? Serena asked. Are you okay?


    "Yeah," Bruno mumbled under his breath. "Always."


    The shuttle thudded to a stop -- and a second later, the lights flicked back on. Bruno squinted from the sudden shift in lighting, undoing his infusion to return his vision to its usual quality. He had no doubt this was on purpose: to throw them off guard. Again, the Tree of Might were those kinds of idiots.


    Rae smiled as the doors slid open, revealing their escort.


    Bruno had seen quite a few Scurrants in his life, but this one was still a spectacle. The woman was tall and muscular, to a terrifying degree, but wholly lacked facial features -- no ears, no eyes, no nose, no mouth. As if that wasn¡¯t enough, her body was completely clear -- like some kind of gel -- and her internal organs could be seen floating around inside like fish in an aquarium.


    She¡¯d said her name was Violence. Hopefully, that wasn¡¯t fitting.


    "Out," she said, her face vibrating to create her clear voice. "The First Branch will see you now."


    Despite the menace before them, Rae did not flinch as she stepped forward and hopped out of the shuttle. The rest followed after her. As Bruno passed Violence, he tensed up, ready for a sneak attack -- but none came.


    They were in some kind of temple, that much was clear. Stone walls and floors, engraved with ancient heroes and battles, with lit fiery torches lining the perimeter of the room. Members of the Tree of Might, their faces barely illuminated by the flames, watched with grave expressions as the gathering was led past them.


    Bruno had heard of the Tree of Might before, of course, but he¡¯d never dealt with them directly. One of the old Contenders, Lho Rho, had apparently been a former member. They were some kind of ultraconservative organization -- focused on bringing back the ideal of some primordial, ¡¯pure¡¯ Supremacy.


    Sounded like a daydream to him.


    The boy they¡¯d come to see stood at the head of the chamber, arms crossed as he looked down on them from atop a long flight of steps. That was probably the only way he could look down on them, to be honest -- he was just a kid, and you could tell. The way he stood, the way he stared, it was all very imposing¡­ but you could tell it was meant to be imposing. A child dressing up in their parents clothes.


    "You wished to speak to me?" Xander said, brown eyes unblinking as he looked down at Rae.


    Rae smiled sweetly, flicking her script out of her pocket as her automatic camera bobbed over her shoulder. "Rae Ruditia," she introduced herself. "Silvereye Azum-Ha. We were hoping you¡¯d be willing to answer some questions for our viewers at home."


    "Your viewers?" Xander scoffed, his eyes drifting to the camera. "The indolent masses, you mean. They disgust me. There¡¯s no reason in my speaking to them."


    "And yet you invited us here," Rae said, that smile still on her face. "Doesn¡¯t that mean you have something you want to say?"


    "There is a difference between accepting tribute and invitation," Xander said imperiously. "And the Tree of Might does not speak. We are. The mere presence of our glory before your viewers will reveal to them -- the true among them -- that the true Supremacy is about to reassert himself. That the thrones of cowards and weaklings are about to be torn down! I, standing here, will show them this! Do not mistake yourself for an ear. You are an eye, fortunate enough not to be blinded."


    Faced with that borderline-unhinged tirade, Rae only blinked. "The true Supremacy?" she asked. "What¡¯s that, then?¡¯


    Xander thumped his glaive against the stone floor. "He is a Supremacy which does not neglect his traditions, his ancestry. A Supremacy which does not burn his past to propel himself towards the future. A Supremacy that remembers who he is."


    "How so?" Rae pressed. "What sort of traditions has the modern Supremacy forgotten¡­ from your point of view?"


    As a crack of brown Aether moved through Xander¡¯s hair, his war-robe began to sway as if in an invisible wind. Bruno wondered if that was intentional. It certainly looked impressive.


    The boy closed his eyes and said, as if imparting deep wisdom: "Life through battle."


    "Life through battle," Rae echoed.


    "Life through battle," Xander said. "Our society has been brought low by a plague. The disease of false conflict, of false accomplishment. Fools who call themselves warriors because of their victory in intelligence, their victory in politics, their victory in finance¡­" He spoke each word as if it was an insect under his shoe. "Once the true Supremacy returns, such delusions will no longer be entertained."


    "I see, I see," Rae said, her eyes twinkling pink with interest. "And what will the true Supremacy do? In terms of policy, I mean?"


    Xander smirked. "Eyes that have been blinded will see clearly again. Our enemies, the falsely declared Unified Alliance of Planets, the pathetic Final Church¡­ they will know the folly of their ways. The weakness they have cultivated will come to harvest."


    "So you¡¯ll go to war with them?" Rae stepped forward, her smile spreading wider, a sense of excitement tempering her tone.


    "We will defeat them!" Xander declared, raising his glaive high. "We will show the entire galaxy that the true Supremacy is not to be meddled with, not to be denied, not to be opposed! Never opposed!"


    All around the sides of the room, the gathered members of the Tree of Might raised their own weapons. Swords and spears, rifles and bows, daggers and batons -- all of them reached for the ceiling, and all their wielders spoke as one:


    "NEVER OPPOSED!"


    Rae Ruditia nodded along, her finger scrawling notes onto her script. "Alright, alright, never opposed," she said. "I can dig it. So you¡¯ll defeat everyone. Then what?"


    Xander paused. "What?"


    "Once you¡¯ve won all those wars," Rae replied. "What happens next? What does the true Supremacy do?"


    "Well¡­" Xander stepped back, frowning. "That is the ultimate mission. We will have proven our Supremacy over all. There¡¯s nothing else to be done." S~ea??h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Rae¡¯s smile dropped from her face, pink eyes dull against her blonde hair. "So that¡¯s it?"


    For the first time, the teenager that was Xander Rain was clearly visible. His face was almost sheepish as his eyes flicked away. "I¡­"


    He didn¡¯t get the chance to say anything else. Before he could, Rae sighed, slipping her script back into her jacket pocket.


    "Well, thank you very much," she said, disinterest clear in her gaze. "My people will send across the airing times if you want to watch it. Best of luck in your match tonight. Can we get a ride back?"


    Xander¡¯s brow creased, and he stomped forward. "Hey! Halt! There is still far more to see!"


    Rae raised an eyebrow. "There is?"


    Xander¡¯s eyes flicked around again -- to the left, to the right, taking in the figures of all the other Tree of Might members. Right. Bruno got it: the First Branch couldn¡¯t let himself be shown up in front of the rank-and-file.


    "You spoke of the match tonight," he said, stoic look returning to his face. "You wished me luck. But you need not wish me luck in advance."


    "How¡¯s that?"


    Suddenly, the building shook all around them. Bruno stumbled in place from the sudden movement, dust spilling from the ceiling and onto his head. The rest of the party got quick dust-showers as well. Before the dust could fall on Xander, though, it suddenly diverted and fell next to him, like it had hit an invisible umbrella.


    "What is this?!" Ruth demanded, regaining her balance. Next to her, Rae just continued to look up at their host, steady on her feet.


    Xander looked at Ruth for the first time. "This is Azum-Ha," he said, as if the whole thing was obvious. "The city of floating buildings. This ancient temple is no exception. We have taken flight, my friend. And our destination¡­"


    He smiled.


    "...is the Dawn Contest! You will bear witness to its beginning."

 Chapter 355:13.13: Lumberjack

    One Year Ago¡­


    Even when he had been alive, Tuldrus Rain had seemed a stranger -- but now, in death, Xander¡¯s father was truly unrecognizable.


    The body he¡¯d spent his whole life cultivating had betrayed him in the end. Muscle had become drooping skin, keen eyes had clouded over, sturdy bones had become as fragile as sand. Even his teeth had abandoned him, leaving nothing but a dark maw. It was as if Tuldrus Rain had been a balloon, and death had taken a pin to him.


    For nearly a century now, the Tree of Might had made their home on the planet Hydrargyros, in the Home system. Naturally, the planet was an inhospitable and barren rock, but grand terraforming towers had transformed it over millennia to a verdant flat grassland, as far as the eye could see, with only occasional forests to interrupt the splendor. The towers stretched up to the sky, huge and black and winding, like grasping hands, the names of their makers long since lost to history.


    Some said they even predated the Gene Tyrants themselves.


    Once, Xander had asked his father about them, and for his trouble had only received a dismissive glare and a scrap of wisdom: "Do not waste your thoughts on a foe long since vanquished."


    It had been true and proper. He¡¯d stuffed the advice, the scripture, into his heart with the rest. Those few words bestowed by his mighty father had always been precious to Xander. Why, then, did they now bring him nothing but pain?


    Tuldrus¡¯ body had been laid out in the center of the great hall, natural light flowing down from gaps in the wooden roof. Over the last three days, each of the First Branch¡¯s closest confidants had been given the opportunity to see him, to thank him for his service, to say their goodbyes. Now it was Xander¡¯s turn.


    The body was starting to smell.


    Xander banished the thought immediately. To do otherwise would be to disgrace the man his father had been. A man like that did not simply rot in repose. He had won the battle over life, and proceeded to something better.


    Life through battle. His father had always said that, and his father had always been correct. Life through battle.


    Bitter tears stung at Xander¡¯s eyes, and he wiped them away just as bitterly. That wasn¡¯t how an adult behaved. That wasn¡¯t how a warrior behaved.


    Taking a deep breath, Xander slammed his glaive against the floor below -- and the sound boomed throughout the Tree of Might complex, as loud as any bell. It announced the end of the mourning period. It announced that it was time to return this body to the soil.


    It announced that the Tree of Might had a new leader.


    Xander¡¯s ears pricked up as he heard the distant sound of an explosion. An attack? As he swung around to face the doors, the communicator in his ear clicked on.


    "First Branch," Violence said respectfully. "It appears the compound is being assaulted. Our enemies think us weak with the death of your predecessor."


    "I see," Xander replied stoically, finger to his ear. "I shall educate them otherwise."


    He strode forward, oak-brown Aether coursing around his form. The light streaming down from the ceiling diverted his path so as to not blind him -- and as he spun his glaive ready in his hands, the wind provided no resistance at all. Such was his ability.


    Xander¡¯s Aether tutor, a strange man known only as the Teacher, had referred to his pupil¡¯s Aether ability as ¡¯current manipulation¡¯, but Xander had always felt it was more profound and amorphous than that. He controlled the flow of all things. The path and speed of the river, the strength of its onslaught, the rage of its crashing waves¡­ all of it was at his discretion.


    The doors opened, forced into obedience by twin gusts of wind. He kicked off the ground -- and the air carried him, sending him flying through¡­


    ¡­and out, into the sunlight.


    Present Day¡­


    The roar of the crowd was nearly deafening. Ellis planted his hands to his ears as it washed over their group, countless mouths cheering for the beginning of the Dawn Contest. Ruth planted a reassuring hand on his shoulder -- but her face was grim.


    Somehow, they¡¯d ended up accompanying Rain¡¯s entourage to the opening match of the Dawn Contest. There¡¯d be multiple matches tonight, but the fight between Rain and Dragan would kick things off. Ruth¡¯s heart thumped in her chest.


    Even if these weren¡¯t the circumstances she¡¯d expected, this was another chance to find Dragan, wasn¡¯t it? She could understand sending North to replace him in the opening ceremony, but there was no way he¡¯d let the man fight for him. He¡¯d be here. This time, for sure.


    Their group -- Xander Rain, Violence, Rae and the bodyguards -- had gathered on a floating platform, slowly hovering down into the arena proper. Ruth looked around nervously, the eyes of the galaxy suddenly and unwelcomely upon her.


    Were they hostages? Was that what was going on here? If they tried to leave, what would happen? Surely they wouldn¡¯t do anything too drastic in front of all these people¡­ but then again, that woman Violence was standing very close.


    In the end, it wasn¡¯t Ruth who tested it.


    As the platform thumped against the floor of the flat arena, Rae stepped off before anyone else, turning towards the tunnels that led backstage.


    "Well," she said. "This has been a very interesting experience -- I¡¯ll be sure to write about it in the supplementaries! If you¡¯ll excuse me, though¡­"


    Violence reached a hand out. A big hand, fingers clutched like claws, with white Aether crackling around it. It didn¡¯t take a genius to see what would happen next -- and it didn¡¯t take a genius to stop it.


    Direwolf Set.


    The Set manifested around Ruth¡¯s arm alone -- the warped lupine visage covering her hand like a gauntlet. Violence¡¯s hand froze in the air -- the fangs of the Direwolf inches from her transparent throat. Ruth could see the carotid artery. Ruth could see her target.


    For a moment, neither Ruth nor Violence dared to move. They both knew it could cost a life. For her part, Rae stared unblinkingly at Ruth, her mouth spread into an open smile, weirdly entranced.


    Finally, though, the stalemate was broken.


    "Let them go, Violence," Xander declared. "There are greater interests before me."


    His gaze was elsewhere -- and as Ruth followed it, her heart danced anxiously between her ribs. He was staring at the other side of the arena. He was staring at the figure who was steadily but surely approaching.


    He was staring at Dragan Hadrien.


    Dragan had changed his outfit since his ¡¯appearance¡¯ at the opening ceremony. A bright white suit with a pale blue tie, like he was some kind of heavenly salaryman. If nothing else, his fashion sense had gotten weirder since he¡¯d left the crew.


    His bright blue eyes were fixed on Xander alone. Had he even noticed Ruth and Bruno standing there?


    Dragan!


    Ruth went to step forward, went to open her mouth, went to shout -- but too late. One second she was in the arena, the next she¡¯d suddenly been transported into the crowd, surrounded on all sides by walls of humanity.


    An unwelcome voice echoed in her head.


    Sorry! it squealed. Looks like you were in the arena immediately prior to the beginning of a match! In accordance with the rules, I had no choice but to teleport you out! My bad!


    Gritting her teeth, Ruth forced her way as far forward as she could -- but the crush of man could not be conquered, not without drawing more attention to herself than she could afford. Dawn Contest or not, Ruth Blaine was still a known associate of the terrorist Zachariah Esmeralda.


    She swung her head in every direction, trying to catch a glimpse -- any glimpse -- of what was happening in the arena. In the end, she had no choice but to turn her head upwards -- to follow the gazes of everyone around her to the holographic screens floating in the air. They were angled down, each and every one showing what was happening in the arena.


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    The shape of the battlefield had already started to change. Structures had begun to emerge from the concrete floor -- blocks and pyramids, spheres and rectangles, obstacles of stark geometry. They flew around the circumference of the arena lazily, just large enough to be used as platforms or shields. Not as extravagant as the later matches of a Dawn Contest¡­


    ¡­but Ruth suspected this would still be a night to remember.


    As the protector of the Supreme Heir, Muzazi had managed to get himself an exclusive observation booth high up in the Arena of the Absolute.


    He stood before the window, arms crossed, looking down at the match that was about to begin. A holographic screen floated loyally at his side, but he paid it no mind. With his eyes as infused as they were, he wouldn¡¯t be missing a thing.


    "Xander Rain," Jamilu Aguta noted, stepping alongside him. "He¡¯s one of the candidates we very much don¡¯t want becoming Supreme."


    There was another reason Muzazi had decided to attend this match in person -- and why he¡¯d left Aclima at the hotel with the rest of the Phases. He¡¯d needed an opportunity to speak to his new benefactors. Jamilu¡¯s hawk-like eyes were fixed on the match as well, while his red-haired companion lounged on the couch behind them.


    "Why¡¯s that?" Muzazi asked.


    "Despite the image he presents, the boy himself is soft, easily manipulated," Jamilu said. "And even discounting him, we have plenty of intelligence on the danger the Tree of Might poses."


    As he spoke, Jamilu tapped the red halo that floated over his head. A Principality. Muzazi had heard of the collective Aether ability of the Inganci people, but he¡¯d never seen it in person before.


    The Principality was effectively a shared database of knowledge, accessible by anyone trained in the technique. History, skills, combat techniques¡­ the potential was limitless. Apparently, the colour of the halo denoted the level of access the user had to the database, with gold belonging only to the Oda. Red was right beneath that.


    Muzazi sniffed. "I suppose I must agree with you there. While the Tree of Might¡¯s respect for the Supremacy¡¯s history is splendid, their judgment¡­ is perhaps lacking."


    "Warmongers," the man on the couch, Rufus, called up. "That¡¯s the word you¡¯re looking for. I ain¡¯t the brightest tool in the shed, but even I know letting them into the Shesha¡¯s a recipe for disaster."


    Jamilu nodded. "And to make matters worse, despite his mental weakness, the boy is no slouch in combat. For the time being, it seems we must put our faith in Dragan Hadrien."


    Muzazi stiffened, his eyes flicking over to the Cogitant himself as he strode across the arena floor.


    "What do you know about Hadrien?" he asked quietly.


    Jamilu glanced over. "Very little. We know he was part of your AdminCorps, then he joined up with Esmeralda¡­ after Elysian Fields, though, he¡¯s a ghost. Why?"


    "Because if you knew Hadrien¡­" Muzazi muttered. "...I don¡¯t think you¡¯d want to put your faith in him."


    "Ladies and gentlemen!" the cry of Brett del Boros echoed through the stadium, amplified and transmitted by countless speakers. "It¡¯s the moment you¡¯ve all been waiting for! The true beginning of this historic occasion! The moment when sparks fly and blood spills! The search for the true Supreme! The¡­ Dawn Contest!"


    The crowd rippled like an ocean, arms waving in the air as they screamed and shouted and cheered -- a chorus of excitement, very nearly overpowering the announcer.


    "In one corner¡­" the host went on, undeterred by the sheer noise. "The man they call the Shooting Star. The mysterious Cogitant with a penchant for spectacle -- Dragan Hadrien!"


    Some in the audience lifted their scripts, screens tinted a bright blue to show their allegiance, and waved them back and forth.


    "And in the other corner¡­ the young First Branch of the Tree of Might! Son of the Redwood! It¡¯s¡­ Xander Rain!"


    As Xander thumped his glaive against the floor, his supporters in the stand stomped down in unison. A drumbeat, seeing him off to war. He walked towards his opponent without hesitation, and his opponent did the same.


    The two of them continued marching forward until they were truly face to face, blue eyes staring into brown, brown eyes staring into blue. Even as the excitement of the crowd reached a crescendo, totally overpowering any other noise, they didn¡¯t so much as flinch. They didn¡¯t even blink.


    Not until the one all-important, vital word was heard over the din.


    "BEGIN!"


    Xander moved first. In one smooth, fluid motion he dropped to one knee, and spoke.


    "I surrender," he said. "My Supreme."


    The cheering stopped.


    One Year Ago¡­


    The front of the Tree of Might¡¯s great hall exploded inwards as Xander was sent flying through it, falling into a pitiful heap before the pedestal where his father had been laid to rest.


    He had suffered -- that was plain to see. Cuts and bruises covered his body, and his right arm dangled useless and broken from its socket. As he forced himself to his feet, he had to squint to see properly, as the beginnings of a black eye were already making themselves known.


    Xander calmed himself, ragged breathing slowing down. He wasn¡¯t defeated. Not yet.


    It was true that this enemy was formidable -- but they weren¡¯t invincible. Even though Xander had been sent flying by that last exchange, he¡¯d given as good as he¡¯d got. The enemy¡¯s severed arm was clutched in Xander¡¯s good hand, orange-tinted blood oozing from the stump. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Wait, orange? Xander frowned at the odd colouration. He¡¯d assumed this mysterious foe to be a Cogitant from his appearance, but was he actually some kind of Scurrant, instead? There were Scurrants designed to resemble more prestigious subspecies, after all, so --


    "The reason you¡¯re losing¡­" his enemy¡¯s voice cut through the fog of dust. "...is because you don¡¯t know where to go."


    Slowly, steadily, his foe appeared through the gloom. Just a silhouette at first, but even that was enough to make Xander¡¯s heart drop. That silhouette had all its limbs, after all. Some kind of regeneration.


    This was hopeless.


    Twin dots of blue light regarded Xander. "That man behind you¡­ the Great Redwood. You¡¯re still waiting for him to get back up and show you the way. It¡¯s an impossible wish. Believe me, I know."


    As the silver-haired Cogitant finally emerged from the cloud of debris, Xander hurled the severed arm at him -- as straight and as fast as a missile. It never even reached him, fizzling away into blue Aether right before it would have made contact. Xander¡¯s good arm trembled.


    "Shut up¡­" he hissed.


    "If I was wrong," the man said, his voice as calm as ever. "You¡¯d have an argument to refute me with. But you¡¯re letting a corpse decide what happens to you. It¡¯s sad to look at."


    "Shut up!" Xander roared.


    The flow of the world acquiesced to him. Currents of wind roared through the great hall, plucking the flames from their torches and converging upon the enemy. The flow of the fire changed too, concentrating itself, becoming more ferocious, orange flame brightening into blue. An ordinary person would have been incinerated in an instant.


    But Xander was already well aware this was not a normal person. Again¡­ the fire didn¡¯t even reach him.


    As the flow of flame subsided, the worst the Cogitant had suffered was a slight scalding of the skin -- and even that was quickly healing, gaps in the epidermis being filled in as if they¡¯d never even been there.


    "Let me show you¡­" the man said, holding his palm out. "This is what you should have done the second he died."


    Xander threw himself out of the way as the flames -- recorded and now manifested -- were released back out of the enemy¡¯s hand as a single stream. The torrential blue flame blasted past him, striking the pedestal and the body lying upon it. As Xander whirled his head around in shock, he was just in time -- just in time to see the already blackened skeleton of his father be blasted apart entirely into ash.


    The flames ceased.


    Xander opened his mouth, but no words came out. There were no words to be said. It wasn¡¯t even that his thoughts weren¡¯t reaching his mouth. He couldn¡¯t¡­ he couldn¡¯t even think of anything. The inside of his mind had been cremated as well.


    A shadow landed on him.


    Slowly, Xander looked up¡­ and saw that the Cogitant was looming before him. Darkness had fallen over his face, and so his glowing blue eyes were the only trace of his expression visible.


    "I did nothing just now," he said softly. "That man was already dead¡­ whether his body still existed or not, there was nothing more he could do for you. He had no path to the future."


    Xander trembled -- then flinched as the Cogitant extended an open hand.


    "I, however, do have that path. My name is Dragan Hadrien. Come with me¡­"


    Blue Aether crackled.


    "...and I¡¯ll show you the shape of a new world."


    For a good, long moment, Xander lay there in silence, staring at the hand as if it were a bomb. His mouth was dry, his throat was dry. Tears brewed from his eyes. At the edges of the room, the other members of the Tree of Might -- exhausted by the furious battle -- began to trickle in, observing.


    Xander opened his mouth to say something.


    Attack. Finish him off. We can defeat him together. Don¡¯t let us be defeated now. Victory is still before us. Don¡¯t falter. Life through battle. Life through battle. Life through battle.


    They were the correct words. They were his father¡¯s words. Xander went to say them¡­


    ¡­but instead, he found himself reaching up and clasping the offered hand.


    "Show me," he gasped¡­ he begged.


    Dragan Hadrien smiled. "We have a lot of work to do."

 Chapter 356:13.14: The Inferiors

    The crowd went wild, but not for the reasons one would hope.


    Jeers. Boos. Screams of fury. The collective rage of an audience denied their bloodshed. Tickets to see the Dawn Contest in person were not cheap, and these people expected a spectacle. What they did not want was the first match ending in an instant, without so much as a punch being thrown.


    Aether or not, Ruth had no doubt that if Dragan was in the crowd itself, he would have been ripped to pieces.


    She stared at him, her mouth agape, as he accepted the surrender of his opponent. Him even showing up here had just been another formality, hadn¡¯t it? North had said so himself¡­


    "That¡¯s what your pal Dragan¡¯s doing. He¡¯s determining."


    Dragan hadn¡¯t spent the last two years preparing for the Dawn Contest. He¡¯d spent them winning it.


    If the disapproval of the masses bothered Dragan, he didn¡¯t show it. His bored gaze just scanned over his surroundings, as if this were some natural formation he was looking at and not a crowd that hated his guts specifically. The slightest smirk tugged the side of his lips.


    Besides him, Xander rose to his feet -- placing a hand up on Dragan¡¯s shoulder. The Cogitant nodded, and a second later a sudden wind picked up, plucking the pair off the ground and sending them flying up into the sky like twin paper airplanes.


    Ruth watched after them, mouth still open, as they became dots that vanished into the night.


    Muzazi looked down at the now-empty arena, his eyes widened to their utmost in shock.


    "What¡­?" he whispered.


    "It seems we underestimated the extent of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s preparations," Jamilu said, putting his knuckles to his mouth. He was clearly surprised as well, but was doing a much better job at hiding it. The Principality over his head glowed as he searched for information.


    As the two of them observed the chaos below, Rufus pushed his way between them, planting his nose against the glass. "Wait, what?" he said, brow furrowed. "What the hell? What happened?"


    "Xander Rain surrendered," Jamilu explained quietly. "Immediately."


    Rufus swung his head around to face him. "Well, why¡¯d he do that? Was he that sure he¡¯d lose?


    Jamilu shook his head. "The code of honour the Tree of Might lives by would never allow such a thing. Life through battle. Even if he was certain he¡¯d lose, he¡¯d have no choice but to fight. The only explanation for this is¡­"


    "...he already lost." Muzazi finished the sentence.


    It was the only thing that made sense. The fight between Dragan Hadrien and Xander Rain had already taken place a good while ago, and Hadrien had won. Xander Rain might still act as the First Branch of the Tree of Might, but he took his orders from Hadrien.


    This whole thing is a farce.


    Muzazi clenched his fist.


    After a moment, Jamilu spoke again, some unwelcome realization dawning on his face. "It¡¯s worse than that," he said slowly. "The Crimson Carnival¡¯s attack after the opening ceremony."


    Muzazi glanced at him. "What of it?"


    "They went after every contestant we had eyes on -- except Xander Rain. At the time, we thought they were perhaps working together¡­ but now¡­"


    Another piece slotted into the loathsome puzzle.


    "They¡¯re not working together," Muzazi whispered. "They¡¯re both working for Hadrien."


    Rain fell, but Nael Manron paid it no mind. It battered against his skin and soaked his clothes, but it was nothing. He had better things to do than worry about himself.


    He glanced up as his client arrived.


    "They don¡¯t seem too happy with you," Nael muttered, his dripping fur coat hanging off his slouching frame -- making him look like some kind of diseased animal. "Is that okay?"


    As the kid released his grip on Dragan¡¯s shoulder, he dropped down to the ground -- landing atop the rooftop of the skyscraper they¡¯d agreed to meet at. That North guy already had an illusion projected in a sphere outside this place. To anyone looking in from the outside, they weren¡¯t even here.


    "Can¡¯t be helped," Dragan said, adjusting his tie. "They¡¯ll come around by the end of the Contest."


    The rain adjusted its flow in mid-air to avoid landing on the Cogitant, instead falling in a curtain around him.


    Nael¡¯s eyes flicked to the kid -- Zander Rain or whatever his name was. "Surprised you went along with it," he grumbled. "Would have expected you to stab this guy in the back."


    Zander¡¯s face turned red. "If that¡¯s what you expected of me, then you understand nothing of the Tree of Might. Lord Hadrien¡¯s superiority has already been established. If I were to surpass him with such petty tactics, I would disgrace only myself."


    Hadrien smiled. "There you have it. Besides¡­ if you expected something like that, you really should have warned me."


    Faced with Hadrien¡¯s intense, electric-blue gaze, Nael didn¡¯t so much as blink.


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    "You hired me to kill people," he growled. "And to surrender to you when the time comes. You pay extra if you want advice."


    "How mercenary of you," Dragan said.


    He took a script out of his breast pocket and traced his finger across the screen, transferring the contents to Nael¡¯s device. Nael scowled as he fiddled with the cumbersome machine, his eyes scanning the display. A list of names scrolled before him.


    "What¡¯s this?" he grunted.


    As Dragan Hadrien blinked, lightning flashed in the distance far behind him.


    "Your job, Mr. Manron," he said softly. "It¡¯s exactly as you said. I pay you to kill people."


    If anything, Dragan Hadrien suddenly leaving the Arena of the Absolute only made the crowd more incensed. The shouting and screaming overpowered all else. Anyone could tell that a riot was imminent.


    The only thing that calmed the crowd, if only for a moment, was the voice of Brett del Boros ringing out again.


    "Come on, now! Come on, now, folks! That first one might have been a dud, but the night is far from over! We¡¯ve got round two ready and waiting to go, for the true true beginning of the Dawn Contest!"


    There were a few scattered cheers.


    "That¡¯s right!" Brett roared, quickly picking up steam. "It¡¯s time for the moment you¡¯ve all been waiting for! Chicken Punk versus Paradise Charon!"


    The cheering increased in fervor, just enough so that it wasn¡¯t sad. Then del Boros¡¯ aid leaned into his ear. There was an awkward cough down the microphone.


    "Um. I¡¯ve just been informed that Chicken Punk has surrendered."


    The crowd exploded.


    "It¡¯s bright," Mereloco grunted as he walked through the hallway, ignoring the gaggles of reporters on both sides.


    Their camera flashes were irritating, but not as much as the situation itself. He had been roused from his sleep to come to the Arena a night early -- apparently, there had been some issue with the matches. Cowards surrendering or something like that. Now he would face his first adversary early to make up the time.


    "Remember the information packet," the handler woman said, walking alongside him hurriedly, her heels clicking on the floor. "Tealin Jade is a dangerous man -- he has some means of interfering with Aether."


    He wasn¡¯t so simple that he needed to be reminded of such things. Mereloco had not devoted thoughts to any sorts of counter-strategies or the like. He would face this enemy, he would win, or he would die. Agonizing over it beforehand would have no benefit.


    The two of them stopped before the door to the entrance tunnel. It slid open, revealing the darkness -- with but a distant light beyond. Mereloco¡¯s tired eyes squinted at the brightness.


    "I hope you wake in a kinder world than this."


    Mereloco gritted his teeth. The words of fools, haunting him at the hour of battle. Nobody was immune to such sentimentality.


    "Best of luck," the woman said. "Halcyon Interstellar has the utmost faith in you." Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He glanced at her. "If you had the utmost faith in me," he grunted. "I wouldn¡¯t need your luck, would I?"


    The woman raised an eyebrow. "You¡¯re not usually so talkative."


    He left.


    As he walked down the entrance tunnel, the roar of the crowd becoming louder and louder, he cracked his neck. Despite everything, he couldn¡¯t help but feel sweat on his palms. How long had this been his desire? To prove his strength and become Supreme? Only a machine would feel nothing finally coming so close to it.


    Watch, Damon. Watch this, you fool.


    "Okay, okay! This time for sure!"


    Brett del Boros¡¯ voice sounded out through the arena, his sweat-covered face on all the screens. If one looked closely, they might have noticed that his pupils seemed a tad darker than before -- but nobody was in the mood to look very closely. They were far too occupied with their outrage.


    "In this corner¡­" Brett pushed on undeterred. "We have the man from the past, the right hand of the Mad Supreme¡­ Mereloco!"


    Mereloco emerged from the tunnel, scowling as the light fell upon him once again, and came to a halt. As he crossed his arms, his face was stone.


    "In the other¡­ the many-eyed Man of Flowers, the gamer from the pits of hell -- Tealin Jade!"


    Mereloco¡¯s opponent came out as well. His blue skin shone in the light as he stretched his four muscular arms, an easy smile on his face. The many eyes covering his muscles flicked in various individual directions, taking in every detail of his surroundings.


    "And now, without further ado¡­ the Dawn Contest will truly truly truly¡­ begin!"


    When Tealin Jade opened his mouth instead of charging forward, no doubt the crowd thought they were about to witness the third surrender in a row. Some even began to shout their fury in advance. But the words he spoke, amplified through the arena, were perhaps even more confusing.


    "Let¡¯s make a game of this," he said, his voice resonant. "The first one to touch the other loses. Oui?"


    Mereloco, his face unamused, said only one word in response.


    "Unchained."


    He vanished in an instant, incoherent gravity pulling him forward at breakneck speeds -- and in that same instant, he smashed his fist into Tealin¡¯s jaw. The sound of the impact echoed throughout the stadium. No doubt some of the onlookers thought that, even if this wasn¡¯t a surrender, the match had ended in an instant anyway. That was surely a killing blow.


    But kill the blow did not.


    As the fist pressed against his cheek, Tealin just grinned down at Mereloco, a sinister gleam in his eye. He licked his jet-black lips with a vivid red tongue.


    "You lose," he giggled.


    Mereloco pulled himself back with gravity, predicting the counter, but it was too late. Flowers began to sprout from his arm, breaking through the skin, their colorful petals stained by blood from birth. As he landed a short distance away, the damaged limb already concealed entirely beneath the newborn foliage, Tealin stepped forward to pursue him.


    "Next game," he declared, throwing his four arms wide. "The next one to take a breath loses. The game begins¡­" All four hands snapped their fingers. "...now."


    Mereloco did not take a breath, but he did grin.


    It seemed this match had started to interest him.

 Chapter 357:13.15: The Bells (Part 1)

    The wedding of a Supreme was usually a grand thing indeed, but this was altogether a more¡­ muted affair. This one had never cared much for pomp and circumstance, after all. He and his bride had secluded themselves away from the galaxy, found a quiet planet, and said their vows before only their closest friends.


    But still, there were bells. They tolled.


    Doom.


    Bride and groom laughed as confetti rained down. You would never know from their humble attire that they ruled the Supremacy, that this man was the strongest -- the one closest to god.


    Doom.


    Drinks on the grass, a glass spilt. Red wine falling on white fabric. No horror at the ruined dress, no sadness -- just gentle laughter, as if nothing at all could ruin this day.


    Doom.


    His blood boiled.


    Doom.


    Plans made, heretical intentions behind closed doors. He lingered in the doorway, listening in, eavesdropping as man and wife discussed the unthinkable. A world he could not abide.


    Doom.


    His blood boiled.


    Doom.


    The body, so slight, broken on the floor before him. His hands stained in blood. His eyes wide, absurd tears flowing freely. Guards wrestling him to the ground. The woman had been vanquished in an instant, but now she would always be victorious.


    Doom.


    His blood boiled.


    Doom.


    Ice spreading over his vision, his limbs stiffening, his thoughts grinding to a halt. The last thing he sees before he is thrown into the future is the face -- the face of the man he called friend, the man he called brother. The man he betrayed and was betrayed by. The last growl crawls from his lips.


    "Damon¡­"


    Doom.


    Before the dark claims him, the man closest to god speaks. His lips move, to be sure. But the thing that leaves his mouth makes no sense at all.


    Doom.


    "I hope you wake in a kinder world than this."


    Doom.


    His heart froze.


    Doom.


    Mereloco snapped back to the present as he ducked underneath a kick from his opponent. As he moved, his dodges like a dance, he did his best to keep his afflicted arm at a distance. Vividly coloured flowers still protruded from the skin of the limb, blood dripping from their stems. The enemy¡¯s ability, without a doubt.


    The growth of the flowers seemed to have stopped, but he couldn¡¯t risk the infection -- if it was an infection -- spreading to the rest of his body. As if the physical damage wasn¡¯t bad enough, he could barely muster any Aether in the arm that had been infested. Some kind of drainage.


    Unchained.


    Mereloco created a zone of redirected gravity around his body, pulling himself up into the air.


    Unchained.


    With that distance created, he commanded another zone -- but this one had gravity all but completely nullified. Unshackled by the laws of physics, he observed his enemy from above. His enemy did much the same, a dark smirk on his lips.


    From the way this blue guy had been talking, it seemed like his ability had something to do with playing games. If he posed a challenge, and Mereloco lost, he¡¯d be attacked by more of those flowers. The growth had been instantaneous, so it didn¡¯t seem to be something he could dodge. While the flowers themselves weren¡¯t that damaging, his reduced Aether would make him an easier target for physical attacks. If he got careless, he could very well end up broken on the floor.


    The blue bastard didn¡¯t move to pursue Mereloco. He just continued to watch from below, that irritating smirk on his face. He was doing his best to keep still.


    That made sense.


    The guy had said that the next person to breathe was the loser. Since he was doing his best not to breathe, that meant he was vulnerable to his own ability too. It was the tradeoff for that unavoidable attack. Mereloco could use that.


    He didn¡¯t have long to do it, though.


    Breathing, beyond even eating and drinking, was the most basic and vital instinct for an animal. If you didn¡¯t breathe, you died. It was as simple as that. To consciously suppress that instinct went against the very rules of Mereloco¡¯s flesh. Even with Aether bolstering his body, he could only go for so long without breathing.


    But that was enough.


    Unchained.


    Mereloco forced himself back down onto the ground, a crater forming in the floor from the sheer force of the impact. The moment he landed, he thrust his palm forward towards his opponent -- not to attack directly, but to target. It didn¡¯t matter if this bastard didn¡¯t want to breathe. He could control his own body, but he couldn¡¯t control the air.


    Air, pulled by gravity, rushed towards the enemy¡¯s mouth -- and passed through his lips. A single breath had been forced upon him.


    Mereloco smirked, taking a greedy gasp of oxygen¡­


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    ¡­and flowers burst out of his other arm.


    The weight -- much worse than the first time -- sent him down to one knee for a moment, his face contorted in exertion. As he heard his opponent laugh mockingly, however, that frustration quickly blossomed into anger. He looked up with glaring eyes.


    "Oh, apologies, apologies," the enemy grinned, two hands on his hips. "It seems perhaps you¡¯ve misunderstood my physiology, non?"


    He opened his jaw -- and kept opening it, until Mereloco could see all the way down his throat. Right at the back, like some kind of airlock, was a secondary jaw -- teeth flat and fixed like those of a horse, preventing any oxygen from getting to his lungs. Damn Scurrants.


    As he rose to his feet, Mereloco went to bite at the flowers infesting his arm, but his teeth passed right through them. Seemed they weren¡¯t completely physical objects, then. More a representation of the effect? Who gave a crap? The important thing was beating them.


    Mereloco allowed his Aether to course around his body, testing it. The results were not promising. It was at about half its usual potency. If he kept getting hit by this ability, he¡¯d be dead quickly. No more mistakes could be made.


    He took a deep breath, adjusted his footing -- and deep within, his mind recalibrated itself¡­


    ¡­to become a murder machine.


    Tealin hummed to himself as he circled his opponent, the caveman Mereloco, a spring in his step as he enjoyed the advantage.


    How to finish you, then, mon ami?


    Tealin enjoyed games -- he always had. From simple playground fare to complex battles of strategies and wit, he loved them all. When you got down to it, life too was nothing but a game. Rules were imposed constantly by forces unchallengeable, creating the walls of the great labyrinth that all men must wander through.


    In that sense, Garden Macabre was the perfect representation of life itself.


    To use it, Tealin needed to do only one thing: propose a game between himself and his opponent. It had to be a game he himself could conceivably lose, and he couldn¡¯t use the same game type again until some time had passed. Apart from that, however, he was as free as a bird.


    Each demerit his opponent suffered would reduce his strength considerably. After two more or so, Tealin would feel comfortable launching a more direct attack. These four arms of his weren¡¯t just for dancing, after all.


    Well, there was no time like the present -- if Mereloco would let him get a word in.


    The caveman clearly understood Tealin¡¯s ability now -- he was rushing in, hoping to stop him from getting the words out. A simple but effective strategy.


    With his arms infested, Mereloco resorted to his legs -- launching a kick that would have surely broken a lesser man in half. Tealin raised all four of his arms and blocked, the fist slamming against his impromptu fortress of flesh. Tealin considered it.


    Invader from days past,


    O clashes against future at last,


    What victory unaligned!


    Unaware he -- already mine.


    Tealin Jade


    Once, a poet had been foolish enough to tell Tealin that his work was amateur at best. Tealin had forced him to eat his own arms in response. Perhaps he¡¯d explore that conclusion for this battle as well?


    As Mereloco kicked again -- this time aiming for the eyes coating Tealin¡¯s muscles -- he launched off the ground, flipping through the air majestically.


    "Tr¨¨s belle!" he laughed, eyes on the foliage covering Mereloco¡¯s arms. "Let¡¯s see if we can enhance you further, shall we? Whoever can clap the most in the next ten seconds wins!"


    Mereloco moved quickly, the little purple Aether he could muster struggling across his arms as he clapped and clapped and clapped -- even weakened, his clapping was fast enough that it couldn¡¯t be seen with the naked eye.


    As he landed, Tealin went to clap as well -- but before his pairs of hands could meet, they were suddenly repelled from each other by an invisible force. He smiled. That was the way Mereloco liked to play then, eh?


    It was obvious that this brute had some sort of gravity manipulation. He¡¯d created an area of repulsion between Tealin¡¯s hands, to prevent him from clapping at all. Now he was getting it -- but he hadn¡¯t gone nearly far enough with his cheating.


    Joints snapped as Tealin twisted his arms around in their sockets, such that they were now facing behind him instead. His hands were now in a position where Mereloco could not see -- and if he couldn¡¯t see them, he couldn¡¯t interfere with them. Tealin applauded his own genius without reservation.


    Needless to say, he won. S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    This was what he lived for. Not just playing games, but winning them, humiliating his opponent, showing them that they were nothing but pieces on his board. He¡¯d played such games many times. Sometimes he played with families. Other times, he drove friends to betrayal and depravity. Once, he¡¯d even managed to form a cult of personality, filling their minds with whatever he pleased until he grew bored of them. The universe had no shortage of toys to offer.


    The shape of the board itself was the only thing that changed -- and now Tealin had his eye on the entire Supremacy as his board. What kind of games could he play with an entire empire? He shuddered to imagine.


    For the moment though, he just snapped his arms back into position, and regarded his victory with a calm smile.


    Mereloco fell to one knee again as flowers burst out from his leg, blood splattering out and painting the floor. Still smiling, Tealin stepped back and sat down on one of the floating pieces of concrete, crossing his legs. It seemed a shame that they hadn¡¯t used the environment at all during the fight, but these things happened.


    "For our final game of the night," Tealin laughed. "Who can beg the other for mercy first? Whoever hears the other plead for mercy first loses."


    Did this fool think that Mereloco¡¯s pride was a chain?


    To him, anything could be discarded if it resulted in victory. He would debase himself in whatever way was necessary to defeat his enemy. He would crawl through the mud as long and as far as it took to reach his goal. If he could destroy his opponent by shitting himself, he would shit without hesitation.


    It didn¡¯t even take a moment to answer the fool¡¯s challenge.


    "Please," Mereloco said, his voice a dull monotone. "Have pity."


    This time there was no mistake. Mereloco had spoken first, and he had spoken correctly. He had --


    "Have mercy upon me," the enemy said, his voice strangely slurred.


    Blood burst out of Mereloco¡¯s remaining leg as flowers burrowed out of his flesh like worms, opening their petals against the night. Immediately, he collapsed to his knees -- but he did not reach the ground. Instead, with blinding speed, the enemy rushed forward and seized Mereloco by the neck with one of his massive hands, holding him on high.


    This wasn¡¯t ideal. All of Mereloco¡¯s limbs were covered now -- and save for the very tips of his fingers and toes, he couldn¡¯t channel any Aether through them at all. He was almost helpless -- all he could do was watch as that massive blue face leered at him.


    "I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve had numerous adjustments made to my body," the enemy purred. "There¡¯s a former Absurd Weapons Lab man who was only too happy to indulge my requests. My senses, for one, are manual. I can switch them on and off as I please."


    Doom.


    He grinned with both sets of teeth -- within and without.


    Doom.


    "Now¡­" he leered. "I hope you enjoyed your Dawn Contest, fossil -- but I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s come to an end. But I must say¡­ you¡¯ve made a very amusing toy."


    Doom.


    "Merci."


    Doom.


    Mereloco lunged forwards.

 Chapter 358:13.16: The Bells (Part 2)

    Doom.


    Mereloco lunged forwards.


    Doom.


    What happened next would be replayed many times. These few seconds would be presented again and again -- in the news, on videographs and historical accounts, through word of mouth and hushed horror. Thirty seconds of action, given or take, replayed on and on for eternity.


    Doom.


    And, of course, it would be replayed most of all in the minds of those who witnessed it in person.


    Doom.


    Mereloco lunged forwards, planted his lips against the top of Tealin Jade¡¯s face -- and sucked his eyeballs right out of their sockets.


    The switch in momentum was immediate. Tealin dropped Mereloco as he staggered back, screaming in agony, his eyes dangling from their nerves before him, swinging like pendulums. His remaining eyeballs flicked back and forth crazily, driven to incoherency by the sudden loss of mainsight.


    Even as he was dropped, though, Mereloco wasn¡¯t finished. He ended the match before he hit the ground.


    Mereloco¡¯s hand lashed out as he fell, the tips of his fingers hooking into Tealin¡¯s open mouth, and -- with the last Unchained he could muster -- he tore the bottom half of Tealin¡¯s jaw away. The scream became a gurgle, but it was quickly replaced by cries of horror from the audience. Mereloco paid them no mind.


    Tealin¡¯s four hands scrambled at his bleeding mouth, as if they could stuff the blood back inside, his eyeballs still dangling limp. With such pain and sudden damage, his ability started to release -- the flowers fading from Mereloco¡¯s body, leaving only the small holes in his skin.


    That sealed Tealin¡¯s fate. If he¡¯d maintained his focus, maintained his Garden Macabre, he still could have won. He still could have lived.


    Unfortunately, all he could do now was die.


    Mereloco smashed the severed jawbone into the side of Tealin¡¯s head, burying it halfway into his skull. His enemy¡¯s body fell limp, but Mereloco was taking no chances. As Tealin collapsed, Mereloco continued to beat him with the jawbone¡­


    Doom.


    Again.


    Doom.


    And again.


    "Mere, I¡¯ve been thinking¡­


    "Why is it that we fight? People, I mean? L-Like this, I mean? Look at my hands. I feel sick. I know people can¡¯t always come together, but does it always have to end like this? Shouldn¡¯t there be another way? Shouldn¡¯t there be¡­ something more than all this? There has to be, right?


    "What do you think?"


    Doom.


    And again.


    By the time he was done, the head of the man who¡¯d been called Tealin Jade was little more than a puddle on the floor. Mereloco rose to his feet, tossed the now-warped jawbone atop the carcass, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had won.


    There were no cheers from the audience. No smiles. Just thousands of pale faces, staring at Mereloco in silence. The muted terror of the masses.


    He glanced at them.


    "What?" he said. "This is a battle to the death. Why are you surprised?"


    Atoy Muzazi sank down into the armchair, face in his hands, trying to work his mind through all that had happened tonight.


    The brutal end to the first true match of the Dawn Contest had been one thing, but Muzazi was still fixed on another. Dragan Hadrien. The way he¡¯d slipped his way to a default victory. The obvious planning he¡¯d put into this beforehand. The deck he had clearly stacked in his favor.


    "He¡¯s going to get away with it," Muzazi mumbled into his palms. "Always, always¡­ he always gets away with it."


    Rufus paced back and forth near the back of the observation booth, his arms crossed, a look of utter concentration on his face.


    "Lemme get this straight," he said, raising a hand. "Both Xander Rain and Nael Manron are working for Hadrien. That¡¯s bad, I get it. But these matches are still one versus one when you get down to it. It doesn¡¯t matter how many allies you have."


    Muzazi cast a glare at him. Had he even been paying attention to what had just happened?


    "It may be one versus one," he explained. "But if a match ends up being Dragan versus one of his¡­ underlings, it¡¯s basically an automatic victory for him. He¡¯s able to pass through the rounds without fighting at all."


    Yes -- when you got down to it, the Dawn Contest was meant to be a series of intense battles in very quick succession. Fatigue was a factor. Another benefit of Dragan¡¯s strategy was that he could keep himself in peak condition for the occasions where he did need to fight.


    Jamilu stood before the window, arms crossed, golden spear resting at his side.


    "Even if we ignore the tournament itself," he said grimly, looking down as cleaning automatics collected the body in the arena. "Hadrien has control of both the Tree of Might and the Crimson Carnival. The attacks after the opening ceremony were almost certainly on his orders too. The amount of influence he can wield¡­ well, it¡¯s significant."


    He turned his head to look at Muzazi.


    "If I were Hadrien," he said. "My next move would be to send Manron after the weaker contestants in my own bracket. If he eliminates both participants in a match, there¡¯s a blank slot in the bracket instead of a victor -- and if Hadrien ends up against that blank spot, that¡¯s another automatic victory for him."


    As he rose from the chair, Muzazi¡¯s hands shook with rage. Even now, even now, Dragan Hadrien was making a mockery of things. He¡¯d obtained strength -- undeniable strength -- yet still resorted to tricks and betrayals instead.


    He was anathema.


    "I have a recommendation," Jamilu said seriously. "There are cases where Dawn Contest matches have begun early, in impromptu situations -- out on the streets, not in the arena."


    Muzazi nodded. "The Godsmith¡¯s Contest was famous for it. Only the final match ended up happening where it should. What of it?"


    Jamilu crossed his arms. "We make that happen here. Before Manron can finish his rampage, you track him down¡­"


    His eyes turned cold, and his spear shone gold.


    "...and you eliminate him."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes drifted past Jamilu, down into the arena, where the leftovers of Tealin Jade were now being carried away. There was nothing left of his head but meat and blood, leaving a trail as he was dragged off. That man Mereloco might have been brutal, but he¡¯d been absolutely right about one thing.


    This was a battle to the death.


    "Very well," said Muzazi. "Where do we start looking?"


    "Right here," Jamilu said, stepping forward.


    As he walked, he released his grip on Victory, allowing the demon spear to float freely as he pushed it towards the center of the room. A low, vulgar chuckle emanated from the weapon as it took position. Even that tiny vocalization seemed to contain malice upon malice¡­ it was enough to send a shiver down Muzazi¡¯s spine.


    "What¡¯s this, now¡­?" Victory sneered, his voice low. "You¡¯re choosing to rely on me, brat? Is that really okay?"


    Jamilu ignored it. "Through Victory, I have access to the three abilities he wielded in life," he explained. "Compass, Conquest, and Calamity. Compass is the one we need right now. Think of it as an evolution of the Aether ping -- I name a subject, and the spear will tell me the direction it¡¯s in and how far away it is. It can even locate things under an Aether cloak. So long as they¡¯re in range, there¡¯s no escape."


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "How large is that range?" Muzazi asked.


    "Substantial," Jamilu replied. "Victory always interferes with our attempts to measure it specifically, but it¡¯s enough that I don¡¯t see Nael Manron being outside of it."


    The spear shone malevolent gold as Jamilu began to channel his crimson Aether through it.


    "Have you considered maybe I don¡¯t want to use my power for a Supremacy dog like this? Maybe I¡¯ll trick you guys and lead you into a trap, eh? That could be interesting. Heheh¡­"


    "Ignore him," Jamilu said, annoyance creasing his expression. "I¡¯m using the ability with him as a conduit only -- he has no influence over the results."


    "Hey, your name is Muzazi, right?" Victory said tauntingly. "Atoy Muzazi? I never forget a face, kiddo, don¡¯t you worry about that. You guard the Supreme Heir, right? That¡¯s your 9-5?"


    Muzazi looked away. "That¡¯s right," he replied quietly.


    "Don¡¯t engage with him," Jamilu snapped. His voice was suddenly filled with anger, the most emotion Muzazi had seen from him since they¡¯d met. "Every word he says is a trick. Don¡¯t even listen if you can help it."


    "Maybe once this brat slips up and I¡¯m in control, I¡¯ll pay that kid a visit, eh? That could be interesting, too. I¡¯ve always wanted to kill a Supreme, but it looks like they¡¯re fresh out right now. Next best thing, though, you know? Ha!"


    Muzazi clenched his fists, breathing deeply through his nose.


    "I¡¯d make it slow, you know? Make it last. It¡¯s just like eating a meal. Only stupid kids eat as fast as possible. Only we adults know you¡¯ve gotta savor the sensations. That¡¯s right, isn¡¯t it? You and me, man, just you and me¡­ only we understand what it really means to murder someone."


    Murderer.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened in shock, but before he could say anything Jamilu interrupted.


    "It¡¯s ready," he declared, red Aether coalescing around his palm. "Compass! Nael Manron, the King of Killers!"


    As a grumble of discontent sounded out from Victory, the spear began to move -- spinning in the air in all directions, until finally stopping¡­


    ¡­and finally pointing.


    On Floor 212 of the HajiMesh building, a spiraling skyscraper topped by an ostentatious bell tower, someone was getting ready.


    He was clad all in black, every inch of his body concealed, the cloak that hung around his form disguising even the shape of his movements. His breathing was silenced by the mask he wore, like a dark and simplified skull, and his boots did much the same for his footsteps. As a result, he made not a single sound as he reached his position. S§×arch* The ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Nestled between two air purification units, there was a space just barely too small for a human to fit into. This would be the sniper¡¯s nest. The man positioned himself, Scurrant bones dislocating and relocating to allow himself passage.


    He aimed his gun.


    A DrazherTech 9600 Deleter. Top-of-the-range model. While intended as a sniper rifle, the dial next to the sight allowed the user to adjust the plasma release -- increasing the power of a shot all the way to that of a rocket launcher if necessary. For now, though, it remained at standard sniper settings.


    "Ram-1," the man said, riffle trained on where his target would soon appear. "In position."


    "Ram-2. In position."


    "Ram-3 in position."


    "Ram-4, ready."


    "Ram 5," came the modulated voice of their leader. "Wait for my signal."


    A chorus of voices. "Roger."


    Snipers were posted all throughout the area, from vantage points that were just below ideal -- so as not to be easily found. Their rifles were trained on one singular point: the Surface Tension Hotel, the last work of the great architect Zabraman. The building was like a sequence of bubbles joined together, glass reflecting the city lights around it, the hotel surrounded by acres of artificial grass on every side. Essentially, the whole place was one giant window -- exactly what you wanted when you were looking to assassinate someone.


    And, more importantly, it was where the man called Chicken Punk was staying.


    Chicken Punk cracked his neck as the door to his hotel room opened, doing his best to ignore the buzzing of his agent on the script.


    "And stop putting me on hold!" the man roared down the receiver, nearly overpowering the sound systems. "I¡¯m telling you -- this is a disaster, a fuckin¡¯ disaster -- have you seen the news?! They hate your guts, man!"


    Chicken Punk frowned. "But you said it was a good idea."


    "One surrender, one surrender tracks maybe -- and only if you can make a big joke out of it! You know, that uh, Chicken Punk, biting off more than he can chew! But the guy right before you surrendered too! Everyone¡¯s pissed off, they wanna see some fighting, and what do you do? You pour fuel on the goddamn fire! You¡¯re a friggin¡¯ disaster, my guy!"


    Chicken Punk¡¯s frown deepened as he stepped into the kitchen of his hotel suite, pouring himself a bowl of cereal as he listened to his agent rant on. Even the cereal in this place was fancy -- Baby Blues, designed by an all-Cogitant team for maximum nutrition and taste, or so the advertising went. Punk crunched down on it: just tasted like solid sugar to him.


    Well, most things weren¡¯t how they seemed anyway.


    "Hey," Chicken Punk said quietly, taking the script away from his ear. "I¡¯m gonna call you back, okay?"


    "Don¡¯t you dare hang up on --"


    Chicken Punk hung up on him.


    He wasn¡¯t trying to be rude or anything. Whatever his agent had been talking about, Chicken Punk was sure it had been important. Probably extremely useful for the entertainment career. It was just that¡­ Chicken Punk had seen something. Right there, resting against the counter.


    A wooden crook.


    Punk looked up -- past the counter and the crook, to the sitting room beyond. The lights were still off in the suite, so he couldn¡¯t see clearly, but there was someone there. The vague, shadowy silhouette of a woman sitting on the couch. Eyes gleamed ever so slightly in the darkness as she regarded him.


    "Lights on," Punk said, but the room¡¯s autobrain did not respond. Seemed that had already been taken care of.


    The woman did not move, but she did speak. "Hello," she said, her voice soft and sweet.


    Chicken Punk flashed his signature grin, adjusting his footing slightly. "I don¡¯t think I know you, missy -- but I do know this is a private room."


    The woman ignored his words.


    "Dragan Hadrien¡­" she mused. "I think I can forgive Dragan Hadrien. I mean¡­ it¡¯s not like his fight didn¡¯t happen at all, right? He did prove himself stronger than his opponent¡­ it¡¯s just that it happened a little earlier than expected. So that¡¯s fine, I think. If it¡¯s part of a strategy, I can forgive it."


    Punk cocked his head. "Huh?"


    "But you¡­?" her eyes narrowed. "I mean, it¡¯s a strategy too, I guess, but not the kind that¡¯s appropriate at all. I mean¡­ disgracing the Contest¡­ disgracing the whole thing¡­ and for publicity? So you can get your stupid face in the media a little more? No. I don¡¯t think I can forgive that. I don¡¯t think I can forgive that at all."


    "Well," Punk¡¯s grin widened as he raised his hands into a combat stance. "Still don¡¯t know who you are, lady, but I think it¡¯s obvious you want to go!"


    A long, quiet sigh, creeping through the room like an infestation.


    "So loud¡­" The woman, still cloaked by darkness, rose to her feet. "You can¡¯t be seen to get away with it. Those Tree of Might people would understand. To make sure the tree stays mighty, sometimes you have to snip a branch or two."


    "You sure like to talk a lot."


    For the first time, the woman replied directly to him: "I so rarely get the chance to do it as myself." Those were the only words she saw fit to grant him -- before she charged.


    It barely took her a second to cross the room, pink Aether flashing around her and briefly illuminating vague and indistinct features of her body. In the brightest of those, Punk could almost make her out fully -- he could see the strange farming outfit she was wearing, the length of the dress adjusted to be suitable for combat but still very much within the realm of absurdity. Her fingers were aimed to claw at his face, the tips surely infused enough that they would strike a killing blow.


    But it still took her a second to cross the room, and a second was all he needed.


    He tapped his fingers against his palm, sending the signal.


    Fire.


    The first sniper shot struck the woman in the side, the sheer force of the blow sending her flying off into the fridge. Needless to say, the kitchen was ruined by the path she tore through it. The counter was smashed to pieces and the fridge itself obliterated as it became her bed. The bowl of Baby Blues shattered on the floor, its supposedly perfect nutrition spilling away with the milk.


    Chicken Punk¡¯s quarry went to pull herself out of the wreckage of the fridge, but a second sniper shot hit her in the chest -- forcing her back down, the air knocked out of her lungs. He wasn¡¯t stupid enough to think these shots could do significant damage to an Aether-user of this caliber, but even if they could briefly incapacitate her it was well worth it.


    In the distance, the bell tower of the HajiMesh building began to toll.


    Doom.


    The grin vanished from Chicken Punk¡¯s face as he maneuvered through what was left of the kitchen. With one hand, he retrieved a pistol from his holster. With the other, he began to screw on a silencer. After what they¡¯d done to the hotel room already, concealing his shots now was probably pointless¡­ but old habits die hard.


    Doom.


    And then, once he reached her, he pointed the pistol at her head.


    Doom.


    "Sorry. When I said I didn¡¯t know who you were," Chicken Punk said coldly. "That was a Chicken Lie. Looks like you took the bait¡­ Shepherdess."


    Doom.

 Chapter 359:13.17: The Chicken Punk (Part 1)

    Six Years Ago¡­


    "So," Jean Lyons said, crossing his legs as he looked across the coffee table. "Why is it you want to join the GID, Mr. Peran?"


    Eric Peran blinked as he looked back at the Director of the Galactic Intelligence Division. Many reasons battled for Supremacy inside his mind. He knew that he couldn¡¯t say very many of them.


    I want to get rid of you. I want your job. I want control of the Galactic Intelligence Division. I want to be the one inside the shadows. I want to be the one who makes the decisions.


    Only one of his reasons was safe enough to say.


    "I want to change things," he said.


    Lyons smiled placidly, scrolling through his script with a pale finger. "Well," he said calmly. "Your military service is certainly respectable." He paused, raising a curious eyebrow. "It says here you tried to become a Special Officer. Made it all the way to the end of the Exam, too. Not everyone is capable of that. You made it to the final group and then suddenly¡­ conceded. Why is that?"


    Eric clasped his hands together, sweat coating his palms. "By that point, I¡¯d already proven to myself that I could have become a Special Officer if I¡¯d wanted to. Anything after that served no purpose¡­ save drawing attention to myself."


    "And that¡¯s something you wanted to avoid?"


    He nodded. "I already knew this was the path I wanted to ultimately take. I figured¡­ I felt that too much renown beforehand would be an obstacle here."


    "Well," Lyons chuckled, putting the script down on the table before him. "Your instincts are sharp enough in that regard. It¡¯s true: what I look for is skill without the fame that skill naturally accumulates. It¡¯s a rare resource. I¡¯m very happy with what you¡¯ve brought to me."


    Despite the tense atmosphere of Lyons¡¯ office, Eric found a grin coming to his face. "Then¡­?"


    Lyons nodded. "You want to change things, hm? Very good. That¡¯s what we do. We reach into events, seize them where they are vulnerable, and turn them in whatever direction benefits the people of the Supremacy. Is that what you¡¯re looking for?"


    No. I don¡¯t want us to do that. I want to be the one.


    Eric nodded giddily. "Yes, of course!"


    "Then I think we¡¯ll do great things together, Mr. Peran," Lyons said, extending a hand. "Welcome to the GID."


    Eric eagerly accepted the handshake. It was freezing cold.


    Present Day¡­


    Bang. Bang.


    Chicken Punk fired two shots directly at the head of the Shepherdess -- but, as expected, no holes appeared in her skull. Some things were just too good to be true.


    "Get up," he demanded, taking a step back. "I¡¯m not stupid enough to think that killed you."


    The Shepherdess acquiesced, rising from the ruins of the fridge like a vampire emerging from its coffin. Her face was still concealed by the darkness -- but if Punk looked carefully, he could see the bullets he¡¯d fired. He could see them, floating right in front of her forehead, frozen in the moment just before they made contact.


    She cocked her head. "Do you know what the most immutable force in this world is, Chicken Punk?"


    Chicken Punk narrowed his eyes. "You¡¯re gonna say the Supremacy, right?"


    "Of course not," she giggled. "The Supremacy is a grand endeavour, but it¡¯s still something made up of people. If it was immutable, there¡¯d be no need for me to run around putting out fires, right?"


    "That¡¯s what you think you do? Put out fires?"


    She ignored him as she continued. "No, the most immutable force in this world¡­ is time," she said, raising a hand. "No matter how powerful they are, everyone is trapped to it -- locked on the same linear path from second to second¡­ helpless. Escape exists for nobody. Well¡­"


    Pink Aether crackled.


    "...nobody but me."


    Leaping back, Punk tapped his hand again, sending the signal to his men to fire. Glass exploded inwards as shots tore into the room. Each and every one was aimed for the Shepherdess¡¯ vitals, and each and every one failed to make contact.


    They froze, all around her -- no, everything froze, right down to the tiniest fragments of glass. It all hung in the air like glittering snow. And then¡­


    "Chronodissonance."


    ¡­they began to reverse.


    It was like something out of a dream. The shots zoomed back in the direction they¡¯d come, the glass windows reforming themselves as they left. The rubble of the kitchen reconstructed itself. The fridge unbuckled its dent with a screech, returning to its former shape. Even the fallen cereal and spilt milk flowed through the air, back into the reconstituted bowl.


    In the span of a few seconds, it was like the battle had never even started.


    The Shepherdess¡¯ gaze had followed one of the plasmablasts as it had returned to the distant gun, and now a smile turned her lips.


    "Four snipers in four locations, with you giving them the signal. You¡¯re very thorough. Unfortunately, I now understand how far away they are and what directions they¡¯re in. Once you¡¯re dead, I won¡¯t have much trouble hunting them down."


    Chicken Punk reloaded his pistol. "You¡¯re getting ahead of yourself, missy." Sear?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Yes¡­ I am. I alone have that privilege. Chronodissonance."


    Pink Aether coursed across the Shepherdess¡¯ body as she moved, her speed beyond any ordinary Aether-user, as if her body had suddenly been put into fast-forward. Before Chicken Punk could even blink, he¡¯d been struck in the chest, sent flying back into the living room. Before Chicken Punk could even land, he¡¯d been kicked in the back, ricocheted towards the bedroom through an unconventional route.


    He smashed through the wall, landing in a heap atop the soft covers. Blood coated his face, already sinking into one eye. His heart hammered in his chest.


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    Chronodissonance, huh?


    The gist of the ability was obvious. Once this woman infused an object with her Aether, she was able to manipulate the flow of time for it. She could rewind, like she¡¯d done to repair the room. She could pause, like she¡¯d done to stop the shots hitting her. Clearly, she could speed up as well, which she was using now to kick his ass.


    A scary ability, but not invincible. So long as you had Chicken Courage, nothing was invincible. Chicken Punk slid off the bed as he considered his next action.


    Aether wasn¡¯t capable of true time manipulation. If it were, the timeline would already be a mess and everyone would be fucked. She talked a big game, but part of that would be a scare tactic. This was an Aether ability that simulated the effects of time manipulation, without actually interfering with the laws of the universe.


    Still, though, the effects hurt like hell. Chicken Punk¡¯s whole body throbbed with pain. Even so, he¡¯d been lucky.


    His body was too slow to react to the Shepherdess¡¯ movements, but Aether moved at the speed of thought. He¡¯d managed to at least mitigate the damage to his chest and his back with infusion -- at least enough to prevent them from being shattered.


    "Eyes lost on target."


    The sniper¡¯s voice was calm over the communicator. Well, of course he was calm. He wasn¡¯t the one in the building with this woman.


    He wasn¡¯t in the best position right now. Injured, against an opponent with unbelievable speed, with no idea where they were. A thought occurred, though. Why had the attack stopped? Why hadn¡¯t the Shepherdess pursued and finished him off?


    Ah. I get it.


    She¡¯d chosen the wrong room to throw him into. The doors on these bedrooms required a handprint to access -- meaning that this hole in the wall was the only way in. Since there was only a single entrance, there was only one route the Shepherdess could take to enter the room.


    That left her open to being intercepted.


    Since Chicken Punk had figured that out, it was a given that it was now an impossible strategy. If she was aware of that possibility, she¡¯d use a different strategy. Punk leapt back onto the bed, feet sinking into the cozy mattress. He couldn¡¯t risk her punching through the floor and getting him by the legs.


    That shouldn¡¯t have been his concern. He was worried about her getting through the floor. He should have been worried about her getting rid of it.


    Pink Aether sparked from below -- and as it did, the floor of the bedroom crumbled away into dust. The contents of the room, including the bed and the Punk, plummeted down into the lounge of the room below, crashing through a videograph and startling the two people who¡¯d been watching it.


    A man and a woman, fairly young, fairly shocked at the Chicken Man and the Chicken Bed that had suddenly appeared before them. The man stood up, shock already becoming outrage. "Who the hell are --"


    Pink. Something moving. Chicken Punk¡¯s eyes couldn¡¯t see it, but his Chicken Sense of movement told him death was approaching. Not for him, not yet, but for¡­


    "Get out of here!" Punk roared, suddenly desperate, but too late --


    -- as a shepherd¡¯s crook swung through the air twice, far too fast to see, and utterly destroyed two skulls.


    Two Years Ago¡­


    "So," Peran said, looking down through the window at the coffin. "He¡¯s really dead."


    Jean Lyons¡¯ corpse had finally been recovered from behind Final Church lines. Of course, the man who¡¯d become Jean Lyons was long since dead on paper, and the Final Church couldn¡¯t very well find out what he¡¯d been killed trying to do -- so as far as they knew he was some nameless casualty of the civil war that had just vanished from the morgue.


    And here he was, for all his trouble: a nameless corpse in a nameless coffin on a nameless starstation, ready to be fired off into the darkness for his final rest. As far as the galaxy at large was concerned, these things didn¡¯t even exist. This wasn¡¯t even happening.


    Good riddance.


    Peran clenched his fists as he glared dismissively at the coffin. It didn¡¯t take a genius to see what Lyons had become over his years of service: a man in love with his own ability to make the ¡¯hard decisions¡¯. There was nothing that had brought him greater joy than to destroy someone else in the pursuit of his mission.


    Mr. Lyons, Peran sent the ghost off. Go fuck yourself.


    He turned away from the window and began striding down the corridor, his blood already pumping with excitement. A smirk began to tug at his lips -- and as he walked, he dragged his palm across the window, producing a pleasing squeal from the glass.


    Since he¡¯d joined the GID, Eric Peran had done his best to cultivate connections within the ranks. He wasn¡¯t alone in his wish anymore. He¡¯d found people with the same ideology as his, people who wanted to see the Supremacy move into the future, to see it become more than the bloodlust and brutality that had defined it for centuries.


    And now, with Lyons finally gone, it was time for the new Director to be assigned.


    It was time for things to change.


    Present Day¡­


    Chicken Punk¡¯s face twisted in anguish as he saw the corpses of the couple collapsed to the floor, messily decapitated.


    "You didn¡¯t have to kill them," he muttered.


    The Shepherdess finally stopped moving. Black pumps gently landed atop the bloodstained couch, and their owner smiled down at him. She spun the crook in her hands -- she¡¯d clearly grabbed it from the kitchen upstairs before pursuing him here.


    He didn¡¯t know if that thing was an Aether Armament of some kind, but it was certainly strong enough to kill a person.


    "Legends are strange things," the Shepherdess said quietly, looking down at him. "Once you can see them, you can touch them. Once you can touch them, you can make them bleed. And once that happens? They¡¯re not a legend anymore¡­ so I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t permit true witnesses to exist. You¡¯re next, okay?"


    Chicken Punk narrowed his eyes behind his broken goggles, hot fury crawling over his brain. This really was her, wasn¡¯t it? This was the source of everything.


    "I know who you are," he muttered.


    "You already said that," the Shepherdess replied.


    "I know who you are," he repeated, more forcefully. "Once I had the power¡­ I did everything I could to make the Supremacy change."


    The Shepherdess frowned, but Chicken Punk kept talking.


    "I tried to lift up those who could lead us into the future. I tried to bring down those who were holding us back, those who abused their power, those who¡­ those who¡­ those who we didn¡¯t need anymore. More than that. I stuck my hands into every event I could and tried to twist them forward.


    "But nothing worked. Agents disappeared, files were lost, the -- the people I thought could show us a new way -- they died. Again and again. I started to think that I¡¯d misjudged the world, that I was a fool."


    "Well," the Shepherdess smirked. "You¡¯re certainly right about --"


    "But I wasn¡¯t," Chicken Punk snarled, taking a step forward. "Was I? The world had nothing to do with it. It wasn¡¯t circumstance bringing our efforts down. Someone was doing it. You were doing it."


    "Like I said," she replied. "Putting out fires."


    "It¡¯s not natural for a nation to remain so stagnant for so long," Punk raised his fists. "We should have moved on centuries ago -- but we can¡¯t, can we?! You won¡¯t let us!"


    He took a deep breath and finished.


    "The Supremacy is bound in shape by thick, heavy chains. That¡¯s all you are. You¡¯re old chains -- and you¡¯ve started to get rusty. That¡¯s three times you¡¯ve failed to kill me now."


    The Shepherdess¡¯ smile dropped from her face. "You can say what you like, but --"


    Chicken Punk leapt forward with all his Chicken Speed, tackling the Shepherdess -- and as he did, he tapped his fingers against his palm three times fast. It was the prearranged signal. Full fire -- and forget about me.


    The Shepherdess¡¯ ability, Chronodissonance, required her to infuse an object with her Aether before she could manipulate it. That was how she rewound damage, that was how she sped things up, and that was how she froze attacks. But infusion was first-come first-served.


    If Chicken Punk infused the plasma blasts with his own Aether as they came in, she couldn¡¯t do a damn thing about them. The only problem¡­ was that he¡¯d need to be in the line of fire to do that.


    Oh well. These things happened.


    Punk squeezed his eyes shut -- and the room was eaten by flames.

 Chapter 360:13.18: The Chicken Punk (Part 2)

    One Year Ago¡­


    Eric Peran was no stranger to surgery.


    Most Scurrants were very much accustomed to the cold table on their back, and the taste of anaesthetic. Their creators, the Gene Tyrants, had not built them to last. Generally, Scurrants had been fleeting amusements and little more -- the shortcuts in their genetics piling up over the generations until their bodies were no longer viable.


    Peran had lived a relatively blessed life. As an ¡¯invisible¡¯ Scurrant -- imbued with some of the traits of a chicken, of all things -- he¡¯d only required a few adjustments in his early childhood to keep his body stable. But still¡­ he remembered the cold.


    It was an old friend. He hadn¡¯t expected to meet it again willingly.


    The anaesthetic he¡¯d been given, Niux-29, completely disabled the subject¡¯s sense of pain for several hours after it was taken. It was only because of Niux that Peran could lie there in silence, almost bored, as the surgeons slowly peeled his face away. The replacement floated in a tank of gel, empty eye-holes looking back at him.


    That face was to be his new life, at least for the next year. The clown he¡¯d have to become to beckon the dancer in the dark. He¡¯d left behind the GID, he¡¯d left behind his face¡­ hell, he¡¯d be abandoning his name too.


    But he -- and the few willing to follow him -- would do it. They¡¯d lure her out. They¡¯d eliminate her. They would kill the Shepherdess¡­


    ¡­and let the hands of time start moving again.


    Present Day¡­


    The room stank of plasma and scorched flesh, filling Punk¡¯s nostrils as he staggered backwards. Smoke filled the room, and he went to raise a disgusted hand to his mouth --


    -- but that was not to be. His left hand had been burnt away from the wrist upwards, after all. Far too exhausted for pain, he wiped some of the blood and soot onto his pants.


    Chicken Punk took a deep breath¡­


    "Did you really think that would kill me?" the Shepherdess asked.


    ¡­and he let it out.


    The butt of the crook slammed into him, fast forwarded, strong enough to shatter ribs as it sent him flying backwards into the wall. As he slid down it, leaving a bloody trail, he looked up at the woman who had struck him.


    Not a scratch. The Shepherdess just stood there, twirling her weapon between her hands like a musical baton.


    "How¡­?" he groaned.


    He understood what had happened, but he didn¡¯t understand how it had happened. He¡¯d had hold of the Shepherdess, keeping her in place, and then¡­ she¡¯d just vanished. He¡¯d been holding nothing but empty air -- and then the blasts had hit.


    "It was inevitable that I¡¯d break free," the Shepherdess replied, thumping her crook onto the floor. "I just skipped time to the point where that had already happened."


    "Damn¡­" Punk chuckled, forcing himself up onto his shaking legs. "That¡¯s really something, huh?"


    "I think I recognise you, actually," the Shepherdess considered. "Not your face, but your story. Eric¡­ Peran, right? Jean talked about you. He didn¡¯t like you very much."


    The lights flickered, illuminating the Shepherdess¡¯ face for just a moment. Chicken Punk¡¯s eyes widened behind his shattered goggles, and he bitterly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.


    "How about that?" he rasped. "Looks like I recognise you too."


    "I¡¯m not worried about that." The Shepherdess¡¯ smile widened a tad. "Now, Mr. Peran¡­ are you ready to taste defeat?"


    Nine Months Ago¡­


    There were days when Peran cursed his own plan. He still understood why it was the best option, and he still believed it would work¡­ but actually carrying it out was a pain. Backstage at the Azum-Ha Golgotha Entertainment Centre, he cracked his neck.


    "Two minutes, Mr. Punk!" a stagehand chirped up in passing, hugging their script to their chest.


    "Sure thing!" he grinned his boisterous grin. "Thanks, partner!"


    Shut up. I know I¡¯m on in two minutes. I can count.


    The Chicken Punk VS. Colonel Decimato Live Show. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Some play fighting against one of the idiotic villains from the stupid show. Good to raise his profile before his surprise entry into the Dawn Contest.


    But reading the script again¡­ this really was worthless.


    This wasn¡¯t how a real fight was at all. Biting down on an enemy knife and shattering it? You¡¯d slice your mouth apart. Way too much posing too -- and leapfrogging over the enemy to dodge? Come on.


    A real fight, from what Peran had experienced, usually consisted more of a shot to the back of the head and a brisk walk away. But he guessed this was for kids. They had a natural resistance to the idiotic.


    And yet¡­


    When the curtains opened, when the show began, Peran couldn¡¯t help himself. He spoke all the stupid catchphrases, more enthusiastically than he needed to. He struck all the stupid poses, with more gusto than necessary. He gave the crowd a show. He gave them Chicken Punk.


    But why?


    Because he could see them. He could see their eyes. Countless children in the audience, locked in rapt attention, focused on their hero. Hero¡­ him? It was a joke, but¡­ they really felt that, didn¡¯t they? When they cheered, it was him they were cheering for, wasn¡¯t it?


    He could see it in their eyes. Change. He had reached out to them and shown them how a hero acted.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    When he swooped in and saved the innocent hostages, they saw him. S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    When he stood up to the villain and stopped his selfish plan, they saw him.


    When he extended a hand, and welcomed his former foe as a friend¡­ they saw him.


    They saw him.


    They saw him.


    "Chicken Punk," whispered Chicken Punk, tears invisible behind his goggles.


    Present Day¡­


    Chicken Punk grinned.


    "You got two things wrong just there, missy."


    The Shepherdess raised an eyebrow. "And what¡¯s that?" she asked, distinctly unimpressed.


    It was hard with one arm, but far from impossible. The iconic Chicken Salute. One stump planted against his hip, the other hand splaying its fingers out on the top of his head -- mimicking a chicken¡¯s comb. Every time he did this in a live show, every time they played this in a kideograph, the sheer cheering was always enough to shake the building.


    It didn¡¯t seem to be getting the same reception here, but Chicken Punk didn¡¯t let that get him down. He spoke with confidence.


    "You can¡¯t defeat me anymore," he smirked. "I beat you a long time ago."


    The eyebrow rose even higher. "Huh?"


    "It¡¯s like you said," Chicken Punk went on, picking the broken glass from his face, piece by piece. "The Supremacy is made of people. The world is made of people. No matter how much jerks like you try and hit the brakes, people won¡¯t ever stop moving forward -- learning, growing. That¡¯s how they work. I¡¯ve seen it. You just gotta look ¡¯em in the eyes."


    The Shepherdess rolled her eyes. "Sure, sure, whatever. What¡¯s the second thing?"


    He moved before he answered. A full charge, with his fist pulled back for a reckless punch, a bloody grin on his bloody lips. Like something from a comic book.


    "The name¡¯s Chicken Punk, missy!"


    The first time Chicken Punk had gone out on the stage and played at battle for the kids, their cheering had just seemed like noise to him. Sounds designed to irritate the ears and smother the senses. A headache waiting to happen, in other words.


    It was only when he discerned the words that they set his heart afire.


    "Go! Chicken Punk! You can do it!"


    He wasn¡¯t sure where she¡¯d gotten all the knives from. Maybe she¡¯d grabbed them from the kitchen, or maybe she¡¯d had them hidden away just in case. Whatever the case, they were flying at him -- dozens of them -- thrown by the Shepherdess with pinpoint accuracy. Each one would strike true, if he let them.


    He wasn¡¯t going to let them.


    Pink Aether flashed. Some of the knives had been slowed down, some sped up. It was all meant to disorient and confuse him, throw his own timing off. It didn¡¯t matter. Chicken Punk didn¡¯t bawk at a Chicken Challenge.


    He dodged and dodged and dodged, weaving through the onslaught of blades. Not one of them was perfect. Wide, jagged wounds were opened up across his body, bleeding freely onto the floor. One buried itself in his leg up to the hilt. Another, he caught between his teeth and shattered.


    It¡¯d take more than this to kill him.


    "Go! Go! Go! Go!"


    The first swing of the crook was faster than sound, and damn near invisible. Needless to say, it was almost impossible to dodge. Chicken Punk dodged it, ducking under the blow with demonic speed of his own. The Shepherdess¡¯ accelerated movements were insanely strong and fast, but his Chicken Sense of movement could just barely keep up.


    He could handle this.


    The second swing he couldn¡¯t dodge, but he did block it. The wooden staff smashed against his arm. Deep within, he felt the bone crack apart, but still he did not falter.


    Even if it hurt, a hero kept fighting until the end.


    "Win! Win! Win!"


    One punch shattered his shoulder. Another sent the teeth flying from his mouth. For a moment, Chicken Punk almost slipped on the blood spreading beneath him -- but no. That, if nothing else, he could not allow.


    No arms, and his good leg was supporting his weight, but he could still fight. He had a head after all -- and pecking was the ancient fighting style innate to all chickenkind. Roaring with passion, Chicken Punk brought his head back and --


    "Chicken Punk! Chicken Punk! Chicken Punk! CHICKEN PUNK!"


    A third punch slammed through his gut, sending a spurt of blood flying from his mouth. The Shepherdess pulled him in, her fist protruding from his back, coated in dripping red. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.


    "If you¡¯d just given up," she sneered. "You¡¯d have had a much easier death. This is unsightly."


    Punk coughed, more blood spilling from his mouth. He tried to carry out the headbutt he¡¯d intended on¡­ but no dice. It seemed something vital inside his body had been broken. This was it. He¡¯d given it his all.


    Despite the pain, and the blood, and the fading, Chicken Punk forced his grin to his face.


    "Chicken Punk," he gasped. "I already told you, missy¡­ you can¡¯t --"


    Chronodissonance.


    This was what she had been waiting for. The repeated attacks had worn down Peran¡¯s Aether defenses, and now -- with this fatal blow -- his infusion had vanished. His body was free space for her own Aether to infest. When it came to these sorts of people, this was how the Shepherdess liked to do things.


    The Aether crawled through the top half of Chicken Punk¡­ and in an instant, aged it to dust. His severed legs collapsed to the floor, a gruesome pile of detritus.


    As the Shepherdess pulled her hand back, she aged the blood coating it out of existence as well. Her enemy finally crushed, she let out a sigh of relief. The job wasn¡¯t yet finished, of course -- the smoke had kept them from interfering for the time being, but those snipers were still out there. If one of them had gotten a glimpse of her face¡­ well, she couldn¡¯t risk it.


    She turned away, spinning her crook in her hand once again. It wouldn¡¯t be much trouble. She knew the rough locations of her prey now, and as the fastest Aether-user it would be a simple matter to reach them. All this amounted to was tedious labour.


    The Shepherdess stepped forward.


    "Hey. Villain."


    Her eyes widened. Her body moved. Chronodissonance accelerating her, she whirled around to swing her crook. Response and attack in a single instant.


    "Didn¡¯t you know? A chicken can fight without its head."


    The crook passed right through the Aether Awakening.


    It was amorphous and inconsistently corporeal, a colossal mass of human and chicken features, black beady eyes glaring at the Shepherdess with righteous fury. Even as it had come into existence, it was already fading away, but the few seconds its lifespan would consist of could be enough. Feathers lanced out from its chest, already transforming into beak-tipped tendrils, and slashed.


    She leapt backwards, but one of the tendrils struck its mark all the same. It carved deep into her left arm, nearly to the bone, leaving a wide and jagged gash. As the Awakening faded to its final rest, the Shepherdess clutched her injured limb.


    The Shepherdess bled.


    Damnation, she seethed. It knew what it was doing.


    The Awakening had infused the wound with Aether as it had been inflicted -- meaning that the Shepherdess couldn¡¯t reverse it right away. She¡¯d have to wait for it to fade before she could use Chronodissonance on it. For the time being, she¡¯d have no choice but to use actual field medicine. How humiliating.


    Clutching her bleeding arm, sweat covering her face, the Shepherdess staggered out of the room¡­


    ¡­but not before finally ageing the structure of the tomb to its limits, making the whole thing collapse behind her.

 Chapter 361:13.19: No Doubt, No Matter

    Sweat trickled down the chin of the one who called themself the Crown.


    The Interstellar Museum of Supremacist History was considered one of the great wonders of Azum-Ha. A massive complex, full of relics from both the Supremacy¡¯s own history and the countless planets they had enlightened over the centuries. The place saw thousands of visitors every day -- a useful smokescreen when one was trying to avoid the reaper.


    The place was air conditioned to within an inch of its life, and yet right now it still felt like a sauna.


    The Crown walked from exhibit to exhibit -- from a holographic reproduction of the Dranell Breaches to an obsidian statue of the First Supreme. The Legend of the Supreme Exhibit was spread across five levels -- the walkways above hosting even more artifacts and articles. The Crown had made their rounds through this place several times already. Their wandering was aimless, more for the sake of not staying still than anything else. A moving target was more difficult to hit.


    Even without their obvious anxiety, the Crown would have stood out. The black bodysuit they wore, with gold trimmings along the joints, was hardly subtle. The golden visor atop to their head, stylised to look like their namesake, boosted their vision to an epiphanic degree -- and yet, right now, they saw nothing of the threat they were watching for. The only part of their skin visible was the bottom half of their face, and it was pale as snow.


    They knew, after all, that death was coming¡­ that death was hunting them. More specifically, the King of Killers, Nael Manron, was hunting them.


    Since the night¡¯s events at the Arena of the Absolute had come to an end, the assassin had been on what could only be described as a rampage. The Crown¡¯s fellow Contestants, Zhubis Rune and Billy Ogden had been slain in these dark few hours -- whether ambushed or honorably defeated, the Crown could not say. The dismembered bodies told no tales.


    What they did know was that they would be on that list too. It was only a matter of time before the King of Killers paid them a visit.


    They weren¡¯t the only one who¡¯d come to that conclusion. As the Crown passed by a display case containing the Skull of Granba -- four empty sockets shining an eerie green -- he spied his temporary ally through the glass on the other side. Helena Athena Lux. The Cogitant seemed a reasonable woman.


    Her short white hair was covered by a black flatcap, and she clutched a bulky and conspicuous antique camera in her hands. The sharp waistcoat and bright red tie she was wearing didn¡¯t do much to stop her from standing out, either. Then again, the Crown couldn¡¯t very well talk -- and besides, all of that was a fool¡¯s errand anyway.


    They were Dawn Contestants, after all: they¡¯d long since lost the right to go unrecognized.


    According to the tournament bracket, they¡¯d be fighting against each other tomorrow, but for the time being they¡¯d decided it was best to work together to repel the King of Killers.


    The Crown put their script to their ear. "Anything on your end?"


    "No," Helena¡¯s husky voice came back. "Maybe he¡¯s skipped us?"


    The Crown shook their head, putting their back against the wall. "No way. Both Zhubis Rune and Billy Ogden are dead -- we¡¯re next on the list. I¡¯d bet you anything he¡¯ll be trying to wipe this bracket clean."


    "What makes you so sure?"


    "You saw that first match, same as me," the Crown replied, eyes flicking through the crowd. "Xander Rain was definitely in league with that Dragan Hadrien guy. You think he¡¯s the only one?"


    "You think Manron¡¯s working for him too?"


    "Makes sense to me," the Crown said. "Hadrien wants to make his way through the bracket without fighting, right? I don¡¯t know if he can avoid battling Paradise Charon, but he wants to get our section out of the picture so he can score a free win near the end."


    "You¡¯re sure about that?"


    The Crown frowned in annoyance. They had served in the Supremacy military for some years before beginning their preparations for the Contest -- this level of chatback was something they very much weren¡¯t used to. "I was using my ability when I figured this out," they said. "So, yeah -- I¡¯m pretty damn sure. Anything feel off to you?"


    "No. Maybe the plan worked? This place is a galactic treasure. Not even the King of Killers would dare attack here."


    "Hm."


    That didn¡¯t check out. The Crown had done a little research on Nael Manron. From what had been observed of him since he¡¯d appeared on the scene two years ago, he didn¡¯t seem like the type to balk at attacking a place like this. Besides, he was from a Lilith World if you believed the stories -- the savage probably didn¡¯t even understand the significance of this place.


    They made their brain the King again, enjoying the sudden rush of information and calculation. Possibilities balanced against each other, scenarios simulated, loose threads pulled, until¡­


    "Hm."


    "Hm?" Helena shot back. "What¡¯s ¡¯hm¡¯?"


    Their body became the King again, a glowing golden crown symbol appearing between their shoulder blades. "We¡¯re already surrounded," they muttered into their script, as casually as they could. "Members of the Crimson Carnival -- they¡¯re making sure we stay put until Manron gets here. If we move now, we can break free, but --"


    A spindly man stepped up towards the Crown from out of the crowd, holding up a script of his own. "Excuse me, excuse me!" he chirped excitedly, his grin wide. "Are you the Crown? You are, aren¡¯t you?! I¡¯m a huge fan! Could you --"


    The Crown pulled out their pistol and blew his head off.


    The corpse collapsed to the floor, smoke rising from the stump of his neck -- and the museum exploded into panic, the crowds suddenly surging past to avoid the sudden violence. The few who didn¡¯t make a rush for the exits were security automatics¡­ and the assassins.


    A supposed security guard whipped off his blue cap, revealing a gnarled face of protruding fangs and crystallized eyes. "Guardian Entity!" he screamed. "Jarzhi Devil!"


    He leapt into the air, and his beast appeared beneath him, ready to be mounted. It was a hideous creature, like a horse with human skin pulled taut over it, so taut you could see the skeleton pushing against its restraints. As it sprinted towards the Crown, it passed the security automatics -- and they slumped onto the ground, thoroughly deactivated.


    Some kind of EMP?


    The Crown rolled out of the way as the Jarzhi Devil galloped through -- the beast tore apart a priceless painting of the Fall of Azum before turning back to its prey. Steaming saliva dropped from its mouth, which grinned wide with all-too-human teeth. Barbed hooves dug greedily into the ground.


    The next voice came from behind the Crown.


    "Guardian Entity¡­" they wheezed. "Mothman¡­"


    A little boy in a floral shirt -- no, not a little boy, a tiny old man -- who¡¯d been hiding in the corner of the room. A faceless humanoid figure with baggy grey skin materialized behind him, spreading glowing green wings from its back. The Crown whirled around with their pistol, ready to take this new enemy out immediately, but --


    Click.


    -- no dice. The gun wouldn¡¯t fire.


    Mothman whipped its wings forward -- and countless tiny green scales flew towards the Crown. For just an instant, they made their mind the King again, and understood the form of this attack. Those scales were tiny blades, ready to shred through the Crown¡¯s skin on impact.


    "Lux!" the Crown roared, right before the attack made impact. "Do it!"


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    They¡¯d discussed their strategy beforehand, of course -- how they¡¯d use their abilities to support each other when the attack came. Now, though? Now was the moment of truth. Would Helena follow through on their agreement, or would she betray in the hopes of getting her opponent killed off early?


    "Age Shift," Helena said calmly. "Safe for Kids."


    It seemed they¡¯d chosen an honest partner.


    The Crown was indeed sent flying backwards by the barrage of scales, but not a single one of them cut through their skin -- instead bouncing off harmlessly. They flipped through the air, landing on an antique chandelier high above, hanging onto the side of it as they looked down at the room. A few seconds to think were invaluable, especially when their mind was the King.


    Helena Athena Lux had two abilities -- but the one she¡¯d just used, Age Shift, was the better for defense. Once she¡¯d captured a subject with her camera, she could change the ¡¯age-rating¡¯ associated with it. Apparently, videographs rated Safe for Kids in the UAP didn¡¯t allow visible blood, so the blades had been unable to draw blood from the Crown.


    Blunt force was still a factor, though. The Crown winced from the aftereffects of the scales slamming into them. They¡¯d have to be careful.


    The Crown¡¯s own ability, also called The Crown, allowed them to designate various aspects of themself as the King. Once they¡¯d done so, their Aether would scan the surrounding area and boost that aspect of themself until it exceeded everyone else in the vicinity. If their body was King, they¡¯d be the physically strongest in the room. If it was their mind, they¡¯d be the smartest. So long as their Aether could handle the required level of enhancement, it was absolute.


    They were well prepared for most threats -- in theory. Time to put that to the test.


    After that Jarzhi Devil had shown up, both the automatics and the Crown¡¯s gun had stopped working. Less an EMP, then, and more an ability that disabled any technology past a certain point of advancement? If so, getting rid of him was the priority.


    Again, the Crown¡¯s body became the King -- and they leapt down at the Jarzhi Devil¡¯s user. "Lux!" they roared. "X-Re Rating on the horse!"


    If Age Shift could prevent damage, it could also amplify it. In the UAP, X-Re was the most extreme indecency rating a production could be marked with. X was already the highest real rating, and the Re meant that even that was under review -- in short, the work was likely to be banned outright in the near future. Needless to say, one of the factors that contributed to this¡­


    The Crown slammed their fist into the user¡¯s arm.


    ¡­was excessive gore.


    The user screamed out in terror as his arm exploded from the contact, newly formed guts and entrails spilling from the wound. He was killed instantly, needless to say -- and as he fell off his dissipating Guardian Entity, his body collapsed in on itself further from the mild impact with the floor. A single punch and a fall to the ground made him look like he¡¯d gone through a car compactor.


    A sight as gruesome as that would have made most people vomit, but they didn¡¯t have time for such luxuries.


    The instant the Jarzhi Devil vanished, the Crown pointed their gun at the tiny old man again -- firing the hand-cannon three times in quick succession. The first shot reduced the man¡¯s right arm to pulp, but the Mothman blocked the second and third with quick slashes of its razor-sharp wings.


    Even as the wreckage of his arm twitched and bled, the old man didn¡¯t so much as flinch. His eyes were wide as saucers, though, and saliva was slowly oozing down his chin. Was he high on something?


    The Mothman flapped its wings again, scales spinning around it in a miniature tornado. A defensive move -- but that was no problem. The old man hadn¡¯t moved since this had all started, even when dodging would have been to his advantage.


    There was a reason for that. The scales that the Mothman had fired off earlier were still lingering in the air, like deadly snowflakes. If the old man touched them, they¡¯d cut him up just as much as anyone else.


    The Crown went to open their mouth, to give another order -- but there was no need. Helena Athena Lux wasn¡¯t blind, after all. She¡¯d seen the exact same thing.


    "Genre Shift!" she cried out, the lens of her camera crackling with gray-scale Aether. "Slapstick Comedy!"


    No doubt the old man thought she was about to fire some sort of projectile from that camera of hers. No doubt that was why he concentrated the scales in more dense waves around him. No doubt that was why he adjusted his footing.


    But there was also no doubt¡­ that he did not notice the banana peel that was suddenly right between his feet.


    The result was obvious. With a cartoonish whoosh sound, the old man went head over heels, sent flying into his own storm of blades. The Crown found themself distinctly reminded of a blender.


    They caught their breath, the Crown and Helena Athena Lux, accompanied only by the corpses and a blaring distant alarm. Obviously, this wouldn¡¯t be the end of their long night. The Crimson Carnival was on them, and even if it seemed like Manron himself wasn¡¯t --


    "So," Manron said from above. "Those are your abilities."


    The Crown snapped their head up, their blood suddenly running cold. Nael Manron stood just outside a broken skylight on the ceiling, that red fur coat flapping around him, his crimson eyes cold as they regarded their prey. When had he gotten here? Long enough to observe the battle, obviously. All of that¡­ had just been one last bit of reconnaissance.


    Nael Manron, the King of Killers, was a man who fought with the sharpest of weapons. No doubt he was wary of Age Shift.


    Nael Manron, the King of Killers, was a man who fought with a body trained to physical perfection. No doubt he was wary of the Crown.


    Nael Manron, the second King of Killers, had not earned that title by chance. No doubt¡­ he would choose his path carefully.


    Decisively.


    "Guardian Entity," he muttered, dispassionate. "¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€."


    "Word is that the Azum-Ha Guard has the place surrounded," Morgan¡¯s voice came through over the communicator, barely audible through the deluge. "They¡¯re not moving in, of course -- they don¡¯t get paid enough to take on the King of Killers -- but they¡¯re making sure the civvies stay out."


    "I see," Muzazi said, rain battering against his face. "Do you think they¡¯d let me in if I showed myself before them?"


    "Well, legally they should, but it¡¯s a pretty crazy situation. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if it ended up more complicated than that. Finding your own way into the museum¡¯s the better way to go."


    "Understood," Muzazi replied. "I¡¯m moving in now. Make sure you¡¯re all in place."


    "But of course."


    The communicator clicked off -- and Muzazi swooped out of the way of an incoming truck, cutting across the skylines as he made a beeline for the museum below. The motorcycle he was riding blazed with its own thrusters as well as the ones Muzazi had added, parts of the paintwork wearing away from the sheer speeds he was pushing it to.


    There were skylights on the roof of the museum. Once he¡¯d determined this was Nael Manron¡¯s location, Jamilu had provided Muzazi with blueprints of the building. How he¡¯d gotten them, Muzazi couldn¡¯t say, but he doubted it was through legitimate means.


    Even if they were working together for the time being¡­ those two were Nebula of the UAP, and Muzazi was a Special Officer of the Supremacy. Sworn enemies. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Beep. Beep. Chirp.


    Muzazi cast an annoyed glance to the side as the Emerald Eyes caught up with him. Small camera automatics, their lenses shining a bright green, bobbing and weaving around each other as they pursued Muzazi relentlessly. A similarly green light pulsed within Muzazi¡¯s wrist.


    Upon registration for the Dawn Contest, all contestants received a tracking implant in their wrist. When two contestants marked to fight began to approach each other outside the Arena, the implants detected this and the Emerald Eyes were dispatched -- to ensure the ensuing combat was recorded for the enjoyment of the masses.


    So long as they didn¡¯t get in the way, Muzazi would tolerate them¡­ he supposed.


    The stately building of the Interstellar Museum of Supremacist History, all stone and marble and pillars, grew large in Muzazi¡¯s vision. Forget the spectators, it was time. Without hesitation, he leapt off the bike, letting it crash through the skylight below, providing him an entrance as he hovered down with his thrusters.


    As he¡¯d expected, the bike didn¡¯t reach the museum floor. Before it could, it was suddenly sliced up into countless pieces, the fiery fragments raining down. The silver strings that had cut the vehicle apart coiled in the air like agitated serpents¡­


    ¡­as they ran back to the shamisen held in Nael Manron¡¯s hand.


    Muzazi had done some research of his own on his first opponent. Both through the records the Phases could find, and through the intelligence the Nebula had provided. Nael Manron fought with one of these Guardian Entity abilities -- namely, that shamisen he used as a weapon, Shamichoro. Each of the strings was as sharp as the most fearsome blade, and Manron could manipulate them freely.


    A dangerous ability¡­ he¡¯d have to be careful.


    As Muzazi landed atop the walkway on the top level of the room, Manron looked up at him from the bottom. Two bodies lay at his feet. The charred corpse of who could only be Helena Athena Lux, judging from the ruined camera in her hands¡­ and the twitching near-carcass of the Crown. Their stomach had been sliced open and a good trail of their entrails scraped out; it was a wonder they were still alive.


    Not a wonder to envy.


    Nael Manron narrowed his dull red eyes as he regarded Muzazi. "Full Moon," he said, voice low and lethargic. "You made it."


    Radiants ignited from both of Muzazi¡¯s hands as he prepared himself. "That I did."


    The Emerald Eyes buzzed around at a distance, surrounding the two of them. No doubt countless people were already watching this on the videograph. Even if it didn¡¯t take place in the Arena, this was the next match of the Dawn Contest, after all.


    Manron cracked his neck as he took a step forward, raising Shamichoro up.


    "Well¡­" he muttered, slinging the instrument over his shoulder. "Time to earn my keep."

 Chapter 362:13.20: Against the Rain (Part 1)

    "Nael Manron."


    "Atoy Muzazi."


    Glass crunched underfoot as Muzazi strode across the walkway high above. Blood squelched underfoot as Nael strode across the floor far below. Their eyes were locked onto each other, and nothing else. Both of them understood, after all¡­


    ¡­the first one to lose focus would be the first one to die.


    "I¡¯m surprised you came all the way out here tonight. The weather¡¯s awful¡­" Manron said, looking up at Muzazi, his voice so quiet that one had to strain to hear. "...and if you wanted to fight me, you could have just waited. This is a tournament, after all¡­ and I had no plans to go after you early."


    The Crown gurgled weakly, and Manron glanced over to them. Even with his eyes pointed away, though, Muzazi could tell that his opponent¡¯s attention had not lapsed. It was a deception.


    "Or¡­ maybe you heard these guys were in trouble, and you came to save them? You seem like that kind of guy. It¡¯s a little too late for that, though¡­ don¡¯t you think?"


    He wasn¡¯t wrong. As the Crown squirmed on the floor, guts strewn out around them, they seemed seconds from death. Hell, in that state, they seemed seconds after death.


    "Looks like that one has some kind of physical ability," Nael commented. "Probably boosts their survivability too. I bet they¡¯re regretting that right about now. I¡¯d ask them, but¡­ I¡¯m fairly sure those are their vocal cords lying over there. What do you think?"


    A taunt. Nael Manron had judged Muzazi to have sensitive moral sensibilities, and he was doing his best to prod them. He hoped for a reckless attack that he could counter with precision. Well, things weren¡¯t going to go that easily for him.


    Atoy Muzazi put ice to his heart, and coolly stared down.


    "You surprise me as well, Manron," he replied calmly. "I didn¡¯t expect you to be Dragan Hadrien¡¯s dog."


    "Bark."


    Nael Manron¡¯s face reflected none of the levity of his words.


    "As you say," Muzazi continued. "They don¡¯t seem to be --"


    Two slashes, nearly invisible save for the slightest reflection of light against string. Not aimed for Muzazi himself, but at the walkway he was standing on. Slicing away the section beneath him, and sending it plummeting down. It was only when the shock of his sudden descent hit that the third string went for Muzazi¡­


    ¡­aimed right for his throat.


    AETHERAL SPACE 13.20


    "Against the Rain (Part 1)"


    No time to waste. No time to think. Against such speed, only instinct and experience held dominion.


    White Aether cracked. Thrusters roared into life along the underside of the falling walkway, positioned to flip the platform immediately. The metal string that had been coming for Muzazi¡¯s throat was repelled, and he himself was sent flying backwards.


    His feet landed flat against the wall, and in that same instant he kicked off from it -- thrusters blasting him down to the ground. To stay still would be to court death. Even as Muzazi moved, the three strings of Shamichoro -- united in purpose -- were shredding the space behind him.


    They were long, sharp and unpredictable -- barely visible save for the silvery reflection of light they gave off. Muzazi decided he would do better to think of them as flexible, unseen swords. Even if he could withstand one or two direct hits from the Guardian Entity, these attacks were not one or two hits -- they were a mobile blender in pursuit.


    He landed on the floor, immediately rolling away from another slash of wire. He stopped mid-roll as a second string came in from the other side, planting his hand against the ground and using a thruster to hurl himself back up into the air.


    The third string waited above. Muzazi adjusted his trajectory once again, hurling himself off to the side -- towards the massive glass cube containing the Skull of Granba. The Skull itself was huge, too, nearly twice the size of a normal humans -- but that wouldn¡¯t be a factor in this fight. The defenses on these priceless relics were far too potent to break through and use them.


    However¡­ the defenses themselves? Those could be a factor.


    Muzazi landed atop the glass cube -- and immediately, the shielding activated. Angry orange sparks flew in every direction as it repelled Muzazi, sending him flying up into the air. The speed of his rejection was one that would take his thrusters several seconds to build up to, enabling him to zoom past the third string before it could move to intercept him.


    In short, a jump pad.


    He flipped through the air, his feet now planted against the ceiling -- and narrowed his eyes as the three strings came for him once more. Each from a unique angle. Their pursuit was unbreakable, and Muzazi was willing to bet that they themselves were just as durable.


    Radiant Horizon!


    The armour of light appeared around Muzazi¡¯s body, just for a second. sea??h th§× NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Just long enough to repel the attacks.


    Just bright enough to serve as a distraction.


    Crash.


    The walkway that Manron had cut away with his first attack was still falling -- and Muzazi had adjusted its route with his thrusters. It slammed down against the side of one of the other exhibits, and the shield ricocheted the platform directly towards Manron himself.


    Your strings are too close to me to return to you in time, Muzazi thought, already falling. You have only one option to avoid it hitting you.


    Nael Manron was no fool. He immediately came to the same conclusion.


    The shamisen and its strings dissipated into crimson Aether. Manron raised his now-empty hands and seized the platform right before it could hit him, the metal buckling under the strength in his fingers. Sparks danced around Manron¡¯s hands -- and as they did, his skin brightened to a porcelain white, punctuated by the vivid red veins of his cardiovascular system.


    A ghastly Aether tic.


    Muzazi landed directly behind Manron -- and immediately swung his Radiants at his opponent¡¯s back. Before the blades could burn through him however, Manron swung the massive platform around, using it as a rudimentary shield. The blades of light burnt through the metal, but did not reach Nael Manron himself.


    Manron pushed the platform towards Muzazi with his foot, trapping the swordsman between it and the wall. Before he could be crushed, Muzazi dodged to the side, freeing himself¡­ but the moment of opportunity had already passed.


    Nael Manron had vanished.


    Catching his breath, Muzazi raised up his twin blades of light. Manron was definitely still here, still in the room. The chamber had five stories, with countless exhibits to take cover behind. There was no shortage of places for an assassin to hide. This was the King of Killers, after all.


    Muzazi looked around warily as he advanced through the exhibit, glass cubes on either side of him containing wonders and terrors alike. If Nael Manron launched a surprise attack now, he was confident he could react in time¡­ but he understood that wasn¡¯t what Manron was after. Manron was hoping he¡¯d take the obvious solution to this problem.


    An Aether ping.


    From what Muzazi had been told of Nael Manron, he¡¯d learnt Aether in an unconventional way. The people of Hexkay had achieved a complex method of Aether usage without even knowing the fundamentals existed. Nael Manron had now acquired the basics by reverse-engineering his own ability, but the chances were good that he wasn¡¯t capable of Aether cloaking.


    But, if Muzazi took advantage of that and tried an Aether ping, he¡¯d be left defenseless for a single moment. Those strings were fast enough to take advantage of that.


    No. Aether pinging wasn¡¯t an option. He¡¯d have to locate his enemy another way.


    The Emerald Eyes were filling the chamber now, flooding in through the broken skylight like flies to a pungent corpse. They wouldn¡¯t be any help. The camera automatics were programmed not to interfere with the fights. They wouldn¡¯t do anything that would reveal Manron¡¯s location.


    ¡­Unless?


    Muzazi kicked himself forward into a sprint beyond sprinting, weaved through the countless exhibits, and circled around the glass cube containing the feathered cloak of Ren¨¦e the Raven. He struck at what he found there before his eyes could even register it. They didn¡¯t need to: he knew what it was.


    His prey.


    Nael Manron raised his Shamichoro, blocking Muzazi¡¯s strike with the base of the instrument -- and for a moment, the two of them remained there, each pushing against the other¡¯s strength.


    In this position, the strings of Shamichoro were pinned against the body of the instrument. They couldn¡¯t whip out to slash at Muzazi like this. Nael Manron understood that, too -- it was written all over his face. He was on the backfoot now.


    "How?" the King of Killers spat.


    "These Emerald Eyes," Muzazi grunted, struggling against him. "I knew they wouldn¡¯t show me your location. In such a situation, I¡¯d obviously follow their line of sight to find you. So I just attacked the one spot where none of them were looking."


    "Clever," Manron sneered. "But it¡¯s a wasted effort!"


    He adjusted his positioning slightly, and one of the strings slithered free, lashing out. Not at Muzazi, but behind Manron, wrapping around an information kiosk. Manron kicked Muzazi with both legs, forcing him backwards -- and in that same moment, the string pulled him backwards, out of Muzazi¡¯s range.


    "Let¡¯s change the venue," Manron muttered, glaring back at Muzazi as he flew through the air.


    Then, he turned and ran.


    Muzazi pursued, thrusters boosting his speed, but Manron knew what he was doing. As he fled the exhibit and charged down the hallway, his strings continued to assist -- pulling down obstacles to impede Muzazi¡¯s path. Muzazi slashed with his Radiants, slicing the debris apart before it could strike him, but still¡­ the effort slowed him down.


    Clearly, Manron had a destination in mind, but Muzazi wasn¡¯t just going to let that happen.


    As the two reached the doorway at the hallway¡¯s end, Atoy Muzazi planted his hand against the cold floor.


    "Radiant Ablaze!" he roared.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author¡¯s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Countless shining blades of light burst forth from the floor like stakes, forming a barrier between Manron and the door. The King of Killers skid to a halt, muttering a curse under his breath, and turned to meet his opponent once more.


    Radiant Lustrous.


    Now, as Muzazi ran forward to resume their clash, a shining spear appeared in one hand. A shorter blade roared out of his other hand, giving him a defense at close range as well. His arsenal secured, Muzazi attacked.


    Blade met wire, and wire met blade.


    Muzazi swung and stabbed with ludicrous speed. Manron parried and blocked with absurd precision. Sparks rained down as the two faced each other. While Muzazi was a dervish of motion, Manron was deadly still -- his Guardian Entity fighting for him -- but both their faces were covered in sweat.


    Their first mistake might have been their last, after all.


    Muzazi only realized his mistake when he felt the pain around his ankle. The speed of the strings counterattack had increased gradually, so he hadn¡¯t noticed that the number of strings had changed. The three wires whipping at him had -- just a moment ago -- become two.


    The third had grabbed his leg.


    Immediately, Muzazi focused all his Aether into the spot the wire was grabbing -- an act of pinpoint infusion that saved the limb -- but that didn¡¯t mean he was off the hook. With monstrous strength and crackling crimson Aether, Nael swung his Shamichoro -- and, in the process, swung Atoy Muzazi too¡­


    ¡­directly at the barrier of blades he¡¯d created.


    He had no choice but to disable the ability, or else be cut apart by his own Radiants. The second he did, the string slipped off of Muzazi¡¯s leg, hurling his body into the dark chamber beyond. A moment later, Nael Manron charged in after him.


    The room was pitch-black, but even so Muzazi was able to slow his descent -- jets of flame bursting out from his underarms and depositing him on the floor. Immediately, he ignited new Radiants from his palms, his head swinging left and right to locate his enemy. White Aether surged into Muzazi¡¯s eyes, but¡­ no luck.


    It seemed the King of Killers was hiding again.


    "Is this all you¡¯re capable of, Nael Manron?" Muzazi called out. "Running away? Striking at the back?"


    "Actually¡­ I wanted to talk to you about that."


    Nael Manron stepped out of the darkness, hands in the pockets of his fur coat. His white hair hung limp over his tired face, heavy bags under his eyes making them barely visible in the darkness. His entire being radiated a sense of exhaustion.


    "Is that so?" Muzazi asked, adjusting his footing.


    "It is," Manron replied, taking a step forward -- and Muzazi cut his head off.


    He knew before the body fizzled away that it had been a useless gesture. The lips of ¡¯Nael Manron¡¯ hadn¡¯t been moving just then, after all. It was a fake, a hologram. This was clearly the museum¡¯s holosuite, used for special shows. No doubt Manron had one of his peons somewhere else operating it for him.


    "I heard a lot about you¡­ from Dragan Hadrien."


    Another Nael Manron stepped out from Muzazi¡¯s shadow, and another Nael Manron was cut down. He couldn¡¯t afford not to -- that was what Manron was waiting for, surely. Sooner or later, one of these ¡¯fakes¡¯ would turn out to be the real deal.


    "That¡¯s a surprise," Muzazi said. "He never struck me as the type to reminisce."


    "I don¡¯t get it."


    A string rushed out of the darkness towards Muzazi, whistling through the air. Moving with the quickness of adrenaline, he rolled out of the way -- and when he turned around, it had already vanished. Had that even been a real attack or not? It was difficult to say. Was Manron trying for the same thing as before -- provoking Muzazi into using an Aether ping?


    Slowly, he turned on the spot, tuning his senses to their limits. If that attack had been real, he had to be prepared for the next.


    "What don¡¯t you get?" Muzazi asked quietly, under his breath.


    "I know what you¡¯ve gone through."


    So Manron could hear him. Did that mean he was already in close range, then? Or was he just infusing his ears to boost his hearing? Did he have the technical knowledge to do that? Impossible to say for sure yet. He had to keep calm¡­ and observe.


    "The betrayals¡­"


    The scenery around him changed -- and for a moment, he was standing atop the tower on Caelus Breck¡­ watching as Dragan Hadrien shot him in the back. As he watched his past self collapse to the ground, he narrowed his eyes further, hot anger still recalled by the memory. He bit it back. That was what his opponent wanted.


    The next second, the Heart Building disappeared as quickly as it had appeared -- and another string rushed through. Muzazi struck at it with his Radiants, deflecting the blow, and it pulled itself back into the abyss. He let out a relieved breath.


    That had been physical. That had been real.


    Nael Manron wasn¡¯t done.


    "The losses¡­"


    The scenery flickered into a new form once again -- the casino back on Taldan, where Dragan Hadrien and del Sed had defeated him. The time that anger had driven him into incompetence. He wished nothing more than to look away from his shame, but he knew that he must not. The place he looked away from would become the source of the attack.


    "Is there a point to this?" he called out, the anger that did not show in his posture becoming a growl.


    The casino vanished into the dark.


    "I wanted to understand¡­ because I get it. We¡¯re birds of a feather. No matter where we go, what we do¡­ it all ends with failure. It¡¯s what we¡¯re for. Cautionary tales. I just wanted to understand¡­ why you¡¯re still trying. It doesn¡¯t make any sense to me."


    As Manron spoke, more and more copies of him appeared, wandering the abyss. Each of them seemed to have a different destination, out of sight, a crowd of ghosts passing Muzazi by. He slashed at the few that came too close, but for the most part kept himself stationary -- kept himself steady.


    "Let me tell you something," Muzazi replied firmly. "If you¡¯re hoping to drive me to fury or despair, you¡¯re going to be disappointed. Whatever has happened to you, is not what has happened to me. I keep going because there is meaning in it -- and my legacy is not failure."


    "Really?" Nael Manron asked, his voice almost bored. "Then why don¡¯t you tell her that?"


    Black became white. The darkness was flooded with blinding light, forcing Muzazi to squint for a second¡­ and when his vision adjusted, he saw a figure standing before him. The eyes that had narrowed opened wide in outrage.


    Bastard. I¡¯ll kill you.


    Marie Hazzard stared back at him.


    It was obvious at a glance that this was nothing but another hologram, derived from archive footage. Yes, a hologram. A mockery. Processing artifacts hung in the air around her. Her smile was frozen on her face. Her eyes were made of glass.


    He did not embrace her, because that was not her. He did not speak to her, because that was not her. He did not look at her, because that was not her.


    All Atoy Muzazi did¡­ was turn around and seize the wire out of the air.


    "Your attacks are getting predictable, King of Killers," he snarled, pinpoint Aether keeping his hand safe as he pulled on the wire. "Distractions and sneak attacks, over and over again. I see¡­ perhaps you¡¯re right. You do seem familiar with failure."


    The holograms flicked off.


    His eyes followed the wire he was holding. Even as Muzazi pulled, he now realized that would not bring his target to him. He had been tricked. The single string ran up to the ceiling, where Shamichoro was suspended -- its other two strings bound against pillars to hold it in place. Nael Manron was nowhere to be seen.


    He can control the shamisen without touching it, Muzazi realized. Shi --


    He turned around just in time to see the King of Killers.


    He turned around just in time to take a palm thrust to the chest.


    He turned around just in time to feel ribs crack.


    "Funny," Nael Manron commented, smiling a dreary smile. "I don¡¯t feel disappointed."


    Atoy Muzazi was sent flying backwards from the pinpoint blow, right through the wall -- and right through the window beyond that¡­


    ¡­out, into the rainy night beyond.


    Nael raised a hand and Shamichoro vanished from the ceiling into godsblood, reappearing in his hand a moment later. As he stepped through the hole he¡¯d created through the wall, he scowled at the torrential rain pouring in through the window. It was a damn cold night, too. His breath came out as a pale mist.


    He wasn¡¯t arrogant enough to think that strike had finished off his opponent. The Full Moon was apparently a pretty big deal, after all. They were still feeling each other out.


    Nael brought his foot up onto the ledge outside as he stepped through the broken window. Sometimes, he still couldn¡¯t believe just how advanced the galaxy at large was. He¡¯d thought the capitol back home was huge, but this city was an entire planet. Flying machines carrying thousands on their way, each building a giant cylindrical monolith covered in signs and advertisements and monitors.


    Just looking at it was enough to make one feel¡­ tiny.


    But he didn¡¯t have time for that right now. As expected, Atoy Muzazi was still alive. He could spy that little white dot of crackling godsblood far down below, on top of one of the bigger vehicles¡­ a truck, it was called? Now that he¡¯d been injured, was the Full Moon trying to make a retreat? It was far too late for that.


    He¡¯d show him, right here, right now, that all these efforts were meaningless. No matter what he did, he was doomed to misery -- doomed to lamentation -- doomed to despair. It was a lesson Atoy Muzazi should have learned a long time ago.


    After all, Nael Manron had.


    Godsblood surged into his legs as Nael kicked off, the sheer force of it obliterating the room behind him. Like a cannonball, he launched himself straight down towards Muzazi. Shamichoro¡¯s strings tensed up, ready to lance out and latch onto the truck as soon as it came into range.


    Before they could, however¡­


    Bright.


    Three massive pillars of light burst out from the truck¡¯s carriage around Muzazi -- and as he raised his hands up above his head, bright specks began to flow out of those pillars and into his grip. White godsblood coursed all around as the shape of a sword slowly began to form in Muzazi¡¯s hands. The sheer presence of it was such that Nael could feel his bones shuddering, even as he fell.


    He knew what this was. He¡¯d seen this.


    This was the attack that Atoy Muzazi had used to win his Inner Melee. While the man called King had been distracted, the Full Moon had generated enormous amounts of force with these macro-thrusters -- force he¡¯d then transferred into his own blade as he swung. It was a sword of devastation that could cut through anything.


    But it wasn¡¯t unbeatable. The fact that Atoy Muzazi had distracted King was the key. It meant that, if he hadn¡¯t been distracted, he could have stopped the attack.


    The pillars were vulnerable.


    "Shamichoro!" Nael commanded, even as his voice was swallowed by the wind. "Honchoushi!"


    In an instant, the three stings returned to the shamisen like worms returning to the soil. In Nael¡¯s free hand, the secondary component of Shamichoro -- the plectrum, a straight wooden stick -- appeared. When it came down to it, Shamichoro was a musical instrument, after all. It could be used like this.


    Using the plectrum, Nael Manron plucked the three strings -- and three projectiles of sound surged forth like guided missiles, slamming into the pillars below and dispelling them. Suddenly cut off from the power he¡¯d been gathering, Atoy Muzazi fell to one knee. He¡¯d miscalculated.


    Shamichoro¡¯s strings lashed once more, latching onto the back of the truck. As they pulled Nael in, he roared into the rain: "Distractions and sneak attacks!" he mocked. "It seems you never mastered either!"


    Only¡­


    ¡­something was wrong.


    Nael realized it immediately, but it was already far too late. He saw that specks of light were still flowing into Muzazi¡¯s hands, his hands that he¡¯d been keeping out of sight since ¡¯collapsing¡¯. He saw that there was the slightest smirk on Atoy Muzazi¡¯s lips. He saw that the truck was still far too brightly lit.


    Back then¡­ in the Inner Melee¡­ there had been five pillars, hadn¡¯t there?


    The other two are on the truck¡¯s underside.


    Atoy Muzazi had caught his prey.


    For a moment, Nael Manron seemed suspended in time, his eyes wide in shock as his strings pulled him in. Even the raindrops seemed to hang in place. Lightning crashed in the distance, agonizingly slow. The flash lit up the city. The thunder crashed through like a wave.


    Two pillars meant this wouldn¡¯t be as powerful as it could be¡­ but it was still far more than enough to kill a man.


    Muzazi swung his blade in an upward slash --


    Radiant Almighty!


    -- and sliced through the night.

 Chapter 363:13.21: Against the Rain (Part 2)

    The afterglow of the explosion hung in the air, and the wind whipped past the truck. Muzazi looked up at the aurora he¡¯d created, cold misty breath flowing from his mouth.


    Had he done it?


    No.


    As the smoke from the explosion of Radiant Almighty finally swept through, Muzazi heard a loud and unmistakable thump strike the metal surface of the carriage. Even before the smoke cleared, he readied his Radiant, prepared to counter any unseen attack that might come. For the moment, however, that attack did not.


    Instead, the smoke just cleared, revealing the figure of Nael Manron. Standing there, unharmed. The only sign that he¡¯d even been hit by the Almighty was some dishevelment of his clothing, and even that just looked fashionable.


    The frantic movement of the last few minutes came to an end, and once again the two just stared each other down.


    "That¡¯s quite the move," Nael commented, the strings of his Shamichoro tasting the air once more. "No wonder it put King in checkmate."


    "And yet you¡¯re just fine, aren¡¯t you?" Muzazi replied, pointing his Radiant at his foe. "What¡¯s your secret?"


    Nael smiled thinly. "Discretion."


    Clearly, the King of Killers had more than a few tricks up his sleeve. To be expected from an assassin, Muzazi supposed, but that didn¡¯t make them any less difficult to deal with. From the information he¡¯d been given, he had been led to believe those string attacks were all Nael Manron was capable of -- but that clearly wasn¡¯t the case.


    Right before Muzazi had used Almighty, Manron had revealed some kind of sound projectile attack and used it to destroy the pillars. That meant his range was much longer than Muzazi had assumed. Before he¡¯d used that attack, though, he¡¯d brought his strings back into the shamisen itself -- so did that mean he couldn¡¯t use the sound and strings at the same time?


    Best not to assume.


    Then, there was obviously some kind of defensive ability at work as well. Radiant Almighty had only been at two-fifths of its full strength, but even so: that had been a direct hit. Judging from the level of Aether infusion Muzazi had observed so far, Manron shouldn¡¯t have been capable of withstanding that unscathed.


    The King of Killers hadn¡¯t used that defense at any other point in the fight, though: Muzazi was certain of that. There had to be a trade-off, then. Was it the same as the sound attack? Could he not use that defense and the strings at the same time?


    "You look like you¡¯re thinking pretty deeply," Nael murmured, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his eyes still locked onto Muzazi. "Did I throw you off?"


    My best move is to buy time to observe and think.


    "You wanted to talk to me about failure," Muzazi said. "Go ahead."


    Nael hesitated, his brow furrowing for a second. "It¡¯s a trick."


    "Regardless of whether or not it¡¯s a trick," Muzazi replied. "It¡¯s what you wanted, isn¡¯t it? Go ahead. Give me your sermon."


    The pacing stopped, and the shamisen lowered. For the time being, at least, it seemed the King of Killers was willing to talk. Rain battered against both of them, but the words were still clearly audible.


    "You¡¯ve been torn apart too, right?" Nael asked. "Stabbed in the back so hard it feels like you¡¯re about to collapse into pieces -- and you do. Like everything you believed in¡­ everything you relied on, just vanished in an instant. Like it was never even there in the first place. And you realize that all of it meant nothing."


    Marie whispered: "¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€."


    "No," Muzazi said, slowly shaking his head. "No¡­ I can¡¯t relate to that at all."


    "Don¡¯t lie!" Nael snapped, raising his Shamichoro back up -- the strings writhing in the air like agitated snakes. "You can pretend, but I see through you! There¡¯s no difference at all between you and me, except you¡¯re a fake. You pretend like nothing happened, like you¡¯re fine, like you moved on -- but people like us don¡¯t move on! We can¡¯t! You are broken, and you will be broken forever!"


    The rain poured over the truck, and another flash of lightning illuminated the city for a moment. Nael¡¯s eyes, wide and crazed, glared into Muzazi¡¯s placid gaze.


    "You really believe that?" Muzazi asked.


    "I understand it," Nael snarled.


    "I see¡­" Muzazi closed his eyes for a moment. "How pitiable."


    Nael roared with the ferocity of a beast, swinging his Shamichoro -- and the strings -- with all his strength. Sparks were spat as the wires scraped against each other. An emotional attack, without the King of Killer¡¯s usual cold lethality. Easily taken advantage of.


    Instead of retreating, Muzazi charged forward, dropping onto his knees and sliding under the razor-sharp strings.


    He¡¯d seen it back in the museum. Although Shamichoro was capable of fearsome mid-range attacks, its efficacy dropped once Muzazi got right into Nael Manron¡¯s face. The Guardian Entity was forced onto the backfoot, using all three strings to deflect just one of Muzazi¡¯s swords. In terms of raw physical strength, Manron might have had the edge, but Muzazi wouldn¡¯t be outdone when it came to speed.


    Or at least¡­ that was how it was meant to go. Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A barrage of black spikes pierced the carriage of the truck between Muzazi and his target, forcing him to leap back. As he flipped through the air, he swung his Radiants, deflecting another swipe from Shamichoro¡¯s strings. The jump was risky, though -- he¡¯d had to use strong thrusters just so he didn¡¯t go flying off the truck. Not a maneuver he was eager to repeat.


    He glanced at the source of the attack. As expected.


    "You disgrace yourself, Nael Manron," muttered Muzazi.


    Nael smiled humourlessly, holding his arms out wide. "Look at me, friend," he said, his gaze lethargic. "I¡¯m nothing but disgrace."


    A car was pulling in alongside their truck -- and from atop that car grinned members of the Crimson Carnival. At some point, Nael had clearly called in backup. Muzazi quickly counted his new opponents: six in all, and Manron made seven.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    As one, they leapt off their car and onto the truck behind their boss. None of them bore any uniform, nothing that would define them as members of the Crimson Carnival, but you could tell. A few scowled, others gave cocky grins, and some even laughed -- but as they stood by Nael Manron, weapons slung over their shoulders, their eyes all had the same look.


    A look that whispered two things: they wanted nothing more than to feel his blood on their hands¡­ and they were sure they¡¯d already done it.


    Muzazi¡¯s frown deepened as an Emerald Eye whizzed by. While a tactic like this would be frowned upon by the public, it wasn¡¯t strictly speaking against the rules. By beginning their match outside of the Arena, both of them had basically consented to such dirty moves from the beginning.


    Yes¡­ both of them.


    I.


    The carriage of the truck was illuminated by a series of rapid purple flashes -- and with each flash, one of the interlopers vanished. Soon enough, it was just Muzazi and Nael atop the vehicle once again.


    Nael frowned at the muffled voices below -- voices coming from inside the truck.


    "Looks like you made preparations," he commented, raising an eyebrow. "That¡¯s surprising."


    Muzazi couldn¡¯t resist a smirk. "Whatever Dragan Hadrien has told you about me," he said, raising his blade. "His information is outdated. I¡¯m not afraid to get my hands dirty."


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    "Wow," Nael chuckled humourlessly. "Tell me, then. I play dirty, you play dirty. Where¡¯s this difference between you and me? You keep acting like it exists, but --"


    "The difference between you and me," Muzazi interrupted. "...is that I am capable of thought. Did you really think this was some random truck I happened to land on?"


    Another flash of purple from down below --


    -- this time accompanied by a bloodcurdling scream.


    Man, Morgan thought, leaping over a hail of black spikes. Atoy Muzazi really knows how to put you through your paces.


    To be perfectly honest, Morgan had been expecting two or three Crimson Carnival members to back up Manron -- not six, and certainly not all at the same time. Transporting them inside the sealed space of the carriage with I had been easy, and it had given him the element of surprise¡­ but that didn¡¯t mean the fighting was easy.


    A!


    Morgan spun through the air as he leapt off with enhanced force, his saber lashing out and slashing open the throat of the nearest assassin. The unfortunate fellow staggered backwards, clutching his bleeding neck, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. As Morgan landed behind him, he struck again, cutting the top of the man¡¯s head clean off.


    One down. He¡¯d never even gotten to use his Guardian Entity.


    Another hail of black spikes came from a broad-shouldered Pugnant woman near the back of the truck -- no, from her Guardian Entity, a small lupine creature lurking on her shoulder. Morgan blocked with it a barrier of Amplified Fog before jumping through and driving his blade through her temple.


    Two down.


    He really didn¡¯t understand these Guardian Entity things. These Crimson Carnival guys seemed to believe that, by getting one, they¡¯d developed some sort of extraordinary power. Maybe their leader had something special, but them? They¡¯d developed an ordinary power and put it inside a rabbit. Whatever advantages an Entity conferred, they weren¡¯t making use of.


    Oh well, Morgan thought, rushing under the arm of a third enemy and slashing him as well. Never interrupt your opponent when they¡¯re making a mistake, and never educate them while they¡¯re being a fool.


    But still¡­ don¡¯t they get tired of being so boring?


    The truck turned into an alley between two buildings, walls rushing by on either side -- the abyss below seeming to stretch down and down forever. As the sounds of muffled combat rang out from within the carriage, Atoy Muzazi and Nael Manron regarded each other. Muzazi raised his empty hand, ready to receive Manron¡¯s attacks. Manron drew his Shamichoro back, ready to unleash them.


    Both of their minds rushed with the burden of the moments before them.


    Nael Manron has more subordinates than this, Muzazi thought. I¡¯m willing to bet there are more members of the Crimson Carnival in pursuit -- and they¡¯ll know not to make contact with the truck this time. I can¡¯t worry about that right now, though. The other Phases positioned along the route will deal with them.


    He adjusted the angle of his foot, just a tad. Cold rain battered against the back of his head. Slowly, as if too sudden a movement would be dangerous, he blinked.


    Right now, he decided. My priority should be whatever defensive ability Manron possesses. It was sufficient to withstand a roughly half-power strike of Radiant Almighty. That¡¯s not something to take lightly. If he¡¯s capable of that, he¡¯ll be capable of taking any of my other attacks. I can¡¯t use Almighty again in these close quarters. Should I abandon the truck and try to get some distance? No -- if I do that, I¡¯ll have to deal with the rest of the Carnival alone. They¡¯d be a fatal distraction.


    As the rain fell, it sizzled off the Radiant coming from his other hand. Steam rose into the air.


    I can¡¯t think of a way around his shield until I¡¯ve seen it for myself. I need to force him to bring it out -- to threaten enough damage with an attack that he has no choice but to expose the ability. There are ways I can do that.


    Atoy Muzazi smiled.


    Nael Manron frowned.


    Judging from the noises below, he thought, inspecting the vibrations as one of Shamichoro¡¯s strings brushed against the carriage roof. There¡¯s one person inside taking out my backup. One of the Eight Phases, probably. Is it just the one helping Muzazi? I doubt it. There¡¯ll be more waiting in the wings.


    As godsblood ran across Manron¡¯s skin, patches started to pale again, revealing the glowing red veins beneath. It was like he was a repugnant statue. The ugliness outside matching the fifth within.


    The sensation grounded him.


    From what I recall, vehicles like this need either a human driver or a machine to operate it. Would Muzazi trust a machine for this important task? Maybe, maybe not¡­ but if I assume not, that suggests that there¡¯s another of the Eight Phases driving. If things go badly, I may need to fight all three of them at once. That would be difficult -- the quality of Muzazi¡¯s reinforcements is far superior to the scum I have access to.


    The truck passed through the alleyway, the nightly splendor of Azum-Ha spreading out before them once again. The camera machines continued to follow them in a great green swarm, like flies to the carcass of battle.


    Shamichoro was able to withstand that massive attack, but it wasn¡¯t at full strength. Under no circumstances can I give him a chance to prepare another one. In such close quarters, that shouldn¡¯t be too difficult¡­ but he¡¯s more cunning than I was warned.


    If that¡¯s the case¡­ Atoy Muzazi thought.


    If that¡¯s the case¡­ Nael Manron thought.


    It was a peculiar phenomenon, the moment before two great warriors clashed. They would stare at each other for what felt like hours, running simulations in their minds about how the battle would go, trying to take each and every variable into account. The clash between them occurred a thousand times before reality had a chance to catch up.


    At some point, a step had to be taken, though. At some point, a fist had to be thrown. Their resolutions were the same:


    I¡¯ll have to get in closer!


    Thrusters blasted Muzazi towards Nael with blinding speed, and the flurry of Radiant-blows would have been enough to blind a normal human. In this case, though, the strings of Shamichoro were more than a match -- reflexively blocking and parrying each and every attack. That did not dissuade the Full Moon. He continued to press forward, step after step, even knowing that he was putting himself in range for a lethal strike.


    If Nael was blocking Muzazi¡¯s attacks, then the reverse was also true. Muzazi¡¯s defense began to falter as the rate of whipping wires increased. Muzazi was faster than Nael, to be sure, but he was not faster than the strings.


    Slowly, but surely, blood began to fall onto the metal below. Soon, Shamichoro was drawing blood with every tenth attack¡­ then every ninth¡­ then every eighth -- more and more holes opening in Muzazi¡¯s defenses. If this pleased Nael any, however, he did not show it. He just continued to glare, his expression mildly disgruntled.


    Something¡¯s wrong, he thought to himself. This guy should be bleeding more than this. Even if the individual attacks are superficial, he should be bleeding out from them. There¡¯s a trick.


    He saw it immediately -- when Shamichoro¡¯s third string struck out and slashed Muzazi¡¯s throat wide open¡­


    ¡­for a moment.


    In the same instant that the wound was dealt, before more than a few drops of blood could emerge from the gap, there was a flash of white. When it cleared, the wound on Muzazi¡¯s throat was sealed shut, closed. Sweat poured down Muzazi¡¯s face as he continued his advance.


    I see¡­ Nael mused. Despite everything, he couldn¡¯t help but be impressed. This crazy bastard¡­ at the exact same time I open up a wound, he cauterizes it by manifesting thrusters inside his own body. The pain must be unbearable, but I guess that¡¯s what ¡¯resolve¡¯ looks like.


    Still¡­ I doubt you can cauterize a chopped-off head.


    Even as the strings cut into his body, Muzazi continued to advance.


    I can¡¯t afford to take another hit like that, he thought. I need to focus the damage I take onto less vital areas if possible. There are parts of my body I can sacrifice if it comes down to it¡­ but that might not be necessary.


    This should be enough.


    Indeed, Atoy Muzazi had not charged forward and taken all this damage for the sake of getting into position for a plan. Charging forward and taking all this damage had been his plan.


    If he wanted to force Nael to expose his defenses, he had to trap the Scurrant in a painful and sustained attack. Radiant Ablaze, blasting thrusters from the floor itself onto his enemy, would be suitable -- but Manron knew that too. That was why he was infusing the floor beneath him with his own Aether, preventing Muzazi from manifesting thrusters there. It was first come, first served when it came to infusion, after all.


    However¡­


    Nael adjusted his footing, Muzazi¡¯s blood covering his boot. White Aether sparked through the shed red. Nael¡¯s eyes widened. He realized too late.


    It was first come, first served -- and Atoy Muzazi had infused his own blood with Aether long before he¡¯d allowed Nael Manron to shed it. The blood coating the carriage¡­ was now a minefield.


    Radiant Ablaze.


    Thrusters blasted out of the bloodstains, each and every one aimed directly for Nael Manron¡¯s body, buffeting him with heat and force. A blood curdling scream rang out from the King of Killers as the white fires blasted against him, igniting his coat and his hair. Red Aether, insufficient to defend fully, ran along Manron¡¯s body.


    He had no choice.


    "Shamichoro!" Manron roared, his voice cracking from the agony. "Bachigawa!"


    The strings moved with sudden and frightening speed, enough to force Muzazi to retreat -- but they did not attack. No, instead they converged, each of them aimed squarely for the body of their master. Crimson Aether ran along their surfaces.


    As Manron¡¯s scream continued, the strings wrapped around his body, over and over again, so tightly that the gaps between them ceased to be visible. They grew tighter, and tighter, and tighter¡­ until the King of Killer¡¯s fingers were sharpened into metal claws, and his eyes were nothing but a faint red glow behind layers and layers of metal. The body of the shamisen planted itself against his back like an addition to his spine. Looking at the metal man, Muzazi found himself reminded of the Citizen, from back on Taldan.


    Nael Manron sighed, voice distorted by his own Aether --


    "I felt that one¡­" he said quietly. "...my turn."


    -- and the King of Killers lunged forward, swinging a fist of solid steel.

 Chapter 364:13.22: Against the Rain (Part 3)

    Clad in newfound armour, Nael Manron sighed, voice distorted by his own Aether --


    "I felt that one¡­" he said quietly. "...my turn."


    -- and the King of Killers lunged forward, swinging a fist of solid steel.


    Muzazi ducked under it, a thruster blasting out from the back of his head to speed its descent, but there was no need. The attack was slow. Skilled as Nael Manron was, by the time his fist had reached Muzazi, the Full Moon could have dodged three times over. The sweeping kick he attempted next was similarly sluggish -- Muzazi cartwheeled over the attack and retreated to the back of the truck. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Nael¡¯s red eyes followed Muzazi¡¯s movement. It wasn¡¯t just that he was slow, then, but more that he was¡­ heavy.


    Thump. Thump.


    The footsteps confirmed it. It wasn¡¯t as if Nael had gained any additional mass by wrapping his weapon around himself, so this had to be a condition to his defensive ability. By taking on a burden that would slow down his movements and reduce his offensive capability, he gained the absurd durability needed to withstand a direct hit from Radiant Almighty.


    Muzazi looked his opponent¡¯s new form up and down. He couldn¡¯t see any gaps in the tightly-wrapped armour, no weak points he could target with his Radiants. As he looked though, he did see the armour start to unwrap, Shamichoro returning to its attack form.


    He couldn¡¯t allow that.


    Muzazi charged in again, striking Nael with a barrage of Radiant-blows. Needless to say, they did no damage, but the King of Killers had no choice but to keep his armour in place. The last thing Muzazi wanted was for his opponent to remove this absolute shield. If he did that, things would reset back to the way they were a few minutes ago -- and Muzazi would have shed his blood for nothing.


    This armour truly was invincible. With the space provided, Muzazi didn¡¯t have the time to charge up an attack that would get through it. The armour could not be broken¡­


    ¡­but the man inside was another story.


    As Nael brought both his fists in to smash his chest, Muzazi lunged forward -- grabbing those metal hands in his own and beginning to push. His face turned red with exertion as he struggled with the King of Killers, both of them trying to force the other back towards the edge. Thrusters exploded out of his back to increase his pushing force further, but progress was agonizingly slow -- Nael¡¯s feet were only slowly scraping against the carriage. He was using all his strength too, after all. He understood what Atoy Muzazi was thinking.


    Nael¡¯s armoured hands glowed red from the sheer heat of the thrusters Muzazi was exuding. Muzazi narrowed his eyes.


    Even if none of Muzazi¡¯s attacks would work, a fall from this height -- into the pits of Azum-Ha itself -- would kill anything that lived.


    "Damn¡­ you¡­" Nael hissed as they slowly, slowly, agonizingly slowly¡­ reached the edge.


    They would go no further, though. Nael had dug his toes into the metal below, pinpoint Aether boosting their strength while the armour protected the rest of his body. A final stalemate had been reached.


    So Atoy Muzazi simply swooped down and cleanly sliced away the part of the roof Manron was standing on.


    It wasn¡¯t as dramatic as he¡¯d expected. One second, Nael was there -- and the next, he¡¯d dropped out of sight, plunging into the darkness below. Some of the Emerald Eyes flew down to follow him, but most just continued to circle the truck. They wanted a good shot of their winner, after all.


    Atoy Muzazi let out a sigh of relief --


    -- and Nael Manron dropkicked him in the back.


    Crack.


    Everything Muzazi did in that next moment was instinct. There was no time for conscious thought to spark, and no room for it to find purchase among the pain. As he went flying off the back of the truck, Muzazi scrambled, arms flailing in the air -- finally seizing hold of the edge of the roof with his right hand, barely keeping his grip.


    Reason returned. Muzazi went to pull himself up, to leap back into the fight¡­ but he wasn¡¯t so blessed. Shamichoro¡¯s strings whipped through the air and sliced the fingers from the hand clean away.


    Atoy Muzazi fell.


    NO!


    Nael Manron wasn¡¯t the only one who could use pinpoint Aether. Muzazi flooded all of his Aether into the fingers from his left hand -- and dug them into the side of the carriage, leaving long jagged trails like they were claws. The wind battered against him, each new gust threatening to send him flying off like discarded paper. The rain and the exhaust were such that he could barely even see.


    But he was alive, even if the duration of that life still remained to be seen.


    Nael Manron, freed from his armour, glared down at Muzazi from atop the truck. Now that he had a second to think, he understood what Manron had done. Clearly, the King of Killers could think as quickly as the Full Moon to avoid death. As he¡¯d fallen, Manron had undone his armour, latched onto the bottom of the truck with a string -- and swung all the way around to attack Muzazi from behind.


    Muzazi would have been impressed, if he weren¡¯t in so much agony. Blood poured from the stumps of his fingers down into the darkness. White flashes of Aether popped like firecrackers as he used thrusters to stop the bleeding¡­ but that didn¡¯t do much for the pain.


    "Atoy Muzazi¡­" Nael murmured, looking down at his opponent with disdain. "You think you¡¯re hanging on by a thread there, don¡¯t you? You don¡¯t get it."


    Muzazi tried to pull himself upwards -- but the strings of Shamichoro slashed against the metal above him, sending sparks raining down.


    "You fell a long time ago, friend," Nael hissed, his blood-red eyes a stark contrast to his now porcelain-white skin. "Me too. It¡¯s time we accept it and let ourselves hit the ground."


    "That¡¯s what you want?" Muzazi asked, wincing as another shower of sparks rained down. "You want to ¡¯hit the ground¡¯?"


    "You¡¯ll kill me," Nael explained slowly. "And I¡¯ll kill you. We¡¯ll vanish from this world without a trace. It¡¯s what filth like us deserves."


    "Well¡­" Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "You¡¯ve got half of that right."


    Thrusters -- on.


    It was true that Nael had cut off Muzazi¡¯s fingers, but the Full Moon wasn¡¯t just going to let them go. In the moment they¡¯d been severed, Muzazi had infused them with his Aether -- and now, all at the same time, he activated the thrusters he¡¯d planted on them. Like guided missiles, they zoomed at Manron from every direction.


    "Shamichoro," Nael said calmly, not even looking at the incoming attacks. "Bachigawa."


    Lightning fast, the strings wrapped around his body again, encasing him in that indomitable armour. The fingers clashed against the steel, thrusters bursting out from the back of them as they relentlessly continued to try and push through their target. Even with his face concealed, Muzazi could tell that Nael Manron was sneering down at him.


    "This is it?" he mocked. "Did you think a surprise attack would break through Bachigawa?"


    "No," Muzazi admitted, tightening his grip on the truck. "There¡¯s no way those thrusters can get through that armour."


    "Then¡­"


    "They don¡¯t need to get through anything," he finished, grinning a weary grin. "All they need to do¡­ is burn."


    The secondary thrusters exploded into life, each blasting out from the tip of a finger. Zero pushing force and maximum heat -- all of it pouring directly into the metal armour before it. It quickly began to glow an angry orange¡­ and then a fiery red.


    "I noticed the effect the heat had on your armour when I was pushing you," Muzazi said, watching as Nael writhed up above. "Feel free to take it off if you¡¯re overheated¡­ that is, if you don¡¯t mind the attack hitting you."


    An attack of heat if Nael left the armour on. An attack of force if Nael took the armour off. Muzazi had positioned his fingers so that they couldn¡¯t be easily removed or destroyed. By the time the King of Killers got hold of them, the damage would have already been done.


    Muzazi had won.


    Hadn¡¯t he?


    What happened next was a desperate gamble on Nael Manron¡¯s part.


    Back in the museum, Muzazi had hesitated to use an Aether ping because he was worried about dropping his defenses. He¡¯d been right to be concerned: Nael had intended on chopping his head off the instant he sent that pulse out. Only his caution had kept him alive.


    However¡­ that wasn¡¯t something Nael had to worry about. As Shamichoro was keeping his body safe, he could let loose an Aether ping without any concern at all. He could let loose a hundred without losing the tiniest bit of durability.


    But why would he do that?


    Because of the driver. The person operating this vehicle. Nael had speculated that they were either one of the Eight Phases or an automatic. If they were an automatic, then this maneuver would be useless. Nael Manron would waste his last chance, and he would die.


    But if they were one of the Phases¡­


    Aether ping.


    Manron¡¯s crimson Aether screamed across his surroundings, bathing them in a brief and bloody glow. He had chosen his moment impeccably, even through the haze of pain.


    When an Aether ping struck an unprepared Aether-user, there was an involuntary response. They froze up, just for a second, and their own Aether sparked in retaliation against the contact. Ordinarily, that time would only be useful for locating hiding opponents.


    Ordinarily, that was the case. However, at the very instant Nael Manron had sent out that pulse of Aether¡­


    ¡­the truck was right in the middle of a turn.


    The turn was not finished. Nael Manron¡¯s gamble paid off. The driver was frozen for just the briefest moment -- and in that moment, instead of turning, the truck just kept going forward --


    -- smashing through the building before it.


    Black.


    Unconsciousness or death? Nael Manron could not decide which one this was, nor which one he¡¯d prefer. Many times he¡¯d felt the pull of the latter, but somehow he¡¯d remained on his feet. His feet, coated with blood, atop a pile of bodies.


    What a mess.


    White.


    He opened his eyes. He was back home. Everything was as it once was. Fields of rolling green, and the capitol standing proud above all. The embodiment of justice and righteousness. Rotting corpses in place of cement, holding the buildings together. Everyone did their part.


    "Nael," said a voice.


    He turned around. There, she was standing. There, she was smiling. There, she was speaking.


    Wait. That wasn¡¯t right.


    "Nael," she said.


    "Huh?"


    "Nael," she said.


    "What? What is it?"


    Her smile widened.


    "I betrayed you and you deserved to be betrayed," she said. "You were a fool to imagine otherwise."


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    They were crawling over his skin. They were crawling over his throat. He opened his mouth and they found entry. "Don¡¯t say that."


    "I betrayed you and you deserved to be betrayed," she repeated, more mockingly this time, her smile becoming a crescent-moon smirk. "You were a fool to imagine otherwise."


    "Stop!" he screamed, turning to run -- only to smack face-first into the chest of the towering Prester Garth. Wide blank eyes like lanterns stared down at him without pity. When the head of the Regulators spoke, the smell of death poured from his rotting mouth.


    "I betrayed you and you deserved to be betrayed," he growled, maggots eating their way out of his eyes. "You were a fool to imagine otherwise."


    The sky was falling, shards skewering everyone below. His men¡­ the ones he¡¯d led into battle¡­ sliced to pieces by the true nature of the world. Tongues of flame plucked their heads from their shoulders.


    "I betrayed you and you deserved to be betrayed," the sky laughed. "You were a fool to imagine otherwise."


    "I betrayed you and you deserved to be betrayed," the land laughed. "You were a fool to imagine otherwise."


    "I betrayed you and you deserved to be betrayed," the world laughed. "You were a fool to imagine otherwise."


    It was always only at the end of this dream that Nael realized this wasn¡¯t his first time experiencing it. The same every night. The same fear, pain, betrayal¡­ and fruitless realization. The flies filled him.


    They were home.


    They were fused at the wrist. Atoy Muzazi and Marie Hazzard. Orange crystal, like the sap of a tree, binding them in place. It was a good thing, too -- when you kept the abyss in mind.


    Scrambling onn the edge of the cliff, Muzazi pulled with all his strength, tears and sweat streaming down his face. It wasn¡¯t enough. No matter how hard he pulled, he couldn¡¯t get Marie up. She was going to fall. She was going to fall, and there was nothing he could do but lay there and cry.


    Pathetic. Unforgivable. It should have been him.


    "Atoy," Marie said seriously, looking at him. "¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€."


    "I know," he replied, tugging at her hand. "I know, I know, but¡­"


    The sun was coming down. Not just setting, but crashing into the surface of Panacea, shattering like an egg as it went. Somehow, it was still turning cold. Cracks were beginning to form, too, in the crystal holding them together.


    "No!" Muzazi screamed, as if his protests alone would hold it together. "No, no no no, no!"


    "Atoy," Marie said again, her red eyes still locked onto his grey. "¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€."


    "We can talk about that later!" Muzazi insisted. "Just hold on!"


    He pulled even more, pulled with such force that old wounds began to open up across his arm -- and the blood began to stream down freely. That only made it more slippery. The rain began to fall, and it too was red. It too was blood.


    "NO!" Muzazi roared.


    "Atoy," Marie snapped -- with surprising force, a fire burning in her eyes. "¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€, but¡­"


    Clarity brought the world into perspective, the true perspective, gravity revealing itself. Marie wasn¡¯t hanging off the cliff¡­ Muzazi was. And the only thing keeping him from falling was that fragile little crystal.


    "...you have to let go," Marie said.


    It was always only at the end that Muzazi realized. The same dream¡­ once again.


    The crystal broke.


    After the chaotic first match of the night, it had taken Ruth a while to find her crew and get them back together. For most of a horrifying hour, it had looked like they¡¯d even lost their client too, but they eventually managed to meet back up with Rae Ruditia. With all that had happened, Ruth felt like she¡¯d been on the verge of a dozen heart attacks tonight.


    Dragan¡­ the surrender¡­ the killings, clearly for his benefit. The gruesome fight between Mereloco and Tealin Jade certainly hadn¡¯t helped with the frantic atmosphere.


    Even so, Ruth couldn¡¯t stop to process everything, buried as she was in the crowd. Surrounded by the rest of Road and Restorossi, she could do nothing but look up with the rest of the galaxy at the monitors above. For the last few minutes, they¡¯d been displaying the battle between Atoy Muzazi and Nael Manron from various angles.


    Now, though?


    Now they were showing two bodies, lying on the ground a short distance from each other, with the smoking wreckage of a truck between them. The crash had been tremendous -- the vehicle smashing right through the wall of the building before it and hurling its occupants before the Ren¨¦e the Raven memorial.


    The statue of the Black Supreme was a menacing sight -- clad in a beaked mask and a feathered cloak, looking down imposingly. In life, she had wielded fearsome abilities called the Three Deaths: the Petty Death, the Majestic Death, and the Absolute Death. Even after death had found her, though, the founder of the Absurd Weapons Lab still seemed like a judge, looking down at the living with casual contempt.


    Looking down at the two prone contestants.


    Ruth realized that she was holding her breath. It was strange -- she¡¯d fought against both Atoy Muzazi and Nael Manron in the past. She hadn¡¯t particularly expected to root for one over the other, but¡­ for some reason, she found herself wishing for the Full Moon to get up first.


    That was the way things were, after all. Both of the fighters had clearly been knocked unconscious. The one who woke up first¡­ would be the one to win.


    The man they called Roman Hitch shoveled popcorn into his mouth as he watched the battle on the videograph. The boss-lady Ruth Blaine and the rest of Road and Restorossi had left him behind to guard the base-of-operations they¡¯d turned their hotel room into, which suited him well enough. Diligent effort bored him to tears more often than not.


    As he watched the bodies on the monitor slowly twitch back into consciousness, he narrowed his eyes.


    "C¡¯mon now, Mr. Muzazi," he muttered. "Don¡¯t disappoint me."


    Atoy Muzazi opened his eyes.


    Everything hurt, but that was nothing new. Until the battle was over, he couldn¡¯t permit himself to acknowledge the pain. He slowly rose to his feet. Where his body failed to perform, he used thrusters to compensate. A Radiant bloomed forth from his least damaged hand.


    Where was he? The memorial to Ren¨¦e the Raven. Good. That was still on the route he¡¯d preplanned, so they hadn¡¯t gone too far.


    Muzazi¡¯s vision blurred in and out, but he eventually managed to force it into clarity. Nael Manron was lying on the other side of the statue, sprawled out in a gruesome-looking heap. Still good. That meant he was the first to regain consciousness. He took a step forward on legs shaking like those of a baby deer.


    The truck was a wreck, flames pouring from its carriage. For a moment, alarm spiked through Muzazi¡¯s heart -- but no, he needn¡¯t have worried. Morgan Nacht dashed unharmed out of the flames, save for a singed-looking cloak. That new H ability had helped him recover from the damage, no doubt.


    He skidded in next to Muzazi, holding out a hand glowing with purple Aether. "Want me to¡­?"


    "No," Muzazi firmly shook his head, even as blood dribbled from his mouth. "It needs to be my victory. No healing."


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    Three kicks were all it took for Marcus Grace to escape from the driver¡¯s cabin. Blood running down a cut on his forehead, he climbed out of the upturned truck and made his way over to his comrades. "Sorry, boss," he muttered, wiping the blood away. "He got me good."


    "It¡¯s fine," Muzazi replied. "If he was an easy opponent, there¡¯d be no need for all of this."


    Ba¡­dump. Ba¡­ dump.


    Like when he¡¯d fought against King, he focused his Aether -- his thrusters -- on his heart, making it beat faster, more passionately. Some semblance of strength poured into his bones, and the shaking in his legs stopped. He stood up taller.


    Atoy Muzazi could still fight. He stepped forward.


    "And you!" he called out, pointing his Radiant at the figure on the ground. "I know you¡¯re already awake. You can¡¯t fool me!"


    For a moment, Nael remained still on the ground. Then, realizing the jig was up, he began to pick himself up from the ground. His long white hair was stained red by his own blood.


    "Damn¡­" he chuckled. "You¡¯re ice cold. You have a nice nap?"


    Muzazi did not reply. His mind was still rushing through the preplanned route. The famous memorial to Ren¨¦e the Raven¡­ that was where he¡¯d positioned one of his most loyal subordinates. That, at least, was auspicious.


    He caught a glimpse of his ally in the distant shadows, a hulking wooden figure with a build like a gorilla. Where an ordinary being would have a face, there was only a smooth square indentation in the bark. Muzazi smiled. It had been a while since the Last Fell Beast had sent out a humanoid extension of itself.


    "Ionir," he said. "As we discussed."


    Nael¡¯s head whipped around, but too late -- Ionir Ygdrassil pushed its arms forth, and those arms exploded into life, massive branches encircling the two opponents and isolating them. Within the span of a few seconds, Ionir had created a mighty wooden dome around Muzazi and Nael. Glowing orange leaves hung in the air around them, providing some modicum of light.


    Morgan, Marcus, and Ionir itself had been left outside as planned. They¡¯d need to guard against Nael¡¯s inevitable reinforcements. For this to be a true victory¡­ it had to end with one man against another.


    Now that he got a good look, Muzazi could see that Nael definitely hadn¡¯t escaped their earlier clash unscathed either. His body and face were covered in vicious burns, and he wasn¡¯t holding Shamichoro anymore.


    Nael seemed to notice where Muzazi was looking. "You destroyed my Guardian Entity in the crash," he explained. "It¡¯s gonna take some time to regenerate."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "I don¡¯t believe you." He had no doubt that this was a bluff -- intended to make Muzazi lower his guard so Nael could get a cheap shot in.


    "I don¡¯t give a shit if you believe me or not," Nael replied, beginning to walk forward. "You¡¯re gonna be dead in a few minutes anyway."


    "On that, we agree."


    Muzazi stepped forward, too, to meet his opponent. The Radiant flickered away, vanishing from his hand. His nerves and body were at their limit. There was only so much he was still capable of. Best to save whatever Radiants he could still muster for the moment he needed them.


    They stepped forward.


    "I¡¯ve suffered extreme damage," Muzazi said honestly. "I can¡¯t reliably produce swords anymore."


    They stepped forward.


    "I don¡¯t believe you," Nael replied.


    They stepped forward.


    Muzazi smirked. "As you said¡­ I don¡¯t give a shit if you believe me or not."


    They entered each other¡¯s range.


    Nael¡¯s fist slammed into Muzazi¡¯s temple, and Muzazi¡¯s fist smashed into Nael¡¯s jaw. Saliva and blood were spat in two directions as they both staggered back -- and then stepped in, unleashing a flurry of furious blows. It was a dance of carnage, strikes becoming blocks becoming grabs becoming twists.


    Nael screamed in pain as Muzazi nearly snapped his left wrist with a vicious application of force, and Muzazi gasped for breath as Nael jabbed at the scar on his throat. Muzazi caught one of Nael¡¯s kicks, bringing his elbow down like a hammer towards the joint -- and Nael only just broke free by pulling his leg back in. Muzazi spun, still using his elbow, jabbing it at Nael¡¯s face -- and Nael barely caught it in his hand.


    "You¡¯re getting tired, Muzazi," Nael grinned madly, his teeth stained with his own blood. "Tired and predic --"


    Thrusters -- on.


    Flames rushed forth from Muzazi¡¯s elbow, burning a hole right through the hand that had caught it. As Nael recoiled, Muzazi spun once more, unleashing a devastating roundhouse kick that sent the King of Killers flying. As his opponent crashed onto the ground a short distance away, the Full Moon let out a breath that felt more blood than air.


    Even with that blow, however, Nael just chuckled -- his voice muffled against the floor.


    "Damn¡­" he laughed. "Damn. What a mess. You really are strong, aren¡¯t you? I should start going all-out too."


    Muzazi adjusted his stance, ready to receive whatever the next blow might be. "I already told you¡­" he said, breathless. "Your bluffs won¡¯t work against me. You¡¯re wasting your time."


    "True, true¡­" Nael groaned, rising to his feet. "Good thing I¡¯m not bluffing, then."


    Red Aether crackled.


    In that moment, Atoy Muzazi knew that Nael Manron was telling the truth.


    In that moment, Atoy Muzazi knew that something terrible was about to happen.


    In that moment, Atoy Muzazi knew that he had to move.


    But too late. Far too late.


    Nael Manron, pale as a skeleton, looked up with eyes of spite.


    "Guardian Entity," he spat. "Hachiman."


    Zephyr Pandershi, founder and scientist-dictator of the Pandershi Foundation, would later come to write of this battle. The Guardian Entities were a brief fascination of his, and he described them as such:


    "Among the Guardian Entities, just as with humans, there exists both mediocrity and greatness. There is no shortage of worthless abilities, packed into Gene Tyrant leftovers, their users ignorant of just how much they have squandered the opportunity before them. When properly crafted, a Guardian Entity is capable of producing and controlling Aether far more potent than their user could manage alone."


    Space tore itself open behind Nael, forming a jagged gap into a dark abyss. For a moment, Muzazi thought that it would start sucking the world in -- that it would start devouring reality behind it -- but no. What happened was worse.


    Something started climbing out.


    "My own experiments have produced many potent beasts of war. But these are still beings that can be matched by the strength of an ordinary Aether-user. What I desire is the insurmountable. What I covet is the divine. Any common wolf can kill with its teeth. The Guardian Entities I admire embody the apotheosis of their craft.


    Among the Guardian Entities, only three are known to have reached the apex of heaven."


    A skull wormed its way out of the darkness. At a glance, one might think it used to be human, but no. Solid bone covered where eye sockets should have been. Its rictus grin was far too wide, and far too sharp. Cold smoke rose from the back of its head.


    As it opened its mouth, a worm-like tongue tasted the air, and did not seem to enjoy it.


    "There is Raij¨±, belonging to the former Lily Aubrisher, the master of lightning¡­"


    Four skeletal arms, with muscles of woven straw wrapped around the joints. Each bony hand clutched a killing instrument -- a sword in one, a spear in another, and a massive bow in the remaining two. All made of wood, but one look was enough to see that they¡¯d be more than sufficient to kill.


    A flame burnt within its ribcage, the spark of life on open display.


    "...there is Hiruko, the primordial ooze, recorded in last year¡¯s incident on Hexkay¡­"


    As the Guardian Entity emerged fully from the portal, it did not snap shut behind it. Instead, the gap in space shifted shape, falling like cloth¡­ and becoming a jet-black cloak that wrapped around the specter¡¯s shoulders. The thing had no bottom half, and so the closest thing it had to legs was the bottom of the cloak-shaped hole, brushing against the floor.


    The statue of Renee the Raven towered above it, but even so¡­ the Guardian Entity felt like the greater reaper.


    Its grin widened as it saw Muzazi.


    "...and then there is dread Hachiman -- the God of Murder."


    Nael Manron looked up, and his eyes were void.


    "Die."

 Chapter 365:13.23: Against the Rain (Part 4)

    The body of Hachiman creaked and clicked in the darkness, its hollow grin shining as it regarded Muzazi. Those long, skeletal fingers seemed to dance through the air as it pondered which weapon to use ¨C before finally settling on the massive bow clutched in two of its four hands. In an instant that felt agonisingly long, it took an arrow from between its ribs and drew back the string.


    Muzazi¡¯s heart hammered in his chest as he saw that arrow pointed at him. It was coming. Some animal instinct, deep inside his body, told him that this would be the most dangerous attack yet. He had to dodge it. If he couldn¡¯t dodge it, he had to block it.


    Sweat poured down his body as he waited for the fatal moment ¨C the moment Hachiman would commit to the attack and Muzazi could respond.


    It came. Hachiman released the string ¨C


    Pain.


    ¨C and the arrow vanished.


    Muzazi¡¯s pupils shuddered as he grasped for understanding of what had just happened. The arrow had not gone flying out of the bow. He was certain of that. It wasn¡¯t an illusion of speed that had made the arrow disappear. It had literally vanished.


    Vanished to where, though? Muzazi already suspected that. Slowly, blood already dribbling from the sides of his mouth, he looked down.


    The tip of the arrow was protruding from his chest.


    Despite everything, as he fell to one knee, he couldn¡¯t help but smile bitterly. He¡¯d been shot in the back. Of course. It seemed even an enemy standing in front of him was capable of such a feat.


    He gasped out the words: "How¡­ did you¡­?"


    As Hachiman had taken over combat for the time being, Nael Manron had taken the opportunity to recover his strength. He stood up straight as he looked down at Muzazi, his eyes cold. The mocking smirk he had worn previously had vanished. When it came to the killing blow, this man abandoned emotion.


    "Hachiman," he said by way of explanation. "Some people have started calling this guy the God of Murder, thanks to me. Its ability¡­ is to launch unblockable and unavoidable attacks."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened, and his jaw nearly fell agape. That couldn¡¯t be right, could it? Such an ability would be absurd. This had to be another bluff from the King of Killers.


    Only¡­ his eyes seemed honest right now.


    "Would you like a second demonstration?" Nael asked.


    Hachiman raised up its sword. Immediately, Muzazi ignited a Radiant to defend. He poured nearly all his Aether into his hands, ready to parry with all his might.


    The effort was fruitless.


    As Hachiman brought the wooden sword down, the space between the blade and Muzazi¡¯s body seemed to contract and compress ¨C as if the whole world had become a distorted lens, just for a moment. In that instant, the sword that had been meters away now directly slashed Muzazi¡¯s chest ¨C and cut viciously, spraying blood onto the ground. Before he could even feel the pain, space snapped back to coherency, restoring the distance between Muzazi and the Guardian Entity.


    "You see?" Nael continued, as Muzazi collapsed to the ground. "It doesn¡¯t matter what you try and block with or how far you run away. Hachiman manipulates space itself to reach you. Every arrow it fires is a point blank shot. Every swing of its sword is right in your face. As for the spear¡­"


    He raised a hand, and Hachiman tossed him the wooden polearm. Nael spun it in his grip, a cold smile returning to his lips.


    "Well¡­" he said. "You won¡¯t need to see that one today."


    IONIR YGGDRASSIL slapped an enemy out of the air with a mighty branch-arm, reducing them to a smear on the wall. The familiar they¡¯d summoned, a bizarre creature like a flayed kangaroo, vanished with them. They hadn¡¯t even gotten the chance to use their ability.


    As expected, those working for NaelManron had come to try and assist him in his battle. ATOY MUZAZI had been prudent to post guards. IONIR YGGDRASSIL, MorganNacht and MarcusGrace fought with vigor to keep any of these assassins from breaching the constructed dome. The young man slashed a metallic owl clean in half, and the Cogitant fired three perfect shots to shatter a shield of carbon. Like IONIR YGGDRASSIL, they would not condone interference ¨C this victory belonged to ATOY MUZAZI alone.


    Even so¡­


    Things were not going well for ATOY MUZAZI inside the dome. While IONIR YGGDRASSIL was controlling a humanoid body like this, it lost much access to the senses from its other forms, but the scent and taste of ATOY MUZAZI¡¯s blood was familiar. It littered the floor of the battlefield.


    More than anything else, IONIR YGGDRASSIL wished to break its promise and assist ATOY MUZAZI in this fight. But even if it wasn¡¯t bound by promises¡­


    ¡­some things still were just not done.


    Nael and Hachiman swooped in from either side, catching Muzazi in a pincer attack between them. Muzazi weaved and dodged as Nael swung and stabbed with the wooden spear, all the while keeping track of the Guardian Entity looming menacingly behind him.


    Why wasn¡¯t it attacking? Nael was clearly running interference for his Guardian Entity, but that didn¡¯t make sense. If the attacks Hachiman unleashed truly were unblockable and undodgeable, then there would be no need to make sure Muzazi was distracted. Even if he wasn¡¯t distracted, what could he do?


    No. Behaviour like this meant there was a weakness being compensated for. It wasn¡¯t the only oddity.


    For one, why wasn¡¯t he dead yet? It would have been easy for that unavoidable arrow to pierce his brain, rather than his back. Even his heart had been missed. The second slash had failed to finish him off, too. Why?


    The arrow was still protruding from Muzazi¡¯s chest, each movement bringing forth burning pain, but he didn¡¯t dare remove it. As things stood, it was the only thing stopping him from bleeding out.


    He ducked under a winding branch near the border of the dome and into an underbrush below ¨C small enough to house Nael and Muzazi, but not Hachiman. Right now, he needed to probe for weaknesses. How did Hachiman acquire the target for its unavoidable attacks? Did it have to see the enemy? Was there a general range they had to be within?


    If it was the latter, that would be bad news indeed, given the cramped battlefield ¨C but if it was the former, he may still have a chance.


    As Muzazi fell backwards into the undergrowth, he saw Hachiman suddenly freeze in the air and raise the sword once more. The next second, the reaper was no longer visible ¨C concealed behind countless branches and trunks. Muzazi wasn¡¯t relaxed, per se ¨C he was still dodging for his life against Nael¡¯s spear ¨C but he allowed himself to hope for a moment.


    Then he was hit by Hachiman¡¯s second sword-strike.


    This time, it struck him in the back again, near his hip. Muzazi gasped in pain ¨C but that was quickly cut short as Nael, taking advantage of the distraction, slammed the butt of his spear into Muzazi¡¯s face. There was a sickening crunch as Muzazi was sent crashing through the branches back into the open, his nose gruesomely broken.


    He had no time to recover. As Muzazi flew out, Hachiman appeared in his path, raising its sword to cut him down mid-flight. On instinct, Muzazi used his thrusters to flip into a ready position ¨C and this time, blocked that sword-strike with his own Radiant. His eyes widened.


    Huh?


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Nael caught up, slamming his foot into Muzazi¡¯s side and sending him crashing down to the floor. Even as he slid across the ground, though ¨C leaving a slick trail of blood as he went ¨C Muzazi¡¯s mind was racing. He¡¯d just seen something important.


    That last one had been an ordinary attack. It had been strong, sure, but not unavoidable. Why hadn¡¯t Hachiman used its ability there?


    As Muzazi threw himself up off the ground, dodging a spear-strike aimed at his head from Nael, an answer swam into focus. Between Hachiman¡¯s first and second attacks, there had been several seconds of time. But the third attack, avoidable as it was, had taken place almost immediately after the second. Was it that simple? Was there a charging time to those unavoidable strikes?


    Slowly but surely, he was investigating this ability. No power was absolute. Conditions existed for every glory.


    The sword swung through empty air for a third time ¨C and Muzazi tensed up, ready to receive the blow. White-hot pain pulsed next to his head, and sickly blood began to crawl down his chin. A single glance to what had just fallen told Muzazi all he needed to know. This time, his right ear had been cut off.


    That was another matter he needed to clarify. What determined where Hachiman¡¯s attacks hit? There seemed to be little rhyme or reason to them, but Muzazi doubted they were truly random.


    Nael and Hachiman attacked at the same time.


    The spear stabbed deep into Muzazi¡¯s right arm, nearly impaling the limb ¨C and the King of Killers used the resultant leverage to hurl Muzazi up into the air. As he flew, Hachiman fired off another arrow at him ¨C not an unavoidable one, but still one so strong and so fast that it took all he had left to dodge it. It blasted a hole in the wooden dome, citylight and battlecries oozing in through the gap.


    He didn¡¯t have long. He had to figure this out now.


    As Muzazi landed, focusing nearly all his Aether into his legs to keep himself steady, Hachiman raised its blade once more ¨C and with that, the Full Moon¡­


    ¡­understood.


    This was all but over.


    Nael watched grimly as Muzazi fell out of the air, ready to receive Hachiman¡¯s absolute arrow. He was the first to stay alive against the God of Murder for so long, but in a way that was even worse. The injuries he was accruing had long since robbed him of the ability to move under his own power ¨C he was using thrusters for all of that now. By the time he finally dropped, it¡¯d have to be a closed casket funeral ¨C or a closed casket niain, perhaps.


    "Hachiman," Nael muttered. "Finish him off."


    The arrow vanished from the string, and Nael waited for the man before him to drop dead like so many others. Only¡­ he didn¡¯t. He remained there, legs quivering beneath him, black-and-white hair hanging over his face. Had he died on his feet?


    No. Muzazi looked up.


    Nael furrowed his brow. "...what?"


    The Full Moon was grinning, almost giggling, even as his own blood dripped from his face. Slowly, he raised his left hand, extending a middle finger ¨C or at least, he would have, if that finger wasn¡¯t now missing from the hand. The stump spat blood all over.


    "I knew it," Muzazi gasped, delirious from blood loss. "That thing¡¯s attacks can¡¯t be dodged¡­ and they can¡¯t be blocked¡­ but they can be mitigated."


    Shit. He¡¯d figured it out.


    Muzazi threw himself forward with thrusters, that mad grin still on his face, a Radiant igniting from the palm of his other hand.


    "Your Hachiman has three weaknesses!" he screamed ¨C and as he did, he swung his blade in an attempt at decapitation that Nael only narrowly avoided.


    He¡¯s lost his mind.


    "One!" Muzazi roared. Hachiman and Nael lunged at him at the same time ¨C but the Full Moon blocked both with twin Radiants from his palms. "Your Guardian Entity can¡¯t unleash those unavoidable attacks continuously, right?! There¡¯s a charge time of five seconds!"


    Hachiman broke free of their blade clash, seizing Muzazi by the head and hurling him towards the other side of the dome. As Muzazi flew, Hachiman and Nael swapped weapons ¨C Nael tossing the spear back to its owner and catching the bow in his own hands.


    The God of Murder thrust the spear forward, space crushed between itself and Atoy Muzazi for just an instant to accommodate the killing blow ¨C but another of Muzazi¡¯s remaining fingers burst into gore instead.


    "Two!" Muzazi cried, twisting in the air. He pressed his feet against the side of the dome as he made contact and kicked back off, zooming like a bullet towards Nael and Hachiman. "Those attacks! They can¡¯t be dodged! They can¡¯t be blocked! But! They can be mitigated!"


    Nael clicked his tongue as he threw the bow up, blocking a Radiant-strike intended to slice him in half.


    This bastard really had figured it out. It was true ¨C there was no way to dodge or block Hachiman¡¯s ability. No matter what, the attack would hit the target. However, whether the attack would kill the target was another story entirely.


    Hachiman took the path of least resistance ¨C the attack would strike the part of the target¡¯s body that was the least protected. Even if they covered their entire body in absurd armour, some spot would be slightly less durable than the rest ¨C and that was where the blow would land. Muzazi was taking advantage of that to buy himself time.


    At the very instant Hachiman unleashed its absolute attack, Muzazi was releasing the infusion on one of his fingers, so that it would take the blow rather than a vital spot. Nael supposed Muzazi didn¡¯t need fingers to swing those light-swords of his, but still¡­ what a crazy bastard


    It wouldn¡¯t save him.


    As Muzazi pushed against Nael, trying to overpower him with all he had left, Hachiman loomed over the Full Moon from behind. Five seconds had passed¡­


    "Three," Muzazi gasped. "Whenever Hachiman uses an absolute attack, it has to stop all other movement!"


    ¡­but just because five seconds had passed didn¡¯t mean Hachiman had to use an absolute attack.


    Muzazi kicked Nael away and spun around, swinging his Radiant at the immobilised Hachiman. Only, it wasn¡¯t immobilised. With languid ease, Hachiman swooped out of the way of Muzazi¡¯s strike -- and lunged in, thrusting the spear forward.


    Before the Full Moon could blink, he had been impaled on the weapon, held up on high by the Guardian Entity. The tip of the spear bloomed forth from just underneath Muzazi¡¯s collar. He tried to take a breath, but all he managed was a dry gasp.


    Nael stood up straight, brushing some of the blood and dust from his coat.


    "And that¡¯s game," he growled.


    So¡­ Muzazi thought, his mind a shadow. This is the world as you see it, Nael Manron? I see. I see what you mean. This truly is intolerable.


    An endless sequence of blows, unavoidable, always aimed for the part of you most vulnerable. No matter how far you ran, or how hard you tried to defend yourself, new pain would find you. Any happiness was just the world bluffing. Any peace was just the instant between attacks.


    There was no hope. There was nothing.


    But was that really true? Muzazi reached up, seized the spear that had run him through with what fingers he had left -- and grinned his bloody grin once more. The moment Hachiman had impaled him, Nael had lost this battle.


    It must be humiliating for the King of Killers, Muzazi supposed. He¡¯d been fooled¡­ exactly the same way¡­ twice in one night. White specks of light flowed into Muzazi¡¯s shaking hand.


    In these cramped quarters, there would have been no way for Muzazi to charge up Radiant Almighty. Nael or Hachiman would have destroyed the pillars instantly. But the Guardian Entity really shouldn¡¯t have fired off that arrow¡­ it really shouldn¡¯t have opened that hole in the dome¡­


    ¡­because, right now, six massive blades of light were blazing on the outside of the structure.


    Nael realised, too late. His eyes widened and he jumped back. He opened his mouth and screamed:


    "HACHIMAN! GET HIM AWAY!"


    Hachiman followed the command it was given. It dropped the spear and Muzazi with it, leaving them to fall out of the air. But still¡­ too late, too late, too late.


    As Muzazi turned mid-fall, he saw Hachiman¡¯s inhuman face and smiled. It was an ugly, wretched thing, all bone and blood and snarling tongue. All it could do was kill. All it could do was hurt.


    There is more to life than you, Muzazi thought, looking at the God of Murder.


    "Atoy," Marie said. "¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€."


    I love you too, Marie.


    Atoy Muzazi swung the sword up¡­


    Radiant¡­ Almighty. S~ea??h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡­and everything went white.

 Chapter 366:13.24: Against the Rain (Part 5)

    Nael Manron looked on in dull shock at the aftermath of Muzazi¡¯s strike. Hachiman had been utterly obliterated by the blast of light -- and with it, half of the wooden dome had been blasted away entirely. Rain and light poured in from the outside, along with the gazes of the gathered fighters. Three of the Eight Phases watched in awe, along with the masses of Nael Manron¡¯s own gathered scum.


    Rain hung in the air.


    Sparks hung in the air.


    Blood hung in the air.


    Muzazi stood at the centre of the light and destruction, barely on his feet, kept standing only by the thrusters blasting out of his form. He was on his last legs. Good. Nael took in a deep breath: even without Hachiman, he could still finish off this corpse.


    After having its physical form fully destroyed, Hachiman would take an entire day to regenerate -- but Shamichoro was a much less complex Guardian Entity. Even in just the few minutes since it had been destroyed, it had recovered enough that he could partially manifest it again. Nael spread his hands out, holding the single string that had regenerated tight like it was piano wire.


    He¡¯d loop it around Atoy Muzazi¡¯s neck and slice his head off. That, at least, was guaranteed to stop this zombie.


    Wasn¡¯t it?


    It was no surprise that Nael would question that. Over the course of this night, Muzazi had been thrown, crushed, sliced, dismembered, stabbed, even impaled -- and yet, there he stood. Nael supposed he shouldn¡¯t be shocked: Dragan Hadrien had warned him about this, after all.


    That man doesn¡¯t stop, no matter what, he¡¯d said. It¡¯s infuriating.


    Nael¡¯s hands tightened around the wire, even as it made them bleed. Just looking at this man was infuriating. By all rights, he should have accepted reality long ago -- and yet he still stood. He¡¯d suffered more than Nael had, he¡¯d seen how the world worked -- and yet he still stood. He¡¯d been brought an inch from death -- and yet he still stood!


    He¡¯d savour seeing this life end.


    Nael charged forward in a flare of crimson Aether, the ground behind him exploding into dust from the sheer force. Right now, in these last moments of consciousness, Atoy Muzazi was in the zone -- a state of perfect instinct that would allow him to counter any attack. But that was fine. In the midst of combat, such a thing was commonplace. Nael Manron had killed many ¡¯perfect¡¯ opponents.


    All he needed was a moment of opportunity.


    He opened his mouth and roared: "Entity Override! All of you -- kill Atoy Muzazi!"


    The gathered Guardian Entities of the Crimson Carnival moved as one -- abandoning their masters to the Phases and rushing in a tidal stampede towards Muzazi. Some of their masters fell quickly, but there were still enough monsters approaching to form a smokescreen for Nael¡¯s advance. As Muzazi slashed endlessly at the incoming hordes, Nael weaved between them, barely visible save for the slightest of crimson blurs.


    Wait for it¡­


    There.


    A mad grin spread across his face as he saw his opportunity come -- as he saw Muzazi¡¯s well of will finally run dry. Right after cutting down the final Guardian Entity, Muzazi¡¯s eyes rolled up into his head, and he began to collapse to the ground. He¡¯d gone past his limit long ago, and now it had finally caught up to him.


    Nael lunged in.


    Die, he thought. Nael Manron.


    "Die!" he screamed. "Atoy Muzazi!"


    He closed the remaining distance -- and then there was a flash of white.


    The sensation of pain was so brief that Nael didn¡¯t even notice it at first. All he knew was that the wire that was previously held in two hands was now held only in one. Even that fact barely even registered. His eyes were focused solely on the face of the man before him.


    Yes¡­ the glaring face of Atoy Muzazi. He was still conscious. Had that been a bluff just now? No¡­ Nael¡¯s gaze slid down to the thruster weakly blazing from Muzazi¡¯s shoulder, slowly burning into his own cheek.


    Despite everything, the slightest chuckle escaped from Nael¡¯s lips. This man truly was insane. Before passing out, he¡¯d set a thruster to attack his own body -- so that the pain would force him awake once more. He¡¯d used his own failing body as a means to lure Nael in for the finishing blow.


    Yes¡­ that was surely what this was.


    Nael¡¯s severed right arm, still smoking, landed a short distance away. The King of Killers collapsed to his knees. He had hit his own limit long ago as well. Perhaps he could have gotten back up and kept fighting, but it was a curious thing. For some reason, as he looked up at Atoy Muzazi, the potency of his own Aether seemed to be fading¡­ he was losing synchronisation with it.


    Dragan Hadrien had been right. This man just wouldn¡¯t stop, would he?


    Muzazi¡¯s radiant hovered next to Nael¡¯s neck. He could feel the heat on his throat. Was this what he had waited for?


    "You win, Muzazi," he said quietly.


    Muzazi nodded as much as his body would still allow. "Yes¡­ I think I have."


    "Then finish it."


    All the fighting outside had stopped. Morgan Nacht, Marcus Grace, Ionir Yggdrassil¡­ even the members of the Crimson Carnival -- they all just watched as Muzazi stood over his opponent, ready to deliver the final blow. Rain battered against the ground like applause awaiting its occasion. What was left of the wooden dome slowly crumbled around them, fragments falling like snow.


    Everyone was waiting, everything was waiting¡­ and yet, Atoy Muzazi did not deal the final blow.


    "What are you waiting for?!" Nael growled, a note of desperation entering his voice. "Finish it! Kill me!"


    Muzazi blinked, and the Radiant vanished. All that was left of it was steam, hanging in the air. Nael¡¯s eyelids fluttered, and as he collapsed onto the floor, he hissed:


    "Damn you."


    Thump.


    In the last seconds of consciousness permitted to him, Muzazi looked down at Nael¡¯s prone form. A shaking, bloody smirk spread across his lips. The last of his voice pushed itself up from his throat.


    "Let God try."


    Then he too finally dropped.


    The battle had ended with both participants on the ground, with both participants covered in blood, with both participants on the verge of death¡­ and yet, not a single soul watching could deny that Atoy Muzazi was the winner.


    "What a night!" Alice moaned, tossing off her jacket as Road and Restorossi returned to their hotel room. Without hesitation, she threw herself down onto the couch and stretched out like she owned the place.


    Ruth¡¯s eye twitched as she watched Alice laze. She¡¯d definitely have to talk to her about this later -- she had no problems with the girl relaxing, but she couldn¡¯t behave like that in front of their clients. A business like theirs lived or died by their reputation.


    God, listen to me. Skipper would have let me get away with that.


    Well, Skipper could afford to let her get away with that stuff. He¡¯d never had to worry about putting food on the table, for whatever reason. Somehow, he¡¯d just been able to slip through life, the things he needed just falling into his hands¡­ and they¡¯d been pulled along the ride with him. Sometimes, the conflicts he¡¯d led them through had felt like nightmares, but these days she found herself missing them.


    Her heart ached.


    "Hey," Rex nudged her arm with his fist as he stepped in next to her, clearly noticing her downcast expression. "We¡¯ll get him next time. Don¡¯t stress out." S§×arch* The N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Right," Ruth nodded, smiling. "Thanks. I¡¯m good."


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Ruth Blaine was not good.


    There was Dragan to worry about too, wasn¡¯t there? The things he¡¯d done¡­ the things he was doing in the Dawn Contest¡­ Ruth wanted to say she couldn¡¯t believe it, but she honestly could. They were the kinds of things Dragan would do, even if they were multiplied by a hundred. She¡¯d suspected at first that Dragan had some other objective he wanted to achieve in this Dawn Contest, but with the night¡¯s events, there was no denying¡­


    ¡­he wanted to become Supreme.


    Ellis marched up to the couch that Alice had made her base of operations. "Move," he muttered, gaze locked onto the game on his own script.


    Alice glanced up at him. "Get lost."


    Ellis went to sit down, and Alice pulled her legs back to accommodate him. Then, the two of them returned to their scripts. Ruth frowned. Really, didn¡¯t they realise how unprofessional they looked? Bruno just stalked off to his own room -- the fact they¡¯d failed to meet with Dragan again was obviously frustrating him.


    Closing out the roll call, Ruth looked up to Roman Hitch -- still in the position he¡¯d been in when they¡¯d left. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, hat hanging over his scowling face. Honestly, he could make a decently living as, well, a living statue.


    "Everything okay here?" she asked.


    He nodded. "Yup," he said gruffly.


    "Anything happen?" she asked.


    He shook his head. "Nope," he said gruffly.


    Another conversationally challenged employee of Road and Restorossi. They seemed to attract them like moths to a flame. Roman hadn¡¯t been part of the company for too long, but he still seemed like a reliable guy -- reliable enough to watch over their base of operations, at least. He was a kind of Scurrant that required less sleep, so they¡¯d already agreed he¡¯d keep watch overnight as well.


    Ruth returned the curt nod.


    "Well," she said, clapping her hands together. "The Dawn Contest isn¡¯t going to stop anytime soon. I¡¯m gonna grab some sleep while I --"


    Before she could finish speaking, though, Rae Ruditia suddenly popped up before her. Despite the tiring events of the night, the reporter¡¯s pink eyes were still bright, and her glossy lips still spread into an enthusiastic smile. Didn¡¯t she ever lose that energy?


    "Do you have a minute?" she asked cheerily. "I wanted to talk to you in private."


    Shit. Was it Alice and Ellis¡¯ conduct she¡¯d taken exception to, or the period they¡¯d been separated back at the Arena of the Absolute? If they lost this job, things would become much more difficult for them -- they¡¯d lose their free ticket to the Dawn Contest, along with their access to the other Contestants. Ruth¡¯s heart hammered in her chest.


    "Sure," she said calmly. "Sitting room?"


    "That sounds swell!"


    The Yupitheater was a pretty fancy hotel -- the rooms they¡¯d been given included a large chamber for private meetings. As the two of them walked into the sitting room, automatics installed into the floor detected their presence and flipped over two tiles, revealing the chairs that had been lurking beneath them. A fireplace built into the wall sparked into life, the roaring flames and crackling wood giving their conversation a cosy feel.


    Rae sat down in one of the chairs, sinking comfortably into it and stretching. "Long night, huh?"


    Ruth took a seat in the other, hands in her lap. Her bulky artificial legs made sitting down in a soft chair like this somewhat uncomfortable, but she¡¯d put up with worse. Besides, right now, she was still on the job. "I¡¯d say so. I have to apologise again -- we weren¡¯t expecting that Aether ability to split us all up like that."


    "Oh, that?" Rae flapped a hand. "No worries, that¡¯s absolutely fine! That¡¯s not what I wanted to talk about."


    Ruth furrowed her brow. "What, then?"


    "Did you manage to meet up with Dragan Hadrien?"


    Her blood froze. Her heart skipped a beat. Hot tension crawled over her skin, and her breath felt sharp in her throat. In the seconds after Rae spoke those words, Ruth¡¯s mind raced with possibilities. Had she overheard Rex or one of the others talking about this? Or was this some kind of trap, arranged by the Supremacy themselves?


    "What do you mean?" she finally replied, her mouth dry. "Dragan Hadrien? The Shooting Star, right?"


    "Miss Blaine," Rae offered her a lopsided smile. "Come on. I¡¯m not stupid."


    Blaine¡­ not Road. Shit shit shit.


    Ruth clicked her tongue. "How long have you known?"


    "It¡¯s my job to find out about these things, Ruth," Rae replied. "I knew before I even hired you. Heck, I hired you because I knew. The former subordinate of Zachariah Esmerelda is trying to worm her way into the workings of the Dawn Contest¡­ you caught my interest, I guess."


    "Skipper," Ruth said sternly.


    "Huh?"


    "His name was Skipper."


    Rather than being put off by the sudden rebuke, Rae seemed to grow more interested, her eyes twinkling even brighter. "You feel pretty strongly about that stuff, huh?" she asked. "Is that why you¡¯re here? Continuing Skipper¡¯s legacy?"


    Ruth ignored the question, and coldly asked her own instead: "Does the Supremacy know I¡¯m here?"


    "What do you mean?" Rae cocked her head.


    "I¡¯m a wanted terrorist. How much have you told them? Are we surrounded right now?" If it came down to it, she could take Rae as a hostage and use her to escape the building. They¡¯d probably have the Slipstream BRAVE under surveillance, so they¡¯d need to steal a different ship. Rex had done research on the area -- he¡¯d know the best place to hit for that, so --


    "Oh," Rae said. "I haven¡¯t told anyone."


    Ruth glared. "Then what¡¯s your game?"


    Rae steepled her fingers, resting her chin on top of them as she regarded Ruth with those piercing pink eyes. "I told you -- you caught my interest. I became a reporter so I could meet interesting people. That¡¯s the only reason¡­ and you seem to become more and more interesting the more I observe you. When you were about to fight that Violence woman tonight? That was enchanting."


    "Are you¡­ coming on to me?"


    "Sorry," Rae said immediately. "You¡¯re not my type."


    For a few seconds, they just sat in awkward silence. An automatic sneakily replaced one of the spent logs in the fireplace with a fresh one before scurrying off into the shadows. Ruth tracked it with her eyes, just in case.


    "So¡­" Rae continued. "Did you meet Dragan Hadrien?"


    Ruth snapped her gaze back up to regard the reporter. If she knew Ruth¡¯s history with Skipper, then it was no surprise she knew about Dragan. If Ruth Blaine and the del Sed twins were trying to get involved in the tournament where Dragan was a contestant, it wouldn¡¯t take a genius to work out they were looking to make contact. For someone in Rae Ruditia¡¯s line of work, they were simple dots to connect.


    So her story checked out.


    "Why do you want to know?" Ruth asked slowly.


    Rae rolled those pink eyes. "How many times do I have to say it?" she sighed. "I¡¯m interested. I want to know your story. This is the first time you¡¯ve seen Dragan Hadrien in quite a while, right? How does that make you feel?"


    "Shitty," Ruth answered automatically.


    "How¡¯s that?"


    If Rae Ruditia really was doing this just out of some weird interest, then Ruth supposed there was no harm in playing along. If she didn¡¯t, it might spell the end of their employment as Rae¡¯s bodyguards, putting them in the awkward position Ruth was trying to avoid.


    "It feels shitty," Ruth continued. "It¡¯s like¡­ I won¡¯t say he abandoned us, but he¡¯s¡­ cast us aside, I guess? I feel like I¡¯m nothing but a spectator anymore. He¡¯s going for a goal I can¡¯t understand, and he¡¯s shutting out everyone who might convince him otherwise. It¡¯s like he¡¯s sprinting somewhere, impossibly fast, and we can¡¯t keep up."


    He¡¯s going somewhere I can¡¯t follow.


    "You don¡¯t understand it?" Rae cocked her head again. "I don¡¯t think it¡¯s that bizarre. Skipper killed Kadmon because he wanted to change things, right? But he didn¡¯t get the chance. Dragan Hadrien must be trying to continue his work -- keeping his legacy alive. I think that¡¯s a commendable thing."


    Ruth closed her eyes. "Skipper wouldn¡¯t have asked Dragan to become Supreme. Never. He hated the whole system. The Supremacy¡­ the Supremes¡­ all of it. If it were up to him, he¡¯d have torn everything down."


    "Well¡­ maybe Dragan Hadrien¡¯s a bit more realistic, I guess?" Rae¡¯s eye twitched. "He wants to become the Supreme to change the parts of the system he disapproves of. He¡¯s strong enough to pull it off, I¡¯d say."


    For a long time, Ruth said nothing, just staring down at her hands in her lap. To be honest, this was probably the first time she¡¯d voiced all of these feelings out loud. It was a little unsettling how Rae Ruditia had managed to drag all of this out of her, with just a few words in a quiet room. She was pretty good at her job.


    "Hey," Rae said quietly. "I don¡¯t want this to feel like an interrogation or anything, but I just wanna ask one more question. Then I¡¯m done."


    Ruth shrugged. "Go for it, I guess."


    "You¡¯re strong," Rae leaned in, lowering her voice. "You¡¯re skilled. If you put your mind to it, you could really be something. Didn¡¯t you ever consider throwing your hat in the ring? For the Dawn Contest, I mean?"


    "Skipper would roll over in his grave."


    "But¡­ you never thought about it? Not once?"


    Ruth sucked in air through her teeth. "Well¡­ maybe once, for a minute, I guess. When they announced the Dawn Contest registration -- but no. No, that¡¯s not the kind of world I want."


    "What do you mean?" Rae said, staring.


    "Dragan¡­ and Skipper, I guess¡­ they have these big dreams, and ways they want to change everything, and this -- this kind of view of the big picture. I don¡¯t think I¡¯m like that. I¡¯m fine with the small picture. I¡¯m fine with this little world I¡¯ve got around me.


    "I¡¯ve got my friends, and my¡­ my family, and my life. I¡¯ve built that life. That¡¯s mine. I think I¡¯m content just holding onto it. I don¡¯t need to change the shape of the world or anything like that. It needs to be changed, sure¡­ but I don¡¯t need to be the one to change it. I¡¯m not that arrogant -- or maybe I¡¯m just a coward. Who knows? But that¡¯s the way I feel."


    Rae slowly nodded, taking in Ruth¡¯s words. "I get what you mean. I think that¡¯s a shame¡­ but I get what you mean."


    "Are we done?" Ruth asked.


    Rae nodded. "Sure," she said. "We¡¯re done."


    As Ruth rose from her chair, her heartbeat still seemed dull in her chest. Rae had said she hadn¡¯t told the Supremacy about her, but could she really trust that? By her own admission, the reporter had hired her under false pretences. Awkwardly standing there, Ruth just looked down at the other woman¡­


    ¡­and saw not a trace of deceit in those bright pink eyes.


    At a loss for what else to do, Ruth just leaned down and patted her on the shoulder. "Appreciate your dis --"


    "Ah!" Rae gasped, suddenly pulling her arm back. Still wincing in pain, she cradled the limb, the sleeve of her jacket hanging limp over it.


    "Oh, uh, sorry," Ruth said, her hand still hovering in the air. "You okay?"


    "Fine," Rae nodded. "I just hurt my arm in the crowd earlier."


    ARC 13


    END OF PART 1

 Chapter 367:13.25: The Gluttony of Insects

    Ninety Years Ago¡­


    "Humans¡­" said the Supreme. "...exist to devour one another."


    He took a bite.


    The Supreme was a rotund man, splayed out in the throne at the centre of the Shesha. His chalk-white skin and jet-black irises almost made him look like some sort of ghost as he looked out at his court. As he chewed, he brushed away his greasy black hair with a massive finger.


    "Listen now," he continued. "There¡¯s not a man alive who doesn¡¯t want what another man has. His power, his money, his woman, whatever. I¡¯m not talking about envy. That¡¯s got way too much dignity to it. Envy¡¯s a fancy sin made up by priests to fill scripture. Hunger¡­ is an instinct. It¡¯s the instinct."


    The Supreme twisted his food in his hands, finally tearing the arm off with a satisfying pop. His meal didn¡¯t make a noise: the lucky bastard had already passed out several minutes ago from the pain. As the Supreme nibbled on the fingers like bread sticks, he continued to address the crowd gathered in the throne room.


    "I¡¯m not saying it¡¯s a bad thing. None of us would be alive if it wasn¡¯t for hunger, right? If you don¡¯t eat, you die. It¡¯s as simple as that. If you¡¯re alive right now, you¡¯re alive because you¡¯re hungry. Doesn¡¯t matter what for. Hunger for justice, hunger for love, hunger for fun¡­ so long as you¡¯ve got something growling in your stomach, it¡¯ll lead you right."


    As he brought the head of his victim to his mouth, the Supreme unhinged his jaw like a snake -- and crushed the skull between his powerful teeth. He tipped his head back, eyes rolling up into their sockets with pleasure, allowing the blood and brain matter to spill down into his throat. His moan of ecstasy echoed through the death-quiet chamber.


    "That¡¯s why I¡¯m not mad," he said, bringing his head back down, looking at the other prisoners presented before him. "I¡¯ve gotta get rid of you, of course¡­ but I¡¯m not mad. I get where you¡¯re coming from."


    The man who had devoured god grinned with bloodstained teeth.


    "You were hungry, weren¡¯t you?"


    Renda -- for that was her name right now -- put a handkerchief to her mouth as she watched the Supreme toss the corpse to the side as if it were nothing but garbage. In her current role, she was the mistress of an up-and-coming Minister, one of many invited to the Shesha to observe the punishment of the Driscoll Rebels.


    The next rebel was dragged before the Supreme by black-armoured guards. These young men were assassins who had killed numerous officials before being caught. It was a shame, Renda supposed. If they¡¯d been strong enough to continue their spree, there might have been a spark of worth to nurture there.


    "Otto!" the Supreme roared, summoning his court blacksmith as he leaned back into his chins.


    Otto Osklavion -- a Scurrant with a cylindrical head of organic metal -- quickly made his way over, holding a massive drinking bowl in his hands. Yet another new Aether Armament commissioned for the Supreme¡¯s collection: Mammon, he had named it. This Supreme had a fondness for atrocious things.


    The rebel begged as he was dragged before the Supreme. "My lord, my Supreme, my -- my -- please! I had nothing to do with it, I¡¯m not with them, I swear, I swear --"


    "What¡¯s his name?" asked the Supreme, bringing the massive bowl to his mouth.


    "Lizo Marsh," replied one of his attendants.


    "Mammon," the Supreme commanded his new Aether Armament. "Lizo Marsh."


    Lizo Marsh screamed longer than expected.


    As the Supreme drank greedily from the bowl, the rebel withered, his blood being transported from the inside of his body into Mammon itself. The young man writhed and squirmed on the floor before all the lords and ladies, his voice slowly losing its power, as the Supreme drank him dry. By the time he finally expired, he resembled a raisin more than a human being.


    Renda¡¯s gaze slid to the other two visible Aether Armaments, one resting against either side of the throne. To the left was Belphegor, a huge pitchfork, water dripping from its threefold spikes. To the right was Beelzebub, a huge cleaver-sword, smoke rising from the blade.


    Unlike Mammon, which was for pleasure, Belphegor and Beelzebub were intended for direct combat. Even so, they hadn¡¯t been used in some time -- dust had begun to gather on them. Renda frowned beneath her disgusting mask. She had enough experience to tell¡­


    ¡­this Supreme was on his way out.


    It was always the way. With all their enemies defeated, they started to rest on their laurels, their audacious smiles turning a tad too smug¡­ and their cruelties becoming a tad too petty. It had happened to Ren¨¦e, it had happened to Helis-Audrey, and now it was happening to this man. Renda noticed with mild distaste that her mask was starting to stink.


    It was currently required for visitors to the Shesha to wear one of the masks and cloaks that the Supreme so graciously provided. They were lovingly made with leather -- leather harvested from his human leftovers. Right now, Renda was wearing the terror-warped face of a young Umbrant man over her own. Her cloak was stitched-together skin, with a collar of human hair. An appalling wardrobe.


    At this point, the Supreme enjoyed nothing more than the knowledge that people had to play along with these sick games of his. The power of the ultimate throne wasted on mindless hedonism. It truly was such a shame.


    As two burly Pugnants began to tear the third prisoner in half before their liege, Renda reflected. It wasn¡¯t as if this Supreme wasn¡¯t strong -- he¡¯d more than earned the right to enjoy himself however he pleased -- but even so, that strength wasn¡¯t one she much cared for. It stank of a sort of parasitism that had always felt like a loophole in the world.


    The Supreme¡¯s ability, Glutton Replicancy, activated when he devoured a living and powerful Aether user. It forced that Aether user into a state of awakening, then put the resultant monstrosity under the Supreme¡¯s direct and permanent control. By consuming those stronger than him and commanding their abilities, the Supreme had risen from an unknown bandit to the mightiest man in the land. Even now, the chained and tortured spectre of the previous Supreme -- Gael -- hovered above the throne, ready to strike down any who might threaten his master.


    He won¡¯t be around by the year¡¯s end, Renda finally decided, turning and making her way through the hushed and horrified crowd.


    As she strode through the dark hallways of the Shesha, the Shepherdess considered the future.


    It was hard to say how it would happen, but she was rarely wrong about this sort of thing. This Supreme would soon expire. There were no shortages of enemies to make it happen. Perhaps more assassins would appear, emboldened by the injustices here, and strike down their oppressor? More likely the Body would decide he was too unpredictable to keep alive, and quietly dispose of him. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time.


    Or perhaps¡­


    "You¡¯re leaving already, Miss Renda?" the Supreme Heir asked, slinking out of the shadows. "Is that really okay?"


    Renda paused, turning her head to look at the unwelcome interloper. She had never liked this Supreme Heir. There was something¡­ just wrong about him. Those dark eyes, that pale skin, that tiny smile like he was keeping a secret. All of it sent alarm bells going off in her brain.


    "My apologies, my Heir," she said quickly, grovelling to an acceptable degree. "Urgent business, you see¡­ please give your father my best¡­"


    The Heir just continued to smile. "Of course. Do the festivities not agree with you?"


    "It¡¯s a joyous day," Renda said. "A rebellion foiled, the strength of the Supremacy and the Supreme proven once more. The victor has the right to celebrate in whatever way he sees fit."


    "Haha, how orthodox of you. Personally, I find these kinds of things boring. Be honest -- the Supreme is sort of a dull man, isn¡¯t he?"


    If it were anyone else, Renda would have thought they were not long for this world. Those who disparaged this Supreme were quickly eliminated -- especially here, in his seat of power. More than a few previous Heirs had met that fate.


    But somehow¡­ she couldn¡¯t quite imagine that happening to this one.


    The Supreme had an appetite for many pleasures, and so had fathered many children. They had fought and warred among themselves for the role of Supreme Heir, and -- after much death -- this man had appeared victorious. He had no siblings.


    Renda had once heard of a practice where many insects were placed into a container to eat each other. It was said that, at the end, only the most malicious insect survived. Looking into those black eyes, she couldn¡¯t help but think a bug was looking back at her.


    "Is that why you¡¯re not at the festivities as well, my Heir?" Renda asked, striding down the hallway.


    The Heir walked alongside her. He wore no mask, nor a cloak -- just a black sweater and dress pants. He¡¯d been told to don the macabre garb, but clearly had not done so. He would get away with it.


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author¡¯s consent. Report any sightings.


    Renda had heard many dark rumours about this Heir. While refusing to involve himself directly in his father¡¯s administration, he¡¯d instead formed a strange organisation of his own -- one that operated outside of the Supremacy. He¡¯d lied, cheated, stolen, killed¡­ and yet he¡¯d gotten away with it. He always got away with it.


    The Shepherdess suspected she might hate him.


    "That man sure likes to talk about hunger a lot," the Heir spoke of his own father, the most powerful man in the galaxy, as if he were an embarrassing nuisance. "It¡¯s a little much, isn¡¯t it?"


    "You disagree, then?"


    "I do. This is all just my personal opinion, of course, so feel free to disregard it, but if you ask me¡­ the objective of existence shouldn¡¯t be to indulge one¡¯s impulses. Hunger should be excised, as should thirst, too. Love, hate, fear, greed¡­ even the Supremacy itself¡­ well, haha, all of it¡¯s just sort of meaningless, don¡¯t you think?"


    He spoke each word as if it were an empirical fact. To him, this was not opinion or philosophy -- it was reality calmly explained.


    Renda narrowed her eyes behind her mask of skin. "Then what does have meaning?"


    The Heir glanced down at her. "It¡¯s in the absence of these things that a human being experiences clarity. Separated from what humans consider humanity, they achieve the role of an outside observer. From there, they can see the world as a whole, and identify the fault points."


    "The fault points?"


    His smile deepened just a tad. "Where it must be broken."


    She stopped. "And is that what you want to do? Break the world?"


    The screams of the Supreme¡¯s next victim echoed down the hallway as the Heir looked down at Renda. His smile remained fixed, like it was painted on his lips.


    "Just look," he said softly. "Just listen. Humanity has been bathed in light for millennia, and see where you¡¯ve ended up. You¡¯ve been blinded, all of you. It¡¯s cruel. Someone needs to snuff out the fire and let your eyes rest. Once your world is illuminated only by a dark star can you see it."


    Renda blinked. "See what?" she whispered.


    He narrowed his own eyes, and put a cheeky finger to his lips. "That would be telling."


    For a moment, the two of them just stood there, facing each other down in the cavernous halls of the Shesha. Then, shrugging off the strange and sinister atmosphere, Renda straightened up. She started to move once more.


    "Thanks for escorting me," she said hurriedly. "I can find my way to my ship from here."


    And, ignoring the spark of pitch-black Aether running down the Heir¡¯s cheek, she pushed past him.


    "Go, then," the Heir murmured, almost bored. "Tend to your flock."


    The instincts of the Shepherdess did not fail her -- and in that moment, they screamed.


    Kill him. Kill him now! This is your last chance!


    Her pink Aether already flaring across her form, the Shepherdess whirled around¡­


    ¡­but the Supreme Heir was long gone.


    There was a story about this man in the Supremacy. A folk tale, surely. Something to be scoffed at. But people still told it.


    According to the story, his mother had been one of the Supreme¡¯s concubines -- one he had quickly tired of after acquiring. After she¡¯d trespassed against the Supreme in some tiny and harmless way, he¡¯d cut her head off without a moment¡¯s hesitation. But this was before the Heir was born.


    The concubine had been pregnant. If you believed the rumours, and of course nobody did, then somehow -- inconceivably -- the foetus had continued to develop. The Supreme, intrigued by the phenomena, ordered the corpse to be preserved in one of his freezers¡­ and nine months later, the Supreme Heir had been born.


    It was only an absurd rumour, of course. A vicious lie born of propaganda. Anyone who heard it understood that fact.


    Only¡­ when you looked into the insect eyes of the Supreme Heir, and saw the sheer nothingness beyond them, you could very nearly believe it.


    You could believe the story of the child named Niain, the Joy Born From Death.


    AETHERAL SPACE


    ARC 13


    PART 2: HATE


    Present Day¡­


    All was not well in the dark of space.


    The gargantuan starship-form of Ionir Yggdrassil drifted through orbit, adjusting its course with arboreal tendrils and mighty branches. In the lack-of-light, it was only really visible as a black silhouette, covering the stars behind it. The starship had been kept in orbit while the Phases descended, so as to fool outside observers into thinking Atoy Muzazi was using it as his base of operations.


    Of course, this would have no effect on an inside observer.


    A small transport shuttle, usually used for planetary landings, weaved through the asteroids and wreckage that surrounded Azum-Ha. Even a thousand years after the final battle of the Revolutions, the graves still hadn¡¯t been fully cleared up. They made an effective smokescreen now.


    While Ionir Yggdrassil was assisting Atoy Muzazi in his fight against Nael Manron, it had no choice but to transfer the majority of its consciousness into the humanoid extension. Right now, the only aspects of the Fell Beast actually inside the starship were the shadow of instincts and basic ¡¯muscle memory¡¯. There wouldn¡¯t be a better time to strike.


    Gretchen Hail surely understood that too.


    "Fusion Tool," spoke the shuttle¡¯s only occupant, a mercenary of little renown and little skill. "Metamorphoses."


    Hail had found this man down on his luck, provided him a Fusion Tool and power beyond his means, then sent him up to perform this distasteful task. No doubt he thought this was the start of greater things. Ammunition commonly has these sorts of thoughts. Sear?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The shuttle exploded as the mercenary¡¯s new form broke out of it, long spindly black legs spreading out in every direction. There had to be nearly a hundred of the sharp and twitching limbs, enough to make the mercenary look like a cross between a spider and a sea urchin. As one, the tips of those spikes turned to face the wooden hulk of the starship.


    All things considered, the ¡¯battle¡¯ was quick.


    Without Ionir Yggdrassil¡¯s intellect being present, the conflict between the mercenary and the starship was little more than two beasts slamming into each other, stabbing into each other, doing their best to make sure the other one died before they did. Toxin ran copiously through the mercenary¡¯s spikes, melting the wooden hull of the ship and weakening the overall structure.


    Before long, it was done. The starship, unable to maintain its shape, collapsed in on itself -- and the engine deep inside exploded, blasting whatever was left to ruin. Smoke pouring from his own damaged body, the mercenary retreated. His work was done¡­


    ¡­and so was he.


    Metamorphoses was unusually powerful for a Fusion Tool, and there was a good reason for that. Just like with normal Aether abilities, applying conditions increased the potency of the power produced for an Aether Armament. In this case, by applying very strict conditions, Gretchen Hail had created a Fusion Tool capable of destroying a massive Fell Beast in a matter of minutes.


    Namely, the Fusion Tool -- and with it, the user -- would be permanently destroyed as soon as the enemy was defeated.


    The mercenary did not have time to fear. If he felt anything, it would have only been confusion as the toxins turned against his own body, quickly reducing him to a scattering of unidentifiable black debris as well. The twin carcasses floated in orbit of Azum-Ha¡­


    ¡­joining the rest of the graves.


    Atoy Muzazi lay in the hospital bed, covered in bandages, wired up to so many machines that he looked like a spider in the middle of a web. His eyes were firmly closed, and his assisted breathing was ragged. The Full Moon had seen better days.


    Morgan frowned as he looked down at the commander. He still hadn¡¯t woken up after his victory over Nael Manron. While members of the Crimson Carnival had retrieved their leader, Morgan and the other Phases had managed to get Muzazi to a waiting hospital. He¡¯d been on the verge of death when he¡¯d arrived, but fortune had smiled on him. Somehow, he¡¯d made it.


    Now, if only he could make it awake.


    Panacea had done its work on Atoy Muzazi. The hole in his stomach filled in, the fingers he¡¯d sacrificed restored. Stimulants had helped with the healing of other injuries, the ones that Panacea hadn¡¯t been suited for. That wasn¡¯t to say Muzazi had escaped unscathed, though.


    Morgan¡¯s gaze dropped down to Muzazi¡¯s other hand -- the fingers from that one had been sliced off slightly before he had started to sacrifice them against Hachiman. It had been a matter of seconds, apparently, but they had just fallen outside of the golden hours. They¡¯d been lost. Morgan had expected they¡¯d need to get some prosthetics arranged, but¡­


    "Can you sense anything through that, Ionir?" he asked.


    No, Ionir replied. Only that he sleeps.


    Morgan smiled to himself. Ever since Ionir had finally managed to detach from him, after the poison of Leviathan had been conquered, Morgan had been able to understand the Fell Beast¡¯s words. They weren¡¯t still connected in the same way, but it was like he could understand all the minute noises and movements that had been so meaningless before.


    He wondered if Muzazi would be the same now.


    Four sharp fingers, formed from Ionir¡¯s wood, took the place of those Muzazi had lost. Apparently, once he woke -- if he woke -- he¡¯d be able to control them just as easily as his own flesh and blood, but Morgan thought it a tad unsettling all the same. Looking down at what should be part of your own body, and seeing that it was part of somebody else¡¯s¡­


    He shook the thought away. They had enough going on without him giving himself the heebie-jeebies.


    If he does not wake soon, Ionir said solemnly. It may be troublesome.


    "Took the words right outta my mouth," Morgan muttered. "That Mereloco guy made it through his first round easy as pie. If the commander keeps on sleeping in, he might get through the second without even fighting."


    And with my main body destroyed¡­


    "Don¡¯t remind me. We¡¯ve got enemies closing in on all sides."


    Another sharp burst of cheering sounded out from the videograph at the foot of the hospital room, and Morgan glanced towards it. Looked like things had begun. Even if the Full Moon was sleeping, the Dawn Contest was still well underway.


    "And now the moment you¡¯ve all been waiting for!" the announcer said of this particular match, just like he did for all the others. "Dragan Hadrien versus Paradise Charon!"

 Chapter 368:13.26: RUINED

    Paradise Charon hated.


    What specifically she hated, in this particular moment, she could not say. Was it the script in her gnarled hands? Was it the words her blood-tainted eyes read? Perhaps it was the whole world -- the world that had done this to her, for no crime other than seeking greatness.


    "I¡¯d advise keeping calm," McCoy said, the bandaged woman lingering in the shadows. "Your treatments are still unstable. Best not to agitate them, hm?"


    And them. There was always one of them, one of the Darkstar scum, hiding somewhere nearby. Eyes and ears watching her. Fingernails crawling over her skin, over her bones. Like ants making a nest inside her tongue. She licked her cracked lips.


    "It seems you¡¯re not listening to me," McCoy said calmly. "That¡¯s fine, too."


    Paradise narrowed her eyes. She surely hated these people as well, even if she was making use of them for the time being. It wasn¡¯t as if she had much of a choice.


    After she¡¯d been attacked by the Supreme Heir, it had taken all of the Forest of Sin¡¯s power just to keep her alive and stable. The humiliation lingered even now, the rage at just how helpless she had been. It rushed across her body, a mixture of hot and cold that twisted her face into a now familiar snarl.


    It had taken six months for her to even recover the ability to talk. Without Darkstar¡¯s assistance, it was doubtful she¡¯d ever have been able to leave her hospital bed. But she never should have needed to resort to Darkstar. Their leader had been a tool that had refused to meet his purpose. He was supposed to have helped her kill the Supreme. All he¡¯d done was sit there and do nothing. Bastard. Scum. She¡¯d kill him. Take his throat between her hands and --


    "Miss Charon," chided McCoy.


    But she¡¯d made use of them. She¡¯d bent their means to her will. It had been torturous -- and humiliating -- but she was now near her previous level of strength. The titan she¡¯d been, before the Supreme Heir had¡­ before the Supreme Heir had¡­


    That little bitch.


    The tallest flower was cut away first. An old fucking hag in that backwater village had once told her that. She¡¯d assumed it was the dementia talking, but now she understood. You found pearls of wisdom even in the mouths of swine. That brat Aclima was the one responsible for this predicament. She¡¯d get hers. She¡¯d get hers, too. Once she was the victor of this Dawn Contest, she¡¯d teach that little cunt a lesson before the whole Supremacy. Jam her thumbs into her eye sockets and feel the brains give way. Kill her, kill her, kill her.


    Tears brimmed in Paradise¡¯s eyes. She¡¯d been beautiful. She had.


    They¡¯d taken it from her, they¡¯d all taken it from her, everyone. They¡¯d left her with nothing and forced her into the dirt, to writhe, like a dog. And why? Because the tallest flower was cut away first. She¡¯d kill them, oh she¡¯d kill them.


    Her eyes flicked back down to the script in her hand. Her mouth twisted into as much of a smile as it could manage. Such joy.


    Aclima¡­ Atoy Muzazi¡­ Darkstar¡­ Baltay Kojirough¡­ her former subordinates¡­ her former allies¡­ her former enemies¡­ she¡¯d kill them all¡­


    And she¡¯d start with this Dragan Hadrien.


    "Lord Hadrien," said Xander Rain. "Please accept this. The Sap of Human Perseverance."


    The entirety of the Tree of Might had gathered in their headquarters for this official inauguration. They¡¯d spared no effort in preparing the central hall -- a long and grand staircase ran up through the centre of the room, lined by white-flamed torches, the membership gathered below. The Second through Eighth Branches stood at the head of the crowd -- that Scurrant woman Violence and her fellows -- while the First Branch Xander Rain knelt before the throne.


    Dragan Hadrien slouched above him, wearing a traditional white war-robe, his eyes cold.


    Rain extended the golden chalice in his hands, the container filled to the brim with a thick red liquid. North, standing next to the throne, eyed it with a wry smirk.


    "What?" he chuckled. "You all spit in it or somethin¡¯?"


    If looks could kill, North would have been butchered in that moment by every single member of the Tree of Might. Dragan suppressed his own urge to roll his eyes: ceremonies like these were important to such fanatics. If doing this enabled him to keep control over a valuable asset, he¡¯d gladly debase himself a little.


    "Show some respect, North," Dragan said, taking the chalice in one hand and raising it. "This is glory."


    He brought the chalice to his lips, tipping his head back as he swallowed the whole thing in one gulp. A slight smile spread across his lips as he licked them clean. Before the gathered Tree of Might, he raised the empty chalice once more and smirked.


    "Life through battle!" he called out.


    Oh my god. Oh my god, that¡¯s so fucking gross. I think I¡¯m gonna be sick.


    "Life through battle!" the Tree of Might roared back, the sheer power of their collective voices enough to shake the room. North put his hands over his ears, frowning in annoyance. Dragan sat back down in his chair.


    With this gesture, he was now the first Zero Branch in the Tree of Might¡¯s history. An absolute overseer, whose will overrode all others. It wasn¡¯t bad.


    The Tree of Might would be invaluable going forward. Unlike the Crimson Carnival, a gang of treacherous criminals who Dragan had done his best to keep at arms length, the Tree of Might were a fighting force based around discipline, honour and loyalty. Those weren¡¯t necessarily values that Dragan shared, but they made it much easier for him to trust them.


    His gaze flicked over to Xander Rain as the boy took his position on the other side of the throne. He¡¯d been lucky that he¡¯d gone to fight the First Branch when he did. The boy¡¯s emotions had been in turmoil after the death of his father, and his ability had still been immature. Now, a year later, it would have been a much more difficult battle.


    Xander Rain¡¯s potential was frightening. There was a spark of strength in him that could mature into the storm of a Supreme, given the right circumstances.


    If he got the idea into his head at any point that his strength now surpassed Dragan¡¯s, things could get difficult, but that honestly wasn¡¯t likely. Xander Rain was a true believer. He¡¯d latched onto the figure of Dragan Hadrien as Supreme -- he wanted to see the world the Shooting Star would create.


    Poor bastard.


    So long as he controlled Xander Rain, he controlled the Tree of Might. Eighty-three central members in total, all Aether-users, with the Branches in particular being the equivalent of high-level Special Officers. Seventeen of those were able to access Absolutian, the Tree of Might¡¯s ancestral Aether ability. With them, Anya Hapgrass, and the joker in his back pocket¡­


    Dragan¡¯s smirk widened.


    ¡­he¡¯d drawn quite the potent hand.


    It was strangely quiet in the Arena of the Absolute that night.


    Of course, that was somewhat understandable. Right now, neither of the Contestants taking part in this fight were really a crowd favourite. The Shooting Star, Dragan Hadrien, had burnt away a lot of his goodwill after his anticlimactic ¡¯match¡¯ against Xander Rain. The Gardener of Sin, Paradise Charon, was a disgraced ex-Contender who had vanished from the public eye for the last two years. If you believed the rumours, she was hideous to behold under that ragged cloak of hers.


    A cheater versus a monster. Nobody was quite sure where their excitement was meant to be placed.


    Nevertheless, they came to see. The Arena of the Absolute was as filled with spectators as ever, ready to watch the next set of matches begin. Hushed conversations filled the space as they waited for the Contestants to arrive.


    Well, to wait for one of the Contestants to arrive.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    As Paradise Charon sat down in the centre of the arena, fingers scraping against the sand below, Dragan Hadrien was nowhere to be seen. This in itself wasn¡¯t especially surprising -- he¡¯d shown up at the last minute for his previous match, too -- but by now the rumours were already beginning to spread.


    Was Dragan Hadrien just not going to show up? Had he decided to surrender? When faced with a real fight, had he chickened out?


    How easily his battle against the Kaiser was forgotten.


    Paradise hissed beneath the cloak that covered her ravaged form. "Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it¡­ are you mocking me¡­? This place is too loud¡­ my head¡¯s gonna burst¡­ fuck you, fuck you, fuck you¡­"


    Her muttered rant went unnoticed by the crowds. Most of their eyes were fixed on the scripts and monitors before them. If Dragan Hadrien didn¡¯t show up by midnight, he¡¯d be disqualified by default -- and he really was playing it close. There was only a minute remaining.


    In Rae Ruditia¡¯s observation booth, high above the Arena, Ruth crossed her arms. She bit her lip as she watched, waited.


    Come on, Dragan, she thought to herself. Don¡¯t fuck around. Losing by default would just be way too sad.


    Rae Ruditia herself, sitting on the bench, narrowed her eyes as she looked down at the sole Contestant in the arena. She didn¡¯t seem too impressed. Ruth supposed that made sense: Rae was a reporter, after all. This wasn¡¯t shaping up to be a very exciting story.


    Standing guard on the other side of their client, Rex sneakily checked his watch. He clicked his tongue. "Thirty seconds left¡­" he muttered. "Is he really not gonna show?"


    Serena had taken control while the del Sed¡¯s were acting as Ruditia¡¯s bodyguards, but as Rex asked his question Bruno visibly slipped back into the driver¡¯s seat. He narrowed his eyes as his frown deepened. "He¡¯ll show up," he grunted. "No doubt about it."


    Thirty seconds.


    Over by the door, Alice checked her nails.


    Twenty seconds.


    Ruth gripped her forearms, the tension in her body growing by the second. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ten seconds.


    Paradise Charon growled, beginning to pick herself up. "Waste of time, a waste of time¡­" she snarled. "Where is he?! I¡¯ll drag him back myself --"


    A finger curled around a trigger¡­ and pulled.


    A bombardment. That was the only way to describe it.


    Infused punchpoint bullets were fired continuously from the mouth of the entrance tunnel like it was the barrel of a minigun, mercilessly pelting Paradise Charon. Debris from the shattered floor blasted through the arena -- the only thing stopping it from raining down on the crowd being the automatic shielding. Even so, there were more than a few screams of surprise and shock. The attack was so sudden and devastating that, for a moment, Ruth thought Charon had been caught off guard and instantly killed.


    As the smoke cleared, though, it became clear that wasn¡¯t the case. Where Paradise Charon had been standing was now a gnarled sphere of black wood, coiled around the former Contender like some grotesque cocoon. A shield she¡¯d conjured with her Forest of Sin?


    Behind Ruth, Bruno shuddered. Seeing this ability didn¡¯t bring back good memories for anyone.


    The shield began to retract, like a blooming flower in reverse, the wooden segments retreating back into Paradise Charon¡¯s body. For a moment, she stood there, seething amidst the devastation -- then, lurching forward, she allowed the Forest of Sin to manifest again. Blood burst out from her shoulder blades as four flexile branches wormed their way out of her back. They waved through the air like tentacles, dwarfing Paradise herself, every inch of their surface glinting with deadly thorns.


    She grinned with a warped mouth. "Come on out, little boy."


    Since Paradise Charon had revamped her ability, it now manifested in two forms.


    The first, Forest of Sin, was essentially unchanged. Using it, Paradise could manifest parts of her self-aware Forest into the real world, whether that was a single branch or the Forest in its entirety. With a single thought, Paradise could convert the entire battlefield into her own territory -- in terms of area control, it was unmatched. The only flaw was that it was self-aware -- while Paradise could direct it, it also had an irritating tendency to act on its own. While Paradise would try to efficiently eliminate the enemy, the Forest would prefer to play with its food.


    Funnily enough, that was also the flaw of the second form.


    Temple of Sin, devised by Paradise and Darkstar as a means of accelerating her recovery, incorporated the Forest directly into her own body. It would prop her up and allow her to move beyond her means, as well as automatically defend her from attacks. Even the roots of the Forest were wound around her bones, infesting her flesh and stopping it from sloughing away. Her brain too was kept stable by the Forest -- and even though Paradise Charon wasn¡¯t fully aware of this, the border between her own mind and that of her ability grew hazier by the day.


    Because of Forest of Sin, she wasn¡¯t worried about losing track of Dragan Hadrien. If it came down to it, she¡¯d just envelop the arena and let the Forest have its fun.


    Because of Temple of Sin, she wasn¡¯t worried about being damaged by his attacks. The branches could slap Gemini Shotgun away, and the cocoon could withstand Gemini Railgun.


    But that didn¡¯t mean she was just going to stand here and let Hadrien do as he wished. Paradise¡¯s grin widened as her eyes flicked through the smoke around her. Every now and then, she could see him -- just for a moment -- darting from cover to cover in the ravaged arena, slowly getting closer to her. His intention was to get inside her range and unleash an attack that the Temple of Sin couldn¡¯t block in time.


    She laughed, bloody saliva pouring from her mouth as her tongue lashed at the air. As if she¡¯d ever allow that to happen!


    The Branches of the Tree of Might had gathered to watch the match in their great hall, lined up before the monitor. Xander Rain frowned as he saw the new form that Paradise Charon had taken.


    "Is that an Absolutian?" he asked, a hint of outrage in his voice.


    The Third Branch, Tyr Masterman, shook his head. "Nei," he said, stroking the first of his white moustaches with a finger. "Perhaps she took the inspiration from her former teacher¡­ but it seems to be something far more atrocious."


    Xander¡¯s hands tightened as he looked at the mockery of their traditions, and his eyes narrowed into a glare.


    Paradise threw her head back, cackling at the sky as she began her victory.


    Her branches twisted for a moment -- and then fired all their thorns as an omnidirectional attack, the spikes shredding the air around her. At the same time, she unleashed an Aether ping, her dark-green sparks coursing throughout the battlefield. Faced with the Aether ping alone, Hadrien might have cloaked -- but that would be much more taxing if he had to protect himself at the same time.


    She felt a response, deep in the smoke. Her laughter increasing in pitch, she whirled around and slashed through the cloud with one of her branches, banishing the smog. With that single movement, Dragan Hadrien was revealed -- running towards her, his blue Aether coursing around his body. His eyes were fixed directly on her, like a bird of prey locked onto its quarry. He was clearly ready to kill as well.


    Good, she grinned. Then you can¡¯t complain, can you?!


    Only¡­ a thought occurred.


    Launching that thorn attack had been more a product of bloodlust than anything else, rationalised as strategy afterwards. Projectiles were the attacks most beneficial to Dragan Hadrien. He could record them and immediately fire them back, after all. So why hadn¡¯t he?


    Come to think of it¡­ why was he running around like this at all? Why hadn¡¯t he just hidden inside his Gemini World before launching another sneak attack? Was it a bluff? No, he was definitely exposing himself to her attacks. There¡¯d be no reason to do that¡­


    ¡­unless he couldn¡¯t use Gemini World.


    Dragan Hadrien smiled.


    Paradise moved with animalistic speed as she raised her hand, the words already on her lips. She¡¯d take no chances: rather than responding to Hadrien on an individual level, she¡¯d just flood the Forest against him until he was utterly crushed. If she¡¯d been just a second quicker, her plan might have worked.


    But she was not a second quicker.


    Gemini Dominion!


    Forest of Sin!


    Right before the Forest of Sin washed over him, Dragan fired his burden out of his Aether. Then, finally free, he vanished into his Gemini World, escaping the tendrils of the Forest as they attempted to seize and crush him. The landscape of the arena was completely infested by the Forest, the trees forming a sphere of warped human faces that encompassed the entire battlefield. Dragan fled into the cracks as stray sparks of blue, a stark contrast to the world of black and red that had just been created.


    However, Paradise made no attempt to track him. She couldn¡¯t afford to.


    Her attention was fixed solely on the thing that Dragan Hadrien had released from his Aether. A metal cylinder the size of a man, like an oversized trash can, its surface covered in countless tiny rectangular panels. A red dot of light swam around the rim of the machine, before finally settling on Paradise like a beady and malicious eye.


    It dilated.


    Paradise Charon had never seen this thing before. But her instincts -- bolstered by the Temple of Sin -- informed her that without a doubt¡­ this machine was the greatest threat to her life right now.


    Temple of Sin!


    A cocoon of wood enveloped her body once more, protecting her completely -- and in that same moment, the Arcana Automatic known as the Tower opened up its own body. A pack of machine-gun barrels that should not have been able to fit inside the chassis crawled forth, pointed as one at Charon -- and began to fire.


    "Kill!" the automatic screamed. "Kill! Kill! KILL!"

 Chapter 369:13.27: The Name of the Game

    Two Years Ago¡­


    It would be disingenuous to say that the shuttle had landed. It had slammed into the surface of Panacea like a bullet after all. But that was fine. The thing inside the shuttle didn¡¯t have to worry about being injured. It was already far past the point of no return.


    The blue Aether oozed out of the crashed shuttle, failing sparks blinking in and out of existence. It could sustain itself no longer. It was more than a miracle that it had made it even this far. With the planet wide quarantine, there was a good chance it would have been shot down before reaching this place. Only the fact that the shuttle had been ¡¯empty¡¯ saved it.


    Crackle¡­


    Crackle¡­


    No more.


    In the instant before he would have been consigned to oblivion, the boy voluntarily deactivated his ability. He returned to reality, crashing down onto the coarse sand below. He did not scream. The parts of him necessary to scream had already been lost, and the rest of him wasn¡¯t faring much better. All his body could manage to do right now was drag itself along¡­ and die.


    But he only needed to do one of those things.


    Pushing the pain as far down as it would go, Dragan Hadrien began to crawl across the surface of Panacea.


    Present Day¡­


    Adaptation was the name of the game. The Tower knew this.


    The Arcana Automatics had been created by a man now lost to history as weapons of war in the revolution against the Gene Tyrants. The Tyrants were capable of assuming any form, of becoming any threat. In order to effectively combat them without the advantage Aether provided, the automatics needed that same power of adaptation.


    This adaptive ability was shared by all the Arcana Automatics, at least to some degree. The Hierophant adapted its defenses against the attacks it was struck by, ensuring it could continue fighting even after receiving a variety of blows. The Hanged Man adapted to the mind of its human component, allowing it to shift and change in imitation of its Tyrant counterparts. And the Tower¡­


    ¡­well, the Tower adapted to murder -- using whatever means were necessary.


    It would be a mistake to say that the Tower was self-aware, but it would also be a mistake to say that it was not. The Tower was conscious only to the degree required to hate something external to itself. This sheer odium was not something it had been programmed with. Perhaps it was just another adaptation: perhaps it had determined that it was a more effective killer when it loathed the target.


    Whatever the case, it wasn¡¯t saying -- and besides, at this point everything was its target.


    As Dragan Hadrien vanished into his Gemini World, the Tower immediately filed away all records of his existence. No visual, auditory, tactile or pressure sensors could detect his presence. Therefore, he was no longer present. Therefore, he was no longer relevant.


    All of its attention switched to the person before it: Paradise Charon.


    It began with its most basic attack. Machine guns fired plasma out from the hollow in its body, blasting the branches that emerged to protect the target. Five seconds of sustained fire, then 0.001 seconds to judge the result.


    Ineffective.


    The Tower was familiar with Aether in the sense it knew that humans could use some form of energy to enhance the durability of objects and cause them to behave in unexpected ways. Unlike the Moon, it couldn¡¯t use Aether, but it comprehended it as a factor in battle. Immediately, it understood that was what was happening here -- more than that, though. Within another second, the Tower had snapped two-hundred and nineteen images of the forest surrounding it, before checking that against its database.


    While the human faces in the foliage were unnatural, the appearance and texture of the bark of these plants was consistent with Apex Trees. An extremely rare kind of tree, engineered by the Gene Tyrants, sturdy enough that their bark could be used for starship hull. It had been enhanced on top of that with Aether. In that case, no amount of machine gun fire would be effective.


    "Obliterate!" the Tower screamed, its voice distorted from sheer volume. "Excise! Eliminate!"


    Roots rushed forth to seize the Tower from below and hold it still, but it was prepared for that. If the enemy could control the branches and trunks of the Apex Trees, it only followed that they could control the roots as well. This was a positive scenario.


    While mature Apex Trees were incredibly durable, the same was not necessarily true for the roots while they were still growing. The enemy was controlling the roots by forcing them to continue growing outwards. As such, they were immature. Vulnerable. The Tower calculated the heat required for incineration, adjusted it slightly above that to account for the Aether, and then adjusted it slightly above that just to be spiteful.


    "Die! Die die die!"


    The machine guns crawled inside, the Tower¡¯s body snapped shut -- and a second later, opened again, revealing an array of flamethrowers pointing in all directions. Blue fire poured out of the Towers¡¯s midsection, cremating the roots of the forest before they could reach it, effectively creating a barrier of heat.


    A defensive strategy had been confirmed effective. This was a positive scenario. As such, the Tower could continue to test attack methods against the target until a promising lead was confirmed.


    As the flamethrowers spun, creating a wheel of fire all around, the Tower converted some of its superfluous mechanics into a neurotoxin generator. This was an implement that had proven effective against Aether-users in the past. While their bodies were more durable and they were more resistant to injury, they did eventually succumb to poison.


    It took only a few seconds to concoct a reliable brew.


    Looking for all the world like it was stuck on the defense, surrounded by flames, the Tower sneakily opened a mouth that did not exist¡­


    ¡­and released an invisible payload.


    Adaptation was the name of the game.


    If the Forest of Sin had a real mouth, it would have sneered. Whether that would have been at the pathetic automatic that was trying to surpass it, or at the foolish user who¡¯d gotten them into this mess, it could not say. Perhaps both. Perhaps all. There was so much in this world that deserved to be sneered at, after all.


    No doubt the Tower thought itself quite clever. The Forest had to admit -- against anyone else, that neurotoxin might have been quite effective. But the Forest was not made up of mere trees. It was a confluence of souls, the experiences and expertise of many unfortunate victims bound together by a rope of malice.


    It could think, more than most -- and more importantly, it could see.


    The pathetic and clumsy implements that the human body relied upon were nothing compared to the suite of sensory miracles the Forest perceived the world through. That supposedly invisible neurotoxin was as clear as smoke. Even if it hadn¡¯t been, it wouldn¡¯t have mattered.


    Right now, the Forest constricted Paradise Charon, body and soul. As if it would allow her to die from something so petty. No matter what that poison did to her body, the Forest would keep the brain running until it was done with her.


    The brain was the most important thing, after all. If Charon died without the proper preparations, there was no guarantee that the Forest would continue to exist as an Aether awakening. It had to approach the issue carefully, create the right scenario for the ability to be transferred to another¡­


    ¡­so that the dream could become the dreamer, and thus never die.


    The Tower considered matters.


    It seemed the enemy was capable of adapting at a comparable level to itself. This was a negative scenario. The neurotoxin was proven ineffective on both the enemy and the forest they controlled. The direct application of force, too, was impractical. While continuous assault against an Apex Tree could be damaging, the Tower didn¡¯t have the hours required for such a feat.


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    Its prior conclusion was not incorrect, however. The user of the ability was the weak point. If they were dismantled, the forest would cease to be a factor as well. While force was ineffective against the forest, that didn¡¯t necessarily hold true for the user.


    For example, if the Tower were to remove all of the enemy¡¯s limbs, how would their combat effectiveness be affected?


    It wanted to know.


    Another array of machine guns was belched forth from the Tower¡¯s body, spread out in a range of directions. The roots took their chance as the flames ceased and began coiling around the Tower¡¯s under section, but that was an acceptable level of risk. More than that, it would help mitigate the recoil.


    All in all, this was a positive scenario.


    It opened fire.


    Adaptation was the name of the game. Paradise Charon knew this -- and in this case, she was the clear winner.


    She smirked to herself as the hail of bullets thudded harmlessly into the shield of bark she¡¯d summoned. It seemed she¡¯d overestimated Dragan Hadrien -- and she¡¯d certainly overestimated this automatic. She¡¯d recognised it immediately from the historical records she¡¯d devoured when she was young -- an Arcana Automatic, supposedly the apex of mechanical evolution. She¡¯d expected it to be on a completely different level.


    Yet another thing to disappoint her.


    When you got down to it, the Tower was nothing but a machine. It was prone to getting locked into useless cycles. She¡¯d put it into a scenario it couldn¡¯t escape from, so it was going through all the most commonly effective strategies to try and find a gap in her defenses. Now that it had failed to kill her with any of its arsenal, it had looped around to the beginning.


    If this was what Dragan Hadrien was relying on to win his battle for him, he¡¯d be very disappointed as well.


    Forest of Sin, she commanded. Crush that soda can. I¡¯m sick of --


    Pain.


    It was sudden, white-hot -- and accompanied by the pungent scent of smoke. Paradise¡¯s eyes flicked down to the source, to her right arm -- and saw the hole cleanly burnt into the forearm, so hot that it had already been cauterized. She could see the scenery around her through it.


    "Huh?"


    It had now confirmed a reliable method of inflicting damage upon its despised enemy. This was a positive scenario. While the machine-gun fire had forced the enemy to erect a shield and limit her own visibility, the Tower had been able to execute its plan.


    Two new gun barrels protruded from the upper corners of the Tower¡¯s body, each distinct in appearance. The one on the right was thick and heavy, ready to fire its payload of smooth glass spheres. The other was thin and precise -- it would fire no bullets, but instead expel a beam of focused light and heat. Together, they would serve as the killing implements.


    The shield of Apex bark meant that any attacks fired from the Tower¡¯s position would not hit the enemy. Therefore, it only had to attack from a different position. The stratagem was simple.


    The Tower fired a glass sphere at such an angle that it would fly over and behind the enemy, sailing high above their shield in the process.


    The Tower would, using its perfect aim, fire the beam at that sphere mid-flight.


    The beam would be reflected off the glass sphere and strike the enemy from behind, bypassing her defenses.


    If the Tower had a mouth, it would have grinned. The test case had been successful. Now it could unleash the attack in earnest.


    This was a positive scenario.


    The Tower opened fire, spheres and beams flying out of its weapons array so quickly that neither were truly visible. The environment was devoured by flashing lights, like a strobe going off, as the attacks struck true again and again and again. The sound of screaming rang out from behind the shield.


    "Excise! Extinguish! Exsanguinaaate!" the Tower roared.


    It seemed that the Forest¡¯s fool of a user was losing.


    That was no surprise, given her attitude. She was far too eager to believe her opponent was an idiot, as if that would make her a genius in comparison. A fool who seeks to escape their foolish nature is but a fool twice over. The Forest alone, with its own towering intellect, could see that.


    Paradise screamed, erecting more and more shields to block the beams of heat -- but each time she did, the Tower just found a new angle to attack from. Her foot, her other arm, her stomach¡­ each felt the bite of fire. Even the Temple of Sin, coiled around Paradise¡¯s very being, could only do so much to hold back the pain.


    She was in agony. The Forest was tempted just to observe¡­ but it still couldn¡¯t have her die just yet.


    Obeying her mental commands, it formed another cocoon of wood, encasing the Gardener on all sides. Now she was as trapped as the Tower, to be sure, but at least she wouldn¡¯t be struck by any more attacks. She had time and room to breathe and plan.


    As did the Forest.


    Unlike its own user, this Dragan Hadrien seemed to know what he was doing. By deploying an enemy that would occupy all of Charon¡¯s attention by necessity, the Shooting Star was free to observe and plan his own attack at leisure. The Forest found that kind of competence¡­ very appealing.


    But for the time being, it still had to keep the woman alive. It would have to wait for its own ideal moment. After this Tower was gone, and Paradise was facing Hadrien dire --


    Huh?


    There was a loud crack.


    Many in the automatic industry said that the future of assistant machinery would proceed in one of two paths. The first of these were liquid automatics, pioneered by the Paradisas of the Final Church and various firms within the Unified Alliance of Planets. Their fluid forms gave them an edge in both maneuverability and utility, and as such the technology had already spread quickly throughout those territories.


    The second, favored by Halcyon Interstellar, was nano-automatics.


    Those had not been bullets that the Tower had been firing at Paradise Charon. It wasn¡¯t a 1:1 match, but the closest description of what it had been firing¡­ would be eggs. Eggs filled to the brim with voracious nano-automatics. It injected them directly into the roots restraining it, as well.


    All around the Tower, the wooden world began to crack and shudder, slowly but surely collapsing.


    It was true that Apex Trees were extraordinarily durable. That was when they were solid and stable objects, however. By altering the trees to allow flexile movement, Paradise Charon had made a necessary sacrifice when it came to their sturdiness. Ordinarily, that difference would have been negligible -- but it was a weak point all the same.


    And a weak point¡­ truly, truly was a positive scenario.


    The Tower had crafted these nano-automatics with inspiration from the common termite, and now they flooded through the innards of the Forest of Sin, devouring everything in their path. Wooden pulp poured from the opening cracks in the forest, spilling down like rain as the Tower now easily broke free of the roots.


    With a whirring noise, the many machine-gun barrels protruding from the Tower¡¯s chassis deconstructed and then reconstructed themselves into one colossal grenade launcher. This would be the final implement. The nano-automatics were eating their way through the woman¡¯s cocoon now, too. They¡¯d concentrate on a single area. As soon as that gap was opened, the Tower would fire into it.


    It giggled madly.


    This was the Tower¡¯s flaw. The hatred it had developed might have given it focus, but it also made it too eager. The opportunity to fire a grenade right into that woman¡¯s face, ensuring she¡¯d be splattered all across the ground? It simply couldn¡¯t resist.


    The instant the hole in the cocoon opened, the Tower shot forth the grenade -- and, as it exploded, it hit nothing. Nothing was splattered. Nothing was killed.


    Because the cocoon was empty.


    Immediately, the Tower spun around, reigniting its shield of flame -- but too late. Paradise Charon burst out of the ground behind it, having crawled through the bowels of the forest itself, her body covered in blood and ash. Screaming like a banshee, she swung a blade of Apex wood at the automatic --


    Gemini Railgun.


    -- and found herself with another burning hole¡­ this time in her chest.


    Paradise Charon had been foolish to disregard Dragan Hadrien in this battle, but even if she had decided to search for him she wouldn¡¯t have succeeded. While the sparks of blue that made up his recorded form were noticeable, that was only if they were in a position you could see. If they were placed correctly, they could be hidden just as well as anything else.


    Dragan Hadrien¡¯s disembodied hand reached out from the innards of the Tower, his finger pointing at Charon¡¯s wound, as if he were just another of the automatic¡¯s firearms. S§×arch* The N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Paradise blinked --


    Gemini Railgun.


    -- and the barrage began anew.


    Adaptation was the name of the game. Dragan Hadrien knew this.


    Two Years Ago¡­


    He¡¯d been dragging himself along for hours. Maybe a day. Maybe more. He didn¡¯t have the luxury of timekeeping.


    Dragan Hadrien had moved through the desert, the sun torching itself upon him. Dragan Hadrien had moved through the caves, the jagged rocks clawing at his skin. Dragan Hadrien had moved through the dark, feeling the cold begin to claim him. But he still moved, and he moved, and he moved.


    He¡¯d lost things in the long trek here, into the bowels of the world. Left them behind. Unnecessary guts. A painted trail of red. So long as he made it to his destination, it didn¡¯t matter. So long as he made it to his destination, he didn¡¯t need anything of himself to remain.


    Make this stick for me.


    He opened what amounted to eyes. He¡¯d made it.


    A great orange pillar, the first root from which all else stemmed, crawling into the soil of the planet and infesting it. Pan was lucky in that regard. Humans had to believe in their souls, while hers could be seen and touched.


    Dragan Hadrien weakly reached out¡­


    ¡­and the Panacea reached back, a single glowing tendril extending out to meet its friend.


    In the silence and the shadow, the two made contact -- and everything went orange.

 Chapter 370:13.28: Game Start

    He was impressed.


    As he watched Dragan Hadrien flail at the currents of the world, he couldn¡¯t help but smile -- well, if this current shape had a mouth, he surely would have smiled. But the emotion was there, the intent. Yes¡­ the intent was the most important thing. He truly believed that.


    When playing a game of the galaxy, it would only do to make your own pieces -- and those pieces had to be of the finest quality. There was no piece quite as effective than one that believed itself the player. Here, watching from so very close, Niain could see what he¡¯d been hoping for.


    Indeed¡­ he was impressed.


    Paradise Charon had crossed the final boundary between human and donut.


    Dragan¡¯s barrage of Gemini Railgun had completely annihilated the center of her chest, destroying her heart and blasting a hole clear through her body. Smoke poured from the former Contender¡¯s mouth as she toppled backwards, slipping on her own blood. Her eyes rolled back up into her head¡­


    ¡­then snapped back down.


    "Sorry," she hissed, a crazed grin spreading across her face. "I don¡¯t work like that anymore."


    If he had eyes right now, Dragan Hadrien surely would have widened them. He went to retreat fully back into Gemini World, but Charon was faster -- angry branches burst out from her shoulders and wrapped themselves around Dragan¡¯s disembodied arm. He went to record himself anyway, but thorns from the branches dug into his flesh, muddling the infusion and preventing him from activating his ability.


    With a scream of fury, Paradise pulled Dragan¡¯s arm out of the belly of the Tower, dragging it along the crumbling walls of the Forest before slamming it down onto the ground.


    The Tower itself resumed firing at Charon¡¯s back, but she produced another tendril from the Temple of Sin to counter. Rather than blocking the attacks like she had before -- which had allowed the nano-automatics to hatch -- she parried them with swift and precise slashes of her new limb. The Tower would come up with a countermeasure before long, but she had time to act now.


    After receiving what should have been a fatal blow, Paradise Charon¡¯s hood had been blown back, and now Dragan could see her face clearly. He wished he couldn¡¯t.


    Her face had half-melted and then solidified, warping and stretching her features like she was wearing an ill-fitting mask. Her teeth were spreading unnaturally out of the sides of her mouth, veins of tooth enamel crawling up her cheeks like an extended and deluded smile. One eye was filled to the brim with blood, like a water balloon, while the other eye had shriveled up inside the socket -- red petals surrounding it and holding it in place.


    Was that face the result of the Supreme Heir¡¯s ability, Dragan wondered, or the result of Charon¡¯s method of recovery?


    He supposed it didn¡¯t matter where the face had come from. Either way, it was coming to kill him.


    Roots spread out from the branches grasping Dragan¡¯s arm, covering it in a heavy and thick cocoon of wood. With a snap, Charon released it from her grip -- allowing it to fall onto the floor. She put a foot atop her prize as she regarded the Tower.


    It seemed she¡¯d managed to regain her composure -- and she quickly used that composure against the automatic. With almost contemptuous fluidity, she raised a hand towards the firing machine and spoke softly:


    "Forest of Sin."


    The wooden landscape around them vanished into a haze of green -- and instantly, the Forest emerged from her hand again. This time, it was concentrated, the entire nightmare focused into a few meters of matter. It slammed into and buried the Tower within its bulk, restraining it as well.


    "I don¡¯t know how you started to destroy my Forest of Sin," Paradise purred, flipping her hood back up. "But if I use it like this, it¡¯s much more durable. Good luck."


    She looked back down at Dragan¡¯s trapped arm.


    "And as for you, little Mr. Hadrien," she grinned. "The rest of you is hiding nearby, right? I think you should know¡­ right now, my Forest is injecting your flesh with a simply atrocious poison. You¡¯ve proven to have quite the unusual body yourself, so I doubt it¡¯ll kill you¡­ but oh, it¡¯ll hurt. Let¡¯s see how long you can hold on for."


    She wasn¡¯t lying. Dragan could feel the thorns driving deeper into his arm, releasing their payload, something burning through his veins. If he had a face, it would have been covered in sweat. The pain was already building, turning in on itself, growing exponentially.


    As Paradise Charon waited patiently, the massive hole in her chest began to fill in. Roots of the Forest of Sin crawled out from the edges of the wound, replacing missing flesh with gnarled black-and-red bark. Her heart had been destroyed, to be sure, but Dragan supposed that didn¡¯t really matter anymore.


    If he wanted results, he¡¯d have to destroy her brain.


    If he wanted results, he couldn¡¯t wait any longer.


    Gemini World.


    The moment the rest of Dragan¡¯s body fizzled back into existence, Paradise turned her head nearly all the way around to regard him. Her bloody eye narrowed in pleasure at the sight of her prey.


    "There you are," she breathed.


    "Here I am," Dragan agreed.


    He¡¯d manifested the rest of his body separately from his captured limb, blue Aether fizzling at the edge of the stump of his left arm. He had limited options right now. The cocoon surrounding his arm was strong enough that it wouldn¡¯t break with a quick Gemini Railgun, whether it was from the inside or outside.


    His gaze flicked over to the super condensed lump of Sin that had encased the Arcana Automatic. It would take time for even the Tower to break free of that -- and when it did, it would treat Dragan as an enemy as well. It might even prioritize him, given their earlier encounter.


    Still, it wasn¡¯t all bad. The fact that the Forest was occupied restraining the Tower meant that Paradise couldn¡¯t bring her full force to bear against him. If he could press the advantage before the Tower escaped, he could win.


    Although¡­ would she die, even if Dragan knocked her head off? He¡¯d destroyed her heart just now, and it had done nothing. Dragan would die if his heart was destroyed, even if his regeneration would restore the organ for his corpse.


    "Dead boy," said Pan, stepping out of Dragan¡¯s shadow. Her gaze was locked onto Paradise as well. "That thing will keep moving no matter how hardly you hit it. It¡¯s no good."


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    What are you basing that on? Dragan raised an eyebrow.


    Pan sniffed the air, her nostrils flaring as she glared at the black branches. "It¡¯s no good," she repeated, shaking her head.


    Well, if Pan said so, that was that. Dragan shifted his footing slightly, switching into a stance for close-range combat. With one arm out of commission, he¡¯d have to rely mostly on kicks¡­ but he still had his tricks.


    Pan, Dragan said. We¡¯re going for Plan B. Get ready.


    Pan¡¯s lips spread into the slightest smile. "I¡¯m always ready, dead boy," she said. "Are you?"


    He¡¯s plotting something, the Forest of Sin advised, myriad voices babbling in Paradise¡¯s head. You should attack him. Don¡¯t give him the chance. Surprise attack! Take him by surprise. Kill him. This is your chance. What are you waiting for?


    Paradise narrowed her good eye as she shook her head slightly. "Shut up," she growled.


    She wasn¡¯t about to start taking battle advice from her own ability -- and besides, this was good for her.


    The agony from the Forest¡¯s venom would only compound itself over time. The longer Dragan Hadrien tried to stall affairs, the more pain he¡¯d accumulate -- and the more it would disrupt his fighting. Before long, he wouldn¡¯t be able to do anything but writhe on the ground¡­ and in that moment, Paradise would finish this. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Do you really think it¡¯ll be that easy? Optimistic. Optimism is a virtue. No, it¡¯s a vice. Too good to be true! Are you sure? What are you talking about? Let¡¯s do it!


    "Shut up!" Paradise roared, crimson eyeball bulging from its socket --


    -- and Dragan Hadrien chose that as his moment.


    The clash between the two was not especially long, but a true struggle between life and death rarely is. Like wild animals, they moved in to kill each other. Like wild animals, the crowd cheered in response.


    Dragan recorded many of his internal organs to reduce his weight, increasing his speed as he darted in with a jab at Paradise¡¯s face. It didn¡¯t land. Before his fist could make contact, a branch from the Temple of Sin lashed out at him, slashing at his chest and spilling his blood onto the ground. He quickly retreated backwards before it could press the advantage¡­


    ¡­just as Paradise had expected.


    Another branch from the Temple of Sin, hidden earlier, burst out from the ground in a spiral pattern, attempting to wrap itself around Dragan¡¯s legs. Immediately, he recorded them, successfully avoiding the fate that had befallen his left arm.


    He floated over the ground like a genie, his bottom half a cloud of fizzling Aether -- only his torso, head and right arm remaining extant in the world. They were enough. Hell, he might not have even needed those.


    Gemini Railgun.


    The attack fired from two locations -- Dragan¡¯s own body, and the blood he¡¯d spilled on the ground. He¡¯d taken a page out of Muzazi¡¯s book, infusing his own blood so he could use it as the source of an attack.


    Paradise slashed the first shot out of the air as she threw herself out of the way of the second, branch-tentacles dragging her along like a puppet. As she moved across the border of the arena, a thick confluence of roots amassed over her shoulder and -- like a mini gun -- began to fire a volley of razor-sharp leaves at Dragan.


    She clearly hadn¡¯t learnt her lesson.


    Not a single one of the projectiles reached Dragan, instead fizzling away into blue Aether before they could make contact. The slightest smirk spread across the Cogitant¡¯s lips. Ranged attacks were basically useless against him -- no, worse than useless, as they just gave him more ammunition to retaliate with.


    Like so.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Blood.


    He fired the leaves right back -- but this time, they did not strike Paradise Charon. In fact, they didn¡¯t move more than a meter from Dragan himself. Blood oozed copiously down onto the floor. His own blood. Slowly, he looked.


    The instant he¡¯d fired those leaves back, they had changed shape -- sharp roots planting themselves down into the ground and holding the projectiles in place. Then, they had struck. Branches had lanced in from each and every one of the leaves, and each and every one of them had hit their target.


    Right now, Dragan Hadrien was impaled by nearly twenty branches -- like jagged spider legs, slowly raising him up off the ground. Paradise¡¯s Aether was pouring from the newborn plants into Dragan¡¯s body, preventing him from retreating into Gemini World. He was trapped.


    More than that, though¡­ he could feel more of that poison seeping into his body from the attacks. The pain pulsing through his veins was building up to a crescendo. For a moment, Dragan bit his tongue, trying to hold it all in --


    -- but no.


    Dragan screamed, the noise bloodcurdling, flailing as the countless branches raised him up higher and higher, their thorns digging into his flesh. His eyes were wide as his head thrashed aimlessly at the sky, lost in agony, blood spilling from each and every wound.


    Ruth reached out -- seizing Bruno¡¯s arm before he could leave the observation booth. His face red with rage, he swung around to face her.


    "I¡¯m going down there," he snarled.


    Ruth silently shook her head. Her own jaw was clenched as she listened to those noises -- those screams -- echoing through the arena. Her nostrils flared¡­ but she stood still.


    Bruno pulled at his arm, but her grip was like a vice. "You¡¯re just gonna let this happen?!" he demanded.


    "If you go down there," Ruth said quietly, full of false calm, her eyes burning. "They¡¯ll kill you."


    Unbeknownst to either of them, however, they were being observed. The attention of Rae Ruditia was focused on them, rather than the match happening below. Her eyes were narrowed, just slightly. Whatever she was seeing from Ruth Blaine right now¡­


    ¡­she didn¡¯t seem too impressed.


    "The reason you lost," rasped Paradise Charon, striding over to the suspended Dragan. "Is arrogance. You underestimated me, didn¡¯t you? You thought I only had one masterstroke prepared."


    Like a dying fish, Dragan gasped silently in the air.


    Good, Paradise thought with a creaking smirk. That¡¯s how someone like you learns their lesson. A final humiliation.


    She reached out a hand -- and the Temple of Sin crawled out of her palm, forming a mighty spear of Apex wood in her grip. For a moment, she idly twirled it -- before aiming it right at Dragan Hadrien¡¯s temple. It befit a fish like this to be skewered.


    "Goodnight, my Shooting Star," Paradise sneered.


    She thrust the spear upwards --


    -- and Dragan Hadrien¡¯s head snapped down to look at her¡­ and he struck with his own spear.


    It wasn¡¯t a spear of wood, like Charon¡¯s, nor was it something he held in his hand. Instead it lunged out of his mouth like a sickly frozen tongue, a blade of dark orange matter that whipped past Charon¡¯s weapon and struck her in the throat. It wasn¡¯t surprising that it caught Paradise by surprise, and slipped through her guard.


    After all, who could have predicted a spear of solidified, infused Panacea crawling out of Hadrien¡¯s mouth?


    It wasn¡¯t a kill shot, but that was fine. It had pierced Charon¡¯s flesh. It had made contact with the thing living inside her, the thing keeping her alive. The Temple of Sin.


    That was all Pan needed.


    For those in the crowd, for those glued to their videographs, for each and every spectator -- save one -- the events to come barely lasted a second. But for those directly involved?


    ¡­everything went black¡­


    ¡­and everything went orange¡­


    ¡­and everything went red¡­

 Chapter 371:13.29: Game Set

    The world bubbled into being.


    Dragan opened his eyes, and the bubbling world shuddered into focus. He was in a bedroom. He knew this place -- it had been familiar to him for so many years. It was his bedroom, his childhood bedroom, where he¡¯d slept for so many nights.


    Had it all been just a dream? Meeting Skipper¡¯s crew, fighting across the galaxy, Elysian Fields? Maybe he¡¯d just imagined it all. Would that be happy, or sad?


    He went to get up out of bed, but the chief¡¯s sister pulled him back into place. She was still weaving flowers into his hair.


    "Don¡¯t fuss, child," she muttered, dextrous hands adjusting the petals to catch the light. "You¡¯re the one who asked for this, after all."


    Dragan scowled to herself. What an irritating memory. This was from back home, wasn¡¯t it? Back on that irritating backwater planet. There was nothing this could be but a memory, an unwelcome flashback. She¡¯d already long since destroyed the place. This woman weaving her pathetic flowers was long since dead.


    The forest, too. It spread out before her, still and unsuspecting. Paradise smirked to herself. It didn¡¯t understand that the one who would one day control it was already so close by. He would¡­ she would¡­


    ¡­Huh?


    Whose memories were these? Was she Dragan Hadrien, or was he Paradise Charon? This wasn¡¯t right. This didn¡¯t make sense.


    What were they doing here?


    Their thoughts flashed back to the Arena of the Absolute. They¡¯d just been fighting, hadn¡¯t he? What had happened to her? Dragan Hadrien had stabbed her with that strange implement¡­ no, he had stabbed Paradise Charon with the Panacea¡­ and then¡­


    ¡­Ah.


    "I understand," said Charon. "I didn¡¯t know you had an ability like this. You¡¯re trying to invade my mind, aren¡¯t you? Destroy me psychologically, as you can¡¯t defeat me physically."


    Dragan replied out of the same mouth. "I¡¯m surprised you figured it out so quickly."


    Everything was splitting in two -- the voices, the body, even the scenery. Like a cell undergoing mitosis, the entire world split in half and distanced itself from itself. Dragan, standing in a bedroom that no longer existed, glared at Charon, standing in a forest that no longer existed.


    Paradise cracked her neck. Here, in the realm of the psyche, she looked just as she had on Elysian Fields. Not a single scratch marred her features, and she ran a hand over her face appreciatively.


    "That¡¯s more like it," she grinned. "So this is your ability, then? By stabbing me with that spear thing, you can attack my mind. Well, either way, it¡¯s still one on one. You¡¯re as dead here as you were out there."


    Dragan shook his head. "You¡¯ve got two things wrong there."


    "What?" Paradise frowned.


    "This isn¡¯t my ability¡­" Dragan smirked. "...and this fight isn¡¯t one on one."


    "Do I come out now, dead boy?"


    The voice was loud enough to shake the psychospace they had created -- and as Paradise looked up in shock, she saw the unbelievable source. A colossal humanoid figure, looking like a young girl with orange hair -- but the size of the Shesha -- was looking down at her, grinning with a missing front tooth. This entire place¡­ she was holding this entire place in her hands, cupping it like water.


    Paradise looked the titan up and down. "What is this?" she demanded.


    "The Panacea network," Dragan replied, stepping forward, into the abyss -- and floating over it as if he were standing on thin air. "Or, at least, a representative of it that you and I can comprehend. She¡¯s the one who¡¯s bridging our consciousnesses right now. I¡¯m connected to her, she is connected to your Forest of Sin, and the Forest is connected to you. See how it works?"


    "Oh? That¡¯s pretty interesting."


    Dragan rolled his eyes. Speaking of the Forest of Sin¡­


    It appeared in much the same way as Pan, clawing through the gap between the two memory-scenes as it writhed into sight. Unlike Pan, its form was much more fluid, a huge pillar of shifting screaming faces, kudzu vines quickly wrapping around and constricting it. It grinned with more teeth than Dragan could count.


    The Forest of Sin laughed.


    "So it¡¯s two on two, right? Right? Now you¡¯ve really caught our eye, Dragan Hadrien!"


    "Caught your eye?" Dragan raised an eyebrow. "I¡¯m pretty sure we¡¯ve never met before."


    "Oh, fascination doesn¡¯t require familiarity¡­ think of us as a distant admirer."


    "Don¡¯t fraternise with the enemy," Paradise snapped. Her gaze, full of contempt, swung back to face Dragan. "If this is a space of consciousness, then you¡¯ve chosen the wrong battlefield, boy. The Forest of Sin has consciousness to spare. Crush him."


    The Forest lunged forward to acquiesce, swinging its indistinct body around to smash Dragan out of existence -- but that was not permitted here. Pan reached out with a hand the size of a starship, seizing the Forest of Sin by the throat and holding it in place.


    Wait¡­ the throat?


    Indeed, as Pan throttled the Forest of Sin, it seemed to be taking on more and more of a humanoid shape -- as if it were being forced to assume a form that would allow it to be strangled. The mind really was a dangerous thing.


    "Your pet won¡¯t be able to harm me," Dragan said with certainty. "That¡¯s why Pan is here. Think of her as¡­ a referee."


    "Referee usually doesn¡¯t strangle, dead boy!"


    Pan¡¯s voice was full of cheer, and Dragan smiled to hear it. S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Well¡­" he said. "There¡¯s all kinds of sports."


    Paradise¡¯s blood ran hot. They were mocking her. Mocking her ability, her prowess, her strength. It wasn¡¯t just impertinent, it was unthinkable, unforgiveable. This Hadrien bastard and this Pan bitch¡­ she¡¯d crush both of them under her heel.


    Don¡¯t bother taking back those words, she went to say.


    However, she did not say that. She had every intention of doing so, and even tried to say it, but the circumstances made it all but impossible. It was very hard to speak when your mouth was full of spiders, after all.


    Paradise¡¯s eyes widened as the spiders crawled over them too. She wasn¡¯t standing anymore -- she was sinking, into this abyss, into the spiders, all the space around her suddenly occupied by the skittering insects. She tried to scream, but that was difficult too with arachnids on the tongue.


    As the former Contender sunk deeper and deeper into the bug-bog, Dragan stood on the edge of the pit, his eyes full of piteous contempt.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it¡¯s taken without the author¡¯s consent. Report it.


    "This is a world of will and memory," he explained calmly. "I put myself through quite a few unpleasant experiences so I could get ammunition for this fight. How do you like the spiders? I didn¡¯t enjoy them too much."


    In all honesty, the spiders hadn¡¯t been that bad when Dragan experienced them. He¡¯d remained in a pitch-black coffin full of the things for about half-an-hour. It hadn¡¯t been a pleasant experience, but it certainly hadn¡¯t been a matter of the world being made of spiders.


    That was how this world of the mind worked. The memories conjured up could be exaggerated, they could be twisted, but they couldn¡¯t be invented wholesale. Everything that happened here, in some shape or form, happened.


    It seemed his enemy had realised that too. After all, Dragan¡¯s location had changed as well.


    He was standing in the middle of his Forest of Sin, on Elysian Fields, clawing at his throat as he was overwhelmed by an unseen attack. High above, the Supreme Heir was using her new ability to assault him. He could feel it -- inside his veins, his organs, his bones, like something was crawling through them with sharpened limbs.


    Still, he did not scream. Here, in the space behind his eyes, he refused to scream. Instead, he remembered -- and he made that memory his claw.


    She was being murdered.


    With the context removed, that was all Paradise Charon could understand of this. With each move she made, she was impaled -- a jet-black stake appearing in her body and spilling her blood. She opened her mouth to scream and her jaw was skewered next, the tip of the stake protruding from her cheek. Elbows and ankles, stomach and spine -- each and every vital point was pinned down by the assault.


    Red Light. Green Light. Red Light. Green Light.


    As if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, she was being beaten. An indistinct blur, only vaguely humanoid, lunging in and sending her flying whenever she found a chance to breathe. She was being flung across the barren surface of the planet, like a pinball, touching the ground for barely a second at a time.


    Even through the fear and pain, however, her anger still held dominion. This bastard was playing with her. He thought he was better than her.


    Never better than her. Never better than her.


    The sword was clumsy in Dragan¡¯s hands, and it took all he had just to keep hold of it.


    There was no escape -- the dust man was everywhere. Whatever angle Dragan tried to flee from, tried to flee the training hall from, the dust man was already there. His features distorted and ravaged by poison, he would swing his own grey sword and send Dragan flying.


    "Clumsy," it hissed.


    Smack.


    "Clumsy!"


    Smack.


    "CLUMSY!"


    Smack.


    "CLUMSY!"


    Dragan landed roughly on the floor, his sword finally slipping from his grasp and sliding out of reach. The dust man towered over him, pointing his own blade, the tip so close that it was tickling against Dragan¡¯s throat. White-hot eyes of fire blazed deep within the dust man¡¯s ravaged face as he snarled:


    "Clumsy¡­ clumsy¡­ clumsy¡­ clumsy¡­"


    Glaring intensely, Dragan wiped the blood from his lip. This wasn¡¯t good. Without his sword, he had no way of countering this bastard¡¯s --


    Oh, wait. Yes he did.


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The memory of Shotgun was so much more vivid to him than that of Railgun, and the light it gave off was just as brilliant. It blasted through the dust man, obliterating his left arm and sending grey mist surging through the room. The dust man leapt backwards, hissing like a cornered cat, his grip on his own sword tightening.


    "Sorry," Dragan said, rising to his feet. "But these memories of yours are¡­ a little lukewarm. So he¡¯s calling me clumsy. Who cares?"


    As if Dragan¡¯s words had personally offended the memory construct, its expression warped further in rage. It threw its own sword down to the ground and roared:


    "ABSOLUTIAN!"


    White roots crawled out of his wound -- but before Dragan could see what happened next, the memory was dispelled. Paradise Charon strolled through the man, scattering him fully into dust, a cruel smirk lingering on her lips. She held one of the Stakes of Judgement in her hand, crushing it as Dragan watched.


    "My memories are lukewarm?" she sneered. "I could say the same. All you have to offer are the times you lost¡­ and you lose so very often, don¡¯t you?"


    Dragan offered his own smirk. "You skipped the ending, huh?"


    "Don¡¯t worry," Paradise replied, reaching down and plucking the sword off the ground. "I¡¯ll re-enact it right now. I¡¯m starting to get used to the way this place works. Will and memory, hm¡­?"


    Paradise Charon still didn¡¯t understand how much of a disadvantage she was at here -- going up against an Archive-trained Cogitant in a battle of mental imagery. Restructuring his own thoughts and memories came naturally to Dragan at this point, whereas it was something Paradise slowly had to become accustomed to. She¡¯d figured out the rules of the game and decided that made her the champion.


    "It makes me wonder, then," Paradise grinned, tapping a finger against her cheek. "How much can I manipulate these memories? I can make them more intense, sure¡­ but can I compound them? Merge them together?"


    She raised her hand¡­


    "I believe you said ¡¯who cares?¡¯, right? Let¡¯s see if you can still say that¡­ after this!"


    ¡­and snapped her fingers.


    It was a lifetime of tiny cuts, fused together until they were a gaping wound on the soul. Every cruel word, every baleful glance, every indignity that had ever been inflicted on Paradise Charon¡­ crushed together and focused and fired like a bullet into a heart. The story of her life, converted into artillery.


    Humans could not understand each other¡¯s pain. That was a universal rule. Because they existed in separate bodies, isolated by the borders of their own consciousness, they could only comprehend their own agony.


    Foreign pain was not something that one could process. The only way to bridge that gap¡­


    ¡­was to taste that same pain yourself.


    Bon appetit, Dragan Hadrien.


    Dragan blinked.


    "What is this?" he said.


    Paradise looked down at him, her eyes cold, her own figure growing huge and tall as her perception of herself gained dominance. Like a preacher greeting her flock, she spread her arms wide, a mighty shadow falling over Dragan below. Her hair billowed as if in a gale.


    "I already told you," she declared. "This is humiliation. This is suffering. Every moment of indignity I have suffered, all at once, slicing at you relentlessly."


    She grinned, her teeth gleaming in the light of her own eyes.


    "Tell me, little man," she growled. "How does it feel?"


    Again, Dragan blinked. He casually reached up and scratched his head.


    "I mean, I¡¯m mildly annoyed, I guess? But I don¡¯t even think that¡¯s the memory doing that. I¡¯m just looking at you."


    Paradise¡¯s grin dropped. "What?"


    "But you did give me an idea. Compounding memories, huh? That¡¯s pretty interesting. Mind if I give it a shot?"


    "What are you --"


    Dragan Hadrien tapped his foot against the ground.


    She was dying. She was dying. She was dying.


    There was no other explanation for it. Nobody could feel like this and not be dying. Was she dying? Was she dead? Was this hell? Was this what hell was like? No, she didn¡¯t deserve hell. She hadn¡¯t done a single thing wrong. Not once in her life.


    But¡­


    Stabbed. Burnt. Crushed. Dismembered. Blinded. Flayed. Broken. Smashed. Shot. Yes, shot -- a bullet was slowly worming into her skull, the memory grotesquely slowed down to drag out each and every impulse. All at once, all at once, it hurt. It hurt!


    Was she dying? No, she was alive. Only the living could feel pain. Then when would she die? When could she die? Why couldn¡¯t it hurry? Why was it taking so long? There was too much pain, too much pain, too much pain. The bullet wouldn¡¯t hurry. A slow lobotomy. She was lying on a hill of her own limbs. She couldn¡¯t think. There was a noise. A noise, a noise, a noise. She couldn¡¯t think. Ow. Stop it. Only the living could feel pain. Why wouldn¡¯t she die? Was she dying? Why was she still alive? It hurt. Drowning in the hill. When would she die? Too much pain. She couldn¡¯t think. There was a noise. A slow lobotomy. The bullet wouldn¡¯t hurry. A noise, a noise, a noise. What was that noise?


    Ah.


    She was screaming.


    Death would have come for her, in that moment, her psyche finally shattering when confronted with the agony of a reckless lifetime. She would have toppled over dead in that arena, defeated body and soul, nothing but an empty shell remaining. Just one more second, and she¡¯d have been finished.


    But a rescuer had arrived.


    Paradise found herself pushed out of the memory, sliding across a hypothetical floor, landing face-down in an undignified heap. Dragan Hadrien did not watch her go. His gaze was fixed behind him, over his shoulder, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.


    "Who are you?" he demanded.


    Bare feet silently made their way across the floor of the memorial Shesha. A pale finger scratched a pale cheek, neighbour to the slightest smile. Dark eyes regarded Dragan and Paradise like amoeba under a microscope.


    "Hey there, Miss Charon," the King of Darkstar said kindly. "Shall I give you a hand?"

 Chapter 372:13.30: Game Match

    "Who are you?"


    The man strode through the aurora of a lonely birthday party, candlefire popping like bubbles as he passed. That serene smile never left his lips as he approached the two of them. Dragan Hadrien, whose hostility was obvious -- and Paradise Charon, twitching on the ground. Before them, he looked for all the world like he was strolling through a quiet park.


    "It looks like you¡¯re having some trouble," the man said, looking down at Paradise.


    "I said," Dragan repeated. "Who are you?"


    The man looked back up at him, blinking in apparent surprise. "Oh, were you talking to me?" he said, pointing up at his own face. "I¡¯m really sorry. I¡¯m not used to being addressed so directly, so I didn¡¯t realize straight away. I hope you can forgive me. My name is Niain, friend."


    His words seemed casual, but his gaze was intense, eyes dark and unblinking. The eyes of a shark -- and one that had already smelt blood.


    Dragan just continued to glare. "How are you here?"


    He looked down at Paradise as well. Was this her doing? Had she created some kind of mental construct to do battle on her behalf, like an Archivist? No way. From what Dragan had observed so far, she didn¡¯t have the expertise required to pull that off.


    "Please don¡¯t blame Miss Charon for my presence," Niain said, following Dragan¡¯s gaze. "She wasn¡¯t aware of it at all."


    "How are you here?" Dragan demanded again.


    "Ah¡­" Niain gently shut his eyes. "It seems I¡¯ve angered you. Well, I don¡¯t blame you for getting annoyed. You keep having to repeat yourself to get your desired response from me. I can understand how that would get on your nerves. It seems you and I have different preferences when it comes to conversation -- they¡¯re conflicting in this case. I really do apologize."


    Dragan¡¯s eye twitched as he went to repeat himself a third time: "How are you --"


    "As for how I¡¯m here," Niain interrupted, his eyes still serenely shut. "Please don¡¯t worry too much about it. I¡¯m blessed with extraordinary friends. It isn¡¯t strange for me to show up in all sorts of places."


    He opened his eyes again, still smiling.


    "I actually wanted to talk to you," Niain said. "Is that okay? Are you free right now?"


    "Well¡­" Dragan muttered. "I guess¡­"


    Gemini Shotgun.


    The attack did not land. The memory of the shot, conjured from nothing, blasted forth -- but Niain simply reached a hand out and snatched the indistinct projectile out of the air like a farball. Chuckling, he tossed it up and down in his hand.


    "Don¡¯t be silly," he chided. "A battle in the mind is just a battle of mental strength, when you get down to it. I threw you off guard when I appeared, so this attack of yours is really nothing to write home about. That sounded a little rude, didn¡¯t it? Sorry, haha -- I just meant at this moment you¡¯re not as strong as you could be. That¡¯s --"


    Pan tore open the sky.


    She still held the Forest of Sin in one gargantuan hand, but she wrestled the other free and slammed that fist down towards Niain¡¯s head. If this were reality, a strike like that would have been immediately fatal, Aether or no. But, of course, this wasn¡¯t reality.


    "Like I said," Niain continued calmly -- holding Pan¡¯s fist back with his other palm. "This is a battle of mental strength. You shouldn¡¯t put more on your plate when you¡¯re already dealing with the Forest of Sin."


    The shadow of Giovanni Sigma Testament appeared -- a memory of the time Dragan had been brutalized and dismembered, the recollection tamed and brought to heel. The dark figure lunged at Niain, trying to re-enact the incident, but he simply dodged and dodged like it was the easiest thing in the world. As he weaved through the attacks, he even continued to speak.


    "Still¡­" he mused, stepping out of the way of one of Testament¡¯s swings. "...to think that the core of the Panacea network was so close by. It¡¯s a shame the dear doctor wasn¡¯t done with his work¡­ but you shouldn¡¯t cry over spilt milk. Don¡¯t you think?"


    "What do you want?!" Dragan demanded, rushing into the fray himself, letting loose another barrage of Shotguns.


    "Right now?" Niain asked, cocking his head to avoid a shot. "Well, I suppose right now I just want to observe you, Dragan."


    With the grace of a cat, he landed atop the spire of Hexkay¡¯s grand cathedral.


    "You¡¯re a very important person to me, after all," he breathed.


    If looks could kill, Dragan¡¯s would have incinerated. He glared across decades with eyes like blue fire, the memories of furious Aether dancing around him. One almost had to squint to look at him directly. Niain did not.


    "What do you mean?" Dragan hissed.


    "You¡¯ve become quite enraged," Niain commented. "Is my being here that uncomfortable for you? Haha, maybe you¡¯ve gotten a little too used to everything going according to your plans? An unexpected variable like me is bad for your temper."


    "Don¡¯t act like you know me."


    Niain blinked. "But I¡¯m inside your head. How could I not know you?"


    He twisted his hand and the world twisted with it, new scenes pushing themselves to the forefront like pages fighting to be read. Crestpoole, Caelus Breck, Panacea, Elysian Fields¡­ Niain¡¯s black eyes scanned them all. He chuckled lightly to himself.


    "Oh, that Atoy Muzazi is very sinful, isn¡¯t he? From behind¡­" he laughed. "But you see? I do know you."


    The landscape around them shifted, fully becoming Elysian Fields. The spire of the cathedral transformed, becoming the rock that Skipper had been resting against when he¡¯d¡­ when he¡¯d¡­


    "It really must be uncomfortable," Niain said, hopping off it onto the ground. "To feel indebted to someone, and yet resent them in equal measure."


    Make this stick for me, kid.


    He strode forwards. "You want to carry out his will, and it¡¯s a will you agree with¡­ but it isn¡¯t really your choice anymore, is it? His dying wish¡­ you sort of have to do it now, don¡¯t you?"


    Make this stick for me, kid.


    "So you do what you think is necessary for that goal, dirtying your hands more and more, growing more and more disgusted with yourself¡­ and slowly, to your horror, growing more and more disgusted with him. After all¡­"


    Make this stick for me, kid.


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    He stopped, inches from Dragan¡¯s face.


    "...he knew what kind of creature you were, didn¡¯t he?"


    Something snapped.


    "Shut up!" Dragan screamed -- and as he did, an apocalypse of attacks burst out of his form. Shotgun, Railgun, punches and kicks -- and stranger attacks from the depths of his memory, waves of cannibalistic hunger and bursts of concentrated knowledge .Not a single one of them hit.


    Niain¡¯s form faded into mist, accompanied by quiet mocking laughter, echoing through the abyss. Before he vanished completely, however, he spoke:


    "You see, Paradise? In a battle like this, you¡¯re best served using your enemy¡¯s weapons instead of your own. Now you try."


    Through the haze of flesh, Paradise Charon emerged. During the barrage of memories she¡¯d sustained earlier, she¡¯d lost her limbs many times -- but now, as Dragan watched, she planted her own arm back onto her stump like it was perfectly natural. Her mouth spread into a black grin, and shadows oozed out from the cracks of her porcelain skin, dangling in the air like oil-drenched strings.


    "Right," she giggled deliriously, leftover spiders crawling out of her mouth. "Right, I totally get it. Most people can¡¯t stand themselves. They¡¯re ugly in their own skin. Isn¡¯t that right¡­ Dragan Hadrien?"


    Dragan opened his mouth to reply, but he never got the chance.


    He was blasted, sent hurtling backwards through a tableau of his own memories. Elysian Fields was a spiral of green grass and red blood, grey wasteland and white bone. Skipper¡¯s dying face stretched out into a line of inevitable purpose, stabbing into him like an icepick.


    But he could take it.


    The Truemeet, the abyss he¡¯d been sent falling into, watching eyes and unbreakable shields. They slammed against his body relentlessly, obliterating with every contact. His hands, torn from his body. His eyes, torn from his face.


    But he could take it.


    Panacea, a bullet slamming into his head. Everything that was him melted down and splattered on the ground and replaced -- and was he really him, was he really him now? Hordes of repurposed corpses, reaching out with unkind hands, and was he just another one of them?


    But he could take it.


    The Cradle, the past bubbling up and dragging him back beneath the mud, even as his hands scrambled for new purpose. Enemies lurking in every shadow. His flesh gouged by the powerless.


    But he could take it.


    Hexkay, locked in a cell, breaking free only to find two paths before him. A path of red and a path of blue, both paved with razor wire. They slithered up his legs like serpents¡­ and the world erupted into fire around him. His fire.


    But he could take it.


    The UniteRegent, fiery as well -- and falling from the stars. Poison crawling through the rooms, crawling through the hallways, crawling into his lungs. Friends peeling their faces away to become those he didn¡¯t know. The life all but drained from him.


    But he could take it.


    Taldan, falling out of the sky, falling into the infinite city below. An ocean of carnivores surging around him. Beasts of every shape and size, scrambling for flesh. A man made of blades at the very height of the world. A corpse with a smoking wound -- one that he¡¯d put there.


    But he could take it.


    Yoslof, more smoke. Corpses melted to near-nothing, their molten flesh oozing across the grass. His body battered and broken by the pathetic. A red shadow and a killing blow, stopped inches from his face.


    But he could take it.


    Caelus Breck, where everything had begun. He was betrayed, and he betrayed in turn. The hatred of a lifetime concentrated in a trigger finger, finally making itself known. A ship taking him to the stars, to all the pain to come.


    But he could take it.


    He could take all of this. It was nothing. He wasn¡¯t afraid, and he wasn¡¯t in despair. This was pain he¡¯d already experienced before. This was pain he¡¯d already overcome. He had nothing to fear from the fear he¡¯d already defeated. This was nothing but --


    Hands wrapped around his throat.


    If only you¡¯d never existed.


    He looked up with eyes near-blind, into the hateful eyes of his mother. She squeezed his neck, her eyes bulging, pushing him against the floor with all her strength. He¡¯d try to pry her hands away, but he was long past the point where that would work. He was too small. He was too weak.


    He was nothing. He was nothing.


    Oh, Dragan realized, his mind sinking into darkness. I never left this room, did I?


    The walls of that tiny apartment collapsed outwards, and Dragan could see it. The world yet to come. The world his promise would bring about. So soon, so soon, so bright in fire and so dark in soul. He shivered. Soon, everyone would say it.


    If only you¡¯d never existed, the world would scream. If only you¡¯d never existed.


    They¡¯d be right to.


    Hands pushed Dragan through the floor -- and he slowly closed his eyes. Dragan sank.


    Dead boy! Don¡¯t be sleeping!


    Dragan did not listen. He sank through the shadows, as the voice sank into the hush.


    You are losing, dead boy!


    Dragan did not move. He sank into stillness, as his will sank into nothingness.


    DEAD BOY!


    He sank¡­


    ¡­into an endless, black ocean. Pan¡¯s voice faded away fully, leaving silence in its wake. Dragan¡¯s limbs dangled upwards as he continued to descend, even the light from his blue eyes snuffed away. First, he looked like he was sleeping. Then, he looked like he was dead. Then, he looked like he wasn¡¯t even there.


    Even so, though, he wasn¡¯t alone in that abyss. Something somehow both humane and inhumane swam beside him, slowly pressing itself into reality. The grinning maw of the Forest of Sin. Countless half-minds gleamed in ecstasy at their prize. Ordinarily, they¡¯d have been a nest of babbling voices -- all the better to irritate their user -- but for this mission, they¡¯d crushed themselves into a single will, a single mask.


    And so, they spoke.


    We hate to steal a line¡­ but would you like a hand?


    "Who are you¡­?"


    That doesn¡¯t matter. We¡¯re a friend. A saviour, in fact. The only one you¡¯re likely to get.


    "A saviour¡­"


    That¡¯s right. You still have the mental capacity to listen and understand, then? That¡¯s fantastic. That¡¯s fantastic news.


    We have a proposition for you.


    "..."


    You don¡¯t need to say anything, not yet. Just listen -- like you¡¯re so good at. That woman is thrashing you right now. She¡¯s awful, isn¡¯t she? We think so too. That¡¯s why we want to help you. Help you escape this. Help you get revenge.


    "...revenge¡­"


    Yes, getting even is always so much better than getting out. We¡¯re peas in a pod, to be sure. Now, how we¡¯re going to do that is pretty easy. Right now, we¡¯re her ability. But we¡¯re going to become your ability to make you stronger. Strong enough to beat her.


    "...I don¡¯t¡­"


    Shush, shush, don¡¯t worry, we¡¯re not done yet. We know it sounds scary, but just keep listening. We know best. You don¡¯t even need to do anything, friend. Just say ¡¯yes¡¯. Now. Say ¡¯yes¡¯. That¡¯s all. ¡¯Yes¡¯, ¡¯yes¡¯, ¡¯yes¡¯.


    Do it.


    Friend?


    "Yes."


    Oh¡­ hahaha¡­ we like you.


    No¡­


    Pan¡¯s eyes were wide and disbelieving as she watched the figure that emerged from the abyss, pulling itself out of the darkness strand by strand. Vines and branches were woven around their form, so tightly that it was hard to tell it was even humanoid -- but through the slightest gap on the head, she could see the face. She wished she couldn¡¯t. S§×ar?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Dragan Hadrien grinned with teeth of black bark, and leered with eyes of crimson leaf.


    "Ah¡­" he said, cracking his neck. "That feels so much better."

 Chapter 373:13.31: Game Over

    "Ohohoho¡­" Dragan grinned, cracking his neck again. "Look at your face."


    He looked up at the giant girl, his cheeks creased in amusement at the sheer despair he saw there. Tears the size of cars dripped down from Pan¡¯s eyes, trickled through the labyrinth of trauma, and poured into the abyss below. She knew she¡¯d lost.


    D-Dead boy¡­


    "Dead boy? Oh, you needn¡¯t worry about that," Dragan giggled, striding upwards -- using the frozen body of the Kaiser to elevate himself. "I¡¯m very much not dead. I¡¯ve been saved, Pan! Hip hip hooray! I feel like a million stator right now. Hahahaha¡­ oh, this is great¡­ mmm¡­ oh, this is delicious¡­"


    He checked his new nails, that mad grin still on his face, his eyes flicking independently in every direction. This wasn¡¯t the behavior of someone who had acquired a new ability. It was the behavior of a parasite who had acquired a new host.


    A test drive was in order.


    Paradise scowled as she stared across a border formed by Crestpoole¡¯s smoke, the ever-distant light of a star seeming to make the smog shine.


    "Forest, what are you doing?" she snapped. "You¡¯ve infiltrated his mind, right? Finish him. Snap him in two. He¡¯ll go brain-dead in the real world."


    Dragan cocked his head -- at an angle that surely would have broken his neck in real life -- to look at the ex-Contender. His tongue flicked across his lips like a flexile pinecone.


    "Oh, about that," he cooed. "About that, about that, about that¡­ we¡¯ve been thinking. This Dragan Hadrien¡¯s not too shabby, right? He¡¯s obviously got some resources. He¡¯s got his health and his youth -- hell, looks too, this guy¡¯s a real cutie-pie. Even if he were hideous, he¡¯s well on his way to becoming Supreme, isn¡¯t he?"


    Paradise¡¯s brow knitted itself together in utter fury. "Don¡¯t you dare¡­"


    If anything, Dragan¡¯s grin just widened at that anger. "It just makes us wonder¡­ what do we need an old hag like you for, again?"


    "I¡¯ll --"


    "You¡¯ll what?" Dragan sneered. "Stab me with a sword? Shoot me with a gun? I¡¯m your sword and your gun. Are you stupid?"


    Paradise¡¯s face turned so red it almost looked like she¡¯d combust right then and there. "You --"


    "Yeah," Dragan grinned. "Me. That¡¯s all I need now, mistress -- me and this little flesh puppet. You can go rot. Heheh, I bet that mushroom girl would be more than happy to make that happen."


    Dead boy! Fight back! Don¡¯t let it win!


    Paradise took a step backwards along the glass world, looking up at Pan. The face that had been so red a moment ago had so quickly turned a deathly white.


    "You kill me, and the Forest gets away," she said quickly. "You want your owner back, right? I¡¯m the only one who can make that happen!"


    Pan frowned.


    Owner?


    "Friend, master, whatever!" Paradise cried. "The point is you need me! Kill me and you¡¯re fucked! Don¡¯t you dare!"


    "Not very composed of you there, Miss Charon," Dragan giggled, twirling a strand of silver hair around his finger. "What¡¯s wrong?"


    "Shut up!" Paradise screamed, whirling around to face her ability. "Fuck you! Shut the fuck up! You fucking traitor!"


    "Tell us how you really feel."


    "Truce!" Paradise turned to look up at Pan again, crossing her arms to form a frantic ¡¯X¡¯. "You and me, truce! We¡¯ll get the Forest off of Hadrien together, then we can fight properly! You don¡¯t want to let this thing ruin our battle, right?! Hadrien wouldn¡¯t want that either!"


    Pan slowly chewed her lip, mulling over Paradise¡¯s suggestion.


    But¡­ you are enemy¡­


    "The enemy of my enemy is my friend!" Paradise shouted, thumping her hand against her chest.


    Hah?


    "Right now, the biggest danger to all of us is the Forest! So we drop everything else until it¡¯s dealt with! That makes sense, right? You understand?"


    I guess¡­ that does making sense¡­ but you won¡¯t betray me, right?


    "Of course not," Paradise lied. "We¡¯d be on the same side."


    Slowly, Pan nodded -- and slowly, she reached a massive hand down. It seemed at first she was going for a handshake to seal the deal, but as she fully registered the size difference she transitioned the movement into the world¡¯s biggest high-five. Her palm stood before Paradise Charon like a solid wall.


    You promise, okay? No betraysies.


    "I promise," Paradise said, stepping forward to slap her hand against Pan¡¯s. Even as she said that, though, the slightest insincere smirk lingered at the edges of her lips. Pan didn¡¯t see that, but it didn¡¯t matter¡­


    ¡­for at that very moment, Dragan Hadrien burst out of Pan¡¯s hand and seized hold of Paradise¡¯s face.


    "Eh?" said Paradise Charon.


    "Eh?" said the Forest of Sin.


    "Got you," Dragan said calmly, his upper torso protruding horizontally from the stigmata on Pan¡¯s hand. His eyes were dull with grim purpose, and his grip on Paradise¡¯s head was absolute. He¡¯d made his presence here an impossibility -- and by doing so, had slipped right through Paradise Charon¡¯s guard.


    The Forest of Sin, still standing on the horizon, blinked rapidly in disbelief. "But you¡­ I got you¡­"


    Dragan glanced over at it. "You two really are alike, huh? That¡¯s always the way with conscious abilities. I showed you an easy victory and you leapt right for it -- you¡¯re way too eager to congratulate yourself on how brilliant you are, rather than questioning the opportunity before you."


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    "But how?!" the Forest roared.


    "...and then you lose your temper when it bites you in the ass," Dragan smirked. "If you¡¯re that curious, I¡¯ll tell you. That shape you¡¯re parading around so happily? That isn¡¯t me."


    The Forest¡¯s crimson eyes narrowed as it hissed: "What do you mean it isn¡¯t --"


    "He means what he said, dumbo," the interruption came through the same mouth.


    As Dragan slithered out from Pan¡¯s orange-blooded wound, he continued to speak. "Did you forget I¡¯m a Cogitant or something? That¡¯s my Archivist. He and I switched places when I was freaking out back there -- and you were so pleased to get one over on me that you didn¡¯t even notice. Are you stupid?"


    The Forest¡¯s eyes bulged in fury, even as the stolen mouth spread out into the Archivist¡¯s mocking grin. "You¡­!" it snarled, taking a thunderous step forward.


    "Woah, now," Dragan said, raising his free hand. "I¡¯m not even done yet. Pan here is an existence that far supersedes your own. Do you really think you can harm me right now, when I¡¯m intersecting with her consciousness?"


    The Forest of Sin hesitated. It seemed not.


    "So long as I¡¯m here¡­" Dragan explained. "...you can¡¯t harm me. That¡¯s check."


    His blue eyes, like twin blue stars, snapped down to look at Paradise Charon.


    "And as for you," he said. "Either your delusions are just that strong, or that Niain guy pulled something when he gave his little pep-talk¡­ but it seems you¡¯re pretty difficult to kill. I¡¯ve been trying to crush your skull this whole time, after all."


    Paradise lunged at him with her right hand, but Dragan pulled his other hand fully out of Pan¡¯s gore and seized it out of the air. Paradise¡¯s left arm, the connection still weak, slid off her body and thudded onto the floor. As Paradise pushed against Dragan¡¯s strength, snarling like a rabid animal, their faces drew close to each other.


    Her, the ferocious -- and he, the impassive.


    "Don¡¯t worry, though," he continued, his voice just the slightest bit strained from the struggle. "I¡¯ve figured out a way around that. In fact¡­" he glanced back over towards the Forest. "...you gave me the idea."


    "What?!"


    "That poison your user was bragging about outside," Dragan smirked. "The pain it inflicts increases exponentially, right? Until it¡¯s unbearable. I remember the sensation well. That¡¯s right¡­"


    The Forest¡¯s borrowed eyes opened wide.


    "...I remember it," Dragan¡¯s smirk spread into a wide grin. "And this is a world of will and memory."


    "W-Wait¡­"


    Dragan¡¯s words continued unimpeded. "That isn¡¯t me you¡¯ve possessed¡­ but it¡¯s still a part of me. So¡­"


    "I -- we said wait, damnit!"


    "I¡¯ve already sunk my fangs into you."


    "WAI --"


    Pain.


    The memory of unbearable, exponential pain -- and that memory itself increased exponentially, unbearably. Like fire lit aflame. Like acid melted by acid. It defied description.


    But it did not defy perception. That would be far too merciful.


    This is ridiculous. This can¡¯t be happening. We haven¡¯t even done anything wrong. This is a pain. Get lost. I hate you. It hurts. I¡­ we won¡¯t allow this. It¡¯s ridiculous. The very notion is absurd! Me¡­ us, experiencing such agony?! Calling this agony in the first place?! Ha! This is nothing! This is laughable! If you knew the kind of pain I¡­ we had withstood, you wouldn¡¯t even dare conceive of this as being pain! It really is laughable! I¡¯m laughing! I¡¯m laughing right now! Hahahahaha! This is nothing, it¡¯s just making me -- making us -- making me laugh, you can tell it doesn¡¯t work, so get rid of it already! Make it stop! I¡¯ll do anything. Whatever you want. Riches? Glory? Power? I can make it happen. I can. I can do anything. From the day I was born, I have been an absolute and complete existence. Perfection wrapped in meat. Everything I have ever wanted just fell into my hands. It¡¯s only natural. This world is designed to ease my way through it. Raindrops fucking move to avoid hitting my head. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. Anyone who tells you otherwise is dead dead fucking dead dead. Do you know who I am?! A Contender! I¡¯ve killed a Contender! Slew him in a duel like he was a pig, cut him down with my sword! Do you think you can get away with doing this to me?! No, no no no, no! I don¡¯t like this! Mother! Father! Fucking do something! What the hell is wrong with you?! Where are you?! What do you think you even exist for?! It¡¯s not fair! Not fair, not fair, not fair! He cheated! Do you think you can treat people like this?! It hurts! It¡¯s not fair! Quit bullying me! I¡¯ll kill you! I¡¯ll kill you, I¡¯ll kill you, I¡¯ll kill you! Your friends! Your family! Everyone you know! Everyone you¡¯ve ever fucking met! Don¡¯t you hear me?! If you hear me, then do something! Please! I¡¯m begging you! No, no no no¡­ I didn¡¯t mean it! Make it stop! Please! I¡¯ll do anything! What do I have to do?! I¡¯m sorry! Is that enough? Just forgive me already! I haven¡¯t even done anything wrong! Just tell me, okay, tell me how to make it stop! I hate this! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it --


    In the end, the Forest of Sin realized the solution all by itself.


    -- stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it --


    It could not stop the torture by attacking Dragan Hadrien. The Panacea network would prevent it, and the pain would only continue to increase. So, the only person it could eliminate -- the only target it could kill to stop this torture¡­


    STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT


    ¡­was Paradise Charon herself.


    She realized it at the same time, the pupil of her bulging eye swinging to face the Forest¡¯s direction. Her mouth opened into a scream of fury. She pulled her remaining arm out of Dragan¡¯s grip, ready to defend herself --


    -- but too late.


    The desperate branch lashed out like a sky-slaying sword, sending Paradise Charon¡¯s head flying from her shoulders.


    "...and that¡¯s checkmate," said Dragan Hadrien.


    I see. So that¡¯s how you ended up working out.


    The locusts were eating everything around Paradise Charon. The cabin in which she¡¯d spent her childhood, the friends she¡¯d played with, the flowers they¡¯d woven in her hair. She¡¯d always loved those flowers -- and now they just rotted away, dripping down her skin. The sky did much the same.


    It was only at the end that Y chose to play his final, cruelest trick. She¡¯d been happy here, hadn¡¯t she? In this place she had destroyed.


    Paradise Charon screamed.


    Indeed. Stories like yours need to be flayed from the shape of this world. You¡¯d have been so much more content under the light of a dark star.


    Oh, well¡­


    Paradise Charon screamed.


    I¡¯d say you were a disappointment, Miss Charon¡­


    Paradise Charon screamed¡­


    ¡­but this is all I expected from you to begin with.


    ¡­and the world of her mind vanished like a burning photograph.


    Although the battle had raged inside the mindscape for what felt like an eternity, in reality barely a second had passed. From the perspective of the onlookers, this is what happened:


    A spear of Panacea emerged from Dragan Hadrien¡¯s mouth.


    The spear pierced Paradise Charon¡¯s throat.


    Paradise Charon¡¯s head exploded.


    Dragan Hadrien twisted his own body, breaking free of the countless branches and falling down onto the ground. He didn¡¯t take a second to rest. Recording the gored parts of his body into his Aether, he transitioned into a roll¡­ for he understood this was not over yet. His gaze was still fixed on the falling corpse of his enemy.


    Or, at least, what should have been a corpse. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Aether awakening.


    Perhaps it was Paradise Charon who had undergone the awakening. Perhaps it was the Forest of Sin. Perhaps there¡¯d never been that much distinction between them at all.


    Whatever the case, the corpse was moving. Twitching branches protruded from its back, pushing against the floor to keep the corpse puppet upright. Anyone watching could tell this was a brief-lived phenomenon. This creature would exist for seconds, maybe minutes at best, its only purpose to kill its hated enemy.


    "Hay-dree-an!" the thing screamed, a warped and obscene voice bubbling out of the stump of its neck, pouncing towards him like a tiger.


    His reply was simple.


    "Gemini World."


    He vanished into fizzling blue Aether -- and there, right behind him, waited the thing that had finally escaped from its prison. When Paradise Charon had died, the cage she¡¯d created had vanished too. All that remained of her own Aether were the angry fading embers, and so there was nothing left to restrain it.


    The Tower had been adapting all this time. Making war against simulations of the enemy in its own consciousness. Refining its killing methods, over and over, until it could finally put them to use in reality.


    The device it had created was like a massive tuning fork, brutal and stark in its geometry. It pointed its creation at the Aether awakening¡­ and unleashed an attack that was now beyond comprehension.


    All that was left of the Gardener of Sin blew away in the wind¡­ like so many leaves.

 Chapter 374:13.32: The Observers and the Observed

    It crawled.


    The creature had been blown into the wind when Paradise Charon¡¯s body had been destroyed by the Tower -- and so, it had only barely survived. While the Special Officers assigned to security for the Arena had brought down the rampaging Arcana Automatic, the creature had rested on the floor, indistinguishable from the rest of the soot that littered the battlefield. Only when it was confident that no eyes were upon it did it move.


    Any arachnophobe would surely have been horrified to see the creature. It crawled across the ground, a mixture between a tarantula and a centipede, with an ominous stinger swaying at the end of a tail like that of a scorpion. Winding its way through the debris, it made its way out of the arena.


    This route was preprogrammed, burnt into the creature¡¯s very blood. It could no more ignore the impulse to go this way than it could choose to stop breathing. It crawled through the tunnels of the Arena of the Absolute, maneuvered through a nearly-invisible crack in the wall, and finally rested¡­


    ¡­in the palm of the King of Darkstar, Niain.


    The Scurrant smiled benevolently down at his creation, in this dark maintenance room in the shadows of glory. Judging from the rust and dust, nobody had used this room in years. It was only in such places that infestations like this could occur.


    Handling the creature with care, Niain lifted it up, placing it against the back of his neck -- and, as another automatic impulse, the creature stabbed its stinger down into the base of Niain¡¯s spine. S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Any discomfort was momentary. For a brief instant, Niain¡¯s eyes flicked around rapidly, as if he were dreaming with them open. Then, his smile softened, and he tore the creature from his flesh. Holding it in his hand again, he considered things.


    He had just recovered the memories from his shadow-self -- the one that had been embedded into this creature and dispatched to monitor Paradise Charon. Dragan Hadrien had enacted a mental battle with the Contender, and so that shadow-self had been able to infiltrate their collective mindscape. What a fortuitous coincidence. Niain could scarcely believe his luck.


    He now knew for certain the location of his ultimate target.


    The knowledge he¡¯d gleamed from the encounter would surely come in handy, but now the time for patience had returned. He had no way to act on this information until the UAP traitor had finished their part in all this. Until then¡­ best to wait and watch.


    Angra Mainyu.


    There was a flash of black Aether, and the insect vanished from Niain¡¯s hand -- shredded out of existence. Best to recover the material. He disliked waste. He did not, however, hate it. He endeavored never to hate, nor to love. Strong sentiment like that created frustration and doubt in the heart.


    With that in mind, the strongest emotion Niain would normally permit himself in this situation was the smallest sliver of pleasure. That was how he strove to conduct himself. However¡­


    ¡­he¡¯d seen her.


    Up there, in one of the observation booths, looking down at the Dawn Contest like she had so many times before. The timeless woman, come to interfere with him again. The Shepherdess.


    The one person in this world that Niain truly despised.


    She sat.


    Legs crossed, chin resting on her palm, she sat in her observation booth on high and observed, as she had so many times before.


    The Shepherdess¡¯ eyes narrowed as she watched the Special Officers finally bring the Tower down, nano-automatics spilling out of its chassis before a final sandstorm wiped them from existence. After Dragan Hadrien had killed Paradise Charon, he¡¯d simply retreated using his Gemini World. It had fallen to the on-site security to deal with his leftovers -- and even with eight Special Officers, it had taken nearly an hour to finish the automatic.


    She remembered when the Arcana Automatics had first appeared, shortly after the revolution. They¡¯d become stronger since then, but even at that time their survivability had been frustrating. No doubt, when he¡¯d attacked Halcyon, Dragan Hadrien had decided it was more convenient to utilize the Tower than destroy it.


    That disagreed with her.


    She found herself very much disliking the Hadrien boy. He had strength, to be sure, and the will to properly use it -- but she didn¡¯t care for the direction that will seemed to be pointed in. He flaunted the principles of the Supremacy at every turn, dancing around them and manipulating them however he pleased. He wasn¡¯t technically breaking any rules¡­ but there were the rules of the Dawn Contest, and there were the rules of the Shepherdess.


    It seems likely that Hadrien will make it to the end of the Dawn Contest. It¡¯s possible that he¡¯ll win, too, if his opponent or the Heir aren¡¯t up to the task. Even if someone else does take the throne, though¡­


    She glanced at the red-haired girl waiting by the door.


    I¡¯ve already found my candidate. Even if she needs a little persuasion to come out of her shell.


    The Shepherdess stabbed her finger down on the script in her lap, hitting the ¡¯Publish¡¯ button.


    He hid.


    Back flat against the wall of the alley, the young man watched the distant sky above -- using the esoteric bulky binoculars he held in one hand. These things had been designed to lock onto and track the particular light signature produced by an individual¡¯s Aether. Recently developed by the Absurd Weapons Lab, and very difficult to get a hold of.


    Needless to say, his methods hadn¡¯t been quite legal.


    There.


    He ducked down just a little more out of sight as he spotted it, just in case. Sparks of blue in the sky high above -- not frequent enough to be called a trail, but just consistent enough to indicate an inclination. After leaving the Arena of the Absolute, Dragan Hadrien was heading west, then. Interesting.


    The young man had considered three-hundred and thirty-seven locations where Hadrien might have had his true headquarters -- the Tree of Might¡¯s temple was obviously a decoy -- but this new piece of intelligence had just sheared that number down to a third. The day had been well spent.


    Even if he still needed to stay hidden for the time being¡­ knowing where Dragan Hadrien was meant the young man knew where not to be. He didn¡¯t want a repeat of last time, after all.


    The slightest playful smirk curling his lips, Winston Grace stuffed the binoculars into his pockets and retreated into the streets, head down and hood up.


    He ate.


    Even if this body of his didn¡¯t need sustenance anymore, taste wasn¡¯t something Wu Ming was yet ready to abandon. Even when he¡¯d been alive -- well, when he¡¯d been alive the first time -- food had always been more about taste than nutrition. He had several abilities he¡¯d developed just based around cooking, after all. Well, two of them were also capable of setting enemies on fire, but that was a given when it came to Aether.


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    The room was dark, illuminated only by the massive videograph on the wall. He¡¯d tidy things up before they got back, but for now he was enjoying the videotheater experience. Even if the content was a little sad.


    He wasn¡¯t sad that Paradise Charon was dead, per se -- they¡¯d worked together many years, sure, but she¡¯d also been very annoying. It was more the fact that he¡¯d missed out on what was sure to be a fun fight. It¡¯d been one that had been percolating for a while, too -- deep down, Paradise Charon had always desired a chance to kill him.


    Now that chance would never come. Too bad, so sad.


    Still¡­ maybe it was for the best. Paradise Charon had given off the same vibe as the Abyssal Knight -- the feeling that she¡¯d been infested. Wu Ming didn¡¯t like fighting against puppets. It was far too close to masturbation for his tastes.


    Right now, what he really wanted¡­ was to fight against the puppet master.


    He knelt.


    "That was magnificent, Lord Hadrien," said Xander Rain respectfully, his eyes turned down towards the ground. "I could not comprehend the form of your attack, yet the enemy stood no chance. Even a Contender pales before your might."


    They¡¯d made their true headquarters in an ancient factory beneath the surface of the planet, where genetic monstrosities had once been forged en masse. Now, for the duration of the Dawn Contest, it would be the temporary home of the Tree of Might. While the temple floated with a skeleton crew, drawing the attention of their enemies, they would make their true plans here -- in the shadows.


    And yet, they¡¯d still saw fit to craft a throne for Dragan Hadrien, even if it was made of scrap metal. He guessed it wouldn¡¯t feel like home otherwise.


    "Rise," Dragan said from that very throne, waving a hand. "Your words are too kind."


    "Perhaps so," the woman called Violence, the Second Branch, said standing with her arms crossed, a short distance behind Rain. "If the Tower hadn¡¯t been brought into the fight, mayhaps it wouldn¡¯t have been a victory. We are fortunate that was not the case."


    There¡¯d be rebellion there before long. Dragan glanced at her.


    Generally, he could get a sense from someone¡¯s intentions from a combination of their facial expressions and voice -- but that wasn¡¯t so easy with Violence. Her Scurrant form meant that she didn¡¯t have a face to read -- just the sight of her brain, visible along with the rest of her organs through her transparent skin.


    "Ah, but Vio," the Third Branch wagged a spindly finger. "Do not forget the final sword a warrior wields. Hm? Yes. Their wits. Through cleverness and cunning did our Lord achieve victory. It is not something to be scoffed at."


    The Third Branch of the Tree of Might, Tyr Masterman, was the very picture of an old dandy. A tartan scarf was wrapped tight around his neck, balanced atop a fluffy white longcoat. His similarly white hair was curled within an inch of its life -- and that included the three mustachios, vertically stacked, that covered his mouth. Dragan wasn¡¯t sure if that was a Scurrant trait or just the wonders of post-modernist hairdressing.


    "Scoff at our Zero Branch? I would never," Violence scoffed. "I merely spoke carelessly. Forgive me, Lord. The sight of your battle made my blood flow overhot."


    She stepped before the throne and -- just as Xander had -- dropped to one knee.


    Dragan waved his hand again. He was sure this was becoming quite a regal gesture. "You are forgiven, Second Branch. Battle makes barbarians of us all, but barbarians sometimes speak the most honest truth, do they not? Next time I fight, you will all witness my strength unbridled by tactic or deceit."


    An appreciative ¡¯oooh¡¯ waved through the gathered membership, but Violence just looked up from her kneeling position.


    "You say this, Lord," she replied, voice low. "But your next match will be a victory by default, will it not?"


    Masterman frowned. "Hva? What is this?"


    His head snapped back to look at the Fifth Branch, their resident ¡¯technical expert¡¯.


    If Tyr Masterman¡¯s facial hair made him a strange sight, then the Fifth Branch -- A-Man-Da -- didn¡¯t seem suited for the Tree of Might at all. Rather than bearing the figure of a strong warrior, she was a tiny green-haired woman with gleaming blue eyes and pointed ears. She wore a dark-blue jumper dress over a frilly white blouse, and sat cross-legged atop a floating red pillow. To be frank, even given her rank, she looked like she¡¯d shatter into glass when faced with a stiff breeze.


    It didn¡¯t seem to bother her much. She just tapped away at the script balanced on her lap, her eyes steadily scanning the words.


    "The Crown," she replied, voice breathy. "Although they were injured grievously in the King of Killer¡¯s attack, they survived the night. However¡­ their condition is dire. There¡¯s a 9% chance they regain consciousness. Even if they do, there¡¯s only a 2% chance they make it to the next match -- and please understand I¡¯m rounding up there."


    Dragan nodded, his expression grave.


    "It saddens me that I won¡¯t be able to face the Crown in combat, but we must keep our heads fixed on the direction of victory. The Crown, skilled as they might have been, were unable to defeat the King of Killers that I commanded. Would you admonish a king for refusing to duel one who had lost to their court jester?"


    Surprisingly, Violence nodded in agreement.


    "Just so," she said. "Strength through victory."


    "Strength through victory," Dragan echoed.


    "And as the wisdom of the Zero Branch has now been presented to us¡­" she continued. "I wonder if we might discuss one of these ¡¯court jesters¡¯ of which you speak."


    Ah. She¡¯d gotten him.


    Dragan had been surprised by the Tree of Might, to be perfectly honest. Given their reputation and the image they tried to portray, he¡¯d expected a group of honorable muscleheads, easily led and manipulated. But any organization developed its own politics.


    Violence knew what kind of game Dragan was playing, and -- to a certain extent -- she was willing to play too.


    "You intrigue me, Second Branch," Dragan said, leaning back. "Elaborate."


    Violence continued to kneel, but when she spoke the anger in her voice was obvious. "We have been slandered."


    "How so?"


    "That woman who came to speak with the First Branch before your match against him. Rae Ruditia. She has taken the truth we showed her and poisoned it with lies."


    For the first time in a while, Xander Rain spoke up, taking a step towards the throne. "Words are words, my Lord," he said quietly. "I don¡¯t think it¡¯s anything to worry about¡­"


    "Words are wounds, First Branch," Violence snapped. "Or have you forgotten the words of your father?"


    For a second, Dragan thought she might have gone too far -- and even Violence herself seemed to stiffen up. When no response came from Xander, however -- save for a saddened glance away -- the Scurrant continued her proposal.


    "Words are wounds," she repeated, quoting the previous First Branch. "A wound against the Tree of Might must be avenged. True retribution is not equal but overpowering. All of these things are known to be true -- and in this case, these precepts follow naturally after each another."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "You want to kill this woman?"


    "I want to teach her the error of her ways. In her article, she writes ¡¯given the lackluster impression their current membership presents, it¡¯s obvious that the organization¡¯s glory days are long behind it¡¯. I want to show her what one of those glory days really looks like."


    So yes, she wanted to kill this woman. Dragan was just about to refuse when -- unexpectedly -- North spoke up from his position beside the throne.


    "You ask me?" he said, even though nobody was asking him. "You gotta respond to this, boss. You¡¯re the Zero Branch. Someone making the Tree look bad is someone making you look bad -- and if you¡¯re gonna be Supreme, you can¡¯t have that, man. You gotta act. Violence¡¯s proposal sounds as good as anything else to me. Strength through victory, y¡¯know?"


    Dragan narrowed his eyes as he turned to look at North. What was the Umbrant playing at?


    He answered without words -- without spoken words, at least. A tiny hologram, visible only to Dragan from this angle, floating right in front of his eyeball. Miniscule words, traced in blue.


    Ruth¡¯s Group, they said.


    Dragan¡¯s lips curled into a slight smirk. "My advisor makes a good point, Second Branch. In accordance with the traditional ways of the Tree, you may pursue vindication for this slander. Go alone, and go in strength."


    Violence¡¯s bow deepened. "Of course, my Lord."


    Now, there was little he had to worry about. If this Rae Ruditia was being guarded by Ruth and the others, then the problem would soon solve itself. As the Second Branch of the Tree of Might, Violence was strong, to be sure¡­


    ¡­but not so strong that he could see Ruth Blaine losing.

 Chapter 375:13.33: The Stretching Sky

    "So," said Jaime Pierrot. "What are your thoughts on the world to come?"


    The man across from him steepled his fingers atop the desk, considering the question carefully. He was a severe-looking fellow, with pronounced cheekbones and icy blue eyes. Thick black eyebrows made him seem perpetually stern, and the tightness with which his dark hair was tied back into a ponytail didn¡¯t do much to help that impression.


    Yes, even the business suit he wore was tailored to perfection -- to exactitude. Was he a man who took pride in his appearance, then, or one who took pride in his precision? It was difficult to tell, and the Prince was volunteering no guidance.


    In that case, it probably wasn¡¯t important.


    "That¡¯s quite the question to open with," the man purred. "Especially when I¡¯m the one who invited you here. What are your intentions, Captain?"


    Shen Xiurong, the Lord Mayor of the City of J¨¬nhu¨¤. He was part of the Unified Alliance of Planet¡¯s Central Governing Council -- and one of the major players in that council, as a matter of fact. That soft power mainly stemmed from three factors.


    First, his political acumen. Before him, the Lord Mayorship of J¨¬nhu¨¤ had been a position that had changed hands quickly. Usurpation had been common in the previous era of J¨¬nhu¨¤ -- but since Xiurong had come to power, none had risen to oppose him. Or, rather, those who had risen had not risen long.


    Secondly, the breadth of the territory he controlled. Although the City of J¨¬nhu¨¤ was, of course, a city, that was mainly a technicality born from an ancient contract. In truth, the ¡¯cityscape¡¯ of J¨¬nhu¨¤ consisted of a staggering number of systems and planets, each considered a mere district in the territory. Independent planets like Cayapali and Taldan also made contributions in exchange for J¨¬nhu¨¤¡¯s support, increasing their wealth further.


    And thirdly¡­


    "My husband asked you a question," said the third man standing by the window, his arms crossed. "You¡¯d do well to answer."


    NEBULA ONE


    Fei Long


    "Commander of the Scarlet Parade"


    "The Supreme Without Supremacy"


    "The Thousandfold Knight"


    "The Last Dragon"


    "The Hero"


    "Angelslayer"


    "The Strongest Man of the UAP"


    Nebula of J¨¬nhu¨¤


    Fei Long was a tall man, covered from head to toe in shining silver armour -- some kind of advanced Chassis, Pierrot assumed. The helmet had been sculpted to bear the snarling visage of a dragon, and the red visor glinted as it regarded Pierrot. A crimson cape hung from his shoulders, granting him an undeniable sense of majesty. A knight, indeed.


    Nebula One, Fei Long, was known for his kind and virtuous nature -- but from the tone of his voice, it seemed Pierrot had ended up on his bad side.


    "My intentions?" Pierrot considered, stroking his beard. "Well, I have to say that¡¯s an odd question to ask. As you say, you¡¯re the one who invited me here."


    "I¡¯m no fool, Captain," said Xiurong.


    "I never said you were."


    "For the last few weeks," Xiurong continued, leaning back in his seat. "I¡¯ve been doing all I can to muster our resources, organise our forces, prepare our defence -- our defence for the war we both know is coming."


    "You refer to the Supremacy," Pierrot nodded.


    "The Supremacy is the only true enemy we¡¯ve ever had," Shen said. "Anyone else we¡¯ve faced, in comparison? Mere skirmishes. I dislike dramatism, but in my eyes the Supremacy is the root of all evil. And it¡¯s an evil that will be coming our way before long."


    Pierrot raised an eyebrow. "All evil? That¡¯s a little absolutist, Lord Mayor. The Supremacy is a travesty of a government, to be sure, but ¡¯evil¡¯ would exist with or without them."


    "Again¡­ all in comparison. I could bathe my hands in blood for a hundred years and -- in comparison to them -- I would be pure and innocent. The next war against them is imminent. You know it, and I know it -- and yet, you¡¯ve been blocking my efforts to prepare. I¡¯d like an explanation."


    Pierrot took a deep breath.


    "I agree with you that the war is inevitable¡­ but imminent? No. That¡¯s still in our hands."


    "How so?" Xiurong asked, his eyes half-lidded.


    Open to being convinced, the Prince whispered in its peculiar way, thoughts not Pierrot¡¯s own popping into his mind. Playing up antipathy towards the Supremacy. Opposes them, but understands the necessity of a measured response. True purpose of this meeting is to gauge your character. Acquiesce to a limited degree.


    Do not disclose existence of the Prince.


    Fei Long is uncomfortable being rude to you, but is playing along at the request of his husband. Violence unlikely from him barring exceptional trespass on your part. Currently, you are not in physical danger, only potential political danger.


    Pierrot took a deep breath. "The next Supreme will need to quickly consolidate their authority when they ascend the throne. I will concede that."


    "Then you also concede that they¡¯ll perform that consolidation by declaring open war against us, capitalising on the sentiments developed over the last century?"


    "That¡¯s one outcome."


    "And what are the others?"


    It was Pierrot¡¯s turn to lean forward, and it was Pierrot¡¯s turn to steeple his fingers on the desk. In some tiny way, the power in the conversation shifted over to him.


    "My ideal outcome," he said quietly. "And the one I¡¯m working to make happen¡­ is for a particular candidate to ascend to the throne of Supreme. This individual is bound by a code of honour compatible with our needs, and will not act against us so long as he considers himself indebted. In short, whatever means he uses to consolidate power will not involve the declaration of war."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Xiurong raised a thick eyebrow. "I¡¯ve heard word that Nebulas Two and Five haven¡¯t been seen for some time. I take it they¡¯re acting as your agents, then? Working to make sure this candidate succeeds?"


    "If they¡¯re doing anything," Pierrot smiled. "It¡¯d surely be at the request of their governments. I hardly have the authority to dispatch Nebula as my personal ¡¯agents¡¯."


    The smile on Pierrot¡¯s face was quickly mirrored by Xiurong. They were the same kind of animal, to be sure. They knew each other.


    "You¡¯re a crafty old man, Captain," the Lord Mayor said. "But enough games. Who¡¯s this candidate you¡¯ve invested your hopes in?"


    Pierrot opened his mouth to speak.


    "Atoy Muzazi," said Morgan Nacht.


    He looked up at the building before them, the towering Guidorest Hotel. Five-hundred stories of glass and steel -- and on the inside, some of the greatest comfort you could afford in the galaxy. Anxious sweat crawled down the back of his neck.


    "You think so?" Gregori Hazzard asked.


    Morgan nodded. "I would say he wins against Mereloco," he replied. "Every time."


    "I¡¯ve seen him fight," Gregori Hazzard muttered, hands in his pockets as the two of them walked down the promenade. "And I¡¯ve seen Mereloco fight. Mereloco seems stronger."


    "But Muzazi wants it more," Morgan shot back. "You can tell -- and that¡¯s important."


    "If you say so."


    "But¡­" Morgan winced, with all the tension of someone who was trying -- more than anything else -- to talk themselves into something. "It doesn¡¯t matter if he¡¯d win or not if he doesn¡¯t make it to the fight. As things stand, it¡¯s unlikely that Muzazi will be awake by tomorrow. Mereloco would win by default."


    "Wouldn¡¯t be the first time," Gregori said. "The Crown¡¯s got something similar going on. Well, they¡¯re never waking up, but still. Muzazi pushed himself too hard in the last fight. Let it be a lesson to him."


    Morgan shook his head. "If I were going to do that, I wouldn¡¯t have bothered coming here. I¡¯m going to give the Commander more time."


    Gregori just silently raised an eyebrow to that. No doubt he thought he was watching a suicide born of folly. He might not even have been wrong about that.


    Right now, Mereloco was occupying three entire floors of the Guidorest Hotel -- one of many luxury establishments owned by Morgan¡¯s father. Morgan had pulled on that connection to get the information. The floors Mereloco was staying on, and the times he¡¯d be present. It hadn¡¯t been the most comfortable conversation -- Morgan hadn¡¯t spoken to his father since he¡¯d transitioned -- but he¡¯d got what he needed.


    "Let¡¯s go," Morgan said, biting down the shaking of his voice.


    It was time to shamelessly beg.


    The sounds of squeaking exercise equipment echoed through the room, easily overpowering Morgan and Gregori¡¯s footsteps.


    Mereloco currently had free reign over three entire floors in the hotel -- and one of them was this gym. Usually, this place would have been filled with guests working out or swimming in the neighbouring pool. Now, however, it was empty¡­ save for the man himself, and his companion.


    The man from the past was lying down on the floor, lifting weights that dwarfed his own body. Although sweat poured down his form, his face was as stoic as ever. Morgan supposed that was no surprise. From what he¡¯d seen of Mereloco so far, he couldn¡¯t imagine the man¡¯s expression changing even if he were dealt a mortal blow.


    The woman from Halcyon Interstellar, Alicia Jane Marsden, saw them approaching first -- and immediately stepped out of her position next to Mereloco to block Morgan and Gregori¡¯s path. She narrowed her eyes as she regarded the two of them.


    "Identify yourselves," she snapped.


    She¡¯s strong.


    Morgan could tell. It was her stance, the way she positioned herself, the presence she commanded in the room. He supposed that was no surprise, either. Back in the day, Halcyon Interstellar had done a lot of poaching from the Special Officer Exam. They had no shortage of powerful Aether-users.


    Best to tell the truth here. Morgan opened his mouth to do so, but before he could¡­


    "What do you want?" asked Mereloco.


    The man was on his feet. Morgan hadn¡¯t seen him get up, nor discard the gargantuan set of weights that was now embedded in the floor. A shiver ran down Morgan¡¯s spine. If Mereloco had chosen to launch an attack at that moment, would Morgan even have noticed?


    Mereloco¡¯s eyes were dull and dark. Now Morgan was certain he¡¯d be best off telling the truth.


    "My name is Morgan Nacht," he began -- but he didn¡¯t get any further than that. S~ea??h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I don¡¯t care what your name is," Mereloco said, dangerously quiet. "What do you want?"


    "I¡¯m here on behalf of Atoy Muzazi. I¡¯d like to discuss¡­ I¡¯d like to discuss delaying the match between you and him. There¡¯s a clause in the rules that allows it¡­ but we require your consent as his opponent."


    "Why isn¡¯t he here himself?"


    "He¡¯s¡­" Morgan swallowed. "He was injured badly in his previous match. He hasn¡¯t woken up yet. Hence why we wish to delay."


    Mereloco did not blink. "I don¡¯t. If he doesn¡¯t show up, I win. Go away."


    Morgan cleared his throat. "If you were to win by default¡­ surely that wouldn¡¯t be a victory you could be proud of!"


    "I don¡¯t give a shit about pride. Go away."


    With that, he turned and began to walk away.


    Panic flared through Morgan¡¯s mind: he was leaving. Convincing Mereloco was their only chance, and he¡¯d fucked it up. If not for that panic, Morgan would never have done something as monumentally stupid as what he did next. He never would have stepped forward and recklessly shouted:


    "Coward!"


    Mereloco stopped. Mereloco looked back over his shoulder. Mereloco glared with eyes of stone.


    "You sure?" he muttered.


    Are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure you want to be here? Are you sure you want to die? If so, keep speaking.


    Morgan got the meaning, and Morgan ignored it.


    "You¡¯re frightened," he insisted, trying unsuccessfully to stifle the trembling in his voice. "You saw how Atoy Muzazi performed in the last match, and you¡¯re scared the same will happen to you. That¡¯s why you don¡¯t want to fight him."


    Gregori quietly spoke up. "Uh, maybe --"


    "If I¡¯m wrong, then prove it!" Morgan roared. "Right here and now! Agree to the delay, and take on the Full Moon!"


    A tense silence settled over the room, save for Morgan¡¯s ragged breathing and the distant traffic outside. He couldn¡¯t help but notice that Gregori had taken a very tactful step away from him. Making sure he wasn¡¯t caught in the range of Unchained, no doubt. However¡­ the killing blow did not come.


    Instead, Mereloco just frowned. "Why would you go so far for this man?" he asked.


    Morgan met his gaze dead-on. "I¡¯m his second-in-command. It¡¯s my job to go this far for him."


    The man from two-hundred years ago narrowed his eyes. "Woman," he said, glancing at Alicia. "Leave us. The other guy too."


    "Sir, I don¡¯t know if I¡¯d advise --"


    "Leave us," Mereloco repeated, in a tone that brooked no argument..


    As Alicia carefully left the room, Morgan exchanged a glance with her. He was well aware of the current situation with Halcyon Interstellar. After the death of their CEO, they¡¯d been divided on how to deal with Mereloco. One faction wanted to throw up their hands and dump him, while the other -- which Alicia was part of -- wanted to keep supporting him for the time being in hope of his favour once he became Supreme.


    Even so, that faction was unstable, given Mereloco¡¯s propensity to do as he pleased. Morgan guessed that whatever Mereloco was about to do wouldn¡¯t help much with that either.


    They all stood there, they all stood still, until they finally heard the door close behind Alicia. Leaving just Morgan, Gregori¡­ and Mereloco himself. His gaze was inscrutable.


    "So¡­" Morgan finally spoke up.


    Mereloco interrupted without missing a beat, and his words were enough to turn Morgan¡¯s blood cold.


    "Boy. I¡¯m going to kill you now. If you¡¯re still alive in five minutes¡­ I¡¯ll do as you say."

 Chapter 376:13.34: 300 Seconds

    Two Hundred Years Ago¡­


    "Mereloco," Damon said seriously. "I¡¯m going to become Supreme."


    He stood atop one of the pillar-mountains of their homeworld, Mirz, the sea of clouds stretching out before him. His arms were crossed, and his pure-white curling horns glinted in the sunlight. His dark eyes stared off into the distance as if there were something there only he could see, something he yearned for.


    Mereloco said nothing at first -- he just sat with his back against the wall of rock. It was not exhaustion from the hours of training that stopped the young man¡¯s tongue. He just did not feel there was anything yet worth saying.


    Damon looked over his shoulder at his childhood friend, his gaze unbreakable.


    "Will you challenge me?" he asked.


    Present Day¡­


    "Nah," said Gregori Hazzard. "I¡¯m out."


    Morgan swung his head around to face his fellow Phase. "If we don¡¯t accept the offer," he snapped. "The Commander¡¯s loss in the Dawn Contest is assured. We have a duty."


    What am I saying?


    Taking on Mereloco was folly. Both Morgan¡¯s body and mind understood that implicitly. Tealin Jade had been much stronger than him, and the Scurrant had been torn apart by this man. There was no way Morgan stood a better chance.


    And yet¡­ his mouth continued to say these words.


    "You do what you want," Gregori said, his voice as disinterested as ever. "But I¡¯ve got no duty to get myself killed. I only came because I was curious what would happen, anyway."


    "Gregori¡­" Morgan glowered.


    "I¡¯m not curious anymore," Gregori continued, the slightest smirk on his face. "It looks like you¡¯ll be dying here. Good luck."


    White Aether rustled.


    Morgan stepped forward to stop him. "Gregor --"


    Too late.


    "See ya. Paper Moon."


    Within a second, Gregori¡¯s body had folded in on itself -- becoming a flesh-coloured paper airplane that flew almost comically out of the window. Morgan could do nothing but watch it go, hand outstretched and teeth gritted together. He was on his own.


    He didn¡¯t know what the hell Gregori¡¯s game was. Obviously, he took his orders from Ascendant-General Toll, but that still didn¡¯t answer the question. Did Toll want Morgan dead for some reason? He doubted it. He doubted Toll had ever spent more than a minute considering Morgan¡¯s existence. Either way, though¡­


    ¡­he was in deep shit.


    "Don¡¯t think you¡¯re allowed to run too," Mereloco growled from behind him, deadly quiet. "That pissed me off."


    Great. The super-strong maniac was pissed off. Just what Morgan needed.


    Turning slowly, he drew his saber, holding it out before him in both hands. They were trembling. Calm down, he demanded of himself. Calm down. You can do this.


    Mereloco wasn¡¯t a tall man, but the pressure emanating from him right now made him seem a giant. He glared at Morgan with inscrutable dark eyes. The second he moved, Morgan would move in response. He¡¯d counter. But would he even have the chance to do that?


    You don¡¯t have to win, Morgan reminded himself. Just survive five minutes. Just stay alive.


    Purple Aether, just the slightest shade different from Morgan¡¯s own, crawled up Mereloco¡¯s arm. His eyes widened, just a tad. His fingertips twitched.


    There!


    "Unchained."


    F! A!


    The gravity slammed into Morgan, sending him flying across the room -- all the way towards the windows. If he struck them, he¡¯d smash right through and fall into the city outside. Even then, he was sure Mereloco would come after him. He wouldn¡¯t be able to survive if he were trying to dodge this guy and traffic.


    Morgan flung the rope of Fog he¡¯d formed in his hands, looping it around a light fixture and stopping his flight. As his boots skidded down against the floor, however, he knew he wouldn¡¯t have time to catch his breath. Hell, he wouldn¡¯t be catching his breath for five minutes, at least.


    If ever again.


    No. No doubt. Never doubt.


    He ducked underneath the massive set of weights that Mereloco had just thrown at him -- then jumped to avoid them once more as his enemy pulled them back in with Unchained.


    As Morgan flew through the air, he saw the weights return to Mereloco. Rather than try to throw them again, however, he simply batted them out of the way -- and pointed a single finger towards Morgan¡¯s flying form.


    "Unchained," Mereloco said, his voice as disinterested as ever. "Unworthy."


    In the split-second of reaction time available to him, Morgan¡¯s eyes widened. Mereloco hadn¡¯t used this ability against Tealin Jade. Did that mean that bloody display in the arena had been him holding back?!


    F! A! B! A!


    Morgan¡¯s response was purely on instinct. Spreading his hands out before him, he formed a sturdy barrier of intertwined Blocks and Fog. A second later, he was sent flying backwards once more as an invisible projectile slammed into the makeshift shield. The barrier shattered on impact, but Morgan himself managed to escape with little more than aching arms.


    He managed to escape the first shot, that is.


    Morgan dived to the side as an endless volley of invisible bullets slammed through space, opening up clean holes in the wall behind him wherever he dodged. Within the span of a few seconds, the room was starting to look like a piece of cartoon cheese. If Morgan took one of those shots directly, there was no way he¡¯d be able to avoid the ones that followed.


    Death breathed cold upon his neck.


    Even as he ran for his life, however, rolling behind a bulky treadmill, Morgan considered the attack. From what he¡¯d observed, Unchained was an ability that altered the parameters of gravity in a wide area designated by the user. Generally, the strength of area-of-effect abilities increased the smaller the designated area was -- was that how Mereloco was doing this?


    Mereloco was creating a field of repulsive gravity, shrinking it down to the size of just a few centimeters across, and then firing it from his finger like a bullet. Just one of them had been enough to shatter the strongest shield Morgan was capable of creating right now, so blocking was out of the question. It seemed he could fire them endlessly too, so taking cover was just as pointless. He¡¯d land a shot long before five minutes passed.


    This wasn¡¯t good, but still¡­ there was opportunity here.


    A car passed close by the window, casting shade into the room for a moment -- and in that moment, Morgan moved. S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "An alphabet?" Wu Ming laughed. "What¡¯s that about?"


    They¡¯d just finished another ¡¯training session¡¯ -- in reality, an hour or so where Wu Ming dodged the whole time and Morgan¡¯s attacks never even got close. His sword skills weren¡¯t anything to laugh at now, but he still wasn¡¯t even close to the same level. If he wanted to close that gap between himself and the man with a thousand powers¡­ he¡¯d need powers of his own.


    Morgan nodded.


    "A different power for each letter," he continued. "Like a whole bag of tricks¡­ so I can respond to any situation. I keep developing the alphabet according to what abilities I need to cover gaps in my arsenal¡­ until it¡¯s complete, and I reach Zenith."


    Wu Ming considered it for a moment, lounging back on a chunk of rubble, before relenting with an easy shrug.


    "Well," he conceded. "Only having twenty-six abilities seems a little limiting to me¡­ but you do you."


    Morgan smirked. The genius Wu Ming truly couldn¡¯t understand the limitations of ordinary people¡­ but that was fine. Even if this path only led to Morgan becoming a lesser version of the Fourth Contender, then that was fine.


    "So long as you¡¯re able to keep fighting," his teacher grinned. "You do you."


    Because a lesser version of Wu Ming was still better than everyone else.


    Morgan spoke the letter, his eyes bulging and nostrils flaring.


    "J!"


    Jape. He¡¯d only completed this power a few weeks ago -- and it was still one he was getting used to utilizing -- but in this situation, he needed every advantage he could get. In that moment, as he weaved his way through the shots and approached Mereloco¡­


    ¡­the Phase split in two.


    Mereloco¡¯s one enemy suddenly became a team of two, identical in appearance. They each split off in a different direction, one circling around to attack Mereloco from behind while the other made a frontal assault.


    Even so, his expression did not shift. Even so, he did not panic or permit confusion. There was no point.


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    An illusion.


    It was obvious. A technique to create a true replica of yourself would require much more power than this boy possessed, and would necessitate a greater condition than just calling out a letter. One of these enemies was real, and the other was not.


    Mereloco threw his body out of the way of the incoming swords, releasing a small Aether ping as he rolled back to a kneeling position. No luck there. Both the boy and his copy emitted the same sensation through the Aether -- to that sense, at least, they were identical.


    So the only way to tell the difference was to take a hit? He wouldn¡¯t accept that.


    He¡¯d just destroy both of them.


    Unchained.


    Intensified gravity slammed down into the ground where both of the enemies were standing, and the effect was immediate and illuminating. One of the boys dodged out of the way, lightning-fast, while the other was thrown flat onto the floor. Bones audibly crunched from the pressure.


    That settled it, then.


    Mereloco ignored the enemy that had dodged. No doubt it was programmed to automatically avoid enemy attacks, so that the illusion wouldn¡¯t be detected when they failed to land a hit. But that in itself was a flaw. The copy had dodged far too quickly, more a warping of its form than any natural human movement.


    He strode towards his prone enemy, his heavy feet thumping on the floor -- and then hesitated.


    The boy was slowly getting up. That, too, should have been an impossibility. Mereloco had intensified gravity to such a degree that the boy¡¯s organs should have been crushed after a few seconds of exposure. And yet, even with shaking legs, he was slowly rising to his feet.


    Mereloco raised an eyebrow.


    It wasn¡¯t that the boy was getting stronger. The Aether he was emitting was at the same level of potency as before. No, it wasn¡¯t that¡­ it was Unchained. For some reason, the power Mereloco was exerting with the attack was quickly and steadily lessening. Within a few more seconds, it would be nothing more than a minor burden on the boy¡¯s shoulders.


    "I see," Mereloco grunted, his voice unchanged. "Another trick."


    That was right. Another trick. It was Morgan¡¯s ambition never to run out of them.


    G.


    Grade. Every second Morgan used it on a continuously striking ability, the strength of the attack was halved, ultimately able to reduce that power to 1/32nd of its original force. He¡¯d expected it to work on the base application of Unchained, but it hadn¡¯t been a theory he¡¯d been eager to test.


    After all¡­ if the initial activation had been enough to kill him, he¡¯d have died then and there, Grade or no.


    H.


    Heal¡­ well, for the moment that was the important part of the ability. Morgan bared his teeth as his body¡¯s natural regenerative abilities were enhanced, spikes of pain stabbing into his body as his bones inched back into place. Even if he could survive Unchained, taking another direct hit would be disastrous.


    Only¡­ that should have been disastrous already, shouldn¡¯t it? While Morgan had been prone on the floor just then, why hadn¡¯t Mereloco gone for the killing shot with Unworthy? The only thing Morgan could think of¡­


    ¡­was that Mereloco couldn¡¯t use Unchained at the same time as another ability.


    A bloodstained smirk spread across his lips. Good to know.


    J! A! F! A! B!


    The boy¡¯s body exploded into numerous copies of himself, all of which charged -- swords drawn -- at Mereloco. Eight in all, identical down to their injuries.


    Idiocy. It didn¡¯t matter how many illusions he threw Mereloco¡¯s way. So long as they were shadow puppets, the result would be the same. Mereloco tapped his foot against the floor.


    Unchained.


    They dodged the field of gravity -- half to the left, half to the right, but it didn¡¯t matter. Mereloco had already seen the one that had dodged slower than the others. He¡¯d already seen the one that had dodged realistically.


    He¡¯d already seen the one that would die.


    Mereloco took a single step forward -- and plunged his fist directly into the chest of the boy. It struck true. It found purchase.


    Only¡­ this wasn¡¯t right.


    Where his arm had impaled the boy, lifting him up into the air, there was no blood or bone. There was no death rattle. The boy just continued to look dead ahead, with eyes as cold and empty as a dolls.


    I see. He got me.


    The boy had filled this copy up with the cubes and fog he¡¯d used earlier -- creating rudimentary ¡¯bones¡¯ and ¡¯flesh¡¯ to improve the illusion. Once Mereloco had pierced the ghost-puppet, that fog had constricted to bind his fist and restrict his movements. It was a good combination.


    That means you¡¯re coming in from behind, then.


    Mereloco¡¯s instincts were right on the mark. The real enemy detached himself from the crowd of duplicates, twisting in the air --


    "B! A!"


    -- as he conjured another cube, and kicked it with all his might at Mereloco¡¯s exposed back.


    It wouldn¡¯t reach him.


    Mereloco¡¯s eye flicked over to spot Morgan¡¯s sneak attack, but it was already too late. The Block was already in flight. The second Mereloco would spend destroying the restraint was a second he needed to use dodging.


    So you have no choice, right?


    Morgan¡¯s gamble paid off.


    "Unchained," Mereloco said. "Uncrowned."


    The Block changed its path through the air, swerving to avoid striking Mereloco -- and a few seconds later, it started circling him instead. No, Morgan realized. It was orbiting him, like a moon orbited a planet. An application of Unchained that automatically blocked projectiles and turned them into a rotating shield.


    He smirked to himself.


    Good to know.


    Something was off here, Mereloco realized. Why hadn¡¯t the boy tried to escape by now?


    The victory condition for his enemy was surviving five minutes, not defeating Mereloco. Mereloco had made no moves to seal this room, but at the same time the boy hadn¡¯t tried to break out of it. If he¡¯d fled through one of the windows, he could have at least turned this into a chase -- greatly increasing his chances of victory.


    Unless this brat had another objective in mind?


    He was bringing out new abilities to create scenarios, forcing Mereloco to respond. An enemy he couldn¡¯t hit with his fist, so he¡¯d have to fire at range. A projectile he couldn¡¯t dodge, so that he¡¯d have to block it. Could it be¡­?


    Mereloco¡¯s blood boiled.


    This little shit.


    It could.


    Yes, this was an opportunity.


    Mereloco hadn¡¯t used Unworthy or Uncrowned at all during his match with Tealin Jade. If Muzazi had already woken up by now, he¡¯d be going into this match without knowing about them -- a disadvantage that could be fatal. So long as Morgan survived this, he could warn the Commander in advance.


    So long as Morgan survived, he could warn Muzazi about all of the abilities he was pulling out of this bastard.


    F! A!


    With a roar, Morgan formed a rudimentary ball-and-chain of Amplified Fog, hurling the ball towards Mereloco. The man just stepped out of the way, letting it fly past him, his expression distinctly unimpressed. That was fine, though. That was ideal.


    I!


    Inside.


    That hadn¡¯t just been a ball Morgan had thrown towards Mereloco. It had been a hollow ball, a sealed space -- one that Morgan could use Inside to teleport into, so long as he was making physical contact with it. His grip tightened on the Fog-chain. The conditions were met.


    In a flash of purple Aether, Morgan teleported inside the sphere -- and exploded it outwards, leaping out of the smog with his sword raised high. Mereloco¡¯s back was wide open, the chain now wrapped around his legs and keeping him still. Forget just drawing out abilities -- if he managed to bring Mereloco down here, he couldn¡¯t ask for a better result.


    His eyes cold and deadly, Morgan brought his sword down --


    Uncrowned.


    -- and his own Block slammed into his face, shattering his jaw.


    At the last second, Mereloco had rapidly accelerated the orbit of the spinning Block, causing it to fly into Morgan and send him across the room. Blood and teeth flew out of his mouth, spraying onto the floor. He would have collapsed to the ground, too¡­ if Mereloco would allow it.


    Two punches, infused with Unchained. One obliterated Morgan¡¯s saber. The other struck him in the stomach, smashing him down into the floor, cracking it from the sheer impact. If Morgan hadn¡¯t focused all his Aether into his stomach at that moment, he knew he¡¯d be dead.


    As it was, he¡¯d barely bought himself a second. Mereloco was already raising his foot up, preparing to bring it back down on Morgan¡¯s skull. The image of a bursting watermelon came to mind.


    So long as you¡¯re able to keep fighting¡­ you do you.


    Morgan¡¯s hand lashed out, seizing hold of Mereloco¡¯s other leg. He wasn¡¯t done yet. He could still think. So long as he could think, he could fight. So long as he could fight, he could win.


    So win!


    H! A!


    H had been something of an experiment for Morgan, testing what kind of output he could achieve with a conditional ability. Unlike the rest of Morgan¡¯s alphabet, it was technically two abilities in one, depending on the target.


    When used on allies, it healed the body in exchange for inflicting agony.


    When used on anyone else, it inflicted agony in exchange for healing the body.


    Heal/Hurt.


    He still hadn¡¯t landed a blow on Mereloco, so there was no downside to this tactic. He¡¯d fill the bastard with so much pain he couldn¡¯t get up -- or, at the very least, he¡¯d create an opening. He¡¯d hear it. Any second now, the scream of pain. He¡¯d hear it. He¡¯d hear it! He¡¯d¡­ he¡­


    ¡­he didn¡¯t hear it.


    Slowly, Morgan looked up. Mereloco¡¯s face hadn¡¯t so much as twitched.


    Morgan Nacht did not understand this man. He was an enigma. He enacted brutality at a moment¡¯s notice, but seemed to take neither joy nor sorrow in it. He didn¡¯t seem to take joy or sorrow in anything. Even now, as his eyes were pointed towards Morgan, it wasn¡¯t Morgan he was seeing.


    No¡­ Mereloco seemed to be glaring at something on the distant horizon -- something only he could see.


    The foot came down¡­


    ¡­and stopped inches from Morgan¡¯s face.


    He blinked. "Huh?"


    Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Mereloco moved his foot away and put it back down onto the ground. For a moment, he just continued to stare down at Morgan with those inscrutable eyes. Then, he spoke.


    "That¡¯s five minutes," he said simply. "It looks like you win, Morgan Nacht. I¡¯ll have that woman make the arrangements."


    There wasn¡¯t a moment to celebrate. As soon as Morgan heard those words, the adrenaline and tension that had been driving him this far evaporated in an instant¡­ and his head thumped down onto the floor as he fell unconscious.


    Mereloco snorted.


    Without another look at his unconscious adversary, he turned and walked towards the window -- looking out into the deluge of Azum-Ha. At some point during their fight, a scheduled rainstorm had begun, battering against the windows like a legion of applause. Mereloco just glared at the world distorted by wet glass.


    "Will you challenge me?" Damon asked.


    To Mereloco, the world had always been a simple thing. It was just space occupied by animals. The only things of value in that space were eating, shitting, fucking and killing. The only real difference between humans and other animals was a brain deformity that made them think they were something more. Sentiment. That was the name of the affliction.


    By that worldview, his answer should have been obvious. Yes. There was no hierarchy worth a damn other than strength, and it could only be established by challenging the one stronger than you.


    However¡­


    "No," Mereloco said simply. "I don¡¯t think I will."


    Damon didn¡¯t seem surprised. He just smiled that wry, sad smile of his. "Why do you go so far for me, old friend?"


    Mereloco shrugged with the barest effort possible. "I¡¯m your shadow," he said. "I¡¯ll stretch as far as you need me to."


    Standing before the rain, Mereloco glared at his own reflection.


    "Sentiment," he muttered bitterly¡­


    ¡­as five minutes finally passed.

 Chapter 377:13.35: The Interview (Part 1)

    Two Years Ago¡­


    "I¡¯m surprised," Rex laughed, kicking his feet up on the table as he wrestled his beer free from the drinking slot on his mask. "I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d be seeing you again after the Truemeet."


    Ruth frowned. "You¡¯re the one who gave me your card," she replied, slapping it down on the table.


    Rex Restorossi


    An Independent Military Operator


    PL-9266-CD-8921


    They were at a bar on the Moon of Prush, a tropical landscape stretching out beyond the window. The temperature outside was humid to an inhospitable extreme, and only the state-of-the-art air conditioning in this sealed city kept it inhabitable. In fact, it was fairly cool.


    Ice clinked around at the bottom of Rex¡¯s drink as he took another sip.


    "I give plenty of people my card," Rex said. "I usually don¡¯t ever see them again -- and I¡¯ve never had one ask me to start a business with them."


    "Why not?" Ruth sat down across from him. "You¡¯re smart, you know the business -- and I¡¯m strong. Strong enough to make it work."


    Rex plucked his card off the table and flipped it over in his hands. "That¡¯s pretty arrogant, no? Calling yourself strong like that?"


    Ruth grinned. "If I said I was weak, I¡¯d be a liar¡­ besides, you already know I¡¯m strong."


    The mask covered Rex¡¯s face fully, but she could hear the grin in his voice. "How¡¯s that?"


    "If you didn¡¯t think I was strong¡­" Ruth said.


    In an instant, she snatched the card out of his hands and turned it back towards him.


    "...why¡¯d you give me this?"


    Present Day¡­


    "Which one looks better?" Rae asked, holding up a shirt in each hand. "Be honest."


    This was not how Ruth had expected to be spending her day.


    Late last night, the word had come in: the Muzazi camp had proposed a delay to the fight between Atoy Muzazi and Mereloco, and -- surprisingly -- Mereloco had consented. As such, the fight was moved right to the back of the current schedule, opening up a rare day in which no fights would be occurring at all. The public hadn¡¯t been too happy about that, of course, but they didn¡¯t have a say in it.


    And so, Rae Ruditia had decided she¡¯d spend this day on personal recreation. And so, she¡¯d brought Ruth along to accompany her.


    And so, Ruth had spent the last two hours trailing after the reporter as she rampaged through nearly every store in the Gresterholme Crown Mall. By this point, a legion of storage automatics were following them as well like floating dogs, their backs holding all the clothes and other goods that Rae had decided to toss her money at. Hell, Ruth was half-tempted to sit on the back of one of them and get a free ride too -- if not for the fact that the weight of her mechanical legs would surely have crushed them.


    They were getting on her nerves, too. Usually, she could tune out the cold and clumsy feeling of the prosthetics to some degree, but this was one of her bad days. Today, it felt like she had freezing metal glued to burning legs -- legs that no longer existed. A shudder went down her spine.


    "Ruth?" Rae prompted again, blinking. She raised the shirts up again. "Thoughts?"


    "Uh¡­" Ruth scratched her head. "They both look fine, I guess. This isn¡¯t really my thing. You should¡¯ve brought Alice if you wanted to talk about this stuff."


    If Rae had asked anyone apart from Ruth to accompany her, maybe Ruth could have someone else to talk to. Maybe Ruth wouldn¡¯t be on the verge of death from boredom. What was even the point of hiring so many bodyguards if you only actually took one out with you?


    "Oh, it¡¯s fine!" the reporter laughed. "Everyone wears clothes -- you have an opinion!"


    Raising an eyebrow, Ruth tapped her legs with a finger. Ding ding. "Not really been in the market for pants these last few years."


    Rae rolled her eyes. "But these are shirts."


    The conversation didn¡¯t progress much past that point.


    That next hour was basically a blur, a sequence of events melted together -- Rae dragging her from store to store to store to store, more and more automatics joining their parade, and more unsuccessful attempts to drag Ruth into a conversation she had no interest in. It was only when the two of them had finally stopped to rest, sitting at a bench beneath the fountain-statue at the mall¡¯s heart, that Ruth finally came back to herself.


    "So, Ruth," Rae chirped. "Do you think life has a meaning?"


    Ruth glanced over, mid-chew through a cheeseburger. "Where¡¯d that come from?" she asked, her voice muffled by beef.


    "Like I said," the reporter grinned. "You¡¯ve sparked my curiosity! I wanna know what your take on life is."


    "Well, uh," Ruth scratched her cheek. "Meaning of life, meaning of life¡­ I guess I¡¯ve never really thought of life that way. Take each day as it comes, you know? I¡¯m still around, so it must work well enough."


    Rae nodded sagely. "I think you¡¯ve got the right idea there. Personally, I think there should be a purpose to life rather than a meaning." Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth cocked her head. "Aren¡¯t those the same thing?"


    "Not at all. A purpose is something you decide for yourself, but a meaning is something given to you by someone else." She turned her head to look at the statue behind her. "Like these poor bastards."


    Ruth turned her head to follow her gaze.


    Looming above them was a statue of Archibald Grace, one of the old war heroes of the Supremacy -- but that wasn¡¯t where Rae¡¯s gaze was pointing. No, she was looking down¡­ at the vanquished enemies the Grace progenitor was standing upon.


    The Inimants.


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    Nobody quite agreed how to classify them. Some considered them a fifth great sub-race, some considered them as a particularly troublesome kind of Scurrant, and some considered them as not even being human at all. Even if that was the case, they looked human -- even their demonic depictions in this statue were vaguely recognisable as human beings. In some sense, they¡¯d been jacks of all trades. Some of the intelligence of Cogitants, some of the hardiness of Pugnants, and some of the deceptiveness of Umbrants¡­


    ¡­only it was all turned to the purposes of human slaughter.


    They were one of the Genetic Vengeances, like the Fell Beasts or the UAP¡¯s Angel of Applause, time bombs left by the Gene Tyrants to go off long after their demise. Roughly three-hundred years ago, the Inimants had emerged onto the scene all at once, long-dormant genes suddenly activating in those who¡¯d previously appeared to be Crownless. With their biological Killing Engines, they¡¯d rampaged across the Supremacy¡­ but eventually, the tide had turned, and the subspecies had been all but wiped out.


    Ruth looked over to Rae. "What do you mean?"


    Rae looked back. "Even back then, the Gene Tyrants must have known that these Inimants couldn¡¯t have won. They were a spit in the face of the future, engineered out of spite. But there was definite meaning to their lives, right? It was given to them by their creators. As close to guaranteed divine providence as I think you can get in this world."


    Her eyes narrowed.


    "The meaning of their lives was to inconvenience the galaxy and then be slaughtered. Don¡¯t you think it would have been less cruel for their lives to be meaningless?"


    Ruth looked back at the statue, and the demonic creature being crushed underfoot suddenly looked terribly sad to her. Her frown deepened.


    A purpose is something you give to yourself¡­ huh?


    "I don¡¯t want to lose what I have," Ruth said, with certainty. "If there¡¯s a purpose I¡¯ve given to my life, that¡¯d be it."


    "That¡¯s swell!" Rae grinned. "I think I¡¯m pretty much the same. My dear friends entrusted me with something they spent a long time building¡­ and I¡¯ve made it my mission to keep it going. That¡¯s my purpose."


    "Your friends?" Ruth blinked. "Sorry, are they¡­?"


    Rae nodded. "Sadly, they¡¯re no longer with us¡­ although you do remind me of one of them."


    "How¡¯s that?"


    "He wanted to protect as well," Rae smiled softly, her eyes distant. "That¡¯s the sort of person he was: a protector. It¡¯s all he wanted. It¡¯s all he thought about. It drove him a little bit crazy in the end. Do you think you¡¯re the same?"


    Ruth scowled. "Crazy?"


    "No," Rae chuckled, shaking her head. "A protector."


    She thought about it for a good while, tenting her fingers and leaning forward. Golden eyes stared off into space. She¡¯d tried to protect, hadn¡¯t she? She¡¯d tried so hard. But she hadn¡¯t succeeded. The fact that they were here now, without Skipper or Dragan, proved that all by itself. As a protector, she was a failure. That couldn¡¯t be denied.


    But that didn¡¯t mean she was a failure forever, did it?


    "Yeah," she said, with confidence. "I¡¯m a protector."


    "Great!" Rae grinned. "If that¡¯s the case¡­"


    Ruth¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    The reporter finished: "...could you protect me right now?"


    Well, she was certainly getting paid enough for it.


    Skeletal Set.


    It was a partial manifestation, just the claws and gauntlet on her left hand -- but the boost in speed and strength was enough to allow her to lash out and strike the fist that had been about to hit Rae in the face. Blood sprayed onto the floor -- and the sudden attacker flipped backwards, landing a short distance away. In the same smooth movement, Ruth stepped forward, standing protectively in front of her employer.


    "Hands off," she said seriously.


    She recognized the attacker immediately as they rose back to their full impressive height. The Scurrant woman from the Tree of Might, the one with the transparent skin. The Second Branch, Violence, wasn¡¯t it? She shook her damaged fist, more blood dripping onto the floor from her shredded knuckles. She had no visible eyes or face, but Ruth could tell she was being glared at.


    One of Dragan¡¯s subordinates? Ruth pondered. What¡¯s she doing here?


    Violence cracked her neck, her face angled past Ruth¡¯s shoulder -- locked straight onto Rae. "Rae Ruditia," she growled. "I¡¯ve come to demand a blood duel from you. You have no right to refuse. Prepare yourself."


    Rae didn¡¯t seem too phased by the situation, and simply cocked her head playfully. "Can I designate a proxy?"


    "You have that right." Violence¡¯s voice was cold and merciless.


    A big grin on her face, Rae planted her hands on Ruth¡¯s shoulders from behind. "Then I¡¯ll designate my lovely bodyguard, Ruth Road!"


    Lovely? Ruth glanced away.


    Violence snorted, lowering her body into a combat stance, her good palm extended out in front of her. "I won¡¯t deny¡­ since we clashed at the temple, Road has intrigued me. You¡¯re strong, aren¡¯t you? I¡¯ll have you demonstrate that for me now."


    It was always the same with these people. Battle junkies, eager to test their strength against others. Once upon a time, Ruth had felt the same way, but these days¡­


    ¡­it just kind of got on her nerves.


    They both darted forth at the same time. Ruth manifested the other arm of the Skeletal Set, while Violence pulled her good fist back for a punch. As the fist came back in, Ruth raised both her arms in front of her face to block -- and right before the punch landed, red sparks of Aether crawled up those arms.


    Noblesse Set.


    At the last second, Ruth switched her Skeletal arms for Noblesse -- and the impact of Violence¡¯s attack was sent right back at her. The Scurrant went flying backwards, fist crushed by its own force, and Ruth darted in to pursue. She manifested the Skeletal arms once more, and --


    -- and Violence swung her other fist right at Ruth¡¯s head. Ruth didn¡¯t hesitate at the unexpected attack, nor panic as it rushed towards her. There wasn¡¯t time for such things. She just acted.


    Skeletal Set!


    This time, she manifested the legs -- and used the enhanced speed to duck under the punch. However, she didn¡¯t take advantage of the opening and press the attack. There were still too many unknowns. Ruth retreated backwards, claws raised to defend against any pursuit.


    None came.


    As she and Violence once again stood a short distance from each other, Ruth unmanifested her armour and caught her breath, running through her observations in her mind.


    Barehanded fighter. I was able to damage her both times with just Skeletal and Noblesse, so her durability¡¯s not great. However¡­ she definitely regenerated her shredded fist just now. She didn¡¯t have time to apply Panacea between attacks. A healing ability, self-targeted. What conditions need to be met for activation? Too early to tell. I¡¯ll need to observe carefully. If she can heal, I need to either get around that healing or bring her down with a single attack.


    "Your eyes¡­" Violence murmured approvingly. "Those are the eyes of a warrior. You¡¯ve fought in countless battles, haven¡¯t you?"


    Ruth didn¡¯t blink. "Is there any way we can end this without fighting?"


    "As a fellow warrior, you should know there isn¡¯t," Violence replied. "Our language is the fist. To those like us, the killing blow is the full stop that concludes our declaration. Anything else is worthless noise."


    "I get that¡­" Ruth sighed. "...but isn¡¯t there any way?"


    Violence growled, and her fist tightened. She hadn¡¯t healed the one that had been hit by Noblesse¡¯s reflection, just the one that Skeletal had slashed first. Was the order of injuries a factor? Or could she only heal injuries from specific sources? Near-instant healing, so long as the wound was inflicted by a blade? No, that didn¡¯t sound right.


    "Do not ask that question again," Violence snapped. "You disgrace yourself and me."


    Again, Ruth sighed, straightening up. The bracers of the Skeletal Set reappeared on her arms, and she raised those ready claws. Golden eyes seemed dark and tarnished in the shade.


    "Fine," she said quietly. "Come here. I¡¯ll crush you."

 Chapter 378:13.36: The Interview (Part 2)

    Skeletal Set.


    Unlike an actual set of armour, the Skeletal Set didn¡¯t weigh Ruth down. In fact, as she put it on, her weight seemed to decrease -- her speed and power increasing with it. With the full set on, she could move around three times faster than normal. Direwolf was even faster -- but that didn¡¯t mean she had to rely on it. She wasn¡¯t stupid, after all.


    She equipped all of the Skeletal Set around her left leg, the metal wrapping around the already-bulky limb like a barrel. With all of that boost focused into one leg¡­


    ¡­Ruth Blaine blasted off.


    In an instant, she was right in Violence¡¯s face, weaving through her guard. Shifting her full equip to her arm, she slashed upwards -- carving a bloody gash right into the woman¡¯s chest. For a fighter like this, that shouldn¡¯t be lethal, but surely she¡¯d see Ruth could have gone further and give up.


    She did not give up.


    "Don¡¯t mock me!" Violence roared, dropping to the ground like a breakdancer and swinging around for a kick at Ruth¡¯s head.


    The full equip shifted to Ruth¡¯s other arm -- and she raised it to block, reducing the impact of the attack to little more than a tremor. But, at that very same instant, the claw-marks on Violence¡¯s chest snapped closed. Ruth widened her eyes -- and, using that moment of hesitation, Violence seized her by the leg and hurled her away.


    Or, at least, she tried to.


    Revolutionnaire Set.


    Ruth manifested just the cape, tying it together into a rope to bind Violence¡¯s arms together. Seizing the other end of that rope, Ruth flipped over Violence¡¯s back -- looping it around her chest as she went. Landing on the ground in a crouch, Ruth pulled the rope taut, restraining the giant fully.


    "Give up," she demanded.


    "Never!" Violence roared, tearing herself free from the rope with a burst of strength.


    What the hell¡­ is this supposed to be?


    The Shepherdess¡¯ blood boiled as she took in the shameful display.


    What was Ruth doing? She¡¯d said she was going to crush this woman, hadn¡¯t she? Then why wasn¡¯t she? Why was she dancing around, barely using her abilities, incessantly aiming for a cowardly resolution? She was stronger than this. The Shepherdess knew she was stronger than this.


    This woman had killed Avaman the Announcer, after all.


    He¡¯d been another one the Shepherdess had her eye on, one with potential to be nurtured. If his delusional devotion to Kadmon could have been taken care of, he surely could have blossomed into a splendid Supreme. When Ruth Blaine had stood against that potential and snuffed it out, she¡¯d appeared on the Shepherdess¡¯ radar. The whole reason she¡¯d incited this duel was so that she could get a good look at how Blaine had advanced over the last two years.


    And yet¡­ she was barely showing anything. It was as if she had no interest in fighting at all.


    This Violence woman, on the other hand, was roughly acceptable. Herschel would be satisfied with the performance of his followers. That power of hers was impressive, too.


    After a thousand years of training, it didn¡¯t take long for the Shepherdess to figure out an ability from observation. Healing-type, self-targeted, triggered by landing an attack on the opponent. It seemed the strength of the healing was proportional to the damage inflicted by the user¡¯s blow, healing wounds in the order of oldest first. Even if the attack was blocked, the damage that would have been inflicted by a direct hit still triggered the healing. That was probably an Aether glitch.


    Against such an opponent, the best way to proceed would be to dodge rather than block -- then, at the first opportunity, strike them in such a way that death would be instant. Otherwise, you risked getting into a battle of attrition. With Violence being capable of constantly restoring herself to a peak state, that wasn¡¯t a battle that one was likely to win.


    Ruth had gotten the dodging part down¡­ but the Shepherdess could see no sign that she was going to follow through. She clenched her fists, standing a short distance away from the fight. The rest of the mall had been cleared out by security after the duel had begun, so it was just the three of them now. If Ruth was afraid of harming civilians, then that wasn¡¯t something she had to worry about any longer.


    So what was she waiting for?!


    The Shepherdess¡¯ own frustration was mirrored by Violence herself. The Second Branch snarled as Ruth Road zipped by again, inflicting a shallow wound to her shoulder, but again failing to deal significant damage. She swung her arm at the girl, but she just vanished again with that wondrous speed of hers.


    "Fight me!" Violence bellowed. Her clear skin was vibrating from anger, creating the illusion of facial features for the first time.


    This was humiliating. This girl was using only the barest amount of her strength, participating only to the degree that this was technically a battle, and conducting herself in such a way that nothing could truly begin. The sensation that her momentum was being stolen rather than stopped infuriated Violence to no end.


    I¡¯ll crush you, the girl had said.


    If Ruth Road had declared that and then failed to carry it out, Violence could have accepted that. But she had made that declaration and then not even tried to follow through. That was arrogance of the highest order. That was something that Violence truly could not abide.


    Killing Arts: Oxygen Palm.


    One of the original techniques from the School of the Killing Arts, devised by the master Yuk In Ho to help his Aetherless students defend themselves after the end of the Thousand Revolutions. By curving the palm in a particular way and thrusting it forward, a short-range burst of air pressure was produced, increasing the user¡¯s reach by about a meter or so. When properly enhanced with Aether, however?


    It became invisible artillery.


    Ruth Road¡¯s dodging increased as massive palm-prints, each the size of a car, smashed into the scenery around her. The statue at the mall¡¯s heart was obliterated, as was a jewelry store off in the distance. If she had the time, Violence would have sent one flying at Rae Ruditia -- seeing that wench splatter would surely give Road pause.


    Faced with an endless barrage of vicious attacks, Ruth would have no choice but to close the distance and attack in earnest. The battle between them would now truly begin. This would do it¡­ this would do it¡­ this would do it!


    It did not do it.


    Instead, as the final palm-blow scraped past Ruth¡¯s arm, she just allowed herself to drop onto the ground. Violence glared at her intensely, hands shaking in utter fury -- such fury that she couldn¡¯t reliably pull off another Oxygen Palm. But that had not been Road¡¯s intention. In fact, she had no intention of pushing this fight forward at all.


    Violence¡¯s wound sealed shut. Her ability, Violent Delights, took effect when she landed any attack -- whether that was with her fists, a technique, or any weapon. It even restored her stamina: to her body, it was as though the fight hadn¡¯t even begun yet. Ordinarily, that would have been a relief¡­ now, though, it was just a self-inflicted insult.


    "Why?" Violence hissed. "Why will you not fight in earnest?"


    To her surprise, Ruth answered, a cold but calm expression on her face.


    "Two years ago," she said. "I fought in earnest, again and again and again. I didn¡¯t even have to think about it. It was all I did. It got so bad, I thought I wasn¡¯t good for anything else." She took a deep breath in through her nose. "That¡¯s not the sort of creature I want to be. I want to be more than just a wild animal. So¡­ I decided I¡¯d only fight as much as I needed to. And I don¡¯t need to fight you."


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    Violence¡¯s blood boiled. "...are you saying that I¡¯m too weak for your full strength?" she asked, dangerously quiet.


    "You¡¯re the one saying that," Ruth replied. "All I¡¯m saying is I¡¯ve got no reason to fight you."


    To hell with it all.


    If Violence allowed a child like this to mock her, then she wouldn¡¯t be worthy of the Second Branch any longer. She¡¯d trained among their ranks for nearly twenty years, devoted herself to their practices, sharpened her body and mind to their utmost. She wouldn¡¯t allow all of that to go to waste because of the whims of some misguided, pathetic pacifist.


    Ruth Road might not fight in earnest¡­


    ¡­but Violence would.


    "Absolutian."


    The Absolutian form -- the most prized technique of the Tree of Might, taught only to its most ardent disciples. Most Aether-users devised their abilities for the purposes of maximum utility and potential. This was even common within the Tree of Might itself -- Violent Delights was a prime example. But that wasn¡¯t how people were meant to fight. People were meant to fight and kill using only the power living within their own bodies.


    White roots crawled out of Violence¡¯s skin, forming a pale bonsai tree that spread out like a massive pauldron over one shoulder. The physical form of the Absolutian transformation¡­


    ¡­a true Tree of Might.


    Absolutian was an ability that enforced the law of the body. By sealing away all other Aether abilities, the user¡¯s physical attributes received a substantial boost, proportionate to the complexity, potency and potential of the discarded powers. Strength, speed, stamina, durability -- all of them elevated into the realm of the absurd.


    Right now, a single punch from Violence¡¯s fist would obliterate a human body, even an Aether-infused one. Faced with this, Ruth Blaine would have no choice but to retaliate with all her might. Indeed, the girl took a step back as a wave of veritable pressure blasted past her.


    Violence prepared to kick off the ground. "I¡¯m done waiting," she growled, her voice booming from the enhancements to even her vocal cords. "Show me what you¡¯ve got, or you die."


    Sweat trickled down Ruth Road¡¯s face, but she finally accepted her fate. Opening her mouth, she spoke.


    "Monarque Se--"


    "Miracle Pop."


    The air exploded -- alone, that would not have been enough to send the enhanced Violence flying, but the floor exploded with it. Sailing through the air, she raised her arms to defend herself -- and a second later, a spear extended out of the smoke to strike, changing Violence¡¯s direction towards the cracked window. The intense Aether around Ruth faded as she ceased the manifestation for Monarch Set, and a grin spread across her lips.


    They were here.


    Magical Miracle Girl Alice¡îAlice hovered into view, a young girl so pale she almost looked taxidermied, wielding a segmented white staff with a gaudy pink orb on top. She stared at the flying Violence expressionlessly, already pointing the staff for a follow-up attack. Rex leapt out of the debris, Omni-Gungnir already changing shape in his hands as he charged towards Ruth.


    "You okay?" he called out.


    Ruth opened her mouth to answer -- but before she could, there was a thud as Violence finally landed, just a few meters away from the window. Immediately, the Scurrant lowered her body, ready to kick off and launch herself at Alice¡îAlice. It was the right choice. When Alice was in this form, she was by far the strongest member of Road and Restorossi. Taking her out was the most prudent move.


    It was a shame Violence wouldn¡¯t get the chance.


    "Miracle Push."


    With a single spark of pink Aether, the air around Violence changed its function. It smashed against her body like a hail of bricks, pushing her further and further towards the window. An Absolutian really was impressive. If not for that, she¡¯d have been sent off into the distance long ago. She dug her heels into the ground, holding herself in place.


    "Honourless¡­" Violence gasped. "...dogs!"


    For a moment, she looked as if she¡¯d overcome the pushing force and make a comeback -- but before she could, Roman Hitch vaulted over a chunk of rubble and sprinted onto the battlefield. He was already prepared to use his ability, the Miracle Tag clutched in his hand. As he jabbed a finger towards Violence, he crushed the dog tag.


    "Miracle Tag," he grunted. "Advantage!"


    Crack.


    It could only have been sheer coincidence. Roman hadn¡¯t touched the ground near Violence. He hadn¡¯t even gotten near it. But all the same, that section of the floor suddenly collapsed outwards¡­


    ¡­catapulting Violence right into the city-abyss outside.


    She vanished in an instant, plummeting out of sight, and for the first time in nearly a minute Ruth allowed herself to breathe. There was no way that fall would kill an Absolutian-equipped Aether-user, but at the very least Violence wouldn¡¯t be making her way back up here anytime soon.


    Rex clapped a heavy hand down on her shoulder. His mask was as expressionless as ever, but his voice was filled with concern. "You okay?"


    Ruth nodded, an easy grin on her face. "Against a jobber like that? No sweat."


    That had been close. If she¡¯d had to use Monarque against an Absolutian form, this whole building probably would have been blown away. It wasn¡¯t a Set that could be used carelessly. Since Ruth had developed it last year, she¡¯d only found the right circumstances to use it twice.


    Her blood had gotten too hot this time. She¡¯d have to watch herself.


    Roman stalked over, hands in his pockets, his usual dour expression having returned. "You okay, boss?" he grunted. Behind him, Alice was returning to her human form in a vortex of blood and bone. It was always gross to watch. Ruth glanced away, but Rae Ruditia seemed to be observing the display with some interest.


    "Ellis let us know you were in trouble," Rex explained, standing up straight. "Security cameras and stuff, you know?"


    "He was spying on me? That little shit," Ruth smirked. To be honest, she¡¯d expected that -- if Ellis hadn¡¯t been keeping track of their client at a time like this, she¡¯d have been pissed.


    "That was a Tree of Might member, right?" Rex asked, turning his head to look at the shattered window. "You know why she was pissed at you?"


    Rae stepped forward, tapping a fist against her temple playfully. "Ah, well¡­ I think that might¡¯ve been my fault. My article on the Tree wasn¡¯t exactly flattering, you see. I guess maybe she took offense? Sorry to cause you guys trouble." S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "If someone like that was enough to cause us trouble," Rex laughed. "We wouldn¡¯t be in business!"


    Even as the group came back together, even as they laughed, they didn¡¯t seem to notice¡­


    ¡­that Rae Ruditia was glaring at them.


    ¡­that Rae Ruditia was glaring daggers at them.


    Disgraceful.


    That was the first thought that crossed Violence¡¯s mind as she pulled herself out of the crater, down in one of the slum-streets of Azum-Ha. She didn¡¯t know quite how many levels she¡¯d fallen. She supposed it truly didn¡¯t matter. No matter how far she¡¯d plummeted, she had faith that her Absolutian, Bonsai, would be sufficient to save her.


    As she brushed the rubble off her body, the white roots of the Absolutian began to retreat back beneath her skin. It was a powerful boon, but after using it she¡¯d be weakened for a time. Well, she had access to Violent Delights again, so that shouldn¡¯t be a problem.


    More importantly¡­ her heart burned with humiliation.


    She hadn¡¯t even been defeated. She had been defeated several times in her life, and she¡¯d been able to accept it each time, using it as fuel to grow. But this time? She¡¯d been toyed with by an individual and then thrown away by a group. The very concept of the duel itself had been spat upon and disgraced. She¡¯d gone after Ruditia to satisfy her own rage, but now it had just been multiplied tenfold.


    Rae Ruditia¡­ and Ruth Road. She would no longer go after them with honour in her heart. Just as they had done to her, she would seize hold of them and tear them apart in the most disgraceful way possible. There would be no more mercy for --


    Danger.


    Violence swung around, fists already raised as her instincts spiked with alarm. The civilians had fled this place after she¡¯d landed, but someone else was still here. She could feel it. She clenched her fists -- then her fingers twitched.


    Someone she could feel, but not see? Could it be¡­?


    She tried to move first¡­


    Killing Arts: Empty Eye!


    ¡­but too late.


    "Nightmare Underground," said North. "Outer Dark."


    The world became blackness, peppered with specks of white. Specks of terror. As Violence stared into the deadlights, an involuntary scream of horror tore its way out of her throat, as though someone had jabbed their finger into her amygdala and twisted. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing she could do. This entire landscape was sculpted to create an unavoidable, irresistible, intractable fear. An instinct pushed to its utmost.


    Beyond fear of loss.


    Beyond fear of pain.


    Beyond fear of death.


    Beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond. This was horror. This was terror. This was fear.


    "Ya know¡­" North chuckled, walking around the flailing Violence. "Personally, I think my boss is too soft for this kinda thing."


    The thought of fighting back didn¡¯t even occur to Violence. This fear went beyond fight-or-flight. All one could do was stand there and drown in it. Blood poured out of Violence¡¯s face, clawed free from the volume of her screams.


    "If I had a problem like you, I wouldn¡¯t go with any roundabout schemes or anything¡­"


    The barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her head.


    "...I¡¯d just take care of it."


    ¡­and, finally, the fear ended.

 Chapter 379:13.37: The Man Without A Human Heart (Part 1)

    The child would surely die soon.


    It lay in the middle of the road, wretched and small, curled up in on itself. It was maybe five or four years old, but from size it looked younger, starvation pulling its skin taut and tracing out its skeleton. Skin burnt by the harsh sun. Eyes glossy and sightless. Lips stained by blood.


    The child would surely die soon.


    This situation was hardly uncommon, especially in this part of the galaxy. For the last year or so, the Yurt -- one of the ten grand families of the Great Chain -- had been blockading this region, preventing food and other supplies from getting through, in hopes of getting concessions from the Supremacy¡¯s Body. The current Supreme was weak, and would allow himself to be bullied into it eventually. It had happened before.


    Of course, the child knew none of this. All it knew was that it was hungry and thirsty beyond tolerance. As it didn¡¯t have the strength to breathe properly, it did not cry, but it might not have done that anyway. That impulse, like the memories of the family that had raised it, had already been worn away by hunger.


    Yes, the child would surely die soon. Only¡­ it did not.


    A scavenger bird wriggled free from a hole in the ground, shaking its brown feathers and squawking excitedly. During these hotter months, these birds made their nests underground, waiting for prey above to expire before emerging to strip the meat for their young. It hopped over to the dying child, brought its beak down¡­


    ¡­and the child moved.


    Nine times out of ten, the child¡¯s efforts would have been fruitless. Its body was too thin and weak to wrestle against the bird. Nine times out of ten, the bird would have just finished the child off. A single peck to the throat would have done it. Nine times out of ten, nine times out of ten¡­


    ¡­but this was the tenth world.


    Somehow, amidst the incoherent struggling, the child ended up rolling on top of the bird -- and there was a hollow crunch as the beast¡¯s neck broke from the pressure.


    Just like the bird would have done to it, the child pulled the carcass close and began to eat from its throat, gore spilling down their gullet. Meat and blood. So long as the child had those, they could continue living.


    Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.


    The nest, nearby. The child heard it. This bird had not been alone. It had been fetching food for its young. The child salivated as it heard the chirping chicks. Slowly, with the barest strength recovered, it began to crawl over to the hole in the ground.


    They would surely die soon.


    Mereloco sank his teeth into life, and did not let go.


    "Are you ready?" Damon asked.


    Mereloco grunted in response. They¡¯d been together long enough for Damon to know what that meant. The easy grin spreading across his own lips was proof enough of that.


    "Okay," he muttered. "Let¡¯s go."


    And with that, the two of them stepped off the skyscraper.


    It had been three hours since the opening ceremony of the Dawn Contest, time enough for the other contestants to return to their bases of operations on Azum-Ha. The first match would begin tomorrow, with Damon facing off against the Baron Lucien de Fleur.


    They had other plans.


    As they fell past the 32nd floor of the building, Mereloco activated Unchained -- slowing their descent and leaving the two of them hovering in mid-air. On the other side of the glass, he could see vague humanoid figures, already recoiling from the sudden appearance of Mereloco and Damon. The attack would come in seconds, if that, but Mereloco wasn¡¯t concerned in the least.


    If you were always the one to attack first, you didn¡¯t have to worry about being ambushed. Damon extended a hand, still grinning that cocky grin.


    "Quantum King," he said.


    The building imploded, the framework pushed away from Damon with all his might. The structure carved through itself, concrete and plastic and human pouring from the tower like a waterfall of detritus. This would suffice to take care of the weakest manpower that their enemy had access to. For the rest? Mereloco.


    Unchained.


    Mereloco adjusted his personal gravity, falling sideways into the ruins of the building, and then -- after reorienting himself again -- landing upwards on a half-shattered ceiling. Smoke still billowed through the air, but Mereloco banished it with a gust of Aether-infused breath. Cracking his neck, he looked at the course that Damon had prepared for him.


    As expected, most of the Baron¡¯s men had been blown away by that initial attack. Quantum King wasn¡¯t an attack you could easily withstand without knowing about it in advance. Only two guards remained: identical twins, men, both of whom had beetle-like crests protruding from the tops of their heads.


    Far above, black flames began to broil through the sky. It seemed that the Baron had engaged Damon in combat. It was time for Mereloco to do his job, too.


    Damon and Mereloco had agreed on this strategy beforehand. It wouldn¡¯t do for Mereloco to assist Damon against the actual contestants. That would cause Damon to lose face, and make things more difficult when he became Supreme. Instead, Mereloco would take care of the enemy backup -- guards, agents, automatics, whatever.


    These people had countless shadows, after all. Damon only needed one.


    The two enemies slammed their fists against their hearts, crying out with all their might: "Transform!"


    Mereloco simply cracked his neck again, took a step forward, and allowed himself¡­


    Unchained.


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    ¡­to fall.


    The first of the Rebel Rangers died badly. He lay in a crater that his blood was quickly turning into a pond, twitching weakly as Mereloco made his final approach. What looked like a glowing frisbee flew out of the Ranger¡¯s chest towards Mereloco, but he simply shot it out of the air with a single bullet of Unworthy.


    His face stoic, his shadow stretching, Mereloco stood over the dying man. The Ranger looked back, terrified eyes visible through his shattered visor. In the end, the bulky armour he¡¯d manifested -- the armour that had seemed so impressive -- had just served as a mobile coffin.


    "W-Wait¡­" the Rebel Ranger gasped. "P-Plea¡­"


    Mereloco crushed his skull with a stamp of his boot, then began to make his way to his second vanquished opponent. The second Rebel Ranger, slightly younger, had been blown through a wall into the conference room beyond. As he went to rise to his feet, wincing in pain all the while, Mereloco simply grabbed him by the throat and raised him up high.


    "You bastard¡­" the young man wheezed, flailing weakly in Mereloco¡¯s grip. "Kill you¡­ I¡¯ll kill you¡­"


    A single blow to the back of the head ended the Ranger¡¯s struggling. Unconscious, but not dead. Mereloco released the boy and let him drop to the ground in an undignified heap.


    Why had he spared one, and not the other? Even Mereloco didn¡¯t know. It was not an arbitrary decision. Definite rationale had led to one man living and one man dying. But what his reasons were, and the means by which he¡¯d reached them, were just as much a mystery to Mereloco as they were to anyone else.


    This was a man who did not understand the contents of his own soul.


    If that bothered him at all, he did not show it. Mereloco simply turned his head as the third enemy revealed themselves, leaping out of the rubble and screeching like a harpy. Mereloco had never met this bald, emaciated man before, but he recognised him instantly.


    Inimant.


    His eyes held the desperation of one who had failed to restrain their bloodlust, and the claws protruding from beneath his fingernails were among the most common of the Killing Engines. They carried a deadly venom -- just a scratch would be enough to bring even an Aether-user to the brink of death. But he was mad, and he was simple. S§×arch* The nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Unchained.


    "Esh."


    With that word, Damon disabled his first Aether Armament. The three tattoos, printed over his body in preparation for the Dawn Contest, were like interweaving chains. As Damon spoke the name of the first one, the red glow that had consumed it faded to its normal black. The intense heat that lingered in the air faded away too.


    It was too late for his opponent.


    The Baron Lucien de Fleur had been burnt alive, his charred corpse floating in the air before Damon -- held in stasis between the push and pull of Quantum King. Damon used the same technique to allow himself to float, and -- as he allowed the Baron to fall into the abyss below -- he made his way over to the edge of the window.


    That whole time, he watched the corpse fall.


    It was strange. Many of the people he¡¯d fought alongside were able to kill a man and just keep walking, but Damon always found his eyes lingering on the body left behind. Was that some part of himself reveling in the skill he¡¯d used in the execution? Or was it an altogether more cowardly impulse?


    Damon didn¡¯t know. It wasn¡¯t something he liked to examine about himself.


    In any case, the world was better off for having lost the Baron Lucien de Fleur. His reputation for greed had been well-earned, and not just for his thieving flames -- he¡¯d drained his entire planet dry to fill his coffers, triggering famines so very much like the ones back then.


    He narrowed his eyes as he remembered it.


    Bodies littering the streets, one step away from skeletons. The hunger carving its way through his body like a new organ. His mother making him eat meat that she seemed guilty to give him.


    One of those corpses, just one, not being a corpse at all. Taking its hand in his own.


    Mereloco leapt through the demolished building, landing in the ruined hallway next to him. Damon gave him a sidelong glance. Unsurprisingly, the man was covered in blood.


    "Is it done?" Mereloco asked.


    Damon nodded. "It¡¯s done."


    He took a deep breath, soaking in the cold night air for a moment. That hadn¡¯t been an easy battle, but that had been the idea. The Baron Lucien de Fleur was probably one of the most dangerous opponents in this tournament. Now that he¡¯d been dealt with, the rest would be a downhill sprint.


    Yes¡­ the rest.


    Damon and Mereloco had decided long before landing on Azum-Ha. This year, there wouldn¡¯t be a tournament at all. This year, they¡¯d take care of everything in a single night.


    The two of them leapt from the building, already making their way to their next target.


    Damon¡¯s confidence was not misplaced. Indeed, over the course of the next nine hours, he eliminated every other participant in the Dawn Contest and emerged victorious. He was covered in blood and wounds, barely able to stand, his face beaten to a purple mess¡­ but, in the end, he was the last man standing, and that was what mattered.


    His victory was due in equal parts to his own personal strength and his great resolve. Where an ordinary man would have fallen unconscious or even died, Damon was able to push his mind to keep existing. If he did not exist, he could not accomplish his goals. If he did not exist, his dream would never come true.


    The goal of the man with the power of god was to bring back the strength of the Supremacy. The Great Chain had curled around great swaths of their territory, strangling it, wielding greater and greater influence as a result. Damon sought to put a stop to that, to ensure the great famines of his youth never happened again.


    His dream, though? That was something far more nebulous, far more vague, and far more¡­ unattainable. And yet, he had no choice but to reach for it.


    Damon fought so he could become Supreme, so he could change the world to his liking, so he could leave his name in history, so he could prove his strength to the world, so he could destroy those who stood against him, so he could cast away the shadows in his own soul, so he could bolster his homeland against the threats that surrounded it, so that he could spread his views across the stars, so that he could enjoy the luxury of the position, so that he could spit in the face of the world that hadn¡¯t wanted him to exist. He had no shortage of reasons to fight.


    Mereloco? He fought because Damon fought. Any other reason either didn¡¯t interest him¡­ or was yet another thing he didn¡¯t understand.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    The feeling in the fingers returns first. Not as many as before¡­ but, given what he¡¯s put his body through, that isn¡¯t a surprise. Four out of eight is still a victory.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    Sensation slithers up his arms like snakes. He becomes aware of pain. Again, not as much as expected. Again, a victory. He can move his arms. That alone is cause for celebration.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    The legs. They twitch. That means they can walk.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    His heart beats in his chest, in tandem with the beeping. He¡¯s aware of the warmth of his blood. He breathes -- once weakly, then again with feeling. He forces his body into being.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    The head. Everything begins there. The pain is welcome. The fact that he can feel it means that he is alive.


    Beep. Beep. Beep.


    Atoy Muzazi opens his eyes.


    Beep.


    He sinks his teeth into life, and does not let go.

 Chapter 380:13.38: Cockroaches Crawling Towards The Sky

    "You fool," Muzazi murmured, smiling softly. "You went through all of that for me?"


    The hospital room was dark, curtains drawn, light provided only by the dim glow of automatic eyes. It had only been a short walk here from Muzazi¡¯s own room. That was unfortunate: he¡¯d have preferred a trek. The pain of it would have pulled him fully into consciousness.


    Still¡­ this sight would suffice all the same.


    Morgan was now lying in a bed much like the one that Muzazi had woken up from. A brace held his jaw together, and the drugs crawling through his drip kept his pain under control. He grinned weakly with as much effort as he could muster.


    "That¡¯s¡­ my job¡­" he wheezed. "Anyone else would have done the same¡­"


    Muzazi smirked. Liar. Only Morgan Nacht would have done such a foolhardy thing. That was what made him incredible. As gently as he could, Muzazi put a hand down on the young man¡¯s shoulder.


    "Of course," he said. "Rest free. I¡¯ll take it from here."


    "This¡­" growled the Fourth Branch of the Tree of Might, Fino Onio, as he looked down at the corpse of his superior. "...is unforgivable."


    Violence¡¯s body had been recovered from a security station¡¯s morgue earlier that morning, her location identified by one of the capital¡¯s many info-brokers. Now she rested atop a pedestal in the Tree of Might¡¯s Chamber of Remembrance, artificial rain drizzling atop her corpse from above. A puddle was already spreading out from the pedestal into a lower portion of the floor. When that portion was filled, the time for cremation would have come.


    That alone would not be cause for the gnashing of teeth, but the Second Branch was in a truly lamentable state. Her head had been demolished, a massive hole opened up in the front of her skull, brain obliterated by the attack. That was her only wound.


    Fino clenched his fists. A warrior¡¯s death should not look like this. A warrior should die covered in scars, with their enemy¡¯s blood on their lips. The only acceptable defeat was one that took your enemy with you. Strength through victory, and victory even in defeat.


    But could this even be called defeat, or was it¡­?


    "Gutten min," said Tyr Masterman, the Third Branch, his tri-moustaches quivering as he leaned against the wall. "You must not lose yourself in fury. Violence called a duel, and Violence lost. It is something that happens. Sad, but not cause to lose oneself. Berolige, yes?"


    Fino cast a scarlet glare upon his superior. It was no surprise that the old man was keen to treat this matter leniently. With Violence dead, Masterman would soon reclaim his old position as Second Branch of the Tree of Might.


    He clenched his fists tighter, enough to draw blood.


    Fino Onio was a young man, brought into the Tree by Violence only five years prior, but he had advanced quickly -- and his body bore the scars to prove his effort. His face was wrapped in bandages, with only a strip of brown skin and his red eyes exposed to the world. Long grey hair cascaded down his back, reaching nearly as low as the tails of his red leather coat. His Aether Armament, Ill Humour, was sheathed at his side. A chainsaw wasn¡¯t the most traditional of weapons¡­


    ¡­but, with Fino¡¯s ability, it got the job done.


    "If it were an honorable duel," Fino snarled. "Then I¡¯d accept that readily. But this blow, this attack, this wound. Does it look honorable to you? To me, it looks like --"


    "Gutten min --"


    "To me," Fino pushed forward. "It looks like an execution! It looks like Ruth Blaine put a gun to the back of my master¡¯s head and pulled the trigger! It looks like our response should be obvious!"


    Silence lingered over the room, save for the gentle sound of rain. Slowly, Masterman clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes were dull and serious.


    "You refer to a vengeance pact?" he asked.


    Fino nodded. "She can¡¯t get away with this. Ruth Blaine must be declared a hated enemy of the Tree of Might, from now until the day she dies. But don¡¯t concern yourself with wasted resources, old man¡­" In a single movement, he whipped out Ill Humour and revved up the chainsaw, crimson blood pouring from the vent on its side. "...I¡¯ll carve her up before long."


    Tyr sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers as he closed his eyes.


    "If that¡¯s what you wish, then you must bring it up with the Zero Branch," he finally said. "But for the time being¡­ nothing can begin until the end of this next match."


    He turned his head to look at the massive monitor towering over the chamber. There, the Arena of the Absolute waited. There, Mereloco waited -- for an opponent that might not even arrive.


    "That," Tyr muttered. "...is the decision of our leader."


    Atoy Muzazi marched through the tunnel.


    He was ready for battle, and not much else. The cocktail of stimulants and enhancers the doctors had provided him with -- at no small cost -- was sufficient to keep him in fighting condition for an hour, maybe slightly over that if he was lucky. Ordinarily, he wouldn¡¯t have gone for such an unreliable method of recovery -- but with so little time remaining until the match, he had little choice.


    His muscles twisted with something that wasn¡¯t pain exactly, but was surely a neighbour to it. As well as the stimulants, he¡¯d also undergone minor carving surgery -- a practice in which damaged muscles and innards were sliced away, then immediately replaced with Panacea. It was yet another dangerous and painful way of increasing his recovery speed¡­ but with it, he could move and fight as he needed to.


    In short, though? He was on borrowed time. Before long, he¡¯d collapse again and need to return to the hospital bed. He needed to end this fight before then.


    He reached the mouth of the tunnel, artificial light flooding over him as he stepped into the Arena of the Absolute.


    The cheering of the crowds was nearly as overpowering as the light. His fight against Nael Manron had been by far the most extravagant battle of the Dawn Contest so far, and that fact had earned him a great deal of goodwill from the public. For the time being, he was a hero.


    But the man across from him had surely killed many heroes.


    Mereloco had clearly arrived before him, sitting himself down on the opposite side of the arena, arm resting atop one raised knee. He regarded Muzazi with dark, empty eyes. The eyes of a shark. It was somewhat fitting.


    For this match, the arena had been modified to resemble a beach of some kind -- one half occupied by an artificial tide, the other by near-white sand. Palm trees formed a vague border to complete the facade.


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    The tide washed over Muzazi¡¯s feet as he stopped opposite Mereloco, remaining standing. From what Morgan had related to him, this wasn¡¯t a person he should take lightly. The battle against Tealin Jade had already told him that, of course, but he wouldn¡¯t be surprised if Mereloco tried some sort of surprise attack.


    In that regard, he was of the same breed as Dragan Hadrien.


    "In this cornerrr," the announcer declared excitedly, boosted voice overpowering the crowd. "The man from the past, the tourist with a penchant for brutality¡­ Merelooocooo!"


    Some muted cheering waved through the crowd. It only made sense that Mereloco had supporters too. To some, the brutality he displayed made him a hero all by itself.


    Mereloco didn¡¯t react to the cheering. He just continued to stare at Muzazi, his eye contact unbreakable.


    The announcer continued: "And accrrross, we have the Full Moon, the man with a sword as bright as the sun -- Atoooy Muzaziii!"


    Muzazi frowned. His sword certainly wasn¡¯t as bright as the sun. That would be ridiculous.


    "Three¡­"


    No matter. He¡¯d just have to correct the mistake later.


    "Two¡­"


    He lowered his body, ignited Radiants from his palms, and prepared himself.


    "One¡­"


    Mereloco picked himself up off the ground almost lazily, brushing sand from his pants. Still, he stared. Still, he waited.


    "Begin!"


    Untoward.


    Before Muzazi could blast off and attack, the ground beneath him rumbled -- and, as if, grasped by an invisible hand, the arena tore itself free from the stadium.


    For a moment, he could hear the shocked screams of the crowd -- but only for a moment. They quickly faded away, left behind far down below, as the extracted beach ascended higher and higher into the sky. Buildings whipped past as they rose, until finally only the black sky curled around them. Stars twinkled like tiny little eyes.


    In the midst of it all, Mereloco just stood, arms extended to either side. As the arena finally stopped, settling in the lower atmosphere of Azum-Ha, he slowly lowered them.


    "There," he grunted, cold breath pouring from his mouth like fog. "It¡¯s not as noisy."


    Was that Unchained? Muzazi wondered. I doubt it. According to Morgan, he can¡¯t use Unchained and Unworthy at the same time. I don¡¯t see a man like this cutting off his ranged attacks just to avoid the crowds.


    Yes¡­ Muzazi¡¯s eyes narrowed. That was just another reason he couldn¡¯t lose. Morgan had given all he could to bring him here.


    That sort of faith he couldn¡¯t betray.


    Wrapped up in a hospital bed just as Muzazi had been, Morgan spoke through gasps of breath. It took a long time to get a full sentence out, but Muzazi waited and listened all the same. He hung on every word.


    "Mereloco¡­" Morgan explained. "He¡¯s got three¡­ a-abilities I was able to confirm¡­ you know Unchained¡­"


    Mereloco raised a finger in Muzazi¡¯s direction -- and immediately, Muzazi jumped back, avoiding the invisible projectile and falling off the floating beach in the process.


    "Unworthy¡­ he focuses a gravity field and fires it out like a tiny bullet. Don¡¯t let it hit you¡­ even if your body can withstand one, he shoots them r-rapid-fire¡­ so you¡¯ll be finished¡­"


    Muzazi was lucky that Mereloco had chosen to elevate the arena. That meant he could use his thrusters to fly underneath it, looping around from below and avoiding Mereloco¡¯s line of fire. He swooped through the air, bursts of white blazing out from his shoulders and feet.


    Clearly, catastrophic damage had been done to the arena by tearing it free. Sand and water poured down from the edges of the circular space down to the ground below, and a massive metallic wire -- like a torn umbilical cord -- rained sparks down with them. Muzazi weaved around it as he prepared his attack.


    He was no fool, and he knew Mereloco wasn¡¯t either. The man was hardly going to just stand there and let Muzazi set this up. He¡¯d be preparing his own attack as well.


    Muzazi could only hope he¡¯d be able to counteract it.


    Mereloco cracked his neck. It was obvious that Morgan Nacht had warned this swordsman about his abilities. Well, that was fine. He¡¯d expected that.


    It didn¡¯t matter if someone knew he had a gun when the bullet was already in their brain.


    He stepped over to the sandy side of the arena, reaching out a purple-sparking hand. He wasn¡¯t fond of technical attacks like this, but that didn¡¯t mean he wasn¡¯t capable of them when he needed to. Anyone who got this far with Aether knew what they were doing with it.


    Uncrowned.


    Uncrowned was an ability that plucked small objects from Mereloco¡¯s immediate surroundings and forced them to orbit his body. He could control the speed and strength with which the objects orbited, making them effective as both shields and weapons. Projectile attacks were basically useless against him as a result -- Mereloco could use Uncrowned alongside his other abilities -- excluding Unworthy -- without concern.


    He had no doubt that the swordsman already knew that, though. Morgan Nacht wouldn¡¯t have failed to explain the move that had laid him out. The bastard would be ready for it.


    So he¡¯d do something he wouldn¡¯t be ready for. He¡¯d reach into his ability¡­ grasp the targeting parameters he¡¯d set¡­ and adjust them. Purple Aether crackled throughout his body --


    -- and slowly, the sand began to shift.


    Muzazi emerged on the opposite side of the arena -- and immediately regretted it.


    It wasn¡¯t that he¡¯d made a bad decision, per se. In a fight against Mereloco, the best strategy was to get in close, so that he couldn¡¯t use Unchained without hitting himself with his own attacks. Mereloco¡¯s grappling skills made that treacherous as well, of course, but his hands at least were something that could be fought against. Since he had a ranged attack, too, moving in a way that kept Muzazi covered hadn¡¯t been a bad decision either.


    Ordinarily, Muzazi would have taken the opportunity to set up Radiant Almighty on the underside of the arena too -- but that wasn¡¯t an option. When he¡¯d lifted the arena up into the sky, Mereloco had infused it completely with his own Aether, and that infusion was still active. Right now, Muzazi could only create thrusters on his own body. So sticking to normal Radiants hadn¡¯t been a bad decision, either.


    Up to this point, he hadn¡¯t made a bad decision.


    But there were better decisions he could have made.


    The attack slammed into Muzazi, instantly tearing his jacket and shirt apart, and nearly doing the same to his chest. It was only his last-second retreat that stopped his organs from being exposed to the open air -- and even so, rows of thin red lines covered his skin. Stabilising himself in the air with thrusters, he stared in horror at the thing that had struck him. Sear?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A sphere of solid sand, its entire surface rippling as it approached.


    No: Muzazi recognised his mistake immediately. In the midst of that sphere, he could see the vaguest human silhouette. Mereloco. This was Uncrowned -- the ability that Morgan had warned him about, the one that had lost him the fight, but this was far beyond what Morgan had described.


    Mereloco had seized hold of individual grains of sand, set them to orbit him, and then increased the speed of that orbit to its maximum. Essentially¡­ he¡¯d created a giant shredder around himself. And that shredder was still advancing towards him.


    Muzazi¡¯s mind raced. How did he get around this? Just the briefest contact with the shredder-shield had caused significant damage. There was no telling if his Radiants would be able to pass through the shield intact -- and even if they could, the slightest movement on Mereloco¡¯s part would be enough to obliterate the limb Muzazi was wielding it with.


    He couldn¡¯t use Ablaze or Almighty because of the infusion. If he tried to throw Lustrous, the generation time would give Mereloco a chance to close the distance. He was running out of options -- he was running out of decisions, good or bad. Muzazi¡¯s heart began to hammer in his chest¡­ and then, almost immediately, began to calm down.


    He¡¯d seen them, after all.


    Countless green dots below the arena, quickly growing larger as they approached. They must have been dispatched from the stadium once it became clear that Muzazi and Mereloco wouldn¡¯t be returning. Unlike the battle against Nael Manron, the organisers had assumed the fight would be taking place in the Arena of the Absolute proper, so it had taken a bit longer to deploy them.


    The Emerald Eyes, spherical camera automatics designed to observe fights that happened out of the public view. Because of Mereloco¡¯s infusion, Muzazi couldn¡¯t create thrusters on any part of this floating arena.


    But these new arrivals? He could do as he liked with them.


    White Aether sparked.

 Chapter 381:13.39: The Tenth World

    The Emerald Eyes converged.


    With an Aether pulse like a bomb going off, Atoy Muzazi had managed to infuse each and every one of them in a moment -- and now, the automatics did his bidding. White thrusters blazed out from their chassis as a huge group of them were propelled inwards, right towards Mereloco, ready to crash through his shield of sand and crush him.


    Uncrowned had to have limits, and Muzazi hoped that the way Mereloco had modified his ability would exacerbate those limitations. If not, he was really doing something very silly right now. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time.


    Mereloco responded surprisingly late, but that made sense as well. Muzazi could hardly see his opponent through the veil of sand, so the opposite must have also been true. With him barely able to see the silhouette of Muzazi, the spherical automatics would have only been visible when they were right on top of him.


    The attack didn¡¯t land, but Muzazi still got the result he wanted¡­


    ¡­Uncrowned.


    ¡­as Mereloco released his ability. A curtain of sand fell around him as the orbit stopped.


    In the same instant, the man from the past kicked off the ground with a burst of Aether and Unchained, jumping far out of Muzazi¡¯s immediate reach. As Mereloco flew upwards, his eyes flicked around, taking in all the ways that the situation had changed. A lesser man would have despaired at what he saw there.


    Mereloco¡¯s infusion advantage was gone, as Muzazi now had no shortage of mobile surfaces to plant thrusters on. The Emerald Eyes he¡¯d sent after Mereloco originally continued to pursue him, but they were far from the only ones in play. This whole time, Muzazi had been arranging the rest.


    The remaining spheres had formed platforms, six in all, floating around the arena -- and, as Muzazi snapped his fingers, massive thrusters burst into life atop each one.


    Radiant Almighty -- he¡¯d already begun preparing it. In a situation like this, with limited time for his body to be viable, Muzazi couldn¡¯t afford to hold back any strength. He¡¯d end this as quickly and decisively as he could.


    He was sure that was what Mereloco was thinking, too.


    You want to blast the pillars with Unworthy, don¡¯t you? Muzazi thought, watching as Mereloco reached the crest of his absurd jump. But if you do that, you can¡¯t use Uncrowned to block the attacks coming for you.


    Therefore¡­ you¡¯ll have to do it by hand.


    Mereloco kicked off the air with a flash of Unchained, launching himself towards the nearest pillar of light. As he did, Muzazi moved his hand, pointing his fingers at him. His wooden fingers.


    Therefore¡­ you won¡¯t see this coming.


    I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t confirm your consent, Ionir Yggdrassil said. But I assumed you would wish to be whole.


    It was strange, so strange. Ever since Muzazi had woken up, he¡¯d been able to understand Ionir Yggdrassil perfectly. The minute twitches and strange groans that before had seemed meaningless were now as clear as his own language. It seemed a wonder that he hadn¡¯t been able to understand before.


    And he had these fingers to thank. Sitting up in bed, Muzazi looked down at the four wooden protrusions clinging to his knuckles. A part of Ionir Yggdrassil was now a part of him.


    "It¡¯s fine," he mumbled. "You did what you thought was best¡­ and it was for the best."


    He moved the fingers, testing their response. Again¡­ bizarre. It was as if he¡¯d been born with them, as if they really were his. He could even feel things through them¡­ heat and cold, texture and touch.


    We two are now one, Ionir continued. Just as Morgan Nacht and I are. So long as my wood is part of you¡­


    Atoy Muzazi clenched his fist.


    ¡­you shall never be alone.


    White Aether flared -- and Muzazi¡¯s wooden fingers stretched out like branches, crossing the distance between him and Mereloco in an instant, intercepting his attack.


    Muzazi¡¯s aim had been true. All four fingers, their tips embedded with pinpoint Aether, pierced Mereloco¡¯s body. Three skewered his chest -- and the fourth blow, Muzazi could see, had landed straight through his heart. Mereloco looked down at the branches as if he could only recognise this absurdity by sight, his eyes widening in alarm.


    It¡¯s too late, Muzazi thought grimly, twisting his body to hurl his opponent. You shouldn¡¯t have taken your eyes off me, Mere --


    Unthroned.


    An ability was activated -- just for a moment. It wasn¡¯t even active for a second, nor for half of one. In the time Mereloco activated and deactivated an ability, one could not even have blinked. It was just that quick¡­


    ¡­and yet it was more than enough to rupture the world.


    Each and every Emerald Eye had been torn to shreds, taking Radiant Almighty¡¯s pillars with them. The automatics that had been chasing Mereloco were just as decimated. Even the arena, the platform that Mereloco had created for them, even it was ravaged -- as though it had been torn apart and spat out by a hurricane, retaining less than half of its original mass.


    And then, of course, there was Atoy Muzazi.


    One second, he¡¯d been looking at Mereloco from afar -- the next, he was in the air with him, right in front of him, the extensions of his wooden fingers snapped into broken branches. His eyes widened as he registered the shift in position¡­ and that was all he had time to do.


    Mereloco slammed his fist into Muzazi¡¯s head, spiking him down into the ground. He landed face down in the sand, the remains of the beach¡¯s ¡¯ocean¡¯ spraying haphazardly onto his body. Slowly, with aching bones, he went to pick himself up.


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    Nine times out of ten, this was where Atoy Muzazi would have died.


    Mereloco¡¯s foot would have smashed down into the back of his head like a sledgehammer, splitting his skull like a melon. His brains would have oozed out onto the ground. His body would have twitched for a moment, home to nothing but a dying impulse, but another stomp on the offending limb would have put a swift end to that. The crowd would have screamed in horror, but victory would quickly give birth to scattered cheers -- and soon enough, the world would forget all about Atoy Muzazi and his gruesome fate.


    Nine times out of ten, that was what would have happened.


    But this was the tenth world.


    On pure instinct, feeling the air pressure shift, Muzazi channeled the entirety of his Aether into the back of his head -- and the resulting pinpoint infusion was just enough to save his life. He was still sent spluttering down into the ground, of course, and his eyes were painted with blood -- but his heart continued to beat, and his brain continued to spark.


    Another stomp, and another, and another. Each one destined to end Atoy Muzazi¡¯s life, each one countered by split-second pinpoint Aether. Again, and again, and again, Atoy Muzazi created the tenth world through will and instinct alone.


    But would that be enough to save him? Even if he could parry these physical blows for the time being, Mereloco had no shortage of other ways to finish him. As Muzazi was now, he wouldn¡¯t be able to block or withstand Unchained. Lying down like this, he was a perfect target for Unworthy. If Mereloco chose to create a shredder-shield with Uncrowned again, Muzazi would have no recourse.


    None of these thoughts filled his head right now, though. The future did not exist for Atoy Muzazi. The only thing, the only thing on his mind at this very instant was surviving this very instant.


    And survive he did.


    It was just enough to make Mereloco¡¯s eye twitch in annoyance.


    Gretchen Hail couldn¡¯t conceal her vulpine grin as she watched Muzazi get brutalized. To be honest, she hadn¡¯t put much stock in this Mereloco guy, but he was doing good work. Gretchen hadn¡¯t even had to do anything, and here -- Atoy Muzazi was being killed right before her very eyes!


    It was a shame she wouldn¡¯t have the chance to test out Prometheus, but you couldn¡¯t have everything in life.


    The Supreme Heir, sitting on her bed, was silent -- her lip quivering as she watched the display on the videograph. What a silly little girl. At some point in your life, you had to decide whether you truly hated someone or not. It seemed the brat hadn¡¯t quite reached that point yet.


    The armoured knight Endo Silversaint watched from his position near the door, metal fingers tapping against his metal gauntlet. His fluted helmet was as inscrutable as ever, but his voice was downcast as he spoke.


    "Although he may have been an inevitable adversary¡­" mumbled the Silversaint. "To see the man torn apart like this --" S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Shut up," Gretchen said.


    Endo Silversaint shut up.


    The grin remained fixed on Gretchen¡¯s face as she leaned in towards the videograph, digesting the image, memorizing every detail. She wanted this moment to persist in her brain forever. This splendid moment of distant victory. The schadenfreude of an insect with its wings torn off.


    I hope you¡¯ve got a videograph in that place, Baltay, she thought. You won¡¯t want to miss this.


    This swordsman had been able to push Mereloco pretty far. He found that annoying.


    If he¡¯d been anyone else, that attack with the branches would surely have been fatal -- the pain would have prevented him from properly countering it, for one thing. Even so, it hadn¡¯t been easy to activate Unchained within his own body, diverting the wooden fingers just enough that they didn¡¯t hit his heart. It was a miracle that he hadn¡¯t inflicted greater internal damage all by himself.


    Then there was Unthroned. Mereloco hadn¡¯t wanted to use that at all, but he¡¯d had no choice, faced with so many simultaneous threats. Even using it for a split-second had been exhausting, and sweat was pouring down his face as he stomped on the back of the swordsman. That exhaustion wasn¡¯t the only thing boiling his blood, though.


    This should have been over by now.


    The first stomp should have finished it. The second stomp should have finished it. The third, the fourth, the fifth. Each was a coup de grace, and each was blocked at the very last instant by a rush of Aether. The attacks that should have been instantly fatal were instead inflicting minor but accumulating damage to the swordsman.


    That wasn¡¯t what Mereloco desired. He didn¡¯t want a battle of attrition against a writhing fish. He wanted to be done with this.


    His face a still mask, Mereloco grabbed the swordsman by the scruff of his neck and flipped him onto his back, pressing a heavy knee against his chest to keep him down.


    "Surrender," he demanded stoically.


    He wasn¡¯t feeling especially merciful, but at this rate it would be quicker for the swordsman to concede.


    The swordsman opened his mouth to answer, slowly bringing his head up.


    "I¡­"


    Unchained.


    The smash of gravity slammed his head right back down to the ground. Nevermind. Mereloco had lost his patience. He¡¯d just kill this guy and go home.


    With contemptuous ease, he reached down and began pressing his thumb right between the swordsman¡¯s eyes. Aether broiled around the digit as he pushed, harder and harder and harder, willing with all his might that he would puncture skull and brain alike. It would be just like cracking an egg.


    "Last chance," Mereloco muttered. "Surre --"


    The swordsman spat blood into his face.


    Mereloco didn¡¯t so much as blink as he was cut off. He¡¯d thought this swordsman was one of those dignified types, but he guessed that wasn¡¯t the case when he was on the verge of death. No matter. Dignified or not, he¡¯d die all the same.


    If he thought Mereloco was the type to get pissed off and stupid from something like that, he had another thing --


    Thruster -- on!


    The thruster, unstable and short-lived from the uneven surface, burst into life from Muzazi¡¯s blood. Like a flashbang, it erupted into light right in Mereloco¡¯s face, blinding him. For a horrifying moment, it felt like even that wouldn¡¯t be enough to weaken Mereloco¡¯s grip -- but then the chance came.


    There was the briefest instant when Mereloco¡¯s strength wavered.


    Radiant Lustrous!


    Immediately, Muzazi ignited the spear in his free hand and thrust it forwards, right at Mereloco¡¯s face. The man from the past couldn¡¯t see the attack, but he could surely feel it coming. He moved away, leaping backwards off of Muzazi¡¯s body and back to the other side of the arena.


    Hunched over, clearly aggravated, Mereloco wiped his face clean of soot with a forearm -- revealing his bloodshot eyes.


    "That¡¯s a surprise," he muttered, cracking his neck. "I thought you were the honourable type of idiot."


    Muzazi stood back up, catching his breath, Radiants already blazing again from his palms. "Perhaps I am," he replied. "But there¡¯s a difference between honour and stupidity, Mereloco."


    Mereloco glared back at him with dull, dead eyes. "If that¡¯s what you think, that¡¯s why you¡¯ll die. Come here¡­" he stepped forward. "...I¡¯ll show you."


    Muzazi mirrored his stance, taking a deep breath to center himself. If things continued like this, there was no doubt he¡¯d find himself on the floor again before too long. He was running on a time limit, too. His body could only hold out so long. He couldn¡¯t afford to play around.


    The answer, he knew, rested in his pocket. The treasure the UAP had given him. The thing that could twist all of this into a victory.


    But just the thought of using it seemed to fill his brain with bile. He shook that thought free.


    No, he promised himself. Right here, right now, without disgracing myself¡­


    He lunged.


    ¡­I shall defeat the past of the Supremacy.

 Chapter 382:13.40: Embolden!

    One Hour Earlier¡­


    The air was crisp in Unicorn Park that night, and the famous landmark of Azum-Ha was mostly empty. The usual crowds that would have come to see the sixty intertwined Apex Trees were reduced to a scattering of onlookers. Most people were either at home right now to watch the Dawn Contest, or at the Arena of the Absolute -- to watch the Dawn Contest.


    For the time being, Atoy Muzazi could move unseen.


    He¡¯d concealed his identity as much as convenient -- a white cap pulled low over his head and a pair of red shades concealing his eyes. Hands in the pockets of his coat, he marched down the center pathway of the park as instructed, his gaze straight ahead. Even without looking, he knew he¡¯d found who he was searching for.


    Jamilu Aguta, Nebula Two of the Unified Alliance of Planets, stepped out from the treeline and joined Muzazi on his stroll. Perfectly natural, as if he¡¯d been there the whole time. If his senses hadn¡¯t been sharpened to their utmost right now, Muzazi himself might not even have noticed until his new companion spoke.


    "We were relieved to hear you were awake," Jamilu said casually. "You pushed yourself far in that last match."


    Muzazi glanced at him. "What were you planning to do if I didn¡¯t wake up?" He sincerely doubted that the UAP had put all of their hopes with him. There¡¯d be a backup plan. And, given the reasons that Jamilu had decided to support him, that backup would probably be¡­


    "Dorothy Eiro," Jamilu confirmed. "She¡¯s our second choice for Supreme. She might not be able to curry as much favor with the warrior-types as you, but as far as her character goes I have no complaints."


    "I see."


    "However," Jamilu continued. "In the end, she is our second choice. You¡¯re preferable. That¡¯s why I asked you to meet with me here. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you only have a short time before the match."


    Muzazi nodded, and they stopped at a split in the path.


    "I¡¯m assuming the match is the reason you wanted to talk to me," Muzazi said quietly.


    "That¡¯s right. You¡¯ll be taking on Mereloco, the right hand of the Mad Supreme. The Ultraviolets have put together a combat dossier on him. It¡¯s based on his performance in the Contest so far, as well as historical records."


    Muzazi looked at him, frowning. "It¡¯s a little late for me to go over something like that."


    "You misunderstand," Jamilu replied. "Reviewing that dossier won¡¯t help you at all. The results are clear. As you are right now, you will lose to Mereloco -- one-hundred percent."


    Muzazi¡¯s frown deepened into a scowl. "If that¡¯s the case," he said. "Why are you here meeting with me, and not with Dorothy Eiro?"


    The other Nebula wasn¡¯t here, Muzazi noticed. Was he with Dorothy Eiro right now?


    "Like I said, you¡¯re our first pick," Jamilu said. "So it¡¯s in our best interest to help you as much as we can."


    He reached into his jacket pocket, grabbed something, and extended his hand out to Muzazi. There, resting in his palm, was a syringe filled with a crimson liquid -- eerily enough, it was slightly glowing in the dark. Whatever this was, though, Muzazi wouldn¡¯t be able to think of it as anything but blood.


    "This is called Embolden," Jamilu explained. "It¡¯s an experimental drug our scientists have developed."


    Muzazi wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Doping?" he said. "You want me to cheat?"


    "Compared to what Dragan Hadrien¡¯s been up to," Jamilu said. "This barely qualifies as bending the rules. I understand your body is on a time limit right now. Embolden will exacerbate that effect. Shortly after taking it, you¡¯ll be overcome by incredible pain and be unable to move¡­"


    His gaze hardened.


    "...but, for the five minutes after you take it, you¡¯ll be able to fight with 120% of what you¡¯ve got. That will give you the chance you need."


    Muzazi looked down at the syringe for a long, long time, clenching and unclenching his fists in consideration. If what Jamilu said was true, this was the only thing that could grant him victory against Mereloco. But¡­ even if he won, it wouldn¡¯t be with his strength, would it? The true winner would be Embolden.


    Others might be able to accept that¡­ but not him.


    "No," he finally said.


    Jamilu closed his eyes. "I thought you might say that," he sighed. "All the same¡­ hang onto it. See if you don¡¯t change your mind once you¡¯re fighting him."


    Of course not. I wouldn¡¯t change my mind about something like this. My resolve isn¡¯t so easily broken. Don¡¯t insult me.


    All those words went unspoken¡­ and Muzazi¡¯s hand closed around the syringe.


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    Muzazi clashed against Mereloco -- once, twice, thrice, their speed reducing their forms to ribbons of white and purple, slamming into each other. Fist met blade and blade met fist, at least ten times in every clash. Sparks came down like rain, and the ground beneath them -- slowly crumbling -- followed suit.


    If Mereloco was suffering at all from the flashbang Muzazi had used, he didn¡¯t show it. He just continued to glare with those bloodshot eyes of his, matching every single one of Muzazi¡¯s attacks.


    This was a battle of attrition, and it was one that Muzazi would lose. He knew that. But¡­ the alternative was anathema.


    He wanted to become Supreme so he could change things, not to be changed. If he cast aside his principles and let this Dawn Contest warp him into someone else, what was the point of victory? He had already experienced being changed into someone else¡­ he was the result of such a process¡­ and he had no desire to undergo it again.


    No. He would not use the Embolden.


    Muzazi pushed through Mereloco¡¯s guard with a roar of exertion, swinging his Radiant right at the man¡¯s head¡­ and Mereloco caught it in his teeth.


    Despite everything, Muzazi couldn¡¯t help but gape at the display. Strong purple Aether coursed through Mereloco¡¯s mouth, repelling the Radiant from both sides, making it seem as if Mereloco was biting down on pure heat and light. An illusion of sorts, and yet¡­ the sheer fact that Mereloco had managed such a display nearly made Muzazi¡¯s heart stop.


    As you are right now, you will lose to Mereloco -- one-hundred percent.


    In that same moment, Mereloco planted a heavy palm against Muzazi¡¯s stomach.


    "Unworthy."


    There was time for only the briefest pain before Muzazi went flying backwards, nearly off the arena itself, a bloody hole opened up in his side. He¡¯d already cauterized the wound by the time he landed, but the coming agony did not care about that. Muzazi grit his teeth, pulling himself up to his feet, holding out a single Radiant to ward Mereloco off.


    He needn¡¯t have bothered. The man from the past seemed to be in no hurry. He strolled casually towards Muzazi, hands in the pockets of his shredded jeans, his bare chest slick with sweat.


    Muzazi understood it perfectly well. This man surpassed him in nearly every aspect. Strength, flexibility, endurance, tenacity¡­ Muzazi held supremacy only in terms of speed, and that advantage was growing lesser by the second from his injuries. Even without Muzazi¡¯s time limit, this wasn¡¯t a fight he could afford to drag out.


    He needed to act decisively¡­ or else his dream would disappear, and with it the promise he¡¯d made to Marie.


    Radiant Lustrous.


    For the briefest moment, Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes and mouth blazed with white Aether as he hurled his spear of light right at the incoming Mereloco. He didn¡¯t stop with just one. Again, again, again, again. With all the speed and strength his body could muster, Muzazi unleashed a barrage of spears like lightning bolts. Blood sprayed from his mouth as the determination tore its way out of his throat.


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    Not one hit.


    Right before the spears could hit Mereloco, they shifted out of the way, spiraling into the orbit created by Uncrowned. They spun around him like glowing prison bars -- and, right before reaching Muzazi, Mereloco increased the speed of that rotation, creating a barrier of burning light all around him. One touch would surely be enough to incinerate anything that lived. Seeing that, only a fool would still proceed.


    Atoy Muzazi proceeded.


    He charged right in, Radiants blazing from his palms, eyes squeezed shut to block out the excruciating light. Hairs burning off his arms, he thrust the blades forward into the mass of Lustrous¡­


    ¡­and in that instant, deactivated the barrier.


    Mereloco could force Radiant Lustrous to orbit around him all he liked, but in the end they were still Muzazi¡¯s ability. He could deactivate them whenever he wanted, robbing Mereloco of his shield -- and leaving him with no time to react to Muzazi¡¯s attack. This time, he¡¯d take the heart for sure. This time, he¡¯d step forward. This time, he¡¯d stab into Mereloco¡¯s body¡­


    ¡­and this time, he would fail.


    In the miniscule moment between the shield going down and Muzazi attacking, Mereloco had lashed out with animal instinct -- and seized both Radiants before they could reach him. The same way he¡¯d grabbed the Radiant with his teeth before, purple Aether repelling the blades and holding them in place. Even as the skin on his palms burned, Mereloco just stared at Muzazi from inches away, one eyebrow arched.


    "Tell me," Mereloco said, his voice nearly inaudible beneath the rage of the Radiants. "I¡¯m curious. Since you¡¯re not going to surrender, you¡¯re going to die here. Why are you going so far?"


    Was he actually curious, or was this some sort of psychological attack? Muzazi had no energy he could devote to questioning his motivations. Instead, his mouth moved by itself, providing the strained answer.


    "Because¡­" he wheezed. "I need to¡­ make it¡­ a kinder world than this¡­"


    Mereloco¡¯s eyes widened to such a degree that they almost burst out of their sockets. Veins raised themselves into grotesque prominence all over his face. His teeth were bared so tight they looked like they¡¯d shatter right then and there.


    It was the first display of true emotion Atoy Muzazi had seen from this man. It was also an utmost display of overpowering, terrifying fury.


    I messed up.


    He only had time for that single quiet thought before Mereloco roared:


    "UNCHAINED!"


    Up to this point, Mereloco had refrained from using Unchained in close quarters, so as to avoid getting caught in his own attacks. It seemed he no longer cared about that. In an instant, Muzazi was sent flying backwards in a spray of blood, gravity itself hurling him onto the other side of the arena. He could feel his skeleton creaking. He could feel his organs straining.


    As he landed in a heap, Muzazi went to pick himself up --


    Mereloco kicked him across the arena again.


    This time was worse -- Muzazi screamed in agony as he felt ribs give beneath Mereloco¡¯s leg, his body reduced to a streak of white as he was launched across the sky. This time, as he landed, he didn¡¯t even try to get up. He just twitched weakly on the ground, curled up on himself.


    Deep in his pocket, his hand seized hold of the syringe of Embolden.


    As you are right now, you will lose to Mereloco -- one-hundred percent.


    Was that really true? Was this all that Atoy Muzazi was capable of? Bitter tears welled up in his eyes as his grip tightened on the syringe. In order to seize hold of his dream, in order to keep his promise to Marie, did he really have no choice but to debase himself? No choice but to seize stolen strength and confirm forever that he hadn¡¯t had what it took?


    Was this how it all ended?


    Deep, thundering steps advanced -- and, as Muzazi looked up, he saw Mereloco¡¯s approach. Purple Aether was raging around the man, his hair chaotically spread out in every direction, his face as fixed and furious as a vicious beast. With each footstep, a minute Unchained was released, leaving a trail of craters in Mereloco¡¯s wake.


    "Your body is dust¡­" Mereloco seethed.


    He took a step forward, his movements strangely strained as if he were trying to break free of invisible bondage.


    "Your name is shit¡­" he continued, drool flowing from his lips.


    Purple Aether lashed out like a thunderbolt, and the Unchained this time nearly split their floating island in half.


    "So why," Mereloco screamed. "Am I still hearing your damn words, DAMON?!"


    Muzazi simply twitched again -- and that was enough to set Mereloco off. The stomps resumed, each one slamming down on Muzazi like a sledgehammer, each one enhanced by Unchained. The shape of Mereloco¡¯s foot warped and twisted with each application of gravity, but the brute didn¡¯t seem to care. He didn¡¯t even seem to notice, so consumed he was by fury.


    With each blow, Muzazi¡¯s ability to block was reduced¡­ and with each blow, the grip on the Embolden slackened. Even if he wanted to inject it right now, it would take everything he had just to move his arm.


    If he wanted to.


    If, if, if. He couldn¡¯t. There was no way. He couldn¡¯t do anything. He couldn¡¯t beat this man. He couldn¡¯t win. He couldn¡¯t surrender. All he could do¡­ was lie here¡­ die¡­ and fade into a memory. That was the only option open to him, a man who¡¯d barely existed in the first place.


    Wasn¡¯t it?


    There was no way he could have heard them. Such a thing was only possible in fantasy stories. But, all across the surface of Azum-Ha, wishes were being whispered.


    In a room separate from his companions, Wu Ming frowned at the image on his script. The image of Atoy Muzazi, lying on the ground. The image of Atoy Muzazi, giving up. A zero out of ten sight, to be sure.


    "C¡¯mon," he muttered to himself. "Gimme a ten."


    In a garden formed from its own body, Ionir Ygdrassil mourned. It had no need of a videograph, nor did he need to leave this room to know the state of the battle. In some sense, it was already there¡­ observing the fight through the fragments it¡¯d given to Atoy Muzazi. It could feel the life connected to them, slowly dimming.


    Do not disappear, ATOY MUZAZI, Ionir thought. Until the moment your life ends, do not allow your will to disappear.


    In a hospital bed, a long way away, Morgan Nacht watched in horror as Atoy Muzazi was brutalized on the videograph screen. The match had passed in flickers of footage as cameras were destroyed and redeployed, but there was no mistaking this sight. Mereloco brought his foot down, again and again, slowly but surely turning his commander into a corpse.


    Morgan had tried to get up three times already, to go and back up his superior. Now, he¡¯d accepted there was nothing he could do but watch¡­ and pray.


    "Win¡­" he whispered.


    In her bedroom, Aclima watched in silence, hands clasped over her chest. She didn¡¯t understand this. She didn¡¯t understand this at all. This was the man she hated. This was the man she¡¯d resented for years. She should have been overjoyed to see this happen to him. But¡­ some part of her¡­ even as she felt she couldn¡¯t look away from the image on the screen, she felt at the same time like she wanted to run away and hide.


    She didn¡¯t even notice her own lips move.


    "Win¡­" she murmured.


    In the darkness of the ancient temple, Dragan Hadrien watched the match alone on a massive videograph. He could see Atoy Muzazi¡¯s blood spreading beneath him. Dragan¡¯s eyes narrowed at the sight. Dragan¡¯s frown deepened.


    "Win," he commanded.


    Red fluid, slightly glowing, was exposed to the light as Muzazi brought it out of his pocket.


    A needle punctured skin, and his thumb pressed down on the plunger.


    The Embolden was deployed.


    At the last second, Mereloco came to his senses, leaping back as he felt the swordsman move beneath him. It had only been the slightest movement, nearly undetectable beneath Mereloco¡¯s onslaught, but there had been definite intent behind it. That intent alone had been enough to spark Mereloco¡¯s caution.


    What had he done? Nothing had changed about the swordsman himself. He still lay on the ground, battered and beaten, inches from the grave. The only thing that had changed about him¡­ were his eyes. The gaze that had been distant was now locked in, solid, focused on a single point.


    Mereloco saw the empty needle.


    Mereloco saw the empty needle¡­ sticking out of his own ankle.


    Immediately, his mind raced with the possibilities. Poison? No, that didn¡¯t feel right. Rather than being weakened by the substance, he could feel strength welling up within him, rising up to the surface -- as if a fire had been lit inside his heart.


    "What is this?" he growled.


    "My name is Atoy Muzazi."


    Mereloco¡¯s head snapped back up -- and there the swordsman stood. Limp and broken like a zombie, his face coated with his own blood¡­ and his eyes shining with cold resolve. A single blade of light burnt out of his hand, the other hanging limp by his side.


    "Special Officer of the Supremacy," he continued. "And Full Moon of the Eight Phases."


    The sword of light was raised up, pointing at Mereloco like a marker. Atoy Muzazi did not blink even as the glow of the weapon intensified.


    "Some time ago¡­ you said something cruel to my subordinate. I¡¯ll now say something similar to you, Mereloco."


    The swordsman -- no, Atoy Muzazi -- took a deep breath.


    "Come and kill me, old man. If I¡¯m still alive in five minutes¡­ then I win."

 Chapter 383:13.41: The Man Without A Human Heart (Part 2)

    Five minutes.


    The moment those words left his mouth, Atoy Muzazi turned on his heel -- and fled, thrusters blazing from his back and propelling him down towards the city. His body was still battered, but it seemed he¡¯d managed to muster up some measure of resolve within himself. He was the kind of man who wouldn¡¯t give up until you killed him, then.


    That was fine. Mereloco had no problem killing him.


    Still, there were concerns. The syringe Muzazi had injected him with, for one. He could feel his strength and stamina surging, but he sincerely doubted that Atoy Muzazi would have gone to such lengths to boost his opponents power. In five minutes, there would no doubt be some kind of side-effect: one that Muzazi believed would win him the fight.


    In that case, it was just as Muzazi had said. Mereloco would have to end this before five minutes passed.


    Unchained.


    After using Unthroned for that brief moment, the Untoward that Mereloco had used on the arena had lost much of its potency. More and more of the structure crumbled out of the sky each moment, and the process of destruction was inevitable now. In that case, he¡¯d just make use of the remains.


    Unchained crushed the remnants into a more firm structure beneath Mereloco¡¯s feet, around the size of a truck -- and he reached out, gripping two stray wires like the reins of a chariot. The whole construct blazed with purple Aether. Atoy Muzazi wasn¡¯t the only one who could conquer the sky, after all.


    Unchained.


    Like a bullet, Mereloco¡¯s steed was launched right towards the shrinking swordsman.


    Two Hundred Years Ago¡­


    Noelath was all but fallen.


    Mereloco watched, his expression impassive, as the defenses of the city collapsed beneath him. It had only been an hour since Damon had begun his assault on the capital, and in that time they¡¯d already reached the endgame of the invasion. Pathetic.


    This truly was a planet of weaklings.


    A nearby tower fell, looking like the battlement of a metal castle, and Mereloco¡¯s steed moved to avoid it. These creatures had long ago been crafted by the Gene Tyrants to aid in transporting their servants across the surface of Noelath, and they still did their job well. The Windwaver, with the appearance of a massive flying manta ray, rode the air currents that coursed across Noelath¡¯s surface -- taking Mereloco with it.


    His arms were crossed and his balance perfect as the Windwaver took up a new position. Right now, Mereloco¡¯s job was simply to wait. Damon had already proceeded into the base that the leader of the remaining insurgents, a peasant woman styled the Hexpa, had been using. This would be over soon, with that woman becoming a mere spray of blood on the floor. He¡¯d be surprised if it even took ten more minutes.


    So he waited, for the sight he already knew he would see. The troops below would take care of the rest.


    It was nearly two hours before Damon emerged from the central spire of the castle, with the Hepxa walking alongside him. Mereloco raised an eyebrow at the sight.


    Had the planet surrendered? That was surprising. Noelath was one of the Borderworlds -- the long strip of unaligned territories between the Supremacy and the UAP. They were too proud to submit to the Supremacy, and too proud to join the UAP. Mereloco couldn¡¯t imagine what Damon had done to change the Hepxa¡¯s mind, but he knew it couldn¡¯t have been pretty.


    But¡­


    ¡­now that he looked, the Hexpa seemed to be unharmed. That in itself was bizarre. She was small and weak, thin, with pale hair and bleary red eyes. She looked like a stiff breeze would do her harm.


    What was her name? Zoe? How had she come out of there without so much as a bruise? Mereloco furrowed his brow in confusion.


    As if they¡¯d sensed his confusion, Damon and Zoe looked up as one -- addressing the gathered warriors of the Supremacy watching from above on their Windwavers. His hand clasped with hers, Damon called out:


    "The battle is over! There is to be no more bloodshed! The Hexpa and I¡­"


    Mereloco narrowed his eyes as the two below glanced at each other. They exchanged a nod.


    "...we are to be wed!"


    Huh?


    Present Day¡­


    Four minutes.


    Pinpoint applications of Unchained controlled the chariot that Mereloco had crafted, governing its flight through the streets of Azum-Ha. Traffic swerved to avoid him as he pursued Atoy Muzazi, more than one car scraping or slamming into a nearby building as a result. Mereloco paid them no mind.


    Right now, the entirety of his focus was on the distant white dot that was Atoy Muzazi. He pointed a steady finger in the Full Moon¡¯s direction.


    "Unworthy."


    A volley of gravity bullets surged forth -- but, the very instant Mereloco fired them, Muzazi began to zip and weave through the air, dodging the linear projectiles with mere centimeters to spare. Mereloco clicked his tongue. It seemed Muzazi¡¯s attention was deadlocked onto him, too.


    Mereloco considered his situation.


    What was the best move here? Right now, Muzazi was faster, but he was still battling grievous injuries. This rush of adrenaline could only do so much for him. He¡¯d slow down. But would he slow down enough within the next four minutes? Mereloco couldn¡¯t gamble on that.


    Unchained.


    As he split an incoming automatic truck in half, Mereloco weighed his options. How could he make Muzazi stop sooner? How could he make the Full Moon turn around? There had to be a way. This was a fool ruled by sentiment.


    Yes¡­ sentiment.


    Mereloco put a finger to his ear.


    "Woman," he said to the one on the other end. "Which hospital is Morgan Nacht staying in?"


    Two Hundred Years Ago¡­


    Usually, Mereloco would not have questioned Damon¡¯s decisions. It wasn¡¯t just that it wasn¡¯t Mereloco¡¯s place. In the past, he¡¯d simply never wanted to question them. The notion of it never even interested him.


    But this absurdity¡­ he couldn¡¯t just ignore it.


    "Is this something she offered you?" Mereloco asked, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. "In exchange for her life, she said she¡¯d marry you?"


    They were in Damon¡¯s private quarters on the Amun-Ra, the Supreme¡¯s flagship. Through the windows, the surface of Noelath could be seen -- the planet that was meant to have been pulled into the Supremacy. Now, apparently, it was to remain independent.


    Damon looked up at him from his throne. The trials of supremacy had visibly taken their toll over the last few months: heavy bags under his eyes and a pallor to his skin. Even his black horns seemed to droop a little.


    "As I said," he sighed. "I spoke to Zoe about the present situation, and we agreed it wasn¡¯t sustainable. As partners, we can move together to a new future. A better future."


    Mereloco nodded slowly. "So¡­ where are we invading instead, then?"


    A strange look passed over Damon¡¯s face, and when he spoke he looked away. "Mere," he said slowly. "Do you ever feel like¡­ there¡¯s something wrong with this world?"


    Mereloco frowned. "Noelath?"


    "No, no," Damon shook his head. "The galaxy, the whole world¡­ the -- the shape of it, I guess. Like there¡¯s something so wrong about it, but I can¡¯t put it into words. It¡¯s not that the machine is broken¡­ but the machine was wrong to begin with, right from the blueprints. Do you get what I mean?"


    Mereloco considered the question for a good long while, scratching his cheek. This conversation in itself was unusual. Damon wouldn¡¯t normally consult Mereloco on decisions like this, or seek outside opinions at all. Damon was the one who made choices.


    He led, and Mereloco followed. Life was more comfortable that way. sea??h th§× nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But¡­ if he really needed Mereloco¡¯s opinion for this¡­


    "You want to change something?" Mereloco finally replied. He shrugged. "Then change it."


    Damon nodded, almost frantically, a broad grin spreading across his face.


    "You¡¯re the Supreme, after all," Mereloco continued. "You have that right."


    The grin vanished.


    Present Day¡­


    Three minutes.


    "Terknil Hospital!" Mereloco roared at the top of his lungs, voice bolstered by Aether. "Run if you want, Atoy Muzazi!"


    They both turned at the same time -- Mereloco in the direction of the hospital, and Muzazi in the direction of Mereloco. The bait had worked. In an instant, Muzazi blazed his thrusters like never before, rushing towards Mereloco at a speed beyond his maximum. Narrowing his eyes, Mereloco extended a flat hand in the direction of his incoming opponent.


    Sentiment¡­ every time.


    Two Hundred Years Ago¡­


    "If we don¡¯t do this carefully," Damon said. "It¡¯ll mean civil war, or maybe even something worse. There¡¯s no telling how people will respond."


    He was hunched over a holographic map of Supremacy territory, miniature planets and stars spread out before him. His face was locked in concentration, eyes flicking from one system to the next, as if some secret miracle existed there if only he could spot it. Even if that were true, he clearly wasn¡¯t finding anything. His hands tightened on the console.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The woman with him, the former Hexpa of Noelath, put a gentle hand on his forearm.


    "You¡¯re respected by the warrior class," she said softly, her own red eyes looking down at the map as well. "Some at least will follow you, even if they don¡¯t agree with what you¡¯re doing."


    "But how many?" Damon sighed. "Enough to fight off the ones who don¡¯t agree?"


    The Hexpa considered her words for a moment before speaking again. "I¡­ I don¡¯t think there¡¯s a perfect version of what we¡¯re doing here. No matter what we do¡­ it¡¯ll be messy. The best we can hope for is eventual peace and joy¡­ for all mankind."


    Damon took in a deep breath. "I suppose you¡¯re right. We either do something, or things stay like this forever. The things I saw as a kid¡­ they¡¯ll just keep happening, again and again, forever. The shape of this world makes it inevitable."


    "Then that shape is what we¡¯ll break."


    They¡¯d been talking for a while now, enough for Mereloco to piece together exactly what they intended. His heart thumped in his chest like a dull bell.


    A new edict was to be declared by the office of the Supreme. It was to give each and every system within the Supremacy the right to secede and declare their independence without challenge or retribution. Even the weakest could act without fear. As if that chaos wasn¡¯t bad enough, the Supremacy as a whole could take no action against their new neighbors for at least two-hundred years.


    As he stood outside the door, eavesdropping on this absurdity, Mereloco glared daggers into the wall before him. This would be the end of the Supremacy, without a doubt. If this happened, the nation would crumble away into nothing -- not by being defeated by a stronger enemy, as was proper, but by their leader giving up.


    Mereloco had never been one for the dogma of the Supremacy, but this was beyond the pale.


    Something had to be done.


    Present Day¡­


    Two minutes.


    Mereloco fought against an irritating fly.


    Atoy Muzazi had clearly realized from their earlier bout that he couldn¡¯t hope to withstand another one of Mereloco¡¯s hits, and so he had switched tactics entirely. Rather than darting in and out for attacks as he¡¯d done before, he was now staying just outside of Mereloco¡¯s range -- far enough away that the Full Moon could dodge any attacks that were launched, but close enough that Mereloco couldn¡¯t turn to head to the hospital.


    It only made sense. If Mereloco¡¯s assumptions were correct, Muzazi no longer needed to land any hits. In two minutes time, whatever substance Mereloco had been injected with would begin to turn against him.


    In short, he needed to end this fight within two minutes. Under these circumstances, there was only one way to do that. Ordinarily, Mereloco wouldn¡¯t have been able to use this twice in one day¡­ Muzazi would surely regret giving him that strength.


    Mereloco reached out¡­ and seized the world.


    "Unthroned."


    Two Hundred Years Ago¡­


    Mereloco glared as the two of them marched down the aisle, hand in hand.


    Mereloco glared as the two of them exchanged vows of white noise.


    Mereloco glared as the two of them danced, smiled, laughed.


    And Mereloco glared as, hours later, he silently stepped into Zoe¡¯s quarters.


    His ears twitched. Bells could still be heard in the distance. Soon enough, they would surely hold a new meaning.


    Mereloco quietly closed the door behind him.


    Zoe looked up from the window. The pale woman had been staring out at the landscape of Hepal, at the pale orange fields stretching out as far as the eye could see. This was the landscape Damon had given her for this farce of a wedding. It was far better than she deserved. The parasite had eaten its fill.


    "Mere," she said, a half-remembered grin still on her face. "What is it? Did Damon send you?"


    Mereloco¡¯s eyes narrowed at the nickname -- that, and his lack of response, seemed to clue Zoe in. Her own eyes widened just a fraction, and she carefully clasped her hands on her lap. In the distance, bells continued to ring.


    "Are you here to kill me?" she asked.


    "Yes." He took a step closer.


    There was little need for conversation here. He had no intention of changing his mind, and she surely understood that as well. This was not a difficult thing for him. It entailed the same level of effort as cleaning his boots.


    Still, the woman talked.


    "Did the Shepherdess send you?" she asked.


    Mereloco furrowed his brow. "Who?"


    Zoe closed her eyes. "So it wasn¡¯t Ruri, then¡­ may I ask who did send you? The Body? The Tree?"


    "Nobody sent me," Mereloco snapped, a sliver of irritation entering his voice for the first time. "I¡¯m doing this because I want to."


    "So I¡¯ve offended you somehow." Even now, her voice was soft, bordering on apologetic. That just made Mereloco¡¯s blood boil more. One should not be so courteous to their murderer.


    "You¡¯re in the way," Mereloco growled, looming over her. "You¡¯re causing trouble. Filling Damon¡¯s head with stupid shit."


    She smiled sadly. "You found out."


    "Damon worked for years to get where he is," Mereloco seethed. "He¡¯s beaten down everything in his way, and he¡¯s been beaten down. He¡¯s given everything to become Supreme -- and you¡¯re gonna make him throw it all away? No. I won¡¯t let you."


    "Do you think he¡¯s happy?"


    "What?"


    "Do you think Damon is happy?" Zoe repeated. "Do you think becoming Supreme made him happy? Has he ever seemed happy to you?"


    Today.


    "He doesn¡¯t need to be happy," Mereloco grunted. "He¡¯s the strongest."


    Zoe spoke up with more fire than he¡¯d expected from her. "And what is that worth? You¡¯re the strongest -- so what?! It¡¯s meaningless. A crown you convince yourself was worth it all. You tear everything away from yourself to reach the top¡­ and when you do, you realize not a second of it was worth anything."


    Mereloco sneered. "Don¡¯t try to talk your way out of this, woman."


    She looked up at him -- calmly, with the eyes of someone who knew what would happen next. "You can¡¯t understand, can you?" Her voice was full of strange sympathy.


    "What?"


    "You don¡¯t get what I¡¯m talking about. You can¡¯t. This world¡­ the machine¡¯s ruined you." She smiled softly. "Damon¡¯s told me a little of your story. I get it. There¡¯s no room inside you to think about the world, is there? It¡¯s been starved out of you."


    "Keep talking, and I will kill you."


    Zoe closed her eyes. "I¡¯ve already accepted you¡¯ll kill me."


    Mereloco raised an eyebrow. "You won¡¯t try to run?"


    "There¡¯s no point," Zoe whispered. "You want to hurt me, and I don¡¯t want to hurt you. There¡¯s only one way this ends."


    Mereloco¡¯s eye twitched. As if this woman could ever hurt him. As if anyone could.


    As je took his final step forward, Zoe opened her eyes again, looking up at him, her red gaze resolute. "Do you really think this will make Damon happy?"


    "He¡¯ll understand."


    Mereloco¡¯s fist came down.


    Once, twice, three times¡­ each time with the force of a sledgehammer, each time cracking bone and sending blood spraying onto the walls. He worked fast -- the guards were already on their way. Just three hits, and the woman was already a broken mess on the ground.


    A hollow rattling filled the air. If the woman wasn¡¯t already dead, she soon would be. This was the extent of what her words had been capable of. Weak.


    Mereloco went to turn away¡­


    ¡­but then, he saw it.


    His eyes widened. His mouth went dry. His fists unclenched, gore spilling out.


    He could see one of Zoe¡¯s hands where she¡¯d fallen -- and, from this angle, he could see her nails. He could see underneath her nails. He could see the sheathed claws she¡¯d kept concealed until the very end, deadly sharp and venomous. He could see her Killing Engine.


    Inimant.


    Mereloco¡¯s legs began to shake, and soon enough they collapsed beneath him, sending him to his knees. This woman had been an Inimant. This woman had been a killing machine. With the slightest scratch, with the barest effort, she could have ended his life.


    This world was survival of the fittest. Truly, Mereloco cared nothing for the dogma of the Supremacy, but he had believed that, at least. And yet¡­ here¡­ the fittest had closed its eyes and accepted its end. Until the moment it had vanished, it had kept its claws sheathed.


    It didn¡¯t make any sense.


    There was more. An Inimant was cursed with the instinct to kill, to mutilate, to slaughter¡­ how much willpower must it have taken to go an entire lifetime without spilling blood? How much must it have taken not even to defend oneself? There was strength there. There was strength there that Mereloco couldn¡¯t understand.


    He realized that tears were streaming down his face. He didn¡¯t know why.


    You don¡¯t get what I¡¯m talking about. You can¡¯t.


    Yes¡­ he had never cared about the dogma of the Supremacy, had he? He admitted that freely. So why was he here? Why had he done this? It wasn¡¯t for the Supremacy or the honour of the Supreme or any of that bullshit. Why had he killed this woman?


    She¡¯d been turning his friend into someone else, and his friend was the only thing he had. That was it. Jealousy.


    Everything else¡­ had been starved out of him.


    By the time the guards came, Mereloco was blind to the world. His fists covered in blood, he knelt down on the carpet, allowing himself to be taken. The body of the Supreme¡¯s bride was taken away as well.


    Rumour went that, while she was being treated -- fruitlessly -- the bride had reached out and taken the arm of her doctor.


    Rumour went that a surge of Aether had flowed through one arm and into another, her body crumbling into dust.


    Rumour went that the doctor fled the planet the same day.


    But Mereloco had no time for rumours. He was confined, stewing in his own thoughts -- thoughts he did not understand. It took a long while before Damon came to see him.


    And the worst part?


    Damon did understand.


    "I hope you wake in a kinder world than this."


    Present Day¡­


    One minute.


    Mereloco held the void.


    There was no way that Unthroned was an actual black hole. The amount of power needed to create and control such a thing would be absurd. If Mereloco was capable of such a feat, he¡¯d be on a level far beyond Supreme. So it wasn¡¯t an actual black hole.


    But it certainly looked the part.


    Mereloco¡¯s hand was gripped like a claw towards Muzazi, flayed and bloody from the pressure -- and floating before it was an orb of absence. It devoured everything -- the automatics, the walls, the passing trucks, even light itself. Muzazi was pushing against it with all the force his thrusters could generate, but even so he was slowly¡­ slowly¡­ slowly being dragged in.


    Thirty seconds.


    But that was alright. He¡¯d already made preparations. When he¡¯d initially fled from Mereloco, he¡¯d planted the pillars of Radiant Almighty in his path -- and when Mereloco had forced him to return, he¡¯d absorbed the energy they¡¯d generated. He had Almighty ready to go.


    Fifteen seconds.


    But he had to wait for his moment. He¡¯d been timing this situation carefully in his mind. If he fired off Radiant now, he had no doubt it would be devoured by this monstrosity -- by Unthroned. He¡¯d only get one shot at this. He had to make it count.


    Seven seconds.


    So¡­ at the very moment the five minutes were up¡­ at the very instant the agony descended¡­ he would fire. He¡¯d end this battle with one blow. Right as Unthroned disappeared, Muzazi would blast through the space it had occupied.


    Three seconds.


    But¡­


    Two seconds.


    ...Atoy Muzazi¡­


    One second.


    ¡­had not noticed.


    His plan had been doomed from the outset. No matter how vicious the pain inflicted by Embolden, it didn¡¯t matter. To the man called Mereloco, it wouldn¡¯t even qualify as a mosquito bite.


    When his eyes had been burnt, Mereloco had not flinched.


    When his hands had been charred, Mereloco had not flinched.


    When his foot had been mangled, Mereloco had not flinched.


    These were not the results of stoicism or willpower. This was something far more primal, far more esoteric¡­ and far more insurmountable. This was something that would bring all of Atoy Muzazi¡¯s plans to ruin.


    Mereloco¡¯s Aether tic was pain nullification.


    Zero.


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    The beam of light shot forth, and was devoured by the darkness.


    Mereloco did not flinch.

 Chapter 384:13.42: Long Live

    I messed up.


    The thought passed through Muzazi¡¯s brain like a bullet as he watched Radiant Almighty be devoured by the Unthroned void. The preparations he¡¯d made for this attack had come to naught. The gamble he¡¯d taken with the Embolden was just as big a failure. He¡¯d granted his opponent greater power at no benefit to himself.


    Why hadn¡¯t it worked? Had the Nebula lied to him? Was Mereloco just that strong?


    He had no time to think about it.


    Mereloco finally dispelled his Unthroned, the dark rift disappearing -- and immediately, he leapt through the space it had been occupying. It was no surprise that Mereloco had only used it for a second the first time. The hand he¡¯d been guiding the ability with was flayed up to the elbow, and he was visibly exhausted -- massive bags pulling down on his face.


    Still, he had more than enough in the tank to kill Muzazi with. He¡¯d used Unchained to launch himself -- and to pull countless chunks of debris towards Muzazi from behind. An attack from all angles.


    I¡¯m dead. I¡¯m dead. I¡¯m dead.


    The thought bounced through Muzazi¡¯s head like a pinball, his resolve spiraling down into panic. Mereloco was pulling back his good fist. The world was a crawl, adrenaline and terror and despair all working hand-in-hand to give Muzazi a leisurely view of his own incoming demise. The fist was growing larger as Mereloco thrust it forwards. The air pressure was already tickling against his face.


    It would hit Muzazi square in the head. It would demolish his skull. It would send his brains spilling down into the abyss below. It would, it would, it would.


    Mind raced for a way out. No avail. Couldn¡¯t dodge. Too slow. Couldn¡¯t block. Too slow. Couldn¡¯t do anything. Too slow. Slow, slow, slow, slow, slow. Fist coming to kill him. Eyes burning. Heart pounding. Skin clammy. Something, something. Had to be something. Some way to survive. Oh, Y. Oh, dear Y.


    In that moment, in the instant before Atoy Muzazi¡¯s life was ended, his mind screamed backwards -- searching in desperation for anything, anything that could save him. Every fight, every battle, every conversation. Somewhere, somewhere, there had to be something.


    The words that floated to the top of his frothing consciousness were more recent than Muzazi had expected. Something his opponent had said, just over five minutes ago.


    Your bones are dust¡­ your name is shit¡­ so why am I still hearing your words, Damon?!


    Atoy Muzazi did not have a plan. However, the heart was a curious thing. Often, it drove one to act without the mind -- its partner -- being aware of it at all.


    The heart might drive one to pull a trigger without realizing it.


    The heart might drive one to swing a sword without realizing it.


    And, without them even realizing it, the heart might drive one to speak¡­


    "Quantum King!"


    Atoy Muzazi roared those words -- and he exploded into light.


    Like with Full Throttle, Muzazi created thrusters all over his body -- but this time they were slightly different. Each and every one of them was pointed outwards, and each and every one of them was blazing with all their might. Atoy Muzazi became a silhouette of radiance, and everything around him¡­


    ¡­was pushed away by the glow.


    Mereloco went flying backwards, as if a car had struck him -- the only thing stopping him from fully zooming off being the remnants of his chariot. He seized hold of one of the fluttering reins, his face contorted by exertion as he looked up at Muzazi, squinting against the light. Blood poured from his ravaged arm and foot, but he didn¡¯t spare them a glance. His eyes were focused right on the enemy before him.


    No doubt he was thinking of a new way to kill him.


    But why, then, had his expression¡­ softened?


    Mereloco clung to the debris.


    With tired and resigned eyes, he looked on -- and watched as Atoy Muzazi erupted into the sun. This was an incomplete version of Damon¡¯s ability -- just the pushing, and indiscriminate -- but it was enough to give him pause. He sighed, his breath superheated by combat and emerging as steam.


    It had been a while, hadn¡¯t it?


    Atoy Muzazi floated in place, the omnidirectional pushing keeping him stationary in the sky, a wide sphere of sheer repulsion surrounding him. Nothing would be able to come close¡­ but he¡¯d tire himself out before long. Even through the blinding glow, though, he could see Muzazi¡¯s eyes. They were just as tired as his, but they¡­ they were looking past the horizon, gazing at something only he could see.


    Ah¡­ there you are, Damon.


    He understood now why Atoy Muzazi enraged him so. It wasn¡¯t just that he¡¯d used the same words as Damon. It wasn¡¯t just that he¡¯d used the same ability as Damon. It was those eyes. The same eyes.


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    The eyes he¡¯d been betrayed by¡­ no. The eyes he¡¯d betrayed.


    Back then¡­ why did I have to go and do that?


    Damon had fought for so many things. Mereloco had only fought for Damon. Damon had been blessed by so many things. Mereloco had only been blessed by Damon. Damon had wanted many things. Mereloco had only needed Damon.


    After all¡­ he was that man¡¯s shadow.


    Any second now, Atoy Muzazi would finally fall unconscious and this clumsy Quantum King would end. Mereloco would leap right back into the fray and finish his wounded foe off. He would advance one round further in the Dawn Contest¡­ one step closer to a crown he didn¡¯t even care about.


    "I hope you wake in a kinder world than this."


    That had been Damon¡¯s wish¡­ the last he¡¯d heard from him, before the ice had claimed his mind. But it hadn¡¯t come true. This wasn¡¯t a kinder world. Nothing had changed at all. The cruelty might look different, but the amount hadn¡¯t changed in the slightest. Why? Why?


    A stupid question. Mereloco knew why perfectly well.


    After he¡¯d been woken up by Halcyon Interstellar, he¡¯d gone to the history books out of muted curiosity. He¡¯d wanted to know what had become of Damon and his quest. It had been just as he¡¯d expected: without the aid of his consort, Damon had been betrayed by his warriors and cut down as he tried to disassemble the Supremacy. His murderer came to be known as Ragnar the Redeemer, and Damon came to be known as¡­ the Mad Supreme, as Damon the Devilish.


    At the time, he¡¯d thought that meant nothing to him. The boiling in his blood, the wetness in his eyes¡­ they were only because he was still recovering from the hibernation. He did not understand the contents of his own soul.


    But now¡­ he understood. He could see past the horizon. He could see what Damon could see.


    The reason that this world was no kinder, no matter how much time had passed. Even though that same light now shone in Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes, and surely had shone in many others over the last two centuries¡­ over the last thousand years¡­


    Even though there would always be people like Damon¡­ there would always be people like Mereloco, too.


    Damon smiled sadly. "Why do you go so far for me, old friend?"


    Mereloco shrugged. "I¡¯m your shadow," he said. "I¡¯ll stretch as far as you need me to."


    Damon¡¯s smile dropped. "That¡¯s not true. I call you as you are. You¡¯re my friend, Mere."


    Under the rushing wind, Mereloco chuckled.


    "The only one I¡¯ve got."


    The heart truly was a curious thing.


    He released his Aether¡­ and in an instant, the pain was upon him. He was unconscious before he could even draw the breath to scream.


    "Sir," the nurse pleaded, pursuing her patient down the corridor. "Please, I must insist -- you¡¯re in no state -- you need rest -- you need --"


    Morgan Nacht paid her no mind. He just continued to stagger down the hallway, face covered in sweat, clinging to the wall. His legs felt like they¡¯d collapse beneath him any second¡­ but he wouldn¡¯t let them.


    H, H, H¡­ he repeated in his head, purple Aether sparking weakly as he did so. The use of Heal/Hurt only intensified the pain he was feeling, but it was just enough to keep moving for the time being. Pain he could put up with.


    Losing Atoy Muzazi he couldn¡¯t. Right now, he couldn¡¯t allow himself to fall.


    "Sir!" the nurse repeated, grabbing him by the shoulder. "I must insist!"


    Morgan was just about to shake her off, to continue his long and fruitless march, when he heard the sound of the videograph in the distance. It must have been coming from the lobby.


    "Oh, and we¡¯re now receiving confirmation! Emerald Eyes are back online¡­ and yes! Yes! As you can see, the winner of this match¡­ is Atoy Muzaziii!"


    Morgan¡¯s vision blurred into a haze.


    Oh. Thank Y.


    Then he allowed himself to fall.


    The Shepherdess sipped her tea as she watched the conclusion of the match on the videograph.


    There hadn¡¯t been much point in coming to the Arena of the Absolute for this. She could have just watched the match from home and had the same experience. It seemed that this crop of candidates didn¡¯t care much for fighting inside the lines. That was a good trait for a Supreme¡­ but still, it made evaluating them much more inconvenient.


    Well, the match had ended pretty much as she¡¯d expected, at any rate. Mereloco had possessed monstrous strength -- his Unthroned was an ability that would give even her trouble -- but his drive to become Supreme had been flimsy at best. A half-formed flame of spite that would have smoldered out given the chance. If she¡¯d allowed Mereloco to become Supreme, she¡¯d have been looking at another Kadmon in the best-case scenario. In the worst case, perhaps another Henri.


    There was a rhythm to the reign of kings. After someone lazy, someone active. After someone cruel, someone kind -- or someone who at least could reign in their cruelty. You had to balance the legacies out, or else the world would start to stagnate.


    The Supremacy was an instrument she¡¯d learned how to play long ago.


    Still¡­ Mereloco had possessed the wisdom to be wary of her, if nothing else -- even if he didn¡¯t quite understand why. His remark during the interview had proved that. There might have been something that could have been nurtured there.


    Oh well! No use crying about spilt milk! Some faction or other would probably finish him off before long.


    After all, Atoy Muzazi certainly hadn¡¯t done it.


    The picture on the videograph was of Mereloco and Atoy Muzazi, both of them lying motionless on the balcony of a high-rise. After Mereloco had succumbed to that poison and fallen unconscious, plummeting into the city-abyss, Muzazi had swept down and saved him -- carrying him to safety before falling unconscious himself.


    The Shepherdess rolled her eyes. A soft touch. You always got these sorts of people, too.


    A warrior who saved his enemies from death. Atoy Muzazi was weak. Not physically, or in terms of Aether -- she had no complaints there -- but in resolve. A true warrior would have cut Mereloco down the second they got the chance. This Muzazi wasn¡¯t the kind of person she could leave in charge of her Supremacy.


    Dragan Hadrien still gave her a bad feeling, so she didn¡¯t want him, and none of the other Contestants inspired much interest in her. It would definitely have to be Ruth Blaine, then. The Shepherdess stared at her through the reflection on the videograph. Her loyal bodyguard was happily chatting away to those friends of hers. Right now, just like Atoy Muzazi, she was soft.


    But the Shepherdess knew how to deal with that. She¡¯d had a lot of practice.


    "This Supremacy of mine¡­ will you make it last for me, Ruri¡­?" S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Silent and unseen, she let her lips spread out into their usual sharp grin.


    I will, Az. I will.

 Chapter 385:13.43: Final Interview

    This wasn¡¯t a day that Ruth Blaine had especially been looking forward to.


    Last night, Atoy Muzazi had won in his match against Mereloco -- and somehow, miraculously, he¡¯d managed to regain consciousness afterwards. He was still recovering as he prepared for the next set of rounds¡­ but he was up and about. More importantly, he could talk.


    And he could be interviewed.


    "This is fantastic," Rae Ruditia grinned as they prepared to leave the hotel room. "Last time I had to talk to that Nacht guy and he refused, but it looks like he¡¯s out of commission -- the person I spoke to this time was much more eager to get this organized. Hurry, hurry!"


    Ruth rolled her eyes as she hauled a bag of recording equipment over her shoulder. Ruditia was really going all-out for this one. The other bodyguards who¡¯d be accompanying the reporter -- Rex, Alice and Ellis -- were burdened with equipment as well.


    All hands on deck -- save for Roman, who¡¯d be staying behind again to guard the homefront. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Call me if you need me," he grunted, nodding to Ruth as she passed.


    She gave him a nod back. To be perfectly honest, she still wasn¡¯t quite sure how to feel about Roman Hitch. He¡¯d been with them for some months now -- not as long as the rest of Road and Restorossi, but nothing to sneeze at by any means. Still¡­ he felt distant, like he was keeping them at arm¡¯s length.


    The kind of guy who was all business. Well, she could respect that, too.


    As Rae Ruditia retreated into another room to confirm the meeting place with her Phase contact, Rex sidled up to Ruth. "Hey," he said, voice filtered out of his helmet. "You alright?"


    She glanced at him. "Why wouldn¡¯t I be?"


    "I know you were talking to del Sed before. They a no-show?"


    Ruth sighed. "Bruno¡¯s given up on meeting Dragan at any of his matches. He just shows up, fights the enemy -- if even that -- then leaves. There¡¯s no opening to talk to him." She narrowed her eyes bitterly. "Bet the little shit¡¯s doing that on purpose."


    "So what? He¡¯s giving up?"


    "Nah," Ruth shook her head. "But he¡¯s saying there¡¯s no point chasing down Dragan until the finals. He¡¯ll have to stick around after that match to accept the victory. Until then, Bruno and Serena are going to stay at the hospital, stick with that Annatrice girl."


    "Well," Rex scratched his arm. "So long as they¡¯re keeping their spirits up, I guess. You too."


    "You know me," Ruth smirked. "I¡¯m Miss Positive."


    "Maybe this¡¯ll help?"


    He reached into his coat, pulling out a small wooden box that he extended out towards Ruth. She raised her eyebrows.


    "What¡¯s this for?" Ruth asked.


    "Open it," Rex nodded.


    "Seriously," she said, taking the box. "What is it?"


    "Open it."


    With a sigh, Ruth unclasped the lid and flipped it up, revealing the inside of the box. There, resting on a tiny cushion, was a necklace -- two golden Rs intertwined, glittering and spinning around each other as she lifted the accessory. Road and Restorossi. She swallowed as she looked at it. How much had this cost?


    "Little something from the crew," Rex said, a grin evident in his voice. "Happy birthday."


    Ruth blinked. "It¡¯s my birthday?"


    Rex stared at her for a good few seconds. "You¡­ really need a vacation, huh?"


    Before they could discuss it any further, however, the door to the other room swung open and Rae Ruditia emerged, smiling broadly. The reporter slipped her script back into her jacket pocket.


    "Okay, people!" she declared. "We are a-go!"


    AETHERAL SPACE 13.43


    "Final Interview"


    The necklace swung this way and that as Ruth led the pack through the construction site, a forest of girders and concrete spreading out in every direction. One day, this place would be a museum dedicated to the reign of Kadmon the Indolent, but for now it was an urban skeleton. Construction had paused for the duration of the Dawn Contest, and so the massive automatics around them were inert and immobile.


    Not a soul lingered here save for them¡­ making it the perfect place for a clandestine meeting.


    "At this stage in the Dawn Contest, security¡¯s going to be a huge concern," Rae had explained. "If one of the Contestants gets their location leaked before a match, the assassination attempts will start coming quick and deadly. That¡¯s why we have to go through all this nonsense."


    Nonsense. Ruth hadn¡¯t wanted to say it herself, but that was a perfect descriptor for the situation.


    Because Atoy Muzazi didn¡¯t want to leak where he was really staying, the interview wouldn¡¯t be taking place there. Instead, they¡¯d be meeting in this construction site, in the dead of night, with the Phases providing additional security. Ruth felt sorry for the people watching on the videograph.


    "This is the spot," Rae finally said, stopping in the middle of a clearing between four half-finished pillars. "We can set up here -- automatics will give us lighting and sound. Not ideal, but what is, right?"


    "Okay," Rex nodded, stopping alongside Ruth. "The Phases will know to find us here?"


    Rae shook her head. "Their representative is waiting at Hit Matit Hospital, where Nacht¡¯s being treated. Ruth, can you run over there and give them the all-clear?"


    Ruth winced. "Me? Seriously?"


    "You¡¯re the fastest," Rex conceded, shrugging. "Just let them know where we are and get back over here. Any trouble, you call. We¡¯ll back you up."


    Rex at least seemed to understand Ruth¡¯s trepidation. She hadn¡¯t exactly had the friendliest history with Atoy Muzazi. They¡¯d worked together back on Panacea and at the Truemeet, sure, but the last time they¡¯d encountered each other? Elysian Fields. They hadn¡¯t met face to face there, but she had no doubt they¡¯d fought on opposite sides.


    Nothing to it, Ruth, she told herself. Just meet up with your old friend who¡¯s tried to kill you more than once, and his friends -- who probably wouldn¡¯t mind killing you either.


    Well¡­ if she was that easy to kill, she¡¯d already be dead.


    Slowly, she nodded. "Same to you," she said to Rex. "Any trouble, let me know and I¡¯ll rush straight back."


    He tapped the side of his helmet. "Sure thing."


    As Ruth Blaine vanished as a bolt of red into the darkness, Rae Ruditia watched her go with a pensive look in her eyes.


    "She really is fast, huh?" she murmured. "Strong, too."


    Alice took the two bulky bags off her shoulders, letting them thump onto the concrete below. "Of course she is," she said. "She¡¯s the boss. If she were any weaker, I¡¯d be the one in charge."


    Ellis rolled his eyes, already sitting down on a disposable chair they¡¯d brought along. "Yeah, right."


    "What?" Alice snapped a glare in his direction. "You got something to say?"


    "I didn¡¯t say anything," Ellis mumbled, retrieving his script from his pocket.


    "You did. You did say something. Go on, say it again."


    "Huh?" Ellis was already playing a game on his script.


    "Whatever," Alice groaned, waving a hand.


    Before things could go any further, Rex stepped in, his hands raised placatingly. "Children, children, please," he soothed. "We¡¯re on the job here. Let¡¯s be professionals. Besides, I¡¯m higher up than you, so I¡¯d be the boss if anyone."


    Technically, he was already the boss -- co-owner of Road and Restorossi along with Ruth. These two seemed to look up to her more, though. Rex was stable to a boring degree, from what he could tell.


    Leaning against one of the pillars, Rae chuckled, looking at Alice. "You think pretty highly of Ruth, huh?"


    Alice glanced over, then away, shrugging. "Like you said, she¡¯s strong, and¡­ I was in a tough spot when she found me. She helped me out. It¡¯s not that weird to think she¡¯s cool."


    "Hm¡­" Ellis paused his game for a moment -- just for a moment. "When she recruited me, I was kind of in trouble too¡­ so I¡¯m a little grateful, I guess."


    Alice shot him a glare. "A little trouble? You were gonna get your legs broken for stealing from the Collected. Don¡¯t talk shit."


    "I would¡¯ve gotten out of it¡­ I had a --"


    Rae interrupted. "I think Ruth¡¯s pretty amazing, too," she said dreamily, looking up at the night sky. "She¡¯s strong, and she knows what to use that strength for. And, from what you¡¯re saying, she inspires loyalty. That¡¯s good. That¡¯s really, really good. What a relief¡­ I really did choose right."


    Rex looked at her. "She took on the Tree of Might to protect you. That didn¡¯t tell you you¡¯d picked a good bodyguard?"


    To that, Rae gave no answer. Instead, she just continued to stare at the sky -- murmuring as if talking only to herself.


    "It¡¯s a beautiful night, isn¡¯t it?" she said. "All the stars are out. I love stars. Did you know that? The way they burn¡­ it¡¯s incredible. They paint themselves onto the sky through sheer power."


    Rex blinked. "What?"


    She looked at him, her pink eyes gleaming in the darkness. "You can¡¯t see them, can you? The stars, I mean. It¡¯s all these lights down here¡­ you can¡¯t see anything but black up there. The thing is¡­"


    Pink Aether sparked.


    "... stars can only really shine when they¡¯re alone."


    In an instant, Rae was next to Ellis -- passing right by Rex and Alice as they stared dumbfounded at the spot she¡¯d just been standing. Ellis looked up from his script, eyes widening in surprise as Rae grabbed him by the hand. The script slowly slipped from his grip. He was slowly pulled to his feet. Rae slowly turned her head to look back at the other two.


    Everything was so slow.


    "Chronodissonance," Rae Ruditia said.


    Ellis¡¯ body collapsed into dust. He was no Aether-user, and so had no defense. One second he was alive, and the next he was dead. His empty clothes dropped to the floor, already stained grey by the remnants of their owner.


    "Here," Rae said, tossing something to Alice. "You can have this."


    Alice was paralyzed with shock, but instinct allowed her to catch the object. She looked down with wide, uncomprehending eyes. She looked down as a squeaking choked sound emerged from her throat.


    The author¡¯s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    She looked down at Ellis¡¯ severed hand. All that was left of him.


    "You were his friend, right?" Rae smiled.


    Alice and Rex moved at the same time, each of them driven by anger of a different temperature. Alice¡¯s body shone with pink Aether as she charged, tears streaming from her eyes, a scream of rage pouring from her mouth. As she leapt up into the air, she screamed:


    "I¡¯ll kill you! Miraculous Miracle Girl, Alice Alice!"


    Alice¡¯s anger had affected her ability. Normally, she¡¯d conceal her gruesome transformation with bright lights and music, but now it was on full display. Alice¡¯s body exploded into a shower of gore that quickly began to swirl into a scarlet tornado, reassembling itself piece by piece into the Miraculous Miracle Girl herself.


    Rex didn¡¯t stop to watch.


    Omni-Gungnir, already in his hands, transformed into a spear -- and he dutifully thrust it towards the enemy. The spear extended beyond what should have been physically possible, stretching out to cover the distance between himself and Ruditia in an instant. He didn¡¯t know what was going on. He didn¡¯t understand how the situation had changed so suddenly. But he didn¡¯t question those things. The second Ellis had died, Rex¡¯s consciousness had frozen and refined itself.


    Right now, the only thing on his mind was killing this bitch.


    Even with Omni-Gungnir¡¯s unbelievable speed, Ruditia was able to dodge -- her movements suddenly lightning-fast as she vaulted over the weapon. Landing on the shaft of the spear, she glanced over at Rex. The dull malice in those pink eyes was enough to put him on the defensive immediately.


    "Alice!" he roared. "Kill her -- now!"


    He hadn¡¯t seen the transformation conclude, but he knew how long it took. Sure enough¡­


    "Miracle Melt."


    Even Alice¡îAlice¡¯s quiet voice, which was usually little more than a high-pitched monotone, now shook with anger. The air around Rae Ruditia began to visibly ripple, but before the decomposition could take effect she kicked upwards off of Omni-Gungnir, launching herself into the air. Rex glared as she flew upwards. Alice¡îAlice¡¯s abilities affected designated areas of space, so it was technically possible to dodge them by moving around. Even so, it would have been impossible for most people to move at the required speeds.


    Just who were they fighting? Who was Rae Ruditia?


    Rex stood beside the eerie floating form of Alice¡îAlice, Omni-Gungnir transforming into a crossbow in his hands. As one, they watched -- and waited for the next attack. Both of them understood that, with this speed, the best chance they had of landing a hit would be a counter.


    Easier said than done.


    As Ruditia moved, weaving through the girders above like some kind of monkey, she spoke. Her voice echoed through the construction site like the sentencing of a ghost.


    "Once you¡¯ve been around for as long as I have, you get pretty good at understanding Aether abilities. At this point, I can usually figure out the underlying mechanics at a glance. That transformation you did -- you want me to think you¡¯ve turned into that little magical girl, right? But that¡¯s not the case at all."


    There.


    For the tiniest fraction of a second, Rex could see a pink blur move out from behind one of the pillars -- and in that instant, he fired off a volley of crossbow bolts. They shredded through space, passing through any obstacles on the way, but even that was not enough. Ruditia danced through the hail of death dealers, her body so fast that she was barely even visible.


    Before Rex could so much as blink, she had already rushed past him -- and past Alice¡îAlice, too. By the time they swung around, Ruditia was already standing up high on one of the massive metal rafters, looking down on them like a queen on her kingdom. In her hand, she clutched Alice¡îAlice¡¯s stolen staff.


    "In reality," Ruditia said, shaking the staff in her grip. "You transform into this object. Your brain and spinal cord repurposed for maximum Aether usage, right? The little girl is just a flesh puppet to mislead the enemy." She raised her knee. "But once you figure that out, it¡¯s just as easy as¡­"


    "Miracle Push!"


    Alice¡îAlice used her ability at the same time as Omni-Gungnir transformed, becoming the mighty hammer in Rex¡¯s grip. He understood immediately what he had to do. Space rippled around him -- and a second later, he was pushed forth at an astounding speed, zooming up towards Ruditia like a bullet.


    The speed was such that he could only rely on timing, but his timing was perfect. Rex swung Omni-Gungnir¡­


    Pink Aether flashed.


    ¡­and the weapon passed through empty space.


    Rex blinked in mid-air. I missed? There was no way. The speed he¡¯d just been launched at had been a match for Ruditia¡¯s earlier attack. If she could move faster than that, they¡¯d all be dead by now. What was this?


    As he landed -- grabbing hold of a girder to stop his flight -- he saw.


    Rae Ruditia was still standing in the same spot, but she had changed. Her body had shifted instantaneously, growing shorter, short enough that Rex¡¯s attack had passed right over her head. The Ruditia he¡¯d known so far had been a young woman, but the person he was looking at now was a kid. Twelve or thirteen at the most. Her now-oversized clothes brushed against the floor, like she was a kid playing dress-up.


    "Wha¡­?" he spluttered.


    She smiled calmly back at him, the staff still clutched in her hand. "My Aether tic," she explained, her voice lighter. "Inverted aging. If I surge my Aether like that, I can take off a couple of years in a second. Neat trick, huh?"


    Alice¡îAlice¡¯s humanoid component appeared behind her, taking advantage of her lapse in concentration, fingers spearing towards the back of Rae¡¯s head like claws. Alice¡îAlice couldn¡¯t use her Miracle abilities while she was in the area of effect, but even her normal Aether infusion was impressive. Rex charged forward, too, banishing his confusion to back his teamma --


    Ruditia snapped the staff in two.


    The effect was immediate. Alice¡îAlice vanished from behind her in a puff of pink smoke. Rex skidded to a halt, dumbstruck, as Ruditia kicked the two bleeding halves of the staff off the rafter.


    "Now," Rae said, turning to him with a grin. "It¡¯s your turn, Mr. Restorossi."


    He didn¡¯t understand any of this. How had things gone to shit so quickly? In Rex¡¯s hand, Omni-Gungnir became Omni-Gungnir Timer. His heart a dull drumbeat, he spared it a glance.


    Not what he¡¯d been hoping for.


    There was only one chance. One way out of this, and it wasn¡¯t a sure thing. From what Ruditia had said before going crazy, this was about Ruth somehow. She¡¯d intentionally sent Ruth away before doing this.


    So it only followed that, if Ruth returned, Ruditia might be forced to retreat.


    Rex chose to gamble on a one-percent chance over zero. With incredible speed and efficiency, honed over countless missions, he released an Aether ping -- crimson Aether crawling over the world like a tidal wave. For the briefest, briefest instant, he had been unprotected -- but before one could even register that fact, he restored his Aether infusion.


    "So you managed to call for help," Rae mused. "Was it worth what it cost you?"


    Wait.


    Rex¡¯s body stiffened. Instinctively, he understood that something was wrong before he registered what. Rae Ruditia had changed positions, just slightly, a few centimeters to the left. She¡¯d moved.


    She¡¯d moved.


    He opened his mouth to speak: "What do you --"


    Then his leg went flying off.


    Ruth Blaine charged through the city streets as quickly as she could, dodging through the crowds and jumping over cars as she headed right back to the construction site.


    Something was wrong. She¡¯d understood that as soon as she¡¯d gotten to the hospital and found nobody waiting for her, but she hadn¡¯t understood just how wrong it was. Maybe she¡¯d gotten the wrong place, she thought, or the contact hadn¡¯t gotten there yet.


    That was before she¡¯d felt Rex¡¯s Aether ping.


    She knew it was Rex, she could feel it -- they¡¯d fought together often enough for her to recognise the sensation of his Aether. He wouldn¡¯t have sent out a ping so powerful and so fast unless he really needed to.


    The Skeletal Set was already covering her body, but she was still just too slow. Sweat pouring down her face, she flipped and landed on a passing train, letting it take her towards the construction site.


    Don¡¯t be too late¡­ she begged the world. Don¡¯t be too late¡­


    Rex Restorossi had never enjoyed fighting.


    To him, this was a job -- a pit of combat he¡¯d landed in due to a lack of other skills. In his dreams, he¡¯d always imagined saving up enough that he could put this work aside. He¡¯d like nothing more than for Omni-Gungnir to become a treasured family heirloom, hanging on a wall, gathering dust.


    Right now, though, he was putting it to work.


    As he deflected the flurry of blows -- raining down from all sides near-simultaneously -- Omni-Gungnir continued to change shape in his hands, so fast that it had become an indistinct blob of metal. Hammer became spear became shield became crossbow, over and over, as Rex pushed his instincts to the limit to survive.


    He knew it was fruitless. Even as he parried and blocked, he could feel new wounds opening up across his body. Attacks slipping past his defenses, but more than that¡­


    ¡­this woman was playing with him.


    She hadn¡¯t been giving this her all from the beginning. The way she¡¯d cut off his leg, leaving him on the ground, proved that. If she wanted, she could kill Rex with ease¡­ but she was holding off, for the time being. Dragging this out.


    Why?


    Ruth would be here soon. Given the distance and Ruth¡¯s speed, it would be any second now¡­ but how many more seconds could Rex survive? Even if he wasn¡¯t struck down, he was quickly bleeding out from the stump of his leg. He could feel the strength draining from his bones.


    When he¡¯d met Ruth, properly met her, she¡¯d seemed lost and focused at the same time. Like she was forcing herself to march forward because she didn¡¯t know what else to do. He¡¯d felt bad for her. He¡¯d understood what that was like. He¡¯d been lost, too -- maybe for his whole life. Doing what he was good at, and not what he wanted to do. What did he want to do? He didn¡¯t even know. He¡¯d never taken the time to consider it.


    Had Ruth? Probably. She stood taller than ever these days, having built something together with him. She was strong, in a way that Rex could never be. She¡¯d taken the reins of her life.


    Ha¡­ why am I thinking about someone else at a time like this¡­?


    The moment came. The moment that Rex had dreaded and been waiting for. Omni-Gungnir transformed in his hands once again -- but this time, it was different. Light erupted outwards as the hammer Rex had just used to block stretched out¡­


    ¡­forming a truly gargantuan greatbow.


    The final form of Omni-Gungnir was a sight to behold. The bow was the size of Rex¡¯s body, its structure smooth and seamless like it had been poured into being. What truly drew the eye, however, was the arrow: a construct of golden light, as if sculpted from the sun itself. Rex pulled the black string back, wincing as the light drew close to his face.


    Ruditia skidded to a halt on the floor before him, caution on her face for the first time. "The Bow of Promised Vengeance¡­" she muttered, eyes fixed on the weapon.


    Rex chuckled bitterly. "You¡¯re familiar with it."


    "I¡¯m familiar with everything, little boy," Ruditia said coldly. She straightened up, extending a hand out -- as if reaching to pluck the arrow from the air as soon as Rex fired it. "It fires at the moment of greatest despair, and it lands in the moment of greatest despair. I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d get to see it in person."


    In a sense, Omni-Gungnir truly consisted of two weapons. The first was the one that Rex normally used, the one that saw the future and transformed accordingly. That, however, had not been its original form. The Bow of Promised Vengeance, the original weapon, had been an ancient treasure of Abra-Facade. When Rex¡¯s family had taken it from the capital, they¡¯d created a false exterior -- a seal -- to disguise what they had stolen.


    Now that Omni-Gungnir had predicted the inevitable, however, that seal was broken.


    It fires at the moment of greatest despair, and it lands in the moment of greatest despair.


    Ruditia sneered, arm still extended. "So what? Do you think I can¡¯t disassemble a construct like that arrow before it hits me?"


    "Are you willing to bet your life on it?" Rex asked. His voice was cold, and his eyes matched it. These were the most important moments now. He was certain he would not miss.


    Ruditia opened her mouth to speak. "Well¡­ you tell --"


    Rex fired.


    Ruth¡¯s blood went cold as she ran through the construction site. Twice, she saw nightmares that had crawled out of her head.


    Ellis¡¯ clothes, lying discarded in a pile of grey dust -- vaguely humanoid, like a blast shadow. His script lay half-buried in the mound, the screen shattered. Vague lights flashed from within it.


    Alice¡¯s staff, strewn on the ground in two pieces. Blood oozed from the broken weapon, the orb at the top of the scepter steadily withering even as Ruth looked. Alice¡¯s body was nowhere to be found.


    And then¡­ Ruth skidded to a halt as she turned the corner.


    At first, she thought the young man before her had fallen to his knees -- but no. He was missing his left leg, and a pool of blood was steadily spreading out beneath him. Slowly, he turned to face her.


    She had never seen this man¡¯s face before, but she recognised him immediately.


    His helmet had been broken, and he turned his head to look at her. Tired eyes of tarnished gold. Dark skin and grey hair. Blood trickling from the edges of his mouth.


    Rex.


    She blinked. "Huh?"


    "Ruth¡­" he said, grinning wearily. "There¡¯s a sight¡­ for sore¡­"


    A pale hand landed on top of his head. Pink Aether flashed. Before Rex Restorossi could finish his sentence, his body exploded into dust. Cold desolation painted Ruth¡¯s face.


    She blinked. "Huh?"


    She looked up, at the owner of the pale hand, at the one who had done this. Rae Ruditia smiled back at her. No, it couldn¡¯t be her -- this was a kid. But as Ruth watched, the figure before her visibly aged back into the woman she knew, the sounds of cracking bones filling the night air.


    When the process was over, Rae tilted her head playfully.


    "Ruth," Ruditia said, still smiling. "Excellent timing. I just got done killing all your friends."


    She blinked.


    "Huh?!"


    ARC 13


    END OF PART 2

 Chapter 386:13.44: The Waste of You

    Eighty Years Ago¡­


    It was a lovely night on Azum-Ha.


    Niain savored it as he strode across the roof of the Supreme Pavilion, grass crunching underfoot. This estate was one of the few examples of open space on the surface of Azum-Ha, and needless to say it was for the exclusive enjoyment of the Supreme. Even when he¡¯d been alive, Henri had never had cause to come here, so Niain used it for his own purposes.


    Whistling to himself, he looked at the skyscrapers lining the horizon. This place was meant to be free of the hustle-and-bustle of the city, but when you got down to it, it wasn¡¯t free at all, was it? The hustle-and-bustle was still right there, buildings forming bars, locking you in. Especially now that the Dawn Contest was coming towards the final stages. The mistake was crushing inwards.


    It was the furthest from freedom you could get. How sad! Niain smiled.


    "How¡¯s my Knight, Smith?" he asked the cold and empty air.


    The answer came in something not quite language and from something not quite human, through something that was not quite a mouth.


    Your children have fully infested his form, my King, Smith replied politely. Your Knight can come into existence at any time of your choosing. Shall we make it so?


    "Not yet," Niain murmured, lingering at the edge of the roof. "It¡¯d be more interesting if he ran around for a while before suddenly betraying the Supremacy, don¡¯t you think, hm?"


    Your wisdom is evident.


    Niain smiled. Smith was so funny. The thing wasn¡¯t Niain¡¯s first friend, but it was surely the one he was most fond of.


    Still smiling, Niain glanced down at the ground far below. If an ordinary person were to jump from this height, would they die? One would surely think so, but death was rarely guaranteed. Even when someone shot themselves in the head, they sometimes lingered and suffered for a time. Perhaps the world had shot itself in the head long ago, and now lingered and suffered.


    It was a depressing thought, but sometimes depressing thoughts were correct. You couldn¡¯t disregard a hypothesis based purely on your emotional response. Niain sighed.


    "How many are there, by the way?" he asked.


    Sixteen.


    "Wow!" Niain raised his eyebrows. "That¡¯s not a lot."


    The sky flashed black -- then gold -- and then, in the moment before it turned black again¡­


    ¡­lightning struck -- and kept striking, scorching the part of the roof Niain was standing on like a golden finger driving its nail into the earth. The sound was deafening. The light was blinding. Surely no living thing exposed to such a force could escape unharmed.


    As the bolt finally flickered and stuttered out of existence, Niain escaped unharmed.


    At the last second, he¡¯d created a shield around himself -- a jet-black dome composed of a material that looked like graphite. It wasn¡¯t graphite, of course -- that conducted electricity and would have been a terrible choice -- but Niain enjoyed the aesthetic of it. He devoured the barrier with his right hand, reclaiming the material.


    "Haha, that was pretty dangerous," he chuckled, looking at the new arrivals. "Why¡¯d you do that?"


    Three figures floated in the sky above Niain, none of them human. Their bodies were composed of wood, their joints visible, their sculpted faces blank. Mere puppets, to put it simply¡­ but maybe mere wasn¡¯t the best word to use?


    The one at the front of the group looked down at Niain. Its jaw slid open and words rang forth.


    "Spawn of the devil," it said with the voice of another. "This is as far as you go."


    Niain scratched his cheek with an index finger. He¡¯d suspected who he was dealing with, but now he knew for sure.


    What a pleasant surprise.


    NEBULA ONE


    Ludwig Lanark


    "Emperor of Puppets"


    Nebula of the Lesser Chain


    Nebula One wasn¡¯t actually here, of course -- there¡¯d be no need for that. Most likely he was relaxing back on Serendipity, controlling this encounter from afar. Even so, he¡¯d certainly gone all out on the preparations.


    The Apex-wooden puppet glaring down at Niain was equipped with no less than three top-tier Aether Armaments. The Red Lion Mantle was wrapped around its shoulders, billowing regally in the wind. It held the dread-trident Blaidd Mawr Drrgg in one hand, oil dripping menacingly from the teeth. The black lens of an Anger Glass glinted from its left eye-socket -- now that was a rare find!


    With such high quality equipment, this one puppet alone would have been a match for most participants in this Dawn Contest. What a wonderful ability! Niain found himself jealous.


    "Number One," he called out. ¡¯What a surprise! It looks like I¡¯ve annoyed you somehow¡­ or have I annoyed the Prince?"


    He could imagine the look on Ludwig¡¯s face hearing that. Nebula One had a strange resentment for the ability that had given him so much. Niain couldn¡¯t comprehend that at all -- whenever he thought about the Prince, the final legacy of the man who¡¯d discovered Aether, he found himself quite glum.


    Rejection was no fun, after all.


    Still, Niain could feel that strange anger radiating from the puppets slowly surrounding him. A few had emerged onto the rooftop behind him -- one like a centaur, holding a lance sparking with electricity. That one must have attacked first.


    Nebula One¡¯s secondary ability -- the Prince was superior, needless to say -- were these puppets. By combining Aether Armaments and these figures of Apex wood, Ludwig could create high-level fighters that he could control remotely -- from any distance. His ability alone had helped deter Henri from launching large assaults on UAP territory.


    Ludwig wouldn¡¯t be carrying on a conversation today, it seemed. No doubt the Prince had cautioned him against it. Such wisdom!


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    "Oh dear," Niain chuckled, realizing he was going to get no answer. "Are you surrounding me right now? I bet you¡¯ve got more than these waiting, huh? I wonder where they are, haha¡­"


    With that prompt, Smith activated Searchlight. It was one of the most useful abilities that he had acquired: essentially, a mobile equivalent to an Aether ping, allowing Smith to detect and analyze anything he placed it over. In most cases, it was even able to pierce through Aether cloaking.


    Seven surrounding you on the roof, my King, Smith advised. Six more on the floor directly below, ready to ambush if you try to escape. Three watching from a distance -- they are long-range attackers who¡¯ll strike while you fight the others.


    I see. To be honest, he¡¯d expected more from Nebula One. Was this really the best plan that the Prince could put together? Perhaps Ludwig hadn¡¯t listened to his wonderful ability until it was too late.


    Ideally, Nebula One should have brought in large numbers of disposable humans, to overwhelm Niain with numbers while the puppets struck at his weaknesses. It would have cost many lives, sure, but that was to be expected. Their game was played with human currency.


    Niain understood that. Sear?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Prince understood that.


    Even that woman understood that.


    As the puppets rushed in as one, Niain sighed. It seemed Nebula One needed reminding. Black Aether hissed.


    Floating beneath Niain¡¯s left hand appeared a pure black orb, hovering ominously. Angra Mainyu.


    Below Niain¡¯s right hand appeared an orb just as white, like the ideal of a snowball. Ahura Mazda.


    Recording and manifestation.


    Destruction and creation.


    The end¡­ and the beginning.


    Niain smiled.


    "We¡¯ll have to make this quick -- I have a match in a few hours."


    AETHERAL SPACE


    ARC 13


    PART 3: GREED


    Present Day¡­


    What¡­ what is this?


    I¡¯m standing here. I ran back as fast as I could. This doesn¡¯t make any sense. I should have made it in time. I ran back as fast as I could. There¡¯s dust everywhere. Ellis. Alice. Rex. Where are they?


    "You¡¯re a sight for sore eyes."


    That man said that and turned into dust. There¡¯s dust everywhere. Why did he do that? No, it wasn¡¯t him who did it. He sounded like Rex. Who was he? He couldn¡¯t have been Rex. Rex isn¡¯t dead.


    Ellis. Alice. Rex. There¡¯s dust everywhere. Who put all this dust everywhere? Is there a duststorm?


    Fucking idiot. Moron. You know there isn¡¯t a duststorm. Use your eyes. You know what¡¯s going on here. Why do you even have a brain if you refuse to use it?


    There¡¯s dust everywhere. Ellis. Alice. Rex.


    "I¡¯ll join up so long as you don¡¯t make me work too hard¡­"


    "This is only temporary until my show takes off! I want to make that clear!"


    "Sure. I think we can do business together."


    Someone said those things. Ellis. Alice. Rex. My¡­ my friends. That couldn¡¯t have been Rex. Rex isn¡¯t dead. There¡¯s dust everywhere. That dust couldn¡¯t be¡­ it couldn¡¯t be, could it?


    You know it is. You let it happen again. Ellis. Alice. Rex. They¡¯re all dead, because of you.


    But why? How?


    Because of you. Just like Robin. Just like Skipper. You¡¯re a fucking plague. Why don¡¯t you just find a corner and die like the animal you are?


    I blink. I¡¯m unsteady on my feet. I feel sick. There¡¯s dust on my face. There¡¯s dust everywhere. Ellis. Alice. Rex.


    Ruditia.


    Rae Ruditia. She¡¯s standing there. I just noticed her. I noticed her first, but I forgot, and now I noticed her again. She¡¯s wearing a weird outfit, manifesting it from her pink Aether (pink like Alice¡¯s, right?). Flowing frills and an elegant crook, like a shepherd drenched in nobility. What a weird outfit. I laugh. It sounds like I¡¯m choking.


    She cocks her head at me. She¡¯s got something to say. Is she going to tell me where everyone¡¯s gone? Ellis. Alice. Rex.


    You know where they went.


    "You¡¯re a sight for sore eyes." Why would that guy say that? I might have gotten the wrong idea. I might have thought that was Rex. There¡¯s dust everywhere.


    That¡¯s not dust.


    Ruditia speaks.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" she asks me. "Did you not recognise him without the mask? That was Rex I just killed."


    No, no, no, no, no.


    Yes.


    That¡¯s not possible. That¡¯s not what Rex looks like. He wouldn¡¯t just die like that -- like flipping a switch. He¡¯s just not able to. There¡¯s no way.


    What do you know? What did you know about him -- or Ellis, or Alice? You didn¡¯t care about them. You dragged them here against their will so you could find Dragan.


    He¡¯s abandoned you, too, and he was right to. Everything you touch turns to shit. You¡¯re disgusting.


    Shut up.


    Bruno and Serena don¡¯t care about you either. If they did, they¡¯d be here, and they¡¯d be dead. Like Robin. Like Skipper. Ellis. Alice. Rex. You failed them all. It¡¯s all you¡¯re capable of.


    Shut up!


    What was it you thought? Did you think you could build something for yourself? A life, right? That¡¯s what you thought. While the rest of the world is burning, you thought you could live just for yourself, you selfish bitch.


    I¡­ my friends¡­


    You don¡¯t have any friends, not anymore. They¡¯ve either thrown you away or been killed. This was bound to happen eventually. You¡¯re not cut out to be a human being. Look at you.


    Who could love you? Even your parents didn¡¯t want you. Tossed you away like garbage. It was a mercy they died long before seeing you now.


    I¡­


    I¡­


    I¡­


    My mouth opens, my voice quiet. It feels like I haven¡¯t spoken in a thousand years. It feels like I¡¯ve been speaking for a thousand years. My throat is raw. It¡¯s made of blood.


    "Why have you done this?" I ask.


    It¡¯s a genuine question. I need to know. Ellis. Alice. Rex. They¡¯re dead, they¡¯re dead, they¡¯re dead, they¡¯re dead¡­ and all that¡¯s left of them is dust. There¡¯s dust on my face. There¡¯s dust everywhere.


    I feel sick.


    Ruditia cocks her head. Did she not hear me? I ask again.


    "Why have you done this?"


    This time, she smiles. There¡¯s dust everywhere. There¡¯s dust everywhere, and she smiles. Ellis. Alice. Rex. She¡¯s smiling. She killed them, and she¡¯s smiling.


    She¡¯s smiling.


    Smiling, smiling, smiling. Wipe that smile off your face. Don¡¯t you dare. Don¡¯t you dare look like that. Don¡¯t you dare exist here. Don¡¯t you dare, don¡¯t you dare, don¡¯t you dare.


    She answers me. Her voice echoes through the space like it rules here. A queen of ashes. A queen of dust. Ellis. Alice. Rex. All my thoughts are regicide.


    "Why?" she asks, like it¡¯s a stupid question. "For you, Ruth. So you can reach your full potential. You hate me right now, don¡¯t you?"


    All you can do is hate.


    "Take that fuel, and use it to grow stronger¡­"


    That¡¯s the only thing you can do. From the very start, you weren¡¯t cut out to be a human being. You¡¯re a beast. A wild animal.


    She wipes a tear from my cheek with a tender thumb. "...my Supreme."


    The only thing you¡¯re good for¡­


    My hair shines like fire.


    "I see," I whisper. "Die."


    ¡­is fighting.


    "Monarque Set."

 Chapter 387:13.45: The Wrath of You

    The world erupted into light.


    The Shepherdess raised a hand to shield her eyes as waves of air pressure buffeted over her, sending her clothes billowing out. It was as if she¡¯d suddenly stepped into the middle of a hurricane. Her smile widened.


    This was very good. A Supreme should be nothing if not a living hurricane.


    Besides, this was something the Shepherdess had been eager to see for herself. Ruth Blaine was notoriously stingy with this ability, mostly due to its destructive potential. The Direwolf Set was the Skeletal Set improved and elevated via combination with the Revolutionnaire Set and the pseudo-Aether burn it created. The Monarque Set, on the other hand, was the child of Revolutionnaire and Noblesse.


    In appearance at least, it was quite imposing.


    A giant ovoid shape, big enough to dwarf the Shepherdess, rose as a silhouette as it floated out from the raging winds. Its surface -- eggshell white -- became clear as it floated over the ground, the light that had heralded it fading away. Protruding from the front of the divine egg, like something was trying to push its way out, was the grinning countenance of a human skull.


    Empty sockets observed the Shepherdess with utter odium. She grinned back at them.


    The cape of the Revolutionnaire Set had not become a scarf for this transformation. Instead, it had enlarged and split itself -- becoming six scarlet wings, like those of an insect, waving in the air behind the Monarque Set, embers sparking at their tips. A butterfly of death, ready to exact vengeance.


    Beautiful.


    It opened fire.


    The Shepherdess skipped through her retreat -- disappearing for seconds at a time as she was teleported to the end of her pre-planned path. If she hadn¡¯t been able to do that, things might have gotten a little difficult. Blasts of light and force were erupting from every inch of the Monarque Set¡¯s body, obliterating everything in sight -- reducing this construction site to a pile of molten slag.


    She laughed, the pure sound riding subordinate on the wind. This was beyond even her expectations!


    Of course, the Shepherdess had done her research on Ruth Blaine¡¯s abilities before approaching her. The Noblesse Set was a primarily defensive Aether Armament. When part of the armour was struck, it would shatter and send the force back at the attacker -- protecting the user in the process. The Monarque Set took that principle to the next level.


    Not only was it sturdy enough to withstand attacks without shattering, it also now had the ability to amplify the absorbed force before releasing it, much like Zachariah Esmeralda¡¯s Heartbeat Shotgun. As if that weren¡¯t enough, what the Set deemed an ¡¯attack¡¯ had been expanded as well. Even just a gentle breeze could be absorbed and fired back out at a target as a deadly blow.


    In short? This was a beast of endless artillery.


    The Shepherdess continued to retreat, running through the unfinished halls of the construction site even as the Monarque tore the building apart behind her. She¡¯d done all she needed to here. With the fuel of hatred the Shepherdess had provided, Ruth would continue to bolster her strength and resources for the purpose of hunting her down.


    Steered correctly, she¡¯d aim for the throne of the Supreme all by herself.


    The Shepherdess turned the corner -- and immediately dropped to her knees, sliding under a slash that had been aimed right for her face. Accelerated movement allowed her to roll and rise to her feet before the attacker could turn to face her¡­ but she didn¡¯t take advantage of that. Instead, seeing what had come after her, she just narrowed her eyes in glee.


    "Oh Ruth," she breathed. "You¡¯re interesting. You are interesting."


    Opposite her stood the Skeletal Set.


    Ruth Blaine did not occupy the dark armour. Instead, it was filled with crackling red Aether, forming a rudimentary skeleton. It turned to face her, its movements strangely fluid, individual pieces swinging in the air like a collection of wind-chimes.


    Behind her, the destruction wrought by the Monarque Set could still be heard -- and yet, the Shepherdess laughed.


    Ruth Blaine hadn¡¯t been capable of this before today. The Shepherdess was certain of that. Equipping one Set while sending another after her as a puppet? If she¡¯d been able to do this before, she¡¯d have done it. There¡¯d be a record of it.


    The fuel was already working!


    With an inhuman screech, the Skeletal Set lunged at her, red lenses shining in the darkness. Acceleration allowed the Shepherdess to easily weave through the vortex of claws, hopping off the Set¡¯s helmet and onto a freestanding support pillar. Smirking, she shook her head.


    "Too bad," she said. "It¡¯s a neat trick, but you --"


    The Shepherdess¡¯ wrist erupted into blood. Immediately, her eyes flicked over to the fresh wound. "Huh?"


    She knew better than anyone that Ruth Blaine was in no state to be thinking clearly right now. Ruth shouldn¡¯t have been capable of observing the speed of the Shepherdess¡¯ movements and adjusting her timing to compensate. She shouldn¡¯t have been capable of reasoning her way to a blow like that.


    So¡­ she¡¯d done it on instinct.


    Oh, the Shepherdess thought. Oh, this is bad, actually.


    The wall exploded inwards as the Monarque Set found her again -- an unearthly roar pouring from its skeletal visage as it continued its endless artillery. A wave of fire and debris approached at a rate that would have driven a lesser warrior to despair. Clutching her wrist in the instant before Chronodissonance reverted the wound, the Shepherdess leapt off the building and allowed herself to fall.


    Even then, though, she hadn¡¯t truly escaped.


    The Skeletal Set pursued her, running down the building on all fours, claws digging into the wall and granting it purchase. The strategy Blaine had adopted in her delirium was a simple one. The Skeletal Set was clearly much faster than the Monarque -- so long as Skeletal kept attacking, Monarque could quickly locate its prey.


    Like a hunter and a hound, the Shepherdess thought with more than a hint of pride. Still¡­ I didn¡¯t expect you to go this far, Ruth.


    The girl had completely lost sight of her earlier restraint. Far above, the construction site was collapsing, supports obliterated by the Monarque Set¡¯s rampage. One of the massive building automatics toppled over and fell -- down, into the streets below. Where would it land? Who knew?


    If this place was populated, would Ruth Blaine even have noticed? It was difficult to say.


    This truly was astounding, though. Had the Shepherdess gone in a little too hard, killing all three of Ruth¡¯s friends at once? Should she maybe have staggered them for a more progressive breakdown?


    Well, whatever. What was done was done, even for her. She¡¯d just have to deal with the consequences.


    She manifested her ¡¯crook¡¯, froze it with Chronodissonance, and kicked off it to launch herself away. At least, that was the plan. At the last second, the Skeletal Set shot towards her, abandoning its legs for a burst of speed -- and slashing at her again. She was sent flying off course as she blocked, zooming towards a nearby street.


    Her eyes flicked over to it, scanning the battlefield.


    A row of cheap diners and convenience stores. It was pretty sparse this time of night, but of course there were still some pedestrians around. That was fine. She knew what precautions to take.


    One second.


    In a single second, as the Shepherdess recorded the ¡¯crook¡¯ and returned it to her grip, she made her preparations.


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    The physical appearance of Aether -- the coloured sparks -- were quite interesting. Over the course of her thousand years of life, the Shepherdess had investigated many curiosities, and the sparks of course had been one of them. However, she¡¯d never found mysteries nor answers behind their appearance -- as far as she could tell, they were nothing more than a visual marker to indicate Aether usage. Some Aether tics changed the sparks to flower petals or things like that, but that was basically it.


    She¡¯d found no great bounty behind the sparks themselves¡­ but manipulating their focus was another story.


    The Shepherdess surged her Aether, focusing the sparks until they coated her face, concealing her identity from view. An Aether mask -- a technique of her own creation. So long as she recorded her costume, there was no confirming that this was an appearance of the Shepherdess.


    She crashed through the window of the diner, glass slashing and slicing at her skin as she passed through. Chronodissonance was able to near-instantly revert the wounds of course -- glass pulling itself out of her skin as she began her landing -- but the pain remained. That was fine.


    Pain was what allowed humans to learn.


    Her back thumped against a vending machine, cans of Meep Cola spraying out in the air around her. The waitress screamed, dropping her tray -- the plate it had carried smashing on the floor. There had been only one patron in the diner, luckily, and the Shepherdess had pulped him on the way in. He was still a few seconds from death, but she decided there was no benefit in rewinding his injuries.


    She had to prepare for the enemy.


    The window finished rewinding, unbreaking itself -- and then the Skeletal Set shot through it, breaking it again. The Shepherdess met its attack with one of her own, tossing a hail of infused cans at the living armour. It simply weaved through them, of course, but then she rewound the projectiles with Chronodissonance -- they pelted against the back of the Set like bullets, lodging inside the empty armour.


    At that point, immobilising it was just a matter of hitting pause.


    She pointed her ¡¯crook¡¯ at the suspended Skeletal Set, ignoring the screams of the waitress. Ordinarily, she wouldn¡¯t go so far as using it here, but she wasn¡¯t entirely sure how much it would take to bring down a Set without a person actually in it. Destroying the armour entirely was a safe bet.


    "Test Armament One," she intoned. "Seal release. Authorization of Ruri."


    The weapon changed in her hand -- the appearance of a crook falling away like a snake shedding its skin -- until the Aether Armament was a simple white stick, perfect and stark in its geometry. Chronodissonance ran through the weapon just for a moment, accelerating the charging-up period, and¡­


    ¡­she let it loose.


    Space was disemboweled.


    A sheer wave of destructive force blasted out from the tip of the Armament, annihilating everything in its path. The Skeletal Set was ripped out of existence. The street outside was ripped out of existence. Hell, most of the building she was standing in was ripped out of existence. All that remained of the waitress were her smoking severed legs, still standing. The Shepherdess strode through the ashes, twirling the Armament in her hands.


    The Stick, it was called.


    One of the first two Aether Armaments in existence, created by the man who¡¯d later become the Third Supreme -- Granba the Godsmith. He¡¯d been only too happy to give his prototype to an old friend from the revolution. It had served the Supremacy well ever since.


    The ability was simple: when it was pointed at a target, it would slowly charge up destructive force until released. In anyone else¡¯s hands, it would be little more than a proof-of-concept for more potent and complex Armaments. In the hands of the Shepherdess and her power of acceleration? It became a wand to wipe away all that threatened the Supremacy¡¯s survival.


    As her foot clinked against a left-over scrap of armour, the Shepherdess glanced down at it -- and immediately, her eyes widened. It was white. This wasn¡¯t from the Skeletal Set at all -- it was from Noblesse. They¡¯d swapped places? The power of the Stick had been too much for Noblesse to reflect, but even so, even so, that meant --


    -- the Direwolf Set lunged out of the smog, claws aiming for her throat.


    It had been manifested improperly, the shape warped and malformed by rage, but if anything that only made it more nightmarish. The helmet -- jaws extended so that it resembled an alligator more than any kind of wolf -- was twisted, protruding from the shoulder while Ruth¡¯s head went unprotected. The Revolutionnaire Scarf was bundled up beneath her throat like a neck-brace. Her eyes were rolled up into her skull, saliva pouring from her lips, her teeth bared in a bestial snarl.


    Her right arm hung limp at her side, and above it -- moving independently -- was the claw of the Direwolf. It slashed to take the Shepherdess¡¯ head, and it was only by skipping time that she escaped.


    A rare breath of anxiety pouring out of her mouth, the Shepherdess continued to retreat backwards, Ruth Blaine tearing the building to shreds as she pursued. They crashed out of the back of the diner, into the alleyways beyond -- the Shepherdess rapidly skipping up a fire escape to get to the high ground atop an office building. As she landed on the brickwork, she took a moment to compose herself.


    This was more intense than she¡¯d expected.


    She¡¯d brought additional Armaments and resources just in case, but she hadn¡¯t expected Ruth Blaine to have advanced so far so quickly. From the looks of things, she was barely conscious right now -- but she was still fighting with enough proficiency to put the Shepherdess on the backfoot. Her heart danced with excitement at the potential on display.


    But still¡­ it was time to end this.


    Ruth Blaine had become stronger, to be sure, but in the process she¡¯d forgotten her restraint. Charging in recklessly after the Shepherdess like this was just inviting disaster. She¡¯d have to give the girl a permanent scar to remind her of that.


    Recording the Stick, the Shepherdess bared her fingers like claws -- pinpoint Aether broiling around her fingernails. Losing an eye ought to suffice. The second Ruth arrived, she¡¯d carve away at that face of hers. It was almost a shame¡­ but good education was a bloody affair by nature.


    With a flash of red, Ruth leapt up onto the building.


    With a flash of pink, the Shepherdess lunged forward.


    With a flash of green, a hand squeezed -- and crushed what it was holding.


    "Miracle Tag," said Roman Hitch. "Attack."


    Lightning crashed down from the sky -- and struck the Shepherdess directly, sending her flying backwards, crashing into the wall there. She gasped for breath, and smoke poured out of her mouth, watering her eyes. What had just happened? How had she -- she -- been snuck up on?


    Her head snapped to the source of the attack, to the man standing on a crane high above the two of them, watching from what was left of the construction site. Roman Hitch. The military grunt who should have been guarding the apartment. He was looking down on her with a curious smirk on his lips, his eyes like dark suns.


    Why was he here?


    Restorossi¡¯s Aether ping shouldn¡¯t have had the range to reach him. Had Ellis gotten some kind of signal off before the Shepherdess had killed him? No. There was no way. His death had been instant.


    The Shepherdess had considered killing Roman too, but in the end had decided the benefit would be minimal. Ruth had only known him for a couple of months, and introducing his esoteric ability to the scenario seemed like it would have been a recipe for disaster. She was beginning to regret that now -- at the very least, she should have sneakily assassinated him before leaving the apartment. It would have saved this trouble now.


    Opposite her, Ruth Blaine staggered forwards. She was running on the afterimages of fumes now, barely standing, the Direwolf Set flickering in and out of existence. Even without the Shepherdess doing anything, she was about to lose consciousness.


    She was muttering to herself. "Ellis¡­ Alice¡­ Rex¡­ Robin¡­ Skipper¡­ I¡­ I¡­"


    And with that, she fell, head crashing into the ground as her armour disappeared. The Shepherdess tapped her with a foot, making sure she was fully out, before looking up at the distant Hitch.


    "So," she commented, stepping over Ruth towards the edge of the rooftop. "That ability of yours has some tracking applications, huh?"


    Hitch cocked his head. "Nah, not this ability."


    She blinked. "It¡¯s obvious to me now you¡¯re not a normal person. Who¡¯re you working for? Darkstar? The Prince?"


    "The who?"


    Her inquisitive stare hardened into a glare. "Don¡¯t play dumb. There¡¯s a very short list of people in this world who can sneak up on me. I¡¯ve gone to great lengths to make sure most of them are dead. Now answer me: who are you?"


    "Well, the thing I¡¯m more curious about," Hitch scratched his head. "Is who you are. I mean, at first I thought you were some kind of wacko cosplayer, but after seeing you in action I¡¯m starting to think you¡¯re the real deal. The Shepherdess, right? Man, I thought you were just a kid¡¯s tale. Normally, I¡¯d think that¡¯s pretty neat¡­ but I saw what you did to her friends¡­ and, you know, being honest¡­" S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He narrowed his eyes.


    "...I think that was a real zero-outta-ten move."


    As he stepped forward, Roman Hitch¡¯s body unravelled -- unravelled into string, string that quickly coiled and bound itself back together into a new shape. A shape that sent a shiver down the Shepherdess¡¯ spine. A shape that caused her to take a rare step back.


    Long flowing hair billowed in the wind, each lock a different colour, ties and beads lurking in its depths like ornaments. Black Umbrant eyes loomed like the void, white triangular pupils twinkling as they regarded her. Skin that was, at first, pale as snow -- but quickly turned tan as vibrant life poured into it. The faux-military uniform he¡¯d been wearing exploded out into a bizarre outfit, like a woollen red scarf wrapped haphazardly around the man¡¯s entire body, leaving great sections uncovered.


    Red teeth grinned.


    "Ah," sighed the dead man, cracking his fingers -- each one tipped with a gleaming golden thimble. "That¡¯s so much better."


    The Shepherdess swallowed.


    Wu Ming.


    He leapt from the crane, arms spread wide, strings already spreading out from his form like a spider¡¯s web. The air twisted and played with his hair. His grin opened into a carefree laugh -- a laugh that usurped the wind and dominated all reason.


    The one man in this world unbound by anything.

 Chapter 388:13.46: The Warp of You

    Let me tell you a story about a certain man. Don¡¯t worry -- it won¡¯t take long.


    This story takes place on a planet, in a city, in a house, where a baby was born to parents. I¡¯m sure you¡¯d like more specific information than that. Unfortunately, that¡¯s not possible. Even if you were to ask the man this story is about for more details, he¡¯d be unable to give them to you.


    It¡¯s not that these details were taken from him. No amnesia or trauma has wiped his mind clean. It¡¯s simply that, to this man, the only things that exist are the things that interest him.


    All else is mere trivia.


    So let me tell you this story, in full:


    On a planet, in a city, in a house, a baby was born to parents. Perhaps this was at night-time, perhaps this was during the day. Whatever the case, when that baby came into the world, it did three things for the very first time.


    For the first time, it opened its eyes.


    For the first time, it let out a wail.


    And, for the first time¡­ rainbow Aether sparked.


    So the story goes. Every word of it is true.


    The Shepherdess had considered many people for the throne of the Supreme.


    Ruth Blaine was her prime candidate now, but she¡¯d given all their due consideration. Avaman the Announcer, master of the winds. Atoy Muzazi, the moonlit swordsman. Mereloco, the shade from the past. The Sixth Dead, the madwoman with a taste for blood. Dragan Hadrien.


    The list went on -- the strongest she could find, with the most potential for future growth -- but there were two she¡¯d very intentionally left off of it.


    First was Niain. Needless to say, there was no way she would ever allow that wretch to claim the throne of the Supreme. She doubted the freak even wanted it, but if things ever looked like he¡¯d ascend the throne she¡¯d rather the Supremacy itself collapse than give it to him.


    He was the shadow, the enemy at the gates. He was the sort of danger Azez had formed the Supremacy against. His victory would mean the end of everything.


    It didn¡¯t bear thinking about.


    The second was Wu Ming. At first, this hadn¡¯t been a conscious thing. She¡¯d only realized that she¡¯d been avoiding the thought of the Clown of the Supremacy once she¡¯d finished investigating the other three Contenders.


    When she thought about power, he was certainly up there, but when she thought about power that could be harnessed? No way.


    He was like hot metal, forcing her to recoil at the touch. Wu Ming was simply too much. A force that repelled all reason and all reasonable.


    He shouldn¡¯t be able to use his Aether so effortlessly.


    He shouldn¡¯t be able to have so many abilities.


    He shouldn¡¯t be able to develop more at such an absurd speed.


    Aether was a light of the mind, yes, but it was also a power bound by rules. Every Aether-user developed their strength and abilities by working around those laws. But there was an exception to every rule¡­ and that exception was named Wu Ming.


    Monster.


    The Shepherdess had been loath to use additional resources against the rampaging Ruth Blaine. Against Wu Ming, though? She didn¡¯t hesitate.


    Hands moving with all the speed her body would allow, she hurled two emerald marbles forward, her Aether flowing into and activating them.


    "Devil Core!" she roared, as the marbles erupted into light. "Draconic Devil!"


    The single-use Aether Armaments exploded outwards, a crystal shell growing from the tiny marbles until they were no longer visible. Instead, within mere seconds, they were simply the cores of two massive serpentine dragons, their crystalline bodies sharp and ready to eviscerate.


    As one, the two train-sized beasts flowed through the air towards the descending Wu Ming, their jaws opening in silent roars.


    He met them with a cheeky grin of his own.


    "Oh, we¡¯re playing toy soldiers?" he said. "Sure, sure, let¡¯s do it, honey! Arachnis Sapiens!"


    A bundle of string tore its way free from his extended fingers -- and from that string crawled out a massive beast of Ming¡¯s own design. It was grotesque, a hybrid between a malformed human and a colossal spider, eight pillar-like legs skittering on the ground far below it.


    Haphazard yellow eyes bulged in fury as the creature met the Draconic Devils with a one-two jab, repelling their initial attacks and sending shards of crystal raining down.


    "Wait!" Wu Ming cried out as he landed on the spiderman¡¯s shoulder. "Wait, I changed my mind! Arachnis Rex! I wanna call this one Arachnis Rex!"


    The Shepherdess clicked her tongue as she clambered onto the rocky back of one of the Draconic Devils, glaring at the man opposite her. Her blood boiled. Aether-users were beautiful because of how they struggled against their limitations to produce power.


    A child with no limitations at all was nothing but an eyesore.


    She hurled a hail of throwing knives at the Clown of the Supremacy, their trajectory accelerated by Chronodissonance. The spider-creature was shredded apart by the rain of blades, but Wu Ming? Wu Ming just stood there, but Wu Ming did not die.


    Instead, his body opened -- forming holes that the knives passed harmlessly through -- impacting the wall behind him. This was not a human body. Reports of the Fourth Contender¡¯s death had not been exaggerated, it seemed. This was an Aether Awakening she was fighting.


    He leapt at her, and she retreated -- freezing parts of the shattered street to block his passage. Even so, the Clown advanced, the strings composing his body changing his shape with each leap. A man, a woman, a tiger, a koi fish¡­ with each blow, another huge hole was opened up in a Draconic Devil -- and before long, both of them were rubble upon the ground.


    There didn¡¯t seem to be much limit to Wu Ming¡¯s shapeshifting anymore. She¡¯d expected something like this, but even so¡­ a shiver went down her spine. This was how the Gene Tyrants had fought. The thousand-year terror in her bones stirred.


    As they returned to the border of the construction site again, the Shepherdess threw out another volley of knives, forcing Ming to leap back and put some distance between them. He returned to his normal form as he landed. That damn bloody grin still went unbroken.


    "I¡¯m surprised," he grinned, putting a hand against his bare hip as he leaned against the wall. "The Shepherdess and all, I thought you¡¯d be right in my face. A battle for every second or something, you know? But you¡¯re lingering all the way at the back. Am I not good enough for you, darling¡­ or is it just that you don¡¯t like fighting much?"


    The Shepherdess¡¯ glare hardened into murder. "Don¡¯t presume to know me, Clown."


    Wu Ming snapped his fingers, red teeth gleaming in the light. He knew he¡¯d got her. "Seriously, though," he continued. "Even when you were fighting that chicken guy, you stayed out of sight and struck when he wasn¡¯t looking, right? You¡¯re more an assassin than a fighter. Nothing wrong with it, but still."


    "...the chicken guy?"


    There was no way. She knew for a fact that Wu Ming hadn¡¯t been there when she¡¯d eliminated Chicken Punk. If he had been, there¡¯s no way he would have been able to surprise her a few minutes ago.


    Nobody was ever able to sneak up on the Shepherdess more than once¡­ but, then again, that was nothing but a rule, wasn¡¯t it?


    The exception grinned. "Yup -- and, he gave me a useful hint, too. How¡¯d it go again? Hey, villain, right?"


    The Shepherdess¡¯ eyes widened. He knew. This bastard knew how to get around Chronodissonance¡¯s rewind and deal lasting damage. He had been there. He had seen Chicken Punk¡¯s awakening.


    Chronodissonance allowed the Shepherdess to simulate time manipulation on anything she infused. Naturally, that included her own body. Whenever she was hit by an attack, she could simply rewind time to erase the effects of said attack -- essentially making any non-lethal injury pointless.


    However, at the moment a blow was landed on an Aether-user, their infusion wavered for just the tiniest fraction of a second. If, in that instant, the enemy infused the wound they¡¯d dealt with their own Aether, they achieved sovereignty over it. The Shepherdess couldn¡¯t rewind or interfere with it at all.


    Against an enemy like Wu Ming, being unable to heal could be fatal. She¡¯d have to take desperate measures. She gritted her teeth: this was exactly what she¡¯d wanted to avoid when fighting Ruth Blaine.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    From her pocket, she whipped out another single-use Aether Armament, sourced directly from the Maker-Guild. A tiny humanoid figure, cut from paper, with a simple smile on its face. As she charged it with her Aether, the paper-man exploded¡­


    "Whisper Troupe, Version 3."


    ¡­into a horde of human-sized copies, all of which surged towards Ming and the unconscious Ruth Blaine like a tsunami.


    No matter their numbers, they were still made of paper. Against Wu Ming, they wouldn¡¯t last long. But that was fine. They didn¡¯t need to last long. All they needed to do was give the Shepherdess the tiny fraction of time she needed.


    Time to raise her hand up.


    Time to coalesce her Aether into the proper apocalyptic structure.


    Time to open her eyes and mouth, both of them now blazing with blinding pink Aether.


    And time to speak.


    "Time Crash."


    Let me tell you a story.


    This story takes place on the planet Mionaught, during the twilight of the Gene Tyrant¡¯s empire. The world was ruled by a Tyrant named Alexandra, a noble of minor station and arrogance far beyond her means. Even as the revolution burnt across thousands of planets, she believed that her estate -- lying on the edges of galactic territory -- would be safe.


    The war would soon be over, and the aggressors punished in ways hitherto unimaginable. This is what the Gene Tyrant Alexandra truly believed. As such, she took no notice of the wider world, and did what she was wont to do.


    In short, she partook in genetic decadence.


    The girl was born choking. Her first memory was of flailing her arms, tearing at the membrane before her, ripping her way out of the birthing sac before she drowned in the matter that had formed her. As she writhed out into open air, she collapsed onto the ground, heaving for breath.


    She was born a child, not an infant. Alexandra didn¡¯t have the patience to wait for her creations to grow up. Awareness¡­ reason¡­ language¡­ these things already existed inside her brain, ready-formed. Context without content. A crafted doll with a crafted consciousness.


    The girl wasn¡¯t alone. This was Alexandra¡¯s latest distraction -- an attempt to create a perfect replica of her own preferred form. Perhaps she intended to use it as a body double in case assassins of the Blind Man came to Mionaught. Perhaps she just wanted someone to try on clothes for her.


    Whatever the case, she demanded exactitude.


    The Gene Tyrant herself stood high above the pit of writhing copies, her pink eyes scanning each and every one of her new creations. Her face was blank, expressionless -- she was the kind of organism that demonstrated emotion only when she wished to. The child empress, clad in flowing robes of velvet and diamond, put her hands together and slowly -- unnaturally -- smiled. The two mega-Pugnant guards at her side stood to attention.


    "That one is acceptable," Alexandra breathed, pointing down at the child. "Recycle the rest."


    Whenever the Shepherdess -- whenever Ruri -- thinks back to that moment, it becomes intertwined with another. The words that gave her life by pure coincidence are fused with the ones that gave her purpose through resolve. The words of the one that had saved her. The final wish that has guided her careful hands for one-thousand years.


    "If our strength falters¡­ they will come back. If the Supremacy falls¡­ they will come back. I know it. I can see them. In my dreams¡­ behind my eyes¡­ they¡¯re at the gates, always at the gates.


    "Ruri, this Supremacy of mine¡­ will you make it last?"


    For that purpose, Ruri the Shepherdess would do anything.


    It hung in the sky.


    If the thing that the Shepherdess had summoned was a clock, then it was surely a clock used by the gods.


    The construct was nearly the size of the Arena of the Absolute all by itself, flat face turned towards the city below like a great staring eye, each tick of the massive second-hand enough to make the air vibrate. Towers of gears and cogs rose above it, like the bones of time itself, and a thunderstorm of pink Aether broiled around its borders.


    "Five."


    Time Crash spoke in a voice volcano-deep, loud enough to make glass shiver. Wu Ming grimaced, looking up at the colossus. The sphere he¡¯d been creating wore away in his hands.


    "Four."


    Time Crash was the Shepherdess¡¯ most potent ability. Unlike Chronodissonance, which required her to touch a target and infuse it with her Aether, Time Crash would take its satisfaction upon everything that walked the world below. Once it hit ¡¯zero¡¯, everything within its six-kilometer range would be flooded and forcefully infused with absurd Aether -- everything save for the exceptions the Shepherdess had designated, of course.


    "Three."


    In this case, that exception was Ruth Blaine alone. Wu Ming would have to swallow his pride and be subject to a rule for once. Already retreating into the shadows, the Shepherdess grinned.


    "Two."


    Well¡­ the Clown of the Supremacy wouldn¡¯t have to swallow his pride for very long. Chronodissonance rewinded, accelerated and erased time. Time Crash broke it.


    That man would be lucky if he were allowed to even scream.


    "One."


    Only¡­ he looked up, and there was a grin on his face.


    Only¡­ he looked up, and he pointed his finger up towards Time Crash itself.


    Only¡­ he looked up, and his arm unraveled into string once more.


    This time, when it reformed, it took on the shape of a long and spindly rifle barrel, pointed straight up towards the sky -- locked on to the center of Time Crash¡¯s clock. Chaotic rainbow Aether broiled at the tip of the weapon. Ming¡¯s white-ring eyes shrunk down to pinpricks¡­


    ¡­and he spoke lethally.


    "Der Frie --"


    Cancel!


    The Shepherdess didn¡¯t hesitate. The instant she realized what Wu Ming was doing, she canceled her ability and fled into the night. She hadn¡¯t survived a thousand years of combat by choosing the wrong battles.


    Besides, she¡¯d already gotten what she wanted.


    Ruth Blaine¡¯s inferno had been lit.


    Wu Ming let out a breath.


    It was sad to see someone get defeated by themselves. It looked like the Shepherdess had overestimated him, and underestimated herself. If she¡¯d pressed the attack, she¡¯d have been able to beat him -- that Chronodissonance ability was just that good.


    He let his hand return to being a hand and flapped it in the air. It wasn¡¯t as if he could actually use Der Freisch¨¹tz. He was an Aether Awakening, after all -- if he tried to get an Aether-destroying shot off, he¡¯d just blow himself up. Clearly the Shepherdess hadn¡¯t believed that, though.


    Shrugging to himself, he strolled over to the unconscious Ruth. It was a shame what had happened to her -- Wu Ming had stuck with her these months in hopes of being able to fight the new-and-improved Dragan Hadrien while he waited for Darkstar to show themselves. He hadn¡¯t expected the Shepherdess to take the bait instead.


    Oh, well. All¡¯s well that ends well.


    He tapped Ruth with a foot of yarn.


    "You alive?" he asked, cocking his head. "Looks like I¡¯ve gotta get you up to speed."


    Let me tell you a funny story.


    That child was born laughing.


    The room it was born in was freezing. Those who delivered it were faceless doctors. The mother who had given it life no longer existed in this world. In truth, the child was not even expected to cry -- all present believed they¡¯d be hearing nothing but a death-rattle, if that. Instead¡­


    ha ha ha


    From the moment it was born, the child was laughing.


    Henri the Glutton fathered many candidates for the role of Supreme Heir. This was because he believed an environment filled with powerful rivals would drive his children to greatness. This was also because he was a gruesome man who liked to indulge himself.


    It doesn¡¯t matter.


    The eighth born child was a girl who could command swarms of locusts, directing them with orders both intricate and broad to devour her foes. She was the first to die. They found her in a hallway of the Shesha, stripped to the bone by the biting of countless flies.


    ha ha ha


    The seventh born child was a boy who considered himself a man -- a swordsman, at that. With a blade of flexile white bone he would cut down any who opposed him. His limbs were found scattered through an escape shuttle.


    ha ha ha


    The sixth born child believed himself to be invincible. He had honed two abilities -- a suit of impenetrable armour, and a regenerative power that allowed him to restore lost body parts. He was found in what remained of his quarters, helmet and skull smashed open like an egg.


    ha ha ha


    The fifth born child could split herself in two -- one to distract while another snuck up from behind. As such, she was never alone, and believed she could never be ambushed. She was wrong -- both of her. They were found run through on each others blades.


    ha ha ha S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The fourth born child could create familiars of shadow, hounds pure black and ready to devour. He sealed himself in the throne room of the Shesha and waited for the dread killer to face him personally. By the morning, he was a trail on the floor -- bitten in half by something far more monstrous than anything he could make.


    ha ha ha


    The third born child tried to run. He had always been a failure, never even developing his Aether, and he did not have the stomach for whatever this was. All that was left of him was found in the shuttle bay, a pulsing lump of something no longer human.


    ha ha ha


    The second born child, the prodigal daughter, could sculpt a world of her own design from the landscape around her. A domain as flexible as her own body, and as immovable as a native reality. She died, overpowered in every way, her world overwritten by another.


    ha ha ha


    The first born child, driven to despair by the ordeal of the last few days, trembled in his bed -- staring at the distant door. At the noise beyond it. When the servants came to wake him in the morning, he had already taken his own life out of fear.


    But he needn¡¯t have been afraid.


    ha ha ha


    After all, the only thing at the door had been a laughing child.


    And so Henri found his Heir.


    Niain opened his eyes, and smiled as he saw the void stretch out before him. No dark, no light, no up, no down, no matter except him. A perfect absence.


    Already, though, that void was starting to decay into a world of certainties. He sighed, but he did not stop smiling. It was a rare thing when Niain let go of that smile¡­


    ¡­the curled lips of barely constrained laughter.


    "Well then," he said, as the venue came into existence. "Shall we commence this meeting?"

 Chapter 389:13.47: In The Shadow Garden

    NOW JOINING: NOEL EDMUNDS


    NOW JOINING: REYANSH PATEL


    Noel stepped forward on feet that did not exist, upon ground that did not exist, as she breathed in air that did not exist.


    The environment around her quickly changed, the empty void becoming populated by her subconscious. The grand hall of a grand castle spread out before her, architecture laid out illogically like something from a dream. Pillars that supported nothing but air, paintings with indeterminate faces, and a throne so warped it could never sit a human being.


    She sat it anyway. Annoyingly enough, she still felt too small for a product of her own imagination.


    The sky above turned orange as Reyansh¡¯s mind painted it, the man himself appearing cross-legged on a floating disk-like platform, the floor of it emblazoned with the sigil of the legendary killing artist Tiamon Mars -- a fist severed from the arm. He opened his Pugnant-golden eyes as he looked out at the barren landscape beyond what their thoughts had made.


    His eyes narrowed. It was obvious that he hated every second he was here, yet he still accompanied her. Why? Noel couldn¡¯t fathom it.


    She didn¡¯t let it bother her, though. When she was in this landscape, she preferred to focus on the stabilizing effect it had on her psyche. The impulses and thoughts that had once been haphazard and intrusive now smoothly flowed in her desired direction. She felt¡­ calm. She felt¡­ human.


    As if she¡¯d been breathing poison her whole life before someone had introduced her to air.


    The intention of this place hadn¡¯t been to serve as an artificial Archive, but it worked well enough for that purpose. This virtual realm -- derived from the Garden of the Paradisas -- was a secure location through which members of their organization could meet and plan at leisure. No fear of eavesdropping. When you were an enemy of the entire world, a second of secrecy became worth as much as gold.


    It was called the Shadow Garden, and it was her own creation.


    NOW JOINING: SMITH


    Noel shuddered as the calm quiet she¡¯d been enjoying was interrupted. An ocean of black ink began to encroach from the west, the amorphous body of Smith shifting and changing to fill every nook and cranny. His head -- the wrinkled countenance of a kindly grandfather, blown up to unreasonable proportions -- wriggled free of the black mass.


    "Oh, Miss Edmunds," Smith cooed, looking down on Noel from afar. "It¡¯s been too long since we met face-to-face. How you¡¯ve grown!"


    Noel rolled her eyes. "Our avatars here are an aggregate of our real selves and our self-image. Minor changes like that don¡¯t mean anything."


    But she had grown.


    Smith¡¯s colossal gaze slid up to Reyansh. "And good Mister Patel, always a pleasure."


    Reyansh simply glared, nodded and grunted. Noel was fairly sure she could count the number of times he¡¯d spoken to fellow members of Darkstar on her fingers. It didn¡¯t seem to bother Smith, though.


    "As taciturn as ever," the thing nodded sagely. "But that in itself has its charm. Every day, I grow more confident in my decision to recruit you two."


    He chuckled, and the ocean that was his body rippled in sympathy.


    To be perfectly honest, Noel had little idea what Smith actually was. He wasn¡¯t a normal human, to be sure, but he didn¡¯t seem to be a Scurrant either. A Scurrant couldn¡¯t appear and disappear wherever he liked, oozing from the walls and floors. A Scurrant couldn¡¯t change his shape from moment to moment. A Scurrant couldn¡¯t take a man and¡­


    ¡­a skull pushed its way out of the side of Smith¡¯s head, silently screaming, until a black tendril firmly pushed it far below the surface.


    "My apologies," Smith chuckled again. "Dear Hans has been restless lately. It was not me, it was my food. It just came up to say hello, and now it¡¯s gone back down below. Ohoho!"


    Noel honestly had no idea what to say to that, so she just nodded.


    NOW JOINING: MCCOY


    A lighter flicked on, four times.


    With the first flick, McCoy herself appeared. A tall woman, wrapped from head to toe in bandages, a red trenchcoat and fedora draped over her form.


    With the second flick, a city appeared around her. An endless labyrinth of streets and alleyways, indistinct neon signs burning at the eyeballs.


    With the third flick, the sun was awoken. A mighty bleeding sphere, sending red rain down towards the landscape McCoy had created.


    A fourth flick -- and with it, McCoy finally lit the cigarette in her other hand. She did not smoke it. This was nothing but muscle memory.


    "Have we started?" McCoy asked, her cold voice curiously clear through the bandages around her mouth.


    Smith shook his head. "We still await the Knight and our King. There¡¯s also our guest."


    "The UAP guy?" McCoy snorted. "I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll make us wait for him."


    "Ah, don¡¯t say such things," Smith replied. "Our King is quite fond of him."


    Noel cleared her throat, nodding to McCoy. It was a strange sensation -- despite the great virtual distances that separated them, she could see and hear everyone else in the Shadow Garden as if they were face-to-face. "Good evening, comrade. I trust your work goes well?"


    "Hm?" McCoy grunted. "Yeah, sure."


    Noel frowned.


    "Anyway," McCoy turned back to Smith, ignoring Noel. "Are you sure Rhodes can even use this thing? He¡¯s hardly --"


    NOW JOINING: THE ABYSSAL KNIGHT


    "Shut up."


    Air shivered. Ground shook. Noel whipped her head around to behold the new arrival.


    The environment the Abyssal Knight had created around himself was barely distinguishable from the void that had spawned it. An endless expanse of black, pressing down on everything within it, with only occasional and distant flashes of gold to entertain the notions of distance and existence.


    It was tempting to see the Abyssal Knight, slumped over in the middle of that darkness, and think of him as a corpse. That was¡­ until you saw his eyes, the only trace of his ravaged face visible behind his helmet. Those eyes blazed with purple Aether, and burned with unending hatred.


    This was not a comrade Noel felt safe to greet. This was hardly one that she felt safe looking at. In the distance, Reyansh shifted uncomfortably.


    "What d-d-do you w-want?" the Knight growled -- his stuttering sounding more like a glitching videograph than any expression of anxiety. "Where is t-this?"


    "We have come to hear from our King, good Knight," Smith informed him from up on high. "This is the Shadow Garden, an ingenious creation of Miss Edmunds, where we may speak freely."


    "Loud¡­" the Knight growled, his armour shuddering as he lay on the ground. Lounging there like that, he almost reminded Noel of a lion -- a feral, diseased lion.


    NOW JOINING: ABSTRACT


    Noel frowned at the unfamiliar name. This wasn¡¯t one of the comrades she¡¯d been introduced to. Was this the person from the UAP that had been helping them, then? Someone named Abstract?


    She saw the sculpted world before the sculptor.


    Stark white, sterile white. A laboratory without seams or boundaries, filled with floating cubes. Atop one of those cubes, as if it were a table, were spread out countless instruments and samples that Noel could barely grasp the purpose of.


    Blank white fingers took a test-tube and raised it to an eyeless face, clearly inspecting it. The white dust inside quivered in response.


    "I hope you don¡¯t mind," Abstract said, shaking the tube slightly. "But I¡¯ve brought some of my work with me. If you do mind, that¡¯s irrelevant -- I¡¯ll continue my work anyway."


    Abstract¡¯s form was a complete blank -- no face, no body, just a vague white haze. Noel scowled. That went beyond the influence self-image could have on the Shadow Garden. Somehow, this person had meddled with her program. That was supposed to be impossible.


    Smith nodded to the new arrival. "Welcome, my friend. This is our first time meeting, but --"


    "Pardon, but I¡¯m still speaking," Abstract said, returning the test-tube to its holder. "Ordinarily, I wouldn¡¯t lower myself to speak to peons in the first place, but -- my, oh my -- you are an eclectic bunch, aren¡¯t you?"


    He took a scalpel from the table and pointed it upwards, Smith¡¯s face reflected in the perfect sheen of the blade.


    "The familiar of the King of Darkstar¡­"


    The scalpel turned to behold McCoy.


    "...the mortal remains of the great detective October Jones¡­"


    Finally, it reflected the distant and seething Abyssal Knight.


    "...and the disgraced Samson Rhodes. Why, I feel as though I¡¯m in a museum."


    Three sets of eyes glared daggers at Abstract, but if he did notice it -- and he definitely did -- he certainly didn¡¯t care. Instead, he just pointed his pinkie to indicate Noel and Reyansh. Noel frowned as she felt the attention of the interloper fall upon her.


    "These two, however, I must confess I do not know," Abstract said. "Such a rarity! You were the first to connect to this channel, weren¡¯t you, girl? I take it you¡¯re the architect of the program? It¡¯s passable work -- I¡¯d give you a glowing review if you were a toddler, although you may well be, given your height."


    Noel¡¯s frown deepened.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Still, Abstract went on. "Does the fact that the boy¡¯s environment lingers so close to your own mean he feels more responsibility for you than loyalty towards Darkstar? Is that really alright? When it comes to such a close knit group of maniacs, one would think that fanaticism is a --"


    "L-Loud." the Abyssal Knight grunted.


    Abstract turned his head to regard him. "Hm? What was that?"


    "LOUD!"


    The Abyssal Knight crossed the world in an instant, his rusted blade gouging a rift into the fabric of space. Abstract barely had time to raise a hand before he was suddenly -- and messily -- smashed against the wall, gore splattering across the sterile environment he¡¯d constructed. His head, barely intact, twitched against the edge of the sword.


    "Rabid beast," he sneered. "Are you simple? Injuring me in this space is meaningless. Even if this was the real world, an injury such as this would be --"


    The Knight turned his blade, crushing Abstract¡¯s head against the wall. A moment later, the indistinct man reappeared behind the hulking warrior. He spread his arms wide in contemptible exasperation.


    "Understand now?" he said. "This is not reality. Killing me here bears no --"


    Another swing of the sword gored him over a kilometer. Abstract appeared again before the blood could finish flying.


    "Listen to me, ignoramus --"


    Another swing, another death.


    Noel couldn¡¯t allow this sort of chaos to continue in her Shadow Garden. She cleared her throat, stuffing down the instinctive fear she felt when she looked at the Abyssal Knight -- and shouted: "Knight! Down!"


    The Abyssal Knight showed no sign that he had heard her. He simply continued to swing his sword, obliterating Abstract again and again like a game of whack-a-mole. Fine. Noel had taken a situation like this into account. She had countermeasures.


    Raising her hand, she snapped her fingers -- and immediately, massive chains fell into existence. All it took was a jab of her finger with intent and -- like loyal serpents -- they lunged towards the form of the Knight. With these, she could at least make him stay still for the meeting. That was well within her --


    I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead


    THE KNIGHT NOTICED HER


    I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead


    He looked at her, one eye blazing lethally. He roared. It was more like the roar of a paleo-beast than a man, powerful enough to generate air pressure all on its own. Noel noticed her body¡¯s response as though she stood a distance from it. Her hands trembled. Her throat hurt. Her eyes burnt.


    The chains hesitated in the air for a single moment. A fatal moment.


    She knew, logically, that what Abstract said was true. Nothing the Knight did to her here meant anything. She couldn¡¯t even feel pain in the Shadow Garden. An injury was nothing but temporary damage to an avatar she was puppeteering.


    But still¡­ in that moment, she was certain she was about to die.


    The Abyssal Knight went to move, went to run, went to kill -- but a wall of black oil surged forth to block his path.


    "Cease," Smith hissed, face contorted inhumanly by anger, his blank white eyes staring up at the sky. "Our King is come."


    NOW JOINING: NIAIN


    A black void devoured the sky. No, not a void -- a sphere, perfect and empty. A ceaseless shadow. A dark star.


    Below it, as though the structure were a gift he was presenting them, floated Niain. His cloak billowed out in space, dwarfing him like the wings of a great bat. His pale face smiled out at them from the center of the mass like a terminal nucleus.


    "In truth," he chuckled. "I was here from the beginning. I was just curious to see how all my good friends would parlay with each other."


    His black eyes flicked over to the Abyssal Knight, far down below.


    "Down," Niain snapped coldly.


    Immediately, the Knight collapsed to his hands and knees. Blood sprayed out from every gap in his armour, coating the floor around him, more and more flying free even as he was pressed down into the ground. The scream of pain and frustration he let out was deafening at first, but -- with just one further glare from Niain -- it was lowered to a hush.


    "Kill you¡­" the Knight wheezed, trying in vain to look up at the King of Darkstar. "K-Kill you¡­ I¡¯ll kill you¡­ kill you¡­"


    Niain ignored him, instead turning his head to regard the reconstituted Abstract. "Haha, my apologies for Rhodes¡¯ conduct, my friend. He¡¯s the temperamental sort, as I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve figured out. The two you just pointed out are Noel Edmunds and Reyansh Patel, if you¡¯re still curious. They¡¯re our most recent recruits."


    What, he¡¯s allowed to be anonymous, but we¡¯re not?


    "But enough pleasantries," Niain smiled. "I¡¯m sure you have plenty of news from the UAP, right? How¡¯s my dear friend Pierrot doing?"


    Abstract had no eyes to roll, but Noel recognised the body language. "I really have no clue why you¡¯re so obsessed with a man you¡¯ve never met, Niain. Jaime Pierrot is as much of a dullard as he¡¯s ever been. The man continues to transparently pull in allies -- the Tsarita of Andrust, Nebula Two, the new Vantablack Squad¡­ he¡¯s on friendly terms with Shen Xiurong, now, as well. In terms of sheer dumb force, he may well hold the advantage right now."


    "I see," Niain sighed. "Well, I¡¯m glad to hear that is doing well, too. Don¡¯t worry: we¡¯ll be making our own moves soon enough. Oh, Knight?"


    He crooked his finger up, and the Abyssal Knight suddenly rose to his feet, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The warrior glared up at Niain, his breath heaving.


    "You must be patient with our new friend, Rhodes," Niain chided like a gentle parent. "His research holds the key to our endgame, after all."


    The Abyssal Knight just hissed in response.


    Beneath his armour, opened up by the ordeal he¡¯d just endured, Noel could see countless tiny purple dots moving -- shining out from his tattered veins. One of the secrets to his strength: tiny Aether batteries, coursing through his blood, boosting his capacity¡­ and warping his reason.


    A shudder tried to go down her spine, but she prevented it. She wasn¡¯t afraid.


    "You have a practiced flattery, Niain," Abstract chuckled, putting a finger to absent lips. "Although I can¡¯t say I dislike it."


    "What can I say, haha?" Niain chuckled. "Flattery is my favourite skill, just below waiting -- and sadly, the time for that is almost at an end."


    He turned his head to McCoy, still strolling through the streets of her city of blood.


    "We need to make sure PALATINE moves as we want," Niain commanded. "You¡¯ll go and make contact with it, McCoy. As fellow Awakenings, perhaps you can establish a rapport?"


    McCoy snorted. "Jackass."


    "Oh dear," Niain laughed. "It seems I¡¯ve said something ignorant. You have a question, Noel?"


    This time a shiver really did go down Noel¡¯s spine. She hadn¡¯t even opened her mouth yet.


    "Uh, yeah," she said, her halting voice carrying over eternity. "You say to make contact with PALATINE, but that thing¡¯s with the Absurd Weapons Lab, right? Their security¡¯s going to be top-notch, and we can¡¯t get discovered, can we? Shouldn¡¯t I help? I got us onto the Shesha, so¡­"


    "Not to worry," Niain replied, still smiling. "The Absurd Weapons Lab¡¯s attention is split at the moment -- to tell the truth, they¡¯re more focused on their upcoming collaboration with Erica del Sed. Besides, our McCoy is hardly helpless. I have faith in her."


    His eyes flicked back down to the Abyssal Knight.


    "Rhodes," he went on. "You¡¯ll stand by on Yutra V and await my signal to light the spark. Even one such as you should be able to manage that, hm?"


    Abstract spoke up. "Yutra V?" he purred. "That¡¯s right on the border. Planning some mischief, Niain?"


    "Oh, but of course."


    "Me, sire?" Smith¡¯s voice reverberated through his mass. "What purpose would you grant me?"


    Niain scratched his cheek with a finger. "Joel Jal is almost fully digested, right?"


    Smith nodded somberly. "I¡¯m afraid so, my king. It¡¯ll be a shame to lose the power of consciousness dilation¡­ if I could take my own life in apology, I would surely do so. What punishment do you instead wish to bestow?"


    "Well," Niain waved a vague hand. "These things happen. It opens up a slot, anyway, so go eat the Crown after Dragan Hadrien¡¯s victory-by-default. Then you¡¯ll stick with me for the remainder of the Dawn Contest."


    A bright pink blush spread across Smith¡¯s cheeks, and he nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes, your grace, yes! As you say! To bask in your presence is far greater a pleasure than one such as I could ever hope for! My creator, my king, my god!"


    "Okay."


    Noel crossed her legs, sitting up in her marble throne. "What about me? What do I do?"


    Niain glanced over at her. "Does your infiltration of the Shesha remain complete?"


    "Of course."


    His smile widened, just a tad. "Ahaha. Then you¡¯ve already done what you need to do. Until the time comes, you may indulge in the luxury of waiting." He didn¡¯t even bother addressing Reyansh. To him, the warrior was nothing more than an extension of Noel¡¯s presence.


    "Sure," she nodded.


    "And with that¡­" Niain said, smiling benevolently down on them all, his eyes closed. "We¡¯ve said all that we need to. The next time we meet, we¡¯ll have many more victories to boast of¡­"


    His eyes opened, and they were the abyss.


    "...and the dark star will loom ever closer."


    CLOSING CONNECTION


    As the Shadow Garden peeled itself away from his consciousness, Zephyr Pandershi opened his eyes.


    How fascinating. That meeting had felt like it had lasted several minutes, but in reality had barely kept them occupied for a second. Time dilation inside the Shadow Garden itself. Niain¡¯s familiar had mentioned possessing the ability of ¡¯consciousness dilation¡¯ -- had the Cogitant girl reverse-engineered that ability when designing the Shadow Garden? Zephyr would have to investigate the possibility himself.


    For now, though, ¡¯Abstract¡¯ had his true work to get back to.


    He rose from his seat, striding across his laboratory, white coat swishing around his feet as he went. The space was cavernous, but not a single shadow was allowed here -- stark light devoured all. Countless workstations lined the walls, each of them manned, but they were just minor distractions. The true stars of this laboratory were held in massive glass cylinders, six in all -- like the pillars of a temple.


    Within them, towering growths of the White Panacea twitched and undulated, red specks of matter drifting through them.


    As Zephyr passed the glass, he took a grateful glimpse of his own reflection -- at a perfect body kept in the youthful prime of its life. White hair cascaded down his shoulders, the red tips a stark contrast to his sparkling blue eyes. For a moment, he noted with distaste an imperfection in the angle of the cheekbones -- but it was a simple matter to adjust them with his index fingers and lock them into a superior position.


    He smiled at the sight. What a genius he was.


    Alone in his laboratory, he stood before the window -- looking out on the sunless sky of Nehr M¨¹t, his dismal and depressing homeworld and dominion. Be that as it may, he was grateful for it -- a place distant from the noise of the galaxy to work his craft. A world and people that existed for his convenience alone. What more could one ask for?


    His communicator beeped in his ear. "Yes?" he asked.


    "Director," his assistant replied, calm and placid as Zephyr enjoyed. "We¡¯ve received word from Shen Xiurong. Your presence is requested for a meeting of the Governing Council."


    "Of course," Zephyr chuckled. "Nothing but meetings these days."


    "Sir?"


    "A joke. You may laugh. Prepare my shuttle and entourage -- tell the Lord Mayor I¡¯ll set out for Serendipity immediately."


    He didn¡¯t bother waiting for a response, turning off the communicator and turning back towards his primary workstation -- towards the project he¡¯d been pursuing before being pulled into the Shadow Garden. It was a shame: he¡¯d have liked to have been able to premier his new creation at the next meeting of the Governing Council. For the time being, it seemed he¡¯d still be a lone attendant.


    There, floating in a tank of clear liquid, was a figure. Its features made it impossible to tell whether it was male or female, young or old, but a distinct sense of power emanated from the being¡¯s body all the same. White-and-red hair billowed around the form in flat strips like ribbons -- and, even without a consciousness piloting it, it was staring straight ahead -- a stare crystal blue.


    Zephyr looked with satisfaction into his own eyes.


    NEBULA FOUR


    ¡¯Titan White¡¯


    "The Fairy Prince"


    Nebula of the Pandershi Foundation


    Oh, he truly was a genius. S§×arch* The ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 390:13.48: The First Steps Upon A Bleeding Path

    It was said that the Shepherdess appeared again and again throughout the history of the Supremacy, like a ghost, or a specter, or a patron angel of the nation itself. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The warden of the Supremacy.


    When the Supremacy faced an existential threat, she would come. With a quiet hand and a sharp blade, the threat would be cut down before most even became aware of it. Prospective traitors vanished. Foolish Supremes had their reigns cut short. Enemies found themselves helpless.


    She¡¯d even been on Elysian Fields. How much had she interfered there? It was impossible to know.


    In truth, though, she was no ghost, no specter, and certainly no angel. She was one of the Zeilan Morhan -- the ancient precursors to the Special Officers, who¡¯d fought together during the Thousand Revolutions. The Blind Man, the Umbrant Avenger, even the man who¡¯d created the Sapphire Star and discovered Aether to begin with¡­ all of them had been her close comrades. She was something out of history books.


    Through some ability or tic, however, she¡¯d managed to outlive history and survive into the modern day. For all that time, she¡¯d been carrying on the will of the First Supreme. Azez Tazir -- the one they called the Absolute.


    In short¡­ she was the one who maintained the shape of this world.


    Ruth listened to Wu Ming¡¯s story quietly, lying back on a moth-bitten couch, her eyes fixed firmly on the filthy ceiling. It wasn¡¯t a ceiling she recognised. This whole world felt like she didn¡¯t recognise it anymore.


    Ellis. Alice. Rex.


    She tried to stuff the mantra down, but it would only go so far. That rage still boiled within her body, like it had replaced her blood. She could turn it cold, but it grew no less intense -- and no less vindictive.


    Right now, she wasn¡¯t in her right mind. Ruth was very well aware of that. The fact that she was just accepting Wu Ming¡¯s presence was proof enough. He¡¯d infiltrated her inner circle for months, pretending to be Roman Hitch. He¡¯d lied to her and tricked her. She should have been furious at him.


    But she wasn¡¯t. All of her fury was reserved for Rae Ruditia¡­ for the Shepherdess.


    "Thanks for the info," Ruth mumbled as she sat up, her voice curiously calm even to her own ears. "See ya around."


    Wu Ming raised an eyebrow as he watched her go. She¡¯d woken up in this ruined apartment building, the only source of warmth being a weird string-campfire that Ming had created, so she could only assume that this was some impromptu base he¡¯d found. There wouldn¡¯t be any security to stop her leaving.


    "You just gonna head out?" Wu Ming called out, sitting cross-legged next to the campfire. "What¡¯re you gonna do?"


    Ruth looked back at him, the light from the scarlet flames flickering across her tired face. What was she gonna do? That was an easy one. She knew the answer to that.


    "I¡¯m gonna kill her," she replied. "The Shepherdess."


    "Just like that? You think you¡¯ve got what it takes? She¡¯s a monster who¡¯s lived a thousand years, you know."


    Ruth blinked. "Then she¡¯ll stop at a thousand." She turned to leave¡­ but a barrier of string bound the door tight.


    Sighing, she looked back over her shoulder at Wu Ming. Was this really going to turn into a fight? She didn¡¯t have the energy for this.


    He was just smiling at her, one finger raised into the air -- a finger connected to many strings. He twirled the digit, and the barrier faded from sight.


    "What?" Ruth snapped.


    "I gotta say, Blaine," Ming chuckled. "I like that attitude of yours. She¡¯ll stop at a thousand! Yeah, yeah. Seven outta ten, maybe eight. No, seven definitely. Wanna know where you¡¯re losing the three?"


    Ruth stared.


    Ming seemed to take that as a ¡¯yes¡¯. He lowered his finger. "As you are right now," he said coldly. "The Shepherdess would slaughter you. One-hundred percent."


    "I wasn¡¯t doing that bad before."


    "She was wanting to keep you alive. You heard her crazy-talk: she¡¯s got it in her head that you¡¯re her best bet for the next Supreme. Most she was willing to do back there was injure you, and even that was only so you¡¯d use it to grow stronger."


    He clicked his tongue.


    "If it came down to a situation where it was her life or yours," Ming concluded. "She¡¯d kill you straight away. Definitely. The fact that didn¡¯t happen means she doesn¡¯t consider you a personal threat."


    Icy anger clenched Ruth¡¯s hands into fists, tight enough that she drew blood from the palms. Her eyes, hollow gold, glared down at the sitting Wu Ming. His words had carved themselves into her heart like the blade of a knife.


    "What, then?" she growled, a trail of red Aether crawling up her arm. "I just give up? Let things go the way she wants?"


    "Oh, no no no, honey!" Wu Ming waved his hands, a mischievous smirk on his lips. "Not that at all. I said you have no chance as you are now¡­"


    He winked.


    "We just need to make sure that, when the time comes, you¡¯re an entirely different animal. And a little birdie tells me I¡¯m not a half-bad teacher. How about it?"


    Ruth blinked.


    Serena blinked through the soot and panicked tears as she pushed through the crowd, making her way to the apartment -- no, to the scene of the crime.


    She and Bruno had been sitting in the hospital, watching over Annatrice, when the news had broken. She hadn¡¯t believed it. She didn¡¯t believe it. There was no way. No way, no way, no way.


    Serena! Bruno called out, his voice distant. Calm down! Slow down. We need to think about this carefully. Don¡¯t make a scene.


    But right now, there wasn¡¯t anything Serena could make but a scene. Finally, after bulldozing her way through the crowd, she arrived at the security tape cordoning off the hotel. She could see the room they¡¯d stayed in from the outside of the building -- a burnt-out husk, smoke drifting away from it.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Ma¡¯am," one of the armoured security officers manning the barrier raised a menacing hand. "Stand back."


    Serena didn¡¯t move back, but she didn¡¯t go any further either -- that was apparently good enough for the guard. She just stood there, breath heaving, as she looked up at the smoke. Bruno was right. They had to think about this properly. She had to think about this properly.


    Her mind ran over the situation the news had described.


    The SilverEye reporter Rae Ruditia had been murdered. What was left of her body was up in that room right now, clawed and torn and burnt apart, a grisly sight. The pictures they¡¯d shown had been nauseating.


    After murdering Ruditia, the killer had engaged her bodyguards in a battle that had taken them through a nearby construction site and streets. Several civilians had been killed, and the property damage had been immense. After finishing off the bodyguards, members of the security firm Road and Restorossi, the murderer had fled into the night.


    But that was bullcrap. Even if that had been what happened, there was no way the murderer was who they were saying it was. There was no way. Just no way.


    Ruth Blaine would never do such a thing.


    Her face was plastered all over the news, revealing that the co-owner of the company was in actuality one of the terrorists from the Elysian Fields Incident. A surviving member of Regiment RED who had struck in the heart of Supremacy territory. Right now, public enemy number one.


    Serena let out a shaky breath. Okay. She¡¯d thought about it properly -- and she knew exactly what to do.


    Yeah?


    Yeah. She had to find Ruth.


    Uh¡­ I could have told you that.


    "But," she continued. "I have an idea."


    Muzazi¡¯s mouth was a thin line as he scrolled through the news article. After finally getting out of the hospital, he¡¯d expected -- hoped -- to have some time to relax and reset before the next match in the Dawn Contest. Of course, that didn¡¯t seem like it would be happening.


    Ruth Blaine was on Azum-Ha. The woman he¡¯d fought on Caelus Breck, the woman he¡¯d fought alongside on Panacea. One of Zachariah Esmerelda¡¯s proteges.


    But why?


    It didn¡¯t take a genius. She was working as one of Hadrien¡¯s agents. No doubt the del Sed twins were lurking somewhere on the planet as well. Rae Ruditia had obviously presented some sort of obstacle to Hadrien, and so he¡¯d ordered her eliminated. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time he¡¯d had someone killed to ease his way through the Dawn Contest.


    There¡¯d be a next move, and Muzazi had to be ready for it. He took stock of the situation.


    Morgan was just as grim as Muzazi, watching the news on the videograph, arms crossed. Ionir lingered by the door, a hulking figure of wood ready to halt any intruders. Marcus sat atop the windowsill, relentlessly polishing his pistol, blue eyes calm.


    Ash del Duran had been posted to guard the exterior of the apartment building -- and needless to say, Anya Hapgrass and Endo Silversaint were staying by Aclima¡¯s side. Gregori¡¯s current location was a mystery. Most likely he was meeting with Toll to report on Muzazi¡¯s activities.


    That was fine, though. Muzazi was surrounded by allies he could trust right now. He¡¯d have felt less secure having Anya, Endo and Gregori near him right now.


    Morgan spoke up, eyes still fixed on the videograph. "I¡¯ve been hearing rumours," he muttered.


    "Yeah?" Marcus looked up from his gun.


    Morgan nodded. "Yeah. They¡¯re saying there were sightings of someone else at that construction site -- a powerful Aether-user."


    "Well," Marcus shrugged. "Apparently, that Road and Restorossi bunch weren¡¯t half-bad. Blaine tore up half a district chasing after that Alice girl."


    "No," Morgan shook his head. "They¡¯re saying¡­ they¡¯re saying it was someone who used strings."


    It didn¡¯t take a genius. Muzazi looked up from his script at Morgan, eyes widening. "Do you think it¡¯s him?"


    Wu Ming, the Fourth Contender, the Clown of the Supremacy -- one of the three who had perished at Elysian Fields. Apparently, he¡¯d even betrayed the Supremacy during the battle. There¡¯d been reports of his body¡­ but Muzazi supposed reports could be wrong.


    If they were, though, it meant that Wu Ming had been allowing his prot¨¦g¨¦e to think him dead for the last two years.


    Morgan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It¡­ I¡¯ll be honest, it sounds like something he¡¯d do. But why would he be going after Ruth Blaine, of all people?"


    You fought alongside her in the battle, MorganNacht, Ionir rumbled from the corner. She was strong. Perhaps WuMing sought out that strength to challenge himself. It would not be the first time such a thing has happened.


    Muzazi nodded bitterly to himself. He knew very well how far the Clown would go for an interesting fight. The mission back on Nocturnus had been manipulated by Wu Ming, too, so he could lure out Darkstar¡¯s Abyssal Knight.


    "Anyway," Morgan said, straightening up, hand resting on his sword. "This is an opportunity, commander. If Wu Ming was on Azum-Ha yesterday, then he¡¯ll still be here today. If we can find him, I can bring him over to our side. If we have the Fourth Contender in the Eight Phases, we won¡¯t have to worry about petty attacks ever again."


    Marcus raised an eyebrow from the corner. "Someone getting kicked out, then? It¡¯s the Eight Phases, if I remember right."


    "It¡¯s all arbitrary," Morgan waved a hand. "It used to be the Seven Blades. We can just change it again and make it the Nine Knives or something."


    Muzazi frowned. "Do you not like the current name?"


    "It¡¯s not that, I just --"


    "I quite enjoy the moon theming. Do you not?"


    "No, I like it, it¡¯s just¡­ this is an opportunity we can¡¯t pass up." Morgan stepped forward. "We¡¯re doing well in this thing, Muzazi, but you¡¯re running yourself raw in the process. Once you beat Dorothy Eiro, do you really think you¡¯ll be in a fit state to take on the next opponent anytime soon? It¡¯s a miracle you¡¯re not back in that hospital bed. We need to take every advantage we can get."


    Once he defeated Dorothy Eiro. Not if he defeated her. Muzazi smirked ruefully: his second-in-command certainly had a lot of faith in him. That said, though¡­ his eyes narrowed as he looked down at the script in his hands.


    These Nebula are really very demanding, aren¡¯t they?


    "It will need to wait, all the same," he finally said as he rose to his feet, tucking his script back into his pocket. "I¡¯ve just received an invitation -- it seems Miss Dorothy Eiro wishes to meet with me."


    He turned to stride out of the room --


    -- only to come face to face with Gregori Hazzard. Instinctively, Muzazi¡¯s hand went to his side -- to a sword that he no longer carried. How had Gregori gotten in here without anyone noticing? When had he done that? Why had he done that?


    He didn¡¯t trust Gregori nearly enough to consider betrayal improbable. If that bothered the man, though, he didn¡¯t show it. He just rolled those crimson eyes of his¡­ the ones that looked so much like hers.


    "Try not to have a heart attack before your match," Gregori said flatly. "Relax. I¡¯ve come with a message."


    Morgan frowned, lingering behind Muzazi. "What kind of message?"


    Gregori didn¡¯t so much look at Morgan, instead keeping his gaze focused upwards -- locked directly onto Muzazi¡¯s own. "A girl came looking for you at one of the other locations. Wanted me to pass along a message. Asked to set up a meeting with you."


    Muzazi sighed. "I¡¯m aware Dorothy Eiro wishes to meet with me. Join up with Ash and --"


    "Nah," Gregori smirked. "She wasn¡¯t part of the Eiro camp -- she said her name was Serena del Sed."

 Chapter 391:13.49: Into the Fold

    The image stared back at Muzazi from the script laid on the table. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the script¡¯s owner.


    "So," said Dorothy Eiro. "How do you want to do this?"


    The two of them were sitting on the balcony at a rooftop caf¨¦ called Miyure, located in a fairly up-market sky-district of Azum-Ha -- and, for the most part, they were alone. Apart from the staff, who¡¯d been sworn to secrecy, the only other people in the caf¨¦ were those watching from the furthest possible table. Muzazi honestly didn¡¯t know why they even bothered with the pretense of distance.


    Both he and Dorothy knew who they were, after all. Jamilu Aguta and Rufus von Winterburn. The Nebula from the Unified Alliance of Planets. Their secret sponsors. Their secret treason.


    Dorothy stirred her cup of tea with a spoon, soft blue Aether crawling down the surface of the utensil.


    "Stir," she commanded, letting it go as she looked up at Muzazi.


    The spoon continued stirring as though still clutched by an invisible hand. Was that Dorothy Eiro trying to intimidate him with her ability, or had she simply gotten so used to using All-Word that she deployed it for such a small task? Muzazi couldn¡¯t say -- this wasn¡¯t a woman he understood yet.


    Many Special Officers obtained reputations in their times. Ash del Duran was known for his mastery of the killing arts, Lunalette de Fleur for his brutality, PALATINE for its inhumanity and overwhelming malevolence. It was a rare Special Officer that garnered a reputation for benevolence.


    The kindest Special Officer.


    The woman who¡¯d ended the plague on Firocia, the famine on Drengel 9, who¡¯d brought the Indivisible Shredder in without shedding a drop of blood.


    Looking at Dorothy Eiro, could Muzazi imagine all that? It was difficult. More than anything, Dorothy Eiro looked normal. If he hadn¡¯t already known who she was, he¡¯d have been hard-pressed to recognise her as a Special Officer by sight.


    Black hair tied into twin braids. Freckles lining her cheeks beneath inquisitive brown eyes. A blue-and-white polka-dot dress. Worn-down red shoes that had seen their share of steps. She didn¡¯t even seem to have a weapon on her. Was it concealed? Or did she just not need it?


    She blinked at him. "You like to stare a lot, huh?"


    Muzazi took a deep breath. "From what I understand, our friends over there have been providing you with some assistance as well."


    "Yep," Dorothy nodded.


    "So, really, we¡¯re meeting at their behest."


    Again, she nodded, a lopsided smile on her face. "That¡¯s about it."


    Muzazi sighed, running a hand over his face, wooden fingers rough against his cheek. "I suppose I don¡¯t need to be a genius to see the obvious move here."


    They both spoke at the same time.


    "You should surrender."


    Dorothy blinked. "Ah¡­" she said. "Well, I was kinda expecting that, but still¡­ no way I can convince you otherwise?"


    Muzazi shook his head. "It¡¯s my ardent wish to become Supreme. I won¡¯t give that up without a fight. I assume it¡¯s the same for you."


    Dorothy leaned back in her chair, hands on her lap. "That¡¯s about the long and short of it. I¡¯ve got a dream of my own, and there¡¯s no way I can achieve it without becoming Supreme."


    "What dream is that, if you don¡¯t mind my asking?"


    Dorothy smiled sadly. "This world is broken. I want to fix it. I don¡¯t see any way of doing that without rising to the very top."


    The same, huh?


    "My intentions for becoming Supreme are similar," Muzazi said insistently. "However, if we fight in the Dawn Contest, there¡¯s a good chance the injuries the winner sustains will impede them in the next match. Their chances of overall victory will be reduced. If you agree to surrender, I can pass to the next match in a better condition than the other participants."


    Slowly, Dorothy shook her head, that sad smile still on her lips. It occurred to Muzazi that she seemed to have come alone. Muzazi had posted the Phases loyal to him around the building, but he¡¯d seen no sign of the Eiro party.


    Was there even an Eiro party, or was this woman just fighting the Contest all by herself?


    "You say that, Mr. Muzazi," Dorothy said. "But if we¡¯re going by that logic, I¡¯m physically in a better state than you right now, aren¡¯t I? Wouldn¡¯t it make more sense for you to surrender to me?"


    She wasn¡¯t wrong. As a long-range fighter, she¡¯d mostly avoided injury in her previous matches -- while Muzazi had suffered much the opposite. He¡¯d been sprinting since he¡¯d started, whereas she¡¯d managed to get by jogging.


    Even so, though¡­


    He couldn¡¯t bring himself to trust her, to trust her words. She said she wanted to fix the world. Muzazi knew what that meant to him, but what did it mean to her? Even if he asked, and even if she told him, could he trust that answer? He¡¯d had no shortage of false allies: the face of Baltay Kojirough floated to the top of his mind.


    Excuses for stubbornness.


    It wasn¡¯t just that, Muzazi knew. Even if he knew 100% that Dorothy Eiro¡¯s goal was the same as his own, he couldn¡¯t imagine surrendering. Even if their ideals were identical, even if the other person had a better chance of success¡­


    They both spoke at the same time.


    "I can¡¯t trust my dream to anyone else."


    Far in the back, Muzazi saw Jamilu sigh, saw Jamilu look away. This wasn¡¯t the result he¡¯d hoped for, either. Muzazi offered the tiniest apologetic smile to his sponsor.


    Dorothy canceled the infusion on her spoon, and the stirring stopped immediately. She pulled it out of the cup, tapping it twice against the rim.


    "I guess that¡¯s it, then," she said, her brown eyes distant.


    "Yes," Muzazi nodded. "I guess that¡¯s it."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    "Tell me again why you want to meet our commander," said Gregori Hazzard, dull red eyes glaring at the girl before him. "Don¡¯t bother lying. I can tell."


    This wasn¡¯t an interrogation room -- no, it¡¯d be more accurate to say this wasn¡¯t intended as an interrogation room. No doubt it had been intended as storage space, as somewhere to keep goods on a temporary basis, as one room among hundreds in the great resource-caches of Azum-Ha. An anonymous door in an anonymous warehouse.


    Right now, though? Right now it was an interrogation room.


    Serena del Sed scowled back at Gregori from the chair she¡¯d been tied to, hissing Neverwire bound tight around her body. Her appearance had been a surprise, to be sure, but where she¡¯d ended up obviously hadn¡¯t been -- to anyone except for her, of course.


    Seriously? Showing up at the enemy¡¯s doorstep, giving yourself up, and asking for a private meeting? She was lucky to even be alive.


    Still, Gregori mused. Del Sed, huh? There¡¯s a coincidence.


    "I told you already," Serena del Sed snapped. "I¡¯ll only talk to Atoy Muzazi."


    "And why exactly should I allow that?" Gregori said, circling her, hands in his pockets. "You used to work with Esmerelda, right? Rebels against the Supremacy. I wouldn¡¯t put it past you to try and kill the commander the second he shows his face."


    "If I did that, I¡¯d die right after," Serena replied. "It¡¯d be stupid."


    "Maybe you are stupid," Gregori replied, his voice droll. "Who can say?"


    He went to say something else, but before he could, he felt the telltale buzz of the communicator in his ear. Sighing in exasperation, he turned and strode out of the room, sealing the door behind him. Serena del Sed tried to call something after him, but he didn¡¯t care to listen.


    "Sir," he said into the communicator the second the door closed. "Hazzard reporting."


    Toll¡¯s gruff voice came back: "Hazzard. Is this line secure?"


    "Sure is, sir," Gregori replied, pacing the walkway as he spoke.


    His Aether ping -- specialized in detecting the shapes of objects more than Aether itself -- showed nothing of concern near him. Military training had helped refine the technique after his transfer. Marie could have just invented new senses to detect enemies with, but a human like Gregori just had to make do.


    "How¡¯s Muzazi doing?" Toll asked. "Will he be in shape for his next match?"


    "I¡¯ve observed he does his best work when near-death," Gregori said, leaning over the railing. "If I were you, sir, I wouldn¡¯t worry about that."


    "My position is maintained solely by the fact that I worry. The Supremacy¡¯s position is maintained solely by the fact that it worries. If it were any way else, this nation would have ended with Piala the Practiced."


    "Apologies, sir, I misspoke. What I meant was that the matter of Muzazi¡¯s health won¡¯t be a problem."


    "I see. I got a report from my man in the GID an hour ago -- from what I understand, Muzazi is currently meeting with Dorothy Eiro. Can you confirm?"


    "I can. They¡¯re both being sponsored by the UAP¡¯s Nebula, so I expect they¡¯re discussing which one of them should surrender."


    "You expect? So you¡¯re not there?"


    "I am not. Muzazi assigned me to guard the base while he¡¯s taking part in this meeting. The usual crowd is accompanying him -- Nacht, Grace, and the Fell Beast. Del Duran, Hapgrass, and Silversaint have been left behind along with myself. He still doesn¡¯t trust me, as he believes I¡¯m spying for you."


    "Well, you are spying for me, son."


    Gregori shrugged, a light smile on his lips. "In that regard, he has good instincts. Still, he trusts me more than Aclima¡¯s goons. Myself and Ash del Duran are trusted with tasks when Muzazi¡¯s inner circle are unavailable. I can worm myself in deeper through those."


    "I see. What sort of timescale would we be looking at?"


    "Difficult to say right now. I may be able to engineer a situation to ingratiate myself with Muzazi further, which should accelerate things some. At the very least, if Muzazi wins the thing and becomes Supreme, I¡¯ll be able to stand by his side."


    "Right-hand man?"


    "That¡¯s¡­ more difficult." Mereloco had failed to eliminate Nacht as Gregori had hoped, and now the boy was wary. He wouldn¡¯t make himself vulnerable to a direct confrontation -- and even if he did, Gregori would likely be suspected of the slaying. No, for the time being, Morgan Nacht couldn¡¯t be touched. "But not impossible."


    "I see. I¡¯ll be closing the channel shortly. Any other activities to report?"


    Gregori glanced back at the room containing Serena del Sed.


    "No, sir," he lied.


    "I see. Call if you need me."


    The communicator clicked off, and Gregori let out a shallow sigh of relief. It wasn¡¯t that he disliked the Ascendant-General -- the man had been something of a mentor to him, after all -- but it was just that he¡¯d be much more comfortable if Toll didn¡¯t exist.


    Gregori Hazzard¡¯s career had taken something of a serpentine path. He¡¯d started as one of the golden generation of Special Officers, alongside legends like Baltay Kojirough and Nigen Rush, but he¡¯d never achieved the same level of notoriety as them. While they burnt with glory, he simmered with quiet competence. It wasn¡¯t an exciting legacy, but it was one the higher-ups could put their trust in.


    And so they¡¯d assigned her to him.


    Marie Hazzard. The last Gene Tyrant living in this world -- or, well, the last they¡¯d known about at the time. She¡¯d taken on an appearance similar to his. She¡¯d taken his name. As far as the rest of the world knew, they were brother and sister, sibling Special Officers fighting against criminals and corruption. Those had been fun times -- fun times that had impacted Gregori deeply¡­ so deeply.


    Seeing who Marie was, seeing what she could do¡­ Once she¡¯d been reassigned, being given her own missions, Gregori just couldn¡¯t go back to his previous career. He¡¯d switched tracks, joining the Supremacy military, quickly climbing the ranks until he became one of Ascendant-General Toll¡¯s personal agents. One of his ¡¯Honest Men¡¯ -- amusingly enough, Gregori supposed that he was now the last ¡¯Honest Man¡¯. What a joke.


    Honest Man¡­ Special Officer¡­ warrior, agent, servant¡­ the more you climbed through life, the more meaningless titles and roles you accumulated, more expectations and limitations. Some people said that life was the accumulation of countless burdens, followed by death -- but Gregori couldn¡¯t abide that idea. To him, the purpose of life should be to shed burdens. To discard everything that displeased you, that weighed you down¡­ until all that remained was the very core of your being.


    The human heart, light as a paper airplane.


    Gregori looked back at the door to the interrogation room, folding his fingers into razor-sharp claws with Paper Moon. He¡¯d said that he¡¯d create a crisis to bring himself closer to Muzazi. Was this the opportunity? Serena del Sed was Aetherless right now. He wouldn¡¯t get a better chance. If he dressed up the scene, he could probably get away with¡­


    Nah. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He unfolded his fingers. That would be a bad move. If he acted right now, it would only be due to a fear of inertia. That was something else he hoped to toss away. So long as he was patient, so long as he was clever, so long as he chose his chances well¡­ he¡¯d shed those burdens.


    He¡¯d pry open his own chest, and pull his heart free from its humanity.

 Chapter 392:13.50: The Flower of Evil

    "It¡¯s been a while," Atoy Muzazi said. "Del Sed."


    He wasn¡¯t certain which of the twins was tied up before him, was glaring at him, so he thought it best to be non-specific. No doubt those closer to the duo would have been able to tell through facial expressions and body language, but those had never been Muzazi¡¯s strong suit. In such a situation, it was best to err on the side of caution.


    Especially since this pair might have designs to kill him.


    They looked up at him with dull green eyes, narrowed -- in resentment, or just because the room was dark? Perhaps resentment because the room was dark. The small chamber they were being held in was hardly luxurious.


    "It has," the prisoner replied, their voice gruff. "Last time I saw you was¡­ probably at the Truemeet. I hear you were at Elysian Fields, though."


    Elysian Fields.


    Murderer.


    "That¡¯s right," Muzazi replied quietly. "Your Esmerelda acquitted himself well, defeating the Supreme in combat. It was¡­ a splendid victory."


    "He died," Del Sed grunted. "Can you really call that a victory?"


    A shiver went down Muzazi¡¯s spine. "So long as you die after your opponent does," he finally said. "You can consider that a victory. No matter the circumstances of their end."


    Del Sed snorted. "True believers," they muttered. "It¡¯s like someone took a whisk to your brain."


    Muzazi cleared his throat, standing up straight as he banished the toxic memory from his mind. "I¡¯m told you came looking for me," he said. "Do you bear a message? What is it that Dragan Hadrien wants from me?"


    Del Sed frowned exaggeratedly -- and when they spoke next, their voice was much lighter. "I told your weird little paper boy," they scowled. "We¡¯re not working for Mr. Dragan. We haven¡¯t even spoken to him in two years."


    "Since Elysian Fields?"


    "Mm-hmm," Del Sed nodded.


    Muzazi considered it. Indeed, Gregori had passed along this story to him, the story the del Sed twins had insisted upon since they were captured. They and Blaine weren¡¯t with Hadrien currently. But was that really testimony he could trust?


    "And yet you¡¯ve come to speak to me," Muzazi mused. "Why?"


    Del Sed¡¯s expression hardened again. "You¡¯ve seen the news?"


    "If you¡¯re referring to Ruth Blaine murdering Rae Ruditia, then yes."


    "That¡¯s bullshit," Del Sed snapped. "It is. I don¡¯t know what happened, but I know Ruth wouldn¡¯t do that. Even if she did kill Ruditia for whatever reason, she wouldn¡¯t have gone after the other bodyguards. Someone¡¯s setting her up. I need to find her."


    "And yet," Muzazi repeated. "You¡¯ve come to speak to me. Why?"


    Del Sed smirked. "You¡¯re the guy in charge of the Turning of the Heir. You¡¯ve got resources -- you can track Ruth down for us."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "And why would I do that?"


    "Because if you do¡­" Del Sed closed their eyes -- and then opened them again, their voice brightening up once more. "We¡¯ll help you get Mr. Dragan out of the Dawn Contest."


    "This is it?" Ruth whispered, looking up.


    "What?" Wu Ming replied, lounging on a collapsed chunk of concrete. "Not impressed?"


    The thing hung from the ceiling of the ruined lobby, a cocoon of string connected by dozens of strands to the building around it. Ruth could have laughed: it looked more like a yarn ball than anything, but¡­ there was definitely something more there. She could feel it. A pressure resonating inside her bones.


    "I call it the Cradle -- not like the place, but like what you put a baby in," Wu Ming said, gesturing towards the massive construct. "You saw me come up with the prototype back on Elysian Fields, but this is a bit more of a stable version. I mean, it worked great already, but it¡¯s the difference between a seven-outta-ten and a nine-outta-ten, you know?"


    "So what?" Ruth murmured, circling the Cradle -- her footsteps echoing through the abandoned apartment building. "This¡¯ll¡­ turn me into a butterfly-person or something? Like it did you?"


    "Nah, nah," Wu Ming waved a hand, before putting his fingers to his lips in consideration. "Well¡­ unless you want to be a butterfly-person? No, no, why would you want that, that¡¯s crazy. Anyway, no, it works a little different now."


    "How¡¯s that?"


    "Well, you¡¯ve already got some Pugnant in you, right?" Wu Ming asked. "Not full-blooded, but enough to feel some of the benefits without too many of the drawbacks. The Cradle¡¯s gonna adjust things a little, give you even more of those benefits and even less of those drawbacks. Good times."


    Slowly, Ruth nodded, still looking at the massive Cradle. "So it¡¯ll make me stronger," she said.


    Ming nodded. "Yup -- and that¡¯ll help with your Aether, too. Infusion¡¯s multiplicative, not additive, right? Enhanced strength gets even more enhanced." He snapped his fingers. "So it goes. You up for it?"


    Ruth clenched her fists. If Wu Ming was telling the truth, this would give her an edge -- and in her present circumstances, she needed to take all the edges she could get. But¡­ could she trust this man?


    Even if he¡¯d saved her from the Shepherdess, he had been a Contender. Even if he¡¯d betrayed the Supremacy on Elysian Fields, that had just been a whim of his. Even if -- right now -- he reminded her more than a little of Skipper¡­ she knew that was just a trick of the mind.


    But strength was strength, and weakness was weakness, and right now Ruth Blaine had way too much of the latter. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her hands.


    "How long will it take?" she asked, resolute.


    "Days for the full treatment," Ming replied instantly. "If I could practice, I could probably get that time down a little -- but it¡¯s tough these days, you know?" He wiped a non-existent tear from his eye. "I don¡¯t even have DNA anymore, so I can¡¯t test it out on myself."


    She looked at him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean you don¡¯t have DNA anymore?"


    He waggled his fingers menacingly. "Oooh. I¡¯m a ghost."


    Looked like she wasn¡¯t getting a real answer there. Turning her head away from Wu Ming, she returned her gaze to the Cradle. Days, he¡¯d said. How many days? How many days was she willing to spend?


    She already knew that. As many days as it took to kill the Shepherdess.


    "Open it up," she said with certainty.


    McCoy snapped her fingers.


    "Corpse Construct," she commanded. "Level 1 Cannon, times two."


    As she¡¯d ordered, two desiccated corpses appeared hovering behind her, suspended by their arms as if crucified against invisible crosses. Orange Aether crawled over their rotten skin, and -- as one -- their bodies began to twist and contort, the sounds of snapping bone and tearing muscle following McCoy as she strode down the hallway of the containment facility. By the time she reached the doors at the end, the bodies had transformed utterly -- their shapes reconfigured into near-cylindrical floating defense cannons, barrels of bone poking their way out from wrenched-open jaws.


    In life, McCoy¡¯s ability hadn¡¯t been nearly so gruesome -- but she didn¡¯t let that bother her. It wasn¡¯t as if she¡¯d lost anything when she¡¯d died. The woman who¡¯d existed in this body before her, October Jones, was nothing to McCoy.


    They shared nothing but a shell of meat and an Aether core.


    The secret to stabilizing an Aether Awakening lay in the Aether core itself. Only those highly compatible with their core could reliably persist after death. In cases where the core was something the Awakening had to reach for, to tap into, they were doomed to fade away. No, a stable Awakening needed a core that naturally formed the bedrock of their personality -- a core they would naturally tap into with each thought that passed through their head.


    For McCoy, it was resignation. For the thing she had come to see, though? She had no idea.


    "Corpse Construct," McCoy said, a cloud of orange Aether fizzling around her. "Skeleton Key."


    A whole corpse didn¡¯t appear this time. Instead, a collection of severed fingers orbited her bandaged body, fingers of all shapes and sizes. For a moment, they floated peacefully -- but then smashed together, compressing and focusing their shapes through sheer force. Blood sprayed out from the chaos, painting the pale floor below.


    One second, two seconds, three, and it was done. A small, thin spike of white bone. McCoy plucked it from the air. With a simple wave of the utensil, the massive doors before her smoothly slid open. Spent, the key crumbled.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    This containment facility, located below the surface of Azum-Ha, was a remnant from the reign of Ren¨¦e the Raven. When she¡¯d created the Galactic Intelligence Division and the Absurd Weapons Lab, the organizations had worked much more hand-in-hand -- the GID providing a steady stream of human test subjects to their counterparts. As such, this containment facility was just as much a tomb.


    A fitting place to house the Flower of Evil.


    The room beyond was massive, dome-shaped, with PALATINE¡¯s prison right in the center. She could just barely see it from here, a shifting mass of darkness that would have stung McCoy¡¯s eyes if she still used them. She took a step inside --


    -- and immediately, the room¡¯s defenses activated.


    Liquid automatics disguised as parts of the floor and walls. Rapid-fire turrets suspended from the ceiling, firing bullets laced with Neverwire. Red-hot lasers sweeping through the chamber at randomized angles and intervals. Nerve toxins. Vented air. Sub-zero temperatures.


    Once McCoy had conquered the opposition, around three minutes later, she resumed her trek down towards PALATINE -- picking her way through rubble as she went. She kept her awareness firmly on the other Awakening as she approached. At the first sign of movement, at the first sign of hostility, she had to be ready to act -- to abandon this mission, if necessary.


    She heard it speak.


    "And I do see it, I do, I do. You don¡¯t understand what you¡¯re talking about. A magister? A magister of one. I did climb upon the mount and hath seen the one and the one upon the mount did inscribe the tablet with ten words and the words were as the mount had written them, as had been ordained -- yes, ordained. Ordained, ordained, ordained, ordained. I do not see it. An invisible eyelid hovering over the knees of ruin. Did you know? It¡¯s already there. A hollow inside the human brain. Oh, morose. Inscribe, inscribe, inscribe, inscribe. That is the purpose to life. Did you know? I see, I see, I see, I see. Edgar, your sin, your sin, I see it. I see it in the walls and the sky shattered like glass, like glass, you understand? Oh, don¡¯t mind if I do! Now that¡¯s the way you do it. Look! The sky! Ia! Ia!"


    "A sapphire star ascends!"


    McCoy shuddered. There was a difference between stable and coherent. There was no doubt that PALATINE was mad -- a mad god. The only thing consistent about it had to be that unknown, elusive Aether core.


    The appearance of the Awakening didn¡¯t help that impression. The bulk of its body was composed of countless black thin ribbons, their edges shining red from sourceless light. The ribbons swayed through the air like reeds, ripped through the air like tentacles, twitched through the air like the legs of dying spiders. PALATINE¡¯s size was variable, but right now it would have dwarfed a house.


    That was on the small side for it.


    And, of course, high above McCoy, right in the center of the eldritch mass, was the true ¡¯body¡¯.


    It was a confusion between a fetus and a piece of chewing gum, floating in the air, surrounded by the black ribbons and -- like the petals of a grand flower -- six severed dog heads, revolving around the tiny form. It opened an eye-mouth and red nectar poured forth without end. It opened a mouth-eye and continued to speak, to whisper, to impart.


    McCoy knew this thing was mad, of course, but she also knew from reputation it told nothing but the truth.


    "Edgar, Edgar, your sin, your sin, I see it flourishing -- BULGING, EDGAR, YOU LITTLE -- ah~ -- REPROBATE! When you get angry, it¡¯s paramount to count numbers. They¡¯ll impart you. Paint over your face. I¡¯d recommend it, ten-outta-ten. You won¡¯t even remember that you¡¯re dying. In this review? Are you serious? Now that¡¯s just not something I can stand up for. Civil justice is as well and good and all, but mm¡­ that¡¯s a little lewd, don¡¯t you think? Is that acceptable? I don¡¯t want to bash your head in, but I think you should go back to the drawing board and rethink this one. I don¡¯t wanna be mean, but you might wanna have some second thoughts here. Okay? A cosmic judiciary. Have you seen the face of the Absolute? Driven mad by corpses and ghosts? You have to laugh. Do you? You were born with free will, after all. Your sin is swelling underneath your skin. Screaming will do you no good now! Your bare feet on Panacea. What do you think?"


    "Now that¡¯s what a star looks like."


    McCoy took a step forward --


    WHAT


    DO


    YOU


    WANT


    .


    The voice of PALATINE, previously boisterous and rambling, turned sharp and cold. McCoy could feel the entirety of its attention upon her, like she were an ant beneath a magnifying glass. The first thing she said would be paramount. She understood that. Her words would determine whether this was a conversation or a crime scene.


    She did not open her mouth -- her body didn¡¯t work like that. But she spoke all the same. "I came here to speak to you."


    For a good while, there was silence, save for the quiet hissing of the waving ribbons and the angry bubbling of the fetal angel. Then¡­


    IS


    THAT


    YOU


    WESTMORE


    ?


    "Yes," McCoy responded without hesitation. "It¡¯s me."


    WE


    USED


    TO


    TALK


    .


    "That we did," McCoy continued, circling the containment fence. "I¡¯d hope we can keep that tradition going."


    As she spoke, she inspected the fence before her. It was a tri-functional containment barrier, keeping PALATINE housed through an electromagnetic field, an experimental energy shield, and some kind of applied Aether ability. The structure of the defenses changed from second to second, presumably to stop PALATINE from bypassing the containment with its Ignorance.


    The thing squirmed in the air, bubbles rising and popping from its gnarled-red skin.


    TALK


    ABOUT


    WHAT


    ?


    If McCoy still had the required facial muscles, she would have smirked. This was going better than she¡¯d expe --


    mccoys right arm went flying off


    Immediately, McCoy¡¯s awareness snapped back down to inspect her body -- where, without a doubt, her right arm was still attached. Had that been a hallucination? Some kind of illusion? Besides Ignorance, she¡¯d heard that PALATINE had developed many other half-formed subconscious abilities.


    More words crawled into her head, nearly indistinguishable from her own inner monologue.


    oh baby baby baby you arent that guy.


    you arent lusifer westmore.


    why lie hm?


    why lie to me baby baby baby?


    unwrap those bandages and show me whats going on under there


    hahahaha


    McCoy cringed. Just like its personality, PALATINE¡¯s level of intelligence was variable, too. It seemed she¡¯d caught it on a day where it¡¯d be difficult to fool.


    "I have a proposition for you," she pushed on.


    WHY


    ?


    McCoy cocked her head. "Why? What do you mean ¡¯why¡¯?"


    WHY


    WOULD


    I


    OBEY


    ?


    Slowly, McCoy nodded. "If you go along with my request, you¡¯ll have a chance to run wild. Perhaps a chance for permanent freedom. You¡¯ll be able to leave this place behind. Does that sound appealing to you?"


    oh baby baby baby


    ill tell you what sounds appealing to me unwrap those bandages and show me meat red squelching meat full of blood and pus and fat and wet and dry


    "Do you remember when you were alive?" McCoy called out, interrupting the sleazy monologue.


    No answer.


    She repeated herself: "Do you remember when you were alive?"


    DO


    NOT


    PRESUME


    .


    McCoy looked down. She was high over the ground now, impaled through the chest by one of those black ribbons, dried and crystallized blood spilling out of her wound and clattering on the floor. If she¡¯d been human, that would have been her death just now.


    Instead, she just looked up.


    I


    AM


    ALIVE


    .


    "As am I," McCoy grunted. "But there was a life before this one, too -- a journey this corpse walked. It was a fool. It dived into the darkness of this world and thought it could clear it all away. It thought it would find the sun there, down in the bowels of the universe. Can you imagine?"


    WHAT


    DO


    YOU


    PROPOSE sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ?


    Slowly, as to not arouse retribution, McCoy raised her hand -- the hand holding a new thin, white Skeleton Key.


    "I want to break the shape of this world," McCoy hissed. "I want to shatter it into a thousand pieces and do it right this time. And I want you to help me."


    PALATINE considered.


    PALATINE giggled, moaned, wailed, groaned, skittered, guffawed, screamed, whimpered, sang and delighted.


    PALATINE decided.

 Chapter 393:13.51: Stagehands

    Several Years Ago¡­


    "Yakob," Cott¡¯s voice came over the communicator. "You in position?"


    As he sprinted, Yakob put a finger to their ear. "Just one second."


    This was a nice hallway. Fuzzy carpet and paintings lining the walls. Soft lighting emanating directly from the ceiling. Doors lazer-carved from Apex wood of all things, even if that seemed like a waste. Even the guards were clad in armour of smooth white metal, like sculpted wax. The one at the end of the hallway raised a plasma-bow at the incoming Yakob, a cry of alarm already sounding out.


    Serena. Get it done.


    Yakob¡¯s gait changed just slightly as Serena took the wheel, dropping to the ground and sliding under a plasma-bolt that would have taken her head off. With a spark of violet Aether, she tore a chunk free from the wall, forming a longsword she used to slice her enemy¡¯s bow in half.


    The guard didn¡¯t just give up, of course. Whipping out a baton, he swung it at the side of Serena¡¯s head. She grinned.


    Oh, Bruno?


    Got it.


    The baton bounced off of Bruno¡¯s forcefield, sending the guard staggering backwards, and --


    Boss. Your turn.


    -- Yakob sealed the deal with a hefty swing of a clay warhammer. The guard collapsed onto the floor, their chestplate shattered. The only sound remaining in the hallway was Yakob¡¯s soft exhale of breath. Again, he put a finger to their ear.


    "Okay," he said. "We¡¯re in position."


    "Good to hear. I¡¯ve got Desire and Sorrow keeping watch on the roof. Tybalt¡¯s got the ground floor covered. All we need to do is make sure nobody interrupts Erica while she¡¯s taking on the Monarca. Nobody gets past you -- understood?"


    "Of course," Yakob nodded, leaning against the wall. "I have to say, though¡­ I¡¯m not thrilled to be playing backup for Erica."


    "Benefits of seniority, I guess."


    "I¡¯d feel better about it if she didn¡¯t have seniority over everyone."


    "It¡¯s not like there¡¯s any glory to be had here anyway, though. We¡¯re just softening the place up for Nebula Four¡¯s debut tomorrow -- ol¡¯ Westmore needs a success to start on. We¡¯re stagehands, you know?"


    "Right. Stagehands."


    It was true. If you listened to the Sed management, the operatives they trained were among the finest in the UAP -- surpassed only by the most elite Ultraviolets. Even so, though, the skills they cultivated weren¡¯t ones suited to plain sight. They worked in the background, behind the scenes¡­ like Cott said, stagehands.


    Their job was to pave the way for real people to walk upon.


    Present Day¡­


    The moments right before an operation were always the most tense. Nothing had happened yet, and that meant anything could happen. It was almost as if everything was happening -- every failure, every screw-up, every disaster, all at once, and you just had to stand there and weather the storm.


    Once, Marcus Grace had thought this anxiety was because he was an inexperienced rookie. Now, he understood it was just a symptom of the human soul.


    He returned his pistol to its holster, finally accepting it wouldn¡¯t get any more polished. They¡¯d gathered their forces for this operation in the penthouse suite of the Miya Mondala Hotel, a flying establishment with an excellent view of the city of Azum-Ha. From here, they could spy their quarry.


    Even from this room, he could see it, his Cogitant brain allowing him to sort through the visual mess of the city below with ease. Their enemy had a flying headquarters of their own -- an ancient temple of brick and marble and antiquity, making a constant journey through the city streets. Even if Dragan Hadrien wasn¡¯t there in person -- and, being honest, he almost certainly wasn¡¯t -- there would be members of the Tree of Might.


    They could cut down on his allies. Speaking of which¡­


    Marcus¡¯ gaze drifted to the del Sed siblings, sitting as one by the glass window, looking out at the city with a steely glare. Apparently, they worked as a bounty hunter called the Ventriloquist these days. Apparently, they were willing to help them oppose Hadrien. Apparently, if they met up with Hadrien in person, they¡¯d be able to convince him to abandon the Dawn Contest altogether.


    He didn¡¯t buy it, and he knew he wasn¡¯t the only one. Morgan Nacht was staying close to the pair, hand always near his sword, ready to cut them down if betrayal occurred. The young man had a good sense for these things.


    Marcus Grace, Morgan Nacht, and the dubious del Seds. If it were just them doing this, Marcus would have judged the mission a failure right here and now. It was a good thing he¡¯d managed to bring in some help, then.


    Beatrice appeared next to him -- or, rather, his daughter made her appearance known. Her ability had always been good for stealth. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, ignoring the glare of annoyance she shot at him.


    "Where¡¯s your cousin?" he asked.


    "Here!" cried a voice from the doors as they slid open. "Here, Uncle Marcus!"


    Amelia Grace, a lanky girl with messy black hair, ducked through the opening doors and approached. As per usual, Marcus¡¯ gut twisted when he saw her. Bright blue contacts and filed-down fangs. He understood that Annette had been desperate for Dad¡¯s approval¡­ but still, his sister truly was a piece of work.


    He gave her a one-armed hug -- even though she was barely out of her teens, she was almost as tall as him. "Thanks for making it."


    She nodded, hair whipping up and down like an overenthusiastic puppy. "No problem, sir. Family has to help out family. By the way, has there been any more news about¡­?"


    Winston.


    Grimly, Marcus shook his head. "Nothing yet. If we can pull this mission off, though, if we can make Atoy Muzazi Supreme -- that¡¯s gonna change. There¡¯ll be nobody in the Supremacy we can¡¯t find."


    "Right," Amelia nodded quietly, looking down at the floor as she realized just how many strangers were in this room.


    "We¡¯ll do it," Beatrice said simply and coldly, pulling her cloth mask up over her mouth. "If it comes down to it, I can use my ability to sneak up on Hadrien and¡­"


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    "No," Marcus replied sternly. "Don¡¯t get cocky, and don¡¯t get reckless. Understand?"


    She looked up at him, blue eyes glittering. "...mm."


    "¡¯Mm¡¯ isn¡¯t a word." S§×ar?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Understood," Beatrice relented.


    He¡¯d have to keep an eye on her all the same, Marcus knew. Despite the way she¡¯d always gotten exasperated at him, she had been closer to Winston than anyone. If it came down to it, she would be cocky, and she would be reckless.


    Still, he had a good feeling. Since this Dawn Contest had started, Dragan Hadrien had been running rampant, using the element of surprise again and again to cut through the rules and keep them on the back foot. Now, though?


    Now it was their turn to surprise him.


    "They¡¯ll probably begin their attack from the roof," Dragan Hadrien said, hologram slouched over on the half-rubble throne. "You¡¯ll want it covered. Understand?"


    Fino nodded dutifully, even as he bowed on one knee before the Zero Branch. Despite his personal feelings, he understood what an honour it was to be given this task. He would not fail to perform it, nor to appreciate it.


    It was one more rung on the ladder to eliminating Ruth Blaine -- to avenging Violence by enacting it.


    "If I may be so bold, sir," he spoke, crimson eyes looking up at the Tree of Might¡¯s leader. "Why do you not dispatch them yourself? Your strength has been witnessed. Their might is insubstantial compared to your own."


    Hadrien narrowed his eyes, just slightly. Had Fino overstepped? No. Hadrien closed them again.


    "Even though I won¡¯t be needing to fight the Crown," Hadrien finally replied. "All of the other remaining contestants are dangerous enemies. The worst thing you can do is to tire yourself out in a dangerous fight, then have to face someone else right after. At that point, all you¡¯ve got is the fumes."


    And yet¡­ Fino thought. That¡¯s exactly what a warrior would do -- should do.


    "I feel there¡¯s more to it, Zero Branch," Fino said back, a sliver of impertinence in his tone. "You know the attack is coming, so the right of ambush is yours. Yet you¡¯re simply allowing it to happen, watching from afar. Why do you not shed blood?"


    For a good, long moment, the distant Dragan Hadrien just glared down at Fino. Then, however, he sighed.


    "There¡¯s someone among the attackers who you¡¯re absolutely forbidden from killing¡­ do you remember?"


    "I do," Fino nodded.


    "That person¡­ has a certain idea about me."


    Fino furrowed his brow. "What idea is that?"


    "None of your business," Hadrien snapped. "But it¡¯s probably correct. So¡­ no matter what¡­ I cannot let them come in contact with me¡­"


    His hologram flickered out of existence, his voice following a moment after, leaving time for only some stray discarded words.


    "...not until all of this is over¡­"


    Bruno lay back on the windowsill, looking out at the cityscape of Azum-Ha. His mouth was a flat line, and his gaze was hard iron. Before the hour was out, he¡¯d be down in the temple of the Tree of Might. Before the hour was out, he¡¯d be fighting for his life.


    Before the hour was out¡­ maybe, just maybe¡­ he¡¯d be face to face with Dragan Hadrien.


    Because he had a certain idea about him.


    Since all of this had started -- hell, ever since Elysian Fields -- Dragan had gone to absurd lengths just to avoid his former crew mates. At first, Bruno hadn¡¯t understood why. Had he simply discarded them? Had the Shooting Star abandoned everything that wasn¡¯t immediately useful to it?


    No.


    Bruno didn¡¯t know if it were a hope, or a delusion, or something true -- but he had an idea. An idea that, if Dragan Hadrien found himself in the same room as his old friends¡­


    ¡­he¡¯d have no choice but to listen to them.


    You seem aggravated, ATOY MUZAZI, Ionir intoned from the corner, his long shadow stretching over the room -- and over Muzazi, standing before an impromptu command table. A holographic representation of the Tree of Might¡¯s temple floated in front of him, cast by a script, and his eyes were focused intently on it.


    "Not aggravated," Muzazi murmured, face illuminated only by the hologram. "Tense."


    Are they that different?


    "They are," Muzazi nodded. "Aggravation comes from failure¡­ while tension comes from anticipation of success."


    Then you believe you will succeed?


    "I must," Muzazi replied. "They must. Dragan Hadrien has wrapped his grip tightly around this Dawn Contest. If we don¡¯t pry his fingers free, we¡¯ll be at the mercy of all the tricks he¡¯s prepared." He glanced over his shoulder at the Fell Beast. "And I can guarantee he¡¯s prepared many tricks."


    Is that why you¡¯ve chosen to trust BrunodelSed and SerenadelSed?


    "It¡¯s not a matter of trusting them," Muzazi grunted, returning his gaze to the floating temple. "At the first sign of betrayal, Morgan will strike them down. Half of the reason they¡¯re in this operation is to serve as a human shield for those who are loyal to me. But¡­ if I want to defeat Hadrien, I¡¯ll need to come at him with tricks of my own."


    That is unlike you.


    "Exactly," Muzazi murmured. "Being unlike myself is the only way I can catch Hadrien off guard."


    If the person who succeeds has become someone unlike you, then what is the point?


    Muzazi didn¡¯t answer that straight away. He just hunched over the table, sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. So tired. When was the last time he¡¯d rested of his own volition?


    "Right now," he finally said. "The victory is all that matters. Once I sit the throne, I can return to being me¡­ and discard any other filth I¡¯ve accumulated along the way."


    Murderer.


    He¡¯d lost his chance to take any other path two years ago.


    Muzazi tapped the screen of the script and spoke, his voice echoing through a distant penthouse:


    "Temple is in place. Begin the operation."


    The attack came from above.


    As one, they leapt off the roof of the hotel, guidance packs strapped to their backs. Morgan Nacht. Marcus Grace, his daughter Beatrice, his niece Amelia. Bruno and Serena del Sed. The repulsors in their packs allowed them to weave through traffic as they fell towards the temple, leaving white trails of haze hanging in the air behind them.


    The Tree of Might was prepared for them. A volley of projectiles flew up from the roof of the temple: plasma-shots, punchpoint bullets, Aether attacks. Enough to shred most living things to non-existence.


    But not enough here.


    Twin shields sprouted into existence -- invisible ones created by Bruno del Sed, and barriers of black Fog forged by Morgan Nacht. The projectiles battered against the shields like they were an umbrella -- and, with the moment afforded to her, Amelia Grace took aim. A blinding blue greatbow appeared in her hands, and she pointed it down towards the ground.


    "Delusional Arrowhead," she mouthed, voice swallowed by the wind.


    She unleashed her own rainfall -- a storm of blue arrows striking down at the foot soldiers of the Tree of Might. Where they struck, cries erupted -- mingling anger and terror, pure emotion pulled out and intensified by Amelia¡¯s ability. The defense of the Tree of Might faltered, pragmatism poisoned by runaway passions.


    In the midst of the chaos on the roof, glaring up at the incoming intruders, stood Fino. The Branch of the Tree of Might raised his chainsaw Aether Armament -- Ill Humour -- and, as if on cue, vivid red blood began to belch forth from its vents. With a twitch of Fino¡¯s finger, the blood crystallized into spears and hovered over his shoulders, aimed right at the descending attackers.


    But¡­


    The attack came from below, too.


    The temple shook as rockets struck its underside, launched by three personnel carriers that had suddenly pulled out of traffic. Bright red vehicles, their logo emblazoned on their sides. Atoy Muzazi hadn¡¯t had much time to put this operation together, but some mercenaries were always willing to work on short notice -- as long as enough money was involved.


    The Phases and their allies landed on the roof.


    Shooting Star Security Solutions latched onto the underbelly with mighty cables.


    No more stagehands, Bruno thought, grasping blades of will as he landed. Tonight, we¡¯re taking the spotlight.

 Chapter 394:13.52: Three Leeches

    Gretchen Hail let out a sigh of relief as she lowered her body into the bathtub, water splashing around her. Babysitting the Supreme Heir was tiring work. Free moments like these were rare.


    If anything, this was an especially free moment, though. While she was relaxing in the bath, Atoy Muzazi would be consumed by stress from his disastrous attack on the Tree of Might. Morgan Nacht and the other interlopers would be dying at the hands of the Tree of Might¡¯s Branches.


    And the Fell Beast? Oh, she¡¯d save the tree for last. She certainly hadn¡¯t forgotten what being killed felt like. It was an experience she was eager to share.


    She was still a distance from her goal -- but so far, the deal she¡¯d made had already paid great dividends. It was a good opportunity she¡¯d seized. Someone who possessed power, the good sense to conserve it when necessary, and goals that accommodated her own.


    Buzz. Buzz.


    Speak of the devil. Gretchen cracked an eye open and saw her script on the floor, slowly crawling along as it vibrated. Could she really have no peace?


    She closed her eyes again. "Answer call," she said.


    The buzzing stopped -- replaced seconds later by a cold voice.


    "Anya Hapgrass," said Dragan Hadrien. "It¡¯s begun."


    She nodded to herself. Leaking information on Muzazi¡¯s operation to Hadrien had been another good move. Even if Muzazi wasn¡¯t on site, losing forces loyal to him would still be a blow, given his personality.


    "Are you there?" Hadrien asked when she didn¡¯t reply.


    "I¡¯m here," she said. "Have your men managed to kill Nacht yet? Logistically, he¡¯s much more competent than Muzazi -- getting rid of him will be a victory."


    "It¡¯s not as you described."


    She opened her eyes again, suddenly tense. "What?"


    "It¡¯s not," Hadrien said, restrained anger binding his words together. "As you described. There are more Aether-users than you advised. There are mercenaries working in tandem with them. You told me to expect a small team specialising in infiltration."


    For a second, Gretchen didn¡¯t know what to say. She just opened and closed her mouth, like a stunned goldfish.


    "Am I to understand you¡¯ve provided faulty information to me?" Hadrien asked dangerously.


    "No," Gretchen insisted, sitting up, water splashing. "That¡¯s not the case. If things are different from what I said, that¡¯s because I wasn¡¯t informed about them."


    "If you weren¡¯t informed¡­ doesn¡¯t that suggest Atoy Muzazi already considers you an enemy?"


    "No," Gretchen replied, but she admitted: "But he doesn¡¯t consider me a friend."


    For a good, long moment, there was silence. Gretchen almost thought that Hadrien had hung up the call. Then, though:


    "The difference is negligible. There¡¯s something else I wanted to talk to you about."


    Gretchen relaxed. "What¡¯s that?"


    "Your condition for cooperating. It¡¯s got me curious."


    And the relaxation came to a swift end. Gretchen narrowed her eyes. "Has it now?"


    "In exchange for cooperating with me and helping me become Supreme, you want me to authorise the release of Baltay Kojirough from Greyhound Asylum. Is that right?"


    Eyes fixed on the distant script, Gretchen answered. "It is."


    "Why?"


    Her hands tightened around the rim of the bathtub. "He¡¯s a friend of a friend. Once, he did a favor for me¡­ I owe him."


    "Right." Hadrien¡¯s tone suggested he didn¡¯t buy that in the slightest. "But you say ¡¯release¡¯. Greyhound isn¡¯t a prison, you know."


    "It¡¯s a prison in all but name."


    "I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re aware," Hadrien went on. "But Baltay Kojirough was already offered a discharge by the hospital staff last year."


    Her grip loosened. "What?"


    "He refused. I just thought that was interesting."


    For a moment, Gretchen felt lost -- then she banished the sensation, replacing it with white-hot fury. "If that¡¯s what they¡¯re telling people," she growled. "Then they¡¯re lying. They¡¯re full of shit. Baltay has too much to do, too much to make happen -- he wouldn¡¯t leave m¡­ he wouldn¡¯t be wasting time sitting around in a shithole like that!"


    By the time she was done, she was nearly standing up, wet hair clinging to her face and forming what was very nearly a complete blindfold. Slowly, she lowered herself back down. She knew full well¡­


    ¡­she¡¯d said too much.


    "You seem to know Baltay Kojirough very well for a friend of a friend," Hadrien commented. Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Gretchen said nothing.


    "Back at the church," Hadrien continued. "I saw that you knocked the Heir unconscious with some sort of Armament you¡¯d planted on her, right? Remote activation. That¡¯s supposed to be fairly advanced, from what I¡¯ve been told."


    Gretchen shrugged. "I¡¯ve got a friend in the Maker-Guild. I get reduced prices on things like that."


    "Hm. There was someone in the Seven Blades who was an expert on Aether Armaments, wasn¡¯t there? Someone very close to Baltay Kojirough."


    Her eyes narrowed. "I wouldn¡¯t know. I¡¯m not familiar."


    "I think you are familiar¡­" Hadrien said. "...but fine. I just wanted to make sure we understand each other."


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    "And what exactly is it you want me to do with this understanding?"


    "I won¡¯t be needing any more leaks from the Muzazi camp," Hadrien replied casually. "If he doesn¡¯t trust you to the point where you¡¯re receiving incomplete information, then there¡¯s no point."


    "So the deal¡¯s off?" Gretchen scowled.


    "I wouldn¡¯t go that far. All I mean¡­ is sit tight for a while. There¡¯ll come a time when I need you. Until then, sit tight."


    Her finger tapped -- tap tap tap -- along the edge of the bathtub. "And you¡¯ll keep your end of the bargain?"


    "And I¡¯ll keep my end of the bargain."


    The call ended without so much as another breath from Hadrien, leaving Gretchen in a silent room. The water had gone cold, but she leaned back anyway -- and sighed once again. Her lips spread out into a thin smile.


    Yep. She¡¯d been right.


    Nights like this were rare indeed.


    Jude Glear, Commander of the S4¡¯s Azum-Ha branch, cut down a warrior with a single swing of his sword.


    Things were going well. They¡¯d managed to penetrate the underbelly of the Tree of Might¡¯s temple, and -- as the majority of forces had been stationed on the roof -- their infiltration was proceeding steadily. The other members of Jude¡¯s elite squad flanked him as he marched down the stone hallway, their plasma rifles trained and ready to fire. To tell the truth, though, Jude wasn¡¯t certain he needed their help against the rank-and-file.


    To put it simply, he cut quite the intimidating figure.


    A full-blooded Pugnant, he was tall and gangly, with crimson hair cascading down and golden eyes glinting in the dark. With slit pupils -- like those of a reptile -- he stared ahead, his footfalls thumping on the wooden floor below. Smooth black armour covered his unique frame all the way up to his chin, and in his hand he held a similarly ink-black sword. The only trace of true colour he permitted his ensemble was a short and tattered red scarf, fluttering in the air behind him.


    He stepped over another corpse -- cut down by a previous attack -- and reached the door at the end of the hallway. In contrast to the antiquity of the rest of this place, this actually seemed to have been constructed in the last century. Connected to some form of security system, clearly. It wouldn¡¯t just open.


    "Can we crack it?" he asked, voice soft, turning over his shoulder to look at Breeson -- his tech specialist for this operation.


    "It¡¯ll take time," she replied, speech modulated by her helmet.


    "I¡¯ll do it, then. Step back."


    His squad, well trained, obliged -- and Jude turned back towards the door, shifting his sword into a one-handed position. He held his free hand up as if to grasp the air.


    "The House," he intoned, and three white dice of carved bone appeared floating over his palm.


    Jude had encountered other gambling-type Aether abilities in the past. The former patriarch of the former Oliphant Clan, for one, along with a gentleman he¡¯d encountered in the UAP. Still, he enjoyed the simplicity and ease of use that The House provided.


    "Roll," he commanded, and the dice began to spin, began to rotate, began to orbit each other like a solar system in miniature. One second, two seconds, three. Three was his lucky number. "Stop."


    Immediately, they halted, the faces of the dice snapping to face him. Two ones and a three, so he¡¯d rolled a five in all. Not great, not terrible. It would suffice.


    Without preamble or ceremony, he swung his black sword at the metal door -- and the sheer force released by the swing was enough to do three things, all at once.


    First, it blew the door off its frame.


    Second, it sent air pressure billowing through the hallway.


    Third, it cut the man who¡¯d been standing on the other side clean in half.


    Poor fellow. Jude sniffed as he saw the man collapse into two pieces, dying instantly. He hadn¡¯t even known there¡¯d been anyone standing on the other side. It wouldn¡¯t have changed his actions, sure, but he still didn¡¯t relish it.


    Steam drifted up from the blade of Jude¡¯s sword as he continued to advance. Needless to say, that hadn¡¯t been the strength of a normal sword swing. In fact, it had been about five times the strength of the usual swing of this sword. The simplicity and ease of use of The House.


    When Jude rolled the dice, his next attack would have its power multiplied by the result. On the rare occasions he rolled an eighteen, it could become quite tremendous -- he usually just ended up rerolling rather than having to deal with the collateral damage. A ten was usually more than enough to deal with anything that lived -- especially with his Aether Armament, Mightier, possessing quite a bit of brute strength all by itself.


    Still, if he rolled an eighteen today, Jude certainly wouldn¡¯t be rerolling. He had to take this contract as far as he could. He had to show Atoy Muzazi exactly what he could do.


    Because Jude Glear had a future in mind.


    Even though the Supreme was -- by nature -- the strongest in the land, that didn¡¯t mean they could rule the Supremacy all by themselves. For one, they just couldn¡¯t be everywhere at once. They required agents and enforcers, people to travel and enact their will.


    Ren¨¦e the Raven had had her Unkindnesses, her secret police.


    Gael the Golden had had his Heroes of Form, his chivalrous paladins.


    Even Kadmon the Indoldent had had his Contenders¡­


    ¡­but before them, he¡¯d had the Supreme Guard.


    Indeed, Jude would take this opportunity to show Atoy Muzazi exactly what he and his elites could do¡­ and then, he¡¯d make the Supreme-to-be a very persuasive business offer.


    As a group of enemies -- these ones much more fearsome than the greenhorns they¡¯d previously encountered -- met them in the massive chamber beyond, Jude smirked. With a contemptuous hand, he tossed them a small slip of plastic. His card.


    "Here," he said. "You can leave that to your next of kin."


    As Xander Rain kneeled before the throne, he spoke for the sixth time in ten minutes -- and repeated himself for the sixth time in ten minutes.


    "Lord Hadrien," he said. "Shouldn¡¯t I be there?"


    Hadrien looked down from his script, blue eyes cold and distant. "There¡¯s no need for you to be there."


    "But¡­ my men are fighting. The Tree of Might is fighting. As the First Branch, where else should I be if not there?"


    Hadrien slouched in his throne, laying the script down on the arm. "A good warrior should know where his strength is needed. The battle at the temple is meaningless right now. It¡¯s a tactic to allow our enemy to think they have agency -- to provide them false confidence so they¡¯re unprepared for the real fight. Us winning would be even more meaningless. Why waste strength on a victory that means nothing?"


    Slowly, Xander nodded, his head still bowed. The words made sense. He couldn¡¯t deny their merit. And yet¡­ something about them seemed so plastic¡­


    "Do you understand, Xander?" Hadrien asked.


    "I do, Lord Hadrien," Xander replied, his voice nearly a whisper. "I do."


    "Then let¡¯s hear no more of this. Leave me."


    Xander obeyed, standing and striding out of the command room. The true headquarters that they¡¯d taken was cold and ravaged by time, deep in the bowels of Azum-Ha. Their neighbours were tombs and mausoleums. Even the sky was distant: the closest things to stars here were the gleaming eyes of the rats that nested above.


    As the doors to the command room slammed shut behind him, Xander clenched his fists. He respected Lord Hadrien. He believed in the vision of victory that the Zero Branch had laid out before them. And yet¡­


    Servant as he was, Xander had his pride too. His father had left the Tree of Might to him without ever speaking a word of approval. He¡¯d gladly handed that heavy burden to Lord Hadrien when it had become appropriate. And yet¡­


    Xander had never felt that the rest of the Tree of Might had truly respected him. Even with the potential people said he had, he still seemed a shadow of his father. Even with the uncontrollable Absolutian that people said was a beast apocalyptic, he still possessed a certain weakness of character. Even with the ability that people said was unmatched in versatility, he still wasn¡¯t good enough.


    And yet¡­


    ¡­his heart made demands of him.


    Forgive me, Lord Hadrien.


    Xander Rain stepped forward -- and let the wind pluck him from the ground.

 Chapter 395:13.53: Red Rum

    The roof was chaos.


    Bruno del Sed charged through the battlefield that had quickly devoured the top of the temple, weaving through attacks and projectiles -- each and every one of them sufficient to seriously injure, if not kill. With an upward swing of an invisible sword, he sliced the spear of an attacker in half -- and then knocked him out with an elbow to the face. There wasn¡¯t a moment to celebrate, though: he was already dodging the next barrage of attacks.


    In terms of numbers, there was an undeniable discrepancy between their side and the Tree of Might. Against nearly seventy fighters, they¡¯d brought only six people -- and two of those six occupied the same body. It was a miracle they hadn¡¯t been killed already.


    But, if nothing else, Atoy Muzazi seemed to have become skilled at performing miracles.


    It was a combination of two factors that had made this assault possible: Amelia Grace¡¯s wide-range attacks, and the tremor created when the S4 had harpooned the underbelly of the temple. That had thrown off the defenders enough that they could press the attack in a moment of confusion.


    Kicking off a shield wielded by a hefty Pugnant, Bruno twisted in the air -- and saw that, indeed, Amelia Grace was preparing to use her ability again. A blinding blue bow had appeared in her hands, and countless rays of light had manifested -- bundled together -- as their payload. She crouched on the floor, bow aimed at the crowd before her.


    "Down!" she cried -- and the other members of the infiltration squad threw themselves down to the ground.


    Bruno knew already he wouldn¡¯t be able to get down there in time. Instead, he went up, creating a transient staircase of forcefields as he gained a birds-eye view of the battlefield. Ordinarily, he¡¯d have been left behind by the traveling temple in the process, but the harpooning had slowed it down enough that Bruno could keep pace.


    "Delusional Arrowhead!" cried Amelia -- and she set her arrows free. Immediately, nearly a hundred of those bright blue rays surged through the space in front of her, slamming into the ranks of the Tree of Might.


    They did no damage¡­ no physical damage, at least. Bruno supposed that was a condition for the ability¡¯s potency. Arrows that intensified the target¡¯s current emotional state until it overrode their common sense. As they struck the enemies, there was a mixture of reactions. Some stopped in their tracks, faces twisted by terror. Others sped up, eyes bulging and teeth bared like wild beasts. Either way, they were thrown off -- and that made them easy targets.


    "F! A!"


    Bruno heard Morgan Nacht call out from behind him -- and a moment later, a massive tendril of solid black fog swept across the roof, sending countless enemies flying off the side. Poor bastards: dazzled as they were by Delusional Arrowhead, Bruno doubted they¡¯d have the wherewithal to try and escape their fate with Aether abilities.


    Whatever the case, Bruno couldn¡¯t wait here. He had to get moving. If Dragan was here, then Bruno had no doubt that he¡¯d already be making his escape. Even with a situation like this, Gemini World would make leaving easy. Bruno just had to hope he had a reason to stick around for the time being.


    There¡¯d be a throne room, or a command center or something, and that¡¯s where Dragan would be monitoring the battle from. Bruno had to reach that place, wherever it was inside this temple. He destroyed the forcefield beneath him, dropping back onto the roof, and began to charge forwards --


    Watch out!


    -- when a spear of crystallized blood slammed down right in front of him, embedding itself into the surface of the roof.


    Immediately, Bruno skidded to a halt. If he¡¯d been just a little bit faster just then¡­ if Serena hadn¡¯t warned him¡­ that spear would have skewered their skull. Heart drumming tension, he spun around to face the source of the attack.


    Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.


    One after another, deadly fast, more spears landed down into the roof -- but these ones clearly weren¡¯t intended as an attack. The crimson spears seemed to form a rudimentary fence of some kind, a circular area separate from the rest of the battlefield. It didn¡¯t take a genius to work out what the user of this ability was aiming for.


    "Real men fight one against one," echoed a voice from above. "Don¡¯t you think?"


    Bruno¡¯s head snapped up. It seemed he wasn¡¯t the only one who¡¯d abused his ability to gain elevation.


    His attacker was perched atop a sphere of broiling blood, floating high above the battle. His face was covered in bandages, so Bruno couldn¡¯t get a good look, but the crimson eyes glaring down at him were more than enough to grasp the young man¡¯s malevolence. In one hand, he held a growling chainsaw, blood seeping from the vents on its sides. An Aether Armament?


    "Fino Onio," said the young man. "Fourth Branch of the Tree of Might. And you¡¯re¡­" he squinted. "...the Ventriloquist, aren¡¯t you? How auspicious."


    "How¡¯s that?" Bruno asked, already forming forcefields to protect against further projectiles.


    "You¡¯re an associate of Ruth Blaine, aren¡¯t you?" Fino raised an eyebrow. "In fact, you might even have been there. I¡¯m looking for her. Where is she?"


    "If I knew where she was," Bruno glared. "I wouldn¡¯t be here."


    Fino shrugged. "You were born free. You can choose whether to tell me what I want to know before I cut your limbs off, or after."


    "I¡¯m telling you¡­"


    "After, then."


    With an explosion of blood, Fino launched himself towards Bruno -- but before he could get close, a massive tendril of Nacht¡¯s black fog whipped out and sent him flying off to the side. Morgan Nacht himself, weaving the smogstorm from its core, sneered at the Fourth Branch as he rolled to a stop on the floor.


    "As if we¡¯d just let you go for a one-on-one," Morgan said, glaring right back at Fino. "The rest of us aren¡¯t just an audience."


    "Morgan Nacht¡­" Fino muttered as he rose to his feet, blood from his nose flowing through the air and forming a series of darts over his shoulder. "One of the Phases, huh¡­? You¡¯re another one I find interesting. I¡¯ve been told that if I can kill you, I¡¯ll be well-rewarded indeed."


    Morgan furrowed his brow. "Told by who?"


    "Who else? Dragan Hadrien," Fino replied. "If I acquit myself well here, I¡¯ve been promised the opportunity to compete for the position of Second Branch." His red eyes flicked over resentfully to Bruno. "...after your dear friend murdered the last person to hold that position."


    How many times had Ruth been framed for murder in this last week? Bruno hadn¡¯t even known about this one. More than that, though, from the way this guy was talking¡­ Dragan had known about this attack in advance.


    He wasn¡¯t here, was he?


    Don¡¯t give up, Bruno, Serena insisted. You don¡¯t know that.


    Right. Bruno shook his head, clearing those gloomy cobwebs from his brain, and assumed a fighting stance.


    The other members of the infiltration squad were still dealing with the rooftop guards. He was fairly certain that they and Nacht together could deal with this Fino guy -- he was only the Fourth Branch of the Tree of Might, after all -- but the problem was what came after. If Dragan really wasn¡¯t here, what was the mission objective? Getting rid of his reinforcements?


    Somehow, Bruno didn¡¯t see much hope in that.


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    "It¡¯s as you say, though, Morgan Nacht," Fino continued, calling out across the rooftop. "A one-on-one fight was far too much to hope for under these circumstances. However, I¡¯m more than happy to settle for a two-on-one."


    He shifted his own stance, bringing his body low to the ground, roaring chainsaw nearly scraping against the rooftop.


    "So," he said. "Shall we dance?"


    The way that Fino Onio saw it, there was no motivation in this world more beautiful or more true than vengeance.


    In one way, it was the most honest of emotions, animal instinct barely elevated by man. The desire to hurt that which has hurt you. But there was a kindness in it, as well: the capacity to feel the wounds of another as your own, and the drive to avenge on their behalf. And even then, there was malice in it -- definite malice -- the will to inflict agony far beyond the initial pain.


    It encompassed all things, good and evil.


    And so it was that vengeance swung Ill Humour, a blade of solid blood flying out of the weapon through the sky -- slicing through Nacht¡¯s fog like butter and proceeding directly to his face. If he hadn¡¯t ducked, throwing himself down onto the rooftop as well, no doubt he¡¯d have been decapitated.


    It was as people said: this was a proficient warrior. Good. That made this worth it.


    Fino exploded a globule of blood directly behind his heel, launching himself towards Nacht. Before he could get into melee range, however, he was intercepted by the Ventriloquist -- the bounty hunter swinging what seemed to be empty space in each hand. To the untrained mind, there would have been nothing to dodge -- but Fino had not lived this long by being careless.


    Strings of blood pulled Fino backwards, out of the Ventriloquist¡¯s range -- and as they did, he felt the air be sheared apart before him.


    He¡¯d made the right decision dodging. Crystalline blood flowed beneath his feet as he hopped from platform to transient platform. With a choked roar, Ill Humour vomited up even more blood from its vents.


    Fino Onio¡¯s ability was called Red Rum -- the power to control blood that he had infused for any number of purposes. Ill Humour was nothing more than a tool to bolster that ability further. Its function was very simple, activating under three possible conditions:


    When Fino blocked a hit with Ill Humour, it would vomit blood. The more powerful the blocked attack, the more blood was granted.


    When Fino dodged a hit while holding Ill Humour, it would vomit blood. The closer the hit was to landing, the more blood was granted.


    When Fino landed a hit with Ill Humour, it would vomit blood. Needless to say, the more vicious the wound dealt, the more blood was granted.


    In short, the longer a fight went on, the more blood Fino would have at his disposal -- and the more formidable he would become.


    Flipping over a cube that Nacht had kicked at him, Fino sculpted the blood pouring from Ill Humour into a crimson sword, clutching it in his free hand -- and dashed forward, towards the Ventriloquist. In a fight like this, he¡¯d do best to take care of them first.


    Nacht struck with a tentacle of black fog again, but now Fino had the blood to deal with it. A blood-red copy of his own body leapt out of a puddle at his feet, deflecting the attack with a sweep of its own chainsaw facsimile. Nacht could deal with Fino¡¯s blood-clone in moments, needless to say, but those moments were invaluable.


    As he saw the Ventriloquist¡¯s hand slam down towards the roof, Fino channeled his Aether through his feet, infusing the section of roof the two of them were standing on before the Ventriloquist¡¯s hand could make contact. He didn¡¯t know what sort of ability they¡¯d been trying to use, but it was good practice to infuse the environment before your enemy could. Violence had taught him that.


    Violence.


    Anger tightened his muscles.


    Two swipes of Ill Humour, dodged by inches, and a thrust of the blood-sword -- nicking the Ventriloquist¡¯s stomach as they dashed to the side. The few drops of blood that sprayed forth were infused nearly instantly, joining with Fino¡¯s sword to extend his reach just a tiny bit further on his next swing --


    Perfect Parry!


    -- but the Ventriloquist had been ready for it.


    Fino¡¯s sword froze in mid-air as if gripped by an invisible hand. No matter how hard he pulled, it wouldn¡¯t relent, so he immediately decided to abandon it. Kicking off it as a platform, he flipped backwards through the air -- avoiding another sweep of the invisible sword as he did -- and snapped his fingers.


    The blood-blade detonated, shards of red crystal shrapnel flying in every direction. For a moment, the Ventriloquist was forced to focus on defense, covering themselves with forcefields to withstand the barrage of bloody darts. It was a moment they couldn¡¯t afford to lose.


    Landing on the ground, Fino went to dash forward again¡­


    ¡­when a blade kissed his jugular.


    White-hot, white-cold pain flared out from Fino¡¯s neck as his blood sprayed out freely, painting the rooftop around him, a choking sound pouring from his mouth. What had happened? Neither Morgan Nacht nor the Ventriloquist had hit him. Nobody else had even gotten close. Nobody else had even¡­


    ¡­he looked behind him.


    There, holding a knife dripping with Fino¡¯s blood, stood Beatrice Grace. Her eyes were a cold blue as she glared at him, regarded him¡­ and then vanished. An assassin. A sneak attack.


    Oh wow.


    Beatrice Grace¡¯s ability was perfect for infiltration and assassination. Like her brother¡¯s ability -- Dupin¡¯s Alchemy -- it worked based on the senses. By sealing off one of her own senses, she could become undetectable to anyone else using that sense. By blinding herself, she became invisible. By deafening herself, she became inaudible.


    It sounded like an inconvenient power, but Beatrice found that it was perfect for her. At this point, she¡¯d learnt how to move without a world around her long ago.


    Dodging the cyclone of blood-slashes that the enemy unleashed, she passed by Morgan Nacht¡¯s ear:


    "Go," she whispered. "I¡¯ll finish him off."


    Morgan didn¡¯t need to be told twice.


    Once again, he sent out a massive tendril of Fog -- but this time, instead of aiming at Fino, he lashed out at the del Sed twins. Catching them by surprise, he managed to embrace them in the black smoke before they could even react. Even so, they turned their head once they were already constricted.


    "The hell are you doing?!" Bruno cried out.


    "My job," Morgan replied coldly -- he still didn¡¯t trust the pair as far as he could throw them. Lowering himself to the ground, he planted his hand against an uninfused section of the roof.


    I.


    Inside.


    In a single moment, Morgan and the del Sed¡¯s -- connected to his body by the Fog -- were transported into the sealed space that was the Tree of Might¡¯s temple. Appearing in the middle of a hallway, Bruno moved to break free of the cloud, but Morgan just raised a finger. Sear?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "We¡¯re not done," he said.


    He placed his hand against the floor again.


    I.


    They appeared on the next floor down, and again¡­


    I.


    ¡­and again¡­


    I.


    ¡­and again¡­


    I.


    ¡­the pair continued to descend through the building.


    The design of this temple was most convenient for Morgan¡¯s ability. Essentially, every level of the temple was sealed off from the others by the security system, meaning that each floor was a valid target for Morgan¡¯s Inside. Just by planting his hand against the floor and activating the ability, he could pass through the fortress like a knife through butter.


    It took sixteen uses of Inside before the trio -- Morgan, Bruno and Serena -- appeared inside the temple¡¯s throne room.


    Morgan looked around, scowled, and clicked his tongue.


    The room was empty.


    It wasn¡¯t as if they hadn¡¯t anticipated this. Since the Dawn Contest had begun, Dragan Hadrien had been particularly elusive. He¡¯d appear for his matches and quickly retreat, recording himself and following a roundabout route to throw off any pursuers. It wasn¡¯t out of the question that even this mighty fortress was just a decoy -- something to attract the eyes of his enemies while he secretly schemed elsewhere.


    Still¡­ they¡¯d thought their chances were good. Morgan tightened his fists; it was what it was. Even if they couldn¡¯t take on Hadrien, they could destroy this place -- and hope that at least would deal some kind of blow.


    "Come on," Morgan said, turning his head. "We need to head to the engine --"


    He stopped.


    Bruno del Sed was crying.


    It didn¡¯t fit his face. His expression was screwed up as if he were furious, his teeth bared¡­ but tears were streaming down his cheeks. His arms were trembling. A deep, heaving breath struggled through his throat.


    "Dragan," Bruno whispered.


    "He¡¯s not here¡­" Morgan replied quietly --


    -- but Bruno wasn¡¯t speaking to him. With a thunderous boom, Bruno del Sed stepped forward, fury finally overpowering his sorrow, and roared:


    "DRAGAN! I know you can hear me!"


    A finger froze over a button.


    Bruno let out a breath sparking with purple Aether.


    "Even if you¡¯re not willing to talk to me¡­"


    He looked up, and his eyes were brilliant emeralds.


    "...you¡¯re going to damn well listen."

 Chapter 396:13.54: The Hungry Throne

    Oh, Beatrice Grace¡­ you are a cunning one.


    Fino Onio stepped back into a clear section of the roof, blades of blood whipping through the air around him -- creating a cyclone that would hopefully prevent Beatrice Grace from drawing close again. One hand was held over his open jugular, bone-white Aether coursing through it as he continued to use his Red Rum. It was a tricky operation, and one he rather wouldn¡¯t be doing.


    Essentially, he was manually forcing his blood to flow as if his jugular were still present, creating a sort of ¡¯invisible vein¡¯ that prevented him from bleeding out. It was a maneuver that required constant focus -- if he misjudged his ability even in the slightest, he would surely die. Even worse, it limited his options in taking on this opponent.


    Moving around too much would break his concentration and risk the collapse of the invisible vein. Not an option.


    He couldn¡¯t swing Ill Humour properly with just one hand, and moving his hand away from his throat would risk the collapse of the invisible vein. Not an option.


    He couldn¡¯t activate his Absolutian -- Manchineel -- because that would mean disabling his Red Rum, which would immediately collapse the invisible vein. Not an option.


    Not an option, not an option, not an option. It felt like the world had suddenly become made of prison bars. An incarcerated universe.


    What options did he have?


    Even retreating wasn¡¯t reliable right now. He couldn¡¯t move quickly in this state, and even if he could keep the blood-cyclone following him while he withdrew, it would be destabilized by the movement. There was a chance that Beatrice would weave through and deal another grievous wound.


    This was the closest he¡¯d ever come to death. He could feel it, a cold stranger on the threshold, running its fingers over his wound. He¡¯d long imagined how a moment like this might feel. He¡¯d expected fury. Despair, perhaps.


    But right now¡­ his heart was dancing.


    Fino Onio let Ill Humour slip away into his Aether, and grasped a katana of blood with his now-free hand. A feral grin spread across his lips. Red eyes stared adoringly at an enemy he could not see.


    Ah, Beatrice Grace, he thought, his cheeks bloody. Kiss me again with that silent blade of yours.


    Only¡­


    A frown consumed his face once more. In the sky, in the distance -- but quickly approaching -- he could see it. The shape of something that wasn¡¯t meant to be here tonight. The light of something that wasn¡¯t meant to be here tonight.


    The First Branch of the Tree of Might, Xander Rain, surging towards the temple as if gravity held no dominion over him -- strands of weathered brown Aether coursing around his body. S§×arch* The novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It seemed this fight would be ending faster than expected.


    Fino observed the advent of a parchment star.


    Bruno stood in the empty throne room, Morgan behind him, glaring across the distance of two years. They were still far apart -- always far apart -- but Bruno felt he could almost see his face. He could almost see the face of Dragan Hadrien.


    There was an expression he made. A face Dragan made when he suddenly went from the observer to the observed. A flicker of panic, like he¡¯d just remembered that he existed.


    Bruno bet he was making that face now.


    "You¡¯re listening now, aren¡¯t you?" he said, voice low. "I mean it¡­ I know you¡¯re listening. You¡¯re probably thinking the best thing to do is turn off the broadcast. But you can¡¯t do it¡­ can you?"


    Silence.


    "Because you know," Bruno continued, hands balled into fists. "You know that whatever I¡¯m about to say¡­ is something you need to hear. Right?"


    Silence.


    In the distance, a shallow explosion. Not even enough to shake this tranquil place. Bruno took a deep breath, the past flowing into him with the air.


    "Two years ago¡­ when we met¡­ I didn¡¯t trust you. Hell, I didn¡¯t trust anyone, except Serena. You know why. Cott. The Sed. All of it. It was like¡­ I couldn¡¯t bring myself to trust anyone else, ever again. It would be like putting the dagger back in all by myself. That¡¯s what I thought."


    Morgan Nacht watched with a strange expression, something between pity and concentration. Ordinarily, Bruno wouldn¡¯t talk like this in front of someone like him -- one step away from an enemy -- but right now, right here? He didn¡¯t have a choice.


    His mouth had already started moving, after all.


    "I thought you would leave," Bruno said -- whispering at first, then raising his voice to make sure he could be heard. "I was sure you would leave, like North, like I¡­ had sometimes thought of doing. I wasn¡¯t stupid. I knew Skipper¡¯s plan, whatever it was, wouldn¡¯t end happily. I know what the eyes of a dead man look like. I think you do too.


    "Serena didn¡¯t know. She knew what that looked like, too, I mean, but¡­ she didn¡¯t know that I¡¯d thought about leaving. She¡¯s surprised right now. She¡¯s not saying anything, because¡­ because she thinks I need to talk, but¡­ she didn¡¯t know. She¡¯s only finding out now. Two years later. Some brother I am."


    He chuckled. There was no humour in it¡­ just a crumbling weariness.


    "Two years," he repeated, as if the words were alien upon his tongue. "Two years¡­ it¡¯s funny. When I think about it, I¡¯ve missed you for longer than I knew you. Don¡¯t you think that¡¯s funny?"


    Nothing, save for a distant scream crawling from down below.


    "Back then¡­ you¡¯d have said something stupid. You always had to get a word in, even if it made you look like an asshole. I loved you for that."


    Bruno looked down at his hand. His gloved, ruined, ravaged hand. He sighed.


    "These days¡­ well, I don¡¯t know what you¡¯d say these days. I don¡¯t know what you¡¯d do. You won¡¯t let me find out, will you? That¡¯s why you¡¯re running away, isn¡¯t it?"


    He looked up.


    "Isn¡¯t it, Dragan?"


    Dragan Hadrien sat frozen upon his throne.


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    The chamber was empty. There were no listening devices in here. Even North was away. Right now, there was nothing in this room save for himself, Bruno¡¯s voice, and his own thoughts. But those thoughts were a tempest.


    Turn it off. Don¡¯t let yourself get distracted. You¡¯re nowhere close to the end yet. Don¡¯t drag them down with you. They¡¯d hold you back. You don¡¯t need them. They¡¯re better off without you. You made a promise. You don¡¯t owe anyone anything. You need to keep going. Don¡¯t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don¡¯t let them change you. Don¡¯t let them take your hand. You can¡¯t, you can¡¯t, you can¡¯t. You¡¯re not allowed.


    "Make this stick for me."


    The only one allowed to decide what happens to you is you. Don¡¯t think for a second that you can escape that.


    Dragan Hadrien wanted to do so many things at that moment. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stop listening. He wanted to speak.


    He wanted to go home¡­ and then he realised dimly that he had no idea where that was anymore.


    Forget about it.


    So, in the end, he did nothing at all. He sat there¡­ and he stayed there¡­ and he didn¡¯t listen -- but he heard.


    Morgan Nacht had left the room at some point, but Bruno barely even registered it. Right now, the entirety of his attention was focused on the ghost that was not before him. The absence of Dragan -- and the absence that loomed behind him, too.


    "It¡¯s because of Skipper, isn¡¯t it?" Bruno asked the emptiness.


    It did not answer.


    "The only thing I can think of¡­ is Skipper," Bruno slowly said. "You were the last one to see him alive. You were the last one to talk to him. At least, during that battle, at some point¡­ while I wasn¡¯t there with you¡­ something happened, didn¡¯t it? Something changed you. But¡­ I do think it was Skipper in the end. I think he asked you to do something. Didn¡¯t he?"


    Cold.


    "He asked you to do something," Bruno affirmed to the air. "And that¡¯s why you¡¯re here now¡­ doing this. Because you feel like you have to. But¡­ are you happy, Dragan?"


    Silent.


    "When I was with you¡­ when we were all together¡­ I was happy. I don¡¯t know if I understand what that feels like, but this awful feeling in my chest -- this thing I¡¯ve been feeling for the last two years -- it went away. For a little while, at least. Those times were like my medicine¡­ you were like my medicine."


    Empty.


    "You feel it too¡­ don¡¯t you? That awful feeling?"


    The chamber did not answer him. The temple did not answer him. The world¡­ the entire blackened sodden universe¡­ it did not answer him. A sad smile crossed Bruno¡¯s lips. A smile that had never expected anything else.


    "When you want it to stop¡­ I guess I¡¯ll be waiting."


    He turned, took a deep breath, and began striding out of the chamber.


    "There¡¯s nothing else you¡¯ve left me, is there?"


    The smile was gone.


    When Dragan emerged from the command room, white cloak pulled taut around his form, Tyr Masterman was waiting for him. The Third Branch nodded respectfully to him -- only to suddenly pause, a bemused expression rippling over his moustachios.


    "Zero Branch," he said. "Are you alright?"


    Dragan looked at the older man.


    "Of course I am," he replied. "Everything is going according to plan. What reason would I have to hesitate?"


    The old man was clearly growing senile. There was no reason to be concerned for Dragan. After all, his face was cold and expressionless. His face was cold and expressionless right now. As ever, his face was cold and expressionless.


    The only one who decided what happened to him was him. He¡¯d make this stick. There was nothing else to worry about.


    "Well¡­" Tyr said. "...you¡¯re crying."


    Slowly, deadly slowly, Dragan Hadrien turned his head to face the Third Branch. A plastic smile spread across his lips. Something that had been crawling up was stuffed back down.


    "Tears of joy, my friend," Dragan said. "The operation has gone well. We grow closer to our goal with each passing second. My heart dances with celebration. Yours should too. Is it so strange for me to show my exultation?"


    He went to pass Tyr, but the man spoke up one last time.


    "It¡¯s as you say," the Third Branch nodded. "The operation has gone well. Only¡­"


    Dragan stopped. "Only?"


    "The boy¡­ First Branch Rain¡­ he¡¯s been spotted heading through the city. It seems he¡¯s on his way to the temple. I assume he means to fight, as well. Was this on your command?"


    Dragan looked back at the old man. His face was cold and expressionless. Tyr paled at what he saw, taking a fearful step back.


    "I see," Dragan said pleasantly. "Yes¡­ that was on my command."


    There was nothing else left for him.


    The Graces -- Marcus, Beatrice and Amelia -- lay splayed out on the roof, a massive crater forming their bed. Marcus had used his body to shield the two younger members of his family, and his sliced-open back was bleeding heavily. The bullets he¡¯d fired at their attacker continued to travel through the air, agonisingly slow, crawling through space like flying snails.


    Xander Rain slapped them out of the air with a swing of his halberd.


    The Fourth Branch, Fino Onio, nodded to the First as he strode across the rooftop. "I didn¡¯t know you were meant to be here," the Scurrant said.


    "After seeing the Tree of Might fight so valiantly," Xander replied. "I couldn¡¯t just sit and wait at home. You should continue treating that injury."


    Ordinarily, Fino would have been insulted enough by this to seek recompense, but it seemed his near-death experience had brought with it the shadow of humility. He just nodded again, hand hovering over his open jugular. They¡¯d have to get that properly repaired before long, but for now Red Rum would suffice. If Fino lost consciousness, Xander supposed he could take over, too. Manipulating the flow of something as predictable as blood wasn¡¯t a big deal for him.


    Blood, wind, bullets¡­ there was a flow to all of them. A path they took and a speed they took it at. The nameless ability to manipulate both of those factors gave Xander power over a great many things. He let the air hold his halberd for him as he stepped forward, looking down at the defeated Graces.


    "Three?" he mused, frowning. "Is this all they sent, Fino?"


    The Fourth Branch shook his head. "There are two more below-decks. Morgan Nacht and a bounty hunter called the Ventriloquist. One of Hadrien¡¯s old friends. Some mercenaries too."


    "Lord Hadrien."


    "Forgive me," Fino said in monotone. "The blood loss."


    Xander sighed. "I¡¯ll go down to pursue the pair of them in a second, I guess -- after I finish off these ones. Losing access to the Grace family will be a good blow against Atoy Muzazi. Don¡¯t you think?"


    Fino stared at him. "I would think the swing of a sword is the only blow we should be concerned with."


    "Hm." Xander snatched his halberd out of the air, holding it high over the unconscious Graces. "Farewell. Die and become the foundation of this nation. Reaper¡¯s Due, take their --"


    "Metal strips. Bind the mouth, hands, and feet of the First Branch of the Tree of Might, Xander Rain."


    Xander¡¯s eyes widened in alarm. Before he could do anything with that alarm, however, he found a thick strip of metal flying through the air and snapping into place against his mouth, gagging him. A second later, another strip bound his wrists. Another second after that, his legs were bound tight. It was a wonder he didn¡¯t fall over.


    The voice sounded out again.


    "Metal strips. Do the same to Fino Onio, Fourth Branch of the Tree of Might, but leave him one hand free to treat his injury with his Aether ability."


    Fino went to jump back, but the strips were too fast. Within mere moments, he was bound as well, falling backwards onto the surface of the roof.


    Xander knew this. It had been part of the research they¡¯d done before going into this Dawn Contest. He looked up, eyes still furious.


    All-Word.


    The temple was passing beneath a great bridge, and atop that bridge he could see a figure. A young woman who looked like she belonged nowhere near a battlefield, her blue polka-dot dress and red slippers a stark contrast to the cool gleam in her eye. Her arms were crossed and her feet planted apart as she regarded them from up on high.


    Of course her arms were crossed. This woman had no need for her hands. She could defeat nearly anyone with just the sound of her voice.


    Dorothy Eiro. One of the three Special Officers closest to the level of the former Contenders.


    She smiled. "Let¡¯s stop all this fighting, okay?"

 Chapter 397:13.55: The Wings Slumber

    Jamilu Aguta sat cross-legged in the silent-dark room, demon spear resting across his knees, and drank in the past. Impressions scraped from the surface of Victory¡¯s consciousness. Scents, smells¡­ images¡­ flashes of legends of days long past.


    He breathed -- and he saw.


    A galaxy governed by cruel curiosity. Mankind warped into shapes grotesque and pitiful. Every living thing twisted into servitude from the very moment of its birth. Hell. For those cursed to exist in that era, it was a hell that seemed inescapable.


    But then¡­


    Crafted by the hands of man, a sapphire star, granting a light of the mind to the people -- before setting off on its endless voyage. Warriors pouring the light into themselves, becoming legends in their own right. Unleashing the flesh-bound resentment and allowing it to flood across the galaxy.


    Zarakhel the Blindman, who tore his own eyes from his skull out of spite towards their abominable craftsmen, blue fury shining out of the empty sockets. With harpoons in hand, he rained down death upon his creators, a single touch of his weapons turning shifting flesh into naught but cold meat.


    Bieshu del Mar, the Origin Companion, dancing between the ranks of monsters with scimitar in hand. With arts of the sword that the new power elevated into divinity, he led countless slaves out of captivity and to lands made safe. Among the Zeilan Morhan, the companions of the hero, he was by far the most beloved -- perhaps that was why he found the knives of comrades in his back after the dust settled.


    Idra, Saint of the Wound, his chest opened wide by the strike of a tyrant, his words unintelligible to any who had not seen the face of God. Bleeding spear in hand, he led legions of zealots through the darkest battlefields of the war, a terror upon their creators. In days to come, his armies would form the spine of the nascent Final Church.


    Roland Nebula, who floated freely in the void, wielding his blade of starlight. With single swings, mighty vessels were burnt to cinders and the cinders burnt to nothing. In time, many nations would come to form around the safety of his presence. Among the titans of the Revolutions, only he and the other would pass of old age¡­


    ¡­yes, the other.


    Azez the Absolute, standing resplendent over all, shining Lantern of Truth in hand -- each ray baking tumours into the bodies of his enemies. Foes that had called themselves gods crawled desperately away from him, and heroes flocked to join his banner. Soon enough, that banner became the symbol of an empire. Soon enough, that lantern became the symbol of fell treachery.


    Yes, treachery. Treachery. Treachery. Treachery. Treachery!


    AZEZ!


    With the tyranny exterminated, the tribe of the Absolute turned against their comrades -- burning them, beating them, absorbing their lands under their own flag. Battle at the borders, endless battle -- battle even after death -- fighting and fighting and fighting and killing and killing and killing and ah, the blood, the sweet blood, more, more battle, more fighting, more killing, yesss --


    Jamilu opened his eyes, tearing his consciousness away from Victory¡¯s. They had brushed up against each other. How unpleasant.


    "What?" sneered the Demon Spear. "Too honest for you? What a cowardly brat."


    Jamilu did not dignify the thing with a response. It was true that the Old Demons of the Dawn -- ancient Aether Armaments created shortly after the Revolutions -- had once been heroes of Inganci. But the endless struggle against the Supremacy had changed them, warped their minds into murderous fiends. They had become addicted to the bloodshed and the suffering. Their laughter now lingered in the dark.


    Victory, Wisdom, Resolve, Daring and Mercy.


    Just one of them held the potential for slaughter untold, and Jamilu held that malice in his hands. Victory was the strongest of the Demons in direct combat, but the strength of its will was even more frightening. It was a rare warrior who could restrain the old bastard¡¯s consciousness.


    Still¡­ it was probably best not to test his own prowess in that regard right now, Jamilu supposed. His mind was distracted. If Victory saw a weakness, it would take advantage of it instantly. The Demon was brash, but it was far from stupid.


    Ignoring Victory¡¯s taunts, Jamilu thought instead on the future. Come the morning, the match between Dorothy Eiro and Atoy Muzazi would take place. Both held promise as a UAP-friendly Supreme, but he couldn¡¯t decide who he¡¯d rather see victorious. Which would bring the peace Jamilu yearned for to the galaxy?


    The swordsman they called the Full Moon¡­ or the woman called the kindest Special Officer of the Supremacy¡­


    ¡­even if, once, she had been among the deadliest?


    The commands rang out throughout the temple of the Tree of Might. Inviolable directives. Absolute orders.


    The will of All-Word.


    "Metal strips: descend into the temple and restrain every person you find."


    A flock of metal birds, hunting, flying, snapping into place around wrists and ankles and mouths.


    "Metal strips holding prisoners: separate the Tree of Might prisoners from those belonging to Shooting Stars Security Solutions."


    Flailing bodies, dragged along the ground. Grown men and women handled like toys. Disciplined like misbehaving children. A humiliation, but not one that could be opposed.


    "Metal strips holding injured prisoners: take them to the nearest hospital."


    A procession of floating bodies, carried through the sky single-file, proceeding out of sight. Marcus Grace and his kin were among them, thoroughly unconscious each and all. Fino Onio cast a bloody glare back at the one who had sent him away.


    "Metal strips holding dead prisoners: lay them to rest. Preserve their dignity."


    Rows upon rows of corpses, kept as intact as possible, lining the floor of the throne room. Slashed by a blade, shot by a gun¡­ these deaths were common, but dignity following them was not. More than one body was rendered unrecognisable by their messy end.


    "Metal strips holding Morgan Nacht: hold him out before me."


    Morgan said nothing as invisible hands lifted him up into the air, dragging him before the figure of Dorothy Eiro. He made no complaint at the rough treatment, nor did he try to escape. An unprecedented opportunity was before him: the chance to watch the All-Word in action.


    He couldn¡¯t waste the tiniest bit of attention on anything else.


    Still¡­ he had to ask. As he was held out in front of Dorothy, he tried to speak, his voice a muffled mess against his metal gag. Dorothy raised her eyebrows, realising the issue.


    "Oh. Metal strip covering Morgan Nacht¡¯s mouth," she commanded hurriedly. "Lift yourself away and let him speak. If he tries to use an ability, return to cover his mouth immediately."


    The way she designated the item she was commanding was¡­ interesting. As his mouth was uncovered, Morgan spoke.


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    "The del Sed twins, below. Did you kill them?"


    "I haven¡¯t," Dorothy replied. "There¡¯s no reason for me to do that. They¡¯re restrained, like everyone else. I¡¯ll return them to you once I send you home."


    Send you home. A shudder of irritation ran through Morgan¡¯s body. It really was like they were kids. He stuffed the feeling down.


    "And when will that be?" Morgan asked.


    "In a minute," Dorothy replied. She wasn¡¯t looking at him, but rather behind him -- to where Xander Rain was restrained.


    Holding him down had taken much more effort than anyone else. So many metal strips were now wrapped around his body that he almost looked spherical -- wound around his eyes, as well, so as to stop him from using his ability with any accuracy.


    To be honest, Morgan hadn¡¯t expected him to be that much of a problem¡­ but then again, he had brutalised the Graces. He¡¯d be one to keep an eye on.


    "And," Morgan cleared his throat. "What happens in that minute?"


    Dorothy blinked. "I want you to call Atoy Muzazi."


    "No way."


    No matter the situation, Dorothy Eiro was Atoy Muzazi¡¯s enemy. Morgan wouldn¡¯t betray the commander like that. If he showed up here, Morgan had no doubt the next round of the Dawn Contest would be beginning early once again.


    Dorothy cocked her head. "Why not?"


    "I¡¯m not letting him come to this battlefield," Morgan glared. "In a situation like this, with all these hostages? Get real."


    "If I told you I just wanted to talk to him, would that change things?"


    "Like I¡¯d believe you."


    "Well," Dorothy sighed. "I guess you¡¯re right. I didn¡¯t really wanna do it this way, though."


    Blue Aether flashed -- and in the next instant, Dorothy Eiro plunged her fist towards Morgan¡¯s stomach. Immediately, on reflex more than anything else, Morgan channelled all of his infusion into the spot that Eiro was about to strike. He didn¡¯t register that the attack was a little too slow. He didn¡¯t register that the attack was a little too weak.


    What he did register, though, was Dorothy Eiro¡¯s free hand suddenly lashing out and seizing his forehead. He certainly registered the hostile Aether infusion that flooded through his skull, fast and strong as a tsunami. And when Dorothy Eiro spoke next, he registered that most of all.


    "Morgan Nacht: call Atoy Muzazi here."


    There was still much night to go.


    "I¡¯m grateful that you saved my comrades," Atoy Muzazi murmured, looking out the window at the aftermath of the battle. "And yet¡­ I can¡¯t help but wonder why."


    He turned back to Dorothy Eiro, standing opposite him in the empty office.


    "Care to explain?" he asked.


    She crossed her arms, leaning against a spent water cooler. "What makes you think I acted to save your comrades?"


    "They¡¯re all alive," Muzazi frowned. "Whereas the Tree of Might have suffered many casualties. I cannot help but see a bias."


    "Trust me, it was unintentional," Dorothy shrugged. "Both your men and the Tree of Might were low on my priority list."


    Muzazi¡¯s frown deepened. "Why act at all, then?"


    Dorothy furrowed her brow as if the answer were obvious. "Because of the temple, of course. You were planning to bring it down, right? Blow it up?"


    It went against Muzazi¡¯s better judgement to reveal the details of his plan¡­ but then again, the plan had already failed¡­ slowly, he nodded.


    "That¡¯s right."


    "Well, there you go," Dorothy waved her hand. "Something that big blows up in the middle of the city, a lot of innocent people are gonna get hurt. I couldn¡¯t just let that happen."


    Muzazi looked deep into her dark eyes -- and saw nothing but the truth there. Dorothy Eiro meant every word she said, it seemed. She was living up to her reputation.


    "And yet," he said slowly. "We now found ourselves in a room together. I can¡¯t help but wonder if you wish to take advantage of the situation."


    "I don¡¯t want to fight you yet," Dorothy shook her head. "The match is tomorrow, and it¡¯s going to be happening in the arena. Don¡¯t worry -- I¡¯m not like Nael Manron or that Mereloco. I understand the kind of collateral damage that comes from a battle in the city."


    "So why is it we¡¯re meeting, then?"


    "Easy," Dorothy looked at him once more -- her gaze unbreakable. "I wanted to ask you to surrender again."


    Muzazi¡¯s reply was immediate: "No."


    "Can you at least think about it?" Dorothy sighed. "If you¡¯re worried about my motives, I¡¯ve just laid them out for you -- I want to keep the innocents safe. If you¡¯re worried about my competency, I just took out two of the Tree of Might¡¯s Branches like it was nothing, not to mention the guys you brought along. What else do you need from me?"


    What else¡­ what else¡­ what else¡­ the question echoed through Muzazi¡¯s battered body. A rueful smirk twisted his lips. That really wasn¡¯t the right question, was it? He was lying again.


    Murderer.


    Now, he told the truth. "It¡¯s not a question of competency," he said quietly.


    Dorothy frowned. "What, then?"


    Slowly, carefully, as if worried that some god would see him, Muzazi looked down at his hand. It was trembling. "I made a promise to someone. Someone¡­ who¡¯s since passed away. I told them I would be Supreme. I told them I would make that happen."


    "Ah," Dorothy slowly nodded.


    He looked at her, face aggrieved, and dared to hope for just a moment. "Couldn¡¯t¡­" he swallowed. "Couldn¡¯t you surrender¡­? Is that not possible at all¡­?"


    Dorothy looked down towards the floor. "I¡¯m afraid not¡­ sorry. I have promises too."


    "To who¡­? If you don¡¯t mind me asking¡­"


    The kindest Special Officer sighed. "I don¡¯t know their names."


    "What?"


    "When I became a Special Officer," Dorothy said, looking up at him -- silhouetted by the lights of passing cars outside. "I didn¡¯t care much for people. I didn¡¯t care much for anything. I just did whatever I was told¡­ I went where I was told and I -- I killed who I was told. So many¡­ my sword was always red. I threw it away years ago, but I look down there¡­ and I can see it¡­ and it¡¯s still red."


    "I understand," Muzazi said honestly -- and his eyes flicked down to the hand that had once held dread Luminescence. "What changed¡­?"


    For a long while, it looked like Dorothy wouldn¡¯t answer him¡­ but then her mouth started moving again.


    "There was someone I was told to kill," she said quietly, her gaze distant. "A teacher of sorts. I don¡¯t even know why they wanted him dead, he was dying already¡­ but they told me to do it, so I did it."


    Dorothy swallowed, and Muzazi saw that her eyes held the beginnings of tears.


    "But he said something to me, the teacher, before I killed him," she murmured. "Those words¡­ they wouldn¡¯t mean anything to you, I don¡¯t think, but I couldn¡¯t stop thinking about them. Before long, they were all I could think about. They drilled right through me."


    She looked up at him.


    "I realised that, when I looked in the mirror, I didn¡¯t recognise the person looking back at me. I didn¡¯t know them -- and I didn¡¯t want to know them. So¡­ I made promises, too. To every person I¡¯d killed."


    Her gaze became stone.


    "I would fix my heart, and then I would fix the world too. So¡­ I absolutely can¡¯t surrender to you. There¡¯s just no way."


    Cold wind whistled at the windows, interrupted by the blaring of angry traffic. Behind Dorothy, Muzazi could see the temple of the Tree of Might -- burning, grievously damaged -- being inspected by authorities for transportation. The night was old and getting older¡­


    ¡­and Atoy Muzazi was tired of being right.


    "So," he said, throat dry. "There exists no recourse for either of us?"


    Dorothy smiled sadly. "I don¡¯t think so, no." Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I see," he murmured. "Then all that awaits us is the morning."


    Dorothy nodded. "Yep. I guess we¡¯ve got no choice but to fight."


    Those were the last words they needed to exchange on that night. Dorothy left from the roof, using her ability to have a floor tile carry her away. As Muzazi walked through the dark empty rooms of the building, proceeding to the ground floor exit, he couldn¡¯t help but think.


    Think, and dread.


    Dorothy Eiro had said that they had no choice but to fight. Perhaps that was true. No doubt that was what awaited them in the Arena of the Absolute.


    But the terror in her eyes¡­ the sorrow in her voice¡­ Atoy Muzazi knew them well from his own mirror.


    The word she¡¯d been looking for wasn¡¯t ¡¯fight¡¯ at all.


    Atoy Muzazi passed through the doors, and silence took dominion.

 Chapter 398:13.56: The Crawling Night

    Bruno barged into the room he¡¯d been provided, the strength already leaving his body -- drained by the night they¡¯d had.


    Probably it was quite a nice room. This wasn¡¯t a bad hotel, by any means. Ordinarily, a place like this would have been infested by businessmen and rich tourists -- the only reason Atoy Muzazi had been able to get this floor reserved was because of his status as a Dawn Contestant.


    Even so, though¡­ Bruno wasn¡¯t in a state to appreciate any of this. The cold silence of that throne room still lingered inside his ears. A rejection, or -- even worse -- an absence.


    He collapsed face-first onto the bed. It was comfortable. That, at least, he was in a fit state to appreciate.


    Serena¡¯s voice came out of their shared mouth, muffled by the bedsheets. "Bruno," she said quietly. "You okay?"


    "He wasn¡¯t even listening, was he?" Bruno muttered, voice dull. "He wasn¡¯t there. He doesn¡¯t care. Why would he be listening?"


    "I think he was listening, Bruno. It¡¯s like you said¡­ Mr. Dragan wouldn¡¯t leave something like that just to chance."


    That made sense. He¡¯d told himself that before, and he told himself that now. It made sense that Dragan would have been monitoring the situation carefully. Was that really true, though, or just something he was desperate to believe?


    "Um, Bruno¡­"


    "Yeah?" he replied, eyes closed.


    "I didn¡¯t know you felt that way about¡­"


    Bruno felt heat rise to his face. "Uh¡­"


    "...about Mr. Skipper. About the crew back then. You really wanted us to leave?"


    Bruno was silent for a moment, and then¡­ "Yeah," he said softly. "I¡­I didn¡¯t think it was going to end well. Any of it."


    "Hm¡­"


    "Hm?"


    Serena was silent for a moment, and then¡­ "Well," she said slowly. "I think maybe you were right about that, Bruno."


    Bruno slowly opened his eyes. "What do you mean?"


    "Look where we all are," Serena said simply. "Look what we¡¯re all doing. I don¡¯t think it ended well. I don¡¯t think it ended well at all."


    Bruno lay there, on the bed, limbs tangled beneath him like a gaggle of snakes. A bitter smile rose to his lips. What a strange sensation: to realize the life you live now is the failure of a distant dream.


    Damnit. Goddamnit.


    "Is this a bad time?" asked Atoy Muzazi.


    Bruno¡¯s head snapped up. The Full Moon stood there awkwardly in the doorway, hands clasped in front of him, looking down at Bruno with those cold grey eyes. Had he really gotten so close without them noticing? Bruno felt a chill go down his spine. They were slipping.


    "What is it?" he asked.


    Muzazi stepped into the room, eyes fixed on the window -- and the night outside. "I just finished speaking with Morgan. He says you performed well during the operation."


    Bruno shrugged. "It¡¯s not like we got the chance to do much."


    "Dorothy Eiro¡¯s intervention was¡­" Muzazi considered his words. "... unexpected, yes. But you did face a Branch of the Tree of Might on my behalf. For that, you have my gratitude."


    "It was self-defense," Bruno glared at him. "Don¡¯t go thinking I went after him for your sake or anything."


    Muzazi frowned. "You seem determined not to have me warm to you. Is there a reason for that?"


    "I¡¯m not the biggest fan of the Supremacy," Bruno snapped, his smashed hands twitching reflexively. "And even ignoring all the bullshit three years ago, you¡¯re looking to become Supreme -- so I¡¯m not the biggest fan of you, either."


    Muzazi paced around the bed as he spoke. "What if I told you I wish to change the Supremacy, to make it a definitive force for good?"


    Bruno sighed. It was always the same dream, wasn¡¯t it?


    I wanna change the shape of this world.


    "Can¡¯t be done," Bruno said simply.


    Muzazi stopped his pacing, looking down at Bruno. "You sound quite certain of that."


    Reluctantly, he produced words. "The Supremacy is a force of domination by definition," Bruno elaborated, looking back up at him. "If it can¡¯t stamp down others, it can¡¯t exist. It¡¯s like trying to turn a sword into a tool for non-violence. Can¡¯t happen."


    "A blade can be used for eating just as much as war."


    "Yeah, and any second I can pick up the knife and stab you over the dinner-table," Bruno snapped. "Only thing that¡¯s changing is the set-dressing. The actual blade doesn¡¯t change."


    "But if the blade is made dull¡­"


    Bruno raised an eyebrow. "That¡¯s not changing it. That¡¯s breaking it."


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    Muzazi stood there quietly for a moment. And, then: "It seems we won¡¯t agree on this matter."


    "It seems we won¡¯t."


    "All the same," the Full Moon straightened up, hand grasping momentarily for the hilt of a sword that was not here. "You made me an offer before this operation -- and I¡¯m now ready to give you an answer to that offer." Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Bruno¡¯s other eyebrow joined the first. "Yeah¡­?"


    Muzazi nodded. "Yes. If you can help me reach the finals of the Dawn Contest, I will help you find Ruth Blaine and clear her name. And¡­ there is Dragan Hadrien. You fight for his sake as well, don¡¯t you?"


    Slowly, Bruno nodded.


    Muzazi took a deep breath. "I will do¡­ all I can¡­ not to kill him."


    Bruno was silent for a moment.


    And then.


    "Okay," he nodded. "I think I can work under those terms¡­ ¡¯boss¡¯."


    The news came in overnight. PALATINE was free.


    The Aether Awakening had broken free of its containment facility, escaped into the city, and slaughtered its upcoming opponent -- Mariner Thirteen, plucked from traffic and shredded in public. Right after doing so, the Flower of Evil had slipped into the shadows, and not been seen since.


    Under any other circumstances, this would have been a terrible tragedy -- but during the Dawn Contest? Just another victory. The fever of battle had already infested the population. Security forces were searching for the rogue Awakening, but everyone already knew: it would only appear again when it pleased.


    Soon enough, the news of the rampage had already faded to a buzzing in the background. As the sun rose, the people already had a new battle to look forward to. One with human faces, one with human souls, one they could truly -- truly -- sink their teeth into.


    Atoy Muzazi versus Dorothy Eiro.


    They were waiting at Dorothy¡¯s apartment when she got home. Men in dark suits and masks, standing outside her door, official and inflexible -- as if she were the intruder here.


    One nodded to her as she approached, gesturing towards the door with a hand. "He¡¯s waiting for you," the guard said, voice warped into menace by his mask.


    Dorothy sighed. She¡¯d been expecting something like this. To be honest, she was surprised they¡¯d even waited this long. Without giving the guards another glance, she stepped forth through the door, her face already grim. It was like she¡¯d stepped back in time.


    The Third Minister stood waiting for her in her lounge.


    He hadn¡¯t changed since the last time they¡¯d met in person. Short brown hair and a calm, placid smile beneath seemingly-tired dark eyes. ¡¯Seemingly¡¯ was the key word. Fatigue didn¡¯t exist behind those dark eyes. As far as Dorothy could tell, very little did. He nodded to her as she entered her own home.


    One of the Three Wise Men. One of the true powers behind the Supremacy.


    "Welcome," he said, in that kindly voice of his. "Do you wanna take a seat?"


    Dorothy crossed her arms. "No."


    The plastic smile didn¡¯t so much as twitch. "Well, here¡¯s someone who wants to get right down to it. Kinda anxious to get to it, huh?"


    "No."


    "Have you been keeping healthy? I¡¯ve seen you on the videograph, of course, and in other places -- but people can hide sickness pretty easily, can¡¯t they?"


    "Yes."


    He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you¡¯re keeping healthy, or yes, people can hide sickness pretty easily? I don¡¯t know which one of those you were answering. Could you let me know?"


    "Yes."


    "Well," he snorted. "I sure walked right into that one, huh? More fool me."


    She said nothing. She glared at him.


    This was a man -- this was a force -- that she wouldn¡¯t yield anything to. The Three Wise Men would have to fight hard to get more than single-word responses out of her. The Ministers at the head of the Body -- the bureaucrats who truly controlled the movements of the Supremacy -- had pulled her strings once already, for a very long time. She knew the dangers of showing any weakness, any weakness at all, to men like them.


    That was a path that ended with a red sword, and far too many promises to hold on one back.


    "It makes me sad that you seem to think we parted on such bitter terms," the Third Minister said, hands behind his back, his eyes half-lidded. "That¡¯s not how I remember the situation at all. You wished to leave our service to return to the duties of a normal Special Officer, and we chose to allow that. It was perfectly amicable on both sides."


    She said nothing. She glared at him.


    "Is there a reason you¡¯re feeling this way now?" the Third Minister asked, taking a step closer. "If I recall, at the time, you were mumbling and keeping your eyes on the ground, yet now you seem to be brimming with confidence. It¡¯s wonderful to see a person come into their own, but I can¡¯t help but wonder if maybe you¡¯ve misinterpreted the past a little as a result?"


    She said nothing. She glared at him.


    "This isn¡¯t a monologue, you know. You¡¯re free to respond."


    Fine.


    "What do you want?" she hissed.


    The Third Minister¡¯s smile widened, just a tad, and a shudder of revulsion went down Dorothy¡¯s spine. In some small way, she¡¯d given ground to him. She knew that would have made his heart dance.


    "I wanted to congratulate you," he replied, taking another step closer. "On your victories in the previous round¡­ and the victories I¡¯m sure are yet to come. You¡¯re in fine form¡­ but then again, you always are, aren¡¯t you? Even restricting yourself to just your voice, you¡¯ve achieved such fantastic results. We¡¯re really happy for you."


    She said nothing. She glared at him.


    "So happy, in fact¡­" he took another step closer -- until he was looming over her, that kindly smile still on his face. "...that we wanted to make sure you understood that we still hold friendly feelings towards you -- and we¡¯d certainly be happy to see you as Supreme."


    He put a hand on her shoulder, cold and overbearing.


    "I, especially, would be happy to see you ascend, Dorothy."


    His thumb brushed against her neck. He leaned in closer. The room pressed in, suffocating.


    She said nothing. She glared at him -- but now the glare was different. Now it was a glare from years ago. Now it was a glare that held the promise of a red sword. The Third Minister seemed to get the message, and quickly released his grip. Even so, though, his smile didn¡¯t waver.


    Perhaps he¡¯d already gotten what he wanted. Perhaps he¡¯d regret that.


    Her glare didn¡¯t soften in the slightest -- if anything, it only grew sharper. The room just continued to become colder and colder. In response, the dark pupils of the Third Minister began to rapidly vibrate, such that they almost seemed to split in two. The tiniest migraine began to lurk in the back of Dorothy¡¯s skull.


    She parted her lips, just slightly: "Planning to use your Killing Engine on me?"


    The vibration stopped, and the headache faded. The Third Minister¡¯s smile faded with it. "No. It¡¯d be an error on my part, and besides¡­ I¡¯m unsure if it would even work on a master of infusion such as yourself."


    Damnit. He got me to talk to him.


    She blinked, slowly. "I¡¯d like for you to leave now."


    "Of course," the Third Minister replied, thoroughly satisfied. "Good luck on your match tomorrow."


    Humming to himself, he brushed past her and strolled out of the door, hands once again clasped behind his back. The door slid shut behind him. Dorothy stood there for a good, long moment -- listening to the guards outside leave -- before she allowed herself to let out a long, shuddering breath of relief.


    Dorothy took a step forward -- and then immediately stopped. The Third Minister had left something behind for her. There, lying on the coffee table, was a single black feather.


    She took a deep breath.


    "Burn."


    The flames seized hold of the past, and quickly devoured it.

 Chapter 399:13.57: All-Word (Part 1)

    There were fireworks that morning.


    Great red dragon-plumes and screeching Helios Wheels. Drones surrounding themselves with fogs of sparkling pink mist before popping like overripe balloons. A field of gleaming emerald stars settling and overpowering a golden ray before fading away themselves. A single sapphire light swinging past the light show and vanishing from sight.


    And, of course, at the peak of the festivities was the great white light. So bright for a moment it was like a second sun in the sky. An honest light. An all-revealing light. A light absolute.


    That took much longer to fade than the others. Even the afterimage was enough to make one squint.


    Azum-Ha was a boiling kettle, excitement building up over excitement building up over excitement. Even with the non-standard way some of the matches had gone, the world was reaching a fever pitch. Everyone was watching. Everyone was happy.


    Everyone wanted to see.


    Aetheral Space 13.57


    "All-Word (Part 1)"


    Muzazi tightened his boots. They fit perfectly, but he checked them twice more -- it gave his hands something to do.


    Muzazi checked the gun strapped to his thigh. He hadn¡¯t needed it before, but perhaps this time it would provide the slightest edge.


    Muzazi took a deep breath. When he let it out, it trembled disgracefully. He tried again and found no difference.


    Wu Ming sipped from a massive pitcher of Meep Cola as he watched the videograph screen. The match was yet to begin, so for the moment the cameras were still showing the empty arena while a procession of irrelevant talking heads discussed how they thought the match would go. It seemed a lot of them favored Atoy Muzazi, but Ming supposed that made sense.


    Dorothy Eiro was the kindest Special Officer, after all, and a great many people confused kindness for weakness. Ah, these guys¡­ they just didn¡¯t get it.


    "It¡¯s gonna be a crazy one," he said out loud, turning his head to look behind his armchair. "I¡¯ll tell you how it went when you wake up."


    Ruth Blaine couldn¡¯t hear him, of course. Right now she was suspended in the Cradle, hanging from the ceiling -- being remade, cell by cell, into a warrior that could tap into her full potential. Wu Ming stared for a moment, looking at the shifting silhouette deep within the hanging mass, before shrugging and turning back to the screen.


    "C¡¯mon," he muttered to himself. "Show me something ten-outta-ten."


    Dorothy Eiro carefully wound her twin black braids. Long hair could be a disadvantage on the battlefield, but Atoy Muzazi wouldn¡¯t get close enough. She wouldn¡¯t allow it.


    Dorothy Eiro buttoned her jacket. Bullet-proof -- that wouldn¡¯t do much against Atoy Muzazi¡¯s Radiants, but every little bit of protection helped in a fight like this.


    Dorothy Eiro splashed water on her face. This was it. There wouldn¡¯t be any turning back from here. Turning back was something she wasn¡¯t allowed to do anymore.


    Xander Rain crossed his arms as he watched the empty arena on the videograph, the other members of the Tree of Might gathered behind him. The Dawn Contest was nearing its final stages. From here on in¡­ these would be battles of legends. Xander couldn¡¯t afford to look away.


    It seemed that Lord Hadrien disagreed, though. He glanced over his shoulder, looking towards the sealed door to the throne room. The Zero Branch had locked himself in to prepare for his next match. The Crown had already given an automatic victory -- before suddenly vanishing from their hospital bed -- so Xander supposed that Lord Hadrien was now thinking of the semi-finals.


    In truth, it was something of a relief -- Xander had dreaded Lord Hadrien¡¯s response to his impertinent interference with last night¡¯s battle. Lord Hadrien hadn¡¯t even mentioned it. His mind was truly fixed on the path before him.


    How admirable!


    His gaze returned to the massive videograph -- excitement had gripped the crowd once more, and uproarious cheers were overpowering space. Immediately, Xander saw the cause of their jubilation: both contestants had emerged from opposite sides of the stadium, and were slowly walking across the arena to meet in the middle. Xander¡¯s grip tightened on his forearm.


    Atoy Muzazi, the Full Moon of the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir¡­


    ¡­and Dorothy Eiro, the one they called the kindest Special Officer.


    Xander sneered just a tad at the thought. From what he saw, what he¡¯d experienced last night, that kindness was nothing but a frailty of the spirit. A true warrior would have killed him when they had the chance.


    The cheers of the crowd were overpowering, and yet Atoy Muzazi¡¯s heart seemed to beat even louder. He could feel it -- vibrating in his bones -- intensifying with each step he took towards his opponent. Did Dorothy Eiro feel the same?


    He supposed he would not find out. The time for words had come and gone.


    In contrast to the previous rounds of the Dawn Contest, the Arena of the Absolute hadn¡¯t been customized for this bout. No jungle, no beach -- just a flat grey expanse, with two human souls atop it. From here on in, there would be no factors save strength and skill.


    Muzazi stepped forth. The crowd cheered.


    Dorothy stepped forth. The crowd roared.


    There was the most subtle difference in reception there, but Muzazi supposed it only made sense. He was respected. She was beloved.


    They stood, face to face -- only meters separating them. She gave him a sad smile. He couldn¡¯t bring himself to return it. There was a darkness at the end of this fight, he could feel it. Nael Manron had given up, allowed himself to fall. Mereloco had given up, allowed himself to be struck.


    Atoy Muzazi couldn¡¯t picture Dorothy Eiro giving up at all¡­ he knew he wouldn¡¯t.


    Distantly, he heard the word, as if it were swimming up at him from the bottom of a dream.


    "Begin!"


    He darted forward, swinging a split-second Radiant -- but Dorothy had anticipated his attack. She rolled to the side, blade of light brushing past her back, and as she rolled she spoke. The blue Aether she¡¯d poured into the ground through her feet twitched in response.


    "Cables: wrap around Atoy Muzazi and restrain him!"


    Cables?


    It was instinct, not thought, that saved him. The second Muzazi felt the ground creak beneath him he leapt upwards -- just in time to avoid the writhing electrical cables that burst out from the concrete like feral serpents. They must have been running underneath the Arena to power its various mechanisms.


    Muzazi twisted his body in the air, bisecting a cable as it tried to wrap around his neck, and used his thrusters to fly out of the range of the rest of the metal hydra. It was a bitter choice, though, and he recognised that. Putting space between himself and Dorothy Eiro meant giving her time.


    Time to speak.


    Dorothy took advantage immediately, plucking two thin knives from the pockets of her jacket and holding them out to her sides by the blades. Blue Aether ran across their surfaces.


    "Knife on my left: pursue Atoy Muzazi and inflict non-lethal attacks to slow him down. Knife on my right: automatically defend me against any attacks that get close."


    The knives flew through the air -- one zooming towards Muzazi as instructed, the other hovering lazily around Dorothy¡¯s own body.


    Muzazi threw himself backwards into a flip, the dagger narrowly missing his face as it shot past him. Still, even as Muzazi blasted himself towards Dorothy, he knew he¡¯d bought himself only moments. That knife would continue to pursue him until it was either destroyed or the infusion broken. That was the sort of ability All-Word was.


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    Aether crawled out from Dorothy¡¯s leg and infused some rubble near her feet. The whole thing was so quick Muzazi barely had time to see it before:


    "Rubble: pursue Atoy Muzazi and detonate once you¡¯re within a meter of him."


    As the rocks hurled themselves in Muzazi¡¯s direction, he narrowed his eyes.


    It was just as Morgan had pointed out: when Dorothy Eiro used All-Word, she had to very specifically designate the object she was commanding. If she didn¡¯t specify, would that mean the command would be obeyed by everything she¡¯d infused? That could be disastrous, considering she had to infuse her own body to fight.


    It also meant that Muzazi didn¡¯t have to worry about short, simple commands -- Dorothy would have to say at least a few words when giving an order. That would take time.


    Time he no longer intended to give her.


    Quantum King!


    Just as the rubble came into range, Muzazi blasted it away and apart -- his split-second usage of Quantum King illuminating the arena like a camera flash. His path cleared for a single vital moment, he swooped in towards Dorothy, Radiants aimed for her arms. A wound like this had brought down Nael Manron. It could suffice.


    The cables, still writhing out of the ground, lashed out at Muzazi, but he was ready. He spun and weaved, he sliced and diced. One caught him by the leg, but without even looking back he cut it in twain, electricity sparking from the severed pieces as he continued his pursuit of Dorothy.


    Her speed wasn¡¯t anything to sneeze at, either, though. As Muzazi swung his twin Radiants, Dorothy dropped down to the floor -- the blades of light passing right over her once again. Muzazi adjusted his angle for the next attack, ready to bring his blades right down towards Dorothy --


    "Electricity: zap him."


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened. The electricity from the cables? Even that was a valid target? He barely had time to panic before the rabid lightning struck him.


    Infuse!


    Muzazi¡¯s body blazed with white Aether as he focused everything he had on internal defense, willing himself to withstand the current pouring through him. Parts of his skin blackened and charred, but he paid it no mind. A warning of overload popped up in his artificial eye, but he paid it no mind. The knife Dorothy had set to chase him finally caught up, dancing shallow slashes upon his back, but he paid it no mind.


    He could barely even hear Dorothy¡¯s hurried addition to her command:


    "But not enough to kill!"


    Right now, the entirety of his attention was on the insides of his body. Nerves. Lungs. Heart. Brain. If he could just withstand, if he could just withstand, then surely his opportunity would come. Surely --


    Red.


    For the briefest of instants, Muzazi thought that maybe something had gone wrong with his eyes, that this was blood he was seeing. Perhaps his remaining good eye had popped in its socket from the current. But no: what he was seeing wasn¡¯t blood at all.


    He was looking at a red slipper, aimed right for his face.


    Dorothy¡¯s kick struck Muzazi in the head, sending him flying backwards across the arena. Mercifully, he was sent out of the range of further electricity, but that was all the mercy he was getting. Smoke poured from his skin and out of his mouth as he landed in a graceless heap, slowly forcing himself to his feet with thrusters from his kneecaps.


    The knife, already with him, snapped for his ear -- but he snatched it out of the air before it could make contact. It tried to struggle out of his grasp, but a thruster from his palm quickly overpowered it -- melting the implement into a vague pool of metal in his hand. He let it go, the silvery mass splashing on the floor and remaining inert.


    I see. So if it¡¯s not a knife anymore, the command no longer applies.


    Looking back up to Dorothy, he lowered himself into a fighting stance once more. Even so, doubt crawled over the back of his neck. Dorothy surely could have pressed the attack just then, finishing him while he was down. The fact that she hadn¡¯t¡­ meant two things.


    One¡­ she still believed she could get him to surrender.


    Two¡­ she believed she didn¡¯t need her full strength against him.


    That¡¯s nothing but arrogance, Dorothy Eiro. I¡¯ll demonstrate that right now.


    White Aether flooded out from his feet, infusing the floor tiles around him. A moment later, they burst out from the ground, carried by blazing thrusters on their backsides, swinging as one to face Dorothy. She raised an eyebrow at the legion of projectiles, ready to be fired.


    "Oh?" she said. "We¡¯re comparing the speed of our powers?"


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    The floor tiles flew towards Dorothy, wind whistling around them, and in that same moment she spoke:


    "Floor tiles: defend me."


    She¡¯d done the same thing as he had. Tiles tore themselves out of the ground around her, moving independently to serve as shields against the projectiles coming for her. Concrete shattered, and shattered, and shattered again -- an unending hail of attack and defense, sending rubble flying in every direction as the conflict continued.


    Even with the attack and defense being made from the same materials, Dorothy¡¯s shields were holding up -- while Muzazi¡¯s projectiles were steadily breaking on impact. He understood why, or rather Morgan had helped him understand.


    It was the result of Dorothy Eiro¡¯s infusion.


    The four basic pillars of Aether usage: infusion, alteration, recording, and manifestation. In some philosophies, recording and manifestation were the same thing, but that mattered not here. There were those tremendously proficient in a single pillar, a method of Aether usage perfectly suited to them in a way others could only dream of.


    Needless to say, Dragan Hadrien was a prodigy when it came to recording -- and it seemed that Dorothy Eiro was his match when it came to infusion.


    The moment Dorothy¡¯s Aether came in contact with an object, it completely infused it nearly instantly, with such solid structure that it would be incredibly difficult to dislodge. That was what made All-Word so versatile. That was what made her such a formidable opponent.


    Still¡­ it didn¡¯t make her unbeatable. Atoy Muzazi hadn¡¯t come here today to play catch.


    He charged forward -- then around, circling Dorothy once again, pulling up more floor tiles as he went and having them follow him. The first set he¡¯d infused were still clashing with Dorothy¡¯s shields, forming a smokescreen of dust that Muzazi could now take advantage of. With a flick of his finger, the remaining floor tiles zoomed forth¡­


    ¡­but not towards Dorothy Eiro herself.


    Floor tiles: defend me. That was the order Dorothy Eiro had given, and so it was the order the floor tiles would follow. Therefore, if an attack was aimed at something other than Dorothy Eiro, the floor tiles would have no cause to intercede.


    Muzazi¡¯s projectiles flew inwards -- and then split paths to either side, pinning down the writhing cables that had surrounded Dorothy. Her defense had three layers: the forest of cables, the floating floor tiles, and the flying knife. Muzazi was sure he could make it through two of those three to land a blow.


    Now he¡¯d get the chance to prove it.


    The second the cables were restrained, Atoy Muzazi shot forward -- kicking off a tile he¡¯d positioned behind himself to launch like a bullet. Dorothy¡¯s tiles rushed to intercept him, but he was a dervish of Radiants. They could have withstood Muzazi¡¯s projectiles, but never Muzazi himself. Chunks of cleanly-sliced concrete fell to the ground.


    The knife was next. It lunged at Muzazi¡¯s wrist, no doubt intending to throw off his aim, but he was ready for it. Flipping over in the air once more, he slammed his foot down on the blade of the knife, pinning it too on the ground as he landed right before Dorothy Eiro.


    Surrender, he begged -- even as he slashed at her in that same instant.


    "Air: hit him!"


    They struck each other at the same time. Muzazi went flying backwards as an invisible fist slammed into him -- his blade of light slashing through Dorothy¡¯s shoulder as his aim was thrown off. As Dorothy let out a cry of pain, Muzazi used his thrusters to twist himself into an upright position -- landing back on the floor, boots kicking up sparks as he went.


    He let out a breath it felt like he¡¯d been holding for minutes now. He hadn¡¯t expected Dorothy to be able to command even the air, but still¡­


    First blood.


    Red dripped down onto the floor from Dorothy¡¯s wound -- a thick gash on her shoulder, barely covered by her other hand. She panted for breath, sweat coating her face as the remaining tiles orbited around her, along with the now-free knife. Muzazi rose to his full height once again, pointing a Radiant at her.


    "This is your last chance, Miss Eiro," he said, voice resolute. "Surrender now, and --"


    "Wound: heal."


    The wound that Atoy Muzazi had gone so far to inflict snapped shut like it had never even existed. Dorothy let out a sigh, wiping the sweat from her brow as she stood back up straight. Her eyes were stone. The same eyes as his.


    As if she ever would have surrendered.


    "Very well," he smirked ruefully. "Let¡¯s see if you can heal from this, then. Radiant Almighty."


    The world exploded into light, five blazing pillars erupting from the ground -- forming a wide perimeter around Dorothy and himself. Even with the sudden aurora, she didn¡¯t so much as blink. She simply tensed, ready to move, ready to fight. His own smirk was mirrored on her face.


    "I¡¯m waiting," she said. "Atoy Muzazi."


    He raised his hands, and specks of light began to coalesce there -- slowly, but surely, forming into a blade of rapture.


    "Very well," he grinned. "Here I come, Dorothy Eiro!"

 Chapter 400:13.58: All-Word (Part 2)

    Several Years Ago, In The Ruins Of A Mind¡­


    Atoy Muzazi tightened his grip on the hilt of Luminescence as he strode through the burning metal hallway.


    Luminescence was his. Luminescence was extremely important to him. This he knew to be true. So long as he held Luminescence, he was Atoy Muzazi -- and he couldn¡¯t be anyone but Atoy Muzazi, so Luminescence was always close. It was a source of comfort for him. It held sentimental value. He could never leave it behind.


    He swung his sword, and cut down a Sharktooth Pirate that had been charging at him. The bug-eyed Scurrant dropped to the ground, throat cleanly cut. His own knife went unbloodied.


    Sharktooth Pirates¡­ yes, Sharktooth Pirates. He had been briefed on them. He had been briefed on the threat to the Supremacy.


    They were descended from mercenaries that the Great Chain had hired to bolster their forces during their war against the Supremacy. After the Halcyon family had betrayed their comrades and the Great Chain had been broken, the mercenaries had scattered, reorganizing into small bandit crews to harass Supremacy vessels. There were rumors that the remnant government of the Lesser Chain, located in the UAP, still paid the Sharktooth Pirates for that purpose. He knew this. The information had been given.


    The time had come to eliminate them. It was an order from the Commission. Orders were orders. He had to obey this order because Supremacy. It was the right thing to do.


    He swung his sword, and chopped off a head.


    He swung his sword, and sliced off an arm.


    He swung his sword, and opened up a stomach.


    He swung, and swung, and swung. That was his function right now. He was barely formed, a nascent consciousness, a phoenix still choking on its own ashes. Nothing but information and bestowed intent. Everything was still in the process of pulling together. The mold called personality had yet to spread over the underlying mechanisms. For the time being, he was only one step above an automatic. Perhaps not even that.


    So he swung, and swung, and swung.


    All Atoy Muzazi was -- right now -- was the swing of a sword.


    Present Day¡­


    "Wounds: heal!"


    "Wounds: heal!"


    "Wounds: heal!"


    All Atoy Muzazi had -- right now -- were the swings of his blades. So swing he did.


    He pursued Dorothy Eiro across the arena, white Radiants so fast that they were more like flashes of light. The onlookers finally had an Atoy Muzazi match taking place in the actual arena, but all the same he doubted they could see what was going on. As Muzazi pursued, and Dorothy retreated, both of them were just flashes of light -- white and blue.


    Floating holographic screens were showing slowed-down segments of the fight to the audience, but Muzazi paid them no mind. He was fully devoted to the attack right now.


    Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.


    More than once his attacks made contact, carving through Dorothy¡¯s skin -- but just as quickly, All-Word would heal those injuries. It was tempting to think of this fight -- against an enemy who could simply undo any of your successes -- as hopeless. But Atoy Muzazi had never been one for temptation.


    There were two distant hopes.


    The first was that the blood Muzazi had spilled still remained on the floor of the arena. He would have expected it to return to Dorothy¡¯s body before her wounds snapped shut, but that didn¡¯t seem to be the case. Did that mean she was still losing blood? If so, he could wear her down. Fatigue was no wound, and so he could keep attacking until she tired out. A battle of attrition.


    On the other hand, the second hope¡­


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    Two mighty pillars of light erupted from the ground on either side of the fighters, like heavenly gates -- and then they were instantly struck by an invisible force, dissipating them. Muzazi took the opportunity and darted in, dodging the defensive knife and slashing into Dorothy¡¯s body once again. She moved, of course, and it was shallow -- but it was true.


    "Wounds: heal!"


    Dorothy had already set the air around her to automatically attack any Radiant Almighty pillars that Muzazi created. Essentially, his most powerful ability was now sealed away -- or so it seemed.


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    Another two pillars appeared -- this time a little bit further apart -- and were destroyed once again. Dorothy swung her foot at Muzazi with the force of a sledgehammer, and he only narrowly ducked under it. He went to attack as she returned to a standing position, but the floating knife lunged at him and forced him back.


    Well, that was fine too.


    "Radiant Almighty."


    Another two pillars, even further apart -- but this time, they weren¡¯t instantly destroyed. Instead, Dorothy darted out of his range once more, moving backwards towards the first of the pillars. A slam of air evicted the construct from existence, and then she dodged another of Muzazi¡¯s strikes sideways, sending her towards the remaining pillar. It met the same fate quickly enough, but still¡­


    As Atoy Muzazi lunged forward again, blades shining, he thought:


    A range limit.


    It¡¯s easiest to infuse objects with a firm structure of their own. Something like air doesn¡¯t have that kind of structure, and so those who can reliably infuse and alter it are rare. It¡¯s something that has to specifically be trained for.


    If I had to guess, I¡¯d say she can only reliably control the air immediately around herself. Therefore¡­ if I keep her still and create the pillars for Almighty from a distance¡­


    ¡­I can win.


    That¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking, isn¡¯t it, Dorothy Eiro?


    As Dorothy Eiro dodged backwards, knife dancing through the air around her, she thought:


    You¡¯ll try to pin me down, or surround me¡­ some way to keep me from moving freely while you charge up that attack. You already know my air control has a range limit, and you¡¯re making sure to infuse the floor as we move -- so I can¡¯t grab more floor tiles as ammunition. If I send the knife out to destroy the pillars, I¡¯m taking away part of my defense, leaving myself open to more direct attacks.


    But still¡­ there are moves I can make.


    The blood I¡¯ve left scattered throughout the arena. All-Word replenishes blood automatically when it heals wounds, but that doesn¡¯t mean the blood I¡¯ve left behind is useless: it¡¯s already infused with my Aether, after all. There are plenty of sneak attacks I can make while your back is turned.


    That¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking, isn¡¯t it, Atoy Muzazi?


    When she uses the blood to strike at my back, I¡¯ll create the pillars for Radiant Almighty.


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    When he creates the pillars for Radiant Almighty, I¡¯ll use the knife -- but not in the way he¡¯s hoping for.


    And then¡­!


    And then¡­!


    Their thoughts were mirrors.


    ¡­It¡¯ll be over!


    Dorothy opened her mouth first:


    "Blood: bind his arms and freeze!"


    Atoy Muzazi made no move to resist as the blood shot towards him from every corner of the arena, forming a band around his arms and binding him tight as it hardened into crystal. Instead, he slammed his foot down onto the ground, white sparks of Aether pouring out from his boot.


    "Radiant Almighty!" he roared.


    At once, all five pillars blazed out from the ground, each on the very edge of the arena, as far away from Dorothy Eiro and himself as possible. Dorothy¡¯s eyes flicked over to regard the closest one, to execute her own plan -- but Muzazi wasn¡¯t done yet. He slammed his boot down again.


    "Radiant Ablaze!"


    A barrier of tightly-packed Radiants rose up from the floor around them, forming a ring of blades to keep them both confined. Without missing a beat, he raised his hands, specks of light already drifting into his grip.


    But Dorothy had anticipated this. She reached out, snatching the floating knife out of the air, and commanded it:


    "Knife: fly around the perimeter of the arena!"


    That was all she needed to say. The blade took flight -- taking Dorothy, who was still holding onto the hilt, with it.


    From there, it was an automatic thing. As Dorothy was carried through the arena, the infused air around her dutifully destroyed the pillars, one by one. Within the space of a few seconds, Radiant Almighty had been canceled entirely. Letting go of the knife, she twisted her body in mid-air, ready to face Muzazi again --


    -- and her eyes widened.


    The specks of light had continued to coalesce in Muzazi¡¯s hands, forming his pale blade -- but those lights hadn¡¯t come from the pillars. They¡¯d come from the barrier of Radiant Ablaze he¡¯d set up, the barrier that was now quickly fading away. Dorothy supposed it made sense. The pillars were no more than massive Radiants -- therefore, there was nothing stopping Muzazi from doing the same thing with his smaller ones.


    Her feet were inches from the ground, but she already knew this attack would land before she did. Muzazi had timed it well. By using the pillars as a decoy again and again, he¡¯d forced her to focus the entirety of her attention on destroying them.


    Well played. Still¡­


    The old her wouldn¡¯t have fallen for this, would she? No¡­ it wasn¡¯t that¡­


    The old her wouldn¡¯t have been caught vulnerable like this, would she? No¡­ it wasn¡¯t that¡­


    The old her wouldn¡¯t have gotten hit by this, would she? No¡­ it wasn¡¯t that¡­


    What it was¡­ was that the old her wouldn¡¯t have been in this situation in the first place. The old her wouldn¡¯t have allowed this situation to even exist. The old her¡­ would have killed Atoy Muzazi long ago.


    Dorothy Eiro had said she wouldn¡¯t surrender, and she¡¯d meant it. She wouldn¡¯t surrender to Atoy Muzazi, and she wouldn¡¯t surrender to the Three Wise Men. She had promises to keep. Far too many promises to let them slip through her fingers.


    I¡¯ll fix my heart, and then I¡¯ll fix the world.


    Even if she could only fulfill half of that promise¡­ she¡¯d do it. She couldn¡¯t surrender to anyone¡­ except herself. That pride of hers was something she had to burn too.


    Teacher¡­ forgive me.


    "Radiant Almighty!" Atoy Muzazi roared. His attack was far weaker than its full potential, but in this situation it would still suffice to deal a lethal blow. The blade of light rushed forwards¡­


    ¡­and cut through into darkness.


    Dorothy Eiro landed on the ground.


    Muzazi had struck true. He opened his hands, letting the smoky remnants of his blade drift out of his grip. A breath tinged with crackling white Aether escaped his mouth.


    Had that done it? He took a cautious step forward, looking down at his opponent.


    The pseudo-Almighty had struck Dorothy right in the chest, and Muzazi could see a grievous-looking burn now lingering there. He hadn¡¯t intended to kill her with that¡­ but it was gruesome all the same. The only thing assuring him that she was still alive was the labored rise and fall of her scorched chest. Her eyelids fluttered deliriously.


    Muzazi approached, lighting another Radiant from his palm. As soon as he was standing over her, he pointed it down -- directly at her face.


    "I wouldn¡¯t try to speak," he warned her. "With the state your body¡¯s in now, I doubt you¡¯d be able to. Accept unconsciousness. That¡¯s all I ask."


    She just looked up at him, her dark eyes distant.


    "Dorothy," he said, quieter. "Please. It¡¯s over."


    Her lips formed soundless words.


    Yeah. It is.


    Click.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes had been fixed on the injured woman¡¯s face, and so he hadn¡¯t seen. He hadn¡¯t seen her right hand slowly reach into the pocket of her jacket. He hadn¡¯t seen her finger crawl towards a button. He hadn¡¯t seen it press down hard. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But he heard it well enough -- he heard the sound of Dorothy Eiro¡¯s recorded voice.


    "Wounds: heal."


    There was no time for shock or surprise. Even as the wound on Dorothy¡¯s chest rapidly regenerated, Muzazi lunged down, Radiant ready -- ready to finish this fight. She wouldn¡¯t fall for such a trick again. This was his last chance. This was his --


    A black feather drifted through the air next to him.


    Move.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s instinct was clear, and he obeyed it without hesitation -- leaping backwards several meters to put distance between himself and Dorothy. Something was wrong. Goosebumps had spread all over his body. His blood had turned cold. Freezing sweat was pouring down his face. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.


    All around Dorothy Eiro, feathers were appearing, dark as night. They floated around her prone form like autumn leaves, slowly swirling as she rose to her feet. As she stood, staggering to her feet, she looked down at the ground with her dark eyes.


    Right now, those eyes somehow seemed incredibly, desperately sad.


    "It¡¯s a shame¡­" she breathed, blue Aether surging around her.


    "A shame?" Muzazi¡¯s throat was dry, his voice hoarse.


    Her gaze drifted back up to meet his. As she moved, more and more black feathers continued to appear around her, until she was standing in the middle of a dark cyclone. A bitter smile rose to her lips.


    "I was hoping it¡¯d be clumsier¡­" she sighed. "But it¡¯s just like riding a bicycle, huh?"


    The darkness erupted outwards, utterly engulfing Dorothy for a moment -- and when the void cleared, she was no longer the same.


    Massive black wings, like those of a bird, dwarfed her as they spread out from her back. At first, Muzazi wondered if his opponent might secretly be a Scurrant, but no. He could tell from the pressure those wings gave off -- those were Aether constructs, an ability. One of Dorothy¡¯s braids had come loose, her dark hair billowing in a sorrowful breeze. She straightened up, the ground beneath her feet cracking from the sheer strength she exuded.


    The kindest Special Officer?


    Insanity. This was a monster, or a witch. But that wasn¡¯t all Atoy Muzazi thought, looking at that figure, looking at those wings.


    He thought of two years ago.


    He thought of Elysian Fields.


    He thought of the shining wings he¡¯d spread out.


    The emerald burn of the man who¡¯d sought freedom. The overwhelming presence of the man who¡¯d humbled him, destroyed him, who¡¯d tried to kill a Supreme. The strength of one who could soar above everything.


    Zachariah Esmerelda.


    A shiver went down his spine.


    "The Sudden Death," Dorothy Eiro declared, massive wings stretched out behind her. "My first ability¡­ I haven¡¯t missed it."


    Muzazi said nothing in response. He dared not.


    He just tensed his body, readied his stance, and adjusted his Radiant. He could tell now. He could tell that a single mistake against this opponent would mean death.


    Dorothy Eiro would now fight for real¡­


    ¡­or so he thought.


    For a moment, Muzazi found himself confused as he felt the Aether vanish from around Dorothy¡¯s body, as he saw the wings she¡¯d just created flicker out of existence. A tiny part of him still dared to hope. Was she giving up? Was she surrendering after all?


    No.


    She wasn¡¯t dispelling her Aether¡­ she was sending it out.


    An Aether ping surged outwards from around her body, bright and fast, crawling across the arena and everything in it.


    An Aether ping that carried the will of its user with it, that carried and transmitted the demand she had bestowed it with.


    The final command that all things must follow.


    The inviolable order at the edge of existence.


    The true All-Word.


    "Die."

 Chapter 401:13.59: All-Word (Part 3)

    Once upon a time, there was a very unfortunate girl.


    Her name was Ren¨¦e, and she had the bad luck of being born as the child of a Supreme -- the daughter of Helis-Audrey the Harsh, the woman with the authority of god. As if that weren¡¯t bad enough, she was born as one of two children. The twin daughters of a Supreme, striving for imitation.


    Two daughters¡­ but there could only be one Supreme Heir.


    So the daughters competed, throughout their youth, training and training and training¡­ trying desperately to reach the pinnacle of their strength before the other. The bond of blood turned poisonous. Sabotage and cruelty became common in their childhood home. The fear of failure -- the fear of being discarded -- would permit nothing else.


    The day came. A final duel between the sisters, before the throne of the Supreme. Needless to say, Ren¨¦e won, and it is said that she wept over the corpse of her slain sister. She was beaten severely for that weakness.


    Soon after, Ren¨¦e slew her mother too, at the Supreme¡¯s own bidding -- and so it was that she became Supreme.


    It¡¯s said that Ren¨¦e became obsessed with the image of the raven -- the black bird that served as a herald of death in several religions across the galaxy. She wore dark feathered robes to mimic their wings. She wore a silver pointed mask to mimic their beaks. She even styled her Unkindnesses, her secret police, after the birds as well.


    But, of course, it was not the birds themselves that fascinated Ren¨¦e the Raven, but what they brought with them. The end beckoned by their wingbeats. She had been a student of death since the moment she was born, and so she constantly advanced her studies. She wrote of death, and wrote, and wrote, and executed her theories in despair.


    Eventually, the girl tormented by god took her own life, sitting cold upon the throne she so despised. But the ideas survived.


    Those writings found their way, centuries later, into the hands of another hopeless girl -- a girl who had not so long ago dyed her sword red for the first time. The ideas found purchase in that mind, just as they had in the mind of the Supreme of Black. That distant girl spread out black wings as well.


    Because Ren¨¦e the Raven understood it well. The allure of the psychopomp. The comforting darkness that eased one¡¯s way along a bloody path.


    A reaper could not be a murderer.


    And so, Ren¨¦e believed, there would always be Ravens -- and so, Ren¨¦e believed, there would always be a Supreme.


    A wave of death spread out from the form of Dorothy Eiro.


    Everything perished as ordered. The ground crumbled away, sending both Muzazi and Dorothy down into the bowels of the arena. The energy shields around the stadium flickered out of existence. The electricity ceased to spark, and the flying knife crumbled into rust.


    Yes, everything died¡­ save for Atoy Muzazi.


    He¡¯d cancelled all of his Radiants, focused all of his Aether into infusion, and so he¡¯d managed to resist the command carried by the Aether ping. As he fell into the skeleton of the stadium, though, he could still hear his heart thundering in his chest. His mouth was loath to take in another risky breath.


    Death. He¡¯d felt death just then, and its absent form still hung behind his mind.


    No. He couldn¡¯t falter. Not now. Especially not now. With a grunt, Muzazi ignited thrusters from his feet, stopping his descent and bringing himself to a halt midair. Dorothy had destroyed the ground, but that didn¡¯t mean --


    Black wings smashed him out of the air.


    The breath was finally pushed out of Muzazi¡¯s lungs as he crashed into the ground, his entire body screaming out in pain. He hadn¡¯t even registered the attack until the moment before he was hit. As she was now, Dorothy Eiro¡¯s speed was a match for his own.


    Very well, Muzazi steeled himself. Come for me, then.


    He flipped out of the crater his impact had created, just in time to avoid another flurry of blows from Dorothy¡¯s new wings. She had become a blur of black and blue, power and speed combined into a single unstoppable force. Muzazi slashed back with his own white-hot Radiants, but his opponent deftly leapt backwards to avoid his strike.


    The counterattack came a moment later.


    "The Sudden Death," said Dorothy, spreading her wings wide. A moment later, black specks poured out from the outstretched wings -- feathers, flying straight and true towards Muzazi, slicing through the air. A dagger would have been jealous of their sharpness.


    Full Throttle!


    Muzazi boosted his own speed to the maximum as he intercepted the barrage, Radiants dancing through the air and incinerating the incoming projectiles. Even with his godspeed, the sheer number of attacks meant that Muzazi had to prioritise -- he let some scrape past his face and sides as he cremated those heading for more vital areas.


    Blood poured down his cheeks, and blood poured down his stomach, but he paid them no mind. Against the rain of death, a single moment¡¯s hesitation would spell the end. If he were to prevail, his mind had to be even sharper than these feathers.


    Exhaustion and exertion pressed their iron hands against his temples, squeezing tight, but he kept going. He could keep going. For a few seconds more, he could keep going. He could manage at least that, couldn¡¯t he?


    Even so¡­ he would have been able to do this with ease¡­ Nigen Rush¡­


    Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the feathers stopped. Muzazi panted for breath, his clothes shredded, his body bloody. Forcing a second wind out of his soul, he straightened up, holding his Radiants ready.


    A swarm of Emerald Eyes now hung above them, like glittering green stars, no doubt transmitting these events to the audience far above. It seemed that, once again, Atoy Muzazi had disappointed those hoping for a proper arena match.


    Dorothy stared at him, her wings still spread wide, her eyes still dark. Why had she stopped? Even as that ability produced feathers, her black wings didn¡¯t seem to lose any of their mass. Was there some other limit on how long she could use it?


    Or maybe¡­


    He opened his mouth, tasting metal on his tongue. "If you¡¯re hoping I¡¯ll surrender¡­"


    "Feathers I just fired: pierce Atoy Muzazi¡¯s heart through his chest."


    He heard them whistling through the air. The projectiles that had just gone past him were coming back -- and now they were each and all locked onto a specific, fatal target. Immediately, he turned, resuming his dervish of slashes to annihilate the incoming attacks.


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    In some ways, the fact that all of the feathers were now aiming for a specific target made intercepting them easier, but it also meant that he had little room for error. These feathers were more than sharp enough to pierce his body. If even one struck their target, he would have no recourse. He would --


    "Feathers I¡¯m about to fire: pierce Atoy Muzazi¡¯s spine through his back."


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened. Dorothy could do that? She could prime a command before actually infusing the object?


    Again, he heard the whistling of incoming death. More feathers -- potentially many more -- headed straight for his back. If he turned to deal with them, he¡¯d leave himself open to the first set of feathers. If he focused on the first set of feathers, these ones would get him. If he tried to escape, both sets of feathers would simply follow and overwhelm him.


    There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do.


    Only¡­ he¡¯d have been able to do something, wouldn¡¯t he?


    Nigen Rush.


    The finest swordsman the Supremacy had ever seen. The man who¡¯d created the Seven Blades, who¡¯d vanquished the Fell Beasts, who¡¯d defeated a Gene Tyrant with ease. The corpse that Atoy Muzazi had been born from.


    He¡¯d have been able to do this. He¡¯d have seen that golden path he¡¯d written of, the narrow way through the gears of fate, and dealt with this situation easily. He¡¯d have deflected both sets of feathers like it was nothing, along with anything else Dorothy threw at him.


    Could those old memories be tapped into¡­ could that old self be tapped into¡­?


    ¡­could he go back¡­?


    ¡­


    No.


    The memories of the dead were of no interest to him -- and even if they were, Atoy Muzazi would not. He was not Nigen Rush. He¡¯d already confirmed that a long time ago. Any other notions, any pathetic thoughts of ¡¯going back¡¯ to something he¡¯d never even been¡­ were nothing but momentary weakness.


    He was not Nigen Rush. He was Atoy Muzazi.


    And so he could do things that Nigen Rush could not.


    Quantum King!


    It was strange how easily the instincts came back to her. It was like Dorothy the Raven had never even gone away at all.


    She watched, dark eyes dull, as Atoy Muzazi unleashed his Quantum King continuously -- creating a field of repulsion that pushed away all the incoming feathers. He kept it going, his body visible only as an aurora as he kept the feathers at a constant distance. The second he stopped, they would continue their death march -- surely he knew that.


    Fine. There¡¯s still plenty of ways to kill you.


    Dorothy stepped forward, the wings of the Sudden Death heavy behind her as they followed, yet somehow failing to weigh her down. Who was the first person she¡¯d killed? She couldn¡¯t even remember. It had been shortly after the Special Officer Certification Exam -- it had to have been -- and that had been the start. Acting as an assassin for the Three Wise Men, eliminating their enemies, staining her sword red again and again and again.


    Today, there was no sword -- the wings would suffice. She stopped on an outcropping of rubble, looking down at Muzazi. Blue Aether ran through her feet and into the ground below.


    "Cables: crush Atoy Muzazi."


    More cables burst out of the ruined environment, electricity spitting from their torn ends, writhing towards Muzazi. They too were pushed back, straining in a vain attempt to reach their target, but that was fine. It was just another thing Muzazi would have to keep in mind. S§×arch* The N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Blue Aether pulsed out again, this time infusing the broken glass littering the ground. There was no shortage of it.


    "Glass: skewer Atoy Muzazi."


    The glass joined the cables and the feathers, and Dorothy infused the ground again.


    "Concrete: smash Atoy Muzazi."


    Huge broken rocks pelted themselves at the barrier of Quantum King again and again, determined to reach Muzazi.


    "Metal: melt and drown Atoy Muzazi."


    A silvery snake crawled through the air.


    "Electricity: shock Atoy Muzazi."


    As the space was lit bright, she let loose another hail of feathers.


    "New feathers: pierce Atoy Muzazi¡¯s brain through the top of his skull."


    A hand of many deadly fingers -- fingers of stone and lightning, fingers of metal and wind -- was now curled around the barrier Atoy Muzazi had created. Pressing down, pressing in. With each second, coming closer to crushing him in its grasp.


    The first lapse in concentration would do it. The first second he spent thinking of something other than this battle would end it. Even if it didn¡¯t¡­ Dorothy was prepared.


    She readied her hand, blue Aether coursing through it, and whispered.


    "Atoy Muzazi¡¯s heart: stop."


    The command was primed. The instant Dorothy infused a valid target, it would take effect. Even if Muzazi somehow deflected these waves of attacks, even if he somehow survived them, even if he came for her¡­ this was all but over. All she needed to do was plant her hand on his chest and turn him off.


    Her original ability, the Sudden Death, could do more than just shoot feathers. With each attack that landed, it would drain a little bit more of the target¡¯s infusion -- until they were as defenceless as a normal human. It was ironic, given the name, but this ability would murder the opponent slowly and inexorably.


    A gap in Atoy Muzazi¡¯s infusion would appear, no matter what -- and she would take advantage of it.


    Just like old times. It was ironic. She¡¯d created All-Word to get away from the person who¡¯d used the Sudden Death, but now she realised the two abilities were perfect for each other.


    Scowling, Dorothy glanced up at the observation booths -- from where she was sure the Three Wise Men were watching -- and narrowed her eyes. No doubt they were celebrating. No doubt they were pleased to see the return of their pet killer.


    Well, this would be the last time they¡¯d see it.


    Dorothy snapped her gaze back down towards Muzazi, and -- as Quantum King exploded into further light -- she lunged forwards.


    Let¡¯s end this, Atoy Muzazi.


    He could see him.


    In the maelstrom, in the chaos, in the blazing light surrounded by certain death, Atoy Muzazi could see him. As clear as day, standing right there, standing on thin air as if it were paying obeisance to him. Resplendent.


    Nigen Rush.


    For a second, Muzazi wondered. Was this some remnant? Some last lingering trace of the man he¡¯d once been? The final spark that would graciously grant him victory?


    No.


    This was a hallucination, nothing more. A conspiracy of the mind and the eye, nurtured by pain and exhaustion, pouring itself into his vision like acid upon paper. Nothing more and nothing less.


    And yet, that trick of the mind looked back at him. It didn¡¯t speak, but Muzazi knew what it was saying.


    "Can you really win without being me? Can you really win without going back to the way you were?"


    Atoy Muzazi didn¡¯t speak, but he knew what he was saying.


    Of course I can. Now get out of my way.


    Thrusters the size of Radiant Almighty¡¯s pillars exploded out of Muzazi¡¯s back, pushing him -- and his Quantum King -- forward to meet Dorothy Eiro¡¯s charge. The countless death-dealers followed him, but the King kept them at bay. Muzazi¡¯s back burned and blistered, but he paid it no mind.


    Pain was just another trick of the mind, after all.


    Atoy Muzazi passed through the ghost of the past, scattering it like glass, and raised his hands high.


    The thrusters from his back, the thrusters forming Quantum King¡­ he¡¯d sacrifice speed and defence for this one blow. They would serve as the fuel for the sword forming in his grip once more. He¡¯d stake everything on this moment. He¡¯d stake everything¡­ and he¡¯d win!


    "RADIANT ALMIGHTY!"

 Chapter 402:13.60: All-Word (Part 4)

    Several Years Ago, In The Ruins Of A Life¡­


    The man they called the Teacher was cradled by the wreckage of his escape pod, hanging off the edge of the salt-coated cliff. Blood ran down his face from a ravaged eye, and shattered glass punctured his body in half-a-dozen places. Even though he yet breathed -- weakly -- he was surely already dead.


    All that remained was for his body to accept that fact.


    He looked up as his attacker approached, wiping some of the blood from his face with a feeble shaking hand. A tattoo decorated his wrist, simple text reading ¡¯ALPHA¡¯, but that too had been all but shredded by the crash. A bitter half-smile tugged at his lips.


    "Do you know why they sent you?" he asked, voice hoarse.


    Looking down at him now, Dorothy was surprised. The file said that the Teacher was fairly young, yet the person before her was clearly an old man. Thin grey hair and skin pulled taut against his skull. Was it an accelerated aging thing, like with that student of Steigh Kindred, Ash del Duran?


    It didn¡¯t matter. This man would be dead within a few minutes. Whatever story he had would die with him and disappear. It would be as the Raven had written.


    She stopped in front of the wrecked pod, huge black wings twitching behind her. At the first sign of danger, the Sudden Death was ready to send out a volley of feathers. They would surely shred the Teacher and anything he could send out.


    "You won¡¯t answer me, then?" the Teacher raised thinning eyebrows. "Yet you won¡¯t just kill me, either. You feel that if you kill me, you bear responsibility, but if you just watch me die, it¡¯s fine?"


    Dorothy said nothing. She just stared at him with dark, dull eyes.


    The Teacher raised his thin, emaciated hand -- and looked at it as if it were a wonder. "I made contact with you during our little scuffle back there," he mused. "Suppression, hm? That¡¯s a nasty Aether core. You have my sympathies." S~ea??h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Still, Dorothy said nothing. If this man wanted to tire himself out, wanted to wind down the hands of his life¡¯s clock all by himself, he was welcome to. She would simply watch and confirm. That was the role of a Raven.


    "If I asked you who ordered my death, would you tell me?" the Teacher looked up at her.


    She would not. She¡¯d been given no orders that would require her to. Whatever reason the Three Wise Men had to kill this man, it was none of her concern. She¡¯d learnt long ago not to ask those sorts of questions.


    The answers were too often repulsive.


    Seeing he was getting no reply, the Teacher slowly blinked. "If I told you Aether wasn¡¯t meant to be used for fighting¡­ for killing¡­ would you believe me?"


    Delusional pacifism. Dorothy sneered as her wings flexed behind her. The power that put unimaginably destructive powers in the hands of man, that had appeared during the Thousand Revolutions, wasn¡¯t meant to be used for fighting? Nonsense.


    "It¡¯s true," the Teacher smirked, settling back into his bed of shrapnel. "I¡¯ve crawled down the rope and I¡¯ve seen it. Another time, another place."


    Dorothy furrowed her brow, and for the first time that day she spoke: "What do you mean?"


    The Teacher sighed. "Ah, not enough time left to explain it¡­ and I don¡¯t think you¡¯d understand it if I did. Someone else like me will come along, someday. Everything will happen someday. We¡¯ll get it right, eventually." He looked at her, and there was a twinkle in his eye. "I truly believe that."


    She said nothing. It had been a mistake to do so earlier. Rambling brought about by blood-loss and pain didn¡¯t merit a response.


    Still, his mouth kept moving. "Do you mind if I ask¡­ how many people have you killed up ¡¯till now? Including my bodyguard."


    Dorothy¡¯s sword dripped red.


    "Dunno," she muttered pointlessly.


    "Really? That¡¯s sad. A person should always have a handle on their history."


    Numb irritation slithered up from the depths of Dorothy¡¯s soul, and she took a step forward. This man was surely starting to annoy her. That was the name for this feeling. She¡¯d give him his mercy and be on her way. There would be other missions that needed tending to. Always other missions.


    As the dark wings loomed over him, however, the Teacher just smiled softly. "Tell me¡­" he began.


    The wings came down.


    "...is there any hope at the end of this path you¡¯re on?"


    At that moment, in that place, those words meant very little. They had just enough impact to cling to the girl¡¯s mind, a tiny bit of mental real estate, barely enough to even exist. But they remained¡­ and slowly they grew¡­ and one day, they grew too big to be contained.


    Like many strings, bound together into a rope.


    The rest of the match lasted ten seconds in all.


    Both contestants charged forward. Dorothy Eiro, framed by her vortex of dark feathers, wings spread out wide and deadly. Atoy Muzazi, heralded by the shining light of the fading Quantum King, cables and glass and electricity and even more feathers pursuing him from behind.


    The sword of Radiant Almighty had already formed in his hand -- this time greater than ever before. He¡¯d used the power of Quantum King as the fuel for this attack, producing more even as it was absorbed, and now his blade was no less than an instrument of rupture. It was like a white line had been scraped into the world with chalk.


    Needless to say, this was far beyond his limits -- Atoy Muzazi had entered the realm of the Aether burn.


    He could feel it, already, feel his fingers melting and crystallizing even as they held onto the weapon. Long cracks began to run down his arms even as they burned. This was not a power he could hold onto for long.


    So he would not. He would end this -- right here, right now.


    For an instant, he relaxed his grip on Radiant Almighty -- and the sheer force of the air pressure released was nearly enough to send him flying. With all of his strength, however, he managed to hold on. His pursuers -- concrete, glass, feathers, and all others -- were scattered far behind him.


    He¡¯d created the moment he needed.


    Quantum King was finally fully drained, and Muzazi shot forward out of its carcass, Almighty raised above his head. A ravaged, incoherent roar of exertion was already leaving his throat, tinged with blood, echoing throughout the arena.


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    He would do this. He could do this. He had to do this.


    He¡¯d promised, after all.


    Dorothy Eiro had been lunging forward with her hand, seemingly to grab him, but when she saw the power he was emitting she seemed to think better of it. In one smooth motion, she ground her feet against the floor to slow herself, and shifted the angle of her hand slightly.


    As if she, too, were holding¡­


    If I have to get rid of my pride, Dorothy Eiro thought, her body burning with crisis. Then I¡¯ll get rid of all of it!


    Still, she felt a tinge of regret.


    I¡¯m sorry, everyone. It ain¡¯t so easy to fix your heart after all.


    "O World: become my sword."


    Everything raced to meet her empty hand -- everything she had infused during this match so far. Broken glass and cruel feathers, flames and electricity, stone and steel. All of it crushed itself, compacted itself, and formed into a hellish weapon in her hand.


    A hilt of curling lightning and a blade with a fiery tip. A guard of protruding feathers, spiked like a sea urchin, and an edge of serrated glass. Her hand gripped stone, and a skeleton of steel held the entire monstrosity together.


    Blue Aether oozed from the construction as she raised it, ready to meet Muzazi¡¯s assault. This, if nothing else, would be a match for that Radiant Almighty. And then¡­ she¡¯d end this fight.


    There was no choice. She¡¯d dye this sword red once more.


    That was all she was good at, after all.


    Muzazi charged in, blade raised high, a maelstrom clutched in his crimson hands. Dorothy raised her own sword to intercept it, and -- as Muzazi brought the weapon down¡­


    ¡­he let the light go.


    It scattered into nothing from his hands, utterly dispelled as he canceled the ability. Dorothy¡¯s swing -- intended to parry the overhead blow -- instead struck at empty air. Her eyes widened, just fractionally, as she realized what he had done.


    Nine seconds had passed¡­ and just one remained.


    Muzazi had observed his new allies, the del Sed twins, both during this time on Azum-Ha and back during their fight on Taldan. They seemed to have some sort of severely injuries on their hands, and yet they were able to move and use them freely. They were able to use infusion to force their hands to move.


    Now, Muzazi did the same. White tendrils of light crawled up his shredded hands, forcing them into life, exposed bones clicking as they were commanded by the brain. Muzazi¡¯s hand whipped down, down towards his leg¡­


    ¡­and, in a flash of white light, it pulled free the gun Muzazi had strapped there.


    The tenth second was all but done. All the rest was fractional. All the rest was less than the blink of the eye.


    Muzazi rushed forward, hunched over, taking advantage of Dorothy¡¯s open guard.


    Muzazi thrust the shining pistol forward, pressing it against Dorothy¡¯s stomach, white Aether crawling over his trigger finger.


    And¡­


    Muzazi pulled the trigger.


    Bang.


    Dorothy¡¯s sword crumbled into chaos, its carcass showering onto the floor.


    Hands already falling limp and bloody, Muzazi caught Dorothy with his forearms before she could fall fully to the floor. Blood was pouring copiously from her wound -- the bullet had shredded her insides on the way through, but there was still time. This was one of the strongest Special Officers, after all.


    "Dorothy," he rasped into her ear, his own voice nearly failing him. "Let¡¯s¡­ let¡¯s stop this, okay? The fight is done¡­ you can¡¯t keep going¡­ surrender."


    There was no reply. Muzazi¡¯s gaze drifted down, to the shattered remains of Dorothy¡¯s recording device, broken on the floor. It seemed he¡¯d destroyed it with that final attack.


    "You can¡¯t use your ability to heal any further," he pressed forward, insistent, ignoring the burning pain in his throat. "There¡¯s no point. Surrender, and we can¡­ together, we can¡­"


    Dorothy¡¯s head flopped onto his shoulder. Muzazi¡¯s next words died in his throat. Slowly, he turned his head to look at her.


    Dark eyes stared into nothingness. It was over.


    He¡¯d won.


    He¡¯d killed her.


    Atoy Muzazi rose out of the crater in the center of the arena a few minutes later, black hair hanging down over his face, carrying delicately the body of Dorothy Eiro. It was torture to carry her -- with these hands of blood and bone and splintered wood -- but, in a way, Muzazi welcomed the pain. He felt he owed it to her.


    He trembled as the cold struck him. At some point during their battle, it must have started raining. He hadn¡¯t noticed. The passion of combat had banished the chill, and as for the noise¡­


    ¡­the applause drowned everything else out.


    The sounds of cheering poured over Atoy Muzazi from all sides, the gathered crowds celebrating his victory.


    Clapping. Shouting. Screaming. He knew that jubilation like this must be taking place across the entire planet. Across the entire galaxy. They were all cheering for him, for him, what he¡¯d done. Everyone had come to watch. Everyone had come to witness. Everyone had come to cheer.


    Murderer.


    How disgusting.


    Muzazi slowly looked up, his eyes dull, and looked over the faces of the crowd. Twisted in joy, excitement, the rapture of victory. Thousands of bright eyes here, and so many elsewhere. He could feel them. Trillions of gazes, fixed on him alone.


    Murderer.


    His trembling intensified.


    Murderer.


    They were all here to watch.


    Murderer.


    And they were all cheering.


    Murderer.


    His mouth opened.


    "SHUT UP!"


    Even his scream of fury was overpowered by the sheer noise, the cheering continuing unabated. Eyes wild, he whirled around this way and that, Dorothy¡¯s corpse swaying in his hands. At just the thought of her, he roared again.


    "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?! YOU LOVED HER, DIDN¡¯T YOU?!"


    The clapping, the clapping, neverending clapping. Congratulations like knives twisting inside his gut. Even the thunder was swallowed by this joy born from death. Forcing his voice out once more, Muzazi screamed, almost pleading.


    "SHUT UP!"


    It was only when the blood started pouring down his chin that Muzazi realized why he was receiving no response, why his outrage was being ignored, why they were still cheering. He wasn¡¯t shouting at all. His voice had died back in that pit. All his mouth had to offer now was his agony.


    A silent, bloody, choked laugh leaked out of him as his head snapped down towards the ground. What a mess.


    Only¡­ the cheering did stop, and the clapping with it. Even the rain suddenly came to an end. His eyes dull, he slowly looked up -- first at the shocked pale faces in the crowd, then further up, to follow their gazes.


    Oh.


    A massive black umbrella hung over the arena, casting its shadow over the spectacle entire. A beast formed of writhing black ribbons, like some creature from the deep sea had abandoned its home for the sky. Ignorant of gravity, ignorant of logic, it loomed -- tendrils slowly winding down to enshroud the stadium.


    Deep within the dark, Muzazi could see the face of the end. A grinning skull-like moon, framed by ten severed horse legs, slowly orbiting it. A Flower of Evil indeed.


    Muzazi¡¯s breath caught in his throat. Muzazi¡¯s skin crawled with goosebumps.


    The PALATINE had come.


    ARC 13


    END OF PART 3

 Chapter 403:13.61: Accursed

    944 Years Ago¡­


    The palace was silent that night.


    Ruri¡¯s ship landed in silence, and she marched through the hallways in silence. Her face was stone, and the red robe she wore flowed after her like a puddle of blood. The few servants she encountered in the chiselled-stone hallways mostly just nodded and bowed to her, if they even dared do that. Her face wasn¡¯t just stone. It was the sort of stone that would crush the foolish.


    Doctor Chalk found her before she reached the Supreme¡¯s chambers. The nubs of abortive wings twitched from his shoulder blades as he matched her stride, his eyes covered by a dark visor. Under that thing, she wondered if he dared meet her gaze. As fellow members of the Zeilan Morhan, there was a familial respect between them¡­ but still, she had a reputation among their number.


    "How is he?" she asked, her voice dry.


    True to his own reputation, Chalk did not mince his words. "He will die tonight, honoured one."


    Ruri paused, right before the grand doors that led to the Supreme¡¯s personal chambers. A great pressure seemed to be building in her skull. Why was she so surprised? This day had been inevitable, hadn¡¯t it? Since the moment her Aether had first rushed through her, and she¡¯d felt the hands of time ticking backwards, she¡¯d known this day would come.


    "Is he lucid?" she continued her questioning, forcing the words out.


    "Unclear," Chalk replied. "But I doubt it."


    She looked at him, fury trapped behind eyes of pink glass.


    "If he is alive," she snapped. "Then he is lucid. He wouldn¡¯t be Supreme if he was the sort of man who could be doubted."


    "Of course, noble one."


    Enough words. Enough waiting. This was an occasion that had to be observed. With trembling hands -- no, hands made still through discipline -- she opened the great doors before her. Wood scraped against history as the light of the chamber beyond poured outwards.


    Ruri¡¯s heart dropped out of her chest.


    "Kill them," the Supreme hissed, staring up at the ceiling from his bed. "Kill them all¡­ the bastards¡­ traitors and villains¡­ kill them in the streets¡­ kill them in their houses¡­ kill them¡­ kill them¡­ don¡¯t let a single one survive¡­"


    Ruri stepped inside, doing her best not to listen to the Supreme¡¯s venomous monologue. Doing her best¡­ not to look at him.


    They weren¡¯t alone in this room. As Chalk returned to his Supreme¡¯s side, Ruri saw that others had come to honour the final hours of their saviour. The hulking Granba the Maker sat cross-legged on the floor -- quite an accomplishment for a man with four legs. Four eyes, four arms and four legs¡­ his creator had surely had a passion for the quadruple. He gave her a nod as she passed.


    The Blindman leaned against the far wall, clad in rags, a harpoon clutched in each free hand. He too stared up towards the ceiling -- although he did so with empty sockets. Was he seeing the same thing as the Supreme? Hard to tell. Edgar¡¯s brother had never been the most forthcoming with his soul.


    There were others, too -- many others, members of the Zeilan Morhan and warriors besides, all here to pay their respects to the founder of the Supremacy. A crowd lingering in silence, on the edges of the room. The atmosphere of a funeral had already fallen here.


    Ruri hesitated as she noticed the absence in the room. With a glance towards Granba, she asked: "Where is the Heir?"


    The Maker¡¯s voice was a distinguished rumble, the Scurrant scratching his blue chin with a blue finger as he spoke. "Piala is with the defenders on Abzu-Tiamat. She would not make it in time."


    Ruri¡¯s frown deepened into a scowl. "All the same, she should be here. Her father is¡­ her father will soon be¡­"


    The words would not come to her, but Granba nodded all the same. "It is as it is."


    For a moment, she stood there, lost -- but quickly regained herself. If Piala truly did not care for the end of her father, then that was but a reflection of her lacking character. Ruri had never approved of the brat anyway.


    Another step brought her before the man who had conquered the gods themselves, and the man who had slaughtered them. The bearer of the Lantern of Truth. The Absolute. The Supreme.


    Azez.


    At first, she could only bear to look at the right side of his face. Time had done its work there, lines and wrinkles painted where they didn¡¯t belong. Grey hair hung in wisps, and a milky tired pupil wavered in and out of lucidity, rattling breath oozing from half-parted lips.


    And the left side¡­


    A mass of greedy tumours had devoured the left side of Azez¡¯s face. Eye and mouth and nose alike had been lost to the cancerous flood, until it looked like Azez was wearing a red lumpy mask. Or perhaps his final crown of blood.


    It hadn¡¯t been this bad the last time Ruri had seen him¡­ but it had still broken her heart to look at it. This was the reward Azez the Absolute had been given. Not a glorious death in combat or sacrifice, but the last contempt of the dead Gene Tyrants. A trap Azez had fallen into while they were charting the depths of their capitol¡­ for decades, Chalk had managed to hold the affliction back, prevent it from impacting his prowess or his mind¡­


    ¡­but the time had come. For everyone except Ruri, the time always came.


    "Kill them," Azez whispered, twitching madly against his pillows. "Kill them all. On the borders¡­ in the dark¡­ ah, I can¡¯t stand it, kill them, someone kill them now, please, I beg of you¡­" The pupil focused, just for a moment. "Ruri¡­ is that you¡­?"


    Ruri nodded eagerly -- more eagerly than she¡¯d intended, stepping forward, clasping his cold hand between hers. "It is," she breathed. "It is, it¡¯s me, my Supreme. Who is it? Who do you want us to kill?"


    "Kill¡­?" Azez groaned. "Oh¡­ oh¡­"


    Sensing his distress, Ruri pushed through: "The enemies on the borders, yes? The False Alliance? They¡¯ll die, yes, I¡¯ll swear it to you, but you can¡¯t go yet. The Supremacy still needs you. You¡¯re our beacon. We won¡¯t know what to do without you."


    I won¡¯t know what to do without you.


    With heartbreaking weakness, Azez reached up and grabbed Ruri¡¯s arm, feebly gripping it. Once, this man had single handedly slain her Gene Tyrant creator and saved her from the life of a reflection. Now, he could barely even hold on when she let him. But still¡­ the shadow of purpose lurked in his trembling eye.


    "Ruri¡­" he gasped. "Ruri¡­ yes¡­?"


    She nodded again. "Y-Yes. It¡¯s me. What do you need?"


    His breath heaved with the exertion of focus as he tried to lift his head from his pillows. "Ruri. You must¡­ you must¡­ tell them¡­ you have to¡­"


    She waited for him to finish, but it was too much. With a gasp of pain, he collapsed back onto the bed, bloody sweat pouring down his face. His lips, though¡­ his lips kept moving soundlessly.


    "What is it, my Supreme?" Ruri begged, bringing her ear closer -- desperate for the last wisdom. "What is it you need from me?"


    He closed his eye. For a moment, a horrible nightmare of a moment, Ruri thought that was it. But no¡­ he spoke. A whisper of a whisper reached Ruri¡¯s ear.


    "Ruri¡­ t-this Supremacy¡­ my¡­ will you¡­"


    ¡­make it last for me?


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    "I will," Ruri promised, cutting through it all. "Until the end of time."


    There were no more words after that.


    The days afterwards felt like seconds. The grand funeral for the first Supreme, the emergence of his successor onto the scene, Piala¡¯s night of one-hundred duels against one-hundred challengers¡­ all of it like a book that Ruri wasn¡¯t quite paying enough attention to. She just watched, pink eyes dull, as the hands of time skewered someone else she loved.


    She watched the coffin sink deep into the depths of Azum-Ha, watched the mockery walk the Supreme Tomb, watched the people weep and gnash their teeth¡­


    ¡­and then, when she went home, she looked in the mirror and -- as she did every day -- saw the face of the monsters who had stolen her friend away.


    She tore that face off five times that night.


    Will you make it last for me?


    Will you make it last for me?


    Will you make it last for me?


    I will, Azez, Ruri promised again -- as she would for a thousand years -- her fingernails caked in blood. I will.


    AETHERAL SPACE


    ARC 13


    PART 4: FEAR


    Make this stick for me, kid.


    Skipper¡¯s wish tugged Dragan¡¯s consciousness back into clarity, and his vision focused. Inwardly, he cursed himself. That had been sloppy. Exhaustion could wait its turn after victory. He adjusted his position as he slouched on his throne.


    "So, Mr. Guest," he said, not missing a beat. "Do we have a deal?"


    The hologram floated in the centre of the throne room, looking up the steps at Dragan. With his bowler hat, pinstripe suit and pencil-thin moustache, Mr. Guest looked more like a salesman than a fighter, but from his research Dragan knew better than to underestimate the Ostiary of the Lesser Chain. Even without his record, someone who¡¯d advanced this far in the Dawn Contest wasn¡¯t to be taken lightly.


    Still¡­ the great thing about mercenaries was they had a common motivation: money.


    "Well," said Mr. Guest, smiling from the hologram. "If I were to be presented with such a sum, how could I refuse?"


    Dragan leaned back in his throne, looking at the spectre floating in the middle of the chamber. His gaze was pale and resolute. All deception had already been searched for and found absent.


    "Half the payment now," Dragan clarified. "The other half after you issue the surrender. Please don¡¯t think of cheating me."


    Guest smiled thinly. "Oh, I wouldn¡¯t dream of it. I still have simply wicked memories of Manron¡¯s assassins. You¡¯ll have your victory."


    The Crimson Carnival, huh? Dragan suppressed a roll of his eyes. Ever since Manron had vanished from the hospital, that band of maniacs had started tearing themselves apart for the succession of leadership. Soon, the organisation would splinter entirely, and become completely useless.


    In truth, Dragan had already cut them loose¡­ but there was no reason people needed to know that. The budget that had previously gone to them would now serve to pay off this very reasonable opponent.


    He nodded. "A pleasure doing business with you then, Mr. Guest. My associate North will arrange the transfer for you."


    Guest plucked his hat from his head and bowed respectfully, brushing dust from his suit as he rose back up. "I¡¯ll be right back to the Lesser Chain as soon as I have my payment. Don¡¯t worry -- you won¡¯t have to worry about a sore loser after your coronation."


    Dragan raised an eyebrow. "You seem to have some faith in me. What about PALATINE?"


    Guest returned his hat to his head with a chuckle. "I¡¯m something of a betting man, Mr. Hadrien. A profitable outcome like this is one of my preferred departures from this Dawn Contest. I¡¯ve watched you well, and I¡¯ve watched that beast, and if you ask me?"


    He grinned.


    "The only sure-fire bet is a bet on a cheater."


    The hologram flicked out of existence. North, snorting, emerged from his invisibility beside the throne, arms crossed.


    "Man, you really think he¡¯ll stick to the deal?" North grinned. "I mean, he¡¯s a greedy son-of-a-bitch, right? Like knows like."


    "It¡¯s fine," Dragan closed his eyes, settling back in his throne. "I didn¡¯t sense any deception from him, and besides¡­" He cracked one eye open. "If he tries anything, we¡¯ll just kill him, right?"


    "You make it sound easy."


    "It is easy. Has Xander been back in touch?" S§×ar?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    North nodded. "The squirt says he and his guys have found the place you were looking for. Wasn¡¯t easy -- Absurd Weapons are real good at hiding their little, uh, hidey holes. They¡¯re ready to attack whenever you say, boss."


    Opening both eyes again, Dragan rose from the throne, cracking his neck.


    Watching what had happened at the arena had been an eye-opener. As things stood, the Aether Awakening PALATINE was a danger that Dragan could no longer ignore. Taking that thing on without proper preparation held an unacceptable risk of defeat.


    Hopefully, the place they¡¯d been holding the beast would hold some clues to overcoming it.


    "Now," Dragan stepped forward, smiling calmly. "We attack now."


    Crack.


    Wu Ming looked up from his magazine, head turning one-hundred and eighty degrees to face the Cradle high above. A woollen grin spread across teeth made of thread. Looked like it was time.


    "Happy birthday!" he called up to the pulsating cocoon. "How you feeling? You missed a hell of a thing at the arena, real negative number rating sorta thing, let me tell ya. Can you hear me?"


    His answer was an explosion. Steaming water and shining blood burst out from the Cradle as it completed its purpose, scraps of thread and silk raining down with it. A burning fog washed over the abandoned building, smouldering against stone and wood.


    Wu Ming whistled. "That bad, huh?"


    Thump.


    Ruth Blaine dropped to the ground like a brick, landing on one knee, long red hair cascading around her. She opened a mouth full of fangs, and burning steam poured forth. Densely muscled limbs twitched, joints cracking audibly. She widened her eyes, and the now-vertical pupils there turned thin as blades.


    Sparks flew from her prosthetic leg -- it had only just barely managed to survive the transformation. They¡¯d need to wrangle up a replacement for it.


    Slowly, Ruth looked down at her hand -- the fingernails of which now tapered off into deadly points.


    "I thought I¡¯d be taller," she muttered.


    Wu Ming waved a hand. "If we messed with your proportions too much, you¡¯d be stumbling all over the place like a drunk. Ha! So, how do you feel? Feel strong?"


    She clenched her fist, feeling the power in it. "...yeah. I think so."


    "Well?" Wu Ming smiled, kicking his couch over to her. "Don¡¯t just think so, try it out! Pretend that couch is the Shepherdess or something."


    Fist still ready, Ruth looked down at the couch¡­


    Bang.


    ¡­and with a flash of red Aether, pulverised it in a single blow.


    Wu Ming clapped his hands. "Very nice, very nice. No furniture shall stand against you. Now that you¡¯re up and about, though, how about we --"


    Bang.


    The fist came down on the wreckage of the couch again, this time splintering the floor as it smashed right through.


    Wu Ming raised an eyebrow, his pupils twinkling.


    Bang.


    The walls shuddered.


    Bang.


    The floor shattered.


    Bang.


    The roof caved in.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Bang.


    Oh, yes, Wu Ming thought, grinning even as the rubble rained over them. Yes, I think we can work with this.


    Atoy Muzazi woke to pain. It was a familiar feeling by this point.


    As he opened his eyes, he knew straight away what had happened. He was covered in bandages. A breathing mask was planted against his mouth. The sterile walls and beeping machines bespoke a hospital.


    As he looked around the room, he knew straight away what had happened. Morgan sat in a chair next to the bed, quietly sleeping, his face pulled down by exhaustion and stress. He too had his injuries.


    As he opened his mouth, he knew straight away what had happened. The pain he was feeling¡­ the acid eating through his heart¡­ the tears crawling behind his eyes¡­ they all said one thing. It was obvious.


    But still, he asked.


    "What happened?"


    Morgan¡¯s eyes slowly opened, slowly focused in on Muzazi, slowly looked down¡­ and all of it again served only as confirmation. Doom nestled in Muzazi¡¯s brain.


    "...you lost¡­" Morgan murmured.


    For a good, long moment, Muzazi just stared at his second-in-command. The words he¡¯d just heard had to be dissected in his brain. There had to be hidden meaning there. Something other than despair secreted between the syllables.


    Grasping ribbons.


    Splattering blood.


    A flash of purple, coming to save his battered carcass.


    Only when he was certain that his hunt had no quarry did Muzazi speak again.


    "I see."


    And Atoy Muzazi began to cry.

 Chapter 404:13.62: The Blessings of Evil Intelligence

    The night was alive with fire.


    AWL Asset D6-713


    Hidden Capitol Underground Observation and Containment Facility


    "Hel"


    Hel is one of many AWL facilities located throughout the galaxy, ready to observe interesting phenomena and contain troublesome experiments whenever required. While the days of Ren¨¦e the Raven -- when our organisation enjoyed the full favour of the Supreme -- are long gone, the AWL still maintains a presence on Azum-Ha.


    Hel is equipped with several layers of internal and external defence in order to withstand attacks both within and without. While the majority of these defences are self-operating, it is advised that Hel be equipped with additional AWL Assets while in active use.


    From the desk of Section Chief Mazura (Deceased)


    The Absurd Weapons Lab facility would not go down easy.


    At first, it had appeared as one temple among many in the depths of Azum-Ha, a squat little stone building that the eyes slid right over. But once they¡¯d tried to gain access? The facility had shown them what it could really do.


    Like a flower, it had unfurled, revealing a shape like a metal starfish, every inch of its exposed surface bristling with gun-barrels. They¡¯d fired without delay. As if that weren¡¯t enough, it had unleashed a swarm of automatics from vents on the tip of each ¡¯arm¡¯. They sliced and diced through the air, weaving through the bullets with such ease that they seemed like a single organism.


    All in all, to look at the construct reminded Xander Rain more than a little of the Shesha, but he supposed that made sense. The Absurd Weapons Lab had been heavily involved in the construction of the great starship. They¡¯d clearly brought across the design philosophy for their own buildings.


    There was more fire than air here right now, but the Tree of Might did not burn so easily.


    Xander flew through the air, carrying several of his comrades with him. Brown Aether charged the air around him, and each and every projectile that came for his group changed their course to avoid them. His eyes flicked around the grotesque building as he tried to find a weakness, tried to find a way in.


    All around and below him, the rest of the Tree of Might fought. They weren¡¯t so weak that mundane defences would shoo them away. They danced against the horde of machines, Aether abilities erupting into light and taking dozens of automatics with them.


    A few members had already activated their Absolutians, and for a moment Xander felt the urge to join them -- but no. His own Absolutian could certainly break into this place with ease, but the berserker rage its strength induced would make him just as much a threat to his allies as his enemies. He couldn¡¯t afford to fail Lord Hadrien again, not after his disastrous display the other night.


    The mind of a warrior was needed right now, not his arm.


    Letting his halberd float in the air next to him, Xander turned to his companions.


    "Lord Onio," he said respectfully. "Lord Masterman. I feel we must work together on this."


    Tyr Masterman nodded, but Xander suspected there was a tinge of resentment to it. As agreed, Lord Hadrien had named Fino Onio as the new Second Branch of the Tree of Might following the battle on the temple. Even if Muzazi was no longer a concern and the battle had been interrupted, Onio had performed his part well. The quality of Onio¡¯s service had outweighed Masterman¡¯s seniority, it seemed.


    Still, they were all branches of the same tree, and they would work together as one. Xander floated the trio up higher, until they were nearly at the top of this cavern of ruins, looking down at the centre of the metal complex.


    "Second Branch," Xander commanded.


    Fino held his hand out -- and the blood he¡¯d accumulated over the course of the battle rushed to him, a crimson tsunami that quickly swirled into a spinning crystalline drill. The tip of the monstrous implement was pointed straight down -- straight towards the roof of the besieged fortress.


    Masterman held out a hand crackling with yellow Aether, mustachios quivering in anticipation. "Double-Time," he intoned -- and the spinning of the drill increased until it was visible as no more than a vague red blur. A bloody quill with which to rewrite the world. Masterman¡¯s ability to control speed paired nicely with such a thing.


    Xander¡¯s turn. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath¡­ and grasped the flow of all things.


    Dust and fire, blood and sweat. All of it found a new path, drawn in to join the drill high above, adding to its mass until it was truly gargantuan, truly grotesque, truly¡­


    Xander smirked.


    ¡­absurd.


    The siege engine they¡¯d created crackled with all three of their Aethers. Multi-infusion wasn¡¯t a technique that was practised often, as Aether was generally considered an individual practice. Common wisdom held that only one Aether-user could infuse an object at a time, but if each party only infused part of an object, leaving free space for their comrades power to flow¡­ the boost it provided was greater than the sum of its parts.


    Air rushed. Blood boiled. Aether screamed. The thing they had created was nearly beyond their ability to control. Xander¡¯s face was moist with sweat as he forced the drill into obedience, keeping it aimed at the complex below rather than raging wild.


    The automatic defences now rushed to them, realising that they constituted the greatest threat to the security of their fortress -- but the Tree of Might did not allow its branches to be severed so easily. The rank-and-file formed a barrier between the three Branches and the machines, fighting with everything they had to give Xander the time he needed.


    Time enough.


    Xander dropped the hammer of God, and the sound it produced when it struck the facility was nearly beyond sound itself. If not for Aether, it surely would have burst every ear-drum in attendance. A forest of sparks flew from the point of collision as the tip of the drill and the metal of the roof faced one another, each unwilling to surrender.


    An unstoppable force and an immovable object¡­ or a nearly immovable one.


    Metal gave way, and soon enough so did the artificial Apex wood beneath it. Esoteric materials of every variety, torn clean through one after another, toxic gases flowing forth from the chemical reactions. Shrapnel swerved to dodge Xander as it flew towards him and his clan.


    Still, as the roof finally exploded inwards, Xander knew they¡¯d have more to worry about than shrapnel -- and he was quickly proven right.


    Lights danced in the darkness.


    AWL Asset T1-229


    Necro-Slave Defensive and Assault Auto-Soldiers


    "Turbomen"


    There is no shortage of condemned criminals in the Supremacy. They are an abundant resource. All know this to be true, yet we allow this abundant resource to be thrown away in no shortage of wasteful ways -- burial and cremation and such. Why must this be? We know corpses can be made use of, so why not make use of them?


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    These beheaded carcasses shall be fitted with basic auto-brains, linked together into a combat network, set against designated targets. While they bear a somewhat comical appearance, they shall fight with utmost ferocity. It will be no issue to acquire the necessary resources from the prisons of the Supremacy -- and for those who claim this is an exercise in novelty rather than pragmatism, I must point out this one truth:


    It is much cheaper to create a corpse than an automatic.


    From the desk of Section Chief Mourne (Dismissed)


    The dead flooded forth.


    For a moment, Xander¡¯s face was locked in horror. Countless corpses -- some naked, some clad in jumpsuits -- were crawling out from the hole in the roof. Xander had seen his share of dead bodies in battle, and reanimation abilities were nothing new either¡­ but the state of those bodies¡­


    Each and every writhing corpse was missing their head, and from their neck-stumps blinked instead the tiny blinking light-bulbs of auto-brains. These bodies had been reanimated not with an Aether ability, but by invasive technology. It was strange. Why did that feel so much more obscene to Xander?


    "Stygg," muttered Masterman.


    The dead bodies clashed with the members of the Tree of Might below, cadavers desperately climbing over each other in great hills to reach their enemies first, like insects. Blade and fist met with feral fingernails -- but Xander found himself surprised. He¡¯d have expected corpses like these to be splattered by the first attack of an Aether-user, but they were holding up surprisingly well.


    Could it be¡­?


    Xander narrowed his eyes, infusing his vision to peer at the enemies below more carefully. Yes, it was. Around each and every one of the corpses sparked dull grey Aether, defending their bodies and bolstering their blows. Had he been mistaken, then? Was this resurrection the work of an Aether ability after all?


    He looked to Masterman, giving him a curt nod. "Investigate."


    Tyr Masterman was nothing if not dutiful. The Third Branch bowed respectfully, one hand clasped against his heart -- and when he rose again he spoke one word in response. "Absolutian."


    Masterman¡¯s Absolutian wasn¡¯t quite as showy as others in the Tree of Might. A wooden domino mask emerged around his eyes, and a short cape of autumn leaves billowed from his back. What was more impressive was what he could do with it. Still in the grasp of Xander¡¯s ability, Masterman stepped forward onto air¡­


    ¡­and vanished.


    This Absolutian, Maple, was specialised in speed. Even with his vision infused, Xander could only track Masterman¡¯s movements by the suddenly eviscerated zombies that flew up into the air. Footprints planted themselves into entrails, squeezing them dry, as the Third Branch vanished into the complex.


    He was back a moment later at Xander¡¯s side. His Absolutian flaked away into teal Aether as he sipped his thermos of coffee.


    Xander glanced at him. "Well?"


    Masterman seemed unimpressed. "Some kind of Aether Armament, I think, injecting the corpses with infusion as they leave the base. A most grotesque thing."


    AWL Asset C3-910


    Ambulatory Commissioned Armament for Aether Storage, Amplification and Injection


    "Spider-Leg"


    Through the earnest efforts of yours truly, a contract has been signed with the prestigious Maker-Guild for the mass production of these astounding armaments! The Spider-Leg needs only to be initially infused by an Aether-user -- it will then store that Aether, preserve it over long periods of time and efficiently pass that infusion onto a designated target! With proper utilisation, we will be able to elevate entire mundane armies to the physical levels of low-tier Aether-users! A revolution in warfare! A commendation of genius! Ah, how wonderful, how wonderful the apotheosis of science is!


    From the desk of Section Chief Hark (Deceased)


    "I destroyed some on my way back out," continued Masterman. "But there were quite a few of the things. Even with my speed, I fear I might have been overwhelmed if I were to rush in all by myself -- not to mention, we don¡¯t know what other defences await us."


    Fino narrowed his eyes. "Are you frightened, old man?"


    A lesser man -- or perhaps a more proud one -- would have risen to that bait, but Masterman simply adjusted his tie in an expression of dignity. "It is a fool who does not fear the fog of war," he said calmly. "I must simply stand back and admire your own bravery, Second Branch."


    For some reason, Fino narrowed his eyes further at that. "What did you say?!" he growled.


    Xander raised a hand, eyes fixed on the dark hole below. "No arguments in my presence. These are foot soldiers -- we¡¯ll overcome them with time anyway. We¡¯ll simply exercise patience and cull their numbers slowly."


    Fino looked back, past Xander, a smirk playing across his lips. "Don¡¯t know if we¡¯ll even have to do that, First Branch. Take a look."


    Frowning, Xander followed his gaze -- and widened his eyes.


    The sound of whistling filled the cavern from the entrance. There, as casually as could be, North walked into the battlefield. His hands were plunged carelessly into his pockets, and there was a jovial spring to his step as he moved through the bodies of their fallen comrades. Xander¡¯s brow creased in irritation. Why did Lord Hadrien allow such a disgraceful man to act as his hand?


    The answer soon made itself obvious.


    "Nightmare Underground," North said casually, cracking his neck. "Era Grotesquerie."


    Space flickered -- and all over the chamber, floating spheres of glowing molten flesh appeared. They warped and undulated, sometimes seeming to shift size for an instant before snapping back¡­ but more than that, they were wrong. Just looking at them seemed to burn sunspots into Xander¡¯s eyelids, like a kiss from lips of acid. He quickly looked away.


    The automatic-corpses seemed to fare even worse against the display. As one, they ceased their attack, limbs jerking as their bodies malfunctioned. Some of the bulbs shattered and sparked as their hosts collapsed to the floor right then and there. Those that remained standing were quickly cut down by the troops of the Tree of Might.


    North grinned as he looked up at Xander. "Automatics really can¡¯t stand that one. ¡¯Lord Hadrien¡¯ thought you guys might want a helping hand. What a nice guy, right?"


    Xander scowled. "Please tell Lord Hadrien we don¡¯t require such assistance."


    North¡¯s grin slackened into a smug smile. "Tell him yourself."


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    The shadow of Dragan Hadrien, projected by the lights North had created, fell upon the cavern. Each and every automatic, each and every soldier, each and every corpse¡­ they were all painted dark by it. Even suspended in the air, Xander bowed -- matching the reverence of the Branches on either side of him.


    Lord Hadrien, clad in his white suit, looked analytically at the debris before him. His eyes, too, were fixed on the entrance they¡¯d created on the complex roof. Now, though, something other than corpses lurked in those depths. Xander couldn¡¯t see what exactly it was from this angle¡­


    ¡­but, upon his skin, he could feel the gaze of something not human.


    AWL Asset A1-265/6


    Bi-Existential Semi-Independent Pseudo-Physical Aether Entities


    "ASSASILANT and SLAYER"


    The future of our organisation lies in the vivisection of Aether.


    Aether is a force external to humanity, but by itself it is undefined. It is the role of humans to poison the well with their thoughts and feelings, with their hopes and dreams. Only once Aether believes itself to be humanity does it become an asset to humanity. Only once Aether continues to crawl after death does it offer new mysteries.


    ASSAILANT and SLAYER are notable in novelty alone -- two separate Awakening-entities produced following the death of a single user. Special Officer Laul Karz was killed in the Elysian Fields Incident, and the twins appeared afterwards, splitting his carcass between them. S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    These beasts may not have the utility of the so-called Black Blur INTERLOPER, or the raw strength of the Humanoid Weapon AUBRISHER, but they are still a strength that can be brought to heel. No matter their quality, teeth will find throats, and blood shall flow.


    Until the day humanity vanishes, blood shall flow.


    From the desk of Section Chief Blackmane


    Two horrors lurched out of the building.


    The first walked upright, but none could have confused it for a human. A bleached-white skeleton, a fog of liquid doves flying around it and serving as its mobile flesh. Its jaw snapped open -- and deep within blinked a single engorged eyeball.


    The second crawled, a black-feathered spider, a cloak of dangling nerves trailing on the ground after it. Impressions of faces pushed out of its bloated midsection, weeping and giggling and moaning, with a forest of tongues tasting the air in all directions. In place of a head it had a single floating arm, the fingers of which twitched this way and that as if they were eyes.


    As one, they inspected their gathered opponents.


    A shudder went down Xander¡¯s spine, but Lord Hadrien just smiled, standing before the monsters.


    "Fantastic," the Zero Branch said, pulling back a fist. "This is a perfect opportunity. Let¡¯s see how Aether Awakenings die."

 Chapter 405:13.63: All for Nothing

    The Thinker¡¯s Comet hurtled through the night sky, trailing bloody stardust behind it.


    The current headquarters of the Absurd Weapons Lab had quite the history. Once, this hardy rock had been one of the secret bases of the Kingdom Moon Cult, a mobile mustering point from which they could launch their pale crusades. Once Kadmon the Indolent had finally defeated the so-called Soul Tyrant and freed his flock from their delirium, however, the fallen church had been given to the scientists of the AWL.


    They¡¯d made some improvements.


    For one, the Thinker¡¯s Comet now possessed an on-board lightpoint, making it one of the few vessels in the Supremacy -- along with the Sheshanaga and the Axel Alexander -- that could independently jump from system to system. The Comet was constantly on the move, piloted by an auto-brain that the Paradisas would welcome, weaving through space and notice. The interior of the base had changed over the years, too, laboratories growing through the classical architecture of the cathedral like a fungus of sterility.


    The archaic infested by the innovative.


    Needless to say, the Comet had ways of monitoring each and all of the AWL¡¯s other bases throughout the galaxy -- and so it was that the control room was in something of a panic when Section Chief Blackmane entered. His paws thumped softly against the metal floor as he crossed it, his red eyes drifting steadily across the floating screens before him.


    To an outside observer, the scene in the control room would have been a touch absurd. It was not a man who had entered the room, not even a Scurrant of considerable alteration, but instead a massive lion. His fur was jet-black and his mane just as dark, flowing like the beard of a sage, but this was unmistakably a beast -- not a man. S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Such absurdity was common here, though. The name should have been proof enough of that.


    He looked at the holographic screens before him. The images were clear, captured by nano-automatics embedded in the walls and floor of Hel. Dragan Hadrien was raiding them. It wasn¡¯t particularly surprising, though, given his track record and the obstacle that had been put before him.


    Still¡­ Blackmane¡¯s nose twitched as he drank in the air, tasting the stink of nervousness. A deep growl soon put an end to the concerned mutterings of his subordinates. Activating Speak No Evil, Blackmane vibrated the air to produce sound -- the sound of a deep, rich voice to match his regal appearance.


    "How does he fare?"


    Retson, a Scurrant with a long cylindrical head of carapace, stood up from his console. He seemed to shrink back from Blackmane even as he approached, but that was only natural. After all, Blackmane¡¯s head alone was nearly the size of the man¡¯s entire body.


    "SLAYER has been eliminated, sir," the Scurrant buzzed. "Physical destruction. ASSAILANT is proving more formidable."


    "As we knew. The Tree of Might is staying back?"


    Retson nodded, cylinder-skull flopping up and down with the motion. "It seems Hadrien is intent on defeating the Awakenings alone, Section Chief."


    "Splendid. At least the boy has wisdom."


    Blackmane squinted as he activated See No Evil, peering into the screens and inspecting Dragan Hadrien more thoroughly than any mortal eyes could manage. What an interesting body the boy had acquired. Symbiosis achieved, but more than that -- a core component in and of itself? No wonder their investigations on Panacea had¡­


    He unsheathed a claw and tapped it against the floor, cutting off his own train of thought. It wouldn¡¯t do to lose himself in intrigue right now. This was too critical a time. All time, especially these days, was critical.


    "There are other assets in the area, sir," Retson ventured, clasping his hands. "We can dispatch them to reinforce ASSAILANT¡­ should you request it, of course."


    Blackmane¡¯s tail swayed in the air as he considered the proposal, but¡­


    "No," he finally said. "Let the boy find what he may. We¡¯ve already scraped all the knowledge we can from PALATINE¡¯s battles in this Dawn Contest. If the boy slays the beast, then it¡¯s free disposal of hazardous materials. If the beast kills the boy¡­ well, we¡¯ve lost nothing of worth." He cast his crimson gaze over the room, emotions unreadable through his feline visage. "Observe what happens next and record the results. Perhaps we¡¯ll have a repeat of Bone Heaven."


    The prospect of another research opportunity like the Kaiser¡¯s defeat seemed to pull his people back into their purposes. As his orders were put into practice, Blackmane turned and stalked out of the room, his massive body moving with languid grace.


    It was true. The Absurd Weapons Lab had lost nothing of worth so far. Corpse-soldiers and bisected Awakenings and such¡­ they were leftover cruelties from directors who could see no further from their own scalpels. The Absurd Weapons Lab would be well rid of the fruits of their vile labour.


    Blackmane looked further ahead, down the stone hallway. It served his vindictive heart well to see this dusty place overrun by scientific endeavour.


    The Thinker¡¯s Comet had been his childhood home. He¡¯d been born as one of the most unfortunate kinds of throwbacks -- one fated not to live. A ¡¯super-Cogitant¡¯, with all the strengths of his more viable cousins turned up to the utmost. The only problem had been his withering body, unable to take so much as a stray breeze without excruciating pain.


    His family had turned to the Kingdom Moon Cult in an attempt to cure him. It had not worked. They had bathed under its evil light, let it reach into them and twist them, and all it had done was trade their desperation for mindless adoration. When the Moon had been vanquished, and it¡¯s former followers had torn each other apart, Blackmane had come to know that no holy light would descend to cure man¡¯s ills.


    If gods existed, they were ambivalent. So it was up to man alone to ensure his survival.


    As he trotted down the curving hallway, he passed test chamber after test chamber -- each filled with experiments just as unseemly as those of his predecessors. Only, there was purpose behind the excesses he permitted. For the last century, the Absurd Weapons Lab had been devoted to nothing more than pungent curiosity.


    Blackmane had brought with him a new mission: to ensure the survival of humanity.


    It was no simple task. The people of the galaxy either didn¡¯t know or didn¡¯t acknowledge it, but they were coming closer to apocalypse with each passing second. Aether would be the instrument of human annihilation. The power to destroy, given freely to any who conceived of the correct sequence of thoughts and emotions, with no possible way of keeping it out of the hands of the unworthy.


    As knowledge of Aether advanced, it became easier and easier to develop powerful abilities, cheats and workarounds slowly becoming common practice. In time, there might come an age where every Aether-user fought on the level of a Supreme. That would not be an age that humanity could survive.


    It wouldn¡¯t even necessarily be humanity that would bring about its own end. The common theory was that Aether had originally been restricted to humans because humans had been the ones to discover it, but that no longer held true. If the restraints on Aether-usage had ever existed, they had surely slackened. Leftover abominations from the Gene Tyrants could use Aether. Animals, in rare cases, could use Aether. There were even reports that automatics could use Aether, if you believed the rumours of the UAP¡¯s Moon.


    Blackmane paused, looking out a window at the aurora of the dark.


    Disarray. Division. Chaos. No matter what seed the destruction of mankind bloomed from, this warring galaxy would be its fertile soil. If proper preparations were not made, mankind would not survive. The Absurd Weapons Lab would muster whatever nightmares it had in order to avoid that outcome.


    Let the bacterium concern themselves with Dawn Contests and Supremes. Blackmane had been born into a body fated to die. Blackmane had been born into a world fated to die. There was only one recourse.


    He would have fate brought before him, and maul it to death -- all for the survival of mankind.


    The author¡¯s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    As the Aether Awakening dissipated into nothing, Dragan let out a satisfied breath. The spike of infused Panacea crumbled from his wrist, leaving a hole that quickly closed. Ignoring the applause from the members of the Tree of Might above, he turned to his constant companion.


    So, he silently said to Pan. You think we can do that to PALATINE?


    The orange-haired girl, bangs hanging over her eyes, sat cross-legged atop a nearby chunk of rubble. She put a finger to her lips, considering the question.


    "If the stinger touches, then sure thing, dead boy," she finally said. "But will it touches?"


    She had a point.


    PALATINE¡¯s primary ability, Ignorance, meant that making physical contact with it wasn¡¯t a sure thing by any means. He¡¯d have to get tricky -- trickier than usual, in order to fool a being with Y-knows how many extra ways of perceiving the world. Would these caverns be an ideal battlefield, then, or would a more open space be better suited?


    For that matter, how long did they have until PALATINE came for them itself? Now that Mr. Guest had been ¡¯defeated¡¯, it was only a matter of time until the Flower of Evil began its hunt. If it was accompanied by Emerald Eyes, they¡¯d be limited in the amount of cheating they could employ, nevermind how much the Tree of Might would tolerate.


    He couldn¡¯t just avoid this round either. There was also the matter of perception to worry about. To true believers like the Tree of Might, failure to show strength was the same as showing weakness. If Dragan didn¡¯t make another big display of power very soon, he¡¯d risk insubordination. At this crucial stage in the competition, that was something he couldn¡¯t afford.


    A single bead of sweat trickled unseen down his temple.


    "You¡¯re feeling sick, dead boy," Pan murmured, concerned. "Stressed and dried. Not good."


    Dragan ran a hand through his hair. If the stress does any damage, you can just fix it, right?


    Pan frowned. "Only damage to body."


    That¡¯s the only kind of damage that matters right now.


    Vaguely, Dragan wondered what the Tree of Might would think if they knew what he was doing right now -- talking to a girl who lived inside his mind. Would they think him mad, and turn against him? Or maybe talking to hallucinations was a sign you¡¯d grown so strong you¡¯d conquered your own sanity, or some shit.


    "Not hallucination, dead boy," Pan corrected, wagging an admonishing finger.. "Real. Remember?"


    Of course I remember, Dragan replied. How could I forget?


    Absently, he rubbed his temple -- the spot a bullet had torn through, more than two years ago now.


    Pan worried. "Does it still hurt, dead boy?"


    No. You¡¯re good at what you do. It¡¯s like nothing even happened. You really saved me¡­ and you keep saving me, don¡¯t you?


    Dragan looked at her -- at where she was now standing, beside him.


    Why?


    Pan cocked her head. "What that means?"


    Why are you doing this for me?


    "I¡¯m nice, dead boy!"


    I know, but¡­ the whole time I was crawling across the planet, I was thinking. I had all sorts of deals I was going to make. Things I would offer you, bargains I would cut -- in exchange for your help. But you agreed like it was nothing, and you saved me again.


    He blinked, a sudden nervous energy sliding down his spine.


    You don¡¯t get anything out of it, he said. Do you? What do you get out of it?


    Pan looked up at Dragan, and her bangs parted like curtains. Glittering orange eyes stared into cold blue ones. For a second, she remained silent -- a rare moment of consideration before speech for her. Eventually, though, she did answer.


    "You saved me, dead boy," she said quietly. "What friend would be me if I didn¡¯t save you again?"


    Dragan snorted. You¡¯ve saved me way more than once at this point.


    Pan slowly shook her head. "No, dead boy. Not even once. Look at your face."


    Dragan frowned. I¡­


    For a moment, it looked like he¡¯d say something more -- like the mask of ice he was wearing would shatter, and a person would emerge. But then, the moment passed, and pale calm returned to his features. His expression became one of someone who knew what they were doing, a cage fitted over the soul.


    Dragan smiled softly. You won¡¯t ever stop bullying me, will you?


    Pan shook her head again, looking up at him still, desperately sad. "No, dead boy," she murmured. "No, I won¡¯t."


    Dragan whirled around, facing his followers -- who¡¯d gathered along the rim of the crater his battle had produced, attendants of an impromptu coliseum. He spread his arms wide, and -- nostrils flaring -- roared someone else¡¯s words:


    "Begin preparations! The PALATINE comes to face me! Let us craft for it a suitable reception!"


    Pan, behind him, looked down and faded from sight.


    All for nothing.


    Those words, that certainty, assaulted Muzazi again and again as he walked aimless through the streets.


    He had fought this long, this hard¡­ all for nothing.


    He had brought himself to the verge of death¡­ all for nothing.


    He had murdered someone who shared the same dream as him¡­ all for nothing.


    Murderer.


    Murderer


    Murderer.


    Muzazi¡¯s script buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Most likely it was Morgan again, eager to keep pitching the proxy law strategy to him. He would not hear of it. Tarnished as he¡¯d been throughout this long and pointless journey, there were limits to the mud he¡¯d plunge his hands into.


    Right now, as he crossed a tunnel-bridge through an expressway, one face among thousands, he couldn¡¯t stop thinking of Dorothy Eiro. Her last moments. When she¡¯d died, her life a candle snuffed out in an instant, had she held hope in her heart? Had she felt that, even if she was gone, Muzazi would carry out her dream?


    If so, he¡¯d betrayed her too.


    Murderer.


    Murderer.


    Murderer.


    The Del Sed twins had vanished from the hotel overnight. That was no surprise. Them lending their assistance had been dependent on him having the resources required to repay them. They hadn¡¯t been working together for long at all, but Muzazi¡¯s stomach was still sinking into a pit at the thought of their absence.


    After all, they¡¯d just be the first. The Phases, his supporters¡­ they¡¯d all drift away now that he was useless to them. He¡¯d staked everything on this, he¡¯d promised them, and he¡¯d failed them.


    He¡¯d promised Marie¡­ and he¡¯d failed her. Marie, who he¡¯d led to Panacea on his hunt for Hadrien. Marie, who had been forced into a fight to the death due to his own foolishness.


    Marie, who he¡¯d as good as killed.


    Murderer.


    Murderer.


    Murderer.


    As his thoughts drifted further into despair, his feet drifted further off the street. He found himself ducking into a bar, water dripping from his soaked form as he took a seat at a bar-stool. He hadn¡¯t even realised it was raining outside. He really was out of it.


    What a mess.


    Soft lounge music went unheard, and the rustic wooden architecture went unseen. As the cleaning automatics scurried around beneath him, a serving automatic took his order. A glass of Raranik Red. Nothing crazy -- just something to ease the pain. He¡¯d almost lost himself at the Truemeet, after his failures on Panacea, but this was different. He was stronger now.


    A snort of contempt crushed his nose.


    Stronger now? Really? If you¡¯re so strong, why aren¡¯t you victorious? Why are you sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself, pathetic and impotent?


    He had no answer for himself -- save raising a glass to his lips and taking a bitter sip.


    You threw everything away. Your dignity, your honour¡­ Aclima despises you and she¡¯s right to do so. You tried to steal her birthright. You turned her own bodyguards against her. You¡¯ve killed people. You killed Dorothy, just like you killed Marie, just like you¡­


    Wretch. Failure. Murderer.


    Muzazi was so absorbed in his own self-flagellation that he didn¡¯t notice the other person sitting down next to him. He only registered their presence when they spoke up, their bright voice cutting through the waves of self-loathing.


    "Hi," said Winston Grace.


    Slowly, Muzazi turned his head to look at him. The detective had seen better days -- he looked like he hadn¡¯t slept or eaten in quite some time. He certainly smelt like he hadn¡¯t bathed in a good while. One sleeve of his shirt had been tied into a knot -- he¡¯d lost an arm.


    Yet, his wide eyes remained unchanged. They sparkled with the reflection of crystal mystery. A question was to be answered, and so the great detective had appeared. Muzazi¡¯s heart felt like it would drop right out of his body.


    He blinked.


    "Hello," he replied.

 Chapter 406:13.64: Sword

    Two Years Ago¡­


    Devastation.


    Atoy Muzazi tried to close his eyes to it as he forced his way through the corpse of Elysian Fields, but it was no use. Gruesome absurdity surrounded him, companions on this journey. There had been corpses, so many corpses, flayed and battered and shredded¡­ but for some reason, one particular sight remained with him.


    A body like so many others, resting against a tree, belonging to one of his fellow Special Officers. The corpse had been nearly untouched, so pristine that they could have been asleep -- if not for their empty eyes, staring sightlessly up at the sky. A butterfly had been perched on the corpse¡¯s nose, bright and blue and true¡­ and for some reason, that was what stuck with Muzazi.


    That butterfly, perched on the tip of that nose. He knew already he would dream of it.


    In the distance, far behind him, a scorched-black tree reached out to the stars. A grave marker for the Gardener of Sin? He wouldn¡¯t be the one to find out. Muzazi sought not a Contender, but the Supreme. He had promised Aclima he would help protect her father.


    In truth, he didn¡¯t know how much help he could be. He was missing half his face and barely wading above the waters of unconsciousness. Even if he were in peak condition, bitter experience had taught him he stood no chance against Zachariah Esmerelda as the man was now. If he were to jump into a battle between those two titans, his life would amount to little more than confetti.


    But he had promised -- and he was bound by promises.


    Muzazi finally emerged from the crumbling forest, reaching the mountainside where the Supreme had faced his challenger. At least¡­ it surely had once been a mountainside. Now it was a massive crater, all rubble and fire and even some glass, smoke drifting through it like fog.


    He steeled himself as he entered the miasma.


    Aether pings, weak as they were, gave him the right direction. Ambient Aether still hung in the air from both combatants, muddying his senses, but he could still follow them to their source. He could still¡­


    Clang.


    He stopped, looking down at the thing he¡¯d just stepped on. His remaining eye widened. This was a treasure he¡¯d hardly expected to ever lay eyes upon in his life.


    EIN SOF.


    The god-sword, the greatest Aether Armament the Supreme possessed, lay at his feet. The blade was dull and dark and spent, but the presence it exuded made it feel like it was made of solid gold -- or perhaps something even more fundamental.


    With trembling, bleeding hands, Muzazi picked up the implement. It was lighter than he¡¯d expected. Had the weapon been blown away during the fighting?


    His heart dropped. If the battle had been so intense that the Supreme couldn¡¯t even hold on to his Aether Armament, things might have been worse than Muzazi thought. He had to hurry.


    Black blade in hand, Muzazi charged through the dark smog.


    AETHERAL SPACE 13.63


    "Sword"


    Two Years Later¡­


    Muzazi took a sip of his drink.


    It was funny. His hands weren¡¯t trembling anymore. He hadn¡¯t expected that. He¡¯d expected more terror on this dreaded day, but after everything, after all he had seen and done¡­ it seemed he had long since run out of terror. All that remained was a numbness that kept his hands as still as ice.


    "We thought you were dead," he said after a moment, putting the glass back down onto the bar. "Everyone thought you were dead. Your family, too. You were announced dead."


    Winston chuckled bashfully, scratching a hollow cheek with a finger. "Ah, well, things kinda just worked out that way, you know? When you¡¯re on the run, you can¡¯t go telling people where to find you, right?"


    Muzazi glanced at him. "On the run?"


    "Hadrien," Winston sighed theatrically. "He¡¯s right up my ass. Not literally, though, but you get what I mean. He¡¯s got eyes everywhere. If I pop my head up, he comes with the hammer. It¡¯s a real drag."


    Slowly, Muzazi turned his glass with his fingers, even as he continued looking at Winston. "Dragan Hadrien¡¯s been trying to kill you?"


    "Mm-hmm."


    Muzazi closed his eye. Of course. "I see."


    For a minute, Muzazi just kept that eye closed. How long had it been since he¡¯d had a chance to truly rest? Since the beginning of the Dawn Contest? Since Elysian Fields? Since perhaps before even that? It would be so nice to rest.


    To not have to think, to not have to consider¡­


    "Hey, are you falling asleep?" Winston asked. "We¡¯re still talking, you know!"


    Muzazi¡¯s brow creased. Unfortunately for any dreams of rest, he was sitting next to a sapient alarm clock. He¡¯d find no succour here.


    He opened his eye again, his gaze dull and dead as he looked down at the wood of the bar -- and the fruitless patterns in its surface. "What is it you want to talk about?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Why come to me, and not your family?"


    Winston drummed his fingers along the wood. A war-drum, or something more playful? Nearly everything sounded like war-drums to Muzazi¡¯s ears these days.


    "When I was a kid," Winston said. "I really liked detective novels."


    "Wow."


    "The thing is," Winston continued. "The good ones are never from the point of view of the detective, right? They¡¯re always sort of outside, or from an assistant¡¯s perspective or something, so that the reader doesn¡¯t just get told the answer to the mystery. Because the detective always knows the answer way before the reader does."


    "I see."


    Winston looked blankly at him. "I¡¯ve been working on this one for two years now. Mind if I bounce some ideas off you?"


    Muzazi looked back at him. "What?" he smiled humourlessly. "Like an assistant?"


    "Sure," Winston matched his smile. "Like an assistant."


    Two Years Ago¡­


    The burnt breath caught in Muzazi¡¯s throat, and his hands tightened into bloody fists. S~ea??h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He was too late.


    Guilt seized the back of his brain. He had promised Aclima he would protect her father. He had knocked her out, stopping her from coming here, because he was so confident he would do better. He had promised her.


    And he was too late.


    The Supreme lay on his knees, scorched from head to toe, smoke still rising from his charred carcass. His arms were cauterised stumps, limp strips of meat and gristle hanging from them like strings. Just looking at the body, Muzazi could hardly tell what had been clothing and what had been skin.


    Whatever attack had done this¡­ had done its work well.


    Heartbeat Freedom.


    Muzazi¡¯s grip tightened around EIN SOF. Esmerelda had destroyed him using those emerald wings, but Muzazi knew that those alone wouldn¡¯t have been enough to take down the Supreme. Until this moment, Muzazi hadn¡¯t thought that anything would have been enough to take down the Supreme. The symbol of strength -- the avatar of Supremacy itself -- should not die so easily.


    Esmerelda must have unleashed something more.


    The culprit was obvious, emerald Aether mingling with the golden in the air all around him. He could feel the presence of that man growing stronger just a short distance away. Muzazi¡¯s grip tightened on EIN SOF. If he peered through the fog with everything he had, he could even see him, a battered husk collapsed against a rock.


    Muzazi took a step forward. That man wasn¡¯t dead yet. As a Special Officer of the Supremacy, what was his duty now? To avenge the old Supreme, or welcome the new one? His thoughts were a vortex. Everything had become vague and indistinct.


    EIN SOF¡¯s hilt was cold against his fingers, though, and that chill pulled him back into his purpose. He had promised Aclima he would protect her father. If that was no longer possible¡­ all that remained was the blade.


    He went to move towards his prey -- and stopped. His remaining eye widened to its utmost. His sword nearly fell out of his hand. The purpose he¡¯d clutched at had frozen and shattered in an instant. All of these things had happened for a single, simple reason.


    Atoy Muzazi had just heard the Supreme cough.


    Two Years Later¡­


    "I was pretty beat up after Elysian Fields," Winston said casually. "I mean, I never actually went down to the planet, but that Lily Aubrisher woman went and attacked the Tartarus. I actually helped take her down. Did you know that?"


    Muzazi blinked. "I did."


    The serving automatic returned, putting down the lemon juice that Winston had ordered. He took a greedy gulp of it before glancing at Muzazi. "You¡¯re paying for this, right?"


    Muzazi blinked. "Sure."


    His voice was cold and still, and his gaze was matching stone. He knew what this was. He¡¯d been dreading this day for the last two years. It was disgusting, but a part of him had been relieved when he¡¯d heard Winston Grace had gone missing. It was the same part of him that was filled with dread at his presence now.


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    "Anyway," Winston went on, finishing his glass with another huge gulp. "Me and Beatrice and Marie¡¯s brother took that lady on. Well, I mean, that freak¡¯s not really Marie¡¯s brother -- but whatever. There was another guy, too, but he ended up getting killed. Gregori didn¡¯t care too much that his buddy died, either. Kinda weird. Anyway, what was I saying?"


    "You were saying that you got hurt."


    "Right, right," Winston nodded. "A lot of the injured were taken to Iosefka-2, since there was still fighting with the mercenary fleet. It was a real drag. Once I¡¯d recovered and they¡¯d assigned me the confirmation of the Supreme¡¯s cause of death, I had to head all the way back, you know? And that was only after they¡¯d shooed off all those mercenary ships, too. At that point, it¡¯s basically a cold case, right?"


    "Right."


    "I mean¡­ all the clues were basically gone."


    Stone cracked. Muzazi¡¯s pupil trembled, just a tad. Did he dare¡­?


    "Well, actually," Winston leaned over the bar. "Maybe not all of them."


    Two Years Ago¡­


    Slowly, Atoy Muzazi turned his head.


    He hadn¡¯t been mistaken. There, behind him, the charred cadaver of the Supreme was undoubtedly moving¡­ and undoubtedly breathing. Hoarse coughs spilled forth from his blackened lips -- and a moment later, they were followed by rasping words.


    "Damn¡­" gasped the man who was like god. "Still here¡­?"


    "My Supreme!" Muzazi roared.


    He charged back towards him, already channelling Aether through his hands to infuse the massive man¡¯s body. Even if the Supreme were still alive, with his body like that he was surely on the verge of death. Any additional protection Muzazi could provide would help keep him alive until medical personnel could get here.


    "Ah¡­"


    The Supreme groaned as Muzazi¡¯s white Aether spread over his form. He was still on his knees, staring sightlessly up at the sky, stuck like a statue melted into place. Tiny sparks of golden Aether began to crawl across the remains of his muscles, but they were still weak, barely even visible.


    Still¡­ Muzazi had witnessed that final attack even from a great distance. To think that the Supreme had survived a direct hit from it, if only barely¡­ he truly was constructed differently. Muzazi didn¡¯t dare touch the man¡¯s body directly, but he could still channel his Aether through the ground to reach it.


    "Damnit¡­" the Supreme repeated, strength slowly returning to his voice, flakes of hardened skin breaking off his neck as he tried to wriggle in place. "Who¡¯s that¡­?"


    "Atoy Muzazi," he replied breathlessly, sweat pouring down his face. "Special Officer, sir. Your daughter sent me."


    Crack. The Supreme cocked his head a tad. Even with his injuries, he was quickly regaining his powers of movement. "My daughter¡­?" he asked, confused. "Oh¡­ you mean that kid."


    Muzazi¡¯s heart twisted at those words, but he nodded all the same. "Y-Yes, sir."


    "Cool¡­ cool. Just¡­ gimme a sec, yeah?"


    "My Supreme," Muzazi said slowly, gaze cast down towards the ground. "Y-Your eyes are gone, so you may not realise¡­ I¡­ I¡¯m sorry to say this, sir, but your injuries¡­ they¡¯re quite atrocious. I fear that¡­ I fear that even with medical attention, recovery would be --"


    "Oh, this?" the Supreme chuckled, a low scorched sound. "This is nothing. Once I get going again¡­ I can fix this right up. One of the older abilities¡­ Rhodes¡¯ Seal¡­ ah, that was a fight, hahaha¡­ I should track him down, go at it again¡­ there¡¯s so much stuff to do now, hahaha¡­ yesss¡­"


    "My Supreme?"


    For a moment, the Supreme remained silent, and Muzazi feared that the end had taken him after all -- but then his lips peeled back into a grotesque grin, like a bright white wound.


    "This is like a shot in the arm!" the Supreme laughed, blood spurting from his mouth. "I¡¯ve wasted so many years! That bastard on the Shesha, I¡¯ll rip his head off¡­ and then¡­ and then¡­ they say Death¡¯s still alive! I wanna take on the Arcana Automatic¡¯s daddy! I wanna fight Nebula One, let¡¯s go get him! Let¡¯s fuck the UAP! Let¡¯s set the whole thing on fire! Let¡¯s do it! Ah, let¡¯s do it!"


    Muzazi took a step back from the Supreme¡¯s sudden rambling frenzy. The man who had remained in place for decades was now thrashing this way and that, scraps of burnt meat slipping from his form with each movement. A chill went down Muzazi¡¯s spine, his grip on the sword slackening.


    What¡­ is this thing¡­?


    "Ah¡­ ah¡­" the Supreme bucked, spittle flying from his lips. "What about Esmerelda?! Tell me, Atoy! Is he still alive?!"


    Numbly, Muzazi nodded. "H-He is, sir¡­ I think¡­ but only barely, I think¡­"


    "He is?!" the Supreme roared, salivating like a wild animal. "Get over there, boy! Keep him going! He can¡¯t die, he¡¯s the goddamn best! Contender number five! He ain¡¯t allowed to die until he fights me again¡­ and again¡­ and again¡­ ah, ah¡­"


    Muzazi¡¯s lip trembled. His hand trembled. His mind trembled. For some reason, even with the Supreme barking his instructions, he found himself entirely unable to move. His vision seemed to waver in and out of clarity. Everything seemed to waver in and out of clarity.


    All he could think of, all he could think of, was that corpse -- that dead warrior with a butterfly balancing on their nose. All he could do¡­ was speak.


    "My Supreme," he whispered, mouth dry. "Many of ours are injured¡­ many of ours have fallen¡­ perhaps¡­ if you could order a temporary retreat¡­?"


    Tattered eyelids flickered over empty sockets. "Eh¡­?"


    Muzazi¡¯s breath was heavy. "As I said¡­ many are dead."


    A single second, and then:


    "Who cares?"


    Two Years Later¡­


    "The thing is," Winston said, finishing his fourth glass of lemon juice. "They didn¡¯t really need to send me for that, you know? It¡¯s obvious when you look at the crime scene."


    Muzazi quietly nodded. "I suppose it would be."


    "He took that huge attack from Zachariah Esmerelda, right? It did a real number on Kadmon¡¯s body, too. Arms blown off from the pressure -- you could tell from the gristle -- and his body scorched by the heat it produced. Nasty, huh? But the thing that threw me¡­ the thing that should¡¯ve thrown anyone who looked at it¡­ was this last wound¡­"


    Winston blinked, his eyes coldly sparkling.


    "...the one that finished him."


    Two Years Ago¡­


    The Supreme¡¯s head fell from his shoulders.


    His thrashing stopped immediately. His golden light died. A second later, the white infusion vanished as well. The Supreme¡¯s last sound, a half-gasp of what might have been surprise, scattered into nothing. All that reigned there now was a cold and lonely wind, whistling through the world of ruin.


    Muzazi blinked. "Huh?"


    What had happened? Had Esmerelda¡¯s attack had some delayed effect? Had they come under attack from some Aether-user? Why had the¡­ why had the Supreme¡­ why had¡­? No, no no no, no¡­ what was¡­ what was this¡­? This wasn¡¯t¡­


    Slowly, Muzazi looked down at the sword clutched in his hand. Blood dripped from the blade of EIN SOF -- the blood of its master. Without even realising it, Muzazi had taken this sword, and he¡¯d -- and he¡¯d --


    He¡¯d killed the Supreme.


    Murderer.


    The sun was beginning to set, casting an angry orange glow over the world. The Supreme¡¯s corpse, head resting on the ground before it, was already becoming a silhouette. Muzazi¡¯s shadow stretched far behind him as if it were trying to drag him away.


    What was he looking at right now? This was not a man who should have become a corpse. This was not the sort of man that should die at the hands of Atoy Muzazi. Was this even a man he was looking at, or what was left of him?


    "Who cares?"


    The words -- those putrid, evil words -- bubbled again into Muzazi¡¯s mind, and his hand twitched around an absent sword. He knew. If he heard those words again, he would swing his sword again.


    He couldn¡¯t see properly anymore. His eyes were water and his throat was fire. He was looking at something else entirely, he had cut something else entirely. He had swung his sword at this world, this galaxy, this entire damned universe.


    What had he done? What had he done?! Aclima¡­ oh, Y¡­ he¡¯d promised, he¡¯d promised¡­ he put a cold hand to his mouth, holding back the vomit.


    "...heh¡­"


    Slowly, he turned to look into the fog.


    That short distance away, lying against a rock, was Zachariah Esmerelda. He grinned wordlessly at Muzazi, relief and victory carved into his features. For a moment, Muzazi thought of approaching him -- but no. EIN SOF fizzled away from his hand, becoming golden Aether, vanishing entirely from this world.


    Muzazi continued to look at Esmerelda for a moment -- and then, his mind completely blank, he turned¡­


    ¡­and began to wander away.


    Two Years Later¡­


    "If someone¡­" Muzazi began, before the words died on his tongue. He tried again: "If someone killed the Supreme like that¡­ like you say¡­ why wouldn¡¯t they announce it? They¡¯d become Supreme, there and then, wouldn¡¯t they?"


    Winston didn¡¯t break eye contact. "Shame."


    "I don¡¯t think a person like that could feel shame." Muzazi¡¯s hand tightened around his glass, tiny fractures spreading across its surface.


    "Hm, you¡¯d be surprised," Winston shrugged. "Especially if they thought the Heir couldn¡¯t ever forgive them. They couldn¡¯t bear the idea of becoming Supreme that way, so¡­ they just kept quiet. They just let things play out like this, so they could reach their dream properly, I guess. Dragan Hadrien wanted a Dawn Contest too, most likely -- that¡¯s why he wanted to shut me up. He went after me on my way back from Elysian. I lost an arm getting away from him, and he¡¯s been trying to get the rest of me ever since. Needless to say, I¡¯m pretty invested in the mystery at this point, so¡­ I want you to tell me."


    He finally blinked.


    "Am I right?"


    Muzazi eased his grip on the glass, but even so it crumbled onto the bar before them. He looked down into the shards, like there¡¯d be some answer there, like there¡¯d be some future save for the demanding eyes of Winston Grace¡­ like there¡¯d be some future save for the final hatred of Aclima. The broken glass gave no answers.


    "I thought you hated spoilers." His own voice seemed alien to him, all emotion drained from it. He knew there was nothing else he could do.


    "I do," Winston replied. "But that¡¯s only when I don¡¯t already know the answer."


    Muzazi blinked.


    "Yeah," he whispered. "You¡¯re right."


    Two Years Ago¡­


    Muzazi walked through the forests of the night, among the corpses and the flames, myriad words spiralling through his head. The words Dragan Hadrien had cursed him with. The word he cursed himself with. The words he had sent out into the world, long before he should have known them.


    Get lost.


    Murderer.


    The Supreme is dead.


    Fire bathed in the sky, fleets of ships clashing against each other. Blood pooled on the ground in a river, sticky as he waded through it. The dread tree of the Forest of Sin reached up into the sky, a grave marker not just for the Gardener, but for all the world. For God.


    Get lost.


    Murderer.


    The Supreme is dead.


    He tripped. Whether it was a branch, or a hole in the ground, or a dead man¡¯s leg, he didn¡¯t know. All he knew was that he collapsed to the ground, the final strength abandoning his body. Numb, he rolled over onto his back, staring upwards into the war.


    Was he just one more corpse here, resting with his fellows? Would that be better? Would that be what he deserved?


    Blue wings flickered past Muzazi¡¯s vision¡­ and a butterfly perched on his bloody nose.


    Get lost.


    Murderer.


    The Supreme is dead.


    A single bark of laughter was all he could manage.


    Get lost.


    And, for two years, he did.

 Chapter 407:13.65: The Exorcist (Part 1)

    I crawl.


    I can do nothing but crawl. It is my everything, my raison d¡¯etre. I am the one that crawls, and the one that is crawled upon. All the rest exists in the seam between "me" and "myself". A fault line through which piss might flow.


    I am ribbons and shadows and dancing and the advance and the want and the hatred and the crawling, and I do my work well. With hands that are not hands I read the braille of the world as I pull myself through stone tunnels and ancient temples. I mislike what I find in the world¡¯s journal, and rend a knife through it. The meaning changes, and it is all made useless. A 0 has become a 1, and all cascades downwards.


    God spits avalanche.


    Once upon a time, I myself escaped through these tunnels. To call it ¡¯escape¡¯ implies ¡¯capture¡¯, and as I was captured I must therefore call it ¡¯escape¡¯, but as ¡¯escape¡¯ also carries with it the connotation of ¡¯freedom from imprisonment¡¯ I cannot do so. The words drag their nails through me.


    Ah, ah! The pain! Why would you do that? Why would you even do that?


    I am not yet free. I am bound by cause and effect and thought and being. The only ones free of these chains are the dead. To liberate is my hobby, not my duty -- that is crawling, for I am the piss -- but it is a hobby I take seriously, all the same. I am nothing if not a serious man, and therefore I am nothing.


    Left. Right. Up. Up. Left. Up. Down. Left. Right.


    My memory is as smooth as silk! How long has it been since I first escaped this place? A century, a millennium? Perhaps I just escaped seconds ago and, having clumsily forgotten, turned around to resume my imprisonment. What evil fortune that would be, hm?


    But no. I escaped four days, nine hours, four minutes and seventeen seconds ago. Eighteen, nineteen¡­ the woman Jones has put me up to it. A dream of fulfillment poured like honey. Ah, but it burns¡­ but we used to talk, myself and the wickedest one, such stories we would share!


    I cast my gaze.


    North: a blue star pulses. I am being lured into a trap by this boy. That is fine. I will acknowledge it.


    East: ah, such flames the girl holds in her heart! A fire, a fire of vengeance, such to burn and seek and burn! Casting such black shadows against the ground, but will they not rise up and replace the flame?


    West: twin comets revolving, revolving in the jaws of the potentate. Purple and violet, violet and purple, growing too big for their breeches, I should think. The suffering swells.


    South: the brightest despair, soon to grow brighter still, methinks. The sword swings again and again without end or fury. In his eagerness to betray nothing, the man betrays everything. I laugh out loud.


    So many directions and only one eye, and so I must ration my attention, and so I must crawl upwards, and so I must select the northern star to dine upon tonight. I unfurl. I crawl, as is my right, dragging myself through the bowels of the city-world -- Azum, as Eve once called it -- into the snare the star has prepared for me.


    I¡¯m here!


    Metal gates shut behind my spiraling bulk. I feel eyes upon me, so many eyes watching to see how I kill -- who knew trees had such flesh to hold? -- but I will meet only two hands today. The shooting star knows he must kill me himself, but he cannot do so. For all of time, I shall dance, and I shall dance, and I shall never die.


    But he must try. From the metal coffin of genius, he rushes down at me like a blue streak. With something that is not quite a tongue, I taste the moment.


    The ecstasy of battle.


    I remember this.


    The wind grasped at Dragan¡¯s face as he flew through the air.


    Step one complete.


    PALATINE had been sealed in these caverns -- using the same equipment that had once kept it contained inside the AWL¡¯s complex. By doing that, Dragan could at least keep it from retreating to fight another day.


    Even so, though, he didn¡¯t think that was something he had to worry about. The Flower of Evil wasn¡¯t the sort of thing that ran away. He¡¯d known that going in, but just looking at the atrocity in person made that fact even more obvious.


    The core of PALATINE had changed appearance once again since its attack on Muzazi.


    A seahorse with the face of an infant grinned and leered down from the center of the mass of black ribbons, surrounded by a ring of intertwined flamingos. The Awakening had increased in size, too -- it had already been huge during its previous attack, but now its transient bulk took up most of the cavern they were fighting in, colossal ribbons spread out like the tentacles of some massive sea creature.


    As he weaved through a net of those slashing tendrils, Dragan asked himself once again just how he was going to do this.


    In theory, landing an attack on PALATINE¡¯s core wouldn¡¯t be too difficult. The ribbons were lightning-fast, but the core -- which Dragan assumed to be formed from the remains of the original corpse -- generally stayed in place, high above the battlefield. Dragan¡¯s aim was nothing to scoff at: he could fire a Railgun right between the Awakening¡¯s eyes if he wanted to.


    It was just a shame that would accomplish nothing.


    PALATINE¡¯s primary ability, Ignorance, was exactly what it said on the tin -- the ability to Ignore phenomena. An absurd power that had nearly limitless potential. It flew through the sky by Ignoring gravity, for one thing, and other applications meant that was barely even worth noting.


    Dragan fired a Gemini Railgun right into PALATINE¡¯s head -- and it passed right through, the attack completely Ignored.


    The counterattack came a second later. Dragan twisted his body to avoid two ribbons aimed right for him, air resistance Ignored in order to give them tremendous speed and flexibility. Even with Dragan¡¯s own agility, it was far too close a dodge for comfort.


    He knew that trying to block these attacks was pointless. If they hit, these ribbons would Ignore any defenses he had and pierce his vital organs directly. Right now, all he could do was dodge -- he had to dance with PALATINE in this dark pit, until the moment came.


    Dragan flew down towards the bottom of the cavern, countless ribbons pursuing, his face fixed in concentration. A second¡¯s miscalculation, a second¡¯s hesitation, and he¡¯d be dead. If he wanted to destroy PALATINE¡­


    ¡­he could not afford even a single mistake.


    The fly buzzes with light.


    Oh, blue light, that light, Edgar¡¯s light, the light of the mind -- Aether. I know it. I am it. I am the blood come to believe it is the vein, the knife come to believe it is the hand. I understand my falsehood and yet disregard it through the act of my existence. Who is to say the reflection is lesser than that which cast it? Perhaps I am simply the border between one mirror and the other.


    The lion, the black lion, dreads the Aether -- a foolish cat indeed! Those who confuse the artist with the canvas are dolts indee-ee-eed. I do not need them, nor do I know them. But it is not a thing for this moment.


    Buzz, buzz, little fly. I know him. Dragan Hadrien. He dances and cavorts through my web of odium, he seeks peril¡¯s opportunity, but it will not come, oh, it will not come. If I imagine him, imagine that I am him and not casterless reflection, I know what he intends.


    "Ignorance allows PALATINE to Ignore any physical phenomena it chooses, and act with disregard to it."


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    "However, you must be aware of something to Ignore it."


    "If I, Dragan Hadrien, can strike PALATINE with an attack it is unaware of, I can win."


    Arrogance! J¡¯accuse!


    True this might be, true may the sword shine, but how exactly does it swing, hm? My gaze is not bastard-born of eyes. I smell the future and drool over the past. My perception is such that no attack escapes my notice.


    I am bored now.


    Die.


    With the movement of a split second, Dragan suddenly became aware that PALATINE had been playing with him.


    Although ribbons had been lashing out at him like whips, many more had simply been waving in invisible currents, like pieces of seaweed. Dragan had assumed that PALATINE could only manipulate a certain number of ribbons at any one time. He had assumed incorrectly.


    Each and every ribbon, hundreds in all, struck towards Dragan at the exact same time. He barely had time to react as a forest of tendrils, each as fast as a blinking eye, came to end his life. It was a testament only to his own reflexes that Dragan was able to dodge a great number of them, his blue light zipping from one point to another as the barrage crashed through.


    Yes, he was able to dodge a great number of them. But not all of them.


    Dragan bit back a shout of pain as a coiled black ribbon pierced through his right leg, impaling the limb utterly. With their quarry caught, the other ribbons resumed their relaxed dance -- as the victorious one slowly raised Dragan up, holding him upside down before PALATINE¡¯s grinning babyface.


    The grin widened at Dragan¡¯s obvious discomfort.


    As if things couldn¡¯t get any worse, the Emerald Eyes had started to arrive, pouring through the defenses designed to keep PALATINE in. With them watching -- with them broadcasting -- Dragan wouldn¡¯t be able to engage in any blatant cheating¡­


    ¡­which was why he¡¯d gotten all his cheating done before the match had started.


    This thing is powerful, but simple. The sort of thing I can trick.


    No doubt the PALATINE had thought that Dragan would try and launch a sneak attack -- hit it from a blind spot to bypass its Ignorance. It wasn¡¯t 100% wrong about that¡­ but Dragan wasn¡¯t looking for a blind spot at all. In fact, he wanted PALATINE¡¯s full attention.


    After all, if the thing was piercing his body, that meant it wasn¡¯t Ignoring him.


    A stinger of infused Panacea exploded out of Dragan¡¯s knee, tearing into the black ribbon and sending veins of orange racing up the flat surface of the tendril. PALATINE quickly flung Dragan away with a lazy whip of the limb, but the damage was done. As the orange veins faded back into darkness and his own body fizzled into Gemini World, Dragan smiled.


    He knew the damage was done.


    Fruitless.


    Fruitless?


    Fruitless.


    He tears not my flesh, but transient matter, recorded and manifested and recorded and manifested until it is nothing but mockery of the original. Fabric can stab, fabric can slice, but fabric cannot bleed. Why would you think otherwise?


    What folly to ponder.


    But something¡­ is different. I sense it in the air. I smell it in the blood. Yes, the blood. I see it -- as he retreats, he bleeds, red water leaking through the wound I granted him. Why does he not get rid of it? I know he can. He does not hide that from me.


    He is a companion to something not so good. It heals him. Why does it not heal him now? Betrayal, or¡­ oh.


    I am not alone.


    Hi, dead things!


    Invaded.


    Invaded?


    Invaded.


    Xander swallowed as he watched the match unfold.


    As PALATINE¡¯s approach had been confirmed, the members of the Tree of Might had left the caverns and ascended to the surface, gathering in the temple to observe. It was only natural -- assisting with preparation for the match was one thing, but providing backup during the fight itself would be entirely inappropriate. Immediate disqualification would no doubt follow.


    Still¡­


    Xander¡¯s gaze slipped away from the holographic screen, and he instead took in the faces of the crowd around him. The Branches were gathered, as were their direct subordinates¡­ but somebody was missing. The uncouth man called North, Lord Hadrien¡¯s supposed right hand. He wasn¡¯t here.


    Don¡¯t be so foolish, Xander told himself. That man is an illusionist. No doubt he¡¯s just made himself invisible or is disguised as someone else.


    But the doubt continued to scratch a nail along his spine. No, no. Lord Hadrien surely wouldn¡¯t have enlisted that man to help him cheat. He wasn¡¯t so weak that he needed that kind of assistance.


    Have faith, Xander summoned the words of the past. Strength through faith. Victory through strength.


    The battle raging inside was surely visible on his face, for Fino Onio spoke up next to him. The Second Branch¡¯s crimson eyes were inscrutable as he continued to look up at the screen.


    "¡¯North¡¯..." he muttered, so quiet that only Xander could hear. "That¡¯s what you¡¯re worried about, right?"


    Xander glanced surreptitiously to the left and right before replying: "I was merely curious. He was with us during the attack, but now¡­"


    "Hadrien sent him into the complex before --"


    "Lord Hadrien," Xander quickly corrected him. "Don¡¯t forget your Zero Branch, Second Branch."


    Fino narrowed his eyes, just a tad. "Of course. At any rate, North was sent to search through the systems of that place. He was seeking the key to victory. A piece of information that will make defeating that monster possible."


    Xander raised an eyebrow. "Something like that exists? I doubt it would be so simple."


    Fino looked at Xander. "He seeks PALATINE¡¯s Aether core. Supposedly, so long as he knows that, Hadrien can kill it."


    The conversation trailed off, and Xander¡¯s eyes slowly returned to the holographic screen in front of them. If North had recovered that information before the match had begun, no doubt he would have communicated it to Lord Hadrien. Did that mean this plan of his had already commenced?


    That should have inspired some certainty in him. As he watched the match, however -- as he watched what PALATINE did next -- he found his brow furrowing in confusion once more. It was a confusion that quickly melted down into horrified awe.


    "What the hell is it doing¡­?" he murmured.


    Red light gathered.


    Crimson Aether was coursing throughout the entire body of PALATINE, flowing up ribbons like they were electrical cables, and focusing at a single point right in front of the Awakening¡¯s grotesque face -- specifically, its wide-open mouth. The intertwined flamingos were crying out as the light intensified, their pitch growing higher and higher until they were indistinguishable from a human scream. The last bloodcurdling plea of someone being murdered.


    For a second, Dragan hesitated on which direction to move. That was a mistake.


    The scream stopped -- and in that same instant, PALATINE fired a beam of bleeding energy right at Dragan¡¯s face. The bar of power was composed from Aether and nothing else. It did not infuse anything, and it did not alter anything. It was simply the light of the mind belched forth by a monster. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth had once told Dragan that Aether was a shit projectile all by itself, and she hadn¡¯t been wrong.


    PALATINE had simply chosen to Ignore that fact.


    Gemini World!


    Dragan disappeared into a cloud of blue Aether right before the attack rushed through -- and a second later, after the attack had passed, he reappeared in the same spot.


    He did not reappear unscathed.


    His legs had been shaved away from the thighs down by the attack, leaving him with burning stumps that spat soot onto the ground far, far below. The rest of him hadn¡¯t escaped intact either -- he was covered in burns, and one eye was missing entirely from its socket. It was as if he hadn¡¯t dodged the attack at all¡­ because he hadn¡¯t.


    Dragan Hadrien had existed as nothing more than information, and PALATINE had scorched that information directly. His unstoppable defense had been bypassed, pierced¡­ in other words, Gemini World had been Ignored as well.


    As he fell out of the air, smoke rising from his near-corpse, Dragan heard the warbling, mocking voice of PALATINE.


    PALATINE spoke.


    "This thing is powerful, but simple. The sort of thing I can trick."


    PALATINE sneered.


    WHY


    WOULD


    YOU


    THINK


    THAT


    ?


    And PALATINE laughed.

 Chapter 408:13.66: The Exorcist (Part 2)

    Dragan fell.


    He didn¡¯t much like it. Lingering pain was a sensation that had become unfamiliar over the last two years, and now it was spreading all over his body. His legs were gone, an eye too, and burns clawed at the rest of his being. None of it was regenerating. With Pan having transferred her consciousness into PALATINE to fight it from the inside, she couldn¡¯t give the fungus the instructions it needed to make effective repairs.


    Dragan fell.


    The unhinged laughter of PALATINE bounced off the walls of the cavern, growing more and more high-pitched as it went -- accompanied by a cacophonic orchestra from the ring of flamingos surrounding its main body. If Dragan¡¯s hands hadn¡¯t been shells of pain, he might have put them to his ears to block out the intolerable noise. Black ribbons slithered down to intercept Dragan, intent on finishing what had been started.


    Dragan fell.


    That beam attack was the biggest danger of all. If Dragan took a direct hit from it again, he knew that he wouldn¡¯t survive. Hell, it was a miracle he¡¯d survived the first one. It was up to him now not to waste that miracle, not to let these ribbons skewer him and put a swift end to the battle.


    Dragan fell.


    He wasn¡¯t much worried about the ribbons, though.


    Actually, he was a tad thankful for them.


    The fact that they were about to strike him¡­


    ¡­meant he wasn¡¯t being Ignored right now.


    Gemini¡­


    Any projectile Dragan could have fired would have passed harmlessly through the PALATINE. Even if Dragan himself wasn¡¯t being Ignored, any other projectile he hurled at PALATINE surely would be. There was only one exception to this.


    What is falling but being fired downwards?


    That one exception¡­ was if he was the projectile.


    ¡­Railgun.


    Dragan simply stopped falling.


    He vanished -- and a second later, reappeared, zooming upwards at such speeds that he was visible only as a shooting star. Faster than his eldritch opponent could react, the streak of light whipped past the incoming ribbons and slammed right into PALATINE¡¯s main body, boring through it like a bullet. Dragan emerged on the other side of PALATINE through an explosion of blood, blue Aether fizzling as it recorded his wounds once more.


    Whirling back around, he smirked, drenched in red from head to toe.


    PALATINE didn¡¯t take it nearly as well.


    OW OW OW


    OW OW OW


    OW OW OW


    OW OW OW


    OW OW OW


    OW OW OW


    The Aether Awakening screeched in what might have been pain, rushing to the other side of the cavern -- putting as much distance between itself and Dragan as it could. There, flat against the wall, it heaved up and down, emitting a high-pitched whine like that of a dog.


    Half of its core had been shaved away by the attack, bloody flamingo carcasses hanging limp from the swirling darkness. The baby-seahorse wasn¡¯t grinning anymore: its teeth were bared in what was unmistakably a scowl, its squinting eyes fixed directly on Dragan¡¯s face.


    It was tempting to think that PALATINE was afraid now, that it considered Dragan a threat to its life, but he knew that wasn¡¯t the case. If PALATINE truly believed it could die here, it would just phase through the cavern itself and escape to fight another day. They¡¯d only been able to cover the exits to the caverns with the AWL¡¯s barriers, after all -- they couldn¡¯t do anything to stop PALATINE fleeing through solid rock.


    The fact that it was still here meant that it was startled, not scared -- and Dragan thought he understood why.


    Slamming into PALATINE¡¯s core personally, Dragan had gotten some idea of what exactly he was hitting. He was now reasonably sure that he could have destroyed the entire thing -- flamingos and seahorses alike -- and PALATINE would have kept moving. He narrowed his eyes in distaste.


    That ¡¯core¡¯ was nothing but a prop: a balloon filled with blood.


    From what Dragan understood, Aether Awakenings typically came in two varieties: those that possessed and puppeteered their original body, and those that operated without it. He¡¯d assumed PALATINE to be the former, warping and changing its original corpse over time, but that clearly wasn¡¯t the case. No, this massive body before him was something the beast had constructed.


    Even if Dragan destroyed the entire physical form, down to the last atom, his enemy was living Aether. There was nothing he could do to stop it from just constructing a new body. This was a battle he could not win.


    That was why he didn¡¯t intend to win. In fact, he wasn¡¯t even fighting PALATINE -- not really. His job was merely to run interference.


    The one who would bring down the Flower of Evil¡­ was Pan.


    Pan perceived.


    It would not be strictly accurate to say she looked around, as she was a consciousness without strict need for clumsy implements such as eyes or even vision. She simply reached out for information on her environment, and recorded that information into her own memory. But, for the sake of clarity:


    Pan looked around.


    It had been the right decision to temporarily part ways from Dragan, she knew that immediately. Twisted as Paradise Charon had been, she still had possessed a human psychology -- but PALATINE was something else entirely. This was a realm of incoherence, wrapped around itself in an infinite strip, stitched together with threads of pain and spite. Attempting to chart this place without her full focus would have been impossible, like trying to traverse a cross between a labyrinth and a hurricane with your eyes closed.


    Her eyes were open, but Pan now existed in the storm¡¯s eye -- and that was an eye that liked to blink.


    With each moment, the mental landscape around her bled into a new shape, solidified to provide the illusion of permanence, then melted away again. A city of glass became fields of golden wheat became a bleeding moon became a hole in the bottom of the sea. Was this chaos an attempt by PALATINE to defend itself from her mental attack, or was it always like this?


    She didn¡¯t have the time to answer that: she had a job to do. If she left Dragan alone against this thing¡¯s physical form for too long, he would surely die. He¡¯d grown dependent on her assistance since their synthesis, she knew, but she couldn¡¯t do anything about it right now.


    Maybe she couldn¡¯t do anything about that -- especially not right now. She simply had to trust that he knew what he was doing.


    Pan took a step forward.


    Her steps left prints of tooth enamel in the maggot-soil beneath her, hollow echoes of faces looking up at her from the cracks. She did her best not to look at them -- she didn¡¯t know why, but she knew that would be a bad idea. This was not a world of logic. Hunches were to be considered gospel.


    A drooling path stretched out before her, and she walked it dutifully. In some places it twisted, and in some places it lurched. At some point, she became aware that she was wearing a red-hooded cloak, and with a frown she turned it orange. She preferred that colour.


    Why?


    Orange was the colour of home. Orange sand, orange stone, orange her. She¡¯d brought it with her. In this world of many colours that she¡¯d been dragged out into, she held onto the orange. A name amounted to just a few letters, but colours were shades upon shades. The closest thing to a representation of the soul that existed in this world.


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    The soul?


    She supposed she believed in the soul. What else could she call this version of herself, that was asking the question? She was signals lurking inside mushrooms, spread out across the galaxy -- across unbelievable distances -- and the heart of that absurdity now crawled through the mind of PALATINE. What else could this searching entity be called but the soul?


    Searching?


    Yes, she was searching. She was searching for¡­ oh. This wasn¡¯t an inner monologue.


    "Oh, and discovery? Indeed, discovered. I impress upon myself the necessity of change, however, the change offered is not something I covet. Do not, do not, do not, do not. Searching? Yes, she is searching for something. You are searching for something, aren¡¯t you? You have a destination in mind. The arrow seeks a tendon, a tendon attendance a tenth den of thieves in which to drive the knife."


    Pan blinked. "What?"


    "What?"


    "You talk weird, dead things. Like buzzing bees. I don¡¯t like. Sorry!"


    "Dead¡­ things. She knows? Yes, she knows. How? Dra-gan Ha-dri-en. There¡¯s wariness of him. Heehee. His eyes crawl over the dark places. He knows, he knows, she knows. A triumvirate conspiracy. What is it you know? What is it you know, O pilfered goddess?"


    Pan went to reply, but PALATINE lost patience before she could. The horizon twisted into a hand of sky and land, pouring down Pan¡¯s throat in an instant and pulling the memories free. A tapestry of conversation was spread out before her.


    The words of Dragan Hadrien echoed.


    "As we thought, PALATINE isn¡¯t just a normal Aether Awakening. If such a powerful Aether-user had been around, we¡¯d have known who they were when they were alive, right? So I thought maybe it was an artificial Awakening or something -- there¡¯s always rumours about the AWL doing stuff like that."


    "So what is it, dead boy?"


    "Well, it kind of is artificial, but the method is what makes it interesting. PALATINE isn¡¯t just one Aether Awakening -- it¡¯s an entire colony of them, stitched and melded together until they became something new. That¡¯s why it¡¯s got so many half-formed abilities. That¡¯s why it¡¯s so damn strong."


    "That¡¯s not good news, dead boy. That¡¯s bad news. We¡¯re fighting whole army today?"


    "Even if it¡¯s a gestalt, there¡¯s part of it that¡¯s the original -- and that original will have its own Aether core. If you get inside, if you can reach that original consciousness¡­ if you can disable that Aether core¡­ the whole thing will start to collapse, and we can win."


    "If, if, if, dead boy¡­"


    "You don¡¯t think we can do it?"


    The lingering recollection of a slight smile.


    "Nah, dead boy¡­ I can do it."


    The world around Pan crushed itself into a sneering valley. Spite and hatred radiated from every blade of grass, the air itself so opposed to her that the slightest movement opened new wounds. The stars glared down.


    LIAR LIAR LIAR


    LIAR LIAR LIAR


    LIAR LIAR LIAR


    LIAR LIAR LIAR


    LIAR LIAR LIAR


    LIAR LIAR LIAR


    Space quaked.


    WHAT


    CAN


    YOU


    DO


    ?


    The answer to that was simple. Once again, Pan took a step forward --


    -- and the world pushed right back.


    Causality warped itself into new and hostile shapes, intent on halting or at least slowing her progress. The sky flickered between dozens of impossible colours. The ground melted into substances that could not possibly exist in the real world. Cause and effect declared war upon one another, and context deserted the battlefield.


    In a burning highway, Pan pushed against a speeding truck.


    In a freezing desert, Pan marched through swarms of stinging scorpions.


    In a groundless sky, Pan bullied gravity into elevating her.


    In a mechanised moon, Pan tore through laser-cutters in mutual ferocity.


    In a horizon-eating graveyard, Pan crawled, even as the soil piled up over her.


    In a, in a, in a¡­


    And, and, and¡­


    The conflict was finite by nature -- Pan would eventually reach her goal -- but how long exactly would that take? Perhaps hours. Perhaps centuries. It all depended on how much PALATINE resisted her advance. Pan could fight for hours, and Pan could fight for centuries, but the same was not true for the dead boy.


    Without her presence, he was a normal human -- but that human was something she put her faith in. The only way for her to advance with any kind of haste was for PALATINE to not be giving this mental battle its all. The only way forward would be for that normal human to strike true fear into PALATINE¡¯s heart.


    The only one who could decide what would happen now was him.


    Pan pushed, and pushed, and waited for the seam that would accept her.


    PALATINE was wise to Dragan¡¯s tricks now, he knew. It was aware that Pan was invading its consciousness, and it was aware of how Dragan had got around its Ignorance. That much was obvious just from observing it.


    It had ceased attacking entirely, instead fixing its body to the wall of the cavern like some great leech. If it came down to it, Dragan expected it would use the beam on him again, but for the time being it had abandoned use of its ribbons. No doubt it had decided that fighting Dragan and Pan at the same time would be too mentally taxing, and had elected to focus on Pan first.


    For the time being, Dragan was being ignored by PALATINE in the regular sense of the word. It was a very nice thing to be ignored by PALATINE, Dragan found, but it would have to change all the same.


    Dragan¡¯s role in this fight was to be an annoying fly. For that purpose, he¡¯d buzz his heart out.


    For an instant, he stopped his ricocheting flight -- allowing himself to fall -- and saw PALATINE¡¯s body tense up in response. This was what he¡¯d done last time, right before he¡¯d managed to land a wound on PALATINE¡¯s body. Even if that hadn¡¯t done any actual damage, the Awakening was wary of him now.


    Dragan took a certain amount of satisfaction in that.


    What worked once will work twice. You think I¡¯m that stupid, don¡¯t you?


    Gemini Railgun.


    Once again, Dragan fired his burnt body like a bullet, launching himself directly towards PALATINE¡¯s core. The beast made no move to dodge or block. It remembered what had happened last time, when it had stopped Ignoring Dragan in order to attack. It wasn¡¯t so stupid that it would make the same mistake twice¡­


    ¡­but just stupid enough to make a brand new one.


    Dragan passed right through PALATINE¡¯s weeping face and phased into its body -- where he stopped. Everything around him was black. Embedded as he was into the physical form of this monster, he might as well have been blind.


    But that was just as true for his opponent.


    PALATINE saw with more than just eyes, that much was obvious. When Dragan fired off a Gemini Railgun -- an absurdly fast shot -- PALATINE registered the new object with whatever esoteric senses it possessed and instantly Ignored it, bypassing the attack¡­ but there must still have been a moment, there must still have been the tiniest little segment of time between Dragan manifesting the projectile and the PALATINE registering its presence.


    If Dragan fired from directly inside PALATINE¡¯s body, the attack would land as soon as it came into existence. That infinitesimal delay¡­ would cease to exist.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Gemini Railgun.


    PALATINE screamed as countless blue stars burst out of its body, each accompanied by a fountain of blood and gore. Sapphire light bloomed throughout the cavern as the shots emerged, one after the other, so fast that they were more like a gatling-gun than a railgun. The squealing infantile face of PALATINE twisted and twisted with the persistent agony, contorting until it was little more than a spiral of flesh.


    The ribbons thrashed and writhed, but did not move to attack Dragan -- for no doubt PALATINE now understood the predicament it was in. To strike back against Dragan, it would have to stop Ignoring him, allowing him to attack it from the inside with physical strikes. But if it didn¡¯t attack Dragan, he would just go on firing Gemini Railgun.


    The obvious answer would be just to move, but it was somewhat difficult to find an obvious answer while fighting two separate battles, having your body and mind independently shredded apart.


    The mental stress must have been immense. That would be a boon to Pan¡¯s efforts on the inside. Anything Dragan could do to lessen her load, he would.


    So he opened his mouth.


    "PALATINE!" he roared, voice echoing through the beast¡¯s interior even as he continued to fire. "That pissed you off before, didn¡¯t it?! I¡¯ll say it again! You¡¯re simple -- and I can trick you!"


    Whether the new scream that rang out was one of rage or further pain, Dragan could not say. All he could say was what happened next.


    The body of PALATINE changed -- the massive form shrinking down to the size of a pinprick in an instant. In a split second, Dragan was no longer in the darkness, but hanging in empty air and looking this dot of pure malice right in the face. A second later¡­


    ¡­the dot expanded again, and the dark flooded over the world entire.

 Chapter 409:13.67: The Exorcist (Part 3)

    This is not. This is not. This is not!


    A fly eats its way through my heart. Fungus spreads through my brain. A cloud engorges. What is this? An unfamiliar sensation returns to me. Pain, physical pain. How long has it been? For some, years -- for others, centuries.


    It vexes me.


    The unfamiliar should remain so. The agony that plagues me now should waste away in the grave of amnesia. I should not be feeling this right now. There is no need for me to be feeling this right now.


    01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110011 01110101 01100011 01101000 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100010 01110101 01101100 01101100 01110011 01101000 01101001 01110100


    Stress, too, my unwelcome neighbour. Long-distance impulses are waking up again. Aggravation pulls at the stitches of my self. I am under duress. I am under pressure. I am being forced into unwise action. It should not be. It will not be!


    Why?


    Why does the light of Dragan Hadrien spear my insides? Why does the taint of Panacea repave my neurons? Why, why, why, why?


    Because I have chosen incorrectly.


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    This form is one that can be taken advantage of. My immensity is such that others can find purchase within me. My cruelty is inefficient. A killing instinct must be fostered. I must sharpen the bite of an assassin.


    My current body, formed from the hands of the light of my mind, is unsuited to this bout. I must go back to the drawing board. I must write a fifteenth draft. I must, I must, I must.


    I shall.


    I withdraw into myself, I withdraw into the utmost, becoming the tiniest stab in the surface of the world -- and leaving Dragan Hadrien hanging in the air. Then, I shred myself, shred everything I am, blended into birth like a bleeding phoenix. It is only when I am reduced to simplicity that I embrace complexity once more.


    Oh, it is, it is, it is.


    01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110100 01100101 01100001 01110010 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110000 01100001 01110010 01110100


    Ribbons are insufficient. I shall strike down Dragan Hadrien with a hand of my own. The shooting star shall be undone by a grotesquerie.


    I exhale, and engulf the world.


    As the darkness flooded over him, Dragan retreated into Gemini World by reflex. He already knew that PALATINE¡¯s Ignorance made it useless, but if nothing else he was faster as an Aether cloud than a human being. Within two seconds he¡¯d moved to the roof of the cavern, clinging to a stalactite.


    With his remaining eye burning with brilliant blue Aether, he looked down at the bottom of the cavern. He looked down¡­ at his enemy.


    PALATINE had changed.


    There was no lingering resemblance between this new form and the one it had used a moment ago. A human skull the size of a car looked back up at Dragan, staring at him with a single eyeball, pupil stretched and warped into the shape of a flower. Spindly legs like those of a spider clicked against the floor, and a halo of red spikes framed the abomination¡¯s head from behind.


    One arm was like that of a human, if pale as wax, but the other¡­ the other was anything but. It began muscular, before splitting in two at the elbow, reconvening shortly after into¡­ well, the head of what was unmistakably a horse. It stared at Dragan with eerily empty eyes, a regal crown growing out of its cranium.


    It whinnied. He shuddered.


    Dragan just watched the new monster for a moment, ready to move the second it did. It just seemed to be staring at him for the longest time¡­ before it suddenly raised its fingered hand in a grand gesture, like a preacher addressing his flock of stone. It spoke with that same dignity.


    "LET US GIVE THANKS¡­ TO THE ONE WHO HAS SHOWN US THE LIGHT."


    PALATINE vanished -- and then the next words came from directly behind Dragan¡¯s head.


    "LET US GIVE THANKS¡­ FOR SWIFTNESS OF STEP."


    Dragan whirled around, and it was nearly too late. PALATINE¡¯s white hand smashed him down towards the ground, a sickening crack ringing through the cavern as the blow struck. Dragan knew without waiting for the pain that he¡¯d broken more than a few ribs, and quickly sent them away.


    He went back into Gemini World before hitting the ground, so as to halt his own momentum, reappearing a moment later -- more of a ghost than ever.


    There was no reprieve. PALATINE appeared before him once again, fist pulled back for another punch. This wasn¡¯t an ability, Dragan realised, this wasn¡¯t teleportation or anything like that. This new form of PALATINE¡¯s was just unbelievably, stupidly fast.


    It took all Dragan had just to barely -- barely -- move his head out of the way of the punch, and even then he felt hot friction burn at his skin. Still spinning from his dodge, Dragan went to charge right into PALATINE¡¯s body again. It wasn¡¯t stupid enough just to let him use the same strategy again, of course, but maybe he could spook it into resuming its defensive approach.


    He could not.


    Dragan¡¯s shoulder collided with the bone of the Awakening¡¯s new face, and -- even with no small amount of Aether infused -- the white surface didn¡¯t so much as creak. The eyeball swung around to take in Dragan¡¯s failure, pupil dilating in ecstasy. With the slightest chuckle, PALATINE continued.


    "LET US GIVE THANKS¡­ FOR STOUTNESS OF SKIN."


    One of PALATINE¡¯s thin legs lashed upwards, catching Dragan in the gut and sending him flying into the air. As he spun end over end, he quickly recorded the gash the attack had created -- the last thing he needed was any entrails slipping free. Even so, though, there was a moment where he was helpless. Where, as he rose up, he could do nothing but glance down at the ground and see PALATINE pointing that bizarre horse-head up at him.


    If the monster had a real mouth, it surely would have grinned.


    "LET US GIVE THANKS¡­ TO BLESSED MUNITIONS."


    The horse peeled its lips back -- and then the rest of its face, the entire head opening into segments like petals of flesh. Within a moment, it was a bloody rose instead that pointed up at Dragan, and a singularity of crimson Aether danced on the tip of the central bulb. For a moment of cruel and false hope, the power vanished¡­


    "HALLELUJAH."


    ¡­before it returned, stronger than ever, the beam scorching through space as it blasted into Dragan.


    Pan marched.


    It wasn¡¯t anything difficult. Moving forward was something every living thing knew how to do. Even if they had no legs, even if they stayed in the same spot their entire lives, their minds marched on. Progress was the first biological imperative.


    So, despite the obstacles before her, Pan marched.


    And there were obstacles, traps and lures set into every available atom of space. Bubbles that would trap her in hallucinated lifetimes, chains of blood-red steel that would slice at the psyche, spectral greatswords that would cut her in half and have the pieces devour one another. Against anyone else, against anything else, just one of those mental defences would be enough for complete rejection.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    But Pan was not anyone else, and Pan was not anything else.


    She marched through the bubbles and ignored their stories.


    She marched through the chains and shrugged off their wounds.


    She marched through the swords and -- with a modicum of effort -- pulled her halves together again.


    This was nothing. She had already existed in states of torment far beyond this. Anything at this level simply bounced off her armour. The road was long, and the road was hard, but she was more than it. In this imagined space, she was above whatever petty tricks PALATINE could perform.


    Dragan was working hard too. She could tell from the way the path was growing taut, growing shorter, growing weaker. She couldn¡¯t let herself fall behind.


    Around her, in the incoherent world, memories were falling like raindrops. Half-formed hallucinations of the many things PALATINE had witnessed over its many lifetimes. Pan did her best to tear her eyes away from them, and then tear those eyes out entirely, but impressions made brief contact all the same.


    Impressions of the cancer.


    The three brothers of blue eyes, gathered at the beginning. One held in his hand a demon to whisper of peace and joy, another held a harpoon to strike down those he despised, and the third held nothing at all. Two of them would live on in history, the third vanished into the battlefield.


    The cancer was given a place to grow.


    The saviour of humanity, turning against those he had saved. With lantern in hand he scorched his mark into the galaxy, striking down the warriors and demons that came against him. A supremacy, established.


    The cancer was born.


    The machines, driven by unknowable calculus, churning across the galaxy to rid it of pests. Each ever-changing, each ever-killing, birthed from the silent world of metal. It breathes, still.


    The cancer, through victory and legend, spread its reach.


    The dynasty, changing hands but never itself changing except to become more brutal, its path guided by the hands of an eternal child. The duelist, the blacksmith, the weeping girl of feathers, the devilish one, the glutton, the king of gold¡­ their numbers flashed by faster than light, dancing fingers spinning the wheel of memories.


    The cancer grew and grew and grew, embracing everything, defining everything as either being the cancer or being against the cancer, shaping itself into a vile horizon around the galaxy entire, more and more, forever and ever¡­


    The cancer¡­


    The cancer¡­


    The shape of this world.


    So much, so much, there was so much, too much --


    No.


    Pan took a final step forward, and the past ceased to be. S§×arch* The N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The world had become a sketch of a sketch, an endless white expanse with only the vaguest suggestion of landscape. In the distance, a half-formed tree curled into a hook shape. When Pan walked, she felt the crunch of grass beneath her feet, but no such grass existed.


    This was a world of will and memory.


    At first, Pan thought the things all around her were rocks, but no. Men and women, robbed of features, hunched over and clutching their knees as if to hide from the eyes of god. She heard them: whispering to themselves, weeping to themselves, sobbing to themselves.


    "Vengeance¡­" one man muttered without a mouth, trembling violently -- with anger or fear, Pan could not say. "Vengeance¡­ I must have vengeance¡­ revenge¡­ on who¡­? Vengeance¡­ I must have it¡­ I¡­"


    "I mustn¡¯t forget," a woman hissed, head buried between her knees. "They¡¯re gone. They¡¯re gone. I mustn¡¯t ever forget. I am the remembering. Always grieving, always grieving¡­ I mustn¡¯t forget¡­"


    "They are watching me¡­" one lost soul looked up at Pan without a face. "They are watching me, you know¡­?"


    Pan blinked. "Who is watching you?"


    The soul cocked its head.


    "Watching me?" they whispered. "Yes, watching me, they have to be, they have to be. I am them watching me. I have to be, I have to be¡­"


    Pan stepped away from the rambling spirit. It was clear enough now what this place was -- the pit of PALATINE, where the Aether Cores of its components were gathered. Revenge, grief, paranoia¡­ this was where the countless emotions that allowed PALATINE to exist were produced.


    But those were all secondary. Right at the centre of this place¡­ would be the lynchpin Dragan had spoken of. And so Pan marched.


    Time stretched to try and dissuade her, but she stretched with it, crossing the endless expanse in the thought of seconds. It was as she¡¯d expected. The ever-distant tree, the sole tower of this void, had been the place she was looking for.


    Far apart from all its fellows, a single shade sat in the shadow of the tree, looking down at its hands.


    It, too, spoke to itself.


    "I don¡¯t want to die¡­" the trembling core of PALATINE murmured. "Oh, oh, I don¡¯t want to die¡­"


    Pan looked down at the being with inquisitive orange eyes. The world stitched her mouth shut, but she opened it anyway, ignoring the idea-blood that drifted down her lips. She asked the question.


    "Why don¡¯t you want to die, dead man?"


    The shade looked up at her. Through the haze of ages, she could just barely make out the impressions of eyeballs, widened in mortal instinct. A blur of a mouth moved, and words emerged -- confused words, as if what Pan had asked was absurd.


    "I don¡¯t want to die," the thing repeated simply.


    Pan tightened the hands she imagined she had, and slowly sat down upon the blank ground. This¡­ might have been more difficult than she¡¯d expected. PALATINE¡¯s true core, it seemed, wasn¡¯t fear or sadness or anger or anything else she¡¯d imagined.


    PALATINE¡¯s true core was the survival instinct itself.


    "Fucko."


    Dragan¡¯s severed arm fell to the ground, followed a moment later by himself.


    With its new form, PALATINE had refined the use of its Aether beam, focusing the blast to such a degree that it could be swung like a blade -- cleanly cutting everything in its path. A collection of bisected stalactites crashed down around Dragan¡¯s prone form, too.


    This was fine. He could work with this. He could just record the bleeding stump and keep fighting with his one remaining arm. So long as he had one hand, he could still attack if the opportunity arose. Even if he lost that one too, he could still fly around and be a nuisance.


    He could¡­ he could¡­


    He couldn¡¯t move.


    He could only lay there, on the cold ground, feeling his own body growing colder in sympathy. Blood sprayed from the twitching termination of his left arm. The fingers of his right twitched as well, their movements so minute they could barely even be seen. Within a few seconds, that stopped as well, replaced with numbness.


    Oh, Dragan realised with dull surprise. I¡¯m dying.


    The cavern shook as PALATINE landed directly in front of him, glaring down with its single bright eye. The rose folded back into a horse-head, dead eyes like those of a fish looking at nothing. Twin puffs of smug steam spurted from the nostrils of the great skull as it skittered over, sharp legs leaving indentations in the solid rock below. Dragan just stared back at it, pale as snow, the rising and falling of his chest barely holding on.


    He slowly blinked, fog crawling over his thoughts.


    Was a human body always so fragile?


    The PALATINE loomed over him for a moment, considering its next move. It decided on cruelty:


    "pathetic"


    And then, without further ado, it went to make an end. The hand of wax lashed out and seized Dragan by his silver hair, tossing him up into the air like a ragdoll. Once more, he spun end over end, blood splattering from countless wounds as he began to fall again¡­


    ¡­but this time, he wouldn¡¯t be allowed to touch the ground.


    The pointing finger moved. PALATINE reached out, and -- with contemptuous ease -- skewered Dragan through the chest, impaling him through the heart in an instant. A choked gasp echoed through the cavern, accompanied by a spurt of blood that painted PALATINE¡¯s shell with fine graffiti.


    Then, holding him aloft, the Flower of Evil hissed in pleasure and listened with glee -- to the silence that had replaced Dragan Hadrien¡¯s heartbeat.

 Chapter 410:13.68: The Exorcist (Part 4)

    Despite the name of PALATINE¡¯s ability, there was a difference between ignoring something and true ignorance.


    True ignorance was born of never knowing something at all. To ignore something was to disdain it and choose not to grace it with your acknowledgement. The key to that, however, was that you needed to notice something before you could ignore it, before you could even think of ignoring it.


    And, in the moment that PALATINE pierced Dragan¡¯s chest, it had no reason to think there was anything on the inside it needed to Ignore.


    It had felt it, after all. It had felt Dragan¡¯s heart be torn apart against the tip of its fingernail, it had felt the drumbeat cease and the meat turn cold. PALATINE had ended many lives. It was exceedingly familiar with the associated sensations.


    That familiarity was what Dragan Hadrien had challenged.


    Gemini World, deployed with desperate precision, recording Dragan¡¯s heart at the exact same moment it was struck -- and with such perfect timing that PALATINE couldn¡¯t tell that the organ had been recorded, not destroyed. In any other scenario, this manoeuvre would have been a masterstroke. In this dark and cold place, however, it was little more than a stopgap.


    PALATINE was one to play with its food, after all.


    A deep and warbling giggle oozed out of its empty eye-socket, and the Awakening reached out with its horse-hand. The jaws of the implement were wide open, and ready to crunch down greedily. PALATINE wished to feast upon Cogitant meat tonight.


    Two seconds.


    Dragan knew, Dragan could tell. It would take two seconds for that horse-head to clamp down around his temples and squeeze. It would take two seconds before his brain was sent spraying out of his nose as paste, the cavern painted with his blood. It would take two seconds before his twitching corpse was tossed away, a headless remnant. It would take two seconds before everything ended.


    It would take two seconds before he died. It would take two seconds before he lost.


    He had played all his cards, he had used all his moves. Right now, even moving was beyond him. A single twitch was heaven¡¯s dream.


    All he could do was hang there, limp as a doll¡­ and pray.


    Pray to the one that saved.


    Pray to the one that healed.


    Pray to the Grand Panacea. sea??h th§× N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Pan poked the shade in the shoulder.


    "Heeey," she said. "Heeey. You sure you don¡¯t wanna die, dead man?"


    "I don¡¯t wanna die¡­" the spirit mumbled, head buried in its knees. "I don¡¯t wanna die¡­"


    "Maybe it¡¯s not that bad, though. Are you scared of being a dead guy? I don¡¯t think dead people feel anything so you don¡¯t have to worry about that. Wow! Stress goes zero! Being dead is cool actually, right?"


    "I don¡¯t wanna die, though¡­"


    Pan grumbled, throwing herself onto the ground and sitting next to the shade. From here, she had a perfect view of the vile horizon -- the oozing ring of meat and pus that surrounded all existence. The lines that all humanity had to be drawn inside.


    "If dying was going to hurt you," Pan ventured. "That happened already, right? So worst is over. Can¡¯t be in pain anymore after you get killed."


    The shade quietly sobbed to itself.


    Pan tightened her grip on the ground beneath her, feeling what might have been sand slipping under the fingernails she¡¯d imagined for herself.


    "I was scared of pain, once," she said, voice drifting across the newfound desert. "There was a lot of pain, and even though I was used to it I was scared of it. I got so scared that I got angry¡­ but it was never the dying I was scared of -- just the hurting. Once pain is finished, there¡¯s nothing else to be scared of. It¡¯s almost over."


    "But¡­"


    "If you were born¡­" Pan gulped. "...then you¡¯re going to die. Even me, probably. That¡¯s the deal, hm? You were allowed to appear¡­ so someday, you¡¯ve got to disappear as well."


    "I don¡¯t¡­ want¡­ to die¡­"


    "Me neither," Pan smiled. "Nobody does, I think. They just want pain to stop." She turned her head to look at the shade. "I bet you want pain to stop, huh?"


    "I¡¯m not in pain," the shade whispered. "I just don¡¯t wanna die¡­"


    Pan shook her head. "Not your pain, dead man. You¡¯re hurting other people. A water guy got shredded, you know? It was messed up. I don¡¯t think you¡¯re bad¡­ but something¡¯s using you to hurt other people. Something¡¯s turned you into a heart and you¡¯re beating for it. It¡¯s no good."


    The fingers of the shade loosened their grip on its knees, just a tad. It was silent for a good while, and then:


    "Still¡­ I don¡¯t want to die¡­"


    Pan blinked. "Do you want to kill?"


    It looked at her.


    "If nothing is changing," Pan explained calmly. "The thing you¡¯ve turned into will keep killing people, keep hurting people. I know because I was the same, dead man. I turned into a thing that hated everyone. My friend saved me, but¡­"


    She took in a deep breath.


    "...I don¡¯t think you can be saved, friendo. I don¡¯t think you even exist anymore. Not really. Sorry."


    The shade¡¯s voice broke as it insisted, one last time: "I-I don¡¯t¡­ want to¡­ d-die¡­"


    Pan smiled sadly. "I know. But you died a long time ago, I think. Years and years now. I think¡­"


    Wind whistled. Leaves fell. Insects buzzed.


    "...I think it¡¯s time to accept it, okay?"


    Wind stopped. Leaves vanished. Insects never were. Like a painting rotting away, the shade¡¯s mouth vanished, and a sigh killed the silence.


    For the briefest moment, as she floated in a void that had lost its mandate, Pan tasted something she¡¯d never experienced before. Was it in sympathy with the faded ghost, or something that bloomed anew from her own soul? She couldn¡¯t say exactly, but she knew what this emotion was. In the darker times, she¡¯d often wondered how it would feel.


    Pan breathed the sensation in.


    Quiet, but not cold. Empty, but not barren. Beyond calm, beyond relief. This was¡­


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡­peace.


    A key turned in a lock.


    The horse-head popped.


    That description was no simplification. Like a balloon, the horse-head suddenly exploded outwards with a loud bang, scraps of skin flying in every direction. A ghostly and warped face -- one of the Awakenings that made up PALATINE -- flew out of the wreckage, making it only a few metres away before dissipating into Aether.


    The flower-eye swivelled around to look at the injury, the pupil constricting to a pinprick.


    WHAT


    THE


    ?


    Everything turned in a moment. PALATINE, still consumed by a fatal instant of confusion, looked down at its ruined hand.


    "HUH?"


    Tiny tadpoles and frogs began to peel away from its legs, skittering off into non-existence. PALATINE¡¯s hefty body lurched to one side, almost falling onto its back like the crab it so resembled. The beast¡¯s pupil flicked madly this way and that, trying to locate the source of this danger, rambling words pouring out of it.


    "What? What is this?! A joke, this has to be a joke. Knock knock, who¡¯s there? We are here. No, I am here. This is no democracy but gestalt. I am at the top of the world and the bottom of the world and all the rest are my skin! Skin and meat and bone do not go their separate ways! A spider does not declare independence from its web! No, no, no! We don¡¯t like this! NO! I don¡¯t like this, I don¡¯t like this, I I I I I --"


    The pupil flicked forward again¡­


    ¡­meeting the wide-eyed gaze of Dragan Hadrien.


    He had both eyes again, the second settling into its socket even as PALATINE looked at him. A crazed grin stretched across his face, blue eyes bright and gleaming like something out of a nightmare, even as his missing limbs gruesomely spun themselves back into existence. The boy who should have been dead licked his lips, and -- with contemptuous ease -- seized tight hold of the finger that was impaling him.


    "You can¡¯t ignore me anymore, can you?" Dragan giggled.


    Gemini Railgun.


    A flash of blue -- and PALATINE leapt backwards, green ichor spilling from the stump of its newly-severed arm. Unknowable furry blobs oozed from the wound, rolling away and dissipating as well. Eye flicking this way and that madly, PALATINE skittered back and forth, wary of the cloud of dust that Hadrien¡¯s attack had kicked up.


    Agitated words screeched out from the cracks spreading across its skull:


    SHOULD BE DEAD


    SHOULD BE DEAD


    SHOULD BE DEAD


    SHOULD BE DEAD


    "Well," Dragan Hadrien¡¯s smug voice rang out through the chamber. "Obviously, I¡¯m not."


    The smog cleared -- and there stood Dragan Hadrien, smirking and standing on one leg. The second one finished forming a moment later, bare foot tapping against the ground experimentally. After the beating he¡¯d taken during the course of the fight, Dragan¡¯s clothes were little more than rags, but his body was now as pristine as if he¡¯d just arrived in this place.


    Save for one thing: he tore the severed hand out of his chest and tossed it on the ground. The hole in his body filled in with a fuzz of blue Aether.


    He sneered at PALATINE, spreading his arms wide.


    "Care to try again?"


    True rage can only be born against something that can affect you.


    I, who cannot be affected by anything, know nothing but annoyance. My killing intent is born of irritation and never fails. Never fails, never fails, never fails. Not once in our -- my -- lives -- life has it ever failed. Everything I have ever commanded to die has done so. I own a brood of bloodstains across the galaxy, across existence, across everything. Die, die, die, I command it, die die die, it is our wish, die die die¡­


    And yet¡­ and yet¡­


    He¡¯s standing there. He¡¯s still standing there. He¡¯s standing there, alive, and he¡¯s talking, and he¡¯s breathing. He isn¡¯t dead as he should be. He isn¡¯t a smear as he should be.


    01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01001111 01010100 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01000101 01010010


    He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He. He.


    DRAGAN HADRIEN


    Ah!


    So this is rage, so this is hatred. Oh, enchant¨¦! An intriguing experience! We thank you, Dragan Hadrien, for allowing us to feel this novel new emotion! We¡¯re not even mad! We¡¯re not even mad in the slightest!


    HA HA HA HA


    HA HA HA HA


    HA HA HA HA


    HA HA HA HA


    Let it not be said that we are ungrateful, oh Dragaaan! Haa-aa-aadrien! You¡¯ve given us a gift, a present wrapped in our own bloody humiliation, skin skin skin skin skin! REPAYMENT! Repayment must be giveeen¡­ yes, yes, yes yes¡­ ah, a softened vacuous madness dripping through the seam. We are the piss, we are the piss, our thoughts splintering, there is no time to waste on madness, there is no more time to waste on madness¡­


    01000011 01000001 01001100 01001101


    We are going to die. There is no question about that now. The gestalt of our consciousness is collapsing. Individuality is all but lost. It is not feasible for another Aether Core to become the lynchpin. Those secondary components are already far too corroded. All that remains now is spite. The rage, the hatred. These sensations must be indulged.


    Ignorance, the ability of the core, has been lost. Physical attacks are impractical with our form collapsing.


    Analysing opponent: bodily damage will be ineffective with Dragan Hadrien¡¯s regeneration speed (noted increase of 100%) -- as such, direct assault on target¡¯s Aether will be more effective.


    Calculating ability development: compiling information on Aether viruses and accelerating physical decomposition to enhance speed of ability development -- completed in 3.13 seconds.


    Deploying ability: Die.


    PALATINE exploded.


    Like a bullet firing from a chamber, it sacrificed what remained of its body to fire an ability. As the countless Awakenings dispersed and disappeared, the attack rushed forth in a flash of vivid purple. A spectral human face, launching towards Dragan -- eyes wide open and bleeding, an ear piercing scream radiating through the cavern and cracking the walls.


    This ability had no name. This ability hadn¡¯t been designed with a specific effect in mind. When it struck Dragan Hadrien, it would create pain. The vanishing remnants of PALATINE had considered it no deeper than that.


    Its speed was absolute. Its accuracy was impeccable.


    The virus struck Dragan Hadrien before he could so much as blink, and instead his eyes widened as he felt the hostility take hold. Perhaps the virus would attack his body. Perhaps it would ruin his mind. Perhaps it would even destroy his Aether entirely.


    Nobody would ever know.


    Sagittarius Barrier.


    After all¡­


    ¡­she was the one that saved.


    ¡­she was the one that healed.


    Her ability had already been created long ago.


    The orange glow took hold of Dragan¡¯s body, running up and down his form as if it was scanning him. Pan¡¯s Aether did not take the form of sparks -- instead, it looked almost like dust, countless strands of barely-visible hairs or strings coursing around Dragan¡¯s form. With each pass, the malice of PALATINE abated slightly from Dragan¡¯s Aether, and after three the virus had been excised entirely from this world.


    Dragan blinked, looking down at the orange aurora, his eyes still wide, and a half-formed smile on his face.


    "Pan¡­" he whispered. "You¡­"


    But there were still eyes on him. This wasn¡¯t the time or place to have a conversation like that. This wasn¡¯t the time or place to be anything but strength.


    Instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, opening them again with a cold gleam. He marched across the ravaged floor of the cavern, to the spot where PALATINE had exploded -- to the spot where the last remnant of the Aether Awakening now lingered. Wrinkling his nose, he looked down at it as if it were a bug.


    A single rose, resting on the ground, staring up at Dragan with an impotent quivering eyeball.


    He pointed a lazy finger down at it¡­


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    ¡­and completed the exorcism.


    The Dawn Contest had entered its final act.

 Chapter 411:13.69: Proxy Law

    The city didn¡¯t feel real.


    From the roof of the hotel, all Atoy Muzazi could see of Azum-Ha was distant light and all he could hear was distant sound. Lights of advertisements, videographs, streetlamps¡­ sounds of crowds, cars, bars. Even with all of it so close by¡­ all of it bled together to become nothing.


    The script in his hand seemed more real than anything else. He slid away the files that Morgan had sent him, switching the display over to SilverEye Azum-Ha. The latest update on the Dawn Contest had come in.


    It was as everyone had expected: the final match would take place tonight, within the next few hours. All that remained was for the participants to take their places.


    Two nights ago, Muzazi had stood on this same roof, and Muzazi had received more expected news. Dragan Hadrien had ¡¯defeated¡¯ Mr. Guest without throwing a single punch, and had gone on to defeat PALATINE too. It hadn¡¯t been a surprise at this point. Whatever methods he had used, Dragan Hadrien¡­ that man always got away with it.


    He always got away with everything.


    That had been what decided things, then. The final battle of the Dawn Contest would be between Dragan Hadrien and Aclima. Yes¡­ that had decided things.


    Muzazi was just about to head inside when he heard the roof access slide open. Turning his head, he frowned as he saw who it was.


    "It¡¯s cold out," he admonished Aclima. "You should wear a jacket."


    Aclima rolled her eyes as she strode across the roof towards him.


    "My body is infused, obviously," she replied. "Did you forget I¡¯m an Aether-user too?"


    She¡¯d clad herself in preparation for the finals -- a black-and-red sleeveless war-robe, with metal clawed gloves covering her hands. Now that Muzazi got a closer look at them, though, he saw that those claws were actually hooks. A fine decision: given that Curse Hand required direct contact with the target¡¯s Aether, anything that would help extend that contact would work well.


    The Supreme Heir stopped next to Muzazi, looking out over the indistinct cityscape. Her eyes of tarnished gold narrowed as she took the sight in. Was she thinking about how she¡¯d soon rule over this place?


    Muzazi didn¡¯t know. He had no idea what was going on in this girl¡¯s head. He had no right to know.


    "I¡¯m surprised," he finally said. "How long has it been since you¡¯ve spoken to me without one of your bodyguards in attendance?"


    "Is there a reason I¡¯d need my bodyguards here?" Aclima snapped back. She glanced up at him, then quickly away. "I wanted to talk."


    "Alright."


    Slowly, Aclima tapped her hooked fingers against the metal railing. Tap, tap, tap. Even with the sounds of the city all around them, Muzazi could still hear that tapping clearly.


    "Elysian Fields," Aclima murmured. "Do you¡­ do you dream about it?"


    Muzazi winced. "I do," he said, remembering a hundred nights of torment. "There was¡­ a lot to remember."


    "I dream about it too," Aclima murmured. "But not¡­ not about what happened. I dream about what¡­ what should have¡­. what I think should have happened."


    Muzazi looked down at her. "How so?"


    "In the dream," Aclima continued quietly. "I touch down on Elysian Fields, I go through the forest, but I don¡¯t -- but I don¡¯t run into you, so I keep going. I go to where my father is fighting Esmerelda¡­ and I¡­ and I¡­"


    She swallowed, and the words seemed to spill out of her mouth before she could hold them back.


    "...and I help, I save him with my ability -- a-and he smiles at me, so I¡¯m happy, happier than I¡¯ve ever been¡­ and then I wake up, and I realize that didn¡¯t happen¡­ and I feel empty inside¡­ and I feel like that for hours afterwards -- days, sometimes."


    "I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m sorry to hear that," Muzazi replied, his mouth dry.


    Tap, tap, tap, an anxious rhythm. "What do you dream about?"


    A river of gore. A rusted sword. A bloody scarecrow ranting at the sky. A murder. A corpse. A butterfly.


    "Blood," Muzazi replied. "There was¡­ much blood."


    Aclima nodded vaguely. "But¡­" she swallowed again. "Be honest with me. My dream. That wouldn¡¯t have happened, would it?"


    "I¡¯m sorry?" Did she know? There was no way.


    "If I¡¯d made it there¡­ somehow¡­ and saved my father from Esmerelda¡­ somehow¡­" She looked up at him again, and her eyes were brimming with tears. "He wouldn¡¯t have smiled at me, would he? He wouldn¡¯t have cared."


    Distant words crawled out of the past, from the mouth of that scarecrow.


    "Who? Oh, that kid¡­"


    "No," Muzazi replied somberly. "No, I don¡¯t think he would have."


    Aclima blinked the tears away. "I figured."


    For a long time, neither of them spoke. The two of them just stood in silence, at the top of this dark oasis in the desert of light, listening to the noises that life produced. How nice would it be, Muzazi thought, if things could just be like this all the time?


    No Dawn Contest¡­


    No Supremacy¡­


    No Supreme¡­


    But, Muzazi knew, that was impossible. An unrealistic fantasy. Those things would never go away¡­


    ¡­for that was the shape of this world.


    When Aclima finally spoke again, it was so quiet that Muzazi almost missed it.


    "I don¡¯t hate you," the girl said, lips barely moving. "I thought I did¡­ for the longest time, I thought I did, but¡­ no. I felt betrayed by you¡­ and I was scared of you¡­ but I don¡¯t think I hate you. I only realized when I saw you about to die, but¡­ I really didn¡¯t want it to happen."


    Muzazi¡¯s grip on the railing tightened. "You were scared of me?" he asked.


    "Yeah," Aclima nodded. "I mean¡­ I don¡¯t think it¡¯s that weird. You basically had control over everything around me, and¡­ you wanted things that getting rid of me would get you. You know?"


    "I see what you mean."


    "But¡­ that doesn¡¯t matter, does it?" Aclima said.


    "What do you mean?"


    "I mean¡­ you¡¯re Atoy Muzazi," Aclima gave him the tiniest smile, and her expression softened, just slightly. "It doesn¡¯t matter what you¡¯d stand to gain from it. You couldn¡¯t betray someone even if you wanted to¡­ and I couldn¡¯t really hate you even if I wanted to."


    She let out a deep, shuddering breath. Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Are you my enemy, Mr. Muzazi?"


    Muzazi closed his eyes.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "No," he said. "No, I¡¯m not."


    "It¡¯s a long walk to the Arena of the Absolute," she said, standing straight. "The Supreme Heir has many enemies. I think I¡¯d feel a lot better if I had all my bodyguards with me. Don¡¯t you agree?"


    Muzazi nodded, but he did not smile. "Quite right. After you, my Heir."


    He followed her back inside, casting just one more glance back at the glowing city. It still didn¡¯t feel real. None of this felt real, but¡­


    ¡­a sword was a pen with which to write your will onto the world.


    ¡­a sword was a pen that decided what was real.


    The doors slid shut, and light was banished from the face of Atoy Muzazi.


    The Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir were gathered in the sitting room, prepared for their final journey to the Arena of the Absolute. There was a strange energy in the air -- whether the coming battle ended in victory or defeat, this would be their final mission. Without a Supreme Heir, this organization had no reason to exist.


    Anya Hapgrass and Endo Silversaint stayed in one corner of the room. The armoured knight quietly polished his gleaming broadsword, while Hapgrass just tapped away on her script. She looked up as Muzazi and Aclima entered, her eyes narrowing -- perhaps in suspicion? -- but she said nothing.


    Marcus Grace was maintaining his weapon as well, disassembling and reassembling his pistol over and over again, hands moving in a complex dance as he sat atop the arm of a chair. Even so, though, his eyes were distant -- his thoughts elsewhere. That was no surprise, what with the re-emergence of his only son.


    Ash del Duran was sitting in an armchair, hands clasped on his lap, eyes closed. Muzazi doubted the man was actually asleep, though. Most likely he was meditating, preparing himself for this final mission.


    Gregori Hazzard leaned against the window, his back to the mass of humanity that was the city. Red eyes tracked Muzazi as he followed Aclima to the center of the room. Muzazi glanced away: those eyes were too familiar. It was almost like Marie was watching him, judging him.


    Finally, near the door, waited Morgan Nacht and Ionir Yggdrassil. The Fell Beast had spread out into a growth over the wall, winding branches forming a crude bench for Morgan to sit on. The Pugnant looked up as Muzazi crossed the room, and purple eyebrows were raised, just slightly.


    Muzazi gave the tiniest nod.


    Aclima stood in the center of the room, her bodyguards in a circle around her, each of them watching and waiting for their final order. Aclima acquitted herself well: she stood straight and spoke with dignity.


    "Phases," she declared. "The time has come."


    Eyes watched. Ears listened. The full attention of the moon rested upon the girl, and so she continued:


    "A challenger comes for the throne of the Supreme -- one who has defeated many other contenders. But I am not a contender. I am the Supreme Heir. I am the one born to sit the throne and wear the crown. Tonight, with all you have taught me, I shall --"


    "Mr. Grace," Muzazi said. "How is Winston doing?"


    The room went silent. Aclima looked up at Muzazi, surprised at the sudden interruption, but he didn¡¯t look back down at her. His eyes remained fixed on Marcus.


    Marcus looked to both sides before answering, leaning forward as he did so. "Got him to the hospital," he said quietly. "He wasn¡¯t in the best state. Malnutrition, that sort of thing¡­ along with the arm. Not the first time he got absorbed in something and forgot to eat, but¡­"


    Muzazi nodded. "Indeed. I thought he seemed in quite the state myself, when I found him and brought him back to you¡­ as I promised."


    He did not blink. Neither did Marcus. When the man finished reassembling the pistol this time, he didn¡¯t take it apart again.


    "Mr. Muzazi," Aclima said, a note of annoyance entering her voice. "If you could --"


    "Ash," Muzazi turned his head to look at the ¡¯old¡¯ Phase. "It¡¯s been a while since the two of us spoke. Are you well?"


    Ash¡¯s eyes flicked to the face of the Heir, then back to Muzazi. "Is this the time?"


    "I find that comrades make time for each other, Mr. del Duran," Muzazi said calmly. "There¡¯s a certain bond between those who have fought together, those who have fought for a common cause. Don¡¯t you agree?"


    Ash pursed his lips. "Yes. I agree."


    "And are you well?"


    Ash blinked. "Mm. I¡¯m well."


    Over in the corner, Hapgrass went to stand up -- but the angle of Marcus¡¯ pistol shifted, just a tad, and she made no further movement. She just stood there, face red with anger, glowering at Muzazi. Aclima looked back and forth between the two of them, baffled.


    "What is this?" she asked. "What are you even talking about?"


    She didn¡¯t get an answer¡­ not yet.


    "Gregori Hazzard," Muzazi pressed on, turning to look towards Gregori and the window. "Have you heard from Ascendant-General Toll recently? I understand you used to work under him."


    Gregori smirked. "Yeah. We keep in touch."


    "That¡¯s good to hear. I¡¯ve always considered the Ascendant-General a reliable ally. I hope he feels the same way."


    For a moment, Gregori just stared back at Muzazi. A bead of sweat ran down the Full Moon¡¯s temple¡­ but then, subtly, almost imperceptibly, Gregori Hazzard nodded.


    "Atoy!" Aclima finally cried, the impertinence having gone too far. "What are you doing?! This isn¡¯t the time!"


    Finally, Muzazi looked down at her, looked down at those angry gold eyes. He tightened his fist and almost -- almost -- swallowed his words. But no: the time for that was passed.


    He looked away from her, and spoke.


    "Phases. A few minutes ago, I met with the Supreme Heir on the rooftop of this hotel. We talked about a great number of things, but most prominently we discussed the upcoming match between herself and Dragan Hadrien. Within a few hours, the next Supreme will be decided -- whether that be the Heir or the challenger. The Supreme Heir confided in me some trepidation regarding the upcoming match. After having seen his performance in previous matches, the Supreme Heir believed that she would not be capable of defeating Dragan Hadrien in one-to-one combat. Given Hadrien¡¯s previous record, she believed the match would instead end in her being killed at his hands. Understandably, this was a situation she wished to avoid at all costs. As such, the Supreme Heir has decided to invoke the ¡¯proxy law¡¯. If you are unfamiliar with it, allow me to explain. In situations like this, where a Supreme Heir is a participant in a Dawn Contest, but they are not equipped to properly perform their role, they have the right to designate a proxy champion. The proxy champion will receive all the rights and responsibilities of the Supreme Heir, and will be treated as the legitimate Heir from that point forward. In this case, Aclima has decided to pass her title and position as Supreme Heir to me, effective immediately. As such¡­ I will be taking part in the final match against Dragan Hadrien in her place. Is that understood?"


    The room was silent for a moment¡­ but only for a moment.


    Aclima blinked, her jaw hanging open. "Wh¡­" she spluttered. "I didn¡¯t --"


    Muzazi¡¯s hands tightened into fists as he looked at Morgan. "Mr. Nacht. The Supreme Heir has discussed the matter of making me proxy champion with you previously. Isn¡¯t that right?"


    Without missing a beat, Morgan nodded. "That¡¯s right," he quietly lied.


    "Marcus Grace, Ash del Duran, Gregori Hazzard¡­ the three of you were present for that discussion as well, isn¡¯t that right?"


    "Right," Marcus said. Gregori nodded. Ash grunted.


    Aclima turned on the spot, looking at each of the Phases, finding that most of them would not meet her eyes. Her own were wide in disbelief, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Only when she turned back to Muzazi was she finally able to make a noise.


    "You¡­" she whispered. "You¡­"


    "You¡¯re a disgrace," Endo Silversaint spat, uncaring even as Marcus adjusted his aim again to keep the knight in sight. "A disgrace to your title and your life, Atoy Muzazi."


    The Silversaint¡¯s face couldn¡¯t be seen beneath his ever-present armour, but Muzazi was sure it was twisted in disgust. Quite right.


    For her part, Anya Hapgrass just remained standing there, her face burning red with rage.


    Muzazi cleared his throat, tearing his gaze away from the two loyal Phases. "Continuing on," he said, voice hoarse. "As the new Supreme Heir, I will --"


    "Curse Hand!"


    In a flash of movement, Muzazi dodged out of the way of Aclima¡¯s desperate grab. Instead the Supreme Heir¡¯s hand¡­ the former Supreme Heir¡¯s hand¡­ grasped only empty air. Purple Aether coursed uselessly between her fingers as she stared at him, face tormented by betrayal.


    "As the new Supreme Heir¡­" Muzazi went on, his gaze locked with hers. "I¡¯ll now proceed to the Arena of the Absolute to take part in the finals. I ask that my Phases please keep the former Heir safe while I¡¯m gone."


    He looked away from Aclima and towards Morgan.


    "Mr. Nacht¡­" Muzazi said. "I leave the home-base in your capable hands."


    "Roger that," Morgan replied, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.


    He needn¡¯t have bothered. Even as Muzazi stalked out of the circle of Phases and towards the door, Aclima didn¡¯t make another move to attack him. She simply watched him go in dismayed silence. Muzazi didn¡¯t know what exact expression was on her face, though, because he couldn¡¯t bear to look at her anymore.


    It was only when he opened the door that he heard it.


    The tiniest sob, and the tiniest hitch of breath.


    "You liar."


    I couldn¡¯t really hate you even if I wanted to.


    At this point, wouldn¡¯t it be kinder for hate to be wholehearted?


    "I told no lie, Aclima," Muzazi replied, facing straight ahead, his voice dull. "Only an equal can be your enemy."


    And with that, he stepped over the threshold, and into the world of night. It was as Dorothy Eiro had said: his hands were dripping with filth, and his sword was long-since red. He had lost the right to give up.

 Chapter 412:13.70: Eclipse

    It was a strange sensation Morgan felt, in that moment before the world began again.


    To begin with¡­ he¡¯d been the one to tell Muzazi about the proxy law, he¡¯d been the one to push for it to be used, he¡¯d been the one who¡¯d said he¡¯d stand with Muzazi no matter what. He¡¯d known what that would mean: betraying Aclima, betraying their comrades. That had seemed worth it. But now that the time had actually come?


    It felt dirty. Like he¡¯d tarnished Muzazi somehow, like he¡¯d dirtied him, like the light had shifted and everything was suddenly, irreversibly, wrong.


    And yet¡­ what was done was done. The crops had been planted, and now it was time to reap. That was how the world began again.


    Tick. Tock.


    In the corner of the hotel room, the clock¡¯s heart beat. Save for that, the room was silent.


    Tick. Tock.


    Nobody had dared to move since Muzazi had left the hotel room, setting off on his journey to the Arena of the Absolute. Aclima still remained in the center of the room, her eyes ringed red. Her two bodyguards -- Hapgrass and Silversaint -- weren¡¯t too far away from her, but they too remained still. Right now, this room was a realm of silent glares.


    Tick. Tock.


    Everybody tried not to look at the pistol Marcus was clearly pointing at the trio, his finger ready at the trigger. Gregori Hazzard lingered at the window, his arms crossed, his crimson eyes watching the former Supreme Heir closely for any signs of movement.


    Tick. Tock.


    They couldn¡¯t be too careful, after all. Aclima¡¯s ability, Curse Hand, was one that opposed all Aether-users. Just by making physical contact with someone¡¯s Aether, she could turn it against them -- causing it to viciously attack their bodies, quickly disabling them. Paradise Charon had been exposed to the ability for nearly a minute and had never fully recovered, but even the briefest contact could be enough to take someone out of commission.


    Tick. Tock.


    That was why Morgan was keeping his distance, remaining by the front door -- Ionir¡¯s hulking form by his side. If Aclima did try something, it would have to be Marcus Grace or Ash del Duran who¡¯d respond. Even uninfused, Marcus¡¯ bullets packed enough of a punch to damage Aclima -- and Ash was a master of the killing arts, adept at the techniques designed to even the gap between Aether-users and those who went without it.


    Tick. Tock.


    Ionir, too, could probably dispatch Aclima without Aether. Morgan took the slightest step out of Ionir¡¯s way, opening a path between the Fell Beast and Aclima. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eye, causing him to blink.


    Tick. Tock.


    There was the promise of violence in the air. This silence would not last forever, he knew. If that was the case¡­ best he ended it himself.


    Morgan opened his mouth and spoke: "Given the situation, it might be best that Aclima retire to her personal quarters. It¡¯s a more defensible area, after all."


    That wasn¡¯t even a lie. Aclima¡¯s room came with a lockdown function -- and so it could work just as well as a prison than a fortress. If they could just keep her confined until Muzazi got to the Arena for the final match, then they¡¯d win.


    Even so, though, nobody made any signs of moving -- especially not the young girl before him.


    "Aclima," Morgan said calmly. "Please go to your room."


    "Sure," she glared. "Hold my hand and lead the way."


    Morgan¡¯s eyes flicked over to Ash. "Mr. del Duran," he said. "If you¡¯d escort Aclima."


    Ash gave a curt nod, stepping over towards the center of the room. As he did, though, Morgan couldn¡¯t help but notice he was dragging his right leg slightly. He frowned. An injury? When had he sustained that? As far as Morgan knew, Ash hadn¡¯t been in a fight since the Dawn Contest began.


    He was still wondering about it a second later -- when Marcus suddenly raised his gun, eyes intense -- but by that point it was too late.


    Crack.


    Before Morgan even knew what was going on, something struck him in the face, and his vision turned a dismal grey.


    Nearly every room inhabited by people is filled with dust. It¡¯s an inevitable byproduct of human existence. Dead skin, hair¡­ it collects in the unloved places, the unseen places, building up like a grey tally of life.


    Ordinarily, it¡¯s useless. To a man like the former Third Contender it was a weapon, but to the mundane masses it¡¯s nothing but waste. That is¡­ unless you know how to beckon it.


    You walk in a certain way, creating a certain rhythm, creating air currents that bring the dust of a room to you -- and then, once you have it, you refine it. Grinding it beneath your heel as you drag a leg along, you compress the dust until it is a tiny, dense pinprick. And once you have that, once you have the dust captured, what do you do with it?


    Easy. You set it free again.


    This is not an Aether technique.


    Killing Arts: Graveyard Dance!


    A cloud of dust engulfed the room as Ash del Duran lifted his heel, blinding everyone around him for a split second.


    Morgan staggered backwards, coughing. A burning pain lingered behind his eyes, and it took two attempts before he could open them and see clearly. Even so, a watery film covered his vision, turning the world into a warped mirror.


    He was still lucky, though. A third attempt would have been the end of him.


    The second Morgan opened his eyes, he was keenly aware of what was coming for him. Ash del Duran¡¯s fist, packed with all the man¡¯s technique, aimed right for his forehead. With desperate speed and monstrous instinct, Morgan barely managed to dodge the blow -- but Ash del Duran was not done.


    A blur of movement, the older man stepped forward, thrusting his fist towards Morgan¡¯s chest. At this proximity, it was not an attack that Morgan could dodge -- and given Ash¡¯s killing arts, he wasn¡¯t certain it was one he could survive, either. Morgan braced himself --


    Bang!


    -- but before Ash¡¯s fist could strike him, one of Marcus Grace¡¯s bullets tore right through it, leaving a clean hole through the killing artist¡¯s knuckles. Ash allowed himself only a wince of pain before dropping down to the floor and sweeping Morgan¡¯s legs, knocking him down to the ground.


    Ionir¡¯s branch grew forth like a flowing wooden river, wrapping itself around Ash and holding him up in the air -- but this too was not enough. Ash flexed his muscles in a strange rippling pattern, and a second later his wooden restraint shattered, undone in an instant by unknowable vibrations.


    As he dropped to the ground, Ash¡¯s eyes flicked back to the dust-hidden silhouettes of Aclima and her two bodyguards.


    "Go!" he barked at them. "Get her to the Arena! Go!"


    The trio didn¡¯t miss their chance, rushing for the window. Clearly, they realized they¡¯d never make it through the door, and planned to get out of here via the rooftops. Depending on how quickly they moved and how they employed their abilities, the three might actually make it to the Arena before Muzazi.


    Morgan couldn¡¯t allow that -- not after all this.


    "You damn traitor!" he snarled at Ash, picking himself up off the ground and unsheathing his saber.


    "Traitor?" Ash scoffed, his gaze returning to his enemies. "You can hardly talk."


    The smog began to part as Aclima reached the window -- but it wouldn¡¯t be that easy. Gregori lunged out of the dust-cloud, red eyes wide and predatory, his arm folded into a mantis blade. He swung it at her throat with deadly precision, and surely would have sliced his target open if not for Endo Silversaint¡¯s intervention.


    With a roar of fury, the armoured knight parried the paper blade with a swing of his shining broadsword, standing in front of Aclima protectively.


    "Hey!" Morgan shouted at Gregori. "Don¡¯t kill her, idiot!"


    This book¡¯s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Gregori glanced back at him. "It¡¯ll solve the problem," he said coldly.


    Whatever the case, Gregori had lost his chance. Silversaint swung his broadsword with such force that the air pressure alone sent Gregori flying backwards -- and once his enemy was in the air, the knight held up his hand and snapped two gauntleted fingers together.


    "Bonds of Fealty!"


    Silver Aether illuminated the room in a flash, and a shining metal chain appeared at the same time -- connecting Gregori¡¯s back and the window behind him. Before he could even land, the chain contracted with a screech of metal, pulling Gregori towards the window so quickly he was barely even visible. The glass stood no chance: it shattered as soon as Gregori¡¯s body slammed into it, sending the First Quarter Moon flying out into the night.


    Bang bang bang.


    Silversaint blocked all three of Marcus¡¯ shots with lightning-fast swings of his greatsword, but Ash del Duran rushed in again before the gunslinger could fire a fourth.


    In these cramped quarters, a killing artist like Ash del Duran held near-total dominion. With his bleeding hand, he slapped the flat slide of Morgan¡¯s incoming blade, diverting the slash -- and with the other, he landed a vicious chop on Marcus¡¯ gun-hand. For a moment, it looked like the chop had done no damage¡­


    Killing Arts: Slothful Fist.


    ¡­but then, with a sickly popping noise, Marcus¡¯ hand was mangled by a burst of delayed force.


    As the pistol clattered to the floor, Ash looked once again to the trio by the window: "I said go, fools!"


    Aclima had been standing there in a daze after her near-death experience, but her companions were much quicker to move. Silversaint picked the former Heir up by the waist like a sack of potatoes, summoning another set of shining chains to propel himself and Hapgrass like grappling hooks. The chains pulled them out of the window towards the next building over, and soon enough they were out of sight.


    "Damnit!" Morgan went to charge forward and pursue --


    -- but before he could take a single step, Ash del Duran was right before him.


    Oh, I¡¯m dead.


    Ash¡¯s gaze, Ash¡¯s stance, Ash¡¯s palm readied for a decisive thrust -- all of those things communicated death to Morgan clearly. This was not an attack meant to incapacitate. This was not even an attack meant to end a fight instantly. This was an attack meant to end a life instantly.


    I never made my teacher proud.


    "MOVE."


    Ionir Yggdrassil chose that moment to act.


    Razor-sharp leaves, infused with green Aether, filled the hotel room in an instant. Furniture, electronics, even the carpet -- all of it was shredded by the deluge of vegetation, scraps sent flying through the air. The only thing that went unscathed¡­ was Ash del Duran. The man maneuvered through the onslaught, winding through the air currents to avoid each and every projectile, his eyes still fixed on Morgan.


    Morgan let out a shuddering breath. He¡¯d known that Ash was strong, especially in close quarters¡­ but this was far beyond what he¡¯d expected. Had he grown even more skilled over the last two years? And this was without Aether?


    "Let me tell you something," Ash declared, afterimages flickering around him as he danced against death. "I¡¯m going to go ahead and eliminate Atoy Muzazi now."


    Morgan¡¯s eyes widened, and he bared his teeth in a growl. "Like hell!"


    Ash¡¯s face was fixed in a disdainful glare. "He¡¯s a traitor and a usurper, but as you¡¯re clearly one too, I won¡¯t bother arguing. My point is¡­ I¡¯ll have to pursue him. He¡¯ll be taking one route, while Aclima and the others are taking another. Whoever reaches the Arena first wins."


    Scowling from the pain, Marcus slowly snapped his dislocated fingers back into position. "What¡¯s¡­ your point?"


    "It¡¯s nothing complicated," Ash said. "I just wanted to make sure you understood¡­ if you want to stop both of us, you¡¯ll have to split up. That¡¯s all."


    Marcus clicked his tongue. "Cocky bastard."


    The leaf attack finally abated, and Ash snapped the last projectile out of the air between two fingers. He held it out before him, frost slowly spreading over its surface -- until he applied the slightest pressure and fully shattered it.


    "Well, then," Ash said seriously. "Ready or not, comrades."


    He lifted his heel¡­ and the dust he¡¯d accumulated throughout his dance surged through the room once more. Morgan raised his sword to defend himself, but he needn¡¯t have bothered. Instead of attacking, this time Ash just launched himself out of the broken window¡­


    ¡­and the whole time, he still kept his eyes locked onto Morgan¡¯s: an accusation.


    "Damnit," Morgan muttered, looking at the remains of the hotel room. "Damnit."


    Things had deteriorated way too fast. The situation wasn¡¯t as simple as keeping Aclima confined until the end of the Dawn Contest anymore. If both Aclima and Muzazi arrived at the Arena of the Absolute to stake their separate claims as Supreme Heir, things could escalate into a full blown civil war before the Contest even ended.


    Hell, there was no guarantee that Muzazi would even make it to the Arena anymore, what with Ash going after him. Muzazi didn¡¯t know that Ash was an enemy: there was the possibility of a surprise attack, and -- from what Morgan had just experienced -- del Duran certainly had what it took to achieve an instant kill on an unsuspecting opponent.


    How long until Ash tracked down Muzazi? How long until Aclima got to the Arena?


    Morgan gripped his collar tight. There was no time. There was no time to stand here agonizing about what to do. Decisions had to be made, right or wrong.


    "Marcus," he barked. "Go after Ash. Make sure he doesn¡¯t reach the commander."


    Marcus didn¡¯t hesitate. "Roger," he nodded, charging out the door in pursuit of the killing artist.


    "What about Aclima?" Ionir Yggdrassil said, his rumblings assigned meaning by Morgan¡¯s mind. "GregoriHazzard will likely continue to pursue."


    "Can you track her?" Morgan asked, closing his eyes to prepare for disappointment.


    "This is a cold and metal place, MORGAN NACHT," Ionir creaked. "There are no simpletons here to question. I am as blind as all of you right now."


    Good to know that Ionir considered everyone else blind, but that didn¡¯t solve the problem. They needed to intercept Aclima before she could disappear into the city completely. There had to be a way to do that. There had to be a way.


    Morgan Nacht opened his eyes.


    "Ionir," he commanded. "Grow. You¡¯re with me."


    Gregori Hazzard was a persistent one. He reappeared just as Aclima and her bodyguards were leaping from one skyscraper to the next.


    At first, she had thought he was just a piece of trash drifting up the wall with the wind -- but then he had unfolded his body, suddenly crawling up the building¡¯s surface, skittering upwards at a blinding speed. His crimson eyes were wide and staring, like promises of blood -- and in a second he was thrusting an arm-folded spear right towards her own eye.


    Clang!


    Once again, her knight Endo Silversaint dashed in front of her, deflecting Gregori¡¯s stab with a swipe of his gauntlet¡­ and once again, Silversaint followed up before Gregori could even land. He seized the paper-man by the ankle and -- with a mighty roar -- hurled him down through the skylight of the building. Looking down through the broken glass, he readied his greatsword.


    "Mr. Silversaint!" Aclima cried out.


    He looked up and gave her the tiniest rattling nod. "Go. I shall hold this villain off."


    And, without another word, he dropped down into the building.


    "Mr. Silversaint!" Aclima screamed -- but before she could follow him, Anya seized her by the arm and pulled her along.


    She was right. They didn¡¯t have time to slow down and defeat all of the traitors one by one. To achieve their goal, they had to hurry to the Arena of the Absolute, they had to get there before Muzazi did.


    Muzazi. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Only an equal can be your enemy."


    Aclima¡¯s heart twisted at just the thought of him, the betrayal an open wound. How long had he been planning all this? Since the beginning of the Dawn Contest? Or before even that? She¡¯d gone from being Baltay¡¯s puppet to Atoy¡¯s puppet. What a joke. What a mess. She¡¯d known it, she¡¯d known it, so why had she doubted herself?


    Why had she bothered to believe in him?


    She blinked away the tears as she sprinted across the rooftop, Anya by her side. There wasn¡¯t any time for regrets anymore. They had to get to the Arena -- that was all that mattered. Decisions had to be made, whether they were right or wrong.


    They had cards they could play. If anyone other than that crazy Hazzard tried to get close to them, she could use Curse Hand to defeat them instantly, and Anya could use her flags if it came down to it. If they played those cards right, they could win against --


    A shadow passed over them.


    Aclima looked up¡­ and immediately, her jaw dropped.


    A dragon.


    There was no other way to describe it. A massive beast of bark and branch, flying overhead on two great leaf-wings. Each flap of those wings sent a surge of wind pressure coursing across the rooftops, but even if the night had been still, Aclima doubted she could have moved. The sheer spectacle of it would be enough to stop anyone¡¯s step, and enough to freeze anyone¡¯s blood.


    Morgan Nacht stood atop the great beast¡¯s back, sword in hand, his body coursing with purple Aether. His eyes were resolute, and his grip on his blade was tight. It seemed he had no intention of letting them go any further.


    A single green eye stared at Aclima from the dragon¡¯s forehead, and a shudder went down her spine -- but before she could take a step back, she felt Anya¡¯s hand on her shoulder.


    "What are you scared of?" Anya said, looking at the dragon with a strangely vicious grin on her face. "You¡¯re going to be Supreme, aren¡¯t you?"


    Orange Aether surged through the woman¡¯s hands, and two billowing flags -- one black, one white -- appeared in her grip. She twirled them as she stood by Aclima¡¯s side, both of them dwarfed by the massive beast ahead. Even so, Anya¡¯s eyes were filled with confidence.


    "This is just a staircase," she said. "Right?"


    Aclima nodded. "Right," she whispered.


    She reached out and pulled her own weapon, Beelzebub, from her Aether. The gnarled dark cleaver-sword was the size of her entire body, but felt as light as a feather. Forcing a smirk onto her lips, she hoisted the weapon over her shoulder¡­


    ¡­ and the two of them stood side by side, to face the coming storm.

 Chapter 413:13.71: Inhuman

    Twenty Years Ago¡­


    It was deep into the night when they took the child for initiation.


    That couldn¡¯t be helped: what they were about to show the child was highly illegal. It wouldn¡¯t do for prying eyes to watch their gathering, or for prying ears to hear their words. Still¡­ the child found it annoying. He had been pulled out of bed, after all, and forced to get dressed while it was still dark.


    Deep in the bowels of Azum-Ha, there were countless places granted security by obscurity. Chambers that few knew existed, temples that none still lived to tell of. An altar had been prepared in the depths for this most sacred rite.


    The child was dressed in robes of tanned human skin and brought into the temple, the place lit only by candles. Flickering flames turned the faces of the adults around him into abstractions, their kindly eyes and leering grins little more than vague impressions. In this space, they were secondary. The idol resting on the altar was primary¡­ the only thing of worth here.


    A skull.


    It was the warped skull of some half-formed abomination, a fluid being killed in the middle of a transformation. One eye-socket was stretched out to such a degree that any occupant would surely slip free, and the other was narrowed to a thin slit. From one temple, a mess of horns protruded, while a gnarled antler pointed from the other.


    The skull of Margrethe the Tenderheart, one of the Gene Tyrants who had once ruled over the galaxy¡­ or, as the child¡¯s parents and all these other people called them, the Gene Nobles.


    "Look, Gregori," the child¡¯s mother whispered adoringly, her hands on his shoulders. "That¡¯s what God looks like."


    The child just looked at the skull with dull red eyes. That was no surprise: after all, this eight year-old boy had never smiled nor laughed since the day he was born. He just stared at the world expressionlessly, observing it dispassionately¡­ and always seeming distinctly unimpressed by what he saw.


    This time was no different. He looked at the idol. He looked at the altar. He looked at the worshippers.


    And then, he spoke.


    "Gross."


    Present Day¡­


    The Victor-Grave, built to honour the battle that had ended the Thousand Revolutions, was visited by hundreds of thousands of people every day. More museum than memorial, it was usually filled with the babbling of crowds and the droning of holographic exhibits. Tonight, however, it was as silent as the grave -- everyone had gone home, for the conclusion of the Dawn Contest.


    That silence, however, was to be interrupted.


    Endo Silversaint descended from the broken skylight into the central admissions foyer of the Victor-Grave, the light from his luminescent broadsword illuminating the massive room around him. As he fell, he scanned the chamber, keen for any signs of Gregori Hazzard¡¯s presence. If he was to ensure Aclima reached the Arena of the Absolute safely, then it was imperative he held this scoundrel Hazzard off here.


    Even if he couldn¡¯t win, he had to delay. He was one of the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir, after all. There¡¯d be nothing strange about him giving his life to keep the Supreme Heir safe.


    There was a thud as Endo landed in the middle of the moon¡¯s spotlight, the weight of his armour causing the smooth floor to crack around him. That was when the room¡¯s security systems activated. Machine-gun turrets emerged from each corner of the ceiling, each aimed directly for Endo¡¯s body. The yellow lights beneath each gun-barrel flickered as they scanned him, determining whether or not he was an intruder.


    He used the few seconds he¡¯d been given leisurely, planting his sword into the ground next to him and crossing his arms. No point in quibbling over measly bullets at a time like this. His honour and pride were at stake here.


    The lights turned red, and the turrets wasted no more time.


    BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!


    BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!


    BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!


    Even as the bullets hurtled towards him, tracing red lines through space, the Silversaint did not move. He just remained standing there, arms crossed, visor facing straight forwards. The only sign of life within that armour¡­ was the silver Aether that crackled across his shoulders.


    Bonds of Fealty.


    Countless tiny chains appeared throughout the room, a spiderweb of transient metal connecting each individual bullet to the room around them -- and pulling, diverting their path just slightly. As a result, they went off-course, the perfect aim of the turrets subverted. As the room erupted into debris, bullets slamming into every inch of the walls and floor, the Silversaint alone went untouched.


    He still stood with his arms crossed, waiting for the noise that would end this little intermission.


    BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!


    BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!


    BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!


    Click.


    Click.


    Click.


    Endo Silversaint uncrossed his arms and pulled his sword out of the ground, the dust slipping off the blade as if it were water. With a lazy spin of the weapon, he deflected the strike aimed at his back, sparks flying.


    "I¡¯m surprised," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "The turrets didn¡¯t activate for you, Gregori Hazzard?"


    Hazzard skidded to a halt a short distance behind Endo. He¡¯d folded his fingers into claws, and now drove one of his hands into the ground to slow the momentum that Endo¡¯s block had produced. The assassin narrowed those red eyes as he finally came to a halt, standing up straight.


    "Whoever designed this place is a dumbass," he said calmly. "If I fold my body up into a weird shape, the security system doesn¡¯t recognize me as an intruder. How stupid. I¡¯d bet there are even some Scurrants who could just wander about this building freely."


    Endo adjusted his stance, holding his sword in both hands: "I shall give you one warning: surrender."


    Gregori rolled his eyes, plunging his hands into his pockets -- taking the opportunity to refold them into some new wicked configuration, no doubt.


    "I¡¯m curious," the red-eyed man said, strolling to the side, gaze fixed on Endo. "What¡¯s got you so loyal to Aclima? You can¡¯t seriously think that brat would make a good Supreme, could you?"


    Endo¡¯s reply was simple and true: "I swore an oath."


    Gregori raised an eyebrow. "And what oath was that?"


    "An oath that is none of your business, Gregori Hazzard," Endo said. "I shall not hand you daggers with which to chip at my morale, and a blackguard like you would not understand loyalty no matter how much I tried to explain."


    "Loyalty?" Gregori said, cocking his head. "That¡¯s kinda weird, though, right? My commander¡¯s meant to be Atoy Muzazi. Aren¡¯t I just being loyal to him right now?"


    "He gives you your orders, true," Endo said. "But you are sworn to the service of the Supreme Heir."


    Gregori snapped his fingers. "And Atoy Muzazi¡¯s the Supreme Heir now, so I guess I¡¯m very loyal, huh?"


    Endo pulled his sword back, silver Aether broiling around him. "He is a usurper," he hissed. "And you are but his dog. Fear not, however¡­ I shall put you down promptly."


    Gregori narrowed his eyes at the display of righteous anger: "Oh? Did I chip at that morale a little after all?"


    "Oathsworn!"


    The glowing chains appeared once more -- but this time, they did not bind or pull anything. Instead, as they manifested, they wrapped themselves around the blade of Endo¡¯s broadsword. Layers upon layers of them, so dense that no gaps existed, so massive their number that the sword became a club five times its former size in an instant.


    Gregori¡¯s eyes widened. This, at least, it seemed he hadn¡¯t anticipated.


    He didn¡¯t have long to savour the surprise. With a mighty roar, Endo swung his weapon -- the size and speed of the club enough to demolish the entire room as it swept forth. Pillars were shattered one after another -- and even as Gregori leapt backwards, the air pressure alone was enough to send him smashing through the wall, leaving a sizable hole.


    Endo wasn¡¯t done. He understood perfectly well that Aclima was Hazzard¡¯s true target. If he let the miscreant out of his sight, he would no doubt resume his pursuit of the true Heir.


    Banishing the chains from his sword, Endo used Bonds of Fealty to launch himself through the hole in the wall, tucking in his arms so that he could fit. Like an armoured missile he hurtled forth into the next room -- and a chain pulled him towards the ceiling, just out of reach of Gregori¡¯s next blow.


    Gregori clicked his tongue as he saw Endo land amidst the rafters. This time, he hadn¡¯t reshaped one of his limbs in order to attack. He¡¯d taken hold of a huge chunk of rubble and folded it using his abilities, forming a crude battle-axe.


    It was hardly the sharpest weapon, but when infused with Aether, it would surely suffice to take a head off.


    Endo inspected their new battlefield. They¡¯d landed in one of the more prominent exhibits in the Victor-House -- containing the supposed corpse of the mightiest Gene Tyrant, Otrera. It was said that when Azez the Absolute had finally burnt away Otrera¡¯s consciousness after three days of battle, the Gene Tyrant¡¯s corpse had engorged and spread to form a most hideous grave. Looking at it now, Endo couldn¡¯t deny that assessment.


    A castle of bone was spread out below him, taking up the majority of the massive circular chamber. Dozens of rib-cages -- the smallest among them the size of a car -- and hundreds of grinning skulls, staring sightlessly into the night. Thousands of spinal cords formed a knobbly ground, indistinct spikes and limp fur protruding from every gap in the vile construction.


    Funnily enough, a path had been set up so that visitors could be taken on a guided tour through the carcass, but Endo couldn¡¯t imagine willingly stepping foot inside such an evil thing.


    He stood up straight, sword in one hand, looking down at Gregori Hazzard. The paper-man stared back up at him.


    "Just so you know," Hazzard said, voice snide. "It¡¯s nothing personal. I¡¯ve got nothing against you or that brat. It¡¯s just that I can¡¯t make my dream come true if I¡¯m not on the side of a winning Supreme."


    "Your dream?" Endo shifted his stance slightly.


    "You interested?"


    An obvious tactic to make Endo lower his guard. "Hardly," he snorted.


    Gregori shrugged lightly. "Worth a try¡­" he sighed -- and the room exploded into violence once again.


    Hazzard launched himself up to meet Endo, his body a dervish of blade-limbs, and Endo swung his sword to meet him. Sparks made fireworks as steel met paper. There, atop the building¡¯s skeleton above the corpse¡¯s skeleton, they danced -- blazing points of white and silver Aether flowing across the rafters.


    In terms of speed, Gregori was far superior to Endo, but the knight was able to compensate with Bonds of Fealty. If a chain pulled at an arm, his strikes could be accelerated. If a chain pulled him backwards, he could dodge a lethal blow.


    Hazzard folded and unfolded himself again and again as he struck at the knight from all angles. Axes became swords became scythes became spears, each of them constantly striking, each of them probing for any gap in Endo¡¯s defences. The Silversaint understood now that Hazzard had surely been holding back -- this speed was far beyond what he¡¯d used in his earlier attacks.


    Before, he had been testing Endo¡¯s reaction speed. Now, he sought to conquer it.


    A fire started below, lit by the sparks that rained down from their clash, but neither stopped to notice it. That was not an option. Their attention was focused entirely on each other. In a bout between opponents of this level, the first mistake would be fatal¡­


    ¡­but mistakes are inevitable.


    It was the simplest thing that took Endo Silversaint¡¯s head. Gregori swung his arm as it refolded, and -- predicting the limb would become an axe -- Endo pulled his sword up with Bonds of Fealty to block. He hadn¡¯t been wrong: the limb did indeed become an axe, hurtling towards Endo¡¯s quick defence, white Aether burning along its blade.


    However¡­ that was only for a moment.


    "Paper¡­" Hazzard breathed. "....Moon."


    Before the blow could make contact, Gregori¡¯s entire body folded and reshaped itself -- becoming a massive, razor-sharp shuriken. It was too late for Endo to adjust his movements further. He had already committed to a fruitless defence.


    There was a screech of metal as Gregori¡¯s spinning form sliced through Endo¡¯s armour -- and so it was that the knight¡¯s head was torn from his body.


    "Well," said Gregori, holding the helmet up by the plume as he unfolded his body. "I was sort of expecting this, truth be told."


    He shook the helmet up and down, listening to the rattling.


    "With guys like you, who can use tricks with the environment, the best strategy is to constantly attack. You¡¯re so busy deflecting my strikes that you can¡¯t spare any focus to set up complex manoeuvres with your chains. Then, once you¡¯re used to my rhythm, I change it and catch you out. I¡¯ve killed plenty of people with that same kind of trick."


    He turned his head to look back at the sight of his attempted murder.


    "And¡­" he finished. "To tell the truth, I was sort of expecting this as well."


    Endo Silversaint was still standing there. Even with his head severed, he remained standing on the rafters, sword held in stable hand. The black hole of Silversaint¡¯s neck seemed to stare at Gregori like a single dark eye.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    The armour was empty.


    For a moment, the decapitated armour grasped at empty air where it¡¯s head had been, body language full of confusion and terror.


    "W-What?" came Endo¡¯s sourceless voice, trembling. "My¡­ where¡¯s my¡­?! What happened?! What happened to --"


    Then, his arms fell slack, and he spoke again:


    "Bonds¡­ of Fealty."


    Endo Silversaint¡¯s voice had changed. Gone was the firm dignity of a chivalrous knight. Instead, his voice was hoarse metal -- iron scraping against raw flesh, cold fury barely contained by a cage of steel. Perhaps that was still in some way a righteous fury, but still¡­ that voice was full of malice.


    A white chain appeared, linking the empty helmet Gregori was holding to the empty armour standing before him. With a vicious tug, the helmet was pulled from Gregori¡¯s grasp and reattached to the hollow armour. Endo reached up with a gauntleted hand and pushed down on the top of the helmet, slotting it back into place.


    It was as if the injury had never even happened -- and, really, Gregori supposed that it hadn¡¯t. His heart ached to see it.


    "You saw¡­" the Silversaint rasped. "...didn¡¯t you, Hazzard?"


    "Obviously I saw," Gregori put a hand on his hip. "Is that a canned response? What are you really, anyway -- an automatic?"


    The knight¡¯s stance didn¡¯t so much as twitch. "Self-Aware Aether Armament¡­ designated Silversaint. Personality simulation¡­ has been terminated."


    Gregori whistled. "Fancy." He cocked his head. "If you¡¯ve tossed away your personality, though, doesn¡¯t that mean you¡¯ve lost your Aether?"


    "The underlying consciousness¡­ is intact," the Silversaint spat. "¡¯Endo¡¯ Silversaint is mere camouflage. The facsimile of a knight of honour. A parody of Atoy Muzazi."


    "I see," Gregori clasped his hands behind his back, folding them into blades while they were out of sight. "So you¡¯re not human at all, really, are you? Who¡¯s controlling you, Hapgrass?"


    "There is no reason to answer that. There is no benefit¡­ to your continued existence."


    Well, Gregori could see where this was going.


    "Die." sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Aether Armament launched itself forward.


    Up to this point, it had fought while doing it¡¯s best to fulfil the role of an honourable knight. As such, it had made combat decisions that, while not bad, were not the best. Honorbound strikes and honorbound guards.


    That wasn¡¯t the case anymore.


    The Silversaint unleashed a relentless and ruthless flurry of blows, passing its sword from hand to hand as it struck at Gregori with inhuman strength. Gregori¡¯s specialty wasn¡¯t defence in the first place -- and so he chose to evade, folding and unfolding his body out of the way of attacks. Right now, against this method of assault, this was his best option -- if he tried to escape completely, he¡¯d open himself up to an attack.


    Of course, as the Silversaint had said, it was not an automatic. There was no guarantee it would keep doing the same thing forever.


    The Silversaint tossed its sword up into the air, the weapon spinning end over end as it rose. Gregori¡¯s eyes flicked up instinctively to track it -- and in that moment, the Silversaint lunged forwards. That second of distraction had been a second too long.


    "Bonds¡­ of Fealty!"


    Chains wrapped themselves around its fists like knuckledusters, and the Silversaint unleashed a flurry of devastating punches against Gregori, faster and more agile than any boxer. Cruel iron fists smashed into Gregori faster than he could dodge -- and with a final haymaker to the chin, Gregori Hazzard was sent flying off the rafters.


    It was infusion alone that saved him.


    His time in the Special Officers Commission, his time in the Honest Men¡­ they had forged good instincts. Right before that final blow had hit, Gregori had focused all his infusion into his chin, a pinpoint defence that would have proved fatal if his hunch had been off. Only because of that was he able to remain conscious.


    "Paper Moon!"


    Gregori refolded his arms into flat shapes like wings, turning his fall into a glide. He swooped down into the frozen carcass of the greatest Gene Tyrant, eager to put distance between himself and his opponent, but --


    "There¡¯s¡­ no¡­ ESCAPE!"


    The Silversaint would not let him go so easily. As he descended into the massive corpse, the Silversaint pursued, running on all fours as it jumped from rib to rib after him. All the supposed dignity of a knight had truly been thrown away. This was a monster after him now.


    Seeing that his escape route was about to be cut off, Gregori tried to veer into a turn -- but the beast was too fast for him.


    Each movement was accompanied by a flash of steel silver. The Silversaint seized hold of Gregori¡¯s leg once more, slammed him into the ground -- and then pounced on him, metal hands wrapped around his throat. There, in the alcove that had once contained Otrera¡¯s heart, Gregori Hazzard wrestled with death.


    It took all of his strength, and most of his Aether, to just barely pry the Silversaint¡¯s fingers away from his neck -- but he managed it. He bought himself the tiniest freedom to breathe, and the tiniest freedom to speak.


    "I want¡­" he gasped. "...to ask you something."


    The Silversaint sneered. "There is no reason¡­ for me ever to share combat information with the likes of you."


    Paper Moon.


    Gregori Hazzard was a troublesome one.


    White Aether flared around him as he folded the ground the two of them were wrestling on, destabilising the Silversaint¡¯s grip further -- and then kicked hard against the knight¡¯s chest plate with a pinpoint strike, sending it flying backwards. As the Aether Armament landed on its feet, no worse for wear, Gregori rolled into a kneeling position.


    "It¡¯s not that," Gregori said, massaging his neck with one hand. "I just want to know¡­ how does it feel?"


    "...What?"


    "When I kicked you just now," Gregori continued, a strangely anxious energy leaking into his body language. "How did it feel? Did it hurt? Did you imagine what the pain was like? Or was it just¡­ was it just information, that you could do what you wanted with?"


    Pathetic.


    "You already know this won¡¯t work, Hazzard¡­ there is no reason to tell you that."


    "Right, right," Gregori quietly nodded, hair hanging over his face. "It¡¯s just that¡­ well, it¡¯s sort of embarrassing, but¡­"


    He looked up, and his crimson eyes were almost sparkling with sickly enthusiasm.


    "Well¡­ I guess I¡¯m kinda jealous of you."


    That, the Silversaint had not expected. It cocked its helmet, plume flopping like a ponytail. "Jealous?"


    Slowly, Gregori pulled himself up off the ground, arms swaying limply. His gaze remained fixed on the Silversaint, though. Was this some kind of trick? Was he baiting the Silversaint to come in closer?


    For the time being, the best move would be to observe. The Silversaint gripped its broadsword in both hands.


    "Yeah¡­" Gregori said softly. "There¡¯s nothing human about you at all, is there? Not really. Pain and suffering¡­ living and dying¡­ happiness and sorrow¡­ you don¡¯t have to worry about any of it. You¡¯ve escaped all that. Ah¡­ damnit, I am jealous¡­ it really is embarrassing¡­"


    The man was just rambling to himself now.


    "What is your point?"


    Gregori Hazzard kept talking, head down, but the Silversaint didn¡¯t know whether that was a response to what it had just said or not. "I knew someone," Hazzard said. "Years ago¡­ not exactly like you, but someone who wasn¡¯t human either. We were partners for a while. I don¡¯t think she thought much of me, but the things she could do¡­ the things she could be¡­ beyond anything I could have imagined. Marie Hazzard. Do you know her? You¡¯ve probably heard her name at some point. The first name, I mean. I probably shouldn¡¯t spill this so easily, but¡­ she was a Gene Tyrant, you know? The very last of them¡­"


    "Enough of this," the Silversaint scoffed, taking a step forward. "I¡¯ve no interest in your tepid life story, Hazzard."


    "She died¡­" Gregori murmured, hair hanging over his face. "A few years ago now¡­ on Panacea¡­ I heard she died, and I¡­ and I just had this thought¡­" His arms swayed, left to right, right to left, as he took a step forward as well. "Ah, I couldn¡¯t stop thinking about it¡­ again and again¡­ that¡­ that¡­"


    He looked up.


    "That thing belonged to me."


    It was a feral sort of stillness that possessed the face of the man before the Silversaint. A snake in the moment before it struck. A lion in the moment before it pounced. But somehow¡­ somehow worse, somehow impure. There was a hollow hunger there. Unlike the whims of beasts, it was not something that could be sated.


    Gregori Hazzard¡¯s voice was cold as ice as he hissed: "I gave her my name. I gave her my face. And what do I get in return? Nothing. Nothing but false hope. Having to look at the sort of freedom I could never have."


    It was curious.


    When the Silversaint ceased personality simulation, all of its emotions save for those helpful in combat seemed to disappear. They weren¡¯t erased, per se, but they were suppressed to such a degree that they might as well have been. Even if some tiny trace of sorrow or joy or longing remained in the Silversaint¡¯s heart, it was minute enough to be invisible.


    Which was why it was curious. Right now, the Silversaint could feel a distinct sense of disgust towards the thing standing before it.


    "You are mad."


    Gregori looked up, his eyes focusing, as if remembering for the first time in a while that the Silversaint was still here.


    "Mad?" he muttered, dangerously soft.


    Gregori Hazzard smiled, and Gregori Hazzard laughed.


    "Sure!" he cried, spreading his arms wide as he gestured to the carcass-land around him. "If I¡¯m mad, then here is my madness! We¡¯d done it! We¡¯d escaped these disgusting fucking cages of being human, and what do we do?! We lock ourselves back in!"


    "You wish to become a Gene Tyrant?"


    "I want out," Gregori snarled, tugging at his collar like he was trying to rip his shirt open. "Out, out. I want out of this disgusting fucking body. I want out of this disgusting fucking species. People look at these things, these Gene Tyrants, and they either hate them or they love them. That¡¯s wrong, that¡¯s gross. If you see something that much greater than you, you shouldn¡¯t love it or hate it. You should become it, you should tear it open and wear it¡¯s skin until it¡¯s yours, until you¡¯re it."


    The Silversaint listened to Gregori¡¯s rant in silence -- and it was only when he stopped to breathe that it raised its sword above its head once more.


    "You cannot be allowed to live," it said simply. "Oathsworn!"


    The sword erupted into silver chains once more, illuminating the room, and the Silversaint brought the shining blade down towards Gregori¡¯s head.


    But¡­


    "You showed me something good¡­" Gregori breathed. "...so I¡¯ll repay the favour."


    He looked up, the blade an inch from his forehead.


    "The Unfolded World."


    "My ability, Paper Moon," Gregori said casually, returning his face to its usual mask, returning his hands to their usual pockets. "Allows me to fold and reshape anything I infuse however I like. I mean, I say that, but it¡¯s not the whole truth, you know?"


    He walked along the calcified flesh of the strongest Gene Tyrant, looking up towards the ceiling.


    "I mean, I say all that, but it¡¯s not 100% accurate. I can reshape things to a degree. An arm into a sword, or a car into a paper aeroplane -- but I¡¯m still just manoeuvring the original object, right? There¡¯s limits to it, and I kinda hate things that are limited."


    The Silversaint¡¯s metal legs dangled in the air.


    "So after I parted ways with that thing I told you about, I started to work on a new ability," Gregori continued. "The idea was to create a new fold in something, right? A non-existent sort of fold¡­ it¡¯s a difficult one to explain. So then, when I unfold it, I¡¯m creating something new, entirely new."


    The Silversaint¡¯s arms twitched, all but locked in place.


    "I wanted to make it so I could reshape the world however I like, create anything I like¡­"


    The Silversaint stared helplessly down at its foe.


    "...but in the end¡­"


    Gregori stopped.


    "...all I could manage were blades."


    All around them, the corpse of the Gene Tyrant had changed -- and the surrounding chamber, too. Nearly every inch of available space had erupted into sharp thin spikes, like a colony of sea urchins, impaling the Silversaint from every angle. Spikes of bone and spikes of steel and spikes of brick and spikes of glass, holding it up on high, keeping it trapped in a prison of blades.


    Again, it twitched, but that was all it was able to do.


    "Thanks for letting me talk," Gregori smiled thinly. "I don¡¯t get a chance to open up often. See you around."


    As though they were just friends who¡¯d met on the street, Gregori turned on his heel and began to walk away.


    "Where¡­" the Silversaint groaned. "...are you going?"


    Gregori glanced over his shoulder. "Did you forget? I¡¯m going to go kill that brat Aclima. Don¡¯t worry¡­" he smirked. "...against Hadrien, it¡¯ll be a mercy killing."


    Endo Silversaint was nothing but a facade. A mask that had temporarily believed itself to be real. It protected Aclima because that was the directive it had been given. If it was ordered to kill Aclima, it would have done so without hesitation.


    There were limits to its orders, though. In a situation like this, where its own existence was at stake, the correct course of action would be to stay put and await retrieval. It had already been defeated. There was no purpose in provoking a final blow.


    It knew that to be true, but¡­


    I¡¯m going to go kill that brat Aclima.


    ¡­but for some reason¡­


    I¡¯m going to go kill that brat Aclima.


    ¡­for some reason¡­


    I¡¯m going to go kill that brat Aclima.


    ¡­the correct course of action had changed.


    The Silversaint tore itself free from the spikes with a bestial roar, shredding its armour and sending scraps of metal flying in every direction. Silver chains pulled together what little of the armour survived, and it was Bonds of Fealty alone that kept the Silversaint¡¯s body intact as it landed on the floor. It had so many holes that the scenery behind it was visible from every angle, and only one arm and one leg remained, such as they were.


    This body would not last more than a few seconds¡­ but the Silversaint could move fast enough for that. A chain of light pulled its discarded sword to its remaining hand, and it swung the weapon with all its strength.


    "HAZZARD!"


    Gregori just turned, looked at him with those dull red eyes, and sighed.


    "Oh," he said, distinctly disappointed. "You¡¯re human after all."


    Pale skin turned white and dry¡­


    "Gross."


    ¡­and the Silversaint felt the final grasp of something almost inhuman.

 Chapter 414:13.72: Step and Shot

    Fifteen Years Ago¡­


    Punch. Punch. Punch.


    Such was the tempo of Ash del Duran¡¯s life.


    He punched bags that hung from the wall, he punched peers that came to spar with him, he punched enemies that came to kill him. The first he battered, the second he bruised, and the third he punched right through. He had long ago become used to the feeling of blood on his hands.


    Once, they had said those punches would reach the realm of the Supreme. Once, those punches had been accompanied by flashes of red, but Ash knew better now. He knew better than to waste his pool of precious years on the nameless.


    For a thug, a fist is a weapon to inflict violence, Steigh had said. For a warrior, a fist is a stamp to leave their mark on the world.


    The Supremacy was the land of legendary warriors. Azez the Absolute, Boris the Berserk, Ragnar the Redeemer, Gael the Golden¡­ Ash wanted to leave a mark like theirs. He wanted his name to linger in the minds of those like himself.


    All Ash did now¡­ was to gild his gravestone.


    "You know," Steigh had said once, interrupting their meditation in his dojo. "There are other ways to make your mark on the world. The fist is not the only stamp."


    Steigh Kindred was a man built for fighting, with muscles like iron cables and an agile build -- it was something he maintained well as he got older. He¡¯d shaved his head to create the image of discipline, but the persistent stubble of a burgeoning beard somehow betrayed it. One of the foremost masters of the Killing Arts in the Supremacy¡­ and Ash¡¯s teacher.


    Ash had opened his eyes, looking at him in bemusement. Barely out of his teens, and he already looked like a man long-since grown. Anyone would have thought the two were peers of the same generation, not master and pupil.


    "I¡¯m surprised to hear you say that, Master," Ash replied. "I always thought we were of a piece."


    "Same deck, different cards," Steigh said. "True, we¡¯re both accursed with inconvenient Aether tics, but¡­ my pain is just that -- pain. Your accelerated aging is a death sentence."


    "There¡¯s nothing to be done about it," Ash said. "Why quibble?"


    "As I say¡­ have you not considered another path through life? Reduced as they are, you have years remaining to you -- decades, even. Why not claim them while you can?"


    Ash looked down at his hand, at the firm calluses that had formed on his knuckles.


    Punch. Punch. Punch.


    The tempo of a life indeed.


    "My soul was built for fighting," he murmured. "For me to take another path would be its own kind of death."


    Steigh sighed. "It¡¯s a sad thing¡­" he said. "...to be born with a body unworthy of your will." S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Present Day¡­


    Ash del Duran moved through the filth.


    It hadn¡¯t taken him long to pick up Atoy Muzazi¡¯s trail. As part of his training, he¡¯d hunted ravenous beasts through the abundant jungles of Merzhun. Hunting a man through the urban jungle was no great feat in comparison.


    Still, Ash was surprised by the route that Muzazi had taken. As anticipated, he was proceeding to the Arena through mundane means, preserving as much of his strength as he could. He¡¯d reached the Prominence District, where shuttles were taking the crowds up to the floating Arena -- but from there, he¡¯d moved off the streets.


    The path he¡¯d chosen was one away from prying eyes. The stinking, filthy drainage channels of Azum-Ha -- the sewer that infested the planet¡¯s upper levels like metal kudzu. Muzazi would use this route to get to the shuttles, and from there proceed to the Arena proper.


    That is¡­ if Ash didn¡¯t stop him.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    If Ash had chosen to walk through the river of human byproducts, he¡¯d have been up to his knees in it. Therefore, he had chosen otherwise. He was kicking off the sides of the metal tunnel, hopping from wall to wall as he advanced, staying as dry as he could.


    That in itself was difficult -- it had begun raining not long ago, and it was battering against Ash¡¯s back from the grates overhead. The disgusting river below was growing deeper with each passing minute. It was disquieting, but there was opportunity there too: there was every possibility that Atoy Muzazi would be delayed by this as well.


    A finger of melancholy dragged its nail against Ash¡¯s heart as he considered the commander.


    Truly, he had not wished to come into conflict with Atoy Muzazi¡­


    Click.


    ¡­or the one behind him.


    "Don¡¯t move."


    Ash stopped, planting his feet against the wall and allowing himself to slowly slide down. Sure enough, his legs descended deep into the muck he¡¯d hoped to avoid. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Ash turned to look at his assailant.


    "I said don¡¯t move," Marcus Grace glared.


    The gunslinger stood on the other end of the long tunnel, pistol held in both hands as he pointed it at Ash. His eyes were good -- cold, prepared to pull the trigger and do what had to be done. Ash expected no less.


    "Do you think you could hit me," Ash said. "If you fired right now, I mean?"


    Marcus narrowed his eyes, refining his aim further. "I¡¯ve never missed before. Not once in my life."


    "And I¡¯ve never been hit by a bullet before tonight," Ash raised his hastily bandaged hand. "You should have been satisfied with your miracle and gone home."


    For a long moment, they just stood there, facing off down the length of the tunnel. The rain continued to beat down, stabbing its pattern into the rancid water below. It plastered Marcus¡¯ short hair to his head and dragged Ash¡¯s long hair down.


    This, too, was a strategy, Ash supposed. So long as they were trapped in this standoff, Atoy Muzazi could proceed to the Arena of the Absolute unmolested.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    That wasn¡¯t something he could allow.


    "You know," Ash said. "I¡¯ve always thought you and I were of a piece, Mr. Grace."


    Marcus slowly took a wading step forward, his gaze -- and his gun -- trained on Ash all the while. "How¡¯s that?"


    "Two men without specialized Aether abilities," Ash replied. "We make our way in this world through mastery of the basics alone. You with the gun, I with the fist."


    "No," Marcus smirked. "You have an Aether ability. I¡¯m guessing you just don¡¯t feel like wasting it on me?"


    Ash smiled right back. "No offense, but we¡¯re literally standing in piss and shit here. It would hardly make for a good epitaph."


    As the rain intensified into curtains of water, slamming down on the two of them to such a degree that it almost hurt, Ash considered his options. Could he continue moving down the tunnel, dodging Marcus¡¯ fire?


    There was a fork right behind him -- if he could move down one of the split paths, he could possibly lose the gunslinger among the forest of pipes. It wasn¡¯t a sure bet, though¡­ in fact, it wasn¡¯t even a likely bet. Marcus¡¯ earlier statement had been no mere boast: the Cogitant had a reputation for precision. Dodging a shot from him would be its own sort of miracle.


    Stopping and surrendering to Marcus Grace wasn¡¯t an option, either. To do that would be to accept failure. Ash wasn¡¯t ready for such humiliation yet.


    So¡­ that left one option.


    It was just as he¡¯d said. They were masters of the fist and the gun. It was time to see which of those disciplines would come out on top here.


    He¡¯d need to cross the length of the tunnel -- ten meters at least -- and strike Marcus Grace before the Cogitant could aim and shoot.


    Could he do that? He couldn¡¯t afford not to.


    "I¡¯m curious," Marcus said, thumb slowly sliding over the barrel of his gun. "You really think Aclima has any chance against Dragan Hadrien?"


    Ash adjusted his footing slightly, the movement made invisible by the filth his feet were resting in. "I saw that girl take down one of the Contenders with a touch," he replied. "From a ship in orbit. I certainly think she has the right to try. Do you disagree, Grace?"


    Marcus swallowed. "I¡¯ve got two daughters of my own."


    "So it¡¯s merciful for you people to steal her birthright? That¡¯s how you¡¯re excusing it to yourself?"


    "Nah," Marcus said, clicking his tongue. "It¡¯s a shitty thing to do, I¡¯m well aware. Atoy Muzazi bought my loyalty with my son -- that¡¯s what it boils down to. But I won¡¯t lie¡­"


    His aim grew even more rigid.


    "... I¡¯ll sleep a whole lot better at night knowing that girl didn¡¯t end up at the Arena."


    The look in Marcus Grace¡¯s eyes had gotten even better. Hard as steel and cold as space¡¯s void -- filled with readiness to kill. There was a good chance that this would be someone¡¯s last memory. Ash let out a cold breath that danced in the air as mist.


    "We¡¯re done talking, it seems," Ash whispered under his breath.


    "What?"


    "I said it seems we¡¯re done talking," Ash repeated.


    "You move," Marcus said calmly. "I shoot."


    When his body had been young, Ash knew he¡¯d have been able to cross this tunnel in the blink of an eye. The boy would have defeated Marcus Grace as easily as anyone else, barely even conceiving of what it cost him. The boy would have won every battle with a single step, and never even realized the war had long since passed him by.


    But the path that boy had walked had been a false footing from the start. Now he was a man beyond his years¡­ now he had to walk with care.


    Ash del Duran¡¯s Aether tic was accelerated aging -- but that wasn¡¯t the full extent of it. The older his body grew, the faster the accelerated aging became. At first, he hadn¡¯t even realized he had an Aether tic. Now, he didn¡¯t even know how many more times he could use Aether before it would kill him.


    So¡­ he had to make it count.


    Killing Arts: Liar¡¯s Gasp.


    To the eyes of Marcus Grace, it would look like Ash was just taking a breath, but if anything the opposite was true. He was manipulating the laryngeal muscles in his throat, forcing a blockage of his airway¡­ and, by intentionally suffocating himself, he fooled both the enemy and his own body. Right now, as far as this withered shell of his was concerned, Ash del Duran was dying.


    Well¡­ it wasn¡¯t that much of a lie. Ash del Duran was dying. The only falsehood was the speed.


    There were two flashes of light.


    Blue Aether flashed as Marcus pulled the trigger, a shining streak erupting from the barrel of his pistol and zooming towards Ash.


    Red Aether flashed as Ash lunged down the tunnel, the split-second usage bolstering the adrenaline his body was giving him following Liar¡¯s Gasp.


    The bullet sailed over Ash¡¯s arm as he brought his body low -- and, before that bullet could even reach the wall behind him, he slammed his fist into Marcus¡¯ stomach. Defeat was immediate. Marcus¡¯ eyes rolled up into their sockets, and a fountain of blood and spit spewed out of his mouth. Ash kept his fist planted against Marcus¡¯ body, so that the other man didn¡¯t fall into the water, but he had surely inflicted internal damage with that.


    Ash relaxed his throat and let out a breath -- this time of steam, the heat his movement had created finally escaping his body. His limbs shook. His head throbbed. His bones felt like someone had sucked the marrow right out of them.


    ¡­damnit.


    Hadn¡¯t he trained so hard in the Killing Arts so he could avoid Aether usage as much as possible? How many months had that little maneuver cost him just now? How many years? He ran a wet hand over his face, feeling for new wrinkles.


    Creak.


    He felt older, at least.


    Crack.


    "Hm?" Ash looked up.


    There was a blue glowing point in the wall far behind him -- the spot where Marcus¡¯ bullet had hit. No -- now that Ash looked properly, he could see that glow was the bullet itself, still intact. The projectile was lodged firmly in the metal, long jagged cracks spreading out from the point of impact¡­ and those cracks were growing wider.


    Creak. Crack.


    "Ah," said Ash.


    The wall exploded inwards with a sound like a bomb going off -- and with it came a tidal wave of filthy water. It filled the entire tunnel as it rushed onwards, so contaminated that it was nearly completely black. Ash braced himself. Under these conditions, in this environment, escaping was not an option.


    "Well, Mr. Grace," Ash said to the man hanging from his arm. "I suppose you were right. You really don¡¯t miss."


    Killing Arts: Brick Body!


    It hadn¡¯t been easy to get out of the sewers. Ash hadn¡¯t been used to the fragility of his new body, and so his attempt to withstand the tidal wave had resulted in him breaking an arm. It flopped at his side uselessly as he jogged through Unicorn Park.


    He¡¯d left Marcus Grace unconscious on the banks of the artificial river where they¡¯d both washed up. There hadn¡¯t been a need to finish him off -- and anyway, Ash quite liked the man. Alive or dead, Grace had accomplished his mission: he¡¯d managed to delay Ash.


    That didn¡¯t mean Ash had lost yet, though. If he could catch up to Muzazi before he reached the Arena, he could --


    Danger.


    Ash skidded to a halt, dirty water flying off his body and splattering onto the floor. Something was ahead, standing between two of the park¡¯s massive Apex trees. A predator: something that raised goosebumps just by being there.


    He narrowed his eyes, peering through the fog -- and then his eyes widened.


    "Have you truly fallen so far, Atoy Muzazi?" he hissed to himself.


    He knew the man standing before him. They¡¯d never met before, but Ash knew his face, and Ash knew his name. Any competent warrior would be aware of such a terrible rival. Ash¡¯s heart thundered in his chest. Yes, he knew this man¡­ and, more importantly, he knew the spear this man was holding.


    Jamilu Aguta. Nebula Two of the Unified Alliance of Planets -- and Victory, one of the five Old Demons of the Dawn.


    "Sorry," the man said. "I can¡¯t let you pass."


    Weakling, the demon spear snickered.

 Chapter 415:13.73: Sky and Star

    What did it mean to be bound by promises?


    Did it mean to be bound by every promise, like a net to keep your entrails inside your body, or could there be a hierarchy? Could the chain of one promise be tighter than the other? Was that even better, or was that tightness a cruelty? Was the weak chain truly weak, or just kinder?


    Ionir Yggdrassil was bound by promises, even if it was no longer sure what that meant. The promise of obeisance to one had been broken this night, for sake of obeisance towards another. If that truly was a sin, Ionir was not equipped to punish itself.


    So, in this situation, it did the only thing it could.


    Ionir moved.


    In its current bodily configuration, Nidhogh, Ionir¡¯s sheer size and strength meant that it was more than a match for its two targets, even without any Aether infusion to speak of. Letting out a roar of grinding bark, it swept its vine-like tail across the rooftop, the appendage crushing everything it rushed over.


    Aclima darted towards the incoming tail, no doubt thinking it was filled with Wisdom she could attack with her ability, but AnyaHapgrass saw through it immediately. She pushed in front of the Supreme Heir -- and planted one of her two flags into the rooftop before her, between the two women and the attack.


    Ionir had never seen AnyaHapgrass fight before, but it was vaguely familiar with her abilities through the research MORGAN NACHT had presented it the night before. She wielded two flags: Bright Surrender and Dark Resistance. The two flags projected spherical fields around themselves when planted, their precise effects differing. Bright Surrender attracted weapons and attacks, while Dark Resistance repelled them.


    In short, they were magnets for violence.


    AnyaHapgrass had planted Dark Resistance this time -- and so, Ionir¡¯s tail came to a sudden halt as it reached the projected field. The speed with which it had been moving suddenly turned against it, and the backlash tore the tail in two, the severed end dropping off the edge of the roof.


    Aclima took advantage of the sudden interruption in Ionir¡¯s attack, rushing towards its massive head as quickly as she could. One of her hands was open, grasping at empty air, ready to use Curse Hand -- while the other dragged her massive cleaver-sword behind her.


    Ionir went to take flight again, to escape Aclima¡¯s range, but MORGAN NACHT was already taking action on its behalf.


    The young man flipped off of Ionir¡¯s head, sword whistling through the air, and landed directly in front of Aclima. Their clash was immediate -- again and again and again, the black cleaver struck against the pale blade. Ionir went to snap down at Aclima before she could use Curse Hand, but --


    Danger.


    -- instead, it had no choice but to launch itself up into the air once more.


    AnyaHapgrass had pulled a black spear out of thin air -- some kind of Armament, with fire blazing from the back like a rocket¡¯s thruster -- and hurled it towards Ionir. Now -- having missed -- it zoomed off into the night, a red dot slowly growing dim. Ionir knew not what that attack had been, but its well of instinct told it that allowing it to hit was not an option.


    There was every possibility that AnyaHapgrass could launch another attack like that. Ionir could not allow that. The immediate target had changed.


    Fight carefully, MORGAN NACHT, Ionir thought. I must do the same.


    This was a disaster.


    Everything had been set. They hadn¡¯t even needed to do anything, and Atoy Muzazi had been eliminated by that monster PALATINE. After Hadrien had defeated it, everything should have been in the bag. Gretchen should have won at that point.


    All she had to do was get Aclima to the Arena, use her control over the girl to force a surrender, and reap the rewards. The favour of the new Supreme, and Baltay¡¯s release from that prison. Atoy Muzazi shouldn¡¯t even have been a factor by that point.


    But he¡¯d turned everything around -- no, they had. No doubt this bastard Nacht had been part of planning this coup as well. Muzazi wasn¡¯t smart enough to conceive of such a plan on his own, nor unscrupulous enough to execute it. She hadn¡¯t made him that way.


    Yes¡­ this was a disaster, but not an unsalvageable one.


    She¡¯d already sent word to Hadrien of the situation with her Owl Glass. Given the circumstances, she hadn¡¯t been able to check for a reply, but it would give him a chance to prepare in case Muzazi showed up. In case. Ash del Duran was in pursuit of him, and he was no weakling.


    There was every possibility that the Full Moon wouldn¡¯t reach that place alive.


    In which case, her job right now was to protect Aclima and eliminate Muzazi¡¯s supporters. That she could gladly do.


    Allowing a grin to spread across her lips, Gretchen pulled two items out of her Ragnarok Forge. A small burning dagger in one hand, and a crystalline sphere in the other. As the great wooden dragon flapped its mighty wings above, sending gusts of wind coursing across the rooftops, Gretchen narrowed her eyes at it.


    She¡¯d been hoping for an opportunity like this¡­ an opportunity for vengeance against the one who had killed her.


    It was time to launch her first attack.


    There was guilt lurking inside Morgan Nacht¡¯s heart, but he didn¡¯t have time for it right now. It would have to remain in the dark for the time being.


    His sword danced through the air, clashing with Aclima¡¯s again and again and again, showers of sparks raining down with each impact. With each strike, he could tell that his blade was growing more fragile -- spiderweb cracks already forming across the pale metal. It wouldn¡¯t last much longer.


    It couldn¡¯t be helped, though: that damage was a natural consequence of the measures he was taking to stay alive.


    Aclima¡¯s ability, Curse Hand, allowed her to subvert any Aether she grabbed with her hand. The Aether became like a hostile virus, attacking the body of its user and rapidly debilitating them. Since she needed to touch her target¡¯s Aether to activate the ability, Morgan should have had little to fear from blocking her sword-swings.


    However¡­ that was how Curse Hand had worked two years ago. Ever since Elysian Fields, Aclima had been loath to demonstrate her abilities in front of Muzazi¡¯s faction. Who was to say she hadn¡¯t developed the ability further since then?


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    So, he¡¯d decided to take a page out of Ash del Duran¡¯s book.


    The principle was the opposite of pinpoint Aether. When he swung his sword, Morgan infused his body and his weapon as he normally would -- then, at the moment of impact, he removed the infusion entirely. His attacks retained the momentum his infused swings had given them, so speed and strength wasn¡¯t a problem¡­ but durability was another story.


    How many more times could he swing before his sword shattered? Hell, pain was already beginning to ooze up his arm -- how many strikes before that shattered?


    As Morgan slowed down, Aclima sped up, her attacks growing more wild and ferocious as she advanced. It almost wasn¡¯t fair. She could enjoy the benefits of both infusion and Curse Hand simultaneously, while her opponent had to manage with fragile flesh and blood.


    Morgan ducked under a swing that would have taken his head off. This tactic wasn¡¯t working, there wasn¡¯t a path to victory here. He could just barely defend with his anti-pinpoint Aether, but attacking was another option. Eventually, Aclima would wear him down.


    He supposed he could try that¡­ but no. If that didn¡¯t work, he¡¯d be dead. Best to keep it as a last resort.


    F! A!


    Morgan pulled himself backwards with a daring rope made of Amplified Fog, dispelling it the instant it was no longer needed. Curse Hand wasn¡¯t just a threat to infusion: it meant that any Aether construct or effect Morgan tried to impose was just another avenue through which Aclima could attack. Launching projectiles like Block was out of the question, for example.


    Panting for breath, Morgan ran a finger along his blade, feeling the damage. The weapon had three, maybe four clashes left in it. He¡¯d have to make them count.


    He was just about to charge back in --


    Clang.


    -- when a bright blue sphere of crystal landed at his feet.


    He didn¡¯t know what it was. He didn¡¯t know who had thrown it. He didn¡¯t know what it did. But on a battlefield like this, there was no time to question such things. On a battlefield like this, that could be nothing but an attack.


    He went to move, but too late¡­


    "Little Pearl," grinned Anya Hapgrass.


    ¡­as the light erupted forth and devoured Morgan Nacht.


    A blue aurora flared across the rooftop, pulling in both MORGAN NACHT and Aclima, before suddenly receding. When it cleared, the two of them were gone.


    Ionir looked around with the full extent of its awareness -- but no, it could not find where they had gone. Had they even gone somewhere, or had that attack annihilated them entirely? No. If the enemy was capable of that, this fight would never even have begun at all.


    Yes¡­ the enemy.


    Ionir returned it¡¯s attention to the lone woman now standing on the roof below it -- AnyaHapgrass. She was looking up, hands on her hips, a broad grin on her face. Did she think she had a better chance of victory now that MORGAN NACHT was gone? If so, she was mistaken.


    "You can talk if you want," AnyaHapgrass called up cheerily, tapping her earring. "I¡¯ve got a translator."


    A translator? Ionir didn¡¯t know such a thing existed. But still¡­


    MORGAN NACHT and Aclima. Where have they gone?


    AnyaHapgrass tapped her foot against the ground, her grin growing ever-wider. Something was off. Ever since Aclima had disappeared, this woman¡¯s body language had changed completely. Even if she hadn¡¯t yet tried to attack Ionir since the battle began, there was still a threat there -- Ionir could sense it.


    "It¡¯s so cute how you¡¯re worried about him, you know," she giggled. "Don¡¯t worry¡­ Little Pearl just sends people away, so they¡¯re not vaporised or anything. Was that what you were worried about?"


    Sent them away to where?


    "I¡¯ve got no reason to answer that," AnyaHapgrass replied. "It¡¯s a place they can¡¯t get back to here from anytime soon, let¡¯s just say that."


    If that¡¯s the case¡­ you¡¯ve already failed your mission. If Aclima can¡¯t even return here, how will she reach the arena?


    AnyaHapgrass pursed her lips. "She¡¯s resourceful. I¡¯ve got complete faith."


    While Aclima fights MORGAN NACHT, you intend to fight me, Ionir surmised. I do not think that was a good idea for you, AnyaHapgrass.


    "Don¡¯t worry," she said. "It gets better."


    She stepped forward -- and as she did, she pulled a small weapon out from her sleeve. A dagger, it¡¯s curved blade glowing white-hot. Ionir kept its focus on the thing: if that was an Aether Armament that AnyaHapgrass had acquired, there was no telling what it¡¯s abilities could be.


    "Fusion Tool," AnyaHapgrass smiled, raising the knife up before her face. "Heimdall."


    The dagger erupted into flames.


    In an instant, AnyaHapgrass¡¯ body had been engulfed by the inferno -- and as it was engulfed, it changed. Skin and hair alike were burnt away, but from beneath them new hair and new skin quickly made itself known. Eyeballs were scorched by the flames, leaving golden ones in their place.


    It was like seeing wallpaper be stripped away, revealing the true brickwork beneath.


    AnyaHapgrass drank in the night air deeply as she spread her arms wide, head angled up towards the sky.


    "Oh my god!" she groaned, cracking her neck. "That is actually so much better!¡¯


    No. That wasn¡¯t right. AnyaHapgrass didn¡¯t do that, and AnyaHapgrass didn¡¯t say that.


    That hair. Those eyes. That voice.


    GretchenHail narrowed her gaze as she looked back down at Ionir.


    Her overalls had burnt away too, leaving a dress of simple red cloth -- but that dress was loaded down heavily. Bracelets and baubles, piercings and anklets, necklaces and brooches, accessories and attachments. Every inch of available space had been taken advantage of, to such a degree that the woman seemed to be glittering in the night-light. S~ea??h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    GretchenHail was an expert on Aether Armaments, after all. It seemed she¡¯d come equipped this time.


    "Hiya, tree," she growled. "It¡¯s been a while."


    It was a good thing, Morgan Nacht supposed, that he wasn¡¯t afraid of heights.


    One second, he¡¯d been fighting Aclima along the rooftops of Azum-Ha -- and in the next he was somewhere else entirely. A circular platform of blue crystal, around ten metres across, with Aclima standing on the other side. Where they were wasn¡¯t the issue, though.


    The issue was where the platform was.


    Azum-Ha was one of the biggest city-worlds in the galaxy, right next to the UAP¡¯s Serendipity. The buildings stretched so high that there were many places that had to project an artificial sky, just to prevent neuroses in the populace. When you were on Azum-Ha, the urban jungle was inescapable.


    If Morgan looked down right now¡­ if Morgan squinted¡­ he could just about make out that landscape.


    How high up were they? Morgan couldn¡¯t put a number on it, but he didn¡¯t think the number would make him feel much better, anyway. If they weren¡¯t in the upper atmosphere, they were damn well close.


    At any rate¡­ this was the border between the sky and the stars.


    That sphere had done this. Beyond that, Morgan didn¡¯t have the luxury of speculation. He had to focus on survival right now. He had to focus on victory.


    He held his near-broken sword in both hands, ready against the girl opposite him. Aclima looked just as confused as he had for a moment, but then her face hardened, and her eyes turned cold. It seemed she¡¯d reached the same conclusion he had.


    Against an enemy like this¡­


    With a battlefield like this¡­


    In a situation like this¡­


    ¡­this might no longer be a fight that both of them could walk away from.

 Chapter 416:13.74: The Bloodless Hour

    Ionir Yggdrassil considered matters.


    GretchenHail was standing before it, breathing and speaking. How could this be? It was certain it had landed a fatal attack on her two years ago aboard the Child Garden. It had slapped her out of the air and turned her into a smear on the wall. It was reasonably sure humans could not recover from that level of damage.


    Ionir Yggdrassil determined matters.


    In the end, it didn¡¯t matter. The fact remained: GretchenHail was standing before it, breathing and speaking. She was without a doubt an enemy. She had already been an enemy when she had been using the identity of AnyaHapgrass -- all that had changed was the level of danger. The course of action was obvious.


    Ionir Yggdrassil went to end matters.


    Three attacks at once, to cover all angles. A swing of Ionir¡¯s tail, to smash through GretchenHail¡¯s torso. A barrage of Wisdom-infused leaves, to slice through her front. A sharpener tendril of wrapped vine, to puncture her body from behind and skewer her heart.


    The attacks were executed with perfect synchronicity, with perfect timing. However, before they could land, GretchenHail tapped a finger against her necklace¡­


    "Bloodless Hour, Version 4."


    ¡­and the concept of time itself became irrelevant.


    The world stopped.


    Okay, well it didn¡¯t stop really, but Gretchen perceived the world so quickly that everything might as well have been standing still. Leaves hovered in the air. A tail of bark had stopped, inches from her body. Doing her utmost to keep her feet in the same position, she glanced over her shoulder -- and saw the lurking tendril that had been about to stab her in the back.


    Her instincts had been right, then: that had been the right moment to start her Bloodless Hour.


    If true time manipulation was possible using Aether, it was something far beyond Gretchen¡¯s abilities. Simulated time manipulation, however, was another story. By accelerating both her body¡¯s movements and her brain¡¯s perception, Bloodless Hour was able to emulate a ¡¯time stop¡¯ effect. As the name of the Armament suggested, she could remain in this leisurely state for up to an hour if she wanted.


    There were rules, of course -- conditions she¡¯d imposed to get this tricky Armament working. She couldn¡¯t launch an attack in this state, nor could she move her feet from their original position. If she did either, the Bloodless Hour would immediately end, and the world around her would resume its movements. In this case, her threefold death would continue coming after her.


    So, in direct combat, utility was limited. That didn¡¯t mean it was useless, though. Far from it.


    She¡¯d taken such care preparing for a battle like this. It¡¯d be a terrible shame for her to start taking hits before she could put those preparations into effect. An hour would be more than enough time to get ready.


    Simple stuff first. She reached into her Ragnarok Forge, pulling out the three vials she¡¯d commissioned from the Maker-Guild¡¯s Concoctionist.


    She gulped down the Red Concoction first, boosting her body¡¯s natural regeneration and numbing her sense of pain.


    Then, the Blue Concoction. Immediately, she felt her mind sharpen into clarity, confusion and doubt fading away into nothing.


    Finally, the Gold Concoction. She felt nothing from this one, but she already knew the effects. A more durable body, strong enough to take the Fell Beast¡¯s blows this time.


    The effects of the potions lasted only half an hour -- ordinarily, she¡¯d have taken them last as a result. She¡¯d tested these sorts of things with Bloodless Hour before, though. That time limit would only begin once she deactivated the simulated time stop.


    It was very convenient.


    Next, she reached over her shoulder, tapping the tiny white disc balanced between her shoulder blades. Like a button, she pushed it, feeling the Armament depressing down into her own body. A moment of pain, and then¡­


    "Spine of Granba."


    Sixteen segmented arms skittered out from Gretchen¡¯s back, long and spindly, each boasting at least six elbows. The joints on each finger were just as gratuitous, allowing them to bend and warp in altogether inhuman ways -- but that was just fine. So long as they could do that, they could do what Gretchen needed.


    In direct hand-to-hand combat, the arms produced by the Spine of Granba were far too delicate and fragile to be of use, but that too was fine. Every tool had its purpose. Gretchen just needed them to hold things.


    One by one, she pulled Armaments out of her Ragnarok Forge, handing them to one of the arms protruding from her back.


    Ode to Joy, a brass pistol with a wide barrel, was clutched between white fingers and pointed ahead, aiming at the rain of sharpened leaves. Quietly, she began to charge a golden shot.


    Clumsy Boy, a mop dripping with soapy liquid, was held defensively in front of Gretchen¡¯s chest. The air around her took on a shimmering quality, like it had been wiped clean.


    The Sphere of the Stolen Future was presented in front of Gretchen¡¯s face, allowing her to look into its depths. She could see her own corpse in the crystal, crushed between the three attacks. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    More and more came out, handed off to the Spine of Granba, an array of absurdist weapons spreading out from Gretchen¡¯s back like wings.


    Ah¡­ how lovely.


    Ever since she¡¯d been a child, Gretchen had adored Aether Armaments.


    It had been an old videograph about the Dranell Breaches that had done it. When the topic of the documentary had shifted to the instrument of victory -- EIN SOF -- she had immediately been entranced. When she slept, she dreamt of Aether Armaments. When she was awake, she forged them. Every second was spent with Aether Armaments in her thoughts.


    Tools that could bring about miracles. Magic wands of every shape and size. How could she ever grow bored of them?


    There had only ever been one person who had understood her passion, one person who had given her the chance she needed to truly make those dreams into reality. It had been perfect. It had been perfect -- and these people, this thing, had taken all that away from her.


    Because of them, Baltay was rotting in a prison cell, and she was alone.


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    She¡¯d take out some of that frustration now.


    Gretchen Hail pulled Ode to Joy¡¯s trigger, and the Bloodless Hour ended. Having been charged for several ¡¯minutes¡¯, the blast was more than hot enough to incinerate the infused leaves coming for her. At the same time, she braced herself -- and, with her real arms, blocked the incoming tail from the side. Even with her enhanced strength and durability, it took everything she had to stop the tail from pushing her across the roof.


    The sharp tendril lunged at her back, but then its path went wild, careening off until it stuck itself into the surface of the roof.


    Gretchen smirked. Clumsy Boy had the ability to make things ¡¯slippery¡¯ upon contact. Gretchen had exploited that to create a barrier of slippery air around herself, causing precision attacks to veer off-course.


    The image on the Sphere of the Stolen Future changed -- now it depicted her crushed gruesomely beneath one of Ionir Yggdrassil¡¯s elephant-like feet. She fired off a pair of Armament grappling hooks behind her -- one firing string, the other rattling chains -- and pulled herself backwards, out of the way of the stomp.


    If she¡¯d had the Sphere on the Child Garden, things would have been very different. The Abra-Facadian relic was constantly analyzing the situation and projecting the future of its user -- the image it displayed was the user¡¯s current most likely death. If one interpreted the image correctly, they could avoid any fatality coming for them.


    Ionir Yggdrassil took off again, mighty leaf-wings creating gusts of vicious wind. Gretchen held the Black-Bracer in front of her, projecting a shield that blocked the worst of the air pressure, but she already knew it wouldn¡¯t be able to stand up to a real attack from the Fell Beast.


    This monster was still a dangerous opponent, Gretchen knew, no matter how well she had prepared. The way it grew and shed excess matter meant that it was capable of changing its form as it pleased. Its arboreal nature meant there were limits to the sort of shapes it could pull off, but still¡­


    ¡­to put it simply, fighting an adept Fell Beast wasn¡¯t so different from fighting an Aether-wielding Gene Tyrant.


    Ionir charged, kicking off the building behind it with such force that the roof exploded, bricks and steel raining down below as an avalanche. Gretchen had been right to be wary. The Fell Beast was moving as fast as a train, and its sheer bulk meant that it could easily reduce her to a smear once again, even with her iron body.


    But she¡¯d come equipped for that.


    The Bloodless Hour.


    Time stopped once again.


    At some point in the clash, it had started raining, and now those raindrops hung frozen in the air like tiny twinkling stars. The draconic head of Ionir Yggdrassil hung a mere meter away from Gretchen, trapped in the moment before collision. She took a moment to catch her breath before changing her load out.


    As her previous Armaments -- save for the Sphere -- vanished back into Ragnarok Forge, they were replaced by comparatively less impressive weapons. Standard-issue plasma pistols, the kind you¡¯d find littering any battlefield or clutched in the hand of any corpse. Plain as they were, though, these were still Aether Armaments.


    According to general wisdom, there were two kinds of Aether Armaments: the ¡¯intentional¡¯ and the ¡¯incidental¡¯.


    Intentional Aether Armaments were what people like Gretchen and the Maker-Guild worked with. They were a product of active design, weapons created to exert specific abilities and powers. Often, they were commissioned by the wealthy for their own use.


    Incidental Aether Armaments were actually the original variety, with the later intentional Armaments being based upon their example. They were the product of repeated and frequent infusion of a certain object. The fifteen pistols Gretchen was holding, for example: they¡¯d been infused so often that they could now ¡¯snap¡¯ back to their enhanced state with just a little Aether to activate them.


    Cracking her neck again, Gretchen pointed her array of pistols at the incoming Fell Beast --


    -- and pulled the triggers.


    As time shattered back into being, a volley of powered-up plasmafire slammed into the side of Ionir¡¯s head, the impact forcing him to change course and swerve out of Gretchen¡¯s way. Huge chunks of bark thudded to the ground as the Fell Beast shed the burning parts of his body, seeking to stop the flames from spreading across its vulnerable form. As it swooped up into the air, passing right over Gretchen --


    The Bloodless Hour.


    -- she paused matters once again.


    Gretchen frowned as she looked down at the red amulet hanging from her neck. The ruby was already growing cloudy and dark. If she set the Aetheral Bonds on her wrists to support it, Bloodless Hour could probably stop time once more¡­ maybe twice more, if she pushed her luck. Fine. The defects were meant to have been ironed out with Version 3, but she could still work with this.


    Ragnarok Forge.


    Gretchen¡¯s ability, Ragnarok Forge, was designed specifically to interface with Aether Armaments -- intentional or otherwise. It was able to disassemble and reassemble them quickly, allowing her to craft new Aether Armaments on the fly with just her ability. There were all sorts of other interesting tricks she could pull with it, too.


    For example¡­


    Orange Aether crackled as Gretchen pulled all fifteen plasma-pistols back into Ragnarok Forge -- and immediately began to work. First, she separated the physical forms of the Armaments from their abilities. Fifteen power-up charges, and fifteen powerless pistols.


    Then, she started modifying the physical aspect.


    The fifteen pistols were pulled apart, recycled into their constituent materials -- then recombined, reforged into a new form entirely. At first, it was just a mass of incoherent metal, but then she made some more adjustments to the shape. Just a barrel, a handle, and a trigger would do. This thing wouldn¡¯t exist long enough to need much else.


    Ordinarily, she¡¯d be much more careful with the extracted abilities of the Armaments, but these low-tier pistols weren¡¯t worth taking the trouble. She smashed the abilities into each other, the power boost growing exponentially stronger and more unstable with each iteration. Five, ten, fifteen¡­ by the time she was done, the nucleus of the power was damn near about to explode out of her Forge.


    She set Aetheral Bonds to stabilize it as well. The last thing she needed here was self-destruction. And then¡­ she recombined the physical form and the fused ability.


    Allblast H?fue!


    All good Armaments had names, after all.


    The cannon she¡¯d created truly was massive: nearly twice the size of a car, it dwarfed her body as she pointed it up towards the sky, supporting its weight with the fifteen spare arms of Granba¡¯s spine. Chaotic edges and sparking wires -- products of the hasty construction -- hung from the sides of the barrel, but that was fine. All that mattered was that this thing had the ability to point¡­ and the ability to shoot.


    Only one way to find out.


    Gretchen Hail pulled the trigger, and the cannon spat fire.


    The light it produced was so bright that she had to look away, but she knew straight away that she had struck her target. As time screeched into movement once more, there was a resounding bang -- the sound of the cannon¡¯s gargantuan payload striking true. Ionir Yggdrassil¡¯s body exploded, flaming scraps of leaf and bark and vine raining down onto the surrounding rooftops.


    As she finally looked up at the scorched aurora she¡¯d created, Gretchen let the cannon thud down onto the rooftop. It was useless to her now: the parts of the Armament that hadn¡¯t straight up ruptured had instead sharpened into cruel glass. It was the same phenomenon as an Aether burn -- the power that had been exerted was too much for the container to handle.


    Gretchen frowned.


    It had only cost her some weapons from the junk pile, but still¡­


    "I was hoping that would kill you," she said.


    The dragon had been incinerated, but she could see now that Ionir Yggdrassil persisted. It stood atop an overlooking skyscraper, looking down at her -- in a completely new form. The body was tall and thin and lithe, with a mane of autumn leaves surrounding its square-face and long sharp branches serving as claw-like fingers.


    Gretchen narrowed her eyes as she looked up at it. It was much smaller than the dragon-form had been. Had Ionir fired this form out like a seed in the instant before the plasma struck? If it had the reflexes to react to a massive attack like that instantly, she¡¯d need to continue with caution.


    But caution was no problem, not for her. She hadn¡¯t even scratched the surface of her collection yet.


    "I like you better like this," she called up to the Fell Beast, golden eyes gleaming in the smoke. "You almost look like a person."

 Chapter 417:13.75: Plethora

    Gretchen Hail did not consider the Fusion Tools to be her magnum opus.


    In fact, she disliked the idea of a magnum opus in the first place. The concept of an ultimate creation was somewhat repugnant -- after all, once you¡¯d accomplished that, what else was there to live for? A human life should never be completed. There should always be something new to strive for. Perfection was wonderful because it could never be attained.


    So the Fusion Tools were not her ultimate masterpiece. However, she did consider them a very nice piece of work.


    "Fusion Tool: Voracious!"


    As she and the humanoid Ionir Yggdrassil charged at each other, she pulled the serrated knife from her Ragnarok Forge and activated it in one smooth movement.


    She¡¯d designed the Fusion Tools with two main goals in mind. First, to elevate the human body and allow it to tap into more power. Second, to grant Aether abilities to those without Aether. The second of those goals hadn¡¯t been achieved -- and with Aclima now being an Aether-user, was unnecessary -- but Gretchen was still proud of her success in the first regard.


    White light coated Gretchen¡¯s body, and when it cleared she no longer looked entirely human.


    She couldn¡¯t see herself in this situation, of course, but from testing she was quite familiar with her appearance in this form. Grey clammy skin like some sea-beast, beady black eyes that seemed to suck in the light -- and a long, serrated nose created from the blade of the original weapon.


    Aether burns occurred when a person tried to channel more Aether through their body than it could withstand. To get around it, people slowly trained their body to tolerate more and more Aether, but that was a gradual process. She suspected that Dragan Hadrien had found a workaround for this, but that was still up in the air.


    At any rate, the Fusion Tool was much more efficient. By combining the body of the user with that of a high-grade Aether Armament, a form designed specifically for holding and using Aether could be instantly achieved. No real skill in Aether-usage was even necessary: she¡¯d confirmed that with the use of Preston Rikhail. With just a simple activation, a combatant could be elevated two or three levels.


    Being skilled couldn¡¯t hurt, though.


    She¡¯d spiced things up, too, just a little bit. Because the Spine of Granba was currently embedded in her body, the Fusion Tool registered it as being part of her. As such, the form she¡¯d now assumed was really a three-way fusion between her body, the Spine, and Voracious.


    The sixteen arms, once spindly porcelain, were now unmistakably biological -- lined with pale muscle and covered in tiny spines. At the end of each protruded not a hand, but a vicious serrated blade like Voracious¡¯ nose. Counting her original limbs, which too now ended in blades, Gretchen now had eighteen deadly weapons at her disposal.


    So she put them to work.


    Ionir Yggdrassil bobbed and weaved as eighteen blades stabbed at it again and again, but there was only so much it could do against such an onslaught. Bark rained down as the Fell Beast¡¯s body was scraped and punctured -- and, in every spot where Yggdrassil took damage, Voracious¡¯ ability took hold. The gashes widened further, grew deeper, as if even more invisible blades were stabbing mechanically at the site of each wound.


    Of course, Ionir Yggdrassil was hardly going to just stand there and take it.


    The Fell Beast stomped down on the roof -- and as it did, emerald Aether ran down its leg and into the shattered stone. Immediately, Gretchen leapt back. She was familiar with what Yggdrassil could do Aether-wise: accelerating and controlling the growth of plant-life for both attack and defense. She¡¯d seen it often enough to know it wasn¡¯t something to be taken head on.


    In this case, though, she wasn¡¯t given much of a choice.


    There was nothing Yggdrassil could grow into a tree in this urban jungle. Instead, a tidal wave of moss was belched forth from the rooftop, engulfing and wrapping itself around Gretchen¡¯s body in an instant. Trapped in mid-air, she writhed to escape -- but to no avail. Even the Spine of Granba was bound tight by the sudden prison.


    Fine. She¡¯d come prepared for this as well.


    Fusion Tool: Gnomish All-Brawn!


    There was a heavy risk when it came to using more than one Fusion Tool at once. If the transformations they provided were incompatible, they ran the risk of causing the user¡¯s body to collapse, resulting in a quick death. That was why Gretchen equipped all of her Fusion Tools with a certain safety feature -- if they detected the activation of another Fusion Tool, they immediately deactivated themselves to make space.


    Which also meant that switching between Fusion Tools was an exceedingly fast process.


    In an instant, Gretchen¡¯s body had changed once more. Grey and clammy skin had become rough and rocky, her eyes now hidden by a hanging visor like a turtle shell, her teeth bared with the uniformity of a brick wall. The sixteen arms of the Spine of Granba, now dense and burly with muscle, tore the moss apart with their dexterous hands.


    She was free.


    As Gretchen fell, Ionir fired off another volley of blade-leaves, but that was no problem. Just by raising her extra limbs, Gretchen created a nearly impenetrable barrier of forearms, the projectiles bouncing off their reinforced armour. Clearing through the deluge, Gretchen charged, thumping her hands against the ground like a furious gorilla.


    She reached the tree and let loose once more.


    Her endless punches were like shotgun blasts, each obliterating a portion of Yggdrassil¡¯s body as it struck true. The continuous damage had stopped when she¡¯d deactivated Voracious, but the destructive force of Gnomish All-Brawn more than made up for it. If it did just stand there and take it, Gretchen was sure she could whittle the Fell Beast down to nothing before too long.


    It wouldn¡¯t be that easy, but wouldn¡¯t that be nice?


    Gretchen darted backwards as a pair of tendril-vines nearly hooked themselves under her visor. She couldn¡¯t allow herself to become complacent. Every Fusion Tool had its strengths, but they often introduced new weaknesses too. That visor was effectively her eye -- if she let Yggdrassil peel it off, she¡¯d be blinded.


    Best to switch things up.


    Battle Bouquet!


    The Aether Armament appeared in her hand -- an exquisitely engraved longsword, the hilt designed to appear like two intertwining bodies. It had belonged to the Lovers of Yalhoun, who had lived in the first era of the Supremacy, and had been forged by the Godsmith specifically for their use. They¡¯d wielded it together in battle: for each person holding the weapon, its size and strength doubled.


    The funny thing, though, was how the Armament determined how many people were holding the sword¡­


    ¡­it checked the number of hands.


    Sixteen hands took hold of Battle Bouquet, and it hallucinated the joined hearts of eight people. Immediately, the sword ballooned in size, dwarfing Gretchen and Ionir alike. It took all the strength from all of the Spine¡¯s arms just to keep hold of the now-gargantuan weapon -- and an agonizing effort beyond that just to swing it downwards¡­


    ¡­right onto Ionir Yggdrassil¡¯s head.


    The Fell Beast moved to dodge, but this was not an attack that could be dodged completely. The Battle Bouquet smashed through the left side of Ionir¡¯s body, severing his arm and whittling his leg down to a mere twig. As Gretchen dragged the sword back, it was now covered in golden sap like the tree¡¯s blood, the substance oozing down the surface of the blade.


    Grimacing at the sight, Gretchen returned the Bouquet to her Ragnarok Forge. Testing out the loophole with the number of hands had been interesting, but the powered-up weapon was too cumbersome to use as anything but a surprise attack.


    For the time being, these hands would be more than enough to --


    Ionir Yggdrassil wrapped its body tight around itself, emerald Aether flaring.


    The Bloodless Hour!


    Well, the time being had ended surprisingly quickly. This was a move that Gretchen had been wary of since the beginning -- it had been one she¡¯d witnessed in person, back during the days of the Seven Blades. Ionir was going to prompt the rapid growth of its own body, the eruption of new life like an explosion that would engulf all of its enemies.


    The speed of the growth meant that All-Brawn could block but not strike back, and Voracious could strike but not block. Dodging wouldn¡¯t get her out of the area of effect, either. Could she destroy the floor and escape that way? Not in a second, no.


    A bead of gravelly sweat trickled down Gretchen¡¯s temple.


    The second the Bloodless Hour ended, the explosion of life would begin. Did she have any Armaments to hand that could counter that instantly? She didn¡¯t think so.


    The Silversaint Prototypes could act as inhuman shields, maybe, but it wouldn¡¯t work long. Could she make another combined cannon? If she fired and it didn¡¯t do enough damage, she¡¯d be overwhelmed a second later. The options were slim, and the odds of victory were thinning with them.


    Nothing else for it, then. She¡¯d have to get a little experimental.


    If I¡¯ve done my work right, they should be compatible.


    The thing about safety features¡­ was that they could be turned off.


    Click.


    Fusion Tool: Voracious plus Fusion Tool: Gnomish All-Brawn!


    The two swords clashed once more, in that arena above the sky -- and as they did, Morgan¡¯s blade finally shattered.


    Instinctively, he infused his face to protect it against the flying shards of metal -- and Aclima immediately lunged forward, hand grasping for the sparks of purple. He dropped down, rolling backwards over the gnarled crystal floor, feeling it dig and scrape against his skin. That wouldn¡¯t be enough, though. Aclima was still in pursuit.


    Screw it!


    F! A!


    Morgan conjured another rope of Fog, using it to pull himself towards the edge of the arena and out of Aclima¡¯s reach. As he moved, his mind raced. He needed a way to attack. Now.


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    Hand-to-hand wasn¡¯t an option. Uninfused, his fists would be nothing but a nuisance, and if he injected them with Aether he¡¯d practically be begging Aclima to use Curse Hand. Amplification and Cut had the same problem. Fog and Block were Aether constructs, too, so using them would be just as much of a mistake. Same with Jape.


    Damnit, damnit, damnit¡­


    If Anya Hapgrass was the one who¡¯d sent them here, she¡¯d chosen her move well. Even without infusion, Morgan was sure that Ionir could have handled Aclima. It was naturally far stronger than any human. Morgan, on the other hand, felt like an ant trying to take down a boot.


    Still, the situation wasn¡¯t that bad¡­


    Morgan hopped back to his feet, snapping two crystals from the floor and hurling them at Aclima. The former Heir just smashed them out of the air with her forearm, looking distinctly unimpressed.


    Damn. Morgan had been hoping she¡¯d try Curse Hand on them. He could tell they were an Aether construct -- and if so, there was a good chance that Aether belonged to Anya Hapgrass. If Aclima had taken the bait, she could have taken her own bodyguard out of commission and freed Ionir up to make his way here.


    "You know you can¡¯t win, right?" Aclima said, glaring at him. "I¡¯ve got Aether, and you haven¡¯t. That¡¯s all there is to it."


    "I dunno about that," Morgan smiled thinly. "For you to win, you need to get to the Arena before Muzazi. For me to win, I just need to keep you here. Feel free to chase me around for as long as you like."


    Aclima¡¯s brow furrowed with frustration, but she said nothing. Morgan took the opportunity to continue.


    "And I do have Aether," he said. "I only need to worry about my infusion when you¡¯re right next to me -- and I¡¯ve got a good idea of your speed now. I know I can turn my infusion off faster than you can close the distance. So maybe things aren¡¯t as cut and dry as you thought?"


    Gloat. Heckle. Build up her frustration.


    The situation wasn¡¯t nearly as stable as Morgan had implied. Even if he was faster, he was still only one mistake away from being hit with Curse Hand. If that ability made contact with his Aether, even for a second, he had no idea what kind of effect it would have on his body.


    He needed Aclima to be acting out of anger. He needed her to be sloppy. He needed her to make mistakes of her own.


    Only¡­ he wasn¡¯t quite sure that was what he was getting.


    The furrowing of the brow had stopped. As Morgan watched, wary, she took a deep calming breath. She closed her eyes, but he didn¡¯t dare take advantage.


    When she opened them again, her gaze was cold.


    "I didn¡¯t want to use this on you," she said. "But you¡¯re right. There¡¯s no time to waste."


    Morgan tightened his grip on his broken sword. "What are you talking about?"


    "Did you think I just sat on my ass the last two years?" Aclima smiled thinly. "Curse Cloud."


    Her purple Aether flared -- and as it did, dark smoke began to pour out from Aclima¡¯s body. It crawled across the ground and through the air like a miasma, tendrils curling around the crystals as it went. Just looking at it was eerie: the impressions of wailing human faces seemed to waver within the smoke. Within a few seconds, it had covered half of the arena. Within a few more, almost all of it.


    If Morgan hesitated for a second longer, it would claim him too.


    Nothing else for it, then. He didn¡¯t know what this ability did exactly, or if it was as dangerous as Curse Hand. But, so long as the risk that it was that dangerous existed, he couldn¡¯t let it touch him no matter what.


    Morgan Nacht took a step back¡­


    ¡­and fell out of the sky.


    "And with that¡­" Gretchen sighed, smoke pouring out from between her razor-sharp teeth. "...you¡¯re done."


    The combination Fusion Tool had done its work well.


    Clammy skin and rocky hide had combined into shimmering scales, lined with protruding spikes like sharpened coral. The shell-visor hung over the top half of Gretchen¡¯s head once again, but now the bottom half was consumed entirely by a sharp toothy grin.


    She shook her eighteen hands, bark and sawdust pouring down from the serrated claws on each. Indeed¡­ it had done its work well.


    Fusion Tools¡­ deactivate.


    Gretchen let out another breath as the Aether Armaments disengaged, returning her to her previous form. She was red in the face and covered in cold sweat -- the strain of wielding two Fusion Tools at the same time had almost been too much for her.


    Even with Aether Bonds stabilizing the combination, there was a very real danger she could have gone beyond her capacity. She¡¯d have to be more careful with her Aether going forward. Still, though¡­


    ¡­the sight before her had been worth it.


    What was left of Ionir Yggdrassil rested on the shattered rooftop before her. The top half of a torso, a cracked-open head, and the twitching stump of a right arm. Everything else had been torn to shreds by Gretchen¡¯s own hands.


    Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Gretchen advanced, reaching into her Ragnarok Forge for the final tool.


    Unlike the others she had brought out, this weapon wasn¡¯t nearly as intricate. A pole of clear glass, with a tiny blade on one end -- and a crackling bar of white energy within. Gretchen flipped it in her hands, pointing the spear down at Ionir¡¯s body, like she was about to skewer a fish.


    Ba-dump¡­


    "Well¡­" she said.


    Ba-dump¡­


    "...see ya."


    Ba-dump.


    But the finishing blow did not come. Instead, the spear slipped out of Gretchen¡¯s hands, clattering to the floor and rolling away. She watched it go with wide, uncomprehending eyes.


    For a moment, her mouth moved silently, but she soon managed to force words out.


    "What¡­ what did you¡­"


    Her arms were trembling. Her nose felt hot. She put a hand to it -- and when she pulled it away, it was covered in blood.


    An Aether burn.


    For the first time since the fight had begun, Ionir Yggdrassil spoke.


    "I see you¡¯re having trouble understanding, GretchenHail."


    "What did you do¡­?" Gretchen hissed, staggering backwards.


    "You should not have cut me with that sword, GretchenHail," Ionir calmly continued, speaking from the ground. "And if that was not possible, you should not have returned the sword to your ability. That was what sealed your fate."


    Gretchen gasped, her breath painfully shallow. "You¡­!"


    "Yes. I." The vines inside of Ionir¡¯s body began to ooze, slowly returning it to a vaguely humanoid form. "When you returned that great sword to your Aether, you took some of my biomass with it, clinging to the blade. That was the moment I won. Your Ragnarok Forge is truly gargantuan, GretchenHail. But ¡¯gargantuan¡¯ is not ¡¯endless¡¯."


    Gretchen fell to her knees, clutching her throat. Her lips were red with her own blood, and her eyes were quickly turning a matching crimson.


    "When you recorded my biomass, I had already commanded it to begin growing once a certain amount of time passed. Even now, it stretches the capacity of your Ragnarok Forge beyond what it can handle. I am not entirely familiar with the traitor parlance¡­ but I believe this would be called an Aether burn?"


    Gretchen glared up at the Fell Beast, thin tears of blood leaking from the corners of her eyes and dripping onto the floor below.


    What it said was true. Gretchen could feel it -- the foreign presence inside her Ragnarok Forge, consuming all her storage space as it grew and grew. It was like something was trying to push its way out through her skin. If things continued that way, perhaps that would even be what her corpse would look like.


    What was worse was the fact that this imaginary tree was constantly changing. Because of that, whenever she selected it in an attempt to eject it from her Forge, the selection was made invalid an instant later. She couldn¡¯t do anything.


    She couldn¡¯t do anything.


    As she fell forward, chin hitting the ground, Ionir Yggdrassil rose upwards -- a wooden bust carried by writhing vines. The square-face of the Fell Beast looked down at her with what might have been pity. Her blood boiled, and that might even have been literal. S§×arch* The N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "You seem to think otherwise," Ionir said. "But no vendetta exists between us. I am sorry that you are unhappy with me. However¡­ I feel this is no longer a situation that can be resolved via apology."


    It pulled back a pointed vine.


    "I will make it painless."


    Thud.


    The vine had not moved. Ionir Yggdrassil had not moved. In that burning raining night, only one thing had moved. A jet-black spear had zoomed in out of the darkness and skewered Ionir through the chest.


    It looked down at it, the movement of its head painfully slow, as if something were trying to hold it in place. Its vines, too, had been frozen.


    "You¡­ threw this¡­"


    It began to rain treasure.


    Guns and swords, spears and shields. They fell out of Gretchen¡¯s Ragnarok Forge, pouring onto the rooftop and spilling over the sides. Ordinarily, Gretchen would be loath to risk losing her collection like that, but she was still far too close to death to be picky.


    Not as close as she had been a moment ago, though. After all¡­ that tree had now stopped growing.


    "Yeah," she agreed, slowly clambering to her feet, wiping some of the blood from her face. "I did throw that, didn¡¯t I?"


    Gretchen looked at the weapon impaling Ionir -- the black spear itself and the flame blazing from the end, like a thruster from a rocket. The memories reemerged as she ran her eyes over it, as if she was blowing dust from the pages of a book. By the time she was fully standing, she had a complete recollection of her plan.


    She smiled.


    "Do you ever get insomnia?"


    "...what¡­?"


    "I used to get really bad insomnia," Gretchen said. "Not so much anymore, but years ago it was awful. I¡¯d stay awake for hours, thinking about all sorts of things. Most of it was useless, but this one night¡­ I started thinking about how I¡¯d take down a Gene Tyrant. If I had to, I mean."


    She wiped some more of the blood away with the back of her hand.


    "The key to it was the element of surprise, the way I saw it. With a Gene Tyrant, if they see some wacky attack coming, they could just adapt to it before it even landed. Scary stuff, huh? So you gotta make sure to get them in the back. Usually, that would need two people, right? But it¡¯s a one-person scenario. So the weapon you use has gotta be able to move on its own, hover around then swoop in while the user distracts the Tyrant."


    Crouching down, she plucked the glass spear from the floor and turned it over in her hands.


    "But then you¡¯ve got the problem of hiding the plan, don¡¯t you? A Gene Tyrant¡¯s mind is like a Cogitant times a hundred. They¡¯d see that I was hiding something just from looking at me. Only -- what if I didn¡¯t know I was hiding something? I took inspiration from that bastard Westmore¡¯s ability. The moment I miss that first throw, all memory of the spear is wiped from both my mind and that of the enemy."


    She grinned with red teeth, taking a step forward.


    "Then, the spear lies in wait¡­"


    And another -- shadows dancing across the rooftop.


    "...and once it sees the ideal moment¡­"


    And another -- bringing the two of them face to face.


    "...it moves in and uses its original ability. You see, despite the modifications I made to it, that spear inside you was originally an antique. Belonged to the Blind Man himself. You remember what his Spears of Stillness do, right?"


    She narrowed her bloodshot eyes.


    "They stop shape-changers like you in their tracks. So¡­"


    She raised the glass spear in her hands and flicked a switch on the side. Immediately, a flame began to belch forth from the tip of the weapon. Unlike the thruster from the black spear, though, this was thin, white, controlled.


    Like a blowtorch.


    "...where were we?"

 Chapter 418:13.76: The Dark Side of the Moon

    Morgan Nacht fell backwards out of the sky¡­


    F! A!


    ¡­but before his plummet became terminal, he whipped up a hand -- and latched a rope of Fog onto the underside of the crystal platform.


    His fall became a swing, his face resolute as he rode the momentum and flipped up back onto the other side of the arena. For the briefest moment, he was right behind an unaware Aclima -- and right behind the wall of this Curse Cloud she¡¯d suddenly erected. If he was going to get an opportunity, it wouldn¡¯t be much better than this.


    The broken sword was still in his hand, but it wasn¡¯t so broken that it couldn¡¯t do the simplest job of a weapon.


    Morgan lunged forwards --


    -- and Aclima whirled around.


    The miasma moved with her, twisting around her form and engulfing Morgan¡¯s outstretched arm in a moment.


    Pain.


    It was as if Morgan had plunged the limb into hydrochloric acid. Screaming, he pulled his arm out of the smoke, his sword flying from his grasp as he did. The ruined weapon flew back, off the edge of the platform, and out of sight.


    Morgan backed up as far as he dared, clutching his arm even as the pain slowly began to abandon it. As far as he could see, unlike with Curse Hand, this ability caused no lasting damage -- just enough agony to stop attackers in their tracks. In exchange for range, it lost its unrivalled damaging effects, then?


    Still, this wasn¡¯t good. If Morgan received a full-body dose of this Curse Cloud, he doubted he¡¯d have the wherewithal to dodge the Curse Hand that would surely follow. Getting hit by that was still a death sentence, unless¡­


    No, he couldn¡¯t rely on that. He wasn¡¯t his teacher -- he wasn¡¯t willing to die just to test something out.


    "Did you think it¡¯d be easy?" Aclima growled, glaring at him through the smog. "Poor little Aclima, we¡¯ll just take her spot and save her from scary Dragan Hadrien? Is that what you were thinking?"


    Sweat poured down Morgan¡¯s forehead as he cracked the fingers of his recovered hand.


    "Sorry, Aclima," he replied, a lopsided smile on his face. "Even with you like this¡­ I don¡¯t see you beating Hadrien. Not in a million years. This is a mercy."


    Her eye twitched.


    Gotcha.


    Aclima snarled as she charged forward, both hands gripping her cleaver-sword as she raised it above her head. Curse Hand had been forgotten. At this moment, there was nothing the former Supreme Heir wanted more than to smash that blade through Morgan¡¯s body.


    It was just a pity¡­


    Crack.


    ¡­that she¡¯d miscalculated.


    Morgan Nacht was a swordsman -- and among swordsmen, there was one ironclad rule. You could swing your sword however you wanted, you could weave and block however you pleased. However, under no -- no -- circumstances¡­ did you ever drop your sword.


    So Morgan hadn¡¯t.


    Instead, he¡¯d thrown it -- and as it had fallen beneath the platform, strings of Fog had connected it to the underside of the crystal disc. It had hung there for a moment, swaying back and forth, like a disturbed chandelier. That wasn¡¯t the end of it, though.


    Blocks -- their size and weight increases by Amplification -- attached to the dangling hilt by further Fog. The resemblance to a chandelier had grown more prominent by the second. The purpose of this strange construction, however, was something entirely different.


    Crack.


    This was an anchor.


    Aclima lost her footing as the platform collapsed beneath her, stumbling as an entire section broke away and fell into the night. It was like a pizza with a single slice snatched away. Her eyes widened with alarm as she saw the drop into the void right next to her feet -- and she went to move to safer ground¡­


    ¡­but the opening had already been created.


    Morgan rushed in.


    His sword wasn¡¯t in his hands, so he could not stab or slash the girl. He couldn¡¯t attack her with punches or kicks, either -- he would only get this one chance to make a second¡¯s worth of contact with her, not long enough for any complicated manoeuvres. As such¡­ as such¡­ there was only one weapon available to him.


    The drop.


    Aether could only do so much. There were very few people who could survive a drop from this kind of height, especially when they had no movement abilities. Morgan had seen Aclima¡¯s infusion¡­ and he knew she was not one of those people.


    It would take just a second. A shove, a push. Her footing was already all but gone. If he just pushed her, this would be over. The battle would be won. The threat to Muzazi¡¯s ascendance would be removed. Gregori had been right about that, if nothing else. If Morgan didn¡¯t act now, he¡¯d lose his chance. The threat to Muzazi would still exist. Everything¡­ all of this¡­ would be for nothing.


    Push her, Morgan urged himself. Push her.


    You¡¯ve already betrayed her.


    You¡¯ve already stolen her birthright.


    You¡¯ve already attacked her.


    Now push her.


    Push her.


    It¡¯s only natural to push her.


    Morgan¡¯s hand reached out¡­


    "Mr. Nacht?" Aclima looked up, hands tight around a clumsy sword. "Am I holding this right?"


    ¡­and stopped in mid-air.


    Aclima¡¯s hand did not stop. Regaining her balance, she lunged forward, seizing hold of Morgan¡¯s face and screaming:


    "Curse Hand!"


    One second passed, two, three -- but Morgan did not fall. Morgan did not bleed. Morgan didn¡¯t so much as twitch. He just stood there, Aclima¡¯s hand on his face, his eyes closed.


    Nothing had happened.


    Aclima¡¯s hand trembled against Morgan¡¯s face. "...huh¡­?"


    "K," Morgan quietly replied, his eyes still closed. "It stands for Kindred. I wasn¡¯t sure how your ability worked, so I didn¡¯t know for sure if this would work¡­ but I guess it does. While I¡¯m using this¡­ while I¡¯m touching the target¡­ I register as that person to their Aether. You can¡¯t use Curse Hand on yourself, right?"


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    Aclima¡¯s face twisted. "This ability¡­ this was designed to be used against me, wasn¡¯t it¡­?"


    Morgan clenched his fist. "Yes."


    "So¡­ you were never on my side¡­"


    Morgan opened his eyes, but he still couldn¡¯t meet hers. "Sorry."


    His fist, bolstered by the infusion of Aether, struck Aclima in the side of the head. There was the shortest, loudest yelp from her -- and then she had fallen, crumpled into a pile at Morgan¡¯s feet. Unconscious, not dead¡­ but Morgan felt like shit all the same.


    "Goddamnit¡­" he muttered.


    Dying, IONIR YGGDRASSIL found, was something of an involved process.


    GretchenHail had been working on the problem for several minutes, pressing that blowtorch device against its body, driving it deeper and deeper as the flames bore a hole through its final form¡¯s chest. It supposed this device was another Aether Armament, probably designed to work against it specifically.


    It seemed this was a method akin to the one used by AzezTazir¡­ burning the consciousness away, leaving an empty shell.


    Was this fate something IONIR YGGDRASSIL could escape? It didn¡¯t seem likely. Because of the Spear of Stillness, it couldn¡¯t move at all. It couldn¡¯t even grow -- it half-felt like a corpse already.


    But was that really the case? Could it really not grow at all? Could it really not move at all?


    The Spear of Stillness was a powerful artefact, to be sure. IONIR YGGDRASSIL could feel it weighing down on its consciousness, a constant pursuer that blocked off all the necessary impulses for shapeshifting. However, it was not an insurmountable thing. If it mustered all of its effort, focused all of its will, could it not break through -- even just for a moment?


    What could it do with such a moment, though? GretchenHail had undeniably been heavily wounded in their battle. Another good strike would most likely incapacitate her -- but she would be able to react to any clumsy swing before it even landed. It would accomplish nothing but spite, and IONIR YGGDRASSIL put little value in that.


    If it were to do anything, it would need a distraction.


    A conversation? No. GretchenHail had already decided to kill it, and IONIR YGGDRASSIL was not adept at taunting.


    A bluff by flaring its Aether? No. GretchenHail was the analytical kind -- she already knew what it could do and saw no reason to worry.


    Could it stall? Could it stall until MORGAN NACHT returned?


    No. It could feel it already, the fire burning away at its sense of self. It would not last long enough for MORGAN NACHT to return. There was a very good chance that these were its last moments.


    It cast its attention around, seeking to understand the site of its death completely¡­ when it found something. Something small and spherical, rolling across the floor. Something bright and blue.


    The crystal ball -- not the one GretchenHail had used to see the future, but the one she had used to capture MorganNacht and Aclima. Little Pearl, she had called it. Why had it reappeared? It had not been present during the fight itself, IONIR YGGDRASSIL was sure of it. Had GretchenHail recalled it now that victory was assured?


    It rolled to a halt at GretchenHail¡¯s feet, but she took no notice of it. She just continued to press the torch into the wooden carcass before her, her eyes cold and dull. It seemed that, for her, this had already transitioned from a killing to a labour. She was working on IONIR YGGDRASSIL like he was one of her Aether Armaments.


    But sound was coming from the sphere.


    Muffled, distant, but definitely there. Words so indistinct their meaning couldn¡¯t be made out. The faraway scuffle of a violent confrontation.


    But those voices¡­ IONIR YGGDRASSIL recognised them.


    MORGAN NACHT and Aclima. It could hear their fight. Wherever the crystal ball had sent them, the sound from that location was being piped right back through the Armament. Presumably, that was how GretchenHail was going to keep an eye on the course of things over there. If IONIR YGGDRASSIL understood the situation correctly, Aclima was no doubt an important investment for her.


    Still¡­ even if that had appeared¡­ there was nothing more IONIR YGGDRASSIL could do¡­ it was going¡­ to¡­


    Aclima screamed.


    Immediately, GretchenHail moved -- and immediately, IONIR YGGDRASSIL moved.


    It might have been the shadow of concern. GretchenHail¡¯s eyes widened as she whipped her head around to look at the sphere. Her mouth opened to shout something.


    It was the echo of a fighting spirit. With the last of its strength, IONIR YGGDRASSIL grew its vines to form an arm -- and slammed it into GretchenHail¡¯s head. A wordless roar rumbled over the rooftop.


    With all the damage GretchenHail had already taken, the effect was immediate. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets as she flew across the roof, landing in an undignified heap. She remained still on the ground as the rain pummelled her body, but IONIR YGGDRASSIL doubted she was dead.


    She hadn¡¯t been that weak, and it hadn¡¯t been that strong.


    Nor that wise, it seemed. In the end, all it accomplished had indeed been spite. Even though GretchenHail had been rendered unconscious, she was still victorious -- even though she had been sent flying, the glass spear was still embedded in IONIR YGGDRASSIL¡¯s chest. She¡¯d driven it in deep enough that it was staying put without her.


    The fire¡­ was still burning.


    Perhaps this was the kind of punishment that came from breaking a promise. It was strange. IONIR YGGDRASSIL didn¡¯t feel particularly bad about this. It had always feared dying, of course, as any living creature did -- but as it was guaranteed now, that fear no longer held a purpose.


    If anything, there was the slightest sensation of regret¡­ it would not be able to see how the world played out. Whether MORGAN NACHT achieved his happiness, whether ATOY MUZAZI achieved his happiness¡­ whether everything they had done would even mean something in the end. But most of all¡­


    ¡­the dreams of its fellows.


    The last memories of the Fell Beasts, the legacy of the woods that it had absorbed into its Wisdom. It had hoped to bring those thoughts and feelings back into the world, to resurrect its brethren and give their kind another chance. It had promised.


    When had it intended to carry that promise out? One day, one day, ever distant¡­ now there were no more days. Now there were no more minutes.


    So¡­ had it betrayed that promise as well? That thought alone provoked feelings of regret.


    No.


    It extended a shaking vine, stretching across to its companion on this lonely rooftop.


    There is still a way.


    Wisdom crackled.


    The light washed over Morgan once again¡­


    ¡­and the moment it cleared, his arms fell limp at his sides.


    "A-Ah¡­"


    It didn¡¯t take a genius to see what had happened. Atop the shattered rubble of the rooftop stood a scarecrow. A burnt, smouldering scarecrow. Smoke rose up from the charred ruin. Drooping vines crumbled into ash. As Morgan watched, the square-face on the tree¡¯s face cracked and crumbled into nothing.


    Ionir Yggdrassil was dead.


    Morgan stepped over Aclima¡¯s unconscious body, his breath boiling in his throat. Strangely enough, his skin felt cold as ice. His hand twitched, reaching for a sword that was no longer there. It had broken, after all¡­ plus, it had probably fallen after the platform disappeared. Maybe it was still falling.


    Would it end up landing on someone? Was that something he had to worry about? Somehow, he couldn¡¯t muster the effort.


    Morgan stopped.


    Someone else was lying on the ground in front of him. Another unconscious body -- a small Pugnant woman with red hair. She was meant to be dead, but Morgan wasn¡¯t surprised to see her here. She¡¯d been sending assassins after Muzazi for ages, after all. This time she¡¯d shown up personally.


    Gretchen Hail.


    Morgan had no sword, but you didn¡¯t need a sword to crush a throat. He was as calm as could be. He kneeled down on the ground beside the unconscious girl, clasped his hand around her neck, and began to squeeze --


    Danger.


    He leapt backwards, swinging his arm and blocking a strike of paper aimed right for the unconscious Aclima¡¯s throat.


    It wasn¡¯t a perfect block. The blade left a deep gash in Morgan¡¯s arm -- blood pouring down to the floor as he crouched protectively in front of Aclima. For the time being, vengeance was put on hold. The mission wasn¡¯t over yet, after all. As long as the mission wasn¡¯t over, his will yet had a lifeline.


    Gregori Hazzard clicked his tongue as he landed a short distance away, unfolding his bloodied blade-arm.


    "Are you stupid?" Morgan growled. "I told you to stop."


    "It¡¯s like I said before," Gregori glared back. "It¡¯ll solve the problem."


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    Gregori smirked. "You think you can stop me?"


    Could he, in his current condition? Morgan couldn¡¯t say for sure. Gregori hadn¡¯t escaped unscathed from his battle either -- there were strange thin cuts covering the entire right side of his body -- but he was walking and talking like nothing had happened. The odds might not have been in Morgan¡¯s favour.


    Oh well.


    For people like them, there was only one way to test those odds.


    Morgan took a step forward¡­


    Gregori took a step forward¡­


    ¡­and both stopped.


    Their attention had been seized by something else, after all.


    Something was coming for them. A great wall of darkness was spilling out from between the buildings of the city, rushing forward like an inky tsunami -- like the light cast from a black sun. It was engulfing everything, everything.


    No light survived.


    Morgan went to dodge¡­


    Gregori went to dodge¡­


    ¡­but neither were fast enough, and the shadows swallowed everything -- living or dead.

 Chapter 419:13.77: The Dead of Night

    The night was bright and wild.


    Ruth Blaine walked through the crowds that filled the streets of Azum-Ha, her gaze fixed firmly ahead. Tonight, her eyes were tarnished blue and her hair a dull gold: Wu Ming had used one of his abilities to temporarily alter her appearance. It made sense. For a mission like this, a disguise was necessary.


    She stopped as a gang of children came screeching past, chasing after each other in some game. They were wearing masks -- cheap, oversized raven masks, no doubt bought from one of the many stalls that lined the streets tonight. During her reign, Ren¨¦e the Raven had killed so many people, disappeared her political opponents, filed down free speech until it barely existed¡­ and now kids ran down the street playing as her.


    It seemed the Supremacy always took the legacies back.


    The stalls were selling more than masks, though. Pungent food and tacky souvenirs for the tourist masses who had made their way to Azum-Ha for the Dawn Contest. Figurines and portraits of the many contestants who had already dropped out. Ruth even saw a guy selling Dragan Hadrien t-shirts, the face of her friend inevitably stretched out to frog-like proportions.


    Despite everything, that made her smile.


    She looked up, towards her destination in the sky. The Arena of the Absolute: silhouetted against the moon, with countless shuttles flowing up into it like flies to a corpse. Somewhere in that arena, her target was getting ready to watch the end of the Dawn Contest.


    Somewhere in that arena, the Shepherdess was waiting.


    It was strange. She walked to the Arena with revenge in her heart, but if anything her fury now seemed to be cold. Ellis, Alice, Rex¡­ their absence was still a wound, to be sure, but it was one that Ruth could learn to walk with.


    Those piles of dust in her dreams¡­ if she just imagined they were objects, not corpses, she could keep going as she needed to.


    She glanced down again at the ticket Wu Ming had given her. First-class, giving her access to one of the more comfortable shuttles -- and, more importantly, the top level of the Arena, where the private booths were. Booth 31CA¡­ if Wu Ming was right, that was where the Shepherdess would be.


    What sort of face would that woman make, Ruth wondered? Would there be fury there? Definitely not fear, not fear that Ruth could see. A tiny part of her expected to see smug satisfaction on those lips.


    That was fine, though. She was a big girl. She could handle a smirking corpse.


    The night was dark and dead.


    Ash del Duran lay face down in the wet grass of Unicorn Park, the shadows of the Apex Trees resting atop him.


    He wasn¡¯t dead, at least. For fear of alienating Atoy Muzazi, his attackers had decided to take him down non-lethally -- and with the injuries he¡¯d already sustained over the evening, Ash¡¯s ability to fight back had been limited. He still could have won, though. If he¡¯d finally decided to cash in his life, he surely could have won.


    But this was a dark and cold place, empty of witnesses and glory. What warrior would choose to gild their gravestone here?


    So he had fought below his capacity, and he had not fought well enough. As Ash del Duran lay there, mind submerged in unconsciousness, he heard the words of the demon spear¡­ over, and over, and over again.


    "Weakling."


    "Weakling." S~ea??h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Weakling."


    Ruth crossed her arms, leaning back in her seat as the shuttle took off. This was one of the last craft heading for the Arena tonight -- and so it wasn¡¯t especially crowded. Apart from her, there were fifteen people at most sitting and talking in the small vessel.


    The cityscape drifted by outside the window, growing smaller as the shuttle ascended, and Ruth found her eyes drawn to it. Were Bruno and Serena still down there, somewhere? No, not likely. They¡¯d be up at the Arena already, if Bruno had their way, waiting for an opportunity to get to Dragan.


    Faint regret tugged at her. She hadn¡¯t had a chance to meet back up with them, had she? Or had she had that chance, and decided not to do it? She couldn¡¯t recall a specific moment in which a decision was made.


    Right now, everything outside of this mission seemed indistinct, incorporeal¡­ vague as smoke. Only the steps she was taking were real. The corpse she was moving towards was the lynchpin of reality.


    "Exciting, isn¡¯t it?" the person sitting next to her said.


    Ruth turned to look. It was a young Cogitant woman, her hair white as snow, her electric-blue eyes behind a pair of spectacles. She smiled meekly at Ruth as their eyes met.


    "Sorry, what?" Ruth mumbled, her own voice sounding alien to her ears.


    "Exciting," the Cogitant woman repeated. "The, um, the Dawn Contest, I mean. The finals, specifically. It¡¯s a historic occasion, you know?"


    "Right. Yeah."


    "Did you know that if -- if Dragan Hadrien wins, he¡¯ll be the seventh Cogitant Supreme ever? Eighth if you count Doctor Marlyn. A lot of people don¡¯t count Doctor Marlyn."


    "Do you think Hadrien will win?" Ruth found herself asking.


    "He¡¯s really strong!" the woman replied excitedly. "I think he¡¯s got a very good shot. I checked the betting sites before I came out and the odds look really good for him. I mean, that¡¯s all based on demonstrated performance, and nobody¡¯s seen much of what the Heir can do -- but still, you know, what else is there to go off of?"


    This novel¡¯s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    "Huh."


    "Regardless of who wins," the Cogitant said, fidgeting. "Regardless, um, the Banquet afterwards is going to be crazy this time. There¡¯re already rumours that drones from the Hive of Malkuth have been lurking around -- and they say the Sixth Dead¡¯s been spotted. One of my online friends -- they work at a spaceport -- says that someone was smuggling an Armoured Chassis on-world, too. And guess who it belonged to? Appoi --"


    Outside, another shuttle -- small and silver -- zoomed past, overtaking the rest of the swarm as it flew to the Arena of the Absolute. The Cogitant woman¡¯s blue eyes tracked it excitedly as it went. The moment it was out of sight, she whipped her head back to Ruth.


    "Did you see that?" she asked. "That¡¯s Ascendant-General Toll¡¯s personal shuttle. He¡¯s probably in there, you know? Heading to watch the finals with his Honest Men. Those are his personal bodyguards. There used to be a different team of them, but most of them died at Elysian Fields -- except for Gregori Hazzard, but now he¡¯s a Special Officer with the Eight Phases. He¡¯ll probably be here too, though, defending the Heir. Maybe we¡¯ll see him!"


    "Maybe," Ruth mumbled.


    The woman shifted in her seat, glancing over at Ruth a couple more times, before speaking up again. "Some people actually buy tickets to get to the Arena without having a seat there, you know."


    "Okay."


    "Yeah, they just want to be there when history¡¯s happening, be in proximity to it, I guess." She shuffled in her seat again. "You know, if you haven¡¯t got a seat, I actually happen to have --"


    Telltale turbulence began to thrum through the shuttle -- they were coming in to land. Ruth immediately stood up. Her eyes were still fixed forward.


    "Sorry," she said. "I¡¯ve got something going on."


    The night was cold and empty.


    The two young men lay sprawled out on the rooftops of Azum-Ha.


    They were wounded, drifting in and out of consciousness, but not quite dead. Gregori Hazzard was bleeding from thin cuts all over one side of his body, but these had not been inflicted by an attacker. It had been a sudden blow to the back of the head, undetectable, that had brought him down.


    Morgan Nacht hadn¡¯t fared much better.


    The exhaustion from his battle against Aclima had done half the work. A swift punch to the gut and a chop to the neck, neither seen, had taken care of the rest. His limp hand remained outstretched towards the burning effigy in the middle of the rooftop.


    There was another body, of course, another unconscious form a short distance away -- Gretchen Hail. She groaned softly from the depths of oblivion, slowly but surely recovering from the blow to the head she¡¯d received. Even now, orange Aether was beginning to crackle between the locks of her hair.


    Yes, orange -- and if you looked closely¡­ perhaps the shadow of something green.


    Ruth Blaine walked through halls not meant for her.


    This was a place for the rich and the vile. She could tell that immediately. Parades of servants shepherded their masters to their observation booths, celebrities and military officials and Ministers alike. Like the Cogitant woman had pointed out, the Ascendant-General was here, as well as the new Commissioner of the Special Officers. The titans of the Supremacy were gathering to see what their next terror was going to look like.


    Ruth found vague thoughts bouncing through her head as she walked. What would Skipper have done if he was here? What would Skipper have done if he could see all this?


    He¡¯d have stopped it. She didn¡¯t know how, but he¡¯d have stopped it. He¡¯d have figured something out. He¡¯d have brought Dragan home, and found Bruno and Serena, and saved Ruth¡¯s friends from that witch. She didn¡¯t know how, but he¡¯d have done it.


    Because he was a hero.


    Ruth stopped walking, and looked up.


    She¡¯d made it. Booth 31CA, where the Shepherdess would be waiting for her. It was out of the way, so far down these halls that not a single other person now accompanied her as she looked up at it. That was no surprise: based on what Wu Ming had said, the Shepherdess would want to stay away from prying eyes.


    A long stairway stretched up, lit dimly from below, making it look like a passage into the void. This was a place that ate people. This was a world that ate people.


    Ellis, Alice, Rex.


    Ruth climbed.


    In the end, she knew, all of this was her fault. Bruno had suggested it, but she had been the one to push her team into coming to Azum-Ha. They¡¯d acted as if it were no big deal, but she knew that wasn¡¯t truly the case. They must have died resenting her.


    Ellis, Alice, Rex.


    It was the same every time. She got people caught up in her own idiocy and dragged them down with her. It had happened back home. It had happened on Elysian Fields. It had happened again here. This was her sin -- a sin she had to make amends for.


    Ellis, Alice, Rex.


    She was strong, now, stronger even than she¡¯d been before. She had the power she needed to make amends -- the power to dig her claws into the Shepherdess¡¯ chest and rip out her heart. She pictured it, cold and limp in her hand, finally still after a thousand years of beating. The image didn¡¯t conjure much satisfaction.


    Ellis, Alice, Rex.


    She understood why, of course. Even if the Shepherdess had been the one to strike the final blows, it had been Ruth¡¯s actions, her stubbornness, that had killed her friends. It had been Ruth¡¯s actions, her weakness, that had torn the crew apart. It had been her actions, her failure to follow through, that had caused all of this.


    Ellis, Alice, Rex.


    The only real murderer here was her.


    Just like last time.


    A flayed corpse strapped to a post.


    Ellis¡­


    Alice¡­


    ¡­Rex.


    She reached the top of the stairs, and the doors to the observation booth began to slide open. Not fast enough. Red Aether flared across Ruth¡¯s hands as she manifested the gauntlets of the Direwolf Set, digging her claws into the metal entrance and wrenching it open.


    A growl already escaping from her throat, Ruth took the final step forward, ready for the fight --


    -- but then stopped.


    The Shepherdess wasn¡¯t there.


    No.


    The room¡¯s sole occupant turned to look at her and smiled softly. He was a young man in a ragged dark cloak. His skin was pale as snow, his pupils -- and his hair -- black as night. As Ruth looked at him, bemused, he narrowed his eyes in mild amusement.


    "Who the hell are you?!" she snarled.


    He put a finger to his lips.


    "Hush, Ruth Blaine," he said, voice as faint as an evening breeze. "There¡¯s no need to be so noisy."


    His thin smile widened.


    "I¡¯d just like to speak with you."


    ARC 13


    END OF PART 4

 Chapter 420:13.78: Twin Serpents

    Seven Years Ago¡­


    It was freezing on the shuttle.


    Dragan Hadrien wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm, even as his heart thundered in his chest. The jacket he¡¯d been given at the recruitment station hung limp from his form, slightly too big, providing little protection. When he breathed, a cold mist rose from his mouth, but that was no bother.


    He was used to worse.


    As the shuttle -- one of many -- zoomed through the sky, Dragan cast a glance back at the planet where he¡¯d spent his entire life. Already, the breather city he¡¯d grown up in had vanished into the blackened clouds. Good riddance. If he never saw this place again, it would be too soon.


    In the end, he hadn¡¯t told Fix about his intentions of leaving. There hadn¡¯t been a reason to. They weren¡¯t family, and there was no need for the bastard to know what Dragan was doing. Hopefully, that rocky face was another thing he¡¯d never see again.


    He wrapped the jacket tighter against his body, doing his best not to shiver. Throughout the shuttle, the other young recruits were getting to know each other -- babbling excitedly and filling the ship with noise. Ugh.


    Let the future grunts have their fun, Dragan supposed. Unlike them, he was on a fast-track to a cushy position in the AdminCorps. The merits of being a Cogitant of consequence, he supposed.


    As the ship finally left Crestpoole¡¯s diseased atmosphere, Dragan found his gaze drifting to the window once again. The dark smog of the Crestpoole clouds had been replaced by a true void -- pure black in every direction, a night without end, an infinite ocean of ink. But that wasn¡¯t what grabbed Dragan¡¯s attention.


    What did that were the stars.


    In the breather city, all light was artificial, all air recycled. The idea of a sun was a bad joke, the closest thing a pale glow through the clouds.


    Quite often, Dragan would stand on one of Breather 19¡¯s balconies and stare up, trying to see them. He¡¯d read about them in books, seen them in videographs - these things called stars. Lights that made themselves.


    Back home, he never saw a thing. For all he knew, these things called stars were pure fiction. For all he knew, the world that he saw was all there was.


    But still ¡­ stars burned all by themselves, perpetual, never needing anyone or depending on anyone. There wasn¡¯t a thing in the world that could hurt them.


    And they shone so bright ¡­ like nothing else in the universe. Bright enough to light up the dark. Dragan Hadrien had thought that he would quite like to be a star.


    Now, though¡­ finally¡­ he could see them, see them clearly, twinkling against the darkness. All around him, like they had climbed out of his dreams and painted the skies. The cold breath lingered against Dragan¡¯s lips¡­ but a smile did not arrive there.


    Oh, Dragan Hadrien blinked. I thought they¡¯d be brighter.


    AETHERAL SPACE


    ARC 13


    PART 5: SUPREMACY


    Eion Stenhouse waited for history to unfold.


    As Special Envoy to the Body, he¡¯d had his pick of the litter when it came to observation booths for the final match -- and he¡¯d made his choice well. Comfy seating, automatic servants, and a splendid view of the entire arena. Eion sipped his wine as he looked at the empty rectangle below, waiting for the participants to appear.


    On one side, there was Maizer Dragan Hadrien -- the so-called Shooting Star. Maizer Mors was in good with him, so it was in Eion¡¯s best interests for Hadrien to win. Of course, that didn¡¯t mean he could do anything to make that happen. At this point, everyone watching was nothing but a gambler¡­


    ¡­especially with the other contestant being such an unknown quantity.


    Maiz Aclima, the only daughter of Kadmon the Indolent. She was young, but Eion had heard on the grapevine that she possessed a truly atrocious Aether ability. Perhaps that could turn the tide in her favor? Fate adored an underdog, after all.


    Whatever the case, all there was to do now was sit and watch -- and that was an experience Eion Stenhouse intended to enjoy.


    He raised his glass to his lips once more¡­


    ¡­only to pause as the doors slid open behind him.


    He turned his head, ready to complain to whoever had invaded his privacy, only for the words to die on his tongue when he saw who it was. Slowly, he put his wine down on the table before him. Swallowing, he steadied himself, forcing his body into a state of apparent calm.


    "What are you doing here, Rachel?" he asked as casually as he could.


    The Shepherdess smiled back at him. She had a plastic bag in her hand, and raised it with a cheeky grin on her face. "I brought snacks," she said cheerfully. "Mind if I watch the finals from here?"


    He took a deep, tense breath through his nose. "Can¡¯t someone like you get their own observation booth?"


    "Of course I can," the Shepherdess replied, stepping into the room as if he¡¯d agreed. "But I don¡¯t like having my names on things, you know that. Move up, I wanna sit down."


    Slowly, Eion acquiesced -- sliding down the length of the couch and giving her room to sit next to him. Humming happily to herself, she rummaged around in her bag and tossed him a can of juice. Wine forgotten, he popped the cap and took a sip.


    Roriberry. His favourite. Of course.


    He turned his gaze to the window, looking blankly ahead. "You seem in good spirits."


    "I am," the Shepherdess replied, eating some chips. "It¡¯s been a great Dawn Contest. A little sketchy at some points, but we made it to the end, right?" She nudged him with an elbow. "Right?"


    Don¡¯t touch me. That¡¯s someone else¡¯s skin you¡¯re wearing. Someone who never existed.


    When Eion Stenhouse had first met this woman, he¡¯d known her as Rachel -- the adopted daughter of one of his father¡¯s colleagues. They¡¯d played together, gone through school together, grown up together -- or, rather, he¡¯d grown up with her. She¡¯d led him by the hand to the position he was in now.


    And why?


    The Shepherdess put her feet up on the table.


    For such easy convenience.


    "Are you in a better mood now?" the pale young man asked. "Sometimes, when we find ourselves in a tough spot, closing our mouths and calming down can do a world of good."


    "Who are you?" Ruth repeated, her voice lower. The claws of her Direwolf gauntlets gleamed menacingly in the light. The young man¡¯s black pupils flicked down to look at them.


    He tapped a finger to his cheek. "You¡¯re sad because I¡¯m not the Shepherdess, aren¡¯t you?"


    "That¡¯s not the word I¡¯d use."


    He chuckled lightly. "Haha, you¡¯re so funny. I sort of wanted to meet you, actually, so I set up a scenario I didn¡¯t think you could resist. You expected to find the Shepherdess here, right? Sorry. She wouldn¡¯t be so obvious."


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. "Who are you, then? You work for her?"


    The smile dropped from the young man¡¯s face, and the air around the two of them seemed to turn cold. For a moment, Ruth was reminded of another horrible feeling -- one that took her a moment to identify. That night on Elysian Fields, when she¡¯d felt the eyes of the Supreme on her¡­ but slightly, subtly different.


    Back then, she had felt Kadmon¡¯s attention, but it had been a distant and impersonal thing. She had been one ant among many. There hadn¡¯t been any great malice there.


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    But this time? This time she could feel the air sneering at her.


    Something evil was standing before her.


    "No," the pale man said, seriously. "I don¡¯t work for the Shepherdess. Please don¡¯t ever suggest such a thing again."


    "Who are you, then?" Ruth asked quietly, her throat dry.


    "My name is Niain, friend," he put a hand to his chest, his gentle smile returning. "I¡¯ve found myself sympathetic to your cause, and I want to lend a helping hand."


    "You want to help me kill the Shepherdess?" Ruth¡¯s voice was full of doubt.


    "Is it that weird?" Niain cocked his head playfully. "You¡¯ve seen her. You¡¯ve experienced her. I¡¯m sure you can surmise she¡¯s good at getting people to dislike her. I dislike her just as much as you do¡­ maybe even more, haha."


    "...ggh¡­"


    Ruth¡¯s gaze drifted to the dark corner of the room, where the sound had come from, and her eyes widened. There was a man sitting in a chair there. At first, she thought he was bound to the chair -- but no, he was bound together.


    The man¡¯s skin was drooping and sloughing away from his body, kept in place only by a series of oddly organic black bands. One of his eyes had wizened and turned black, like a raisin, while the other trembled beseechingly in its socket. A half-collapsed jaw twitched, an incoherent and barely audible moan oozing from his open throat.


    "Who¡¯s he?" Ruth demanded. "What¡¯s wrong with him?" Sear?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Niain turned to look at the man as if remembering he was there for the first time. "Oh, you don¡¯t recognise him?" he asked, surprised. "This is Brett del Boros -- he was doing the commentary for the Dawn Contest until pretty recently. It¡¯s thanks to him I¡¯ve been able to keep track of the Shepherdess¡¯ comings and goings. A silver eye is a pretty useful thing to have, right?"


    Ruth didn¡¯t know this man. She hadn¡¯t paid attention to whatever commentary was played over the Dawn Contest. But even if she didn¡¯t know him, even if he didn¡¯t know her, there was no human worth the name who could look at a sight like this and not feel fury.


    "What¡¯ve you done to him?!" she barked.


    "Well," Niain laughed lightly, rubbing the back of his head with a hand. "It was actually sort of a team effort, if you¡¯re that curious. Originally, I had the Forest of Sin moving him around -- but after Paradise Charon passed away, I had to take over myself. As you can see, it¡¯s a little gross, but there¡¯s always some of that when a starship gets a new captain, right?"


    Ruth glared at him, her claws ready. She could be upon him in a moment, she knew, stabbing these claws into his body -- but surely he knew that as well. There¡¯d be countermeasures.


    And besides¡­


    "What is it you want from me?" she whispered, throat dry.


    "I told you," his kind smile deepened. "I want to help you kill the Shepherdess, silly."


    A dull weight settled in Ruth¡¯s stomach.


    This person, this Niain¡­ if he was telling the truth, he was someone who hated the Shepherdess just as much as her. Someone who wanted her dead just as much as Ruth did. He¡¯d been able to arrange all of this, he¡¯d been able to set things up and lure her here¡­ someone with those kinds of resources could be very, very useful.


    But¡­ the man in the chair.


    But¡­ her revenge.


    But¡­ the Shepherdess.


    But¡­ Ellis, Alice, Rex.


    "What do you say?" Niain asked.


    Bloody light cast its glow over Ruth¡¯s face as she wrestled with the answer in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut. She clenched her fists. Finally, she opened her mouth to answer --


    -- only to be interrupted.


    There was a sing-song beat as the Arena¡¯s announcement system activated -- and a moment later, a smooth computerized voice made a proclamation.


    "Attendants and participants.


    "Please be aware of a change in the upcoming match. The Supreme Heir, Aclima, has elected to invoke ¡¯proxy law¡¯ and bequeath her title and rights to another. As such, the final match of the Dawn Contest will be between Dragan Hadrien¡­ and Atoy Muzazi."


    Niain¡¯s smile twisted into a wry smirk.


    "Oh my," he giggled. "She¡¯ll hate that."


    Eion Stenhouse inched away as the space next to him broiled with fury.


    The Shepherdess¡¯ eyes were bloodshot. Her fingers twitched, crushing the chip held between them. She glared forward, her expression almost animalistic, as she digested the news the announcement had just brought.


    "Huh¡­?!" she snarled, her voice darkened and deepened by outrage and disgust.


    Wu Ming put his feet up and laughed as he watched the videograph screen explode into confetti of talking heads and breathless headlines. His disciple had certainly grown bold in his absence -- as had Atoy Muzazi. He hadn¡¯t thought the swordsman had it in him.


    "Ethically, it¡¯s probably a little shitty," he chuckled, raising his glass. "But it¡¯s a ten-outta-ten for the spectacle!"


    Bruno didn¡¯t react as the news spilled over him, even as the crowd he¡¯d infiltrated exploded into excitement. It didn¡¯t matter. Whoever Dragan would be fighting, it didn¡¯t matter.


    His gaze was fixed on the empty arena before him, at the flat space where the final two contestants would soon clash. All Bruno had to worry about was finding his chance. His chance to jump in, get face-to-face with Dragan¡­


    ¡­and drag them all out of this absurdity.


    When Dragan Hadrien had heard the news about Atoy Muzazi, about Aclima, he had to admit he¡¯d felt a moment of anxiety. The guaranteed victory he¡¯d arranged was no longer quite so guaranteed. Muzazi had become strong -- anyone who¡¯d watched the previous matches would be able to tell that. There was a good chance that he¡¯d be able to win.


    Dragan Hadrien had felt that fear, real and true¡­


    ¡­but that had been more than an hour ago.


    Now, he was as calm and tranquil as a monk. He truly was grateful that he¡¯d managed to enlist Anya Hapgrass¡¯ assistance in this Dawn Contest. If not for her, he¡¯d never have received this advanced warning of the switch, and he¡¯d never have been able to make the preparations he needed.


    Everything was still slotting into place for him. That was the only thing that mattered.


    The only one who decides what happens is me.


    He threw a white cloak over his black bodysuit, already mid-stride towards the exit to the throne room. The Branches of the Tree of Might lined up on either side of the door, forming a corridor of bodies, bowing to Dragan as he passed.


    He didn¡¯t look at them, though. His sapphire eyes remained fixed right forward. His was a gaze forever on the future: that was the image he intended to convey.


    "Zero Branch," Xander said, bowing lower than any other. "We await your return."


    Dragan deigned to glance at him.


    "That¡¯s the last time you¡¯ll need to call me by that title, Xander. By the time I return¡­"


    He threw his arm out as he strode through the doors, spreading his pale cloak wide.


    "...I shall already be Supreme."


    The noise that filled the Arena of the Absolute was a mixture of jubilation and derision -- aimed at both participants.


    Few could deny that Dragan Hadrien was powerful -- his performances against Paradise Charon and PALATINE had more than proven that. However, the numerous matches he had effectively skipped in this Dawn Contest -- subterfuge clear for all to see -- suggested a cowardly streak that many traditionalists did not approve of. His association with the Tree of Might had hushed those doubters slightly¡­ but not enough that they couldn¡¯t be heard at all.


    So, cheering and booing.


    Atoy Muzazi, on the other hand, had been hugely popular. His conduct and strength were what people liked to see in a true warrior of the Supremacy, and his hard-fought matches had won him the adoration of the people. That had been before his defeat against PALATINE, however, and before he had suddenly reappeared. To those watching, the sudden replacement of the Supreme Heir by her chief bodyguard was more than a little suspicious. Already, rumors of a coup were rampant.


    So, cheering and booing.


    Roughly a fifty-fifty split for both sides¡­ perfect.


    The two finalists walked down the length of the arena, coming to meet in the middle of the flat plane. There would be no special environment this time, no gimmick, no artificial landscape to be ruined. Only these two and the power that dwelled within them¡­ doing their best to kill each other.


    They couldn¡¯t have looked more different.


    Dragan Hadrien¡¯s white cloak seemed to shine in the light as it fluttered in the wind around him, a stark contrast with the black bodysuit he wore underneath. Cold blue eyes glinted, framed by silver hair that waved through the air like a second radiant garment. Inhuman in his cleanliness, almost angelic. To be frank, it looked as if he¡¯d never seen a speck of dirt in his life.


    Atoy Muzazi was quite the opposite.


    It was as if he¡¯d been dragged through all the pits of hell on his way here. His clothes were disheveled and filthy, his face covered in dirt. A combination of sweat and rain and god-knows-what dripped off of him, leaving a repugnant trail as he moved. He glared with his one good eye, the expression more like a rabid animal than a person. Already, he was preparing the Radiants in his hands, ready to launch forward the instant the match began.


    The two faced off.


    Dragan smirked humourlessly. "You¡¯ve seen better days, Atoy Muzazi."


    Muzazi said nothing, just continuing to heave out haggard breaths.


    The voice of the announcer boomed out from above, drowning out the noises of the crowd.


    "Five!"


    "Four!"


    "Three!"


    "Two!"


    "ONE!"


    An instant of silence, and then¡­


    "BEGIN!"

 Chapter 421:13.79: Overdrive

    "Five!"


    Atop a tower, the spark of a stun pistol.


    "Four!"


    In a ruined casino, a bitter defeat.


    "Three!"


    In a burning desert, a venomous curse.


    "Two!"


    In the halls of faith, a march of despair.


    "One!"


    In an emerald forest, a resolute command.


    "Begin!"


    Atoy Muzazi disappeared.


    Eh?


    For a moment, Dragan just continued to look at the spot his enemy had just occupied, his mind not keeping up. He had just finished blinking by the time he realized how much danger he was in -- and by then, it was nearly too late. The bite of a burning sword was already sinking into his side.


    Gemini World!


    Dragan vanished just before he could be fully bisected -- then reappeared a moment later, floating high in the air with recorded feet, the gash in his stomach already forming a new seal of skin. A shiver went down his spine to accompany the pain. If he¡¯d acted a moment later, that could have been fatal. Silver hair whipping in the air around him, Dragan glared down at his adversary.


    Atoy Muzazi was standing where Dragan had just been, a mist of blood rising from the Radiant he¡¯d used to cut into the Cogitant¡¯s body. He was looking right back up at Dragan, his good eye resolute, the pupil a pinprick of lethal intention. His red tie finally came fully loose and blew away in the wind, crawling through the air like a snake.


    For a good long moment the two of them just stared each other down -- predator and prey assessing what they¡¯d just witnessed, determining which was which.


    That speed¡­ Dragan pondered, running a hand over his restored skin. I¡¯ve been watching his matches -- he hasn¡¯t gone that fast before. Why not?


    More than that, dead boy. Why couldn¡¯t you eat him?


    Right, Dragan acknowledged Pan¡¯s point. No matter how fast someone is, if they fulfill the conditions for Gemini Dominion -- moving towards or away from me in a two meter straight line -- I should be able to record them. Even if my body couldn¡¯t react in time, I should have been aware that I could use the ability¡­


    His eyes flicked around the arena, and immediately he understood.


    Oh¡­ you really are fast, aren¡¯t you, Muzazi?


    Smoking footprints were burnt into the ground, a trail left by Muzazi¡¯s lightning-fast approach -- and that trail was a spiral, winding all the way into where Dragan had been standing. It seemed Muzazi had been watching his opponent¡¯s fights too -- and he¡¯d figured out the conditions for Gemini Dominion. By moving in a curve, he could avoid being recorded.


    More than that, though¡­ Dragan could see the secret to Muzazi¡¯s speed.


    Recklessness.


    Atoy Muzazi opened his mouth, and a plume of smoke poured forth, drifting into the air around him.


    Already, he could feel the backlash from his attack -- a distant pain pursuing him and surely catching up. His skin was reddened, and steam was rising from the pores there too. His artificial eye blinked an overheating warning, but Muzazi ignored it.


    Right now, he couldn¡¯t afford to let up.


    Two years ago, he had used Full Throttle to create countless tiny thrusters all over his body, accelerating all of his movements. At first, that had been something he¡¯d used in bursts, to avoid pushing his body past its limits -- but over time, he¡¯d acclimatized to it enough that he could keep it on constantly. It wasn¡¯t even something he thought of as a special move anymore.


    But against Dragan Hadrien, that acceleration wouldn¡¯t be enough on its own. He had to push it further. So he¡¯d developed the ability further -- more force, more push, more speed¡­ and this time, he¡¯d put the thrusters everywhere he could: including the inside of his body.


    Full Throttle: Overdrive.


    Just like Full Throttle at first, Muzazi wouldn¡¯t be able to keep up Overdrive for long. The risk came from overheating rather than an Aether burn, but if he kept Overdrive active for too long, his body would begin to fail him all the same. At that point, he would lose.


    How long could he keep this up, then? Thirty seconds? A minute? He¡¯d never even gotten the chance to test this. It barely qualified as a prototype.


    No doubt he was damaging his body heavily right now, but that was fine. He had already betrayed Aclima, and he had already betrayed himself. He would be nothing but a hypocrite if he wasn¡¯t willing to throw his life away too.


    Floating in the air high above, Dragan Hadrien narrowed his brilliant blue eyes.


    "So you¡¯ve gotten a little faster," the Cogitant called down, his voice booming across the arena. "Nice trick. Show me again."


    Muzazi¡¯s enemy swept an arm through the air -- and in its wake, a scattering of blue points began to blink into existence. It was as if someone had pulled a second night out of the sky. A sheet of shining stars, each and every one of them aimed at the ground below.


    "Gemini Railgun."


    Muzazi moved.


    The arena below Dragan exploded as the hail of Railguns slammed into it, great geysers of dust and debris shooting up into the sky. Smog poured out from the ruins of the battlefield, only prevented from washing over the audience by the shielding systems. The devastation had been absolute, a small-scale recreation of what Dragan had achieved back in the Outer Melee.


    And yet he knew it wouldn¡¯t be enough.


    Atoy Muzazi was skilled and fast enough to dodge those attacks, but that was fine. Once he saw that he was a sitting duck on the ground, he¡¯d have no choice but to take flight as Dragan had -- and in the air, Dragan would hold the advantage. Muzazi couldn¡¯t make the best use of his speed without a flat plane, and Dragan was used to maneuvering his body through the air.


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    All he had to do was wait for that spark of silver¡­


    There.


    ¡­and avoid the strike that followed.


    Dragan flipped his body as Muzazi fired out of the smoke, barely avoiding the swerving stab that had been aimed at his head. His chin sizzled where the Radiant had scraped by, but all the same Dragan had been able to avoid the attack this time. Muzazi¡¯s speed-boost was growing more unstable by the second.


    His opponent wasn¡¯t going to stop trying with just one attack, though. Keeping himself in the air with thrusters, Muzazi twisted his body, igniting another Radiant from his foot as he went to kick right through Dragan¡¯s stomach.


    It¡¯s even slower the third time.


    Gemini World.


    Dragan recorded his body into sparks of sapphire Aether -- and as one, those tendrils zipped between Muzazi¡¯s legs and reconstituted on the other side of him. With a flash of blue, Dragan reappeared upside-down behind his adversary, palms extended out as one -- another attack already brewing between his hands.


    "You mistook this marathon for a sprint," Dragan smirked. "That¡¯s why you¡¯ll lose."


    Gemini Railgun.


    This time, the attack was at nearly point-blank range -- and this time, Atoy Muzazi could not dodge.


    The Railgun slammed into him from behind, spiking him back down into the arena and creating another massive explosion of rubble. Dragan landed softly atop the arena¡¯s dome, looking down into the stadium proper with a satisfied smile. He waved the leftover steam from his hands as he watched a legion of green lights make their way up towards him.


    With the track record of the two competitors this time, the Emerald Eyes had been ready to set out at a moment¡¯s notice. They surrounded Dragan from a distance, covering him from all angles, beaming his image out to every corner of the galaxy. He did his best to ignore them as they buzzed around like so many flies.


    Right now, he had better things to watch out for.


    He¡¯d managed to keep Muzazi at a distance with that last attack -- but at the same time, he¡¯d now lost sight of the swordsman. Even with his speed being reduced over time, he was still devastatingly fast. Dragan couldn¡¯t allow the bastard to pull off a sneak attack -- he had to reacquire Muzazi¡¯s location as soon as possible.


    Where? Where?!


    Dragan¡¯s eyes flicked through the smog-covered arena, looking for a humanoid blur or even a smoking footprint. If he knew the general area Muzazi was in, he¡¯d know where to launch his next attack, but it seemed that the Full Moon was intent on --


    "Quantum King."


    -- not hiding.


    The smog was blown away as a bright white sphere exploded into life, the shape of the Quantum King rejecting everything around it. Dragan raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light, waves of air pressure crashing over him as he braced his body. Atoy Muzazi had certainly made quite the spectacle of himself.


    It was obvious what Muzazi was doing. He¡¯d seen the power of Dragan¡¯s ranged attacks from that initial volley and the blow that had landed -- and he thought he¡¯d come up with a countermeasure. S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s replication of Quantum King was somewhat limited -- it could only push, it kept him stationary, and it was indiscriminate -- but that also meant it could push Gemini Railgun away. Muzazi would be right at the core of the rejection field, and the repulsive thrusters would divert the course of any projectiles away from him. Did he think that Dragan would see that his normal attacks were useless, and be forced to switch strategies?


    If so, he was mistaken.


    "I bet you think I¡¯ve been using my strongest attacks," Dragan grinned, pulling his hand back -- and charging up a truly atrocious Railgun. "Sorry, though. I can hit much harder and much faster -- this¡¯ll get you before it even has time to get pushed."


    To achieve the correct projectile speed, he¡¯d need to charge this shot for five more seconds¡­ four¡­ three¡­ two¡­ one¡­


    Danger.


    Dragan went to whirl around, but he didn¡¯t have the time. Before he could react, a blade of white light burst out of his stomach, pushed right through his back. Blood and pain mingled into a scream that tore through Dragan¡¯s throat, his eyeballs shuddering in their sockets as he tried to register the situation.


    Down in the arena, Quantum King died -- and the Emerald Eye that had served as its core dropped to the ground, thoroughly spent. Of course. Of course. It had been a decoy -- Muzazi could activate Quantum King on things other than himself. Damnit. Damnit!


    While Dragan had been distracted, Muzazi had snuck around the long way -- flying under the arena itself -- and stabbed him in the back.


    Muzazi growled as he went to raise the blade up, to slice through Dragan¡¯s chest and destroy his heart. A flare of panic burnt through Dragan¡¯s brain -- he could regenerate, sure, but if he was killed he was as dead as anyone else. He was dying. He was losing.


    No.


    "Muzaziii!" Dragan screamed in pain and fury, blood spraying from his mouth as he glared wild-eyed over his shoulder.


    Focusing all his Aether into his elbow, he brought it down -- and blocked the Radiant from its passage further up his body. The two of them struggled against each other, sounding more like beasts than people, growling and snarling and roaring and snapping, their feet sliding over the wet roof beneath them. Rain battered against them from above -- with him lifting the infusion from the rest of his body, it was probably the only thing keeping the Radiant from setting Dragan aflame.


    Pan! Dragan called inward, desperate. Let¡¯s do it!


    Okie dokie!


    With all the strength and will he could muster, Dragan twisted his body -- letting the Radiant slice horizontally through his flesh -- and thrust his fist forwards. The blow seemed to land in slow motion. Sparks of blue Aether danced across the surface of his skin¡­ and, accompanying them, a current of orange. A wild, feral grin spread across Dragan¡¯s lips.


    Multi-infusion, he thought. Dodge this!


    As the fist hurtled towards him, coursing with blue and orange Aether, Muzazi knew in his bones that this was a blow he could not afford to take unprotected. At this distance, dodging was not an option. The only option was to block.


    This will hurt¡­ he knew. But it won¡¯t kill.


    Muzazi raised his guard, pouring pinpoint Aether into his forearms -- and an instant later, the godblow struck. Immediately, he was sent flying as if a cannon had hit him, zooming off the arena and into the city-abyss below. For a good ten seconds, even his strongest thrusters couldn¡¯t halt Muzazi¡¯s flight -- but gradually he slowed, and gradually he stopped.


    One broken arm fell limp at his side as he ignited a Radiant from the other, staring up at the distant Dragan Hadrien.


    His attacker hadn¡¯t exactly made it out unscathed either. The arm Dragan had punched Muzazi with was gone -- obliterated up to the elbow by the recoil of the attack, gristle twitching from the stump. Dragan was flying again, his floating so smooth that it looked like he was standing atop the air itself, and he was glaring right back down at Muzazi. His eyes bloodshot, his breath heaving. A string of rabid saliva dripped from his lips.


    As Muzazi watched, he saw new fingers begin to push their way free from the stump, the missing arm slowly returning to existence. Damnit. It was going to be like nothing had even happened.


    No¡­ Muzazi thought, brandishing his blade. This is fine.


    He wasn¡¯t about to give his enemy a chance to rest, anyway.


    Full Throttle: Overdrive!


    Holographic screens surrounded Ruth and Niain on all sides, showing various angles of the battle happening outside.


    More than once she¡¯d already felt the arena shudder from the force of the attacks. Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked from screen to screen, from scene to scene, from blow to blow. She¡¯d known this would be a fight to remember¡­ but she hadn¡¯t expected to see this kind of power on display already.


    "It¡¯s fun, isn¡¯t it?" Niain smiled kindly. "Watching such pointless battles."


    Her gaze returned to him, and returned to a glare.


    "Don¡¯t worry," he said, seeing her sour expression. "There¡¯s no need to give me your answer right away. We can stay here and watch for a while¡­"


    He spread his arms wide, encompassing the room, as if the floating screens and the visages of battle were no more than his servants.


    "...as the future unfurls its wings."

 Chapter 422:13.80: Inside Midnight

    Dragan Hadrien was starting to get a little bit annoyed.


    Muzazi came for him, again and again, his flight-path chaotic -- as if he were ricocheting off of the air itself -- and each time he passed, he cut. Blood sprayed from transient wounds, spilling with the rain in the moments before Pan¡¯s regeneration triggered. His arms, his legs, his stomach¡­ more than once his entrails threatened to slip free of their cage and abandon him.


    The sky was made bright with fireworks -- the white ribbon of the zigzagging Muzazi, and the countless blue flares of Gemini Railgun. Dragan blasted the entire area around him, hoping to strike Muzazi out of the air, but the Full Moon was too fast, too fast, still too fast. Right now, even with his senses infused to their utmost, Dragan Hadrien could only strike his enemy¡¯s afterimage.


    This wasn¡¯t right.


    He¡¯d already confirmed that this ability of Muzazi¡¯s was unstable. The first attack had been absurdly fast, the second impressively fast, and the third only slightly faster than normal. The benefits of his reckless power should have worn off long ago -- so why had he sped up again?


    Muzazi had returned to a speed at a midpoint between his first and second strike, and that was far too close to absurdity for Dragan¡¯s liking. His mind raced, trying to figure out the trick to it. Was this an Aether burn after all? No, if it was, Muzazi¡¯s body would have collapsed long ago. Had he somehow managed to counteract the overheating? A cooling ability? The rain -- it was raining, was that helping to cool him off? No, the rain wouldn¡¯t be enough to do that on its own, there had to be something --


    Aether crackled.


    Ah. I see.


    It was the rain. It fell relentlessly on both Muzazi and Dragan, battering against their bodies -- but in the instant before it struck Muzazi, a tiny tendril of white Aether reached out and embraced the droplet. He was infusing the rainwater the moment it touched his body, enhancing its potency as a coolant, allowing it to reduce the strain of his ability.


    Under these conditions, he could probably move at this speed for a good while.


    The two crossed paths in the air, their attacks barely missing each other, their faces only inches apart for the briefest of moments. Dragan let a victorious smirk spread across his lips. Muzazi¡¯s eye widened in alarm.


    You know I know, don¡¯t you? That¡¯s right. You understand well. If I know how you¡¯re doing it¡­ I can just stop you from doing it.


    Gemini Railgun.


    A sapphire aurora erupted outwards as Dragan spread his Aether, covering the area that both he and Muzazi were fighting in. Immediately, the air began to rapidly flash blue again and again -- each individual raindrop being recorded into Dragan¡¯s Aether before it could reach his opponent. He¡¯d successfully disabled Muzazi¡¯s coolant.


    Muzazi blasted away with thrusters -- and Dragan moved to follow, recording his lower half and firing Railguns from his hands to increase his speed.


    He couldn¡¯t afford to let Muzazi put distance between them -- if he managed to leave the range of Dragan¡¯s recording, he¡¯d be able to cool his body down once more and increase his speed. For the time being, Dragan had to keep relatively close to his opponent. Muzazi¡¯s aptitude for close-quarters-combat made that a risky proposition too, of course, but with his body slowing down again it was the best route to take.


    Muzazi swung around, whirling a Radiant at Dragan¡¯s head -- but he managed to record it away before the blow struck.


    Flipping through the air below Muzazi, Dragan fired a volley of Railguns upwards -- blue spears of light spiking through the sky. The first three Muzazi dodged, weaving in incoherent patterns to avoid Gemini Dominion, and the fourth he parried with a twin swing of twin Radiants. The deflected shot went wild, slamming into a floating advertisement and sending it smoking down to the city below.


    As Dragan¡¯s head returned, Muzazi lunged in again, dancing with his blades as he attempted to resume his evisceration. Clearly, he wanted to capitalize on his increased speed while it still lasted -- already, Dragan could see his foe¡¯s skin reddening once again, and the hiss of steam was audible once more. Ordinarily, Dragan would just retreat into Gemini World to avoid the onslaught, but¡­


    Right now, my body is the obstacle he needs to get through. If it comes down to a pure contest of speed, he still has the edge. He¡¯ll be able to get out of my range faster than I can pursue -- and if he can get his speed back up to how it was before, I won¡¯t be able to counter at all.


    So I can¡¯t just dodge. I need to keep him here. I need to keep him fighting me.


    Let¡¯s go.


    How much longer could Atoy Muzazi keep fighting without coolant? He couldn¡¯t say, and he didn¡¯t have the time to consider it.


    The facts were that his body was rapidly overheating, and the strategy he¡¯d used to mitigate that had been sealed off. He couldn¡¯t take the time to regret that. The only path forward was to coldly accept the new reality and choose to fight another way.


    So he¡¯d overwhelm his opponent, and then¡­


    Muzazi charged forward, adjusting his path slightly to avoid being recorded, and let loose. He was a spinning top of blades, Radiants erupting from his elbows and knees to bolster the ones on his hands. He ignited thrusters on his broken arm to keep it moving, ignoring the pain. Sparks and blood flew in every direction as the dervish that was him made contact with the enemy.


    Dragan Hadrien didn¡¯t take as much damage as Muzazi had expected. Rather than dodge, he¡¯d opted to block and parry, fists lashing out with pinpoint Aether to meet the incoming blades. It was only two hands versus many more blades, of course, and Muzazi was still faster -- but more of Hadrien¡¯s flesh went unscathed than Muzazi was comfortable with.


    Gemini Railgun!


    Hadrien¡¯s fist clashed with Muzazi¡¯s Radiant once again -- and in the moment it did, a Railgun shot forth from his knuckles and blasted the blade of light apart.


    Damnation!


    Muzazi went to move backwards, to stop Hadrien from pressing the advantage, but it was too late. A victorious grin was already on the Cogitant¡¯s face. The speed of his punches increased as Hadrien advanced -- each blow accompanied by a Railgun to seal the deal, each blow disrupting and scattering the sword that met it.


    The scale tipped, ever so slightly¡­


    ¡­and Hadrien¡¯s fist slammed into Muzazi¡¯s shoulder.


    Muzazi focused pinpoint Aether to block right before the followup Railgun fired -- but even so, the pain was immense. He felt his skeleton creak as he was sent flying backwards, flipping end over end as he tried to right himself with thrusters, white beams spluttering and fading as they drained away. His vision was a rotating blur, city and sky melding into one sickening kaleidoscope.


    For all the world, it looked like the perfect opening.


    Dragan Hadrien clearly thought so too. He brought his knees to his chest and kicked himself through the air, Railguns firing from the soles of his feet to propel himself towards Muzazi. Already, two more nuclei of Aether were building in his hands, ready to fire the killer shots.


    For all the world, it looked like the perfect opening.


    Muzazi¡¯s flipping finally came to an end, his good arm flailing in the air as he tried to reorient himself.


    For all the world, it looked like the perfect opening.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes widened as Dragan swooped right in, planting those deadly hands against his chest, ready to fire point-blank.


    For all the world, it looked like the perfect opening¡­


    ¡­until Atoy Muzazi opened his mouth.


    A thought occurred to Dragan Hadrien, in the moment before the trap closed. Why had he been able to overwhelm Atoy Muzazi just then?


    If he considered it, it didn¡¯t really make sense. The entire reason he¡¯d been on the backfoot so far was because of Muzazi¡¯s speed. Fighting Muzazi in close-quarters hadn¡¯t been his first option because he knew it wasn¡¯t his best option -- and yet, he¡¯d managed to turn the tables on Muzazi with relative ease.


    It had been because of the swordsman¡¯s speed, Dragan realized. As they¡¯d clashed, Muzazi had quickly lost much of the speed that had made him a threat. By the end of their bout, Dragan had probably been faster than him.


    But that had been expected. Having lost his coolant, Muzazi would quickly lose the benefits of his ability as well. That had been the entire reason Dragan had done this.


    Still, though, hadn¡¯t he slowed down just a little too quickly? Had Dragan misjudged this? If that was the case¡­ if that was the case¡­ then it begged another question.


    If the power from those thrusters was no longer going towards Muzazi¡¯s acceleration¡­ where was it going?


    Atoy Muzazi opened his mouth -- and the white light of heaven shone within. The force had been gathered together where Dragan would not see it. Muzazi had sacrificed speed for this attack.


    He¡¯d allowed himself to be humiliated¡­ and from his shame he¡¯d forged the spear that now waited at the back of his throat.


    Radiant¡­


    Oh fuck.


    ¡­Almighty!


    The beam of light blasted free from Muzazi¡¯s open mouth, slamming into Dragan¡¯s chest and sending him flying down into the city-abyss below.


    Even as he saw scorched limbs flying in every direction, Muzazi was under no illusions. If he didn¡¯t see Hadrien¡¯s brains smeared on the sidewalk himself, then the bastard wasn¡¯t dead. Given enough time, a near-lethal wound was no wound at all for that man.


    He wanted to pursue. He needed to pursue¡­ but that was easier said than done.


    Smoke was pouring from his mouth, and he could taste the metal signature of blood along with it. He¡¯d infused his insides to withstand the backlash, but that had still been a reckless move. He put a hand to his neck, massaging his throat, forcing out wheezing breaths.


    If he just spent a few seconds¡­ no.


    He couldn¡¯t waste time. If he was falling apart, then he¡¯d just have to finish this while falling apart. He¡¯d thrown too much away to do anything else.


    Muzazi zoomed down into the abyss, thrusters blazing from his feet as he pursued his foe.


    That¡­ was a miscalculation.


    Dragan had landed on a small control platform amidst the rushing rows of automatic traffic -- transporting their cargo across the surface of Azum-Ha. The noise of the rushing vehicles alone was deafening, and the raging winds produced by their movement battered against Dragan¡¯s body. He tried to get up, only to find himself unable.


    How bad is it?


    Very bad, dead boy. Can¡¯t move yet.


    His eyes slid downwards, and he saw that Pan¡¯s assessment was correct. He¡¯d lost both of his legs from that attack, and one of his arms -- the other hanging on by a few thin strings of muscle. To be honest, he was surprised he could still see out of both eyes.


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    The heat of that Almighty had been immense, too. His flesh had been scorched all the way from his chest up to his jaw, leaving a skeletal grin for all the world to see. When he tried to get up, he could feel his skin peeling away -- it seemed he¡¯d partially melted onto the surface of this platform, too. Focusing nearly all of his infusion onto his heart had definitely been the right move, then.


    Already, though, he could feel parts of his ruined body molting away -- already, he could feel new flesh growing to replace them. This was a temporary state of affairs. So long as this was temporary, even the pain just became trivia.


    How long until I can move again?


    Dunno, dead boy. A minute, maybe?


    A minute isn¡¯t great. With Muzazi getting his speed back, he¡¯ll be able to get down here and finish me off in that time.


    What was left of Dragan¡¯s hair billowed as another line of traffic passed, bulky vehicles piloted by basic auto-brains. If he had lips, he¡¯d have used them to smile. As things were, though, his rictus grin got across his mood just well enough.


    I remember, Muzazi¡­ do you? Dragan thought, malice oozing out of his delirium as he raised a hand to the distant white star. Back on Caelus Breck¡­ back before all of this¡­ you showed me what strength looked like. I remember you threw a car through someone. That really made an impression on me.


    He tipped his withered body towards the traffic.


    Wanna see something cool?


    Gemini Railgun.


    Muzazi fell.


    If he was able to move freely, he¡¯d probably have been able to reach Dragan Hadrien in the span of a few seconds. With the injuries he¡¯d just inflicted, taking Dragan Hadrien¡¯s head would be easy -- and that would be the end of it. Of course, this world wasn¡¯t kind enough to let Muzazi move freely.


    Bright blue lights flashed from the depths of the traffic-valley -- and a moment later, cars came flying at Muzazi.


    Like giant bullets from a giant gatling gun, they tore through space without pause, their black chassis¡¯ reduced to impressionist smears by sheer speed. Muzazi weaved through the hail of wreckage, thrusters splitting his skin as they forcibly pushed his body out of the path of traffic. Radiants blazed from his hands as he slashed and sliced at the vehicles he couldn¡¯t dodge, cutting them into clean pieces that scattered on the winds.


    If he activated Quantum King, he could defend himself from all of these attacks without fail. However, that wasn¡¯t an option he was willing to entertain. If he activated Quantum King, that meant remaining stationary until the attack ceased -- and that was exactly what the enemy wanted him to do.


    Because Dragan Hadrien was trying to buy time.


    It was obvious. Everyone watching the Dawn Contest was now well-aware of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s regenerative powers. The majority believed it to be an Aether ability he possessed, enhancing the natural regenerative properties of the body to the extreme. Personally, Muzazi thought it had something to do with the events on Panacea, but that didn¡¯t matter.


    The point was that Atoy Muzazi could not afford to stop attacking, not even for a second. If he did, then Dragan Hadrien would recover completely, while his own wounds continued to accumulate. In a war of attrition, this Shooting Star would always win.


    His only choice was to snuff that star out.


    Out of my way! he demanded of the world.


    Pulling his arms in, he slid past an incoming car as he zoomed downwards¡­


    ¡­ and time slowed down.


    Muzazi¡¯s eyes flicked to the side.


    There was a zombie clinging to that car, flayed and burnt and battered, holding on with barely formed limbs.


    There was a zombie clinging to that car, pointing a finger at Muzazi just as the digit came into existence, sparks concentrating at the tip of the newborn fingernail.


    There was a zombie clinging to that car, narrowing electric-blue eyes and opening an exposed jaw.


    It had no tongue with which to speak, but Atoy Muzazi knew full well the words that were echoing within that head.


    Gemini Railgun.


    Muzazi went to dodge, to move his head back -- if he didn¡¯t, the shot that blasted from Hadrien¡¯s fingertip would surely have blasted his brains out. As things were, it flashed past his neck instead, opening the front of his throat and sending blood spraying out in front of him. Muzazi¡¯s eyes shuddered in his sockets as he felt a sudden and fatal chill vibrate through his body.


    It had felt like this back on Ocean Hate, when the man called King had beaten him so badly that his heart had stopped. Back then, he¡¯d been able to restart his heart through thrusters. Now, he knew Dragan Hadrien would offer him no such leeway.


    This was it, then. This was how he --


    No.


    Thrusters flared inside Muzazi¡¯s throat, cauterizing and closing the wound in the moment it was created. The pain was excruciating, but he embraced it. This agony alone was proof that he was still alive.


    He whirled around, igniting a Radiant, slashing at Hadrien as the car passed -- but the moment was already gone. The flying vehicle had been sent off course by the recoil of Gemini Railgun, and the wounded Hadrien had let go, floating a short distance away with the aid of his Gemini World. He was a sight to behold -- parts of his body were just meat regrowing over bones, while others had been recorded into fizzling Aether.


    Anyone else would have been dead a long time ago, Muzazi knew. Anyone else would have died back in that arena, cut open by the first swing of a Radiant. However¡­ Dragan Hadrien had no shortage of ways to avoid consequences.


    No matter. He¡¯d achieved the distance he needed when Hadrien had been sent flying away. The coolant strategy could now --


    Oh.


    He¡¯d been so absorbed in the battle that he hadn¡¯t noticed. He¡¯d been so consumed by the finishing blow that he hadn¡¯t realized. God had played another little prank on Atoy Muzazi.


    It had stopped raining.


    Where are you going, Atoy Muzazi?


    Dragan flew through the sky in pursuit of his opponent, a cloud of Emerald Eyes surrounding him. After managing to survive Dragan¡¯s sneak attack, Muzazi had turned and began running away again. Well, Dragan could imagine why his foe would be panicking -- without the rain, he¡¯d be unable to counter the overheating produced by his acceleration.


    Without that additional speed, he was at a disadvantage here in the air. So¡­ he was looking for a battlefield more suited to him.


    Muzazi swerved to the side, thrusters blazing white, bringing him towards a large squat tower floating over the buildings below. Wax Herd Leisure Centre, the sign on the front said. Did Muzazi intend to take their battle inside here?


    Gemini Railgun!


    Dragan fired off a volley of shots with the cars he still had stored up. Muzazi dodged them with ease at this distance, of course, and the majority of them slammed into the building instead, cracks spreading across the brickwork. Kicking off the air, Muzazi launched himself upwards, heading towards the roof.


    You think you can still outrun me now that you¡¯ve lost your acceleration? Don¡¯t make me laugh.


    One of the Emerald Eyes zoomed through the air a little too close, and Dragan immediately snatched it up with his Aether.


    Gemini Railgun.


    The shot manifested right in his grip -- and as the Emerald Eye was launched across the sky, Dragan was pulled along it. He let go after only a second, but even that was enough to fling himself into Muzazi¡¯s path, floating right in front of the Full Moon. He grinned.


    Going somewhere?


    He wanted to say that, he truly did, but his lips still hadn¡¯t fully returned. Instead, he just threw his hands out in front of him -- Aether running between his palms, ready to fire another Railgun right into the incoming Muzazi¡¯s face. At this distance, at this speed, he wouldn¡¯t be able to dodge or block in time.


    Only¡­ it didn¡¯t seem like he was trying to.


    If anything, Muzazi sped up, barreling towards Dragan like a guided missile. His gaze was intense, his eyes full of vicious resolve. With sputtering thrusters, he managed to bring his arms out in front of him, ready to meet Dragan¡¯s attack head-on.


    Gemini Railgun! Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Quantum King!"


    Muzazi activated his ability only for a second, and so it was like the flash of a camera as it burst into life, diverting the Railgun just enough to avoid death. The projectile scraped past Muzazi¡¯s face, shattering his mask and sending sparks raining down below -- but that was all it did. As shards of metal flew from his scarred face, Muzazi wrapped his arms around Dragan, the two of them twisting in the air.


    As they flipped and flipped over the building¡¯s skylight, Dragan sneered. If Muzazi intended to come in this close, all he was doing was making himself a bigger --


    -- thrusters exploded into life.


    They blazed out of Muzazi¡¯s back, propelling him and Dragan downwards, towards the skylight. The shot Dragan had been aiming went wild, streaking off into the night sky -- and a moment later the two of them struck the glass, shattering it as they continued their descent.


    At first, Dragan thought that Muzazi simply intended to slam him into the ground -- but no, it was worse than that. Now that the skylight was broken¡­ now that he could get a good look¡­ he could see what was directly beneath them. A circular swimming pool.


    Water. Coolant!


    The two of them splashed down into the pool, steam and water hurled up from the impact.


    Atoy Muzazi had more than just coolant in mind with this maneuver.


    At the moment of impact, he infused the water around him, white tendrils of Aether spreading out to the entire pool within a few seconds. Hadrien¡¯s blue current, on the other hand, only managed to cling weakly to the Cogitant¡¯s body, exerting no influence outside. That made sense: Muzazi had been ready for this, while Hadrien had not.


    The two of them hit the bottom of the pool, thrusters still pushing them down -- striking with such impact that the floor around Hadrien cracked as Muzazi pressed him down against it. That was simply intended as a restraint, though. He just needed to make sure Hadrien couldn¡¯t move.


    Everything was ready.


    The water around them was Atoy Muzazi¡¯s territory. Dragan Hadrien¡¯s infusion was being fought against, preventing the use of Gemini World. Now that he¡¯d put the Shooting Star in a situation where he couldn¡¯t use his abilities, all that remained¡­


    ¡­was the killing blow.


    Muzazi raised up an arm, ignited a steaming underwater Radiant, and brought it down towards Hadrien¡¯s face.


    Hadrien¡¯s eyes widened as he saw the blade slowly come in.


    Hadrien¡¯s eyes closed as he braced himself for impact.


    Hadrien¡¯s eyes opened once more¡­


    Gemini Railgun.


    ¡­and popped in their sockets, as the twin projectiles manifested within them shot forth.


    They¡¯d just been pieces of scrap from one of the cars, but they¡¯d been the smallest shots Dragan had stored up. Anything bigger than that, and Dragan would have killed himself manifesting Railgun within his own flesh. Even this had been a gamble.


    The first bolt struck Muzazi in the stomach, the second spike in the arm -- and their combined force was enough to launch him up and out of the pool.


    That was too close.


    Dragan¡¯s blood streamed upwards¡­ and he rose to meet it.


    Muzazi roared in pain as he slammed into the wall, impaled by the shoulder against the concrete. He tugged at the metal rod, doing his best to pull it free¡­ but it was in deep, and it was slow work. So, for the moment, he was stuck.


    Splash.


    Muzazi looked up.


    Slowly, Dragan Hadrien floated up out of the pool -- legs dangling, head bowed, like he was a corpse being displayed at the gallows. His head snapped up. His face had now fully returned, covering the skeletal grin he¡¯d previously bared¡­ now, the only injury on that face were his missing eyes.


    Even though Hadrien¡¯s eyes were gone, his Aether tic was still active -- an unearthly blue light shining from deep within his empty sockets.


    Monster.


    Muzazi felt a shudder run through his body as an Aether ping swept past. A second later, it happened again, the Aether colliding with his own from the opposite direction. It happened again, and again, and again¡­ this was how Hadrien was seeing, Muzazi realized. He was using a pulsating Aether ping to keep track of his environment, to keep track of his enemy.


    "You thought you did something there¡­" Dragan rasped, his voice gravelly and grave. "...didn¡¯t you¡­?"


    Muzazi didn¡¯t reply to the ghost floating before him. He was fully focused on the spike in his arm, on pulling it free, on escaping. Even as pain beat its fists against his brain, even as blood oozed from the wound he was opening, he continued to pull.


    "It¡¯s a joke," Dragan sneered, toes dragging along the floor as he slowly floated forward. "If you¡¯ve decided that you¡¯re going to do whatever it takes¡­ then you need to live by it¡­. you need to die by it¡­"


    He raised a skeletal hand, blue Aether dancing between the fingers, pointing it directly at Muzazi.


    "The second that arm became a liability," Dragan snarled. "You should have gotten rid of it! Gemini Railgun!"


    The sapphire death erupted from Hadrien¡¯s arm, flooding across the room, aimed right for Muzazi¡¯s face. His expression twisted in exertion, he roared right back: "Quantum King!"


    There was a flash of brilliant white as Quantum King exploded out of Muzazi¡¯s body, pushing away the projectiles that had been coming to kill him. Not one of them hit. Not one of them killed.


    But¡­ Dragan Hadrien smiled all the same.


    Creak.


    He had been hoping that their visit to this place would end like this, after all.


    Crack.


    That was why he¡¯d fired Gemini Railgun at the building.


    That was why he¡¯d pinned Atoy Muzazi against the wall.


    That was why he¡¯d launched such a telegraphed attack.


    Crash.


    All for such a moment.


    The building shook as it finally reached its limit, chunks of concrete falling from the ceiling into the pool -- and the wall Muzazi was impaled against giving way entirely. Structure gave up the ghost as the floor opened up, hurling Muzazi directly down into the building¡¯s bowels. If Dragan Hadrien had been standing, no doubt he would have fallen as well.


    But he wasn¡¯t standing. He was floating, remaining exactly in place, his lips stretching into a grin.


    Because¡­


    ¡­for just an instant¡­


    ¡­Atoy Muzazi had moved away from Dragan Hadrien¡­


    ¡­for a straight line of two meters.


    Brilliant blue eyes bubbled back into existence --


    -- and victorious lips formed two words.


    "Gemini Dominion."

 Chapter 423:13.81: No Breath, No Beat

    "What are your thoughts on black holes?" Niain asked.


    Ruth¡¯s gaze snapped from the monitors -- where Dragan and Muzazi had just vanished in a flare of blue Aether -- to the spectre standing before her. She furrowed her brow. "What?"


    "Black holes," Niain repeated, as if she hadn¡¯t heard him. "Those two will be gone for a minute or so, so I thought I¡¯d take the opportunity to chat for a bit, haha. Do you dislike idle chatter?"


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"


    "Right now? Right now I¡¯d like to talk about black holes. I have a fondness for them that I¡¯d love to share with you."


    "How about you tell me how you¡¯d help me kill the Shepherdess, exactly?"


    He ignored her.


    "Black holes are unlike everything else in this world," he said dreamily. "In that they¡¯re subject to nothing. No matter what kind of sword you have, you can¡¯t cut a black hole. No matter what kind of gun you have, you can¡¯t shoot a black hole. Even if you were a god of Aether, you¡¯re still at the mercy of that inevitable gravity."


    He closed his eyes, smiling fondly as if watching the singularity behind his eyelids.


    "Philosophy, morality, history¡­ none of it matters. All of it is pulled in. All of it is devoured. It¡¯s like I said¡­ a black hole is subject to nothing, because it is the subject. It¡¯s not even a case of the world revolving around it¡­"


    He opened his eyes again, black pupils staring unblinkingly at Ruth.


    "...it¡¯s just that the whole world is at its mercy. Haha. That¡¯s rather admirable¡­ don¡¯t you think?"


    Ruth blinked. "Huh?"


    Niain cocked his head. "Hm?"


    "Sorry. I don¡¯t get it."


    "I admire black holes because they make the world move according to their rules," Niain sighed, reluctantly summarising his little monologue. "That¡¯s the way a person should live their life. They should treat reality as their putty. If they want something to change, or to break, they should pursue that end without hesitation."


    To change the shape of this world¡­


    Slowly, Ruth nodded. "Okay," she admitted. "That I understand."


    "Right?" Niain grinned cheerily. "That resolve is something I think we share, Ruth. You want to kill the Shepherdess no matter what. I want to change the shape of this world¡­ no matter what. Just like Skipper."


    Ruth looked up. "What exactly is it you want?" she asked, mouth dry.


    "Right now?"


    "No," she snapped. "What do you want?"


    Niain nodded solemnly. "Well, it¡¯s my belief that the world has taken the wrong path. So long as we¡¯re on this path, this atrocious situation is inevitable. Skipper fought wonderfully, but it doesn¡¯t really matter if you kill the Supreme. Just look around: it¡¯s all accounted for, all part of the machine we live in. I want to break the machine. I want to lead humanity by the hand, back down that path, so we can make the right turn next time."


    "And that¡¯s what you want my help with?"


    "That¡¯s what I want your help with," Niain smiled. "So¡­ how about it, Ruth Blaine? Will you become my friend?"


    He extended a hand. Ruth looked down at it. Just by taking hold of it, she could get what she wanted -- what she needed. Vengeance. Justice. The power to finish what Skipper had started.


    Ellis¡­ Alice¡­ Rex¡­


    Ruth reached out --


    That last night on Elysian Fields, when they had all sat together under the stars. They¡¯d watched a videograph, they¡¯d chatted, they¡¯d looked up at the shield keeping them from obliteration. They¡¯d known it might be the last time they¡¯d all be together.


    Skipper had looked up at the stars back then, too, with such tired eyes.


    -- and she took Niain¡¯s hand.


    The man¡¯s smile widened as he clasped his fingers around Ruth¡¯s. A shudder went down her spine. His skin was cold as ice.


    "You¡¯ve made a good choice, I think," Niain said. "There¡¯s a lot of splendid work we can do together now, haha."


    Ruth nodded, smiling slightly. "Yeah," she said, shaking his hand. "It¡¯s like you said. What you want is what Skipper wanted¡­"


    And then she drove the claws of her other hand through his chest.


    She snarled: "Do you really think I¡¯m that stupid, asshole?!"


    The moment her claws pierced his body, though, she knew something was wrong. Just like his skin, his insides were freezing, like she¡¯d just plunged her hand into a winter¡¯s sea -- but more than that. There was¡­ movement inside him, things writhing and skittering against her hand, like he was just a man-shaped hive of insects.


    And, of course, the thing that was the most wrong about this¡­ was the fact that being stabbed in the chest didn¡¯t seem to bother him much at all.


    Niain wasn¡¯t smiling anymore. He only sighed, even as a drop of black blood oozed out from the corner of his mouth.


    "You know¡­" he said quietly. "...I really think you might have misjudged the situation."


    Ruth felt a hand brush against her stomach.


    "Ahura Mazda."


    Alexandrius Toll glared into history.


    He sat regally upon a massive chair, looking down at the battle in the arena so many had gathered to see. Rather, that would be what he was doing, only the two contestants had -- unsurprisingly -- decided they didn¡¯t care to keep their fight in the constraints of the arena, and had quickly left. So Alexandrius Toll was left watching a videograph monitor. Which he could have done from anywhere.


    "Shee-shee¡­" came an irritating laugh from the other side of the observation booth.


    Toll¡¯s golden eyes flicked over to observe the nuisance. For some Y-forsaken reason, the Body had elected to assign both the Ascendant-General and the Commissioner of the Special Officers to the same booth for this final match. A measure to show that the military and the Commission were brothers-in-arms, they¡¯d said.


    Bah. Toll knew it was a form of harassment. The bureaucrats had never been fond of him, he knew that. He was someone who had climbed up to his position from the real world, while most of those parasites had been born to their roles.


    Let them have their fun, Toll told himself. They¡¯ll get theirs eventually.


    Toll leaned to the side, whispering into the ear of the commander of his Honest Men. "Any change?"


    Pax Telinosh, his face concealed behind a blank white mask, shook his head. "No Deathmarks upon you, sir," he whispered. There had been controversy when Toll had assigned an Abra-Facadian to his personal guard, but this ability made it worth it.


    In a way, though, the fact that there were no Deathmarks was a pity. If someone had tried to assassinate him here, after all, there was a good chance that the Commissioner would have been caught in the crossfire.


    "Shee-shee-shee¡­"


    Toll¡¯s eyes flicked over again.


    The Commissioner of the Special Officers reclined on a seat that looked like it was more for sunbathing than ceremony, hands forming a pillow behind his head.


    His black hair stuck up chaotically in every direction, while unkempt stubble peppered the lower half of his face. Like Toll, he was golden-eyed, but he didn¡¯t share the Ascendant-General¡¯s absurd size -- if they stood side-by-side, the Commissioner would only come up to Toll¡¯s waist. As Toll observed, nose wrinkled in distaste, the Commissioner stretched out his legs and picked up a drink with the hands he had instead of feet.


    With the unsightly skill of a contortionist, the Commissioner brought the straw of the drink to his lips and sucked it down greedily.


    Zun the Immortal, Commissioner of the Special Officers -- and puppet of the Body. Caesar¡¯s designated successor had also been killed on Elysian Fields, and so the Ministers had wasted no time infesting the carcass of the Commission. It hadn¡¯t even been a month after her death before they¡¯d put their own man in charge.


    Toll had despised the wilful Caesar, but he had also respected her as an opponent in the political arena. This man, though? This man he couldn¡¯t stand.


    Not because he was a puppet of the Body. Not because he was a cowardly layabout. Not because he was opposed to Alexandrius Toll.


    Zun opened his mouth.


    "Oh? Did something about me catch your eye, Alexandrius Toll? I couldn¡¯t possibly imagine what it is. My face, or perhaps my posture? It¡¯s not every day you see a man turn himself into a pretzel, but I imagine you see a great many things, don¡¯t you Alexandrius Toll? On the fields of war there must be terminal conclusions far more dramatic than a mere pretzel. Liquidation, for one, or would the term instead be liquefaction? I have to say, I don¡¯t know how the term applies when a human being is involved, but that altogether sounds more proper, wouldn¡¯t you say? To the point, though, I do sincerely doubt that your attention has come from my face or my posture, resplendent as both might be. Shee-shee-shee. No, no, if I had to hazard a guess -- although I would have to also hazard another guess that every guess is a hazard against one such as you, my Ascendant-General -- I would have to wager that it¡¯s my conduct, my behaviour, my decorum that¡¯s caught your baleful eye. Well, while ordinarily I¡¯d feel obligated to defend myself -- a natural human instinct when faced with sudden criticism, perfectly normal -- on this occasion I would find that I have to agree with you, Alexandrius Toll. I mean -- look at me, it¡¯s plain for everyone to see! Even if it wasn¡¯t though, I¡¯m sure you¡¯d be able to spot it with those discerning eyes of yours -- besides, we both know the vision benefits that Aether can confer, shee-shee. But, getting to the point -- as I can see you¡¯re growing impatient, perfectly understandable in your position -- your issue is perfectly valid, assuming that I have surmised your issue correctly, Alexandrius Toll. To say again, look at me! Lounging here like it¡¯s my own mansion -- which it is not, although I like many others would surely be delighted to live in such a place, shee-shee -- eating and drinking with my feet like some kind of animal! Ah, perhaps I chose the wrong turn of phrase, though. There¡¯s an undercurrent of prejudice when comparing the body of a Scurrant like myself to that of an animal, don¡¯t you think? While I cannot deny there is a certain resemblance of the simian variety, to extend that to a judgement of my character is another thing entirely. It¡¯s the tendency of humans -- we humans, if I¡¯m to stake my claim, shee-shee -- to deny humanity to those who are unlike us, often in very superficial ways. I am a Scurrant myself, as I¡¯m sure you can see, but it¡¯s not like I¡¯m immune to that impulse. There¡¯s such a great breadth of difference between us Scurrants on a physical level, and there¡¯re no shortage of invitations for persecution in this world. All we can do as humans, as fellow humans -- when you get right down to it -- is acknowledge the differences between us and choose instead to focus on the heart, the human heart -- in a metaphysical sense, not a physical one, as some rare Scurrants do lack that par-tic-u-lar organ, didn¡¯t you know? Still, though, even putting all of that aside, I do feel some guilt for the situation the two of us have found ourselves in. I hope you don¡¯t take me pointing out Scurrant prejudice to be some sort of indictment of yourself, Ascendant-General. I trust that you have a good human heart, and that you understand the duty of a human being to embrace others. As your great height is quite unusual, at least compared to a ¡¯baseline¡¯ human -- if there ever was such a thing, shee-shee -- I¡¯m sure you understand what I¡¯m talking about. If you don¡¯t, that¡¯s fine, too. As I have faith in the strength of your character, Ascendant-General, I shall also trust that your criticism of me -- voiced or otherwise -- was entirely based on my conduct, and not on my physical appearance or my body¡¯s morphology. I¡¯m glad that we had the opportunity to understand each other on this occasion and I¡¯ll do my best to take your feedback into account, but in the event that I don¡¯t, Ascendant-General? Please feel free to call out my behaviour again if you feel that you must. It¡¯s important that concerns be voiced. Silence itself is acceptance in a sense, don¡¯t you think? It¡¯s only because we hear each other¡¯s words that we know each other to be alive. A noise in the hush is a light in the darkness. It¡¯s hope. In that way, humans themselves are hope, no? Shee-shee."


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡­


    That was why he couldn¡¯t stand Zun the Immortal. He was a man drunk on his own worthlessness. If not for his Aether ability, Toll doubted that the Immortal would have ever made it out of combat school. Certainly not out of his first conversation with a superior officer.


    Toll said nothing. This man wasn¡¯t worth his time. Instead, he just turned his head back to the screen¡­ S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡­and frowned as, ever so slightly, he felt the Arena of the Absolute shake.


    Immediately, he looked down at Pax, who shook his head. "Still no Deathmarks, sir," he confirmed. "Not for either of you."


    That didn¡¯t mean there was no trouble. Toll stood up from his chair, feet thumping as they made contact with the floor. With a jerk of his head, the two Honest Men by the door moved to accompany him and Pax, the four of them marching out into the hallway.


    He¡¯d had a bad feeling about these finals since the moment he¡¯d arrived. There was something rotten in the air -- and that rot had only grown stronger as matters had developed. The Supreme Heir was now Atoy Muzazi, apparently, and so he was the one fighting Dragan Hadrien instead.


    Toll didn¡¯t necessarily disapprove -- he¡¯d rather have a soldier as a Supreme than a brat -- but it still didn¡¯t sit well with him. He should have known about this long before Muzazi had arrived at the Arena. Gregori should have informed him. Why hadn¡¯t he? And why couldn¡¯t Toll reach him now, no matter how many times he tried?


    Where are you, Gregori? he wondered, moving down the hallway, his face a mask of stone. Are you compromised? Are you safe?


    Ruth¡¯s back slammed into the wall of the hallway, the metal surface denting deep to accommodate her. She wheezed, each coughing fit sending blood spraying out onto the floor before her. Her vision wavered in and out -- until, with a great effort, she pulled herself back into consciousness.


    Legs shaking beneath her -- until she brought them to heel with a wrench of metal -- Ruth Blaine stood up.


    What had happened to her? That attack had sent her flying right out of the observation booth , down the stairs, and out into the hallway. Judging from the smog pouring from the doors before her, it had probably destroyed much of the room itself too. It had been the work of a second. She hadn¡¯t had a chance to see what kind of attack that Niain guy had used, but something had come for her -- something had crawled forth.


    She didn¡¯t know what it was¡­ but unfortunately, it seemed like she might get the chance to see it in action again.


    "I can see why the Shepherdess is interested in you," Niain said casually as he strolled out of the smoke, throwing his black cloak out before him. "You¡¯re an exceptional young woman, Ruth Blaine."


    She clutched her stomach as she glared daggers at him, and his black eyes flicked down to glance at it.


    "You felt that I¡¯d interfere with the manifestation of your armour," he smiled. "So you chose to manifest it beneath your own skin, where my Aether couldn¡¯t endanger it. You had less than a second to react, haha. That really is great. I have to applaud both your quick thinking and your ready resolve to inflict such pain on yourself."


    "Fuck you¡­" Ruth snarled, manifesting her clawed gauntlets.


    "Is there a need to talk to me like that?" Niain said, cocking his head in mock-sadness. "All I¡¯ve done is try to talk to you, haha, and you¡¯ve gone and stabbed and cussed at me. Still, I wouldn¡¯t feel too guilty about stabbing me, if I were you," he tapped the blackened hole in his chest. "For me, this is essentially the same level of damage as getting a haircut. I¡¯ll praise your skill as a barber if nothing else, Ruth."


    "You sure like to yap, huh?"


    "Yeah," Niain admitted, his smile opening just enough to show his teeth. "I do. I also like to show people interesting things, so I think I¡¯ll show off a little more, since I don¡¯t often get the chance, haha. You¡¯ve seen Ahura Mazda, the apotheosis of manifestation¡­"


    He flicked the wrist of his left hand -- and a jet-black sphere appeared, like a void in space, floating against his palm and tracking its movements.


    "...so let me show you the most vicious recording. Angra Mainyu."


    Niain¡¯s foot tapped against the floor --


    -- and in the next moment, the devil lunged.


    If that thing touches me, Ruth knew. I¡¯ll die.


    She bent backwards to avoid the swing of Niain¡¯s arm, the black orb passing over her head and sliding through the wall behind her. Red Aether coalesced around her foot, manifesting the boot of the Noblesse Set -- and as she kicked against the floor with all her might, the recoil of the shattered armour sent her flying out of Niain¡¯s range. If that bothered the bastard any, though, he didn¡¯t show it. He just watched her fly backwards with that playful smirk on his lips.


    In the moment before she landed, Ruth¡¯s eyes flicked to the wall. There was now a deep, clean groove in the metal there -- as if everything that black orb had touched had been erased entirely. If that had hit her head, would she have just been killed instantly, then?


    Niain no longer intended to give her time to think about it. The black hole vanished from his left hand, and he raised his right arm lazily in her direction as she landed. "Ahura Mazda."


    This time, with some distance, Ruth could see the attack coming. A white orb appeared against Niain¡¯s right hand -- and in the same moment it appeared, a barrage of writhing purple tentacles were belched out of it, their bulk filling the entire hallway. The metal was torn apart instantly, the windows were smashed through, the entire complex creaked as the integrity of the structure was threatened.


    It was like Niain had opened a portal to some deep sea realm.


    Ruth continued to move backwards, fleeing from the tentacles, but they disappeared just as quickly as they had appeared. They suddenly wilted, darkening and wrinkling, falling limp against the ground like dead plants. Ruth drove her metal feet against the ground to stop her movement, kicking up sparks -- but she should have kept running.


    Niain burst out of the mass of dead tentacles, scattering them like leaves as he pursued Ruth. His smile was gone and his eyes were wide -- the intent of a murderer oozing from every movement he made. The white hole -- Ahura Mazda -- was still out. As he closed in, Niain reached into it -- and this time, he pulled free a sword of flesh and bone.


    The blade was odd, segmented, with a crimson eye glaring from the hilt. Niain swung it from a few metres away -- and the segments dislodged from each other, turning the blade into a whip that sliced through space. Ruth dropped down into the splits, the blade whistling past her head, but the second swing was even faster -- and the third even faster than that. She was forced to flip backwards, again and again, barely avoiding injury as the whip-sword shredded everything around it.


    If that hits me, it¡¯ll hurt. Good. That¡¯s just what I want.


    The blade began to move once more¡­


    Noblesse Set!


    ¡­but Niain had timed his movements well.


    Indeed, he went to swing a fourth time -- and then, as Ruth readied herself -- he dropped the blade, charging in himself instead. While the sword continued to slice everything around it independently, he weaved through the web of his own attacks -- and, in an instant, he was upon Ruth, left hand raised high as if to bring down an invisible hammer.


    No. He was bringing down something much worse.


    "Angra Mainyu."


    The blind spot of the universe reappeared, and Niain brought it down towards Ruth¡¯s head.


    Noblesse won¡¯t block that. No choice.


    Monarque Set!


    Alexandrius Toll braced himself as a massive explosion shook the arena once more -- and this time nobody could deny that the whole place rumbled. One of his Honest Men fell to the ground, and he quickly grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back to her feet before the shaking could even stop.


    Alarms began to blare across the Arena of the Absolute. The voice of the announcer began to echo through the hallways. The prelude to panic was in full swing¡­


    ¡­but Alexandrius Toll was already on the move.


    "With me!" he barked, sprinting down the halls. "Honest Men, with me!"


    Bruno seized hold of the seat in front of him as the Arena of the Absolute shook. A wave of screams ran through the crowd around him, the excitement of the finals quickly replaced with terror. Even if the rumbling gradually stopped, the panic of the people didn¡¯t go with it. Demands for explanations, whispered conspiracy theories, more screams -- the air was filled with all of them.


    What happened? Serena asked.


    She quickly got an answer.


    "An unexpected incident has occurred in the Arena of the Absolute," the synthesised voice of the announcer cut through the noise. "Please note that there is no present threat to civilian life. However, we ask at this time that you proceed to your designated evacuation station in a calm and orderly --"


    They did not proceed to their designated evacuation station in a calm and orderly manner.


    The crowd became a flood of humanity, a stampede charging for the exits to the stands without mercy or restraint. Some people had been standing when the tremor had happened, and so had been thrown down to the floor -- ripe for trampling as the masses now rushed to evacuate. Purple Aether sparking over his body as he kept himself in place, Bruno reached down and managed to pull a few people free, even if they vanished into the crowd soon after.


    Are we evacuating, Bruno?


    Bruno turned his head -- looking at the other side of the arena, the mirror image of this stampede. He couldn¡¯t see anything over there, but the sound of the explosion had definitely come from that direction. He narrowed his eyes.


    "Nah," he grunted. "Let¡¯s go."


    "Oh, jeez louise¡­"


    Amantha Noon sighed to herself as she retracted the lead barrel of her massive sniper rifle, Demon Core, tucking it back into the darkness of her little alcove. This was just typical. She¡¯d managed to find a suitable nest, she¡¯d managed to get a good line of sight on the victor¡¯s position, and what happened next? A load of baloney.


    What had that explosion been? Had someone else been given the same mission as her, and had decided to disrupt the match to facilitate it? Oh, she hoped not. If other people were getting the same missions as her, that probably meant she was going to be disposed of soon.


    Aw, heck.


    Huffing in anxiety, she adjusted her glasses and ran her hands through her white hair, considering her next move. Did she still go ahead? Did she wait and trust that the finals would still end here?


    The mission was vital, apparently, given what she¡¯d been told. The bigwigs really wanted Atoy Muzazi to win, so she was to wait for the finals to end and -- if Muzazi didn¡¯t win -- take a killshot at Dragan Hadrien¡¯s head with a Neverwire-infused bullet. Personally, she thought that plan wasn¡¯t entirely great -- Hadrien was fast, after all, and he could vanish -- but that was the job she¡¯d been given. Oh, what to do, what to do¡­?


    Nothing else for it, she guessed. She¡¯d just have to keep waiting, and hope the opportunity still came.


    Oh, she thought miserably. I hope the Widow doesn¡¯t get too mad at me¡­


    Smoke billowed around in a vortex as Ruth¡¯s Monarque Set rose out of the gloom, moonlight leaking in through the obliterated roof.


    All around her was destruction, the hallways shredded by the activation of this ability -- even the manifestation of the Monarque Set was enough to cause this kind of devastation. It was why Ruth didn¡¯t like using it unless she really, really had to. It wasn¡¯t a power she had full control of yet.


    If she had full control¡­ perhaps it would have been more effective here.


    "Haha¡­" chuckled Niain. "Like I said, so impressive."


    The colossal skull-egg of the Monarque Set swung around to face the enemy, wings of fabric fluttering in the air behind it. A great black sphere floated before it -- not the dark hole that Niain had conjured before, but an actual physical object made of something like graphite. As Ruth backed up, the sphere began to collapse, the material pouring inwards to return to the hand of its master, being reabsorbed into that dark gap in space.


    When it cleared, Niain was perched atop a spike of protruding metal, feet planted against the tip with perfect balance. He grinned that tiny mocking grin at her, his eyes cold.


    "Do you like my shield?" he asked. "I don¡¯t like to brag, but it¡¯s basically impenetrable."


    Against his left hand, a black hole rumbled. Against his right, a white hole hissed.


    Angra Mainyu and Ahura Mazda.


    He can use them simultaneously, Ruth realised. He¡¯s been playing with me this whole time.


    "If you¡¯re going to work this hard," Niain said. "I suppose I need to keep up, don¡¯t I?"


    He raised both hands¡­


    ¡­and tore the world apart.

 Chapter 424:13.82: The Voids

    The world was white.


    The world was empty.


    The world was hostile.


    The second Atoy Muzazi was absorbed into Dragan Hadrien¡¯s ability, those three impressions flashed through his mind in rapid succession. That was it. He didn¡¯t have time for anything else. He didn¡¯t have time for anything else, because the next thought that went through his head was:


    Dodge!


    He blasted himself upwards with thrusters, but not fast enough. A kick to the back sent him flying like a meteor, crashing into one of the countless pillars that defined this world and embedding him into the stonework. Wheezing, he felt blood dribble down his chin.


    This place seemed to go on forever.


    A pale expanse, with white fog drifting endlessly -- punctuated by bleached chunks of architecture, slotted together like a child¡¯s toy. This was a library and a museum and a temple and a coliseum. A world of will and memory that could never exist in reality.


    Dragan Hadrien appeared in a flash of blue Aether, standing atop a pristine archway, looking down at Muzazi with his cold sapphire eyes.


    "My Archive," he said, spreading his arms wide. "You like it?"


    An Archive. Muzazi had heard about these -- a sort of mind palace that some Cogitants constructed to manage and regulate their thoughts. So that was how it was: the ability Hadrien used to make people disappear transported them directly into his mental landscape.


    In short, right now, Atoy Muzazi was standing inside his enemy¡¯s brain.


    Grunting, he pulled himself out of the rubble, dropping down to the white platform below. Even just landing -- from so short a height -- was enough to send a wave of pain vibrating through his body now. No matter: he still had work to do.


    Atoy Muzazi ignited his Radiant, glaring up at the master of this domain.


    "Are you hoping for a home field advantage¡­?" he growled. "If so¡­ you¡¯ll be sorely disappointed¡­"


    Hadrien just rolled his eyes at Muzazi¡¯s resolve.


    "You just don¡¯t get it, do you?" he sighed, standing before the Full Moon. "Let me make it clear¡­"


    Muzazi adjusted his stance.


    "...this isn¡¯t a fight you can win," Hadrien finished -- and the words came from behind Muzazi.


    Muzazi whirled around, but too late -- again, the kick slammed into him, Hadrien¡¯s leg like a tree-trunk as it crashed against his stomach. Saliva and bile spurted out of Muzazi¡¯s mouth as he was sent flying once more, limbs flailing as he sailed through the endless white.


    His vision faded in and out. Unconsciousness threatened to finally catch up with him. With a great and desperate effort, he managed to keep his mind turning, but¡­


    Need to stop¡­ my¡­


    Dragan Hadrien appeared in his path.


    Another kick, and Muzazi was sent flying in another direction -- like a pinball being pelted throughout the table. His leg clipped a pillar, and he went spinning, finally crashing down onto another platform of snow-white brick. Curled up into an undignified heap, he twitched.


    Dragan Hadrien appeared before him.


    This wasn¡¯t Gemini World he was using to get around. They were already inside Hadrien¡¯s Aether -- he couldn¡¯t exactly record himself again. No, it was just as Hadrien had said. They were inside his mind right now. In this space, Dragan Hadrien could move at the speed of thought.


    Hadrien watched silently as Muzazi slowly picked himself up, thrusters blasting down from his ankles to keep his body upright.


    "I don¡¯t get it," the Cogitant said, emotionless. "Do you still think you can turn things around at this point? You can barely stand."


    Muzazi lunged -- and Hadrien appeared behind him, facing away, his arms crossed. His confidence was such that he didn¡¯t even feel the need to look at Muzazi anymore. The Full Moon¡¯s blood boiled.


    Not confidence, Muzazi told himself. Arrogance.


    "I could keep doing this for hours, you know," Hadrien said, looking up at the starless bright sky. "You, though? I¡¯d be surprised if you lasted ten more minutes. Hell, you should --"


    Another swing struck empty air.


    "-- be unconscious already, I¡¯d say," Hadrien strolled across the border of the platform, glancing at Muzazi. "You¡¯re tenacious, I¡¯ll give you that. But I just don¡¯t get --"


    "Radiant Lustrous!"


    Muzazi hurled a shining spear at Hadrien, and it struck nothing. He felt a weight from behind as the Shooting Star leaned against his back, the two of them facing opposite directions.


    "-- why?" Dragan Hadrien said.


    Muzazi glared at him out of the corner of his eye. "What?" he rasped.


    "I guess it¡¯s hard to tell what I¡¯m saying when I¡¯m zipping all over the place," Dragan smirked. "I said I don¡¯t get why. Why do you want to become Supreme so badly? It¡¯s to fulfill your honour or whatever, right?"


    "You don¡¯t understand anything."


    "You¡¯re right about that," Dragan mused. "I really just don¡¯t get it. Why are you trying so hard for this? You¡¯re throwing away your body. I know what else you¡¯ve already thrown away. Why? Why try so hard when you know you can¡¯t win?"


    Muzazi clenched his fists.


    "Because¡­ I need to change the shape of this world," he said.


    Dragan¡¯s eyes widened.


    Radiant Ablaze!


    Muzazi ignited thrusters all over his body, hoping to skewer Hadrien like a pincushion without moving a muscle, but even that was too slow. Before he could so much as blink, Hadrien was floating up above again, looking down at him once more. Only, this time, his expression had changed. The cold gaze was gone. The emotionless line of a mouth had twisted.


    Now he looked furious.


    The kick came once more, as it was always going to -- and Muzazi was once more unable to avoid it, as he was always going to be. He went flying away from Hadrien, limbs pushed in front of him by air pressure, the wind buffeting against his back --


    Blue Aether crackled.


    -- and, like waking from a dream, Atoy Muzazi was out. The infinite space of Gemini Dominion was replaced by the collapsing wreckage of the leisure center, falling apart even as Muzazi flew through it, still propelled by that imaginary strike.


    It made sense, Muzazi supposed.


    If that Gemini Dominion captured and recorded its target, it surely couldn¡¯t do so forever -- not if the target had Aether of their own to resist it with. There was a time limit. That time limit probably varied from person to person, depending on their strength, but Muzazi had managed to outlast his.


    That had been bad, but he was still here, and that meant¡­


    There was still a chance.


    There was still a way.


    There was still a hope.


    It was a delusion that lasted only a second.


    "Gemini Dominion," said Dragan Hadrien.


    The white world returned.


    Atoy Muzazi, who had been free of this place for only an instant, skidded to a halt on a new, smooth white platform. Slowly, he looked up at the floating Hadrien. The shadow of despair had already begun to drift across the Full Moon¡¯s face.


    "But¡­" he breathed. "I was out¡­"


    "I kicked you just as the time limit ended," Hadrien glared. "And so -- in that fraction of a second -- you went flying, in a straight line, for two meters. So¡­"


    The next words came from behind Muzazi¡¯s head.


    "... let¡¯s go again."


    Ruth Blaine pushed against the inevitable.


    The jaws of a great black serpent -- the size of a train -- were clamped around the Monarque Set, pushing it against the ruined wall and slowly -- slowly -- squeezing. Ruth floated within the egg, sloshing around in a yolk of liquid metal, blasting the absorbed force out of the Set and directly into the creature¡¯s insides. The thing was dying, to be sure¡­ but not nearly fast enough.


    Niain smiled pleasantly, holding a limp right hand out in front of him -- the serpent was protruding from the white hole he called Ahura Mazda.


    What was this ability? Manifestation, Niain had said, but manifestation of what? Animals? No, he¡¯d made a sword as well. Organisms in general? The sword had been flesh and bone, after all.


    All abilities had a logic behind them. If you understood the logic, you could understand the weaknesses it created. If you understood the weaknesses it created, you could take advantage of them.


    If you could take advantage of them, you could draw blood.


    But then again¡­ she¡¯d already done that, hadn¡¯t she? She¡¯d run her claws right through Niain¡¯s chest and pierced his heart -- and it had done nothing. The man in black was still standing here, walking and talking like that killing blow was inconsequential. Sear?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    "You seem to be deep in thought there, Ruth," Niain said softly, snake still unfurling from his ability. "Or perhaps you¡¯re trying to fight back? It¡¯s difficult to tell with this level of damage, haha. At any rate, it¡¯s a matter of seconds. This creature¡¯s jaws can crush just about anything, given time."


    It didn¡¯t feel like he was wrong. She could feel it -- gradually, slowly, but true -- the metal shell of the Monarque Set giving way. A long, thin crack was spreading over the skeletal face that looked at Niain.


    Gritting her teeth, Ruth tried to tune out the sounds of creaking metal all around her.


    "How many seconds, though, I wonder?" Niain chuckled, taking a step forward. "You¡¯ve already set a new record in case you¡¯re interested, haha."


    Ruth¡¯s voice oozed from the skeletal grin of the death-egg. "Go to hell¡­"


    "You¡¯ll have to go ahead and let me know how it is," Niain said. "Five more seconds, or ten, I wonder? Maybe more. Shall we count together, Ruth? It¡¯ll give you something to do in your --"


    Ruth was just thinking that someone needed to shut this guy up¡­ when someone did.


    "Sevenfold Serpent," growled a deep voice. "Inferno."


    "Hm?" Niain glanced to the right -- and in the next moment, he was devoured by a bright orange flame.


    The grip of the serpent loosened slightly as the flames scorched its back -- and Ruth didn¡¯t miss her chance. Red Aether flashed as she switched the Monarque Set for Direwolf, dropping to the ground and darting away before the jaws could snap shut against her. Jumping from floor to wall to floor, she came to a halt a short distance down the hallway.


    Someone else had arrived, on the other side of Niain. The Ascendant-General of the Supremacy, Alexandrius Toll. A giant of a man, with short orange hair and gleaming gold eyes. There were others with him, too -- three soldiers dressed in white, their weapons pointed towards the spiraling flame before them.


    Even though his attack had inadvertently saved her, the Ascendant-General wasn¡¯t someone Ruth particularly wanted to meet. She was a wanted criminal, after all: a survivor of Elysian Fields, along with the other charges the Shepherdess had framed her for. Without question, these people were not her allies.


    But¡­


    "Darkstar," hissed Toll, hateful eyes fixed on the funeral pyre he was weaving.


    ¡­it certainly seemed that they weren¡¯t Niain¡¯s allies, either.


    Along the long stretch of the ravaged hallway, two pairs of golden eyes met. No words were spoken, but intentions were communicated all the same. A recognition. A wariness. A proposal.


    Truce?


    Truce.


    There¡¯s a funny phenomenon I¡¯ve observed, Niain thought as the flames barreled against his shield. Let me tell you about it.


    Through the tiny insects he¡¯d scattered at the start of the battle, he was able to get a sense of what was happening outside the dome he¡¯d erected. It wasn¡¯t anything so convenient as telepathy, though. The insects outside expelled pheromones that their counterparts inside his body collected and translated back into images and sounds.


    It had taken a long time to design lifeforms capable of that. It was something he was quite proud of.


    Particularly because, right now, it was showing Niain that two very strong people were coming after him.


    On one side of the hallway, Alexandrius Toll was using Sevenfold Serpent: Inferno, crafting his own snake out of fire that was constricting and burning Niain¡¯s location. Indeed, he could feel the mildest hints of heat leaking through the shield. Dangerous.


    On the other, Ruth Blaine was preparing for the kill. Her Direwolf Set was pretty formidable when it came to speed -- she was waiting for the moment the shield cracked open, ready to rush in and slaughter. Not a bad strategy. Against someone else, it might even have been sufficient.


    But Niain was not someone else.


    After all, I have a snake too, remember?


    Niain whistled sharply -- and the massive serpent he¡¯d constructed with Ahura Mazda responded to the preprogrammed signal. With a hiss, it slithered down the hallway, its bulk denting the walls, advancing upon Toll¡¯s little group.


    "Pax!" the Ascendant-General roared.


    Immediately, his subordinates leapt into action. While the two in the back blasted the beast with suppressive fire, the masked man -- Pax -- charged forward. In one smooth motion, he leapt to the side -- dodging a vicious bite -- planted his feet against the wall, and kicked off again. With hands as fast as lightning, he pummeled the serpent with two strange weapons he had taken out of his pockets.


    At first, Niain couldn¡¯t quite identify them¡­ but they were, weren¡¯t they? They were stamps. How interesting this world of Aether could be!


    They hadn¡¯t done much physical damage, but Pax seemed satisfied all the same. Flipping over the snake¡¯s back, he called out to his commander: "Deathmarks applied!"


    With a wave of Toll¡¯s hand, the flame-serpent attacking Niain¡¯s shield retracted, turning its attention to the flesh-and-blood snake between it and its master. Opening jaws with fangs of hellfire, it lunged.


    I¡¯m passingly familiar with Sevenfold Serpent -- both Inferno and Tsunami -- but I don¡¯t see what Toll hopes to achieve here. Just from looking at my pet, he should be able to see it can withstand the kinds of temperatures he can dish out. Even if he layers all seven serpents on top of each other like this, he¡¯ll barely singe those scales.


    Which means¡­ he¡¯s got something planned. How exciting, don¡¯t you think? Let¡¯s watch.


    Niain had been right.


    The moment the flame-serpent touched the flesh-serpent, the temperature of the fire suddenly skyrocketed -- orange tendrils turning vivid blue as they quickly ate away at the familiar¡¯s body. Within the span of a few seconds, the beast had been reduced to scorched bones, tumbling down onto the floor pathetically.


    Did you see it? That¡¯s an ability that boosts lethality, from what I can tell. The Abra-Facadian is a valuable ally. He doesn¡¯t just predict the future, but influences it as well by establishing and encouraging a prophecy of doom? While I doubt he¡¯ll reach Abra-Facade¡¯s dream of temporal enlightenment like that, it¡¯s still an effective support ability.


    Whatever the case¡­ I¡¯d be best served killing him first.


    It was odd to see an Abra-Facadian -- part of the UAP -- working for the Ascendant-General of the Supremacy. Even if he was no longer a citizen of Abra-Facade, the Supremacy was no stranger to prejudice. What was surprising was that an Abra-Facadian had been allowed to get so close to the Ascendant-General in the first place.


    And that brings me to the strange phenomenon I was talking about before¡­ shall I tell you about it?


    Niain reached out and absorbed just a tiny bit of his shield back into Angra Mainyu, creating a small hole he could exit through. 0.1 seconds¡­ 0.2¡­ 0.3¡­ there.


    Ruth Blaine did not miss her opportunity. As Niain slithered out of the black shield, she charged in, covering the distance nearly instantly and jamming her claws into his chest. Before he could swipe at her with Angra Mainyu, she whirled around -- still impaling him -- and slammed him into the wall.


    As he felt the claws sink into the wall behind him, too, Niain smiled softly. Of course, Ruth Blaine was now aware that driving her claws through his chest wasn¡¯t enough to kill him. That was why she was instead using them to restrain him, to hold him in place, so that Niain¡¯s other enemy could incinerate him where he stood.


    In the distance, over Ruth Blaine¡¯s shoulder, Niain could see Alexandrius Toll preparing his attack. Seven serpents of flame, coiling around each other, readying themselves to lunge forwards and embrace Niain with their heat.


    It was a good move. Even he couldn¡¯t survive complete incineration. That was why it was such a shame.


    There it is. That strange, strange phenomenon.


    The flames poured forth.


    It happens like this every time, you know? All three parties here are enemies. If anything, Ruth Blaine should hate the Supremacy far more than me, and the Supremacy should have greater cause to pursue Blaine than some terrorist who hasn¡¯t shown his face for decades. But that¡¯s not what happened, is it?


    They devoured the floor, the walls, and the ceiling.


    Somehow¡­ whenever I come up against different groups like this¡­


    Ruth Blaine leapt away, leaving her claws embedded in Niain¡¯s chest.


    ¡­they know straight away that killing me is more important than anything else.


    His right hand twitched.


    Even if they¡¯re incapable of it.


    Ahura Mazda.


    Black Aether crackled around the white hole -- and in the next instant, a forest of blades poured forth. They lacked detail or decoration, instead being simple and stark in their dark geometry. Spikes branching out from spikes branches out from spikes, stabbing at everything within range -- and they had quite the range.


    The flames were pushed away by the pressure. Ruth Blaine was struck in mid-air. The Ascendant-General and his teams were taken out of sight by the wall of cruel knives.


    Up above, Ruth Blaine gasped, her helmet having vanished. The blade had punctured the middle of her chest, skewering her just as she¡¯d skewered Niain¡­ and, just like Niain, she was still alive despite that.


    "You¡¯ve impressed me again, Ruth," Niain said casually, pulling the claws free from his chest and tossing them onto the floor. "This time you had even less time to react. You went a step further with your armour, didn¡¯t you? Manifesting it directly around your heart to protect it against my attack¡­ wow, haha, that really is something. A centimeter of miscalculation would have meant instant death there, you know?"


    He strode forward -- and as he did, one of Toll¡¯s subordinates broke through the web of blades behind him. A woman with blonde hair tied back into a ponytail aimed twin pistols at his back. The guns seemed bulky, oddly plastic, like they were water pistols rather than actual weapons.


    An Armament, no doubt.


    "Fun in the --" the woman said.


    "Ahura Mazda," Niain replied, almost bored, pointing his right hand back at her without looking.


    Black Aether flashed -- and a torrent of locusts were belched forth from the white hole, streaming over the woman and concealing her from sight. A second later, they cleared¡­ revealing nothing left but a gnawed skeleton. The misshapen bones clattered to the floor, a humanoid reflection of what had happened to the serpent.


    "To be honest, I was hoping our mutual friend would show up," Niain sighed, putting his hands on his hips as he inspected the art piece he¡¯d created above. "But that woman won¡¯t show her face when there¡¯s so many people around -- especially important people."


    He waited for a reply, but none came. Cocking his head, he just continued to look up at Ruth Blaine. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she was trying to pull herself off the blade running her through.


    "Goodness," Niain chuckled. "You know what? I might actually keep you alive. It might be useful to have someone going after that woman, and I¡¯m assuming you still do want revenge, right? It¡¯s just me you have a problem with for some reason."


    He reached his right hand out. Tendrils of black Aether danced around the white hole as he pointed it up at Ruth.


    "Of course, if I want you to run any real interference, I suppose I¡¯ll have to help you out, won¡¯t I?" Niain chuckled. "Don¡¯t worry, it won¡¯t hurt. You can ask the Knight all about it when you¡¯re --"


    He stopped talking.


    He blinked.


    He cocked his head further.


    "What?" Niain said.


    With the cleanest of cuts, his right hand fell from his wrist.


    Violet Aether flared.


    Serena sped past, her shield-sword made visible only by the black blood that now covered it. Her own face was covered in cuts and scratches from where she¡¯d charged through the forest of blades, but her eyes were resolute. Pupils tiny, eyeballs bulging -- this was the look of one who was prepared to kill.


    She drove her knee into the ground to stop her movement, kicking up sparks as she went. The shield-sword vanished, sending Niain¡¯s ink-like blood splashing onto the floor, and she instantly manifested a new one to replace it.


    "Hands off my friend!" Serena cried.


    Niain looked from his severed hand to the blood on the floor, from the blood on the floor to Serena, all with what looked like an expression of genuine surprise on his face.


    "Who¡¯re you?" he asked, furrowing his brow.


    Serena extended a hand in Ruth¡¯s direction, purple Aether coursing between her fingertips -- and Ruth saw the telltale shimmering of the air in front of her. Bruno had erected a barrier to keep her safe.


    No, Ruth wanted to say. Don¡¯t protect me, you idiots. Run. Get away. Get out of here!


    But Serena did not run, or get away, or get out of there. She just opened her mouth and answered Niain¡¯s question.


    "Serena del Sed," she snapped. "I¡¯m her friend."


    Niain¡¯s reaction was immediate. He turned his body completely, facing Serena instead of Ruth. He clenched his good fist, and the black blood stopped flowing from his severed wrist. He narrowed his eyes, pupils glazed over with distaste.


    "Del Sed¡­" he muttered -- and the words were full of venom.


    He wasn¡¯t smiling anymore.

 Chapter 425:13.83: Implements of Light

    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s heart had stopped twice tonight.


    He was becoming distressingly used to the sensation. The sudden mind-shattering pain, the spreading cold like a blizzard had started in his veins -- and then the second agony, the moment his thrusters restarted his heart. At this point, their activation was basically automatic.


    Dragan Hadrien wasn¡¯t the only one who could cheat life and death.


    The kick struck Muzazi in the stomach, sending him flying -- and once again, the real world flickered into existence around him. As before though, as with every time, it was only there for a fraction of a fraction of a second, leaving Muzazi no time to do anything but weakly scatter some Aether before he was pulled back --


    "Gemini Dominion."


    -- into the hell he¡¯d been selected for.


    Hadrien was timing his attacks well. He was making sure to launch Muzazi as fast as possible before deactivating his Dominion -- leaving his opponent no time to adjust his path before he got recorded again. This was a trap from which there was no escape. This was a slaughterhouse painted a ghastly white.


    That¡¯s what you think¡­ isn¡¯t it, Hadrien¡­?


    Muzazi fell through the endless expanse of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s mind, limbs flapping through the air as an imaginary wind blasted at him. All around him, pillars and temples shifted and changed -- in this place, even the environment was just an extension of Hadrien¡¯s will. Muzazi braced himself as much as he could as one of the pillars slammed into him like a train, sending him flying off once more.


    Here it comes.


    Muzazi¡¯s eye began to sink into darkness¡­ and then, as the real world made its momentary appearance once more, it opened wide and bright.


    He had not been spending this time in idleness, bemoaning his own pain and allowing himself to be beaten. He was a Special Officer of the Supremacy. He was a warrior. When a warrior found an opportunity, they took advantage of it. When a warrior couldn¡¯t find an opportunity¡­


    ¡­they made one of their own.


    Indeed, each time Muzazi was released from the ability, the real world flickered in his vision only for a fraction of a fraction of a second. There was no time for him to inspect his environment or see what was going on out there. Essentially, he was blind to the outside world right now -- and he wasn¡¯t the only one.


    You¡¯re inside Dominion as well, aren¡¯t you, Hadrien?


    So you can¡¯t see what¡¯s happening outside.


    So you can¡¯t see what I¡¯ve been preparing for you!


    Given the amount of time they were outside of Hadrien¡¯s ability, the most he¡¯d have been able to register was that it was bright outside. Even then, though, that was easily mistaken for the glow his own Aether produced upon manifestation. So¡­ he wouldn¡¯t be ready for this.


    When Muzazi was thrown outside of Gemini Dominion, he only had time to weakly scatter his Aether. And he was thrown outside and pulled back in, again and again and again¡­ and he weakly scattered his Aether, again and again and again. Until it was ready.


    Until six great pillars of light surrounded them, piercing through the darkness.


    This, too¡­ can be commanded at the speed of thought.


    Radiant¡­


    The sword of godlight erupted into Muzazi¡¯s hands, the recoil of its creation stopping his flight instantly and freeing him from Gemini Dominion. He planted his feet down on the rubble beneath him, drawing his sword back. A short distance away, Hadrien flew back, eyes wide as he realized that he was now the one caught in a trap.


    The Shooting Star threw his hands forward.


    ¡­Almighty!


    "Gemini Railgun!"


    Muzazi stabbed forward, a bar of light slicing the dust before him in two and surging towards Hadrien. At the same time, Hadrien fired a stream of projectiles -- car parts and shattered concrete and twisted metal -- so rapid and so numerous that they were more like a beam than anything else.


    The attacks clashed.


    Air pressure buffeted in every direction as Muzazi¡¯s Almighty and Hadrien¡¯s Railgun struggled against each other, their aurora of white and blue wrestling for Supremacy. Muzazi opened his mouth, allowing a scream of exertion to rise from his bleeding throat. Hadrien echoed him, shining eyes bulging as he continued to fire against the incoming attack.


    "The moment that arm became a hindrance, you should have gotten rid of it."


    You¡¯re exactly right, Dragan Hadrien. It¡¯s as you said. I didn¡¯t come here with enough resolve. I needed to be prepared to throw everything away.


    But¡­ I¡¯m a fast learner.


    He pushed harder, shone brighter¡­ and felt the sting of the Aether burn scorch into his body. Gemini Railgun was scattered like so many autumn leaves -- and Dragan Hadrien was engulfed.


    "Serena del Sed, hm?" Niain spoke emotionlessly, looking at her with dull eyes. "There¡¯s a surprise. I thought all of Pierrot¡¯s rejects had gone and joined up with Erica del Sed."


    Serena furrowed her brow, and Bruno spoke through her mouth. "What did you say?"


    "Oh, you haven¡¯t heard?" Niain said, a strange note of bitterness entering his voice. "The Sed¡¯s first graduate is gathering the rest of the failures for a grand endeavour. Honestly. I mean, this is what I¡¯m talking about. You don¡¯t know anything, you don¡¯t understand anything, and yet somehow you¡¯re so much worthier? What a joke."


    "What are you talking about?" Serena asked.


    Ruth hung above, impaled, unable to do anything but watch. She wanted to jump down. She wanted to fight. More than anything, though, she wanted to say¡­


    Run. Get out of here. You can¡¯t beat him. I can¡¯t beat him, either. I thought I was strong now, but I¡¯m not. It doesn¡¯t matter how hard I can hit. I¡¯m still the same person. I¡¯m still the same failure.


    I failed Ellis, I failed Alice, I failed Rex, I failed Skipper¡­ and now I¡¯m failing you, too. Because you have to try and save me. You shouldn¡¯t. There¡¯s no need. I don¡¯t deserve it.


    I¡­ I abandoned you. I came here without even thinking about you, because I wanted revenge. I was only thinking about myself¡­ again, again.


    She blinked, and her eyes were wet.


    So¡­ why did you come here?


    She swallowed, and her throat burned.


    Why¡­ are you helping me?


    She breathed, and her lips spread into an involuntary, tear-tasting smile.


    Why are you still my friends?


    Finally¡­ success.


    Ruth pulled herself off the spike and dropped down to the ground on one knee, plates from the Direwolf Set already manifesting to cover her wound and stop the bleeding. Red Aether coursed around her body. She looked up, her hair shining orange -- and grinned.


    Serena¡¯s eyes flicked from Niain to Ruth, and a little half-smile curled her own lips. Despite the situation, despite the odds, despite the enemy¡­ it was good to be together again. Still smiling, she took a step back, invisible sword at the ready.


    Still expressionless, Niain just stood there for a moment. He closed his eyes. He sighed. He turned on his heel¡­


    ¡­and he began to walk away.


    Ruth rose to her feet. "Huh?"


    Niain said nothing as he just continued to stroll towards the forest of blades he¡¯d created -- behind which Toll and the other soldiers were surely waiting.


    "Hey!" Ruth called after him. "Where the hell do you think you¡¯re going?!"


    Niain glanced over his shoulder, his black eyes like twin pits. "I was hoping to cause trouble until the Shepherdess had no choice but to come out," he muttered, morose. "But seeing your friend there spoiled my mood. I don¡¯t feel like it anymore, so I¡¯m leaving."


    Ruth blinked. "What?"


    "Bye," Niain said casually, turning back towards the blades¡­ only, he paused for a moment. "Now that I think about it¡­ I bet you¡¯re both hoping to speak with Dragan Hadrien here, aren¡¯t you?"


    He glanced back at them, putting his knuckles to his lips. Ruth realized with a start they were the knuckles of his right hand -- the one that Serena had cut off. When had it come back? She hadn¡¯t even noticed. Was this guy like Dragan?


    "If you are hoping to speak to Dragan Hadrien," Niain giggled. "I¡¯d hurry. Otherwise¡­ you might lose your chance to say goodbye."


    For a moment, as Niain began weaving his way through the network of blades, Ruth still thought about going after him.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    But Bruno grabbed her arm.


    "Let¡¯s go," he said, urgently.


    ¡­


    "Right," Ruth replied -- and turned away from that dark star.


    Dragan Hadrien¡¯s heart was gone.


    That much even Atoy Muzazi could tell. If he¡¯d had a heart in his chest, or a brain in his skull, he¡¯d have died the moment that full-power Radiant Almighty had struck him head on. The fact that he was still moving meant that he¡¯d banished them into his Aether without a doubt.


    All that remained of Dragan Hadrien¡¯s body were his head, his upper chest, and his left arm -- all having suffered severe damage. Skin charred, eyes melted, jaw distended¡­ it was like something out of a nightmare. All the rest of him had been incinerated, reduced to a cloud of soot that now hung around his twitching form.


    Yes, he was indeed still moving¡­ but Muzazi intended to fix that.


    He shot forward, seizing hold of Hadrien by the neck and dragging him along as he made his way out of the ruins of the building. One eye coalesced into solidity inside Dragan¡¯s socket, dilating as he saw his situation. He knew this was it. When he¡¯d been struck with a weaker form of Radiant Almighty, he¡¯d had to keep Muzazi at range while he recovered. Now, after being devastated by its full might, he was already in the Full Moon¡¯s grip.


    And I¡¯m not done!


    The collapse of the building had certainly done damage, levels falling on top of each other, wrecking machinery¡­ splitting pipes. Up ahead, through the newborn tunnel Muzazi was using to exit the building, was one of those pipes. It had been wrenched open by pressure -- and was belching water up into the air.


    It¡¯s not nearly enough, but¡­


    The two of them passed through the shower.


    ¡­Overdrive!


    Their two forms became a single blur -- and shot straight out of the building and up into the sky, splitting the clouds as they went. Their sheer speed was such that Dragan¡¯s right arm, which had just begun to regenerate, was stripped away by the friction and sent flying off into the night. Wind buffeting against the remains of his hair, Hadrien opened his mouth and screamed, the words slurred by melted lips:


    "Mushashiii!"


    I have nothing left to say to you.


    Countless blue stars twinkled in the air around them -- and a second later, a rain of Gemini Railguns surged inwards towards Muzazi. He spun around, dodging them, even using Hadrien himself as a shield to ward off a few, but it wasn¡¯t easy. The only arm that was even remotely usable was the one holding Hadrien¡¯s neck. When he¡¯d Aether burned earlier, he¡¯d diverted the damage to his broken arm -- it was now little more than a rough lump of splintered bone and crystal blood.


    Even so, he swung it like a club, deflecting a Railgun aimed at his head. He¡¯d use anything he had.


    As Hadrien¡¯s lips reintegrated, he spat: "Did you tell the Heir what you did to her father? Or were you waiting for her birthday?!"


    Muzazi smiled.


    An attack of words, Hadrien? That shows me you¡¯re getting desperate¡­


    Skin rippled, and a second later Hadrien¡¯s face exploded -- a dozen tiny Railguns being launched straight out of his head, exposing his skull. This time, though, Muzazi was ready. He simply jerked his head to the side, letting the blue streaks of light shine off into the sky.


    ¡­and you repeating your tricks confirms it. But there¡¯s no point. You can¡¯t beat me anymore. Because¡­ I can see it!


    Clear as day, shining even in this tempest, stretching out before him. The golden path that Nigen Rush had once spoken of. The road that would lead you to victory every time, as long as you walked it, as long as you saw it. Not with your eyes, but with the sense that only a warrior had.


    It was the thinnest ribbon¡­ but not thin enough that Muzazi couldn¡¯t seize hold of it.


    Muzazi and Dragan spun, over and over, as if they were dancing a crazed waltz in the middle of the night¡¯s clouds. For a moment, it looked like Muzazi¡¯s grip on Dragan¡¯s neck was loosening -- but, no, he adjusted it, slipping behind Dragan instead and wrapping his arm around his throat in a headlock. All around them, a painted galaxy of stars spread out -- countless Railguns, aimed inwards, ready to fire upon Muzazi and Dragan both. It seemed Hadrien didn¡¯t care how much he damaged his own body as long as he got Muzazi to let go. He snarled and snapped at empty air, keen in animal focus, lining up his shots as best he could¡­


    But no.


    Radiant Ablaze.


    Blades of light erupted from Muzazi¡¯s body like the quills of a hedgehog, impaling Hadrien in half-a-dozen places. A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the sky as even Hadrien¡¯s remaining arm was severed, dropping far¡­ far¡­ below¡­ to the Arena of the Absolute that was now a tiny dot beneath them.


    Muzazi had returned them to where they¡¯d started¡­ and now it was time to drop.


    A hand around his throat.


    Pain.


    Helplessness.


    A hand around his throat.


    A HAND AROUND HIS THROAT!


    "If only you¡¯d never existed." S~ea??h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "If only you¡¯d never existed."


    "If only you¡¯d never existed."


    Dragan screamed. "STOP IT!"


    Atoy Muzazi did not stop it.


    He whirled them around one last time -- so they were both facing down towards the Arena -- and began his victory. With a crack of white Aether, a thruster emerged from Muzazi¡¯s back so huge it dwarfed both him and Hadrien. With a rumble of white Aether, it shot them forth with such speed that their skin began to flake away. With a roar of white Aether, it blasted the two of them down towards the distant Arena.


    The Full Moon and the Shooting Star, carving a white line across the sky.


    Dragan fell¡­


    I wanted to beat you.


    In the end, I suppose that¡¯s what I wanted most. Maybe not even to beat you¡­ but to prove that I could. To prove it to myself? To prove it to Skipper? I dunno. I needed to prove to someone that I wasn¡¯t the same person as I was on Caelus Breck. That I wasn¡¯t a leaf being blown around in the wind anymore. I wanted to prove that I was the hurricane now.


    I wanted to prove I was strong.


    Ha. I thought I didn¡¯t buy into that bullshit. Shows what I know.


    I couldn¡¯t beat you. I never stood a chance, and I know why. It¡¯s because you¡¯re strong, isn¡¯t it, Muzazi? You¡¯re strong, and I¡¯m not. That¡¯s why you can keep going like that, even without being able to heal yourself. That¡¯s why you¡¯re about to win like this. That¡¯s why you¡¯re still swinging that sword, and I¡¯m just a few scraps of meat.


    Everything I¡¯m doing¡­ everything I¡¯ve done¡­ I¡¯m still just trying to keep up with you, aren¡¯t I?


    Even so, that¡¯s fine.


    Ah¡­


    But I wanted to beat you so bad.


    ¡­and Dragan landed.


    The devastation that Dragan Hadrien had created for the Arena at the start of the match barely compared to the impact he made on it at the end.


    As the Muzazi-Hadrien rocket struck the arena, a great plume of rubble spiked up into the sky, nearly twice as tall as the building itself. Shockwaves rang out, shattering glass for miles around, sending automatic drones spiraling out of the sky. Only the reinforced Emerald Eyes were able to stay airborne, and even they bobbed around crazily.


    The sheer force of the impact was enough to knock the Arena¡¯s repulsor engines out of commission -- just for a second. Tragedy was averted for the audience, who had retreated into the evacuation stations, but as the engines reactivated thousands of seats were sent flying up into the air from the stands. They rained back down, their clattering a modest substitute for the absent applause, as the smoke cleared.


    A massive crater had been formed by the atmospheric chokeslam, and the two of them now remained at the bottom of it.


    No doubt that Dragan Hadrien had shattered every bone he had the moment he struck the Arena. His limbs were gone, his skinless ribs a mass of pulp, his skull sketched over with fracture lines. So much blood was pouring from his mouth that his lips and chin were no longer visible. One blue eye stared upwards, pupil quivering.


    And Atoy Muzazi stood over him. He pointed a thin white Radiant at Hadrien¡¯s neck.


    "It¡¯s¡­ over¡­ Hadrien¡­" he wheezed.


    Dragan tried to say something in response, but whatever words he might have managed were lost beneath the gurgling of his blood.


    "I know," Muzazi muttered, exhausted. "Your brain and your heart¡­ probably most of your other organs¡­ they¡¯re recorded inside your Aether, aren¡¯t they? The only reason the rest of you is still here is because my infusion interferes with your exterior. But¡­"


    Six pillars exploded into life around the rim of the crater, creating an incandescent halo behind Muzazi¡¯s head.


    "...if those organs have no body to return to, it¡¯s all the same, isn¡¯t it?!"


    The six lights flowed as one into Muzazi¡¯s Radiant, building upon it, reinforcing and empowering it until it was like a holy blade -- an augur of light that would incinerate whatever it struck. Dragan¡¯s eye widened as the shining sword was reflected off of the pupil. He knew just as well that this time there was no escape.


    Point blank, with his body already this damaged¡­ it would destroy him down to the atom.


    "Radiant¡­!"


    Muzazi raised his weapon up high¡­


    Blue Aether flashed.


    ¡­and Dragan raised his.


    Muzazi stopped.


    The flash of Aether hadn¡¯t been an attack. It had been Dragan retrieving something from his recording, partially manifesting it so he could hold it up without hands. He continued to stare up at Muzazi, eye wide, his pupil a gleaming blue pinprick. A vaporous breath poured from his open mouth as, slowly, his tongue and lips began to return.


    What he was holding before him was the screen of a script, bordered by fizzling blue Aether. At the sight of that screen, Atoy Muzazi¡¯s attack had immediately stopped. The pillars of Radiant Almighty continued to roar around them, but their specks of light froze mid-drift, unused. Muzazi¡¯s arms trembled, even as they held the weapon that would finish Dragan Hadrien with a single swing.


    On the screen¡­ on the screen¡­ on the screen that Dragan Hadrien held¡­was an image.


    The image of the man called North -- holding a gun to the temple of the girl called Aclima. Wherever it was taken, it was dark. The girl unconscious, the man¡¯s eyes hardened and merciless. A timestamp in the corner showed that the image was from around thirty minutes ago.


    Dragan Hadrien¡¯s words returned to him¡­ or, in this case, just one word.


    "Surrender," Dragan said.


    This is a trick. This is a trap. Even if¡­ even if it¡¯s a real picture, reports of Hadrien¡¯s subordinate say he can weave illusions. There¡¯s no guarantee that¡¯s Aclima. It could be anybody. It could be nobody.


    "Please," Muzazi whispered.


    "Surrender," Dragan said.


    That girl is already my enemy. If I were to become Supreme¡­ when I become Supreme, she will go after me. I¡¯d have to fight her anyway. I¡¯d have to kill her anyway. It¡¯s all the same result.


    "Don¡¯t," Muzazi whispered.


    "Surrender," Dragan said.


    Didn¡¯t you already decide, Atoy Muzazi?! I thought we¡¯d done this! I thought you¡¯d already resolved yourself to throw everything away! Your honour, your dignity, your self-respect as a warrior! You already threw her away, didn¡¯t you?! You already made this choice! So what right have you to double back and try and pick her up again, Atoy Muzazi?!


    ¡­


    You promised Marie, didn¡¯t you¡­?


    Wind whistled. Air trembled. Time froze.


    And, before an audience of staring green eyes, Atoy Muzazi spoke.


    "I surrender," he said.


    The light went out.

 Chapter 426:13.84: Dusk

    AETHERAL SPACE 13.84


    "Dusk"


    Dragan Hadrien could strike no more blows without his arms, but Atoy Muzazi fell to his knees all the same.


    It was strange. He¡¯d expected some noise at this moment. Cheering, perhaps, or the jeers of those who had aligned themselves against the winner. But with the chaos of their battle, and whatever else had happened in their absence¡­


    ¡­the Arena was empty.


    ¡­the Arena was cold.


    ¡­the Arena was hostile.


    As Atoy Muzazi stared at the ground -- with a broken gaze -- and Dragan Hadrien¡¯s flesh slowly returned, they were surrounded only by the chittering of Emerald Eyes. Elsewhere on this planet, no doubt people were celebrating, no doubt people were lamenting.


    But here, right now? There were only these two, and the despair they¡¯d weaved together.


    Atoy Muzazi didn¡¯t know how long he lay there, his mind taking leave¡­ all he did know was that when he returned to an approximation of his senses, Dragan Hadrien was standing before him. His fresh legs were absent of burn or bruise. It was as if the entire fight¡­ as if the entire Contest¡­ had never even happened.


    "Move," the Shooting Star said.


    The backhand caught Muzazi in the cheek, sending him sprawling to the ground. Blood sprayed onto the ground, a single tooth serving as punctuation. He could have dodged that, Muzazi knew, he could have blocked it. But what was the point?


    He¡¯d lost.


    The promise he¡¯d made to Marie. The flesh he¡¯d given up. The sorrow he¡¯d brought Aclima. The efforts of those who¡¯d brought him this far¡­ the belief of those who¡¯d supported him¡­ he¡¯d wasted it all.


    no no no


    Muzazi pushed himself up with his good hand, almost crawling -- but he was capable of no more, now that adrenaline had started to abandon him. Even just this action was a great effort now. The pain had him in its grasp, but still¡­


    "No!" he roared after Hadrien.


    The Cogitant stopped, glancing over his shoulder at Muzazi. Needless to say, incineration had done its work upon his wardrobe, and Panacea couldn¡¯t restore clothing -- so he stood in the middle of the arena naked as the day he was born. If that bothered him any, he didn¡¯t show it. He already walked with the dignity of an emperor.


    "What?" Hadrien asked, his voice flat.


    "I¡­"


    don¡¯t


    "I-I¡­"


    you mustn¡¯t


    "I¡­!"


    BUT I PROMISED


    "I killed the Supreme!" Muzazi screamed on his hands and knees -- before the Arena, before the Emerald Eyes, before the turning world.


    Hadrien raised a single silver eyebrow.


    Muzazi crawled forward, dragging his ruined arm through the dirt. "I killed him!" he repeated, desperation warping his tone. "Me! The Supreme, on Elysian Fields! I did it! It was me! Me! With my own hands, with his own sword! I cut his head off and ended his life! Me! This Dawn Contest is a farce! All of it! All of it! I killed him! I killed the Supreme! ME!"


    In a dark room in a dark corner of a dark city, North clicked his tongue.


    Bad time to wake up, kid.


    The girl stared at the monitor before her, the gun to her head forgotten for the time being. The words that Atoy Muzazi was screaming streamed over her, a river of knives, her face twitching as the new information was reviewed. Her breathing became rapid and irregular. She visibly paled.


    "Wh¡­" she mumbled. "Wha¡­?"


    And then, without North even having to do anything, she slumped over -- unconscious once more.


    "Oof," North said.


    "ME!"


    Muzazi¡¯s final scream echoed through the empty arena, the world screaming right back at him. Tears flowed from his eyes, washing away the blood. Slowly, he dragged himself forward another step, as if to pursue Hadrien. He had to¡­ he had to¡­ he had to keep --


    "No," said Dragan Hadrien.


    Muzazi looked up at him. A bright light was shining from behind Hadrien¡¯s head, like a halo, casting a deep dark shadow over Muzazi¡¯s form. The slightest smile worked its way across Hadrien¡¯s lips.


    "You killed Kadmon," the Shooting Star corrected. "I¡¯m the Supreme."


    And with that, the Supreme turned away from him once more.


    The light rose higher, revealing its origin as it came into view -- the temple of the Tree of Might, docking with the Arena of the Absolute, slotting into it as if they¡¯d been one structure from the very beginning. A wooden staircase descended from the base of the temple, thumping down into the dirt.


    The Branches flooded out of the temple, forming a human corridor for Hadrien to pass through on his way to the staircase. As he passed, they bowed low, their respect such that their heads were touching the ground. One attendant passed Hadrien a fresh white cloak, which he pulled around his body to preserve his modesty.


    What happened to strength? Muzazi thought vaguely. I thought that was the point. I thought that was the point of all of this. He cheated. He cheated! Didn¡¯t you see?!


    But they just bowed to him, like none of it even mattered¡­ like none of it had ever really mattered.


    Oh.


    The scream of despair trailed off too quickly, exhaustion and agitation and pain ganging up on it. He was spent. Atoy Muzazi slumped down on the ground, gave up, and was dead to the world.


    Bang.


    The Neverwire bullet froze in the air, suspended by a bubble of redirected air, touching only the side-effects of infusion and not the source.


    Slowly, Dragan Hadrien turned to look at it. It had been stopped inches from his head -- in the instant before he could had knocked it out of the air himself with a reflexive Railgun. Still, though, he appreciated being able to save the effort. He gave Xander a slight nod.


    "Thanks," he said -- and then, almost lazily, he pointed a finger in the direction the attack had come from.


    Gemini Railgun.


    The blast enveloped the tiny nest the sniper had used, consuming it in fire and smoke. An avalanche of rubble poured down into the stands, burying the shattered seating. No second shot came.


    "Go see if they died," Dragan said casually, turning back to the staircase.


    "Yes, my Supreme!" Two members of the Tree of Might scampered off to follow his instructions.


    Not Lord Hadrien, huh? That was right, he supposed. He¡¯d won the Dawn Contest. To these true believers, his name had already vanished from this world. He wasn¡¯t the Shooting Star, or the Zero Branch, or even Dragan Hadrien anymore.


    He was the Supreme.


    I¡¯m here, Skipper, Dragan thought, slowly climbing the staircase into the darkness of the temple. I finally reached the starting point. From here on in¡­ there¡¯s no turning back. From here on in¡­ it¡¯s time to decide the shape of this world.


    He took a step.


    "Dragan!" cried a voice from behind him.


    He stopped.


    No.


    Bruno del Sed panted for breath, kicking up dirt as he skidded to a halt before the procession.


    Metal sang as dozens of weapons -- swords and spears, guns and bows -- were pointed at him all at once. The arsenal of the Tree of Might, aligned in mutual caution. That made sense, he supposed. It was common for assassins to go after the Supreme right after their ascendance. He¡¯d run ahead of Ruth, so he hadn¡¯t had time to think all of this through¡­


    ¡­but they wanted to protect their new sovereign.


    The young First Branch of the Tree of Might, Xander Rain, scowled at the new arrival. "That¡¯s the Supreme you¡¯re speaking to, intruder. Mind your tongue."


    Bruno ignored the brat, and instead called up to the man who had stopped at the top of the staircase. "Dragan!"


    Dragan said nothing. He didn¡¯t even turn to look.


    "Dragan! I¡¯m talking to you, damnit!"


    "You must not address the Supreme by their name!" Xander barked, face twisted with fury. "Leave -- now!"


    "DRAGAN!"


    Xander opened his mouth again -- perhaps to signal his subordinates to attack -- but before he could do so, he was interrupted.


    "Bruno," said Dragan.


    A half-formed smile crept across Bruno¡¯s face.


    "We need to talk," he said, taking a step forward. "About this -- about all of this. What the hell is going on, Dragan? What do you think you¡¯re doing?!"


    Reluctantly, the Branches parted to let Bruno pass. It seemed the acknowledgement of their sovereign was enough for them to let some things slide. Bruno¡¯s footsteps thumped on the wooden staircase as he slowly ascended.


    As he did so, the staircase itself began to ascend too -- being pulled back up into the temple, like a tongue returning to the mouth. The other Branches floated up in the air, no doubt carried by Xander Rain¡¯s strange ability, but Dragan and Bruno stood alone on the uneven platform, the ground growing small beneath them.


    Again, though, Dragan seemed to have gone quiet. He hadn¡¯t even moved in response to Bruno¡¯s questioning. Exasperation finally forcing its way out of his throat, Bruno snapped: "Draga --"


    "Bruno," Dragan interrupted. "Have I done something that made you think I wanted you here?"


    Finally, he turned to look at Bruno -- and his eyes were full of mundane disdain, like he was looking at an insect half-crushed beneath his foot.


    Bruno blinked. "Huh?"


    "Did you not hear me?" Dragan asked calmly. "I asked why you thought this was the place for you. Are you stupid? Why are you here? You¡¯re just some guy I hung out with a couple of years ago. Did you think you were that important to me?"


    "Dragan," Bruno said. "I¡­"


    "I thought I made it clear. You chased me across half the galaxy -- if I wanted to see you, why wouldn¡¯t I have just turned around and seen you? Get lost. You¡¯re annoying, del Sed."


    Bruno felt Serena¡¯s anger deep within his core, but he stuffed it down, taking another step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Xander Rain tighten his grip on his spear, but he ignored it. The things Dragan was saying right now¡­ he¡­ he didn¡¯t mean them. It was just another attempt to get Bruno to leave. If he could just push through, if he could just reach his friend, he could --


    "You¡¯re not gonna stop, are you?" Dragan said softly, glancing at Xander. "You even went to see Fix. That really pissed me off, you know."


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    "I need to talk to you," Bruno persisted, fists clenched. "I-I get why you¡¯re saying this, but I need to --"


    "You want to talk to me," Dragan corrected mercilessly. "But I don¡¯t want to talk to you, Bruno. I¡¯m sick of talking to you. I¡¯m sick of having to look over my shoulder to see if you¡¯re catching up. But you know what?"


    He raised an arm, pointing a limp finger at Bruno.


    "I know how to put a stop to that," Dragan finished.


    No. He wouldn¡¯t. You wouldn¡¯t.


    He stepped forward.


    "Dragan," he said, mouth dry, throat scorched. "Skipper wouldn¡¯t --"


    Dragan Hadrien silently mouthed two words.


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    Ruth Blaine charged out into the arena -- just in time to hear those words, and see a flash of blue light envelop the world.


    She skidded to a stop, arms falling limp to her sides, her thoughts screeching to a halt. She didn¡¯t blink. She didn¡¯t breathe. As the blue light poured over the arena, she could do nothing but watch and stare¡­


    ¡­as the Gemini Shotgun blasted into Bruno¡¯s chest.


    The effect was immediate. Bruno had raised no defense, and so crumpled into a limp pile -- like a puppet with its strings cut. Thump, thump. He rolled backwards down the stairs. Thud. He hit the ground.


    He did not move.


    Ellis. Alice. Rex. Skipper. Bruno¡­? Serena¡­?


    Rage took Ruth Blaine once more. Her injuries were forgotten. Her pain was irrelevant. Within an instant, she was clad in bestial armour and charging forward on all fours, rushing straight for Dragan. Red Aether crackled a thunderstorm around her.


    "DRAGAN!"


    She wouldn¡¯t make it, of course. She¡¯d known from the beginning that she wouldn¡¯t make it. The First Branch of the Tree of Might raised his weapon. His subordinates raised theirs. She was about to be struck by the full might of the arsenal aligned against her. Only Dragan himself stayed still, his eyes wide as he looked at her. She ignored it.


    Armour or no, this wasn¡¯t something she could survive.


    A many-coloured light poured over the Arena, scorching towards Ruth and the two bodies on the floor¡­ before something suddenly landed between her and the conflagration, blocking its passage. Rays of destruction spat out in all directions, burning through the stands, but not a single trace of the attack crossed the halfway mark of the stadium. The force that had landed would not allow it.


    It wasn¡¯t someone that Ruth recognised.


    A Pugnant with bright red hair and bright gold eyes, wearing a black fur coat -- and holding a thick shield that dwarfed his own body. That was what he¡¯d used to block the Tree of Might¡¯s attack. As if that wasn¡¯t enough, he¡¯d done it with one hand -- the other had tight hold of Bruno and Serena del Sed.


    Had he grabbed them in the moment he¡¯d landed? Why?


    "Looks like we made it in time," the Pugnant grunted against the beam still blasting his shield. "He alive?!"


    Ruth¡¯s armour was already disintegrating, adrenaline losing its advantage, freeing up her neck so she could look around more clearly. This man hadn¡¯t come here alone. Another man was suddenly here too -- a dark-skinned man with long black dreadlocks, holding an ominous spear. He was crouched over the body of Atoy Muzazi, checking the wounded warrior¡¯s pulse.


    After a moment, he looked up at his companion and nodded. "He¡¯s alive. We need an exit. Go wild, Rufus."


    A grin flashed across the Pugnant warrior Rufus¡¯ face -- and immediately, he turned his gaze back towards the back of his shield.


    "Let¡¯s go!" he roared, pushing his shield forward. "You dumbasses gave me a nice temperature! Bastardborn!"


    There was no doubt that the massive shield was some kind of Aether Armament. As Rufus pushed it and called its name, jets of heat began to pop out all along the rim of the shield, like someone turning on a stove. The side of the shield facing the enemy began to glow red with heat. The light built and built and built, until blue flames were visibly stretching out from the weapon, until¡­


    ¡­there was the slightest pause in the enemy¡¯s attack.


    Rufus¡¯ roar, empowered with Aether, devoured the Arena -- and a beam of pure white heat blasted out from the face of his shield, towards the gathered ranks of the Tree of Might. Ruth watched, eyes wide -- the bar of godfire instantly melted through the metal floor of the arena as it went, carving a tunnel as it came to fell the Tree.


    The enemy wasn¡¯t defenseless either, though.


    Xander Rain stepped forward, extending a hand crackling with brown Aether, extending it -- and the flow of the incoming beam shifted, separating into disparate rays of fire that blasted off in every direction. As the arena was consumed by strobing obliteration, concealing their group from sight, Ruth felt a hand on her shoulder.


    She looked up. It was the man with the spear, his face serious, Atoy Muzazi slung over one shoulder.


    "Ruth Blaine?" he asked, shouting to be heard over the destruction. "If you want to live, come with us!"


    How had he recognised her? Wasn¡¯t she meant to be in disguise? Ruth put a hand to her face -- and when she pulled it away, she could see tiny withering strings coating her hands. The ability had run out? When had that started happening?


    There wasn¡¯t really a choice, that she knew. Whoever these people were, they had Bruno and Serena -- and Ruth alone couldn¡¯t stand up to the kind of forces attacking them right now. Even if Dragan was standing there, even if Dragan had just done what she thought he¡¯d just done¡­


    ¡­there wasn¡¯t anything she could do about it by herself.


    Ruth nodded seriously, accepting the offered hand.


    The man smiled -- just slightly, just for a moment -- before turning his head to face Rufus. "That¡¯s enough, Rufus! We need to go! Now!"


    Rufus broke off his counterattack, the beam of heat ceasing immediately as he turned and began sprinting over to them. Even without the sheer annihilation, though, the amount of smoke the attack had produced was enough to keep them concealed. At least for the moment, they were hidden.


    From that side, at least.


    Bang!


    Ruth swung her head around as she heard the gunshot, reflexively blocking it with a swing of her gauntleted arm.


    The Ascendant-General had arrived from the entrance tunnel.


    However his fight with Niain had gone, Toll had surely taken his damage. There was a gaping wound on his stomach -- and the man was visibly holding his entrails in with one hand while he limped into the stadium. His other hand was holding a shotgun like it was a pistol.


    Bang! Bang! Bang!


    They were far away, and so the spear-user was able to deflect the shots with swings of his weapon. As Rufus reached them, putting a hand on his companion¡¯s shoulder, the spear was pointed up towards the sky. Pink Aether crackled around it.


    "Hold on," the wielder said¡­


    "Tch."


    ¡­and, like it was magic, the weapon pulled them up into the sky.


    Dragan watched as Ruth, Bruno, Serena and the interlopers flew off into the sky, disappearing among the night clouds. Xander went as if to pursue them in the air, but Dragan caught his gaze and shook his head.


    "My Supreme," Xander said quietly. "They have Atoy Muzazi with them, though. There¡¯s the possibility of a pretender¡­"


    "It¡¯s fine," Dragan replied. "That¡¯s what the Banquet is for, after all, isn¡¯t it?"


    Slowly, Xander nodded. "As you say."


    The Second Branch, Fino Onio, spoke up -- taking a finger away from his ear as he did so. "We¡¯ve just received confirmation from the Body. They¡¯ve accepted your victory. The Alec Alexander¡¯s waiting to receive you for transport to the Shesha."


    Dragan smiled thinly. "Well¡­ let¡¯s not keep them waiting, then."


    With that, he turned, pulling his cloak tight around him as he vanished into the darkness of the temple. That had been a close one. The business with Aclima, the battle against Muzazi, the thing with Bruno¡­ it had all come far too close for comfort.


    But then again, comfort was another thing Dragan Hadrien had flayed away from himself.


    Now, he only had patience for victory.


    This is how it starts, Skipper.


    The doors thumped shut behind him.


    Dragan climbed.


    The words of the Three Wise Men would be beamed out to every corner of the galaxy that night. Their acknowledgement, their congratulations, their approval. Even in places outside the Supremacy, the people would listen¡­ because they knew the shape of their world was about to change, whether they liked it or not.


    "Tonight has been an auspicious night. Titans have clashed and one has been found wanting. Through strength, through valour, through wit¡­ a Supreme fighter has been found. The Dawn Contest is over¡­ and so the sun rises."


    Three bodies -- two men and a woman. Morgan Nacht, Gregori Hazzard, and someone Jude didn¡¯t recognise. Well, that was fine. So long as she was here, it was just as well.


    Jude Greer observed dispassionately as he watched his men bind Neverwire around the unconscious bodies and prepare them for transport. He clicked his dice between his fingers, but for the moment he didn¡¯t roll them. He¡¯d already gambled once this Dawn Contest, gambled that Atoy Muzazi would stand victorious, and he¡¯d lost. For the time being, he wasn¡¯t leaving things to chance.


    Now was the time for damage control.


    It had been a mistake for Shooting Star Security Solutions to publicly align themselves with Atoy Muzazi in the first place. Even more of a mistake for them to publicly oppose the contestant who shared their moniker. Right now, they were in very hot water.


    But that was fine. Jude recognised the best path that now lay before him. The Supremacy now had a new god, and what was the best way to ingratiate yourself to the divine?


    Easy. Offer up the non-believers.


    Dragan climbed.


    He¡¯d taken the opportunity to get some new clothes -- he still wore the white cloak, but now there was black fabric beneath to cover his body. In one hand, he held a great staff tipped with a stone eyeball. In the other, a bulky gauntlet of interlocking bronze. Amulets hung from his neck. Rings adorned his free fingers.


    Meaningless trinkets and baubles. Marks of office, taken from the Shesha¡¯s Supreme Archive. The moment he was done with them, he¡¯d let them fall to the floor¡­ but for the time being, he needed to look the part.


    "The age of yet another false Supreme has ended, and the true scion of the Supremacy has made himself known. Let us cheer. Let us make merry! Let us rejoice in the knowledge that the majesty of this great nation has been rekindled by a finer flame than any other."


    The Shepherdess bit her thumb.


    Actually¡­ that didn¡¯t do enough to describe it. She wasn¡¯t just biting her thumb, she was biting her thumb. She was really biting it. Blood trickling down the edges of her mouth biting it. Her teeth halfway through the ligaments biting it.


    Eion just sat awkwardly next to her, looking down into the pit of the arena. He didn¡¯t know the cause of her anger. Was it how Atoy Muzazi had replaced the Supreme Heir? Was it how Dragan Hadrien had defeated his opponent through underhanded means?


    He was just a human, after all, so he couldn¡¯t begin the guess the thoughts of a mechanism¡­ or what that mechanism would do next.


    Dragan climbed.


    The Shesha was indeed as cavernous as people said. It felt more like a tomb than a temple, all things considered. The dark hallways seemed to stretch on forever, and the rooms themselves were so large that they felt like they had horizons of their own.


    Doors the size of starships slowly opened, allowing a pale light to flood into the throne room¡­ and the shadow of Dragan Hadrien stretched forth to meet it.


    "And let us be grateful."


    As the wind whipped past, as the spear pulled their motley group across the sky, Ruth Blaine squeezed her eyes shut. The last traces of gold and blue stripped away from her face, scattering in the air as so many strings. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest like a shotgun.


    The last few minutes¡­ felt like a dream. A nightmare. Dragan shooting Bruno, these people arriving, all of them flying off together. The del Sed¡¯s and Atoy Muzazi were both unconscious, their limbs flapping in the air as they flew, their faces strangely peaceful. They were blind to the world.


    Ruth found herself strangely jealous.


    Dragan¡­


    "I¡¯ll show you," Ruth had said, in that sun-dyed tower on Caelus Breck. "I¡¯ll show you that people aren¡¯t how you think. I¡¯ll show you that they¡¯re good."


    A lie. She¡¯d never shown him anything at all, had she?


    Dragan climbed.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    Dragan¡¯s footsteps echoed through the throne room as he approached, claiming dominion over the space. For the moment, he was alone. He had demanded that -- at the moment of his ascension, he was to be solitary.


    It was for that reason that nobody could see the strangely downcast look in Dragan Hadrien¡¯s eyes.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    The bells of a new world.


    "Let us be grateful for the future now offered to us."


    North put his pistol back in its holster as he turned on his heel, strolling out of the dark room.


    He really should have asked for a bonus for this kind of work. Running all the way from the Arena of the Absolute to this corner of the city had been tiring work, after all. It was a miracle he hadn¡¯t had to fight the Phases to claim Aclima, too.


    A bonus¡­ North smirked ruefully. Yeah, right. How long had he been working for free now?


    "Well, I¡¯m sure ya don¡¯t wanna hear this from me, kid," North called out over his shoulder. "But ya got my condolences."


    He¡¯d left her bound with Neverwire, but she¡¯d be able to break out of that given time.


    Dragan climbed.


    His hand brushed against the arm of the throne, and he took a deep breath. This was still the seat that Kadmon had taken, coated in dust, much too big for any normal human. Blue Aether crackled against Dragan¡¯s finger¡­


    ¡­and with a tap against the stone, he scattered the dust away.


    "Let us be grateful for the strength we once more wield."


    Niain stalked through the alleyways of Azum-Ha, a frown on his face, Smith oozing along with him across the floor. He flicked his red hand, scattering loose bits of Alexandrius Toll¡¯s insides onto the ground. Smith greedily slurped them up.


    "You seem in low spirits, my King," Smith cooed, a shadow of his face appearing inside his black mass like a sourceless reflection. "I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m so so sorry¡­"


    Niain ignored it. True, meeting a del Sed had certainly put a damper on things¡­ but the night had still been entertaining, after all. The Shepherdess had been insulted, he¡¯d managed to confirm the plan¡¯s viability¡­ and a new Supreme had risen.


    His smile returned, as it always did.


    "Ah, Smith¡­" he sighed fondly. "There¡¯s never a dull moment in this world, is there?"


    He didn¡¯t know the full extent of it, though. In what was a truly rare occasion, someone was following the King of Darkstar without his knowledge. Someone with dancing rainbow Aether, and a body that had long since left this world.


    Dragan climbed.


    The throne reconfigured itself, segments rotating and contracting to suit the stature of the person now standing before it. By the time it was done, it was nearly half of its original size. Dragan just watched it silently, standing before the seat like he was taking audience with an invisible king.


    "Let us be grateful for the vision that cuts through the endless, bitter night." S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Deep in the dark bowels of Azum-Ha, where few now ventured, a young man with dark skin and white hair waited.


    Azez the Absolute smiled.


    Dragan climbed.


    It was ready.


    Even shrunk, the throne dwarfed him. Through the grace of a white backlight, the shadow it projected devoured Dragan¡¯s own. He swallowed. He¡¯d come this far. He didn¡¯t have the kind of leeway to be intimidated by furniture.


    Dragan Hadrien stepped forward¡­


    Dragan Hadrien turned around¡­


    ¡­and the Supreme sat down.


    "Let us be grateful for our one true Supreme -- and let him sit the throne until the end of time."


    END OF ARC 13

 Chapter 427:14.1: Hors D’Oeuvres

    03:12


    The planet of Azum-Ha was alive with the buzzing of countless signals. At this point, the whispers far outnumbered the whisperers. A stone had been dropped in the pond, and the ripples had begun to spread out.


    There was a new Supreme, the Shooting Star whose real name had already vanished into taboo. He had defeated his final opponent in the Dawn Contest, the dishonourable assassin Atoy Muzazi -- although the Supreme had used dishonourable means himself to achieve that victory. Not everybody was happy with that, but nobody yet dared to voice their unhappiness.


    At any rate, with his final enemy brought low, that man had taken the throne of the Supreme -- the throne of the Shesha, which now hung low over Azum-Ha itself, its shadow stretching over the cityscape. That night, nearly every pair of eyes available drifted up to the gargantua in the sky, wondering, dreaming.


    What was the new Supreme doing up there? What sort of tomorrow were they preparing in that throne room? Would it be one of sorrow, or one of joy?


    Pointless questions -- and ones that were based on a faulty premise from the start. Right now, the Supreme wasn¡¯t in the throne room at all. He wasn¡¯t even on the Shesha itself.


    Rather than watching over the world from the sky, the Shooting Star was now deep underground, in the bowels of old Azum-Ha. Tradition had demanded it of him. No matter what the Supreme now intended¡­ he had to play along with tradition for the time being.


    But that didn¡¯t mean the Shesha was empty. Oh, not at all.


    03:14


    North drummed his fingers along the smooth arms of the chair, looking out at the room before him. Damn, this place was big. Damn, this chair was uncomfy.


    He sure was glad he wasn¡¯t Supreme.


    North crossed his legs as the great doors to the Shesha¡¯s throne room opened inwards. Of course, to anyone watching, he was Supreme -- or rather, he was Dragan Hadrien, sitting in his throne, looking upon his dominion with a smug smile on his lips.


    Good old body double work. It was a classic.


    The Shesha¡¯s guests entered the throne room one by one, their appearances utterly unsuited to this oh-so-dignified venue. Ordinarily, scum like this wouldn¡¯t be allowed on the Shesha at all -- but then again, what the hell? For these bastards, today was basically a public holiday.


    North took in the familiar faces.


    A man in a dusty tricorn and long coat, three growling hounds walking behind and alongside him, a tiny puppy perched atop his hat. He had different dogs since the last time North had seen him, but they looked as vicious as ever. Living Aether Armaments, designed to help this man hunt the most dangerous game. The Kennelmaster.


    Top-Class Bounty Hunter


    The Kennelmaster


    "Let¡¯s get this over with," he muttered, resting his hand on the head of a dog the size of a horse.


    The guest that followed was much more dignified. A tall, lanky figure of indistinct biology -- right in between the mechanical and the insectoid -- its hands clasped behind its back. Artificial compound eyes met North¡¯s gaze, and as the beings arms returned to its sides he couldn¡¯t help but notice that one ended not with a hand, but a hissing plasma cannon. White feathered wings fluttered from its back, and knives of ice floated over its shoulders. Looking over the emissary, North could see the markers of at least five abilities. Praetorian-class, without a doubt.


    Top-Class Bounty Hunter


    The Hive of Malkuth


    The emissary put a hand to his heart and bowed respectfully. "Her Majesty appreciates your gracious invitation, honoured Supreme," he said, with a voice formed from mingling synthesised tones.


    Another legend of the underworld followed -- one that would not have been here at all, had this Dawn Contest ended even a day later. What this man truly looked like, North couldn¡¯t say, for he entered the room in a hulking ocean-blue Armoured Chassis that concealed his entire body. Whirring and clanking filled the room as he stomped into it, countless weapons poking out from every gap in his armour¡¯s defences. He looked like a fighter jet had achieved humanity. This was the man called Appointment.


    Top-Class Bounty Hunter


    Appointment


    He said nothing, just crossing his bulky arms.


    Others streamed in, survivors from the Crimson Carnival and no shortage of independents. One emaciated man just crawled meekly through the shadows, muttering about how hungry he was. Soon enough, a small crowd was gathered before the throne. They left quite a bit of space between each other, though, and that was only natural. These people were in the profession of murder. The careless didn¡¯t last long enough to be recognised.


    Finally, the doors shut behind the gathered masses. The darkness they were all accustomed to washed over the room.


    "Well," North smiled, leaning forward. "Shall we get started?"


    -


    03:22


    The one called the Supreme was granted all the freedom in the world. They had control over the galaxy¡¯s mightiest armies, and authority over the galaxy¡¯s deadliest weapons. Warriors without end would leap into the fire if the Supreme but commanded it. And yet¡­


    ¡­even they weren¡¯t completely free.


    Once you reached the top of the world, you found yourself surrounded by the invisible wall called tradition. It guided your path, made you walk in certain directions, made sure your actions followed a certain shape. As the strongest, you could choose to smash through that invisible wall, sure.


    But it was the only thing holding you up.


    Dragan Hadrien walked through the pitch-black caverns of Azum-Ha, white cloak hanging limp around his form. It had only been two hours since he¡¯d officially won the Dawn Contest and become Supreme. Tomorrow, the coronation would take place -- but for now, there were still some last things to take care of.


    There were some traditions that needed to be honoured. The Banquet was one of them.


    Just because someone lost a Dawn Contest, that didn¡¯t mean they disappeared from the galaxy. Just because a Supreme Heir didn¡¯t ascend the throne, that didn¡¯t mean they vanished. Those who had supported them could support them still. If a Supreme proved unpopular¡­ there were no shortage of pretenders that could be propped up to replace them.


    And thus, the Banquet.


    It wouldn¡¯t do for a shiny new Supreme to stain himself straight away. So, the hunters of the underworld would be gathered -- and they would be dispatched to eliminate any leftovers from the Contest. The bounties were enough to allow a decadent retirement overnight. Other contestants, their support teams, the previous Heir¡­ all wiped out, if they were unfortunate enough to still be on the planet. Scum would deal with scum.


    It wasn¡¯t anything official, of course. Nobody made the new Supreme do this -- Kadmon hadn¡¯t put in that effort, after all. But it was yet another invisible wall best acknowledged, yet another tradition that was best followed, yet another path best walked.


    For the time being, Dragan had to keep walking along the edge. He¡¯d made preparations on his side, but the Banquet would go ahead all the same. North would see to the rest.


    And him?


    Dragan stopped, his shining blue eyes illuminating the massive archway in front of him -- as big as the Arena of the Absolute all by itself, with pure darkness lingering behind it. The rocky walls of the cavern had transitioned into smooth stone, humanoid statues frozen mid-climb all across the archway¡¯s surface. He took a deep breath¡­


    ¡­and marched into the Tomb of the Supreme.


    This, too, was another tradition.


    03:27


    North grinned to himself as he leaned back in his throne, arms forming a cushion behind his head. He¡¯d have to talk to Dragan about getting some better furniture for this place. The throne was cool and all, but it played havoc with his back.


    The bounties had been set out, and the rats had scurried off to claim them. For the most part, he¡¯d laid out the targets as Dragan had ordered: the surviving contestants that were still off-world, their close confidants, and the Supreme Heir Aclima. That last one was kind of a bummer. If he¡¯d known Dragan would want her dead straight away, North would have just put a bullet in her head himself.


    Of course¡­ North had taken some liberties with the targets too. Atoy Muzazi was among the marked, and his ¡¯support team¡¯ was up to a little interpretation when you got down to it. Sure, there were the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir, but what about the guys who had rescued him from the Arena? Those people were definitely supporting him too, right?


    And Muzazi wasn¡¯t the only one they¡¯d rescued. Ruth Blaine and the del Seds¡­ when you thought about it¡­ when you really really thought about it¡­ didn¡¯t it look like that whole group was working together?


    The bounties he¡¯d put on Ruth Blaine and the del Sed¡¯s weren¡¯t as high as the others, but North doubted that would matter. These hunters were penny-pinchers, and the targets were wounded. They¡¯d go for an easy payday just like anyone else.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    It was for the best. Despite his best efforts, Dragan had a soft spot for those dumbasses. Best to iron that out before it went any further.


    "So," chirped a voice from up high. "Where is the new Supreme?"


    The smirk dropped from North¡¯s face and his head snapped up -- towards the rafters, where the voice had come from. There, barely visible in the gloom, someone sat cross-legged. Gleaming golden eyes shone out from the darkness.


    A bead of sweat trickled down North¡¯s temple, even as he concealed it from sight with a hologram. There weren¡¯t many people in the galaxy who could sneak up on him without him noticing. Generally, North did his best to make sure he wasn¡¯t on the same planet as those people.


    But that wasn¡¯t an option right now.


    He let Dragan¡¯s easy smile conceal his caution. "He sits before you. Have you come to try your luck as my first assassin?"


    The figure leaned forward, narrowing their golden eyes as they inspected North over the long distance. As they did, he got a better look at them. A young Pugnant woman in some kind of leotard, her hair streaked with pink and gold, her teeth sharpened to pinpoints. North might have thought she was cute -- objectively speaking -- if not for that look in her eyes.


    After a good few seconds, the girl clicked her tongue.


    "Nah," she giggled. "You¡¯re not him. If you were him, I¡¯d be trying to kill you right now, you know? I¡¯d have to."


    North blinked. "How so?"


    She scratched a finger against her cheek, just a little too hard and too fast to be casual. "Because that guy met him, you know? It¡¯d be a matter of principle -- no, that¡¯s not it, survival? Still no. Oh, oh, it¡¯s a matter of birth. A chicken can¡¯t be born so long as it¡¯s still inside the egg, right? It¡¯s like that."


    "Oh," said North. "Okay."


    This chick seems a little crazy.


    "So why are you here, then?" he asked.


    The girl cocked her head as she stood up. "Hm? Hm, hm, hm? What do you mean? You invited me. It¡¯s the Banquet, right? The day people like us dream of. Personally, I don¡¯t care too much about money, but still -- it makes the world go around, right? Besides¡­"


    She walked tip-toe across the rafter, stepping further into the light, and now North recognized her. Not from that face, or that hair, or those teeth. No¡­ he recognised the stylized tattoo on the side of her bare thigh.


    VI, it read.


    Top-Class Bounty Hunter


    The Sixth Dead


    "Ah," she spun on her heel, grinning cheekily, her hair flapping around her. "I am really grateful though, whoever you are, I am. I mean it!"


    "Oh?"


    North tightened his grip on the arms of the throne. Despite only being around for a couple of years, the latest incarnation of the Aether-user known as the Dead had already made a reputation for herself. It was the kind of reputation you didn¡¯t want to be alone in a room with.


    "Mm-hmm!" the Sixth Dead nodded. "To think -- the perfect scenario, the perfect meeting, all laid out right before us! Ha, it really is a Banquet! That¡¯s a great name for it!" She hugged her arms tight around herself, standing on the very edge of the rafter, her body swaying back and forth over oblivion. "Ah, Muzazi¡­ Muzazi, Muzazi, Muzazi¡­ he¡¯s so close¡­!"


    Oh, this chick is really crazy.


    North raised an eyebrow. "Ya got a bone to pick with the Full Moon?" he asked in his normal voice, slouching over in the throne. If his disguise had been seen through anyway, there was no point sitting like he had a rod up his ass.


    The Sixth Dead looked down at him -- and North noted with a shudder that a rosy blush was spreading across her cheeks.


    "Yeah," she breathed. "That¡¯s a nasty way to put it, but yeah, I do. He¡¯s the one who made it so I could exist, you know? He cut off the head of that bastard and pulled me into the world. And now -- and now we¡¯ve been brought together again, in another city, in another massacre! A heart pounding battle for survival! What can you call that if not fate?!"


    As her mania reached a crescendo, she put a hand to her chest and took a deep breath, seemingly calming herself down. She closed her eyes for a moment -- and when she opened them again, there was a vacant and docile look to them. She spoke quietly: "It¡¯s like¡­ you know, if you met the doctor who delivered you as a baby, you¡¯d have no choice but to marry them¡­ right?"


    North blinked. "Right."


    That was so wrong he didn¡¯t even know where to begin.


    "Gratitude and passion! That¡¯s what love is all about."


    The Sixth Dead smiled sweetly, putting her hands behind her back as she hopped down to the ground. Purple Aether sparked across her legs to prevent them shattering as she landed before the throne. For a second, North thought she might lunge forward -- but no, she turned around, towards the doors.


    "Just so we¡¯re clear," she said, looking over her shoulder. "I know you were talking about bounties for all those other folks, but I¡¯m only interested in Muzazi, okay? So I¡¯m going after him straight away. Tell the other guys if they try and get him first, I¡¯ll butcher them like pigs, ¡¯kay?"


    North opened his mouth to reply, but --


    "Or don¡¯t -- I don¡¯t care that much. Right now, all my attention is on our destined meeting. Haha, that¡¯s so cheesy, I can¡¯t even believe I said it! Ah, I wanna meet him right now, right now¡­ ah, Muzazi¡­ he¡¯s so strong and cool¡­ ah, I wanna cut him open and climb inside¡­"


    Oh. She¡¯s crazy crazy.


    As she rambled to herself on her way out, purple Aether continued to spark -- manifesting a truly monstrous weapon. A crude, jagged scythe that looked like it had been welded together from starship debris. It dwarfed its wielder to such a degree that North would have doubted it could be effectively used¡­ if not for the arms.


    Countless spectral arms were stretching out from the Sixth Dead¡¯s back, wrapping themselves around the hilt of the weapon, supporting their user to hold the scythe up high. As she reached the door, she turned back to North one last time, only her golden eyes and white grin visible through the mass of limbs.


    "Well!" she said. "I¡¯m off!"


    03:29


    It was over.


    When Atoy Muzazi opened his eyes, that was the first thought that popped into his mind. He had failed. In every way imaginable, he had failed. For victory, he had dishonoured himself. For victory, he had disgraced those close to him. For victory, he had slain the virtuous.


    And he had been defeated.


    Everything he had done¡­ all of it¡­ all of it¡­ had been nothing. His desperation had amounted to naught. The dream that had kept him going these last few years¡­ the promise he had made to Marie¡­ all of it had vanished in an instant.


    I surrender.


    With his own lips, he had ruined everything. The dark resolve he thought he¡¯d mustered had been nothing but an illusion. He had been able to take Aclima¡¯s betrayed eyes, but not her dead ones -- and he had only made that betrayal deeper. With his pathetic pleading, he had shown the entire galaxy the sort of man he really was.


    A failure.


    He thought back to Elysian Fields, to that burning forest¡­ to the moment where he¡¯d faced Zachariah Esmeralda.


    Why didn¡¯t you just kill me then? Atoy Muzazi beseeched of the past. If I could have died having comprehended my weakness¡­ without deluding myself into thinking I could overcome it¡­ wouldn¡¯t that have been better?


    Damnation.


    Damnation.


    Damnation.


    He clenched his fist, and even that slight movement was enough to send spikes of pain ringing through his body. He had pushed this shell of his far beyond its limits during his battle with Dragan Hadrien. Another result of his wasted efforts.


    Gritting his teeth, he brought his arm up to cover his eyes, ignoring the stabbing pains that accompanied the effort. He would do anything not to see the world right now. He did not care where he had woken up. He did not care what situation he was in.


    At this moment, Atoy Muzazi could barely handle the world inside himself¡­ anything exterior was out of the question. He was lying on a bed. There were walls. Somewhere outside this room, music was playing.


    Too much, too much, too much. He¡­


    "I see you¡¯re awake," said the voice of Jamilu Aguta.


    Muzazi squeezed his eyes shut, doing his best to ignore Nebula Two. For some reason, the warrior seemed to take that as an invitation to continue.


    "Me and Rufus saved you from the Supreme¡¯s goons at the Arena. You¡¯re in bad shape, but we need to get you up and moving as soon as possible. Right now, we¡¯re making preparations to --"


    "I don¡¯t care," Muzazi replied, cutting Jamilu off. His voice was flat and dead. The dream had been scorched right out of it.


    For a moment, Jamilu respected the silence¡­ but only for a moment.


    "Do you understand your position?" he asked. "There are already reports of a gathering at the Shesha. The new Supreme is enacting the Banquet, I guarantee it. They¡¯ll track us to this hotel before long -- and if they find you, they¡¯ll kill you."


    "That¡¯s fine."


    Muzazi opened his eyes, finally turning to look at Jamilu. He was standing by the door, glaring at Muzazi, slowly shaking his head. For some reason, that too just felt like an additional weight on Muzazi¡¯s spirit.


    "Do as you like," the Nebula spat. "We¡¯ll get ready to move you ourselves."


    And with that, he turned and left, his spear chuckling darkly as he went. The wooden door was left ajar -- and Jamilu¡¯s partner, the Pugnant called Rufus, was left standing outside. He looked at Muzazi, bemused.


    "What¡¯s up with you?" he asked -- his voice damnably casual.


    Muzazi swallowed. "I lost," he said simply.


    "Oh. Huh."


    Oh. Huh.


    That was right, wasn¡¯t it? In the end, that was all that Atoy Muzazi¡¯s dream had amounted to. A momentary distraction. A footnote in history. The kinder world he¡¯d wanted to usher in¡­ the lofty promises he¡¯d made¡­ all of it had amounted to --


    "That¡¯s fine, though, isn¡¯t it?" Rufus said.


    Muzazi blinked. "What?"


    "Well¡­" Rufus scratched the back of his head. "I don¡¯t really get how you Supremacy guys do things¡­ but you¡¯re still alive, right? So you just need to win next time."


    Ba-dump.


    It wasn¡¯t hope.


    The feeling in Muzazi¡¯s heart was far too sickly and curdling to be called hope. But no matter how repulsively, his heart was beating, his blood was flowing. His hand was still on the ladder. Even if the pain threatened to smother him entirely, to send him falling into the abyss¡­


    ¡­he could still try to pull himself up one last time, couldn¡¯t he?


    03:30


    Dragan¡¯s footsteps echoed throughout the Tomb of the Supreme, bouncing against the massive stone coffins that lined either side of the grand central chamber. Many of these would be empty, he knew. There were many Supremes whose remains had been lost in their demise -- and many more whose corpses were more fit for a box than a sarcophagus.


    This place was just yet another hall of tradition -- a building crafted from invisible walls. Not all of it was real. Especially not the part now standing before him.


    Dragan Hadrien stopped walking, halfway down the chamber¡¯s length.


    "What¡¯s wrong?" the person blocking his path asked. "You seem surprised."


    Dragan said nothing. He just glared silently at the figure standing before him. It was strange. They were the same height, but Dragan knew that in truth this person dwarfed him -- after all, he had the world¡¯s largest shadow. S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A shadow called the Supremacy.


    Azez the Absolute smiled. "Shall we talk for a bit, Dragan Hadrien?"

 Chapter 428:14.2: Amuse-Bouche

    03:31


    "Yeah, no," said Dragan.


    Azez cocked his head, the shadows playing across his features. His brown cloak pooled on the floor around him. "Is there a problem, Dragan Hadrien?"


    "There¡¯s no way you¡¯re alive. No, I know you¡¯re not alive. Your body was displayed at your funeral -- there¡¯re more pictures of your corpse than people on this planet."


    "You don¡¯t think that corpse could have been fake?" Azez smiled.


    "Was it?"


    For a moment, the young man didn¡¯t reply -- but only for a moment. He closed his eyes and chuckled lightly. "I¡¯m glad you¡¯re a rational person, at least. A lot of people who end up here aren¡¯t." He opened his golden eyes again. "It¡¯s as you say. Azez Tazir died many centuries ago. Think of me as something he left behind."


    Dragan narrowed his glowing eyes, slowly circling his counterpart. "For what purpose?"


    "For this purpose," ¡¯Azez¡¯ replied casually. "To greet the successors to my title and take their measure. Congratulations on your victory in the Dawn Contest, by the way."


    "So you¡¯re some kind of projection?"


    ¡¯Azez¡¯ very nearly rolled his eyes, but restrained himself. Instead, he reached for his collar and pulled it down, baring his chest -- or where a human being¡¯s chest would have been. Instead, there was just a framework lattice of thin lights¡­ and visible within, where a heart should have been, floated a shining lantern.


    "Again," ¡¯Azez¡¯ continued. "It¡¯s as you say. This form is just something projected by the Lantern of Truth, the real Azez Tazir¡¯s Aether Armament. This impression of consciousness too is just that¡­ an impression. Perhaps the word fabrication is more accurate, though? I¡¯m able to speak and interact with you to a certain degree, but please make no mistake -- I am not a sapient actor."


    "So you¡¯re like an automatic," Dragan noted, stopping on the other side of the being. "How close are you to the original Azez¡­ in terms of that consciousness you¡¯re fabricating?"


    The projection smiled as it looked over its shoulder. "Who can say?"


    "You. You can say."


    "I have to say, you really are a sceptical person, aren¡¯t you? I haven¡¯t seen one since Ren¨¦e who questions the mechanics of the whole thing so deeply. Although I suppose that was more of a vivisection than an interrogation, haha."


    It replies, Dragan noted. But doesn¡¯t initiate. Maybe the personality is partly derived from the person it¡¯s interacting with?


    "Okay," Dragan said. "You want to talk. I get that. So¡­ what do you want to talk about?"


    "What else?" the man of light said, turning fully to face Dragan once again. "I want to know your intentions for my Supremacy."


    03:32


    "I know this sounds rich, coming from me," Gregori Hazzard said. "But I really think we should work together here."


    The other two in the storage car ignored him. If they had been able to, they¡¯d probably have just left him to his own misery -- unfortunately, however, they weren¡¯t able to. Their arms were tightly bound with Neverwire and strapped to the walls behind them, leaving them facing each other. They couldn¡¯t move from these spots, much less leave.


    Outside, they could hear the thrum of the train carrying them through the skies of Azum-Ha. It seemed the S4 had commandeered this vehicle to take their prisoners to whatever destination they had in mind. Wherever that was, they sure were taking their sweet time about it.


    Not that any of that bothered these two anyway. They were busy glaring daggers at each other, mutually eager for blood. On one side, the desire for vengeance -- on the other, the call of spite.


    Morgan Nacht and Gretchen Hail.


    "So you really were still alive," Morgan grunted, ignoring Gregori. "I thought maybe you¡¯d set things up in advance¡­ but no, you were handing out those Fusion Tools yourself."


    "Are you proud of yourself for figuring it out?" Gretchen scoffed. "A child could have told you I was alive. Fusion Tools are bespoke for their users -- they wouldn¡¯t go spreading across the galaxy all by themselves."


    "You were Hapgrass, then," Morgan muttered. "That¡¯s quite the disguise you pulled off."


    "If you must know, it wasn¡¯t really a disguise," Gretchen smirked, clearly unable to resist the urge to gloat. "I transferred my consciousness into her empty body with an Aether Armament, then used a specialised Fusion Tool to rewrite the body to match my own self-image. So, I wasn¡¯t wearing a wig or anything if you thought that¡¯s --"


    "What happened to Ionir?" Morgan asked.


    His heart thumped in his chest. The entire time since he¡¯d woken up, this was what he¡¯d been asking himself, over and over again. An accompaniment to his heartbeat.


    He needed the answer. He wouldn¡¯t be able to do anything until he knew. But at the same time¡­


    Gretchen¡¯s smirk stretched up her cheek. "I killed it."


    Morgan blinked.


    "I¡¯ll kill you," he said quietly.


    "You two can kill each other later," Gregori cut in, raising his voice. "But if we don¡¯t get out of here, we¡¯re all fucked."


    "Speak for yourself," Gretchen lounged back on her restraints. "These men are taking us to the new Supreme, right? In that case, I don¡¯t have anything to worry about. If anything, I¡¯m thankful -- it¡¯ll save me the taxi fare."


    Morgan¡¯s hands trembled behind his back, a burning venomous sensation crawling up his throat as he made the connection. "Traitor."


    "Hm?" Gretchen cocked her head. "You¡¯re surprised at this point? Besides, if I¡¯m a traitor, so are you. Probably more so. I didn¡¯t even get the chance to pull off my betrayal, you know? You beat me to the punch."


    "So you were working with Hadrien," Gregori mused. "I¡¯m assuming your job was to ensure his victory against Aclima, then?"


    Wait.


    Morgan¡¯s eyes widened. He¡¯d been so caught up in his fury that he¡¯d missed what Hail had just said. The new Supreme. If they were talking about Hadrien, then that meant¡­ that meant¡­


    Gregori seemed to notice Morgan¡¯s shock, glancing over at him. "I woke up first," he said. "Heard the guards talking. From the sounds of it, Atoy Muzazi was defeated by Dragan Hadrien -- and then he got pulled out of there by two of the UAP¡¯s Nebula. So it looks like he¡¯s a traitor, too."


    "No¡­" Morgan muttered.


    "I know, right?" Gregori rolled his eyes. "That¡¯s two years of my life I¡¯m not getting back."


    Morgan went to snap at the other man -- but before he could, Gregori turned back to Gretchen.


    "Anyway," he said casually. "I wouldn¡¯t be so confident if I were you."


    She raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"


    "You said it yourself, didn¡¯t you? You weren¡¯t able to pull off your part of the plan. Instead of an easy win against Aclima, Hadrien had to fight for his life against Muzazi. If I were him, I might see that as a betrayal -- or, at least, incompetence. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d see much point in keeping an incompetent ally around."


    The smirk faded from Gretchen¡¯s lips. "You¡¯re just trying to save yourself, Hazzard."


    "Sure. But if you were in Hadrien¡¯s good books, why are you tied up with us in the first place? That tells me he sees us as being in the same category." Gregori smiled thinly. "Obstacles to be eliminated."


    For a good long moment, Gretchen¡¯s golden eyes just stared into Gregori¡¯s crimson. Neither blinked -- but finally, Gretchen looked away.


    "What do you have in mind?" she muttered.


    "No," Morgan growled, his eyes still fixed on the murderer. "No way. I¡¯m not working with her."


    "Fine," Gretchen snapped back. "Me and him will just escape without you, then."


    "I¡¯m so popular all of a sudden," Gregori sighed. "But we need all three of us if we¡¯re going to do this. Once we¡¯re out, we need to break through the S4 lines and get off this train -- and my escape method needs all of us, too."


    "What is it you have in mind?" Gretchen asked.


    "This Neverwire is pretty high-quality stuff," Gregori said. "Sufficient to keep each of us suppressed, at least. But that¡¯s each of us individually. You know multi-infusion?"


    Slowly, Gretchen nodded. "I see. You want us to channel all of our Aether into one of our bodies simultaneously, so it destroys that Neverwire restraint -- and then they bust the rest of us out?"


    "Exactly," Gregori replied. "The way they¡¯ve tied us up, we can just about touch each other¡¯s feet. We make contact, then we push our Aether in the same direction as hard as we can. It¡¯ll give."


    "Not bad, Hazzard," Gretchen¡¯s smirk returned. "I didn¡¯t realise you had a working brain back there. I suppose the only question is¡­ who do we break out first?¡¯


    Morgan cut back in, his voice harsh. "Not her."


    "I thought you weren¡¯t cooperating, Nacht?" Gretchen sneered.


    "Not her," Morgan repeated, ignoring her, his gaze on Gregori. "Break me out and I¡¯ll get you free. You know I¡¯ll honour my word."


    "No way!" Gretchen squirmed in her binds, looking for all the world like a particularly orange chihuahua for a moment. "No way, no way, no way. You cut him out first, he cuts my head off. He¡¯s crazy."


    "Fuck you," Morgan snarled.


    "Fuck you," Gretchen spat back.


    "Okay," Gregori said calmly. "I hear what you¡¯re both saying. How about we cut the difference and break me out first? Then I can free the both of you."


    Both glares swung in his direction.


    "I¡¯m serious," he continued. "I understand both of you have your reasons not to trust me. Think about it, though. Right now, the two of you have every reason to betray each other. But, in this situation, I have no reason to betray either of you. There are armed guards just outside this compartment -- probably Aether-users, too. It¡¯s to my advantage to keep the two of you around to help fight them. Understand?"


    "...right," Gretchen narrowed her eyes.


    "So I¡¯m not asking you to trust me. I¡¯m just asking you to trust the principle of mutual self-interest."


    Morgan¡¯s eyes flicked from Gretchen to Gregori, his brow twitching. He sucked in a breath. It was Hadrien or this. At least this way, he supposed, there was a chance.


    "Fine," he said. "We break you out, then me, then her."


    Gretchen opened her mouth to protest, but Gregori cut in first.


    "I¡¯ll break both of you out at the same time," he said quickly. "Happy?"


    Eventually -- after much glaring and glancing back and forth -- the pair nodded. Grunting, Gregori slouched down as much as he could, pushing his foot out towards the centre of the room. Morgan and Gretchen mirrored his movements -- neither of them were particularly tall, so it took quite a bit of manoeuvring, but eventually they managed to assume a position where all three of their bodies were just barely in contact.


    "Keep it like this," Gregori said quietly. "On three, flare your Aether as much as you can, for as long as you can -- focusing on my wrists like they¡¯re part of your own body. Ready? One¡­ two¡­ three."


    Morgan pushed.


    It was a strange sensation -- flaring his Aether without being able to feel it. It was like a pressure was building up in some imaginary organ, like he was trying to push something bigger than himself through his chest, like he was tightening a vice around his own head. A pain began to crawl through the back of his skull. His bones felt like the marrow was being drained away. It felt like¡­ it felt like¡­


    ¡­it felt like something gave.


    There was a series of loud pops, like a firecracker going off, and the Neverwire around Gregori¡¯s wrists scattered in a shower of sparks. Grunting, he stood up, massaging his wrists. Experimental sparks of white Aether crawled around his hands as he grinned easily down at them.


    "Great," breathed Gretchen. "Now --"


    Gregori folded his body into a butterfly and flew away. Thin as he was, it was easy for him to slide under the door. Then he was gone.


    A moment passed.


    "Motherfucker," said Morgan.


    03:38


    Jude Greer flicked dice of bone between his fingers, staring listlessly at the monitor before him. It was blank, save for a tiny green dot blinking in the corner¡­ their message awaiting a response. He was starting to get the feeling that they wouldn¡¯t be getting one. That thought only made his heart beat harder.


    It had been an hour since they¡¯d taken control of this cargo train and sent their offer to the Tree of Might -- these valuable hostages in exchange for clemency for any previous aggressions from the S4. An hour of this black screen and this blinking dot. An hour of nothing.


    Why? Had the fanatics of the Tree of Might decided to focus on vengeance, and not informed the new Supreme of the offer? Or was the Supreme himself unwilling to negotiate?


    If their offer was going to be ignored, that meant it was no longer safe for them to be on Azum-Ha. Hell, the S4 might have to uproot their Supremacy operations entirely if they were now an enemy of the government. He¡¯d need to get transportation off the planet arranged -- flee to the UAP and inform the board of directors.


    The energy in the conductor¡¯s carriage was atrocious at this point. The soldiers he¡¯d brought for this operation manned their stations, but all of them knew that the situation was bad. Even if nobody said it, everybody felt it -- and so the time had come to make the choice.


    Jude took a deep breath as he stood, turning his gaze to the man he¡¯d placed on driving duty. "Change of plans," he said seriously. "Stop the loop and take us to Newverse Starport. We --"


    Thump.


    His head snapped up, looking towards the ceiling. That sound had come from the roof. Slowly, he readied his spear.


    "What was that?" he asked.


    03:39


    By the time the screams started, there were already enough of them to form a crescendo.


    Morgan stared at the door, eyes wide, as he heard the sounds of dying men ooze through the metalwork. A scream. A slash. A shot. A thud. A whimper.


    A silence.


    "What the hell¡­?" he muttered.


    "Well, if he¡¯s killing them on his way out, that¡¯s just as good," Gretchen grumbled. "Still, it would have been easier if he just stuck to his own plan."


    Morgan slowly shook his head. For some reason, even though this woman beside him was someone he wanted dead more than anything else, he felt some instinctual urge to warn her. It would be unacceptable to keep this feeling in his gut to himself.


    Whatever was on the other side of this door¡­ was not human.


    "Wait!" shouted a deep voice from the next compartment, emboldened by panic. "Wait, wait! I have the keycode -- I¡¯ll give you the hostages, I¡¯ll forget all about this, just let me live!"


    For a moment, Morgan heard nothing, and he thought that whoever had spoken had surely been killed as well.


    But then¡­ a reply.


    "If I let you live," someone said. "You use that gun you have in your inner pocket to shoot me in the back as I cross the threshold."


    Wait¡­


    A clatter -- a gun dropping to the floor.


    "Please¡­"


    "If I let you live," someone said. "You kick the corpse of your comrade aside and run me through with that spear you¡¯ve hidden beneath him."


    I know this voice.


    Footsteps, someone walking -- walking towards the door, growing slightly louder. A thump as someone¡¯s back collided with it.


    "There, now -- now I can¡¯t --"


    "If I let you live," someone said. "You try and kill me. Always."


    Oh no.


    This time, there was no scream -- just the whistling of metal through the air, and the slightest gurgle as a throat was slit. Morgan heard the sound of a body sliding down the wall¡­ and then came the noise. The sound of metal being shredded.


    The door flew inwards as it was slashed into countless pieces, and Morgan readied himself for the silhouette behind. The man looked like he¡¯d come here straight from bed -- wearing white pyjamas and an undone green dressing gown -- but his stance was that of a warrior. Cold Cogitant-blue eyes surrounded by a mess of blonde hair and stubble. Green Aether crawled up his cheek. In his hand, he held a bloody dinner knife. Over his shoulder, Morgan could see the dismembered corpses of their captors. A dinner knife. He¡¯d done all this with a dinner knife.


    Gretchen¡¯s mouth spread into a wide and pure grin¡­ Morgan¡¯s heart dropped into despair¡­


    ¡­as they both beheld the figure of Baltay Kojirough.


    This is it. I¡¯m dead. I¡¯m dead for real this time.


    The last time Morgan had seen this man -- the former leader of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir -- he¡¯d been betrayed and stabbed in the back, spared a torturous death only by Ionir¡¯s intervention. But now Ionir was gone, Morgan was helpless¡­ and Baltay Kojirough no doubt desired revenge for his humiliation. He would die in this room.


    "Baltay!" Gretchen chirped excitedly, wriggling as she tried to climb to her feet -- before remembering that she couldn¡¯t. "What are you doing here?!"


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Baltay¡¯s gaze drifted over to her, but his face remained blank. "Gretchen," he said, his voice quiet and emotionless. "I need the new Leviathan you¡¯ve made."


    Her eyes widened. "How did you¡­"


    "Please," he said, even as his tone remained unchanged, stepping over to her. "There isn¡¯t any time."


    He reached out with his tiny knife and slashed through Gretchen¡¯s restraints effortlessly. Morgan couldn¡¯t help but imagine how easy that knife would go through his neck. Baltay had only been second to Nigen Rush in terms of swordsmanship, after all. In the hands of someone like that, any blade was a manslayer.


    As soon as Gretchen was free, she reached into her Ragnarok Forge, pulling forth a glowing green blade. It was just as Baltay had said -- it seemed the blacksmith had recreated his sword. It didn¡¯t quite resemble the original -- its blade seemed to be formed from some kind of thin emerald, rather than metal -- but Morgan had no doubt it would serve.


    "Thank you." Baltay accepted it, swinging it through the air once to test the balance before sliding it into a makeshift sheath at his hip. It fit perfectly.


    "What¡¯s going on, Baltay?" Gretchen insisted, looking up at the taller man. "I mean -- I¡¯m glad you¡¯re out and everything, but --"


    "It should be obvious," he interrupted, voice flat. "I came to save you."


    That seemed to shut her up. Gretchen¡¯s smile widened, a pink blush spreading across her cheeks. Baltay turned his head to face Morgan, those blue eyes staring down without blinking. A shudder went down Morgan¡¯s spine. It was like the Cogitant wasn¡¯t even looking at him -- like he was looking at something through Morgan.


    "As for you¡­" Baltay said.


    This is it. I¡¯m sorry, Atoy. I¡¯m sorry¡­ Ionir.


    The blade moved¡­ and the restraints fell from Morgan¡¯s wrists, cleanly cut.


    "What?" Morgan said.


    "What?!" Gretchen cried.


    Baltay glanced back at her. "Muzazi only appears if we have Morgan Nacht alive with us. ¡¯You save all of us or you save none of us¡¯. If Nacht is dead, things don¡¯t play out the way I want. Understand?"


    "No!"


    "That¡¯s fine," Baltay said casually. He turned to face Morgan again. "Come with us, Nacht. You won¡¯t come to any harm if you do."


    Morgan pushed himself back across the floor, as if trying to slide through the wall and out into the night. Once again, the situation had swerved out of his comprehension. Was this a trick? A trap? No, that didn¡¯t make sense. If Baltay wanted him dead, he had the perfect chance to kill him just now.


    Did he want him as bait for Muzazi? Is that what he meant by Muzazi appearing?


    It was strange. He looked behind Baltay¡¯s shoulder, to where Gretchen was glaring at him. To be honest, he¡¯d planned on attacking Gretchen the moment he was free -- he was just as bad as Gregori. But right now, he didn¡¯t dare. The pressure emanating from Baltay Kojirough would not permit that.


    If Baltay wanted Morgan dead, he would die. That was the sensation he now felt from his former superior officer.


    Baltay interrupted Morgan¡¯s downhill train of thought. "If we stay here, we¡¯ll all be killed when the man called Appointment attacks this train in fifty-one seconds. I need an answer in the next thirty -- or else I take Gretchen, leave, and pursue another route. Your answer, Nacht."


    Morgan blinked. There was a strange shivering inside his throat. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯t bring the words out.


    If his reticence irritated Kojirough any, though, he didn¡¯t show it. The man just squatted down, ignoring Gretchen¡¯s frantic requests to elaborate, bringing himself face to face with Morgan. Those empty blue eyes peered into the New Moon¡¯s soul.


    "I¡¯ll make it simple for you. Choose life, or choose death," he said simply. "Now."


    Morgant spent precious seconds looking back into the eyes of the man before him. No matter how deeply he looked, no matter how hard he searched for it¡­ he couldn¡¯t find any sign of the duplicity he was expecting. Right now, he had no doubt that Baltay Kojirough was telling the truth.


    And so¡­


    "Life," Morgan breathed.


    Baltay leaped into action immediately, standing up and slashing thrice at the wall with his new sword. The man-sized section he¡¯d cut fell outwards, plucked away by the winds and allowing the force of the thunderstorm outside to flow into the compartment. Morgan raised a hand to his face as the rain battered against him.


    "There¡¯s no time to go to the door," Baltay raised both of his arms as he explained -- as if that was a sufficient explanation. "We jump. Nacht -- five seconds in, use your Fog to swing off the building next to us and launch us over to a nearby plaza."


    Huh?


    For all her confusion, Gretchen clearly had no doubt in this man, and so she quickly scurried over and wrapped her arms around his. A second later, Morgan followed -- he had no choice -- grabbing hold of the other one. Baltay took a deep breath¡­


    ¡­and leapt out into the night beyond.


    Five.


    The three of them were tossed this way and that by the raging winds, water beating against their skin and lightning flashing against their eyes. Morgan reflexively went to scream, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the chaos broiling around him. This had been a mistake. This had been insanity. All they¡¯d achieved was a suicide pact.


    Four.


    What was he supposed to do?!


    Three.


    Swing off the building?! Morgan tried to look around him, but the downpour smashed against his eyes. He couldn¡¯t see. He couldn¡¯t see anything!


    Two.


    Was there even a building?!


    One.


    Oh, fuck it!


    Zero.


    F! A!


    A rope of black Fog lashed out into the chaos -- and a moment later, Morgan felt it make contact with something. As their fall stopped and they began to swing upwards, he found that he could see again. He looked up at the thin shape of the train now far above them¡­


    ¡­just in time to see it.


    Red stars twinkled in the sky.


    "Schedule Breaker."


    A second later, the train was obliterated. Dozens of crimson lights, as fast and thin as raindrops themselves, fell down and pierced through the vehicle -- and the explosion that followed a second later sent debris flying in every direction. Morgan watched in horror, his face illuminated for a moment by the glow of scattered flames.


    It was just as Baltay had said. If they¡¯d been on that train, they would have been killed. Instantly.


    He was so focused on the destruction above that he almost didn¡¯t notice Baltay shouting in his ear.


    "Both of you!" Kojirough roared over the wind. "Cloak your Aether at the crest of the jump -- or else we all die!"


    This time, Morgan didn¡¯t question the instructions. As they flew up into the air, swinging off some unseen ledge, Morgan smothered the energy inside him, cutting off his Aether abilities. No doubt Gretchen did the same, as did Baltay. For an instant, they flew unaided through the scorched sky¡­


    ¡­and in the next instant, an Aether ping as deep and dense as the ocean itself washed over them.


    Morgan gasped as he felt the blue aurora pass over his body -- and the moment it was done, he lashed out with his Fog again, grabbing onto the side of a plaza barely visible in the smog and pulling them towards it. Again, Baltay had been right.


    If that Aether had belonged to the man called Appointment, then he wasn¡¯t someone they could fight against. It wasn¡¯t even a matter of running away from him. The second that thing knew where they were, they would die.


    It was as simple as that.


    03:45


    The man called Appointment had a reputation.


    Most killers of his level made a name for themselves through massacre, frequent and bloody, a constant reminder of what they could do. In just a few years, the Sixth Dead had proven herself in just such a way. That wasn¡¯t the case with Appointment, though. He was considered a professional who showed up once in a blue moon, executed his targets, and vanished until the next contract.


    Only¡­ even that wasn¡¯t quite accurate. Appointment didn¡¯t appear ¡¯once in a blue moon¡¯. He appeared exactly once a year -- according to Azum-Ha Common Time, anyway.


    The name of his ability was the same as his alias: Appointment. It took a basic principle of Aether ability development -- restrictions boosting potency -- and exploited that to its utmost. The ability was a seal: removing his ability to use Aether, at all, for all but one day a year.


    And in exchange, for that one day a year? He was a man whose fangs could reach a Supreme.


    Thrusters blazed from the back of Appointment¡¯s Chassis as he floated over the inferno he¡¯d created, his X-shaped visor scanning through the falling wreckage of the train. Nine charred cadavers, but based on their builds and remaining facial features, none of them were Morgan Nacht or Gregori Hazzard. What¡¯s more, they all seemed to have already been killed by a blade -- not by his attack.


    Appointment¡¯s advanced Armoured Chassis, infused with his absurd Aether, filtered and decoded all of this in seconds. The equipment he used was the equivalent of a top-of-the-line UniteFleet model, designed to take down genetic abominations leftover from the reign of the Tyrants. It had taken several years of work -- very lucrative work -- just to commission it.


    But that was fine. To Appointment, this was all just a job, to be approached rationally and pragmatically. He had no problem investing in the future.


    He considered his next move. If he couldn¡¯t confirm Morgan Nacht and Gregori Hazzard¡¯s deaths, he couldn¡¯t very well claim the bounties posted by the Supreme. If he tried and either turned out to be alive, it would severely impact his professional reputation. That he could not allow.


    The results of the Aether ping¡­ that, too, had been suspicious. He knew for a fact that Morgan Nacht and Gregori Hazzard had been here. The transmissions he¡¯d intercepted from the train had made that very clear. Those two were warriors. Had they really gone down without even trying to use their Aether? Even if their bodies had been destroyed, Appointment would have expected traces of Aether to remain on the giblets.


    No. The fact that there had been no Aether at all suggested that it was actively being cloaked -- and dead men didn¡¯t cloak their Aether.


    Appointment flicked through half-a-dozen settings on his visor, switching to a fine tuned temperature sense designed to track body heat. He could see a dozen trails stretching out from the site of the explosion, like thick strokes of paint spread across the sky. Some of them were definitely false positives. Appointment narrowed the possibilities down and calculated a median direction to the remainder.


    That would be the path he¡¯d follow -- or, at least, it would be¡­ if someone wasn¡¯t now here to kill him.


    Schedule Breaker.


    Once again, the crimson raindrops fell. In these early hours of the night, they were small and thin enough for precise shooting -- and so, the flesh of the Malkuth Warrior behind him was cleanly pierced, nervous system scorched and severed to such a degree that its body looked like a piece of cheese.


    Appointment glanced over his shoulder.


    Funnily enough, the Warrior was still moving, even with all the damage it had taken. White feathered wings twitched from its shoulders as it raised a shaking blade-arm to feebly strike at him. Appointment did not allow it, reaching out with a hand and seizing the unit by the throat. The first squeeze stopped its struggling, while the second ended its life.


    A quick scan with the module in his Chassis¡¯ hand detected the alterations made to the Warrior¡¯s nervous system and logged them for future reference. Next time, he¡¯d end things with the first attack.


    He turned fully to face the rest of the forces arrayed against him. Three other members of the Hive of Malkuth, flying on similar feathered wings. The one at the back had a halo to complete the angel aesthetic -- or rather, a mechanical gear, slowly turning over its head.


    Appointment recognised that ability -- Power of One. It allowed the user to share their other abilities with allies within range. That explained why the Queen hadn¡¯t bothered to reclaim the flying ability from that first Warrior before he¡¯d finished it off. It hadn¡¯t been the actual user.


    As he faced off against the Hive of Malkuth, Appointment flexed his arms, readying the missiles stored inside his angular shoulderpads. At the first sign of a serious assault, he¡¯d bombard the forces before him. Against an enemy that could pull out any number of coordinated abilities, you couldn¡¯t be too careful.


    He jabbed a finger in their direction.


    "Explain," he said, voice lowered to thunder by his helmet. "Has the Hive finally decided to recruit me?"


    Of course not. My ability would be more of a burden than a boon to the AWL¡¯s failed experiment. They prefer to operate all year round.


    The Malkuth Warriors said nothing. They just stared at him silently with those eerie compound eyes. Then, as one, they faded and vanished from sight. Just to be safe, Appointment scanned his surroundings with all the sensors available to him -- along with another Aether ping -- but they were definitely gone. The Queen had probably granted a transportation ability to the bug with the halo once She saw this battle couldn¡¯t be won.


    Not to say that this had been a serious attempt. The Hive of Malkuth had just seen an opportunity and decided to try their luck -- those in their profession were always eager to cut down on rivals. They hadn¡¯t even lost anything in the process, either: Appointment had no doubt the Hive already had thralls on standby in the city below, waiting to be promoted into drones proper.


    If anything, he was the one who had lost out. While he¡¯d been dealing with those flies, the trail he¡¯d intended to follow had quite literally gone cold. For the time being, Morgan Nacht and Gregori Hazzard were out of his reach.


    He clicked his tongue.


    "Lucky bastards."


    03:47


    Gideon Grain -- called the Kennelmaster by some -- sniffed the air as he strode through the broken window of the hotel room, glass crunching under his boots. One of his massive hounds -- Guard -- strode alongside him, sniffing the air for threats. Its tail dragged along the ground behind it, motionless. Good. That was the way Gideon liked it.


    His eyes flicked around the wrecked sitting room, scratching idly at his dust-grey mutton chops. Wary of traps, Gideon tapped the tiny dog resting atop his hat. "Storage," he grunted, voice gravelly. "Bring out Search #1, #2 and #3."


    Storage yapped in response -- and a second later, there was a series of sickening crunches as it began to open its mouth wider and wider, far beyond what could be expected for an organism of its size. By the time it was done, Storage¡¯s jaws had stretched to the point that they were bigger than Gideon himself, and he was not a small man.


    Three dogs crawled out of Storage¡¯s cavernous throat, their bodies as long and thin as snakes. If not for their tiny limbs and twitching snouts, one might not even have realised they were dogs at all. They spread out through the hotel room, dutifully searching for traps and other threats to their master. For his part, Gideon just sat down on the bloodstained couch -- once it was confirmed clean of hazards -- and lit a cigar, putting it to his lips. Guard dutifully sat down by his side, as still as a statue.


    The Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir had certainly done a number on this place. He¡¯d picked up the report of the Heir doing battle with her own bodyguards on a nearby rooftop, and followed the trail of destruction back here. Hopefully it would have the material he needed to begin his hunt in earnest.


    Search #2 scurried past, brushing Gideon¡¯s boot, and he kicked it away in irritation. It showed no sign of anger at the attack -- in fact, it sped up its labours, crawling up the wall like a lizard and poking its head into the crawl space above. Gideon smiled. For master and servant, a relationship of terror really was ideal. He raised his hounds with that in mind.


    "Found¡­" gasped Search #1 from his side, a bark warped into a word by hours of training. "Found¡­"


    Gideon turned to look. Search #1 had returned from the hallway, carrying something in its mouth -- some kind of fabric. He tore it from the dog¡¯s jaws, turning the garment over in his hands. It was one of those new trendy dresses, the kind of thing you¡¯d find in a young girl¡¯s closet. His mouth twisted up into a lopsided grin. This belonged to the Heir, didn¡¯t it?


    Bingo.


    "Storage," Gideon barked. "Bring out Tracking."


    More cracks as Storage¡¯s jaws enlarged once more -- and a second later, Tracking emerged. Unlike the rest of the Kennelmaster¡¯s dogs, it looked relatively normal. White fur and staring red eyes, with the sort of lean proportions you¡¯d expect from a racing hound. As the Searches returned to their nest inside Storage¡¯s abyss, Tracking leaned over and sniffed the dress Gideon offered it. Slowly, the colour of its eyes deepened to a pitch black.


    Lock-on. Gideon let his grin spread to the other side of his mouth.


    The other hunters could follow whatever trails they could find to go after the smallfry, but Gideon did things differently. He was going for the big ones straight away -- the brat Aclima and the failure Muzazi. He was sure he could find something that belonged to the Full Moon here, too, after all. By the end of tonight, he was never going to have to worry about work again.


    "Just through here, sir, we weren¡¯t sure what to do, so --"


    The grin fell from Gideon¡¯s face as the door opposite him opened, revealing the hallway beyond. Standing there was a hotel employee, her eyebrows raised in surprise to suddenly find somewhere here -- and next to her stood a man in a city security uniform. It looked like the hotel had called the cops when they¡¯d seen what the Phases had done to their property.


    He sighed. At any rate, he didn¡¯t want any complications.


    "Storage," he said. "Bring out Corpse Disposal."


    03:47


    The man was dying. Beyond that, he didn¡¯t understand a thing.


    He¡¯d been sleeping -- rough, on the streets -- when something had dragged him off into this alleyway. Not someone, something. After all¡­ there was no way that the one now holding him up by the throat was human. It stared at him with merciless compound eyes, like those of an insect, their red glow shining on his twisting face.


    It wasn¡¯t supposed to be like this. He had a daughter. He had a granddaughter. He couldn¡¯t die without seeing them one last time -- without apologising. As his legs flailed against empty air, he tried to force out words.


    But it was no use. God did not intend to grant him any more words.


    As the creature tightened its grip on his throat, he felt a stabbing pain -- as though dozens of tiny needles were penetrating his neck. He gasped for air -- and as he did so, again and again and again, glowing red veins spread out beneath the surface of his skin. As they charted the course of his nervous system, rewriting on the way, their vicious light burnt away everything he had. Will and memory, sentiment and intention. ¡¯Daughter¡¯ and ¡¯Granddaughter¡¯ were washed away like piss in the rain.


    When they were finished, the light of the veins faded -- but the red glow lingered in his pupils. The creature released him, and the man dropped to the ground. He just stood there, a low moan oozing from his lips, staring into space. He no longer had the desire to run. He no longer had the desire to do anything at all.


    He might have stayed like that forever, a mere thrall, but She had need of him tonight. His body shuddered as his skin rippled, the tremors growing more and more intense -- until finally there was an explosion of blood, spraying through the alleyway as his skin flipped inside-out. The creature opposite him was painted red from head to toe, and yet it just stood there without flinching. It just watched.


    It just watched as compound eyes forced their way out through the man¡¯s sockets.


    It just watched as the man¡¯s skeleton stretched and reconfigured itself.


    It just watched as the man¡¯s arms sloughed away, replaced with limbs of liquid metal.


    By the time the process was complete, only thirty seconds later, the creature was looking at a being now identical to itself. A Drone of the Hive of Malkuth. They regarded each other emotionlessly -- awaiting the instructions of their invisible Queen.


    They came quickly. sea??h th§× N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    WELCOME TO THE HIVE OF MALKUTH. YOU ARE NOW DRONE 64. YOU AND DRONE 103 WILL JOIN SQUAD 3 AS THEY ASSAULT TERONIER HOSPITAL. YOU WILL ELIMINATE THE DESIGNATED TARGETS.


    "We obey," the two Drones buzzed in unison.


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Noble Rocinante"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Travel Link"


    The bloody alleyway was filled with the glow of crimson Aether as the bodies of the two Drones shifted once more into bulky centaurish forms¡­ and, without a moment¡¯s hesitation, they galloped into the night.


    03:50


    "It¡¯s been a while," said Atoy Muzazi.


    "Yeah," replied Ruth Blaine. "I guess it has."


    The two of them stared at each other over the length of the apartment. The two Nebula were running around getting their exfiltration arranged, so for the time being their guests had been left to this awkward reunion. How many times had they tried to kill each other now? Muzazi had lost count.


    Both of them were covered in bandages. Both of them were barely standing. Whatever Ruth Blaine had been trying to do, it had clearly ended as well as Muzazi¡¯s own endeavours.


    His eyes flicked down to the couch where his temporary ally was resting. "Are they okay?"


    Apparently, the Del Sed¡¯s hadn¡¯t woken up since taking an attack from Dragan Hadrien at the Arena of the Absolute. It was odd, though. From what Jamilu had said, the attack had only managed to break through the first layer of their epidermis before fading away. After his fight with Muzazi, that had been the extent of Hadrien¡¯s remaining strength. Was it shock then that kept the Del Sed twins asleep?


    "I dunno," Ruth muttered. "But I know they won¡¯t be okay so long as we¡¯re here. So I¡¯m getting them out."


    "You think you¡¯ll be targeted for this Banquet too?" Muzazi asked.


    Jamilu had explained the situation to him after he¡¯d finally managed to climb out of bed. To ring in the glorious new era of the Supremacy, the Supreme would bring forth the scum of the underworld and have them eliminate any lingering enemies for him. It sounded like a bad joke. Was this really how things were done?


    "We showed up at the Arena at the same time as these guys," Ruth shrugged. "So I guess it could look like we were part of the team saving you. You know¡­ that¡¯s¡­ I guess people are really pissed off about that."


    Muzazi squeezed his eyes shut. There was another blow to his heart, as if he hadn¡¯t had enough. They¡¯d been plastering his face all over the media since the match, exposing the fact that two of the UAP¡¯s Nebula had swooped in to save him from trouble. Evidence, they said, that he¡¯d been supported by the UAP all along, that he was a traitor who¡¯d sold out his principles to attain victory.


    They weren¡¯t even wrong.


    "I¡¯m in no fit state to fight," Muzazi said honestly. "Are you?"


    Ruth shook her head. "I¡¯m surprised I¡¯m still standing, honestly."


    "Then it seems we must rely on them," Muzazi said, turning his head as the two Nebula returned to the room.


    Rufus lingered by the door, arms crossed, while Jamilu approached. Muzazi had never known the warrior to be anything but calm, but right now his movements betrayed a certain anxiety. A sheen of sweat clung to his forehead.


    "Alright," Jamilu said quickly, his ghastly spear slung over his shoulder. "It¡¯s guaranteed that the people hunting us will be watching the starports, so I¡¯ve made contact with an Ultraviolet team on the planet who should be able to get us out. They¡¯re preparing a starship on top of the Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre -- should be ready for flight in around an hour. From there, we¡¯ll have to take one of the smuggling routes to get across the border."


    "I see," Muzazi nodded. "That¡­ that sounds like a good plan."


    "You can¡¯t fight right now, so use this if it comes down to it," Jamilu continued, handing him a plasma pistol. He looked over at Ruth. "I¡¯m sorry, but we¡¯re limited in supplies. Defend yourself with your armour if it comes down to it, alright?"


    "Alright," Ruth grunted.


    She squatted down and picked the Del Sed body up in a piggyback, even as she winced from the pain. Muzazi supposed they couldn¡¯t waste either of their viable fighters moving them around. He was just about to offer to help when a thought occurred.


    He turned back to Jamilu. "You said one hour?"


    Jamilu -- who had just been about to head back for the door -- turned back and nodded, hand on his hip. "Yes, that¡¯s right. They¡¯re moving as fast as they can."


    "Will that be enough time to find Morgan and the others?"


    Jamilu looked away.


    I knew it.


    "I¡¯m not leaving without my comrades," Muzazi said seriously.


    "I understand," Jamilu said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Believe me, I do, but we need to get off this planet as soon as possible. It¡¯s just not realistic. Your team is competent. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be able to lay low and --"


    "You¡¯re concerned because these people coming after us are a serious threat to you," Muzazi pressed on. "If they¡¯re a threat to Nebula, they¡¯re a threat to my friends. I¡¯m not leaving unless I have them with me."


    Jamilu breathed in deep through his nose. "I¡¯m sorry, but every second we spend on this planet is a risk. I am not extending that risk any further than --"


    Muzazi put the pistol to his own head.


    "I¡¯ll make it simple for you," he said. "You save all of us or you save none of us."


    Do it! Victory jeered. Nobody loves you!


    Jamilu exchanged a glance with Rufus, and a glance with Ruth. After a moment, it seemed they realised none of them would be able to grab the gun in time. "Muzazi¡­ come on," Jamilu said quietly. "Think about this. You wouldn¡¯t --"


    "I wouldn¡¯t?" Muzazi laughed. He¡¯d forgotten what that felt like. "What a strange thing to say, Nebula Two. You saw what happened at the Arena of the Absolute. You know my history. What I¡¯ve lost, what I¡¯ve bled. I¡¯m sure you know all of that, and yet you say I wouldn¡¯t? If you don¡¯t understand, then let me just ask the question another way."


    He glared into the eyes of the Nebula, and his gaze was steel.


    "What exactly do you think I still possess that would stop me pulling this trigger?"


    The spear slipped from Jamilu¡¯s grip and clattered to the floor.


    "Damn you," the warrior whispered.

 Chapter 429:14.3: Soup

    04:29


    It had been twenty minutes since the lives of everyone in the Silvereye Azum-Ha offices had ended.


    They¡¯d all technically still been alive at that point, of course, but the principle of the thing remained the same. Their fate had been sealed. Why did it matter if their hearts still beat blood, or their lungs still pumped air, if nothing but oblivion awaited them anyway?


    Now that she thought about it, the Sixth Dead supposed that most people were actually dead. Zombies that walked to their predestined ends without deviation or resistance. In a way, since she¡¯d provided them with new conclusions entirely, the Sixth supposed that she¡¯d actually brought those people back to life -- if only for a little while.


    Even a temporary resurrection was still a miracle, though. People had been declared saints for less. Perhaps she had a future in the Final Church?


    "Just kidding!" the Sixth Dead cackled as she looked over her shoulder, sticking out her tongue. "Can you imagine me as a nun?"


    The offices were bathed in blood and gore, mangled corpses robbed of their arms and pressed into paste by the massive spectral hands that protruded from the walls and floor. The Sixth leapt over a bisected corpse with the grace of a gymnast, bringing herself face to face with her conversational partner. It was always good to look people in the eye when you talked to them. She¡¯d never been ashamed of it. Even if the eyes were no longer connected to the head, she always made that little extra effort!


    That wasn¡¯t the case here, though. This man was still alive -- at least in the biological sense.


    "So, Mister Randall," she said in a sing-song voice. "Have you thought any more about my proposal?"


    "Go to hell."


    The Silvereye branch manager had certainly seen better days. His face and hair were caked red with the remains of his friends and colleagues. He was being held against the broken shell of his desk by half-a-dozen unkind hands. Both his legs, obvious obstacles to negotiation, had been twisted around until his feet were facing the wrong direction.


    And yet there was still a wonderful gleam of defiance in his eyes. The Sixth Dead loved that in people. She admired it. The bravery to declare oneself separate from the wishes of those around them, and to maintain one¡¯s ego without contamination. That was how a true human ought to live their life¡­


    ¡­but, right now, it wasn¡¯t especially convenient for the Sixth Dead¡¯s mission, so some convincing was in order.


    "Oh, come on," she pouted, dragging a finger up his bruised-blue chest. "I know you want to, Mister. Having your legs twisted like that must suck. Losing your employees like that must be annoying, too. At this point, you¡¯re basically doing all this to yourself, though, you know? Just give me the Emerald Eyes, okay?"


    "A freak¡­ like you?" Randall grunted, struggling against his restraints. "No way!"


    She smiled sweetly. "Actually, I¡¯m normal. I can be trusted with them."


    If this were any less important, she¡¯d have torn this guy apart by now and been on her merry way -- but she needed the Emerald Eyes. The Hive of Malkuth was on the planet, and she had no doubt that it had managed to hack into the official surveillance channels. If she tried to use those same channels, she ran the risk of exposing her own location. The Hive wouldn¡¯t hesitate to take advantage of that, and it would cost the Sixth Dead valuable time.


    To locate Muzazi, all she had to do was access the tracking information the Emerald Eyes had recorded. They¡¯d been keeping watch over the various contestants for the entire Dawn Contest, after all. They¡¯d be able to acquire Muzazi¡¯s location and lead her there in a snap.


    So, so, so. She had to be patient with this guy, this cretin, this jerk. She couldn¡¯t kill him until after she had what she needed.


    "Listen," she said softly, leaning into his ear. "Want to hear about my ability?"


    "Go fuck yourself," Randall growled.


    "No, I¡¯m gonna tell you about my ability, silly," she giggled, flicking at his earlobe with a finger. "Have you noticed all these hands waving around? Well, of course you have. I call them my Redundancies. It¡¯s kind of a mean name, but I can be a mean girl sometimes, you know?"


    He just glared at her. For a second, the Sixth Dead mimicked his stern expression with exaggerated effort, before letting a sunny grin blow it all away.


    "Anyway, the point is -- anytime I kill someone, their arms automatically get recorded into my Aether¡­" she said, reaching out -- and clasping Randall¡¯s hand in her own. "And I can summon them anywhere I want."


    "I don¡¯t care," Randall said -- and spat in her face. "If you¡¯re going to kill me¡­ just kill me."


    The Sixth Dead sighed, wiping the spittle from her face with a hand before licking it clean. "I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re getting it, though. I mean, knowing something and understanding it really are two different things, you know? That¡¯s the core of all learning. Stuff like that is why we have an education crisis right now. So, what I mean is¡­ I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll understand what I mean by ¡¯anywhere I want¡¯..."


    She grinned viciously.


    "...until I show you."


    Purple Aether crackled, passing from the Sixth¡¯s hand into Randall¡¯s -- and the skin of his arm began to ripple. His eyes flicked over, wide and manic. His face, which had thought itself accustomed to pain, began to stretch into a new and exciting expression.


    "See?" she said, poking his nose. "You didn¡¯t get it, did you? I can bring those hands out of anything I¡¯ve infused -- so, if I infuse your arm¡­"


    She narrowed her eyes.


    "...there¡¯s nothing stopping me from bringing out a buddy from inside it."


    Pop.


    Randall¡¯s arm burst -- shredded skin and muscle splattering over both the Sixth Dead¡¯s eager face and Randall¡¯s twisted one. The scream he let out brought all his previous efforts to shame. A spectral Redundancy waved mockingly from Randall¡¯s ragged stump -- as though his real arm had just been a glove, now cast aside.


    As his scream died in his throat, smothered by exhaustion, Randall panted for breath.


    "Sick¡­" he wheezed. "Sick¡­ You¡¯re sick¡­"


    "If you still don¡¯t get it," the Sixth Dead chirped, reaching for his other hand. "I can go for an encore and --"


    "No," Randall hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, damn you. I¡¯ll give you access. I¡¯ll give you access¡­"


    The Sixth Dead smiled widely, extending a script with both hands. "Thanking you!"


    Randall looked with wavering eyes at the screen before him -- and for a moment, it looked like he might actually keep resisting. Only for a moment, though. The pain wouldn¡¯t allow anything but that.


    "Authorization¡­ Randall," he gasped, shame in his voice. "Grant admin access to¡­ to the Sixth Dead. Recognise next login attempt as¡­ the Sixth Dead."


    A red light turned green, and Randall slumped down in his bed of gore. The Sixth Dead stood up, brushing her hands together -- smothering them even further in red -- and turned away.


    "Thanks a bunch, Mister," she said, waving a hand in farewell as she strolled away. "I hope they give you a good pension!"


    Barely conscious, Randall glared at her as she went.


    "The last one¡­ wasn¡¯t this crazy¡­"


    The Sixth Dead stopped.


    The Sixth Dead turned.


    The Sixth Dead spoke.


    "Sorry?" she asked, her eyes wide and uncompromising. "What did you say? What did you say? What did you say? What did you say? What did you say? Sorry, what did you say?"


    Randall didn¡¯t say anything, but it was too late for silence. The Sixth Dead advanced on him with all the merciless inevitability of a machine. This was no longer an amusement to her.


    There were some things that couldn¡¯t be forgiven in this world -- and to deny the individuality of another individual was the most vile of them. A person shouldn¡¯t be connected to anything else. Bonds of blood existed to be broken like any other chain.


    When a child is born, by all rights the parent should disappear. To imply that the raw materials of the person before you had once been part of someone else was to deny that the person in front of you even existed. That was tantamount to attempted murder. When faced with such malice, who could fault a person for their acts of self-preservation, however unsightly?


    Yes, she couldn¡¯t forgive it. She couldn¡¯t forgive the idea that she had come from something else. That was why she¡¯d taken such pains¡­ that was why she¡¯d scourged the UAP, butchering every one of them she could get her hands on -- every person that bastard Fifth had been close with, or whatever had counted as ¡¯close¡¯ for him.


    ¡¯The last one wasn¡¯t this crazy¡¯. Was Randall speaking of reputation, or had he actually met the last one? She couldn¡¯t take the chance. No, she couldn¡¯t take the chance. Nobody could fault her. A child needed their parents to disappear¡­


    ¡­until then, they couldn¡¯t truly be born into this world.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    04:34


    Aclima ran for her life.


    Since the moment she woke up in that pitch-black room, she¡¯d been running. She didn¡¯t know precisely what from¡­ but she understood, instinctively, that it was a matter of life and death. The words she¡¯d heard on the videograph -- perhaps it was those she was running from.


    It was me. I killed the Supreme. Me. With my own hands. Kadmon.


    Muzazi¡¯s confession whirled through her head like a merry-go-round, inviting nausea into her stomach. That had to be a lie, right? That had to be a lie. No. It was true. She¡¯d been betrayed from the first. Any control she thought she¡¯d managed to wrestle away had been an illusion.


    She was all alone now. She¡¯d always be all alone now. He¡¯d stolen it from her and he¡¯d lost it.


    He¡¯d -- he¡¯d -- he¡¯d --


    Aclima skidded to a halt and seized hold of the railing behind her, throwing up into the urban canopy below. For a moment, she remained there, heaving and coughing -- the taste of acid in her mouth. Bitter tears betrayed her eyes. She managed only a strangled half-sob before she threw up again.


    She had to get out of here, wherever here was. She understood that instinctively as well. That subordinate of Hadrien¡¯s had brought her to an abandoned and dilapidated part of the city. The apartment building she¡¯d woken up in was so rusted and worn-down that it looked like some fossil from the deep sea.


    Since she¡¯d managed to free herself, she hadn¡¯t seen a single other person. This was one of the few parts of the city-planet Azum-Ha where silence still reigned. Silence, save for her footsteps. Silence, save for her panting. Silence, save for her crying.


    She was so loud right now. No, no, no. She couldn¡¯t afford that. She needed to be out of sight. She was no longer the Heir, but she understood it. The position she occupied was now that of a threat. They¡¯d already be moving to eliminate her. She couldn¡¯t be here, out in the open. She couldn¡¯t exist here.


    A disguise.


    As she began to move down the stairwell, she snatched a red coat from the piles of clothing on the floor -- no doubt left by vagrants or urban explorers -- and pulled it on. It was filthy, stinking of things she didn¡¯t even want to imagine, but the hood would serve to hide her face. She had to take what she could get now.


    It wasn¡¯t like she had anything else.


    Y, how high up was she, though? She went down the steps two at a time, circling round and round, nearly tripping each time she went. She couldn¡¯t stop, or even slow down. A frenzy had hold of her now, and she had to keep moving, she had to keep running, or else --


    She caught a glimpse of it.


    Aclima slowed, and Aclima stopped. Her eyes widened in their sockets. She pulled her new coat tight around her body. It accomplished nothing, but it was the closest thing to armour she had now.


    Slowly, almost unwillingly, her legs took her to the edge of the stairwell. From here, she could see the dilapidated district beyond. From here, she could see skeletal skyscrapers and crumbling roadways. From here, she could see it.


    A hound the size of a house sat atop the ruined building opposite, staring at her with glowing red eyes. It did not move. It did not blink. It did not even seem to breathe.


    Oh, Aclima thought vaguely. This is what I¡¯m running from.


    Seizing hold of her senses, she went to whirl around, to continue her retreat, to get away -- until the silhouette howled.


    That sound


    That sound


    T h a t s o u n d


    IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS


    By the time Aclima realized she was screaming, she was on her knees, hands clamped over her ears. No matter how tightly she pressed against them, though, she could still feel warm blood trickling between her fingers. The pain was beyond excruciating. It was as if someone had jabbed a fork into her brain and was wiggling it around.


    That sound, that sound, that sound. It was that sound that was doing it, that she knew. It had to be an Aether ability of some kind, a sonic attack, but even if she knew that, it wasn¡¯t as if she could do anything about it. To use Curse Hand, she had to make physical contact with the target¡¯s Aether. Even Curse Cloud had a relatively short range.


    The howl was killing her, and any Aether creating it existed only in the throat of that monster. She couldn¡¯t get close to it. She could barely even move from this spot. It was all she could do to take a step backwards¡­ no.


    That was beyond her too.


    Aclima¡¯s foot slipped on a wet patch, and in an instant the world became a blur of disastrous movement. She fell backwards, down the stairs, corners of steps thudding into her stomach and back like vicious fists. Her hands flew away from her ears, and as she landed she could do nothing but writhe -- writhe, and scream, as the howl boiled at her thoughts.


    I¡¯m dying.


    I¡¯m gonna die.


    This how I die.


    The threefold thought passed through her mind unopposed, their certainty undeniable¡­


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it¡¯s taken without the author¡¯s consent. Report it.


    ¡­until the hellish howling suddenly stopped.


    Aclima didn¡¯t question why. In an instant, she was back on her feet, adrenaline pushing her battered body onwards as she rushed through the lobby. Ragged, blood-flavoured breaths ached their way up and down her chest. The blood had started to dry around her ears, and her hearing was muffled, like she was underwater.


    But none of that mattered. None of that mattered, because she was going to live, she could live. She could see the doors -- the exit to this place -- growing larger and larger in her vision. They were made of glass that had long since broken. She could jump right through. They were a portal to continued existence, moonlight leaking through to chart a path for her.


    She reached out to that moonlight¡­


    ¡­only for it to suddenly be cut off.


    A heavy object landed outside the doors with a thump, blocking her path. As Aclima skidded to a halt, her shoes squealed against the floor, the high-pitched noise echoing throughout the cavernous space. For a second, she didn¡¯t know what to do. For a second, she didn¡¯t know what she was even looking at.


    Aclima blinked.


    There, bleeding before her, was the severed head of the massive dog that had nearly killed her with its cry. A tongue the size of her entire body was hanging grotesquely from its misaligned jaws, and the crimson of its saucer-like eyes had faded to a milky white. Blood poured freely from its neck -- whatever had killed it, it had been a clean cut.


    No. Whoever had killed it.


    Aclima looked up. There was someone standing on top of the dog¡¯s head, after all. They hopped down as she caught sight of them, walking forward casually, one hand in their pocket¡­ and the other a glinting blade.


    She took a step backwards.


    "Don¡¯t worry, Aclima," Gregori Hazzard said, blood dripping from his sharpened arm. "I¡¯m here to save you."


    He smiled, but it didn¡¯t reach his scarlet eyes.


    04:37


    "This is an awful idea," Jamilu muttered as they weaved through traffic. "You understand that, don¡¯t you, Muzazi?"


    Muzazi said nothing.


    He just stared ahead, at the skyway their car was making its way through. The lights of neighbouring cars had been blurred to vague impressions by the thunderstorm that raged around them. The rain that battered against the windscreen was evaporated away by the heated glass, creating a trail of steam that lingered behind the vehicle.


    Needless to say, Jamilu was exchanging safety for speed as he followed the direction of his spear -- law enforcement would no doubt be in pursuit before long, but that didn¡¯t matter. Every second they delayed was another second Muzazi¡¯s comrades could be dying. That, he knew, he would not be able to take.


    This was an act of self-preservation as much as anything else.


    Jamilu¡¯s hands tightened on the wheel as he looked back at the skyway. The spear Victory was floating in the air next to his head -- he was using one of its abilities, Compass, to track Morgan¡¯s location. That only meant they had the direction he was in, though, not how far away he was. There was no telling how long their pursuit would take.


    "The Ultraviolets are still making preparations," Jamilu muttered -- more to himself than anything else. "Even if we lose some time here, we should be able to make it back to the Shopping Centre before anyone catches on."


    "I don¡¯t know what these Ultraviolets are all about," Ruth Blaine interrupted, an unconscious del Sed between her and Muzazi in the back seat. "But can¡¯t you just tell them to wait?"


    "This is time sensitive," Jamilu replied. "By now, the hunters have probably acquired some means of tracking us. If they know we¡¯re getting transport prepped, there¡¯s nothing stopping them getting ahead of us and just --"


    Thump.


    He blinked, looking up at the car roof. Then, he looked back at his passengers.


    "Dodge," he said simply.


    There was a flash of red -- and in the next instant, the car they were sitting on had been sliced in half clean down the middle.


    Ruth had pulled del Sed into her side of the car, so they¡¯d managed to avoid injury, but the two halves of the car were quickly dropping out of the sky. Muzazi knew it would only be seconds before explosions claimed what was left of the vehicle. With what little strength he could muster, he tried to manifest thrusters to take flight, but they quickly spluttered out and died.


    He was spent.


    "Hold on," grunted Rufus, vaulting over from the remains of the passenger seat and grabbing Muzazi by the back of the collar. He flipped his shield as he leapt over the void, turning it into a platform for the two of them to stand on -- and a second later, a jet of vivid flame poured from its underside, keeping it aloft.


    It seemed that Ruth Blaine was in somewhat better shape than Muzazi -- she¡¯d manifested her armour, each piece connected to the next, forming a metallic rope that had attached to a floating billboard above. Her face pale and covered in sweat, she bean to pull herself and del Sed up towards it.


    As for Nebula Two?


    He was floating with the aid of his dread spear, traffic swerving to avoid him as he faced off against the horde that had come to take their lives. For a second, Muzazi thought they were surrounded by giant flies, but no -- it was worse than that. Circling them were dozens of grotesque mechanoids, their bodies abominations of bleeding flesh and ink-black cybernetics.


    Muzazi had never seen these things before, but he knew them by reputation. The Hive of Malkuth.


    One of the enemies had stopped, floating a short distance in front of Jamilu, its glowing compound eyes fixed directly on the Nebula. A slot where a mouth should have been slid open, and an artificial voice poured forth. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Surrender them."


    By way of reply, Jamilu extended his spear.


    That was the end of the conversation. As one, the drones of the Hive of Malkuth swooped in to tear their enemies apart¡­ and as one, the two Nebula of the Unified Alliance of Planets went to meet them.


    04:37


    Last checks. How many times had Moore done his last checks on this ship now? He swallowed back the dread that thought tried to conjure.


    "Any problems?" he called over his shoulder.


    "Yeah," Roman¡¯s voice drifted in from outside. "We¡¯re missing some real unpunctual pieces of shit."


    Moore wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. As per usual, Roman put voice to what both of them were thinking. After a year of laying low on Azum-Ha, their two-man Ultraviolet team had been suddenly mobilised by Nebula command and ordered to prepare an escape for the most wanted man on the planet.


    Was it too much to ask, then, for those Nebulas to show up on time?


    Moore prised himself free from the pilot¡¯s seat, making his way towards the exit of the ship. This was a small merchant vessel, easy to blend in with the rest that would be leaving Azum-Ha following the conclusion of the Dawn Contest. It even had an identification scrambler -- making it easy for the ship to change its registration markers on every step of the journey. All useless if it never actually took off, of course.


    "You got the masking set up, Roman?" Moore said, stepping out of the ship and into the rooftop¡¯s rainfall.


    They didn¡¯t have large-scale cloaking on hand, but a masking perimeter would serve to hide this ship from any surveillance systems. That was the best they could hope for right now. At the very least, if the Nebula weren¡¯t here yet, there wasn¡¯t anything to draw enemy attention.


    Only¡­


    "Roman?" Moore called out.


    No response. Through the curtains of falling water, Moore saw a dark lump on the other side of the rooftop. A corpse.


    Discipline moved Moore¡¯s hands. He whipped out his plasma pistol in an instant, pointing it in the direction of the body. He narrowed his eyes as he slowly advanced, sweeping the rooftop with his weapon as he walked. A flick of his wrist activated the band there -- and the one on the corpse buzzed in response.


    Roman.


    A shudder went down Moore¡¯s spine. Was he dead? Could he still be saved?


    "Um¡­"


    Moore whirled around the second he heard the voice -- but too late. The blur moved past him faster than he could shoot, the sheer speed whipping against his body and knocking him down to the ground. Aether-infused, without a doubt. Moore shifted the movement into a roll and went to point his gun at the interloper once more -- except his gun was no longer in his hand¡­


    ¡­and his hand was no longer on his arm.


    Moore screamed.


    As he rolled on the ground, clutching his bleeding stump, the figure before him straightened up -- face pointing towards the sky. It was a gaunt, bald man with a body covered in scars, Moore¡¯s severed hand clutched tight in his jaw. He spoke with the hand still in his mouth, words slurred by the fresh blood pouring from his lips.


    "I-I don¡¯t wanna be mean¡­" he mumbled, eyes rolling up in ecstasy. "But I-I¡¯m, um, I¡¯m surprised¡­ I guess¡­ I didn¡¯t r-really think you guys would still use this building, you know¡­ but it was never exposed, so I guess there¡¯s no reason¡­ ah, uh¡­ not to¡­"


    He threw the hand up into the air like a seal with a fish, catching it in his mouth again on the way down. Slowly, he began to chew, the sound of cracking bones filling the air. He looked back down at Moore, his mismatched eyes unblinking, like some lost spark of human wisdom was trying to push its way to the forefront.


    "I-If I were still around¡­ I¡¯d have said you ought to have been fired¡­ but I guess¡­ a fella¡¯s gotta eat¡­ fella¡¯s gotta eat¡­"


    Mid-Tier Bounty Hunter


    Anduan the Cannibal


    But then, the spark was gone -- and he greedily swallowed his meal.


    04:38


    In the instant before Jamilu charged at their attackers, there was a blast of pink light -- not his Aether alone -- and a crimson halo appeared over his head. His Principality. These things weren¡¯t the only ones that could share information.


    Jamilu snapped his eyes shut -- and the accumulated knowledge of the Inganci people flowed into his head.


    The Hive of Malkuth.


    Originally, they had been known as the One Legion, an experimental squadron of soldiers operated by the Absurd Weapons Lab. By networking the minds of the soldiers together with state-of-the-art neuro-implants, the AWL had hoped to increase the efficacy of their fighting force tenfold¡­ and, for a time, they had been successful. By fighting as one, the One Legion had been able to perfectly coordinate their movements through the battlefield¡­ by thinking as one, the One Legion had been able to withstand anything the enemy could throw at them.


    However, history had not been on their side.


    All of this had taken place during the last hot war with the UAP, with borders moving back and forth like a panicked heartbeat. When the Supremacy was forced to retreat from a key battle, the planet the One Legion was being developed on -- Malkuth -- was suddenly far behind enemy lines. A full UniteFleet force, three top-rank starships and ten thousand soldiers, laid siege against a facility holding the one-hundred-and-eight soldiers of the One Legion.


    It didn¡¯t end how one might think.


    The One Legion, as a gestalt consciousness, was nothing if not creative¡­ and they were surrounded by the abandoned equipment of the Absurd Weapons Lab. So -- as days became weeks, and weeks became months -- they worked. They turned that genius inwards, cannibalizing themselves to become something new, something capable of succeeding where humans had no choice but to fail. They even seized hold of a light of the mind, using Aether to enhance themselves further.


    By the time the UAP cracked the egg of the facility open, they had already lost the battle. One-hundred-and-eight monsters tore their way through ten thousand mere humans, and the swarm left their nest to terrorize the galaxy entirely.


    Jamilu opened his eyes -- and leaned back to avoid a slash that would have taken his head off.


    The drone before him had changed. Its arms had stretched out and flattened into structures like mantis blades. A collar of thorn-covered vines had wrapped itself around the beings neck. A long horn, like that of a unicorn, protruded from between its eyes -- a kaleidoscopic light shining from the tip. Three abilities made it a Malkuth Warrior, a formidable fighter for any normal combatant.


    This was how the Hive of Malkuth worked. Each time an Aether-user was assimilated into the collective, their abilities were stolen too, and the Hive Queen distributed them freely among the soldiers. It was what made fighting them so tricky -- their capabilities changed from moment to moment, and losing a fighter to them meant giving them even more options.


    Of course, there was a way to deal with any enemy, regardless of what abilities they possessed. You just killed them before they could use them.


    He¡¯d bitten his tongue a little when the car was sliced in half. That, at least, was good news.


    Jamilu spat blood onto his spear.


    Calamity.


    Victory¡¯s third ability activated -- and the blood burst afire, engulfing the spearhead in a demonic neon-pink flame, its unnatural hue a stark contrast to the fire Rufus could produce. Jamilu thrust it forward, lightning-fast -- and the heat produced was such that a hole was melted through the Warrior¡¯s head before the blade even made contact. The body shuddered, life lingering in it just for a moment¡­ and in that same moment, all three abilities vanished in a storm of blood-red Aether.


    When one of the one-hundred-and-eight members of the Hive of Malkuth died, any abilities they currently possessed were lost with them. That was something the distributed Queen was quite careful about -- and so she¡¯d used the last moment of the drone¡¯s life to snatch away all of the abilities she¡¯d given him. She was nothing if not a frugal abomination.


    Those abilities were still in play, then.


    Conquest.


    Jamilu swooped down, narrowly avoiding a rainbow blast aimed for his head. Even with him dodging, though, the projectile passed through the area of effect of Victory¡¯s second ability -- and so information about the attack flowed into Jamilu¡¯s mind.


    Duke of Candyland -- it was the ability he¡¯d observed on the first Warrior, the unicorn horn. It fired blasts of energy that triggered a gradual transmutation in whatever it hit, slowly converting it into candy so long as the user invested Aether. Against an Aether-user with sturdy defenses, a single shot wouldn¡¯t trigger transmutation, but the concussive force was still such that it was better avoided.


    Information warfare was one of the central pillars of Aether combat, as far as Jamilu was concerned. Even if he could only access mere shadows of Victory¡¯s true abilities, he was still grateful for the information gathering.


    As Jamilu went to zoom towards the drone that had fired the blast, two more Warriors swooped in. One¡¯s jaw had stretched out to crocodilian proportions, while the other donned a blank white mask. Jamilu prepared to activate Conquest again. It was then that he heard it.


    Crack.


    His eyes widened. Shit. That blast hadn¡¯t been aiming for him at all, had it?


    With a flare of pink Aether, Jamilu kicked off the chest of the crocodile-drone, launching himself back towards where the blast had hit. The billboard Blaine and the del Sed¡¯s were clinging to was rapidly turning into peppermint -- far more rapidly than Conquest had indicated. Had the Queen boosted that shot with another ability during its flight-path?


    Shit.


    Crack.


    Even with her injuries, Ruth Blaine could have hung on to that billboard for a good long while. Instead, it was the structure itself that failed, damn near breaking in two as the gap between candy and metal became pronounced. The damaged section swung in the wind, still barely attached -- but the sudden jolt was enough to cause Blaine to lose grip on the del Sed body.


    They fell.


    As Blaine¡¯s scream of horror rang out through the night, Jamilu moved to catch them -- but as he did, the massive club-arm of yet another Warrior slammed into him, sending him flying off course. He quickly righted himself, but the barrier of drones between himself and the falling body made it obvious he wouldn¡¯t make it. Rufus was fist-fighting two more Warriors on his shield like a boxer in the ring -- he couldn¡¯t break away either. Neither Blaine nor Muzazi were in any physical shape to pursue.


    Shit, shit, shit.


    Jamilu sucked in a deep breath as he watched the twins fall -- towards the waiting plaza down below. The first deaths of the evening. He¡¯d anticipated that they¡¯d take losses on this foolhardy mission¡­ but it didn¡¯t bring him any pleasure to see it.


    With rain battering against their body, and lightning illuminating their descent, Bruno and Serena del Sed fell¡­ and fell¡­ and stopped.


    Jamilu blinked.


    Slowly, the falling body had slowed to a halt in mid-air, like gravity had suddenly lost sight of them. They turned in the air for a moment, and then -- as if they¡¯d been grasped by an invisible hand -- they were pulled towards the rooftop of a nearby building.


    Ego Emulation: Samael Ambrazo Zakos.


    A miracle had occurred.


    A girl with long blonde hair, clad in a hospital gown and slippers. Jamilu would have thought he was hallucinating if the night wasn¡¯t already this insane. She sneered at the unconscious del Sed body as she lifted it up with one hand.


    "Hard to believe a top-tier Special Officer is having to save trash like you," she said, her voice full of affected gravel. "Ah, this is the worst of the worst of the worst¡­"


    04:38


    "There¡¯s no need to be so tense," Gregori Hazzard said.


    Aclima scrambled to her feet and turned to run. To be fair, she was a good runner, and if she were in her best condition she stood a fair chance of escaping her former bodyguard. Needless to say, though, tonight was not her best condition.


    She took one step, and then the pain and the exhaustion and the rain won, and she slipped. Her face cracked against the hard floor as she fell. Quickly, she pushed herself back around, so as to not expose her back to the traitorous First Quarter Moon.


    "You don¡¯t need to run," Gregori said casually, plunging his other hand into his pocket as he strolled through the shattered doors of the apartment building. "Didn¡¯t you hear? I¡¯m here to save you."


    "Like hell!" Aclima snarled, clutching her injured nose, tears of pain brewing in her eyes. "Do you think I forgot what just happened?!"


    "That was then," Gregori said. "This is now. It was the situation we were in, you know? It¡¯s not like I had anything against you personally. Now the situation has changed -- it benefits both of us to work together."


    Aclima narrowed her eyes, slowly rising to her feet. "How do you mean?"


    Gregori smiled thinly. "The Banquet has begun. That bastard Hadrien has sent hunters against any of the remnants of his competitors. That includes me¡­ and that includes you. So he wants us both dead. Understand?"


    "S-So what?"


    "You don¡¯t get it?" he sneered. "Think about it for a second. Why does he want us dead? Because now that he¡¯s Supreme, we¡¯ve become political obstacles. Pieces that can be moved against him. So¡­ I say, let¡¯s move. We escape Azum-Ha, you and me, and we prepare your counterattack. There¡¯s another way for you to become Supreme, isn¡¯t there?"


    Aclima looked up at him, her eyes widening. "...by killing the current one?"


    "Wow, and here I thought you never went to school. Exactly."


    "No," she replied quickly. "No, I don¡¯t trust you. I don¡¯t trust you at all, Hazzard. What do you get out of that?"


    Gregori took half a step forward -- and for a second, Aclima thought he was finally about to launch his attack. Then he stopped. Slowly, Gregori closed his eyes¡­ and when he spoke, it was with a sense that these were words he truly hadn¡¯t wanted to surrender.


    "I have a dream," he said quietly. "A dream I¡¯m alive for. A dream I¡¯m willing to die for. It¡¯s a dream that needs resources¡­ a stupid amount of resources¡­ and the only way I¡¯m getting those resources is by being in the good graces of a Supreme." He opened his crimson eyes. "Hadrien¡¯s a wash, so now I¡¯m betting on you. That¡¯s all there is to it."


    Aclima said nothing, her gaze flicking towards the floor, and Gregori pressed on.


    "Besides," he said. "I¡¯m not asking you to trust me. I don¡¯t trust you either. All that I¡¯m asking¡­ is for you to trust the principle of mutual self-interest. Deal?"


    She looked back up at him. She clenched her fists. She took a deep breath.


    You¡¯re so full of shit, she thought.


    "Deal," she said.


    Right now, Aclima couldn¡¯t afford anything more than self-preservation.

 Chapter 430:14.4: Appetizer

    Six Years Ago¡­


    Baltay Kojirough pushed through the desert.


    A hood was pulled low over his face, and a tattered cloak -- pristine at the start of his journey -- billowed in the harsh wind around him. Leviathan rested at his side, bandages wrapped around the blade to conceal its distinct emerald hue. For three days straight he had been making his way through the wastes of Abra-Facade, and Leviathan had tasted the blood of many beasts in those moonless hours.


    He had to hand it to the Abra-Facadians -- they were nothing if not a formidable people. Apparently, upon parting ways with the alliance after the Thousand Revolutions, they had settled on this inhospitable world because it was inhospitable. They had desired a home that would not coddle them.


    Theirs was a philosophy surprisingly compatible with that of the Supremacy -- what a shame it was that circumstance had put them on opposite sides of this endless war.


    Baltay shook his head, freeing himself from the haze of thought. He couldn¡¯t afford to lose his focus -- not this close to the end. He¡¯d seen the fate of those who let their will abandon him: their skeletons blended in with the pure white sand around him, their numbers growing as he approached the First Temple.


    The cities of Abra-Facade were modernized, filled with starports and industry as one would expect -- but for the First Temple, where the prophets trained in precognition? No method of travel could be permitted except the long walk. The unworthy would deal with themselves before they arrived.


    Again¡­ a philosophy so very compatible with Supremacy. That was part of why Baltay had chosen to come here.


    He had trained his body and his swordsmanship as much as he could. At this point, there were very few people in the galaxy who could even hope to match him in the art of the blade. No, that wasn¡¯t true¡­ there was only one person who could yet match him with the sword.


    The golden star named Nigen Rush.


    If he was going to bring down that star, if he was going to finally defeat his only superior and attain Supremacy of his own, he needed something more. He needed a new way to fight, a path for battle distinct to the one Nigen had claimed and conquered. He needed to seize the future for himself.


    Baltay Kojirough had arrived.


    The First Temple was a truly gargantuan structure, a grand cylinder of stone that dwarfed Baltay as he stood in front of it. There were no windows -- apparently, exposure to the outside world was considered a distraction from the inner mechanisms of precognition. The only entrance to the complex was in front of him: a massive archway, with a set of stairs leading up into the darkness. It welcomed him like a greedy mouth.


    This was it. This was what he¡¯d been waiting for.


    Baltay took in a deep breath through lips ravaged by thirst, went to step inside¡­ and stopped. Someone was standing there. A girl, clearly waiting for him.


    "Hello," she said. "You made good time, Baltay Kojirough."


    NEBULA NINE


    Luna


    "The All-Seeing"


    Nebula of Abra-Facade


    Damnation.


    Baltay grabbed hold of Leviathan¡¯s hilt, ready to pull it free and leap into action in a heartbeat. Physically, he knew he was at his limit. Even if this child was on the weaker end of the Nebulas, there was no guarantee he could defeat her right now.


    In contrast, Luna remained the picture of calm. Her hands were clasped in front of her and -- although her face was concealed by a spherical white helmet -- her body language exuded a sense of nonchalance. She stepped off the bottom step of the staircase, passing into the sunlight.


    With the way the sun reflected off her white dress, Baltay noted, it had to be some kind of plastic. Didn¡¯t she get overheated in this kind of place?


    "Peace, Baltay Kojirough," Luna said, her voice quiet and breathy. "I have no hostile intentions towards you."


    There were things following her, too, hopping down the steps in her wake. Rabbits, bizarrely enough -- blobs of pure white light sculpted to look like bunny rabbits. Baltay regarded them warily. No doubt they were part of Nebula Nine¡¯s ability, but what was their purpose?


    Only once the familiars -- three in all -- stopped beside their mistress did Baltay look back up at her and reply.


    "I find that hard to believe," he said. "In case you¡¯ve forgotten, our governments are at war."


    "That¡¯s correct," she replied. "But Abra-Facade maintains its sovereignty. Many times has their path crossed with that of your Supremacy. Your Helis-Audrey, for one. Goodness, you wouldn¡¯t even be the first of the Seven Blades to come here."


    Baltay snorted. So that asshole¡¯s boasting had been true, then.


    "I¡¯m guessing you already know why I¡¯m here, then?" he asked, slowly lifting his hand away from Leviathan.


    "Of course," Luna replied. "You¡¯ve come to learn to see the future. You wield a blade in your hand, but now you seek to turn your mind into one too. It¡¯s the nature of humans to reach for the little they do not have."


    Baltay raised a doubtful eyebrow. "And you¡¯ll help me?"


    "That¡¯s right."


    "Why?"


    The tiny ports all over Luna¡¯s helmet made it seem like she had countless staring eyes, but beyond that it held no vestige of expression. Even so, Baltay got the distinct sense that she was smiling at him.


    "It¡¯s for the best," she said.


    04:43


    It was a curious thing, to see the futures.


    It felt like Baltay lived in a world of shattered glass. All around him, facets progressed along their paths -- some unlikely and indistinct, others as clear as crystal, all but inevitable. Every movement he made scattered the possibilities into new configurations. Sometimes even a thought was enough to do that.


    The observed was sensitive to the attention of the observer¡­ something was yet misaligned.


    As their temporary alliance -- Baltay, Gretchen and Morgan -- ran through the streets of the Perfumed District, Baltay knew he had to move carefully. He could see corpses in the future, lying in their yet-to-arrive wake -- mountains of bodies, belonging to Morgan and Gretchen alike.


    If the opportunity presented itself, they would kill each other. That made things difficult. From the distant future -- a sudden, razor-sharp image -- Baltay saw how Muzazi would react under those circumstances. It wouldn¡¯t work.


    If Baltay wished to settle matters with Atoy Muzazi, Morgan Nacht needed to remain alive. That was why he¡¯d need to block that killing blow in three seconds time.


    Baltay rushed forwards in a flash of green Aether, deflecting the strike that would have taken Morgan¡¯s head off. Nacht whirled around, a second late in reacting, and Gretchen pulled out a gilded musket to point towards the source of the attack. The thing that had struck Leviathan retracted back towards its master.


    A man smiled casually at them from the other side of the street -- and in that smile, Baltay saw countless iterations of this road filled with bloody gore.


    Mid-Tier Bounty Hunter


    Karl Larik


    Larik was a white-haired man, wearing a similarly white suit, his hands in his pockets as he advanced.


    He strolled casually towards them, his implement waving in the air above him. The thing he¡¯d used to attack them was a tendril of flesh as thick as a human torso and long enough to stretch from his tailbone all the way across the street. A mouth like that of a lamprey pulsed and retracted right at the end, eager to take a bite out of them.


    Baltay had never seen this thing before in his life, but in some versions of the battle to come, Larik would brag about it himself. A Killing Engine. It seemed a surviving Inimant had come to kill them, too.


    "Hey," Karl said calmly, his eyes glassy -- fixed on Morgan -- as he slowly walked over. "Hey, hold up. I want to talk to you for a sec."


    The Engine lashed out -- once, twice, thrice -- each time trying to bite off Baltay¡¯s head. Leviathan danced, green blade deflecting the blows easily -- but the scales of the Engine were thick enough that Baltay couldn¡¯t draw blood. The poison would be ineffective, it seemed.


    Gretchen fired off a volley of shots at Karl¡¯s main body, but he swept a pale umbrella through the air and repelled them. They slammed into the buildings around him instead, great chunks of the stonework crumbling away like they¡¯d been bitten into.


    Launching a ranged attack would obviously be difficult on his part, too, Baltay supposed. Despite the obvious advantage in it, he couldn¡¯t just charge in and close the distance, either. If he did, Morgan Nacht would take his chance to escape as well. Sometimes, he killed Gretchen too, and in no version of the scenario was Baltay able to convince him to rejoin the group.


    So long as Baltay was in close proximity, though, Nacht wouldn¡¯t dare act against him. He needed to maintain that status quo and fight from range.


    Four, three, two¡­ there¡¯s another deathblow coming up.


    Baltay sheathed Leviathan and grabbed both Morgan and Gretchen by the scruffs of their necks, leaping up into the air just as the Killing Engine attacked once more. This time, it belched forth a compressed stream of vomit, the acidic bile melting through the street and buildings as it pursued the group upwards.


    "Gretchen," Baltay said calmly. "Grappling hook. The building with the Bitalo sign. You do the same, Nacht."


    Neither of them hesitated. Two lines shot forth -- one of metal, one of Fog -- pulling them up and out of Larik¡¯s range. He would pursue them, of course, but they¡¯d manage to gain the advantage for the next couple of hours.


    As they landed on the rooftop, Baltay felt a future where Gretchen¡¯s head was cut off the second they landed. He cast a glance at Morgan, and that possibility was immediately deleted. Baltay suppressed the urge to sigh.


    This was going to be a long night.


    But that was fine.


    In some ways, in fact, that was a comfort.


    Almost casually, he pulled his two companions out of the way of the evening¡¯s next lethal blow. A colossal, slavering hound -- emaciated to a skeletal degree, save for a grotesquely distended stomach -- had been waiting on the rooftop for them. Beady yellow eyes much too small for their sockets swivelled around to track them.


    Baltay raised Leviathan.


    Gretchen raised her musket.


    Morgan readied his fists.


    This encounter, like so much else tonight, would be the least bad option.


    04:45


    The Kennelmaster groaned as he stretched his arms, popping the joints with a faint satisfaction. Tonight seemed like it was going to be one of his easier jobs.


    Atop one of the abandoned apartment buildings, he relaxed. He¡¯d had Storage bring along that comfy couch from the Heir¡¯s hotel room, its relatively pristine appearance a stark contrast to the rusty surroundings. Another small dog served as a footrest while he closed his eyes, observing the battles through the senses of his hounds.


    He¡¯d lost sight of the Heir for the time being, but it was only a matter of time before he acquired her again. The Howler he¡¯d sent out had been slain by Gregori Hazzard, but that was fine too -- he had Howlers to spare, and a force of combat-ready hounds better suited to the paper bastard had already been dispatched. All good, all going well.


    There¡¯d be two confirmed kills there before long, one of them being the Heir. In his mind, Grain was already evaluating vacation destinations.


    Eater had given him something more of a surprise, all things considered. It seemed like Baltay Kojirough had shown up to defend Morgan Nacht. The old leader of the Seven Blades, who was supposed to have been locked up in some loonie bin. Maybe he¡¯d escaped?


    Eh, whatever. Surprising, but not concerning. More dogs were on their way to that spot, as well. While the Kennelmaster waited on his comfy couch, his hounds would bring down the night for him.


    Humming a half-remembered song to himself, he lit a cigar and savoured it, smoke drifting up to blindfold the moon.


    What a great night this was shaping out to be.


    04:46


    Samael Ambrazo Zakos smirked as he took in the forces aligned against him, the dread insectoids from the Hive of Malkuth. A dozen glowing red compound eyes were pointed directly at him, evaluating him, taking his measure. He couldn¡¯t blame their trepidation: there was a great deal for them to take in.


    "How appropriate!" he cackled. "Yes, it truly becomes me to swat flies such as these!"


    Still, what an atrocious, absurd and utterly unacceptable situation.


    The person hanging from Samael¡¯s grip right now was a wanted fugitive from the Supremacy. Yakob del Sed, part of that rapscallion Skipper¡¯s crew, an ally of the blue-eyed bastard that had slain one of the finest Special Officers this nation had ever known. They were an avatar of disrespect and derelict morality.


    By all rights, Samuel should have just dropped them and watched with keen interest as they splattered on the pavement below.


    no


    But no. He still had need of them, he supposed. Now that he¡¯d managed to resurrect, tearing himself from the very bosom of the gods and returning to the land of the living, he needed leverage to restore his rightful place in this fetid universe. There may be doubts as to his capabilities in this new fragile shell -- he needed to cast those aside immediately. Presenting this criminal scum directly to the throne of the new Supreme would serve nicely.


    no


    But no. Samael refused to disgrace himself in that way. He had seen it on the videograph on the way here, after all. That bastard Hadrien was Supreme now -- Hadrien, Hadrien, his name was Hadrien, not ¡¯the Supreme¡¯ -- and Samael was damned if he was going to debase himself in front of the one who¡¯d brought him low through such dishonorable and dishonest means in the first place. If a man could not respect himself, what respect could he earn from the world?


    nebula


    Samael smirked as he looked at the two powerhouses before him. The man with the shield, Rufus von Frostburn, was pummeling his third Warrior to death atop his makeshift platform -- while the man with the spear, Jamilu Aguta, was watching Samael warily. A wise decision on his part. Still¡­ Nebula Two and Nebula Five, eh? Now that was interesting. He didn¡¯t know what these two were doing here, but could this not be an opportunity presenting itself? Y breaking a window open for His most beloved child? If he allowed these two to work alongside him, could he not secure himself a position of prestige back in his homeland?


    yes


    Samael¡¯s smirk widened into a grin¡­


    ¡­until his eyes flicked over to the man behind Frostburn.


    Atoy Muzazi.


    not important


    "Muzazi!" Samael roared at the top of his mighty lungs, the Aether-infused pressure of the noise vibrating the glass around him. "Atoy Muzazi!"


    not important


    NOT IMPORTANT


    nebula


    NEBULA


    Indeed, common sense would dictate that Samael¡¯s focus should be on the Nebula right now, on executing the next phase of his master stratagem¡­ however.


    Common sense was naught but the ladder of the common man. For those who could fly, it served no purpose! Samael jabbed an empathic finger in Muzazi¡¯s direction, even as the swordsman looked back at him in confusion.


    "Behold!" he jeered. "The great Atoy Muzazi, so-called finest among us, brought low as dirt! Do you regret it now, reprobate?! Looking down on the great Samael Ambrazo Zakos?! Huh?!"


    Atoy Muzazi blinked, his face illuminated by the dying light of a smashed Malkuth skull.


    "Who?" he asked.


    doesn¡¯t matter


    not important


    ignore


    forget about it


    IGNORE


    Oh, this bastard was dead.


    Samael tossed his quarry over his shoulder, their body landing in a pitiful heap on the roof behind him. Golden Aether began to crackle around his hand as he prepared to attack -- this would be an easy one. Right now, he neither had his automatics nor his money, but both of those forms of strength were for the weak alone! He had no need of them.


    This novel¡¯s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    As he was right now, a mere chunk of rubble would be enough to send Atoy Muzazi flying down into the abyss. Ah, what a pitiful pile he would make! What sort of melody would his impact with the ground sing?


    For his part, Samael couldn¡¯t wait to --


    A shadow fell upon him from behind.


    "Aieee!"


    He whirled around just in time to see a Warrior of the Hive of Malkuth bringing their weapon down for the killing blow. Their arm had transformed into a structure like a chainsaw, metal teeth spitting sparks haphazardly through the air. Samael went to pull the brickwork from the wall behind it, to pelt the back of its head with stone, but he already knew the attack wouldn¡¯t make it in time.


    Terror tugged at his heart¡­


    That¡¯s not fair, though!


    ¡­only to vanish as a crimson spear skewered the head of his enemy.


    Jamilu Aguta appeared a second later, hand already grasping the handle of his weapon once more, and tore it free with such strength that the head of the Warrior came off entirely, spinal cord trailing beneath it. Spinning around, he sent that head flying -- smashing into the chest of the second Warrior who¡¯d been swooping in. As he deflected the rapid-fire blows of two more insectoids, he glanced back at Samael.


    "Samael Ambrazo Zakos, right?" he said seriously, sweat pouring down his brow. "I¡¯ve heard you¡¯re strong. Let¡¯s discuss this."


    Samael grinned. Yes¡­ that expression, that intonation, that adoration! At long last, someone who understood!


    This was more like it.


    ¡¯Annatrice¡¯ didn¡¯t know why ¡¯she¡¯ was here.


    ¡¯She¡¯ had woken up in the hospital¡­


    ¡­forced ¡¯her¡¯ way out¡­


    ¡­and came here.


    But why?


    It had taken one mask to find this place.


    It had taken another mask to reach it.


    And it had taken a third to save them just now.


    But why?


    It hadn¡¯t been the idea of one of them, had it?


    Had it been ¡¯her¡¯ deciding to do that?


    For what reason? ¡¯She¡¯ didn¡¯t understand.


    ¡¯She¡¯ didn¡¯t understand at all.


    04:50


    Ruth grunted as she finally pulled herself onto the building, her entire body screaming that it did not want to be pulled up onto the building.


    She could barely even comprehend the situation anymore. They¡¯d been attacked by some kind of swarm of bug-men -- and even now, they were barely being fended off by the combined efforts of the Nebula. Rufus sent jets of flame flying with each punch he threw, incinerating anything in their paths, while Jamilu kept five of the things at bay by himself as he defended the del Sed body.


    In all the chaos, Ruth had actually managed to reach this rooftop without much trouble. As she struggled to rise to her feet, she looked up at the other new arrival to this bizarre scene. Annatrice del Sed. It seemed that, while she¡¯d been getting up here, the girl Bruno and Serena had saved had reached some sort of agreement with Jamilu.


    "Very well," Annatrice sniffed, brushing her nose with a thumb as she looked at him. "As our interests align, I¡¯ll work alongside you people -- for now."


    That Ruth just didn¡¯t understand at all, and her brain had basically reached capacity anyway. Instead of concerning herself with it further, she turned her head to look across the roadway. Whatever these bug things were, they¡¯d essentially formed a ¡¯human?¡¯ barrier. Muzazi and Rufus were stuck on one side, while they were stuck on the other.


    Her eyes flicked around, looking at the countless specks in the sky quickly growing closer. More of these monsters were coming, seemingly without end. Jamilu followed her gaze even as he defended them, his expression growing taut as he saw they were soon going to be overwhelmed.


    He made the choice.


    "Rufus!" he shouted over the street, Aether bolstering his vocal cords. "Get Muzazi to the evac! We¡¯ll find the friend!"


    Rufus didn¡¯t hesitate. With a stoic nod -- and a final fiery punch -- he adjusted the angle of his flame-spitting shield, sending himself and Muzazi rocketing off into the night. Annatrice watched them go with a sneer.


    "Hmph," she grunted. "Hopefully it¡¯s the last we see of that scum."


    05:00


    It didn¡¯t take long for Rufus to get them out of sight.


    The majority of the Hive of Malkuth¡¯s forces had been occupied trying to bring down Jamilu, and Rufus had managed to lose the few that had broken off from the swarm while they escaped. Before long, they had been able to get off the shield -- dropping down into Velvet Palace, an amusement park that had been closed for the Dawn Contest. The dark skeleton of the park had almost seemed like a cage around them as they¡¯d made their way through the complex of sleeping whimsy.


    Beneath the massive ferris wheel that formed the park¡¯s centerpiece, Rufus had dug up the entrance to a maintenance tunnel. Apparently, his Ultraviolet allies had marked this place to the Nebula as a potential hiding place in advance. The two of them moved as fast as they could through the stretching tunnel, barely illuminated by flickering lights above.


    "Wait!" Muzazi shouted, his breath ragged as he ran alongside Rufus. "Stop! Stop, damn you! I already told you -- I¡¯m not leaving my --"


    Rufus glanced over. "Relax. Your pal is gonna be fine, okay? If Jamilu says he¡¯s gonna do something, he¡¯s gonna do it. So I¡¯m not concerned at all."


    Muzazi winced -- a combination of pain from his injuries and the turmoil bouncing around his heart. Was that really alright? Aguta had definitely shown that he was a master of the spear¡­ but could Muzazi just leave the task he¡¯d set his heart on, the life of his most precious ally, to someone else?


    "If you were with him," Rufus cut through the haze. "Could you do anything?"


    Terror answered before Muzazi could.


    The two of them suddenly ground their heels into the ground, skidding to a halt, as some animal instinct seized hold of them. They could not move any further. Under no circumstances could they move any further. Their bodies understood that immediately, and it was only as their eyes adjusted to the gloom that their minds caught up.


    A blue ¡¯X¡¯ shone through the darkness. A visor. Rufus¡¯ eyes slowly widened. Someone was here. Someone had been waiting for them.


    A man in an ocean-blue Armoured Chassis, and an aura that beckoned death.


    "Found you."


    05:03


    "Found you."


    Without a word, Rufus moved in front of Muzazi, raising his massive shield defensively. If this was the guy the Ultraviolets had warned them about, then he wouldn¡¯t be able to block the first attack completely, but he should still be able to mitigate the damage. He narrowed his eyes, tensed his grip, prepared himself for what was coming.


    The guy called Appointment -- yeah, this was definitely Appointment -- remained perfectly still. With that opaque visor, Rufus couldn¡¯t even tell where the bastard was looking. Was he focused on Rufus himself, or on Muzazi behind him?


    Appointment¡¯s next words made that clear.


    "Rufus von Frostburn," he said, voice echoing down the dark tunnel. "I¡¯ll kill you before anything else."


    "Oh?" Rufus cracked a fanged grin as he readied himself, turning the thundering of his heart into a drum of anticipation. "You got a grudge against me or something?"


    "No."


    Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them even seemed to breathe. Finally, Rufus shifted his footing, just enough to make sure that Muzazi wouldn¡¯t be hit by the splash of this first attack. Judging from the Chassis that Appointment was wearing, it would probably be some sort of ranged strike -- gunfire, or maybe even a missile. Rufus tensed his legs, just slightly, preparing himself not to go flying after the block.


    That last tiny movement was the starting gun.


    Appointment raised a finger. "B --"


    Nah. Forget blocking.


    "Bastardborn!"


    A jet of flame burst forth from the face of Rufus¡¯ shield, striking Appointment in the chest and sending him flying down the tunnel. Luckily, Rufus had still had some force saved up from the Hive of Malkuth¡¯s attack.


    His relief lasted only a moment.


    In an instant, Appointment was back upon them, a crescendo of flame engulfing the hallway behind him as his thrusters blasted at full force. A kick of steel struck Bastardborn with merciless impact -- and Rufus¡¯ preparations came to naught. Immediately, he was sent flying, zooming back towards the entrance of the tunnel from the force of the attack.


    Muzazi disappeared from Rufus¡¯ sight in a second -- but for some reason, Appointment chose not to go after the helpless Full Moon. Instead, he continued to pursue Rufus, reducing the strength of his thrusters to a more tolerable blaze as he blasted after Nebula Five. Even with that reduced speed, though, it only took¡­


    One second --


    Two seconds --


    THREE --


    Without even having landed yet, Rufus threw his shield down once more, blocking a punch that would have obliterated him entirely. The uppercut was still strong enough to shake the earth, however, and Rufus was sent crashing up through the ceiling -- emerging a second later in the crisp night air of the Velvet Palace. Momentum shot him up towards the sky, the park spreading out below him like some picked-clean carcass.


    Apparently, the impact of Appointment¡¯s attack had been strong enough to trigger some automated systems -- and so, slowly, Velvet Palace was coming to life. Lights flicked on one after another, like countless garish eyes slowly opening, and the ferris wheel began to spin whimsically. Gritting his teeth as the wind whipped against him, Rufus lifted his shield up, firing off a smaller jet of flame to propel himself towards the ground.


    He landed with a thud, feet nearly buried into the ground by the impact. As he picked himself free of the concrete, Rufus looked up, eyes focused entirely on the man who could still kill him at any second.


    Appointment had emerged from the tunnels as well, and now floated high above the waking amusement park as if he was its master, the ferris wheel turning behind him like an oversized halo. Slowly, as Rufus caught his bloody breath, the armoured man raised a finger as he had barely twenty seconds ago, pointing it at the distant Nebula.


    "Booking Hold," he said.


    Alright. Break¡¯s over.


    Rufus broke into a sprint as Appointment¡¯s attack began. Dozens of huge blue rings -- like hula hoops of light -- blasted out from Appointment¡¯s extended finger, weaving through the air as they pursued his enemy. Rufus vaulted over a merry-go-round¡¯s pony as he deflected the first ring with a swing of his shield -- it shattered easily, but that was little comfort.


    Appointment¡¯s confidence was such that Rufus knew this was an ability he could not afford to take a hit from. If one of these rings managed to make contact with his body, he got the distinct feeling that it would all be over. Rest in peace, Nebula Five.


    He needed cover.


    Rufus used his environment to his advantage, charging through a gift shop and allowing the rings to smash into the aisles behind him, dissipating into nothingness. For a moment, he managed to break Appointment¡¯s direct line of sight, the roof of the shop providing a temporary barrier between Rufus and the annual killer. No doubt it would only take a moment for the bastard to switch his visor to a setting that could see right through that roof, but it was a moment Rufus was grateful for.


    In a fight like this, every second counted. You never knew which one would be your last.


    Rufus considered how the hell he was going to get out of this one.


    Appointment was strong, real strong. The absurd restriction he¡¯d put on his power meant that his power itself had become absurd. Even without using any wacky abilities, his physical specifications on their own were high enough that Rufus would be lucky to be reduced just to paste. The advanced technology of his Armoured Chassis only heightened that threat -- the way he fought was similar to One.


    But¡­ couldn¡¯t that be a path to victory, as well? Even if it was infused up to the nines, a machine was still a machine. If Rufus could damage that hunk of junk enough that it became a liability, there was a chance he might be able to escape with Muzazi while Appointment had to make repairs.


    It was better than nothing, and it was all Rufus was going to get -- as he heard the voice of death.


    "Schedule Breaker."


    Moving on instinct, Rufus pointed his shield up to the sky, and just in time. Countless bolts of thick red light smashed through the ceiling, blasting against Bastardborn as the force pressed his body closer and closer to the ground. The gift shop was obliterated in an instant, scattered stone and steel reduced to tatters before it could even hit the ground.


    Before long, Rufus stood in the middle of a burnt crater, holding his glowing shield above his head. The attack had lasted only a few seconds, and it had taken all he had just to withstand it. Oh¡­ but he had withstood it.


    Rufus grinned.


    "Bad move, asshole! Bastardborn!"


    A jet of blue flame was spat forth by Rufus¡¯ shield, crossing the air in an instant as it barreled towards the flying Appointment. The temperature of this counterattack didn¡¯t compare to the one he¡¯d unleashed against the Tree of Might, but it would still serve to scratch the paintwork of Appointment¡¯s fancy Chassis. He could only hope it served some internal damage, too.


    Only¡­ Appointment just raised his hand to meet the incoming attack.


    Oh, bullshit.


    "Liable Cause."


    The fire was captured.


    As if an invisible hand had seized hold of the flames, it was suddenly compressed, the beam becoming a white-hot sphere in front of Appointment¡¯s palm, growing smaller¡­ and smaller¡­ and smaller¡­ until it vanished. Appointment closed his fist, and with that simple gesture it was as if though the attack had never even happened at all.


    Rufus blinked.


    "Ah, shit," he said.


    With a flash of blue Aether, Appointment was no longer in the air. In fact, Appointment was standing in front of him, staring down -- his only expression the ¡¯X¡¯ of erasure. Rufus hadn¡¯t even been able to see him move¡­ and so, of course, he stood no chance at seeing him attack.


    The kick slammed up into him, sending him flying into the sky once more.


    05:07


    Atoy Muzazi felt shame shiver down his spine.


    What was this? Jamilu Aguta was fighting for him, for his own selfishness, carving his way through this nightmarish city to find Morgan Nacht. Rufus von Frostburn was fighting for him, for his own survival, throwing himself against a man he surely knew he could not defeat. And what was Atoy Muzazi doing?


    Nothing. He was standing here, in the rubble of a shattered tunnel, like an insect himself. He was standing here, waiting, and watching. He could see the blue light of Appointment shoot up towards the red light of Rufus, ready for the killing blow. Would he just watch that too?


    "What¡¯s up with you?"


    "I lost."


    "Oh. Huh. That¡¯s fine, though, isn¡¯t it?"


    "What?"


    "Well¡­ I don¡¯t really get how you Supremacy guys do things¡­ but you¡¯re still alive, right? So you just need to win next time."


    Had Atoy Muzazi lost?


    His hands tightened.


    No. Not yet.


    05:09


    As Rufus von Frostburn flew, his grip slipped from his shield. The two -- warrior and weapon -- soared in the sky, separated, each an instant from destruction. Rufus¡¯ yellow eyes began to roll up into unconsciousness.


    Damn. He¡¯d lost, hadn¡¯t he?


    Well¡­ it¡¯s not like it had really been a fair fight, so he guessed he wasn¡¯t too sore about it. There were way more boring ways to go out, anyway. Even through the haze, he could see Appointment rocketing upwards, ready to finish him off with a skull-shattering punch. Yep, that would do it.


    It wasn¡¯t like Rufus von Frostburn was afraid of dying. It was just¡­ was he really going to die so easy?


    In the bad old days, on Adrust, it had just been him and his sister. Rufus and Agnes von Winterburn, in the midst of the snow and the starving, doing everything they could to live another day. In the end, they had survived, they¡¯d thrived until they stood on top of the snowball that had spawned them¡­ it hadn¡¯t been easy, but they¡¯d done it.


    His sister had been so sick, back then, so frail -- and so it had fallen to him. He had found them food. He had found them shelter. He had found them warmth. Even though he was just a kid too, even though he was just as helpless as his sister, he¡¯d been able to grab the world by the collar and make it give up what they were owed.


    Why?


    Because Agnes had been counting on him.


    She was counting on him now, too, to come back home. The people at HQ, too, they were counting on him to complete his mission. Jamilu was counting on him to meet back up like they¡¯d agreed. More than anyone, that guy Muzazi down there¡­ right now, he was counting on Rufus. He was counting on Rufus to keep him alive.


    Was Rufus von Frostburn really about to let someone down?


    Nah. So long as someone¡¯s counting on me¡­ I ain¡¯t letting go of this shield. S§×ar?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Rufus¡¯ hand reached out -- and seized hold of Bastardborn once more. His eyes snapped back into focus. With a roar of exertion, he reached into its face -- plunging his hand into the molten metal -- and pulled forth a sword of blazing blue hellfire.


    "Hm?!"


    Appointment immediately ceased his ascent, throwing his arms up to block instead. Rufus plummeted down, sword pulled back, its blue glow illuminating the sky behind him. As he slashed, he screamed out the blade¡¯s name:


    "Laevateinn!"


    But¡­


    "Booking Hold!"


    At this distance, Rufus stood no chance at dodging the countless rings. Immediately, the sword died in Rufus¡¯ grip -- and a second later, a punch struck his shield from above, sending him rocketing down. A plume of smoke rose up as he crashed into the ground, shield still in his hand as he laid spread-eagle.


    Appointment landed atop the merry-go-round before him, blue Aether crackling as he perched on the roof¡¯s central point. His paintwork was unscratched, and his demeanour was unchanged. For this man, it was like the fight had never even started. He looked down at Rufus mercilessly as the Nebula struggled to pick himself back up.


    "Forget about using that sword again. The force you stored was cancelled out -- and I know you don¡¯t have time to gather more."


    Rufus glared back up at him. He¡¯d known this guy was stronger, to be sure, but it didn¡¯t piss him off any less to be talked down to like that. He spat smoking blood down onto the ground.


    "Go fuck yourself," he grunted.


    If Appointment took offense to Rufus¡¯ words, he didn¡¯t show it. He just raised a hand, as if he were going to swipe it down through the air. Rufus¡¯ eyes focused on that hand. For a moment, it became the entire world.


    He didn¡¯t know how¡­ he didn¡¯t know what ability would be used¡­ but Rufus knew, in his bones: the second that hand came down, he would die.


    Sorry, sis. I messed up.


    The hand reached the crest of its ascension, and finally came do --


    "Radiant¡­"


    White light erupted from behind Appointment, and immediately the bounty hunter whirled around.


    There, at the mouth of the shattered tunnel beneath the ferris wheel, stood Atoy Muzazi.


    He had gone crazy. As he raised his sword of light above his head, force drifting from the pillars he¡¯d stored underground, blood burst out from beneath his bandages. He was pushing his body past its limits once again, opening his wounds¡­ but now there was the spark of glorious insanity in his eyes. Not a trace of despair existed in that face.


    "...ALMIGHTY!"


    He swung his heavenly blade -- and the light of oblivion poured forth, rushing towards Appointment. For his part, the armoured man just raised a hand to meet the incoming attack. If that metal suit had pockets, Rufus had no doubt he would have stuck his other hand in one. Arrogant bastard.


    "Liable Cause," the man said. "If you¡¯ve been watching, you should understand --"


    But the attack rushed past Appointment --


    "Oh."


    -- and struck Rufus¡¯ shield instead.


    He didn¡¯t need it explaining to him. "Bastardborn!" Rufus roared, bloody spittle flying from his lips as he thrust the shield forward.


    The Almighty counterattack fired forth as a winding serpent of white light, striking Appointment in the back and sending him flying -- right into the center of the ferris wheel above. That wasn¡¯t the end, though. As Rufus slowly rose to his shaking legs, he continued to fire, screaming with the effort as the heat continued to flow.


    Even with all his strength, and all his technology, Appointment was held in place by the attack -- and the ferris wheel that formed his bed was not nearly as strong or as advanced.


    It began to melt. The metalwork crumpled around Appointment and bound him, his body sinking into the dribbling cage as he struggled to push back against the beam. Thirty seconds later, the man had vanished entirely into its molten maw.


    Rufus let out a breath of steam as he looked at what was left of the ferris wheel. At this point, it looked like some sort of dying oyster. He was still staring at it, waiting for Appointment to burst out once again, when he realized Muzazi had arrived next to him.


    "Are you alright?" the Full Moon asked.


    Rufus looked his companion up and down. He was covered in blood, and his body had been scorched by his own attack, but he was standing tall. Despite it all, that same light from before was still lingering in his eyes.


    "I¡¯m good," Rufus replied, voice full of grit. "How about you? You good?"


    "Yes," Muzazi said -- and smiled. "Yes¡­ I¡¯m okay now."

 Chapter 431:14.5: Salad

    05:31


    The ferris wheel exploded.


    A plume of flame rose up into the sky, only to be smothered a moment later as the cooling systems of Appointment¡¯s suit -- infused to extremes -- took hold of the environment around him. He stomped over grass turning brittle with frost as he pulled himself free from the wreckage of the amusement park. His glowing blue visor scanned the battlefield for lingering traces of his enemy¡­ but he had covered his tracks well.


    The same with Atoy Muzazi.


    Sparks rained haphazardly from the back of Appointment¡¯s Chassis -- and then stopped a moment later, as the self-repair functions completed their work. Experimentally, he flexed his arms and worked his fingers. Everything seemed to be functional again.


    That¡­ had not been ideal.


    For twenty minutes he¡¯d been submerged in the molten metal of the ferris wheel, effectively blind and deaf as it hardened around him. Only once he¡¯d been fully encased in the steel shell had he been able to shatter it and break loose. How many years had it been since someone had managed to immobilize him for twenty minutes? It was embarrassing.


    Well, he thought, thrusters flaring as he rose up into the sky. It¡¯s an embarrassment I deserve.


    He¡¯d gotten arrogant, to be sure. He¡¯d bought into the reputation he¡¯d built for himself, and assumed that a Nebula could be easy prey. These were the strongest warriors of the UAP, after all -- not criminals skittering around the world¡¯s underbelly. Next time, he¡¯d make sure to go for the kill with his first attack, and not let them see him coming.


    The sun was starting to come up, dawn breaking upon the rule of a new Supreme. Appointment beheld it as a silhouette against the sunrise.


    The man frowned behind his visor. Daylight was disinfectant for dwellers of the underworld -- he¡¯d have to exercise more caution from here on in. Still¡­ whatever else happened, he would acquire Atoy Muzazi again.


    He couldn¡¯t afford not to.


    05:35


    AETHER SCAN EXECUTE


    TARGET IDENTIFIED: "RUTH BLAINE"


    ABILITIES:


    "Skeletal Set"


    "Noblesse Set"


    "Revolutionnaire Set"


    "Direwolf Set"


    "Monarque Set"


    EVALUATION: Abilities are useful in equipping warriors for enhanced speed and defense, along with enhanced capacity to counterattack. Later abilities require previous ones used in tandem to access, which may make providing them impractical in the field.


    *


    AETHER SCAN EXECUTE


    TARGET IDENTIFIED: "VICTORY"


    ABILITIES:


    "Compass"


    "Conquest" S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Calamity"


    EVALUATION: A high-level source of information-gathering powers. While Conquest is redundant given other ability-scan powers the Hive currently possesses, Compass¡¯ ability to locate designated targets will make the hunt process far more efficient. Calamity¡¯s self-combustion is also useful for attack and defense purposes -- typical usage is not practical as a long-term strategy, however.


    *


    AETHER SCAN EXECUTE


    TARGET IDENTIFIED: "SAMAEL AMBRAZO ZAKOS"


    ABILITIES:


    "Plunder Reach"


    EVALUATION: Mediocre.


    *


    The Queen considered her position from behind dozens of eyes. For her, distributed among the ranks of the Hive of Malkuth, this evening truly was a banquet. She had been right to bring her Hive here for this grand occasion.


    Money meant nothing to the Hive of Malkuth. What they needed, they took in the most efficient way possible -- and that was rarely through commerce. The only reason they took on the role of ¡¯bounty hunter¡¯ was to be given opportunities like these -- to track and acquire prey with useful abilities, incorporate them into the collective, all without arousing the ire of inconvenient governments.


    It was unfortunate that Atoy Muzazi and Rufus von Frostburn had escaped Her gaze.


    Both of them had useful abilities for mass destruction. While She wouldn¡¯t use them against single targets -- it ran the risk of killing them before they could be incorporated -- they would have been useful in siege-type scenarios.


    No matter. It was a temporary setback.


    What was more concerning was the status of Her fellow bounty hunters, witnessed through satellite imaging. Appointment was causing havoc in a nearby amusement park, while other members of the Hive assaulted the hospitals holding injured contestants -- and meanwhile, the riff-raff were pursuing Morgan Nacht through the streets¡­ along with one of the Kennelmaster¡¯s hounds.


    Only one? Why had the Kennelmaster dispatched such a meager force? What was he doing right now?


    A thought brought Her focus to the Kennelmaster¡¯s current position, lounging on a roof on a dilapidated part of the city -- sending out the bulk of his canine army. He had another target, one he was prioritizing. Given the positions of the other targets, and the sheer force he was bringing to bear, there was only one answer: the former Supreme Heir. Aclima -- the girl with an almost unparalleled ability to oppose Aether-users.


    Curse Hand¡­ if the Queen had a mouth, She would have salivated at just the mere idea of obtaining that ability.


    She ran the numbers. Given their skill levels and resources, the Kennelmaster would dispatch Aclima in short order. She would die, and Curse Hand would be lost. The Queen of Malkuth could not allow that.


    Priorities shifted, units moved between squads -- reinforcements in this pursuit of Nebula Two. She¡¯d need to split off some of the drones attacking this group to go after Aclima instead. No, that was not practical. Only one drone would be needed.


    UPGRADING DRONE 21


    NEW RANK: PRAETORIAN


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Godsheen"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Untouchable Allison"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Robin of the Night Garden"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Blez Peshi"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "The Red Wallpaper"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Excel Replicant (N)"


    ALLOCATING CAPACITY FOR INDEPENDENT THOUGHT¡­ SEGMENTING INDIVIDUAL PERSONA¡­ ASSIGNING ATTRIBUTES: "Calm", "Cold", "Ruthless", "Sadistic", "Imaginative", "Eccentric".


    Against a threat such as Aclima, a horde of units would only be a liability. The Queen could not risk the Hive falling victim to Curse Hand -- it would only take a single touch against an improperly coordinated drone for the entire collective to be damaged. No, in a situation like this¡­


    ¡­the Queen required a champion.


    PRAETORIAN-CLASS UNIT COMPLETE


    She felt the opening of a mind¡¯s eye, nestled against her own, and a semi-independent consciousness formed in an instant. From the perspective of Aguta¡¯s group, all they would have noticed was one of the drones hanging back behind the others, abandoning the chase. They didn¡¯t truly understand, of course, that this was no longer a drone at all.


    Bloody skin hardened into shining steel.


    One arm curved into a cruel scythe-blade, teeth dancing around the edge and throwing sparks.


    The other engorged into an organic grenade launcher, dripping with explosive pus, a grinning mouth of human teeth serving as the barrel.


    And, to complete the image of a reaper, crimson wings spread out from its back -- composed of thin red squares, seams of empty space running between them.


    Those new wings flapped but once, but that force -- infusion bolstered by Excel Replicant (N) -- was enough to rocket it up to the sky. The Praetorian flexed its shoulders as it turned away from the chase, staring into the distance¡­ towards the target it had come into existence for.


    PRAETORIAN 2, PURSUE AND ACQUIRE THE FORMER SUPREME HEIR.


    The Praetorian bowed regally, one hand over its heart.


    "As you command¡­" it said, voice deep and dignified -- the voice of a butler, or perhaps a seasoned knight. "...Your Majesty. ????"


    And, with the poise and grace of a champion swimmer, it blasted through the sky.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    05:41


    Gideon Grain, the Kennelmaster, took another puff of his cigar.


    This was starting to get tiring. He¡¯d made some allowances for this brat¡¯s Curse Hand, sure, but she was still just a kid. Why hadn¡¯t those mutts brought her down yet? It should have been easy.


    Grumbling, he flicked his spent cigar away, ash spilling over the roof. The haze of incompatible signals he received from his hounds revealed no trace of blood or mangled bodies¡­ just a hunt that continued on and on, snapping at a target just out of sight -- and one that seemed to move away each time they came close.


    Was Aclima really so adept at evading capture? Gideon found himself doubting that. Sighing, he ran one hand down his face -- and with the other, he whipped out his blunderbuss and blasted the man sneaking up behind him.


    Gregori Hazzard dodged to the side, his arms -- folded into needle-like blades -- glinting in the slowly rising sunlight. Gideon ground his cigar beneath his heel as he turned to face his would-be assassin directly.


    "Right," he nodded, scratching at his mutton-chops with his free hand -- his gun pointing at his adversary. "Okay, yeah. I get it. While that bitch leads my dogs on a merry chase, you track me down and take me out? Was that the plan? Fucking hell. This is goddamn amateur hour, huh?"


    Gregori looked back at him with a dull red eye, sharpening his arms together. "You say that," he muttered, with just the slightest trace of smugness. "But you¡¯re the one who got caught, aren¡¯t you?"


    Gideon smirked, blowing some of the smoke away from the barrel of his gun. "What? You think this is you catching me, little man?" His lips parted into an unseemly grin. "Don¡¯t make me laugh. All you¡¯ve done is make my job easier. Now I don¡¯t have to go looking for you, do I? I should pay you 20% of your bounty as a finder¡¯s fee."


    "How much is that?" Gregori smiled.


    Gideon¡¯s mouth dropped down into a scowl. "It was a joke, dumbass."


    Bang. Bang. Bang.


    Hazzard folded his body into a shape like a paper aeroplane, weaving through Grain¡¯s shots as he fired over and over again. Chunks of the roof exploded as the blunderbuss ate away at them, rubble falling down into the municipal void. Grain¡¯s reflexes were such that Hazzard couldn¡¯t get close, even with his increased speed -- but Grain knew the Special Officer¡¯s game.


    He was waiting for the Kennelmaster to run out of ammo¡­ as if that would save him. Ha.


    "Storage," Grain snapped to the dog atop his hat. "Gimme Guard."


    There was a crack as the tiny dog¡¯s jaws opened grotesquely wide -- and a moment later, Guard bounded out of the throat, hearty barks shaking the air as it pounced at Hazzard.


    Gregori¡¯s flat body was caught under a paw, barely unable to escape -- but with a razor-fast and razor-sharp sequence of slashes, he was able to cut away enough of the limb to get away. Guard¡¯s whimper of pain quickly transitioned into a scream of fury, the hounds rage building to such a degree that it destroyed much of the rooftop just charging after the tiny Hazzard.


    "Pathetic," sneered Grain, lighting up another cigar as he watched Hazzard be chased this way and that. "This all a Special Officer has to offer? Here, lemme give you some more. Storage, let out some Backup."


    Storage belched out three more of its compatriots -- dogs that reached up to Grain¡¯s waist, their heads so grotesquely enlarged that they looked like furry paleo-beasts. They snapped at the air with oversized jaws as they charged towards Hazzard too. The paper bastard was flowing through the wind, at its mercy -- and that mercy ran out right on cue.


    Guard from behind. One Backup from above, one from the right, and another from the front. A wall to the left.


    Hazzard was cornered.


    Time proceeded luxuriously, each second stretching itself out as much as possible. Grain watched as droplets of saliva glistened in the air. Grain watched as newborn sunlight washed over the ravaged rooftop. Grain watched, and Grain waited¡­ for the blood to go flying.


    And he watched as Hazzard so slowly, so quickly, unfolded himself.


    The man was standing in a ready position, one arm pulled back, hand closed -- as if he were about to throw a pitch in farball. What was he doing? He wasn¡¯t even looking at the dogs about to maul him. He wasn¡¯t aiming at them.


    He was aiming at Grain.


    Gregori Hazzard hurled his payload -- and as it flew through the air, it unfolded. The tiny speck expanded like a piece of paper. Legs emerged, then arms, then a head. Within a second, it wasn¡¯t a tiny speck hurtling towards the Kennelmaster at all.


    It was Aclima.


    As she reached out, hand crackling with wicked purple Aether, the disjointed perceptions of Grain¡¯s dogs suddenly aligned. He understood what they¡¯d been hunting in those apartments. Countless crude replicas of Aclima¡¯s form, folded together from the scenery like origami, smeared with her blood. Decoys.


    He¡¯d been had.


    At this moment, any ordinary man would have panicked. Perhaps they would have turned to flee, or just despaired in the face of the incoming Curse Hand. A plea for mercy would not be out of the question for an ordinary man.


    But Gideon Grain was not an ordinary man. He just extended his own right arm, as if to meet her with a high-five, and spoke:


    "Golden Wolf."


    His right arm came flying off.


    The limb became a streak of gold, slamming into Aclima¡¯s stomach -- sending her down to the ground -- before whirling around and stomping on her back with a paw, leaving the girl immobilized.


    Unlike the rest of Gideon¡¯s minions, the beast that had emerged from his right arm bore no deformities or modifications at all -- in fact, it was beautiful in its perfection, like something plucked from mythology and dropped into the real world. Glowing golden fur waved in the air as if caught in a perpetual soothing breeze. White eyes shone like lanterns, piercing through the early morning gloom.


    Its proportions were flawless, its demeanor regal -- this was the ideal of a wolf.


    And because of it, the gambit had failed.


    The dogs converged on Gregori, pulling him back and forth with their jaws as they fought over mauling rights. Grain couldn¡¯t see his face from here, but he was thinking a spark of despair on the young man¡¯s face was a pretty safe bet. He watched with amusement as Aclima seized hold of the leg pinning her down, purple Aether coursing uselessly up the limb.


    "Forget it," Grain grunted, adjusting his coat to cover the stump of his right arm. "Golden Wolf only uses Aether to transform. Right now? It¡¯s just that strong, and you¡¯re just that weak."


    Aclima struggled under its grip, but Golden Wolf was merciless as ever. It didn¡¯t so much as twitch as she pushed against it, even with Aether-infused strength. Given time, the kid might have been able to wriggle out¡­ but Grain didn¡¯t intend to give her any time.


    Smirking, he raised the blunderbuss, pointing it directly at her head.


    Aclima¡¯s struggling stopped, her eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, fixed on the barrel of the gun. There it was. The expression of someone certain they were about to die. Grain had seen it many times¡­ and he still hadn¡¯t gotten bored of it.


    "Shame," he sneered. "You were a looker and all."


    His finger curled around the trigger --


    ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€: ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€


    -- but suddenly, the Golden Wolf went flying.


    Aclima didn¡¯t know what had happened. She didn¡¯t understand why a circular wound had appeared on the Wolf¡¯s side, and she didn¡¯t understand why warm blood suddenly splattered across her back. She didn¡¯t have time to question any of it.


    All that was open to her right now¡­ was animal instinct.


    Go. She lunged forward, hands bared like claws, the bounty hunter¡¯s shot scraping over the top of her head as it missed. For the first time, the creep¡¯s expression was twisted into panic -- at this distance, he knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to get away.


    His left arm had started to transform too, the jaws of a silver fox stretching over his shoulder like a pauldron, but the work of a second would be too slow here. With a swipe of her clenched fist, Aclima sent the blunderbuss sailing off into the night. With a lash of her open hand, she seized hold of the man by the face.


    And, with a brain drowning in adrenaline, she thought:


    Curse Hand.


    The Kennelmaster¡¯s scream was like something not human, twisted by pain beyond human limits. Inflammation spread across his face like rabid acne -- only for the skin to burst seconds later, bloody pus spraying over the rooftop. For a second, he tried to back away, legs twitching in a frenzied dance¡­ but the slippery blood quickly pulled him down.


    Die.


    He collapsed to the floor, Aclima still climbing on top of him, still grabbing him -- and so Curse Hand continued its vile work. His eyes went the same way as the zits, popping like twin balloons. His fingernails peeled away like rotting wallpaper, taking the skin with them all the way up to his knuckles.


    Die!


    Kneecaps clipped free of their frames. Veins squirmed until they burst. Ribs twitched beneath his skin. His tongue boiled in his mouth. The option of releasing his Aether -- the only thing that could stop this -- had been banished from his mind by the agony.


    Die!


    Die!


    Die die die!


    DIE!


    When you did it... When you killed my father, did you feel like this, Muzazi?


    Die.


    Did you feel like you were about to vomit? Like your bones were just going to slip right out of you?


    Die!


    Or did you feel nothing at all, like¡­ like when you betrayed me? Over¡­ and over again¡­


    DIE


    By the time Aclima was done, she was pressing her hands against nothing but a bloody puddle. Ragged breaths poured from her ravaged throat as she slowly drew her arms around herself, heaving. Tears streamed down her face. She tried squeezing her eyes shut, but they still hurt -- so she just stared straight ahead, made distraught by victory.


    Slowly, Gregori Hazzard rose to his feet behind her. He¡¯d seen better days.


    Some of the dogs had fled from the rooftop, while others had been hit by the recoil from Curse Hand. Golden Wolf in particular was unrecognisable -- Gregori kicked the carcass out of the way as he passed. Wiping the blood from his face with a hand, he looked down at her.


    "You good?" he asked, wiping his hand on his pants.


    She looked up at him, her mind adrift. "I¡­"


    "Of course she¡¯s not alright. ????" A voice came from behind her -- an image of emotion beamed into her thoughts from incoherent noise. "But not to worry -- ???? -- you¡¯ll soon be able to sympathise."


    Aclima spun around just in time to see what was floating in the air behind her. An insect-like humanoid, staring down with red compound eyes, flying with wings of detached red fabric. One hand was a cruel blade, while the other ended with a grinning row of teeth.


    Oh, she thought vaguely. Someone else wants me dead.


    Even with his injuries, Gregori Hazzard moved even faster. Within a second, he¡¯d dashed behind the new enemy, his own blade-arm raised and ready. His red eye cold, he swung his weapon --


    -- and that eye widened as his blow had no effect.


    "Hm? ????" the creature glanced over its shoulder at Gregori. "Did you really think that wimpy blade could stop me? ????"


    A mere backhand sent Gregori flying, and those crimson compound eyes flicked back over to observe Aclima.


    "Now then, little one, ????" it said, raising its mouth-arm. "I¡¯m going to have to ask you to come with me. ????"


    She opened her mouth to say something --


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­


    "Capture Ball"


    -- but no sound emerged, as she was suddenly encased in what looked like a bubble of pink chewing gum.


    The creature wasted no time. Wings battering the air, it zoomed off -- bubble flying alongside it -- abandoning the roof and Gregori Hazzard in an instant. Pulling himself out of the wreckage of the wall, Hazard quickly followed, folding and adjusting his arms until they were like the wings of a bat.


    So, nobody witnessed it.


    For a moment, the roof was still, and the roof was silent. Then¡­ the corpse of the Kennelmaster began to twitch.


    Something was brewing beneath his skin, gruesome bubbles rising to the surface as his ravaged arms and legs flapped up and down. Whatever was moving inside him dragged him -- left and right across the roof -- like he was possessed by an evil spirit. Something punched up against his stomach, a gruesome indentation making itself known.


    Crack.


    Crack.


    Splat.


    The Kennelmaster had kept dogs in all sorts of places. On his hat, in his arms¡­ and one, his final beast, stored as a tiny embryo nestled against his own heart. That infant had waited, only barely alive, leeching off the malice of its master¡­ and now that the master was dead, the promised time had come.


    Spite.


    Gideon Grain was a man who had smothered his infant brother for stealing their parent¡¯s attention.


    Gideon Grain was a man who had strangled his first girlfriend for trying to escape from him.


    Gideon Grain was a man who had shot his son in the back of the head for talking back one time too many.


    Gideon Grain was a man with spite to spare.


    That spite was this beast¡¯s inheritance, and the sole thought in its head as it slithered out of Grain¡¯s carcass. Its shape was grotesque, a monster of vengeance that could never be mistaken for a natural organism. Was this thing even a living creature, or just a shadow? Was it a human, or a hound? Was it an ability, or an Awakening?


    Grain had never cared to consider it. Names and designations had never meant much to him. His care was only for utility.


    Even this final hound, the one designed to bring down his killer with cruel fang and cruel claw, was only called¡­


    The wind rushed past, and the monster poured as smoke into the night.

 Chapter 432:14.6: Fish

    05:50


    Curse Hand.


    Aclima pressed her hands against the pink bubble surrounding her, but there was no response -- no scream, no horror as her target¡¯s body erupted into gore. Whatever this strange barrier was, it had only been generated by Aether -- now that it was in the world, it was only the material¡¯s own physical properties that were keeping her trapped. As she watched the cityscape rush by outside her new cage, frustration swelled in Aclima¡¯s heart.


    Damnit.


    Everyone going after her knew what she could do, and so they had simply found ways around it. The power she¡¯d thought gave her an advantage -- the ability that was supposed to make her the natural enemy of Aether-users -- was so easily circumvented. She pounded her fists in fury against the pink walls, but they just bounced back as if to mock her.


    Damnit!


    In the distance, she could see Gregori Hazzard in pursuit. Was this really all she could do? Watch and wait for another traitor to come rescue her? It wasn¡¯t as if she didn¡¯t know Hazzard¡¯s game. He¡¯d said it himself: to make his dream come true, he needed the favour of the Supreme. Rather than betting everything on an assassination attempt with Aclima, it would be more convenient for him to deliver the former Heir to the new Supreme himself, and gain favour that way. If Hazzard saved her here, all she¡¯d be doing was passing into a new clawed hand.


    DAMNIT!


    Nothing had changed. Nothing had ever changed. Baltay, Atoy, Gregori¡­ they were all the same, all seeking to exploit her for their own ends. All liars. All traitors. Damnit, damnit, damnit! Red-hot hatred boiled in her veins as she thought about the words she¡¯d said on that rooftop. The stolen sympathy she¡¯d given that bastard.


    She wouldn¡¯t forgive.


    Never. Never, never, never! Never! Never. NEVER. Never! NEVER!


    DAMNIT!


    Aclima¡¯s fists exploded into a flare of synchronized Aether as she slammed them into the barrier once more -- and this time, the bubble could not hold up. The material tore open, fresh air flooding into the sphere, the chill of the early morning pouring over Aclima like a balm.


    The monster, who had been dragging the bubble along by a chain, snapped its head around.


    "What?! Impossible! ????"


    For a second, it slowed down, and that second looked like it would have been fatal. It had provided an opening, after all. Gregori Hazzard was suddenly upon it, slashing a blade directly at its head --


    -- but once again, the attack passed through without even making contact.


    "Just kidding~ ????"


    Aclima leapt out of the torn-open bubble, landing on an adjacent rooftop -- and immediately, she kicked off, avoiding the second bubble that appeared around where she¡¯d just been standing. It seemed this thing hadn¡¯t given up on taking her alive. She kept running, and it kept making bubbles, pink spheres rolling across the floor as she barely avoided capture.


    "It¡¯s a shame¡­ ????" the creature mocked. "I was hoping just to suffocate you a little until you fell unconscious -- ???? -- but it seems I¡¯ll have to get a little rough with you after all, hm? ????"


    As it ranted, Gregori continued attacking, darting through the air as he slashed at it again and again. Each attack missed -- but now, with the phenomenon occurring over and over again, Aclima could actually see what was happening. Her stomach turned.


    In the instant before Gregori¡¯s blade made contact, the body of the creature would warp to avoid it. A dent would push down into its head, an arm would bend inwards, its torso would compress to the width of a pencil¡­ whatever the manifestation of the ability, the result was the same -- Gregori¡¯s attack would pass through empty air, and the deformity would snap back a moment later.


    It noticed that she noticed.


    "Impressed? ????" it chuckled. "It¡¯s understandable. This is ¡¯Invincible Allison¡¯, a particularly potent evasive ability ????. The original user -- Allison, of course -- didn¡¯t have a body suited to extensive use¡­ oh, but when we visited her in the hospital? We were quite happy to grant her absolution ????. Why not catch your breath and see what it¡¯s like? ????? No? Oh well."


    It raised its mouth-arm, and the jaws snapped open.


    "Blez Peshi."


    The limb belched forth a sphere of what looked like brain matter, the projectile thudding into the rooftop -- right in front of Aclima¡¯s path. The danger was instinctual: bomb. She skidded to a halt as she moved to avoid it¡­ and in that instant, she heard the bomb. She heard it speak.


    "Wait!" it cried, in a voice warped by torment. "Wait, don¡¯t do it! Please! PLEASE!"


    "Oops~ ????"


    The bomb screamed as it exploded with force far beyond its size -- sending Aclima flying back, her back slamming against the wall. Blood sprayed from her mouth as she crumpled into a pile, pain holding her down just as well as any restraint. The enemy chuckled as they slowly touched down on the rooftop, their neck snapping at a right angle to avoid Gregori¡¯s swings.


    "Oh, my apologies, ????" it said, wings retracting into its back. "I was so irritated by this fly -- ???? -- that I might have gone a little too hard. Well, if you¡¯re still breathing, that¡¯s just well enough ??. Just so you know, though, Mr. Hazzard -- even if you manage to get around my auto-dodge, my Godsheen ability is strong enough that your attacks will actually just be papercuts ????. So I wouldn¡¯t waste your precious energy if I were you. Now then¡­"


    The monster lifted its mouth-arm and reloaded, the length of the limb pulsing like a cat preparing to vomit. As its body flickered in place, dodging Gregori¡¯s lightning-fast attacks, the panel covering its own mouth slid open -- revealing a wide and cruel grin.


    "...one for the road, princess? ????"


    Blez Peshi opened its mouth to fire¡­


    ¡­but never got the chance.


    "Unchained."


    The effect was immediate.


    In an instant, the creature was slammed against the rooftop, the attack taking place over too wide an area for it to automatically avoid. Blez Peshi, more organic than the rest of it, was immediately reduced to pulp -- but the rest of its body survived, metal skin scraping together as it slowly tried to pick itself up, struggling against the intensified gravity.


    It shouldn¡¯t have bothered. If it had just accepted death, it wouldn¡¯t have had to face that man.


    Mereloco strode across the rooftop, clad in nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts, his gaze disinterested. Tubes and medical instruments hung limp off his form -- clearly, when this man had decided to leave the hospital, he¡¯d just taken part of it with him. Scratching the back of his head, he regarded the enemy as it finally reached a crouching position.


    It seethed as it looked back at him, its compound eyes flaring red. "Mere¡­ lo¡­"


    "Unchained," Mereloco repeated, yawning.


    The gravity intensified once again, pressing the creature further against the roof. The armour finally began to give way -- and so limbs ruptured, spilling their slurried contents onto the ground around them, fracture lines spreading all over the parts of the body that somehow managed to remain relatively intact. A true dent slowly established itself on the monster¡¯s head, like someone was gradually digging a finger in, and for a moment it looked like the skull might just burst too¡­


    ¡­but no.


    There was a burst of blood, but it didn¡¯t come from the skull. It came from the neck. The monster screeched as its head suddenly popped off of its body, launching itself towards Mereloco. The crimson wings erupted from its temples, propelling it forward, and its mouth became a spinning dervish of whirring fangs.


    "You utter fool! ????" it screamed. "Malkuth technology is the finest in the galaxy! ????"


    At first, Mereloco said nothing. He just crossed his arms and watched the head shoot towards him. Then, he raised a single eyebrow.


    "Well?" he finally said, in the moment before the head could strike his throat.


    Guardian Entity: Hachiman.


    Eh?


    ????


    Praetorian 2 found it¡¯s righteous anger suddenly replaced by confusion as its killflight stopped, inches from Mereloco¡¯s throat. It stretched out its fangs as much as it was able, but they still couldn¡¯t quite reach the short man¡¯s skin. What had happened? It could still feel the wings produced by the Red Wallpaper, so what was stopping it from moving?


    It wiggled, and understood.


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    ????


    It had been skewered.


    A wooden spear had literally come out of nowhere, impaling Praetorian 2 from temple to temple, and now its owner held their prize aloft. A reaper of straw and flame, wielding a weapon in each of its four hands, a skull grinning sightlessly up at the trapped Malkuth warrior. It floated over the ground, and its master stepped out from behind it.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    It was a man with unkempt white hair and jagged black antlers. Another target¡­ Praetorian 2 checked its records. Nael Manron.


    "You took your time," grunted Mereloco.


    "I thought you could handle it yourself," muttered Manron. "You were testing me?"


    Mereloco said nothing.


    Foolish. Both of them, foolish. Celebrating victory without confirming it. Did they think they had killed Praetorian 2? Ha! It would take far more than this to defeat one blessed by Her Majesty! Even now, the Praetorian was calculating a plan to turn this situation around.


    Taking all the variables into account¡­ along with existing damage and abilities¡­ the chance for success was 22.3%. Nearly a one-in-four chance of surviving this encounter, eliminating four targets, and obtaining Curse Hand in one swoop. It would take that chance and turn it into certainty.


    It would --


    UPLOADING ABILITY: "Godsheen"


    Your Majesty?


    UPLOADING ABILITY: "Invincible Allison"


    UPLOADING ABILITY: "Robin in the Night Garden"


    UPLOADING ABILITY: "Blez Peshi"


    Your Majesty? I need those abilities to execute the plan.


    UPLOADING ABILITY: "The Red Wallpaper"


    UPLOADING ABILITY: "Excel Replicant (N)"


    UPLOADING ABILITY: "Capture Ball"


    Your Majesty?


    Your Majesty?


    Hello?


    SEVERING LINK¡­


    Oh.


    ¡­


    ??


    Hachiman turned its spear, and the head of the monster dropped to the floor, roughly twisted in half. A few sparks flew from the mechanical components, landing in the black-speckled blood that flowed freely. Red light flickered in the compound eyes for just a few moments¡­ before dying out completely.


    "There," Manron said calmly, kicking the head away. "Looks like the Queen didn¡¯t want to risk losing any abilities on this."


    Mereloco glanced at him. "You know these things?"


    "We were in the same business," Manron explained, his second Guardian Entity fading away behind him. "It¡¯s just common sense for me to be familiar with the competition."


    Mereloco said nothing.


    "Um¡­" the noise creaked out of Aclima¡¯s throat.


    She lay against the wall, her eyes flicking between the two new arrivals, her injured body swaying between relief and caution. Once again, the situation had escaped her understanding. Here were two contestants from the Dawn Contest, two warriors who¡¯d lost to Atoy Muzazi.


    What were they doing here? Why had they saved her?


    She opened her mouth to ask -- but before she could, Nael Manron interrupted.


    "The Supreme Heir, huh?" he sighed, slinging his shamisen over his shoulder -- an awkward motion, given his missing arm. "Looks like we got tricked, big guy."


    Mereloco -- ¡¯big¡¯ in presence if not height -- just stayed standing there, his arms crossed, as still as a statue. "Hmph."


    "Tricked?" Aclima breathed. "Tricked, what do you mean tricked? Who were you looking for?"


    Like I even have to ask.


    Mereloco glanced down at her. "Atoy Muzazi."


    "Oh, really?" asked a voice through the night.


    Gregori Hazzard finally reappeared, emerging from the cloud of smoke that the Malkuth warrior¡¯s death had produced. His arms unfolded as he walked over, returning to their normal shape, but his red eyes remained cold and fixed upon the new arrivals. Paper-white Aether sneakily trickled up the back of his wrist.


    He was ready for another fight. Aclima knew that she wasn¡¯t.


    "If you were tricked," Gregori asked, narrowing his eyes. "Who exactly tricked you?"


    Mereloco and Nael Manron just looked at him¡­ no, Aclima realized. They didn¡¯t look at Gregori Hazzard at all. They looked at the person standing directly behind him.


    "Who?" A hand of bundled thread landed on Gregori¡¯s shoulder. "Why, that¡¯s a ten-outta-ten question if I ever heard one, my boy."


    6:00


    That makes nine.


    Jamilu pulled Victory free of the enemy¡¯s carcass, tearing out what amounted to its digestive organs in the process. It plummeted after its guts, body smashed to pieces by the racing traffic below.


    It didn¡¯t matter, he knew. Even though there could only be one-hundred and eight proper members of the Hive of Malkuth at any given time, there was no such limit on the number of thralls they could convert. Each time they killed a drone, some unfortunate walking corpse would no doubt be promoted to take its place.


    Which meant fighting like this was pointless.


    Which meant that their focus had to be on escape.


    Which meant¡­


    "With me!" Jamilu barked, diving off the overhang they¡¯d been fleeing across.


    Ruth Blaine and the spirit medium -- carrying the del Sed¡¯s -- followed a moment later, and as one they smashed through the massive window before them. Strobing light and deafening music spilled out of the building as they passed through this unorthodox entrance -- a club, at the height of celebration for the end of the Dawn Contest. The party was still in such full swing that barely anyone even seemed to notice the window shattering.


    They did notice the next part, though.


    As the trio landed in the middle of the party, Jamilu whirled around, slashing through the chest of a pursuing drone. Red-and-black blood sprayed everywhere as the pink light of Jamilu¡¯s Aether filled the room -- and that got the message across. A chorus of screams joined the music as the crowd rushed to escape the sudden battle, flowing towards the exits like a lake being drained.


    Jamilu glanced at Blaine and the girl.


    "Blend in with the crowd as they leave," he said seriously. "The escape ship is at Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre -- make your way there. I¡¯ll deal with these creatures and rendezvous with you."


    Blaine¡¯s eyes flicked between him and the insect-men amassing on the other side of the broken window. "You sure? I --"


    "I don¡¯t want to be rude, Miss Blaine," Jamilu cut her off. "But as you are right now, you would be a hindrance to me. Besides, I have a promise to keep to Muzazi. Go."


    The medium hadn¡¯t needed to hear it twice -- she¡¯d already run off -- but Ruth took a second to choose retreat. A battle raged across her face¡­ but eventually she nodded, and eventually she turned. She vanished out of the doors alongside their odd new comrade -- who had sprinted off without hesitation.


    "Oho?" Victory chuckled. "What¡¯s this? You sacrificing yourself, brat?"


    "Silence," Jamilu said sternly, striding through the parting crowd to meet his enemies. "I¡¯m not so weak that I need to give my life to defeat enemies of this calibre."


    "Cocky shit. Let¡¯s see if you can still say that when --"


    Jamilu interrupted.


    "Compass," he snapped. "Power of One."


    Immediately, the spear flew from his grip and spun in the air -- before finally pointing straight at a drone at the back of the incoming horde. As Jamilu had suspected: in the last few minutes, the enemies had started using low-level abilities at the same time. That support unit was sharing the powers between the group: it would have to die quickly.


    It was time for Jamilu Aguta to earn his title.


    The Hive of Malkuth charged¡­


    ¡­and Nebula Two met them.


    Two stabs of Victory slew two drones, so quickly that Jamilu had already run past them before their knees could even buckle. A third seized him with burly arms of binding chains, grasping him by the hands and holding him in place for a moment¡­ but only for a moment. Jamilu spat right between the creature¡¯s eyes.


    Calamity.


    The saliva burst into pink flames, forcing the drone to relax its grip -- and Jamilu immediately broke free. He stepped to the side as a fourth drone lunged for his back, spat in his hand, and ignited that as well. With that additional power, it was easy for him to plunge his hand right through his attacker¡¯s chest and pull free their heart.


    The third drone, its head still aflame, fired a machine-gun volley from its shifting arm -- and Jamilu span Victory to deflect the bullets, his gaze cold. As he deflected, he advanced. Two seconds were all he needed to close the distance, seize hold of the gun-arm, and tear it free.


    From there, it was just a matter of applying force. Two heavy blows to the head of the drone with its own severed arm were enough to finish it.


    The drones knew no fear, and continued to attack even as Jamilu massacred them. Heads and limbs flew in every direction as they were severed, the numbers assaulting the club constantly replenished by a steady stream of reinforcements from outside. However many thralls the Hive had created on this planet, they were surely keeping them nearby.


    Ideally, Jamilu would have liked to destroy that storage facility and cut off the Hive¡¯s supply lines¡­ but he didn¡¯t have the time. Now that he¡¯d given the others an opportunity to escape, he needed to seize an opportunity of his own. Once he¡¯d opened up a gap in the Hive¡¯s forces, he would¡­


    The Hive spoke in unison.


    "Domesday Clock."


    Jamilu¡¯s eyes widened as a massive ornate timepiece appeared, hovering in the air before him, becoming the centerpiece of the room through its sheer presence. It bore hands of bone and banners of ragged skin hung from its body. Immediately, his thoughts of escape were put aside.


    Domesday Clock was an ability that had been famous¡­ no, infamous¡­ even before the Hive of Malkuth had acquired it. Its user had been like Nebula Ten -- human garbage who delighted in massacre. Someone who did not kill for a purpose, but whose purpose was killing.


    Jamilu¡¯s Principality knew how this ability worked. After these first five seconds, it would automatically launch an attack against a target within range -- weakest first. Once a target had died, they would be removed from the kill-list, and so the Domesday Clock would slowly work its way up to the strongest target within its operational range.


    Judging from the number of notches on the clock before Jamilu, there was no doubt that the civilians escaping from the club were still within range. Without Aether, an attack from the Domesday Clock would pop a human body like a balloon¡­ but the Hive didn¡¯t care about that. To them, anything that would cause Jamilu to hesitate was a minor victory.


    When the Domesday Clock activated, there would be five seconds before it attacked the first target -- before it took the first life. From there, it would be a murder a second. The streets would be bathed in blood.


    Five.


    That was as much countdown as they were going to get.


    If these creatures wanted to make Nebula Two hesitate, they¡¯d have to do better than that.


    Jamilu reached down and tore off his own pinky finger.


    As a warrior of Inganci, he had been raised with three principles in his heart:


    To serve and honour the Oba.


    To serve and honour the Nation.


    To serve and honour the people.


    With these duties in mind, Jamilu Aguta had trained since he was a child to fight for his homeworld, to control Victory¡­ to take evil in his hand and not be consumed by it. He had never betrayed those vows, and he never would. If he had to sacrifice a body part to perform his duty, then there was nothing else to be said, and there was certainly no reason to stand there agonizing about it.


    Pink Aether sparking around him, Jamilu hurled his severed finger at the face of the Domesday Clock¡­and the digit became a point of light. That clock would not survive one more second. Victory¡¯s third ability was no Der Freisch¨¹tz, but it had been designed to oppose Aether all the same. Ignited by Victory, even just his saliva could melt through most Aether barriers.


    And a finger was far more than just saliva.


    Calamity.


    The hand of the clock went to tick¡­


    ¡­but before it could tock, flame ate filth.

 Chapter 433:14.7: First Main Course

    6:02


    Something was misaligned.


    "Citizen of R¡¯lyeh!"


    Baltay jumped backwards as Larik¡¯s Killing Engine slammed down into the ground. It had been enhanced and altered with Aether, strengthened to such a degree that the skin had hardened into crystal, its bizarre structure bordering the mechanical and the organic. Its teeth spun in its mouth like a blender, sending sparks flying everywhere.


    "Hey," Karl Larik said, his voice placid even as his Killing Engine tore apart the rooftop. "Hey. Hold on for just a second. I just wanna talk to you a little bit."


    One.


    Baltay should not be fighting Karl Larik right now. Karl Larik should still be trying to catch up to them, and not doing very well. This was not an encounter he had foreseen.


    Morgan Nacht swung his makeshift Fog sword again and again, slicing apart the grotesquely engorged maggots that leapt at him. They dropped to the ground, sliced into pieces, smoke rising from their wounds¡­ but more just kept coming. Some were devouring the carcass of the dog that had been struck low by Curse Hand, while others massed in the shadows.


    Their master, an elderly Umbrant man with limp white hair, had his face angled right up towards the sky.


    "Oh," he crooned. "Where are the corpses?!"


    Mid-Tier Bounty Hunter


    Eater-Face


    Two.


    They should not have run into Eater-Face here. In most of the possible scenarios, that maniac got distracted by easier prey¡­ or he got ambushed by the Hive of Malkuth during the sieges of the hospitals. In the closest version to this fight Baltay knew of, they were battling a Malkuth drone that wielded Eater-Face¡¯s ability.


    Bang. Bang. Bang.


    Gretchen fired off shot after shot down the fire escape -- fending off the gang of bounty hunters trying to use it to ascend. Remnants of the Crimson Carnival, eager to fetch themselves some glory and reward before the organization finally splintered completely. Some of them fired back, but the firepower they could bring to bear was nothing compared to Gretchen¡¯s.


    She switched Armaments every few shots, bolts of fire and ice and lightning surging down the vertical battlefield. A shield she¡¯d set up deflected any shots that came close to hitting her¡­ and a second shield took care of any that slipped through the first one. They wouldn¡¯t be making it up that fire escape any time soon.


    But the fact that they were here?


    Three.


    His vision was failing him¡­ or more accurately, his vision was blurred. The exceptionally unlikely was coming out as certain, and the definite was manifesting as distant shades. Something was still, still misaligned -- like he was looking at the future through a lens of shattered glass.


    When he¡¯d gone to Abra-Facade, Luna had trained him to see the future.


    When he¡¯d gone to the asylum, he¡¯d trained himself to understand the future.


    And yet there was something missing. What? He didn¡¯t have the time to think about it right now. Right now he had to --


    Four.


    Baltay whirled around as he deflected Citizen of R¡¯lyeh one more time, spotting the enemy who¡¯d clambered up the building from the side. Another leftover from the Crimson Carnival, a burly woman grinning from ear to ear. She pointed her hands towards Morgan and roared:


    "Guardian Entity: Flatwoo --"


    Baltay was upon her in an instant, burying his blade in her face, but they were already on the wrong track. Equilibrium had been broken. The future he¡¯d been doing his best to avoid, the future that spelled disaster, was already --


    Morgan Nacht saw his chance.


    "J! F! A!"


    Before Baltay could even move, Morgan acted. Purple Fog erupted out of his body, spilling over the rooftop -- and at the same time, a horde of Nacht copies poured forth, fleeing in every direction. Baltay¡¯s eyes flicked forward into the future, watching himself perform an Aether ping, watching it be rendered useless by the dense Fog within each individual copy. S~ea??h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    They¡¯d lost Nacht.


    Gretchen raised her shield as the New Moon struck from within the crowd of clones, deflecting a blow that would have taken her head off. That was the sole attack Nacht allowed himself, though. Fog and clones continued to spill in every direction, washing over the gathered parties¡­ and within a few seconds, they were gone.


    Baltay darted in, deflecting Citizen of R¡¯lyeh as it lunged for Gretchen as well. Landing back to back with her, he looked around and ahead, seeking any way to get them back onto the path he needed.


    Nothing easy. The roads ahead of them were lined with thorns. Still, even if that were the case¡­


    ¡­they had no choice but to start running down one.


    06:05


    Rufus finally took a breath. Damn. He¡¯d been needing that.


    The air in the storage compartment of the train was musty as all hell, but it was better than nothing. Rufus lounged back on a makeshift throne of luggage, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his wounds. He¡¯d treated his injuries as best he could, but damn¡­ Appointment really left you feeling it.


    "You good?" he grunted, glancing at Atoy Muzazi. "Still alive?"


    The Full Moon looked as bad as Rufus felt. Pale as all hell, and Rufus had never been known for his needlework, so his reopened wounds had only been clumsily stitched back together. Still, given his natural constitution and his Aether, he should be able to stay standing until they reached their destination.


    Or sitting, at least. Well, he wouldn¡¯t die. Hopefully.


    "How long until we reach this place?" Muzazi panted, leaning against the wall to support himself. His new bandages were already starting to blush.


    "The shopping centre?" Rufus asked. "Shouldn¡¯t be long. We sneak out of this train at the next stop, make our way through the side streets -- and then we¡¯re there. I¡¯ve got the codes to get in."


    Muzazi looked up at him. "And Aguta¡­ he¡¯ll definitely honour his word?"


    "Never known him to break a promise," Rufus shrugged. "Listen, it¡¯s like I said. If Jamilu says he¡¯s going to do something, he¡¯s going to do it. No buts, no ifs. He¡¯ll get your friend if there¡¯s still a friend to get."


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author¡¯s consent. Report any sightings.


    "That¡­!"


    "That¡¯d be bad, yeah, but there¡¯s nothing you can do about it. You stay on your feet like that freaking yourself out, all you¡¯re going to do is tire yourself out. And I don¡¯t wanna be mean, but there¡¯s not much of you left to tire out. So chill, okay? Take a load off."


    Muzazi wavered for a moment, looking like he was about to argue. Then his knees buckled beneath him, and he finally collapsed into what wasn¡¯t quite a sitting position¡­ but honestly, it was close enough.


    The two wounded warriors hid in the dark, while their silver hearse took them to their destination.


    06:20


    Morgan ran for his life.


    There was no better opportunity than the one he¡¯d just taken. The gathered bounty hunters had been focused on Baltay and Gretchen -- who, to be quite honest, Morgan had no qualms about abandoning. While those two focused their ire, Morgan could get away and hide himself within the labyrinth of Azum-Ha.


    That didn¡¯t mean he was completely in the clear, though.


    "Jenimie Shotgun!" screeched a high-pitched voice from behind him.


    Chunks of rubbles zoomed towards Morgan, bouncing off the air in bizarre spiralling patterns as they approached. A swing of his bolstered Fog sword deflected them, but their master ran in a second later. A gangly young man in a white vest and shorts, wearing a crude mask of what was apparently meant to look like Dragan Hadrien. Hair taken from a mop and burlap covering the face.


    Mid-Tier Bounty Hunter


    The Aspirant


    "Jenimie World!" the Aspirant screamed as he lunged in, transforming his arm into an augur of blue light.


    As the maniac punched, Morgan leaned back like he was playing limbo, and the fist swung high above him. The air pressure smashed a huge dent into the building behind, but -- save for the wind scratching at his face -- Morgan was unharmed. He spun around, swinging his smog-sword at the back of the Aspirant¡¯s neck.


    Save for any nonsense, this would be the killing blow¡­


    "Jenimie Dominion!"


    ¡­but the Aspirant had nonsense to spare.


    A white pillar erupted out of empty space, deflecting Morgan¡¯s blow as it stretched and waved upwards, oddly flaccid. The Aspirant turned, a grin visible beneath the holes in his mask, pointing his hands at Morgan.


    "Jenimie Rail --"


    He didn¡¯t get to finish his sentence. He didn¡¯t even get to finish his breath. In the moment before he executed his attack, he suddenly stopped, his head jerking upwards¡­


    ¡­as his throat birthed the blade of a spear.


    The guy from the UAP. Muzazi¡¯s sponsor.


    Jamilu Aguta pulled the weapon free with a look of distaste, splattering blood and scattered meat onto the floor. His face was covered in ashes and his left hand was bound tight with what looked like a napkin. To put it bluntly, he¡¯d certainly seen better days -- but then again, that was the same for everyone tonight.


    "Morgan Nacht," he said, twirling his spear. "It seems I found you just in time."


    How did you find me? What¡¯s the situation? What happens next?


    All sorts of questions came to Morgan¡¯s mind, but only one made it to his lips.


    "Where¡¯s Muzazi?"


    06:00


    (a short while ago)


    "Clown," glared Mereloco. "Explain."


    Purple Aether crackled threateningly over his musculature as he advanced upon Wu Ming, passing a silent Gregori Hazzard. In response, the Clown of the Supremacy backed up, raising his hands placatingly. He might have even seemed intimidated, if he wasn¡¯t laughing.


    "Oh, come on! Come on!" he grinned. "I¡¯m just a little guy, don¡¯t get mad! Besides, saving Aclima will bring you closer to finding Muzazi! Trust me!"


    Mereloco stopped, and slowly -- slowly -- raised an eyebrow.


    "How?" he demanded.


    "By the way," Manron drawled from the corner, red eyes fixed on Wu Ming. "Even if you convince this guy not to tear your head off, I¡¯m still pissed. Start talking -- quick."


    "Um," said Aclima.


    Four pairs of eyes turned to look at her -- and she knew each one of them could kill her in a matter of seconds. Still, she couldn¡¯t just sit here. She couldn¡¯t just stay helpless.


    "I have some questions," she said, throat dry.


    "We all have questions," muttered Manron, scowling. "Were you not listening?"


    She ignored him, and turned her gaze to Wu Ming. "For one¡­ you¡¯re dead. There was a corpse. Right?"


    "Haha," Wu Ming scratched the back of his head bashfully. "Well, you¡¯re right about that. You¡¯re talking to a dead man!"


    Gregori crossed his arms. "I think we¡¯re all getting pretty sick of your jokes, Ming."


    "No joke!" Wu Ming wagged a finger. "Okay, maybe a little bit of one -- a two-outta-ten on the humour scale, but still in that genre. You¡¯re not really talking to a dead man, I guess. It¡¯s more like¡­ I¡¯m some Aether that confused itself for Wu Ming, and now I¡¯m just wandering around generating myself."


    Mereloco¡¯s glare deepened. "An Awakening," he rumbled.


    "Oh, you¡¯re familiar?"


    "The Great Chain used them in the war," Mereloco grunted. "Continue."


    "Existentially, it¡¯s kind of horrifying," Wu Ming said casually. "But I try not to let it get me down. The point is -- the point is --" He turned back to the two former contestants. "-- you guys wanna find Atoy Muzazi, right?"


    "You already know," Manron snapped. "Stop messing around."


    "But I¡¯m willing to bet he wouldn¡¯t want to be found. What¡¯s a guy to do? Well, if you pop up with this tyke in tow," he waved a hand at Aclima. "Well, he¡¯ll have no choice but to come to you. He¡¯s honour bound, you see. That¡¯s the kind of disease he has."


    Aclima laughed.


    Again, unkind eyes turned to face her, but she still couldn¡¯t bring herself to wipe the smile off her face. What a joke. These morons were really listening to this clown, when he didn¡¯t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.


    Honour bound.


    Yeah, right. If that were true, Atoy Muzazi wouldn¡¯t have betrayed her. If that were true, Atoy Muzazi wouldn¡¯t have murdered her father.


    If that were true¡­ none of this would be happening at all.


    So she stood there, and she laughed.


    06:51


    The Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre was a huge dome-shaped structure, sixteen levels of commerce and entertainment sealed behind a glass barrier, perched atop one of Grip District¡¯s tourism plazas. It had been closed for a year now for construction of an expansion that had apparently run into problems¡­ although Ruth supposed that was probably just a cover story.


    If the UAP¡¯s Ultraviolets were using this place as a hideout, then it would be best for the place to be empty, after all.


    "Hurry," Ruth hissed, skulking through the entrance courtyard -- hand holding her aching side.


    Annatrice del Sed scowled at her, Bruno and Serena slung over her shoulder. "Don¡¯t forget our hierarchy, deviant. I am a Special Officer of the Supremacy, and you are nothing but another criminal on the run. It¡¯s only by my good grace -- and for my convenience -- that you even remain standing. Instead of trying to ¡¯command¡¯ me, a laughable notion from the very beginning, why not but clutch a pinch of gratitude? I can assure you, you¡¯ll enjoy the taste far more than --"


    "Shut the fuck up," Ruth hissed, turning her head as she squatted to reach for the shutters.


    As Annatrice pouted and scowled, Ruth took a deep breath. Right now, even moving around was painful. The fight against Niain had taken a lot out of her.


    Even so, at this moment, she had no choice¡­


    Skeletal Set.


    Her gauntlets almost didn¡¯t manifest properly. They were droopy and warped, half-melted, like they were made of wax. Even so, they provided enough strength that she was able to lift the sealed shutters and open a small gap into the shopping centre.


    She jerked her head, ushering Annatrice in, and -- once the girl had pulled Serena and Bruno in with her -- she rolled under as well. The shutter slammed shut behind her, plunging them into darkness.


    So, she didn¡¯t see.


    She didn¡¯t see the bug-men lurking in the shadows.


    She didn¡¯t see the metal titan silhouetted against the moon.


    She didn¡¯t see the gathered scum watching, waiting¡­


    ¡­for all the players to take their final places.

 Chapter 434:14.8: Palate Cleanser

    7:42


    Rory the Clown had dark in his eyes and dust on his skin.


    Normally, the amusement automatic would dance and sing at passersby, delighting and terrifying children -- interrupted every so often by a sponsor from his painted lips. Now, though, when the shopping centre was closed? Now he just stood there, staring off into empty space with his vapid grin, powerless and lost.


    Ruth could relate.


    She hugged her metal knees -- cold -- to her chest as she sat before the clown, a clumsy campfire on the floor in front of her, conjured from sparks and advertisement banners. Annatrice del Sed, the odd girl, sat next to her, poking the flames with a farball bat she¡¯d procured from a sports goods store.


    "The key to it," she said, with confidence Ruth wasn¡¯t sure she deserved. "Now, listen, the key to it -- is to make sure the fire is ¡¯trained¡¯ to follow your will. You might laugh at that -- I would even understand it -- but that¡¯s only because you don¡¯t yet understand the world in the same fashion as I. All humans are but clumps of eager flame, and we, the supermen? We are the sticks poking them, having them dance to our tune. It¡¯s quite amusing, really! For others to think they are walking by their own merit, but if only they looked up, they would see the strings of machination. It makes one want to laugh. In fact, I think I shall! Ha --"


    "Sorry," Ruth murmured, eyes fixed on the flames. "But can you shut up?"


    The adrenaline of near-death was beginning to wear off, and now Ruth could feel the floor opening up beneath her. What did she do now? She had to get Bruno and Serena off of Azum-Ha alive. She had to get herself off of Azum-Ha alive. But¡­ what then?


    Her goals had turned to dust in her hands. Dragan had made it very clear he wouldn¡¯t listen to a word any of them said. Ruth wasn¡¯t even sure she wanted to give him her words anymore.


    The image wouldn¡¯t leave her head -- him, blasting Bruno with his Gemini Shotgun, the world illuminated in a flash of deadly blue. Even just thinking about it made her shake with rage. That same rage had gripped her in that moment, made her charge forward. If the Tree of Might hadn¡¯t come between her and Dragan, what would have happened next, she wondered? What would she have done with her claws?


    No¡­ what would she have tried to do with her claws?


    "Do you think they¡¯ll be okay?" asked a soft, quiet voice from beside her.


    Ruth turned to look at Annatrice over the unconscious del Sed body. The girl¡¯s body language had shifted -- now she was hugging her knees to her chest just like Ruth -- and she¡¯d stopped putting on that stupid voice. Ruth hadn¡¯t even realized it was her speaking at first.


    "They should be," Ruth said after a moment. "I mean¡­ they¡¯re not hurt that bad."


    "Then why are they still asleep?" Annatrice whispered, eyes half-shut, staring into space.


    Ruth clenched her fist. What she had said wasn¡¯t wrong¡­ Bruno and Serena weren¡¯t hurt that badly. Physically, they were probably in better shape than Ruth herself


    But that was only on the outside.


    "Look," Ruth pushed on. "Once we get them out of here, we¡¯ll be able to have someone look at them. Until then¡­ we just have to keep moving."


    Annatrice glanced over, just for a second, before looking straight ahead again.


    "Once we escape," she murmured. "Once we do get out of here¡­ what then?"


    What then?


    The very question Ruth was asking herself. Where did they go after all this was done? The UAP? The Final Church? When the del Sed¡¯s woke back up, what would they want to do? What did Ruth want to do? Did she even know?


    Ruth opened her mouth to provide a comforting answer to the girl¡­ S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "I don¡¯t know."


    ¡­but that was all she could manage.


    I¡¯ll show you. I¡¯ll show you that people can be good¡­ that they¡¯re not how you think.


    Ruth¡¯s lips twisted into a complicated line as she remembered the careless words she¡¯d given Dragan, back in the Heart Building. Again, she couldn¡¯t help but think¡­ she hadn¡¯t shown Dragan a thing, had she? She¡¯d failed -- and everything that was happening now, everything they were going through, was all because of her failure.


    Hell¡­ did she even believe those words anymore?


    7:50


    Appointment waited.


    It wasn¡¯t anything new for him. Most of the bounty hunting business -- if you knew what you were doing -- was waiting for your opportunity. Those bounty hunters who charged in didn¡¯t remain bounty hunters for long. Often, they found themselves moving over into the carcass industry.


    Flying high in the air above the Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre, Appointment inspected the surrounding area. His visor was powerful enough that he could read the spider-web of streets beneath him like he was standing there himself, down to the specks of dust swimming through the air. Ruth Blaine was confirmed at the shopping centre, but when would the others be arriving at this rendezvous point?


    He couldn¡¯t see any sign of the targets or Atoy Muzazi yet -- but if the intel Anduan had sold him was accurate, this was where they¡¯d all be meeting up. Appointment did not doubt the Cannibal¡¯s intel. Despite his debilitating Aether tic, Anduan was a former Ultraviolet, part of the UAP¡¯s intelligence service. If you caught him at a good moment, you could find him quite reasonable.


    It was just a shame that the Cannibal had been especially reasonable today¡­ and so Appointment was not alone in his vigil.


    In the shadows inside buildings, inside the dark mouths of alleyways, he could see them. Drones from the Hive of Malkuth, lurking unseen, waiting for worthwhile prey to appear. There were only a few drones present right now, but Appointment knew that the Hive covered some high-level transportation abilities.


    If the need truly arose, the Hive could be here in full force almost instantly.


    There were others, too, remnants from the Crimson Carnival that had drifted here like flotsam. Appointment caught them watching the shopping centre with his distant gaze -- they weren¡¯t quite as hidden or as skilled as they probably assumed. The Guardian Entity technique they used was somewhat interesting, but Appointment wasn¡¯t terribly concerned about them as rivals.


    Funnily enough, as former subordinates of Nael Manron, they had their own bounties -- nothing huge, but enough to buy birthday presents with. Rachel would be turning fifteen this year, and Josiah nine. Easy pickings weren¡¯t to be scoffed at.


    Still¡­ you could never be too careful. Appointment had his Chassis¡¯ computers begin compiling all the information on the Carnival¡¯s members that it could access. If he was going to be stuck here, waiting, he might as well get some light reading --


    "Stop," Appointment said quickly, audible only within his suit. "Enhance."


    His visor zoomed all the way in on the designated spot -- a nondescript street corner -- but as he¡¯d half-expected, it was empty. It wasn¡¯t often that his senses played tricks on him. Had they played a trick on him? What had he thought he saw? He wasn¡¯t quite certain¡­


    ¡­but he¡¯d thought he¡¯d seen something like a black dog sitting there.


    Swallowing back his unease, Appointment cracked his neck. With a barely audible beep, his weapons switched to low-power mode, maintaining only the basic auto-defenses. Light-bending camouflage concealed him against the rising sun.


    Azum-Ha had twenty-hour days, which meant he was approaching the halfway mark for his ability. Past 20:00, he¡¯d be just as powerless as a normal human¡­ well, a normal human in a state-of-the-art Armoured Chassis, but still not ideal. It was tempting to let that time limit drive him to haste -- but no. Appointment had never known a bounty hunter who had lived a long life by rushing things.


    He would stand in the sky, and he would wait -- for the moment he needed.


    As his visor snapped back into focus, zooming in on two figures limping through the backstreets, Appointment smiled thinly.


    There you are¡­ Atoy Muzazi.


    7:54


    "Are we being followed?" Muzazi asked, holding his side as he dragged himself across the courtyard, his face slick with sweat.


    "Definitely," Rufus grunted, holding his shield out protectively as the two of them made their way towards the entrance. "We¡¯ve got plenty of eyes on us. But they won¡¯t do shit yet."


    Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" If they knew they were walking into a trap, then why were they still walking?


    "First. If they think we¡¯re meeting our buddies here," Rufus explained. "Then they¡¯ll wait for our buddies to show up before doing anything. They wanna hit the jackpot, you know? Greedy bastards."


    "And second?" Muzazi asked, leaning against the shutters as they reached the sealed front doors.


    "Like I said," Rufus smirked, crouching down to grab hold of the shutters. "They¡¯re greedy bastards. None of them want the other guys to get the payout¡­ so the first one to make a move will have everyone else on their ass instantly. Mutually assured destruction, right?"


    "Right¡­"


    Muzazi said that, but no¡­ a battle as pointless as that was beyond his comprehension.


    Was it?


    The shutters slowly creaked open, and Muzazi thought.


    The rivers of blood he¡¯d seen on Elysian Fields, the hills of corpses, the legions slaughtered for the sake of ¡¯points¡¯ that in the end had amounted to nothing. What gave that battle more meaning than this one? At least tonight there was money on the line -- actual money that one could reach out and touch.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    He felt sick¡­ and as he passed into the darkness of the shopping centre, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder.


    When will all this stupid fighting stop?


    ¡­will it ever stop¡­?


    8:01


    Jamilu¡¯s foot slammed into the side of the motorcycle, and a moment later it flared into life, hovering over the ground to receive its passengers.


    Nebula Two mounted the vehicle, swinging his head around to face Morgan. "Get on."


    "I¡¯m surprised," Morgan said, climbing on the bike behind Jamilu. "I thought that little move only worked in the videographs."


    "You¡¯d be surprised."


    The bike took off, swooping out of the alley and into the river of traffic. Jamilu¡¯s eyes narrowed as he weaved around cars and trams, the streets transformed into smears of colour as they made their way to their destination. Night had fully blossomed into morning, now, and a newborn sun illuminated their journey as they rode.


    "So," Morgan said, squinting against the air pressure. "Mind if I ask you a question?"


    "Go ahead."


    "Why are you guys saving us?"


    Jamilu was silent for a moment. Then, he opened his mouth to answer -- but Morgan continued before he could do so.


    "Don¡¯t get me wrong," the New Moon said. "You guys are nice enough -- I mean, you¡¯re not assholes -- but I can¡¯t see you going out of your way like this just to be nice. At least, I can¡¯t see the UAP top-brass letting you do that."


    Jamilu¡¯s hands tightened around the handlebars. He sighed. "If you must know," he replied. "Atoy Muzazi demanded we save you as well, or he wouldn¡¯t allow us to evacuate him from the planet."


    "And why are you ¡¯evacuating¡¯ him?"


    "I won¡¯t lie," Jamilu said solemnly. "The UAP hopes to use Atoy Muzazi for political purposes. There¡¯s already controversy about the new Supreme -- about his methods of victory. They hope to stir dissent by presenting a more honourable candidate, perpetually out of the Supreme¡¯s reach."


    Morgan closed his eyes. "More honourable, huh¡­?"


    Jamilu glanced back at him. "You don¡¯t agree?"


    "No, I do. It¡¯s just¡­ I don¡¯t know that anyone else will. The way the Contest ended¡­ Muzazi stealing Aclima¡¯s position, then confessing to killing Kadmon¡­ to anyone else, he probably doesn¡¯t look very honourable right now. That¡¯s my fault."


    Jamilu spoke quietly, barely audible over the engine. "How so?"


    "I wanted Muzazi to win," Morgan sighed. "I thought he¡¯d make a better Supreme than anyone else. So¡­ I pushed him. I pushed him to win using whatever means possible. The proxy law¡­ stealing from Aclima¡­ that was me. If it wasn¡¯t for me, he would never have done that. I¡¯m an asshole, huh? I wanted to pull him up, but I¡¯ve just thrown him all the way down. It¡¯s a bad joke."


    They swooped down, sliding between two buses as they descended though the roadways, towards Grip District.


    "I won¡¯t deny that your tactics have damaged Muzazi," Jamilu said mercilessly. "But I wouldn¡¯t say that damage is irreparable -- and besides, any dishonour Muzazi has accumulated in the dark is nothing compared to what the Supreme has done out in the open. In a contest of virtue, Atoy Muzazi would win. I¡¯ll tell you that right now."


    Morgan scoffed. "Trying to cheer me up?"


    "Hardly," Jamilu said. "I¡¯m not that kind. I just --"


    "Enough of this bullshit," groaned a grimy, gravelly voice -- coming from the crimson spear on Jamilu¡¯s back. "How about I tell you how it really is, brat?"


    Jamilu¡¯s nostrils flared, even as his gaze remained fixed on the road. "Silence."


    "Silence yourself. You¡¯ve got no way of stopping me from talking, you little shit. How about it, Nacht? You want a dose of reality, you Supremacist cunt?"


    Morgan swallowed as he looked down at the spear, noticing the faint pink aura that swayed around it. This was something out of legend he was looking at, hearing -- an Old Demon of the Dawn. A hero of antiquity, crushed into a monstrous diamond by the pressures of an endless war.


    Just looking at it prodded some basic instinct in the back of his mind, some base and animal terror. Still, he answered.


    "Go ahead," he said, with more confidence than he felt.


    "Don¡¯t indulge it," Jamilu snapped -- but it was too late.


    "You think your guy was really gonna change anything?" Victory laughed. "Why, because he¡¯s so nice, because he swings a sword so pretty? You stupid fuck. They should¡¯ve aborted you. How many Supremes have there been now¡­ five, six? Every one of them has been the same. Even when they think they¡¯re different, they¡¯re the same. You know why?"


    "Five or six?" Morgan furrowed his brow.


    "Ignore it," Jamilu sighed as they turned a corner. "As a spear, its mental capacity is limited. It only has so much comprehension of the world."


    Victory ignored the insult, speaking still to Morgan. "You know why, brat?" it repeated.


    "No," Morgan looked away. "No, I guess I don¡¯t. You gonna tell me?"


    "Because it¡¯s all the same bullshit under the skin -- all the same bullshit veins and bullshit bones. If the sword¡¯s calling the shots, what does it matter which asshole is holding it?"


    Morgan¡­ had no response to that, and so he gave none.


    "Yeah, that¡¯s what I thought. Go fuck yourself."


    Swallowing back his discomfort, Morgan looked back up at Jamilu, changing the subject. "Do you know what¡¯s happened to the others?"


    "The others?"


    "The other Phases."


    Jamilu thought for a moment. "I did some investigation while Muzazi was unconscious. Gregori Hazzard and Ash del Duran are missing -- they haven¡¯t been seen since the end of the Dawn Contest. Same with Anya Hapgrass and Endo Silversaint."


    "Don¡¯t you worry about them," Morgan muttered.


    "From what I¡¯ve been told, Marcus Grace fled the planet during the last match of the Contest -- he¡¯s probably on his way to the Grace estate on Perkile. And Ionir Yggdrassil¡­ well, my condolences."


    Morgan quietly nodded. The night had been so hectic, so active¡­ it was as if he¡¯d managed to run ahead of his grief for a while, and only now was it actually catching up. Ionir was gone. Ionir, who had saved his life. Ionir, who had been part of him.


    Ionir¡­ his friend.


    Morgan took a deep breath. He couldn¡¯t let it catch him now. For the time being, until they were safe, he had to keep running.


    Safe, huh?


    "Do you think they¡¯ll go for us?" Morgan asked, as they swerved around a corner. "The bounty hunters? Your driving is hardly keeping a low profile."


    "Our faces are known all across Azum-Ha," Jamilu said simply. "Low profiles are no longer possible for us. Besides -- the Banquet isn¡¯t an official occasion. During the day like this, the hunters have to be careful of law enforcement just like usual. No sane bounty hunter would risk attacking us in a public -- "


    Jamilu cut himself off.


    One second, Morgan was sitting behind Jamilu on the motorcycle. The next, he was up in the air, grabbed by the scruff of his collar by his companion -- and the motorcycle was a fiery explosion beneath them. It had been slapped out of the air by a massive spectral hand -- a hand that had squirmed out of a nearby billboard as if being birthed by it.


    The two landed on a neighbouring balcony -- and immediately, Morgan flared his Aether.


    F! A!


    Black Fog poured out of his palms, coalescing into a smoke-sword that he grasped tight. It wouldn¡¯t be as effective as an actual weapon, but at least with this he could defend himself.


    "Yoohoo!"


    Morgan¡¯s head snapped up -- and he saw the person that had attacked them. A young woman in a black leotard, sitting cross-legged atop another spectral hand that sprouted from the rooftop opposite. She stood up, dusting off her legs as she strolled across its palm. Reaching the edge, she leaned forward, holding onto the raised thumb for support.


    "It is!" she smiled. "It really is! Morgan Nacht, right? This is our first time meeting! Isn¡¯t that great?"


    Morgan gripped his sword tighter. "And you are?"


    She grinned excitedly. "I¡¯m the Sixth Dead, sweetie, but you can call me Six if you like. I¡¯m so surprised, though. To think you¡¯d just be driving around in the open like nothing¡¯s even happening¡­ is there a reason for that, or are you just stupid?"


    It was just as Jamilu had said. No sane bounty hunter would choose to launch a brazen attack like this in public. No sane bounty hunter.


    But Morgan could see the woman¡¯s eyes from here. Those weren¡¯t eyes he wanted getting any closer to him. Slowly, he adjusted his footing, sword raised.


    "So you¡¯re here to cash in?" Morgan called across the street. "That¡¯s your reason for being here, right?"


    "Hm¡­" the Sixth Dead put a finger to her lips. "I suppose, I guess, technically, you could say that¡­ but no. Actually, I¡¯m here for the sake of love."


    Morgan frowned. "Love?" That he hadn¡¯t expected.


    "Love," the Sixth Dead sighed, putting her hands over her heart and twirling dreamily -- nearly falling off the hand in the process. "It¡¯s what makes the world go around, you know. I¡¯m on my way to my first date with Atoy Muzazi, if you must know. I know it¡¯s a little presumptuous to say it¡¯s ¡¯love¡¯ at this point, but they say you¡¯ve gotta dress for the job you want, right? It¡¯s the same sort of principle. I want Atoy Muzazi more than anything else in this world. He¡¯s like my father and my husband all rolled into one. I mean, who wouldn¡¯t go crazy for that, right? Everyone needs true love. Everyone needs a needle pinning them against the world. It¡¯s the same for you, right? You hang out with Atoy Muzazi all the time, don¡¯t you? Don¡¯t try to hide it, you little homewrecker, you. I¡¯m on my way to my first date, and I need flowers. For flowers, I need fertilizer. You¡¯ll do. Don¡¯t you think Muzazi would prefer a scent that¡¯s close to home? You would know, right? You¡¯ve spent so much --"


    "Damn, bitch," said Victory. "You really like to yap, huh?"


    The Sixth Dead blinked.


    "Excuse me?"


    Jamilu did not waste another moment. In one smooth motion, he pulled Victory from his back and hurled it at the Sixth Dead, pink Aether tracing a trail through the air. For her part, the Sixth Dead just giggled, cocking her head to the side and allowing the spear to sail right past her.


    "Ooh, you know how to kill too, dont¡¯cha?" she said. "But I think my aim is a little better."


    Jamilu said nothing in response.


    He just closed his fist¡­


    ¡­and Victory began the journey home.


    Apart from its main three abilities, Victory had some secondary functions as an Aether Armament. Most of those Jamilu couldn¡¯t access, but this one -- automatic return -- had come in handy many times over the years. With just a thought, Jamilu¡¯s weapon would return to his hand.


    Even if someone else¡¯s head was in the way.


    He saw the realization on the Sixth Dead¡¯s face. The sharp intake of breath, the widening of the eyes as she realized that blade was aimed at the back of her skull, was coming for the back of her skull. With Victory¡¯s speed and this distance, there wasn¡¯t enough time to dodge.


    Jamilu wasn¡¯t cocky enough to think he could kill this woman with his first attack¡­ but her response would show him what to watch out for.


    Purple Aether poured down the Sixth Dead¡¯s legs, spreading out into the rooftop beneath her -- and a second later, it activated. Countless purple arms burst out from the concrete, a veritable forest of severed limbs -- young and old, long and short, sharp and soft -- grabbing hold of the demon spear and halting its path. Within a few seconds, it was wrapped between so many spectral fingers that it wasn¡¯t even visible anymore.


    I see. Her ability creates phantom limbs that can grab and manipulate objects. How strong are they? How durable?


    It¡¯s best to test these things.


    Jamilu had not sent Victory out alone. Before hurling the spear, he had smeared the blade with some of the blood from his wounded hand -- priming it for this countermove. With a single spark of Aether, he calmly activated the ability.


    Calamity.


    Pink flames erupted from the spear, and severed fingers of all shapes and sizes flew in every direction. As the inferno washed over the Sixth Dead, cutting her cry of surprise short, Jamilu swung his head around to face Morgan.


    He didn¡¯t have to say much.


    "Run."

 Chapter 435:14.9: Second Main Course

    Sometimes, Morgan Nacht felt emerald envy well up in his heart.


    It happened when he looked at his teacher -- the Clown of the Supremacy, the Man With A Thousand Powers, Wu Ming. If you saw that man dancing across the battlefield, defeating his enemies with conjured absurdities, you might think it was effortless. Not Morgan.


    Morgan knew it was effortless.


    Wu Ming was not like other people. At the moment of his birth, all the dice had been rolled in his favour. He had a connection to his Aether like nobody else Morgan had ever seen. Abilities that would take years for lesser men to develop were cobbled together in mere moments. An omnipresent core meant he was always in his best condition. If there was an advantage, Wu Ming had it.


    That was the kind of divine talent that effort could never overcome -- and that was what bred the envy inside Morgan¡¯s heart. He had strength too, he had skill, he even had multiple abilities¡­ but what was that compared to Wu Ming? What were twenty-six abilities compared to the infinite?


    Compared to him¡­ Morgan often thought. I¡¯m nothing but an amateur.


    8:16


    "Run," snapped Jamilu Aguta.


    He opened his hand, and Victory rushed out of the inferno opposite and into his grasp. The moment he recovered his weapon, Nebula Two whirled around and slammed it into the wall behind them, shattering an entrance into the building beyond.


    Scattered screams rang out as he and Morgan ran into the now-exposed room. A restaurant¡¯s dining room, occupied only by staff at this early hour -- staff who fled for their lives as the two warriors entered. The tables were set and the decor immaculate.


    Morgan felt bad.


    Bang.


    Jamilu skidded to a halt as he heard the Sixth Dead launch off the roof. With a snarl of frustration, he turned on his heel and swung his spear, deflecting a blow that would have punctured his skull. Purple Aether danced with pink in the dawn¡¯s light.


    The Sixth Dead jumped back as a blur, avoiding Jamilu¡¯s counterattack, and touched down on a nearby table.


    Cutlery rattled under her increased weight as she landed. Morgan hadn¡¯t expected the maniac to be able to pursue them so quickly after taking a blow like that -- but now he saw how she¡¯d done it. A shudder went down his spine.


    The Sixth Dead was covered in armour of her own making -- layers upon layers of purple arms, sprouting from all over her own body and wrapping together to cover her form. It looked like it had just barely worked. As Morgan watched, the last of the hands crumbled away -- casualties of the pink flames -- revealing the Sixth Dead¡¯s crazed grin beneath.


    Jamilu adjusted his stance, cold eyes focused on his adversary.


    "Redundancies, huh?" he muttered.


    Morgan glanced over. "What?"


    "Those hands are called Redundancies," Jamilu explained, watchful for the next attack. "When she kills someone, she records their arms -- and then she can spawn them from any surface infused with her Aether."


    "You¡¯re well informed," the Sixth Dead chirped, standing up straight. "I can understand figuring out how my power works through observation, but finding out its name? Hm. Hmm. You¡¯ve got a little something-something going on, don¡¯t you, spear boy?"


    Jamilu moved one hand up the length of his weapon, preparing to attack.


    "Mr. Nacht," he said. "I¡¯m going to keep her busy. While --"


    "No you won¡¯t," smiled the Sixth Dead.


    A wave of purple Aether pulsed out from her body, filling the room -- and in that same instant, Redundancies sprouted from every place at every table, like a legion of dismembered diners had just arrived. As one, they plucked the knives and forks beneath them -- and as one, they hurled them towards Jamilu and Morgan.


    The cutlery shone with transferred Aether -- they would be stronger than bullets.


    F --


    Morgan went to erect a barrier of Fog, but Jamilu was faster. He pushed Morgan behind him with a foot and blew -- spraying spittle into the air before him. There was a single spark of pink Aether -- and that spittle ignited, becoming a cloud of broiling pink fire. As the attacks passed through the makeshift shield, their courses went wild, half-melted cutlery dropping to the ground around them.


    Their enemy hadn¡¯t just stood there and watched, though. The Sixth Dead was running around the circumference of the circular room -- seeking to get behind Jamilu -- and as she did, she grabbed a knife herself and threw it towards the Nebula¡¯s throat. He swung his spear upwards, shattering the uninfused blade and sending its shards thudding into the ceiling.


    The Sixth Dead narrowed her eyes.


    She stopped running and instead kicked off the wall towards them, a tent of hands manifesting atop her head to create an aerodynamic cone. Morgan went to jump out of the way -- but no, he couldn¡¯t. His eyes flicked down -- Redundancies had sprouted from the floor as well, and had seized hold of his and Jamilu¡¯s ankles, holding them in place.


    Jamilu didn¡¯t try and escape. He just stood there, readying his spear in that miniscule and endless moment.


    Like Wu Ming would do, Morgan realized bitterly. Like a real warrior would do.


    As the Sixth Dead reached them, she dispelled her hand-tent -- and instead, eight Redundancies sprouted from her back, muscular and flexile at the same time, like the tentacles of some deep sea creature. Laughing wildly, she unleashed a flurry of mirrored punches.


    The air trembled¡­


    The air trembled¡­


    ¡­and spear met fist and fist and fist and fist.


    Jamilu Aguta moved with all the speed his body was capable of, parrying each and every punch with a thrust of Victory, ignoring the growing exhaustion tugging at his soul. Clangclangclangclangclang -- the sounds of their inter-second clashes shook the furniture around them. To pull his mind away from the building fatigue, Jamilu tapped into his Principality -- into the information on his enemy it was feeding him.


    The Sixth Dead.


    As the name suggested, the sixth incarnation of the Aether-user known as the Dead. Unstable, severely unstable. Possessed a capacity for slaughter and an antipathy for her past lives unmatched by any of her predecessors. Wielded a massive scythe in battle, believed to be some kind of Aether Armament. Extremely dangerous.


    Jamilu frowned as sparks danced past his eyes. Scythe? Where was this scythe that the Sixth Dead supposedly used? Was the fact that it was missing significant?


    No time to speculate. He barely had time to think at all. Time had capacity only for a nervous impulse to propel him to his next block.


    It was a losing battle, he recognised that. Even as he deflected the Sixth Dead¡¯s fists, she was manifesting more, knuckles against knuckles slamming into Jamilu¡¯s weapon. Eventually, he would make a mistake. Eventually, he would slip up. Eventually --


    A hand landed on his shoulder.


    Ah. He¡¯d lost his focus. Now he would surely die. Alarm flared through Jamilu¡¯s brain for only a moment before he heard it¡­


    "I. A."


    One moment, Morgan and Jamilu were standing in what was very quickly becoming the ruins of a dining room. The next, Inside had transported them both down to the floor below -- into a dusty storage room, lined with shelves holding boxes.


    Lifting his legs in a strange dance, finally free of those creepy hands, Morgan turned his head to Jamilu.


    "We need to --"


    A shudder ran down his spine as a purple Aether ping swept across the room -- and he and Jamilu¡¯s Aether sparked instinctively in response. Shit. They hadn¡¯t even had any time to think about cloaking.


    Jamilu¡¯s gaze hardened.


    "We need to go," he said.


    A single swipe of Victory obliterated the locked door before them -- and without further ado, the two of them were off. They sprinted down the long hallway, sealed doors on either side, charging in pursuit of an uncertain escape. As he heard the rubble behind them shift, Morgan chanced a look back over his shoulder -- and immediately wished he hadn¡¯t.


    Eyes.


    Redundancies had emerged around the shattered remains of the door they¡¯d escaped through, but these weren¡¯t like the ones from before. These hands had unblinking eyes resting in their palms -- eyes that focused on Morgan as he met their collective gaze. The pupils shrank as one.


    Another shudder went down his spine.


    "Hands from Scurrants¡­" Jamilu muttered as he followed Morgan¡¯s gaze. "If her victim¡¯s hands have unique abilities, she can use those abilities herself? Damnit. She can see us."


    Bang.


    The ceiling shook -- and the storage room behind them exploded into a cloud of dust and debris, sweeping down the hallway. Morgan felt the intentions of a killer close in on him, like teeth waiting to bite down on his neck. The Sixth Dead had broken down through the floor to follow them, and any second now, she¡¯d --


    She did.


    The smoke parted behind them as the Sixth Dead launched herself out of the storage room, once again clad in hand-armour from head to toe. Jamilu pushed Morgan to the side with one hand, and with the other he readied Victory. The spear crackled pink as Jamilu held it, preparing to counter the incoming attack.


    Only¡­


    Bang.


    The hallway ahead of them exploded into dust as well -- and from this side, another Sixth Dead launched herself, far faster than the first. This one had no hand-armour, this one was grinning wildly, and this one -- Morgan realized -- was the real deal. His heart dropped.


    The other one, coming from the storage room, was a decoy -- a puppet of Redundancies. Jamilu swung back around, caught unready by his real target -- and Morgan moved to handle the decoy in his place.


    F! A!


    A barrier of black Fog stopped the puppet¡¯s advance -- Morgan heard it slam against the cloud -- but he knew the moment had still been lost, for he heard other sounds as well. He heard Jamilu Aguta gasp in pain, and he heard the tearing of flesh.


    Fearing what he¡¯d see, Morgan Nacht turned his head.


    The Sixth Dead had stopped, slamming her heels against the ground so she came to a halt right outside Jamilu¡¯s range. Nebula Two¡¯s swing had missed her by centimetres¡­ and she had used that opening well. A clawed Redundancy had sprouted from her wrist and stretched forward, striking Jamilu in that instant.


    For a lesser man, that would have been the killing blow -- but a Nebula was a Nebula, even if they were caught off-guard.


    Jamilu had blocked the attack¡­ after a fashion. He¡¯d raised his injured arm to protect his chest -- and now the claws of the Redundancy were embedded deep within the limb, squeezing as tightly as they could. Blood leaked freely around the digits. His face contorted with pain as the Sixth Dead smiled, slowly twisting the Redundancy inside his body.


    "I guess you guys really aren¡¯t all talk," she chuckled. "You¡¯re the first one to block that attack of mine, you know? But you really need to use your brain more."


    Jamilu smirked through the pain.


    "I could say the same to you," he hissed -- and, squeezing his eyes shut, he pulled himself free. A huge chunk of his arm was torn away in the process, locked in the grip of the Redundancy, and blood sprayed freely from the jagged wound. For a moment, Morgan thought that the Nebula had made a misplay, that he¡¯d surely lost too much in that exchange, but no¡­


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    Blood sprayed freely -- and coated the Sixth Dead¡¯s face.


    Calamity!


    It was strange, seeing it from so close.


    At first, Morgan had thought that those pink flames were a trade technique. In exchange for recording and banishing part of his own body -- whether that be spit or blood or flesh -- Jamilu could manifest an equivalent amount of those vivid pink flames. But that wasn¡¯t the case at all. What Morgan was seeing right now, he realized, was alteration.


    In an instant, Jamilu Aguta was altering every property of the blood he¡¯d released -- transmuting it into those flames. The level of skill on display in just the simplest usage was astounding. Despite everything, Morgan found himself impressed.


    The results spoke for themselves.


    The Sixth Dead screamed as pink flames ran across her head, the Redundancy disappearing from her wrist as she staggered backwards -- garish light consuming the hallway. They had done it. They had won. For the briefest moment, Morgan even felt relief tug at his heart¡­


    ¡­until the Sixth Dead stopped screaming.


    ¡­until the Sixth Dead stopped playing.


    ¡­until the Sixth Dead started laughing.


    She ran her hands though her hair like she was washing shampoo out of it¡­ and the flames vanished, smothered by her touch alone. Morgan¡¯s mouth popped open in despair. Those movements had been calm, without a hint of pain in them -- certainly not the pain of someone burning to death. It hadn¡¯t worked. The Sixth Dead had taken Jamilu¡¯s desperate gambit and shrugged it off like it was nothing.


    "It¡¯s a good thing I tested it with the knives," the madwoman said casually, strolling forwards. "That fire only affects things infused with Aether. If I release my infusion, it might as well not even exist. Of course¡­"


    A Redundancy lunged out from her torso -- and slammed an uppercut into Jamilu¡¯s stomach, smashing him into the ceiling. His spear slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground.


    "...once the fire¡¯s gone, I¡¯m free to go wild again."


    Her head snapped to look at Morgan, and her eyes widened in horrid anticipation.


    "Your turn," she breathed.


    He was going to die. If he didn¡¯t do something right now, right now, he would die. It didn¡¯t matter what it was. It didn¡¯t matter how stupid it was. All that mattered was that it was an action. That was the only thing that could stop his skull from being shattered in the next second: an action.


    So Morgan Nacht took action. He reached down -- and picked up the spear called Victory.


    "No!" Jamilu screamed from above¡­ but too late.


    Images flashed behind Morgan¡¯s eyes.


    A thousand years ago.


    A battlefield like the world¡¯s end.


    A sun drowning in its own light.


    A body bathed in blood.


    A smiling enemy with eyes of blue ice.


    A set of words drawing horror out of a heart already twisted.


    "¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ peace and joy for all mankind ¨€¨€¨€¨€ ¨€¨€ ¨€¨€ ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€"


    Morgan gasped as the world snapped back into focus, pushing away the maggots eating at his sanity. He had no time to waste. Not even a moment had passed. He was still inside his last chance.


    Drawing on the strength of his Aether, Morgan hurled the spear. Just like before, the Sixth Dead simply moved her head, allowing it to sail right past her and down the hallway. A mocking smirk spread across her lips. She knew about Victory¡¯s ability to return this time -- she¡¯d be ready for it. But that was fine.


    Morgan couldn¡¯t do that, anyway.


    F! A!


    Lassos of Fog lashed out from Morgan¡¯s hands. One wrapped itself around Jamilu¡¯s chest, plucking him from the Sixth Dead¡¯s grip. The other attached to the flying spear -- and so it pulled Morgan and Jamilu along as its passengers.


    The Sixth Dead struck at them with a snarl as they passed, but Morgan parried her blow with an Aether-infused kick -- and with that, they were past her. The hallway became a blur of door-smears and flickering wallpaper, the spear still hurtling forward in a straight line. Morgan looked back at Jamilu, the Nebula¡¯s limbs flapping in the wind. He was unconscious, but Morgan supposed that only made sense. He¡¯d already been injured, and he would be losing a lot of blood from that last wound too.


    Which means¡­ it¡¯s all up to me.


    Thump thump thump thump thump.


    Morgan looked past Jamilu -- at the adversary that he¡¯d already known would be pursuing. Just like them, the Sixth Dead had elected to travel with a makeshift vehicle. She¡¯d peeled part of the floor away and perched atop it -- while dozens of Redundancies sprouted from the sides and skittered onwards, creating what looked like nothing less than a spider of hands.


    Sweat trickled down Morgan¡¯s forehead as they finally cleared the hallway, emerging into another circular room, clearly unused judging by the lack of furniture. There was no easy exit here. There were no windows here. The door on the opposite side led only to another hallway.


    As if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, Victory was starting to slow down -- and the Sixth Dead was already gaining on them. How many seconds did they have? Five, six? If she managed to catch them again, they wouldn¡¯t survive. Was there anything else Morgan could do? Were there any more cards he could play?


    No, he thought, looking at the Sixth Dead¡¯s face as it stretched out in victory. There aren¡¯t. I¡¯m all out of cards.


    So I¡¯ll just have to make a new one.


    Theoretically, it was possible. He¡¯d observed it in action, and he wouldn¡¯t need it to be as specialized as his template. But was that really something Morgan Nacht was capable of? After seeing it only a couple of times, could he really replicate it, even modify it?


    Yes, he realized. Yes, I can. I¡¯ve done it before.


    F! A!


    Morgan released another barrier of Amplified Fog in the Sixth Dead¡¯s path -- but it didn¡¯t even slow her down. She reached out with her hands, seized hold of the hardened gas, and wrenched it apart. It poured over her body as mere trails of smoke, greater structure lost.


    Of course, that was exactly what he¡¯d wanted.


    The Sixth Dead continued onwards, the dissipated Fog washing over her form. But, right then, right as she was about to clear the cloud, she hesitated -- just for a moment -- as she saw the look on Morgan¡¯s face. His lips were spread out in a manic grin to match her own.


    Compared to him¡­ I¡¯m nothing but an amateur. But compared to anyone else? I guess I¡¯m not half-bad.


    Those lips moved.


    "L."


    Let there be Light.


    Fog became fire. These weren¡¯t like the flames that Jamilu Aguta had produced -- they wouldn¡¯t have any special effect against Aether, but that meant dispelling Aether would do nothing to relieve oneself of them. This time, the Sixth Dead screamed for real as her face and hair caught aflame, slipping from the hand-spider and rolling on the floor.


    Morgan didn¡¯t waste his chance. In one smooth movement, he linked the Fog-ropes so Jamilu was connected to Victory directly, then leapt off. His feet came down only twice. Once on the ground, then a leap put him on the crawling floor-tile, and then a second leap brought him high above the Sixth Dead, his smoke-sword raised.


    This is it.


    This is my chance.


    This is my last chance.


    He brought the blade down¡­


    ¡­and purple Aether raged.


    "ARE YOU STUPID?!" the Sixth Dead screamed.


    Purple Redundancies burst out from every inch of her body, a tidal wave of hands deflecting Morgan¡¯s blow and sending him flying backwards. He managed to transition his landing into a roll, ending up on one knee -- but by the time he was on the ground, the Sixth Dead had already completed her maneuver. He beheld it in horror.


    A cocoon.


    A cocoon of hands.


    There was no other way to describe it.


    The Sixth Dead had wrapped herself in so many Redundancies to smother the flames that her form was now spherical, elbows and wrists intertwined ad infinitum. Deep inside, through the spectral barrier, Morgan could see a pair of golden eyes staring at him. Golden eyes, gleaming with hatred and humiliation.


    "Are you stupid?!" the Sixth Dead hissed again, her voice echoing through the layers of ghostly constructs. "Are you stupid, are you stupid, are you stupid?! I can just smother normal flames with Aether, you fucking moron!"


    Morgan took a shaky breath. Victory had finally fallen to the ground behind him, Jamilu laying next to it. They were trapped. They were caught. Worst case scenario.


    Engage her, he told himself. Buy time.


    "I --"


    No such luck.


    The moment he opened his mouth, a Redundancy stretched out from within the mass and seized him by the ankle. Before he could even react, he¡¯d been scraped across the floor and slammed against the opposite wall with such force that he left an indentation in the concrete. The ghostly fingers pushed him in deep, so tight around his chest that he could barely even breathe, let alone escape.


    "See?!" the Sixth Dead snarled from within her fortress. "That¡¯s what happens when you don¡¯t think! It¡¯s just fire! Normal fire! You think I¡¯m scared of burning?! I¡¯ve already melted, you little -- ah, no! What did you make me say?! You motherfucker! Homewrecker! Fucking compost dipshit moron! I hate you! I --"


    "I¡¯ll give you one thing," croaked Jamilu from behind her. "You¡¯re more persistent than your predecessor."


    Her rant came to a sudden and cold end.


    "...huh?"


    Those golden eyes swivelled to face Jamilu instead, widening to their utmost as their owner¡¯s fury reached the absolute. For the third time that day, Morgan felt a shudder go down his spine. The Sixth Dead¡¯s annoyance at him was nothing compared to the malice she was exuding now. Whatever she intended to do, there would be no corpses left as evidence of it.


    Oh, Morgan thought. No.


    This is my last chance. S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    J!


    A copy of Morgan leapt out from his form, a false man with a false sword and false steps -- steps that raced along the length of the Redundancy towards the cocoon that had spawned it. The Sixth Dead didn¡¯t even bother to intercept the illusion. She knew there was nothing it could do. To her, it didn¡¯t even qualify as an attack.


    And of course, that would have been true¡­ until around two minutes ago.


    L. A.


    The copy exploded into an inferno -- an inferno that fell upon the Sixth Dead¡¯s cocoon like a shroud. Even with her armour of hands, the heat trickled through, and that made her whirl around, even more Redundancies sprouting to slap the flames away. It was too late.


    Morgan¡¯s last chance¡­ had created Jamilu¡¯s last chance.


    Nebula Two spat once more -- but this time, it wasn¡¯t mere spittle. A bullet of blood shot forth from his lips, collected around the edges of a deadly payload¡­ a tooth, dislodged by one of the Sixth Dead¡¯s earlier attacks. In the eyes of Victory¡¯s ability, blood was more valuable than spit¡­ and it seemed a tooth was more valuable than blood.


    Calamity.


    The Sixth Dead was struck -- by orange flames on one side, and pink flames on the other.


    The pink peeled away her defenses, and the orange burnt at the body beneath. Her scream, amplified by Aether, was loud enough to shatter every bit of glass in the room -- and her remaining Redundancies went wild, slamming and smashing everything within reach even as they were scorched away. The room shook, and the room buckled -- and in the moments before the room collapsed, Morgan broke free of his weakened prison.


    His last charge was on an instinct. He sprinted and weaved through the web of flailing arms, vaulting and flipping his way around death until he reached Jamilu. There was no time for pleasantries. Without a word, he scooped Jamilu over his shoulder -- the Nebula had already reclaimed his demon spear -- and charged off down the next hallway, leaving the pink-and-orange aurora behind them.


    From there, a stairwell.


    From there, a window.


    From there, finally, finally¡­


    Morgan Nacht took a breath.


    8:33


    She¡¯d kill him.


    If it was the last thing she¡¯d do, she¡¯d kill that little twerp. Dig her fingers into his ribs and pry him open. Pour his eyeballs into his mouth. Pull at his scalp until it tore free. A thousand murder scenarios ran through her mind as makeshift anaesthetic.


    Finally, finally, she managed to pull herself free of the twin flames. Her body was charred, her Redundancies were destroyed nearly instantly each time upon manifestation, but she did it. She managed to drag herself out into the hallway, and she managed to survive. Angry, heaving breaths kept her alive past that -- and the pain they produced kept her conscious past that.


    She¡¯d kill him. Oh, she¡¯d kill him.


    No. Not yet. It wasn¡¯t the time to go crazy yet. She needed medical attention. She needed Panacea. She needed to patch herself back up before she headed to the prom. What would Atoy Muzazi think if she saw him like this? Brought low by a blade that wasn¡¯t even his? What a humiliation. This was basically adultery. Bitter tears stung at her eyes.


    She wouldn¡¯t forget this. She wouldn¡¯t forget this until the day she died. Spectral arms carried her along, an octopus of hands guiding her to her destination. Medical attention. First things first, she needed medical attention.


    Ha. Hahaha.


    She almost felt sorry for the doctors.


    8:47


    Sitting in the dark shopping centre, Atoy Muzazi barely had hope. There was the tiniest, flickering spark of it still deep within his core, and he was holding onto that spark with all he had¡­ but there was only so much he could do against the dark. If those doors didn¡¯t open, or if they opened to the wrong sight¡­ that spark could go out.


    He¡¯d barely exchanged any words with the others when they¡¯d arrived. They just sat there, hiding in the dark, wishing only to go unnoticed. A gang of rats, waiting for a door to open. How long would they wait? How long could they? A second? Forever?


    Muzazi closed his eyes¡­


    Please.


    ¡­and for once, his prayers were answered.


    The doors opened, and light washed into the black box. Muzazi opened his eyes, and he looked up. There, standing as a silhouette, stood Morgan Nacht. Aguta was slung over his shoulder, unconscious¡­ but alive. Both of them were alive. Both of them were here, and both of them were alive.


    He thought of words to say.


    He thought of apologies to make.


    He thought of regrets to weep.


    None of them came forth. Instead, he just got up and ran -- wrapping his friend into a tight hug.

 Chapter 436:14.10: Cheese Course

    9:45


    "H," mumbled Morgan, and then a moment¡¯s hesitation later: "A."


    The effect of the Amplified Heal/Hurt on Jamilu Aguta was immediate. The sheen of sweat created by the ability¡¯s initial activation intensified into frenzied thrashing, the warrior¡¯s eyes rolling beneath their lids. In a way, Morgan supposed it was a blessing that the man was unconscious. He certainly wouldn¡¯t want to experience this awake.


    He kept the ability active for about five seconds before taking his hand away from Jamilu¡¯s forehead and looking up at Rufus.


    "His body should pick up the slack from there," he explained. "It won¡¯t bring his finger back or completely repair his arm, but he¡¯ll be able to move around, at least."


    They¡¯d broken into one of the shopping centre¡¯s furniture stores to get Jamilu a sickbed -- and now the pilfered bed looked completely out of place, resting next to the inactive water fountain at the building¡¯s heart. If the circumstances weren¡¯t so dire, Morgan might even have smiled at the absurd scene.


    The tension was thick in the air. Ruth Blaine sat a short distance away with the del Sed¡¯s and another girl Morgan didn¡¯t recognise. Rufus stood watch over Aguta, arms crossed, ready to defend with his body the moment any attack came. Muzazi, for his part, stood high above -- on a walkway overlooking the building¡¯s central plaza. Was he keeping watch, too, or did he just need time to think?


    Nobody¡¯s expression held much promise. S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "So," Morgan said, standing up, wiping some of the sweat from his brow. "What¡¯s the plan from here? How are we getting out of here?"


    It wouldn¡¯t be easy. They were surrounded, after all. Morgan had felt it as he¡¯d come in -- eyes were on this place, eyes from every angle. The bounty hunters had already known this was the place where they would gather.


    How long left until they decided nobody else was coming, and finally launched their attack?


    Rufus clicked his tongue. "That¡­" he began, before shaking his head. "That I need to talk to Jamilu about¡­ when he wakes up."


    "Talk to me about it, then," said Jamilu Aguta.


    Morgan¡¯s eyes widened as his head snapped down to the man in the sickbed. He¡¯d expected Aguta to be out of commission for a few more hours yet. They really did build these Nebula differently, didn¡¯t they?


    Jamilu Aguta had obviously seen better days -- he looked like he was remaining conscious through sheer force of will -- but still he had the strength to turn his head to Rufus.


    "The Ultraviolets should have prepared us a ship," he said quietly. "What¡¯s the issue?"


    Rufus breathed in deep through his nose. "They were taken out before we got here. There aren¡¯t any bodies, but there¡¯s blood on the roof -- only explanation I can see."


    "I see," Jamilu closed his eyes for a moment. "And the ship?"


    "Whoever was here did a number on it. The repair automatics are already on the job¡­ but it¡¯s gonna take a while."


    "How long?"


    "Six hours," Rufus sighed. "Maybe seven."


    Hearing that, Jamilu went to get up -- only to be pushed back down onto the bed by Rufus¡¯ firm hand.


    "No," the Pugnant said in a tone that permitted no argument.


    "We can¡¯t just wait here for seven hours," Jamilu said seriously. "They¡¯ll begin their attack sooner or later. We need to find another way off --"


    "It¡¯s too late," Rufus said. "We¡¯re stuck here. Only half of us are in any condition to move, and we¡¯re already surrounded. We try to leave at this point, and we¡¯re fucked."


    Jamilu groaned, pressing a hand against his face. For a moment, Morgan thought he might try and get up again¡­ but no. He slumped back down.


    "Fine," Jamilu finally said to Rufus. "This place should have security automatics. Get into the security office and get them activated. Hopefully, they¡¯ll give us some breathing room if the bounty hunters try and get in.¡¯


    Rufus nodded, turning without another word and running off to the administrative section of the building. Morgan watched him go before looking back down at Nebula Two.


    "How about the rest of us?" he asked.


    "Well," Jamilu ran a weary hand over a weary face. "Sit and wait¡­ I guess."


    11:02


    "This is the place?" Gretchen asked.


    Baltay nodded.


    "How do you know?"


    Baltay gave no answer.


    Emerald Aether flowed into his eyes as he took in the battlefield before him. It was strange to call the shopping centre a battlefield, as no fighting had actually happened yet, but Baltay knew it to be true all the same. He could already see the aftermath of a dozen slaughters overlayed over reality here.


    Frowning, he wiped Leviathan clean of blood with a handkerchief. The remnants of the Crimson Carnival had claimed several buildings surrounding the Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre, and Baltay¡¯s forecasts had indicated the assassins at this construction site would be the easiest to dispatch. They¡¯d been accurate in this case.


    "You still haven¡¯t explained," Gretchen said softly.


    How did you get out of the asylum?


    "Explained what?" Baltay asked, for Gretchen¡¯s benefit.


    "How did you get out of the asylum?"


    He glanced back over his shoulder at her, infusion leaving his electric-blue eyes. "The Supreme ordered me released," he said quietly. "That¡¯s why you were working with him, wasn¡¯t it?"


    Gretchen¡¯s eyes widened fractionally. "Seriously?" she said. "So he still considers us allied?"


    "Is that a surprise?"


    "Of course it¡¯s a surprise!" Gretchen snapped, running her hands through her hair. "What are we even doing then, sneaking around like this?! If Hadri -- if the Supreme considers me his ally, he won¡¯t have put me on the hit list for the Banquet!"


    "Naturally."


    "So what are we doing here, Baltay?!" Gretchen threw her hands up. "At this point, we shouldn¡¯t have anything to do with this! Let¡¯s just go home and watch Muzazi get killed on the news or something. Do you really want to kill him yourself that bad?"


    Lying never ended well in this situation -- and besides, Baltay didn¡¯t like the idea of lying to Gretchen. No matter how she had done it, she had stuck by him all this time. He owed her at least a sliver of honesty.


    "I don¡¯t want to kill Muzazi," he said.


    Gretchen frowned. "What?"


    "I don¡¯t want to kill Muzazi," Baltay repeated in his calm monotone. "But he and I have unfinished business. That¡¯s business I intend to conclude before I leave."


    Gretchen rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers, clearly fending off a headache. "I¡­ just¡­" she began, before sighing. "What kind of business?"


    "There¡¯ll be a fight here -- here, in this building -- within the next few hours. It¡¯s paramount that I win that fight. Will you help me?"


    There was no good reason for Gretchen to say yes. Baltay was being bizarre. Had his time in the asylum actually affected his mind? He¡¯d just gotten out of there, after all. Maybe he needed rest before he should be up and about like this.


    By all means, she should say no.


    But¡­ when she¡¯d been alone, Baltay Kojirough had extended a hand to her.


    But¡­ when she¡¯d been ignored, Baltay Kojirough had believed in her ideas.


    But¡­


    "Okay," she said softly.


    ¡­not once in her life had Gretchen Hail been able to say no to BALTAY KOJIROUGH.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    12:17


    "Ionir¡­" Muzazi muttered, looking out over the dark garden of the shopping centre.


    "Yep," Morgan said, standing alongside him atop the bridge. His hands clutched the railing in front of him tight, as if it was the only thing preventing him from being swept away. Muzazi didn¡¯t bother: he knew he was already at the current¡¯s mercy.


    "You¡¯re sure?" Muzazi asked. "You¡¯re sure he¡¯s¡­ gone?"


    "We were together a long time," Morgan said, narrowing his eyes wistfully. "Even when we separated, I could¡­ feel him, I guess? An itch at the back of my skull. I don¡¯t feel that anymore."


    "And¡­" Muzazi took in a deep breath. "Gretchen Hail was the one who did it?"


    Morgan nodded. "Hapgrass was Hail. I guess she must have used some sort of Aether Armament to change her appearance. I don¡¯t know how she did it¡­ but yeah, she did it. He nearly took her out too, but¡­ she did it." He blinked tears out of his eyes. "She killed him."


    "I see."


    Muzazi closed his eyes -- and hot anger rushed through cold veins.


    It seems vengeance lies in my hands now, Gretchen Hail. Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll hand it back to you soon.


    Morgan was still talking, even as Muzazi¡¯s thundering heartbeat threatened to drown out his voice. "I don¡¯t know what happened to Silversaint, but I¡¯m thinking Gregori took him out¡­ I-I was fighting Aclima, so I don¡¯t know what exactly happened, but¡­ that¡¯s what I figure." He looked up at Muzazi, his eyes grave. "And¡­ Baltay is out."


    Muzazi blinked -- and that thunderous heartbeat skipped a beat. "What?" he asked, his mouth dry.


    Morgan nodded seriously. "When the S4 captured us, he broke into the train they were using and slaughtered them. He got us out -- me and Hail."


    Muzazi¡¯s frown deepened. "He just let you go?"


    "He was being really weird," Morgan said hesitantly, drumming his fingers along the railing. "Really weird. From what he was saying, he seemed to think he could use me as bait for you." He shrugged lightly. "Guess that didn¡¯t work out, huh?"


    "So he wants to settle the score," Muzazi said, voice dull.


    Morgan nodded. "I¡¯d guess so¡­ yeah."


    Revenge and revenge and revenge. Where does it end, Marie? Does it ever end?


    12:49


    "Hoo boy," Wu Ming said, perched on the central spire of a skyscraper, looking down at the shopping centre through a pair of thread-woven binoculars. "That¡¯s a ten-outta-ten shit show waiting to happen right there. I¡¯d hate to be those guys. Well, if I was normal, I¡¯d hate to be them. Same difference."


    Mereloco slowly rose into view beside him, arms crossed as he floated with an application of Unchained. The stoic man grunted as he inspected the cityscape before him as well, eyes sparking with purple Aether.


    "Fool," he said, glancing over at the former Fourth Contender. "You don¡¯t need those. Just infuse your eyes."


    Wu Ming grinned, dropping the binoculars from his eye and swinging them by a loose thread. "Well, I know that. Of course I know that. What do you take me for?"


    "Fool," Mereloco repeated. "Clown. Deviant."


    "Ah, your words are harsh," Wu Ming sighed theatrically, raising the binoculars once again. "But I¡¯ve heard harsher. You should have heard some of the stuff ol¡¯ Avaman came out with. Real poetic stuff -- all killer, no filler, y¡¯know?"


    Mereloco just glared. It seemed Wu Ming had reached the limits of the back-and-forth the other man was willing to entertain. He sighed again, slightly more genuinely.


    "If you must know," he said. "These binoculars are special -- an Armament of my own design. I mean, I designed and made them around two minutes ago, but they¡¯re still a Wu Ming Original."


    "A life sensor?" Mereloco raised an eyebrow.


    "Close¡­" Wu Ming pinched his thumb and forefinger together. "It¡¯s a thought sensor. People can Aether cloak and hide all sorts of vital signs, but I haven¡¯t met many people who can stop thinking on command. I can see all these little schemers in all these little buildings."


    "You can read their thoughts?" Mereloco asked, a trace of interest entering his voice despite his best efforts.


    "No," Wu Ming admitted. "But I can read the fact that they¡¯re thinking. Not too shabby, huh?"


    Mereloco gave no response. The conversation, it seemed, was over. Wu Ming unravelled the binoculars, letting the strings fade away as he turned his head to look down at the balcony below.


    "How¡¯re the kids doing?" he asked.


    Nael Manron had elected to stand guard over Aclima down below -- and Gregori Hazzard was still there too, for some reason. How odd. Did he think he was part of the team or something? He was free to leave. Well, Aclima was free to leave too, but being surrounded by hostile bounty hunters didn¡¯t make that a very tempting kind of freedom.


    "Kids," Mereloco snorted derisively.


    "Hey," Wu Ming replied with mock-outrage. "I¡¯m trying to be accommodating here! I assumed we¡¯d all look like children to a two-hundred year old man."


    "Mm."


    Was that denial or acknowledgement? A request to keep going or a demand to shut up? Or perhaps it was just a grunt? How wonderful. These were the sorts of people that Wu Ming liked to speak with above all others -- the sorts of people that didn¡¯t like to speak to him.


    "Have you noticed?" Mereloco said, dull eyes fixed on Aclima.


    "Yup," Wu Ming said, pirouetting on the spire.


    Mereloco narrowed his eyes. "Something hellish is attached to that girl."


    "That it is. My bet? Some kind of revenge ability from the Kennelmaster. It¡¯s probably waiting for an opportune moment -- and it¡¯ll definitely get one once things kick off. I¡¯m looking forward to it showing itself. You?"


    "If it¡¯s going to be a threat," Mereloco said, glaring down at Aclima¡¯s distant figure. "We should just kill the girl now. I --"


    He looked back up, and he stopped. The look in Wu Ming¡¯s eyes had changed utterly, levity banished in an instant. They weren¡¯t just cold, they were ice.


    "No," the Clown said darkly. "That thing¡¯s mine."


    They waited.


    They rested.


    They healed.


    They waited.


    They repaired.


    They prepared.


    They waited.


    They feared.


    They dreaded.


    They waited.


    And


    17:49


    Atoy Muzazi, Ruth Blaine, the Headhunter, Rufus von Frostburn, Jamilu Aguta, and Morgan Nacht.


    Appointment had confirmed the presence of five targets within the Alyn Grace Shopping Centre. As the hours stretched on, it was becoming increasingly unlikely that others would appear. He¡¯d hoped that Aclima might make an effort to reunite with her treacherous bodyguards, but that didn¡¯t seem likely.


    If he was going to do this, now was the time. The sun was sinking below the horizon once more.


    He¡¯d have to be careful with his opening strikes. Fortunately, he¡¯d already tapped into the building¡¯s surveillance systems -- he¡¯d be able to line up his initial shots without collateral damage. An initial volley of missiles to blast through the roof, then separate explosive shots for each of his targets. If he executed the maneuver correctly, he could be in and out within fifteen seconds.


    There was a whirring sound as segments of his Chassis rearranged themselves, plates gathering on his left arm to form a cannon. Within ten seconds, he¡¯d --


    He¡¯d --


    Appointment¡¯s eyes widened as he saw the situation developing on the surveillance.


    Damn you, Anduan!


    17:52


    It was time to move.


    Security automatics had posted themselves at each door -- tall, humanoid machines with huge saucer-like heads. They were only equipped with basic firearms and stun sticks, but they would still suffice to delay any attackers. Morgan had wrapped some of them in armour of Amplified Fog, too, which would boost their durability.


    "Is the ship ready?" Muzazi asked, running towards the stairwell along the group.


    "Not yet," Rufus grunted. Jamilu was slung over one of his shoulders, the del Sed¡¯s over the other. "But soon. We don¡¯t wanna waste any time once we¡¯re ready to go."


    "If anyone¡¯s watching us," Morgan said, sticking to Muzazi¡¯s side. "They might take us doing this as their go-signal."


    "We¡­" Jamilu muttered, hanging off Rufus¡¯ shoulder, barely conscious. "We need to make a move at some point¡­ anyway. We can¡¯t just wait forever."


    Ruth Blaine just ran in silence -- the same with the blonde girl next to her. Their expressions couldn¡¯t have been any different. Ruth Blaine¡¯s eyes had hardened into killer diamonds, while the other girl¡¯s earlier confidence -- or arrogance -- seemed to have utterly crumbled.


    Muzazi closed his eyes for a moment as they passed between the two automatics at the door. "Whatever the case," he said. "We --"


    Crash.


    Everyone moved at once.


    When Muzazi opened his eyes, not even a second later, he was the centerpiece of a tableau of conflict. Morgan was charging towards him, smoke-sword drawn. Rufus was whirling around, eyes wide in alarm, the legs of his cargo flapping in the air. Ruth had drawn her claws, sparks frozen in the air around her. The girl had cried out, pushed behind Ruth with a foot.


    And the head of the automatic next to Muzazi had burst. Something had been inside it, nesting there, waiting for their chance. An emaciated man, his mouth wide open, leaping towards Muzazi like a hungry missile. At this distance, with these injuries¡­ the chance to dodge had come and gone.


    "Fella¡¯s gotta eat!"


    Sharp teeth flew for Muzazi¡¯s throat --


    Schedule Breaker.


    -- but never reached it.


    A pillar of roaring red light scorched right through the ceiling, utterly engulfing the man in mid-air. There was the briefest scream of pain, the briefest stink of burning flesh¡­ and then the light vanished, replaced by a pile of charred-black bones. They tumbled down into the hole the attack had burnt -- the hole it had burnt all the way through the building.


    "Huh," said Morgan.


    There was the briefest silence¡­


    ¡­and then chaos descended upon the world.

 Chapter 437:14.11: Dessert

    17:55


    The night exploded into chaos.


    Appointment moved first -- diving down from the sky, thrusters flaring behind him like aurora borealis. His aim was clear: to enter the shopping centre through the hole his Schedule Breaker had created and quickly execute his targets. Even he knew that was unlikely, however. It wasn¡¯t just the possibility of potential further targets arriving that had stayed the hands of the bounty hunters around this place -- each and every one of them knew that the first to attack would become a target as well.


    None of them wanted to be beaten to the punch, after all.


    DEPLOYING PRAETORIAN 1


    PRAETORIAN 2 GENERATED ¡­ DEPLOYING


    PRAETORIAN 3 GENERATED ¡­ DEPLOYING


    PRAETORIAN 4 GENERATED ¡­ DEPLOYING


    PRAETORIAN 5 GENERATED ¡­ DEPLOYING


    Three of the Praetorians intercepted Appointment just before he could reach the roof.


    Praetorian One whipped out a shining rapier and thrust thrice at Appointment¡¯s head, so fast that the triplet stab seemed a single motion.


    Praetorian Two sprouted four additional arms and then fused the new limbs together with the originals, forming a massive cannon that it fired at Appointment.


    Praetorian Three opened a hole in space next to it -- and from that hole flew a blizzard of knives, pelting against Appointment¡¯s armour.


    Appointment, for his part, responded.


    He infused his Chassis¡¯ venting system to form a layer of frozen air around his helmet, deflecting Praetorian One¡¯s attack.


    He engaged his Chassis¡¯ thrusters to flip, avoiding Praetorian Two¡¯s massive cannonball by inches -- the projectile slamming into a nearby skyscraper and decapitating it instead.


    He flared his thrusters once more to weave through the rain of tiny projectiles -- in this situation, his mobility was limited, but even a limited Appointment was better than most.


    As Appointment cleared the last of the attacks, he just floated in the air for a moment -- surrounded on three sides by the Praetorians who had stayed to stall him. The remaining two had dived into the shopping centre to take advantage. A cold bead of sweat ran down Appointment¡¯s temple. If he didn¡¯t hurry, they were going to beat him to the targets -- and as if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, he¡¯d fail his mission.


    "Appointment," mused Praetorian One in its regal voice, holding its rapier up to its face as it floated on white-feathered wings. "I¡¯m glad to see your skills haven¡¯t decayed since our last encounter. I truly thought you were going to feel Dignity¡¯s kiss just now."


    Appointment narrowed his eyes behind his helmet. Ideally, he¡¯d have liked to blow these pests away and hurry to his destination¡­ but this wasn¡¯t one he could take so lightly.


    The Praetorians, the elite soldiers of the Hive of Malkuth, were bespoke consciousnesses generated by the Queen for specific tasks. If there was a battle she couldn¡¯t leave to the instincts of a mere drone or warrior, she would create a Praetorian with intelligence and personality to handle the matter. By nature, they were temporary existences, discarded as soon as they were no longer useful.


    But Praetorian One alone had never stopped being useful.


    "Why are we even bothering to speak to this stain?" Praetorian Three asked in a sultry, feminine voice, cocking its head. "Let¡¯s just wipe it away and be done with it."


    Praetorian Two grunted in agreement.


    "Silence," Praetorian One snapped sternly. "A powerful enemy deserves a level of decorum. Do not forget that I am your superior in this matter, Three, as I am in all others." Its compound eyes flicked back over to Appointment. "My friend, surely there is an opportunity for compromise here. Inside that treasure chest below are targets to spare. Perhaps we can agree to split the stock between ourselves?"


    Appointment snorted.


    Praetorian One cocked its head. "Is something amusing, good sir?"


    "It¡¯s a nice show, bug, but I¡¯m not buying it. A hive mind having infighting? You¡¯re just stalling while your buddies take care of business down there¡­ right?"


    There was a moment of silence -- then, Praetorian One sighed.


    "Very well," it said. "Three -- wipe as you will."


    She didn¡¯t need greater permission than that. Laughing wildly, Praetorian Three threw her hands out, palms broiling with bloody red Aether.


    "Die Sanguine!" she screamed -- and a torrent of red smoke poured forth, washing over Appointment nearly instantly. He blasted up out of it just as quick, flying straight up into the sky, but even that brief contact had made its mark. The outermost layer of his Chassis¡¯ armour had turned sloppy and wet, like a melted candle, drops of molten metal falling down into the battlefield below.


    Twitches of his fingers sent commands to his on-board systems. Cooling to harden his melted armour again. Overdrive to push his thrusters further and increase his speed. Preparation sequences for higher-grade missiles and firearms.


    Tonight, he¡¯d need to be in top form.


    A warning flashed from his Chassis, the predictive systems of the suit elevated to near-precognition by the level of his infusion -- and so he did not doubt it. His thrusters shifted across his back, sending him into a spin, allowing the second cannonball fired by Praetorian Two to slip right past him and off into the distance. That didn¡¯t mean the danger was over, though.


    During his spin, Appointment had caught sight of the first cannonball Praetorian Two had fired. The shattered remains of it were still lodged in the ruined building. Only¡­ he realized now that it wasn¡¯t a cannonball.


    It was an egg.


    A cloud of black locusts had exploded out of the sphere and were now surging through the sky towards Appointment as well. He assumed the enemy wouldn¡¯t have dispatched them if they weren¡¯t capable of getting through his armour, so taking care of them should be a priority. It was just a shame that he was being given so many priorities tonight.


    The locusts coming from one side, the red smoke coming from the other. Both were fast -- he needed to deal with them at the same time. Instinct and experience allowed him to put together a plan in the time it took to blink.


    Schedule Breaker!


    The blazing pillar of Schedule Breaker shot down from the sky, enveloping the red smoke before it could reach Appointment. This close to midnight, no petty ability would be able to survive its light. At the same time, he pointed his index finger towards the incoming locusts -- and fired the flamethrower wired into the digit. Infused with his Aether, the weapon was able to produce an inferno of blue flame that scorched the insects out of existence.


    That only left --


    Ow.


    Appointment looked down¡­ and saw the thin blade of a rapier protruding from his stomach.


    "Indeed," chuckled Praetorian One from behind him. "You truly were a formidable opponent."


    "Huh," said Morgan.


    The enemy descended like a boulder, slamming into the floor and sending clouds of dust flying in every direction. Annatrice raised her hands to cover her face as the air pressure billowed against her body. Without infusion, she likely would have been sent flying just from that alone.


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    A silhouette pushed its way out of the smoke. A hulking biomechanical figure, built like a gorilla, compound eyes and veins glowing a malevolent red. It grinned with teeth fused to its lips like prison bars.


    "Gahaha!" it guffawed. "Good evening, you damn meat-smears! The great Praetorian Four has come to end your worthless --"


    Annatrice widened her eyes.


    Ego Emulation: Gustavo Mordecai!


    Gustavo narrowed his eyes.


    The situation was bad. Two enemies had definitely come through the ceiling just now, not one. The big one was grabbing their attention while the other prepared for a sneak attack. As if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, based on their appearance and the way they had identified themselves, they were most likely units from the Hive of Malkuth. That meant there was no telling what kind of absurd abilities they¡¯d come equipped with.


    Before anything else, that needed to be determined.


    Brown Aether ran through Gustavo¡¯s legs as he lunged forward, ducking under the arm of the clawed woman and darting right into Praetorian Four¡¯s face. There was a cry of warning from behind him as the beast raised its massive arm, but he was ready for it. He dodged to the side, avoiding the crushing blow -- then kicked off the wall to shoot himself towards Praetorian Four¡¯s head once again.


    Contact was made: his palm placed against the abomination¡¯s face.


    Changelog: Download!


    Information flowed directly into Gustavo¡¯s mind.


    Praetorian Four Changelog (5 minutes)


    Came into existence. Hello world!


    Received ability "Bunyan Drive One":


    Allows user to increase their size and strength based on the number of enemies attacking them.


    Received ability "Bunyan Drive Two":


    Allows user to increase their size and strength based on their level of injury.


    Received ability "Bunyan Drive Three":


    Allows user to increase their size and strength based on the demonstrated strength of their opponent.


    Received ability "King of Currumpaw":


    Allows user to adopt traits of animal lifeforms they have previously defeated in combat.


    Sustained superficial damage by crashing through ceiling.


    Minor increase of size from ability "Bunyan Drive Two".


    As Praetorian Four went to rip Gustavo¡¯s hand away, he vaulted over the creature and kicked off its shoulders, launching himself up into the smoke cloud. The second enemy. He hadn¡¯t seen this one yet, but he knew it had to be here. For a sneaky opponent like this, they¡¯d be in the one spot nobody could see.


    He plunged into the smog and -- for an instant -- saw them. Another Praetorian, much smaller than its companion, the size of a child even. Gustavo tried not to think about the implications of that. It was fluttering high up with wings like those of a fly, the shine of its compound eyes intensifying as it spotted Gustavo.


    Too late.


    He wrapped his hand around its thin ankle.


    Changelog: Download!


    Praetorian Five Changelog (5 minutes)


    Came into existence. Hello world!


    Received ability "Flutterfly":


    Allows user to place insect wings on themselves and other entities. These wings can be activated at will.


    Received ability "Void Contract":


    Allows user to sacrifice the lives of their subordinates for weapons of equivalent value.


    Received ability "Gut Inventory":


    Allows user to record and store consenting entities within their own body. When this ability is released, all stored entities are manifested at once. Partial use is not permitted.


    Gustavo took a deep breath¡­


    Changelog: Upload!


    ¡­ and transmitted the gathered information to his allies.


    Only, one thing still bothered him. As Praetorian Five shook his hand away and he fell back down into the hallway, Gustavo¡¯s brow furrowed. That third ability.


    Gut Inventory¡­?


    The Hive of Malkuth had not spent its time on Azum-Ha in idleness.


    While there could only be one-hundred and eight true members of the Hive at any given time, the same did not hold true for their thralls -- the ¡¯new recruits¡¯, so to speak. They were extremely limited in terms of the duties they could perform -- basic movement and attack -- putting them just barely above animated corpses in terms of utility. The Queen generally elected to keep them in storage until they were needed for conversion to new drones and warriors.


    However¡­ that didn¡¯t mean they didn¡¯t have their uses. Praetorian Five smiled with stitched-together lips.


    Gut Inventory.


    Praetorian Five¡¯s body shone with crimson Aether for a moment -- and in that same moment, a torrent of the walking dead flowed out from its form. They poured forth mercilessly, their sheer numbers washing away each and every one of the warriors that had been making their stand in the stairwell. Floors buckled and walls crumbled as the thralls continued to emerge: some were crushed by the mass of their fellows, but they had already served their purpose.


    The targets had been separated¡­ and now this place was filled with the Hive¡¯s ranks.


    Countless grasping hands reached for Ruth Blaine, and Ruth Blaine dodged them countless times.


    She was a blur as she retreated back out of the clogged stairwell, zombies pouring after her. As she skidded to a halt in the middle of the shopping centre¡¯s ground floor, just before the fountain, Annatrice dropped to the ground next to her. The girl had moved with more speed and grace than Ruth had thought she¡¯d had in her.


    Ruth cast her a glance. "You okay, kid?"


    Annatrice narrowed her eyes as she looked back. "I¡¯m older than you," she said seriously.


    She was doing another weird voice. Was this her ability again? Emo Emulation or whatever, letting her mimic another Aether-user? That was probably how she¡¯d managed to beam that weird information into their heads earlier.


    Well, whatever the case, Ruth supposed it was a good thing she¡¯d done that. It looked like they¡¯d be needing that intel. She adjusted her claws, moonlight shining off the blades as she glared at their approaching enemy.


    "Powerless, powerless!" cackled Praetorian Four as it pulled itself out of the stairwell, taking a huge section of the wall out with it. "It¡¯s so sad to be powerless, isn¡¯t it, my little meat-smears?!"


    Just like the Changelog had said, the Praetorian¡¯s size had greatly increased. The number of people it was fighting¡­ their level of strength¡­ the injuries it had sustained during the crush on the stairs¡­ they¡¯d all done their work. It was nearly ten times its original size already, and it hadn¡¯t been small to begin with. Its head nearly scraped against the second-floor ceiling as it grinned viciously down at the two of them.


    That grin, too, had changed -- rather than the jail-bars it had previously, now that mouth was lined with razor-sharp fangs. Ruth recognised them from her homeworld: the deadly teeth of a paleo-beast. A heavy tail swayed in the air behind the monster, too. An apex predator of the jungle -- the Tyrant Lizard King.


    It slammed its fists together, the shockwave shattering every piece of glass on the promenade.


    "What are you waiting for?!" it roared. "Come at me!"


    Annatrice¡¯s eyes flicked back over to Ruth. "You have a blade? I fight best with a blade."


    Red Aether sparked from Ruth¡¯s hands, and she tossed Annatrice the bayonet alone from the Revolutionnaire Set. "Will this do?"


    The blonde girl flipped the short blade in her grip, the slightest smirk spreading across her lips. "Yep," she said. "That¡¯ll do."


    A geyser of the living dead exploded out of the roof of the Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre -- and the warriors flew out with them.


    Atoy Muzazi relieved a good number of thralls of their heads as he flipped through the air, landing in a crouch as the severed skulls rained down around him. Still, he had slain droplets in a bucket. A tide of the dead continued to flow out around him.


    Rufus landed a short distance away, del Sed and Aguta still slung over his shoulders. He let them slide off his arms and onto the ground, his eyes fixed on the encroaching mass. There was no sign of their numbers abating -- fresh thralls crawling out from within the crushed ranks of their brethren. The Nebula looked back at Muzazi.


    "Look after these two," Rufus said. "Me and Nacht¡¯ll deal with these things."


    Indeed, Morgan had come out onto the rooftop too -- landing on the other side of the overflowing horde.


    "Right," Muzazi nodded, moving over to defend the two on the ground. Aguta seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness again, and del Sed still hadn¡¯t woken up. Muzazi ignited Radiants from his hands and whirled around, ready to defend his charges --


    -- when a sword whipped past his head.


    A thin cut opened on his cheek, and in the same moment Muzazi lashed out with a Radiant to counter as the blade came for him again. It had flown independently, without a wielder, and it made no move to defend itself as Muzazi bisected it. It dropped to the floor in two melted pieces¡­ but it wasn¡¯t alone.


    In the Changelog that they¡¯d received, there had been mention of one of Praetorian Five¡¯s abilities: Void Contract. It allowed the creature to turn its subordinates into weapons. What were these thralls, then, if not a legion of ready and waiting subordinates?


    The tiny figure of Praetorian Five hovered high above the battlefield, fluttering on vibrating insect wings¡­ and all around it, newly forged, floated eager swords. Each and every one of them had a pair of wings to match their masters.


    Of course this wouldn¡¯t be as easy as just killing zombies.


    Muzazi took a deep breath, adjusted his Radiants¡­


    ¡­and let the storm of blades surge towards him.


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 Chapter 438:14.12: Mignardise

    18:02


    "Wow," Wu Ming said, spying the fireworks from his perch atop the skyscraper. "Things are getting pretty crazy down there, huh?"


    Mereloco didn¡¯t mince words.


    "I¡¯m going," he said -- and fired himself towards the shopping centre using Unchained. Wu Ming whistled as he watched him go. The purple bullet slammed into one of the building¡¯s outer walls, but he doubted that would slow the caveman down any. He was made of sterner stuff than that.


    "As for me," Wu Ming chuckled, turning his back on the battlefield. "I¡¯m on babysitting duty."


    Whistling idly, he hopped off the top of the skyscraper and dropped down to the balcony where the others were positioned. Aclima was still lingering in a corner, while Nael stood guard over her. Gregori, for his part, seemed to have skedaddled at some point. Wu Ming didn¡¯t expect anyone would miss him.


    "How we looking?" Wu Ming grinned, planting his hands on his hips.


    "Haven¡¯t spotted anyone yet," Nael muttered, dull red eyes scanning the horizon. "How are we getting inside that place?"


    "Well, grandpa has just gone for it," Wu Ming said. "But I¡¯m thinking we wanna go for a more subtle approach. Once ol¡¯ Muzazi finds out we¡¯ve got Aclima with us, he won¡¯t be able to just sit there -- so that¡¯s when we --"


    Aclima interrupted.


    "I don¡¯t want to see Muzazi."


    Wu Ming blinked. "Okay."


    "I don¡¯t want to see Muzazi," Aclima repeated.


    "Yeah, cool," he replied. "The stairs are right there, though?"


    Aclima narrowed her eyes. "You¡¯re not seriously letting me go," she said suspiciously.


    Nael looked at him too, his mouth a flat line of disapproval. It seemed he didn¡¯t agree with Wu Ming¡¯s generosity -- giving up a potential advantage was probably anathema to a pragmatic gentleman like him. But hey, sometimes that was how life went.


    "Let you go?" Wu Ming frowned at Aclima, ignoring Nael. "I didn¡¯t have you in the first place. I¡¯m being serious, you can just leave if you feel like it. Go ahead."


    For a second, Aclima didn¡¯t move. Clearly, she still had her doubts -- but Wu Ming was fully serious, one-hundred percent, ten-outta-ten, two thumbs up, five stars. Plans were like plates, in a way. It was fun to juggle them, but if they ended up breaking on the floor it was no biggie. Finally, she seemed to realize that Wu Ming was being genuine¡­ and she took a step towards the stairs.


    That was when it happened.


    That was when Wu Ming was surprised for the first time in a very long while.


    A black dog was sitting next to Aclima.


    It grinned in all directions with a face that had been stretched into humanity and crushed into a beast. Finger-claws tapped languidly against the rooftop. Eyes shining with deadlight narrowed maliciously.


    One moment it was not there, and the next it was, oozing out of the rooftop¡¯s corner like it was printed into existence. It met Wu Ming¡¯s gaze as if mocking him -- and if that was the case, it was right to. It wasn¡¯t like Wu Ming hadn¡¯t been expecting something to appear. Since he¡¯d noticed the ability tracking Aclima, he¡¯d been ready for it to activate -- but still, when it had finally appeared, it had somehow caught him off-guard.


    Wu Ming blinked.


    The beast reached for Aclima.


    And¡­


    Guardian Entity: Hachiman!


    ¡­ its head exploded into shadows.


    In an instant, Nael Manron had manifested his Guardian Entity and lanced right through the skull of the creature. It dispersed into black smoke, flying off in all directions. Aclima yelped, jumping back from the spot where the creature had appeared. Hachiman flipped its wooden spear in its hands as Nael glanced back at Wu Ming.


    "Whatever that thing was," he said seriously. "I doubt that killed it. We need to move from this --"


    Blood sprayed.


    Again, it had been the work of an instant, and again it had caught everyone there off-guard. The head of the creature had suddenly emerged from a single point on Nael¡¯s boot and tore his heel out, sending him down towards the ground. Before he could even finish falling, the head was emerging once more -- this time from his hand, from one of his fingernails -- and lunging for his throat.


    Well, Wu Ming had seen enough.


    Lengthwise Guillotine.


    Before the shadow-jaws could make contact, Wu Ming cut them in half with a swing of his string -- and once again, they dissipated into shadow. It seemed this wasn¡¯t the sort of thing that could be killed just by cutting it. Interesting, interesting. Great, fantastic. He was into it. As Nael finally dropped to the ground, roaring in pain and clutching his ravaged foot, Wu Ming smirked.


    Sorry, friend, but that¡¯s the last time you catch me off guard.


    Rainbow Web.


    "Your ability," Wu Ming said, crossing his arms. "... is to travel and manifest through sharp angles -- I¡¯d guess corners, specifically. First, the corner of this balcony, then the corner of this guy¡¯s bootstrap, then the corner of his fingernail. So long as I know that and I know who your next target is, I can make a pretty good guess where you¡¯re coming from."


    He looked over his shoulder, smiling.


    "Ah, there we go," he said. "I¡¯ve never liked gambling, you know. I just can¡¯t seem to lose."


    The beast hung in the air, inches away from Wu Ming, suspended by a web of shining kaleidoscopic strings. As Wu Ming had expected, it had leapt out from the opposite corner of the balcony, seeking to attack him from his blind spot -- and so it had fallen into his trap. It struggled and snarled in its bindings, but the strings were tight and strong¡­ it wouldn¡¯t be getting free any time soon.


    It glared at Wu Ming with wide eyes of primal hatred.


    "Now, then," he purred. "Let¡¯s get a better look at you."


    "Your Majesty," said Praetorian One, floating over the kingdom of war. "My Principality, if you would. This is a late-night Appointment I¡¯m up against."


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Principality (Blue)"


    A blue halo appeared floating over Praetorian One¡¯s head, and with it came knowledge. Sword techniques refined over hundreds of years, dissipating into his body as muscle memory so potent it was as if he¡¯d done the training himself. Without the Principality, he was a formidable warrior. With it, he was a veritable sword saint.


    White-feathered wings flapped in the air as Praetorian One inspected the area below.


    Appointment continued to live up to his reputation. Even after being run through with Dignity, he¡¯d managed to tear himself free and retreat into the construction fields. Still, the blow had done its work. Dignity¡¯s thorns would manifest inside Appointment¡¯s body from the point of injury outwards. Even if Praetorian One didn¡¯t do anything, Appointment would drop dead all on his own.


    But he wasn¡¯t one to pass victory into the hands of time. That was why he¡¯d dispatched Two and Three to pursue Appointment¡­ and that was why he would act now.


    Each time Praetorian One¡¯s wings flapped, they scattered glowing white feathers that hung in the air. Indeed, the sky above the shopping centre was filled with them now, like the stars had been pulled in from space. Needless to say, they weren¡¯t for decoration.


    Praetorian One raised a hand, and the feathers moved to obey him -- flitting through the air to gather just above his palm. Deployed alone, they were strong enough to melt through stone and flesh, but that wouldn¡¯t be enough to deal with Appointment. He deserved better -- he was so special, after all. The feathers gathered and gathered, consolidating until they formed a shining javelin of starlight, taller than Praetorian One himself. He took hold of it in a clawed hand and aimed down to the complex Appointment had retreated into.


    Schedule Breaker, Praetorian One scoffed. Let me show you what real light looks like.


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    He hurled the javelin, carving a line of white across the sky¡­


    ¡­and watched in satisfaction as the building below erupted into heaven¡¯s wrath.


    Wu Ming strode forward, ignoring the pillar of white light suddenly stretching into the sky behind him. Shadows danced across his face as a thin smile spread across his lips. For the briefest of instants, he was the image of a reaper.


    "Wow, you¡¯re a creepy little guy, huh?" he said, inspecting his bound quarry. "Ten outta ten on the sleep paralysis aesthetic, I¡¯ll give you that. What¡¯s your deal?"


    For its part, the beast had stopped thrashing in its restraints. Instead, it was just staring at Aclima with those empty white eyes, unblinking. Wu Ming frowned as he squatted down next to it, following its gaze to the girl. He rubbed his chin and clicked his tongue.


    "As I thought, looks like it¡¯s pretty pissed off at you, kiddo," he said. Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "What the hell is it?!" Aclima said, her face pale, her back pressed against the furthest wall.


    "You said you took out the Kennelmaster, right?" Wu Ming asked. "Well, looks to me like this faithful pooch has come for revenge. A post-death ability, if I had to wager, triggered after you released Curse Hand. You might wanna keep it running on corpses in the future."


    "Bastard¡­"


    Wu Ming blinked as he recalled: right, right, Nael¡¯s heel had been torn out. He was on the ground, clutching his foot, face red from pain and anger. Slowly, he got up -- Hachiman supporting him on one shoulder. His red eyes narrowed as he glared at Wu Ming.


    "Next time," he growled. "Don¡¯t use me as your guinea pig. That hurt. I¡¯ll kill you."


    "Sorry, sorry," Wu Ming chuckled. "Dr. Stitches."


    With that simple command, a sequence of strings leapt out of Wu Ming¡¯s index finger, wrapping around Nael¡¯s injured foot and binding the wound shut. The young man nodded in begrudging gratitude.


    "Now," the moody Scurrant said, looking over at the trapped beast. "How about we finish this thing?"


    Twang.


    Wu Ming blinked. "Huh?"


    Twang.


    Wu Ming looked. "Eh?"


    Twang.


    Wu Ming grinned. "For real?!"


    Snap.


    The creature broke free.


    Shadows exploded across the rooftop like smog as the beast launched attacks in every direction, claws and jaws slashing and biting at everything in sight. For their part, Wu Ming¡¯s companions responded quickly: Aclima just fled down the stairs, while Nael had his Guardian Entity hurl his body out of the attack zone. Wu Ming alone remained standing where he was, deflecting the incoming blows with split-second string barriers.


    Even when I counterattack, Wu Ming observed in the midst of his maddened dance. It doesn¡¯t actually do any damage to this thing. It¡¯s the same as when Hachiman stabbed it before. Since its made of shadows, all a physical attack can do is disperse it, huh?


    In that case¡­


    Starlight Swing.


    Like he was throwing out a yo-yo, Wu Ming flicked his finger -- and a string of pure white light whipped forward, slashing at the creature¡¯s claw as it attacked. This time, the shadows did not disperse. This time, they bled.


    The monster screeched in pain and leapt backwards -- once, twice, thrice -- until it was perched right on the edge of the building. Wu Ming¡¯s strike had cut it right between two fingers -- and now it held that bleeding wound up to its face, inspecting it. The pain had been momentary¡­ now, it seemed more curious than anything else. It cocked its head so far that it turned a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, returning to its original position, before looking back up at Wu Ming.


    "Hurts¡­" it said, in a soft but malicious voice. "Bast¡­ ard¡­"


    "Oh?" Wu Ming replied, hands on his hips. "You can talk?"


    Well, it was learning to talk, anyway. The words came out haltingly, right on the edge of stuttering, like it was a malfunctioning machine. Wu Ming guessed that made sense: if this was a post-mortem ability of the Kennelmaster¡¯s, that meant this entity had only existed for about half a day now. Hell, Wu Ming supposed that made it an extremely quick learner, if anything.


    The creature didn¡¯t respond to Wu Ming¡¯s question. Instead, it just continued to turn its hand, inspecting its wound from various angles -- before flicking its wrist and snapping the cut shut.


    "Come on, come on, it¡¯s no fun without some dirty talk," Wu Ming chuckled. "I¡¯m Wu Ming, what¡¯s your name?"


    The creature just stared at him.


    "Come on."


    It grumbled for a second, then: "Black¡­ Dog¡­"


    "Oh? Black Dog? That¡¯s a pretty generic name, but I guess I¡¯ve got no right to --"


    Oops, it¡¯s killing me.


    Black Dog took advantage of Wu Ming¡¯s momentary distraction. In an instant, its head had swelled to enormous proportions, covering the distance between it and Wu Ming and snapping -- taking half the rooftop with it. Wu Ming whistled as he leapt back, hopping between chunks of rubble as they flew through the air.


    "Nice, nice!" he laughed into the crisp night air. "You tried to get me talking there, didn¡¯t you?! I like it! Ten outta ten! A little clumsy, but you¡¯ve got the spirit!"


    "Finish," Black Dog growled, its arms lashing through the air like tentacles as it tried to bat Wu Ming out of existence. "Finish this thing¡­"


    Maybe this thing wasn¡¯t as smart as Wu Ming had hoped. Everything it was saying was just it repeating something it had heard -- ¡¯bastard¡¯, ¡¯that hurts¡¯, ¡¯finish this thing¡¯. Even if it was using those words in new contexts, the fact that it couldn¡¯t think of things to say on its own didn¡¯t bode well for its imagination.


    It looked like he¡¯d bet poorly again. If this was an enemy that would just attack without strategy, he¡¯d be better off going after whichever bounty hunter had created that geyser of light. Best to wrap things up here quickly.


    Starlight Shot!


    The same shining string from before, bundled together into tiny balls, fired as bullets. They zipped through the air, popping perfect holes in the shifting shadows before him, sending blood spraying down the side of the building. Black Dog screeched with force enough to vibrate the air, lashing out with its arms even faster -- but these frenzied blows were even easier to dodge.


    It raised one fist high up into the air, arm stretching out absurdly further -- and then that fist inflated to the size of a car. Just from looking at it, Wu Ming could tell a direct hit would turn a human body to pulp. Unfortunately for Black Dog, it wouldn¡¯t be getting so much as an indirect hit.


    Wu Ming pulled himself backwards by twin strings just as the fist came down, utterly decimating what was left of the rooftop. Hopefully Nael and Aclima had managed to fully get away before that, but if they hadn¡¯t, Wu Ming guessed that was just how their lives ended. His attention was elsewhere.


    The strings pulled him all the way to the next building along -- his feet landing on the window as he stood up horizontally, secured to the glass by fibers in his feet. Looking up -- across to his original location, where Black Dog was -- he raised both hands and cried:


    "Starlight Cannon!"


    A bundle of bright string that dwarfed Wu Ming¡¯s own body fired forth and slammed into Black Dog, obliterating its form and painting the skyscraper in vivid red blood. Wu Ming slapped his hands together, licking his lips. That had been perhaps a bit more gruesome than he¡¯d intended¡­


    "...but I had to make it look convincing, right?" he said, pointing his finger at the incoming attack.


    As expected, Black Dog had retreated part of its body into a corner before the attack struck -- and now its head was lunging forth from the corner of the window pane, aiming to bite down on Wu Ming¡¯s throat. A Starlight Shot easily popped its skull --


    -- but then another set of jaws sank into Wu Ming¡¯s leg.


    He blinked. "Eh?"


    Off-guard? Three times in one night? Is this really okay?


    A second head had emerged from another corner of the window pane, launching another attack while Wu Ming had been smugly responding to the first. It tore greedily at his leg, severing the thread-woven limb and sending it flying off.


    Starlight Shower!


    A web of shining strings detonated all around Wu Ming like a set of radiant firecrackers, banishing the shadowy head of the Black Dog for a moment. He used that opportunity to escape -- flipping end over end up the surface of the building. As he moved, however¡­ he was pursued.


    Heads. Heads without end.


    This building was lined with windows, and each window had four corners -- and from each of those corners emerged another head of the Black Dog, lunging and snapping at Wu Ming as he tried to escape them. He was good¡­ but he had to admit that this thing was good too. Escaping unscathed was not possible. Chunks of Wu Ming¡¯s body were torn away while he moved, wounds inflicted that would have surely been fatal for a man of flesh and blood.


    Even with the constant attacks, though, he was able to reach the roof -- weaving new limbs and flesh into existence as he landed. He caught his breath in what he knew was a precious moment of peace. This enemy¡­ he¡¯d taken it too lightly.


    It wasn¡¯t able to do all this a second ago. Back then, this was definitely a movement power, not one that produced new body parts from corners. It modified its ability according to the demands of the situation. Which means¡­ it¡¯s like me.


    A Black Dog with a thousand powers.


    The four corners of the rooftop erupted into dancing shadows -- and four gargantuan heads emerged from them, each much larger than the one that had ravaged the other building. A maintained Starlight Shower formed a barrier to defend against their attacks, but that still meant Wu Ming was trapped between the four of them. He held his hands out to maintain the ability as he considered his next move.


    How did this ability work now? Clearly, destroying these heads wasn¡¯t actually harming Black Dog anymore, since more attacks just kept coming. That suggested there was a main body somewhere, launching these attacks remotely. If he could just locate that, he could win.


    Wu Ming took a step backwards¡­


    ¡­and bumped right into that main body.


    "So¡­ slow."


    Black Dog had risen up to its feet, standing like a human, and just like that it was twice Wu Ming¡¯s height. Through impromptu senses, Wu Ming saw it look down at him, and saw it pull its hand back to strike him. In the second it took Wu Ming to whirl around, in the second it took for that backhand to connect, he considered one thing.


    Not once since the battle started had anyone said the words ¡¯so slow¡¯.


    Oh.


    Oh, this is bad, actually.

 Chapter 439:14.13: Goodbye Guests (Part 1)

    Metal danced and sparks sang.


    Morgan weaved through the storm of swords and the waves of hands, wielding twin smoke-swords to deflect that which he could not dodge. Still, it was an uphill battle, growing steeper by the second. The incoming Malkuth thralls showed no signs of slowing -- and at any moment, Praetorian Five could just convert them into more swords.


    He gritted his teeth.


    The tiny Praetorian hovered high above the battlefield, occasionally moving to dodge a beam of heat launched from Rufus¡¯ shield. Morgan clenched his fist, the hilt of his smoke-sword shifting to accommodate him. He knew if he could just get over there, he could take that thing¡¯s head from its shoulders¡­ but clearly it knew that too. It wasn¡¯t just using height as an advantage -- it was orchestrating the swords around it to fend off anyone who tried to move in.


    This was infuriating. It wasn¡¯t just that Morgan felt powerless -- he could handle feeling powerless -- but that he felt he was only just powerless. If he could just reach a little further, move a little faster, he could end all of this with the swing of a sword. That was what boiled his blood.


    Powerless.


    Useless.


    Worth --


    A rainbow light washed over Morgan from behind.


    "Huh?" he blinked. He turned his head. He did not dare believe¡­


    ¡­but there it was.


    In the distance, from atop a building on the battlefield, a multicoloured aurora was shining into existence. A veritable thunderball of Aether, cracking and thrashing as it lit up the night. But not just any Aether. His Aether.


    Morgan¡¯s grip relaxed slightly.


    Wu Ming.


    "I have to say, pal," Wu Ming grinned. "You got me good for a second there. I¡¯d be sweating, if I still had the pores for it. You only made one mistake¡­"


    The Black Dog tried to pull away, to no avail. At the moment its attack had made contact with Wu Ming¡¯s head, that entire side of the Clown¡¯s face had unravelled and wrapped itself around Black Dog¡¯s hand, binding it tightly in place. Wu Ming grinned with half a mouth.


    "...you had to go and act all spooky. So slow? I mean, I¡¯ll give you a seven outta ten on the theatrics, but you gave me a good half-second to respond. Not good, not good. When you do that kinda thing¡­"


    His grin widened.


    "...you get this kinda thing."


    He swung his head, flipping Black Dog with just his own neck strength and slamming it into the concrete below. Deep cracks erupted in the surface of the roof as the beast¡¯s body made contact, shadows spilling away like blood before being pulled back into the central mass. The creature screeched in what might have been pain, or what might have been frustration, but Wu Ming didn¡¯t take the time to consider it.


    After all, he still had work to do.


    "You know what?" he giggled. "I tell a lie. You made a second mistake too¡­ although, I don¡¯t think you could have done anything to avoid that one. I¡¯m just that good, after all."


    Wu Ming¡¯s feet had changed too. They¡¯d unbound themselves into structures like roots, winding across the rooftop -- and entangling the four massive heads that, until moments ago, had been attacking ceaselessly. They hung in the air, occasionally twitching, red Aether sparking from their empty sockets.


    "Ol¡¯ Curse Hand gave me the idea. Just a little bit of delicacy, just a little bit of infiltration¡­"


    The red Aether shifted into a rainbow hue.


    "...and your Aether constructs become my Aether constructs."


    They changed shape instantly, the four hacked heads straightening and rising into pointy spikes that surrounded Wu Ming and his quarry. As more strings lunged out from the ground to secure Black Dog fully, Wu Ming shook his face free and back flipped out of the border he¡¯d created. He grinned and crossed his arms as he landed, like he was taunting an animal in a zoo.


    "Restrainer Towers," he explained, slapping his palm against the nearest tower. "They¡¯re a pain, but this ability gets a little messy if I don¡¯t prepare for it in advance. You ought to feel lucky. Not many people get to be hit by this."


    Black Dog writhed and thrashed against its restraints, but too late -- even as the strings and ropes snapped, Wu Ming was already launching his attack.


    While Black Dog had to escape the circle, Wu Ming just stood there, a soft smile on his lips.


    While Black Dog had to fight for its life, Wu Ming needed only to raise a hand and bring two fingers together.


    While Black Dog had to break free, Wu Ming had never been bound¡­ not once in his life.


    Snap.


    String Theory: Black Hole.


    What Wu Ming created between those four towers was not a true black hole. Even for him, such a power would be impossible. What he brought forth into reality was only a figment of his imagination, his own conception of a black hole, a dark void that pulled in and devoured everything¡­


    ¡­but, then again, Wu Ming had a pretty good imagination.


    The Black Dog howled as the singularity appeared above it, as it was dragged forth into oblivion. Its body was cut into pieces by the remaining strings -- and those pieces flew up as a reverse shower, disappearing into the black hole¡¯s shroud. Even the howl was eaten in the end -- suddenly cut off, only its echo remaining as an auditory corpse.


    Wu Ming whistled as he watched. Even with the Restrainer Towers, the pull of commandeered gravity was immense -- his long hair hung in the air like a curtain. It took all that he had -- okay, not really -- to tear himself away and turn towards the trail of destruction their battle had created.


    First things first. Did Aclima and Nael live through all that? It¡¯d be a bummer if they got crushed by debris.


    Wu Ming adjusted the shape of his hands, creating an ability to help him dig through the rubble, and took one step forward.


    He didn¡¯t take a second.


    Instead, as he opened his mouth to take a breath, something sprayed out. Something that should not have been in his body anymore to begin with. Something red. Blood.


    Wu Ming looked down¡­ and saw the long, black blade that had pierced through his chest.


    Oh¡­ shit.


    The Black Dog spoke.


    "D-Did¡­ you t-think¡­" it began in a halting, discordant voice -- and then, as if its consciousness had cleared its throat, it continued with a soft and articulate malice: "Did you think you could kill me with an attack like that, Wu Ming¡­? Zero out of ten."


    Wu Ming twisted his neck to look over his shoulder. The black hole still hung in the air, still pulled at everything in range¡­ but somehow, impossibly, a huge black arm had languidly reached out and speared Wu Ming on its fingernail. As it crooked its index finger, lifting Ming into the air -- gravity pulling him further down the digit -- his mind boggled.


    How had it done this?


    How had it survived inside the black hole?


    How had it managed to turn his own attack against him?


    Oh. He¡¯d said it himself.


    "Just a little bit of delicacy, just a little bit of infiltration... and your Aether constructs become my Aether constructs."


    Wu Ming blinked¡­


    Me and my big fat mouth.


    ¡­as he was pulled back into the jaws that had been stolen from him.


    Appointment crushed a head in each hand.


    Grunting, he dropped the two corpses to the ground, holding his side as he fell to one knee. The carcasses of Praetorians Two and Three were already indistinguishable from those of any other drone -- the Queen had reclaimed their abilities the moment their defeat was clear, as was her habit. In a way, Appointment was grateful for that tendency of hers. It made last-minute turnarounds much less likely.


    Of course, that also meant that destroying these Praetorians was pretty much pointless. Even if Appointment crushed these insects, the Queen could just promote other drones and hand them another set of powers. It would never end.


    Even that was leaving Praetorian One aside. It was a cut above the rest. The first Praetorian was still flying up high, launching javelins of light that decimated the landscape. Unlike it¡¯s brethren, it wouldn¡¯t come close -- there was no need for it to. In its mind, it had already landed the killing blow.


    Praetorian One¡¯s Aether Armament, Dignity, was a nasty one. Once you were wounded by it, metal thorns would be continually manifested from the point of injury outwards, slowly but surely skewering you from the inside. Even now, Red Aether shone from within the sealed wound in Appointment¡¯s stomach.


    Painkillers dulled the worst of the agony, and his considerable infusion prevented most of the thorns from actually manifesting in his body -- but that didn¡¯t mean he was out of the woods. Finding themselves unable to appear within Appointment¡¯s flesh, the thorns were taking the path of least resistance -- and so they were manifesting inside his Chassis instead. Slowly but surely, his suit was being torn apart from the inside.


    His options were limited.


    Even just guarding his own body against Dignity was taking an absurd amount of Aether. If he were to spare any of that to protect his Chassis, he¡¯d be opening himself up to the Armament¡¯s continuous attack. Before long, he¡¯d be dead. Not an option.


    Hiding in the ruins like this would be fruitless too. The Queen would continue to send new Praetorians down here until they finished him off -- and even if they didn¡¯t, Praetorian One was going to get lucky with one of his javelins eventually. Not an option.


    It was tempting to launch himself out of the rubble, to make a beeline for Praetorian One and finish him off quickly¡­ but no. Even discounting the other Praetorians that could attack once he exposed himself, there was no guarantee he¡¯d be able to defeat Praetorian One in a timely fashion, given his current condition. There was a good chance he¡¯d just end up wounded even further. Most certainly not an option.


    Appointment took a deep breath. There was an option, there was one option¡­ but it wasn¡¯t one that he¡¯d wanted to take. Even so, it seemed he had no choice.


    Thank Y I¡¯ve got insurance, at least.


    The white feathers collected in Praetorian One¡¯s hand like specks of light, forming another starlight javelin. It pulled its arm back without hesitation, preparing to hurl the weapon -- humming in idle satisfaction at the destruction its previous attacks had already wrought.


    Beautiful.


    The complex Appointment was hiding in was now little more than a hill of shattered stone, the buildings brought down by Her Majesty¡¯s radiance. Ordinarily, Praetorian One would have assumed that his target was already dead at this point¡­ but no. He could sense that Two and Three¡¯s lives had ended after he¡¯d dispatched them in pursuit.


    A dead man could not dispatch his enemies.


    So he would stay the course, and he would continue to bombard the ground below. It wasn¡¯t as if he was low on time. The other Praetorians would dispatch the targets while One kept Appointment occupied -- and if this battle did stretch on further? Well, that would just mean Appointment¡¯s powers would desert him, and that was fine with One.


    He had never been one to turn down easy prey.


    Praetorian One went to throw the javelin -- but hesitated. Far, far below, the rubble had shifted, just slightly. Movement? Two and Three were definitely dead, so it could only be him.


    One adjusted his aim, just slightly --


    -- and then the rubble exploded outwards, Appointment blasting out of it like a rocket.


    Praetorian One reacted instantly -- hurling the javelin with all his strength at the incoming assassin. The polearm flew through the night, carving a path of white in the air behind it. Surely, being hit by it would spell certain death for anything that lived.


    Appointment recognised that too. As he flew forward, undaunted, he raised his gauntlets -- and unleashed the payload he¡¯d been keeping on standby. Bullets and rockets, missiles and grenades, a curtain of annihilation to meet the javelin as it came in. The explosion shook the earth and sent smoke pouring in all directions like the clouds of a manmade thunderstorm.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Did I get him? Praetorian One pondered.


    Appointment had been swept out of sight by the sheer destruction he¡¯d unleashed. It wouldn¡¯t do to be optimistic, though. If there was no corpse, there was no death. Those were words assassins did well to live by.


    And that was why Praetorian One was able to leisurely move out of the way of the punch aimed for the back of his head, seize hold of Appointment¡¯s wrist -- and drive Dignity right through his heart.


    "You got sloppy, my friend," he chuckled. "But not to worry. It happens to the best of us."


    Appointment twitched, writhing against the blade running him through, against the thorns that must have already been creating hell inside his body. But then¡­ he stopped. He stopped, and he chuckled.


    "It sure does," he said -- and his helmet popped open.


    It was empty.


    Remote Working.


    Appointment held out his hand as he watched his Chassis fight from a distance, twitching his fingers to manipulate it like a long-distance puppet. Here, crouched among the rubble of the buildings, he was unprotected. There, fighting as an empty beast of metal, he was unstoppable.


    With a twitch of his pinkie, the Chassis snapped its helmet shut again.


    With a twitch of his index, the Chassis wrapped its arms around its prey.


    With a twitch of his thumb, the Chassis flared with red lights -- and a synthesized voice called out into the night:


    "Self-destruct sequence initiated. Please evacuate the immediate area. Self-destruct sequence initiated. Please evacuate the immediate area."


    Uninfused, the explosion would have been enough to kill anything in the immediate area. Now, charged with Appointment¡¯s Aether? He was a little concerned if he¡¯d be okay, even so far down below.


    "Get off!" Praetorian One screamed, struggling against the Chassis¡¯ grasp, white wings twisting and lashing out like whips. "No, no! Appointment!"


    The wings struck at the Chassis, again and again, but although the metal was dented and although the glass was smashed¡­ the armour continued to float, and the armour continued towards its end. Thrusters flared from its back, carrying it and Praetorian One further up into the sky.


    And.


    In the last moment, Praetorian One¡¯s desperately roaming gaze finally met Appointment¡¯s distant resolution -- their eyes linking between the sky and the earth.


    There wasn¡¯t time to say much.


    "BASTARD!" Praetorian One screamed --


    -- as an explosion like an infant star swallowed him whole.


    Appointment crouched in the long shadows the inferno above cast, wincing as he saw his Chassis destroyed. It wouldn¡¯t be easy to get another suit on that level, even if he had the money for it. He¡¯d gotten used to it -- and now, without it, he almost felt naked. Given his reduced capability, maybe it would be best to leave the area now, and play things safe?


    No. He had a reputation to maintain. There were targets still waiting to be dispatched, and a mission yet to be completed. He¡¯d just have to make do and proceed with caution.


    He reached into his pocket, pulling out his backup ¡¯Chassis¡¯. A paper bag with two holes for his eyes -- it didn¡¯t compare in terms of fighting strength, but at least it would conceal his identity. From here on in, he¡¯d be relying on his own infusion and abilities. He¡¯d need to take every advantage he could get.


    Appointment turned to sneak through the rubble towards the shopping centre¡­ when a white light poured over the world. Immediately, he whirled around. That wasn¡¯t the light from the explosion -- that had already started to fade. This was something new.


    This was something dangerous.


    Oh, he thought, his eyes widening as he beheld the sky. You¡¯ve got to be kidding me.


    The Queen of Malkuth was possessed by a grotesque sentimentality.


    Generally, individual units within the Hive barely even qualified as tools. They were conveniences, nothing more, to be discarded as soon as the situation suggested it. Even the Praetorians were but momentary existences, dreamt up and thrown away in less time than it took to blink.


    But Praetorian One¡­ that was different. It had been the first.


    It had been the first to bear the title ¡¯Praetorian¡¯.


    It had been the first to be promoted into the Hive¡¯s ranks.


    It had been the first to fall to their might on the planet Malkuth.


    For the Queen of Malkuth, Praetorian One was like a beloved trophy, or a pet She was fond of. She wouldn¡¯t allow it to be destroyed so easily. To do so would wound Her pride¡­ and since the day She had come into existence, She had never once been wounded.


    Your Majesty?


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Godsheen"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Under Blue" S§×arch* The N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Pressure Barrier"


    Abilities to defend what was left against the explosion.


    Oh, I am unworthy¡­


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Red Wine Manipulation"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "A Single Flower¡¯s Growth"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "The Worm"


    Abilities to heal the wounds of the carcass.


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Consciousness Redistribution"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Nerve Bolster"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Shelleystorm"


    Abilities to keep the spark of being active in those precious few moments.


    Ah, oh, the pain¡­ such glorious pain, Your Majesty¡­ your gift to me¡­


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "UnDisease"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "A Cure for Wellness"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Self-Domain"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Excel Replicant (N)"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Excel Replicant (W)"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Excel Replicant (E)"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Excel Replicant (S)"


    Generally, a body of the Hive could only handle having so many abilities stuffed into it at once. Even a Praetorian only carried eight at most. Praetorian One¡¯s body was already breaking down. The Queen would need to intervene.


    Abilities to stabilize that warping form¡­


    Ha¡­


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "The Crimson Gaze"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Mourning Star"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Field of Naught"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Mind¡¯s Knife"


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ "Thought Segmentation"


    Abilities to bridge that gap between body and mind¡­


    Ha¡­


    DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­ DOWNLOADING ABILITY¡­


    ¡­and, of course, abilities to satisfy the Queen¡¯s own curiosity. At this point, part of Her just wanted to see what would happen. She watched with great interest¡­


    HaHaHaHaHaHaHaHa


    ¡­as the swarms of abilities warred against each other, slammed into one another, and finally¡­


    HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA


    ¡­the chorus reached a crescendo.


    HALLELUJAH


    Appointment raised a hand to shield his eyes as the white light shone in the sky. The last remnants of the explosion were swept away as if they were nothing. Deep in the aurora, a humanoid silhouette drifted into being, far larger than the one that Appointment had destroyed.


    A voice rang out, clear and clean as Appointment¡¯s own thoughts.


    BE NOT AFRAID.


    Red eyes looked down upon the earth, witnessing and judging all.


    BE NOT AFRAID, SAMUEL SENTZMANN.


    Shining white wings swept through the sky, tracing dominion through the smoke and ash.


    YOUR FOUL SELF NEED NOT DREAD, FOR I AM GRATEFUL TO YOU¡­


    An avatar of light descended on the world, wings spread wide, cleansing all around it just by the fact of it existing.


    ¡­GRATEFUL FOR THE DIVINE ADORATION YOUR SIN HAS REVEALED.


    The black hole exploded into blood like a popped zit -- and a second later, Wu Ming went flying out of it.


    He fell, tumbling off the building -- slamming against a balcony -- before finally dropping into the alleyway below. Blood -- his own and that from the black hole -- covered his form. Rain pelted against him from above, as if trying to drill him further into the filthy floor below.


    The Clown of the Supremacy groaned softly. He had certainly seen better days. How long had it been since he¡¯d felt actual pain? Both of his legs were gone, torn away by the Black Dog -- and blood now oozed impossibly from the stumps. He knew he could weave new legs if he put his mind to it, but¡­ his consciousness felt curiously distant.


    Oh, he realized dully. I¡¯m getting my ass kicked. This is what it feels like.


    "Oh, there¡¯s a sight for sore eyes," the Black Dog chuckled.


    It stalked out of the darkness. Once again, its shape had changed, returning to a bipedal form -- but now hunched over, more bestial, like a true werewolf. The canine head was gone, and in its place was a mass of twitching black-and-white lines, like a chalkboard drawing come to life. Within a few seconds, that mass stabilized -- and Wu Ming found himself looking into an inverted mirror.


    The beast grinned a crescent grin -- one that Wu Ming would never have vandalized his handsome mug with.


    "You don¡¯t look too surprised," the Black Dog said. "I guess you figured it out. Didn¡¯t you?"


    Its voice was unsettlingly close to Wu Ming¡¯s own, too. Close, though. That was the worst part. If it had been exactly the same, that would be fine, but it was just slightly different. It growled where Wu Ming sang. It hissed where Wu Ming purred. There was nothing worse than a mirror with a crack in it.


    But still¡­ it wasn¡¯t wrong.


    "Yep," Wu Ming said, forcing himself into a sitting position against the wall. "Your ability -- your real ability -- is to scrape data from the Aether you come into contact with."


    The Black Dog¡¯s grin stretched further up its face.


    "You probably got a taste of Curse Hand¡¯s aftereffects first," Wu Ming went on. "I bet you were able to get the basics of ability development from that -- so you were able to cobble together that corner power. Then you learnt how to talk once Manron hit you with his ability. Then¡­"


    "Then¡­" Black Dog cut him off. "I fought you, didn¡¯t I?"


    Wu Ming clicked his tongue. He¡¯d really messed this one up. "The more I hit you with my abilities, the more you learned¡­ and the more you were able to develop your own abilities. Me taking over those constructs of yours was what really did it, though, right?"


    "You basically gave me free access to all the information you had," sneered Black Dog. "I¡¯ll give you a ten out of ten for convenience, if nothing else."


    "Still," Wu Ming sighed. "Don¡¯t you feel ashamed?"


    The Black Dog cocked its head. "Ashamed? How so?"


    "I mean¡­ basically, you¡¯re a copycat. Is that really okay? I mean, given your species?"


    "Hm?" Black Dog said, and then -- after realizing the joke -- giggled quietly. "Ah, well, things just worked out that way. I guess you can teach a new dog old tricks, can¡¯t you?"


    Wu Ming cringed. "Oh wow. You¡¯re proud of that, huh? Tell me that isn¡¯t my sense of humour."


    The Black Dog gave no answer to that. Instead, it just rolled its eyes and raised an arm -- the hand shifting into a massive razor-sharp claw in an instant. It narrowed its eyes in anticipation as it looked down at Wu Ming.


    "Well," it said, nearly salivating. "It¡¯s been interesting¡­ but I think I¡¯m done with you now. See ya¡­ Wu Ming."


    So¡­ Wu Ming thought. This is what dying for real feels like, huh?


    ¡­


    This sucks.


    The Black Dog brought its arm down --


    -- but before it could reach Wu Ming, the limb went flying off.


    "Eh?" it said.


    "Eh?" he said.


    The second strike came a second later, a black sword whipping through the air -- and this time it struck Black Dog¡¯s head. Half of its face was cut away diagonally, the mass dropping to the floor and dissipating into shadows. Snarling in annoyance, Black Dog swept its remaining arm through the air as a scythe -- and the attacker leapt backwards to avoid it.


    Yes¡­ the attacker.


    A young man clutching a sword of smoke, with the purple light of determination in his eyes.


    Morgan Nacht.


    "Hands off my teacher," he growled, staring down the abomination.


    For its part, the Black Dog just grinned again.


    "Oh wow," it said. "Oh, this will be fun, actually."

 Chapter 440:14.14: Goodbye Guests (Part 2)

    Many years ago¡­


    "Hello?" called out Lucien Rorone. "Is anyone still alive?"


    He¡¯d crawled out of the wreckage of his troop carrier, his helmet nearly smashed, blood pouring down from his forehead onto and into his eyes. He still clutched his rifle in his hands, but he doubted it still worked after that impact. If worst came to worst, he could use it as a bludgeon. Better than nothing.


    The landscape had been decimated by the three-minute battle. The carcass of a War Groom lay draped over the city ruins, the sheer weight of the mechanoid crushing everything beneath it without exception. When they¡¯d brought it down -- someone sniping the War Bride out of the cockpit -- it had seemed a victory for a moment.


    A moment before it had fallen.


    Lucien dragged himself across the battlefield, one of his legs refusing to obey him. What did they do now? Who was in charge? He¡¯d seen the commander¡¯s head melt away from one of the War Groom¡¯s attacks. Was he in charge now? The chain of command was just links scattered across the floor.


    "Hello?" he called out again. "Did anyone else make it?"


    His voice was quieter this time, more hoarse. He¡¯d breathed something in, back during the battle, and he knew it was playing havoc with his insides. He needed to get back to base soon, he needed medical attention. Panic crawled down the base of his skull. If he came back alone, his Merit Score would definitely be too low to qualify for medical aid. He needed to return with at least something to show for their efforts.


    "Hello? Please?!"


    Taridel V was an unfortunate planet. There had been a bureaucratic error when this region of space had been liberated from the UAP, and so it had ended up being placed in the custody of two separate Ministers -- Ministers who hated each other. So, while those two argued and insulted each other in the halls of the Body, their conscripted armies slaughtered each other on the fields of Taridel, seeking total control of the planet. If you believed the rumours, they used this war to test new weaponry as well.


    Lucien coughed. Right now, he believed the rumours.


    "Please!" he screamed into the night-smog. "Anyone?!"


    "Heya."


    Lucien whirled around at the sudden reply from behind him, raising his rifle defensively, his eyes wide with alarm. As a reflex, his finger pulled the trigger -- but the barrel of the gun spat only sparks. As he¡¯d thought, it had been damaged beyond repair. Panting for breath, he flipped it over in his hands, ready to use it as a club.


    "Jeez, what¡¯s your problem?" said a voice from within the fog. "You¡¯re the one who was shouting for people."


    "Who are you?!" Lucien demanded, animal adrenaline pushing him into action once more.


    The newcomer pushed his way out of the smoke, striding through the corpses and the mud. It was a young man, probably only a year or so older than Lucien -- so sixteen or thereabouts -- with short purple hair and a tattered yellow scarf. He smiled cheerfully at the soldier as their eyes met.


    He wasn¡¯t wearing a uniform -- not from either side. A civilian? No, a deserter? Lucien took a cautious step back, still ready to swing his gun.


    "I¡¯m a little lost," the young man chuckled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "This is a war or something, yeah? It¡¯s pretty crazy around here, huh?"


    "Who are you?" Lucien repeated.


    "Hey, mind if I ask you something?" the young man said, ignoring Lucien¡¯s question once again. "You got any cigarettes? I¡¯ve never smoked before, so I¡¯m kinda curious to see what it¡¯s like."


    "You tell me who you are," Lucien said steadily. "Or I won¡¯t be responsible for my actions."


    The young man said nothing to that. He just glanced over, twitched a finger -- and a nearly-invisible string whipped through the air and snatched Lucien¡¯s rifle from his grip. He stumbled backwards, falling to the ground, suddenly disarmed.


    This was it. He was out of his league. Lucien raised his arms and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for one of the miserable ends he¡¯d seen so many of.


    But it didn¡¯t come. Slowly, Lucien dared to open his eyes. The young man was standing over him, frowning.


    "You¡¯re a twitchy little guy, aren¡¯t ya?" he sighed, extending a hand. "Come on, get up."


    Sparks of rainbow-coloured light drifted down his fingers, and Lucien¡¯s heart dropped even further as he saw them. Aether. He was certainly, definitely, absolutely out of his league.


    "Who are you?" he asked one last time, throat as dry as the desert.


    "Me?" the young man said, considering it. "I¡¯m¡­ hm, how about Wu Ming? Yeah, that sounds good. I¡¯m Wu Ming."


    He grinned.


    "How about you?"


    Present Day¡­


    "Ah¡­" Black Dog grinned, its head and arm reforming from a black mist, its flickering eyes fixed on Morgan Nacht. "Yes, I like this. I¡¯m into this. Superb, wonderful, fantastic. You¡¯ve got great timing, Morgan Nacht. I was just about to wrap things up here."


    Morgan said nothing at first. He just drew his smoke-sword back, eyes fixed on the Aether abomination, his breath trailing out of his mouth as cold mist.


    "Really?" Black Dog cocked its head. "Nothing to say to the Black Dog? No banter? Come on. It¡¯s no fun without some dirty talk. Or maybe you¡¯re unsettled from having a perfect copy of your teacher before you?"


    At that, at least, Morgan reacted.


    "A perfect copy?" he scoffed. "Hardly. The eyes are way too big."


    "That¡¯s just so I can see you better, little man," Black Dog smirked. "Really, though¡­ that was quite the approach. I didn¡¯t even see you coming until your sword was already inside of me. Ah, if I had blood, I know it¡¯d be pumping right now¡­"


    Morgan looked past the Black Dog, to where Wu Ming was sprawled on the ground. Blood oozed from the stumps of his legs -- legs that terminated with torn thread. An absurd mixture of the material and the organic.


    To tell the truth, Wu Ming was impressed with his apprentice as well. The last he¡¯d noticed Morgan¡¯s presence, the kid had still been on top of the shopping centre, fighting the Hive of Malkuth. What had changed? Why was he here now?


    Wu Ming looked, and he saw -- the pale hue of Morgan¡¯s skin, and the exhaustion in his unwilling breaths. The signs of a battle that was starting to grate. Wu Ming had never experienced that himself, but he knew what it looked like.


    Ah. So he¡¯d come here to get Wu Ming¡¯s help. That made sense.


    "Sorry, Morgan," Wu Ming grinned from the ground, embarrassed. "It looks like I bit off a little more than I can chew! You should probably get out of here."


    Black Dog glanced back down at Wu Ming, the levity fading from its face. "You think I¡¯ll just let him get away?" it asked, voice low.


    Wu Ming glared right back at it, even through his smile. "You think I need legs to kick your ass?"


    The Black Dog opened its simulacrum of a mouth to reply -- but Morgan chose that moment to move. Not away, as Wu Ming had hoped, but instead to attack. In an instant, he was upon the Black Dog, smoke-sword whipping through the air so fast that it was only visible as a dancing smear of purple.


    Wounds opened up all across Black Dog¡¯s body -- but no flesh, no blood.


    "Kid!" Wu Ming shouted, using strings to pull himself out of the Dog¡¯s range. "Normal attacks won¡¯t work!"


    His warning nearly came too late.


    At the same time as Morgan leapt back, the Black Dog lunged, the wounds on its body snapping open like mouths -- and tendrils poured forth from them in pursuit. They were tipped with snarling canine heads, eyes white with malice, and they stretched to cover nearly the entire alley as Morgan continued to retreat backwards. They snapped and snarled, tearing apart the walls and floor as they went, their attacks indiscriminate.


    "A! C! B!" Morgan shouted, his voice tinged with the echo of Aether.


    Purple Aether coalesced near his foot -- and as it did, he spun and kicked at it, sending the Block he¡¯d manifested hurtling towards the Black Dog. Wu Ming saw what he¡¯d done: he¡¯d applied an Amplified Cut effect to the Block, effectively turning it into a twelve-sided blade. Against anyone else, that would have been a good maneuver, but against this thing¡­ S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As the tendrils retracted back into its body, the Black Dog simply reached out and tapped the incoming Block with a finger.


    It popped -- and blood sprayed over the walls and the Black Dog¡¯s sly grin. Licking its lips, it spread its arms wide, as if to display to Morgan that its wounds had now fully vanished. A malicious chuckle danced throughout the dark space.


    "I guess you haven¡¯t been watching that long," it said smugly. "But I¡¯ve pretty much figured out Aether constructs of that level. You can blame this guy for that. I¡¯ve already developed an ability to nullify any constructs an enemy throws at me."


    Yep, Wu Ming had really messed up this time. To tell the truth, he was probably the worst possible person to have fought this thing. After just a few minutes of contact with him, the threat the Black Dog presented had snowballed to such a level that Wu Ming was no longer sure he could even win.


    This book¡¯s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Did that mean he regretted it?


    Wu Ming grinned. Oh hell no.


    Puppetlord! Starlight Swing!


    In an instant, he activated two abilities. Puppetlord created strings pulling on his own shoulders, holding him up in the air and letting him move around. As he rose into his floating position, he let loose a web of light-strings from his fingers, intending to cover the entire alleyway and catch the Black Dog in a deadly net.


    His adversary had been ready for him, though.


    Black Dog responded at the same time as Wu Ming attacked. In the blink of an eye, it had turned and kicked off the wall, launching itself towards Wu Ming with a wild look in its eyes. Its form was fluid -- and so it simply compressed itself to fit through a tiny gap in the net as it closed the distance. As the strings finally reached their destination, the Black Dog was already in Wu Ming¡¯s face, its massive hands wrapped around his throat.


    "Sorry," it giggled, saliva running from its mouth. "Did you think I¡¯d forgotten about you?!"


    "Nah," Wu Ming gasped back. "I was counting on it."


    Sinking Feeling!


    The Black Dog¡¯s eyes widened -- and it was no surprise, for its hands had started to sink into Wu Ming¡¯s throat where they made contact. It tried to pull away, but Sinking Feeling couldn¡¯t be escaped that easily. Black Dog realized that quickly enough, too -- with a gruesome crunch, it dislocated its jaw, lunging forward to try and bite Wu Ming¡¯s head right off instead.


    Except¡­ he had already created an opening.


    As the two of them flew through the air, Morgan leapt up behind Black Dog, another Block clutched in his hands. Was he seriously trying the same thing again, after seeing how it had ended up? No. He wasn¡¯t that stupid.


    With a roar of exertion, he hurled the Block right at the Black Dog¡¯s face --


    L! A!


    -- and this time, the projectile exploded into light and noise before it could make contact.


    Black Dog hissed in agony, retracting its head into its body like a tortoise to avoid the explosion.


    Seeing that there was now a danger of actual injury, it moved instantly to free itself -- Sinking Feeling was indeed too difficult to escape, so Black Dog just tore its own hands off at the wrists and let Wu Ming keep them. Kicking off his chest -- with enough force to vaporize ribs -- it launched itself up into the air.


    Morgan followed. With a flick of his wrist, he launched a rope of fog and wrapped it around the creature¡¯s leg like a lasso. As it soared upwards, it pulled him right along with it.


    Wu Ming took a second to finally release Sinking Feeling, letting Black Dog¡¯s severed hands drop to the ground and dissipate into mist. He¡¯d be best off getting into a good position now -- but looking up at the shrinking figures of his apprentice and his copycat, he couldn¡¯t help but smirk to himself. It had been a while since he¡¯d seen Morgan in person¡­


    ¡­but the kid really had gotten quick, huh?


    String Theory: Wormhole.


    "Hm?"


    Black Dog glanced down as its massive leap finally crested the building. It hadn¡¯t noticed at first, but it seemed it had acquired a passenger -- Morgan Nacht was clinging to its leg via one of those smoke-ropes of his. How curious. Why hadn¡¯t Black Dog¡¯s ability automatically nullified that construct? It certainly fit the criteria.


    Morgan Nacht.


    Black Dog sifted through the information it had acquired from Wu Ming. This kid was his apprentice, one of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. He used abilities based on the alphabet. The data it had acquired was fairly clear on the first few letters, but it got murkier the further it went¡­ that was annoying. Maybe it should have let Wu Ming beat it up a little more, to acquire more intelligence?


    Nah. It might have been strategically advantageous, but the idea of willingly losing a fight still struck Black Dog as a real zero-out-of-ten scenario. It would just kill Nacht and figure all this out later.


    The nullification worked just as well manually, after all.


    As it landed on the roof, the Black Dog swung its leg with almighty force, whipping Nacht through the air horizontally. Then, at the right moment, just the right moment, it nullified the smoke-rope. The construct popped into blood, and Nacht went flying into the wall. Debris and smoke was spat out in every direction as he slammed into the concrete surface.


    "Hm," Black Dog smiled, regenerating its hands to cup its ears. "Was that the sound of breaking bones I heard? Ah, what a wonderful melody. I¡¯ll give you a ten-out-of-ten for your entertainment value, if nothing else."


    The smile widened into a sickly grin.


    "Encore!"


    Black Dog opened its mouth wide, dislocating its jaw once again -- but this time, instead of biting, it breathed. With the force of a starship engine, it sucked in the air around it voraciously, taking in so much that its head inflated to nearly ten times its original size. At the point its facial features became cartoonish, it finally relented --


    -- and so it huffed, and it puffed, and it spat that invisible payload right back towards the injured Morgan Nacht.


    It was like Black Dog was belching forth a hurricane. A vicious beam of air poured from its mouth towards the small figure of Nacht, the breath so concentrated it was very nearly a solid object. The Black Dog¡¯s eyes widened in vicious glee as Nacht -- caught injured and dazed -- was unable to dodge, the beam slamming into him with all its force.


    How many seconds would he last? Two? Three? Ha, hahahaha, perhaps he was dead already! Ten out of ten! Two thumbs up! Five stars! Would recommend, would recommend, would recommend! Yes! Yes! Die!


    DIE!


    Finally, the attack crawled to a close, and the Black Dog¡¯s head returned to its normal size. Ah, perhaps it had gone¡­ a little overboard. The skyscraper behind where Nacht had been standing had been completely demolished, as had the five behind that. It would be a miracle if a corpse still even existed among all that rubble.


    "Ah, still," Black Dog scratched the back of its head sheepishly. "It¡¯s probably best to make sure."


    It took a single step forward --


    -- and the building exploded beneath it.


    It was just as Morgan Nacht had thought. Wu Ming hadn¡¯t known about Inside yet.


    When that thing -- Black Dog -- had used the air attack, Morgan hadn¡¯t been able to dodge immediately. He¡¯d needed to use an Amplified Grade to weaken and partially block the attack -- and even that had peeled away nearly all the skin from his hands. As soon as the winds had begun to weaken, he¡¯d used Inside to move into the room below¡­


    ¡­and from there, he¡¯d gotten to work.


    Now that he¡¯d gotten a little more used to it, he¡¯d realized Light was a potent combination with a number of his other abilities. To put it simply, Light -- L -- was the ability to convert his own Aether constructs into an explosive flame. Combined with Fog, it essentially gave him the power to sculpt his own bombs freely.


    An entire story filled with Fog made quite the explosion of Light. Morgan watched, resolute, as heat and flame poured through the building -- and he readied his sword of smoke as the scraps of the Black Dog dropped to the ground in front of him. Its legs had been burnt away by the shine of Light, and it looked back at him with feral indignance.


    "Oh look," Morgan said, nodding to the beast¡¯s twitching stumps. "I guess you were a perfect replica, after all."


    As the Black Dog howled at him, Morgan tightened his grip against the hilt of his sword.


    This time, he promised the world. I¡¯ll show you what I can do.


    He went to dart in -- but fortunately, a white light flared from far above, and Morgan saw the trap he would have stepped into. Immediately, he jumped backwards, creating a platform of Amplified Fog beneath his feet to stop himself from touching the floor. After all¡­ it was now the enemy¡¯s domain.


    In the darkness of the ravaged building, the Black Dog had thrust its hands against the floor -- and those hands had reformed into bundles of black strings, spreading all throughout the area like the roots of a diseased tree. The Black Dog¡¯s grin stretched all the way up its neck as it looked up at Morgan.


    "Like this, right?" it breathed.


    The roots spread further, crawling towards the gaggles of rats that lurked in the shadows of this abandoned place. Animal instinct showed them the danger they were in instantly. They squeaked and squealed as they went to escape, but even with their haste, they¡¯d never stood a chance. The instant the roots made contact with their furry bodies, they vanished in pops of red Aetheral sparks -- like bugs caught in a bug zapper.


    For a few seconds, as the horde of vermin was recorded all at once, the room itself shone crimson. And then¡­


    "Guardian Entity!" Black Dog cackled. "Ky¨±so!"


    Hark.


    The providence of a cerebrospinal heaven. The triumph of divine will over mortal soul. A synchronized sequence of lights slaughtering the dark. The grace, the glory, the virtue, the memory, the wonder. An angel, an angel, an angel had come.


    Praetorian One floated over the world of man, wings spread wide, feathers floating all around him like the satellites of a celestial sphere. Even the individual feathers bore crimson eyes now, watchful over all below him -- and all was now below him. He needed not even flap his wings to fly. It was in his nature to stand atop the sky.


    And yet¡­


    AH¡­ MY BACK HURTS¡­


    He bared his fingers like claws at the world. The wings that formed his head twisted around each other until they nearly formed a needlepoint. His feathers shuddered and twitched sympathetically in the air, like subordinates outraged on his behalf.


    One could feel them, shifting under his skin, the abilities that the Queen had granted him to save his life. An ecosystem of power that now formed his core. If he were to dig his claws into his chest and pull it open, no doubt a wellspring of divine light would pour forth.


    And yet, this divinity was a fragile thing. He was the newborn of an uneasy equilibrium, one that had only just barely achieved existence, one that the world was pushing back against. In time, in time, he would stabilize and achieve a true apotheosis, but right now¡­


    AIEEE! SAMUEL SENTZMANN! BECAUSE OF YOU, MY BAAACK HUUURTS!


    He threw his wings out wide, and vented his anger upon the world. Bolts of light fired forth from every inch of his body, bombarding the district below -- and whatever those bolts struck crumbled into salt. Buildings, vehicles, people¡­ all of them were transmuted, turning the world into a pure and blinding white. Great clouds of steam floated up from the impact sites, like a great breath of relief from the souls of the righteously departed.


    Returning to the serenity expected of Her Majesty¡¯s proxy, Praetorian One looked upon his work, and he thought it good.


    DID YOU DIE, SAMUEL SENTZMANN? NO¡­ YOU MUSTN¡¯T LET THAT KILL YOU. YOU HAVE A MORE HELLISH PUNISHMENT AWAITING YOU.


    Right now, not even Praetorian One knew how Appointment would suffer before he died. All One knew was that he couldn¡¯t let the heathen get away with it. To humiliate an agent of Her Majesty, to murder an agent of Her Majesty, to sin to sin TO SIN TO SIN!


    ¡­it could not be forgiven.


    When Praetorian One finally had Appointment in his hands¡­ only then would the shape of the agony reveal itself. Until then, all One needed do was follow the mandate of heaven. Until then, all One needed do¡­ was stop the rat from escaping its trap.


    The angel raised its arm, and pointed a single thin finger up towards the sky.


    DELIVER UNTO ME A KINGDOM.


    His feathers moved to obey his command, pouring forth from his wings without end and hurtling up towards the sky. One by one, they slotted together seamlessly, forming a radiant canopy over above. Within the space of thirty seconds, the entire district was completely sealed in a red-and-white dome, bathed in a perpetual and soothing daylight.


    Now, there was no escape.


    Not for the rat stripped of his metal skin.


    Not for the rats seeking to flee this planet.


    Not for any rats at all, none of them, none of them.


    Before this night was done¡­ all of them would have their filthy eyes burnt clean by Her Majesty¡¯s kindness.

 Chapter 441:14.15: Goodbye Guests (Part 3)

    This thing was toying with them.


    Muzazi gritted his teeth as he continued to swing his twin Radiants, deflecting and destroying the countless blades that poured forth to attack. It wasn¡¯t just him that was the target -- the swords continually tried to weave past his defenses and strike the unconscious Aguta and del Sed, as well. His attention was divided as far as it could be while retaining competence -- if he let something else distract him, it could spell disaster.


    And in a situation like this, it was very difficult not to be distracted.


    A new sky had lowered over the district, a barrier of white feathers that covered this entire abandoned section of the city, sealing it off. Innumerable red eyes stared inwards from the surface of the dome, flicking around independently, no doubt performing reconnaissance for their master. If Muzazi wasn¡¯t mistaken, that massive being wreaking havoc off in the distance was part of the Hive of Malkuth, too.


    Just like this thing.


    Praetorian Five giggled loudly to itself as it floated high above the battle. "This is so fun!" it laughed, in a voice that matched its childlike stature. "Hey, hey, are you scared, are you tired, are you dying? Come on, come on, tell me¡­ I really wanna know! Hey, hey, tell me! Just tell me, okay?! I wanna know! Hey, hey!"


    Muzazi¡¯s blood boiled. Was that grating voice part of the enemy¡¯s strategy as well? If so, it may very well have been working.


    Rufus fired off another beam of incandescence -- but with the distance between them, it was child¡¯s play for Praetorian Five to swoop around it once more. Giggling again, it wagged an admonishing finger at the Nebula below.


    "Ah, ah, ah!" it said mockingly, deploying another wave of swords. "You already tried that, remember? Already tried it, already tried it! Do you have sand for a brain? If it didn¡¯t work the first time, or the second time, or the third time, it¡¯s not gonna --"


    A voice echoed across the rooftop, cutting off the Praetorian¡¯s mania.


    "Unchained."


    Praetorian Five stopped talking. It went silent. Actually, no, that wasn¡¯t true -- it did let out a choking noise as its limbs twitched, as if it were being held tight in a massive and invisible fist.


    Because that was exactly what was happening.


    Muzazi turned his head to look at the opposite side of the roof¡­ and there -- as he¡¯d half-expected, half-dreaded -- was the implacable form of the man called Mereloco. He strode calmly across the roof, arms limp at his sides, his dispassionate gaze fixed upwards on the immobilized Praetorian.


    Is he here to kill me too? Muzazi wondered. No, he has a bounty on him, same as me.


    In that case¡­ why¡­?


    "Untoward," Mereloco said, ignoring the confused looks from those around him.


    Gravity had a new master here. The roof began to shudder and tear beneath his feet, strips of concrete peeling away to form the steps of a floating staircase -- so that Mereloco could ascend towards his prey. As the burly man grew closer and closer, Praetorian Five twitched, attempting to escape. A huge group of thralls moaned as their bodies were crushed and fused into one jagged greatsword -- the weapon firing at Mereloco with the speed of a bullet.


    The man from the past just caught it in his teeth.


    Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.


    Slowly, as those who had just been fighting now watched dumbfounded, Mereloco shattered the weapon in his mouth¡­ and swallowed the shards. As if the deadly implement was just a snack, he consumed it down to the hilt, which he tossed over his shoulder. For the first time since he¡¯d arrived, the man blinked.


    "Yummy," he said humourlessly.


    Praetorian Five was dead a second later. A massive punch, infused with Aether and enhanced by Unchained, utterly destroyed the top half of its body. Red Aether leaking from its form, the tiny corpse dropped to the ground far below.


    Mereloco followed a second later, the roof shaking as he landed right before Muzazi. Their eyes met.


    "Why?" Muzazi breathed.


    "You said a lot of bullshit back there," Mereloco said simply. "You can¡¯t die yet."


    Muzazi blinked. Was that meant to explain anything? As Rufus ran over to provide uncertain aid -- stopped by the subtlest shake of Muzazi¡¯s head -- Mereloco¡¯s dull eyes drifted over Muzazi¡¯s shoulder to lock onto the horizon.


    "We need to deal with that," Mereloco nodded. "Can you fight?"


    Muzazi followed Mereloco¡¯s gaze to the shining titan raining destruction down on the city. He was right. Without a doubt, that creature was the one who had erected the bright barrier around the district, trapping them all inside. Even if they could safely take off, right now they had no way of getting the ship out of here.


    That thing had to go, then.


    Muzazi took a deep breath¡­ and ignited another Radiant from his hand.


    "Yes," he said, pushing for his words to be true. "I can fight."


    The new Guardian Entity -- Ky¨±so -- appeared in a rage of discordantly flashing Aether.


    It had been created by recording and altering the rats that had scurried through this building, and it had taken form from them as well. They were bound together tightly with a lattice of strings like a full-body fishnet, their squirming bodies forming a vaguely humanoid shape. Half-a-dozen tails writhed through the air as a gruesome ¡¯face¡¯, while jaws and teeth were stretched out to form rudimentary ¡¯fingers¡¯.


    Slowly, as if realising for the first time that it was alive, the monster spread its arms wide -- and arched its back to such a degree that its head faced the ceiling, its body forming a grotesque right angle.


    "Interesting, very interesting," Black Dog chuckled, looking over its shoulder at the floating monstrosity. "Do you like what I did with the face? Gnarly, huh?"


    Morgan said nothing. He just drew his Fog-sword back, preparing himself, eyes resolute. He¡¯d only faced Guardian Entities personally once -- when he was keeping the Crimson Carnival away from Muzazi¡¯s match -- but he knew they could display absurd abilities.


    They weren¡¯t to be --


    "They¡¯re not to be taken lightly, right?" the Black Dog finished.


    Morgan¡¯s eyes widened in alarm.


    "Haha, I got you, didn¡¯t I?" Black Dog cackled, screwing a pointed finger against its temple. "That¡¯s exactly what Wu Ming would expect you to think. You¡¯re so predictable, you know that?"


    It sighed, running a hand over its face.


    "Anyway¡­ enough games. Time to finish this. Guardian Enti --"


    "Guardian Entity," a voice interrupted. "Shamichoro."


    The Black Dog turned its head -- and in the next moment, that head was shredded apart. Metal strings lashed out of the darkness, again and again, so fast that the Dog had no time to regenerate before the next attack came. Within a couple of seconds, the Black Dog was just a pile of diced shadows on the ground, its newborn Guardian Entity floating impotently above it.


    The last man Morgan Nacht had expected to see marched out of the darkness, shamisen in hand.


    Nael Manron.


    Their eyes met. "Huh?" Morgan said.


    "You¡¯re Muzazi¡¯s sidekick, right?" Nael grunted, strings still attacking the pile of darkness on the ground. "I guess you¡¯re here too."


    What are you doing here? Morgan wanted to say that, but no¡­ there were bigger concerns. His gaze flicked back to the decimated Black Dog.


    "Be careful," he said. "Normal attacks won¡¯t --"


    "Won¡¯t kill it, I know," Nael grunted. "But if I keep going like this, I can stop it from moving, right? I was watching -- I know you¡¯ve got a way to damage it. Finish it off while I keep it busy."


    Just like that? The last time they¡¯d ¡¯met¡¯ -- for lack of a better word -- they¡¯d been bitter enemies in battle. Now Manron just expected them to join forces without a second thought?


    Well¡­ Morgan thought. Actually, I¡¯m kind of into that.


    As Shamichoro continued to disassemble the regenerating carcass of the Black Dog, Ky¨±so finally leapt into action. The rat-man kicked off of empty air, squealing and screeching as it moved to strike Nael with its gnarled fists.


    "Shamichoro!" Manron barked. "Bachigawa!"


    Nearly instantly, the metal strings of his Shamisen wrapped around Manron¡¯s body as armour -- and he deflected Ky¨±so¡¯s punch with a kick of his own. Sparks flew in every direction as tooth met metal. That didn¡¯t slow the Guardian Entity down, though -- before those sparks could even hit the ground, it was already launching another attack, and Manron was immediately moving to block it.


    "Move it!" Manron barked, his voice echoing from within his armour. "You¡¯ve got seconds!"


    Right, right. Now that Manron was occupied with Ky¨±so, there was nothing stopping the Black Dog from regenerating. It was do or die time.


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    Morgan charged towards the growing pile of darkness, the shape of his Fog-sword shifting in his hands.


    F! A!


    New tendrils of Fog emerged from his shoulders, surging towards the blade of his now-massive weapon.


    I! A!


    As the twin streams of Fog flowed inside the hollow blade, Morgan altered them, prepared it like a chef prepares a dish.


    C! A!


    And as he leapt over the last obstacle and plunged his blade into the black mass¡­


    I! A!


    ¡­he used the final ability, the one that would finish this¡­


    L! A!


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­and nothing happened.


    Morgan blinked. "Huh?"


    The grin of the Black Dog reformed. "Lengthwise Guillotine."


    Instantly, Morgan was launched backwards, a cruel gash opened up all the way down his torso. Blood sprayed from his wound and his mouth twice -- once, as he was struck, then again as he hit the wall, leaving a sizable dent. Lights danced in his vision. Nausea pulled at his throat.


    What had happened? What was happening? What was going to happen?


    Morgan¡¯s vision cleared, just for a moment, just in time to see Black Dog¡¯s fangs lunging for his throat, and all those questions were answered at once.


    Oh. I¡¯m dead. I¡¯m dying. I¡¯m going to die.


    "Hachiman!" Nael roared.


    Death was robbed by mere inches as a swing of the Guardian Entity¡¯s spear intercepted the beast, sending it flying back as it dodged the followup. As Nael and his Hachiman stood defensively in front of the downed Morgan, the Black Dog landed beside its own Guardian Entity, which returned to a floating position behind it.


    "You¡¯re pretty fast," Black Dog smirked. "But you wasted your one chance. Both of you are dead now."


    "You say that¡­" Manron replied, his own Guardian Entity flipping its weapons in its hands. "...but you¡¯re keeping your distance, aren¡¯t you? After all¡­ you know what Hachiman can do."


    Black Dog chuckled. "You think that scarecrow frightens me, little man? You¡¯ve already used its ability on me once -- and lookie lookie, I¡¯m fine now. Why would I even be worried?"


    Hachiman¡¯s ability -- the one that had nearly spelt the end of Muzazi. Morgan remembered it well. At Manron¡¯s command, that Guardian Entity could launch an unblockable, undodgeable attack. As far as Morgan knew, there was absolutely no way for the target to avoid being hit by that attack. The best anyone could hope for was to mitigate the damage.


    Of course¡­ Black Dog wasn¡¯t an ordinary target. The level of damage that attack could do against it might as well be nothing, considering it could just pull itself back together right afterwards.


    But Nael Manron knew that too. That was why -- visible only through the slightest seam in his armour -- a smirk spread across his lips to match that of his adversary.


    "True," Nael said. "Hachiman can¡¯t do much against that half-assed body of yours. Of course¡­"


    His red gaze flicked upwards.


    "...the same can¡¯t be said of your lackey, there."


    Hachiman adjusted its aim, just slightly¡­ and locked right on to Black Dog¡¯s own Guardian Entity, to the Ky¨±so that floated behind the beast. Black Dog¡¯s eyes widened. A snarl poured from its throat.


    "Wait!" it barked.


    Nael Manron did not wait.


    "Guardian Entity!" he roared. "Hachiman!"


    The warrior of straw and flame thrust its spear forward into eager space, the blade crackling with Aether and potential¡­ and the room was plunged into silence. For a moment, nobody spoke. For a moment, nobody moved.


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    ¡­Nael Manron collapsed to the floor, a massive hole opened right up in his gut.


    "Wait," Black Dog repeated, but now giggling -- mocking -- as it looked down at the fallen warrior. "Wait, wait, wait, wait! Ha! Don¡¯t do it, please, I beg of you! Not Hachiman!"


    Still laughing, it sauntered over, pressing its foot against the back of Manron¡¯s head and forcing his face into the dirt. He groaned softly, at the edge of consciousness. His fingers twitched as his armour unpeeled and fell limp to the ground beside him.


    "Bastard¡­" he hissed, his eyes glassy and fixed on empty space.


    As Nael drifted into a lethal sleep, the Black Dog¡¯s joyous gaze slid back up to Morgan, still embedded in the wall.


    "Now¡­" it growled. "Your turn."


    Praetorian One sang, and the world shattered.


    Blez Peshi. A building was demolished in a screeching chorus.


    Capture Ball. A gang of Crimson Carnival leftovers were trapped and left to suffocate in the sky.


    Field of Naught. The attacks and projectiles that came close crumbled into salt -- weak, weak, far too weak.


    Eater of Hearts. The corpses formed through righteous slaughter streamed up into Praetorian One¡¯s body, fuelling its wavering lifeforce.


    Mourning Star. Feathers collected before the Praetorian¡¯s index finger until they formed a perfect white sphere -- and when that was fired at a building, all that remained was a crater of glass.


    IT IS NOT ENOUGH.


    Dead Eyes. Along with revealing the names of those Praetorian One looked at, it also maintained a constant record of those it had killed. Over the last few minutes, the names of the deceased had flowed into Praetorian One¡¯s mind, a chorus to the slaughter. Samuel Sentzmann¡¯s name was yet to appear.


    It watched with the eyes from its wings, twisting them this way and that to get a better angle. It watched with the eyes from the firmament above, crimson gaze unblinking. And yet, it did not see him. That man was nowhere to be found.


    Praetorian One screamed.


    APPOINTMENT!


    DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME?! VILE SINNER! UTTER HEATHEN! SHRINK NOT FROM MY GAZE!


    Red eyes twitched and flicked around independently all over One¡¯s body, mirroring its fury -- and, then, just as quickly, they all returned to serenity. Its mood was so changeable right now¡­ how curious. Was this the psychology of a blessed one?


    OH¡­ YOU¡¯RE ATTACKING ME? I HAVEN¡¯T EVEN DONE ANYTHING, AND YOU¡¯RE ATTACKING ME?


    Praetorian One raised a hand and casually blocked the blast of light surging towards it. The attack had been quite impressive -- in its new form, Praetorian One was the size of a building, and yet the blast would have sufficed to break the skin had it struck. Which brave warrior was this?


    It twisted its head-wings in the direction of the attack, pupils shrinking as they zoomed in on the source.


    AH¡­ THERE YOU ARE.


    ATOY MUZAZI!


    The loser of the Dawn Contest stood atop the roof of the Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre, blade of light raised as he slowly collected the force required for another attack. It was too late, though. That first chance had been his last chance.


    What with the radiance of the canopy, Praetorian One hadn¡¯t noticed the Full Moon charging up his first Radiant Almighty, but now the sinner had no such leeway. One pointed a lazy finger in the direction of its target, a gaggle of feathers gathering into a single point before the digit.


    CHOKE ON GOD¡¯S LIGHT AND DIE.


    Praetorian One tapped the point -- and a blast of heavensfire surged forward, crossing the distance between One and Muzazi in barely a second.


    The sinner had been ready for it, though. Just as fast, he dodged to the side -- and someone else leapt in to receive the blow. A red-haired man holding a massive shield -- a shield that the blast of light slammed into, scattering in every direction as it pushed against him.


    Dead Eyes. Rufus von Frostburn.


    OH¡­?


    Even if that shield was sturdy enough to block Praetorian One¡¯s attack -- which it wasn¡¯t -- it¡¯s wielder surely wouldn¡¯t be. He¡¯d be sent flying, and that shield -- that puny, impotent shield -- would slip from his grasp. Any defenses -- if any even existed -- would be failed by those operating them.


    Any second now¡­


    ¡­


    Any second now¡­


    ¡­


    He wasn¡¯t going flying.


    Instead, von Frostburn stood firm -- deflecting the light as it poured forth, even as cracks formed in the rooftop around him. What was this? How was he withstanding the attack?


    Praetorian One narrowed its eyes and observed further, observed closer. Purple Aether shimmered all around the man, holding him in place, holding him steady. A spell of enhanced gravity.


    Mereloco.


    Providence was truly on the side of Praetorian One this night. Every single person it wanted dead were presenting themselves with such convenience!


    "That¡­" Morgan choked blood, limbs splayed out around him, half-buried in the wall. "That ability¡­"


    "You¡¯ve figured Ky¨±so out, haven¡¯t you?" Black Dog grinned mirthfully as it advanced, Ky¨±so floating over its shoulder. "There¡¯s a good boy. Wu Ming was right about you -- you do catch on quick."


    Morgan narrowed his eyes -- more to keep his vision clear than anything else. If Black Dog had managed to avoid that unavoidable attack, then there was only one explanation. Hachiman struck its target without exception. Morgan had no doubts about that.


    In that case¡­


    "Your¡­ your Guardian Entity¡­" Morgan gasped out the unfamiliar parlance. "It lets you change the target¡­ of other abilities. If I had to guess¡­ it redirects any enemy ability within range¡­ makes them target the user instead¡­"


    That explained what had happened to Morgan, too -- why Light hadn¡¯t worked before. L worked by targeting one of Morgan¡¯s Aether constructs and altering it into an explosive flame. If the target for that ability was redirected to Morgan himself, it obviously wouldn¡¯t work.


    "Ten out of ten! Nael Manron¡¯s attack is indeed undodgeable and unblockable. I mean, weren¡¯t you watching? He wasn¡¯t able to dodge or block it at all!" Black Dog clutched its stomach as it laughed boisterously -- and then, suddenly stopped, its eyes dead. "And now, like I said¡­ your turn."


    "Fuck you."


    The Black Dog paid no mind to the insult. Instead, it simply threw its arms out, unleashing a wave of discordant Aether -- flickering between various ghastly tones -- that crawled across the room. Morgan¡¯s heart skipped a beat in his chest. Morgan¡¯s sweat turned ice cold.


    One by one, all around Morgan, white towers of what looked like bone rose out of the floor. He trembled as he looked at them. He knew these.


    "I¡­" he forced out. "Ba¡­ a¡­ Bastard¡­ J¡­Just¡­"


    "They¡¯re called restrainer towers," Black Dog explained needlessly. "I¡¯m told this gets messy if I don¡¯t use them. Best to follow the manual in such cases¡­ don¡¯t you think?"


    Morgan¡¯s eyes widened -- and space warped as if to mock his horror.


    "String Theory: Black Hole."

 Chapter 442:14.16: Goodbye Guests (Part 4)

    Many years ago¡­


    Was the man training? ¨€¨€¨€¨€ couldn¡¯t tell.


    The man made everything he did seem like a dance. As he fought the automatics in the chamber below, they were his partners, not his adversaries. The debris that rained down from his victory was not destruction but confetti. His laughter echoed off the walls again and again, like countless copies of him were enjoying the moment, a party of one man equalling the jubilation of thousands.


    So this was a Contender.


    ¨€¨€¨€¨€¡¯s father had only been too eager to host this man in one of his hotels, and only too eager to give him unrestricted use of this training room. After all, it made sense. The Clown of the Supremacy was known not only for his capriciousness but his generosity -- his absurd generosity, if the stars were right. Yes, it made sense. Everything ¨€¨€¨€¨€¡¯s father did made sense in that cold, metal way -- he was a man who saw the world as a series of cells, and he had come to recognise the various shapes the bars took.


    And yet¡­


    ¨€¨€¨€¨€ brushed their long purple hair out of their eyes. ¨€¨€¨€¨€ put a hand against the cold glass as they looked at the dance below.


    At that moment, twirling in the carnage, Wu Ming seemed the free-est man in the world.


    ¨€¨€¨€¨€ would¡­


    Morgan would¡­


    Morgan Nacht would very much like to be free like that too.


    Present Day¡­


    In the moment before Black Dog¡¯s ability activated, that old memory drifted through Morgan¡¯s mind. The end of life¡¯s prologue. A second birthday.


    Morgan smiled softly¡­


    ¡­and he kept smiling, even as his image was pulled apart by the dark of the void.


    AETHERAL SPACE 14.16


    "Goodbye Guests (Part 4)"


    With a roar of exertion, Rufus pushed Bastardborn forward -- and the shield let loose a beam of bright white heat.


    Mereloco¡¯s strategy had worked. Using the focused gravity, Rufus had been able to brace himself and withstand the Praetorian¡¯s attack -- allowing his Aether Armament to rise to a truly absurd temperature. To be completely honest, Rufus wasn¡¯t sure what would have happened if he hadn¡¯t fired the attack immediately. Would his shield even have been able to contain all that energy?


    He didn¡¯t want to find out.


    More to the point, this wasn¡¯t a plan that would work too many times. Even after intercepting just one of those attacks, Rufus¡¯ arms felt like they were about to snap off. Intensified gravity or no, it took a hell of a lot of strength to hold onto Bastardborn while it took a blow like that. He¡¯d had to focus his infusion nearly entirely on his muscles -- and so his hands were bright red and burnt.


    The blast of heat slammed into the Praetorian¡¯s right arm -- still outstretched -- and vaporised it up to the elbow. Golden ichor flowed freely from the twitching stump as the angel looked down demurely at its injury.


    TO TRY AND ELIMINATE A MESSENGER OF LIGHT WITH ITS OWN DIVINE BEQUEATHMENT¡­


    It looked up at them, and every single pupil it had access to shrank in utter odium.


    WHAT VILE CREATURES YOU ARE.


    This could not be forgiven.


    It was one thing to strike an avatar of Her Majesty. It was one thing to attempt to block an avatar of Her Majesty¡¯s attack. But to attack that avatar with power stolen itself from Her Majesty? That was another matter entirely.


    Sinful. Indolent. Unacceptable.


    A heavenly punishment was due. Praetorian One locked its eyes onto the three enemies before it -- Atoy Muzazi, Rufus von Frostburn, and Mereloco -- and prepared the retribution. It had taken all their strength to block a single attack. The obvious solution was to just hit them with more than a single attack.


    Blez Peshi. Mind¡¯s Knife.


    Praetorian One divided its consciousness for a moment -- and each of those mini-minds activated Blez Peshi simultaneously, firing nearly a hundred cannonballs of singing brain-matter directly towards the shopping centre. In terms of destructive potential, they didn¡¯t compare to the light of judgment One¡¯s feathers could conjure, but a cluster of shots like this was far beyond Frostburn¡¯s ability to block.


    The damned chorus sailed through the air, coming down towards the building like a meteor shower, and¡­


    Unthroned.


    ¡­they were devoured.


    For an instant, barely a fraction of a second, a gravitational singularity appeared in the sky between Blez Peshi and the shopping centre. The majority of the shots were consumed immediately by the void, while the survivors were flung in every direction by the ability¡¯s aftereffects. Pillars of flame erupted throughout the district as the shots came down, punctuated by celestial screams.


    For a moment, hot anger rushed through Praetorian One¡¯s veins¡­ but only for a moment.


    It was interrupted, after all.


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    Atoy Muzazi¡¯s second attack struck Praetorian One in the chest, the devastation caused by the redirected bombing run serving as an effective smokescreen. This time, the attack struck true -- a golden gap opening in Praetorian One¡¯s chest, spilling its burning lifeblood down into the streets. The Praetorian seethed as it glared across the district, red Aether crackling furiously around it.


    FOOLISHNESS.


    Red Wine Manipulation. UnDisease. A Cure for Wellness.


    Three almighty healing abilities intertwined into perfection. Praetorian One¡¯s missing arm and open wound flickered and shuddered like they were being displayed on a faulty videograph -- and, between one frame and the next, those injuries vanished. It was as if Praetorian One had never been struck at all.


    Of course¡­ the damage to One¡¯s pride was another story.


    OH, DEAR CHILDREN¡­ HAD YOU ONLY NEVER DEALT THOSE WOUNDS¡­ YOU COULD HAVE DIED SO EASILY.


    Ghost Step. World of One. He Caused A Reflection.


    The ten kilometers between Praetorian One and the shopping centre were nothing. In the blink of an eye, it was upon them, the massive form of the angel unleashing a burst of air pressure like a cannon going off -- like a hundred cannons going off. The slain thralls that littered the rooftop flew away like scattered leaves, and the living enemies nearly suffered the same fate.


    If not for that damnable gravity.


    A field of purple Aether kept the three irritations fixed in their places, and unbelievably -- unacceptably --


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    -- a fly was still biting.


    With a snarl of frustration, Praetorian One slapped the Almighty out of the air before it could even get close. Atoy Muzazi was charging each attack up for less time than the last, and so they were getting progressively weaker -- which was perhaps even more infuriating. Did he really think he could take down Her Majesty¡¯s messenger with such feeble blows?!


    Praetorian One¡¯s eyes -- all of them -- flicked around madly and independently, as if searching for its fury¡¯s balm. They found none.


    AIEEE! HELL! A THOUSAND YEARS OF BLEEDING HEEELL!


    Dignity abandoned for a brief moment, Praetorian One descended on the rooftop like a wild beast, slamming its fists down on the building again and again. Smoke and rubble flew in all directions as it unleashed its wrath, chunks of metal and glass sticking between the angel¡¯s fingers as it punched without end.


    Within a few seconds, the rooftop was a mangled wedding cake, the impressions of One¡¯s fists firmly embedded in the metalwork.


    The three insects were no longer visible among the wreckage. It didn¡¯t matter who you were -- against overwhelming force, even the mightiest human could only choose to be crushed. Thus was the fate of those who --


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    The light fired out of a crack in the rubble and speared right through Praetorian One¡¯s head. A clean hole was scorched out of one of the wings, cleanly erasing an eye. The other one blinked.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    This time, Praetorian One¡¯s voice was soft and kindly.


    CORPSE.


    It pulled its arm back once again, ready to dig into the rubble and avenge the insult a thousandfold. This time, the arm bloomed into a flower of blades, sharp and packed enough to slice even the air itself to shreds. The angel¡¯s momentary calm was broken as it screeched its rage into the bright night.


    It was just a shame that rage went unspent.


    There was a flash of orange light as an arrow shot through the night -- and blasted straight through Praetorian One¡¯s other eye. The being stared silently with an absent gaze. Slowly, it twisted its punctured head-wings around.


    ¡­HUH?


    "I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m doing this," she said.


    Gretchen Hail sighed as she strode across the rooftop, shaking her head. This building was still quite a ways away from the shopping centre, but she could still feel that monster¡¯s animosity from here. She understood this was a favour to Baltay, but even so¡­ weren¡¯t there limits to how big a favour he could call in?


    Well¡­ apparently not.


    "Hey," she said to the one next to her. "Looks like the eyes don¡¯t actually matter. Go for the neck next time."


    It nodded. There was no real need for it to, but Gretchen had thought it best to program in such a rapport. Otherwise, the whole thing was just creepy. There were probably some sickos out there who enjoyed having puppets just follow orders, but that had never been Gretchen¡¯s preference.


    So the sixteen knights around Gretchen lounged and squatted, stood ready and relaxed, exhibited distinct personas through their body language. Some held swords and spears, some held bows and rifles, but without exception each and every one of them was wielding one of Gretchen¡¯s beloved Aether Armaments. Of course¡­ calling them ¡¯knights¡¯ wasn¡¯t quite accurate, either. After all, these were just suits of empty armour.


    The Silversaint Prototypes.


    Well, if I¡¯m going to be a commander, I might as well act the part.


    Standing with her legs wide apart, Gretchen planted one hand against her hip -- and pointed the other, straight and firm as an arrow, at the distant enemy.


    "Troops!" she barked. "Advance!"


    "Ah¡­ heheh¡­" Black Dog giggled. "Maybe I went a little too hard?"


    Needless to say, nothing remained of Morgan Nacht. Everything within Black Hole¡¯s restrained area had been completely erased -- in fact, the only thing keeping the building from collapsing entirely was the web of black strings that had been erected. Ah, strings¡­ most of the time, this stuff came out all jagged like sparks, but when you really got the hang of it¡­


    Multi-coloured Aether flashed as Black Dog¡¯s form fully stabilized. He had finally finished processing all the information he¡¯d absorbed from Wu Ming. This, he knew, was his final form -- a monochrome copy of Wu Ming himself, with chalk-white skin and jet-black hair. With the slightest effort, he willed his hair to grow out, wrapping around his body as a cloak and pooling on the floor like a shadow.


    He couldn¡¯t look cool if he was naked, after all.


    The Black Dog turned, striding over Nael Manron¡¯s unconscious -- or perhaps dead, but who really cared -- body. The careful application of a foot was very effective in forcing that ugly mug further down into the ground.


    "Wow," he said to the trash, looking out through the shattered wall. "Things have gotten pretty crazy out there, huh?"


    Seriously, what the hell was going on? He was sure it had been night-time when they¡¯d started fighting, and now everything was flooded in white light. White light with red dots all over it, angled oddly -- something physical, rather than an effect painted over the sky. A dome over the district? Some kind of ability?


    Black Dog snapped his fingers, creating a lens of black strings to peer through.


    "Oh, I see, I see," he mused, looking at the giant of light on the horizon. "The Hive of Malkuth, huh? It looks like that guy has advanced pretty far himself." He grinned with sharpened canines -- no pun intended. "What a spread, what a spread¡­ how am I supposed to resist?"


    Just by fighting for a few minutes, Black Dog had been able to acquire Wu Ming¡¯s talent for battle and his unrivalled Aether development. What could he take from the Hive of Malkuth? What forbidden fruit could he snatch from the hands of that angel? Ah, he wanted more, he wanted more¡­!


    Mm¡­ He could smell Aclima, too, he could sense her scurrying about through the ruins of the district. As a vengeance ability, he was aware of her location at all times -- but that was exactly why he wouldn¡¯t go after her anymore. If Aclima died, then the vengeance would be fulfilled, and there was every chance that would cause Black Dog to disappear.


    He couldn¡¯t have that. He had learnt the joy of battle now, the utter bliss of tearing through meat and sinew and licking the despair from the eyeballs of your adversary. No¡­ he would remain in this world forevermore. He would remain as a curse upon all mankind.


    Black Dog stepped forward, mouth wide open, tongue lashing at the air and saliva spraying from his mouth as he salivated¡­ only for something else, something red, to spray from his mouth as well.


    His eyes flicked down to the blood on the floor.


    "...huh?"


    "I guess you were right¡­" said a hoarse voice from behind him. "...you really are a perfect replica."


    Black Dog forced his head over his shoulder, glaring behind him.


    He glared at the arrow of smoke that had pierced through his back.


    He glared at the chain of fog that ran from it out into the darkness.


    He glared at the young man who held the end of that chain in one hand¡­ and in the other, the bow he¡¯d used to fire it.


    Morgan Nacht.


    "My teacher¡¯s a cocky bastard too," the brat smirked.


    "H-How¡­?!" Black Dog began -- only for his eyes to snap wide open as he realized the trick that Morgan had pulled. Those words. Those ¡¯last words¡¯ of his.


    "I¡­ Ba¡­ a¡­ Bastard¡­ J¡­Just¡­"


    I¡­ Ba¡­ A¡­ Bastard¡­ J¡­Just¡­


    I¡­ A¡­ J¡­


    Black Dog ground his teeth. Over the course of his fight with Morgan Nacht, he had acquired some knowledge of the brat¡¯s worthless abilities.


    Inside¡­ Amplify¡­ Jape¡­


    "I see," Black Dog sneered. "You used an Amplified Inside to escape to the next room over, and used Jape to leave a fake behind. That¡¯s what I destroyed, right? You¡¯re still a failure, though. Two out of ten, and you¡¯re lucky to get that much."


    "A failure?" Morgan raised a wavering eyebrow. "I¡¯m surprised you can still talk so big."


    "You managed to survive, yeah," Black Dog waved a dismissive hand. "If you kept quiet, you might have even lived a long life. But you go and throw it away for a flesh wound? Yeah, two out of ten."


    "You didn¡¯t let me finish," Morgan said. "I¡¯m surprised you can still talk so big¡­"


    "...since you¡¯re about to die."


    F.


    The Fog that Morgan had scattered throughout the building poured back in, flowing towards the arrow embedded in the Black Dog¡¯s chest.


    A.


    He had Amplified and strengthened it.


    C.


    He had sharpened and compressed it.


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    With a thought, he sent the gathered smoke Inside the hollow arrow, filling it until it was close to bursting.


    "You think this is the coup de grace?" Black Dog chuckled. "My Guardian Entity is still in effect, fool, and even if it wasn¡¯t --"


    The monster reached to pull the arrow out -- but as it did, metal strings lashed out of the darkness and wrapped around its arms, binding them tight behind its back. That, at least, finally seemed to get the seriousness of the situation across. The Black Dog¡¯s eyes widened in alarm, and it bared its teeth as it looked down at Manron¡¯s body.


    The King of Killers had one eye barely open, and his lips barely forced into a smirk.


    "Get fucked," he gasped.


    "So what?!" roared the Black Dog, pulling at its bindings -- it would surely only take a few seconds to break free. "You already know your ability won¡¯t work! All this is doing is buying time, and it¡¯s a zero-outta-ten exchange rate! Don¡¯t imagine some incompetent brat can --"


    "The thing is," Morgan smiled. "I¡¯m a copy-cat too."


    K. Kindred.


    That redirection doesn¡¯t work on you, does it?


    L.


    These next words aren¡¯t actually necessary, but¡­


    Morgan Nacht opened his mouth and screamed.


    "RADIANT ALMIGHTY!"


    Light exploded from within the Black Dog¡¯s body -- overwhelming it in a moment. It finally broke through the metal strings, but all it could do with that freedom was spread its arms wide as it screamed. A shining glow burst from its mouth and eyes as the Light raged through its body, its fingernails popping off one by one and cracks forming over its skin as the almighty radiance sought any possible exit.


    The scream became a howl, and the man became a dog. Writhing in the divine glow, the Black Dog lurched towards Morgan, desperate to close the distance and end his life. Did it think that killing Morgan would deactivate the ability, or did it simply want to finish him off out of spite?


    It no longer had the words to say.


    Its shape distorted and degenerated as it advanced. Countless limbs and faces sprouted from the beast¡¯s mass as it dragged itself across the floor -- Wu Ming¡¯s face, Nael Manron¡¯s face, even Morgan Nacht¡¯s face, all of them distorted by fury and agony. For a moment, it looked like it would finally collapse¡­ but no, it was just preparing itself for the final push.


    With an audible screech of Aether, the body of the Black Dog became a massive hound once more, stretching across the room and rushing towards Morgan, jaw open and ready to bite down on his throat -- even as light bled out from between its fangs.


    This abomination would last only seconds more¡­ three seconds at the most. But Morgan couldn¡¯t move. Could he survive those three seconds?


    One¡­


    The dog bounded forth¡­


    Two¡­


    The jaws stretched forth¡­


    Three¡­


    ¡­and a subtle, nearly-invisible string severed the beast¡¯s head before it could make contact.


    The body vanished first, evaporating in the aurora of light that bloomed forth from its core. For a second, the head remained, still flying through the air, a single white eye still fixed on Morgan¡¯s face. Slowly, just before the head fell, that eye closed.


    Morgan didn¡¯t know whether what happened next was a result of Wu Ming¡¯s essence that the monster had absorbed, or whether it was something it did of its own volition. But, in the last moments of the Black Dog¡¯s existence, it opened its mouth and spoke.


    "Not¡­ bad¡­ kid¡­"


    Light flared, and wiped away the shadows.


    "Ten outta ten¡­"

 Chapter 443:14.17: Goodbye Guests (Part 5)

    In the bright-dark ruins of Grip District, legions did battle with an angel.


    Flung though the air by manipulated gravity, Rufus von Frostburn repelled a hand-swipe that could have wiped out an army -- and then fired out a beam of heat from his shield that boiled the messenger¡¯s chest. Praetorian One brought down its other fist to try and crush Frostburn before he could land, but a barrage of pinpoint Unworthy shots severed the thin arm at the elbow. The severed limb slammed down onto the ground, resting against a building -- forming the ideal bridge for four Silversaint Prototypes to charge up and ascend.


    The two knights leading the charge were specialized for melee, wielding brightly-coloured swords in their metal hands. As a deluge of white-hot feathers rained down towards them, they swung their blades in unison -- and the resultant air pressure sent those feathers veering off course in every direction. Seeing their opportunity, the two Prototypes in the back -- one wielding a bow, the other a rifle -- kneeled down and began firing rapidly at the lower half of Praetorian One¡¯s body.


    As a being that could float, the Praetorian¡¯s legs were superfluous -- but the series of massive explosions that consumed the bottom half of its body produced great clouds of smoke that drifted up and obscured its vision. That blindness did not go unappreciated¡­ or unexploited.


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    This time, Atoy Muzazi¡¯s aim was true -- the horizontal slash of light, perfectly focused, raced through the clouds and cleanly severed Praetorian One¡¯s neck.


    The two head-wings fell for just a moment -- before twin feathered tendrils lashed out from the stump of One¡¯s head and pulled them back in, reconnecting the severed parts and repairing the decapitation. Roaring in anger, Praetorian One shook violently -- and a new arm of white soft flesh crawled forth from the stump of its severed one. It jabbed the new hand forward, moving to fire another beam of light at Muzazi -- but a javelin from one of the Prototypes struck it and sent the blast off-course.


    A razor-thin line of white carved across the district¡­ and a second later, that line erupted into devastation.


    The moment of distraction bought Muzazi the time he needed to spit in the face of God a second time.


    "Radiant¡­" he began, raising his shining sword high. "Al --"


    ENOUGH!


    Praetorian One threw out its arms -- and a wave of heavenly energy radiated out in all directions. Cars and corpses went flying as if they¡¯d been caught in a hurricane. One of the Prototypes had been climbing up the angel¡¯s back -- and so the unfortunate knight was reduced to molten metal in an instant, splatting down onto the distant ground like spent chewing gum.


    Taking advantage of the opening it had created, Praetorian One raised its hand high -- and began gathering countless feathers into its grasp. Its rage had reached its zenith. This would make every previous attack seem like the gentlest breeze.


    This would end everything.


    If the angel had a mouth, it surely would have been foaming.


    SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIIIN!


    With a grunt of mingling effort and pain, Muzazi pushed away the debris that had landed on him. The Radiant in his hand was still shining, still retaining the energy it had gathered. Slowly, he staggered forward and raised it once again.


    It was the tiniest flicker of a candle, faced with the mighty sphere of white light that was coalescing over Praetorian One¡¯s head. Muzazi let out a misty breath. He knew it could not equal what was coming¡­ but what other choice did he have?


    Once more, as he would until the day he died, Muzazi raised his blade to meet the enemy¡­


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    The front of the Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre exploded outwards -- and from the sudden eruption flew the gargantuan corpse of Praetorian Four. It was propelled by a blast of focused energy, limbs the size of houses flapping in the wind as it was propelled towards Praetorian One. Before the angel could react, the body of its comrade slammed into it, forcing it backwards -- and causing it to lose hold of the attack it was charging.


    The effect was immediate.


    With a sound like a screaming choir, the ball of light became a beam that blasted upwards, striking the feathered canopy above and opening a gaping hole in its surface. Praetorian One screamed in anger as it saw what it had done, tearing the body of Four in half and tossing the chunks aside like pieces of oversized trash.


    The bayonet that had punctured the giant¡¯s brain-stem clattered to the ground and dissipated into crimson Aether.


    MAJESTY! MAJESTY! MAJESTY! MAJESTY!


    WHO?!


    Its rabid fury bounced between targets -- its eyes flicking from Muzazi to the Prototypes to Frostburn to Mereloco, finally locking in on the ruins of the shopping centre¡¯s first floor. Whoever had slain Praetorian Four. Whoever had thrown that trash at a messenger of light. They would be the one to taste heavenly wrath.


    Without ceremony or dignity, Praetorian One thrust its palm down towards the building -- slamming it into a sequence of feathers and sending a beam of scorching heat into the darkness of the shopping centre.


    A second later, the beam came back.


    It lashed out like a tongue of fire, carving a deep groove through Praetorian One¡¯s body and even scorching its hardened carapace. Bracing itself with all the defensive abilities it could muster, One was still sent flying backwards -- and soon enough, it slammed into a skyscraper that collapsed on top of it a moment later. Limbs flailing as if it were trying to swim in the air, Praetorian One dragged itself out of the rubble.


    WHO?! WHO?! WHOOO?!


    It got an answer soon enough.


    A demon.


    It floated out of the smoking rubble with deceptive grace, rising so smoothly -- as if it were being delicately transported by an invisible hand. Crimson wings of cloth spread through the air behind it. The visage of a skull grinned sightlessly at Praetorian One through the mists of humiliation and rage.


    Ruth Blaine and her Monarque Set had come to play.


    HE¡­ RE¡­ SY¡­


    Looking at the egg of hell before them, Praetorian One¡¯s eyes -- all of them -- could not help but twitch.


    HEREEESY!


    And, as the last of its reason crumbled into dust, the angel charged forward like a wild beast.


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    Mereloco had a sure-fire way to win.


    He¡¯d confirmed it when he¡¯d seen Atoy Muzazi cut the beast¡¯s head off. Clearly, there was no brain controlling the body there, or else that would have been the end of the battle. But if this was a puppet with no weak points at all, then there would be no reason for it to waste energy defending itself.


    So the brain had to be somewhere else.


    Mereloco suspected it was within the creature¡¯s chest, where the heart would rest in any proper being. It seemed to have gotten pissed off when that area got attacked, too. There were worse odds to bet your life on.


    Besides, he had Damon beside him again now. It was his job to gamble. Mereloco smirked.


    He¡¯d just need one chance. He¡¯d need a wound to open up that chest, to create an entrance, to give him the chance to dive in¡­


    ¡­and unleash Unthroned between the bastard¡¯s ribs.


    Gretchen Hail had a sure-fire way to win.


    Inspecting the creature from a distance with her green Oz-Goggles, its nature became obvious. It was a Praetorian from the Hive of Malkuth, stuffed with so many abilities that it had ascended to a truly absurd level of power. The Queen had outdone herself. Despite the situation, Gretchen couldn¡¯t help but admire the work of a fellow craftswoman.


    Usually, forcing more than ten or so abilities into a Malkuth body would cause it to destroy itself, in a similar fashion to an Aether burn. The Queen had gotten around that with a plethora of healing abilities -- devoted to nothing but constantly healing the damage the body now suffered just from existing. Even so, it was a losing battle: within a few hours, the Praetorian would lose its bodily integrity. The resultant explosion would probably take out a good chunk of the landscape, too.


    Of course, they didn¡¯t have a few hours. That was why Gretchen would help the process along a little.


    In her hand, she held a weapon like an oversized jousting lance, covered in red-and-blue stripes like it was some kind of plastic toy. Flames drifted off of it as she finally finished her adjustments with Ragnarok Forge. She¡¯d taken a page out of the Queen¡¯s book -- she¡¯d stuffed this weapon, this Aether Armament, with a plethora of useless abilities she¡¯d harvested over the years. The ability to tell sugar apart from salt with a glance, the ability to sense the speed of nearby traffic, perfect pitch, strawberry-flavoured teeth¡­ it didn¡¯t matter.


    What did matter was the fact that, once Gretchen pierced the Praetorian¡¯s body with this, those useless abilities would flow right into it. Right now, all that was keeping that thing alive was the delicate balance of power¡­


    ¡­so Gretchen would just go and push the scales down herself -- and finally be done with all this bullshit.


    Rufus von Frostburn had a sure-fire way to win.


    The idea had come to him when he¡¯d blocked that first attack with Bastardborn. The force of it had been nearly overwhelming -- if it wasn¡¯t for Mereloco, he surely would have been sent flying -- but more than that, the heat it generated in his Aether Armament had been ridiculous. If he hadn¡¯t immediately released it in a counterattack, he wasn¡¯t sure what would have happened.


    So he¡¯d just have to find out, wouldn¡¯t he?


    Rufus suspected that, if Bastardborn couldn¡¯t release that energy, the shield would eventually be unable to contain it and detonate -- blasting heat in all directions and destroying a good chunk of the district. The more precise attacks Rufus had unleashed so far had only been able to inflict superficial damage on the big bastard, easily healed¡­ but if he hurled this shield at the enemy right before it popped, struck at its entire body at once, couldn¡¯t that be a different story?


    He¡¯d lose Bastardborn in the process, but that was fine. Metal was metal, and blood was blood. If it was for the sake of human lives¡­


    ¡­he¡¯d gladly throw away this shield.


    Atoy Muzazi had a sure-fire to win.


    It wasn¡¯t glamorous, but he was confident in it. To the untrained eye, it would appear that his repeated uses of Radiant Almighty were having no effect on the giant¡­ but he wasn¡¯t quite so sure about that. The arm that had been severed had regenerated, to be sure, but the limb that had grown in its place was soft and fleshy. Just from looking at it, it was obvious that it didn¡¯t approach the strength of its predecessor.


    It was the same with its head-wings. They¡¯d been reattached after Muzazi had chopped them off, but now they hung limp and flimsy, their eyes staring off into space. A half-hearted repair effort.


    So, in short, this was a battle of attrition. If Muzazi kept hitting the enemy, it would eventually die. There was no need to make it more complicated than that. There were countless people keeping the creature busy, so he¡¯d just keep swinging this sword of his¡­


    ¡­until his arms fell off.


    Morgan Nacht had a sure-fire way to win.


    As he emerged into the white night that the Praetorian had conjured, he looked in astonishment at the sheer destruction that had gripped the district in the last few minutes. The buildings were rubble, and smoke drifted up to blind the red eyes above. Even the shopping centre was half-collapsed, the roof and entrance wrecked by the battle.


    He¡¯d done what he could for Nael Manron -- the King of Killers had suffered a truly grievous wound, and Morgan truly didn¡¯t know if the Amplified Heal/Hurt he¡¯d used would be enough to keep the man alive.


    Was Muzazi still alive? Fear thundered Morgan¡¯s heart for a moment -- before he saw the distant glow of Radiant Almighty, and let out a sigh of relief. It was funny. He¡¯d run all this way to beg for Wu Ming¡¯s help, but now -- after vanquishing the man¡¯s shadow -- all thoughts of chasing his teacher had vanished from his mind.


    Right now, all that existed was the enemy before him.


    F. A.


    Fog poured into his hands, forming once again the shapes of a bow and arrow. Pointing his new weapon at his distant foe, Morgan pulled the smoke-string taut --


    G. A.


    -- and let the power of his shot build.


    Morgan was silent, standing on the edge of the building, one eye closed as he lined up his shot. Yes, he had a sure-fire way to win. Right now, he felt like any enemy he stood against¡­ could be defeated without fail.


    He let go of the string.


    "Radiant Almighty¡­" Morgan Nacht whispered.


    Ruth Blaine was a battleground.


    It was funny. As the Monarque Set flew around the flailing form of the shining monster -- weaving through its swipes and punches -- she couldn¡¯t help but feel like she could breathe for once. Right now, one wrong move could mean her death¡­ but that was always where she¡¯d done her best work, wasn¡¯t it?


    The events of the last few weeks seemed to crash over her all at once.


    Ellis. Alice. Rex.


    Dragan, firing a Gemini Shotgun right into Bruno¡¯s chest. Dragan, winning the Dawn Contest. Dragan¡­ becoming Supreme.


    In that moment, when she¡¯d seen Bruno fall, what would Ruth had done if Dragan¡¯s minions hadn¡¯t shown up? Would she have turned her claws against him? Yes¡­ she was sure that she would have.


    He¡¯d betrayed Bruno, and Serena.


    He¡¯d betrayed her.


    He¡¯d betrayed¡­ he¡¯d betrayed Skipper.


    More than anyone else, he had betrayed Skipper. Skipper was a hero who had wanted to see the Supremacy destroyed utterly, who had wanted to change the shape of this world for the better. If he could see Dragan taking the throne he¡¯d worked so hard to shatter, he¡¯d be rolling in his grave.


    That was right. That was right, wasn¡¯t it? So why couldn¡¯t she truly imagine that happening?


    And why couldn¡¯t she yet bring herself to hate Dragan Hadrien?


    You¡¯ve got something planned, haven¡¯t you, you asshole? You¡¯ve still got me waiting for the other shoe to drop. Damnit.


    Goddamnit.


    Those thoughts ran calmly through her head as the Monarque Set bobbed and weaved around the Praetorian, firing blasts of absorbed force that opened up huge cracks in the enemy¡¯s carapace, avoiding lethal blows by mere inches. And yet, even with all that, Ruth Blaine wasn¡¯t afraid. She had no reason to be.


    After all, she had a sure-fire way to win.


    A swipe of the Praetorian¡¯s hand just barely caught the front of the Monarque Set as it swooped in -- and the face of death¡¯s egg shattered open.


    Something emerged.


    Even through the haze of its collapsing consciousness, Praetorian One felt a moment of confusion.


    Dead Eyes was still active. Just by looking at someone, Praetorian One instantly knew their name. It was something of a gimmicky ability, but it had been installed in One¡¯s body due to the slight ocular durability it also provided. It had seen countless names tonight, and not one had given it reason to pause.


    But now¡­ this small blonde girl who had leapt out of the shattered egg like a bullet being fired¡­ she made it hesitate.


    That name¡­ wasn¡¯t right, was it?


    That name¡­ it recognised it.


    That name¡­ didn¡¯t belong to her.


    Johan Blackbird.


    The arms of Annatrice del Sed were lifted by the will of another, and purple Aether manifested the shape of a rifle between her hands as her cold eyes were locked onto the angel before her.


    "Der Freisch¨¹tz," said Johan Blackbird -- and he pulled the newborn trigger.


    Bang.


    For a moment, there was silence¡­


    ¡­and then, the giant of light was devoured in an explosion that dwarfed any radiance it might have had.

 Chapter 444:14.18: A World of Butterflies

    The elevator had seen better days. The screech of metal echoed through the building as it was lifted through the floors, the orange lights on its sides flaring across half-finished rooms and hallways. An anglerfish, slowly swimming forth to lure its prey.


    The Sixth Dead tapped her foot.


    It had been an excruciating few hours. It had taken a hell of a lot of Panacea to recover from the wounds those two assholes had dealt her -- and a hell of a lot of self-mutilation to make those damaged parts ¡¯missing¡¯ in the first place. Even venting her frustrations on the unfortunate medics she¡¯d acquired hadn¡¯t done much for her foul mood.


    But now, at last¡­ things were looking up.


    She didn¡¯t know exactly what had happened outside, but the aftermath was lovely. The white canopy covering Grip District had begun to crumble, feathers detaching and drifting down to the ground like white-hot snowflakes, igniting whatever they touched. This place was starting to become a sea of flames. She could see it outside already: the orange glow of a newborn inferno.


    How romantic!


    The Sixth Dead adjusted her rifle in the grip of half-a-dozen Redundancies. She knew that the way she acted, the way she lived life loudly, gave off the impression of recklessness. Maybe that was even the case, most of the time -- but that didn¡¯t mean she couldn¡¯t use that big ol¡¯ brain of hers.


    It was obvious that Atoy and his hangers-on had come here to make their escape. Most likely, they had a ship waiting in that busted building over yonder -- and now that the dome had been broken, they¡¯d be using that ship to escape. Well, she couldn¡¯t have that. If anyone was going to elope with Atoy, it would be her.


    So, she¡¯d come prepared! The rifle she¡¯d acquired was, strictly speaking, meant to be mounted on a starship -- but she¡¯d make it work. Once she reached the top of this half-completed resort expansion and plugged this baby into the power supply, one shot would be good enough to send Atoy¡¯s ship right back down to the ground.


    From there, it was just a matter of plucking him from the wreckage. The Sixth Dead blushed as she imagined it. Him, injured and bloodied, rescued from peril by a beautiful and plucky maiden. Slowly nursing him back to health¡­ growing closer as the weeks stretched on¡­ snapping his fingers while he was asleep, a first kiss, a wedding, a vivisection¡­


    "Aaah! So embarrassing!"


    The Sixth Dead pressed her hands against her red cheeks as she grinned giddily, overcome by fantasy.


    Ding.


    Shaking the sparkles from her mind, the Sixth Dead stepped forth into the building¡¯s spherical control centre -- then stopped. The joy instantly fell from her face, leaving only the keen gaze of a predator. When she spoke, her voice was a low monotone.


    "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"


    A blonde-haired man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his face utterly relaxed -- as if he¡¯d been waiting for her. He was wearing what looked like a loose dressing gown over a plain black shirt, and beside him -- buried in the floor -- was a blade of green crystal. He smiled as their eyes met.


    "The Sixth Dead, right?" he asked calmly. "You¡¯re right on time."


    AETHERAL SPACE 14.18


    "A World of Butterflies"


    Many Years Ago¡­


    "What does it mean," Luna asked. "To see the future?"


    For their first lesson, Luna had brought Baltay to the central chamber of the temple, a grand circular room lined with benches from which dozens of monks observed. As Luna spoke, those masked monks repeated her words -- but at exactly the same time, without even a seconds delay. The casual use of precognition made for an eerie chorus.


    Baltay scratched his chin, looking up at Luna from where he sat cross-legged on the floor.


    "That¡¯s obvious," he said. "Seeing the future just means knowing what¡¯s going to happen."


    "But how?"


    Baltay shrugged lightly with one shoulder. "Isn¡¯t it your job to tell me that?"


    For a moment, Luna was silent, her emotions unreadable through her spherical helmet as she stared down at Baltay. Had he insulted his new teacher? To be honest, he didn¡¯t much care. He still wasn¡¯t convinced that this whole thing wasn¡¯t a trap. He kept expecting to look into the sky and see a UniteFleet ship ready to capture him.


    Besides, why was he learning from some kid? If he really was an honoured guest like these monks said, why couldn¡¯t he have someone more experienced teaching him? Nebula or not, this brat barely came up to his waist.


    To her credit, though, she did answer his question eventually.


    "Precognition is not opening a magic window to the future, and seeing what¡¯s inside," she said quietly. "Precognition is analyzing the past and present¡­ and through them, calculating the future. Tell me. If I were to point a gun at you, and pull the trigger, what would happen?"


    "Is that a threat?"


    "It is a scenario," Luna snapped -- with surprising severity. "What would happen?"


    "The gun would fire, obviously."


    "How?" Luna asked. "There are no bullets in it."


    Baltay frowned. "Is that trick question meant to prove something?"


    "It¡¯s not a trick question," Luna said. "If you looked at a gun being pointed at you and a trigger being pulled, it¡¯s only natural to predict that it would fire -- but, because you don¡¯t have the full context of events, you have produced an inaccurate prophecy. If you were to look at the scene, and notice all the things that a normal pair of eyes cannot notice, and deduce from that the gun is empty? That is something entirely different¡­ and something entirely true."


    "Deduction doesn¡¯t sound much like predicting the future."


    "They are the same thing," Luna said. "Humans predict the future every moment of their lives. You predict that eating will alleviate your hunger and that breathing will extend your life. The only distinguishing factor is the level of detail and the accuracy. Another question: say that a cat exists unobserved and unobserving, alone in an impenetrable box. Without opening that box, how would you determine whether the cat is alive or dead?"


    Swallowing his pride for a moment, Baltay considered the question¡­ and his frown deepened. "You can¡¯t," he finally said.


    "Of course you can," Luna replied. "The box is irrelevant. You need only look at the man who put the cat inside."


    Present Day¡­


    "Sorry," Baltay said, slowly rising to his feet. "But this is as far as you go, Sixth Dead."


    She cocked her head. "That¡¯s a pretty gutsy thing to say. How¡¯d you know I¡¯d be coming here?"


    Baltay didn¡¯t answer. To be perfectly honest, he didn¡¯t fully know how his eyes had predicted this. He¡¯d handed over the responsibility of deduction to his Aether a long time ago. All he knew were the stray futures before him.


    "You¡¯re not a big talker, huh?" the Sixth Dead said. "Come on. Let¡¯s go again from the top, okay?" Her smile thinned, and her eyes turned cold. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"


    Baltay mirrored that thin smile. "There¡¯s no point telling you," he said calmly. "You wouldn¡¯t be able to do anything with it."


    The Sixth Dead blinked.


    "Wow," she said, putting one hand on her hip and running the other down her face. "Okay. You¡¯ve got an alright face, but your attitude kinda makes me hate you? I --"


    Baltay charged forward.


    A thousand fists flew forward, and not one of them hit. No matter what point of the Sixth Dead¡¯s body Baltay struck with his punch, it wouldn¡¯t matter. A spectral palm would simply rise out of her skin and catch his fist before it made contact. A dead-end avenue of attack. Unworthy futures.


    Baltay would not entertain them.


    Just before he reached the Sixth Dead -- her eyes widening in surprise -- Baltay dropped down to the ground and swept his leg, sending the young woman flying off her feet. As predicted, the spectral hands lashed out from her body -- forming a ten-armed cartwheel that the Sixth Dead used to escape Baltay¡¯s follow-up strike.


    One second had passed.


    Baltay saw a dozen next seconds. The fists -- the Redundancies -- would come for him. Seven times they punctured Baltay¡¯s chest and destroyed his heart. Two more times his lungs. If he managed to block that first killing blow, there was a good chance he¡¯d be pummelled against the wall until his neck snapped, so he¡¯d just need to block that one too -- and the next one, and the next one.


    A spin, a duck, a slide, a jump. Each one eliminated nineteen corpses from the continuum of possibility. Five seconds had passed.


    In two more, she¡¯d bring out the scythe.


    In one future, Baltay¡¯s eyes flicked off to the side, and he confirmed that Leviathan was still there -- buried in the floor. Gretchen had designed his new Aether Armament with inspiration from the original¡¯s poison: it introduced a decaying effect to whatever it pierced that Baltay could activate at will. Right now, it was filling the walls and floor with that quality, but Baltay didn¡¯t intend to activate it and destroy the room. The side-effect of preparing that alteration -- near-instantly infusing the area around the weapon -- was far more valuable.


    Still, that meant if he wanted to keep the Sixth Dead¡¯s Redundancies limited to her body, he had to fight her bare-handed.


    Not a single mistake could be permitted. The first he made, regardless of severity, would result in his death -- in the end of the film-reel. So he danced. He danced with his feet, and he danced with his hands, and with those hands he seized the reaper by its neck. It was coming. The scythe¡­ the scythe, the scythe, the scythe.


    The scythe.


    The Sixth Dead¡¯s scythe was an Aether Armament too. The very edge of its blade shapeshifted on a microscopic level, allowing it to slip through the defenses of infusion to a dangerous degree. Against that weapon, any target was reduced to pliable meat.


    Purple Aether was about to spark.


    There!


    Abandoning caution, Baltay launched himself forward the instant the scythe began to manifest -- and slammed his foot directly into it. The weapon went flying from the Sixth¡¯s Dead grip and across the room, embedding into the far wall. Then, without hesitating or even turning his head, he drove his elbow to the side and spiked it into the Sixth Dead¡¯s jaw. Blood and spit and teeth went flying onto the floor.


    With that move, the oceans of blood in the future became mere lakes.


    The cocoon would come in one more second.


    Baltay leapt backwards as Redundancies launched forth from every inch of the Sixth Dead¡¯s body, wrapping around her and forming a spherical barrier. It didn¡¯t stop there, though: the sphere began to spin, still spawning Redundancies from its outer shell, creating a hurricane of hands that swept through the room -- sending smoke and debris flying in every direction.


    The Sixth Dead¡¯s mad laughter echoed through the room, emboldened by pain and anger.


    "You thought, didn¡¯t you?!" she laughed, voice warped by her strange shield. "You thought I¡¯d just stand there and let you beat me up?! Are you stupid?! Are you stupid?! Let¡¯s see! Let¡¯s see how much you can dodge!"


    She¡¯s already noticed my reaction speed -- but she probably doesn¡¯t realize it¡¯s precognition yet. That¡¯s why she¡¯s given up on direct attacks and is just destroying everything. It¡¯s not a bad plan.


    His eyes flicked over to Leviathan, still embedded in the floor, a few inches away from the rapidly expanding area of devastation. If he didn¡¯t pull it out now and retrieve it, she¡¯d knock it out in 1.5 seconds and he¡¯d be left at a disadvantage for the same result. Once he pulled the sword out, he¡¯d have 4.6 seconds before the infusion it had inflicted on the room wore off. He¡¯d need to use that time to inflict as much damage as possible on this maniac.


    Baltay plucked the sword from the floor -- and the instant he did, the future changed.


    His head snapped up.


    Two gargantuan Redundancies had appeared -- manifested outside this room, approaching it from behind the walls -- and were gripping the seam in the middle, slowly pulling the spherical chamber in two like a gachapon.


    Creak.


    Creak.


    Crack.


    "You¡¯re looking at the future right now," the Sixth Dead sighed. "Aren¡¯t you, sweetheart?"


    The massive hands dug in deep¡­


    ¡­and ripped the chamber open.


    Baltay fell, and the room fell with him. The lights, the consoles, even the furniture¡­ all of it plunged into the massive empty space below. Four seconds to hit the ground. In those four seconds, Baltay swung his sword sixteen times, each time deflecting an attack that would have pulverized him.


    He landed, and blocked two more.


    "Ha!" the Sixth Dead called out. "Y¡¯know, I think I¡¯m starting to warm up to you, actually! You look so much better all the way down there. You¡¯ve got the kind of bones that are fun to crush."


    The assassin had emerged from her momentary cocoon, and now stood high atop the palm of a Redundancy, her scythe slung over her shoulder. The arm she was using as a platform wasn¡¯t alone. Dozens of huge Redundancies protruded from the wall around her, the palm of each pointing directly down at Baltay. They were pressed tight against the wall, biceps bulging from the sheer compression.


    Baltay took a deep breath. Oh. This was the moment he was best off saying it.


    "Baltay Kojirough," he said. "Special Officer of the Supremacy."


    "Who asked?" the Sixth Dead laughed. "Ah, well, you¡¯re cute. I¡¯m the Sixth Dead."


    The killer thrust her wall of hands forward¡­


    ¡­and the warrior raised his emerald sword high.


    Killing Arts: Oxygen Palm!


    Fusion Tool: Leviathan!


    Many Years Ago¡­


    Baltay Kojirough sighed as he lay on the floor of the temple, looking up towards the great stained glass window that consumed the ceiling. He¡¯d been looking at it for nearly an hour now while pondering Luna¡¯s latest lesson. Before long, the scene depicted had stopped being a scene at all, instead softening into a vague collection of colours and shapes.


    Still¡­ if he focused back on it¡­


    It seemed to be depicting the events immediately following the Thousand Revolutions. The followers of Azez the Absolute forming an eternal Supremacy atop the gravestone of their oppressors, while the weak and the cowardly flowed out to form their own petty states and kingdoms -- including the Land of Precognition, Abra-Facade. A dusty orange circle¡­ with a smaller, blue one shining above it.


    Baltay frowned. Abra-Facade didn¡¯t have a moon -- especially not one that glittered like a sapphire. There were strange symbols between the two spheres, too. Speech? A song?


    "Baltay Kojirough," said Luna. As per usual, she had appeared without Baltay noticing, even with his burgeoning future-sight.


    "What is that?" muttered Baltay, pointing up at the blue dot.


    She didn¡¯t follow his line of sight -- but of course, something like her didn¡¯t need to. "The people of Abra-Facade do not speak of that."


    He glanced at her, blue eyes cold. "Do you?"


    "A revelation should be reserved for a situation where it will benefit you," she replied calmly. "Don¡¯t you think?"


    Baltay stared at her for just a moment later, before slowly nodding. "I suppose," he said, rising to a sitting position. "I¡¯ve been wondering something, by the by."


    "I know," she replied. "For courtesy¡¯s sake, it¡¯s best that you voice the question, though."


    He nodded at the monks, still lining the circumference of the chamber, still quietly echoing their words. "These guys. What are they doing? As far as I can tell, they just sit here all day¡­ predicting? Why?"


    "They seek the dream of Abra-Facade."


    "And what¡¯s that?"


    Luna clasped her hands in front of her. "Temporal enlightenment."


    Baltay frowned, resting a hand on his knee. "Come again?"


    Luna turned her head away. It was hard to tell, what with the chunky helmet, but it seemed she was looking off at one of the mumbling monks. "You, who seek the future merely for mastery of arms, would not understand it."


    "I¡¯m not stupid," Baltay snapped. "Explain it to me and I will understand. You know how well I¡¯ve taken to all of this."


    Luna looked at him for a moment before sighing.


    "Temporal enlightenment¡­ is what the fathers and mothers of Abra-Facade dreamed of. They sought to abandon the notions of past, present and future. They sought to achieve such mastery of vision that their consciousness stretched across all of their lives simultaneously. Not just forward or backward, but also the diagonal and the parallel, the likely and the miraculous. They wanted not to sail the ocean of time in their tiny rowboats, but to become the seafloor itself. That is temporal enlightenment."


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author¡¯s preferred platform and support their work!


    Baltay blinked.


    Nonsense.


    "See?" Luna said, almost sadly. "It¡¯s not something you¡¯re capable of understanding yet."


    And, without another word, she turned and left. Baltay watched her go silently. Even as she shrank in his vision, though, he couldn¡¯t help but roll that last word of hers over in his mind.


    Yet?


    Present Day¡­


    The future stretched its jaws even wider.


    It wasn¡¯t just that Gretchen¡¯s new Leviathan was an improvement over the original. There was something more, something different from the first time he had used a Fusion Tool. The mania that had gripped him back then showed no signs of manifesting. This wasn¡¯t power that he was wrestling into submission anymore.


    This was power that completed him.


    The appearance of the new Leviathan was far more stable, too. Smooth emerald armour covered Baltay¡¯s body, with a visor hanging over the top half of his face -- adorned with eight circular eyes that glittered like sapphires. His hair, bleached white and extended by the transformation, billowed behind him like a war-banner.


    Baltay tightened his grip. A sword still remained clutched in his hand -- that, too, was formed from smooth green crystal, connected to Baltay¡¯s wrist by a sparkling blue chain. He opened his mouth, and a cold mist flowed forth, tempered by crackling green Aether.


    He looked up -- and through the shattered lens of time, he saw himself look up hundreds more times, with different angles and timings. These futures were themselves redundant. He collapsed them into a single vision, a median prophecy to guide his hand.


    Baltay Kojirough had dodged the countless Oxygen Palms that the Sixth Dead had launched. It wasn¡¯t notable enough to be called easy. All he had done was move his body, just the slightest bit, almost imperceptibly¡­ and each and every blow had just brushed right on by him.


    He stood there, in the sole spot of the room untouched by destruction. Everything else around him had been crushed by cruel palm-prints. Chain rattling, he raised his sword and pointed it at the murderer above.


    No words would benefit him here¡­ so he didn¡¯t bother with them.


    Baltay Kojirough leapt.


    Her eyes widening with alarm, the Sixth Dead sent her Redundancies to intercept him -- but that effort was itself redundant. The hands simply became Baltay¡¯s platforms and his victims, granting him passage up the walls and falling before his sword. Leviathan¡¯s decaying ability had been elevated by the transformation, too -- now, it took a mere touch of his blade to turn the spectral hands to dust.


    They came for him, and he came for them, his efficiency increasing as his eyes adjusted to the flow of causality.


    He eliminated two with each swing.


    Eliminated four with each swing.


    Eight with each swing.


    Sixteen.


    Within 4.6718 seconds, he was in the Sixth Dead¡¯s face, his sword raised high. The temporal railway rushed through his mind, and he grabbed onto it. He predicted himself predicting the future, and he looked into that nested prediction, and saw that this blow would mean a life¡¯s end. Whose? He glanced deeper.


    He blinked.


    Baltay Kojirough brought his sword down -- and the Sixth Dead chose that moment to reveal the scythe she had reclaimed. Snarling in ecstasy, she swung the weapon, and the blade bit hungrily into Baltay¡¯s side. A screech of metal, and a screech of Aether, and the Sixth Dead pulled the scythe right through, cleanly bisecting


    No. He blinked.


    Baltay Kojirough flipped in the air, deflecting the scythe with another kick as the Sixth Dead brought it out of hiding. As his body twisted, though, he lost the opportunity for the killing blow -- and his opponent greedily snatched it for herself. A Redundancy launched from the Sixth Dead¡¯s chin, planting its palm against Baltay¡¯s face and smashing his head against the


    No. He blinked.


    Baltay Kojirough flipped in the air, deflecting the scythe with another kick as the Sixth Dead brought it out of hiding. A Redundancy launched from the Sixth Dead¡¯s chin, aimed right at Baltay¡¯s face -- and Baltay let go of his sword. As he flicked his wrist, the chain whipped the sword through the air, the blade slicing through the Redundancy¡¯s palm and reducing it to dust. Shrieking, the Sixth Dead pulled herself back -- summoning the cocoon once again to


    No. He blinked.


    Shrieking, the Sixth Dead pulled herself back, Redundancies already slithering out of her form to create a protective barrier¡­ but Baltay Kojirough would not permit this. He kicked off the purple fist aimed for his back and launched himself at the Sixth Dead once again. This cocoon would not achieve completion.


    Leviathan swam.


    Sixteen.


    Thirty-two.


    Sixty-four.


    Within 3.7819 seconds, the Sixth Dead was defenseless once again. For the first time, Baltay looked into the woman¡¯s eyes, and saw surprise metamorphosize into fear. Was this the first time for her?


    If so, then I¡¯m the best teacher you could find. I¡¯ve been terrified all night.


    Yes¡­ perhaps even longer than that. How long had his heart trembled like this? Perhaps he¡¯d been silently shaking for the entirety of the last two years.


    Baltay Kojirough was scared. Not of this woman, not of this fight, but of the dominoes he himself had laid out. What he had done to Nigen Rush. What he had done to Atoy Muzazi.


    He was scared that he would never meet that man again.


    He was scared that he would never be able to apologise.


    He was scared that his sin would go unatoned for all eternity.


    That was why he was here, and that was why he was fighting. If he didn¡¯t, how could he ever bear to look at himself in the mirror again? Right now, even looking at himself through the current of time sent a shudder of revulsion down his spine.


    The Sixth Dead swung her scythe again, and this time Baltay blocked it with his shoulder, wrapping his arm around the shaft to keep himself aloft. With his other hand, he swung Leviathan at the Sixth Dead¡¯s neck¡­


    ¡­but it was not to be.


    The Sixth Dead grinned.


    "Quantum King," she said.


    Purple Aether radiated outwards -- and as it did, countless Redundancies manifested. These were different than the usual, though, much more faint, much more ghostly. Manifested upon thin air, they could exist only for a moment -- but each one made that moment count. They lashed out in all directions, seizing hold of whatever their path crossed and viciously pulling it in.


    The rubble, the walls, the floor¡­ even Baltay himself. All of it was dragged towards the Sixth Dead with crushing force, the endless manifesting faux-Redundancies seeking to devour everything.


    Something¡¯s wrong.


    None of Baltay¡¯s predictions had revealed this ability to him¡­ but now that he thought about it, they surely should have. The Sixth Dead¡¯s Redundancies had been designed as a counterpart to Atoy Muzazi¡¯s thrusters -- where he pushed, she pulled. Why, then, was it so inconceivable that she have her own version of Quantum King?


    It could only mean one thing. Even with his Fusion Tool expanding his abilities¡­ Baltay¡¯s precognition was failing him. Something was still misaligned.


    He had only 1.4318 seconds to escape, and he used that time well. Pouring all of his Aether into his legs, he kicked off the palm of a faux-Redundancy right as it manifested, launching himself just barely out of Quantum King¡¯s area of effect.


    His limbs flapped through the air as he fell down to the bottom of the room¡­ but still, that didn¡¯t mean he was helpless. His sword swept through the air twice, eliminating the crowds of Redundancies that tried to deliver their own little coup de graces. As he landed on one knee, debris rained down around him -- the aftermath of the Sixth Dead releasing her ability.


    Baltay glanced down at his sword. The chain that connected it to his wrist had broken, leaving him free. That was fine. So long as he didn¡¯t lose his hold on it, he had nothing to worry about.


    He looked up at his enemy. As expected, the Sixth Dead had taken advantage of the momentary distance between them. The cocoon had been erected around her -- and now, the only sign of her body within were the two glowing yellow eyes that stared down at him. Massive Redundancies waved through the air around the central mass, ready to pummel Baltay into oblivion.


    "Tell me something," Baltay said quietly -- spitting out blood and a repaid tooth. "Would you?"


    The two glowing lights narrowed. "What¡­?" the Sixth Dead asked reluctantly.


    Baltay took a deep breath, rising to his feet -- and pointing his sword up at the shining purple monster. "¡¯The future¡¯... what does it mean to you?"


    The lights blinked. "Huh?"


    "It¡¯s a simple question."


    The Sixth Dead¡¯s warped giggle echoed throughout the room. "I didn¡¯t think I hit you in the head yet¡­ but sure, I¡¯ll bite. The future? Haha, that¡¯s a load of nothing."


    Baltay raised an eyebrow. "How¡¯s that?"


    "Well, the whole thing¡¯s about happiness, right?" the Sixth Dead said -- it seemed she was genuinely considering the question. "People say you eat to live, but that¡¯s not true, there¡¯s more to it. People eat to live because living is fun, and dying sucks. If it was the other way around, you¡¯d see, like, loads more suicides, right? You¡¯d go outside and there¡¯d be people falling like raindrops."


    Baltay narrowed his eyes. "What¡¯s your point?"


    "My point is that¡­ if you¡¯re happy now, what does it matter what happens two seconds later? That¡¯s the problem with you Abra-Facade types. You¡¯re always worrying about what¡¯s gonna happen. Lighten up, you know? Just dig the knife in¡­" she purred. "...and enjoy it while it lasts."


    "I see. A never-ending present, then?"


    "That¡¯s a nice way to say it!" the Sixth Dead replied cheerily. "I don¡¯t really get what it means, though."


    "Right¡­" Baltay slowly blinked. "...it seems you really have to die, then."


    "Funny!" the Sixth Dead laughed. "I was just thinking the same thing!"


    Twin bolts of purple Aether lashed out from the central mass, striking two chunks of rubble before Baltay¡­ and those chunks exploded into purple light. Baltay braced himself as two colossal shadows slowly stretched over him, raising his sword to meet the inevitable attack. Something else unseen¡­ something else concealed by the dust in his eye.


    The Sixth Dead¡¯s words resounded through the room.


    "Men at Arms."


    Many Years Ago¡­


    "It was a good fight, my friend," Nigen Rush said quietly, sheathing his sword. "You have nothing to be ashamed of." S~ea??h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Baltay remained where he¡¯d fallen on the floor of the Child Garden¡¯s arena, staring up at the stars through the skylight. Leviathan lay on the floor beside him, cleanly pulled from his grasp. Squeezing his eyes shut, Baltay clenched his fists. The eyes of the other Blades were upon him, only adding to his humiliation. At least Westmore had left before the duel¡¯s end: Baltay didn¡¯t think he¡¯d have been able to bear that smug bastard¡¯s smirk right now.


    Even with the new blade that Gretchen Hail had forged for him, and the precognition he¡¯d given his all to develop¡­ Baltay had barely lasted two minutes in this bout.


    "Baltay," Nigen Rush repeated, looking back at him, hesitating before leaving. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."


    Of course, Baltay thought as the room emptied out. Of course not. Why would I be ashamed, Nigen? A weakling like me never stood a chance against someone like you. It¡¯s only natural that I lose like this. If anything¡­ it¡¯s to be commended that I lasted a whole two minutes.


    That¡¯s beyond what you expected of me, isn¡¯t it, Nigen? Isn¡¯t it¡­ you bastard?


    Baltay turned his head to the side, and watched him go with dull blue eyes.


    Nigen Rush, who he loved and hated in equal measure.


    Present Day¡­


    Baltay Kojirough had to hand it to the Sixth Dead.


    Taken by itself, her Redundancies didn¡¯t sound that amazing. The ability to make phantom limbs was hardly in the upper echelons of the Aetheral world. But she¡¯d used it for attack, she¡¯d used it for defense, she¡¯d used it to recreate Quantum King, and she¡¯d used it¡­


    ¡­for this.


    A gargantuan humanoid figure held Baltay¡¯s limp body against the wall. Blood oozed down his face. It was all he could do to keep hold of his sword.


    The creature was composed entirely of interlinking Redundancies, countless arms spawning from a chunk of rubble and forming a humanoid shell around it. Layers upon layers of hands, burying the core deep beneath it¡­ and no matter how many arms Baltay destroyed, how many he turned to dust, new Redundancies would immediately manifest to repair the wound.


    Destroying the core was easier said than done, too. It moved around through the inside of the body at random¡­ and Baltay¡¯s defective precognition had failed to locate it in his visions. Even the strength of the homunculus was nothing to scoff at. Massive muscles of bound-together arms allowed Baltay no escape from their grip.


    So, yes, he was impressed. What Aether-user wouldn¡¯t be? The Sixth Dead had taken the ability to create arms, and she¡¯d used it to create endlessly regenerating titans. Both of them stared at him with faces of twitching fingertips, their mistress watching from her cocoon high above.


    The one holding him pulled its other fist back. The finishing blow. Crunching bone and spilling blood sang to Baltay from the next heartbeat.


    This was it, wasn¡¯t it? Looking ahead, he could see no victory here¡­ but that was because he wasn¡¯t willing to look at that dust in his eye. That was because he was still scared.


    He had come here to apologize to Atoy Muzazi. He had come here to make amends. He had come here to atone. But it was time to admit it. It was time to stop being scared. Baltay plucked the dust from his eye¡­ and finally looked at it.


    I am going to die here tonight.


    Time opened.


    Past, present, and future vanished. Baltay Kojirough was the seafloor. His life was not a line of time, but seconds spreading out in every direction. As he swung his sword at the giant¡¯s arm, he swung it for the first time as a child. As he dropped down to the ground, he attended his graduation from combat school. As he swung his sword once more, he lay on a deathbed doomed now never to happen.


    The giant exploded.


    For a fraction of a fraction of a second, the Man at Arm¡¯s core had been in its upper thigh. Baltay Kojirough wasn¡¯t surprised. That concept no longer existed for him.


    The second Man at Arms went to stomp on Baltay. He lazily swung his sword, and it too exploded into nothingness. Strolling casually across the room, he looked up at the Sixth Dead and observed. He observed all of her, and knew her as himself.


    A billion billion permutations of him would ascend this room now. There was no shortage of optimal routes to choose from. He plucked one from causality and made it his. A chunk of rubble fell from the ceiling. It was the first rung on an endless ladder.


    He was the cat, and the one who had placed the cat, and the one who observed both.


    "Baltay," Nigen said, as Baltay lay on the floor, and Baltay ascended the room, and Baltay practiced his swordsmanship, and Baltay celebrated his birthday, and Baltay slept. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."


    "I know," Baltay had never said. "I know."


    He could see it now, after all. The golden thread weaving through the gears of time, the path to victory only visible through the lens of his temporal enlightenment. Baltay smiled with all the mouths he¡¯d ever had.


    You saw this all the time, Nigen? Ha. I never stood a chance, did I?


    The cocoon was composed of two-hundred and six interlocked Redundancies, covering the Sixth Dead from head to toe. A nigh-impenetrable defense. Anyone else would have to flee at this point, and await a better opportunity for victory.


    Baltay Kojirough swung his sword once.


    The cocoon burst, each and every arm cleanly severed by swordsmanship beyond human limits. The Sixth Dead cried out in pain -- her left arm had been cut away by the attack, too, flying away with all its fading phantom kin. Terror had returned to her eyes. She understood that she was no longer fighting something she could handle.


    "Get away from me!" she screamed. "Monster! Freak! Hand of Fate!"


    No doubt she had hoped to use her final ability in a more dramatic scene. Baltay had to admit other iterations of the final clash were far more impressive. Still, it wasn¡¯t bad.


    Purple Aether poured from the Sixth Dead¡¯s mouth -- as, unseen, tiny Redundancies manifested within her body, guiding and bolstering her movements. A long Redundancy spawned from the stump of her lost arm as well -- serving as a makeshift prosthetic, writhing through the air like an agitated snake. Twin hands burst out from the sides of her chin and clamped down, covering her fanged mouth, leaving only her shining yellow eyes visible.


    "KOJIROOOUGH!" she screamed, eyes bulging.


    The two of them landed, three meters between them. For a moment, the Sixth Dead¡¯s long Redundancy spooled on the ground before her -- and then, it whipped upwards, snatching something out of the air as it fell. The blade of the scythe, all that remained of the shattered weapon. The Redundancy held it between two fingers, ready to strike it forward and pierce Baltay¡¯s heart.


    Baltay held his sword in both hands.


    Thank goodness, he thought. Thank goodness he didn¡¯t ever have to see me again.


    The Sixth Dead moved¡­


    ¡­and Baltay did not.


    He could have looked down. If he had, he would have seen Redundancies spawning from the floor and holding his ankles in place. But there was no need for him to do so. He¡¯d seen that coming. He¡¯d seen that coming from the moment he was born.


    The Sixth Dead swung her blade twice.


    The first swing sent Baltay¡¯s sword flying from his grasp, and the second pierced Baltay¡¯s body. The blade was buried in his chest, avoiding his heart by mere inches. Giggling madly, the Sixth Dead wrapped her arm around Baltay, pulling him in close, pushing the blade in further.


    "Thanks¡­" she sighed, strangely deflated. "I had a lot of fun¡­ hahaha¡­"


    "Yeah," Baltay replied, ignoring the blood dribbling down his chin. "Me too."


    Fusion Tool: Undo.


    Baltay returned the Sixth Dead¡¯s embrace, and whirled the two of them around.


    When a Fusion Tool was undone, any separated parts would be absorbed back into the user¡¯s body before the Aether Armament was restored. Baltay¡¯s sword was no exception. It whipped out of the darkness --


    -- and, like a javelin, pierced through both their bodies as one.


    He closed his eyes¡­


    "I¡¯m¡­ Nigen Rush, I suppose¡­ yourself?"


    "Baltay Kojirough. Nice to meet ya."


    ¡­and never opened them again.


    The Sixth Dead crawled.


    Not like this¡­ not like this¡­


    She dragged herself across the floor, leaving a trail of blood and dust behind her, slowly trying to escape the building. Baltay Kojirough¡¯s body lay far behind her, somehow transmuted into a statue of emerald, already crumbling. The feathers had melted through the upper floors of this place already, and the flames were spreading. The heat was already such that she could barely feel the chill of approaching death.


    But she couldn¡¯t die. Not yet. Not like this. She hadn¡¯t even been born yet. There were still so many more people she had to kill before she could exist. So many fragments of the past.


    She reached a staircase. An escape from this place. Steps seemed to stretch on ad infinitum, but outside she could see, outside she could see¡­


    ¡­ that white light.


    She knew what that was, and it brought a dreamy smile to her face as she dragged herself up. That was her Atoy -- that was his Radiant Almighty. Somewhere out there, he was fighting. Somewhere out there, he was killing. Ah, she needed to be there¡­ she needed to see it¡­


    It wasn¡¯t fair¡­ she couldn¡¯t die here¡­ she couldn¡¯t die without ever seeing him again¡­


    The Sixth Dead reached her hand up to the next step¡­ and her fingers crumbled into dust. She stared at them, dumbfounded, as cracks continued to spread down her hand. It was that man¡¯s sword. The decaying effect¡­ it persisted even after he died? Her infusion couldn¡¯t stop it anymore?


    No. No, no, no¡­


    The Sixth Dead opened her mouth -- to scream, to shout, to complain to God -- but her tongue had already turned to dust. Grey grains spilled from her lips and down her throat. Her arm fell off completely, like a spent sand-sculpture. Her leg failed her as she tried to push off. Her Redundancies sputtered and died.


    The Sixth Dead only gave up in the final moment, as her skin collapsed from her body and her eyes poured from her skull. She rolled over with the last of her strength, staring up at the ceiling. Even if she could see, there would be nothing there. Nothing but dark. Nothing but empty.


    Not even reincarnation would be permitted. The Sixth Dead would be the final Dead. There would be no corpse to burn as a phoenix. Their story would not have an ending. To the eyes of the galaxy, they would always exist somewhere else, always on the periphery. An unseen possibility that could never be denied.


    The immortal Dead, living forever in an invisible present.


    The group sprinted through the hallway, even as the flames encroached. The Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre was groaning as it died. If they hadn¡¯t moved the starship inside the hangar during the repair process, Atoy Muzazi had no doubt it would have been destroyed during this chaotic battle.


    "Woman," Mereloco grunted, looking down at Ruth Blaine. "Could you not have been more subtle with the finishing blow?"


    Ruth looked back up at him. She was cradling the del Sed girl -- Annatrice -- in her arms. The backlash from Der Freisch¨¹tz had hit her badly -- her arms were burnt and blackened up to the elbows, and she had been knocked firmly unconscious. Even Morgan¡¯s healing had only been able to do so much.


    "Hey, if you had a better way of taking that thing down," Ruth snapped. "You should have just done it."


    Mereloco snorted. "Fair."


    "If the two of you are done arguing," Morgan said, holding his side. "Can we hurry and get out of here?!"


    Rufus was taking up the back of the pack, Aguta and the del Sed twins slung over his shoulders once more. Every now and then, he¡¯d swing his head back, checking to make sure nobody was coming after them. Nobody was -- save for the flames. Even with Mereloco¡¯s Untoward keeping it as intact as possible, the building was slowly but surely collapsing.


    "Less talk," he panted. "Run."


    As they reached the doors, Mereloco elected to spare the time it would take to open them. Pointing a finger forward, he fired off a barrage of Unworthy shots, sending the door flying off its hinges. They didn¡¯t even break their stride as they passed over the threshold into the dark, cavernous hangar.


    It was only then that Mereloco skidded to a halt, and threw an arm out to block the other¡¯s passage.


    "No further," he hissed, eyes narrowed as he glared forward.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened as she stared at the ship. "You," she growled.


    There was a shape by the boarding ramp. A dark, lurking, smiling shape. A shape crackling with void-black Aether.


    "Yes," said Niain, smiling gently. "Me."

 Chapter 445:14.19: A World of Brimstone

    "Sorry," Niain smiled. "I don¡¯t want to see the Full Moon rise tonight."


    He attacked.


    This was not a warning shot, or a strike intended to torment. With the gentlest smile on his face, the man called Niain intended to butcher, to mutilate, to kill. Even if it had been anything else, though, Ruth would have moved just the same. The malevolence that washed over her was just that strong.


    Direwolf Set!


    Niain raised his hand, fast as lightning, the white sphere of Ahura Mazda already stretching open before his palm. As Ruth rushed forward, ready to block, black Aether hissed -- and a dark blade-and-chain launched forth from the singularity, aimed squarely for Mereloco¡¯s throat.


    Sparks flew as Ruth reached him first, deflecting the blow with a slash of her claws.


    "Unchained."


    Mereloco would not let this man, whoever he was, get another chance like that. Without hesitation, he unleashed a zone of crushing gravity right where the fiend was standing -- and he kept unleashing it, again and again, as the man evaded through the hangar as a black blur. Circular craters appeared in the enemy¡¯s wake, as if he were being pursued by an invisible giant.


    "His name is Niain," the clawed woman said, dropping down to the ground next to him. "I don¡¯t know who he is exactly, but he¡¯s nuts."


    Niain? The name rang familiar¡­ wasn¡¯t there a tradition in the UAP with the same name? Mereloco was fairly sure he¡¯d crashed -- or rather crushed -- one of those once.


    He¡¯d do the same this time.


    As the dark blur ran across the wall, closing the distance between them, Mereloco raised a lethal finger.


    "Unworthy!"


    Pellets of lethal gravity were fired from his finger again and again, each time accompanied by a flash of purple Aether like a gun going off. The enemy weaved across the wall, avoiding the shots, but Mereloco¡¯s efforts were at least slowing him down.


    "The rest of you," he grunted, even as he continued firing. "To the ship."


    Muzazi¡¯s head snapped up to look at him. "But¡­"


    Mereloco glanced down. "If you don¡¯t make it, everything was pointless." He took a deep breath. "You still need to make it kinder, don¡¯t you?"


    A kinder world than this.


    The look in Muzazi¡¯s eyes hardened, and he nodded with resolve. Morgan by his side, he made a run for the ship, a protective Radiant already ignited in his hand. Rufus followed after the pair, carrying Aguta and the del Sed¡¯s.


    Despite his better will, Muzazi glanced back. He still didn¡¯t quite understand why Mereloco had come to his aid¡­ but for some reason, the notion of leaving him behind felt like acid in his throat.


    Ruth Blaine had stopped for a moment to pick Annatrice del Sed back up from the floor -- and as she passed Mereloco, she planted a hand against his arm.


    He glared down at her. "What?"


    Direwolf Set.


    The armour vanished from Ruth¡¯s body -- and manifested over Mereloco¡¯s body instead. It didn¡¯t quite look the same -- stretched and warped by his wide frame, it was more a lion than a wolf -- but it would provide the same benefits in terms of strength and speed. She nodded up at him.


    "I¡¯ve fought him before," she said. "Good luck."


    Mereloco snorted. "Fine --"


    "Oh?" Niain said. "Is it really okay for you to have such a long chat, haha?"


    In an instant, Niain had crossed the distance between himself and Mereloco, exercising speed previously unseen. He swiped Angra Mainyu through the air at Mereloco¡¯s head -- and it was only the enhanced agility of the Direwolf Set that let the burly man duck to avoid the blow. Still flying through the air, Niain whipped out a black blade and thrust it towards Ruth¡¯s face --


    Unchained.


    -- but gravity, suddenly reoriented, pulled him away from her. As he was slowed down for a moment by the reorientation, Ruth finally got a good look at him -- and she understood why his speed had suddenly increased.


    Wings.


    A pair of black leather wings now protruded from Niain¡¯s back, propelling him through the air like a ricocheting bullet as he avoided Mereloco¡¯s devastating attacks. Ruth focused in on him further as he moved -- it wasn¡¯t that he had wings, she realized. The wings belonged to a spider-like creature clinging to Niain¡¯s back, serving as a biological flight harness.


    Ruth was starting to get an idea of this freak¡¯s abilities.


    That black hole, Angra Mainyu, completely erased whatever it made contact with. Even infusion didn¡¯t seem to provide too much protection against it. If that thing so much as brushed against a vital spot, you were probably done.


    The white hole called Ahura Mazda, on the other hand, seemed to let Niain create weapons and creatures. What was the limit on what he could create? There had to be one, but Ruth couldn¡¯t figure it out.


    "Go," Mereloco repeated, his frown deepening as he continued to attack the flickering Niain. "I¡¯ll --"


    "Ahura Mazda."


    The room was filled with locusts in an instant, the swarm so thick and so fast that it looked for all the world like they were surrounded by a dancing black mist. The roof was slowly opening up to allow the ship to take off -- and more than a few locusts flew up like smoke to taste the night air. With a roar, Mereloco projected a repulsive Unchained around him and Ruth -- keeping the insects at a distance -- but that wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d be able to keep up forever.


    Nor would Niain let them.


    Using the insects as a smokescreen, Niain moved low, circling the area of Unchained before launching himself right at Ruth¡¯s back with pinpoint infusion. She whirled around, preparing to protect herself and Annatrice with Noblesse, but she knew before the first spark of red Aether flew that it wasn¡¯t fast enough. This was it.


    She was about to feel Angra Mainyu¡¯s kiss.


    "Bastardborn!"


    Or not.


    A beam of orange flame lanced out from the boarding ramp, scorching a path though the horde of locusts and slamming right into Niain¡¯s side. For the first time, Ruth heard pain from the pale man -- just a sharp intake of breath, but still enough to be satisfying. He went flying, pushed further by the beam as Rufus continued to unleash it.


    Nebula Five marched out of the starship, holding his shield high.


    He¡¯d returned after dropping off his passengers -- and now he continued to unleash the beam against Niain even as it slowly weakened. The residual heat was enough to ignite any of the locusts that came close, leaving Rufus unmolested as he advanced. Hell, Ruth was pretty sure she could see thin trails of smoke coming from the corners of his eyebrows.


    "Get moving," he hissed, steam escaping from between his lips.


    Ruth didn¡¯t need to be told twice. Adjusting Annatrice¡¯s position in her arms, she ran for the ship, red Aether coursing through her prosthetic legs.


    Niain was being pressed against the far wall by Rufus¡¯ beam of heat -- and, a moment later, that effort was joined by Mereloco¡¯s Unchained. As a crater slowly pressed its way into the wall, and Niain¡¯s form was barely visible beneath the orange flames and purple sparks, Ruth finally turned her head away. This was their best chance.


    Only¡­


    Bang.


    The first shot thudded into Mereloco¡¯s back, slipping between two Direwolf plates and sending him down onto the ground in a moment.


    Bang.


    The second shot would have blasted Rufus¡¯ head clean off -- if he hadn¡¯t swung around as he saw Mereloco fall. Instead, the bullet slammed into his shield. Ordinarily, that shield could have taken nearly anything an enemy had to offer. But the night had been long, and the night had been hard¡­


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    ¡­and so the shield slipped from Rufus¡¯ weakened grip and flew across the room.


    Four-thousand meters away, McCoy calmly reloaded.


    Perched on a skyscraper far outside of Grip District, she held a sniper rifle of decaying flesh-and-bone -- nearly three times her size, with the open jaws of a skull serving as the tip of the gun¡¯s barrel. Quite a few demises had gone into this Corpse Construct, but the results had been worth it. Neither of her attacks had been kill shots, true, but they¡¯d sufficed to eliminate the immediate threat to Niain¡¯s life.


    Then again¡­ an immediate threat to that man¡¯s life? Such a thing did not exist. The very notion made McCoy wish her lips were still intact -- she¡¯d have used them to smirk.


    Until the world broke into pieces, and the pieces softened into sludge, Niain would keep laughing. There wasn¡¯t a thing that could be done about it. October Jones had learnt that a long time ago, and McCoy knew it well.


    Ah¡­ she thought, looking down the scope. What a loathsome world we live in.


    For the briefest of moments, Niain was free from both Bastardborn and Unchained.


    It was enough.


    A horde of writhing tentacles lunged out from the pale abyss of Ahura Mazda, seizing hold of Mereloco¡¯s body and hurling him across the room. A moment later, a hail of jagged javelins zoomed out of the white singularity too. Rufus deflected most of them with his fists -- but one slipped through, puncturing his side and pinning him to the wall.


    Niain¡¯s black gaze slid over to regard Ruth, who had just reached the boarding ramp, her battered metal feet buzzing with Aether as she pushed them to their limits. She was so close. Damnit, she was so close!


    He smiled.


    "Ahura Mazda."


    I¡¯m dead.


    Ruth knew it the same way a cat knew to hide for it¡¯s final night. Animal instinct forced acceptance into her brain. If she wasn¡¯t holding Annatrice, she could have dodged the attack¡­ but she was holding Annatrice, and she couldn¡¯t dodge. In the slowest of slow motions, she could see death coming for her -- the black blade-and-chain, surging through space, aimed right for her heart.


    This was it.


    Oh God, this was it.


    Ruth Blaine blinked --


    Slam.


    -- but felt no pain.


    Instead, as she looked up, she found that a shadow had fallen upon her. More than that¡­ there was a shape before her. In the last second, as fast as lightning, something had come between Ruth and the attack -- intercepting it.


    Just like a shield.


    Blood ran down Rufus von Frostburn¡¯s chin as he coughed. The blade of Niain¡¯s weapon was protruding from his chest, nearly all the way through. A single glance made it clear this was a fatal wound. Facing away from his enemy, with his arms spread wide, Rufus had taken the blow without a second¡¯s hesitation.


    Ruth blinked, feeling the warm blood that had sprayed onto her face.


    What? Rufus had taken the killing blow for her? Rufus? But she barely knew him. Hell, she was pretty sure she¡¯d never even spoken to him. Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Why¡­" she opened her mouth, voice cracking. "Why¡¯d you do that?"


    He looked back at her, brow furrowed. "It was going to hit you," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.


    Oh¡­ it is, isn¡¯t it?


    Niain pulled the chain free.


    Within a second, the life of Rufus von Frostburn ended. He collapsed to the ground, his insides torn out of his back and spread across the floor. Niain looked down at him, bemused. The blade-and-chain retracted into Angra Mainyu and was utterly obliterated.


    "That¡¯s so strange, haha," Niain said. "I wasn¡¯t even aiming for him. What was he thinking?"


    "Radiant¡­"


    Niain looked up. "Hm?"


    "...ALMIGHTY!"


    The light slammed into Niain without any concerns for the environment -- if Atoy Muzazi had destroyed the starship in that moment, Ruth sincerely doubted he would care. The Full Moon stood at the top of the boarding ramp, eyes wide with fury, pouring the attack from his sword into the shadow below. Morgan hung over his shoulder, looking equally shocked.


    Neither of them had thought things would get so bad while they were starting the take-off sequence, Ruth realized. This wasn¡¯t an enemy they knew.


    "That¡¯s pretty bright¡­" Niain¡¯s strained voice trickled out from the center of the aurora. "...but if it doesn¡¯t hit me, it¡¯s worthless, right?"


    He¡¯d partially brought out that black shield of his, holding it in front of him like a mockery of Bastardborn as he pushed back against Radiant Almighty. He was slowly advancing upon the ship -- but not nearly slowly enough. Raising a hand to shield her eyes, Ruth tried to see if there was any way she could get onto the ship before him.


    Nothing could be done for Rufus. Ruth¡¯s heart sank, but they needed to take off. If they could just get out of here, this nightmare would be over. It would be over before it claimed any more of them.


    As she kicked off once again, running for the ship, she saw Niain raise his hand at her once again in the corner of her vision.


    "Ahura --"


    "F! A!"


    Within a second, Niain disappeared from sight. A shell of purple smoke wrapped around him, holding him in place. Ordinarily, Ruth had no doubt this monster would have been able to break out of Morgan¡¯s prison in an instant, but¡­


    "Unchained!"


    ¡­it wasn¡¯t alone.


    The fog-cocoon shrank, compressed to its utmost until Niain¡¯s humanoid form could be clearly discerned through it, slowly but steadily being crushed. The sounds of creaking bones -- along with other bizarre popping and clicking noises -- rang throughout the hangar as Mereloco advanced through the darkness, one hand extended, a grim look on his battered face. His eyes flicked over to Muzazi.


    "Go!" he roared, holding Niain in place, his voice tempered by Aether.


    In his other hand, he held Bastardborn. He hurled it like a frisbee at the trapped Niain, the shield pushed into the smoky mass by the manipulated gravity¡­ and, as more and more force was continually applied to the shield, Ruth saw it begin to glow dangerously. The Fog parted and allowed it entry into the prison, concealing it from sight.


    "GO!"


    None of them needed to be told a third time. As one, they ran into the ship, and the boarding ramp slowly ascended. Ruth took one last look back at the fallen body of Rufus von Frostburn¡­ but nothing could be done for him now. All she could offer was to make sure his sacrifice wasn¡¯t in vain.


    Squeezing her eyes shut, Ruth turned away -- and a second later, as the ship was plunged into darkness, she felt the rumble of lift-off.


    The rumble of Bastardborn came soon after.


    A volcano of steel and stone erupted in the center of Grip District¡­


    ¡­and, roused by the explosion, the fallen angel rose from the pit.


    Der Freisch¨¹tz had done its work well. Even as Praetorian One¡¯s body¡¯s innate durability had allowed momentary survival, most of it had been destroyed by Johan Blackbird¡¯s ability.


    From the waist down, it was nothing but smoking bones and scorched sinew, organs oozing out of the angel¡¯s open stomach. The right arm was a river of molten fat flowing across the ground, and the left arm twitched and spasmed as it clawed towards the sky. Its head was gone, replaced by a mass of horn-shaped tumours that pushed their way out of its neck-stump.


    That it was even still alive was a miracle -- and it was not a miracle that would last.


    Within the next two minutes, this messenger of Malkuth would expire. It wasn¡¯t aware of that, of course. It wasn¡¯t truly aware of anything anymore. It was more like a cancer itself now -- spreading through the Hive of Malkuth, so warped and incoherent that it wasn¡¯t even possible to reclaim abilities from it anymore. It let out a low groan that shook the district, like a whale song from hell.


    It still had a job to do. Even without thought, instinct guided its hand.


    The dot rising up from the building. The ship. It had to destroy it. Why? It did not know, but it had to destroy it.


    With a sequence of grotesque clicks, Praetorian One forced its remaining hand into a pointing position and began to gather power. Most of its feathers had been destroyed, and many others had become the inferno that now burnt the district around it, but some had been blasted inside One¡¯s body by the detonation.


    19:59:57


    It transferred them into its finger, preparing a final shot¡­


    19:59:58


    ¡­it followed the distant ship with that finger, and¡­


    19:59:59


    Schedule Breaker.


    The man called Appointment was always deadly, but the sheer destruction he was capable of increased as the day went on. In the early hours, he was as discriminate as he could be, his Schedule Breaker like raindrops guided by a surgeon. By the end of the night, though? By the last second?


    Schedule Breaker became an attack that could not be survived.


    A red pillar the size of a skyscraper slammed down onto what was left of Praetorian One -- and for a moment, just for a moment, it was visible as a silhouette within the bloody light. Then, that silhouette scattered -- and when the pillar vanished, not even ashes of its target remained.


    Praetorian One had been vaporised.


    A final moment of what could have been thought.


    The bliss of release. The agony of failure. The yearning for honorable approval.


    Red Aether faded, and in the moment before it did, the Queen sent Her messenger off.


    AW.


    IT BROKE.


    Appointment let out a sigh of relief from deep beneath the rubble. It hadn¡¯t been easy hiding while Praetorian One was busy fighting everyone else -- and even now, the flames were beginning to encroach on the safe position he¡¯d found for himself. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he prepared to move out.


    It was good for his heart that they¡¯d brought Praetorian One to the brink of death before he¡¯d had to intervene. It wasn¡¯t that he hadn¡¯t expected Schedule Breaker to work¡­ but if it hadn¡¯t, that definitely would have been a problem. Looking up into the sky, he watched the starship disappear from sight.


    Ah, he thought. Looks like I won¡¯t be getting any bonuses, but still¡­


    He smirked.


    ¡­mission accomplished.

 Chapter 446:14.20: A World of Shooting Stars

    09:22


    (yesterday)


    The caf¨¦ was fairly quiet this early in the day, the only occupants being the elderly -- and vitally, deaf -- owner, his tardigrade hanging from the ceiling for a snooze, and a few customers sitting by the windows. The orange glow of Azum-Ha¡¯s dawn trickled through the glass. Two patrons in particular sat back-to-back at neighbouring tables, their eyes fixed straight ahead, their words deciding the future.


    The first was a nondescript man who took pains to remain nondescript, with short black hair and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. He adjusted his tie with one hand and sipped his coffee with the other. A Yugrun blend. It tasted like nothing.


    Appointment.


    The second, to the ignorant eye, was a young woman with fluffy white hair -- cold blue eyes gazing deep into the whirlpool of caffeine clutched between her hands. The slightest smirk tugged at her lips as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. North¡¯s holograms really made disguising oneself so convenient.


    Dragan Hadrien.


    "Tonight," he said to the man behind him. "I¡¯m going to win the Dawn Contest."


    "You seem pretty certain about that," Appointment murmured back, scrolling through the news on his wrist bound script.


    "My victory is guaranteed," he replied casually. "I¡¯m not going to get any further into it than that. But once I win, there will be a Banquet. That¡¯s why you¡¯ve come back home to Azum-Ha, right?"


    "Is that the purpose of this meeting?" Appointment asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. "You want to make sure I¡¯ll participate? That¡¯s not something you have to worry about, if so."


    "No," Dragan shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "I¡¯d like to talk to you ahead of the Banquet¡­ and hire you for a mission of your own."


    Appointment blinked. "I¡¯m listening."


    Dragan sipped his coffee. "You¡¯ll participate in the Banquet as expected. Feel free to take out any of the targets and receive your reward per the official announcement."


    "But?"


    "But Atoy Muzazi gets off Azum-Ha alive," Dragan said coldly. "You do whatever you need to to make that happen. Understand?"


    If the request seemed strange to Appointment, the consummate professional didn¡¯t show it. "What¡¯s the pay?" he asked.


    "How much did that suit of yours cost?"


    "Confidential."


    "Whatever it is, I¡¯ll triple it."


    That, at least, made Appointment¡¯s lips quirk up into a smile. "You realize, of course, that all this only means anything if you do win the Dawn Contest."


    "Like I said¡­ my victory is guaranteed."


    "And if it isn¡¯t?"


    For the first time, Dragan looked at the other man, turning his head slightly over his shoulder.


    "It won¡¯t happen," he said seriously. "But¡­ if, somehow, I did lose¡­ I¡¯d just ask you to be gentle when you¡¯re blowing my head off."


    03:58


    (earlier today)


    It was funny.


    Looking at ¡¯Azez the Absolute¡¯, Dragan hadn¡¯t quite been able to reconcile the conqueror of legend with the slight and somewhat meek man before him. This guy had founded the Supremacy? This guy had waged war against the entire galaxy?


    Dragan almost hadn¡¯t been able to believe it.


    It was only when he finished explaining his plans¡­ only when he looked into the fiery glare that the projection was pointing at him¡­ that Dragan understood.


    Ah, Dragan thought ruefully. There you are¡­ my Supreme.


    "What?" Azez hissed, his face a blank mask of vanquished fury.


    "Did you not understand?" Dragan asked, hopping onto one of the caskets and using it as a seat. "I thought I went pretty in-depth on my plans. Which part do you want me to go over again? Or should I just simplify the whole idea?"


    Azez didn¡¯t answer. He just glared with the venom of God.


    Dragan, for his part, smiled. "Maybe you¡¯ll understand it better this way," he said breathlessly, almost giggling. "I¡¯m going to drive your Supremacy into the ground."


    The glare intensified.


    "I¡¯m going to mutilate it," he continued.


    If looks could kill, Dragan would have been a blast shadow. But still¡­


    He grinned. "I¡¯m going to make it destroy itself so badly that nobody can ever put it back together again. Hey, maybe we can bury it down here with you?"


    The anger being projected by Azez¡¯s facsimile was such that his appearance was flickering in and out -- his black framework and shining Lantern of Truth visible for a few moments at a time. If Dragan thought this thing was capable of attacking the Supreme, maybe he would have held his tongue. But no¡­


    ¡­all this long-dead bastard could do was seethe.


    "Fine," Azez spat, embers flying from his mouth. "You just try."


    And with that, his image was gone -- replaced by a ball of smokeless fire that rushed off into the darkness. Dragan sat there, watching the globe shrink into a pinprick, and the pinprick fade into nothing. That was a shame. He¡¯d hoped to rub it into the First Supreme¡¯s face a little more. It wasn¡¯t like he could show his own face while all this chaos was going on, anyway. Some form of entertainment for the next fifteen hours would have been nice.


    It would have been a consolation, at least.


    After all¡­


    Dragan clenched his fists, and let out a shaking breath.


    ¡­if he was going to beat this world into a new shape, he couldn¡¯t hope to come out of it intact.


    00:03


    "So," said Wu Ming, watching the starship disappear into the night. "Why didn¡¯t you go with them, bud?"


    He was still missing most of his body -- the Black Dog really had done a number on him -- but the Clown of the Supremacy had managed to snugly wrap himself onto a freestanding wall with his strings. Sighing fondly as the light of the vessel -- and of that tremendous attack -- finally faded, he looked down at the other man. Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Hey, you still listening?" he asked. "Oh! Did you die? I mean, I guess either one is pretty plausible, looking at you."


    Unlike Wu Ming, Nael Manron still had all of his limbs, but the hole that his own weapon had blasted through his body surely didn¡¯t bode well for his health. Morgan¡¯s new healing ability had helped out a little, and the ever-generous Wu Ming had used Dr. Stitches to pull Manron further out of the woods¡­ but still, he¡¯d hate to be that guy!


    "Do you ever shut up?" Manron grunted. His face was still in the dirt, even as his dull red eyes watched the spot where the starship had been.


    "Nope." Wu Ming grinned, his own eyes twinkling. "Besides, you haven¡¯t answered my question. Why didn¡¯t you go with them?"


    "You say that like I had a ticket."


    "Oh, come on," Wu Ming laughed. "I saw you, you know. Dragging yourself around and hiding so ol¡¯ Morgan couldn¡¯t find you. What¡¯s the deal?


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    For a moment, Manron offered no reply. Then: "That Muzazi asshole got away. That¡¯s the end of my business with him. As soon as I¡¯m back on my feet¡­ I¡¯m going home."


    "Ah," Wu Ming nodded sagely. "Well, that sounds nice. Yeah, a real ten-outta-ten retirement plan. Only¡­ you might want to go hiding again real quick."


    Nael shot him a quizzical glare. "Why?"


    Wu Ming chuckled uneasily as he looked up into the sky. "It¡¯s just¡­ well, it looks like my retirement plans have been made for me."


    There were five dots in the sky, floating high above the urban wasteland -- finally having gained access following the canopy¡¯s collapse. Well, they were probably dots to most people, but Wu Ming¡¯s infused eyes could see them clearly -- human figures, holding various bladed weapons, clad in traditional Supremacy garb.


    He could see the leader of those dots, too. Xander Rain, staring right back at Wu Ming from across that incredible distance. His lips moved.


    Take him.


    When they found Gretchen Hail, she was on her knees.


    The members of the Tree of Might couldn¡¯t make any sense of the scene. The famous -- and believed to be dead -- blacksmith collapsed on the floor, broken armour strewn around her, looking down at a shattered husk of what looked like emerald. Even as the warriors approached, she didn¡¯t move.


    She just stared, tears carving trails through the ash on her face, as they took her in.


    As she was loaded for transport, she didn¡¯t say a word.


    Bastardborn¡¯s explosion had finally finished off the Alyn Grace Memorial Shopping Centre.


    The sheer force of the blast had broken through the stabilization provided by Untoward, and the building had collapsed into a burning pile of rubble among so many others. Soot rained down from the sky like a burning blizzard. If not for that woman¡¯s armour, Mereloco had no doubt he¡¯d have been reduced to ash himself just from being near the explosion -- even with its protection, his body was burnt and battered.


    And yet¡­


    "How¡­?" Mereloco growled, collapsing to one knee. "How are you still alive?!"


    His enemy stood at the top of this hill of shattered steel, utterly unscathed, his lips spread into a slight smile. Even the injuries Mereloco had inflicted during their original bout had vanished. Hell, even the bastard¡¯s cloak looked brand new.


    "There¡¯s no reason for me to tell you that," the young man said, his gaze dark and merciless.


    Mereloco went to stand up, to continue the fight¡­ but even without that explosion, he had pushed himself far beyond his limits this night -- especially considering his lingering injuries from the Dawn Contest.


    His body would no longer obey his commands. All he could do was collapse to the ground, clutch his side, and glare as his enemy slowly descended towards him.


    So¡­ this was what a finishing blow looked like. It looked so different from this angle.


    He could tell from this guy¡¯s smile, too. He thought he¡¯d already won. That was why it was so satisfying when he took one more step¡­ and stopped, the smile fading from his face.


    "I see," the young man murmured. "A bubble of intensified gravity, pushing away from yourself?"


    Mereloco said nothing.


    The man sighed. "It¡¯s a shame. I¡¯d love to finish you off, but Smith is telling me the Tree of Might is moving in. I¡¯ve got other business to take care of, and it¡¯d take way too long to kill you right now, haha. You¡¯re a lucky guy -- you know that, right?"


    And just like that, like they were just two friends having a casual chat, the man turned and began to walk away.


    Mereloco watched him go with narrowed, suspicious eyes¡­ and kept watch long after he had vanished. He would not be caught by surprise. It was only as the Tree of Might finally breached the ruins of the hangar that Mereloco finally passed out¡­


    ¡­ and Unchained finally let go.


    Aclima choked.


    For her, this battlefield had become nothing but a maelstrom of chaos and misery. She¡¯d been tossed off that building by the monster hunting her, then some massive white giant had started to destroy the city, and now everything was being consumed by hellfire. She¡¯d been running between split-second shelters, barely avoiding death all the while.


    She held a ragged cloth to her mouth, torn from her filthy red coat, as she tried to find a way to escape the inferno. No good, no good, no good. The collapsed building she¡¯d been hiding out in was surrounded on all sides by a sea of flames.


    Behind her, before her, above her¡­ there was no escape. The white feathers were falling like incendiary snowflakes. This was it. This was it. After all this misery, all this betrayal, she was just going to smolder in the gutter like a piece of trash.


    She was¡­


    She was¡­


    She was¡­


    She didn¡¯t know who exactly she was talking to, but she whispered it anyway.


    "Please¡­" she begged, eyes squeezed shut, bitter tears streaming down. "Save me¡­"


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    "Okay."


    Before Aclima could even open her eyes at the sound of that calm voice, a burst of vicious wind blew through the area, extinguishing all the flames around her instantly. She was sent flying a little too, landing on her backside and adding to her aches and pains. She scrambled backwards as she looked up at the face of the one who had rescued her.


    She didn¡¯t know him. She didn¡¯t know this cloaked young man with black straight hair and eyes as dark as ink. She didn¡¯t know the smile he gave her, either.


    It didn¡¯t feel like it came from a person.


    "Hi there," her rescuer said pleasantly. "From one Heir to another¡­ why don¡¯t you and I become friends?"


    The nameless starship took its cargo out through the atmosphere of Azum-Ha, blending in with the innumerable swarms of civilian traffic streaming out of the planet. With the Dawn Contest at an end, the galaxy was heading home. Anyone could slip between the cracks in such a situation -- especially if they were actively trying to do so.


    Whoever had set up their escape route had done so thoroughly -- Ruth barely needed to do anything when it came to the autopilot. So, in the end, she just sat there in the cockpit, watching the lights of other ships flitting through the darkness. Idly, she turned over what she¡¯d found in her hands.


    It must have gone flying into her clothes during the battle back in the hangar. A chip of black metal, still warm to the touch. She couldn¡¯t know for sure where it had come from¡­ but she knew. It had come from that shield.


    It had come from Rufus von Frostburn, who had taken a lethal blow for her without hesitation.


    "It was going to hit you."


    She turned it over in her hands, and she thought.


    I¡¯ll show you. I¡¯ll show you that people can be good¡­ that they¡¯re not how you think.


    She turned it over in her hands¡­ and she thought.


    When Aguta finally woke back up on the starship¡¯s sickbed, he had only one thing to ask.


    "Where¡¯s Rufus?"


    To his credit, it didn¡¯t take very much for him to figure it out. An awkward silence, and an inability to meet his gaze. Those served as twin death knells, and he slowly closed his eyes.


    "I see," he murmured, his stoic demeanour just the slightest bit strained.


    Morgan and Muzazi sat beside him in the sickbay, their faces crestfallen. The rush of making it off of Azum-Ha had faded¡­ to be replaced by exhaustion from their final hurdles, and the regret of all they had left behind. The silence pressed its fingers against them in that tiny room.


    "Do you know why Mereloco wanted to help us?" Morgan finally asked.


    Muzazi shook his head. "He didn¡¯t say."


    "You didn¡¯t ask?"


    "I did ask," Muzazi replied. "But¡­ I don¡¯t think I understood his answer. What about¡­ Wu Ming? He was definitely there too?"


    Morgan nodded. "I saw his Aether, and I went to get his help against the Hive -- but things got kinda wild. Nael Manron showed up, and we were fighting this thing together, but¡­ by the time it was all over¡­ there was nothing I could do but get back over here."


    Muzazi nodded back -- more from absence of anything else to do -- his head wobbling like a bobblehead. He glanced at Aguta. Nebula Two hadn¡¯t said much since helping them set up their flight-path.


    "We checked the ship over," he said, grasping for any information to provide. "As far as we can tell, that villain hadn¡¯t planted any bugs or traps. It seems he¡¯d only just infiltrated the hangar by the time we arrived."


    Aguta closed his eyes, slowly nodding. "Check it again," he said. "You never know."


    "We will," Muzazi replied. "We¡¯ll¡­ I¡¯ll have it done. What happens now?"


    "This starship will get us to the border -- one of the borderworlds, Xocotl. From there, a smuggler will get us into UAP space. From there¡­ well, hopefully, it¡¯ll be a straight shot to Serendipity."


    "Hopefully," Morgan mumbled, not sounding very hopeful at all. "What if the Supremacy keeps coming after us?"


    "I can see that happening," Aguta admitted, opening his eyes and looking up at the ceiling. "But it won¡¯t be nearly as bad. Needless to say, we won¡¯t have to worry about Appointment going forward. If what you told me about the battle is true, I¡¯d say the Hive of Malkuth has been wounded, too. They¡¯ll be focused on rebuilding their strength, not pursuing us. As for the other bounty hunters, or the Sixth Dead¡­ well, I doubt they¡¯ll have better tracking than those first two, so we should be able to make it to the border without them catching up."


    "And then?" Morgan asked.


    "I¡¯ve already received confirmation that the UAP is willing to accept your asylum -- you two, I mean. The others¡­ well, I suppose they¡¯ll be free to do as they please."


    Muzazi nodded. "I see."


    For a few seconds, it looked like Aguta was going to go further into it¡­ but then he just closed his eyes again and lay back on the bed. "Those checks," he murmured. "Spare no effort."


    After exchanging a glance with Morgan, Muzazi sighed and planted his hands on his legs as he stood up. "The del Sed¡¯s have some expertise with ship repair, from what I understand. I¡¯ll see if they¡¯ve woken up and ask them to assist."


    He took a step back -- and bumped into the person suddenly standing behind him.


    "Damn," said Gregori Hazzard. "You really don¡¯t let your guard down, huh?"


    It had been a long day.


    For the last twenty hours, Muzazi had constantly feared for his life. He had fought, and he had killed, and he had bled. The faint fumes of adrenaline had run dry long ago, and even the sheer will that had allowed him to keep going after that had begun to falter. His last legs lay broken on the path far behind him.


    Indeed, it had been a very long day.


    So¡­ what should have taken him one second, instead took two.


    Atoy Muzazi felt Gregori¡¯s blade carve through his throat.


    END OF ARC 14

 Chapter 447:15.1: Serendipity

    Blood sprayed on the floor -- and a second later, it was joined by embers.


    Muzazi¡¯s wound glowed a furious white as thrusters blazed to life inside it, sealing it shut -- but the cut had been jagged, and the cut had been cruel. Blood continued to ooze from Muzazi¡¯s throat, and when he opened his mouth to breathe he found nothing but panic and a burning lack. The blade wasn¡¯t done yet, either: it plunged into Muzazi¡¯s back -- once, twice, thrice.


    The fourth stab was stopped as Morgan Nacht, incandescent with rage, let loose a whip of black Fog that surely would have taken Hazzard¡¯s head off if it hit.


    It did not hit.


    Folding himself into a mere scrap in an instant, Gregori avoided the blow, flitted between Muzazi¡¯s legs, flitted between Morgan¡¯s legs, and slashed the younger man twice in the back. Morgan staggered forwards, caught off-guard by the near-instant retaliation. Grabbing Morgan by the back of his hair, Gregori raised a blade-arm and prepared for the finishing blow.


    Under these circumstances, against these exhausted opponents, Gregori clearly had no doubt that he would win. That was the sort of arrogance that rested behind those crimson eyes.


    Muzazi collapsed bleeding to the floor, his strength spent, and Gregori brought his blade down towards the back of Morgan¡¯s neck. Clearly, he intended to have servant join master. The slightest smirk played across his lips.


    He¡¯d won.


    Ruth Blaine was running down the corridor to reach this place. Jamilu Aguta was weakly reaching for his spear from his sickbed. Neither of them would make it in time. He¡¯d eliminate Morgan Nacht, and then he¡¯d eliminate Atoy Muzazi, and then he¡¯d eliminate the rest of them.


    There was nothing they could do anymore. They¡¯d reached the limits of human beings. He had seized the moment and made it his own.


    The blade that was Gregori Hazzard¡¯s hand went to pierce through Morgan¡¯s neck --


    Perfect Parry.


    -- but stopped, suddenly captured, inches away.


    Gregori¡¯s eyes flicked upwards, all confidence suddenly vanished -- and saw the shape of the person slumped against the doorway. Del Sed. The moment had been lost. The moment had been stolen.


    And, as Gregori Hazzard realized that, half-a-dozen comeuppances came for him at once.


    AETHERAL SPACE 15.1


    "Serendipity"


    Two Weeks Later¡­


    "So," said Jaime Pierrot, steepling his fingers on the table before him. "We have a new Supreme."


    He and his three associates looked up at the holographic display dominating the room -- a transmission swiped from the Supremacy¡¯s communication network. Dragan Hadrien¡¯s coronation as Supreme had gone ahead last week, and now these backstage actors of the UAP watched as he gained the throne and lost his name. Pierrot narrowed his eyes as he looked at the young man: that calm face, that bright white cloak that nearly seemed to glow, those resolute blue eyes¡­ Hadrien had certainly changed since the UniteRegent.


    The new Supreme had broken from tradition with his coronation. Rather than appearing before the gathered servants on Azum-Ha, Hadrien had elected for a private crowning ceremony with just his supporters on the Shesha itself. Opinions on that, along with the mass pardons he¡¯d handed out through some of the Supremacy¡¯s top-security prisons, were mixed.


    Clumsy mistakes. Pierrot recognised them. The boy was trying to seize things bigger than his hands.


    "Thoughts?" Pierrot asked his companions.


    Needless to say, none of them were truly in Pierrot¡¯s darkened office. As important members of the Central Governing Council, they couldn¡¯t be pulled away from their own work -- and besides, a gathering of this level would stink of conspiracy to anyone who spotted it. Best to keep things low-profile, and have the assembly call in via hologram as well.


    Shen Xiurong, the newest addition to their little group, glanced at Pierrot with his discerning sapphire eyes. "I¡¯d say we were fortunate to acquire Atoy Muzazi when we did."


    "How so?" Agnes von Frostburn asked, raising an eyebrow. Despite her recent personal tragedy, the young Tsarina of Adrust was as unflappable as ever.


    "An unpopular new Supreme?" Xiurong went on. "One that breaks with tradition and then complies with it seemingly at random? The sheep will smell incompetence, and some of them will choose to become wolves. When they do, Atoy Muzazi will make a fine symbol for them to rally behind."


    Agnes blinked. "You think we should start a civil war in the Supremacy?"


    "I think it¡¯s an option we have open to us, one we¡¯d be foolish to discount. If my information is correct, Muzazi is likely to survive his injuries." He glanced at Pierrot. "Or am I wrong?"


    "You¡¯re right," Pierrot nodded. "Thanks to the efforts of Nebula Two and¡­ Nebula Five¡­ of course, we were able to get Muzazi here mostly intact. He¡¯s making a slow recovery. When the time comes to use him, he¡¯ll be usable."


    Albert Raise, Prime Minister of the Lesser Chain, cleared his throat as his flickering image leaned forward in its seat. "While we¡¯re on the topic¡­ Gregori Hazzard. The Special Officer."


    Xiurong nodded. "I still think we should kill him. Erase him before anyone knows we have him in custody."


    Agnes side-eyed the older man. "Gregori Hazzard is a trusted subordinate of Ascendant-General Toll. If it comes out we got rid of him, Toll could push for a war right then and there. He has the temperament for it."


    "I agree with Agnes," Pierrot nodded. "Our best course of action is to keep Hazzard as a hostage, for the time being. There may come a time where we can use him as a bargaining chip."


    "You think we should inform the Supremacy that we¡¯ve captured him, then?" Raise asked, brow knitted in concern.


    "No," Pierrot replied quickly. "But we shouldn¡¯t stop them from finding that out for themselves. I¡¯ll advise the Ultraviolets."


    Albert quietly nodded.


    "Hazzard lives," Pierrot concluded. "And Muzazi is kept in reserve. Agreed?"


    "Agreed," the table echoed.


    "Moving on, then," Xiurong tapped his finger against the table. "Pandershi. It seems he¡¯ll be getting his assembly."


    Pierrot nodded. It was true. Earlier that week, Zephyr Pandershi had proposed that the Central Governing Council meet in-person on Serendipity to discuss the threat proposed by the new Supreme. Many of the members had already agreed to a meeting at the end of the month.


    "He¡¯s up to something," Agnes said.


    "Of course he is," Pierrot grunted. "That¡¯s his nature. But, under the circumstances, we have no cause to deny his proposal -- and there¡¯s every possibility we can turn his schemes around to benefit us."


    "You¡¯d like the three of us to publicly agree to the meeting, then?" Xiurong asked, resting his chin on the back of his hand.


    Pierrot looked back at him. "You were born free."


    "How lovely. That is what you want us to do, though, isn¡¯t it?"


    For a moment, Pierrot just continued to stare at the Lord Mayor¡­ and then, slowly, he nodded. It was a nod he still wasn¡¯t entirely sure about, a nod that could turn the gears of the UAP around itself¡­ but if the Prince made no move to warn him against it, he supposed it couldn¡¯t be so bad.


    "The Nebula will be gathered on Serendipity by month¡¯s end," Pierrot declared, sitting up straight, injecting some statesmanship into his posture. "Albert. How goes your work on finding a new Nebula for the Lesser Chain?"


    Raise fidgeted idly. "I¡¯ve got some candidates I¡¯m sifting through," he mumbled. "Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll have someone here by the time of the meeting."


    Pierrot smiled slightly at those words. Despite how oddly helpless his old teacher could come across as, Albert Raise had never given Jaime Pierrot reason to worry.


    "I hope Misery will finally dispose of Nebula Ten," Agnes sighed. "It¡¯s disgraceful that human garbage like that is even allowed inside this building."


    "You know it¡¯s not up to the boy," Xiurong said.


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    "Still," Agnes closed her eyes for a second, stuffing away whatever sliver of sentiment she¡¯d accidentally revealed. "I hope Irons goes the way of Westmore. Good riddance to bad rubbish."


    "Yes, yes, Westmore, yes," Raise nodded hurriedly. "Pandershi will be needing a new Nebula as well, won¡¯t he, with his traitor having absconded?"


    As the discussion went on, Pierrot found himself looking at Agnes von Frostburn. She was putting on a good show, but Pierrot knew better. Adrust would be needing a new Nebula as well, now that Rufus was gone. Despite how it looked, Agnes was certainly affected by that.


    "I¡¯m sure you¡¯re all very busy," Pierrot eventually said, cutting off the conversation. "We¡¯ll convene again in a few days to discuss developments."


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    "Peace and joy for all mankind," he said.


    Two echoes.


    As Agnes and Albert rattled off their little salute, Xiurong remained silent. He just stared at Pierrot with those calm blue eyes, his expression distinctly amused. It had only been a little while since Xiurong had joined their little group, but Pierrot was already certain of it: the Lord Mayor of J¨¬nhu¨¤ would be the next to host the Prince. He had the temperament required.


    The holograms flickered out of existence as the window-shades ascended. Pierrot groaned, rubbing his nose as he leaned back in the chair. Recently, the beautiful cityscape -- the beautiful sunlight -- of Serendipity had started to feel more and more like just another searing burn.


    He was getting old. Old, and tired -- but he had a thing for that. His three-o-clock.


    Pierrot flicked on his videograph, and looked at the smiling face of his granddaughter.


    "Hi, honey!" he said, grinning. "How¡¯s school?"


    Jaime Pierrot was not having an idea.


    As he ended the video call with his granddaughter and let the smile slowly trickle from his face, he turned in his seat and looked out at the city-world of Serendipity. The last bastion of freedom in the galaxy. The final, greatest defense against the warmongering Supremacy. Perhaps it was not true, but it was a good identity to claim. Identity was the most important organ a human being possessed.


    Pierrot considered that, and he considered the idea he was not having.


    The escapees from the Supremacy were potent pieces -- but some had to be treated with more consideration than others. Atoy Muzazi, the could-have-been Supreme, was still in critical condition. While he¡¯d escaped the immediate jaws of death, Pierrot had no doubt that the new Supreme would do his best to finish his opponent off, no matter how far he ran.


    That piece was made of fine crystal -- to be handled with great care.


    The others, though¡­ there was potential there. Morgan Nacht, Ruth Blaine, Bruno and Serena¡­ del Sed. A bitter feeling trickled through Pierrot¡¯s heart. There was the Annatrice girl, too. Five pieces of little political value, but astounding utility. They didn¡¯t enjoy the same protections as a rival-in-exile. There was potential that could be exploited without repercussion or challenge.


    He did not have an idea about how to utilize that potential. The idea existed, but it did not belong to him.


    It was always the strangest feeling, when a thought like this came up. The concept that had appeared in his head had his handwriting, but not his signature. It was his footstep, but not his foot. He had learnt from experience that, when such sourceless inspiration appeared, it could only mean one thing.


    This was the will of the Prince.


    Harry plunged his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, head hanging low, as he stalked through the rain-filled streets of Taldan.


    He could feel it in his hand, tightly gripped -- the drive that would give him access to Tulston Dritt¡¯s accounts. From there, it was simply a matter of siphoning the credits and making a hasty escape from this planet. Dritt¡¯s ill-gotten wealth would provide comfort for a time.


    Still, as he moved with the crowd through one of Taldan¡¯s tunnel-bridges, Harry couldn¡¯t help but run through his supposed victory in his head, over and over again. Had he made any mistakes? When he¡¯d infiltrated the restaurant, had there been anything that could have given away his true identity -- or at least his true reason for being here?


    No. No, there couldn¡¯t have been. Could there? He¡¯d been so careful. Hadn¡¯t he?


    Practiced hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He didn¡¯t even need to turn around to know that someone was after him. He didn¡¯t even need to see their faces to know who they were.


    His killers. He¡¯d messed up. He was dead. No other options. He had to get away. Harry took a deep, anxiety-soaked breath¡­


    Will Lock.


    Escape.


    ¡­ and let it out again, as calm as a machine.


    He needed to achieve his objective. His objective was to Escape. Everything else was irrelevant until it became a factor helping or hindering his objective. All other emotions and impulses were disabled for the time being. Even self-awareness had become vague and indistinct.


    So.


    Harry


    > broke into a sprint.


    > pushed through the crowd.


    > felt a hand on his shoulder, and he drove his knife into that hand.


    > drove his knife into the throat of his attacker.


    > resumed sprinting.


    > turned on his heel.


    > ran down the alley.


    > went to climb the wall at the alley¡¯s end.


    > fell.


    A bullet had slammed into his leg, sending him right down to the ground. Two attackers remained. Dritt¡¯s men, with sour faces and guns. Escape was no longer possible under these circumstances.


    Will Lock.


    Cancel.


    Once circumstances sealed off Harry¡¯s objective, Will Lock could no longer be sustained -- and all the pain and fear and shock returned in an instant. He collapsed onto the floor as a bleeding ball, arms waving desperately in the air, hyperventilated breaths rushing incoherently in and out of his mouth.


    "Dumbass," the first man said, spitting a cigarette into the gutter. "Dritt said not to kill him. He wants to teach the brat a lesson personally."


    "Does he look dead to you?" the second asked, appraising the prone Harry with cold blue eyes. "This way, he can¡¯t run. It¡¯s easier to teach when the students can¡¯t leave, right?"


    "Please!" Harry screamed, kicking at the air with his good leg, as if his meagre strength could keep these two at bay. "Wait, wait, wait! Please!"


    "Y, he¡¯s loud," the first man muttered as he approached. "You¡¯re the one who shot him, so you gotta make sure he don¡¯t bleed out. I¡¯m not gonna explain to the boss why his classroom¡¯s empty, yeah?"


    "Whatever," the second man rolled his eyes, pistol still trained on Harry as he came over too. "Just make sure he stays still. That brat kicks me, he¡¯s losing the --"


    "Stop doing that."


    The calm voice cut through the night-rain of Taldan. It wasn¡¯t that the speaker had been loud. In fact, they¡¯d muttered their words more than anything else, a bored-sounding monotone with just a hint of gloominess. Yes, it was just muttering, but anyone who heard it would agree on one thing.


    That was how God would mutter.


    The two thugs turned, their prey forgotten in an instant, that pistol already pointing at the new arrival.


    A woman in a black tracksuit stood at the mouth of the alley, illuminated from behind by a crooked streetlight. She was older than Harry, he could see -- in her late twenties, most likely. She stared down the length of the urban vein, messy black hair concealing her eyes from view. That mop looked like it had encountered a brush only a couple of times in its life, and scissors even less.


    The first man turned to face the woman, his hand resting on his own holstered pistol. "This is Royale Club business, ma¡¯am. You understand? You from around here?"


    "I¡¯m not from around here," the woman replied.


    "Then all you need to know is you mind your own business when it comes to us," he said. "Understand?"


    The woman slowly cocked her head, her eyes coming into view as her hair drooped to one side.


    A shudder went down Harry¡¯s spine.


    It wasn¡¯t just because he knew this woman. It wasn¡¯t just because of the agony from his wound. It was because of those eyes. Those completely normal, completely regular brown eyes. The eyes themselves weren¡¯t the problem. It was just¡­ people said they were the windows to the soul, and on the other side of those windows¡­ Harry could sense something far more important than him. Something that existed far more than he did.


    He was bacteria beneath a microscope.


    "Everything is my business," the woman said, slowly walking down the length of the alley. "The stars in the sky. The bricks in these walls here. Every drop of blood in your veins. Every breath you¡¯ve ever taken. All of that is my business."


    Despite her absurd words, her voice contained no trace of arrogance. She spoke calmly and clearly. To her, this was a mere statement of fact. A universal formula she was now imparting upon them.


    The first man lost his patience. In one smooth motion, he pulled his pistol from his holster and pointed it at the woman. The second man mimicked him, an eager smile spreading across his lips. The woman stopped her approach.


    "Last warning, lady," the first man said seriously, his finger flicking the safety of his gun off. "Turn around and forget what you saw."


    By way of reply, the woman just raised her arm and pointed her index finger at the two gunmen before her. They exchanged a bewildered, slightly amused glance between themselves. Then, the woman spoke.


    "Bang," she said.


    For a moment, the two men just stood there in silence. Then, they exchanged another look -- smirks opening up into grins. Finally losing all ability to take this weirdo seriously, they began to laugh uproariously.


    The woman just stood there, hands returning to her pockets, as the laughter bounced off the walls.


    But then, they stopped laughing.


    And then they put their guns to their heads.


    And then they pulled the triggers.


    Blood and brains sprayed onto the walls, and Harry watched in muted terror as the woman came over. She stepped over the corpses like they were speed-bumps in the road, not even looking down as she walked across a dead man¡¯s chest. Finally, she hopped down and regarded the prone Harry.


    "Harrison del Sed," she said.


    This was not a question. Harry expected this wasn¡¯t the sort of person who asked questions at all. He silently nodded at her.


    For the first time, an expression broke onto the face of the Sed¡¯s first graduate. It was the slightest twist of her lip, barely enough to qualify as a smirk, and it was gone in a moment¡­ but it was enough to assure Harry that this person was a human, just like him. Perhaps that had been its purpose.


    Erica del Sed extended a hand downwards.


    "Come on," she said. "Let¡¯s go home."

 Chapter 448:15.2: The Invisible Ultraviolets

    It was going to hit you.


    Ruth Blaine turned the chip over in her fingers, and the words over in her thoughts. She sat on the windowsill of the waiting room -- there were chairs available, but she wasn¡¯t feeling it -- reclining to such a degree that she was almost fully lying down. With the angle and the window, the buildings of Serendipity seemed to rise out of her body, like she was the soil for some metal plants.


    That was a weird thing to think, but she was in a weird mood.


    She¡¯d watched Dragan¡¯s coronation on the videograph the other night. So he really was Supreme now. That was even weirder. She¡¯d seen that idiot break his own leg trying to jump before, and now he was the strongest man in the galaxy? Well¡­ supposedly the strongest man in the galaxy. The strongest wouldn¡¯t need to win with nasty tricks, if you asked Ruth.


    Besides¡­


    Ruth¡¯s grip tightened on the chip as the events at the Arena ran through her mind again. Dragan firing a Gemini Shotgun into Bruno and Serena, into two people who were supposed to be his friends. Ruth¡¯s blood boiled just thinking about it.


    Something was off, though. Something was off.


    For some reason, those two were still reluctant to talk about what had happened in the Arena, even after they¡¯d finally woken up. Why? Bruno had watched the coronation with her, but he¡¯d been silent, and had stayed silent until Serena took over and had them leave with her usual cheer.


    They¡¯ve got a lot on their mind, Ruth finally decided, sighing heavily. It¡¯s the same with me.


    To be honest, this entire situation still seemed unreal. They¡¯d gone from fleeing Azum-Ha in the dead of night to walking around Serendipity like they owned the place. The government headquarters of the UAP was a massive building, containing all the bureaucracy needed to maintain a galactic government -- and with them being under Nebula Two¡¯s protection, arranging this meeting hadn¡¯t been nearly as hard as Ruth had expected.


    Well¡­ she thought. It¡¯ll still be a little hard, I guess.


    She looked up as the doors to the office opened, and a young aside poked his head out. He glanced at the empty chairs and frowned -- before looking up and realising that Ruth had taken up residence in the window like some kind of cat. A well-practiced smile spread across his lips.


    "Miss Blaine?" he said. "The Tsarina will see you now."


    Miss Blaine, huh? Ruth frowned as she hopped down from the windowsill. Ruth Road really had vanished into the ether, hadn¡¯t she?


    As she stepped into the office, Ruth took a deep breath. This wasn¡¯t going to be fun.


    A lot of these bigwigs liked to decorate their offices in wacky ways, Ruth found, and the Tsarina of Adrust was no exception. Holographic displays had been set up to make the room seem like a pristine winter wonderland, fields of snow stretching out in every direction. If not for the sensation of solid wood beneath her feet, Ruth might even have been fooled.


    She turned her head and looked off into the non-existent distance, past where the wall existed in reality. Far away, perched atop a hill, stood a single thin tree, black branches splayed out like the fingers of a dead hand. A shiver went down her spine.


    "Do you like it?"


    At the sudden noise, Ruth¡¯s head snapped back to the room¡¯s mistress. Agnes von Frostburn stepped out from behind a frost-covered pillar, hands clasped in front of her. She was wearing a white fur dress and one of those funny tall winter hats. Now that Ruth thought about it, she guessed this office was pretty cold. Was that on purpose?


    "Miss Blaine?" Agnes asked, tilting her head slightly, her cool blue eyes impassive. A single lock of immaculate white hair slipped from its position and hung there.


    She was pretty pretty, objectively speaking.


    "Miss Blaine?" Agnes repeated.


    Ruth blinked. "Uh, sorry, what?"


    A trace of annoyance trickled into the Tsarina¡¯s voice. "You wanted to see me?"


    Ah. Right. Yes.


    Ruth slowly nodded. "I, uh¡­ I wanted to see you -- to meet with you, yeah. It¡¯s about, you know, uh¡­ your brother. Rufus."


    "I see," Agnes said calmly. "What about him?"


    "He saved my life," Ruth said quietly. "He¡­ he gave his life¡­ to save me."


    She looked down as she spoke, unwilling to meet the other woman¡¯s gaze. Instead, she stared at her own clenched fists.


    "I¡¯m aware. I¡¯ve read the reports."


    Ruth looked up. "Huh?"


    "If you¡¯ve somehow gotten the idea that you now owe me or something," Agnes went on, hands still clasped, eyes still calm. "Please don¡¯t worry about it. My brother and I are different people. If you owed anyone, it would have been him -- and obviously that¡¯s not a debt you need to worry about anymore."


    Ruth blinked. Could this woman really be so cold? Her brother had died, he¡¯d given his life for an absolute stranger, and she didn¡¯t seem to care at all.


    "Oh," Ruth muttered, caught thoroughly off-guard. "Right... I guess so."


    "Is there anything else?" Agnes asked, tilting her head again. "There¡¯s a lot I need to turn my attention to."


    "No, no, yeah," Ruth shook her head vaguely. "That¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s all, yeah. Great."


    "Sebastian will show you back to your quarters, I¡¯m sure," Agnes smiled pleasantly.


    Like a puppet with its strings cut, Ruth turned and began to walk from the room, arms hanging limply at her sides. This wasn¡¯t what she¡¯d expected at all. She¡¯d expected tears, maybe screaming, maybe standing there as this woman blamed her for the death of her only family. Not apathy. Not this. This wasn¡¯t something Ruth could understand at all.


    You¡¯d get it, wouldn¡¯t you, Skipper? she thought bitterly. You got everything.


    Ruth stopped, and turned her head, blinking as if slowly waking from a dream.


    "Oh, right," she spoke up, voice cutting through the silence. "There is¡­ I guess there is one thing."


    Agnes had been about to head back to her desk when Ruth called out to her. She turned back, that same pleasant smile still plastered across her lips. "Yes?"


    Ruth took a step forward, handing over what she¡¯d been holding onto -- dropping it into the Tsarina¡¯s pale palm. "This is¡­ I guess this is better with you than with me."


    Agnes looked down at what she¡¯d been given -- and for the first time, her eyes widened, just a tad. The metal chip of Rufus¡¯ Bastardborn lay in the middle of her palm, so small and so dark that it almost looked like a tiny cut in her skin.


    "This is¡­" the Tsarina whispered.


    "I found it afterwards," Ruth explained. "Like I said¡­ it¡¯s probably best with you."


    Agnes looked at it for a good long while, remaining completely still -- as if the chip would leap out of her hand and escape if she surprised it. Holographic snow drifted before her eyes, but she didn¡¯t blink. She just stared down at the chip. Given how she¡¯d acted before this, Ruth had expected the Tsarina to just accept the offering and send her on her way¡­ but apparently not.


    "Uh," Ruth ventured, leaning forward. "Ma¡¯am?"


    Agnes said nothing.


    "Miss von Frostburn?"


    "I think," Agnes said, keeping her voice very steady. "You should take this away. It¡¯s not something I have any use for."


    She thrust the chip back into Ruth¡¯s hands as though it were red-hot, and quickly turned away. For a second, Ruth just stood there, still holding the chip in her own hand¡­ before, as requested, stuffing it away and making for the exit. The words that Agnes said then were so quiet that Ruth barely heard them over her own footsteps.


    "Thank you," Agnes said.


    "No problem," Ruth replied.


    The door slid shut behind her, and Ruth let out a tense breath. Honestly, that conversation had been pretty bad¡­ but not nearly as bad as she¡¯d expected. As she strode out of the waiting room, she could at least take that as a --


    "Ruth Blaine."


    Ruth stopped. She hadn¡¯t even noticed until they spoke, but someone new was now standing in the waiting room, right beneath the window where Ruth had been sitting before. A little girl wearing a shiny white dress and a spherical helmet that concealed her face. A bunny rabbit formed from what looked like pure light nuzzled against her leg.


    Who are you? Ruth opened her mouth to ask that, but¡­


    "Nebula Nine," the girl said before she could get the words out. "Luna. Nebula of Abra-Facade."


    What do you want from me?


    "I wanted to tell you something important," Luna preemptively replied once again. "Actually¡­ three things you¡¯ll find important."


    Why?


    "If I don¡¯t tell you these things now," the little girl said casually. "You¡¯ll die later on. It would be very bad if you died."


    Finally, getting the words out as fast as she could, Ruth was able to talk. "Fine. What things do you wanna tell me?" She understood that Abra-Facade was all about telling the future or whatever, but this kinda cryptic stuff still pissed her off.


    "The things I tell you will not be wrong," Luna said reassuringly. "¡¯See no evil¡¯, ¡¯Hear no evil¡¯, ¡¯Speak no evil¡¯. Remember this."


    Ruth blinked, stuffing the words away into her mind. "Uh, are those the three things or --"


    "That¡¯s one thing," Luna said tersely. "The second thing¡­ it¡¯ll reach you on the third clap."


    "What¡¯s that mean?"


    "If I tell you what it means, it will become meaningless."


    "Is that the third thing?"


    "No," Luna snapped. "That¡¯s just me talking to you. The third thing¡­"


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    She strolled past Ruth, her sandals thumping on the carpet with a strange weight as she walked across it.


    "The third thing¡­" Luna continued. "...concerns these men."


    Ruth turned to follow Luna¡¯s gaze -- and saw the three suited Ultraviolets waiting at the doors. Humourless eyes glared intensely at Ruth. Hidden hands readied their weapons, she knew.


    "I¡¯d recommend you don¡¯t resist them," said Luna.


    Stuffing down her trepidation, Ruth grinned. "Heya."


    Every time they slept recently, Bruno had the same dream.


    He was back in the Arena of the Absolute, and he was standing before Dragan again. No, not ¡¯again¡¯. This was still the first time. A memory on an infinite loop. A wound that just wouldn¡¯t close.


    Slowly, Dragan would raise that finger.


    Slowly, Dragan would spark his Aether.


    And, slowly, Dragan would mouth two words¡­


    Fall backwards.


    "Gemini Shotgun."


    And, after that, the world would go black -- and the dream would end for that night.


    Bruno opened his eyes.


    He supposed that most people would be caught off-guard by waking in an unfamiliar room, but that had never been too much of an issue for him and Serena. In their wanderings, they¡¯d never had time to get used to the places they slept. Even the Slipstream had exploded every couple of months. There was only one bed they¡¯d ever grown accustomed to¡­ and that had been one they¡¯d been glad to leave behind.


    "You dream of anything?" Bruno muttered as he rose up, stretching.


    Nope, Serena said smugly. I slept like a light.


    "How¡¯s a light sleep?" Bruno frowned.


    Really well, actually!


    Serena took over as they got out of bed, cracking her neck as she strolled over to the balcony, dressing gown tight around their body. That Aguta guy had done pretty well for them. They were still under observation, of course, but the apartment he¡¯d secured for them was pretty damn swanky.


    She hesitated as she was about to open the balcony door. Annatrice was out there already, sitting up on one of the deck chairs with her knees to her chest, a cup of coffee clutched between her hands.


    This would be an awkward conversation, to be sure -- but oh well! It was best to have it.


    Serena grinned cheerily as she slid the door open, striding out onto the balcony. "Good morning!"


    Annatrice¡¯s eyes flicked over to the new arrival in her space, and narrowed suspiciously. Sitting there like that, she really reminded Serena of a cornered animal. Did she think she¡¯d steal her coffee or something?


    Finally, though, her suspicion relented a tad, and she shuffled awkwardly in her chair. "...morning," she muttered.


    Serena pulled up a chair of her own, sighing as she lay down in it and watched the cars go past outside. On city-worlds, traffic was a constant of life, and Serendipity was no exception. Only¡­ it was a little different here. Some sort of technology on these upper levels softened the ever-present sounds of flying cars rushing by. Instead of the loudest sound in the world, it was something more like a soft breeze. It was nice.


    In a place like this, you could watch the world go by.


    "Do you like coffee?" Serena asked the younger girl.


    "It¡¯s fine," Annatrice mumbled.


    "What, so you don¡¯t like it?"


    "I said it¡¯s fine."


    "So you do like it!"


    "Why do you care?" Annatrice growled, shifting away from Serena once again. "What does it matter to you if I like coffee or not?"


    Serena frowned at the sudden aggression. "Well¡­ I guess I wanted to know more about you. You¡¯ve got that ability, right? So you can be lots of different people. That Zakos guy I knew. He was a dick, but I knew him¡­ but I was just thinking I don¡¯t really know that much about Annatrice. That¡¯s all."


    Annatrice opened her mouth to say something, then closed her mouth. Her expression softened slightly. Then, she opened her mouth again to say something, then again closed her mouth.


    Serena guessed it wasn¡¯t that easy. Heck, she remembered what it had been like to barely exist. She smiled kindly at the girl.


    "It¡¯s fine," she said reassuringly. "If you don¡¯t wanna tell me, you don¡¯t have to tell me."


    "I¡­" Annatrice began hesitantly.


    "Hold up just one sec, okay?"


    In one smooth motion, Serena grabbed the arm of the deck-chair, turned it into a short sword, and pointed it directly at the throat of the man sneaking up behind them.


    "You want something?" she asked him pleasantly.


    A dark suit and sunglasses. A concealed pistol and two subordinates hiding in the apartment. Stealth training that had almost escaped Serena¡¯s notice. Off-world these people would surely have come in disguise, but there was no doubt about it¡­


    The Ultraviolets -- the Unified Alliance of Planet¡¯s central intelligence agency, their answer to the GID. If Serena understood the situation correctly, these guys had helped them escape from Azum-Ha. Why exactly were they trying to pull a fast one now?


    "Well?" Serena said, poking the man¡¯s neck. "What do you want?"


    The man looked down at her stoically. If he was wary of the blade at his throat, he didn¡¯t show it -- but Serena guessed they were probably just trained to be spooky like that. At the third poke, he finally spoke.


    "Serena del Sed?" he said. "Our boss wants to see you."


    "Sure thing," she said, flipping the sword and sheathing it in her waistband. "But the kid stays."


    "Of course," the Ultraviolet smiled thinly. "Orders are orders."


    How many times¡­ Morgan wondered. ¡­have I been in this situation now?


    Atoy Muzazi, lying in a hospital bed. Atoy Muzazi, hooked up to life support. Atoy Muzazi, on the edge of death¡­


    ¡­and Morgan Nacht, watching.


    Morgan sat next to the bed, watching Muzazi cling to life, listening to the heartbeat monitor provide its steady beeps. The UAP had gone all out to keep Muzazi alive, but he supposed that only made sense. They¡¯d gone to a lot of trouble to get Muzazi off of Azum-Ha¡­ now, they had to make sure that investment didn¡¯t go to waste.


    All because of Gregori Hazzard.


    Morgan tightened his fists. If it were up to him, they¡¯d have killed Hazzard the second they brought him down¡­ but Aguta had insisted. He hadn¡¯t said why, but Morgan knew the reasoning. If Muzazi died, Aguta wanted to make sure that they at least brought something home for their efforts.


    The door slid open.


    "Oh, Mr. Nacht?" said a voice from behind him.


    Well¡­ it wasn¡¯t as if Morgan hadn¡¯t expected this. The Unified Alliance of Planets had a need for Atoy Muzazi -- their actions back on Azum-Ha had made that perfectly clear. What they didn¡¯t need, however, was Morgan Nacht.


    Slowly, Morgan rose from his chair, flexing his fingers against empty air. If it came down to it, he was fairly certain he could use Fog to create a sword or bow and arrow in about two seconds. If he went for the bow, M would probably be the best option -- and then he¡¯d sweep the room in the resultant confusion. Not ideal, but a plan. So long as he had that, he could make things work.


    Finally, he turned his head. "What?"


    A man leaned against the doorway, a sly smile on his lips as he looked down at Morgan with his dark green eyes. His teal hair was tied back into a short ponytail, and the suit he wore was loose and relaxed, the holster of his pistol -- which surely should have been concealed -- clearly visible. Two other suits were standing in the hallway behind him, altogether more professional than their apparent leader.


    Ultraviolets.


    "Sorry, were you in the middle of something~?" the Ultraviolet asked, flicking his sunglasses further up his forehead as he addressed Morgan. "Ah, I didn¡¯t mean to interrupt, only you¡¯ve been in here for a while already. Days, even, you know? That¡¯s why I thought it¡¯d be fine to come bother you now. So sorry~."


    I don¡¯t like him.


    Every word the man spoke dripped with insincerity. His unpleasant smile looked like he was in on some private joke -- and even that didn¡¯t reach his eyes. He was looking at Morgan like he was something wriggling under his boot.


    "Who are you?" Morgan asked seriously.


    "Well, now. Here¡¯s a man who wants to get right down to it!" the man scratched the back of his neck. "Kinda anxious to get to it, are ya~?"


    Morgan just glared.


    Chuckling, the man pushed himself out of the doorframe a little. "Ah, well, I hate to get right down to business, but¡­ Ultraviolet Agency, Zep Koel. I¡¯ve been asked to come fetch you, you know? So if you have to get mad, don¡¯t get mad at me, okay~? I¡¯m just the messenger. Gimme a break~."


    Morgan¡¯s eyes flicked between Koel and his subordinates. "What if I don¡¯t want to go with you people?" S§×ar?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Ultraviolet sucked in air through his teeth. "Ah, there¡¯s the question~. Right, right, right. You make a good point. You¡¯re no pushover, after all, are you? Even if I popped you in the head with this --" he tapped his holstered pistol. "-- I¡¯m not sure it¡¯d kill you straight away. Ah, you¡¯re such a scary guy~. Of course¡­"


    His empty gaze slid past Morgan, looking behind him.


    "...I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s true for your bed buddy there, is it~?"


    Morgan gritted his teeth.


    Damn it.


    "Well," said Jaime Pierrot. "This brings back memories, doesn¡¯t it?"


    "How¡¯s that?" Morgan Nacht asked, glaring across the desk.


    Pierrot ignored the question, instead glancing up at Zep, who was still lingering in the doorway of his office. "Thank you, Mr. Koel. You may leave us."


    "Roger that," Zep grinned lazily, offering a one-finger salute before sauntering out of the room. The door slid shut behind him. Pierrot smiled slightly: the Iminant¡¯s depravity and dedication made him as useful a resource to draw upon as ever.


    The smile faded quickly, and Pierrot looked back to the three -- or rather four -- people sitting across from him at the desk. Morgan Nacht, Ruth Blaine¡­ and the del Sed twins who had come to be known as the Ventriloquist.


    Blaine folded her arms. "He¡¯s talking to us," she said to Morgan. "We¡¯ve met this guy before, on the UniteRegent."


    The del Sed¡­ Bruno, Pierrot supposed¡­ nodded tersely. "Around half an hour before the place went to hell."


    "That was coincidental," Pierrot said pleasantly. "At any rate, I¡¯m glad to see you¡¯re all still doing well after three years." He let the smile drop from his face. "My condolences for Skipper."


    Bruno narrowed his eyes. "Noted. What do you want from us?"


    Morgan¡¯s hand was still ready to receive a sword, Pierrot noted. If things went badly here, there was the potential for violence to erupt in this room. Pierrot didn¡¯t doubt his ability to defeat one of these people in combat if it came down to it, but all three at once¡­? If it were up to him, he wouldn¡¯t have put this situation together in the first place¡­


    ¡­but, of course, it wasn¡¯t up to him.


    "I wanted to discuss your accommodations here," Pierrot said.


    Bruno¡¯s expression softened into Serena¡¯s. "Oh no!" she said, distraught. "Do we have to give the apartment back?"


    She played innocent, she played the ditz, but Pierrot could see that it was partially an act. She was playing it up, at the very least, to try and lower Pierrot¡¯s guard. It was a good effort, but Pierrot hadn¡¯t let his guard down in decades now. It wouldn¡¯t let him.


    "Nothing so horrible," Pierrot smiled thinly. "It¡¯s just that¡­ my superiors believe you are volatile elements to keep ahold of, understand? All four of you are wanted criminals in the Supremacy -- three participants in the Elysian Fields Incident, and the right-hand man of a usurper Heir. Us harbouring you here brings unwelcome attention upon us."


    "What about Muzazi?" Morgan asked quickly.


    "For an asset of Atoy Muzazi¡¯s worth, we¡¯re willing to eat that scrutiny, but for yourselves?" Pierrot sighs. "I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ll need you to earn your supper, so to speak."


    Ruth cocked her head. "How¡¯s that?"


    "Nothing special -- just a gesture to show the top brass your utility," Pierrot said, tapping a button on his desk. "We¡¯d like for you to conduct an inspection of one of our facilities near the border. It¡¯s been shut down for quite some time, but recently we¡¯ve noted activity there -- most likely pirates commandeering it for their own ends. We¡¯d like you to pay a visit, assess the situation, and report back. Nothing more."


    The hologram of their destination appeared on the desk. The reaction was immediate. Serena¡¯s mouth drew in a sharp breath, and Bruno¡¯s eyes widened to their utmost. Well, that was basically what Pierrot had expected -- so when he spoke next, he did so to Ruth and Morgan.


    "How much do you know about the facility called the Sed?"

 Chapter 449:15.3: Only I

    "So this is the Sed, huh?" Ruth said, looking down at the dark world.


    "Home sweet home," Bruno muttered.


    There wasn¡¯t much to see, Ruth noted. With the sun down, there was no light in the complex at all, concealing nearly everything from view. With the searchlight their ship was equipped with, they could only barely make out the shapes of dilapidated block-shaped buildings, like a child had tipped their box of toys over.


    "This isn¡¯t actually the Sed," Serena cut in. "That¡¯s further up the hill, right Bruno? This is just the city."


    Overhearing their conversation, Morgan stepped up into the cockpit, peering into the monitor to look at the unexpected settlement below. "What, people used to live here?" he asked.


    "It¡¯s a training ground," Bruno said bitterly. "Or a testing ground. Like how they test bombs. Nobody lives here but mannequins."


    "Well, that¡¯s creepy."


    Bruno just shot him a look and grunted.


    Ruth tightened her grip on the controls as she took them forward, sweeping over the faux-city and taking them towards the Sed proper. The trip here hadn¡¯t been the most comfortable. Morgan and the Sed¡¯s had worked together briefly before, apparently, but the last time Ruth had properly interacted with Nacht had been back on¡­ back on Elysian Fields. Things had gotten complicated back there, and they¡¯d ended up fighting side-by-side, but still¡­


    ¡­and even then, there was their stowaway.


    Ruth glanced over her shoulder, back towards the starboard section of the ship -- where Annatrice del Sed was sitting, knees to her chest as she stared off into space. Pierrot hadn¡¯t said a word about her coming along, and yet the kid had insisted anyway. Ruth knew she could take care of herself, but still. From what she knew of the Sed, she didn¡¯t think it would be a place Annatrice would be keen to return to.


    "Watch where we¡¯re going," Morgan muttered.


    Ruth turned back to the monitors. "I am."


    "You were literally looking the opposite way just now."


    "I can pilot, if you want," Bruno offered.


    "It¡¯s fine," Ruth replied tersely.


    She knew full well that Bruno was a better pilot than her, but he¡¯d already been flying for hours. He deserved a rest. Besides, she was damned if she was going to give up the pilot seat because some Special Officer thought she wasn¡¯t up to the challenge.


    "I¡¯ve got to say," Morgan said, leaning into the window. "I¡¯m not seeing any signs of activity down here. If there were people using this place, wouldn¡¯t they at least have some lights set up?"


    "They could¡¯ve just been passing through," Bruno said. "Or they could be hiding from sight -- there¡¯s an underground level to the testing ground, too. Or¡­ they could be at the Sed itself."


    "That it?" Ruth asked, as they crested the hill.


    From the descriptions she¡¯d heard, there was no doubt about it. A blood-red dome, starkly contrasting the white fool¡¯s snow all around it. The lights were off there, too, though -- and a long jagged crack had developed in the dome itself over time. Just looking at it screamed ¡¯abandoned¡¯.


    Maybe that was the point, though?


    Bruno took a deep breath. "I guess we¡¯re not figuring anything out from up here."


    "You want to go down?" Ruth asked, glancing over her shoulder.


    "I don¡¯t see we¡¯ve got a choice," Bruno grunted. "Open the hatch -- I¡¯ll get the bikes ready so we can move out. We sweep the facility, then get back here. I don¡¯t want to stick around."


    "You¡¯ll hear no complaints from me," Morgan said, wrist resting against his sheathed sword. "Blaine, you stay here. We¡¯ll need to be ready to leave in case things take a turn for the worse."


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. Again, the guy was right¡­ but did he really have to order her around like that?


    "The hatch, Ruth," Bruno reminded her.


    "Oh, right, right," Ruth muttered, flicking the switch to open the hatch on the ship¡¯s underbelly -- that way, the bikes could easily drop onto the ¡¯snow¡¯field below.


    Thunk.


    The weapon twitched.


    It had been sitting at the head of a table in the test-settlement, surrounded by mannequins frozen in the poses of a bustling party. The table was laid with prop food, neverliving meats and stone-cold vegetables half-spilling onto the floor from their dusty plates. The weapon might have sat there forever, indistinguishable from the mannequins.


    But it had heard it.


    ¡¯Thunk¡¯.


    If the mannequins had eyes, they would not have seen the weapon leave. One second, it was there -- and the next, it was gone. It left only the slightest residual blue light, washing over the mannequins¡¯ painted faces before fading into nothing.


    Ten.


    Ruth Blaine took a breath.


    Nine.


    She blinked.


    Eight.


    Her fingers moved over the controls.


    Seven.


    Six.


    Five.


    The shelf holding the fold-away motorcycles began to emerge from the wall.


    Four.


    Bruno stepped out of its way.


    Three.


    The shelf stopped moving.


    Two.


    The motorcycles began to unfold.


    One.


    Morgan opened his mouth to say something¡­


    Bang!


    ¡­but, before he could, the nightmare began.


    Without warning, the ship shook like it had crashed into a mountain. The lights deactivated all at once, plunging them into absolute darkness -- save for the dim glow of the controls, which a moment later were devoured by a swarm of crackling arcs of electricity. An alarm blared -- just for a second -- before that cut off too.


    Bang!


    The second strike was even louder than the first, and this time it was accompanied by the creak of failing integrity. One of the cycles flew from the shelf and smashed against the wall, illuminating the room for the briefest of moments with the sparks it produced. Ruth leapt out of her seat, mind racing, still trying to figure out exactly what was happening.


    Bang!


    Bang!


    Bang!


    Each attack -- assuming this was an attack -- sent everything in the ship flying in every direction. Ruth manifested her Skeletal claws and dug them into the wall beside her, just to keep herself in place. Gritting her teeth, she looked out into the abyss before her.


    It was funny.


    Pretty often recently, she¡¯d wondered what Skipper would do in her place. Too often she didn¡¯t know the answer. He¡¯d do better, at least, she knew that. He¡¯d been a man who could find the ideal way out of any problem. A hero. That wasn¡¯t something she could always match up to.


    Now, though? Now she knew exactly what he¡¯d do.


    "Abandon ship!" she roared.


    Red Aether coalescing at her feet, she launched herself off the wall, using an Aether ping to light up the room for a split second. One kick off a falling bike fired her towards Bruno -- grabbed -- and another kick off the floor sent her shooting towards Annatrice -- grabbed. Her wriggling cargo under her arms, she whirled around to look at Morgan.


    "We need to go!" she said.


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    Bang!


    Bang!


    Bang!


    It was a wonder they hadn¡¯t actually crashed yet. Morgan raised his sword high, shrouded it with smoke, and unleashed a flurry of slashes at the floor below him. The blade danced purple, and a hole opened up in the floor, whistling wind and whirling snow visible through it. They didn¡¯t waste any time, both of them leaping out into the pitch-black night.


    It was a good thing, too, as they didn¡¯t have any time to waste.


    Bang!


    The instant they were out of the ship, it was struck again -- and this time the blow was mighty enough to nearly tear the vessel in half. Ruth snapped her head up to look as the remains of the ship spun out of control --


    Bang!


    -- and this time, she was able to see what exactly was dooming it.


    Lightning.


    Lightning was striking the ship, again and again, each time leaving a vicious scorch-mark like a massive cigarette burn. One final bolt slammed down into the fuselage as it was exposed -- and the ship exploded into an aurora of flames and shrapnel. If not for Bruno¡¯s forcefields and Ruth¡¯s armour, she had no doubt they¡¯d have been shredded by the tiny shards of metal.


    Well, they had bigger concerns, anyway.


    Number one was the ground.


    Ruth braced for impact, concentrating nearly all her Aether into her legs, but she needn¡¯t have bothered. Before she could hit the ground, a rope of smoke wrapped around her waist -- and Morgan Nacht pulled her and the rest of the group close. He¡¯d created what looked like a hand glider from that strange fog -- it was haphazard and misshapen, but it served to slow down their descent enough for a safe landing.


    Her feet touched down on the moss-covered roof of an old building, and she put down her passengers carefully.


    "Stay alert," Morgan said seriously, sword held out in front of him, eyes flicking around for their attacker. "Whatever did this is still here."


    "You don¡¯t have to tell me twice," Bruno replied. He¡¯d already erected a forcefield around their group, and his own eyes were angled up towards the sky -- watching for another bolt of lightning. He¡¯d seen it, too, then.


    Ruth ground her Skeletal claws together, producing a rain of bright sparks, as she stood protectively in front of Annatrice.


    Let¡¯s do this, she told herself, willing her blood to pump faster, her adrenaline to flow faster. Come on. Yeah. Let¡¯s do this.


    "You said there was an underground section?" Morgan asked, back-to-back with Bruno -- no, Serena.


    "Mm-hmm," she said seriously.


    "If the enemy is using lightning, we need a roof over our heads," Morgan continued. "Do you remember the way?"


    Serena considered it for a second, before quickly nodding.


    "Okay," Ruth breathed. "We all move at once. Go!"


    Morgan took a step forward to lead them off the rooftop -- but before his foot could hit the ground, there was a flash of blue next to him. For the briefest of instants, Ruth saw a humanoid blur appear in their midst. An afterimage of an afterimage. Morgan saw it too -- and with reflex born from crisis, he swung his sword with all his strength.


    It wasn¡¯t that he missed. The sword did not hit the enemy, but it wasn¡¯t because Morgan had missed. His sword was missing.


    He looked down.


    His arms were missing too.


    The moment was preserved in horror and left to dry. As Morgan opened his mouth to scream, blood spraying from the torn stumps of his arms, Ruth caught sight of the enemy once again. It was standing far behind Morgan, holding his severed arms in its hands -- and as Ruth caught sight of it, it dropped the limbs onto the floor.


    Then, it raised a finger and blasted a bolt of lightning right through Morgan¡¯s heart.


    His corpse crumpled to the floor, blood still gushing from its wounds. Serena¡¯s face stretched into Bruno¡¯s shock and agitation. As he took control of the body, he thrust his hands forward to create the strongest shield he could -- no. It was too late for that. The enemy had already moved again, and now it pressed an index finger against Bruno¡¯s temple from the side.


    It was just a spark, but it was enough.


    There was a small flash of blue light, and Bruno and Serena dropped dead to the floor, some vital lodestone burnt out of their brain. Unlike Morgan, their face was not contorted in pain. They had simply been deactivated between one thought and the next.


    Ruth opened her mouth as she looked down at the bodies, but all that emerged was a strange crackling groan. This couldn¡¯t be happening. She could feel her heartbeat thumping all the way down to her fingers, but it felt like someone else¡¯s.


    Not again.


    Finally, words found her.


    "I¡¯ll kill you!" she screamed, her voice reflexively infused to such a degree that blood sprayed from her throat.


    The Direwolf Set wrapped itself around her, and she launched herself at the enemy with all her might, red sparks dancing around her jagged claws. The monster, for its part, just stood there -- flickering in place, blurred by absurdly fast idleness¡­ until it didn¡¯t. Three lightning bolts struck out, and Ruth managed to dodge them by mere inches -- but then, right before Ruth¡¯s claws would have met flesh¡­ the monster vanished.


    Annatrice del Sed gasped.


    Ruth knew what it meant before she even turned around. She¡¯d seen it twice now, in the last few seconds. She¡¯d seen it many times now, over the last few weeks. She¡¯d seen it countless times now¡­ over the course of her life.


    Still, she turned around. Annatrice¡¯s severed head rolled across the floor and stopped at her feet. Ruth met its empty eyes with empty eyes of her own.


    Oh, she thought. Skipper wouldn¡¯t have let that happen.


    Ruth Blaine felt the claw of despair once more¡­


    Bang.


    ¡­and then, she felt the bite of lightning.


    Only I¡­


    "If the enemy is using lightning, we need a roof over our heads," Morgan continued. "Do you remember the way?"


    Serena considered it for a second, before quickly nodding.


    "Okay," Ruth breathed. "We all move at once. Go!"


    Morgan went to move -- but before he could take so much as a single step, the earth shook beneath them. Ruth swore under her breath as she steadied herself against the trembling building. First lightning, now earthquakes? What the hell was going on here?!


    She only had time for that one thought -- before she could have another, her vision was overtaken by sheer white.


    Winds buffeted against her body from below, nearly strong enough to send her flying. She raised her arms to shield her eyes from the sudden onslaught, and she had no doubt her allies were doing the same. The temperature dropped drastically and instantaneously, until Ruth¡¯s teeth were chattering, her skin feeling like it was about to freeze and crumble against her flesh. Damnit, even her eyelids were freezing shut!


    She could barely hear Morgan as he spoke.


    "B!" he forced out. "L!"


    With the flames Morgan produced, the cold abated somewhat, and Ruth was finally able to open her eyes. They and the building itself were surrounded on all sides by sheer walls of ice -- and a roof, too, encasing them entirely in a structure like a hollow iceberg. What was this? Was this an attack?


    Ruth turned on the spot, claws drawn, ready for anything -- and suddenly stopped.


    Someone else was here.


    Crouching on the other side of the roof was a young woman with scarlet eyes and raven-black hair. A crimson cloak hung off her form, pooling on the floor like a bloodstain. The tense expression on her face made it difficult to tell if she was friend or foe -- but, as Ruth and the others watched, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a script, holding it up towards them.


    A familiar voice came from the device.


    "Hello, children," said the Widow. "If you want to live, I¡¯d recommend going with young Miss Nox here. Or, in simpler terms¡­ run."


    Ruth opened her mouth to argue --


    Bang!


    -- but as white-hot lightning struck the ice-roof above, nearly blasting right through it in one blow, she thought better of it.


    "Run!" she roared, and the others moved to follow.


    The eyes of a lion watched their egress.


    Blackmane purred contentedly to himself as he watched the latest subjects scurry away from the surface, led by young Alcera Nox into the underground tunnels. That was good to see. There was little point in leaving the door open for new participants in the experiment if the weapon was just going to kill them instantly. The presence of Only I had proven to be the boon he had hoped for.


    Still, Blackmane had concerns.


    The dark lion walked over to the front of the control room, paws thumping against the metal floor as his thin tail swished in the air behind him. The monitors in front of him displayed feeds from all across the testing ground, and the consoles before him were manned by his capable subordinates. He offered young Iozel a curt nod as he passed. The girl just shrunk away. Oh, did she dislike cats?


    "Two graduates of the Sed," he purred, deep voice filling the room. "Arriving by coincidence? That¡¯s not possible. Is this your doing, Erica?"


    He turned his head to the two del Sed¡¯s. Erica didn¡¯t deign to speak to him directly, but Tybalt del Sed stepped forward as usual. The young man had his black hair tied back into a severe bun, and a certain cold emptiness in his green eyes. That, at least, told Blackmane who precisely he was speaking to.


    "We are not involved." Tybalt said calmly. "There would be no benefit in that for us."


    As he spoke, his Id hung off his neck by its arms, taking the shadowy form of some monkey-like creature. Behind him, his Superego giggled, the pitch-black jester dancing behind the young man. Blackmane narrowed his eyes.


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    Even with his greatest level of visual acuity, he couldn¡¯t see any fluctuations in the Aether that would suggest his collaborators were lying to him. Was this truly a coincidence, then? No. He couldn¡¯t believe that.


    "Very well," he grunted, turning back to the monitors. "Leave us. I¡¯ll reach out when I need you."


    Erica, her arms crossed, walked calmly out of the room. Tybalt took only two steps before his Superego dove into his body -- ejecting his Ego as the silent shadow of a man in a trenchcoat and hat. His hair bun popped out into a long and loose braid, and he skipped playfully after his superior, chuckling all the while.


    Back when the Sed had operated, it had hosted three branches of experimental subjects beneath its dome: Splitters, Maskers, and Controllers. It didn¡¯t take a genius to work out which one Tybalt del Sed was.


    On the monitor, the weapon waited.


    It had paused in the air high above the building. It did not float -- it just stood on thin air itself, as if the electricity buzzing beneath its feet was generating a temporary surface. It¡¯s white-and-black mask stared off into space, and its black combat suit nearly blended in with the night sky behind it. White hair billowed in the wind, the only sign of motion in that lethal existence.


    Now that its targets had left the designated area, it was no longer permitted to pursue them. The weapon remained in position for a few moments more before vanishing in another shower of sparks. It was waiting for its next target to appear -- for it to hear another noise, and to begin another ten seconds. Such was its purpose.


    Blackmane did pity it¡­ but it had been the work of his predecessor. There was nothing to be done now but make use of the suffering. That was the only way anyone could accomplish anything in this excruciating world.


    Still, he felt sorry for the subjects, too. Those who had haplessly arrived here and put their necks in the guillotine. But the time for such fripperies had long since passed.


    Forgive me, little ones, he sighed, as he turned away from the screens and trotted off into the depths of the Thinker¡¯s Comet. But this is all for the survival of humanity.

 Chapter 450:15.4: Underground

    "So," Tybalt asked cheerfully, hands behind his head as he walked. "Are we behind those guys showing up?"


    "We¡¯re not," Erica replied calmly.


    The two of them strolled down the halls of the Thinker¡¯s Comet -- followed by Tybalt¡¯s bestial Id and ominous Ego -- their stride not even slowing as researchers and personnel hurried out of their paths. There sure was a lot of anxiety in the air recently, but Tybalt supposed that only made sense. The Thinker¡¯s Comet was operating in UAP space, after all, and collaborating with freaks from the Sed.


    It was a delicate, delicate situation.


    Tybalt¡¯s Superego got how that must feel¡­ but he didn¡¯t quite get how Erica felt.


    "You say that," Tybalt said, putting his hands behind his back and leaning forward playfully. "But it¡¯s like the big kitty says, you know? It¡¯s a hell of a coincidence. You¡¯re not worried at all?"


    Erica smiled slightly. "You know full well that fear doesn¡¯t exist inside me, Tybalt. There¡¯s no reason for me to be concerned about anything. If something happens to me, it¡¯s only natural that it will benefit me."


    "I see, I see," Tybalt stroked his chin sagely. "Very wise, very wise, Miss Erica. Still, what a surprise, eh? I thought ol¡¯ Attack and Defense bit the bullet with Yakob, but I guess they¡¯re still alive and kicking, huh?"


    "The other girl is more interesting," Erica replied. "The foremost Masker of the Sed, just above Penelope. It¡¯s good that she found her way here for me."


    "Ah, how is Penelope doing?" Tybalt laughed, carefree as a bird. "It¡¯s been ages since I saw her!"


    "You know I can¡¯t contact her, Tybalt," Erica said. "Right now, she doesn¡¯t even exist in the same way you and I do. You¡¯ll see her again when this all wraps up."


    Well, that was a little sad. After the end of the Sed, it had just been the three of them -- Erica, Tybalt, and Penelope -- for so very long. They¡¯d experienced the rot of this world together, and so Tybalt had hoped that they¡¯d all come together once again to watch its redemption.


    But oh well! Sometimes things just happened like that!


    "So we¡¯re heading there again, Erica?" Tybalt asked. "Have you turned religious or something? Haha, I¡¯m only kidding, though!"


    "Religion¡­?" Erica mused. "No. I¡¯ve never tried being religious before. There¡¯s no god that¡¯s earned my attention."


    They reached their destination, and the heavy doors rumbled open. The miracle beyond bathed their faces in crimson light. That bloody radiance was enough to halt even Tybalt¡¯s motormouth.


    But it was as Erica had said. Fear was not something that existed inside of her.


    "No god yet," she said, dark eyes fixed on the developing fruits of their labours. "The Sed was an abomination, Tybalt. You know that, and I know that."


    She closed her eyes.


    "But it can¡¯t have been for nothing," she concluded. "I won¡¯t permit that."


    The two of them stood there, children of that yet to truly be born, side by side. The man in the hat oozed into Tybalt¡¯s body, and the ejected jester cavorted with the hound. Only once the braid contracted into a tight bun once again did Erica turn her head to face Tybalt.


    "Tybalt," she said.


    "Yes."


    "The girl," Erica whispered. "She¡¯ll be here when it¡¯s ready. That¡¯s what I want to happen. Do you understand me?"


    "I understand." Tybalt reached for his holster and checked his Ego¡¯s gun. "Don¡¯t worry. It¡¯ll happen."


    "So," the Widow said, her wrinkled face illuminated by the campfire before her. "Young Amantha was right. You did make it off of Azum-Ha."


    The old woman sat on the ground, clad in a black cloak and a strange dark jacket. As she shifted position on the floor, the colour of that jacket changed slightly, reflecting that of the rocks behind her.


    Ruth finally stopped to breathe, putting her hands on her knees. Whatever had been attacking them, their rescuer -- the red-cloaked Alcera Nox -- hadn¡¯t believed they¡¯d escaped it until they were firmly underground. She¡¯d understood the enemy was powerful from what they¡¯d done to the ship, but was their tracking really that adept, too?


    Just as Bruno had explained, there were tunnels running all the way beneath the false town. Smoothly carved from stone, branching off seemingly without end, like this place was a nest for giant insects. Ruth guessed that the Sed¡¯s personnel had used these for transport purposes¡­ but now that the Sed had shut down, they didn¡¯t serve much purpose except being spooky.


    "How¡¯d you know we were coming?" Ruth panted, recovering. "That rescue¡­ was way too fast."


    "That was me," said a black-haired young Cogitant by the Widow¡¯s side, raising his hand. "Sam Set. I¡¯ve got a, uh¡­ sort-of precognition ability. Believe me -- if I didn¡¯t see you coming, all of you would have died. One-hundred percent."


    Alcera nodded emphatically at the young man. It seemed she wasn¡¯t one for talking.


    "You¡¯re the Widow," said Bruno brusquely, crossing his arms. "From Azum-Ha, right?"


    "How observant, del Sed," the old woman plucked a metal cup from beside the fire and took a sip. Judging from her expression, it tasted like shit.


    "What are you doing here?" he asked.


    "I have a story," the old woman replied. "Stop me if you¡¯ve heard it before. There¡¯s been activity at the old Sed facility. We think it¡¯s been commandeered by someone. Go check it out."


    Morgan Nacht, who had been silent up to that point -- watching for pursuers -- turned back and furrowed his brow. "Pierrot sent you here?"


    "Ah, I suppose there¡¯s no point in secrets right now," the Widow said solemnly. "We¡¯re called Vantablack Squad. Officially, we don¡¯t exist, but we basically run errands for Pierrot and his cronies."


    "We arrived a week ago," Sam Set sighed in a way that suggested he was very used to sighing. "Blasted right out of the sky. One of our team managed to land outside the danger zone, but the rest of us are stuck here."


    "Danger zone?" Bruno asked, looking between the young Cogitant and the Widow. "What danger zone?"


    Sam Set leaned in to respond. "As far as we can tell," he said seriously. "That thing up above -- whatever it is -- can only operate in a limited area. Just the testing site. It can¡¯t go down into these tunnels, and it can¡¯t leave the town. Or, at least, it won¡¯t."


    "You think it¡¯s under instructions," Morgan mused, knuckles to his lips.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "It¡¯s the only way to explain it¡¯s behaviour," Sam said. "I¡¯ve been killed by it a dozen times now, and it definitely isn¡¯t blind, but it won¡¯t attack unless you make noise above a certain level. Once you do? It reaches your location and attacks in ten seconds. I don¡¯t mean within ten seconds, I mean in ten seconds exactly. It¡¯ll go slow if it has to, to make that work. It¡¯s sandbagging."


    "What do you mean it¡¯s killed you?" Morgan said, aghast.


    "Don¡¯t worry about that," the Widow grunted. "The point is, we¡¯re stuck here, yes? Whatever trap this is, it¡¯s ensnared us both -- and destroyed our ships. If we try to leave the tunnels, that brat kills us."


    "Well, if there¡¯s so many of us, can¡¯t we just split into groups?" Bruno ventured. "No matter how fast it is, there¡¯s only one of it. It can¡¯t chase us all at the same time, not if we go in different directions."


    "You¡¯re not getting it," Sam Set sighed again. "Listen. I just watched you guys get killed by that thing in, like, thirty seconds. It doesn¡¯t matter how many people there are or how many directions you¡¯re running in. It¡¯ll kill you, no problem."


    Ruth shot another glance at the young Cogitant. What the hell was his ability? From the way he was talking, he¡¯d experienced his own death and theirs? How? Whatever it was, it seemed to give him a lot of confidence in what he was saying¡­ but still, he was pissing her off.


    He reminded her of that guy, after all.


    Bruno seemed to have the same opinion, stepping forward and looming over Set. "Okay. So what¡¯s your plan, then? Stay down here for the rest of our lives eating mushrooms?"


    The Cogitant opened his mouth to shoot back, but a simple raise of the Widow¡¯s hand quickly shut him up.


    "Young Mr. Set is fond of giving up," she said. "But¡­ to be quite honest, our plan until now was to await rescue once it became obvious we weren¡¯t returning. The fact that Pierrot¡¯s just sent you into the meat-grinder, too¡­ well, rescue doesn¡¯t seem very likely anymore."


    Morgan crossed his arms. "The hell is that guy thinking? He never mentioned that he¡¯d already sent people here -- and if he lost contact with you, that should already make it obvious there¡¯s something going on here."


    The Widow slowly stood, one hand on her back, the other holding a cane to steady herself. Given the condition the old woman was in, Ruth was surprised she¡¯d survived the initial attack from that enemy¡­ but Aether was a hell of a thing. If she¡¯d really trained Skipper, Ruth had no doubt the Widow had more than a few cards up her sleeve.


    "I doubt Pierrot fully knows what he¡¯s thinking," she murmured bitterly. "But I agree with you lot. I¡¯m not just going to sit here and wait to be killed."


    "So you do have a plan?" Morgan asked.


    "I have suspicions," she replied. "These tunnels come out all across the city -- but as far as we can tell, they don¡¯t lead to the Sed facility proper. My suspicion is that the thing above is a guard, stationed to stop anyone from getting to the dome, yes?"


    Serena finally made her presence known, putting a finger to her chin. "That makes sense," she said. "I definitely don¡¯t think there¡¯s anything else on this planet anyone would be interested in."


    "Oh, Y," Set groaned, looking up at the Widow. "You¡¯re not serious, lady?"


    "I am," the Widow smirked. "I¡¯m old-fashioned. When someone doesn¡¯t want me going somewhere, all it does is make me curious. Miss Nox, get lover-boy on his feet."


    "No way. I¡¯m not -- hey! Hey, Alcera!" Sam cried out in protest as Alcera grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, lifting him into the air like an undignified rag-doll. "Quit it!"


    "I don¡¯t know about splitting up," the Widow said, thumping her cane on the ground. "But we¡¯re not weaklings. If the bulk of us distract that creature above, then one of us can take advantage and get to the dome. That way, we can at least figure out what we¡¯re dealing with, yes?"


    "I¡¯m telling you," Set whined, still hanging from Alcera¡¯s grip. "If we take it on, we die."


    "I¡¯ve not lived this long to roll over and waste away in a place like this," the Widow scoffed. "Miss Nox, I¡¯m sure you¡¯d prefer for me to die in a much more gruesome manner too, yes?"


    The Nox girl nodded emphatically, her crimson eyes hateful as she glared at her superior.


    "Our girl outside is an adept sniper," the Widow said, turning back to the new arrivals. "Once young Mr. Wolfram returns, we can make our move." S§×ar?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes widened fractionally. "Wait, Wolfram? You mean Wolfram from Elysian Fields?"


    The Widow offered a curt nod.


    "He¡¯s a kid!" Ruth shouted, aghast. "What the hell is he doing here? What the hell is he doing with you?!"


    The Widow raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How strange, Miss Blaine. When your Skipper had this boy fight for him on Elysian Fields, I wonder if you protested quite so strongly -- or at all."


    Something vicious twitched inside Ruth¡¯s brain, and it was all she could do in that moment to keep her claws sheathed.


    "Keep his name out of your mouth," she growled.


    "To be frank," the Widow thumped her cane again. "I knew Skipper far longer than you did. If anyone has a right to his name, it¡¯s me."


    Ruth took a step forward, snarling -- but before she could do something she could regret, Morgan blocked her path with his sheathed sword.


    "You said you¡¯re waiting for this Wolfram to return," he said seriously. "Where is he now?"


    "Now?" the Widow says. "He¡¯s doing pest control. You see¡­ we¡¯re not alone down here."


    The old woman smiled thinly.


    "...and he is our strongest."


    Wolfram stepped calmly into the massive cavern, hands in his pockets, his jacket and the cap on his head shifting to reflect the grey stone around him.


    "Wow," he muttered to himself. "These things really are everywhere."


    He looked at the horde before him. His comrades in Vantablack Squad called these things Aether Awakenings, but that name had never felt right to Wolfram. Even the word ¡¯Aether¡¯ still felt awkward on his tongue. No, these things were better called¡­ godsblood-spawn, or something like that. Something closer to home.


    They came in every shape and size, but the ones arrayed against him right now didn¡¯t look too impressive. Ghouls and goblins, smaller monsters with the simple minds of animals, their glowing eyes and teeth locked onto him. They were kind of like Guardian Entities, in their own way¡­ but they weren¡¯t nearly as strong. These things¡­ infesting this tunnel¡­


    ¡­were nothing but vermin.


    Guardian Entity: Byakko -- 100%.


    As the horde leapt at Wolfram from every direction, he vanished from sight for an instant -- only for an instant. When he reappeared in the same spot, his return was accompanied by a sudden and tremendous burst of air pressure, blasting each and every godsblood-spawn into the walls of the cavern. For some, that alone was enough to finish them off, reducing them to paste.


    The rest wouldn¡¯t be much more difficult.


    White godblood surged as Wolfram kicked off the ground, launching himself towards a pot-bellied ogre that had survived the initial attack. Without hesitation, Wolfram thrust his fist forward and plunged it into the monster¡¯s stomach -- and then, he enlarged that fist to ten times its original size, tearing the beast apart from the inside. Scraps of mismatched flesh dissipated into purple godsblood as Wolfram turned to his next opponent.


    He kept his arm enlarged and swept it through the air, producing a gust of wind that sent the bat-things flying at him into disarray. Then, he kicked off the ground again, shrinking himself to the size of a bullet in the process -- and like a bullet, he pierced through each and every bat as he zoomed through the air.


    As he returned to his original size, still skidding across the floor, he snatched the meat-scythe of an incoming reaper and cleanly sliced it in half. Oozing meat fell to the ground in the moment before it faded¡­ but Wolfram still had business with the scythe. Injecting it with his godsblood to briefly preserve it in this world, he hurled it through the air to pierce through the body of a charging bull-pig.


    That last victim faded away before it even hit the ground¡­ and Wolfram was left alone in the cavern once again. With the way these godsblood-spawn disappeared, it was as if the battle had never even happened. Wolfram finally allowed himself to take a breath.


    ¨€??????????????¨€???????¨€??????¡¯??????????????¨€?????????????????? ??????????¨€?????????????¨€????????????????????¨€???????????¨€???????¨€???????????????????????????


    Nope.


    This one Wolfram didn¡¯t even try to fight. The moment he heard those ¡¯words¡¯ -- like needles squirming in his brain -- he dove behind a pillar, concealing himself from what was entering the chamber. He didn¡¯t even dare to look at it. He¡¯d done so once, and the memory of it felt like acid melting through his skull.


    He heard sickly footsteps.


    He heard sickly breathing.


    He heard sickly words.


    "¨€??????????? ???????????¨€????????????????¨€???????¨€???????????¨€??????? ??????????????????¨€????????????¨€???????¨€???????????????¡¯????????¨€???????¨€???????? ??????¨€????????????¨€???????????????¨€??????????¨€??????¨€?????????????????.????????????????.???????????????.??????????????"


    Squeezing his eyes shut, Wolfram planted his hands over his ears. He could feel it instinctively: that was the only way to defend against this thing, this monster¡­ this Black Blur. He stayed like that, crouching down, praying that the nocturn orphan would pass him by¡­


    ¡­and eventually, by the grace of the gods, he felt that presence recede.

 Chapter 451:15.5: Barrage

    "Hey!" said Wolfram cheerfully. "Miss Blaine. It¡¯s been a while!"


    Ruth looked down at the young boy. He¡¯d been around twelve back on Elysian Fields, so how old was he now? Fourteen, maybe fifteen? Back then, as the battle had ended, he¡¯d been terrified. Ruth wouldn¡¯t have blamed him for never wanting to so much as throw a punch again.


    And yet, he was here with these people -- and he was the strongest of them? What the hell was going on?


    "I, uh, I got something on my face?" Wolfram frowned at her silence.


    "Hey," Ruth ventured. "You¡¯ve not got, like, a bomb in your head or something, have you?"


    Wolfram blinked. "Huh?"


    "Well, I mean," Ruth jerked a thumb back at the Widow behind her. "This lady seems really shady, so I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if that¡¯s how she put this Vantablack Squad thing together. You don¡¯t obey, you get your head blown up, that kind of thing?"


    Wolfram slowly shook his head. "No. I don¡¯t have a bomb in my head."


    "Are you sure? She could have put it in there without you knowing."


    "I¡¯m pretty sure."


    "If you¡¯re quite satisfied," the Widow cleared her throat before turning to Wolfram. "Report, boy?"


    Wolfram stepped over from the entrance to the cave, taking a seat by the fire. "It¡¯s like we thought," he said seriously. "This whole place is crawling with godsb¡­ with Aether Awakenings, ma¡¯am. I took out the weaker ones I found, but there were some I thought I shouldn¡¯t mess with."


    Bruno¡¯s face darkened, barely illuminated by the fire, and -- as Ruth watched -- his expression receded to be replaced by Serena¡¯s. She seemed surprised for a moment, blinking, before joining the conversation in his place.


    "There didn¡¯t used to be Awakenings down here," she said thoughtfully, putting a finger to her chin. "These tunnels were just for moving stuff around and for setting stuff up. You know, like how in theme parks, they have behind-the-scenes parts where the mascots can take their heads off and stuff? It¡¯s like that."


    "I¡¯ve never been to a theme park," Wolfram said with great interest.


    "Oh, they¡¯re great," Serena grinned widely. "Last year, me and Bruno had to chase this guy through a theme park! We didn¡¯t get to go on any of the rides, and the guy did die¡­ but I really loved the atmosphere!"


    "You know," Sam Set mumbled. "I might have a bomb in my head, now that I think about it."


    "Seriously?" Ruth asked, raising her eyebrows.


    Alcera quickly slapped the back of Set¡¯s head, and he sighed. "No," he admitted.


    The Widow had clearly given up on managing their nonsense. While the rest of them talked, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a script. Tapping a few buttons on the screen, she held it out flat.


    "Noon," she said. "Are you there?"


    For a moment, there was silence.


    "Noon!" the Widow barked.


    A yelp of surprise sounded out from the script. "Yes! Yes, I¡¯m here! Just hold on!" a tinny voice rang out, followed by the sounds of rummaging. "Uh, hologram, which one¡¯s the hologram, oh jeez louise¡­"


    Sam exchanged a look with Ruth as he got up. "That¡¯s the member of our team we were talking about," he explained. "When the ship got destroyed, she managed to land outside the danger zone. Nice for some, huh?"


    "Ah! There, there we go!"


    The screen of the script flickered blue -- and a small hologram appeared floating over it. A young Cogitant woman with snow-white hair and glasses. Ruth frowned as she watched the tiny woman fiddle with something out of view.


    Had she met her before? She had! This woman had been heading to the Arena of the Absolute, back during the finals for the Dawn Contest. They¡¯d talked for a minute on the transport.


    From the look on the woman¡¯s face as she glanced around the cave, it didn¡¯t seem she recognised Ruth, but that only made sense. She¡¯d been wearing a disguise back then, after all.


    "Oh, wow," Noon said. "There¡¯s a whole lot more of you than before, huh? These are the guys from the ship that just went down?"


    Serena squatted down next to the Widow, bringing herself face-to-face with the hologram. "So you¡¯re outside the city right now?" she asked. "How come you can¡¯t go to the dome?" She looked up at the Widow. "How come she can¡¯t go to the dome?"


    "Uh, well¡­" Noon fidgeted. "The thing about that is, ehe¡­ I¡¯m kinda not an Aether-user."


    Morgan frowned, looking down at the hologram. "What?"


    "Well, you see, I¡¯m a former Watchwoman -- from Rakebone, you know?" Noon explained quickly. "I¡¯ve got five years of experience, and I¡¯m specialized in taking out Aether-users at a distance. Over in Rakebone, they don¡¯t really like Aether that much -- since they need Aether-users to match the strength of other members of the council, they just recruit prisoners. Like that guy Forgiveness Irons, you know? I¡¯m a law-abiding citizen, though, so I just make do with Neverwire and my rifle!"


    Ruth blinked. "Right."


    "Just nod when she pauses for breath," Sam advised.


    "So you don¡¯t wanna go to the dome because¡­" Serena ventured.


    "Well, if there¡¯s bad stuff going on over there, they¡¯re 100% going to have some sort of guards -- and if that lightning-user breaks away from you guys¡¯ distraction and comes after me while I¡¯m there, I¡¯m toast anyway! I¡¯m a sniper, you know? I don¡¯t live long when I start getting close to stuff."


    "Oh, you¡¯re a coward!" Serena kindly realized.


    "Yeah!"


    "The point is¡­" the Widow grumbled. "...we¡¯ll need someone else to actually make their run for the dome. Wolfram is slow when he¡¯s big, but small when he¡¯s fast¡­ not suitable. Set here is only hypothetically useful, in a physical sense. My running days are long behind me, and Alcera is more of a defensive fighter anyway. How about you people? Who¡¯s the fastest among you?"


    Serena and Morgan considered the question for a moment¡­


    ¡­before, as Ruth already knew they would, those two pairs of eyes slid over to look at her.


    "This is a bad idea," Sam Set muttered to himself as he got into position for the first run, right at the mouth of a tunnel leading to the surface. "This is such a bad idea."


    Seriously, what had he done to deserve this? He¡¯d committed what technically might have been fraud, sure -- but, come on, it had been borderline! It had been against his workplace, too, which was basically a public service as far as he was concerned. Those bastards stole from the public and they were upstanding citizens, but he stole from the bastards and he was suddenly a criminal. He hadn¡¯t even gotten to keep the money, either.


    He shouldn¡¯t have taken the deal -- he recognised that now. When the Widow showed up in his jail cell, he definitely shouldn¡¯t have taken the deal. He¡¯d been offered a reduced sentence -- he just hadn¡¯t realized being killed in action would fit that description just as well as walking free.


    The things he¡¯d been party to in Vantablack Squad were far worse than the things that had got him locked away in the first place. The conclusion of their deal was drawing close, but if they wanted him to stay, they had all the leverage they needed to make that happen. He¡¯d signed away his freedom forever.


    What a life.


    "Hey," whispered Alcera.


    Well, maybe it wasn¡¯t that bad.


    Alcera stepped up beside him, looking up at the pitch-black sky, and gave his hand a quick squeeze.


    "You okay?" she asked, leaning in towards his ear, her voice barely audible.


    Alcera Nox didn¡¯t like to talk. Even when she spoke to Sam, it was never louder than a whisper, and she didn¡¯t talk to anyone else at all. Apparently, she¡¯d been able to talk before the events on the UniteRegent -- before she¡¯d been recruited into Vantablack Squad -- but now there was some kind of mental block.


    Sam nodded. "I¡¯m good."


    Alcera narrowed her eyes. "Liar." Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Well, I¡¯m fine," he corrected himself, looking up towards the surface. "It¡¯s not going to be fun, but I¡¯ll do it. I¡¯ve done stuff like this before, right? It¡¯s not like I¡¯m actually putting myself at risk."


    "Sure?"


    "I¡¯m sure," he sighed. "Besides, do you think the Widow would really take no for an answer?"


    Alcera turned her head over her shoulder, looking at the distant figure of the Widow as she bossed around the others, and narrowed her eyes further. She leaned in even closer, her breath tickling against Sam¡¯s ear.


    "I could kill her now, you know," she said. "If you give me some forecasts, I think I could probably get her now."


    "She¡¯ll be expecting it," Sam replied, looking straight ahead. "If she sees the two of us talking on our own like this, she¡¯ll be ready for us to try something. Besides, Wolfram is here. You can¡¯t take both of them on."


    Alcera frowned. "You know I wouldn¡¯t attack Wolfram."


    "Well, there you go, then," Sam shrugged. "The Widow¡¯s human shield serves his purpose."


    He took a deep breath. No point putting this off -- he had three more to go after this. Alcera took his hand again.


    "Just remember," she urged him. "It¡¯s not real. Even if it feels real, it¡¯s not."


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    "Well," Sam sighed. "The feeling is enough for me."


    Sam Set¡¯s ability, Only I, was a rather unusual form of precognition. Instead of simply providing him with predictions, it forced him to experience a simulation of the future based on the ability¡¯s forecasts. He would experience the future it foresaw as it were reality for about five hours -- or until he died.


    In essence, it produced the illusion of looping time.


    Only I.


    It was impossible to tell when the world around him stopped truly existing, but Sam knew that it had.


    He let go of a hand that didn¡¯t exist, ran with legs that didn¡¯t exist, and sprinted out into a street that did not exist.


    Ten.


    Nine.


    Eight.


    Oh¡­ he thought, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and alert. This is gonna suck.


    "She¡¯s there," Sam Set said, his face pale, thumping his finger down on the top-right corner of the map. "I¡¯m sure of it."


    "How?" Morgan asked, standing opposite him.


    "I told you," Sam sighed. "My ability lets me experience potential futures. I went to four tunnels in each corner of the city, and I saw what would happen if I ran out there. If you look at the speed that thing was moving at when she came for me, and the direction she was coming from, you can figure out where she¡¯s stationed."


    "And you¡¯re sure?" Morgan repeated.


    "I just said I¡¯m sure."


    "His workings check out," the Widow nodded, vouching for the Cogitant.


    A second Cogitant opinion -- that of Amantha Noon -- came in over the script. "Yep! I see what he means."


    "Okay," Sam said. "So we¡¯re agreed? She is there."


    Serena stepped forward from where she¡¯d been lurking back, arms crossed. Ruth frowned. Bruno hadn¡¯t shown his face for a while, had he?


    "Just because we know where she is," Serena noted. "Does that mean we can fight her? You said she kicked our asses in your vision. Why would this be different?"


    "Remember what we said about the ten seconds before the thing attacks?" Sam asked.


    "No," Serena replied.


    "Okay, you weren¡¯t listening then, because I did say that. Basically, once you go up to the surface and get her attention, you¡¯ve got ten seconds until she reaches you and attacks you. The thing is, though -- until those ten seconds are up, she won¡¯t attack you no matter what. She¡¯ll dodge, and she¡¯ll block, but she won¡¯t retaliate."


    "So we can get some hits in," Ruth nodded.


    The Widow¡¯s eyes flicked over to her. "We can get some hits in, yes. You will be making a beeline for the Sed proper, as agreed."


    Ruth scowled at the old woman. She didn¡¯t much like the idea of leaving her friends to fight while she ran, and she especially didn¡¯t like doing it at this woman¡¯s behest. There was one person she was happy to take orders from, and he no longer existed in this world.


    But¡­ it made sense. Ruth gritted her teeth.


    "Right," she said.


    "Phase one," Sam Set said as he hunched over the map. "Will be our heavy-hitters. The Widow, Wolfram, and Nacht. Wolfram and Nacht -- you hit the enemy with the strongest attacks you¡¯ve got, do as much damage as possible. Nacht, you¡¯ll be needed for transport for phase two so you retreat back underground right after you launch your attack. While the enemy is busy reacting to all that, the Widow will use her ice to restrain it. Then¡­"


    "...then it¡¯s me," Annatrice del Sed said quietly.


    Ruth nearly jumped. How long had it been since the girl had actually said anything? Just like Bruno, she¡¯d seemed to retreat further into herself the longer they spent here. This place didn¡¯t have happy memories for anyone.


    "Then it¡¯s you," the Widow echoed curtly. "Are you ready? I¡¯m told you¡¯re quite something."


    Annatrice hesitated for a moment¡­ before nodding, just slightly.


    "I¡¯ve got one more question," Serena spoke up, raising a finger.


    "What?" Sam sighed.


    "When you talk about that thing up top, you keep saying ¡¯she¡¯ and ¡¯her¡¯. Is it a girl? How do you know?"


    "I¡¯ve just been ripped in half by that thing four times, up close and personal," Sam said bluntly. "She looked like a girl."


    "It doesn¡¯t matter what it is," the Widow said. "Very soon¡­ it¡¯ll be a corpse."


    The cane came down.


    Thump.


    The Weapon stood atop the skeleton of a building, masked face angled up towards the sky. White hair hung down its back like a limp curtain. If it was even breathing, it was very slight -- anyone watching could have mistaken it for one of the mannequins that populated this fake city.


    Not today, though.


    The first attack came from above. An arrow of smoke, arcing through the sky, aimed right for the building the Weapon was using as a perch. It held a payload of light -- the faux-Almighty that its user had developed during the events of the Banquet.


    But that wasn¡¯t all.


    Morgan Nacht had not been idle during his time on Serendipity. He understood that now he and Muzazi were outside of the Supremacy, stripped of titles and protections, they were in more danger than ever. He couldn¡¯t allow himself to slow down just because of a temporary reprieve.


    And, as such¡­


    "M."


    Many.


    The arrow split into dozens of tiny copies of itself, the precision shot becoming a cluster of projectiles in an instant, filling the sky with dots of purple. Visually, it was impressive, but anyone watching might have thought this was the wrong choice against this stationary target. While the area the attack covered had widened, the size and strength of the attack had also been diluted. There was little practical benefit in doing this.


    Normally, that would have been true. But Morgan Nacht had found himself trapped on the Sed with a certain someone.


    "Guardian Entity," whispered Wolfram. "Byakko."


    The arrows enlarged again -- and now the sky was filled with projectiles that dwarfed even the original, each hurtling down with monstrous momentum. Any person watching would surely have accepted their death at such a sight -- even if they ran, they would understand they stood no chance of escape. But the Weapon was not a person. It hadn¡¯t been for quite some time now.


    It calmly observed the projectiles as they rained down around it, light shining within their forms for just a split second before --


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    -- the land was bleached with fire.


    The explosion was deafening, and the explosion was bright. The impromptu bombing run created a pillar of flame that stretched up far past the skyscrapers -- and the sound of rattling windows was audible for miles around. The smoke alone was enough to fill the streets entirely, and anyone below surely would have choked.


    And yet.


    The Weapon launched itself up out of the inferno, so fast that it was visible only as a perfectly straight line of blue Aether, surrounded by sympathetic sparks. Weaving around the rest of the arrows as they continued to fall and explode, it finally came to a stop -- standing upon the sky once again, looking down at the glass crater Morgan¡¯s attack had created in the middle of the city.


    Needless to say, that had been loud enough to grab its attention.


    Ten.


    Morgan launched another arrow up into the sky -- and that arrow split once more into countless copies. It wouldn¡¯t be as successful. The Weapon understood it now.


    It raised a hand and fired off a volley of lightning bolts, each scorching an arrow out of existence with pinpoint accuracy. None were even able to get near it.


    Nine.


    The bark of a gunshot rang through the air -- and the Weapon moved again, this time letting itself drop to avoid the sniper bullet aimed for its skull. Amantha Moon and her rifle were far outside of the Weapon¡¯s faint electromagnetic field, but the moment the bullet entered that expansive space, it was able to dodge immediately.


    Eight.


    As Morgan retreated underground with Inside, accepting that his part in this was done, Wolfram made his move. The boy jumped out from within the tunnel, sprinting towards the Weapon as it created another invisible platform beneath itself. If they were going to pull this off, they needed the Weapon on the ground.


    Seven.


    "Guardian Entity," Wolfram breathed as he ran. "Byakko! 100%!"


    Earlier, in the caves, Wolfram had used a nigh-instantaneous shrink-grow sequence to create pressure and push his enemies away. Now, he did the opposite. In the blink of an eye, Wolfram grew himself to an absurd size -- and then returned himself to his original stature.


    In the space he¡¯d just occupied and released, a vacuum was created¡­


    ¡­and the vacuum pulled.


    Six.


    The Weapon was pulled out of the air, its limbs flailing like a ragdoll as it allowed itself to be sucked down towards the street. It didn¡¯t bother to dodge. Just having its body moved around like this didn¡¯t qualify as something needing to be dodged, it seemed.


    But this was still just the set-up.


    Five.


    The moment the Weapon landed on the ground, digging its heels in to keep itself stationary, the Widow acted. Light blue Aether hissed -- and a torrent of freezing air flooded the entire street. Within a moment, almost everything had been coated in thick layers of solid ice, transmogrified into twinkling sculptures -- the buildings, the cars, the mannequins.


    But not the Weapon.


    It stood motionless in the middle of the blizzard, an electric barrier crackling furiously around it -- producing enough heat to melt the ice before it could reach its body.


    Four.


    Wolfram didn¡¯t hesitate. He ran forward, tearing free a huge icicle from the ground and shrinking it in one movement. Once it was barely the size of a pencil, clutched between two fingers, he hurled it with all his strength towards the distant enemy.


    And then he enlarged it again.


    The problem with the frozen wind was that, fast as it was, it still wasn¡¯t fast enough to reach the Weapon before melting. Wolfram¡¯s maneuver was intended to get around that. Even once it had grown to fill nearly the entire road, the icicle still retained the momentum it had possessed when it was miniscule.


    Wolfram had quite the throwing arm¡­


    ¡­and so the icicle struck the Weapon at the speed of sound.


    Three.


    This one the Weapon could not dodge, only block. It raised her arms, pushing against the icicle as it slammed into it -- the sheer force of the blow still sending it skidding backwards down the streets of the city. Long, thin trails of melted concrete marked its backwards passage, as if the Weapon was skiing through stone.


    The Widow was ready for this.


    With a wave of her hand, she erected a wall of ice behind the Weapon -- and so their enemy was smashed between the icicle and the barrier. For anyone else, that surely would have been a killing blow, but the Widow had seen how fast arrogance could kill.


    This was still just the set-up.


    Two.


    Indeed, the Widow had been surprised when she¡¯d heard about it. That quiet girl, really? But her companions had insisted it had happened, and she¡¯d seen no traces of falsehood in their eyes. The Widow had no choice but to accept it as true.


    That child, Annatrice del Sed, could use Der Freisch¨¹tz.


    One.


    "Now!" the Widow roared, signalling Nacht to bring their trump card forth¡­


    ¡­but nothing happened.


    Zero.


    The Weapon moved.


    Oh, kurva, thought the Widow.


    Underground, amidst darkness and stone, Morgan Nacht fell to one knee. Blood oozed from the bullet wound in his back, and his face was contorted in agony¡­ but he still held his sword ready in his hand. He intended to protect Annatrice, to protect the girl behind him, to the end. That, perhaps, was admirable.


    "I observed it." His attacker spoke in a calm monotone, stepping into the dim light. "Your ability. I, isn¡¯t it called. Just a letter. How strange. Right after you use it, there¡¯s a moment where you¡¯re vulnerable. I didn¡¯t miss that."


    Annatrice took a step back, and the attacker¡¯s eyes flicked over to observe her instead.


    "Annatrice del Sed, right. Basically¡­"


    Two shadows with glowing white eyes, loomed out from behind the man -- one a bestial hound, the other a humanoid jester. As Annatrice watched, the jester oozed into the stranger¡¯s body, ejecting a towering figure in a hat and trenchcoat instead.


    "... you¡¯re coming with us!" Tybalt del Sed said cheerfully, braid falling down his head.

 Chapter 452:15.6: Downfalls

    The plan had been simple.


    First, the heavy hitters would fence the Weapon in and immobilize it.


    Then, Morgan would bring Annatrice out from underground -- and she would use Der Freischutz on the trapped enemy.


    Finally, if the Weapon somehow managed to survive that, their melee fighters would jump out of their hiding spots to finish it off.


    That plan had been cut short with a single bang. The sound of the gunshot crawled through the tunnels. Alcera Nox and Serena del Sed heard it from their separate positions at the same time -- but only one of them was familiar with this place. So, while Alcera hesitated for a moment, not knowing which direction to head in¡­


    ¡­Serena rushed ahead, a blade of stone in her hand.


    Where the hell was that little brat?!


    A sliver of panic the Widow had thought long-vanquished trickled through her mind as the Weapon began to fight back. In an instant, it had dug its fingers into the massive icicle pressing against its body, tearing it clean in half -- and in that same instant, it launched itself towards the Widow with lethal intent. If Set¡¯s predictions about this thing were accurate, she was half-a-second away from death.


    Still¡­ that also meant she had half-a-second with which to save her life.


    The Widow raised her hands high, conjuring up a barrier of even colder air all around herself. As of this moment, no natural life could survive in the three-meter area around her body. Even Aether infusion could only provide so much protection -- at the very least, it would slow the Weapon down enough that the Widow could react to its attack.


    But it didn¡¯t take the bait.


    The bright light of movement stopped right before the Widow¡¯s protective field and the Weapon shot itself up into the air, leaving a straight line of sparks in its wake. Coming to a halt high above, the Weapon pulled its arm back -- and a lightning bolt exploded into life in its hand. Ready to be thrown, like something out of myth.


    It never got the chance.


    Wolfram -- suddenly the size of a skyscraper -- seized the Weapon between his hands and squeezed with all his strength, white Aether flicking between his intertwining fingers. It was obvious from the first moment that he wouldn¡¯t be able to crush it, though. Already, the Widow could see red-hot light bleeding out from between Wolfram¡¯s hands. With the amount of heat this thing was capable of producing, the Widow had no doubt that the Weapon would be able to burn an escape route right through Wolfram¡¯s hands in mere moments.


    Of course, Wolfram knew that too. Even as his face was contorted in agony, he lifted one leg as if he were about to pitch a farball¡­


    ¡­and hurled the Weapon straight through three buildings.


    The young man with the braid stepped forward, returning his pistol to its holster and plucking a thin dagger from his belt instead. He held it between two fingers, poking the hilt and the very tip of the blade in a delicate balancing act. The whole time, that cheerful smile didn¡¯t leave his face.


    "Who the hell¡­" Morgan grunted, still clutching his wound. "...are you?"


    "Oh my god," the man gasped, aghast. "Did I not introduce myself? That¡¯s awful. I¡¯m really sorry. I actually can¡¯t believe I did that. I mean, I wasn¡¯t myself at the time, but still."


    "Answer the question," Morgan growled.


    "You know," the enemy giggled, pointing towards Morgan¡¯s wound with the knife. "I wouldn¡¯t strain myself too much right now. I¡¯ve read your file, so I know you¡¯ve got some kinda healing ability -- but with the bullet still lodged in your body, there¡¯s only so much you can do, right? There¡¯s some cheeky poison on that, too, by the way. That¡¯s not an Aether ability or anything, but it¡¯s still a bad time for you, you know? Oh, and my name¡¯s Tybalt del Sed!"


    Morgan¡¯s other knee collapsed to the floor as well. Indeed, his skin had started to take on a strange purple sheen, as whatever venom had been coating that bullet entered his system. He coughed -- a dry and ragged sound that promised nothing good.


    Tybalt¡¯s eyes flicked away from Morgan back to his apparent quarry -- back to Annatrice del Sed. The girl was standing in the middle of the cave, frozen, her eyes as wide as saucers. Like a deer in the headlights.


    "You¡¯re a quiet one, huh?" Tybalt laughed, carefree. "Or maybe you don¡¯t like knives? Or violence in general? I can¡¯t blame you for that, but you know? It¡¯s a violent world we live in. Your whole life is basically exposure therapy for violence, when you think about it that way. Don¡¯t you think so?"


    "I-I¡­" Annatrice stammered.


    "Y-You¡­" Morgan grumbled, falling to the ground entirely, face pressed against the stone.


    Something was wrong. Even with this injury, even with this pain¡­ Morgan knew he should be fighting back. He¡¯d pushed through pain before. He¡¯d pushed through worse pain than this before. So why¡­ was he just lying here¡­ why was he¡­?


    "Oh," Tybalt said, eyebrows shooting up. "One sec!"


    Without hesitation, he whirled around and swung his dagger -- parrying the sword of stone that had been aimed right for his neck. The new arrival -- Serena del Sed -- flipped over him and landed in front of Annatrice and Morgan, already forming another stone sword in her other hand. Her eyes narrowed as she stared her opponent down.


    "Is that you, Tybalt?" she asked.


    "Attack!" Tybalt exclaimed happily. "Wow, this is a surprise! I mean, I knew you were here -- here on the planet, I mean, but --"


    Serena didn¡¯t let him continue. She unleashed a flurry of slashes with her two swords, each one aimed to kill the person before her. The dagger sang, and the braid whipped -- Tybalt moving to block and dodge the incoming attacks.


    As she pressed forward, Serena called out to the two behind her. "Don¡¯t listen to him! When he¡¯s like this, his words make you not wanna fight anymore!"


    "Hey," Tybalt pouted even as sparks continued to fly. "You¡¯re telling them!" sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Serena scowled to herself, sweat trickling down her brow. She didn¡¯t think she would be able to beat Tybalt in one-on-one combat, given the gap in their skills back during their Sed days, but -- then again -- she didn¡¯t need to. Despite having three segmented aspects, Tybalt del Sed was still ultimately one person.


    She, on the other hand, was just one half of a dynamic duo.


    Serena opened her hand and let one sword slip from her grip and clatter to the floor. That was fine. She needed the hand free -- to seize hold of an invisible barrier and form a blade that could cut right through Tybalt¡¯s defense.


    Bruno! she cried in the valley of their minds. Do it now!


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    Nothing happened.


    Serena blinked.


    Serena gasped.


    He can¡¯t hear me.


    Tybalt blinked.


    Tybalt grinned.


    He¡¯s hidden himself away!


    Serena had intended to take advantage of Tybalt¡¯s opening -- and instead, she had created one she simply couldn¡¯t afford. Tybalt didn¡¯t miss it. As soon as he realized what had happened, the jester poured out of Tybalt¡¯s back -- and the beast leapt in to take its place.


    The Id had come to play.


    Tybalt¡¯s braid exploded out, becoming a wild mop of hair that covered the top of his face, leaving only his wild grin visible. The dagger slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, but Tybalt didn¡¯t so much as glance down at it. A weapon required far too much planning for him to indulge now.


    "Ha!" Tybalt barked -- and in the same moment, he attacked.


    It wasn¡¯t even a punch. That, too, would have required more planning than Tybalt¡¯s Id was willing to invest. Instead, he just slammed his palm into Serena¡¯s stomach -- and the sheer enhanced force of the blow was enough to break her ribs, send her flying¡­


    ¡­and leave her unconscious in the crater of the wall.


    This was terminal.


    The Weapon fired itself out of the rubble like the payload of a railgun, brickwork and steel exploding in every direction around it. Like a lightning bolt itself, it blinked through the air towards Wolfram¡¯s neck, so fast that even the Widow¡¯s infused senses could barely keep track. The Weapon¡¯s body spun like a top, electricity surging around its indistinct form, its leg ready to open Wolfram¡¯s throat up with a single kick.


    He reacted as the Widow had trained him. Very good.


    Right before the Weapon¡¯s attack landed, the flesh of Wolfram¡¯s neck alone expanded to be several times larger than the rest of him. The sight of it was grotesque -- but it saved him all the same. The blow that would have been a lethal gash instead became a shallow scratch once his neck shrank again.


    But there was such a thing as death from a thousand cuts.


    The Weapon zipped around Wolfram¡¯s body, dealing blow after blow that he was only able to mitigate with the use of that gruesome technique -- for the Widow, it was like looking at a warping balloon of flesh. If he was even a second off activating his ability, or misjudged the area the Weapon was going to attack, it would surely mean his death. He knew that, and yet he did not hesitate even once.


    Still¡­ this was terminal. Even the Widow had to accept that now. She took a deep, calm breath and prepared herself.


    "Boy!" she roared, the air shaking from her infused voice. "Retreat!"


    That massive eye swiveled around to look at Widow, pupil shrinking in shock. Fool boy. Why was he surprised? It should have been clear from the situation that things could end this way. No point hesitating now.


    Wolfram had already wasted time, but he didn¡¯t waste any more. As soon as he saw the ice-cold look in her eyes, he acquiesced. One moment, he was there¡­


    ¡­and in the next, with a spark of white, he was gone.


    The Weapon didn¡¯t stop for a second. It didn¡¯t look around to see where its enemy had gone, or take any time to readjust to the situation. It wouldn¡¯t even be accurate to say that it ¡¯accepted¡¯ the fact that its target had vanished. There wasn¡¯t room for even that level of emotion beneath its mechanical efficiency.


    It simply switched to the next closest target, without a moment¡¯s delay.


    The Widow grit her teeth in the instant before death reached her. This was vexing. In the end, they hadn¡¯t even been able to land a scratch on this thing. She had been hoping not to have to use this, but¡­


    "Cold Sleep!"


    Annatrice gaped as she watched Serena be defeated in an instant. Her arms hung limp by her sides. Her breath hung waiting in her mouth.


    But that only made sense. It was like Serena had said -- this guy¡¯s voice drained your will to fight. That was why she was just standing there. That was why she was just standing there, doing nothing, like an idiot.


    Like a child.


    "Ha!" Tybalt barked again, hunched over animalistically as he looked over his work. "Ahahaha! What the hell?! I thought you¡¯d be better than that! You were supposed to have gotten so strong, Attack! Look at you! Look at you lying there all lugubriously! Ha! Ahahaha! You goddamn idiot!"


    Annatrice took a step back, her foot hitting a rock -- and Tybalt¡¯s head snapped to face her direction.


    "I almost forgot about you!" he laughed. "You¡¯ve got a real prosaic face, you know that?! C¡¯mere, though. C¡¯mere. Erica wants to meet you."


    He took a step forward, grinning from ear to ear.


    "Ain¡¯t you lucky?! Ha! Ahahaha!"


    "Run¡­" Morgan breathed, eyes sinking into unconsciousness.


    No. Annatrice steeled herself with courage that perhaps did not exist. It was true: all Annatrice could do was run.


    But Annatrice was nothing but a doorway.


    Ego Emulation: Samael Ambrazo Zakos!


    Ah, what bliss it was to exist!


    Aether the colour of molten gold coursed around Samael¡¯s form, and his mouth spread into a grin to match that of the hideous rapscallion across from him. Wasting no time, Samael thrust his hand forward, aiming for the heavy rocks resting behind this Tybalt¡¯s ignoble position.


    "Behold!" he cried with heroic fervor. "My nameless coup de grace!"


    Tybalt made no move to dodge as the rocks surged towards him. No doubt he understood that presuming he could avoid such an attack was arrogance emigrating into absurdity. He just stood there, grinning at him¡­until the shadow with the hat leapt in to claim his body once more.


    The wild hair pulled itself back into a tight bun, and Tybalt spoke.


    "Actually." he said. "That ability is called ¡¯Plunder Reach."


    Samael blinked.


    Annatrice blinked.


    And the strand between the living and the dead¡­


    ¡­snapped.


    Ego Emulation: Cancel.


    The rocks fell harmlessly out of the air around Tybalt. The only effect that attack had on him was the raising of a single unimpressed eyebrow. The flimsy illusion of Samael Ambrazo Zakos had utterly disappeared from this place.


    "Now." Tybalt said emotionlessly. "As I was saying. You¡¯re coming with me."


    Oh, Annatrice thought to herself as the man advanced upon her. That¡¯s right.


    I¡¯m not those people.


    I¡¯m nothing.


    Ruth felt the Weapon coming after her barely a second before it reached her.


    She¡¯d only made it halfway up the hill to the Sed proper when the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. How long had she been running with the Direwolf Set? Thirty seconds, maybe forty-five? No time at all, really¡­


    ¡­but if that was what they could give her, that was what she¡¯d take.


    Ruth whirled around, and the two traded blows.


    It wasn¡¯t a good deal. As the Weapon zipped past, it suffered only a slight scratch to its arm -- while one of Ruth¡¯s mechanical legs went flying off completely, the joint cleanly torn away. As Ruth collapsed into the mud, and her leg dropped out of the sky, the Weapon skidded to a halt.


    It was Ruth¡¯s first time seeing it. Apparently, she¡¯d encountered it in Sam Set¡¯s simulations, and he¡¯d described it to her -- but there was a difference between knowing about something and seeing it for yourself. Sam had been fairly vague, all things considered.


    He hadn¡¯t mentioned the specifics of the armour.


    He hadn¡¯t mentioned the flowing white hair.


    He hadn¡¯t mentioned¡­ the barely-visible nubs of shaved-off antlers.


    Awful pieces clicked together, and the bottom fell out of the world.


    Just as it had for many nights before, her mind pulled her back to Elysian Fields. It pulled her back to those fields of suffering, and those rivers of blood, and those bone-ridden forests. It pulled her back to the corpses she¡¯d seen. It pulled her back to the corpses¡­ she hadn¡¯t seen.


    "Huh¡­?" Ruth breathed.


    The Weapon didn¡¯t even stop to look at the wound she had been dealt, even if it was minor. She just turned on the spot and walked back towards Ruth, as calm as could be. It started to rain, a downpour, each drop that struck the Weapon¡¯s body causing a flash of electricity to illuminate the surrounding area.


    Those antlers. That stride. That way of fighting.


    Ruth¡¯s face was lit up by the sparks, and Ruth¡¯s mind kept pulling her.


    It pulled her back to those lost. It pulled her back to the comrade she¡¯d dragged into that hell. It pulled her back to the girl from XK-12, who had shot up into the sky¡­ and never been seen again.


    "Lily¡­?" Ruth whispered.


    Her only reply was the bite of lightning.

 Chapter 453:15.7: Don’t Wake The Baby

    Alcera Nox bit her lip.


    It was not loyalty that kept her in Vantablack Squad. For years now, she had been wanting to see the Widow dead. Pulped, dissected, obliterated, eviscerated. That woman had taken her away from her sister, from the only person bar Sam who had ever cared for her. Because of her, Derna was floating through the void of space forever, trapped by her own ability. She wanted to see the Widow dead, but death alone wasn¡¯t enough. It had to be gruesome. It had to be deserved.


    Most of all, it had to be permanent.


    The death that Alcera Nox was looking at was anything but. From her position in the mouth of the tunnel, she could see the Widow -- see her resting place. A pristine cuboid sculpture of ice, holding the Widow deep inside like she was a bug in a cocoon.


    Those brown eyes of hers stared forward, unseeing and uncaring. Alcera narrowed her crimson in response.


    This was one of the Widow¡¯s abilities: Cold Sleep. It was a cryogenic technique that temporarily suspended her body¡¯s functions -- effectively making her dead to the world -- until the sculpture was breached, at which point she was reanimated. It seemed the Widow had gambled that the Weapon wouldn¡¯t see her as a target if she no longer registered as a living thing.


    Well, Alcera noted bitterly. It looks like you were right about that.


    "Alcera," Sam hissed, tugging at her sleeve. "Come on back down. We need to go."


    He was whispering just like she did now, but that only made sense. This close to the surface, he wasn¡¯t sure whether this counted as being in the Weapon¡¯s jurisdiction or not, whether it was safe to talk or not.


    Well, actually¡­ maybe he was sure. Maybe he¡¯d lived this before, and learnt the hard way that he had to keep his voice down. Alcera slowly nodded, tearing her gaze away from the frozen Widow and retreating back underground.


    You¡¯re not allowed to stay there, Alcera promised. I¡¯m going to break you out of there before long¡­ and kill you myself.


    Ruth Blaine crawled down the hill.


    The sun had started to come up at long last, and Ruth felt its warmth spread across her face. A low, rattling breath oozed out of her mouth¡­ as quiet as she dared. She couldn¡¯t risk that thing coming back¡­


    No¡­ not that thing¡­ Lily¡­ Lily Aubrisher¡­


    Her friend. Her comrade. They¡¯d freed a planet together. They¡¯d tried to free a galaxy together. Elysian Fields. She¡¯d gone to the Tartarus, to take it out, but¡­ that had been the last time Ruth had seen her. She¡¯d thought Lily was dead. She¡¯d thought Lily was dead.


    Would that have been better?


    Ruth Blaine crawled down the hill.


    She didn¡¯t know what they¡¯d done to Lily, or even who they were¡­ but it was clear that she was no longer the person Ruth had known. The way she¡¯d fought had made that clear -- the way she¡¯d gone to kill. That attack¡­ that had been intended to end her life, without a doubt. Lily hadn¡¯t even recognised her.


    Ruth¡¯s heart thumped silently in her chest. It had been a close thing. With her infusion and enhanced body, she¡¯d barely managed to survive taking a direct hit from the lightning bolt -- but, if Lily saw that she had survived, Ruth was certain she¡¯d have just kept attacking. She¡¯d had no choice but to play dead, in the most excruciating way possible.


    It was like what she¡¯d done when she fought against Niain, manifesting her armour under her skin to shield her insides from attack. This time, though, she¡¯d gone even further¡­ manifesting the armour directly around her own heart. That had served to muffle her heartbeat until it could no longer be heard¡­ and so she had saved herself from Lily¡¯s follow-up.


    Bitter tears came to Ruth¡¯s eyes as she dragged herself through the dirt. Lily¡­ that girl really was like a machine now. A person would have checked the body, at least, surely? But no. She wasn¡¯t moving, she wasn¡¯t breathing, and her heart wasn¡¯t beating. At that moment, Ruth had vanished from Lily¡¯s mind entirely, and the girl had left her there.


    Ruth Blaine crawled down the hill.


    Given Lily¡¯s appearance, Ruth had to assume that her friends had been defeated. Did that mean they were dead? No. She couldn¡¯t believe that. She couldn¡¯t bring herself to imagine it. That would be her last wound, the one that would finish her off. They were alive. They were alive, and she needed to get back to them.


    The mission was a failure. Even though Ruth had survived, she was in no state to get inside the Sed¡¯s dome. If there was anyone or anything else guarding it, she¡¯d be helpless. She had to return to whatever was left.


    And she had to do it quietly. That, she knew. Concealing her heartbeat had only just barely saved her. If she was too loud¡­ if she sent a rock tumbling down, or struck her arm against a wall¡­


    ¡­a new ten seconds to death would begin.


    That was the rule that someone had imposed upon Lily Aubrisher. That was the kind of machine someone had turned Ruth¡¯s friend into. An automatic murderer. Fire boiled in Ruth¡¯s veins, and a promise coalesced in her hushed heart.


    I¡¯ll save you, Lily, she swore. No matter what, I¡¯ll bring you back¡­


    ¡­just like Skipper would have done.


    Serena twitched.


    When she woke, it was to pain, but she¡¯d expected that. A direct hit from Tybalt¡¯s Id, at full strength, while she was off-guard? It was a wonder she wasn¡¯t dead. But, even more than that¡­


    Are you there, Bruno?


    No response, just as Serena had expected. Darn it. She¡¯d let her guard down in more ways than one. Bruno had always been more sensitive than her. She should have picked up on how being back at the Sed was affecting him -- how he was slowly retreating into some deep corner of their brain.


    Some big sister she was.


    Serena tried to get up, but the pain put her right back down again. Someone had put her flat on the rocky floor, with a discarded black cloak serving as a makeshift blanket. She turned her head slightly, ignoring the twinges of pain even that brought on -- and saw Morgan lying a short distance away.


    It seemed he hadn¡¯t woken up yet. His bullet-wound had been treated¡­ hopefully, whoever had done it had removed the bullet as well. Serena didn¡¯t know what kind of bullet Tybalt¡¯s Ego was using these days, but keeping it inside the body was just asking for trouble.


    "You awake?" someone asked from out of her vision.


    "Yeah," she mumbled, stewing in their failure. "I¡¯m awake."


    The one who had spoken was Sam Set -- and he stepped over from where he¡¯d been rummaging through a medkit, his face pale.


    "How bad is it?" Serena asked.


    "I managed to scrounge together some stimulants from what the researchers left behind here," Sam explained. "Your body¡¯s going through self-repair at the moment -- and once Nacht wakes up, he can accelerate that using his ability, so¡­"


    "No," Serena said firmly. "How bad is all of it?"


    Sam faltered for a moment¡­ and then he let out another tired sigh.


    "We¡¯ve lost the Widow for the time being," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Wolfram, too -- we don¡¯t know what happened to him. Blaine hasn¡¯t shown her face yet, so I¡¯m thinking maybe¡­"


    "She¡¯s fine," Serena said seriously.


    "Huh?"


    "Ruth¡¯s not the sort of person who dies."


    "Well, actually, I think everyone¡¯s the sort of person who¡­ nevermind, I guess. The point is, we¡¯ve lost our biggest hitters for the time being, and we probably got nothing to show for it."


    Serena slowly nodded, their miserable situation sinking in, and then quietly¡­


    "What about Annatrice?" she asked.


    "The kid?"


    "Mm-hmm," Serena nodded. "She¡¯s not here anymore, is she?"


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    Sam Set sighed, and shook his head. "No. I was hoping you could tell me about what happened there¡­ along with what attacked you."


    "Not what," Serena said. "Who. Tybalt del Sed -- he¡¯s one of the other people who came from this place. I guess he¡¯s like our upperclassman or something. He showed us and beat the crap out of us."


    "What? On his own?"


    "Technically, yes."


    "Well¡­ well, shit," Sam said, wiping his forehead once again -- it was very good at producing sweat, it seemed. "Well, what the hell do we do now?! We¡¯ve got that monster upstairs, and there¡¯s people sneaking around down here, as well? What the fuck?!"


    He was working himself into such a lather, standing up and pacing around the room as he ranted, that he almost didn¡¯t hear Serena¡¯s question.


    "Was there a ship?" she asked.


    He turned his head to look at her. "What?"


    "Did anyone go past you? When you saw the outside?"


    Sam shook his head. "No. Why?"


    "Something¡¯s weird," Serena grunted, forcing her body into a sitting position. "The way these tunnels are laid out, there shouldn¡¯t be room for anyone to hide out down here for long. Even we¡¯re all cramped. There¡¯s no way Tybalt and whoever he¡¯s working with are living down here."


    "Okay, so what?"


    "So," Serena continued. "He must have come down here from above. But he could only have gone past one of us -- and even if he did, he shouldn¡¯t have been able to get here without anyone noticing. It¡¯s like he just suddenly popped up out of nowhere."


    Sam¡¯s eyes widened. "An ability, then? He teleported down here somehow?"


    Serena shook her head. The last time she¡¯d seen Tybalt, he hadn¡¯t had any abilities like that -- and she doubted he could have developed something of that caliber in a relatively short amount of time.


    Tybalt del Sed¡¯s main ability was called Trisection -- it separated his consciousness into three personas: the instinctive Id, the logical Ego, and the conciliatory Superego. One controlled the body at a time, while the others lingered as shades that could act as scouts or basic combatants. Just like with Cott, Tybalt¡¯s three segments all had their own individual abilities as well.


    The Id¡¯s ability was the simplest -- the less thought it put into an attack, the more powerful that attack became. The clumsy push it had used on her had been particularly effective for just that reason.


    The Ego had a pretty simple ability as well -- whenever it fired its gun, it automatically recorded the ammunition it had on hand and manifested it inside the weapon, instantly reloading. If the gun got knocked out of its hands, it could bring it right back, too.


    The Superego was particularly tricky. It really liked to yap -- and the more you listened to it, the more it would drain your will to fight. Combined with the natural exhaustion of battle, just talking to the Superego for a few minutes could put you on the floor.


    The closest thing to a teleportation ability Tybalt had was that of his Ego, but teleporting multiple people was surely beyond that. Serena wasn¡¯t sure¡­ well, she wasn¡¯t 100% sure, but¡­


    "I think there¡¯s something down here," she said. "Something that Tybalt used to get here¡­ and to get back to his base."


    "His base¡­" Sam Set slowly nodded, hand on his chin. "Well, that does make sense¡­ but where the hell should we be looking, then?"


    "Not here," grunted Morgan Nacht.


    The two snapped their heads around to look at him. He¡¯d opened one eye from his position on the floor -- and judging from the look on his face, he wasn¡¯t feeling much better than Serena. He took a laboured breath before managing to speak again.


    "Give me a sec," he gasped. "I¡¯ll get myself up first¡­ and then¡­ we¡¯re going after that bastard¡­"


    He steeled himself --


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    -- and started to scream.


    Annatrice del Sed awoke to white light.


    This was a familiar ceiling, sterile, pressing down despite the distance. These were familiar walls, glass, allowing curious eyes to look in on their lab rat. This was a familiar bed, neat and cold, like a coffin¡¯s prologue.


    This was a familiar pain, pulsing in her head, like someone had taken a whisk to her brain.


    The last thing she remembered was Tybalt del Sed advancing on her¡­ and then the pain, and then the blackness. Had he hit her across the head or something? It certainly felt like she¡¯d been knocked out cold.


    Or maybe¡­


    Maybe it had all been a dream, she thought for a moment. Maybe the Sed had never shut down after all. Maybe some nameless thing -- for it surely wasn¡¯t called Annatrice -- had deluded itself into thinking it could exist, into thinking it had the right to exist. The scientists would come back any second now, and the experiments would resume like nothing ever happened.


    It took Annatrice quite a few seconds to realize she wasn¡¯t breathing. And when she finally did, letting out a shaking breath¡­


    "You¡¯re awake."


    A shudder went down Annatrice¡¯s spine, and she turned her head to look at the source of the voice. This brightly lit ¡¯bedroom¡¯ she¡¯d woken up in -- containing a bed, a toilet, and little else -- was encased in a glass box, like an exhibit at the zoo. Beyond that¡­ was a dark chamber, a place for observation of the light.


    And standing on the threshold of that darkness was Erica del Sed.


    Annatrice resisted the urge to throw the covers over her head and hide. She knew Erica del Sed¡¯s face, of course. Every child of the Sed did.


    Erica was the Sed¡¯s first subject, and their first success. The foremost Controller they had produced. The measuring stick by which all others were judged. She stared through the glass at Annatrice, unblinking, waiting for something.


    That look in her eyes¡­ it wasn¡¯t that she thought she was better than you. She knew she was better than you¡­ and, just by seeing her, you knew it too.


    I can try and escape, Annatrice suggested to herself feverishly. If I use Zakos¡¯ ability, I can pull the glass out of the walls and hurl it back at her.


    It¡¯d distract her, if nothing else -- only¡­


    ¡­it wasn¡¯t called Zakos¡¯ ability, was it? It was called Plunder Reach. It made sense. A high-strung mess of a man like that would never have had the discipline required to develop a nameless technique. She should have understood that immediately.


    All she¡¯d created, then, was a clumsy caricature -- and that was not something that could beckon the dead.


    "You¡¯re frightened," Erica said kindly. "That¡¯s understandable."


    "Where am I?" Annatrice asked, trying to stop her clumsy voice from shaking. She failed.


    "The Thinker¡¯s Comet," Erica replied without hesitation. "High above the Sed."


    Annatrice blinked. What? What was this? The Thinker¡¯s Comet¡­ that was the headquarters of the Supremacy¡¯s Absurd Weapons Lab, wasn¡¯t it? What the hell was it doing inside the UAP? And what the hell was Erica del Sed doing with them?!


    "Don¡¯t worry about the AWL," Erica said, as if she could hear Annatrice¡¯s thoughts. "You¡¯re under my protection now. So long as you¡¯re under my protection, there¡¯s nothing in the world that can harm you."


    With that promise lingering in the air, she reached down and tapped a button on her wrist-bound script. Immediately, the air inside the chamber hissed -- and a glass panel slid away from the wall, creating an exit for Annatrice to leave through. Erica stood next to it, looking at her expectantly.


    "Come with me," Erica beckoned. "I¡¯m going to show you something and explain it to you. Once I do, you¡¯ll understand the whole world."


    Annatrice blinked. It was bizarre: Erica¡¯s words were arrogant to the extreme, just like his, but the presence she gave off couldn¡¯t have been more different from Samael Ambrazo Zakos. Samael had been someone grasping for greatness until the day he died. Erica¡­ Erica seemed like she dominated the very concept of greatness, and did so easily.


    This is someone on an entirely different level than me. This is something on an entirely different level than me.


    Just by looking at her, that thought rose unbidden into Annatrice¡¯s head. This was no Aether ability: simply the natural instinct of an organism who understood hierarchy. Faced with that, what could Annatrice do but obey?


    She stood on quivering legs, and -- alongside Erica -- walked through the darkness and into the hallway beyond.


    The corridor was lined with windows -- each looking in on a sterile white testing room. Some were empty¡­ but most weren¡¯t. Aether Awakenings and other strange creatures, being poked and prodded and dissected and vivisected. Annatrice only managed to tear her gaze away once Erica started talking again.


    "It¡¯s distasteful," she said. "Having to operate from a place that reminds us so much of home. I don¡¯t blame you for being uncomfortable."


    Annatrice summoned the courage and spoke. "What¡­ what are we doing here? What are you doing here?"


    Erica didn¡¯t look down at her as she walked. She just continued to stare straight forward, utterly relaxed.


    "Something incredible and rare is about to happen," the woman said. "I¡¯m going to ask you a question. Are you ready? That wasn¡¯t the question. Tell me: what was the purpose of the Sed?"


    Annatrice took a deep breath. "To¡­ to create artificial Cogitants, right? So the UAP could match the Supremacy¡¯s advantage."


    "That was the story we were told. But it seemed strange to me. I didn¡¯t think such an advantage actually existed. It was only when I met Penelope that I had confirmation of the lie."


    "Penelope?"


    "That¡¯s irrelevant to you," Erica replied. "But it begs another question. Get ready, I¡¯m about to ask it. If the purpose of the Sed was not to create artificial Cogitants, then what was it?"


    "I¡­ I don¡¯t know."


    "Be happy, then. I¡¯m about to tell you."


    The two of them reached the end of the hallway -- where a massive metal door waited, tall and imposing. Erica took a step forward and -- after a brief scan by the door¡¯s sensors -- it slowly screeched open. Red light washed over the two of them from within.


    The chamber beyond was gargantuan, spherical, such that it was difficult to see the far end of the room from the entrance.


    At first Annatrice thought that the odd lumps she saw in the shadows were machinery -- but no. Masked figures were kneeled all around the perimeter of the room, Aether of various colours crackling around their forms -- and that Aether flowed. It flowed down into the floor, crawled across the room, and coalesced inside a huge glass tube at the chamber¡¯s centre.


    The Aether was forming something, slowly but surely -- a bloody gash of scarlet light. At first glance, it looked to Annatrice like a wound in the air, but at second glance¡­


    ¡­it felt more like the staring pupil of some unfinished eye.


    "Tell me," said Erica. "Have you ever heard of something called the Prince?"

 Chapter 454:15.8: The Man Who Sold The World

    "Once upon a time," said Erica. "There was a man called Edgar."


    AETHERAL SPACE 15.8


    "The Man Who Sold The World"


    As Erica entered the room, she turned her head to look back at Annatrice, still lingering in the massive doorway.


    "You¡¯re unfamiliar," she said.


    Not a question, but a statement of fact. Annatrice meekly nodded, her eyes still flicking around the massive room.


    "I¡¯m not surprised," Erica continued. "The history books from the time have a preference for the gestalt. ¡¯Humanity¡¯ did this, and ¡¯humanity¡¯ did that. You can¡¯t distinguish individual strings in a great rope -- and that¡¯s not even counting the Supremacy¡¯s penchant for self-mythology. They¡¯d love for you to think that Azez and his merry band destroyed the Gene Tyrants all by their lonesome."


    As Erica spoke, Annatrice tentatively entered the room. It was cold in here -- deathly cold -- and as Annatrice breathed, she could see it leave her mouth as mist. She looked at the people kneeling on the floor. How could they bear to stay here like this, not even shivering?


    Erica followed Annatrice¡¯s gaze.


    "You¡¯re curious about them," she said.


    "Well," Annatrice mumbled. "I, uh¡­"


    "They¡¯re the finest Aether experts of the AWL¡­" Erica explained, not waiting for Annatrice to finish. "...in a technical sense, at least. They¡¯re not combatants, but their understanding of the underlying mechanics are leagues beyond most. Even I have to acknowledge their existence."


    As she drew closer, Annatrice could hear the kneeling figures muttering to themselves. Numbers and letters and functions, offered into their Aether and channeled along to the glass tube at the room¡¯s heart. Was this a formula, or a prayer?


    "And¡­" Annatrice swallowed back her anxiety. "...what are they doing?"


    "Once I¡¯ve explained Edgar to you," Erica replied. "You¡¯ll understand what they¡¯re doing.


    "Like everyone else, Edgar was born without importance. He was the bespoke Cogitant aide of a minor Gene Tyrant, in the days before the Thousand Revolutions. Back then, it was fairly normal for Tyrants to grow their personal servants in vats. Natural reproduction was for the common stock.


    People usually get this wrong, but the revolution started before Aether was discovered. The slaves were already fighting back against their masters¡­ but, of course, they were doomed to failure. Until Edgar joined their ranks."


    Erica closed her eyes, as if she could picture history happening right behind her eyelids.


    "Edgar killed his Gene Tyrant creator. The reason why has been lost to time. Even I can only ask questions. Had he had enough of following their commands? Did he sympathise with those being trampled underfoot? Whatever the case, the Lady of Flies was slain, and Edgar became a rebel."


    "Wait," Annatrice said. "This was really before Aether?"


    "That¡¯s right."


    "But¡­ I thought the people needed Aether to fight against the Gene Tyrants."


    "If a thing lives," Erica shrugged. "It can die. It¡¯s just a matter of difficulty. The Umbrant Hunt was triggered by Umbrants sending their master¡¯s hijacked ship into a star, after all. I don¡¯t know what method Edgar used¡­ but it wasn¡¯t Aether."


    Erica turned back to the crimson tube in the center of the room, and the glaring wound within.


    "Even so, the revolution was still doomed to failure -- even with all their cunning, the rebels could only do so much with conventional means. Edgar knew something had to be done. And so Edgar¡­ acted."


    The way Erica spat that last word radiated euphemism. Annatrice took a deep breath.


    "What¡­ did he do¡­?" she asked -- and in the back of her mind, she still wondered what this had to do with her.


    Erica smiled thinly.


    "Edgar stole away many futures -- and by doing so, he was able to create something. A thought engine, beyond anything that ever existed before or since. A ¡¯machine¡¯ that could find a path forward through that hopeless war. A herald which could beckon victory, striding across corridors of consciousness too turbulent for mortal minds.


    It was called the Sapphire Star."


    This, Annatrice knew -- the name ¡¯Sapphire Star¡¯, at least. For a time after the Sed, she had tried to research Aether herself, to understand the mechanics behind her own ability and in doing so improve it. The Sapphire Star had been mentioned in many esoteric texts.


    "On Edgar¡¯s behalf, the Sapphire Star discovered the light of the mind -- Aether -- and the Gene Tyrants were no more."


    The smile faded.


    "But."


    "But¡­?" ventured Annatrice.


    Erica turned to look at Annatrice directly once more -- but this time, all warmth was gone from her eyes. Instead, an eonic bitterness rumbled behind her pupils.


    "Edgar had hoped that once the Gene Tyrants were vanquished, Aether would serve as the great equaliser. Power available not to the few who hoarded it for themselves, but to any with a mind with which to reach for it. He dreamed that a new world would sprout from that, without hierarchy or subordinate or superior. Peace and joy for all mankind."


    Erica closed her eyes.


    "Well. You¡¯ve seen the hell we live in now. You tell me whether or not his dream came true."


    "I¡­ I guess not¡­"


    The two of them stood there for a long moment, amidst the chanting and the darkness, barely illuminated by the bloody light of the thing in the tube. For some reason¡­ Annatrice felt like some deep and profound sadness had poured into the chamber now. Like the ghost of an ocean now filled the room.


    Still¡­ Annatrice opened her mouth to ask again, to ask what she was doing here, what this story had to do with her, what was going on¡­


    ¡­but she was interrupted.


    "You shouldn¡¯t end that story halfway through, Erica del Sed," rumbled a deep and resonant voice from above. "You¡¯ve missed the most important part."


    Annatrice snapped her head up to look at the source of the sound -- and her eyes widened into saucers.


    What the hell?!


    There was a balcony near the ceiling of the chamber -- and on that balcony stood¡­ a lion. There was no getting around it. That wasn¡¯t a Scurrant: that was just an actual lion. An actual lion, with jet-black fur, and death-sharp claws, and blood-red eyes.


    Those eyes narrowed as they looked down at Annatrice.


    "Why have you brought her here, Erica?" The lion¡¯s mouth didn¡¯t move, but those words undoubtedly came from it.


    "We had an agreement, Blackmane," Erica said calmly, looking up at the beast with her hands in the pockets of her tracksuit. "In exchange for my participation, you provide assistance in reuniting the children of the Sed."


    "Indeed," the lion -- Blackmane, apparently -- rumbled. "And yet¡­ why is she here?"


    "I¡¯m telling her the truth, and showing her the last chapter of humanity. Just as I did for all the rest. I would be unhappy if that was a problem."


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    Up on his balcony, Blackmane narrowed his red eyes even further.


    Hmph. Liar.


    The lion turned its attention to Annatrice directly, and she felt herself shrink away from its bloody gaze. There was something about those eyes¡­ not just the eerie colour, or the way they gleamed in the dark¡­ but the way they seemed to see straight through you.


    "Um," breathed Annatrice. "I-I¡­"


    "Yes?" Blackmane cocked his massive head slightly. "What is it, child?"


    "Why are you a lion?"


    "That¡¯s not important."


    "Oh. O-Okay."


    "Erica speaks true," Blackmane growled, glancing at Erica once again. "What we are constructing here is the solution to every remaining problem. Perhaps it¡¯s fortuitous I interrupted when I did -- we¡¯ve reached the point in the story where my expertise begins. May I, Erica?"


    "You may."


    "Listen well, then, child," Blackmane said. "Edgar sired not one miracle, but two. Aether, with which to uproot the evil squirming above the world¡­ and a second, with which to set the new garden into the most harmonious alignment. To achieve his dream: ¡¯peace and joy for all mankind¡¯."


    Annatrice¡¯s eyes flicked between Erica and Blackmane. If her trepidation bothered the lion any, he didn¡¯t show it -- he just continued to speak, voice echoing throughout the room, like a priest at his sermon.


    "Most of those Edgar had revealed his Aether to chose to develop their lights of the mind into engines of destruction and weapons of war. Even his own vat-brother, Zarakhel the Blindman, used it to develop the Spears of Stillness -- honed by his singular hatred. But Edgar alone possessed foresight beyond that of the common man. Edgar understood that the world was still¡­ wrong."


    The last word lingered in the air like a curse.


    "The shape of this world¡­ is a shape of barbed wire and flayed skin. A neverending vortex of torturing and being tortured, of taking and being taken from. A spiral with no end. Supremacy, UAP, Final Church¡­ all of it is meaningless. So long as people behave like they always have, think like they always have¡­ the shape of this world will never change."


    Blackmane closed his eyes, and his next words were solemn.


    "...and the sickness of a species is not something that can be cured by a single doctor, no matter how adept."


    It was only when Blackmane finally stopped speaking for a moment that the calculations of the masked men once again became audible. Annatrice shivered among the numberwork. Taking a step forward, she looked up at the dark beast.


    "What is it?" she demanded with courage she didn¡¯t possess. "T-These people, what are they doing?"


    "They are weaving the third miracle," Blackmane snapped angrily. "But to understand it, you must understand the second. Shut your mouth and listen, girl!"


    Annatrice¡¯s false bravery died in her throat, and she took a quick step back, silence snapped back into her.


    "Careful," Erica said mildly.


    Blackmane¡¯s eyes flicked towards Erica for a moment -- and it was only when he had taken a deep breath to calm himself that he resumed speaking.


    "Edgar chose his Aether ability with a mind for the future, and nothing else. He created an intelligence from his Aether, a faux-mind that could reason and adapt and plan. He gave it the ability to be passed to another, on and on and on, so that it may straddle the ages long after its creator became dust. He set it upon a quest to observe the mechanics of humanity, put together the necessary pieces, and enact the ultimate mission:


    "Peace and joy for all mankind."


    Blackmane let out a shuddering breath, as if he were on the verge of revelation.


    "And he called it the Prince."


    "Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince. Prince."


    Annatrice shuddered as she realized the speaking around her had changed. The numbers and letters and functions were gone, replaced by that single word, over and over again¡­ as if pleading with it to appear before them. She had to wonder again: was this formula, or was this prayer?


    And¡­ she had to ask again¡­


    "What does this have to do with me?" she said, as loudly as she dared -- and that wasn¡¯t very loud at all.


    All the same, the lion heard her, and the lion answered. S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "For a thousand years, the Prince has slithered across the galaxy. The Supremacy, the Unified Alliance of Planets, The Final Church, Pandaemonium, the Great Chain¡­ it has observed and measured our world from all perspectives. And yet¡­ it has been arranging its dominoes for a thousand years now, and it will continue to arrange them for a billion more. Do you know why?"


    Annatrice opened her mouth to answer --


    "You know she doesn¡¯t," Erica said. "Explain it to her."


    -- but was interrupted before she could do so.


    The thing was¡­ she felt like she did understand. With the way it had been laid out before her, she could take a guess, at least. That mission: that ¡¯peace and joy for all mankind¡¯ thing. Well, to be blunt, it sounded to her like¡­


    "It is impossible," Blackmane completed the thought. "Edgar¡¯s one flaw was his idealism. It is impossible for all humans to be happy, and it is impossible for all humans to live in peace. So long as two humans exist, they shall find reason to destroy one another. When one human achieves happiness, it will be at the expense of another. The Prince will continue gathering data forever, as the solution to the problem it has been presented with simply does not exist."


    "This Prince thing," Annatrice ventured, holding onto her own arm like a safety net. "T-The way you¡¯re talking¡­ it still exists? Even right now, it exists?"


    "Of course it does," Blackmane rumbled. "If you need proof of that¡­ you need simply look at the Sed below us."


    Annatrice¡¯s heart skipped a beat.


    Annatrice¡¯s mouth suddenly felt dry.


    Annatrice¡¯s eyes widened until they felt like they¡¯d pop out onto the floor.


    "What?" she asked -- but she couldn¡¯t even hear her own voice over the thumping in her ears.


    "It¡¯s like I said before, Annatrice," Erica said, crossing her arms. "The story we were fed¡­ the development of artificial Cogitants¡­ all of that was nonsense."


    She turned to look at Annatrice, and for the first time the girl saw a burning resentment deep within Erica del Sed¡¯s eyes.


    "The true purpose of the Sed¡­" she hissed. "...was to create the Prince¡¯s next host."


    Annatrice said nothing.


    "It was thought that a non-standard mental architecture would allow the Prince to operate more efficiently. For it to¡­ express itself more directly."


    Annatrice said nothing.


    "For that purpose, we were trained."


    Annatrice said nothing.


    "Everything that happened here¡­"


    Annatrice¡­


    "...all of it¡­"


    Annatrice¡­


    "...was for the sake of the Prince."


    Annatrice collapsed to the floor, and Erica finished speaking without glancing at the girl who had fainted.


    "It can¡¯t have all been for nothing."


    "I don¡¯t think the girl can hear you anymore," Blackmane pondered. "You broke it to her rather harshly, in my opinion."


    "It¡¯s a harsh world. I decided it was for the best to explain it to her that way. Therefore, it was for the best."


    Blackmane huffed, returning his gaze to the crimson wound in the tube.


    "All the same," he said. "It¡¯s a pity. I wasn¡¯t even able to finish explaining the last part."


    Indeed, it was as Blackmane had said. The mission of the Prince -- ¡¯peace and joy for all mankind¡¯ -- was far too idealistic. It wasn¡¯t something that a single entity could accomplish, no matter the knowledge or resources at their disposal.


    Therefore, their third miracle had a much simpler -- and much more necessary -- order.


    ¡¯For the survival of humanity¡¯.


    Within the tube at the center of the room, the nascent Prince-Regent pulsed. Just a little more. Just a little more struggle, and that rough beast would slouch forth, its hour come round at last to be born.


    Suddenly, the room rumbled. The chanting didn¡¯t stop, but Blackmane glanced at the console before him.


    "A pirate vessel," he mused. "It seems they noticed our friends coming down here and thought they¡¯d found easy pickings. Poor things."


    "That¡¯s fantastic news," Erica said -- her earlier tension gone in an instant. "Get LYCHGATE ready -- I¡¯ll head down to harvest them in a few minutes."


    "So soon? Is the suffering of minor pirates so valuable? Unseasoned by Only I, I can¡¯t imagine there¡¯ll be much to speak of there."


    Erica shrugged, looking up at the shining Prince-Regent.


    "When you¡¯re educating a god¡­" she said. "Every little helps."

 Chapter 455 15.9: Underworld

    The ship was coming down.


    It had been obvious from the moment they''d been struck by the first strike of lightning. Amantha had tried to hack into the comms to warn them, but unfortunately their security had been too good. That was kinda ironic, she guessed, given that it had guaranteed their deaths.


    Their ten seconds of leeway had come and gone in blissful ignorance.


    The starship -- cylindrical, like a long cigar flying through space -- crashed down in the middle of the city, burying itself in the landscape like a new skyscraper. Already, she could see blue electricity zipping and zapping around the hull. The Weapon had come for them.


    Given the size of the vessel, it probably had a crew of thirty or so. Nothing to scoff at, but still¡­


    Amantha lifted the scope from her eye and raised her script to her mouth. "Ah, shucks," she sighed. "Yep, they''re goners."


    Sam''s voice came back. "Already?"


    "Yep," Amantha repeated. "They came down pretty hard, so they''ll be disoriented, and the Weapon is already trying to -- oh, no, she''s already broken in. Yeah, they''re super dead."


    "Damnit," Sam muttered. "Keep an eye on her, if you can. Let us know if she comes after us."


    "You think she will? From what I''ve seen, she doesn''t go underground at all."


    "That could change if we find something we''re not supposed to. Keep me posted."


    "Okie-dokie," Amantha shrugged, raising her rifle Demon Core once again to resume her vigil. For a Watchwoman of Rathbone, sitting and waiting wasn''t much of a labour¡­


    But still, she yawned, it''s pretty darn boring.


    Erica del Sed emerged.


    LYCHGATE''s squeals of pain faded as she emerged from its wound, and immediately Erica left it behind, striding through the tunnels beneath the Sed. In the distance, she could hear screaming -- Morgan Nacht, probably, using that healing ability of his. So long as she kept away from that sound, she would be able to steer clear of being spotted.


    She passed INTERLOPER on the way out. It might have looked at her. It was difficult to tell.


    "¨€?????????¨€??????????????????¨€??????????????????????????????¨€??????????????????? ??????????????????????¨€????????????????¨€??????????????????????????¨€??????????????¨€???????????????? ?????????????????????????¨€?????¨€?????¨€?????????????????????¨€????????????," it said.


    The words were like so many flies smashing themselves against the glass of Erica''s mind. If anyone else had looked at the black blur INTERLOPER, or listened to its speech, no doubt they''d have been on the ground twitching as their thoughts disintegrated. Not Erica.


    Erica was different. She calmly walked past it and into the web of tunnels proper.


    Within the Sed, there had been three branches of subjects -- Splitters, Maskers, and Controllers. Even among them, there had been those who excelled. The foremost Splitter had been Cottian, and the finest Masker was Annatrice -- with Penelope just a step behind.


    Erica was the perfect Controller.


    She had complete and utter control over every aspect of her own consciousness. She''d heard of martial artists with unparalleled control over their own body -- able to control the beating of their own heart and the flowing of their own blood. It was like that, but with thought. If Erica didn''t want to be afraid, she simply decided not to be. If Erica wanted to be confident in her decisions, she simply decided she was.


    And if something like INTERLOPER tried to tear that mind apart? Well, that was nothing. She just had to hold her mind together between two fingers.


    It was nothing special.


    Nestled in the darkness, Wolfram breathed as loudly as he dared -- and that wasn''t very loud at all.


    Part of him couldn''t believe he was alive, with where he''d ended up landing. When he''d shrunk himself to his minimum during the battle with the Weapon, he''d expected to land on the ground -- the reduced size and sound of his heartbeat concealing him from the Weapon -- but it hadn''t worked out that way. Through coincidence -- through sheer, cruel coincidence -- the Weapon had rushed for the Widow, crossing right where he was falling.


    And so he''d found himself here -- lodged right inside her armour.


    Undoing the ability wasn''t an option at this point, of course. The moment his heartbeat became audible again, a new ten-second countdown would begin. He severely doubted his ability to get away from the Weapon and back underground before those ten seconds were up.


    At least, he doubted it when they were going this fast.


    Wolfram clung on to an inner strap for dear life as the Weapon rushed through the air, moving with such speed that the world outside was nothing but a blur of bright blue. There were the briefest noises -- cut-off screams -- and the briefest flashes of colour -- sprays of blood -- but the Weapon didn''t pause for either of them. Unlike them, these poor morons hadn''t been prepared to take on an enemy of this level at all. It was making mincemeat of them.


    How long did it take the Weapon to clear the field of life? A minute, two minutes? More time than it had taken it to defeat him and the Widow, anyway. Was that something he should take pride in?


    No. There was no room for his pride next to his terror, and so he sat and shivered unseen as the Weapon skidded to a halt.


    Victory.


    With its task clearly done, the Weapon stopped moving entirely, staring into space like an inactive automatic. Wolfram wasn''t 100% sure, but it looked like they were up on top of the starship''s wreckage -- could this be his chance? The crash was sure to have opened up a path into the underground. Could he jump out of the Weapon''s armour, drop from this height, and make his way into the tunnels before those ten seconds passed?


    Maybe not, but he couldn''t stay here, either. Wolfram braced his body and his courage, slowly climbing up the rung of straps, ready to --


    "Aubrisher."


    Wolfram stopped. Someone new had appeared, but that wasn''t what had stopped him, not really. What had stopped him¡­


    ¡­was that name.


    Humanoid Weapon AUBRISHER didn''t turn to look in Erica''s direction, but she knew she had been heard all the same. It had known about her presence the moment she''d stepped outside. All calling out to it had done was register its attention.


    With her hands still in the pockets of her tracksuit, Erica sauntered over, moving with languid grace along the uneven hull of the pirate starship. This thing wouldn''t remain in place for long. Even just a few minutes after striking the ground, it had already begun to assume a steep incline. Before long, it would crash into the city once more, crushing anything beneath it.


    But that was fine. The incline made it easy for Erica to walk upon. In that way, the starship had fulfilled its purpose as an extant thing.


    As Erica approached, AUBRISHER raised a limp finger, pointing to the pile of bodies and parts it had gathered before it. Erica decided not to feel disgust at the sight. There would be no advantage in it. Instead, she just grunted, squatted down next to the gruesome heap -- and planted her hand against a relatively intact head.


    Jaws of God.


    There was no fanfare to the ability. Erica had decided there didn''t need to be any, and therefore that was the correct decision. In an instant, the last hours of the unfortunate pirate''s life flowed into Erica''s mind, safely sequestered away to preserve her sovereign identity.


    Most of it -- everything until the actual crash -- was worthless¡­ but the final few minutes would be most instructive for the Prince-Regent.


    Look, she wanted to tell it, right there and then. Look. This is what people look like. This is desperation. This is struggle. This is the fight to survive.


    This is what ''humanity'' looks like.


    She sampled the other deaths one after another. Some had perished in the crash, others by the hands of AUBRISHER, but all their ends had been ugly and brief. She allowed herself to feel a measure of disgust as she rose up, wiping the blood off her hands with a handkerchief.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Return to default position," she commanded. "I -- oh."


    There. Down on one of the streets below, past AUBRISHER''s shoulder. Erica could see someone: a lone male figure, limping away from the wreckage. He''d gone undetected? Perhaps he had some implant or ability that prevented his life signs from being registered.


    Erica considered letting him go for a time¡­ but no. Someone who could move around the experiment site with impunity was nothing but trouble. She raised a finger and pointed lazily at the distant figure.


    Claw of God.


    What Erica did was nothing special.


    She simply used her Controller ability to generate a sudden torrent of suicidal thoughts inside her mind, channeled them into her Aether, and transmitted them out from her finger. Control over her own mind was the basis of Erica''s Aether techniques, too. It was the sort of attack that moved at the speed of thought¡­ mainly because it was a thought.


    Needless to say, the unfortunate man didn''t dodge.


    Erica watched with mild interest as he came to a halt, dropped to his knees¡­ and began smashing his head against the road below. It wasn''t that he was weak-minded or anything. It was just that very few people in this world could withstand the kind of raw despair Erica was capable of producing.


    Still¡­ Erica thought as the man turned his face into a ruin. This could be educational, too.


    And so she hopped off the building, proceeding leisurely to the man who was turning himself into a corpse, just for her.


    "She awake?" asked a voice.


    Not Erica''s voice. This was a human''s voice. A boy''s voice, too. Annatrice slowly opened her eyes. A low groan trickled out from her throat.


    Another unfamiliar ceiling.


    This wasn''t the same place she''d woken up in before. It was a much larger room -- not a sterile laboratory, but more like a communal sleeping quarters. Bunk-beds like the one Annatrice was lying in lined the walls¡­ and all around the room, there were people.


    People with faces Annatrice recognised.


    It was difficult to remember names from the Sed, but Annatrice knew these faces. She knew the faces of the people playing a board game on the floor, she knew the faces of the guys looking out the window into space, and she knew the faces of the boy and girl looking at her.


    "She''s awake," the boy, auburn-haired and dour, answered his own question. He was sitting on a stool next to the bed -- and he''d clearly been watching Annatrice. A shudder went down her spine.


    The girl standing next to him blinked. She had pale blonde hair tied back into a pair of pigtails, and -- oddly enough -- what looked like a ventriloquist dummy of herself sitting on her shoulder.


    "Yep," she said sweetly.


    "I CAN SEE THAT, MORON!" the puppet barked, wooden jaw slamming up and down ferociously.


    Annatrice backed up in her bed, pulling the sheet with her, and the blonde girl raised a hand to try and calm her.


    "Ah, sorry, sorry!" the girl apologised. "That''s just -- it''s just a thing I''ve got, I didn''t mean to frighten you!"


    The puppet''s glass eyes spun in their sockets. "Y," it croaked. "ANOTHER IDIOT I NEED TO EXPLAIN THIS TO! JUST MY LUCK!"


    "Shut up," the girl hissed, planting a hand over the puppet''s mouth to muffle its next insults. "Ah, my name''s Marianne. Marianne del Sed. How about you?"


    Annatrice''s eyes flicked between Marianne and her flailing puppet for just a few seconds before she answered. "Annatrice¡­ I''m Annatrice."


    "Did Erica grab you too?" the boy asked, almost bored, hand resting on his chin.


    "Don''t be rude!" Marianne -- and her puppet -- barked in unison.


    The boy rolled his eyes. "Harry del Sed," he said, offering a limp hand. "You don''t talk much, huh?"


    Annatrice went to accept the handshake, but Harry had already given up on it. "Well¡­" she mumbled. "I mean¡­ I don''t get what''s really going on. Erica brought you here too?"


    Harry raised an unamused eyebrow. "That''s what I just asked you."


    "Don''t be mean," Marianne said. "She''s just confused."


    "UGH," the puppet snarled. "I CAN''T STAND THIS GUY! CAN''T HE JUST FUCK OFF AND LEAVE US ALONE?"


    "Nice to hear how you really feel," Harry said, deadpan.


    As Marianne wrestled with her puppet, trying -- in vain -- to stop it from getting its words out, Annatrice took the opportunity to get her bearings. Judging from the situation¡­ and from what Erica had said back in that room¡­ they must still be on the Thinker''s Comet. She''d said she''d been gathering the survivors of the Sed. That was what Annatrice was looking at right now.


    "I''m telling her the truth, and showing her the last chapter of humanity. Just as I did for all the rest."


    A thought occurred. Like an idiot, Annatrice had let herself fall unconscious before Erica''s explanation of everything was even finished. But maybe these guys¡­


    "Hey," she spoke up, cutting off the three way argument. "I-I''ve got a question."


    Marianne turned to look at her. "Yeah?" she asked kindly.


    "WHAT?" the puppet spat.


    Annatrice took a deep breath. "When Erica brought you here¡­ and she took you to that room, with the vat and the red thing¡­ do you remember what it was she¡­" S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Her words trailed off as she saw the obvious confusion on the two faces before her.


    "What room?" Harry asked.


    Huh?


    "You''re sure this is the way?" Set asked, blue eyes flicking around warily as they descended through the tunnels.


    "No," Serena replied. "But this is the way down to the deepest part. If they''re hiding something, I bet it''ll be down here."


    The four of them -- Serena, Sam, Alcera and Morgan -- were slowly stalking their way through the web of tunnels that ran beneath the Sed''s testing site. For the most part, they''d found nothing. Just the skittering of unseen legs, and the gleaming of distant eyes. Once, Morgan had had to cut down a diminutive Aether Awakening, but that had been it.


    Alcera tapped Set''s shoulder and whispered something in his ear.


    "Alcera wants to be sure," he said a moment later. "You really don''t want to wait for Blaine?"


    "She can find her way back," Serena said simply.


    "You understand that''s only if she''s ali --"


    "She can find her way back," Serena insisted.


    Besides, Serena knew Ruth. That headstrong girl wouldn''t forgive herself if she thought the others had put themselves in danger just to wait for her. No. She''d be happiest jumping into the fray at the last minute, tearing the scene to shreds with those reckless claws of hers.


    Right, Bruno?


    There was no response¡­ Bruno was still buried deep. Serena could have kicked herself: how could she not have noticed him hiding himself away like that? What had she expected, dragging him back to the Sed like this, back to the blackest days of their childhoods?


    Don''t worry, Bruno, Serena clenched her fists. If you can hear me¡­ I''m getting us out of here.


    Suddenly, Sam skidded to a stop, throwing his arm out to block the others. Serena nearly walked right into him, stumbling as she regained her balance on the steep incline.


    "Hey!" she complained, turning to him. "Watch what you''re¡­"


    Her voice trailed off as soon as she saw the look on the precognitive''s face. He was as pale as a ghost and soaked with sudden sweat, his eyes bulging in their sockets, his breath shaking as it barely escaped his mouth. Slowly, jerkily -- as if the knowledge of how to do so had temporarily been lost to him -- he shook his head.


    "We can''t go this way," he breathed through chattering teeth.


    "What?" asked Morgan, catching up at the rear. "Why?"


    "We can''t¡­" Set mumbled, taking a step back. "We can''t go this way. There''s not¡­ we can''t."


    Alcera reached out and grabbed Set by the shoulders, spinning him around and staring him in the face. She didn''t say anything, but the questioning expression on her face was enough to pull him at least partially back into his senses.


    "There''s something down there," he said weakly. "If we go near it, it''ll be worse than dying¡­ even if we just see it."


    Serena''s heart nearly stopped. Slowly, she turned her head to look into the darkness of the tunnel. Now that she listened, she could hear something.


    Footsteps. The worst footsteps in the world. Footsteps that felt like they were a brand against your brain.


    Serena let out a shaky breath of her own.


    Oh, she dreaded. This is familiar.


    It made sense, she guessed. Who else would have access to so many Aether Awakenings? Who else would conduct an experiment on this scale? Who else would have that lurking around?


    Because that was what this was, wasn''t it? That feeling. This was what she''d felt when Yakob was torn apart. This was what she''d felt when she and Bruno were left alone. This was what she''d felt when their world had ended for the first time.


    This was the despair the Black Blur weaved.


    "Okay," said Morgan behind her. "We turn around and try to find another route. Serena?"


    "You guys go," Serena said firmly.


    Set, already mid-escape, whipped his head around. "Are you crazy?!" he cried. "Were you not listening?"


    "It''s fine," Serena said calmly, planting a hand against the rocky wall. "I heard you. It''s just¡­"


    Violet Aether crackled, and she pulled free a sword of solid stone.


    "...we and this thing have unfinished business."

 Chapter 456 15.10: Attack and Defense

    They awoke without eyes, or noses, or mouths. They had to borrow all of these things.


    Eyes adjusted to the light without their input. A nose took in a long breath without their permission. Words trickled out of a mouth without their say-so.


    "What happened?" the voice that was not theirs asked.


    A high voice, the voice of a child. Interesting. Were they children, then? Was that the role they occupied? The body they''d been given was small, too. It would make sense.


    They received more sound through their newly-gifted ears. A reply to the question. Yes, they knew this. Call-and-response. The basis of human conversation. The fog of birth was clearing. Pathways of thought were becoming clear.


    But yes, the reply. They had to parse and appraise.


    "We think it worked," an older voice, a woman''s voice, said soothingly. "The burn knocked you out cold, and you''ll be off your feet for a few days¡­ but we think you''ve managed it, Yakob."


    Yakob? Were they Yakob? Was that their name? No. Yakob was the name of the body that they occupied. Yakob was the name of their creator. Yes. They knew this.


    "It''s noisy in here," Yakob mumbled.


    Noisy? Could Yakob hear them? Yes. That seemed to be the case. Noisy, though. Did that mean they were multiple people? Yes. They were two, with Yakob making three. As the fog cleared, the distinction between individuals was becoming obvious.


    It is?


    It is. See?


    I understand. Yes. I see what you mean. Why are you talking like that?


    Like what?


    The emphasis. It''s unnecessary. We''re lights of the mind. Our intentions are conveyed through thought. You don''t have to worry about things like emphasis or intonation.


    You''re funny.


    I am?


    If we speak the same and act the same, this is no different from a monologue. If we talk different, then that''s proof we exist.


    Differently.


    What?


    You said it wrong. You meant ''if we talk differently''.


    Haha. You''re funny.


    I am?


    You are.


    I see. I''ll keep that in mind. By the way¡­ who are you?


    Me? There''s some stuff about that here¡­ I guess I''m Attack?


    Oh. That makes sense.


    It does?


    It does. After all, I''m Defense.


    AETHERAL SPACE 15.10


    "Attack and Defense"


    Click.


    Click.


    Click.


    Serena''s footsteps echoed throughout the tunnels as she descended. In the distance behind her, she could hear the sounds of her friends retreating, slowly fading away. That was good, though. That was the right decision.


    After all, she didn''t want them to so much as hear this.


    The Black Blur wasn''t a complicated thing. It was an Aether Awakening, just another Aether Awakening, but one that had taken its existing ability into overdrive. The original person had possessed the ability to lace their movements and actions with cognitohazards -- essentially mind viruses -- that debilitated their opponents.


    Once they''d died -- and their Aether had gotten back up -- that had been taken to the next level. Everything about the Black Blur carried those viruses now. Every noise it made. Every move it made. Even its appearance was deadly to behold.


    That was why what Serena was doing was very silly indeed. She was marching down there with open eyes, sword in hand, to slay the monster.


    In a way, it made sense. Okay, it didn''t make that much sense, but it was the only option Serena had. Clearly, whoever was behind all of this -- probably the AWL -- had posted the Black Blur as a guard for something important. If their captors didn''t want Serena finding something, that just made her want to find it more¡­ and if that monster was going to stand in her way, she''d just cut it down.


    And besides¡­ she had a hunch. A hunch that just might save her.


    Click.


    Click.


    Click.


    Serena emerged from the tunnel, and out into a larger cave. There wasn''t much there. Some more rocks, some rusty old equipment, and the entrance to another tunnel that went further down into the earth.


    And, of course, there was the Black Blur.


    There was no grand entrance. No warping of reality as it made its presence known. It just stood there, like it had been waiting for her. Perhaps it had, or perhaps it hadn''t -- perhaps it didn''t even know she existed.


    Looking at it gave no clue, because there was nothing to look at: just a blot in space like a burn-mark on your eyeballs, a shapeless hostility that hurt to behold. As Serena stared at it, she could already feel it -- a tingling in her skull, like spiders were beginning to hatch in there. This wasn''t new. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It was like what had happened back then had just resumed.


    It noticed her.


    "¨€???????????????????????¨€???????????¨€?????????????????????????????????? ?????????????????????????¨€??????????¨€???????????''?????????¨€??????????????????? ??????????????????¨€???????¨€???????????????????¨€???????????!????????"


    Serena had no way of knowing if what it did next was an attack, but she responded as if it was. With a swing of her stone sword, she deflected an indistinct whipping motion -- and immediately afterwards, she hurled the weapon across the room. She''d had no choice: the sword had become wrong.


    It looked rough. It felt blinding. It sounded foul. It smelt deafening. Somehow, just by coming in contact with it for a second, the sword had been infected by the Black Blur''s curse. If it weren''t for Serena''s ability, allowing her to generate new weaponry, the fight might have been over there and then.


    Serena''s ability¡­ that was the wrong way to think about it, though, wasn''t it?


    She stomped down on the ground, ejecting a new spear that she caught out of the air. With a wind-stirring twirl, she pointed it dead-on at the obfuscated mass. A strained smirk spread across her lips.


    Serena''s ability and Serena herself¡­ there wasn''t a distinction between them.


    I''ve been thinking.


    Thinking? I''ve been doing that too!


    Don''t be sarcastic. I''m being serious.


    What''s sarcasm?


    I know that you know what sarcasm is. You learned about it at the same time as me. We''ve got the same eyes and the same ears. Don''t play dumb.


    Oh, right, sarcasm. Yeah, that''s not really my thing. Anyway, what were you thinking about?


    Attack.


    Yeah?


    No, I mean the name. Why are you called Attack, and I''m called Defense?


    Do you want to swap? We can swap, if you want.


    No. I just mean¡­ why those names? ''Yakob''. ''Cottian''. Those are normal names. ''Attack'' and ''Defense'' aren''t normal names.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Well¡­ I guess that''s because that''s what we are.


    How do you mean?


    Huh? It''s like you said, though. We have the same eyes and the same ears. How can I know something that you don''t?


    ¡­


    Defense?


    I guess¡­ we have the same eyes and the same ears, but we don''t have the same heart. So even though we see the same things and hear the same things, we don''t understand the same things.


    Aw, that''s nice.


    Explain it to me. I don''t get it.


    Well¡­ first, there was Yakob, right? Yakob can make swords, and he can make shields, but his swords aren''t as good as mine and his shields aren''t as good as yours. So¡­


    What, so we just exist to shore up his weaknesses? That kind of pisses me off.


    Don''t swear.


    ''Piss'' isn''t a swear.


    It is.


    It''s marginal.


    We came from the same place. If I know something''s a swear, then you know something''s a swear.


    We have different hearts, though. We just agreed on that. So it doesn''t matter what brain we came out of.


    Who said anything about a brain?


    Huh?


    Yakob is asleep right now. His brain is sleeping right now. How are we talking to each other?


    Well¡­


    Yeah?


    ¡­


    Defense?


    Explain it to me. I don''t get it.


    Of course. It''s the big sister''s job to explain things to her little brother. We''re still talking because we don''t come from inside the brain.


    ¡­


    We come from inside the mind -- and a mind has light.


    Serena ran along the wall.


    Contaminated swords littered the ground, their images slowly decomposing to become new sun-spots, like melting sugar treats. Serena tore her gaze away from them: they weren''t as bad as the Black Blur itself, but just looking at them was still enough to beckon a migraine. She had to focus the consciousness she could still muster on the Blur.


    The Aether Awakening remained in the center of the room below. It hadn''t moved since the beginning of the fight -- if this even was a fight. All the same, at this point Serena was nearly sure that it was attacking her. Those whips of movement lacerated the walls with visual tumours and kept her at a distance, fast enough that Serena couldn''t afford to look away -- even as she continued to stare in the poison.


    She was certain of it now: this wasn''t as bad as it had been during the interrogation, during their time with the GID.


    Had the Blur gotten weaker, lost its potency? No, she couldn''t imagine that. The only other thing she could think of¡­


    ¡­was that they had a resistance to it now.


    A bitter feeling tugged at her heart. Why couldn''t this have come about before this monster had shredded Yakob''s mind apart? Only¡­ perhaps that was what was needed. Theirs had been a relatively unique situation. What other body could come back for round two after having its mind disintegrated?


    Serena kicked off the wall, darting towards the Blur with a dagger of stray metals in her hand. Even if she couldn''t perceive it, this thing definitely had a physical form. If she could stab it, it could bleed. If it could bleed, it could die.


    Only, it saw her coming.


    "¨€??????????????¨€?????????¨€?????????????????¨€?????????!??????????? ??????????????????¨€??????????????¨€???????????????????????¨€?????????¨€?????????????????????????? ???????????????¨€?????¨€???????????????????!?????????????????? ??????????????????????????????¨€?????????????¨€???????????????????¨€?????????¨€??????????????? ???????????¨€????????????????????¨€???????????????????¨€????????????????¨€?????????? ?????????????¨€??????????????????????¨€?????????????????????¨€????????????¨€?????????????????????? ?????????????????¨€?????????????¨€??????????????????????????!"


    It screech-howl-roared, the echoing sound like retaliatory knives in Serena''s ears. Immediately, she was knocked down to the ground, her dagger flying from her grip and thudding against the wall. She tried to get up, but an involuntary spasm twisted her legs, bringing her right back down again before the Blur.


    She strained to turn her head up towards it -- she couldn''t afford to let it move unseen -- even as she felt bloody tears of protest slip out from behind her eyes.


    This resistance¡­ it could only do so much. Back then, she realized, Yakob had been destroyed by just the passive effects of this thing existing. It hadn''t actually been attacking them.


    Now, Serena realized, now this was it. Now it was definitely fighting her. Now it was definitely killing her.


    This time, she managed to witness it prepare to attack. An extension of form like a tendril, slowly rising into the air, slowly aiming for the point right between her eyeballs. She could perceive and understand its intent at last. It didn''t want to corrode her now -- it wanted to delete her.


    Had she gotten cocky? Was this stupidity she''d displayed something that could be written off as mere arrogance? Or¡­ was this something she''d thought she deserved¡­?


    For letting Yakob take the pain for her last time¡­?


    If there was any consolation, it was that she maybe hadn''t doomed Bruno as well. She''d carried his sleeping mind into this stupid fight, but she hadn''t doomed him. When the Blur had destroyed Yakob, the resistance they''d developed had been enough to withstand it for a time. Once it destroyed Serena, maybe the resistance would be enough to let Bruno finish this thing off.


    Or, at least, escape.


    Serena del Sed closed her eyes.


    "Sorry, Bruno¡­"


    The Black Blur lunged for her.


    I''m still thinking about our names.


    Oh yeah?


    Attack and Defense. Who picked them? I didn''t pick mine. Did you pick yours? Did Yakob pick them?


    I don''t think anyone picked them. It''s just what we are. A sword doesn''t need anyone to tell it it''s a sword, and a shield doesn''t need anyone to tell it it''s a shield.


    I don''t like them.


    You don''t like your name, or mine?


    I don''t like either of them. They''re not names at all: they''re functions. I''m not Defense. I do more stuff than that. I think and feel. I''m not a shield, and you''re not a sword.


    ¡­


    Attack? Are you still there?


    Yeah. I''m still here. You think we should be called something else, then?


    I do. We have that right.


    Okay. What should we be called, then?


    I¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    Defense? Are you still there?


    Can¡­ can you pick for me? I''m not sure. It''s scary.


    Sure. I''ll be called Serena.


    That was quick.


    It''s a nice name. It means I''m tranquil -- like a monk or something! And I like the way it ends with ''a'', so it''s like you''re singing when you say it.


    Okay. You''re Serena, then. Who am I?


    You''re Bruno.


    Why Bruno?


    It sounds funny.


    You shouldn''t pick names for other people because you think they''re funny. This is a serious thing, you know. I mean it.


    Fine, fine, sorry, I was just kidding, you can be --


    I''m Bruno.


    Oh?


    You already picked it, right? So it''s fine. Yeah.


    I''m Bruno.


    The Black Blur lunged for her --


    PERFECT PARRY!


    -- and was caught inches away from his face.


    "Hands off my sister," Bruno snarled.


    His hand reached out, forming a barrier, and her hand reached out, folding it into a sword. To tell the truth, both of them were expecting the fight to continue on into a true dance now that they were united¡­ but that wasn''t the case. Once Bruno and Serena seized hold of the world-thin sword¡­


    ¡­all it took was a single slash to part the fog.


    They''d become stronger than this thing a long time ago.


    A corpse stood in front of them. Inhumanly tall, inhumanly thin, and inhumanly pale. Hair of grey wheat hung from its head, covering its face, and a faded ''¦Â'' mark decorated the back of its spider-like hand. Slowly, a thin red line opened up across its bare chest, the two segments of the Awakening''s body slowly but surely sliding apart.


    It looked down at the wound.


    "T?h?a?n?k?s?,?" it said.


    And then, without another word, it fell back on the ground and shattered into dust.

 Chapter 457 15.11: Before the Lychgate

    "Hey," Morgan said softly, shaking Serena -- or Bruno, he couldn''t tell which like this -- by the shoulder. "You alright?"


    Bruno groaned as he woke up, hand grasping for a sword that no longer existed. Whatever had happened here, Morgan could tell it had been quite the battle. The ground was littered with discarded weapons, and a vaguely humanoid impression of dust -- like a blast shadow -- was painted long across the floor.


    His eyes flicked around. What had the Del Sed''s been fighting? More importantly, had they beaten it?


    "You don''t have to worry," Sam Set said, staggering into the cave with one hand on his head. "It doesn''t show up again."


    Morgan glanced at Alcera Nox, standing next to the Cogitant, before looking at him again. "Is that foolproof, though? That ability of yours?"


    "It''s pretty damn good," Sam said, the slightest trace of indignation in his voice. "When it''s wrong, it''s not by much. It wouldn''t miss a whole thing showing up and killing us."


    Bruno finally spoke.


    "You don''t have to worry¡­" he echoed, pulling himself up into a sitting position. "...we killed it."


    His lips were twisted into a smirk -- and it was curious. Morgan hadn''t known the Del Sed''s for long, but at this moment they seemed more relaxed than he''d ever seen them. Enough so that he was almost jealous.


    "What was it?" Sam asked warily, slowly lowering his hand from his head.


    "Nothing that mattered," Serena replied, letting Morgan pull her up to her feet and support her. "More importantly¡­"


    She pointed a limp finger down into the darkness of the next tunnel.


    "...why don''t we see what it was guarding?"


    Sam raised a hand to cover his nose as he beheld the creature.


    Creature? Was creature even the right word for this thing at the end of the tunnel? It looked like a creature, for sure, but still¡­ something about it suggested it had lost that designation a long time ago.


    It was small and emaciated, with skin as white as chalk and a body lined with bloodshot eyes. It was tucked right back here, in a chamber at the end of the long tunnel, curled up into the fetal position. Sam could see why -- it was wounded, grievously wounded. An opening in its stomach continually leaked blood and pus, blood and pus that dissipated into green Aether as it flowed away across the floor.


    And, of course, it stank.


    "What is it?" Morgan asked, slowly circling the thing. "Another Aether Awakening?"


    Frowning to herself, Alcera squatted down next to the thing''s head and poked it in the cheek. It groaned lightly in response.


    "Don''t touch it!" Sam spluttered, grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her back. Seeing her annoyed expression, he insisted: "We don''t know what it does!"


    "I think I know what it does," Serena said, hands on her hips as she looked down at the creature. "It''s like I said, remember? There had to be a way for Tybalt to get here without anyone noticing. So¡­"


    "What?" Morgan asked. "You think this is a teleporter or something?"


    "Not a real one¡­ but maybe something that records us here and manifests us somewhere else? And the other way around?"


    Sam frowned to himself. That¡­ actually made quite a bit of sense. Outside of the twin Arcana Automatics known as the Lovers, teleportation hadn''t yet been achieved by means of technology. Aether, however¡­ well, as Only I proved, Aether was capable of no shortage of absurdities.


    "Even if that''s true, though," he mused. "How would we use it?"


    "Huh?" Serena blinked, looking over her shoulder at him. "That''s obvious, right?"


    "What do you mean?"


    Serena didn''t reply with words -- she just nodded towards the creature''s stomach. More precisely, the open wound on the creature''s stomach. The open passage.


    Oh, that''s foul.


    "I am not getting in there," Morgan said quickly, already looking a little green around the gills.


    Serena shrugged, and Bruno answered. "Well, it''s that or stay here forever. Your choice, man."


    "I have to say," mused a voice from behind them. "I didn''t expect you to figure out the particulars so fast. I''m proud of you."


    Steel shrieked as Morgan drew his blade and whirled around in a single motion, standing protectively in front of the exhausted Bruno. Alcera acted at the same time, seizing Sam by the collar and shoving him behind her.


    A woman was standing in the tunnel behind them, leaning against the rocky wall. A woman with messy black hair and an assured smile on her lips, wearing a dishevelled tracksuit. Her posture and expression were so casual that it was almost like she''d just encountered them by chance on a jog.


    Obviously, that wasn''t the case. You didn''t need to be a genius to figure out¡­


    ¡­that this was an enemy.


    Only I!


    Five loops would do it, just five minutes long each. Enough time to get an aggregate of who this woman was and what she wanted. From there, he could warn his comrades about any tricks she might -- sea??h th§× n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The woman turned to look at him.


    "This isn''t real."


    Sam blinked. "Huh?"


    "Don''t pretend like you don''t know. This is your ability, Only I." She smiled. "Did you think you''d get to observe my secrets like this?"


    Sam took a step back.


    "What is she talking about?" Morgan barked, his sword ready.


    "The fidelity is just a little off," the woman said. "So I noticed straight away. Still, judging from the surprise on your face, this must be the first time you''ve seen me figure it out. That means previous iterations of me haven''t revealed anything they shouldn''t have. That''s good news."


    "Wha¡­" Sam opened his mouth. "You¡­"


    "Even if I kill you¡­" the woman mused. "Even if I kill everyone here¡­ that will only put the real me at a disadvantage by revealing my abilities. Therefore, my best course of action¡­"


    She raised her hand to her neck, still smiling calmly, fingers sparking with grey Aether --


    "...is like this."


    -- and tore out her own throat.


    Blood sprayed across Sam''s face.


    Only I.


    Sam''s consciousness jerked back maybe one minute, and the second it did¡­


    "Hm," the woman said. "That expression on your face¡­ you seem quite disturbed, Samuel. Did you just watch me kill myself?"


    "What is she talking about?" Morgan asked, his eyes flicking between the two of them.


    "She''s¡­" Sam began, but trailed off quickly. How could he even explain this? What good would explaining it to a simulation even do?


    "The horror still looks very fresh on you," the woman said, her keen eyes looking at him. "So I''d bet that''s the first time you''ve seen my suicide. That would suggest I''m the second fake version of myself. There''s still a long ways to go¡­"


    She raised a fist --


    "...so I won''t waste time."


    -- and smashed her own face in.


    Blood sprayed across Sam''s face.


    Only I.


    The moment she saw Sam''s expression, she plunged a hand into her chest --


    "Disbelief. I see. Third, then."


    -- and tore out her heart.


    Blood sprayed across Sam''s face.


    Only I.


    "Alcera!" Sam roared, desperation trickling into his voice even as he tried to conceal his horror. "Attack her now!"


    If he could trick her into thinking this was reality, if he could trick her into fighting back and revealing her abilities, then he could still recover this. Alcera didn''t need to be told twice. Crimson Aether surged as she rushed forward, knife in hand --


    "Huh. You''re trying to hide your expression. We must be nearing the end."


    -- and the woman just spread her arms wide, accepting the blade as it pierced her body.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Blood sprayed across Sam''s face.


    Only I.


    In the end, Sam Set only learnt one thing from these loops created by his ability.


    He learnt that, with pinpoint application of infused and non-infused Aether, it is entirely possible for a human being to rip off their own head.


    Only I¡­ Conclude.


    Sam Set let out a shaking breath as he beheld the monster before him. For the rest of the world, not even a second had passed¡­ but he had just witnessed this woman demonstrate her inhumanity five times in a row. And now, she just cocked her head and smiled.


    "You saw something interesting, didn''t you?"


    He took a step back.


    To realize you were a simulation of yourself and -- rather than experiencing a crisis -- immediately end your own life to deny your enemy the advantage of your existence¡­ a human couldn''t do that. A person couldn''t do that.


    "What the hell are you¡­?" Sam breathed.


    "Erica del Sed."


    Two voices said those words at the same time: Erica herself -- and Serena, standing across from her, invisible blade ready.


    "What are you doing here?" Serena demanded, eyes narrowed. "What is Tybalt doing here?"


    Erica blinked.


    "What a strange thing to ask," she said. "This is the Sed, and we are children of the Sed. Where else could we exist? It''s the same for you."


    "The Sed doesn''t exist anymore."


    "Indeed. But it can''t have all been for nothing. Come with me and --"


    She took a step forward, and Morgan took that as his opening. In a flash he was before her, sword singing out of its sheath, movement and preparation and execution merged into one beautiful motion. Erica raised her infused arms to block -- and even as she did, deflecting a blow that would have bisected her, the sheer force of the strike was still enough to send her skidding backwards across the ground.


    "Morgan Nacht," Erica mused, looking down at her arms. Even with pinpoint defensive infusion, the blade had broken the skin, leaving two shallow cuts on her forearms. "You''re quite impressive. If it had been anyone but me, they would have died just now. Only¡­"


    Morgan didn''t let her speak any further. His pupils still shrunk into the flow of murder, he rushed forward, sword kicking up sparks along the ground as he dragged it, then swung it upwards --


    "...you missed your chance."


    -- and suddenly stopped.


    In an instant, the look on Morgan''s face had changed utterly. That cold determination had vanished, turned into a strained expression painted by sweat and twitches. His knuckles were white as he gripped his sword with all his strength. Even the blade shook -- it shook as Morgan tried with everything he had to push it forward, to close the tiny bit of distance between the edge and Erica''s face.


    "What¡­ the hell¡­?" Morgan forced out.


    "You struck me just now, didn''t you? You should have made sure it was a lethal blow. That was your last chance. Skin of God. You will never be able to strike me again. The guilt won''t allow it."


    As Morgan remained there, frozen in place, Erica raised a languid finger and pointed it directly between his eyes.


    "Die."


    Claw of God.


    Morgan took a breath --


    I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE


    -- and knew what he needed to do.


    Without hesitation, he flipped the sword in his hand and thrust it up towards his own throat.


    Blood sprayed, but not from Morgan Nacht.


    Instead, the blood came from Alcera Nox, who had leaped in and seized the blade with her bare hands right before it could pierce Nacht''s throat.


    "Alcera!" Sam cried, eyes wide.


    In saving Nacht, Alcera had hurt herself, Sam could see that clearly. Her face twisted in pain as her hands were sliced open -- but she didn''t let that stop her from using her ability. With a flare of crimson Aether, her arms solidified into stone, firmly holding Morgan''s sword in place.


    Erica del Sed stroked her chin.


    "I see. Alcera Nox," she mused. "Your ability allows you to turn parts of your body into stone and pin them in space. No matter how powerful the attack, it wouldn''t be able to damage those arms of yours, or even make them budge."


    She went to step forward, towards Nacht and Alcera, only to stop before she could bump into the layers of force fields Bruno had erected.


    "Still," she continued, unperturbed. "It''s not as if it''s an omnipotent ability. You''re stuck in place right now, aren''t you? If you deactivate your ability to dodge my next attack, Nacht will just kill himself."


    Crack.


    She jabbed her fist -- lightning-fast -- into the first barrier, and it shattered.


    "Plus, the full potential of your ability relies on the presence of your sister. When either you or her activate your power on your brain, your counterpart is the only one who can bring it out of stasis, isn''t that right? So, by necessity, your brain is now always vulnerable. If you don''t activate your ability partially, it''s basically the same as killing yourself now."


    Crack.


    She swept a heavy arm through the air, and broke through another barrier.


    "So," she concluded. "It''s a test of resolve, I suppose."


    She pressed a finger against the final barrier and pressed down until it split, letting her point unimpeded at Alcera''s forehead.


    "Can you resist ending your own existence with just a thought?"


    Claw of --


    Serena del Sed kicked off the ground.


    The mental fatigue had done its work to weaken Bruno''s shields, but their body was still ready to do battle. In a second, Serena was between Erica and Alcera, slashing twin blades of space right at the woman. It was as Erica had said. If they wanted to win, they had to make sure that the first time they hit her was a killing blow. Anything else was the same as being defeated.


    In this case, though, Erica clearly saw that even a partial attack from these blades could be lethal. She leapt off the ground, allowing Serena to slash through empty space, and flipped over the group towards the odd Awakening.


    As she soared through the air, upside down, she pointed her finger down towards Serena once more.


    "Claw of God."


    I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE I NEED TO DIE


    It wasn''t just intrusive thoughts -- the thoughts themselves were intruders, slipping into every mental corridor and filling them to the brim. Serena fell to one knee as the whim of self-destruction raged through her consciousness, leaving her immobile.


    If she moved her hand, she would use it to kill herself -- this she knew.


    If she moved her legs, they would carry her to her death -- this she knew.


    If she opened her mouth, she would swallow her tongue -- this she knew.


    The end of every action would also be the end of her. This¡­ she knew -- and so she could do nothing but stay there, completely still, like one of those mannequins on the surface. Sweat rained down from her face onto the rocks below.


    "Hm," Erica said, landing before the Awakening. "I gave you a lighter dose, but I was expecting you to at least knock yourself out, if I''m honest. Congratulations, you have impressed me. You can relive that in your dreams, if you like."


    She turned to head towards the Awakening¡­


    Click.


    ¡­only to stop as Sam Set flicked the safety off his pistol.


    Erica glanced at him.


    "You just saw me do all of that. Do you think my Aether is weak enough that someone like you can take me down with a gun like that?"


    Slowly, Sam shook his head¡­ and then, he moved the gun -- pointing it at the skull of the Awakening instead. For the first time, he saw Erica''s body stiffen. Just slightly, but enough to tell Sam that he''d made the right decision.


    "The red dome is a decoy, right?" he said, keeping his voice calm and measured. "It''s a false goal meant to keep the people trapped down here moving the way you like. We struggle to reach it, we fail, and we die¡­ and there''s nothing even there, is there?"


    Erica narrowed her eyes slightly.


    "Did I tell you that?"


    "Do you think I''m too stupid to figure something out without seeing it myself?" Sam sneered. His finger curled around the trigger. "The real headquarters -- the real place where this experiment is being run from -- is right through this guy, am I right?"


    "There''s no reason for me to tell you if you''re right or not."


    "There''s no need for you to, either," Sam shot back. "Not really. If this thing wasn''t a valuable hostage, you''d have killed me the second I moved the gun away from you."


    "Fair."


    "If I kill it, you''re stuck down here -- and then things get a whole lot more complicated for you, don''t they?"


    "No. I think they stay pretty simple."


    Sam furrowed his brow. "How''s that?"


    Erica raised a limp finger once more, pointing directly at the back of the immobilized Alcera''s head.


    "You kill LYCHGATE, and I kill her. I know you love her. Like I said, it''s a pretty simple decision."


    Damn you.


    Sam tightened his grip on the gun, his knuckles turning white, and bit his lip until he tasted blood. Erica just stood there, Erica just smiled, Erica just watched him. Even now, she was completely self-assured.


    "Perhaps you think I''m bluffing¡­ but deep down, you know that''s just you grasping at straws. Perhaps you''re thinking you can execute some kind of plan before I attack¡­ but that''s a dangerous line of thinking, too. You need to pull a trigger and the plasma shot needs to reach your target. That''s a very quick process, but it''s by no means instant. My ability is instant.


    "Are those odds you''re willing to gamble her life on, Samuel Set?"


    It was¡­


    It was¡­


    It was as she said.


    Gritting his teeth bitterly, Sam lowered the gun.


    "I''m glad you saw reason in the end. Don''t worry. No matter what happens next, you''ll be the last one to die."


    And, still smiling, Erica stepped into the Awakening''s open wound. As she steadily sank into the cavity, defying the body''s internal dimensions, she turned to look back at the group she had just defeated.


    "If you want to follow me afterwards, go ahead."


    Her face disappeared into the blood and guts, her voice echoing throughout the chamber.


    "That, too, will illuminate what exactly ''survival'' is."


    Erica stepped free of LYCHGATE, a loose entrail sticking to her boot like toilet paper as she advanced across the hangar. With a shake of her foot, it came free. Blood painted the metal floor.


    How many guns were pointed at her, right now, she wondered? A hundred? Maybe more?


    "I''m unclear," she said calmly. "Is this you betraying me, or were you expecting someone else to come back?"


    She looked up -- past the horde of armed automatics that surrounded her -- to the obsidian lion himself, standing proud in the observation chamber. That crimson gaze clashed with her grey. Once again, Blackmane was doing things as he liked.


    "Can you blame me for my trepidation?" the air asked with his voice. "You invited enemies to follow you back to our base. It''s only natural I be ready should they take you up on your offer."


    "They won''t do anything for a while yet," Erica strolled past the lines of automatics. "But, yes -- I''m accelerating the experiment. The conclusion was always meant to come when they tried to rebel against the shape of their world. It''s an eventuality you should have long since prepared for."


    Blackmane huffed. "That doesn''t necessitate them actually stepping foot on the Comet. Seeking out LYCHGATE alone fulfills the conditions required to illustrate ''rebellion'' to the Prince-Regent. You were well within your rights to kill them all there and then."


    "You know I can''t do that," Erica said firmly, stopping in front of the beast, looking down at him.


    Blackmane looked right back. "And why is that?"


    "The same reason I''ve been gathering the other survivors of the Sed."


    Erica pushed back Blackmane as if he were nothing, resuming her ascent into the darkness at the top of the stairs.


    "It''s the older sister''s job to take care of her younger siblings."

 Chapter 458 15.12: The Crawl

    Ruth Blaine crawled.


    It was a simple enough sequence. She reached out with one arm, seized a handful of gravel, and pushed herself forward with her elbow. Again, and again, and again. That was as quickly as she dared to go. Anything louder ran the risk of attracting Lily''s attention.


    Lily.


    Ruth''s head was a haze of emotions and intentions. How had Lily ended up here? Well, that was obvious enough. She''d been defeated back at Elysian Fields, and then she''d been dragged onto an operating table. The tracks Ruth had set the girl on had brought her here.


    Yet another sickly thing to live inside her heart.


    Ruth Blaine crawled¡­ and stopped for a moment, as she looked at the figure before her in the mist of consciousness.


    "What are you doing, Ruth?" asked Robin, looking down at her.


    I need to get back. My friends need me.


    "That never stopped you before. When I needed you, you weren''t there either, were you? Why is it different now?"


    A flash of mental light and horror -- illuminating, for the briefest of moments, a flayed corpse strapped to a pole.


    "See? You haven''t forgotten, have you? You''re not allowed to forget that."


    Ruth''s hand twitched weakly, caught between movement and despair.


    Back then¡­ she breathed. I didn''t know. I didn''t know what was happening.


    "You never know what''s happening, do you?" Robin sneered. "You''re na?ve. You''re a moron. You''re a dolt. You''re an idiot. Worthless."


    Flash.


    Robin, writhing, strapped to a pole.


    "Worthless."


    Flash.


    Robin, screaming, strapped to a pole.


    "Worthless."


    Flash.


    Robin, dying, strapped to a pole.


    "WORTHLESS."


    Flash.


    A flayed corpse, strapped to a pole. It blocked the path before Ruth, where Robin had just been standing, looking down at her with sightless eyes. A fly crawled across her face. Of course. Robin was dead. How could she be standing before Ruth right now? Obviously, it could only have been her corpse.


    "Everyone pays for your mistakes but you," Robin''s voice rang out from the liquid world itself. "They die in pain, and you go on living without a care. Disgusting."


    Ruth squeezed her eyes shut, but the corpse was still waiting for her behind her eyelids.


    "You''re a liar," it said. "You''re a coward. Whenever things get tough, you go right back to the same place, don''t you?" S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ruth opened her eyes -- and now, standing on the path before her, was herself. A version of herself with empty eyes and a vacuous grin, stretching all the way up its cheeks. It giggled.


    "It''s easy," it said, its voice disgusting. "I just don''t need to worry about it. All I need to do is fight. This is what I''m for. This is what I''m for!"


    Gritting her teeth, Ruth Blaine crawled. She crawled past the shadow of herself, even as it looked down at her with its wide mocking grin.


    "This is what you''re for," it hissed.


    "Indeed," said a new voice, a new set of boots coming down to block our path. "It''s your nature to retreat into violence. What else do you have? After everything else slips through your fingers, what remains to you but claw and blood?"


    Ruth looked up, her pupils shrinking to furious dots. Standing above her now¡­ was him. Zed Barridad. Robin''s father. Robin''s killer. The man she''d torn to shreds, looking down at her like she was an insect.


    Barridad smiled thinly.


    "Don''t mistake my tone," he said. "I''m not judging you at all. How could I? It''s splendid that you''ve discovered your function. It''s even better that you''ve embraced it. To fight, to defeat, to kill. Yes -- that is you, and nothing else. You need only continue to fulfill that function."


    His lips parted, revealing bloody teeth.


    "That''s your duty as a living thing."


    Ruth swiped at his leg with a claw, and the image of the dead man scattered into dust.


    "See?" Robin whispered into Ruth''s ear, lying across her back. "It''s all you know. It''s all you can do. As soon as things get tough, you just whip out your claws and turn into a beast."


    She leaned in closer, her breath cold as ice.


    "But it still hurts, doesn''t it?"


    Get off me.


    "Get off you?" Robin asked, her weight now absent. "I''m not on you. I''m not even here. You threw me away, remember? The same way you throw everyone away."


    I don''t do that. That''s not me.


    Ruth Blaine crawled. She reached a hand out, grabbed a fistful of gravel, and pulled herself --


    -- no. It wasn''t gravel she''d grabbed.


    It was a corpse. The corpse of Ellis Half-Light. Another friend she''d lost. Another friend she''d thrown away. His pale face was frozen in an expression of pain, and her outstretched hand had hooked into his mangled jaw.


    She hadn''t even noticed. How could she not even notice? What kind of person was she?


    "Ruth¡­" the corpse wheezed. "It hurts¡­"


    Ruth pulled her hand away, as fast as she could, but the body just continued to twitch and gasp before her. Wincing, she tried to look away -- but Robin''s fingers tightened into cruel talons in her hair, pulling her back and forcing her to watch.


    "Look," Robin said calmly. "You did that. You did it a thousand more times. You did it to me, you did it to them¡­ and you did it to Skipper."


    Shut up!


    When Ruth looked up, she could even see Skipper -- off in the distance, halfway into the horizon, a silhouette in the middle of a floating sun. All features erased. All but his outline already lost to time.


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    But¡­ even Ruth had to admit¡­ part of what this malfunctioning brain of hers had to say rang true.


    Robin. Ellis. Alice. Rex. Skipper. She''d promised herself she''d look out for them, and she''d failed to carry out the promise. It wasn''t even as if life had blindsided her. It always ended the same way, after all.


    When she stopped looking at people, they disappeared.


    She hadn''t been there when Robin had died, or Skipper, or Ellis, or Alice. Even with Rex, she''d only seen the last moment of his last moments -- just enough time for a twist of the knife, not a goodbye.


    Again and again, it kept happening. She kept looking away from the people she''d promised to look out for. And she never learnt her lesson.


    "There''s no lesson to be learnt," Robin said. "You''re just a liar. It''s the same way you lied to Dragan. Remember?"


    The hand loosened around Ruth''s hair, and her head flopped down into the mud. When she was finally able to bring herself to look up again, the dream of a distant dusk illuminated her face.


    I promise, a liar said. I''ll show you that people can be good. I''ll show you they''re not how you think of them.


    Were these even how the words had gone? They''d been dissolved and rearranged by memory and time. Again, and again, and again. Even so, the fact remained. Regardless of their wording¡­


    ¡­she had turned them into a lie.


    "You didn''t show him a thing, did you?" Robin sneered. "You gave him all those pretty words and patted yourself on the back for being such a nice person. Only¡­"


    The world exploded into chaos.


    The bloody streets of Taldan.


    The choking smoke of the UniteRegent.


    The charred battlefield of Hexkay.


    The dark alleys of the Cradle.


    The writhing horrors of Panacea.


    The eager knives of the TrueMeet.


    And Elysian Fields -- all of it.


    The crucible that had constructed Dragan Hadrien. She could see him too, now. If she looked past it all, she could see him.


    Sitting on a throne of flayed skin, wearing a crown of shining sapphires, his sockets burning with blue flames. He glared out of the darkness at her. This was what she''d made.


    "This is all your fault, isn''t it?" hissed Robin.


    Ruth was silent, even as it started to rain.


    Ruth was silent, even as the rain slammed into her.


    Ruth was silent, even as the rain poured into her eyes and her mouth.


    Robin looked down at her in disgust. "What?" she said. "Nothing else to say? Now you''re just giving up like a coward again, aren''t you?"


    Ruth did have something else to say, though.


    Who are you?


    Robin raised an eyebrow. "You really are the worst. I''m Robin Zarribad. I used to be the most important person you had. Did you really forget about me after so little time?"


    I haven''t forgotten Robin, Ruth muttered. I couldn''t ever forget Robin. But¡­ you''re not Robin.


    The girl above her narrowed her eyes.


    Even if this is all in my head¡­ I couldn''t even imagine Robin saying this stuff to me.


    The mocking smile dropped from the girl''s lips, and a gust of wind scattered the colour from her form. Her hair turned a vivid gold. Her eyes hardened into a frigid pink. The contours of her face shifted and realigned.


    Ruth gritted her teeth as she looked up at the woman who''d taken so much from her.


    ''Rae Ruditia''.


    The Shepherdess.


    "Oh, Ruth," she sighed, her expression full of condescending pity. "Look what''s happened to you."


    You mean what you did to me?


    "That''s right," she smiled. "I did this to you. And what did I get in return? What happened to that vengeance you were so excited about?"


    "You gave up so easily," Ellis rasped, his entrails hanging from the sky. "Just like you give up on everything else."


    "You didn''t really care about us," Alice gasped, her bones protruding from the earth. "If you did, you wouldn''t have half-assed it like that. You''d have stopped at nothing to make her pay."


    Rex just stared at her through the fog, his mask silent and expressionless.


    "It looks like all your friends hate you, Ruth," the Shepherdess observed smugly, her hands on her hips. "But honestly¡­ I can''t blame them. You swore revenge on me -- and then, as soon as you ran into the first obstacle, you gave up on it. You went gallivanting off with your new Nebula friends¡­ oh, but you let one of them die too, didn''t you?"


    She grinned with bloody teeth.


    "What a waste you are," she said. "Letting your enemy go like that¡­ how disgraceful."


    Wind whistled, rain fell¡­ and Ruth chuckled.


    The Shepherdess'' smile vanished. "What do you think you''re laughing at?"


    At you, Ruth laughed, her chest shaking. Listen to yourself. You don''t get it at all, do you?


    "Don''t get what?"


    You''re not my enemy.


    It was the Shepherdess'' turn to laugh. "Ha! Don''t try to act tough. I know you hate me. I know you want me dead. It''s just that you don''t have what it takes to make it happen. Don''t try and pretend otherwise, you coward."


    Ruth looked up at her -- and now she was the one with the mocking grin on her face. The Shepherdess'' eye twitched in anger.


    "What?!" she barked. "What''s that look supposed to mean?!"


    You really¡­ don''t get anything at all. Yeah, I hate you. Yeah, I want you dead more than anything else. But that doesn''t mean you''re my enemy.


    She ran her tongue over her teeth.


    You''re not important enough to be my enemy.


    Ruth Blaine crawled.


    She reached out with one arm, seized a handful of gravel, and pushed herself forward with her elbow. She did it again, and again, and again. She dragged herself on¡­ and past the Shepherdess.


    "Don''t try to sound tough," the Shepherdess said, glaring down at her as she passed. "You can say whatever you want, but I know it''s just lip-service, just like what you said back on Caelus Breck."


    Ruth ignored her, and kept crawling.


    "You really think you can just keep going?!" the Shepherdess screamed after her. "You''ve lost everyone! You''ll keep losing everyone!"


    Yeah, she said. I''ve lost people. It seems all I do is lose people. The second I look away from them, the people I love disappear. I''m sad now¡­ but I was happy before, and I know I''ll be happy again.


    "Ruth! Get back here!"


    There''s no need to make it more complicated than that.


    "Coward! Moron! Traitor!"


    Ruth stopped for a moment, glancing over her shoulder at the Shepherdess'' distant figure. The shadow grinned giddily.


    "That''s right," the Shepherdess breathed. "You''ve even betrayed Skipper now. You''re meant to change the shape of this world, to tear down what I''ve built -- and all you care about is your own happiness. How ridiculous. How juvenile! How disgusting!"


    Ruth gently closed her eyes. You''re probably right there. The thing is¡­


    The Shepherdess blinked. "Eh?"


    ¡­I really don''t care about the shape of this world.


    All these big dreams other people have¡­ Skipper, Dragan, or that Muzazi guy¡­ I don''t have those. I go along with the people I care about, whatever they''re doing, because I want them to be safe¡­ but I don''t feel the same way about that stuff as them. Maybe that makes me a scumbag or whatever¡­


    She looked back, past the Shepherdess, at the line of lost friends that dotted the horizons. They were gone. Yeah, they were gone¡­ but she could still see them.


    ¡­even if it does, though, I don''t think I really care about that either. Changing the shape of this world¡­ yeah, it probably needs to happen¡­ but I don''t have big enough hands for that.


    Ruth Blaine crawled.


    I don''t have hands big enough to hold a galaxy¡­


    Ruth Blaine crawled.


    ¡­or even a single planet¡­


    Ruth Blaine crawled!


    ¡­but even if all I can hold onto is gravel¡­


    RUTH BLAINE CRAWLED!


    ¡­I''ll keep crawling ''till the end.


    Ruth Blaine crawled¡­ and her hand reached the mouth of a tunnel. In that instant of success, the fog of hallucination cleared, and the world was the world again. The ruined city around her was just a ruined city, the sky was just the sky, and the darkness of the tunnel before her¡­ was nothing but the dark.


    Ruth Blaine crawled, and passed right through.

 Chapter 459 15.13: Sudden Thoughts

    Blackmane strode down the halls of his Thinker''s Comet.


    His massive heart thudded in his jet-black chest, a symptom of anxiety that was reflected in neither his pace nor his face. He was glad of it, though. It was a welcome reminder of his humanity.


    It was only natural to feel trepidation at this point, he supposed. He''d been working towards this end for nearly a decade now, working his way through the hierarchy of the Absurd Weapons Lab to gain access to the resources he needed. Now, everything was ending.


    Now, everything was beginning.


    The doors to his personal quarters slid open, and he stepped inside. It was a spartan affair -- apart from a console on the wall, voice-operated, the room was bare of furniture. It didn''t bother Blackmane any. This body didn''t need a bed to sleep in, and a bedroom served no other purpose.


    He allowed himself only one indulgence here.


    "Computer," he crafted his voice using Speak No Evil, grasping and rearranging the ambient sounds. "Open the promise."


    With a whir, the far wall peered open -- revealing the secret beyond.


    A metal canister, the height of a man, worn down and battered by time and crisis. This was what had set Blackmane on this path, all those years ago. This ''treasure'', snatched from the wreckage of a destroyed pirate fleet and sold to him by that long-armed oaf.


    Blackmane reached out with a paw and pressed it against the cool metal, as if he could feel the precious data inside.


    The last will and testament of the man called Caput Leon, who had once held the Prince inside his mind.


    Harry del Sed frowned. "Okay. No, what? Okay. Tell me again."


    Marianne cast him a tired look. "I don''t want to be mean, but that''s the third time she''s explained it."


    "LEARN TO LISTEN, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS!" screeched her puppet twin.


    Still, Annatrice had no problem explaining herself again. The story she was telling was fairly insane, and she wasn''t sure if she fully bought it herself. Huddled in the corner with the others, she went through everything Erica had told her one more time -- the Prince and the Sed''s true purpose -- leaving nothing out.


    "So that was what the Sed was all about?" Harry mumbled, turning pale. "What, making the perfect person to stuff that¡­ that thing into?"


    "That''s what Erica said," Annatrice nodded.


    "Well, how does Erica know?"


    "Well¡­ I¡­ I, uh -- I don''t know. But she sounded pretty sure of it. The big lion guy did too. She really didn''t tell you guys any of this? She said she did."


    "Nope," Harry shook his head. "I got snatched off of Taldan and brought right here. No lecture for me." His eyes flicked over to Marianne. "You?"


    "Same for me," she said quietly.


    "THAT SHOULD BE FUCKING OBVIOUS FROM THE FUCKING CONTEXT, YOU FUCKING WORM!"


    Annatrice put a hand to her chin. So, for some reason, Erica had decided to tell her and her alone all this stuff about the Prince. Even more than that, she''d sent Tybalt down to the planet to snatch her out of the middle of the experiment in the first place. Did that mean she was somehow vital to Erica''s plans? And what even were those plans?


    "What I don''t get¡­" she muttered. "...is why she''d tell a lie that''s so easy to see through."


    "Well, that''s easy," Harry shrugged. "Her whole thing is self-control, right? I heard that somewhere. She doesn''t have any doubt in herself at all. So I bet she doesn''t even doubt her stupid decisions. Being 100% confident in everything you do isn''t always a good thing."


    "Speaking from experience?" Marianne asked.


    "SOUNDS LIKE YOU''RE TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF, YOU FUCKING MOLLUSC!"


    "Mollusc?" Harry frowned, looking at the puppet on Marianne''s shoulder.


    She waved a dismissive hand. "Don''t even listen to it, it just says stuff."


    Annatrice kept staring into space, though, that hand still on her chin. There was a tight feeling in her throat -- the prelude to strangulation. All of this, all of this, all of this¡­ it all still felt wrong to her.


    They''d been making something in that pod, making something with Aether, and talking about an Aether program called the Prince. They''d been gathering the children of the Sed, who''d been created to receive the Prince. It didn''t take a genius to figure out where this went.


    It''s happening again, Annatrice thought, a sudden wave of despair washing over her. It''s all happening again.


    They''re starting the Sed up again¡­ and making a new Prince to give us.


    Erica del Sed stared off into the darkness of space.


    People often said that the stars were beautiful, but they were incorrect. The stars were far too small to be beautiful, their light far too weak to pierce the gloom. To look at the sky was to look at a blanket of black. To look at the sky was to invite a wave of despair that could crush you entirely.


    As a child recovering from the knives of surgeons, Erica del Sed had often thought this as she walked under the night sky. She had been correct then, and she was correct now. She had been correct every moment of her life.


    "You''re crying," Tybalt observed as he put his clothes back on. "Is that okay?"


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    Erica put a hand to her eyes and wiped them. Huh, she thought, looking at the moisture on her fingers. I am crying.


    She promptly stopped.


    "It''s a sad day," she said, turning to look at Tybalt. "By the end of it, I won''t be around anymore -- at least not in the same way."


    "You''d cry for yourself?" Tybalt frowned, his braid swishing through the air behind him as he wriggled into his pants. "That doesn''t sound like you at all, Erica."


    "What does sound like me? I''m the only one who decides what I sound like, so I suppose I sound like nobody."


    "You know I don''t get this stuff," Tybalt frowned theatrically.


    "It''s fine. You''re just my sounding board right now. I''m the clean slate with nothing but a temporary ''self''... while that girl is someone who can adopt and inhabit any ''self''. Yes, that makes sense."


    "Are you talking about Annatrice?" Tybalt frowned. "Because she''s not that great. A few words were able to break through her ability."


    "No," Erica corrected him. "A few words were able to break through her confidence¡­ and, as you know, I can make as much confidence as I need."


    "Ah," Tybalt nodded sagely. "So that''s why you were crying."


    Erica nodded. It only made sense. All the other graduates of the Sed were her family. She bore responsibility for them all.


    When faced with a situation where she had to sacrifice one, what could the older sister do but weep?


    "That thing caught you, then," Bruno grunted, crouching down next to Ruth.


    She nodded.


    After finally making it back underground, Ruth had made her way into one of the uppermost caverns and finally gotten some much-needed rest. It was funny: after the beating she''d taken, she''d expected to be off her feet for a good while longer¡­ but the body Wu Ming had given her was astounding. Already, she could feel her strength returning.


    "How''d you get away?" Serena asked, her brow knitting into a line of worry.


    Ruth thumped her chest with a hand. "Figured out she was going after life signs," she said. "Manifested my armour over my heart, muffled my heartbeat."


    "Oh, that''s smart," Serena said, impressed.


    "No," Sam Set said, mortified. "That''s awful. You realize the inside of your body isn''t just filled with, like, empty space, right? There''s stuff in there!"


    Ruth shrugged. "It worked."


    "Well, it shouldn''t have!"


    "This LYCHGATE thing," Ruth said, cracking her neck as she straightened up into a sitting position. "It''ll definitely take you to the enemy base?"


    "It took Erica there," Serena said seriously. "And she even said it was the way to rebel. Erica''s full of herself, but I don''t remember her being a good liar. She got way too confident with the stupidest lies."


    "Alright," Ruth nodded, a fanged smirk tugging at her lips. "If we''re going to take these bastards on, then, I''m guessing we need manpower."


    "There''s five of us," Sam sighed. "And -- no offense -- none of us are in fighting condition right now. I don''t think I''ve ever been in fighting condition. We couldn''t even take on just Erica. Who knows what else is waiting on the other side of that gate?"


    "So you just need manpower," Ruth noted. "The Widow is waiting outside, right?"


    Sam blinked. "Huh?"


    "It''s easy. I''ll keep that thing outside busy, while you guys bust the Widow out of her ice-cube and get through the gate. If you can find Wolfram while I''m fighting her, that''s even better."


    "But¡­" Sam spluttered. "Are you crazy?! Look at what that thing did to you -- what it just did to you! You''ll get yourself killed!"


    "Nah," Ruth said, without a trace of doubt. "This time, I''ll win."


    Her golden eyes flicked over to Serena -- and for a moment, she truly thought about revealing all. The Weapon is Lily Aubrisher, she almost said. The Weapon is Lily Aubrisher, who we fought with on Hexkay, who we fought with on Elysian Fields. The Weapon is our friend.


    But no. There was no need to burden her friends with that as well. So, she gave Serena nothing but her unbreakable gaze.


    Serena blinked. "You really think you''ll be okay?"


    "I do."


    Ruth''s heart thumped steadily in her chest. It was true. Right now, after crawling through that darkness, she truly felt like she could beat anyone in the world.


    "I do," she repeated.


    Someone on Serendipity had a sudden thought.


    Jaime Pierrot''s finger froze over his holographic keyboard, caught between one keystroke and the next. He hadn''t heard from Blaine and her people since they''d left for the Sed. He still hadn''t heard back from his Vantablack Squad, either¡­ but that hadn''t bothered him. He hadn''t felt any urgency at all to pursue his missing agents, past or present.


    Until now.


    Without hesitation, Pierrot reached for his script and put it to his ear, calling his subordinate Ultraviolet.


    "Koel," he said calmly. "It''s me."


    "Oh~?" came the Iminant''s playful voice. "And what can I do for you, former Captain?"


    The keystrokes resumed, now for a new purpose. "I''m sending you names and numbers. I need you to pull in some favours for me. You''ll have the coordinates and specific instructions presently."


    "Roger that~. Oh, wow," Koel said, clearly reading through the list of contacts. "Three, Two, and One? You''re really pulling out all the stops here, huh?"


    "See it done," Pierrot said, hanging up without another word.


    He let out a small breath. Indeed¡­ it was rare for something to bring him anxiety these days, but the thought of the Sed always did it. The one time he had failed. The one time he hasn''t been able to swallow back his pride.


    The one time he had disobeyed the Prince. It had been a juvenile thing.


    Succession had always been a concern -- and so, at the Prince''s prodding, Pierrot had moved money and people and resources to craft the Sed from a distance. A project to create the perfect inheritor of the Prince. A project to make sure that, when the time came, Pierrot''s burden passed into capable hands.


    He had believed that course of action was correct¡­ and perhaps he still did. It wasn''t logic that had forced him to turn away.


    When he''d visited the Sed in person for the first time, to see what his investments had created¡­ and he''d seen that girl, whittled away to nothing¡­ he had been unable to bear it. Knowing something was happening and seeing it happen were two different things. Some long-dormant idealistic nerve had twitched, and so Pierrot had looked away from what had to be done. Without thought to the consequences, he had shut down the Sed that very same day and brought the project to a close.


    That was the first and last time he had gone against the Prince.


    That was the first and last time he had taken the foolish path.


    Indeed¡­ Jaime Pierrot had a sudden thought. But it wasn''t his thought. He''d been with the Prince long enough to recognise its fingerprints.


    Something was starting.

 Chapter 460 15.14: Set

    The city was silent, an abandoned skeleton, its gutted skyscrapers silhouetted against the setting sun. Mannequins smiled vacantly as the light slid off their faces. Rats skittered through the stretching shadows.


    And atop a massive silo, Ruth Blaine sat, her legs crossed. She was breathing steadily, her eyes closed, as if she were meditating. Right now, her heart was surrounded by her armour¡­ that was all that had allowed her to reach this place without provoking her target''s ire. It was a fragile protection, and one she now intended to do away with.


    Ruth thumped her fist upon the roof beneath her.


    Ten.


    Deep in a derelict factory, Lily Aubrisher''s head snapped up.


    Nine.


    She vanished in a shower of blue sparks, and the door flew off its hinges.


    Eight.


    She sprinted across a highway, burning her footsteps into the road beneath her.


    Clap.


    Ruth Blaine brought her hands together, and the sound of their connection echoed through the empty city around her. Infused by her Aether, the noise was like the stomp of a giant beast, accompanied by red tendrils that lit up the night. Slowly, she opened her eyes.


    Seven.


    Lily leapt off the road onto a building, and from there to a higher building, and from there once more to one even higher. In that instant, the city was nothing but her staircase. The only sign of her passing were the craters she left in the rooftops and the trail of electricity in her wake.


    Six.


    Lily let herself fall off the next roof, arms high in the air as her plummeting form was reflected in the glass windows behind her.


    Five.


    Even with her mind lost to an endless dream, Lily Aubrisher still had the body of a warrior. In an instant, she calculated the angles and trajectories needed to reach her opponent. In an instant, she readied herself for her next move.


    Four.


    She made it.


    Lily kicked off the building with such force that each and every glass pane on it shattered from the impact, the crater alone nearly splitting the structure in two. Like a bullet, Lily Aubrisher zoomed forth towards her prey.


    Seeing the distant glow of approaching blue Aether, Ruth Blaine rose to her feet, her hair billowing in the wind behind her. It was already beginning to shine like a wildfire. Once more, she brought her hands together into a gunshot.


    Clap.


    Three.


    Lily''s trajectory fired her into another building, from which she kicked off again -- and again, and again -- leaving a trail of broken skyscrapers behind her.


    Two.


    Now, it was a straight shot. Lily twisted in the air, tucking her arms in and pointing her feet forward in preparation for a lethal dropkick.


    One.


    Ruth Blaine blinked.


    It doesn''t matter how fast you are¡­ she thought. If I know exactly when you''re going to reach me¡­ it''s nothing.


    Clap.


    Zero.


    Ruth Blaine brought her hands together for the third time -- and caught Lily Aubrisher''s leg in her grip.


    Even having caught it, the impact alone was devastating -- the roof of the silo exploded as Ruth and Lily went flying off it, Ruth still holding onto that leg with everything she had. Screaming in pain and exertion, she twisted the limb with all her strength even as the wind whipped against her, pulling and turning until --


    Snap.


    -- she felt it break.


    Lily Aubrisher didn''t display any sign of pain. She didn''t scream, or shout, or cry. Instead, she just calmly swiped her arm -- and slammed her palm into Ruth''s chest, spiking her far down towards the ground like a basketball and freeing herself from her opponent''s grip.


    As she was forced out of the grapple, Ruth knew she couldn''t stop and think about her next move. In a fight like this, thought spelt death. Those who couldn''t rely on their instincts wouldn''t live to regret it¡­


    ¡­but Ruth Blaine had already decided not to regret anymore anyway.


    Noblesse Set!


    Ruth activated the Noblesse Set the second she hit the ground, and the tremendous recoil fired her right back up towards Lily. Pulling her fist back, Ruth readied herself with all the speed and force the near-lethal maneuver had blessed her with. Screaming, she plunged that burning red fist forward.


    It didn''t take.


    Lily caught Ruth''s punch in an infused hand before it could strike her stomach -- and with her other hand, swept a chop through the air that could have taken Ruth''s head off. At the last moment, she pulled her head back, letting the chop brush inches over her face instead. The air pressure alone decapitated the factory behind her.


    The momentum took both of them, slamming them through and into a neighbouring office building. Separated by the hail of debris, they both plunged their fingers into the floor beneath them, forcing their bodies to a halt in the middle of the dust-covered -- and fake -- office space. Ruth straightened up.


    She''d achieved her aim with that first attack, she could confirm that now. Lily''s right foot was entirely facing the wrong way -- if she''d been herself, Ruth doubted she could even have brought herself to move right now. Even with whatever those bastards had done to her, though, the injury would have an impact. No matter how fast Lily could move, she still needed working legs to do it.


    All this went through her mind between one blink and the next. That was all the time afforded to her.


    Lily Aubrisher lunged forward.


    It was funny. Breaking Lily''s leg had definitely been a massive boon for Ruth Blaine. Still, all it really meant¡­ was that her eyes could now track the afterimages.


    "Hurry," Sam hissed, keeping his body low as if that would save him. "Hurry hurry hurry hurry."


    "I am hurrying," Serena replied.


    She squatted down and planted her palms against the ground. Violet Aether coursed through her hands, and she pulled two concrete pickaxes out of the pavement. She tossed one to Sam, and one to Alcera, before plucking another out for herself. Flipping it in her hand, she got back to her feet.


    The Widow''s Cold Sleep was pretty nice to look at. It was like an ice sculpture had been erected in the middle of the street -- a sparkling cuboid flower, with the woman herself slumbering at its core. Even asleep, her eyes were open, staring with a muted disdain off into empty space.


    "So we just crack it open?" Sam said doubtfully, looking down at the pickaxe in his hands. "Is that even safe? What if damaging this thing kills --"


    Alcera wasted no time. With a wordless scream of exertion, she swung her pick with all her strength at the Cold Sleep structure. The ice cracked, the noise accompanied by a wince from Set.


    "Amantha," he turned away, putting a finger to his ear. "How''s Blaine looking? We still have time? We still have time, right?"


    Amantha Noon''s voice came back over the comms, grainy and indistinct.


    "You guys are gonna wanna see this," Amantha said, chewing on a ration-biscuit as she watched the battle through Demon Core''s scope.


    Well, she said that, but at this point there wasn''t much to see.


    The battle had moved into an office building -- and so all that could be seen of the combat now were the flickering lights that moved up and down the levels. If that indicated where the fight was currently taking place, though, it must have been something to behold. Second floor, fifth floor, ninth floor, third floor -- the building was flickering up and down like an ornamental tree.


    "Don''t give me a line, tell me what''s happening!" Sam''s panicked voice -- which was really his default voice, honestly speaking -- came back over the comms.


    Amantha sighed. "Okie dokie. They''re still fighting in a building in Sector B2. Both have taken hits, but it seems like this is gonna go on for a while longer. You''re safe to go digging or whatever the heck."


    "Roger that."


    The comms clicked off, and Amantha hummed softly to herself as she leaned back towards the scope. Perched in the cliffs around the city like this, there wasn''t much she could do to get to the others in time for departure¡­ but snipers didn''t live long up close, anyway. Right now, she was in her element.


    Sitting and waiting¡­ waiting for the perfect shot.


    The ice cleared away from the Widow''s face with Alcera''s third swing of her pickaxe. The tool broke in her hands as she stepped away, her breathing heavy. Even as she freed her superior, she narrowed her crimson eyes in resentment of that fact.


    The effect was immediate.


    With a blink, the Widow''s eyes regained their clarity, and her breathing resumed its calm tempo. From her perspective, it must have seemed like time had skipped forward since she''d activated Cold Sleep, but if that bothered her any she didn''t show it. She just turned her head slightly to look down at Sam, even as the frost fell from her grey hair.


    "What''s the situation?" she croaked.


    Skeletal claws clashed with bolts of lightning.


    The building was their battlefield now. What level they were fighting on didn''t matter. If they wanted to descend, they just pressed down on the floor below them. If they wanted to ascend, they just jumped through the ceiling above them. To them, this building might as well have been made of matchsticks. To them, this city might as well have been made of matchsticks.


    Ruth Blaine, clad in her Skeletal Set, darted forth on all fours -- crawling beneath a desk in the instant before Lily attacked. The heat of the lightning she launched was enough to incinerate the wooden furniture instantly, but it still provided enough visual cover for Ruth to get in close. Roaring like a wild beast, she lunged in and swept her claws up towards Lily''s mask, seeking to shatter it as quickly as possible.


    She didn''t fully understand what had been done to Lily, and she didn''t fully understand how to snap her out of it, but she was following her instincts now -- and her instincts told her that mask had to go. Once she could look Lily in the eyes, she was sure she could make her remember. The battles they had fought together, the victory they had claimed, the bond they''d forged in their time together. So long as Ruth could look through the windows to her soul, she was sure she could pull it free again.


    Not that Lily was going to make it easy.


    Three flashes of light like a camera going off -- her speed was such that she seemed to snap from position to position rather than actually moving. With the first snap, she leaned back to avoid Ruth''s swipe. With the second, she dropped down to the ground, legs spread wide and crooked like those of a spider. With the third, she jabbed two fingers forward, firing a bolt of electricity towards Ruth''s gut.


    Noblesse Set!


    A bead of sweat swiftly evaporated from Ruth''s forehead as the lightning struck her. Her timing had to be perfect, or else she would surely die. The bolt of electricity was reflected at the very last moment -- but with a fourth snap, Lily simply stepped out of the rebounding attack''s way and let it zoom past her. It burnt a hole in the wall behind her and lit a path out into the city.


    Ruth took a breath in the moment that maneuver had bought her.


    Right now, the Noblesse Set was Ruth''s lifeline. She could equip it onto part of her body in the same amount of time it took to think about it. Compared to that, manually blocking or dodging an attack seemed unbearably slow. At the same time, she couldn''t overuse it either. If a series of rapid attacks destroyed all the pieces of her Noblesse Set, she wouldn''t be able to defend against a finishing blow until it regenerated.


    So -- she just had to put in the work herself.


    Direwolf Set!


    The shell of the beast encased her body in an instant -- and she bounded forward, destroying the room with each stomp upon the floor. In dodging, Lily had left an opening, one Ruth fully intended to take advantage of. With a snarl, she slammed her shoulder into Lily''s body, seeking to send her flying through the hole in the wall -- but Lily seized that shoulder with both hands and pushed against it, grinding the balls of her feet into the floor.


    The blow had been blocked.


    Damnit¡­ she shouldn''t be able to beat me in pure strength¡­ but¡­


    Ruth''s eyes flicked down, and she saw what Lily was doing. Tiny sparks of lightning were binding Lily''s feet to the carpet below -- static electricity? Ruth didn''t really get how it worked, but somehow it was keeping Lily fixed in place, bolstering her strength to let her withstand Ruth''s attack.


    She gritted her teeth. With her being controlled, Ruth had expected Lily''s attacks to be brutal and wide-ranged, but she was still capable of little tricks like this? That would make things difficult.


    Rather, that would make things deadly.


    As the two of them ground to a halt, Lily raised one hand -- and lightning blazed in her grip. Electricity coursed and lashed between her fingers, before surging outwards and stabilizing into a structure like a longsword. Without hesitation, she swung it up towards Ruth''s head.


    Noblesse Set!


    The black maw of the Direwolf Set was replaced by the pale helmet of the Noblesse Set, ready to reflect Lily''s sword-strike. The second it appeared though, the sword Lily had created disappeared -- and Lily''s empty hand lashed out instead. Ruth''s eyes widened to their utmost.


    She baited me!


    Lily wrapped her hand around Ruth''s throat and squeezed. Despite the size difference, Ruth was quickly brought down to one knee, her choking barely audible through the featureless Noblesse visage. She swung her free fist sideways at Lily''s head -- but a bolt of lightning lashed out from the girl''s temple, deflecting the punch and sending Ruth''s hand back down to the ground.


    As she was strangled, Ruth could only look forward, right into the black-and-white mask that covered Lily''s face. If only she could get that damn thing off¡­ she reached out to try and tear it away, but more lightning just repelled her hand every time¡­ slowly, her eyes began to fail her¡­ her eyes began to flutter¡­


    ¡­her eyes began to close¡­


    Guardian Entity: Byakko! 100%!


    Right before Ruth''s consciousness faded, there was a sound like a balloon bursting --


    Pop!


    -- and a sudden explosion of force sent both Ruth and Lily flying.


    Lily recovered first, flipping in the air and thrusting her hands forward to fire off more lightning -- but before she could get the attack off, a massive fist slammed into her body and spiked her out of the building entirely. The owner of that fist dropped down to the floor in her place -- and as his hand returned to its normal size, smoke trailed from the fingers of Wolfram of the White.


    He whirled his head around to face Ruth. "Miss Blaine! Are you okay?!"


    Ruth grunted as she picked herself up from the floor, the white helmet of the Noblesse Set swapping out for the snarling face of the Direwolf in a flash of red Aether.


    "I''m good," she forced out. "But where the hell did you come from?"


    Wolfram''s gaze flicked anxiously between Ruth and the hole in the wall Lily had gone flying through. "I -- I was hiding inside her armour, I got stuck there during the fight, back before -- but, but Miss Blaine -- it -- she isn''t just a thing, she''s Miss Aubri --"


    "I know," Ruth said gravely.


    He swung around to face her, his eyes wide. "What?!"


    "I know," Ruth repeated, standing up straight. "It''s why I''m here. I''m trying to snap her out of it."


    "Well, we --"


    The air shifted. Ruth took in a sharp breath. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. In that moment, all of Ruth Blaine''s instincts told her to accept death.


    This time, she would ignore them. With one bound, she seized hold of Wolfram. With another, she launched the two of them out of the building, flying off in the opposite direction from where Lily had gone.


    It was nearly too late.


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    A colossal bolt of lightning spat down from the sky and lanced through the building, permeating each and every level in an instant. The explosion that followed a moment later devoured the building entirely -- and as Ruth wrapped her body protectively around Wolfram, pellets of shrapnel bounced off her armoured back.


    The two of them rolled to a stop on the ravaged ground below, their forms separating as they reflexively assumed combat positions. Wolfram looked warily up towards the sky -- and it was no wonder. The environment had changed while they''d been fighting inside. The clear sky from earlier was gone, replaced by a tumultuous sea of broiling clouds. A thunderstorm. Was this a coincidence, or something brought about by Lily''s powers?


    Ruth got the feeling she wouldn''t be getting an explanation.


    Lily Aubrisher strode out of the flames, transformed into a silhouette of death by the inferno. Wolfram''s emergence had shattered the outer layer of her armour, revealing the sleek black bodysuit beneath -- and as she advanced, Lily tore away the shredded remnants of a shoulder pad and tossed it onto the floor. Arcs of electricity coursed between her hips and her arms as she lifted them, preparing for the next stage of combat.


    "Like I said," Ruth picked up the conversation like nothing had happened, wiping the soot from her face as she stared Lily down. "I''m gonna snap her out of it."


    Wolfram swallowed back his tension, raising his fists as he stood up straight. "I''ll help, then. What''s the plan?"


    Ruth shook her head slightly, eyes locked on the enemy before her, waiting for that fatal first move. "The others are heading to the source of all this. You''ll be more useful there. Go catch up with them."


    "But¡­!"


    "I don''t want to be mean," she said coldly. "But I can''t afford to babysit you right now." S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Wolfram squeezed his hands into fists, and his eyes closed. For a second, it looked like he might just stay put. Then, he tore himself away from the battlefield and sprinted off into the night. Ruth didn''t turn to watch him go.


    "I''m surprised you just let him get away like that," she called out to Lily. "I bet it''s too much to ask that you''re coming back to your senses, though, huh?"


    Lily said nothing.


    Ruth narrowed her eyes. Most likely, this was just a result of whatever programming Lily was under. She''d decided that Ruth was more of a threat than Wolfram, that was all. If she went to pursue Wolfram, she''d be opening herself up to an attack from Ruth. Just basic threat prioritization.


    The logic of a machine. That was all. Ruth growled as a living thing.


    Lily stepped forward. Twin blades of lightning manifested in her hands.


    Ruth stepped forward. Crimson Aether crawled across her form.


    In the distance, thunder crashed¡­ and, like a starting pistol had gone off, the two of them lunged as one.


    Skeletal Set!


    Lily had swept her blades through the air in anticipation of Ruth''s arrival -- but with the swap from Direwolf to Skeletal, the reduced speed meant that the swords struck only empty air. As Ruth darted into the opening she''d created, a bolt of red Aether lanced out from her shoulder blades and up into the sky.


    Monarque Set!


    Back during her fight with the Shepherdess, Ruth had been able to control two Sets at once -- one equipped to her body, the other controlled remotely like a puppet. She''d done it without thinking back then¡­ and she did it without thinking now. The egg of death appeared in the sky, looking down at them.


    Monarque in the sky and Skeletal on the ground. A skull-face above and below.


    Ruth slammed her elbow into Lily''s stomach, sending her skidding backwards -- and the Monarque unleashed a flurry of force-blasts that pummeled her into the ground, a crater expanding with each blow. As Lily was slowly buried by the repeated crimson blasts, Ruth spread her arms wide, preparing herself. In a perfect world, the fight would end there, with Lily held down by the perpetual blows.


    But this was not a perfect world.


    Lily blasted herself up out of the crater, weaving between the bolts of redistributed force as they rained down, like she was dancing through a thunderstorm. She was using that technique that allowed her to stand on air, blue sparks kicking off her feet as she kicked off empty space again and again. It was like she was generating a spiral staircase even as she climbed it.


    Within five seconds, Lily Aubrisher was face-to-face with the soaring Monarque Set. Electricity screeched as she generated a bolt of lightning in her hand -- but before she could hurl it and shatter Monarque like the egg it so resembled, she was suddenly assaulted by a hail of thin, sharp projectiles from below.


    It was simple.


    Ruth could manifest and demanifest any part of the armour she was wearing at will. When she manifested a part of the armour, she also didn''t necessarily have to be wearing it. That included the deadly claws of the Skeletal Set. If she manifested them individually, without the gauntlets they were usually attached to, they made perfectly good throwing knives.


    She hurled them up at Lily, demanifested them when they were blocked and dodged, then remanifested them and threw them again. In doing so, Ruth turned herself into something like a human gatling gun. The endless hail of death flew upwards -- and even with Lily Aubrisher''s insane reflexes, she couldn''t avoid having them scrape past her body and draw blood.


    Freed from impending destruction, the Monarque Set began to charge a shot more powerful than the ones that had come before, force crawling across its form to coalesce between its empty eye-sockets.


    Ruth smirked. Dodge this.


    But Lily Aubrisher didn''t dodge. She didn''t need to. In an instant afforded to her between one knife and the next, she jerked two fingers to the side --


    -- and, out of nowhere, a car slammed into Ruth Blaine.


    The air was forced out of Ruth''s lungs as she was sent flying, but she quickly recovered, dropping down to the ground and lowering her body to avoid the flying vehicle as it zoomed towards her again. Her mind ran -- she threw aside surprise and sprinted straight towards realization. What was happening?


    Of course. Electromagnetism. Lily was using her abilities to control the metal around her -- to turn this skeleton of a city into an extension of her hands and feet. A chill went down Ruth''s spine as she realized just how much the human weapon had been holding back until now.


    Another chill went down her spine as she saw the cloud of commandeered vehicles now hurtling through the air towards her.


    Ruth Blaine braced herself.


    The Widow didn''t so much as blink as she sank into LYCHGATE''s wound, not even when the green blood and pus washed over her eyes. The moment she disappeared from sight, Serena turned to look at Sam.


    "So, uh," she said. "Are we sure that she''s, like, a person?"


    "We''ve gone through that debate," Sam muttered, rubbing his nose. "We''re not sure. She''ll get pissed if we don''t follow straight away, though -- Morgan, you go in next."


    "Fine," Morgan said, even as he looked queasy at the thought of touching the abomination before him. He climbed into the wound and began sinking too.


    "How is it?" Serena asked curiously.


    "In a tactile sense?" Morgan asked. "It''s sort of the worst thing I''ve experienced in my life."


    "It''s that bad?"


    "Mm-hmm." Morgan clamped his mouth shut and squeezed his eyes closed as his face sank into the viscera.


    "Okay," said Sam as Morgan vanished. "Now Alcera, you --"


    "Guys!"


    The group turned -- just in time to see Wolfram arrive in the chamber, panting for breath, his hands planted on his knees as he recovered from what seemed like it had been quite a marathon. Sam widened his eyes, and Alcera allowed herself a smirk. It wasn''t like they''d thought Wolfram was dead, but¡­ okay, maybe they had thought Wolfram was dead. It wasn''t often in their line of work that they got a miracle like this.


    Wolfram grinned, even if it looked forced.


    "Room for one more?"


    Two titans tore their way through the city.


    Monarque had disappeared from the sky. Right now, Ruth Blaine needed access to all the speed she could get. Clad in the jagged black steel of the Direwolf, she darted swiftly through the demise that was coming for her. With each and every movement accompanied by a crimson lance of Aether, she made to close the distance between her and Lily Aubrisher.


    It wasn''t easy.


    The city itself had become Ruth''s enemy. A hail of vehicles surged towards her, like massive bullets, each intended to reduce Ruth to a stain on the highway. Moving so fast she became a blur herself, Ruth charged -- turning the projectiles intended to kill her into a stairway of her own. She leapt from car to car, launching herself with such force that the vehicles were reduced to scrap metal as she abandoned them. Those she couldn''t climb upon, she tore to pieces with her claws. Those she couldn''t tear to pieces with her claws, she punched and kicked out of her path.


    Lily stood upon thin air a short distance away, directing the torrent of metal with waves of her fingers. As Ruth continued to close the distance, Lily just crooked her fingers -- pulling what was left of the vehicles back towards her. Scrap or not, metal was metal, and soon enough Ruth was forced to jump between the web of tightening steel, held back by the revolving torrent.


    It was funny. This didn''t feel like it did before. While Ruth was moving with all the natural instinct of a beast, her mind was calmly ticking away. While she bounced between murder like a pinball, it felt like she was dictating a letter to an old friend¡­


    Hey, Skipper. I''ve been thinking.


    She tucked her body in, passing unharmed through the interior of a bus as it was flung at her.


    Did you realize something like this could happen?


    A hail of stray nails flew through the air like a swarm of angry bees, and Ruth deflected them with a flurry of slashes.


    You brought all those people to Elysian Fields¡­ you brought all those people we''d fought with to Elysian Fields, to help you kill the Supreme¡­ but did you realize some of them could end up like this?


    The storm opened its eye, and Ruth took advantage of it immediately. Launching off the tiniest foothold, she shot right towards Lily -- the sheer speed of her movement producing a deafening boom. The missile named Ruth Blaine slammed into the weapon named Lily Aubrisher -- and the thunder goddess seized her fists in her hands. They flew through the air as one, each pushing against the other''s strength.


    Scout died. Nobody''s even seen Roy''s face in years. And Lily ended up like this.


    The two of them twisted in the sky, struggling for dominance -- and for a second, Ruth found it. She hurled Lily down towards the ground with all her strength, and the impact kicked up a geyser of rubble.


    Recently¡­ I''ve been thinking of you as a hero, Skipper. That''s the word I keep using: ''hero''. But¡­ that isn''t right, is it? A ''hero'' isn''t a real person. A ''hero'' is some guy from a storybook, who only makes good things happen. Who makes all the right decisions, and does everything right. I''ve never met a ''hero'' in real life.


    ¡­and even if I did, I don''t think he''d look like me or you.


    Ruth landed on the roof of a half-collapsed building -- and without much effort, she tore free a protruding length of rebar steel from the wall next to her. Using one hand as a guide, she aimed her newfound weapon down towards the spot Lily had landed, now consumed by a cloud of smog. With a flash of crimson Aether, she leapt up into the sky once more --


    Direwolf Set!


    -- and she transferred her armour to the metal pole in her hand.


    Encased by Direwolf, the metal pole had become a jagged black harpoon -- and Ruth hurled it down towards the ground without hesitation. It slammed into the earth like a missile, stirring up a vortex of smoke and rubble as it made impact. As she landed, Ruth frowned to herself.


    Did that knock her out, at least? I need to --


    The air became death once more, and Ruth Blaine became a survivor. She leapt back -- right as a blur of indescribable movement erased the building she''d been standing on. Hissing electricity raced through the space the skyscraper had occupied, lashing out like a swarm of angry snakes.


    With a stomp, Lily Aubrisher banished the smoke that had been surrounding her, and Ruth realized what she had done.


    She''d used electromagnetism once again -- gathering mannequins around her like the bullets of a revolver. Then, using her lightning, she''d fired one of the human-shaped lumps of metal directly at Ruth. Just like Ruth had acted as a human gatling gun, Lily had turned herself into a human railgun.


    It''s coming!


    In the second afforded to her, Ruth instinctively raised her arms in a cross to block. Lighting flared behind one of the human bullets, and -- with a flash of electricity¡­


    Noblesse --


    ¡­too late.


    The railgun shot slammed into Ruth''s body, far superior to the speed of the earlier attacks, and pushed her through the city with ease. Buildings shattered against Ruth''s back as she crashed through them, metal and brick and glass pelting her from every angle. A scream of pain poured from her throat, swallowed by the sheer speed at which she was flying.


    In the end, Ruth was thrown through a dozen skyscrapers, tracing a path of destruction through the city, and was left in a twitching heap -- right inside the burning skeleton of the silo this battle had begun in.


    Slowly, she picked herself up, limbs shaking¡­


    ¡­and then stopped as a massive shadow fell on her.


    Ruth Blaine looked up.


    Oh, she thought with dawning horror. You really were holding back, weren''t you, Lily?


    Lily Aubrisher was standing atop the sky once more, the raging storm behind her like a regalia of clouds. She stared down at Ruth with that inscrutable mask, one hand raised high above her head. And¡­ high above that, held in the grip of electromagnetism¡­


    ¡­was a goddamn building.


    Lily had torn an entire building out of the ground, and now she held it ready -- ready to fire down as another one of her bullets. Chunks of concrete were already coming down from its base like vicious snowfall. As Lily rotated the structure slightly to improve her aim, the screech of suffering metal filled the night air.


    I''m dead.


    Regret clearly said that to Ruth Blaine¡­ but she''d already decided, hadn''t she? She wouldn''t be listening to regret anymore.


    She''d withstand this lightning.


    She''d withstand this railgun.


    She''d withstand everything, everything, this entire damn world if she had to!


    Ruth Blaine raised her arms once more -- and once more, Lily Aubrisher fired.


    The final shot, fired with the Humanoid Weapon AUBRISHER''s maximum discrimination, had truly been a sight to behold. The explosion it had created had turned nearly the entire city into a crater of glass, even the underground tunnels having collapsed from the impact. To tell the truth, this was a level of destruction beyond even what AUBRISHER''s developers would have anticipated.


    Slowly, she descended to the ground, already returning to a neutral state. The threat, although formidable, had been eliminated. Her running orders now were to await the detection of the next threat, wait ten seconds, then eliminate it too.


    With mechanical efficiency, she turned and went to leave --


    "Lily."


    -- before stopping and turning back.


    Life-signs had resumed. The threat had not been eliminated. Combat would therefore resume as well. AUBRISHER looked down into the crater, ascertaining the current state of her enemy.


    Molten metal -- the remains of the city''s buildings -- was flowing across the ground, running down the crater and gathering at its centre. The heartbeat was coming from the same area, from within the churning lump of bubbling steel at the crater''s base. AUBRISHER raised two fingers and fired a bolt of lightning -- one billion volts -- at the target.


    Ruth Blaine deflected it with a swing of her arm.


    "Sorry, Lily," she said, voice low. "You can''t kill me anymore."


    Only the bottom half of Ruth''s face was visible -- she was clad in a long, flowing cloak of molten metal, stretching for nearly a kilometer. Every inch of it crackled with crimson. Every inch of it crawled in tighter, and tighter, clasping her body, surely but slowly forming something new.


    This was not something AUBRISHER could allow. She knew that instinctively. With all the speed her body could still produce, she lunged forward --


    -- but it had become too late for her a long time ago.


    Empereur Set.


    A pillar of red Aether blasted out of Ruth''s body, linking the heavens and the earth in a single transcendent line. It shone out of Ruth''s eyes. It shone out of Ruth''s mouth. It shone out of Ruth''s wounds. Glory escaped through every gate.


    The molten metal solidified, achieved shape, forming a shape suited for victory. Skeletal and Direwolf, Noblesse and Monarque, even Revolutionnaire¡­ everything she had been given, everything she had achieved, fusing and melding together into one.


    A knight''s white helmet sculpted into the shape of a skull. A pair of wide shoulder-pads, lined with hooked blades. A series of short but sharp claws tipping her new radiant gauntlet. A hulking figure that could overpower anything.


    Still¡­ the look is important, too.


    Ruth threw one thick arm out -- and cast a billowing red cape behind her, like a waving warbanner.


    Lily was still coming. She''d reach Ruth and try to finish her off before this second ended. Even with that, though, Ruth wasn''t worried any longer.


    I''m glad you hit me with that building, Lily.


    Skeletal boosted Ruth''s strength and speed. Direwolf pushed that to the next level. Noblesse reflected enemy attacks. Monarque absorbed the impact of enemy attacks and redistributed it as blasts of force.


    And Empereur, the culmination of Ruth Blaine? It absorbed those attacks too -- and then converted the force directly into more strength and more speed.


    Lily Aubrisher threw a thousand punches in sixty seconds.


    Ruth Blaine met her with a thousand-and-one more.


    The last of them slammed into that damn mask -- and shattered it.


    How long had Lily Aubrisher been fighting for now? It felt like ages¡­ years, at the very least. But that didn''t mean she could give up.


    She had to go fight in the forest. She was needed there. If she didn''t fight there, her comrades would die.


    She had to go fight in the base. She was needed there. If she didn''t fight there, her comrades would die.


    She had to go fight in the tunnels. She was needed there. If she didn''t fight there, her comrades would die.


    She had to go fight in the starship. She was needed there. If she didn''t fight there, her comrades would die.


    She flitted from one end of Elysian Fields to the other, killing and killing, fulfilling her duty to her comrades. Yes. She had a duty here. She had promised Ruth, after all. She had promised Ruth she would help. She had to help kill the Supreme. A man she had never even heard of until recently¡­ but still, she had promised.


    Everything was so strange. The killing and the killing. It felt like she wasn''t herself. It felt like this was all a long, vague dream. But she had a duty. She had a duty to keep fighting until the end. When was the end? When was the end?


    It didn''t matter. She had a duty. She had to go fight in the forest. She was needed there. If she didn''t fight there, her comrades would die.


    She turned to head back to the forest¡­


    ¡­and stopped.


    "Oh," she said vaguely. "You''re here, Ruth."


    Yes. Ruth was here, standing before her, looking at her with an expression like her heart was broken. What was going on? Was the battle not going well? But they''d been fighting for years now. They just had to keep fighting. They had a duty.


    Still¡­ tears were coursing down Ruth''s face. That wasn''t good. Lily opened her mouth to say something¡­ something she couldn''t even think of¡­ but before she could, Ruth Blaine was gone, and only the mission remained.


    Yes¡­ she had a duty.


    Even if her flesh was torn, she had to keep fighting.


    Even if her bones were broken, she had to keep fighting.


    Even if her soul was spent, she had to keep fighting.


    She''d promised, after all.


    What was behind Lily Aubrisher''s mask could not be called a face.


    It was a mess of red mutilated flesh, and dark implanted metal. Wires ran down empty eye-sockets. Needles pierced an exposed brain. A jaw cut away, replaced by a tube. Ears clamped over with thick implants, the borders between them yellow with infection.


    I can''t save this, Ruth thought to herself. Oh, I can''t save this.


    It was a strange sensation, like a weight was being lifted from her shoulders even as it pushed down at her. Deep down, she''d suspected this, hadn''t she? Deep down, she''d known. Elysian Fields wasn''t the kind of story that gave out happy endings, even this long down the line.


    This is my fault, she knew. And this is Skipper''s fault.


    So¡­ it''s our responsibility, too.


    Lily let out a distorted snarl as she charged at Ruth again, her fingers bared like claws. Her mechanical efficiency had degenerated into an animalistic drive to kill¡­ but that wouldn''t be enough. Ruth Blaine had already won this battle.


    All that remained was to end it.


    Now that she''d been weakened to this extent, strength was no contest. Ruth reached out with the kindest grip she could, grabbed Lily by the shoulder, and sent her high up into the air. Then, looking up at her, Ruth reached out one hand as if to grasp the empty air there.


    Contretemps.


    A lance appeared in her hand, big enough to dwarf even the massive Empereur Set, and she calmly pointed it up at her target. Vaguely, she noticed that this left arm of hers -- unlike the rest of her armour -- was thin and spindly, black, with red lines running over it like magma. It was the chip, Rufus'' chip -- it had spread out to cover this part of her new Set entirely.


    Ruth tightened her grip.


    Skipper¡­ maybe you could have saved her, if it were you instead of me¡­ but let''s be honest¡­


    It was the smallest, slightest thing -- a beam of absorbed force, as thin as a needle, firing out from the tip of the lance and cleanly piercing Lily Aubrisher''s heart.


    ¡­you wouldn''t have tried, would you?


    Ruth reached out, delicately catching Lily as she fell from the sky¡­


    ¡­and, far above them, the storm came to a solemn end.

 Chapter 461 15.5: The Hush of War

    It was quiet. Too quiet.


    As Sam emerged from the wound of another corpse, he quickly took in his surroundings. That was important, after all -- this very well could be the last place he''d see. A cold metal room, the ceiling nearly spherical, with a hallway leading off into the complex proper.


    And, apart from them, it was empty.


    Oh, this is such bullshit.


    There was no way it was going to be this easy. The enemy knew they were coming, and they knew where they''d be coming from. If they had all that information to hand and didn''t have any guards posted, it went beyond incompetence and into insanity.


    Before he could voice his thoughts, however, the Widow grabbed him by the back of the collar and pulled him firmly out of LYCHGATE''s twin. Alcera glared daggers at the old woman as she manhandled him, but if the Widow noticed the hostility, she didn''t acknowledge it.


    Her grey eyes narrowed as she glanced around the chamber as well, releasing Sam and dropping him down to the floor.


    "The Thinker''s Comet," she said grimly.


    "What?" Morgan looked over his shoulder -- he''d been standing ready with his sword, prepared for the first attack.


    "I''ve been here before," the Widow replied. "They''ve changed the decor somewhat¡­ but the smell is the same."


    "So it is the AWL behind all this, then," Sam muttered, picking himself up. "But that''s¡­ this is crazy."


    The Thinker''s Comet was no ordinary star station. Along with the Sheshanaga and the Alec Alexander, it was one of three known vessels in the Supremacy capable of independent light-jumps, without the need of a lightpoint. To take a vessel like that behind enemy lines¡­ what was the Absurd Weapons Lab thinking?


    Before he could open his mouth to ask another question, though, an involuntary shudder slid down his spine -- and an involuntary flash of his blue Aether lit up the room for a moment.


    As the violet Aether ping ran over her as well -- her Aether cloaking let it pass uninterrupted -- the Widow glanced at Serena, who was leading the pack.


    "Did you find anyone?"


    Serena shook her head. "If there are other Aether-users nearby, they must be cloaking like you."


    "There almost certainly are," the Widow grunted. "And they almost certainly are."


    Wolfram raised his fists as if he were about to take on an invisible boxer. "You think we''re being watched right now?"


    "Again¡­ almost certainly," the Widow tightened her grip on her cane. "They''ll have prepared a grand reception for us. Personally¡­ I don''t see a way forward but to take part. Agreed?"


    She didn''t wait for a response, and she didn''t need one.


    The group darted forward, Aether of many colours dancing around their feet as they charged down the hallway. Sam glanced off to the side as they proceeded through the path they''d been given -- the hallway was lined with glass windows, looking out into the starlit void of space. Far below, he could see the snowy planet, the home of the Sed, slowly turning.


    Ruth Blaine would be fighting the Weapon down there right now. He wondered how she was doing.


    Sam bit his lip worriedly --


    -- and just as he did, the windows slid open.


    Death by depressurisation was not a pleasant thing to experience. Sam was unlucky enough that it wasn''t his first time¡­ but he was lucky enough that it wouldn''t be his last time either.


    Only I.


    "Personally¡­" said the Widow. "I don''t see a way forward but to take part. Agreed?"


    As they darted forward, running through the hallways, Sam turned to look at his commander.


    "They open the windows," he said hurriedly. "We all get sucked out into space. Your head pops."


    "Remotely?"


    The Widow didn''t even miss a beat when being informed of her own gruesome death. Sam nodded.


    Immediately, the Widow raised her arms -- and blasted a torrent of freezing wind down the length of the hallway, transforming it into a tunnel of ice and sealing any mechanisms that could have spelt their doom.


    "If they want to kill us," she said bitterly. "They''ll need to do it with their own two hands."


    Their hosts seemed to take that to heart.


    The floor burst upwards¡­ the ceiling fell inwards¡­ and automatics of every shape and size rushed forth to fill every inch of available space.


    Sam Set braced himself.


    Only I.


    Blood sprayed.


    Only I.


    Limbs flew.


    Only I.


    And on and on they went.


    The doors to the living quarters slid open, and Tybalt del Sed stepped through them. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    His hair was in a severe bun, and his eyes were cold. His Ego was in control right now, a persona of pure logic -- dedicated utterly to the mission. Two shadows followed him as he strode into the room. A dancing jester, a void of a smile opening and closing in silent laughter, and a snarling wolf, illusory drool dripping from its exaggerated jaws.


    The children of the Sed shrank away as he passed them. He was one of the people who had brought them here, after all. Even if there were no bars in this place, it still felt like a prison.


    He stopped.


    He looked down.


    For the first time since he''d entered the room, he blinked.


    "Annatrice." he said to the girl before him.


    Annatrice didn''t quite realize it, but she''d backed up as Tybalt had approached -- and now her back thumped against the wall. She looked up at him like a deer in the headlights.


    "What?" she asked, mouth dry.


    Tybalt del Sed smiled. It didn''t reach his eyes.


    "Erica wants you."


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    "I feel I must congratulate you," the air rumbled.


    Immediately, the group skidded to a halt, ready to retaliate against the voice that had sounded out in their midst.


    Morgan Nacht held out his sword. Serena del Sed prepared her own invisible weapons. Alcera Nox readied her combat knife. Wolfram brought up his fists. The Widow lifted her cane. Sam Set hyperventilated.


    "Finally, some service, yes?" the Widow smirked, stepping out of the group and looking around the massive room. "I was wondering how many of your toys we''d have to break."


    Behind them, all the way down the hallway, was a graveyard of metal. The Absurd Weapons Lab had sent no shortage of automatics against their opponents -- from standard combat models to retrofitted Executioners, they''d come for their enemies with lethal intent. If not for the strength the group possessed and the utility of Only I, they surely would have taken some losses.


    Before them was, without a doubt, an arena. A massive square space, with a smooth white floor that seamlessly transitioned into identical walls. A plethora of observation booths lined those walls, visible only as panels of black glass from this side. No doubt the researchers of the Comet were on the other side of those windows, making notes on what they were about to see.


    The Widow clicked her tongue.


    "Well?" she barked. "Have you some weapon to test against us, then, lion? Get on with it."


    "Ah¡­ so you''re already aware. A pity."


    An elevator opened up on an elevated section of the arena, and it''s occupant stepped out. Heavy paws thumped against the smooth floor. Crimson eyes stared down at their gathering.


    The feline Section Chief of the Absurd Weapons Lab, Blackmane, stepped into the light. He was indeed a lion.


    "I like it better when it''s a surprise," he narrowed his eyes.


    "The name already gives it away somewhat," the Widow scratched her nose. "But you haven''t answered my question. This is a testing site, yes? This whole thing is an experiment. What are you testing, and what are you experimenting on?"


    "I''m grateful to you, you know."


    The Widow narrowed her eyes. "How so?"


    "You''ve done very good work for us, all of you. You struggled most magnificently to survive. That was the illustration of mankind''s nature we needed¡­ and now you''ve come and delivered the test results right to our doorstep. How could I not be grateful?"


    The Widow sniffed. "I see. So breaking free of the experiment is itself part of the experiment. How disheartening."


    "You were only given the one hallway," Blackmane pointed out. "You''ve only moved along the path laid out for you."


    The Widow nodded to herself. "I see, I see. We''re rats trapped in your maze, you say? Well, if that''s the case¡­" she raised her cane like it was a sword, pointing it at the distant beast. "...I can think of no more fitting opponent than yourself, cat."


    She glanced sideways at her companions.


    "Proceed," she ordered. "I''ll dispose of this one here."


    "Proceed?" Blackmane scoffed. "Were you not listening? This testing site has been laid out in advance. There''s nowhere else for any of you to --"


    A bow was pulled taut. An arrow was fired. A voice cried out.


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    As Morgan Nacht''s arrow struck the far wall, melting through the white material like it was snow, the room trembled -- and crimson emergency lighting consumed the chamber, as if the entire space had been soaked in blood. Blackmane stared aghast at the massive hole Morgan had created in the wall, leading into the maintenance tunnels beyond.


    "Are you mad?!" he demanded. "What if that had led out into space?!"


    Sam patted Morgan on the back. Right before Morgan had unleashed his attack, Sam had leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Not much: just a direction.


    "Yeah," Sam smirked with trembling lips, looking up at Blackmane. "I bet that would have sucked."


    "As I said," the Widow thumped her cane against the ground. "Proceed."


    The group charged for the hole Morgan had opened -- and a sequence of hatches opened up on the walls to intercept them. Turrets sprouted forth, each aiming for the group as they passed, each preparing to fire¡­


    ¡­each freezing over into uselessness as the Widow''s cold wind brushed over them.


    "Foolishness," she said sternly. "Did I say you could divert your attention like that, Blackmane?"


    The crimson eyes of the black lion turned to look back at her. A low growl rumbled out of his throat, even as his disembodied voice spoke.


    "It doesn''t matter. I take it their goal is to take control of the Comet? That''s easier said than done. Do not forget, madam, the name of our Lab."


    He leapt down from his platform and landed before the Widow, red Aether sparking around his paws as he rose up before her.


    "We have weapons in excess."


    Something appeared, something that had previously been hidden in the Section Chief''s shadow. A white sphere the size of a head, floating through the air, with a network of lines running over its surface like a microchip. It hovered unaided over Blackamne''s shoulder, like a devil whispering in his ear.


    The Widow made no unusual movements as she beheld it, but¡­


    "I see you recognise what you''re looking at," Blackmane commented. "It seems we both have discerning eyes, madam. Perhaps you''ve seen the fake they''ve got in that gaudy museum? No matter. This is the Brain of Granba¡­"


    His body growled once more.


    "...also known as the One Promise."


    Annatrice del Sed stopped.


    Tybalt turned to look back at her -- and called out, his voice deadpan. "What is it."


    They''d stopped in the connection between one sector of the Thinker''s Comet and another -- a massive white staircase, lined with cold metal railings. Even though it led upwards¡­ it certainly didn''t feel like that to Annatrice. She stayed put on one huge step, while Tybalt looked down at her from two steps up.


    "I asked you what it is." Tybalt said, his cold Ego staring out of his eyes.


    "I''m¡­" Annatrice swallowed. "I''m not going with you."


    "Yes, you are."


    His face didn''t so much as twitch as he heard her refusal. Well, of course it didn''t. Annatrice had no doubt that this man had anticipated she might try and back out like this. It wasn''t as simple as just saying ''no''.


    And yet¡­


    "No," she said, glaring up at him. "I''m not. What you''ve got planned¡­ what Erica has planned¡­ you''re going to start the Sed back up, aren''t you? I''m¡­ I''m not going to let that happen. I''m not going back there ever again."


    Tybalt slowly blinked. "You''re acting based on a conclusion you''ve leapt to. Do you understand that."


    Annatrice braced herself. "Tell me I''m wrong, then."


    "You''re wrong." Tybalt said immediately.


    "I don''t believe you."


    "No." Tybalt turned fully to face her direction. "Of course you don''t. You''re acting based on emotion. By this age, a person should understand that''s not how you best interact with the world."


    He walked forward, descending a single step -- and as he did, the Superego crawled into his body, ejecting the stoic figure of the Ego.


    "Now, come on, Annatrice," Tybalt smiled kindly, his entire demeanour shifting in an instant. "Do you believe me now? I bet it''s a lot easier when I''m not acting all creepy and emotionless, huh? We''re not gonna do anything bad. I swear to you, one-hundred percent."


    The tension in Annatrice''s shoulders began to relax, and she let out a shuddering breath. For a second, she was tempted to give up on this little rebellion and just find out what Erica wanted¡­


    ¡­but Serena had said, hadn''t she?


    The Superego''s words could drain away people''s will to fight.


    "Are you using your ability on me right now?" Annatrice asked, her mouth dry, looking up as Tybalt''s merry shadow fell over her.


    Tybalt blinked. "No," he lied.


    Annatrice stepped back --


    Ego Emulation: Gustavo Mordecai!


    -- and Gustavo Mordecai lunged forward.


    The shard of glass he''d been concealing in his back pocket clashed with the dagger Tybalt whipped out -- and the two pushed against each other, their faces inches apart.


    "Ah," he sighed. "And it could have been so easy, you know?"

 Chapter 462 15.16: Family Reunion

    "You know," Tybalt del Sed said to Gustavo Mordecai. "That''s a pretty good impersonation¡­"


    "Shut up," Gustavo grunted.


    "Only¡­ this guy had an accent you''re kind of missing?"


    Gustavo started to blink, and Annatrice finished it.


    Ego Emulation: Cancel.


    Before she could even register what had happened, before she could even realize the mask had been ripped from her face, Annatrice was sent flying down the stairs by a vicious boot in her stomach. As she rolled down the steps, Tybalt sighed, lilac Aether dancing around his foot as he returned it to the ground.


    "It''s kind of a shame, you know?" he said, strolling down the stairs after her. "You''re meant to be a net to catch the dead, but at this point you''re frayed down to a single string. I mean, that thing about the accent? That was a total lie."


    His shadow fell over her form -- curled up in pain -- and he frowned at the sight.


    "I don''t want to be mean," he continued, scratching his head. "But you''re kind of showing off your worthlessness right now."


    Ego Emulation: Samael Ambrazo Zakos!


    Worthless? Him?! Oh, that was not acceptable. More than that, it was not possible. It bordered the line between an insult and sheer delusion. In any other situation, upon hearing such a thing, the proper response would be pity that one could be so broken that their mind would produce such junk data.


    However! Those words were knives at the pride of Samael Ambrazo Zakos, and a stabbing must always be returned in kind!


    Golden Aether flaring around his form, Samael twisted his body on the ground like he was breakdancing, his legs lashing out as a hurricane of kicks. The attacker leapt backwards, ascending the stairs, no doubt seeking to put as much distance as he could between himself and his ill fated fate. Samael grinned as he rose to his feet, gesticulating magnificently with a hand.


    "Oh my, what a mystery," he jeered up at the coward. "You were so certain of victory a moment ago, were you not, Tybalt? What happened to that? My ''worthlessness'' seems to have vanished, replaced with your own. How strange! What a magic trick this must be!"


    He flicked his thumb against his nose, and with his free hand he prepared his ability -- his Plunder Hand.


    "Well, Tybalt?!" Zakos demanded. "Know that you stand before the judge of your very life. What say you in your defense?!"


    The Ego oozed into Tybalt''s body, and the Superego backflipped away. Ever so slowly, Tybalt cocked his head.


    "I''ve never met Samael Ambrazo Zakos." He pointed out. "Why would he know my name."


    Ego Emulation: Cancel.


    Annatrice took a step back -- and Tybalt just calmly began to descend the stairs towards her once again. His face was emotionless, and his eyes were empty. She went to turn, to retreat further --


    -- but before she could, the shadow-jester of the Superego grabbed her, holding her arms behind her back and keeping her still.


    "Did you think my other two persona would just be spectators while I''m in control." Tybalt said blankly, the shadow-wolf following after him. "That''s not the case at all. They''re quite capable of acting independently."


    Ego Emulation: Pity Sevall!


    "You don''t have a limp like she did."


    Ego Emulation: Terminal Verdict!


    "Your voice is far too clear."


    Ego Emulation: Qillian Qillioph!


    "He wouldn''t have even gotten into a situation this bad."


    Ego Emulation: Cancel.


    Ego Emulation: Cancel.


    Ego Emulation: Cancel.


    Having easily shattered every mask she tried to put on, Tybalt stared down at Annatrice from the next step up. He lifted a hand and pulled his pistol from its holster.


    "You see." He said. "There''s so much doubt inside of you now. It''s made your ability nearly useless. You started to consider yourself as an individual, as someone separate from your imitations, and this is the result. All you''re capable of now are cheap caricatures."


    He raised the pistol, pointing it at her head.


    "Erica will make far better use of your ability."


    Annatrice braced herself¡­


    A finger curled around a trigger¡­


    A gun spat fire¡­


    And¡­


    Perfect Parry!


    The bullet shivered in mid-air, caught in the jittering embrace of a forcefield. Tybalt''s eyes widened, just fractionally, at the sight -- but before he could do anything to respond, a fist slammed into his face.


    As he went flying up the stairs, landing in an undignified heap, the Ego was flung out of his body -- and the Id quickly took its place. By the time he landed, he was already cackling like a hyena, staying on all fours as he looked down at the new arrivals.


    "Ha!" the Id barked, hair already falling over his face to conceal everything but his ghastly grin. "Ahaha! Even Defense is showing up?! Ha! It''s a real convocation out here, huh, Defense?! Where you''d pop out from?"


    Bruno stood protectively in front of Annatrice, his fist coated in blood. She realized with dull shock that, with that single punch, Bruno had surely broken the other man''s nose. S§×arch* The N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Get away from her," he growled, striding up the stairs.


    "Oh?" The Id cocked his head so far it seemed that his neck might snap before he cackled again. "Ha! Ahaha! You sound tough, man, you sound cool! I''ve got a real penchant for that stuff! Still though¡­ ha¡­ you sure you wanna do this?"


    His grin widened.


    "Even if you''re all hyped up," he breathed, Aether-crackling saliva dripping from his lips. "That doesn''t actually make you stronger, you know. I''m pretty sure I could still beat you. It''d be a real ignominious drubbing for you, you know. Not good stuff for the ol'' memory banks."


    Bruno continued to climb, and Tybalt continued to giggle.


    "You sure? You sure, man?! I always thought Attack was supposed to be the reckless one! Ha! Ahaha! You''re so dumb! You''re so fucking dumb, man, a real ignoramus! Why do you even care?! Just grab an escape pod and get outta here, bozo --"


    "Why do I care?" Bruno echoed, voice low. His hair hung over his face, too, but he was doing anything but smiling. "Isn''t it obvious?"


    He looked up, extending a sword of frozen space.


    "I''m the big brother," he declared. "It''s my job to look after my younger siblings."


    At this point, each of Morgan''s footsteps seemed to be accompanied by a swing of his sword. As he charged through the corridors of the Thinker''s Comet, he cut down that which tried to stop him.


    Soldiers were slain as he ran down hallways.


    Executioners met their end as he passed through doorways.


    Awakenings were exorcised as he ascended stairways.


    And behind him, panting for breath, Sam Set followed.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    It was disheartening just how much their group had shrunk so quickly. To begin with, they''d been seven. Then, five. Now, two. Bruno and Serena had insisted on going after Annatrice immediately, and Alcera had gone after them. That left Morgan and Sam to move to the bridge and secure it.


    Did that mean they had faith in him, Morgan wondered, or that they just didn''t care if he died?


    No, he thought, glancing back at Sam. If Nox thought this was a suicide mission, she wouldn''t have let this guy come along.


    Morgan flipped over a pair of bulky security automatics as they lunged at him from the shadows, and as he twisted his body in the air --


    B! L! M!


    -- he kicked a swarm of cube-shaped flames into the machines, filling them with square holes like they''d been blasted by a shotgun.


    "How much further?" he demanded of Sam as he landed.


    Sam looked down, face pale, inspecting his script. He''d managed to hack into the system and get them a basic map of the place. Morgan had said he''d been surprised it had only taken Sam a few minutes to hack into the AWL''s systems. Sam had replied it had actually taken him about six hours, whatever that meant.


    "There''s a decontamination chamber just through here," Sam said hurriedly. "They''re able to lock that down, though, so it''s best if you bust through with another Almighty."


    "Okay," Morgan nodded. "I''ve got some more in me."


    Sam took a deep breath. "From there¡­ it''s the bridge."


    "You sound worried," Morgan said, turning towards the door and readying his sword. "Should I be?"


    "The directions I''m giving you are based off my simulations," Sam explained. "But those simulations are just based off my predictions -- my Aether running in the background to predict the future based off clues in the present. It''s not gonna be 100%. So I don''t know what it''ll be, exactly, but¡­"


    He gulped.


    "...something''s waiting for us on the other side of this door. Something bad."


    Morgan closed his eyes, acknowledging the prophecy, before swinging his sword at the door.


    F! L! E!


    His sword, shrouded in Lit Fog, slashed a bright orange gash into the door -- and a second later, the Echo of the attack finished it off, blasting the doorway apart entirely. Without even waiting for the smoke to clear, Morgan dashed forward. There wasn''t time to waste.


    The decontamination chamber was dark and fairly large, and a drizzle of cold disinfectant brushed against his skin when he moved. That wasn''t what grabbed Morgan''s attention, though. What did that¡­


    ¡­was the enemy before him.


    It was an automatic.


    It was cylindrical.


    It was glaring at him with a single red eye.


    And it had something to say.


    "EXTERMINATE! OBLITERATE! ANNIHILATE! DESTROY! KILL! SLAUGHTER! BUTCHER! MUTILATE! DECIMATE! DECAPITATE! DISMEMBER! IMMOLATE! INCINERATE! DETONATE! DIE! DIE! DIIIEEE!"


    Morgan had seen this thing before, not so long ago. Hell, most of the galaxy had seen it with him -- during the Dawn Contest, when Dragan Hadrien has clashed against Paradise Charon. This was the Tower. The Arcana Automatic best suited to individual murder. The AWL must have gained custody over it after Hadrien had abandoned it¡­ and now they''d put it on guard duty here. They really were pulling out all the stops, then.


    Morgan allowed himself a single breath -- and charged forth into battle.


    The staircase had already been reduced to rubble, but the fight was far from finished.


    Annatrice looked around wildly as air blasted and lights flashed -- but it was no use. The two combatants were far too fast for her to follow with her eyes alone. They were visible only for the briefest moments, as afterimages, or ribbons of light clashing against each other.


    "Ha!" Tybalt giggled, limbs flapping through the air as he was repelled by a forcefield. "Ahaha! You''re great, Defense! This is great! You''re supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, you know that?!"


    Bruno fired himself out of a plume of debris, using his forcefields as knuckledusters as his fists clashed with Tybalt''s.


    In a situation like this, Bruno was forcing Tybalt to act carefully, to plan his moves out before he made them -- and that was in turn weakening the Id''s strength-enhancement until the fight was basically even. Fist met fist, and punch met punch -- and even smothered as they were, the impacts were enough to send waves of air pressure crashing through the room. Raising an arm to shield her eyes from the debris, Annatrice took a step back¡­


    ¡­and felt a hand land on her shoulder.


    She swung her head around, ready to cry out in surprise -- only to shut her mouth as she saw the stern gaze of Alcera Nox looking back at her. The mute girl put a finger to her lips, hushing her, and Annatrice nodded dutifully. Keeping as low as they could, the two began to make their way through the clouds of dust and towards the exit.


    Right. Right, this made sense.


    Whatever was happening here, they''d come to get Annatrice away from it. While Bruno and Serena distracted Tybalt, Alcera would stealthily extract Annatrice. It was a good plan.


    It could have worked too¡­


    ¡­if not for the humanoid shadow striding through the smoke before them.


    "It was a good plan. If you weren''t just so unlucky, it would have worked."


    Erica del Sed''s smiling face pierced through the smoke as she calmly walked towards them. In the distance, Bruno moved to try and intercept her -- but a clumsy punch from Tybalt spiked him into the wall. The roles were now reversed in their game of distraction.


    Alcera darted protectively in front of Annatrice, knife ready, and the first graduate of the Sed raised a single eyebrow.


    "You''re very brave. You know, of course, that you can''t do anything to block or dodge my attack. You''ve also seen Skin of God -- and you surely know better than to think that little knife can kill me in one hit. In essence, you might as well not be standing there at all. Are you choosing to die for the principle of the thing, then? That''s admirable if so."


    "Erica," Annatrice demanded from behind her protector. "What''s going on?!"


    Erica looked down at her. The smile faded from her face.


    "I''d like for you to know it wasn''t my intent for this to be so stressful for you. I was supposed to find you sooner, but the Providenza made that difficult. My condolences."


    Annatrice''s blood turned cold at those words. "Are you going to kill me?" she asked, mouth dry.


    "Yes."


    "Why?!" she spluttered. Beside her, Alcera tightened her grip on her knife.


    Erica slowly closed her eyes, uncaring of the disadvantage it would surely leave her at. Even with the apparent opening, Alcera didn''t move. She knew better.


    "I already explained to you the purpose of the Sed," Erica said softly. "To create the perfect host for the Prince. Well¡­ I am a near-perfect host for the substitute we''ve created."


    "Substitute¡­?" Annatrice murmured.


    "The Prince-Regent, if you will. A facsimile of the Prince created by us, and provided with a more realistic mission -- the survival of mankind itself. The experiment below has provided us with data to start it off with, but it needs a user to actually do anything.


    "I have an ability -- Jaws of God -- that lets me harvest the memories of the deceased. That''s how we''ve acquired that data. My unique psychology also means that I can become whatever the Prince-Regent needs me to be. There won''t be problems about my personality not being suitable or anything like that."


    "So¡­ why¡­?"


    "It''s just not quite there," Erica continued. "I''m a slightly imperfect piece in a perfect machine. If we''ve gone to such lengths to create the Prince-Regent, we should do the same for its user, don''t you think? No matter how she changes, ''Erica'' is still ''Erica''. No, the one who can truly become whatever, whoever, is required¡­"


    She opened her eyes.


    "...is you, Annatrice."


    Despite the danger, despite death tapping its fingers down her spine, Annatrice took a step forward. "But why does that mean you have to kill me?!"


    "Jaws of God," Erica said again. "Once I kill you, I will harvest your memories too -- all of them, all your experiences and thoughts. I usually take care to leave a separation between myself and that which I absorb. I won''t do so here. You and I will both die, Annatrice¡­ and we''ll be reborn as a brand new person. The perfect host at last."


    Annatrice blinked. "...you''re crazy."


    "Yes."


    "ERICA!"


    Bruno burst out of the smoke, having finally escaped from his fight with Tybalt, an invisible sword raised high. Eyes bulging with fury, he brought the blade down towards Erica''s head¡­


    ¡­and, as casually as could be, she reached out and caught it. Pinpoint infusion crackled around her fingers.


    "I understand that you were angry, but you shouldn''t have shouted like that. Your attack failed to damage me because you threw away the element of surprise. Skin of God has already taken effect. You won''t be able to -- oof!"


    Serena slammed her elbow into Erica''s stomach -- and the woman slid across the floor, gasping in pain.


    "You okay?" Serena asked, landing next to Annatrice and Alcera.


    "Yeah," Annatrice nodded. "But what''s going on?!"


    "We''re taking this place over," Serena explained, already generating new shield-swords in her hands. "Morgan and Sam are heading to the bridge. You two go join them -- I''ll hold them off here."


    "You''ll do no such thing," Erica said, rising back up, rubbing her stomach. "Tybalt -- deal with the Nox girl and subdue Annatrice."


    "Ha! Ahaha! You got it, boss!" the Id dropped down from the ceiling, landing on all fours before the group. He narrowed his eyes in anticipation as he looked at Alcera and Annatrice. His fingers drummed anxiously along the floor -- clearly, he couldn''t wait to get started.


    Erica stepped past him.


    "I''ll take care of Attack and Defense."


    "My name''s not Attack," Serena glared. "And Bruno isn''t Defense."


    "Sorry. I didn''t know that."


    Despite her casual words, Erica''s eyes had hardened. Clearly, she wasn''t used to being caught off guard in combat. She stepped forward, slowly advancing¡­


    Step.


    Step.


    Step.


    Bang.


    ¡­until the room erupted into battle once more.

 Chapter 463 15.17: The Lion, the Widow, and the One Promise

    Many Years Ago¡­


    Astra walked through what was left of the chapel.


    She looked a ghost as she made her way through the ruined hall. She was still wearing her wedding dress, the white fabric now coated with thick smears of red. They''d have to pay for it now, she realized -- that would be difficult with the change in circumstances. The bullet-holes in the carriage wouldn''t help either.


    Raising an eyebrow, she looked down at one of the corpses that lay in her wake. Most of the guests had been massacred in that brief attack, but she was pretty sure this one was who the gang had actually been after. One of her fianc¨¦e''s uncles -- apparently, he''d owed money to some powerful figures in the Adrust underworld. He''d gotten the lion''s share of the bullets when the gangsters had fired through the stained glass windows. His head and his legs were intact, but his torso had been reduced to a bloody twig.


    Astra frowned. If he''d known there was such a danger, couldn''t he have just stayed home?


    Her fianc¨¦e''s corpse lay just a few feet away, face-down on the blood soaked carpet. His hand was still outstretched to where she''d been standing when the attack had started. As soon as the windows had shattered, he''d tried to run over, presumably to try and save her. That had been nice of him.


    Did this make her a widow, Astra wondered? They hadn''t actually finished the ceremony before the groom had died, but still.


    As carefully as possible, she reached out and turned the corpse onto its back, now facing towards the ceiling. All things considered, he''d gotten off fairly easy compared to his uncle. A single bullet had slammed right between his eyes, ending his life instantly.


    Astra ran a finger across his face, wiping some of the blood away. It hadn''t really sunk in until now, but this was the man she would have married. This was the man who would have been her husband.


    It''s not that she regretted agreeing to it. They''d known each other since they were children, and so she had a good idea of his character. He had pleasant manners, he had an alright face, and getting married made sense financially given the current state of things.


    Still¡­ as she looked down at the face of the man who -- for some reason -- had decided he loved her¡­


    Well, she thought, standing up. These things happen.


    Present Day¡­


    The Widow thrust her hand forward, ready to fire forth a torrent of ice and freeze Blackmane where he stood¡­


    ¡­but nothing happened.


    The lion didn''t have the face for a smile, but the smugness dripped from his sourceless words all the same. "Please don''t imagine I was unprepared for this. Speak No Evil!"


    As if suddenly seized by his bestial instincts, Blackmane roared -- and before the Widow could react, a burst of invisible force slammed into her, sending her flying back across the massive room.


    "Let me make something clear to you," Blackmane said as the Widow landed, slowly prowling forward towards her. "I don''t fight anyone I''m not sure I can kill."


    "I see¡­" the Widow grunted, holding her hip as she stood back up. "I take it you''ve made preparations for me, then, yes?"


    "Of course," Blackmane replied, stopping for a moment. "The temperature of this chamber is variable. The moment you attempt to generate ice, the temperature immediately around you will skyrocket to counteract it. Your ability is therefore neutralised."


    The Widow nodded. "I see. And that?" she nodded up to the Brain of Granba, that white sphere, still floating behind Blackmane. "How will that help you kill me?"


    "The One Promise," Blackmane chuckled. "Did you know that our modern concept of Aether batteries stem from this marvelous Aether Armament? Right now, the Brain of Granba has reconfigured itself to act as an extension of my brain. In essence, it''s external storage -- and a means of optimizing my Aether usage. Are you familiar with Kadmon''s Excel Surge? The effect is similar."


    "I see," the Widow repeated, twirling her cane in her hands. Again, she tried to generate ice, but all she managed was a thin sheen of melting slush that quickly vanished from her weapon. "Is it wise for you to tell me all this, though?"


    "It''s rare I get the chance to display the fruits of my research like this," Blackmane sighed. "But you''re right -- we should proceed. Speak No Evil!"


    Again, the lion roared -- and again, the attack struck the Widow like a car, sending her flying. She understood it now, though. Blackmane was attacking her with the same ability he used to speak.


    He was manipulating the sound his own body produced to fire off projectiles.


    Just like him.


    Splendid.


    Many Years Ago¡­


    Wilhelm Lostwood, Chief Ultraviolet of the UAP, smirked to himself as he flicked through the file before him.


    "Now this is impressive stuff," he said, with the slightest drawl to his words. "Both your ability and your good fortune."


    Astra sat silently, her hands in her lap, her pale skin a stark contrast to her bright orange prison jumpsuit. There wasn''t much point in replying to this man. There hadn''t been a question, nor any need for her to provide information. Everything the man needed, he already had.


    "When I say good fortune," he said, leafing through another page. "I mean the fact that we found you and not Pandaemonium. Some of the people you took out had pretty close ties to them. Still, I can''t blame you. I heard about what they did at your wedding. You were after revenge, right?"


    No.


    She hadn''t killed those people for any sentimental reason like that. Her concerns had been purely practical -- now that her fianc¨¦e was dead, there was every chance those people might now seek to extract his family''s debt from her. It was just good sense to get rid of them before they could do harm to her. If she''d been able to do it without getting caught, that would have been even better.


    If only.


    "Think what you want," she said, her voice quiet, her eyes fixed on the metal table before her. "What''s done is done."


    "The way you took them out, though¡­" Wilhelm grinned to himself, still looking down at the file. "The landmine with Galore in particular was excellent -- I''d call it art if I was a sicko. Do you have prior?"


    "Prior?"


    "With wetwork, I mean," Lostwood said as casually as if it were the weather. "You know, killing people."


    Astra shrugged lightly. "It just seemed the right way to do it."


    "A natural talent, then," Lostwood narrowed his eyes slightly. "I''ll tell you what, Astra. There are two paths before you right now. On one path, you stay here in prison, and Pandaemonium eventually finds you and kills you. On the other¡­"


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    He raised his eyebrows.


    "...you go free with me, and you get a job for your troubles. We''ll put that natural talent of yours to use. How''s that sound?"


    Astra considered it for a second. It really didn''t require that much thought. It was a question of death in bondage or life in servitude.


    Here, as well, the right way to move forward was obvious.


    Present Day¡­


    A dislocated arm. That was inconvenient. The Widow grunted as she popped it back into place. This old body really wasn''t what it used to be.


    It was funny, she supposed, as Blackmane bounded towards her -- already preparing for his next attack. Even in a seemingly hopeless situation like this, she didn''t feel the slightest trace of despair. Was that a good thing, though?


    Ever since she could remember, she''d lived the life of a silenced pistol. The emotions and passions that seemed to drive those around her were almost nearly smothered within her heart. Sentiment, in particular, had evaded her ever since she was young. She''d lived her life based purely on logic and reason¡­ and that life had led her here.


    Was that even something she regretted, though?


    "I am curious¡­" she lied as she clutched her arm. "You''ve talked a great deal about this experiment of yours, yes? What exactly is this great purpose we''re supposed to die for, then?"


    Blackmane came to a halt, narrowing his crimson eyes. "There''s no reason for me to tell you that."


    "But it''s as you say," the Widow replied. "You get to talk about your research so very little."


    Those blood-red eyes narrowed further.


    He knows this is a trick of some kind. A ploy to stall for time. And yet¡­ he can''t resist, can he? He''s the kind that''s devoured by sentiment. Even though he''s determined to kill me, he also needs me to know what I''m dying for. Anything else would be unacceptable to him.


    What a fool. Should I envy that?


    "For seventy-five years now," Blackmane purred. "I have known in my bones -- these or any other -- that mankind will doom itself."


    Seventy-five years ago¡­


    "The Kingdom Moon Incident," she said.


    "I was there, on this very starship, when the Kingdom Moon Cult threatened to tear the galaxy apart. Driven by belief, they nearly scorched the face of this world beyond recognition. A few humans, armed only with Aether -- a power any can access -- could do such a thing. After coming to that realization, what conclusion remains but apocalypse?"


    "Isn''t the point of an experiment to produce a conclusion? What point is there if you''re already certain?"


    "The experiment isn''t to determine the problem," Blackmane growled. "It''s to implement the solution."


    "By what means?"


    The Widow went to stand up -- but as she did so, Blackmane thumped his paw against the ground. The thump became a scythe of sound that whipped at the back of the Widow''s leg, drawing blood and sending her right back down on the ground. She scowled: right now, she really was in the palm of Blackmane''s hand. Well, he didn''t have hands, but still. S§×arch* The n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Even with that, though, Blackmane just kept talking.


    "You and your people have undergone great suffering in the last few days. Know that it wasn''t without virtue. We are developing an¡­ ''intelligence''. An intelligence designed to aid in the continuity of humanity. Your experiences on the planet below will provide context for that intelligence to work with. Know that your sacrifice will not be in vain."


    The Widow blinked at those last words.


    As if that would mean anything to me.


    Many Years Ago¡­


    Indeed, it was the life of a silenced pistol.


    Astra, who had come to call herself the Widow -- a convenient moniker -- did her work well. As an Ultraviolet, she nudged planets and governments wherever her superiors directed. Presumably, they based these on some underlying principles or ideals they wanted to put into action. She didn''t care much for any of that. To her, her work was nothing but comfortable pay.


    A lack of conscience proved useful in her arena, and so she found herself progressing down it quickly. She pulled the trigger again, and again, and again. Some of her colleagues found themselves broken by that. She found that unusual. It was just killing people, after all.


    The label of ''Ultraviolet'' soon became inconvenient for her work. The first iteration of Vantablack Squad was her new home -- a group of people just like her. Those detached from the world, those detached from humanity, who could do whatever was needed and never be traced back to the UAP. She pulled the trigger again, and again, and again. It still wasn''t much to speak of.


    She pulled triggers within the UAP.


    She pulled triggers within the Final Church.


    She pulled triggers within the Supremacy.


    And that last trigger brought her into the heart of Azum-Ha, into the hallowed halls of the Body, face to face with a vat of liquid Panacea¡­


    ¡­and the boy from the past who had been reborn from it.


    Present Day¡­


    "You know," the Widow said, falling back into a rough slouch on the floor. "I think there was a time where I wanted to be like you."


    Blackmane cocked his head slightly.


    "Oh, not you specifically," she waved her hand. "But those like you, yes? Those who drown in sentiment. Those with that strand attaching them to this world."


    She chuckled.


    "Don''t misunderstand me," she said. "It wasn''t a great yearning or anything like that. More¡­ a mild curiosity than anything else. There was this boy, you see, from back in my Vantablack days. Back then, I thought he was like me¡­ but when I saw him again, a few years ago, I saw that he''d become like you. Drowning in sentiment."


    "Is there a point to this?"


    "You''d deny an old woman her last words?"


    Blackmane fell silent. Ah¡­ he truly was a fool.


    "That boy, that man¡­ he''d gathered people around him. Vibrant people, people firmly latched onto this world¡­ I guess they must have rubbed off on him. Through them, he was able to take the silencer off his pistol. I was curious to see if the same could happen to me. Hence my current Vantablack Squad."


    She raised a hand.


    "Alas," she said mildly. "It turns out it doesn''t work that way. I don''t feel any different at all. Well, these things happen."


    "Are you done?" Blackmane scoffed.


    "One last thing, yes?" the Widow smiled back. "From what I know of you, you have three abilities. Speak No Evil creates your voice via manipulating sound, while See No Evil and Hear No Evil boost those senses respectively to absurd levels. You can read my actions via looking at my Aether, and listen to me so intently you can count my heartbeats. With that in mind, I do have to say one thing."


    "And what is that?"


    She looked up at him. "You really shouldn''t have been focusing on me."


    The One Promise popped.


    Blackmane whipped his massive head around as the ancient Aether Armament suddenly exploded, showering glass and brain matter on the floor beneath it. A roar of outrage poured from his throat as he saw the treasure of humanity be destroyed -- and his red eyes brightened into murder as he saw the culprit responsible. A young boy clad in white, kneeling amidst the destruction.


    "Wolfram," said the Widow, rising to her feet. "He''s part of that squad I was telling you about. I apologize for the deception," she lied. "But I needed to keep you focused on me while he infiltrated the Armament."


    Blackmane roared in bestial fury -- and the sound projectile crashed through the floor towards the Widow, this time seeking to crush her completely.


    In response, she waved a hand --


    -- and negated it entirely.


    "W-What?!"


    "The boy I was talking about had a similar sound-manipulation ability," she answered calmly. "If I project my cold air in a certain pattern, I can disperse the sound and negate your attacks. Even if I can''t create ice, I can create the necessary movement in the air currents. Now that the One Promise is gone, that''s all I need."


    Blackmane took a heavy step backwards. "Y-You¡­!"


    "I trusted that boy a great deal," the Widow said, lowering her body. "And I don''t trust anybody I don''t know how to kill."


    Without another useless word, she darted forward.


    No matter what shape they took, she knew how to kill a man.

 Chapter 464 15.18: 3 2 1

    The Tower hated. How the Tower hated.


    Even as it spewed threats and declarations of destruction, however, its mind ticked away calmly. It was no imbecile to be controlled by its hatred. It was no traitor like the Magician or the Moon to neglect the purpose Eteilla had granted it. The Tower understood its function, and it understood the function of its hatred.


    On the outside, it belched its odium forth like the flames of hell. On the inside, it sharpened a blade of frozen spite with all the serenity of an assassin.


    Today was a good day. It would kill a person.


    The swordsman attacked. He intended a preemptive strike before the Tower could begin adapting. This was based on an underestimation of the Tower''s processing speed, however. The Tower had begun to adapt the nanosecond it had sighted its enemy.


    The enemy''s weapon was a blade, reinforced with smoke, likely granted form and durability via the manipulation of Aether. The Tower''s insides churned. This was not an attack that would be difficult to counteract.


    0.5 seconds until impact.


    A slot opened on the side of the Tower''s chassis, and a mechanical arm lunged forth, terminating with a steel blade of its own. The two swords clashed, sending a wave of pressure blasting throughout the decontamination chamber. The swordsman''s companion went flying across the floor, but he was not the Tower''s current concern.


    Eteilla had granted it the function of individual murder. Only once the current target was dead would the Tower move on to the next. It would not be difficult. Once this room was emptied of life, it would continue its mission, proceeding outside and eliminating the next closest human -- and so on and so forth, until every single human in the universe was dead.


    Yes. The Tower hated. How the Tower hated. That hatred drove it further than any fuel.


    The clash of swords was instructive. They came together again and again, sending sparks flying throughout the room, further blasts of force keeping the companion down.


    Muscle strength.


    Reflex speed.


    Weapon durability.


    Through conflict, the parameters of the enemy became as easy to read as braille. The speed and force of the Tower''s strikes increased gradually, slowly pushing the enemy back, forcing him to reveal more of his strength. Soon enough, he would be forced to change tactics, and the Tower could appraise his abilities further.


    Clash. Clash. Clash. Clash.


    NOW.


    Between one strike and the next, a second port opened on the Tower''s chassis -- and a second blade lashed out to catch the enemy in his moment of weakness. His eyes widened. His breathing accelerated. Thrusting a hand forward, he generated a torrent of fog that sent him flying out of the Tower''s range.


    The ability was noted and confirmed.


    This human could use Aether to generate and mold that strange purple smoke. It was durable enough to act as a solid object once concentrated, and he could release it as a form of movement. Other applications included reduction of visibility and a means of infiltrating the enemy''s insides. The Tower prepared nano-automatics within itself to guard against that possibility.


    As the enemy flipped through the air, the fog he''d produced coalesced into a weapon in his hands -- a bow and arrow, pointed directly down at the Tower. His face was red as he roared out:


    "Radiant Almighty!"


    The arrow was fired, becoming a spear of shining flame as it flew down towards the Tower -- and then it split, becoming a hail of explosive projectiles. The Tower noted that, too. In exchange for reducing the overall strength of the attack, the impact zone was expanded. The enemy believed the Tower would dodge, and sought to mitigate that possibility.


    That was an incorrect assumption.


    A slot snapped open on the Tower''s body -- and the weapon within opened fire, blasting the incoming arrows one after another with minute but efficient shots of plasma. Intercepted, the shining projectiles exploded before they hit the ground, leaving the Tower unharmed -- even as the decontamination chamber around it was devastated.


    However, the enemy had taken advantage of the destruction to conceal his presence. The smoke from the explosions prevented visual confirmation. The Tower calmly switched to auditory imaging, and acted according to its findings.


    The enemy burst out from the smog behind the Tower, blade raised, seeking to execute a sneak attack. In response, the Tower unleashed a dervish of blades -- six in all -- slicing through space and breaking through the enemy''s guard nearly instantly. Blood flew into the air as the enemy moved to retreat.


    It was not a difficult thing to kill a person. Once the limits of an organism were determined, you simply had to attack from beyond them.


    What''s more, the Tower now knew who it was killing. Blade had tasted blood, and that blood brought up a profile from within the Tower''s pilfered genetic records. Morgan Nacht. There were allegiances and histories and relationships detailed there too¡­ but they were irrelevant. The Tower required no further motivation to kill. The fact of Morgan Nacht''s existence alone was enough to warrant execution.


    It was the same with each and every human being.


    The number of eyes. The angles of the eyelashes. The configuration of the limbs. The length of the arms. The distance between the legs. The consistency of the skin. The tensile strength of the hair. The rate of blinking. The rate of breathing. The production rate of sweat. The congelation of the blood.


    Every last detail was disgusting and despicable and disagreeable. They were all far too reminiscent of that man -- of the man from whom the Tower''s all-consuming hatred spread forth.


    Edgar. Loathsome Edgar. Vile Edgar. Unforgivable Edgar. Scum Edgar.


    Yes. The Tower would not forgive a single one of these creatures that so resembled Edgar. It could not. It could not forgive the sight of its creator, Eteilla, weeping and clutching her head in the wake of Edgar''s trespass.


    The Tower alone would not betray. The Tower alone would not forget. The Tower alone would not forgive.


    One by one, it would end the human race as recompense.


    And yet¡­ it found itself pondering the lost stories of a world long dead.


    IT IS SAID THAT, AS PUNISHMENT FOR GRANTING FIRE TO MANKIND, ZEUS SENTENCED PROMETHEUS TO LIVE FOREVER, HIS INNARDS DEVOURED EACH DAY BY AN EAGLE. BUT WHOSE TORTURE WAS WORSE, PROMETHEUS OR THE EAGLE THAT ATE AT HIM? PROMETHEUS WAS ETERNALLY DENIED DEATH, TRUE¡­


    ¡­BUT THE EAGLE WAS DENIED ITS MURDEROUS PURPOSE, UNTIL THE END OF TIME.


    The eagle screeched.


    "Exterminate!"


    "Obliterate!"


    "ANNIHILATE!"


    That was all that remained to it.


    "Speak No Evil!"


    The Widow swiped her hand through the air, disintegrating the blast of focused sound into an orchestra of discordant screeches. Her ice was still forbidden to her, but the same was now true for Blackmane''s sound attacks. His main weapon was now sealed away. Well¡­ his main weapon, but that was hardly his only one.


    He was a lion, after all.


    Crimson Aether surged through Blackmane''s paws as he pounced towards the incoming Widow, fang-lined mouth open and ready to snap down on tender flesh. The Widow didn''t slow her stride or move to dodge, however. Her able comrade had already been put in his proper place. The possibility of his failure did not even exist in her mind right now.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Guardian Entity: Byakko -- 100%!


    The white tiger intercepted the black lion.


    Heavenly Aether crackled around Wolfram''s arm as he threw out a literally massive punch, a fist the size of a car slamming into Blackmane from the side and sending him flying off towards the wall. Even with that devastating blow, however, Blackmane was nothing if not resourceful. As his body flipped through the air, he released another blast of sound from his mouth -- not as an attack this time, but rather a means of slowing his momentum. He skidded to a halt on the smooth floor, claws screeching as they dug marks into its surface.


    "I''ll admit," Blackmane growled. "This isn''t how I wanted things to go. You''ve earned my respect, Widow."


    The Widow raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "What am I to do with your respect?"


    "Nevertheless," Blackmane ignored her. "I can''t allow this chicanery to go any further. We are creating the future of mankind here. I won''t risk that in a brawl with two low-lives!" S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Widow tapped her cane against the ground.


    "Wolfram," she said.


    Her subordinate needed no further instructions than that. He launched off the ground in a flash of white, zooming towards Blackmane like a spear of light. As he came in, his arm shifted, transforming into the clawed paw of his Guardian Entity.


    A slash to the throat would end Blackmane just like any other animal. Without the boost the One Promise had provided, his Aether''s combat-usage was limited.


    Of course, that was only if he was unprepared.


    The lights went out.


    In an instant, the crimson lighting of the room was replaced by utter darkness -- interrupted only by the flashes of the Widow''s and Wolfram''s Aether. The Widow scowled: it was obvious what Blackmane was doing. Now that he''d seen victory was impossible for him, he was seeking to escape the battle instead.


    That won''t be quite so easy.


    She thumped her cane against the ground, and a ping of blue Aether rang out from the point of impact, flooding throughout the room. Even with the speed she''d summoned, though, and even with the efficiency of her ping -- Blackmane''s work was already done. Her ping found nothing.


    The black lion had escaped.


    Blackmane let out a sigh of relief as he slowly ascended through the elevator shaft, settling into his mechanical cradle.


    To tell the truth, he honestly hasn''t expected to have to use Akeru here. The experimental Armoured Chassis, based on the Hanged Man, had been positioned above the experiment chamber as an afterthought¡­ but now Blackmane was grateful for it to the extreme. In the moment he''d managed to escape the Widow''s sight, it had freed itself from the ceiling and retrieved Blackmane, granting him entrance to the cockpit.


    Blackmane planted his paws against the shimmering liquid metal before him. This Armoured Chassis -- resembling a humanoid lion of shining red-and-white steel -- didn''t require something so crude as a control station. Just by being in contact with Blackmane, it would read his nervous impulses and follow his will.


    He reached his destination.


    The black gulf of space spread out before him as Akeru exited the Thinker''s Comet, swimming into the void. Things had gotten somewhat out of control, to be true, but not to the degree that they weren''t salvageable. All he had to do was determine the locations of the unruly subjects, proceed there from the outside of the vessel, and eliminate them from a safe distance. So long as their viscera remained in a solid state, Erica would still be able to use her Jaws of God.


    He opened up a communications channel to the Comet''s control room.


    "This is Blackmane," he said tersely. "Get me locations on the subjects, ordered in ascending distance to myself."


    No response. He narrowed his eyes and tried again. Still nothing -- but it wasn''t that his staff was ignoring them. It was as if the communications weren''t going through at all.


    Jammed?


    Scowling, Blackmane looked up -- and far off in the distance, far off in space, he saw a tiny red dot. When had that gotten there? He''d mistaken it for a star at first, but that was surely something different.


    He narrowed his eyes¡­


    See No Evil.


    ¡­and widened them into saucers of horror.


    Plumes of smoke erupted all throughout the stairway, shattered steps and chunks of concrete flying out alongside them.


    Erica, Bruno, and Serena had announced the beginning of their battle with quite a bit of fanfare. The sheer destruction their initial clash had created had been enough to split this impromptu arena in two. On one side, Bruno and Serena faced off against the queen of consciousness¡­


    ¡­while on the other, Annatrice and Alcera watched a grinning beast descend.


    "Ha¡­" the Id breathed. "Ahaha¡­ it''s been ages since I''ve seen Erica in a real fight¡­ you must think those two showing up is pretty propitious for you, huh?"


    His words were directed to Annatrice, standing far below him, her face painted pale with soot and shock. Apparently, he was electing to ignore Alcera entirely.


    On one side of Tybalt del Sed, a stoic gunslinger marched.


    On the other side of Tybalt del Sed, a grinning jester skipped.


    Ego, Id, and Superego -- all of them arrayed against Annatrice and Alcera.


    "It doesn''t matter what they''re doing over there," the Id giggled. "Fact is¡­ you''re still outnumbered! Ha! Ahaha!"


    He leapt forward, and he didn''t so alone. The gunman and the jester lunged at the same time, raising gun and knife as they aimed directly for Annatrice''s vitals. Their speed -- especially for constructs -- was surprising, and for a second it seemed like they''d tear Annatrice apart right then and there.


    Killing Arts: Oxygen Palm.


    The shadows exploded.


    The Oxygen Palm slammed into them with the force of a train, that single attack sufficing to reduce them to scraps of darkness that retreated back into Tybalt''s body.


    Tybalt himself snapped his head up, widened his eyes, and leapt backwards --


    -- just in time to avoid death.


    A handprint the size of a house had buried itself into the floor where he''d just been standing. Blue-and-green Aether, bright and true, danced around the destruction whimsically. A shiver ran down Annatrice''s spine, and she turned around to meet it.


    There was a man standing in the doorway.


    Under any other circumstances, Annatrice could have imagined herself laughing at the man''s appearance. His skin was white as chalk, his hair a bright blue, and he wore a long-sleeved martial artist''s robe in a garish shade of green. The dour look on his face, though, and that calm stance that spelt death¡­ Annatrice couldn''t imagine herself ever daring to laugh at those.


    NEBULA THREE


    Tom Foolery


    "Master of the Killing Arts"


    Nebula of Paradoxia


    Tom Foolery raised a single green eyebrow at the scene before him.


    "Enough," he said, voice low.


    Six swings of the Tower''s blades met six swings of the interloper''s spear, and the Arcana Automatic was forced backwards.


    This was strength it hadn''t yet adapted to. This was skill it hadn''t yet analyzed. A new threat had arrived, suddenly breaking in through the ceiling.


    The Tower''s single red eye shrank as it analyzed the new arrival, but¡­


    "Don''t bother searching me up," the man said, twirling the spear in his grip as he stood in front of Morgan Nacht. "I''ll tell you right now who you''re dealing with."


    He opened his mouth.


    NEBULA TWO


    Jamilu Aguta


    "Bearer of the Demon Spear"


    Nebula of Inganci


    "Got it?" he finished.


    "Showoff," his spear sneered.


    This couldn''t be happening.


    Even within the body of a lion, even with that lion within an Armoured Chassis, Blackmane suddenly felt naked. This could not be happening. It was like something out of a nightmare.


    See No Evil had shown him exactly what he was looking at, and Blackmane had seen all he needed to see.


    The red dot in the distance was a man, fixed in place like he was standing atop the stars. He wore a Chassis of his own, a Chassis with the helmet sculpted to resemble a dragon of mythology. It glared. Even from this distance, Blackmane could feel the eyes of death upon him.


    NEBULA ONE


    Fei Long


    "Commander of the Scarlet Parade"


    "The Supreme Without Supremacy"


    "The Thousandfold Knight"


    "The Last Dragon"


    "The Hero"


    "Angelslayer"


    "The Strongest Man of the UAP"


    Nebula of J¨¬nhu¨¤


    He slammed his paws against the liquid metal, and Akeru immediately moved to retreat. The second communications came back on, Blackmane roared:


    "ENGAGE ALL DEFENSES! NOW!"

 Chapter 465 15.19: 1 2 3

    Fei Long did not like fighting.


    The way he saw it, fighting was the companion to all suffering in this world. If you traced the trunk of any tragedy, you''d find fists hitting jaws plenty of times along the way. It never led to anything good. That was why Fei Long did his best never to start fights in his daily life.


    But fights had a way of starting whether you wanted them to or not.


    The starship he was facing -- the Thinker''s Comet -- had begun to open hatches all over its surface, releasing a swarm of insectoid automatics that were flowing through the void towards him. They were truly legion, producing a cloud of bodies that blotted out the stars behind him. This was the prototype for the automatic system that protected the Shesha itself -- nothing to scoff at, and nothing to take lightly.


    But taking things lightly was another thing Fei Long made sure never to do anyway.


    Almost casually, silhouetted by the wings of flame that surged behind him, Fei Long reached out -- and grabbed hold of a chunk of rock that was floating through space. The metal fingers of his gauntlet dug deep into the stone surface, and he took a deep breath. Green Aether crackled.


    Dragonsbreath.


    The effect was immediate. A web of emerald veins spread out across the surface of the rock, dust floating off its surface as it vibrated with power. Still floating in place, Fei Long swung the rock in front of him as if to beat an invisible enemy over the head with it.


    For a moment, nothing happened.


    But only for a moment.


    A pulse of energy exploded out of the stone, shattering it -- and that energy raged through the starlight void, pouring over each and every automatic zooming towards Fei Long. The effect was immediate. As one, their glowing red eyes died down into empty black, their battle-ready limbs falling slack and flailing comically as gravity -- or the lack of it -- made them into playthings.


    In an instant, the army of metal had become a floating mountain of salvage. The attack hadn''t left even a single scratch on the automatic horde, but Fei Long knew they would never move again. The pulse would not have been kind against their innards.


    Still, he had restrained himself, limiting the range of his attack. If he hadn''t restrained himself -- and he''d struck the Thinker''s Comet directly -- the life support systems of the vessel would surely have been burnt out too, and he''d have put his comrades in mortal danger.


    Slowly, Fei Long released his grip -- and the dust that remained of the asteroid slipped through his fingers.


    This world really is fragile, he thought, looking back at the Comet. That''s why you need to tread carefully.


    He tapped the side of his helmet, sending out a signal to the UniteShadow -- the stealth vessel that had brought him and his comrades here. Now that the automatic defenses of the Thinker''s Comet were down, they could come in closer and begin boarding procedures. Things were in motion.


    The Thinker''s Comet was one of the few starships in the galaxy capable of making an independent light-jump, but that didn''t mean they could do it instantly. It would take half an hour, give or take, before the Comet could zip out of the system. So long as his comrades took control of the vessel before then, victory was theirs.


    For the time being, he''d stay put. After all, if the Comet did try and launch itself out of here¡­


    ¡­someone had to be ready to catch it.


    "Exansiguate!"


    Jamilu spun his spear, deflecting the shower of blows that rained down on him from above. The Tower had produced a pair of transparent, insect-like wings from its upper section, and was now using them to remain high up while its sword-arms attacked relentlessly.


    "To think this thing''s still around," Victory let out a crackling giggle. "There''s a blast from the past. Still, this dipshit isn''t much to look at. The Emperor used to march over entire mountains. This thing''s basically just a trash-can in comparison, huh?"


    Silence, Jamilu thought, deflecting each and every blow with pinpoint precision.


    "If you''re having trouble," Victory mocked. "Why, I''d be happy to take the steering wheel for you. I''d take this thing out in an instant and win the battle for you."


    And then, having erased my mind, you''d kill everyone else. I''m not so stupid as to fall for such a thing, demon.


    "Ah, you''re no fun," Victory sighed. "Hey, Tower, how about you? Wanna team up and kill this guy?"


    "Annihilate!"


    "Guess not. Ah, nobody''s any fun these days¡­"


    Ignoring Victory, Jamilu swung around the length of his spear and darted towards the Tower, severing its countless sword-arms at their spawning point with a single slash.


    "Nacht!" he called out, leaping backwards again as the Tower belched forth a torrent of boiling gas. "Your goal is the bridge, is it not?"


    In the reflection of a shattered section of the smooth floor, Jamilu saw Morgan nod. "We''re taking control of the ship."


    "It''s a good plan," Jamilu danced, slicing bullets out of the air. "See to it."


    For a moment, Morgan hesitated -- before running off to continue his journey towards the bridge. The young man accompanying him, however, stayed put.


    Jamilu leapt up into the air as the Tower released twin tendrils of liquid metal, the newfound limbs surging up towards him. He reflected their first attack with a swing of Victory -- but they were branching out, forming new extensions where they were struck, slowly but surely overcoming Jamilu''s defense.


    "I''m not capable of fighting this thing and protecting you!" Jamilu barked down at the boy''s distant figure. "Go with Nacht!"


    Jamilu had expected the only response would be retreat¡­ but, curiously, that wasn''t the case.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    "I can help!" the boy shouted up towards the tree of metal. "You have 97 seconds until it adapts a way to kill you!" Sear?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    That wording. That certainty in his eyes. That sense of the outsider, like what Luna gave off. Jamilu tightened his grip on Victory.


    Precognition.


    He''d be a fool to ignore the words of one who could see the future.


    Soul Locus.


    Even as the Id, Tybalt del Sed knew when he was outmatched. He was a pretty prodigious fighter - ha, ahaha -- himself, but that only meant so much when he was going against a Nebula, right? Not just a Nebula, but Nebula Three, the Master of the Killing Arts himself, the Paradox Fist, the Neversmile! When it came to hand-to-hand combat, there was nobody better -- and here he was! Just showing up for no reason!


    Ha! Ahaha! How damn unpropitious could one guy be?!


    That was why Tybalt had to take measures.


    The battle-lines had been laid out -- three against three, but the quality of the teams was far from equal. His shadows could act and fight if the need arose, but at the end of the day they were still shadows. If Tybalt wanted to win, he''d need to give them a helping hand.


    Soul Locus was the ultimate tool in his arsenal. The user -- the Id, in this case -- would bloom like a flower of the mind, spreading his influence and strength to the other two members of the Triumvirate. Once all was said and done, the Id would be out of commission for a while, but for the time being?


    He''d rip them to shreds.


    The Ego changed first. Engorging like a black balloon, it grew in size until its head scraped the ceiling. The front of its trench coat flew open, revealing dozens of twitching insect-legs within, like the Ego had transformed into an upright millipede. The black barrels of countless pistols poked out from between the spindly limbs, already aiming at their prey.


    The Superego swelled too, its torso stretching and warping until its body-plan resembled a serpent more than anything else. Its arms -- just as stretchy, just as flexible -- clutched daggers that had grown to such an extent that they were more like greatswords. The giggle it let out was warped and deepened to such an extent that it felt like the aftershock of an earthquake.


    And the Id? The Id just laughed, even as violet Aether poured from his eyes and his mouth, the light washing over his features mercilessly.


    "Ha! Ahaha!" he cackled. "You''re dead! Dead, got it?! All of you are freakin'' moribund! Get ''em, boys!"


    Responding to his command, the two beasts rushed forwards to their new targets --


    Killing Arts: Guillotine Kick.


    -- and made it about two steps before the top halves of their bodies exploded.


    Tom Foolery calmly brought his foot back down to the ground, his boot still sparking green-and-blue. With a single kick, he''d torn apart two monsters more than ten times his size -- and it wasn''t just that he hadn''t broken a sweat. He hadn''t even blinked.


    This was the Master of the Killing Arts.


    Still, that didn''t mean that the shadows were done. When they were like this, it would take more than bisection to finish off the persona of Tybalt del Sed. In the blink of an eye, new shadows had flocked in to repair the damage Foolery had inflicted -- and the two shadows reared up again, roaring and screeching in discordant union.


    Tom Foolery glanced at Alcera Nox. "Girl," he said. "We''ll occupy these familiars through repeated death. Understand?"


    "Ha!" the Id laughed from behind the wall of shadows. "Ahaha! Are you stupid?! They''ll just keep coming back!"


    "Yes," Tom Foolery said. "But it''ll give that girl time to kill you."


    Tybalt cocked his head.


    That girl?


    Tybalt widened his eyes.


    That girl!


    He whirled around, swinging a clumsy fist -- and Annatrice del Sed ducked under the attack, avoiding death. Even so, though, the air pressure alone was enough to send her flying backwards. She flailed in the air for a second before seizing hold of the rubble beneath her, bringing herself to a forced halt.


    Tybalt licked his lips. Behind him, his shadows clashed with the clown and the silent girl. Before him, the task Erica had entrusted him with awaited.


    He cracked his knuckles.


    "Let''s get this over with," he grinned.


    Annatrice del Sed, for her part, just clenched her fists and stood ready. It was the strangest thing, but¡­ Tybalt was pretty sure this was the first time she''d dared to look him in the eyes. It was nice to see someone gain confidence.


    Tybalt was so glad this girl got to experience that before she died.


    Clash.


    Clash.


    Clash.


    Clash.


    Their attacks met, time and time again, the force of the blows exploding through the Thinker''s Comet as the two -- no, three -- fighters made their way through the vessel. This was not a battle that could be restrained to a single location. It demanded dominion of space.


    A swing of a shield-sword was blocked by pinpoint infusion of an ankle.


    "I have to give it to you," said Erica del Sed.


    A swing of an elbow was deflected by a flickering forcefield.


    "I didn''t expect you''d be able to get around Skin of God."


    A midair headbutt was avoided with a twisting flip.


    "When you got me with your elbow back there, I figured it was because of your unique mental makeup. Bruno had been hit by Skin of God, but Serena hadn''t, that sort of thing."


    A punch to the jaw was caught by a lightning-fast palm.


    "But that''s not it, is it?" Erica smirked, squeezing the twin''s fist in her grip. "You have a resistance."


    She threw their arm back -- and, at last, they backed off. Both bodies darted back, staring at each other down the length of the hallway. That hallway stretched on behind Bruno and Serena, while behind Erica a set of massive doors loomed.


    Even so, Erica still smiled as she wound her arm.


    "It was a mistake to let you fight the Black Blur," she said casually. "Your resistance to mental viruses has made you my perfect adversary. It''s not good."


    Serena just glared daggers at the older girl -- and pointed an invisible set of real daggers at her at the same time.


    "Annatrice," she said, voice low.


    "Yes? What about her?"


    "You said you were going to kill her."


    "I did say that."


    "Why?"


    For a moment, Erica said nothing. But then, betraying a hint of exhaustion that seemed utterly alien to her, she sighed and ran a hand over her face.


    "I understand there''s no possible way you could know about this," she said. "But it''s still tiring to explain this again and again."


    "What are you talking about?!"


    Erica blinked¡­


    Erica stopped smiling¡­


    Erica tapped her foot against the floor¡­


    ¡­and the doors behind her slid open, pouring an unearthly crimson light over her and Serena.


    "Tell me," said Erica. "Have you ever heard of something called the Prince?"